The More Deceived free porn video

The More Deceived by Vickie Tern i. "Oh, Jackie, stop fussing with your hair, it's quite nice and you're quite pretty just as you are. Quite presentable, no one would ever think otherwise. A short stroll to the parking garage and into your car and you're back home. So who'll see? A neighbor? People passing by on the sidewalk? They'll think you're lovely! You don't need to look perfect. Just go -- it's getting toward late afternoon, and Stan sometimes comes home around now. You certainly don't want to face my irate hubby!" "If he did see me here, so what?" I replied, more concerned to fit a stray curl behind my ear than with her warning. "As you say, what would he see? Two girlfriends passing the time together perfectly innocently. Nothing more. That's been the genius of this arrangement, hasn't it?" I was trying now to spread my bangs over my forehead to give me again the gamine look my hairdresser had given me. Kelly had suggested the style and my wife Brenda had wholeheartedly approved when she saw it. So I'd kept it for several months, and it was now 'me.' I glanced across Kelly's makeup table for a can of hairspray to hold everything in place. None, but at least her lipstick matched mine, so I picked it up and used it instead of fishing for my own in my purse. Finally satisfied, I looked at Kelly's reflection in the makeup table's mirror. She was lying supine on her bed, one arm flung back luxuriously over her pillow, watching me from under seemingly sleepy eyelids as I stood across ber bedroom trying to neaten myself. It was her bed, I realized, despite the hours and days of intimacy we'd shared there. Her bed, hers and her husband Stan's, not mine or ours. I would always be a visitor to that bed and this apartment. An outsider, even though by now I'd possessed her more thoroughly and passionately and repeatedly than her husband ever did these days. She'd told me that often enough. And during the past month, I'd possessed her much harder and more firmly. She suspected that Stan was spreading his sperm around and that was why he neglected her. But I wasn't spreading mine! Mine got crammed into her cunt as often as possible. Her long blonde hair lay strewn over her pillow as casually as the rest of her, framing her pixie face. Her mouth retained its usual faintly amused expression as she looked at me. As always soon after lovemaking, she was again coolly composed. Simply gorgeous. I wished I was able to go at her yet again. As always. But we were done for the day. She'd slipped back into her short, satin, salmon colored nightie, and it now draped her body with her taut nipples still poking up through it. The way they'd poked out when I first arrived, a few hours ago, when she'd first come to the door and seized me around the neck and drawn me into a deep kiss. She'd taken it off immediately afterward so our bodies could tangle together, as they then did for several hot, sweaty hours of writhing over and inside each other. The gown still looked crisp, anyhow. It didn't quite cover her crotch. Where her long, slim legs began, a faint shadow of pussy hair hinted that there was more pleasure to be had -- but there was no time for that now. I'd barely gotten hard this time, but I'd managed. I'd only spurted once, but even so I was now utterly fucked out, my cock hanging limp in my panties. Last time the same. I was afraid I knew why. Kelly was a delectable enough morsel, but we'd been getting together for months now. I'd too often discharged into Kelly my domestic responsibilities to my wife Brenda, my obligation -- desire too -- to fuck Brenda at least now and then. Then too, there were those hormones. Brenda had suspected earlier that my fidelity was unreliable and had taken measures to assure that I'd remain faithful, screw no other woman. She'd dressed me up as a woman to reduce my appeal and she'd surreptitiously fed me pills. Ironically, that was what had given me safe access to Kelly's cunt these several months -- her husband would never suspect that I was a man whenever I was seen visiting his wife, so we were able to spend lots of time alone together. Then for safety's sake Kelly had taken steps to make me even more persuasively feminine, gotten me even more hormones, even though they now compromised my erections. But if I was giving out sooner than previously, I had no complaints -- the sex was great. And the simplest explanation was that not even a superman could ever finally satisfy Kelly. So it was no novelty that I was all fucked out until the next time. Kelly glanced down there and stretched her arms and pushed her marvelous breasts high up, then wriggled her hips, entertaining herself by watching my crotch for a reaction. Not a twitch. I gestured my regret at her. "Next time?" was all I could say. "Day after tomorrow?" she asked me. I nodded. Today was Tuesday. So I'd next visit her on Thursday. Every Tuesday and Thursday of this past summer my wife Brenda would leave the house to be "on call," as she said, at the hospital where she worked. As soon as she was gone I'd slip some an appropriate dress over the bra and panties I always wore anyhow, and make myself up carefully, as if I were planning to shop in one of the better boutiques in town. Then I'd meet Kelly. Sometimes for lunch before returning to her mid-town apartment to use each other, to fuck each other's brains out. Sometimes we'd shop first, two girls enjoying the prospect of different possible purchases as we held clothes up against each other and examined price tags and uttered judgments. Sometimes I'd drive directly to her neighborhood, though I'd always park a block or so away to throw off any suspicion I was visiting her yet again -- Stan could be insanely jealous, and didn't need to know. I'd stroll to her apartment building in my highest heels and graciously allow her doorman to open the door for me, nodding to him as he saluted, nodding then to the receptionist inside, and nodding to the elevator operator, who already knew what floor I'd want. Kelly's. Her husband Stan was a politician who held various lucrative contracts with the city, a man with friends above and below the law who looked after his interests by whatever means. Not a man to mess with. But as Kelly'd assured me, as long as I dressed as a woman I was perfectly safe -- the building was watched and all male visitors were reported to the boss, but her women friends came and went without anyone bothering to notice. I'd ring her bell and then when she'd opened the door, allowed me in, and shut it again, I'd fall into her arms. Stan might be informed of a girlfriend's arrival and later departure, but the chances are he wasn't, and anyhow, since I was supposedly a woman he wouldn't care. In the early days of our affair I'd spend the whole afternoon fucking Kelly, and it was absolutely glorious. My sexual energy diminished gradually over the summer, but there was still plenty we could do. Kelly was gorgeous and soft and I still deeply appreciated any intimacy with her, even though much of our lovemaking had transformed itself into me sucking on her cunt and helping her reach orgasm after orgasm with her sex toys. We each had a favorite dildo, the one I fucked her with when my cock quit, and the bigger one she fucked me with, sliding it deep into my ass to inspire me to rise one more time. "If you're going to look like a woman when you're up here, you should enjoy being one," she'd say in a mock challenging tone of voice as she buckled up her strap-on and looked into my eyes. She loved all sorts of intimacies and sensations, and so did I. My cock could wait to recover, and did. She could wait for it, and did. There were many other things for us to do. It seemed an ideal arrangement. With me utterly disguised as a woman, our marriages and reputations remained secure. Stan would never know he was a cuckold, and Brenda would never suspect that her husband was spilling his seed into her oldest and best friend. Not even that she'd unwittinglu collaborated to make it possible. An ideal situation for me. Ironic for everyone else. ii. It came about only a few months ago, late last Spring, almost by accident. The weather was warm and the trees were budding, and Kelly had come to our house in tears, complaining to her old college room mate Brenda that her husband Stan was once again whoring around, spending all his time and sexual energy with other women, she didn't know who or how many, most likely his new secretary as once before with his old secretary, maybe also some of his woman sales representatives. Stan mindlessly made passes at anything in skirts, and was often tomcatting with someone. Often successfully. Though faithful to Brenda except for one time, I was envious. But that was how it was. Stan was powerful, and women do find powerful men attractive. I happened to be in my study working from home that day, as I often do, and the door to the living room happened to be ajar. So I heard all of their conversation. "I don't know how you tolerate his infidelities," my wife said grimly. "If Jack whored around like that I'd cut his balls off and then bring home the first ten men I could find and fuck them under his nose while he sat there bleeding to death." This was sobering news. I'd had no idea she felt that strongly about the sanctity of our marriage. It was reassuring, one way, it showed how powerfully affectionate she felt toward me, how possessive. I liked that. But in another way it was potentially disturbing. Because you never knew when she might act on fancy rather than fact. At parties -- and at the hospital where she worked, I'd seen it -- Brenda flirted with men all the time. Charmingly, it was an innocent reflex on her part, an expression of her extraordinary beauty and femininity, something I loved watching. She excited men and she enjoyed exciting them. I was proud of her. In return I felt free to make preliminary moves on some of the wives at those same parties while she watched. Women all thought me nice-looking enough. When I was young they'd often called me a 'prettyboy,' but now 'cute' was the word they most often used. Not 'handsome' because that implies a masculinity, a certain dominating mastery and confidence I lacked. I settled for 'cute' or even 'good-looking.' I never made serious moves on any of them, only flirtatious gestures of admiration and respect, flattering them. If I felt lust for them, as now and then, I tried not to let it show. Whoever we addressed felt good that we found them attractive, and meanwhile Brenda and I each gained a deeper appreciation of each other. That is, to the extent that we saw we were attractive to others we felt all the more valuable to each other, all the more grateful that we'd chosen each other and were married each other. There was never anything serious in our playing around, though we'd watch each other closely enough to make sure. Closely enough to make sure that we each knew we were watching each other. I mean, doesn't every young married couple? If they love each other, they know that the other's loveable. They suspect that the whole world must be jealous of them and may want to share in their happiness by claiming -- if they can -- a piece of it for themselves. Doesn't everyone? "Oh, my, Brenda!" came Kelly's response through the open door and into my study. "You'd cut off Jack's balls? Castrate him? Isn't that a little extreme? I mean, think of the waste -- he's so cute, really darling, everyone thinks so! Sure, Stan falls off the wagon now and then. Let's face it, he falls off often. I know that, he's a man after all, he can't help it, I suppose none of them can. It's when it gets to be habitual that it gets to me, when his fucking of other women becomes a kind of addiction. When he's sleeping with his floosies so often that there's little or nothing left for me. So frequently that he can't make love to me more often than four or five times a week, and then maybe only a few times each time." There was silence. Brenda was thinking. And I was afraid I knew what and I was afraid I knew why. When I was in heat, in peak form, at my best, I was never able to make love to Brenda more often than twice a week, maybe three tops, and rarely more than a couple of times each time. If that much. Not unusual, that's how it was. That's how long it took for me to recharge my batteries. Nothing odd there, I suppose. The first year or so of our marriage I'd been a rampaging stud, ready for her anywhere any time, and she'd lunged at me often enough too. But after we'd been married a few years, ... well, Brenda no longer seemed that passionate any more. Nor as sexually venturesome. She got more even-tempered in her lovemaking, more wholesome than exciting. Sometimes merely dutiful. She rarely let her pussy rule her head, even when I was going crazy, exhausting myself, desperately trying to push her toward orgasm, any kind of orgasm at all, so I could finally have mine! Our sex was OK, good enough I guess. But we no longer generated the heated frenzies that fire off other frenzies and leave a couple happily exhausted, collapsed in each other's arms. That, I understood, was not uncommon with married people after the first flush of their passion has been satisfied and their youth is passing. The deep affection that replaces passion is marvelous in itself, but it isn't the same thing. Some guys I knew weren't good for sex with their wives more often than once a week, maybe even less. Some of those wives went looking elsewhere for sex, for the plain and simple reason that they were out of synch with their beloved husbands and didn't want to make unwelcome demands on them, but quite frankly, wanted cock more often than once a week. The third year of our marriage, one such wife had come at me so determinedly I'd been bowled over. For a month or more Sandra had visited my office or invited me to hers several times a week, for a time daily, and we'd gone to myriad motel rooms together before I came to my senses and realized that I was neglecting Brenda and jeopardizing my whole chosen life with her, and broke it off. I never did know whether Brenda suspected anything. A few of the other women in our social circle knew, I found out afterward, Brenda's best friend Kelly one of them. But they kept their counsel for their own reasons, I suppose. They were what we called the 'fast' set, and women who live in glass houses don't like to throw stones at anyone. Now here I was sitting in my study listening while Kelly and Brenda discussed Stan's infidelities. All the while thinking that Stan had to be a heluva cocksman to come on to Kelly four times a week or more, and three times each time, and yet maintain all of those extracurricular relationships too. And, I was thinking, if in her own genteel way Kelly isn't satisfied with a few fucks four or five times each week, she must be something of a slut. That was interesting to know, because Kelly was stunningly beautiful, as beautiful as Brenda, gorgeous, the kind of woman who can always get all the cock she wants. If she wasn't supplementing Stan, it had to be because Stan was known to be dangerous, and no one sane would dare mess with his wife. Brenda resumed. "Stan has all sorts of other women, yet the two of you still manage to make love that often? Stan's able to do that?" She paused. I waited for her axe to fall, to chop off my reputation as a man and a lover. "Jack can't," she said. Kachunk! My balls fell to the floor. "No way. He hasn't been able for years." She then stepped on those balls and ground them into the carpet. Metaphorically speaking. "Couldn't now even if he tried." The silence before Brenda spoke had been palpable. I knew at that moment that though I was now utterly innocent -- my affair with that one woman Sandra had ended long ago and otherwise I'd been absolutely faithful to Brenda -- I was in deep trouble. But the silence after Brenda informed Kelly that "Jack can't" lasted even longer, got even more palpable. Brenda waited for Kelly to grasp and absorb the import of that statement. "He can't?" Kelly asked incredulously at one point? I heard no more sounds for a long while. "He doesn't," Brenda finally replied grimly. Another pause. "Don't cut his balls off, Brenda," Kelly finally said in a small voice. "There may be other explanations. It doesn't have to be he's also got someone on the side." "No?" Brenda asked. She sounded skeptical. Brenda thought I had someone else on the side? I was astonished. That had never occurred to me. "Some men are simply undersexed," Kelly replied. She paused. "Way undersexed," she added. More silence. The one thing I knew wouldn't enter this consideration was, "Or these days maybe you're not sexy enough to arouse him." That was often the truth. Whatever her original frenzied passions, Brenda was nowadays only ... considerate. Dutiful. She sometimes reminded me of the famous, I hoped imaginary wife who endured her husband's fucking, and then after he'd come, asked him, "Feel better, dear?" The silence stretched on. I decided I'd better get in there and set the record straight about who or what was oversexed or undersexed infidelitywise. So I started closing down my computer, meanwhile trying to figure out how to begin. What to say first. My manhood, my potency, my marriage, my fidelity, all these were all at issue here, and they all appeared to be at odds with each other. They were, too, as it turned out. But not as I'd thought. "Oh, I don't need to castrate him, Kelly," Brenda said. Thank God! At least she'd spare my testicles! "I love Jack, after all. And if he's undersexed these days I may well be a little responsible. By the same token, if he got involved again with anyone the way he did a few years ago I'd know how to deal with it once and for all -- the same way I did part way last time. Did I ever tell you what I did when he started sleeping with Sandra Bellingham a few years ago? And carried on with her for about a month?" My hair rose. I was petrified! She knew? She'd known? "You know Sandra," Brenda went on. "She's been sexually insatiable since she was a baby and her fingers first found her crotch. Took on a whole fraternity in College once ... true it took her a whole year to screw all fifty-seven of them, but she did it, and the officers quite a few times so they'd promise to put their pledges on call for whenever her cunt needed attention. These days if she can't seduce her postman it's her gardener, and if not her gardener it's his rake-handle or his garden hose. Poor old Jack exhausted himself trying to keep up with her, and during that month he almost altogether neglected me. I'd just about made up my mind to end it all for both of them and for me with Jack, I'm afraid, when he ended it himself." I was already half out of my chair, ready to deny all, ready to fall on my face and confess everything. Then stayed that way, unable to move, and listened on. Now that Kelly was hearing real dirt being dished, her voice took on the overripe, shocked tones women employ when they're dishing dirt and craving to hear more. "Oh? How? You mean by killing them? And then yourself? Brenda! Or do you mean castrating him after all? Brenda, you poor dear! Because of his affair with Sandra? I never knew you even knew about it! But what did you actually do?" "I began emasculating him another way." More silence. Now Kelly was speaking very rapidly. "Oh? You mean chemically? Drying out his testicles from the inside? Shrinking them instead of cutting them? With testosterone suppressors? I've heard of that. But that can be so self-defeating, you know, Brenda? I've sometimes thought of getting something like that from somewhere and stuffing it down Stan's gullet, at least feeding him some of my birth control pills to calm down that male ... adventurousness of his for a while. At least till he gets a grip on himself. But if I did I might see even less of him than now. Because if he still tried to service his other women he'd be even less able to meet my needs." "I know, Kelly. Yes, T-suppressants are self-defeating. At the hospital we have patients with testicular cancer and others who are transsexual, so we see the side effects from Androcur and Spironolactone and Proscar and so on all the time. Patients lose first their ability, then their desire. Effectively they're no longer men. When Jack was plonking Sandra I got furious and started feeding him some fairly heavy doses of the stuff to stop them. I'm sure if he hadn't gotten that attack of conscience and broken off with her, in a few months more I'd have fried his balls. As is, his desires did moderate. They're still average, but low average. Not the kind that keeps going and gets women screaming non-stop, the way it was once. For a while I did miss that kind of fucking." Kelly seemed amused, to judge by her voice. "So you castrated Jack only a little?" Brenda was about to reply, I could tell, but Kelly continued. "When Stan began with his women I took another path. The more traditional one." "What path is that?" Brenda seemed momentarily confused. "There's a traditional path when your man's unfaithful?" "Oh, Brenda, it never occurred to you? It's gone on I'm sure since Adam and Eve. If Adam screwed one of the girl angels and Eve found out, she'd certainly have taken on one of the better hung boy angels! Wouldn't she have? I mean revenge fucking! Have an affair yourself! Get even and enjoy yourself at the same time by sleeping with other men. They're out there! Women like us can take our pick! But if I were to start a heavy affair I'm sure Stan would find out, I mean, he's got spies everywhere. There's a huge risk involved. So I need to limit myself to short-term screwing. I can't keep any one boy friend on my string for long, and I can't ever take any of them home, where the fucking's most convenient. But I do play the field." There was a long silence. That was plenty for Brenda to think about, and I knew what those thoughts were likely to be. Should she herself have had an affair when she first heard about mine? With whom? How about now, is an affair still justifiable? Who's most likely available? Apart from Stan, I mean. Had Kelly actually been unfaithful or was she just talking? If so, with many men? Maybe even with Jack? Or, it occurred to me, had Brenda in fact herself done some revenge fucking? And wasn't telling Kelly? Or anyone else? If so, with whom? What was it she'd said, "For a while I did miss that kind of fucking"? 'For a while'? Until when? My mind exploded. I realized that when we were next alone I had no choice, I had to start up a long talk with Brenda, I had to confess my infidelity of a few years ago as if I didn't know she knew, and I had to assure her that there'd been no one since. None! Gospel truth! I'd have to throw myself on her mercy. I'd done nothing since then to disturb or distress her, except maybe screw her less often than she wanted -- and she'd contributed to that by drugging me, though I wouldn't mention I knew that. She was the only woman in my life. I hoped I was the only man in hers. And so on. Maybe then listen to her remorseful confessions and forgive her. Maybe then hear her reassurances of her own fidelity and believe them. While these thoughts were racing across my consciousness, Brenda's voice resumed. "But it occurred to me very recently that you don't need chemicals to emasculate a man. There's a simpler way. Maybe you should try it with Stan? You know, now that you've raised the subject, I'm reminded, it's way past time I did it with Jack. Made sure that no women can ever tempt him again. Absolutely guarantee his faithfulness to me. Yes! I'll do it!" There was an edge to her voice. Did she think I'd slept with other women too? I hadn't, hadn't dreamed of it. Not often. But the possibility had now entered her head and would not dislodge itself, and Kelly could hear it in her voice as clearly as I could. "Do what, Brenda?" she asked cautiously. "Castrate not his body but the way people see him. Maybe even the way he sees himself, eventually. His gender. His public image and his sense of himself as a man. Feminize him. Turn him into a sissy. When people see that he's less than a man, women won't bother with him. All those secretaries and wives who're attracted to Stan don't care about Stan, they're attracted to his manliness. I know how they feel, they want a piece of him for themselves. To see what he's like inside them. So my idea is, make Jack look like one of us. His outer appearance and if possible his inner, even his innermost, the way he sees himself. Feminize his outer garments and feminize his underwear and feminize what he thinks he is. Put him into dresses and skirts, and panties, pantyhose, garterbelts, thi-hi stockings, girdles, brassieres, slips, chemises, all sorts of lingerie. All of our things. Shave off his body hair, or dissolve or laser or wax it off, depillate him. Grow and curl the hair on his head, make him a blonde and pierce his ears, and paint his toenails and fingernails. Treat him to a week at a beauty spa and let them transform him utterly! Maybe even feed him female hormones to blend everything out and smooth and soften him up." "Wow!" Kelly said. She was impressed. "You'd do that? To your own husband?" "Why bother doing it to anyone else's? I'd want to make him so girly he'd be too embarrassed to hang with his macho friends and imagine he's one of them and talk about sports and boast about conquests and so on. So girly they'd hit on him. But that's only incidental. Mainly, I'd want him too embarrassed to make passes at other women. Can you see him getting a woman into a hotel room, then while she takes off her bra he takes off his? How she'd react? That's the secret! Get him into a bra and then he's yours and only yours. Get him into a dress and the problem won't ever even arise. True, he won't seem like much of a man to you either, but at least you'll know why, so it doesn't have to affect your judgement of him. You can still have sex with him maybe without thinking he's queer or you're perverse. Whatever's left of him will still be your man. And the rest of him will be your creation, your very own brand new lesbian woman, if you lean that way too." "I see," Kelly said. Then, as if absorbed in her own thoughts, "You say you intend to try that with Jack? Have you begun yet? Is he sitting in that study of his somewhere in this very house, even as we speak wearing panties and adjusting his bra straps and cruising websites to find a more attractive shade of lipstick? What fun!" She paused. "Does he also spend his evenings cruising gay bars for someone who'll tell him he's really pretty, he should forget about his last boyfriend, the one who just dumped him, and move on to the next? Does he keep himself too busy with boys to interest himself in girls?" I changed my mind about coming out and confronting them. No way both of them together! If Brenda was thinking of feminizing me to assure my fidelity, and Kelly was imagining me queer, I couldn't deal with them. I had to think things through first. I sat down again. "No, I haven't tried feminizing him yet," Brenda said thoughtfully. "There's been no immediate need. None I know of, anyhow -- I think he's been faithful to me since that lapse. Do you think I should?" She began laughing. "You know, now that I think of it, he's such a dear I'm sure he'd do it for me if I asked him. And I'm also sure he'd look really darling in a miniskirt, wriggling his belly against some stud on a dance floor." Kelly joined in, also laughing. "I just bet he would! He does have a doll-like face -- I've sometimes thought that with just a little makeup he'd be a stunner. How's his tush, acceptable? Still, I don't know. Make him over that completely? Emasculate him absolutely? Get him to suck some stud's cock?" Brenda must have nodded assent, because Kelly continued, "You would? I don't know. That might be a problem. I think I'd like to kiss a guy's mouth after he'd been kissing a cock -- it would be sort of a two-for-one. But get him to do it the first time? Most girls aren't pleased to take their first one into their mouths, though it does get to be enjoyable afterward. You remember how easy and natural cocksucking got after your first?" "I remember thinking my first was disgusting," Brenda said. "But as someone else said, afterward it's like flying an airplane -- you push the joystick forward and he goes down on you, you pull it back and he climbs up so high you can hardly bring him back to earth!" What was this? What had she just said? She'd had a first? Brenda hadn't ever sucked my cock. She'd told when we were dating that the idea was repulsive, so I'd never asked her again. Had someone persuaded her that it wasn't, so she'd done it after all? She did refer to her "first." When was that? Before she met me? After? Does a 'first,' mean that there've been seconds and thirds? And when did she learn how to fly a man or a plane? A quandary. Maybe I should ask her again for a blow job? Or maybe I shouldn't go there ever? This is very strange, I was thinking. I'm sitting here and they're sitting there looking gorgeous I'm sure, and they're imagining it's me and not them that's wearing a miniskirt and wrapping my lips around some guy's cock. I listened further but their voices had now sunk below audibility, with occasional giggles. What were they saying now? Were they planning anything? I decided it was time to break up their amusing little fantasy of a gay, girly me before it took root in Brenda's imagination. So I uttered a long, throat-clearing cough, said "Oh Kay!" as loud as I could, seemingly to myself, as if I'd just finished some Herculean task, and I stood up. Then called out, "Brenda, is there someone with you?" as if I hadn't heard a word of their conversation. "Yes, dear, it's Kelly! Come in and chat for a moment if you're decent!" 'If I'm decent'? Now what? Did she imagine I was in here naked? Or already wearing panties and a bra? Did it amuse her to imply that to Kelly? No matter. I went in to chat. Brenda I saw was wearing her usual 'at-home' gear, loose slacks and a sweatshirt, as if she'd just returned from work and had changed. Kelly was much more formally dressed, and much more sexily too, in a gorgeous black cocktail dress with bared shoulders. A diamond necklace glittered down where the dress curved low on her bosom, and she wore pendant earrings to match, and her eyes were dark and glittering, and her lips bright red. She held out her hand as I entered the room. I took it for a moment, uneasily aware that Brenda was watching us closely. "En route somewhere?" I asked her appreciatively but impersonally, alluding to her dress. She didn't reply, merely smiled as if acknowledging that I'd paid her the respect due her appearance, and glanced at Brenda. Brenda responded as if my reaction had just confirmed something. Was I drooling? There may well have been lust as well as admiration in my eyes, I had to admit that -- Kelly's dress was cut so low I couldn't help but stare into the deep, shadowy cleft between her breasts. Her soft, pillowy breasts. Whatever there was to see, Brenda saw it. "So, Kelly, what have you been up to lately?" I asked vaguely and non-committally, trying to establish that we were just friends, nothing more. Mere impersonal friends. My wife's friend, really. No more than that. "It's what you've been up to that we've been wondering," she replied with a gleaming smile. "Anything naughty? But really, I'm sorry, I need to leave now, Jack. I'm so glad to have seen you again, do call to see if I'm free for lunch if you ever get to town, I'd love it! Or maybe I'll call you some time. Brenda, it's been lovely." She looked at me again, then at Brenda. "Yes, that's a fine idea, Brenda," she said cryptically. "It'd work! You've got my vote! We'll talk more. Bye now! I'll let myself out." And she was gone, Brenda looking speculatively after her. "What idea?" I asked Brenda. "Oh, we were talking about making sure of things," Brenda replied. "A kind of insurance. Don't worry about it." iii. So of course I worried. A lot. All through that afternoon I saw myself as Brenda and Kelly had joked about me, wearing a miniskirt and tossing my long blonde hair and rubbing myself against some guy's dick. No way fit prey for any woman on the make for a man. Not even for Brenda. Insurance indeed. Sure enough, her campaign began that very night. Brenda lowered the boom on me just as she told Kelly she would. "Jack do you know what this is?" she asked me while we were sitting together in the living room, the TV on but neither of us watching it. I looked up from the magazine I'd been leafing through. Dangling from her hand was a rather flimsy pink brassiere, held up as if accusingly, as if she'd just found it in a stash in my drawer and was about to ask me whose it was, mine or some girlfriend's. I checked, not hers. She had huge tits, this one was more dainty, with smaller cups. A young girl's, almost. "It looks like a brassiere," I commented neutrally. " Is there something about it I should know?" "Yes, there is, " she replied, with a firm smirk, her eyes never leaving mine. They were more amused than angry, thank goodness. "It's yours. From now on this is your brassiere. This bra and the half-dozen others you now own and will find in your underwear drawer. Enough so you'll never need to be without one." She sounded as if she'd lost her mind. I knew what she was really up to, how calculatedly sane her proposal actually was. But even so, it was absurd! And unnecessary -- I wasn't on the make for women, I never really had been. There'd been this Sandra, who was a force of nature in a way, and there'd been no one else. Best thing is to take this as a joke, I decided. "Well, that's very generous of you, Brenda. It's pretty, and I appreciate the gesture and all, I guess. But mine? A bra? How mine? I mean, that's a woman's bra!" Now she looked amused too. "Of course it is, honey. They don't make men's bras. There's no need." She thought a moment. "Not usually. Sometimes, though. Some men grow tits." I saw the trap she was setting for me and at the moment saw no way to evade it. "That's right, there's no need. That's why I don't wear things like that. I've got nothing to put into a ... a ... brassiere." I hesitated to say the word, in case merely speaking the name signified agreement to wear one. "You mean, you've got no boobs that require a bra? I know that, sweetie. Though if you want some, if having breasts makes better sense to you when you've wearing a bra, it's no trouble to get you some. We provide them all the time at the hospital, the all-in-one implant kind and the grow-them-yourself hormone kind. Though not usually for men. If you really do want breasts to go with your bra, that might be a first!" She looked as if she were daydreaming into the middle distance. "Maybe it would start a trend!" Was she faintly mocking me? I definitely did not want to go there, so I cut to the chase. "Brenda, I don't have breasts and I don't want them. I have access to your breasts and I love yours, they're all the breasts I need. You want me to wear a bra? Why?" "You have had access to mine. There were certain conditions we agreed to when we got married, one of them being that you would have free and exclusive access to my breasts, but only if you forsake all the others. But you didn't forsake all others. You know that as well as I do." I decided not to insult her by denying it. I now knew she knew the truth about that unfortunate month I'd spent trying to satisfy Sandra Bellingham's hunger for cock. "Brenda," I began, preparing earnestly to implore her forgiveness. "I may have ... I ... I have never ... I never wanted ...." My tongue tied itself into a knot. She seemed almost pitying, as she looked straight at me. Her voice was sorrowful yet still somehow loving. "Sweetheart, I know. I knew even at the time. I forgave you then and I forgive you now. This isn't really about breasts, not mine nor yours nor hers. It's about feeling confident. I have to be sure of you. Like I said, I need insurance!" "Insurance?" I had to seem not to understand her. I now saw how this conversation was going to play out. And I saw no way it would not. Tomorrow morning I'd be wearing a bra and probably panties as well, maybe more, and feeling lucky if there was only clear polish on my fingernails. "I can't ever feel sure that you're altogether mine if you won't wear these undies. When I see you put them on in the morning and take them off at night, I'll know that no one else has seen you or been with you ... intimately all day. Because I'll know you'd be ashamed to let anyone else know you're wearing such girly things. If they did see your dainty underthings, they'd assume that they express secret desires, above all that you want to be a girl. So the fact that you're wearing a bra can remain our secret. As long as we're the only ones ever intimate with each other." She smiled and reached over to hand me the bra. Her other hand, as I'd suspected, did hold a matching pair of panties. She was serious. "Brenda, I don't want to be a girl," I said quietly, trying to return her to her senses. "Honey, I know. But there're other advantages. Maybe dressing like me, at least underneath, you'll feel a little more the way I feel sometimes? It'll help you become more understanding of me? That's what I want." I did owe her. And I saw no way out of this. It was a small enough gesture of reassurance anyhow, since I never did intend to strip off my outer clothes anywhere except in the privacy of our own bedroom. I hesitated. Then at last, "Sure," I told her magnanimously. "If you want me to wear those items for your sake, it's silly but of course I will." A wide, sunny smile lit up her whole face. A triumphant smile? I took the bra from her, and a moment later the panties too. Pink and frilly, both of them, flimsy, though I saw that their elastic linings were built for serious weight lifting. Like women themselves, these things seem to be dainty and fragile but are in fact tough and resilient. I bet you can haul a truck with these things, I was thinking. Or tie up a battleship. Once I put them on, will I ever get them off again? Metaphorically speaking? "You'll also wear stockings and a garter belt," she added, as if that much was also settled. "Except for when I wear pantyhose or thi-highs, then you'll wear those instead. From now on, I'll buy all of our lingerie in my size and your size, and we'll each wear the same things. It can be fun! Let's see how these fit." She watched me critically as I stripped off my T-shirt and managed to clip the bra around me and adjust the straps. Then put the shirt back on. "How interesting," she said. "I almost can't see that you're wearing it. Except for the lacy outline, no one would ever know. It does show off your little boobs, though. They're rather sweet." I had little boobs? Was she mocking me? Without a word I went into our bedroom and checked in our mirror. I did, the bra cups had ruthlessly gathered up and shaped the skin on my chest and the tissue underneath it and conferred breasts on me. Immediately I took down a heavy shirt and put it on. There, I thought, no more T-shirts for the foreseeable. Now I'm a man again. Then as I changed my boxers for the matching panties, I added to myself, yes, I'm a man again, a man who wears panties and a bra. With that thought came a subtle change in my conception of myself. Unexpectedly. I was thinking that a man who wears panties and a bra is not a real man. He's a girlyman, a pantywaist, a sissy. Or if not those despicable things, he's a woman. At least partly a woman -- that was all right. I felt strange underneath, but my self-respect was partly restored. OK, I'm a woman, partly. But no way a sissy! I tried to dismiss that kind of thinking as I returned to Brenda. "This is to assure you that I'll keep my marriage vows, you say, nothing more?" I said in a forthright, manly voice. Nevertheless it sounded a little high to me. She was absorbed in her book, and seemed to have lost interest in the topic altogether. "What? Oh, yes, that's right. So you won't want to take up with any other women who may come after you! You'll find other new undies in your underwear drawer too, now. You'll wear only women's undies from now on, the same as me." Then she looked up, smiling. "So underneath you'll be the same as me," she repeated. "Isn't that a nice feeling?" I couldn't deny it. Strangely, in a way, I did feel closer to her. It was. She returned to her book, then looked up once more. "Oh yes, honey. From now on I'd like you to wear shorts or a skirt too. At least around the house. Since you'll always be wearing stockings, it'll be nice for me to see your legs, at least when you're working at home. They're lovely legs, I've noticed." She paused and considered whether to go on, took a breath, then did go on. "You only have a few pairs of shorts, and they're men's shorts, so they're not really very short. Shorts would look cuter on you if they were tighter. So maybe I'll get you some new ones cut for a woman's shape. Until then maybe just wear skirts? I still have miniskirts I've never worn, they seemed too daring for me, but on you I bet they'd look precious." I was about to object when she interrupted me. "Honey, you'll thank me -- when you're in pantyhose you'll find skirts are much more convenient for peeing. Pants with a fly can be impossible to deal with when you're in pantyhose. So, maybe never mind the shorts. You'll wear skirts at home from now on if you don't mind." And if I did? As if she hadn't just initiated a sexual revolution in our household, a regime in which nobody wears the pants? She returned to her book. That was a Monday. The next day was Tuesday. Brenda went off to the hospital as usual, and I returned to the restaurant renovation project I hoped to complete and bring in within another day or two. My underwear drawer held only bras and panties now, I saw, and as I took out one of each I also saw she'd left on the bed for me a new pair of stockings, still in their plastic envelope. And also a garter belt to hold them up. Feeling silly, but not daring not to, I slowly put each item on. The panties last, so despite the garter belt I could maintain access to my prick when nature called. Then while wondering how I'd get at it when I was wearing pants, the phone rang. It was Brenda, driving to work. "Honey, I forgot to leave you a miniskirt for today. So why don't you just slip into that pleated skirt I was wearing a few days ago, it's hanging on a hook on my closet door and it's got an elastic waistband, so there'll be no problem with the fit. We'll set you up properly when I come home. Bye!" The pleated skirt came down nearly to my knees, all very proper, and I was surprised to find how comfortable it felt. Not at all binding in the crotch, the way pants are when you first sit down. It was a warm day in late Spring, so I decided to wear only a T-shirt over my bra after all -- 'my' bra was what it was now, nothing for it -- and got back to work. Except for the sense of binding on my chest, I felt more comfortable than the previous day spent wearing pants. And even that binding sensation began to seem comforting, reassuring, my 'breasts' gathered up and securely supported. I touched their tips. Oh my God! What an electric shock, what an erotic shock raced through my body from my nipples to my cock! My cock immediately got hard! I touched them again! This was like sex, great sex, how had I previously missed out on this? I began to fondle my tits -- MY tits, oh, God, I loved them! -- and to masturbate. Bliss! Finally I came, gloriously, into some toilet tissues. Well, there's a plus, I was thinking. I'm persuaded. Hooked, really! When your nips are pushed forward in a bra and you caress them, you get to feeling so very hot! If you're a girl you'll spread for anyone! And if you're a guy? I won't put up a fight, I decided. Whatever Brenda wants, Brenda gets. Up to a point of course. I didn't want to humiliate myself utterly. I managed to get most of the restaurant project completed by late afternoon. I'd review it tomorrow, I decided, and then bring it to the client. So tomorrow at home I'd also be spending in a skirt. No problem. I'd gotten so accustomed to the skirt that when the doorbell rang in mid-afternoon I went to answer it without thinking. I opened the door and only then, suddenly, I felt a breeze ruffle Brenda's skirt on my sheer-stockinged legs while confronting a Messenger Service delivery man not three feet from my bra-enclosed, small-boobed chest. A man! Suddenly I was terrified, and just stood there. The delivery man wasn't noticing anything much at first. "Sign here, ma'am," he said. I did, mindlessly. "Thank you, ma'am," he said, turned, then turned back. "Sorry, I mean 'thank you, sir,' he said. Was that a leer? Then he left. I felt humiliated. I stood in my own doorway, wearing my bra and panties and stockings and garter belt and skirt and the small bumps in my T-shirt, visible to everyone on the block, holding the small packet the man had handed me. Why hadn't I worn lipstick too? Why hadn't I hidden my male face behind a female face? From now on I go all out, I vowed! No one will see that I'm a man! There was no one else visible anywhere up or down the street. But even so, though my male self, Jack, had been exposed as a sissy, my female alter ego now defiantly displayed herself to the world as she was, nothing to be ashamed of. The partial woman I felt myself to be when dressed as a women now had a social existence visible to anyone on the block. She was no longer closeted but known to the outer world, whether or not the outer world knew it. I might be a disgrace as a man, but as a woman? Screw everyone! I stood there unashamed, visible to all of the houses across the street. Though to no one in them, I guessed. Nobody home. I shut the front door and glanced at what had just been delivered. Sent from the hospital pharmacy to Brenda at home. Odd, why didn't she just carry it home? Convenience, I suppose. What was it? I took it into the kitchen and opened it carefully, prepared to close it up again. Birth control pills, twelve shrink-wrapped blue-and-white cards of pills labelled 'Jolessa,' a year's supply. Why? Brenda already had her own, she kept them in the top shelf of the medicine cabinet and took one every morning. Recalling that she had somehow started treating me with anti-testosterone hormones during the month I'd been screwing Sandra, I decided to watch carefully whatever happened to these, closed them back up in their mailer, and placed them with the day's mail on our front hall table. When Brenda came home I was setting the table. On Tuesdays and Thursdays when she went in to work, I usually prepared for dinner and cleaned up afterward and she usually only cooked. She glanced at me in my T-shirt with my teeny breasts and my pleated skirt and nodded. "You look very nice," she said. "Nicer than I imagined. Is the skirt a good fit? Comfortable?" "Yes, oddly enough," I replied. "It is." I thought it important to show her I bore her no antagonism for possibly humiliating me, for asking me to wear a skirt on top of the lingerie to which I was now committed. And the fact was, it was comfortable. "Good, honey," she replied. "I'm glad. I see also that you're not wearing that heavy shirt again, the one you put on yesterday. You like the way your figure looks in that thin T-shirt? I certainly do!" "It was too warm in the house for a heavy shirt," I replied. And decided to let it go at that. Not tell her about my erogenous boobs. Maybe save that for some night when we were making love, and I could ... good heavens, but it might be wonderful! I could play the girl! She could feel up my boobs! "I imagine so," she said. "Tomorrow I'll leave out a blouse for you that's made of an even thinner fabric and will fit you better still. In a color to match your skirt. Then you'll have a complete outfit." She smiled broadly and actually gave a little skip. "Ooooh, this is getting to be such fun! It's like dressing up one of my dollies when I was a little girl." After that exclamation I couldn't possibly object that I didn't want to wear what she called a complete outfit. That there was no point to it, that the bra and panties alone were enough to assure that I'd meet her stated objective, to be unattractive to wandering women. To object when it didn't seem to matter would mark me a killjoy, the kind of man who snatches dollies out of the hands of little girls and throws them away. So I said nothing. "A package come for me?" "On the front hall table," I replied. She suddenly looked startled and looked me up and down, and stared at me questioningly, but said nothing. I grinned. "Yes, I did sign for it, Brenda. The delivery man seemed to think I was a woman, at first. Then at the end he saw I was a man. I should have worn makeup I think." She just stood there looking at me, wide-eyed. "If you like," she said. That may have been a mistake, I thought to myself. No matter, onward! "Then when he left, I made myself stand in plain sight in the doorway so the world would know that I am what I am and I am what my wife wants me to be, and get bored and turn its attention to other things." She waited a moment longer, thinking something, then beamed approval at me. She came up and kissed me on the cheek. "Sweetie," she said. "My defiant darling! That was very brave, and also very sensible. It's as I've always suspected, you're marvelous! Strong enough to handle nearly anything! A natural!" A natural what? She didn't say. Instead, obviously feeling good about herself and me, almost humming aloud, she wandered over to the mail, examined it, left the bills for me to pay, picked up her package, and carried it up into our bedroom. Ten minutes later she'd emerged wearing her 'at-home' loose slacks and sweatshirt and gone into the kitchen to begin preparing our dinner. A minute later I drifted casually into our bedroom and opened the top drawer of her dresser, where I knew she kept personal odds and ends she meant to get to later. Sure enough, there in front was the packet, the flap on it now torn open. I picked it up and looked inside. It still contained those twelve blue-and-white monthly cards of 'Jolessa'pills. Replacements for when her own birth-control pill supply ran out, I decided. This seemed confirmed when I noticed a single blue-and-white card lying by itself just under the package of new ones. Her current month's supply, mostly gone? I examined it. Only two small, round, white pills remained. But doesn't she normally keep her birth control pills in the medicine cabinet, I asked myself? I went to look. Sure enough, there they were. A pink pill packet labelled 'Ortho' with maybe a dozen pills still lodged in the card. Pink! I counted them carefully. Twelve exactly. And three more sealed cards with their full monthly complement of twenty-eight pills. This was indeed her own mother lode. A mystery here. Maybe a fearful mystery? I didn't want to jump to conclusions. We dined, and Brenda chatted first about different doings among the hospital staff she worked with, then about my day in drag. Only she didn't call it 'drag' but 'that attractive outfit,' as against 'your usual' (which resembled what she was at that moment wearing, near-throwaway clothes, though I didn't point that out to her). I assured her again that yes, her skirt was comfortable and also convenient for peeing with panties. She assured me I'd find skirts even moreso when I was in pantyhose, and that from now that pleated skirt was mine. And that tomorrow we'd be buying me more skirts. "But of a decent length," she said. "I confess, when I told you I meant to put you in miniskirts, I wanted to embarrass you. I suppose I still feel a little annoyed because of what you did with that ... Sandra. But a really short skirt would put your ... your penis and testicles at risk. I mean, there they'd hang, and my miniskirts wouldn't quite cover them, and men might want to grab for them. But you'd look so nice wearing a decent skirt and a reasonably proper top that now I want to try some altogether different kinds of things with you. " "Like what?" I asked, realizing that no conceivable answer she might provide would be reassuring. "Ask you to wear that kind of outfit all day tomorrow when we go shopping. With appropriate makeup of course. I want to dress you so we can shop for skirts for you with no risk of embarrassment to you at all." "You mean I won't need to wear the bra and panties you've sentenced me to wear for ... however long it takes before you're persuaded I'm being faithful to you?" She didn't answer at first. Instead she just looked pleased with herself. Then she looked at me and said, "Jack, Jackie, whoever you think you are now, from now on your bra and panties are you. Don't imagine you'll ever not be wearing them, or some equivalent. It wouldn't be decent! No, I mean tomorrow we'll shop for more skirts and blouses for you -- and you do need shoes too, if your legs are ever to be displayed as they deserve. And dresses. If Jack is reluctant to accompany me, then Jackie will come instead. I'm sure Jackie'll feel the way all women feel when we buy ourselves clothes we feel good about. All of us. Proud, unashamed, delighted to be ourselves and display ourselves at our best! The way Jackie felt standing at the open door when the delivery man drove away." I had no response. That night we made love. Tenderly, respectfully, not passionately or wildly. As usual. When we were settling in to sleep Brenda suddenly turned to me and said, "Oh, Jack, I've been so embarrassed to ask you this until now. But now I do feel I have to." She hesitated. Then out it came. "Was Sandra ... better in bed for you ... than I am?" I was staggered! She'd worried about something like that? Immediately, tearfully, I reassured her. "Oh, Brenda, darling, no, never, she just ... I mean I hardly ever thought about her even when we were ... being intimate! Not even then! She just seemed so needy, that's all. So eager to satisfy herself and then to satisfy me! I thought I was helping someone who desperately needed help, that's all, I never knew why she wasn't fucking her husband. It was only later that I realized she'd been exploiting me, that I hadn't been helping her, she'd been using me. She'd been fucking me and her husband, and sometimes even feeding me -- whatever I left in her -- to her husband. When I'd had enough and quit with her she turned to another guy, Dave Corrigan I think it was who started fucking her next, even before my cock had a chance to dry off. So it was his cum got fed to her husband. I don't know, maybe he likes it that way! I never asked." Brenda said nothing. Then smiled. "Sandra fed other men's cum to her husband? That was wicked of her!" she mused. Then after more silence, she whispered, "But surely she began by feeding him his own." Another pause, and then, "Jack, have you ever wondered what yours tastes like?" "No more than you have," I replied gently, alluding to her distaste for cocksucking, at least of my cock. "It's women who usually get to taste men's cum." "Yes," she said quietly. Then almost imperiously, "Eat me!" "What?" She didn't condescend to repeat her command. She spread her legs wide and began pressing me down toward her crotch, first by my shoulders and then my head. Early in our marriage she'd rejected my overtures toward oral sex, cunnilingus, just as she'd rejected fellatio. Not now. My face came snug up against her wide-open cunt and I tentatively stuck out my tongue. And immediately touched her clit. "Oh, yes!" she called to me from somewhere above. "There, there, and then further down and inside me! Ooooohhhh!" I licked her clit. I took her little nubbin between my lips and flicked the tip of my tongue on it. Then licked up with the broad flat of my tongue. "O, God!" That was encouraging! Her hips began to move slowly, and she moaned. Only five minutes later she was panting and writhing furiously, on the edge of an new orgasm brought on entirely by my tongue. More powerful than any my penis had given her since early in our marriage. I was delighted! Suddenly she called out, "Darling, Jackie, I'm about to cum, to gush ... oh, God EAT ME! DRINK ME, ALL OF IT!" and her climax began. My mouth went down and clamped over as much of her slit as it could cover, and sure enough, the fluids that had accumulated inside her pussy began to squeeze out with each of her spasms. They were faintly sweet, but along with them came a glop of stickier, slightly denser substance, almost like phlegm. More salty. My own sperm returning to me. Her hands pushed my mouth against her pussy as she squirmed and called out "Ohhhh! Ohhhh! Ohhhh!" repeatedly. More and more fluid and phlegm, until finally her convulsions subsided. "Ahhhh!" she said. Now deeply gratified, as if now in some sense ... completed. The pressure of her hands on the back of my head eased, and I crawled back up to her. And kissed her on the mouth. I'd rarely felt more love for her. "Yes, that's what it tastes like," she said. "My cum?" I asked her absent-mindedly, remembering her last question to me. I was still awed by the power of the orgasm she'd, just had, and by my ability to induce it with my mouth and tongue alone. "All men's," she replied, her eyes closed, settling in now to sleep. "I'm sure Sandra's husband found that out soon enough." "How would you know?" I asked her affectionately as I settled in alongside her. "The same way you'll know," she murmured. She lifted her head slightly, kissed my nose and almost instantly fell asleep. I fell asleep a few minutes later. Somehow, something had been reconciled. A whole new way for us to pleasure each other had opened up. But what had her last remark meant? Maybe this, like many of the things that make up a marriage, it was best not to know? Her teasing could sometimes seem imperious. For the rest of that summer, whenever we made love she expected me to lick myself back out of her, and I did. Sometimes she received my mouth and tongue contentedly or graciously, and sometimes furiously. She never objected to kissing my face afterward, when it was coated with our excrescences -- she'd even lick them off me sometimes. "Yes, that's the taste of cum," she'd advise me now and then. "Get used to it, sweetheart! We love it. It means we've made our men happy. You'll need to learn to love it too." I wanted to. For her sake, to please her. So eventually I did. iv. The next morning, Brenda was up and about for maybe an hour before I woke up. I staggered into the shower and then back to the bedroom to get dressed when I heard her shout to me from the kitchen, "Jack, love! Today is the first day of the rest of your life! Shave close, this time your whole body! And always remember to moisturise before you get dressed! From now on after your shower! That's what we do!" 'Always remember'? She'd never advised me to do that before. I don't 'moisturize' after a shower, I dry myself off. Brenda moisturizes. I then realized that by asking me to 'remember,' Brenda was trying to be kind, trying to create a habit for me by implication, one of a set of supposedly established habits to help me set some real ones. I was now one of her kind. 'That's what we do' she'd said. So I'd also be doing other things women do. 'Jack' shaves his face, but 'Jackie' moisturizes. What next would she want me to 'remember'? To dispose of my tampons in the trash and not try to flush them? She answered the question immediately by shouting to me again, "Remember, we're going shopping for skirts and blouses and things for you today! We don't want you embarrassed ever again when someone comes to the door. And not today either! You need to look like a woman!" All right. Her message was clear enough. Today she expects me to expand on that brief moment when I'd stood unashamed at the front door exhibiting my new gender to the world. She wants to accustom me to appearing in public looking like, feeling like the woman she wants me to emulate in private. To get further accustomed to the idea. She did not expect me to dress this way with people I already knew and who knew me -- that would raise too many questions. I hoped she didn't. But while shopping, or when I didn't expect to meet anyone who knew me? Yes. That meant, nearly all the time. I suppose it made sense from her point of view. If women's underwear, bras and panties, were supposed to discourage other women from carrying out intimacies with me, then women's outer clothing would assure that few or none would ever get close enough to me to need discouraging. She'd have no worries about women who might think of me as handy, a casual pickup or hookup for a night's diversion. Or as Sandra had done, as a frequent friendly fuck, nothing personal. I shaved as instructed. Then picked up the large bottle of 'body lotion' from her makeup table and rubbed it here and there on my legs and arms and chest, 'moisturizing' as asked. Almost immediately all three areas of my skin felt much smoother. They also smelled faintly flowery. So that's how they do it? Today I'd smell faintly flowery. I then dressed in one of my bras, and this time a brand new pair of panty hose. No panties needed. And the same pleated skirt and yet another fresh T-shirt. This one I saw was a woman's T-shirt, pale pink with a deep scooped neck that almost grazed the top of my bra, much more elastic than my plain cotton T-shirts -- it molded around my little boobs without leaving a crease or a fold. This too came from my underwear drawer? I looked more closely. None of the T-shirts in that drawer looked quite like the ones I had known. She'd replaced every one! She was relentless! Just how intent was she to feminize me? I looked into her top drawer at the open packet of 'Jolessa' birth control pills. Only one remained this morning, not two. Then I went to the medicine cabinet and the pink 'Ortho" pills? Eleven. One missing there too. Two pills missing altogether. Was Brenda on a double dose? Doubtful, everyone knows that can lead to breast cancer. It did appear that we were each taking a morning birth control pill. Brenda and me alike. Pink for girls and blue for boys. For how long had this been going on? Since my affair with Sandra? Brenda had stopped dosing me with a T-suppressant, she'd told Kelly, but had she also fed me female hormones and never stopped? Could that be how this bra had already discovered, cherished, and uplifted two small bumps on my chest? Soon to become large bumps, then full-sized, heavy breasts? That was why my zest to fuck had calmed down to a desire to fuck? Soon to become what, a desire to be fucked, and then a zest to wriggle my hormone-rounded ass onto one prick after another? Like Sandra? Brenda intended to punish me for my affair with Sandra by turning me into Sandra? I was feeling ... solemn when I came down to breakfast. Troubled and even a little angry. Though as I'd agreed I was wearing the full women's outfit she'd specified, my bra and pantyhose, my knit blouse and pleated skirt, even a pair of white, clunky sneakers I knew to be unisex. "Lovely, honey," Brenda said when she saw me. And kissed me. "You do have nice legs. After breakfast we'll do your hair a little, and try a touch of makeup, and you'll be perfect, your secret will be safe, no one will ever guess you're a man." She seemed pleased, even playful. She was playing with a dolly again? And today I'm only secretly a man? My safety lies in openly showing myself to be an ordinary woman? Hiding fearfully behind my own skirts? This reversal of the ordinary and proper struck me as strange. "Now drink your juice, your eggs will be ready in a minute." That suddenly struck me as more