Friday, May 23, 2014


[Originally, I could not come up with a second part to this story. I intended one, even announced it, but hit a solid block when trying to come up with a plot. Then another writer of the time, Timothy Reisling Betticut, who often worked under his initials TRB, sent me this and I published it.]

"Damnit! You’ve done it to me again."

Emily smirked at Barney’s anger. "But Bonnie dear, you loved the teeny minidress you wore to Club Relucto that was a hit. And the way you pranced in your heels in front of all those people was so…so… moist."

"Look, you tricked me. You hypnotized me into all that. I don’t want to be a… a… god-damned babe! A… a… toy… a boy toy! I don’t care what the video shows, I wasn’t really submitting. Ugh! The thought of standing up on that stage with those other… queers."

"Other?" Emily laughed at his slip, as she smoothed the latex down around his cheeks. "Now sit up straight and look at yourself in the mirror. Like you are darling in that brown bob. I mean you are so sweet."

"Stop it! I am not sweet! I’m a man. A red-blooded, full-grown, thirty-two year old male. And the only panties I want to get into are worn by girls, not by... by… me!"

"Oh? You’re sitting there in front of a vanity in a cute little mini-shirtwaist, five inch spikes, nude stockings, viciously corseted and… well, those words about your masculinity just don’t…. It’s like you have the words Bonnie, but not the melody. Y’know?" All the while she puffed his curls and dusted imaginary lint from his shoulders as they both looked into the mirror. "Um-huh, you will be a big hit tonight at the Stag."

"The Randy Stag?" He jerked upright his voice a bit muffled from behind the latex mask imprisoning his head. "But… that’s a… a…."

"Singles bar? Well like that’s so right. And like I care? Fact I love the place. The way the men hit on everything in a skirt. Giggle. Ooops. I guess since you’re in a skirt then…." Her voice trailed off.

"I… can’t go in.. I mean, come on Emily. The Club Relucto was one thing. Those weird characters expect other weird characters. But… The Stag is where I hang out. They know me there. If anyone figures out who I am…."

"Then we’ll have to see to it that you are sooo convincing, huh sweetie? Soooo convincing as the twenty-something office tease. In fact, everyone will be costumed for the Halloween party, so what’s your worry?"

"Now you can’t do this Emily. Real guys don’t wear girls’ costumes. And this isn’t even a costume. I mean if a girl wore it she’d be out of costume since this dress is …."

"Ordinary?" She pouted. "But darling look how it clings to your jiggly boobs and shows those nasty nipples. And it just oozes over your tiny waist and wide hips and sexy buns. Now that’s not all that ordinary."

"You know what I mean. This is the way horny girls always dress at the Randy Stag. It’s their uniform… like a godamned sign screeeeeeeching ‘screw me big boy’. I can’t look convincing, if I do the guys will wonder why I’m out of costume. And if I don’t look convincing they’ll try to figure out who I am. And if they guess--shit!"

"Well, you have a problem then cutie. But maybe this will help?"


A dazzling light, like an old fashioned flash bulb, "popped" in the mirror and--like a switch on its motor--a psychic curtain veiled a part of Barney Cook’s mind. Some sort of foamy feelings were making him see things happening in that reflection. Things that shouldn’t be happening. He smelled a man’s cologne and it was somehow teasing. He heard the tinkle of laughter. Pretty giggles. Was that him? Was that the face in the mirror? The masked face that somehow was not as masked. Was she giggling? No… no… the mask was merging with his own skin. And he saw himself, for an instant as the cheeks reddened, the lips fattened and darkened. He saw the hair… and felt the curls tumble down around his neck and shoulders.

"What.. what… are you? What was that?" a pretty voice asked. A voice that came from the tantalizing mouth in the mirror where his face was. Or the face that looked like his if he were a tempestuous bombshell. A very female bombshell. Was that real? Was he locked within another of Emily’s hypnotic cells? A mind-prisoner bound by her hypno skills and tricks?

"Are we ready to go trolling at the Randy Stag, Bonnie honey?"

And Barney Cook stood on Bonnie’s needle heels, straightened her snug short skirt, flicked a gleaming smile into the mirror, grabbed Bonnie’s purse… and tried to stop her from following Mistress Emily down the hall toward the garage. He couldn’t.

The End

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