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Reasonable
by Brandy Dewinter
"I am NOT being unreasonable," I insisted to my irate wife.
"Millions of women do anything I've ever asked you to do, wear
anything I've ever asked you to wear."
"Millions of women are STUPID," she declared loudly,
unconvinced.
I continued in a calmer tone, trying to get the argument back
to the reasoned conversation level, "Look, Julie, I just think you
should take a little more pride in your appearance, just as I am proud
of you, and of the way you could look if you tried."
"So you're not proud of me now," she pounced on my perhaps
unfortunate phrasing.
"I am proud of you," I declared. "You're very beautiful, but
I'm also a creature of our society. Certain things trigger my
responses better than others. I just want . . . hope . . . whatever,
that you'll meet me part way."
She turned away in continuing irritation, her long waves of
dark hair shimmering with the motion. But at least she had quit
arguing and she didn't storm out of the room.
"Really, honey, the only stupid thing is to argue. I honestly
don't think anything we've ever discussed is unreasonable, but if you
do, then . . . " I sighed in frustration, knowing I could never force
her anyway.
At this she twirled back to face me, irritation still apparent
on her face, but an arched eyebrow signifying curiosity as well, about
what I was soon to find out.
"How long is your current project going to last?" she demanded
in a stunning non sequitur.
I guess I should explain a little. My name is Jay Connors.
I'm a contract computer hacker. I break into other people's computer
systems in a test of their security, then help them fix the holes I
found. I can get in just about anywhere (yes, I even broke into the
DOD systems, however they never knew I was there). I provide computer
security tools, software only, but better than anyone else has
developed (if you ignore my little private back doors). Most of my
projects take at least a month since I really do deliver a good
service, boilerplating systems against anyone but myself. If there's
a better hacker out there, he (or she) is so much better than me that
no one ever even found out they'd been anywhere I'd protected.
Certainly they'd done no harm, so at least my systems kept out the
riff raff. Actually, I believed there wasn't anyone else in my league
and that no one had ever broken one of my defenses.
"Maybe three weeks," I answered in puzzlement. "Why do you
care?"
"So no one needs to see or talk to you, professionally, for at
least three weeks?"
"Yeah, about that time. I could certainly stretch it that
long without anyone thinking anything suspicious."
A smile of triumph, a matching tone, framed her words when she
said, "Okay, then we'll just see what you think is reasonable. Pick
one of your little fantasies and do it yourself. If, after doing it,
you still think it's reasonable, I'll give it a try."
"Don't be silly," I laughed. "The things that turn me on are
things that women do for men, not things that men do."
"I'm not being silly," she insisted in a parody of my earlier
position. "My problem is not with the man-woman thing and you know
it. I love you and only you and want to make you happy. My problem
is that the things you want are unreasonably awkward or uncomfortable
or inconvenient. If you think I'm wrong, prove it by putting up with
the inconvenience yourself."
Like a collapsing balloon her anger deflated, replaced by
tired sadness. She came close and put her arms around me and laid her
head on my chest. "Really, dear, I do love you and don't want to
argue. But I think you don't understand what you're asking. If you
had to go through what I already go through to please you, you'd
understand."
She pulled her head back and looked me directly in the eyes,
"I'll even trust your judgment. Pick one of your fantasies and we'll
make it real, only with you doing what you want me to do. We'll pick
a duration that convinces me you really understand what you're asking
for, and if you still want me to do it after that time, I'll give it a
try. I'll try my best, too."
"Only one?" I prodded her gently, still not really considering
the idea, but smiling to try and keep the mood light.
"Or a dozen," she laughed. "Just so you'll get off my back
until you know what you're talking about."
I snorted at the thought, "No, this is silly. Look, longer
fingernails, higher heels, maybe a little figure control to make you
even more shapely, these are not unreasonable."
Her irritation returned even more quickly than it had
left,. "Put up or shut up," she demanded, "but get off my back unless
you're willing to try it."
She turned away from my arms and started to walk from the
room, fists clenched at her sides in anger all the more terrible
because it was silent. I knew I had to do something but I really
believed my requests were reasonable, at least for a woman to do, and
I didn't want to give up on a more fulfilling love life.
"Wait, Julie, okay. You win. I won't bug you about anything
I haven't tried myself."
She turned back with a renewed smile. The easy way that
emotions appeared and disappeared in her always surprised me.
"So, what are you gonna try first?" she giggled.
"Huh? Nothing," I said, "I just said I'd quit bugging you."
Her laughing correction was hot on the heels of my statement,
"No, actually you said that you'd quit bugging me on things you hadn't
tried first. So what are you gonna try?"
Trying to maintain my hold on the "reasonable" high ground, I
insisted, "I think my requests are reasonable, but I admit they're not
trivial. They're also intensely feminine, not something I could do."
"You could in private," she asserted. "You could wear high
heels in private and no one would know. That's why I asked how long
before you had to report in person on your latest job. Other things,
too. I'm sure I could talk Sally, the manicurist where I get my hair
done, into giving you the long fingernails you've been going on
about."
"I couldn't work at the keyboard with long nails."
"My point exactly," she crowed in triumph. "I work with a
keyboard, too, but you want me to have long nails. They're just too
much bother, for me, for you, for anyone."
Now I was getting irritated. I had seen plenty of secretaries
with long, glamorous nails, let alone real estate agents like Julie.
I knew it was something you could get used to, if you wanted to, even
on a job with lots of typing or keyboard use. It was just that I
needed to work very quickly in some of my more time-sensitive system
penetrations. That was different. I was about to try and explain
that when I saw the look of triumph still gloating from her face. Any
excuses I might make would just be fuel to feed the fires of her
self-righteousness. My own stubborn streak reared its ugly head and I
heard myself agreeing to her outrageous proposition.
"All right. You're so sure of yourself. I'll do it. Arrange
a private session with your fingernail lady and I'll have nails put on
that will show you how reasonable I've been."
"For how long?" she kept pushing.
"For however long it takes to convince you I'm right, up to
the three weeks I've got on this project."
"Okay," she grinned, "now, what about high heels?"
An overwhelming impulse, a tidal wave of irritation swept me
along on a course I was sure was going to be idiotic, but I heard
myself saying, "Fine, and a corset and whatever other clothes you
think I'm being unreasonable about. As long as I can keep it
private."
"Deal," she said quickly. Too quickly. I began to wonder if
I'd been manipulated all along. Her triumphant grin hadn't subsided a
bit as I called her bluff. Maybe it wasn't a bluff. Maybe I was in
deep trouble.
"When do we start?" I asked tentatively, wondering what I'd
gotten myself into now.
After a moment's thought she declared, "Tomorrow. I'll get
your clothes tomorrow and set up an appointment with Sally at the time
she would normally close her shop, so you'll be the only customer.
After you get back from the salon, I'll help you into your clothes.
After that, you need to wear the heels and things, and keep your nails
looking nice, until three weeks from today."
I nodded abruptly and went back to my cave to hack for a
while, still angry at her stubbornness, still worried about what I'd
gotten myself into. In a little while I got lost in my work, sneaking
into my customer's systems and snooping on his private business. This
job would actually be relatively easy since the Spencer Industries
general manager, Richard Bancroft, didn't really understand software,
and more importantly hackers. He thought this was all about logic and
rigid rules. True hacking is more of an art than any old master ever
demonstrated. The general manager had only hired me at the insistence
of his board of directors, a few members of which also worked for
other companies I'd serviced. He was sure he was well-protected and
it would be a pleasure to show him just how wrong he was. Maybe this
time I'd arrange for a phony set of identification to his company and
just show up at one of his meetings with my results. That should get
his attention. Part of the service I provided was showing the
customer how important his vulnerabilities were by demonstrating how
they could be taken advantage of. Sometimes I wrote myself checks
(which I never cashed, I just took them in as evidence), sometimes I
sent bogus memos around their system, calling people to false
meetings. Once I showed up with an already-made-out patent
application (that I never submitted) for a customer's most secret new
development. It's amazing how much information is floating around
company systems these days, and all it takes is intermittent traffic
between supposedly isolated systems to let me in to all of them.
The evening passed quickly, becoming night, then morning
before I finished the initial stages of the penetration I was
developing. It wasn't unusual for me to get caught up in my work,
sometimes it was even necessary for me to work deliberately at night.
Still, I was exhausted when I finally went to bed and had completely
forgotten Julie's challenge and my idiotic acceptance of it.
I woke up at noon, after about six hours sleep, to the ringing
of the phone. We have free phone service, a fringe benefit of one of
my penetrations, so we have several lines. One of them is dedicated
to private calls between Julie and me and I put a special bell on it
so I'd know it was her. This was the phone that was ringing so I
struggled up through the cotton fogging my brain and fumbled with the
receiver.
"Yeah, what?" I said grumpily.
I heard a silver giggle from the other end, then Julie's
excessively cheerful voice, "Wake up, sleepyhead, you're buying my
lunch."
"What? Huh?" I glibly replied.
Her laughter was my only answer as she waited for me to wake
up. After another moment I was tuned back into the real world and
able to carry on an adult conversation.
"Okay, where and when?" I said.
"How about Daniel's in twenty minutes?" she asked.
"Better make it thirty," I countered her offer. "I still need
to shower and shave."
"Oh, yes," her giggle seemed a little ominous, "you certainly
need to shave today, Jay."
Actually my beard was a little sparse and I often only shaved
every other day. When Julie has taken the time to really work at it,
I consider her a world-class beauty, with lustrous dark hair and
shining blue eyes like Lucy Lawless (TV's Xena, did you know her hair
was dyed?). I was more of a dirty blond, though my eyes were also a
clear, crystal blue. My light hair color seemed to fade away against
my arms and it looked like they were practically hairless. My chest
was also pretty sparse, with just enough for Julie to catch in her
fingers and pull when she wanted to tease me a little. When I looked
in the mirror to shave, the face I saw was, as always, disappointingly
weak. My facial bone structure was soft and unimpressive, except for
high cheekbones that stood out with surprising prominence. Due, I
supposed, to the irregular meals I had when I was deeply into a
project. That was probably the reason I was so scrawny, too. Even at
only 5'9" my 130 pounds were spread pretty thinly. For some reason my
bones didn't jut out too much, though. No knobby knees or anything,
just thin.
I quickly finished getting ready, pulled on my standard jeans
and sport shirt, and launched off. It was pretty much of a launch, my
one vice being my pocket rocket, a 300ZX Turbo convertible in bright,
flamboyant red. Julie always teased me about that car, calling it
overcompensation for my otherwise shy personality. Maybe she was
right. I didn't really care. I liked the car and didn't have much to
show off in my own body. Computer hackers aren't all nerds, they just
seem that way because the private lifestyle doesn't lend itself to
building big muscles or developing flashy conversational skills.
Anyway, in a few minutes, I was pulling into one of our favorite
places to eat, famous for juicy, thick hamburgers. When I do eat, I
eat big.
The restaurant was adjacent to, actually sort of a pseudopod
extending from the body of, a neighborhood mall. When I went in, I
saw Julie already sitting in a booth, surrounded by packages.
"Goodness, somebody having a sale?" I grinned in greeting.
"Not really, but I couldn't wait. I told you I'd be ready for
you today."
My look of bewilderment must have been pretty obvious, because
she started to laugh.
"You don't even remember, do you?" she chortled, the
triumphant grin resurrecting itself on her face.
That grin did it, reminding me of the stupid commitment I'd
made. I was tempted to back out but that same irritating grin got my
stubbornness up and I decided that I'd just go ahead and show her how
reasonable I could be.
"Yeah, I remember. What did you get?"
Her answer was a giggle, "No peeking. Let me see your hands."
I held them forward, palms up, but she motioned me to turn
them over.
"No, I want to see your fingernails. Well, at least you don't
chew on them so Sally will have something to work with. You're all
set up. Her last appointment is over at 4:00, so you be there by
then. Now don't get wrapped up in your project and forget. If you
stick it out, you'll have plenty of time at home later."
My response was a growl, "I'll stick it out."
"Look, dear, I'm not trying to make you mad. I'm just trying
to make the point that what you're asking for is unreasonable. Don't
do it if you don't want."
"I don't want this to be the way I have to convince you," I
replied, "but I also don't want you thinking I'm unfair or anything.
Your attitude's a little different than last night, though. Last
night it seemed like you were pushing me into this, now you seem
reluctant. What do you want, really?"
She sat pensively for a minute, then shocked me when she said,
"Actually, having you dress up is a fantasy of mine. I've always
thought a man that understands women better would be a better lover.
I know you try, dear, and I love you for it, but sometimes I think you
just don't understand my needs any better than I seem to understand
yours. I thought this might be a way to find some common ground.
After I got to buying the clothes, though, it began to seem a little
extreme. I'll back out if you want."
Now it was my turn to sit pensively, doing a little overdue
soul searching. I had always thought I kept Julie pretty happy in bed
and in our lives. It seemed I was too focused on my own wants and
needs to really pay attention to the one I claimed I loved. For the
first time I thought maybe I was being unreasonable, not about the
absolute amount of inconvenience from long nails and high heels, but
at least about the amount I could reasonably expect from my wife when
I gave so little in return.
"I never knew you felt that way," I said softly. "I'm sorry.
I've been very selfish. I'll do whatever you want. I owe you that
much, and much more."
"Oh, don't get too down on yourself. It's a two-way street.
I know I haven't fulfilled you, either. Let's just go on from here.
You try this out for me, and the good ideas we'll keep. Besides," she
continued with another silvery giggle, "it's deliciously naughty. We
might find that this is fun."
"Yeah, right," I said with a snort, but I was still thinking
about how little I had done to please Julie, and how much more I
should do.
We switched to less emotional topics for the rest of our
lunch. I ate my usual ridiculous hamburger, causing a visible bulge
in my stomach. Julie laughed when she saw it.
"Enjoy that burger, it's the last one you get for a while?"
"Why," I asked.
"You'll see," was all she would reply. "Now, don't be late
for your appointment."
She gathered up her packages and got ready to leave.
"Can I help you with those?" I offered.
"Not on a bet. I told you no peeking until later. I'll see
you at home."
I had intended to go home and work on my project, but Julie's
gentle accusation that I didn't really understand her needs made me
look around with a more open mind than I usually had. With sudden
clarity I could see just how much she had had to put up with. I
generally left coke cans laying around, and computer magazines. My
clothes were seldom picked up and while they were durable enough to
stand the mistreatment, the house looked messy. I started back into
my cave again, but the disarray stopped me at the doorway. Instead of
working on my project I spent the afternoon cleaning up. Everything
except my cave, that is. I had spent years getting that place into
the shape it was in and it wouldn't recover in one afternoon, but I
got pretty busy working on the rest of the place. The time snuck away
on me and I was a little surprised when all of the sudden it was close
to 4:00 and I had to hurry. Nonetheless, when the time came to go to
Julie's salon, the dishes were all washed and all the clutter was
picked up in the other rooms of the house.
My pocket rocket got me there in time, though. Just as I was
pulling up my mind caught up with the hurry my body had been in all
afternoon and I realized what I was about to do. It still seemed
silly, also sort of frightening as I entered territory I had been
taught was forbidden. But I realized at some level I had never
studied in myself before that it was kind of exciting as well. Maybe
it was just the naughtiness as Julie had indicated, or maybe it was
the thought that I was getting closer to Julie. But I realized I
really wanted to do this, really wanted to try out some of the things
I had been pushing on my wife. It was clear this adventure was going
to bring lots of changes in our lives, not the least because it had
made me really think about our relationship.
The last customer was paying her bill as I entered the salon.
It was still light outside but dim in the salon since most of the
lights at the stations were off, leaving only the lamps at the
manicurist's table. The lady leaving had incredibly beautiful nails,
glamorously long without being ludicrous, polished to a deep crimson
shine, shaped in an elegant style. I noticed that the girl behind the
counter had equally beautiful nails and I leaped to the obvious
conclusion that this was Sally, the manicurist.
Sally greeted me with an airy, "I'll be with you in a minute."
The other lady asked, "Oh, are you going to get a manicure?"
"Um, yes, my wife set it up," I stammered.
The lady chuckled at my discomfort, "There's nothing to be
embarrassed about. Lots of men get manicures. It won't turn you into
a woman."
Sally's mouth twitched in a grin at this comment, but she said
nothing. The customer left and Sally escorted me back to her table.
"Now, the first thing," she began talking and working, "is to
take care of your cuticles. Mrs. Sanders was right about men getting
manicures. I can help your hands even besides the "special" you're
getting.
I gulped, "Special? Just what did Julie tell you to do?"
"Actually, she didn't tell me much, except about the
background for your agreement. As I understand it, she's agreed to
wear her nails long if you will first try it out and then remain
convinced it's not too inconvenient. I'm to let you pick the length
and shape and type of nail extensions, but she told me to remind you
that she won't go any longer than you do."
At my nod of confirmation she continued, "So what type of
nails do you want."
"I don't know," I shook my head in confusion. "You mean
there's more than one type?"
"Oh, yes," she laughed. "Many types and styles. What did you
have in mind?"
"I guess I never thought about it. Your nails are very
pretty. I think Julie would look good in them. That lady that just
left had good-looking nails, too."
"So this is just for Julie, huh?" she asked with a hint of
teasing in her smile.
"Of course," I insisted. "This whole thing is to convince her
that what lots of women do, you for example, is not that bad. She
should try it."
Sally pushed a little further, "I agree she should try it, but
what about you?"
"I'm only doing it to convince Julie. Whatever we choose
should be what's best for her."
"Okay," she backed off. "But I don't think you want what I
wear. My nails extend almost an inch past my fingertips and they take
a lot of getting used to. You should probably start out shorter and
work up to this length."
I disagreed. "No, this is a one-time deal. Once is enough to
convince Julie to try it and I don't want her using a short length on
me to avoid doing what would look best on her."
"Well, how about a compromise? Mrs. Sanders wears hers about
half an inch past her fingertips. We could split the difference. You
said her nails looked good."
"Okay, that sounds fine. Let's get started."
"Not so fast," Sally laughed again. "You still need to pick
out the type and style."
"Do them like yours, or like that other lady's."
"Those are two different styles, didn't you notice?"
"No, they looked about the same to me, except for the color."
The expert in Sally started a patient explanation, "Well, hers
are squarer on the tip, that's a more professional look. She's an
attorney. Mine are actually just extension tips, but these are
relatively fragile. I only recommend it for those who don't have to
work with their hands, or who can come in anytime they need to get
repairs. Unless you want to come back every day you'll never make
them stay on, especially if you insist on a glamorous length right
off. "
"So what do I do?" I groaned, becoming overwhelmed and we
hadn't even started.
"I recommend a durable silk wrap if you don't mind the
expense. It will look very good, just a little thicker than my nails,
but it will hold up a lot better. That's what Mrs. Sanders uses.
"Okay, okay, just like hers except longer, just get started."
"Once we get your cuticles done. I already told you we have
to start there." she chuckled.
However, she had been working as we talked, and it wasn't much
longer before she was putting the first of the forms on my fingers.
She worked quickly, but carefully, struggling a little with the wider
profile my masculine fingers had. Still, she insisted, my hands were
well within the range of woman's hands that she had worked on,
actually rather slender and shapely.
"All that computer typing you do, I'll bet," she smiled.
"How did you know I do that?"
"Julie tells me lots of things. Women talk when they're
forced together like this. What else should we do?"
"Oh, I see," I considered. "What else did Julie tell you
about me?"
"Well, I never really repeat conversations. That's one of the
reasons ladies feel comfortable talking with me. I guess it's safe to
say, though, that Julie is really looking forward to this. I think
she's more excited about seeing you dressed up than about how this
little experiment turns out."
"Did she really tell you that?"
Sally shook her head, "No, she didn't say anything like that.
It's just an impression I got. You'd be surprised, though, at how
many women have that fantasy. A man who really understands what a
woman goes through makes a much better lover, at least we all think he
does. It's even better when a man will do it because his wife asks
him to as a sign of love and willingness to please. I'm jealous of
Julie, so maybe I'm reading more into it than she intends."
"You're jealous of Julie, about me?" I asked in surprise.
This brought a blush to Sally's cheeks as she realized that
she had let the conversation slip from hypothetical third person
fantasies to her own personal interests. But she didn't deny it, just
looking intently at my hands as she worked on them. Finally she
glanced up to see if I was still waiting for an answer, and her eyes
were caught by mine as I stared in continued curiosity. A small nod
bounced her hair before she looked back down.
"Sorry, Sally, I'm taken," I grinned, trying to defuse the
tension but flattered by her interest.
"I know," she blushed again, "I didn't mean anything by it."
"Thank you, though," I said softly. "It's been a long time
since any woman has indicated I might be interesting. I'm flattered,
just taken."
She grinned as I indicated I wasn't angry, and also that I
wouldn't try to take advantage of her admission to be forward with
her, then bowed her head again to her task, working industriously. I
was amazed at how restrictive the forms on my fingers were. Every
time I tried to move my hand, I bumped one form against another. I
got the obligatory nose itch part way through the session and went
quietly nuts trying to ignore it. Finally it was not so quietly, and
I carefully raised one hand to rub my nose with the back of a knuckle.
Sally chuckled as she watched me struggle with the impedimenta of her
trade but didn't say or do anything except to check and make sure I
hadn't screwed up her handiwork. After what seemed like hours, but
was really about 20 minutes, she sat back.
"Okay, what color?"
"Color?" I repeated stupidly.
"Right, this style requires a color coat. The materials
aren't natural color so they need to be covered. Besides, the sun
will cause the gels to yellow. Oh, that reminds me. Julie told me to
tell you that she won't use any more noticeable color than you do,
either. If you choose some pale, fadeaway pink, so will she. For
this elegant look, I suggest a bright, fiery red. It will go well
with your hair color."
"What about Julie's hair color? That's what matters."
"Well, she should probably use a darker color, which will be
okay. That's no more noticeable than the bright red I recommend for
blondes," assured Sally.
I struggled with the concept. "I really have to have them
polished?"
Sally laughed, "Yes, and you'll either have to re-polish them
every couple of days, more if you chip them, or come in here for me to
do it."
I suddenly realized I didn't know how to terminate this trial.
"How long does this last?"
"Forever, unless you break one or something. This doesn't
come off. I could probably file them down to look more ordinary, but
unless something unusual happens they're with you until your base
nails grow out, probably 3 or 4 months. Is that a problem?"
"I'll say," I shouted, "this is only supposed to last three
weeks at the most!"
"Calm down. Nobody told me that. Well, I'll think of
something. In the meantime, pick a color so we can finish."
She held out the vibrant red she recommended and I numbly
nodded, too overwhelmed by the thought of months with these strident
claws to care about this final shock. By the time she had the first
coat on, though, I was recovering and realized I had made another
unthinking commitment. My nails almost glowed with a riot of
brilliance, shining, shapely rubies that flashed in the lights of the
table lamp. My hands looked long and elegant, even, I admitted to
myself, beautiful and feminine. Those feelings of excitement I had
recognized as I entered the salon resurrected themselves and I
realized that I really wanted to do this. Earlier I had wondered if
Julie had somehow manipulated me into this adventure. Now a part of
me wondered if I had manipulated myself to this point, a part of my
subconscious prodding me to things I didn't really know I wanted to
do.
Sally applied several coats, I lost track but it must have
been at least four, cycling me through the dryer. She carefully
explained her technique, reminding me that I would need to do the same
every couple of days unless I wanted to admit it was too inconvenient.
Part of the price of maintaining beautiful nails, she claimed.
Finally we were done and she led me to the counter to pay. I had been
waving my hands around, watching the highlights gleam in the depth of
the polish, but hadn't tried to actually do anything with my hands.
My first trial came when my nose itched again and I almost poked my
own eye out.
"Careful," Sally laughed. "I told you they take some getting
used to."
I nodded, then reached for my wallet. I almost lost my first
nail right there as my hand reached my hip pocket well before it
should have. Only the tough silk wrap kept me from immediate
disaster. It didn't solve my problem, though. I couldn't get my
wallet out of my pants! When I carefully slid a finger down beside
it, the long nails kept me from curling the tip to get a purchase on
the smooth leather.
"I, um, have a problem," I stammered.
"What? Oh, I see," she giggled, then waved her own
even-longer nails at me.
Finally I managed to work my thumb down one side of my wallet,
and one elegant finger down the other and extract it. I had further
problems trying to get the correct bills from within it, but after an
interminable and frustrating delay Sally was paid (don't ask how much,
if you don't know how much a full set of long silk wraps cost, it
would shock you). I didn't even try to put my wallet away, just
holding it in my hand. Sally escorted me from the salon and closed
the door behind me. Keeping my fingers carefully folded so that the
nails were hidden against my legs, I walked to my bright red sports
car. I had left the top down so there hadn't been any reason to lock
it and I reached for the door, learning to be careful not to bang my
nails on the handle. I was surprised to see that the nail polish
almost matched the color of the car, which set me to wondering about
subliminal choices while I casually reached into my pants for my car
keys. Right. Casually reached right to the edge of the pocket on my
tight jeans and was stopped even more thoroughly than I had been by my
back pocket when I went for my wallet. I wasn't sure I'd ever get
those keys, but I finally managed to work them out and then noticed
the first chips in my polish. Damn, not even 15 minutes. I never
realized that polish was that sensitive. I had the bottle and was
about to toss it onto the seat when I realized that I couldn't have
Julie seeing my hands looking tacky or she'd use that as evidence that
the nails really were too much bother to keep up. So I carefully
opened the bottle, my long nails waving like flags around the base and
the applicator, and carefully applied polish to the chipped area.
Thankfully Sally had used a pretty good polish and it filled in
seamlessly. I put a second coat on for good measure after the first
one had dried, then carefully closed the bottle and drove home.
Carefully.
I ended up carrying both my wallet and my keys as I approached
the door to our house. It was unlocked and I managed to get inside
without further damage to my beautiful nails. I was really beginning
to get enamored with the flashing ruby highlights. Setting my things
down on a table in the entry way, I went to find Julie. My nails
still made me self-conscious enough that I kept my fingers folded
while I walked. As soon as Julie saw me her eyes went to my closed
hands, though she couldn't really see anything.
"Show me your hands," she demanded with a laugh.
I held my hands out to her, palms up as I had done in the
restaurant. My eyes were on her face, and I saw the almost immediate
look of exasperation as she was frustrated in her desire to see what
my new nails looked like. As soon as she realized I was holding them
upside down deliberately, her eyes flicked up to meet my wide grin.
"Gotcha!" I bounced my own laugh off of her, provoking an
embarrassed blush. While she was looking at my face I turned my hands
over. She noticed the flicker out of the corner of her eye and her
glance darted back to the target of her interest.
"Wow!" she said breathlessly. "You really went all out."
"Nothing is too good for my wife," I teased.
"They're beautiful, so long and elegant. How can you stand
it?"
"Oh, they're not so bad. I did have a problem getting my keys
out of my pocket, though," I admitted.
Julie laughed, "I'll bet! Did Sally help?"
"No way, her nails are even longer than mine."
"Well, we'll just have to get you a purse to carry your things
in," she teased.
"Not likely," I denied her offer. "I may have to work
something out, but I'm not carrying a purse. With these nails, I'm
probably not even going outside. You were right when you said I'd
have plenty of time to work on my project."
"But they're so beautiful, and so feminine. You ought to show
them off."
"Earth to Julie," I called. "This is just a test. You're the
one that will be showing off."
"Maybe," she smiled, "but only if you stick it out for the
three weeks."
"I'll manage."
"Maybe," she repeated with a mischievous grin.
"Now," she continued, "go strip off your clothes and go to the
bathroom. We have to get you ready for your other clothes."
"Ready? Bathroom? Just what do you have in mind?" I asked
with a combination of suspicion and growing concern.
"You'll see. Wearing a woman's clothes takes preparation.
That's part of the price, part of the inconvenience. If you won't do
what it takes, the test doesn't count."
She pointed toward the bedroom and made a shooing motion with
her hands, the grin regaining its triumphant air as she asserted the
power that controlling our little test had given her. I went to the
bedroom and stripped down to my underwear, managing to get my sport
shirt off fairly easily and my belt undone. However, the zipper on my
jeans almost ended the trial right there, as I first got frustrated,
then irritated, then angry enough to consider ripping those incredible
nails right off my hands. Somehow, though, I managed to get a hold on
the tab and lower the zipper. I toed my shoes off and walked into the
bathroom in my socks and underwear.
"No, no, no, that will never do," she chortled. "I said
strip!"
"What do you think you're going to do?" I demanded as I
complied.
"We're going to remove that unsightly body hair. It won't
look right with your new clothes and it might cause the stockings to
run. Stand in the shower."
I was a little surprised the shower wasn't already running to
set the temperature, but even more surprised when instead of a razor
she reached for a pink can.
"What's that stuff?" I asked in growing concern.
"Hair remover. Now hold your arms out to the side and stand
still."
She applied the cream from the can liberally all over my body
below my neck, except for a small area directly around my masculine
package. Even though I found my glamorous nails strangely exciting,
the hammerblows of succeeding surprises were too much for my saturated
mind to accept and I was completely deflated, even when she moved my
cock and balls around to spread the cream into hidden areas. Julie
set a timer for 20 minutes and cautioned me to stand still, then left
the room.
The twenty minutes stretched on and on, seemingly without end.
Without the timer I would have sworn it had been hours. My arms got
tired after less than five, but the worst part was the itch that
started after about ten minutes. It seemed like the foam was making
my skin crawl and I began to twitch and shiver as my nerves exploded
with the strange sensation. I was watching the timer creep down to
the end, calling up all the stubbornness I could muster to keep from
calling out and giving up, when Julie came walking back in.
"That should be enough. Let me rinse you off," she offered.
I stepped out of the direct flow of water just long enough for
the temperature to rise above freezing (it must have been just barely
above freezing, it was certainly cold) and then moved into its blessed
relief. Julie's gentle hands and a sort of rough sponge helped me
rinse all of the stinging foam off my body. I was so grateful for the
relief from the itch that the rubbing scrub Julie from was giving me
that I didn't realize just how smooth and sensitive my skin was
feeling.
When she was sure all the foam had been thoroughly rinsed,
Julie motioned for me to step from the shower. She blotted my skin
with a thick, soft towel and then reached for a powder puff. Before I
realized what she was up to, clouds of softly scented powder were
settling onto my shiny body.
"Why'd you do that?" I asked, once again feeling helplessly
attached to the tail of an out-of-control tiger.
"Your skin needs the softness of the powder after that
chemical. You know, you really do have beautiful skin. It must run
in your family, just like your thick, soft hair."
My father and both grandfathers had full heads of hair even
when they died. Just as importantly, my female ancestors also had
thick, full heads of hair. Women can carry the bald gene, too, it
just shows as thinning hair rather than actual bald spots. In any
event, baldness was one thing I didn't have to worry about. I kept my
hair reasonably short, mostly so I could ignore it rather than worry
about it, but I never thought of it as special. In fact, I always
considered it plain and uninteresting.
The mirror in the bathroom had fogged up and I couldn't really
see what I looked like. I could tell the thin hair on my arms, legs,
and chest was gone, but it had never been all that obtrusive. Before
I could really start examining myself, however, Julie pulled me back
into the bedroom. On the bed were boxes and bags in a bewildering
array of sizes and shapes. Surely I didn't need that many clothes!
They were still closed, though, so I couldn't tell what she had
included.
"Okay, Mr. Reasonable. Do you remember all the things you've
been nagging me about wearing?" Julie launched her attack.
"Now, honey, I haven't really been nagging you, just making
suggestions," I counterattacked, weakly.
"Once is a suggestion. More than once is a nag. You've been
nagging," she threw in her reinforcements.
"It wouldn't have been a nag, if you'd even really considered
my suggestions," I retreated in grumpy disarray.
She laughed and picked up the first package, "Actually, I'm
going to go easy on you. I'm going to help you out with things you
didn't even know enough to 'suggest', like removing your body hair so
it doesn't pull when you slide on your stockings. This is another
example. It's called a camisole, and it will keep the corset from
pinching your beautiful, smooth skin."
Julie pulled out shimmering wisp of nylon, tinted a pale pink,
edged in delicate lace. She gathered it up and motioned me to put my
arms in it, then draped it softly over my torso. It fell in gentle
waves, lighter than air, so cool and smooth. Despite my sense of
being overwhelmed I couldn't help but be impressed, pleased, even
delighted at the sensual feel of the thin material. I found my hands
smoothing it out over my waist while Julie busily adjusted the straps
for a proper fit, whatever that meant. She didn't say anything, but
the grin that was still prominent on her face took on a less
triumphant air, filling in with a more quizzical expression. I was
too distracted to notice.
"Ahem, now for the next item," she interrupted my reverie.
In the second package was a snowy white corset, decorated with
delicate pink lace that matched the border of the camisole thing that
I already wore. I recognized it in a general sort of way, but when I
had urged Julie to wear one I hadn't understood just how many
different styles there were for figure control. She proceeded to
explain about the one she had chosen for me.
"This is a traditional corset, called Victorian style. It's
out of date for today since bras have come along. Most modern figure
control clothing, basques and merry widows, incorporate bra cups but
you don't really need that, do you?" she teased.
There were laces down the back of the garment, but there were
also hooks down the front, hidden by a cover panel. Julie quickly
undid the hooks and wrapped it around my waist. When she started
fastening up the hooks again, I thought it was a little snug but no
big deal, really.
"That's not so bad," I commented as she was finishing the last
couple of hooks. "I don't know why you made this seem like such a big
deal when I asked you to wear one."
For some reason this made her giggle carol out, silvery and
full. I was surprised at first, but then a little concerned when her
hilarity continued beyond a quick chuckle. What was so funny?
She walked around behind me, struggling to get her laughter
under control, then managed to blurt out between titters, "I'm just
getting started. Hang on to the bedpost."
I tried to turn around to look at her, but she caught my
shoulders and held me facing the bed, then rotated them to make me
lift my arms. I was still trying to look over my shoulder at her,
though I was also reaching for the bedpost, when I remembered how much
slack there was in the laces when she first showed me the corset. She
wasn't going to try and pull out all that slack. Surely not!
Surely yes! With a strong tug she started pulling on the
strings of the corset. My hands grasped the bedpost in reflex to keep
from being pulled back and I started to complain, but she beat me to
the first comment.
"Be still. This is what a corset really means. If you want
to understand it, then stand still and take it."
I could hear the triumph back in her voice, and it triggered a
response that was fast becoming a conditioned reflex. That sense of
triumph she felt caused my always-adequate stubbornness to assert
itself and once again I decided to show her I could take anything she
could dish out. I held my tongue and grimly determined to ride out
this latest indignity.
She had started her lacing near the top, squeezing much of the
breath out of my lungs, anyway, so talking would be difficult. There
must have been six or eight sets of holes that she pulled the slack
out of before tying off the ends near my much-reduced waist. I tried
to breathe a sigh of relaxation, but the inadequate breath her tight
lacing had left me was choked off even further when she started
pulling out slack again, this time from laces near the bottom of the
surprisingly long garment. I tried to look down to see how much my
waist had already been pulled in, but all I saw was my own chest,
barely captured within the top of the corset and squeezed up until it
almost looked like I had a bust. She worked the lower laces up my
waist and I was beginning to consider capitulation, giving in and
admitting I couldn't take any more, when she went back to the first
set of laces again! I was too surprised to say anything when I felt
her strong fingers pulling out additional length from strings I was
sure were already drum tight. She only went about half way up the top
set of laces, starting at the lower level of my ribcage, but she
managed to yank out enough to increase the already crushing embrace of
the corset a noticeable amount. Finally she tied off these laces a
second time and stood back.
"There, that should about do it, for now."
"For now?" I gulped softly, trying to get some air back into
compressed lungs.
"Yep, after about an hour, we should be able to get a little
more out."
"Don't be ridiculous. This is already too tight." I whined.
"That's what a corset is all about," she maintained. "Now, if
you had really tried to understand what you were talking about and
asked for a waist cincher or body briefer, you might be a little less
constricted, blessed with modern stretchy materials instead of satin
and stiff boning. But no, you were always so sure you were being
reasonable that there was no need for understanding."
I said nothing. This example added to the self-assessment
that had started when she told me at lunch that she felt unfulfilled
and I began to think I hadn't been reasonable at all. But maybe I was
just getting lightheaded from the lack of breath.
While I had been lost in my thoughts, she went to a small
package and I heard the whisper of long, sheer stockings. When I
glanced at the sound, I saw her set those carefully on the bed, then
pick up a handful of small elastic straps with clips on the ends, I
recognized them after a second as garters. When she began to attach
them to hooks on the lower fringe of the corset I tried to interrupt
her.
"Wait a minute! Don't I get any underwear?"
"Did you ever ask me to go without?" she replied with a grin
brimming with mischief.
"Well, yes, but only once, a long time ago. You said that
doesn't count as a nag." I offered in my defense.
Julie giggled and nodded, "You're right. I have underwear for
you. They're even men's underwear, though not like any you've ever
worn. But they go on over the garters so you can go to the bathroom,
or remove them quickly just in case you're in a hurry."
My pretty tormentor chuckled as she gathered one of the
stockings neatly, then knelt at my right foot. I had considered
offering to do it myself, but she was obviously enjoying her time
dressing up her full-sized Barbie doll. Besides, in that infernal
corset I probably couldn't have bent over that far, anyway. The
slither of the smooth, shimmering material up my smooth, shining leg
reminded me of the camisole, and a bit of excitement returned. I was
still too deflated from the intensity of the corset to get fully
erect, but my dormant cock started to stretch down my leg. Julie
noticed, but didn't say anything. Her giggles did damp out though,
and I saw that quizzical look return to her eyes. In a moment she had
the first one hooked, to three garters as my saturated mind finally
absorbed, and started on the second. Normally, I take a bit of pride
in being pretty aware of what's going on around me. Unless I'm deep
into cyberspace of course, then the rest of the world doesn't exist.
But anyway, when I'm not lost in space, I try to pay attention to
things. However, it was only with the second stocking that I noticed
they were dark and elegant, and seamed! She had carefully
straightened the seam on the first one without me even noticing and
when she started to do the same to the second, I became a bit
overwhelmed. My pride in my awareness came tumbling down and I
realized I was truly out of my depth. I shuddered a little and
reached for the bedpost to steady myself.
"Are you alright?" she asked in concern.
"I think so," I murmured. "But this is just going too fast.
How much more is there?"
"Just a few things," she promised.
She opened another package and drew out a tangled set of thin
straps in a bright, vibrant red. Untangling the straps, she revealed
thong underwear, the thin bands emanating from a small triangle of
material. Once again she had me raise my feet and started pulling the
tiny thong up my tautly covered legs.
"You want to do this? Or do you want me to?" she asked
gently, still a bit concerned.
"I'll get it," I offered. My cock was still soft, a condition
that didn't change when I poked it with my long, clumsy nails, so I
managed to get it back between my legs and then pull the underwear up
to cover my masculine (how masculine was I, really?) package. The
bands of the thong barely drew up above the globes of my ass, just
enough to keep from sliding back down (I hoped). Still, they were
high enough that they had to be tucked under the lower fringe of the
corset, which extended from my armpits to my hips. I could see what
she meant by the need to put underwear on over the garters. If my
ordinary underwear had been trapped up under the corset, I never would
have gotten them down.
Those tiny underwear were strange, but putting them on myself
had allowed me to absorb their strangeness and I didn't feel quite so
out of control, so I stood up a little straighter (mostly a thing of
my legs and head, since my torso was already rigid) and smiled
reassurance at Julie. An answering smile of relief lit her face and
her good humor returned with the lightning speed of her normal
emotional transitions.
"Okay, almost done," she assured me. "All we have left are
heels, skirt, and blouse."
The unfamiliar words echoed in my mind, threatening another
overload. I carefully husbanded the little breath the corset allowed
to me and waited for these latest assaults on my senses. The blouse
was first, all lace and ruffles, extravagantly feminine. Another of
my "suggestions" at work, that she should dress in more feminine
styles. I sighed (well almost, I didn't have enough breath for a real
sigh) and fed my arms into it. It fastened up the back, of course,
all the way to a ruffled, stand up collar. I had deliberately set up
my career so I could work at home and avoid wearing a tie and here I
was with even more stuff around my neck.
"Does it have to be such a bright color?" I complained.
She giggled, "It is rather red, but red is really your color.
It matches your nails. Besides, women wear brighter colors than men.
This is what you get when you go for dainty, feminine styles like you
nagged me about."
Whoever had tailored the black skirt had decided to use the
material for fullness rather than length. It was definitely shorter
than typical for Julie (me and my big mouth, but I thought her legs
were beautiful and deserved to be displayed). When she slid it up my
legs I watched my knees reappear below the hem, then more and more of
my thighs as well. Finally she zipped it up behind me and closed the
single button.
"Good, the size is fine. In fact, I could have gotten a size
smaller. With that corset, you could wear a size 7, I'll bet we'll be
able to share clothes. Now, this is just a simple cotton/polyester
blend, but it's lined, so you don't need a slip," she explained.
Thank God for small favors I thought to myself.
"Oops, I forgot, you need a belt," she exclaimed, then drew
out a wide, stretchy, fish scale belt in shining gold. She quickly
wrapped this around my waist. I noticed there were no belt loops, and
while the belt was stretched a bit it was hardly tight since my waist
was so compressed. What good was it, anyway?
My thoughts on the uselessness of the belt had distracted me
while Julie turned to yet another package, obviously a shoe box. When
she turned around this time, I finally had to call a stop to the
nonsense.
"No! No way! I'm not wearing those shoes," I declared.
They were some sort of sandal things, open toed, with a single
red strap over the foot that was an inch or so wide at the sides, but
twisted into a knot in the middle, obviously right behind the toes.
Near the back of the shoe there were two long, thin red straps that
must tie up around the ankle in some way that wasn't immediately clear
to me. Those features weren't too bad, though I didn't know why she
hadn't just chosen some simple slip-on design. But the heels were
unreal! They towered up at least 5 inches, maybe more, covered in the
same bright red as the toe strap.
"Those are just too high, be reasonable," I heard myself blurt
out. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I wanted them back. I
was claiming reasonableness for myself and didn't want to lose control
of that word by letting her capture it. Too late, though. And worse,
it provoked that irritating triumphal grin back onto her face.
"Reasonable?" she jumped on the word. "You mean you don't
think these shoes are reasonable? I'll have you know these heels, in
my size, are less than an inch taller than the ones I was wearing the
last time you nagged me about my shoes. In your size they're up a
little more, but overall only about an inch over what you found
inadequate. Now that's only reasonable, isn't it?"
I was really caught, now. Flinging my own words back into my
face was bad enough, but doing it while wearing that damn grin was too
much. My own stupid stubbornness reared its perpetually ugly head and
I growled back.
"Fine, then, have it your way. How do those things fasten up
anyway?"
I tried to bend down to pick one up, but that stupid corset
kept me almost straight and I couldn't reach them. She quickly
grabbed one and held it for my foot. Guiding my stocking-clad toes
into the toe strap, she wrapped the other straps around my leg in a
pattern that still wasn't entirely clear but left them elegantly
poised at the thinnest point of my ankle. She fastened the tiny
buckle and motioned for me to raise my other foot.
Right. Until that point I hadn't been putting any real weight
on the high-heeled shoe. When she made it clear I needed to lift my
other foot, I tried to roll my hip a little, but found I needed to
step up instead. I immediately swayed, trying to find some sort of
balance between my toe and heel. Clutching at the bedpost, I felt
unfamiliar muscle tensions as I tried to stabilize my leg. I was so
distracted by the effort that Julie had the other shoe fastened before
I realized what was going on. After a moment, I realized that I
really could put some weight on the heel, though my toes were clearly
bearing the majority of the load. Still, that did give me a few
inches of wheel base to work with, better than just the ball of my
foot. It also let me relax the arch of my foot a little which helped
with my leg muscles. I gingerly put some weight on my other foot and
then slowly let go of my death grip on the bedpost.
"There, that's not so bad, is it?" Julie teased.
"I'll manage," I gritted out, still tottering but not in
imminent danger of falling.
"Would you like to take a look at yourself?" she offered,
moving back so I could turn to look in the full-length mirror.
"Not really," I denied, but as the panic brought on by the
towering high-heels subsided, the excitement I had previously
recognized flooded in behind it and I knew I wanted to see what I
looked like. I turned toward the mirror, too quickly and almost fell,
but I caught myself with a small step and attained a clumsy, awkward
balance. I had turned far enough to see myself in the mirror, though,
which was all that mattered at that moment.
My glance started at those silly shoes . . . which weren't so
silly anymore. They lifted my foot into a graceful arch and the thin
straps made my ankles look slender and delicate. The dark stockings
led my eyes up glorious, long, smooth, sculptured legs to the short,
dark skirt that nipped into a waist so tiny it couldn't possibly be
mine. I saw the value of that stupid gold belt as it provided a
magnet for the eyes in celebration of that slim, dainty waist. My
glistening nails caught a highlight from somewhere and I realized my
hands looked as elegant and feminine as my legs. Though my hands
would never be called dainty, with the long, glamorous nails they
looked slender and beautiful. The bright red blouse exploded in
ruffles at throat and wrists, surrounding the delicate airy lace that
threatened to reveal a bosom that I didn't really have. Not a real
risk anyway since I knew the blouse was lined and fully opaque.
Actually, I had a bit of a bosom with that corset squeezing my chest
up almost to my throat. The Victorian style of the body shaper
prevented any definition of breasts that weren't there, nonetheless I
had a definite bust, especially in contrast with that impossible
waist. The image I saw in the mirror buried my anger under
bewildering amazement, confused excitement, and I realized, pleasure.
It might have been okay if my gaze had stopped there, but my
eyes just had to go and complete the examination, finally reaching my
face. While Julie resisted my suggestions about clothes, she had
always been proud of the beauty of her face and glorious hair. Even
before we met she had developed the skilled, subtle touch of an artist
with cosmetics and had always taken the time to care for her tumbling
dark tresses. The only comment, other than compliments, I had ever
offered on her makeup or hair had been a single complaint the first
time she had worn curlers to bed. I had asked if that was really
necessary and she had curtly said it was. However, I noticed that
after that night she had started using hot rollers in the morning, at
least most of the time.
Anyway, I had always loved the way she enhanced the
considerable natural beauty of her face, and loved the flowing cascade
of her darkly shining hair, and never "nagged" her about either one.
As a result, she hadn't done anything with my face or hair and what I
saw in the mirror was a man's face over a gloriously beautiful,
amazingly feminine body. Actually, that wasn't quite right. With my
soft features and squeaky-clean shave, it looked more like a boy's
face over a woman's body, but still desperately, foolishly,
pathetically incongruous.
Julie had already seen what I looked like as she dressed her
grown-up Barbie doll so she had been watching my face as I studied the
vision in the mirror. It must have shown surprise, wonder, then
growing pleasure as I looked at the body she had created. Then it
must have shown dismay bordering on pain as my line of sight finally
lifted to my head. I was too overwhelmed by the unending stream of
shocks she had introduced into my life to maintain any control over my
expression and I must have revealed every thought as emotions flooded
through me in trip-hammer succession.
"Jay, what's the matter?" she said in alarm.
"Huh? What? Oh, nothing," I denied, the lie still written on
my face.
"Don't give me that. I haven't seen you look that unhappy,
not angry or frustrated or worried, but just plain sad, since I can't
remember when. Now what's wrong?"
I tore my gaze away from the mirror and looked at my loving
wife, all gloating triumph gone from her worried face. In truth, I
wasn't sure what was wrong with me. I didn't really want to be a
woman, did I? If not, then why was my face what I wanted to change in
the image and not my body? Why was I feeling so proud about my tiny,
decidedly feminine waist when I knew it was due to the corset I hated
so much? I did hate these clothes, didn't I? I was just putting up
with them, in private, to win an argument point with my wife, right?
The confusion rampant behind my eyes must have flowed across
my face, leaving Julie just as concerned as ever. I was too consumed
by the sensations to speak and just stood there, swaying a little on
my unaccustomed heels. Finally, she broke the frozen silence.
"Look, this has gone far enough. Let's get you out of those
clothes."
"No!" I cried, an expression torn from my confusion without
conscious thought.
"What?" Julie asked in surprise.
Somehow that one word that had forced itself from me had
caused my locked up systems to re-boot and I was able to speak again.
"I don't understand what all this means, love, but part of me
is really excited by these clothes. So much that I'm worried about
it, but I don't want to give it up, at least not yet," I explained.
My thinking out loud continued, "This has all been a little
too much for me. This little game we were playing has gotten entirely
too real. I'm sort of out of control, here, and I need to get myself
back together. But when I looked at myself in that mirror I was so
pleased with what you had done to me that I was about to explode.
Something about dressing like this is reaching deep into wants and
needs I never even knew I had. Do you think I'm really gay?"
"No, don't be silly," she assured me. "I read somewhere that
most cross-dressers are thoroughly heterosexual. You obviously enjoy
our marriage, just as I do. Actually, all of us have a little man and
woman inside, nobody is 100% male or female. Maybe you've just
repressed a little more femininity than we knew."
Building excitement bubbled in her voice, "Maybe I was more
right than I knew when I said that you needed to understand what it
means to be a woman a little more. Not just so you'll understand me
better, but so you'll understand yourself better!"
Julie continued, "But I don't understand why you looked so
sad, there. I can understand being confused. I'm confused by what's
going on and it must be much worse from your side. But what made you
so sad?"
I was finally resurrecting a bit of control over my tangled,
frantic thoughts as the shock of my appearance was absorbed and her
words began to help me understand things, at least a little. Her
question was enough to prod me back into a single, clear emotion.
Embarrassment. I felt a flush set my cheeks on fire and I ducked my
head, staring at my elegant shoes.
"Now what's the matter?" she asked in exasperation when I
didn't answer.
I tried to take a deep breath to calm myself, but though I was
getting used to the corset enough it was not actively uncomfortable, I
still couldn't manage more than tiny sips of air. So I closed my eyes
for a minute and took a mental breath instead, then looked at the
beautiful woman I loved.
"I was disappointed when I saw my man's face on a woman's
body. I wanted it to be a pretty woman's face instead. And hair,
lots of beautiful hair, like yours," I finally admitted. There it was
out. Now what would she think of me?
"Oh, Jay," she cried, tears forming in her eyes. I knew it.
I'd blown a good marriage. I should never have agreed to this stupid
test in the first place. I should have been satisfied with my
gorgeous wife just as she was, instead of being so selfish. I should
have . . .
Julie interrupted my mental self-flagellation by wrapping her
arms around me and hugging me tightly, almost tightly enough to feel
through that infernal, magical corset. She looked up to me with tears
in her eyes, but instead of disgust or anger I saw glorious love
there.
"Dearest Jay," she murmured into my . . bust, "you can't
imagine how much I hoped you would feel that way. I always wished you
would want to do this. I used this silly test as a way to get you to
go along with a more important test, not about fashions, about us.
It's a secret I've kept from you these years we've been married, even
before that actually. With your face and features I just knew I could
make you look like a woman, even a beautiful one. In my fantasies I
dreamed of making love with a woman, but it always turned out to be a
man under a woman's clothes and you were the man. This test, the
clothes I dressed you in, were all the sorts of things you nagged me
about, but you never complained about my face or hair so I had no
excuse to do anything to you there. But I so hoped you would want to
complete the transformation in your appearance. Do you? Do you
really?"
Somehow, holding her had helped me find a mental stability
that had been lacking all evening, not to mention a little help with
physical stability as I struggled even to stand in those incredible
heels. The warmth of her body next to mine, the soft scent of her
hair, the gentle emotions she displayed added memories from the
previous parts of our marriage to the confusion of that night,
building a combination that buttressed the new experiences with an
enduring love that was more than just a man-woman physical attraction.
I knew that I could count on her, no matter where this strange
adventure led us, and that chased away the fear that had lurked in the
back of my mind like a dark cloud. It seemed the fog of confusion was
dissipated like the fear, and with sudden clarity I knew what to do.
"Julie, honey, will you show me how to do makeup? And is
there something pretty you could do with my hair?"
The small, tentative, hopeful smile that had quirked her lips
gave way to a genuine grin. Her eyes glistened with new tears, but
this time I knew they were tears of joy. She wiped quickly at her
eyes and stood back.
"I can do better than that," she proudly declared. "Come sit
over at the vanity."
She moved quickly over to the seat and turned it around for
me. I stepped after her, but almost fell from the skyscraper heels,
feeling as clumsy as an oversized gorilla. She giggled, which didn't
help much, then offered some useful advice.
"Take shorter steps. Let your hips swing so you can put one
foot directly in front of the other, like you were walking a
tightrope. Point your toes."
I tried out the things she had suggested and they really
helped. I still felt clumsy but I wasn't in danger of catastrophic
contact between my nose and the carpet. At least not as much danger.
I walked slowly and carefully over to the seat by all of Julie's
cosmetics and gratefully lowered myself into it. No slouching though,
that stupid, wonderful corset kept me stiffly upright with forced
perfect posture.
"No, stand up again," she commanded.
I struggled to my feet and looked at her quizzically.
"When a lady sits down, she smoothes her skirt to keep it from
wrinkling. Try again."
I sat again, still with excellent posture but this time with a
smooth swipe of my hand to straighten my skirt as I lowered myself to
the seat. She nodded acceptance of my effort, then looked at her
vanity table. To my surprise, Julie just shoved a bunch of her
bottles and things to the side and got yet another new package, this
one from the closet. She looked embarrassed for just a minute, then
admitted, "I got some for you, in the colors you'd look good in. You
couldn't really use mine. I mean, you could use them if you wanted,
but they wouldn't look right."
While she had talked she had been pulling bottles and tubes
and small plastic boxes from the package, arraying them on the cleared
space like an army positioning itself for combat.
"Okay, how far do you want to go with this. I won't do
anything permanent, of course, but some of what you need will take a
little while to go away. For example, I need to shape your eyebrows."
"Do whatever you think is best, gorgeous. The reason I never
complained about your makeup is because you do it so perfectly. It
would be pretty stupid for me to interfere with your genius. These
silly nails are with me for a while anyway, so hit me with your best
shot. Fire away."
She gave a little-girl giggle and reached for her tweezers.
In a second I was reflecting on my idiotic habit of leaping before I
looked, getting myself into things without really understanding the
consequences. Pulling my eyebrows out hurt! Not badly, but the
series of little stings went on and on and on. I figured she hadn't
left any hair at all long before she was done, but she just kept at
it. Finally she tapered off, spending more time looking than pulling,
carefully balancing out their shape. At least, that's what I hoped
she was doing. She had me facing away from the mirror.
"Okay, that's the worst part. The rest won't hurt a bit, I
promise."
"Good, if it's all that bad I'm ready to admit defeat right
now and never complain about anything you do, or don't do, again."
She laughed and shook her head, but her mind was clearly on
the selection of cosmetics she had spread out.
"Hmm . . . Actually, with the right hairstyle, now that your
eyebrows are shaped you could pass as a woman just as you are, with
maybe a little lipstick. You really do have the right bone structure
for it. Still, this is not about getting a passing grade, you're
going to ace the course. It's going to take a few minutes but when
I'm done, you'll be the best-looking babe on the block."
"Not while you're around, beautiful," I disagreed, but my
excitement was building. If she, with her expert knowledge, thought I
had potential, maybe I really did.
It took more than a few minutes. I didn't understand
everything she did, at that time, but she seemed to be reaching for
skin-colored or even colorless things for a long time before she
started with what I had always considered was real makeup. She spread
creams and lotions over my whole face, even undoing the collar of my
blouse and lowering it away from my neck. Finally, though, she
started to lightly dab soft colors onto my eyelids, gold and pink and
purple. Even then she returned to neutral colors adding a smoky gray,
even a little white. At her direction I looked up and down and
wherever while she stroked a pencil to line my eyes, then I repeated
the eyeball exercises when she added mascara, and then more mascara,
and then still more. By the time she was done, my eyelashes felt like
they weighed a couple of pounds apiece.
"You're lucky," she interrupted my thoughts, "your natural
eyelashes are already pretty long and full so I won't have to use
false eyelashes."
Goodness, if that's what she did to long, full lashes, what
would she do to thin ones? Once my eyes were done, she moved on to
more definite colors to add shape and contour to my cheeks, though
even then she blended it in so thoroughly I thought she might have
rubbed it all into obscurity. Finally, she took a small brush and
started to paint a careful crimson outline on and around my lips. She
must have used the color to expand their size a little, since it felt
like she had exceeded where I felt my actual lip shapes to be. After
she had the outline the way she wanted it, she filled in the space
with bright, ruby color, a suspiciously good match for the shine on my
nails.
"Just how long have you been planning this?" I asked, though I
smiled to let her know I was pleased, not angry.
"In my dreams, just about forever, but I didn't actually buy
anything until today," she claimed.
Julie stood back from her creation and I started to turn to
the mirror.
"Not yet," she stopped me.
She buttoned my blouse back up, then went to her jewelry box
to get a gold chain with a shining heart locket, just right for the
antique style of the blouse. A quarter-sized pair of gold earring
disks, leftover from before her ears were pierced, were clipped to my
ears and a couple of rings with colorful crystalline gems were placed
on my fingers. My men's watch was removed, then she tapped her finger
against her forehead for a second in thought, snapped her fingers and
reached for her perfume.
"Now this we can share. I think Opium works well even on
blondes, especially if they're as hot at you look. Oh! That reminds
me! Whatever was I thinking?"
With that cryptic exclamation she went to the closet and drew
forth yet another new package. This one looked like an old-fashioned
cylindrical hat box, except much taller. It must have been two feet
high. Reaching inside she showed what the box had protected, a
glorious golden wig. Unlike my dirty blond color, this wig positively
glowed like pure sweet honey. It flowed over her hands as she
positioned it with the same sort of honeyed, liquid grace, highlights
dancing within the warm color.
It would be wrong to say I had gotten bored while I was
sitting there, but perhaps not too wrong to say I had become a little
more relaxed. The struggle to breath through the corset's
constriction, the unnatural arch of my feet, the sense of coolness as
the room's air currents played beneath my short skirt had all receded
into the background of my mind as I waited for Julie to finish with my
face. That gorgeous wig brought it all back, though. My chest
tightened in a way that even the corset couldn't match and I forgot to
breathe for a long moment as the wig came closer. Julie carefully
placed the cap over my own short hair, tucking up any loose ends, then
pulled the bangs and locks of golden beauty into position to properly
frame my face. The ends spilled over my shoulders down to the level
of my breasts . . uh . . bust and I felt soft, gentle whispers of it
caress my cheeks.
Finally, hours after she had started, or at least a half hour,
Julie stood back. The look of triumph was in her face, emphasized
with smug satisfaction that would have been intensely irritating
except I knew that this time I would share in that triumph. She
reached out one hand and gently helped me to my feet, as polite as any
courtier, then held my shivering shoulders as she turned me around to
look in the mirror.
I don't know how long it had been since I had breathed. It
didn't matter really. I had passed beyond breath, beyond any mundane
limits. I was air itself, and sunlight. I was shimmering flame and
molten gold. I was sparking diamonds and dancing rubies. I was
beautiful. Now my image was complete. My unbelievable figure hadn't
been diminished at all but now it was topped by a delicately feminine
face and a liquid cascade of flowing honey.
Probably I did start breathing somewhere in there, because I
know I stood frozen in homage to the image of perfection in the mirror
for a long time. Finally Julie poked me in my armored ribs and said,
"Not bad, huh. I told you I'd make you into a real babe."
"Oh, Julie, this is incredible. You're a genius. I love
you!" I gushed.
"Good, cause you're stuck with me," she grinned.
Then she ordered, "Now, go practice your walk while I change."
I struggled to get myself together again, mentally, for the
umpteenth time that night. Reviewing her advice, I started to sashay
across the bedroom, delighting in the swish of my hair and the flip of
my skirt.
"Here," she called, tossing me a red leather purse with a long
shoulder strap. "Go get your wallet and keys and put them in this.
I'll pick out the makeup you need to take along."
It finally penetrated my bemused state that she was changing
from the casual clothes she had been wearing. I saw a pair of darkly
elegant pantyhose laid out, as well as a snug leather skirt and a
shimmery satin blouse in a deep blue that matched her beautiful eyes.
High-heeled pumps were sitting near her feet (not as high as my heels,
of course). She was obviously getting ready for a night on the town.
"What's going on?" I demanded.
"We haven't had dinner, yet. I'm hungry, aren't you?"
"Well, sure, but we can't go out. I figured we'd fix
something here."
"Why? After all the trouble you've gone to in order to look
hot and sensuous, quite successfully I might add, why should we hide
in our house?" she asked as though it were silly to consider any such
thing.
I stammered out a not-very-coherent protest, "But . . but you
said . . uh . . we said . . that this would be private What will
people think?"
"Look in the mirror, you silly girl, and tell me what people
will think," she laughed.
She was right, of course, no one could possibly tell, at least
not by looking at a static image, that I wasn't a natural born woman,
a spectacularly beautiful one at that.
"But . . . but . . I don't know how to act like a woman. How
to talk, what to do." I stammered on with only borderline coherency.
"Then it's high time you learned," she declared relentlessly,
then softened a little. "Look, darling, you need to approach this
with joy. It'll be fun."
"Say, that's your new name. Joy. See that you live up to
it," she commanded with mock sternness. "Now go get your wallet and
keys. Remember your walk."
I stood dumfounded for a moment, but she turned back to the
mirror in absolute dismissal, her body language totally precluding the
possibility of further discussion as she attended to her own makeup.
In a sort of daze I turned to the door and went toward the table where
I had left my things. The purse already had some tissues and a
compact in it, and something I recognized as a tampon. There were
also a couple of breath mints, a lipstick in Julie's shade, and some
other things that seemed unnecessary, but somehow typical. There was
plenty of room for my wallet and keys, though, so I put them inside
and turned back to the bedroom. By this time my walk was settling
down. I knew I had to quit looking at my feet and made myself keep my
head up all the way back down the hall to the bedroom. It actually
worked easier, since my body quickly adopted a swaying rhythm of hips
and gracefully pointing toes. When I got back to the bedroom, Julie
had finished her makeup, dressed, and was slipping on her pumps.
"You never get dressed that fast when I want to go somewhere,"
I accused with a laugh.
She excused herself with a giggle, "Well, I didn't do my hair
and I only needed to add a little flash to my makeup."
Julie motioned for me to hand her my purse and looked inside.
The compact and lipstick that were there came out, to be tossed among
her stuff, then a compact from my array went in, along with lipstick,
eyeshadow, blush, and mascara.
"What, no eyeliner," I teased.
"Oops, thanks, I almost forgot."
"I was just kidding. I won't need all that stuff."
"Actually, you might," she disagreed. "It takes attention to
keep yourself looking good and I expect you to do your best."
"Yes, ma'am," I agreed meekly, then felt myself giggle as
well, somehow caught up by the mood into a feminine mannerism.
She praised me for it, "Good, remember that giggle, but
otherwise you better speak softly and let me carry the conversation
until we train your voice a little."
"Yes, ma'am," I repeated, this time in a soft breathy voice
not much more than a whisper.
Julie nodded and motioned for me to precede her from the room.
I realized she was trying to get me to adopt more feminine mannerisms
and that I certainly needed the practice. When we got to her
Thunderbird she opened the door for me, whispering quick advice on how
to sit. I placed my heels as close to the car as I could, clamped my
knees together, and sat, or rather fell, into the seat. Once my
weight was transferred to the car, I lifted both legs together, knees
still carefully squeezed, and swung them in. Not too bad, I thought,
but getting out will be tough. Julie went around to the driver's side
and slid into her seat with a similar motion, but with a grace I
envied desperately, a grace made even more impressive by its lack of
apparent effort. She backed out of the drive without the launching
rocket style I used, but we were quickly on our way.
"Where are we going," I asked in my normal voice.
"Joy, you need to speak in a more feminine manner at all
times," she chided me. "Keep your voice soft, but let the tone vary,
and don't be so abrupt. It would have been more appropriate to say
something like, "Oh, I do so hope we can find a place with a fabulous
salad bar!"
"Oh, I do so hope we can find a place with a fabulous salad
bar," I giggled, trying for the soft tone she indicated while still
gushing with emotion, then I laughed through the rest of my wish, "and
a thick, juicy prime rib."
"No, no, no," she chuckled in response. "Ladies don't wolf
down thick slabs of red meat. I'll bet you couldn't anyway, while you
wear that corset."
"You know, you're right," I realized. "I was hungry earlier,
but right now, I don't feel a bit hungry."
"That's because your stomach is too compressed to be empty.
Be grateful. It will help you preserve that girlish figure," teased
Julie. "We better get something to eat, though, before we go
bar-hopping."
"What?" I cried, in a surprisingly feminine tone since my
full-bodied shout was too robbed of air for strength by that infernal
corset.
"You heard what I said," Julie declared. "By the way, you
don't mind if I remove my wedding ring for the night, do you? We'll
just be two hot women out for a good time. Why should you be the only
one that looks 'available'?"
She suited her actions to her words and worked her wedding
ring off her finger, dropping it into a side pocket of her purse. I
hadn't worn one for years since it was always getting in the way when
I put in some upgrade or another into my computer. I suddenly
realized it would be a long time before I put in any upgrades myself,
if I kept my nails this glamorous. That distraction kept me from
really absorbing the sense of her statements, that we were going to go
trolling for men!
The first place we stopped was a yuppie soup and salad place.
Julie caught my eye with a stern look that I didn't understand at
first, then she ordered only the salad bar, skipping both the soup and
baked potato options. A second stern look to me following her order
and it was finally clear that I was to order the same, though I would
normally have sampled all of the soups (with big bowls) and stuffed a
potato until I could hardly carry it. This girl thing looked like it
was going to be boring, at least in the food department, but I ordered
in accordance with her orders, or order, or whatever.
The girl behind the cash register barely looked at me when she
said, "That'll be $5.32, Miss."
Miss, she said, not even ma'am. I must look like a young lady
as well as a pretty one, at least to this inattentive attendant. That
reminded me of the rapidly expanding circle of witnesses to my
impersonation, none of whom were paying any more attention than the
cashier. Or at least, no more than the cashier had been paying me
just a moment before. As soon as I started digging through my purse
for my money (why couldn't Julie have just paid for us both?) those
long nails began to show just how inconvenient lady's fashions could
be and I started to hold up the line. Worse, Julie was standing there
with that damn amused grin on her face as I struggled, just waiting
for me to admit that it was too much for me to handle and ask for
help. It's a good thing I looked up to see that smile, or I would
have asked for help. Somehow I fumbled out enough money and handed it
to the cashier.
"I don't know how you can put up with those long nails," the
cashier sighed wistfully, "but they sure make your hands look
beautiful, so slender and elegant. I wish I could learn to handle
them."
"I only had them put on earlier today," I admitted in a soft
voice. "I'm still learning myself."
"You're very brave to try," she grinned, "but then, if I
looked as hot as you do, I'd probably make the effort, too."
"Thank you," I replied, ducking my head to hide my blush.
This caused a flow of my hair to surround my face and reminded me of
just how extreme my disguise was. Maybe I could get away with this,
after all.
The purse that Julie had inflicted on me had a shoulder strap
so I arranged it carefully, then took up my tray and walked to the
salad bar. The swaying motion made necessary by my towering shoes and
the partial obscuration by my bust of the items on the tray kept me
nervously imagining a cascade of silverware and crockery from what I
carried, but I reached the salad bar in safety. While I was working
my way down the array of items, I felt a funny, itchy feeling at the
back of my neck under the softly tickling mane of golden hair and
shook my head to try and settle it better. The itch didn't go away,
and I shook my head again, even more sharply, provoking a sensuous
ripple and quick flip of the ends. That didn't help either and I was
considering trying to balance my tray and reach behind me to scratch
that itch when Julie came close and hissed at me.
"Stop that! You're just showing off. You don't want to pick
up any of these guys."
What was she talking about? I turned around and saw men
sprinkled through the restaurant, all of whom seemed to be staring
right at me. That itch had been the funny feeling I get when I'm
being watched, magnified beyond anything I'd ever felt before by the
number and fierce intensity of the stares of the men. I wish I'd have
known that was what it was, not only because I would have been able to
understand and discount the itch, but because when I turned around, my
eyes met those of several of the staring men and at least two got up
and started to walk my way. I looked around in panic for Julie and
saw her nearing the end of the counter. This provided me with more
than enough incentive to hurry through my last selections and catch up
with her. Thankfully she led us to a table away from my pursuers, if
that's what they really were, and we sat down to our skimpy meal.
Julie was still mad at me, maybe jealous? Anyway, she started
in again with another harshly whispered comment, "Quit flirting with
these guys. They're losers. You let yourself get picked up by one of
them and you're on your own, girl."
"I wasn't trying to flirt!" I whispered back just as
intensely. "I felt an itch at the back of my neck. You know how it
is when someone is watching me. It was just so intense! I've never
felt it that strongly."
"Well, those guys thought you were tossing your hair to get
their attention, which was a stupid waste since they were already so
focused on you that a dozen elephants could have paraded through here
and they wouldn't have noticed," she giggled, her good humor restored
when she realized my distraction hadn't been deliberate. "Eat up, and
we'll go where the hunting is better."
"I'm NOT hunting for men!" I insisted.
"Hah!" retorted Julie. "With those looks, all you need to do
is smile and they'll keel over at your feet. You're a knockout.
Don't tell me you're not flattered by their interest."
"I am not!" I denied her claim, but a part of me wondered if
she were right.
Looking around the room, I tried to keep my eyes moving too
fast to make eye contact with any of the men, but also to figure out
what made them such losers in Julie's eyes.
"How come you think these guys are so bad?" I asked. This was
a mistake since my own thoughts had moved on to other issues and I had
forgotten Julie's last comment. She hadn't though, and thought we
were still on the topic of my alleged flirting.
"See, I told you so! You are interested in them!"
"NO, I'm not," I insisted. "But I don't understand why these
guys are so bad if we're looking to be picked up anyway."
"We're not looking to be picked up, at least not really. But
we are going to have a good time tonight. We're just not going to let
anyone come home with us. We're not going to waste our evening on
these losers, though. Look at them."
I looked again, and again failed to see what she found so
objectionable . . . or did I? I had never really considered men from
an attractiveness standpoint before. For me, they were just part of
the scenery, unless maybe I was worried about a confrontation of some
sort. Those I avoided whenever possible since as a man I was too
short and thin to be much of a fighter. Now, I looked at the men in
the salad place with new eyes, considering them as counterparts to my
displayed gender. Maybe I was beginning to see what Julie was
noticing. The men seemed to fall into two categories. One type was a
bit overweight, trying to control it just as we women needed to by
eating a light meal. The ones that were not harmlessly attached to
other women were constantly looking, staring, evaluating, trying to
decide if they could meet a worthwhile woman in this female feeding
ground. A bit desperate, I could now see. The second type of
unaccompanied man was a geek even worse than I had been at my worst.
Thin, gawky, usually with unflattering glasses, they looked at the
unescorted women with a hunger that was definitely desperate. They
seemed the bookish type that read all about nutrition and came to
places that offered what the books indicated, even though they would
have been better off with a meal loaded with fats and carbohydrates to
add a little bulk to their scrawny frames. Definitely not my type.
What did I just say . .er . . think? No men were my type. Were they?
I buried my gaze in my salad and ate carefully, trying to
guide the fork with my glittering nails without sticking one in the
dressing, or my mouth or whatever. I had heaped a pretty good pile of
things on my plate, even if they were all salad things, and started in
greedily to make up for the lack of potato and soup. After less than
half of it, however, I found myself picking at the plate, literally
unable to stomach another bite in my squeezed condition. I had held
myself primly erect throughout the meal, what there was of it, so
overall it seemed quite dainty and feminine, an effect no doubt
magnified by the need to periodically sweep my ruby nails through my
glowing blonde hair as it cascaded sensually down the front of my
blouse.
"You're doing it again," Julie hissed, but there was enough
laughter in her eyes to show she wasn't angry.
I froze in confusion, completely caught up in my internal
musing and so comfortable with my feminine attire that I had forgotten
that people were watching . . closely . . every move I made.
"We need to go," I whispered back. "I can't eat any more
anyway."
"Told you so," gloated Julie, "while you wear that corset,
you're going to eat like a lady, at least."
I nodded her the victory in this little point of contention,
but I stood up to walk out. I picked up my tray to take it to the
conveyor, when Julie hissed at me with yet another mistake I had made.
"Don't forget your purse, Joy," she grinned, then whispered,
"from now on that needs to be welded to your arm, wherever you go.
Welcome to another inconvenience of womanhood."
I put my tray back down, carefully arranged the strap of my
purse, and picked the tray up again, all the while maintaining my
balance on those teetering shoes, which had begun to hurt just as soon
as I stood up again.
"We'll have to go home," I pleaded, "my feet are killing me."
"Oh, poor baby," she grinned wickedly, "do you want to just
give up now, or at least wait until we get to the car. I'll help you
take off your wig."
"No!" I whispered back. "I don't want people to know I'm not
a girl. I just want to rest my feet."
The gloating triumph was back in her smile, "High heels aren't
worth it, huh?"
"They aren't that bad, but it takes a little getting used to.
With practice, I'll be fine, just not all in one night."
"Too bad. I'm going out for the evening. You can come along
or make your own way home," she giggled, knowing I wasn't ready for a
solo trip.
"Oh, all right. Have it your way. I can handle it."
"Good, follow me," she ordered, and headed for the exit. I
had to hurry a bit to catch up and that make me put even more wiggle
in my walk than normal (what was normal, anyway?). I know a heard a
low whistle, and maybe a deep sigh as I left, but I wasn't about to
turn around to see who had done what. We escaped into the parking lot
and made our way to the car, where I repeated the careful attempt to
preserve what little modesty the short skirt allowed.
The next stop on Julie's agenda for the evening was Feathers,
a nightclub that we had heard about.
"We can't go in there," I gasped.
"Sure we can. I've wanted to check it out since it opened,"
she said blandly.
"But it's a singles bar," I protested.
"So what? We're single, at least for tonight," she grinned.
By this time she had parked the car and swung her own shining
legs out. She stood up and walked to the front of the car to wait for
me, that irritating challenge back in her smile. It worked, as usual,
and my own determination overwhelmed whatever good sense I might have
possessed, not much it seemed, and I struggled out of my own door. I
still couldn't stand up in those high heels from that low seat without
showing everything I owned. At least it seemed that way.
As we were walking toward the door, yet another problem
occurred to me and I grabbed her arm, "Wait! I don't have any ID.
They won't let me in. They check ID even for people more obviously
over 21 than I look."
"Oh, don't worry about that. We'll get in."
"How," I demanded.
"Look, I've known you for a little over two years and we're
both 24. What does that tell you?"
"Huh? Nothing. What's that got to do with anything?" I
answered with my own question.
"Don't ever say, 'huh', dear. It's not ladylike. A lady
says, 'excuse me' or 'I'm so sorry, but I don't seem to be able
understand what you mean'. It means you didn't even meet me till I
was over 21. You've never seen me get into a bar while I was
underage. You can do it, too."
"Right," I snorted. "What works for a beautiful woman won't
work for me."
"Why not?" she asked. "You're a beautiful woman."
It's amazing how much you can get used to. There I was
standing near the entrance to the nightclub dressed in a short skirt
and towering heels, with a corset squeezing my middle and long golden
hair tickling my face in the gentle breeze, and I had forgotten all of
that. It seemed quite natural to be dressed like that. On the other
hand, while I recognized the problem with ID, deep down inside I still
didn't consider myself a woman. When Julie called my appearance back
to the front of my mind, my cheeks flamed in embarrassment and I
quickly looked around to see if anyone was about to call the cops on
me, or something. No one was paying particular attention, though we
were getting scoped out by most of the men and some of the women who
where making their way to the same bar.
"Just flirt with the bouncer at the door a little while you
hold your ID out. Twirl those gorgeous nails in your hair, drop your
head a little then look up at him through your lashes with your head
turned slightly to the side. Smile. Improvise a little, use your
imagination. Do whatever you need to do to keep his attention on you
and not on your ID. It'll work. Trust me," she urged.
"I couldn't do all that," I gulped.
"Then you'll get bounced and I'll have a good time by myself.
Your choice," she said with a dismissive toss of her own lustrous
hair.
Without another word or any possibility for further argument,
Julie headed toward the door. Once again I was forced to hurry to
follow her, putting that extra wiggle back into the orbit of my hips.
When she got to the entrance, she blandly extended her ID and passed
through effortlessly. Of course, her ID was real and there wasn't any
reason for her not to be passed. Mine said I was a man, but I sure
didn't look like one.
When I got near the door, I fumbled in my purse for my own ID.
I finally got it out and held it before the bouncer with my scarlet
wands carefully draped over my picture. My other hand was clutching
at a lock of hair and I nervously waited for him to check out the
person in front of me in line. The bouncer was a good looking dude,
with dark, curly hair balanced by a mass of even darker hair curling
up from the open collar of his shirt. I realized my nervousness would
absolutely be my undoing, so I forced myself to relax (or at least
pretend to relax) and started a slow twirling of the hand that held my
hair, letting the ruby highlights of my nails flash in the lights of
the entrance. I thought back on the things that had flustered me when
I was on the receiving end of a girl's flirtation, and the memories
brought a smile to the lips Julie's magic had made so full and red.
Those private amusements started a matching smile lurking behind my
lashes as I looked down again to see if I had my ID properly placed.
Glancing up at the bouncer, I saw his eyes on my hand and hair and
then looking into my eyes. For some reason, I found myself caught up
in this flirtation thing, enjoying the power it gave me, a power that
just didn't happen the other way around. His eyes flickered back to
my twirling fingers and I felt my own eyes drawn to follow his gaze.
All of the sudden I saw a tiny spot of salad dressing on one
of my fingernails. Without thinking I popped it up to my mouth and
licked it off, freezing when I realized the bouncer was watching me.
A crazy urge captured my out-of-control mind and I decided to see just
how much power I had as a flirtatious woman. I slowly completely
licking along my nail, my middle finger as it turned out, all the
while letting my eyes smolder at the handsome bouncer. His eyes
bulged out at the gesture and I could see a flush start down from his
hairline. I reached out with the long, nails of that hand, wiggling
them to keep his attention captured, and lightly plucked at the curly
hair peeking from his collar.
"I understand that lots of chest hair is a sign of lots of
testosterone production. Do you suppose that's true?" I mused in my
soft, breathy voice.
"I'll be glad to show you," he grinned, then captured my
wandering hand. He brought my fingers to his lips in a genteel kiss,
provoking a most amazing shiver to run up my arm. Before I knew what
was happening, he had captured the nail of my middle finger, the one I
had just licked, into his own mouth. I felt his tongue flick the very
tip of my finger, hidden under the nail, lightly but very rapidly. It
was clear that he was offering to use that talented tongue to flick
another place on my body, or one he thought I possessed. Now it was
my turn to gasp, and to blush. I pulled back at my hand, but for just
a second he held is as easily as if it had been set in concrete to
show his power, before casually letting me go. I dropped my eyes,
then returned my gaze to see if he was looking at me. He was, but he
was also motioning me to move on into the bar with his grinning eyes.
I found my feet carrying me along, though I was still too
dazed by the sensations that had come flooding through me to manage
more than the most basic of motor skills. A bit of awareness returned
as my wandering hand was again captured, this time by Julie.
"You're wicked!" she hissed, but her grin threatened to split
her face. "I told you to flirt with him, not fling yourself at him."
"Um . . uh . . I just did what you said," I protested.
"Oh, be still. You're not even convincing yourself, let alone
me," she giggled.
"Okay," she continued, "here's the plan. We're going to
separate for a while, to check out the single men, before we join up."
"I obviously don't have to tell you anything about flirting,"
she giggled as she ostentatiously straightened out the golden locket
that surrounded the antique collar of my blouse. "Just remember, a
lady never gives a blowjob on the first date, and use the right
bathroom when you have to go."
"Blowjob?" I hissed, "I'm not going to do anything like that!"
"After that show with the bouncer, I'm not too sure just what
you'll do. Besides, haven't you nagged me about that as well?"
"No!," I denied, "at least, not lately, not since you . . um
. ."
"Well, I still haven't sucked your cock till you came, so I
obviously haven't swallowed your cream. You asked about those, too.
If you want me to put out, you have to put out. Think about it."
"I couldn't," I gasped.
"Then I won't ever hear anything about it again, right?"
I bowed my head in defeat, but some things are just too much.
Nodding unhappily I looked up to see her already disappearing into the
crowd, leaving me standing there open-mouthed and alone. I hadn't
intended to go anywhere near the bathroom that night, either, but the
power of her suggestion started working on me immediately and I felt
the first twinge of need.
I started to go after her before she disappeared completely,
but found myself stopped by a wall that had magically appeared
directly in front of me, a wall of living muscle, neatly dressed in a
stylish shirt and a butter-soft tan leather jacket.
"Pardon me, but you look like you could use a drink," a
subterranean voice rumbled from somewhere in that massive wall.
Looking up . . and up, I found myself face to face with the
biggest man I had ever seen. At my normal 5'9" I am only average in
height at best. With my skyscraper heels, though, I was over 6 feet
tall and had gotten used to being a little taller than most of those
around me, at least I was over average height for once. However, next
to the mountain that blocked my path I was short again. Then I
recognized the mountain in front of me. I may not be very athletic
myself, but I watch the games on TV and my blond roadblock was Steve
Gage, pro linebacker for the Montana Thunders and MVP at the latest
Super Bowl. I felt like some latter-day Dr. Strangelove as I watched
the crimson spears on my rogue hand reach out without my conscious
command, out and up that is, to lightly touch the shoulder that
blocked out about half my field of view.
"Goodness," I said softly as I let my nails tap on his
muscles, "I always thought your shoulders were so big because of the
pads. Now I'm not sure you wear any pads at all. Is that all you?"
"Yes, though I do wear pads on the field" he said with pride.
"Now, how about that drink?"
He didn't really wait for an answer, but took my elbow with
surprising gentleness and steered me toward a booth. A couple of
other Thunder players were there already, some accompanied by
spectacularly pretty girls. It came to me suddenly that Steve Gage
must consider me in their class if he was willing to bring me over to
meet them. Introductions were limited to first names so when they got
to me I just said, "Joy" and then looked up at my massive escort for
guidance.
"Sit down. You guys slide over a little. Make room."
Remembering Julie's instructions I smoothed my skirt and slid
into the booth, trying hard not to show too much leg. I started out
okay, but as I slid over, my skirt started to rise up more and more
and by the time I was in position the top of my stockings was showing,
along with a bit of creamy thigh. The corset also made me sit much
more formally than the lounging lions around me, or their fawning
attendants.
"Relay, Joy, we don't bite, except on game days," another of
the players, John Taggert, a defensive back, promised.
"Sorry, it's just that you guys are so . . tremendous," I
smiled.
"Get her a drink, Steve," Billy Swift, a wide receiver,
ordered, "or I will."
Steve stood up and waved at a scantily-clad waitress. While
she was on the way over he asked for my drink choice. Just in time I
remembered that ladies don't guzzle beer and asked for an innocuous
white zinfandel instead. The waitress nodded, took refill orders from
the rest of the crowd, and vanished back into the dim nightclub.
"So, beautiful, where have you been keeping yourself?" Steve
asked me.
"Isn't that supposed to be your opening line?" I giggled.
"Not that offering a drink is a bad opening. However, it was your
imitation of a wall that really got my attention. Just how tall are
you?"
"Only 6'6"," he claimed with false modesty. "Old Studdly
Wellhung over there (pointing at a defensive linemen at another table)
is 6'10" and we've got a rookie that's over 7 feet."
At the obvious reference to the lineman's masculine equipment
I had blushed and ducked my head, for an instant reminded of my own
hidden secret. I realized as I lowered my gaze in embarrassment that
I had been so absorbed by the role I was playing that I had forgotten
I was not a real girl, or at least, forgotten that I was not
interested in men.
"Dammit, Steve," said one of the other girls as she slapped
him on the shoulder, then winced as her hand hurt, "Joy is obviously a
lady. Don't be so crude."
This embarrassed me even more as the lie I was living moved
another girl to come to the defense of my supposedly delicate
sensibilities. I was getting in deeper and deeper, drowning in the
rapidly-expanding flood of implications from my masquerade.
"Perhaps I should just go," I offered quietly, still staring
at my hands.
"Please don't," Steve said gently. "It was my fault. I
should have treated you with greater respect. I'm truly sorry. Will
you forgive me?"
I looked up to see if he was teasing me, but I saw real
remorse in his eyes. He was either even a better actor than a
football player, or he truly regretted his coarse comment. I brushed
back the golden hair from my face in a gesture that was fast becoming
an instinctive reflex, then nodded and gave him a shy smile.
"I'm sorry, I'm just a bit new to the city. You men are so
. . huge . . that I'm feeling a bit out of my depth."
"Huge is right," Swift, a black man, said with a leering grin.
His reward for his comment was a slap to his own hard shoulder by the
girl seated nearest to him. Perhaps more importantly, it got a
serious sort of growl, wordless but nonetheless very explicit, from
Steve. Swift immediately showed his own embarrassment and turned away
to speak to the girl on the other side of him.
"Perhaps we should go," Steve offered, still looking angrily
at Swift. "It seems my friends can't tell the difference between a
lady and the animals they play with."
I found my voice responding in a surprisingly subservient
tone, "Whatever you say."
He smiled as this comment placed at least my immediate future
in his hands, and slid from the booth. Holding a hand out to me, he
pulled me easily from the booth, seemingly oblivious to my skirt
riding even higher, though I thought I could detect a small quirk of a
grin for just an instant. As we turned away from the booth the
waitress finally arrived with our drinks and Steve snared my wine and
his beer from the tray.
"We'll let Billy pay for them," he whispered to me with a
conspiratorial grin, then once again deftly steered me through the
crowd with a gentle touch on my elbow. The nightclub consisted of a
lot of small rooms surrounding a dance floor. Many of the small rooms
or high-wall booths held only a few or even one table. The design of
the rooms varied so that some were quiet, the dance music only a
murmur, while others were exposed to the full fury of the pounding
rhythm. As we moved away from Steve's friends, who had been sitting
at a sort of intermediate volume level, we passed first through an
explosion of sound that threatened our eardrums with immediate
destruction, then down a passageway to surprising tranquil corner. In
it was a single table, shielded from view as much as from the noise.
"Goodness, imagine finding this table unoccupied on such a
busy night," I said in wonder.
"No surprise, I had it reserved and pay the bouncers to keep
it clear. I like the guys on the team, but I'm not really a party
person. Every now and then I need a chance to get away and hide," he
claimed.
"You play in front of 100,000 screaming fans, and who knows
how many more on TV, and you tell me you like to hide?" I said in
disbelief.
"That's different. On game day I'm . . . different . . I
guess you could say. I get pretty focused, pretty intense. Off the
field, though, I'm just like other guys."
I giggled at him, but smiled with new respect, "Yeah, other
guys who can do a convincing imitation of a wall."
"That's the second time you've mentioned that. What do you
mean?"
"Well, when I bumped into you, I was trying to follow my
. . sister who was disappearing into the crowd. You're so big I
couldn't see over you, couldn't get around you, and couldn't move you.
That sounds like a pretty good description of a wall to me."
"Oh," grinned my massive escort without a single shred of
guilt. "Where is she now?"
"I don't know. She said she was going to circulate a little,
then get back to me."
"Well, let's ask her to join us," he offered, pushing on an
unobtrusive button set in the table, obviously still trying to put me
at ease after his crude remark. Right, like that was the problem. If
he found out what had really embarrassed me, I'd be a grease spot
under the table. My problem was that part of me was feeling so guilty
I wanted to be turned into a grease spot, while part of me was
thrilled by the attention he was paying to me. At this rate I'd not
only have two external appearances, but I'd develop a split
personality and have two people inside me as well.
Almost immediately one of the waitresses showed up. That
button not only requested service, it got it quickly, at least when
Steve Gage pushed on it. He explained to the girl about my sister,
letting me fill in a description, and asked her to find Julie and
bring her to our table. There must have been a couple of hundred
people in the place, and the design was deliberately set up for hidden
places so it couldn't have been easy to find her, but Steve and I had
only started to talk again when Julie appeared, escorted by our
waitress.
"Thank you," I smiled at the girl. "That was quick."
"She was looking for you. I just went to the place where you
can best see around and found her scanning the crowd. It usually
works when people get separated."
Julie hadn't said anything, only staring at my companion, huge
even while sitting.
"Julie, this is Steve Gage. He got in my way when I tried to
follow you earlier, so he offered to buy me a drink and find you," I
explained.
"THE Steve Gage?" she asked in awe. She's not as much of a
football fan as I am, but she was certainly aware of who won the Super
Bowl MVP.
"At your service," he said gallantly, standing as she sat.
Julie had brought a drink with her, so the waitress left and
we started to talk.
Steve politely drew my "sister" into the conversation, "So,
Julie, Joy tells me this is her first day in town, and that she's your
sister. Are all the girls from your neck of the woods so beautiful?
I may find a new home for the off-season."
With a wickedly amused grin directed at me, Julie said, "I
guess there's a lot of girls like me, but I think I can safely say
that there's not another girl like Joy in our whole family, or in our
whole home town."
I tried to seem unconcerned, but somewhere in her tone or
expression there was an implied threat to reveal my secret and once
again I ducked my head in embarrassment, sending waves of honey
flowing past my face. This time it was Steve's giant hand the softly
brushed the strands away from my burning cheeks.
"Don't be embarrassed, Joy. I agree with your sister. You
are a unique beauty."
Julie strangled a giggle while his eyes were on me, but I saw
it and it finally moved me past embarrassment to irritation at her
teasing me for a situation she had done a lot to get me into. I
glared at her quickly before looking back at Steve.
"Thank you, sir. You're a gentleman, even if not everyone in
this booth is a lady."
Julie burst out laughing at the meaning buried within my
comment, and in a moment I had to join her as I realized just how true
my statement had been. Once again I had forgotten who, or what, I
really was. Maybe I didn't even know. Steve looked at us in
confusion, not understanding why something that sounded like an
elegant insult provoked both of us to laughter.
Julie caught the confusion in his expression and choked out an
explanation that set us both to laughing again, "Never mind, Steve,
it's a girl thing. You just wouldn't understand."
Now he began to look a little embarrassed as he seemed to be
interfering in something that only the two of us shared. I tried to
reassure him by getting him back into the conversation.
"What are you and the team doing in our little town?
Obviously we're all proud to have you, but it is a little out of the
way."
"Not really," he disagreed. "Several of us have homes in the
bay area. There were people here before Silicon Valley ever got
started. It's a beautiful place to live. What do you two do?"
"Joy is a computer . . uh . . programmer, and I'm a real
estate agent," offered Julie.
"However do you work on computers with those nails?" he asked.
"I don't know, yet," I admitted. "I just got them put on
today. I still have to learn to work with them."
"Well, good luck," he offered. "I'd hate to think you
couldn't keep them. They really look . . um . . nice."
I smiled again at him, looking from my hands that were the
center of attention up to his rugged face. Those long lashes got in
my way, again, and I seemed to peer at him with deliberate enticement.
I could see his eyes widen a little as he thought I was coming on to
him and I knew we needed to get out of there before things got even
more confused. Julie caught a hint of my concern and, for once,
offered to help out a little rather than make it worse.
"Joy, I need to go to the powder room. Would you like to come
along?"
Not really, I thought, though the twinge of need her first
suggestion had triggered had been building in me ever since. Still,
it would get me away from a situation that was rapidly heading into
dangerous territory. I nodded and stood up, provoking Steve to stand
up in a gentlemanly reflex, one that even Jay had seldom bothered
with. Julie led me from the booth and toward the facilities.
"Where did you find him?" she whispered.
"He sort of found me," I realized, "when I tried to follow
you, he intercepted me."
"I told you that you were going to ace the course, but Steve
Gage, the most eligible bachelor in America. You're incredible."
"It's all your doing. You chose the clothes and the makeup
and the wig. All I'm doing is trying to be polite and stay out of
trouble."
"Right," she scoffed. "I saw those looks you were giving him.
You think he's a hunk, and you're right. And you're a babe. I may
have put a little polish on the surface, but you're acting very sweet
and ladylike. Plus, you have a gorgeous face. I told you you'd pass
with just a little lipstick and you're a long ways beyond that.
You're truly pretty. I wonder why I never noticed before."
"So," she continued, "are you having a good time?"
I admitted, "Yes, this is all so strange, but it's more
exciting than I could imagine. I don't want it to end, but I really
don't want it to end badly. What am I going to say to Steve?"
By this time we had reached the powder room and I followed
Julie in without thinking. All of the sudden I realized where I was
and looked desperately around for a place to hide. Julie caught my
arm and steered me to a stall in a parody of the way Steve had earlier
guided me, but with a great deal more force.
"Take care of business," she hissed in my ear, "and meet me
back out here so we can touch up your makeup."
The prim, demure manner forced on me by the corset became an
almost overpowering obstruction when I tried to get my underwear down.
I couldn't see whether I had my skirt up all around nor whether my
thong was adequately clear. I didn't dare try to relieve myself
standing up, not just because my feet would be pointing the wrong way
in the stall, but because I couldn't see over the bust formed by the
corset to guide the stream. I sat down instead, finally getting a
little blessed relief from the pressure that had built up. At least
Julie had made me put the thong on over my garters and wear stockings
instead of pantyhose. That kept the tangle to a minimum, especially
when I tried to get myself back together. Those long nails didn't
help anything but I finally had my secret hidden back away and my
skirt draped down the little distance it covered my legs. I went out
toward the mirrors to find Julie finishing her own touchup. She
motioned for me to hand her my purse and then quickly selected out the
items I'd need for my own repairs. It wasn't much, really. Lipstick
of course, since I'd left a lot of mine on my wineglass, and a touch
of powder where my nose had started to shine.
Julie picked up the conversation where we'd left off, but
instead of answering me she only offered another question, "What do
you want to do with Steve?"
"I don't know. I really don't know. Part of me wants to kick
off these heels and run away just as fast I can. I really don't know
what I'm doing here. I've never felt this way toward any man, that's
for sure. But part of me . . well, part of me is wondering what it
would be like to be held by those incredible arms. I'm really
confused by this. What's happening to me?"
Instead of Steve's powerful embrace, I felt Julie gently
cradle my shoulders in her own arms.
"Part of me is sorry I ever got you into this," she said
softly, her parallel wording used to confirm the continuing strength
of our relationship, "but part of me is thinking we should explore
this further. I really do believe we'll be closer if you learn a
little more about what it means to be a woman and explore your
feminine side. You obviously can't tell him the whole truth or he'll
kill you, but I think you should let this go at least a little
further. Why don't we say we have to leave, and see if he asks for
your phone number? Give him the private one that only I use so you
can always answer in your Joy voice and then see what happens."
I felt myself nodding, too numb for argument. Julie tried to
cheer me up by talking a little about the men that had hit on her that
evening, all of whom it seemed were nerds, geeks, or sleazes. By the
time we were back to Steve's table, I was at least smiling softly at
her stories, a look I realized just confirmed the demure, delicate
manner I had displayed to Steve all evening. It seemed the vamp
persona I had used on the bouncer was not really my natural
personality, whatever natural meant in this context.
Julie took the heat for our departure when she said, "I'm
sorry, Steve, but we have to go. I have a couple of important
closings in the morning and I told Joy she had to come with me. It's
her first night in town and I feel like I have to watch out for my
sister, at least until she gets better accustomed to life in the big
. . well . . medium city."
I looked up at Steve with my confusion in my eyes, probably
looking like disappointment to him, or was it disappointment in my
eyes that looked like . . . disappointment? Anyway, he nodded
acceptance of Julie's decision, ever the gentleman since that one
crude remark.
"How long are you in town for?" he asked me.
"I don't know. A few weeks."
"Are you free this weekend? I have a nice sailboat and the
weather is supposed to be nice."
He was asking me for a date! Right now! Not just a phone
number that would allow me to think things over for a while. Then I
realized he was just a little nervous, too. He had repeated himself,
nice boat, nice weather. That gave me courage from some strange place
and my out-of-control mouth was suddenly smiling at him, "Yes, I'd
like that."
Julie interrupted, not really trying to get in the way, but
still a bit concerned for me. "Sailing? At this time of the year?
The bay will be like ice! Why don't you just come over for dinner or
something."
He seized on her offer, "Well, I'd like that too, but my boat
is big enough that we won't get too wet."
Now I had an all day date with him! Sailing, then dinner at
our house. What was Julie getting me into? What was I getting myself
into? She may have started this runaway train in motion, but I seemed
to be adding fuel to the fire in the engine.
"Let me have your phone number and I'll call to talk over the
details," he suggested.
I gave him our private number and stood in confusion, adrift
in my thoughts more thoroughly than any sailboat that ever left its
moorings. Julie urged me away with her hand on my elbow and we left
Steve standing in his private booth, a beaming smile on his handsome
face.
The confused feelings that were consuming me kept me from
paying much attention as we returned home. I realized at some level
that I was walking without effort in those incredible heels, buoyed up
by the wild emotions within me so much that I didn't even notice how
much my feet hurt. When we finally got back into our house and then
our bedroom, I just stood uncertainly, not sure what to do next. I
didn't want this phenomenal evening to end, but there didn't seem any
reason, or any excuse, to stay dressed up so beautifully.
"Joy, dear, help me with my zipper, will you?" Julie gently
interrupted my reverie.
I moved behind her with unconscious grace and had her zipper
down before I even noticed the obstruction of my nails. Julie twirled
her finger for me to turn around and in a moment my own skirt was
slithering over my legs, my own blouse falling forward down my arms.
I stepped out of the puddle of fabric and worked my arms out of the
blouse, then let it fall to the floor as well.
"Never let your clothes just lay there," ordered Julie. "Fine
fabrics can't stand the abuse you give your jeans and t-shirts."
By this time Julie had kicked off her pumps, but I made no
move to get out of my own towering heels. It came to me that I'd have
a hard time reaching my ankles while I wore my constricting corset
anyway, so I squatted down and picked up my skirt and blouse,
carefully hanging them in my part of the closet. When I came back
out, Julie was looking at me with an air of considered assessment.
"Well, we'll sure have to get you some more clothes," she
mused. "I only got you one outfit because I wasn't sure you'd really
go through with this. I'm so glad you did, but that still leaves us
with the problem of what you should wear next."
She knelt at my feet to remove my sandals and I felt a
powerful mixture of regret and relief when my feet were once again
flat to the floor. The regret increased when I looked around the room
and realized I was back to a short person's view of the world. I
liked being tall, even aside from the elegant beauty of the shoes. My
stockings followed quickly, all too quickly to my lagging senses, then
Julie twirled her finger at me again and I turned around so that she
could loosen my laces. When the tension was relieved, but without
undoing them completely, she urged me to turn around again with a
gentle pressure on my shoulder, then started to undo the little hook
and loop fasteners down the front. The relaxation of the crushing
pressure on my waist, the chance to breathe deeply again, almost
overwhelmed me with relief but I felt myself sag into a slouch I knew
was unattractive as I lost the erect posture forced by the corset.
Had I always been so sloppy looking?
Julie kept treating me like a full-sized Barbie doll as she
undressed me without words, without requiring an actions on my part
more strenuous or focused than lifting a foot or turning around. She
led me to the vanity and carefully removed my wig. This clutched at
my heart with real pain, real loss. A natural-born girl might have
removed her clothes, but couldn't remove her hair. The loss of the
wig moved me definitely, sadly, back into the world of men. Now I
looked ludicrous, an artfully made up face, a delicate pink camisole,
a man's haircut and body. Which parts were out of place?
Julie applied makeup remover creams to my face, then applied
moisturizers and other night time preparations. She had started to
talk while she did this, instructing me in the requirements for proper
skin care and at some level I was listening, but the sorrow I felt at
the reverse transformation threatened to burst out of control and all
I wanted to do was bury my face in my hands and cry. Julie, precious
Julie, picked up on my confusion, my sorrow, the razor-edge of control
I was trying to walk, and carefully kept her tone neutral. No
kidding, no commiseration, certainly no condemnation. She just talked
through the technical details of the skin care as though only the
importance kept if from being boring. If I had grown up with that
regimen that might have been the right tone, but I couldn't believe
any of this could ever be boring. Still, as I gradually got myself
back under control, I recognized her calming tactics and was grateful.
When she had finished caring for my face, she gently lifted the
camisole off my shoulders and had me stand.
"Okay, time for your nightgown," she said as though that were
a completely unremarkable statement.
"First, though, you need more reasonable panties. Mine will
fit your hips just fine, though they might be a bit narrow in the
crotch, but they'll do for tonight," she said as she handed me a
powder blue pair of bikini panties, delicately edged with lace.
I stripped off my thong and took the panties, pulling them up
over my deliciously-smooth legs, then looked up to see her handing me
a long, satin gown in a matching powder blue. She slipped this over
my head and it fell smoothly to my feet, the slight tightness at the
waist only a gentle reminder of the special shape of the beautiful
gown. The empty cups of the embedded bra were a sharp disappointment,
though. Finally finished with dressing her Barbie doll, Julie put her
arms around me and hugged me warmly.
"Darling, thank you for doing this for me tonight," she said,
as though I had done her a favor rather than the other way around.
"Let's go to sleep now, and we'll talk about where we go from here in
the morning. Okay?"
I realized I hadn't said a word since we got home, too dazed
to be more than the doll she had treated me like. Her direct question
got my higher processors started again, though, and I moved from the
automatic gentle pressure my arms had generated when I responded to
her embrace into a fierce, desperate squeeze. I looked at her full
lips, and merged them with mine, firmly, warmly, intensely.
"Oh, Julie, I love you so much," I said when I finally broke
our kiss. "I never knew how much I'd like any of this. I've owed you
for every joy in my life since I met you, but there's no way I could
ever repay you for this evening, for helping me find Joy."
She grinned at me, sharing my happiness, but she also gave a
tension-reducing giggle and said, "Oh, yes there is. Just be Joy
again, and again, and . . ."
"That's a deal," I smiled at her, still too confused for real
mirth, but beginning to recover from my stunned state.
She pushed me toward the bathroom to complete my preparations
for bed. When I emerged, she had the covers turned back and I slid
into bed, relishing the sensual feel of the satin nightgown while she
made her own final preparations, turned out the light, and joined me.
We fell asleep in each other's arms, closer than we had ever been, in
more ways than the physical, more important ways.
The next morning Julie woke up first, as usual, and had
finished her morning shower while I was still asleep. She came in
with a cheery good morning and pulled the covers off my body, bringing
the beautiful blue nightgown fully into sight.
"Up and at 'em, Joy," she called. "We've got to get you ready
before I go to my first closing."
Even in my sleepy state, somehow the nightgown prevented me
from assuming my normal grumpy attitude. Instead, I swung my legs out
of bed in a graceful, toes-together-and-slightly-pointed motion and
stood up. While I was moving to the bathroom, Julie reminded me to
shave all over, though we wouldn't need to use the depilatory cream
that morning. It took longer than usual as a result, but I was
anxious to finish so I was back in our bedroom as soon as possible.
Julie had laid out one of her denim skirts, longer than the
one I had worn the night before, but still short enough I knew it
would be well above my knee. It was cut much more narrowly as well
and it would fit snugly down my legs. She had selected a lightweight
turtle-neck sweater for a top, the deep blue color a perfect match for
her eyes, though a bit dark for mine. Still, if she let me wear the
beautiful wig, I knew it would set it off very well. One of her wide
red leather belts was also lying on the bed, next to the same towering
red sandals I had worn the night before. So was that infernal,
wonderful corset.
"I figured there was a good chance that you'd try the corset
for at least a couple of days so I got a few pairs of stockings. I
think you can wear one of my camisoles if we adjust the straps to make
up for your . . bustline. But I only have one pair of shoes for you,
sorry," she grinned, obviously not sorry at all. She had handed me
the camisole even while she spoke and was making the adjustments as
she finished.
"Hmm, not quite enough. Well, we'll just have to make do,"
mused Julie, again lost in play with her Barbie doll. She went to her
own drawer and got a couple of pairs of pantyhose. She rolled these
up and slipped them in to the top of the camisole, sized more for her
C-cups than the A-cup camisole I had worn the night before. That was
just a preliminary, though, as the main event was returning my waist
to its tiny size with the powerful laces of the corset. Once again,
after she bound me into rigidly upright posture she helped me with
stockings (suntan this time), handed me a new thong, and then fastened
the straps on my towering shoes. I tottered when I was back on those
stilts, having forgotten most of the lessons from my previous practice
it seemed, but when she motioned me to the vanity seat I made my way
there without incident.
Julie worked her magic again, explaining what she was doing
this time, though I'm sure I only absorbed about 10% of it. It still
took over 20 minutes to get my face the way she wanted it, though she
used more muted colors suitable for daytime. When she brought my
softly flowing wig out, I finally roused from my passive state.
"Do we need to do anything to prepare my hair. . I mean
. . the wig? You spend a fair amount of your time in rollers in the
morning."
"Not yet," she laughed. "Since you didn't sleep in it, it's
still okay. This is a pretty good wig, but to keep it looking right
we'll probably have to take it over to Sally. Not for a while,
though, it should last for several days with no more care than an
occasional brushing."
She draped the long, golden tresses over my shoulders and
carefully positioned the cap. A few finishing touches on the bangs
and I was once again the beautiful Joy, though a bit underdressed in
my tight corset and shimmery stockings. At her gesture of invitation,
I went to the bed and pulled on the snug skirt, then she helped me to
work the mock-collar turtleneck over my hair, zipping up the back
zipper once it was in place. The red belt provided an acceptable
balance for my red sandals, and I felt I was fully dressed.
"Hold still," I heard her say, then my earrings, necklace, and
perfume were added. She handed me the same crystalline rings and I
stood before the mirror in glorious living . . . life. I was having
that same trouble breathing that had afflicted me the night before,
not all, maybe not even mostly due to the corset.
"There, that should hold you until we can do a little more
shopping," Julie said.
"Hold me is right, this corset is murder," I groaned, though
the smile dancing in my eyes made my pleasure obvious. Julie reached
out and poked be in my armored waist.
"Just like a drum," she grinned. "But we'll do even better
once your figure trains in a little."
"Really," I said, turning slightly sideways in the mirror to
see my elegant hands sensually trace the swell from my padded bosom to
my trim waist, flat tummy, and . . ."
"Uh, oh!" I grimaced, this time my concern was real. There
was a suspicious, no a loudly declarative bulge in the front of the
trim skirt.
"Oh!" Julie joined in my concern. "We'll have to do something
about that."
"Well, if you're offering . ." I leered at her.
"Not now," she laughed. "I have to go. You'll have to take
matters into your own hands, or just think pure thoughts."
"Right, dressed like this? Purity is not really applicable to
me right now."
"Actually, except for that one little . . well, not so little
detail, you really do look like a pure, innocent maiden. I can see
why Steve was attracted to you. You're not only a real fox, you look
sweet and virginal to boot. Everyone's fantasy blonde, of the girl
next door type, not the bimbo type. Now, I have to go. Be good while
I'm gone."
She was out the door in a rush and I walked to the kitchen for
a morning cup of coffee and to arrange my thoughts. I couldn't see
going out like this. I knew I had passed spectacularly well last
night, but the bulge reminded me of the sharp risk I was taking and I
wasn't ready for a solo adventure, especially not during the daylight.
Since I really did have some work to do, I went to my study, my
disarrayed cave, to get started.
At least I tried to get started. I couldn't even turn the
silly computer on while wearing those magnificent nails. I wasn't
ready to trust the nail itself and couldn't get my finger into the
little recess where the on-off switch was on my power strip. A pencil
solved that problem, but when I placed my hands on the keyboard, I
literally couldn't get my fingers onto the keys. My nails, even if I
carefully positioned them between the keys, bottomed out before my
fingertips added any pressure to the actual typing surface. I also
couldn't cramp my hands up enough to get my fingers onto the row
closest to my wrist rest. I was about to give up, wondering if I
could put off my project for long enough to complete this trial and
get Julie to agree to long nails, when I happened to tap my nail tips
lightly on a few of the keys in a distracted sort of way. The keys
stroked and my nails didn't break. I was still leery of putting them
to a continuing test, but I could at least try. A pad under my wrists
to lift them a bit, and it was like I was tapping on a phantom
keyboard an inch higher than the real one. Not completely, the angles
of my fingers were wrong and I still used the ball of my thumb for the
spacebar, but adequately.
It slowed me down and it was enough of a distraction that I
couldn't really get a smooth flow going of the sort I need when I'm
really living in cyberspace, but I had completed the difficult parts
of the Spencer Industries penetration when I had worked through the
night so this was just routine, methodical follow up. That reminded
me of other logistics matters and I tapped into the driver's license
bureau and added a record for Joy Connors, trimming a few years off my
age. I used my digital camera to take a photo of Joy (was I really
that pretty?) and then printed up my own driver's license on a blank
plastic card (don't ask where I got them). It would even read out as
valid if anyone ever checked the state computer. I got a valid
Mastercard file the same way, though I wasn't set up to fake the card
with its embedded hologram. I just added myself to Jay Connors
account, though, so I could use my real card and claim I was
authorized. That was even true. The morning flew by, especially once
I got past the initial frustrations, and I was startled when our
private phone rang.
"Yeah," I grunted into it, irritated by the distraction.
"You better not answer the phone that way when Steve calls,"
Julie's clear soprano teased me.
"Oops," I giggled, returning to the softer tones appropriate
for my current persona.
"How's it going?" she continued.
"Not too bad. I finally got the hang of these fingernails.
As of now I'm a real person in this state, or at least to the driver's
license computer."
"Good. Well, I'm coming home early this afternoon. I wanted
to make sure you'd be there after about 2:00."
"No problem. Where would I go?" I asked.
"Anywhere you want. Why else did you get your driver's
license set up?"
I hadn't really thought about that. It just seemed like an
ordinary preparation for a faked personality, of the sort I sometimes
do when I'm developing a fairly involved penetration. My pause
triggered another giggle from the other end of the phone at this
further confirmation of my confused state, but Julie just said
good-bye and hung up. Those thoughts triggered a plan in my mind for
completing the Spencer assignment. They used a computer-controlled
badge reader system for physical security. I decided I'd set up an
identification within their system and walk in on their executives in
some high-level, supposedly protected meeting. I could drop my
results, the fake checks and things, on the table with a bit of showy
flash, dramatically proving the effectiveness of my work.
By the time I got the preparations for that event underway it
was 2:00 and I heard Julie's car in the driveway. She called out to
me and I went walking to meet her, swinging in those terrible,
beautiful heels like I'd been wearing them for all my life. I suppose
you could say I had been, for all my life as Joy. Julie greeted me
with a beaming smile she hadn't often shown lately and guilt at my
self-centered selfishness resurrected itself a little. Surprisingly,
there was absolutely no guilt at dressing like a woman, that was
feeling more and more "right" all the time. Julie's smile turned a
little condescending, though, when I got closer.
"Joy, you simply must take better care of your appearance.
Now march into the bedroom and fix your face this instant!" she
demanded in words that were preemptory but a tone that showed love.
I fled to the bedroom and looked at myself in the mirror,
wondering what had gone wrong. At first, I couldn't see anything, my
stranger's face still looked surpassingly beautiful. Then it came to
me that the shine had gone off my ruby lips, and somehow moved to my
nose and my forehead. There were also a few flecks of mascara under
one of my eyes, and something told me I needed to touch up the blush
on my cheeks as well. After a little more study I realized the color
was no longer symmetric, I must have rested my cheek in my hand at
some point while I was wrestling with my computer. Now that I knew
what to work on, I thought it would be simple to fix.
It might have been simple, but it was still difficult. I
struggled through, though, forcing myself to be patient as those long,
glamorous nails poked my in my eye, my nose, my lips, and my cheeks,
then got under the powder puff I was using to clean up the shine on my
forehead. It seemed like it took me the same 20 minutes for these
minor repairs that it had taken Julie to make up my face from scratch.
When I finally turned from the mirror, Julie had laid out several new
items on the bed.
"I've decided to take pity on you," she started with a grin
that implied anything but pity. "For your big date tomorrow I'll let
you wear deck shoes. I don't suppose it would be a good idea to wear
spiked heels on his boat. You'll be back in them for supper, though,
so don't think I'm letting you off too easy. More importantly, I got
you a different corset. You need something that allows you to have
distinct tits, not just a shelf. I also got you some artificial tits
and something to add a little shape to your butt. Strip and we'll try
them out."
She was pulling at the zipper of my turtleneck even as she
spoke and I felt my own hands fumbling with the belt at my waist. By
the time I had my skirt ready to drop, she was urging me to raise my
arms so that she could help me get the sweater past my hair. My
corset, shoes, and stockings soon followed and I stood there in my
camisole and thong.
"Keep going," she ordered, "all the way."
Julie lifted the camisole over my shoulders, then I stripped
the thong down my legs, a bit embarrassed now as my masculine
equipment was displayed, so out of place on my smoothly-shaved body.
"Here, start with this," she said, handing me a flesh-colored
garment sort of like the thong I had worn.
"What is it?" I asked.
"It's called a gaff," she explained. "It'll fix that bulge
you were showing in the tight skirt." When I worked it up my legs, I
realized it was a lot more confining than my skimpy underwear had
been. By the time it was in place, I felt squeezed more tightly than
the corset had ever done, in a much more intimate and sensitive place.
It felt very uncomfortable and I just hoped I would get used to it, as
I had with the corset's constriction.
"Next," she said, oblivious to my discomfort. She was holding
a pair of tan shapes in her hands, shapes that jiggled in a most
unusual manner.
"One of my clients is a doctor," she explained, "and he told
me where to get mastectomy forms. These are the best there are. I
chose C cups for you, just like me. I hope that's okay."
I was too shocked to argue, especially when she pushed me back
to the bed and made me lie down. She spread something creamy on the
underside of one of the forms and then placed it carefully on my
chest. I could see it had a molded in nipple, perpetually erect. The
edges of the form feathered out into near-invisible thinness and she
carefully smoothed them into position. They appeared to merge
perfectly into my skin, leaving no seam at all. The color was so
close to perfect it was scary.
"I'm using a surgical glue the doctor gave me," explained
Julie as she started on the other form. "They'll stay in place, even
if you go swimming, until we use the release agent. The doctor said
we'll have to remove them for at least 24 hours every week to let the
skin underneath breathe properly, but we can handle that at night."
In a few minutes my other form was in place and Julie was
urging me to stand before the mirror. Memories came flooding back
from the night before when my reverse transformation was underway. At
that time, I had felt a sharp pain at the incongruity of makeup and a
camisole on a man's face and body. Now I stood there with my manhood
hidden away behind the gaff thing that made it look like I had a
woman's gentle mound instead. My breasts were full and shapely,
accented by large dark nipples surrounded in deep rose. It was
incredible. I looked completely feminine . . or did I? Something was
still wrong, but I wasn't entirely sure what the problem was. Julie
knew though.
"Now for the rest of our magic. Your new corset is shorter
than the old one. It will allow you to wear a regular bra and it
doesn't go quite so low on your hips."
The corset she was holding out was also a nude color, a little
lighter than my skin tone but close enough it wouldn't show up with a
revealing contrast if (when?) I wore a light blouse. It was just as
tight as the old one, though, as I was soon to find out. She tugged
at the laces until I felt my backbone rubbing on my navel, or at least
that's what I thought was happening. It was indeed shorter, however,
and I found I could bend over a little. Then Julie handed me a pair
of suntan pantyhose and showed me how to pull them up my legs without
snagging them. They rose up over the bottom of the corset, working to
smooth out the boundary. She helped me into a delicately laced bra in
a soft peach color and I felt the amazing transition of the weight of
my . . breasts from my skin to the straps over my shoulders. At that
point I thought I was done with underwear. I was wrong, though, Julie
handed me the last foundation garment, a panty girdle. Or at least,
that's what I thought it was, but it was padded and that didn't make
sense, did it?
When I managed to get it up my legs, raising the wide
waistband high up over the base of the corset, blending all edges
smoothly into obscurity, I looked again in the mirror. Now I could
see what had been missing. Unaided, my waist and hips were almost the
same size. With the tight corset squeezing inches from my waist, and
the padded girdle adding them back to my hips, I now had sensually
curving shape that would definitely make a good hour glass, maybe an
hour and a half.
Julie was pulling out other clothes as well. She had gotten
me a pair of stretchy black stirrup pants that caressed my waist and
hips, molding to every breathtaking meander when I smoothed them into
position. She added a vibrant red sweater that seemed incredibly soft
and fluffy at the cowl neck, but still managed to cling to my new
bosom with dramatic emphasis. Thick fluffy socks in a matching red
and lady's deck shoes, actually running shoes with bright accents and
red laces, completed my outfit.
"So, what do you think?" she asked, though the grin on her
face said she had her own opinion.
"Wow," I breathed softly. "I look even more like a woman in
pants than I did in that skirt. I wouldn't have believed it."
"You'll be back in skirts soon enough," she threatened . . or
promised. "This was just to make sure everything fit, and to check
out the colors. I think red and black are definitely terrific on you,
especially if you keep the black at your legs so that you don't look
too pale. You can wear the new underwear for the rest of the day. I
got two sets so you'll have clean things in the morning. Now, strip
out of those shoes and pants, I have something else in case the day is
warm."
While I was removing the black stretch pants, she handed me a
pair of snowy white shorts. They were very tight and very short, just
barely covering the legs of my padded panty. When I stood up to look
in the mirror, my legs, shining in their shimmery covering of suntan
pantyhose, looked like they ran up forever, longer than I could
believe. At 5'9" I was no more than average for a man, but tall for a
woman, and in those tiny shorts it looked like all that height was in
my gleaming legs.
"Wow," I gasped again, unconsciously repeating my previous
observation. Julie was a little quiet this time, too. The
spectacular success of her hidden shapers, combined with the length of
my revealed legs, was pretty impressive, and impressively pretty, if I
do say so myself.
"Okay," she finally said, interrupting the stunned reverie
that had gripped us both, "one last item, and then we're through for
the day. Take off your shorts."
I pulled them down my legs with some reluctance, too pleased
with the image to willingly give it up. She handed me a tight denim
mini to take their place, though. When I raised it to my hips it fit
like a second skin, so tight that a hint of the crease at the front of
my legs showed, a crease that now had a perfect, feminine shape. It
would have glued my legs together, as tight as it was, but it was so
short that it just threatened to ride up to my navel instead.
"I can't wear this," I complained. "It's just too tight."
"Nonsense," she giggled. "You will have to be careful when
you sit, though, even more than with that fuller skirt last night. It
was about the same length but when you bend your legs, this one is
going to ride up higher."
"Higher! It's exposing everything I've got already!"
Julie giggled again, "Not quite."
Even with all the clothes I'd tried on, there were still
several unopened packages. When I asked about them Julie just said
they were for later, except for a pair of sky-high white sandals that
complemented the sweater. She also handed me a neutral gray purse and
told me to put my things in it.
"Why? Where are we going?"
"Out, of course. You need to show off a little."
I gulped in shock, "In the daylight?"
"Certainly, you're going out in the daylight tomorrow, aren't
you?" she asked like I was stupid. I guess I was. Somehow, the
bright light shining in the windows seemed terribly revealing and I
realized I had been mentally hiding in the shadows I had found at the
nightclub, ignoring the upcoming outing. She grabbed my arm without
further comment and I found myself carried along by her enthusiasm to
a local mall. We shopped, and shopped, . . . and shopped. My feet
were on fire when Julie finally let us sit down for a soft drink in
the mall food court. She had been hurrying me along so much that I
hadn't had time to think about the others around us. I also hadn't
had time to sit down. When I did, that tight skirt rose up until I
was sitting on my bare (well, pantyhose-clad) legs as much as on the
inadequate denim material. The cool feel of the plastic of the seat
shocked me back into awareness of the terrifying, thrilling, wonderful
sense of being a beautiful woman. I looked around at the other mall
patrons, first wary for ridicule, but then reveling in the
appreciative glances, even stares, that were coming from others around
us. The best thing, though, was the glare of absolute hatred I
received from another pretty woman. Jealousy was rampant in her eyes,
though she was drop-dead gorgeous herself. If she considered me even
competitive, I was in rarefied company, but if her own self image made
her second best, I was literally matchless within the crowd at the
mall. I gave her a condescending smile, quite ladylike, quite deadly,
and then grinned. She stood up in a huff and stormed out of the food
court, a major victory for the home team. Wonderful!
Julie finally consented to let us go home, my crippled feet
requiring me to walk in an even more delicate fashion than previously.
They had recovered a little by the time we got home but she made me
help in the kitchen while we prepared our salad supper and I didn't
get to rest until the dishes were done. There was still some time
before we planned to go to bed, so I went back into my computer cave
to do a little more work. Before I got there, though, our phone
started ringing. The private line. The one that only rang when at
least one of us was out of the house. Until now.
Julie picked it up, I was too stunned to move, and she
answered with a cheerful hello.
"Yes, she's right here," I heard her say, then offered the
phone to me, at least partially. It was clear that she was going to
listen in.
I took as deep a breath as the corset would allow before I
took the phone, then let some of it out with a soft, "Hello?"
"Hello, Joy? This is Steve, Steve Gage."
"Hello, Steve, how nice of you to call."
"Are you still interested in a little sailing tomorrow?"
"Yes," I said quietly, losing my last chance to find some
sanity in this unreal situation.
"Good. Very good. How about if I come pick you up at about,
say 10:00?"
Julie shook her head in a quick negative. She whispered into
my ear, "Don't let him know where we live, yet. He might snoop around
and find out about us, the real us."
She had obviously forgotten her own invitation to dinner, but
I went along, "I . . um . . need to run some errands in the morning.
Could I just meet you somewhere?"
"Sure," he assented immediately. "Come to the office of the
Bayview Marina about 10:30. I'll meet you there. Do you know the
way?"
At this Julie nodded agreement. At least she knew the way.
"Yes," I softly answered, not a brilliant conversationalist
that night.
"By the way," he asked, "can your sister come, too?"
Julie shook her head in another negative. "I'm afraid not," I
replied.
Then he shocked us by informing us it wasn't just a polite
invitation, "That's too bad. One of my friends, Brad Jackson, you may
know him? Anyway, when I described you two to him, he wondered if we
could make it a double date."
Brad Jackson was the quarterback for the Montana Thunders. He
wasn't nearly as big as Steve Gage, but he was tall, handsome, and
considered the second best catch, for a lady that was, on the team.
Julie gasped at the opportunity that was being dangled before her.
She had already turned down the invitation to go sailing, but the
yearning in her eyes that only I could see showed me a way to get her
in a little over her head, too. Misery loves company, and I was
miserably confused, right? Right?
Anyway, I made an offer without clearing it with her first,
"I'm sure she'd like that, if she were available. Why don't your
bring him along when you come to dinner, later tomorrow. She'll be
here then."
Julie hissed at me in a vain attempt to stop me from the
probably foolish course I had set us on, but I didn't care. All the
embarrassment so far had been mine, all of the risk. It was time she
got a chance to walk a tightrope with me for a change.
"Great!" Steve said. "I'm sure he'll want to come."
"Fine, I'll see you at the marina around 10:30, then both of
you for dinner around, say, 7:00. How long do you think we'll be
sailing?" I tried to wrap things up.
"As long as you want. Anywhere specific you'd like to go?"
Steve tried to continue the conversation.
"Oh, no, just anywhere. I'll put myself in your capable
hands," I said, not realizing the opportunity I was offering until the
words were out of my mouth. I'd said that before, to others, and it
had never seemed to have a sexual connotation. It sure did now,
though, and Steve picked up on it.
"Promise?" he grinned. I swear, I could hear the grin right
over the phone. But that stupid, out-of-control flirtation streak was
rearing its ugly head, and I heard myself start to put a low, musical
lilt into my soft voice, becoming more of a bedroom tone with every
word.
"Would that be safe?," I cooed. Julie's eyes rolled so far I
thought they'd disappear into her head, but there was a grin on her
face, too.
"Nope," the grin was still in his voice.
"Ooh, that could be . . . interesting," I observed. "You've
got such big . . . hands."
Julie had to stand away from the phone, strangling a giggle.
She shook her finger at me in shame, but her eyes were dancing with
mirth.
"The better to . . . help . . you with, my dear," he served
another line.
"Now you sound like the big bad wolf," I returned his serve,
then went to the net. "Promise?"
At this he paused for a second, at a loss for words. This
wasn't quite the prim and proper, girl next door that he remembered
from the nightclub. Over the phone, anyway, I was being quite
forward. I realized that it had been after I seemed to be embarrassed
at his crude comment that he began to take a real interest in me.
Now, I wasn't continuing with that shy embarrassment he had found so
fascinating. Maybe I was turning him off, maybe I was exciting him
even more. In any event, I thought to myself, always keep them
guessing.
That thought was almost my undoing. Always keep THEM
guessing? Just who is US and who is THEM, here? What was happening
to me? I was so shocked by the realization of what I had been doing,
not just playing at words but actually beginning to think like a
woman, that I almost missed his next words.
"Yes, Little Red Riding Hood, that's a promise," he answered
in a much more serious tone, not angry, thoughtful perhaps, serious
definitely. When I didn't say anything, he continued.
"Um . . Joy, who are you really?"
Shock! Panic! How could he tell? He was going to come kill
me any second! I hadn't told him where we lived, but somehow he knew
my secret and I remembered just how big . . and tough . . that man
was.
"What do you mean?" I asked with a tremor in my voice that was
entirely due to fear, but kept it soft and somehow inviting.
My panic eased as hard as it had begun, when he answered,
"Well, you're the most gorgeous woman I've seen in a long time, you
dress elegantly but sensually based on the single time I've seen you.
Yet, you were quite ladylike and proper that night. Innocent somehow,
as though you'd never been in a bar, never been offered a drink by a
man, never . . . Then tonight, with just a few words you've got me so
excited I can hardly breathe. Lady, sometimes you seem worldly and
experienced, others innocent and sheltered. Who are you really?"
"A girl has to retain some mystery," I giggled, so relieved he
hadn't figured out my real secret that I had to sit down.
"You have done that," he agreed. "What does it take to unlock
your secrets?"
"You'll just have to guess," I challenged him.
"Will you tell me if I get it right?"
"Maybe," I offered airily, though of course I couldn't, not
ever.
"I'm a pretty good guesser."
"Promise?" It slipped out before I thought.
He blitzed in behind the opening, "Do you want me to be?"
"Maybe," I tried to recover that earlier airiness, but I was
getting out of my depth again. I looked at Julie for help, but the
wicked grin was back in her eyes, telling me to get myself out of the
hole I was digging. She chuckled just quietly enough that Steve
couldn't hear over the phone, then left the room. Steve probed for my
likes and dislikes. I had to build a fantasy background, not so
different from my own that I couldn't sustain it (I hoped) but it
couldn't be identical of course. He asked what I did and I answered
with a free-lance programming story that was close enough to the truth
to be safe. It turned out he was a bit of a computer aficionado
himself, a talented amateur. Once we got off into the world of
computers I was on safer ground. I could relax a little and get my
heart quieted down so that I didn't think he'd hear it over the phone.
Julie called from the doorway, "Time for bed, Joy. You need
to be fresh and alert tomorrow."
Steve heard her and said, "Oh, I'm sorry, we must have talked
for an hour."
"No, that's alright," I blurted, not wanting the magical
conversation to end.
"Really, I need to let you go," he said. "But you are an
amazing woman. Not many go into computers."
"Oh, more than you might think," I said, responding to the
comment about women in computers.
"Yes, there's definitely more to you than I might think," he
said. Now that was an understatement.
"Tell your sister to take good care of you," he closed.
"Bye."
"Bye," I replied softly, a little sadly, and hung up. I sat
back with a start, looking at the clock to see it was already almost
midnight.
"What got into me?" I gasped.
"If you're not careful, Steve'll be getting into you, or at
least, trying awful hard. You might have crossed the line, there,
sister. You went past simple flirting."
"Did I? You're probably right. I was out of control, a
runaway train with no brakes. I don't know what's happening to me!"
"Well, you're certainly finding out what it means to be a
woman," she said in a strange tone, not a sigh, not a triumph. She
might have been as confused as I was. No, that's not possible.
With her help I was quickly back into a flowing nightgown
(black this time, and my own!). She left my artificial breasts in
place but she allowed me to sleep without the gaff, a relief that felt
even better than the removal of the corset. Actually, I had gotten
somewhat used to the diabolical little device that hid my manhood, at
least enough to ignore the discomfort though it constantly reminded me
of the need to act carefully, which was probably a good thing.
Julie was up first the next morning, as usual. After she
finished in the bathroom she called to me with her usual irritatingly
cheery smile. She's a morning person, I'm not. As awareness slowly
seeped into my consciousness, the unfamiliar weight and life-like
motion of my artificial breasts seemed first strange, then thrilling,
then frightening as I realized just how far things had gone.
"Julie," I said quietly, a bit surprised to hear myself
speaking in Joy's soft tones, "we need to talk."
She could tell from my expression that I was serious so she
settled down beside me where I still sat on the bed and waited for me
to begin.
"I'm really worried about all of this," I said. "I feel like
I'm caught up in something I shouldn't be doing, but it excites me too
much to just give it up. I'm feeling pretty guilty this morning.
Steve seems like a nice guy and deserves a more honest relationship."
She replied firmly, confidently, "Look, if no one knows what's
under your clothes but you and me, then the only opinions that matter
are yours and mine. I love you. I trust you. A single experience,
no matter what, won't change you from who you fundamentally are. If
Steve is only interested in you for sex, then he's not a nice guy
after all and whatever you do to him is only fair. If he is
interested in you for your personality, for your looks, for everything
that is Joy, then you owe him your most sparkling personality, your
most beautiful looks, everything that Joy can be, but nothing that she
can't be. That's as honest as you need to get. The only thing that
will screw things up is if you let this guilt get in the way. Be
honest with your own feelings. Do whatever feels good to you, as
though society's rules didn't matter because they don't. Be the most
feminine, sensual, wonderful woman you can be. Forget about Jay, at
least for today. After tonight, we'll see if we had fun. If we did,
maybe Joy will hang around for a while. If not, then we'll know."
"Wow, that's some lecture," I said, stalling while I absorbed
what she said.
"Darling, I could tell you were troubled by this, so I thought
it through while I was getting dressed. But it'll be fine. Trust
me."
I smiled, fighting back happy tears, "Oh, Julie, you are solid
gold." I hugged her, giggling a little as my new tits got in the way.
She laughed, too, then flowed to her feet and pulled me to mine. As I
headed to the bathroom she gave my fanny a pat through the elegant
black nightgown and I wiggled my derriere at her with a flirtatious
glance back over my shoulder. It still wasn't clear where we were
headed, but I was through with guilt.
When I returned, she had my clothes laid out for me. The day
was forecast to be clear, but cool, so I would wear the stretch pants
rather than the shorts. The now familiar routine of the corset was
inflicted on me, comforting somehow as it forced me to a more erect,
proper posture. You had to stand proudly in it's embrace, and that
posture drew my mental image up to a proud, confident state as well.
Julie handed me a bra and I managed to get it fastened even with the
obstruction of my beautiful nails, then rotate the clasp behind my
back. I needed a little help from Julie to get it properly positioned
around my full, round breasts, but soon my upper body was all in
place. The gaff was just as uncomfortable as the day before, but now
I knew I would eventually get used to it, at least enough to keep it
from interfering with my pleasure in the day so I didn't worry about
the awkwardness. I managed the pantyhose like a pro, the smoothly
shaped nails actually less likely to snag something than my ragged
short nails had been, if I kept their scarlet contours properly
positioned.
The padded panty girdle that Julie handed me was longer than
the one I had worn the day before. She explained that the long-leg
design would allow my curves to blend out more naturally and when I
pulled the tight pants up I saw that she was right. My legs looked
luscious, long, smoothly curved, totally feminine. I put my deck
shoes on, but before I put on the cowl-neck red sweater, Julie made me
apply my makeup. I didn't get it all quite right, but I was pretty
close, and Julie reminded me of the few things I needed to do
differently.
"Now, I want you to remember," she instructed me, "that you
need to find a chance to check it at least every couple of hours, all
through the day. I don't want you looking less than your best."
"Yes, ma'am," I meekly consented, but I was just as determined
to look my best as she was for me to do so.
Julie finally allowed me to put on the fluffy sweater, then
made me sit down again while she added my golden wig. Instead of
leaving it tumbling down over my shoulders, she gathered it up into a
thick ponytail that could only be called perky. The band holding it
together was covered in an enormous white bow and she motioned me to
stand so that we could check me out in the mirror.
Joy was back, just as breathtaking as ever. She . . I
. . demonstrated an intriguing image of teen-age innocence with the
flippy ponytail and fluffy sweater combined with smoldering sensuality
in my spectacular, thoroughly grown-up (and out) figure and
sophisticate makeup. The slightly prim stance forced on me by the
corset made it seem as though I were delicately balanced between offer
and denial, needing, perhaps wanting the right man to provide the
proper (or properly improper) push to help me find myself as a woman.
If I had met that woman I'd have been so distracted that I wouldn't
have been able to think straight. It was more than the sort of
classic prettiness that shows up in a photograph. There was an
enticing flavor to the total person I had become, as though I had
recently emerged from a cocoon and was only now learning how to spread
my wings into a spectacular new beauty. Maybe that wasn't so far from
the truth.
My habit of sleeping late had left me without a lot of time
before I had to go, just enough for a quick cup of coffee, then a
return trip to the mirror to fix my lipstick. It probably wasn't a
good idea to eat too much before we went sailing anyway since even
though I had sailed before I wasn't sure just how good my sea legs
would be if the bay were choppy. I grabbed my purse, a stylish
shoulder bag by a famous designer, checked to see that my new driver's
license was in place, and went to my 300ZX. This was the first time
I'd driven as Joy and I found myself holding my aggressiveness down
from my previous rocket launch style. It didn't seem right, somehow,
for a lady to drive that way. Following Julie's directions carefully,
I found myself at the Bayview Marina just about 10:30.
The harbormaster's office was obvious as I pulled into the
parking lot, but just before I got out of the car I saw Steve walking
toward the door. I ducked down a little, suddenly short on
confidence, but he walked briskly in and I heard him call a greeting
to someone inside. I needed a deep breath to calm myself, but there
was that corset again, always there when I didn't need it (as well as
when I did). So I just got myself out of the car and walked to the
door. As I approached, I could see that Steve had seated himself
inside a cubicle in the office. His long legs were visible draped
over a tilted-back chair but his shaggy head was hidden behind the
wall. Before I opened the door I ducked to the side for a second and
unrolled the fluffy red cowl neck to my sweater, then carefully worked
it up and over my ponytail so that it formed a sort of a hood, a
little too short to cover my whole head, but at least it reached to
the top and covered the big white bow.
Then I walked through the door. The harbormaster, seated
behind his desk and facing the counter, looked up with a slightly
quizzical expression at the strange way I had arranged my sweater, but
also with an appreciative gleam in his eyes. He stood up before I
reached the counter, prompting Steve to begin to tilt his chair back
to the floor. He clearly anticipated that it might be me.
Before either of them could speak, however, I called out to
the harbormaster in a high, little-girl-squeaky, obviously fake
falsetto voice, "Would you tell the Big Bad Wolf that Little Red
Riding Hood is here?"
For the first time I saw a hint of what made Steve Gage the
best linebacker in the world (besides being as big and hard as a
wall). His chair hit the floor in an instant, but almost before the
sound reached me he was standing at the counter, passing the grinning
harbormaster like he was standing still. He looked at my tight
sweater that revealed more than concealed my beautiful bosom and tiny
waist, then his eyes flowed down over the just-as-revealing tight
stretch pants that highlighted my gently flared hips and smooth legs.
A pleased, somehow possessive, smile lit his face and he gave a long,
low, blatantly appreciative wolf whistle.
"Rrowrr!!" he followed up the wolf whistle with another
wonderfully sexist, equally wordless growl of appreciation, then said,
"Right here, Joy Of My Life."
Once I had played the part of Red Riding Hood, I lowered my
cowl off my head and rolled it back into place, tossing the long
blonde ponytail around to make sure that everyone's, at least every
man's eyes were fixed on me (like there was any doubt).
As he came around the corner of the counter he offered me his
hand and I had to tease him a little, even as I saw my own hand reach
out toward his, "My, Wolfie, what a big . . . hand . . you have."
A fit of coughing seized the harbormaster, though the grin
never left his face. I barely noticed though, because a jolt like an
electric shock had passed into me when Steve had taken my hand.
Before, he had only touched me in a very proper, almost asexual way,
gently guiding my elbow. The bouncer at the nightclub had kissed my
hand and sent a thrilling shiver up my arm, but this touch from Steve
was not much more than a handshake, was it?
Somehow we ended up outside without losing contact in our
hands. My own was so swallowed up in his that it was only the elegant
nails, shining like rubies in the bright sunshine, that revealed
themselves at all. Our fingers intertwined as naturally as though
they had done it many times before and we made our way to his
"sailboat". What we found when we got there was sailing yacht at
least 60 feet long. Two towering masts (ketch rigged) and a proud
bowsprit made it seem even larger, built on the same scale as my
massive escort. He led me to the side of the boat and stepped ahead to
open the hinged section of rail, still without letting go of my hand.
"Welcome aboard," he said formally as I stepped from the dock.
"Thank you, Captain Wolfie," I grinned.
His responding grin had enough of a leer to it to definitely
confirm the wolfish nature of his interest, though this was one girl
he wouldn't be able to eat . . . unfortunately. I knew I had resolved
not to feel guilty about looking and acting like a girl, and I didn't,
but my emotions now threatened to swing too far to the other side. I
felt myself yearning to be a real woman, with a real woman's plumbing.
I also felt a tiny twinge of regret at being married, a commitment
that seemed for the first time to be an impediment to my happiness
rather than the source of it. Oh, well, being without guilt had been
nice for a while, but I certainly had an abundant supply to replenish
any I could shed.
Steve caught my momentarily pensive expression, "Anything
wrong?"
"No, not at all. This is the most impressive boat I've ever
seen. How big of a crew does it take?"
"Well, I wouldn't want to take it out to sea without a few
experienced sailors, and it sleeps a dozen comfortably, but we can
manage by ourselves for just a little cruise around the bay. If
you'll help, that is."
"Um," I hesitated and wiggled my beautiful but fragile
fingernails, "okay, but I . . um . . well . . sure, whatever I can
do."
"Don't worry," he laughed, "I wouldn't do anything to damage
your nails. They're too sexy for words. They're terrific, on you at
least."
I smiled my gratitude at him and we moved to the cockpit area.
He started the auxilliary and then went to take in the lines. The
boat rubbed gently against its rubber fenders in the slight current
within the marina until he returned to put the motor in gear and back
us out of the slip. In a few minutes we were heading forward down the
channel to the entrance to the open bay.
"Here," he said when we cleared the breakwater. He was
pointing toward the classic spoked wooden wheel.
I moved to stand behind it and then found his massive arms
around me as he held the wheel from behind me. He didn't rub up
against me, in fact his huge arms were so big and his shoulders so
wide that he could easily grasp the wheel without touching me at all.
I was so disappointed I wanted to cry.
"Steer toward that point out there, a heading of about 340,"
he commanded. "I'll go get some sails up."
"Good," I said, then tried to use some gentle teasing to hide
my wistful hope that I'd feel those arms around me a bit closer. Much
closer. "I didn't agree to come driving. You promised we'd sail."
"I always keep my promises," he grinned, then went forward.
I watched as he went to hoist the mainsail, hardly needing the
winch until he had the sail well up. Finally he took a couple of
turns about an appropriate winch, pulled the halyard snug, and cleated
it off. He left the mainsheet loose enough that the sail wouldn't
catch the wind and it began to boom and snap in the breeze that had
picked up significantly once we left the marina. The auxilliary motor
was pushing us along making part of the relative wind, but it was
clear it would be a brisk, fun day.
The mizzen soon followed, his hoisting station just forward of
the wheel so I could see his incredible muscles rippling under his
thin t-shirt while he hauled. It was enough of a distraction that I
consciously had to force my attention back to steering the assigned
course. In a few minutes, however he had that halyard cleated off as
well and both sails were booming in two-toned counterpoint. Once both
sails were up he went back to the mainsheet and cleated it off at the
position for a close-hauled tack. When I saw he was ready I let her
head fall off a little until the sail caught the wind with a dramatic,
powerful explosion of energy. The yacht immediately heeled over about
10 degrees, which seems like a lot if you weren't used to it, but it
also stabilized a little with the natural rhythm of a soaring bird.
"You already know how to sail," he accused, though the
admiration in his eyes was greater than ever.
I blushed a little and gave a quick nod.
"Joy Of My Life, will you never cease to amaze me?"
"You haven't begun to find out how amazing I am," I grinned.
Always hide the truth within the most audacious-sounding lies, if you
have to lie.
Steve hauled in the mizzen sheet until that sail was also
drawing well and then checked to make sure everything was shipshape.
He shut down the auxilliary and looked at me.
"You think you can manage a tack?" he asked.
"Ready about," I said quietly, nearly making a desperate
mistake as I almost called it out in my normal carrying voice. My
masculine voice.
"Helm alee," I completed the command, then twirled the wheel
to bring her head across the wind. Like the thoroughbred she so
clearly was, the boat pivoted neatly and settled on the opposite tack,
now headed about 050.
He teased me gently, though there was ever-increasing respect
in his eyes, "You'll need to call out louder than that, if you're
going to command a ship this size."
Shaking an automatic negative, I tried to find a plausible
reason for sticking with my soft, almost voiceless tones.
"Then I won't command," I replied, smiling to show that I
wasn't disappointed in giving up a career at sea. "My mother croaks
like an old crone, and when I raise my voice, it gets as shrill as a
fishwife. I can't even stand the sounds I make, let alone others. I
decided a long time ago that I'd keep my voice soft and pleasant."
"Such a pretty voice, shrill? I don't believe it," he
snickered.
"Believe it," I said with finality, changing my smile to show
continuing pleasure, but unbreakable resolve as well.
He sighed, then grinned again. "Do you think we should put up
the jibs?"
"You're the captain, Captain Wolfie," I teased. "I don't even
know where we're going."
"Does it matter?" he asked, suddenly a hint of seriousness in
his eyes. Testing me.
"No," I smiled. "I'm in your hands, today."
He chuckled, then explained, "Promises, promises. We're just
running across this arm of the bay to where we'll eat lunch. I think
I'll sit here and admire the scenery and let you do the work."
When he mentioned the scenery he was staring right at me,
letting me know what sight he considered most pleasing to the eye
within the horizons visible to us. I blushed again, but gave him a
quick lip pucker, a pretend kiss, for his compliment. It brought a
visible response from him, a widening of the eyes and an unbelievable
tightening in the front of his dockers. For just a moment I thought
he was going to come over to stand by me, but then he just settled his
massive bulk onto the weather rail and looked, obviously, blatantly,
appreciatively at me. My disappointment must have shown in some way
because the tent pole in his pants got even tighter, threatening the
structural integrity of the material.
"What do you call this ocean liner, anyway?" I asked, trying
to get back on safer ground . . er . . into safer waters.
"She's the Starlit Night. A naval architect friend of mine
and I designed her."
I was surprised at the beautiful name. "Not the Quarterback
Sack, or the Blitzed Out?"
"There's more to me than football."
"Yes," a simple affirmative, but it said that I accepted the
truth of his statement without qualification. I wished I could be
that true with him.
If you've never sailed you can't believe how a dozen knots in
a stiff breeze feels so much faster in a sailboat than in a powerboat.
The wind kicked up a light spray, the boat alternately leaped and
swayed through the waves. It was exhilarating and it brought a happy
smile to my lips, a bright rose to my cheeks, and pure pleasure to my
heart. After a while he directed another tack, a simple thing without
raised jibs. He passed behind me on his path to the new weather rail
but I wasn't paying much attention to him, instead concentrating on
setting a course that would fill the sail properly. After a moment I
noticed he hadn't appeared from behind me yet.
I looked back to find him leaning on the mizzen boom only a
few feet from where I stood. There was a smile on his lips that spoke
silent volumes. Respect was there, apprecation for a range of skills
he hadn't expected me to possess. My combinations of innocence and
sophistication, demure femininity and practical knowledge, quiet poise
and glorious beauty were uncommon, and he was intrigued by them.
There was more in that smile, though. There was something beyond
respect, beyond appreciation for a pretty girl, beyond gentle teasing.
I felt myself respond to the softer emotions he was showing with a
softening of my own resolve to be safe, distant, proper. He caught
that softening in whatever way it showed and moved to surround me with
his arms again, reaching for the wheel even as I turned toward him.
He was infinitely gentle. His massive hands gripped the
spokes of the wheel but his arms swung in to squeeze my arms that
stole around his waist. I found myself staring at his strongly formed
chin, then letting my eyes drift up to his firm lips, his deep brown
eyes. I found those eyes plunging into mine, those lips lowering to
the shining ruby ones I raised to him. Just as they were about to
meet his, a thundering clap hammered the sails as we luffed up into
the wind. The boat staggered into the trough of a wave and I fell
against him, still as solid as a wall. We both jerked back in
surprise and his eyes went back to the sails and the wind as he put us
back on course.
The moment was lost, however, and by the time he had us
sailing correctly again I had sagged into the seat, trying to get my
racing heart under control. I looked at him with frustration in my
eyes to see a combination of frustration and pain in his, pain I was
only too familiar with. It struck me as funny, the whole situation,
two adults so confused about who they were, what they wanted. I had
to giggle.
"Gee, Cap'n Wolfie, you let yourself get distracted. A good
helmsman wouldn't do that."
"Some distractions are sufficient justification."
We sailed along in quiet companionship for a while after that,
now my turn to study him as he stood to the wheel. He was the most
impressive man I had ever seen and I was beginning to realize his
tremendous size was just the visible tip of an athletic iceberg. His
muscles flowed beneath tautly shining skin. His legs provided a
rock-steady balance even when the boat tossed on an occasional rogue
wave. The pressure of the unbalanced sails in a rig designed to have
jibs in use had kept me struggling to maintain course. His huge hands
seemed powerful enough to exert the required force with no more than
their own weight, lightly poised on the rungs of the wheel. I was
considering standing up and giving it another try when he preempted my
plan by pointing again to the wheel.
"Take over," clearly a captain's order. "We need to get ready
to enter the harbor."
I took the wheel, holding her head to the course he had set
until he had the auxilliary running again. At his command, I luffed
up into the wind, deliberately this time, and he quickly lowered the
mizzen, then the main. Bungees were used to band the sails to the
booms, then the booms were placed in their crutches and we were a
powerboat again. He came back to take the helm and in a few minutes
had maneuvered us up to a gentle nudge against the fenders on a dock
adjacent to a cheerful open-air restaurant. Attendants at the dock
caught the lines he threw to them and tied us fast, then I was once
again looking at my hand reaching out to Steve's massive maw as he
helped me to the dock.
Again our hands seemed to get tangled together, stuck fast as
we walked along. He smiled at friends he knew with a pride I realized
was due to my presence as much as his own reputation. The smiling
hostess seated us at a sunlit table (I was pleased to see an
appraising then respectful look on her face toward me) and we
considered our menus.
I put mine down immediately and smiled at Steve, "I'm in your
hands, Cap'n Wolfie. Will you order for me?"
"What sort of things do you like?" he asked.
"Oh, lots of things." My eyes were only for him and I let him
know that I wasn't talking about food.
My handsome hunk shifted uncomfortably in his seat and I knew
his pants were too tight again, at least in one area. The humor of
the "intimate" knowledge I had of his predicament showed in my smile,
but he thought it was for my effect on him. Come to think of it,
maybe that was the same thing. He ordered for us both, remembering my
preference for a mild zinfandel from the earlier night, and I excused
myself to visit the powder room. When I had set out for the day I was
worried about using the lady's room. If Julie was along, there was at
least some chance of a diversion or something if there was a problem,
but all by myself I could get in big, big trouble. Somewhere along
the way, though, I had passed by concern for that. Perhaps it was the
massive power my escort had, along with a reputation for willingness
to use violent, though controlled force. If he ever found out my
secret, I was dead, quickly, efficiently, easily. Getting arrested
might have been the least of my problems.
I had to spend a long time in there. My morning coffee had
percolated through and I had to work my way through pants, girdle, and
pantyhose to take care of business. I wasn't sure whether I was
relieved or disappointed that the design of the gaff allowed me to do
my duty (while seated) without being removed. On the one hand, a few
minutes relaxation of the pressure would have been heavenly, on the
other, I might not have been able to force myself to put it back on.
Anyway, duty done I moved to the mirrored area to consider my makeup.
A few moments and I was back to the sophistication Julie had defined
for me. My lipstick wasn't even smeared. Damn.
Steve was waiting patiently, always a gentleman. Fans had
discovered his presence and were asking for autographs, or talking
about some of his great plays. That gave me an idea for later that
evening that put a wicked little grin on my face when I got back to
the table. The crowd dispersed when I approached. My swollen ego got
even a little bigger when I heard the comments they made as they left.
"Did you see that fox with him? Where can I find one?
"If you were Super Bowl MVP and made 12 million dollars a
year, you wouldn't have any problems."
"Fat chance. I've never even seen a woman as gorgeous as
that. You got to find them before you can worry about catching them."
"I'll bet she found him."
"Not that babe. She doesn't have to chase anyone. She
probably keeps a big stick around to beat them off."
Steve stood up to hold my chair with an embarrassed grin as
the comments drifted away.
"I'm sorry. For some reason people around me seem to forget
their manners. It's as though they expect football players to be wild
animals or something, crude and lewd."
I just smiled at him as I thought about some of the plays he
had made. Why would they think someone who made a regular practice of
hitting people so hard their helmets flew off should be a wild animal?
My timing was pretty good, actually. I hardly sat down when
the first course arrived, a delightful house salad. I sipped at my
wine and listened to Steve talk about times he had been accosted by
fans. My eyes never left his, so whenever he looked up at me he saw
the amusement shining in them and the attention I had focused on him.
After a while it began to embarrass him, and his stories trailed away.
"You're staring at me," he accused.
"Yes," I admitted without the faintest hint of remorse.
"Why?"
"Why not?" I didn't really answer, sparking a bit of amusement
in his eyes to match that beaming from mine.
"Have I got a spot of salad dressing on my nose?" he teased.
"No. Drool on the chin maybe, but no salad dressing on the
nose. Or is that my chin that has the drool?"
His eyes widened at this hint, no, a statement, of hunger on
my part. I decided to shift things into higher gear and slowly,
sensually, licked my red-hot lips.
"No, no drool on my lips, is there?" I asked.
His eyes burned into my flaming red lips with an intensity
that said he was about to make a close, personal inspection of my
mouth, when the next course arrived, a fish in a delicate sauce. It
was delicious, but that diabolical corset forced its will on me yet
again and my compressed stomach was already full from the salad. I
picked at the fish, just enough to know and regret what I was missing,
and continued to stare at my huge hunk of a date.
He needed a lot of food to fuel the fires that ran that
enormous body so he made quick work of his own plate. When he was
nearly done it finally soaked in to him that I wasn't eating much.
"Don't you like it?"
"It's the best food I've ever tasted, but I filled up too much
on the salad."
"You didn't eat enough to keep a bird alive."
"I guess I'll just need to find another source of
nourishment."
"Like what?"
"I don't know, make a suggestion," I suggested, suggestively.
He paused for a very long moment, making it abundantly clear
what sort of suggestion he'd like to make, then embarked on a list of
favorite restaurants as though my request had been as simple as the
surface conversation had indicated. I countered with favorite places
of my own, including a few I made up to try and match the
sophistication of his background. A single out-of-character summer in
my youth had been spent wandering through Europe and so I could
convincingly describe little out of the way places that were
plausible, but safely beyond the risk of conflicting with legitimate
knowledge he possessed.
My wine glass never seemed to get empty, though I sipped at it
through our conversation. The service was excellent and I'm sure they
must have refilled it at least once, but I couldn't tell for sure
since they never let it get empty, or even half empty, while I kept my
crystal blue eyes locked on his deep brown ones. That infernal,
wonderful corset had compressed my stomach too much for a cushion of
real food to occupy the alcohol and by the time we were ready to leave
it was having an effect. It was a good thing I wasn't wearing heels
when I stood up, or I'd have tumbled off them when a wave of dizziness
hit.
"Are you okay?" Steve was instantly concerned.
"Fine," I answered. "I'm just not used to drinking so much."
"Much? You only had a little wine."
"A little goes a long way when you're not used to it, and when
you don't have three or four tons of meat to spread it through."
He led me back to the Starlit Night and opened the hinged part
of the rail. Instead of trusting me to make the transition from dock
to deck, he put his huge hands around my tiny waist, surrounding it so
completely that his fingers overlapped and his thumbs touched. He
lifted me into the boat with casual ease, holding me over the deck
with my feet lightly touching until he knew I had my balance.
"Do you always wear that armor?" he asked.
I sighed in mock sorrow, "You wouldn't believe what a girl has
to go through to look good for you."
"You don't have to do things like that for me."
"You might not say that if you saw me without my little
helpers," I grinned.
"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" an unambiguous
increase in the level of intensity in our flirting.
That I declined. "Sorry, not yet."
He let a pout form on his lips for a moment, but I could see a
sense of satisfaction in his eyes as though I had passed some sort of
test. Was it because I was still being a good girl? Or because I had
said, "not yet" and offered the potential for further hope?
I sauntered back to the seats in the cockpit, not nearly as
drunk now that I was prepared for the sensations, but letting him
think I was at least tipsy. The attendants helped him cast off and we
were soon on our way again. The fresh bay breeze helped clear my head
even further, but I was deliciously dreamy as I sat there on the
luxurious upholstery.
"Do you want to put the sails back up?" he asked.
"I am in your hands, Cap'n Wolfie," I said, but I stretched
languidly on the cushions, pulling my artificially enhanced figure
into sharp focus. "Or, at least I'm willing to be."
The speed that made him famous showed again as an autopilot
was engaged in an instant and he was pulling me to my feet in another.
I found my arms around his neck while his own arms were lifting my
waist, holding my feet off the cockpit sole. I found his lips with my
own and was consumed in the heat of his passion, surrounded by the
unbreakable power of his gentle embrace. The teasing that had
inflamed his need had finally broken through his commitment to be a
gentleman and I had another success as a woman, a success I still
wasn't sure was a good idea, but one I wanted as desperately as he
did.
My first kiss as a woman, and what a kiss! I have no idea how
long it lasted, but while it did I was totally female, totally a
woman. In his enormous embrace I was small and dainty, sheltered and
controlled. His size was greater than my large-for-a-woman body by
more than my average-for-a-man body exceeded an average woman's. For
the first time I understood what it was like to surrender to
overpowering strength, what a woman's greatest fear and greatest need
were all about. Julie was right about my learning to understand her
better by being a woman for a while. Now I just hoped I could make
the journey back to being a man. I did hope that. Really I did.
Didn't I?
At some point I realized he had lifted his head and was
checking our course. I knew I had tried to follow his retreating lips
with my own, but couldn't reach far enough. Instead I had laid my
head on his shoulder and just held on for a while, oblivious to the
fact that my feet were still dancing in mid air. It seemed
appropriate somehow, and certainly not something that needed fixing.
"Joy Of My Life, I thought you wanted to sail."
"Oh," startled return to awareness of where we were. "Oh!"
recognition of what we were doing instead of sailing. "Oh,"
disappointment.
The disappointment won out in my tone, but I knew I needed a
little time to get my racing emotions back under control, "Aye, aye,
Cap'n Wolfie."
Taking my place at the wheel, I disengaged the autopilot and
watched as he repeated the motions of the morning, first raising the
sails, then sheeting them home. This time, without trying to call
back a comment over the whistle through the rigging, he went forward
and raised a great billowing genoa jib, even larger in area than the
mainsail. It cracked and boomed as it fluttered in the wind until he
started hauling on the jibsheet. I eased her bow up into the wind a
little to let him get close, then let her fall of until the main was
drawing well so that he could properly judge how to set the sail.
This time, with that massive foresail, he needed to use the winch to
get it taut, but even then he tailed it himself, using one hand on the
sheet and one on the winch crank.
Hauling in on that jibsheet was like stepping on an
accelerator. The Starlit Night surged forward, driven by the powerful
sail like a wild horse threatening to run away at any instant, or to
buck without mercy. I had never been in a sailboat nearly as large as
this one, let alone at the helm, nor on so large a body of water as
the open bay, and I was struggling to control the wheel as differing
combinations of wind and wave changed the balance of forces on the
sails and hull. My eyes were lifted to the sails and to the tell tale
at the masthead and I didn't notice Steve make his way back to me
until his arms reached around me to take up the spokes of the wheel.
I sagged back into the embrace of his arms, gratefully surrendering
control of the ship. My own arms rested on his and I was in a
comforting cradle more secure than any that NASA could devise.
Once the responsibility for controlling the boat was given
over to Steve I could relax and just enjoy the sensations. We leaped
and pounded through the waves, surged and shimmied to the touch of the
wind, alive with power under control, not fighting it but taking our
energy from it, in a harmony that powerboats could never understand.
Steve understood, though, and helped me to see that harmony in his own
grin of pleasure, his own deep breaths as though he absorbed more than
mere air.
I couldn't match those breaths of course, but I could enjoy
them vicariously, and enjoy the feeling of security within the circle
of his arms. I couldn't lean my head back against his shoulder
because the boat was leaping with too much energy for me to keep
still. Steve was still, of course, doing a matchless imitation of a
wall. That might have been part of the problem, if his body had
responded to the inertia of the surging boat like mine did, we might
have stayed in sync a little better.
Despite the motion that made it impractical to keep my head on
his shoulder, I could lean my body back against his, the softness
cushioning our relative motion. In a little while, I realized that
softness was mostly on my side, as our relative motion provoked a
hardness I could feel even through the taut girdle. Don't hate me
because I'm sensual, but I let myself rub just a little more
vigorously than the weather demanded, just a little more erotically as
I enjoyed the naughty power I had over this powerful man. He took it
for a long while, the strength of his self-control on the same scale
as the strength of his body, but finally he had to do something,
anything.
"Let's tack," he ordered, "take the wheel."
I took a firm hold on the spokes and he moved away, to his
relief perhaps, but my disappointment. When he was ready at the
cleat, I called with my soft voice knowing that he wouldn't hear me
but knowing also that my standard words would be easy to read on my
bright lips.
"Helm alee!"
He let go that sheet and moved to the other gunwale as Starlit
Night's graceful bowsprit moved across the wind. With the skill of
long practice and strength that was matchless he hauled in on the
opposite sheet so quickly that he had it cleated into position before
the wind even caught it. This time the sail took the wind with an
explosive boom and we leaped back into our gallop through the waves
like a starting thoroughbred at the Derby. In a moment, he was back
at the wheel, granting me at least as much relief as he had
experienced when he moved away from my teasing.
It's probably a measure of my distraction that I hadn't
realized the wind had backed around while we were eating. The pride I
normally take in my awareness of what's going on around me was shown
to be hollow as that most basic of sailing factors went unnoticed.
Even though we were once again sailing close-hauled on alternate tacks
instead of running downwind, we weren't too far from reaching our home
marina. The wind dropped signficantly as we passed an out thrust
cliff and Steve once again pointed for me to take the wheel. When he
was ready I luffed up into the wind to let him release the jib, then
let her fall off to glide with a much-reduced motion until he was
ready to lower the mizzen. By this time we were close enough to the
marina to start the auxilliary and the transition to powerboat went
smoothly and efficiently and all too quickly.
Steve took the helm and showed a practiced seaman's eye as we
moved easily into our slip. His slip, really, my time on this
beautiful boat with this wonderful man was drawing to a close. As
before, he handled everything himself, shutting down the motor and
fastening the mooring lines without any help from me. As before, he
held out his massive hand for mine and my fingers were gently
supported as I stepped back onto the dock.
"Thank you, Steve, I've had a wonderful time," I murmured,
truly sad to go.
"What, no Cap'n Wolfie?" he teased.
"It seems that's about over," I replied.
"Only if you want it to be."
"Oh, Steve, I need to go get myself together for tonight, but
I'll cherish this day forever in my dearest memories, regardless of
what happens."
He was a little confused by my pessimistic words, "What might
happen? Except maybe that we get to do it again, get to know each
other a little better."
I couldn't meet his eyes. I couldn't really answer, of
course. I just stared ahead and walked with him to the marina gate.
"I'll see you tonight," I smiled after I had a little time to
get my emotions under control.
He sensed by confusion, my emotional turmoil, and tried to
lift me out of it with a light tone and a grin, "Not if you don't tell
me how to get to your place."
"Oops!" I smiled gently, not quite ready for a genuine grin.
I gave him the address and directions and then got into my pocket
rocket.
"Nice car," he said appreciatively.
"Thanks," I smiled up at him with a little pride, a little
more humor. "It gets me around."
Looking up at him was a mistake, or maybe the best thing I
could have done, for when our eyes met I saw a warmth in his
expression that opened my heart from the worries that were consuming
me. He saw an answering warmth and bent down to my lips through the
open convertible top. We kissed again, not quite as overwhelming as
the first kiss had been, but much, much more dangerous, powered by
deep emotions and not just lust.
When he lifted his head I found my lips lifting to pursue his,
reluctant to let things end. He smiled gently at me and then stood
back. Without words I nodded at his decision and started the car. In
a few minutes I was away from the lot, looking back one last time to
see him still watching me, still smiling.
Julie's car was in the driveway when I got home and that
reminded me to take just a minute to look at my makeup in my rear view
mirror. My lipstick was most definitely smeared, a condition I wasn't
sure I was ready to explain, nor even new how to explain. I fixed it
before I went inside, to find her with her hair in curlers and wearing
a bathrobe.
"How'd your date go?" she asked with a much-too-casual tone
that didn't go at all with the sparkle in her eyes.
"Oh, just fine," my reply was equally nonchalant.
Our eyes met and we both broke out in giggles as we fell into
each other's arms.
She pulled back and asked, "What did you do, really?"
"Well, we sailed to a nice little restaurant at a marina, had
lunch, then sailed back," I offered, this time I could feel the
sparkle in my eyes.
"Is that all?" she asked in disbelief.
"Nope," I grinned.
"Joy, if you don't quite teasing me, I'll slap you!" a threat
made hollow by the grin that beamed from her face.
"He was very much the gentleman until I teased him a little
too much, then he kissed me," I giggled with a conspiratorial hug.
"He kissed you! Did you kiss him back?"
"Just as well as I could," I admitted without a shred of
guilt.
Julie was little pensive at this concept, "So you enjoyed it?"
"Yes. He's so big, and when he took me in his arms, I felt
sheltered and safe and dainty and helpless and a whole bunch of other
things I've never felt before, things that I never could feel except
with such a giant of a man. Oh, Julie, you were so right! I
understand what it means to be a woman so much better now. It's not
just clothes, it's a whole way of life, using the most sublime form of
judo imaginable to turn a man's strength to your advantage, which is
the best thing for him as well."
She just smiled as I babbled on, but she nodded when I tried
to express what I'd learned in words, inadequate though they were.
Finally she interrupted my bubbling excitement with a kiss of her own.
I responded with all the love I had for her, with all the pride and
protection I felt as her husband, with all the tenderness that only
two women can share. I truly was more of a person now than I had been
and I gave all that to my wife in our kiss.
"Whew!" she said as she broke our embrace. "You really did
learn something. You may be teaching me about what it means to be a
woman before long."
That comment started a cascade of thoughts rolling around in
the back of my mind that wouldn't come to fruition for a while,
thoughts I didn't even understand myself until later that evening. In
the meantime, Julie started pushing me toward the bathroom, helping me
get the sweater past my hair. For the first time I noticed that her
fingernails were extended with glorious, glamorous scarlet wands, a
couple of shades darker than my own, but just as long and elegant.
"You got your nails done!" I exclaimed with joy.
Her pride was evident in her smile, "Yes, you convinced me, at
least to give it a try. I went by Sally's this afternoon and told her
to do the same for me that she had for you, except we picked a darker
color to go with my hair."
"Now, hurry up, we have to get ready!" she warned.
"But we have over 3 hours until they're due," I protested.
"Exactly!" she said, like that explained anything.
She made me clean all of the makeup off my face while she was
helping me out of my clothes, undoing my corset and my bra, taking the
big white bow from my hair. When I was stripped down, she herded me
into the shower where she smoothed the depilatory foam over my body
again.
"It won't take as long this time," she promised. "After 10
minutes, shower it all off. Wash your hair and then use this
conditioner."
"Wash my hair? I thought we needed to keep it dry to keep it
set."
"The wind and water from your sail has made it wilt. Once you
get it washed and conditioned, take your wig off and I'll set it while
you take your bath."
This confused me, a situation that was becoming more and more
common, "But you said to take a shower."
"Right," she said, once again as though nothing else deserved
comment.
She disappeared into the bedroom while I stood there, looking
down at my pink-covered skin and waiting for the itching to start. It
did, right on time, but not nearly so bad this time. Either I was
getting used to it or the little amount of hair left after my morning
all-over shave wasn't reacting as strongly. The soothing spray of the
shower still felt heavenly, though, then I started in on "my" hair.
That wonderful mass of honeyed shine grew heavier, and I swear longer,
with every drop of water, every bubble of shampoo. By the time I got
it all lathered, I was sure it was down to my knees and weighed 50
pounds. Rinsing it took even longer and my arms were tired well
before I started in on the conditioner but I was determined to draw
every shred of experience I could from the fascinating adventure that
had captured me and I didn't even think of removing my wig while I
worked on it.
When I was finally done, I called to Julie and stepped out of
the shower. The first thing she did was take my beautiful hair (well,
all right, so it was wet and stringy) and drape it over a form. I
would be an understatment of classic magnitude to say I felt strangely
naked. Not only was I bereft of my flowing blonde hair, but I was
possessed of full, shapely breasts. Which was more inappropriate? I
wished I knew, but the loss of my hair was what captured my heart.
Julie pointed to a steaming bubble bath and told me to get in.
"But I just finished washing," I complained.
"I know, but the bath oil will soften your skin, in case
anyone wants to caress it tonight."
I lowered myself down into the bath, grumping inside at the
waste of time when she was concerned about the time, grumping about
how hot the water was, grumping internally at the loss of my beautiful
hair, just grumpy. For about two seconds. Then the hot water started
to feel even more heavenly than washing off the depilatory itch had
been, the bath oil started to make my skin feel soft and smooth, the
bubbles started to make me feel pampered and special, and I started to
feel a lot better about just about everything in the world. I might
still be there, except Julie came back in and ordered me out.
The clock had stopped, no, had jumped. That's what it was.
Instead of 10 minutes in that bath the lying clock said I had soaked
for almost 45. Julie helped towel me dry, a funny feeling to see her
fondling my shapely bosom in the fluffy terrycloth, and then powdered
me with her delicately scented bath powder. My own short hair was
toweled dry enough that I didn't need to worry about it and then Julie
handed me that infernal gaff and motioned me out into the bedroom.
"Okay," she warned, "you're going to have to do without a
camisole tonight. We're both going strapless. Grab onto the
bedpost."
She brought out a shimmering corset in black satin, trimmed
with red (my colors) and proceeded to lace me into it. The design had
half cups that lifted and cradled my breasts but left the perpetually
excited nipples free. The cunning contours squeezed my bosom into a
spectacular cleavage without obscuring any sensual curve. That same
design incorporated some equally cunning stays that forced my waist in
to an impossibly tiny size yet made the curves leading to it seem
natural and smooth. Two garters edged in delicate lace supported each
of the sheer stockings in black silk, those stockings accented with
thin seams that Julie took careful pains to make sure were arrow
straight. Black lace panties, disguising my gaff so completely I
could have posed as a lingerie model, were snugged up my hips and into
position.
She removed her bathrobe and I notcied that she had donned a
corset of her own, in a deep lustrous blue satin that perfectly
matched her eyes. It wasn't laced, yet, or at least not tightly, and
to my surprise as soon as she had tied off my own confining garment,
she turned to grasp the bedpost herself.
"My turn, now. Watch your nails, we won't have time to fix
any real problems."
Now there was an offer I had wanted for a long time. She was
fulfilling a fantasy that had led to this incredible situation in the
first place when I had found it so compelling I had nagged her about
wearing one. I had honed that desire with every gasping, shallow
breath I took when that same fantasy was inflicted on me, not by me.
Guilt warred with satisfaction in my heart as I struggled to lace her
as tightly as she had laced me. Satisfaction won, and I was sure my
efforts had shown her the error, or the glory, of her ways.
Julie had already pulled on her own stockings and done her
face with dramatic, sophisticated skill. The curlers were out of her
hair and she displayed an elegant, dramatic style with her hair
upswept into a pure white ribbon then tumbling in sausage curls
gracefully down her back and sweeping her bare shoulders. Blue satin
sandals with heels almost as high as those that she inflicted on me,
probably equivalent when the shorter length of her foot was
considered, graced her feet, that complicated strap design holding
them in position even as they accented the slimness of her ankles.
I noticed my blonde wig on its form, drying with rollers in a
carefully laid out pattern. If it had been my choice, I would have
reached for it immediately. I still felt so naked without my hair, so
improper somehow. Julie motioned me to sit down instead and after
fastening black satin sandals to my feet, started in on my makeup. I
had expected that she would merely repeat the design from my first
night out and certainly it started that way, with careful application
of those flesh-toned or seemingly colorless cosmetics. However, when
she finally moved to the colored tones it was clear that my face would
end up as dramatic and as beautiful as her own, though subtly tailored
for my fairer complexion and crystal blue eyes. It became clear that
I was not going to be the girl next door that night, at least not in
appearance. After that afternoon with Steve, it seemed my actions
would no longer be demure, either.
When she had finished my face, I would have passed in any
situation as a beautiful woman though my short hair would seem
gracelessly inappropriate. After testing the dryness of my wig, Julie
pronounced it close enough for me to put on and then helped me to
position it carefully. I wouldn't have gotten it right, the shape was
so altered when it was pulled up into the rollers that it didn't look
anything like I expected, but she knew what to do and in a few moments
I was more appropriately coiffed.
For some reason I caught a glance at us in the mirror and had
to laugh, "Are you thinking about a little modeling money, on the
side?"
Julie looked up as well and giggled, "Well, we could certainly
make some money at it."
Our outfits of nipple-exposing, tightly-laced corsets, seamed
stockings and sky-high heels, and dramatic but sophisticated makeup
would define the standard for any lingerie marketer in the country.
Not to mention sell an awful lot of clothes. She giggled again and
poked me in my armored ribs, pointing at the clothes on the bed.
"We need to hurry, they'll be here in less than an hour and we
need to set the table yet. Put on your dress. I'll help you with
your zipper if you'll help me with mine."
"Deal," I grinned, then reached for the wisp of black silk
that was clearly intended for me. Julie had obviously planned that we
would dress as sisters that evening, but when I stepped into the
clingy silk dress, it became clear that our style was chosen to be
very dressy as well, though almost shamelessly sensuous. The tiny
skirt barely covered the tops of our stockings as we stood there and
wouldn't have a chance whenever we sat, or bent over, or anything.
"Don't you think the guys will be dressed more casually than
this?" I asked.
"Of course, dear, that's why we're dressing up. Men like to
be casual for themselves, but they like to see their women looking
like ladies. Besides, it shows we consider the evening important
enough to go all out."
All out was right. The sensual underwear was a constant
reminder of the demands of maximum femininity, maximum attractiveness.
I had gotten used to the long nails, but they still extracted their
price in care and attention. Our high heels lifted our legs into
towers of smooth silk, but balance would take a lot of thought,
especially if we were to make it look thoughtlessly easy. It was as
though we had adapted a technique used since ancient Rome, where a
slave would whisper in a conqueror's ear as he enjoyed his triumphal
parade, "Remember, you are mortal." Except in our case, it would be
sensations in our body that would whisper, "Remember, you are
sensuous!"
That impression was pretty apparent even through our clothes,
not only because the style Julie had chosen celebrated our spectacular
figures with ruthless precision, but because the bare-nipple design of
our corsets showed clearly through the thin material. In my case, the
artificial nipples protruded constantly, clearly, blatantly. Well, if
things went well, the men would be making an equally blatant show
through their pants. The dresses, mine in black, hers in deep royal
blue, weren't really strapless. Thin spaghetti straps highlighted the
bareness of our shoulders, more accent than support. Julie covered a
potential problem in my not-quite-correct Adam's Apple by adding a
further accent at our necks in the form of wide silk ribbon chokers
that matched the ones for our hair (red for me, white for her),
complete with dangling gold pendants. She had picked up earrings to
match the pendants on the necklaces, earrings that dangled down and
tugged at our earlobes with every motion.
"Let's see, what else?" she mused to herself. I poked at the
rollers in my hair, but she shook her head. A smile broke out on her
face as she remembered and went to her jewelry box. She shared out a
glittering tennis bracelet each, blue sapphires for her, brilliant
rubies for me. I had always thought her jewelry choices were a little
redundant, multiple items in the same style being common, differing
only in colors, but that night it worked our wonderfully as she found
a cocktail ring with a large sapphire surrounded with diamonds for
her, and a matching ruby one for me. It barely fit on my finger and I
knew I'd have trouble getting it off, but that was a problem for
later. A bit of perfume for each of us and she was finally motioning
me to sit so she could take down my hair.
The smooth silky blonde tresses were now wound into bouncing
curls hanging from the back of my head, highlighted and lifted by a
softly gleaming red ribbon. A few tendrils were pulled down to frame
my cheekbones, my bangs were draped over one eyebrow and led to the
side, hairspray set everything without stiffening it into rigidity and
I was ready. My mentor had set up our camera on a tripod and she
proceeded to pose me in several positions ranging from innocent (in
that getup, clearly a pose) to erotic (extremely, though without being
a bit risqu�). Julie even set the timer and we took a few couple
poses, in one of which we were in each others arms and kissing. That
one would rate the men's slick magazines, if we chose to sell it. She
helped me to repair my lipstick and we tapped quickly to the kitchen
to finish our preparations for dinner.
I was just lighting the candles on the table when the doorbell
rang. My hand froze, my breathing froze, my heart froze as the last
chance to run and hide clamored in my mind for attention. Julie's
eyes grinned with that wicked delight that seemed her only alternative
to gloating triumph and nodded her head at me to get the door. The
delightful, diabolical corset kept me from gulping the air I needed to
get my breath started again, but I managed to get the candle going and
went slowly to the door. Partway there I realized my hips were
swaying sensuously in the motion made necessary by my towering heels.
The skirt of that lovely silk dress was lighter than any I had worn
and it flipped with flamboyant energy with each provocative swish. I
had arrived, not just in the sort of looks that show in a still photo,
but in all the motions and gestures of a lady, a woman. It gave me
confidence, or returned to me the confidence I had felt that
afternoon. I had been so caught up in our hurried preparations that I
hadn't had time to get into my role. Those few steps toward the door
were enough, though. When I reached it, I was Joy, a sensual,
beautiful girl. No one else existed within me.
Our house had a double wide entryway with sidelights flanking
the door itself. That whole doorway was filled, wall-to-wall and
floor-to-ceiling by the two enormous hunks that stood waiting when I
opened it. Steve was just too big for my mind to absorb. My memories
of his massive size always turned out to be less than the actuality
whenever I saw him for real again. His companion was not nearly as
large, only as big as two of me. Brad Jackson was about 6'3" and
weighed a mere 220 pounds if my memory for the statistics was correct.
Right then my overwhelmed mind wasn't promising to be accurate, but it
hardly mattered. He would have dominated any room that didn't include
my Steve. I was stunned at the mountain of beefcake that decorated my
doorstep and just stood and stared for a moment.
"May we come in?" Steve asked with a beaming grin.
"Oh, yes, please do," flames of embarrassment lit my cheeks,
but I managed to step back. The handsome men were both wearing casual
slacks and sport coats, but they each had bottles of wine and an
armful of flowers, My saturated thinking processes finally got back on
track and I started to be a better hostess.
"Please, make yourself comfortable," then I called out (at the
limits of my soft voice), "Julie, our guests are here."
She swept gracefully into the room, making a grand entrance
that I envied even as I wished I'd have thought to do it myself. I
gave her an appreciative grin that held a promise to get even, a
promise that had been building in my mind ever since she said she
might start taking lessons in femininity from me.
"Steve, you remember my sister Julie," I began the
introductions.
He nodded, "I could hardly forget her. This is Brad Jackson.
Brad, this is Julie Connors, and her sister Joy."
"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," Brad said to Julie with the
twang of his Oklahoma origins.
Julie's eyes sparkled with pleasure at his politeness, but
also with the opportunity for an immediate bit of fun to start the
evening. She reached out and took the flowers from his hand, then
snaked her arm through his as she led him into the house.
"Now suh, If yoah gonna call me ma'am, Ah'll tun you outa the
house raht now," she drawled in a gentle tease robbed of all insult by
her bright smile and shining eyes.
Brad ducked his head with a little flush of his own, charming
in such a famous man, but he nodded at the fairness of her barb.
"Okay, Julie, no more ma'ams.
I had followed her lead and took my own flowers from Steve.
We escorted them to the living room and suggested they put the wine on
the table while we put the flowers in water. Their offerings were a
dozen roses each, mine in a passionate ruby red, Julie's in an
innocent pure white. If Jay had been around, he'd have wanted Julie
to remain true to that innocence, but Joy had other plans for her
sister.
Julie had taken charge of a lot of our lives in the past few
days and she had managed the dinner mostly on her own while I was out
sailing. Since she knew we wouldn't be able eat much while locked
into our tight corsets, she had chosen a meal that would allow us to
eat small portions without making the larger portions of the guys seem
inappropriate. The main course was a deeply layered lasagna based on
a recipe that we had developed together. There was enough of it to
make sure our men didn't have to go hungry, and it was done well
enough to make sure they wouldn't want to go hungry. Garlic bread and
a light salad with Italian dressing completed the simple meal, along
with the wine our guests had brought.
Dinner was so warm and light-hearted you'd think we had been
friends since childhood. Julie's gentle teasing about Brad's
excessive formality had broken any barriers between them and there was
no way I could be distant from Steve after our kiss that afternoon.
With Julie showing me subtle tricks of ladylike interest, we tried to
draw them out about themselves. It fell to each of the men to talk
about the other. Brad told us how much of a leader Steve was within
the team, then Steve told us how tough Brad was, recounting tales of
playing with concussion, broken fingers, and worse. It was obvious
that each respected the other greatly, with a deep masculine strength
that was as foreign to us women as women's giggling intimacy would
have been to these handsome men.
Dinner was over too soon, though we sat there for well over an
hour. I suggested they move into the living room while Julie and I
cleared away what little was left of the meal. They had barely moved
out of earshot when Julie was sending me after them, promising to take
care of the residuals herself. Now was the time for the first of the
little bits of fun I had planned for the evening, this one triggered
in my mind when the fans had been going on about Steve's great plays
at our lunch. There had been a bloopers film put out about the Super
Bowl champion Montana Thunders. Some of the bloopers were made by the
champions themselves, and our giant dates filled us in on the
background with hilariously exaggerated tales of dumb linemen and
blind officials. Some of the bloopers were from teams that had played
the Thunders, forced by the expertise of the world's best team. Once
again it fell to each to talk about the other, Steve explaining how
Brad's exquisite timing had forced an error on a defender that looked
silly but wasn't really. Brad pointed out that Steve's matchless
sense for the ball had put him right where he needed to be to recover
a fumble or make an interception. It seemed our men were gentlemen as
well, not given to bragging about themselves. I resolved to see just
how gentlemanly they were.
The video tape finally ran to the end, to the relief of both
our rugged hunks. Julie put a slow CD in the player and before I knew
what was happening, I was caught up in Steve's massive embrace and we
were swaying gently together. My arms lifted about his neck and his
arms cradled my waist. As I tightened up a little, so did he, and I
was lifted up until my toes were only occasionally, needlessly,
touching the floor. Brad and Julie formed their own dance couple, not
quite as closely, yet. At one point our men had moved so they were
back to back and I caught Julie's eye over her date's shoulder. I
made a kissing motion with my lips, and raised an eyebrow to see if
she approved. Her eyes widened first in surprise, but then the wicked
grin returned and she gave an almost-imperceptible nod of assent.
My own head raised up off of Steve's shoulder and looked
demurely at his strong lips. My arms tightened a little around his
neck and one hand stole delicately into the shaggy locks at the nape
of his neck. A gentle pressure and his head, those lips, were
descending to meet the glossy rubies I offered to him. Our kiss was
like and unlike that first wild union on his sailboat. We were
unhurried, untroubled, undistracted by any world beyond each other and
I surrendered to his power willingly, as fully as our tight embrace
would allow. His tongue tickled a gentle request on my lips and they
opened almost of their own accord to allow his entry. My own tongue
waited just inside to greet our special guest, showing a warmly
delicate welcome. That delicacy began to give way to building passion
and I started to suck on his tongue, trying to draw him into the only
orifice I had to offer. We might have stayed that way forever,
entwined in a hidden embrace to match our visible closeness, but the
CD ran out and the next one in the changer was a lot more strident.
It forced its way into our awareness and Steve lifted his lips once
again beyond my reach. My head found its way back to his shoulder to
see Julie's eyes once again looking at me, her lipstick smeared in a
way I knew must be mirrored on my own face.
"Gee, Cap'n Wolfie, you certainly do know how to make a girl
feel . . . appreciated," I teased.
"Cap'n Wolfie?" Brad and Julie asked in such perfect unison it
sounded practiced.
With the gentlest of squirms, I let Steve know I needed to be
let back onto my own feet, though I was floating so lightly they
didn't even hurt. There was no hurry in my motions, but I disengaged
from his embrace and moved toward the kitchen.
"Steve can tell you about it, Brad. Julie, will you come help
me get a little dessert ready?" I asked. She moved away from her own
dance partner to follow me toward the doorway.
"Maybe you guys could get a fire started," I offered.
"There's firewood already in place, and more just outside the patio
door."
While they were busy at the chore, I pulled Julie after me
into the kitchen. "We each need to fix our faces," I grinned. Her
hand flew to her own mouth, not thinking that her closeness with Brad
had left a record. We pulled out the necessary magical components and
were soon back to the visions of femininity that Julie had created.
Our dessert was a simple fruit dish that we had started cooling down
before supper, so preparing it didn't take much attention. I focused
our mental power on another topic as I prepared for the other bit of
fun (I prayed it really would be fun) that I had planned for the
evening.
"Julie, did you mean what you said about our relationship
being strong enough to make it through anything we might do tonight,
assuming Steve doesn't discover my secret and kill me?"
Her response was a grinning nod that transformed itself into
an introspective smile that was itself transformed into her wicked
grin, full of confidence.
I pushed on that confidence and asked, "Will you trust me to
take the lead from here, and play along with what I say?"
"What are you going to do?"
"Do you trust me?" I asked again. "If you do then you know I
wouldn't suggest anything I thought you wouldn't like, anything you
haven't already suggested yourself."
Julie's eyes widened at the blank check I was asking for and
that introspective look came back as she tried to remember all the
crazy things we had discussed. But in a moment, she was nodding
again.
"Yes, I trust you. Whatever you say, I'll back you up."
We gathered up the dishes of fruit and swayed back into the
living room. The guys had the fire started and had settled back onto
the couch to watch it, taking opposite ends. There was really only
room for one more on the couch and I motioned Julie to take that place
as we passed out the dishes. I took a place at Steve's feet and
leaned against his leg, resting my head on his knee as we watched the
fire.
When the soft ringing of spoons on crystal died out, I started
talking on a deceptively casual topic while still staring at the fire,
though my heart was pounding madly within my constraining corset.
"Do either of you guys have a brother?" I asked.
Steve was silent but Brad nodded and said, "Yes, actually I
have two, both younger than me."
"Did you ever make a pact with one of your brothers?" I
continued softly, almost dreamily as I considered the flames.
"What do you mean?"
"A promise to do something, or not to do something. A promise
that you would each help the other to keep."
Julie was wondering what I was getting at. She knew I didn't
have any siblings, male or female, so all of this was irrelevant to
me, wasn't it?
"No, not really," Brad answered my earlier question, not the
one rampant in Julie's eyes.
At this I turned around and looked up at Julie, then at Steve.
"Well, Julie and I made a pact. We agreed that only the one we marry
would ever bring us to physical fulfillment, to sexual climax."
There were three shocked faces looking at me now, Julie's
surprise safely out of sight from the other eyes focused on me. She
and I had made that pact, in the time before we got married. We were
really old-fashioned in a lot of ways, though it would have been crazy
to try and prove it, dressed the way I was, entertaining two men in
our house. I had been a virgin on our wedding night, and to the best
of my knowledge, so had Julie. She realized the sister I was talking
about, the types of promises I was discussing, were between her and
me, her sister for the evening. My statement was blatantly,
explicitly sexual, but it was a denial, not an offer. What was I
talking about?
"However, we also made an agreement, that if the circumstances
were right, we might . . um . . try and . . um . . learn a little
something about how to . . please . . men, so that we wouldn't be a
disappointment on our wedding night."
Now that was an offer, of some sort, just as confusing but an
opening that demanded further explanation. My eyes had been fixed on
Steve while I spoke, though a transcript would have suggested my
conversation was with Brad. My giant date responded with a
surprisingly gentle tone but the hard rod within his slacks was
visibly pulsing.
"Just what do you mean, Joy Of My Life?"
I stammered out my response, partly acting, partly real, for
though I knew the words to use, there was still a voice crying deep
within me that this was crazy, that I should stop this out-of-control
madness.
"Would you . .um . . could we . . try to . . um . . give you
. . . blowjobs?"
There, it was out. Julie's gasp would have given us away,
except it was constrained by her corset to a tiny sip of air and
totally drowned out by the huge gulps downed by our massive studs.
"Right now?" Steve gasped in surprise.
"Well, yes," I replied. "I mean, you guys have seen each
other in the locker room and all, and I don't feel like we should go
to the bedrooms or anything. Not that I don't trust you, I know
you're a gentleman, both of you are gentlemen, but I don't trust
myself. Without my big sister here to keep me under control, I might
go back on my promise. Part of me, a lot of me, wants to so badly I
almost can't help myself. Anyway, if that makes you too
uncomfortable, just forget it. It was a silly idea anyway."
I turned around to look at the fire again, my cheeks flaming
with embarrassment that was real, shock at what I had said (once it
was out and too late) that showed me I wasn't as fully Joy that night
as I had thought.
Steve reached down to caress my head and turn it back to look
at him, to see an enormous smile, "No, that's all right. If it's that
important to you, I think we can manage our end of the . . lesson.
Right, Brad?"
"If it's all right with Julie," Brad agreed.
Now I looked at her, challenging her with my eyes. That first
night I had gone out as Joy, she had told me that I either needed to
suck a man's cock or forever quit bugging her about oral sex with me.
Well, I had just called her bluff. She either needed to agree to the
outrageous offer I had made, or admit that I had won forever the
reasonableness label for myself. Right. Like the offer I had just
made had anything to do with reasonable. I almost snorted in a
decidedly unladylike way as that thought went through my mind, but I
managed to keep still while I waited for her to make her decision.
Her reply was to push herself to her feet, then sink to her
knees beside Brad's legs in a posture similar to the one I was in near
Steve.
"You guys understand," she explained, building on my
spectacular lie as though it were our most intimate truth, "we've
never done this before. We probably won't be very good. I guess
that's why we're so afraid we need practice."
"We'll . . um . . make allowances," Brad grinned. He had only
known Julie for a few hours and wasn't really emotionally attached to
her. For him, with all the groupies that threw themselves at him,
this probably wasn't that unusual an offer. Well, maybe parallel
blowjobs by sisters was a little unusual, but not the part of the
offer that would matter to him. He just grinned his pleasure at the
opportunity and slid his hips a little closer to the edge of the
couch.
I could see an interesting series of emotions chasing
themselves through the depths of Steve's dark eyes, though. The
corsets Julie and I wore had kept us in a prim and demure posture all
night. The kisses we had shared had been warm, then hot, then
consuming with passion, but were after all only kisses, nothing of
real physical intimacy. Here we were going from a simple kiss to
cock-sucking all in one giant step. There was a bit of hurt in his
eyes as the pedestal he had built for me as a pure and innocent lady,
possibly even someone to get serious about, crumbled. But that was
probably for the best since we couldn't really get serious. Besides,
he was a man and so he was controlled by his little head at least as
much as by the one that was supposed to contain brains. He had
responded in the affirmative before thoughts of my false pedestal even
occurred to him. This was definitely a case where he wouldn't respect
me in the morning as much as he might have when he arrived at our
house, but Julie's respect was the only one I cared about.
Her respect was certainly increased by my willingness to
follow through on the course she had laid out for me, to follow
through in a way beyond any she had imagined. Julie might just have
been thinking I had let myself be manipulated too easily. That was
certainly gone. I had now manipulated her into a situation where she
was going to have to try out another of my fantasies, even if on
another man, and left me with the decision on whether it was
"reasonable". Further, I had cleared everything in advance with her,
making sure that she wouldn't think less of me for my own experiment
with this activity. At least, not if she were as honest with me, and
with herself, as I believed her to be. I flicked one of my long nails
quietly, just enough to get her attention, then took an ostentatious
breath that the guys thought was an attempt to psyche myself up for
the blowjob. That was a part of it, of course, but the real message
was to Julie, to remind her of the nails and corset that she had
already decided were worthwhile. Her eyes tightened a little at the
smile of triumph that I knew was lurking behind my long lashes, but
then she grinned as she acknowledged that I had won that point. A bit
more respect grew in her smile as she realized maybe, just maybe, I
had been right all along. Being a woman could take a lot of effort,
but the rewards might just be worth it.
Steve had slid his own hips to the edge of the couch, then
leaned back. He smiled at Brad in a sort of a dare before looking
back at my blonde head, crouched by his knees. My eyes had been drawn
back from Julie to the bulge in my date's pants, a bulge that was now
throbbing with an unusually slow pulse, at least from the standard of
my own racing heart. The audience behind my eyes (was that Jay? or
still Joy?) watched as my ruby spears reached out and started to
fumble with his belt. His hands caught mine gently and then he undid
the buckle himself. I waved my elegant, graceful, clumsy nails over
his zipper and he chuckled as he pulled that down, too.
Unlike a woman's hips, his trim butt wasn't much if any larger
than his waist and it was no problem to pull his pants down to his
ankles. I captured his underwear at the same time, simple cotton
underpants like I used to wear, in another lifetime. The pulsing rod
that had been bumping against me for most of the day burst forth with
magnificent pride, strong, vibrant . . . huge! His cock was built on
the same scale as the rest of his incredible body, so much larger than
the one I hid away that it seemed to belong to a different species,
something more animal, more physical than humans had evolved to be.
Not that this matchless specimen of manhood with all his equipment was
something less than a man, instead it was as though he were more than
a man, or at least more than the conventional image of a modern man.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Brad's cock jump into
freedom, tasting the air of the room. It was more conventionally
sized, still a bit larger than my average body came equipped with, and
I was glad that Julie would only taste it. I wouldn't want her to get
spoiled. My own problem was so much greater than hers that I knew she
would never again complain that I didn't know what it meant to suck a
man's cock, not if I managed to survive this encounter.
The audience that still lurked behind my eyes watched as my
shapely hand, enhanced so beautifully by the elegant nails, reached
out to wrap around Steve's monstrous tool. Or at least as far around
it as I could reach. When I realized just how big around that thing
was, I wondered if I could encircle it with two hands, let alone one.
For an instant I had a crazy image of Steve's hands around my corseted
waist and wondered if the overlap in his fingers as he surrounded me
was greater or less than the overlap that would result if I tried to
wrap my hands around his towering sword. Even with my nails, it
seemed like his cock was larger in proportion to my hands than my
waist was in proportion to Steve's massive fists.
I had never examined a cock before, especially not so close
up. I'd never touched one except my own. The view was
. . . different . . from where I knelt between his legs. The veins
stood out like thick ropes behind the surprisingly soft head, a head
decorated with a drop of gleaming fluid on the very tip. It was
almost like a reflex, but my tongue darted out to taste that drop, as
though to catch it before it could drip away. Steve jerked with the
flickering sensation, unprepared for such a rapid assault on such a
sensitized surface.
The drop was . . interesting. Salty, for sure. A bit tangy
in some musky way that wasn't too bad, really. Deliciously masculine.
A lot of taste is really tied up in smell and the scent of his arousal
was so tremendously healthy in a powerful way that it triggered some
sort of desire, as though I were considering his potential as a mate,
as an eventual protector for my children. It wasn't what I understood
to be erotic love, just some conditioned appraisal reflex, more
similar to some deeply buried judgment about the suitability of a cave
for shelter than a modern love story. At some level I had started to
use Steve as a tool to move closer in my relationship to Julie. I
knew with a sudden clarity that I wasn't gay, that I wouldn't come to
want male companionship more than female, regardless of how I was
dressed. Now I wanted to suck this massive cock so that I could
understand Julie better, her feelings, her needs. I loved her more at
the moment I put a man's cock in my mouth than at any time in our
lives before.
And I did put it in my mouth, at least the tip. I spread my
ruby lips as wide as I could and carefully moved them over the head of
Steve's sword. It was incredibly huge. At the widest my mouth would
stretch, I still felt me teeth graze on the ridge at the base of his
cap when I tried to get them by. It felt like I had crammed a
baseball in my mouth and it filled me up completely almost as soon as
I passed that wide ridge. Since I couldn't take any more in my mouth,
at least not right then, I used my tongue to explore the shape and
texture of the sword in my lipstick-rimmed sheath. It was amazingly
soft at the surface, though rock hard just under the skin, somehow my
tongue was more sensitive to that than my hands were. Another drop
had formed and I licked it off eagerly, savoring the complicated
taste. My eyes closed of their own accord and I let the world recede
except for the treasure I was exploring.
I knew what he wanted of course, but delivering was another
matter. Rising up a little higher on to my knees, I managed to change
the angle at which his massive tool was invading my full lips and get
a little more of it into my mouth before I felt the first twinges of a
throat reflex that tried to reject the intruder. With my eyes still
closed I couldn't tell how much I had consumed of the towering shaft.
I knew I would have looked silly and cross-eyed anyway if I tried to
see, but I had my hands and I placed the other one around his cock
above the first hold I had secured. Both still fit around it, though
I had surrounded at least another hand's length with my lips.
Steve was wonderfully patient, letting me explore these
sensations on my own without pressure or comment. He sat perfectly
still, making sure I knew he wouldn't suddenly start to rape my mouth
with unwanted force. At some level my awareness had realized that
Julie was making at least similar progress, but then this wasn't her
first time for the simple things I had done so far and her target
wasn't nearly so immense. After a few seconds to accustom my throat
to the sensation, I pushed forward a little further, just enough to
feel my throat start to stretch to try and accommodate the wide head
of Steve's manhood. I wasn't going to be able to get it any further
down my throat without figuring out how to unhinge my jaws like a
snake, so I drew back instead, leaving an interesting lipstick taste
on the part my lips had caressed.
Julie's technique a few inches away showed me, or at least
taught me since my eyes were closed, another thing to work on as I
heard a slurping sound start. That reminded me of the value of
suction pressure and instead of just sliding my mouth back down on his
shaft, I tried to pull his sword into my moist sheath by the power of
my lungs. It didn't work of course, I couldn't have pulled Steven's
enormous body with both hands and my spike-heeled feet, but the image
helped me to start to get into Steve's sensations and not just my own.
A bit of a slurpy sound escaped my own mouth as the moist seal
alternately formed and broke when I moved my lips over a thick vein.
I started to pull a little harder, move a little faster. When my
mouth was back far enough I would flick my tongue all around the head
that I never let escape from my lips. When my lips had engulfed more
of his shaft I let my tongue vibrate along the bottom-side skin I knew
from my own experience was wonderfully sensitive. Steve remained
still with a greater self-control than I might have had in his place,
but his breathing had become more strident as I built to a greater
rhythm.
I let my eyes open to see his face and found his own eyes
rolled back in his head, the eyelids almost closed and showing only a
narrow slit of white. Without breaking my rhythm I glanced to the
side to see Julie servicing her stud as industriously as I was working
on mine. Brad's eyes were also closed, but the smile on his face
showed both more contentment and less pressure than I saw on Steve.
Of course, Brad hadn't had a woman rubbing up against him on a
pounding sailboat for a good part of the day. A part of my mind
absorbed the pace Julie was setting and I realized she was gradually
accelerating. I tried to match that acceleration with my own efforts,
beginning for the first time to feel pangs of tired, overstretched
muscles in my straining jaw.
It probably wasn't necessary to worry about that. Steve was
so close to detonation that I could have coasted to a completion,
rather than trying to become even more compelling. I had an inkling
that that might happen when I saw his rolled-back eyes, but the
explosion that came a few seconds later was still a surprise . . a
huge surprise. Pulse after jetting pulse of thick cream filled my
mouth, and overfilled it. My head was so far forward over his lap
that it was Steve's pants that caught the overflow, not my beautiful
dress. Julie's unknowing wisdom had resulted in a hairstyle that kept
free of my mouth as well, so I just rode out the storm, trying my best
to choke down as much as I could and letting what got out take care of
itself. A lot of it dribbled down my chin, but the elegant turn back
up to my throat was too much for the viscous cream and it formed a
large, sluttish drop at the lowest point.
Steve was so far gone at that point that I didn't think he'd
notice if I widened my focus a little. I glanced around as I milked
the last drops from him and spotted a napkin we had brought in with
the fruit cups. I let go of his cock with one hand and snared the
napkin with a long nail, bringing it to my chin to blot off the excess
man-milk. By the time I had it reasonably cleaned up, he was
shuddering with aftershocks but not actively pumping any longer. His
eyes drifted open and I looked up at him, a grin in my eyes since my
mouth was too stretched for any shape but round.
I gave him one last tongue flick, which provoked a
lightning-fast sit-up as the sensation was too intense for the
impulse-saturated tip. He managed to turn his grimace into a smile,
but his giant hands were gently urging me to sit back and let him
recover. Just then Julie received her own reward and Brad arched his
back with a wordless grunt. She started to pull back but at some
level she knew that I had swallowed Steve's present, at least as much
as I could, so she started to take down Brad's cream instead of
letting it free. She actually did a better job than I did, letting
only a little past her dark-red lips. Or perhaps the quantity of
Brad's release was scaled to the size of his tool, in which case I
hadn't done so badly after all.
Certainly Steve didn't think I had done badly. His smile of
contentment was almost comical, the huge man looking as happy as a
young child. He lounged back on the couch, clearly in no hurry to
move beyond such fundamental tasks as breathing.
I rocked back onto my towering heels and said, "If you
gentlemen will excuse us, we need to go clean up. Steve, you might
want to dab a little cold water on your pants. There's a bathroom at
the first door on the right down the hall."
With that I grabbed Julie's hand and pulled her with me to our
master bathroom. We were no sooner out of sight from the depleted
studs than Julie wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tightly.
Her mouth lunged for mine and her tongue, still full of the taste of
Brad's cream, probed almost desperately for my tongue, for my taste.
"You did it!" she exulted after a rapid excursion into my
mouth. "I can't believe you did it!"
"So did you," I said, not sure whether she was pleased with me
or somehow gloating at a personal triumph.
"Right! We did it! Oh, Joy, I am so proud of you, of us.
You're the very best husband any woman ever had."
"Shhh!" I urged in panic. "If they hear you I'll be dead so
fast it won't matter how good I was."
Julie grinned and ducked her head in embarrassment, but by
this time were into our bathroom and reasonably secure. She was
beaming at me with more pleasure than I had helped her to find in a
long time, maybe more than we had ever shared, and I decided it didn't
matter exactly why she was so happy. I had done little enough in our
life together just to please her and I was satisfied with the results
whatever the cause.
She just kept beaming as she helped me to remove my smudged
makeup and start over, at least on the lower part of my face.
Thankfully my eyes and cheeks were fine, at least through the area
that had blush applied. She worked to shape the contours of my jaw
back into a more feminine softness and then reapplied my lipstick from
scratch. In a few minutes I was as good as new, better actually since
there was a special glow about me, pride I expect.
Julie fixed her face up as well. It took a lot less time than
mine since she hadn't gotten a mess all over the lower half of it.
She just had to redo her lipstick and we were ready to go back out to
our men.
They had cleaned themselves up as well, a slightly darker spot
on Steve's dark slacks the only giveaway that anything unusual had
happened. Our dates had taken advantage of the time to find some
fresh wine glasses and open up the other bottle of wine they had
brought, a fine champagne it turned out. The wine bubbled gently in
their glasses, and in another pair that sat waiting for us on the end
table.
I picked one up and took a careful swallow, not wanting to
seem unladylike even in sipping champagne, though my status as a lady
had probably disappeared in their eyes, however much they now believed
me to be a woman. That was probably an acceptable change in their
perception of me.
"Hmm, tangy, a bit sweet, delightful effervescence. Overall,
not bad," I grinned.
"The champagne is good, too," Julie giggled.
That broke us all up into laughter. It took most of the
self-control I still possessed to keep my hilarity down to a feminine
giggle instead of the belly-laugh that Jay would have enjoyed.
"So, boys, did we do okay? Do we need another lesson?" I
teased.
They chorused with the same perfect timing that Brad and Julie
had shown before, "Definitely!"
Julie joined in "To which question? Okay? Or need another
lesson?"
"Both!" they sounded again, not quite a perfectly timed but
close enough to infect us all with another case of uncontrollable
laughter.
Steve moved to me and gathered me up in his arms, not asking
permission, just taking a deeply passionate kiss as a natural part of
our new relationship, a relationship I would have to figure out how to
work my way out of . . . someday. Brad had Julie in his arms almost
as quickly and while I knew they would never be more than good
friends, even if Julie hadn't already been married, still it was nice
to see that they would indeed be friends. Even without discussing it
with Julie, I knew that Joy would be around for some time to come.
We finished the champagne and the guys got ready to go. At
the door, we shared another set of hot, deep kisses. Steve still
gathered me into a totally surrounding embrace, reminding me once
again of the wonderful difference between men and women, of the power
that comes from surrender to an even more powerful man. And then he
reminded me twice again, and then thrice. If Brad hadn't pulled him
by the back of his collar to go through the door, we might still be at
it. With a final grin and a squeeze that made me grateful for the
armor of the corset, Steve followed his friend and we closed the door
on our unbelievable adventure.
"You know what, Joy?"
"What?" I asked.
"Those studs got their rocks off tonight, but neither of us
has."
I giggled at her, "You're right. So, woman of my life, have
you learned anything new since the last time we made love?"
Julie's silver giggle answered my own, "Oh, maybe a thing or
two."
That night we made love as two women might. We stripped out
of our fragile silk dresses and the dainty lace panties. Julie helped
me to remove that magical gaff and then to reattach my stockings to my
garters. With my single unbelievable exception that was framed by the
straps and dark stockings, we were two gorgeous babes, ready for
intimacy that men would envy but couldn't share. Except for a special
man that was both a man and a woman, masculine and feminine, stud and
sister. Me. Who'd have ever thought we'd end up like this when Julie
got mad at me for nagging her?
Then Julie demonstrated the spectacular effectiveness of her
new technique, a technique that lost a bit of its rhythm since unlike
our huge studs, I didn't leave her alone while she worked. Julie
arranged herself with her legs near the head of the bed, and waved her
elegant hand gracefully over the bed in invitation. I took my obvious
place, nestling my head between her dark silk stockings even as I felt
her creamy lips capture my now-excited tool. I realized at that point
that I hadn't been erect while I was sucking Steve's cock, another
confirmation that I was still interested in women. That adventure had
been more like a scientific experiment to be approached
dispassionately than an act of love. This sharing with my wife was
what I loved, what I needed, what consumed me with desire. I had
definitely enjoyed kissing Steve, my Joy persona complete enough to
arouse me mentally, but deep down where my hormones flowed, it was
still women that interested me.
Julie's talented lips demonstrated their newly-developed
skills with magical success. Her acceleration technique worked as
well on me as it had on Brad. Maybe better since I was struggling to
hold back a part of my consciousness to maintain my nibbling at her
nubbin and as a result, my release was even more intense when she
pulled it from me, seemingly with the irresistible force of her
suction. Still, I managed to fulfill my part in our pleasure. With
my willing help she climbed her own mountain at the same time (two or
three times, but who's counting?). When we were both done, we just
lay there a while, too spent for aggressive motion even if the
confining corsets had allowed us to recover our vanished breath.
Finally, we started to move and rolled off the bed. Julie moved me to
the vanity and had me sit while she stripped all my smeared makeup off
of me and helped me out of the corset. I did the same for her and was
looking for my nightgown when she interrupted me.
"Sorry, Joy, you have to leave for a while. Jay needs to shed
those tits for at least a day and you might as well sleep in men's
clothes, just to remind you what they're like."
She brought out the release agent for the surgical glue and
soon my strangely empty chest was back to the way it had been for most
of my life. Yet it was nonetheless strange, not just because it was
different from what I had lived with the last few days, but because it
was wrong for me in some way that I didn't understand. My wig
followed my tits and except for a hairless body and long scarlet nails
I was back to being a man. The ordinary t-shirt and cotton underpants
seemed distressingly rough on my sensitized skin and I wasn't sure I'd
be able to sleep at all, but the stress and excitement of the day
pulled me under almost before my head hit the pillow.
In the morning Julie woke up first, but before she got out of
bed she prodded me until I first gave out with a typical grump, then
finally woke enough for a rational conversation.
"Jay, we need to decide where we're going with this," she
began. "You've convinced me. You've shown me by incredible example
that the things you've asked me to do for you are not only reasonable,
but fun, exciting, wonderful. I'd do anything you suggested now, if I
could figure out how. You don't need to ever be Joy again, unless you
want to."
My disappointment at that last comment must have been written
on my face in flaming neon letters. Never be Joy again! Please,
don't stop me from the fulfillment we had just found! But I
controlled my panic at least enough to ask before I leaped to any
conclusions (and wasn't that a change from the way I had been?).
"Don't you want me to be Joy?"
"More than ever, more than even in my fantasies, but I want
you to know you don't have anything further to prove to me, and that
you shouldn't need to prove anything to yourself. Be Joy only if you
want to be Joy."
"Oh, I do. More than ever," I mimicked her phrase. "I was so
disappointed when you made me take off my tits last night that I knew
what a lady with breast cancer must feel like. A vital part of what
made me who I am was ripped away from me. I don't know what the
future will bring. Maybe someday I'll tire of it, when the newness,
the naughtiness wears off, but right now I want nothing more than to
get my bosom back, my hair back, and even my corset back and return to
being Joy."
Julie just hugged me even tighter, happy tears in her eyes
that prompted a matching shine in my own.
"I'm sorry, Jay, you need to stay dressed as a man, except for
your nails, for at least a day to let your skin breathe. The doctor
said it would be better to leave even your corset off so your muscles
don't become dependent on it, and I know it would feel better without
your shoes. Why don't you just work on your project today and we'll
start over in the morning?"
She was probably right, thought I spent the day feeling
something was terribly wrong. I realized that I had adapted to
dressing as Joy, that first time out, more easily than I was returning
to being Jay. The sensations that jarred me with incongruity were
things like seeing the world from my shorter stature, finding myself
slouched instead of primly erect, reaching to brush my hair from my
face to find it short and already clear. There were many more times
that day that I looked in a mirror and was shocked at my missing
makeup and hair than times I was bothered by, or even noticed, my long
nails.
There were a couple of amusing problems to be solved that day
as well. About mid-morning a delivery man rang our bell, and I was
actually reaching for the doorknob with my gleaming ruby wands when I
realized they would be difficult to explain. I ducked out of sight
and called for Julie instead. When she opened the door, the delivery
man had two enormous bouquets, one for each of us. As Julie signed
for us both, I wondered what I would have done if I had been alone.
If I signed as Jay, for Joy, with my long nails, my secret would have
been compromised. The delivery man would have known who the flowers
were from and might have used that information against Steve, which
would have been very, very bad for me. If I had signed as Joy, while
obviously a man except for my nails, it would have been even worse.
Oh, well, a problem that didn't happen wasn't the most important thing
to think about.
Another problem was with my masculine clothes. By the time
the afternoon rolled around my skin felt like it had been rubbed raw.
I finally went in and took another bath, soaking in luxuriant bath oil
beads until my skin felt soft and smooth again. I used the time to
remove the stubble of chest hair that had grown under the breast
forms, so it wasn't all wasted. After another long soak, I got out
and put on my satin nightgown instead of my rough jeans and t-shirt.
Julie smiled from the easy chair where she was watching TV, but said
nothing, accepting my compromise.
"While you were in the tub, Steve called," she informed me.
"Oh? What did he want?"
"He's invited us to go sailing next weekend with Brad. I
agreed for both of us."
"Good, you'll like the boat."
Julie teased me a little, "Should we invite them back here
afterward?"
"Not unless you want to," I said easily, refusing to be
embarrassed.
She grinned at my confirmation of her expectations, "No, I
carefully didn't invite them over, so after a little beating around
the bush, Steve invited us out to dinner for that night. We'll need
to get new dresses, but I think we can get by with a few kisses.
Disappointed?"
"I don't need anyone but you," I declared. "The boys can be
fun, but nothing serious."
Since I was dressed in my nightgown, I lowered myself into her
lap, draping my legs over the arm of the chair. She laughed and
wrapped her arms around me, taking the man's role for a change. We
snuggled and kissed for a few minutes, but even my slender form was a
little much for my beautiful wife so I got up fairly quickly.
Wrapping up the penetration for Spencer Industries consumed
the rest of the day. I had decided that I (actually Joy) would show
up at one of their meetings with my results, uncleared and
unannounced. To make that happen I had to convince their computer
that Joy was cleared, a simple thing once I was loose behind their
inadequate defenses. I wrote myself checks totalling a million
dollars, including one that was for over $100,000 and shouldn't have
been written without Spencer general manager Richard Bancroft's,
personal signature. I also authorized myself to travel to Hawaii at
Spencer's expense, first class. Too bad I wouldn't actually be
enjoying these little presents.
Dressing intermittently as a man or a woman became the new
pattern for our lives, or at least Joy's life. Julie would insist
(and I knew she was right) that every two or three days I spend at
least one dressed as a man, except for the beautiful nails that been
the first step on this incredible adventure. I might sometimes spend
more than one day as Jay, if I were deeply into a project. That
wasn't because of the inconvenience or discomfort of Joy's clothes.
They quickly became so natural to me that I was actually more
uncomfortable dressed in rough men's fabrics. I just sometimes
couldn't spare the time for the transformation to elegance. In that
way, at least, Julie was right. The things I had nagged her about
were inconvenient, at least in the amount of time they took, but they
were worth it if I there was any way I could spare the time. Julie
agreed, now, of course, but for the same reasons that applied to me,
she would take a break from her corset and her shoes whenever I did.
As a result, we were a well-matched pair. When Jay was around, Julie
was casual in everything but hair and makeup, once again the Julie
from before our little test. When Joy was around, Julie was equally
elegant, and equally thrilled to be so spectacularly feminine, so
intensely sensuous.
When the time came to conclude the Spencer project, I called
up Bancroft personally, using my Jay voice, "Mr. Bancroft, I'm ready
to present my results."
"So, you're giving up, huh?" he gloated.
"Not exactly. I have managed to find a few problems," my grin
must have been apparent in my voice, because the Spencer top boss got
testy.
"I don't believe it. I have our people monitoring everything
and you haven't done a thing. I'll be sure and tell the board not to
pay your outrageous fees."
That made me mad and I decided to up the ante, "Would you like
to put your money where your mouth is, Mr. Bancroft?"
"What do you mean?" he asked, suddenly suspicious, with better
justification than he knew.
"I'll tell you what. I'll show up at your Monday staff
meeting with my results. You tell your people not to let me in. If I
make it to your meeting, you owe me double. If I don't, I still help
you fix the problems I found, but no charge. Deal?"
"Deal," he agreed. "I'll make sure that no man from outside
Spencer gets anywhere near that meeting."
"Try your best," I offered, strangling the giggle that was
bubbling in my throat. No man from outside would get anywhere near
his meeting. No man was going to try, but Joy would be there.
That did give me a little more incentive to wrap up loose
ends. I browsed through the Spencer personnel records (a supposedly
protected file) and found an executive secretary with long blonde
hair. Her boss would be one of those who attended the meeting and I
would use their internal mail system as my passport for entry.
On the appointed day I strolled to the main Spencer entrance
in a crowd of secretaries and office workers. I had dressed in a
smart women's business suit, dark charcoal gray with a bright red
blouse that matched my nails. By this time I had my makeup and
mannerisms down pat so I was noticeable only for my striking beauty
and my unusually tall heels. The Spencer electronic access system was
based on a combination of a badge plus a personal code number that
also had to be used for additional protection in case a badge was lost
or stolen. My fake badge didn't impress the reader very much, but the
special code number I had set up let me through without incident. I
used the same sequence to get to the region of the plant where the
meeting was held.
There was a uniformed guard outside the entrance to the
conference room, scanning each man who passed closely, and the women
even more closely, though with an obviously different interest.
Finding an empty cubicle where I could watch the entrance to the
conference room, I took off the jacket to my suit and opened my
briefcase to take out my results and a small laptop computer. When my
target executive had entered the room, recognizable from his picture
in the personnel file, I called his office to get his blonde
secretary.
"Hello, this is Joy Dresser. Is Mr. Stanfield in?" I asked.
"No, he's gone to a staff meeting," she replied with the
answer I expected.
I played my part by becoming distressed, "Oh, dear, I've just
sent him some information he needed for the meeting through our
company e-mail. Could you see that he gets it immediately?"
"Well, they have some sort of special security thing going on.
No one is allowed in the room," she offered the expected problem.
Everything was going according to plan. I had sent a file, of course,
and it would be arriving at her computer any second now.
"Could you call him and ask if he wants the file? It's pretty
important," I pleaded.
"Let me see," she mused, "it's coming through now. Oh, new
budget numbers for his department. Yes, I'll call. Please hold."
I listened in on the second line through another of my little
tricks and heard her ask her boss, Stanfield, if he wanted the
numbers. I had previously sent him a fake message from the relevant
people letting him know they were being revised, promising to get them
there in time for the meeting. He had probably been irritated that
they were late and was primed to expect them. Stanfield told his
secretary to bring them down as soon as they were printed out, and
that he would take care of the guard. Bingo!
Stanfield stepped from the conference room after they broke
their connection and I was barely able to hear his comments, "My
secretary will be bringing some important papers in a few minutes.
She's a good-looking blonde. Let her in, but no one else."
Stanfield's secretary was simultaneously informing me that she
would take care of things, but I wasn't really listening. Her part in
this drama was already complete. It was at least a five minute job to
print the report, and another five minutes to walk from her office to
the conference room. In much less than that time, 7 minutes by my
slim lady's watch, I walked up to the guard with my reports in my
elegantly manicured hands. Those slim, sky-high heels put a
delightful wiggle in my walk, at least based on the pleased smile on
the guard's face. As I approached I could see him already starting to
open the door for me.
"Go right in, Miss, they're expecting you."
Not really, I thought to myself, but they should have been.
Once I was in the room, instead of walking demurely to
Stanfield's side, I walked confidently to the head of the table, right
next to Bancroft. Of course, in that slim skirt, with those towering
heels, even a confident walk was pretty interesting. Before anyone
else said anything, I dropped my stack of faked documents in front of
the Spencer general manager, carefully arranged so that the $100,000
check was on top.
"Mr. Bancroft, I'm Joy Connors. I believe you owe me twice my
normal fee." Goodness it was fun to say that! Of course I used my
soft, feminine voice. I was Joy, after all.
"But . . but. . . you're a girl!" he stammered.
"My, my, my, Mr. Bancroft. That could be construed to be a
sexist remark," I teased. "Would you have called an adult male a boy?
I think it would be more politically correct to have said I was a
woman."
"But . . Jay Connors is a man!"
My grin was decidedly wicked, though still elegantly
beautiful, "Right, and Joy Connors is a woman. I have found it
convenient to establish alternate identities. For occasions just like
this one."
"Which one is the real you?" he asked, sagging in his chair in
shock. It obviously didn't really matter, but his saturated mind was
trying to get a handle on something, anything, in order to get
reorganized.
"Whichever one is present," is all I offered, then I let a
little harder tone into my soft voice, and a bit of a threat, "Unless
you intend to get really sexist and require a strip search, you better
consider me Joy. Of course, you'd also better be right in which
gender you choose to conduct the strip search. Choose wrong and I'll
cry rape."
He was helpless at that point, completely overwhelmed. His
executives were just as shocked. I expect Bancroft had made a big
joke of the computer hacker who said he could get into their meeting.
Now the joke was on him, on all of them. I finally relented, though,
and began a professional presentation of my results. I showed him the
checks I had written, and how to fix that problem. I showed him the
fake travel authorization, and how to fix that problem. Finally I
showed him the holes in his physical security. Fixing that problem
was probably most important and would require human guards in a few
more places, guards who did a little better job. I don't suppose
anyone trusts computers less than hackers like me that make our living
outwitting them.
I concluded my presentation with a gently feminine smile,
provocative when displayed on my full, ruby lips, "So, Mr. Bancroft,
may I take your interest to indicate you found my work satisfactory?"
Somewhere along the way he had forgotten his arrogant
confidence. Moreover, he truly was a good executive, for all of his
blind spots, and he knew I had delivered a valuable service.
"Yes, Miss Connors, this is most impressive. I'll make sure
to include a bonus even above the special fee you earned."
"Thank you, sir, gentlemen. Let me know if I can be of
assistance in the future," I said as I gathered my things to leave.
"Please, . . um . . Miss . . um . . Ms. Connors. I am really
consumed by curiosity. Are you a man or a woman?" Bancroft asked.
"Yes," was all I said, though I blew him a kiss as I left.
Am I a man or a woman? Yes is the only correct answer. I am
certainly more than the man I had been when Julie manipulated me into
discovering my feminine side. I am also more than a woman . . and
less. My world has become much richer, much more interesting since
Julie showed me how to find the Joy in my life.
Well, we have to go. The boys are taking us sailing. I think
this time we'll let them give us another lesson in how to please a
man. It's a sunny day and we're wearing shorts, and we found some
wedge-heeled deck shoes that lift our legs into long, shiny pillars of
tanned flesh. We're looking mighty fine and I think they'll be primed
for us, especially if I get a chance to rub my fanny up against
Steve's massive rod again. Wish me luck!