You Can Always Say No, Chapter 2 free porn video

You Can Always Say No, Ch_ 02 by Cherysse St. Claire © We had had 'The Talk' in the afterglow of that first evening of sex in our newly-revised relationship, less than a month before we exchanged vows. There is nothing more abjectly terrifying - for either person - than laying bare your soul at such an intimate level. He admitted his wants, needs, and desires; I reciprocated. He did, indeed, have a 'sissy' streak a mile wide, had had it since childhood, yet was unsure of how, or how much, he wanted to express. His cock had throbbed within me when I revealed my dominant desires and need to be in control. Still, he gulped hard when I related my BDSM experiences with Deidre and the others. My revelations both fascinated and frightened him. I could see the visions in his head, of me as the cold, cruel, manipulative bitch we both had read about. The truth is, I am a manipulative bitch, but neither cold nor cruel where my precious Alan is concerned. Still, I adored playing the role in the past and wasn't sure I was completely over that. Also, my curiosity had been piqued. My lover had all those stories on his computer. More than a few - more than could be simply dismissed as coincidence - were tales of haughty, arrogant women who had enslaved and sissified their men, then subjected them to maid service, cuckoldry, spankings, sexual subjugation to men, even Infantilism - and this was just the tip of the iceberg. There was some of the most vile public degradation and humiliation I could imagine; far eclipsing, in my mind, the 'adult games' I had enjoyed with Deidre and the rest. Yet, he had never purged these stories. Had he downloaded them, then never bothered to read them? Or was there some part of his psyche that was morbidly drawn to such fantasies? I didn't have to ask to know he would hotly deny it. Still.... I was very honest and up-front with him. The cross-dressing, sissification, and other aspects of our relationship were a new vista for me, one I wished to explore to the fullest. I wouldn't guarantee our union would go to the extremes of bondage and pain those earlier ones did, but in fairness, I wasn't willing to rule it out, either. In the end, we did what lovers have always done; we negotiated, opting to see where the day took us. We both knew without saying; the road ahead would very likely push our trust in each other to its very limits, then beyond. From that moment on, I not only encouraged his dressing; I helped him with it. A war raged within me, the Jekyll and Hyde of my soul each demanding his due. On the one hand, I had a loving, caring relationship with a smart, sassy, considerate guy who gave me oodles of great sex, was a joy to cuddle with after the great sex, and enjoyed going out with me after a hard day of work, rather than becoming a 'spud stud' on the sofa in front of the television. He sent me flowers 'just because'. He actually gave a damn about our house being neat and clean, to the point of sometimes making me look like a slob. He cleaned the sink when he was done in the morning. He put the seat down. He talked to me; not at me, through me, or over my head. Oh, yeah, and he could cook, too - and I don't mean Hot Pockets in the microwave. Guys like that actually exist? Yuppers; I got me one! On the other hand, the domina in me wanted to come out, express her supremacy. Certain lifestyle dominas, writing on the Internet, had expressed their pleasure at completely crushing the will of their supplicants. Maybe it's just me; I didn't see how they could possibly do that, yet claim they had feelings for those poor wretches. Alan presented a unique intellectual challenge; how far could I go to bend my husband's will to submit to mine without breaking his spirit? I thought back to, of all things, a war movie (not my favorite genre): Twelve O'Clock High. What is 'maximum effort'? I wanted to push his limits, beyond any he might ever have imagined. How far was I willing to push my own? The 'doormat dilemma' loomed large in my mind; I wanted my obedient, uninhibited, sexy, sissy submissive, minus the Welcome sign tattooed across his chest. Taking my inspiration from a series of television beer commercials featuring the usual plethora of has-been jocks, actors, and other comedians, I established a few "Ma'am Rules." For instance: "If you want to wear the clothes, you have to look good in them. There is nothing grosser-looking than a hairy, fat man in a dress; am I right, or am I right? Alan, a lifelong runner, was not fat. Still, it was fun to take him to my aerobics and tae-bo classes Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons after work. Even he huffed and puffed a bit in the beginning. He threw himself into it though, adding Tuesday and Thursday afternoons as well. I couldn't make it those days, as I reserved Tuesday and Thursday evenings for taking clients to dinner (old business, new business, or just general schmoozing) or catching up on my paperwork. Such is the life of a Veep. The five-day-a-week exercise classes, plus severely restricting Alan's intake of cheeseburgers, pizza, sugared sodas and the like, made the pounds melt away and firmed up his body nicely. Some women like men with facial and/or body hair; I am not one of them. Hey, I like teddy bears as much as the next girl, but I will only share my bed with one - the stuffed variety - if my hubby is out of town on business. Besides, that image was all wrong for my sexy Alan. It's amazing what a few heartfelt words of encouragement, spoken during a good, therapeutic fucking, will do to get a man over the what-will- people-say-when-they-see-me-hairless stage. I think he was more relieved than anything else when he finally capitulated. Alan hated to shave, much less shave every day, but he hated body hair even more. I accompanied him to the clinic for each session of laser depilation. After all, this was something he was doing for me, for us, not just for himself. After the treatment regimen was complete, he never had to shave again. Once he was hair-free, I required him to keep his body satiny-smooth with daily applications of rich, emollient-laden body lotion and scented powder. He felt, and smelled, wonderful. In for a penny, in for a pound. The laser tech happened to mention in passing a similar process, using a broader-beamed high-intensity light, rather than a narrow-focused laser beam, to re-surface the skin, removing the same imperfections micro-dermabrasion did, but giving better results with fewer treatments. They did not perform that procedure at the depilation clinic, but the technician gave me the address and telephone number of a clinic that specialized in it. Caught up in the adventure of it all, I convinced Alan we should both undergo the course of therapy ("It isn't all that, Sweetie. The nurse says they have actresses, actors, millionaires, and business professionals, both male and female, coming in here all the time."). That meant we both went home a dozen times, looking like we had bad sunburn. In the end, it did make me look like I was twenty-two again. Chalk it up to bad luck or good genes; Alan looked like he was about sixteen - the bitch! Honestly, I was afraid when we went out for a night on the town from then on, he was going to be carded. To celebrate the results of his hard work and sacrifice, I took him shopping for lingerie, skirts, shoes, boots, camisoles, wigs, and other frilly, feminine delights. That led to my second Ma'am Rule: If we are shopping for you, we are shopping for you. That may sound redundant, until the two of you - and you haven't convinced him to dress in public yet - get to the store, where you announce, ever so sweetly: "my husband needs to be fitted for bras and panties. Is there a changing room available?" That led to some deliciously embarrassing moments for him right away: smirks, snickers, plus more cloying "Dearie's" and "Sweetie's" than you can possibly imagine. The upside was two-fold. First, we amassed a fabulous wardrobe for him, from dreamy/romantic to sexy/kinky/fetish, and it all fit perfectly. Second, apart from their teasing remarks, the sales associates we dealt with agreed to the last; sight unseen, Alan would make a really attractive 'girl'. We even picked out a perfume for him; a sensual, provocative 'signature scent' that would be his and his alone. Of all the fragrances we tested, I liked Obsession on him the best. It became part of his 'dress code' (Ma'am Rule Number Three): he was to wear his signature scent whenever he went out in "en femme". I decided two things about shoes for him early on. First, I wanted him to wear only the femmiest, sexiest of heels. After all, if I was going to construct my fantasy 'girlfriend', why would I want some dull suburban housfrau in flats? Call me a revisionist; I look and feel better in spikes than chunky heels, and Alan does, too. Second, Ma'am Rule Number Two would be strictly enforced; he not only had to try each pair on in the store, he had to model them for me and the sales associates by walking back and forth across the floor. This wasn't just another way to embarrass him. A badly-fitting bra can be an annoyance; a badly-fitting high-heeled shoe can be crippling. We began our search in specialty fetish shops, attended to by associates who had 'seen it all'. Once Alan got over his initial fright, I graduated him to the trendy chain shoe stores in the mall, restricting our initial forays to weekday afternoons when there were fewer gawkers traipsing back and forth. It may have been a humiliation for Alan (and an industrial- strength turn-on for me, watching him) to strut back and forth in high heels in so public a venue, but to our attendants, it was just another commission - and a handsome one at that, given the amount of money we spent. Of course, if I saw something I liked for me, I wouldn't hesitate to buy it. Unless you have ever experienced it, you have no clue how erotic and sexually-charged shoe shopping with, and for, your lover can be. After such a trip, we invariably hurried home and fucked like bunnies. Later, I had him practice in those shoes for hours on end (Ma'am Rule Number One). He perfected that short, sure-footed, heel-toe-heel-toe strut with the full, rolling hip sway that drives men wild. Okay, me too; I thrill to the click-click-click of my sissy hubby's stiletto heels across our marble foyer and hardwood floors. It's obvious to me why guys love to have their women wear heels to bed. I assured my hubby there was nothing wrong with letting his full, thick head of sandy blonde hair grow longer. In this day and age, Society had gotten past such Draconian decrees as 'men must have Crew Cuts' - not that his hair was anywhere near that short to begin with. From there, it was easy to convince him Rudy, my flagrantly Gay hairdresser, was best qualified to keep his lengthening tresses looking their best, rather than the national-chain haircutters he usually used. I took him to my salon and stood by his side that first time. I could tell Alan was embarrassed by the way Rudy fawned over him. At that point, my lover had already become accustomed to being addressed as "Sweetie" by a lot of sales clerks. The shampoo and scented conditioner Rudy recommended made his hair smell flowery and fragrant, which I admitted was really sexy. As a lasting reminder of that first visit, "Sweetie" became my pet name for my hubby. With increasing frequency, I asked him to come to bed in his silky nightgowns, stockings and garter belt, high-heeled marabou mules, even lipstick and mascara, fantasizing about making lesbian love to him. We started to gossip like girls during our lovemaking sessions. Our musings turned to thoughts of the kinds of guys we'd like to pick up, what we would do to them, and what we would want them to do to us. I carefully guided the tenor of the talks, ensuring the freewheeling, stream-of- consciousness patter degenerated into the kinkiest, raunchiest, sluttiest scenarios imaginable. *** I had been in a daring mood one Saturday morning, the first day of a three-day holiday weekend. As we cuddled in bed, I told him how much it would mean to me if I could go shopping with my 'girlfriend'. We had had this conversation before. I knew he wanted it, but was afraid to take the plunge. I calmed his fears, saying we would work our way into it slowly and not do anything he wasn't ready for. I would just make him a bit more feminine in appearance and dress, mostly in a way we would know he was more feminine. He had swallowed hard, but promised to allow me to do what I wanted. I had dressed myself in snug-fitting designer jeans and a sparkly, pearlescent white tube top, finishing off with four-inch pumps. I had done my makeup and hair quite a bit more pronounced than usual for me, then spritzed myself with Shalimar. I knew Alan liked this casual-sexy look on me. In truth, I did it because I felt like it - the thought of what I had planned had me in an advanced state of arousal - and as a set- up for what was to come. I had flitted around my husband randomly for the past twenty minutes - on purpose. By that time, he had to know my firm D- cuppers were braless. "Now, Sweetie," I purred, "let's get you ready." I had dressed my husband in a bra with B-cup silicone breast enhancers, waist cincher and bikini panties, then put sweats and athletic shoes on over that to placate him. I had begun to brush his now-shoulder-length hair back into its customary ponytail. Then, on impulse (and if you believe that, I have a bridge to sell you), I had brushed it out again, fluffed it up a bit, then used hairspray to give it volume and shape. I had then used a subtle hint of mascara, eyeliner and lip gloss on his face. The bulky sweats hid his feminized torso - mostly. Wearing any kind of makeup in public, not to mention an anything-but-masculine hairstyle, was new to us - and on a busy Saturday.... He looked at himself this way and that in the mirror. In his mind, I was sure all the little femme touches stood out like a neon sign. Still, I had allowed him enough 'wiggle room' to convince himself he looked basically butch in the sweats. Then I picked up his spritzer of Obsession. He jumped, startled. "What are you doing?" he asked, clearly rattled. "Why, getting you ready, Sweetie," I cooed. "You have your lingerie on for me. Your hair and makeup look perfect. You're just about as femmy as I could ever want. I'm just adding a little perfume, just as we agreed upon. You remember the rules, don't you?" "But," he protested, "I'm not..." "Yes you are," I butted in. "Just look at you! Maybe you're a little on the tomboy-ish side, but definitely more femme than masculine. Now, hold still." I spritzed him lightly a couple of times, just to add the unmistakable scent to his androgynous appearance, tilting the scales in favor of 'femme'. The rosy flush on his cheeks was all him, rather than cosmetic. "I can't do this," he mumbled. "You could always say 'no'," I murmured teasingly. "You could just stay home and putter around the house while I go out shopping - and flirt with the cute guys in the mall." I love my husband more than my life, but I was prepared to play dirty to get what I wanted - and I wanted this. One of the really neat traits about sissies is, the more femmy they become, the more insecure they get about losing their mate to a more masculine man. I wasn't at all hesitant about using this weapon against my balking beau. Besides, I liked flirting with a real hunk when I saw one. Seeing me standing before him, I had no doubt what his fevered imagination foresaw the outcome of that flirtation to be - just as I had planned. Alan caved, grudgingly. We slipped into my DB9 coupe and zipped away. Our first stop was a scheduled one; at my favorite local nail salon, staffed by a bevy of Oriental girls. It was one of the newer, cutting- edge establishments, using padded, reclining loungers rather than upright chairs. One of my guilty pleasures is the weekly pampering of my fingernails and toenails by Suzi, my regular nail technician. I make my appointments early - as soon as they open their doors - so I can get in and out before the customary Saturday mob scene. On this particular morning, there were no other patrons yet. I sat with Suzi, gossiping, while she worked on my nails. Alan perched on the sofa by the window, one leg crossed over the other at the knee, idly leafing through an old issue of People. A half-dozen of Suzi's co-workers were flitting around, trying to look busy. Suzi and I had gotten onto the subject of our respective significant others. I had mentioned Alan and I were going shopping after we were done here, nodding in his direction. Suzi stopped dead; her jaw dropped. "That is your husband?" she asked, astonished. "I had no idea. If you don't mind my saying so, I think he... or is it she?" I shrugged my shoulders, smiling coyly. "Either works." I gave her a brief overview of my kinky relationship with Alan. Suzi winked conspiratorially. "Anyway, she is adorable! You are so lucky. Back home, we cherish our 'special girls'. Who is she with today?" I furrowed my brow, not comprehending. "Excuse me?" I asked. "Her nails," Suzi continued matter-of-factly. "You said the two of you were going shopping after 'we' were done here." The thought hadn't even occurred to me. I glanced around, noting the available operators, then thought: Why not? After a brief, whispered consultation, Rose and Jackie approached Alan, informing him they were ready for him now. My thoroughly confused husband was led to the lounger adjacent to mine. When he finally figured out what was going on, his eyes grew as big as saucers. "It's all right, Sweetie," I softly reassured him. "You can do this. It's my treat. Everyone here is cool with it. Don't even try to tell me it's not something you have ever wanted to do. We have all weekend to enjoy it. Just relax and savor the experience with me." After Suzi had finished with me, I had pulled up a chair next to my lover. I brushed his cheek with my hand and whispered words of soothing encouragement in his ear while Rose worked on his fingernails and Jackie did his toenails. This was making me really wet. My dominant side took over, selecting the appropriate length and style for my sissy's new nails, as well as all aspects of their finish. Upon completion, Alan had deep red sculptured nails with gold nail art, about one and one-half inches long, square-cut with softly rounded edges. His sculptured toenails matched perfectly, highlighted with gold rings on two toes on each foot. It was such a shame to hide those feminized feet away in his Nikes, once the polish had dried. Suzi, Rose and Jackie all added their compliments, noting how long and slender his fingers were and that his new nails made them that much more feminine in appearance. After escorting us to the door, Suzi handed Alan her card. "We are open on Monday," she advised us. "If we need to make an adjustment for... business reasons, call me; we'll fit you in - but only if you promise to return later, so we can restore them to their current loveliness. In the meantime, enjoy your weekend, and your new nails." She kissed Alan softly on the cheek. "You are a very special person," she expressed with sincerity. "You two are very, very lucky to have each other." We walked hand-in-hand to my Aston Martin. Alan was so deep in thought, I wasn't sure he remembered his own name, much less where he was. That gave me something to mull over for a while. I opened the passenger door for him. He slid in, still admiring his new nails, lost in reverie. I closed his door gently, made my way around to the driver's side and slid behind the wheel. Slipping the key into the ignition lock, I paused, turned to him, took his chin in my hand and kissed him deeply. "I love you so very, very much for being so brave for me," I intoned emotionally. "Your nails are exquisite! I am so hot for you right now, I can't sit still - and it's only going to get better." My mind was racing. The domina in me was on Cloud Nine. If you know anything about sculptured nails, you know the first time you have them - going from nothing to instant nails - is an awkward experience. Your brain literally has to re-wire itself, adjusting spatial relationships between your fingertips and objects they come in contact with. You have to re-learn how to do even the most mundane, everyday tasks, such as picking up objects, handling money (especially coins), buttoning buttons and zipping zippers. The transition from nothing to extreme, glamour-length nails, as Alan had just done, is especially difficult. Effectively, he was as helpless as if I had handcuffed him. In order to cope, he would have to learn to use small, delicate movements of his hands, just as he had learned the short, mincing, undulating gate of a woman in high heels. Unlike heels, this was not something he could just kick off and go back to being plain old 'Alan'. These were a very visible and at least semi-permanent reminder of his feminization - and submission to me. What an incredible turn-on! Alan became agitated as we approached the mall. "How am I going to get away with this?" he asked querulously, holding aloft his starkly-feminized hand. "These sweats have no pockets." "Nor would I allow you to keep your hands in them," I admonished, "not after the amount of money we just spent making them beautiful. You don't seem to grasp how good you look, just as you are. WE will 'get away with it', as you put it, by acting as though your nails, like the rest of you, are the most natural thing in the world. If we believe that, and project it to the rest of the world, everyone else will believe it, too. I already believe it, because to me, it is the most natural thing in the world - just like adoring you." I punctuated my lecture by placing my hand behind his head and drawing him into a deep, sensual kiss. By the time our lips parted, we were both short of breath. I gently lifted one of his ultra-feminine hands, admiring once more the stunning results of my daring. I gazed up into Alan's eyes. Mine were misty. "Don't ever forget how much I love you!" I gasped, looking once again at those unbelievable nails. "This is... this is...." My voice trailed off as I sat there, simply shaking my head in wonder. I couldn't even find the superlatives to express how I felt at the moment. I bussed him lightly on the lips once more, my eyes and mind filled with determination. "We're going in," I commanded. *** As I had predicted, by acting normally, we received no untoward reactions - other than admiring glances; a lot of them. I noted with smug satisfaction most were directed towards Alan's nails. I squeezed Alan's arm, winked, and mouthed the words "told you". We purchased more lingerie - a girl can never have too much - hosiery, and a larger pair of breast enhancers. Alan's erection had long since become a problem. It was threatening to 'out' him to the weekend throngs. I broke one of my own cardinal rules and purchased a pair of jet-black pantyhose, then took him to the fitting room, made him strip below the waist, and put them on. It was good experience for him to work the sheer pantyhose up his legs without snagging or running them with his new nails. I wasn't going to let him cum - yet - but I managed to get his genitals tucked backward between his thighs, then snugged the pantyhose into place. That did the trick. I'm sure he was more than a little uncomfortable down there, but his front was nice and smooth. I was really turned-on by what we had done so far. We went a little meshuggah shopping. Between Bebe and Aldo alone, we dropped a couple thousand dollars on clothes and shoes that had no earthly use other than making dicks hard. Of course, I didn't tell him that. If I had had a cock of my own at the time, it would have been granite, thinking about my baby all dolled up in one or another of the outfits we had purchased. I had murmured exactly that in his ear, soliciting his response to wearing this outfit or that for me. He responded how heavenly it sounded, wishing we were home already. He loved his new nails and all the things we had purchased, but felt really self-conscious, out in public in his current in-between state, desperately afraid someone we knew would appear at any moment and recognize him. "Well," I cooed, "we'll just have to take care of that, won't we?" We were passing the MAC cosmetics store. I happened to glance through the window - and almost gave myself whiplash as I came to a screeching halt. Alan had continued on a few steps before he realized I was no longer next to him. He returned to my side, puzzled. I was completely oblivious to anyone and anything but her. Everyone has seen, if not met, a woman like the vision before me, demonstrating a product on a prospective customer. How she could work with those incredible, curving talons, I didn't have a clue. They were two inches long if they were a millimeter! Realistically, she was probably in her late thirties, perhaps older. She appeared, and dressed, much younger. The woman sported sizzling Platinum Blonde hair, huge boobies and a deliciously narrow waist, flaring out into full, rounded hips and the most incredible bubble butt. The sprayed- on zebra-print dress barely contained her prodigious proportions. Long, shapely, stocking-clad legs, flowed downward into zebra-patterned, stiletto-heeled, ankle-strap platform sandals. When she turned, presenting a straight-on view of her backside, the thin, stretchy fabric of her dress clearly revealed her impossibly-small waist was the product of a lace-up corset. Any number of narrow-minded people would have labeled her makeup "gaudy", "trampish", or worse. It was certainly heavy-applied, with long, thick, curly eyelashes and impossibly-thin, high-arched brows; more appropriate for a dimly-lit nightclub or honky-tonk than daytime in a busy urban mall. Still, it was obvious this 'look' had been skillfully applied, not troweled on with a putty knife. It fit this woman to a 'T', like her spectacular anatomy, impossibly-tight dress and skyscraper stilettos. This was, after all, a cosmetics store and she was a (presumably) licensed aesthetician, charged with demonstrating possibilities to her clientele ("This is what we can do, Honey. Now, let's put together a look that is right for you."). Suddenly, the idea that had been ruminating in the back of my mind since the nail salon gelled. I seized my hubby's hand and marched into the shop, just as Blondie was ringing up her sale. Ignoring other offers of service, I approached her directly. It took her but a moment to size us up with the practiced ease of a professional who knows what she is doing. Her nostrils flared slightly as the scent of Alan's Obsession reached them. I felt my juices gush into my panties as I gazed into her heavily- made-up baby blues. The twinkle in her eye and smile on her pouty, crimson lips spoke volumes. She made "May I help you?" sound more like confirmation than inquiry. We made our introductions. With a firm grip on Alan's arm, holding him in place, I leaned forward, murmuring my desires for her ears only, not even glancing at my husband for confirmation. She beamed a smile and nodded in the affirmative, murmuring how happy she would be to help. In that instant, I instinctively knew Faye, as she had introduced herself, was exactly the right woman for the job - and would be a friend for life. We moved toward a corner demonstration table, each of us holding one of Alan's arms; me on his left, Faye on his right. It was a casual hold - our arms slipped through his - but there was no way he was going to escape. Together, we seated Alan on the stool, as if his assent was a given. Faye went to work immediately, tying his hair back with a scrunchie and chatting breezily with us, citing her experience in both stage and screen. "I've also done hair and makeup for hundreds of drag shows and pageants over the years," Faye revealed, as she applied a third coat of plumper to Alan's lips, "and dozens of transsexual videos, as well. I adore Girly- Boys. Making them the femmiest they can be makes me so wet. I've been presented with some real challenges in the past; trying to make a real 'brick' appear more feminine..." Her smile cranked up a notch at Alan's sudden wince. She winked at me. "... but I rarely have the opportunity to work with such fabulous raw material. When I'm done with you, Angie, you are gonna be one hot babe. You don't mind if I call you Angie, do you? I think Angela is such a lovely name. With that face and complexion, you couldn't be anything but. Don't you agree, Donna?" I could have kissed her! She seemed to know my mind better than I did. Since finding out about Alan's feminine side, I had been struggling to construct a mental image of what I wanted my sissy hubby to be. As of this morning, that image was in sharp focus - and now had a name. "I couldn't agree more," I concurred. "As much as I love Angie, and have since the day I first laid eyes on her, she has always been so shy and insecure about herself. She didn't even want to come to the mall with me today, afraid of what people would think of her." "Well, will just see about that!" Faye announced, applying thick, lacy false lashes to my lover's lids. "Confidence, Sweetie; that's what it takes. Con-fi-dence. People will think what they think, regardless of what you say, do - or look like. To paraphrase Abe Lincoln: 'you can't please all the people, all the time.' Live your life the way you feel it, not the way you think those cretins expect you to. "Best of all, and I hope you realize this, you are not alone. When you stepped through that doorway a little while ago, you already had the unwavering support of one woman who will move Heaven and Earth to make you the best you can be. When you step through that doorway again, you will have two. It's just such a shame I'll have you looking so hot in a little bit, and here you are in dumpy sweats and Nikes. Really, your mother should dress you better...." I beamed, flicking my eyes towards the shopping bags at our feet. "Oh," I remarked casually, "I think we can do something about that, too." As Faye completed her efforts, we hustled 'Angie' into a back room for a quick 'costume change'. Upon our return to the main floor, her transformation was complete - and a complete knock-out. Angie sported a full C-cup bustline, thanks to one of her new bras and larger silicone enhancers. Her new curves were stuffed into a shiny red tank top, the bebe logo in glitter across the bust, and a pair of skin-tight black lambskin low-rise Capri's. She strutted gracefully in a pair of open-toed black calfskin Italian mules with thin soles and five-inch stiletto heels. If her outfit was visually stunning, Angie's visage was a jaw-dropper, transcending mere beauty. Faye had pulled off an effect I hadn't thought possible; my sweet twenty-something sissy appeared to be an angelic-faced teenager, attempting, as young girls do, to impersonate an adult through the use of too much makeup. As is usually the case, the girl in question ends up looking less like an adult and more like a slut. If that wasn't eerie enough, the aesthetician had played up my lover's delicate features and Baby Blue eyes, so similar to her own, and chosen a specific combination of colors and application to fool the casual eye into believing Angie was Faye's own daughter! Angie was lost in her own little world as she gazed at herself in the mirror. She happened to catch the reflection of my beaming Cheshire smile in the mirror and turned to face me. "You said you were worried someone we knew would recognize you," I effused. "I'm married to you, see you every day, and know by heart every curve and contour of your face. Right now, I don't recognize you. You look that good." We stuffed Angie's black calfskin clutch purse (purchased at Aldo, along with the shoes) with makeup essentials (powder, brush, lip liner, lipstick, lip gloss, lip brush). The rest of the cosmetics Faye had used went into a little MAC bag to take home. A couple of the other cosmetologists engaged my Angie in conversation, commenting they just couldn't get over how good she looked. They made her sit for a series of digital snapshots, vowing her likeness was going into their folio of all- star makeovers, to be used to show prospective clients the range of choices - and level of expertise - available to them. It was a set-up, hastily arranged by Faye, to allow us to slip away to the register for a few minutes to have a little "girl talk" out of Angie's earshot. I paid Faye's fee, plus a hundred-dollar tip to show my appreciation. We traded business cards and a promise to get together for lunch the following week. Then, collecting my new, improved 'girlfriend', Faye bussed her lightly on the cheek, so as not to leave a lipstick imprint. "Be good, Angie," she effused. "We'll be seeing a lot more of each other real soon." "We are so lucky to have found someone like you to help her find her way in life, Faye," I enthused. "I feel we are going to become the best of friends." The breathtaking blonde winked in agreement. "The very best of friends," she confirmed, smirking. "We have so much in common." We made our way slowly down the promenade, window-shopping. I stopped at a specialty perfume store, bought a purse-sized spritzer of Obsession, spritzed her behind the ears, at the throat, and on the inside of both wrists, then plopped the little atomizer in her purse. Stopping a few doors farther down at a jewelry boutique, I had Angie's ears pierced then, on a whim, pierced a second time. We bought her a dozen pair of ear rings, including a set of four-inch gold hoops I couldn't wait to see her wear. Back on the concourse, Angie was taking the opportunity to check herself out in the windows' reflection, still not believing that was really her. Okay, I confess; so was I. Faye de Castro (so read her business card) was, in my estimation, an Oscar-caliber make-up artist. Yes, Angie's face was heavily made-up; much more than I would have felt comfortable with for myself, even on special occasions. The similarities to Faye's image, right down to the expert application, were obvious, and striking. On Angie, it just looked right, just as it had on Faye. That similarity had been no coincidence. I had whispered to Faye at the onset; my undivided attention had been riveted on her the moment I laid eyes on her through the window. Hers was exactly the look I wanted for my sissy. She had been only too happy to oblige. I realized that was the domme in me speaking; strip my mate of a little more of her masculinity, separate her a little further from her 'comfort zone' - make her that much more dependent on me. I had not counted on the depth of the aesthetician's expertise, nor on her obvious appreciation of the similarities between my hubby's features and her own. I adored Angie's new look, and her new femme identity! I hadn't anticipated taking her to the next level so soon, but there was no way I could avoid it now. Anyway, I had already taken the first steps to nudge her down that path.... The whistle jolted us both out of our reverie. We turned to take in our immediate environment. We were in front of a window along the main pedestrian walkway connecting the East Concourse with the Main Concourse. There were lots of people passing by in both directions - and lots of faces appraising us as they went by. Angie quickly turned back to the window, blushing furiously through her heavy makeup. "I knew it," she muttered, voice trembling. "They've read me." I stared at her as though she had lost her mind, then turned back to scan the faces, just to see if I had misinterpreted the looks on them. The expressions ranged from disgust (mothers with small children), to outrage (old ladies), to covert admiration (single men), to undisguised lust (teenage boys) - exactly the span of reactions one would expect from the crowds when a girl so obviously from the wrong side of the tracks invades this bastion of chic, trendy, wholesome 'Family Values'. "Sweetie," I demurred, "nothing could be further from the truth. They haven't 'read' you as anything but the provocative young woman you appear to be." Just then, a distinctive thump resonated through the air. "What was that?" Angie inquired. "That," I confirmed, "was a teenage boy so intent on staring at you, he wasn't watching where he was going. He walked face-first into one of those poured-concrete colonnades supporting the ceiling. Baby, you are a star!" She blushed, turning back to the window. "I like the look," she explained slowly, tracing her lips lightly with her fingertips, "but isn't it a little... much?" "Oh, Sweetie, no!" I protested, hugging her tightly. "On you it looks just right, just as it did on Faye. She has a real eye for this kind of thing. As I said earlier, no one is going to look at you and see Alan Ames. You are 'Angie' now, and can be, will be, anytime we wish." "I'm not so sure about that," she demurred. "I don't think I could come close to doing it as well myself. Honey, what do you suppose Faye meant when she said she was sure she and I would be seeing each other again real soon?" I couldn't suppress the smirk from overtaking my lips. "Oh, that," I began. "You said it yourself; you don't think you could do that look as well as she does. I can't, either. So, I signed you up." "For what?" "Make-up lessons. Faye will be your teacher, Tuesday and Thursday nights, seven to close, beginning next week." "Where?" "Why, at the MAC store, of course. That's where Faye will be." "But you usually have to work late Tuesdays and Thursdays!" "That's right, Sweetie. That's why I picked those nights. I'll be working, so you will have the time available for your lessons. It works for Faye, too. Those are the nights she usually sets aside for classes. She let me know she doesn't have any other students this cycle, so you will be getting private instruction for the standard course tuition. We will meet at home later and you can show me what you learned." "But that means...." "It means," I interjected, slipping my arm around her waist, "my big girl is going to dress sexy and go to the mall all by herself a couple evenings a week, to spend time with her girlfriends, catch up on all the latest gossip and learn how to make herself pretty for me." "I can't do that," she protested, a touch of panic in her eyes. "Can I?" I looked around us again, inviting her to take in the stares of the people who beheld us - stares that showed no clue of recognizing the overdone young tart as anything other than that. "Oh, yeah," I purred, "You can do that - in a heartbeat. Of course, you could always say 'no'. I know this is a lot to absorb in such a short time. Maybe you aren't ready, after all. We could just go home, get you undressed, remove all the 'war paint', then call Suzi and make an appointment to remove those beautiful nails. Then, we could snuggle up on the sofa and catch a football game, maybe even WWE Smackdown. Perhaps we could try something a little less extreme later on, say, in a couple of months." I told you I didn't play fair. In any incarnation, Alan bores easily watching televised sports. He especially loathes the phony theatrics of professional wrestling. Then there was the veiled threat of taking away his dress-up activities for two months. With our loving relationship, I knew he could survive the 'penalty box'; we both could. Still, neither one of us would like it. Faye had done her job well. I knew 'Alan' was in there, somewhere. I simply could not picture this vision of overdone loveliness as anything but the young woman she appeared to be. I watched the range of emotions in Angie's eyes. It was almost like watching the thoughts themselves as they jetted through the neural pathways of her mind. She held one hand out, away from her, fingers spread, admiring her nails - just as a girl would do. All it would take was one more little nudge.... "It would be such a shame to take those away so soon," I added slyly, echoing what I knew to be her thoughts. "Yeahhhh," she sighed dreamily. "Look at it this way," I offered. "If you do this for me, you will learn how to make me pretty for you. I would love for you to be my personal makeup artist." That brought a dimpled smile to her lips that made my heart melt. "How many lessons are there?" she asked softly. "The introductory course is twenty-five lessons," I informed my hubby, "but Faye told me there are Intermediate and Mastery courses, as well. I would like you to take them all...." "But I'm not sure I'll have all those nights free myself," my baby groaned. "What if I have to work late, or Jason sends me out of town...." "Shhhhh," I shushed soothingly, placing my hands on her bare arms and rubbing them gently up and down. "All of that can be worked out. Faye has been teaching a long time. I'm sure she's had to deal with students needing to make up classes before. You can just go in on another night, or possibly on the weekend. Besides, you are so damned organized at your job, you almost never have to work late. The few times we've chatted with Jason Miller socially, he has sung your praises to the heavens. Everything will be fine. Let's just take it as it comes." I gazed into those sultry, alluring eyes, losing myself in them. "I can't begin to tell you how horny all of this makes me," I murmured, "thinking of you, all dressed up and out on your own, learning to be all the woman you can be - for me." "Try," she taunted. "Why don't I take you home and show you, instead?" I didn't last that long; I couldn't. My panties were already making squishy noises as we hurried down the concourse towards the parking lot exit. I lost it in the elevator on the way down to our parking level. I crushed myself against her, grinding my crotch into hers, devouring her mouth with my own. The touch of her body, the whisper soft grazing of those crimson talons across the exposed flesh of my shoulders and upper back, the taste of her lipstick, the scent of her heady perfume threw me into sensory overload. My car was only a couple of spaces from the elevator door. I dragged her to it, grabbed her, then crashed backward against the passenger door, pulling her to me, into me. As I expected, Angie could not yet manage my button and zipper. I whipped my jeans and soaking panties down around my thighs in one swift motion, then pressed down on my lover's shoulders. She squatted down before me, grasping the backs of my thighs with her talons, sending shivers of delight coursing up my spine. My sex was soaked, pulsing, and way more than ready. The first flick of her tongue on my clit sent me over. I seized the back of her head with my hands and jerked her head forward into my pussy, screaming - and I mean screaming - my passion. The pipes above us reverberated from the aural assault. At that moment, I didn't care who heard us or what they thought. I wanted the whole, wide world to know this girl, this intensely sexual being, was taking me to heights of ecstasy I had never even suspected to exist. She ate me with those incredible lips and demonic tongue like a thing possessed, raking my exposed flesh with her talons. I came six more times in rapid succession: bing-bing-bing-bing-bing-bing. My legs were so wobbly, I had to press down on Angie's shoulders to keep from falling over. My vision was swimming, the world spinning around me. I was gasping for air, as though I had just run a marathon. We heard voices, shouts, asking if everything was all right. Angie managed to get my jeans pulled up, though not fastened. She fished the keys out of my purse, lowered me into the passenger seat and closed the door, then dashed around and slipped behind the wheel. The fabulous V-12 roared to the touch of the ignition, then settled into a silky-smooth purr. She backed out of the space, snicked the shifter into Drive, then roared off, up two ramps to the safe anonymity of the street. As we had backed out of the space, I had lazily glanced up, noting a ceiling-mounted surveillance camera, pointing almost dead-on to where Angie and I had been having hot, animal sex. I hoped the Security guys had gotten an eyeful and suspected that was one tape that was going to make the rounds. I hoped it had captured my sly wink and satisfied smile, just as we slipped out of the camera's field of vision. We stopped at a stop light; one I knew to be unconscionably long because the cross-street was a feeder for the freeway. Angie did something that made my breath catch in my throat. She flipped down the visor to reveal the vanity mirror, then made a slow, loving show of fixing her lipstick and powdering her nose - just as I had done to entice my husband dozens, perhaps hundreds of times in the past. Then, this overdone hussy turned to me and tilted her head coquettishly, the coyest of smiles on her perfectly-repaired lips. Butter would have melted in her mouth. Damn, this bimbo had instincts like nobody's business! I trembled with desire as I weakly reached up to stroke that face. "Take me home, you slut," I hissed. "It's your turn - and I have plans!"