His wife hates his crossdressing, but after being caught dressed, with another woman, she arranges so he is crossdressed permanently.

by Vickie Tern

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Authors foreword: "Jack and Jill" is a novel in ten chapters averaging 30k each about a fictional cross-dresser like you or me in fact or fantasy or remote curiosity, or else why have you read this far, and how he or she became the person who is narrating the story. It's mostly TG and femdom, with forced or tricked or cajoled feminization, but of course also m/f and m/m and f/f in various u.c. and l.c. combinations, and also some d/s, and other such alphabetical stuff. Humiliation, yes, and mental but not physical bondage. There is no pain, and no magic or incest or bestiality or pedophilia or snuff, and no characters below the age of consent, so if these things turn you on, or if you're yourself below whatever age is lawful, this isn't for you.

You'd find this story boring, anyhow. The main character believes, as many adults do, that we are reasoning creatures who can understand and cope with our predicaments by thinking them through. Not so, but such people do a lot of thinking aloud, and that's part of the fun. They keep being surprised when events or other people's schemes cross them up and mess their minds.

It's fiction, but any resemblance to actual persons or events you have known, though accidental, is deliberate. A fiction that doesn't resemble any of the worlds we inhabit, or any of the imaginary worlds that inhabit us, isn't worth reading. It wouldn't even be imaginable. None of the events depicted here have ever occurred to anyone I know or have heard about, apart from the obvious and generic. Some similar things happen from time to time. If to you, whatever your gender, I'd appreciate your letting me know, to satisfy my own curiosity. But don't assume I knew earlier.

Incidentally, only when it's absolutely essential do I describe the length or thickness of a prick in inches or centimenters or rods or acres, or at all, being convinced that the real world of men and women are intimidated or else unimpressed by adolescent references to "my rock-hard eleven inch pole" (dream on, 5 to 7incher if you're like most of mankind but worry a lot about it). If you can't distinguish fantasy from fact, the credible from the true, go take a good literature course at your nearest Community College, or else go into a corner with other A.S.S. stories and do whatever you do in corners while reading sex stories. That's fine by me. This one tries to seem plausible, though of course some situations go to extremes.

I wrote this because it was fun to write it, and I learned a lot of things while doing it, about my own erotic imagination and about how to tell a story, and about how to discover things while telling a story. I hope to do better next time, but I'm pretty pleased with this one, for now. I'd like to know what you think. If you must flame, make it a flame of length equal to "Jack and Jill" (about 300k), if you can, and at least as eventful and amusing (as boring's OK too as long as I can skip through to the good parts), I'll be glad to read it.

Oh yes, I mean to post this through my AOL access, not my EDU access, in order to increase the proportion of stories AOL contributes to A.S.S.. Cretins who need to hate something to feel alive, or need to feel unjustly accused to feel justified, spam A.S.S. daily attacking and defending AOL subscribers. Between them and others who think their learned theological opinions matter, reading A.S.S. on Usenet is now like driving on a road littered with broken bottles thrown by drunks (AOL gathers these threads into single line references the eye can ignore). I have good reason to maintain both AOL and EDU accesses, and if Johnny Duh out there is offended that I choose to pay good money to AOL for certain desired services duly rendered, instead of trying to locate a suitable freenet, or to struggle with an EDU network system invented thirty years ago and still ten years behind the available technology, well Duh!

This preamble is a test text. If it shows up in readable format on the AOL *and* the EDU A.S.S, then I'll post it again with all ten chapters all at once, for the world to deal with. If not, I'll figure out why, and will welcome suggestions. Due notice: copyright is reserved to me. Archiving and reposting in single transmissions is OK, if you think this worth it, but preserve my name and address as down below, and if you want to "improve" the story, don't. Write a better one. That's what I'm trying to do as you read this one. Or rewrite 'Madison County' and retire rich.

Dedicated to TG's of whatever kind, wherever you are.

Love to you all, Vickie Tern ([email protected])ae
 
 
Chapter 1
 
I live alone. Oh, I've got a few girlfriends, and they fuss and worry over me sometimes, and sometimes they arrange dates for me and we go out together, and sometimes I arrange my own dates. But dates are always a problem. I don't know which gender to ask out. I look like a girl and I dress like a girl, and I live like one, and I work like one, as a kind of secretary-typist-administrative-girl-Friday who doesn't mind solving her boss's computer programming problems for him when he's stuck. And by now I even act like a girl, and swing my hips when I feel real good, and let my hands fly all over when I'm excited, and squeal with my girlfriends when we're thrilled, and call things "just precious" and "darling" and all that. But I'm not a girl. I'm a man who's been feminized, by his former wife, if you can believe it, because I wasn't man enough for her. People call me Jane, but my name used to be Jack. And I still like girls, and inside my pantihose I still have the basic equipment for coping with them, though it doesn't work too well these days.

My problem is, how many girls want to date a man who has breasts and delicate manners and wears dresses and loves to talk about girl things? Even the lesbians are turned off when they find out I'm not a proper transsexual woman, but a normal heterosexual male who has always loved cross-dressing and who happens now to live in a mostly female body. And how many guys want to go out with a guy who may look like a girl, but hasn't got a pussy and isn't gay? Oh I'll blow them, because what else can I do to please men if they're not into buttfucking, but there's not much in it for me sucking on other guys' dicks or getting my ass plowed (well, there's a little something, I do like it, my wife saw to that). But sooner or later guys catch on that I'm not hot for them, and sooner or later they don't come back. So I'm sort of caught in the middle.

Probably I should go the rest of the way and have surgery and become a proper woman and live a normal life. Or maybe I should go back to being a man, if I can. A few more shots and cuts either way might send me either way, I suspect.

But the problem is, I like looking like a woman. No, that's not true. I absolutely adore looking like a woman! I always have. The most wonderful thing I see when I wake up each morning is my mirror. I just love seeing a pretty face and a well-turned feminine figure looking back at me (see? -- "I absolutely adore," "I just love" -- my femme talk turns on when I'm turned on, and just thinking about my mirror turns me on!). I love feeling pretty -- there's such a marvelous glow to it! On the other hand, I don't want to BE a woman. I can pretend, and even fool myself sometimes. For some things, like feeling soft and warm and cuddly and loving with someone, being a woman is just lovely. But for most things I feel like a man, not a woman. Besides, if I actually were a woman and I felt like one and dressed like one routinely, where would be the thrill? Would I still feel deliciously excited each morning when I put on a dress and step out knowing I look pretty, my whole body feeling perky and blissful and privileged? Probably not. Probably, I'd just feel normal, like any woman wearing any dress anywhere.

I'm a transvestite. I love looking feminine, and I love the way it feels to look feminine. I guess I was born one, and I'll certainly die one. And that's where the problem started, how I got to be where I am right now. I love wearing women's clothes, and I can't help myself, and I don't really want to help myself. And now I live in them. I've got what I wanted, or what my wife wanted for me. I'm permanently cross- dressed.

I cross-dressed sometimes when I was a kid. I loved the feel of a bra tugging on my chest, or a slip or a dress swishing on my legs. My mother and sister never found out I was in and out of their clothes, but it wouldn't have mattered to me if they had. I was hooked. I got a paper route to help support my habit, to buy my own girls' clothes. Once I rode out at first light wearing a blouse and skirt, cycling furiously with my heart pounding and throwing papers at doorways at top speed, scurrying to get back before anyone woke up and saw me. I felt terrific about it at first, really high. But then I started to think about the chance I had just taken and I started shaking and couldn't stop! What I had just done terrified me!

After that I went deep into the closet, ashamed that I wanted to look like a girl, and afraid to be found out when I did look like a girl. Like most cross-dressers I got disgusted with myself and quit, a few times, but then I'd start up again. When I finished college I wore skirts and dresses all the time when I got home from work, all around my apartment. I felt so right in them, so ...together. But I never dared wear them outside. If someone were to look hard at me when I was outside trying to pass I knew I'd feel embarrassed, then humiliated, and then I'd panic and run, or come apart some other way. Then everyone would look hard at me.

When I first met Jill I had just quit again, and it was just as well. Jill was never a woman to think a cross-dressing husband kinda cute. In those days, sexually, as far as I could tell, she was not given to experiments or kinks of any sort. She wanted a husband she could respect, a friend, one not too demanding. Sex for her had to be strictly penises and vaginas, and that's what she called them, not even oral. And sex for her was an occasional recreation, not a kind of marvelous and crucial compulsory behaviour. She's a very good-looking woman, a lawyer, tall and slender, with a decisive manner that keeps her clients confident that she knows what she's doing. When we decided to move in together I thought I would stay quit. We got along well. We liked being with each other. At first she thought that my name being "Jack" and hers "Jill" was just too cute for words, that we couldn't possibly be compatible. But she weathered the kidding from friends and associates, and we found that we were able to get on, pretty much.

I respected her a lot, and she admired the way I did my work. We could talk about anything, and she'd listen to me carefully. Then she'd ask a few questions. Then she'd let some time pass, and finally she'd deliver her own views as if she were a judge presenting a final opinion. After that the question, if there was any, was settled and not open for discussion. Usually we agreed, so I didn't mind that the final decisions affecting both of us were usually hers. I got to assume that was the way things should be, and I liked the way she ran our lives. It saved me a lot of hassle. I think she was the one who decided one day that it was time we were married, and I certainly didn't disagree. By then I depended on her self-confident self-assurance, and looked to it for guidance. I thought this was love.

Once I tried to tell her about transgendered people, people like me, trying to lead up to a confession that I had once been one of them (and, I guess I hoped secretly, might be one of them again some day). I thought I was being casual enough, but she turned the topic off abruptly. She muttered words like "sick" and "perverse," and looked at me closely. She then asked me in her attorney's voice why I had raised the subject. A pang of fear sliced into me, and I said quickly that a client had joked about it, that's all, and as soon as I could I left the room to settle down, my heart still pounding furiously, still terrified. A narrow escape. So my pleasure in wearing girls' clothes stayed underground, hidden even from me. After a while I thought there wasn't any. Which is why I didn't tell her anything before we got married.

I began dressing again during our honeymoon. I know this doesn't sound like a great compliment to Jill's sexual attractiveness, and I mean no disrespect. But desire for a woman and desire to look like a woman were very nearly the same thing for me. And back then Jill was -- well -- deliberate in her lovemaking. Most of the kinds of love people like she found "distasteful." She loved being in charge, controlling events and controlling her feelings about them. If it wasn't cuddling, and it wasn't vaginal intercourse, she didn't care for it, and she made that known whenever I'd try to roam further with her. I knew from when we started living together that she was severely inhibited, and I hoped she'd loosen up in time. But it didn't matter. I needed her, and I had come to depend on her, and she seemed to care about me. I would marry her again, even now, despite everything she did to me. Maybe because of everything, in a way. But not for the sex when we first got married.

I still remember the morning in the hotel when she asked me to hand her a white, delicately embroidered slip from her bureau drawer. I picked it up and started toward the bed to hand it to her, and felt the most delicious "THWANG!" as my belly rose up in joy at the feel of the lovely thing in my hand, and my prick rose up too. Before I knew what I was doing I had unfolded it and held it fitted in front of me, admiring the lace across the hemline. "Very funny!" she said, as she took it away. Then when she noticed my aroused state, she asked, amused "Why, Jack, what can you have in mind?" I certainly didn't tell her what I really had in mind, but one thing leads to another, and it was easy to distract her.

That afternoon I stopped at a lingerie store and bought myself a slip just like hers, and later that afternoon I hid it in our hotel room in the back of our closet, so it would seem to have been forgotten by some previous guest if she found it. She never did, and that was the beginning of the stash that has since become my proper wardrobe. The next morning while she was off having her hair done I put on one of her brassieres and then my slip. It all felt so exquisite that I threw a golf shirt and slacks on over them, and feeling delicate and dainty and sweetly feminine, I went back to the lingerie store to buy my own bra. I bought two, because I couldn't decide which was more "me," a satin underwire, or a stunning lacy whisper of a bra I just loved at first sight. Barely married, I was at it again, and absolutely delighted to be at it again.

For a few years Jill never knew. As a lawyer she was very hard working, and tough and devious I was told, and I could believe it. She left the house every morning at eight and returned every evening at six, often later when there was a big case brewing. I was then an electronic systems designer, mostly computing systems. I wasn't the cleverest one around, but I was precise and reliable, with fantastic speed when I was writing up or solving problems, and that was my edge. My client list kept growing because my programs always worked, and were always installed on time. I kept a small office for consulting and for storing the stock modules and menus I custom assembled for each client. But until Jill found my clothes and demanded to know what they were, I did a lot of my work at home, dressed and made up like the beautiful woman I wanted to imagine myself, enjoying myself immensely. Then I'd modem or fax it in.

At the other end of the fax was my secretary Darlene. Darlene was no computer whiz, and no great brain either. But she knew the alphabet, and she could be trusted to file any papers marked up with one of its twenty-six letters, then to find them again and fax them out to the house when I asked for them. She also impressed the hell out of clients who came in to see me, and that was why I kept her on after I found she couldn't do much else. She didn't need to. There she sat in the reception area all day long, being gorgeous and fixing her makeup and tucking in her curls, and answering the phone in a bedroom voice so sultry people would think at first that they'd reached some 900 number somewhere else. Her voice and appearance could seduce anyone into being a client. I'd talk to Darlene a few times each day, and I'd see her a few times each week when I went in to the office, and if it had been any more frequent I'd certainly have gotten the hots for her myself, and maybe what happened wouldn't have happened, at least not the way it did. Jill wasn't happy that my secretary was such a Barbie doll, but she knew that Darlene was just right for what I asked of her, namely not much, and that she was even better for what I didn't ask of her, namely to keep clients eager to call the firm with repeat business. She knew that I never saw much of her, because I was mostly home. So that was no problem.

We settled into a routine. Breakfast with Jill, mostly just coffee and toast or a roll, me unshaven and in jogging clothes as if ready to hit the old streets. Then as soon as Jill left for the day I'd shave twice and change into a pretty outfit from the skin on out, bra, panties and stockings with garter belt or girdle or maybe a pair of panty-hose, slip, skirt and blouse or maybe a dress, or maybe a suit, or a slack suit, and pumps, strappy heels, flats, or sandals, depending on the season and my moods. I loved starting to dress by whim, in a mid-calf full skirt or a slutty mini, and then matching everything else to that first random desire, so by the end of the process I was dressed for the day, wearing appropriate jewelry and settled in to work feeling elegant and tasteful, my ensemble different each time. My hair is full and I let it grow to cover my ears, so I could brush it back when I went out as a man, and I could blow-dry it into a page boy to look feminine as soon as Jill left the house, or even curl it when I wanted to take the time.

Since I was home more than Jill and my time was more flexible, I did most of the shopping. Sometimes I took to dawdling in the supermarket at high risk, I thought, wearing women's shirts and pants, loafers and "natural" (that is, invisible) lipstick, and with a feeling of enormous risk maybe a touch of eye makeup. Beneath this undetectable femininity -- not even androgynous, I realize now -- I wore wonderfully seductive bras and panties and slips and teddies that would have reduced a cave man to paralytic gibberish if he'd seen them on a cave woman. Once I dared fate by wearing a flowered shirt that buttoned the wrong way, living on the edge I thought. But I lost my nerve and never unbuttoned my jacket to show it.

I never dared to go further, to appear in a skirt, or in unambiguous makeup, because I was so terribly ashamed of this delightful compulsion. To be found out would be devastating I thought, an embarrassment I could never live down. My manhood was at stake. For a man to look like a girl was demeaning, ridiculous. I shared the world's view that an effeminate man is contemptible, a clown, a sissy, a fruit, a joke, fit target for any insults. Even behind closed doors and drawn shades at home I felt dangerously at risk. There was a twinge of anxiety most of the time I was dressed, even at home, and I kept my oversized jogging outfit on a chair as emergency cover gear if the doorbell should suddenly ring. But I loved every minute of it. I adored that image in the mirror, posing and primping. Nothing was too good for her!

I also loved every minute I spent shopping for more clothes. When I finished an important piece of work I'd reward myself with a special treat. Dressed like a man, I'd carry into the store a slip of paper with my sizes written on it, and I would seem to consult it as I pawed through rack after rack of beautiful skirts and bodyshirts and dresses, looking for the one item I simply had to have. I hoped all the salegirls would assume I was buying for someone else, and I consulted my paper frequently, as if women's sizes were obscure and beyond comprehension. As if this persuaded them. As if they cared. But I could not risk seeming to be what I was, even to strangers. I was a man. To dress like a woman was to be no man, to be less than nothing.

All this gear grew in bulk, and soon occupied the closets and drawers of my workroom and of another spare bedroom in our oversized house, places where Jill never went. But it happened finally. One day when I was at the office Jill came home early, wondering whether a spare bedroom might make a home office for her weekends. She looked in on mine, and at the size of its closet, and at everything in the closet, and then she looked at closets and bureau drawers in the other rooms. Lawyers are careful and thorough, and by the time I got home she had located my whole extensive collection. She had also reached an exact understanding of everything. She had concluded that while she was at work I was keeping a variety of women in the house during the day, a slut who wore leather minis and tight tubes and cutoffs, a businesswoman who wore severe suits, a housewife whose tastes ran to sundresses and flowered prints, and from all the drawers billowing with sexy lingerie, a whole whorehouse full of high class call girls.

When I got home my life ended, my life as it had been up to that moment, anyhow. In a tight voice she demanded to know who these bitches were, and how I dared bring them under her roof. Incoherent, humiliated, mortified, hysterical with fear, tearful and stammering, for the next two solid hours I desperately tried to persuade her of everything I had been trying to hide from her ever since our honeymoon, the unacceptable truth about me. I pointed out that all of the clothes and shoes were of one size, mine. All that proved to her was that my taste in the women I brought home was self-absorbed and narcissistic, and she said that from my behaviour in bed she'd suspected as much. I tried to convince her that no women would ever consent to leave so much clothing here. Too vague an argument for a legal mind to accept. Desperate and red-faced, I finally stripped off my jacket, shirt, tie and pants to display show her that even at that moment I was wearing a matched embroidered slip, bra, and panties, all in the same size as the clothing she'd found, a variant matched in brand name as well as size by other brands and sets and styles and shades and colors of the other garments hidden in my closets and dresser drawers. She was horrified to stare at my body clad in its delicate lacy harness, and for once she was speechless, as traumatised in her way as I was. Only then did she begin to believe it was possible the stuff was mine.

So she sat me down and cross-examined me, relentlessly. When, how, bought where? She kept returning to Why, and I had no real answer. What finally persuaded her was my high marks on a tough quiz she herself set and judged. Men never know anything about women's styles, she was convinced, and she never hesitated to say it when I'd recommend that she wear something I thought becoming to her. But I'd spent a lot of time trying to look nice, even elegant, and I'd shopped with an eye toward completing different outfits, and I'd kept up with the fashion magazines despite my envy of all the beautiful women who populated them. I did have reasonably good taste! She sat down and said, for example. "Those red three inch heeled pumps! What would you wear with those?" And I hauled out of a drawer the black pullover sweater I'd worn with them, and from the closet in the room next door a matching red full skirt; then I pearl-dived into my earring box and found a perfect pair of dramatic coordinated black and red clip-on hoops. Or she'd say "That blue and gold cocktail dress with the slit to the waist, if it isn't higher -- what stockings go with it?" and I came up with them, and "Is there a purse also?" and I came up with a darling little matching clutch bag I'd found in an opportunity shop one day, not believing my luck! Little by little she began to believe I had spent more time on my outfits than on my computer programming. Maybe I had.

She took due note as I folded each sweater carefully before putting it back, and settled each blouse neatly on its hanger before hanging it away -- obviously I knew and cared for each article the way she cared for hers. She knew that in male mode I was a slob, my pants and jackets ending up wherever I tossed them. I knew she was persuaded when she came out with "That silver miniskirt -- that's for a teenager looking to get laid! How dare you wear such a thing at your age?" I showed her the ruffled blouse that kept me looking demure above if a little slutty below.

Then her interrogation went on to its next phase. "I don't see any outer garments. Where do you keep them?" she asked. I told her there were none, that I never dared walk out even into the back yard when I was dressed. She was astonished, and unexpectedly, angered by that answer. "You don't flounce about outside in those things?" she asked, "Why not? Are you ashamed of your perversion? Are you ashamed someone might think you're a woman, or something else equally demeaning?" I told her I was strictly a closet TV, terrified of being found out, that my manliness would be compromised if it were known. "It isn't compromised by the fact that you do it?" she asked. Then, again, "Why do you do it?" I told her I didn't know myself, but that I had always wanted to do it, that it was sometimes pleasantly erotic and always deeply satisfying, and that it was a kind of compulsion, maybe inborn. I started to tell her about the way it allowed me to express my feminine side, and how gender and sex are different things, gender being in the mind, and all that, but she wanted to hear no part of it. I compared it to homosexuality, another gender orientation people don't choose but discover in themselves.

That started a new round of ferocious questioning. "Oh, Jack? Do you get together with other perverts, and do twisted things with each other?" She sounded as if she couldn't even imagine what those things were. I assured her that gays and transvestites were altogether different, that gays are attracted to people of the same sex but transvestites are so strongly attracted to the opposite sex they want to look like them. I told her there were hundreds of thousands of transvestites like me though I personally knew none of them, and that no one knew about me except me, and now she knew. "Why do you want to be a woman?" she asked again narrowly. I assured her I didn't, but that I loved looking like one, and that when I looked beautiful, all my desires focussed all the more on real women. On her, I added quickly. She was not convinced, but continued, "If you like to look like a woman, why don't you want to be a woman? Why don't you want other people to know? Why do you hide it from me, your own wife? It's disgusting, but is it so shameful?" I assured her it was, or I thought it was, and she glared at me. Then she was silent. I awaited her verdict.

"I see," she said. Then she said cryptically, "Everything fits!" And then she sat silent again. Ominously silent.

I couldn't stand it. I said, "So now you believe me?," and she glanced at me with enough contempt to wither a rainforest, then glanced away again, and said nothing. She was convinced. I had been moved in her mind from her frying pan into her fire, from a mass adulterer to a pitiable, self-confessed drag queen, a hypocrite sexist wimp filled with fear and self-loathing.

It was my night to serve dinner, and she sat through it frowning, deliberately not looking anywhere I might catch her eye, chewing slowly, saying nothing. As I poured the coffee she suddenly looked up and said, "All right! Here's how it is! I married a man, not a woman, and not an imitation man and not an imitation woman. I don't care what your fantasies are like, or why, or what your so-called inborn compulsions are like or why. I think you can stop, and you should stop, and you will stop. From now on the only women's clothes in this house will be mine. The only person wearing women's clothes in this house will be me. You will be a man, and you will dress like one. You will act like a man. Or else I will leave you, and I won't mind telling all of our friends why I'm leaving you." She paused. "Coward!" she spit out.

I hoped this was her final pronouncement, so we could begin to discuss things more calmly. But then she added, "No talk! No explanations! No pleading! I want promises from you first thing in the morning, Jack, my so-called husband Jack, or I move out." She then went straight into our bedroom and slammed the door. I decided I had better spend the night in a guest bedroom.

No opportunity to talk, and no appeal. No way to ask even obvious things, like was there was a deadline for moving my dresses out, or where I should put them, or did she mean I should throw them out. Before this I had seen her ruthless decisiveness, the way she would speak her mind by uttering an ultimatum. But those dealt with trivial things, like whether pizza or other such unhealthy foods should be allowed into the house, or whether people who make porn movies should serve long jail terms. She could be sharing, and lively, and fun, and she could usually talk me into anything. But she could also switch on her lawyer mode, as heavy and unyielding as cast iron, and then I was afraid to dare to want anything she didn't want. This night would determine the end of our marriage or its continuation on her terms. And for me, life outside our marriage had become unthinkable.

I couldn't sleep. Then the next day I folded, or rather, I came apart. I promised to do everything she asked, and that I wouldn't do the things she hadn't asked, or rather, that I would stop dressing at home, and that I would clear everything out of my closets, all the women's clothing, that is, not the men's. I told her that as far as women's clothing was concerned, from now on she could wear the pants in the family, and then I apologized that I wasn't being sarcastic when I put it that way. I told her I loved her, that she was the center of my life. I started to cry, then I couldn't stop crying. She nodded, looking a little sour, and I was still blubbering when she left for work without a word.

That same day, I got a stack of boxes from a transfer and removal company, made trip after trip, and brought all of my clothes to the office. When I showed up in the reception area with the first box Darlene raised her beautifully plucked eyebrows, checked her lipstick, and asked what all of this was about. I told her Jill asked me to store a lot of boxes here, figuring Darlene wouldn't have a followup question. She didn't. I stacked them out of the way, against the wall in the large utility room where we kept the xerox, the coffee maker, and the office supplies

Within a month I was back at it, this time at the office. I took to coming in early on weekdays, every day, opening a box of lingerie and putting on panties, slips, teddies, stockings, and bras under my business suits, so I could feel them hugging and tugging at me all day long, then undressing and stowing them again after Darlene had left for the day. I had the Reception area of the office mirrored, which made it look bigger, and pleased Darlene because now she could see herself from her desk by looking in any direction. Saturday or Sunday I'd plead heavy overwork to Jill and head for the office, and then I'd spend the day in a specially treasured dress or pants suit, or just pass the time changing from outfit to outfit, admiring myself a little wistfully in each, then trying the next.

Jill's mood seemed different after my unconditional surrender, or maybe it was how she felt about me that changed, along with her idea of who she had married. Obviously I was no longer her Prince Charming, but some kind of would-be excuse for an imitation woman or an imitation gay man, neither one nor the other. We fixed dinners for each other as we had in the past, but instead of saying appreciative things when I put in extra effort or she especially liked something, she'd say "Well, at least this one came out all right, for once." Or if a dish wasn't to her liking, then she'd say, "If you can't do it properly, why do you try to do it at all?" When her turn to cook came around, as often as not she'd pick up takeout on the way home from work. She did not wish to serve me.

In bed she behaved the same way. She was never an enthusiastic lover, as I've explained, but now Jill ...well...was not even affectionate. When I would put an arm around her as we settled in to sleep, instead of snuggling in at me she just lay there, and if I began to caress her she'd say "Didn't we do this already this month?" or "I'd rather sleep, but if you have to, try to pay attention to my needs for once." After a while I quit trying. She didn't seem to mind. But at work, whenever I stepped into a pair of hi-cut nylon panties I would get all the more excited, and after a while whenever I was dressed I would masturbate like a teenager. On weekends at the office, when I saw my mirrored image in an exquisite white chiffon summer dress, I could hardly keep my hands off myself, and I didn't.

I wondered if talk of separation or a divorce was in order, but I realized I shouldn't raise the topic -- she'd simply say "You'd like that, wouldn't you!", and leave me all the more aware that she would rather continue to punish me for not being the person she had thought I was. There was a breach of contract here, and I had penalties to pay. We had our circles of friends, and we went to parties and dinners with them, and Jill never let on there was a problem. As a lawyer and as a woman, she hated to lose, and she wouldn't quit with me even after she was convinced she had married a world class loser. And I realized I didn't want to lose her. She wasn't fun, but her certainty strengthened me. I didn't want to live on my own any more. I needed her. I wondered whether the feminine in me was responding to the masculine in her, but I couldn't think that one through, and I decided finally that she'd get over her resentment if I waited her out.

Then something odd happened. Darlene looked disturbed one afternoon as I came through the outer office, wrestling through things in her purse, and opening and closing her lower drawers as if looking for something. "Something missing?" I asked her. "Not exactly," she said. She hesitated. "Uh, you don't happen to keep any tampons with your bras and skirts and things in the utility room, do you?" I was shocked, and said nothing. I replayed her words in my head unbelievingly. "Oh, never mind," she said, "I'll check next door and see if Vera or any of the other girls has any to spare." She started to get up. My hair still stood up, and I felt struck in the stomach. I had to answer something, so I said carefully, "No, why do you ask?" Mistake right off. Better if I wasn't supposed to know what "Jill" had put in those boxes. Darlene was still looking for her purse when she replied absent-mindedly, "Oh, I've run out, and I thought maybe when you got dressed up in those cute outfits you also put in a tampon. My brother did. I better go see if Vera can help me." She got up, went out, and headed down the corridor.

I went back into my office, and sat down with my mind roiled and running half-crazed. She knew! But she didn't seem to care that she knew! I had been hiding from her for months. But to Darlene, my dreadful secret was no more than a possible source for tampons in an emergency. What was my next move? Should I seem not to understand what she had said? And if I didn't understand, should I let it pass, or should I go back out there and ask her to explain it? Should I deny that I ever "dressed up" in those clothes? I couldn't, because I didn't know how she knew. Maybe somehow she'd seen me and there was no way I could lie about it. Here was my worst nightmare come true a second time, my ultimate humiliation known at the office as well as at home. And it meant nothing at all to her.

I decided to take my cue from her, and without confessing anything to ask her about her brother, as if none of this was a big deal or even a little one. I waited until I heard her come back, and a little apprehensive, I stood up and started over toward her reception area. Somehow I felt that my life was about to change. It was a little exciting. I told myself to calm down.
 
 
Chapter 2
 
I stood in the doorway. "Darlene, would you come into my office for a moment," I asked. She picked up her Steno book and headed toward me, with a questioning look when she saw I was a little distracted. I shut the door as she came in and she looked even more puzzled -- the outer office was empty, shut the door against who? Then I went back behind my desk and sat down, and she settled into her usual chair when taking dictation, and I folded my hands on the desk and leaned forward, trying to look only casually concerned. "Um, uh, you know ...," I began, "Ah, tell me about your brother."

She looked alarmed. "Why, is he in trouble again? He promised my mother that he wouldn't...."

"No, no," I broke in. "I'm sure he's fine. I mean, tell me about his putting on women's...er...clothing. Didn't you say he did that."

Darlene looked relieved. "Why yes, he did. He does, I mean. I mean he's a woman now, so why shouldn't he? She!"

I was bewildered. "Your brother is a woman?"

"Why yes," she was puzzled I should ask. "Hormones and operations and everything." Light dawned in her eyes. "That's how he had a place to put a tampon," she said helpfully. "Or she has a place to put one, now. But when she was still my brother and not my sister, he would put one in his other place anyhow just so he could feel more comfortable when he wore his women's things. That's why I thought maybe you did too." Darlene obviously thought she had now cleared up all the mysteries.

"Uh, Darlene," I said, looking out the window as if not much interested in my next question or her answer to it, "Why do you think those are my clothes in the ... uh...coffee room?"

"Why, aren't they? Your wife is going to miss them if they're not. Why else do you keep them here? Why not just give them away if they're hers and she doesn't want them? Besides," she said, and she smiled reminiscently, "they fit you beautifully. You look darling in some of them."

"You've seen me wearing those...uh...clothes, Darlene?" I asked in the gentlest and steadiest voice I could manage, though I was now beginning to feel, well, strange.

"Oh yes," her enthusiasm picked up. "A few times I'd come by the office on the weekend to pick up something, and there you were in your office, or looking at yourself in the mirrors in the reception area, wearing the sweetest things. You looked just dear. Well, you never noticed, and you were so busy I thought I shouldn't disturb you, so I didn't." She looked thoughtful and a bit troubled now. "I've also seen you change into panties and bras and things in the morning, when you got in before me. But I get in pretty early. Tell me," she continued, "I've always been curious. Why don't you put your panties and underthings on at home before you come in? Don't you wake up in time?"

I decided that only the truth would serve. This whole conversation was already touched by lunacy. I needed to keep it real. "My wife doesn't like to see me wearing women's clothes, Darlene." I tried to suppress a note of sadness. "She told me to take them out of the house. That's why I brought them here. That's why I get dressed in them here."

"Oh," Darlene said. She seemed satisfied with my answer, as if my wife was peculiar but entitled to her own inexplicable likes and dislikes same as everyone else. "You know," she said, still thoughtful, "this office isn't really a good place for dressing and undressing. And it's really no place at all for putting on makeup, if you're starting from scratch, because you can't clean up properly afterward. You use way too much kleenex. Sometimes on Monday morning the wastebaskets are all full."

My God! The wastebaskets! I used them without thinking!

Darlene gathered up her Steno pad and pencil, and gathered herself to stand up. "Would you mind if I suggested something?" she asked. She saw I was looking at her, mildly curious. "Why don't you bring all those boxes to my place? You could get dressed and undressed there all you want. I wouldn't mind. You wouldn't be in the way. I have an extra bedroom you can use to get dressed. I even have an extra dressing table where you can keep your makeup. It would be a lot easier for you, wouldn't it?" She waited for a reply.

"Yes, it would," I said.

"Then let me know when you'd like to bring them over. I'll clear the extra room and that can be yours." She giggled. "Not to sleep in of course. I don't think your wife would like that."

"No," I said. But Darlene was already out the door and back at her desk. I didn't know what I was saying "No" to, but it didn't seem to matter. Nobody was listening. I seemed to have said "Yes" to everything.

That evening when Darlene was leaving she stopped at the door to my office to let me know, as she always did. I thought I should say something that would show that her boss was grateful to her, and interested in her well-being. "Uh, Darlene," I said, "Uh, did you ever find a tampon?"

"Oh yes," she replied, smiling broadly. She had a terrific smile, but usually she felt too distracted to unleash it on me. Not now. I got both barrels, and felt staggered. Darlene didn't have smarts, but she had it where it mattered. And she was gorgeous! "Vera had some spares. Now I'm keeping a box in my desk, just in case. Let me know if you ever need any."

I still don't know what she meant by that last offer. Maybe nothing. But a week later I moved in with her, or my clothes did. She gave me her spare room, with its walk-in closet, and I hung everything up, and put everything in two dressers, and laid out my makeup on her extra dressing table, and got a spare key from her, and went home to fix dinner for Jill. It was my night to fix dinner. I felt wonderfully cheerful, and a little bit guilty, because I was setting up with another woman to violate an implicit understanding with my wife. But I wasn't violating the letter of the law Jill had laid down. I had never promised Jill I'd abstain from wearing my beloved women's clothes, and this arrangement with Darlene was all really very innocent. Jill ate without a word, then went in to watch the nightly news on TV. For once I didn't feel snubbed.

We settled into a routine over the next few months, Darlene and I. On weekdays I stopped by her place on my way to the office, and put on my brassiere and panties, or maybe panty-hose, or a girdle, or a slip, and then my regular shirt and tie if I was meeting a client, or an open necked shirt if I was just planning to work at the office, and then we'd drive in to work together. At the end of the day I'd drive her home and change back. On whatever day I told Jill I was heading for the office, Saturday or Sunday, or sometimes both, I'd go to Darlene's place and dress up in whatever felt right -- a mini, or a long skirt and blouse, or a cocktail dress, and do my face and my hair, and then I'd lounge around and watch television, or fix some sandwiches for lunch, or read, or work on some client's problem, and imagine I was a lady doing all of these things, and feel very good about it. Darlene never bothered me. She slept late on weekends, for one thing. When she woke up she'd head drowsily into the kitchen, and if I was there I'd have a fresh pot of coffee ready for her. If she liked whatever I was wearing she'd compliment me on it, and sometimes make suggestions, or chat about her own wardrobe, or about similar tastes among her friends, and without ever discussing anything other than the most superficial things we got to feel quite friendly, even intimate. I felt accepted for what I was. We were like girlfriends gossipping at breakfast. When Darlene would head off to shower and dress and set out for her own day's activities, I'd feel very good about her, and very grateful. .

Which may be why I made the first of several mistakes. One morning when I was driving Darlene to work she turned suddenly toward me and said, "You know, I think you'd be prettier if your hair were a little brighter. I don't mean blonde or anything, but maybe some sun streaks. And have you ever thought about getting a perm? When you set it in rollers it would have much more body if you had a good perm down under to begin with."

I reminded Darlene that I was not free to change my hair into a specifically feminine style or color, because my wife would notice. And besides, since I was a man, many things that made women beautiful weren't appropriate for me.

This notion puzzled Darlene. "That's not true. Sun streaks look natural. And with your shape of face, wearing your hair a little fuller on the sides would be, kind of, nicer. Even sexier. Better groomed, like Faye Dunaway. Especially now that you're letting it grow out. I'll show you next weekend."

I don't know what possessed me, maybe the idea that Darlene could make me look like Faye Dunaway, but the next Sunday I was sitting in a chair with a sheet tucked and pinned around my neck while Darlene snipped and primped and toned my hair with scissors and combs and brushes and swabs, until by early afternoon she was done. She took out the rollers and combed me out, and I was gorgeous! My hair had never looked so full, and soft, and lustrous. I was delighted, really rapturous, and when Darlene finally released me so I could stand up I turned and took her by the shoulders and planted a kiss full on her lips. "You were right, Darlene! This is really beautiful! I love it!" And while I looked at my new hairdo my fingers moved up to soften a wave here and to tuck in a curl there. The gesture was instinctively feminine, I recognized at once, and I was all the more delighted by what Darlene had done.

Darlene turned soft in response, no longer matter-of-fact but strangely quiet. "Jack" she said, looking me over closely. "There's one more thing that needs to be done. Why don't you sit down again, and I'll take care of it for you."

I sat down again, and Darlene put some manicure scissors and tweezers within easy reach on a table just behind me. "Now that your hair is curved so beautiful," she said, "your eyebrows need to be shaped a little better. Your bangs don't cover them any more. Just hold still."

And to my astonishment she straddled my lap and sat down on it facing me, her legs spread wide and gripping mine on either side, her crotch rubbing directly on mine, her breasts just under my nose, her beautiful eyes studiously serious as she stared intently at my eyebrows, not quite looking into my eyes. "I think a higher arch would be more beautiful," she said. And as she reached for the tweezers behind me she tightened the grip of her thighs on mine and lifted her whole body up and forward in a single motion. Her breasts brushed my face. I should point out that we were both wearing only bras and slips, so as not to get hair clippings on our dresses. I meant to pull on some panty-hose when I finished dressing, and knowing I'd be covered by a sheet while Darlene did my hair I hadn't bothered to pull on panties. Now, with Darlene posting on my lap like a circus equestrienne riding a stallion bareback, I could feel from the heat and moisture between her legs that she also wore no panties.

In a state of shock I sat very still, and like an overgrown child she twisted back, tweezed, lifted her elbow and twisted forward, tweezed, wriggled her delicious fanny on my crotch, and tweezed yet again. Needless to say, beneath my slip I had a raging boner pressing directly into the opening of her pussy. She seemed not to notice as she studied the sculpting of slightly higher arches onto my eyebrows, and tweezed, and trimmed some of my longer eyebrow hairs with the manicure scissors, and tweezed, and finally posted herself up off my crotch again with a single squeeze of her powerful thighs, to place her instruments back on the table behind me. I didn't dare move. "There, it's done!" she said with a satisfied nod of her head. And still holding herself up, with a single swift movement of one hand she lifted the hem of my slip beneath her to my waist, and then settled herself down onto my stiff prick, now tucked deep inside her.

"Oh God!" I said.

"You really are beautiful now!" she said in reply. And as I had done with her a few minutes earlier she rested her hands on my shoulders, leaned slightly forward, and kissed me full on the lips. Then she sat back with my cock imprisoned inside her pussy by the full weight of her body, and said with a satisfied smile, "Mission accomplished!"

That day we paid no more attention to my coiffure. I buried my face in her abundant, perfumed breasts, and with both hands stroked her back and sides along her satin slip, and looked up at her face to see that she was looking down at me, her eyes half-closed, hooded under their lids, her lips apart and still slightly smiling. I rocked my pelvis slightly as if to seat myself deeper inside her, and felt the base of my prick snug up tight against her. She was deliciously wet and warm, and I as I rocked back down again she lifted herself up with a squeeze of her thighs, and I slid along inside her in an excruciatingly slow progress until my tip was nearly released by her pussy lips. Then we reversed direction again, also slowly. Whatever her horsemanship, she rode me superbly, slowly spurring me from a walk to a trot to a canter to a full gallop in which we were each shrieking, bound violently together in a single rhythm, each unaware that the other was making a sound, both of us out of our minds. Finally I exploded, and spent what seemed buckets inside her, while she crushed my face into her chest and arched her own face back, toward the ceiling, screaming "AaaaaaHHHHH!" with her eyes tight shut, her pussy squeezing and squeezing me over and over in spasms out of control, until finally we both subsided and collapsed onto each other, dripping with sweat.

As I softened I began to leak out of her onto my crotch, but she made no move to dismount. The afterglow went on, and we sat quietly in each others' arms. Finally she opened her eyes and looked at me and said, "That was very nice. Do you think your wife will mind?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, stalling for time and in fact wondering why she felt she should ask that question.

"I mean, your having sex with a lesbian. Doesn't that make her one in a way too, all three of us being women?"

I was baffled, but tried not to let on. "Darlene, you're a lesbian?"

"Why yes, Jack, I thought you knew. Some boys I know are friends, but I don't have any boyfriends. To really enjoy myself I have girlfriends. Always. Ever since I can remember." She hugged me, rather sweetly. "Now you're my favourite girlfriend. You're very nice. You don't even need a rubber penis the way my other girlfriends do."

"No, I guess I don't." We were back in Darlene's own world. I tried a new tack. "Uh, Darlene, you do know that I'm not really a woman."

"Well, yes, I guess so, in a way. But you're so much like my brother, and he loved to pretend he was a woman, and it turned out he wasn't pretending. And you love to pretend that you're a woman. And now look at you."

"Well, I can't look at me, exactly," I said.

"Here," Darlene said. She reached over my shoulders again to the little table behind me and picked up a hand mirror lying there, and leaned back to show me my face reflected in it. My heart rose up and sank down, in both directions together it felt like. There over each of my mascaraed eyes was a thin, high, aristocratic arch of an eyebrow in such a delicately feminine curve that I felt a new erection begin just from looking at them. At the same time I realized that there was no way for me to disguise those fine traceries over each eye so they would look masculine when I got home. With my hair teased out to frame my cheeks and my eyebrows plucked I had a woman's face.

"Oh, God!" I said again.

"Jack," Darlene said. "What's your real name?"

"What?"

"I want to call you by your girl name. I'd feel better about what we're doing. Don't you have one?"

"Yes, I do Darlene. Ever since I was a little kid, and got hooked by my first bra, I've liked to think that a girl named Jane lives inside me and is using me to dress herself. I'm Jane."

"That's so nice. Jane. Does your wife ever make love to Jane?"

"No, Darlene. No way."

"Well, then," Darlene said. "I guess there's no problem."

Again I didn't ask her what she meant. I guess I didn't want to know. She sighed and snuggled down onto me again, and I began to grow harder under her, and soon I was inside her again.

Well, the rest of that afternoon, and early into the evening, I never did finish getting dressed. Darlene and I made love. When we were exhausted by our second session with Darlene astride my lap, she suggested that we go to bed together and make love properly. This time I understood her. "You mean like girlfriends," I suggested, and she agreed. By this time my pecker was slack, and I was willing to try anything that didn't require a hard on. It turns out that's what Darlene had in mind too. First she ran a tub, perfumed, and we both slipped in giggling, glued to each other. We fondled and stroked each other's slick bodies, and Darlene's fingers found my asshole under water, tracing the clamped, puckered opening. We began to grow passionate, stood up, and dried each other off slowly, exquisitely slowly. Then we each of us fixed our hair and put on our makeup carefully, each of us anxious to look pretty for the other. I slipped into my most delicate nightgown -- one I'd never worn to bed before, because I'd never been able to wear a nightgown at night. Then once we were snug together, lying on our sides, facing each other and smiling, the world turned radiant. Our hands reached out to each others' bodies, and we looked into each others' eyes, and smiled, and caressed each other, and closed our eyes only to moan softly, and then open them again. I touched Darlene's nipples and she reached for my penis, and we softly fondled each other, until we each came yet again! Then we reached even greater intimacy with out mouths and fingers.

Darlene and I tried anything and everything, one after another, and everything we did was wonderful. The key to Darlene's enjoyment of her lesbian relationship with me was gentleness. Her mouth was soft, and her tongue, and so was mine as we tasted and teased and tickled each other, and licked, and kissed, and sucked, and probed. I went down on her in an act of loving devotion, and sucked and tongued her as sweetly as I knew how, and she bent over my soft dildo clit, as she called it, and licked and stroked it with her lips. When it was time for me to leave, just after dark, when my plucked eyebrows might go unnoticed, Darlene and I hugged each other goodbye with respect and affection and gratitude and appreciation.

But not with love. We two girls, as Darlene thought of us, were having fun being girls together. For Darlene it was no more complicated than that. On Monday when I stopped in as usual to change to my bra and panties and take Darlene to work, her only conversation, as always in the car, had to do with a sitcom on TV. On Saturday we were passionate girlfriends again, and I was in heaven. Darlene seemed altogether content that I was the girl with the dildo, though she was sometimes concerned that I kissed and licked her pussy and also fucked it, while she couldn't exactly reciprocate in kind with me, and had to settle for kissing and licking my dildo clit or my anal opening. Another time she asked me why I got nervous whenever she suggested we go out, maybe, for dinner and a movie. I told her my hips were already too heavy, and I was trying to lose weight. She thought I was slim enough, but understood how a girl feels about her figure.

There was no problem when I got home that first night. Jill was already asleep, and the next morning when I woke I could hear she she was finishing her coffee and heading out the door. I headed for the bathroom, and saw I was fortunate she hadn't seen me. My hair was beautifully puffed out, with large stray curls tumbling here and there and falling behind my ears, and my brows were plucked delicately high, amused, inquiring, slightly surprised, slightly disdainful, unmistakably dainty and feminine. I realized I had no makeup to cover them with, not even an eyebrow pencil, and decided that today I had better find a theatrical speciality store before Jill got home. At least glued-on male eyebrows weren't on her list of proscribed contraband.

When I took a shower I discovered another problem. Darlene had given me a "Body-Perm", a light permanent wave to help form and hold the large curls of hair she thought my face required. When those curls were set with large rollers, each hair lay neatly against the next. But now, stepping out of the shower, I saw my wet hair was sinuously waved, hanging down in cascading ringlets. It didn't straighten when it dried, and I thought I was going to have to pay the ultimate penalty for my indulgence of Darlene, and get the permed part cut off. But I wet it again, and a blow-dryer and careful brushing brought it to an approximation of its former appearance. Close enough, anyhow. I would have to be careful never to let Jill see me with my hair wet.

I found just the right hairpieces for my eyebrows, and attached them with spirit gum, trimmed them back, and decided they would do. That night was my turn to cook. I brought home prepared food from the supermarket, heated it, and served it. I realized then that I was safe enough. She never seemed to bother to look at me as she ate, and when she got up from the table I noticed she looked away, as if I were still some kind of embarrassment to her.

But there were things for her to notice without my knowing it, I realized later. My bubble baths with Darlene left a faint perfume on my skin, and then on my bedsheets, and it was three or four weeks before I noticed. I began drowning the scent with an aftershave, and Jill commented on my peculiar, sudden dedication to perfumed smells, hardly ever used earlier. My stage eyebrows were a problem when I slept. Once she found one near the kitchen doorway and called me. I immediately declared it a caterpillar, and stomped on it before scooping it out of her sight. But first I instinctively felt to see if one was missing from my brow, and she may have noticed that off gesture.

Once, Darlene mentioned offhand that Jill sometimes called my office on weekends when I was supposed to be working there, and getting no answer left a message on Voicemail. I checked each week after that, and found that more often that not Jill was indeed checking up on me. Thereafter I called the Voicemail service from Darlene's house every few hours, each week. If there was a message from Jill I immediately called her back with a variety of excuses why I hadn't picked up the first time.

But what really set Jill on the trail of her errant husband was the oldest of all evidences of infidelities, lipstick on a shirt collar. That it was my lipstick, from pulling on my shirt over my head before I removed my makeup, didn't matter at all. If she had confronted me with it, I might finally have gone on the attack, and asked her angrily what a man with a frigid and sullen wife and a compulsion to crossdress should be expected to do. I had already begun fantasying myself married to Darlene, becoming her mindless girlfriend for life, and the sexual advantages didn't seem that bad seeing that Jill and I were no longer companionable in any other ways. My life might have been different, if I'd done that. But Jill may have sensed this, because she found the shirt in the laundry and still she said nothing.

Months went by. All those months of blissfully transgressive, transgendered heaven may be more than anyone deserves, but I had that much happiness as Darlene's in-house girl friend. I'll always have it. I'll never forget it. But it ended.

One Friday afternoon Darlene's concept of me collided with Jill's. Darlene called home when I was out, and got our phone answerer, and left a business message for me. Then she called back and left a message for Jane apologizing that she had borrowed one of my dresses and stained it, and was very sorry, but it was ready at the cleaners if I wanted to pick it up on the way over tomorrow, and she'd lend me one of hers any time in repayment, she thinks she has a few that would fit with just a little less padding in my brassiere. Then she phoned again, and left a message for Jack to be sure to erase that message for Jane, because she shouldn't have left it on Jack's answerer. Jill picked up all three of these messages from her office, I learned later, then left them for me to hear when I got home. I erased them in a panic. But Jill seemed no different that evening, so I relaxed.

The next morning I was at Darlene's, my hair piled high and curly on my head, wearing long dangly earrings because Darlene loved to feel them between her legs, and they were clipons so there was no danger they might tear my earlobes if she squeezed her thighs too tight, and I was also wearing the sweetest little Teddy, with my lipstick smudged from nibbling on Darlene's nipples, and with Darlene's lipstick smudged all over my face, when the doorbell chimed and then, because Darlene had left the door unlocked for me, Jill walked in. She didn't say a word. She looked at me and lifted a camera, and flashed a picture of me, and then another, and then one of Darlene, and then she walked to a corner of the room and took one of the two of us together, and then another, and then she went back out through the door and closed it behind her.

Darlene and I looked at each other. I knew she would say something silly, wondering whether her hair was combed nicely for those pictures, or wondering what they were for, or why Jill didn't stay for coffee, so I just went over and held Darlene, and hugged her, and kissed her, and looked at her tenderly, and kissed her again. It was very sad. It was over.
 
 
Chapter 3
 
Jill never did say anything about her discovery of my little tryst with Darlene, and I never saw those pictures she took either, and she never referred to them again. She didn't have to. I knew she would use them ruthlessly any time it suited her purposes. She knew what I most feared about my crossdressing was exposure, and she knew I knew she knew, so nothing needed to be said. I spent that night in a motel, and spent Sunday at the office hoping for a phone call and dreading one if it came, though none did. Again at the motel Sunday night, and again at the office on Monday, with only business calls. Darlene, miraculously, had worked out that I wasn't going to be stopping by her place to change my underthings any more, nor to drive her to work, but she was otherwise her usual sweet, simple self, untouched by my domestic catastrophe.

For a few more months after Jill discovered me with Darlene nothing happened. Oh things changed at home all right. On Monday I came home from work feeling seedy from too many days in the same clothes, and found our bedroom door had a new lock on it -- now it was her bedroom door. Without forcing the issue, that night I slept once again in the spare bedroom. A day later I asked her to let me in long enough to get my suits and shirts and socks out, and she shouted furiously "No! Wear your dresses, you freak!." It seemed better not to ask a second time, so I bought a few new men's jackets and pants and things, just enough to get by until things took shape or settled back down. Meanwhile Darlene gave notice that she was leaving town to work for another company, and had enjoyed working for me, and had enjoyed getting to know Jane, and that I should collect my things from her place. So I did. I couldn't bring myself to throw them out but I certainly couldn't start wearing them again either. So I boxed them and put them into the garage. Time passed.

Jill had nothing to say to me. We lived like strangers bedded down in the same motel, each without knowledge of the other. I tried starting up conversations and she stared at me impassively. I cooked a terrific dinner one evening, and the smells saturated the house by the time she got home, but when I asked her when I should serve it she just said "Whenever you want -- I'm going out!" Then she went out. I came home once to the smell of something cooking, went eagerly into the kitchen, and found only empty pans in the sink -- Jill had prepared and eaten her own dinner, then left for the evening. Soon we were both eating most of our meals out, me by myself, Jill with different women friends in different restaurants, I learned from time to time through the grapevine, and I wondered what that grapevine might not be telling me.

I wondered especially what she was telling her friends, and what they were telling her. When I called a few, they seemed to know no more than that I'd hurt Jill terribly and that no apology could possibly make amends, at best only time could heal things. One asked if I had hit her, and when I replied "No, nothing like that, I couldn't do that" she just replied "No, I didn't think so, you're such a wuss." I took due note that I'd lost that round either way. They all advised me that the storm would pass, to wait it out .

We did see each other at breakfast. Then Jill often looked directly at me, as if I were some kind of problem she'd have to get around to fixing one of these days, or couldn't quite figure how to fix yet. I usually avoided looking at her. Plainly she didn't yet know what she wanted to do, and didn't want to feel rushed into any decisions, and I took that as a good sign. After maybe ten or twelve weeks of this silent treatment, one evening we found we were sharing the living room as if we were together instead of each of us home alone, and I asked her if we could talk. She just said, "If you want, I won't stop you." So I took a deep breath, and with my life hanging on it I began.

I told her I was devastated, and would do nearly anything if we could resume our marriage. I told her that my crossdressing was harmless in itself, and a compulsion I couldn't resist. I pointed out that in a sense her absolute prohibition of it at home had forced me to the office and then into the arms of that bimbo. I told her I wasn't doing it now, but that sooner or later I was bound to resume it, I had purged and binged too many times not to know that. I begged her forgiveness. I offered to absorb any revenge or punishment she wanted to inflict upon me, and to meet any conditions she might set if only she would end her long silence. Any. I told her I loved her. I told her I was terribly sorry for having been unfaithful to her. I went down on my knees, and I started to cry.

She listened to all this with her face expressionless, looking at me the whole time. Then when I was on the floor sobbing, apparently done, she said merely, "I heard you. I'll let you know." Then she turned back to the book in her lap and dismissed my existence.

Two days later we met at breakfast, and just before she left for work, already wearing her coat and with her briefcase in hand, she paused at the kitchen door and said, "Are you ready to listen?" I nodded, speechless. "Ok," she said, "I've thought about this. I've talked to a lot of people about it, and I've gotten advice, and I've looked at a lot of options, and I've worked out what I want for me, and what I want for you, and what I want for us, and I know now that there is a way we can both of us have what we want, even if it isn't what we thought we wanted. It's the only way, and I'm not going to tell you what it is. What I'm telling you now is what I want for you now. That's all that concerns you, and that's all you're going to hear." I nodded again, still afraid to say a word.

She went on. "You're right in one respect. When I forbid you to wear women's clothing around me I was asking too much from you. You can't help it. It's like an addiction you're born with, and you can't be blamed for that. I thought I was marrying one kind of man, and I found I'd married another. It disgusts me to see my own husband parading around thinking he looks like a woman, but I can control my disgust, and I can change the way I feel about your...addiction. I know how to do that, now. And I will. I'm going to let you dress like a princess or like a whore at home, again, since you must. But only when it suits my purposes. And my purposes are mine."

"But nothing drove you to have an affair with that floozie. You violated our marriage with her. You gave in to easy temptation, and for that you owe me, and owe me dear, and for that you're going to pay me. Don't assume you're forgiven, or that there aren't punishments in store. I have plans for you. You have a way to go, and you're only just beginning. You said you'd do anything and agree to anything if I'd resume with you, and I mean to hold you to it. Anything."

I nodded, afraid to hear what she was going to say next, but eager to hear it.

"From now on you do not put on women's clothes, or makeup, or airs, unless I tell you you can. It may be a week, or a month, or six months before I tell you you can do it, but you will control yourself. Trust me, the time will come. But you'll do it when I say so, not when you want to. If it happens that when I say you can, you don't feel like it any longer, I won't complain. Then we can be together again the way we were, or the way I thought we were, maybe. But that's too much to hope for. From now on, you will be a woman when I tell you to be a woman, and only when I tell you. Is that clear?"

I nodded again, a slowly rising joy beginning to replace my fears. In a way this sounded like a fulfilment of my wildest fantasy, that my wife might participate with me, and guide me, even order me to dress up. What she then said confirmed it.

"When you next want to be a woman, and I want you to be one, you will do what I tell you. I will make suggestions about what to wear and how, and what's suitable and what isn't, and what I want you to do when you're dressed, and where I think you fall short. You may think that being female is a game. I don't. If you're going to do it, you are going to do it right. Any time I suggest anything, you will cancel any notions you may have concocted for yourself, and you will agree with me, and you will be happy that you agree with me, and you will thank your lucky stars that you agree with me, because I'm right and you're not. My suggestions are absolute commands as far as you're concerned. And you will never hesitate to think of them that way, no matter how odd any of them may sound to you. Is that clear? "

I nodded, my eyes beginning to fill.

"There are some real obstacles ahead for you, and I'm going to enjoy watching you trying to deal with them. You said you'd meet any conditions and I mean to hold you to that promise. Now do you agree to everything I've said? Absolutely, unconditionally, nothing held back?"

I nodded. For some reason I was feeling a small stirring in my loins, listening to her speak of hidden plans for me.

"Then here's the key to our bedroom. That cheap sport jacket you've been wearing to work for the past month is a joke. Put on something that looks decent. The Harris Tweed is nice."

I nodded, not believing my ears. My exile from our bedroom was over? But not quite. Not just yet. "Take the rest of your men's clothes into your room. You aren't going to wear any other kinds of clothes for the time being, so you might as well wear decent ones. Then lock the bedroom again and leave the key for me on the front hall table. I may be in late again tonight."

I heard her.

"And those women's clothes you've got packed up in the garage. Bring them into your room too. I'll want to look them over some time, to see what we've got to work with."

I heard her.

"And let your lease at your office expire. You are through working, for now. Maybe for good. Pass your clients on to someone else. I want you where I know you are twenty-four hours a day. I'll be the breadwinner who goes to work in the morning, and you can be the housewife who takes care of the house. I'll have full charge of the money and you'll have full charge of household matters." She looked sly for a moment. "Maybe some day I'll let you be the housewife who looks pretty for me when I come home from work, but don't get your hopes up."

There was a lump in my throat. I just stared at her and nodded.

"And dear, you remember that dinner you cooked up a couple of months ago when you were feeling guilty, and you hoped you could buy me off or that I'd let you off easy, and you found I wanted no part of you? I can tell you now that it smelled delicious. If you can fix it again for tomorrow evening, I'll pick up a decent wine to go with it, and I think we can begin to enjoy being with each other again. I do still love you, and there are many things about you I admire. But don't think for a moment that this is going to be easy for you."

And with that last remark she disappeared through the door and was gone.

More weeks went by, and we gradually resumed our old relationship, except that I was still locked out of our bedroom, and some nights she went out without a word to me, and I didn't dare ask her where when she came back, not too late usually, maybe by midnight or a little later. I no longer dressed up, and she said nothing more about it. I would stand wistfully in front of my closetful of pretty things, looking at them not daring to touch them. One day she told me that I could set out my cosmetics on my dressing table, but not use any, so I did, no questions asked. Then another week passed with nothing more said.

One evening she laid out a new arrangement for us. She told me she was giving me a green light for whatever I wanted to wear, women's clothes or men's, but with an absolute condition I must obey absolutely. It was this. In any one 24 hour period, from eight a.m. to eight a.m. the following morning, I could wear the clothing appropriate to either gender, either male or female, whichever I chose. Whatever gender I was imitating when she left the house just after eight each day, she said, was my gender for the day and for the evening. If I was in a peignoir for breakfast and I had to go shopping that day, then I would wear a dress to go shopping or I wouldn't go shopping at all. If she left me in men's pants, she wanted to see me in pants when she returned -- not necessarily the same ones, of course. If we were going out together to visit friends that night, I had better know it when I woke up that morning, because at eight a. m. we would both know what kinds of clothes I would be wearing that night. So I had better begin planning ahead. Unisex clothes were out, she said. I would have to choose who I was, each day, Jack or Jane. And then hope the house didn't catch fire, to force me into the street wearing a minidress or a tutu.

I thought this was just wonderful, and it was! The first morning I woke early and bathed and slipped on my prettiest silk dress, and did my hair, and made myself up carefully, and went down to prepare breakfast for the two of us. I was so excited! I primped and fussed, and when Jill came down I couldn't quite contain my shy pleasure. She looked me over.

"Not bad," she said, amused at my eager modesty. "Maybe you'll be worth the trouble. Are you going somewhere after I leave for work?"

"Oh, no," I reassured her hastily. "Not in a dress. I wouldn't dare."

"No, I suppose not," said Jill. "But aren't you a little overdressed for just breakfast when you aren't going anywhere?"

"I wanted to look nice," I said, a little disappointed in her reaction. "For you."

"For me," she replied. "Well, I suppose you need to express your feminine side, as you say. But try to dress appropriately. That dress is more suitable for tonight, for dinner. Are we eating out?"

I knew she was teasing me, or maybe needling me, and said nothing.

"Jack," she said, "Or, Jane, since today you're Jane. Something else. That dress does a lot for your figure, but you have to help it. You have no waistline. You look too chunky, too much like a man in a dress, or like some middle-aged woman who's let herself go. You need to nip in at the waist, at least a little. For now, from now on you're on a diet. Toast and black coffee for breakfast, a small cottage cheese salad for lunch, no more, starve yourself all day, and eat half of whatever you were planning to serve yourself for dinner. Decide on a regimen and stick with it. From now on. Whether you're dressing as a man or a woman. The discipline will be good for you. Go hungry all day." She paused. "And anyhow, you obviously like to shop. I want you into size 14 by the end of next month, and when you reach size 12 I'll let you replace your wardrobe. Not until then. Understood?"

I understood. She wanted moment by moment control over me, and any time I felt like snaking during the day, she wanted me to be reminded that she was in control and I had better not. I nodded.

Mostly, when I knew I could stay at home all day and evening I fixed breakfast for her in a blouse and denim skirt or the like, looking as neat as I could, with just a touch of eye makeup and wearing a subdued shade of lipstick, and my hair done simply. Jill would come down, glance at me, say nothing, comment on the weather, or the morning headline, or ask my plans while she was having breakfast, and then leave for work. She never seemed to notice what I was wearing, or how I looked. At dinner time when she came home from work I was happy to greet her in an afternoon dress, or a cocktail dress, or if we were having something special that night, with candlelight, I would put on a long gown and more dramatic makeup and put my hair up for her. I was still dressing for my own satisfaction, of course, but more and more I was dressing for her. I wanted her to admire me, to want me, to love me. But Jill never seemed to notice. She would praise my dinners, and admire the candlelight. But she seemed stone blind to my appearance.

I finally became a size twelve, and began buying new things. But always as a man. I became a familiar figure in stores all over the city and suburbs, buying dresses and lingerie "for my wife" as if she were too feeble to shop for herself. I don't know who I fooled. Some saleswomen would tease me, I realized later, by asking me friendly ambiguous questions like, "Are these for your pleasure or hers" while wrapping and charging some intimate items. I was too embarrassed to pick up on their comments and kid back with them. But for a while, when Jill saw me wearing men's clothes at breakfast she could assume accurately that looking male was not uppermost on my mind.

Twice I had a problem. Once I forgot we were expected for dinner at an friend's house and I began the day in a housedress. When Jill saw me, she said simply, "Is tonight's dinner party the place where, finally, you mean to show the world that you're a transvestite? Or do you think you can pass as a woman when we're expected to show up as a couple? Be sure you have a dinner gown that won't disgrace us in your closet, or you'll have to shop for one this afternoon. I don't think you own anything appropriate at the moment, and I'm certainly not lending you anything of mine." I spent the day hiding in the house terrified, wondering what was the least painful way I could injure myself badly enough to decline the dinner invitation. I was bailed out only by the dinner's last-minute cancellation, because the host had the mumps! Jill noticed that I was a wreck when she got home. I told her about my utter terror at being found out, and what I had been prepared to do to myself. She merely smiled a little grimly and said nothing.

Another time I was wearing skin-tight jeans and a T-shirt tight enough to show my bra and my breastforms when I saw we had run out of charcoal for the barbecued chicken Jill knew I'd planned. Without thinking I left the house dressed as I was and got into the car, and was halfway there before I realized I couldn't pass as either a man or a woman. So I drove further, to a place a half-hour out of town that sold bags of charcoal, sneaked to a far corner, hugged a bag of charcoal to my chest, threw some dollars at a puzzled employee, and fled back to my car. A day later, wearing men's clothes, I bought an oversized woman's sweatshirt to wear if that should ever happen again. Jill allowed that it was not a unisex sweatshirt, because it had small flowers all over it, and said she'd like to see me go out some time at least wearing flowers, if I had the guts. She was only mildly amused when I told her how I had bought the charcoal while my bra was visible. She then asked if I had ever bought myself a topcoat of some kind, and a purse, for when I meant to go out, and I answered "No, what for?" She merely smiled.

Now and then she would make a suggestion, and I took them as commands. Very early on she told me to let my hair grow out, for example, and she showed me how to use a barrette to hold it back when I was in femme mode. She asked me to practice a "lady voice," and then insisted I use it on all appropriate days -- which as it turned out, meant most days. She corrected my occasional lapses of taste, my wearing at the same time two different patterned prints with clashing colors, and I tuned my eye accordingly. Once she told me to do something about my nails, so I went to a unisex salon and had them trimmed, and shaped, and given two coats of clear gloss. Another time she told me to pluck back my eyebrows, "the way they were when you were carrying on with Darlene." I said I thought she hadn't noticed, and she gave me a contemptuous glance and turned away. I was very uneasy the first few times I went out with thin brows arched high over my face, but no one seemed to notice, and after a while I began pencilling their shape even higher on days when I was Jane. When I was in femme mode she insisted I walk, move, and sit like a lady, and after a while her constant correction of me became occasional, and finally unnecessary. In fact, when I sometimes made some effeminate gesture while in male clothes, she'd call my attention to it with sarcastic comments like "Do that again. Your boyfriends will love it."

Then one Friday late afternoon I was vacuuming in the living room when Jill came home a bit early, glanced to see that I was wearing a short cotton skirt and halter top, and went into the kitchen. When I put away the vacuum I saw that she was setting the dining room table for three, using our good silver and good set of dishes. A terrible fright struck the pit of my stomach. I clasped my hands behind me to stop them from shaking.

"What's up?" I asked her in my feminine voice. "Is someone coming for dinner tonight?"

"Yes dear. We have a new Associate at the office, unmarried, not yet settled into town, still living in a motel as a matter of fact. He's been eating out all this time, and he tells me no one has invited him yet for dinner or to meet people. I'd like you to put on your prettiest dress and look especially nice tonight for him."

To be dressed like a woman in front of a stranger! I was petrified! "Jill," I said, "No! I'd feel humiliated. I couldn't possibly. And besides, ...."

Jill cut me off. "Jane," she said sternly, "That's who you are today, Jane. That was your choice this morning. You are already humiliated, in my eyes, and those are the only eyes you need to worry about. You've been making a big deal over your so-called compulsion to dress like a girl. It has almost cost us our marriage. It cost you your dignity and your honour, and it led you to violate your marriage vows, and it cost me my trust in you. Now I'm allowing it, right? You haven't heard a peep from me when I come home night after night and find you're wearing a peignoir, or a silk dress, or a tailored suit, with your hair up in rollers or your face all tarted up. For you it's been a delightful game, titillating and safe! You never dare to go out and risk being seen. You're so afraid of discovery you've never asked me to go out with you to cover for you."

I started to protest I'd never dare ask her, but she cut me off. "Well, now's the time for you to take a nice, safe risk. Stay at home and be a lady and enjoy our dinner guest in your own home."

I felt a little scathed by this argument. She was right. She'd paid most of the cost of my crossdressing until now. "But what if he reads me? What if he comes expecting to see your husband, and sees a husband in drag?"

She dismissed it. "He won't," she said. "I told him my husband was out of town, and that I was having a dear friend over for dinner, and that he'd be welcome to join us, and that maybe he'd like to meet her. That's who he'll see. My dear friend Jane. Let's see if you can pass at least in your own home, this place where you've minced and pranced around hundreds of times. Let's see if you can manage to be a woman in your own home in front of a total stranger who'll come thinking that's what you are and won't see anything else!"

"But why?" I asked. "Why now, in front of a man I've never met?" The question sounded odd even to me -- would I rather it be a man who knew me? "Why not ask a woman I've never met, if you want other people to see me?" I was reaching for any arguments I could find. If a woman saw I was a fraud I'd feel embarrassed, but if a man saw through me I'd feel destroyed!

"Jack," -- and now her voice took on an edge -- "Do it! You want to be Jane, then BE Jane! You'd never fool a woman at close range -- she'd nail you as soon as she looked at you, certainly as soon as you moved. But men never notice how women really look, and how they behave! YOU've never noticed! You wear dresses and lipstick, but you're not at all feminine in the important ways. You still have a lot to learn! You do this and I'll teach you a few things you don't know. I promise! Trust me!" She sounded exasperated and also a little threatening.

Then she smiled, half to herself, and her voice softened. "Here's the truth, Jack, or Jane, or whoever I'm talking to. This little hobby of yours has cost me a lot of grief, but I've accepted it. You've cheated on me, and maybe I drove you to that woman and maybe I didn't -- I'm still working that out. But I won't live with a husband who's chicken- hearted as well as deceitful. I won't live with a closet queen! You want to dress like a woman, do it! You do it, but do it right! Tonight your real education begins. You are going to be a woman in the presence of a man who thinks you're a woman, and you are going to show me that you have the courage to do it! You may not know it, but that's what you want! Go upstairs and get dressed, Jane dear, and be sure you look pretty when you come down! He'll be here in another hour."

I had no option, not if I wanted to retrieve our marriage. I had to accept her challenge. I had always imagined that my first public appearances would be with women who would accept me as one of their own, and shield me from exposure. I had loved the vision of me sitting with other women, and chatting, and going with them to a restaurant for lunch. But this was something else.

Even so, Jill was right, I thought. I have been a wimp. If I'd been more assertive about wanting to dress up in my own home to begin with, I wouldn't have gone to dress up with Darlene, and now Jill wouldn't be feeling betrayed. If I were more of a man I would have been more of a woman to begin with, if that's what I wanted to be. She seemed to think so. She even offered to help me be more of a woman, if I went through with this!

Then a new thought struck me. "Wait a minute. You say you told him 'maybe he'd like to meet me'-- what does that mean? You tell me to put on my prettiest dress? And to be sure I look pretty when I come down? Are you trying to fix me up with him? What if he starts coming on to me? What then?"

She got a very peculiar expression on her face, and looked at me with deliberate care, as if beginning a jury summation. "Well then Jane," she said, taking twice as long as needed to say "Jane", "If he comes on to you, then welcome to the club. That's what men do with women, don't they? That's what you did with that...Darlene of yours, didn't you. You'll just have to learn to deal with it, dear. If he's overwhelmed by your beauty and your charm and he wants to get his hands into your pants, then that will be a new feminine experience for you, won't it?" Her voice grew tighter: "You want feminine experiences, don't you?" Then abruptly, she turned away and went into the kitchen.

I went upstairs feeling uneasy but also a little elated. Finally she

seemed to be thawing. Could it be that my wife was actually trying to fix me up with this new associate of hers. If so, was she trying to embarrass me, to subvert my manhood in my own eyes, the way my cross- dressing had subverted my manhood in her eyes? Maybe she did want me to feel like some queer queen flouncing around trying to attract a man, not the way I liked to think of myself, as a tastefully dressed girl chatting with other girls. Maybe she wanted to see for herself what kind of a woman I could be.

Well, if she was palming me off on him to humiliate me, it wasn't going to work. I would be friendly with him, but preoccupied. I wouldn't notice if he paid especially close attention to me. I would be pleasant, and no more than that.

Still, she was right in a way. If a man did try try to make time with me, that would be a new experience, a kind of affirmation of my femininity I could feel very pleased with. Real women enjoy that kind of reassurance all the time. My loins stirred, and I wondered what it was like to be thought attractive by a complete stranger. I wondered if I should try flirting with him. I began laying out my clothes for the evening. Some especially sexy lingerie, just for fun.

I heard Jill close the oven door and then come up, head into her room, and close her door. I called through it "How are we dressing tonight honey? You mean my prettiest dressy dress, or something more casual?" "That's my darling," she replied. "Don't push it -- we're supposed to be two girls who were planning to have dinner together, with him an extra third asked at the last minute. A nice skirt, not elegant -- say that black belted one that comes to mid-calf on you. Then you'll need a really attractive blouse to go with it, something that'll call attention away from ...your shape. That lovely flowered silk print, the green one? Heels. And no runs in your hosiery!"

The silk print had a bold pattern, cap sleeves, and a deep neckline. It was prim yet revealing, demure but assertive. I loved wearing it. It was me. I gathered my outfit onto the bed and began to feel optimistic. This was the first time my wife had ever praised any of clothes. Before, she had ignored them. Now she showed that she had been noticing, and that she even approved of some. All right! I would dress to please my wife, and not worry about the other man at all. I laid out a pair of medium-heeled black pumps, and went to shower.

Singing away in the shower, feeling good if a little apprehensive, I suddenly realized the blouse she wanted me to wear was short-sleeved and decollete. The hair on my arms and chest would be visible! I had to do something about that. When I dressed to please myself I could ignore such details, as did Doreen for her own obscure reasons. But this was serious. I had to look like a woman at first glance, close up, and maintain the illusion for the whole evening, or else appear ridiculous.

I had no choice. Jill had spoken, so there was no way I could switch blouses and come downstairs wearing something long sleeved and high necked. Besides, I wanted to look pretty for her! With a rueful smile but also a touch of excitement, I stepped out of the shower, reached into the medicine cabinet, took down a razor and shaving cream, and started shaving my whole body, chest, arms, and then for good measure my legs and crotch. It got to be amusing. I decided to give myself a bikini cut even though no one but me would ever see it, thinking that my French-cut panties would look far nicer without pubic hair mixed into their delicate lace edging.

Then I dressed, applied my makeup more carefully than I ever had before, especially the foundation over my beard, but also more sparingly than usual. Mousse, rollers, blow-drying, and combing out, and my hairdo was really rather flattering. I checked myself in the mirror. No raving beauty, but nice, even attractive. I noticed that Jill was already downstairs as I came down, doing things in the kitchen.

She smiled a wide, beautiful smile when she saw me. "How sweet, darling! You remembered to shave everything! That's very nice! And you look just lovely!" I was beside myself with delight. "But dear, you won't take offence if I make one little suggestion? Use a little more eye makeup. You have very nice eyes, and you'll want them to sparkle, and look mysterious, maybe even a little romantic." This puzzled me, but I decided she could still be playing her own game, to make me feel demeaned by a man's attentions, as if I dressed for other men rather than myself and now, her. Or maybe she had finally come around, and she genuinely wanted to help me become beautiful? My heart swelled up. Her tone had been gentle, not taunting, and I went back upstairs to add a little eye shadow, and then slathered on the mascara.

While batting my new, long, thick eyelashes in the mirror, it occured to me that Jill wasn't dressed the way I was dressed. We weren't exactly two girlfriends sharing a cozy evening, having dinner together. Instead, Jill had put on sheer black stockings, a short leather miniskirt I hadn't seen before, and a skin-tight, red stretch blouse with long sleeves gathered at her wrist. Her body and especially her breasts were beautifully sculpted in the fabric. She looked...sexy. The overall effect was tasteful, but still...very sexy.

"I thought we were dressing for a casual evening at home," I said when I came back downstairs, eying her up and down with much appreciation and some concern.

"Oh it is, darling," she said, her head inclined, smiling slightly. "But I want you to know right from the start, this is a very special evening for you. You won't forget it, I promise." She started to grin, skipped into a little dance step, twirled, lifted both her hands up and then out like a ballerina accepting applause, and beamed at me with unrestrained delight.

My exile had ended! Here I was, dressed and coiffed and made up, and I was the man she was dressing to attract! I reached out to embrace her, but she deflected my attempt at a kiss and just barely pressed her powdered cheek to mine, saying "Careful darling, you'll spoil our makeup!"

I LOVED it. "Our" makeup! I really did feel like a girl among girls, rapturously, and with my own wife! Together we finished setting the table, and while she looked after the last of the cooking, I set glasses and a range of drinks out on the sideboard. Now we were ready for her guest.

But not quite yet. Jill gave me a concerned look. "Dear," she said as I opened a bottle of wine to let it breath, "You're already acting like this evening's host, the way you always do. It's as if you lived here. Remember, you're supposed to be my guest tonight. an old friend who feels at home here, but still, this isn't your house. You're not supposed to know where everything is. You may give yourself away."

She paused. "I know. When he gets here it would be better if you weren't here at all. You have too many old habits, greeting people, taking their coats, and we don't want them to surface, do we?" I agreed "So," she said, "When we see him coming up the walk, you slip out the back door, cut across to the next street, then walk around the block and make a separate entry of your own. That should do it."

I wasn't too happy about going outside dressed the way I was, and told her so. I just didn't want to risk it. I never risked it even with Darlene. But she brushed aside my objections. "Oh pooh dear, you look just lovely. Very much a lady. Besides, it's dark out now. There's nothing to worry about. If anyone sees you, I'm sure they'll respect you."

I heard a car turn into the driveway. "Quick, he's here. Here, take my topcoat to cover your shoulders in case its chilly out. And you'd better carry this purse." She gave me a delighted conspiratorial grin and added, "Hurry back, dear. Don't let some stranger find you too attractive!" Then with a firm pressure stronger than I thought she could muster, she pushed me out the back door and shut it behind me. A moment later I heard a car door slam shut out front. The unexpected evening had begun!

I felt many things, all at once. Here I was out of doors finally, passing as a woman at last, though to nobody in particular. It was scary and exciting. I felt a cool breeze on my legs, and was suddenly aware that my skirt felt warm against my thighs. The air was a little chilly. I slipped Jill's topper onto my shoulders. So this is how women feel when they're outside, I thought to myself. It's rather pleasant.

Then it occurred to me. I didn't know what Jill's associate was like at all. Whatever she wanted me to do, I'd do better if I went around the side of the house and checked him over. I'd feel easier about making my own grand entrance if I knew what to expect. Was he fat, or young, or gawky, or dignified? No man had ever seen me in women's clothes, and only two women. I wanted no surprises. I need to match my feminine manner to the occasion, I said to myself, and I have no reflexes to fall back on. Better if I watch him come up the front steps and into the house. So I stepped down the driveway to the front of the house, my heels clicking, and I immediately went up onto tip-toe. Thank God these aren't really high heels, I said to myself. At least I can get them off the ground. I came around behind some bushes in front of the house, and saw our guest's back silhouetted against light from the open front door. He was very tall. Jill stood there framed in the doorway, her hand still on the doorknob, looking up at him.

He stepped forward, closed his arms around her, pulled her toward him, bent over her, and leaned into an intense kiss. She threw both her arms around his neck and kissed him back passionately, her red sleeves billowing over his shoulders, her legs planted apart and her hips thrust forward against his, as though she were trying to climb into him. Then they separated, she stepped back into the front hall, he took her hand and stepped inside, and Jill, her eyes never leaving his face, closed the door. There was nothing more to see.

I found myself still standing in our driveway, still hidden behind our bushes, wearing my nicest black skirt, a lovely flowered print blouse, respectable mid heels, a bit too much eye-makeup but still, very romantic, a purse under my arm, and my wife's topper thrown across my shoulders. Now I had to walk around the block, then return and put on my most genteel and ladylike manner and share dinner and the evening with my wife and...apparently ...her lover. I had no choice. All my other clothes were in the house where I couldn't get to them, and I was outside in a skirt being Jane, my wife's best girlfriend, and it was all arranged for me to come in and be Jane. Again, I felt a cool breeze across my legs.
 
 
Chapter 4
 
I started walking to the corner and then back, more or less the way Jill had suggested, trying to think this through. There I was, finally on the street dressed like a woman, in full makeup, no place to hide from anyone who might recognize me, and my heels were clicking on the sidewalk and I wasn't even aware of it. It no longer seemed so important, and I didn't feel at all feminine anyhow. If I were to meet some neighbour walking his dog before I got to the corner and turned back, I realized that I'd just nod and pass by. This was not good. I shortened my stride and tucked my elbows in and waggled my hips a little -- that ought to remove any suspicions I thought. In the dark who could recognize me anyhow?

It began to be obvious that she had planned this whole evening for her own amusement. It was revenge for my affair with Darlene. She knew that right now I'd be thinking exactly what I was thinking, that there was nothing for me to do but grit my teeth, make no fuss, follow her plan, re-enter the house, and make ladylike conversation with her and her lover, all the while pretending I knew nothing about their relationship, and seething inside.

No, I then realized, I'm wrong. She doesn't know I know anything. She doesn't know that I saw them together at the front door. I was supposed to be out the back door and half a block away. They were not going to signal anything to me about their real relationship, I realized. She's doing this to get even, for her own private amusement, and maybe his too. I'm supposed to come back into the house and have a friendly dinner the way she set it up, acting like an old girlfriend of hers helping her entertain a single guy from work. And I'm supposed to be as convincing as possible because I'm already a husband worried that he might try to come on to me, and ready to blame only myself if he catches on that I'm a man in drag. That's the scenario.

But does he know about me? Maybe she told him that her husband was going to show up in a dress, and that he should try to keep a straight face and play along, helping her to humiliate me and watching me humiliate myself? No, I decided, she's devious, but she wouldn't trust anyone else to carry on this kind of deception. She's got special reason to want to get even with me, and that's why she's doing this. But he doesn't have any special reasons. He might even be feeling a little guilty he's carrying on with a married woman. She couldn't be sure that he'd play along convincingly.

I arrived at our front door ready to play along and I rang the doorbell. I heard the chimes sound inside the house. Funny, I thought, in all these years I've never rung this doorbell.

The door opened, and Jill delivered yet another surprise to me, in a way a kind of death blow. "Jane!" she said with enormous warmth and enthusiasm. "Come in, come in at once. Here, let me take your coat. That's fine, you can leave your purse over there in the hallway, no one will bother it. Now come in and meet Tom." I was a little taken aback -- she was being much too effusive. A tall, thin, gentle and capable- looking man with hair just starting to gray was standing just inside, looking at me with a mildly friendly smile, one hand in his pocket and the other reaching toward me, strangely at his ease in my house.

"Jane, this is Tom. I've told you so much about him I'm sure you feel you've known him for a long time. Tom, this is Jane, my best friend. I'm so glad that you two finally have a chance to meet each other. The two people I care most about in the world."

She smiled a beaming welcome at me, and looked up at Tom, and her eyes actually nearly misted over when she made that last statement.

I was flabbergasted. But there was more. She turned to Tom. "When Jack died last year," she told him, "in that awful car crash, I don't know what I would have done without Jane. She was with me night and day until I got over the worst of it." She went to Tom's side and then turned toward me again, still grinning broadly, and put her arm around Tom's waist. He in turn reached his long arm over her shoulder and gave her a hug, then touched his lips to her hair. He turned back toward me, still with that relaxed smile, his possession of her complete. She acknowledged it by placing her hand over his, still on her shoulder. "But I did get over it finally," Jill said,"and I'm so grateful to you, Jane, for being a true friend during that difficult time. Now that I have Tom," she turned to look up at him, and he bent down and kissed her, and she turned back toward me, "I hope you know I still treasure you as the dearest of my friends."

She may have meant it. There I was. Dead, replaced by another man, but acceptable to Jill as a woman, as her girlfriend, because the man I once was was dead. I felt a flutter in my stomach -- for years I had wanted her to think of me as a girlfriend, the way Doreen did without thinking about it at all. Now, it seems, that's what we are. Is she also telling me in her bizarre way that that's all we can be? "Can I sit down for a moment?" I asked her in a low voice.

"Come into the living room Jane, dear, please," Jill said to me. "Tom, do get Jane a drink -- bourbon on rocks isn't it dear -- while she has a chance to catch her breath." Tom went over to the glasses and bottles I'd set out not fifteen minutes earlier, and Jill turned and fired off at me point blank the most delighted, devastating smile I have ever seen. Her eyes crinkled and gleamed, and her mouth stretched across her face and her lips parted joyously, the same brilliant scarlet as her blouse. I near-collapsed into an easy chair, and she said with great concern, "You don't look well dear. Is anything wrong?" Then with Tom out of the room, she threw back her head and started laughing uncontrollably.

Tom came back with my drink and looked puzzled at my wife -- my former wife it now seemed, at least as he saw it, that is, my widow. She saw his raised eyebrow. "I'm sorry dear, but Jane is in such a funny predicament, she tells me. It's a little hard to explain." She started giggling again, then tried to smother it. Her shoulders shaking, she choked out "Maybe....some...day I can tell you dear." I knocked back the bourbon in two swallows, Tom took my glass, and with his face impassive returned to me with the glass refilled to the top. Jill turned away. "I'd better see to dinner," she said, and in a minute, from the kitchen two rooms away, I heard yet another explosive guffaw. "We're ready!" she called out. I drained the second glass, stood with a slight teeter on my heels, Tom took my elbow, and we went into the dining room.

Dinner conversation was a little odd. I was angry with Jill, feeling set up and trapped all these weeks, even though I guess I deserved it. In a way I had asked for it. I was jealous of Tom, with his easy appropriations of my rights in the house, and my privileges with Jill. And I was embarrassed for myself, fearful that I'd make some odd move to raise Tom's suspicions. Jill meanwhile maintained her displays of intimate affection with Tom, touching him, gently squeezing his arm when she wanted to make a point, glancing at him I thought adoringly. It was all very depressing. Tom kept refilling my wine glass, and I kept sipping from it without noticing how much.

But Jill reminded me to count one of my blessings, the one that had gotten us here to begin with. I was out as a woman, and passing in front of a stranger. "What a lovely skirt Jane," Jill said as we sat down. "I remember you'd said you were looking for an occasion to wear it. How nice that you're wearing it here, tonight! I'm so pleased!"

I knew what she meant, and tried to feel grateful to her, and tried to think of something to say that didn't sound stupid and wouldn't give me away. "Thank you" was all I came up with.

But she wouldn't let go. "And that green print blouse goes so well with it. You look just lovely!" She turned to Tom. "Jane hasn't been going out much since her divorce...is it two years ago now?" I nodded.

We worked our way through a platter of hor doeuvres, and then some kind of beef on noodles. I kept my voice up in femme range, and answered whenever I had to in monosyllables. Then to keep from seeming utterly grouchy I smiled a lot. At Jill. At Tom. At any request to pass the salt, or the salad. Tom asked me if I meant to remarry, or was seeing anyone, and other questions like that, making the kind of polite conversation people make when they are being hospitable. I told him I didn't know, or wasn't sure, no matter what he asked me. I didn't. I wasn't.

I wasn't even sure I'd seen everything Jill had in store for me this evening. This seemed an elaborate way for Jill to announce to me that she was now having an affair, and to gloat over it. Every time she kissed him, or leaned over him, she was telling me she didn't need me for love and affection. Ok, I heard her. But why all the preparation, these different stories, her seeming to please me by planning a dinner for me to come in in drag, then showing me her lover when I couldn't do anything about it. It all sounded like simple spite, and Jill could be spiteful, but far more than spiteful she was devious. There was something else.

What else there was turned up as she cleared the plates and readied the table for dessert. "Well," she said, turning toward me, and speaking in the most gentle, earnest tones I had ever heard from her, "Jane, I've talked to Tom about it. He's willing. In fact, he'd love to do it."

"What?" I asked. "Do what?"

"Oh, Jane, I'm so filled with this little surprise gift for you that I'm not telling it to you properly. You remember when we were so tipsy together a few weeks ago, and we were telling each other our most intimate secrets about our husbands, our former husbands, what they liked to do with us, and what we liked doing with them, wonderful things and silly things?"

Tom refilled my wine glass, and then his own. The world was starting to swim a little, but I kept my head very still, and it stopped moving. "Tipsy?" I asked. "What?"

I had drunk enough so that my voice suddenly cracked out of its customary high femme mode, where I was trying to keep it, into pure falsetto. I had better watch it, I thought.

"You know," she said, smiling encouragingly, as if I already knew where she was leading this conversation "What you told me you missed most about having a man in your bedroom, since your divorce." She paused, as if waiting for me to reply.

I tried to fill the silence. "You mean snoring?" I couldn't think of anything else to say.

She smiled indulgently. "No, not snoring Jane. Much more intimate." She grinned. "Sexier." She looked at me intently. Then she let her eyes drift down, until she seemed demure, even too shy to go on. What a woman!

"This is so embarrassing for me to talk about, dear, because I've never done it myself, and don't know that I'd want to. I don't think its my kind of thing. But you remember, when we were talking together and feeling especially close, and you spoke of it so wistfully, with such tenderness, with such longing, and such eagerness, that my heart just went out to you. I thought, how can I help my dearest friend Jane in some way, and somehow thank her for all the loving care she's given me? How can I give you the greatest gift you desire? And then I thought of Tom." Jill looked at Tom devotedly. "And I asked Tom, and he thought it a strange request at first. He didn't want to at first. But finally he agreed. For me. But above all for you." She leaned over to kiss him, yet again.

Tom broke in, as if he had to reassure me of something. "It's not something Jill and I ever do with each other," he explained, "So it's not a kind of intrusion into our relationship," he commented. "It's quite apart from us. Except," and he looked fondly at Jill, "Jill asked me to, and I want her to be happy."

I couldn't make any sense of this conversation, but I decided not to force it. Maybe it was the wine. "Oh," I replied.

"Don't worry, Jane," Tom said. He now spoke with the same gentle, concerned voice Jill was using "I understand how some things are hard to talk about. You don't have to say anything at all if you don't want to."

I held my head very still to hold the room still.

"Tom, you said you'd help Jane past any shyness she might feel. I hope you will," Jill said to him, taking his hand and giving it a tight squeeze. "Now I'm going into the kitchen, to clean up everything, and I have a wonderful dessert to prepare. It'll take maybe a half hour, longer if it needs to. You two go into the living room. I promise I won't peek."

I was getting a funny feeling about all this, but I kept quiet. Maybe it was the wine.

"Jane," Jill said, leaning earnestly over me, "You remember when we were talking about losing our husbands, what we most missed ? You said it wasn't sleeping with him that made you feel most like a woman. It was something else. It was something you did with him you'd never done for anyone else. You said it was so satisfying you wished you'd started when you were still a teenager and all the boys wanted you to do it. You were so ashamed to say it. But finally you did say it!

You said you couldn't get enough of it! And I've remembered that you said it, because you were so sweet to me in those months when I found I had to live alone, and life seemed so unbearable!"

Jill smiled as if through tears. I stared back, trying to look as if I understood her. "Well, Tom is yours for the next half hour or so, and I want you to do what you said you most loved to do with your husband. Don't think about me at all." Her voice then took on an edge. "And don't disappoint me, or I just don't know what I'll do." I could tell from her tone she know precisely what she would do. I had no option. Then she came out with it.

"You go into the living room and enjoy Tom's cock with your mouth. Suck on it to your heart's content. I want you to. Really. And I want you to enjoy the taste of his cum. I remember how you especially talked about the peculiar, delicate, complicated taste and feel of a man's cum, sweet yet salty, creamy yet winey, and how you missed it." Jill giggled. "We were so silly that night. And you talked about the feeling of control you had over your man, when he was helpless with desire for you to lick him and throat him, and how when he was in your mouth you could bring him anywhere you wanted. About how you missed that feeling."

And Jill then looked me straight in the eye. "Jane," she said, obviously enjoying each word, "This is your big moment. Tom is yours for a half hour, or more if you'd like, as my gift to you. Please take him as a token of what I think of you. Tonight I want you to have your deepest heart's desire. Be all the woman you can be! Suck Tom off! For me!" And she went through the kitchen door and closed it behind her.

I stood up, and the walls really did swim. Holding onto the edge of the table as far as I could, I went into the living room. There was Tom already, seated in our big, overstuffed easy chair, legs apart, smiling to encourage me, both hands outstretched toward mine in reassurance. How could I get out of this? I thought of running outside, or upstairs. I thought wildly of claiming I was having a period. Did Jill think I was going to give Tom a blow job and enjoy it? No, not enjoy it. That's the point! I had to pretend to enjoy it while feeling trapped and demeaned, doing something she herself never did with me, nor it seems with Tom either.

And I couldn't make a fuss about it. Not without giving myself away. I was a little drunk, but that was clear enough. Which would be more humiliating to me? Confessing to Tom that I'm Jill's husband in drag, and trying to order him out of the house? Or staying and sucking his cock? Which would cost me more? Which was easier? My thinking was as blurry as my vision, but it was clear to me which would cost me my wife. I still wanted her back. I had promised her I'd do anything she suggested. This was her revenge, one more ordeal she had schemed for me because of Darlene. I would somehow get through it.

I took hold of the soft arms of the chair, one on either side of him, and leaned on them, and lurched to my knees between his knees. In a single swift motion Tom undid his buckle and pants, unzipped his fly, slipped his pants and underwear out from under him and down to his ankles, gently put his hands on either side of my head, and pulled my face toward his crotch. His cock rose up toward me as I approached, still tipsy and fascinated and horrified, unable to do anything about it. The thing wasn't that impressive in size, but respectable. To me at that moment it looked like the Eiffel Tower. "Jane honey," he said, "Jill tells me it's been a while since you've done a man, so take your time. I'll help you." He leaned back. "Just put your hands under my balls and cup them gently, Then kiss the tip of my prick, right where you see that little drop of clear fluid. Lick it with your tongue. That's it. What does it taste like?"

I thought, here goes nothing, and leaned forward, and touched my tongue to the tip of his penis, where he had directed me. "A little salty," I said, not wanting to say more, wondering if I was going to retch if I said more.

"That's it," he said, "Think about each taste, each feeling, so you'll remember. If you pay close enough attention to everything, your mouth will remember. And I want your mouth to remember. Now, just open up, and form an "O" with your lips, and slide it over the pinky-purple head of my cock. It feels silky, doesn't it. That's it. Lift your head up and tell me how it feels."

"Silky," I said. I was trying not to notice, to close off my mind, to put my attention somewhere else.

"Yes," he said. Now slide your "O" mouth down onto my cock head again, this time a little further, until you can feel the soft ridge it ends in, all around. Do you feel it? Clamp down a little just below the ridge with your lips."

I did as he asked. I felt the ridge with the moist inside of my lips. I tried not to.

"Now open your jaw wide. Wider. We don't want your pretty teeth interfering with our pleasure, do we. But keep the "O" nice and tight below the ridge. Stay still a moment, and notice how it feels. Now pull back against the ridge slightly, then tuck your lips under it again."

I did that.

"Now slide your lips over the ridge by tightening your lip muscles on it a little bit, like kissing it all around with your mouth open. Ah, that's right. Let a little saliva lubricate everything. Lovely. Now very gently, make a slight suction with your mouth."

My wet lips slid a little bit down the shaft of his penis as the suction pulled him into my mouth. I noticed that his hands on my head kept up their gentle pressure, so I couldn't back off as the main part of his penis entered my mouth.

"Feels delicious, doesn't it. Slide your mouth up and tell me, but do it slowly, so the "O" stays snug, and when your lips reach the tip, kiss it. Aw, that's sweet. Kiss it again. Ah. You feel now that your lips are empty, don't you, and you want to refill them with something for your lips to squeeze. Is that right? Tell me I'm right, dear."

His hands twisted each side of my head gently, turning my face up toward his, and I saw he was looking mildly into my eyes, waiting for an answer. I looked back at him, still whirling a little -- that wine. I couldn't look away. My mouth was still pursed from kissing his prick, and I could still feel the his cock-head ridge on my lips, and I could still sense his pre-cum in my nose when I exhaled. Would I ever be able to forget this?

"Oh, God!" I said.

"That's right," he replied. "It is heavenly, isn't it. If you'd like, lick me and kiss me anywhere you want. From the base to the tip. Underneath especially. Yes. Yes. That's right. Now make your little "O" again and wrap your mouth around me again, and pull me in. Only this time, deeper. I'm getting eager to fuck that dainty little mouth of yours. This time we'll go all the way. But don't worry, I'll tell you what to do. I'll remind you what to do."

Before my head went back down on him I started to say something, but it didn't get very far. I don't know what I would have said next anyhow. My head once again facing the tip of his cock, I made my "O" and opened my jaw just in time as he thrust it back in.

"That's it, dear. Suck. Slide. Again. If you need to come up for air every now and then, or to ease your jaw muscles, do. I'll feel your head pressing on my hands, and I'll ease off. Suck. But each time you leave my head behind, I want you to kiss the tip. Kiss it passionately. Devotedly. Lovingly. Try to stick your tongue into that little hole at the end. Slide. I want to feel you can't get enough of kissing me. I want you to know you can't get enough. I want your lips to feel they can't wrap tightly enough around me. I want you to slide me all the way into your mouth until my tip bumps on the back of your throat, on your gullet, and maybe slides down into your throat. Suck. Press your tongue flat against me and slide. Lick my head and down again. Ah. More. Suck. Again. Slide. Now. Again."

He kept pumping my head against his crotch, slowly and gently, and kept up his steady chatter, while I formed my "O" and held my jaws wide open and felt more and more of his meat fit into my mouth, and each plunge brought my nose closer to the base of his shaft, and sucked him in and slid him away. Now and then when I came up, my head would writhe on his tip as if it were the lips of the most gorgeous woman imaginable, my lips pressing on him and caressing him and my tongue flicking the delicate hole at the end until again I opened up wide and took him back into my mouth, and slid my lips down his shaft as far as I could reach, and pulsed them at the bottom. His hands held me and moved me, and his hips began bucking up toward me, and he was plainly getting hot. My nose was now getting down into his hairs, and his cockhead kept cramming against my throat then backing away, and I worried about gagging. I realized that at this angle there was no way I could bring him all the way in to relieve that pushing at the back of my neck, so I concentrated on bringing him off as soon as I could. He pumped me while I pumped him, and my lips compressed and pulled and puckered and tightened and loosened around the "O" they formed, and my tongue swiped his underside on my upswings, and danced over the helmet-shaped head. I realized irrelevantly that I couldn't have much lipstick left on, and I realized I should have hauled out a compact to repair my makeup after dinner. But I had got too drunk, and this had followed too soon.

I found that except for the back of my throat, it wasn't too bad. Some odd sensations, certainly very different. I took his advice and began paying attention to the alternating slippery, satiny, bumpy ride my lips were making. It was interesting, that sensation, and I did find I could enjoy my power over him when every now and then he moaned slightly, and I tried to make him moan again. If he's turned on because I seem to love this, I thought, I'm going to seem to love it like crazy, and we'll get it over with. I concentrated on satisfying him, and began to let my fingertips fly over his balls and squeeze them gently, and sometimes I let them caress the base of his cock. Every now and then I gave a kind of pathetic muffled cry deep in my throat, "Ohhh!", "Oooohhh!", as if I couldn't get enough. Suck, slide, suck, slide.

Suddenly he said,"Oh Jane, darling, I'm going to come. Hold me deep and start swallowing as fast as you can! Hold me! Deeper! Don't spill me. Don't let me spill on the chair, or the rug, or your blouse, or my pants, or AHH, AHH, AHHH, AHHH!" And hot cum splashed against the back of my throat with each pulsation. He shot his load into me, and I swallowed, and I held him sealed in my mouth and swallowed, and I reached into my throat with the back of my tongue and swallowed, and I rolled his thick liquid forward in my mouth and swallowed, and each time I thought it would overflow my mouth I swallowed. Meanwhile his hands crushed my face into his crotch, deep into its hairs, and he bucked against it, and I couldn't breath. His climax seemed interminable. He kept pulsing. My mouth filled with something sort of slick and creamy, a little like mucous, and a little salty, and a little bit sweet. Not too bad I thought, as he pulsed on and I kept swallowing. I'm surviving this, I said to myself. I leaned in and sucked the last of his cum out of him as if his prick were a straw.

He let go of my head, still breathing heavily. I looked up, and he grinned at me. I remembered that I was supposed to be passionate and conspiratorial and grateful about all this, and grinned back. Then I leaned back off my knees and sat down on the floor. For a moment I couldn't look at him. I kept working my tongue around my mouth and swallowing, trying to get the last squeezes of his cum off my teeth and out from the crevices of my cheeks, and off from where some of it had coated my lips. "You really do love that stuff," he said as he watched me licking my lips and working my mouth, his breathing almost back to normal. I didn't say anything. "Clean me up, dear," he said. "Lick me until you have it all." I got back on my knees and licked his prick, up and down and all over, then stood up.

"You know Jane, that was pretty good for a first time," he said. "You have a talent."

This stopped me for a moment. What did he mean by "first time"? What did he know about me? Was he in on Jill's plot after all? But as I got to my feet I decided he meant my first time with him, which would matter I suppose if the only blow jobs I'd ever given before were to my husband. I realized that this guy was something of an artist, the way he had talked me down onto him and through it. If I were gay, or a real woman, it really would have been enjoyable. "Thank you. It was very special!" I said with as much ardour as I could muster. What else could I say?

I thought I'd better say something more, so I added, as if we were now lovers of sorts, "But won't Jill feel jealous?" It suddenly flashed over me that I had just been blackmailed by my wife and raped by Tom, even though I'd brought it on myself. But I couldn't help it, and now I was trying to simulate post coital chit-chat. This was much too civilized. I tried to change the subject in my head, and began wondering what would get rid of his cum-flavour in my mouth. It really was rather creamy, and slick in texture. Gawk!

"No not at all," he said. "She isn't jealous at all. This is her gift to you. Jill doesn't do oral sex with me. Now vaginal sex, that's different." He smiled to himself, and I felt a sudden shock and jealousy -- he had just admitted to me he was fucking her! Well, what else did I think they were doing? I decided to change the subject . He was right, of course. Jill had always been turned off by oral sex, and after a while I had reluctantly stopped raising the subject.

He pulled his pants back up and sauntered back into the dining room. I remembered that I must look a mess, and had better act as if I knew it, and headed for the bathroom, where I knew Jill kept a lipstick and hairbrush, maybe more. It took me ten minutes to get my face back to some semblance of order after that workout. Then still feeling a little frazzled, I headed back into the dining room.

Jill was already there, with our silver coffee pot, setting out bone china cups with an innocently pleased look on her face. "Oh, Jane," she said, "Here you are. You look like the cat that swallowed the canary. Are you still hungry for dessert?"

I decided not to answer her. Let her enjoy her triumph. She set before each place a desert dish full of a custard of some sort, with streaks on top. "See, I promised you a special treat tonight, didn't I?," she said. "I want you to feel pampered. I decided on this Creame dessert especially for you, when Tom said he'd help you feel like a woman. I just finished making it while you and Tom were enjoying yourselves in the living room. I thought you'd especially like the texture, a little sticky, and satiny smooth, and it fills your whole mouth." She paused, and then added, "Of course some people prefer it with a dash of salt, to remind them of times gone by. Would you?"

Then as an afterthought, as she started pouring the coffee, she said without looking up, "I've been planning this dinner for a long, long time, down to the last detail. It seems to be working out beautifully. I hope you're enjoying it. Because this isn't the end yet. There's more." She looked up at me, and her smile was blissful. What could I say? I'd promised her I'd go along with any of her plans for me. I had better be a good sport about it. She'd gotten me and gotten me good. I did wish she'd feel the score was even and settled, so we could be done now with these games.

No such luck. When we finished dessert and coffee Jill went over to Tom and pressed her cheek against his, while she cleared the last dishes. He seized her hand for a moment and then let it go. Things were now a little unpredictable. What next? Should I stay on, and wait until Tom had to leave, though obviously he wanted to stay? When he was gone, could I go upstairs and change into something more suitable, and assert my dignity, and have it out with Jill? Or was he planning to spend the night here, and waiting for me to leave? I noticed a stain on my blouse, and I realized it was a dab of his semen, still a little sticky. My mouth puckered slightly when I recognized it. Jesus!

But Jill settled the matter. Tom appeared in the doorway holding the topcoat Jill had given me, and Jill handed me the same purse she had handed me earlier when she pushed me out the back door. "Here you are dear. I'm sorry you have to leave so soon. I'll call you tomorrow. Or you can call me. I think you'll find everything you need in your purse; I tucked a few things there." And for the second time that night I was thrust out of my own house, this time through the front door. She slammed it closed.

I stood on the front steps, and I noticed that the porch light was still on, as if still lighting Tom's arrival and mine. I was wearing a skirt, and was visible to anyone. I glanced up and down the street. No one. Then the porch light went off.
 
 
Chapter 5
 
Still standing by my front steps, near a dim street light, I opened my purse. There was the makeup I had used earlier. There was a folded piece of paper. There was a Motel key, with a huge weighted fob attached imprinted with a name and a room number. There was what I recognized as the spare set of car keys, with a small flashlight attached on a chain. There was a packet of condoms. There was a 3-pack of tampons. I opened the piece of paper. It was a note from Jill, typewritten, meaning that she written it some time before this whole awful evening had begun. When she wrote it she was already imagining me reading it right now. And now here I was.

"I want you to think about me and Tom here tonight, in our beautiful bed. Are you thinking about it, and about marital fidelity, and about being honest with each other, at this very moment? Good! If you want to resume our marriage, go to the motel room printed on the big key, and you'll find out what else I want. You'll be there for two nights. But you won't have to feel lonely. You'll find there's a beautiful blonde young man who hangs out with the night clerk and provides whatever services guests may require. He's very good, very gentle with first- timers, I've been told. He's very attentive. But I didn't arrange anything with him for you for tonight, so if you miss Tom's prick and want some more lovemaking before bedtime you'll have to talk to him yourself. Sleep well, dear."

I looked back at our house. A light in the bedroom had gone on. There was nothing more I could do.

So I went around in back, got in the car, and drove myself to the motel indicated on the key, not too far away. It felt odd driving the car in a dress, pressing on the accelerator and the brake in high heels, and I drove very carefully so there would be not the slightest risk of a policeman stopping me. When I had parked in the motel parking lot I sat still for a few minutes, to psych myself up to meet yet another stranger while dressed as a woman. Could I pass? I checked my hair and my makeup, and walked across the lot and into the lobby with what I hoped was a persuasive woman's walk, short steps, elbows in, mincing slightly. At the front desk a night clerk looked up at me without changing expression.

"Can you tell me where is Room 244. My wife made these arrangements." I realized that I had just blown my cover! He didn't blink, but merely checked his register.

"Yes. Room 244, pre paid for two nights. One flight up and to the left. The elevator is just behind you. Have you any luggage, ma'am?"

"No." I felt foolish standing there in a dress and I wanted to get out of the clerk's sight, so I hobbled down the corridor as I fast as I could, realizing that I'd been wearing heels for many hours now, and they were beginning to hurt. The clerk had confirmed what Jill's letter said, that I was here for "two nights." Why? So she could play house with Tom for the weekend? So I'd think that's what she's doing, whether she is or not? I felt a pang of jealousy. That's what she wants me to feel, I thought, but I owe her, so I have to pay her. At the same time I felt an odd twist of excitement at the thought of Jill and Tom romping together tonight, and all day tomorrow, and tomorrow night. It didn't seem like the same Jill. I wondered if she was more imaginative in her lovemaking with Tom than she'd been with me. During the past few months, I realized, she had changed from the girl I had married. She had always been assertive, but now she was domineering. And cunning! Tricking me into sucking Tom's cock! Does she just do straight screwing with Tom, then go to sleep? Does she let him know whether she enjoys it, or does she keep that a secret too? I suppose the two of them have a different kind of lovemaking, anyhow. Then I realized I was beginning to picture them wrapped around each other, arms and legs tangled together, and I realized I had better stop thinking about it.

I entered Room 244, and saw immediately someone had been there. The closet had clothing in it, women's clothing, a suit, a few dresses, a skirt and blouse or two, and a terrific-looking cocktail dress. I thought at first this was a hideaway Jill kept for herself, but I looked again, and saw that everything was was in my sizes. In the bathroom was an elaborate makeup kit. I checked the drawers. One had a few bras and panties in it, again my sizes, and that one of the panties was crotchless, with ribbons to tie together the bottom seam. There were several magazines on the night stand, Cosmo and Vanity Fair I noticed, and when I looked for a Time Magazine or a Newsweek, I saw that another was Seventeen. Only girls' or women's magazines. Jill had thought of everything. I started to get undressed. It had been a long night since I had put on this very blouse and skirt, Jill urging me to look especially pretty for this guy she worked with, and me without a clue about what she really had in mind. He did come on to me after all, I realized, and I had made love to him after all. A long night. I set my slip aside to use as a nightgown, then saw that Jill had left a lovely, frilly nightgown across my pillow. For me. Well, that was something.

I didn't know how this room figured into her plans. Did Jill feel guilty about putting me out of my own home? I doubted it. Was she setting me up to live separate from her, with this clothing a kind of payoff she knew I'd like? No, she'd have told me about it beforehand. She always wanted me to understand clearly what her rules were, and why. I didn't know what I was doing here. Being out of her way while her boy friend fucks her, I supposed. The nightgown felt silky smooth as it slipped over my chest and hips. It had sexy lacework circling each breast. I looked at it in the mirror, and for the first time that night felt nice. I was pretty. I was myself. This was all too confusing. I turned out the light, and fell asleep at once.

I was awakened the next morning by the sound of a key jiggling in the door. Terrified, I called out "Who's there?" as I ducked under the covers to hide my nightgown's frilly shoulders. The door swung open, and a thin blonde young man entered with a rolling cart filled with a Room Service breakfast.

"I knocked, but no one answered," he said deferentially. "I hope you don't mind my using a key to come in, but that was listed as one of the things I could do during your stay. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm Carl."

"Let me see," he said, looking at a list on his clipboard. "Yes. 'Well, uh, Jane, if I may call you Jane. Your wife advises that you spend the day here. We have an excellent restaurant, and a pool area for swimming or sun-bathing -- you'll find a swimsuit and wraparound here in the room. If you need anything else, the pool shop will have something that would fit you. I'll be back tonight at around eight, to let you know about the wonderful things she has planned for this evening. Oh, yes. The hotel beauty salon has an appointment for you for this morning at 10:00 am. A complete makeover -- expect to stay about three hours." As he opened the door to leave he gave me a warmly reassuring look, and then a charming smile. "Don't worry, Jane. Everything has been arranged and paid for. You don't have to do a thing. Just enjoy yourself."

He left. I noticed that while he was talking my nightgown's frilly sleeves had come fully visible to him. But it doesn't seem to have mattered, I thought, since he seems to be better briefed about me than I am. I was glad to have breakfast in the room, anyhow. It delayed the moment when I had to go out by daylight.

Then I thought, enough of this. I'll talk to Jill directly. I called home, and as the phone began ringing I suddenly wondered who would pick it up. Whose voice would I hear? After the third ring I heard Jill pick up and say "Yes, hello?".

I started speaking before she could decide to hang up. "Jill I want to come home. Is Tom still there?"

"Who?"

"Tom, your boyfriend."

"O yes, Tom, that was his name. No, he left early this morning; he had another woman to attend to."

"Your boyfriend?"

"But dear, he's not my boyfriend! I'm married. You remember."

"No? I saw you kissing. I saw the way you greeted him at the door."

"Oh, you did! I was so hoping you'd sneak around and catch that little drama! So that's why you looked so strange when you came in and I began telling you the story of your death. Oh Jack dear, that was all a show for you. So was all that lovey dovey during dinner. All for you. No, Tom was my escort for the evening, and for other things. I hired him and told him what I was planning, and what I wanted him to do, and he did it all very well."

My head began to whirl again. I couldn't keep up with her. "Did he know about me? Did he know I wasn't your woman friend?" "

Her voice sounded marvellously good-natured. "Why darling, of course he knew about you. I told him you were a closet fairy. I told him that my husband would show up wearing a dress and pretend to be my best girlfriend, and that we should go along with it. I told him that all your life you have wanted to give a man a blow job while wearing a dress, because that's what real women do, but that you were too embarrassed to set it up for yourself. I told Tom it was your birthday and that he was my present to you, a real man you could suck on like a lollipop, to your heart's content. I told him you'd go down on him without any problem, and you certainly did my darling. And I told him he should help you with it, your very first time, without letting on that he knew you weren't just one more slut who blows cock every night.

"I knew you'd do anything to keep him from finding out you were just another pansy in a dress. I knew you'd go along with it no matter how humiliating." Her voice grew triumphant. "So sweetheart, I turned you into a pansy in a dress!"

I remembered how helpless I had felt as I sank down on my knees between his legs last night. For nothing! I felt mortified. Tears came into my eyes. She had set me up! From the very beginning! She had even advised me what blouse and skirt a well-dressed husband should wear to his first blow job. I tried to say "Very clever!" with acid irony, but all that came out of my mouth was a little strangled sound.

Jill continued. "But I was very considerate, dear. I told him that I wanted it to be wonderful for you, unforgettable, so that you would always remember it, your very first. I wanted him to teach you how to enjoy every moment. I told him I wanted your mouth to remember it even if you tried to forget it. And your mouth does remember now, doesn't it?" She paused, then she went on. "I could tell that your mouth was learning, love. I could see by the way your lips kept their sweet little pucker, their little cuspid bow shape, and couldn't stop kissing the tip of his prick whenever you came up for air, and then how they made that pretty "O" whenever you went back down on him. You really do have a talent for it, love, don't you."

"You could see that?" I broke in, shocked. "You said you were in the kitchen."

"Oh, no! See that? Why love, I was there! There was no way I was going to miss the sight of my darling husband in a dress sucking cock like a ten dollar whore and pretending to like it. You were so busy head-fucking that man's dick you never noticed me! You must've really gotten into it! Was it that great? I took picture after picture of you slurping Tom's prick like a big purple ice cream cone! It looked really wonderful for you. So that's what you guys do when you get together! That's what male bonding is all about!"

She paused again. "When I heard him tell you how to feel every nuance of his prick in your mouth, he made it seem so attractive I thought of giving it another try myself. I told you on our honeymoon it just wasn't my thing, didn't I. Well, maybe I just never had as as good a teacher as you just had. You did so enjoy it! Dear heart, you make such a darling little cocksucker!"

Her affability faded. "And now, you're my darling little cocksucker, Jack dear. I have snapshots of you dressed up with Darlene, and dressed up with Jack, dressed up and going down on that stud, and now you little faggot I've got you where I want you." She stopped and caught her breath. "Not that I didn't before. I think we understand each other. Stay another night at that motel. It's all arranged and paid for. I need one more night by myself. Then you can come home and we'll see what we'll see. I think starting tomorrow we may be able to live together again darling. Maybe happily. Even joyously. On my terms. But not if you're still the way you are. If you'll do what I say, maybe. Spend the whole day being a woman, Jack. That's what you say you want and that's what I've arranged for you. I bought those bras and dresses for you, and made all of your appointments for today. You should feel grateful. Spend one more night. Otherwise don't come home at all, and I'll think about how I want to share the pleasures of my new photograph album."

The line went dead. I hung up at my end, and sat there a while. Then I picked up the copy of Vanity Fair. A gorgeous young woman looked back at me, smiling with approval and congratulating me on becoming a darling little cocksucker, maybe even as good with the guys as she was. The magazine cover promised an article inside on four new male film stars worth masturbating over, and another on how to keep your man by fucking his brains out. I wasn't ready for this. I picked up Cosmopolitan. A randy lady on the cover in an undersized red evening gown, her breasts and shoulders exposed wherever they bulged out from the material. Inside, three ways to apply the new Spring lipsticks, and advice for girls who like to seduce other girls, not men. I started trying to read about lipsticks, but couldn't find the article among all the ads.

So I read the ads. My spirits picked up a little. Today I would be Jill's kind of woman. She had bought me clothing to wear. I thought about Medea, the jilted woman of Greek mythology who poisoned her husband with an impregnated cloak. No, Jill wanted me to change, by spending the day dressed up. By going to the beauty parlour? There were worse things than trying to be one of those drop-dead beauties in the perfume ads. Well, she seemed to be meeting me half-way even while rejecting me. I got up and looked more closely at the clothes hanging in the closet.

First off, I would try to pass without attracting attention. There was a pair of stone-washed blue jeans, and a shirt. I took them down, checked the underwear drawer for a bra and plain pair of panties, and put everything on. So far, fine. Everything a little snug, but basic. They fit. The bra gave me a little bulge in the chest when I set my shoulders back, but nothing noticeable. The pants were very tight in my buttocks, but glimpsing the curves in the mirror, and the sharp separation of cheeks they gave to my ass, I thought, not too bad. A pair of flats on the closet floor I recognized as mine, and I put them on -- no way they could be thought to be men's shoes, but I loved the way they curved on my instep. I went into the bathroom and shaved twice, then again, and started to think about how how much makeup I needed to get through the morning without seeming to be a man in women's clothes, when I suddenly realized it was ten minutes to ten. My first ever visit to a beauty salon as a woman! But of course they'd know at a glance that I was a man! But Jill had arranged it -- of course they already knew. My heart began to pound. I picked up my purse, checked that I had my room key, headed out the door, and saw a sign pointing to the Salon off the pool patio at the end of the corridor. I walked as rapidly as I could, hoping no one would see me and wonder what I was. No one did.

A woman in a pale purple smock looked up from arranging bottles on a work table when I came in. I glanced around -- there was no one else there. "I'm Jane," I said, in what I hoped was a persuasively high voice. She looked at me without changing expression. I almost added "My wife made an appointment for me...," but I choked it off, and just looked back at her, thinking that maybe I could get away with this. "Yes," the woman said, "How are you, Jane? Your wife wasn't sure your hair would be long enough for a really feminine style, but I think we can manage. Sit over here, dear, and we'll think about you for a while." I sat down. "Tell me, something your wife couldn't answer for you. Will you want a hairdo you can just comb out each morning and forget about all day, or do you like to primp and shape it with rollers and mousse and curlers and things? Some women like to fuss, and some hate it. Which kind are you?"

I loved fussing, but there was no way I could say so. "Is there a style I can sometimes wear, uh, plain?" I asked, meaning one that could look like a man's cut but still look feminine when combed right.

"Well, yes, Jane, but not for you. Your face is too large for a gamin cut. You could look really lovely if you had masses of hair framing your whole head, but that needs longer hair than you've got, I think. Besides, my instructions are, make you look as pretty as you can be right now. I tell you what. Leave it to me. I think for now a curly top barely covering your ears on the sides, high on top, with just a wisp of bangs, and you'll be just fine. Your earrings can just peek out. Not too hard to take care of, either. And as it grows out, it'll still look pretty. Different of course. But you can always have me do it again if you want to keep it the way it is. The way we're doing it now, I mean."

As she led me over to a sink, slipped a smock over me, and leaned me back for a shampoo, she asked "Tell me, honey, why is it you want to go all the way? I can understand a make over for a costume party and then back to business as usual the next day, sometimes men come in for those, but your wife tells me you'll want to look feminine for the whole foreseeable, no compromises, the more like a woman the better. She said she doesn't want anyone thinking you're anything else but, so you won't embarrass her when you're out together. Why is that? Did you lose a bet? Are you planning on an operation to change your sex? Or is she planning on being the one who wears the pants in the family?" She smiled at her little joke.

Well, there was news! That explained a lot about what was happening. Jill was willing to accept my dressing as a woman if there was no risk of embarrassment to her. I just had to do it better, "all the way." Not look like a man playing a role in drag, or a feminized man, but look like a real woman. For the first time that day I started to feel hopeful. Maybe our marriage would survive after all. Maybe it was worth my trying to help it survive. Jill had some kind of plan in mind, and if it allowed me to cross-dress at times I'd go along with it gladly. But "the whole foreseeable" wasn't "at times." "I think I may have won a bet," I replied. "But can I wear it sometimes to look like a man?"

"Well, yes, dear, but you'll look like a man with a lady's hair style if you try it. I mean to give you a perm, and some clusters of really cute curls. If you want, you can set them, and if you don't, you can reshape them with a little comb. I'll show you how. But even if you brush everything out straight, this hairdo won't be too easy to mistake for a man's."

I decided to deal with passing as a man another time. "Your name is Marianne?" I asked, reading off her name tag, trying to change the subject.

"Yep, Marianne. That's what it says, that's what it is, honey. Mari to my regulars. Are you saying you're going to be a regular from now on? Because with what we'll do with you today, you won't need to come in very often any more, or not for too long anyhow. Maybe a half-hour a week. Touch up, re-curling, fix your nails, change of color, little things like that. Maybe even every other week. Depends how perfect you want to look." She warmed to her topic. "You watch. Your wife is going to love this." She sat me back in her cutting chair, and pulled strands of my wet hair this way and that. "You know, you have real possibilities...."

Three hours later Mari had remade me. My hair was no longer a mousy dark brown but a gleam or so lighter, with a hint of blonde or reddish highlights, though still brown. It was no longer straight, turned under at the ends, but looked like a cap full of darling curls, with sweet little bangs coming down in front, and extending much further in back, so my nose no longer a little large, but just right. I was delighted with it when she took out the rollers and showed me how a touch of a comb here and there was all I'd need after sleeping on it, and how to reshape it into springy curls with just a brush and mousse after a shower, and so forth. In fact I was so pleased that I said "Now's fine," without thinking, then realized she had been saying that little studs would look much nicer than clipons until my hair grew out a little, and had just asked if she should do the piercing now or wait till next time. It was done before I could realize what I'd said. But my sudden worry when I saw little gold studs in my earlobes wasn't enough to break my cheerful mood. I really looked attractive! For me, anyhow.

My nails were deep pink, a shade she said would go with anything and never look trashy, though she told me I'd need a deeper red if I was planning to go out formal some time in a long gown. She laughed when she said this, and I asked her why. She replied that the thought of me in an evening gown had put in her mind an image of my wife in a tuxedo. She plucked my brows to their previous fine arch, darkened my lashes, and she put very light "daytime" makeup on my eyes and cheeks, hardly any. "You'll do," Mari finally said. I saw I was no smashing beauty, but as she looked me over Mari said she felt very good about me. So did I. My wife had tipped her heavily to make me look feminine, in no way a man, she told me. Now I not only looked no way a man, I looked like a very passable woman, pleasant to look at. "From the neck up," she added. I thanked her for the compliment, and could think of nothing more to say. She said she'd call me at home for another session in about two weeks' time. That sounded promising too. When I left the salon I felt better than I had in weeks, maybe even months, maybe even more.

Without a worry in the world I strolled down the pool patio toward the restaurant. Immediately I caught my reflection in a glass door, hunched over, defensive, and I realized that was how I had walked into the motel last night. So I paused, and took some deep breaths. I lifted my head high, straightened up, threw my shoulders as far back as I could get them, and was pleased to see two little bumps hinted under my shirt. Then when I next glimpsed my reflection I saw a cute looking woman with not much waistline and a kind of poodle cut and a bounce in her step. I had a cottage cheese salad for lunch, went back to my room to get my magazines, and had a new thought. For the first time I might be able to get away with wearing a swimsuit in public, without looking like a freak. I shaved all over again, but everywhere, my legs, chest, underarms, and arms, places I had learned not to look at when I was dressing for myself and my mirror. Then I put on the brand new one- piece bathing suit Jill had left in my room, looked at myself, took it off, and trimmed last night's bikini cutting on both sides of my pubic area. Then I put it back on. With its built-in padded bra I didn't need anything else. Even so, I slipped on the cover up and spent the afternoon at pool side reading beauty advertisements. Every now and then I got impatient with them, but even turning pages with my deep pink nails was a privilege, and I felt grateful for some reason. I needed to know what every girl knows about being attractive, alluring, ravishing, gorgeous, so I could try. Like every girl I would find my own compromises with these impossible ideals, my own style of femininity, a way to be poised, gracious, and beautiful in my own mind.

People came and went, and glanced at me, or looked casually while listening to someone talk to them, paying me no real attention at all. It was a warm afternoon, and I lay in the sun awhile, then fell asleep. When I awoke I was stretching luxuriously, like a huge cat. I realized why. The bathing suit pulled and stretched and shaped me in a way that would make any woman feel catlike when wearing it. It said as much on a tag still attached when I took it off its hangar. By the time I returned to my room it was 5:30. I ordered a sandwich from room service, and tried on the different dresses Jill had put in the closet. There was that darling cocktail dress, high-necked, black, subtly beaded, almost calling for those red nails Mari had mentioned. Whatever the evening activities Carl had mentioned, this would do. By 7:30 I was wearing it, had adjusted my makeup for the evening, and was back studying the magazine ads, waiting for Carl to show up with my schedule. I wondered if he was supposed to be my gentleman escort for the evening, and where he would take me, and whether there would be other women there to help me polish my movements and manners, to perfect my behaviour the way Marianne had perfected my hair, face, and fingernails. Whatever lay in store, I intended to be a lady, and unashamed to be a lady. I wanted my wife to be proud of me.  
 
Chapter 6
 
There came a knock on the door promptly at eight, and there was Carl. But he wasn't wearing his room service white jacket -- instead he was wearing a casual shirt, slacks, and a light sport jacket, resort wear. As he came in he looked at me with an appreciative half-smile, and said "My but you look lovely. That dress is very becoming. I saw you lying by the pool this afternoon, and thought Mari had done wonderful things with you." He was carrying a clipboard, as earlier.

"Thank you," I replied, thinking that this was my first compliment from a gentleman, and thinking that if I weren't the lady of the house I would have felt an impulse to curtsy. "I think so too. But tell me, Carl, what's the schedule for me for this evening."

Carl smiled and looked into my eyes. "Me," he replied. His smile and his gaze remained fixed on me, unwavering.

"What's that?" I asked. I felt a twinge of fright. I suddenly remembered my wife's note from last night, when she was gloating over trapping me into sucking Tom's cock, and had told me if I wanted more before bedtime I should ask the blond young man. This one.

"No, you're mistaken," I said firmly. I realized I had just suddenly snapped into feeling and talking like a man, for the first time today. I felt a little silly to be doing it in a cocktail dress. But there was a lot at stake. I loved looking like a woman, but that didn't mean I wanted to be a woman. Not where sex is concerned. A heterosexual crossdresser is not a homosexual submissive! My body was my own! And so was my pride! "I have this note from my wife that says she made no arrangement with you. And I have no money."

Carl looked at his note-pad, then turned over a few pages and smiled at me again. "No, Jane, my arrangement with your wife is quite clear. She told me to leave you alone last night, then to bring you breakfast this morning and to introduce myself. For tonight her instructions are, let me see." He glanced down the upper half of a sheet of paper, arrived at something further down, then read it aloud:

"Please see to it that by morning my husband feels like a woman in love, after a glorious night with you. I know you can do it. He's shy, and you may need to insist, and you can be as firm as you need to be. I hope he'll help, so you won't need to use force, or do any of those really punishing things you know how to do. Unless of course he wants you to."

Carl grinned up at me, then back down at Jill's instruction sheet. "Remember, he is still a virgin, as far as I know. He may let you be gentle with him, or he may not. But either way I want him to get the fucking of his life. No real damage to him, please. But if he can't sit for a week after you're finished with him, I'll understand. And months from now, if I see him smiling a secret smile and he won't tell me why, I'll know you've done for him everything I'd hoped. He wants to be a woman. Turn him into a woman. Give him the sexual experiences and reflexes and memories of a woman."

Carl read on silently a moment more, beamed at what I took to be some extravagant compliment, then looked up at me and put the note away. "An absolutely wonderful woman, your wife," he said to me. "To arrange a present like this! To arrange for you to live your deepest fantasies for a whole night! To change your very identity. And to keep it a secret until this very moment! You know, I'm quite expensive. She must love you very much."

I sat down on the edge of the bed in my cocktail dressed, stunned, all dressed up with no place to go. For some reason I felt demure at that moment, and I hated the feeling. It was so dependent, and helpless. Here I thought I knew what Jill had planned for me, and she had crossed me up again! Or rather, she was carrying out a plan of her own with a relentlessness I couldn't believe! She wanted me to submit to Carl, to be mortified, embarrassed, cheapened, and degraded by him. This was no path toward womanliness! This was pure and simple vengeance! For Darlene again. I couldn't believe it!

Carl looked at me, obviously pleased with himself, and eager to be of service. "Now," he said, "is there some special fantasy you'd like to perform with me, that you're a patient and I'm a doctor, or that you're a whore and I'm your best customer, or that you're a prisoner and I'm a prison guard, or that you're a schoolgirl and I'm a headmaster? Anything at all?"

"No," I said, "just that I'm Jill's husband, and you're the man she has hired to fuck me over."

"All right, Jane," he said. "Then let's begin. There's a beautiful peignoir in the closet. I think you saw it? And the sheer nightgown you were wearing this morning when I served you breakfast."

"Yes"

"And a makeup case in the bathroom, and more cosmetics in your purse?"

"Yes"

"A lovely word, 'yes.' It sounds so beautiful when you say it. I want you to put all those lovely things on and to make yourself especially beautiful for me. You will want me to be impressed by your efforts when I next see you. I assure you, you will. O yes, you'll also find some feminine douche kits in the medicine cabinet, and an enema kit. I want you to use them all on your pussy by the time I return, in that pretty virginal rosebud you have hidden between those gorgeous globes of your derriere. Use all of them, one after another. Clean yourself out throughly. Your first experience must be as memorable and beautiful as your wife wishes it. We mustn't let anything stand in the way. Now, I've set aside a bottle of champagne for us, so we can toast everything that lies ahead of us tonight. I'll go now and get it. And I'll want to get some other things too."

He took my hand gently, and kissed it, and looked down on it as if the sight were too sweet to bear. Then with one hand he bent my fingers up, until the tendons stretched to the point of pain, and forced me to my knees. I looked up at him, a little alarmed. He looked back down with doting affection, but maintained his one-handed grip. "You're not going to be troublesome I know, because you'd only get hurt. You're going to do everything I ask. Don't worry. You'll love it. This is really a kind of honeymoon for you, and I will want you to remember it always, and to smile always whenever you remember."

I couldn't say anything. His grip on my hand was just this side of real pain, and it was obvious he wasn't exerting any pressure on me at all, yet.

"Now Jane, just three questions. Please answer each of them. It's true that your pussy is virginal? You'll cooperate with my efforts and your wife's desires for you? You expect to feel grateful to both of us afterward?"

"Yes," I said, "Yes, I will. Yes."

He stared at me, then smiled. "Good!" he said. "I won't be long, darling girl." And he was gone. The door closed.

I immediately thought about escape. But that would mean the end of my marriage, with no hope ever of a reconciliation. That was clear. Well, I thought, there is nothing for it. Jill wants to punish me, and she has found this bizarre way to do it. This guy is going to fuck me, with or without my consent, and she expects me to let him, and I have to go through with it or she won't take me back. This is sucking Tom's cock all over again, and more! But if I do go through with it, would she ever take me back anyhow? Why should she? How could she respect me as a man ever again? There'll only be my further degradation for her to mock me with. Or is she just asserting more control over me now? Is this some kind of kinky test of my obedience to her? But there has never been anything kinky about Jill. In fact, that's been one of her problems.

Then I thought. Obedience. That's an odd word for me to use. Love, honour, and obey. Maybe what she wants is for me to learn what it's like to be a married woman, since my wanting to look like a woman has so offended her, and in fact has gotten me where I am right now. Part of that is getting laid by a man. So she wants me to get laid. If I'm going to wear panties, then I should know what it's like to feel a prick in me. Then maybe, in her mind, I'd be less of a fake.

I thought some more. No, I suddenly realized. She wants more than that. She wants me to want to get laid. She has her own ideas about me. It isn't being like a woman she thinks I need to learn -- she knows I've played at that all my life. And it isn't being made to do things women do, and gay men, like last night with Tom. That's just part of punishing me because she knows I don't want to have sex with other men. Not all young girls dream about sucking cock when they grow up. She doesn't suck cock herself, and she's a woman, at least she's never wanted to put her mouth on my cock, though maybe last night with Tom. No, she's devious. She wants more. She wants me to stop feeling ashamed to be seen dressing like a woman or behaving like a woman.

Good grief! She thinks that my feeling ashamed to be seen as a woman is unmanly! Only a wimp is ashamed of anything he wants to do. And to feel ashamed to be a woman is to insult all women! Does she want me to be a woman without apology? Yes. She expects me to want Carl to make love to me. And she wants me to want to make love to Carl. Her darling little cocksucker, she called me. She was mocking me then. But this is different.

I began to understand. She was mocking me because I felt humiliated when I had to suck on a cock, and she had set it up and rubbed it in. Now if I feel humiliated with Carl, she'd mock me again, and punish me even more. But I can escape her mockery by enduring whatever she dishes out without minding. Or I can escape mockery and punishment by wanting to do it, as if I were a real woman with real desires and a stud in her bed. Queers suck cock and take it in the ass and love it without feeling humiliated, because that's what they want to do. The same must be true for any woman, if she does what she wants to do. If I were the woman I claim I like to feel myself, sex with a man wouldn't feel humiliating. This isn't a punishment. In fact, it can be something beautiful.

So there's the answer. If I want to do it, then there's no humiliation. She wants me to want to do it. She's not punishing me with Carl, she's teaching me to be proud of my womanly desires, and to let Carl awaken them. She's even teaching me a kind of manhood. Real men are never ashamed of what they do. What did John Wayne say, "Never apologize, never look back." Of course the idea is disgusting.. A cock up my rear end! But I can do it. A man can be tough when he has to be. Tough enough to want to get reamed.

I decided I would submit to whatever Carl had in mind, if that was what it took to save my marriage. That wouldn't mean I really wanted to submit to Carl. Just that I wanted Jill. And I had promised Jill I'd go along with whatever she asked me to do. Here I am, fresh out of the beauty salon, and I never looked more like a woman. Now she says I should make love to Carl the way a woman would, and to love it. That's what I'm going to do.

With that decision out of the way, I really did want to submit to Carl. Part of me was genuinely curious what it was like to get fucked by a man. Despite myself, I realized I was already looking forward to getting fucked, in fact beginning to feel a certain trembling excitement about it. Last night I went through the motions of cocksucking Tom's prick, trying to feel nothing, thinking it was an ordeal I had to go through so Tom would continue to think I was a woman, when in fact he was thinking what Jill had told him, that I was a shy faggot. Tonight I can actually find out what women feel when they're with men. There had to be something they find attractive. They all want to do it, most of them. And from a woman's point of view, Carl is pretty good looking.

So it's arranged. Tonight, my inviolable virgin asshole will become a much-ravished pussy. And there is nothing I can do about it. Well, since I have no choice, I decided, I will set my manhood aside for the night, somewhere where it can't be violated or touched. Then I won't feel perverse or queer or debased. They want me to be a woman. I'll be a woman. I'll try to want to be a woman. For one night, anyhow. To see what there was to see.

I got up and headed for the bathroom. Then something else unexpected happened. I should have been resenting Jill, but I started to feel grateful toward her, and the feeling spread. She had left me a pretty negligee to wear, and a swimsuit. She had arranged a complete salon make over, something she knew I'd love but wouldn't have the nerve to arrange for myself. Now she's arranged for me to spend the night being a woman in love with her lover. She isn't denying my wanting to feel feminine, or mocking it, she's confirming it. I don't have to resent this. I can even thank her. All I have to do is go with the flow.

A whirlwind of thoughts, but I was pretty sure I'd arrived at an accurate understanding of my predicament. Whatever I was, whatever I wanted to be, Jill wanted me to proud of myself. My sneaking around was what had offended her. Of course Jill was devious. She had other things in mind as well. But this much I understood.

So I decided to go all out. I would go look for bubble bath crystals or body oils among the things laid out there, and take a bath, so when Carl came back he would find me clean and soft and perfumed. And I needed to prepare myself in other ways. This night was already a learning experience, and it hadn't even begun.

When Carl came back I was already in the bedroom, dressed in my nightgown and peignoir, my skin softened and scented like a field of flowers, looking to see how many pillows I could heap up on the bed toward whatever bliss we might find in each other. My pussy felt utterly empty, maybe too empty, and inserting so many different enema and douche nozzles into it had made me aware that the opening was a muscle I could tense or loosen. Carl extended the champagne bottle ahead of him as he came through the door, as if it were a line of defence he hoped would hold. I walked right through it. "Carl," I said, "I've been waiting for you. You took so long."

"I didn't want to hurry you, darling," Carl replied. "You had so much to do, and to think about."

"Yes, I did," I replied, "And I thought about it. But in the end you were most of what I was thinking about." I reached toward him, and grasped him, and placed my lips on his, hoping he would be able to do something to make me feel less silly.

He did. He set the champagne bottle down, and leaned forward into me, and grasped me around my waist with one arm, and around my shoulders

with the other, and gave me the deepest kiss I have ever experienced. He had soft warm lips, and a warm wet mouth. I leaned back as he leaned forward, and he pulled me into him, and we melted into each other, and I felt his tongue enter me and probe, and delicately lick my tongue. I pressed my body closer to him and he lowered his arm behind me, and then gently lifted my crotch into his. He was hard. I could feel it. An hour ago I would have felt sickened. But now I rubbed myself against him, aware that I was also hard. Involuntarily, I let out a loud sigh. "Please," I said, "What can I do?"

"Well," he answered."You can bring us some glasses. We need to toast your new understanding."

I found two and brought them over. He sat on the couch and filled them. I sat next to him, as close as I could. I actually hoped he could smell my perfume! He put his arm around me, and I snuggled into its crook. It was very comfy. He handed me a glass, and I looked at him.

He looked down directly into my eyes and said, "Jane dear, look into my eyes. To the night that lies ahead of us. Now we drink, slowly, steadily, and we keep looking into each other's eyes and keep sipping. It's an old Danish custom."

My feeling for him got incredibly intense as I looked into his eyes! I began to feel eager to submit to him. Of all things, my erection got even harder. He continued to look into me with his half-smile, deeper and deeper, and neither of us said anything, and I looked back at him. His eyes were blue. Suddenly I lost it. I let out a moan and yielded up my core, and threw my arms around his neck and poured kisses onto his face. His cheeks felt slightly bristly on my lips, like any man's when freshly shaved, and I could smell some kind of after shave. But I didn't care. He was just a wonderful, lovely man!

"Jane," he said gently, "Let's just sit here quietly for a moment. But I do know how you feel!" So I snuggled in against him and let a wave of deep affection for him wash through me. I had decided I would willingly let Carl make love to me. But things were moving very fast. Now I was eager to make love to him!

His first move surprised me. "Jane," he said. "I want to please you. Let me kiss you snd caress your breasts. Let me kiss your pussy and your clit. I want you to lie back and relax, and do nothing. I want you to empty yourself of yourself, then fill yourself with me. Lie back on these pillows."

I did as he asked, realizing that in my nightgown, with my beautiful nails and curled hair, I felt luxuriously feminine. He asked me to throw my arms over my head and rest them on the pillows above me, exposing my bosom (if I'd had any), certainly leaving my erogenous nipples wide open to him, and he asked me to lift my knees slightly and spread them, and he smiled. There I was, sprawled languorously like Camille waiting to receive her first lover of the evening.

He leaned over and kissed me again, first on the mouth, then on my neck. Sliding my nightgown's straps over my shoulders, he bared my chest and my nipples, and began to kiss them, oh so sweetly. I began to dissolve in erotic feeling as my nipples engorged, and he kissed each in turn. It was so sweet, so very deep, so very loving, as my nipples grew and their feelings spread through my whole body, and they yearned after his mouth. His lips circled and puckered on the very tips of my nipples, and gently began sucking them, first one then the other, and I went into a glorious trance, my eyes closed, my face glowing, and time passed and I was in heaven. I never wanted more to be a woman, and never felt more wonderfully fulfilled as a woman. After a while his lips moved down to my navel. I stretched back further and heard my throat begin to purr aloud, in a high and husky sound, feeling just lovely as his mouth worked further down, then reached my throbbing cock, and engulfed it. Magically, almost at once, I came. He swallowed me and continued as if nothing had happened, with an even greater passionate concentration. I softened, then hardened again.

He paused, got off the bed, then came around between my legs and reached to caress my breasts, and again my nipples felt an exquisite desire for ... something unnameable feminine. As his fingertips danced on my nipples, his head bent down to suck and lick and kiss my penis in ways more intricate than any Tom had told me. My feelings of joy went deeper and deeper, and he brought me off a second time. These spasms I felt deep under my mound, and I sighed aloud with the beauty of it all, then just lay there. I had never felt more sensually at ease. My arms were still sprawled luxuriously over my head. He smiled, kissed my flaccid penis tenderly one more time, and came out from between my legs to lie by my side on the pillows. On impulse I embraced him, and then kissed him tenderly. I felt just glorious.

I was lying entwined alongside him when he spoke. "Janie," he said. "I think the moment has come. We are going to make love as man and woman." I felt a pang of fear -- I knew he was heading toward it, but here it was. "There's nothing to worry about," he said. "You'll love it. Trust me. You'll love it. Just do what I say, and you'll love it."

"All right."

"Here I am lying here face up, looking at your dear face alongside me. Why don't you just straddle me while I lie here. Spread your knees as wide as you can on each side of me, and sit on my crotch."

I did. I could feel his dick was already quite hard. Mine was still slack, sucked out.

"Now raise yourself up just a bit, so I can lubricate both of us." He reached for a tube on the bed stand and did just that, working a fistful of it on his cock and then gently, gently, reaching under me, he stroked my anus with his finger, spreading a film of jelly all around it. Then as his hand began to feel nice, a little ticklish, I felt a soft finger press on my opening and then into it. My sphincter clamped down on it, and he seemed amused. "Not yet, Janie," he said. "Be patient, love." Then he pulled out. He slathered more jelly on his finger, then re- entered me, and worked his digit in and out for a few minutes, gently, even delicately. The ring of muscle guarding my opening relaxed.

"Please, bend down. I want to kiss your breasts."

I raised myself up off his hand, but the finger and hand followed my bottom as it rose, continuing to move inside my rectum. It was beginning to feel interesting, even a little delicious. Then I leaned my chest over him, and he licked first one nipple, then the other. Then his free hand caressed one nipple while he sucked delicately on the other, tonguing it. The same wave of lovely feelings I had felt earlier returned, and again I melted. I had to kiss him, and I did, with increasing passion, while he continued to touch and lick and caress my nipple tips, and underneath me he slathered more jelly on us. Finally he lifted his prick -- a long one by any standard -- and tucked it straight up between my cheeks.

"Now, dear, you feel the tip of my prick on your pussy opening, don't you."

I did. I wiggled my hips just a bit to seat it more firmly between my jellied cheeks, the head pressing on my hole...my pussy...but unable to enter.

"That's perfect. Janie you have nothing to fear. You are in charge. You will deflower yourself whenever you feel ready. Just press your pretty pussy onto me as you wish, whenever you wish, more or less, more or less." He took me by the waist for a moment and raised and lowered and raised me to demonstrate the rhythm. Then as if nothing further needed to be done, he returned to kissing and caressing my nipples. Then he reached for my penis with his lubricated hand, and began to smooth and cuddle it, and my belly and all of everything inside began to feel an immense yearning. My hips surged in the rhythm he had begun, up, and down, and I rotated my pussy opening a little while pressing in on him, each movement a bit more insistent as his prick pressed more and more firmly against my hole.

"Ahhh hahhhhhh" suddenly sang out of my throat in a soft soprano voice. He was in! My outcry of ecstatic pleasure surprised me. I pressed my vulva against his cock more persistently, each time increasing my pressure on the soft head of his remarkably firm prick until it was sliding in the slickness between my cheeks, and suddenly I felt a door open in my bottom, and he slid in three or four inches. I stopped. He was well inside me, I was sure of it. I wriggled again, and was sure. I felt stretched, and I felt an intense pressure, as if I were trying to crap something too big to pass, and I eased off, and began to feel just wonderfully full. Then I began to move down and up on him again, and his hips picked up my rhythm. With each movement I took more of him into me, then lifted to let more of him slide out, until only the tip remained, and then he moved up into me and I backed down onto him again. The ring of muscle closing my anus began to spasm at the bottom of each plunge, and I took more of him in, then more still, until incredibly, I found I was sitting flat on his crotch, my weight no longer on my knees but on my buttocks, my back arched, my head thrown way back, my eyes closed, my rear end and my bowels utterly packed with his meat, mindlessly blissful.

By now he was no longer kissing my chest but lying back with a beatific smile, eyes closed, hands on my waist, helping me rise and fall over him, one hand sometimes squeezing my flaccid penis ever so gently, caressing it so it felt just wonderful though it grew only slightly tumescent. Together we moved, and the harmony was musical. I wanted to make him come, to slide and squeeze his prick with my asshole until I could feel it was a true vagina, soaked and christened in cum. We picked up the pace, and the yearning within me increased. Faster, and I felt I was flying on him, my body dancing around his pole, impaled, joyous, sensations building until suddenly they burst. "Ohhhh Gahhhhhd!" I cried out as my asshole spasmed over and over on the base of his prick and my limp dick somehow squirted out more juice with each spasm, just as his hips gave a great thrust up and into me, and his hands clamped my waist and held me in a vise grip, and he emptied his balls into my vagina in a flood of pumping, his spasms triggering even more of mine. My bowel runneth over, I thought irreverently, and I fell down on him, near-unconscious with rapture, and gasped a few times before I could breathe deeply and catch up with myself.

His breathing returned to a more normal pace much sooner than mine. "Well dear, I don't think you're a virgin any longer," he said. I smiled at him weakly in reply. "No," I said in my feminine voice, without realizing I was using it, and then with enormous satisfaction and affection I added, "I'm not." Now that the ecstasy had subsided, I began to think I must have done havoc to my rear end. His cock was still thrust way inside, showing no sign of softening, but all around him I felt sore.

He reached out his hand to the nightstand again, picked up something, and said "Now Jane, lift yourself off me." I did, feeling terribly vulnerable, my sore ass up over him feeling altogether exposed as he sat up, leaned forward, withdrew, spread a cool lotion on my labia, and then in a single move suddenly inserted something very large into me, yielding but stiff, and pushed it home.

"What's that?" I asked, startled. "Now Jane dear, trust me," he replied. "You'll want to make love to me with your pussy some more tonight, won't you? A few more times, I'm sure. So we want to take good care of it for now. It's stretched out, and we want to keep it that way for later. And you have my sperm inside you, the world's best lubricant for later. So I've just put in a medicated plug, to sooth you and to keep you open, and to keep you from leaking. We'll keep it there except when I want to enter you and make love. By morning you'll be well stretched out and won't need it. In fact you'll probably leak for a few days whenever you try to stand up, until your pussy muscles get used to being closed again. But we'll take care of that later. After this night my dear, whenever you are feeling amorous with some young man, you'll find he can enter you much more easily than I did. But right now you need a butt plug. Come, lie down next to me."

The rest of the night went as he predicted. He fucked me in the ass three more times, once with me bending over the bed while he stood pumping me from behind, and caressed my breasts, once doggy style (it was only OK I thought), and once with me on my back and my legs held high on his shoulders, my pussy wide open to whatever he desired, Carl passionately kissing my face and neck all the while he was reaming me relentlessly down below. I loved it. I loved it all. It was remarkable how each time he used me I more and more thought of my anus as a vagina, feeling not like a sodomized man but like a fulfilled woman. I didn't come again that night, though during the last fucking my prick started to get hard, rubbing against his belly. The anal sex got very exciting, my prostate restimulated whenever he re-entered me. I loved it all. I've never really preferred men to women, but that night was the most sexually satisfying I have ever spent, and after that night I knew I could swing either way sexually if desire or need took me either way. That night it occurred to me I might not be merely a crossdresser but a transsexual, a real woman in a man's body. The feeling didn't last, but it seemed possible.

His performance was prodigious. Each time he fucked me he came, and just before the third time we had a reprise of my cocksucking session with Tom, and he came again. By then I wanted to suck on him, and swallow him, and eat him alive. Carl sat in an easy chair while I sank between his knees and eagerly licked and kissed and mouthed and caressed his beautiful prick while he showed me how to run my tongue along the full length of its underside, how to angle my throat to take him deeper into me, and finally how to swallow his cum even while matching my mouth's sucking rhythm to his head-fucking. By morning I had spent so much time pleasing him with my mouth and rear end, and had received so much pleasure from him, that I was half in love.

When dawn came I was sleeping curled up on him, my head on his shoulder, his earlobe still against my lips where I had been kissing it when I fell asleep, my arms and legs wrapped tightly around him. He carefully disengaged himself from me, and I woke up to hear myself make the most delicately feminine, sleepily petulant whine of protest I have ever heard from anyone. I tried to stop him by kissing his face and shoulders all over again, fawning over him. But no use. He stood up and dressed, then leaned over me and reached between my legs. For a moment I was hopeful we were beginning again, but all he did was check that his butt-plug was still in place.

"Didn't I tell you this would happen?" he said, mildly amused. "You aren't the first husband I've helped to discover the joys of being a doting wife, and you aren't the first who now, sadly, needs to be reminded that you are not my doting wife. You are your wife's." He said these things while gathering up his various implements and articles of clothing. I watched him a bit dismayed. I then felt dismayed that I felt dismayed.

Fully packed, he went to the door and blew me a kiss. "Goodbye love! O yes, your pussy is stretched, and it will leak for a day or two. When you take out the plug, I suggest you wear a tampon. You'll find some in your purse, where your wife put them before you came here. She knew you'd appreciate her thoughtfulness. I wish you a long and happy life Jane. We won't meet again."

He smiled at me reassuringly. "I loved it," he said. "You are a wonderful lover. You have nothing to be ashamed of." And while I tried to figure what he meant by this, he was out the door and gone.

Obviously, the way I felt now was the way Jill had wanted me to feel when I came home. Sore and complete, and a bit wistful. Satisfied, with no apologies. A woman fulfilled. I stretched back luxuriously, my arms again flung above my head like a houri whose Sultan has just left her, my eyes closed, smiling to myself. It was time to go home.  
 
Chapter 7
 
I sat up in bed for a moment, musing, looking at the door where Carl had just disappeared, and realized I was still smiling in almost feline contentment. The night just past, my sense of entrapment, my acceptance of the inevitable, my conversion to desire for a man, my deep satisfaction at being reamed, and my joy while giving my lover passionate head, all this had gone further than I had ever dreamed possible. I felt...well...lovely! I pushed myself up from the bed and stood up, my weight on one leg for a moment, twisting my hips as I rose, all in a single, gracefully sinuous movement I recognized as intimately feminine. That was how I felt! My smile broadened. This went far deeper than the pleasure I usually felt wearing women's clothing. I glimpsed myself in the mirror, my hair still set in Marianne's mop of curls. How could I have ever wanted to comb them out to look like a man? Despite the night's ravages it looked darling. I looked well- fucked. I felt it, too.

Time for a shower and change. I took out Carl's butt-plug, thinking I'd keep it as a souvenir. But now I was leaking! Carl's precious cum was escaping! I had to stop it and absorb it all was my immediate impulse, and I grinned even more broadly when I realized that was the silly instinctual sentiment of a smitten schoolgirl. Still, I wanted to absorb it all. I hopped over to my purse, got one of the tampons Jill had put there, and quickly inserted it -- I thanked my stars there were no cardboard or plastic plungers to learn to insert, just a pure tampon ready to expand inside me. Again a full feeling, but satisfying, and I felt proud to think of the string now hanging out of my butt as a symbol of my new womanhood. I had earned it, with all sorts of feelings of love and loss, and desire and regret

In the bathroom I noticed a jar of Nair, and thought why not? Though I was still clean shaven I spread the pink stuff all over me, waited until the itching was intense, then showered it all off. Now I felt like a baby's behind, and I wanted to maintain the momentum, hellbent to become all woman! My new curls held up beautifully. I toweled them off and fingered them into shape, and touched them with air from the blow dryer. My makeup took longer, but I kept to Mari's daytime light tones and remembered her instructions, not much of anything much, but never ignore eyes and cheeks. A little more grey on my lids and I felt fit to look at the world. I saw in the mirror that the studs in my ears were neat, the holes healing. I had thought yesterday that they were a too hasty impulse I'd regret. Now I was quite pleased with them. I felt like a woman. I loved it!

Back in the room I picked out a beige tailored suit that had been hanging in the closet this whole time, and found a purple silk blouse on the same hangar under the jacket. Jill had thought of everything. This was the coming home outfit she had planned for me, I was sure of it. I thought I had better call her.

The phone rang twice, and Jill's voice answered with her polite but neutrally brisk inquiry, "Hello, yes ?" I realized that today was a working day, and that she was probably off to the office in a few minutes.

"Hello," I said in a relaxed, friendly voice, sounding the way I felt, "This is your darling little cocksucker speaking. Just checking in to find out what you have planned for me for today."

"How was last night?" she asked a little cautiously. "Did it go well?"

"It went beautifully Jill. Really well. I loved it! Really!"

She sounded relieved for some reason. "Darling, that's wonderful. I was hoping you'd say something like that. Carl called a few minutes ago and said you couldn't have been more loving. But you never know. You sound just fine. Please come home now, and tell me all about it. I want you to come home, Jack."

"I'm Jane, Jill. I'm not sure where Jack is right now."

"Oh darling," she practically exploded into the phone, "I did so want you to feel that way! Do come home as quickly as you can!" She paused, then said in an amused tone, "Jack can come with you if you like. It's his home too. He can live here with us. But we have so much we can talk about now, Jane! I'll be here. I'm much too excited to go to work today." She hung up.

Well! She did have a plan the whole time, and I had changed right on schedule! Jack had left the house in sneaking shame, a cuckold abandoning his wife to a stranger, a wimp transvestite entrapped cocksucker, and now Jane returns a satisfied and un-self-conscious woman. There it was. Contempt for Jack the crossdresser, the fearful husband terrified to be found out. Admiration for Jane, a woman inside Jack at ease with her femininity and unashamed to be whoever she is. If Jack had not become Jane before Carl started in on him, then Jack would have been corn-holed and fucked and humiliated some more, like the previous night, and he would have deserved it. But instead he had become Jane, pleasured and loved and transported into the joys of loving, and as Carl had promised she had loved it, and would cherish the memories. Jill wanted to live with Jane. She was willing to let Jack hang around, but it was as if she was married to Jane! Could there be a little lesbian in her? Could that be why she never really warmed up to Jack? What am I saying? I'm still Jack too, but I'm not what he was, for sure!

I felt confused and excited at the same time. What a woman! Devious isn't the half of it! I packed everything up in a valise I found in the corner of the closet, as I knew I would, and carried it out. On my way I saw that the front desk was manned by the same impassive clerk I had met when I first arrived. "Goodbye, dear," I said to him, my voice as musical as my mood, "It's been a lovely stay. I believe my bill's been settled." He looked up.

"That's right Miss," he said. "Have a nice day."

This time when I reached the car I sat down in my skirt, twisted into the driver's seat, and drove home with brisk efficiency. If a cop stopped me and saw Jack's licence, so what! None did. I parked the car in our driveway and sat there a moment, then opened the door. There was Jill standing on the steps waiting for me, smiling. I turned carefully, put both feet together on the driveway, and then stood up. My butt was indeed feeling sore! And my pussy felt full, but the full feeling was nice in a new way. I realized I sort of liked it. I felt fulfilled!. Or maybe what I liked was what it reminded me of. My night of love. I took my purse and started walking carefully toward the steps.

"How are you, dear?" she asked, as I came toward her. "I see you've met Marianne. She gave you a wonderful hairdo. It suits you beautifully."

"Thank you," I said. "I think so too. I'm very well, Jill."

"Oh, and I see she's pierced your ears. Do you like them that way?"

"Yes," I said, "I like them." I meant to sound evasive, to yield her nothing, but it came out sounding a little smug. She heard it, and smiled again.

"Well, darling, welcome home. Why don't you go right upstairs and take a hot bath. You'll feel better. You'll find a fresh tampon on the upper shelf in the bathroom, if you need one. Or perhaps you'd prefer a pad?"

"No," I said, "a tampon will be fine."

She was visibly pleased by that answer. "That beige suit looks just darling on you, nicer than I'd thought it would be. But you'll want to change to something more comfortable now. I've lay out some clothes on our bed, and when you're ready to come down we'll have a long talk. Oh, we have so much to talk about!"

I walked past her holding myself a little stiff, trying not to limp. I heard her. "Our" bed. Well! A hot bath sounded just right. I went upstairs to the bathroom, ran the tub, and added a touch of bath oil without thinking, amused to discover it when the fragrance reached my nose. Then I stripped down and got in. After a long soak I stood up again, feeling very much at ease, and got out. Did I still leak? Better be safe. I found the box of tampons, changed my soiled one for a fresh one, and went into "our" bedroom feeling .. well...pretty neat. Nice. Dainty. Together.

I saw two outfits laid out on the bed, a man's blue polo shirt and slacks, jockey shorts, socks, and sneakers, and another stack of clothes a foot or so away, a white cotton blouse with plaid skirt, bra, panties, and flats. Well, well. One more test? Feeling just a touch defiant, I dressed in the blouse and skirt, touched up my lipstick, and went back down, still walking slowly. For some reason her face lit up when she saw what I was wearing. She was glad to see me. This was not the old Jill, not at all. But then I was not the old Jack. I was Jane. My own woman. And to my own astonishment, that's exactly who I was!

I knew she'd take charge of the conversation by sheer habit if I didn't get there first, so I started speaking from the stairway as soon as I saw her.

"Jill, I know what you were doing," I said. "It worked. I do appreciate it. But it worked better than you think. You wanted me to act like a man, to quit with the women's clothes. I couldn't. Then you wanted me to stop pretending I was a man, to acknowledge I was the woman I've been dressing up all these years. Now I've done it. Carl pushed me over. Before I was a man obsessed to look like a woman, but terrified to be discovered and disgraced. When you fixed me up with Tom, you didn't disgrace me, I did. I felt disgraced in my own eyes, because I was ashamed of who I was. But not now. Now I'm a woman and pleased to be a woman, in a man's body, but with the look of a woman, and I have access to my male identity when it suits me, so nothing's lost and nothing's at risk. But Jill, I feel like more of a woman than you were when you married me, because last night I wanted to do more than you have ever done or wanted to do to give pleasure to the man I loved, the man I loved last night, anyhow. You never felt that way about me."

That was the zinger! But Jill never winced. She simply sat in our large easy chair and looked at me as if I were a birthday present she hadn't yet opened. I sat down on the couch, slipped off my flats, tucked my legs up alongside me, straightened my skirt over them, looked at her, and waited.

She leaned forward and began an address to the jury. "Dear, from the moment I saw you walking toward me, so weary in your rear end but so comfortable and well-poised, wearing your new hairdo and new suit without any self-consciousness at all, your pierced ears telling me you're proud to look female and don't care who knows it, I knew my plan had worked. You're right. Before you weren't a man at all. You were unfaithful to your own manhood and to me, and you were sneaky and ashamed of the woman inside you. I wanted to punish you for all those betrayals, or else straighten you out, one or the other, once and for all. So I trapped you into a situation your manhood would find intolerable but your femininity would find intriguing, even delightful. You had to learn what every woman has to learn sooner or later, to submit to a man and her own desires without loss of self respect. You male ego thought getting fucked by Carl would be a catastrophe, and it would have been, to your male ego. So it went howling in terror from Carl's prick! But that allowed you to become what you are now! As I hoped, you committed to the woman in you, the woman you've always claimed was inside you, and you became that woman, someone able to enjoy a handsome stud like Carl. So you escaped from my trap, and now you're more of a whole person than you've been since I've known you. I think much happier too." Then she added, "Even though your tush probably feels a little used right now. But not ill-used I'll bet!" Her voice became more thoughtful, as if she were talking to someone like herself. "When we married we were both mistaken. You thought you wanted a wife, and I thought I wanted a husband. Well, maybe we did. Maybe in some ways we still do. I was so proper and innocent. But I'm not the same person I was. I've learned a lot about what I want. We can live together as husband and wife if you want, the two of us, if you really want to wear Jack's clothes and masquerade as Jack. But then we won't be husband and wife. I don't think either of us wants that, really, anyhow. You've always wanted to look like a woman and now you do, and you feel like one too, don't you love, and it isn't too bad, is it? Now you're a woman in your heart. I love what you are now. I think we can live together very happily as woman and wife. That's what I want."

Now she began to sound a little uncertain, even vulnerable. It was very appealing. "I'm not sure what we'll be with each other. Maybe sisters. Maybe girlfriends. Lovers, I think. Or all of these. But we'll live together as women, in every respect, and then we can respect each other in everything. Are you willing to accept this?"

I was overwhelmed. If she had waited a few days to ask me, when the passion I felt for Carl had faded, and undeniable physical thrill of getting reamed in the ass was finally understood as no more than that, and the novelty of feeling myself unashamed to be a woman had lost its novelty, I might have given her a more carefully considered answer. Maybe a different one. As it turned out, the man in me was still very much alive and well, though I didn't know it just then. I think she knew it, and wanted to move fast, with her lawyer's sense of timing. But I was so overwhelmed that she wanted me at all, especially wanted me to be that marvelous thing I was feeling myself to be, a woman newly liberated from feeling ashamed of it, that my eyes filled with tears. I nodded to her, unable to speak.

"You're sure, dear? A woman? No backtracking? No second thoughts? You'll be a woman with me? You want to? Really?"

"I do." It sounded a little like a wedding ceremony, but she seemed to want to hear the words. In a way it was a wedding ceremony. We were re-marrying each other. And once I said the words, there was no pulling back. Then suddenly a wicked impulse possessed me. "Wait a minute. If I move back here with you, do I get to keep my own bedroom?"

She looked surprised. "Oh yes, dear. If you want. But I hope you won't want it."

"Oh, no," I replied. "Not at all. This will be interesting."

Now it was her turn to look at me with a wicked grin. "It'll be more than interesting, dear. It'll be fun! Something we haven't had much of lately. In fact, not much at all!"

She stood and came over to me, and kneeled by the couch and hugged me, and then kissed me with more passion than I had ever seen in her. "We're going to have such a wonderful life together, sweetheart. Darling, now that I know who you are, and you know who you are, I want to make it all up to you. I love you."

And to my amazement she lifted back my skirt, and pulled down my panties, and as my prick rose to meet her mouth she went down on me. She started to suck me with her lips shaped in a large sweet "O", devotedly kissing the head of my prick every time her lips touched it. "I see that Tom taught you a few things too, didn't he, dearest," I said. She nodded, I think, though it was hard to tell from the way her head was bobbing. So I showed her how to lick the underside from root to crown, and how to angle her head to take me deep into her throat. When I came, she swallowed almost all of it, and looked up at me in triumph. I bent over and kissed her, my cum still on her lips. "Happy Birthday to both of us, darling," I said. "Yes," she murmured, our open mouths pressed tightly against each other. Her tongue pushed some cum still in her mouth over into mine, and it seemed to me a sweet sharing of our new life together. And so it was. But now I know she was also getting on with the next phase of her plans for me, with as little delay as possible..

The next few weeks were the happiest I had ever had, worth all the humiliation and misery I had felt earlier. My wife loved me, openly and with joy, with none of the judgemental reserve, sometimes even the hint of scorn, I had sensed in her even before we were married. As she told me, she now knew what she wanted, and that was me.

That is, she wanted the womanly me, me as a woman. I had no problem with that, because after all the suppression Jane had endured that was what I wanted too. We returned to many of our old ways, taking turns fixing dinner, sleeping snug together in our old bedroom, but with a playfulness that was missing earlier. Our first night after my return from the motel I took out my most delicately feminine nightgown, all embroidered pink satin delicately edged in black lace, and put it on, and touched perfume behind my ears and on the pulse points of my wrists, not sure how she'd react to such blatant self-presentation. Then while she readied herself in the bathroom I began moving my undies from my former bedroom back to our bedroom, reclaiming my old bureau drawers, determined she should see me standing full length in the finery I intended to wear to bed that night, previously absolutely forbidden. I wanted her to see my lingerie as also an inalienable part of me. She came in and looked at me, and the sweetest smile lit up her face, and she opened her arms wide.

"Oh, dearest, you look just lovely. Are you wearing that beautiful gown for me? I love it! You look so darling! Come, give me a kiss!"

So I came over to her, and she enfolded me, and I melted into her mouth, and her lips were as soft as Carl's had been. It was wonderful. I felt like her delicate, demure, cherished lover, as she swept me over to the bed while still kissing me, and lay me down gently, and settled herself on top of me with even greater gentleness, and tucked my risen penis into her crotch and snuggled down onto it, and leaned over so I could kiss and lick and suck on each of her breasts in turn, each a delight, each rapturous, while we moved against each other and I felt myself grow harder, sliding inside her with more and more firmness and lunging into her with greater determination, as she grew more frantic, and cried out "Oh!" "Oh!" and "Oh!" repeatedly, until we both peaked and orgasmed together.

Then we lay there marvellously at our ease, smiling tenderly at each other.

"Tell me, what did Carl do to you that made you most feel like a woman," Jill asked in a quiet voice, as if she didn't want either of us to wake up.

"You know," I replied, not sure whether she did.

"Yes I do," she said complacently. "And you are going to be my woman the same way, darling. But was there anything else? Did he find any little secret places to make you go all soft and feminine and loving and doting?"

"Yes," I said. She waited, a half-smile on her face. Then very shyly I told her. "My breasts. He kissed my breasts, on the nipples. It was heavenly."

"Oh?" she asked. "Like this?" And her head tucked under my neck and her tongue began to lick my nipples, one after another, and then she pursed her soft, billowy lips and began to nurse on them. My back arched up to sink my nipple into her mouth in ecstasy! "Oh God!!" I cried in joy. She took hold of my penis and squeezed and caressed it delicately, and even before I had gotten fully hard I came yet again. Then we fell asleep wrapped up in each other.

In the morning the same thing again, this time with me sprawled on top between her legs, pumping sweetly into her and passionately kissing her neck while she squirmed in delight and caressed my chest until her fingers found my nipples, and she gently tweaked them, then sucked on them. I felt then that I would do anything for her, anything! "Oh, fuck me, fuck me," she said quietly as I humped her over and over and she pressed eagerly back onto me on each stroke, until we both came again. I was in heaven, and lay there floating as Jill got up. "I'll fix breakfast this time," she said as she slipped on a robe, kissed me, said "Don't forget your tampon," grinned sideways at me, and disappeared out the door.

And of course I went out dressed whenever I needed to do so. Back to the motel so Marianne could touch me up. Shopping. With my hairdo and my ears pierced and casual clothing and feminine shoes and the movements Jill had taught me earlier, I looked like a woman at first glance, and no one I encountered bothered to look more closely. In a hardware store a young clerk explained solicitously to me how to tell a pipe wrench from an adjustable end-wrench, because of course no woman could know. Salegirls asked if I had seen the new silk camp shirts yet, just in, when I was browsing for a blouse. Other women smiled at me when they noticed I was glancing at their hair and clothing in passing, checking out how they did themselves up, and I smiled at them in turn. We belonged together. Much of the time I was unaware I was cross-dressed at all, and just went about my business and then came home.

After a few weeks of this bliss, Jill came home late one night, having phoned earlier with apologies for the sudden emergency come up that needed tending. I waited up wearing a short waltz gown, demure and pretty, checking my makeup now and then. I wanted to be truly beautiful for her when she saw me. I suppose I was, because she came through the door, and set her briefcase down, and we swept into bed clasped together, barely pausing to strip Jill of her panty-hose. She dove for my breasts like a starved infant, first with her fingers and then with her mouth and tongue, and I was transported to paradise. I suckled her with a sweet tender feeling in my belly I'd never felt before, cradling her head lovingly. Then I entered her, and came almost at once. She hid any disappointment she felt at being denied her orgasm, but when I had softened but not yet slipped free from her she asked if I would mind kissing her down below, just once. She knew I had once wanted to, and she hadn't let me, but now she would love to know what it felt like. Another wish fulfilled! I kissed her by way of reply, then quickly reversed myself on her body, pressed my head between her legs and began to tongue and suck and mouth and lick her slit with an impassioned ardour I had never felt for any part of her before.

Almost at once she clenched my head between her two powerful thighs until I could hardly breath, and wrapped her arms around my own thighs with her head buried deep in my damp crotch, and rolled us over, so my face was beneath her. Then she began grinding her cunt into my mouth, and as I licked she began pulsing in orgasm. Immediately my mouth filled and my nose and face and chin were coated with a sticky substance. I realized it was partly her juices, but mostly my own fresh cum draining out of her. Again it tasted sweetly salty, as with Carl, and as with Tom, but creamier. I supposed that was my unique flavour, tasted in her. I loved it that I could taste myself inside her, and I tongued and lipped her so devotedly that she began moving over me again, then moaning, and writhing, and with great cries of "Ahhh! Ahhh!" she came yet again. As she calmed down and her breathing grew steady I rolled us over, turned myself again to look into her eyes, and again kissed her face.

She took mine in both hands and held it. "I hope its all right," she said. "I didn't mean for you to be tasting cum just yet, again, other than your own, if you didn't want to. But I loved what you were doing! I just loved it! I couldn't get enough."

What she said puzzled me a little, but I assured her that women love the flavour of a man, or should, and that I loved being a woman with her as well as a man, and if I could taste myself as a man inside her I loved that too. "Oh darling," she said, "then please, let's always do this afterward, whenever we make love? I do so love the thought of you drinking cum out of me. It tells me you're a woman with me even when you're a man." I told her I was delighted to oblige. And I was. And thereafter that's what we did. I got so I couldn't tell her taste from my own.

A few days later Jill resumed with her plan to make me into the girl of her dreams, as it seemed. It began innocently enough. "Well," she said as she got out of bed one morning, "Let's see what kind of a woman I'm married to." She looked at me closely, benign but critical. "Your hairdo is perfect for now, but we'll think more about it as it grows out. Your face needs attention, dear -- you've got to begin electrolysis." She looked over the rest of me carefully. "You know Jane, I never realized that Jack had such potential when he wanted to look female. You're marginal right now, and need more work, but I think you're going to look very nice, really beautiful in a way. Especially after you begin your hormone therapy."

"Jill," I said, "I already look nice, I think. And what hormone therapy?"

"Another ten pounds lighter would be nicer too I guess," she said, ignoring my question, still checking me out. "You're beginning to have a lovely figure, too, but it's time we thinned your waist down some more and rounded you out. We both start dieting this morning. Really. You shower first, honey, and then get dressed. A simple daytime dress, or blouse and skirt, nothing fancy, but panty-hose, and whatever shoes are comfortable and pretty. Just casual shopping this morning, and a stop or two. I want to make a few calls."

With her return to thinking about my practical improvement I realized that the past few weeks had been our new honeymoon, more rapturous than the original one by far. Then we were both more inhibited sexually, and had different ideas about who we each were and what we each needed. Now we knew. Or I did, anyhow. I was still feeling exalted. The more openly I allowed myself to dress and look like a woman, the happier I felt, I realized, first with Marianne, then with Carl, and now with my very own wife. I mentioned this to Jill, and she hugged me and said "I know, darling, I know. It's true. I'm so happy that you think so too."

I slipped out of my nightgown and into the shower, letting the hot water wash away all of the juices from our lovemaking. When I stepped out I saw a large bottle of body lotion waiting for me on the bathroom stool. While rubbing it all over and feeling it soften me, I remembered to check my tampon. At Jill's suggestion I had taken to wearing one all the time, "for the time being," she said. It was beginning to feel more natural for my pussy -- my rear end -- to be stuffed with something soft and comfortable. I kind of liked it. I slipped into a plain underwire bra and pantihose, a flowered shirt and a plain dark flared skirt, and my nicest black flats. I decided to do my hair and face after breakfast, and I headed down. When I arrived in the kitchen Jill was just hanging up the phone. "Well, there we are," she said, making an entry in her appointment book. "You're a busy girl today. But I think you're going to be a happy one." I kissed my wife. "I'm happy now," I said. And I was.
 
 
Chapter 8
 
Well, our honeymoon period was the happiest of my life. Whatever Jill may have done to me, she gave me those weeks, and I will always love her for them. Not that there weren't many other happy weeks that followed, some deliriously happy. But they weren't quite the same. That first night after Marianne and Carl transformed me, and the next morning, and during the weeks that followed, I thought Jill had accepted me completely for what I was or had become, a man who played out his feminine nature as a woman, who loved playing at being a woman. And she had accepted it, in a way. That was the key to our reawakened passion in our marriage, our newfound love for each other. What I didn't realize in my delight with this new state of things, was that in any relationship like the one we'd reached, Jill was still going to determine and control things.

And Jill had decided for herself what kind of a woman I was, and what was best for me. She was determined to see that I got it whether I wanted it or not. She loved me as Jane the woman, and respected the residual man who wanted to be more of a woman, but she had only contempt for the man in me who still wanted to remain a man. She wanted no part of Jack. So she decided to overwhelm Jack by force-feeding fulfilment of my feminine desires, as she preferred to think of them. In fact, she remained as devious as ever, sharing herself freely with Jane, and hiding from Jack anything that might spook him. Some things she hid from Jane too.

Her strategy required that she sweep me along on a wave of enthusiasm she always seemed to believe I shared, playing eagerly with her new girlfriend and wife, freely exploring with me her own previously suppressed desires, exulting in any new signs that I was a woman in a new way. Or so it seemed. She was delighted that her crossdressing husband was no longer ashamed of himself, and had become her feminine companion and lover. I was in seventh heaven because I thought that now I could play out whatever my gender fantasies either way at will. But my seventh heaven was a fool's paradise -- things were already out of my hands.

I didn't see it until later, but Jill was moving to eliminate my masculinity altogether, as fast as she could. She had in mind that I do womanly things with and without her until they became habitual. That included shopping, and trips to the beauty salon, and so forth. But she had in mind much more. I thought Carl had taught me all I needed to learn about being a woman sexually. But it seems my wife had decided my body should be much more female. That was what had so delighted her when I returned from my love tryst with Carl, no longer ashamed to be a transvestite, my mind apparently already gone all the way toward becoming a female. She knew that I really wanted to be a woman, not just look and feel like one at times, transsexual, not merely a transvestite, whatever I thought I wanted, and she knew that transsexual women, once they are women, prefer sex with men, because they are after all women, whatever they think they want (and in fact, most continue to prefer women). She knew what was best for me. I didn't.

So she never discussed these complicated matters with me, convinced that Jack the wimp in me was alive and ready to balk at anything unaccustomed. She just did it, step by step. And I went along. I was so thrilled to explore my newfound womanhood with her, and by her apparent delight in every step I took, that I didn't even notice where she was taking me. When I finally did notice, there was no returning. In fact it's only by an odd coincidence that I'm not a full scale post- op transsexual woman right now, the way she was moving me along. But we'll get to that.

As she had said, I was a busy girl that day. A few days after we remarried as woman and wife, I begun to go out dressed only as a woman, by myself, or with Jill to restaurants, or to concerts where we sometimes even encountered friends who regretted that Jack was out of town so frequently. Any outing became routine, and apart from making sure I was dressed appropriately I gave going out no further thought.

But this particular day was not routine. Breakfast was a single glass of diet supplement and a cup of black coffee, and then I went back up and teased my hair into little curls the way Marianne had showed me, and dabbed on a bit of scent, and put on a touch of mascara and lipstick, and clicked my purse shut, feeling very good, quite satisfied with what I saw in the mirror. Jill wasn't. Not yet.

I realized that right away, when we walked into a downtown beauty salon and were ushered directly into a private booth, where a young woman inspected my face closely and then asked Jill if she should begin immediately. "Begin what?" I asked? Jill nodded, and the woman told me "This will feel like a series of pin pricks, dear, but it will make things much easier for you later on. Just think of each pin prick as a hair you'll never have to shave again. If we do this three times a week, in six months your skin will be just lovely." I realized that she was talking about electrolysis, and sure enough, for the next two hours the hairs on my neck were electrocuted so they could never grow back. I didn't want to break the spell brought on by our apparent mutuality of mind, so I asked Jill very mildly, when I'd been stabbed and burnt for about a half-hour, what I should do with a permanently smooth, hairless face if I should want to dress like a man again. She replied without even looking up from her magazine, "Why, the same thing you're doing now, dear, wear makeup to look whatever way you like."

I could think of no answer to that. I later found an answer: women wearing makeup look like women, while men wearing makeup look like men in makeup. But by them my face was as smooth as any woman's, and like any woman I was using face powder regularly to reduce the shine on my cheeks and nose, reaching frequently for my compact whenever I was away from the house, without even thinking about it. By then nothing could ever grow me a new beard or moustache -- the follicles simply weren't there any more.

Next we stopped at a store off the main part of our largest mall, tucked in a corner, in a former natural food store. It was now an up-scale Sex Shoppe. Jill had several purchases clearly in mind, and she picked them out unhesitatingly. One was a double ended dildo with a realistic, fat, veined, eight inch cock on each end, meant to be worn by a woman and designed to give reciprocal pleasure. Another was an enormous single dildo, a monster rubber prick at least ten inches long, maybe a foot, at least three inches thick, with huge balls at one end. I thought it was a joke, and wondered aloud to Jill what the rest of him must look like. But she only flashed me a quick smile and returned to scanning the shelves. Next she took down a set of butt plugs, four or five of them, each longer and thicker than the next with the biggest one thicker than even the rubber prick. Each, I noticed, was bulbous in front and had a flange in back to keep it from slipping into the large intestine and disappearing altogether. Jill was quite pleased to find these last items. Then she located a peculiar device, made of plastic tubing with what seemed to be a heavy rubber balloon at one end; she explained it was an ultimate enema, one that closed off the anus until there was no doubt the bowels were being cleared of all unwanted substances. "These are all to help you get ready darling," she said. "For what?" I asked, still a bit worried especially by that monster fake prick. "Why for the men in your life," she said, beaming reassuringly.

I thought she was joking, and replied that she was all the men I wanted, and all the women too. She looked pleased at the compliment, and didn't reply. But when we left the store she handed me the smallest of the butt plugs and a tube of jelly. "Here you are darling," she said, "I know you'll want to get started right away. I'll be in that corset shop ahead there. You can leave your tampon in place for now." And she was gone.

I barely remembered to enter the Ladies' Room, not the Gents, and then I settled down in a stall to insert the device in what was plainly going to be, for future reference, my pussy. Despite her advice I took out my tampon, greased everything carefully, and also my rear end, and then pushed, but it wouldn't press in. I pushed harder. Nothing. It was much thicker than a tampon, and that's what I was accustomed to poking into myself.. Here was a problem right at the outset, the outset of what I had no idea.

I began to let my mind drift back to how Carl had done it. I remembered that lovely fuck, his hands lifting me up and letting me back down gently, with my ass rising and falling over his prick rhythmically over and over until magically, he was in me and I was surrounding him, and I began pumping him. I set up a similar rhythm with the butt plug, and I must have eased off my sphincter muscle a little because in a minute it slipped in and stopped at the flange. I stood up, gripping the plug with my anal muscle as if it were the choicest cock in town, realized there was no way it could come out, and relaxed. I felt incredibly stretched and full, much more than with a tampon. It was very...satisfying, I realized. Before I left the ladies' room I paused to retouch my lipstick and powder my nose and cheeks, and as I walked past various stores to rejoin Jill I realized I was now a lady in another new sense too. I could see in successive reflections in store windows that with the butt plug up my rear I held my torso very straight, leaning slightly forward. Then, with each step my hips and rear end undulated exaggeratedly from side to side, and when I tried to restrain the motion my whole walk became provocatively sinuous. My wife watched my progress down the mall and into the next store with a delighted grin.

"My dear, you are the sexiest thing in the mall," she said. I made no reply, but in fact felt rather pleased myself. "Now," she said, "we're here to buy you some better breast forms and a waist cincher, and I'm here as your friend for you to consult while you do the purchasing. Tell the saleslady something about a double mastectomy and let her do the rest. Remember to use your most feminine voice."

I approached the counter, glad that I'd just powdered my nose and especially the reddened area where my beard had been electrocuted, and for the first time I tried to speak like a woman to a strange woman. "Uh, Miss, I think I need to see a mastectomy bra, um, a double mastectomy." I sounded like a flute, but the saleswoman never wavered. "Yes ma'am," she replied. A half-hour later I had chosen a lovely full bra with silicone forms shaping me from my breastbone to my armpits, with a hint of a nipple visible even through my shirt, C-cups we had decided. They felt very different from the bra fillers I'd used before, much heavier, and they jiggled a little of their own weight. I liked them.

I commented to Jill in a low voice that ever since I was fourteen with my first bra, I'd disliked stuffing the cups, because a really good bra could gather up my pectoral muscles and fatty tissue, and reshape them, and thrust them forward so that my nipples became incredibly sensitive at the tips of my breasts, utterly erotic, the way they had felt this morning. But not with stuffing covering them up. I told her that the main pleasure of a bra for me was the feel of my extended nipples rubbing on blouses and suits. These breast forms feel strange and nice, I said, but they do cover my nipples so I couldn't feel them.

Jill listened attentively, and nodded. For once she sounded serious, sincere, not merely enthusiastic, when she said, "Then darling, we especially want to get to our next stop. We'll put off getting you your waist cincher, and some other things you need. We'll go right now."

Out from the mall and back to the car, with me feeling jiggly and top heavy in front and stretched out in back the whole time. Jill drove directly to a professional building a few miles away, and we entered the office of a woman doctor who called herself an Endocrinologist. As we waited for the receptionist to announce us I drew back a little worried.

"Jill, what do you have in mind? Are you thinking about hormones for me? I don't need hormones. I like who I am. That's how I want to be."

Jill smiled sweetly at me, and took my hands in both of hers, and began speaking, never letting go her grip on me, her eyes never wavering from mine. "Dear, dear, darling Jane. I know how you feel. I know just what you're feeling now. I know how you want to be. I'm a woman like you, remember. We love each other. We would do anything for each other. This is what I'm doing for you, and it's what you're doing for me. We're here so you can begin to persuade your body of what your mind already knows, that you want to be a woman, much more of a woman than you are. Isn't that so?"

"Don't be afraid darling. Your own body has always produced female hormones as well as male. You may have been washed in them in the womb, and that may be why you have these urges to let your femininity express itself by wearing women's clothes. Remember, that's what you told me. Now this doctor will restore your hormonal balance of mind and body, so you can be more of what you want. With just a little more estrogen, you'll become a lot more shapely. You'll fit your clothes better. You'll have hips you can sway when you walk. Best of all, you'll have your own breasts. Your very own! You won't ever need to cover up that delicious feeling in your nipples. Your nipples will lead the way wherever you go! Your own body will fill a C cup, even a D cup if you want! Jane, do you want your own breasts, or do you want to go through life envying everyone else's?"

Jill paused and looked at me steadily, waiting for a reply. "I'd love to have my own breasts," I blurted out. It was true! Not everything else that went with them, of course.

"I know you do," Jill said. "I know what you want. And if you don't like any of what happens, everything is reversible. You just stop taking your pills and everything ends up the way it was. But understand me! If you don't have the courage to be what you want to be, I can't respect you. It would mean you're still too much Jack, still too afraid to be yourself to be anyone at all. Well, I won't live with Jack. I've tried it. It didn't work!"

The receptionist returned. "The doctor will see you now."

I stood up, suddenly aware that I was wearing a skirt and lipstick and mascara, that my hair was curly, my ears pierced, and my eyebrows plucked, that my chest was pushed out in front and my ass waggled when I walked, and that my pussy was stretched and filled by a butt plug, and that with all this I was worried that I might become too female. It was ridiculous. What could I say? I had to embrace the inevitable. "Jill," I said. "I want to be your girlfriend, or your lover, or your wife, or however you'll have me. You're right. It's just that all this is so new, and it's happening so quickly! Please help me!"

Jill took my face in her two hands, right there in the reception room, and leaned forward and kissed me. "Don't worry, darling" she said, looking me fondly in the eyes. I thought we must look very strange to the receptionist, two women kissing, but she just stood by the door to the inner office and waited for us.

We went in and sat down. Jill pulled a stack of papers from her portfolio and handed them to the doctor, a slim and rather pretty blonde with oversized horn rim glasses and a way of looking directly at you when she talked or you answered. She looked them over, then looked at me. "I see you're dressing full time now, Jane.. For how long have you been doing this?"

"Ever since I can remember," I said in a small voice, reminding myself to try my "lady voice" next time. Then I realized she meant how long have I been wearing women's clothes exclusively. A month, maybe more, is what I tried to say, but nothing came out.

She went on. "You've had proper counselling for the required amount of time?" Jill nodded, and I sat there. "And on careful reflection, do you really and truly want this?"

Jill turned and looked at me as I sat without speaking. Her gaze seemed to grow more severe as I struggled to say something. "I do," I blurted out into the silence. The answer sounded strangely familiar.

"All right then, dear. I have your blood work-ups here. They're fine." I wondered what she was talking about, and then realized Jill must have turned in some old medical records of mine in order to move things along. But I had no objection. "You know," she glanced at her papers, "You're very fortunate, Jane. Most women who take a step like this lose their spouses. Divorce is almost inevitable. But your wife is the most supportive I've ever known. In fact, because you have such a favourable domestic environment I'm going to recommend a new kind of regimen to you, one that will accomplish what you wish in perhaps half the time. It's a combination of shots, pills, and an implant, all at once.

It's pretty high-powered. Your wife here will be necessary to the process, because during the first week or so you may feel moody or nauseous, until your system adjusts. It'll be a little like morning sickness, a hormone bath washing through your entire body, changing everything at once. But no matter how you feel, once started you must continue with it, the pills and the shots and periodically an implant renewal. The second week you may feel the same, but the body adjusts and reactions begin to level off. Some women begin to feel very horny at this stage, and experience a kind of farewell burst of energy from their penises, before they begin to shrink and lose their sexual function. After a month or two you'll find your erections are no longer as hard, and they eventually disappear altogether, at least while the hormone bath treatment continues. You'll find you can still climax, but it will be dry, more like a woman's spasms in orgasm, not at all unpleasant I'm told."

She paused to look closely at how I was taking this news, saw no reaction, and continued. "Your nipples will swell up, and you'll see changes in your skin, and some of your body fat will redistribute, onto your hips and your tush I'm afraid. But we can't all look like Barbie, can we? The third month you'll feel wonderful, there's a kind of hormone-induced euphoria, and you'll also begin to see real breasts of your own growing. After that I think you'll love seeing your progress, and so will Jill here. In about six months you'll have completed your girlhood puberty, so to speak, and we'll put you on a sustaining dosage as a woman. Shall we begin?"

I felt uneasy, but Jill took my hand, and I held onto it tightly, and said nothing. "Please," she said, "lift your skirt and lower your panties, so I can inject some fairly heavy intramuscular doses. These are in a time release formula, two weeks worth of shots all at once. Jill can do them afterward if she watches me closely today. It's very simple. Bend over." I did. "A little closer, please." I pushed my rear end way out, until it felt like a whore's bottom thrust out at a customer for convenient fucking. I felt her needle enter one buttock, then pause. Then the other. "Now, dear, your belly. We'll want to place the implant in fatty tissue." She made a quick incision, placed a waxy rectangle under a fold of skin, deftly taped it up, and placed another tape on top. "There," she said, "I'll bet that scarcely hurt at all!" Then she handed Jill some bottles of pills and some packages of syringes and some prescriptions for more, and turned to me and said, "I only wish I could do more for you, Jane. But with these hormones you'll do it all for yourself. You'll love being a woman, trust me. None of us would have it any other way. But I'm sure you already know that."

"I know," I replied. I looked at Jill with an almost child-like sense of helplessness, and she smiled reassuringly at me, and I tried to smile back. I guess I'm being a good girl, I told myself to try to cheer myself up. But this was all moving very fast, and I couldn't catch up. In fact from then on I was always a little disoriented. Jill kept increasing the pace and hauling me along, faster and faster. Trying to be a good girl, I never found a quiet moment when I could decide for myself whether I wanted to be good, or a girl. All that had been settled for me.

Jill took me back home instead of back to the mall, because I was already beginning to feel a little queasy. She tucked me into bed, and I slept though the afternoon, getting up only to use the bathroom, and to take out my butt-plug and put in a fresh tampon, then to replace the butt-plug. That evening she got into bed with me, and held my prick, and I moaned a little and hugged her, and she jacked me off into her hand. I never got hard, but I did come, and she held the handful of cum up to my face for me to lick. I kissed her, and swallowed it, and licked her palms and fingers clean, and kissed her again. Then I slept through the next day and evening. Jill gave me some pills to swallow and jacked me off again, soft, and I came again, but this time nothing came out, just a slight oozing.

But the next morning when I woke up I felt fine. Jill had already gone to her office, but I showered, and shaved my legs and changed my tampon again, and cleaned my butt plug (by now it was slipping right in, no problem), and dressed in a blouse and skirt and went for my electrolysis session wearing my new mastectomy bra. When Jill came home from the office I had dinner on the table. The hormones continued to pour into me, but I had gotten accustomed to them.

Marianne called, and I went back to her salon in the motel and had a pedicure, and she finished my nails, and retouched my hair, and called my pierced ears healed and hung a gold hoop in each. When I revisited her two weeks later so she could re-curl my hair where it was growing out, she noticed that my skin was smoother and my butt seemed rounder. I told her to stop teasing me, but I looked closely, and it was true. She saw I liked it, grinned, and amused, waggled her own rear end at me. I waggled mine back at her, still seated, and we both laughed. It was fun being one of the girls!

Soon I was taking my pills regularly, and my shots, and had graduated to the next size of butt plug, and my erections had returned. The next month or so our lovemaking was very much like those first weeks after my arrival home from the motel, my first weeks as a real woman, as Jill called them. We overwhelmed each other with our lovemaking, and neither of us seemed to get enough. My breasts became so deliciously erogenous that Jill's bare tongue on my nipple could get me to do anything she wanted, and her fingers on my both nipples could bring me to orgasm without her having to touch me anywhere else. I got incredibly horny one night, and humped her three times before my erection went down. Then when she asked me to I sucked all of the cum back out of her, along with her other juices, and tried again. For the moment, no go. She got out the double dildo and told me to lie on my back with my legs spread out high in the air, my pussy wide open to her. I lay there gleeful and eager, half out of my mind I suppose, but desperately impatient to feel that cock thrust inside me. Then she lubricated me and humped me with it, and we both came yet again, shrieking, her body falling over me and her breasts flopping in and out of my mouth while I sucked at them as best I could. She was doing it yet again when I fell asleep, from sheer exhaustion, the double dildo still plunged in my ass.

The next day I came back from giving myself my nightly enema, my vaginal douche Jill called it, to find I had graduated to the next-to-largest butt plug, and soon after to the largest, which had a vibrator in it. Once that butt plug became my anal jewelry, so to speak, Jill would smile devilishly at me after dinner, reach under my skirt, pat my fanny, switch on the vibrator, and tell me she'd join me upstairs in ten minutes, or a half-hour. Or maybe she'd say nothing at all. I'd run up and change into a pretty negligee and wait for her, or if she said nothing I'd go into the living room and try to read or watch television. But I could never concentrate with that vibrator going. After a while I would cum without anyone touching my prick, just sitting there, and then again after a while I would cum again. By this time she had me wearing a condom whenever the vibrator was on. When finally Jill joined me in bed and switched the vibrator off the condom was half full and I was half-crazed. Then she'd give it to me to drink down.

Little by little my cum became less and less plentiful, and after a few more months there was hardly enough to lubricate Jill or me to receive a dildo. After we had fucked and I was licking her out the flavour was almost all hers. One morning while I was licking and sucking at her, I felt and tasted a sudden surge of warm liquid, and as I sucked it up and swallowed it there was more, not slick but watery, and then there was even more. I slurped and swallowed it repeatedly, as fast as I could, but still some of it ran out of my mouth. I looked up at Jill from between her legs, and she looked down at me with an impish half-smile on her face, and I understood. I opened wide and pressed my upper lips against her mound and my lower lips as far down as I could reach, and sealed off the area as best I could. When she saw I was ready she peed a full stream directly into my mouth, and I tongued it into my throat as fast as I could swallow it, and it kept coming, and I nearly choked with the effort to swallow it all. But finally, I did. It was wonderful. I felt I was swallowing her most intimate, most feminine interior fluid and making it mine, making her me. When I told her that, she never again rose from our bed to urinate. No matter what the time of night or morning, all she had to do was take my head in her two hands and kiss me, then begin to move my face down her body, and I would know. I would press my head into her crotch, and eagerly drink everything she could squeeze out of herself. "My dearest little toilet," she called me when she wanted to reward me. I loved it.

Some of our nights or mornings together were reserved for pussy training, as Jill called it. First I would go to the bathroom and clear out my lower colon with the super enema, inserting the whole contraption, sealing my opening by blowing air into the balloon-like bladder, then forcing a quart or more of water into me, to be held until Jill judged the time sufficient and told me I could release it. I would then let the air out of the anal seal, and remove the enema, and my lower intestine would gush out everything, and I was ready for her. Plentiful jelly was supplied, and Jill then strapped the double-dildo into her cunt and slid the other side into mine, then rode my ass until the pressure in her pussy got overwhelming and she came, or sometimes the both of us came together. It was a little like the vibrating butt plug, because strange feelings were stimulated inside me, not in my penis, and I was beginning to enjoy them more and more. I even began to prefer them as months went by and my erections got increasingly unreliable.

Some time into the fourth month of my hormone bath Jill brought out a new butt plug, the biggest I had ever seen, the size of a fist at its widest diameter and the thickness of a wrist at its base where it narrowed down. A few weeks later I was easily slipping it in and out of my pussy. Then one night Jill brought out that monstrous rubber prick and told me to get on all fours, my rear end high in the air. I did. She worked it into me, and I took the thing up my ass with tears in my eyes and an unspeakable joy in my heart. My butt was stretched utterly full, bursting, and I thrust back against that huge dildo in spasms, bucking like an animal in heat and making throaty, high pitched, whining noises. The following day was the first she fist-fucked me. This felt utterly glorious, and rendered me helpless. Jill obviously loved seeing and feeling me reduced to a slab of whimpering meat wrapped around her arm, because for the next few months she did it frequently, almost on whim. By then my sphincter wouldn't seal up my anus any more, and I wore tampons and panty-liners all of the time. I was "pussy trained."

Jill gave away Jack's clothes soon after my hormone treatments began. "Oh Jane," she said to me while we were lying together one morning, "I hate your pants. And you look so cute in a skirt. Let's give away all of your boy things, even your girly boy things. I want to feel you're always open to me." So we did, cute shorts, harem pants, slacks, even panty-hose. My panties became the only barrier between my asshole and her whims whenever she had a mind to shove something into me. But I had to wear them. Between the enemas and the size of my opening, I trickled whenever I was exposed. Even so, she wanted access to me whenever she was home, so when I heard her car in the driveway, I took out my tampons and butt plug, inserted a panty-liner in my crotch, and waited to see what she might do. It was peculiar, sitting with my legs crossed and waiting for her to enter the house, feeling both ladylike and sluttish. wondering what the evening had in store.

What happened during those six months was, knowing I was still somehow a man, I became a woman. Not much during the first few weeks, of course, when I was getting accustomed to that massive dose of hormones. I did lose the ten pounds Jill had prescribed, and my dress size went down to a twelve, and gradually I filled out my wardrobe, sometimes with Jill's help and sometimes by myself. I returned to the Doctor for checkups or additional shots in the butt, and my ass and my hips filled out, and my waist narrowed, and my breasts grew until by the fifth month I no longer needed breastforms and they went into a bottom drawer. The electrolysis was completed, and my face looked like a baby girl's. Marianne changed my hair style and piled curls especially on the crown and back of my head and down one side, and she and Jill and I all agreed I looked cute as could be. I adored it.

I fucked Jill as best I could while I could, but toward the end there were no more erections, and that was that. I tried to make it up to her by avid sucking on her pussy, and I was eager to become her toilet on call. But now it was the double dildo that linked us together. One night I discovered that Jill could also use that monster rubber penis, not just me. I was slurping and fingering her when she asked me to get it and lubricate it. I took the tube of jelly, and she said, "No, with your mouth." So I did. It was like old times, licking up a vein on the underside, and trying to suck the head into my mouth. It wasn't Carl, and I had no feeling for it, but it was huge! Jill had me lie on my back with the thing poking up between my legs just below my crotch, where my own prick just lay there like a deflated balloon. Then she mounted me and positioned it under her, and we made love the way Carl had made love to me the first time, only this time I got to watch her climb on top of me while I was on my back.

I played with her titties, and kissed them, and took her waist in both hands as Carl had taken mine, and started her rhythmic movement up and down. Once Jill could feel the tip pressing against her pussy, she lifted and lowered herself over and over, and gradually sank down onto it. When she finally had most of it inside her, she settled between my legs, and then with the full length shoved into her it seems she just sat there, unable to move. I realized she was in a kind of fugue, a pre-orgasmic suspension in time, maybe not even conscious. So I took the flange in both hands and started to work it in and out of her. She went up like a skyrocket, writhing and arching her back and stretching out her arms to the ceiling, and screaming, over and over until gradually she subsided. When I took that huge thing out of her it was like assisting at a birth. She was covered with sweat, and exhausted. She smiled weakly at me in gratitude, then fell sound asleep. But six months into my hormone treatment that rubber telephone pole had become our common lover. She would use it on me, and then I'd use it on her, and we'd both enjoy paroxysms of pleasure from it.

Those six months she worked days at her law practice and nights and mornings with me, while my body was transforming before her eyes. One morning she watched me putting a bra on by leaning way forward, so my breasts could fall into the cups and be contained by them before I straightened up and pulled the straps into position.

"You're a real woman, Jane," she said with surprise in her voice.

"What did you expect?" I asked her as I adjusted my bra and reached for a slip. "I've been drowning in hormones for a long time now, as if there were no tomorrow. Is there a tomorrow?" What I meant was, when would I be woman enough for her to put me on a smaller sustaining dose, so I could begin to see if any of my old male reflexes had survived her shock treatment. I was especially interested in whether I could get an erection again.

"Yes, dear. There is a tomorrow. You look just lovely." She said it half-abstractedly, as if her mind had turned somewhere else and was thinking through something different. For five minutes she stood by her dresser staring into the middle distance, while I slipped into my dress, and stockings and garterbelt, and pumps, and combed out my curls and touched up my face. She didn't seem to notice. "Jill, are you there?" I asked, waving my hand in front of her face. "I'm going out now to the hairdresser. You're going to be late for work."

She looked up at me and beamed broadly, suddenly back in time present. "The hairdresser, wonderful!" she said. "You make yourself pretty for me, darling, and wait up for me. But don't wait dinner. I'm going to be a little late tonight."

I was sitting up in bed reading when I heard her come in, wearing my prettiest satin nightgown. I loved the way the tips of my filled out breasts and enlarged nipples rubbed against the material -- my nipples were by now in a permanent state of erection, it seemed, even when my penis had forgotten how. It was nearly midnight. I sat watching the door to our bedroom and listened while she came up the stairs slowly, as if tired. The poor dear. When she came into the bedroom she looked tired, too, but there was something strange. She also looked a bit flushed, even excited, and she was still carrying her purse instead of leaving it on the hall table downstairs. She looked at me, and smiled, and leaned back against the door, and her smile grew wider, a kind of cat about to eat the canary smile..

"What is it, Jill?" I asked as I set my book aside?

"I have something for you," she said.

"Really, what?" I asked.

"Wait till I get in bed with you, and turn out the light. It's a kind of surprise."

"Oh?" I made room for her while she undressed quickly, and slid in next to me naked, without stopping to put on a nightie. She left her purse on the night table, right at hand.

"Now lie back and close your eyes," she said with a delicious smile. And she leaned over to kiss me, so very sweetly and softly that I closed my eyes without thinking, and then left them that way. "Do you know what you haven't tasted lately?" she asked. I thought it through quickly. Not her cunt, which I still sucked passionately whenever she needed to pee, and which I always sucked as the main way we made love now that my prick could no longer perform. "Open your mouth." I did, eyes still shut, face turned up on the pillow, aware that I had put lipstick on just before getting into bed so I'd be pretty for her, hoping she thought I was pretty as she leaned over me. "This!" she said as if she were entrancing me in a magic spell.

I felt a thick, warm, viscous substance drip onto my lower lip, and I reached to taste it with the tip of my tongue. It was a little sweet and a little salty, like Gatorade, and at first I didn't recognize it. Then on an exhale I caught the faintest hint of laundry bleach, and suddenly I knew. My eyes flew open. I saw in the gloom that Jill was suspending a condom upside down over my mouth, and at that moment about a teaspoon of pale cloudy substance a little like mucous glopped out of it and into my mouth and onto my lips.

"Swallow it, dear," she said. I had no choice. I swallowed, feeling bewildered, and annoyed, and sensing a spark of anger surging somewhere underneath. What was she doing? Was this a practical joke? Again she leaned over and kissed me, with infinite sweetness, and again her lips lingered. I waited for her to break off so I could cry out "Whose is that?! Where did you get it?!" But her lips stayed grazing mine, and she began murmuring to me.

"My dearest, dearest Jane, tonight we are celebrating together the start of another stage in your transformation. You are real woman. I saw that when you were putting on your bra this morning, so gracefully, so naturally, with your pretty tits held up in the cups of your pretty brassiere. I am so proud of you! You look so feminine now, and I know that you are making yourself as pretty as you can for me, and I love you for it. You are so much a woman now that I can't possibly think of you as my husband. You aren't anyone's husband any more. And I'm not your wife. The only part of your masculinity that remains doesn't matter. It doesn't get erections, and it doesn't make cum. When you were my husband you made love to me with your prick like a man, and when you were my wife you drank up your own cum afterward like a woman. But no more. We're past that. Now you are my dearest girlfriend. We love each other. We share everything with each other. Don't we?"

She paused as if waiting for an answer. I started to murmur back at her "Yes, but...," but all I could get out was the first word, and she began again.

"Yes, everything. You are almost everything a woman should be. In fact your hormone bath treatment can end any day now, whenever you wish. It's now up to you. It could have ended with your last checkup, you remember, when you went from a B cup to a C cup? But then I still wasn't sure you were the woman you should be, so I told the doctor you needed more time to find and use your new desires, to feel how strong they are, before she put you on a sustaining dosage. That's what we are going to do now, Jane my love."

I was puzzled, but I did have a dark suspicion. "What are we going to do now, Jill dear?" I asked as gently as I could.

"Why my darling, we are going to explore the marvelous world of men. You and I together. Each night we are going to make love to men, each of us. We've already begun. What we've just shared is a man's sperm. Doesn't it taste marvelous? As a woman I know you love it. You'll want to put it inside you every way you can. The urge can be overwhelming, and I want you to let it grow into a powerful force. To yield to it, and yet remain a lady, that is the true test of your womanliness. I'm going to help you, my love. I'm going to share this wonderful voyage with you."

I began to feel frightened. "But Jill, I don't want men. I want you! That's why I've done all these things all of these months. That's why I've let you do these things to me."

"Darling," Jill resumed, and she began to caress one of my nipples with her finger, and I began to melt into the bed. She kept talking. "Everything I've done is what you wanted me to do. When I married you I thought I married a man, but you were really a woman without the courage to be yourself, only a man who liked to sneak around in women's clothing. Well, I changed all that, didn't I dear? And Carl." She started to suckle on one of my tits, and I went into ecstasy. "Carl found a humiliated and intimidated transvestite, and in one night he changed her into a proud and passionate woman. Do you remember how you felt when you arrived home? You were completely feminine in mind and spirit. Now you're also a woman in body, very nearly. It's time for you to enjoy the most sublime experiences a woman can have. Our marriage is over now, Jane. It has done its work. Now we're going to make love to men. Many men. You say you want me. You have me. And this is what I want you to do for me! And for yourself. You will, won't you darling!"

And with this she fell to kissing and tonguing and licking my nipples, first one and then the other, until I nearly fainted. "Oh yes!" I cried out impulsively as her tongue lifted me toward heaven. "Yes! Yes!" And then and there I came, in a glorious orgasm, all inside of me somewhere, my shrunken penis and balls taking no part but the mound behind them tensing into excruciating anguish and then pulsing out as pure joy in wave after wave of magnificent feeling, washing through every part of me. "Ooohhhh," I cried out, "Ooooohh, Ahhhh, Jilllll, Ooohh, Yesss!"

"I thought so," Jill said, lifting her head. "Then we won't ever discuss this again. Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll make all of the arrangements. Here, love, enjoy this for now. Suck on it, until we find you something nicer to suck."

And she tucked the used condom into my mouth. Whose condom? Whose cum was I sucking? How did Jill come by this condom filled with some man's spunk? Where was she earlier tonight? Jill, my wife? My ex-wife, now my best girlfriend? My best girl friend, who brought home to share with me the taste of some fuck or suck she'd had earlier this evening. Now she wanted us to double date, so I could fuck or suck for myself? Did she see this time coming? Is this why she was feeding me my own cum all those weeks, when I still had any? Is this why she was stretching my asshole, until it could take any prick as easily as if it were a cunt, and would feel like a cunt to any prick? My own prick was now useless to her, and to myself as well. There was nothing I could say. My mouth was full of thin latex coated with globs of someone else's jism. I rolled it over and over on my tongue, extracting and tasting and swallowing every last drop.
 
 
Chapter 9
 
I must say about Jill, it didn't take her long to put me through her crash program in "womanhood." What she had in mind for me was that I develop the habits and tastes and reflexes of a twenty dollar whore, to make me into a promiscuous slut as quickly as possible.

She did it in a few quick thrusts, each one justified with her usual enthusiasm and backed by her iron will, and I was so bewildered and trusting I went along with each, and did whatever she asked. It never occurred to me that her notion of womanhood for me could be called peculiarly narrow, that she herself didn't really subscribe to it, nor any woman we had ever known. It may be she wanted to drown out the last of my masculinity, any residual shame I still felt that I was a woman, by making me behave shamelessly, by getting Jane to fuck and suck anything in pants so relentlessly that Jack could find no place to hide. It may be that she was simply being vindictive, degrading me for her own amusement. But she could certainly be persuasive! She had already pushed me further than I meant ever to go, especially with the hormone bath that had turned me -- not altogether unwillingly -- into a girl with a prick. I was in unknown territory. I had no choice but to trust that she knew better than I did what I needed to do next. She was never in doubt.

For a few weeks she called me nearly every night to warn me she'd be home late from the office, and that I should be prepared to meet her at the front door. I did as she asked. Night after night, her car arrived, her footsteps clicked up the walk, her key opened the door, she rushed past me, and she slouched down on the couch with her knees spread apart, and said "Jane, you slut, clean me, suck me out!"

And that first night and all those following, that's what I did. It was obvious that just before coming home she was finding some way to get herself laid over and over. Her panties were usually in her purse. When I knelt and lifted her skirt, her pussy hairs were always matted with something sticky, and when I began to lick her slit, gobs of semen would squeeze or trickle out. She was filled with cum, overflowing with it. It was often the same person, but often different men -- after three or four days nursing all that cum from her cunt I could taste the difference. A few times she came home with a three or four man orgy in her, different flavours overflowing from different depths of her cunt, and I was half the night cleaning her out. She always assumed that I was addicted to the stuff, because real women were, and that she couldn't supply it and I couldn't slurp it fast enough. So I acted as if I were. This doubled her pleasures, I assumed, first when she was getting herself laid somewhere, and then at home, while I was lapping and licking her out, and she'd come repeatedly on my mouth. I wanted to please her, and I still couldn't raise a decent erection for her, so I tried to be grateful that she was sharing her men with me, and that our oral sex with me was passionate, at least on my part.

Then we sort of double dated for a while. That is, we went together to a bar where, she said, men and women were usually available to each other. She instructed me to dress for it. The first night I put on a brief silver mini sheath with spaghetti straps and a hemline just below the curve of my ass, and crotchless panties. The panties were always a risk, because I douched or did an enema just before we went out, so with my loose asshole I was often damp down below. When I mentioned this to Jill she was delighted, and added a little bath oil to my douche fluids, so I would seem so hot I was already lubricating down my leg. For these outings four or five inch heels and net stockings were routine, and I slathered on the eye makeup and lipstick. When I saw myself in the mirror I would have given myself a hard on if I'd been able to have one. The first night Jill settled into a booth with a blond man named Sam she seemed to know from somewhere else. They sometimes disappeared somewhere, and then reappeared with Jill's hair mussed a bit, and disappeared again, then just seemed to sit quietly together and talk. I wondered if Sam's was some of the cum I had eaten out of her. I sat at the bar, watched this man with my wife (because that's how I still thought of her even though she'd decided we were now only girlfriends), and turned away a few men who offered me drinks. Jill motioned me over.

"Is something wrong, honey?" she asked.

"I don't know, I said. Oh, Jill, I think I'm a little bit jealous. We were married for so long. And now Sam has you, and I..."

"And you're a woman who can have any man in this place, Jane. And that's what you need! To be well-fucked! Then you won't think about silly things any more!"

She instructed me to sit at the bar and agree to do anything anyone proposed, so I could sample all the variations there were and gradually get to know what I liked. I would explain to them that my pussy was unavailable because of the time of month, but that I would swallow every drop of their sperm because I could never drink enough of it, and that I loved taking it in the ass (as indeed I did by then, if the invader was Jill's dildos or Jill's fist and wrist).

So I sat there, and in the next two hours I was served five drinks and finished three of them, and I gave three blow jobs -- one of them right there at the bar, by the wall, partly covered by a man's jacket. And I was butt fucked four times, once rather sweetly by a very nice man who clasped my tits and hugged me to him and gently rolled his penis round and round in my buttocks, and kissed by neck. That was lovely. Another time by the same man twice, who didn't even slow down after his first climax, but rode my ass on to a second. I went home leaking all over my beautiful dress, and Jill reminded me to take condoms and tampons to the bar when we returned the next night, and a butt plug to close the door when I was ready to stand up and go home. So I did, and I spent most of that next evening groping and sucking and grinding my ass into any number of men. I really lost count. I set up in a booth in a back room, and Jill and Sam looked in on me sometimes, and Jill smiled encouragingly whenever I came up for air and headed back to the bar to pick up another stud, or she winked at me as if I were having a good time. I didn't want to disappoint her, so I winked back. But I felt a little cheap.

By the second week word had gotten around that there was this girl in this bar who gave head and cunt as if there were no tomorrow, and there was practically a line out the door of men trying to get in to buy me a drink. Jill mostly just sat there, though sometimes she took Sam home with her afterward and they disappeared into what became again our former bedroom. The fourth week Jill and Sam really did set me up as a whore. They rented a nearby motel room, and signed up all of my regular bar customers on the half-hour, and they told their friends. I lay on the bed all night with my butt up in the air getting reamed, and my breasts getting groped, or my clients sat on the bed while I knelt and cocksucked whatever came into my mouth. Those weeks I saw a lot of pricks, all shapes and sizes and flavours and fittings, and a lot of odd behaviour in the men attached to them too. But it all became routine. My mind wandered. Fucking and sucking from dusk to dawn seven days a week, after a few weeks there are no surprises left.

In fact I was swallowing so much semen each night that I began to gain weight, and some of my clothes no longer fit me properly. This amused Jill, who joked that this was a funny way to be look pregnant, but for me it was serious. I loved my size twelve dresses, even though they required that I diet all the time. "Jill," I finally asked her after the sixth week on my back or my knees servicing fifteen or twenty pricks each night, "Am I a woman yet? This isn't me. I'm a one-woman woman. Or if you insist on it I'm a one man woman. But not this. Can't I at least develop a relationship with some one person, the kind you have with Sam? I loved being with Carl. I'm beginning to remember even Tom fondly. Can't I just be a woman with a boyfriend?" I started to cry. "I want to be loved!" And then I broke down and couldn't stop.

Jill took me in her arms and held me close, for the first time in a long time it seemed. "Darling, darling Jane," she cried out. "A boyfriend! Yes, we will certainly look for one. But you have had to learn for yourself what the past weeks have taught you. Now you know that physical relationships are only just that, that your feelings and desires must be involved or all the sex in the world is meaningless. Isn't it? A woman needs romance, a companion for her heart, and she can give her body most lovingly only to the man who has already captured her heart. We'll find you such a man, dear!" It sounded specious to me, Jill moralizing about true love after she had converted me into a hooker, but I didn't care. I needed somebody to love me.

The next night Jill invited me on a threesome with her friend Sam, dinner and a movie. I dressed as carefully as if Sam were my own date, and I must say our conversation sparkled all through dinner. I had finally learned to control my flute-like femme voice, and to gesture in a flip, loose wristed feminine way, and I was happy and animated and felt marvelous. I must also confess, I liked Sam, and wanted him to like me in case he and Jill should ever fall out. I flirted shamelessly, and it felt wonderful.

From then on I went out only on proper dates. Sometimes I dated friends of Sam and sometimes men I met shopping or doing errands. If we came to sex, and it usually did, it was because we both wanted to, though I was always flying the rag as far as they were concerned, and needed to be taken from behind or with my legs on their shoulders. These men were always far nicer than the ones in the bar or in the motel. I would blow them gently, and they were considerate of my feelings, and were amused by things I said, or thought me cute, and some of them felt protective of me, and some I just loved to fold in my arms while they suckled sweetly on me like little babies.

I told Jill how I felt about them, how I appreciated being treated decently, not just used, and how my heart swelled up when I thought about one or another sometimes, how pleased I felt when I saw them at the door. Jill nodded, and hugged me, and we had another good cry. It was true, she said, men could be so awful but they could also be so marvelous. They felt so beautiful. This may be what Jill wanted me to know about men, I thought. Now I could look forward to meeting more of them. And I did, quite a few, though I never got really serious with any the way Jill seemed to be with Sam.

When I brought men home we used my room, and when Sam stayed over with Jill they used the room we'd formerly shared together when we were married. As the memory of that marriage faded out of our relationship we became more and more like sisters, and we looked more and more for privacy from each other. Sometimes we could hear each other making love, but not usually. We respected each other by closing our doors. One morning Jill forgot, or Sam forgot after visiting the bathroom. And this brought on another radical turn in my life.

We had double dated, me with a current boy friend, nothing serious, though he had the knack of kissing my body as if he were worshipping me, and I felt exalted whenever we were together. We had spent the night as couples do, and the next morning I let him out the front door with a tender kiss and a promise to call soon.

On my way back to my room to wash up, I passed my former bedroom with Jill. The door was ajar, and I could hear quiet, serious murmuring just inside. I paused. Jill and Sam were talking, Their voices sounded strange. Not strange, exactly, but relaxed, intimate, serious yet casual. I realized that Jill had not spoken to me like that since that moment in our marriage when she first found out I crossdressed, and we had ceased to be a loving couple. With Sam Jill seemed natural, easy, friendly, companionable. Everything she had been saying to me sounded made up, overly enthusiastic, or forced by comparison.

"Then when will you tell him?" Sam's voice asked.

"Her." Jill replied. "Her. Her legal change of name and sex just went through last week. I haven't told her that yet either. She needs to sign the final papers. Then I'll tell her."

"Do you think she'll make any trouble? She's dumb, but she's not stupid."

"She hasn't so far. But I'm not worried. She gave me her power of attorney long ago. And she gave me her word she'd do anything I asked her to do, unconditionally. Remember, when all this started, right after we first met and made love? I told you I had an effeminate husband back home who'd slept with his secretary, and that he was paralyzed with guilt, and that I'd put him into the deep freeze until I could decide what I wanted to do with him? I was ready to divorce him then and marry you, Sam, but you agreed that first we should thaw him out and have some fun with him? He agreed then to follow every order I gave him, and he's been true to his word. Or lately, she's been true to hers. At every step we've had no problem talking her into going along with whatever I've had in mind." Jill paused, then went on in a reminiscent frame of mind. "Sucking all that semen out of me for weeks, just to get her used to the taste so she wouldn't balk when we really put her to work! I'll never figure out where you collected it all each day."

"I've got friends who owed me favours," Sam said, "And jerking off into a bottle seemed to them an easy enough way for them to pay me off. Anyhow, a lot of that stuff was mine, remember, and I didn't need a gravy baster to put it where your so-called husband found it."

"No, you didn't," Jill said affectionately. "Anyhow, there she was, already agreeing to anything, even begging me to piss on her. So how could I not? Then she actually let us turn her into a human scum-bag! Whoring for weeks or months! I told you she would! You still haven't paid me the ten dollars you owe me for that one. But she did it! She really is still the old Jack with tits, isn't she, still the wimp I can talk into doing anything! And to think I once married him!"

Some of Jill's professional enthusiasm now entered her tone of voice. "What say, Sam, will you take on another ten dollars that I can get her to cut her balls off? I'm sure I can do it. I know I can! Twenty dollars if I get her to beg me to let her do it, OK? I'll make that my parting gift to her, that she herself pleads with me to cut off all chance of ever becoming a man again. Not that Jack ever was much of a man. He doesn't know it, but even now his impotence is still reversible. Partially reversible, anyhow."

"Well look, Jill," Sam said, his voice persuasive in its turn. "OK, you married an asshole, and you've fucked him up the ass, which is what assholes deserve. I even fucked him up the ass, one of those nights in the motel, and he never even bothered to notice! Stupid shit! OK. We've both had lots of fun by now. We've turned his mouth and ass into garbage cans. He waddles around all day in high heels. He's a man with bags hanging off his chest who can't get it up any more. You could probably get him to hang by his thumbs all day in a closet, waiting for you to come home. I don't doubt it. He's so fucked up now he's too easy! Quit playing with him. Forget about castration. Get him to sign the papers, and we'll be done with him. He's not a bad guy, for a queer! He does give good head."

"You ... animal! How would you know?" Jill's voice turned almost musical, and I realized she was talking to Sam with deep affection. I felt jealous, and deeply sad, all at once.

"Hey!" Sam said laughing. It sounded as if she was groping him somewhere ticklish. "No, seriously, can you tell him soon that you're through with him? I want us to be married! I really do. It's been how long now, over a year you've been putting me off just so you could play these mind fucking control games with your husband? At least by now he should be an ex-husband! So he wasn't the man you thought you married? So what? I am! There's nothing pansy about me, and you know it! Dump him and let's get our lives in gear.

"When the papers are finalized, love. Only another few days. When Jack becomes Jane on paper, our marriage is annulled. A legal woman can't be married to a legal woman in this State. But there's been lots to do. I've only just finished transferring the balance of his property to my name, including that huge inheritance from his uncle that he doesn't even know about. The dumb prick!"

"He isn't a prick any more, Jill. He's hardly even got one, thanks to you." Sam started to snicker, amused by his recollections. "You've had your fun. Remember when he limped and flounced out of his car with his sore ass the morning after he first got fucked, and you praised his grand conversion to womanhood, and you practically told him what you were going to do to reduce him to whimpering jelly, and he bought it all?" Jill began to chuckle at this. "And remember the way you described it, his sorrowful sad eyes big as dinner plates when you got him to stick his butt way out in the air for the doctor, to get it so loaded with hormones that he couldn't see straight for days, and still can't think straight? That mean-tempered lawyer in you really found someone you could fuck over more thoroughly than anyone anywhere has ever been fucked over before, and you couldn't resist! Your own husband! And he collaborated with you at every turn! Stupid shit!" Now the two of them sounded like an old married couple sharing old jokes.

There was a pause. Then Sam asked, "After he signs those papers, do you mean to kick him into the streets to sell his ass for rent money?"

"No, I'm not that mean," Jill answered Sam in a teasing tone. "I'll leave him a little something for his lipsticks and panties and tampons and things, his little necessities." She giggled. "He's a grown girl. He'll be grateful, you watch. Are you sure you don't want to bet twenty I can't get him to plead with me to cut off his balls in token of our undying love? On his knees? I'll make it tougher. I'll throw in his prick too. And I'll make the appointment with the surgeon right now, cut it all off one week from today, and I guarantee you he'll go like a lamb to the slaughter with tears of gratitude pouring out of his eyes and ruining his mascara. A bet?" Sam stayed silent.

She giggled some more, and then turned serious again. "There's no problem with him earning some kind of a living. All he wants is to keep himself in panty-hose. He can always go back to computing I suppose. Of course by now he might prefer to earn his living selling blow jobs. Imagine, swallowing so much sperm he was gaining weight! Can you believe it even now? Maybe we should set him up in a one-girl call-girl business, and collect a management fee for our trouble. I'm sure I could talk him into that. But how would you know that he gives good head?" Her voice became muffled, and the bedsprings squeaked a little, and Sam gave a small groan, and didn't answer.

I stepped away as quietly as I could, and went back downstairs to the kitchen. I was still in my pink lace wraparound, and as I reached for the coffee pot it fell open, and my breasts were exposed. They sagged a little, but they were pert enough. I kind of liked the way they stuck out. They weren't bags at all! They were mine! I was kind of glad to have them. I glanced at my reflection in the mirror by the back door, and I liked what I saw. Even in the morning, fresh out of bed, I wasn't too bad looking -- in fact, I thought, I'm sort of cute. I loved the way Marianne was doing my hair these days. I repressed an urge to go back upstairs and fix my makeup before anyone else came down. Instead I sat down with a cup of coffee, and began to think. A half hour later the coffee was cold, and I still hadn't drunk any of it.

Jill and Sam came downstairs. Jill winked at me in her conspiratorial way while Sam was occupied splitting an English Muffin, and I remembered that as far as she was concerned, the two of us were now girlfriends who each took pleasure in the hunks of meat we brought home. I smiled at her. She smiled back. Then I smiled at Sam. "Sam," I said to him. He looked up. "Last night was just wonderful. A marvellous surprise! We should do it again."

Sam looked a little startled and bewildered, and glanced at Jill quickly before turning back to me. I had wanted to shake him up a little, and I did. "I guess we could arrange another double date, Jane," he said, recovering as best he could. He glanced at Jill again.

"Just what I'd like! How's this Friday night, sixish, for drinks and things before we go out for dinner?"

"Fine," Sam said. "OK with you, Jill? Can you take care of it? Can you have everything ready for Jane by then?" I understood what he was really asking her, and I wondered how many clues like this I had been ignoring. Maybe hundreds.

"Six this Friday is good," Jill said. "I'll be ready. Then Saturday we can do what we've been planning the way we've planned it."

They didn't mind talking about running off together under my very nose! "Oh," I said, "Just one more thing. Bring a friend. Maybe someone who owes you a favour?"

"Sure," Sam said, a little uncertain. He looked at Jill again.

Jill looked back steadily. "Didn't you tell me you about a guy who was a professional football player until a few years ago, a big bruiser you just took into your firm?" Jill asked. "Why don't you ask him?" I heard her. She was proposing that Sam find a big-prick stud to stretch out my asshole one last time, so I'd sign the papers and the two of them could get their future under way.

Sam relaxed. "Good idea," he said. "He hardly knows anyone in this town. You'll like him, Jane."

"Wonderful!" I said. "Then it's settled. I'll see you then, Sam. I've got to go fix my hair." And I left them to their breakfast.

That Friday Jill came home from her office a little late. I was entertaining Sam and his friend in the living room. I had just served them drinks, and was telling them a bawdy story when she came in the back way and called out "Jane, are you there?"

"Yes, honey," I called back. "The boys are here too."

"Hi, guys," she shouted. "I'll be with you in a minute. I'm all ready for our big night -- I changed at the office. Jane, can we talk for just a second?"

I walked into the kitchen, and Jill stared at me. I was wearing a bright red dress with a princess neckline cut so low my cleavage was fully visible, and my upper breast curves hung out practically to the nipples. The dress was one I had bought when I was still developing my bust and my fanny, and it was a little tight on me. The overall effect was of a girl about to bust her buttons, or of a well-packed sausage spilling over at each end. Just the right amount of sexy vulgarity. And it had done just what I wanted it to do. Sam had taken one look and turned away, a little ashamed that he'd brought a business associate over to date such a broad. But his associate Art had bugged out his eyes and then couldn't take them off me. He still couldn't speak straight. He was well set up for his role in the evenings proceedings. He had one thing only on his mind.

"Jane, are you sure about that dress?"

"I think it's fine, dear. What did you want to tell me?"

"Oh, nothing important," she said. She gestured at a half-dozen papers she had spread out on the kitchen table so that mainly, only their signature lines were visible. "Some things you still need to sign, leftover from Jack's business. Let's get them out of the way, and then have some fun with our fellas." She handed me a pen.

"I'll sign them, Jill. Don't worry. I've given it a lot of thought. You've done so much for me, and I am grateful to you. I love you, I guess, still, despite everything. We were once married, and I suppose legally we still are. For now." Jill looked up at me sharply. "But first you have to do something for me."

Jill was bewildered, but reached to regain the initiative. "What are you talking about? Of course we love each other. What is it you want me to do?"

"Sam's friend in there is named Art, and he's about 300 pounds of solid muscle and gristle. From the bulge in his pants -- that's why I wore this dress, honey -- about 100 pounds of him is hanging between his knees."

Jill interrupted with routine enthusiasm. "Oh, how wonderful for you darling! He's ...."

"No, Jill," I interrupted. "Just listen. For once, just listen. I'll sign those papers. I'll sign them the moment I see something."

"See what?" I realized that in all these years, I had never negotiated a deal with Jill, bargained so that each of us could get something we wanted. I had proposed things for the two of us, and she had accepted or rejected them. But I had never set conditions. She sensed there was something new happening here.

"What I want to see is your Sam going down on Art and blowing him until the cum drips out of the corners of his mouth, and out of his nose, and maybe out of his eyeballs and ears. And I want to see Art drilling his prick into Sam's ass. I want Sam to be wearing a bra when it happens. I want it to happen tonight, now, before we go out to dinner. I want to see you arrange for this to happen, and I want to know that's what you're doing right from the beginning. You are one of the world's great manipulators of people. I want to admire your technique."

Jill just looked at me, taking my measure. I had her full attention. I went on. "I was no match for you. I'm a wimp, and besides, I wanted to please you even when you were walking all over me. I was a nice guy. Now I'm a nice girl. I'm still easy for you. But now I want to see you humiliate someone else. Someone you admire and respect. I want to watch your future husband become a darling little cocksucker just like me. I'm sure you can arrange it. I'm sure he'll do anything for you, just as I did. Then I'll sign those papers."

Jill looked at me steadily. "Jane," she said, "There's more to you than I've credited you. How long have you known?"

"Not long. A few days. I should have known from the moment you first started working on me, but I was so eager for you to let me dress up I guess I didn't want to know. Don't misunderstand me. I don't resent what you've done to me just because you knew you could. If I hadn't wanted it too, I wouldn't have done it. I am grateful. What I'll do from here on in I don't know, but that's not your problem. Your problem is to get Sam into a bra and make him swallow Art's meat at both ends, and to get Art willing to do it. Then you'll get what you want. And I'll be satisfied. And we'll each get on with our lives."

Jane continued to look at me, her gaze unwavering. She scarcely paused for thought, and then said, "All right then, Jane dear. I understand. You want your little pound of flesh. Sam is all man, and you don't want me to marry a man who's all man. I got you to suck cock and take it up the ass whenever I snapped my fingers, so now you want Sam to do it, and every night Sam and I are together you want me to know he's done it. All right. I'll fix it. Maybe it'll take a half-hour. Not much more. I'm hungry. I want to go to dinner. Go in and refresh their drinks. Pour a lot into Art, if he's as big as you say. And send Sam in here. You don't mind if Sam knows about your little scheme, do you?"

"Oh no! It'll be more fun for me if Sam knows what knowing you is costing him. But I don't think Art should know. I want to watch you twist him around the way you did me. Besides, he looks pretty straight to me. If he thought Sam wanted to go down on him maybe he'd wipe the floor with him. Maybe he's never poked anyone's asshole. But he has to know afterward that it was Sam."

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it," Jill said. "No problem, girlie. Go wave your tits in Art's face and give him something to drink, dear darling Jane." She said "Jane" as if she were swinging a sledge-hammer at me. "Shake that shapely ass at him. Do you still keep a tampon wedged in there somewhere, princess? Does your fuck hole still stretch big enough to satisfy an elephant? Send in Sam."

Finally, I had gotten to her! I loved it!
 
 
Chapter 10
 
Five minutes later I had poured Art a full tumbler of whisky and he had emptied it down, by the simple device of telling him there was a naked lady to be seen in the bottom of the glass when he had emptied it. He chugalugged, and I stood in front of him with my breasts pulled out of their flimsy bra, so he could see me through the clear glass bottom of the tumbler. We both laughed uproariously at this little joke, and Art reached for me. "Later, hon, " I said. "After we eat," and I tucked myself back where I belonged. Art was already sweating.

Jill and Sam came back out from the kitchen, and I was delighted to see that Sam was visibly disturbed. He seemed clubbed. His shirt was a little untucked, as if he'd hastily pushed it back into his pants. So he'd agreed, and his no-titties were now in a bra. So far so good. Jill followed, watching him closely, obviously concerned for him. Sam sat down abruptly on the couch. Jill suddenly turned very bright, as if she had flicked a switch.

She went over to Art and said to him, "Hi, I'm Jill. We're going to see a lot of each other I think, at least tonight we are! Ready to begin?"

"Sure," Art said. He seemed a little confused, but willing to go along. He'd had two drinks before Jill got home, and the huge one I'd just given him was beginning to reach his brain.

"Well, Art. Before we go out to dinner, Jane and I want a little taste of things to come. Do you have anything like that?"

"Things to come? Oh, yeah, cum. I sure do, Jill. Do you wanna see it?"

Jill produced four large napkins. "Oh no, Art. Seeing's believing! That comes later! Right now Jane and I want to seat you and Sam side by side, blindfolded, and we'll be blindfolded too, and we'll go down on you guys. OK?"

Art nodded, thinking no doubt that he'd really lucked out tonight.

"Only we'll none of us know which of us is doing who. Then later on we'll find out, by the way your cocks and our mouths feel, and by whose cum tastes more familiar. It's a game. Wanna play?"

"You bet," Art said, lifting his bulk out of his chair, walking over, and settling himself in a chair next to the couch where Sam was sitting.

Jill handed me two napkins and told me to cover Sam's eyes and then mine. I went over and blindfolded Sam. Jill waited a moment, so Art could see Sam with his eyes covered, and me tieing a blindfold over my own eyes. Then she blindfolded Art. "All secure?" she asked. "Can't see a thing," Art replied.

Sam took his blindfold off and looked miserable, and I set mine aside too. "All right," Jill said, "Now none of us can see. Why don't you two men stand up and change places, or maybe not, so we won't know who's where." Sam stood up abruptly, then sat down again in place. Art stood, shuffled tentatively, felt that Sam was still where he had been, and sat down again. "Now, Jane, out with his meat. Whoever you're in front of."

"You bet," I said. I sat down on the couch to watch. Jill unzipped Art's fly, and with her long, smooth hand with their lovely tapered fingernails, she worked Art's cock out until it stood tall out of his trousers. Art could feel it was a woman's hand, and he swelled up to gigantic size. I'd seen one or two bigger, of course, and Jill and Sam

had seen to it that I'd fucked bigger, quite a few times in fact. But Art was up there in competition with the best, and I saw he'd do very well for Sam's deflowering, Sam's emasculation in Jill's eyes. I grinned, and almost laughed out loud. Art's prick could have been the model for that monstrous dildo Jill and I had forced up each of us so often. It was like a baseball bat in shape and thickness, with a huge purple cock head. Sam's eyes bugged out.

"And now out with the other fella's meat," Jill said. "Is it out?" "Oh, yes," I replied. "Boy is this guy hung!" I was delighted to see this scheme of Jill's working so well.

"Now, gentlemen, the ladies want to take their pleasure. We just don't know which lady or which pleasure, that's all. From now on, no hands!" Jill stood and touched Sam on his shoulder. He slumped out of his chair and fell to his knees between Arts legs. Jill silently opened her mouth wide, hid her teeth behind her lips, and motioned to Sam to do the same. Sam fixed his eyes on her, looking pitiable. It was obvious that Jill was going to direct him through the whole exercise. This was better than my first session with Tom, when my mouth first lost its cherry, many cocks ago. My masculine pride never really did recover, and I hoped the same for Sam.

Jill licked the tip of her thumb. Sam leaned forward and touched his tongue to Art's huge cock head, right where a drop of pre-cum had appeared. She swirled her tongue around her thumb tip. Sam swirled his tongue. Art leaned back slightly, feeling pleasurably serviced. Then Jill plunged her mouth all the way around the first joint of her thumb, and up and down two or three times. Sam looked pathetically desperate, and a wild look came into his eye. He opened his mouth to its utmost and took in the whole of Art's cockhead, to just below the ridge. He looked over at Jill, and it was obvious his mouth was straining full. There was no way he could slide his head up and down. Jill signalled he should begin to suck, and while sucking hold Art's cockhead firmly in his mouth, and pump the whole shaft up and down with his head. So he did. Art's cock grew more in Sam's mouth, and it wasn't clear that Sam could ever get his mouth off it again. Jill made an exaggerated tongue motion, and somewhere in his mouth Sam did the same, still pumping. Art let out a groan.

Jill then removed her mouth from her thumb and made some elaborate licking motions up and down the whole extended thumb, and licked the joint at the base of her thumb, then up its length. So did Sam, for a while. Then Sam returned on his own to sucking Art's prick, but this time he angled his neck to take more in, far into the back of his throat. Art started twisting his hips, and soon the two of them had set up a powerful rhythm, Art fucking Sam's face in and out while Sam bobbed his head over Art's prick, like a big bird in a garden full of worms. Faster they went, until finally Art hoisted his pelvis all the way out of the chair and into Sam's face, and shouted "Now! Now! Now! Now! Swallow it, Bitch! Swallow it, Bitch! Swallow it, Bitch!" The Bitch in question did his best, but couldn't get it all. His Adam's Apple worked furiously -- he swallowed over and over, but slick cloudy ooze began to come out of the corners of his mouth, just as I'd hoped. Then he lost his grip on the head of Art's cock, probably because it had gotten too slick, and the last few pulses hit him full in his face and hair. So there he was, his nose and face dripping cum, eyes tight shut, his mouth still twisted wide open as if his jaw had unhinged and he couldn't close it, his face a mask of tragedy. Jill was watching him with concern, but also with disgust. Her mouth was set rather tight.

"How can he help but want to be a woman now that his mouth has tasted cum," I said quietly to Jill. "Do you think he's ready to slurp jism twenty times a night, the way I can? Do you think he'll make a good slut?"

Art must have heard the last word or two. "She's a terrific slut," he said. "That was the best head I've had in years. Lots of girls can't handle a prick like mine. Now who was it? Jill? Jane?" He started to take off his blindfold.

Jill stopped him. "No," she said in a throaty voice. "More! I"m hot! I want more! Give it to me baby! Up the ass! Are you man enough? Here, Art, put your finger in my ass. I can't wait for you to get hard again! Oh, yeah!" She looked a little disgusted with herself, producing that cornball slut talk. But her instincts were unerring. Art bought it all, and leaned back. She produced a tube of jelly and motioned to Sam to drop his pants. He did, and his underwear, and Jill immediately saw a problem. He had the hairiest backside I have ever seen. But Jill improvised brilliantly. "Yeah, grease that place between my smooth, ripe melons," she said to Art, and loaded his forefinger with jelly, and lowered her panties, and backed over his crotch, and crouched down so he could feel her rear. He began running his hands over her cheeks, which I must say I have always admired, usually from a distance, and he started trying to insert his huge tube, which had never gone all the way down and was now re-inflating. "No, grease me up first, or a great big cock like yours'll tear up my little love-hole," she said. This information she directed pointedly to Sam, with a warning expression on her face. She filled three fingers with jelly, and beckoned to him. He understood. He backed toward her and bent way over, his face now fearful.

"I gotcha, sweetbuns, first the coming attractions, then the main event," Art said, working his jellied forefinger into Jill while caressing her smooth, ripe melons. This was far better than I'd hoped. A daisy chain of finger-fuckers! Aa Art invaded her she winced, but kept her mind on her job, which was working three fingers into Sam, whose anal opening was obviously rigid and in spasm. With her long fingernails she didn't dare force anything. So as Art warmed to his work and began to finger fuck Jill's hole, slow at first then faster and faster, his prick still rising toward its former glory, she slapped Sam on a hairy cheek and said "Relax, you son of a bitch, or you're surely gonna regret it!" Sam gritted his teeth, and lowered his eyebrows, and Jill got a finger into him. A minute later a second finger. She fucked him with these two for a while, and he kept his eyes closed as if he were somewhere else. Finally she got a third in, and pulled out, and regreased, and re-inserted, and worked all three into Sam as deep as she could.

"Now, baby?" Art asked. Jill obviously wanted to get Art's finger out of her butt. "Now, baby!" she replied. She stepped forward and Art lost his purchase on her. Then she deftly twisted, filled her palm with jelly and slathered it all over Art's monster cock, now fully grown again. She then took Sam by the shoulders and backed him into her former space over Art's shaft. Then she pushed Sam's hips down so his slippery anus was pressing onto the head of Art's slippery prick. "You're on your own now babe," she told Sam. "Then here I come at you," Art replied. Art grabbed Sam's hips to hold them steady, and thrust full force at the anus he could feel between the cheeks he could feel through the layers of jelly.

"AAAaaaoooOOOOOhhh!" Sam shrieked in the highest falsetto I have ever heard from any man's throat. His maidenhead had gone into memory, in a single soprano outcry! He was obviously in great pain, but physical or mental I couldn't tell. "You like it, huh?" Art replied, "Well there's more where that came from." He started pumping, and with each pump added another inch of his cock to the massive meat Sam's ass had already swallowed, until finally he was all the way in. Sam then reminded me of Jill when she had first gotten that whole massive dildo into her pussy. He crouched over Art's lap, rigid, not daring to move, impaled in a kind of catatonic stupor, while Art pumped away at him from below. I watched fascinated. Jill had trained me for months to survive what Sam was undergoing in minutes, and was feeling inside himself right now. I'd taken some monsters, and knew what could happen. Sure enough. As his pain subsided, Sam's dick started to rise, and as it got more and more erect he grasped it with one hand and started to stroke it, obviously unaware of what he was doing, because his ass also began to move back onto Art in the same rhythm Art was using on him. Sam's prostate and all those internal nerve endings squeezed deliciously against Art's meat, and betrayed him. He moved faster and faster with Art, and finally they both came together in a crescendo, Sam spurting into the air and our carpet, Art unloading deep into Sam's bowel while shouting, "Take it, bitch, Oaghh, take it, bitch, Oaghh!" over and over. Jill watched the two of them with loathing. I burst out laughing! Here was yet another man who had given up his mouth's and his asshole's virginity for the love of Jill! I wondered if we should form a club. Art's penis softened a little and he pulled it out of Sam's ass with a "POP" sound. Cum dribbled after.

Art then took off his blindfold and saw Sam's ass, and puzzled, looked around it to see Sam's face, cum from the earlier encounter still oozing from the corners of his mouth, his face and hair still sticky. "Sam!" said Art. "What're you doing there? Did you set this up? Are you a faggot? You really like eating my cock? You really wanted me to fuck you? Hey hey!" And Art grappled with this information. It was hard to tell from the numb expression on his face whether he was next going to kiss Sam or deck him. Maybe both.

Sam started to stand up, but Art held him in his crouch. "No, Sam, we're not done. Now I know you like cock, we're going to have some great old times together. Some days in that office I just have to beat off, maybe two or three times a day, just to keep my mind on my work and off the secretaries. The way harassment cases go these days, I can't propose anything to a secretary, I bet not even marriage! But you know what I want, Sam! And all this time you wanted to give it to me! Now when I get a boner I'll know who to call to take care of me. Sam! I think this is terrific!"

A sly grin came over his face. "Tell me Sam, are you a real Queen?" Art felt through Sam's shirt and found the lines of his brassiere. "Oh, Sam, you're a queen all right!" Suddenly he looked up at Jill. "But he's your boy friend, too, isn't he. And there you were, setting things up for him. Well, that's love. I can respect that! Can we share him?"

Jill watched this whole scene white-faced, her mouth still tight. It was obvious she had not wanted to see what she had seen, nor to hear any of this. And it was obvious that despite everything she knew about duress, and rape, and victimization, Sam her all-man romantic companion and future husband was changing in her mind at that moment into one more potential pansy in pants, who got off by thrusting his asshole repeatedly onto the first cock to enter it.

Then came the capper. "Don't get up, Sam," Art said to him with just a hint of threat. "You shouldn't have tried to fool me. Now let's do it right! Here!" And Art took Sam's head in his two huge paws and turned Sam around, and forced him back onto his knees, and began to rub his face on his crotch. His monster penis hadn't lost all its erection, and Art said to the creature between his knees, "There, there, Sammie girl, suck on it. Lick it. Clean me up. It's a reasonable size now. I bet you can handle it. I bet you can deep throat all of it. Try!"

So Sam started in again, bobbing his head. Jill went into the kitchen, unable to watch. I went in with her, and sat down at the table and signed my whole former life over to her, just as I'd promised I would.

Now I was legally and officially a woman named Jane. Jack no longer existed. I'd even proved, I realized, that I could be as bitchy as the next woman if sufficiently provoked. I really was Jill's creation! And now, I realized, I didn't mind at all! Despite everything, she'd done me a favour. I freshened my makeup and said to her, "Well, Jill. You were right! That took exactly thirty-five minutes. Now if we can unplaster Sam from Art and clean him up, shall we go to dinner?"

The next week she and Sam quit their respective firms and left town together. Maybe they're still together, though whether they're each still the same gender is anyone's guess. Jill always had the balls in our relationship, and maybe in her relationship with Sam too. She didn't have to talk anyone into getting castrated. She just went ahead and did it to them in her own way!

But as far as we were concerned, Jill had the last word. I'm still pretty much the way she made me and left me. There aren't many men who want to date me, though I present well as a woman -- in fact I'm rather pretty, and I know how to dress well and enjoy it, and how to satisfy men sexually. But that's still not enough. As I said when I began this whole long tale, I prefer girls. But there aren't many who want me for anything other than a friend. I have some very dear girlfriends, and I love them, and they love me, but there's no romance between us. Some feeling has returned to my penis, but that hormone bath did short- circuit my erections. I get them, sort of, but they're soft, and it's a rare girl who'll take a chance that I can get firm enough to fuck her. So instead, until I find that special someone who'll love me the way I am, I date men, and they play with my titties, and that feels as wonderful as ever, and I'm fucked.

When Jill left town she sent me a checkbook for one of our joint bank accounts with some money in it, enough to help me get by as it turned out. And she sent me a note telling me that I'm now a lot better off than when she first met me. True enough. She said she was glad she had feminized me, and hoped I didn't resent it. I don't. And she finished by asking, "No hard feelings, right?". Nope, none.

 
 
Copyright © 1997,1998,2000,2009 by Vickie Tern. May be archived and single-copied, not sold.

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