Aurora

© 2021 by Thrillerauthor

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

*

It was a lovely spring day in 1963. Another day wasted, sitting at my desk in the bowels of the Treasury Department, sifting through the dreary details of another counterfeiting case. When I signed up for the Secret Service, I had visions of being an ace crime-buster, catching master criminals in the act of duplicating hundred dollar bills, and eventually graduating to a coveted slot on the protective detail, hanging around the White House when I wasn't off on exciting trips to far-distant lands, guarding the life of the President of the United States. Instead, I was stuck with another "passed note" case, involving a two-bit grifter who snipped a corner off a twenty and pasted it onto a one dollar bill, in the hopes of swindling a convenience store if the cashier was half-blind or stupid enough to accept it. The thought of presenting such a case to an overworked Assistant United States Attorney was humiliating, but my chief was intent on driving up his "numbers" in the hopes of landing his own promotion to the inner sanctum of White House duty.

I was in this depressed frame of mind when a man who looked vaguely familiar entered my cramped office. The agent I shared it with was off on some assignment, no doubt trying to rustle up something more exciting than the steaming pile on my desk, and without introducing himself the stranger closed the door behind him and sat down in the empty chair. He was an older man, almost retirement age from the looks of him, and he studied me intently for what seemed like an eternity before he finally opened his mouth. "You are Ethan Dinan?" he asked.

"That's me." It suddenly dawned on me that the stranger in my office was Duane Fenton, the shadowy Deputy Director of the Secret Service! I hurriedly scrambled to my feet and tried to hide my shaking hands. Fenton was a legend in the service, who had shot through the ranks after his heroism in taking down a deranged group of Puerto Rican nationalists who had come within a whisker of assassinating President Truman.

"Sit down, young man," Fenton said in a kindly voice. My mind was racing: what had I done to arouse the displeasure of the top floor? Had my caustic comments about my careering chief come to the attention of the powers-that-be? Was I about to be transferred to a dead-end posting in Nome, Alaska?

Fenton pulled a sheet of paper out of the breast pocket of his Brooks Brothers suit, unfolded it, and began to skim it out loud. "Born in 1929. Eyes brown. Hair brown. Height 5'8". Weight 125 pounds. Fluent in French. Graduated Georgetown 1951. Appeared in numerous amateur theatrical productions in high school and college. Single." He paused at stared right through me. "Uncanny resemblance. I think this just might work."

I tried to summon up the nerve to ask him what he meant, but my voice failed me.

"Be in the main conference room next to the Director's office in half an hour," he said abruptly before he got up from his chair and let himself out.

* * *

Half an hour later, I entered the massive conference room to find a half-dozen people appraising me skeptically as I waited for someone to tell me what was going on. "Have a seat," Fenton instructed me, and I watched as he dimmed the lights and switched on an overhead projector. The image on the screen was immediately recognizable.

"Note her boyish physique, and how large her feet are - size ten," Fenton observed. "She claims to be 5'7", but we know she's as least an inch taller than that," he continued. "Of course, now she's six months pregnant, let's hope this child survives," he went on, referring to a tragic history of miscarriages. He pulled the photograph off the projector and replaced it with another image, a close-up.

"Of particular interest is her Adam's Apple, most unusual for a woman," he went on. "And notice how widely spaced her eyes are - actually you can't see that from this picture, but we all know they are," he added. Indeed we did, because he was talking about the most famous woman in the world, the First Lady of the United States. He switched off the projector and turned the lights back on. "Ethan, have you guessed why we've asked you to be here?"

I was honestly clueless. "No, sir," I replied. "If you're looking for candidates for Mrs. Kennedy's protective detail, I'd be happy to volunteer."

Fenton chuckled. "In a way, we are. As you know, there are no female agents in the Secret Service. Mrs. Kennedy and her children are currently looked after by a rotating crew when she's not traveling with the President. No, this assignment will be a little...different. Tell me, in the course of your amateur theatre work, have you ever played a woman's part?"

"Uh, yes," I replied as the reality began to sink in. "I had the lead in 'Charlie's Aunt' in college, and I prepped at an all boys school where I played the role of 'Juliet'...."

A woman who'd been partially hidden by the projector spoke up. She was middle aged, very classy looking. "Please stand up, take off your jacket, and let me have a good look at you," she said. I did as I was told, and stood there while she slowly circled me before she spent a long time studying my face. "The coloring and bone structure appear to be ideal, although I'll have to see his legs to be certain. The rest we can take care of with a little padding. Look at his big brown eyes, how far apart they are, just like hers! And if anything, his feet may be a bit smaller...."

"Wait a minute!" I blurted out. "Are you asking me to impersonate Jackie Kennedy?"

"Slow down," Fenton broke in. "Please, take your seat. Let's start at the beginning. Before we go any farther, I'll need you to sign this Confidentiality Agreement," he said as he slid a document across the table. "Take your time and read it carefully. And while you do, keep in mind that this would be an incredibly important assignment, of great value to your country, resulting in an immediate promotion to GS-16, and you'd be on the fast track for permanent duty on the White House detail."

My head was spinning as I tried to concentrate on the onerous language in front of me. Every time I looked up, six pairs of eyes were boring into me as if I were a lab rat in a maze. These people wanted me to disguise myself as a woman! And not just any woman...Jackie Kennedy was the chicest, most stylish, most envied woman in the United States! How could they possibly believe that I could pull this off?

Still, the money was real, I hated my dead-end job, and the brain trust in this room seemed to know what they were talking about...what was the worst that could happen? If I flunked my "audition" I'd be no worse off than when I started, only with a few extra bucks in my pocket before they downgraded me back to my old pay grade, and even volunteering for such an assignment would be a huge plus in my personnel file. Without any further ado, I signed the agreement and slid it back across the table to Fenton.

* * *

Two hours later, I was totally shellshocked when the meeting finally broke up and I went back downstairs to clean out my pathetic office. The next day, I'd be starting a crash course with Irene, the woman who had scrutinized me during the meeting. It turned out she was a Broadway impresario under contract to the Secret Service - she'd had to sign the same Confidentiality Agreement that I did - and we'd be setting up shop in an unused dressing room at the National Theater.

After I'd signed the Agreement, another man took the floor and proceeded to tell me the facts of life about the first family. President Kennedy was a serial philanderer with an insatiable appetite for beautiful women, and his marriage had been on the rocks for years. Before his father suffered a debilitating stroke in 1961, he'd provided a steady source of funds to stave off potential scandals and keep Jackie somewhat mollified, although she had threatened more than once to divorce him, which would doom his prospects for reelection. When Jackie got pregnant again, she put her foot down and demanded that the President mend his ways for good, although nobody who knew him expected this to last.

Another of her demands was a drastic curtailment of her "political" activities, which would be highly problematic during the upcoming election, and the possibility of a "stand in" had been floated by one of the President's aides. Jackie had been intrigued by the idea as a perfect way to keep off the campaign trail, but she had understandable misgivings about putting another woman so close to her husband. When someone suggested half in jest that they look for a man to fill in for her, far from being offended, she'd been delighted by the idea of forcing her husband pretend to be married to another man.

My head was still reeling from these shocking revelations when another man stepped up to the plate and proceeded to describe the search for potential candidates. Hollywood and Broadway were obvious targets of opportunity, but the need for confidentiality and control quickly eliminated these sources of talent. What they needed was a single, heterosexual man who could be trusted to keep his mouth shut, and who happened to resemble the First Lady enough to survive cursory inspection from a distance. It was just happenstance that someone in personnel had the bright idea of cross referencing the files on current agents against the physical attributes they were looking for, and when they came across the photograph in my file, I was singled out for further consideration. Once they went through my vital statistics, including my marital status and theatrical training, they knew they'd hit potential pay-dirt.

The last man to speak, who was head of the protective detail at the White House, told me that I would not be armed, rather I would be treated like a member of the First Family when I was on duty. All of the family members had been given code names. The President was called Lancer. The First Lady was known as Lace. The code name which had been given to me was Aurora, the Roman goddess of sunrise....

As I walked out of the Treasury Building carrying a few mementos and citations in a cardboard box, I knew that my life was about to change, in ways I couldn't possibly have imagined. At least I didn't have a girlfriend to worry about - my latest flame had dumped me a few months ago, and I lived alone in a studio apartment in Alexandria. While I waited for my bus, it occurred to me that I couldn't even celebrate my increase in salary with a nice dinner, since Irene's parting words to me were, "One thing we're going to have to work on is your weight. You're going to have to lose five pounds if you want to be a size four like Jackie."

* * *

Needless to say, I didn't get much sleep that night. Irene had instructed me to shave my arms, legs, chest and anywhere else I could reach, and by the time I was finished I was so exhausted that I collapsed into bed, but I woke up in the wee hours of the morning and couldn't get back to sleep. When my alarm went off at 6:30, after a quick shave and shower and a light breakfast, I was off to catch my bus to DC, wearing khakis and a banlon shirt instead of my usual suit and tie. The National Theater is a few blocks away from Treasury, so I got off my bus a few stops earlier than usual and killed some time outside the theater, smoking a cigarette before I saw Irene walking up. I tossed my butt onto the sidewalk and ground it out.

"Don't worry, Jackie is a chain smoker," she said, "although of course you never see her with a cigarette in public." After all I'd learned yesterday, this was hardly a surprise. "Salems, three packs a day," she added. Adapting to menthol cigarettes would be the least of my problems....

I followed Irene down an alley to the backstage door, where a pretty young girl was waiting for us. "Ethan, meet Marsha, my assistant," Irene said. We shook hands awkwardly. Marsha seemed to be regarding me with a blend of curiosity and pity. She led us down a dark hall to the dressing room which was to become our base of operations. It was surprisingly roomy, with a sort of parlor furnished with a sofa and loveseat as well as a sidebar for food and drinks, a private bathroom next to a large vanity with a mirror and makeup lights, and an oversized closet. I noted with alarm that a large number of dresses were hanging in the closet, along with an impressive array of high heels.

"Right, first things first. Undress please," Irene said. "And don't worry about Marsha, she signed the same Confidentiality Agreement we did," she winked. With a sigh of resignation, I took off my shirt and trousers and handed them to Marsha. "Sox and underwear too please," Irene prodded me, and after I removed them, I stood naked before the two women, feeling thoroughly ashamed. Was it too late to back out of this farce?

Marsha gave me a sympathetic smile, but Irene seemed totally unaware of my humiliation. "Oh good, your legs are very slender, I was a little concerned. And I was right, your feet do look a size smaller than Jackie's. You did a nice job saving last night, good girl!" she added. "Marsha, please run a razor over her back before we get started." Her use of female pronouns was very disturbing.

"Now, our first priority is to get you accustomed to walking in heels, and that means you'll be wearing stockings," Irene said. "And to hold up your stockings, and come close to the First Lady's sleek figure, a girdle is a must. If you have to go to the bathroom, better do that now before we get started." As I relieved myself standing up for the last time that day, I had a sense that my nightmare was only beginning.

When I returned, Irene and Marsha were studying a page from a catalogue featuring all manner of ladies' lingerie. "I think we should go with an open-bottomed all-in-one," Irene was saying. "Jackie wears a bra and girdle, but I'm afraid our new girl might show a bit of muffin top, at least until she loses a few pounds." I'm sure I was blushing a deep red as I cringed in mortification. "Oh, there you are," Irene said to me. "We were just talking about undergarments. It's important to think strategically, since we're dealing with a rather unique set of circumstances. First, other than your few theatrical experiences, you haven't been dressing in women's clothing all your life, so a lot of this will seem foreign to you. Second, you'll be on public display, so panty lines or sagging stockings would be a national tragedy. And third, we need to make sure you'll be able to take care of business when nature calls, and pull yourself back together without our assistance."

She turned her attention to Marsha. "Do we have an all-in-one in 34A?"

"Of course. White or black?" she answered sweetly.

"Excellent! Let's try white today." I just stood there, feeling thoroughly unmanned, as Marsha rummaged through a dresser in the closet and returned with an evil looking garment that resembled a one piece woman's swim suit, except it was open at both ends. Marsha helped me step into it while Irene appraised me with a critical eye. "You have to learn how to wriggle it on and off, attagirl, now let me adjust the straps," she said. I stood there feeling like a fairy while Irene and Marsha fussed over me. "Mrs. Kennedy is rather flat, so these ought to be all you'll need," Irene said as she stuffed some falsies into the cups, giving me just a hint of a bosom.

"Why isn't there anything between my legs?" I asked self-consciously.

"Because you may have to go to the ladies room, silly! Oh, there are all sorts of workarounds, but once we get your stockings fastened onto your garters, I don't think you're going to want to try to figure out how to unsnap them, let alone refasten them, after you've done your duty. So the trick is to hike up you skirt or dress, squat over the commode, and make sure you wipe any dribble off the tip of your penis before you pull yourself back together."

The bottom of the all-in-one barely covered my manhood. I had visions of sitting down and giving the nation the most shocking beaver shot in history. As if reading my mind, Irene told me to be patient. "Let's get you into your stockings next. Have you ever worn them before?"

"No, never. Juliet just wore slippers and a long dress, and for Charlie's Aunt I wore another long dress with boots."

"Well, this is going to be unlike anything you've ever experienced. You're going to have to keep your legs shaved every day from now on. Here, let's sit down on the sofa and we'll show you how it's done." I sat down as instructed and waited for Marsha to join us with a pair of nylon stockings in her hands. "Point your left foot out, that's right, now watch while I roll them on...up we go, now stand up please," she said as she slid the silky stocking up my leg. The sensation was indescribable, and highly erotic, and I felt my penis beginning to stiffen underneath my all-in-one. Marsha and Irene didn't seem to notice.

There were four garters hanging down on each side of my all-in-one, and I watched as Irene showed me how to gather a bit of stocking top over a rubber tab and slide it into the metal clip. "See how it's done? Now you try one." I fumbled helplessly for what seemed like forever before I finally got the hang of it. "That was the easy part," Irene said. "The ones in the back are a little more difficult, and you're going to have to feel your way." After she attached one, she instructed me to fasten the final garter. Once again, it seemed to take forever, but after several false starts and near misses, I finally got it done.

I was exhausted. "Well done!" Irene commended me. Now let's put on your other stocking."

* * *

By the time both of my legs were fully encased in sheer nylon stockings, my penis had become a noticeable problem. The sensation of the sheer fabric against my skin, the electric feeling each time my legs brushed together, and the utterly feminine appearance of the lower half of my body were becoming too much for me to handle. Marsha concealed a smirk at my obvious discomfort, but Irene just shook her head. "Why don't you step into the bathroom and take care of your little problem" she said with a hint of irritation in her voice, and I was only too glad to follow her instructions. It didn't take me long, only a few swift strokes before my penis exploded in the general direction of the toilet, an orgasm so strong and so long that I was gasping for breath as I fell to my knees onto the tiled floor.

When at last it was over, I cleaned up the floor and toilet as best I could and returned to the waiting women. Marsha had genuine sympathy in her eyes now, but Irene was all business. "Now that that's been taken care of, we can continue. Marsha, try to find her some pettipants." Marsha disappeared into the closet and returned with a lacy pair of what looked like a cross between panties and shorts. Irene had me step into them, and after I tugged them all the way up, she looked at me with approval. "You now understand why I had you put them on over your stockings. When you have to relieve yourself - or take care of that other problem - you simply slide them down to your ankles, without the need to redo your stockings. Pettipants are commonly worn in place of a slip, but you'll be wearing both to ensure a smooth figure under your dresses." With that, she sent Marsha back to the dresser to find me a slip, and Irene recommended that I learn how to step into it rather than pull it on over my head, since sooner or later I'd have a hairdo to worry about.

As I was getting used to my slip, Irene told Marsha to bring out some heels for me to try on. "The black kitten heels, try the size 9 1/2 first. We had to order a range of sizes since we weren't sure which would fit you best," she explained. When Marsha returned with the shoes, I daintily slipped one foot, and then the other, into them and took my first tentative steps in high heels. They fit perfectly, and although I can't say that they were pain free, I found them to be comfortable enough, and in no time I was walking in small circles around the dressing room. "Bravo! Marvelous!" Irene clapped her hands. "Marsha, let's try the yellow shift on her. Did you get it in sizes 4, 6 and 8?"