CHAPTER 24
Joe brushed out his hair and applied some hair spray to hold
the curls. He was glad his tutelage under Mrs. Maxwell had ended
yesterday.
A month of intensive training, in what Mrs. Maxwell called
"The Womanly Arts", under her constant supervision, had taken it's
toll. Joe's manners were charming, and his deportment was now
graceful and ladylike.
Once, when Joe asked Mrs. Maxwell why was he being coached in
the use of cosmetics when his were permanent and unalterable, she
just shushed him, saying he might someday be interested in becoming
a beautician or a cosmetics salesperson. This lifted Joe's spirits
as it signified that he might yet get free of this island.
Joe dressed himself. As far as he was concerned, this was the
best result of his sessions with Mrs. Maxwell; he'd been given some
ordinary clothes, ordinary for a girl that is, in addition to the
tight, revealing, and provocative outfits he'd been attired in
previously.
The transvestite in Joe still took pleasure in wearing the
extreme fashions, but he looked upon his new clothes as normal. It
was a testimony to Dave Weinstein's program, that Joe now dressed
in regular woman's clothing with total acceptance and without the
slightest hint of embarrassment.
Joe selected his lingerie for the day from the vast assortment
in his bureau. Stepping into some white nylon briefs, he pulled
them up; they were a perfect fit. Joe liked the feel, especially
the cotton lined crotch panel which softly covered his sensitive
vagina. Joe hooked up his bra and positioned his breasts in the
nylon cups, before pulling it up. It was an underwire, with lace on
the cups, wide stretch straps, was comfortable to wear, offered
plenty of support, and nothing showed through. Joe put on some nude
ultra-sheer pantyhose, then a full slip of white nylon with an
embroidered bodice edged with lace and a lace trimmed hemline. Joe
was very grateful that he was no longer being forced to dress like
a slut.
Going to his closet Joe picked out a blue linen short-sleeved
coat-dress. slipping it on like a jacket and buttoning the double-
breasted front. It was very comfortable to wear and downplayed his
outrageous curves. Joe then slipped on a pair of low-heeled, well
two inches seemed low to him now, navy pumps and was dressed.
Joe sprayed himself with his perfume and picked out some
accessories as Mrs. Maxwell had taught him to coordinate; a ring,
a watch, the gold locket with his picture in it as a man, a leather
handbag to match his pumps, no earrings other than the permanent
gold balls, and as a finishing touch, he folded and stuffed a red
silk handkerchief into the breast pocket of his dress. Thus
attired, and feeling no more self-conscious than he would have in
a suit and tie over a year ago, Joe went to breakfast and his
subsequent appointment with Dr. van Damme.
Joe entered Dr. van Damme's office.
"Won't you sit down Mr. Watson?" said Dr. van Damme.
Joe sat in indicated chair, smoothing his dress under him, as
he'd been trained.
Dr. van Damme looked at the changed man in front of her,
sitting primly with his nylon covered knees together and his hands
folded over his purse in his lap. There was absolutely no evidence
of the old Joe Watson in the sweet young thing before her. "It
appears Mr. Watson that I have executed the terms of my contract
with your wife. The only unanswered question is what do I do with
you now?"
Joe remained silent.
It was crucial to the plan, that Dr. van Damme get Joe to
approve of his future circumstances, he would then cooperate
voluntarily, at least at first, afterwards was of no consequence.
"Let's review your situation. We can return you to the United
States, but what will you do? You can't return to being Joseph
Watson, you don't look like him, you don't talk like him, your
fingerprints are different, and you will even find that you can't
remember crucial information like your social security number."
Joe tried to recall his social security number, he knew he had
one but it seemed to be just out of reach. Joe got scared. What
else had they removed from his memory?
"Do you have any skills to support yourself?"
Joe shook his head no.
"Well then, I know, that with a body like yours, there's one
way you can earn a living."
Joe was almost crying now. He knew that it was unavoidable
that this subject would come up. Regardless of what they'd done to
his body, he couldn't, he wouldn't, make love to a man. He was no
faggot. Joe's subconscious had managed to obscure his little
episode with Monica, that was somehow something else, and he had no
inkling of the cravings implanted in his mind, which had yet to
reveal themselves.
Dr. van Damme spoke. "The only thing that bothers me is the
fact that your wife's contract didn't reimburse us for your
clothing and jewelry."
Joe saw a glimmer of hope. Perhaps he could avoid the street
after all. "Uh, Doctor. Maybe I could stay here and work for you,
at least until you've recovered your money?"
"I don't think so Mr. Watson. What can you do?"
Joe was crying like a little girl now. "I could learn. I
promise I'd work very hard. Please?"
"I bet you will," thought Dr. van Damme.
"I just don't know Mr. Watson. Our employment policy here is
a bit unorthodox, as I'm sure you might have guessed." After a
short pause she continued. "Well, against my better judgement, see
Clarice, my secretary,and she'll draw up the necessary paperwork.
Joe read through the contract. He wasn't sure he liked it but
what choice did he have? It was a lifetime contract, cancelable at
will on the Institute's part but he'd have to buy his way out of it
for fifty-thousand dollars. In it he agreed to perform any and all
tasks as might be assigned, accept such punishments as might be
specified for infractions of Institute regulations, including such
offenses as disrespect, and the contract was transferable on the
part of the Institute. In return, he was guaranteed food, shelter,
uniforms, medical care, and a cash stipend, the amount to be
determined by a profit sharing plan, for the rest of his life, and
when he was no longer able to work, the Institute would care for
him until he died. Joe signed it, breathing a sigh of relief at
avoiding the likelihood of returning home with no prospects except
as a prostitute, or mistress to a wealthy man, knowing from his own
experience what those vocations entailed.
That night, in bed, Joe relaxed, watching soap operas on
television. He'd become quite a fan of them by now and couldn't
understand why he hadn't discovered them before now. Joe watched as
a glamorous actress deep kissed the leading man. "Man she's built,"
he thought.
Joe felt his nipples harden, unaware that his subconscious was
being turned on by the actor in the scene. Remembering the pleasure
he used to get from masturbating, Joe brought his hands up and
started fondling his breasts through the thin satin nightgown. It
was as stimulating as ever before, maybe even more so. Joe felt the
sensation of heat between his legs. Remembering how it felt when
Monica sucked his teats, Joe dropped the top of his nightie off of
his shoulders and grabbed his right breast. He pulled it up and
leaned his head over; yes, he could reach it.
With growing anticipation, Joe stuck his tongue out and
touched his nipple. It felt wonderful. He lifted the breast further
and sucked it into his mouth. After awhile he swapped breasts and
sucked on the other one, in ecstasy as he rolled the nipple between
his teeth. Joe's crotch felt like it was on fire now, and he had
that sensation of a hard on again. Holding his left breast to his
mouth with his left hand, Joe snuck his right hand under the
elastic waistband of his panties and inserted three fingers into
his pussy, surprised to find it wet.
Locating the protuberance that served him as a clit, he found
it pulsing with desire and stroked it with his middle finger,
sucking his teat, until he climaxed. "Wow. Was that intense."
Thought Joe, rearranging his nightgown.
