Betrayed Ch. 04

byAngelCherysse©

Chapter 4: Let The Games Begin

I really wasn't surprised when Dianna directed me into the parking lot at Ringers. It was only a few blocks across town from my new home; a five-minute drive, if the traffic wasn't killing at the time. Consciously, it had not been a factor in my decision to take the new place. Sub-consciously... well, who knows?

"Pop the trunk," she instructed as I shifted into Park.

I complied. She didn't wait for me to get her door. She slid out, stepped to the rear of the car, fished her Capezio bag out of the trunk, then closed the lid with a precise click. I guessed she had had experience with precision-engineered automobiles before. Most people would have slammed the trunk lid; so necessary with American cars. It occurred to me Dianna was the type of girl who attracted a more affluent clientele. She had said she had had her pick of a large number of 'Sugar Daddies' – and turned them all down. I felt blessed.

She shouldered the bag and took my arm in hers.

"Let's go, Sweetie," she chirped brightly.

"Where to?" I responded coyly.

"Your future awaits," she replied, "but we mustn't keep it waiting another minute."

We strolled down the sidewalk, my arm linked through hers, past the usual long line for the second show. The doorman recognized her immediately, greeted her, and waved us through, much to the muttered annoyance of the lost souls waiting in line. They were not amused that the "rich bitch and her husband" were given preferential treatment. "Talent coming through," was all the hired muscle said to placate the throng, who were anything but as we were admitted. We picked our way from the door to the other end of the room, stopping frequently to greet this bartender, that performer, or another 'working girl' or 'date'. Everyone knew Dianna by name – another source of pride on my part, mixed with a touch of awe.

She guided me directly into the performer's dressing room without so much as a knock on the door. Eight or ten gorgeous 'girls' were in various stages of dress, from fully costumed to not at all. Dianna paid no mind to their modesty – or complete lack thereof – any more than they seemed to mind my presence. Of course, everyone had to drool over my lover's dress, shoes, jewelry, and especially her fabulous fur coat. They guessed the source of her newfound beneficence and turned to me appreciatively.

"He's cute," one girl opined, giving me an appreciative once-over. "Sharp dresser, too, although it doesn't seem to fit him very well. What's his name, Honey?"

"His name is Taken," my sweetheart replied cattily.

"Is he your latest husband, Dianna?"

"Not for long, Sugar," Dianna responded sweetly. "Girls, meet Lisa Layne. She is about to become my latest wife. Ladies, a little help, please."

The shrieks and catcalls came fast and furiously. Fully a half-dozen pairs of hands whisked my coat, shirt, tie, shoes, and pants off in the blink of an eye, leaving me in my lingerie, standing in the middle of a hen party.

"Not bad, Dianna," another girl clucked. "No wonder the suit didn't fit. You've already got her in drag. She's got some shape to her."

The girl squeezed one of my fake boobies playfully.

"Oh yeah, she's gonna be a cutie! How do you do it? If you can bottle it, we'll all be rich!"

"In your dreams, Chantal," Dianna countered with a grin. "I just know how to pick 'em. I don't chase everything and anything in pants – like some people I know."

That drew another raucous round of catcalls.

"Now, help me get her dressed and out front," my lover bid them. "We have to start teaching her the ropes."

"Wait a minute!" I exclaimed.

Dianna turned to me, smiling.

"Wait what, Sweetheart?" she trilled.

"Don't I get to say something about this?"

The seductive siren wrapped her arms around my neck and nuzzled my nose with hers.

"But Baby, you already did," she pouted. "You told me you didn't want to stop. You haven't changed your mind already, have you? I would be so disappointed."

"It's just... I mean..."

Open mouth, insert foot, Bud. It's a little too late to claim you didn't think she was serious. This isn't the sort of thing Dianna would kid about, anyway.

"... I would be embarrassed to death if someone recognized me," I squeaked.

My lover just shook her head back and forth. Her smile was not to be denied; nor was her gentle kiss on my lips.

"You are so silly!" she proclaimed. "I doubt that would be a problem here, but your wish is my command. We will just have to make sure no one can. Who would know more about that than us?"

"What is she gonna wear, Dianna?"

My sweetheart grinned and reached into her shoulder bag.

"This little number right here," she crowed, whipping out her semi-sheer blouse, suede suit and mules. "She loved it on me this afternoon. Now, let's see how it looks on her!"

In less time than it took to describe it, I was in Dianna's outfit from earlier that day. It might not have looked quite as good on me as it had on her, but I was surprised how good it did look – pleasantly surprised. Aside from my lack of makeup and hair, I didn't look like a man in a dress, which I had fully expected. Those previously-mentioned shortcomings did not last for long.

I was shepherded into a reclining salon-style chair and dropped almost to horizontal. A salon apron was draped over my body, covering everything from the neckline down and protecting my clothing from whatever was to come. Then, they really went to work on me. The cast of 'makeup artists' changed constantly as girls came and went for their respective sets on stage. My eyebrows were attacked simultaneously with four or five pairs of tweezers. Individual hairs were ripped out without mercy or so much as a by-your-leave. When, at last, they were satisfied, they examined my complexion for imperfections.

"You are amazing, Sweetie," one girl told me. "Your face is as soft and smooth as a baby's bottom. I just about need a magnifying glass to see your pores. No dark circles or blemishes – I can't even find a trace of a beard!"

"I hate shaving," I revealed, "body hair, too. It trapped sweat and bacteria and made me smell really nasty after a long run – not to mention it just felt... creepy to me. I had it all removed by laser as soon as I started making money."

"And you've never dressed before?" Chantal asked incredulously. "What a waste!"

That last bit was spoken playfully. They were beginning to warm to me – and I to them. This whole experience seemed so surreal. Barely a week before, I had had only a passing awareness of this world. Now, I was being drawn into it. There were no illusions on my part; had I been by myself, my good looks, slender physique and charm would have amounted to exactly squat to them. My connection to my beautiful lover, whom they obviously held in high esteem, had everything to do with their acceptance of me.

One girl applied a sheer makeup base to give my skin a little color. She blended it carefully with a fine-pored makeup sponge, then set it with powder and brush. Blush was added to the hollows of my cheekbones, at my temples, and under my jawline. Another drew careful strokes on my forehead above each eye with a soft pencil. My first thought was she might be accentuating my eyebrows, but it felt she was working well above my browline.

They took a good, long time on my eyes, starting with thick showgirl lashes above and below. Shadow came next; a lot of it, judging by the time it took them to apply it. Liquid eyeliner was painted above and below, too. My lips felt like they were being outlined by yet another pencil. Then, they were filled in with a brush dipped repeatedly in what I saw to be a deep-red lipstick. Once the first coat was smoothed out, a second was applied. Then came a coat of clear gloss. It was so bizarre to feel, know what they were doing, but not be able to see it.

"Are you gonna get these cock mittens pumped, Dianna?" Chantal questioned as she painted my lips.

"Uh-huh," my 'drag mother' intoned. "Cheekbones too – as well as other parts of her anatomy. All in good time."

Meanwhile, other pairs of hands had pinned my wrists to the padded armrests. Something was carefully applied to my fingertips. After a few minutes, several coats of what I suspected was nail polish (once you smell that smell, you never forget it) was brushed on my fingertips. At the same time, my stockings had been removed. My toenails were receiving similar attention.

"We need something for her ears," Dianna pronounced. "Cheríe, are you packing tonight?"

A tall, attractive Black girl rummaged through her own shoulder bag and came up with a pistol-like device.

"Always," Cheríe proclaimed. "Have gun, will travel. Mild or wild?"

"Wild!" echoed a chorus of voices.

Dianna smiled with amusement, gazing into my face.

"You heard the ladies," she pronounced. "Go to town. I want the best for my wife. In this case, the baddest is the best. I want her so her own mother won't recognize her."

In the next twenty minutes, each ear was stung repeatedly by what felt like a swarm of silent bees. Several pairs of hands were swiping at the pinpricks with cotton swabs dipped in peroxide. Then something was applied repeatedly to my ears that added more and more weight to them.

"She needs hair. Who's got hair?"

The cry was echoed around the room.

"I doooooo," chirped a voice clattering down the stairs from the stage door. "I guess I'm just in time to add the crowning touch. Happy to help."

"You are a doll, Mimi," Dianna complemented gratefully. "I owe you big time. Knowing how you are about hair, it's got to be special."

"It's special, all right," Mimi crowed. "Showgirl Deluxe, in 'Bleach Bunny Blonde'. With those Baby Blues of hers, she's gonna be fabulous!"

The chair was pivoted, then tilted upright. I was now facing away from the mirror. My longish hair was brushed back, then tucked into a tight-fitting mesh cap. A long blonde wig was fitted over that, then anchored to my head with a series of bobby pins that were wound around and around locks of my own hair before being slid into place. A final sharp tug jerked my head back, but the hair remained firmly in position.

Some kind of choker was wrapped around my neck and fastened in back. It was tall, and held my head up. A ton of bangles went on each wrist. Rings were positioned on multiple fingers and toes. My stockings were once again rolled up my hairless legs. Then, I was helped out of the chair. Two pairs of palms smoothed out the stocking on each leg, adjusting it just so, then re-attaching the garters. I felt a single chain double-wrapped around my left ankle and clipped into place. Each foot was lifted in turn, and Dianna's fabulous lavender suede mules were positioned on my feet. Even with all my experience running, it was a real trip to balance precariously on the balls of my feet, as those high-heeled slippers forced me to do. As a final touch, I was spritzed liberally with a perfume Cheríe identified as Obsession. I had smelled it before on girls I had encountered in the clubs. Its name was totally appropriate for the reaction it elicited in the male of the species.

The appreciative oohs and ahhs were thick enough to cut with a knife.

"Done!" Dianna pronounced triumphantly. "Make that: 'done with a Capital D'. Are you ready for the debut of your extreme makeover, Sweetie?"

With that, she placed her hands gently on my shoulders and turned me around to face the mirror for the first time. She had been successful in at least one respect; my own mother would not have recognized the fantastic, overdone bimbo that stared back at me, red-lipped mouth agape. I say 'overdone' in the context of the women I saw at work and on the streets every day. My showgirl stage makeup blended perfectly with the smiling, happy faces surrounding me at that moment.

My initial impression of the brow work had been correct. The thick, shapeless brows that had formerly closed in my eyes were gone completely, replaced by razor-thin, high, penciled-in arches. My eyelids were dark, heavy-lidded and mysterious, shadowed above and below and blending beyond the corners. They were heavy-lidded due to the combined weight of the long, thick, enormously-full lashes that now framed my Baby Blue orbs. An equally-thick slash of ebony liner defined each upper and lower lid, extending into sharp points well past the corners of my eyes.

My lips had been outlined in a dark claret shade, intentionally outside the natural lipline to make them appear fuller. Then, they were filled in with deep red ('Raven Red' Chantal called it). The final coat of gloss made them shine like dark cherry ice. My cheekbones appeared fuller and higher, thanks to the combination of heavy shading below the bone, plus highlighter above. The same heavy shading at my temples and below my jaw re-contoured the natural shape of my face, making it appear almost heart-shaped and fabulously alluring. The whole of it was framed by a mass of big, loose, blonde curls, so pale as to be almost white, cascading down my back almost to my waist.

My fingernails were almost obscenely long, square-cut with slightly-rounded corners, gently curving downward, the same Raven Red as my lips, and glistening with gold nail art. My equally-perfect red-and-gold toenails extended outward a bit from the tips of my toes as well. Chantal called them 'sculptured toenails' and pronounced them all the rage – perfect for open-toed shoes like the ones I was wearing.

The choker around my neck was eight tiers of tightly-spaced gold chains. In harmony, there were eight new piercings in each of my ears; a gold ball stud at the very top of each ear, with a wide gold ear clip at the outside corner. Four smallish gold rings were clustered in a cascade below the midline of the outer edge. Finally, each lobe was double-pierced, with a one-inch loop in the upper piercing and a huge four-inch hoop in the lower. Gold rings flashed on each of my long, slender, taloned fingers. There were golden toe rings on two toes of each foot, plus a slender gold chain double-wrapped around my trim left ankle.

I had never before in my life been so close to cumming from visual stimulus alone. All right I admit it. As far back as childhood, I had always wondered: What if I had been a girl, instead of a boy? I had secretly experimented a little with my mother's and sister's lingerie, but never taken it further than that; I had never had the nerve to do more. Now, here I was in full drag – and felt like I had just stepped into a new plane of existence. If I was turning me on, what effect would I have on the men in the club? Dianna read my mind.

"The boys will be falling all over themselves to get at you, Girlfriend," she exclaimed. "You will even give me a run for the money."

I seriously doubted that. She had 'freshened' her own makeup while her girlfriends were doing mine. Our faces could have been cast from the same libidinous mold. With her looks, body, and blatant sex appeal, she could make a man cum just by blowing him a kiss.

I received a crash course (almost literally so) in how to strut in a sensual, sure-footed manner in those towering heels. Apparently, Dianna thought I was a quick learner. After fifteen minutes or so, she handed me her lavender suede clutch, now containing my cash, but neither ID nor credit cards ("No one would believe it's you, Sugar."). There were also my lipstick and gloss, lip brush, compact and powder brush, breath mints, perfume spritzer – plus a single-use tube of K-Y and condoms!

"I carry those wherever I go," she observed with a wink. "A girl can never be too prepared."

I looked down at the makeup table next to us and observed the suit, shirt, and tie I had worn since the day before. My wallet - with credit cards, driver's license, and all other forms of identification - would be nestled in the hip pocket of my pants, as always.

"What do we do with that?" I questioned, pointing at it. "Do you think we can come up with a garment bag, or something similar?"

"A garment bag?" my lover intoned with a smile. "Sure; no problem."

She hefted the coat and examined the label inside.

"Men's Wearhouse, right?"

"Yeahhhhh," I responded cautiously.

"Perfect!" she chirped. "One garment bag, coming right up."

She gathered the pile together, wadded it up into a compact ball, then stuffed it in her now-empty Capezio bag.

"They'll press it for free," she purred. Then, with a smirk: "I guarantee it."

She carried the bag in one hand and her red sequined evening clutch in the other. She slipped the latter arm through mine. She glanced down at the larger bag, containing my compacted clothes, then back at me, smiling.

"Ritchie will keep this behind the bar for us until it's time to leave. It will be safer there than in here among the vultures. Now, it's time for 'Lisa Layne' to meet her Brave New World, and vice-versa."

I had never been so completely terrified in my life as Dianna and I slinked arm-in-arm through the dressing room door and into the main lounge. I felt a pale imitation of a woman, compared to the one on my arm. Aside from the Annie Lennox number Dana was lip-synching to on stage, you could have heard a pin drop as the crowd beheld us. Then again, I will swear I heard the sound of a few male jaws hitting the floor. The place had gotten crowded in the interim, as Dianna had told me it always did on a Saturday night. Surprisingly, there were a goodly number of genetic females in the audience; in pairs or small clusters, even a larger group gathered around a couple of pushed-together tables.

"The GG's like to see us, too," Dianna revealed. "They eat up the performances and how flawless we look – as long as we don't compete for their men. That larger group is either a birthday or bachelorette party. From here, they will most likely work their way uptown to see a men's strip show."

"Do they ever... " I began haltingly.

"Date?" Dianna finished, smiling bemusedly. "Sometimes. A few are closet lesbians who convince themselves they aren't really making it with another woman because the girl is hung. Some are just into chicks with dicks, like the guys who come in here."

"Have you ever dated any of them?" I inquired, out of genuine fascination.

"Sure," my girlfriend chirped enthusiastically. "Their money is as good as any man's. Besides..."

She massaged my tight, now-shapely tush.

"... I like girls; the sexier, more feminine, the better. I thought you understood that by now."

I waggled my tush under her hand.

"Am I sexy enough for you?" I asked coyly.

"Oh, Honey," she murmured in my ear, "if you only knew."

With that kind of positive reinforcement, I could really get into this.

I was astonished to spy two empty bar stools, side-by-side, along the front side of the bar. As we approached, I saw why they stood unoccupied. In the middle of each was a white placard which read: Reserved in flowing script. Dianna approached one stool, picked up the placard, draped her fur over the seat and back rest, then perched regally, like a queen on her throne. She removed the placard from the other stool and motioned me to sit. She handed the placards to the bartender and placed the Capezio bag on the bar.

"Thanks, Ritchie," she intoned with her most sincere smile. "Please take care of my bag for me, won't you? And do you think you could scrounge up something special in honor of my girlfriend's coming out?"

I surreptitiously removed two bills from my purse and reached behind me, holding my hand so only Ritchie could see. He discreetly accepted the proffered bills, noting Ben Franklin's portrait on both, and winked.

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