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Life on the Other Side of the Skirt by Robyn A. Part One Ellen came home late for the second time that week to find her husband out once more. She had had a very difficult day with her clients at the clinic. He had left a message on their answering machine. "Hi, honey," said his recorded voice. "I can't come home right away tonight, because I'm interviewing Joanne Tracy for the book. She's pretty odd, and keeps late hours, so I'm kinda stuck. Oh, well. I should be home by about three a.m. Love you." There were other messages, but she didn't really pay any attention to them. She was too angry. Ellen was married to Christopher Franklyn, who worked in Hollywood as a ghostwriter, writing "autobiographies" of famous Hollywood personalities. Like Joanne Tracy, who had been making movies since the forties, and who had retired about ten years ago. Joanne Tracy had originally rejected Christopher as her co-writer, however, saying that she would prefer a female collaborator. Only Christopher's charm won out, and she allowed the man to co-author he autobiography. But Christopher wasn't the only one who was known for hobnobbing with celebrities. Ellen herself had almost daily contact with stardom, as well. She was one of Tinseltown's leading psychotherapists, and had any number of movie and television stars in her patient roster at any given time. "It's happening again," she said aloud, to no one in particular. He was having another affair. She could hear it in his recorded voice. She wondered who the floozy was this time. And as it turned out, Joanne Tracy was the wife of one of her patients. Because of her oath of confidentiality, Ellen couldn't tell her husband anything about her patients. Howard Tracy was one of Ellen's clients for the last four years, and she knew virtually everything about him, including the fact that his wife was a creature of habit, who was always in bed by nine o'clock. Therefore, it was easy enough to check up on her husband. The Franklyns lived in a large, three-bedroom house in the Hollywood Hills. With their respective careers, it was easy enough to buy the home outright. They remodeled it extensively, and hired a full-time maid, Consuela, to take care of the house during the days, when only Christopher was home. The house was extremely elegant, as befit a home that served as a haven for celebrities with secrets. Christopher was well aware that Hollywood spoiled people, and that its' long-time stars were accustomed to a certain level of opulence that was required for them to feel at ease. Ellen's high-heeled shoes clicked angrily across the polished, hardwood floors, on the way to their mutual office. She sat down at her computer terminal, and logged onto the computer at her office; entering her codeword-- LIPSTICK--she accessed her own personnel files, and got the number over at the Tracy residence. If Christopher wasn't there, there would be hell to pay. "Tracy residence," it was the voice of their maid, Eunice. Ellen had spoken to her before. "Hello," Ellen said. "This is Dr. Franklyn, calling Harold Tracy. May I please speak to him, please?" "I'm sorry, Dr. Franklyn," said their maid. "He's not in town right now. He and Joanne are down in Mazatlan for the weekend. They both should be back on Wednesday." Just in time for his Thursday appointment, Ellen thought. "I see," she said lamely. Well, that meant that Christopher was obviously seeing some floozy again. She idly wondered who it was...Melissa, B'Linda, Julie, Stacie...there were so many possibilities. But did it really even matter? Who it was was totally irrelevant. The only relevant fact was that Christopher was cheating on her again. It had to stop. Somehow, it had to stop. Christopher Franklyn met Ellen Andrews during her final year of graduate school. Christopher was only a senior, graduating that year with a bachelor's degree in Writing, and he was five years junior to her. Christopher was a small, rail-thin, energetic, and outgoing man. To compensate for his lack of height, he learned to be a very high-energy person. No one could miss him in a crowd; he was usually the center of attention. His final project in college was a play entitled No Reason, which he knew wasn't very good, but had attracted a great cast, including Bradley Hess, the son of the legendary Hollywood director Joseph Hess. Eventually, Christopher met the great director, who was shopping around for a ghostwriter to do his autobiography. Much to Christopher's surprise, Hess was impressed with No Reason, and proposed they collaborate. The result was a number one bestseller, and soon Christopher was churning out two bios a year for Hollywood legends, old rock stars, and at least one major politician. Accidentally, Christopher Franklyn had found a career that he loved. Ellen, on the other hand, had an equally dynamic personality, but much more focused on academia. She specialized in hypnotherapy; the eradication of undesirable personality traits or bad habits. If someone had a fear of flying, or kleptomania, or perhaps needed to kick a minor drug addiction, she was the person to go to. And once the two of them were married, in a small, private ceremony about a year after Ellen's graduation, she set up her practice. And her clients, perhaps enticed to the "Franklyn" name, tended to be high-profile, well-paying media types. She had learned many secrets about many people; the network news anchor who liked to swipe watches from politicians, the rock star who had a fear of heights, the famous operatic soprano who couldn't sing a note unless she had gotten off sexually with at least three burly hunks before a performance. Ellen Franklyn had managed to cure them all. But she couldn't keep her husband faithful. Ellen was no fool. She knew that Christopher was sleeping around on her even before their marriage. But she couldn't prove it. Besides, she hoped that his wayward ways would end with their marriage. And for a while, they did. Christopher was the absolute model of a faithful husband for the first two years of their marriage. Then came the contract to write Ann-Julian's book; and within a week, the two of them were having an affair. Ellen found out about her husband's romance with the forty-five-year-old starlet only after the book had been published. Ann-Julian by Ann-Julian was a monster bestseller, which detailed all of her sexual exploits, and heavily implied in the last chapter that Ann-Julian herself was currently having an affair...it didn't take a genius to put two and two together. Ellen had hired a private detective to trail her husband, and sure enough, he was holed up in a romantic little bungalow down in Silicon Valley. The couple had almost divorced over the matter. But Ellen loved Christopher too much to let him go; her love for him had begun to border on an almost obsessive possessiveness. And she was well aware of it; after all, she had seen the same thing in many of her clients. Besides, Christopher had promised that it would never happen again. But it was. Ellen was in bed when Christopher sneaked in, slipping between the sheets at two a.m. Ellen was still awake, sleeplessly waiting for her husband to return. "Back already?" she asked. "I thought you'd be out until three." "Miss Tracy got tired," Christopher said, turning, taking Ellen into his arms. She could smell another woman's perfume on him. The image of her husband having sex with some floozy made her shiver. What if he should pick up something from her? A sexually-transmitted disease? They could both become infected. "This has to stop," she said, out loud. "Excuse me?" Christopher sounded confused. "Who is she, Chris?" Ellen asked, point-blank. He hated being called "Chris", far and away preferring "Christopher". "Who is who?" "Don't play stupid," she said, holding him in her arms. "I know you're having another affair. I just don't know who it's with, yet." Christopher broke free, and rolled over. Punched the pillow a few times to make it more comfortable. "I'm not having an affair," he said. "I love you." Ellen hated it when he pointed that out. She knew that he did love her. "Okay, then," she said. "Deny it. But I'll find out. Just like I found out about Ann-Julian, and Katie, and Kristin, and Molly. You have a problem, Christopher." "It seems to me that you do," he said. "Paranoia. Don't you know how to treat that? Doctor, cure thyself." There was nothing more to be said. Ellen listened to her husband drift off to sleep, and as usual, he snored in that cute way she actually liked. He always slept deeply; and he always had trouble getting out of bed in the morning. Usually, the maid--Consuela-- managed to coax him out of his sound sleep at about noon. Ellen stewed, still awake. There had to be something she could do to prevent him from cheating on her. Ellen woke up tired that morning. The 6:30 alarm never disturbed her husband's sleep. So while he snoozed on, Ellen showered in the adjoining bathroom, and dressed herself in a white silk blouse, and her pastel pink blazer and short pleated pink skirt. Ellen knew that she had a reputation as a hard-ass, so she tried to offset the image by dressing as softly and as feminine as she could. Soft pink ballerina flats rounded off her outfit, and as she did her make-up in the vanity mirror, she looked behind herself to see Christopher happily sleeping away. There had to be a way to keep him faithful. Ellen never even considered a divorce, after that first time. Christopher brought out the best in her, with his stimulating conversation, spontaneous kindnesses and easygoing ways; and even when she knew he was cheating on her, making love with him was incredible. In so many ways, they were lovers despite his one major character flaw. And she was beginning to let it get under her skin at last. Ellen knew that if she didn't find some way of obtaining Christopher's absolute marital fidelity, there would be no hope for their marriage. Ellen was a stunning woman. If you were to pick out Christopher Franklyn as an adulterer, you would have to assume that he was an idiot as well. Ellen was tall, even a bit taller that her husband; in heels, she was easily five inches over him. Ellen had electric blue eyes, a dazzling smile, and naturally curly ash-blonde hair that she wore in a short, but decidedly feminine style. Her cute, unpierced ears enhanced the purity of her flawless skin tone; her aristocratic face was reminded one of Garbo or Dietrich. Which was a definite advantage in the Hollywood community. Ellen was served a light breakfast one of the two servants they kept on a part- time basis. Jessica was on duty on Fridays, and she was an outstanding cook. "Christopher is cheating on me again," Ellen told Jessica as the younger woman was taking away the breakfast dishes. Jessica made a disgusted noise, and said, "I can't see why he does that. A beautiful wife, a stimulating job...he has everything." "But he wants more," she added. "Typical male," Jessica said. "Never knows when he has enough. My fiancee is doing very well, but won't propose until he knows I won't have to work to help support the two of us. Like that matters. All that does matter is that we're together." Typical male. The phrase went through Ellen's head all day. Her first client was a man who was trying to get up enough courage to ask his young ladyfriend to marry him; and despite his compulsive neatness, Ellen had no reason to believe that his female friend would say no to his proposal. Still, the very idea made him shudder. "She might say no," he would say, over and over. "Have you ever considered hypnotherapy, Bruce?" she asked him. He shook his head negatively. "There's really nothing complicated involved," Ellen said, nonsexually but firmly trying to seduce Bruce into it. "I can't make you cluck like a chicken or do anything you aren't already inclined to do. However, it may remove your inhibition; specifically, your inhibition about asking Denise to marry you." "I don't know," he said doubtfully. "It sounds too much like a magic wand. It sounds too good to be true." But he did eventually give Ellen the go-ahead. She took out her golden-tipped pen, and moved it from side to side, putting Bruce into a trance almost instantly. She knew that she was the best hypnotherapist on the west coast; and that her reputation as a miracle worker was well deserved. A week later, Bruce proposed to Denise Rosza. And while Ellen was putting him under, an idea popped into her head. Hypnotherapy. If only she could get Christopher Franklyn on her patient roster... Meanwhile, as Ellen was in session with Bruce Sedares, Christopher Franklyn himself was busy having sex with Melissa Randall. Melissa Randall was a young scriptwriter, who had managed to get one of the studios interested in one of her stories, a romantic comedy called Going Cuckoo. She had managed to get legendary comic actor Jerry Van de Vate interested in the story, and through him, met Christopher Franklyn. Christopher was a bit brainy for Melissa's taste, and wasn't exactly the macho stud she was accustomed to. Still, he was charming in his own way, and Melissa succumbed to his charms. Often. And despite his lack of obvious machismo, Christopher was a fantastic lover. She often thought that it was too bad that he was already married... The two of them had a good many clandestine rendezvous, and Christopher was becoming less and less concerned with their safety. In fact, the danger of getting caught was as seductive as Miss Randall was. They had met that day in a cafe, from which Christopher could see the office of his wife, five stories up in the Dupont Building. The two of them had a romantic lunch (which was also breakfast for him) and adjourned to Miss Randall's office at the bank, for a quick and zesty session of lovemaking. Christopher kissed her goodbye, knowing that she would have to be hard at work in less than five minutes. He left the office, and saw all the people sneaking a peak at him as he left. This, too, gave him a thrill. There was little or no mystery as to why he was in Miss Randall's office during her lunch hour. He popped into his white Astin-Martin, and took a quick drive downtown, where he cruised the art museums, looking for the more portable, feminine works of art he could wine and dine that afternoon. He still had three hours before his appointment with Joanne Tracy, at her home later that afternoon. Ellen was in session when the idea hit her. Actually, the idea properly belonged to the wife of a patient. He was a prominent LA attorney, who was experiencing the Seven-year Itch. He had been married for seven years to a beautiful woman; and despite his happiness in the marriage, he had been seeing a woman on the side for the last six months. Today, there was something different about him. It seemed as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. There was a spring in his step that Ellen had never seen before. He sat down, and crossed his legs at the knees. "You look happy today, Dan," Ellen said, with a smile. Dan was an attractive male, with short brown hair, and a muscular body that was the product of many at-home sessions on a Soloflex. "I guess I am happy," he said. "I've broken up with my mistress. Permanently." He looked excited. "I'm not going to be seeing her again." "Oh really?" Ellen said, "Tell me about it." "Well, my wife...Stephanie...has done something to make sure I don't fool around anymore." "She's found out about your fooling around?" That was a new development. "Just after last weeks' session. She nearly hit the roof," he said. "Called me every name in the book. But even as we fought, we knew that we were still going to be together." Ellen said, "So, how is she going to keep you from cheating on her again?" Dan swallowed. "It's a little odd...I'm not sure I feel comfortable just coming out and saying it." He fidgeted around in his seat. "I'm a professional psychotherapist, Dan," she said, gesturing at the diplomas and degrees mounted on the office walls. "I have degrees in Psychology, Social Work, and Hypnotherapy. Whatever you tell me never leaves this room. There should be no secrets between us; patient and therapist." "Well," Dan ran his fingers through his hair, and said, "Stephanie told me that I needed to be disciplined. That she had to do something to me to insure that I'd never cheat on her again." "And that was..." "Well, when she told me, I laughed. I told her I wouldn't do it, no matter what. Finally, she put it on the line. If I didn't do exactly as she said, the marriage was over. I couldn't argue with that, so I agreed." "What did she tell you to do?" Ellen said. If it could work with this guy, she thought, maybe it could would with my husband too. "I must insist you tell me." "She told me that I couldn't possibly pick up women in bars or whatever if I was wearing women's underwear under my male clothing," he said. "Pardon me?" Ellen asked, not believing what she had just heard. It was so simple, such an elegant simple solution. She had to hear what the lawyer told her over again. "I have to wear women's underwear at all times," he repeated. "Stephanie makes sure I have them on before I leave her sight, at all times." Ellen asked him, "Are you wearing feminine lingerie right now?" Dan confessed. "Panties, a bra. And a garter belt with sheer stockings." Ellen noticed the little bulges on each leg, under the fabric of his pants. They were obviously caused by the tabs on the garters beneath. Dan was certainly telling the truth! Ellen involuntarily thought of Christopher, dressed in women's lingerie under his masculine attire; there was no way he could cheat on her then! Dan's wife was a genius, she decided, and she began to plot just how she could force her husband into silken panties! Ellen had planned it well. She had spiked Christopher's wine at dinner with a sleeping pill; not enough to harm him by any stretch of the imagination, but merely to make him extremely weary. He had been making noises all day about having to go out, but the pill kicked in, and he began yawning. Less than two hours later, he was fast asleep on the couch. Ellen turned the television off, and began his informal hypnotherapy. "You are in a very deep sleep, Christopher," she said, her voice droning. In a patient who was fully awake, her well-cultivated hypnotic voice would soothe; in a patient already asleep, the suggestion she would implant would have a much more profound effect. "You will not awake until I tell you to. Do you understand?" "Yes," he replied, drowsily. "Good. You have to do something for yourself, Christopher," she said. "You are very uncomfortable in your clothing." Still totally asleep, Christopher began unbuttoning his shirt. "You can still tolerate your outerwear, however," she said, amused at her husbands' easy compliance. She should have thought of this months ago. Christopher stopped undoing buttons. "It's your underwear," she said. "It's very constricting on you. Very uncomfortable. It binds you terribly; it's material is scratchy and stiff. Can you feel it?" "Yes," he said, squirming in his sleep under the imaginary discomfort. "Would you like this to stop, Christopher?" He nodded his head. "Yes," he said. "That's too bad," she told him. "You can only stop the feeling of discomfort in one way. Would you like to know what that is?" "Please," he said. "I can only tell you if you promise me you'll follow my recommendations to the letter. Do you promise?" "Yes," he said, nodding frantically. Sweat was beginning to crease his brow. The suggestion of discomfort was very strong, indeed. He had taken it to heart almost immediately. "Will you do anything to stop this awful discomfort?" "Yes." "Very well," she smiled. "From now on, Christopher, you must wear pretty ladies' undies. Made of soft, slinky, sensual materials." He shook his head from side to side. "Can't," he said. "Why not?" "Melissa will find out," he said. "Ellen will find out. Call me a sissy." A devilish thought crossed her mind. "You are a sissy," she said. If she could make him doubt his masculinity, she thought, he'd be less likely to cheat again. "In your panties, brassiere, garter belt and nylons. You probably even want to wear dresses and make-up, too." Ellen had to repress a laugh as she pictured her husband dolled up completely as a woman! "No," he denied. "I'm not a sissy." "Oh, yes you are. Chrissie the Sissy," Ellen said. "Your wife already knows. She doesn't know you like wearing her undies, but she knows you really are a little sissy, all through and through." "Please," he said, still asleep. "There has to be another way." "No , Chrissie," she said. "There is no other way. If you wear ugly men's undies, you may even develop an uncomfortable rash. Do you understand?" There was a tear in Christopher's eye as he nodded his head yes. "Will you do it? Will you wear pretty girls' underpants?" "Yes," he said. "Excellent," Ellen smiled. "In the morning, you will wake up refreshed, and will remember none of this save the need to wear pretty things under your clothes. Is this clear, Chrissie?" And for a third time, he nodded his head. "Very good," Ellen said. "You will sleep very soundly every night from now on. You will not wake until the alarm goes off three times. At three a.m., for your therapy. At seven, I get up. At noon, you get up. Do you understand?" "Yes," he said. "And one final thing," she added. "When you are asleep like you are now, and you hear me use the word 'lipstick', you will put a pretty smile on your face, and you will fall into this state immediately...do you understand?" To her delight, Christopher nodded his head. The next day, Ellen woke up first, and dressed herself for a typical day, in a powder-pink pleated skirt with a matching blazer, a white silk blouse, with white stockings, and pink pumps. As she dressed herself, she looked in her vanity mirror at Chris, who was sleeping deeply, and occasionally mumbling to himself in his sleep. As she was putting on her make-up, she was wondering what was going on in that sleeping brain...and she giggled in merriment. Ellen needed some insurance, though. She finished her make-up to her satisfaction, and went across the room to Christopher's dresser drawer. She opened the top drawer, and removed all but his oldest, most unattractive, and worn-out pairs of briefs, and undershirts. What was left certainly didn't look appealing, and with the subconscious suggestion implanted in Christopher's mind, they would probably be even more unappealing. Going to her own dresser across the room, she neatly and attractively laid out her own dainty undies in a very aesthetic manner. The silky smoothness of her own feminine underthings, she knew, would soon be on her unfaithful husband! She went downstairs, and tossed the now-useless underwear into the trash basin under the kitchen sink, and tied the plastic Hefty bag closed. Then, she replaced the bag, and went outside to the small dumpster, and tossed them in. Now, he would have very little choice indeed. As she re-entered the house, the maid noticed Ellen's bright mood right away. "My, Miss Franklyn, you certainly look chipper today," Consuela said, smiling brightly. "I slept like a baby last night," she said. "I feel on the top of the world." After Ellen had eaten a light breakfast of English muffins and hot coffee, she was off to the office, with a smile on her face. There was no question that Christopher could simply stay at home, today; after all, Joanne Tracy was back from Mazatlan, and she would be dying to resume work on her memoirs. For Christopher, then, there was no alternative--he would have to wear women's underwear to the interview. Ellen smiled at the thought. She only wished she could see her husband's first day as a panty-clad sissy. Christopher Franklyn woke up at the stroke of noon, feeling well-rested, but uncomfortable. He scratched at the rubberized bands of his jockey shorts as he turned on the shower, and was surprised to see that while he slept, he seemed to have developed a rash along where the waistband of his shorts met his skin, as well as where the bands of them were touching the skin of his legs and inner thighs. That was odd, he thought as started his hot shower. He thought nothing of it as he washed, and as the rash seemed to vanish. He dried himself, and looked at his reflection in the large bathroom mirror. He didn't need to shave; that was normal, though, since he only needed to about every other week. He had tried to grow a beard once, but gave up after a few weeks. Christopher laid out a pair of khaki slacks, and a white turtleneck shirt to wear for the day. Casual, but still respectable enough for wearing around Joanne Tracy; he had an appointment with the aging movie star at four o'clock, and he had to get this new book written eventually if he wanted to keep those fat royalty checks coming. When he looked at the three pairs of jockey shorts in his dresser drawer, he winced. Is this all I've got? he wondered. The rest of them must be in the laundry. Oh, well, he thought. He slipped on a pair of cotton jockeys, and dressed himself quickly, going downstairs to grab a bite to eat. About halfway through breakfast, though, he started to feel a bit uncomfortable. He found himself scratching at his underwear through his khaki pants, and by the time he was done with the meal, he was back in the master bedroom, naked and looking at the rash that had developed within the space of a half an hour. Christopher put on a different pair of his old underthings, and within a few minutes, was itching furiously again. Disgusted, he threw the pair in the trash, and put on his trousers without any underwear at all. And much to his surprise, that was no good either! He sat in the bedroom in confusion. Maybe I should call a doctor, he thought. Maybe Melissa or Katie has given me some weird kind of VD. He considered calling Jim Taverner, an old friend who was a practicing physician down in the valley, he hung up the phone before the second ring. Instinctively, he knew that the doctor would find nothing wrong with him. At least physically. That, of course, left psychologically. He considered calling Ellen, who was already at work. He called her office, and got her secretary on the line, who informed him that she was in session, and couldn't be disturbed. He left a message. Christopher lay on the unmade bed, and waited for his wife's call. He picked it up before the first ring ended. "Hello?" "Hello, darling," Ellen said, a smile in her voice. "What's up?" "I have a problem," he said. "Okay," she said. And even though she knew what her husbands' problem was, she would make him say it. "What's the problem." "I know it sounds strange," Christopher said, "But my underwear seems really...uncomfortable." "I don't understand," she said. "What do you mean by 'uncomfortable'?" "I get a rash from it," he said. "It goes away after a few minutes when I remove them. It's weird." "Hmmmmm....have you tried wearing no underwear at all?" "No good. The same thing happens." "Damn," she said. "This sounds like something I ran across in my practice not long ago; the very same symptoms. I can only recommend one thing, darling." "What?" Ellen smiled at the desperation in her husband's voice. "There's no sense in even asking you. You're far too proud to do it." "Do what?" "If I tell you," she said, very slowly, "Do you promise you will do it? No matter what it is?" Christopher agreed. "Yes," he said. "I'll do it." "Even if you don't like the idea?" "Yes. I will do it. What should I do about this." "You are going to have to start wearing women's underwear," she said. Ellen was certainly glad she didn't have to keep a straight face. Her smile was broad with satisfaction. "You can't be serious," Christopher said. "On the contrary," she replied. "It's actually a psychological phenomenon called Delayed Crossdressing Desire; of course it's rare, but it's nothing to get all bent out of shape over." "I can't go around wearing women's underwear," he protested. "I'd die of shame." "Listen, darling," she said, patiently. "I have clients waiting, and you have to get some work done on your book. We're about the same size, so pick out a nice pair of my panties and slip into them. When we see each other later tonight, I can tell you more about DCD. Then, we can settle on an approach to get you back into men's underwear." "But, I can't do this!" Christopher was saying on the other end of the line. "What if someone finds out?" "Unless you plan on dropping your pants in front of someone," Ellen said, "That shouldn't be a problem. It'll be our little secret, okay?" "But, Ellen..." "No buts, Chris," she said firmly. "Good-bye." And she hung up. Christopher sat alone in their bedroom, and looked at his wife's dresser. You'll have to start wearing women's underwear, Ellen had told him. The words rang in his ears like the voice of doom. How could he face Melissa, or Katie, knowing that he was wearing soft, silky feminine panties? He certainly couldn't make love to either of them, knowing that there was the risk of discovery...of being called a sissy. But weren't men who wore women's clothing sissies? He tried to rationalize his predicament as he opened the top dresser drawer, and pulled out a pair of simple black panties. Black was the most masculine color, he decide d. White or pink were right out. No one would know, he thought, as he sat on the bed and slipped the panties on. The silky fabric of the panties felt extraordinary going up his legs and into place. He was involuntarily reminded of how Melissa's panties felt against his hand as he slid his hand under them. The erotic memory started a stirring in him. No! he thought, getting his mind off the erotic memory. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror mounted on the inside of the bedroom door, and at himself, clad only in his wife's panties. He felt ridiculous. He almost wanted the itching to start over again, so that he could remove them. But it didn't, and Christopher reluctantly dressed in his khaki slacks and turtleneck. If someone, somehow, were to find out he was wearing panties... He drove to Joanne Tracy's beach house that afternoon, trying to forget what he had on under his slacks. He called Katie on his cellular phone, and canceled his late-night plans with the young model. She sounded disappointed, but he remained firm. There was no way she would catch him wearing women's underwear! And once he was interviewing Miss Tracy, he often found a certain distracting feeling from the silkiness of the panties against his skin. He had never worn something that seemed to caress him in quite such a sensual manner before. As he interviewed the screen legend about her career, the tape recorder running, he noticed what she was wearing; a simple but elegant teal blue chemise dress, with casual matching flats, and sheer stockings. She looked very comfortable. And he wondered, quite involuntarily, whether or not she was feeling the same silky feelings of being caressed by the dress that he was feeling from his panties. And he found that the interview was leading into the topic of clothing; more specifically, what Miss Tracy wore in specific movies. "I always enjoyed the historical dramas the best," she s aid. "The gowns they made for me were always so wonderful! Tight bodices, long graceful skirts, glittering jewels! Back in those days, Christopher, they treated stars like royalty. Today, stars are just fodder for the tabloids. I mean, who really cares who's sleeping with who?" "You played Queen Victoria in The Queen's Castle," he asked. "Who was the costume designer for that?" She laughed. "I don't remember his name," she said. "But he was such a character. A big sissy, if you know what I mean. Had a big, strong boyfriend who took him out to the Brown Derby every Friday night, when he'd dress up like a woman. He was a better looking woman than he was a man, let me tell you. They made a cute couple." Ellen could hardly believe her luck. It was going better than she had hoped. Christopher had actually called her for advice, and she had advised him to slip into panties! And she knew he did it! She could hardly wait to get home. But first, she had some shopping to do. Ellen went to one of the more upscale malls in the area of her office, and picked up some very, very feminine things for her husband to wear under his everyday attire. Lacy pink panties, delicate teddies, adorable garter belts and stockings, scrumptious satin brassieres...she even looked at some slips, high heels and dresses, imagining her husband totally sissified at her command, with curled hair, wearing jewelry and make-up. Reluctantly, she passed them up; there would be time for that later. Still, the image of her husband in a dress was certainly enticing. No other woman would want him like that! Christopher...Chrissie...would be hers alone, at last. Christopher came home late. Miss Tracy had been oblivious to his distracted state of mind, and began telling him about the low point of her career in the sixties. He was lucky that he was tape recording his interviews with her, because on his way home, he could remember almost none of what was said. He drove home in the night, reflecting upon the fact that he had spent nearly the entire day secretly clad in a pair of his wife's panties. And though he was embarrassed to be wearing such a feminine item of clothing, he had to admit that they certainly didn't itch, or cause a rash like his male apparel did. In fact, they felt kind of nice... Christopher entered the home he and Ellen shared through the front door, and his wife greeted him at the door, kissing him warmly. Still in the embrace, her face only a few inches away from his, Ellen asked, "So, are you wearing them?" Christopher blushed. He nodded. Ellen smiled. "That's good," she said. "Feel any discomfort?" "No," he replied. The two of them went into the living room, where Ellen had been playing a Mozart record on the stereo. "So what's the scoop on this DCD stuff?" he asked, sitting down on the edge of his easy chair. "You mean Delayed Crossdressing Desire," she said, sitting down opposite him. "Whatever." "Listen, Christopher," she said. "You may as well get used to the term 'crossdresser', because it describes what you are." Christopher leaned back, folded his arms across his chest, and said forcibly, "I have never wanted to wear women's clothing in my life, Ellen." Ellen leaned back in her chair, playing her role as psychotherapist to the hilt. "Maybe you even believe that," she said. "But it's pretty obvious from a psychological standpoint that you've been repressing the desire for years. Maybe since you were a youth. Repression can do some funny things to a person." "Including a spontaneous rash?" Ellen shrugged. "Why not? Your men's underwear gave you a rash; now that you are wearing pretty ladies undies, the rash is gone. A classic psychosomatic reaction to an unwanted presence in you life; in this case, your masculine underwear." "How can this be cured?" Christopher asked. "Can it be cured?" Ellen ignored the question. "When you were a boy, did you ever try on your sisters clothes? Get all dressed up like a girl?" "Of course not!" Christopher protested. "I had no interest in all in her clothing!" "Hmmmm...." Ellen paused. "You mean, you had no interest that you can remember." She was already plotting her next move. "Look," Christopher plopped down into an overstuffed couch. "I don't know what's going on here, and I don't like it. Is there, or isn't there a cure for this DCD stuff?" Ellen took a deep breath. "Probably not." "There has to be something I can do, darling!" "Actually," she said. "There is. You can go on wearing panties. But eventually, the desire will grow. Eventually, you will desire wearing brassieres, garter belts, stockings..." Christopher shook his head in disbelief. "No way," he said firmly. "And finally, make-up, jewelry, and dresses," she concluded, ignoring his outburst. "You are actually quite fortunate, Christopher." "How?" he could see how his cloud had any kind of a silver lining. "Most wives would be quite upset to find out that her husband likes to dress up like a sexy girl," she said. "I'm willing to help you with it." "What?" "Listen," she said. "We're both off this weekend. On Saturday morning, we'll take a trip up to the cabin, and get you dressed up like a woman. It'll be private, and no one will ever know." Christopher hesitated. "Good," Ellen said. "Then it's agreed. By the way, darling, I have to draw the line somewhere. You can't wear my things; so I took the liberty of buying you some new undies on my way home from the office. I hope you like them." Ellen took the totally-shamed Christopher upstairs, where she showed him her purchases, which she laid out on their double bed while he watched. It was quite a haul. There were no less that a dozen pairs of panties, all of which were extremely feminine in design, and all of which were in very bright colors; pastel pink, peach, ivory white, and strawberry red. And much to Christopher's chagrin, not a single pair lacked lace trim. His wife then withdrew three bras from the bag. They matched the panties nicely, in pinks and peach. "These are adorable," Ellen said. "Most real girls would die to have undies this nice." Christopher made a face. "Oh, don't even pretend you don't want to slip into them right now, Chris," she scolded him. "I go through all this trouble for you, and you show all the gratitude of a callous youth. Many wives won't even let their husbands dress up like women; you are lucky that I am even willing to help!" "I'm sorry," he said. Unfortunately he couldn't imagine for the life of him either Katie or Melissa approving of him wearing ladies clothing...maybe he was lucky to have a wife who understood... "I've even bought you this," Ellen said, drawing out the last item in the bag. It was a ladies' nightie. It was a translucent peach color, which matched perfectly with the bra and panty set he had been shown earlier. It had puffed, lacy sleeves, and flowers embroidered into the fabric. The skirt of the nightie would reach to his mid-thigh, and was trimmed with a pleated flounce, and decorated with lace trimming throughout. And to Christopher's realization, it was identical to an outfit Ellen possessed. An outfit she wore to make love to him! "See, darling?" she said. "Now we can match! It can be like two sisters having a slumber party! Of course, we'd be two very naughty sisters..." Despite himself, and perhaps because of his wife's boldness, he felt a stirring in the panties he wore. Ellen tossed the nightie on the bed, and took her husband aggressively in her arms, kissing him deeply on the mouth. Christopher found himself responding to her kiss, in much the same way Melissa or Katie responded to his kisses. He accepted his wife's exploring tongue in his mouth, and allowed himself to be pushed gently onto the bed, and onto the sexy things that were spread out on it. Christopher could hardly believe what was happening; his wife had become the sexual aggressor, and he was responding to her advances like...well, like a woman responds to a man she's in love with. The role reversal, with himself in t he role of the girl, was extremely exciting to him. The couple made love that night for the first night in weeks, for hours on end. Christopher, knowing that he had to be responsible, despite his infidelities, donned a condom before the act was consummated. Even if he was unfaithful to Ellen, he didn't want the consequences of his actions to affect her. Ellen awoke at three a.m., and looked at her sleeping husband. There had been no opportunity for them to get Christopher into his new nightie; they were much too involved in their lovemaking. However, once the lovemaking was over, Ellen insisted that he don a pair of his new panties. He wore them now, as he slept soundly. "Lipstick," she said. Christopher smiled. His mind was very suggestible indeed. "Are you satisfied with dressing in pretty panties, Chrissie darling?" "Yes," he said. "Panties are nice; they feel good against my skin." "But it's not enough, you know," she said . "You need more." "More?" In his hypnotic slumber, Christopher look confused. "You need to wear a brassiere, and nylons, and a garter belt under your male clothing," she said. "Can't," Christopher protested. "And why not?" "Melissa..." "Melissa?" she asked. "What about Melissa?" "Meeting her tomorrow," he said. "Can't let her think I'm a sissy-boy." Ellen smiled. Inspiration struck her like a bolt from the blue. "Tell her to meet you at the cabin on Saturday night, instead." "Can't," he said. "Ellen is making me dress up like a woman." "No," she corrected him, "You are willingly dressing up like a woman. Ellen is going to help you fulfill your fantasy. You do fantasize about dressing like a woman, don't you Chrissie?" "No," he said. "Yes, you do," she commanded him. "All day today, you will notice pretty women, Chrissie. Their make-up, their jewelry, their hair, and their darling colorful dresses in soft, flowing fabrics. You'll want to try on the same kinds of things. You'll find your mind drifting to the thought of looking pretty in a dress...in fact, you are dreaming about it even now..." He nodded. "You will call Melissa today, and have her meet you at the cabin this Saturday night, at eight o'clock," she instructed him, placing a posthypnotic suggestion in her husband's subconscious. "After which, you will forget you did so. Do you understand, Chrissie?" He nodded again. "Oh, and by the way," she informed him, "you have always had subconscious desires to dress up like a girl, you know. When you were little, you wanted a pretty pink pinafore dress...when you were in your early teens, you like to try on your sisters ballet tutu...and you wished that you could have worn her prom dress...and someday, you'll want to wear a beautiful wedding gown...!" She saw Christopher swallow in his sleep. "Do you understand?" He nodded. "Yes, I understand." "Good!" she said. "As always, you will consciously remember nothing about this save for your instructions. Your fantasies, though, will remain buried for the time being. Rest well, and remember, peach is your color." Christopher awoke that day, refreshed, and still wearing the panties he had donned the day before. He showered, shaved, and brushed his teeth, thinking about the day ahead. As he dried himself, he considered his dilemma. If he had to wear women's underwear, why shouldn't he wear nice underwear? Feeling more than a little silly, he scrutinized the lacy, feminine underthings that had replaced his stiff, masculine, and now-unwearable underwear. He settled on the pair of silky, peach-colored panties, which felt as gentle as a whisper going on. Their cool, sensual touch of them made him think involuntarily of the night before, and the lovemaking session he had had with his wife. If it was like that all the time, he thought, I wouldn't be going out looking for other women! He looked at himself in the mirror, and saw his pantied reflection. Maybe if I try on the bra...he thought. He went back to his dresser, and took out the brassiere. It was extremely feminine in design, and had a delicate appearance that belied its durability and strength. He had seen many women dress themselves, both in erotic movies and in real life, so he actually had little trouble putting it on. However, it took Christopher a while to accomplish his task, and when it was done, he had to admit to himself, upon seeing his reflection, that he looked a lot better with both garments on. Over his lingerie, he chose to wear a pair of white jeans, and a simple black golf shirt, which hid the bra effectively. With each move of his upper body, however, the feeling of the bra's straps made their presence known. He wondered how girls ever got used to wearing one; but he concluded that it was probably like wearing glasses in that eventually, one simply took the presence for granted, and didn't waste any thought on it. He ate a quick breakfast, and got into his car. He dialed up Melissa first. He told the woman that he was not available today, and that she should meet him up at the cabin at eight o'clock that Saturday night. She agreed, and Christopher immediately forgot that he did it, according to his wife's posthypnotic suggestion. As soon as he was off the line, his car phone rang, "Hello." "Hi there, hunk," said Katie. "Long time, no see. I was hoping that you hadn't forgotten me." "No, of course not," Christopher replied. "I've missed you." He swallowed, praying that she didn't want to see him. He didn't know whether or not he could face her, knowing that the two of them were both wearing lingerie under their clothes! "I'm sooooo horny," she purred, in her most provocative, sexiest voice, "You just have to come on over...I won't take no for an answer, Chris darling..." Christopher swallowed, and felt a stirring in his panties. Despite the lovemaking of the night before, he was suddenly very much in the mood for another session; and the sexy feeling of the silky peach panties against his cock certainly added an extra kick to the sexual thrill. He wondered if girls felt the same way; knowing about their sexy undies under their clothing... "I don't think I can, Katie," he said. "I have a lot on my mind, and I have an interview today at four...can we put this off until tomorrow?" "By tomorrow, I'd have found another man," she replied. "Or another woman. Wendy and I have always been thinking about it...oh, Chris, if you don't come over right away, I'll have to explore a whole new lifestyle..." Christopher had secretly always wanted to see two women in the act of lovemaking, and perhaps even joining in himself... "Look, Katie," he said, squirming a bit in his seat. "I really don't have time for this today, but if you want to meet for lunch, perhaps we could discuss the matter." Like anything can happen with me dressed in women's undies, he thought. "Perhaps at Antoine's, in say an hour?" "Oh, all right," the girl said petulantly. "I'll be there." "Good," he said. And don't get any ideas...he thought. Christopher showed up at Antoine's a bit early, and ordered himself a light salad, with a glass of white wine. He looked about, truly in public for t he first time, wearing women's garments underneath his masculine attire. And nobody seemed to notice. Of course, unless they have X-Ray vision, there's no way anyone could know! he thought, kicking himself mentally. He had to guard against becoming too paranoid. Antoine's was a trendy new place, the kind of cafe that is discovered, becomes wildly popular, and then passe within a year, turning its' owners a sweet profit before going under. Christopher sat in the open air cafe, sipping coffee, and waiting for Katie to arrive. She came a bit late. Fashionably late, she would say, since fashion was so important to her. Katie Karstein was a rail-thin runway model, who worked out every day to maintain a body any male would just love to have in his arms. She was the fantasy of a million men throughout America, and Christopher Franklyn was the luckiest man in America, since he was having an affair with her. Katie smiled when she saw him, the beautiful, dazzling smile that adorned the covers of a thousand magazines, and appeared in dozens of television commercials. She had long, red hair that flowed like water down to the middle of her back. And since she wasn't on-camera, she wore only minimal make-up; merely some light eyeshadow and lipstick. This not only helped her keep her skin-tone, but it also kept her fairly anonymous. She wore a simple t-neck white blouse, thin enough so that it was virtually see-through, and an imperial green pleated skirt with matching suspenders, and ankle-height booties. Fishnet stockings adorned her legs, and she carried a darling little purse that matched the simple, but glamorous ensemble beautifully. And involuntarily, Christopher found himself wanting to be dressed in the exact same manner! The thought of dressing in Katie's clothing, even more than her obvious desirability, made Christopher's male member stir in their pantied prison. He stood up to greet her, and she hugged him fiercely, bringing her lips down hard on his own. Tasting her lipstick, he wondered what it would be like to wear lipstick himself...Damn! he thought, I have to get my mind off of this! Katie sat down gracefully, and said, "So, Chris, any progress?" "No," he said. "I still haven't broke it to Ellen." "You are leaving her, aren't you?" she asked, suspiciously. "We could make a life together, you and I. The model and the writer; it's the stuff Hollywood thrives on." "Of course I'm leaving her," he lied. He had never had any intention of actually leaving Ellen; that was merely a lie to keep Katie (and Melissa) coming back for more...besides, with his current predicament, he had to keep seeing Ellen to cure his newfound desires to crossdress. Catch-22, he thought. "It's just hard to break it to her. We've been married for years, Katie. You can't expect it to be easy to leave her." "That's what you said three months ago," she said petulantly, "I'm not sure I can keep seeing someone who's married to a bitch like Ellen Franklyn." "She's not a bitch," he said defensively. "That's what you said to get me to sleep with you a few weeks ago," she said. Her voice was raising, and heads were turning. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the face of Warren Westmore, his literary agent, and Miss Joanne Tracy. Oh, great, he thought. Just what I need. "But I suppose that was another lie to get me to lay you," she said. "Calm down," Christopher said, reaching for her. "Get a hold of yourself. Making a scene isn't going to help anybody." She stood up, and so did Christopher. She slapped him square across the face. The polite diners tried to visibly ignore the fight, but tried to keep a covert eye on the melee just the same. Christopher defended himself by putting his hands up to fend off Katie's next blow. But it never came. Instead, the beautiful model grabbed him by the shirt, and pulled. Christopher turned pale, and felt faint suddenly. If Katie were to tear the shirt, the pale peach colored bra he wore underneath it would be exposed to the entire world! He reflexively pushed Katie back. But Katie didn't let go of the shirt, and it tore off of his body like Kleenex. And the entire clientele of the restaurant gasped simultaneously. Everybody was looking at him. A man, clad in a woman's lacy brassiere. Christopher was stunned, and he crossed his arms over his chest in a vain attempt to keep some anonymous. He looked about frantically; Joanne Tracy was giggling wildly at her table, with Warren looking at him in astonishment, his jaw hanging open. "Oh my God!" Katie yelped in surprise. "You're wearing a bra! You're nothing but a big sissy! Christopher Franklyn, the big Hollywood writer is nothing but a big sissy! No wonder you were trying to break up with me...you're probably more interested in men!" Christopher bolted out of the restaurant without paying, a waitress following him out of the cafe, and into the street, where Christopher sped off in his Jaguar, thanking God he left the roof up, so that even more people could see him. He drove home, and ignored Consuela's expressions of concern, and shock at the fact that Christopher was wearing a women's brassiere, and he locked himself into the bedroom, and burst into tears. Like a girl. Ellen was between sessions when the phone call came. Consuela described the scene to her. Christopher had come home, wearing only jeans and a bra, and locked himself into the bedroom. "Oh, dear," she said to the maid. "I suppose his secret is out." "Secret?" "Christopher likes to dress up like a woman, Consuela," she said, sounding concerned, but smiling just the same. Since the maid couldn't see her, why not? "Excuse me, Mrs. Franklyn?" "Chris is a crossdresser," she said. "It's not a sickness, or a mental illness. It's just his way of expressing the fact that he has a very feminine basic personality. Can you get him on the phone, dear?" she asked. "I need to speak to her...I mean him." The confused maid knocked on the door, and told Christopher that his wife was on the phone. Within minutes, her weeping, humiliated husband had told his wife the whole story, about how a woman he was having an affair with tore off his shirt in public, revealing for all the world to see that Christopher Franklyn was nothing more than a sissy, wearing women's underwear. Ellen was both concerned and delighted by this. Katie would certainly have nothing to do with him now, so that was one good point. The negative point was how Joanne Tracy and his agent would react to the sight of his peach- colored bra. And since Katie had made a scene, would the press get a hold of the story about how model Katie Karnstien was dating a secret crossdresser? And how would this affect Christopher's writing career? Getting off of the phone with the maid, Ellen called up the number of Warren Westmore on her computer, and dialed it up. She got through a few minutes later. "Hello," she said. "This is Ellen Franklyn." "Chris' wife?" he asked. "Is this about the restaurant, Mrs. Franklyn?" "Of course it is," she said. "I need to know what's going on?" "Well," he replied. "The last two hours have been interesting to say the least. It seems your husband wears women's clothing under his regular things." "I know that," she replied. "Is there a problem with my husband being a crossdresser, Mr. Westmore? If there is, I'm sure that another agent can deal with him in the future." Westmore stuttered, "Of course there's no problem, Mrs. Franklyn. Chris can wear wedding gowns every day of the year, as long as his books sell." "Glad you see it that way," she said. Idly, she pictured her husband, decked out in a flowing white wedding dress, the ultimate symbol of feminine surrender. She knew that she would concoct some reason to get him into one, someday. It was only a matter of time. "It would be a shame to take our business to another agent." She congratulated herself on her ingenuity. In a single phone call, she had managed to take over Christophers business affairs. "By the way," she said, "I hope you intend to use your connections to keep this crossdressing thing hush-hush, Warren. At least for the time being." "Why would I do that? Calling in a few favors just to keep it under wraps that your hubby is a drag queen would be wasting them," he pointed out. "Besides, this town has thousands of she-males. One more won't make a whit of difference to the general public." "Warren," Ellen cooed. "Christopher Franklyn is a relatively wealthy, fairly famous person. If he were to come out, so to speak, at the right time..." "Yeah," he said, catching onto Ellens point. "We could sell about a million books. It can be sort of like that other Ellen, on television...okay, I'll call in some favors, and do what I can about closing the lid on this thing." "That's all I ask," Ellen said. "That's all I ask." Part Two Christopher gave the help the day off, and he sulked in misery, waiting for his wife to arrive home from the office. He closed the drapes throughout the house, and paced...clad in his panties and bra. He felt ridiculous and humiliated. Of course, he knew his affair with Katie was history. She would never consent to continuing their affair, and he knew that Melissa, when she inevitably found out about Christopher's new "hobby", would also snub him... He was confused, and he felt helpless. And he knew that the desire to wear women's clothing would only increase. His wife was a psychiatrist, and she knew more about this DCD stuff than he did. He picked up his cellular phone, and called Ellen's office, but not before he dialed up Melissa Randall. He made the arrangement for her to meet him up at his cabin, as Ellen directed him to, and he immediately forgot that he had done so, as per his wife's post-hypnotic suggestion. "I cant come home right away, dear," she said. "I need to pick up some things for you." He swallowed. "Things?" "A wig," she said. "Blonde, so it looks natural on you. And a few dresses, too. Some nice sensible flat heels, as well. We can put off putting high heels on you for a little while, until you get more accustomed to skirts and dresses." "Is that all?" "Oh, no!" Ellen said brightly. "You'll need some jewelry...oh, and some make-up." "Make-up?" "Of course," she replied. "You can't go out without make-up. Of course, I can help you out with that for a while, but you'll need to learn how to apply it yourself, soon." "Darling," Christopher pleaded, "I don't want to do this. I'm scared. What will people think? I just cant go out in public in a dress." "They'll think you're an attractive girl," she replied, putting perhaps a bit too much emphasis on the word "girl". "You're actually very fortunate; you can pass as female a whole lot easier than some other DCD patients, so count your blessings." Christopher harrumphed. "Now, before I get home, I want you to do something for me, darling," Ellen said. He swallowed. "I want you to take a shower. And in the shower, I want you to shave everything, from your eyebrows down. I think I have some Nair to help you with your legs. I should be home around seven, and then, we can start." Christopher swallowed. "Start? Start what?" "Girl Practice 101, darling." Christopher was glad the house was empty; that way, no one could see or hear his sobbing. He was literally crying as he applied the depilatory to his legs, and watched the hair go down the drain of the shower. Why did he feel this way? As he lay nude on the double bed he shared with Ellen, a memory came into his mind, unbidden. He was six years old, sneaking into his older sisters room. He remembered that he had pretended that he was sick, so he didn't have to go to school that day. The babysitter, Bonnie, wouldn't be by until at least one o'clock that afternoon, which gave him plenty of time to play, all by himself. Carefully, he took out the tutu and leotards Connie had worn to ballet lessons. He remembered how adorable his sister looked in the outfit, and how jealous he felt at being deprived the same privilege...wearing something so bright and pretty...so wonderfully frolicsome and dainty! And how everyone fussed over Connie! Ever so quietly, Christopher donned the white tights, feeling their caress as he pulled them up his legs. The tutu, in bright pink, came next...its short, cute skirt stood out stiffly. He laced on the ballet slippers like he had seen Connie do so often. But..the crowning touch was Connies pretty long blonde wig that she had used onstage. Christopher couldn't believe he had actually done it! He daintily skipped into his parents room, with its full-length mirror, and saw his reflection for the first time. He was every bit as pretty as Connie had been! He was proud to be dressed as a ballerina! As his dream went on, the ballerinas costume changed into a cheerleaders outfit, in red and white...the colors of his High School football team! He hopped up and down happily with the other girls in his cheerleading squad, his pleated skirt occasionally revealing his virgin white lace panties to the crowd. Oh, how he loved the feeling of the lipstick on his lips, his long blonde ringlets bouncing against his neck and face as he cheered his team to victory! Christopher felt something hot on his chest. Much to his humiliation, he had fallen asleep...and had a wet dream about dressing up in his sisters ballerina outfit way back when he was six or seven years old! Until that very moment, he had no memory of ever trying on his sisters clothing. But unbidden, they were coming back to him...the time he almost got caught wearing her patchwork-style peasant dress...as well as one of her miniskirted cheerleaders uniforms...the time he tried on one of her bridesmaids dresses...as well as one of Connies waitress uniforms. It was all true. He had always wanted to wear women's clothing, and he had always denied his desire to. Something was bubbling those memories to the surface...but what? Of course, the incidents with his sisters clothing had never really happened at all. Ellen had merely placed the memories into his head through her rather radical hypnotherapy. Ellen had just gotten through the front door when Christopher had finished cleaning up his come. He thanked heaven that he would be spared having to share the wet dream fantasies with his wife; that would be even more mortifying than having to dress up like a female tonight. "Chrissie," she called from downstairs, "Come on down here. I've got some really nice things to show you, darling!" Christopher obeyed, but not before sliding into a pair of rose-colored panties, and a pink terrycloth bathrobe. He was annoyed at being called "Chrissie", but he obeyed. As he came down the stairs, he saw that Ellen had indeed been shopping. There was a bag from Frederick's of Hollywood, as well as Modern Woman, Fashion Bug, and Tall Girl...and two boxes from Fantasy Wigs! Ellen smiled. "I hope you like what I picked out for you, Chrissie..." she said. "Actually, it was rather fun, shopping for you. Next time, you'll have to come along. We could be two girls out for a day at the mall. It'll be soooo much fun!" "Please, Ellen..." he choked. "Please don't call me Chrissie..." Ellen smiled understandingly. "Am I going too fast for you, darling?" He nodded. "A little, I guess. This is all so new to me..." Ellen led him the rest of the way down the stairs, and told him, "I'm sorry. Its just that I thought that I could guide you through this...and I thought that I would try to make it as pleasant as possible for you." "And I appreciate it, Ellen," he replied, sitting on the couch. "Its just that...well, I don't see how making me dress up like a woman is going to cure my desires to." Ellen sat, smoothing out her skirt as she did so. "I understand your concern, dear," she said. "You see, when a patient who comes in to me has...say, a fear of snakes...I make him face his fear, to show him that there really is nothing to fear at all. Eventually, the fear, as well as the problem, disappears." Christopher leaned back. "But this isn't a phobia. I suddenly feel as if some outside influence is acting on me, making me see and feel things that I never felt before." Ellen sighed. "I'm going to ask you a question, and I want an honest, no- bullshit answer. Will you do that for me?" "What's the question?" "Will you answer it?" She put a firm tone in her voice; it wasn't so much a question as it was a command. "Yes..." "Very