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The Thing About Uneven Relationships Belladonna My head jerked as I heard the front door closing while I continued to stir the pot on the stove. I stepped away from the stove for a second, feeling the hem of the skirt of my cap sleeved, floral print, swing dress brushing into my suntan, stocking covered legs as I did so. From the sound of the heels clicking on the wood hallway floor, I knew that my wife had come home. She moved into the kitchen and flashed me a big smile as she greeted me with a chipper, "Hey, Princess." I used to hate it when she called me that. Those words cut at me for years, but, I have grown found of it, now. It's a term of endearment from my beloved, and I count myself lucky to have her. That wasn't always the case, however. While I was smitten with her from day one, things started to change after we moved in together. Certain traits of mine immediately caught my future wife's attention. She knew that I had crossed dressed every Halloween since I was ten. That fact certainly raised a red flag for her, but once she saw how I lived, I think she realized that it was undeniable that I was a cross- dresser. I suppose there's only so many times you can tell a girl you shave your thin legs because you like the way it feels before she calls you on it. In Ashea's case, she caught me red handed, or, more precisely, red pantied. They were a lacy pair in her underwear drawer that I had my eyes on for months. I swear that I thought she had left. I thought that there was no way she would tell. It was reckless, but I put them on. I barely got a chance to admire them in her full-length mirror before I heard her laughing from behind me. I almost broke into tears. She was in tears; of course they were from laughter not from the terror and humiliation I was experiencing. I begged her not to say anything. She wondered why, noting all the times so many people had seen me in a dress. It was then that she realized that she had me over a barrel. Any thoughts of us being a relationship of equals was gone. She had the upper hand. I remember sensing it in her eyes. She knew right then that I was her bitch! By the time I proposed to her, our roles had been set. Ours was not a relationship of equals. I was her sub, and she was my domme. While most men I knew would reject such a relationship, it, somehow, worked for us. Both having well paying jobs, we could afford a housekeeper, but my wife insisted that we not get one, since she did not want a stranger in our home alone. I got her concern, but I knew that her stated reason was certainly not her true rationale for refusing to hire one. My job allowed me greater flexibility with my hours than hers did, and I also worked fewer hours than she did. Accordingly, in the "interest of fairness," or so my wife claims, all the "woman's work" fell on me. While I got sort of a rush cleaning up after and cooking for my wife at first, the whole thing kind of grew dull for me after the first couple of months. My wife noticed it instantly. Instead of relieving me of my womanly duties, however, she came up with a new way to keep it from getting too dull for me or us. Her solution was themes. With each theme, came roles for each of us to play. This month's theme was 1950's housewife, which meant that my "Husband" made all the decisions, and I existed to serve her and look "pretty." It was just one of the many themes we cycled through each year. There were the maid themes. These ranged from a real domestics outfit for "Juanita" to Victorian maid's outfits for "Bridget" that were so heavy and hot that I almost felt like collapsing at points. Still, it beat the ridiculous French maid costumes with frills and petticoats and pumps that made cleaning practically impossible for "Colette," especially up to my wife's exhausting standards. There were so many other themes too. The Cinderella before her prince theme, the bride who was always blushing because she was wearing a ridiculously immodest fetish bride's dress, the horny schoolgirl who would do anything for her "bo" or the sexy teacher, my witch of a wife's cat eared, whiskers and all, familiar, and then there was the mildly racist Japanese woman in a geisha dress routine. If you ever think you felt degraded, just think about how it must have felt for me to bow to my wife while telling her that "I honor your penis" in broken English, all the while sporting a raging erection at having to do it in the first place! Mind you, these are only the themes I'm not too embarrassed about to write down. "How was your day?" I asked as Ashea came over to me, remembering the rules of being a 1950's housewife my wife found online and drilled into me each time we went through this particular theme. "So great," she replied before she patted me on the butt through the skirt of my dress. We shared a brief kiss before I handed her a martini. She smiled as she took a sip and retired to the living room while I went back to scurrying around the kitchen, making us dinner. Shortly after I placed the meal down on the dinning room table, my wife joined me for dinner. I served her at the table before I sat down and started eating beside her. As always when we played these roles, Ashea initiated the conversation and controlled the topics that came up. Ashea gave me a smile as she said, "I was thinking about Halloween, dear." "What about it? It's six months away," I replied with a small laugh as I ran my finger along the surplice neckline of my dress. "I think that it's time that we take things up a notch." Anytime my wife starts talking about taking things up a notch my stomach sinks. Things have already been taken far beyond my comfort zone. While I never minded going out in drag around Halloween, it has become a year round thing, with my wife entering me in womanless beauty pageants and taking me to drag clubs and gay bars. Consequently, I shot her a nervous look before I garnered the nerve to ask, "What do you mean?" "I was thinking that you should be a belly dancer this year." That was it? That was what she was putting the fear of god into me for? She put me in far more embarrassing costumes before. Hell, even the year before I had been a tutu-wearing ballerina, which itself was a step up in my book from the slutty Tinkerbelle I had been the year before that. If anything, this was a step back more than taking it up a notch. "Sounds good, dear," I replied. My wife smiled as she added, "But this time, I want you to have the training to really pull it off." "Huh?" I replied before fear began to grip me as I realized that this was not going to be strictly limited to just wearing a costume. "I signed us up for some classes starting tonight." "Say what?" "We're taking belly dancing classes." "Are you crazy?" "I think you're forgetting your place, woman," my wife replied with a stern look and an equally stern tone. "Sorry, dear," I replied, remembering my place while my manhood swelled and pushed against the nylon encasing it, which only served to make me even hornier. My wife nodded before she replied, "It's going to be fun." "Is this a tranny class?" I asked, hoping, praying really, that the answer would somehow be yes. As I watched Ashea shake her head, I started to tremble. After a pause, I replied, "Is this a girl's class?" "Yes. Do you think that there's a belly dancing for men's class?" Ashea asked with an amused grin. "But what will they think...." "Oh, you've passed yourself off a girl many times before," my wife gently reminded me. "That was in passing. This is a class," I practically shrieked in response. My wife laughed at her hysterical sounding, 1950's housewife of a husband. It was then that she put her foot down, and I knew that my fate had been sealed. There was to be no further discussion. We finished eating, and I cleaned up while my wife went upstairs to get our outfits ready for our belly dancing class. After I finished cleaning the plates and the pot, I walked up to my bedroom and saw the outfit my wife had bought for me. I did not have much time to take it in as my wife rushed me to get a move on, telling me that we were going to be late. I put on the Black leotard with half sleeves first. It was certainly not the first time I had worn a leotard, but I never enjoyed the feeling of it. I pulled it up my body and stared down at its nude colored, mesh midriff that barely let my belly button be seen through it. Once I finished putting it on, I stuffed the self-lined bra of the leotard with the small breast forms I wore for certain characters I played for my wife. I then put on the turquoise Capri pants that were laid out for me. The stretchy pants were decorated with ruffles and side ties. The pants actually felt comfortable, but I gave my crotch a nervous look. Even though I tucked myself away in the tight leotard under the pants, I was still afraid of showing too much. My wife seemed to read my mind as she laughed and said, "Oh, I almost forgot." I smiled when I saw the matching wrap skirt in her hand that she helped tie around my waist before she helped me with my makeup and long hair. Once she finished fussing with me, I placed the pair of shoes she got me in my purse, put on a pair of flats and headed out of our home to my wife's car. It was dark, so I was not particularly worried about being seen by anyone in costume. I'm sure my neighbors have all seen me cross-dressed anyway. They are just polite enough to ignore me and likely are just snickering about it behind my back, the way that good, decent people do when they live next to weirdoes. We got into her car, and my wife drove us to the studio where the class was being held. I was more than a bit nervous as we walked in. I only grew more anxious when I realized that I really was the only man in the room! It was every bit the all girls class my wife had claimed. I would have fainted if I wasn't so terrified that doing so would give me away. I looked around, waiting for someone to out me. As I put on my Hermes sandals, however, I noticed that no one batted an eye at me being there. I noted it to my wife in a hushed tone. She shook her head and gently chided me, "It's because they don't know, Princess." I was relieved by the thought. I had passed myself off as a woman before, and I certainly preferred that to the other alternatives that existed at that moment, but the part of me that wanted to be a man was offended by the whole thing. It's probably something I got from my father. For love of God, we're of German descent. The Germans are, like, the only people that refer to their homeland as the Fatherland because they don't want their country to seem too girlish. There was no one looking at me that night in my leotard and powder puff, blue Capri pants, however, that was going to say I looked manly though. Shortly after we arrived, the instructor introduced herself to us before she had us do some warm up stretches. If the women in the class were better looking, and my wife wasn't there, I would have really enjoyed what I was looking at as the women contorted their bodies. It was more than tolerable as it was anyway since I struggled to keep from ogling the instructor, Miss Mazloum. Although, she was getting on in years, she was still pretty. Ten years ago, she probably was something to see; twenty years ago, she definitely must have been a walking masterpiece. Once the music started, Miss Mazloum gave us our first lesson in Belly Dancing. She looked at the class and said, "Okay girls, there are seven basic movements of Belly Dancing, lifts and drops, slides, twists, shimmies, circles, undulations and figure 8's." We all nodded along as she demonstrated each movement as she described them with some of us understanding, and other's, like me, not. We waited for her further instructions. Miss Mazloum looked at us and started to demonstrate some basic hip lifts and drops. I followed along by bending one knee to drop the hip, then straightening the knee to lift my hip back up, careful to keep my knee from locking. We then did another hip drop, putting the weight on the balls of our right feet. We lifted our right hips up and dropped them while keeping our upper bodies steady. As we followed her instructions, she shook her head at me as she gave the "class" some further instruction, which was clearly aimed at me. I felt embarrassed and tried to follow along. We went through each movement before the class came to an end. We said goodbye to some of the girls from the class as we made our way to Ashea's car and headed back home. Before my wife let me shower and change, she asked me to join her in the living room. I followed her in and watched her sit on a chair before she looked at me and said, "Show me what you learned tonight." "You want a routine?" I asked for clarification. She only nodded in response. I started dancing, shimmying and twisting as Miss Mazloum taught us before I asked, "Is this what you want, dear?" "Call me Master," Ashea replied. I froze as I looked down at her and asked, "Why not, Mistress?" "I have some 'I Dream of Jeannie' fantasies I want to play out." "Can't I just be a naked astronaut?" I basically begged. "We'll see about the naked part," she retorted before she ordered me back to completing my routine. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- The next morning, I got up and went to work. I was not remoteing in that day, so I had to actually go to the office. I enjoyed these days, however, as it was a nice change of pace. While I was powerless at home, I enjoyed a midlevel position at my job that endowed me with certain authorities over others that I liked to exercise from time to time. I walked into the office and greeted my bosses and coworkers before I went into my office. I always played the powerful male role in the office, but most of my coworkers didn't believe my act. As I sat down behind my desk, I saw the person who believed least of it all, Fatima, my secretary, knocking on my door. Fatima was a great employee. She knew her stuff and certainly made me look good, which was never lost on her. What was also never lost on her was that I really did not want to be stuck with her as my secretary. She was hired by the company for me and without my input. I had inherited her from the person who had been fired from the position I ended up taking. Fatima was a highly qualified and talented middle age woman, but I wanted a younger, prettier girl taking orders from me. I wanted Megan Calvet from Mad Men, even though I knew my wife would kill me if she found out about me having a girl like that working as my secretary. Fatima certainly realized how she good she was, and I often wondered how she did not end up going to college and working a job that was more up to her abilities. Still, I never bothered to ask that question. I had been very successful at my job since Fatima had been assigned to me. A number of 'my' best ideas came from her, but she never got any credit. Although, to be fair, she never sought any either. Fatima looked down at me and said that she had a call for me. After I asked who it was, Fatima advised that it was Sol Bloom. I took the call and started talking with Sol. Sol was a big client, but he had a way about him where he tried to dominate every aspect of his life and every person in it. I sometimes chaffed at it, but I largely let it slide because he always paid his bills on time. That morning, he said something that set me off. I can't even recall what it was, but I started yelling. Fatima came storming into the room and did her best to diffuse the situation. She had a calming way with words that seemed to smooth things over with Sol. We had a polite end to our conversation before we each hung up the phone. I breathed a sigh of relief as I put the phone down. Fatima gave me a worried look before I thanked her for her help. I really needed it. We both knew that I was up for a promotion and the last thing I needed was my anger getting the best of me. Fatima told me that I was welcome before she returned to her duties outside my door. Around lunchtime, my bosses pulled me out of the office to give me the big news. One of Fatima's ideas I pitched had landed a big client and a big bonus for me. I was elated. I only grew happier when they told me that not only did I land a big client, I landed a promotion in the process. I was on cloud nine when I told Fatima the news. She was excited for me, even though I didn't give her any of the credit for it that she deserved. I never did, but she never raised an objection to it before. She only congratulated me before she walked out of my office, appearing to feel good about herself. I went home that Friday evening feeling great about the whole thing. After putting down my briefcase, I changed into my red, elbow length, sleeved dress with ruching and a button detail along the sleeves. I loved the dress's fitted bodice and its subtle V neckline with a tie front and ruched empire waist with a circle belt detail that never failed to get my wife's attention. The dress's ruffled, A-line cut skirt hung over my black, sheer nylon covered legs as I stepped into my red Mary Jane pumps before I went downstairs to make dinner for my wife. Once Ashea came home, she could tell that I was bubbling over with anticipation to tell her something. She decided to keep making me wait by bringing up a variety subjects we had to discuss in full before I was allowed to tell her my news. I grinned as I finally got to announce, "Starting Monday, I've got a new job." "Okay," my wife replied, giving me a suspicious look. "I got a promotion," I added with great pride while I clutched at the hem of my dress under the table with both hands. My wife gave me a blank look before she asked, "And you took it?" "Well, yes," I replied, confused by wife's lack of elation about my success, as I crossed my ankles and began to nervously rub my nylon- covered knees. "Without discussing it with me?" "Yes," I replied, belatedly realizing my mistake. "Did I even cross your mind?" Truthfully the answer was no, but I replied, "I thought you'd be happy for me." "I am," she replied before adding, "but this is going to mean that you're going to be spending more time out of the home." I had to admit that she was right. Ashea gave me a shake of her head before she said that I could take the promotion. I felt as if the weight of the world had been taken off my shoulders when she came around to the promotion. Ashea then smiled as she said, "Besides, you could always quit and become a fulltime housewife if I end up disliking the new arrangement." I almost choked when I heard her words. With those words hanging over my head, I spent the entire weekend, serving Ashea and tidying up the house to prove to her that I would still be able to do my 'wifely' duties for her, despite my new position at work. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- The following Monday, I started my new job. My belongings had been relocated to a new office, and I was assigned a new secretary. While I could have brought Fatima up with me, I decided to cut the chord and move on alone. I could sense that there were a number of administrative assistants that were displeased with my decision. From a short interaction with Fatima, I could tell that she was incensed about my decision, which she found out about only that morning. For all she did for me, she believed that she deserved to be brought up the ladder with me. I understood her point, but I dismissed it off hand with her. I walked away and put her out of my mind while I got to working at my new desk and staring out at the world below my new office window. The girl who brought me my coffee that morning was far more out of my central casting for the role of my secretary. She was a peppy, young, pretty and a bit dumb, but that was endearing given her blonde hair. She seemed fine with living up to a stereotype, and I felt happy to be able to check her out every time I called her into my office. As the evening came, I saw my wife's number come up on my cell phone. I answered, "Hey, Ashea." "Where are you?" she bellowed. "Work," I answered. "Do you know what time it is?" I checked the clock on my computer and told her the time. "Do you remember what today is?" I paused, scared for a second that I forgot her birthday or our anniversary. A quick check of the month let me breathe a sigh of relief before I replied, "What is it?" "We have a class tonight." "Oh, come on, baby. I'm really busy here." "Don't give me that. I told you not to take that job." "I'm sorry. I just need to get some work done." "Listen, one of two things is happening. You're coming home, or pictures from our personal collection are going out to your office." I froze as I heard her words. I shut down my computer, knowing that her threats were anything but idle. While Ashea was never malicious, she could be loose with her discretion when her emotions got the better of her. I knew she was unhappy with me for making a major decision without her input. She was upset that I wasn't there to greet her when she came home, and she was livid at the prospect of paying good money for classes I was not going to attend because of a job she did not want me to take in the first place. I told my wife I was coming home immediately. I hung up the phone and said goodbye to the people left in my office before I rushed out the door. I then sped home and changed with Ashea. Based on the stretch, gathered, dark pink half top with matching harem pants that she left out for me, I could tell that she was trying to mock whatever little shred of what was left of my masculine pride. Still, knowing how peeved she already was, I wasted no time in putting those clothes on over my gaff, black sports bra and padding before following her out the door. The class went just like the first one before as we both worked on our routines and skills before we went back home. I made us both a snack in lieu of the dinner we had both not eaten that night before Ashea made me do another routine for her. While the first routine I had done for her was met with the highest praise, "Master" picked every knit with my routine that night. I knew that I was on thin ice with her. I could tell that she was driving home the point that I would have to really prove that my new job was not going to be an impediment to the life we had made with each other going forward. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- I returned to my office the next morning, feeling a bit nervous about my wife. My confidence, however, returned as I entered the office building dressed in my three-piece suit and made my way onto the elevator. I got off on my office's floor and walked towards the office door. As I opened, the receptionist gave me an icy stare. 'Still pissed about Fatima', I thought before thinking about having a discussion with the bosses about the dirty looks some of the girls were giving me. I walked past my empty old office and saw that Ashea's desk was empty. I wondered what had happened to her, but I didn't care enough to inquire as I made my way towards my office. Before I could step into it, I heard Mr. Gamal calling out my name. I froze and walked towards the man who was the boss of all the bosses in the office. While my direct boss was fond of me, I knew that Mr. Gamal thought that I was a bit of a blowhard who was trying to overcompensate for something. I greeted him before he told me to step into his office. I trembled a bit while I walked in before I saw Fatima sitting on one of his guest chairs. "Take a seat," Mr. Gamal ordered. I sat down and looked at Mr. Gamal before my eyes drifted to the unsympathetic look on Fatima's face. I wondered what the meeting was about, but I knew that it was nothing good. Mr. Gamal sat down at his desk and said, "Flo, Fatima has brought to my attention that you might have used some of her ideas." "Oh," I replied, playing dumb. "Yes, she claims that she gave you a number of ideas that you used to bring on some big clients." "Really?" "Do you know what she's talking about?" "I'm not sure." "You're not sure?" Mr. Gamal asked with a hint of incredulousness in his tone. "No, Sir," I lied. "Son, Fatima gave me some emails that indicate what ideas you took from her." "What emails?" "Some emails she printed." "They could have been doctored," I replied with a reasonable defense. Mr. Gamal shook his head while he pushed towards me the written proof that the ideas that had gotten me to the position I found myself in were Fatima's. I soon concluded that he had pulled the electronic data on the emails to ensure that nothing had been modified after the fact. "So, what do you think about Fatima's claims, now?" I nodded as I looked at the documents in front of me. I knew that I could not deny it. I forced a smile to my face as I replied, "She was a big help for me. I never denied that." "And you didn't think it was appropriate to acknowledge her help?" "We all get help from our secretaries." "This isn't help. This is her doing your job, and better than you do it for that matter," Mr. Gamal retorted. His tone made me sink a little in my seat. Mr. Gamal then continued to berate me, seconding Fatima's opinions regarding my personality issues, stating that I always appeared to be overcompensating for something. There was an unstated belief among many in the office that my effeminate traits stemmed from being a closeted gay. If they only knew! Mr. Gamal shook his head before he said, "I was against promoting you, Flo. I really was, but my underlings said you earned as shot. Now, I know that not only didn't you earn a shot, Fatima did!" I decided to give myself a last defense as I replied, "Sir, everybody takes other peoples ideas. 'If it weren't for someone plagiarizing the Honeymooners, we wouldn't have the Flintstones. If someone hadn't ripped off Sgt. Bilko, they'd be no Top Cat, Huckleberry Hound, Chief Wiggum; Yogi Bear? Hah! Andy Griffith, Edward G. Robinson, Art Carney. Sir, if you take away our right to steal ideas, where are they gonna come from?'" I think Mr. Gamal realized that my defense, itself, was ripped off, word for word, from 'The Simpsons' as he shook his head. He glowered at me as he leaned over his desk and said, "And despite everything she did for you, you didn't think it was a good idea to keep her on?" "I wanted to do it on my own." "Clearly you can't," Mr. Gamal retorted, prompting Fatima to smile. "I wanted to prove it to myself." Mr. Gamal leaned back in his seat and said, "I could fire you for this, Flo. I probably should, but Fatima's got a more merciful and just solution." "What?" I asked, scared out of my wits. Mr. Gamal grinned as he said, "You can be fired or you can stay on as Fatima's secretary." "Secretary," I repeated his word. "Yes, with a corresponding cut in pay of course," Mr. Gamal added. "Is this a joke?" I asked, hoping that it was all an elaborate setup. "Does it look like a joke?" Mr. Gamal retorted, growing irritated with my disbelief. I knew that I had no real desire to be a secretary for my secretary. I was already under the boot of one woman after all. Still, I knew that with the job market the way it was, I might never make it back to the workforce. My resume was good though. So, I almost dismissed that concern offhand, but then I thought about Ashea. If I told Ashea that I was let go from work, I knew that I would find myself in skirts 24/7. Everyday would be a weekend day. The masculine part of my life would die, and Ashea might never let me be anything other than a housewife again. I hesitated before I said, "I'll stay on." My meek words brought a huge smile to Fatima's face. Mr. Gamal shook his head at me, looking as if he was surprised that I would take such a one sided deal. He dismissed me from his office and told me to follow Fatima's orders as if they were his. I walked back to my office with Fatima and began to clean it out before she stopped me and told me that it was more important to set hers up first. Not being in a position to disagree, I followed her towards my old office, which she had inherited. I set up her desk as she gave me specific directions where everything was to go from the supplies to the orientation of her monitor. Once she settled in behind her desk, I hung the pictures wherever she told me they should be placed. Only after every little detail was taken care of in her office, I was allowed to gather my things and bring them to Fatima's old desk. I took the walk of shame several times, getting comments from the women I walked past who welcomed me to their ranks. They loved seeing a former boss reduced to their level and made damn sure that I knew it. I finished setting up my desk before Fatima sent me out to pickup her lunch. I walked to the eatery to get the meal before I brought it back to her. She took it without a word of thanks before I sat and ate lunch at my secretary's desk. My newly fellow secretaries could not resist getting a few barbs in at me as they walked by. Their snickers were no worse than the comments I got from some of the men in the office. Their contempt for me was undisguised, and I knew that the idea of me returning to my former glory was even more absurd than I initially imagined. I went home that night on the verge of tears. I knew I had to tell my wife about it and that was almost enough to bring me to the point of a nervous breakdown. There was no way that I could explain my decreased pay other than by telling her the truth. I decided to try to make the best presentation I could. The second I entered my home, I rushed up the stairs and changed into the fifty's outfit my wife loved the most. I put on my black, cap sleeved dress with a bodice that boasted a pretty, white crochet contrast collar adorned with faux center button detail and a pleated and gathered waistline. The A-line swing skirt swept to my nude nylon covered knees as I placed it on. After I finished putting on the dress, I slipped my feet into my four inch stiletto heeled pumps that were adorned with a black and white, two tone wingtip, a buckled, adjustable T-strap and vintage brogue trim. I then made my wife her favorite meal and had it ready on the table for her the minute she came home, like a good 1950's wife. Ashea looked genuinely surprised to see me home so early. She kissed me and gave me a bottom pat as I gave her a drink and followed her into the dinning room. After telling me about her day, she asked, "So, why were you home so early today? Not that I'm complaining." "Oh, yah, I've got something to tell you about that one." "What?" Ashea asked, concerned. "I got demoted." "Back to the old job?" Ashea asked as her eyebrows rose. "Sort of." "Is it a different job?" "Yes." "So, what are you doing?" "I'm going to be assisting someone." "Assisting someone?" "Yes, I'm going to be an assistant," I admitted, unable to meet her gaze. "Like a secretary?" Ashea asked with a laugh. "Yes," I replied, feeling aroused by admission. "Was this your idea?" My wife inquired, appearing somewhat pleased by the development. "No." "Then, what happened?" I crossed my nylon-covered ankles as I said, "Mr. Gamal found out that I used some ideas I took from Fatima." "So?" "I never gave her any credit for it." "That's not so out of the ordinary." "I...I...also didn't bring her up with me when I got promoted." "What?" My wife replied, clearly unhappy with my response. "I took on a new secretary. I wanted to start over." "So, you cut yourself off from the source of your ideas. That's pretty stupid, Princess," Ashea chided. "Yes. That was Mr. Gamal's take." "But why?" My wife demanded. "I wanted to do it myself." My wife gave a dismissive look as she shouted, "That's a stupid male ego talking. Why would you throw that thing around? You should have thrown it out. You're better than that!" "I'm sorry. I just thought it was expected of me." "It probably is, but you have to beat expectations. I expect better from you than being than acting like a man." "I can't help being a man...." "You're not a man," my wife retorted before continuing, "Men do not wear nylons. They don't wear dresses! They don't pretty themselves up for their wives! They don't belly dance! They don't serve women! Men are dogs. I wouldn't have married a man. You're not one of them." "I'm sorry, dear," I replied as manhood surged between my cheeks for reasons I had long given up on trying to comprehend. "It's okay," Ashea said as she grabbed my hand and began to stroke it. She gave a calm look and said, "If you can't function in the workplace, there are worse things than being a housewife." My heart started to race as my earlier fears of being trapped in the home again reemerged. While parading around in skirts all day was not my idea of hell, I wanted to maintain some escape from it. I quickly shook my head as I replied, "No. I have to stay on." "You want to stay on a secretary," Ashea replied, unable to hide her amused disbelief. "I need to prove my worth to the company. I need to show them that I can be a good man." "By being a secretary?" My wife replied with a laugh. "Yes," I replied, blushing, desperate to maintain my male time outside of the home, even if it was working in what was traditionally a woman's role. Ashea shook her head, "When are you going to give up your silly little fantasies, babe." "Honey, please..." "Okay. I guess you'll be back around here enough to keep your job." "Thank you," I replied. My wife kissed me and said, "No problem. How could I say no to such a pretty wife?" ----------------------------------------------------------------------- I went to work the next morning dressed for my new role. Instead of wearing a suit, I played it casual, wearing slacks, a button down shirt and loafers. The receptionist still turned her nose up towards me when I walked in, evidently feeling that I was a bit beneath her in the grand scheme of things. As I reached the desk I had inherited in the interior of the office space, Fatima must have heard me arrive. I looked up to see her hurrying to step out of my old office. She grinned as she said, "Good morning, dear." "Morning," I replied rather tersely. Fatima pouted for a second as she asked, "Are you not feeling well?" "I'm just swell." "Oh, what's the matter?" "You think I'm looking forward to being a male secretary?" I retorted. Fatima laughed while she shook her head and replied, "Don't worry. I wouldn't hear of it anyway." I gave her a strange look as I thought about her insinuation. I shook my head before I asked, "What do you mean by that?" "I mean that I expect my secretaries to be pretty and presentable, just like my old boss used to." I shook my head again as I replied, "I can't be pretty." "We'll see about that once we get you into a skirt, now, come along Florence." "It's Florenz." "Flo regardless." "Flo Rida," the secretary, now, seated to my right interjected. "No, Flo Rita," the secretary to my left corrected as I just stood there blushing, hoping to be struck dead by a lighting bolt. 'Are you up there, God? Take the shot', I remember thinking before Fatima took my hand and started pulling me. "Come along, Fahreda," Fatima said as I stood still. "Fahreda?" I repeated. "It's a prettier name than Florida," Fatima retorted. "Good times, good times," the secretary to my left interjected. It was anything but good times for me though. I shook my head and said, "Enough of this. I need to get work." "Oh, you can't work like that. A secretary in pants. It'd be a disgrace." I just about blew up as I shouted my protests about what she was insinuating. Fatima's eyes shot daggers at me as she said, "You either come with me or you can find another job." My heart started to race as I realized that I was ending up in skirts either way. At least at work, I figured, I might work my way out of them again. They all thought I was really gay anyway. If Ashea got me at home 24/7, she might keep me chained there forever. That thought, more than any other, drove me to put my head down and follow behind Fatima. Images of being Ashea's permanent housewife abounded in my mind. I knew that once she got me completely financially dependent on her, I was never going to get out. While there were certainly worse fates than being little more than a slave to your beloved, I wanted to do more with my life than be shackled to the home. As we walked past Mr. Gamal, I caught a glimpse of his smug smile. I knew that he concluded that he was right about me, while his underlings had pegged me wrong. I wanted to prove him wrong so badly, but I was stuck at the moment at Fatima's disposal. We exited the office and made our way down to the lobby before Fatima led me out onto the street. From there, it was a two-block walk to a salon. I really was horrified at the prospect of entering it, but my feet kept moving, keeping up with Fatima's pace. The receptionist greeted Fatima warmly, while ignoring my presence beside her. After she signed us in, a member of the staff came over and greeted Fatima before she asked, "Is this the little lady to be?" "Yes, this is Fahreda." "Oh, what a pretty name, what is it?" I had absolutely no idea before Fatima answered for me, "It's Arabic." "And Fatima's Egyptian?" "My parents are from Egypt," Fatima answered. I was surprised that I didn't know that before their exchange, but then again, I never asked. The salon employee then smiled while she said, "Come along, girls." I stood still, almost unwilling to acknowledge that she referred to me in such a way as Ashea got up. "That means you too little Egypt," the salon employee said as she looked at me. "Hop to it, Princess," Fatima added. I wanted to kill them both while I was brought to the back of the salon. The salon employee handed me a towel and told me to strip down. I gave her an aghast look before glancing at Fatima. Fatima shook her head and said, "Do you think I'm going to see something I haven't seen before? I used to be married." 'Another fact as I was unaware of', I thought before I began to strip down. I took of my clothes and wrapped the towel around my body as the girls talked before I got on the table. The salon employee walked over to me and said, "We're going to start by removing your...." "What?" I asked. "Body hair, but it seems that someone already beat us to the punch," the woman answered giving Fatima a quizzical look. From the confused looks on Fatima and the other woman's faces, I could tell that they were shocked by this turn of events. A smile soon came to Fatima's face. If I could read her mind, I'd swear that she was thinking, 'This might be a whole lot easier than I imagined.' The woman from the salon ran her hands across my waxed and regularly moisturized legs and said, "Well, since your already silky smooth, I guess we'll start off with your eyebrows instead." My heart started to race as I thought about her working on my eyebrows. That was not the sort of thing you could hide. While I could cover up my body, I couldn't cover up my eyebrows unless I put on a burqa. That option surely would not allow me to project a masculine image either. I was relieved that they didn't go overboard with it. They plucked them and certainly shaped them to make them have a more prominent and neater arch. Still, when I saw it, I figured that I could pass it off as good grooming for a man. I got off the table and was given a soft, white terry cloth robe and was brought out into the salon. The salon was not packed that morning, but the few women in the place snickered at my appearance while I was brought over to the shampoo girl. Once the shampoo girl finished washing my hair, I was seated at a station and another stylist got to work on me. She made small talk with Fatima while she ran her fingers through my long hair before she began to shape it and applied a hideous smelling dye to my hair. I shuddered at the thought of what my hair would look like once they were finished with it. As I waited for the dye to be removed, the stylist turned her attention to doing my nails. They started with my fingernails before proceeding to paint my toenails a matching dark red color. As the stylist began to work on my toenails, it was clear to me that she noticed some traces of nail polish from the last time I painted them. She smirked to Fatima, but she did not say a thing while she painted my nails. I stared down at my nails and wanted to die in the chair. I figured that my wife would love it. While she had made me paint my toenails before, she always restrained herself from having my fingernails painted. It was press on nails only for those because she acknowledged that I had to present a minimally masculine appearance of sorts at work. Now that such a requirement was clearly a thing of the past, I really thought that I would never know what it was like to not have painted fingernails again. Ashea would probably make me grow them out too. At that moment, I was sure that I was going to become one of those girls typing with long nails. Any dreams I had of preserving any part of my male life seemed eradicated by ten little colorized squares. As my hair was washed out and styled, I got a good look at the highlighted chestnut colored hair that was framing my face before they started with the makeup. By the time they finished and let me take in my red lips and darkly accented eyes, I knew that Fatima had made me into the sissy of my wife's dreams. Once she got a glimpse of me, there would be no going back to Florenz Jorns again. They did not give me long to linger on my reflection, since Fatima and the stylist got me out of the chair and brought me into the stock room. Fatima started undoing my robe before she handed me a pair of panties. She told me to put them and gave me instructions for how to tuck away my manhood, unaware that such instructions were wholly unnecessary for me. Once I pulled it up tight, Fatima handed me a bra. I put it on, again acting as I was following her instructions. Silicone forms were then stuffed into the cups of my bra. The cold glue made me shudder a little, which only served to bring a smile to Fatima's face. Fatima stepped away and gave my body and approving glance before she handed me a pair of nude pantyhose. She told me how to put them on. Again, I nodded as if I was listening to her while I rolled them down and delicately brought them up my legs. Fatima guffawed as I brought the control top over my groin without putting a single run in the pair. She shook her head at me. I could tell that she realized that I had definitely done this more than a few times before. She walked around me and giggled as she stood behind me. I'm sure the erection that was poking at the back of my pantyhose was the source of her bemusement. She walk back in front of me and handed me a grey skirt and a white blouse. Wanting to cover myself up in the worst way, I hurried to step into the skirt. I brought it up to my waist as quick as I could before I put my arms through the sleeves of the blouse. My fingers made quick work of the buttons as I buttoned it up. Fatima seemed slightly surprised by my familiarity with buttoning things the opposite way, but it was unlike her earlier shock. I knew that she had no doubt that I was a cross-dresser by the time I finished with that blouse. "Do you like the feel of satin?" "Huh?" "The skirt and the blouse," Fatima asked while her eyebrows rose. I wanted to retort that the stretchy skirt and blouse were sateen and not satin. A lady knows the difference, my wife has said to me on at least fifty occasions. I restrained myself, however, as I lied, "I prefer the pants I came in with." Fatima shook her head, clearly aware that I was lying while she handed me a pair of white pumps. I put my feet into them before she gave me a bag containing my male clothing. I took it without saying a word in response. We walked out of the storeroom, attracting snickers from the girls. My ease walking in heels was not lost on any of them. I realized that they all knew that I was pantyhose wearing, pump strutting sissy rather than just the pussy whipped man being punished that they first took me for. I was no longer in a position to hide what I was. After Fatima paid for the salon and tipped the workers, we walked back towards the office. We stopped in an eatery on the way back to work to have a quick lunch at Fatima's insistence. We each grabbed a grab and go salad and a bottle of water. We then paid for the food and took a seat at a table. As we started to eat, Fatima smiled and asked, "So, you seem to move quite easily in heels?" "I do?" I replied, as if I was surprised by her statement. "Yes. It looks like you've got a lot of practice in them." "Oh, no. It's my first time." "Really?" "Sure." "That's strange. Most women stumble when they first start learning how to walk in pumps." "I'm not a woman," I said under my breath. "So, maybe men are better at wearing heels than women," Fatima replied with a grin, "I always thought that men should wear them. Maybe get them to know just what we go through." "Sure," I replied, eager to put the conversation to bed as I continued to eat my salad. Fatima smiled at my response clearly reading my lies into it. After she took another bite of her salad, she asked, "Where did you learn to put on pantyhose?" "You," I lied. "Me?" "You gave me instructions." "And you followed them." "Well, there's your answer." "You followed them better than I could." "I never saw you with a run." "How do you know what happens if you don't know what you're doing?" "I have a wife you know." Fatima paused as she stroked her chubby chin, as if she was stroking a beard that she did not have before she said, "And what does she think about your silky smooth body." "She likes it." "I bet she does. I bet she does," Fatima responded while I squirmed and continued to eat, hoping that she would finish her food and interrogation soon enough. "Have you thought about how you'll explain those nails or your eyebrows." "Yes." "What are you going to tell her?" "I lost a bet." "You lost a bet, but your bosses are still going to let you come to work showing off those nails. That's real believable, babe." Fatima's condescension irritated me before I replied, "It doesn't matter. She'll look the other way." Fatima grinned before she took another bite, taking my words as an admission that Ashea knew full well that I was the cross-dresser I was denying being. She seemed to think something over, but she did not say what. Fatima had met my wife before during the two or three times she stopped by the office. There was one exchange between them that stuck with me. Fatima had told Ashea that I was prissy about some things. My wife just laughed off the comment before she joked, "Trust me, it's not easy being married to a princess." My stomach when she said it. Fatima seemed to interpret Ashea's joking remark as evidence to support her widely shared theory. I'm sure that everything that had transpired that morning had just served to further confirm her suspicions. After we finished eating, we hurried to the office to try to makeup for the lost time in the workplace that morning. Before we entered, however, I put my clothes away in my trunk, which I felt was better than following Fatima's recommendation that I toss them in the garbage. Once I closed the trunk, we made our way back into the office building. As we walked back into our office, it was very clear who was the boss. I was walking in a skirt and blouse outfit, while Fatima worse a smart pantsuit that the receptionist immediately complimented. The snickers from the girls at the salon were nothing compared to the outright laughs of contempt my appearance brought from the girls in the office and some of the guys. Some of the other guys appeared to pity me, while others had nothing but outright scorn in their eyes when I caught them looking at me. As I settled in at my new desk, I remembered how reluctant Fatima was to call me into her office the day before. Other than moving her in, a little paper work and grabbing her lunch, she largely left me alone. I wondered if me being skirted would make it easier for her to tell me what to do. I wondered if maybe it was all an ethnic thing that made it so easy for her to let me take all the credit and made her reluctant to try to take charge when I looked like a man. My hypothesis appeared to be quickly proven as Fatima wasted little time in calling me into her office. As she sat behind my old desk, she held out her coffee mug and asked for a cup of tea. I nodded as I took the cup from her and asked what she would like in it. She paused, forcing me to look at her behind my old desk while I stood in an outfit that I would have wanted my secretary to wear. She smiled after a few seconds and gave me my instructions before she dismissed me from my former office. I put my head down as I walked towards the kitchen holding Fatima's mug. I walked past the smug faces of several secretaries who gave me looks and giggles that told me that they thought that I was sissy scum, although not in so many words. I knew that I had become a joke. I was showered with backhanded compliments about my girlish figure and my pretty clothes. I knew that some of them were actually jealous of these things though. I made my boss her tea and decided to make the best of it before I brought it back to Fatima. I perked up as I stepped out of the kitchen. There was visible confusion about the smile on my face from my fellow coworkers. They tried to figure it out as I went to place the tea on her desk. Fatima thanked me before she handed me some paperwork to process for her. It was hardly the stuff I was used to doing it. It was all menial and rote in nature. I wanted to do something more stimulating, but I had given up the right to do so in the eyes of just about everyone in the office. As 3 p.m. came, Fatima called me into her office to go over her schedule for the next day. I printed her calendar and brought it into, just as she had done for me so many times before. After we started going through her calendar, Mr. Gamal called her out of her office. Fatima told me to stay put, so I just sat in one of my old guest chairs with my nylon covered legs crossed as my wife had always taught me to do, since she had long chided me that the cross in cross- dress should serve as a reminder that my legs should always be crossed in a skirt. As I heard Fatima and Mr. Gamal finish their conversation, I heard my old direct boss, Jacob, say to Fatima, "I heard a rumor." "About what?" "That's Flo's transitioning." "Oh, I helped with that." "How so?" "Fahreda, can you come out here?" I shuttered at the thought of facing Jacob. He was one of the few guys that had yet to see me en femme and he had been my biggest supporter. Still, I walked out and faced him. His mouth was agape before he turned and asked, "What have you done to her?" Her. He called me her. That's what I am to him, now. Flo Jorns is dead, long live Fahreda. I knew it then. "Nothing, she didn't want," Fatima answered the man while I squirmed beside her. Jacob just shook his head while he hurried away from us, clearly uncomfortable about the whole situation. I certainly could not blame him for his reaction. He was humiliated. I was humiliated, and I knew that my actions, combined with his support of me, had served to bring him down a few pegs with Mr. Gamal. I knew that my biggest supporter among the bosses in the office would never make the mistake of being in my corner again. I followed Fatima back into the office and sat back down at her desk, thinking that if I could never get Jacob in my corner again, then I would never get any of the bosses to consider promoting me from my position as a transvestite secretary. The conclusion was inescapable. I was trapped! I finished going over Fatima's calendar with her before I was sent back out to my new desk. From my seat, I could see two male colleagues laughing in my direction as one of them went limp wristed. I thought about suing the company for harassment, but I figured that I would just end up embarrassing myself more. This really was not the sort of thing I wanted getting out into the papers or being passed around a courthouse. I spent the rest of the afternoon being mocked by some of the men and avoided by the rest. All of them seemed uncomfortable being around me en femme with the exception of Mr. Gamal, who appeared to take great pleasure in seeing me lowered to such a position. The women in the office were unsympathetic about my plight. They did, however, take pleasure in praising my outfit and what a believable woman I made. They realized that I was embarrassed by it, even though I could not deny that I made a believable woman. I had passed myself off as one far too many times before to harbor any delusions that I was too manly for that to be the case. I went home that night and went up to my bedroom to change. As I walked into my bedroom, however, I got a text from Ashea telling me not to change. 'How did she know?' I thought as I looked around the room for a hidden camera. Still, I knew better than to question her on such things. I turned away from the orange shorts and suntan pantyhose of my Hooters' waitress costume and walked back down the stairs. I put my heels back on and started making dinner in the kitchen. The dinner was already on the table when Ashea got home. She smiled as she saw me and greeted me her as she always did. We kissed before she joined me in the dinning room. She told me about her day before she made me tell her about mine. She made me give her every last detail, from the makeover, to how it was reacted to, to how they treated me at the office, everything. Ashea took it all in before she said, "You know, I could use a pretty secretary like you." I almost spit out my drink before I replied, "Your employees might recognize me." "So what if they do? I own the company. If they don't like it, they're free to leave." "You just want me under you boot at work too," I replied with half a smile. "Do you prefer being under Fatima's?" She asked. I shook my head, but I still wanted to take my chances at my office. I figured that there was still a minute chance of escape there. If I went to Ashea's office, I knew I'd never get to put on a pair of pants again. My wife processed my response that followed. She was disappointed that I wanted to stay on at my job, but she said, "It's your choice." I nodded before a smile came to my wife's face as she said, "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. I signed you up for another womanless beauty pageant." I gave her a blank look as I glanced up from my plate. Ashea grinned as she said, "I thought it would be a great chance to showcase your new talent before Halloween." ----------------------------------------------------------------------- My life as the skirted, pariah secretary/whipping girl at work continued over the following weeks. Nothing at all changed about it. I was on the bottom of the work hierarchy just as I was at home where my position as the performer of the "woman's work" was more cemented than ever. My fears of leaving the job and getting stuck in skirts full time had come to pass without even being terminated. I felt as if I had the worst of all worlds. I looked forward to going home each night, though. Ashea still loved me and despite me having to serve her in a variety of embarrassing outfits, there was some joy in it. Even the belly dancing classes became a welcome relief since they got my mind off being treated like scum by the other girls at work. The pageant that I had to compete in was another story. The womanless beauty pageants my wife liked to sign me up for where always off putting for me. I was usually the odd guy out with his wife with him. Most of the guys were either single or there with their boyfriends or hiding the fact that they were there from their wives or girlfriends. There was no shortage of half-closeted, half-demented guys asking me out either because they still think they're straight if the boy they're getting a blowjob from is wearing makeup. Their pickup lines made my skin crawl. I don't know how women can deal with men. They're truly disgusting creatures. In the two weeks leading up to the pageant, I was forced to join with four of the other guys for the signing part of the competition. While some of the guys did it alone, me and some of the other less vocally talented transvestites decided to hoof it and sing together as a group so that we could focus on the other parts of the show that we were each, arguably, more talented in. Once the day of the performance came, I went to the show with my wife. We carried in my several changes of costume and brought them into the dressing room that was filled with my fellow contestants. My wife kissed me for good luck before she left me to get ready for the show. I looked around the dressing room for a second and felt that I was still out of my realm. It seemed more enjoyable than usual, however. I think the fact that it was any place other than my office really made that seem to be the case though. I walked over to the girl taking down the names, and I looked for the name that Ashea usually signed me up under for the contest. The last name was there, however, the first name was different. "Which name are you?" The girl asked. "Fahreda Bazooms, I guess," I answered, shocked that my wife signed me using my first name from work, rather than under Florence, as she usually did. The girl checked me off before I changed into the first costume for the singing portion of the show. The other guys I was performing the song with entered not long after I did. We each changed into our pink evening gowns that looked more like prom dresses as we got ready for our performance. We each augmented our dresses with black belts across the waist before we put on the black pumps we were going to perform in. I could tell that the other guys were as turned on by what they were wearing as I was before we headed towards the stage. We stood to the side of it as we waited for our turn to be called onto the stage. I went over the lyrics I was required to sing that night in my head as I waited. I had never heard the song that we were going to sing until a sister of the one other straight guy among the five of us had played it for us. I had to admit the song was perfect for the contest, and we struggled to imitate the girls with higher pitched tones than usual, as well as imitating the dance movements in the music video while we stood before our mock microphones during our rehearsals at each of the guys' homes. This, however, was in front of a live audience comprised of more than just our significant others and a few very accepting family members or friends. My hands felt clammy as I waited for the first act to leave the stage. It was a Supremes number by three of the other contestants. It had so been done before. I thought our number would at least be a change of pace, not having heard it before myself. We went out onto the stage together, holding each other's hands at my wife's suggestion. She claimed it would make for setting a funnier entrance than just five guys in pretty in pink dresses. From the laughter from the audience when we stepped out onto the stage, I guess she was right. As the song began to play, we started to twirl our wrists around as the strongest singer in the group belted out "Why don't you fool me, feed me, say you need me without wicked games. Come on and hold me, hug me, say you love me and not my dirty brain." We all joined in on the next verse, "I got one Alabama return, that'll take me far away from you. Cause when you take me in your arms, I turn to slave, I can't be saved." Then my turn for a solo part came as I sang, "So I got my cappuccino to go and I'm heading for the hills again. Cause if we party anymore, we'll start a fire of pure desire." Then we kept rotating between singers as we sung the next verses, "Closer, your minds firing blind with your head, in your face getting red in your heart beats closer. You fall on your knees and the geek at your feet, says you're neat and the beat gets closer. You dive for the thrill at the kill but your heart's had its fill but it still creeps closer. You wanted to freeze, but you're weak in too deep, and the beat and the beat gets closer. Closer, closer, closer, closer, closer, closer, closer." Then, we all sang in unison, "We give it up and then they take it away. A girl's got to zip it up and get her head in the shade. Baby, if we give it up, it's just a matter of time. Before all the heavy stuff, comes back to bite your behind" As the versed ended, one of the other guys began the chorus by belting out, "You can't mistake my Biology." "The way that we talk, the way that we walk, it's there in our thoughts," another transvestite performer and I sang. We then went through the remaining verses and choruses and got a bigger ovation than the Supremes imitators did. Shortly after we exited the stage, the five us changed into our respective costumes for the dancing portion of the program, which we were each performing a solo. I disrobed out of my pink dress and put on an a lime green belly dancer costume with full sleeves, a multi-layered skirt and a hip scarf decorated with gold leafs. The gold embellishments on the scarf shimmered in the dressing room lights before I placed it over my shoulder. Once I finished dressing, I moved back towards the stage and watched with a slack jaw as a man dressed as Cher belted out one of her songs, sounding quite a bit like her. I shook my head and turned to my fellow contestants and said, "This is a contest for second place, girls." I marveled at his performance before the first guy was brought out there for his dance routine. It was the typical Swan Lake, dying swan routine with a guy in a tutu, white tights flailing around the stage. It got predicable laughs, but it had been done to death before. Hell, even I've done it, not that I'm proud of that in the least. Some other guys went out there, doing various imitations of the dance routines of Madonna, Janet Jackson, Beyonc?, Jennifer Lopez and others, while some stuck to the tried and true stumbling ballet and tap performance pieces from Swan Lake or Shirley Temple movies. I was the only one of them to go out there and do a belly dance routine. I stepped on stage and tried to remember everything Miss Mazloum taught me. Of course, I had some missteps, but those were by design. You don't go to see a guy perform in drag to see him do the routine straight after all. I lifted and drop my hips; I did my slides, twisted, shimmied and circled my ass off. My body actually felt sore as I finished after trying to do everything faster, but more elongated than usual. I left to cheers as the judges gave me the highest score of any of the dance performers. I hurried off the stage to do my next costume change for the baton twirling