Dressed for Disaster
Keywords: Dressed, Disaster, for,
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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.
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Keywords: Dressed, Disaster, for,