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Claire’s New Curves

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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.


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, kars escort 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.

For her part, Claire kept her head down and her earphones on. She did not wish to encourage conversation. But she was aware of the looks, and she fostered a quiet gratitude for the interest.

She was surprised to be developing, so late in her sexual maturity, a modest taste for exhibitionism. She abandoned the loose fitting tees and sweats that had originally served as her gym uniform in favor of the thin leggings and midriff-baring halters and sports bras that she’d seen some of the younger women wearing.

The male gaze, she discovered, filled her with an ambiguous satisfaction. She was not necessarily attracted to these men, per se, but her attraction was irrelevant.

Instead, it was their desire alone that excited her, the fleeting looks of thirst she saw flit across their faces as she displayed her tidy, outthrust rump on the stairmaster that aroused her most.

It seemed that the harder she trained, the more excited she became, something to do with hormones, she had figured. She sometimes left the gym so aroused that upon returning home she would immediately close herself in her bedroom, strip, admire her own pleasing shape in the bedroom mirror, and then masturbate on the bed–her own elegant form reflected back to her where she lay–and fantasize about the men who had desired her.

She especially enjoyed the idea that these young men might return to their own homes, neglect their own young girlfriends, to hide themselves away and satisfy themselves to the memory of her suggestive performance.

Of course, Claire had entertained fantasies of exploiting these men and their attraction to her–fantasies of power and seduction–but her higher, more prudent logic had always prevailed.

For one, the men whose lust she most coveted were young, often ten–even close to twenty–years her junior.

Moreover, she had never been especially promiscuous, even as a young model in Europe. She had maintained a fairly rigid veneer of prepossession her entire adult life. Though no great moralist and, of course, a sexual being with her own secret thoughts and desires, Claire believed profligacy to be a weakness, a failure of self-control.

Besides, she had a reputation to protect. She was a mother, after all, with more important priorities, and so–despite a few brief affairs with more appropriate partners–she had remained steadfastly single since her husband’s death.

In this manner, dedicated to her goals as she was, she had advanced into middle age, alone but content. And for several years, through her forties, she felt she had successfully slowed the inexorable advance of time’s despoiling march.

But Claire could do nothing to fight gravity. And as she approached fifty, despite her continued efforts, the skin beneath her eyes began to droop, her butt lost its attractive roundness, and her once-pert breasts inevitably began to sag.

She briefly considered cosmetic surgery–a breast augmentation, maybe, or a butt-lift–but the expense was daunting and so too was her fear of such invasive procedures. Was she really so desperate as that? She decided not.

And so, at forty-eight years old, Claire Thomas had almost conceded the passing of her sexual prime. Almost.


Her salvation had arrived only a month ago. Had it really been so recently? Claire marveled at how quickly the cream had performed its magic.

She had returned to the gym to train with her sister after a brief hiatus for a trip south. Claire had come home from the Bahamas with a light suntan and had been looking forward to displaying a bit of skin. She arrived feeling better than she had in months. But her state of optimism was short-lived.

She almost failed to recognize her own sister. Though younger than Claire by three kars escort bayan years and by no means unattractive, Helen was a keen homemaker who had married young and devoted her attention to the care of her husband and two children. She had not pursued her body’s conservation as avidly as Claire and, though a semi-regular gym-attendant, had nevertheless begun to thicken discernibly around the middle. The effect was such that as the two sisters advanced in age, the younger was more regularly mistaken for the older.

No such mistake was made this afternoon. In Claire’s short absence, Helen had virtually transformed herself. She emerged from the locker room radiating a foreign air of vivaciousness. She must have looked ten–hell, fifteen–years younger than she had only ten days before.

She wore a black, midriff-baring, spandex ensemble that Claire did not recognize and was at least a size too small. The revealing attire served to emphasize Helen’s changing body.

For one, Claire saw with some astonishment that the

burgeoning paunch had vanished, replaced by an enviably defined abdomen. Her skin had acquired a luminous sheen. Even her hair seemed longer.

But it was Helen’s thighs that warranted the most incredulity. Her posterior was magnificently large and the thin tights appreciatively embraced her embellished curves, insinuating themselves into the folds of soft flesh at her thighs and beneath her buttocks.

The effect was undeniably seductive. It was a baffling metamorphosis that left Claire dumbfounded, a paroxysm of jealousy seizing her.

“Did you… do something?”

Her sister only raised her eyebrows.

“You look different.”

Helen smiled. “Oh? I don’t know,” she said feigning ignorance. “I guess I bought some new gear.” She turned, this way and that, wagging her swollen rump at Claire. She was clearly enjoying her sister’s reaction.

They were interrupted by Nicholas, Claire’s trainer. Claire observed with some dejection that, as he approached from Helen’s periphery, Nicholas allowed his eyes a lingering tour of Helen’s body before he announced himself.

“Good morning, Mrs. Thomas. Mrs. Seymour.”

“Hi, Nicky!” Helen waved him over. “I was just showing Claire my new stuff. What do you think? Looks good, right?”

He swallowed hard before indulging in a second, more conservative glance.

“Looks good,” he agreed, avoiding Helen’s interrogative gaze. In his search for somewhere else to look, his eyes briefly found Claire’s, and he blushed.

Though a good-looking kid who had cultivated an athlete’s functional muscles, Nicholas, Claire knew, was introspective by nature. He was a good trainer, knowledgeable and accommodating, but he could be nervous with clients.

“Should we get started?”

Claire was awed by the spectacle her sister proceeded to make of herself. Helen made the space her own. She strutted about between exercises, striking a variety of alluring poses, squatting deeply, and massaging her ductile thighs. What had gotten into her?

To Claire’s chagrin, she could see that Helen’s behavior was yielding the presumably desired results. Heads of both men and women turned as Helen bounced pass, and an assembly of attentive eyes pursued her about the gym.

As Nicholas put the sisters through their circuits, Helen worked to monopolize his time. “Nick, can you watch me closely?” Keep your eyes on my legs and butt. I want to be sure my form is good.”

She began to perform a set of walking lunges across the gym. Her legs wobbled deliciously with each step, deep creases framing her thighs and buttocks as she folded and unfolded herself.

Nicholas, flustered, followed as though strung by a leash and inspected her closely from several angles, struggling to maintain a sober expression of appraisal.

“How do I look, Nick? Do I look good?”

“Yes,” he managed.

“Am I doing it right? Or should I stick my butt out more. Like this?”

Claire heard a quiet groan depart his lungs.

“Nick? Do you like this better?”

“Yes, that’s very nice,” he finally muttered. He was fidgeting now, and Claire could see he was struggling to conceal an obvious erection that his thin athletic shorts had failed to camouflage.

Helen stood and turned suddenly to face him, lunging her way back across the gym. He took an instinctive step back and averted his eyes as his hands moved in an awkward attempt to hide his predicament.

“No, no, Nick! You have to look at me. Please.”

He reluctantly returned his eyes to Helen and watched as she bobbed perpetually before him, dipping to confront the triangulated crotch of his shorts before rising again, amused, to look him in the face.

“Any pointers?” she asked between sultry puffs of air, a playful smirk on her face.

“No– you’re per– it’s perfect. You look good. I mean, You’ve got good form.”

“Because I really want to work on my butt.” She stopped then and stood close to Nicholas, a hand on his chest. “Here. Sit.”

She escort kars spun around, spreading her thighs, pushed her pelvis back to exhibit the enticing lines of her ass, and pawed at the soft flesh.

“Like this.” As she pulled up on her bottom, her fingers made indentations in the thin spandex that hugged her curves.

“I want it to sit up higher, like this.” She released her behind, causing it to undulate gently before him. “You see?”

She did it again, her rippling contours creating a hypnotic effect by which even Claire found herself transfixed. “Wouldn’t that be nice, Nick?”

Nicholas’s breaths shortened. One might assume it was he who had just completed the workout.

Helen did not press him for a reply. “How about some squats?” she asked. “Would squats do the trick?”

Nicholas stood in an abrupt, agitated bid to regain himself. “Sure, yes. But you’ll need a heavier weight than you’ve been doing.”

He marched to the squat rack and began to load the bar, talking all the while. Claire had initially resented Nicholas for his betrayal, the inordinate interest he had shown in his sister. But she was beginning to pity the poor kid.

“You’ve been doing, what, the twenty-fives? Let’s try the plates and dropping your–“

“That much? I don’t know, Nick. It looks like a lot. I don’t want to hurt myself….Will you help me? Spot me, I mean. I need you right here, behind me, in case something happens.”

His eyes widened, and he reached instinctively to cover the protrusion in his shorts.

“Here!” she cried, snatching his hand away from his groin and pulling him to her. “Don’t be so shy.” She placed each of his hands at her waist where her smooth skin was exposed. “Now be careful,” she warned. “I’m ticklish.”

He stood behind her at a professional distance, but she took an exaggerated step backwards as she unracked the weight, and–cocking her hips back– pushed her pillowy ass into him as Claire looked on.


Helen found his eyes in the mirror they both faced. “You have an erection, Nick,” she stated as a matter of fact.

His mouth dropped open as he fumbled for some excuse, but before he could furnish one, Helen dipped suddenly into a deep squat, and Nicholas followed. She pushed into him, and Claire watched as he flexed back against her, his body’s autonomous betrayal.

Helen made light work of the load across her shoulders, more weight, Claire realized, than she could squat, herself–one more surprise to add to the day’s tally.

The activity around the squat rack had drawn the attention of some of the other gym members. Departing men and even some women lingered absorbed by the show.

“You need to relax, Nick. You’re not being very professional,” Helen said without any real conviction. “If you wish to pursue a career in this line of work, you’ll have to get used to being in contact with beautiful women.”

Nick only nodded, chastened.

“You do think I’m beautiful, don’t you, Nick?”

A reluctant pause. “Yes,” he breathed.

“And so you have an erection! It’s only natural. A young pup like you? Trust me, any woman would be flattered. Don’t be so embarrassed.”

He was gripping her waist more tightly now, his fingertips kneading the soft skin there as the couple worked up and down, the revolution of their united bodies seeming to lull him into a kind of trance.

“Some women are going to enjoy wriggling up against you, honey. It’s simply part of the job.” She racked the weight and looked conspiratorially around the gym. “Here.”

Before Nick could react, Helen reached out and gave Nick’s shorts a quick tug, freeing his erection. He pressed closer to Helen in an attempt to hide himself from any onlookers, but Helen swatted his hands away.

“Relax, dear. You need this kind of experience. No one can see you from this angle. Just stay close to me.”

Nicholas, compliant now, did as he was told. Helen unracked the weight again and stepped back against Nick’s now bare erection. He stood fully upright, his hands on Helen’s ass, his hips thrust forward.

Helen shortened her squats, reducing the exercise to a prolonged series of rapid ‘half-reps.’ In this position, her silky, lycra-clad rump now slid smoothly against Nicholas’s bare prick. As she returned upright with each repetition, her strong buttocks gripped and massaged him.

It was a tableau more appropriate for a strip club than a gym, Claire thought. She heard a couple of surprised guffaws from the gathering crowd, and glanced about the room. She recognized her own jealousy in the same pinched face of another young, spandexed gym bunny.

“There. How’s my form?” Helen asked.

Nick only nodded.

“Nick? How is that? Is it good? Am I doing a good job for you?”

His eyes were squeezed shut and his breathing came in uneven jags.

“Nick,” Helen pleaded. “You have to watch me, dear. Look at me. Look at my body. Is it good, Nick?”

Claire thought Nicholas looked so shaken he might begin to cry. He forced himself to meet Helen’s mischievous gaze in the mirror.

“My body, Nick.”

He allowed his eyes to roam freely about Helen’s writhing figure–her full, out-thrust breasts, the feline arch of her exposed back, and the ceaseless gyration of her ass where she jostled him.

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