by Zoe Brown
Spritzing a little perfume on over my hair, under my neck, between my breasts (as I’d seen other women do) I pulled most of the makeup shades that I hadn’t used out of my purse (leaving a few extra lip colors behind in case I decided what I had on was too dark, or wanted a change), placed them in a small plastic bag, and tossed the bag onto the rear seat of the elevator. I’d dispose of them on my return, Monday morning. Then I slipped into the suede boots and leather jacket to finish getting ready. I was starting to get antsy now. I didn’t have a phone with me right then, but I had a fairly good sense of internal time, and it felt like I’d used up nearly thirty minutes getting myself dressed and dolled up, which would have put the time at around 5:30. The ride to Santa Cruz would take a little north of an hour, unless I really poured the speed on getting out of the city (during rush hour, to boot), and I still had that one little errand that I needed to run before I could hit the open road. I was cutting things a little close. As long as I got to Santa Cruz before 8:00pm or 9:00pm I’d still be able to grab dinner most anywhere I wanted to, and check into my room at the Hyatt Residence Club, but it might be a bit late for any of the other activities I was hoping to get into tonight…
I’ll just have to make up some time on the road, I decided at length, closing up the backpack with a jerk of the pull strings at the top.
Finally dressed, I stood, brushed my gorgeous mahogany mane out behind me, gave my completed look the grinning once-over in the reflective elevator doors, pulled the nearly empty backpack on over one shoulder, and finally opened the elevator, leaving ‘Ashton’s’ male clothes and ‘his’ juices haphazardly strewn around the elevator car for my male self to clean up on Monday morning. Remember to bring some industrial strength cleaner, I made a mental note for myself. With the doors open, I took a quick look around to make sure that I was alone, and then, stepping out of the car, I walked-slash-sashayed my way across the garage level, fully immersing myself in the beautiful poetry of my female body’s new rhythm of movement, enjoying subtle exaggerated pop and roll of my hips, the controlled jiggle and sway of the breasts on my chest, the strutting of my leggings-clad heart-shaped butt, and the way my long, sexy, dark chocolate hair bounced around my shoulders and down my back as I moved.
My god, I feel like walking sex. Sex on a stick. I’m such a beautiful fucking babe! This is so fucking hot! Beneath my leggings, between my thighs, at the base of my crotch and concealed by my new panties, my new womanhood was still slightly slick with arousal, and humming with the continued sensual delights of the day.
The elevator doors shut behind me once the car realized that there was no longer anyone inside, and they locked myself for the weekend. They would not open again, in fact, until I entered my executive pin on the following Monday morning. Crossing the distance towards the Executive parking spots across the level, I steered my female self around ‘Ashton’s’ 2017 Bentley convertible and turned to the sleek, sexy, black and silver, blue-trimmed 2013 ZX-10R Kawasaki Ninja that was parked beside it. This was the hot, sexy ride that I’d wanted to sit my new, sexy girl-ass down on and blast out of the city atop this weekend, and now that it had arrived, and now that I – the Ashley-version of me, anyway – had similarly arrived, I was even more excited about it than I had been in my fantasies and planning stages. Moving up alongside the bike, I stroked one of my slender, feminine hands along its gleaming chassis, a thrill of excitement running through me, all the way from my hand down into my still buzzing crotch.
“Hey, pretty lady,” I murmured to the bike in Ashley’s – in my – soft, beautiful voice, grinning as I slipped the backpack off of my shoulder and fixed it with a shock cord to the passenger seat behind my own, “Ready to go for a ride?”
The bike was my new baby, ‘Ashley’s’ baby, really. My first real present to my female self. It was one of the first things I’d purchased exclusively for my future female alter ego when I made the decision to take a dose of Werewoman and try out life as a girl one weekend. As Ashton, as a young man, I’d loved the thrill of riding and racing motorcycles: the speed, the power, the wind in my hair. But in the process of getting older, and wealthier, I’d allowed myself to get distracted from bike riding and racing in favor of other activities, not to mention my work in the boardroom, and my pleasures in the bedroom with beautiful women. Both my reflexes and reaction times had slowed down as a result of atrophy and getting older, as well, and I rarely felt the same kind of thrill on a bike now that I’d used to. But now that I could be Ashley on the weekends – if I wanted to, after this weekend, that is – now that I could be young and fit again, with a body and reflexes perpetually in peak physical condition, I could really ride again!
…Plus there was my whole thing about beautiful babes on bikes. Heh. Sexy, feminine women revving motorcycles (in the driver’s seat, mind you) down a track of road, their long hair whipping out behind them in the breeze, had always been one of my – of Ashton’s – favorite turn-ons as a man. And boy, how the heads turned when babes on bikes would go by… And, so, naturally, once I made the decision to (temporarily, anyway) become such a woman, it didn’t take long for me to realize that I wanted to hop my future sexy little ass and flowing hair onto a bike myself and take off down the road, appreciative male (and female) stares chasing after me.
A black and silver helmet (with visor) matching the trim of the bike had come with purchase of the Ninja, but I left it sitting on the back of the Bike, roped down beside my new bookbag. Though I was fully aware of the dangers I was risking not wearing headgear while riding, the whole point of me taking Werewoman, becoming a beautiful girl, drawing the attention and pursuit of men (and women) was thrill seeking, right? Or at least … that was how it had started, and I couldn’t imagine that there were a lot of things that would match the thrill of racing down towards the California Coast, watching the Pacific Ocean grow steadily larger and larger in front of me, the wind rippling through my new long, flowing, and genetically-engineered-to-resist-tangling hair, while my hot and sexy body clung to the back of such a powerful bike. I was deeply looking forward to it. I’d save safety for another day. Plus, I had more than more-than-enough-money to deal with a few inconvenient fines here and there, and I wasn’t hurting anyone but myself by riding helmetless, so… why not?
Swinging one of my long, shapely legs, adorned in shiny, tight black leggings and knee-high high-heeled boots, over the back of the bike, I scooted up onto the padded seat (giving a little ‘Oooh…mmm…’ as I enjoyed the sensation of my soft, pillowy new ass and my sensitive, very-female crotch sliding onto the seat cushion) and started up the engine, grinning with excitement as the bike thrummed to life, feeling the vibrations rippling through the specially-made, lightly-padded seat that I’d ordered when I purchased the bike, through the thin layers of my lacey panties and leggings, and up into my new womanhood, exciting nerve-endings there that were still humming from the transformation only some thirty minutes earlier. “Mmmmm…” I moaned happily, grinding my crotch against the seat of the bike slowly for a moment as I felt things tightening and tingling down there, the nipples of my new breasts, encased in my tight sports bra, suddenly hardening. I enjoyed the sensations for a moment longer, then wheeled the bike smoothly out of its parking spot and slowly accelerated up and out of the sub-level, towards the street.
After steering lazily up through the underground levels beneath Rhodes Tower, I finally pulled out of the parking garage and northbound onto Battery Street, into the heart of the thick rush hour congestion. I met a gust of wind that came roaring in off of the Bay and laughed, gaily (such a lovely, musical sound in this voice), as I tossed my long, dark hair in the breeze, glancing around myself while I idled in traffic, waiting for the lights to change. When cross-traffic began to slow I grinned again, revving up my engine, delighting in the musical purr and the thrumming sensations melting up into my flat, empty feminine crotch and increasingly damp womanhood, already tapping the toe of my boot against the pavement in excitement. Then, once
the light finally turned green, I peeled off, maneuvering around the slower-moving cars and trucks in front of me and accelerating to a higher speed in a matter of seconds, zipping by the crawling line of vehicles on either side of me as I blasted through several intersections and then leaned hard into a turn to the right, swinging onto the road that led towards the North Beach.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“So. You are the ‘cousin,’ then?”
A slightly craggy-looking older man, probably in his late 60s or 70s, with a pugilist’s worn features that were set in an apparently permanent frown or a grimace, and who was slowly going bald on his temples and on the top of his forehead but was still possessed of fine, white and silver bushy hair towards the top and the back of his head, rumbled his words at me from behind a kitchen cutting-board table in the back of Old Gambino’s Italian and Seafood. He was still powerfully built, despite his age, but his years had shrunken him a bit – he only stood a few inches taller than me – well, me being Ashley in this case. He had on a dark, classy button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and was wearing a white chef’s apron on top, and he was slowly and meticulously deboning some fish on a platter in front of him, his eyes fixed on the work his hands were performing.
“I am,” I replied politely, keeping my speech short and to the point.
“A distant cousin who has no identification papers of her own, no credit cards, no smartphone, and who needs them provided with a minimum of questions asked or answered.” The statement was not phrased as a question, but Tony Gambino arched an eyebrow any way, though he still did not look at me. A younger man with dark hair stepped up beside Tony and got my attention, gesturing for me to lift my head and smile prettily into the camera he held. When I complied, he snapped a pair of quick photos and then stepped away again.
“That’s what my ‘cousin’ asked for,” I replied to Tony, in a respectful tone. I tried to focus on speaking as briefly and succinctly as possible. Tony Gambino had no particular reason to be interested in why the rich and influential Ashton Rhodes would contact him, a celebrated North Shore restaurateur of somewhat shady repute, to secure identification documents, financial accounts, and a phone for his ‘niece,’ rather than going through more the official channels that he – I, or male-me – could just as easily grease with money and business connections, and he probably received dozens requests just like this every month, but that didn’t mean he might not become interested, if given reason to be, and the last thing I wanted was for a man with suspected mafia ties to start peering into the relationship between the sexy, young brunette ‘Ashley’ Rhodes and her ‘cousin,’ famed business man and playboy ‘Ashton.’
For a couple of minutes, there was silence between Gambino and I. He continued methodically deboning his fish, and I continued to stand on the opposite side of the table countertop, quietly fiddling with my hands in front of my waist, smiling prettily and respectfully at any of the men in the kitchen who glanced my way. Another dark-haired younger man stepped up to me a few minutes later with a tape measure and a scale and asked me to stand on the scale and allow him to take my height measurement, and once I did as he had asked, he then disappeared as well – but not, however, before I learned that in addition to being 5’7”, I also weighed almost exactly 100 pounds (103, actually, but the very polite young man with the tape measure and the scale winked at me and said he’d knock 3 lbs. off due to my boots and my clothing. I’d blushed and felt a little tickle of delight in my tummy – and in my crotch – at the gentle flirtation.)
I loooooovvvveee being a woman! I purred and crowed inside, while trying to keep my smile from devouring my face on the outside.
After a few more minutes, one of the polite young men working inside the restaurant stepped up beside Tony again and slid him a folded-up piece of paper with a couple of rectangular objects inside of them. Old Gambino flipped the paper open – just enough so that he could see the rectangular objects inside of the folded sheet – and then nodded, slowly, dismissing the other young man with a quiet word in Italian. He then swept the paper, and the rectangular objects within, under the table, and gestured to me again. “You have the payment.” It was another not-question.
Slipping the white envelope full of ten thousand dollars in cash out of my purse and across the countertop table towards Tony, I spoke again, hoping to gently nudge things along. “My ‘cousin’ included a little extra, as a thank you for making this all happen so quickly. Ten thousand, instead of eight.” My soft, beautiful soprano voice seemed to charm him a little.
“Oh, well that is very kind of him,” Tony smiled with polite appreciation and palmed the envelope, sliding it under the table on his side of the countertop, then produced a larger, manila-colored envelope in return. He slid that across the table and then, slowly, lifted his eyes towards me.
“You speak like him. And you have his eyes.” His gaze roamed over my face, and then slowly – but respectfully – drank in the rest of my new, beautifully sexy female body. “You are very beautiful,” he complimented me, almost dispassionately. “But you have something of a Slavic look to you.” He spoke the word with something guttural that was not exactly contempt. I remembered that – IF Tony’s people really were connected to the local Mafia in any way, that might have meant some unfriendly rivalries existed between his people and the Russian mob that operated out of Richmond Hill. I decided not to follow-up on that remark. He didn’t wait for me to, either. “Maybe something of a daughter? A bastard girl he got off of some Russian or Romanian beauty two decades ago?”
I smiled, but said nothing, discreetly collecting the envelope, careful to do so without paying Tony the insult of checking the contents in front of him. Let Tony think he’d discovered my secret – that was far less potentially worrisome than him continuing to dig around until he actually discovered it. Besides, it’s not like that particular secret, even if it had been true, would have been all that big of a deal – as ‘Ashton’ Rhodes I didn’t have a family to shame or dishonor with stories of a secret, ill-begotten daughter.
“Thank you again for this,” I smiled warmly at the old man, taking full advantage of how beautifully disarming my new, female body was, and he inclined his head back to me in respectful salute. Then I gathered up the folder, slipped it under one arm, and strode calmly and deliberately through the pair of armed men wearing expensive looking sports-jackets who were standing to either side of the kitchen doorway behind me, and slipped out of the kitchen, pretending to ignore (but privately taking not a tiny amount of delight in and getting a little sexual charge out of) the three pairs of male eyes following my full, ripe pear-shaped ass in my shiny black leggings as it swished its way out of the room, swaying slightly from side to side as I walked.
✽✽✽
After winding my way back through the crowded, bustling interior dining room towards the restaurant’s front entrance, I finally got back outside, onto the sidewalk, where my bike was parked and chained. Once I was sure that there were no more eyes on me, watching my composure, I sighed, leaning back against my bike, my shoulders sagging slightly and my new breasts heaving slightly with my breath as I tried to relax. My heart was faintly racing.
That was a lot more bracing than it was the last time I was here, I thought to myself, glancing back over my shoulder towards the front of the restaurant. When I’d been here before a few weeks ago, as Ashton, I’d had a very nice meal with Tony, who cooked it for me himself. I had known the restaurateur (informally) for well over a decade. I’d eaten at his place before and been introduced to him by the manager. He’d offered me free meals any time I fancied to come by, and in return I’d always been respectful and friendly towards him. I figured it was my goodwill and reputation that he was most interested in: when I dined at his place with a pretty date, the whole internet seemed to find out about it before long. That must have been worth plenty of money to him. I knew that he had certain… less than legitimate operations going on under the table at his place, bu
t that didn’t bother me so much – nothing I’d heard about him suggested that he was involved in anything especially nefarious, just some gray-area contraband movement and a little identity cooking, especially with regards to helping immigrants stay one step ahead of CBP jackboots. Since identity cooking turned out to be exactly what I decided I needed when I began thinking up a way to pre-bake an identity for my future female alter ego and decided that it was too risky (on a public, reputational level) for me to make use of any of my official connections in getting the job done, my turn to Old Gambino had seemed completely reasonable at the time, despite Violetta’s objections.
Gambino had assured me that his people would be able to enter the identity documents I desired into the official databases with no problems, and also be able to produce high-quality identity cards and passports that would hold up to even the most advanced scrutiny. As long as ‘Ashley’ didn’t get involved in anything like grand larceny or drug trafficking, no one would pay any oddities about her information any mind, especially not when her fabricated relationship connections included a familial connection to one of the richer men in the world. And anyway: ‘Computah glitches, Amiraight?’
All throughout my initial meeting with the man, while he’d personally made me dinner and had then shared it with me, while we discussed the details of what I needed from him, he’d been pleasant and affable, the entire time. Not this time, though. This time, when I walked into his kitchen not as ‘Ashton,’ the wealthy and successful businessman, but rather as ‘Ashley,’ a beautiful woman with no legal identity, no paper trail, no history, and no one but myself to miss me if I disappeared, I had encountered an impersonal, almost chilly reception from the probably-low-level mafioso, and had suddenly become aware of just how vulnerable I was in this body, without any identification or anyone who knew where I was going or what I was doing. I mean, not, like, as vulnerable as another young woman would have been in my place (after all, I was due to change back into man in something like seven hours from now), but still – extremely vulnerable. And while there had been a little thrill from the feeling of danger that slowly crept over me while I was inside, and some naughty sexiness every time one of his men winked at me or flirted with me, I had also been quite frightened – worried that Gambino or one of his men might try something with me in this soft, sexy, smaller female body, worried that Gambino might work out the real relationship between Ashley and ‘her uncle,’ – just worried.
