Basketball Crossdresser

This story is about an athletic but small man who has fantasized about cross dressing from an early age. When his wife finds a strange number on the phone bill, she calls the number and has a conversation with his phone mistress. What follows contains blackmail, humiliation and of course - sex. If sex and crossdressing offend you, or if you are underage, please move on to more appropriate material.

I've always been a pretty good basketball player. Granted I'm small, only five foot six inches tall, and I'm pretty frail, but I've used that as a motivational tool. As a child I was often picked on and bullied, so I ended up playing by myself an awful lot. Since I could never hope to dunk or fly through the air in a act of magnificent athleticism, I concentrated on my shot and my dribble. Over the years, I developed quite a deadly outside shot, and my range is fairly prolific. I like to think that when my game is on I can drop my shot from just about anywhere on the court during a half court set. I played a little ball in college, and even made it up to first team my senior year, winning the conference sixth man award for my ability to come off the bench at crucial moments and drain a three from way out in the corner. Still I never maintained any illusions that I could play pro ball, my frail frame (at my heaviest, I only weigh about 120 lb.) and short stature made sure that I would be all but forgotten at draft time. With this in mind I used my skills for what they could get me, an undergraduate degree in computer engineering and then enough local fame to translate this degree into a position as a software engineer for a state company, and a beautiful if bitchy wife who stands about six inches taller than me. I would say the game treated me well enough and I have always been happy with my success. My basketball prowess is pretty much limited now to pickup games I play at the local Y. Yes I am still routinely passed over in picking teams, at least until people get to know me.

Along with my public prowess on the court, I have another more secret past time I like to pursue. You see, when I was a little boy, my step-sister use to dress me up in her clothes as a means of punishing and humiliating me. Even after I grew and began to play high school ball, my step-sister maintained a psychological grip on me. Though always bigger than me, I suppose I didn't have to go along with her demands. After all I stood up to power forwards all the time on the court, I certainly could have stood up to her. the fact is I didn't. She knew exactly the way to talk to me, to embarrass me, to threaten me in a way that would make me do what she wanted. And what she wanted were usually small things. She made me wear a g-string panty under my gym shorts to the state high school championship game. She said she did it so that even if I hit the game winning shot I would still be able to feel that string of tight nylon scraping against my hole, I would know that I was just her little bitch.

The power of childhood conditioning is enormous. When my step-sister died in a car accident my freshman year in college (she was drunk at the wheel) my first reaction was to finally feel free of her torment. But as time passed, as I was no longer "forced" to dress as a girl by my step-sister, I found I was just as mentally compelled to do so as if my step-sister were still alive taunting me and threatening to expose me to the town paper with pictures she had taken. I got an erotic charge out of dressing up, and through collage, I began to collect different articles of female clothing. As I grew up poor, my college dormitory was the only safe haven I had. I often had close calls, when I would just manage to pull a sweatshirt over my head covering up the black lacy training bra I was wearing as my room mate entered the room.

Still I never was caught, and in my mind, my fetish was a harmless enough diversion. On Halloweens I would often dress as a girl and go to school parties. In these atmospheres, my deviant behavior was viewed as normal college fun, and sometimes I could even manage to dance with a few of the guys on my basketball team. I acted for all I was worth like the team clown, and they were happy to play along, thinking all the while that I was just goofing around - joking. Little did they know ho much time I would spend styling my shoulder length blond hair, applying eye liner just so, and picking out the perfect dress to compliment my nearly hairless, lithe young body, to look good for them.

I have to brag a bit, and tell you I looked good. I know, this it is common for cross dressers to think they have pulled off passing, when really they fool no one but themselves, but I am a special and lucky case. As evidenced by my success on the court, I have a strong athletic facility characterized by balance and grace of movement. My moves to the hoop were described as balletic by our State School's newspaper, and I must admit they are. I have the gift of physical self awareness in that I am always conscious of how my body fits into the space around me. I have a pretty face, triangular in shape with high cheekbones. Because I lack the large jaw or square head that most often screams male, I am able to style my androgynous looking face to appear as female as the next girl. Certainly it takes me more effort than the average girl, but once that work is done, it is difficult to tell the sparkle in my delicate blue eyes from those of a genuine ingenue batting her eyelashes. When I add a practiced smile, developed from hours of primping in front of the mirror, the illusion becomes complete, and not even a leap of faith is required to convince yourself that you are staring into the face of a remarkably beautiful, if a bit unusual, girl.

I considered my compulsion to dress a harmless one as far as compulsions go. I knew many people in our small town in trouble with the law, or worse, because of compulsive gambling or drinking habits. My private dressing seemed remote from the real world, a play fantasy I enacted. The closest to reality my dressing ever came is the phone sex calls I made to a number I found in the back of a magazine. While on the phone with these professional women, I would divulge my fantasy of dressing up and getting caught by my wife. We would role play, and the phone girl would pretend to get very upset at me, and then let the bitch in her come right out. In my fantasy, I was humiliated in the way my sister had trained me to be. I was called names, like slut and bitch, fairy and cocksucker, as I was led through a story in which different men ravished me and used me as their whore. I never thought much of it and thought I was careful to conceal it from my wife. As I paid all the bills in my house and worked at home, the thought of actually being caught never really crossed my mind. I was always the first to gather the mail, no matter what.

The subconscious is a powerful thing however. The more you play a fantasy out in your head, the closer you come to making it happen. If you were to ask me, "Would you like for your wife to catch you dressing up and expose you for the closet fairy that you are?" I would have of course answered in the negative, but the truth is something in me that must have wanted precisely that to happen.

I left the phone bill on the counter. I have no idea why I did. I swear it was a mistake, an accident, but Freud always said there are no accidents. What is the most amazing about it, is that I thought of myself as very careful all the time. I never touched my wife's clothing, I used a stash of my own that I kept locked in a trunk in the attic. I was always careful to call another number after phone-sex, so if my wife ever decided to use the radial feature of our phone all she would get was my parents house, or the library. generally I paid the phone bill, with evidence of the numbers I called, and the credit card bills, with evidence of the clothing I bought, on the day they arrived, and immediately I would throw the bills away. Why I left that particular phone bill on the table I can never tell you, but you can be damn sure I didn't get away with my little 'accident'.

"You little bitch." is what my wife said to me as I walked in from the gym. I was a little startled, taken aback, but immediately aroused.

"Excuse me." I said in a tone that I am sure sounded far less innocent than I intended.

"Don't play me for a fool, you faggot whore. I found your phone bill, it was right here on the counter. I was looking through it innocently enough, when I noticed all of these long distance calls to Los Angeles. I thought to myself, gee, Alex and I don't know anyone from Los Angeles, so I decided to call the number."

I admit, I was in shock. As I said, I never consciously intended for her to catch me, I had not even been aware that I had left the bill out. I was a little disturbed, but still confident that my service wouldn't have told my wife anything about me. "So . . . " I asked nervously, waiting to hear the damage.

"So! So!!! All you can say is so? I'll tell you so. So, I called this number expecting to find some business partner of yours, in my wildest delusions I was fearing some type of girlfriend. Little did I know."

"Little did you know?" My voice was trembling now.

"Little did I know that you WERE the girlfriend, you little bitch." My wife had her arms crossed across her breasts, pushing them up a little against the tight confines of her yellow cashmere sweater. As I said, my wife is a full six inches taller than me, a large, strong woman, with platinum blonde hair, big breasts, and long, toned legs. The sight of her glaring at me like that was frightening. She was completely in control, and I began to feel more and more diminutive in her presence.

"They didn't tell you." I squeaked.

"They did tell me. They told me everything. I talked to a lovely woman named Misty, you do know Misty don't you." I looked at my wife and tried to think of a way out of the situation. Misty, as she called herself, was my regular phone girl and I had told her my deepest and darkest fantasies, my most intimate secrets. I thought I could trust her of course, but how naive was that.

"Yes." I said slowly "I know Misty." My head was down. I was staring at the black, knee high riding boots, my wife had taken to wearing.

"You better look me in the eye when I speak to you bitch. Is that clear!" My wife said in a flat tone, that made her all the more intimidating. I snapped my head up and looked her in the eye. I was ashamed by the fact that my erection was growing.

"That's better cunt. Anyway . . . " My wife's voice was suddenly light and airy, a singsong like melody. "Anyway, Misty and I had a long talk about you. She thought you wouldn't mind, seeing as how your just a submissive, little, faggot whore anyway. Besides I don't think she really cared if you would mind. What does it matter what you do and don't mind anyway. Does it matter matter what you mind Alex?" She asked.

"I suppose it doesn't." I answered almost in a whisper.

"You suppose it doesn't do you. Well you got that one right at least. No, I suppose it doesn't matter what you mind and what you don't. You have a lot of work to do to make this up to me you know. Imagine my embarrassment. here I am thinking I married a man. A man to care for me, to bring home the money, to make love to me. Sure you are just a pathetic little weakling. Sure you are an embarrassment of a man, particularly next to me, but still you were always my embarrassment of a man. Even if you were pathetic in bed, you always made nice big friends at the gym for me to fuck. Oh you might as well know, I've been fucking your whole basketball team - you're a running joke - didn't you know? But that's nothing to concern you, you'll be much more embarrassed before I get through with you. The point is, imagine what a position you put me in when I found out that MY little pathetic excuse for a husband was actually some other woman's bitch. That you called some STRANGER, half way across the country and humiliated yourself in that way to her. What would people think if they found out? What would they think of ME. They could think that I couldn't control you. What do you think of that?"

I couldn't speak. It was too much information. The fact that my wife had found out about my cross dressing fantasies, the fact that she knew I dreamed of acting like a little slutty girl, about being fucked by men, the fact that I was a cuckold, that she was having sex with my 'friends' from the basketball team. I just stared at her in shock.

"So you have nothing to say for yourself." She said authoritatively. "So you are, as I expected, nothing but a little, panty-slut. Is that it?" I found some courage, from where I have no idea.

"I really think you're making too big a deal out of this. So I have some strange fantasies, so I called a phone sex line to play them out. I mean is that the worst thing in the . . . ."

I stopped speaking when my wife slapped me hard across the face. "You had better learn to treat me with more respect. You are not the one who sets the rules around here, do you understand?" I nodded weakly.

"You are right about you having strange fantasies, but you are dead wrong in thinking you can just get away with it. Your friend Misty was nice enough to record a few of your conversations for me." My wife retrieved a small tape recorder from her purse. "Care to hear how you sound when you play your fairy, cocksucker games?" She, of course, did not wait for a response from me. Instead she pressed the play button and I heard my own voice, the practiced effeminate voice I had mastered. I remembered the conversation, it had only been a few weeks before. I had outlined a new fantasy to Misty. It was centered around me being caught by wife. I stood uncomfortably as I heard Misty mimic the voice of a shocked and surprised lover on discovering her man dressed in her panties and stockings. She forced me to admit what I was.

"I am a little panty bitch. I am a little cocksucking whore." I heard my metallic voice called from the cassette player. My wife shut the tape off.

"Strait from the faggot's mouth." She said. "Now obviously, I have more of these, and I have every intention of sending them to your employers, your friends, even your parents if you do not do precisely what I say. But I don't think I even need that threat, because from that last tape I understand this is exactly what you wanted to have happen all along. You wanted to get caught, didn't you. You wanted me to make you into the little faggot, slut you only dreamed of being. I always wondered about you. How you pretended that you needed to shave your legs to play basketball. I accepted that, but I thought it was a little odd how you needed to shave your armpits too. Well Alex, you're in luck! I think this game will be fun, don't you. Now take off your clothes."

I was shocked by the request. I thought she had every intention of walking out on me. Even when the tape was playing I figured that she would only use it to blackmail me for my money. I had no idea the situation would progress so rapidly. I stripped my clothes off without question, hoping in the back of my mind that she was playing a game with me, that maybe she enjoyed this fantasy too and had just decided to role play a little to get us both really turned on. When I removed my shorts, my erect penis sprang out at attention.

"And I wasn't wrong about either, you bitch. See how turned on you are by your humiliation. You probably think I'm going to let you fuck me now, that I am playing some sort of game. Well this is no game, and it will be a cold winter's night in hell, before that pathetic little cock of yours ever touches this pussy again. But I must admit I am enjoying this too. I have a little idea. An idea that will get you all pretty like you need to be, while letting me get off at the same time." My wife reached into a shopping bag and pulled out the two pieces of a tiny, little, white bikini.

"You know Alex, fuck bitches like you need to get a sexy tan for their men in the summer. Put this on."

I didn't hesitate, I am ashamed to admit. The sight of that bikini got me so turned on. It has always been a fantasy of mine to be able to wear and fill out a hot sexy bikini bathing suit. I stepped into the bikini bottom's; a tiny triangle of white fabric held together by a string around the waist and another string that ran up the ass. They could hardly contain my cock, and I looked for all purposes like the joke I was. Still the feel of the thong ticking my little, pink asshole raised my excitement. My wife tapped her foot impatiently, and I took this as a sign to put on the top. The top was barely more concealing than the bottom, consisting this time of two triangles of white gauzy material, each with a string that were meant to be tied above my head and two others to be tied behind my back. When I was done, I felt like a Christmas present, what with all the bows and loose pieces of bikini string hanging from my hips, neck and back.

"Oh don't you look good, almost like the perfect little whore, except for that pathetic excuses for a penis poking out where it shouldn't. We'll have to do something about that." My wife said reaching for my cock. I was ecstatic. My wife was just playing a game with me, I thought. How sweet she was to indulge my fantasies like this.

How wrong I was.

My wife grabbed my cock through the fabric of the bikini bottom and brutally wrenched it downward between my legs. The pain and the shock of her action was enough to erase any arousal I had been experiencing, and I felt my erection shrivel.

"You will keep this pathetic thing hidden from sight, between the cheeks of your little faggot ass." she said. I almost cried. I had been so excited, so hopeful. The thought of my powerful wife bringing me to a climax as I stood in front of her humiliated in a white bikini had been almost too much to bear. I was terribly disappointed, and also afraid of what was to come next. She looked at me and laughed.

"You thought I was going to play with that pathetic excuse of a cock of yours? I'm afraid that is not going to happen. No, I am afraid that you have lost the privilege of sex with me. I always saw it as a burden, a simple obligation of marriage. I am relieved I won't have to endure having sex with you anymore. But don't think I am done with you. I will still use you for my amusement, but first I have to get you ready." She motioned to the sliding glass door that led out to the pool. "Outside with you, we are going to get you nice and tanned."

I was nervous. I had hired a neighborhood boy, Jack, to clean the pool once a week. He was a local misfit, always in trouble with the law while in high school. Now nineteen, he was trying to put his life into some type of order and did odd jobs for families in our neighborhood. Still the powerful air of a hoodlum surrounded him. He was strikingly handsome, tall and muscular, with tattoos on his shoulders and sandy blonde hair. He had a faint scar that ran under one eye, the cause of which was the source of much speculation at the gym. Yes, he played ball at the gym. Though weak on finesse skills, he played ferocious defense and could be counted on to take down any smaller player like myself that made the mistake of trying to drive to hoop on him. I remembered that he would be arriving to clean the pool sometime that afternoon.

"Oh darling I can't." I whimpered to my wife.

"Darling!?!" She asked incredulously. "You refer to me as darling? I'm afraid I am not anything close to your darling anymore. Don't be a fool to underestimate my resolve to expose you if you do not do exactly what it is that I ask of you." My wife held the tape recorder in one hand and snapped a picture of me pathetically standing in white thong bikini, with a hand held camera in the other. "Out to the pool with you, bitch."