Careful What You Dream Of free porn video

© Copyright 2013, by Leslie P. Lowe. All rights reserved. [email protected] Synopsis: A dominant wife forces a loyal FictionMania fan to live his favorite fantasies. He wonders how much farther she can possibly go with this madness, and she manages to surprise even him, taking him against his will deep into his dreams. Careful What You Dream Of By Leslie Lowe "Are you into pornography again?" Michelle asked. "No," I said. "Tell me the truth, Terry." "I am." "Then what are you looking at so intently over there?" she asked. "Just reading a story online." "Oh," she said, turning back to the television as the commercial ended. I was glad she had not come after me stronger. I didn't want to lie. I had been reading FictionMania stories, and I could not reveal that to her, especially my addiction to the "caught with consequences" category, in which the hapless submissive male is found sporting his wife's bra and forced to become her blushing maid. I closed everything and opened the New York Times in a different browser in case Michelle decided to glance over my shoulder later to see if her husband was lying. # # # "Thank you," Michelle said, folding her napkin neatly beside her plate. "I love P.F. Chang's. You were so sweet to take me out." "You're welcome," I said. "You deserve it after winning that jury trial today." "Oh, it was nothing. A two-day trial of a case that should not have gone all the way. Incompetent defense lawyer." "Maybe it's time for you to leave the district attorney?" I asked. "The agency has great health insurance, and they like what I'm doing. I expect a promotion soon." She did not dignify my question with an answer. She reached for her purse and searched inside for a while, finally pulling out her lipstick and compact. I tried not to react in an obvious way. This was one of my favorite moments. Michelle was incredibly beautiful. She knew how to wear makeup, and makeup loved her face. Her luscious lips were what had first attracted me to her. Only God knows how she could have been attracted to me. She uncapped and rolled out her lipstick, and I was disappointed it was a moderate rose shade and not the bright, super-sexy red I had always insisted would look better on her. She did her lips carefully in the tiny mirror. I kept my eyes on her as I put my debit card on top of the check. "Aren't you going to see if they made any mistakes in our bill?" she asked. "It's okay," I said, still turned on from watching her rendition of that most female of rituals, the painting of a woman's lips. Michelle finished and rolled her lips together. After a final check in the mirror, she cut her eyes over and looked at me, and then to the exposed lipstick in her hand, and back at me. "Would you like some?" she asked. "What?" I said, shocked, in disbelief, my voice almost in a squeak. Had she guessed what I was thinking? "I asked if you'd like to wear some lipstick on your pretty lips." "No," I said, blushing furiously. I busied myself looking at the check now, hiding from those piercing eyes of hers probing my face, reading my mind. "Oh, I think you do," she said. "Whatever gave you that idea?" "Just a few things I learned while working that Simpson case last week. You know, the one where I used the forensic IT guy as an expert witness?" The waitress picked up the check and card, smiling at Michelle, who was wielding her lipstick like a weapon pointed at me. I waited for the waitress to leave, then said, "What are you talking about? Expert witness?" "My expert told me a few things. You know, how to find out if you were lying to me about the porn." "Really? What did he say?" "That's not important, Terri Anne," she said, smiling like a birthday girl about to open her presents. I was starting to panic at her shocking revelation. For Christ's sake, Terri Anne was my FictionMania name! But I tried to hold on. I said calmly, "Why are you calling me that name?" "Don't be coy, girlie-boy. Just do your lips like your oh-so-dominant wife says." "Are you kidding?" "No." I looked at her, holding the lipstick out to me, the compact in her other hand. I didn't know what to do. I was afraid to ask her what would happen if I didn't put it on. "Only girls wear lipstick," I said, trying lamely to make a joke. "Right," Michelle said. "And here's where you become the girl in your fantasies. So do your lips, sweetie." She had said it so loudly! I put my finger to my lips and tried to quiet her, and realized only then that the waitress was standing beside me, trying to reach in and leave the check and my card, and that she must have overheard the last exchange and perhaps more. I looked at her sheepishly and said, "Sorry, just fooling around." "No problem, sir," she said. "That shade should look very nice on you." She winked at me, smiled at Michelle, and left. "Are you finished having fun at my expense?" I said. "Not even close, Terri Anne," Michelle said. "We have not yet begun to play. You see, dear, I know as an experienced prosecutor of real sex crimes that perversion does not diminish until it has been forced into hiding or run its course. Apparently my warning you about pornography did not do the trick, so we are now going to run with it, girlfriend." "Please don't do this, Michelle? I'll stop with the online stuff. I promise. Besides, what harm does it do?" "It's not a crime. You're not hurting anyone else. But don't you see that it threatens our relationship? I love you, baby. I don't want to compete with your imagination. I'm real, Terri Anne. I want you to deal with reality, with me, in the here and now. So fine. If what you think you want is to be feminized, let's go. Start with my lipstick. Put it on, dollface, before I do something really embarrassing to you. If you want to be submissive and humiliated and treated like the slut of your dreams, what better way to begin?" Obviously, she had been reading my stories, but how did she know they were mine, and how did she know that screen name, Terri Anne, was me? "I'll do anything, Michelle. Please? Let's just go home?" Michelle turned to the next table, where three women had been eating and chatting amiably the entire time we were there; but they were now staring at us open-mouthed with suppressed mirth on their faces, obviously listening to every word. "My sissy husband has a little bit of a porn problem," Michelle said, "so he's going to start wearing lipstick tonight. I'm going to make him be my wife." "Don't do this, Michelle!" "He's so shy in public!" Michelle said. "Or should I say she? But don't worry, girls. You won't be cheated out of seeing how pretty she can be with her lips done, because we're going to stay here until she puts it on." All three of the women giggled, now that they had been given permission by Michelle's loud, campy explanation. One of them, a fetching redhead, said, "That settles it. I'm having dessert, so we can see how cute he looks!" The blonde said, "I'm a Mary Kay rep, so I'll do his face if you want. I mean her face!" She collapsed against her friend, in fits of giggling, almost falling off her chair. "You're all drunk," I said. "Don't be mean now, Terri Anne," Michelle said. "Just do your lips and maybe I'll take you home and let you slip into something comfortable and give yourself a pedicure. If you resist, sweetie, it will be so much worse for you. I will assume you are loving the conflict, just like in your favorite sissy stories." "Okay," I said, taking the lipstick and compact from her, "but I'm going to wipe it right off." "I think not," Michelle said. I ignored her. I had the lipstick in my hand, so how was she going to stop me? Several cellphone cameras flashed in my face. Michelle's was one of them. She showed me. She had caught me holding the open lipstick in one hand and the compact in the other, looking just like any woman about to apply her lipstick. "In fact," I said, "I think I'll just put this in my pocket and leave. I don't have to wipe it off if I don't put it on in the first place." "Wait, Terri Anne," Michelle said. "You might want to reconsider after you see this." She swiped the screen of her phone and turned it toward the girls at the next table. "Is that her, I mean him?" the dark-haired one asked in a loud voice. "She's so pretty!" Michelle put her smug lawyer's face on and turned the screen toward me. Oh my God, I thought. She had a picture of me that I had sent to another t-girl on FictionMania. In it, I was wearing very red lipstick, smoky eye makeup and a black merry widow, posing seductively, like a call-girl, in stilettos. I had done my shoulder-length hair in a full feminine style with Michelle's hot rollers and I had convinced myself months ago that it was impossible to tell I was not a real woman. All the clothes and makeup were Michelle's. Until this shameful episode tonight, I had felt fortunate that we wore the same shoe size, and that she was at least three inches taller, with a powerful athletic build, guaranteeing that most of her clothes would fit my slight body. I sighed and said, "aw, fuck." "You poor dear," Michelle said. Waving at the waitress, she said, "Two cosmos, please? It looks like we'll be here awhile while I convince my wife to be true to herself. And one for each of our three new girlfriends?" The same waitress said, "Yes, ma'am; right away, ma'am." Michelle smiled at me and patted my hand as if I were a sick child. "Now you understand, dear. I've got the goods on you. I am going to make all your perverted dreams come true. They aren't illegal or even immoral, just totally, outrageously feminine, in the worst way, way beneath most women. Did you realize you were a thirty-something teenaged slut of a girl? And a total bottom at that?" That got her three new fans laughing uproariously at me, and soon the drinks came, as I searched my brain frantically for a way out of this humiliating trap Michelle had snapped shut on my sissy ass. Michelle said to the three of them loudly, "It's a good thing I'm a top who's always wanted a cute little feminine sex slave with a cute little strap-on already installed! Wasn't she sweet to volunteer like this to be my wife?" Michelle waved the evidence around again, my revealing picture in the irresistable merry widow she had craftily put in my path by leaving it out on our bed when she had left for a long weekend away. I took a big gulp of my cosmo, putting down the compact to do it, but still holding the lipstick. "Oh, no you don't, girlie girl," Michelle said, moving my drink away. "No more until you get your lips done. You just don't look right. It's not becoming for a girl like you to have eaten your lipstick off like that. Put it on now. Go for it. Or would you prefer that all the salesmen at the agency find out they have a sissy salesgirl in their midst?" She punched her screen. "See? I have the company website here on my phone. Hmmm, contact us. This should be very easy." "Okay," I said, feeling totally defeated, and even more humiliated for the painful erection that had appeared long before, which I had struggled to hide all this time, more turned on than I had ever been in my dreams. I opened the compact and carefully used Michelle's lipstick to do my lips, quickly and lightly. I hurriedly closed both of the female beauty implements and slid them toward Michelle. She smiled at me, sipped her drink, and then shook her head slowly. "What?" I said. "Not good enough, girlfriend." She had turned to the three wild women again. "We want your lips to pop, just like other girls, don't we?" The three ladies, now drunker than ever, voiced their agreement emphatically, surely drawing attention to my humiliation. The whole restaurant must have been staring at us by now. I was afraid to look. I just took the compact and lipstick back and carefully put two thick coats of color on my lips. Michelle rolled her lips together, nodding at me to do likewise. I mimicked her, and the cameras flashed again. I smiled like a beauty queen and the flashes continued. My ass was hers now. What would she do to me if she was willing to begin with such a godawful public-humiliation scene? How many of my favorite FictionMania authors had she read? "May I have my drink now, Michelle?" "Of course, Terri Anne. And thank you for asking so nicely! Isn't she a good girl?" Michelle placed the tall, pink glass in front of me. It was deliciously icy to my touch, and the sweet taste with the alcohol glow mellowed me as I drank. All the other ladies and our waitress agreed that I was indeed a very good girl. # # # Michelle walked me up the mall toward Macy's. "Here, Terri Anne. You can carry the purse now." She slipped it over my shoulder so it would look natural, if I were a woman. I looked away when people stared at my lips and purse and smirked at me in that superior way. We reached the jewelry area. A pretty salesgirl walked over and said, "May I help you, ladies?" As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized that I might not be a woman, despite my lipstick and purse. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir! I guess I thought, because you were carrying her purse, that--" "No problem," Michelle said. "He is a lady from now on. I caught him wearing my things, and now I'm going to make him be the wife in our marriage. Doesn't that sound like fun?" "Uh, yes?" she said, fearfully, looking back and forth between us. "Let's put your ponytail up higher, Terri Anne. Then people won't be so confused. Come here." So I backed up to Michelle and stood there facing the passing crowd as the jewelry clerk watched her slowly, carefully loosen my hair, comb it out with her fingers, and put it up high with the band I had used all day, transforming what I had often called my rock-star look into that of a bouncy cheerleader. The jewelry girl was interested. She held up a large mirror for me. My hair did look way feminine. She said, "That's much cuter on you! And I love that lip color and blush you're wearing!" "She's not wearing any blush," Michelle said. "Yet. She's just embarrassed that you know she's such an effeminate sissy." "Please, Michelle. Must you humiliate me this way?" "Yes, apparently I must. From reading your browsing history and seeing your pictures, this is what you want, baby doll, and I'm going to give it to you, because you're too much of a wuss to ask for it." "Hmmm, uh, now what can I help you girls with?" said the clerk, trying to move the conversation into more familiar territory. "She needs some large hoops, don't you think?" "Yes! Were you thinking yellow or white?" "White gold. But we don't want to spend too much, because we do share each other's clothes. These will be her everyday earrings now." "Every day?" I whined. The clerk giggled. "Now don't be embarrassed, Terri Anne. You look so cute, and if this is what you want, I don't mind. I don't know why more men don't wear earrings. Your ears are pierced, so what's the problem anyway?" She was almost convincing me. Then I heard a deep voice in my ear. "Yeah, you little sissy. If you're going to wear lipstick and carry a purse, you might as well wear women's jewelry." I turned to see a large bear of a man standing there, while his female companion pulled on his hand, trying to get him to leave us. "Please don't do this, Roger. She's not hurting you." "That right?" Roger said. "Are you a she? You look like a fucking queer guy to me." I could smell the beer on his breath. The man was drunk. I could see him swaying now. I stepped back, trying to get a safe distance. Michelle stepped in front of me. "Leave my girlfriend alone, you asshole." He turned to Michelle, who had taken up her relaxed martial arts stance with her hands up and open in a nonthreatening way, pressing them out in warning toward our drunken assailant. She was smiling, excited, ready to take this guy down if necessary. I had never seen her this way in a real fight. I was impressed. "You gonna hide behind her skirts or come outside and settle this with me?" Roger said to me. "We don't have anything to settle," I said, from behind Michelle, standing on my tip-toes to see him. "You think I'm a sissy fag, but I'm really a woman, and it's not my job to educate you, Roger. Please leave before she hurts you? Please?" "See?" Roger's girlfriend said, pulling harder on his arm. "She is a woman, and a very cute one at that. Leave them alone. I told you that you have a drinking problem, and--" "Okay, okay. Don't start into that shit," Roger said, walking away without an apology or an acknowledgment of any kind to us, probably recognizing his best chance to escape from the fearsome Michelle with a least a bit of his dignity intact. "Phew!" the salesgirl said. "That was scary!" She picked up the phone and made a call, saying into it, "No, forget it. It was nothing. I pushed the button, but it turned out to be nothing. I'll tell you later. Funny story." She hung up. "Just security. They won't bother us now." She reached into the cabinet and pulled out a tray of sparkling silver earrings. "I just know we're going to find something here for you, Terri Anne, but let's try the one-inch size, because you're a very petite person." "Good point," Michelle said. "They'll be less expensive, too. Try these on, Terri Anne. That's a good girl." # # # "Try these on, and walk over to that mirror, so you can see how they look." Michelle handed me a pair of red pumps with three-inch heels and a one-inch platform. "Please don't do this to me, Michelle? Enough is enough. You've made your point. Please? I'm begging you." There were other shoppers all around us, all women, with a few of their husbands and boyfriends standing uncomfortably in the background, looking totally out of place. "Oh, Terri Anne," Michelle said, increasing the volume of her voice to full oratorical style, of which she was a master. She looked around at the other shoppers and moved to the best spot to address them all, as if they were an audience or a jury instead of a gaggle of unrelated strangers. "I'm so sorry about my husband, ladies. You see, he's a total sissy. I found out he had been wearing my clothes and sending sexy pictures of himself to men on the Internet." She raised her cellphone and showed everyone my picture in the merry widow. "Here he is, or should I say here she is?" "Oh my God!" one of the women said. "You must have been so humiliated to find you were married to--to," she hesitated, looking from the grinning Michelle to my sober face, now with tears streaming down, "oh--I'm so sorry! I like Tootsie and The Bird Cage, really!" Her voice trailed off as she sat and put her head down, ashamed. The last thing she said, almost in a whisper, "But to be married to a man who wears lingerie and lipstick?" "That's exactly what it is, girls. It's humiliating. Or it would be, except I'm not that kind of woman. I'm in control of my own life. I married him, and now that I have discovered he's a her, I'm just going to keep loving her and make her my traditional wife. She will wear her lipstick and her dresses and clean our house and entertain my friends and we will be very happy together, and if people don't like it, fuck 'em!" Someone started clapping, and soon everyone was. "He really is very pretty," someone said. "I mean she." Another woman came over and said, "Here, honey, let me show you something." She gently guided me into a chair. "Put your new shoes on, dear." I slipped them on. I was already wearing knee-highs Michelle had obtained from the rack, saying we would buy them for me. My new style coach said, "Very pretty. And now we'll do this." She rolled up my black slacks until they were at my calves, like a woman's capri pants. "I love a man who shaves his legs," a young woman said. "You do?" said her older companion, probably her mother. My stylist then unbuttoned my white shirt down to my nipples, saying, "every girl needs to show a bit of cleavage nowadays, dearie," and turned up my collar. She stood back and looked, and then bent over to roll up my sleeves to my elbows. "Now, that looks just like a smart blouse doesn't it, sweetie!" she said, turning to Michelle for approval. "Or maybe a boyfriend shirt?" said the young women who apparently shared what had now been revealed as Michelle's taste for effeminate men. Michelle stepped over to me and said, "Yes, she does look much more feminine that way. Thank you so much. Now let's see how you walk in your heels, Terri Anne." "Strut you stuff, girlfriend!" the young woman said, really enjoying my moment on stage. I stood up and walked, toeing and imaginary line, down the nearby aisle for twenty feet or so and back, swaying my hips and keeping my head high and my breasts out. One of the men whistled, and everyone cracked up. I could see the men gathered together in the back, cracking jokes about me to each other. That kind of male companionship was gone for me forever, and frankly, my dear, I did not give a damn. I reached Michelle, and she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, saying loudly, "My, we are very comfortable in our heels, aren't we, baby? And to think I imagined you were a boy!" Several women giggled. But the group was breaking up. They had their own shopping to do. No big deal, their body language said. What's the problem with another harmless sissy flitting around the ladies' shoe department trying to be girlish? Michelle said, "Thank you for understanding, ladies!" A few of the women murmured, "You're welcome" and "No, it was so fun!" and "Good luck training your pretty little wife!" as they went their separate ways, some staying to finish trying on their shoes. "Now, Terri Anne," Michelle said. "I know you love those fuck-me pumps, but we need to get you something cute and practical too, until your feet become accustomed to wearing heels for work. How about these?" She handed me a pair of flats. For work? I thought. How far was she planning to take this? # # # Michelle and I stood side-by-side in the mall, looking into the window of the Coach store, the beautiful bags carefully arrayed to catch the eye of every woman who passed by. After all, who in her right mind doesn't love a Coach purse? I tried to hide myself, keeping my face turned toward the window, so people couldn't easily see my pretty, rosy lips, on which I had been wearing Michelle's lipstick since leaving P.F. Chang's to the protests of our three new girlfriends, with whom Michelle traded emails, "So you can see Terri Anne in a few days, after we complete her transformation. We'll do a girls' night out!" Now, in front of the Coach store, I guess I was deluding myself about hiding who I was in my heart. Who was I kidding? I had been continually exposed as a flaming sissy in the worst way by Michelle for more than an hour. But old habits die hard. I was not used to having my special way of being displayed to the entire free world. "I want to get you a purse here," Michelle said. "It's just the thing for a working girl like you." "What do you mean working girl?" I asked meekly, needing to revisit her plans for my work, which she had so far refused to elucidate. But I asked for an answer; I did not demand it. She had broken me. I was totally her supple ragdoll after she had made me walk the length of the mall wearing her lipstick, accepting the stares, grins and pointing of other shoppers, forcing me to try on earrings and ladies' shoes to the cheery comments of any number of amused fellow shoppers, all women, and the continual hateful comments of their macho husbands, muttering about fags, sissies and other perverts. The fruits of our shopping spree adorned my body as we stood there looking into the window. I was carrying Michelle's purse on my shoulder like a woman, as instructed. Along with my one-inch silver hoop earrings, I now wore the silver ballet flats she had made me purchase in Macy's after trying on countless pairs of cute shoes and modeling them for her and everyone else within shouting distance. "I mean you will be going to your job in a dress, sweetheart. Don't you remember that workplace situations is one of your favorite FictionMania categories?" "You wouldn't dare!" I said, stomping my foot. "Please, Michelle?" I realized she would, and that I was begging like a child. So be it, I thought. This has got to stop! "I'll lose my job and then what? How are we going to live on your salary alone?" "You are totally without a clue, aren't you, baby doll?" she asked sweetly. "What?" "Your earnings are not worth the clothes you buy to work in. I could care less if you lose that sacred macho sales job of yours. It was something I was allowing you to play at until I confirmed that you were, as I had hoped, the girl of my dreams as well as your own. Darling, you can stop worrying. I inherited enough from my parents to keep us happy forever. In fact, I want you to lose the job. But don't you dare quit. We'll have fun with them first. They will fire your sissy ass, and we'll drag them into court so you can testify as the sweet transvestite victim of illegal discrimination, which performance will earn you so much more than your silly job ever would, and repay them for being the sexist bastards they are. Then you're going to be my wife, maid, cook and housekeeper, just like in all your silly FictionMania stories. This is your life, bitch!" "Easy, Michelle!" I begged. "Please hold it down before they call security? I'll do whatever you say. Let's just look at the purses and--" "You damned right you will. I'm tired of your resistance, and here's what we're going to do." "Don't make it worse, Michelle? Please? I'll do it. I promise." If I could just get her out of the fucking mall, I thought, I can figure out a way to escape, or at least calm her down. She was right. My job was shit. Although I did like the health club membership that went with it. I guessed that health clubs would be all about yoga and Jazzercise from here on out. "Yes, you will, and here's why. I am going to give you ten credits." "Credits?" "Yes. Just hush up and listen. Every time you resist me or in any way act like a man, I'm going to take one or more of your credits away. When you get to zero, I'm going to turn you over my knee and spank you until your little fanny is red hot. Do you believe me?" "Yes. I believe you." I rolled my eyes, regretting it as soon as I realized she had seen me do it. "No, you don't believe me. You're being a bitch. You're trying to con me again." She grabbed my arm and jerked it, starting me toward a nearby bench. "Let me show you how it works." "Ow! You're hurting my arm, Michelle. Please stop?" I was crying, crying like, well, like a girl. She saw my face and sat down slowly, brushing the tears from under my eyes with her thumbs. She took a deep breath. She kissed me on the lips, an interesting feeling, to do it with both of us wearing lipstick. She pulled me down to sit next to her. She smiled. She touched up the edges of my lips with her fingertips, then ordered me to fix hers. I complied, rather enjoying this female grooming behavior, even if it was a wee bit simian. "I'm so sorry, Terri Anne. I guess it's the alcohol. I got carried away. I don't need to spank you just yet. You have ten credits, sweetie. Now what do you say for yourself?" I thought about my answer. I knew I was at her mercy. She was a former college basketball player with a reputation for toughness, and she was also a martial artist, a black belt in jujitsu. She had proven countless times that I was no match for her physically when we were just playing around in bed. I did not want to be subjected to her anger. "I guess I would say yes, ma'am?" I said it with my most seductive girly smile, in a voice that was high, sweet, I hoped very feminine. I was really asking if that's what she wanted to hear. I was really asking her to tell me what to do to make her happy. I was giving myself to her, totally. Michelle smiled broadly and nodded, saying, "Nice!" I went with it. "Yes, ma'am, I understand that you have given me credits for being a good girl and I appreciate them so much! Thank you! I will do my very best to be feminine for you. May I freshen my lips before we go and buy me a cute purse? Pretty please?" "Whoa!" Michelle said, laughing. "I love it! I seem to have broken the secret code with you, girly girl! That was so precious, you now have eleven credits, uh, eleven tampons!" "Thank you so much, sweetheart," I shrieked, hugging her like a girl, not caring about all the amused glances we were getting, feeling myself pulled into this game, going for another credit already. This was fun! But--but wait, I thought. "What did you say? Tampons?" "Yes, dear. Credits seems so, you know, dull. So your points or credits will now be called tampons. More appropriate for a girl like you, don't you agree?" I hesitated. I wanted to argue, but I wanted those points, those--OMG! Those tampons! I swallowed hard and said, "Okay, sweetie, thank you for all my tampons!" "Okay, fine. Now do your lips before the mall closes." She reached into her purse and got the lipstick out and was apparently trying to locate her compact in the large purse when she stopped, looked at me, grinned broadly, and said, "Wait, I have a better idea! Follow me, girl. Hurry!" She took off toward the Coach store, still holding the lipstick, leaving her purse with me. I followed, slinging the purse over my shoulder as if I had carried one for years. She passed the Coach store and turned into Sephora a few doors down. Uh- oh, I thought. She hurried over to the nearest lipstick display, NARS, and grabbed a hot red color off the "Try Me!" rack. "Oh, no!" I said. "Please don't do this to me, Michelle." "Of course I will," she said, wiping off the blazing red tip of the lipstick with a tissue and selecting a disposable lip brush. "Look at you. No one can tell any more that you're not a woman. You almost have the body of a woman. You need to flaunt it, girlfriend!" She swirled the brush around in the gooey red creamy lipcolor and said, "You always wanted me to wear garish color like this, so now you have to! And if you gush about how much you like it as you pay for your new tube of--," she said, turning the tube upside down to look at it, "--'Fire Down Below'. Oh! I love that name, just perfect for my girl with the little surprise in her panties!" She grabbed me in the crotch and squeezed, painfully. "If you gush about your new lipstick to the salesgirl enough, I'll give you two more credits, I mean tampons!" She stopped talking and concentrated on slowly painting my lips. I could feel how thick the lipstick was, and I could see the tube of deep blood-red in her hand, but she wouldn't let me look in a mirror. "No time for primping. You look great! Now go! Pay for it. Hurry! We have to select your new purse!" I turned in the direction she pushed me, forgetting momentarily about how I must look. High ponytail, men's clothes, pants rolled up to look like impromptu women's capris, shirtsleeves rolled up to three-quarters length like a blouse and unbuttoned halfway down to show my cleavage, carrying a purse, wearing earrings and cute shoes, and now, high-school-slut lipcolor! I either looked like a woman or like the world's most shameful, or shameless, sissy. At this point, I didn't have the luxury of worrying which one I was. I looked around, searching for the cashier's station. I was confused. I could not find it. There were so many other women in the store! Finally I saw it. Oh my God! That's where the crowd was, ten people deep in snaking lines, with everyone crowded together, talking and looking at each other, chatting about their new makeup. I moved to join them, planning what I might say to earn my tampons. The first girl I made eye contact with said, "Oh, I love that color on you!" "Thank you," I said. "It feels nice, but my wife wouldn't let me see how I look." "Well shame on her for being so mean." She held up a mirror she was about to purchase. The face that looked back at me was a perfectly precious sissy face, if I did say so myself. I was all blushed and excited and somehow very feminine, despite the skin and eyes that needed makeup to look right for a woman. And yet feminine somehow, magically, like those Hollywood magazine covers that showed stars without makeup. The Fire Down Below apparently had that much projection power, to make me look like a girl of some kind, or at least convince people that I longed to be a girl, which I guess was now a wish come true for me. "What do you think of your look?" the girl said. "Not bad," I said. Remembering my assignment and my promised tampons, I checked myself in her mirror again and kissed the air, vamping for my favorite audience, myself, never having dressed up in public before, ever. Caught up in how cute I was, I added, in an over-the-top, slutty, breathless whisper, "I love this color on me, don't you? I love being the slutty girl with red lips!" "Uh, yeah," she said shaking her head and smiling. "Do you always get this excited when you buy makeup?" "No," I said, lying, because I did love buying makeup more than just about anything else in the world, coming back down to earth so this girl wouldn't think I was insane. "But I do love to shop. Do you like to shop?" "Oh yes," she said, and went on talking about her purchases here and at other stores that day. Other girls joined in and soon we were all laughing and hugging and finally saying good bye and have a nice day as each of them paid, and eventually I got to the cashier. "Welcome to Sephora, uh," she said, hesitating, not knowing whether I was fish or fowl, "uh, sweetie!" "Thank you. Just this lipstick, please." I gave her the businesslike box with my new lipstick in it and my debit card. "Did you find everything you needed?" she asked, as she punched numbers into the register. "Did you enjoy shopping today? Is this the color lipstick you wanted, uh--," she said, looking at my card, "Terry?" "Oh yes!" I said, finally remembering my assignment. "I just love Sephora, and all the people, and I think this lipstick is just perfect for me, don't you? I think it looks so hot, so girly, so me!" "Uh, yeah," she said, trying to dial back my enthusiasm a bit, probably also afraid I was about to go psycho on her. The poor thing had no idea that I was playing a game with Michelle. "That will be $27.89. Are you a Sephora member?" "Forget all that for now, please," Michelle said to the clerk over my shoulder. "We have to hurry and get to Coach before they close. I'll bring her back next week so you can sign her up, because she's going to need a lot of things. Look at her!" "Thank you, ma'am," she said to me, now that she knew I was supposed to be a her not a sir. As I reached for my card and the pretty bag, I heard Michelle say behind me, in her loud voice again, "Hurry up. Let's go, Terri Anne. Congratulations. You earned your tampons!" I smiled in embarrassment at the checkout girl and waved my fingers at her. "Thanks!" I said, still in my gushy role as Michelle dragged me away. # # # The next morning at ten o'clock, Michelle escorted me into the McFarland Agency's front door. I was wearing Michelle's favorite gray wool suit, with its very tight skirt and cute flared jacket over her pink silk blouse, all business, all female with my three-inch black pumps and new Coach black leather tote. I wore my new hoop earrings and a full face of Michelle's professional- woman, daytime-look makeup, including my Fire Down Below lipstick and hot- red O.P.I. "I'm Not Really A Waitress" nail polish to match. I was all woman down to my shaved and creamy skin, in clothes from panties and bra to pink barrette in my hair, all borrowed from my husband, as Michelle now called herself, and I was here to get fired, so I could file my suit and become the happy housewife. I had done my hair myself as Michelle watched, and I had amazed us both with how sexy it looked after washing, conditioning, rolling and styling. My instructions, to be followed under threat of losing all seventeen of my tampons in one stroke of stupidity and getting my first public spanking at my former business office of all places, were to smile like a girl the whole time and not to say a word until instructed otherwise by my boss, Michelle. I was to be the silent maiden and let Michelle do all the talking, or, as my former-wife-now-husband put it so sweetly, "Just keep your mouth shut, you little bitch!" I said those words over and over again in my head, as I tried to walk as Michelle had coached me to walk half the night until I had collapsed in a crying fit that melted even her cold heart, so that she finally took me to bed, put me on my back, and fucked my little clitty with her power pussy until I was as limp as a used makeup-removal pad. Dear Diary: She came too! "May I help you?" said Connie, the receptionist, who knew me very well but for the moment seemed unable to recognize me, even though she was looking at me instead of Michelle for some reason. This moment of anonymity was no small comfort, because I feared Michelle had planned a nuclear shock effect. She hated my boss and everyone who worked at the agency, which she had labeled after our first office social, "a bunch of money-bag patrician misogynists doomed to extinction." I said to myself, standing there waiting for Michelle to respond to Connie, that this last day at work couldn't possibly be any more humiliating than the mall, and I don't want to be spanked in front of all my friends, so just keep your mouth shut, you little bitch! I repeated it again and again silently in my nervous and exhausted mind, like a meditator's mantra. Just keep your mouth shut, you little bitch! "Michelle Goodwood to see Mr. Jamison," Michelle told Connie, imperiously, using her maiden name, not deigning to introduce her pretty personal assistant, the sweet Terri Anne. I had to admit she was good. She knew how to project power. All those criminal juries had taught her something. "Yes, ma'am. Please have a seat?" Connie moved her cool, noncommittal gaze away from Michelle, looked at me, and smiled. It was a woman-to- woman smile, designed for commiseration, hoping for understanding, letting me know that she understood what it was like to work for a bitch of a boss. I winked at Connie. Michelle had said nothing about winking. Connie smiled. I scored one for myself. I might be the world's newest housewife, but I had a sense of humor. I sat down next to Michelle on the couch, crossing my legs at the knee just as she had shown me, rather proud of my ladylike skills. Oops! Reacting to Michelle's hard stare and rolling eyes, I pulled my skirt closer to my knee, not that it would reach that far, as short as it was. How many times had she shown me the night before how to sit? I didn't care. I was exhausted from lack of sleep and worry about--about this very moment. The apocalypse was now! Mr. Jamison walked out. As he approached us, he shrugged his shoulders and then pushed out his chest, showing his imaginary muscles, his once- when-I-was-younger macho-man self, because he apparently did not remember meeting Michelle and she of the supermodel beauty and the Wonder Woman body did that to men, scared them and turned them on. Suddenly, I felt very foolish, believing without a doubt that she had chosen me because I could be her wife. She had not been fooled for a second. Good. I was off the hook. I was at peace. I would be her wife and love it. But, I thought, for now: Just keep your mouth shut, you little bitch! Thinking that all I had to be scared of was a spanking--so naive! Michelle stood up and took control. She shook hands with Mr. Jamison and said, "I've got a proposition for you, from Eiger Peak Insurance Company." She was using the name of a scuzzy little company whose presentation had failed a couple weeks before, which I had mentioned to her over drinks after work. Mr. Jamison looked confused, and said, "Eiger Peak? I thought we had--" "Yes, you did, Mr. Jamison--may I call you Mack, if I let you call me Michelle?" I was so amazed at her artfulness, the way she seduced the old man into relationship, that fast. I felt so stupid, so inferior, so subordinate, so wifely. I just loved my husband! Not that all wives are bottoms like I was. I was so in love with Michelle at that moment that I almost told her so. Then I remembered: Just keep your mouth shut, you little bitch! I wondered that Jamison did not recognize Michelle, having met her three years before at that one and only social she had attended, a woman who was not easy for most people to forget. But Jamison had always been fairly narcissistic and mindless about others who couldn't benefit him financially or socially. Besides, Michelle had planned to handle any questions by saying I was at home sick. "I'll just tell them it was your time of the month," she had said. No, she would have a plausible reason for my absence if she were recognized as my wife. But that did not seem to be happening. "Sure! Let's talk!" Jamison gushed, too quickly, betraying his eagerness. He was losing his edge, and I loved it. I was totally rooting for this powerful woman I had been smart enough to ask to marry me, or more accurately, this woman who had chosen in her generosity to marry me. Everything was clear to me now, especially what a nothing job this was that I had foolishly valued so highly back in the days when I had thought I was a man. Mack led us into his office and asked us to sit down. We took the chairs facing his desk. Many a time I had sat there sweating whether he was going to love me or hate me that day. Now he ignored me, as just another underling, type female, semi-beautiful, probably a slut. I was a nothing to him compared to the Diana at my side, a worthy adversary to his self- imagined Adonis. But he looked more like a fat old Zeus as he grunted and plopped into his seat behind his massive desk. "I've got a proposition for you, Mack," Michelle said in her projecting courtroom voice. "I seem to remember that your commission rate was--" "Fuck the announced rate!" Michelle said, loud enough for all the office to hear. I jumped at the loudness of it. Okay, I also squealed a little bit, touching my fingertips to my lips in shock, then busying myself to find a tissue to get the lipstick off of them, and checking my lip lines in my compact. I could hear the activity in the other rooms through the paper- thin walls. I looked at Mack. "Easy, now," Mack said, trying to laugh it off. "What company is willing to give you this?" Michelle said. She was pointing to me. I looked up sheepishly from my primping, waving the tissue, talking silently to myself, just keep your mouth shut, you little bitch! "You want me to hire her?" Mack said, confused, trying to be amused. "Don't be silly, Mackie boy. I want you to tell me if you will do business with us at a special rate of thirteen percent that only I have the authority to approve, and on the condition that I order this little slut to give you a blow job, now and at least once each quarter when she delivers the commission check, with a kicker in cash for your eyes only, but always, Mr. Jamison, only by prior appointment, and only at your convenience." "You're fucking with me," Mack said. "Let's cut the bullshit. Can we be frank, Mack? Man-to-man?" Michelle said. "Try her, right here in your office. No strings attached. No obligation. Money back guarantee. I'll leave the room." She stood up and turned her back to him. She looked at me and cut her eyes to her purse, which she had left sitting in the chair, a shiny round clasp on the side of it tipping me off. I nodded with a sweet smile, telling her I had seen it. And yes, we had thoroughly enjoyed watching "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo." I realized Michelle had not wanted to tell me her plan, probably afraid I would back out, but now I knew. Benign blackmail was her game. I loved her idea. It had so many possibilities! Maybe when this was over I could keep my job after all, if I decided to work as a salesgirl part-time to break the monotony of my wifely duties? I could only imagine how much power we might have over Mack, who had always been so enamored of his reputation in the community. In any event, a lawsuit would not be necessary. Once we could prove with the video feed from the button camera on Michelle's purse that he had volunteered to be pleasured by a man in a dress, yours truly, his ass was ours on a silver platter. Michelle touched my arm and said, "Terri Anne, please talk to Mr. Mack while I'm gone to the ladies' room? You know what he needs to hear, don't you?" "Yes, ma'am," I said sweetly. She bent down and whispered passionately in my ear, "But don't let him fuck you, you sexy slut. You're my girl and only my girl. Never forget that." "Yes, ma'am," I said, forcing my girlish giggle, gratified that it did not fail me. "I'm sure that Mr. Jamison and I can work out something that will be mutually beneficial!" I was warming up my ladylike voice, which Michelle had made me practice for her. It did not let me down, its high, musical, utterly feminine lilt coming out in totally believable tones of sexuality, dripping with submissiveness. She stood up straight. "Terri Anne, will you follow me to the door and lock it tight, so the two of you will have complete privacy for your little conference?" "Yes, ma'am," I said, standing up. And in that moment I knew I was hers, totally and permanently. For her, I was absolutely ready to give old Mack the blow job of his life and seduce him into assaulting me in a video. Hell, if she had told me to jump off a ten-story building at that moment I would have just done it, no questions asked. She was that real, that much the center of my universe, that much my Mother God. Gifting me with a final wicked smile and a wink, she turned to leave, trusting me to be her wife, her bitch, even unto committing fellatio on her order, but mind you, no further, no coitus. The door shut and I locked it tight, shaking the handle to be sure. I turned to Mack. I kept my eyes locked onto his as I picked up my purse from my chair, leaving Michelle's purse where it was on the other chair, facing mine. Watching him, playing the role of a cornered female in heat, giving myself to the alpha male monkey, I moved around to take a seat on the edge of his desk, where he could easily reach my knee if he chose to touch me. I reached into my purse for my weapons, the pretty pearlescent compact and the businesslike black lipstick, smiling at him seductively, licking my lips as Michelle had taught me to do, recrossing my legs, letting my skirt ride up above the tops of my stockings, drawing attention to perhaps my best feminine feature, those milky thighs. I clicked open my compact, keeping my eye on my quarry. I took off the cap of my Fire Down Below lipstick, feeling the familiar tingle in my panties, and rolled it out expertly with one hand, as only we experienced girls can do. Mack licked his own lips and shifted in his massive judge's chair, adjust his now-erect penis comfortably, getting himself ready for my work to begin, grinning like a fat man starting his long walk down a barbeque buffet. "Well, Mr. Jamison?" I said, touching up my engorged lips and pouting for him and into my mirror, both of us admiring my new lipstick, "Is there anything I can do for you right now?" He nodded slowly, hungrily, and swallowed hard. He looked down at his crotch and touched himself at the front of his trousers, which I was pleased to note was already showing some wetness. "Your chair is so big!" I said. "Would you mind sitting in my chair, so I can, uh, give you my presentation?" He laughed politely at my little joke and stood up. He walked around his desk in perfect obedience to my directions, and I glided along behind him, onward into ecstasy, and into my new life as a rich woman's wife. [All positive and negative feedback is greatly appreciated!] © Copyright 2013, by Leslie P. Lowe. All rights reserved.