Summary:They say that “clothes make the man” — but what if that man’s wearing his girlfriend’s underwear? Little did Sam know that her panties had magic in them — magic that would transform him into a woman, piece by piece, the more of her special clothes he’d wear.
Sam’s a successful magazine reporter, but when he got the opportunity of a lifetime to do a feature story on fashion superstar Francesca, he had no idea it’d lead to a whole new gender-bending life — and becoming her lesbian lover.
Sam wore his Hugh Hefner style silk robe and slippers. If slippers could smoke from carpet friction, these would have. Sam paced back and forth, back and forth, like a caged Jewish tiger (picture a feral cat but with Woody Allen’s nervous ticks circa “Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex *But Were Afraid to Ask”). Francesca was distracted in the other room, but Sam could hear as she tapped and typed fastidiously on her tablet. She was reading and revising the blog entry he had just finished writing for her. Sam knew the notes were coming. Notes and revisions. He didn’t know when, but he knew they would come.
Francesca was the self-proclaimed fashion queen of social media. When she wasn’t modeling or at a photo shoot, she was on the internet, updating the “Frankie’s Fashion Hot or Not” blog, making social media updates or researching the newest trends in makeup and fashion. Francesca seemed to care more about her future career moves than the present needs of one overly doting Sam.
Sam tried to understand, but like a neglected housewife, whose Mad Men era husband went off to the office early and didn’t come home until late… Sam got lonely.
Very very lonely. Lonely like he needed human contact lonely. Lonely like he needed a stroke or two lonely. Lonely like repressed nocturnal emissions lonely. You get the point. He was repressed and sexually frustrated and Francesca, arguably the hottest woman on the planet, turned out to be a “Kobe Beef Grade AAA” cock tease.
Sam, a respected journalist in his field, wrote for Mademoiselle’s Arts & Leisure section and met Francesca during one of her many marathon press tours celebrating her latest New York Times Bestseller, a self-help book, “The Fashionable Life Lessons of Francesca Kinder.” A routine press junket full of dozens of interviews, Sam felt extra nervous to meet Francesca in the flesh.
In the 24 hours leading up to this forecasted interview, had clocked a baker’s dozen of furious masturbatory sessions in her honor based using her latest photo spread in Elle (coincidentally a competitive fashion periodical). By all psychological accounts, Sam harbored an unhealthy emotional obsession with Francesca. But who didn’t? Every red-blooded straight man, nay every boy (and possibly a few chimps at the Central Park Zoo) with a functional boner, had cranked off a few seminiferous loads thinking about Francesca’s famous long sleek legs and chiseled high cheek bones.
Sam considered himself a chivalric gentleman as he stroked his less than average sized cock. The aforementioned chimps would most likely focus on Francesca’s voluptuous chest or healthy rump while squeezing one off, but he didn’t stare at her breasts like most Neanderthals. He wasn’t an animal! He respected a woman’s mind foremost. He was a modern metrosexual sophisticated man. No, Sam was no mere breast man, nor was he simply objectifying her to get aroused. He avoided internet porn, all porn for that matter, out of respect for womankind. Besides, the simple thought of how gorgeous, smart and witty — the true triple threat — Francesca Kinder possessed, these attributes made him hot and ready.
He respected Francesca Kinder. She seemed perfect.
“One in a billlllllllleeeeeeeeeeeee-yuuuuuhnnnn,” Sam would groan.
And the morning of their first face-to-face meeting (the impending interview with her) he cleared his mind (three spank-o-matic times) and concentrated on the photo of her face with those intoxicating mysterious violet eyes. Each ejaculation, he wished and prayed to Allah, Yahweh, and Mohammed (frankly, any deity listening) that behind those violet eyes was a kindred spirit, a soul mate, another human being such as he. If only she could see into his kind heart, she’d adore him as much as he already adored her. That’s not creepy at all, right? If only he could connect with her, then he knew he could show her, prove to her, that he and she were meant to be lovers, friends too. As he dreamt of their beautiful future together, his cock began to chafe… then he finally ejaculated a thick load. Every time until this last load, he fired over her bow, but this time it glopped onto the photo, producing ‘ye ole pirate eye splotch’.
“OH FUCK!” Sam panicked. This was his only full-faced photo of Francesca’s gorgeous eyes. He desperately tried to wipe his jism paste from the photo, but only succeeded in smearing it across her face. The violet ink bled, blurring her perfect image forever.
He stared down at Francesca’s ruined magazine image, with his dripping droopy cock in hand, and hoped with a heavy heart that someday soon, if mistress fate was kind, his spew of pirate booty could be caked atop her actual beauty. Sam never asked for anything in life. He’d earned his spot at the magazine through hard work, but this gift of meeting Ms. Perfect? This was magical.
Everyone knew Francesca Kinder despised interviews. She hated cameras and paparazzi and journalists, too. They all gossiped about her: “Is that cellulite? Is that an extra chin? Who’s that boy-toy on Francesca’s shoulder now…” The usual gossip-rag drivel.
Francesca sat aloof, with a cardboard cutout of her book cover standing behind her. Her team of bodyguards kept the paparazzi back and her team of publicists would rotate in specific journalists as per a pre-ordained scheduled. Francesca suffered through round after round as uninspired sycophantic writers would walk into the staged interview room and ask routine questions over and over. They all gushed unceremoniously with praise and asked the same of her. “What inspired you to write this Francesca?” “In one sentence or less, what is the elevator pitch?” “Boxers or briefs?” Stupid-relentless-pedantic-monotonous questions…
All Francesca wanted to do was light up a Glamour Gold Flake cigarette (the waif model’s fag of choice) and smoke.
But then Sam stumbled into the interview room and spilled his coffee on his own lap. Not only did it look like he pissed himself, but he burned the tip of his cock (which he kept secret, and boy howdy did it burn throughout the entire interview). This walking talking buffoon amused Francesca. Her laughter (at his expense) cheered her up. How refreshing. She forgot about the cigarette smoke wish and wanted to see what else this nincompoop would manage to fumble.
Sam apologized profusely for his awkward entrance. He futzed with his notes and sweated profusely, most likely due to the searing hot coffee he had just spilled, but Francesca assumed it was because he was so nervous to be around someone such as she. She began to pity the poor man.
“Do you need more napkins? That looked dreadful hot.”
“Oh poo– I’ve gone and flummoxed my one and only interview with the Francesca Kinder.”
Sam’s use of Francesca in the third person amused her. How often did anyone use the term “flummox” in general repartee?
She smiled. Then she took over the interview.
“What’s your name?” Francesca asked.
“Uh, oh, me. Wankleberg… er, Sam Wankleberg?”
“Sam Wankleberg?” Francesca giggled. “What sort of name is that?”
“Some immigration sod botched it at when my great grandfather came over from Germany. Fleeing the Holocaust, I presume.”
“Hmm. What was your original name?”
“Based on family records, I believe Wackenburg.”
“That’s pretty close. Wackenburg and Wankleberg.”
“You try walking around school having the kids calling you Wack Off Bird or plain Wanker… that’s my favorite.”
She leaned in close and smiled seductively. “Is it true?”
“Are you a…” She mouthed the “W” of wanker and let the word roll silently off her lips. She took a long drag off an imaginary ciggy between her words. Then, as if pre-rehearsed, she leaned in towards Sam, revealing arguably the world’s best Dutch Valley cleavage Sam had ever seen live and in person. She gently gripped Sam’s forearm. This tender combo one forearm-two boob punch amplified Francesca’s seductive powers to the full “11” (that’s 11 on the “This is Spinal Tap,” 1 to 10 stereo amp scale).
Moreover, Francesca’s micro-touch pressure on Sam’s arm, even though his blazer, sent a shockwave of pleasure up and down his arm and into his spine. Sam stared, wide-eyed, right at her gripped palm. He nearly shot a load in his pants right then and there. The resultant bulge of penile blood shot into his mushroomed tip produced white hot pain through his entire coffee burnt tip.
“H’ahham I!?” Sam stifled out.
Good God she’s hot!
“Miss Kinder, you’re amazing as advertised. Simply remarkable!”
“Sam, please call me Francesca.”
Her sweet words danced off Sam’s cochlear ear bones like a million particles of pixie dust landing on Peter Pan, so he could fly. And the gentle arm touch, her heaving cleavage and her kind soft speaking of his name, made Sam’s heart grow two sizes that day (and by heart, of course, we mean his engorged penis).
Francesca Kinder now owned Sam Wankleberg. He knew it. She knew it. Oh dear lord all he wanted to do was cum inside her sweet-soft-warm-pink-super-model vagina. But his burnt coffee cock was in no mood to rise to that illusory occasion.
“Answer the question, Sam. Are you a wanker?”
Francesca made a little poof motion with her hand and puckered her luscious lips for a popping sound to symbolize his man-plosion.
She was silent. He was silent. He looked at those violet-purple eyes of hers. Those eyes that he had ejaculated his salty soldiers towards a dozen times on paper. He had stared at photo representations of those eyes, and now here he was, face-to-face with the real thing. How surreal. He could never lie to her. Not to those eyes. No, no, never, not at all. Did Francesca Kinder walk amongst men with knowledge that they had pleasured themselves to her image countless times? How empowering and grotesque.
“Yes of course,” he cleared his throat. “Kids cut to the truth straightaway. The truth hurts the most. Admittedly, I carry around some of this youthful resentment into my adulthood. Oh, dear, Miss Kinder, er, Francesca, I’m quite embarrassed. Can we begin again?”
“Yes, of course. It’s a pleasure to meet you Sam Wankleberg.” Francesca held out her hand for a handshake. It was the hand she had touched him with. The hand she had used to mime his nocturnal activities.
For a brief second he looked at her hand as if he expected there to be some of his sex-jizz on it, as if her hand motion was magic and she had given him the world’s greatest hand job only moments ago. Of course her hand was clean, but she caught his pause.
By this point, Sam’s cock burn had mercifully gone numb. He fumbled with his notepad and quill and reached out to take her hand in his. He kept shaking nervously and didn’t let go.
Francesca laughed at Sam and continued shaking his hand.
He got lost in her smiling violet eyes.
Francesca noticed Sam had sprouted wood, a boner. In most cases this wood would have offended her (or amused her), but Sam was the most unexpected imbecile she had ever encountered, and Sam made her laugh a lot.
“Do you need your hand back to take care of that?” Francesca pointed her free hand at Sam’s bulge.
Sam stopped vigorously shaking her hand and stood with a start, turned his back, reached into his pants and pulled up his penis into his waistband.
“Oh god, I’m dreadfully sorry Miss Kinder.” Sam was apoplectic. “That coffee was bloody hot, must’ve been some type of pain reaction. Dear me, I’ve never been this nervous around anyone before.”
“I find that hard to believe. I’m just a girl in a few fashion magazines.”
“A few magazines? Every magazine, news channels, TV. You appear ubiquitous with fashion now.”
“Sam Wankleberg. Aha! Now I recognize the name. Yes! Yes. I know you, Sam. I’ve read your articles. You’ve met with the First Lady and the President, foreign dignitaries. All of these luminaries must have carried themselves with gravitas, let alone the secret service and military presence… I imagine those meetings would be quite overwhelming. A meeting with a girl like me? Well that you should be able to handle. Right?”
“You read my articles?”
“Oh, yes of course. I love your writing. Full of frivolity and poetry,” Francesca mused. “Your take on film noir’s impact on our post-modern fashion was my favorite.”
“Fa… favorite?” he stuttered. She had a favorite of his? He was in love.
“Yes. Let me see, and I quote from the Sam Wankleberg of Mademoiselle, ‘Not since Robert Aldrich’s upside down credits in the film noir classic “Kiss Me Deadly” had fashionistas invoked a more topsy turvy black and white line-up than at this fall’s Dolce & Gabbana show.”
“Spot on, er, a… a direct quote of one of my more long winded statements, I admit.” Sam admired. “That D & G fashion show was absurd, preposterous. Glad you got the context.”
“It took multiple readings of your article, but I drilled down on it. Your writing is brilliant and, how do you say… hmmm… avant-garde.” Francesca smiled.
A press agent poked her head into the interview room, “Time’s up, Mr. Wankleberg.”
“Oh dear, that was 10 minutes.” Sam wiped his brow. “Can I have just a few more minutes?”
The press agent looked at Francesca. “April, cancel the rest of my interviews today. Mr. Wankleberg and I are just getting started here.” The press agent nodded and shut the door. Sam filled with newfound bravado and enthusiasm. Miss Kinder had granted him an extended interview… unprecedented.
Francesca and Sam spent the next hour discussing everything: life, politics, and the pursuit of happiness. She even ordered them drinks. In her words, all the laughing made her parched. Sam walked out of that interview supercharged, and he wrote his best Arts & Leisure interview article that Mademoiselle had ever seen, titled “My fully exposed, naked afternoon with the kind, funny and irreverent Miss Francesca Kinder.” The whimsical and provocative title went over smashingly well, and the fashion reading public agreed (a self-selective few, but they did have large bank accounts, and that’s what mattered most).
Sam figured he’d never see Francesca in person again. And why would he? She was private jet rich and world famous and he was a small column writer in a mid-level fashion periodical with a dwindling readership. Francesca’s blog, “Frankie’s Fashion Hot or Not” generated 2 million more unique views per month than any online article posted by Mademoiselle.
But fate had other plans.
Sam Wankleberg, it seemed, did indeed have something he could offer a woman like Francesca Kinder. He just didn’t realize what it was… yet.
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Sam's a successful magazine reporter, but when he got the opportunity of a lifetime to do a feature story on fashion superstar Francesca, he had no idea it'd lead to a whole new gender-bending life -- and becoming her lesbian lover.
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