Changes Ch. 03

Author's Notes:

(1) I have been chastised by Personal Message for degrading my cross dressing characters. I do not. They need humiliation and domination for reasons that I understand and have explained in many other stories. Believe me, all characters in my stories live happily ever after.

(2) Much of this story is fictional; some is not;

(3) I have a fascination for the mechanisms humans use to normalize their fantasies, how they become addicted to the desire for it to be real, how it seems to diminish them while at the same time setting them free. There are so many stories, so little time.

*****

Saturday was a day for headaches and pills for me. Sarah, however, arose at 9:00, got herself ready and left to go shopping by 11:00. Before she left, she whispered softly in my ringing ear, "Monday, and NOT before Monday."

I understood what she meant, no dressing up, so I waited. By 3:00 my headache had dissipated and the room sounded less like the inside of thumping bass drum, and more like the reality of the living room, where I sat with my fifth cup of coffee. At 3:30 I heard the hum of the garage door opener, so I got up to greet her in the mudroom leading to the garage. Before I could open the door to the garage, I heard something bump on the door, and then Sarah entered with several shopping bags full of clothes.

"Hi honey," she said, smiling broadly. She loved to shop. "More in the trunk. Could you bring them in please?"

After a few minutes our bed was covered with the bags, and I looked at the volume of them, overwhelmed and excited. Being a closeted crossdresser, my wardrobe was limited to what I could buy discreetly on the Internet, or in stores in another part of town where people were unlikely to know me. "Jesus" I said, "Are these, you know, are these all for..."

"For you?" she laughed, "Hell no!"

I was disappointed. "Oh," I said.

"This bag is mine. I bought a pair of boots that you might like." I smiled and turned a little red as I observed them: knee-high form-fitting leather stilettos. I glanced at her as if to say, "What do you mean?"

"Just sayin'," she said mysteriously, "Now let's get started. You have a lot to try on."

She told me to get undressed and to first put on my girdle to hide my penis while trying everything else on. Whether it was my hangover or not, I don't know, but something had changed between us; there was an aura about her that I couldn't just ignore, and that I couldn't quite understand. She would tell me to do something, and I could tell that to not do it would require a fight. Today it just wasn't worth it; the numbness in my head was soft and fragile, the headache just out there, ready to come back in like a bank of fog outside the harbor.

By supper time I had tried all the bras, girdles, skirts, blouses, dresses, tights and pantyhose to her satisfaction. There was even an all-in-one corselet that compressed my body from the top of my knees to the top of my "breasts". Colors seemed to be chosen based on the degree of femininity, many things in white, pink, or hot pink, with an abundance of satin and lace.

Sarah stood back and admired every piece and at the end she said, "I knew they'd be perfect. Pinks and whites for you. I'm thinking black for me. I learn fast. Hope you do too."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing. Sort of excited myself I guess. By the way, I went through your drawers, got rid of your underwear, and packed away some of the other stuff to make room for your panties, girdles, bras, and stockings and pantyhose. Hang the dresses and blouses up in your closet. I'll pick your outfit for Monday before I leave for work in the morning." She was simply uttering orders, although her voice was soft and kind, and she had a subtle smile on her face.

"Sarah?" I said, "Sarah, are you moving too fast? You don't need to do this, you know, all this for me. I mean, are you sure about this? I don't know about..."

She put her hand up and interrupted me, "Steve, to try something, you need to go all the way, or you haven't really tried, have you? This isn't all of it you know; I ordered some padded girdles to round out your hips and ass. They'll be here in a week, I'm told. Even with those, I suspect you'll need more shaping, but we'll try the easy route first. If it's not to my liking, then there's silicone padding wrap we can order, and if that doesn't work, I'm afraid you're going to have to swallow your pride and come to a corsetiere to get measured for a corset or two. Remember what I said; I don't want you to look like a man in drag; you have to look feminine while you're dressed up. I'm not really fond of the drag queen thing, guys six foot five and shoulders 3 feet wide in Marilyn Munroe dresses and wild makeup. And honey, contrary to what you might believe right now, this is NOT going to be all about you. I've already decided that. It's about us; it's about me, and I'm getting an inkling of what I want from this."

I was feeling both extremely aroused and uneasy with all of this. To relieve my tension, I said with a laugh, "Who are you, and what have you done with my wife?"

She just winked and left the room...probably to get Sarah, I thought with a chuckle. But my stomach was churning with uncertainty mixed with erotic anticipation.

I remember that I didn't sleep much on Sunday night, as my life was about to change in ways I had not ever dared to imagine. But I was not creating the changes; I was simply the reason for them, and I felt a bit out of control, out of my element, and I sensed there would be more, much more, than what I had been told thus far. I felt at a disadvantage; she was feeding me things, her things, her agenda, and I simply followed, enslaved by my fetish.

Conversation was awkward at the breakfast table. I wasn't hungry, so I drank coffee. Sarah read the news on her I-phone and I read the newspaper. At the door to the garage after I kissed her goodbye for the day, she smiled warmly and sincerely and said, "Your outfit to wear today is on the bed. It's not really meant for housework, but that's all you've got for now. Just enjoy it until your work outfits arrive in a couple of weeks. There's a bunch of clothes to wash, some to iron. The recipe for the stroganoff is on the counter; the meat is in the fridge. You might as well spend the day dressed up. I know you will anyway. It's okay I guess. I don't know; I'm new at this too."

She glanced at my red and apprehensive face.

"Look, Steve, honey...you know me; I like to test the depth of the water with both feet. We were drowning the way we were anyway. Get used to it. Whether or not it's fun for both of us, time will tell," she said, kissing me on the cheek and walking through the door to the garage. Seconds later, she poked her head around the door and added, "Shave your legs and underarms this morning too. You might as well jump in with both feet too." The door closed and she was gone, leaving me with eyes as wide as saucers, and butterflies in my stomach.

As soon as the garage door opener stopped, I walked into the bedroom in a dream state. It was like she said, but she had also found my stash and added my wig, high heels, and silicone breast inserts to the neatly laid out clothes that I was to wear. My heart was beating wildly as I started my new life by showering and shaving my legs and underarms. The pink panties and the white long-leg panty-girdle slipped up my hairless legs, and I quickly followed them with the taupe Lycra pantyhose. The lower half of my body felt as though it was encased and hugged by a second skin, tight, oh so tight and firm. Even today, I shudder with erotic delight when I dress like this.

Next, I put on a new bra and fastened it with my unusually adept male fingers behind my back. It was also white, but with a hot pink lace accent at the top of the cups. When I dropped the heavy silicone inserts in, I noticed that the support was different from my own well used bra. The weight transferred directly to the elastic straps at my shoulders, and when I moved, the bounce was much more enhanced due to the flexibility of the straps. I paced back and forth a little bit and they bounced and swayed. It felt foreign and odd...like I was a woman.

Sarah had studied my fetishes well. She had chosen a tight-fitting stretchy pink top for me to put on. As I did on Saturday when I first tried it, I marveled at how anything so small could be worn at all, but I struggled into it, pulling the long sleeves down and pulling them into place at my wrists where the tightness snapped against my skin like elastic bands. The skirt was contrasting black and also extremely tight, a sort of pencil skirt style, long, with the hem just below the knees and it had a slight hobbling effect when I walked, causing me to be aware of its presence at all times. I sat down to test the feeling in that position and found that my knees were pressed tightly together.

I put my wig and shoes on and then I noticed the jewelry: gold wrist bangles and clip-on ear rings with matching, but smaller, loops. Next I explored the cosmetic bag which was equipped with everything I needed: foundation, highlighting, mascara, eye shadow and liner, as well as three shades of lipstick with lip liner. But there was something extra, a small bottle of perfume with a note attached which read: a drop on each wrist and one above your breasts. She was a detail type of person.

I set it down and stared briefly into space. How was it possible that my wife was doing this for me, I wondered? It just didn't make sense. Was there something about this that I didn't know?

Looking back, the short answer to that question was "yes". And I see now that clearly, everything she demanded or asked for was something that she herself wanted to test, some nuance that stirred something within herself. It had nothing really to do with me; I was merely the vessel which carried it.

By 8:45, my makeup was done, my wig brushed out and adjusted, and I put the earrings on as well as the wrist bangles. I walked to the full length mirror in the bedroom and was fairly pleased with the results except for one thing. My figure was clearly boyish. Sarah was not going to be pleased about that.

It is interesting to note that even at those early stages I worried about pleasing Sarah. I think that was where it began, really from the very start. This is good for me I think, writing this down, so I can understand how all this unfolded, the awakening of new fantasies and nurturing of old ones deeply buried and hidden.

Anyway, I decided that I would start washing the clothes right away. My promise was as good as gold. Plus I sensed Sarah would be displeased if I did not honor it. And if I didn't honor the deal, I'd be back sneaking around, wearing these clothes behind her back, in effect, cheating on her, and that would be disastrous for our marriage. There I go again. Weird feelings here, very weird.

So, I spent the early part of the day washing and drying and folding the clothes, with some needing ironing, boring work really, and there were many moments when I thought I had made a deal with the devil here, but I was compelled to carry on. I still feel the same way; I hate washing clothes and housework in general. And here I was doing it dressed to the nines. It wasn't long before I realized working while dressed like this was really stupid, but I put up with it for that first day and for the ten days until my working clothes arrived. Now, months later, I wear her chosen work clothes, and I look back with fondness at the early outfits. Funny how that goes.

Stroganoff was an easy recipe. I had made it before a few years ago, but since Sarah and I had been married, I had expected her to do the cooking, so I faded away from kitchen duties and into my man-cave to watch sports. Again, I shake my head at my chauvinistic attitudes back then. All these bridges I've crossed, all of them burnt behind me, incredibly with few regrets, only with a marvel at how I've changed, and the peculiar sense of serenity I have gained now. But that part of my story comes later; I get ahead of myself.

By 5:00, there were neat piles of folded clothing on the bed, and the house smelled like a simmering batch of stroganoff. I was pleased, but I started to get nervous. Sarah would arrive home soon and see me dressed like this. What was this going to be like? Would it be awkward? Would she change her mind? Would she laugh and change her mind about the whole thing?

I got two wine glasses out and poured my own with a nice Shiraz, taking a sip and casually noting my lipstick on the rim of the glass. I looked at my fingers and felt disgusted with them; the nails were short and appeared stubby and wide, male. I wondered if I dared paint them. I wanted to, but then I would be limited to staying inside the house at all times unless I removed the polish before putting my male clothes on to go out in public. Or, I could simply go out dressed as a woman. There I go again, getting ahead of myself.

5:45 and Sarah would be home any time now. I shuddered with nervous tension, my teeth actually chattering. Should I meet her at the door with a glass of wine for her, I wondered? Again, why had it suddenly become so important for me to please her? After all we had been married for six years. We knew each other. Or did we then? Maybe not. Well, I should say that maybe she knew me, but I sure as hell didn't know her; she was someone new. Exciting and new.

I fixed my lipstick and checked for flaws in my makeup. I poured her a glass of Shiraz and waited at the entrance to the mud room by the door to the garage, like a puppy with slippers I suppose.

My heart skipped a beat when I heard the garage door. Time stood still and so did I. The stress built until I couldn't stand it anymore. I turned to retreat to the bedroom just when I heard the squeak of the door. I looked around and saw her, a face I had seen a thousand times before in many situations, but never had I seen this look. Her eyes locked on mine briefly before they ran like quicksilver all over me, coming back once more to my eyes. I suppose it was pupil dilation in the scientific sense, I don't know, but the result was a knowing warmth and a rush of passion that passed between us. It was odd, and I will never forget that moment when she smiled and said softly and with humor, "Honey, I'm home."

She took her glass of wine and sipped while examining me. "Wow!" she said, "Turn around baby. Unreal. Good job on the makeup. But your figure clearly needs the padding or a corset, or probably both."

"Umm, thanks," I said awkwardly, "Supper will be ready in about half an hour, once I make the herb bread." I took a sip of my own wine while both of us were silent, absorbing the extremely weird moment. "I was nervous," I said.

"So was I," Sarah said, "It's okay though. I don't know what it is when I see you like this. It makes me feel weird. It's like excitement I guess, something unknown. No, it's more than excitement; it's this." And she placed her wine glass down and leaned forward to kiss me tentatively on the lips. Our lipsticks were both wet and our lips soft. The touch was gentle at first, neither of us having the courage or the confidence to make it the way we wanted it. We pulled away. Her hands remained on my waist, mine on her shoulders while we stared at each other.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you too."

Then we engaged the way we should have from the start, our lips hungrily pushing against each other's, and our bodies merging in a way that we had never done before. It was the breasts; they met and were compressed, and her hands pulled up my skirt to feel my buttocks encased in Lycra and satin. I lunged forward so that my hidden penis tried to thrust against her hips while I ran my fingers through her hair.

Our breath got instantly irregular, but then she abruptly pushed me away. "Whoa!" she sighed, "Too much, too fast. I, uh, I don't feel, uh, let's just slow this down."

I immediately interpreted this badly and I said, "Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to push this. Jeez, shit! I must look so freaking weird. I am weird. I'm sorry. Maybe we can't do this. I dunno...maybe I should change."

This was the real changing point. She looked at me with puzzlement and said, "What? You feel weird? How about me? I just kissed a woman! I wanted to before, but I never did. I'm the one who should feel weird, not you! And I do feel weird. You look, umm, you look freakishly good, and I find that really disturbing. What the hell does that make me?" She was shaking slightly.

"Oh my God honey, I wasn't even thinking about you. I should have been. Look, too fast, let's go sit down and just talk about our day as if we're, well, as if we're a married couple. Okay, so we're lesbians, so what?"

She smiled and it was over. The tension was gone. She took her coat off, hung it up and we both walked to the kitchen island, our high heels clicking on the slate floor. I went first, and I felt her hand on my bum, brushing some imaginary lint away. It felt strange to be touched like that, the tight layers encasing me, absorbing the sensation and delivering it to my skin in a whole new way, somehow dampened and eroticised.

With supper, we drank the entire bottle of Shiraz, but it only made us relaxed, not drunk. We talked; we touched; we smiled; we sighed and leaned back in peace. It's hard to explain how we felt at that time; it was like we had been friends before, and happy, but a new threshold had been crossed and a new level of intimacy had been achieved.

I still had male aggression then. I said, "I want to make love to you. Now. Will you, umm, with me? With me like this?"

She giggled and said, "No. I want to be the man. I want to make love to you. You want me to take over, don't you?"

I sat on the stool at the island and she approached me, putting her arm around me. "Don't you baby?" she asked again in a throaty whisper.

Now I lost it, lost all control, in so many ways. "Yes, let's..."

She put her finger over her lips to hush me and whispered, "I want to cum first; you eat me up baby. Make love to me with your mouth. When I'm cumming I want you to enter me then. Will you do that?"

She had always loved my cunnilingus skills, and I was very good at it, but she had never asked for it first; I had always simply done it as foreplay. Actually when I think back, she wasn't asking this time either; she was telling.

Blouses and skirts flew as we rushed to the bedroom, but it stopped there even though I reached behind to undo my bra. She pulled my hand away and said with excitement, "As women. Let's do it as women. Now." And she laid herself down spreading her legs and pulling my head in toward her. I could hardly breathe; I was so excited. She didn't wait for me to pull my girdle down, wanting my tongue where her legs met, a moist and beautiful place I had seen and loved many times before. But this time I wasn't ready. When she came, I was not going to be ready to penetrate, and that bothered me. I knew I'd want to plunge into her when she was still moaning, but her hands pulled my head inexorably into her until I was absorbed in her passion.

I stroked and tickled, gentle, then hard, probing and distant, fingers, tongue, nose, lightly, punishingly gentle. I listened for cues, the breaths, the moans, pulled away, pushed in, caressed the other place, the forbidden place, noted her thrusts and repeated, withholding, then giving until she was screaming with need and want. Finally, two fingers, gently at first, then harder, deeper, gentle flicks of my tongue until she started. It seemed like she was about to weep at first, but she rose up like a crescendo, a gasp-type moan that couldn't be duplicated outside of pure lust. Then her hips flew up against me crushing my mouth against her clitoris in swell after swell of gasps and moans.