0 comments/ 62747 views/ 4 favorites Dressed for Disaster By: thrillerauthor After a last look at himself in the full-length mirror on the closet door, Pat put his magnetic key in his purse and left his hotel room. He had done this enough times to be almost calm as he waited for the elevator. When the door opened, he was relieved to be greeted by an empty lift. It always took him a few minutes to gain the required confidence to melt into his alter ego, and being drawn into a conversation with a stranger on an elevator was not an easy way to begin the transition. Pat Summers had been fascinated by women's clothing for as long as he could remember. As he grew up, furtive sessions trying on articles from his older sister's wardrobe had produced his first erections, and his discovery of a world of kindred souls on the Internet had fueled his strange fixation. The intense sexual arousal which he experienced, combined with the excitement brought about by the forbidden nature of his activity, had produced a compulsion to dress up as a girl, which became addictive as grew from boyhood into a young man. Pat had always been a careful and meticulous person, which enabled him to hide his secret from his family and girlfriends. In fact, Pat was a true heterosexual, and for a time during his teenage years he had abandoned his fetish as his energies were absorbed by the pursuit and conquest of girls. But it was always there in the background, and now, in his late twenties, happily married with a young daughter, it had reemerged with renewed zest. Sex with his wife had tapered off, and in some ways crossdressing served as a harmless alternative to chasing other women. On this particular occasion, Pat was on a business trip to the New York financial district. He had covertly accumulated an expensive wig and a collection of skirts, dresses, lingerie, makeup and accessories over the past several years, which he took with him when he traveled in order to indulge his hidden passion. At first, he was content to make himself over in the privacy of his hotel room. However, as he perfected his techniques, he found himself drawn to expose his new persona to the outside world, which took the form of excursions from his hotel rooms to museums, department stores, and other public places. Pat's outings were carefully designed to minimize interaction or intense scrutiny. He had trained himself in the use of a female voice, but he was not confident in his ability to maintain it in a sustained conversation. His slight frame and fine features enabled him to pass convincingly as a woman, and although he was rarely read as a man, on the rare occasions when this did occur the humiliation was devastating. Perhaps the risk of discovery and exposure added to the excitement he felt as he moved through the world as a woman. Pat's self-feminization inevitably resulted in an explosive orgasm, followed by a brief period of shame and self-loathing before the compulsion arose again. Now, as he rode the elevator to the lobby of his hotel in the World Trade Center, his pulse was racing from the intoxicating scent of his perfume, and from the feeling of nylon stockings on his freshly shaved legs. Pat emerged from the elevator and demurely wove his way past the crowd of impatient guests waiting to enter it. As always, he was relieved to experience no stares or double-takes as he made his way through the lobby, the clicking of his heels on the marble floor secretly thrilling him. He smiled at the doorman and joined the throng on the busy sidewalk. It was just before nine o'clock on a beautiful September morning. Pat's knee-length shirtdress billowed in the light breeze, and as he waited for a light to change on Liberty Street, he removed a cigarette from his purse, lighting it with feminine grace. Pat inhaled deeply, and the smoke in his lungs added a beat to his racing heart. His plan for the morning was to browse through the underground shopping mall located a few blocks from his hotel, stopping to buy some nylons and sip a coffee at the local Starbucks, before walking over to the New York Stock Exchange for a glimpse from the visitors’ gallery. His first meeting of the day was a noon lunch appointment on Wall Street, which gave him a good two hours before he had to be back in his room to scrub off his makeup and change into his business suit. Suddenly, a shattering explosion from far above Pat sent him sprawling to the pavement. Screams filled the air as Pat gasped for breath. His stockings were torn from scraping his knees against the curb, and one of his shoes had fallen off. He was about to get up when a man tumbled against him and sent him back down again. Pat rolled onto his rear end, in a state of shock, and pulled his dress over his bloody knees. He looked up to see an enormous fireball rising from one of the towers of the World Trade Center. As he tried to grasp what was happening, pieces of debris began to rain down onto the sidewalk. Shaken and confused, he got to his feet and began to search for his missing shoe. A police officer appeared and began urging people to move away from the area. Spotting his shoe, Pat brushed past him and reached down for it. The policeman took his arm and steadied him as he struggled to slip it back on. "Are you okay, Miss?" Pat struggled to maintain his composure, deliberately reaching for his female voice. "Yes, thanks" he replied. Pat had learned to speak in short, simple phrases when posing as a woman, and the years of practice did not desert him. "What happened?" "Not sure. Looks like a plane crashed into the north tower. Can't believe it." Several other passersby joined them. "Was it an accident?" "Did you see the plane hit?" "Look out!" a woman cried and pointed to an object hurtling down from the flaming building. As it hit the ground a few yards away, the horrified crowd realized that it was a body. "Oh my God!" "Clear this area now!" the policeman ordered. "Everybody head away from the World Trade Center." As Pat began to move with the crowd, his mind was reeling. To Pat, the real and immediate danger was not from the explosion and fire above him. Rather, he was terrified that he might not be able to get back to his hotel room and return to his male identity. If the hotel was blocked off, and he was stranded on the street in woman's clothing, he would never be able to make it out of New York without being found out. His marriage and his six-figure income were suddenly in jeopardy. Pat turned around and began to walk against the flow of pedestrian traffic back towards his hotel. He made it about halfway there when there was another terrific explosion. Looking up, Pat saw the remains of a jet aircraft slicing through the other tower, and watched in horror as pieces of airplane and building cascaded towards the ground. "Evacuate the area!" he heard above the screams and the wail of sirens. The stream of humanity moving away from the stricken buildings swelled into a flood, and it was all Pat could do to hold his ground as he pressed himself against a shattered storefront. He could see his reflection in the cracked plate glass window, and instinctively paused to adjust his wig and examine his profile to make sure he was still passable. Looking back at him was a dazed young woman, with strands of hair falling across her forehead. Her blue dress was torn at the hem, and her legs were a bloody mess. But she was definitely a woman, not that anyone in the crowd would have taken the time to study her. They had more important things on their minds. For Pat, however, the enormity of the surrounding tragedy was dwarfed by his fear that he would be discovered to be a man wearing a dress. He tried to force his way against the tide of humanity, eventually returning to the revolving doors of his hotel. Two policemen blocked his way. "I have to get back to my room." "Sorry, lady, this area has been sealed off. Nobody gets in." "But officer…" "You heard me. We have a lot of injured people here. Please move on." Pat could see that the situation was hopeless. As he joined the frantic crowd on the sidewalk, he forced himself to think about a new plan. If he could not return to his hotel room, he would have to find some other way to get out of his clothes and get into something presentable. Then, he could ride out the crisis until things returned to normal. Mentally, Pat inventoried the contents of his purse. Hotel room key, lipstick, compact, cigarettes and lighter, breath mints, tissues, hairbrush, and a woman's wallet with - how much? $80! Not very much to establish a new identity. Pat did not have a credit card for his female persona, and he had decided against carrying his ATM card. A new pair of pantyhose, a café latte, and an admission ticket to the stock exchange were the only things he had planned to spend any money on that morning. So he would have to get by on the bare minimum required to strip away any traces of femininity. Looking to his left, he saw a 24-hour drug store, and went inside. The registers were crowded with people buying bottled water and gauze facemasks to help them breathe the acrid air outside. First to the cosmetics aisle. Pat grabbed a small bottle of nail polish remover, and found a travel pack of pads to wipe off his makeup. Then to an aisle displaying inexpensive athletic clothing. He found a cheap pair of cotton navy sweatpants, and a white long sleeve tee shirt which said "I Love New York." A pair of white sox went into his basket, and he began to search for something to walk in. He found some white canvas sneakers, which were priced higher than he expected, and he tallied up the cost of what he had found. With sales tax, it came to almost $70, which meant he would be penniless if he bought anything else. In order to leave himself enough change for a subway token and a phone call, he would have to keep wearing his white satin panties. He quickly decided that that was the least of his problems. He could always take them off before he got home, if he got home. Joining the long line at the registers, he started to plan his next objective: finding a place where he could get out of his dress and heels, change into his new clothes, and re-emerge as Patrick Summers. The teenage clerk at the register looked at his odd assortment of purchases, and saw right through him. Damn! He had always had the most trouble with teenage girls! "Having fun today, sir?" Pat smiled and put on his best face. "Ich spreche keine Englisch." Lame, but he has used it in the past in similar situations. "Whatever," she said with a shrug as she rang up the sale. Pat fumbled in his purse for his wallet, and pulled out four twenty-dollar bills. As she counted out his change, she noticed his torn dress and stockings. "Hey, I'm sorry, mister. Here you go." Pat took his change and gave her a forced smile. He did not look back to see whether any of the people waiting in line had witnessed his mortification. Taking his plastic shopping bag, he walked out of the drug store and back into the bedlam on the sidewalk. The smoke, the sirens, and the utter pandemonium shocked him. Yet in the midst of this incredible catastrophe, he had somehow managed to concentrate on his immediate predicament. Although there was panic all around him, he had no concerns about his personal safety. All he could think about was protecting his secret and preserving his reputation. He spotted a large hotel a few blocks from where he had been staying, and approached the front entrance. There were no doormen to be seen, and he went into a large glass and brass revolving door, emerging into a lobby which was eerily calm. Several fire department officials were setting up a makeshift command post in the lobby bar, and as he walked towards the restrooms, an assistant manager approached him with a look of concern. "Are you all right, Miss?" Pat realized that he must look a sight. "Yes, thanks, I'm fine." Pat did not want to get into a conversation about where he was staying, and he certainly did not want to alert the hotel staff that he was about the enter the ladies' room. The incident with the clerk at the drugstore was still fresh on his mind. "Why don't you sit down for a few minutes, and I'll find you a doctor. Those cuts look pretty nasty." "Really, I'm fine," Pat assured the young man. Moving away, he found his way to the ladies room and walked in without hesitating. His plan was simple: change in one of the stalls, and wait until there was nobody else in the restroom before leaving it as a man. The restroom was unoccupied, and he went into the handicapped stall and started to work. First, he scrubbed the makeup off his face with several of the towelettes. Next, he unbuttoned his dress and stepped out of it. Using the dress as a rag, he doused a corner of it with nail polish remover, and began stripping off the coat of quick dry polish, which he had applied the night before. When he was through, he slid off his white slip, pulled off his bloody pantyhose, and unhooked his padded bra. Dressed only in his satin panties, Pat rummaged through the sack from the drugstore and found the white cotton sox. Next, the tee shirt and sweatpants. As he bent down to put on his sneakers, for the first time in over an hour, Pat allowed himself to relax a bit. He fished through his purse, and salvaged the remaining bills and coins. Now all he had to do was wait until the coast was clear, have a quick look at himself in the mirror, and duck out of the ladies room. He heard someone moving about by one of the sinks, so he settled in to wait. Suddenly, the lights went dark, and there was a terrible roar. The whole building seemed to rock, and the cacophony of noises was deafening. For a moment, it seemed like the end of the world. Pat fell to his knees and waited for the floor to stop quaking. Finally, the noise stopped, replaced by a sensation that Pat had never experienced. He could feel the grit in the air as it went into his lungs, bringing about a drowning sensation that sent him gagging and choking to his feet. Pat staggered out of the restroom and into the wreckage of the hotel lobby. The sight before him was unbelievable. Broken glass was all over the place, and the assistant manager he had spoken to a few minutes before lay unconscious on the floor, a deep gash in his forehead. Dust was everywhere, on everything, and the bright September sun had been replaced by deep gray gloom. Sirens, screams, and garbled transmissions from police and fire department radios filled the air. Pat realized what had happened. One of the twin towers must have collapsed, covering an area several city blocks wide with debris. The other tower could still be seen through the awful haze, and next to it stood his hotel. Although his immediate problems were behind him, Pat was still deathly afraid that his secret would be discovered when the hotel staff or authorities opened his room. The thought of someone calling his office or his wife to ask them where to send his skirts and high heels tormented him. Once again, ignoring the larger risk to his personal safety, Pat set out towards his hotel. Maybe now he could make it back inside, bundle up the rest of his incriminating wardrobe, and dump it outside of his room. If he were lucky, he would also be able to retrieve his laptop computer, with its hard drive full of transvestite literature. He was halfway back to the hotel when someone screamed, "The other tower is starting to go!" Pat looked up in time to see the monumental television antennae on the roof pitch to one side, signaling the beginning of the end. He turned and joined the frantic crowd racing away from the World Trade Center. Someone ahead of him ducked into a doorway, and he followed an instant before a hurricane of debris swept through the concrete canyon, filling the air again with choking dust. Once more, the sky became dark, and time stood still as Pat huddled in the doorway, waiting for the tumult to subside. Then it was quiet, and Pat stepped back into the deserted street. He knew that he had just witnessed the deaths of hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, and suddenly his pathetic problems seemed insignificant. He was just thankful to be alive. Slowly, he joined the parade of refugees heading north, away from the disaster, some limping, others bleeding, many crying hysterically. He had a special empathy for the women, professionals and secretaries, in their dusty suits and skirts, hobbling along in their high heels. Many abandoned their painful shoes, and trooped through the filthy streets in their stockings or bare feet. He couldn't help thinking how lucky he was to have gotten out of his woman's clothing. Looking at the misery around him, he felt ashamed to have given that a thought. As they approached Washington Square Park, he saw several television crews with mini-cams interviewing passersby. One of the reporters waved at him and motioned him over. Pat stepped out of the crowd and approached her. "How about a quick interview?" Why not? Pat said to himself. He was totally in the clear. Maybe his wife, parents and co-workers would see him on TV. They had to be wondering about him. His cell phone was back in his hotel room, undoubtedly crushed under tons of steel and concrete, as unrecognizable as the clothing and computer that he had worried so much about. "Okay," Pat said to the newswoman. She was cute, with short blonde hair, and she had an impish smile as she pointed him towards her cameraman. She was not accustomed to doing hard news, and she seemed desperate for something to break the tension of reporting the traumatic events of the past two hours. "What is your name?" she asked him as he stared into the camera. "Patrick Summers." "Where are you from, Mr. Summers?" "Chicago." His escape had been a catharsis, and he began to feel almost giddy. "What were you doing when the towers were attacked?" Pat hesitated momentarily, thinking about his response. "Parading around the streets of New York in a dress and high heels" would not be a good answer. Remembering that he was dressed in sweatpants and sneakers, he replied, "I was out for a jog before my business meeting." "Did you see the impact?" "I was getting a cigarette out of my purse" would be another bad answer. "No, but I heard the explosion," Pat said. "And did you get away from the area before the buildings came down?" the reporter asked him. Pat did not tell her that he was changing out of his lingerie and stockings at the moment the first tower collapsed. "No, I had ducked into a building." "Well, you were very fortunate, Mr. Summers. I have only one more question. Why are you wearing a wig and earrings?" By the author of The Jessica Project. Dressed for Disaster: The Prequel Dressed for Disaster: The Prequel Pat Summers put his suitcases on the bed, and made a quick survey of his room. He noted with approval the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door, and he poked his head into the bathroom to inspect the bathtub and vanity. Not overly luxurious, but they would do. First things first. He opened his computer case and turned on his laptop computer, plugging the modem cord into the data port on the desk telephone. It was just past six o'clock, five o'clock in Chicago, and he waded through his e-mail messages before making a perfunctory call to his wife, who was preoccupied with fixing dinner. After he rang off, he pulled the blackout curtains tightly shut, turned on every light in the room, and began his preparations. Pat took off his blazer and slacks, and stripped down to his shorts. His body was smooth and lean, a swimmer's physique, which explained his lack of body hair. Hours in the gym and in the pool had given him a flat stomach, and he shaved down at least twice a month. Perfect cover for a closet crossdresser. He removed his blue dress from the smaller of his two suitcases, and hung it in the closet. The material was wrinkle-free, ideal for traveling. Two-inch black pumps and a belt for the dress came next, then Pat selected his lingerie for tomorrow: white satin panties and padded bra, a white slip with a pretty lace hem, and tan control-top pantyhose were placed in one of the dresser drawers. One look at his bunched up wig sent him into the bathroom, where he soaked and rinsed it in one of the two sinks before blotting it with a bath towel and hanging it on the shower head to dry. It looked like a dead rat, but Pat knew it would brush out beautifully in the morning. Next, he took his makeup bag into the bathroom and set out its contents. He brought a bottle of coral nail polish back into the bedroom and sat down in front of the TV. Pat had surreptitiously filed his longish nails into feminine shapes during the two hour flight from Chicago, and as he watched the evening news, he applied a single coat of polish to each nail, blowing on them occasionally. When they were dry, he returned to the bathroom and started to fill the tub, pouring a few ounces of scented bubble bath into the swirling water. Pat got into the tub and luxuriated in the hot suds, anticipating what was to come. For the next eighteen hours, the pressures of his demanding job and obscene mortgage would disappear as he escaped into his alter ego. He lifted one of his legs out of the water, and ran a polished nail over the stubble. Slowly, lovingly, Pat started to shave his legs. The only thing he could see above the bubbles was a delicate hand holding a disposable razor, and a sleek woman's leg. When he was finished, Pat toweled himself off and applied scented moisturizing cream to his smooth legs. Wrapping himself in the hotel's terrycloth bathrobe, he gave his face an extra-close shave, and trimmed his eyebrows a bit. Nothing overtly feminine, just enough to remove any long or stray hairs that might present a problem tomorrow. Returning to the bedroom, he took a pink satin nightgown and matching panties out of the suitcase, and stepped into his fantasy. Pat shimmied into the nightgown and returned to the desk. His penis jerked against his panties as he sat down at the computer and crossed his legs under the delicate fabric of his nightgown. His polished nails flew over the keyboard Pat logged on to his favorite website and began checking the new stories added over the past week. He scrolled through the incredible array of offerings, looking for something to get him off. He skipped the bizarre tales about men being magically transformed into women, and the science fiction stories about aliens transforming the men of planet earth into female sex slaves. Finally he found one that interested him. Racing through the obligatory paragraphs introducing the characters and setting up the premise, he zeroed in on the following: *** I woke up in a cold sweat in a dark room. My head was throbbing and I was dying of thirst. When I tried to move my arms, I discovered that they had been strapped down. I seemed to be lying on some kind of gurney, under a white sheet. My legs were also immobilized, and my head was propped up on a hard pillow. A door opened, and lights were switched on to reveal what looked like an operating room. As I squinted in the painful light, a woman in a doctor's coat approached me. She looked vaguely familiar. "Water," I croaked. Without a word, she produced a glass of water, and I struggled to raise my head and drink it. Swallowing it all exhausted me, and I fell back onto the pillow. "Where am I?" "Where no one will ever find you." "Who are you? What are you doing to me?" "I am Doctor Vendetta Frankenwiener. You may remember me as the slut you picked up at the Alley Cat bar last Saturday night." Could it be? Could this madwoman be the girl I had conned into returning to my apartment, screwed like there was no tomorrow, and told to get out of my bed and walk home when she refused to take it up the ass? "Your timing was unfortunate. I have been looking for the perfect subject for a little experiment. Oh, how you're going to regret they way you treated me." "What do you mean?" "The liquid you just drank contained a mild sedative. While it is taking effect, let me show you my progress so far." She tore back the sheet, and I gasped in horror. I had breasts, real woman's breasts, which rose magnificently as I heaved in exertion, pulling against my restraints. "What have you done to me?" She slid a mirror up to the side of the bed and tilted it so I could see. "Those are breast implants. A very simple procedure for a plastic surgeon, which I happen to be." Lifting my head, I could see that all of my body hair had been removed, and I panicked as I tried to see my genitals. "Don't worry, you are still intact below the waist - for the moment. You see, those breasts will be perfectly capable of nursing a baby, once we fill you up with female hormones." She produced a hypodermic syringe, and stabbed it in one of my cheeks. "In a few seconds, your body will have more estrogen in it than the dressing room at a modeling agency." I struggled furiously against my restraints. "You bitch! I'll kill you." "I don't think so. Soon, you will be docile as a lamb. Castration tends to do that to a man." "Oh my God! No!" "If that was a prayer, it is not going to help you. But I am not without mercy. As I said, your new breasts will be fully functional. And I would not want to deprive you of the joys of motherhood. Although you will never be able to bear a child, you may want to suckle your genetic offspring." "You must be insane! Let me out of here. Please, let me go!" She ignored the interruption. "You see, my little experiment requires that we preserve a quantity of your sperm in case you decide later to raise your own child. Prepare for your last male orgasm." Before I could react, she implanted a large tube on my penis. It was attached to wires and a rubber hose, and as she switched it on, I realized that it was some kind of milking device. In spite of myself, I began to harden as it sucked on me. Over and over, I was pulled and stroked, and through the horror of it, I became aroused as my body instinctively readied to ejaculate. Suddenly, the mad surgeon produced a slender wand, which she greased and inserted in my ass. Probing for my prostate gland, she found it and the wand began to vibrate. The combined effect of milking my penis and massaging my prostate made me delirious, and I heard myself scream with a mixture and agony and ecstasy as I approached a devastating climax. *** As the hapless character suffered through his final orgasm, Pat erupted into the satin folds of his nightgown, smearing it with gobs of hot semen. When his gratification had subsided, a wave of revulsion swept over him, and for the hundredth time, he vowed to throw away his woman's clothing and swear off crossdressing forever. Even as he thought it, he knew this would soon pass, and that he would be pleasuring himself at least once more before falling asleep, reveling in the feeling of his nightgown against his smooth skin. Masturbating himself to the point of exhaustion had become a precursor to Pat's outings as a woman. He felt feminized, almost emasculated, as he drained his male libido down to nothing. From a practical standpoint, it made it much easier to tuck his limp penis between his legs before he put on his panties, although by the time he was fully dressed and made up, the intense feelings of arousal were sure to return. As Pat drifted off to sleep, he had no way of knowing that by this time tomorrow, he would have endured the most horrendous experience of his life, his job and marriage in ruins. By the author of The Jessica Project Dressed for Disaster: The Sequel FORWARD: This is the third of five episodes of the Dressed for Disaster saga, immediately preceding “Vendetta’s Diary.” Patrick Summers wandered the streets of lower Manhattan in an aimless fog, the chaos surrounding him a lurid backdrop for the turmoil between his ears. He had just suffered two tremendous shocks: his narrow escape from the collapse of the World Trade Center, and his unmasking as a crossdresser on television. As he moved north towards Greenwich Village, Pat desperately tried to think. The local station, which had filmed him fleeing the disaster in a woman's wig and earrings, would surely discard the footage as out of keeping with the enormity of the event. Even if they did show it, it was unlikely that any of the networks would pick it up and broadcast it in Chicago, he reasoned. As far as his family or co-workers knew, he might well be dead. Had it not been for the twin shocks to his system, it is likely that Pat would have called his wife and secretary, assured them that he was alive, and gone about making arrangements to return to Chicago. Instead, as he turned down a narrow street into the heart of the Village, strange thoughts began to excite him. He could escape his humdrum existence, leave his family set for life with the insurance money, and establish a new identity in his alter ego. He could reinvent himself as Patricia Summers. Pat's compulsion to dress as a woman had grown stronger over the past year, and perhaps it was inevitable that he would have been led to this path. In any event, his vulnerability following the trauma of the morning, and the unique opportunity presented by his brush with death, fueled his fixation and emboldened him to live out his fantasies. As he moved down the quiet street, Pat took stock of his situation. He was dressed in a cheap sweat suit and sneakers, still clutching the wig, which he had torn off his head as he ran from the cameras. His earrings, and all of his other feminine paraphernalia, had been lost or destroyed. He had about ten dollars in his pocket. If he tried to access his bank accounts, any chance to fake his death would be foreclosed. He found himself approaching an adult bookstore. Entering without hesitation, he picked up a newspaper filled with personal advertisements and started to leaf through it. The greasy cashier behind the high counter eyed him warily as he turned the pages, until one advertisement, in bolder type than the rest, caught his attention: WANTED: SUBJECTS FOR ROLE REVERSAL EXPERIMENT. Must be heterosexual, under thirty, and in good health. Successful candidates will be required to live as a member of the opposite sex for a minimum of three months. All expenses and a generous stipend will be provided. Deadline for application is Sept. 15, 2001. The advertisement ended with an email address. Pat memorized it and returned to the street, looking for an Internet café. *** Dr. Vendetta Frankenwiener switched off the television and walked out onto her rooftop terrace, overlooking Washington Square park and the horror to the south. The air was thick with dust and debris, and she wondered if the wail of sirens would ever end. To most New Yorkers, daily life had been eclipsed by the events of the morning, but such was not the case with Doctor Frankenwiener. Her bizarre compulsion to feminize unwilling men had long ago crowded out other, human emotions, and her principal reaction to the events of the day was frustration that her latest round of experiments might be delayed. Returning to her small study, she switched on her computer and checked her emails. To her surprise, she read the following message: Interested in your experiment. Please provide contact information. Must have response no later than five o'clock today. That was odd. She had never been pressed by a subject for a response like that. Usually she had to cull through an assortment of pranksters and deviants, looking for a witless subject who would submit to her experiments. Rarely did they take the bait like this. Nevertheless, she decided to reel him in. She replied: Come to 19865 Bleeker Street, Apt 4C, at six o'clock tonight. When Pat returned to the café a half hour later, and logged on again with his dwindling supply of cash, he retrieved her message, and jotted down the address. He had been careful to use an Internet address, which he had set up for transgendered chat rooms, and thus unknown to his family or employers. He thought briefly of his wife and daughter, and of the rest of his family, who must be worried sick about him, and assuming the worst. They would be better off financially with the insurance money, he assured himself. Soon there would be no turning back. At precisely six o'clock, Pat was buzzed into a narrow brownstone building, and he walked up four flights of stairs to apartment 4C. The hallway outside the apartment was dark and musty, and he hesitated for a moment at the door. Before he could knock, he heard the deadbolts sliding back, three in all, and the door opened to reveal a woman in her mid thirties, dressed in a long white coat. She was attractive, with curly black hair and piercing brown eyes, and she waved him into the apartment without a word. After closing the door behind him, she carefully engaged the deadbolts, locking them with a key, which she replaced in her coat pocket. Pat stood awkwardly in her small apartment. It was modestly furnished, with an oriental rug over a worn oak floor, a sofa with two unmatched chairs, and a few antique pieces. "Please, sit down," she told him, gesturing to the sofa as she sat herself in one of the chairs. She was wearing a short skirt under her laboratory coat, and as she crossed her legs, she noticed with approval Pat's interest. "I came about the experiment," Pat said finally. "Yes, you are fortunate that I received your message and was able to respond before your deadline. Tell me, why the urgency?" Pat had rehearsed the answer to this question. "I was concerned about your deadline of September 15th. If it weren't for them closing all the airports, I wouldn't even be in New York right now. Since I'm stuck here, I thought I'd try to learn more about your experiment, before deciding whether to leave. Are you a doctor?" "Yes. Do you have a family?" she probed. "No," Pat lied. "I live alone, in Chicago. For a variety of reasons, I have time on my hands over the next several months, and your experiment intrigued me. Is this some kind of university study?" "No," she replied. "It is a privately funded program. I take it you read the qualifications in the advertisement?" "Yes, I am a straight man under thirty, if that's what you mean." "Excellent. Let me get you something to drink." She had already decided that he was a perfect subject, slender and relatively short, and his boyish face was too good to be true. She went into a small kitchen, and emerged a minute later with two glasses of ice tea. Pat drank as she observed him carefully, then she took a sip from her own glass and picked up a notepad from a small table beside her chair. "What is your name, please?" she asked him. "John Smith," he replied. She raised an eyebrow as she wrote it down. "Mr. Smith, the program for which you are a candidate requires your one hundred percent participation over a period of twelve weeks. Will that present any problems in terms of your family or employment?" "I've already told you, I have no family, and I am an independent contractor, so there are no restrictions on my time." He began to feel more at ease, and started to loosen up. "Tell me about the program." "Certainly. First, I have a few other questions. Should you be selected, and choose to enroll, we have to start immediately. Do you have any other commitments that you will have to disengage from in order to proceed?" Pat took another sip of ice tea, and began to feel slightly light-headed. "No, I've already told you, I wasn't even expecting to be in New York tonight." "Does anybody know where you are right now?" If Pat had not already been drugged, he might have been alarmed by this question, and possibly tried to save himself. Instead, he replied thickly, "No, why do you ask?" She gave him a grim smile. "The reason for that question will soon become apparent, Mr. Smith. Congratulations, you have been accepted into the study. Please sign here," she said as she produced a legal-looking document and handed him a pen. Pat flipped through it and struggled to focus on the words. "What does it say?" "Just formalities, Mr. Smith, don't worry your pretty head about them. Sign it. Now." With an effort, Pat started to scrawl his signature on the page, realizing too late that he had written his real name. As he started to cross it out, the mad doctor stood up and pulled it away from him. "Pat Summers," she read aloud. "A lovely name. We are going to have such fun together!" Pat tried to get to his feet, before he passed out onto the threadbare carpet. *** Pat woke up in a cold sweat in a dark room. His head was throbbing and he was dying of thirst. When he tried to move his arms, he discovered that they had been strapped down. He seemed to be lying on some kind of gurney, under a white sheet. His legs were also immobilized, and his head was propped up on a hard pillow. A door opened, and lights were switched on to reveal what looked like an operating room. As he squinted in the painful light, the woman in the doctor's coat approached him. Everything seemed vaguely familiar, as if he were reliving a very bad dream. "Water," he croaked. Without a word, she produced a glass of water, and he struggled to raise his head and drink it. Swallowing it all exhausted him, and he fell back onto the pillow. "Where am I?" "Where no one will ever find you." "What have you done to me?" "Don't you remember the personal advertisement you responded to? Or coming to my apartment? Or the legal papers that you signed?" It was all coming back to him, but there was something else. He struggled to put it together. "I feel like I've been here before..." "Dear, sweet, innocent Pat. Did you really think those stories you read on the Internet weren't true?" Oh my God! Vendetta Frankenwiener! Surely she was a figment of the imagination! This couldn't be happening! "Your timing was unfortunate," she told him. "I have been looking for the perfect subject for a little experiment." "What do you mean?" "The liquid you just drank contained a mild sedative. While it is taking effect, let me show you my progress so far." She tore back the sheet, and he gasped in horror. He had breasts, real woman's breasts, which rose magnificently as he heaved in exertion, pulling against his restraints. "What have you done to me?" She slid a mirror up to the side of the bed and tilted it so he could see. "The papers that you signed gave me your consent to perform surgery on you. Those are breast implants. A very simple procedure for a plastic surgeon, which I happen to be." Lifting his head, he panicked as he tried to see his genitals. "Don't worry, you are still intact below the waist - for the moment. You see, those breasts will be perfectly capable of nursing a baby, once we fill you up with female hormones." She produced a hypodermic syringe, and stabbed it in one of his cheeks. He struggled furiously against his restraints. "Why me?" "I don't know why you came to me. From the lovely panties you are wearing, I have deduced that you are a closet crossdresser. Perhaps you found my role reversal experiment exciting. I doubt if you anticipated the full extent of what I have planned for you." "Let me out of here! I have a family!" "Which you have already disavowed. You should have told me the truth about yourself before you signed those papers. Now it is much too late." "You crazy bitch! I'll kill you for this!" "I don't think so. Soon, you will be docile as a lamb. Castration tends to do that to a man." "Oh my God! No!" "If that was a prayer, it is not going to help you. But I am not without mercy. As I said, your new breasts will be fully functional. And I would not want to deprive you of the joys of motherhood. Although you will never be able to bear a child, you may want to suckle your genetic offspring." "You must be insane! Let me out of here. Please, let me go!" She ignored the interruption. "You see, my little experiment requires that we preserve a quantity of your sperm in case you decide later to raise your own child. Prepare for your last male orgasm." Before Pat could react, she implanted a large tube on his penis. It was attached to wires and a rubber hose, and as she switched it on, he realized that it was some kind of milking device. It was the same nightmare scenario that he had masturbated to in his hotel room the night before. The horror story that had titillated him was coming true, only now there would be no escape. Just like the hapless character in the Internet story, Pat began to harden as the machine sucked on him. Over and over, he was pulled and stroked, and through the horror of it, he became aroused as his body instinctively readied to ejaculate. As Pat knew she would, the mad surgeon produced a slender wand, which she greased and inserted in his ass. Probing for his prostate gland, she found it and the wand began to vibrate. The combined effect of milking his penis and massaging his prostate made him delirious, and he started to scream as he approached a devastating climax. *** Three months later, Patricia Summers awoke in her cheap hotel room and prepared herself for the day ahead. A light December snow was falling on the Chicago rooftops visible from her room. With a sigh, she removed her dressing gown and surveyed herself in the mirror. The removal of Pat's testicles by Dr. Frankenwiener a few moments after he ejaculated into the milking device had greatly accelerated the feminization process, and the hormone therapy had done the rest. Pat was now, anatomically, a complete female. Emotionally and mentally, she was something else entirely. Neither male nor female, a lost soul, as surely as if she had died in her hotel room three months ago in New York. As far as the world was concerned, that is what had happened to Patrick Summers that day, and she intended to keep it that way. Better to be remembered as a dead hero than to be revealed as an unwilling transsexual. After a quick shower in the grungy hotel tub, Pat went through the motions of dressing and putting on her makeup. When she was a man, this had always been exciting. Now it would be her daily routine for the rest of her life, and the prospect bored her. She slipped into a pair of cotton panties and strapped a bra around her fine breasts. After blow-drying her hair and combing it into an attractive shag, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on a pair of pantyhose. A slip and a white uniform dress followed, and she stepped into a pair of flats before standing at the dresser mirror and applying lipstick and mascara. A few final flourishes, and she was ready to face the world. As she buttoned up her inexpensive overcoat, she surveyed herself again in the mirror. A handsome woman, people would say, not beautiful, but pretty. Not that it mattered. Pat was utterly unattracted to men, and incapable of sexual arousal in any case. Whether Dr. Frankenwiener had botched that aspect of Pat's operation, or whether she was wired differently from other transsexuals, orgasm was quite impossible. She still found women attractive, but her inability to do anything about it only added to her frustration. She walked out onto State Street and turned north towards the Gold Coast. Her wife and daughter, flush with insurance money, had moved into a smart new townhouse, and Pat had a few minutes before her shift to try to catch a glimpse of them. Although she had fantasized about it many times, she had no intention of coming back from the dead. Better they remember Patrick Summers as he was. Perhaps Pat's wife might have accepted Patricia, and they could have lived together as sisters. But then the insurance money would be gone, and they would have to live together in poverty. Pat's bus trip from New York to Chicago, and the three days it had taken her to land a job as a waitress, had been a rude enough shock, and she could not bring herself to subject her family to public humiliation and take away their financial security. Pat got to the place a few minutes early, and brushed the light snow off a park bench before sitting down. Crossing her legs, she reached into her purse and removed a cigarette, a vice, which she had reacquired following her escape from Dr. Frankenwiener. As she inhaled and waited for the nicotine rush, she closed her eyes and thought back over the horror of the past three months: the agonizing recovery from castration and reconstructive surgery, the prolonged period of lethargy while her body adapted to the loss of testosterone and flood of female hormones, and the slow changes as the estrogen took hold, gradually weakening her muscles as it reshaped her body. Weakened though she was, she had still had the strength to murder Dr. Frankenwiener, strangling her with a nylon stocking. Pat had managed to escape her restraints and surprise the doctor when she returned to the apartment from a shopping trip. A thorough search of the apartment had yielded slightly over one thousand dollars in cash, and the new identification documents, which the doctor had apparently intended to provide Patricia Summers at the conclusion of her experiment. All of the doctor's notes, and any trace of Patrick Summers, were now at the bottom of the East River. Pat had scraped together a small wardrobe, replacing the sex kitten costumes and sissy maid outfits favored by the doctor, and bought a bus ticket for Chicago. By the time the police found Dr. Frankenwiener's body, Pat was long gone. With her remaining money, she had been able to rent a single room at a cheap hotel, and finally secure employment at a restaurant in Lincoln Park. It was going to be a dismal existence, but at least she was close to her wife and daughter, and would occasionally be able to see them from afar. A black limousine pulled up to the curb, and Pat sat perfectly still as the occupants emerged onto the sidewalk in front of her daughter's new, exclusive preschool. There she was, Pat's lovely daughter, followed by her mother, looking extremely attractive in her full-length sable coat. Then a third person, a handsome man, followed them out of the limousine. Pat stared in shock as the man took the little girl's hand, and put his arm around her mother. The three of them walked into the school as Pat Summers finished her cigarette. Then she got up from the bench, and walked slowly to her bus stop. From the author of The Jessica Project.