At last I felt I was ready to infiltrate the clinic.***I had my staff prepare for me some false credentials. While I wasn't a household name like Woodward and Bernstein, there was always the chance that they would recognize my name from The Tribune, so I needed an alias. Armed with drivers license, credit cards, and other little authentic looking items of ID, I headed out.The clinic had a nondescript looking lobby area, with a receptionist (who definitely was a *real* female!), and a door leading to the back. There were several chairs in the waiting area. She smiled, and gave me an application to fill out, since I was a new client.I entered the data of my name, address, phone number, and so on. Then there was a checklist of fetishes, and turn-ons. Based on the stories I had read, I selected several of them: forced feminization, crossdressing, long nails, and women's shoes.Then there was a section asking when I had first crossdressed, if I ever wore women's clothes when I was alone, do. Two glasses on the low table between the settle and the fire were half filled with the amber coloured liquid, warmed by the reflected heat of the dancing flames that refracted and glinted through the glass.Jason sat opposite her and reached for his glass. He studied her face as if to burn the image into his memory as he sipped the warm spirit and felt it course downhis throat, his taste buds telling him that it was strong liquor before his stomach accepted the warming nectar.He savoured the delicious thrill as he heated up internally, the bourbon working on him like an internal radiator. Jason swilled the remaining liquor around in his glass, marvelling at the almost oily way it clung momentarily to the side before falling back to join the bulk spinning around at the bottom of the glass.Her glass remained untouched.Jason half turned and placed the glass on the low Maplewood table. The grain of the timber was light, similar to beech or ash, but someone had taken the time to highlight.
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