Valentine, Be Mine Ch. 02

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters herein described and persons living or dead is purely coincidental – except for the band; they rock.

***

The disks sat benignly in a jumble next to me on the bed. Benignly? There was an aura of malevolence about them, like a coiled snake. I wasn't ready to deal with the issue, yet deal with it, I must. The problem wasn't going to go away of its own volition. It took some time to sift through the haphazard pile, sorting by date. I skipped the first few sessions, remembering the gist of those talks without having to view them again. Instead, I selected the recording of my first session under hypnosis. I had no trouble selecting the right one; I knew that date by heart. I involuntarily gasped when I saw the image of Bobby Valentine – a very different Bobby Valentine – supine, relaxed, and in 'full induction' on Joanna's couch.

I quickly turned to the mirror over the dresser for confirmation. The features were similar, if I scrutinized them closely enough. There was that familiar symmetric, sculpted jawline. The cameras had always loved that smile. Well, not that smile; that new, dazzling smile could blind airline pilots seven miles up. The crystal-blue eyes were the same… sort of. There was a hint of a tuck, drawing the corners up and back. The nose was… smaller? Barbie-like? The lips were definitely fuller, more prominent now; so were the cheekbones. Okay; little changes, here and there, adding up to a beautiful whole. Everything else – the hair, makeup, clothes, curvaceous body with those prominent breasts – were completely different. At least I remembered the boob job. When had all these other changes taken place? Why? How could I have not noticed?

Sure enough, Joanna had divined the subconscious memory of 'Evie' from my former self. Over the course of several sessions, her questions had probed his inner feelings about the femme incarnation that had once been. Had being a 'girl' in that long-ago time given him pleasure? He replied it did; as Evie, he had felt vibrant, alive, in his element – the center of attention. Had he done it since? No; he hadn't. How had he felt about that? He asserted he had felt somehow… diminished. His inner Evie had longed for release, to spread her wings, fly, and recapture the magic of that long-ago time, even as his conscious self blotted out its very existence. Why, Joanna had asked? If the experience had been that pleasurable, why had he tried so hard to suppress it?

I squirmed on the bed, watching my other self squirm on the couch as he related the events of that fateful afternoon when my father discovered 'Evie'. The distress, fear, in my clone's voice was palpable. He described being physically hurled out the kitchen door, landing on his heinie on the grass, legs splayed. His body jerked involuntarily on the couch, in sync with the moment of impact. No youthful bones had been broken, but the die had been cast. He had hidden from his father's sight for the next two weeks. For the remainder of the time he lived under that roof, he – accent on he – had lived in fear of his father's mercurial rages. His relationship with the man had been poisoned for all time. So, too, was any possibility of sharing that part of himself with anyone else - for fear of inciting that same primal, murderous rage in them.

I wondered at that moment if Joanna's probing of my deep-seated memories of 'Evie' during our sessions together had prompted my own un-forced recollections of her now. Was this supposed to be part of the therapy; a kind of 'timed-release' of my memories of her? More like a time bomb, I thought.

As I was searching for the next disk in sequence, I realized something was wrong. There was a fourteen-day gap in dates between the disk I had just watched and the next one available. Had we skipped a week? No, I groaned inwardly; I lost a disk! I thought back to that little comedy of errors in Joanna's office; scrambling across the carpet to retrieve the fallen jewel boxes. Inspector Clouseau himself could not have done it more ineptly. Somehow, I had missed one disk. Perhaps it had come to rest under the desk or credenza, or skittered across the floor to a dark corner. Whatever the answer, I would just have to do without – and wonder what went on in that session.

The next session, and those that followed, brought my heart into my throat. Joanna had begun to change 'Bobby' under hypnosis, reinforcing my subconscious desire to dress and act feminine with a series of post-hypnotic suggestions. First came the desire to wear lingerie. Body hair had never been an issue. Mama had taught me to keep my body clean-shaven when I began modeling. In order to save time and trouble, I had had my facial and body hair removed via laser when I started making real money. Joanna had commented when we first met. She thought my baby-smooth face and hairless body were "sexy".

Next came the desire to have salon treatments; facials, eyebrow thinning and shaping, individual lash extensions and lash tinting, ear piercing, manicures and pedicures. At the same time, she convinced me I 'desired' to let my hair grow out. She had gradually phased in the passion to have longer, femininely shaped and polished nails, and to wear makeup.

I was encouraged to want a more feminine wardrobe to match my lingerie and appearance. Again, it was phased in over time, a garment or two at a time, so as not to present a 'jolt to the system' for those around me – and, most likely, me. Once my hair was long enough, it became 'natural' for me to have it styled; first in a unisex fashion, gradually working it into a more openly feminine coif.

The appearance of a bruised and bandaged 'Bobby' in a subsequent session was startling. Obviously, I had undergone the cosmetic surgical procedures I had just now detected in the mirror. Yet consciously, I remembered none of it. How does someone not remember undergoing surgery? For that matter, how could I not be aware of the way my voice changed over time, as evidenced by the recordings I was watching?

I noticed something in one of the later disks. I had to go back to the earlier ones and compare to be certain. There was no question; the rest of my body had been changing along with my appearance and wardrobe. The new, more form-fitting clothing made it obvious I had lost weight. My waist was slimmer. My breasts, hips and buttocks were filling out, becoming rounder. My wife had obviously put me on a regimen of female hormones, probably androgen blockers as well. That explained why I never got hard anymore. Wait a minute! I frantically reached under my skirt, into my panties and explored my scrotum. They were still there, but so much smaller than I remembered – just like my flaccid penis - I couldn't help but shed tears.

I had been so stunned with the visual evidence of my progressively-feminine appearance, I had stopped the playback and popped each disk out as Joanna began to bring me out of induction. I was anxious to get on to the next session and see what new changes had taken place. Finally, I watched an entire recording, beginning to end. At the end of the session, as she was wakening me, Joanna performed a little 'cleanup'. She emphasized, after carrying out my latest instructions, I should feel perfectly natural about myself. There would be nothing different or unusual about me. I had always been that way, and she and everyone around me loved me the way I was. In the case of my surgeries, she actually suppressed my memories of them, as well as the post-op bruising and discomfort.

Perfectly natural? For the second time that day, my stomach was a heartbeat away from turning over. I felt like I had been raped. I still harbored subconscious desires to dress up? Fine! I knew there was nothing unique about that. I had been around that sort of thing for years; the fashion industry was a lightning rod for closet- and not-so-closet cases. If Joanna had wanted to resolve some inner conflict of mine by having me dress up with her at home, just like Janie had, I would have been okay with that. All she had to do was be open and honest with me, as she had promised. I might have even enjoyed it. Why not? I had before with my sister. But this….

Of one thing I was absolutely certain; I had never consciously asked for such a metamorphosis, let alone one taken to this extreme. She had changed me on her own volition, used me when it suited her, strung me along by maintaining the façade of a loving, sharing marriage – while fucking 'Jake' on the side all the while. No wonder she had always been so wet! The memory of eagerly giving her oral sex when she came home, dripping wet with 'anticipation', revulsed me. Why would she even bother continuing this charade of a relationship?

I was nowhere near done viewing the session disks. At that point, I didn't think I had the stomach for more – ever. Of course, there were still the 'Jake sessions'…. Did I really want to inflict that upon myself as well? I had already seen it once; live, in Technicolor, and in my face. Did I now need to know every sordid detail? Grrrrrrrrr… yes, dammit; I did! I steeled myself, picked up the first of the Jake disks, placed it in the tray and shut the drawer. The clock on the computer taskbar read 8:35 PM. The DVD player window came alive with Joanna's image, speaking directly into the camera….

The clock behind the bar read 10:45. In my spandex siren suit and platform sandals, I was more than a little overdressed for the casual, jeans-and-a-top crowd at Burbank Bar & Grill, but so what? They were packed in, shoulder-to-shoulder, as was the norm on any given Friday night, let alone this one. The brickwork-and-oak décor and large crowd of this second-floor-walk-up nightspot were exactly what I needed just then; comforting, familiar, anonymous. Video Star, an 80's-tribute band (rose-colored Granny glasses, skinny ties, vests, fedoras, shaggy hair) were in their accustomed place on stage, belting out early MTV hits. The main room was festooned with paper hearts and balloons. A roving flower vendor was doing land-office business in single red roses.

Shawna, the cute, petite blonde bartender with bare midriff and about one percent body fat, took my order for something simple and potent; a Meyer's and Coke. I had given thought to something a little more exotic, like a Mai Tai or Piña Colada, but BBG isn't that kind of place. Martinis, whether flavored or traditional, just made me ill. Beer? Bleeeech! Nor was I in the mood for champagne after what had transpired earlier. I settled into a table, gracefully draped one leg over the other, and sipped my drink. My choice of location was strategic. I had perfect sight lines for the stage – and everyone in the main room could see me.

Of course, in any bar, a beautiful, provocatively-attired, unattached female (or reasonable facsimile) is gonna get noticed. I was on my second round, and an empty stomach, and already a bit fuzzy around the edges. The rose appeared under my nose as if by magic.

"The last train for L.A. left three hours ago and Godot phoned in his regrets. If you were waiting for either one, don't."

I smirked at the flower dangling in my immediate vision, thinking: LAME, lame, lame-lame-lame.

"Very funny," I responded softly, lifting my gaze to the source of the obvious pick-up line. "You are a regular com… ediannnn…."

Since beginning my new job, working around all those buff bodies had driven me to distraction. Their constant come-on's only made matters worse. I had already blown (no pun intended) my chance with Matt Michaels earlier. Then, there was this guy…

"Vince," he offered, holding out his hand.

"Evie," I replied absently, smiling and extending my own.

He took it gently, turned it over, and kissed it. I shivered involuntarily. Vince was certainly a prime cut. Standing well over six feet, his chiseled good looks, dark hair, piercing gray eyes and body-builder physique were easily the equal of, if not superior to, Matt's.

"Dance?" he inquired, still holding my hand.

The band was thumping through Soft Cell's Tainted Love. How appropriate; tonight, I really did "feel I have to (bomp-bomp) get a-wayyy…." I gave my shoulders a little shrug.

"Okay," I responded dreamily.

He helped me to my feet. Even in my six-inch platform sandals, I had to look up to him.

So, what's wrong with making a little spectacle of myself from time to time? As it happens, I was taught to dance this way. My brain isn't even part of the equation, especially when I have been drinking. Put me on a dance floor and my body goes on auto-pilot. It is the result of all those long hours spent in Ballet and Interpretive Dance classes when I was a kid. The kicker was, Janie got out of it because the dance classes conflicted with Field Hockey practice. What would dear old Dad have thought of me now?

Vince and I began by dancing a discreet distance apart. Bad move; the dance floor was just as crowded as the main aisle. When the flying elbows to the back and ribs got to be too much, we moved closer to each other, then closer still. My body was pressed up against his as we shimmied and shook. By that time, the band had launched into Duran Duran's Rio. Our two bodies were moving together as one. Vince's hands clasped my tush, pulling me into him. My hands traveled freely down the length of his body. I couldn't deny Vince was hot. He was making me hot, too!

If anyone watching us on the dance floor took exception to our little 'show', no one said so. About the only ones who weren't watching were the bartenders. They were in their own little world, serving drinks. You know how guys are: a hot chic on the dance floor, all boobs and buns, in a short skirt, stockings and high heels? I didn't need to find a stick to beat them off; there was plenty of 'wood' all around me.

The band invited us onstage for Rick Springfield's Jessie's Girl. I was facing out toward the crowd, next to the lead singer. Vince was behind me with his arms wrapped loosely around my waist. That left me free to move to the beat – and rub up against his body. BBG has one of those stage-cam setups. Anyone who can't see the stage through the crush of bodies can watch what's going on via strategically-placed big-screen plasma monitors. So, how does a slightly-drunk, maxed-out-femme attention junkie feel about dancing onstage, in the arms of a certifiable hunk of U.S. Prime, with every eye in the place riveted on her every move? Heh, heh, heh….

Time for the big finish – as in, finish him off. The band obliged with Robert Palmer's Addicted to Love. Oh, yeah – you think you're "immune to the stuff", Big Boy? Huh-uh. I painted myself to my dance partner, arms draped loosely over his shoulders, grinding pussy-to-crotch to that throbbing base line, gazing up at him with desire in my eyes – right there on stage, in front of God and everyone. If anyone present went home with dry undies, they were either dead or Gay.

The house lights came up at one-forty; twenty minutes before close. We had heeded Mother Nature's call a bit earlier to beat the last-minute dash for the bathrooms. I had a pretty good idea what was coming. Hell, I was going to make it happen! I had a single-application tube of K-Y in my purse and put it to good use. We said our good-nights to the band and staff, then made our way to the stairs. I stumbled on the top step. Before I could pitch forward, Vince swept me up in his powerful arms. My arms were around his neck before I even realized I was doing so. We descended the two flights of carpeted steps just like that, gazing steadily into each other's eyes.

BBG's street-level entrance is sandwiched between a cellular phone store and a beauty salon. The parking lot around the corner on Olive Avenue is bedlam at closing time. However, there is a pedestrian companionway between buildings a few doors up the block on San Fernando Road. It leads to both the BBG lot and the parking structure on Orange Grove, but is rarely traveled this long after the stores and restaurants close. Most of the bar patrons simply go around the corner on Olive because it is the shorter, more direct route to the parking lot. At two AM, there are only a few drunken revelers on the sidewalk and fewer still cars on the street.

In no time, my back was against that cool brick alley wall, with Vince's tongue probing my tonsils. His hands were inside my blouse, cupping my breasts and pinching my bullet-hard nipples. My hands were tugging at his belt buckle, frantically attempting to get his pants down. A huge log had wedged itself inside the leg of his Levi's and I desperately wanted to free it.

And then it was free. Did I say huge? It dwarfed my hand as I held it. I couldn't even get my fingertips completely around it. My brain went numb in sheer awe. My body did not; I found myself sinking to my knees. In moments, I was eyeball-to-'eyeball' with his monster dong. My mouth opened wide and my tongue flicked out, lightly lapping the bulbous head. After a few minutes of administering this exquisite torture, causing Vince to moan animatedly, I leaned forward and inhaled his big pipe. Somehow, my body knew exactly what to do.

His first orgasm blasted a huge load of jizz down my throat. I swallowed rapidly, greedily, determined to catch every drop. He didn't shrink a millimeter! He seized me under the armpits, lifted me effortlessly to my feet, then spun me around to face the wall. I braced myself with my hands, arms extended straight and locked legs spread wide. I had a moment of dread as he ripped away my tiny bikini panties, revealing my secret. There was silence as he processed this new, unexpected data. Then his gigantic fuckpole lurched between my thighs.

"You are just full of surprises, aren't you, Slut?" he growled in my ear.

I gasped, both at the unexpected verbal taunt and the implication my status hadn't diminished his desire for me one iota. I took it to the next level.

"What about it, Stud?" I hissed. "Are you going to talk me to death or make me your bitch?"

"Talk you to death?" Vince snapped. "Talk about this!"

My love canal was lubed and waiting. That, plus the copious amounts of saliva and newly-secreted pre-cum on Vince's tool allowed him to cram his entire length into me in one mighty thrust. I howled in shock and surprise – surprise that, rather than ripping me apart, it felt wonderful to be taken so forcefully.

Take me, he did; again and again.

"Harder," I moaned, my voice vibrating in time with the impact of his thrusts. "Harder! Is that all you've got for me, you wus? I thought you were a real man, not some limp-dick poser."

My taunts achieved the desired effect. He slammed his massive tool into me unmercifully. If my arms had not been fully extended, elbows locked, he would have thrust me into the wall face-first. I grunted gutturally with each downstroke.

"Limp… dick?" he spat between thrusts. "Is… this… hard… enough… for… you… Cunt… or… do… you… want… it… harder?"

My knees buckled from the force of that last thrust. He grabbed me by the hips and held me up, thrusting my body backwards to meet his battering ram. My vision dimmed. I heard an intense roaring in my ears. My body spasmed violently, as though I had been caught up in some monumental earthquake. I felt a tiny amount of fluid dribble from my limp clitty. At the same time, Vince's cock erupted within me. He came so hard, I honestly thought the torrent would gush through my body and out my mouth.