Archive-name: Changes/denise.txt
Archive-author: Leigh de Santa Fe   (c) 1991
Archive-title: Hormonal Imbalance


   At breakfast his mother said, "Dennis, I think it's time to get your hair 
cut." 
   "Mom, I got my hair cut last week." 
   "It couldn't have been last week, honey. It's already over your ears." 
   "No way, Mom. I just got it cut." 
   "No arguing at the breakfast table," his father said from behind a paper. 
    Dennis stomped out. In Geometry his voice cracked in the middle of an 
answer which broke up the whole class including the teacher. Dennis blushed 
but he recovered quickly. 
   Nothing happened the next day but on Wednesday as he stepped out of the 
shower in the locker room, his chest felt sore. And seemed swollen. He could 
actually feel loose flesh around his nipples. He put it out of his mind but 
the next morning, alone in the bathroom, he examined himself in the mirror. 
Not only was his chest swollen but the nipples were larger. They looked like 
small pegs. The circles around them had turned a deep, reddish brown and were 
enlarged as well. 
   "I have cancer," he thought as beads of sweat broke out on his brow. He 
became so obsessed that he didn't even notice that it had been four days since 
he'd last shaved. 
   He buried his fears, dressed and rushed down to the breakfast table. 
   "Dennis, didn't I tell you to get your hair cut on Monday," his mother said 
irritated. 
   "I told you, mom. I went to the mall last Friday." 
   "Come with me right now." 
   She led him into the bathroom and said, "It couldn't have been last week, 
honey. Look, it's way past your collar." 
   A lump grew in his throat but he managed to squeak out, "Okay. Okay." 
   He cut gym that day and went to the library. Pouring over a fat medical 
textbook he could find nothing that would account for the swelling in his 
chest. "This has got to be some kind of weird mumps," he thought. 
   After school he met his swim team buddy Jim in the hall. "Aren't you going 
to practice?" he asked. 
   Dennis turned red. "No, I can't today." 
   "Why not?" 
   "I have to get a haircut." 
   "That's a lame excuse. Coach'll be pissed. You okay? You don't look so 
hot." 
   "I'm fine," Dennis said, walking toward his locker. 
   "Gained some weight in your butt, dude," Jim called after him. 
   Dennis instinctively put his hands on his buttocks and Jim's laughter 
echoed down the hall. Jim was right, Dennis thought, "Everything about my body 
is changing." He walked home, so engrossed in contemplation that when his 
girlfriend Debby called out to him, he just kept on walking. 
   "Hey, didn't you hear me?" 
   "What, oh, Hi." 
   "Is something wrong Dennis?" 
   "No, nothing's wrong," he said, his voice cracking. 
   "You've been doing that a lot lately. I thought your voice already 
changed." 
   "Look nothing's wrong, okay." Just as he reached the last syllable it 
cracked again and Debby suppressed her laughter because the look in his eye 
was murderous. 
   "Look I've got to get a haircut now. I'll see you tomorrow," he said trying 
hard not to let his voice crack again. 
   "Sure. Call me. Bye." 
   He ran off toward the mall. 
   When he finally got home, he raced to the bathroom and stripped off his 
shirt. His hands felt his chest. The soft flesh hung out into space about an 
inch. The nipples were larger and the aureoles were now three inches across 
and reddish brown. He could never go back to the swim team now. Not like this. 
He stood for a moment wondering if he should tell his parents when he noticed 
his hair. He'd just gotten it cut and it was over his ears again. "It some 
gland thing," he thought. "I've got tropical gland disease." Then he noticed 
his beard or rather he noticed his beard hadn't grown in a week. In fact, his 
cheeks were devoid of even the peach fuzz stubble that grew between shaves. 
Instead they were smooth and pink. He ran to his room. 
   At dinner he wore a bulky sweater to hide his swelling chest. No one seemed 
to notice and afterwards he went to his room and shut the door. Around nine 
his mom knocked to say goodnight. He sat at his desk pretending to study. 
"Everything all right, honey." 
   "Yeah, sure. Why?" 
   "No reason. Hey, will you promise me to get your hair cut tomorrow?" she 
said as she closed the door. 
   The next day at school his voice cracked so many times that he stopped 
talking altogether. On the way home, Debby knew something was wrong. 
   "What the matter with you lately, Dennis? You're so sulky and weird." 
   "Nothing's the matter, okay? I've just been studying really hard." His 
voice cracked midway through the sentence and stayed in the upper register. 
   "Is your voice getting higher? I thought it was supposed get lower." 
   "Debby, can I tell you something?" 
   "Sure, Dennis. What is it?" 
   He blurted out all the strange changes that were taking place in his body. 
"I want to see," she said. They ran to her house and Debby pulled him up the 
stairs. When they were alone in her room she said, "Well, take your shirt 
off." 
   "Promise you won't laugh," he said. 
   "I won't. Just take your shirt off and show me." 
   Dennis unbuttoned his shirt slowly and then peeled off his T-shirt. He 
couldn't look at her. 
   She said nothing but her silence spoke volumes. 
   "What's wrong with me, Debby?" 
   Her eyes were traveling down from Dennis's chest to his waist. 
   "Dennis, take off your pants too." 
   "Why?" 
   "Just do it, okay." 
   He kicked his tennis shoes off and dropped his jeans. 
   Debby gasped. "Oh, my God." 
   "What? What is it?" he yelled. 
   "Your, uh, your butt." 
   "What about it?" 
   "It's bigger too," she said haltingly. "Look!" she said, opening the door 
to her closet and pointing at the full length mirror. 
   Dennis looked over his shoulder into the mirror and for the first time all 
the puzzle pieces in place fell into place. His jockey shorts were stretched 
tightly over his bottom and he knew instantly why none of his pants seemed to 
fit anymore. His waist had narrowed as well. 
   "You look kind of . . . like a . . ." 
   "Like a what," his voice cracked. 
   "Like a girl." 
   "What do you mean?" 
   "I mean, your body looks . . . well, rounder and softer. What about down 
there?" she said, pointing to Dennis's groin. 
   "It's the same. If anything it's bigger," Dennis said softly. 
   "That's interesting," Debby said with a sly grin but he was too distraught 
to respond. 
   "What's happening to me, Debby?" he said as he pulled his clothes on. 
   "I don't know but it's really weird," she said, noticing for the first time 
how tight his jeans were. 
   The next few days Dennis developed strategies for hiding the changes in his 
body. He combed his hair straight back with gel and he wore sweaters and his 
largest jeans. He put two pairs of socks on so his daintier feet fit into his 
shoes and he stopped talking except for tightly controlled monosyllabic 
responses. He tried to keep his emotions in check but whenever he was alone he 
wept uncontrollably. At night he'd go into the bathroom and take off all his 
clothes, examining his body for any retreat of the symptoms. There were none. 
His hair now fell just past his shoulders. Tying it back in a ponytail helped 
but it wasn't just longer, it was thicker. It didn't look like a boy's 
ponytail at all. 
   His face was changing too. His beard had stopped growing but now his 
features seemed to have grown softer. The jawline seemed redrawn and his lips 
were fuller. Even his lashes seemed darker, longer. He noted each alteration 
with increasing fear. 
   His penis, on the other hand, was the only part of his masculinity that 
wasn't in retreat. Instead it seemed to be a mocking holdout against the 
onslaught of feminine changes, competing with his breasts for rapid growth. 
   Every morning he prepared himself for school with an increasingly 
sophisticated set of rituals designed to hide his form, his figure, his face 
but he knew his efforts were meeting with less and less success. 
   One day a substitute teacher in his English class was going down the roster 
of names on a seating chart and matching them with the students. "Denise 
Johnson," he said looking at Dennis. No one even giggled and Dennis sat in 
silent mortification. 
   He had avoided Debby for a few days now but on the way home she caught up 
to him. 
   "Hi, Dennis." 
   "Hi," he said, his voice a breathy whisper. 
   "How've you been?" 
   "Okay, I guess." He was fighting back tears. 
   "I like your hair like that." 
   He was silent. 
   "Dennis?" 
   "Yeah." 
   "Maybe it's time you told you're parents." 
   "Tell them what," he lashed out. "That I'm turning into a girl?" 
   "No!" she said, "Tell them that . . . tell them that there's something 
wrong with your glands or something. I don't know." 
   "It's getting worse. I can't button my pants all the way. I cut my hair 
every night and in the morning it's longer and thicker than ever. This morning 
I had to tape my . . . breasts so that they wouldn't show. I had to quit the 
swim team. . . " he broke off. 
   Debby reached out to hold him but he pulled away. He didn't want anybody 
touching him. He didn't want her to feel how soft he'd become. 
   That night when he mother came in to say goodnight he looked up from his 
textbook, his eyes glistening. 
   "Are you crying, Dennis? What's wrong, honey?" 
   "Mom, I'm . . . uh. Mom?" 
   "What is it, baby?" 
   "Something weird is happening to my body." He broke down and blurted out 
the whole incredible story. She asked him to take his shirt off. He did and a 
look of panic crossed her face. 
   "Baby, oh, honey, everything's going to be alright. In the morning, I'll 
take you Dr. Felder and we'll figure out what's happening. Okay?" 
   "Don't tell Dad." 
   "Why not?" 
   "I don't know. Just don't tell him. Okay? 
   "Alright, honey. For now. Till we see what Dr. Felder has to say." 
   The next day Dennis and his mother waited silently in the Dr. Felder's 
office. Finally, a nurse emerged and beckoned to Dennis. Seeing the fear in 
his eyes said, "Your first exam is always the hardest," she said reassuringly. 
She led him back to another waiting room. "If you'll just take your clothes 
off, Denise, and jump up here, the doctor will be in shortly." Dennis looked 
at his feet. 
    "Could you ask my mother to come in too?" he said. 
   The nurse hesitated, sensed his fear and said, "Of course." 
   He undressed, covering his privates with his t-shirt and eased himself up 
on the examination table. He tried not to notice his bust but it was 
impossible. They were so large, he thought. Why did they have to be so large? 
The doctor and his mother came in. 
   "Now, young lady, what's the problem?" 
   "The problem, Dr. Felder, is that this is my son," his mother said. 
   An hour later Dennis and his mother drove home in silence. Finally she 
spoke. 
   "I've got to tell your father." 
   "Why?" 
   "Because he's got to know." 
   "But why, mom?" 
   "Because he's going to find out." 
   "No, he won't. I'll hide it. I've hidden it so far." 
   "You're not going to hide it because you can't hide anymore, Dennis." 
   "What do you mean?" 
   "I mean, that for the short term, till we figure out what's going on, I 
want you to start. . ." 
   "No," he cut her off. "I won't do that! I'll never do that!" he screamed in 
his unfamiliar soprano. 
   "Dennis, look at yourself. Your clothes don't fit. You can't hide your . . 
. chest. You're . . . you're a 36 C cup," she said as the tears began to fall 
down her cheeks as well. "And you don't look . . ." 
   "Like a boy?" 
   "Yes, you don't. Not right now. As soon as we figure this thing out we'll 
go back. You'll go back. I promise." 
   "No, mom. I can't do that. Everybody will know." 
   "Honey, I know it's hard but you won't have to go right back to school. 
We'll take some time. Time to adjust. Time to figure it all out." 
   "But Mom, someday I'll have to go back and when I do everybody will stare 
at me. They'll laugh at me." 
   "Honey, they're already staring." 
   When they car drove up the drive, Dennis jumped out and ran up to his room 
and locked the door. When his father got home he could hear the fighting. 
Harsh words of disbelief and then the pounding of feet coming up the stairs. 
   "Dennis, I want to talk to you." 
   Dennis took off his shirt and laid it on the bed. 
   "Dennis, open the door please. 
   He pulled his pants down past his thighs and stepped out of them. 
   "Right now, Dennis." 
   He took the rubber band off his hair and shook his head. Then he unlocked 
the door. 
   "My God!" 
   "Dad, what's happening to me?" he cried. 
   His mother appeared in the doorway behind his father. She ran to him. "Oh, 
my poor baby," she said, cradling him in her arms. 
   Fifteen minutes later, after the tears had come and gone and come again his 
father said, "Your mother has a plan. She thinks you should . . ." 
   "No!" 
   "Dennis, it's best this way. For now. For this period. As soon as its over, 
we'll go back to the way things were." 
   "Dad, don't let me do that!" 
   "Dennis," his father's voice broke now too, "you've got to try it and 
that's it." 
   "Let's go to bed now and see if you don't feel differently in the morning." 
   They left him alone and after three hours of staring at the ceiling he 
finally drifted into troubled sleep. 
   For three days Dennis stayed in his room. His mother brought him his meals 
in silence and he stayed in bed and thought and slept. At times he would drift 
into strange dreams and wake up coiled in his auburn hair. His body ached from 
the changes and he slept a lot. He used the bathroom only when no one was 
around. An scratchy old bathrobe was the only thing he wore. He avoided his 
image in mirrors. 
   Changes continued to transform his body. If he didn't tie it back with a 
rubber band, his hair fell forward and surrounded his face like leaves from a 
flourishing vine. He stopped sleeping on his stomach because it hurt his chest 
and his back ached from the new top heaviness. 
   At times he would lie in bed and run his hands up and down the sides of his 
body, feeling its contours, the softness, the fresh hills and valleys that had 
grown during the night. He avoided touching his chest because that was too 
painful, both to the touch and to his bewildered psyche. When his robe 
irritated his nipples he put on a t-shirt but found that the jiggling of his 
breasts beneath the taut fabric only directed his attention to his enlarged 
bust. Jockey shorts were out for similar reasons. Pants were out of the 
question. He went back to wearing the robe. 
   At times his father or mother would drop by and try to talk to him but he 
remained steadfast in his silence and after a while they went away. It was 
enough that he ate. Debby came by one day. He refused to talk to her as well 
so she left his homework assignments outside the door and said she come back 
the next day to pick up his homework. Dennis didn't touch it and the next day 
she tried to talk to him again. 
   "Dennis, it's me." 
   Dennis leaned against the door. His heart was pounding. 
   "Dennis, let me in. I just want to talk." 
   "Please go away," he said softly. It was the first words he'd spoken in 72 
hours. His voice had crept up another octave and he bit his lip in shame. 
   "Dennis, you can't stay in there forever. Let me in. Please." 
    "Come back tomorrow. Okay?" Dennis said. 
   "Promise?" 
   "Promise." 
   "Okay. See you tomorrow. Bye." He listened to her footfalls down the stairs 
and then walked to the edge of window and watched her leave the yard. When she 
reached the gate she turned and looked up. He darted back into the shadows. 
   The next day she came back. 
   "Dennis, can I come in?" 
   "The door's not locked." 
   Debby opened the door slowly. Dennis had his back turned to her and was 
looking out the window. He wore the bathrobe tightly wrapped around his body. 
His hair was pulled back in a ponytail that fell to the middle of his back. 
   "Dennis." 
   He turned around and studied her face as she tried to contain her surprise. 
   "I haven't looked in a mirror in 5 days. Have I changed a lot?" 
   "Well . . ." she swallowed, "yes, since I last saw you but that was a long 
time ago," she added hastily. 
   "A week." 
   "Yeah, I guess so." Her eyes fell from his chest to his hips and then to 
the walls of his room. "How are you?" 
   "Oh, I'm fine. I'm great. Another week and I'll be ready for my deb ball." 
   Debby walked to the bed and sat down. 
   "What are you going to do?" 
   "I don't know. What would you do? What can I do?" 
   "Well, your mother . . ." 
   "What did she say?" 
   "Nothing! She just thought that, for now anyhow, you could. . ." 
   "Could what?" 
   "I don't know!" 
   "Debby, I can't do that!" 
   "Why not?" 
   "Because . . . I'm a boy. I'm a boy. I'm a boy," his voice cracked and he 
fell on the bed sobbing. She reached out to comfort him but his robe had 
fallen open and she stopped for a moment to stare at his bosom. His breasts 
were now bigger than hers. 
   "Dennis, show me. Show me your body." 
   "No." 
   She held him close. "Come on now. I'm your . . . friend. You can show me." 
   He sat up next to her. His hair had come undone and framed his face with 
disheveled curls. He drew his robe together tightly. 
   "Look, I'll show you mine and you can show me yours. Okay?" Before he could 
answer she stood up and pulled off her sweater. She was wearing a black bra. 
   "I can't do this." 
   "Come on. I showed you mine," she said, pulling up off the bed. 
   "I'm naked." 
   "Okay. Okay. Here." She unhooked the bra in front and slipped it off. 
   "Now you," she said, tugging at the robe. He let it fall to the floor. 
   "Oh God, Dennis," she said as her eyes quickly took in his widened hips, 
his narrowed waist and the breasts which bounced only inches from hers. She 
looked into his eyes. They were filling with tears. She hugged him. 
   The door opened and his mother appeared in doorway. Debby pulled away 
quickly. Dennis drew his arms up over his chest. 
   "That's okay, Debby." His mother looked at Dennis. "We're all girls here 
now." 
   "Mom!" 
   "Oh baby, I'm sorry but you've got to face facts. Look at yourself, honey. 
Something has happened." 
   Dennis turned away. 
   "Just try it for a little while. Here in your room. You don't have to go 
out. Debby can help you. I'll go away. Just try . . ." 
   "Try what?" he said. 
   His mother bit her lip. 
   "Try being a girl," Debby said. "You might even like it." 
   "Oh, God! Now you're both against me." 
   "Dennis, Debby wants to help you and so do I." 
   "Help me what?" 
   "Adjust." 
   Debby put her arm around his waist. "It's not that bad. I'll help you." 
   "I don't know," he moaned. "What do you want me to do?" 
   His mother approached him tentatively and put her arm around him too. 
   "Just . . . just try some clothes on. That's all. Here. In your room. You 
don't have to go out. No one will see you but us." 
   "No one. Not even Dad?" 
   "Not even Dad." 
   "What clothes?" 
   Dennis's mother glanced at Debby and smiled. "Whatever you want, honey. You 
can start with jeans and a . . . blouse." 
   "I think you should start with a bra," Debby blurted out. "A bra that 
fits." 
   His mother's face lit up. "I'll see if I can find something." She dashed 
out of the room and came back immediately. 
   "Where'd you get this?" Dennis said. "It still has the tag on it." 
   "Well, I just thought . . ." 
   "You bought this for me, didn't you?" 
   "Just try it on," Debby said, putting his arms through the straps. "It's 
hooks in front. Try hooking it yourself." 
   "You bought this for me," he said as his hands fumbled for a moment and 
then his breasts were captive in the lacy white cups. 
   "It's perfect," Debby said. 
   He looked down at his chest and saw the deep crack of cleavage. It was a 
revelation. Much more shocking that a simple mirror reflection, he could now 
see and feel his girlhood in three dimensions. The juxtaposition of his pliant 
flesh and the female garment met at more than simple juncture of skin and 
fabric. They were joined now in some synapse in his brain. A mindset was 
incubating. 
   "I want to see," Dennis said, heading for the bathroom. His mother stopped 
him. 
   "Not yet. Put these on first," she said, handing him a pair of beige cotton 
panties. He turned away and stepped into them. The fabric stretched over his 
buttocks like a second skin. But in front his cock struggled against 
containment. Debby and his mother looked askance as he bounded past them to 
the bathroom, the final strands of hair unraveling from the make-shift 
ponytail. 
   When his mother and Debby caught up with him he was turning to examine his 
profile in the mirror. Tears streaked his face. 
   Debby started to speak but Dennis's mother stopped her. 
   "I'm so big. I'm so big," he gasped, his fingers grazing the surface of his 
bra cups. "You're not big. You're perfect." 
   "But I'm so . . . " He looked at his body. It was so different. So womanly. 
He had cleavage. Clouds of auburn hair unfurled around his face and fell past 
the cups of his brassiere. 
   He turned to the women. "I am a girl now, aren't I?" he said in a 
frightened whisper. 
   "Almost," Debby said. 
   Every day for the rest of the week Debby arrived at the Johnson house at 
four o'clock with clothes for Dennis. She began with old jeans and sweaters 
which he would try on. One day she brought in large shopping bag. 
   "Now don't freak out, okay?" 
   "Have I freaked out yet?" Dennis said petulantly. He sat on the bed, legs 
crossed in a distinctly unmasculine way and wearing only his bra and panties. 
His hair was pulled back in the familiar pony tail but a careful observer 
could see that his bangs were ever so slightly teased. 
   "Okay, but this is different," she said as she pulled a baby blue taffeta 
prom dress out of the bag. 
   "What's that?" 
   "A prom dress." 
   "Oh, God," he said, falling back on the bed in excited giggles. 
   "You promised." 
   "I can't wear that." 
   "Why not?" 
   "It's too . . . too much." 
   Debby put the dress up against her body and strutted around as though she 
just arrived at the ball. Then she turned to Dennis, "Aren't you curious to 
see what a real dress feels like?" 
   "Yes, but I'm scared." 
   "Scared of what?" 
   "Scared that I'll like it too much." 
   "Well, you're supposed to like it." 
   "But what if tomorrow my breasts go away and everything changes back?" 
   Debby rolled her eyes. "Come on, get up. I want to see how it fits you." 
Dennis obliged and she held the dress up to his body. "You'll have to wear a 
different bra. The straps'll show. Here," she said, pulling a strapless 
longline bra out of the bag. 
   "Oh, I'll never get this on," Dennis said, looking at all the hooks in 
back." 
   "I'll help you. Now, take off your bra and put this on." Dennis gave her a 
withering look and slid off his old brassiere and Debby helped him hook the 
eyes on the longline. 
   "Ooo la la," Debby said when he turned around to face her. The bra pushed 
his breasts up and squeezed them together creating generous cleavage. Dennis 
blushed. 
    Debby now pulled a powder blue tricot half slip out of the bag and said, 
"Now, put this on." 
   Dennis pulled the slip on and swooned a little as the deliciously cool 
fabric grazed his naked thighs. His mouth went dry as he anticipated wearing 
his first dress. 
   "Are you ready, Cinderella?" 
   Dennis's dainty foot trembled as he stepped into the rustling heap of blue. 
A moment later he was twirling around the room, the enormous hoop of his 
skirts floating out from his body like a swinging bell. Shoulder-framing 
gathers of soft taffeta met at his decolletage in swirl of baby blue that 
looked like a cinnamon role. 
   "Don't you want to see yourself?" Debby said, rushing him toward the door. 
   "Yes, but . . ." His father had still not seen wearing a bra and panties, 
let alone a dress. The last thing Dennis wanted was to surprise him in this 
big, poufy prom gown that displayed his gorgeous bosom unashamedly. And yet, 
he was terribly curious about how he looked. Debby's face waited expectantly 
for his nod and even the sound of the rustling taffeta seemed to urge him on. 
He relented. "Okay, let's go, but watch the stair." 
   Debby opened the door and looked both ways while Dennis picked up his 
cascading skirt. 
   The reflection literally took his breath away. He was lovely and so demure. 
He loved the way the shoulders tapered to frame his decolletage. A new emotion 
was stirring down deep inside, an emotion that confused and frightened him. He 
was almost proud. 
   As he turned this way and that to view his profile Debby also noticed the 
first signs of a feminine vanity creeping into his demeanor. She was dying to 
undo his ponytail and brush his hair out and Dennis must have been thinking 
along similar lines because after observing himself for a long moment he 
discarded the rubber band and shook his head. The long auburn waves, free at 
last, framed his face with a kittenish dishevelment that literally forced his 
face into a pouty sultriness. 
   He turned to Debby. "I look really good, don't I?" 
   "Really good?" 
   He blushed deeply. "I mean, do I look okay?" he said, painfully aware she 
had caught him basking in the ecstasy of feminine conceit. 
   "Yes, you're gorgeous. Now let me brush your hair out." 
   Dennis smiled and sat down on the edge of the tub like a princess awaiting 
her chambermaid. The brush moved through his tangled curls reluctantly at 
first but soon Debby's hand pushed down easily and the snarls resolved into a 
smooth cascade of mahogany, the strands aligned like exquisite wood grain. It 
felt so wonderful he wanted to purr. 
   "I've been wanting to do this for weeks," Debby said. 
   "Weeks?" 
   "Yes, weeks. It's a sin to have hair this beautiful and not brush it. In 
fact, it's a sin not to have it styled." 
   Dennis turned to look at her. "But I can't do that. I'd have to leave my 
room." 
   "So, you're going to stay in your room forever, Rapunzel?" 
   "I'd like to. I'd like to have you come brush my hair every day and talk to 
me and bring me . . ." 
   "Dresses?" 
   "Yes. And we could be together like we used to be." 
   "We'll never be like we used to be." 
   Dennis folded his hands in a sea of blue taffeta. "I know." 
   Debby glanced in the mirror and caught Dennis's eyes. 
   "You know, there's one thing I can't show you here that's absolutely 
essential." 
   "What?" 
   "Shopping at the mall," Debby laughed. "Why don't we go out together to the 
mall tomorrow. You need to get some things that fit. You'll love it." 
   Dennis was skeptical. "What would I wear?" 
   Debby smiled. She knew he was ready. "Anything you want, princess." 
   
   The next day was Saturday. Dennis got up at dawn and was already possessed 
by the question of what he would wear on his mall spree. He also had to get 
out of the house without seeing his father. Around nine o'clock his mother 
knocked on the door and delivered his breakfast. "You okay, honey?" she said. 
   He turned to her and smiled. "Yes, I guess. I'm supposed to go to the mall 
today with Debby." 
   "That's great!" she said. "What are you going to . . ." 
   "I don't know." 
   "What's wrong with jeans and a sweater?" 
   "Mom!" he said with exasperation, "It's not what I'm going to wear. It's 
wearing a bra and stuff out there," Dennis said. He turned his head to the 
window, creating a curvy cameo against the blue sky. His mother put her arm 
around his waist. 
   "It'll be fine. No one will ever suspect." 
   He spun out of her grasp. "No will ever suspect what?" he demanded. 
   She stepped back in alarm for a brief moment. Then regaining her composure 
she said deliberately, "That you're not a girl." 
   "Even though I look like one?" 
   "Yes, a very lovely girl," she added. 
   Tears welled up in his eyes and he said, "I'm scared, mommy." She hugged 
him. 
   "I know, honey. I know. It'll be fine. Everything will be fine." 
   An hour later the door opened and Dennis emerged like a shy butterfly. He 
wore his old jean jacket over a tight black turtleneck sweater and a pair of 
girls' jeans that Debby had brought him. The jeans were so tight that the 
outline of the credit card his mother gave him was clearly visible in his back 
pocket. Furthermore, his sweater accentuated his bust in a way that both 
embarrassed and excited him. His mother had brushed his hair out and pulled it 
back in a ponytail, tying it up high on his head in a more feminine way. 
Dennis protested but secretly he liked the way it made him look cute and 
little girl-like. 
   They drove to the mall in silence. Dennis looked out the window and played 
with the end of his ponytail. When they arrived his mother said, "You'll be 
fine. Try to have fun with it." Dennis made an effort to smile. She watched 
him walk across the parking lot, losing track of him as he blended into a 
crowd of teenage girls headed for the mall. 
   
Dennis arrived at the appointed meeting place early and sat down on a bench to 
wait. His breasts felt bigger and more conspicuous than ever and he 
unconsciously began to hunch over to hide his curvy, new figure. When he saw 
Debby walking across the mall he straightened up a little. 
   "Hi," Debby said quietly. 
   "Hi." 
   "You look great." 
   "Thanks." He blushed. "Everything feels so . . . tight." 
   "That's because it is, dear. And that's why we're here. Are you ready?" 
   "Not really." 
   "Come on, let's go get you a bra that fits." She pulled him up off the 
bench and they headed off to the lingerie department at Dillards. 
   Debby took Dennis back to the dressing rooms, and said, "Wait here. I'll be 
back." 
   He sat down and fidgeted, trying not to feel like this was the oddest thing 
he'd ever done, trying not to listen to the sounds of dressing dropping and 
bras hooking. 
   Soon Debby returned with several bras, slips and even a garter belt. When 
Dennis rolled his eyes she said, "You might like it, you know. Now take off 
your sweater." 
   He spent the rest of the afternoon taking off his clothes and trying on 
others. Debby was having a great time selecting things and then having him 
model them for her. Soon he forgot who he was and where he was and began to 
look forward to trying on the pretty blouses and skirts that Debby handed him. 
   By two o'clock he had discarded the turtleneck and jeans and was wearing 
black tights, a black denim skirt and a white blouse with puffed sleeves and a 
plunging neckline. By three o'clock he had replaced his mother's low pumps 
with a pair of shiny black heels and he carried a small brown leather purse. 
   He felt more at ease in his new role now and even a little proud of his 
figure which Debby never stopped praising. "You're such a fox," she'd say or 
with mock envy "You're so stacked. I wish I had your figure." Dennis couldn't 
help grinning when he heard these compliments. Even though he felt comfortable 
walking along side Debby in his new skirt and blouse, he found it difficult to 
take the larger step of enjoying his femininity. Debbie sensed that this 
shyness might be shed if he could see his feminine loveliness reflected, not 
in a mirror but in the eyes of his beholders. 
   "How about a makeover?" she suggested as they strolled through the cosmetic 
section. Dennis hesitated and then thought why not. Moments later an 
attractive young redhead in a cream colored lab coat was daubing bright colors 
on his cheek and speaking in low soothing tones about contrast and shade. 
Dennis found himself enjoying the attention. Especially when Carole the 
cosmetician praised his cheekbones or his aquiline nose. When she finished he 
swooned at the luscious girl who stared back at him in the circular mirror. 
Carole had uncovered or rather created a glittering creature with her brushes 
and paint and Dennis was amazed at this new level of transformation. He was 
barely begun to admire himself when Debbie said, "Let's get your hair done 
now." 
   Dennis went pale beneath his blusher. "Oh, I don't know. Can't I just leave 
it the way it is." 
   "Your hair is lovely but it needs to be trained. Just like your breasts 
need a bra for support, your hair needs to be . . . tamed." 
   "Tamed how?" 
   "You'll see. Come on," she said, taking him by the arm and leading him into 
Hair Designs. 
   When he left the salon an hour and a half later the ambisextrous pony tail 
was gone but you couldn't really call what replaced it tame. The hairdresser, 
obviously delighted to get her hands on Dennis's thick, abundant hair, had 
taken this raw rapunzel and worked his hair into a frothy bouffant. Parted on 
one side it now sinuously fell over his face in a dramatic cascade which 
culminated at his shoulders in a thick, bouncing wave. 
   Dennis was mortified when he saw what had been done to him. Debby couldn't 
stop laughing. He looked as though he should be wrapped in ermine and carrying 
a chihuahua, a soap opera vixen at a supermarket opening. It was the worst 
possible outcome: big, starlet hair which called attention to his burgeoning 
femininity. In fact, it was the perfect complement to his glamorous makeover 
and a small part of his girlish self was celebrating. The rest of him found 
his new look, like his pouffy coif, to be an unwieldy burden, top heavy with 
sex. 
   "You look faaabulous," Debby said over and over in her best Fernando Lamas 
ooze. People were staring at him. He could feel heads turning as he walked 
past. And when they reached a knot of teenage boys his composure, already on 
shaky ground, completely abandoned him and suddenly he was a teenage girl, 
giggling with nervous energy, embarrassed and proud of his beauty, knowing and 
innocent. It was as though he'd been handed a scepter that had compelling 
power but he had no idea how to control it. And so he passed through the 
crowded mall causing small whirlwinds of sexual confusion in his wake. 
   The two girls made their way out into the silent twilight and fell silent 
themselves. Dennis felt his nipples stiffen in the October chill. He drew the 
jean jacket tighter. 
   "How are you going to get all this stuff home?" Debby said finally. 
   "I guess I should call my mom but I don't really want to." 
   "Why not?" 
   "I don't know. She's never seen me like this." 
   "Yeah. Well, I could call my mom, I guess." 
   "Does she know?" 
   "Not exactly." 
   "What's that supposed to mean?" 
   "She knows." 
   "Oh, great." 
   "Hey, it's not a big deal." 
   Dennis exhaled a bitter laugh. "Okay, well let's go call her." 
   
   Debby's mother was not discreet. She gawked, she stared, even her silence 
was uncomfortably intrusive and Dennis was glad when they dropped him off at 
home. He gathered up all his purchases and went up the walk. His mother opened 
the door. 
   "Is that you?" 
   "Yes," Dennis said, bowing his head so that his bounteous hair shrouded his 
face in shadow. 
   "Let me take a look at you. Oh my God!" She reached out to hug him but he 
pulled away. "What's the matter, honey?" 
   He ran past her up the stairs to his room. When he got there he was shocked 
to find the room had been transformed. Gone were the beige curtains, the brown 
bedspread and the dresser he'd had since childhood. In their place, were pink 
draperies, a chenille bedspread and a vanity replete with a tableful of 
cosmetics. A long, rectangular mirror encircled by tiny bulbs completed the 
picture. A note was taped on the mirror. It read: "For our new daughter, Mom 
and Dad." 
   Dennis didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He did neither. Instead the 
girl in the mirror beckoned. Finally alone, she demanded his undivided 
attention. The androgynous jean jacket fell to the floor like a discarded husk 
and her delicate hands covered her decolletage. It was a gesture of 
instinctive modesty. Head tipped forward in shy retreat of her own loveliness, 
hair spilling over her naked shoulders, she resembled a little girl 
simultaneously chastened and adored for wearing Mommy's good blouse. A 
mischievous smile now overtook her diffidence and she swiveled in a three 
quarter turn to see just how big her hair was in back and how much space her 
breasts displaced in profile. The small smile turned big as she took note of 
her own womanly grandiosity. Hands went to hips next and back arched, trailing 
her mane down to her waist. The little girl had disappeared. A starlet was 
emerging. 
   "Dennis!" his mother called from behind him. 
   He wheeled around and felt the free fall of his hair over one shoulder. The 
little girl suddenly returned, blushing crimson. 
   "Are you okay, honey?" she said, unable to conceal an amused smile. 
   Dennis looked down. His mother gave him hug and it crossed his mind that 
his breasts were bigger than her's. "I'm so proud of you," she said softly. 
Dennis pushed her away. 
   "Let's see what you got," she said, trying to break the tension. 
   "Maybe later. I think I'd like to be alone." 
   "Don't you want to show your dad . . ." 
   "No!" 
   "Dennis, you've got to face him sometime. You can't hide up here for the 
rest of your life." 
   His glittering eyes flickered with a laser beam of hatred and his mother 
beat a hasty retreat. He locked the door, stripped his clothes off and looked 
at his body in the full-length mirror his parents had installed on the back of 
his door. His body was a conundrum with its voluptuous curves and a big cock 
swaying between his legs. He touched it. Not with the manly intent of his pre-
girl years but daintily, gingerly, as though it were a foreign part of his 
body, an incongruous artifact of a forgotten time. Amazingly, it sprang to 
life in his delicate hand and the sight of his nodding tool in concert with 
his swaying breasts aroused him. He began to play with his image in the 
mirror. Legs spread and pelvis thrust out, he proffered his stiff rod with one 
hand and gathered up a shock of brunette hair with the other while his lips 
pouted with babydoll insouciance. It was an arresting image and one filled 
with coarse sensuality. Suddenly a wave of enormous shame mingled with a 
knowledge of raw, unbridled power swept over him and he lay down on the pink 
bedspread to catch his breath. His head was swimming with strange hormonal 
drumbeats and even though the blood drained from his cock, his mind retained 
the image of the lusty androgyne for a long time after. 
   "Dinner's ready, hon," his mom called out from behind the door. 
   Dennis stood up and turned to look at himself once again. A strange and 
mischievous smile overtook his mouth and he picked up his bra and twirled it 
around his finger. Then he put the bra and panties back on, tucking his 
maleness demurely between his legs. Pawing through the bags from the mall he 
selected the tightest jeans and a red sweater with pearl buttons that 
celebrated his new convexity to stunning effect. For shoes he chose a pair of 
black heels with ankle straps. Glancing in the mirror he smiled at his kitten-
with-a-whip look, freshened up his lipstick, brushed his bounteous hair over 
his shoulders and bounced down the stairs to dinner. 
   His mother raised an eyebrow as he plopped into his customary seat. He 
smiled back at her, spreading his napkin over his lap with careful good little 
girl aplomb. When his father finally emerged from his own hiding place he 
turned white at the image of his son, whom he had last seen in uncomfortable 
transition, as a red lipped little hussy flaunting her breasts like Lana 
Turner. 
   "What's the matter, Dad?" Dennis said in a breathy, Marilynesque whisper. 
"I thought you wanted this," he said, resting his hands modestly over his 
breasts. 
   His father struggled with his emotions for a moment and then sat silently, 
a frozen smile fixed on his face. 
   "Dennis went . . ." 
   "I'm Denise now, Mom." 
   She nodded in his direction. "Denise went to the mall today." 
   "Oh," his father said, trying to seem interested. 
   "He . . . she bought all kinds of stuff . . . on your credit card." 
   "Oh." 
   They ate in silence. Denise watched them carefully. They didn't look up 
once for 10 minutes. 
   "Look! My nipples are hard," Denise finally said, nonchalantly breaking the 
silence. "What causes that, I wonder?" he said, throwing his shoulders back to 
emphasize his bust. His parents looked up for a moment and then down 
immediately at their plates. He toyed with a strand of spaghetti for a long 
moment and then said, "Look, I'm a girl now. You'd better get used to it 
because I have." He got up suddenly and went back to his room. 
   "What was that all about?" his father said. 
   "I don't know," his mother said. 
   "Maybe you'd better go see if he's . . . she's alright." 
   "Why don't you. I think that little performance was for your benefit." 
   "What do I say?" 
   "Just accept her." 
   "But she's so . . . whory." 
   "Have you looked around lately? That's the way girls are these days." 
   "It's hard to adjust to him that way." 
   "Her. And you'll just have to try." 
   He got up and walked slowly up the stairs. 
   "Denise, uh sorry, Denise," he called out. When no response came, he tried 
the doorknob and finding it unlocked he opened the door a crack and poked his 
head in. Denise was sitting at his new vanity. The sweater and jeans were 
gone. He wore only a black brassiere, panties and heels. His hair was piled up 
on his head casually in Gibson girl splendor. He turned to look at his father. 
In his hand he held a mascara brush. "Hi, Daddy," he said with a coy smile. 
   His father eyes dropped to Denise's expansive cleavage and he withdrew 
hastily. "Sorry, I thought you were . . ." 
   "Dressed," Denise finished. "But, Daddy, I am." 
   Hiding behind the door, his father grew purple with embarrassment and rage. 
   "Listen, Daddy, I'm not what I was. Physically or any other way. I'm your 
little girl now with not so little breasts. And I'm pretty and I like it. So 
you better get used to me this way because I'm not changing back again." 
Slowly the door closed and Denise smiled into the mirror for a moment before 
resuming the brush strokes of his mascara. 
   
                             *  *  * 
   
On Sunday Denise went over to Debbie's and the two spent the entire afternoon 
trying on clothes and making up. He was an avid student, absorbing as much 
information as he could about make up, clothes and hair. Debbie was surprised 
at the new lack of self-consciousness about his femaleness. Though late in the 
afternoon, as Debbie fussed over his hair, he admitted that he was worried 
about school. 
   "Why?" 
   "Why? I left there six weeks ago as a boy and now I returning with this?" 
he said, pointing to the the frothy pile of curls atop his head. "And these," 
he said, cupping his breasts. 
   "But everyone knows something happened to you." 
   "They do?" 
   "Well, yes. I mean, it was happening before you left, you know." 
   "What are they saying about me?" 
   Debbie stopped teasing his hair for a moment. Their eyes met in the mirror. 
"They're saying you're a girl now, a beautiful girl." 
   "How do they know that though?" 
   "I told them," Debbie blurted out. 
   "What did you say?" 
   "I said that your body had changed and that you and your parents decided it 
was best if you started wearing . . . girls' clothes for a while." 
   Debbie's matter of factness made Denise blush. 
   "And I said that you were really pretty." 
   Denise sighed, his bosom heaving beneath his blouse. "Do you really think 
I'm pretty, Debbie?" 
   "Shut up, big tits and let me finish your hair." 
   "I hate that word." 
   "What? Tits?" 
   "Yes. Do you really think my breasts are big?" 
   "Oh, you just want to hear me say it. Yes, of course they're big. 36 C cup 
is big, darling. The boys are going to love you." 
   Denise looked up at the mirror. "No, they won't. They'll think, 'He's a boy 
who looks like a girl.'" 
   "How long do you think that will last?" 
   "Well, I'm not a complete girl, you know." 
   "They won't be seeing that though, will they. And besides how will they 
know it's still there?" 
   Denise smiled at his reflection. "It's kind of like being a spy. Like Mata 
Hari," he said, covering his face like a veil with a thick coil of brunette 
curls. Debbie casually recaptured them and resumed brushing. 
   "At least you won't have to take P.E. anymore." 
   
                             *  *  * 
   
The next day Denise and his parents met with the school counselor, Mr. Belson 
and the school nurse, Miss Ashley, to talk about "Denise's" return to school. 
Denise wore a long sleeve ribbed knit dress that revealed the contours of his 
new topography with such drama that Mr. Belson had trouble looking at the 
statuesque young tart without staring in awe. It pleased Denise no end to see 
that the slightest shifts in his posture reverberated throughout Mr. Belson's 
libido like tiny seismic disturbances. 
   "Denise seems to be adjusting to her new role very well," Mr. Belson said, 
looking first at Denise's father who shifted uncomfortably in his seat and 
then at his mother who beamed with pride at her son's beauty and finally at 
Denise himself whose demure lips opened and seemed to Mr. Belson to mouth the 
words, "Fuck me." Belson turned crimson and then said, "Well, I guess that's 
it unless you have anything else, Miss Ashley." 
   "I'm just wondering what bathroom Denise will use," Miss Ashley said matter 
of factly. 
   "Well, I, uh," Belson stumbled. 
   "Why can't he use the girls' bathroom?" Denise's mother asked impatiently. 
   "She could but I'm afraid of what would happen if she was . . . 
indiscreet," Miss Ashley said, politely correcting his mother's slip. 
   "Denise is a lady," his mother insisted. His father winced. 
   "Well, I'm sure she is but some of the students know that Denise is not . . 
. completely feminine. I would hate to put her in an awkward position." 
   "Why don't we try it for a while and see how it goes," Mr. Belson 
intervened. 
   Miss Ashley sighed and retreated. The meeting was over. 
   That night Denise stared at the ceiling and thought about Mr. Belson. "How 
nervous he was. He couldn't take his eyes off my breasts. I controlled him 
just by touching my hair or shifting in my chair. These are powerful," he 
thought to himself as he cupped his heavy bosom in his hands. He decided to 
experiment more with his new powers and when he appeared at the breakfast 
table in the morning, his clothes were even more provocative. He wore an 
ultratight v-neck red sweater and designer jeans which left nothing to the 
imagination. He hair was tied high up on his head and bounced merrily against 
his back in a thick spring-loaded ponytail. His adorable bangs belied his 
tantalizing couture. He chose the brightest red lipstick he could find and his 
alabaster cheeks were brushed dramatically with pale rose blush. He was ready 
to turn heads. 
   First class was English with Mr. Bostick. The usual preclass din was in 
full sway until he appeared in the doorway. Then the heads not only turned, 
jaws dropped and tongues fell out as the prettiest boy in school took his old 
seat. He waited for Mr. Bostick to make a speech about his return and it 
seemed as though that might have been the teacher's plan until he'd seen the 
statuesque boy's transformation. He was literally speechless before such a 
bewitching metamorphosis. Denise breathed a sigh of relief (an event followed 
by every male in the room) and felt secure in the knowledge that his imposing 
beauty had helped him escape an embarrassing situation. 
   The rest of his classes followed a similar pattern. The few who weren't 
aware that he'd left school weeks earlier as a boy were soon apprised of the 
fact and turned to stare with undisguised wonder. He smiled politely at the 
girls and suggestively at the boys and basked in the reflected heat generated 
by his homecoming. No one talked to him between classes and he spoke to no one 
until he saw Debbie in the halls between classes. 
   "How's it going?" 
   "Not too bad, I guess. Everyone thinks I'm a martian but I don't care." 
   "You're too beautiful. That's the problem. They can't believe someone with 
a set like yours was a boy a few weeks ago." 
   Denise smiled. "Gotta go." 
   "Bye." 
   He walked down the corridor feeling the tightness of his sweater against 
his breasts, the swish of his pant legs and the clicking of his heels. He felt 
good. He felt alive. This feeling stopped abruptly when he pushed the heavy 
door into the girls' bathroom. A mangy quartet of tough girls fixing their 
hair and makeup turned to look at him. He smiled and went into a stall and 
shut the door. Like most stall doors the lock hadn't functioned in years and 
only gravity kept it shut. 
   They girls resumed their conversation in stage whispers. 
   "I don't think he looks that great." 
   "His bra's gotta be padded." 
   "I heard he still had his dick." 
   "He's probably standing over the john right now." 
   "Hey, leave the seat down, will ya?" Laughter. They moved to the front of 
his stall and began whispering in earnest. 
   "Hey, Denise." 
   "What?" 
   "We want to see it." 
   Silence. 
   "Come on, Denise, we're all girls here right?" 
   Denise tried to move his knee against the door but it was too late. As the 
door flew back he stood up hastily and made a futile effort to pull up his 
jeans. 
   "Oh gross!" 
   "It's huge!" 
   Denise tried to cover himself but it was too late. He burst out crying and 
made the impromptu decision to cover his face rather than his privates. It was 
a bad decision. One of the girls had a polaroid camera and flashed a quick 
snap of the pretty girl and the unquestionably large remnant of her manhood. 
   "You won't be so haughty after this gets around, Big Dick." 
   "See if his tits are real," one of the girls said. Another girl responded 
by ripping Denise's sweater open, exposing his pert 36 C cup breasts bouncing 
in a lacy black brassiere. 
   The camera whined again capturing the conundrum of Denise's body and her 
anguish at its rude exposure. Denise took his hands from his face to scream at 
his antagonists but that only served their interests better when a third 
picture was snapped that showed the pretty girl with the bouncing ponytail 
revealed, cock flopping and cleavage popping. 
   This was the picture that went into wide circulation throughout the school 
the next day, reaching Mr. Belson's desk sometime in the late afternoon. It 
was a crude xerox of a xerox but Denise was still clearly recognizable. 
Curiously, his look of anger had mutated in the copy machine into cartoonish 
surprise giving the photo the look of a burlesque postcard, the kind where an 
airbrushed cutie loses her bathrobe to an obliging gust of wind. The fact that 
much more was revealed than a pair of white buns added a certain piquancy. 
What remained in the viewer's mind after the picture was gone was the 
magnitude of both his male and female attributes and, of course, his stunning 
face. 
   The next day when Mr. Belson called Denise into his office he expected a 
somewhat chastened version of the vixen he'd met at the parent conference. He 
was surprised to find that Denise was unrepentant. He wore a scooped-neck 
leotard that exploited the fulsome beauty of his bust and a denim sheath skirt 
fit tightly around his derriere. He wore his hair down and it framed his face 
in soft waves of kittenish abandon. There was nothing about him that suggested 
he had a secret surprise in his panties or that the humiliating events of the 
past two days had daunted his hussy image. 
   "You don't seem bothered by this, Denise," he said, holding the picture up. 
   "I am but I can't let it show or it will only get worse." 
   "So you hide your true feelings." 
   "I suppose." 
   "Is that wise?" 
   Denise looked into his eyes. "Mr. Belson, I know I'm a girl now. I have 
breasts and a girl's figure. I also happen to have a penis. Now everyone knows 
it. It's not a big deal." 
   Belson stared in awe at the lovely boy/girl's insouciance. Then he looked 
down at the key in his hand and said, "Well, I don't think it's wise to use 
the girls' bathrooms anymore. I'm going to give you the key to the faculty 
bathroom. Do me and yourself a favor and keep the door locked from now on." 
   Denise took the key and headed for the door. He turned round as he touched 
the doorknob and said "Don't worry about me, Mr. Belson. I know what I am." 
   Yes, you're a slut, Belson thought as the pretty boy/girl left. 
   The next few days were difficult ones for Denise as her notorious picture 
circulated throughout the whole school. Taunts of "Big Dick" and "Cock Girl" 
were whispered behind her back in the corridors and her old friends, including 
Debbie, were embarrassed to be seen with her. She didn't seem to mind much 
during school but at night, as she sat before her vanity, she would burst into 
tears when she scanned her lovely image in the mirror and saw her big cock 
resting peacefully beneath her tricot panties like a python in repose. 
   Nevertheless she was determined not to back down and each day her 
provocative clothes reflected a "Take No Prisoners" attitude that did little 
to let the controversy around her subside. One day she arrived at first period 
English class in a bustier and short black skirt with a bolero jacket that 
mitigated her delicious cleavage but not by much. 
   "Denise, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to go home and change," 
the principal had said after calling her into his office. 
   "Why?" 
   "I think that's fairly obvious," he said, uncomfortably. 
   "Not to me." 
   "You can't come to school dressed like Madonna and expect to get away with 
it." 
   "You don't have to worry about the boys. Not one has even spoken to me 
since I've come back to school." 
   "It's not just the boys, Denise. It's . . . everyone," he said, letting his 
own eyes drop for a moment to savor those milk white doves cupped in black 
underwired lace. "You're here to learn not to . . . parade around in your 
underwear." 
   When his mother pulled up to take him home she feigned shock by his 
brazenness. "Denise, you've got to tone down. For goodness sake, you look like 
a whore," she said laughing but Denise could tell she took great pride in his 
"stop a train" figure. 
   When they got home he changed into a tight black sweater. "That's better," 
she smiled. "Much more ladylike." In fact, it was even more tantalizing than 
the bustier but it didn't get him kicked out of school. 
                             *  *  * 
   
   Belson stood relieving himself in the faculty bathroom when the door lock 
clicked and the knob turned. He glanced over to see Denise closing the door 
behind her. 
   "What are you doing in here?" he yelled. 
   "Don't worry, I locked the door," she said, sidling up to him at the next 
urinal and unzipping her jeans. He looked straight ahead, his face a pinkish 
white as she made water next to him and the perfume of her hair filled his 
nostrils. 
   "Am I embarrassing you, Mr. Belson?" she said huskily. 
   He stood silently as she studied his face. He could feel her eyes shifting 
down to his cock, examining it. After what seemed like an eternity he 
finished, zipped up his pants and turned toward the exit. But Denise turned 
and stopped him. Her pink nailed fingers shook her big cock in his direction 
   "Look at it, Mr. Belson. I know you've wanted it since that first meeting. 
Go ahead. It's not a snake. It won't bite." 
   "Get out of my way, you little slut." 
   "Look at it," she screamed. 
   He glanced down. 
   "That's it. Not so hard, was it? But it could be. Here, touch it." She 
reached out and grabbed his hand and placed it on the large tube of flesh. His 
hand curled around it like a tendril on a vine. 
   He looked at her. She was never more captivating. The soft brunette hair 
that framed her face, the thick bangs that fell just above her wide eyes, the 
lovely innocence of her white skin belied the power of her spell, the cruel 
womanliness of her demands. She was irresistible. A wave of yielding weakness 
passed through him with a visible tremor and pulling her thick root like a 
handle, he drew her close and kissed her lips. 
   As they kissed, she unzipped his pants and her hand slid through the 
opening to retrieve his cock. It was hard. She was not surprised. 
   She pulled back and smiled at him. "Do you want me?" she asked, in a husky 
babydoll whisper. 
   He said nothing but buried his head in her thick hair till he reached her 
neck and let his tongue answer with a long kiss that made its way from her 
neck to her mouth. 
   "Suck me, baby," she said. 
   Now he pulled back and looked at her with faint apprehension. "You do what 
I tell you, baby," she said, in a soothing maternal voice. 
   He sank to his knees and looked up at her in helpless supplication. She 
smiled down at him and hoisted her tube top and bra up over her breasts, 
letting them sway above him like dark shadows. She smiled again. "Go ahead, 
baby." 
   She guided her big cock to his mouth and drew it across his lips a few 
times before they opened and opened and opened and soon it was glistening and 
gliding, in and out across his tongue, down his throat, over his lips and 
back, swelling with each stroke until it threatened to choke him. 
   As he fell into the rhythm of the trancelike motion, Denise turned toward 
the mirror and studied this strange tableau vivant. Her body now arched over 
the supplicant, hands against the tiled wall, breasts spiraling over him like 
heavy fruit and he below, shaking the tree by its thick trunk with drunken 
abandon. The thrust of her round, white buttocks; the dark, shimmering hair 
falling around her head, shaking with each lunge; the pouting, mocking lips, 
the raw, redness of her glistening cock. Were these the devices that pumped 
the blood to her groin or was it Belson's unschooled lips, his untalented 
tongue? No, it was her and her alone. The juicy vision of her contradictions, 
the crucifying beauty of her womanly body and her red male member, the 
sweetness of her face and the cruelty of her desire, the mingling of innocent 
youth with ravenous lust. The puppet Belson. She smiled at the ease with which 
she pulled his strings and her triumphant smile unexpectedly brought forth the 
streaming, white gism that flowed out the sides of his mouth and spurted into 
his damp hair and fell to the tiles in clotted, milky drops. Before the last 
spunk was spilled Denise pulled away from Belson to face the mirror and 
grasping her cock with both hands, she took aim at her own deliciously bawdy 
image. A final shot, issuing from deep within her groin, arced and hit the 
mirror, clouding the reflection of her face with hot, white cum. 

--