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The hair on the back of my neck stood up and my heart flew into my throat. I had worn pairs of her panties before, but that was about pleasure, about getting off and having something, anything of a woman’s nearby. But I couldn’t wear a skirt. Could I? I wanted to. Why did I want to?My eyes flickered to the corner, where a pile of old clothes had fallen forgotten behind the hanging things. The fuzzy, soft pink sweater was in my hand in a flash and before I knew what I was doing, I was holding it up to my chest and the skirt to my waist and I knew I had to do it. I had to do it all the way.I threw the sweater and skirt out of the closet towards her bed and got on my knees. Her heels were spread all over. But I found the ones I wanted, the black pumps with the t-strap she wore on dates sometimes. I tried to squeeze it on my foot. It fit, barely, and it pinched my toes, but I didn’t care.I found the other heel and ran out of the closet to her dresser, throwing open the drawers. It was mom. It took a major exercise of will-power not to be constantly pacing the length of the little room I was kept in. I felt a tremendous need for movement of some kind ... any kind. Running, pacing ... anything, as long as it was movement; but I limited myself to sitting or lying on the cot.The Voice asked me questions about myself, my life, my family. Four times we'd gone thru the same routine and every single time I'd responded in pretty much the same way, by refusing. I'd have been delighted to tell the Voice to fuck off--that there was no way I was ever going to answer its questions. If only I had some kind of idea which answers I needed to protect.I had nothing. Not a hint, not a clue. Apart from being called Doctor and having long hair, I didn't know a damn thing about myself. Oh, sure ... I knew I was a man and I knew I had a baritone voice. But no name, no address, not even a vague memory of what my own face looked like. Absolutely nothing.But for some perverse reason I was.
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