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Misfit Hours I slow to a stop to allow Rita to gain some distance. It's a pleasure just watching her walk plus I want to see her reaction to the kind of attention she draws now. She's still learning how to handle it and needs the practice. The tight pencil skirt, the tailored cotton blouse and even the 4" pumps suggest a smart business woman who's taken off her suit jacket for a nightcap. The seamed stockings, perfectly aligned with the thin heels, and the long red nails flashing with each swing of her hand suggest something more. Maybe a powerful and horny executive on the prowl? When she turns to slide onto the bar stool her magnificent breasts came into view, threatening to spill out of the blouse even though I can see she's somehow redone one of the buttons I just unhooked out in the hall. There's no hiding the mounds of flesh in any case. She flicks her thick chestnut hair aside and her dark, smokey eyes search for me. The look on her face when she sees how far back I am is adorable. 30, maybe 40 feet separate us, that's all and she looks like a cornered bunny rabbit. Her gleaming red lips part to say something and she's interrupted by the bartender suddenly at her shoulder. It happens so fast, small wonder she's nervous. A well dressed older man is already approaching from behind, signaling the bartender who can't take his eyes off Rita's chest. He hesitates while she turns to respond to a question from the old dude. Then two more guys pass by either side of me, young blond surfer types. They must have been following us the whole time. She can see them coming too and she glares at me with a mix of fear and anger. "Come here!" her plump red lips mouth. She even stamps her foot which only causes her boobs to jiggle enticingly. In the time it takes me to cross the short distance she's already surrounded by men. Either surprised by their own sudden numbers or mesmerized by her breasts, they pause long enough for me interrupt. It's no surprise how much I love watching my sexy, feminine girl do her thing. She's basically creating one of my favorite fantasies, sort of. What's surprising is how much I've come to love the feeling of power that comes from being the man she wants me to be. She picked out this suit for example, right down to the clean boxer-briefs I've got on underneath. She says the jacket makes my shoulders look even broader, which is saying something since I've spent the last three years training and bodybuilding to her specifications. Because of her I feel confident enough to break up this party and claim the sexiest girl in the room. The two surfers aren't small guys so the way they quell back when I cut in is very satisfying. Rita looks happy with the reaction anyway. She likes it when I push around my weight. For a moment it looks like she might punish me by starting a fight but she relents with a mischievous smile when the two men back away silently. She ignores the older man who's now pretending he forgot something at the other end of the bar. The bartender is still there, waiting, but all I can see is her, oozing slowly off the stool, holding my arm, pushing herself against my chest and offering her juicy lips. It's a wonder I don't pass out from loss of blood. She knows how to make me blush and hard at the same time. The cloud of perfume surrounding her makes it difficult to think straight. None-the-less, I can't give in. Even in her 4" pumps she still needs a few of inches to reach my mouth and I don't give her even that. She has to practically pull herself up by my neck and smash her luscious breasts into my suit jacket to reach. When she slides back to her heels there's a satisfied smile on her face. I've played the part of the arrogant, self-centered boyfriend perfectly. It's become more than a game with us. I push her further than she wants to go as a woman then she punishes me. She pushes me to be a better man and I make her give something for every step. We both have the power make the other better. Tonight she wants me to fight for her, I can tell. All through dinner she keeps glancing at the surfer dudes at a table behind me. That button comes undone somehow. At one point I turn around to see what interests her so and there's another man at the table. He's bigger than the other two, with tattooed arms and a nose that looks like it's been broken a few times. "That would cost you big. Really big," I say. I never like to fight, especially one against three, and the new guy looks pretty rough besides. Men have done horrible things for a night with a woman like Rita. It hardly matters what I want anyway. After dinner Rita gathers her purse and says she needs to visit the bathroom. She pauses beside me and squeezes my bicep, so close her boob is almost poking me in the eye. With one finger I could pull that blouse and the lace bra underneath a scant inch and a fat nipple would surely pop out. What must that feel like, to be so enticing and so vulnerable at the same time? Her breathing is rapid, a sure sign of nervousness, which causes them to ebb and flow in the dress seductively. "What if I don't mind paying the price?" she asks. It's supposed to sound flirty but she's really nervous and it comes out with a sort of squeak at the end. She doesn't wait for a reply When she stops at the table with the three guys my heart sinks. Sure, I knew it was coming but her recklessness catches me off guard. An hour ago she was afraid to walk into the place alone. Sometimes she can be too confident in my abilities. I can't hear what is said but one kid whoops loudly and the big guy captures Rita's wrist in one paw and pulls her closer. She never flinches but shuffles nearer on those heels until her boobs are inches from his face. Each of the surfer dudes looks my way then back at her as if unsure of how I fit in the equation. When the big guy looks my way it's with scorn. He thinks he's going to take my prize and that she actually wants him. I could almost feel sorry for him if he wasn't being such a dick. When she's ready, Rita twists her hand in a motion I taught her, breaks the mans grip and steps away. The three men gape as if they've seen a magic trick then they all break out in laughter. She wags her finger at them before continuing toward the restrooms. They cat-call after her with huge grins. The big man has the confidence to stare right at me with a smirk on his thick lips and one hand on his crotch. I just watch Rita's tight little ass wiggle down the hall in the restrictive skirt. Later, she's going to tell me in loving detail what it's all like. She can't help glancing at me before she disappears but I'm busy paying the bill. For all she needs to know, I wasn't even paying attention. They're waiting for us in the parking lot. Three years ago, none of those guys would have paid either of us a second glace. They might have pushed the short angry man aside without a thought and if the soft fat man I was back then had the courage to say anything he would have been laughed at. So much has changed. The big guy is a bigger than he appeared sitting down. If Rita hadn't gone to so much trouble to set this all up I would attempt to talk them all down. That wouldn't earn her respect and it's kind of a special occasion. They sidle over casually, calling to her like an old friend while boxing us in against the cars. Her southern accent comes out and she replies with insults, throwing back her mane and, I swear to God, shaking her tits at them, throwing gas on a fire. They realize now that she doesn't want them but they're too angry to stop. They don't just want to fuck her anymore. When they're close, one of the kids tries to grab Rita and when I move to block him the big fucker takes the opportunity to come in with a hard hook that grazes me right over the left eye. Sloppy. One of the kids has the balls to come at me once the big boy is down, I'll give him that. It only takes a hard slap to dissuade him though and he and his friend skedaddle. The whole way home she gives me grief about missing that wild punch. She replays the scene excitedly, over and over, pointing out mistakes each man made and the boners they all had for her. My part was a poorly executed postscript, something to be dissected later. She never reveals exactly what was said at the table but, to listen to her account, she turned three hardened criminals into putty with her clever words (more likely her tits) then kung-fued them all for good measure. In high heels. You might think the whole process would be irritating, right? Does Rita sound like a spoiled bitch? Yeah, she is. I like that about her. At times like these she seems most herself, if you know what I mean. She wiggles in the passenger seat, a bundle of unreleased nervous energy, throwing little punches and kicking her feet to punctuate the story. How has the hem of that skirt not ridden up those smooth, plump thighs and how does all that honey brown flesh up top stay in place with all the shaking? That, and the road ahead, is all I can think about. Plus I just like the sound of her voice and her excited energy. When we get home she attempts to dash up the stairs but stops when I speak. It's part of the deal. "Umm, don't need the blouse and skirt. Let's try that black gown I got you. And a beer," I say, patting her on the rump, picturing the round flesh framed by the sexy garter I know she is wearing. This is going to be good. To seal the deal I lean in and kiss her neck. "You were magnificent in that bar. Every man in there was hard for you. You had then eating out of your hand." She wiggles her butt, smiles and bats her eyes, savoring the compliment. "Even you?" she asks shamelessly. God! She can't get enough. "Yes, me too. I'm the luckiest man alive to have you." Standing on the first step in her heels so we're eye to eye, she smiles demurely, agrees with my assessment of her magnificence, loosens my tie and undoes the top button awkwardly, gouging my neck with a nail, then she brushes my jacket shoulders with her small hands. Taking her time to be nice. "You were too. I'm sorry I picked such a mean one. Is your eye OK?" She doesn't really care about a little red place over my eye. She believes facial scars make a man look tough and that women think that's sexy, not ugly. I wish I had a delicate face, with smooth skin and deep, hungry eyes, a lot like Rita's face in fact. That's why this arrangement works. While she click/clacks off to the kitchen to get my beer I flop into the easy chair and flick the TV on, a king in his castle. All this was extremely uncomfortable for someone with my personality when we started. I was never the 'take charge' kind of guy before Rita came along. Now, when I watch her wiggle out of the room like a wet dream, getting ready for my pleasure, it's all worth it. When she returns ten minutes later in a gown so short and so shear it's only purpose could be to highlight her flesh for me, all the hard work is forgotten. Some of the naughty excitement is gone, since we've been together three years, but then, so is the awkwardness. She knows exactly what I like. She moves around the room in slow motion: lighting candles, bending elaborately to pick up a piece of paper, stretching to reach a vase on the top of the book shelf then placing it on the coffee table for no reason other than to show her recently enhanced breasts struggling to get out of the the lacy bra. I can almost feel the cups straining to hold them in, contrasting with the airy light gown flowing over perfect skin. When she takes a slow step she rubs her legs together like it feels really, really good. Naturally I hang on every twist and bend. Eventually she gets to me. She bends to give another good view and grabs the TV remote at the same time, clicking it off as she steps back. Then, when she has 100% of my attention, she begins to slowly untie the tiny bow under her boobs that holds the gown in place. It flows down her body like water and she shivers slightly as if nothing has ever felt so good, giving me a chill of sympathetic pleasure. She's described it all before. I know what each of her cooing sounds means. The shivers and soft moans she makes as she undresses and settles to her knees make it all sound wonderful. I mean it. I'm the luckiest man in the world. "Will you help me? So I don't break a nail." She asks, stroking my belt buckle and leaning in to plant a red kiss on the front of my dark slacks. My eyebrow throbs and for moment I want to make her work. The long nails render her so helpless it's adorable to watch her struggle with simple tasks. But my cock is throbbing more than my eye so I undo the buckle, unzip and even push the pants over my hips eagerly. She takes her time, pushing my shirt up and running her claws lightly over my stomach, like she's counting the muscles she made me work so hard for. Her cool hands reach up to stroke my chest and her tits brush my groin. She knows that drives me crazy, why else would she do it? By the time she pulls down my briefs and sets me free I'm ready to explode and she knows it. She tickles my balls with her nails and licks the whole length of my shaft, causing me to twitch uncontrollably. She grins, pleased with her power. "God, you're just so big!" she says, like always. It super corny but, you know, it still gets me every time. My dick twitches and waves in the air, begging for her touch. The anticipation is killing me and I never want it to end. + We were an unlikely pair at summer boys camp when we were 15. A short, undernourished Georgian hick with a chip on his shoulder and the tall, tubby boy from the city, sent to learn to stand up and be a man, whatever that means. Dad yelled so much it was tough to tell what I was doing wrong sometimes. That was the problem. I didn't really want to 'be a man.' These days they say 'I'm a woman trapped in a mans body' and that feels like the truth. Unfortunately, I was or am, depending on how you look at it, a very petite woman trapped in a very large and unhappy man's body. I didn't want to be at the camp and didn't want to talk to anyone so naturally they paired me with the other loser nobody wanted, the one who talked constantly, Rick. We couldn't have been more different. At 15, I was over six feet tall and, back then, very overweight while Rick was barely 5'4" and couldn't have weighted 100 pounds wet. I hoped to make it through the summer with the least human interaction necessary, Rick talked continuously in that country drawl, to anyone within earshot, until most of the other kids turned away at the sight of him. Which, to tell the truth, I didn't mind. He seemed to believe he could one day be a great fighter or wrestler or something. He always wanted to grapple or punch, like he was training for a fight. All the contact seemed a little gay to me to be honest. Rick went ballistic when I asked, ever so gently, if he were a homosexual. Fortunately, for all his talk about kicking ass and settling scores, he doesn't know squat about fighting, even today. All it took was a couple of shoves and one punch to get him to back off. After that you could call us friends I guess. We spent all summer together. His crazy ideas were the bad part. One day he wanted to escape from camp but was too weak to climb the fence (In his defense, it was a very high fence.) He wanted my help to lift him over, which I refused. Twice he fought other campers and lost, naturally. He so wanted to be the big, strong man it was kind of sad sometimes. And he insisted on crudely hitting on, and being rejected by, every hot girl we ran across. That didn't only included the girls our age. There were a couple of camp counselors with ample chests who attracted both our attention. We talked about boobs a lot back then. "Did you see the rack on that one," he asked me slapping my arm hard, for him. I was getting used to the little taps. Sarah, the 22 year old camp counselor came out a back door with a trash can in her hands. Her camp shirt stretchered tight across her chest, distorting the words. I watched as intently as Rick of course, she was the only thing moving, but I was wondering what it would be like to walk around with those things on your chest all the time. I wished there was a way to find out. "God! I'd love to get my hands on those," he said, right by my side, nudging me hard with his bony elbow. I ignored him and pictured myself with those, on my chest, clutched in my own hands. Would they be soft and jiggly or firm and heavy? I mean, I didn't know anything about boobs back then except that I wanted them. I wished I could be Sarah for a day, to find out what it was like to touch those mysterious mounds. The idea was absurd of course. At 15 I was twice her weight already and obviously male. Her boobs, big and luscious as they were, wouldn't go on my chest, ever, and I would never be a short, perky girl. But a boy can dream. "If I was her, I'd be copping a feel every 5 seconds," I said absently, rubbing my flabby stomach to avoid touching my chest. "Yer the homo, aren't you?" I heard Rick ask. "You wanta be a girl, don't you?" His instincts were close but the southern accent made his word sound like 'Hoe Moe' which confused me at first. But he was looking at me the way my dad looked when I hinted that I might, sort of, be thinking that maybe I was curious about what it would be like to wear a dress. Which is kind why I was at the camp learning to chop wood and make fire. Dad thought I was gay so he sent me to live in the woods with a bunch of other messed up boys and a few well meaning college students to watch over us. How does that make sense? Rick didn't seem put off but he also couldn't believe me when I said I wasn't gay either. We were young and I didn't have the words to explain much of anything although he did understood the subtle difference between wanting to have sex with Sarah, for example, and wanting to be her, as I imagined. Not that sex with a buxom 22 year old wouldn't be great we both agreed, but he didn't really believe me about not being gay, I don't think. "I understand what it's like to wish you were in another body," he said once, a day or two before we left camp and would never see one another again. That's the thing I remembered about him. He truly was a huge muscle man, trapped in a small, sickly body, so he sort of understood how I felt. It was eight years later when we ran into each other again, on the street. I'd grown even bigger, up and around, and he hadn't grown at all. Undernourished is the word that still came to mind. Some of the scrappiness was gone, perhaps beaten out by life, but there was still fire there when he spoke about his plans to open a home business. It wasn't until halfway through dinner, my treat, that I learned he didn't actually have a home. That's how he ended up in my house that night and after that it was difficult to get him out. You wouldn't know it now but I was not very pushy back then. Bashful, shy, withdrawn, sullen and wimpy are words people used to describe me, the few people I interacted with. Once he settled into my guestroom I never found the gumption to ask Rick to leave. He just sort of became my roommate, even though I never asked for one. One of the nosy ladies at work, Mrs Jamison, got the story out of me one day and acted like Rick was taking advantage. She told me off in front two other secretaries for failing to kick him out, which only forced me to defend him. She was right, of course, but who wants to be yelled at for 'being a victim?' Not me. Something about him made me feel good about myself. His ideas were still absurd and he wasn't looking for work at all but his positive energy at the end of a long, dull day was surprisingly refreshing. He cleaned the house too. I hadn't realized how depressed and messy I'd gotten. + "Do you still think about being a girl?" he asked me one night while we lounged on the patio, sipping beer. I paid for the beer naturally but he scurried to the kitchen to resupply each time we ran low, insisting I relax after a hard days work. A guy can easily get used to being waited on like that, let me tell you. Nobody knew that deep dark, impossible dream about being a girl except Rick and it was weird to hear it stated out loud so matter-of- factually. If I hadn't been so relaxed I might have gotten upset. "Oh, you remember that huh," I replied lazily, hoping that would satisfy his curiosity. "So, do you?" he asked again. "Do you still want to be some kind of huge macho man," I shot back, annoyed by his question. "Sure. Every day. That's why I'm so glad I found you again." "What do I have to do with your weird fantasies?" I asked. "I've been thinking about it for years. I should train you." "Yeah, what would I get out of that? A lot of hard work for me to become you're ideal male? No thank you." "So, you do wish you could be a girl," he said with an odd, knowing grin that angered me. "If the choice has to be between a lot hard work to get big muscles so I can fight people, like you want, or being a girl then yes, that's what I want. Satisfied?" I sat up and glared at him, expecting some kind of anger in return but his eyes were downcast and sad. In the moonlight his face glowed, pale and smooth, and his full lips and shadowed eyes had a soft feminine quality. He was as far from his dream as I was from mine. Two misfits. It was hard to stay mad. "Yes. If I could have any wish in the world, I would be a girl. Or a woman, whatever. Female. And not so huge," I admitted. There, I said it out loud finally for the first time in my life which made it sound even more hopeless. We sipped beer and watched the stars. "I was thinking that all you have to do is find the right girl. Someone to try on little outfits or whatever it is you want to do as a girl and you could be the man she wants. It's not ideal but, you know, the right girl would make it awesome I bet." "Right. You mean I just need to find the perfect girl," I said sarcastically, "I've been looking for her for a long time." "Yeah, me too," he said, slugging down the last of his beer and springing to his feet. "But what woman wants a short, skinny guy like me. That's why I want the muscles. Women respect that." "That hasn't been my experience." I said. "But then, I don't know what women want because I'm usually afraid to talk to them." "So I've noticed," he said with a laugh, bouncing off lightly for another round. His small feet made the faintest pit-pat on the concrete decking. It must be wonderful to be so small and light on ones feet. What he said made sense. I'd tried wearing woman's clothes a few times over the years, jumbo plus-size items that didn't even look good on a real woman, and I'd given up in frustration. A pretty girl, willing to dress and undress for me like a doll, would be incredible. And impossible to find. Even if such a girl existed and could be found, I could never ask her out. I've pictured myself boldly ordering a beautiful woman to strip, piece by piece, in my dreams, but asking one to go on a date for real? That's another story. Rick scampered back with new beers wearing one of my big sweatshirts which covered his shorts like a dress. His skinny legs poked out, pale in the moonlight like a young girl's. I had to shake my head to drive away the illusion. Small wonder he gets picked on so much, right? "Dude, what you need is a bodyguard. You look like a girl," I blurted out. He didn't get angry as expected, just settled into the chair with his legs drawn underneath, hidden. "Plenty of guys have offered," he said cryptically then looked at me thoughtfully. "It would have been easy if I was a girl: Marry a rich guy, like maybe a boxer or a football player, ya know, then just sit back and enjoy life. If anybody gave me trouble, I'd send my husband to kick his ass." He appeared to believe it's that easy and I don't see any reason to argue. I lay back, savoring the beer and imagining what it would be like to be that girl. The girl I see is petite, settling her huge boobs into a pretty bra and turning in front of a mirror, making minor adjustments that causes them to jiggle for my own pleasure. The face is a blur but it's me in there, kind of. I can't see the need for a rich husband or any other man though. It's not like I'm poor. + The idea formed so slowly it's impossible to know who thought of it first. Rick was clear enough, he would switch places with me in a heartbeat, given a genie in a bottle. He liked to turn the conversation to how he could mold and transform his physique, then push everyone around, if only he had been lucky enough to be born in my body. After the first such conversation I always tried to change the subject rather than argue. Given an opening he could go on for hours about my good luck and his poor, his short statue and the way he's been cheated. It's insulting and untrue, or so I thought. Finally I had enough one night during dinner. He buzzed around, sitting, eating a bite then jumping up to refill my glass or check something in the oven, droning on about a grudge against the grocery store clerk or something. "You don't know what you're talking about," I grumbled, as much tired from work as irritated by his words. "My size has never helped me with anything, unless it's getting something off a shelf. If I'd been born like you I could at least attempt to be, well, you know." I jammed in some turkey and stuffing to stop my mouth from moving. Dinner was surprisingly good again. I could get fat and happy eating like this. "Yeah? You think it's that easy?" He asked, plopping a pan of hot peach cobbler on the table angrily and standing close enough that the difference in our size was obvious. He is very sensitive about his size. "A soft guy like you wouldn't have made it through high school in my shoes. God help you if you started wear dresses." I thought about wearing dresses while he spooned dessert onto a dish at my elbow then he changed the subject to a gym around the corner. If he were me, he prattled, he would use the extra time I have every day, since he makes dinner and cleans now, to go to the gym. How about that? I was learning to let the words flow over me rather than attempt to catch and decode them all. He wouldn't let up on the gym thing though. Dinner started getting, well, healthy. It tasted good and all but his sense of potion size was out of whack. He even throw out a perfectly good box of Ho-Hos with four packs still in it. I would have fought harder if he wasn't right about the food. The crap about a gym I ignored. Most workdays, a big burger and fries at lunch helped keep up my morale + I was just sitting down in my office to enjoy a "Big Joe Burger" from next door when Rick walked in, unannounced, with a plastic container in his hands. I recognized the weird, healthy Asian grain thing he made last night which I'd secretly hoped was for himself. "What are you doing here? How did you even get here?" I asked, torn between anger and curiosity. "Oh, it was easy," he said, studying my office with a little smirk. "It's only a few miles. I took the bus." "Where did you get the money?" I asked, afraid of the answer. I didn't give him any money except a small grocery budget. "It's a dollar each way. You forgot your lunch. Maybe you'll pay my bus fare home?" He said, thrusting the container out and batting his eyes, imitating a helpless a girl. Two co-workers, Jasmine and Betty, stood in the hall talking in their tight business suits, watching us curiously. Why do they stand just outside my door all the time? Not that I minded. Jasmine was tall, slim and well dressed, very attractive to most men. Betty was closer to my ideal: shorter, petite and curvaceous. Sometimes I pictured myself pulling a skirt over those round hips or unhooking that bra from my own chest. Right now I wanted to close the door, but what would they think then? Rick placed the container on my desk, right beside the huge, double- decker burger, then sat down and crossed his legs, exactly like a girl. He turned to see what I was looking at. There are the moments in life where a man has to stand up for himself, that's what my dad always said. This was one such moment. I grasped the monstrous burger while his back was turned, lifted it to my mouth with both hands and shoved it in. The taste of red meat made me strong. Having seen that I don't let Rick dictate what I eat the two woman turned away and left. When Rick turned back I honestly hoped for anger but instead he just smiled that annoying smile and handed me a napkin. He sat and watched me eat that whole burger and fries while filling me in on the mundane details of his morning, which included mopping the kitchen floor, running the dishwasher and fighting the lawn mowing service over the way they edge the driveway. As he talked, the two ladies returned, this time with Mrs Jamison who apparently wanted a look at my house-guest. They all three walked past more than once, each taking a quick glance inside as they passed the doorway. All they could see was the back of his head though. What I saw while I enjoy the manly meal was Rick, perched in the center of the big chair while a trio of well dressed women paraded past just behind him. As they passed, I wondered what each felt like. Heels made Jasmine's legs look amazingly long - but what was it like to walk in shoes like that? Betty's wonderful boobs hove into view and I wondered, for the thousandth time, how it must feel when they jiggle in that low cut top and men look? Then Mrs Jamison, who glared at Rick's back then at me and shook her head in disappointment. The way her long hair shuddered like a living thing made me wonder what that would be like. It came to me all in a rush. Only Jasmine had longer, shapely legs than Rick and she was wearing hose and heels. His hair hadn't been cut in a long time. It wasn't nearly as long as Mrs Jamison's but it was good hair. He didn't have boobs either, of course, but I could picture them there. There are ways. When you think about it, women have a million ways to disguise themselves. The topic has always fascinated me and here was a perfect subject, right in front of me. I'd been looking at it all wrong. I stood up, opened my wallet and flicked a single one dollar bill at Rick. "Go home. I need to be alone," I said, cutting him off in mid-sentence. "We'll talk tonight." The ideas flowing so quickly though my brain needed time to develop, time without the constant chatter and the looks from the hall. He wasn't angry or even surprised, just smirky again. He seems to be happiest when I'm most pissed off, which pisses me off even more. He always wants to fight until I'm good and boiling mad, then he gets smug and chipper. "Get out," I said, louder. "And take your salad with you," I added for the benefit of the ladies who, I was certain, were still hanging around in the hall. Sure enough, smug and chipper now, he sprang up, grabbed the salad and practically skipped out of the room. There was an oily "hello ladies" from the hall then Mrs Jamison appeared, her head turned to watch down the hall. She might have been watching a snake or a slug. More than anything in the world, I wanted to shut the door in her face and be alone. "I don't know why you put up with that," she started, charging my desk, waving her hand in the general direction of Rick. "He's like a little chihuahua. A big strong man like you shouldn't even be around a guy like that. It's embarrassing." She shouted the last word at the wall, as if Rick might hear. Now Betty was in the doorway, shaking her head sadly in agreement with Mrs Jamison. It made her boobs wiggle. There was a roar in my ears that drowned out her words and my neck and face grew hot. It was like I was going to explode any minute if I couldn't be alone to digest this idea. I don't like getting mad at people, I really don't. It's so ugly when Rick does it. But, she had to go. "Get out of my office," I said in a whisper to keep from screaming. With practice I've learned that look, the face I made at those women that caused them shut the fuck up and back out. At the time I truly didn't give a rat's ass what they thought, except for maybe Betty. Within minutes I regretted her look of fear but by then I was too occupied to waste thoughts on that. They didn't return and I didn't do a lick of work the rest of the day. Instead, I spent the whole day shopping for clothes on the internet. Window shopping actually, much like I've done before but this time it was all woman's clothes and not the plus sizes either. The selection in sizes 8 or 10 is so much greater and prettier than I'd ever considered. The possibilities only expanded as I researched: shoes, then wigs, then, risking censor from the IT department, fake breasts of various kinds. It was so exciting I would have stayed late if Betty hadn't stopped by at five minutes past quitting time to ask if I was OK. She's very nice but I'm sure someone as sexy as her has more dates than she can handle. + I sat in my car for close to an hour, watching my own house, alternating between dread and over-excitement for the coming confrontation. He appeared in the kitchen window occasionally, wearing one of my dress shirts like a tent. Who knows what else he'd taken without asking. It's funny that he was stealing my ill fitting clothes when all I wanted to do was buy him an all new wardrobe and see him wear it. But how do you bring up a subject like that? It's ironic. With Rita by my side I would have already walked into the house, grabbed the little pipsqueak by the neck and told him how things would be from now on and, if he didn't like it, I would have tossed him out the door bodily. Then, of course, there would be no Rita. Don't get me wrong. We had some fun. Rick could be very ingratiating when he wanted to be, mainly when he'd gone too far with his pushiness or his temper, and his energy was really good for a person like me who would stay in every night given the chance. On the other hand, he could blow up at a waitress for something as simple and vague as "looking down on us" and he took liberties at home like with the cooking and clothes, all the nagging and, just, well, moving in and not leaving. Dinner was warming in the oven, there was a pile of clean, folded clothes on the coffee table and Rick greeted me with a happy "welcome home" that doused some of my irritation. Ingratiating when he wants to be, like I said. But I wasn't interested in throwing him out anymore. He was necessary for my plans, which brought all new fears. In a way I was in his power. During dinner he started in about the gym down the street again. Would I give it a try? "I talked to a personal trainer there on the way home today and picked up a brochure," he said. He happened to have it close by. "Look, I need to talk to you about something," I started and was pleased to see him sit up and listen, like a bird perched on the chair. He'd been waiting for this conversation. "I understand why you want to mold me this way. I do. And I'm willing to give it a try." "Oh good," he interrupted and hopped out of the chair in his enthusiasm to show off the brochure. "Sit down," I said, determined to speak. He stopped in his tracks. You could see the wheels turning as he tried to decide how to proceed. It was clear this gym thing was something he really wanted. I said it again and he sat after only a slight hesitation. I must confess, that really bolstered my confidence to say the next part. "But, if you're going to mold me, then I want to mold you too." He blinked. That's right, Rick was silent. I got some more words in for once. "You think I can be some kind of muscle man when you know perfectly well what I am inside. It's a fair trade." He hopped up again, against orders, and scampered nervously into the kitchen with his dirty plate as an excuse. He jabbered all the whole way. "You're not the first guy who's wanted to make me his bitch, you know?" There was a foster father then something about a policeman and a soccer coach, then I stopped listening. As he padded back and forth to clear the table I imagined him in the clothes I'd been window shopping for all day. Maybe a bra with some padding, say a B cup, under the dress shirt - not bad, he would look like a cute girl in her boyfriend's shirt. I pictured them bigger, say a D, jiggling under the shirt. They sell realistic breast forms that could make Rick something like a GG cup. Then I imagined a tight top and real breasts spilling out. The possibilities are endless. Blood rushed from my brain, making it difficult to think. He sat a bowl in front of me and retreated, still yammering on about the soccer coach who allegedly wanted him to wear a dress. Dessert. The bowl had a half scoop of orange sherbet and a spoon. "What's this?" I asked loudly before he made it to the kitchen. "You need to lose weight," he yelled back. Half a scoop of of sherbet? My stomach rolled, dissatisfied with the size of dinner already and now this. And my plan to talk to Rick was going nowhere fast. Everything I'd dreamed about all day was fading. "God damn it Rick, come in here and sit down!" I shouted in frustration. When he plopped into his seat he had the same look as Mrs Jamison. It was like discovering a super power that could force even Rick to sit silently and pay attention as if his life hung in the balance. But it also caused my ears to roar and my face and ears to burn. The power was frightening at first. His nervous little hands twisted and untwisted a napkin but he kept his mouth shut. "I don't want you to be my bitch, you know that. In fact, you know exactly what I do want so I shouldn't even need to say it. You're perfect for the task. I'll buy everything." "No. I'm not into that fag stuff," he said flatly. My ears grew even hotter and, for the first time, I imagined what it would be like to choke someone. It would be so easy. "Umm, listen," Rick muttered, rising from the chair with a worried expression, after I'd told him to sit down three times already. "SHUT - THE - FUCK - UP," I said over the noise in my ears, "and sit the fuck down too." I didn't want to be angry. It's just, I'd glimpsed what could be, so close I could reach out and touch it and it wouldn't cost him a damned thing. Why was he being so difficult? How could he not enjoy it? "I'll go to the stupid gym if it's so important. And we can discuss some kind of allowance." I paused to check if I was angry enough to say the rest. It came out easy. "Or you can move out. Tonight." He got a hunted look. The poor napkin paid the price. "May I speak?" he asked after a moment of twisting the thing. He smoothed the wrinkled napkin flat on the table to avoid looking me in the eye while he waited. A new power coursed through my veins "No, I think I want some more of that sherbet first," I said. It felt really good. As he turned away I detected a glint in the corner of his eye and what might have even been a small smile. Was it my imagination? + In the end we struck a deal that hardly seemed fair to either of us. One hour for one hour. I visited the gym and met Dorian, the personal trainer. He was exactly the kind of guy Rick wanted so much to be. Very tall with a broad chest and not an once of fat, you know, the bodybuilder type. I felt ridiculously nervous and fat throughout the interview, almost as if I were the one applying for a job. It was horrible. Three times the first week I puffed and sweated for an hour, mindlessly doing whatever Dorian told me to do, then dragged myself home to meals that couldn't feed a mouse. The only pleasure that week was the look on Rick's face when he picked up my wet, sweaty clothes to be washed and watching him squirm in anticipation of my plans. "So, how many hours do you have now?" He asked the first Saturday morning, as if he didn't know. He's the one who scheduled the sessions with Dorian. "Three," I replied. Three sessions, three hours, that was the deal. "So, it's Saturday. Do you want me to wear a dress or something for a while, use up some of those hours?" He asked nervously. He clearly dreaded the prospect, which excited me in a strange new way. He really believed I might throw him out if he displeased me on this, so much so that he was willing to do, well, something. It remained to be seen whether he would carry through but in the mean time, it was nice to watch him worry over what I had planned. Three hours wasn't enough though. Not nearly enough. At 12 hours neither of us could take it anymore. 12 measly hours represented a whole month of working out at the gym. To Rick it was a month of waiting and wondering what I had in mind, because I told him nothing. Mysterious packages arrived that I opened in my room then locked in the closet. The excitement built with every item but, to be honest, I began to loose my nerve. At some point I would have to describe what I wanted from Rick and that would be terribly embarrassing. As long as he never saw what was in the packages I could always back out. Rick's impatience saved me. "We have to do it this weekend," he said, huffing around the kitchen angrily one night. "Dorian called to schedule your sessions for next month and, well, I need to see what perverted stuff you have hidden in that closet first. We might have to call the whole thing off." "I worked hard all month, for you," I said. "Ha! For me? I'm the one helping you!" He said, coughing back a fake laugh. He held out his skinny arms and rolled his eyes. "I mean, in a whole month, all you did was12 hours of exercise. That's hardly anything. Dorian probably puts in hundreds of hours at the gym every month." "We were talking about the hours you owe me," I said. "You said something about this weekend?" "Yeah. Right. Umm, so why don't you show me what you've got in there? Let's get this over with. You're going to be very disappointed when you see me in a dress you know." Sure, I'd only spent 12 hours with Dorian but the subject had occupied my mind continuously for a month. I opened my laptop and printed out the latest plan I'd been working on, each step listed in loving detail. By the time the printer ground to life and began oozing out the details of my dreams, I'd lost my nerve. I raced to the printer but he was too fast. "Hey. No! Give that back." I shouted, too late. He snatched up the sheet and rushed around the sofa. Safe on the other side, he paced back and forth, reading the list and shaking his head. He wasn't as angry as I expected. "Nope. Nope. Yeah, alright, I could do that. Absolutely not. No." He droned as he paced. There were a lot of nos, just like I feared. The whole plan was out of control. "You have to do them all," I said weakly. "In order." I'm not sure he heard that part. He stopped and tapped the paper. "Shave my body? That's asking too much. It would take forever too. And what's this reading part? That would take hours." "Those are the most important parts," I mumbled to myself, sure I'd lost. "I mean, even if I agreed to something like shaving, it would cost you more than a few minutes. That's a real commitment there, it'd cost at least ..." he glanced up, checking my reaction the way he does before offering some crazy bargain. "That's at least three or four hours right there. While he gibbered, I recalculated "How about we start with number 4? I need to wash my hair anyway. Then I can make some dinner in a robe, like you say here and we can look at what you have in that closet. Then we'll see how many hours that is and work from there?" Finally he looked up. "I'll pay three hours for the shaving." I said quickly, before the chance to speak disappeared. His mouth gaped for a moment and I quickly got in another five words, "Order is important. You'll see." My heart was suddenly racing with excitement. Would he actually go for it? Was it starting? He was certainly thinking about it. He reviewed the list again, bouncing up and down in his bare feet and shaking his head, amazingly quiet. He scratched his chin, perhaps considering the shaving part? "You've really put some time into this list. Maybe I never appreciated how serious you are." "As serious as you," I said, seriously. He nodded and scratched his chin again, looked at his nails then winced and grabbed his crotch with one hand. He adjusted his dick and shook his head. "Let's see what you have in that closet," he finally said. That's when I knew he was a friend. He could tell how excited I was and, even though he found the whole thing distasteful, he pretended to understand. His didn't bat an eye at the clothes but he gasped out loud when I flipped open the plain white box to reveal a pair of small but realistic breast forms. + "This is the body wash, this is facial scrub and this is the shampoo and conditioner. Shave everywhere. Seriously. I'm super curious how that feels and the clothes require super smooth skin and nails anyway. You'll see." He watched me lay out the products with a bemused smile. "If it was anyone else I'd say no. You understand that, right? And if you get weird the whole deal is off." I nodded, stepped out of the room and closed the door. When I saw him next, half my precious hours were spent and, at first glance, he looked exactly the same as before except that his hair was fuller and parted in the middle the way a girl might do it. Up close, his skin was smooth and shiny, what I could see of it on his face and neck. The silky robe bulged in front so he had on the breast forms and a B cup bra. His little feet peeked out from under the hem and I imagined the toes red. How many hours in the gym would that cost? "How does it feel?" I asked quietly, afraid to scare him with loud sounds. He turned in the bedroom, bushed his hands down his hips, feeling the smooth fabric then he suddenly groped his chest roughly, squeezing his boobs so hard it would have hurt if they were real. "It feels good actually. They're cold and the bra pinches but everything else feels great." He brushed his hands down his hips again. That's gotta feel awesome. They slid around to the back for a squeeze then came around to brush the front of the robe. It looked flat. He was tucked. He looked up at me and drew a sad face. "That part is going to take some getting used to but it's not too bad," he said, looking away. "It's kind of cool when my legs touch." He shifted nervously and I could tell they were touching under the robe. My mouth was dry. "Did you shave everywhere?" I asked in a rasp. Rick stood up straight, all 5'4", and looked me in the eye. I couldn't help noticing his breasts. "I'm smooth everywhere you need to worry about, big guy," he said. His hands smoothed again, hips and front, making me shiver. He turned and wondered around the bed, touching the items I'd laid out: Expensive black pantyhose in his size, a pair of skirts with elastic waists, two cheap blouses and a dress I found on clearance, basically a sheath of black and brown stripped polyester. I also paid $30 for a pair of sandals with a one and a half inch heel based on the size of his shoe. "You think you're going to watch me getting dressed?" He asked finally, after inspecting each item longer than necessary. "That's kind of the whole point," I said, a little confused by the question. "That's not part of the deal," he said flatly. "You want to know what it's like to be a girl, right? Well, real girls don't have a pervert staring at them when they get dressed." "Uh huh," I retorted skillfully. That's half the porn industry, right? I couldn't say that though. Neither of us wanted a porn show. "Look. You're nervous. You're hands are shaking and you're forehead is sweaty. I'm a little nervous myself. Go out. Have a beer and relax and I'll be out to join you when I'm dressed. We can hang out all evening." When I stood up my armpits were cold and wet and my knees were wobbly. Water rolled down my sides. I was so wound up I didn't know whether to scream or cry. The clothes were right there, ready to go and he was ushering me out! He pushed with both hands until I began to move toward the door. "You don't need help?" I asked weakly. He stopped pushing and thought about it. "Girls need help all the time, like with zipping up a dress," I added quickly, hopefully, although that dress didn't have a zipper. "Are you going to be weird if I ask for help?" "No. No. Of course not. Whatever you need. I just want this to be fun for you." "Of course you do," he said in a know-it-all tone while he guided me to the door. "Fun for me. You really mean that don't you?" His hand was on the doorknob, closing it in my face, when he paused. He's so short I could see down the front of the robe slightly. Only pale smooth skin then darkness. He was so close I could smell the bath and lotion scents, soap and flowers. "I'll tell you what. You can help me with one thing and we'll see how that goes, OK?" He turned sideways in the doorway, half in and half out of the room, and swept his hair aside. From the back he looked like a girl. "Umm, could you maybe adjust my bra strap a little, without getting too weird? It needs to be shorter." The robe slid lower on one side, exposing a bony shoulder and a silky strap. The black bra. It made his skin look so pale. He was careful, lowering the robe slowly so that I never got a view of the band. My hands trembled anyway and my dick shifted, making room to grow. The illusion was so perfect: a girl was asking me to help with her bra! I had to contort a bit. Two fingers pinched the tiny clasp, two fingers pinched the fine ribbon and I pulled. His skin was warm and moist. Rick wiggled his shoulders and did something in front. "You can let go now," he said, pulling the robe up, forcing my hand to withdraw. We repeated the motion on the other side. The skin on that side was equally smooth and silky. When it was done he wiggled his shoulders again, turned and pushed the door closed right in my face with only a quick 'thank you.' It was very dark and cold in the hallway for some reason. I shifted backward and realized my shoulders and back were stiff and sore. My hands shook and nervous sweat dripped from my armpits. Had he noticed any of this? That would be weird. A beer and about 45 more minutes of waiting calmed my nerves then made me restless. When he finally poked his head around the corner I can say I was very close to angry. But he had on lipstick, dull red but unmistakable. Time was running out and I desperately needed to know what else was behind that wall. I pushed the anger down. "Are you sure you're ready for this?" He asked. "Come on out where I can see you." "If you laugh ..." "COME OUT!" I shouted. He stepped out and inched toward me, bent over, tugging at the skirt of the brown and black sheath hugging his body. I could see right down the top. The breast forms poked up, paler than his own skin and too uniform to believe, but still, delightfully round. The shoes clicked on the wood floor. He could barely stand in them. "You look incredible," I said and mostly meant it. I mean, it was clearly Rick in a tight dress and lipstick and he tottered around the room like a drunk sailor with two peg legs but I didn't want to risk any criticism. Compliments or at least positive feedback are what I would have wanted in his place. "You think? I like the way the boobs feel but they're cold and this dress doesn't cover them well," he turned in front of the hall mirror and adjusted his neckline. His hair was fuller than usual and, from the back, looked like a girl's hair, kind of. There weren't many curves to speak of but the legs were a woman's, trim and silky black. His ankles rolled outward, ruining the illusion somewhat but he had pretty feet and the shoes fit perfectly. "You look great. How does it feel?" I asked impatiently. He turned slowly and tottered a few steps toward the kitchen like he was walking on broken glass. How many hours would he need to train to move naturally in those shoes? His hands brushed his hips then looked like they might grope his chest again. He saw me looking so they glided past and messed absently with his hair. "Can I take the shoes off?" He asked with a sly smile. Always bargaining. The little heels lifted Rick's butt subtly and the clicking sound brought to mind images of Mrs Jamison in the break room. I remembered the exercises Dorian put me through that left me dripping sweat and in pain. "No, I don't think so. I'm ready for dinner now." He looked surprised and disappointed for a moment, which was very satisfying, then he smirked again, like somehow this was his plan all along. His red lips made it all the more obvious. Does he realize he's doing that? He didn't take off the shoes though and he didn't ask again. There was something exciting about the knowledge that he was wearing them because I required it. Dinner was lean but delicious. While I ate I peppered him with questions. He parceled out answers the same way he parceled out food, so I learned to savor every bite. We ate dinner and watched TV for a while, can't remember what, and Rick tried on the other items I'd bought, the skirts and blouses. It seemed like only a hour passed. "Well, I'm going to get ready for bed," Rick said. He uncrossed his smooth legs like he'd been doing all night, like it felt good, then tugged on the skirt and inched toward the edge of the sofa. "These skirts are too short," he said. He leaned forward, preparing to stand, and I could see the breast forms. He saw me looking and pulled up on the neck of the lace crop top. "Yeah, the tops are all too low as well. I'm practically falling out." "These are the kind of clothes girls wear. If I was, or, I mean, if I could be like, well, like you. You know? That's what I'd wear. As a girl." He rose up and pulled down on the skirt and adjusted the waist lower, then a strip of his lean stomach appeared. When he pulled the top down, the forms became visible again. "Yeah, well, maybe some girls dress this way but not this one," he said. "I'll be helping with the selection in the future." "Like the way I get to help Dorian pick exercises in the future?" I quickly asked, before I could chicken out. That stopped him. He stood in the doorway looking very girl-like, still plucking at the top in an attempt to get it to cover his whole body. What is that like? "Fine. If that's how you want to play it," he said ominously + The next month felt easier, even though the workouts seemed more intense and I put in four hours a week at the gym rather than three plus started Rick charged me two hours every week for what he called 'essential upkeep.' It's true that what I could see of him, his face and legs, always appeared shaved but how long could that take in a week? I shaved most days myself. Still, I agreed to the price. So, at the end of the month I only had eight hours saved. It was depressing. But when Rick appeared in the new outfit he'd helped pick out, a dress skirt that brushed his knees and a sleeveless rayon shell that covered his chest and showed off his arms, along with the hose and shoes, in only an hour my hopes soared. He clicked around the corner, absently smoothing the back of the skirt, clearly more comfortable than last time, like he'd been practicing. He spotted me, stopped and stood up straight, posing. He swept his hair back as if it were much longer. "What do you think?" He asked, really in the spirit. "You're beautiful," I said without thinking. I mean, it was still Rick but from the bust-line down he looked great, as long as he moved slowly. His hair was parted in the middle again and looked thicker and softer and his face was smoother and softer somehow too. Makeup? It was the smile that made him beautiful though. He appeared to be genuinely enjoying himself! "Really Rick, you're beautiful. Thank you." I said. He spun in place once then shrugged his shoulders. "Thank you," he replied. "I mean, it's not bad. The upkeep all month was worth it, let me tell you." "I'd love to hear all about it," I said. "In detail please." He grinned at my eagerness. I always feel helpless in those moments, afraid he might call a stop at any moment if I push too hard. "You're getting over excited. Why don't you relax in your easy chair while I get dinner started," he said. He turned on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen. That was it? He was dismissing me just like that? I wanted to follow but was so tense my legs didn't want to go. My armpits and palms were damp too. He popped out the door and wrinkled his eyebrows. They looked neater somehow, not really feminine, just neater. What had he done? What was that like? "Go on!" He said in a high, cheerful voice, waving me away. "I'll be prancing around for you soon enough." He stepped forward and pushed my shoulder playfully with both hands. He pushed again harder and my legs moved after all. "Go on. I'm not going to cheat you out of your hours." He didn't but dinner wasn't very filling and the hours flew past so fast I was startled when he excused himself to change. When I looked at the clock, ready to argue, we were half an hour over and he hadn't said a word. He hadn't really done anything out of the ordinary either, except for the clothes, but when he crossed his legs or got up to fetch dessert or another beer for me, the ultra-light brand, I studied every movement. His legs rubbed together like that for a reason, right? Do the shaved legs and hose feel sexy? Is it hard to walk in that skirt? He talked constantly without ever giving a clear cut answer to a question, which is normal for Rick but was especially frustrating when I had a million other questions waiting to be asked. Somehow I agreed to a two hour martial arts class every Saturday for the next month, just to buy more time. + "Two o'clock," I muttered, lifting my chin slightly to indicate the direction, the way we always do. A beautiful woman strode purposefully across the mall floor, almost running. She wore a tight, navy blue skirt, hose with 2" pumps and a knit polo shirt with a tech company logo. Work clothes. But her dark hair was down, flowing behind her, her lips were bright red and the shirt bulged and bounced like a living thing as she hurried by. "That's fine. It's you're time," he said with a shrug, like he didn't want to play the game today. We watched her jog down the hall. "That bra and those shoes aren't made for running," he said sympathetically, really ruining the game. He'd spent about a dozen hours in size 'D' breast forms at that point and could almost walk in short heels like the woman was running in, so naturally Rick was an expert. He sat up very straight and casually looked up and down the hall, like something more interesting than a hot woman might turn up. The place was busy but nobody stood out. "Eight o'clock," he said finally. "Don't stare." Like he needs to tell me that. There was nothing over my left shoulder. A pair of very overweight girls that were too young for us, followed by a couple of guys. A family with like four or five kids occupied the next bench down. The mom looked very tired. "What do you mean?" I asked turning back. He was making notes in a little book and made me wait. He closed the book, glanced away to his right then leaned toward me. "Did you see the biceps on that guy? You need a shirt like that," he whispered, looking to his right again. It had to be the two guys, walking away from us now. One of the two had noticeably bigger arms than the other and his shirt was kind of tight but who looks at stuff like that? The game was ruined forever. I could still trust him to jab me with his sharp elbow unexpectedly and whisper a clock direction and there was usually a hot woman to be found there. But more and more often over the weeks it would be a guy, with big muscles or a expensive suit or an unusually good haircut, or any of a dozen other qualities I didn't have. And he took notes! + By six months I was training eight hours a week, half of which went to Rick's daily grooming routine. Sometimes the price felt too high but I couldn't stop myself. While I grunted and dripped sweat, Rick lounged in warm bubble baths. At night he moisturized and brushed his hair while we watched TV but that was all the upkeep that went on as far as I could see. I was paying a lot of hours for some grooming, right? We were at the grocery store, in the bread section. I browsed the baked goods, speculating on what I could get past Rick's watchful eye when I heard his voice rising higher. "It says 'whole wheat' right on the label!" he shouted, waving a long loaf of bread at a teen-aged boy behind a glass counter that was almost as tall as Rick. The kid wore a hair net, plastic gloves and a look that said his job wasn't particularly fulfilling sometimes. "I'm sorry. I didn't write the labels Miss," he said with his head down. Rick froze. "What did you just say?" He asked. His voice was deeper. "Ma'am?" The kid asked, confused. "I just said I don't write the labels, that's all." Rick turned toward me. He was about to explode. Should I run? He cocked his head in thought, glanced at the kid with contempt then strode toward me with renewed purpose. He poked me in the chest with the loaf. "So I guess you're the man now," he said with the same contempt. "So you can take care of this!" He held out the loaf like a baton, transferring the problem to me, and I took it. What was I supposed to do with it? The kid looked worried as I approached and that just made me feel sorry for him. We were both caught in a weird Rick drama and he was watching us. I could almost feel his eyes on my back. "I'm sorry. I just don't understand what she wants," the kid said in a worried voice. He still hadn't figured it out. Rick crossed his arms, tossed his hair and pouted at us. He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt like me but his sneakers had pink trim, because that's the kind of shoes I bought for him. Naturally his legs were smooth and apparently I'd missed some other subtle changes in Rick's appearance. The grooming was really paying off. A strange power seized me. "That's OK. Don't worry about it," I told the kid. He looked very relieved. I walked back to Rick, watching his angry bewilderment. "Aren't you going to do anything?" he asked shrilly, waving his skinny arm at the kid. I dropped the healthy loaf on top of the display and picked up a box of muffins, chocolate chip, and dropped them in our cart. He was so mad he couldn't speak and I just walked away, pushing the cart with all the stuff I would soon have to paying for. What was he going to do about it? It was just a few minutes later in the breakfast food aisle that I caught him looking at me with that smirk again. Was he even angry before or was that all a show? Why can't he act like a normal person? I had half a mind to put the box of healthy, high fiber cereal back on the shelf but didn't because I was imagining him in a pair of 4 inch heels, currently hidden in my closet. + Music blared from the living room stereo, fighting with the sound of the vacuum cleaner coming from the hall. Rick wiggled backward down the hall in a thin, jersey dress and bare feet, dancing to the music with the upright. His hair was held up with a pink and gray scrunchy and the clasp of a bra was clearly outlined under the tight dress. Why? I backed out to the front door, opened and slammed it hard then turned off the music and waited. "I'm home!" The vacuum kept roaring. I ventured a look and it was standing there running by itself. After a moment Rick stepped from around the far corner in saggy gym shorts and one of my T-shirts and casually turned off the machine, like maybe I'd