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Jack and Jill by Vickie Tern ([email protected]) 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 1. Chapter 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. 2. Chapter 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. 3. Chapter 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 J