(This is the third short story in a series. The first was Bob and Bigfoot, and the second was Bob and the Wife.)
"Oh, my," said Diane. Her pink tongue caressed her red lips, she felt her heart fluttering, and, truth of truths, she felt a little wet down below.
She had always wanted a woman, but had never had the courage.
Often she had dreamed about Barbara, but Barbara was not approachable.
Bob, however, was.
Bob was a man, men had their brains in their manhood, Bob could be approached. It was a simple logic.
Of course, Bob, being a man, didn't necessarily make Diane wet.
Bob being a woman, however, did.
Well, maybe not a real woman.
But woman enough to set off Diane's estrogen drip.
She stared at the voluptuous figure and was in awe. Bob had managed to establish the proper proportions. Her..His...He had selected the right shade of lipstick to make the lips fuller without being garish. He had even managed to apply shade and mascara and avoid the tart look that most men trying to be women fell into.
She was breathing so hard that her breasts felt constricted.
And she knew she had to get some of Bob.
"I need a drink," said Barbara.
Barbara went to the wet bar and reached for the bottle of Vodka in the silver stand up rack. With trembling hands, careful not to so much as brush against her husband, or even look at him, she splashed a stiff shot into a tumbler.
Tumbler up. "Ah!" Tumbler down. Her lipstick was smeared on the lip of the glass, She smacked her lips and poured from the bottle again.
"You look...divine, Bob." Diane was glad to find that her voice still worked, though it was a little breathy and hoarse.
"Thank you, Diane." He had pitched his voice higher than normal, and it was obvious that he was trying to figure out how to speak like a woman. "Are those your real nipples?"
Diane looked down at the rise of her breasts. She wasn't wearing a bra under her creamy, boy beater tank top, and her little erections were struggling against the soft material. She looked up at Bob, felt a fluttering contraction between her legs, and said, "Oh, my."
Barbara had turned away from them and was tilting another tumbler. Hard, biting liquid cascaded down her throat, but it felt soothing to her. She shook her head, shivered, and escorted the bottle over to a brown couch. She sat heavily, splaying her legs, and poured another drink.
"So, Bob," Diane swallowed to wet her throat and licked her lips, it felt like all the moisture in her body had decided to go to her pussy, "What's happening?"
Statuesque in figure, keeping his face just so, he was not quite sure what the effects of talking would be on his make up, Bob said, "Oh, not much."
Not much, Diane thought. He stands before me in full drag and says, not much.
"Well, uh, I notice that you've changed your wardrobe just a wee bit."
Bob held his arms out in a very graceful motion and looked at his body, "This?" Then the boy of him peeked through, "Do I look all right?"
It was all Diane could do to stop herself from tackling him and ravaging his body. "I think you've done just fine." She raised a hand and caressed his jaw. The hand trembled.
Bob stared at her hand, took it in his own and examined it. "I love your nails."
Her nails were a glossy, dark red. Bob's were pale and stubby.
"We could do your nails."
"Could we?"
They faced each other, Diane trembling at the thought of him, him trembling at the thought of manipulating those hands, making them feminine, giving them a real set of nails.
On the couch, Barbara slouched back and raised the bottle directly to her lips. She was definitely getting light-headed, but what did it matter? Her husband, her staunch, check-writing,, Republican husband, had turned into a woman, a better looking woman than herself, it appeared, and her best friend looked like she was getting ready to rip off his clothes and mount his bone. And she, dammit all, didn't care. After all, she had a new best friend. She hiccuped as she raised her best friend yet again.
At the wet bar, Diane said, "And perhaps, while we do your nails, we could talk a little bit."
"About what?" asked Bob. She hadn't really wanted to talk to him before. In fact, she had always displayed a kind of disdain for him.
"Oh, I don't know. Fixing cars, baseball scores, why you're a woman. Things like that."
For the next half hour, while Bob told Diane the story of the Sasquatch, Diane worked over his nails. She put on new nails, painted them a most delicious red color, and then coated them with lacquer. When she was done, he held them up and stared at them in awe.
"These are just the most beautiful, the most scrumptious things I've ever seen. His voice was getting softer and breathier. Diane realized that he was mimicking her, learning from her as they went along. His progress was nothing short of astounding.
"And you say that the Sasquatch, what it did to you, is responsible for your...change of attitudes."
He lowered his hands and looked into her face, which was very close. Her eyes were half shut and her mouth was moist and red and slightly parted.
