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Barry's wife arrives home unexpectedly to find him dressed as Berry, a transvestite woman. And argues that to be true to himself -- to herself -- he needs to go the rest of the way. But that isn't her only reason. One of my longer ones, but as readers know I don't like serial posting of any of my stories -- I enjoy uninterrupted continuity when reading others' stories, and anyhow don't trust my own short-term memory to tell me what I may need to remember from day to day, or week to week, episode to episode. So binge, sample, or read steadily as you will. Found Out! by Vickie Tern i. I work on individually tailored projects, and a burst of dedicated energy had just helped me complete a massive one -- the commission alone would amount to over a year's income. I would have celebrated with my wife Sunny -- 'Sonya' when she's being formal and proper -- but she'd just gone out of town to run some kind of regional meeting for the company she works for, and she wasn't due back for two more days. So I decided to treat myself, as I sometimes do when I've finished a significant piece of work and still feel the exultation. I'd awakened that morning, gazed around at our empty house, and decided to spend the whole day as my other self. I'd dress up and make up to look really beautiful. If possible, gorgeous. Not just bras and panties -- I'd go all out! Why not? I love glancing into a mirror to see that rather pretty looking woman glancing back, her dark eyes glowing, red lips smiling, her hair piled in soft coils on her head. And gazing down past the flows and curves of a designer dress, to see how my slim ankles slip elegantly into their high heels. I'd gotten very good at resembling the other sex, if I do say so. My face is small and regular, and after years of secretly indulging various feminizing rituals -- doing my hair to look cute or elaborate, making up my face to seem sophisticated or slutty, slipping into the most delicate, frothy panties and bras and lingerie, and then swaying downstairs in a long gown or swishing sprightly about the house in a sporty miniskirt -- after years of dressing to look attractively feminine, of expressing that long-felt, deep-set need, I'd found I know how to do it well! I can seem to be a very attractive girl. A supposed girl. So I'd done it again! Sunny'd called me last night from some hotel part way across the country I suppose, telling me she'd arrived and settled in and all, and we'd chatted. So I knew it was safe enough for me to indulge -- no chance she'd return and discover my secret. I slept well and stretched out luxuriously in my best satin nightgown, and then in the morning I dressed up as if to go out, fully made up, and I high-stepped into our living room wearing four inch heels. They delighted me with the curves they conferred on my calves, and by now I walked in them easily, like a model or ballerina, each foot set down daintily in front of the other, hips swaying slightly. I saw the lovely girl I'd created, me, reflected in the huge mirror over the living room fireplace, and I turned toward it to examine her more closely. Yes, there I was! Exquisite! My hair well-coiffed, my lipstick perfect, my eyes blackened and smouldering and suggestive. Earrings maybe too long, but swinging with each turn of my head. My black dress perfect, curving snug on my hips with a generous hint of bare cleavage up top. It ocurred to me that a touch more blush on my cheeks might suggest greater readiness for erotic arousal, so I decided to add more when I next returned to our bedroom. But all in all, I could exult! I really was gorgeous! I was so taken by my own appearance that I didn't notice the reflected image of Sunny in one corner of the mirror, my wife Sonya, as if she were standing further back in the front hall and still wearing her topcoat, just returned home. Until her voice sounded. Sunny's voice, clear, mellifluous, distinctive, and undeniable! "It's true!" she said. She seemed to be reassuring herself and me simultaneously. I saw her reflected mouth in the mirror, moving. "I'd heard you were beautiful, really alluring, and you are! Sweetheart, really lovely! With such exquisite taste! That is a gorgeous necklace you've got on, you've really got to let me borrow it some time!" No question, it was my wife, Sonya! Her image and her voice! My proper wife for five years now, a major executive for the company whe works for! Looking straight at me and not seeming the slightest bit bothered. Not furious or contemptuous or bewildered or baffled or any of the other responses I'd often feared I'd see if she ever learned about my ... self-indulgence. My habit. My need! Not even puzzled or surprised, and that was itself surprising! Instead, Sunny sounded cheerful! Gracious and appreciative! The way women often sound when they meet and appraise and then immediately reassure each other, congratulate each other for some one special trait or detail in their outfit. The way women always do. But I'd been found out! She knows! Nowhere to disappear or hide! A surge of fear filled my gut. I turned to stare directly at her, shamed, instinctively braced for the worst. And there she was indeed, fully visible beneath the fringes of my heavily mascara'd eyelashes. Undeniably. Standing near our front door, her figure framed by the arched opening into our living room. Wearing the same tan business suit she'd worn when she departed for her three-day trip and left me to my secret vice, freed me to enact and exult in my other self! To be a woman and enjoy it! Her overnight bag rested on the floor beside her, her heavier bag probably still in the car, no doubt waiting for me to carry it in for her, as I always do when she returns from one or another business trip. Because she's only a weak, fragile female, and I'm the muscular man of the house, supposedly. Of course! But now? Here she was! Her office had called her home? Her plane or her meetings had been cancelled? No matter, I was exposed! Trapped! It wasn't even noon of my first free day this time. But there she was! Staring at me with her beautiful wide-eyes and a faint smile. Peculiarly unperturbed. "Yes, that necklace," she repeated. "Stunning, and I must say, it goes perfectly with that dress's very low neckline. I've always loved the way a delicate silver chain can drape itself across a woman's bosom. The effect is marvelous!" Was she mocking me? Was it possible she didn't even recognize me? Her own husband? I stood stock still, aware that my 'woman's bosom' was exposed as well as decorated. Feeling stark naked. Worse, because I wasn't naked! I was wearing every conceivable kind of women's gear! I stared at her and again tried desperately to disappear. Or to make her disappear, to imagine that she wasn't really there. No, we were both here. In the flesh. Present and attending. "Is that a hint of a cleft there between your breasts? More than a hint? You've been taking hormones, sweetie, as I've suspected for some time? Is that why your skin feels so smooth these days? Why you're so soft in unfamiliar places? No matter! I've got to congratulate you! It's marvelous what a good bra can do for a girl, isn't it? You must feel very pleased that you're developing so generously! I tried to step further behind the couch between us, so my cocktail dress's skirt and my dark nylons and cute high-heeled pumps, I'd adored them the moment I'd seen them, so my whole lower body could be hidden. But my feet wouldn't move, not now, not in these towering heels! I love heels, they force femininity onto my every move! Impossible for walking distances, of course, but when I'm dressed I never walk distances. Ladies never do, anyhow, when they're dressed up to go out. And I never go out. It'd taken me months to learn how to tiptoe gracefully on my heels, weaving my way from room to room without tripping, my round butt swaying back and forth seductively. Now, walking in heels was to me as natural as breathing. As natural as my round butt. But not now! No question, when a woman wants to look and feel glamorous, sexy heels are indispensable. I owned several pairs as well as the usual array of flats and sandals and boots found in any woman's wardrobe. Enough to match the colors of my dressier outfits. I flattered myself that when I'm in heels and nylons, my waistline, hips, legs, and lower parts all look deliciously suggestive. Sexy! When my hemline is temptingly short, mid-thigh or higher, even if it drapes down to my ankles in a classical peasant girl length, when I'm wearing heels I feel I'm being most truly me! I tried again, and still couldn't move! Sunny now broke out into a broad grin. "Oh, sweetie, you look terrified! Don't be! I've known all about you for quite a long while now! And now that you know I know, there's nothing more to hide! All the more reason to relax, enjoy being yourself! I'm so glad! Now we can explore all your girly tendencies, as we should have a long time ago when you first felt them! We'll have so much fun! I love it!" That didn't register at first. I tried to speak, but not even a whimper emerged. I simply stood there, terrified, stony, numb. Despite her reassurances I was still convinced that my marriage had just crashed in ruins all around me. My wife's belief that she'd married a handsome, young man -- a proud, masculine man -- had certainly crashed in ruins. She was looking at an imitation woman. A lovely imitation, if I do say so myself. But still .... Yet, she seemed to think so too! And she'd known even before she saw me? She'd just said, 'It's true!' Someone else had told her about me, a 'they' who'd told her I was a stunner, lovely looking! Who were these 'they'? I had a reputation as a beauty? She took a step forward, and I reflexively braced myself, unable to move, my shoulders now pressed against the fireplace mantle. Tense. Her voice continued, reassuring. "Oh, Barry, honeybun, don't look so scared! I don't mind your ... hobby at all, now that I know how to deal with it. It's not a problem, sweetie, not at all! Stephanie, you know her, our neighbor across the street? In that corner brick house? She told me about you over a year ago. She'd glimpse you now and then getting the paper in the doorway in your negligee on mornings when she knew I was out of town. Or she watched you primping in our upstairs bedroom window or lounging around down here -- you often forget to reset the blinds or pull the curtains at night, apparently. At first she thought you were some lady friend being entertained by my husband in my absence, and that made for marvelous gossip up and down the block -- Stephie does love spreading gossip! But after she looked more closely, she apologized to everyone, she was mistaken, the woman in decollete in our house or on our front porch wasn't a night-time guest of yours, she was actually you!" Sunny nodded, reassuring me that all was well, a wrong impression had been corrected, I wasn't an illicit sex partner, I was only me. A pervert. "Then of course all the other busybodies started looking too, peering between the cracks and so forth. And right off they saw how nicely you tend to dress yourself evenings -- apparently you never do remember to draw the drapes." My God! "Everone agrees, you're simply gorgeous when you're a woman. They've suggested to me that your kink, your little hobby, probably adds a nice spice to our marriage. One or another of our neighbors congratulated me and wanted to know if you borrow my clothes, whether we shop together for our sexy underwear, do I force you to wear your bras and things, are we into leather, and so on. My bridge group especially adores speculating about such things. Everyone wonders, do we make love when you're a woman, and if so what do we do? Do you have a boyfriend on the side, or do we go cruising for men together? Also, do you play bridge, and if so, should we invite you to join us? You know, questions like that." My God, the whole neighborhood knows? Has known? And isn't scandalized? I could've been wandering around outside for months and not raised an eyebrow? Dressed the way I am now? The neighbors consider me merely one more of the girls? An odd girl, but still .... "I've never wanted to embarrass you by mentioning it, so I haven't. But I've known about your other self for a long time now! And now that I've seen her I've got to tell you right up front, she's very attractive! A doll! You're very lovely, you really are!" Her eyes drifted down to my not quite voluptuous chest and my narrow waist, the product of carefully targetted diet and exercise and the 'natural' female hormones I'd been buying from a 'natural foods' store for years -- it amused me to think of my breasts as therefore 'natural,' my small outcroppings pushed up by an expensive corset and shaped by a B-sized bra. My wide hips came naturally too. This dress tends to cling as it goes around my apple-shaped ass -- has she glimpsed that yet? My rear end embarrassed me when I was in high school and had to wear the elastic pants then mandated for gym. One kid had actually mocked my 'girly ass,' and we'd both gotten detention when I decked him. But since then I've considered my girly ass a blessing. It's SO sexy! Or it would be if it were a girl's. I must have pulled back my shoulders and thrust out my breasts and my butt in response to her flattery, because Sunny's eyes flicked between each and her smile widened slightly. We just stood there. Her tone of voice remained reassuring, almost matter-of-fact. 'I'm glad, I've always wanted to look nice for you,' came to me as a stray gracious response to her compliments, but I couldn't speak it yet. Mindless, my hand reached up to pat a curl near one ear. I suppressed an impulse to say 'thank you!' -- after all, she'd just praised the woman in me. Should I say it, and curtsy jokingly, as I'd seen her friends do sometimes when they'd been elaborately complimented? My heart was still pounding. "I had no notion you could look this lovely when you take the trouble. If I didn't know better I'd never doubt that you're a woman. Not for a moment! And an extremely attractive woman at that! Your eye makeup is perfect, incidentally -- that takes great mastery, I know, though I myself prefer a pencil eyeliner for daytime use, I use liquid only in the evenings. You're a bit overdressed for now. But still ... I know the desire." She did. I managed to make a choking sound. She smiled reassuringly. "Oh, sweetie, relax, this really isn't a problem at all!" she repeated. "Not for me, and it doesn't have to be for you either. Don't fret your pretty little head! In fact, I'm sure this thing of yours can enlarge both our lives. Maybe solve certain problems. For me at least." She said this last as if partially to herself. Then seemed to get a grip and added, "Relax, baby, let's just sit down and talk, shall we?" She smiled again. "Woman to woman?" She shrugged off her coat in an almost matter-of-fact manner, turned, hung it in the front hall closet, turned back, and started walking toward me. I just stood there. When she got very close she actually leaned forward and kissed me! Unexpectedly! On the lips! "There, that should reassure you," she said calmly. "I don't mind at all! Not a bit! Do I suspect that your lipstick is a bit thicker than daytime requires? No matter. Let's just settle down on the couch for a nice chat." She spoke graciously, as if to a guest. I still hadn't moved. I simply stared at her, trying to absorb what she'd just done, what she'd said. She's known about this for long while? A year? More? And doesn't mind? And Stephanie, our neighborhood gossip, everyone else on the block practically, they all know? I'm the only one who didn't know they all know? It 'isn't a problem'? That sounds reassuring, but she'd added 'not really,' which does imply it's some sort of problem. One for which she knows some sort of solution? Like, divorce me? It'd always been a problem for me, this urge to dress like a woman. No man wants to be ridiculed, exposed for his lack of manhood, his self- indulgence, his weakness! A man who minces about looking like a girl? Wishing he were one, maybe? Possibly a secret faggot? Unbearable! Oh, God! No matter how masculine I may appear from now on, her mind's eye will always see me in this textured, shapely black cocktail dress and dark eye shadow and bright lipstick, my hair styled and curled, my breasts plumped up to hint at an attractive cleavage and ... and ..... Oh, God, I've so feared this moment! For years! Really, ever since that blissful afternoon in my early teens when I experimentally slipped on a pair of my sister's panties and felt suddenly elevated, transformed, entered into some kind of paradise! Or more recently, that moment three years ago when I thought I was long done with it, that marriage had cured me. Until I saw one of Sunny's black lace bras lying around, carelessly abandoned, and a day later I was out attempting to buy another just like it that would fit me better. As if for her of course. "Barry, let's sit down and talk about this," she said again in a slightly firmer voice. I still didn't move. "Sit!" she repeated. More loudly this time. As if I were a dog? A pet puppy? Well, that's better than contempt, anyhow! I sidestepped on my heels, came around a corner of the couch, and settled onto one end of it. Gingerly, facing her, aware that my angled, curved, nylon-clad legs and sexy shoes were now fully exposed. Knees properly together, ankles crossed decorously, hands clenched together in my lap, staring into her dark eyes and trying to read what she really was really thinking. O, God, unawares I'd smoothed out my dress behind me with both hands as I sat down! That certainly told her I was accustomed to sitting properly in dresses. But she already knew that! Stephanie had told her that! Anyhow, thank God it was this dress, tasteful but not too elegant, almost knee length. Not one of those sexy miniskirts I sometimes wear to flirt with myself. To flash the tops of my stockings in a mirror and hip-flip, poke, or swirl my girly rear suggestively. To 'twerk,' as they say these days, as if I were eager to feel a cock lunge into my rear! "That's a good girl," she said reflexively, soothingly. Approving me. As if encouraging a pet? Was that the reflex she'd fallen back onto? Then I realized she'd actually called me a girl! Casually! She settled herself onto the corner of the sofa opposite me, then leaned forward as if to touch me, her eyes still looking into mine. Unthinkingly I straightened the hem of my dress, then sat back on the sofa cushion as if a perfect hostess happy to be entertaining her. I forced myself to look into her eyes, my wrists meanwhile bent and my fingers draped as always when I'm being feminine. Should I assert a residual manhood, ball my hands into a loose fist instead? Despite everything? No, that would be ridiculous! "I mean it, 'a good girl,' since that's what you seem to want to be. You make a lovely girl, sweetheart! Quite attractive! It's remarkable, really! I suppose practice makes perfect, and you've done this most of your life?" She'd been reading up on this, or consulting with someone. Still looking directly at me, she added -- again maybe more to herself than me -- "There are so many advantages to this I can't begin to describe them." I still couldn't say anything! My throat was too tight to utter even "Sonya, no!" as a kind of generic denial. Could I deny the evidence of her own eyes? I wanted to apologize, tell her this was not the real me, or anyhow it was only sometimes me. But it was me. Certainly now. And had been for a long time. "No, whatever you may think, Barry, I do understand," she continued casually. Conversationally, with a lilt she often used with her friends but never with me. Girl to girl? "I've had lots of time to think about it, read up on it, ask around, chat with people on transgender websites, and so on. Look into movies about men who need to do this sort of thng. You know? It isn't so strange -- I sometimes wake up mornings feeling something of what you feel. In reverse, I mean. Imagining I'm a man, a gruff guy trying to take charge of everything. Wondering if I should lurch around the way men do, haul up my pants and throw on a shirt some Saturday and not bother with makeup, not bother thinking about what's in the fridge for lunch. Do a few household chores maybe -- clear a sink drain or put away the garden tools. You know. Hang out, read the paper, watch football on TV, be the man of the house, do the things you do when you're being the man of the house. When you aren't being ... what you are now." She hesitated and then repeated, "What you've never shown me. What you've always hidden when you're with me." In the midst of this most humiliating moment of my life, was that a rebuke? Reminding me I still hadn't cleaned that damn sink drain, that instead, I've been fussing with eye-shadow? That I've been insincere with her, keeping secrets? Or was she consoling me? Reassuring me? I was baffled. But she was implying that she could accept me either way, so I should accept me too! Wasn't she? "Honey, if you want to dress the way women dress, look the way we look, pretend you're one of us -- no, not pretend, enjoy expressing your own womanhood, enjoy the different ways we feel and love feeling, that's ... well, that's just wonderful! Do it! Go for it! Don't sneak around ashamed of yourself! The fact is, I love it, I love that you care, that you want to feel more of the different things I feel. I want to help you become more fully the woman you are!" She paused, then added sympathetically, "I know. I've read about it. You imprison the woman inside you and then she reaches out and holds you hostage! You're both trapped! Trapped by what you are. But womanhood is nothing to be ashamed of! Liberate yourself and enjoy feeling liberated!" Again a pause, and then she added slowly, her eyes never wavering from mine, "I intend to help you liberate yourself. I've thought about this for quite a long while, and that's what I'm going to do. There's no reason at all why a perfectly natural desire to look pretty -- something half the world's population already loves doing, and some of the other half too I'm sure -- should seem to you to be so humiliating. It's desirable! A kind of art form! And it feels wonderful!" She's ... she's with me on this? I tried to blink back my tears, aware that the mascara I'd put on earlier wasn't the waterproof kind. Sunny was still leaning forward toward me, her purse somehow still on her lap, holding it there with both hands. Poised. There was a long pause. I found I could swallow, finally, and I did. "I really and truly mean that, darling," she resumed earnestly. Did I look pathetically disbelieving? I felt it! "Your happiness is my happiness. I love you! I want to help you every way I can, and I intend to do just that. By ridding you of this ... I guess we should call it this sense of shame that seems to be paralyzing you!" She paused, then added. "If you're going to be a woman, you need to be the best woman you can be, Barry, and proud of it! Explore it and enjoy it!" She paused, then asked quietly, "Sweetheart, is your name still 'Barry' when you're being a woman? Like you are now?" She paused. She waited for an answer. Finally I could speak. "Berry," I squeaked. "My name is 'Berry.' Short for 'Beryl.'" I was suddenly aware that 'Berry' was no way shorter than 'Beryl.' I suppose I wanted to tell her I wasn't a fruit but a gemstone. She liked that. "'Not Barry but Berry," she repeated with a half-smile. "Short for Beryl. That's so sweet. Still you, sort of, but with a difference!" Now that I'd heard my own voice, I had to speak, correct her misperceptions. "Sonya, Sunny, honey, sweetheart, listen! I don't want to be a woman, only look like one now and then!" Finally I'd said it. But she didn't seem to hear me. Was this the best time for me to lecture her on different kinds of transgendered people, how transvestites aren't transsexuals, and vice versa, and so on? How some of us are only partly transgendered? That not being but seeming to be a woman is what attracts me? That women are attractive to me, so looking like one feels ultimately intimate, almost like being one? That feeling feminine is erotic? That anyhow, there are differences of kind and of degrees of desire even among crossdressers, same as among conventional men and women? That 'natural' traits come in all sorts of variations, and a dominant trait carries others along to be inherited in turn? Some essential, some mere icing on the cake? Who was I kidding? I'm not a biological specimen! Quite simply, it turns me on to look at my girly self in the mirror. To seem what I desire. I love it! "I'm not ..." I continued. But she immediately hushed me with a wave of her hand. So I just sat silent, staring at her. "We don't get to choose," she said, her lips a bit prim. What did that mean? That she knows it's a compulsion no crossdresser can ever resist? She smiled at me reassuringly. "Not any more," she added. "Who you are from now on is who I see you are and what you want to be." Now what in the world did that mean? I suddenly realized that this encounter might not be an accident. Sonya was supposed to be out of town running some kind of product seminar. For a few days -- I'd picked up her plane tickets myself a few weeks ago when she'd been too busy. Supposedly. Had she changed or cancelled her reservations, expecting me to entrap myself? Had she planned in advance to return and have it out with me? Was that why no advance warning, why she'd entered the house so quietly. And caught me staring self-absorbed into the fireplace mirror, wondering if I'd brushed on enough blush? Until I'd seen her, heard her, whirled around, and there she was as large as life. Even larger! And I could neither move nor hide. Because I was fully visible, glammed up utterly, my hair carefully curled and pouffed, wearing full makeup, even my pretty red toenails on display through the open toes of my heels. No detail neglected. I knew I looked cute -- I'd never been a large man, I fit easily into mid-sized women's clothes, and in some styles I knew I seemed pert! My face and figure were quite attractive when I dressed this way, I knew that too by now. Attractive to myself, anyhow! Her gaze shifted from me to an open issue of Cosmopolitan lying on an end table beside the couch. Last night, Sunny gone, I'd been reading the cover article, a double page spread with a photo of a gorgeous woman, her breasts large and round and almost fully visible, advising other women how to seduce men. As Cosmo women do. "Live hand to mouth," it advised, that is, stroke a man's penis and hold it in your palm before bending down to suck on it. Because that renders a man eager for more, and more eager to please you. I'd read the article already, so I knew she was really explaining in smaller print that when your lips are wrapped around a man's most precious possession, your teeth poised above and below it, he knows he's helpless, held there by the way your lips feel as they slide up and down. That's when he's yours. While being pleasured that way, he won't dare displease you, the article pointed out. You can do anything else you choose. Lick a finger and push it into his rear end and finger fuck him, if that's your pleasure. And that sensation will challenge his masculinity and deliver his ass even more firmly into your hands. If he seems to object, a slightly closed jaw will remind him that the edges of your teeth are poised to crop off the head of his penis. Then he'll give you your head, so to speak, in order to save his own. Especially because your lips and tongue feel so good! He'll be altogether yours! Cocksucking as female servitude? Not by Cosmo's lights! As she shared this advice, the heavy-breasted Cosmo woman looked at her readers with an amused, superior, conspiratorial expression. She was herself fully in charge of her own sexuality. We women can all aspire to possess her power. I myself had not the slightest desire to give blow jobs -- I'd read that article as I read others in other women's magazines, to gain a feminine perspective and feel privy to women's mannerisms, flirtations, secrets, and schemes. To enjoy feeling some of their sexual power myself, certainly the power of feeling desirable. To gain authenticity in my own mind. To be one of the girls. Sunny bent forward and read aloud the article's subhead -- "Blow on his cock and he'll follow you anywhere!" She glanced at me with a secret smile as if to confirm that this was shared knowledge, that we both knew it was true, girl to girl. My God, I wanted that, but did she think I'd want that? "You've learned all of our secrets, haven't you?" she observed wryly. "Not all," I managed to say. Certainly many. I'd been dressing as if a girl secretly since my teens. Whenever I could, wherever there was no danger of discovery. Other high school boys peered into the girls' locker rooms to look at naked bodies -- I peered to see how they'd scoop their breasts up in their brassieres and then clip the thing behind their backs in a single motion, and then I'd later try it myself. How they concentrated intently when applying makeup, utterly self-absorbed, yet gossip casually with any girl near them. I couldn't do that! Girls were magical! During the past year or so I'd dressed whenever I could. That meant often, since I work mostly at home and Sonya, my wife, she works mostly downtown or elsewhere. Dependably elsewhere until now. My growing stash of women's clothes now filled a large closet in our half-finished basement, and an adjacent storage trunk. My secret had always seemed safe. I'd made myself beautiful, violated my manhood repeatedly, urged on by that tempting, reassuring woman in my mirror. I'd practiced feminine moves and voices. I'd dieted down from a size 16 dress to a 12, for some dress styles less. I was confident I could look and move like any other modestly attractive member of the other sex. At first it had been merely wishful, but these days my most casual glance into a mirror confirmed it as fact. My face was neatly proportioned, nose and chin small, unassertive for a man but just right for a woman. When my hair fell across my brow a certain way I could look feminine even without makeup. With the right makeup I looked beautiful. I thought so, anyhow. Even so, I'd never dared leave the house to ... say ... drive to a lounge bar dressed as a woman, flirt with a few men there, dance with one or two, and practice the power I envied in women. Build my feminine self-confidence. Get accustomed. Persuade myself that my femininity was not privileged but authentic. I was far too afraid of exposure. And frankly, quite turned off by the idea of appealing to men It wasn't men I desired, not at all. It was women, and womanhood, and the things I love about women -- nearly everything! As a man I desired Sunny, but as a woman I desired only me. I was a one woman man and woman both! I'd once decided to stretch, to visit a supermarket dressed entirely in androgynous women's clothes, a woman's shirt buttoning right over left, slacks fitting tight around my girly butt, neck-length hair pinned up as if I were a housewife as carelessly unconcerned with my appearance as any other. I got only part way down the block and then returned. It had occurred to me that in this upscale neighborhood, no decent woman ever appears in public without lipstick. And lipstick was unambiguous. If I wore lipstick in public and was recognized as me, my manly identity would be compromised. Destroyed. Apparently that had happened anyway. I'd been outed by a neighbor, Stephanie, long ago, if Sunny spoke truth about Stephanie, as I'm sure she did. Sunny hadn't returned home unexpectedly and been as surprised by me as I'd been by her. No, she'd known I dress as a woman all along, and she'd planned all along to reveal her knowledge. She'd come home to surprise me with what she knew. So what I had most feared had come to pass, but earlier, before I knew it. And when she saw me, her immediate reaction hadn't been anything I'd anticipated or dreaded. No shock, horror, bewilderment, disgust, or contempt. Rather, she seemed to be radiating understanding and encouragement! She was looking at me half-smiling, while I was looking back at her still somewhat terrified. The Cosmo on the couch held her attention only a moment before she returned her gaze to me. Her steady gaze. I wanted to pat my hair again in a nervous feminine gesture, neaten it, but I restrained myself. "You want to improve the way you give blow jobs?" she asked. "You enjoy pleasing men? " "Absolutely not! I've never given a blow job! Never! I don't want sex with men, I want sex with women!" I blurted it out rapidly, almost hysterically. But that last could be misunderstood, so I added, "I mean only with you!" She merely looked amused. "I understand, as a man you want to think you're exclusively mine, as you promised when we married each other. But as a woman, why not seek out sex with men? Isn't that what women want?" "I told you, I don't want to be a woman, only look like one." "To seem to be one." "Yes," I confirmed, no longer sure what she was asking. "To feel like one." "Yes." That was undeniably one of the pleasures, yes. But not feel like a woman with a cock in her mouth! Or in any other part of her! "To look attractive to yourself as a man. As if to men?" Now I was addled, and she saw it. "To know that you're attractive?" she added helpfully. And waited for an answer. "Yes," I said uncertainly. Attractive to myself, anyway. That much was true. "And this has gone on for years, I suppose?" she said. "Since your early teens? I gather that's how it is with boys who want to look like girls." True enough. "Yes," I barely croaked. "Since my early teens." "Ever since you first began to desire girls? It's all mixed into your sexuality? It's exciting to look like a girl? You envy their appearance?" "Yes." I didn't understand it myself. "The boy looks at the girl in his mirror and gets excited. The girl in the mirror knows this and feels thrilled?" she said aloud. I didn't contradict her. I wasn't sure I understood her. It did seem true, proper, rather charmingly innocent, yet more like her way than mine. She looked at me brightly. "But sweetheart! Berry, honey! Why keep all this a secret? Are you ashamed to look feminine? To me it all seems natural enough." Her hand waved, dismissive of such a commonplace. Yet her curiosity sounded genuine, her voice almost kindly. It was time for me to reply at last, and my words flooded out. "To you it's natural! You're a female!" Stupid, but keep going! "I thought if you knew I love feminine things for myself, you'd be angry and disgusted and turned off. That you might even divorce me. Because a woman wants to be married to a man, not to a kind of half-woman!" Then came my big pitch, absolutely sincere because absolutely true! "I don't want that! I couldn't live with that! I love you! I couldn't risk losing you!" Lamely, I then added with a slight sob, "I don't ever want to lose you!" She was watching me quietly. "Also, if I knew, I might make you stop playing girly, and you didn't want to risk that either?" she asked almost immediately. Her voice sounded matter-of-fact, and she didn't bother to wait for an answer. She knew that was also true. "Though I do understand. Your desire is innate, simply the way you are. Born a transvestite, always a transvestite." I had nothing to say. She now spoke grieved, with a sense of injury. "You thought I didn't love you enough for you to risk sharing this shameful secret with me, this most intimate and seemingly perverse desire? Perverse if you're the man you're supposed to be, but not if you're the woman you like imagining you are?" She sounded hurt, even pouty! She'd found a major deficiency in me! Not my effeminacy but my failure to respect it, and my lack of trust in her understanding and acceptance! "Why not look like the woman you want to look like? Why not be whatever the woman you are?" I had no answer. I just looked down. Tears began to well out from my eyes. She reached toward an end table and then leaned forward to hand me a tissue. "Here, sweetheart. Don't ruin your makeup, it's too perfect!" Her voice was now quite gentle. "And in the future, never allow yourself to cry when you're wearing mascara. Better yet, shift to waterproof mascara all the time. Better still, have your lashes thickened and extended and then periodically dyed -- I know an excellent salon where they do that! Yes, Elaine's, you'll love going there!" 'In the future' when I wear mascara? I'll 'love going there'? An 'Elaine's' is in my future? She's accepting me as I am? Encouraging me? Or is she merely acknowledging that since I am what I am, she'll set me up as I am before she leaves me forever? She leaned forward and made herself unambiguously clear. "At no time do I ever want you to feel deprived of anything you really desire and need! Whether you're bigendered or transgendered, whether you're really a woman in a man's body or a mere man entranced by his own femininity. I love you for what you are and I love you the way you are! What you want is sexually exciting for you, isn't it?" I had to nod 'yes.' God, yes! The oceans of sperm I'd dribbled and spurted and poured into my hands and panties and toilet tissues? "Then it can be for me too. So go for it. Pay whatever piper. You're fortunate to feel that way, to feel genuine sexual passion, so enjoy it! Even if eventually it carries you all the way and you decide to become a woman full time, to get a vagina to go with your breasts, get larger breasts, whatever, those things can be arranged these days, you know. I want you to have whatever you feel you need! We all have our needs, how can I deny you yours?" Astonishing! How can she be so at ease with this ... this loss of her marriage to a man? To one of those muscled, burping, lurching creatures women seek and somehow cling to? I had to ask her just that! "Sunny?" I was forcing myself to ask her just that. "Yes, sweetie?" "How can you be so encouraging? How can you be so calm about discovering I'm .... That for so long I've wanted ...." She smile. "O don't worry your pretty little head about that at all. It is a pretty little head, too, though you might think about finding a better hairdresser. Let's just deal with this present situation, shall we?" She paused and then asked breezily, "How do you think of yourself?" She's accustomed, I realized. She's known about me for ... has it been nearly a year? More? I decided to minimize talk about the strength of my compulsion until I could estimate her response. "I just like the way ... the way women's clothes feel." "And look?" "Ahhhh," -- I had better be scrupulously honest -- "Yes." "You like imagining you're a woman?" The ultimate question. I didn't want to reply. But I had to be honest. "Yes." "Well then?" Something now seemed settled in her own mind. Why not in mine? "Berry," she then inquired. "Who else knows about this? You have no boyfriends, you say?" I winced. "None! No one. Except Stephanie knows, you tell me. And ... apparently all our neighbors. Whoever else she's told." She nodded sympathetically. "That's all of our neighbors. And pretty much all of our mutual friends. One or another of them does raise the topic with me now and then." I began to tear up, but blinked them back. "I never go out. I only dress like this in the house. Only where no one can see me. Except maybe to get the morning newspaper." "That's where you're seen. Or at night flowing from room to room through uncovered windows, by anyone passing by. Sometimes wearing only your scanties I hear. Monica, Clyde's wife, down the street? She told me she bought a gorgeous halter bra very much like your red one after she saw how attractive yours was. And that Clyde loves it. On her, I mean." I realized that when dressed, I was usually so entranced with myself, with the marvelous ways I looked and felt, that I'd ignored even the least protection of my own privacy! I'd never thought to draw the drapes or reset our blinds. I tried to retreat! "Sunny, please understand! I only want to feel that I'm a woman now and then!" She straightened her back and merely stared into my eyes. "'Now and then,' meaning whenever you can? Who are you deceiving? You think that's being a woman? That's feeling like one? You want to look and feel like a woman, but you're ashamed to let anyone see you?" She paused. "Even the one woman closest to you, your own wife, the one person most likely to help you?" She shook her head disbelievingly. I said nothing. The reason was obvious enough. She'd just stated it. I'd felt ashamed, and couldn't possibly imagine she'd want to help me. Now I felt ashamed that I hadn't revealed myself to her. "Don't you read the fashion and makeup ads in this magazine? Being seen is what women most often seek out as women. That's what we most enjoy. That's why we dress and decorate ourselves so carefully, so elaborately." She paused -- my response to that was self-evident. Then she smiled in an obvious attempt to encourage me. "Well, I don't at all mind that my husband is curious about how my kind looks and feels, so curious that he wants to try it out himself, enjoy those same feelings. But I do mind that he feels ashamed to share those feelings, share them with others. Especially to the woman closest to him! It's insulting! To me and to women everywhere!" "I'm not ashamed that I want to look like a woman," I tried to correct her, to pacify her with that half-truth. The fact was, I was delighted to look like one though ashamed to be seen looking like one. "When I look nice, I'm proud of myself! It's just ... " I had to struggle to say why. "It doesn't seem to me to be very manly." Duh! "So the woman in you is proud, but the man is ashamed?" She paused to let that truth penetrate. "But that's the whole idea, isn't it? To erase your masculinity so you can feel deliciously feminine inside and out? And feel as womanly as you look?" Then she added, slowly and carefully, "Don't you want to see your womanliness reflected in the eyes and behavior of everyone who sees you and behaves accordingly? So you're regarded as a woman and treated as one? Isn't that the idea? Isn't that what we all wish? All of us women?" She paused. "Or wouldn't you know?" I sat there, shrunk small by that last statement. She knew I was ashamed to be seen. To be thought a woman. Yet overall she seemed to be encouraging! She'd noticed how I smoothed my skirt under my butt as I lowered myself onto the couch. And how I'd arranged myself to sit primly as I anticipated her expressions of disgust, perhaps an ultimate dreaded declaration that she was leaving me. She'd seen how my knees were pressed together and my insteps curved fetchingly by my dressy heels, how my ankles were crossed -- positions I'd observed in other women years ago and taught myself to emulate. The whole point of dressing like this was to feel like a woman, to persuade myself for a short time that I was one, to act as if I were seen to be one. Preferably a lovely woman, exquisitely feminine. These days I could easily persuade myself! I did feel like one. Especially when I caressed myself as one. Exercise, and those natural hormones I'd indulged in for years had grown a bare suggestion of breasts, and sensitized my nipples, so I felt marvelously justified by them. Whenever I stroked those breast tips, the sensations and desires they aroused instantly magnified my girlish ambitions. As I caressed myself I could persuade me to do anything feminine. Nearly anything! Sonya was nodding, to affirm to me and to herself that a woman must be seen. She'd also decided, apparently, that since I was no way inclined to be more manly, I ought to be more womanly She suddenly leaned forward and said with steel in her voice. "Honey, listen!" I couldn't not. "I want what's best for you. It's frustrating that you're ashamed of your own appearance and desires. You need to enjoy both! So from now on I'll take charge. You'll do whatever I say, and you'll do it when I say it. No matter what! You need direction and purpose. I'll guide you and bear all responsibility for whatever happens. I want you to know everything you can know about being a woman, so you can feel free to be one unashamed. So being the woman in you feels as natural and normal as breathing fresh air. As normal as manliness feels, if that's something you also feel when you're dressed the way you are. Do you feel manly?" Absurd. I shook my head. Of course not! "So you agree? You'll do whatever I say?" I nodded. Did I have a choice? Did I want a choice? "You'll respect me?" I had to ask. Then I cleared the lump out of my throat to ask her further, "You'll still love me?" "Certainly more than now!" she replied reflexively. I was shocked. Did that mean ...? She immediately realized I needed a clearer answer. "Honey, listen! I have always respected your integrity. I much admire what you've learned about expressing your femininity, and how you've done it unassisted. I mean, you are ... well, beautiful! But I can't admire your ... evasions. Your timidity. Face up to it, your cowardice. You're a man standing on the shore of a vast ocean, womanhood, dipping his toes into the water but afraid to dive in and swim for even a short distance!" She stared at me intently to make sure I understood her. I did. I had no fit answer. "I can't respect such a person, much less love him. Not enough for it to matter." No, I suppose not. I've always supposed not. So I was going to lose her! This had always been my worst fear if she ever found me out, I knew that! But for the opposite reason! Now? Because I was afraid to go further? How ironic! How pitiful! My head sank. Which must have seemed like a nod of assent to her, because she said, "Good! You agree? I'm now in charge of your femininity?" I looked at her and nodded, this time for real. What did I have to lose? "For the foreseeable future?" she added. She was quite serious, staring directly into my eyes, her gaze unwavering. "Not some set time, like a month, or ... or a year?" I didn't want to give her a blank check. I couldn't predict where she meant to go! "We didn't marry each other for a set time, though we can reconsider this agreement at some set time, like -- say -- a year from now. Meanwhile, for the foreseeable future?" I nodded again. OK. "Say so!" "Yes, you're in charge, Sunny." She seemed to be waiting, so I added, "For the foreseeable future." "No matter how you may feel about anything I may ask you to do, you'll trust me and you'll do it? At least once? Then if you wish we can always discuss it afterward?" I felt utterly limp. She was asking me to yield her an extraordinary power! And she was watching me closely -- it did seem to me that our marriage depended on my answer. Yes, it did! She was making a deal with me, exacting a high but necessary price. So I squared my shoulders and lifted my head as if to stare at her woman to woman. "Yes," I replied. "Yes, I will! Whatever you ask." She smiled, and her shoulders suddenly relaxed, and she sat back. I realized that she'd had as much at stake in my consent as I did. It was our marriage, after all, not just mine! "Good!" she uttered, maybe even more relieved than I was. "I'm glad. I do hope you'll be too!" I already was, in a way. After all, whatever she intended for me, the responsibility was now hers. I'd been relieved of an enormous burden. ii. We were silent with each other for several moments, as she gathered herself and thought about her next moves. I suspect deliberately, to tease me perhaps, she glanced again at the open pages of Cosmo, at the cheerful, large-breasted woman advising other women about blow jobs. Then she leaned forward, still fixing me eye to eye -- I dared not look away -- and said, "OK, I've thought about this. There are certain things I want you to do right away and often. So they feel ordinary and customary. Yes?" She paused. I nodded and waited. "I suspect you depillate regularly, and then soothe and smooth your skin with lotions and balms. The last time I held you naked, your complexion felt just lovely, velvety, no way like a man's. Is that why?" Probably. I'd been softening my complexion gradually toward a woman's skin, all the while hoping she wouldn't notice. She'd said nothing, so I'd thought she hadn't noticed. Wrong! I decided not to mention the natural female hormones, the phytohormones I've taken for years. So I just nodded. "You'll want to continue using those products, but think about shifting to some that are lightly scented. Then you may not need a daytime cologne. Remember, every woman has to have her own signature scent, so we'll consider this further later." I nodded again. "From now on, all your undergarments will be female. At all times, not just when you're at home but everywhere. Everywhere all day, the way mine are, or any woman's. You'll regard your body as a woman's and with whatever's against your skin or taken into it, treat it accordingly. Bras, panties, chemises, slips, teddies, hosiery or pantyhose, everything next to your body will be what's intended for a woman's body. So you'll 'll know that underneath appearances you really are one of us, authentic, like me and like all other women. So the woman in you will know who she really is. Or to put it another way, so even when your outer appearance seems manly, the man in you knows he's secretly compromised, something of a fraud. Not really a man, not any longer! Closest to his heart and his vitals, most intimately, he's a woman!" Often, in the presence of beautiful, well-dressed, marvelously composed women, I'd feel I was betraying a part of me by not being more like them. I always admired and envied them. But the man in me had always felt ashamed of such feelings, tried to close them off. Now, apparently, I wasn't to listen to him. "We don't want to humiliate your outer man needlessly, but he's been in charge far too long. He needs to accept his proper place, which is, being a gentleman and serving his inner woman's needs. We need to dominate him! So you'll dress like a woman underneath all the time from now on, understanding that you're a woman whatever your outer clothes may declare. So the woman in you will feel primary, honored and respected. Promise?" She waited. All the time? I nodded again. Could I show up in the club locker room in a bra and panties when I play squash? Somehow, or else give up playing squash. Could I play squash in a bra? A tougher question. I suppose women do it, wearing what they call a sports bra? Then I'll need to buy one. Hide it under a heavy sweatshirt? But then how do I shower afterward? And bras leave impressions on your skin when you first take them off, I'd seen those on my own skin often enough. Would I need to use a woman's locker room? "Do you have enough changes for your daily wear?" I nodded again. "I'll need a sports bra," I said. Best to let her see I'm putting my mind to this. She smiled and seemed to look at me for the first time as if we were girlfriends and not a married couple. I felt a thrill run through me. She leaned forward as if to share her next comment with me eagerly. "You'll need other new bras too, sweetie, especially the seductive kinds, the kinds we wear for those certain special occasions we all love to anticipate." Now I could smile. "If you'd like to see me wearing sexy bras, I will," I promised her. I already owned a few, and they'd seduced me into further femininity. The prospect of exciting her by wearing one excited me! She returned my smile. "You'll have men at your feet, I'm sure of that," she said. That wasn't why I wore them! She expected me to attract men with seductive bras? "You'll need other sexy underthings too. Some deliciously provocative personal lingerie. Do you have any? Have you shopped at Victoria's Secret or Frederick's of Hollywood, for example?" I had, at both, in fact. I'd always taken advantage of their pre- Valentine's Day 'Men's' sales, those specific well-advertised hours when men are urged to come in to buy scanties for their beloved women. No fear of embarrassment then, that the sales staff will smirk, thinking the purchaser means to wear them himself, that he's a pervert or a transvestite. I'd misused that privilege for many years! "Only a few times," I confessed, my eyes downcast. "It isn't easy for a man to walk into a lingerie store and ...." "You're ashamed to buy your own lingerie? Tsk! If you want to be a woman -- or seem to be one so you can feel you are one, shouldn't you just do it? Let yourself?" I had let myself, since she put it that way. I'd felt embarrassed and fearful, yet I'd done it. Obviously Sunny expected me to do it un-self- consciously from now on -- that was plain. So I nodded. "I've bought my own dresses too," I added. "Tried them on in the fitting rooms? Asked salesgirls' opinions about the style and fit?" she asked, already knowing what my answers would have to be. I remained silent. "Why don't you gather up all your lingerie from wherever it's hidden, bring everything here, and show it to me. Everything! You may as well, because from now on that's what you wear, they're going into your proper underwear drawer upstairs. We'll give away the men's things already there. Since you want to wear bras and panties and so on, and you need to wear them to please me and to please the woman inside you, you'll wear them!" She waited, eyebrows raised. No answer needed. I stood, gracefully I must say, and tripped out of the living room, glancing once back over my shoulder to see if Sunny was impressed by the delicacy of my movements. She was, her thin eyebrows raised high, smiling slightly, approving. Admiring too? I smiled my appreciation back at her, and feeling strangely liberated, went down to the stash in the finished study of our unfinished basement. And brought up an overloaded suitfcase filled with silky, satiny, lacy, flimsy, spandexed underthings. Spread out a sample on the coffee table and the couch, and then stood there. She only briefly glanced at them. "A nice variety," she commented absently. Then picked up one especially delicate bra, a sexy confection of lace, satin, and netting. "What sort of man were you planning to seduce while wearing this?" she asked me with a conspiratorial grin. "Did you succeed? Was he good?" At last I felt more self-confident in her presence, less ashamed. I knew she was teasing -- I'd made it quite clear that I did not desire men! "Me!" I replied. "I seduce me every time." "I'm sorry to hear that, Barry, " she replied tersely. "You're supposed to be faithful to only one woman, and that's me, remember? Not to any other. Not even to the woman in you." Was she teasing me back? Maybe. "Well, Barry," she continued, rather firmly. "Berry, I mean. Here's how it will be. I don't want to see the man in you who's been unfaithful to me. Not at all. To earn back my respect you'll have to be the girl in you. And only that girl. Period. At the very least, as we've agreed, you'll always wear an appealing bra and panties, and stockings or pantyhose, and so on, and every night you'll wear a pretty nightie to bed. You are now my girlfriend, not my unfaithful husband. Whether we're with each other or apart, I will need to know that you think you're a girl, that you're being a girl, so the girl inside you can grow more confident, more assured, in fact quite unconcerned about revealing herself. Whenever possible, she will! Can you be that girl?" Imagine I'm my most feminine self more often? Most of the time? I'd love it! But reveal it by dressing outwardly that way? Well, maybe somewhat more often, anyhow. "Then every night, when I'm holding that cock of yours in my hand or sliding my mouth on it, or it's sliding into me, whenever I hug you, whatever intimate things we're doing together, I want both of us to know I'm not making love to a man but to the girl inside you. That it's her cock. Her pretend cock, her dildo. I want her to know it so she can feel increasingly devoted to me and I can feel more and more grateful that she's mine. Agreed?" Could I disagree? Did I want to? She was asking me to enter into and live a version of one of my most erotic fantasies! I nodded. "After a while we'll know whether the girl in you wants to be a woman more openly." She paused and stared at me and isolated her next statement with silence on either side of it. "Maybe she'll grow ashamed of the residual man inside her. Ashamed of the way he's felt about her, treated her, hidden her, at least until now. Maybe she'll feel it's her turn to dominate, to hide him or at least render him appropriately servile!" She stared at me steadily! I said simply, "I've never wanted to be a woman all the time." She must know that was never among my fantasies, that I become and remain female. I loved the novelty, the excitement, the sexual intimacy of feeling feminine. But living as a girl was no way my intention. I wasn't a transsexual born into the wrong body, not exactly. It worried me that she could think I was. "No, the man in you hasn't wanted that. But the girl in you? You've kept her voice and her desires muffled. You'll learn soon enough whether she's satisfied to be treated that way. Of course, maybe a he- man in you will find her irksome. Her novelty will wear off, her bras will pinch, her panties feel restrictive, and so on. Maybe they'll pose too great a risk to his manhood, exposing it as fraudulent. Maybe she'll annoy him with repeated demands on his time and patience and the risk she poses to his male reputation." I couldn't imagine that, but I kept silent. "Which of you owns your body is already up for grabs," she said, then smiled at her own joke. "That bra you're wearing is obviously a good fit. It shapes you nicely." She examined my bust more closely. It was protruding gracefully, noticeably, in my neatly fitted dress. She gestured at my two boobs and the small amount of curved flesh visible above the dress's neckline, my modest cleft. "Are those girls all you?" I nodded and said "Yes" with a certain modest pride. I'd carefully built up my pectoral muscles over the years, then deliberately allowed them to go slack. For years. Maybe those "natural food" estrogen hormones I'd swallowed for years had also had some effect? Now, when I put on a bra, I could gather up my chest and its adjacent skin and surrounding fatty tissue and fill a B cup. With some styles of underwires, even a C cup! A proud achievement! Best of all, whenever I cupped and held up my crypto-boobs, whenever their tips protruded, their nipples had become incredibly sensitive, deliciously erogenous. They'd swell up at a touch and send joyous sensations all the way through my whole body and especially to my groin. My prick hardened instantly! Yet I'd feel fully feminine and marvelously desiring. That, more than their appearance, was why I loved the excess flesh that filled my bras and thrust them forward. "You've been taking female hormones, then?" she asked. She smiled encouragingly, as if an affirmative answer would merely further acknowledge the sisterhood she felt between us. "Do your nipples feel as marvelous as mine when they're caressed?" "Oh yes," I said to her last question. Then "No" to her earlier. "Well, not exactly." Of course she didn't understand. "You're already on estrogen and progesterone and so on? Then you really are serious!" she exclaimed, examining me and then my stack of bras more carefully. Now she was smiling openly, girl to girl. "You really do want to be a girl. I have to respect you for that, dollface!" "I mean no, I've just grown them a bit larger the natural way, by exercise. I didn't want to make a womanly shape anything permanent. Though I have taken herbal hormones. Natural phytoestrogens they call them. They may have contributed. My nipples are naturally sensitive anyhow, you know that, you've played with them often enough. They're now a lot moreso." I wasn't sure she heard me. "All of our hormones are natural," she mused. "And your desire to look feminine is certainly natural, no less than mine. Inborn. Some are born transgendered, some achieve it, and some like to imagine it's thrust upon them. But we all act according to our natures, and there are lots of variable desires and abilities. Enough of us get it the right way enough of the time to make the babies that will replace us, but plenty of us have mis-alligned bodies or desires. But we all make do with what we've got, whatever we may be, and try for whatever we desire. More or less." She riffled through my dozen or so bras, "You love your breasts?" I couldn't say 'No.' "Yes," I replied quietly. "I love my breasts." "I see demis and underwires, but nothing specifically designed to emphasize your cleavage. No pushups here for example?" "I don't yet have quite enough breast tissue for a deep cleavage," I reminded her. And immediately regretted saying 'yet.' It told her my future hopes. She stared at me, registering the implications of 'yet', and looked at my chest, but said nothing at first. Then, "Oh? When a pushup bra can give even a flat girl cleavage enough to give any man an erection? Even a place to cum if he rubs himself between her boobs? You don't know how wonderful breasts can feel when they're squeezing a cock between them until it comes, spurt after spurt, on your face? And yet you call yourself a girl?" Where did she get that notion, to get a man off with her breasts? She's never done that with me! "I don't call myself a girl!" I retorted. Though I often did, privately. Was she mocking me? "You will from now on," she fired back almost without thinking. "Especially when everyone else does!" She paused. Stared at me silently, smiling slightly. Then when she next spoke she sounded serious. "I'm going to amend what I told you a moment ago. From now on you will call yourself a girl. And you'll dress as one all the time. Not just your undergarments, your lingerie and so forth. I mean completely. You'll live as a woman. You'll present yourself to the world as a woman. As the best woman you can be, and you'll enjoy it the way we all do! You'll shift over altogether, become overtly what you've been suppressing. Wear feminine outerwear as well as underwear. Yes!" She looked at me with a superior grin. "From now on! Twenty-four seven! Never not!" I stared at her appalled! It was one thing to treat myself by dressing up as a woman. It was another to be that woman routinely, all the time. She knew this seemed extreme, but she continued with an even voice. "If it embarrasses you, you can let your office know you won't be coming in for a while though you'll continue to do y