Trophy Wife
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DISCLAIMER: After reading Fictionmania for at least a decade, I'm trying
my hand at a story for the first time. All constructive feedback is
appreciated. In addition, any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, is purely coincidental. Enjoy.
TROPHY WIFE
by Big Ideas
I put down my third cosmopolitan of the afternoon and stretch my long,
tan, slender legs on the leather sofa. I dangle my feet off the edge of
the couch so I don't scratch it with my 4" heeled sandals. It's a pain to
have to do that, and I suppose I could just take them off, but God, how I
love the way they make my legs look. And the sound of high heels on our
polished wood floors is almost enough to bring me to orgasm. Just thinking
about it now makes me flushed.
I gaze out the paned window that forms an entire wall of our spacious
living room. It overlooks our swimming pool, where Sam, the pool boy, is
finishing up his weekly cleaning. As sources of sexual fantasies go, one
could do a lot worse than Sam, a muscular 19-year-old who cleans pools to
put himself through college. I wonder how many housewives like me have
made Sam an offer he'd be stupid to refuse. But then, I wonder how many of
them have a body like mine. Few do, after all.
With my left hand, I absent-mindedly hike up my short denim skirt and let
the air conditioning cool my exposed pussy. With my right, I tease my left
nipple through my thin cotton blouse. I love my vagina, but my breasts are
my favorite attribute: They're ultra-sensitive and all-natural (well, in a
sense, but I'm getting to that), and they're big enough for me to show
off, but not so big that they cause back pain or get in the way of
housework.
Housework? Whom am I kidding? I don't have to lift a finger around here.
Everything's provided for. All I have to do is look pretty. And that's the
way I like it.
I start playing with my clitoris, sending jolts of pleasure up and down my
body. If Sam happened to put down the pool skimmer and look through the
window, he'd see me ogling him. The thought of being seen turns me on even
more, and I push a lock of my blond hair out of my face, bite my plump
lower lip and insert two delicately manicured fingers into my cunt. Before
long, I explode into a toe-curling orgasm. "More, please" is all I can
think as it washes over me.
I'm coming down from that high when I hear the lock turn on the front
door. It's 5:15. Someone's home. I compose myself and wait patiently. But
it's hard to be patient when I know who's coming and what they're going to
do to me in the master bedroom.
Given all this, you might have a hard time believing that three days ago,
I was a mild-mannered 30-year-old middle manager with student-loan debt
and a used Honda Civic. You might also have a hard time believing that I
was a man. But somehow, someone decided to let me live my fantasy. Every
day. For the rest of my life. And I'm grateful.
I love being a trophy wife.
***
I'm not sure when, or how, it happened, but I have a pretty good idea.
Friday was a tough day at work, as an accounts manager for a local
advertising firm. Like most middle managers, I took abuse from both my
superiors and my subordinates, and on Friday, it was especially so. I
liked my company and wanted to move up, but I didn't see a path for
advancement that didn't involve backstabbing or waiting for someone to
die. And when one of my employees made a mistake that led to our losing a
major account, I was the one who had to take the heat from the CEO.
After that nightmare meeting, I cut out of work early and headed to a bar
near my house. Joe, a friend of mine, met me there. We spent an hour
venting about our respective jobs, then fell largely silent as the happy-
hour prices drove us from "buzzed" to "drunk." The bar had several TVs,
and one of them, either intentionally or by accident, had been tuned to
Bravo. One of those "Real Housewives" shows was on.
I've never been a fan of reality television, for numerous reasons, but the
"Housewives" shows were among the most distasteful to me. It didn't seem
like "reality" at all. These women lived in a fantasy world -- beautiful
houses, expensive clothes and jewelry, no work at all, and more spending
money than they could blow through in 10 lifetimes. So where did they get
off fighting and complaining all the time?
As we sat there, absentmindedly watching TV, I brought it up to Joe.
"What a bunch of spoiled brats," I said. "I'd kill for that life."
"Really?" he asked. "You'd really want to live that way? Wouldn't you get
bored?"
"Are you kidding? I've spent my entire life worrying about money. I work
part time on the weekends to make ends meet. I sold my last car and got a
shittier car so I could afford the rent on my apartment. I've worked my
ass off to make ends meet, and it's still not happening. I'd love to sit
around and do nothing and know that everything was taken care of."
"I don't buy it, Nate. Plus, you're a guy. You're supposed to be the
provider, the guy who goes out and works for a living. You don't find too
many 'trophy husbands' out there these days."
"Well, that's too bad. Because that would be great. And let me tell you
something, Joe: If it meant never having to worry about money again, sure,
I'd be a trophy wife. I'd love it."
Joe laughed, and I laughed too. We both knew it was just idle talk. I
wasn't gay, and I'd never felt like I should have been born a woman or
anything like that. But I was insanely jealous of those women on TV. I did
want that life, even if I would have had to be a woman to have it.
Somebody must have heard what I'd said. I don't know if it was somebody
near us at the bar or somebody on a higher plane of existence. But after I
drove the few blocks home to my apartment and passed out in bed, things
started to change.
***
Consciousness arrived slowly on Saturday morning. Still tasting Fat Tire
in my mouth, I rolled over and looked at my alarm clock. Nine o'clock. I
didn't usually sleep that late, but I must have had one too many. My
piercing headache confirmed that hypothesis. I rolled onto my back and
idly stuck one hand down my boxers.
And it was then that I noticed something was very wrong.
What ... what was that? Where my cock and balls once were, I now felt ... an
opening. A slit, surrounded by soft hair. I'd been around enough of them
(although not as many as I'd have liked) to know what this was. Now fully
awake, I threw off the covers and looked down.
I had a vagina. And that wasn't all. My hips were wider and more rounded.
My legs were slender and devoid of hair, not to mention the muscle I'd
built up through distance running. My feet, previously size 11, looked
positively tiny. I moved my trembling right hand from my crotch to my left
leg. It felt so smooth. From the waist up, everything seemed normal. But
below the waist, there was no doubt I was female.
I climbed out of bed, noticing that I had to reach a little farther to
find the ground than I had previously, and cautiously made my way to the
full-length mirror on the wall. I noticed on the way that I was walking
differently. My hips were swaying from side to side in a womanly way, and
I was walking on tiptoes, as if wearing invisible high heels. When I tried
to put my heels on the ground, they bounced right back up. This could get
tiring without the proper footwear, I thought to myself.
I made it to the mirror and surveyed the situation. I should have been
more panicked or frightened, maybe, but all I could think was "Damn, half
of me is a great-looking woman." I turned around and saw I now had a firm,
rounded butt, the kind I would have immediately noticed on a woman at that
bar. Turning back around, I cautiously moved a hand back to my crotch,
accidentally brushing a finger against my clitoris. Whoa. That was ...
intense. "I'll have to explore that later," I thought.
There was no way I was going out like this, but I needed to get some
clothes on. But what would fit me now? I opened my walk-in closet and had
my answer.
My clothes had changed, too! My shirts all looked the same, but my pants
had changed into an array of women's slacks, yoga pants, capris, skirts ...
why was I so drawn to the skirts? Suddenly, I really wanted a skirt on my
body. I can't explain it; I just wanted it!
I chose a black pencil skirt, one that looked like it'd end just above my
knee. But what about underwear? I opened my underwear drawer and found ...
panties. In every style and color. Lace, silk, cotton ... I had it all. It
was incredible. I chose a pair of white lace ones and pulled them on,
immediately loving the way they cradled my ass. I wriggled into the pencil
skirt, too.
I reassessed myself in the mirror. "Looking good," I thought. Now I needed
shoes. Again, no men's shoes remained in my closet. I now had an extensive
collection of women's footwear. "Those black pumps will go great with this
skirt," I thought. What? Why did I think that? Now that I had a woman's
lower half, was I starting to think like a woman too?
I stepped into the pumps. They had a 3.5" heel. "How will I walk in
these?" I thought. But my body seemed to know. I took a few laps around my
apartment, marveling at how well I was managing. I thought about taking
them off, but I really found myself liking the way they stretched my
calves and made me taller. I estimated I'd lost about 3 inches from my
previous 6'2" frame, so oddly enough, I felt a little more normal this
way.
I went into the living room and sat down. When I did, I crossed my legs
the same way I'd always seen women cross them. I hadn't thought about it;
it had just happened. I sat there, idly admiring the way my feet looked in
those heels, and pondered my situation. How had this happened? Why had it
happened? And why wasn't I more freaked out about it?
I decided that regardless of how it had happened, I'd at least wait out
the weekend to see if anything else was going to happen. Maybe this was
some sort of crazy temporary ... curse? Blessing? I didn't know, but I
didn't have to see anyone else before Monday, so I could let it run its
course until then, at least.
I spent the rest of the day trying on skirts, shoes, pantyhose and the
rest of my new wardrobe. By evening, I was wearing a pair of strappy red
leather heels, a thin miniskirt and thong panties. "This looks so hot," I
thought to myself. Staring at my new half-body, I felt a dampness growing
in my crotch. From what women I knew had described, I pegged this as
arousal. I kicked off the heels, sat on the couch and reached a trembling
hand up my skirt to pull off the thong. I'd had enough sex as a man to
know how to please a woman, and I went to work.
Three screaming orgasms later, I was covered in sweat, my hair was askew
and I was sitting in a puddle on the couch. "Wow," I said out loud, to no
one in particular. "A guy could get used to that." Soon after, I lay down
on the couch and was out like a light. What would Sunday bring?
***
I awoke Sunday morning wondering whether the previous day's events had
been an incredibly detailed and realistic dream. It didn't take long for
me to confirm that they weren't. As I'd done Saturday morning, I reached a
hand down to my crotch. This time, though, something got in my way.
Breasts. I had breasts. I sat up in bed and felt their weight on my chest.
They were large -- D cups, I estimated -- and they were firm, with medium-
sized nipples and areolas about 2" in diameter. I reached up and felt one
of them. It felt so ... intimate. "Another thing I could get used to," I
thought.
But what about the rest of me? I headed into the bedroom, feeling the
unfamiliar bounce and swing of my new bosom, and checked the mirror.
My face and hair were the same, but from the neck down, I was a woman.
Thin arms ended at small hands and long, dainty fingers, complete with 1"
nails painted with red polish -- the same color I'd noticed on my toes
when I'd woken up. I now had a thin waist -- I pegged it at about 25" --
which accented my 36" hips. My shoulders were narrower, too, and they made
my boobs seem even larger than they actually were.
There wasn't any denying it now: I was a bombshell. At least, most of me
was. A quick look in the closet confirmed that my wardrobe had again
changed to match my new appearance. No more T-shirts and button-downs;
instead, I found blouses, camis and dresses! My heart was pounding. "What
about a little black dress?" I said aloud. My voice sounded the same as it
always had. What a sight I must have been -- a man's head on a pinup's
body!
I found a little black dress, one that looked like it would show off my
ample cleavage, and set it aside while I looked for a bra -- a bra! I was
looking for a BRA for my BOOBS! The surreality of the situation was
turning me on a little bit. I found a strapless black bra that lifted my
breasts into a sexy, appealing position, and I slipped the dress over my
head. I added black stilettos with a 5" heel, put on some silver bracelets
and a necklace I had found in the top drawer of my dresser, and cautiously
sashayed over to the mirror, the tight dress forcing me to take small
steps and throw my wrists outward to clear my ample hips.
What I saw nearly gave me another orgasm. With the heels, I estimated I
was about 5'11", which would put me at 5'6" without them. My long legs
drew the eye up to the dress, which ended about 3 inches above my shapely
knees. The dress accentuated the curves of my hips and the thinness of my
waist, and it displayed my breasts perfectly. Spaghetti straps were the
only thing on my shoulders, and I reached up to feel my exposed skin. It
felt so smooth and sexy!
Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than for this change to be complete. I
didn't want my maleness anymore. I wanted to be 100 percent female, with
everything that went along with that. Since the first change, I'd found
that new thoughts had been entering my head -- how to put on a bra, for
example, and what shoes might look good with a particular skirt. They were
new, but familiar at the same time, as though they'd been germinating in
my head my entire life and had just now been awoken. I wanted more. I
wanted to see what this woman looked like.
I tried on a few more outfits that day, but I ultimately found my way back
to that little black dress. I made myself a nice dinner -- oddly, I didn't
have the appetite I'd once had -- and had a few glasses of champagne. It
was the only way I'd be able to get to sleep, I reasoned. I also didn't
have the tolerance for alcohol that I'd once had, so I slipped on a silk
nightie and was in bed, head spinning, by 9:30. My last thought before
falling asleep was that the silk felt incredible against my smooth skin.
***
"It's done," I thought to myself. "I'm a woman."
I barely had to open my eyes to know the change was complete. A curtain of
curly blond hair covered my face. I pushed it out of the way and went to
the mirror. Staring back at me was a face that more than measured up to
the body I'd acquired. My eyes were still blue, but they seemed larger,
more innocent. My nose was smaller, and my mouth featured full red lips
with a perpetual pout to them. The blond hair framed my face nicely and
fell just past my shoulders. I looked like ... a trophy wife!
"I'm ... beautiful," I gasped. Was that my voice? It was high and lilting, a
sexy soprano that matched my new body. I couldn't believe that was me!
Suddenly, like a tidal wave, memories, new yet somehow familiar, began
flooding into my brain. I remembered who I had been, yes, but that person
receded to the back of my mind, like a pleasant dream or the memories of
another life. The new me had always been a woman. I was still smart and
capable, but I'd decided early in life that what I really wanted was to be
a housewife. I'd found someone who loved me but also wanted to show me off
to their friends. Someone who was willing to compete for me. I was their
trophy. And the thought of that made me scream with excitement and glee.
And then I realized: This was what I asked for at the bar that night.
Someone must have heard me and made it happen. "Thank you," I said aloud,
still shocked at the sound of my melodious voice.
I looked around my bedroom and knew instinctively that this was no longer
my home. Maybe it belonged to someone, but it wasn't me. I opened the
closet door and found only one outfit: a thin cotton blouse, a denim
miniskirt and 4" heeled sandals. I dressed and marveled at how stunning I
looked. I could have stopped traffic in that outfit -- or any outfit!
On the kitchen counter, I found a purse with a woman's wallet inside. My
name, it seemed, was Jennifer Ann Williams. I was still 30 years old, but
I could easily have passed for 25. The wallet also contained several
hundred-dollar bills. I could have used my driver's license to find my new
home, but I didn't need it. I knew instinctively where to go -- just like
I knew that my beat-up Civic had transformed into a Maserati overnight. I
got in, said a quick goodbye to my old apartment and headed toward the
coast, where my new life awaited.
The house was just as I "remembered" it -- opulent and spotless, with a
four-car garage and a picture window overlooking the pool. The person with
whom I shared this house was already gone for the day. I parked in my
usual spot in the garage, went inside and made myself comfortable. It was
already noon, so I made a salad and fixed myself a cosmopolitan. Then, I
stretched out on the sofa. "Sam will be here soon," I thought, a dampness
growing in my crotch.
***
And that's how I got to the present: in my living room, staring at the
pool boy and hearing the front door open. In comes the love of my life,
the person who had given me all of this and made me the happiest woman on
Earth.
"Hey, baby," I say to my wife, Gina.
Gina and I met in college, but we fell out of touch afterward. She's
slightly taller than me and has brown hair instead of blond, but in other
ways, we look a lot like sisters. In college, Gina took chances on a few
stocks that paid off, big time. Now, she runs her own investment firm,
which enables her to provide more than either of us will ever need. She
found me on Facebook one day, and the rest is history. In this new
reality, anyway.
"Hi, Jenny. I've missed you," she says. I've missed her too, even though
I've never seen her before. With my new memories, it's as if I just saw
her that morning when she left for work.
She embraces me, our 34D's mashing together, and sticks her tongue down my
throat. I feel myself getting wet again, and I can't wait for what the
night will bring. "Why do you always have to wear higher heels than me?" I
ask her, my left foot brushing her 6" stilettos.
"Because I know they drive you crazy," she says. She's right. I love the
way she looks in heels (and in everything else). I love showing Gina off
to my friends. I am her trophy wife, but she is mine, too. And life is
good.
"Sam's still here," I tell her, snaking my hand up her skirt and making
her moan with pleasure and anticipation. "Shall we see if he'd like to
join us?"
***
FIN
Marisol
- 06.08.2021
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