Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
From: Edwin Gay <gaye@delphi.com>
Subject: TG: Carla
Date: Tue, 17 Jan 95 20:22:01 -0500

				Carla

	For some time, I had been indulging in facials in a local
full-service beauty salon, but I didn't know what my wife would think
about it, so I never told her. Then one day, she picked up the phone,
and it was the lady at the beauty salon calling to confirm my
appointment for a facial the next day.

	She didn't mention anything about it that night, but as I left
for work the next morning, she handed me an envelope. "While you're at
the salon this afternoon getting your facial, would you mind picking
up a few items for me? I've just written them down in here."

	The envelope was sealed and addressed to Delia, the
esthetician.

	"Oh yes," she added, "just so you won't forget, be sure to
give it to her before she gets started. And one more thing. They asked
that you get there about a half hour early." She smiled in a way that
almost scared me.

	When I got to the salon, I handed the envelope to Delia. She
began giggling and said, "I'm glad you got here early. We're going to
need a little extra time."

	"Why?" I asked.

	"Your wife wanted us to do a few special things. First, let's
go ahead and get your nails done."

	She took the envelope and walked over to the third in a row of
manicurists, all of them busy. "Read this and follow the instructions
with him," said Delia. "He's not allowed to read the note. Just
initial it when you're done and bring him back over to me."

	The manicurist read the note, looked up and asked, "Don't you
think you'd rather wait and take care of the other services first?"

	Delia thought for a moment. "Maybe that's not a bad idea." She
turned to me. "Come on back, and we'll get started."

	Delia took me to the back area where she usually does facials,
but this time she directed me to a different room. "Before we get
started on the facial, we need to go in here for a few minutes," she
said.

	After settling me in the chair, she stood back and reached
over and brushed my eyebrows. I noticed her long, red nails.

	"We're going to do a couple of things with your eyes," she
said. First, we're going to dye your eyelashes so that they'll stand
out better. We're also going to do something about those bushy
eyebrows."

	She had me close my eyes while she applied a heavy coat of
liquid to my lashes. "This will have to stay on for about ten minutes.
Meanwhile, keep your eyes closed, and I'll go ahead and work on your
brows."

	Soon, I felt her spreading something warm over my brows. "This
is hot wax," she explained. "It's how we go about shaping eyebrows,
and it saves a lot of tweezing." She placed a piece of cloth on top of
the wax and jerked it away.

	She continued her work, chattering as she went along. "This
will really look nice. I'm giving you a nice, high, sharply defined
arch. You'll still have a definite brow, but it will look much better,
and very different."

	"How different?" I wondered to myself.

	She cleaned the dye off my lashes and stepped back. "We need a
little curl here," she said. She picked up a small device that held my
lashes in place for a couple of minutes.

	Finally, she let me open my eyes and gave me a hand mirror.
"Take a look and tell me what you think," she said.

	I couldn't believe what I saw. My eyes were different, all
right. My eyelashes, already long and dark, looked longer and darker
still. The brows were virtually gone except for a very delicate shape
high above the brow.

	"Some people like to leave the brows thicker," she said, "but
I think the more sculptured look is far more refined, don't you
agree?" she said.

	I mumbled my agreement.

	"Now, go out front and wait for me, and I'll be there in a
minute," she said.

	After a couple of minutes, she came out. I felt certain that
every woman in the salon was looking at nothing by my eyes.

	Delia motioned toward a tall chair in front of a mirror, in
plain sight of everyone in the salon. On the table were palettes of
all types of makeup - shadows, blushes, powder, lip color and
everything else conceivable.

	"I know the eyes are a big change, but you'll get used to it.
You'll like them better once we get your makeup done.

	"What do you mean makeup?" I asked.

	"You're getting a makeover today," she said.

	"You're kidding."

	"Nope. You're getting the works, Carla."

	Now I was really getting worried. Only once had I been called
Carla, and that was when my wife was making a joke about turning me
into a woman.

	Delia started with foundation, sponging on a heavy layer. Then
she moved on to blush. She looked over to her palate of colors and
selected a strong pink. "Let's try this," she said.

	For several minutes, she carefully brushed the blusher onto my
upper cheekbones, blending a couple of other colors with it.

	When it came time to work on the eyes, she took even more
care. She called over one of the hairdressers from across the room.
"Could you give me a second opinion, Renee?"

	Renee, an attractive fortyish woman with perfect makeup and
inch- long fingernails started over, but when she was still halfway
across the room, she said, "Sure. How's our girl looking over here,
anyway?"

	Still talking loudly, Renee walked up by my chair and said
loudly, "Ooh! This is going to be one pretty girl."

	"What I was wondering," said Delia, "is whether I should go
with some of these dark smoky colors or whether you think the blues
would be better?"

	Renee held samples of both and exchanged intense looks between
them and my eyes.

	"He has such beautiful brown eyes, I think I'd go with the
blues for contrast. That would be much more dramatic, don't you
think?"

	Delia nodded in agreement.

	"And how about those eyelashes. Did you ever see any so long
and thick? I assume you're going to really show those off," she said.

	"You can be sure of that," said Delia with a grin. She was
really beginning to enjoy herself. "We'll get to the mascara shortly.
There's so much we can do with these eyes, it'll take a while."

	She began working with the shadows, starting with a base,
followed by a light opal across the lower and inner lid and a series
of increasingly dark, blended colors from the blue family as she moved
out toward my perfectly sculpted eyebrows.

	"Now this is what really makes it work," she said, picking up
the darkest, richest color yet. "We put this just around the corners,
really heavy. That really makes the eyes look bigger."

	She followed with thick black liner on top and bottom, then
came to the mascara. "Renee," she called back across the room. "I'm
ready to do her mascara. Do you want to see this?"

	"I sure do," shouted Renee, as she worked on an attractive
woman's hair. "Send her over."

	"Go see what Renee thinks," said Delia after applying several
layers.

	I sheepishly walked over to her chair, having to pass every
other hairdresser and manicurist in the shop.

	"You've really outdone yourself. She looks great!" said Renee.

	"Let me see," asked one of the manicurists. All hopes of
keeping a low profile were gone. Every hair stylist and manicurist and
customer in the place was gathered around talking about the sissy
being made up, and the snickers were becoming constant.

	"When do I get to work on her?" asked the manicurist to whom
Delia had first introduced me.

	"Soon," said Delia. "I'm almost finished with her, for now."

	"I'll wait," she said. "I've blocked out an hour and a half of
time, since we're doing a full set of nails."

	"About all we need now is lipstick," said Delia. She started
with a dark red pencil. "We'll outline the outside a bit. Your wife
was right when she said your lips are a little thin, but this will
help." She filled in the middle with a very dark, rich red.

	"Ready for the nails now, Carla?" she asked as she put away
her brushes.

	"I'm ready," said Denise, the manicurist. "Send her over."

	Now I realized fully why they had decided to do the makeup
first. That way, I'd have to sit in the middle of the salon, fully
made up, so everyone could see Delia's handiwork while I was getting
my nails done.

	Being referred to so freely as "her" was beginning to feel
almost natural.

	She re-read my wife's mysterious note, then organized her
tools. "Settle back, you'll be here a while," she said. "We're going
to go with an in-between length, if you don't mind. We don't usually
go with the really long ones for beginners."

	The in-between length turned out to extend a full inch from my
fingers.

	As she was finishing the extensions, she called over to Renee.
"What was that color we used on you?" she asked.

	"Hot pink, no. 43, I think," she said, walking over to the
table.

	"Let's see," said Denise. "How do you think it would work on
Carla?"

	"It doesn't really match her lipstick," she said.

	"I think you should go darker," said a manicurist loudly from
three tables over. I wanted to disappear.

	"Me too," said Renee.

	"How about this?" asked Denise, holding up a bottle of bright
red.

	"Perfect," said Renee.

	She painted my long nails with a clear base coat, followed by
two coats of the red, which seemed much darker on the nails than in
the bottle. Finally, a shiny top coat of clear polish followed.

	"Go show Renee and Delia and see what they think," said
Denise. I walked over to Renee's chair. "Beautiful!" she said. "Hold
them up for Gladys to see," she said, referring to the woman whose
hair she was cutting.

	"Did you ever see anything so pretty?" she asked.

	Next I reported back to Delia.

	"Am I through now?" I asked, still eager to leave the shop
but, I must admit, enjoying an enormous erection.

	"You can go, but you still have a couple of other errands to
run first," she said. She pulled out the note and read it again,
giggled, put it back into the envelope and sealed it with tape.

	"From here," she said, "you're to take this to Pink Lace and
give it to the manager there."

	"Like this?" I asked in horror. Pink Lace was an upscale
lingerie store located in the middle of the city's biggest shopping
mall. There was no way to even get to the store without being seen by
at least 100 people.

	"Like this," she said. "In fact, she explicitly said you're to
go straight from here."

	Somehow, I made it to Pink Lace without being seen by anybody
I knew, as best I could tell. A couple of women looking at camisoles
in the front of the store stared at my beautiful eyes as I walked to
the counter in the back.

	"Excuse me, are you the manager?" I asked a saleslady.

	"She is," the lady said, pointing to another. The manager was
talking with two other employees.

	"My wife said I was to give you this," I said, handing her the
envelope. She gave me along look, giggled slightly, then opened the
envelope as the other two looked on. They read the note over her
shoulder. "Delia called and told us to expect you," she said. "She
told us you looked good, but I didn't really know you looked THIS
good."

	She laid the letter on the counter and read, laughing out
loud. Then she got up and began moving around the store. First, she
picked out a pair of black lace panties on a hanger.

	"Here are your black lace panties," she said loudly enough for
everyone to hear, holding them up ceremoniously as she walked toward
the checkout counter. "Let's see, you also need a camisole and some
thigh-highs. Come over here with me."

	We walked over to the rack with camisoles. She picked one of
flowing black satin and held it up to me. "I think this will fit all
right," she said, still talking in a loud voice. "Let me go to the
back and get your thigh-highs and you'll be ready. How tall are you?"

	"Five ten," I said, quietly.

	"Let's see, that'll be a queen size. Listen, you'll need to go
ahead and put these on, so why don't we pull off the tags. I'll hand
you the stockings over the door."

	She cut the tags off the panties and camisole in plain sight
and handed them to me. "Go on in that stall and put these on, and I'll
be there in a minute," she said in a loud voice.

	I looked at the stall in horror. It was one of those with a
door from shoulder to knees. There was no way to change in there
without being recognized by everybody in the store.

	I removed my shoes, pants and underwear and had just put on
the pants. I was about to put my own male underwear over the black
lace she she arrived with the stockings.

	"Like these?" she asked loudly, having opened them. She made
me look over the stall door and watch as she ran her hands across
them.

	"Yes," I said, "they're lovely."

	"Good," she said. "Hand me your regular underwear and socks,
since you'll be wearing your new things."

	I wadded them up so they wouldn't be so obvious and handed
them to her, but as soon as they were in her hands, she spread them
apart and shock them out in the middle of the store. "I must say, the
new lace ones are a big improvement, Carla," she said.

	There was that name again. Everybody was in on the joke but
me.

	I saw her walk behind the counter and drop them in the cash
register. "You won't be needing these," she said.

	When I emerged, wearing my new lingerie under my men's
clothing, the manager was puzzling over the bill. "I forgot to get the
size off that camisole you're wearing," she said. She came around to
my back, reached down under my shirt and pulled it up so she could see
the tag. "Sorry about that. I wanted to put the size in the card we'll
have on you in our file. That'll make it easier for us to fit you in
the future."

	I paid for the panties, stockings and camisole and started to
leave.

	"Not so fast," said the manager. "You have one more stop to
make."

	She took my wife's note, initialed it, and sealed it with a
gold seal bearing the lingerie shop's insignia. "Go now to Dimensions,
and give this to them. They'll know what to do."

	I thanked her, took the envelope, and started out. As I
reached the door, the manager called out, "Are those panties
comfortable? I want to make sure they're the right size."

	I nodded, assuring her they were fine.

	"Thanks, Carla. See you again soon," she called from across
the store. The other customers giggled.

	Dimensions was in the same mall, at the other end. I had gone
about 30 feet when someone called, "Wait, Carla!"

	It was one of the salesgirls from Pink Lace. "We decided maybe
somebody should go along with you," she said. "Besides, I know the
manager of Dimensions." She introduced herself as Julie.

	We strolled along, with her talking loudly about how to take
care of my new lingerie, asking if everything was comfortable, and
making sure the thigh-highs weren't slipping. All along the way,
people saw my make-up and heard her talking and snickered to
themselves or whispered to their companions.

	To my chagrin, Dimensions was a large, wide-open store that
happened to be crowded at the moment. "Oh, I almost forgot," said
Julie. "They're having a big sale today."

	She located her friend across the way and called to her.

	"What have we here?" said the manager, who identified herself
as Robin. She was relatively young, about 30, with two-inch
fingernails, long, blond hair, a tiny, skin-tight black dress and
four-inch heels.

	"This is Carla," said Julie. "She got her makeup and nails
done over at Delia's and we fixed her up with some really nice undies.
She has a note that will give you the complete picture."

	"Let's see it," said Robin. She tore open the seal and read
the entire note.

	"Looks like you've had a full day, Carla," she said. "But I
think you'll really enjoy shopping with us. As you can see, almost
everybody else in town does," she said with dramatic sweep of her
hand.

	"Well," said Julie, "I'll leave her to you. Do us a favor and
send her back when you finish so we can see the finished product."

	"You bet," said Robin. "She'll really be something."

	As Julie left, Robin asked me if I'd mind waiting a few
minutes. "I have another customer I need to finish with. Meanwhile,
one of our other ladies can get you started."

	She called to a cute salesgirl who couldn't be more than 25.
"This is Lisa. Lisa, Carla here will be purchasing two or three
complete outfits. Could you go ahead and get started picking some
things out?"

	"Glad to," said Lisa. She gave me a close looking over. "I'd
guess he's about a 12-14. In our sizes, that would be a large."

	She read the note, which Robin had handed her. As she read, I
got a half dozen looks from other customers, ranging from disapproval
to amused snickering.

	"Let's take this one at a time," she said. "First, she wants
you to have a new miniskirt outfit." She led me over to a rack of
short skirts and picked out one that was black and pleated all the way
around.

	"You'll like this little `flirt skirt,'" she said. She pulled
one off and held it up to my waist. "Yes, I think a large will do it,
but we'll have you slip into it just to make sure."

	I'd had a feeling my wife might want me trying on the clothes,
but at least, I thought, I could do so in the privacy of a booth and
not traipse around the store like other customers.

	She picked out a sweater to go with it. "Try these on and
let's see how it looks," she said. She took me to a booth surrounded
by women primping and analyzing new outfits, unlocked the door, and
handed me the skirt and top.

	"Come find me when you get these on," she said. I had no
intention of leaving the booth. Then I looked around and realized
there were no mirrors inside it. Lisa noticed my discomfort.

	"We had all the mirrors taken out. That way, we can actually
see items on our ladies and advise them. You'll get a better fit that
way," she said.

	I put on the skirt and top, then stepped nervously outside the
booth. Robin was back.

	"Oh, Carla, that's great for starters. You're going to need
some pumps to go with that."

	She took me, still in the skirt, over to the shoe area and had
me fitted in some black pumps with four-inch heels. "These will be
perfect," said the shoe saleslady as I walked back and forth in front
of a floor mirror, balancing on the heels.

	An hour later, Robin and Lisa had picked out three different
outfits - the skirt and sweater, some stirrups and a sexy top with a
colorful scarf, and a more formal dress, slit up to my thigh. For each
outfit, they picked out shoes, a purse, earrings and a necklace.

	And for each, I'd had to parade around the crowded shop in
women's clothes, trying on shoes and being fitted for jewelry, belts
and other accessories.

	"Let's put back on that first outfit one more time," said
Robin. I did so and stepped back outside for another look. "Good.
That's the one we'll let you wear home."

	I had long since given up arguing. I paid for the clothes and
Robin made a major production of checking to make sure the tags were
off my flirt skirt. Like the manager of Pink Lace, she tossed my male
clothes in the trash.

	"Lisa," said Robin, "they wanted me to take Carla back over to
Pink Lace so they could see the final product. Can you run things here
for a while?"

	"Sure," said Lisa with a grin. "But Carla, you come back and
see me, okay?"

	I assured her I would, and we began the long hike in four-inch
heels to the lingerie store.

	The women there loved it, and finally, I was on my way home.
When I arrived, I was uncertain about what to expect.

	I walked in, wobbling on my heels - a set of four-inch pink
pumps. My wife, sipping on a drink while watching television, looked
over and used the remote control to turn off the set.

	"Well, now, aren't you a pretty thing, Carla?" she said. "But
that hair isn't nearly long enough. We're going to have to get you a
wig until it grows out."

	"I can't let it grow out," I said. "This is all fun for a
joke, but I have to keep working, you know."

	"Yes, it's fun all right, but it's no joke, dear," she said.
"I called your office today and told them you'd resigned."

	For a moment, I lost my breath. My wife had inherited enough
money to support us indefinitely, so she wasn't necessarily bluffing.

	"From now on, you're Carla," she said. "You see, I've long
since been lesbian, and this is the only way I could stay married to
you. You don't mind, do you?"

	I didn't know what to say.

	"Just how far is this going to go?" I asked.

	"Just as far as I say. For now, you'll find I've replaced all
your ugly old male clothes with a female wardrobe. You'll also find a
depilatory in the bathroom. You're to use it tonight on all your
bodily hair - and I mean ALL of it - before you go to bed. And I've
bought you some new perfume. I'd love it if you'd keep some on for me
- from now on, at all times."

			       Epilogue

	A year has passed since my wife sent the note with me to the
beauty salon. I still go there each week to get my artificial nails
filled in, for a pedicure, and to get my hair fixed. It's cut in a
darling little wedge now.

	I began taking hormones a few months ago, and I'm amazed at
the changes. My voice has gone up dramatically, and I've begun growing
breasts. All of my body hair has been removed by electrolysis. Soon,
I'll have breast implants, and after that, my wife promises to have
the process completed. I'll be a complete woman.

	For now, I am still a man, nominally. I am, at all times, in
the most feminine of all states, wearing beautiful lingerie, knockout
dresses and pants outfits, high heels, and fully made up. And, of
course, wearing her favorite perfume.