Author: Nancy Taylor  

More excellent Fanfiction Stories at Nancy Taylor's Sentinel page:

http://home.attbi.com/~nat1228/TSfic.htm

Disclaimer:
"The Sentinel" and its characters do not belong to me. They are owned by Pet Fly and Paramount. No copyright infringement was intended by the author. Dull, but true. If I could claim 'em, I certainly would!

Category: Humor

Rating: R

Summary:
A weekend seminar in Las Vegas ends with Blair wanting to prove himself to be one of the gang. It's a weekend he and Jim aren't likely to forget. Included: a few too many drinks, Blair
in drag, a wedding chapel and compromising positions. Oh, and did I mention *dares* . . . ?

Warnings:
I was told to include a "no eating or drinking at your computer" warning. Extreme silliness ahead.

Notes:
Thanks to Terri for recommendations, plot bunnies and one-liners, and to Allison, Heather-Anne,
and Sensor for the great betas.

Language note:
"Besotted" also means drunk, although the more common usage implies infatuation with someone or something. {g}

DARING DEEDS I

Henri Brown nursed his second whiskey sour of the evening, eyeing
his friends around the table with relief. "Man, I am *so* gladthat seminar is *finally* over! I thought I might just die from
boredom!"

"What's the matter?" quipped Blair as he sipped a rum and coke.
"You don't enjoy lectures on forensic evidence?"

"Not just before dinner!" commiserated a slightly green Detective
Rafe.

"Well, I think it's fascinating," the grad student replied. "It's
not that different from what anthropologists do on a dig--take a
few bones and other bits of evidence at the site, and reconstruct
a life." He took another sip of his drink, feeling lightheaded,
as he usually did whenever he drank anything stronger than beer.

"I don't believe the three of you," Jim chuckled. "Here we are,
in Las Vegas of all places, and all you can do is gripe about how
we got here. You should be grateful Simon decided to send us all
here. We've got the whole night to enjoy ourselves before our
flight home tomorrow."

"I'm not griping, man," Blair declared. "I intend to have a good
time. Heck, these 'women' serving us are even starting to look
good." He took another sip of his drink, smiling
conspiratorially.

Rafe and Brown looked appreciatively at the tall, shapely women
working the tables.

"Too bad they're not really women," Blair continued.

"What do you mean?" Two heads snapped back to look at him.

"Oh, come on, guys," Blair teased. "There's a reason they call
this place 'The Four Queens', you know, and it doesn't have
anything to do with cards." He paused to look around the table,
then to eye the young woman heading toward them to refresh their
drinks. "These women are all *men*."

"No way, Sandburg!" Brown protested, watching appreciatively as
one of the long-legged waitresses shimmied up to their table.

"Yes, way!" Blair retorted, trying hard not to laugh as Brown and
Rafe stared openly.

"Another round," Jim told their waitress, while his friends
argued.

"You bet, Sugar," she purred, turning on a spiked heel to walk
away, an exaggerated wiggle to her hips.

"I tell you," Blair continued, "they're all men. Every last one."

"With those boobs?" Rafe asked, incredulous.

"Silicon," the young man informed them.

"No way," Henri Brown repeated, shaking his head.

Blair turned to his partner with a patented "help me out here"
look. Jim just shrugged and smiled. "Not my argument, Chief."

Grunting, Blair returned his attention to his drink. If the
Neanderthals at his table couldn't see it, he wasn't going to
burst their bubble. They'd find out soon enough.

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Several drinks later into the evening, the men at the Cascade PD
table no longer cared whether the lovely ladies were actually
ladies or not. Even Jim "Someone's Gotta Stay Sober" Ellison
wasn't feeling any pain.

Brown squinted at Sandburg across the table, eyeing him with
alcohol-blurred vision. "You know," he commented, "Blair would
look pretty damn good as a woman."

 "Sandburg looks pretty damn good just the way
 he is,"retorted Ellison, wrapping a protective
 arm around his friend and pulling him in toward
 his chest. He gave Blair a good hug before letting
 the young man breathe again.
 

 "Yeah, yeah . . . thanks, but no thanks, guys." Blair
 held hishands up in a warding off gesture.

"Aw, come on," slurred Rafe, trying hard to focus on the grad
student. "I'll bet you don't have the guts to do it."

"Do what?" Blair asked, incredulous. "Dress up like a woman? Are
you kidding?" He laughed, then hiccupped. "I've done worse."

"Oh, yeah?" Brown challenged. "Prove it. I dare you to go
backstage and dress up like one of these 'ladies'."

"You think I won't?" Blair took up the challenge.

"Sandburg. . . ? Chief. . . ?" Jim fought to get his Guide's
attention. "I don't think this is such a good idea," he whispered
into Blair's ear.

"Why not?" his partner answered, loud enough to be heard two
tables away in the noisy room. "These two goons are besmirching
my honor here."

"Who you calling 'goons'?" Rafe shouted over the din.

"What honor?" Jim smirked. "Chief, I. . . ." But his partner was
no longer paying attention to any of them.

Snagging the nearest waitress, Blair motioned her to bend down so
he could whisper in her ear.

"Sure thing, Honey," she drawled, taking his hand as he stood and
guiding him away from the table.

Blair turned long enough to wave good-bye to his drinking
buddies, then turned his attention back to putting one foot in
front of the other.

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"What do you suppose is taking so long?" Brown wondered.

//Ow, dammit! That *hurts*! Hey! *OWWWWW*!!!//

 Jim cringed in sympathy at the pained voice
 of his Guide coming from somewhere backstage.
 What *were* they doing to the poor boy back
 there? What could be so painful about putting on
 a dress and a little makeup?

 "I don't know," the Sentinel replied, "but whatever
 it is, I hope it's worth it."

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"Do we *have* to?" Blair asked, his eyes large with trepidation.
"This isn't exactly what I signed up for. I thought all that was
involved was a little makeup and a dress."

"Honey, you're the hairiest boy I've had to work with in a
while." Angelina, the wardrobe 'mistress', applied another layer
of hot wax to Blair's leg, preparatory to ripping every hair out
by its follicle.

"I'm not a *boy*!" Blair's voice hitched up a notch as he hissed
through gritted teeth. "I'm a *man*, and I don't have to put up
with this shit if I don't want to. It was only a stupid dare,
after all!"

"Nothing personal, Sweetcakes," Angelina smiled. "But we've come
this far. You're not going to back out now, are you?" With a
quick pull, Blair's leg was stripped clean.

"Ow, dammit! That *hurts*! Hey! *OWWWWW*!!!" the anthropologist
yelled in protest. "You bet your sweet ass! I'm outta here!"
Blair stood up and grabbed his pants, hopping from one foot to
the other as he pulled them back on. Charging through the door,
he made his way back out to the crowded bar.

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"Oh, seeing Blair in drag is going to be worth it!" snickered
Rafe, tipping back a club soda. He'd had enough alcohol for the
evening, and was now cutting back to lessen his morning-after
headache.

"Yeah. This should be a real hoot!" Brown agreed.

Jim shifted uncomfortably in his seat, cocking his head slightly
in a listening pose. No more screams of pain were issuing from
the dressing room, so he felt relatively confident things were
going smoothly. If only Blair would come back.

The young man in question returned sooner than expected. Jim
looked on in amazement as Hurricane Sandburg stormed back to
their table. "What's up, Chief?

"I agreed to get dressed up, not tortured!" Blair spat, pulling
out his chair and sitting down. Picking up the drink in front of
him, he tossed back the rest of his rum and coke in one quick
draught, slamming the empty glass back down on the table.

"I didn't think you'd go through with it," Rafe teased.

"Yeah, it takes a real man to dress up like a woman!" Brown
laughed. "Guess you just don't have it in you, Hairboy."

Blair turned to scowl at the pair. It wasn't often Sandburg lost
his temper. The look on his face was enough to silence the two
detectives.

A soft voice issued from somewhere off to his left. "Come on,
Chief, you're not going to let them win this, are you?" Jim
turned his most charming smile on the besotted young man.
"They'll never let you live this down if you give in now."

"They'll never let me live it down if I go through with it,"
Blair argued.

"Damned if you do and damned if you don't,
 Chief. Why don't you show them what you're
 made of?"

 The young man sighed and looked at the two
 inebriated smirks flashed at him from across
 the table.

If he was ever going to prove himself to Jim's friends in the
department, he had to go through with this. Pushing himself
back to his feet, he snagged a drink off the tray of a passing
waitress as he made his way back through the crowd to the
dressing room.

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"I was wondering how long it would take for you to get your butt
back here." Angelina grinned widely at the young man in front of
her. "Here," she said, handing him a razor. "We need a nice,
close shave."

Reluctantly, Blair took the instrument and walked over to the sink.
Lathering his face generously with the shaving cream provided, he
began to scratch away at his afternoon's growth. When he was finished,
Angelina led him back to the makeup table. There, she began by
applying a foundation of stage makeup to cover the heavy shadow left
by the young man's beard.

"Now, look up and don't blink," Angelina instructed, as she began

applying a thick coat of black mascara to Blair's already generous lashes.
A touch of eyeliner and a dash of pearl eyeshadow accentuated the blue of
their owner's eyes. Lipstick and blush followed.

Angelina pulled out scarlet acrylic nails and adhesive. Blair
looked at them, and a sigh issued from between his lips. "Is that
really necessary?"

"Honey, you clip your nails too short. If you're going to doll
up, might as well go all the way."

"I suppose." Blair held out a hand with an air of resignation.

While Angelina worked on his nails, a hairstylist began damage
control on his unruly mane of curls. When she was finished, Blair
sported a stylish French roll with a few soft ringlets falling
delicately around his face.

Face and hair finally completed, Angelina pulled Blair over to a
rack of dresses. "Let's find you something pretty to wear,
Sweetcakes." Sorting through the mass of clothing, she pulled out
and rejected outfit after outfit. Finally, she settled on a
sapphire blue gown of sequins and satin. "This will bring out the
blue of your eyes, Sugar." Her own eyes twinkled with amusement
at the look on the young man's face. She handed him the gown,
which was designed for a very buxom woman.

"Ah . . . I dunno," Blair said, eyeing the dress doubtfully. In
direct contrast to the fullness of the bustline, the slinky dress
was form-fitting, with a slit up the side that went to mid-thigh.

Angelina held the dress in front of Blair, sizing him up. "You'll
need to be a bit taller," she decided. Tossing the gown over the
back of a chair, she began rummaging through a shoe rack. With a
crow of triumph, she held out her prize--a pair of platform shoes
with six-inch heels. The clear acrylic shoes looked like a
Frankenstein's monster version of Cinderella's glass slippers.

"Strip, Sweetie," Angelina ordered. When Blair hesitated, she
smiled. "Believe me, Sweetcakes, you haven't got a *thing* I
don't see a dozen times over every night!"

As the young man began to disrobe, Angelina brought over a small,
beige garment.

"What's that?" Blair looked suspiciously at what appeared to be a
not-very-large elastic band.

"It's a girdle, Hon. With that dress, you won't want any
unsightly bulges spoiling the effect. Besides, it'll do wonders
for that tight little butt of yours." She handed the torture
device to the reluctant man.

Blair tugged along the edges of the waistband. "No way I'm
fitting into *this*!" He shook his head in dismay.

"Look, Sweetie, we all wear them. If you're going to impersonate
a female impersonator, you have to hide your male assets. *This*
is one way of doing it. There's an alternative, but I don't think
you'd like it."

"Yeah, what makes you think I wouldn't like something better than
this?" he asked sarcastically, holding up the girdle and shaking
it passionately.

"Well," Angelina continued with a sly look on her face, "some of
the men tie their genitals between their legs." She watched as
Blair's face blanched, and he made a genuine effort to struggle
into the girdle. "Thought that might be your choice," she
chuckled.

"I can't breathe!" Blair gasped, once the restrictive garment was
in place.

"Take shallow breaths, from the upper half of your lungs. It's
more feminine-looking, anyway. You'll survive. Now these," she
said, tossing a pair of stockings his way.

Deft fingers snatched the hosiery out of mid-air. "How, exactly,
do I get these things on?"

Shaking her head, Angelina pushed Blair into the nearest chair.
"Haven't you ever undressed a lady before, Sweetcakes?" Rolling
one leg of the hose up until only the toe was exposed, she bent
over. "Point," she commanded. When the bewildered anthropologist
looked at her in confusion, she clarified. "Your toes, Sweetie.
Point your toes. Like this." She stuck out a foot to demonstrate.

The view from where Blair was sitting suddenly became dizzying.
As Angelina reached for his reluctant foot, she shoved her ample
bosom in his face. Eyes glazing over, his right hand lifted of
its own volition to cup a breast. He was batted back to reality
when Angelina slapped his hand away. Her sultry alto voice
suddenly took on the proportions a of full-blown bass. "Hands
off, Sugar," s/he boomed.

Realizing his mistake, Blair's blush rose up his neck to color
his cheeks, the red-hot flush rising to singe the roots of his
hair. Anxious to end this and get out quickly, he cooperated
fully as Angelina rolled the hose up his freshly-waxed leg,
fastening the top of the stocking to little clips that hung from
the girdle. She repeated the process with the other stocking and
stood up.

Picking the gown off the chair, Angelina helped Blair slide it
over his head, tugging it into place. Before zipping it closed,
she stuffed two "D" cup falsies into the bustline of the dress.
The high collar dusted his chin while long sleeves reached to his
wrists, ending in little points over the backs of his hands,
renaissance-style. The slit up the side showed off a shapely leg,
while the tight fit accented Blair's assets. The hem dragged a
bit, until Angelina urged him into the shoes.

Teetering on the platforms, Blair saw the world from the lofty
height of six feet one-and-a-half inches. He smiled drunkenly at
the thought of finally being able to look Jim Ellison in the eye
without getting a crick in his neck.

Rhinestone drop earrings were clipped to his lobes before
Angelina led the tottering man toward the door. With a few
whispered suggestions, she coaxed her reluctant charge back out
into the bar.

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