Straightened Out free porn video

Straightened Out by Vickie Tern i. I was in a far corner of the restaurant and looking in her direction -- but not at her -- when she spotted me. Well, not me, not at first, what she saw was her dress. There followed a moment of bafflement, her eyebrows high because she didn't recognize the woman wearing her dress, but then her expression suddenly went guarded and her brows lowered. By that I knew April had recognized me, that the woman sitting alone across the way in the restaurant wearing her dress was me. Her husband. I had no way of knowing when I put that dress on that it was easily identifiable, a Karl Lagerfeld unique in this town, a gift from her friend Laurie from when Laurie sold her designer dress shop and liquidated her inventory. I'd borrowed it because it was in the very front of April's closet when I looked there for a dress upscale enough for a fancy restaurant with a waistline generous enough to fit me. Sandra, the beautician in the salon I then went to called it, a "dropped waistline," admiring it on me as women do. "It's perfect for slim hips like yours," she'd added. April and I were about the same size, even in the shoulders, differing only in the gut. She had more curves. I've never been a macho or hefty male, in fact my parents thought of me as 'delicate' when they were raising me. But as I'd looked through her dresses, it became obvious this was the only one I could wear. The others were all ... well, the way April liked them, tight, form- fitting, figure-hugging, cut to display and dramatize her elegant figure, with waistlines far too narrow to fit me. "Yes, that dress is exactly what a woman with your figure should wear, honey," is what Sandra told me when I lied to her about why I was wearing it, telling her to do me up so no one could guess that I wasn't born and reared female. "As for the rest of your disguise, just leave it to me. She'll love it when she finally sees it's you and not some gorgeous babe! What a surprise she has in store!" Not that I wanted April ever to recognize me at all! Dressed that way? No way! Sandra then colored and curled my hair a little, saying "don't worry, none of this is permanent -- it'll wash right out." And made up my face the same way, though a little extreme in its appeal, with shaded eyes and bowed lips just this side of trampy. And given me bright red nails to match my lips. "Now no one would guess you were ever a man," she'd told me confidently as she whipped off the salon's protective cape to inform me she was through. "Be careful now! When you step out this door guys are going to be all over you! If any should turn out to be... well, persuasive, be sure to use precautions!" She grinned, pleased with her joke. I looked in the mirror and saw she wasn't far wrong! I was a woman all right, and not too bad-looking either. "You'll see," Sandra went on. "Men can be a bother, but it's always great for a girl's morale to know they're there and available." I smiled my gratitude as I dug into my purse to pay her and tip her. All for nothing! Because of that very dress, that damned dress, April spotted me in the restaurant almost immediately. I should have realized, women always check out each other's outfits. She saw the dress and looked more closely and saw it was me in that dress, that had to be me. A careful inspection of my face confirmed that supposition, despite my chic hairdo and elaborate make-up, my eyebrows now plucked into thin arches, my long red nails, my carefully rehearsed feminine bearing, the whole act! She sat there a moment, her own beautifully made-up face inexpressive. Then came the worst moment of my life. She was seated with her friend Ginny at a table set for four, waiting for two other people obviously, the other places still unoccupied. I'd come in, seen where the two were, averted my face, and sat down at the other end of the room, where I could easily see who they'd invited to join them. They were sipping cocktails and the waiter hadn't yet taken their order. I supposed they were still waiting for their dinner companions. But now April suddenly rose from her chair, bent over and said something to Ginny, then strolled slowly all the way over to my table. She was wearing one of her tight dresses, draped at the hips, and those hips weaved provocatively from side to side as if to attract every man in the restaurant. Each undulation asserted unassailable feminine power, and I saw several men admiring her ass as she passed them. Her eyes meanwhile remained fixed on mine as she came closer, like a hawk's on a chicken's. She arrived. I looked up at her. She merely stood alongside my table looking down on me with an enigmatic smile. For the moment she said nothing. I knew that by now that she'd recognized not only her dress but also her silver choker and its matching bracelet, accessories I'd judged this dress required. And of course she'd recognized beyond all doubt that the person wearing them with poised propriety was me, still maintaining his dignified manner but quailing inside. I could only stare into her face, too panicked to move. "Well!" she said. "I never ever imagined we'd meet this way! Are you waiting for someone? A date maybe?" I knew she'd never before imagined me in a dress. I'd been careful never to give her the slightest reason. And she could see for herself that the table was set for only me, no one else, but I shook my head 'No' anyhow. I closed my eyes and tried to disappear but failed. She was still towering over me. Yet, she didn't seem angry or even confused. Her mouth was slightly smiling, and her manner fully composed. "I'd invite you to join us, but we're expecting some friends and they might not be able to arrange a date for you too on such short notice." For me 'too'? She and Ginny were waiting for dates? This was the closest I'd come yet to uncovering her real purposes here today, the reason for my elaborate disguise. But all I could do was stare up at her silently. "You look perfectly lovely, honey," she continued in a mellifluous voice. It sounded sincere, not at all sarcastic. As if she'd just encountered one of her women friends and was saying 'hello' before returning to her table. "I love your dress. And your hairdo's exquisite. Do you do this often? I wish I'd known. We could be having such fun together! We must in the future!" Uh oh. 'The future'? So this was not going to die soon, not unless I died first of embarrassment? I could barely move. I just stared up at her, feeling utterly trapped. Humiliated. It had been so stupid of me to think I could follow her this evening and watch her from a safe distance in this supposedly impenetrable disguise! She'd seen through it at a glance! I tried to say 'No I don't do this often, not ever before, not for years and never in public, April, believe me, hardly ever, not often but that was years ago, that's God's truth, I don't, I'm not a ... one of those ... I just don't do this!' But nothing came out. All I could do is drop my head, shamed, fearful of what she might say or do next. Fearful that she might invite me over after all, to sit with her and Ginny and ... be introduced to... their guys? Or whoever they were planning to dine with, whoever they were dating. Knowing I'd have to play my assigned role with them, be an amiable woman friend, since identifying myself as a husband would be unimaginably humiliating. Then watch them go off with their dates, exchanging a friendly wave goodbye. She took the shamed droop of my head as a 'Yes, I dress like this all the time,' in answer to her question. "Well then, we'll talk about this when we both get home. I don't want to discourage any of your heart's desires if you're set on them. I may be home by midnight, probably later, but if you get home first from whatever night on the town you've got planned, no matter how late I arrive be sure to wait up for me." She turned away to return to her table, then turned back. There was more. "Oh, and Jack, be sure not to change a thing you're wearing when you get home! Not a thing! Not even those heels -- are those mine too, I don't recognize them. You hear, Jack? Or is it 'Jackie' when you dress like this? Short for 'Jacqueline'? I have to imagine so!" She paused. Then, "Ahh, no, please, Jacqueline, do take off that dress as soon as soon as you get home. Carefully. Before you do something to ruin it. And please hang it up carefully. Very. It's my best. I'd have been happy to lend you any of my others, but never that one, not even if you'd asked me." Not that any of her other would have fit me, she must have known that. She was playing a role! A game! She paused, and now she looked straight into my mascara'd eyes with her own to be sure I was hearing every word. "Otherwise I want you to leave everything on just the way it is. Exactly. Everything. Stay just as you are. Make-up and hair and everything. If you feel indecent or chilly lounging about in a bra and panties while waiting for your wife to come home, feel free to borrow a robe from my closet." She smiled sweetly. "Yes! Remember that sexy violet sleep set you bought me last Valentine's day? The nightgown with matching peignoir, so decollete I'm embarrassed to wear it even in the dark? I bet they'd both look sensational on you. Or do you already know they do? Yes! They're yours now! Lay out the nightgown to wear later tonight but be wearing the robe. You'll love it! Maybe I will too when I see how becoming you look in it! It's very feminine!" Then when half-way back to her table, she turned and called to me across several other bewildered tables of diners, "Oh yes, honey. If the bra and panties you're wearing came from my drawer, they're also yours now. My treat! Enjoy them!" With that she returned to Ginny, who was busy talking to someone on her cell phone and just finishing up. She sat down and mouthed something to her to explain her sudden departure and return, and Ginny turned to look at me for a second with a bright grin. They then resumed the animated conversation they'd been having before she spotted me. Neither of them glanced at me again -- apparently there was nothing further to understand or explain. I left a few bills on the table and took my purse -- also one of hers, an old one, but she hadn't noticed, maybe -- and left the restaurant as quickly as I could. Utterly mortified, stumbling a few times in my unaccustomed high heels. Busted wide open! What could I possibly say to her tonight? Certainly not the truth! The truth was I was on a fact-finding mission. I was spying on her. If my suspicions were correct, if I hadn't been discovered, by tonight I'd have gathered up all the evidence I needed to have it out with her. To express all my pent-up indignation and rage and sorrow and mortification that she was seeing someone else, having sex with someone else, destroying our whole five years' marriage. Probably -- though I dreaded it -- giving me solid grounds for a divorce. But now, even if it were true I'd lost all moral advantage. The truth was I was spying on her because I'd heard her talking quietly on the phone with Ginny, and the phrase "our guys' had reached my ears along with 'they'll be meeting us at the restaurant.' At her weekly dinner out and night out with her best friend? Possibly, but it did seem odd. So last night I'd checked her cell phone's voice mail while she was in the shower, and I'd heard a message she hadn't yet deleted from a Roberto -- her boss's name was 'Roberto' -- telling her it was all arranged, he'd be a little late joining her at the Bistro tomorrow but he'd already reserved their room and he couldn't wait. "I'll be coming with Ginny's date too, he's a good friend of mine -- she'll love him, you'll see -- he's also arranged for a room for the two of them! For all night if you two can work it out with your husbands." I knew Ginny well enough. Ginny was Harry Connor's wife, and I knew that Harry was out of town all this week -- he'd had to cancel our standing golf date. Last week it'd been me who was out of town. Had last week's call from Roberto been erased? If there was one, yes. Probably. Because Roberto had finished his call by asking April to wear her black lace underwear "again, like last week," adding "You know what it does to me." In a seductive growl he'd explained what it does. "it drives me wild. The way I always am when I'm near you. The way you want me." Some men might be furious to hear another man say such things to their wives, and I certainly was that. But I was also depressed. Apparently my wife -- I'd always thought her 'my loving wife' and she'd never given me reason to doubt it -- was being unfaithful to me, having sex with another man. Could I doubt that? Could I do anything about it? What? Confront her? She'd deny everything. That was how she always met my least criticism of anything she ever did or planned to do, and she'd always follow up with indignation that I'd dare even to dream that she was deficient in any significant way. I needed unimpeachable evidence if I were to shame her out of such denials. And I had none -- no photos, no recordings, no witnesses. Nothing. Only an overheard conversation, one end of it, and an intercepted voice mail that she'd certainly erased by now. Under the pressure of her indignation I'd fold, I knew it. She'd say I was fantasying. She'd suggest I see a shrink to find out why. In the end I'd doubt whether I'd ever overheard anything. But I had heard that much. Was my marriage a delusion? Did April in fact seek out sex with other men as well as me? We'd started out as equal partners in love and marriage, but I'd noticed that during the past few years my tendency to be a gentleman and accommodate to her will -- I prefer that word to 'submit' to her will -- had seemed to encourage an independent streak in her. Her natural assertiveness got rather commanding at times, domineering even. Several times she'd proposed tying me up before sex and I'd actually gone along with the idea and found it... thrilling! When I was on my back, my arms helplessly secured, she'd mount my cock and roll her hips around on it as if it were an impersonal dildo, not mine at all, her mind maybe somewhere else. My usual yearning would rise up within me nevertheless and when at last it overwhelmed me I'd cum and cum into her pussy. Then when it seemed I'd spurted everything in my balls and prostate and everywhere else into her cunt, emptied myself utterly, only then would she get a peculiarly satisfied expression -- or was it triumphant? Slowly, eyes fixed on mine, smiling wordlessly, she'd creep up to mount my face and roll her hips over my nose and jaw and wipe our juices onto my mouth until I'd sucked and licked up everything I'd just squirted into her. An odd way to express respect and affection for her husband, but I submitted to it. Even came to enjoy it. She'd nearly drown me, and I got so I didn't mind at all. I have preferred to lick her cunt before we made love, as a kind of preamble, not after she'd roundly fucked me, but she'd never allow that. We always finished with me swallowing mouthfuls of my own sperm juice and April climbing off my face with her pussy finally almost as pristine as when she'd first tied me up. I supposed. That's how she'd taken full charge of our sex life, so it wasn't unthinkable that she'd also take charge of her own separate sex life, apart from me. Hot anger had flared up in me when I overheard that voicemail from this 'Roberto' anticipating sight once again of her black lace undies! How could she? But did she? But what else could those overheard messages mean? Of course she did! Our marriage was over! For certain? To know for certain, to take command of this situation, I needed proof of her infidelity. I had to catch her in a flagrant violation of our marriage vows, to shame her out of all denials. I needed to actually to see her meet 'Roberto' and I needed to follow them both back to their 'room' and then wait until I was sure they were doing the dirty. Then I could break in and ... and ... and witness them both performing undeniable, unspeakable acts .... And take pictures of them. A lawyer would ask if I had photos, recordings, proof, I knew that already. All these thoughts rose up immediately after I intercepted that voice mail. I was furious! But how could I confirm decisively that she was indeed unfaithful to me, so she knew I knew and she couldn't possibly deny it? How could I follow her and observe her closely, observe them together, yet not be seen? Was there a disguise anywhere so utterly unlike me that she'd never recognize me, never dream it was me even if I were standing within a few feet of her, yet so ordinary that I could stand within a few feet of her and not attract the slightest attention or interest? Yes, I realized, with a certain rising excitement. Yes! There was! I could revive an old habit from my teen and early adult years, one I'd suppressed utterly when I got married even though now and then it emerged in my dreams and daydreams. I could disguise myself as a woman! I'd done it often as a teenager. I never understood why, but I supposed it helped me to escape the burdens of my oncoming manhood by pretending to myself that I was a girl. Girls were exempt from the struggle for life, it had seemed to me. They didn't need to be strong, courageous, stoic, ambitious, competitive, mean, tough, aggressive, all the things I knew I had to be and was not. All girls had to be was soft, gentle, pretty, and not-too-often, yielding. All the girls I knew cultivated those feminine virtues as diligently as the boys cultivated the masculine virtues. I tried everything in my power to cultivate both, to seem to be a girl to myself and yet a boy to everyone else. Secretly of course. As a shy boy I'd looked with envy and admiration at all the girls in my class as they'd changed shape, changed from cute little girls to beautiful young women, as their bodies gradually took on the curves of womanhood, as they came to look so delectable that I'd been afraid even to speak to them, to such marvelous creatures. So instead I'd begun to imagine myself one of them. From a distance I'd watch them giggling and chatting and preening. In fantasy I mingled among them. Then as I chose I'd hold one, caress another, kiss one, admire the beauty of another, all the while holding, caressing, kissing, or admiring myself while looking in a mirror. It was better still if I could make myself look like them. It helped that my face and manners were somewhat effeminate naturally -- I'd imagine they were even more so, and I'd practice making them more so. I tried lipstick, then eyeliner and eye shadow, then after reading some fashion magazines I began using foundation and powder and blush and gradually everything else women use to make themselves beautiful. One summer I even grew my hair long and then curled it, until my sister mockingly asked me if I felt like double-dating with her and two guys she knew. The next day I got a buzz cut. But a week later a wig. Once my face was done up to look lovely, I'd borrow a pair of my mother's heels, maybe also of my sister's pantyhose, and whenever I could I'd spend exalted afternoons wandering our empty house dressed as my sister did sometimes, in just a bra and panties and little else, until my mother eventually noticed and ordered her to go put on something decent. I tried a wide range of girls' clothes -- shorts, dresses, gowns -- as well as shades of make-up. Seeing myself in that mirror, looking at that gorgeous approximation of a girl indistinguishable from a real one, a girl who was moreover making me into a girl much like herself, one who spread her own eyeliner and lipstick onto my face, who made me an attractive sexpot just like her, I got so excited and my cock got so hard that only a stroke or two would carry me over the edge. Then I'd cum into my sister's best nylon lace panties! I'd squirt into them ecstatically, over and over! Oh, God! At that moment, if I'd been a real girl I'd have sucked my own cock in sheer gratitude, so great was the pleasure. I felt blown away! Often afterward, the same thing, cumming at first into my sister's panties, then into my own when I bought my own, then as I grew older into the sanitary napkins I wore in my own panties to save on laundry or replacements. All through my teens and all through college, whenever I could safely dress up unobserved, I did. And went out walking, shopping, sitting in piano bars on late afternoons, eager to be seen as a female but terrified of discovery until gradually I learned my appearance was altogether persuasive. My high, slightly tense imitation female voice found plenty of practice turning down some men's attempts to get to know me better, and chatting with women who sympathized with my need to keep turning those men down (my husband was overseas, after all). My hidden wardrobe and secret make- up collection grew accordingly. I tossed all of it when I met April and we began going together. Then I no longer needed to cultivate my femininity, I thought -- I had hers. She was the genuine article, a real female object of desire with a mind and body of her own. April eventually declared her affection for me and married me, became my beautiful wife, a woman who held my heart cradled in her soft, delicately manicured fingers. A woman who expected me to be a man for her. Well, whatever she wanted me to be I wanted too! So I didn't dare indulge my femininity once we were married. I worshiped girlish attributes by worshiping April's. Certainly by loving them, by desiring to be as close to her feminine being as possible. By kissing it and savoring it, by plunging myself deep into it. That, I thought, was what being a man entailed, at least the kind of man I thought she wanted and needed and deserved. One who loves her utterly, body and soul. But now, it seemed, she'd found my body and soul inadequate. Lacking something maybe? That phone message implied an adulterous relationship with this Roberto. She seemed to be supplementing my manhood with his, maybe preferring his and tolerating mine. Teamed with Ginny, she'd arranged to meet him for dinner and then to entertain herself with him, go dancing perhaps, then afterward remove her black lace undies and make love. As previously. How many times previously? Well, I decided grimly, I had to find out the truth, and now my errant early manhood would provide me with a perfect disguise. I knew how to look like a woman. I knew how to hide from her in plain sight. I could again play at being the sex I'd envied when young and emulated when a little older. She'd never know! If I went all out, I was sure that the clothing and make-up would render me unrecognizable! A delightful diversion of my earlier life would now help me explore a terrible truth. She'd never suspect, not until it was too late! I could follow her closely, track her, and she'd never dream that this woman or that one passing casually on the street was in fact her own jealous husband. I grew more and more excited! As a secret part of my heart warmed to the idea, the old familiar delicious pleasure I'd always felt when cross dressing spread gradually through my whole being. Yes! This could be exciting in more ways than one! And advantageous! One advantage I felt immediately. My suspicion of her freed me from any need to seem the manly man April thought she had married. If I was no longer April's husband but her cuckold, then that made me all the more free to resent her and do what I felt like doing. To dress as I wished without worrying about what she might think. I could again resemble that most desirable sex. This time the idea was a little unsettling, I couldn't tell why, it seemed dangerous. But mostly, satisfying. Deeply satisfying! Yes! I'd disguise myself, observe her dinner date with this man, if that's what it was, follow them to their pre-arranged tryst, if that's what it was, and make photos all the while invisible, unsuspected! Yes! So the morning of her assignation with Ginny and apparently her boss 'Roberto' -- a Friday -- I called in sick, made a salon appointment, selected an especially pretty bra and panty set from her bureau, and dressed myself in them along with a pair of her thigh-hi stockings. Oh, my, they all felt as wonderful as years earlier when I'd often worn bras and panties and teddies, and all the rest, as often as I could! It was grand! I paraded myself in front of our bedroom mirror feeling wonderfully gratified, and finally I slipped into the one dress in April's closet I'd found would fit me, never noticing the designer label by which it would soon betray me. Then with a touch of eyeliner and mascara and lipstick, just enough to face the world I was entering again for the first time in years, I grabbed a purse, went across town to buy myself some high stiletto heels, and spent two hours in Sandra's beauty salon. As Sandra made me gorgeous I explained to her that I was doing it because of my wife, not specifying how and why. Sandra thought it was to please her and was altogether charmed by the idea, so she gave me all sorts of extra care and attention. I really felt gorgeous when she finished with me, and I must say, I did look very nice. It all felt ... just wonderful! Better than in the old times, because it wasn't a mere self-indulgence and I felt not the slightest bit guilty. I'd committed thoroughly! I smiled at Sandra, straightened my shoulders, thrust out my small chest, and proceeded to 'The Bistro,' the restaurant appointed by Roberto for their assignation. There I indeed saw April sitting with Ginny at a table with two empty places set, both of them sipping cocktails and ... waiting? And there, despite all, she'd recognized my dress -- her dress -- and by that identified the rest of me. And because of that I'd had to totter home disgraced, altogether unmanned. Still dressed as a woman and looking more feminine than ever, waiting for her to come home and deal with me. Thus much for my perfect disguise. I didn't want April any angrier than I anticipated, so I did exactly as she asked. I carefully hung up her dress and slipped into that violet peignoir as she called it, and laid out the matching nightgown on the bed in token of my acquiescence to her, and then sat down again to try to construct a credible story to account for my appearance. I couldn't tell her what I was really doing, following out my suspicions about her and this 'Roberto,' planning to follow them to some "room" where they might be having sex and then to express my fury and righteousness. Or anyhow, to confirm what I most feared. Because she'd caught me doing something perhaps even more shameful. Betraying myself, my masculinity, emasculating myself, dressing as a woman. Pretending I had a cunt, no cock or balls whatever, making myself attractive to men. Seeking to seduce men? Maybe secretly gay, making myself available to other men -- could that be what I was really doing when she spotted me? Some gays do dress as women, and all the world thinks that all transvestites are really 'pouffes,' gay men who want to sleep with men and imitate women in order to attract men. So why not me? I felt defensive. I only suspected that she was being unfaithful to me, though the evidence seemed more than merely suggestive. But she had actually seen me unmanned, a woman even now dressed in her peignoir and bra and panties. It was small consolation that she'd bequeathed the bra and panties to me, that they were now in fact mine. I felt like a schoolboy sitting in the Principal's office and awaiting a variety of punishments. Oddly, despite my distress, the memory of my pretty face in Sandra's mirror, even the clinging feel of April's bra and panties -- mine -- were strangely reassuring. Consoling. Despite my embarrassment and my anticipation of worse to come, I did love pretending to be a girl again. How to explain it to her? I couldn't. April arrived home later than expected, well after 1:00am. I was dozing lightly when she came into the living room and sat down quietly opposite me, waiting for me to awaken. I opened my eyes and saw her. She looked tired. As if she'd had a long, exhausting evening. Did she look fucked out? I couldn't tell. Trying to seize the initiative, I asked as if annoyed, "Where were you? Why this late hour? Where did you and Ginny go?" Right now I couldn't deal with answers to 'With whom?' so I didn't ask her that question. She utterly ignored all of my questions. Didn't seem to hear any of them. Just looked me over and then to my amazement she smiled as if delighted by what she saw. She was! "It's amazing," she said enthusiastically. "You look absolutely precious! If I didn't know better I'd say you had to be your sister! Are you sure you aren't your sister?" I tried to detect sarcasm in her voice, but couldn't. "Oh, honey, your real sister told me about this ... fixation of yours years and years ago. How you used to ruin her pantyhose and stretch her bras and tops before you finally got up the gumption to commit yourself and go to stores and buy your own women's things. How she'd go through your secret stash now and then and wish she could borrow one or two of your sexier outfits to wear on special dates. Maybe even go dating together, she'd have loved that, except that it would have embarrassed you that she knew anything at all about your... hobby. We'd giggle a lot about it, especially when I told her how you always look at me so closely when I was doing myself up for some special occasion. How you were admiring me, but I suspected you were also envying me." My sister knew all about me? And April did too? She's known all along? And doesn't mind? "It was such a shock, sweetheart, seeing you in that restaurant being such a perfect lady! If I hadn't known that dress I'd never have guessed. I'm so pleased that you've done just what I asked, stayed dressed and waited for me just as you are. Because now there won't be any awkwardness or embarrassment or denial. We can talk about this the way we really should have talked when we were first getting to know each other. Girl to girl." 'Girl to girl'? Was she rubbing it in? I got suspicious. If she's carrying on an affair with this Roberto she might well want to keep me looking this way. To claim she needs a real man now that she knows she's married to an effeminate sissy. She could use my cross-dressing tendencies to put me down, to justify herself. Yet she didn't sound like that. She sounded... accepting! So I just looked at her and nodded, careful to seem neither defiant nor apologetic. My eyes were still heavily made up, darkly outlined and deeply shadowed, so they'd look the way Sandra thought appropriate, mysterious, self-assured, seductive. Were they actually having that effect on her? I opened them even wider. The effect was to assert an even greater helpless innocence, I realized too late, not greater self-assurance. She began speaking rapidly. "First of all, sweetheart, I'm dying to know why you were wandering around town in my best dress and stopping off at a restaurant where any of our friends might have seen you. It's so fortunate I saw you and recognized you first! Don't you have any clothes of your own? You carry it off so well I have to assume you've been doing this, dressing and going out as a woman, for a long time. And often. How often? Not that I object, mind you, don't misunderstand me, I know about men who cross dress, how they can't help it and must express their feminine sides and so on. I'm not disappointed that you're one of them -- I love the idea in some ways because it brings us closer. But I am disappointed that you never told me, confided in me -- it suggests a lack of trust, and besides, think of all the things we could be doing together, the two of us out on the town as it were! I do love your hair, incidentally -- you've got to tell me where you got yourself done up today, and who the operator was -- she really does understand short hair, I wonder what she could do with mine. I've always known of course that yours is not the most forcefully masculine of faces or personalities. Not at all, sweetheart. But I'd never have guessed that properly made up you'd look so ... well, so pretty! So attractive! You're a real charmer, do you know that?" She paused, pleased to be complimenting me. "Well, maybe I should have suspected it all along," she went on. "I've always loved it that you're more cute than rugged, that you're gentle, not at all intimidating the way some... manly men can be. That your body seems more like a girl's than a man's, as slim as a girl's, lacking only the more obvious curves and outcroppings. No way ripped or heavily muscled like some men's." Her attention seemed to drift for a moment. She was thinking of some particular man? But I was thinking, 'Oh, God, she thinks I'm effeminate? How can I ...?' She spoke again. "Jackie sweetheart, don't misunderstand me. Even if you want to change your life and live altogether as a woman that doesn't mean that we can't ... We can still ... I mean, I do care about you, and about whatever you think matters most to you. I'll even go with you to your next salon appointment. I can see they do wonderful work, and my hairdresser Claire has run out of ideas whenever I ask her to do me a bit different! But you must tell me! For how long now have you been dressing up and trying to look like a woman? Trying to live like a woman? Wanted to be one? Begin at the beginning!" My thoughts whirled. She thinks I want to stay this way. Maybe even change genders. How can I tell her I did this to spy on her because I suspect she's been having an affair? Anyhow, she's partly right, I do like dressing this way. It suddenly occurred to me, maybe a partial truth she already believes will get me off the hook without her ever suspecting my suspicions of her. Maybe this can also free me to dress up more often with her full knowledge and approval? That would be... wonderful, a net gain! Then maybe I could look into this Roberto thing of hers in my own good time, some other way? So I told her a partial truth phrased to seem the whole truth. Shamefaced, I told her about my teenage compulsion, my delightful if scary desire to resemble what I most desired, a girl. That now and then I'd yielded to it. I didn't specify that this was all before we were married. I decided to leave her with the notion that I still did it, couldn't not. Better to be a husband with a minor perversion than a husband with sneaky suspicions. She bought it. "'Now and then,' you say? So you've done this since you were a teenager? And 'yielded'? I'd say 'surrendered utterly' when you get your hair and face done up professionally each time you go out dressed! That's more than yielding, Jack, that's commitment! You love it, don't tell me you don't!? "I wouldn't," I said sincerely enough. "I can't." "So now, tell me right off, and be absolutely honest. Do you do this in order to look attractive to men, in order to ... enjoy their company? When you're dressed to look like a woman -- and you do make a very attractive woman, I have to add -- do you ... try to meet men? Flirt with them? Dance with them and let them feel you up? Take them to some private place where you can... wrap your lips around them, suck on their cocks? Get them all excited and at last receive them into your body? Fuck them? How many men have you had sex with? Are you secretly gay?" Maybe my face showed how repellent all that seemed. "No, April. I'm not at all attracted by men. I've never been. No way. It's how women look that I find attractive." I must say, though I'd never admit it to her, flirting with men had always been a little exciting in the old days, and I'd thought about it some since then. Because that was when I felt even more feminine, more authentic, when I was teasing men and they found me sexy. It helped me forget that I wasn't. I liked being sexy. But not because I liked men. The reality was something else. "Why not dress to attract men? Why else go to all this trouble?" April sounded sincerely bewildered. Still, it was a revealing question, considering that April had herself gotten herself up to look stunning, and still did look stunning, even though supposedly only for her weekly night out with Ginny, for dinner and a movie or a card game with a few other women. What HAD she been doing? Jealousy began to grow again in my belly. I hated her disloyalty to me, her betrayal of me, if that's what it was. Yet she was being so marvelously considerate of my own... weakness. "Why do you go to all that trouble?" I riposted, trying to muster a justified husbandly resentment. "Tonight for instance?" She didn't take the bait. I waited. Then I gave her the only answer to her question I could. "I do it because it feels good," I finally said. "It feels good to look like a woman. The nicer I look the better. I don't know why." "You wear women's clothes and get your hair done in order to feel good? And I've never happened to notice?" "Yes," was all I could force from my throat. "I guess so." That much was true as far as it went. She'd never happened to notice because since our marriage there'd been nothing to notice. Earlier, yes. I still had strong memories, yes, and lively daydreams. I sometimes enjoyed imagining I was a woman even when I made love to her. Sometimes when we were fucking I'd imagine myself the girl and April... well, not the boy exactly, but even so, a partner of some sort. No matter now. "I guess I do too," April said half to herself. "To feel good. Yes, that's a lot of it." She was persuaded! She now thought I'd been doing this all along, habitually, regularly, and innocently as far as sex went. Time for her interrogation to end, so I could begin my own. I still wanted to put her on the defensive. Where had she and Ginny been all evening? With whom? Those two empty place settings at their table at the Bistro swam into my vision, along with a slim, dark Italian or Spanish man named Roberto. Her boss. "Well," she said half aloud, absorbing this new idea. "My husband wants to look like a woman. He enjoys it. Maybe he's transgendered, someone who thinks he really is a woman? Who thinks she's a woman, I mean?" She looked sharply at me. "Are you?" I looked at her. Now unable to speak at all, I shook my head. "You don't know? Really?" My throat was dry. "I ... " A fit of coughing seized me. "No! I'm ..." I was choking, gasping for air. "I can't say!" I managed to wheeze. Then at last, "No, I'm not. I don't think so. No." It came out weaker than I'd intended. Maybe I did, for some things. For looking pretty. For feeling sexy, though not sexy to attract men. Rather, to attract me! Was I a bi-gendered narcissist, and that explained it all? I'd never really understood it." She stood up and began pacing. Thinking hard. Then stopped, and suddenly knelt directly in front of me and took my hand, my manicured hand, each of my red nails gleaming, my woman's hand, a hand so closely resembling hers, also manicured though her shade was a trifle more pink than mine. And she stared up earnestly into my eyes. Her voice was gentle, even considerate. "You don't seem to know. Would you like me to help you find out?" She smiled encouragingly. I shook my head 'No!' as firmly as I could. This was humiliating. I wanted all this to end. This had not been a smart move after all. A terrible disguise -- my teenage urgings had seduced my better judgment! I should have hired someone to follow her, a professional detective unknown to her, someone with a microphone and a camera. Instead, I'd been persuaded by that old delicious desire, I'd indulged myself, I'd let it take control of my me and gone overboard with it. Though it did seem a good idea at the time. Very nearly a faultless disguise! "I think I should help you, sweetheart," April said solicitously as my silence grew longer. "This may be bigger than you imagine. Maybe we're both looking at only the tip of the iceberg. Now that your feelings about yourself are out in the open, I think we both need to know more. You were right to hide them from me, if that's any consolation. Because I was looking for you to be the man in my life. But now that I know you aren't, that changes everything between us, at least for the time being. You do understand that, don't you?" "Yes," I replied. What else could I say? I felt defeated. I guess I was defeated. How much deeper had I dug myself in by attempting this disguise? Of course everything had already changed between us, at least as far as I was concerned, because I'd heard Roberto on her cellphone and suspected there was something between them. I wasn't sure what other changes she might be referring to. "How changed?" I asked her. She didn't answer, not directly. "If you're so eager to see what it's like, being a woman, being treated like a woman, you should have told me! I'd have been glad to help, honey! Honestly, I completely understand! Bets's brother is a transvestite -- he lives as a woman for weeks at a time she says, goes out to clubs and things with other ... men who feel the way he feels, though what he then does with them I have no idea. He even went on a cruise once with some of them, Bets says. She likes to say it was a blessing he didn't come back pregnant. I saw him once -- he isn't half as pretty as you are, but he does have a real boyfriend now. And there's no shame attached to it. It's just how some men are, honey, that's all. Some men are women, except for their bodies. Some are partly women. Either way, bodies can be modified so the men will be happier to live in them. Or if they think they're women, so they can be completely themselves. I know about that too." She was speaking quietly, earnestly, yet her voice carried a slight tone of implicit rebuke, maybe even of hurt that I hadn't confided in her earlier. But she was trying to console me! I'd deprived her of the man she'd married, yet she seemed not in the least disappointed. Rather, she was more concerned that the person she'd married should find happiness as whatever he was. Or she was. Wasn't that true love? It seemed so. "I intend to help you," she continued. "No, don't start raising any objections, this is for my sake as well as yours. For our sakes. Here's what I propose, and I think I'd better say that it's non- negotiable, because I think it has to be. For the time being, starting now, you'll live as your feminine self, sweetie. Until you either get over it once and for all or we both get accustomed to it and accept it once and for all. Either way that will be that." 'What will be what?' I was now thinking. She'd have a sufficient reason to end our marriage and go live with this Roberto guy? Or she'll remain in our marriage and supplement it with Roberto? All supposedly for my sake, to help me settle down as my true feminine self? All actually for my sake, because I myself didn't know what I was? Do I know? Do I want to know? "Yes. That's settled. Now, honey, if we're to live together -- and I hope you want to as much as I do -- we do need to know one more thing. What we are to each other. What I'm dealing with. This new relationship we're trying out. Think about it for a moment. Which would you prefer? Should we be sisters, sort of? Or really intimate best girlfriends? Girlfriends with privileges, I mean?" She smiled conspiratorially and her eyes gleamed. For the first time she kicked off her own high-heeled pumps and stretched out her stockinged feet. I could see her pedicured toenails through the nylon haze. "We've always been pals," she said. "There's no reason we can't be loving girlfriends, honey. Like before, I suppose, but a little more honestly." OK, there would be no getting out of this by shrugging it off. She had my number, one of them, and she was serious, so I had to be too. I looked at her wide-eyed again, to signal total honesty. "April," I said in a clipped tone of voice. "I want things exactly the way they were. The way you thought they were, because that's actually .... " No, I couldn't go there, I didn't want to undo the wrong impression she'd already acquired about my roaming out of the house dressed as a woman all the time. So I stopped abruptly. April merely said quietly. "Sweetheart, that's not possible any more. Not ever. Not now that I've seen how much you enjoy being a woman. That's now how I see you. I want to help. I want you to be happy. Because I do love you!" So I continued, more desperately. "April, whatever else, I don't feel sisterly. Sisters do feel close and affectionate and responsible for each other and all that, like some married people in a way. But they live independent lives. Each lets the other go her own way. And they don't have sex. I don't want that with us. I want to stay close, be what we've been to each other since we first got married. I want to be your dearest friend and your lover. Maybe add to that. Maybe now add dearest girlfriend and lover, now and then, if that's ... if that's what you want. I'll respect your wishes. I'll really try. For now, anyhow. If you want it, if you feel it's necessary to try being girls with each other, I'll try." I felt wistful about that last one. Had I already lost her? Had I just implicitly ceded her to the other man in her life, 'Roberto'? Sharing her with Roberto would be intolerable enough, unacceptable. Maybe also now unavoidable? But not to be intimate at all with her? No longer to be her husband but instead to be a girl? Even if a lover, would we still screw? I was searching desperately for a way to raise the main questions again -- where had she been, what was her relationship with 'Roberto'? But she was intent to settle this ... re- establishment of our relationship. So for now I had to humor her effort to deal with my supposed issues. I'd handled this badly. Even so, it was ending better than I'd feared. She responded to my "I'll try" by suddenly stepping up and kissing me full on my lips. Pressing her soft, plump red lips against mine for many seconds, unexpectedly. No tongue, I noticed. Affection, love even, intimate love, but no wildly abandoned passion. Holding my coiffed head gently between her two palms, she stared into my eyes and whispered, "Oh, lovely! Yes, love, please try. Do understand that I don't really mind, that its wonderful for me to see you like this. In a way. It's new, and it solves some problems and opens up all sorts of new possibilities. But never mind that now. Yes, you'll be my girlfriend and my lover, I want you to be both. I know we'll get there, though maybe not right away. Maybe you won't be the same kind of lover you were before. You do know that too now, don't you, my darling, precious girl?" Girl? Well, I suppose I did know. This was the second time in almost as many minutes that she'd warned me things were now different, not to expect what we'd previously had. So I nodded, though I still had no idea what she really meant. She told me. "Very well. For this next week or two, except maybe when we're in bed together, we should try to imagine we're just good friends. Close friends, even sisterly in a way. Not expected to serve each other's most intimate desires, but bound to understand them, and really caring, trying to respect and share each other's desires. Obliged also to respect each other's independence as women, as you've put it. Even to help each other that way. Was she telling me to encourage her relationship with this Roberto, maybe to shriek with glee each morning after each of her dates with him, hug her delightedly as she tells me what they did and how many times and how wonderful it felt? "I want you to feel free to explore all your own feminine needs as you yourself would wish. All of them. Then as you settle in we can share confidences we'll gradually become close girlfriends. I'm sure of it. You know, tell each other our most intimate secrets and allow ourselves to feel affectionate as only girls can.? "'Except maybe when we're in bed together,'" I repeated, using exactly her words. What she meant by 'affectionate' wasn't enough. Cuddling and then going to sleep? She looked at me, apparently pleased that I did not wish to feel mere sisterly affection for her in bed. "If it feels right I don't know why we can't also be lovers, in bed at least. Different from how we were lovers before of course. It might even be exciting, having sex together as women. Don't you agree?" Agree about becoming lovers again, though in different ways? About having sex only as women? What was she asking? Her pussy would be out of bounds to my cock, though not to my fingers or mouth? I didn't know what to say. I shook my head. But April paid no attention. She stared at me intently for a moment, her face inexpressive. Then asked slowly, seriously, "Jackie, answer me this truthfully. In all this time, all these years of longing to live as a woman, there must have been times when you wanted real breasts. To fit your clothes better if for no other reason, especially halter dresses that swoop down from your neck and barely cover them. For authenticity. To feel real, haven't you wanted to grow your own breasts?" I nodded slowly. I'd had that fantasy, yes. Especially when I was in my teens and girls' breasts seemed so... so hot! "I can't imagine not. Then you know already that to feel like even the semblance of a woman, you'll need them. To know how heavy they feel when you remove your bra and they're loose and hanging from your chest. How heavy they feel in your own hands when you cup them and lift them. To know how heavenly, how transporting, how blissful when you hold them and stroke them with your thumbs or fingertips. Or someone else does. It's possible to look like a woman without breasts, of course, to use breast forms to fill out your dresses. Or get implants. But you'll never feel truly authentic until you have your own and you know they're your own, your most evident and natural womanly attribute, always on display!" She began looking at me slyly. "Breasts are also essential for attracting men, I'm sure you know that too. Whether we want to or not, there they are, and every girl knows that men are conditioned to yearn for them, have been since infancy. So they're indispensable to a girl's morale. Honey, I'm asking you now because if so, you should start yours now, tonight. I brought home exactly what you need." This was startling! She's anticipated much of what we've been talking about? "April, I don't want...." "Of course you do!" She looked at me with a cool confidence that told me breasts were necessary, that she'd be the best judge of that, that I'd realize it sooner or later, so hesitation was altogether beside the point. Her voice was carefully measured as she added, "You need to understand this, Jackie. I won't live with a man or a woman who wants things only half-way. A sort of man sort of woman. You know that about me. I need to know that you're committed to enjoy what you are one way or the other. If a woman, then to feel like one, not just look like one. To commit to feeling a woman's pride in her own body, her figure, her skin, at the very minimum. The rest is up to you." This was going way too far, even though I felt a jolt of illicit joy at the prospect. I'd dreamed of having real breasts at one time, what cross dresser hasn't? "But what if I decide I don't want a woman's figure after all?" I had to try to bring some kind of moderation back into this discussion. "Then you'll return to what you are now, and try to be a man." A flicker of amusement crossed her face, as if the notion was now, in her view, ludicrous. "That is, if you still have the balls for it." She smiled at her own joke. I got her message. A man should be what he wants to be, and he should know what he wants. In my case, it seemed, to be a woman. At this point, if I protested that under no circumstances did I ever want to be a woman full time, that even part time with breasts and a smooth skin already seemed too androgynous, she'd consider my attitude evasive, cowardly, probably a self betrayal of some kind. Because just look at me! Spending hours in a salon just to go to a restaurant by myself? Not even to meet a date and drive him wild with desire so I could get myself roundly and passionately fucked? Our theoretical discussion over, she stood, fetched her purse from the hallway, returned, stood over me, and pulled out a bottle of large purple pills. "Your ticket of admission to the real thing, sweetheart," she said in a quiet voice. "Abandon wishy-washy wishing, all ye who enter here." They looked different from the small birth control tablets she herself took. I stared at them, then at her. "After I saw you in the restaurant I remembered what your sister once told me about how feminine you wanted to be as a boy. So when I had a chance to think, it seemed to me likely that you'd need these. I knew you'd be too timid to go to a proper specialist and get them prescribed for you, the estrogen and progestin and other things you need to help you on your way, and things to keep your boy hormones from interfering. So I called Elise, my gynecologist -- you remember her, my old college room mate -- and I told her about you, how I'd run into you dressed as a woman and so on, and how I wanted to help you. She told me that the key was developing your self-confidence, especially as a woman. To help you feel comfortable with yourself, to feel that you're as natural a woman on the inside as you look on the outside. That hormone therapy was the next logical step, that soaking yourself in the same hormones all women share would ease any shame you might feel and put your ambivalence in perspective. So she phoned this prescription to an all-night drug store and I stopped by on my way home to pick it up. Two each day, Jackie, morning and evening. She wants to see you tomorrow for your baseline readings, so she can monitor your progress as your body changes. Here's the first. Let's get you started so we can begin to know where we are. What you are, anyhow." Was she trying to help me or was she hurrying me out of the way, clearing the path between her and Roberto? I couldn't tell! "April!" I sounded as if I were pleading. "I know, honey. It's scary but it's also marvelous, being a woman, believe me! You'll never really fully appreciate it without these. Your body cheated you when you were a teen by not providing them. But now you really can fulfill those dreams, your desire to be my kind rather than your kind. To become the thing you most love, as you yourself describe women! Here! Take this and I'll get you some water to help you swallow it." She held a pill out between her thumb and forefinger, smiling sweetly at me. I took it between mine and stared at it. Terrifying! Yet, a part of me really did want it, this gift she was offering me. I remembered that old joke, "If I had breasts of my own, I'd never stop feeling myself up!" If I refused? At this juncture she'd walk out on me, contemptuous. Did I have a choice? I accepted the water glass she handed me and swallowed it. 'What's one pill?' I tried to tell myself. This was worrisome -- what would these pills do to me, I wondered. Yet it was true, I had once devoutly desired this, envying how girls looked and moved, desperate to look and move just like them! I couldn't help it. I felt terrified but also... exhilarated! "Now you're properly on your way, honey!" April said. "Now we really are sisters under the skin!" And she suddenly relaxed. She sat down as if she'd just been relieved of an enormous burden. "Thank God!" she said under her breath. "At last!" Now what did that mean? For the first time I realized that ever since she'd come home she'd been... tense. With anger? With anxiety? With fear that I might insist on knowing her whereabouts? Fear that I might leave her? Fear that she might not be up to this challenge, getting me to collaborate in my own un-manning, as I had now in fact at last done. Had she been worried that the man she lives with might not want to become the woman he wants to become, that he was an indecisive wimp she could not respect, so despite her love for him she'd feel bound to leave him? Because her man wasn't man enough to become a woman? Or was she relieved because now, at last, I had removed myself from competition with this 'Roberto'? Because I was no longer a potential threat to their relationship. Because I was no longer a husband but a sister or maybe a girlfriend. With those hormones in my blood, no way a man, and less so every minute. Though filled with a certain excited surmise about what would follow next, I also felt depressed. I'd failed. I hadn't been able to challenge her with my suspicion that she was unfaithful to me. Nor to resolve that suspicion. I hadn't been able to force the issue, if there was one. I still had no unequivocal proof of anything. She'd bought my story that I was a lifelong transvestite or maybe more, and I'd seemingly bought her insistence on finding out whether I was more, and if so how much more. Now that she'd relaxed I tried to return to my own main concern as if I were making idle conversation. "So where did you go after we saw each other in the restaurant, honey?" I asked her with my eyes wide, innocent, yet again. "Did you and Ginny find some fun things to do?" Let's see how she answers those questions, I was thinking. Will she now talk to me girl to girl, as it were, seeing as how now the same hormones flow in both our veins? Maybe even confide to me how thick Roberto's cock is, and how his passions are insatiable, leaving a girl no choice but to wrap her legs tight around him and try to hang on? "We did," she said. "Same as whenever we go out together. Girls can always have fun doing things together, if they go to the right places with the right attitudes. You'll see. When you're ready, if you ever feel ready, you'll join us." "Go where, for instance?" I didn't want to let up. She did. She let out a deep breath. "Sweetie, it's been a long day and we're both exhausted. We both need to go straight to bed. Remember to cream off your make-up before you join me. Don't worry, tomorrow I'll show you how to reapply it exactly the same way. She smiled, wearily. She really was tired. Fucked out? Exhausted after a successful negotiation with me? "Tomorrow I'll take my new sister and girlfriend shopping -- she does need a whole wardrobe of her own. She hasn't a thing to wear literally, I imagine. And she also needs her own place to keep her own things. We need to move my former husband's things to the spare room." Suddenly I was alarmed, and not just that she'd called me a 'former' husband. "You're thinking of moving me to the spare bedroom?" I cried. That would never happen! She may have caught me off guard and dominated this last discussion, converted me into some kind of convenient proto-female in her own mind and also my own flesh, but I absolutely refused to be a guest in my own house. She sensed my recalcitrance immediately. "Oh, no Jackie. We'll be as close as ever. Even closer, now! It's your boy things that'll go into the spare room. Jack's things. Jackie's clothes will hang in her own space next to mine in our bedroom as she acquires them. Do you have a stash of girl clothes somewhere you've been wearing when I'm not around to see, the way you did with your parents when you were a teenager? At least a fresh bra and panties or pantyhose to wear tomorrow when we go out to start buying you whatever you need? If not I'll lend you another of each, but you'll have to return them." Enough of this. End it! "April, I never meant to stay dressed this way...," I started to say. She wasn't listening. Instead, visibly exhausted from her day of doing ... whatever, she was talking into the air. "Oh, honey, this will be such a wonderful adventure! For both of us! I'm so looking forward to everything! " And she moved wearily toward our bedroom, expecting me to follow. That was that. I wasn't happy about this grand new experiment of hers, determining how important femininity was to me. It deflected me from the one question I had, was she faithful to me? Was she? But I must say, I also wasn't altogether unhappy to be wearing women's clothing again, and making my face and hair look just so, with no need to hide it from her. That prospect was exciting, a dream long deferred but now at last coming true! With April not only cooperating but insisting! Well, all right, why not? At least why not for now. Maybe as a woman I could find out more about April's life away from me than I ever could as a man? Her life with other men, if any. I could always return to a male reality. Eventually. I hoped. Or was I now merely rationalizing away my failure to arrive at the truth, instead allowing my own feminine desires to seduce me? I stripped down to my skin, then slipped the violet satin nightgown over my head and crept into bed. It felt delicious as I wriggled inside it. I looked forward briefly to a time when my own skin would grow similarly smooth and I'd feel satin on satin, as it were. That was what I'd wanted when I was younger, filled with wishful dreams, play-acting in clothes both borrowed and bought. We slept in each other's arms, closely woven together. Early in the morning I awoke to realize that my face was in her twat and she was sucking my cock. She'd almost never done that with me! Then I realized she still wasn't ? we were sixty-nining as women! We licked and sucked each other's "clits" for about ten minutes, and I swallowed a full mouthful of her cum when she came, as she did mine, "the way girls do when they make love to each other" as she said. It was odd, I was thinking. She wasn't into oral. She'd never wanted me even to kiss her down there -- "I'm not clean enough for you there" was her mantra, sometimes even after she'd just showered. Yet she didn't seem to mind after I'd fucked her and she was filled with my semen. Or after a party, when she was too drunk to notice I'd kissed my way down her belly and had arrived at her slit. But tonight, the night of our new understanding, we were being girls together, so I supposed that was why she'd granted me that special privilege, to each her own clit. When I finally sat up, April was holding out another purple pill to me, along with another glass of water. And a small white pill too "to suppress some of your irrelevant male anxieties," she said with an impatient sigh when I asked her what it was. "Dr. Elise thought it would help. Your morning's outfit is over there on that chair," she added. "Hurry and shower and dress. You've worn pantyhose before, obviously, so I don't need to tell you how to put them on, but do be careful with that pair -- they're the sheerest I've got. Be sure to use all the body lotions you'll see I've left out for you -- your skin needs more depillating and all kinds of smoothing and moisturizing I'm afraid. Then we'll fix your face and hair and go out to tend to the rest of your most immediate needs." She sighed. "Jackie, I'm afraid you need everything!" ii. A few weeks went by with me living as a woman the whole time. Then a few more weeks. I was seduced into living as a woman, I'm afraid, because April kept me delightfully aware of it from morning to night and treated me only as a woman, always proposing some new girlish novelty or curiosity or art for me to master, to help make me even more attractive to men, as she said, interested in them or not. Or to pique my attention whenever I seemed to be slacking off and taking the whole process for granted. Sometimes with a delighted gleam in her eye she'd urge me to buy some especially provocative article of clothing -- "You'll drive them mad to have you when they see you in this bra," she'd tell