tagTransgender & CrossdressersDressed for Disaster: The Prequel

Dressed for Disaster: The Prequel


Dressed for Disaster: The Prequel

Pat Summers put his suitcases on the bed, and made a quick survey of his room. He noted with approval the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door, and he poked his head into the bathroom to inspect the bathtub and vanity. Not overly luxurious, but they would do.

First things first. He opened his computer case and turned on his laptop computer, plugging the modem cord into the data port on the desk telephone. It was just past six o'clock, five o'clock in Chicago, and he waded through his e-mail messages before making a perfunctory call to his wife, who was preoccupied with fixing dinner. After he rang off, he pulled the blackout curtains tightly shut, turned on every light in the room, and began his preparations.

Pat took off his blazer and slacks, and stripped down to his shorts. His body was smooth and lean, a swimmer's physique, which explained his lack of body hair. Hours in the gym and in the pool had given him a flat stomach, and he shaved down at least twice a month. Perfect cover for a closet crossdresser.

He removed his blue dress from the smaller of his two suitcases, and hung it in the closet. The material was wrinkle-free, ideal for traveling. Two-inch black pumps and a belt for the dress came next, then Pat selected his lingerie for tomorrow: white satin panties and padded bra, a white slip with a pretty lace hem, and tan control-top pantyhose were placed in one of the dresser drawers. One look at his bunched up wig sent him into the bathroom, where he soaked and rinsed it in one of the two sinks before blotting it with a bath towel and hanging it on the shower head to dry. It looked like a dead rat, but Pat knew it would brush out beautifully in the morning.

Next, he took his makeup bag into the bathroom and set out its contents. He brought a bottle of coral nail polish back into the bedroom and sat down in front of the TV. Pat had surreptitiously filed his longish nails into feminine shapes during the two hour flight from Chicago, and as he watched the evening news, he applied a single coat of polish to each nail, blowing on them occasionally. When they were dry, he returned to the bathroom and started to fill the tub, pouring a few ounces of scented bubble bath into the swirling water.

Pat got into the tub and luxuriated in the hot suds, anticipating what was to come. For the next eighteen hours, the pressures of his demanding job and obscene mortgage would disappear as he escaped into his alter ego. He lifted one of his legs out of the water, and ran a polished nail over the stubble. Slowly, lovingly, Pat started to shave his legs. The only thing he could see above the bubbles was a delicate hand holding a disposable razor, and a sleek woman's leg.

When he was finished, Pat toweled himself off and applied scented moisturizing cream to his smooth legs. Wrapping himself in the hotel's terrycloth bathrobe, he gave his face an extra-close shave, and trimmed his eyebrows a bit. Nothing overtly feminine, just enough to remove any long or stray hairs that might present a problem tomorrow. Returning to the bedroom, he took a pink satin nightgown and matching panties out of the suitcase, and stepped into his fantasy.

Pat shimmied into the nightgown and returned to the desk. His penis jerked against his panties as he sat down at the computer and crossed his legs under the delicate fabric of his nightgown. His polished nails flew over the keyboard

Pat logged on to his favorite website and began checking the new stories added over the past week. He scrolled through the incredible array of offerings, looking for something to get him off. He skipped the bizarre tales about men being magically transformed into women, and the science fiction stories about aliens transforming the men of planet earth into female sex slaves. Finally he found one that interested him. Racing through the obligatory paragraphs introducing the characters and setting up the premise, he zeroed in on the following:


I woke up in a cold sweat in a dark room. My head was throbbing and I was dying of thirst. When I tried to move my arms, I discovered that they had been strapped down. I seemed to be lying on some kind of gurney, under a white sheet. My legs were also immobilized, and my head was propped up on a hard pillow.

A door opened, and lights were switched on to reveal what looked like an operating room. As I squinted in the painful light, a woman in a doctor's coat approached me. She looked vaguely familiar.

"Water," I croaked.

Without a word, she produced a glass of water, and I struggled to raise my head and drink it. Swallowing it all exhausted me, and I fell back onto the pillow. "Where am I?"

"Where no one will ever find you."

"Who are you? What are you doing to me?"

"I am Doctor Vendetta Frankenwiener. You may remember me as the slut you picked up at the Alley Cat bar last Saturday night."

Could it be? Could this madwoman be the girl I had conned into returning to my apartment, screwed like there was no tomorrow, and told to get out of my bed and walk home when she refused to take it up the ass?

"Your timing was unfortunate. I have been looking for the perfect subject for a little experiment. Oh, how you're going to regret they way you treated me."

"What do you mean?"

"The liquid you just drank contained a mild sedative. While it is taking effect, let me show you my progress so far." She tore back the sheet, and I gasped in horror. I had breasts, real woman's breasts, which rose magnificently as I heaved in exertion, pulling against my restraints.

"What have you done to me?"

She slid a mirror up to the side of the bed and tilted it so I could see. "Those are breast implants. A very simple procedure for a plastic surgeon, which I happen to be." Lifting my head, I could see that all of my body hair had been removed, and I panicked as I tried to see my genitals.

"Don't worry, you are still intact below the waist - for the moment. You see, those breasts will be perfectly capable of nursing a baby, once we fill you up with female hormones." She produced a hypodermic syringe, and stabbed it in one of my cheeks. "In a few seconds, your body will have more estrogen in it than the dressing room at a modeling agency."

I struggled furiously against my restraints. "You bitch! I'll kill you."

"I don't think so. Soon, you will be docile as a lamb. Castration tends to do that to a man."

"Oh my God! No!"

"If that was a prayer, it is not going to help you. But I am not without mercy. As I said, your new breasts will be fully functional. And I would not want to deprive you of the joys of motherhood. Although you will never be able to bear a child, you may want to suckle your genetic offspring."

"You must be insane! Let me out of here. Please, let me go!"

She ignored the interruption. "You see, my little experiment requires that we preserve a quantity of your sperm in case you decide later to raise your own child. Prepare for your last male orgasm."

Before I could react, she implanted a large tube on my penis. It was attached to wires and a rubber hose, and as she switched it on, I realized that it was some kind of milking device. In spite of myself, I began to harden as it sucked on me. Over and over, I was pulled and stroked, and through the horror of it, I became aroused as my body instinctively readied to ejaculate. Suddenly, the mad surgeon produced a slender wand, which she greased and inserted in my ass. Probing for my prostate gland, she found it and the wand began to vibrate. The combined effect of milking my penis and massaging my prostate made me delirious, and I heard myself scream with a mixture and agony and ecstasy as I approached a devastating climax.


As the hapless character suffered through his final orgasm, Pat erupted into the satin folds of his nightgown, smearing it with gobs of hot semen. When his gratification had subsided, a wave of revulsion swept over him, and for the hundredth time, he vowed to throw away his woman's clothing and swear off crossdressing forever. Even as he thought it, he knew this would soon pass, and that he would be pleasuring himself at least once more before falling asleep, reveling in the feeling of his nightgown against his smooth skin.

Masturbating himself to the point of exhaustion had become a precursor to Pat's outings as a woman. He felt feminized, almost emasculated, as he drained his male libido down to nothing. From a practical standpoint, it made it much easier to tuck his limp penis between his legs before he put on his panties, although by the time he was fully dressed and made up, the intense feelings of arousal were sure to return.

As Pat drifted off to sleep, he had no way of knowing that by this time tomorrow, he would have endured the most horrendous experience of his life, his job and marriage in ruins.

By the author of The Jessica Project

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