Author’s Note: This is my entry in the April Fools Day Story Contest 2023. It’s a playful fantasy encompassing a world of supernatural forces, voyeuristic intentions, and the realization of sexual dreams—with a twist. The primary focus is on non-physical voyeurism, but does include a taste of lesbian play just to keep things juicy (pun intended). Any similarities to events or persons are purely coincidental, and all characters are over 18.
Your support, comments, constructive feedback, and votes are greatly appreciated!
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I was late. And a bit lost. I told my buddies I would meet them at a new coffee house in the old section of town that was supposed to be an improvement on the run-of-the-mill commercial chains. We planned to go over setting up an informal knockoff of a Magic Cards tournament and generally shoot the shit, mostly about girls—or our lack thereof.
So, yeah, I’m a bit of a nerd. And my friends and I were definitely lacking experience in the naked women/sex department, but not for lack of trying. Or thinking about trying. Or wondering how to make anything happen in real life at all. We’d be thrilled even just to have a look-see.
I’d evidently made a wrong turn after I got off the bus because I was in an unfamiliar part of town and not the area I was looking for. Instead of gentrified new shops, restaurants, and coffee houses, I passed run-down-looking used bookstores, a pharmacy, and several pawn shops. I walked briskly, thinking that if I moved faster, I would find my way sooner—which would make more sense if I weren’t heading in the wrong direction.
I cut down an alley leading to what looked like an open square. I met an old man with a cart laden with trinkets, mystical novelties, Tarot cards, crystals, singing bowls, amulets, incense, beads, and the like. I stopped, curious, and looked at several items.
My nerd/fantasy/sci-fi brain took over, and I forgot I was in a rush to get somewhere. So instead of moving on, I started browsing through the wares. I was fascinated by the array of items but skeptical about their authenticity. So, rather rudely, I asked the old man if any of his shit was real or just junky schlock to fool the gullible.
The old man regarded me with a sage look. “Reality is a state of mind, and the mind can be bent, molded, tricked, and expanded. Do you believe your mind is capable of more things than we objectively know and understand?” He looked at me with black, piercing eyes.
“I, uh, well, I suppose so,” I muttered, uncomfortable with the question. “I haven’t really thought about it in that way. What do you mean, though? What kind of things?”
“There is more in the universe than can be understood by man. Unseen forces, dimensions of time, space, and reality that few comprehend, and fewer truly experience.”
“That sounds deep,” I said. “But honestly, it also sounds like some kind of mystic mumbo-jumbo. No offense.” Despite my brash words, deep down, I generally understood what he meant and did believe there were forces beyond our comprehension. Also, something about him engendered trust, which surprised me. I was curious.
The old man smiled, a knowing look on his face that I found disquieting. “You, Billy, are more than you are and can tap into forces you do not know or understand. If you would so want.”
How does he know my name? I never told him . . . ok, this is creepy.
“I’m not really into this secret, unknowing reality, mind-bending double-speak, sorry. Can you just tell me what you’re talking about? Just say it without all the mystique?”
The old man chuckled. “I speak about forces and events this way because there is no other way to describe them—there are no simple definitions or words to talk about things we do not know. So perhaps it would help to think about it in simple, archaic terms, the way people did long ago—magic, for instance.”
“Magic? Yeah, right, and I’ve got a bridge to sell you.” I couldn’t keep the disdain out of my voice.
“It is not a word I prefer; it has many cultural and societal connotations that warp its fundamental meaning.”
I nodded. “Ok, so what do you mean when you say magic? And how is all the other gobbledygook you’ve been spouting related to magic?”
His face darkened at my words, and I realized my characterization of his views was disrespectful and unwarranted.
“Hey, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to be rude,” I quickly added. “It’s just that I’m having difficulty grasping all this.”
He paused as if weighing whether I was worth his time. I hoped he would continue and vowed to be more polite and non-judgmental about these things.
Nodding, he continued. “Simply put, ‘magic’ is altering or affecting events through supernatural or mysterious forces, and ‘supernatural’ refers to forces beyond scientific or human understanding. So when events occur outside the laws of nature or scientific clarity, we call it magic.”
“So, you’re not talking about parlor tricks or illusions for entertainment here,” I said.
“Precisely. I sense in you a potential ability to attune to what you might think of as paranormal forces, to tap into and manipulate events or objects in our dimension.”
“You’re saying I have some sort of “wizarding” powers, like Harry Potter or something? Me thinks I’ve seen that movie already.”
He chuckled again. “No, nothing like that. I am not talking about some sorcery you can wield to cast spells or learn to control things that way. I am talking about magic in the sense of using the mind—with the aid of some objects—to achieve what appears to us to be inexplicable.”
I waited, now enthralled with his description.
“Let us put it this way,” the old man said. “Certain objects—often colloquially called amulets or talismans—are infused with energies that have not yet been scientifically identified. Some people, attuned to these energies, can focus and direct them to create a new reality—a physical manifestation in this universe—that appears to temporarily alter or change existing matter or objects. The duration of the alteration or events depends on the strength of the forces and the person focusing those energies.”
My mind sifted through the concepts and implications of his words. “At the risk of over-simplification, then, to the typical person, you’re essentially describing someone making a wish using a magical object, and that wish comes true—well, at least it appears to come true to us in this temporal plane. And usually temporarily.”
“Basically, yes,” the old man said. “That is how many would view the phenomenon. Magic wishes. A terribly simplistic term and so inaccurate. But yes.”
“You said you sense something in me that could do that. How can I know if there is? Do you do some sort of test to measure how attuned a person is?”
Again, he paused, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed. Mulled over something. He apparently came to a decision and gave a curt nod as if telling himself to continue. To me, he said, “Something like that. More like a practical assessment of abilities than a test in the way you would think of one. Is this an endeavor you truly wish to undertake? You may find that events do not always unfold in the manner you may have intended.”
“Are you talking about danger? Is this something that I might get hurt doing?”
“Such a result would be improbable to occur unintentionally. I can think of no such instance happening.”
Relieved, I made my decision. “Yes, I think so; I want to know more about this. You’ve got me curious, and I’m intrigued to know more. What do I need to do?”
“Let us begin with a simple assessment of the degree to which you can connect with and direct certain forces. First, I will provide you with a small crystal infused with moderate energy. Next, you will focus on achieving a personal outcome, something you desire but may not generally be in the realm of possibility in this world.”
I interjected, with a sense of suspicion. “Hang on, so this crystal, is this something you’re trying to sell me? Is this whole conversation just a sales pitch for your trinkets?”
The old man shook his head, clearly disappointed with my accusation. “No, Billy, I am not trying to sell you something or make you do something. I travel the world, seeking the attuned and educating and assessing them. Some, I train—train them in the useful and philanthropic applications of their energies. Yes, I sell mystical trinkets and paraphernalia because I need money to survive and function. However, that is not my purpose or goal. There will be no financial transaction here today with you.”
I felt pretty shitty about openly accusing him of basically being a charlatan and regretted my skepticism. There I go again, foot in mouth, not thinking first. He’s trying to help me, and I shit on him. Arg, I’m a dick sometimes.
“Sorry again,” I said. “Just my inherent cynicism, I guess. Are you still willing to give me a try? And I keep meaning to ask, how do you know my name is Billy? I never told you. Is this part of your connection with unseen energies or something?”
The old man looked at me with amusement. “Not exactly unseen energies, but something just as powerful. I tapped into my mental connection with visible written words and made a logical deduction—your name is embroidered on your shirt.” He grinned broadly. “And yes, I want to move forward with you.”
I laughed and shook my head. I’d completely forgotten that my work shirt had my name on it. “Ok, so you were talking about an energy-infused crystal.”
The old man reached into a small satchel and pulled out an irregularly shaped white crystal about the size of a golf ball. He handed the crystal to me. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I felt what seemed like a tingle of electricity for an instant as I touched it. The feeling was brief, and I wasn’t sure if it had even happened. I put the crystal in my pocket and looked at the old man expectantly.
“Please listen carefully,” he began. “First, what you are dealing with is not a joke, a parlor trick, or something to use as a stunt to impress your friends; it is something to be used discreetly and with forethought. Second, the amulet you hold is not particularly strong. Think of it as a ‘starter kit’ to test your natural abilities. If we proceed beyond this initial trial, your opportunities and experiences will increase exponentially.”
The old man held up his finger to emphasize his next point. “Third, and this is very important: the universe does not necessarily respond to intentions as one expects—it does not speak English. So, you must focus with specificity and clarity. Focus on the situation, application, or resulting circumstance you envision, rather than on a concrete product or effect—unless you want to limit the alterations to a specific object—and remember it is not permanent at this stage.”
“I get the first two points; they’re pretty straightforward. But I’m not fully following your third point about choosing the effect.”
“Allow me to give you some examples to better clarify,” the old man said. “Say you want wealth, money. You could ‘wish’ for a million dollars. But what event or effect accompanies that? For example, someone you love could die and leave you the money—and then you lose the money somehow because the outcome is temporary—so not an advisable ‘wish.’ Consider the classic story, The Monkey’s Paw, a literary caveat.”
He paused to let me contemplate that, then continued. “Or, your desired effect is unclear, and you say something vague or ambiguous, such as ‘I want to be taller,’ instead of ‘I want to be able to reach two inches higher to adjust this shelf.’ The first is unclear—what defines ‘taller?’ A centimeter? A foot? And what makes you taller? Your shoe heels double in height? Your neck stretches? If your goal is generally to reach two inches higher, but you are open to different means of achieving that goal, then focus on your goal, carefully specifying sufficient parameters to avoid too broad of an interpretation or unwanted results.”
I nodded slowly, processing the information. “So, what do you suggest for my first attempt?”
“We recommend for your first attempt that you either try something particular with an object or something personal to you that creates an effect or result without an articulated method. Pick something personal and unique to you that you want to achieve or experience but is unlikely in the natural course of events.”
“Like what? What do you mean something personal?”
“I cannot suggest what you choose to seek; that must come from you. But for this first attempt, keep it simple, light, and fun. You will be more successful if you do not have the self-imposed pressure of trying to do something highly consequential. So think of something you would like to do or experience that would not happen under most circumstances. Then, part of the skill set is to frame your desired outcome in a way that achieves your goal or goals. This cannot be taught; each Attuned must find their best method.”
“Ok,” I said, still uncertain and with a healthy dose of skepticism. But open to trying. Why not? If it doesn’t work, well, no harm, no foul. “I think I have the general idea. What happens next?”
“You will want a private place where you will not be interrupted. Decide ahead of time what your goals and intentions will be, and give thought in advance about how to focus your ‘request’ or ‘wish’ so you can best achieve the desired outcome. Then, hold the crystal in both hands, close your eyes, focus, and state out loud what you seek to happen three times. Finally, read the countdown statement printed on this parchment.”
He handed me a small leather-bound folder; inside was an old, yellowed paper with what looked like a countdown list. I looked at it briefly, then back at the old man. “Is this a spell or incantation? It looks like something a sorcerer or wizard would say.” But with pretty lame rhymes.
The old man shook his head. “No, not in the way you think of those things. It is like a spell in the way praying is like meditating: similar in form but different in intent and meaning. The words help the mind focus and connect with the crystal’s infused energies and integrate those energies with the universe’s forces and your own desires.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said with more conviction. “Oh, one more question. You said this first event would be temporary; how long does that mean?”
“Depending on the strength of your ability to channel the crystal’s forces, anywhere from one to three hours,” the old man replied. “The outcome duration correlates with the Attune’s strength and the transformation’s complexity and difficulty. If it is only a small or simple outcome, it will last a shorter time. If the outcome is larger, more complex, and detailed, then the duration will be of the longer range.”
I furrowed my brow as I absorbed that information. Then I asked, “Do we meet after to discuss this? To assess how attuned I am?”
Nodding, the old man replied, “We shall meet shortly after the conclusion of the first event. I shall find you.”
I walked home, memories of my conversation with the old man both foggy and sharp simultaneously. I couldn’t wait to try my first experiment and hoped this wasn’t all some elaborate ruse or practical joke.
That evening, just after dinner, I told my parents I was going to study in my room. As recommended, I set pillows on the floor, wore comfortable clothes, and sat down. I was just about ready and began contemplating what to try to do.
My brain bounced from idea to idea. What was something personal that I desired that would be fun, something I probably never tell people? Be more intelligent and clever and impress women, or be so charming I attract beautiful women? Everyone laughs when I try to be funny? See any woman naked that I wanted to? Make girls find me witty and attractive, so they want to have sex or show their naked bodies to me? I could see that might be problematic if the condition were temporary—I could end up in messy situations there.
I quickly recognized a common thread—females and nudity. Well, the old man did say fun, personal, and unlikely. And I’d had so little experience with girls; the subject was intriguing. Maybe I could improve my interactions with girls, attract women, or just see women nude. Is it possible to gain x-ray vision and see girls’ bodies through their clothes? Or become invisible so I could be near when they changed, or showered, or . . . see them close up, masturbating? Damn, that would be so hot.
Ok, so I was—or still am—a bit of a perv. Or, maybe just a horny 19-year-old virgin who still lived at home. I’d seen a grand total of two naked adult females in person, both not in a sexual way or in a way that counted in my mind—my mother and once my grandmother. I try to unsee the latter, but the image keeps sneaking back like an annoying song stuck in my head.
So, I decided to try seeing nude women doing natural things instead of reacting to or interacting with me. That’s something I’d like, would be fun, is personal, not of significant consequence, and is ok if it’s temporary.
I needed to figure out how and under what circumstances I’d accomplish my voyeurism. Not spied on from a distance; that would be sexy but not notably different from seeing porn. Instead, I would want to be close to naked women without hiding uncomfortably, but where they don’t see me and don’t react to a guy there. I liked the idea of either having X-ray vision, being invisible, or being a fly on the wall, so I could be right by them and see as much as want.
Next, I had to consider whom I’d be seeing. One or two girls I knew and had crushes on? Any girl at will, wherever, and whoever she is? Cheerleaders? Ballerinas? Models? Strippers backstage? So many options, and so hard to choose.
I started leaning toward actresses or dancers; they might be changing clothes or costumes, putting on make-up, and doing more things while still undressed than most. I searched online and learned that a ballet company would be getting ready that week for performances in a few days at a local theater—that would be perfect. And dancers were so fit and sexy, they’d be so hot to see naked.
I prepared for the event: peed, wore comfortable clothes, and worked out verbiage. I pondered how to describe essentially becoming invisible and being around specific women without getting caught or spoiling my ability to fully enjoy the experience. To be safe, I wrote out my “wish” to repeat it accurately, hoping that keeping my eyes shut the entire time wasn’t a crucial detail. Finally, I placed the paper with the incantation-that-wasn’t-a-spell, so I could read it and picked up the crystal.
I cupped the crystal in two hands and closed my eyes in concentration. Took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Then I spoke out loud. “I desire to be able to see the female ballet dancers currently at the Capitol Theatre dressed, partially nude, and fully nude, while they change, shower, or otherwise do normal activities in the theater or dressing rooms, close up but where they don’t see or detect me or react to a strange man’s presence, as if I’m invisible to them; I will stay human (a fly could be swatted), and retain all my senses and physical abilities, including being able to move, speak, eat, drink, touch, feel, taste, smell, hear, get aroused, have orgasms. (I wanted to cover all my bases; I never know if some jerking off might be in order). I can avoid unintentional contact or anything that might involuntarily reveal my presence. But I can make my presence known if I choose.”
That covered all the contingencies and circumstances I could think of—I thought it was pretty good for a first try. And, to be honest, I had little confidence that anything would actually happen anyway.
I repeated my “wish” two more times. Then I read the inscription on the paper: “Ten—from now to then, nine—the will is mine, eight—to guide my fate, seven—perhaps to leaven, six—desires will mix, five—death or survive, four—our dreams will pour, three—my mind is free, two—such things may do, one—connected thoughts are won.”
The crystal began to vibrate, and I could see its color change from white to deep indigo through the gaps in my fingers. I felt electric tingles shoot up my arms, and the crystal became warm, then hot. I wanted to drop it but somehow couldn’t—as if it had melded with my flesh. The room began to spin, and I clenched my eyes shut. No, I was turning, not the room, fast enough to feel the wind whipping against me. Disoriented and mildly nauseated, strange sensations pulled me in different directions. Suddenly all sounds ceased, then all motion.
I opened my eyes and found myself in a crowded dressing room with vanity light-framed mirrors along the walls. A women’s dressing room. I was standing amidst a plethora of girls in various stages of dress. Panic rushed up, and I froze in shock and bewilderment. My mind raced at high speed. How the fuck did I get here? Oh my god, I’m dead meat. They will freak out and kill me; where can I hide?
Then, as if turned by a dimmer switch, my panicked thoughts subsided as I realized that the girls weren’t reacting to me. At all. I looked around. No one was even glancing at me, let alone freaking out, screaming, or covering themselves.
Shit does this mean I’m actually invisible? The wish worked? Unbelievable, but they don’t seem to see me; they don’t react or indicate they know I’m here. Wow, this is incredible. I think the wish must’ve worked—I’m invisible. This is so cool.
Everywhere I looked, my eyes were treated by the sight of naked or partially dressed goddesses. Ballerinas walking, sitting, showering, talking. Not seeing me, not reacting to me. A visual symphony of female bodies—more bare tits, pussies, and asses than I’d seen in my life, all here, with me, together.
As I struggled to understand what was happening and how I got there, two naked women walked right past me—close enough to touch—deep in conversation. Although fully nude, they made no effort to cover themselves or show any awareness that I was staring hungrily at their exposed bodies. My mind paused any rational analysis of the situation, and I stared and drank in the unexpected vision.
Both nude women had long hair and toned, athletic figures with just enough feminine curves to be sexually enticing. One was slightly darker complexioned, with dark hair and with brown nipples and areolae perched atop firm handful size breasts. Her flat stomach’s visible ab muscles undulated as she walked, above her hairless pussy peeking out from her toned thighs. The other had pale skin and dirty blonde hair, and her boobs were slightly larger and had a spray of freckles across her cleavage. Her light pink areolae were relatively small, but her nipples stood out tall and erect like pencil erasers—tantalizing. In addition, she had a well-trimmed landing strip of light brown downy pubes, a pathway to glory below. I felt a ripple radiate through my belly and groin as I watched.
I didn’t try to stop a massive grin from splitting open my face. I was invisible, and my dream of seeing all these nude girls had come true. I reached up to straighten my glasses and froze, my hand hovering in front of my eyes. I could see my hand clearly.
I wasn’t invisible. Shit. And, my hand wasn’t my hand. Well, it had to be my hand, but it didn’t look like mine. I held both hands out in front of me, turned them over, and wiggled my fingers. Just like my hands would behave. But my hands were broad, had heavy knuckles, and short trimmed nails. The hands in front of me—obeying my brain signals—were small, delicate, smooth, and had long, well-manicured, painted fingernails.
A woman’s hands.
I looked around furtively, once again confused and disoriented. Then, finally, I dropped my hands and followed them with my gaze, shaking my head. I started to tremble and break into a cold sweat as I looked down. Breasts. I looked at two humps sticking out in front of my chest: rounded, more than a handful, and very much a woman’s breasts.
My mind screamed in panic. What’s happening here? This can’t be real; I don’t understand. I’m me, but what has changed? Why do I have tits? What’s wrong with my hands?
I stood still, tried to calm down, and assessed my situation. I wasn’t invisible—but no one seemed to see me. And I have tits. I scanned the room. Over a dozen women were busy dressing, putting on make-up, standing, sitting, talking—more than half were topless, and I noted four were naked. No one reacted to me, which was good. Can they see me, even? Maybe I can see myself, but I’m invisible to them . . . how can that be?
My attention was diverted—a frequently recurring event—by a topless woman sitting in front of a mirror who suddenly reached her arms over her head and stretched. Her compact boobs thrust forward as if offering her erect pink nipples to be kissed. I felt a warm wave of pleasure deep in my belly at the sight. The woman finished her stretch, brought her arms down, and cupped her breasts, looking at herself in the mirror. I don’t know what she was doing or thinking—weighing them, seeing if they matched, liked touching them?
Mirrors. Of course. I could see what I looked like or if I even cast a reflection if I were invisible.
I moved slowly and deliberately so as not to attract attention. I sidled to one of the mirrors framed by round exposed light bulbs. I moved in front of it and simply stood there. I was befuddled and perplexed by what I saw. I was visible, but the reflection wasn’t mine. Or, rather, it was not me in the mirror. It was a woman.
What am I seeing? This makes no sense. Is this what I look like here? Must be. But I’m me; I’m a man. How is this possible?
I moved my arms, turned, tipped my head, and rocked from side to side. The woman in the mirror literally mirrored my every move—I was definitely watching my reflection. Despite my instinctual attempts at denial, I had to accept what was in plain view—my reflection was correct. I had changed. And become a woman. Not at all what I wished.
I brushed across my boob and felt the contact. I glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention—I still didn’t know if the ballerinas could see me—and casually dropped my hand to my crotch. No cock. No balls. Shit. Somehow I turned into a woman with my situational alteration . . . but why? What did I say? How does this make my “wish” materialize anyway?
The woman in the mirror looked back at me; I studied her features for the first time. She—I—was attractive, sexy even. Older than I am—or was. Maybe late twenties, close to thirty, dark brown hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, and hazel eyes peering through dark-framed half-moon glasses. My figure was trim but not athletic, with ample hips and a bit more than handful-sized boobs. I wore a loose button-down shirt and slacks, with a cloth measuring tape looped around my neck.
Pondering the old man’s words, I decided my transformation was complex, detailed, and intense. I couldn’t imagine it wasn’t. The temporary duration, therefore, should be closer to the longer three-hour length. A wall clock showed just after 3:00pm. I was confused; I had gone to my room after dinner and initiated my transformation close to 8:00pm. Have I gone back in time? Or forward? Or am I in a different plane of existence that follows a totally different time-space continuity? Something to ask the old man when I see him.
“Maggie, can you give me a hand here with my hooks?” I started at the sudden voice to my side. Standing next to me was a petite, pretty woman. Girl? I’m never sure what we are supposed to call females anymore. What to call ‘us,’ I thought wryly.
Looks like they can see me, so I’m not invisible. They seem to accept that I belong here and know me—that must be why they are not reacting or freaking out. Evidently, my name is Maggie. And this girl is captivatingly beautiful.
The dancer wore a tutu with a brocade top resembling a corset but was not squishing her. She turned so her back was to me, which revealed a row of hooks and eyes running down the top’s length.
Since the costume was fully fastened, I correctly assumed she wanted to be unfastened. I unhooked each closure from the top down—I was surprised when my fingers flashed rapidly along as if I had done it hundreds of times. I brushed her warm, soft skin with my fingers as I undid what I later learned was called a bodice. Near the bottom was overlapping fabric with a double row of hooks. I had to slide my fingers down to grip them properly. My fingers were below her waist, almost as low as her butt crack, when I reached the final hooks.
“Thanks,” the pretty girl said, turning back to face me and looking at me with violet eyes. “Can you also take a look at my left strap here? I think it needs to be tacked down more securely.”
I watched, and, as if in slow motion, the pretty girl pulled her bodice forward and off and revealed the most perfect breasts I’d ever seen. Softly rounded and firm—gentle swells capped by clearly defined half-dollar-sized pink areolae and nipples that I watched harden with their exposure to the air. God, I want to touch her, cup her boobs, kiss those nipples. Oh, wow, she is stunning. I would have sprouted an instant hard-on if I still had a dick; instead, I felt my own female-body nipples harden and a flutter in my belly.
“Yoo-hoo, Earth to Maggie,” the girl teased with a soft giggle, waving her hand in front of my face. “My strap?”
Shaking my head to clear my libidinous thoughts, I met her gaze and chuckled. I took the bodice and smiled but wasn’t sure if I should speak. What will my voice sound like? Will I give myself away? I need to test it somewhere away from people before I say anything.
I decided to just grunt an affirmative. But instead, I responded, “No problem, dearie, let’s take care of that for you.” In a woman’s voice. With an English accent. The words came out of my mouth unbidden. What the fuck? How did that happen? I didn’t try to say that.
“Ok, thanks a bunch.” The pretty dancer chirped. She stood unabashed, nude from the waist up, with her perfect bare tits spectacularly on display. Bare above, but still wearing a tutu around her waist that stuck out like a slightly drooping cake platter.
Ok, now, that is just too damn sexy for life. I’d love to see that in a ballet; I think many of us would become avid fans of the art overnight. Damn, she’s hot.
The topless ballerina spun away and left me standing, watching her depart. I glanced around the room and took stock of my situation. I wanted to see nude ballerinas up close, without hiding or causing adverse reactions. The cosmic energies had focused and combined with my abilities, giving me what I sought. Just not in any way I thought it would.
So not invisible . . . but evidently, “Maggie” is around so often she fades into the background and is ignored unless something is needed. I looked back at my/Maggie’s reflection; the tape measure suggests a tailor, or whatever that role is called in a ballet company. And someone who assists in dressing/undressing the dancers. Up close and personal, with physical and verbal interactions. Not a bad call, oh, universe of altered realities.
I was still determining exactly what my situation was. Had I replaced or taken over the body of Maggie? If so, where did the real Maggie go? And my voice seemed to respond almost on its own, both in tone and word choice; my fingers also seemed to go on auto-pilot when unhooking Beauty’s bodice. I may have some physical or muscle memories to allow me to perform Maggie’s duties. I hope so; otherwise, I’ll be in big trouble.
“Are you ready for our costume fitting now, Maggie?” I turned to meet the chocolate-brown eyes of the woman asking the question. My mind pulled my view back like a camera zooming out so I could take in the rest of the speaker. Raven hair in a typical ballet bun framed the captivating brown eyes, flawless olive skin, and soft full lips.
The raven-haired beauty’s lithe, toned figure suggested both power and sensuality. She wore a simple white leotard—resembling a one-piece swimsuit—and light pinkish tights, which both showed her figure and muscle definition. The fabric of the leotard was thin; I could see the outline of her areolae and nipples and could detect a hint of their darker color.
I had no idea what to say or do. I needed to respond, so I bluffed and stalled. “Oh, yes, well, is it that time already? Certainly, lovely, after you.” My English accent here is cool; it makes me feel posh. I gestured with my hand, inviting Miss Ravenhair to lead the way. Hoping she would reveal where this “fitting” was to take place. I’d figure out what I was supposed to do when I got there.
“Great,” Ravenhair said and walked briskly towards a doorway.
I followed but held back slightly to enjoy the look of her well-toned ass as it flexed and rippled with each step. We entered what appeared to be a tailor shop workroom, with costumes, fabric, sewing machines, measuring tapes, scissors, and thread scattered over various tables and benches. Several large, full-length mirrors were mounted in different places. Maggie’s domain. The costume and wardrobe department.
I sincerely hoped that Ravenhair would somehow give me a clue as to what costume we were “fitting” and what I was supposed to do, so I bought some time. “Well, just look at this mess,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ve got to do a better job tidying up as I work.” I stood with my hands on my hips as if surveying and planning how I would tidy things up.
To my relief, Ravenhair filled the gap. “So, should I pull this on over my tights, or should I change completely?” She held up what looked like a colorful piece of fabric—it didn’t look like it would cover much.
I put on my best skeptical face. “Well, love, do you wear tights underneath when you perform?” Of course, I had no clue if she did, but it allowed me to suss out what I should be doing.
Ravenhair giggled, “Of course not. I guess it was a silly question. So I’ll change and be right back.”
As I waited, I mulled over what was happening. Not the method I had imagined, but the old man had warned me that the universe responded to my goals and desired outcome, not a specific process or procedure.
Thinking back on my “wish,” it seemed to make sense. The underlying desires—to see, interact with, maybe touch nude dancers without adverse reaction or awareness that a strange man was among them—had manifested effectively. A wardrobe mistress moves freely unnoticed, handles and looks closely at the dancers, and is so ever-present as to be essentially invisible. Perfect.
Well, perfect, aside from my being a woman. But hey, who am I to question the wisdom of the universe? So I’m going to make the most of this wonderful opportunity.
My reverie was interrupted by Ravenhair’s return. “I’m really sorry, Maggie, but I forgot my nude-colored thong. But we can at least see the fit and your embellishments.”
She was wearing a whole-body one-piece, form-fitting, stretchy costume that clung to her body like paint. The outfit showed her body’s every muscle, curve, and flex—an incredible and beautiful sight.
Wow, unbelievable; she is so hot. I can see everything; the outline of her nipples, the shape of her boobs, and . . . oh, heaven is real . . . her pussy lips. Major camel-toe alert.
“Wonderful, love. You look stunning,” I managed to say, still startled by my female voice and English accent. “So, where were we? Remind me what we were working on here.”
Ravenhair drew her brows together and looked at me quizzically. “You wanted to check the fit of my unitard, see if the torso length was correct and plan out the embellishment placements.
“Unitard” is what this delightful bit of fabric is called. I instantly decided that unitards were one of my new favorite things. “Right, of course,” I said. “I couldn’t recall if we’d finished the torso fitting or needed to work on everything.” I’ve got to be careful here; I’m supposed to know what I’m doing. I had no idea what she meant by measuring or fitting the torso length. Waist to shoulders? Crotch to shoulders?
Still trying to figure out what a costume fitter would do, I continued buying time. “All right, then, love. First, tell me how it feels and if there is any specific place we might need to adjust; then, we can look at embellishments.” The colorful unitard had smaller bits of fabric and rhinestones making abstract patterns—I assumed these were the “embellishments.”
“Well . . . it is kind of tight in my crotch,” Ravenhair said. “Keeps riding up. It’s better with my thong, but not perfect. Maybe it needs letting out along there.”
My libido thanked the wise universe—a beautiful ballerina with a pronounced camel toe just invited me to examine her barely-covered pussy close up.
“Very good, lovely. Hop up on the platform, and we’ll have a look-see.”
Ravenhair stepped up on what looked like a wooden box; her pussy was slightly below my eye level. I gazed at her puffy sex; each curve, cleft, and space was visible and close. I reached out and, with my fingers hovering near her well-outlined labia, I asked, “I need to check this inner seam, dear, is that ok?”
“Sure, of course, Maggie,” Ravenhair giggled. You’re the boss.”
I nodded with what I hoped was a wise expression. “Good, then.” I “accidentally” brushed the bottom of her labia lightly with my fingertip, then tried to grasp the material not partially folded into her cleft.
“Ay, that tickles,” Ravenhair chuckled as she pulled her hips back slightly, then returned forwards. She evidently was not offended by my touch.
My second attempt was successful. I captured a bit of fabric and gently pulled it out from between Ravenhair’s labia. The material was damp, noticeably so both visually and tactilely. It took all my willpower not to taste the wetness. “You seem to be a bit moist down here, dear. This will need a proper cleaning before wearing it for the show.”
Ravenhair said in a lilting, little-girl voice, “Do you need to wash it now?”
I looked at her, unsure of our—or Maggie’s, I should say—dynamic here. Is she flirting with me/Maggie? I feel like I’m missing something here. Something fun.
“Well, that might be a good idea; we wouldn’t want the fabric to get stained,” I prompted in a generally vague way. Then, on impulse, I released the fabric and watched it snap back into her cleft, forming a perfect outline of her puffy labia. She’s turned on here, swollen and wet. Is it because of me/Maggie?
Testing her reaction, I traced my finger lightly around her labia, then drew it up along her slit. “And we should probably figure out what to do with this tightness here; we wouldn’t want our public to get upset by showing too much of your ‘naughty bits.’ Wouldn’t you agree?”
Ravenhair giggled again—that seemed to be her “go-to” response. And she was definitely not upset or offended by my touch; instead, she seemed to enjoy it.