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Self Deception

By da Bunnyman and Dark Angel

Simon had run almost a full mile before checking to see if Bruce was still behind him. The vision of the 220-pound linebacker, eyes blazing and face twisted with rage, did little to calm his frenzied nerves. Simon's right hand was held up to his face, keeping his glasses in place, while his left was splayed out in front of him, keeping him from losing his balance. He knew he looked ridiculous, but if he lost his glasses, the race would be over in a matter of seconds. Chest heaving, he tried to run faster, knowing his legs would give out from under him if he had to keep this up.

Simon no longer felt the scrapes on his legs and arms where he had stumbled numerous times already. His side hitched painfully from the exertion and his eyes were watering. He could feel liquid slowly running down his chest and he wondered if it was sweat or blood. Forcing back tears of panic, he ran on.

Last year, Simon had tried out for the Cross-Country running team, with visions of medals, cheerleaders kissing him and the burning wish to finally put some muscle on his pitifully small frame. He had done well enough in competition, despite the absence of both medals and ruby-lipped girls in cheerleader's garb fighting for the chance to imprint their mouths on his cheek, and when Track and Field started in the spring, he was one of the distance runners.

These facts, while seemingly superfluous to the casual observer, were of great importance to Simon as he sprinted through the city streets. Wishing fervently that he was either casual or an observer, instead of his imperiled position, Simon whispered his most sincere thanksgiving for every muscle-pounding practice and competition of the last year. It was all that was keeping him from an extended stay in the hospital.

Thinking of how he got into this mess, Simon almost burst out laughing. As it was, he forced himself to choke down the insane giggles that burst out of his mouth and stole what little wind remained in his lungs. So stupid, really, he thought. To be so angry over a childish prank. But the much larger, much stronger boy chasing him was not a prank. Nor was the murderous look in that boy's eyes.

Several hundred yards behind Simon, Bruce was consumed by the desire to catch him. Bruce had walked out to the parking lot, after the last school bell had sounded, only to find huge gashes in his tires. And the little four-eyed weasel crouching by the right rear-tire completing the job. Simon had glanced over his shoulder, seeing Bruce coming up behind him, and had done a double-take which, in other circumstances, might have been funny. In other circumstances, Bruce might have let Simon get away with a few bruises and a bloody nose.

But the car that Bruce was driving, the tires that Simon was destroying, did not constitute such circumstances. Bruce was driving his father's vintage 1963 Mustang, with wide racing tires, tires that were a thousand dollars each. Bruce's father had allowed him to borrow the car with the express knowledge that dire consequences would ensue, should that car come to the slightest harm. In the words of Bruce's father, "If anything is wrong with that goddamned rod, you'll be spittin' teeth for a week."

While Bruce had been on the receiving end of many of his father's "lessons", he knew this would warrant serious pain. Bruce was not willing to be the recipient of any pain, serious or otherwise, unless he could pay that little bastard back in advance....with interest. So, when Simon had run, Bruce had given chase with inspired energy, visions of broken bones dancing in his head.

Now, ahead of him, the little bastard (Bruce had long since ceased to think of Simon in any other terms) rounded a corner into an alley behind a large group of tents and pavilions. Bruce swore and put on a burst of speed, arriving at the alleyway seconds after Simon, but the smaller boy was nowhere to be found.

Bruce looked around for any sign of where the little bastard might have gone, but found a multitude of possibilities. He might have gone into any of the backdoors that lined the right side of the alley, or he might have ventured into the tented area to the left, hoping to get lost among the brightly-coloured tents. Deciding to check the doors first, Bruce jogged slowly down the alley, muttering under his breath.

Simon peered out from between the rear tent flaps as Bruce passed, a bull looking for some unsuspecting victim to gore. Hoping the heavy sound of his breathing would not give him away, let alone the pounding of his heart, Simon tried to slow his gasps for air into some semblance of normal respiration. That was too close, he thought. He would really have hurt me....

The thought still seemed to carry little weight in his dazed mind, disbelief and panic occupying most of his thoughts and pushing out the rest. In the past, Bruce had been the ringleader of a group of older, stronger boys that beat up the smaller students at their school. Simon was only one of several that they tormented on a regular basis, but the beatings never went beyond a few bruises or a bloody nose. There were rumors though, of Bruce breaking a freshman's arm and three of his ribs, but no one had seen it happen, and the rumor was generally discounted. Simon thought this afternoon could easily turn into another "rumor".

When he had envisioned this small act of defiance, he had not dreamt it would go this far. People let the air out of other people's tires all the time, the fact that he had punched holes in the tires just made it that much better. He often daydreamed about facing Bruce down, mid-morning fantasies in the middle of Algebra. He would be standing outside in the parking lot, waiting for Simon to emerge from the school doors. Simon would walk toward him slowly, purposefully.

"You waitin' for somebody?" Simon would say, voice hard and unreadable.
Bruce would sneer, "Yeah, you."

Simon would look into Bruce's eyes, his own eyes cold and unflinching. "I think maybe you aren't waiting for anyone. I think maybe you better get in your car and drive away before I beat you to a pulp."

Bruce might take a step forward, but one look at those menace-filled eyes would send him running back to his car, gunning the engine and screeching away like a coward. Then, one of the cheerleaders would walk up beside him and shyly admit to having a crush on him.

Simon shook himself. Now was not the time to doze off, nice though the daydream was. If Bruce doubled back, he could still be headed for the Emergency Room. Looking around him, Simon wondered just what sort of tent he had stumbled into. Clothes lay strewn over chairs and portable tables, two hanging racks of clothing stood on either side of the tent. A cursory glance showed him that they were all women's clothing, in more styles and colours than he had ever seen. Simon realized it must be some sort of changing room, and looked around for another exit. It would not do to have one of the women return and find him standing there.

As he was searching for an exit, his eyes flashed past something that looked like a severed human head. He did a quick double-take and realized it was a mask. The year before, he had worked after school at a costume shop, so the second glance immediately revealed the wig-dummy on which the mask was placed. A thought briefly flickered to the surface of his mind.
Costume shop....a costume....he would never recognize me.

He shook his head violently. That was just stupid. He was not about to go parading around in a mask and women's clothing. Not only would he be exposed and embarrassed, but it went against every fiber of his being. It was ludicrous.

So ludicrous, that ape will never even look twice at you. It is the safest way out of this, perhaps the only way out of this. A few minutes in a dress, and you will be safe.

NO!

Simon shook his head again and gritted his teeth until his jaw groaned under the pressure. But he knew that the voice was right. This was the one sure way to make sure he didn't end the day in the hospital, the one way out of this mess that fate had presented him with. He felt dizzy, his thoughts seemed to whirl around his head at lightning speed. All at once, he could feel every scrape and bruise on his body. He didn't want any more of this, he wanted to be safe, away from all of this.

Without really thinking about it, he began to take off his shoes and socks and dropped them in a heap on the floor of the tent. Soon after, he added his shirt and pants. Forcing his mind to focus on the job at hand, he looked around for the supplies he might need. Breathing slowly and deliberately, he decided that, if he was going to do this, he was going to do this right.

Bruce was genuinely confused. Though he was never the brightest star in any classroom, he knew he should have found that little bastard by now. But he was no where to be found. Bruce had checked half of the doorways in the newly-made alley, and he had not been in any one of them. But there were several more doorways to check and all of the tents. He would find that little creep and there would be pain. Lots of pain. Bruce grinned for the first time since he had seen the little bastard ruining his father's tires.

Simon surveyed the items in front of him, making sure he had everything he would need. Satisfied that everything was in place, he began the transformation. Once he had settled on a course of action, his mind had snapped back into reality with a business-like precision, completely focused on the job at hand. Doubts were no longer a factor, and creating a believable disguise was the only thing he thought about.

Adding his white cotton briefs to the unruly pile of clothing on the floor, Simon selected a pair of small white satin panties. Pulling them up around his waist, Simon tucked his organ between his legs and pulled the panties snug against it. Then, reaching back behind him, he gripped the rear end of the panties in his hand and pulled until the fabric was wedged tightly into the cleft between his cheeks. He gasped slightly at the fierceness of the tuck, but reminded himself that if it came undone, there would be little hope of maintaining the disguise.

Simon's gaze then rested on a corset. Even resigned to this course of action, this was one step he would rather not take. Corsets were confining, uncomfortable, and he had an unconscious dislike for the garments that went beyond rational thought. Something about the hooks and laces, masked by black lace and satin, seemed very sinister. But, without it, his shape would fool no one. It was far too square to be mistaken for a female shape. Resigning himself with a sigh, he reached for the alien garment.

Then, pulling on the corset, he realized he had made a mistake. The corset had obviously been fitted for a girl's figure, and svelte as he was, it would not go around him. Loosening the laces a bit, he tried the bottom hook again. This time, it barely fastened. Sucking in his stomach, he fastened the hooks up as fast as he could manage. Finishing the last, Simon found that he could barely exhale, the corset was still far too tight. Reaching behind him frantically, he clawed at the laces, trying to loosen them. But as he pulled, the laces only drew tighter, until he was practically fighting for every breath.

Taking slow deep breaths, he forced his hands to his sides, determined not to panic. Glancing in the mirror, he was shocked to see that his body had taken on an entirely new shape. His waist was far more waspish, his hips flaring out in a feminine manner from his waist. Above the corset, his chest was thrust up and out, almost giving him a bustline. Reaching back one last time, Simon shoved the laces beneath the fabric of the corset, effectively locking himself into this black lace prison.

Simon reached for two of the silicone breast enhancers he had found in one of the costume trunks and placed them inside a stretchy sports bra. With luck, the bra would go undetected beneath his disguise. Wriggling into the bra, he adjusted the breast enhancers to a semblance of a female chest. Bouncing slightly up and down produced the correct jiggles, so he proceeded onto the next part of the disguise
.
His foraging in the tent had uncovered a number of other masks, all female, so Simon concluded that this must be some sort of traveling children's show, Sailor Moon, or something similar. Along with the masks, Simon had found a number of flesh-coloured lycra bodysuits. He had never seen them before, but they would be perfect for his disguise.

Pulling the legs of the bodysuit on, Simon was very careful not to run the material. It was thicker than most lycra he had seen, but it paid not to take chances. Simon was glad he had not begun to grow much hair on his legs, a backhanded advantage to late puberty, because he had no time to shave them, if he could even manage without cutting himself to pieces. Pulling the fabric up to his waist, he felt the tickle of the lycra spread across his legs and up toward his groin. Simon quickly stretched the bodysuit as tight as it would go, wanting to avoid any possible wrinkles. He looked at his groin, satisfied to see that the bodysuit had transformed it into a featureless, hairless mound. It would do well enough to hide what lurked beneath.

Pulling the bodysuit up over his torso and chest and, finally, over his head, Simon zipped up the material in the back and turned to look at the finished product in the mirror. He was not prepared for the vision that greeted him.

If it were not for his face, painted in shock and disbelief, he would not have believed the person in the mirror was him. The figure of a woman stood before him, nude and well-formed. Simon ran his eyes over his legs, his tiny waist, his breasts...his breasts?! Simon was overcome with shock. He looked far more like a girl than a boy. It was hard to believe that this was only a few pieces of clothing and well-placed padding.

Moving to the articles of clothing he had picked out, Simon stepped into the red satin panties. Pulling them up to his waist, he knew they served no purpose, but to further the disguise of a costumed girl, he still thrilled at the electric tingle of pleasure as the satin slid across his fabric-covered skin. To this, Simon added a red satin bra, the cups ample enough for his modest cleavage. Fastening the bra's hooks, Simon ran his hands over the swell of his breasts, making sure they felt real enough to pass a close inspection. Who knew what might happen before he got out of this mess?

Checking the mirror again, Simon was satisfied with the effect. His breasts swayed slightly with his movement, imitating life well enough to pass a cursory glance at least. Finished with the undergarments, Simon picked up a red minidress and stepped into it, his lycra-covered legs whispering against the fabric of the dress as he pulled it up. The velveteen fabric of the dress hugged his new curves, muting the lines of his form into softer shapes. After a bit of wriggling, Simon succeeded in pulling it over his hips and breasts. Not for the first time, he wished there had been something less conspicuous in the clothes that littered the tent, but every garment was as attention-grabbing, or more.

Next, Simon donned a pair of elbow-length gloves, whose fabric and colour matched those of the dress. Entertwining his fingers to make sure the gloves fit tightly, he hoped they would make his arms and hands appear more delicate and feminine. He practiced a few hand gestures, trying to be feminine, and was pleased to see his fingers, clothed in red cloth, appeared like spidery willow branches, lithe and graceful.

Satisfied with the effect of his disguise thus far, Simon moved to the next article of clothing. There, his stomach sank. When he had chosen out the red pumps with 4-inch heels, it had seemed the logical choice to complete the effect, but now his mind was plagued with doubts. He would be clumsy in the heels, unable to run if worst came to worst, and his stumbling might well attract unwanted attention. But he could not wear his sneakers with the clothes he had chosen and he was not about to traipse about the city street with nothing on his feet but a thin layer of lycra.

Slipping his foot into the shoe, he was surprised at how well it fit. For the first time since the beginning of his adolescence, Simon felt some measure of thanks for his small, spare frame. He had searched the tent for the largest red pumps, unsure that the pair he found would fit him. But, wriggling his enmeshed toes inside the shoe, it felt almost as though it had been made for him. It might pinch a bit, but the leather covered his foot snugly.

Donning the other pump, Simon stood slowly, careful to avoid falling on his face. He teetered, off-balance for several seconds, before gaining some measure of control. Then, he spent the next few minutes walking back and forth in the tent, taking small, mincing steps to remain upright, trying to practice walking for when he attempted his escape. Behind him, the mirror showed the reflection of a pretty, young, female body, its breasts bouncing slightly and legs delineated by the heels. Oblivious to his reflection, Simon walked slowly to the table where the mask sat, staring at him with expressionless eyes.

Simon looked at the mask again, making sure it would disguise him well enough to keep him from discovery. The mask had wide-set green eyes, a slightly turned up nose, and a full mouth, poised almost at the verge of a pout. The latex was a very pale shade, giving the mask a creamy complexion, the mask's cheekbones, high and well-defined, were molded into the latex. There was also a wig attached to the head, partially to cover the zipper in the back; a full head of long, lustrous blonde hair done in loose curls. A few strands fell down into the eyes of the mask, completing the effect.

Taking a deep breath, Simon steeled himself for the tight enclosure of the mask. He had worn enough of them during past Halloweens and other occasions, but this mask would conform to his face much more closely. In one swift motion, he lifted the mask off of the wig dummy, raised it to his head, and pulled it on. There was a soft rasping as the rubber passed over the slick lycra that covered his head. The next few moments were spent expelling the air pockets that collected under his cheeks and around his face, making sure the eyes of the mask matched up with his own, adjusting the lips and the nose for the most comfortable fit. When he was finally satisfied, Simon reached back and jerked the zipper down, enclosing his head in rubber.

Inside the mask, Simon could hear his breath loud in his ears, could feel sweat breaking out on his brow. But as he became used to wearing it, those sensations faded to the back of his mind. He looked out of the mask's eyes and realized, to his horror, that everything more than 20 feet away was a complete blur. There was no room inside the mask for his glasses, and they would not stay on the outside of the mask. Finding a small clutchpurse on the table, he emptied it of its contents and shoved the glasses inside it. Makeup scattered across the counter, red lipsticks and black eyeliner rolling gently across the smooth surface. If the disguise did its job, he would not need to see any farther than he already could. If not, the glasses would be no help. He sighed fatalistically and, in an impulse gesture, took one of the red lipsticks from the counter and covered his latex lips with a thick coating. He looked in the mirror, coiffing his hair, practicing a few feminine gestures. In his mind, a monologue repeated itself over and over.

You can do this, for just an hour or so. You can pretend to be a girl, to get yourself out of this. You can do this, it doesn't mean anything. You can be a girl, to be safe. You can be a girl to be safe.....

The figure in the mirror raised its gloved fingers to its bee-stung lips and blew Simon a kiss for luck.

If Simon had turned around just then, he might have seen a head poke in the tent flap, eyes darting to take in all of the tent's contents. Then, satisfied the object it searched for was not there, the head disappeared.

Bruce stood on the corner of the street, turning this new development over in his mind. The little bastard had not been in any of the shops that lined the alley, nor hiding in any of the tents, though he had walked in on someone dressing. But he was no closer to his revenge, and soon his father would be home, wondering where his car and, as a footnote, his son, might be.

Not being a particular creative thinker, Bruce decided to re-trace his steps, perhaps seeing something he had missed the first time. But the alleyway doors yielded no new secrets, and as he approached the other end, he turned back toward the gathering of tents before pausing. Hearing a din of shouting, excited voices, he continued out of the alley to see what might be the cause.

He was surprised at what he found. A group of children, some only a few years younger than himself, were crowding around a figure pressed against the brick side of a building. Walking a few steps closer, he saw the figure was a young woman dressed in red. Her loose blonde curls falling about her face in disarray, the woman was obviously frightened, and unable to escape, her wide eyes and pale complexion spoke of near-terror, the shooing, flailing gestures of her red-gloved hands having little effect on the frenzied crowd of children.

"Miera!!" they shouted, faces aglow with delight. "I love you! I have all of your movies! Can I have your autograph? Touch me! You are my favorite! You are my hero!"

The noise was deafening. The children reached out for her, touching her hands, her dress, catching wisps of her blonde hair. Bruce watched as a few hands reached up to grab her ample breasts or slid along her pale pink legs. When one particularly brave, discourteous hand reached out and groped between her legs, Bruce could almost hear her gasp with surprise and fear.

Bruce had never been someone given to acts of chivalry. He had is own problems, he had no time or inclination to play the knight in shining armor, feeling that, if a girl was stupid enough to get herself into a situation from which she needed rescuing, she could just as well get herself back out. But something about this helpless, frightened sparrow of a woman tugged at his guts, wouldn't let him walk past and ignore her plight. He would extricate her from this unruly group of yard apes and then return to his own business, the location and dislocation of a certain screwdriver-wielding little bastard.

Striding quickly into the milling group, he pushed the smaller bodies aside, receiving startled protestations and angry glares from the enthralled youths. The children tried to press in again, trapping him inside their swelling numbers. Only by the use of his fists and elbows was he able to drive them back again. Swollen lips and bleeding noses quelled the more unruly members of the crowd, the rest backing away to avoid similar marks. The children formed a ring around him and the woman, staring at him with dark, considering eyes.

Grabbing the woman by the arm, Bruce pulled her toward the ring of children, glaring at the short barrier until the children opened a path through their whispering ranks. The woman followed a few steps, before stumbling and falling. Rolling his eyes and sighing, Bruce lifted her, cradling her in his strong arms, as she squeaked, surprised. Her body felt slim, but soft, pressed against his skin. Bruce whispered in her ear, trying to calm her. "Don't worry, I've got you. You're going to be O.K.

Quickly, he bore her away from the scene, not sparing a glance behind him to see if any of the children followed. Behind him, the whispers grew louder. "Did you see.....?" "He looked kind of like....." "Do you think it was.....?"

Some of the older children looked sagely down at the younger ones, as if already knowing the truth and indulging the questions with the good-natured allowance of lioness with frolicking cubs. But the speculation continued, even in their minds, for some time to come.

Away from the noisy children, Bruce gruffly set the woman back on her feet. She had not ceased trembling the entire time in his arms, though clinging to him as if for dear life, and had seemed to alternate between looking him directly in the eyes and staring off into space, as though wishing she were anywhere else. A fine show of gratitude, to his mind.

Bruce had decided she was some sort of actress, caught out alone by some twist of chance. At first, when he realized her wide green eyes did not blink, nor her mouth move with her evident respiration, he was surprised. During the jumbled moments when he had rescued her, he had not taken a close enough look at the object of his chivalry. Now he saw her pretty face for what it was, a mask; he saw her pink, smooth body for what it was, a costume. Bruce thought he might have even seen the cartoon character she was supposed to be, once or twice, an image or two flickering on the television as his father channel-surfed endlessly.

Bruce realized he was staring, the woman stood facing him, her hands clasped together, arms turned inward, shoulders rounded forward, and head down, avoiding his gaze. She looked the perfect picture of awkwardness and dejection. Bruce felt himself sympathizing for her, even knowing she was probably just acting, thanking him for getting her out of the predicament she found herself in. He cleared his throat and asked, "Miera?"

She did not respond, remaining downcast and avoiding his eyes. He plowed on, never realizing before how hard it was to talk to someone, when they refused to answer you. "I heard some of those kids call you 'Miera'. Is that your name?"

The woman looked up, as if finally hearing him speaking and, after seeming to consider for a moment, shrugged and nodded. Bruce nodded as well, Miera was obviously not her real name, but if she wanted to hide behind the character's face, her name was no more important. "Miera....do you know where you are? Can you find your way back to the other....uhm...actors?"

Miera looked at him, her unblinking green eyes staring into his, her emotions hidden by plastic and shadows, for an endless moment, before looking, then peering at the surrounding buildings and streets, as if unable to see or recognize any of the features or landmarks. Then, she slowly shook her head, her eyes returning to her shoes.

"Well," he said brusquely. "Come with me, then. We can look for them together. I won't leave you alone, to get attacked again." He took a few steps forward and looked back when she had not moved.

She stood, looking at him again, with her questioning gaze. Her gloved hands were clenched into tight fists, as if steeling herself to do something very unpleasant. Finally, she followed, taking slow, tiny steps. Bruce slowed his pace to match hers, feeling as though he were creeping along, but he figured it couldn't be easy to see where you were going in that mask, though he couldn't see where her eyes might be looking out of.

They walked back down the alley, side by side, Bruce listening to her steps punctuated with each click of her heels on the asphalt. He became very conscious of her body swaying and moving next to his, more voluptuous than any girl he had been with. He almost hoped they would not be able to find the other actors in her troupe, so she would remain near him longer. All too quickly, they reached the busy boulevard that Bruce had turned from while chasing that little bastard, seeming now like hours, if not days ago.

As they emerged from the narrow makeshift alley, people turned to stare, if not at him, then at his masked companion. The adults shot curious glances, then hurriedly averted their eyes, as if embarrassed by someone masked in their presence. But the children were another matter. They began to whisper to their parents, to their siblings, to themselves that this was that girl from TV, the one from their favorite show. They approached Bruce and Miera in ones and twos, shyly asking if she was the girl from TV, or loudly proclaiming themselves her biggest fans and quizzing her on the show's trivia or asking for clues to upcoming stories. This attention drew still more attention, until the children began crowding around them and Miera was clinging to his arm, burying her face against it, trembling uncontrollably
.
Bruce fended them off with generalities and cold stares. "Miss Miera is busy right now. Miss Miera is flattered, but she can't stop to talk. No, Miss Miera is not signing autographs. Give her some room, Miss Miera is very tired."

Finally, when it became apparent that they would not get Miera to talk to them or even acknowledge them, the children wandered away, becoming interested in any number of childhood fascinations. But Miera had not stopped shaking, her head still buried against his sleeve.

She must really be frightened, Bruce thought. No actress would keep this up so long, not even to thank someone.

Leading her to a secluded sidewalk bench, overhung by shady trees, Bruce sat her down and drew her head to his chest. He thought of nothing but calming her, stroking her blonde hair and whispering gentle reassurances. She clung to him like a child, gloved hands wrapped around his chest, her generous bosom heaving against his torso. He could feel the slick, smooth material of her mask against his chest, her cheek pressed to his pectoral muscle.

But her hysteria did not abate, seeming to decrease only slightly. Finally, running out of ideas, he cupped her masked face in his hand, bringing it up to his own and crushing her lips to his. He had done this without thinking, as surprised as she seemed to be at this sudden kiss. He could feel her lips beneath the latex, pressed against his mouth. For a moment, she seemed frozen, too shocked to react. Then, just as suddenly, she melted into his kiss, lips becoming more pliant in their caress. Her gloved hands patted his back, awkwardly.

After a luxurious minute of her embrace, Bruce broke the kiss, gasping for air. He had not been able to breathe when his lips were pressed to hers, his body too tense with unexpected pleasure. More strange, he could taste lipstick on his own lips, it must have been on hers. Why would someone put lipstick on the outside of a mask? He hastily scrubbed at his mouth while she drew back to look at him, hands resting on his legs.

He looked at her askance, eyes glancing quickly at her pouting lips and wide eyes, and then away just as quickly. "I.....I'm sorry....I didn't, I mean....I don't know why I did that....But you wouldn't stop shaking, and I couldn't....."

Miera placed a gloved finger against his lips, silencing his babbling. Putting her palm to his left cheek, she pressed her latex cheek against the right side of his face. He heard a feminine whisper, soft and toneless.....an address a few miles away, in a suburban neighborhood not far from his own. Then she pressed her lips to his face firmly, leaving a red imprint of her pout on his right cheek.

Simon tried not to think any more, it was all just too confusing. He had begun the afternoon running for his life from a hulking bully. Now, he walked arm in arm with the same boy, snuggling against his strong biceps, even flirting with him harmlessly. He could chart the events of the afternoon in his mind, each leading from one to another, in a logical and necessary order. But why did the sum refuse to add up in his mind?

After he had finished getting into his disguise, he had crept slowly from the tent, wanting to avoid all notice. Without his glasses, everything beyond 20 feet distant faded into a blur of color and movement, and the heels he wore threatened to pitch him on his face with the slightest wrong move, so he had ample reason to move slowly. Then, with his cursed luck, he had picked a mask that evidently portrayed a well-know children's character. He could still see them, running toward him, eyes bright, like rat's eyes. So many eyes, the hands groping and pawing at her.

Simon had been nearly blind with terror when a strong hand had gripped his own. He remembered nothing about his rescue, except being enclosed in a gentle, warm embrace and carried away to safety. When he had calmed a bit, the discovery that his rescuer was Bruce had nearly sent him into hyperventilation again. In trying to escape the older boy's notice, he had stumbled right in front of him, right into his arms!

Then, there had been that second descent into hysteria, so soon after the first horrible experience. By that time, his nerves were quite unreliable, synapses and emotions flaring wildly, unexpectedly. Then, he was being touched, stroked, comforted and that first wonderful, awful kiss when he felt his desire to be male submerge itself in his desire to be safe, to be protected.

He had called himself Simone, then, in his own mind. Looking down at her curvaceous woman's body, she saw no incongruency. And, in a falsetto whisper, her voice soft and breathy, she had asked to be escorted home. For blocks after that, as they walked, she had enjoyed the simple pleasure of being safe in his arms, only slowly remembering that she did not exist, there was only a very confused he.

Simon nuzzled Bruce's neck, rubbing his false breasts against him innocently as he did. Fool! What happens when he wants you to make good on all of your teasing? Will you show him your smooth, featureless crotch?? Maybe what lies beneath?? Simon cringed at the thought, knowing the outcome of such a scene. But it was so nice to be safe in his arms, so nice not to have to worry about being hurt or mobbed. A large part of him wanted only that, at whatever price must be paid. But he could not relinquish his identity so easily, it would not be banished like so much smoke hanging in the air. As they passed a shop window, Simon peeked around Bruce's well-muscled chest to look at himself. A girl with blonde curls and wide green eyes peeked mischievously back. Simone blew the girl in the reflection a quick kiss. Then again, maybe it could.....

Bruce smiled to himself. This was far from what he expected, when this afternoon began. But here he was, walking down the street with a beautiful, fetching actress on his arm. The actress wore a mask, but that didn't spoil the enjoyment. Some secret part of him whispered that it made it much more enjoyable.

Miera seemed to brush against him unconsciously as they walked, touching his leg with her own silky calf, or seeming to accidentally press her chest against his arm when they stopped at an intersection. It might even be innocent, but the effect had him nursing a throbbing erection. And when he "accidentally" let his arm around her slip down to her firm, round rear, she didn't seem to mind.

Ahead, a small child, little more than a toddler, broke free of his mother's grip and ran toward them. He stopped about 10 feet in front of them and burst out, "MIERA!" giggling.

Bruce stopped, looking around to see if any other children had heard and were coming to molest his companion. He would not allow her to be upset for a third time, surprised at his own fiercely protective emotions. But there was only this small boy, staring up at Miera with eyes shining, full of nothing less than worship. Miera minced forward, taking small steps that outlined her slender legs and showed her lovely bottom moving beneath the thin shell of her dress. She bent down, keeping her legs together in feminine fashion, and put her arms around the little boy, who had gone white with surprise. Hugging him tightly, she pressed her latex lips to his forehead, giving him something to remember her by
.
By that time, the boy's mother had noticed he was missing, and hurried out to the sidewalk to make sure he was all right. When Miera stood, the woman stopped in her tracks, looking embarrassed. "Oh! I'm sorry, uh....Miss.....Whoeveryouare.....He is so hard to keep hold of, I hope he didn't bother you."

The woman practically dragged the boy away, as he looked silently at Miera. Miera cupped her gloved hand and waved cutely to the boy. The boy turned to his mother and whispered loudly, "She kissed me!"

Bruce smiled and walked up beside Miera, putting his arm around her again. She leaned against him, moving slowly forward again. Eventually, the city streets faded into endless suburban blocks of identical houses and yards. The sun was low on the horizon as they came to stand in front of the address Miera had given him. She turned to him, her wide eyes already seeming to say "Goodbye".

He stammered, "Will I, uh...Will I see you again? I mean, I wouldn't have even seen you today, except I was chasing this little bas....uh, this kid that ruined my dad's tires. He's probably going to give me a black eye at least, but I don't really mind anymore. I guess what I am saying is: I'm glad I met you and I want to see you again, if you want to...well, because you are fun and...er, well....because....."

Once again, she put a gloved finger to his lips, silencing his chattering. Stepping into his chest, she reached up and pulled his head down to her lips, kissing him as deeply as that first amazing kiss. Then she lowered her hand down to his bulging crotch, squeaking with surprise at what she found. Hastily, she backed away, breaking the embrace. Then, she cupped her hand and waved to him, just as she had the little boy.

Breathing a disappointed sigh, Bruce's eyes fell on a small clutchpurse that hung from Miera's shoulder. Peeking up from the purse's zipper was the corner of a pair of glasses, the lenses thick, the frames the sort only a boy would wear. Bruce wondered whose glasses they were, and why she was carrying them. Miera turned and walked toward the house, her pretty rear wiggling at him as she walked.

Suddenly, with the force of a lightning bolt, a moment of realization hit him. He knew whose glasses those were, had seen them hundreds of times, most recently on the surprised face of a little bastard as he finished slashing the last tire on his father's vintage car. The little bastard.....Bruce forced himself to say the name.

"Simon!" he said, aloud, with surprising vehemence.

Just in front of her door, Miera turned and stared at him. For a long, agonized moment, no one moved, no creature on the earth breathed. Then Miera raised her hand to her mouth and ran inside her house.

Bruce glowered, trying to feel rage at being tricked like this. But, he realized, he had enjoyed himself too much that afternoon to really hate what had happened. Sighing again, he turned to walk the few blocks to his own home, knowing what was waiting for him. Then, a thought occurred to him and he chuckled softly. He knew a better way to be repaid for the beating he was about to take. He wondered if Simon would be as happy to hear it.

Several hours later, after Simon had run into his house, to find it blessedly empty; after he had peeled the sweat-soaked costume from his body, pulling the mask off and hiding the whole bundle deep in his closet; he sat in a soapy bath and washed the sweat from his body. His legs still twitched, unused to the hours he had spent walking in heels. Drawing a soapy washcloth across his ribs, he hissed as he touched the red weals the corset had left. But he had escaped, that was the important thing. He didn't want to think of the rest.

Rinsing himself off, Simon climbed out and toweled himself dry. Then he looked in the mirror and almost fainted. Staring back at him was a blonde-haired girl with wide green-eyes, gripping the countertop as though she would fall to the floor if she released it. Simon shut his eyes tightly and counted to three, shaking his head violently before opening his eyes. His own reflection greeted his eyes, pale and haggard.

That night, Simon lay shivering in his bed. He doubted he would forget this afternoon any time soon, even if his reflection in the mirror stopped waving back at him with gloved hands, or blowing kisses at him, giggling.

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