Transvestia

purse that stood on the corner, I opened it and ex- tracted a package of my brand before another start- ling realization crashed through my clouded mind. How did I know the purse was there and that the cig- arettes were in it? Even as I pondered, my hand un- conciously fumbled at the bottom of the bag for the thin gold lighter that I knew somehow would be there. It was. I inhaled deeply of the cigarette and tried valiantly to bring things into focus.

The idea of wearing women's clothes was not a new one. Many times in the past I had envied girls who would flash by on the street. I tried to imagine the soft caress of their dress or the dainty things they wore underneath; I admired the sway that their high heels gave their body as they walked. My pre- sent situation, however, was too much all at once. I felt like the man who asked for a glass of water and was given a flood!

Then I remembered the hotel manager who by this time must certainly be on his way to answer my com- plaint. What could I tell him? Driven by a motiv- ation that I can only describe as feminine, I was suddenly aware that I could not face him dressed as I was. I slipped out of the fragile gown and immed- iately began selecting a costume from the suitcases. In my haste, I could not even take time to examine the altered contours of my body except to enjoy the new sensations that movement brought.

The firmness that the bra brought to my chest gave me little chills as I paused to run my hand over its satiny smoothness. Then I pulled the panties taut against me and felt a distinct pleasure at the way the curve of my waist was accentuated between the two garments. The slip that followed clung so tightly to my form that there was little doubt left that the clothes belonged to me.

I selected a solid white dress with a flare skirt from the group in the closet and as I closed the zipper

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