Strike
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On Strike free porn video
On Strike!
Copyright 2004 by Nom de Plume
I got the idea while listening to the news on the radio, during
another grinding commute home from the big city. It seemed a
couple in Florida had gotten so sick and tired of their spoiled,
neglectful children that they were camping outside their house
in beach chairs, refusing to go back to being parents until
their brats knuckled under.
Why couldn't I go on strike from being the breadwinner? My lazy
wife did nothing but loll around the house all day watching TV,
and my teenage daughter cared only about clothes, her social
life and her revolting boyfriend. I couldn't recall the last
time one of them had a conversation with me that didn't end up
with their hands in my pocket. Maybe I could teach them a lesson
before they sent me into an early grave. Why couldn't I go on
strike from being a man?
* * *
There is something about me that you should know: ever since I
was a little boy, I have been fascinated by women's clothing. I
used to sneak into my sister's room and try on her skirts and
dresses when I was home alone, until my legs sprouted hair and
my feet outgrew her shoes. For years afterwards, I suppressed my
desires, furtively surfing the web for kindred souls who shared
my obsession. When my job required me to start traveling out of
town, I painstakingly acquired a complete woman's wardrobe,
which I would wear in my hotel rooms into the wee hours of the
night. Dolled up in a wig, makeup and other feminine
paraphernalia, I would lose myself in chat rooms, pretending to
be a woman until I exploded into my panties. I concealed all
this from my wife, who was too self-absorbed to have a clue.
When she lost all interest in sex soon after the birth of our
daughter, my computer sessions as a virtual woman became the
only outlet for my frustration.
Still, I would never have dared to expose my secret life to my
family had it not been for the events that evening. When I
finally crawled off the freeway and made it through the door, I
was greeted with "You're late" from the wife, who didn't bother
to look up from her magazine. She was spread out on the living
room sofa, cuddled up next to a bag of Doritos in her bulging
stretch pants.
"Traffic was terrible."
"Well, it's too late for you to expect me to cook dinner."
Newsflash! When was the last time the woman cooked anything?
What she meant was, she was too lazy to drag her fat ass into
the kitchen to throw something into the microwave. "You'll have
to go pick up some takeout."
Too tired to protest, I was about to ask her whether she wanted
pizza or Chinese when the daughter came into the room. Her
pierced navel was prominently displayed between her belly shirt
and low-cut jeans. "I need the keys to the Acura," she said
impatiently.
"Take your father's car."
"No way! You can't expect me to be seen in that piecer!"
"I don't blame you," the wife said. "It's embarrassing to be
seen in that heap, but we're lucky to afford one decent car on
your father's salary." She swiveled her guns back onto me. "Why
don't you give her your keys, and you can take my car to pick up
dinner. And while you're at it, you can pick up some groceries
that we'll need for the weekend. My mother is coming to visit
for a few days."
I knew what that meant. The last time her mother decided to
visit for a few days, she camped out in our spare room for a
month. "I'm just beat," I protested. "Can't you go to the store
tomorrow ?"
"I have tennis tomorrow morning, and then I have to get my hair
done."
"Daddy, the keys? Now?" No pleasantries, no please, just give me
the keys.
I handed them to the daughter, who disappeared instantly. "When
does your mother get here," I asked the wife.
"Saturday afternoon. You'll need to get all of your junk out of
her room." By her room, she meant my den, and by my junk, she
meant a project I was working on for the office. I started to
protest, but she was just winding up. "Try to do it tomorrow
night when you get home. I have a long list of jobs for you to
take care of on Saturday morning."
"I thought I'd go to the game on Saturday morning." My favorite
team was coming to town, and I had been looking forward to it
all week.
"If you think I'm going to sit around here on Saturday while
you're off at a game, you've got another think coming!" I
retreated into our bedroom and threw my suit jacket down on the
bed. "Pick that up," the wife said as she followed me into the
room. "And don't put on those bum clothes that you wear around
the house. You might run into someone we know at the
supermarket." I tried to ignore her as I changed, but she was
relentless. "Did you ask for a raise today?"
"No." Things were tough at the company, a reality which I had
kept from my family, not wanting to worry them.
"What a wimp," she sighed. I tried to escape into the bathroom,
but she was all over me.
"Don't make a mess in there like usual. The housekeeper
complained so much about you today, I had to give her a raise.
And don't forget to put the seat down. Men!"
At the sound of that word, I finally snapped. The twisted idea
that had come into my head during my commute suddenly didn't
sound so crazy. Maybe our lives would never be the same, but
anything would be better than the life I was living. I had some
comp time coming from the office, and tomorrow the wife and
daughter would be out most of the day. When they got home, we'd
see how they got by without a man around the house.
I surveyed my sad reflection in the mirror above the vanity. My
hair was thinning and prematurely gray, but when I put on my
woman's wig, I looked years younger. When I dressed on the sly,
I relied on female impersonators' tricks to cover up my body
hair, but now I finally had an excuse to shave my legs. My
weight was up a few pounds, but a one-night fast would give me
a girlish figure that the wife could only dream about.
Emboldened by my plan, I tore off my clothes and walked out of
the bathroom naked. The wife watched with an evil eye as I put
on my pajamas and pulled back the covers. "What are you doing?
What about our dinner?"
"I'm not hungry, and I'm going to bed."
"What about me?"
"You could stand to lose a few pounds. Why don't you skip a meal
for once in your life?"
She stormed out of the bedroom and slammed the door.
* * *
The next morning, I slipped out of the house for a five mile run
through the suburban streets that were my family's sanctuary. I
would have much preferred to live in the city, but I had
resigned myself to the daily grind of a two-hour commute to
afford them the life they desired. Any second-thoughts about my
plan of action disappeared as I pounded out the miles. If they
weren't going to appreciate the sacrifices I made for them,
they'd better get used to me for who I was. By the time I got
home, the daughter had already left for school, and the wife was
waiting for me in her tennis whites, looking obscenely
ridiculous. "You're going to be late for work," she sputtered.
"And good morning to you, dear. It's a beautiful day outside."
"Don't get smart with me! I'm not talking to you after your
little stunt last night."
"Works for me," I said with a smile as I poured myself a bowl of
her Special K with skim milk. She stormed out of the kitchen,
only to return a few seconds later with her shopping list.
"Are you going to work today?"
"Maybe."
"Make sure you get to the supermarket, and don't forget to clear
out my mother's room."
"When will you get home?"
"I'm having lunch with the girls after I get my hair done."
Perfect. The daughter didn't get out of school until three
o'clock, and the wife had never finished a ladies lunch in less
than three hours. All the time I needed.
"Are you going to work today, or not?" she persisted.
"I thought you weren't talking to me."
Before she could take my head off, one of her tennis mates rang
the doorbell, and she drove off in a huff.
Alone at last! After calling my office to tell them I wouldn't
be in until Monday, I went
into the garage to retrieve my secret stash of women's clothing,
which I kept in a locked suitcase under a box of tools. The
first thing I did was to put all of my unmentionables and tops
into the mini-basket in the washing machine. I stuffed my
stockings into a hosiery bag and threw them in, too. After
setting the washer on delicate and adding some detergent, I got
out the ironing board and took my time smoothing out the
wrinkles in my skirts and dresses. As I busied myself with these
essential tasks, I felt my excitement building with what lay
ahead.
While I was waiting for the washer to finish, I spread out my
makeup on the bathroom vanity and poured some of the wife's
expensive moisturizing beads into the tub, which I filled with
steaming hot water. Back to the laundry room to move my clothes
into the dryer, then into the tub with a handful of disposable
razors.
I swore I could hear drum rolls as I took that first fateful
swipe. It was almost magical, watching the hair disappear from
my legs, which gradually became sleek and delicate. When they
were both finished, I lay back in the tub, pointed my toes and
kicked my legs excitedly, reveling in my newfound femininity.
I took another razor to my arms and chest, which soon were
smooth as a baby's. My underarms were the last to go, and when
I was through, I could hardly wait to get out of the tub. It was
almost like I had a whole new body, and I was dying to try it on
for size. I nearly forgot to shave my face, which I did with
extra care before patting myself dry.
I wrapped the towel around my head and smoothed the wife's
expensive moisturizer over my tender limbs. After wrapping
another towel around my trembling body, I returned to the
laundry room, hung up my tops next to my dresses and skirts, and
returned to the bathroom with my wig and lingerie. I took my
time brushing out my wig before removing my turban and tugging
it onto my head. More work with the brush and a little hair
spray, and I was ready for my makeup. Moisturizer, foundation,
eyeliner, shadow, eyebrow pencil, pressed powder, mascara, blush
everything went on effortlessly after years of practice.
When I was satisfied with the end result, I removed the towel
from around my chest and fished my wonder bra out of the pile of
freshly laundered lingerie. It smelled so clean and sweet as I
fastened it behind my back and inserted the cookies into the
cups. My heart was pounding as I tucked myself between my legs
and stepped into a matching pair of panties. This was the moment
I had been waiting for: all my previous cross-dressing had been
with a hairy body, masked by multiple layers of tights and long
sweaters. For the first time, I was about to see myself as a
woman in her bra and panties. When I stepped in front of the
full length mirror and stared back at myself, it was love at
first sight. From my shoulder-length hair to my smooth legs, I
was all girl.
Lipstick and nylons: those were the twin badges of femininity
which I had always yearned to put on while looking like this. My
hands were shaking when I selected a pair of nude pantyhose from
my hosiery bag, and although I had long imagined what it must
feel like to wear stockings over freshly shaved legs, nothing
could have prepared me for the sensations which I experienced
that morning. Seeing my toes encased in nylon for the first time
as I eased the delicate fabric up my feet and ankles was a
life-altering experience, which only intensified as I slowly
slid the delicious stockings up my calves and over my knees.
When I finally pulled my pantyhose up to my waist, I felt my
silky legs brush together as I walked back to the mirror to see
if this was really happening. Almost in a trance, I took out my
lipstick and watched the girl in the mirror, wearing only her
panties, bra and stockings, apply a coat of pink to her pouting
lips, her long lashes fluttering over smoky eyes.
When I finished lingering over my lipstick, I took a white, lacy
slip and stepped into it, slowly pulling it up over my panties
and bra and smoothing it into place. The feeling of cool nylon
against my smooth body was electrifying, and my pulse was racing
as I pulled a chair in front of the mirror and sat down to watch
myself polish my nails. The girl in the mirror carefully began
to apply coral polish to her eager fingers, crossing her silky
legs under the lacy hem of her slip. When I saw my slip sliding
up my stockings, the sights and sensations were suddenly too
much for me, and although my penis was soft and tucked between
my legs, I was overwhelmed my a sweet, exquisite glow that
spread all the way down to my toes. The spell was broken only
when I realized that my nice clean panties were flooded with a
sticky souvenir of my former self.
If anything, my orgasm seemed to reinforce my newfound
femininity. Relieved of my sex drive, I felt serene and relaxed
as I finished polishing my nails. There was a momentary
distraction while I peeled off my soiled panties and hose and
wiped myself clean, then I was putting on a fresh pair of
panties and enjoying the experience of easing a new pair of
pantyhose up my lustrous legs. I no longer felt like a man
putting on women's clothing. I felt like a woman.
Which outfit should I wear today? I decided to show off my arms
and legs with a short sleeved top that I had only been able to
wear under sweaters, and a knee-length jumper. I was careful not
to muss my hair when I dropped my top over my head, and I
appraised my reflection with a critical eye while I tied the
strings behind my jumper into a bow which snugged the dress
against my pert breasts and slim hips. I had a coltish figure
accentuated by nicely shaped legs, and on a whim I pulled my
hair back into a ponytail with one of the wife's scrunchies,
giving me an All American Girl look. I stepped into a pair of
skimmer flats, clipped on my earrings, and returned to the
bedroom to accessorize my outfit with scarves and jewelry from
the wife's extensive collection.
Taking off my wedding ring was like crossing the Rubicon. I
reminded myself that I had paid for the bracelet, necklace and
wristwatch that I selected, and they looked infinitely better on
me than they did on her. With that liberating thought, I tied a
Gucci scarf around my neck and treated myself to a generous
spritz of her most expensive cologne. From that moment on, I was
on strike from being a man. The question was, would I ever be
able to go back?
* * *
Our front yard has an old elm tree with a long, graceful swing
that I built for the daughter in happier times. Shortly before
three o'clock, with a straw bonnet tied under my chin, I took up
my position and started swinging, gradually going higher and
higher as I pumped my legs gaily back and forth. In addition to
my new bonnet, the fruits of my shopping excursion that morning
were on display in the front yard: a large banner was draped
across the front of the house, with the words "HUSBAND ON
STRIKE" emblazoned in bold red letters, and a refreshment stand
and chairs were lined up by the sidewalk. A few well-placed
calls to the media had produced the desired result, and two
satellite vans with minicam crews were taking up position on
either side of my swing when the wife pulled into the driveway.
I watched from on high as she got out of the car in her
ridiculous tennis costume and fought her way past the growing
throng, pushing and shoving as she went. She stopped dead in her
tracks when she saw her husband swinging back and forth, his
dress fluttering around his knees. When she read the banner, it
slowly dawned on her, and she started in on me in a blind fury.
"What is the meaning of this?" she roared.
"I'm on strike," I said in a girlish voice just loud enough for
the news cameras to pick up.
"You get down from there, right now!"
"Can't make me," I pouted.
"Why are you on strike?" one of the newsmen asked.
"Cause I'm tired of not getting any respect for being the man of
the house. Let her try wearing the pants around here for a
change."
"Get down here this minute!" the wife screamed. "What will the
neighbors say?"
"I think he's adorable," the woman from next door chimed in.
"What are your demands?" the newsman asked.
"Three things: first, I get to go to the football game tomorrow.
Second, if my mother-in-law stays more than two days, she moves
into a hotel. And third," I said to the wife, "you go on a diet
until you can fit into one of my dresses."
With that, the wife snapped completely. She fought her way back
into her car and started backing down the driveway, scattering
neighbors and news crews like bowling pins as she went.
Fortunately, none of them were seriously injured, but
unfortunately she was heard screaming "white trash" on national
television as she mowed them down. The cameras caught it all as
she was cuffed by the police and taken away. They say she will
be out in three to five years with good behavior.
Her sensational performance was all the media needed to turn my
strike into a publicity bonanza. Book and movie deals poured in,
and I'm seriously considering a move to the coast. I'm going to
have to wrap this up, because Matt Lauer is holding, Fox News is
on the other line, and I have to get ready for a photo shoot
with People magazine.
As for the daughter, it's the darndest thing, but once she
realized one of her parents was a national celebrity, we became
the best of friends. She thinks my clothes are lame, and I'm not
wild about hers, but we're both coming around.
From the author of The Jessica Project and Skylord
Myra
- 06.12.2020
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