On the Run

The spell was broken by my aching penis, held captive under control top pantyhose and panties. In a daze, I got up and stepped into my half slip, feeling the delicious fabric slide up against my stockings. The lacy hem rested just above the tops of my knees, making my legs look utterly feminine as they shimmered beneath it. My fingers were shaking again when I took my dress off its hanger and dropped it over my head. It was light blue, with little white checks, and it fell to my knees as I smoothed it into place. For some reason, the shoulder pads made my physique look more girlish, while the gathered waist accentuated my artificial bust line. When I reached behind my back to pull up the zipper, my dress rose up over my knees, revealing a froth of lacy slip. At the sight of this, I became intensely aroused, and my penis suddenly exploded.

Stunned, I fell back onto the bed, lost in the throes of the most exquisite orgasm of my life. Finally it subsided, and my pleasure was quickly replaced by a profound sense of shame. What was happening to me? This was supposed to be a temporary disguise, not an alternative lifestyle. What was I…some kind of pervert? My God, could I be gay?

“Get a grip on yourself,” I heard myself saying. Then, in the feminine voice I had practiced earlier, “Come on, let’s get going, girl.” I staggered into the bathroom, lifted up my dress and slip, and pulled down my panties and hose, which were smeared with gobs of semen. I took a damp washcloth and cleaned myself off, dabbing my lingerie and stockings as I did so. Eventually, I pulled myself back together, and when I returned to the bedroom, I was all business. I stepped into my flats, finding them tight but wearable, and returned to the bathroom to fasten my earrings and necklace. I tied my scarf in a loose knot and positioned it primly on my neck. A spritz of cologne behind each ear, a little fussing with my hair, a fresh coat of lipstick, and I was filling up my purse like I had been doing it all of my life. Tissues, lipstick, compact, key to the motel room, a few dollars in change, my Arizona driver’s license, and Victoria Ross’s bank account information.