Agnes Dourville Ch. 08

The day of my debut, I get up early to create my Michelle, so I don't embarrass myself at the store. I previously decided what to wear, so I methodically lay out my picks on my smooth bed (Agnes insists I make my bed upon rising).

First, I pull on some slinky panties, followed by the sinfully tight padded girdle (girl-dle). Then, half slip, bra (I probably fasten it tighter than need be) with inserts, knee-length blue print dress (which Agnes happily zips), little white socks, and leather-pattern brown shoes with open toes. I replace my temporary ear-piercing studs with simple little pearl earrings, inexpertly and lightly apply some mascara, powder my face just a little (gotta hide that nearly invisible mustache), and pull on my nice blonde wig.

I turn around in front of Clarice's long mirror and am pleased, so I make what I imagine to be seductive movements. I ask Agnes to come inspect me (her, the general, and me, the private first class) and she re-arranges the wig, combs it out a little, and puts a tiny dab of perfume on the back of my neck.

"Should I be wearing a necklace?" I ask.

"Not the best idea for work," she says. "But here, see if this filigree ring of Clarice's fits." It does. I now have Agnes' approval. She's smiling. She herself seems to be better-dressed than usual. I feel like asking what undergarment she's wearing today.

Thankfully, I make it through the workday without any trauma. Like we agreed, I spend 99 percent of my time in the storeroom as Michelle. Working while wearing a dress, with breasts, and hair nicely brushing my cheeks, and in a woman's shoes, makes me hyper aware of myself, and even gives everything a little erotic tinge. I gain small insights into working as a woman.

Probably only two customers see me. I have the most contact when I summon up the courage to take a lady's groceries to her car (Agnes was too busy). Believe me, I behave so ladylike and feminine, and nice! I walk as lightly as possible, with short steps, and I make sure my posture is perfect. The lady, whose name is Mrs. Krezinski, comments about how pretty I look. I reply in my softest voice, "Thank you so much."

"I don't think I've seen you before here," she says. "Are you new?"

I smile like I know Michelle would smile. "Yes, m'am. I'm Michelle." And after another smile, I quickly turn around and depart before I have to expose my voice more.

Fortunately, there's only one other customer in the store at the time.

When Sharon reports for duty in the storeroom, she steps back to take me in. "Hello... Michelle, I think?" she manages. She walks around me like she's inspecting a horse for sale, and unnaturally for her, she pokes my padded girdle and faux breasts like she's checking oranges for ripeness.

I give her a Michelle smile and ask if she thinks I'll pass.

"You'll do."

I ask her to give me pointers when she sees me looking or acting too male.

"What I'm curious about," she says, "is how you feel, so dolled up. I mean, to change yourself for a month? You can do this?"

"It's like a challenge."

"Do you LIKE to wear women's things?"

Oh jeez, Sharon, you had to ask ... "Well, you know I was really fighting this. I really was. But Agnes has been so hell-bent on smoothing off my hard edges, and saying it's OK to be a pretty man, like when men wear those shirts with ruffles, you know? And then, I just came to a good place where I truly wanted to experience living as a woman. Not that I want a sex change! It's a little hard to explain. And to answer your question, there are some women's things that I do enjoy wearing, like earrings, for example, or tight things. I liked the feeling of nylons on my legs the other day ... This is probably more than you needed to know?"

"We've never talked this way before," says Sharon. "Thanks for your honesty." She looks away as though a little embarrassed. "Oftentimes I dress like a guy on the farm. That's the way it is for most farm girls. We have to help with the chores, milk the cows, feed the chickens, and maybe even shovel manure. For me, that means levi's and work shoes and hair tied back and a T-shirt or flannel shirt. You can imagine."

"But you weren't consciously trying to act like a guy," I probe.

"No." She laughs. "And I always wear earrings, and I always like my hair fairly long."

She reaches under my wig to touch my little pearl earrings. "I like these."

So we finish the day working together, except when she has to pull more duty out front. It's nice, now, working alongside her. I feel like we're pals, friends, and I just have this insane desire to absorb her woman-ness and make it mine, too. I'm drawn to her physically, but in a quite different way than before. Now it's like, I want to bask in the warmth we're creating between us - that invisible connection I suppose women have. I don't feel like I have to, to use Agnes' term, brusquely engineer closeness. I just plain enjoy being with her.

If it takes being Michelle to come to this better place, so be it!

After three days of being Michelle, my confidence begins to blossom. I'm thoroughly slipping into the role, mostly enjoying it, and dropping my guard. Agnes is pleased. I spend a few more minutes each day out front. Sharon and I are getting along so harmoniously. Several customers have asked Agnes about me, commenting that I'm so helpful and nice - but where's Michael? they ask. As promised, Agnes introduces me as the twin.

Michael may never return! I'm happier. However, it's not all milkshakes and strawberry jam. After a long day at work, my girdle chaffs, my bra's underwires dig into my chest a little and the wig is way too tight (upon returning home I usually remove it, to Agnes' dismay).

Over the next several weeks, I'm enjoying my time with Sharon, even though we're doing nothing like dating (although it wouldn't seem untoward for two young women to go to the show together). I've picked up on something, though. As before, we brush against each other in the normal course of our chores. But now I'd swear that it happens more often than just by accident. We joke, we kid around, we mentally bounce off each other. She tells me I look nice, and I compliment her appearance. She absolutely has lost some of her nervousness and lack of confidence. And she's taken more pains to dress city-style rather than farm-style, as though to please me.

One day she surprises me. She's just arrived at work, we're back in the storeroom, and after giving me her daily inspection, tells me I need some lipstick. She pulls a tube from her purse - it's definitely not for her, since it's a seductively glossy, very light pink - the kind that nearly glows in the dark. She carefully applies it - I'm the oh-so-willing recipient - and has me smush my lips together.

I go look in the storeroom's shabby bathroom mirror. "Oh, I don't know about this!" I exclaim. "This is really cute, but it'll draw too much attention, believe me."

With that, she retracts the little pink stick into its tube, hands it to me, comes up close, and kisses me, lipstick and all.