Date: Mon, 13 Jun 2005 00:26:38 -0600
From: Sandi Randolph <sandi_35_ts@hotmail.com>
Subject: Journey of the Soul - Part 1, The Journey Begins

Please Note:  The following story is fictional.  Any perceived similar to
real persons, either living or dead, is strictly coincidental.  Although
it's intended primarily as an entertaining story with alternative sex, the
"story" part takes priority over the "sex".  If you are looking to read a
story that is pure sex with almost no plot, don't bother with this one.
It's rather long, presented in several parts, and (just as is usually the
case in real life) the sex portions are slow to develop.  Also, if you are
below the legal age or fiction of a sexual nature is illegal where you live,
please leave now.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Paul Taylor desperately needed to sort some things out in his head.  For as
long as he could remember, he'd always been in control of every facet of his
life, and most of the lives around him.  He had written his first computer
program at age 8, and wrote and sold a computer game before turning 13.  At
15 he dropped out of school to devote his full attentions to developing
software and started his own company.  Taking tests and courses on line,
he'd gotten his GED, BS and an MBA by the time he was 19.  Now, at 22, his
company employed over 100 people, and his net worth was over half a billion
dollars, with millions more flowing in each week, primarily from one
particular defense contract.  Suddenly, now, he found himself reacting to
events beyond his control, and usually a step or two behind.

A year ago he'd married the company receptionist that he'd hired the year
before that.  Patti was 5 years older than he was, and looking back he
realized that a significant part of the initial attraction was that she bore
a slight resemblance to his late mother, who, along with Paul's father, had
died in a car crash when Paul was 7, leaving Paul to be raised by his
grandmother.  Perhaps he'd married Patti partially in an attempt to replace
the mother he'd missed so much.  Perhaps there was also some feeling of
guilt over the way he had reacted to his parents' deaths, particularly his
mother's, which he felt a need to ease.  Whatever his subconscious reasons
at the time, he realized now that he never really loved Patti, and that if
Patti ever loved him at all, that love was strictly secondary to her love of
his money.

Oh, things were great for the first month or two.  The sex had been great,
or at least he thought so.  It was kind of hard for him to be sure, since
he'd had nothing to compare it to.  He'd been the epitome of the virgin
nerd, right up to their arrival in Cabo San Lucas for their honeymoon.  It
wasn't that girls found him unattractive.  Quite the contrary, he was very
good looking . . . actually, something of a "pretty boy" . . . and his
self-made millions made him a highly sought after young bachelor.  It's just
that he'd never found the time for a social life, and his absence from the
social scene of conventional schools left him ill-prepared for all the "do's
and don'ts" of dating, and somewhat awkward around women.  Patti had been
like a breath of fresh air . . . seemingly understanding and patient with
his awkwardness.  She'd started flirting with him shortly after she'd
started with the company, and they'd started actually dating after about 3
months.  When they started talking marriage he brought up the subject of a
pre-nuptial agreement, on his lawyers' advice, and she seemed to have no
problem with the concept, although she did insist that her own lawyer be
allowed to participate in the drafting of the actual agreement.  And that
was really at the heart of Paul's problem.

After about a month she'd seemed to have lost interest in sex.  He almost
had to beg for any sexual favors, and then she'd just lie in bed like a
corpse.  It was no better than masturbation.  Then the weekend "shopping"
trips to the city started.  Almost every Friday she'd drive from their
beautiful suburban home to spend the weekend at their penthouse apartment in
the city, so that she could spend the time shopping.  Of course, she always
actually did do some shopping, since she always had several new purchases
with her when she returned home on Monday afternoon.  Still, Paul felt
strongly that she was having an affair, although three successive private
investigators had been unable to provide any tangible proof of that fact . .
. only more suspicions, since Patti seemed extremely adept at losing the
tail that she must have realized Paul had put on her.  The PIs would end up
reporting to Paul that she had given them the slip somewhere around mid-day,
and that she would return to the mid-town apartment by cab very late in the
night . . . actually, early the next morning.

He'd thought of just leaving her, but a clause her attorney had placed into
the pre-nuptial specified severe compensation to her if he left her and he
was unable to prove infidelity.  And while the infidelity seemed almost
certain, he'd been unable to get the proof.  It was obvious that she wasn't
going to leave him, since the pre-nuptial, in that event, would limit her to
a measly $20,000,  while this way she was able to have her cake and eat it
too.

So, Saturday night at 10 PM found him taking a walk in the crisp November
night air, trying to clear his head and develop some sort of a plan of
action, while his pretty wife was most likely getting screwed by some
unknown lover some 30 miles away.   He was so lost in thought that he barely
noticed the car parked on the side of the road up ahead of him until a
stranger stepped out from in front of the car, holding an unlit cigarette
out towards him.

"Hey, buddy.  Got a light?" the other man asked, as Paul approached him.

Always the helpful sort, Paul reached into his coat pocket and pulled out
his lighter, struck it, and with the flame cradled in his cupped hands,
extended it towards the stranger's cigarette.  Just before the flame reached
the tip of the cigarette, a pair of hands grabbed him roughly from behind,
forcing him towards the out-of-place car.  The stranger with the cigarette
reached over and yanked the back door of the car open, and Paul was pushed
roughly into the back seat of the waiting vehicle, where other hands waited
in the dark.  A cloth that had been soaked in some sweet-smelling substance
was pressed to his face, covering his mouth and nose.  Seconds later, Paul's
world went completely black.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Paul's return to consciousness was a gradual one.  He knew he was in a
moving car, and there were several other people in the car with him.  A man
sitting right next to him . . . probably a large man, based on the depth of
his voice, was talking to someone in the front seat.

"I don't see why we don't just put a cap in his head and have done with it."
the first man said.

He couldn't quite make out the second man's response.  All he heard was ". .
. she's only going to pay. . . accident. . .  never found."

His mind raced through all the possible scenarios like subroutines in a
program.  The pre-nuptial agreement, his will, and the company's Articles of
Incorporation all pointed to only one possible conclusion:  Patti had hired
these men to get rid of him.  But it had to look like he'd died in an
accident, or he had to become permanently "missing".  If he was found
murdered, suspicion would point straight back to Patti, and all the wealth
she craved would be tied up for years, unless she could remove herself from
suspicion, which wouldn't be easy.  If he were missing, Rick Green, his
assistant and the company's Chief Operating Officer, would run the company,
but Patti would receive almost a million dollars a year from the company for
his salary and dividends until he was declared legally dead after seven
years, when she'd inherit 80% of the stock in the company.  If he was killed
in an accident, she'd inherit all his assets almost immediately.  She'd
planned this well.  Right now she was probably in a very public place, being
seen by hundreds of people, to establish an iron-clad alibi.

The car slowed, pulled off onto the shoulder, and came to a stop.  The car
door opened, and he was greeted with a blast of cold air.  Wherever he was,
it was colder here.  It was MUCH colder, and he was only wearing a thin
jacket, which the wind ripped through like it wasn't even there.  He forced
his eyes to open as he was roughly pulled from the car, but could only see
large dark trees looming all around him.  Then the headlights of another car
came around a bend in the road down a steep incline from behind where they
were parked.

He tried to force his muscles to work, hoping to break away from his captors
and flag down help from the oncoming car, but he was still too drugged for
his arms and legs to respond.  Then the second car pulled off the road and
onto the shoulder right behind his captors' car.  The driver of the second
car approached his two captors, but Paul knew it was hopeless to expect help
from him, as he joined the others in dragging Paul back towards the second
car.  As the three men pushed Paul behind the wheel, he realized that this
was his OWN car.  Patti must have given them the access codes to the garage
and the house as well, since the keys in the ignition were also his very
own, with his distinctive keychain with the company logo on it.

They finished pushing him into the driver's seat, turned the steering wheel
hard to the right, dropped the shift lever into "Drive" and slammed the door
shut.  The car was off the shoulder instantly, and he felt the angle change
to a steep downward slope as the car rapidly picked up speed, crashing
through the underbrush.  He tried desperately to get his foot onto the brake
pedal, but his muscles still wouldn't respond.  The angle of the slope
steepened and the car rolled faster and faster, until it stopped suddenly
when it impacted with a large tree.  With no seat belt, Paul sailed through
the windshield and back out into the night air.  He narrowly missed smacking
into a large tree with his head, and landed downhill from the smashed wreck
of the car.  He continued rolling down the steep embankment for about a half
mile, but he actually was completely unaware of his downhill trip, since he
had thankfully lost consciousness again immediately upon hitting the
windshield.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The second thing Paul became aware of, as he slowly regained consciousness,
was that he was warm, so he knew he wasn't lying outdoors in the woods.
That second sensation was small consolation, however, since the first thing
he'd become aware of was the fact that every square inch of his body hurt
like hell.  He was almost tempted to keep his eyes closed, being somewhat
afraid to find out just where he was, but wherever that might be, his
situation HAD to be better than it was when the car had started rolling down
the hill.  He forced his eyes open to find one of the largest men he'd ever
seen smiling down on him.  The man wasn't at all fat, but he was clearly
well over 6 feet tall . . . perhaps 6' 8" or 6' 9".  He had a shaggy mop of
unkempt red hair and a matching beard that framed his pleasant face and
broad smile.

"Well, good morning!  Back to the land of the living, at last!" the large
man boomed.  His voice was almost a growl, but it was a cheerful and
friendly growl.  "For a while there I wasn't sure you were ever gonna wake
up.  You got yourself banged up pretty good."

"Where am I?  How did I get here?  Who are you?  How bad am I hurt?  How . .
."

"Whoa, my young friend!" the giant boomed back with a broad smile.  "Let's
take things one question at a time.  I've got a few of my own to ask too, ya
know".

"Okay," Paul said, his fear and apprehension starting to subside.  "Let's
start with who you are and where I am."

"My name's Rusty MacDonald.  You're in my cabin, which means you're a damn
site better off than when Old Lobo here found you yesterday morning."  For
the first time, Paul noticed the yellow-eyed animal sitting patiently a few
feet away.  Obviously at least half wolf, Old Lobo was one of the largest
canines he'd ever seen.  It didn't seem aggressive, just sitting there
patiently watching Paul.  "Lobo was out hunting, and found you up at the top
of Brockman's Cliff.  He came back down here to get me, and I carried you
down.  It looked like you'd rolled down the mountainside from somewhere up
near the road, and were lucky enough to stop rolling about 5 feet from the
edge of the cliff.  One or two more rolls, and you'd have had a 1000 foot
drop straight down to the Rio Malo below.  No one's ever survived that drop,
or at least not without drowning a few minutes later when the current would
took a would-be survivor into the whitewater just downriver from that cliff.
  And, a couple more hours at the top of that cliff, and you probably
would've died from exposure."

"Now," Rusty continued, "Suppose you tell me who you are and how you
happened to end up at the edge of that cliff."

Paul introduced himself, and briefly recounted his tale of abduction and
attempted murder.  "I really need to get back to civilization, and get in
touch with the police.  I've got a business to run, and a bitch of a wife
who deserves everything the law can throw at her."

"Well," said Rusty, "we've got a few problems to deal with on that score."
He opened the window blinds to reveal a snow-covered scene outside.  "I got
you back here just minutes before the snow started falling.  Over the last
24 hours we've gotten nearly thirty inches of snow.  The first big snow of
the year invariably closes this canyon off from the outside world for the
duration of the winter.  I might be able to make it through on the
snowmobile in 5 or 6 weeks, but even then the possibility of an avalanche
would make it a very dangerous proposition.  We're pretty much snowed in
here `till the spring thaw.  It looks like you're my guest for about three,
maybe four months."

"How about if you just let me use your phone?  I've got the financial
resources to have a helicopter fly in to get me out."

"I can't be of much help there.  I'm pretty much a hermit, with no real
contact with the outside world except for three or four trips to town each
year for supplies.  Ain't got no phone, no CB, no internet email, no
nothing.  I've got a TV that's barely able to pick up one station if the
weather's good.  And that's about it.  I think, right now, our top
priorities are your physical condition, getting some food in your belly and
finding you something to wear."

That brought Paul quickly back to his present situation.  He quickly became
aware again of his pain, and realized for the first time that he was really
hungry.  He also realized, for the first time, that he was naked under the
covers of the bed he was in.  "How badly was I hurt?" he asked.

"Actually, not too bad, considering what you've been through.  You've got a
lot of bruises and a few nasty scrapes . . . sort of like road rash . . .
but nothing seems to be broken, and there's no sign of any internal
injuries."

Paul gave Rusty a questioning look, and the big man grinned broadly back at
him.  "I used to be an Army medic.  I'm no doctor, but I'm a pretty decent
nurse.  I got you cleaned up and got anything that needed dressing dressed.
If you're in a lot of pain I've got some Percodans in my med kit, but if you
can deal with the pain, just some aspirin would be a lot better for you."

"I'm hurting, but aspirin will probably take care of it.  Thanks.  I am
pretty hungry, though.  Can I impose on you for a bite to eat?"

"No imposition!  I've had a big pot of soup simmering for a couple of hours,
just waiting for you to come to."  Rusty left the room with the wolf-like
beast at his heels and returned alone a few minutes later, with a big bowl
of hot soup on a lap tray.

Paul tasted the soup, and gave Rusty a quizzical look.  "I know that 8 AM is
really bacon and eggs time, but I figured chicken soup would be the best
thing for you. Unfortunately, chickens are hard come by around here this
time of year, so I substituted rabbit.  Hope you like it."

He did, and told his host so.  With a big bowl of the rabbit soup in his
empty stomach, Paul started feeling a bit better.  "I think I feel well
enough to get up and get dressed.  Where are my clothes?"

Rusty's ever-present smile suddenly faded into a solemn expression, as he
bent and picked up a small pile of shredded cloth from the floor.  "This is
all you had on you when I found you.  I expect you left chunks of clothing
all over the mountainside, but there's not much we can do with what's left."

"Well, I can't very well just lay here in bed for the next three months.  Do
you have anything that I can borrow to wear?"

Rusty chuckled.  "I would have thought that a bright guy like you would've
noticed that I'm more than a foot taller than you, and about 150 pounds
heavier.  You'd completely disappear in my clothes.  I'd be happy to give
you some of my stuff and let you cut it down to your size, but I've only got
2 pairs of jeans and a couple of shirts, so I really hate to do that.  If
need be, I will.  But there's an alternative that may work, if you're not
embarrassed by it."

"I'm open to just about anything" Paul said, "short of running around here
completely nude."

"Well, this room you're in used to be my late sister's."  Paul looked
around, and for the first time noticed the femininity of the décor, slightly
out of place in a rustic cabin.  "She and I inherited this place from our
folks when they drowned in a boating accident when we were in college, and
we shared it, taking turns using it as a summer getaway.  Cindy died two
years ago, and that's when I basically said goodbye to the modern world and
started living here year round."

"I'm sorry about your sister.  What happened to her?"

"Cancer.  It started as a lump in one of her breasts.  The doctors removed
that breast and thought they'd caught it, but a few months later another
lump turned up in her other breast, so they did another mastectomy.  She was
fine for about a year after that, but then it started showing up all through
her body . . . in just too many places for surgery to do any good.  She died
a horrible, painful death about a year later.  I've left her room pretty
much intact, except for coming in three or four times a year to move the
dust around."

"My point is, she was 5' 7" and weighed about 135.  If my guess is right,
you're about the same height and weight."

"You're on the money with the height" Paul replied "and I'm actually about
130 pounds.  What's your point?"

"My point is, this is where Cindy spent that last good year.  She wanted to
be alone, and stayed right on through that winter.  All her clothes, except
what she was buried in, are still in this room and in the little storage
shed out back.  She didn't even want ME here during that last year, and I
haven't had the heart to go through her things, so I don't know what's here.
  But she'd most likely have some sweat suits, jeans, t-shirts, things like
that, that may fit you a lot better than my stuff would.  If you don't mind
wearing a dead woman's clothes, it may be a good alternative for you."

Paul agreed that it was worth a try.  The fact that the previous wearer was
now dead bothered him far more than the fact that the previous wearer had
been a woman.  After all, there was virtually no difference between most of
the clothes men and women were wearing nowadays, except for a slightly
different cut in the crotch and chest areas.  As long as they weren't
impossibly tight in sensitive areas, they'd be far better than trying to
share Rusty's size XXXX clothes.  Plus, there was Paul's little secret . . .
the one that he'd pretty much pushed into the back recesses of his mind,
except for the occasions that he experienced and suppressed urges that came
with pangs of guilt.

Paul had always had a much closer relationship with his warm and loving
mother than with his cold and stern father.  After their deaths,
arrangements were quickly made for Paul to go live with his grandmother.  In
the hour or two Paul had to retrieve his clothes and personal belongings
from his bedroom, he'd managed a few minutes alone when he slipped into his
parents' room, hoping to find a few keepsakes so that he could keep a part
of his mother with him forever.  He'd quickly selected a few of her favorite
pieces of jewelry, some of her make-up and an antique bottle filled with her
favorite perfume.  No one could question his legal right to the mementos,
but he still felt a little like a thief.  Looking for something to wrap them
in for protection before dropping them into the bottom of his duffel bag, he
opened the closest dresser drawer, which contained his mother's lingerie.
Intending only to find wrapping material, touching the cool smooth silk
garments instantly brought memories of his late mother to the front of his
thoughts, causing his hands to linger much longer than was necessary.  He
grabbed more pairs of panties than he needed for wrapping, plus a couple of
bras and slips.  Acting strictly on impulse, he turned to the closet and
quickly grabbed the entire selection of negligees and nightgowns and a
couple of dresses, adding those items to the collection at the bottom of his
bag.

Shortly after getting settled in at his grandmother's, Paul found a perfect
hiding place for his collection of purloined mementos.  A removable panel in
the back of his closet gave access to a small crawl space, where he hid his
mother's most personal items.  From then on, anytime he was feeling
depressed, he would pull out a pair of her panties or a negligee, sometimes
lightly spraying the item with the perfume, and would take it to bed with
him, holding it close as he slept with the comforting scent and softness of
his mother right next to him.  One night shortly before Paul turned 15,
holding the items just wasn't enough, so in an effort to get even closer to
his late mother he stripped off his own clothes, pulled the lightly scented
panties up his legs and into place and slipped into a sexy black negligee.
It gave him a feeling of closeness like he hadn't experienced since his
mother's death, and he slept that night wearing the soft, silky, sexy
apparel.  But there was an unanticipated side effect.  That night he didn't
dream that he was CLOSE to his mother.  Instead he dreamed that he had
BECOME his mother, and even dreamed that there was a man . . . possibly his
father, or possibly someone else . . . that was making love to him.  He woke
up in the morning with the front of those panties soaked with a big sticky
gob of his own cum.  From that point on he would dress in his mother's
clothes, sometimes even putting on some make-up and jewelry, whenever he
felt the need to release his sexual tension by masturbating.  The fantasies
he would play in his head while masturbating seemed to heighten the
experience ten-fold.  At first he always imagined that he was his mother,
but over time his fantasy female persona morphed from being an image of his
mother to an image of what Paul would be had he been born a girl.

If his grandmother ever suspected what Paul did when he was alone, she took
that secret to her grave when Paul was 18.  Paul inherited her house, and
still used it as a summer country getaway, and the forbidden items were
still in the hidden crawl space.  Patti hated the place (too boring) and had
only been there once when Paul had to board the place up for the winter last
year.  Paul would still go there about once a month to "get some peace and
quiet", and would spend an entire weekend dressed as a woman and
masturbating to his fantasies.

So, when Rusty handed him Cindy's bathrobe and left the room, closing the
bedroom door behind him, Paul didn't really feel all that strange putting on
this particular piece of the dead woman's wardrobe.  Pink satin with tufts
of pink fake fur on the cuffs and neckline were exactly what he felt he
needed at this point.  He got up, put on the robe, and looked around for
something for his feet.  He found a pair of fuzzy pink slippers, an obvious
match to the robe, sitting in the closet.  The slick satin of the robe felt
cool against his injured skin, and both the robe and slippers seemed to fit
well.  Cindy had, indeed, been very close to the same size as Paul.  While
retrieving the slippers from the closet Paul glanced at the other footwear
that may be available, hoping to spot a pair of sneakers, loafers, hiking
boots . . . anything that wasn't obviously feminine.  All he saw, however,
were various styles of shoes that were all, very obviously, women's shoes,
with heels ranging from about 1" on up to 4" stilettos.  Oh, well.  There
would be more time for a better inventory later.

Paul exited the bedroom and found himself in the cabin's great room . . . a
combination living room, dining room and kitchen.  Rusty was sitting at the
table with one of two large bowls of the tasty soup in front of him.  There
was a loaf of what appeared to be fresh homemade bread on the table as well.

"C'mon.  Sit down and eat some more.  It'll help you heal faster if you keep
the belly happy."

"I'll join you in a minute, but I need to find the bathroom."

"Oh!  Sorry about that.  I should have given you a little tour, I guess.
It's that door right there" Rusty said, pointing to the door right next to
the bedroom door Paul had just come out of.

The bathroom was less than a quarter the size of the one in Paul's palatial
home, which made it about twice the size of the "normal" master bath in most
homes.  In addition to the entrance from the great room, there was a door on
the left wall that would obviously open to the dead woman's bedroom that
Paul was now calling home, and another on the right wall that Paul surmised
would open to Rusty's room.  Paul found some aspirin in the medicine
cabinet, took 3 with a glass of water, relieved himself, and returned to the
great room to join Rusty at the table.

"The robe fits you well.  I hope you have some luck finding other clothes
that fit, as well.  I need to go out and check my trap and snare lines this
morning.  Between taking care of you and waiting out the storm, I didn't
make it out yesterday, so I really have to go today.  Are you gonna be all
right by yourself?"

"I'll be fine." said Paul, smiling.  "I can spend the morning trying to find
something else to wear.  The robe and slippers fit fine, but they're really
not quite my style" Paul lied.

Rusty chuckled.  "I know what you mean, but, as the saying goes, beggars
can't be choosers."

"Oh, I'm not complaining.  And I'm really appreciative of all you've done.
I'll do the best I can with what I can find.  Don't worry about me.  Just
take care of what you need to do.  By the way, what happened to your wolf,
or dog, or whatever he was?"

Rusty had just finished his soup and nearly half the loaf of bread, and was
standing next to what appeared to be the cabin's front door, pulling on a
heavy parka and oversized winter gloves.  "Old Lobo's not really mine, in
the true sense of the word.  He's got his own place . . . a cave about a
half mile from here.  We're friends who help each other out sometimes . . .
not master and pet.  I should be back between noon and one.  Make yourself
at home.  Eat your fill of the soup and bread and anything else you can
find.  There's a fresh pot of coffee on the stove."  With that he opened the
door and stepped into the pure white world outside.  The blast of cold air
that accompanied the opening of the door flipped the end of the light robe
up onto Paul's lap, exposing him from the waist down to the chill breeze,
reminding him that he was naked under that thin layer of material.  The
first order of business was definitely to find some warmer clothing.

He finished his soup and bread, poured himself a cup of hot coffee and
returned to his bedroom to see what he could find.  His first objective was
something that could pass for underwear.  He knew he wouldn't find the
briefs that he usually preferred, and doubted that he'd find a pair of
boxers, either.  He figured the best he could hope for would be a plain
white pair of Cindy's panties.  He knew many women preferred the comfort of
cotton panties, which were nearly indistinguishable from men's briefs.  He
started at the dresser, and found two large drawers that were filled with a
vast and varied collection of panties, bras, garter belts, stockings and
sexy little negligees.  In one of the drawers he also spotted two pairs of
breast forms . . . prosthetic breasts . . . apparently used by Cindy after
her mastectomies, and a tube of adhesive for attaching them.  Ignoring the
other items, Paul pulled all the panties from the drawers and laid them out
on the bed.  No cotton.  No white.  Certainly no white cotton.

Cindy's tastes obviously ran to the ultra-feminine side.  Every pair of
panties was either silk or satin.  Some were bikini cut and others were
thongs.  Some were a slightly fuller cut than either of those two styles,
but most of those were either adorned with lace trim or had a see-through
lace panel in the front.  Not that he actually objected to the
ultra-feminine lingerie, but he felt he needed to do his best to lean away
from them to keep up appearances around Rusty.  Paul finally settled on what
seemed to be the least feminine pair in the batch . . . a low-cut brief, not
quite bikini cut, made of lavender satin, with no lace ornamentation.  He
stepped into them and pulled them up his legs past all the scratches and
bruises.  They felt a bit tight in the crotch, and suddenly got a little
tighter as the soft slick fabric against his cock aroused him to
semi-hardness.

Doing his best to ignore his reaction to wearing women's panties again,
hoping his now raging erection would subside, he started exploring the other
drawers of the dresser, hoping to find a sweat suit or at least a pair of
jeans.  He'd already checked out the three small top drawers of the dresser.
  They contained makeup, brushes, combs and other similar items, along with
bottles of perfume and some toiletries, including a box of vaginal
lubricating suppositories.  The two middle drawers were where he had found
the lingerie.  The bottom drawers held several wigs, most likely made
necessary by Cindy's chemotherapy, a collection of purses, three more
negligees, several half-slips and a dozen unopened packages of nylon
stockings.  There was also a jewelry box, with an assortment of rings,
bracelets, necklaces and earrings.  No jeans, no sweatpants, not even a pair
of jogging shorts.

Paul tried the closet.  Once again, Cindy's ultra-feminine tastes reigned
there, as well.  Dresses abounded, ranging from simple summer sun dresses on
up through some sexy cocktail dresses, all the way to some very expensive
evening gowns.  There were also a couple of full slips, several very
feminine blouses and a few skirts, but nothing that would even resemble
unisex clothing.  Not even a pair of slacks.  Paul sat on the bed and
weighed his options.

He couldn't very well spend the next few months clad solely in the satin
robe.  He would have to either dress as a woman for the next few months,
which he really wouldn't object to at all, or he could try to disassemble
some of the clothing and sew it back together in the form of pants and
shirts.  Since he had permission to use the clothing, but didn't have
Rusty's go-ahead to destroy it, he didn't feel like he had the right to do
the latter.  Besides, he'd never learned to even sew a button on a shirt,
much less try to create clothes almost from scratch.  His options were
limited, unless there were more clothes in the storage shed that Rusty had
mentioned.  He wasn't about to try going out in that weather dressed as he
was, so for today . . .

He went back into the closet and picked out the least sexy dress he could
find.  It was a simple light blue shift dress, with a fairly high neckline.
He took it off the hanger, unzipped the back and stepped into it.  He put
his arms through the armholes, pulled everything into place and reached back
for the zipper to zip himself up.  The last wasn't an easy task, but he was
finally able to get the zipper up and hooked the little catch just above the
top of the zipper.  He stepped back into the room and looked at his own
image in the full-length mirror.  What very much appeared to be a pretty
young woman with bruised bare arms and legs stared back at him.

The fuzzy pink slippers just weren't right with the dress, so he returned to
the closet to take a closer look at the shoe collection.  He found a pair of
simple open-toed sandal type shoes with a low heel that he thought he could
handle walking in, and kicked off the slippers and carried the shoes back
out to the bedroom, where he sat down on the bed to strap them onto his
feet.

He felt he'd gotten himself as dressed as best he could at this time, so he
went back out to the great room to start getting himself better acclimated
to his new surroundings.  Rusty obviously wasn't the world's best
housekeeper, so he started busying himself, more to pass the time and avoid
thinking about his aroused state than anything else, by starting to clean
the place.  He tidied the place up, washed the dishes and dusted.  The
straps of the shoes were rubbing some of the many scratches on his feet, and
he longed for a pair of socks to protect the sores a little better.  But he
knew there were no socks among Cindy's things.  In fact, he realized, there
weren't even any pantyhose.  She only had stockings, and sexy garter belts
to hold them up.  Oh well, he figured.  In for a penny, in for a pound.  So
he returned to the bedroom and found a garter belt that came close to
matching his panties.  He lifted the hem of his dress up and wrapped the
belt around his waist just above the waistband of his panties, and clipped
the ends together.  He found a matching pair of nylons, and bunched them the
way he'd envyingly watched Patti do it many times, although he'd never
actually done it himself, and pulled them up his legs, releasing material as
he went, until he could clip the garters to the tops of the stockings.  They
made his legs feel warmer, and they did cut down on the rubbing of the
straps on sore areas.

It was almost noon, so he figured Rusty would be back soon, and would
probably be hungry.  He figured he might as well earn his keep while he was
here, so he set about putting together some lunch for the two of them.  He
was bending over, taking some fresh-baked biscuits out of the oven, when
Rusty came through the door.  He turned to greet the big man, and saw that
Rusty had turned beet red and his jaw had dropped in obvious shock.

"I'm sorry" he apologized, "I couldn't find anything like sweats or slacks.
If me dressing like this embarrasses or shocks you, I could try to take some
of the clothing apart and make pants and shirts, but I honestly don't know
how to sew, and I didn't want to ruin Cindy's clothes without checking with
you, in any event."

Rusty's shocked expression softened, as he said "No.  You're free to do
whatever you like with the clothes, but you're just fine the way you are, if
you don't want to play tailor.  I was just taken by surprise, is all.
Actually, when I first walked in I actually thought you were a pretty young
woman.  My biggest fantasy, since I started living here year-round, has been
to have a woman spend the winter with me.  I suppose that having a man who's
dressed as a woman spend the winter is as close as I'll ever come, so I'm
actually quite happy to see you dressed that way."

"Don't get me wrong," he continued, "that doesn't mean that I expect you to
treat me like a woman would treat a man.  I just like the illusion.  That's
plenty for me."

Paul saw the look in Rusty's eyes and realized something in an instant, but
he wanted confirmation.  "Does that mean," he asked, "that the more I looked
like a woman, the better you'd like it?"  He owed the big man a debt of
gratitude.  Actually, he owed him his life.  If he could repay that debt, in
part, by creating a more perfect illusion for Rusty, he'd do it.  What Rusty
wouldn't know was that Paul would actually enjoy doing it.

"I wouldn't want you to do anything you didn't want to do, but I'll tell you
right now that you look awfully pretty, just as you are.  If you looked even
prettier, I certainly wouldn't complain."

"Well, lunch is ready.  Sit down and eat, and we can discuss it over lunch."

"I've got to eat fast and go back out, after lunch.  The snow's deeper than
I thought, and it's pretty slow going.  I only got about half my trap line
checked, and just stashed the catch in the barn."

"Then we can talk about it more over dinner." They ate without saying
another word, but Paul noticed out of the corner of his eye that Rusty
studied him intently the whole time they were eating.  Paul started clearing
up the lunch dishes, as Rusty put his parka back on and headed back out the
door into the cold.  Once he'd gotten the kitchen cleaned up from lunch,
Paul set about improving on Rusty's fantasy . . . and his own.