A Certain Perception

"A girl has to know how to make herself attractive for her lover, Baby. Now, I want you to practice this every day, until it becomes second nature for you. I want you to be able to close your eyes and see yourself exactly like this. If you want tofeel like a slut, you first have to know youlook like a slut."

Of course, such a "look" required the appropriate compliment. My lover had delivered on her promise for my diet and figure training. My slender, long-stemmed body looked as good in Kyra's tight-fitting dresses or miniskirts and tops as hers did. She insisted her clothes were too tame for me. I needed my own wardrobe; something flashier, more daring, tailored for my own unique style.

We shopped several days straight, going only to the little specialty shops which she said catered to girls with our tastes. We found just the right foundations, lingerie, hosiery, clothing and shoes for the 'new me'. My 'couturier' gleefully bagged every stitch of my male clothes and had Goodwill cart them away. She avowed that was just one more vestige of 'Michael' I needed to be rid of to submerge myself into the role of 'Gigi'. Later - after we had had our fun and decided to return me to my masculine self - 'Michael' could shop for a whole new wardrobe. In the meantime, we filled the empty space in my closet and dresser with my provocative new finery.

Kyra had me wear stockings and high-heels (I mean, really high stiletto heels) to properly accessorize my vampish appearance. The stockings were a natural. I was already corseted 24/7, so attaching them to the garters of whatever corset I was wearing (I had about a dozen by then) just seemed the right thing to do. Soon, I became accustomed to wearing stockings, heels and slutwear every day, just as I was always painted and coiffed. I became very adept in strutting in short, sure-footed, gliding steps, one foot in front of the other, rolling my hips suggestively. Kyra cooed appreciatively.

"Lookin'good, Sweet Thang. You already do that so well. Nothing turns a man on like a pair of long, shapely legs like yours wrapped in stockings and perched on a pair of sexy high heels. You like the look onme, don't you? Don't I deserve the same consideration? I like a sexy-looking babe, too - and you areexactly that."

"Do Ireallylook good, or are you just saying that to humor me? I mean..."

I extended my arms a bit and pivotted expertly on my heels.

"Would I make a good ghetto ho'?"

Kyra embraced me and kissed me warmly on the lips.

"Baaaa-by, you isso fine! A little Retro-80's perhaps, and that is just perfect. The boys will all go crazy over it. You woulddefinitely fit in. Who knows? You might just be the Next Big Thing in the 'hood."

The only shortcoming to my daring new footgear was my aching feet, which became a constant, almost crippling annoyance as I strutted gracefully in my stiletto stilts.

Although Kyra dressed appropriately sexy too, the emphasis was on "appropriate". She had earned her GED and begun her course of study through the University's Adult Education program. She was starting slow, taking but a single night class twice a week, as she had with the GED classes. Because this was a professional program, she was required to maintain a style of personal grooming that would be conducive to the business environment. Her wardrobe, makeup and coiffure kept more to the current fashion trends.

One evening, I asked her if she would like to 'dress' with me, knowing she knew what I meant. She giggled a little, but demurred graciously.

"Baby, the look is fine for you. Really it is. I get wet justthinking about you. You are already one hot little hussy and you will only get more so with time. I promise. But I have alreadydone all that. It was right for me at the time, but now I'm ready to move on with my life. You made that possible and I will never be able to thank you enough to express the depth of my gratitude. That doesn't mean I can't still have fun withyou. You are the ho' in the family now, and I'm gonna make you the sexiest, sluttiest damn ho' in the city!"

Kyra decided my look was not lurid enough; it needed a little more "drama". I just never got the hang of applying false eyelashes. I may have possessed long, slender fingers, but I was all thumbs when it came to that fashion 'necessity'. She clucked impatiently at my feeble attempts. Finally, she set up an appointment at her salon, observing it was time to take a more proactive approach.

On the afternoon of my appointment, I was pacing back and forth across our marble foyer in a tight black kidskin miniskirt, black and white python-print tank top and python ankle-strap pumps with five-inch spikes. I thought nothing of dressing like a five-dollar whore at home, but I was scared shitless to go out in public for the first time, looking the way I did. I knew I looked pretty good,but.... As if my nervousness wasn't bad enough, my feet were already killing me! Kyra pooh-poohed my petty inhibitions.

"Don't be silly, Baby. You want to come out of thecloset, don't you? It's time for you to get out there in this brave, new world of yours. Sluts like you are meant to be seen, to flaunt their assets for others' appreciation. You live for the attention, the thrill, and you know it. That's what this is all about, isn't it? I guarantee no one who sees you will think you are a man. As for the pain in your feet, it's just one of the things we girls put up with to be beautiful. Still, we do know a fewshortcuts...."

She extended her hand to me, palm up. It contained a single pill.

"Take this, Sweetie. You will forget all about the pain in your feet - not to mention your nervousness."

It was small and went down easily. A short time later, I felt a kind of glowing numbness. The pain in my feet faded away. I felt light as a feather - and beautiful, sassy, sexy, and invincible! I was ready to strut all the way from our house to the salon, undulating my hips like a slut should. Kyra popped a Li'l Kim disk into the stereo as we pulled out of the gate. Funny, it wasn't as bad as I used to think it was. As we drove, I found myself really getting into the groove. Kyra couldn't help but notice me waving my hands and moving my body in time to the infectious rhythm. In no time, we were chanting the lyrics in unison.

Kyra passed up several available parking places on the bustling street outside the salon, opting to drop me off at a corner two blocks down. "You go on ahead, Baby," she cooed. "They are already waiting for you. I have to run a couple of errands. I'll pick you up later." I sashayed up the street proudly, shaking my bootylicious butt to and fro, still gettin' down with that enchanting Li'l Kim rap. Baby, did I get thelooks. Kyra would have been so proud of me! As it turned out, she was. She told me later she had watched my little show from the car.

Kyra had confided in the girls at the salon, just as she had with Bruce Jensen. Gayle, the owner, and all her operators seemed to be entranced with the prospect of helping my girlfriend bring out the 'slut' in me. This time, high as I was on the pain medication, it didn't faze me a bit. I surrendered myself to their attentions and relished every moment. Semi-permanent lash implants were applied to both my upper and lower lash lines. They were long, thick, curly and really black. The look was very 'Las Vegas showgirl' - or 'Hollywood Whore'. Dita, the esthetician, read my mind.

"You really like the 'Slut Look', don't you Sweetie? I knew you would. When Kyra told me what you wanted, I knew this look would beperfect for you. The effect really flatters you, too. It just looks sooo over-the-top. While we're at it, lets try a couple of other little touches...."

My brow lift had already raised my eyebrows far above what could ever pass as masculine - and higher than all but the most extreme of women's style statements. But they were still unruly, with no shape to them. Dita removed them completely with her electrolysis gear, then tattooed in perfectly shaped, pencil-thin, angled arches. While she was at it, she tattooed deep black liner along my upper and lower eyelids, a thick, dark red outline around my mouth, then filled in my plush lips with Softsilver Rose lipstick. As a final touch, she tattooed a 'beauty mark' just beyond the corner of my mouth.

The permanent makeup would allow me to look fabulous with greatly reduced effort, while being flexible enough to enhance with more dramatic makeup for any outfit or effect. Then she multiple-pierced each of my ears. Consuela and Rachel, the two nail techs, applied acrylic sculptured fingernails and toenails. That's right; sculptured toenails - with toe rings ("It's all the rage right now, Gigi. Doesn't it just make your feet look darling?"). What could I say? Idid like the look. It just didn't deserve to be hidden away inside shoes....

Kyra took me shoe shopping when she picked me up. We went to three different specialty shops on the boulevard that catered to exotic dancers and others who desired more extreme, provocative shoe styles. We purchased over two-dozen pairs of open-toed pumps and sandals. We also found a dozen or so pairs of boots - ankle, knee-high, and ultra-sinful thigh-high - I just had to have. Of course, they all had ultra-high, stiletto heels; six inches, seven inches, and one pair of fetish sandals with nine-inch spikes. Some had platform soles; many did not.

My slender, shapely five-foot-six-inch frame was perched high and proud on my stiletto stilts wherever I went. They made my legs look sensational. After all the time I had spent in them, the sky-high heels altered the way I carried myself - even thought about myself. Pain? Not anymore, Honey! I just popped a pill. I was good to go - anywhere, anytime, without a twitch.

I saw myself in the mirror, day after day, dressed and made up like a tramp. The subliminal disks and my girlfriend's loving, but determined tutelage had done their work. My brain struggled less and less between the two distinctly different modes of communication - and thought. More and more, I talked as cheap as I looked, just as Kyra had promised. I knew I was different than before; one look in the mirror proved that. I was beginning to see the world around me differently, too. For the first time, I realized how phony and superficial the people were. I felt liberated, free to be the real me for the first time.

Kyra took me out often, whether to go shopping, to dinner, even to a movie. She developed a little game we both enjoyed playing in very public places. We would each dress our provocative best - she tastefully sexy, me in my sleazy 'hooker chic'. Kyra always drove our SL500 ("No one would believe a slut like you couldever own a car like this"). She would drop me off some distance away, then drive on to our rendezvous, valet the car and wait for me. I would sashay up the street, alone, under the collective gaze of everyone. Kyra strategically positioned herself to watch the show. She offered me incentives to do my best to convince my audience I was 'working it' on the boulevard. If men solicited me under her appreciative gaze, I got perks - lots and lots of perks - when we got home.

We had the script down cold. We ran into each other 'by chance'. We were old friends from high school who had gone our separate - and very different - ways. Kyra reminisced aloud - for the benefit of those around us - about our school days, when we were together on the Pom-Pom squad. She talked about her business career downtown. Then, she would allude to the start of my 'troubles'; my bad taste in boys, growing reputation as a 'loose woman', and, finally, the scandal involving drugs and the gym teacher. That episode had gottenhim fired andme expelled. I would go on to reveal my new life and 'profession' in a smug, self-satisfied tone meant to be overheard. I went on about how much I enjoyed doin' the ho' stroll, out on the street where everyone could see me, want me, have me - for the right price.

At first, Kyra would feign utter shock and astonishment ("No! Not you. You can't be serious!") Her uncomprehending reply was peppered with words like "hooker", "whore", and "slut". She would try to keep her voice down, but her 'emotion' would get the better of her, causing her to speak up just loudly enough for the people around us to take it all in.

At last, she would feign understanding - and reluctant acceptance. She listened intently, nodding sympathetically in all the right places, yet showing just a trace of sadness in her eyes for her former best friend - the good girl gone bad. Kyra was such a good actress, and I was playing my role from the heart. We would go home after an evening of 'shock theater' and have a good laugh at the expense of the people we had scammed. Then, we would fuck like bunnies. At least,she would fuckme....

Kyra had been eerily accurate in her assessment of Society and perception. She, dressed as the young, beautiful, oh-so-chic, upwardly-mobile socialite, was warmly accepted wherever we went. I was not - or only grudgingly so when I was with her. I was different now, not one of them. I saw the looks of scorn in the eyes of 'proper folk' as they recoiled from me. I also saw the covert glances of lust from a number of men who would not want others to know their innermost desires. The shady little pricks!

What did I ever think I had in common with them? There they were in their fine, expensive suits, drinking their fine, expensive wine, eating their fine, expensive sushi, then driving back to their fine, expensive homes. They dissed me, talked trash about me to all their uptight friends - and all the while wanted to do me when none of their oh-so-proper friends were watching. Bring it on, Sugar! Just make sure you bring your fine, expensive WALLET, too.

I gradually retreated from my sense of belonging to the uptight, oh-so-correct culture that had sheltered and nurtured me all my life. At the same time, that culture was shunningme in contempt. The more they glared at me in silent disgust and ridicule, the more contemptuous and defiant of them I became. Here I am, you sanc..., sancti..., little shits; right under your blue noses. And here I stay. You can hate me. You can disrespect me. But I won't let you deny me! I became more and more comfortable in the persona of that cheap, trashy little slut I portrayed.

We continued with our strap-on play, doing it at any time of day, anywhere she felt the urge, and in more positions than I knew existed. Kyra didn't make love to me; shefucked me, taking me, using me like the cheap little fucktoy she was transforming me into. She adored talking trash while she fucked me. She called me a slut, a tramp, a whore, a cheap little cum-catcher who lived to suck and fuck, the kind that belonged on a street corner hustling dates. She chided I had better get comfortable with that idea, because by the time she was done with me, that would be all I was good for - and all I cared about.

I adored that kind of talk. It was my perfect fantasy, like she had tapped into my very soul and was playing it back for me verbally. Her repeated, insistent 'mind fuck', in addition to my altered perception of my appearance and persona, gradually altered the way I responded to sexual stimuli. She was fucking me more and more, but stroking my 'clitty' less and less. That did not seem to matter. In time, she brought me to the most gut-wrenching orgasms without touching my hormonally-shrunken clitty-cock at all.

The more I experienced, the more I wanted. We checked out the girls we saw on the streets and in the adult videos we watched together. We both adored the tattoos and piercings many of them displayed so proudly. My lover had a beautiful piercing in her navel and a sunburst tattooed on her left ankle. I had always told her how attractive I thought they were. Now, she turned the tables.

"You know, Baby, since you are becoming this sweet, sexy young thing, it's time for you to be 'marked', too. After all, you don't want people to mistake you for Little Miss Pure-As-The-Driven-Snow, do you?"

I didn't see how there was any danger of THAT, but the idea was appealing, nonetheless.

We made a series of trips to a tattoo parlor - with me dressed like I was workin' it. I didn't even give a thought to appearing that way in broad daylight. I just popped a pill, surrendered myself to that warm, wonderful glow, and set off atop my spike-heeled pedestals. Kyra always knew just the right words to say to put me in the proper mindset.

"Oh, yeah, work it, Baby! Work itgood. Isn't this what it's all about, Baby? You need to beseen, out in public where everyone can lust for you the way I do. You are the sexy, uninhibited slut you have always wanted to be. That's what people see. That's how people perceive you. Now, walk sexy for me. I just love to watch you strut your stuff in those high heels."

When my "artwork" was complete, I had a scorpion on my left ankle, a 'pole kitty' in thigh-high boots on my right ankle, a barbed-wire band around my left bicep, an ornate scrollwork design across the 'saddle' of my hips, a large, blossoming red rose on my left breast, and the words "Fuck Toy" in flowing script across my right butt cheek. My nipples were pierced with gold rings. My navel had a matching ring. My tongue sported twin barbells. A delicate gold ring pierced my left nostril.

The tattoo artist came on to me something fierce. Kyra encouraged me to flirt with him throughout our visits. At the end of our final visit, Kyra instructed me to 'tip' him for all his efforts while she ran an errand. She picked me up forty-five minutes later. I settled into the plush leather seat as she pulled out, a look of smug satisfaction on my face, a load of cum in my tummy, and another oozing out of my love nest.

My lover adored my new look - and taking me out to show off her 'creation'. She changed the rules of our little 'game', too. She began taking me to dance clubs - and introducing me around. A lot of the clubs in the city's nightlife district catered to a mixed-culture, hip-hop/rap/extended dance mix theme. The atmosphere was mostly singles; Whites, Latinos, Asians, and Blacks. It was my first introduction to the difference between 'African-American' and 'Black'. She had been right; there was nothing 'politically-correct' about many of the Black men we met and danced with. Kyra made certain they knew I liked to 'party' and insisted I act the part. If a man came on to me, offered me a drink or dance, or copped a feel of my body, I was not to refuse.

Once I discovered how pleasurable it all was, I lost my inhibitions. On more than one occasion, I returned from the dance floor or Ladies' room to discover she had left without me - with some other man. Was I mad? Jealous? 'Michael' probably would have been. 'Gigi' was too busy with her own pleasures. I just got a ride from one or another of my admirers. If I liked him,he got a ride, too - if you know what I mean.

Soon, Kyra decreed it was sinful for a slut like me to be home, alone, just becauseshe had to go to school. She gave me a ride to one or another club on her way to class. As always, she dropped me off down the street, leaving me to sashay up to the club alone ("It's for your own good, Sweetie. Sluts like you don't get dropped off at the door by their mommies"). She made it clear I was a "big girl" now. I was under explicit instructions to stay out late, be 'nice' to all the boys who came on to me - and find my own way home.

In addition, she frequently called me on my cell phone to inquire about what I was doing at the moment - and to present me with my nightly 'challenge'. The challenges ranged from giving some lucky guy a blowjob in a public place, to not returning home until at least noon the next day - requiring me to arrange 'alternate accommodations' until then. Of course, when Idid return home, I would have to tell her everything. She was really cool about my lovers, noting "That is what sluts like you do." Kyra was the one attending classes, but I was getting quite an 'education' myself; learning how to manipulate the men who came on to me, getting them to do what I wanted. In return, I had to give them whatthey wanted - not that it was any great sacrifice on my part. I couldn't have been more thrilled. Well, maybe a little....