Dressed for Disaster: The Sequel
Keywords: Disaster:, Dressed, for, The, Sequel,
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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."
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Keywords: Disaster:, Dressed, for, The, Sequel,