Harri: Face the Slut Within Ch. 03

Jess shut the door behind me. There was no way she could miss what I did to her panties. One way or another, sooner or later, that pussycat was coming out of the bag.

Then it was me and the mirrors. You really could see everything in this nightgown. I turned around, stood on on my toes - yep, there was a flash of panty. But it didn't affect me like yesterday. I stripped the nightgown off. I could see a bare-breasted girl. I could see she had sexy panties on, but it wasn't slutty anymore. It was a grown woman named Harriet.

I bounced the weight of my breasts a little. Lifted them up, pressed them together into cleavage. Amazing. I slid the panties off and kicked them to the wall, then turned the water on in the shower. While I waited for it to warm up I looked back in the mirror.

This was still a little too much. I forced myself to turn full-on. Face - same. I made myself smile. Slut. Narrow shoulders. Breasts. Flat stomach with a hint of softness about it. Yay body fat! Gentle flare of hips. My eyes zeroed in where I knew they would.

Fucking stubble. A clean line with a hint of pink. I hesitated, hands on my hips, then dropped them down to peel myself open a little. More pink. A clitoris. I was at the wrong angle for much more. I could rub myself off, right here, right now. I knew I could, but I felt no compulsion. My nipples were poking, but that was just because of the cold. I was starting to be able to tell the difference. Maybe I was starting to get a hold of things. Maybe I just needed that one-time ... burst ... to get through the trip. Maybe she wasn't about to break out.

After that, showering was easy. I kept nudging up the water temperature because the heat felt so good. I didn't have any problems at all until I got out and found there wasn't a towel. Jess had both.

I cracked the door open. The blast of cold air nearly killed me. I thought I had rock hard nipples before. "Jess?" Music from down the hall probably meant she couldn't hear me. Shit. I braced myself.

I ran down the hall, dripping, flopping the whole way. I leaned around the door frame so she wouldn't see anything. "Jess? Can I have a towel please?"

"What? Oh!" She hit the remote to kill the music. "Harri. Let me get that for you."

I reached to take the one she pulled off her head and lost my balance just enough that one whole, wet breast popped into view. I froze. She froze with the towel still inches out of my reach. I felt a flutter in my stomach and I wasn't sure it was just the cold affecting my nipples.

I leaned further, other breast sliding into view, like I wanted her to see me. Like I was a slut. I clutched the towel to my chest. "Thanks."

In the hallway I dried off quickly then wrapped the towel around me. Inside the room Jess blushed furiously.

"Hey," I said. "Not like you haven't seen just about that much before, right? Seeing a lot more of me this week? Don't worry about it. We're like sisters."

"You-you aren't doing that on purpose, are you?"

A slut would. "Doing what?"

"Flashing me like that. Is that what sisters do to each other?"

"Flashing you!" I'm a slut. "You're the one who keeps putting me in basically transparent tops." Making me look like a slut. "It's not my fault my ni-nuh, umm." Now I was blushing.

"I guess I'm just feeling a bit ... confused by all of this."

"You and me both. Sister. It's like you said. Young, confused, hor- well. I think we're both a little confused."

"And a little horny!" she blurted, then spun around.

That left me with her back and an empty room. She wore her dirty clothes from yesterday, down to the white panties my new eyes noticed peaking above her pants.

"What can sisters do?" I asked. Fuck each other? "Can sisters help each other get dressed when they don't know what to wear? Can sisters dig through a dead woman's closet for emergency provisions?"

"Absolutely. Try picking something out from the closet. Give it a go." She went over to the dresser. "What color underwear do you want to try? Pick a color. Any color."

Simple. I wanted simple. Sluts didn't wear simple. "Gray."

At Carrie's closet I breezed past the skirts and dresses. Blue jeans would be a little ... young, I thought. Even from a forty-year-old's closet. I pulled out some khaki slacks and a basic white shirt with what looked like some ruffles on it. I held it out for Jess's approval.

"Absolutely not," she said. "Totally wrong."

"What?"

"Just - I can't even begin to describe. Here, let me." She took the clothes and handed me panties and ...

"A bra? I don't think -"

"Yes. Yes you do. Put it on." She turned to rehang the clothes and dig through the closet herself. "I'd guess you're edging into a C-cup, just like Aunt Cathy, so that's lucky. The rest is buckles and slides. With how ... responsive ... you are, trust me, it's for the best."

I pulled the panties up until they settled snug against me, then dropped the towel. I shrugged on the bra, dropped my breasts into the cups, then, "Jess? I need help."

"Huh?" She turned. "Oh Harry. Okay. You turn. No, other way. Okay give me your arms." She twisted me into position then guided my hands into hooking the bra shut. She spun me around again. "Now we ... adjust."

She tucked a bit, touched my tits!, then pulled, then ... it was like I had nothing on. "That's it?" I bounced a bit. I felt ... secure. "That's. Huh."

She glanced down. My gaze followed hers.

My nipples poked through like there was nothing there. "It's cold in here," I said.

"Unh huh." She handed me a jean skirt and a blouse with some embroidery on the front. "But first." She sat me down at the vanity and, in five minutes and the lightest touches of makeup had me looking completely ... beautiful. "You think you could do that on your own?"

"I think so." The steps had been simple, but the effect... "Thank you again, Jess." While bending over to pick up the skirt, I scratched myself and caught her staring. Again. Fucking stubble.

"Are you - okay down there? You keep ... itching."

"It's - I feel like -" I had to come clean. I'm a slut. "I can't stand ... pubic hair. I just ... got ... it, you know. And I know it's something I have to get used to. But it's this deep, psychological ... argh. I hate shaving, hate everything ... down there. But I really hate stubble, and there wasn't a razor in the shower. And there you go."

"Awwwh." Jess looked like she wanted to hug me. I might've welcomed it. "Baby girl's all grown up."

"You're not helping."

She laughed. "Harri, it's not deep or psychological. I don't know of a girl who hasn't thought the exact same thing at some point in her life, just usually at thirteen. It's not really different that what was there before. It's just hair."

"It is different. It's ... more."

"Well, I can't pretend I keep most of mine. Have you thought about waxing?"

"I ... w-waxing?" I'd never even heard of -

"Yeah, waxing. Sounds like the perfect solution for you. No stubble, no maintenance for weeks. Best part is, someone else does it for you."

"W-what? Someone else?"

"Yeah! Matter of fact, I swear I saw - hold on one sec." She ran out to the bathroom and came back a little box. "Home waxing kit. I can't believe Aunt Cathy tried this on herself."

I was so lost. This was moving way too fast for me. "Y-you mean I should -"

Jess flipped through the contents of the box. "No, no. I'll do it for you." She saw the look on my face. "Get over yourself, Harri. This is nothing. My college roommate and I did this for each other once a month. Now I go to the salon in town - really. Nobody cares."

Her no nonsense attitude urged me to believe she was right, that I wouldn't be a slut just because I wanted her to stare at my ... "What should I do?"

"Put your top on, panties off, wrap that towel around, and meet me in the kitchen. And bring your panties and skirt for afterward." She took the box to the kitchen.

I did what she said, but thought long and hard about walking out the bedroom and into the kitchen. On the one hand, this was exactly what I wanted - to simply not have to think about it anymore. On the other, it was exactly what I wanted - to show her ... me. I tentatively left the bedroom.

Jess stood at the stove, warming something in a pot of water. "You can use the microwave," she said, "but I always found it was harder to get the temperature right. Hop up on the bar over there. And I ought to tell you, this is going to hurt a bit. Worth it, but just so you know."

I stepped up one of the stools, then sat on the edge of the counter. If it hurt then it meant it wasn't - I wasn't - doing this just so Jess could see - fuck, I was turning into such a slut.

"Lie back. Feet right on the edge."

If I did that the towel wouldn't cover me any more. She was down there. I closed my eyes.

She set something beside me, then I felt her hands on my calves. "Upsy daisy."

It was done - full display. Well? What did she think? What was - oh, that must be the wax. There was a little stick spreading it around. It wasn't her finger. She pressed something thick to my skin, something I could barely feel. That wasn't so bad.

"Ready?"

"I - I think so."

"First one's a bitch, but I'll go fast after that."

I couldn't believe she was -right there-. I felt her pick up the edge, then, "Shit!" Fuck, that hurt. "Shit, shit, shit, shit." And that was just the first one. She was already pressing the next strip down. "Shit!" No warning that time. I almost called it off right then and there, but she kept going - the rest weren't as bad, maybe because she'd caught most of the hair in those first two or I was simply too overwhelmed. I stopped thinking about her, about where she was.

Her hands on my calves, putting my legs back down, told me she was done. "I'm going to go pack up some clothes for the week, okay? You go to the bathroom, take your time, clean yourself off, get dressed, whatever. I'll be ready to leave when you are."

I didn't want to move. I especially didn't want her to see my face. I waited until she left the room, then gingerly slid off the counter. I felt ... well, it didn't hurt to walk. I hadn't been punished for being a slut. I picked up my panties and the skirt and went to the bathroom.

It was just like she said - bare. Nothing more, nothing less. Bright red, but ... I don't know what I expected. I peeled off a few remaining bits of wax - seeing exactly why she left this part for me - but it didn't hurt a bit. Panties were ... a little ouch, but receding. Weeks with no stubble. Compared to the rest of the morning, the skirt was easy. Back in the living room, she had some socks and boots for me and waited while I put them on.

"So you were saying you won't have an ID to get alcohol when you get to college?" She didn't sound embarrassed or awkward or anything.

"Dad's master plan. I guess."

"Since we got a day to kill, I think I can help," she said, and left it at that.

The car ride down was fun. We had the windows down, so we couldn't really talk, but it was a unique experience to feel hair streaming back from my head like that. Being in a skirt wasn't that ... bad. It didn't really feel like anything. I was glad she'd picked something a little restrictive around the legs - it kept my knees together, more ladylike.

First stop was her apartment in town. I suppose I'd seen pictures from when she moved in, but I'd never been there. It was a charming one bed, one bath on the second floor of an old house. She had her own entrance at the top of a spiral staircase.

"Sorry about the mess," she said. "I wasn't expecting ... well, I certainly wasn't expecting this. I'll sleep on the sofa tonight. You'll have the bed. No worries." She picked up scattered items of clothing - skirts, shorts, wadded panties -along the way to her bedroom. Looked like she had the habit of leaving things wherever she took them off. She left the bedroom open, but the closet door blocked my view.

The room was all really vintage wood paneling. She had a big sofa and a coffee table covered in thick books, literature, history. I should mention she and her brothers are borderline geniuses and were only stuck in this tiny town because of money. She popped out again in a skirt that went half way to her knees and another plain t-shirt.

"Where are we going, anyway?"

"Matt's." She pulled out her phone and hit a single button. "I'm going to be there in five. Got a little problem you can help with."

We walked the three blocks to his place, a giant loft over a warehouse where thrown his gauntlet firmly in the ring of art. I think their dad professed to hate it, but I always thought he was secretly proud of the boy for going his own way.

Jess stopped me outside his place. "What you're about to see I - please don't tell Dad, okay?"

I nodded, not a little worried, and she led me up.

First thing Matt did was pick Jess up and spin her around. "How's my sister?"

I don't know when the last time I'd seen Matt was, but it hadn't been recently. He couldn't make the funeral for some reason that sounded stupid at the time. Despite them being fraternal twins and, obviously, opposite sexes, the resemblance was uncanny. Same height, same hair, almost the same face. Matt's was a little more angular. He was wider in the shoulders, maybe an inch or two taller, and, while just as thin as Jess, made of long, lean muscle. He had a white undershirt on that showed off an intricate shoulder tattoo to great effect.

"And who's your friend?" Matt held out a hand to me.

I just stood there. I didn't have an answer for that. He looked at Jess.

"Matt, that's Harri. Harriet. I - Jesus, Matt. Goddammit."

"What? Oh fuck. Fuck, I'm sorry Harriet. It's just you - fuck. I'm sorry. I didn't even -"

I just shook my head. "Don't - don't worry about it, Matt. I get that reaction a lot. It's ... okay, really."

"Wow. I'd heard you were better, but. Seriously. What happened?"

And so began an explanation that took the better part of two hours. With snacks. He wanted to know all the details of my treatments, fascinated by the idea no one could figure out what had actually helped. It was a rare subtype of leukemia, one people really hadn't put a lot of research into.

At the end he said, "Sounds like no one will ever figure that out. But still wow. And good for you! But if you had to pick something to blow a one-in-a-million shot on, wouldn't you've rather won the lottery?"

It was just the right seamlessly confident thing to say to break the tension. We all burst out laughing, and ... it felt really good to laugh.

"But what -do- you need me for?"

"Well it's like this." I hooked my thumbs back at myself. "I'm heading off to college in two weeks, and being at death's door has kind of left me with a taste for the demon alcohol. Dad was great with it, at home, but being at school is kind of going to put a crimp in my style. Jess said you might be able to get me some ID?"

"Riiiight." He looked at Jess. "Easy as tacos."

"Tacos?" I asked.

Jess stood up. "The one-minute photo place is right next to the taco stand. Matt's addicted."

It was on the corner of his block. They made me go in alone with a twenty for the photo - so no one would notice Matt there too many times - while they ordered tacos. It was my first time out in public. And I was alone. Wearing a skirt. Looking like a girl.

It's something I wouldn't have thought twice about two days ago, probably not even once. Let them stare at the freak, their fascination was their own damn problem. Now? I felt tiny and vulnerable and like every eye was on me. The rows of shelves were canyons I couldn't see over. The man behind the counter was almost licking his chops. I struggled to speak louder than a whisper.

Yet nothing happened. In a few minutes out was out in the warm sun again and nobody looked twice. I looked like a girl, not a slut, was treated exactly like a girl, not a slut, and nobody thought anything otherwise ... and I was still okay. Not a slut. Matt and Jess met me on the corner with tacos and, just like that, we were back at his place.

He lived in one half of the loft and the other half was partitioned off for his art. I saw a room for painting and a room for sculpture, two more were curtained off entirely, but the last one caught me by complete surprise. He had computer equipment as good, if not better, than anything I'd seen in a hospital lab.

I handed Matt the pictures from the corner store. "What exactly are you going to be giving me. How do you pay for all this?"

Matt took them with a look of wide-eyed innocence. "Fake IDs." He dropped the picture strip on the scanner. "I need a name."

"Harri," Jess said.

"Harry? For her?"

"No," Jess said. "Harri-with-an-i. Short for Harriet."

"I like it!" Matt said.

I didn't. It wasn't a fake name - that I could live with. This was too much like a change in who I was. Me, slutified. Harri-with-an-i, best friend with Bambi. With Marrie, that fucking slut bitch.

Jess pulled me aside to point out some of his specific pieces of laminating equipment. "It's not just to get past a bouncer. Matt's are so good the layered decals fool the scanners."

"Trade secrets!" Matt said. He handed me a new ID, the plastic still hot at the edges. Just like that.

Jess pulled it out of my hand. "Harri." She giggled. "It's a beautiful picture. And just turned twenty-one!"

"The default age for my local market." Matt plucked it out of her hands and gave it back to me. "I could go with a well-preserved twenty-three if you wanted a best friend. Or a really developed fifteen if you were feeling naughty, but that would kind of defeat the purpose."

"Twenty-one'll do." I watched the shimmering surface refract the light and fought down a blush. "But why all the equipment? Not for this, surely."

Matt led us across the way to the next partitioned area, where he ripped off the covering curtain. Inside were ... things. It tickled the back of my brain. There was something very familiar on display. They were these blocks of translucent material with these shimmering shapes inside. I walked around one. He'd laminated hundreds, maybe thousands of sheets together, wrinkling them so that, layer after layer, figures and shapes would emerge. I was getting closer.

"Automated," I said. "You've got to start with something in the computer."

"Yep. My masterpieces."

He watched me. They both watched me. Then I got it.

"That's the cover engraving from Consolation of Philosophy! That's a ... Boethius cover engraving!"

Now they stared. Matt grinned from ear to ear.

Jess poked me in the shoulder. "How did you do that? Nobody can do that."

My mind reeled. I pointed at the next one. "Proslogion? What are you doing with these?"

Matt still smiled. "It can't just be a technique. I wanted to use something with heavy personal meaning, but also something that would convey meaning and intent, if not explanation, to a viewer." He laughed. "Not that anyone's supposed to recognize them."

Jess poked me again. "How did you do that?"

I poked her back. "How come you never told me about this?"

"Because it's illegal?"

"Not that." I pointed at masterpieces. "This."

"I don't follow."

"Nobody reads these books. They don't even show up in college. I've never met anyone, not even my dad, who - not that I meet many people - but -"

"Slow down!" Matt said. "They're just books. So a lot of people haven't read them. They're not dead."

"Just books! Do you know what the Prosogion meant to me?"

"Let me guess," Jess said, "you totally got sucked in by the aspects of -"

In retrospect, it probably shouldn't have been that surprising. Our mothers were best friends, had many of the same classes and influences in college, would've had many of the same books floating around the house when we were kids. And why would it come up? If you're embarrassed about what you're reading - and I was, because 'nobody read those books' - you're not going to suddenly start talking about them to just anyone. Especially not the people you used to play dress up with, especially after you stop playing with them and only participate in Ironic teenage pastimes.