Becoming
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Becoming free porn video
Becoming
by Cassandra Morgan
If this was one of those stories that I love so much, it would include a
domineering wife.
Perhaps she would be evil. Perhaps she would be out for vengeance.
Perhaps she would be trying to cover up her own affair. She would be a
Mistress because she hungered for power, or wanted leisure, or desired a
cuckold.
If Vickie Tern was writing this, there would be an intricate plot and
fascinating characters to bend my will. If Janet Stickney wrote it, it
would be sweet and loving. Thrre would be a trigger. Maybe I would have
cheated. Maybe I would have embezzled. Maybe I would have been an
overbearing sap in need of comeuppance.
She would have me at a disadvantage, of course. She would threaten to
expose me, or divorce me, or punish me. If this was fiction, there might
be a wizard, or a magic ring, or a special pill invented for the purpose
of story-telling. An evil scientist, perhaps. If this were make-believe,
then there would be a Mistress, and I would be a sissy. If you could
twist reality into the shape of desires, then my submissiveness would
find the domination for which it hungers.
But this is real.
And instead of fiction, I have a growing need.
We sit in our living room in silence that was once comfortable. Now it
seems predatory. Pammie looks at me sadly. She reaches out and touches my
hand gently.
"Jer, are you okay," she says. "What is bothering you?"
I look at her. I cannot tell her, and I cannot keep it from her. "Oh,
it's nothing," I said. "Just things on my mind."
"What things, Jerry? Don't shut me out. Are you having an affair, Jerry?"
"God, no, Pammie. It's nothing like that."
"Then what is it?"
"Pammie, do you think people change? Do you think desires change over
time?"
"Sometimes," she said. "I've heard of that. Our body's chemistry changes.
But most of the time people don't. Usually, if a guy likes red-haired
eskimos, he always does. Why do you ask?"
I looked at her. "I don't like eskimos," I said.
"You're scaring me, Jerry. What is it."
"I don't know how to say this," I blurted out. "It's women's clothes. I
think I can understand how cross-dressers think. Okay? Maybe I'm a
weirdo, too."
Pammie looked and me, and a smile slowly crossed her face.
"Is that all it is?" she said. "Hell, I can understand that. It's
everywhere, which tickles the mind. Fashion is everywhere, which tickles
the imagination. My clothes are everywhere, which tickles your soul. It's
okay, baby. Do you wear my stuff? When I'm away?"
"No, not yet," I said. Not yet? Where did that come from. "I mean, no, I
don't. It's just a fleeting fantasy. I'm sure it will pass."
"Maybe you're the one who needs to pass," she said.
"Forget I said anything," I said. But really, once it's out there, can
anyone forget?'
I am not a sissy. I am not even a transvestite. But I admire both
lifestyles. I read. I look at pictures. I fantasize. I imagine tugging
panties over my legs. I imagine filling my bra. I imagine slipping into
my dress.
And now, I had confided it to my wife. My sweet wife.
I look across the room at her. Had she had any clue to the yearning in my
soul? I wipe the memory on my computer nightly. I do not dress, not even
when I am alone. The articles I read about Caitlyn Jenner and Laverne Cox
and Laura Jane Grace are carefully put away. Can she see inside my soul
at the desires that live there, if she can see the softness that is
there.
Pammie stood up and left the room. I watched her walk away. I thought
about the near-misses of our lives. The Halloween when Pammie suggested I
go as Catwoman. But I said no, and she let it pass. Darn it. The drag
show we passed while in New Orleans for the Sugar Bowl. The lesbian
wedding we attended last fall where there were all sorts of alternative
lifestyles, including the transgender.
I heard Pammie's voice from the bedroom. It was calm and quiet. I walked
into the room, and she stood in front. She had laid out lingerie on the
bed, and a black dress. A pair of black heels and some hose.
"Why don't you get dressed," Pammie said. "It's okay. I'm not mad. It'll
be good for you."
I looked at the clothes, and my mouth went dry. I wanted to scream no. I
wanted to scream yes. I had this weird fantasy that my wife will come
home one day, and I will be standing there in a dress handing her a gin-
and-tonic and asking how her day was. I imagine her in a men's suit, and
me in a twink's dress. Now, a version of that might be happening.
What is it about women's clothes? In every tribe, in every culture, there
are men who long to be women. That is fact. I suppose there were cavemen
who longed to be cavewomen. Batman wants to be Wonder Woman. One of the
Beatles probably wanted to be one of the Supremes. It isn't dresses. It's
identifying with the female gender. We are born this way, all of us. But
some of us retain it longer than others.
Intellectually, I can understand it all. Over the years, through
environment or DNA or exposure, I have developed a fetish for women's
finery. Soon, I fear, it will boil over, and I'll be in a drag club, or
I'll walk out of our bedroom in a dress.
My hair is growing. I hate to get it cut. I would love to have it curled
and highlighted. I imagine walking through my office, and having the
women point and the men laugh. I imagine lipstick. I imagine fingernail
polish. I imagine pantyhose. I think about getting kissed while wearing
lipstick.
I stripped, and I shimmied into a pair of pale blue panties. In the
stories, I know, the subject is made to shave or remove his hair right
away. In real life, hair is but a momentary inconvenience. It would do
for now. I fastened the bra and pulled it around the way I had seen
Pammie do. I looked at her, slightly embarrassed, slightly excited at the
empty cups. This was happening.
"Now, put on your dress, and I'll help you with your makeup," Pammie
said. "Do it quickly, now. Before you lose your nerve."
Somehow I had imagined her sterner, more insistent. Again, that was a
product of all the pieces I had read by all of the wonderful authors. I
had imagined her demanding her breakfast, demanding that I iron her
dress.
Pammie was intent as she did my eye-liner. I could never have done it on
my own. She was artist, and I was her canvas. My penis stiffened against
my panties.
"Jerry? Jenny?" she said softly. "Are you gay?"
"No, Pammie. I'm not. Honestly. I have had some fantasies, but I never
walk by a man and think 'Wow, what a hunk.' That's the truth. I'm not
doing this to have sex with new partners, I promise."
She nodded. "Well, I understand experiments. But you have to promise me
that you will always let me know before you do anything. We've been
together a long time. I'm not going to throw you out if you suck a cock.
But you have to let me know."
"Yes," I said.
Pammie finished my lip gloss. She had me stand, without heels, and spin
around. I felt like a Prom Queen. I felt like a bridesmaid.
"Woo-hoo," she said. "I think I'm a lesbian." She grinned. Her voice
remained measured.
I imagine long, flowing gowns. Prom dresses and bridesmaid's dresses and
the gowns of women singers. I imagine corsets. I imagine breasts.
For years, I had watched Pammie whenever she wore a new dress. I longed
to feel it draped around my body, to twirl so the hem bounces against my
thighs. I watched her apply lipstick, and my own lips twitched in their
nakedness. Now it was happening. I felt like Cinderella, only my fairy
godmother - interesting word, fairy - was my wife.
I watch a lot of television. Tootsie and Wong Fu and Hedwig and Priscilla
and Some Like It Hot. The Crying Game and 13 Moons and Transamerica and
Rocky Horror. I have a fashion show in my mind. Who is prettier? Whose
clothes look the best? Who would I rather be?
Somehow, I had begun to think that I was the ultimate in sissification? A
sissy who is such as sissy he's afraid to tell his wife what he desires?
I'd feared saying something, and I'd feared not saying something. But now
it was happening, and every nerve ending in my body was alive. I could
never go back. Not ever.
I stepped into my heels. How long are the spikes? Three inches? Four? How
about this? How about my heels are no higher than the mailman's dick?
I laugh. Pammie asks what I am laughing at, and I tell her it's something
I'd just read in the paper. She looks at me with a question in her eyes.
If I had to wager, I would bet she knows something is up. I would bet she
doesn't know what.
"We need to talk, to get some things out in the open," she said.
I stood in there in her dress. Who was I to say no? I nodded.
"Are you going to get a sex change?' she asked.
"I can't imagine it," I said. "I mean, I love breasts. But I'm okay
without a vagina. I don't want to be a woman. I just like their clothes."
She nodded.
"Are you dominant? Submissive? A top? A bottom?"
"I don't know," I said. "I think I'm a submissive sissy. I have a fantasy
about being a maid, but not so much where I want to be punished and made
to work like a slave."
Pammie chuckled. "A lazy maid? Just my fucking luck. I get a maid,
finally, and she's lazy."
I grinned. "I'll try to do better, Mistress," I said.
"Mistress my ass. You will make me fucking coffee in the mornings, okay?"
"Deal," I said.
"Are you into anything else I should know about? Handcuffs? Whips?
Peeing?"
I made a face. "No, Pammie," I said. "Just clothes."
"How about dildoes?" she asked so matter-of-factly. I wouldn't have known
she even knew what a dildo was.
"I've never tried one," I said.
She smiled. "It could be fun. I'd like to tap that ass. I'd love you to
blow me. We could play games. Have fun. I think this harmless, sweetie.
Let's just see where it takes us."
I shivered. So many things were changing so fast. We had invited Jenny
into our home, and evidently, she was going to hang around some. We both
had a lot of growing to do. This was going to be creative, and daring,
and erotic.
"Jerry, I mean Jenny, this is going to take communication," Pammie said.
"I'll be honest. It doesn't bother me if you're coated in cotton or
satin. It's just laundry. But you cannot keep things from me any more.
You want to be a woman, fine. You want to be a sissy, fine. But you have
to trust me. If I say you get butt-fucked, you spread you ass as far as
you can. Okay?
"Yes," I said. "If you say so."
I looked into her eyes. I loved the answers I saw there. She was my
world, my sun and my moon.
"One more thing, Jenny," Pammie said.
"Yes, ma'am," I said.
"Don't you think it's time you had sex in bra and panties?"
(c) 2015 by Cassandra Morgan
Lizbeth
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