Thank you to those who rated, favorited, and/or commented on my previous story. Your feedback has been very flattering.
I'm sorry to say that, at the risk of disappointing some readers, this new story does not feature much (scarcely any) of the bisexuality/feminization many of you enjoyed in my first. I'm exploring other fantasies here. But I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.
If you like my work, the most generous way to show me is by rating my story, leaving a comment, and/or sending me feedback directly. I love to engage with readers.
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Please note: All characters are over the age of 18.
Claire's New Curves
The red light continued to blink at him from the corner of the room.
"How old are you, William?" the stranger asked. She looked up at him from the end of the bed. William stood fidgeting before the woman, trying to keep his eyes off her breasts.
"I'm nineteen."
"A little louder, dear. For the camera."
"I'm nineteen years old, ma'am."
"So young?" She smiled. "How sweet. I'm Mrs. Thomas, by the way."
He could only nod. He looked awkwardly about at the floral wallpaper, the intricately quilted bedspread.
"Now don't be rude, dear. Say 'Hello, Mrs. Thomas.'"
"Hello, Mrs. Thomas," he murmured
She grinned then. "Good boy."
He'd been thoroughly disoriented by the whole encounter. An hour ago, he'd been on the bus, headed home from class, when she'd materialized like some beguiling eidolon to lure him here.
"Do you like my body, William?"
Her tight dress had ridden so far up her thighs that he could make out a dark hint of her panties. He blushed and looked away.
The question was redundant. She was preposterously sexy. In fact, her impossible glamour, the mischief on the bus, and now this bizarre interrogation, it all served to lend the whole experience an air of unreality, and he wondered, not for the first time, if this was all some benevolent dream.
"It's okay, dear. Don't be shy. You can look at me. It's why I brought you. I want you to watch."
"Watch?" he asked.
"Would you like to see my breasts? They're really very nice." She gave them a wobble, and they danced obscenely beneath the cashmere dress.
He could see she was not wearing a bra.
"Look how big they are. Aren't they enormous?"
His prick began to stiffen, and he clasped his hands at his lap, an incongruously formal pose, given the circumstances. He felt like a misbehaving school boy, sent to squirm before the headmaster for some juvenile mischief.
"Would you like me to take my dress off, William?"
William nodded. He began to tremble.
"Speak up, honey."
"Yes. Okay, Mrs. Thomas," he croaked.
"Wonderful," Mrs. Thomas sighed. "We're going to play a bit of a game."
***
Claire dipped two fingers into the jar and withdrew a generous dollop of lotion. It was more, probably, than she needed, but she had been so happy with its recent effects that she had begun to use more and more of the stuff.
She sighed as she slid her hands about her body, massaging the cream into her extravagant curves. She immediately began to feel the now-familiar sensation of warm pleasure that seemed to emanate from wherever the cream was applied.
She luxuriated for a moment in the lambent swell of well-being that always accompanied these applications then turned to the mirror to appreciate the changes the past few weeks had affected. As promised, the lotion was working to rapidly restore her sex-appeal.
In her youth, Claire had been a slim beauty with a radiant smile who had never suffered a want of sexual attention. Though she had never been especially well-endowed and had sometimes envied the silhouettes of some of her more buxom friends, she had always prized her own lithe physique.
In fact, after high school, she was recruited by a modeling agency and spent the years before meeting her husband walking runways all over the world. When she married, Claire's modeling career had ended, but she had maintained an even weight during the early years of her marriage and had worked hard to quickly regain her figure after giving birth to her son, Matthew.
When the same voluptuous friends she had once admired began to produce children, Claire was quietly satisfied as they embarked on an inevitable decline into corpulence.
The death of her husband six years earlier had initially left Claire feeling wholly untethered. She had dedicated the majority of her adult life to being a wife and mother. And yet, in her early-forties, she had suddenly found herself with no husband and an adolescent son who scarcely needed her.
She thought about getting a job, but there was little she was qualified to do, and Richard had left a substantial sum when he died. The money from his estate combined with the remainder of Claire's savings from her modeling days meant that she didn't really need to work.
Instead, she went back to college for a semester, but she quickly grew bored. She had floundered without a clear sense of purpose.
And so she had resolved to make the preservation of her beauty her singular occupation. She spent hundreds of dollars on professional styling equipment and began to devote close to thirty minutes to her hair each day. She discovered a certain serenity in the painstaking care of her fingernails. She joined a gym and religiously adhered to a strength and conditioning program prescribed by a personal trainer.
When she wasn't occupied by the direct achievement of her goals, she was thinking about them. She bought armloads of style magazines, watched makeup tutorials online, spent afternoons planning the next phase of her training, designing her diet, or preparing meals for the week.
She attained an aura of sleek glamour and her muscles became lean and compact, her arms and legs enviably toned.
She began to receive attention for her efforts from some of the men at the gym, younger, buff guys whose eyes would follow her about as she described a well-traveled triangle between the squat rack, treadmill, and the water fountain.
