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Message-ID: <48507asstr$1090055403@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern)
Subject: {ASSM} Wimp by Vickie Tern 1/3 TG femdom
Lines: 561
Date: Sat, 17 Jul 2004 05:10:03 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

                           Wimp
                        by Vickie Tern

She's right, I guess.  I'm simply not assertive enough.  I'm way
too agreeable, way too much inclined to go along with whatever
anyone suggests and hope for the best.  Whatever comes, I make do.

I can't help it, I'm a nice guy, always have been, or anyhow I once
was.  I know now that I should've been a little less trusting.  A
lot less I suppose.  I should have insisted on knowing what was
going on.  But who knew?  And it doesn't really matter, it's just
as well.  How I've ended up isn't too bad.  Really, it isn't, I'm
not complaining!  It's not unpleasant, not at all, don't get me
wrong, I'm not really protesting or anything.  In fact the chances
are Cameron was right when she told me I'm a lot better off than
before.  "You just weren't cut out for what you were," she said.
"So be grateful!"   I do try.

No one else seems to think anything's wrong, that anything odd
happened.  Nobody at work, none of the other girls, the ones I hang
out with nowadays.  Certainly not Cameron.  

Cameron's her last name, I don't even know her first name, but
everyone calls her that except at work where she's always Ms.
Cameron to subordinates like me.  "The 'Ms.' keeps people
distanced, if that's where I want them," she explained when she was
telling me not to call her "Cameron" any longer.  

Ms. Cameron was once my girlfriend.  The one big thing I did in my
life was talking her into letting me move in with her.  Bugging her
into it, maybe.  I kept telling her how I wanted to until one day
she relented.  So for some months we lived together and I took care
of her place, and even though we were never intimate I had hopes. 
I wanted her to be my girlfriend.  

Then she really did become my girlfriend.  We lived together the
way girlfriends do, told each other secrets, shared our clothes
and make-up, you know.  Until she got married to Gary.  

Now she's only my boss.  She tells me to remember that whenever she
says "Jump!" I've got only one answer, "How high?"  She points out
that we're no longer equals even socially, that I need to develop
my own life completely apart from hers, the way she has from mine. 
Mostly I already have.

"You don't feel even a little bit responsible for me?" I once asked
her when we were still living together, because by then I knew
she'd set it all up knowing I'd go along because that was the
course of least resistance.

"You urged yourself on me," she replied.  "So you're responsible. 
You should have known you were asking for what happened.  And
anyhow, I've done you a favor.  Be grateful.  I've done what
girlfriends always try to do for each other."  

This puzzled me.  She was saying we were girlfriends, which we
were, though she was still my former girlfriend, or I'd hoped she
would be.  But when she did me this favor I was supposed to be her
boyfriend, not her girlfriend, anyhow I was trying to get to be her
boyfriend, and I still do consider myself her former boyfriend, in
a way.  But when I told that to the other girls at lunch the other
day, they just laughed and told me to forget about it and get
myself a steady boyfriend of my own, that it's past time. 

She was still a girlfriend when she told me how I'd brought it on
myself.  We were still living together until the house she was
planning to live in with Gary was ready and they could get married
and move in, and I'd finally go into my own place, a small
bed-sitter she found for me downtown.  "Something a little more
like what you can afford on your salary," as she told me. "Where
you can walk to work.  But still, respectable, so you can invite a
friend to come in for a drink if you like him." 

None of this is what I'd once hoped for.  Some evenings I'd
remember those old dreams and I'd sigh with that breathy moan they
taught me at Charm School, "very feminine, drives men wild" they
said, and that's proved true enough.  But all Cameron ever did when
I made noises like that was glance at me, then grin to herself and
go back to her magazine or TV show or whatever.  

One night I must have given out a really pathetic little yip
without even realizing it, because she closed her book Snap! and
suggested abruptly that we go out for a bite to eat and then do
some more furniture shopping for her new place, then maybe go to a
club and meet some new people so I could practice more of what I'd
been learning about feminine sociability.  Because we both knew
that in public from then on I'd need to behave as if I really were
what I look like, what people think I am.   When I objected she
just said impatiently in that honeyed voice of hers, "For God's
sake, Jamie, do quit moping.  Get over it!  It's done!  You're a
girl!  And you may not know it yet but you will love it!  You
already do in some ways, I can tell."   

She wasn't wrong, not altogether.  I didn't love it, but I'd gotten
used to it, and I could see that there were certain advantages. 
Though sometimes I'd feel like such a fool!  I mean, take for
example her insistence that once a month I do what all the other
girls in the office do so I'll be fully sharing their lives, and
insert tampons into me same as they do, and take a teaspoon of
Ipecac to simulate cramps same as theirs.  "Then you'll appreciate
how a girl feels down there.  And also you'll get used to things
getting put into you down there.  It'll seem more natural."

Well, it didn't, not at the time.  Not the "Super" size, anyhow,
only the "Junior Miss."  And not the dildos she wanted me to use
before every date just in case, to give me a taste of the real
thing.  Though I must say, pushing those soft rubber tubes in and
out of me has always felt sort of ... well, friendly, if you know
what I mean.  Delicious.  I'd look forward to it.

So being a girl wasn't too bad at all, but it still didn't seem
right.  And I couldn't talk to her about any of it!  She didn't
want to know.

I tried once when I came down to breakfast still wearing that
shortie nightgown she'd loaned me, thinking that it was time for me
to get my own, and soon.  She looked me over top to bottom, chewing
her toast, and she listened to me begin my speech.  

But only the beginning.  She heard that much, then frowned and
interrupted, "Don't tell me, Jamie!  You should have told everyone
months ago when it still mattered.  You should have taken a stand
right then, at the very beginning.  Acted like a man!  Told Sheila
right off, and then the next day told the women at the salon and
the doctors at the clinic too, everyone!  But no, they all asked
you if you really wanted this, or that, and you kept replying "Sort
of," and "I guess."  You agreed to everything!  You were a good
sport, the way you always are!  You went along!  So you did it to
yourself!" 

"Yes, but I've never been perfectly sure that ...."

She just looked steadily at me.  "It does seem to me a little late
for you to rethink your commitments.  For God's sake, Jamie, just
look at you!  Soft and round and getting more so, face and body hair
permanently gone, not that there ever was much.  And your breasts
coming in so nicely, just look at them, your nipples already poke
out further than mine!  And your weenie's now not much more than
just that.  I know, I see it often enough, what there is left to
see.  You can't go back."

I just stood there.  She was right, I knew it.

She turned back to her morning paper.  "Jamie, we've had this
conversation before.  What can I say?  Suit yourself!  Just don't
expect me to stand by and cheer because you think you can breach a
contract you signed in full knowledge of its consequences and then
somehow scramble back to where you were and where we were!  To
where you wished we were!  After everything that's happened?"  She
shook her head at the absurdity.  "No way!"

Now she stood up.  She was already dressed, I saw, wearing one of
her business suits.  On a Saturday?  "I've got to go in for a few
hours this morning," she said.  "Gary's coming over this afternoon
for drinks and talk and, you know, to fool around.  I've asked him
to bring his friend Marty for you again.  You remember Marty?  You
loved being with him last time, I remember, whatever it was you two
found to do."  She smiled confidentially.  "I'm sure he showed you
how being a girl has its advantages."

I remembered.  Marty hadn't known that I'd started using dildos to
get off when my penis wouldn't stiffen any longer, but he did know
it was my first time with a man, so he was very considerate.  He
poked only part of himself into me, to get me used to the feel, and
then he lay there quietly.  Even so he was huge, I could barely
walk or sit the next day.  Cameron probably thought we'd gone all
the way.  "Next time, Jamie!" he'd told me when he finally pulled
it out.  "Next time I'll fill you full of me.  Till then you just
think about it.  Imagine what it's like.  I want you to yearn for
it!"  

I had thought about it.  I still wasn't sure.  But yearn for it or
not, apparently 'next time' was later today.  I reconciled myself
to it.  I suppose I wanted it.

Cameron then looked around.  "Meanwhile, Jamie, do us both a
favor," she said.  "While I'm gone clean up around here, would you? 
Thoroughly?  And start a laundry -- we're both running out of clean
undies, or haven't you noticed?"  

Then as she left she added, not looking back, "And while you're at
it, for goodness' sake do something with your hair.  Whatever do
they teach you all those afternoons you spend at the salon instead
of at your desk?  And please don't come down again without putting
on at least a little makeup!  Take some pride in your appearance!" 
Then for emphasis, "Jamie!"  The door slammed.  

She didn't want to hear any more complaints, girlfriend or no
girlfriend.  She was right, I guess.  What was done was done, no
denying it.  Accept it, live with it.

She was right, a few months earlier when things were a lot
different, that was when I should have said something.  I was still
Jimmy then, a man who by sheer persistence had finally managed to
talk her into letting me move in with her.  Though I now know she
agreed only because it suited her convenience.  Once in, a few
months passed with me trying to get up nerve enough to ask her to
marry me.  Though somehow whenever I started the subject she'd
shunt it over onto something else, some movie we'd seen, an
annoying change in her company's work regulations, phone calls from
old college friends, this old friend of hers named Gary who'd
showed up in town.  Other stuff.  It was as if she didn't want to
hear about marriage.  Maybe she didn't?

Then that one day everything changed.  We were getting dressed
together in the pre-dawn dark, getting ready to go to her office,
me for the first time.  Cameron's a marketing supervisor for
Honeybelle, that huge Cosmetics manufacturer, you've seen their
stuff everywhere, their head office is a huge high rise building in
this city and Cameron had already been promoted to Senior Manager,
in charge of a whole floor full of analysts and salespeople and
bookkeepers.  I was applying that morning for a job as her
secretary/receptionist.  As a job it doesn't sound like much, I
know, but it really was rather special, she assured me, because
everyone on the floor would have to come to me to get to her.  It
didn't matter that I wasn't a girl like all the other employees on
that floor -- under fair employment practices rules, men had an
equal chance to qualify for any job that came available at
Honeybelle, if they wanted it, if they were suitable.  

And I needed the work.  My savings were about gone.  Soon after
Cameron and I began living together I'd lost my job.  The software
company I'd worked for went belly up, and all sorts of programmers
like me found themselves on the streets with no prospects.  Most of
them left town.  I'd gotten a few out-of-town offers too, and each
time Cameron had urged me to take them.  But now that she and I
were finally living in the same apartment, I didn't want to leave
her.  It would mean an end to our relationship.  And I was in love
with her.  As she was with me, I wanted to believe, though she'd
just shake her head whenever I hinted it hopefully.  

When she finally agreed to let me move in with her, it wasn't the
usual arrangement.  It was very conditional.  "There's a maid's
room off the kitchen," she'd said.  "That'll be yours.  You don't
enter my bedroom at all except to straighten up and make the bed
and collect my laundry.  You take over all the household chores,
cleaning and so on, cooking full dinners whenever I eat in, that
sort of thing.  That's the arrangement.  That's how you'll pay your
way."

I'd been glad to, because it gave me plenty of opportunity to show
her what a great husband I'd make.

"Don't expect intimacies of any kind," she'd stipulated.  "If I
should ever feel anything like that I'll tell you -- you don't ever
ask me."  

I told her that sounded fair.  So I never did ask, even though she
never offered.  But I still had hopes.  And almost immediately, I
couldn't believe my eyes, I was granted a kind of intimacy anyhow. 
The very next morning I found her sitting in the kitchen wearing
only her bra and panties.  She glanced up at me, then resumed
reading the newspaper and sipping her coffee.  I sat down and
continued to stare at her. 

She'd sighed and looked up again, then said in a level voice,
"Jimmy, stop staring, it isn't polite.  Maybe you don't understand. 
Just because you're living here now and looking after things for me
doesn't mean I'm going to change any of my habits.  This is my
apartment.  I expect you not to notice how I'm dressed or
undressed.  If you can't ignore it I'll have to ask you to move
out." 

So I didn't notice, not so she'd notice anyhow.  Sometimes she
actually went around nude, even when I was in the same room
vacuuming or maybe running her bath.  She had a sensational figure,
thin but with astonishing curved bulges jutting out on her hips and
chest and rear end.  Once I heard her on the phone chatting with
someone in a teasing tone of voice, some guy maybe, and when I
passed through the room I could see that the whole time she'd been
stroking her clit and wriggling her hips ever so slightly.  Her
fingers and labia, you know, that slit women have down there, they
were glistening wet.  But she just looked up at me and then through
me as if I weren't there, and smiled at something the other person
must have said, and diddled herself some more.  

She'd seen me naked often enough too.  And with a hard on a few
times, when she was nearly naked and looking ravishing and I
couldn't help it.  But again, she never seemed to notice.  Her eyes
passed over me as if I were a piece of furniture.  She didn't seem
to care.  

Even so, there I was, living with her.  Shacked up, like they say. 
It was a beginning.  I figured it was only a matter of time.

Once I was out of work I had lots of time to keep her place in
perfect order.  But still, I was a layabout.  In the months that
followed she'd sometimes get short-tempered about my hanging out
reading the ads, interviewing for jobs for which I was
overqualified and under-enthusiastic, then not getting them anyhow,
or else doing nothing.  Oh, I'd looked, but there were software
designers all over the streets going begging.  Literally!  I'd
passed one sitting on a street corner with a piece of cardboard
around his neck reading "Will hack for food!" and I'd carefully not
looked back at him.  Someone's joke, I supposed, though maybe not. 

But this Honeybelle thing was a real job opening.  Rosemond, her
previous secretary-receptionist, had just quit to get married and
relocate out of town.  At Cameron's request I'd designed and sent
the couple a computer-animated congratulations e-mail, a cartoon
hen mounting a cartoon rooster.  "She'll laugh," Cameron had said. 
"It probably is that kind of relationship, too.  She's smart and
assertive and he's good looking but nobody."  She'd then looked
hard at me but said nothing.  I felt uneasy.  Watching me closely,
she then told me that I had an inside track to replace Rosemond if
I was willing to work as her secretary until something more
suitable showed up.  "Apply for the job, and I'll see that it's
yours."

Well, what Rosemond did was no big deal.  I could file, and I could
type a blue streak flawlessly, an essential skill if one's
profession is really writing software.  And I could be pleasant
enough with people waiting to see her, and certainly I could answer
the phone and keep her appointment book, and so forth.  No problem.

And I was much better-suited than an applicant she'd seen
yesterday, Cameron told me.  That's what had given her the idea. 
I wasn't as tall, she said, but like this other applicant I was
slim and blonde and had small, pleasant features.  And I move with
a kind of sprightly good cheer people like, she pointed out.  Girls
have always thought I was cute.  "You'd adapt well, I'm sure of
it," she said.  "And I hate to say it, but right now you're more of
a nobody than even Rosemond's fiance.  He at least has a job."  

We agreed that it would be good for me to get out of the house, and
that full-time work as her secretary wouldn't interfere with my
domestic chores.  "You may not be doing menial things for me here
much longer anyhow," she said, looking meaningfully at me.  "I'm
thinking of changing our relationship, making other arrangements." 
My heart leapt up at the implication!   At last?  I didn't know at
the time that she and Gary were already engaged.  I didn't even
know there was a Gary anywhere in her life.

So I'd made an appointment to talk to Personnel about Rosemond's
job, and we were getting dressed to go in together, when she
suddenly stopped and looked at me.

"That was shrimp we had last night, wasn't it?"

I paused.  "That's right," I said.  "You know we did.  It was your
idea."

"Not a good idea, I see."

"You thought it was," I replied, a little puzzled.  "You bought it
and brought it home for me to cook, remember?  You didn't remember
about my reaction to it last time?  It was delicious.  You took
such pleasure in it, you kept urging me to have more and more, and
I did, too!"  

I couldn't help myself -- that New Orleans Creole recipe I'd used
was just marvelous.  I'd figured the dish would go for two meals,
maybe even also a lunch, but between us we'd finished the whole
casserole!  Mostly, I'd finished it.  I was taking a chance with a
food allergy -- shrimp usually give me a facial rash, though only
for a day or two.  More serious I thought was the pigging out,
because I was on a strict diet, trying to stay slim.  But with
Cameron so enthusiastic about it I'd enjoyed the dish for once
without worrying about either my allergies or my weight.  

I'd gone down twenty-five pounds since I'd first gone jobless,
trying to look lean and mean for my interviews.  In fact, as
Cameron was asking me about last night's shrimp I was pulling up a
pair of pants from a business suit I hadn't worn for months, and
noticing that the waistline was now far too large.  I tightened my
belt and it looked as if I'd tied a sack around myself.  Pin the
waist up in back so it'll seem to fit in front?  No, then all that
material would sag around my rear, and I'd look thirty years older. 


I let them fall to the floor and went to my closet to find another
pair.  Another business suit, also no good.  A pair of flannel
slacks?  Doubtful.  And all the rest of my pants were casual wear,
jeans and khakis to wear whenever it doesn't matter.  Useless for
a job interview.

"Didn't you once tell me you were allergic to shrimp?" Cameron
asked while watching me rehang my oversized pants and stare
helplessly at my problem.  "I seem to remember."  Then without
another word she went to her own closet and took down a pair of her
own slacks, a dark shiny fabric I always enjoyed seeing her wear,
tight around her butt and thighs but flared and loose below the
knee.  It had panache, the way she did!  "Here, try these," she
said, holding them out.  "They'll fit."

"Cameron, they're cut for your figure!  I'd feel foolish!"

"They're pants.  You'd feel even more foolish applying for a
secretary/receptionist's position looking like a hip-hop hobo.  A
neat appearance is even more important for that job than fast
typing.  It's great that you've slimmed down, but you should have
realized before now that your suits aren't suitable any more."

She smiled.  I didn't.  I held her slacks up to the light and
looked them over.  The waistline was about right, but the material
did seem a little floppy.  

"Don't worry," she said.  "This pair is man-tailored.  They may fit
a little snug on your butt, but snug is better than sloppy, and the
material stretches to form fit, it won't pull or sag.  Wear that
big tweed sports jacket you've got -- it'll hang down far enough to
keep men from staring at your rounded rear, if that's what's
worrying you.  Just don't waggle."  She smiled, then added, "It'll
also hide the fact that there's no fly.  Your pants are no problem. 
But just look at your face.  That's what we've got to deal with. 
Those shrimp have done you in, Jimmy!"    

A glance in the mirror confirmed what she was saying.  Overeating
all that shrimp had made my skin red and blotchy.  I knew it was
temporary.  But my interview was this morning, and I now had the
flushed complexion of an habitual drunkard.

"God, what'll I do?"  I looked at her a little wildly.  She was
right, the pants were no problem at all in comparison.

"What I'd do, I suppose," she replied.  "Slip into those pants and
sit down over there, and I'll take care of it.  No, not with those
boxer shorts, they'll bunch and the legs will look lumpy!  Here!" 
She reached into her drawer and took out a pair of her panties. 
"These'll keep your bottom neat.  Don't worry about the lace on the
waist band and the legs, they're so your panty line won't show.  You
wouldn't want that, would you?"  Now she grinned broadly.

"Cameron, this isn't going to work!" I said.  "I can't...."

"Look, Jimmy!  This is your best job opportunity in months.  Only
two interviews required, me and Personnel, and I've already told
Personnel you're who I want.  Get past Personnel and come work for
me, and look what we'll have!  Two incomes again!  And together all
day long at the office!  And once you're in-house, you'll be the
first to hear about other jobs closer to your special skills.  It's
perfect!"

"But what about my face?"

"Tuck your package between your legs, those panties have enough
lycra and spandex to keep them there.  Good!  See now, I knew those
pants would fit.  Nicely form fit in the crotch and rear, yet your
panty line doesn't show at all!  Here, sit here and let me attend to
your face.  You gave yourself a really close shave this morning, I
see.  Maybe that's why that rash is so visible?  But first bind
your hair back!  Brush it a few times, then use this!"  She handed
me one of her ponytail scrunchies.  "That's it.  Before anything
else we need to get our hair off our faces!  No, higher up, so it's
off your neck too."

I pulled my long hair back as instructed, then sat down at her
makeup table, back to the mirror and facing her as she pulled up a
chair.  "Rose beige, I'd say," she said, reaching behind me toward
the massed bottles alongside the mirror.  "Lucky I have it in the
Honeybelle Colorfast line -- it's like paint, it won't rub off."

"What is?"  I wasn't too happy about this, but I knew that once
Cameron decides on a course of action she follows through.  And she
was right.  I needed this job, and I felt sure that once I was
working with her we'd come to feel closer.  I was sure of it.  It
would end the little strains that had developed in our
relationship, and return me to something like respect.  Maybe even
admiration.

"This foundation.  Covers all blemishes and discolorations.  There! 
Look!"  She stopped stroking my face with a small sponge and sat
back.  "Almost done!  Beautiful complexion restored!"

Was she teasing me?  I turned and looked into the mirror.  The
blotches were indeed gone.  But instead I saw the face of a store
window mannequin, my face a uniform pale tan, forehead, cheeks, and
nose.  Even my lips and eyebrows had disappeared under the even
coating. 

"I look spray-painted," I told her.  "Artificial!  Like a display
dummy!  Cameron, this isn't going to...."

"Oh yes it will!  I wear this foundation to work every day, and it
looks perfectly natural!  Just wait!  Only a few more touches to
return you to a state of nature!  No more talk--we're running late
as it is!"

Appalled as I was, I sat still as she reached behind me for
different items and applied them swiftly, touches of another shade
of foundation here and there, then a dark beige lipstick to recover
the shape of my lips, pink blush on my cheeks but also underneath
to create shadowed cheekbones, and a few strokes of eyebrow pencil. 


"There, now your brow arch is very becoming, and you don't look
plucked hairless any more.  But your eyes have nearly disappeared. 
I'd better make them a little more bold!  Close them!"  

I did, and felt a soft crayon lining the edges, then something
feathery across my eyelids.  "Look up!" and I could see her
clearly, concentrating intently as something wiped my lashes, wet
for a moment, then dry.  "There!  Now close again!"  I felt a
powder puff and smelled a faint flowery dust in the air.  "That's
what blends everything!  Keep them shut!  Don't breathe for a
moment!"  And I heard a hissing and felt momentary moisture, as if
she were hair spraying ... my face?  "My little trick!" she said,
satisfied.  "Now none of it will rub off or wash off.  You'll need
to use makeup remover tonight, just like all of us girls.  I have
plenty.  Now you can look at yourself!"

I turned again, and did.  "There's my matinee idol," she added. 
"My pretty boy!  Perfect!"

What I saw in the mirror was perfect, all right.  And that was the
problem.  Men's faces take character from their imperfections,
jutting masses covered with mottled skin.  But not mine. It was me
all right.  But I saw large doll eyes staring out innocently from
a face that was blushing as if at some overly-intimate suggestion, 
 My eyebrows were thin, delicate, raised quizzically.  My lips were
their natural color, nearly, but darker, and perfectly outlined
against my smooth, flawless, ivory-beige skin, somehow more ...
plump. I looked natural, yet artificial.  Smooth.  Like a girl made
up for work or a date. 

"Cameron," I began.

"Never mind, Jimmy!  You're fine.  Trust me.  Maybe a little cute,
but that's you, and now you're well-defined, perfectly groomed, the
way a receptionist should look when greeting important people and
telling them to wait until they're called.  Honey, that's the best
I can do, and it'll do!  Would you rather go in splotchy and
mottled, looking like an old lush?  A diseased drunk?  You look
good now!  Lovely, if you must know.  Finish getting ready.  No, no
tie with that sports jacket, an open necked-shirt, and wear your
tasseled loafers, not those formal lace-up clod hoppers.  I usually
wear pale pastels with those slacks -- here's the pinkish sports
shirt I got you a few weeks ago, wear that!  Let's go, we're late!"

I hesitated at the front door.  "Go, baby!" she urged me.  "I know
what you're thinking.  You're thinking that Sheila -- she's the gal
who'll interview you -- will wonder why you look so ... so good. 
Well, don't worry about it.  If she thinks maybe you're gay, the
way you look, well, it won't hurt.  Effeminate won't hurt either. 
We don't discriminate at Honeybelle, in fact she's lezzie herself. 
Tell you what, I'll bring you in and make my speech and we'll make
sure she does only what the procedures require, test your typing
speed and fill out your employment forms and so on.  Stuff like
that.  Because I have a busy morning, and I need you at your desk
right now, practically!  Let's go!"

And then I was on the front walk, heading toward her car.  My face
felt a little stiff -- the make-up, I supposed.  My pants felt
strange as I put one leg in front of the other, their loose cuffs
flapping on my ankles, their smooth upper legs snugly hugging my
thighs, and I realized that the way the stretch fabric gripped me,
my tight-clad bottom was rotating under my oversized jacket.  My
God, I thought, I bet my rear end moves like Cameron's now! 
Suddenly it came to me!  The pants were skin-tight, no pockets!  No
wallet!  I had no documents!  I patted down my jacket in a mindless
reflex!  Empty, of course.

"I've got them, Jimmy," Cameron said as my hands danced over my
body.  "All you need really is your social security card and your
driver's license with your old address on it.  It's best if it
isn't on the record that we live together.  Nepotism, favoritism,
whatever.  It makes for divisive office gossip.  I'll drive."   


end 1/3
VickieTern@AOL.COM

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