Girly Girl

"No, we texted a little but no one was up for much," I reported.

"Maybe you can help me keep an eye on the shop, then," she said. Her eyes glanced down at the floor, to the retail store one floor down. "That Monica, I don't know," she said. Monica was her newest associate and Jas had voiced some concerns about her to me prior that week.

"Well, I sure can't help you here," I said. "Except for fetching this or that," I added.

"I think after fetching me breakfast that you've done plenty!" she giggled.

So I spent the day bouncing between her shop and her studio. An hour here, ninety minutes there. I quickly understood why she was not keen on Monica; she was a little too loud with a braying voice that stirred comparisons to a jackass, and her mannerisms and speech suggested that she was a bit dumb. I finally pegged her as a bimbo, and I knew that she'd not last long in Jas's employ.

Towards late afternoon, I took over manning the register. There was a bit of a rush of women browsing the store, and all three associates were required. It wasn't hard to run the register, though admittedly if I had been asked to box up the goods for a gift or something, I'd be in the glue. But that did not happen.

A couple brought several items to me to ring up. They were pleasant and asked about Jasmine. I told her that she was up in the studio working on an order, and that she'd been there since early in the morning.

"Oh, so you're the boyfriend!" one asked, smiling sweetly at me.

"Yep, that's me," I confirmed. The laser scanner did its job - beeping and then my screen pulled up the information. I had to suppress a look of surprise at the cost for the dress.

"I was wondering why you were working here," the second said with a grin of her own.

"I didn't have much going on today so I've been hanging out here all day with her," I explained between beeps.

"She trusts you to run the store?"

I looked up and smiled, nodding. "Yeah. I know she likes to be here on Saturdays," I half-apologized to her.

"Yes, we did miss her." Their names - Michelle and Karri - I jotted down on a slip of paper to make sure that I told Jasmine they had asked about her.

They left, their hands clasped in one another's, the spare hand holding bags. I looked at the credit card charge. Five thousand bucks. Christ.

At six, I closed up along with Jas's longest-tenured employee Christine. She was nice, she was efficient and she said little. She looked tired and footsore and wanted to go home to do whatever; she had gotten her commissions for the day working with Karri and Michelle, so at least she was leaving happy.

I walked back upstairs after the place was locked up tightly and found Jas sitting at her big table, her chin in her head, staring blankly at the wall.

"You all right?" I asked.

She turned her head without lifting it. "Exhausted," she reported.

"But done?" I pressed.

She nodded, an awkward motion with her chin remaining in her hand. "Twenty minutes ago."

"Karri and Michelle said hi," I told her next. "And dropped five thousand bucks!"

Jasmine sat up, grinning. "Karri called me this week. They have some giant charity auction next weekend," she reported. "I knew they were ready to shop till they dropped!"

"I heard the wail of their credit card, that's for sure," I allowed.

Jasmine waved it away. "They're both loaded," Jasmine said. "That was a mere drop in the bucket for them," she said. She giggled. "It's good to have rich customers!"

"With expensive tastes," I joined in her humor. "And nice, sleek bodies," I commented further.

"Very sleek," Jasmine agreed. "But they're totally devoted to each other. No third parties in that relationship!" she told me.

"Well, they make for a striking couple, that's for sure," I said.

"Like us!" Jasmine finally rose, but groaned as she did so, her hands going to her lower back. She stretched backwards, her face a grimace. "Fuck, it's locked," she said.

"Hold on," I said and walked over. Anticipating my movements, Jas wrapped her arms around her body, crossing them under her breasts. I stood behind her, and enveloped her. With a bit of a grunt, I lifted her, arching my back a little. I then bounced a couple of times until her back popped loudly, and a loud, sudden gasp-moan followed.

Back standing, she slowly rocked her head from side to side until there was a softer crunch as her neck snapped as well. "Oh, that's so much better!" she said. She turned, and smiled at me.

Since I have known her, the one thing that startled me from the start, was how quickly she would flip a switch to go from hustling businesswoman to displaying lewd wantonness. It was often in her eyes and her smile, and I saw the exact smile that told me that she had plans for this night. Not just plans. Plans were ordinary. Routine. She had plans.

"I have an admission to make," she said. One foot slid silently on the floor in front of the other, her body's angle showing the hips, and her hands moved to her hips. The display was not unlike a model walking the runway.

"Make it," I smiled back at her.

"I've been sitting in a puddle of my own cream all fucking day," she said as the next foot stepped forward.

Have you ever watched a cat slowly stalk its prey? The silent movements, the hyperfocus on the target, the tensing of its body as it prepared to pounce? I suddenly felt like prey.

"Sounds messy," I commented lightly.

"I had to remove my panties," she admitted. Another step. Her eyes narrowing as she zoomed in on her target.

"Now we're talking," I whispered. Rather than the prey, who would be unknowing and simply minding its own business, probably eating, I got the full blast of her predatory approach. And seeing that face, her blazing eyes and a look of intense need on her face, well, it led to an immediate physical reaction in my body. It was a reaction that she was probably counting on.

She finally got close to me. Her "pounce" was neither fast nor sudden. Rather, she almost casually dropped her fingertips to my wrists and then slid them up my arm. Slowly enough that I could almost feel the hairs on my arm fall under the pressure then snap back into their normal position. Up and up her fingers moved, and her eyes held my gaze. Up and up to my shoulders and then she moved forward a smidge, so that the insides of her wrists rested against my shoulders. Her hands turned and those fingertips brushed the small hairs at the back of my neck. The shiver that resulted rocketed down my spine.

But all the same, with my butt against her broad table where she laid out fabric for measuring and cutting, I was now firmly in her grasp. Our faces were mere inches apart, and this hold was the intimate sort that would hold anyone in sway. And still she remained silent, using only her eyes to hold mine, and she finished her approach by leaning her body against mine. Her thighs to mine, her hips to mine, and it was impossible for her not to feel the throbbing hardness of my erection now.

When she finally spoke, her register was pure whisper-stream, pure throaty and vibrated even like a cat. "You have told me that you are enjoying your fall into the feminine. Into my girly-girl ways."

This was not posed as a question. And seriously, the way that my lower body clenched and pressed that surging, engorged organ into her body told a deeper truth than any mere words might have conveyed. "Yes," I replied hoarsely. A bit raggedly.

"I want you to fall completely into it, beginning tonight," she said. Her fingers kept dancing at the nape of my neck, little touches that set off tingles throughout my body.

I might have mentioned how difficult it is to think straight when you've got a raging hardon. But I did think, and I did consider what she probably meant. There had been those little hints lately, like her off-the-cuff suggestion that I shave my legs. I wondered whether there was anything remotely unplanned about that. Yet that straining organ that suddenly leaked a drop of precum into my boxer shorts seemed to confirm that it - at least - had no doubts whatsoever about whatever trap Jasmine was slowly leading me into. And despite sensing that her trap was soft, silken and feminine, that it would ensnare me into a tangle from which no escape would be possible.

"What do you want?" I asked.

She smiled. Whether she dazzled me, blinding me as the snare caught me and began to pull me under, or her blazing look was a beacon, urging me to come forward of my own volition did not really matter. That smile said "you are already in the deep water now...and now you will be pulled under."

"I want," she said very softly, bringing her mouth to mine, her lips touching mine, our noses pushing into one another's face, "to complete a girly-girl makeover on you," she told me.

The trap snapped.

Much, much later I learned the full truth about that day. She had spent most of the day fulfilling that order. But the wetness and panty-removal aspects only started after she was done with her real work that day. While I lingered down in her shop, pleasantly chatting with Karri and Michelle, Jasmine had toiled on an extra special outfit. This one was even more important to her than the clothing she made for sale, or the clothing she provided to the theater. She had even named the outfit "Trisha."

Was it my moan? Ever since that moment that she had asked me to moan for her as my verbal outlet of sexual pleasure, I'd not been able to do anything else! So I moaned. And my cock. My god did it jerk against her body. Her response was instant, the moment that she felt me surge hard she pressed even tighter to me. And just before her lips sealed against mine and her tongue dueled with mine, we both heard that low-register hiss I made: "Yessssssss."

Her fingers moved against my body, and lifted the shirt from me. Then she slipped me from my shoes, socks, pants and last, my underwear. Fully nude in her spacious, open studio, with a cock poking out from my body in an obscene manner, I must have looked the fool. But not to Jasmine. I saw in her eyes delight, lust, pleasure. Happiness and love and adoration. I saw what I wanted to see, what I needed to see. And I suppose that she saw the same in mine.

Her hand grabbed mine. She turned and walked; in a far corner of her studio there was a fully functioning beauty station with a sink for doing dyes or cutting hair. It was soft and plush, though the surrounding walls were barren and industrial. But Jasmine had done shoots in this studio and learned that having such a station was an asset. Into it I went.

Now I don't know many men who have gone to a hair studio and gotten the full treatment. The warm water on my head, and then her steady, gentle shampooing of my hair with something soft and lathery and scented was nothing short of eye-opening. There was an intimacy to this; I understood the casual intimacy of a woman cutting a man's hair as I was a frequent visitor to one of those national chains of hair studios. She would move around you, holding you here and there, running her fingers through your hair to gather it between your fingers just as the metallic snick of scissors removed some length. But I'd never gotten a shampoo and never once had the moment been sexualized.

This was a decadent pleasure. Heavily sexualized. Jasmine took her time, her fingers massaging my scalp in a way that no professional would dare do. Finally she tilted my head back under the water and rinsed the soaps out. She vigorously rubbed my head and then got a washcloth fully wet. She wrung it out then used that cloth to scrub my face. It was also vigorous, both hands sliding up and down, and whatever oils or dirt or lingering skin remained on my face was now gone, absorbed by that cloth. She got a new clean one and again ran it under the water. She wrung it out too, and folded it, laying it over my eyes.

I heard the sounds of a wheeled stool moving around, and then she took my hand in hers. From that moment on, her fingers were always touching mine in a familiar manner. My nails were polished and sanded and my cuticles fixed up. She had brought me along with her twice for manicures; while I had enjoyed the two previous salon visits, nothing quite matched the intensity of this manicure! Finally, the acrid chemical stink of nail polish hit my nose. I wondered what color she had chosen for me. I wondered whether I gave a damn.

I remained in loose, relaxed stasis for at least an hour. She rolled down and did each foot, one at a time. I dared not move, not look; there was a part of me that crawled unpleasantly to peek, to know. But the overriding sensation of wanting the surprise to be complete stayed me from peeking. And given that I was in such a prolonged, relaxed state, my cock softened although it never returned to its full flaccid state.

Not a word was spoken this entire time. I know how Jas can fall into her work. And I was content to simply remain in stasis. Once the nails were done, she began to slowly massage my body with some lotion. It was a trifle warm to the skin, but nothing awful. She did my chest and abdomen, and as she worked it around my pubic region, naturally my erection returned. Her gentle massage of my balls left my cock leaking, but she did not stroke me. She simply worked the lotion deeply into my body. The only awkward moment was when she had me slide down, and really open my legs. She slathered the lotion around my anus but was careful not to touch the wrinkled flesh. She lathered the inside of my thighs and by the time that she was done some fifteen minutes later, I had long ago surmised what she was doing.

Like it or not, I was pretty much hairless. I was not really surprised by this, and rather than being irate or even worried, I found it alluring. I was falling into the feminine, deeper by the moment, and I did not care.

She wheeled around behind me. She spoke for the first time in at least an hour. "Keep your eyes closed. All right?" she asked.

"I will," I promised.

She removed the now-cool cloth from my eyes. She hummed a little as I felt the sharp pain of an eyebrow or three being plucked, each time wincing in discomfort. She dried my face vigorously once again, and then I felt the slow passage of items over my face. The light brushing on my cheeks. The wet, sticky, slightly distasteful application of lip gloss or lipstick or lip paint. Whatever it was called. The brushing of my eyelashes, which was probably difficult to do with my eyes closed. The brushing over my eyelids that had my eyeballs jumping horribly behind those closed lids. I did not have any naturally growing facial hair so it wasn't like I had to worry about shaving my face.

I found my cock going through a hardness-to-softness-back to hardness cycle multiple times. Each time I felt it surge harder, and last longer, and remain semi-erect for shorter periods than before. I suspected that I was soon going to see what I looked like as a woman, and my cock certainly liked that idea.

When she began toweling off my body, I heard her sharp hiss. Clearly she was enjoying what she saw.

"Almost done, baby," she promised me. Her voice infused with husky tones of arousal clued me in that she was powerfully excited by this.

She picked my head up and then my head was encased by something tight and scratchy and long hair dangled around my neck, tickling me. Of course this caused me to surge and so hard that my hips lifted as much as they could from the chair I was in.

"Shhh, baby, relax," she soothed me. "Relax," she repeated.

"God, Jas!" I burst out.

"I know, baby," she crooned. "Me, too."

She then gathered my hands in hers. "Keep your eyes shut, okay?" she asked.

"Sure," I agreed.

She pulled and I sat up. I felt the coolness on my legs now minus the hair. My cock swayed and bobbed in front of me, though, and I know that I had to look utterly foolish. But again, that would have been to an outsider. I bet that to Jasmine, I looked like her dream come true.

"Step up," she told me. I did, carefully moving my foot about until I felt a raised platform, probably about eight to ten inches high. She patted my leg, and I slid forward, then she said "step up," so I did. She brought my hand to a rail, and then she spun me around.

"Hmmm," she said.

"What?" I replied; there had been "that" tone in her voice.

"Your clitty," she said, and then softly giggled. "Your BIG clitty is just too...big!" she said.

"Clitty?" My voice reflected doubt.

"Yes, baby. Right now you don't have a cock. You have a clitty."

I swallowed hard. "All right," I demurred.

"Say it, baby. Tell me that you have a big, hard clitty!" she commanded. Jas did not command me all that often, but she certainly liked it when I obeyed.

It was not strongly stated. "I have a big, hard...clitty."

"Mmmm you do, baby, you sure do. But that's the problem! That it's..." and here she paused to giggle just so, "...hard!"

"What do you propose?" I asked, and yes, there was a degree of humor in my tone.

She held me and rather than giving me pleasure, she began to bend the organ. I winced and squirmed a little, and slowly the blood pressure released and I began to go flaccid. The trouble was that an erection could occur again easily. And it almost did, as I began to feel her place something hard and inflexible at my balls. She began tugging my loose skin surrounding my testicles through that thing, and then she smashed and pushed and pulled on my cock and balls until I felt myself harnessed into something that was alien yet sexy. My cock wanted to grow, but it was prevented from doing so.

"Oh fuck yes!" she breathed softly. "I love this thing!" she admitted as her eyes traveled up my body to look into mine.

"What...thing?" I asked.

"It's a fufu clip," she said.

"I can't get an erection."

"I know," she agreed. "And it looks like you have a pussy. A big, puffy one, but a pussy just the same!" she said. "Which is perfect since you're going into panties next!"

"Panties!" I repeated loudly. "Panties?"

"Yes, baby. Panties. You wanted to fall into the feminine, remember? Be my super sexy girly-girl with me?" she breathed.

I saw the look in her eyes; she was begging.

I had gone this far. Why not further?

"Panties, then," I agreed.

She had a purple pair. They slid up my legs so easily, and they hugged by backside so seductively that I thought perhaps I might give up wearing boring men's underwear. And without the telltale bulge of a cock and bulge, the front side of me (she guided my hand over it) looked and felt almost womanish. After that, the black stockings glided up my legs and encased them in that slippery tight nylon. It was a good thing that the clip held; I was feeling so mentally aroused that if that clip was not made of metal, I would have shattered it. She even put a garter belt around me.

Finally, she put me into Trisha. This was the dress that she'd made for me and me alone. It was amazing how it clung to my body, the swish of the skirts at my legs feeling sexy and provocative at the same time. Now making me wear the heels was a hell of a thing, but after several paces back and forth I got at least the hang of it.

"Good god," she whispered in awe. She was standing back from me, maybe ten feet, and taking me in. "You are a gorgeous woman, baby," she told me. "My Trisha!" she giggled next.

"Trisha, huh?" I said, and my deep male voice shattering the illusion but it wasn't to be helped anyway.

"Do you want to see?"

I inhaled deeply. "I better," I said. She brought me to a mirror and I stood there, utterly and completely transfixed by the makeover that had taken me from your average, regular guy to a slightly thick, flat-chested, but otherwise gorgeous woman.

"Oh my god," I whispered.

"Amazing, right?" she agreed in those same hushed tones.