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Double Date by Vickie Tern (So this year doesn't end without my posting even one new story on FM, here's one of many not yet finished, finished in time to post it this year! I hope.) You know how it goes, that long-dreaded moment. Your wife walks in unexpectedly and sees she isn't married to a man but instead to a wannabe woman. Or something like that, a sex freak. She studies you and determines it really is you though you seem to be someone else. Someone not her husband but not unattractive. Comfortably familiar in fact, a female equivalent of the man she married, a sister-in-law she's never met maybe. Nice, but not a husband. That -- she sees immediately -- you can never be, not ever again. But what else can you be? You've gone to enormous trouble to disguise yourself, make yourself over as the rather pretty, charmingly dressed, impeccably made up woman she just saw tripping in high heels through the living room, delicately adjusting table lamps and picture frames and then looking up suddenly at her, shocked! You're a surprisingly persuasive woman, as a matter of fact! The way you reflexively tuck back a stray curl unawares even as you stare at her tells her immediately that you've done this to yourself often before, many times, you're accustomed, you've been a self-emasculating, self-feminizing sissy for a long time. From that moment and forever she can no longer consider you a man. You're something else, something other. Not necessarily less, but different. A demi-man? A semi-woman? Whatever, maybe she can still respect you as other than she thought you were? Not as the man she thought she'd married, but more than that man? As the woman you seem? Love you that way too? One can dream. But this was reality. Marcie is obviously seeking to understand what she sees as she stares at you, stares at the woman who was once her husband. Are you gay? If you were, that would explain it, this would be you dressed to attract men. But she has a gay brother, and knows that despite popular opinion gay men aren't necessarily effeminate, not even usually. It's masculinity they admire and cultivate. Muscle. Are you transsexual then, a woman born into a man's body? Maybe. She could understand something like that. Her college roommate Sherry had felt herself the reverse, a man in a woman's body, and was just about to begin hormone treatment to correct nature's mistake when along came the love of her life, Tessa, a confirmed lesbian, and she realized -- he realized -- that there were advantages to remaining female in appearance after all. Sherry and Tessa were now inseparable, and they visited us occasionally. You got used to seeing them, acknowledging an affinity to them. Sort of. But you know you're not transsexual, no more than you're gay. A transvestite certainly, partially transgendered probably, a man who feels completed when he looks like a woman and feels like one. Who cultivates his inner girl, loving what she sees when she can look into a mirror and see someone pretty -- feminine, attractive, desireable. Happily dedicated to making herself happy that way, her femininity overpowering any more manly senses of self. But no way seeking a man. I'd feared this moment of discovery for years, knowing the odds, knowing it must happen eventually even while hoping it never would. After all, it never had happened. Yet, here it was. Marcie'd just walked in on me and here I was looking -- well, yes, pretty. Not the least bit manly. Girlishly pretty. I'd thinned out, and let my hair grow for surreptitious styling, and I knew how to look feminine, cute, even with no makeup, merely by holding or tossing my head or my wrists just so, taking dainty steps and standing just so, with my toes slightly pointed in, By looking wide-eyed at people, and so on. I was doing all that now, and in full makeup! With a pert hairdo. I knew I really did look like a strange woman, though vaguely familiar. She stared at me and I stared back at her, humiliated. Devastated. But even so, trying to act altogether at ease! She was supposed to have been elsewhere, well into the evening. First lunching with friends, then attending her afternoon Women's Club discussion group, then shopping the Saturday sales. "Well into dark," she'd told me. "We'll dine late, I'll bring something home," she'd told me as she left the house this morning. "Enjoy yourself, don't be naughty!" And with those words she'd left me free to do whatever I chose. All day! Of course I chose to dress up! An hour or so after she departed I was my other self, looking wonderfully feminine. Quite lovely, if I do say. I have naturally large eyes, and what in men is called a 'weak' chin but in women a 'cute' chin. And my hair is long enough to brush back when I'm a man yet curve when I'm a girl, especially when it's first been set it in curlers to frame and soften my face. I love looking girly. So now my hair was just so, and my face freshly made up, and I was wandering around in a brand new black cocktail dress with matching stiletto heels. Even dangling earrings! I'd decided to spent the entire afternoon perfecting certain high-heeled moves, especially a ladylike sitting down done gracefully yet with dignity. I'd gotten to where it felt just right, and I'd stood up again when .... when I saw her standing in our front hallway, holding a few bundles and looking straight at me. At this strange occupant of her home. Here home hours too soon! Shocked! Terrified? Paralyzed, scared to death! Oh, God! I ...! We just stood there staring at each other, saying nothing. There was nothing to say. Did she recognize me? Of course, after a brief moment anyhow. Was my marriage over? Maybe. Probably. Oh, God! She set down her shopping bags on the hall table and walked across the room toward me. I was still standing in front of my huge easy chair, the one by the fireplace we've both been amused to call my 'command post.' She stood directly in front of me, addressing me mildly with her eyes. Of course. From this moment, she was saying, she's in charge! She studied me a minute or two longer, still silently. Amazingly, not looking the least bit angry. Nor even puzzled. She simply waited, as if she expected me to say something. And waited. Looked at me silently and waited. Of course! So I opened my pretty, red-lipsticked mouth and tried to speak. I struggled to find approximations of words. Apologies? Explanations? Confessions? Declarations of hideous shame and embarrassment mingled with protest that I wasn't really a pervert despite my freakish appearance? Pleas for forgiveness and promises that it would never happen again? When of course it would? Because I simply can't help it? Because I love it and always have? Tell her all that and accept the worst? Nothing came out. She waited through several failed mouthings, then waved me into silence and just stood there some more, examining me. Assessing me. With a faint calculating smile. Accepting me? There I stood feeling naked despite being fully clothed, as fully clothed as my cocktail dress permitted. In full makeup and bright red nails. In my lace-topped thi-hi hose and high, high heels. Wearing my best bra, which was holding up my modest but noticeable boobs. Looking quite beautiful, I knew, I'd given years to learning how to make my small, well-proportioned face look charming and seductive, especially when accented with heavy eyeshadow! A man shouldn't look like a beautiful women! Or want to! But I could and did and loved it. Until now! Suddenly she spoke. "I'd wondered if that complexion cream I found weeks ago was your shade. And your dress is stunning! Anne Klein, isn't it? I saw that very model at Simpson's a few weeks ago. Fit for dress-up at the office and yet on into the evening, fit even for a very special date, that's how they advertised it. I almost bought one myself, did you know that? We do seem to have similar tastes! I tried it on but finally decided it was a bit too clingy for me, and a bit too revealing up top -- I worried I might fall out of it! But on you figure it looks perfect, sweetheart! Very much you! Wear it well!" Very much me? I stared at her! She continued. "I love your hair done that way! Simple but elegant. Most women can't manage a short hair style, it looks too severe, but on you it's softening, very becoming! Remarkable! It changes your look altogether when it's brushed sideways like that instead of straight back. No one would ever guess you aren't the lovely woman you seem to be! I didn't recognize you at all at first when I came in just now, even though I knew what I'd find. I mean, you've been leaving hints around the house for months. But now, you're perfect!" My beloved wife smiled and raised one eyebrow, awaiting my response. Perhaps agreement, and thanks for the compliment? A grateful curtsy? Something? Anything? Women compliment each other all the time -- how do they respond? Since I couldn't speak, I nodded as if graciously. "Thank you," I mouthed. Maybe spoke too quietly to be heard? Then, I realized she'd just told me that this discovery wasn't accidental but deliberate. She knew she'd see me this way! "The past few months your skin has been getting softer and smoother and lovelier, did you know that? And your breasts? They're coming along so beautifully! You should know, I'm as pleased as you are with them. I found out last year that you were renewing my old hormone prescription, the one Dr. Davison had me on to regulate my periods? I wondered why in the world until I found some in your drawer, and noticed that one was missing each day." She nodded reassuringly and smiled. I just stood there. "So I watched, and I saw how your skin was growing more smooth and your rear was rounding out and your arms were thinning down and your chest was developing. They're all fully formed now, aren't they? I noticed months ago that your boobs hang down like mine whenever you lean over me to make love. You never noticed? And they've become so wonderfully sensitive, just like mine! Have you any idea, the sounds you make whenever I caress your nipples, or lick them, or kiss them? How you cum almost the very moment I start to suck on them? You enjoy them so much that I consulted Dr. Davison about it, and she gave me some additional hormones targetted specifically to grow your breasts larger and sensitize them more. So you'll love them the way I do and never want to have them removed. I've been sprinkling the stuff on your food for months." I didn't answer. My breasts had gotten obvious, much larger than intended, and lately I've been careful to hide them from her. But no way in this dress! Its low neckline and my push-up bra exposed the deep, fully visible cleft between my outcroppings. They weren't huge, but were quite respectable. 'Great knockers,' I'd called their like whenever I saw them on girls in my college classes. I'd always loved feeling them, kissing them, desiring them, whenever the girls allowed me. I adored Marcie's! And I loved enjoying my own! All this time, Marcie knew. And wasn't turned off? Far from disapproving, she'd encouraged their growth! "Lean forward, honey!" she said suddenly. I did. She reached our her hands and grasped my outcropping boobs. And lifted them slightly. Her thumbs slid down their upper, exposed, bare skin to press on their nipples, and she began to diddle the tips of each through my blouse and bra. That old, wonderfully delicious, reassuring, easeful sensation spread out of them and through me I thrust them toward her for more. "Yes," she said thoughtfully. "You've been becoming what you are now for months, sweetheart. And isn't it wonderful? You've wanted your own girly figure, haven't you? I could understand that, I did too when I was developing mine. And I love you, my darling. So, since you wanted one, I wanted you to have one! And here it is!" She suddenly smiled broadly at me, lifted my breasts slightly as if to assure herself of their weight -- they filled each of her hands -- then dropped them and leaned back. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm so glad it's all out in the open at last, finally and forever! You're my wonderful husband and now also my beautiful brand new girlfriend! From now on we'll do all the things that girls do, and share all of our wonderful girly secrets with each other!" Not at all what I'd anticipated woiuld be her response if she ever caught me in girl mode! When she caught me, as always seemed inevitable. Instead, she suddenly sat down in that easy chair as if assuming a place of authority on a throne. My former command post, when I was still a man. In her eyes anyhow. "One suggestion, though? You look so sultry, and it's still afternoon! Do use a lighter shade of lipstick during the day. Feel free to borrow any of mine, honey -- from now on, whatever's mine is yours too! And maybe use just a little bit less eyeshadow before the sun goes down? Maybe a stroke or two less mascara?" I was now beyond dumbstruck! I'd always imagined that if she ever saw me like this, when she finally found me out, she'd be bewildered and then disgusted. Contemptuous. Instead, she was being ... helpful! A little amused, perhaps, but genuinely encouraging! Assuming that this would be my appearance from now on? Was she being ironic, sarcastic? No, she sounded sincere. She didn't think I was a pervert or unmanly, dressing myself like this, trying to look like this? Well, unmanly certainly, but .... I stared at the carpet and now and then glanced at her through my overly-mascara'd eyelashes, and still I said nothing. She went on. "And if you don't mind another suggestion, your scent is way too heavy for the afternoon -- a fresh, flowery cologne would serve better. What you're wearing is what I wore to the concert last week, isn't it? 'Seduction'? I agree, it's a marvelous fragrance, I love it too. Lots of men are attracted by it, and look for any excuse to stand close to you whenever you wear it. Several did last week during the intermission while you were off getting me something to drink., total strangers before we began chatting! It's really, overwhelmingly ... romantic I guess I have to say. Sexually suggestive without a doubt! Wonderful for a heavy date! But honey, you shouldn't wear it when you don't mean it, certainly not around the house. It's not really suitable for shopping or the office either." She paused, and then with a wicked gleam in her eye -- or did I imagine it? -- she added, "Or do you have a heavy date? Are you planning to lure some man into your bed somewhere later this evening? Is that your intention?" She was teasing! Was she teasing? Now she just sat there, smiling slightly. Finally I managed to utter a single word reply. "No!" I yipped in falsetto. Then "No, Marcie!" again, a bit more moderately. At last I found I could speak. "No, I never leave the house dressed like this, Marcie," I said in a more normal tone of voice, though it was still a little tense, pitched a little high. I wanted to reassure her that regardless of appearances, I was still normal. Then plaintively I added, "And I've loved trying out your different scents and aromas, this one especially. But I don't like to borrow them. So I bought this for me. It's my only one." Hoping to explain myself? To reassure her that I wear a seductive perfume without wanting to seduce anyone? Assuring her of my propriety, or was it my timidity? My cowardice? Gutlessness? Had I just told her that I lack the courage of my convictions? If that's what this, this ... compulsion could be called, this joy I feel whenever I dress up to look like the other sex and succeed at it? She raised her eyebrows as if surprised. "That explains why it's the only aroma I notice on the clothes you keep in that attic dresser! Sweetheart, surely you know that a girl needs different scents for different occasions! You go to all this trouble, yet you don't show yourself to the world in different ways? Housewife, sportswoman, chic cocktail date, elegant dance partner, seductive flirt -- you don't share yourself as all these things? Why in the world not? We girls can be so many things! You're more than lovely, my dear! In some ways you're beautiful. Really, it's a gift! Surely you know that!" I just looked at her. She was being altogether sincere! Or so she seemed! I've always been pleased by my mirror image when I'm made up carefully, and I glowed at her compliment. But now I also felt ashamed. The residual man in me felt ashamed in front of her, anyhow. Because I'm supposed to be a man! Suddenly she changed the subject. "You sweet dear!" she said. "You look so shocked! Come over here and sit down beside me and tell me all about this ... these desires of yours!" I lowered myself into a small, straight-backed chair near her. Carefully, turning a bit sideways, knees together, toes pointed toward each other as if I were helpless, the way sophisticated models do to imply that they're really only little girls who need protection. Hands folded demurely in my lap. Ladylike, just the way I'd been practicing. Then I crossed my ankles and looked at her. Tears were forming in the corners of my eyes. Soon she'd be mocking me. And then she'd leave me! Because I wasn't the man she'd thought she'd married! Hold them back before they ruin my mascara! "No sweetheart, I mean sit down right here next to me, where I can touch you! You do look a bit unhappy!" She gestured to a place on the carpet immediately in front of her chair and she held out her hand. I took it and sat down at her feet, grateful that I'd practiced even that motion. I did it fetchingly, if I do say so. Turned my legs in and readjusted my skirt. Then I looked up at her, my expression still apologetic, mournful. I couldn't believe she .... Marcie leaned forward and kissed my forehead to reassure me. "Oh, sweetheart, don't feel bad! I've known about your ... cross-dressing and your cross-gendered desires for a long time! I found your 'stash' last winter, I believe that's what people call the forbidden things they hide from other people. The ones you keep in the attic storage closet, where we never go. Supposedly. So I'm quite familiar with the whole range of your wardrobe, that cute tennis outfit, those somewhat risque but sophisticated cocktail dresses, your everyday skirts and blouses, even that sleek Donna Karen pants suit you never seem to wear, it still looks brand new! I hope you'll let me borrow it some time, we're similar in size. In return you can borrow any of my things!" She nodded reassuringly at me as I looked up at her. "I've even found all those delicate unmentionables you use to explore your sexual feelings as a woman, as the kind of woman you might like to be. Those seductive black satin and lace bras and panties. And the sensible plain cotton ones too, the ones that tell me you'd like to be an ordinary woman on ordinary days too, as a regular thing. That's so dear! And I'm also familiar with the full range of your cosmetics. So do relax, baby, none of this is a surprise to me." Was she reassuring me? Preparing a bill of indictment as she named each of the kinds of women's things I've played with? Played with for years without ever letting her know. "Marcie!" I croaked. Could I promise her I'd never do it again? And mean it? Would it help? But when I broke my word, as I surely would, what then? Oh, God! Her next remark surprised me. "I think it's sweet that you want to know how all these things feel when a girl wears them. How girls feel. I think it's clever that you've learned to put together many smart and fetching outfits and look chic. And it's altogether admirable that you think women's clothes are so marvelous you must have your very own to wear!" She isn't offended? As if on impulse she leaned forward and took my head between both her hands -- careful of my coiffure -- and kissed me on the lips softly, gently. Once. Careful of my lipstick and hers. "From now on you'll weare them! It's wonderful that you want to explore how the other half of your world lives, and your own other half as it were. I must say, baby, I didn't realize you were so daring. I wish I'd known." Oh? Had she done something she now regrets, because she didn't know? "You wish you'd known?" I asked her. So she could leave me and build a future with some more traditional kind of man? "I want to help you! I intend to! So I can admire you all the more!" Not an answer I expected. She went on, clarifying what she meant. "It takes an intense curiosity, not to say incredible generosity of spirit, for a man to abandon his manhood and live as a woman. To try to feel how women feel about things. Not just spend his whole life living as a single-minded male, the way most men do." That wasn't me, but this wasn't the moment for me to say so. "It takes a lot of confidence for a man to abandon manliness and go to the lengths you've gone. It's rather wonderful in a way. Were you always like this?" She waited. I tugged at the hem of my dress again, just a little, and smoothed my hips, and studied her to make sure she was serious. Tossed my head in a fetching manner I'd long practiced, one that looks comfortable yet also sceptical. As many women do. She was serious. So, slowly at first, I delivered my whole history. I told her how I'd tried on my sister's bathing suit out of curiosity when I was fourteen, and found that I felt so excited and looked so exciting that I then tried on her other things. And then never stopped! Because when I pretended I was a girl, I could make out with me, feel myself up whenever I wanted! And it felt great as both the guy and the girl! I told her how I'd then 'borrowed' clothes from other women in my family, or from girlfriends. How one girlfriend had found out and then deliberately helped me -- taught me fashion and hairdoes and pointed me to a salon I still use when I'm feeling very daring. How I first got up courage to go into a store and buy my own stuff, cheap sexy stuff, but soon some expensive, tasteful things found in yard sales and in "next-to-new" benefit sales held annually by churches in the better parts of town. I told her how wearing women's clothes made me feel ... exalted even though also fearful of discovery. How I felt liberated when the internet revealed there were others like me, thousands who felt the same way, including women who love being men! That our sex drives work that way in part, with different people, to different degrees. I told her how, ashamed, I'd purge my wardrobe, my entire collection, give it away, try to wean myself off this 'weakness.' And fail, then replace everything I'd tossed with more recent fashions. The fact was, simply, that I love wearing women's clothes and imagining I'm a woman. It was exciting. During the past decade it had become socially acceptable, no longer shameful, for males who felt they were women to convert altogether. But not my kind of male, a man who only wants to feel like a woman now and then, who can feel it joyously but knows the whole time that he's a man. Marcie listened quietly. Finally when I stopped talking, she asked, "So you've dressed like this all the while we've known each other? While we were dating and when we got married and ever since?" I nodded, determined at last to tell all. "Now and then, yes. I'd hoped that our marriage would end it, and it did at first. But after a few years I started up again." "I've envied you some of your things," she said reflectively. "They're lovely." I felt pleased and on impulse got even more personal. "Now you know why I keep myself hairless, not just because clearewd skin reduces sweat. And why I got those elaborate laser treatments on my face, not just to save the bother of shaving. "Yes," Marcie replied. Then more cautiously she added, "And make njo mistake, I do love the feel of your skin, of your face rubbing against mine." "I use your brand of skin cream," I confessed. "I've noticed. It has a lovely fragrance you probably can't detect any more. I'd wondered about your scent, your complexion, why you care for your skin as if you were a woman." Silence. "Of course those female hormones have made you a genuine woman in some ways, changed your skin and other structures along with your shape. More than you realize, sweetheart. We women are always softer and smoother than our men." Did she include me in that expression, "we women"? It seemed so. Did that exclude me from "our men"? She changed the subject. Her voice became less thoughtful, more purposeful. "I must say, I'm delighted I can now tell you openly you have exquisite taste. You really need to display it, the way we all do. To take pride in it." Then she sat silent again. She wasn't asking any of the obvious questions. Did I want to be a woman? No, I wasn't transsexual, only a transvestite. Did I want to attract men for sex? Absolutely not! She seemed to know already that I was bi-curious about gender roles and feelings, maybe somewhat bi- gendered, and that I gratified myself by acting them out. That I enjoyed my feminine proclivities. Amazingly, she found that admirable! Yet I'd always found them shameful as well as delightful! Now I had to ask her a question. "Why didn't you ask me about all this when you first discovered it?" Her eyes went veiled for a moment, as if she wanted to hide something or reveal it only gradually. She looked at me with the glimpse of a self-satisfied smile, then slowly, her reassuring expression returned. "Oh sweetheart, I had to explore around, decide for myself what it meant, how I felt about it, what I wanted to do about it. That took some time. But now I know how I feel and what I want to do, and that's why I came home this afternoon earlier than planned. It's time." 'Time'? She looked grim for a moment. "I do confess, I thought at first that you were being unfaithful, that you had another women somewhere who kept her things here for some reason. Which was baffling, because you were being as affectionate and loving as ever. I did look into my options, for example that maybe I should begin cultivating other men. Then I noticed that the clothes I found were all your size, even the shoes, and I realized you were your own other woman. So I had to decide how I felt about that! I didn't want to compete with you for your own affections! So should I look for another man? For a man, that is?" I risked my next question. "And what did you decide?" She took a deep breath, looked away for a moment, then looked back. "I decided to admire you and love you for your courage and selflessness. For acting on your desire to feel as women feel, to understand them by seeming to be one. At least now and then. So I decided to help you explore us, help you try it out. Not by changing you into a woman, you set your own priorities there, though the hormones you take do work toward it. I provided you with more hormones than you know, in part to honor and gratify you, in part to see how far you'd go. I figured that when your body changed enough to satisfy you, you'd quit, and that would clue me to stop drowning you in heavy-duty doses. But you never did quit." Because it was all so gradual I never knew to quit. Not even when my hanging, pendulous boobs whenever I leaned forward suggested that I'd overdone it! She smiled. "You've pretty much gone the distance now, I'd say. Look at you! I adore that cute round ass, and the way you've thinned down your waistline so your hips seem more curvy. And those boobs on your chest are now quite distinctive, aren't they? No problem filling a bra now, and beautifully shaped! The way they poke out -- you must be so proud of them! Nearly a C cup? More? There's no mistaking you for a man now!" She nodded reassuringly so I'd know she was praising me, not insulting me. I hadn't realized my breasts were that obvious. I usually dressed and undressed in front of her, turning away so she'd never notice the obvious, and they'd grown larger so gradually I'd gotten accustomed and never noticed. But she'd noticed! True,they now filled my bras very satisfactorily, and their nipples -- my nipples -- felt exquisite whenever I diddled them or as now and then Marcie happened to play with them. Oh, then, exquisite! Worth every risk! Oh, God, yes! "So here you are trying to live like a woman now and then. Fine! But only in your own mind, exhibiting the woman in you only to your own mirror! Babe, that's not admirable. I admire your willingness to risk humiliation, exposure, when you enact this ... need of yours. But your secrecy robs you of all the other advantages!" True, I was a coward. The man in me was ashamed of his womanhood. But what did she mean by 'other advantages'? "Sweetie, when I understood that you didn't want to become a woman, only to experience womanhood, I saw no threat to our marriage in any of this. That was when I decided to help you." Now I didn't understand at all. I simply stared at her. "That's why I came home early today. So we can do this together." I stared down at my hands, at their red, polished nails matched to my red, glossy lipstick, and then looked back up at her. "Do what?" She leaned forward. "Live as women. Together! Starting now." My heart leaped into my throat. An exhilerating notion, but frightening! "Honey," I said as gently as I could. "I can't do that! Ahh, I have responsibilities at the office. Clients, and so on." She smiled at me. "Not for a while, sweetie. I phoned your office this afternoon and told them we need to spend time together to celebrate our tenth anniversary, so we want to take two weeks of your accrued time. They congratulated us -- Roger understood, he said he knew how hard you've been working and that you've earned some time off. Then surprise! He looked at a calendar and realized that the office closes for renovations for two more weeks just after that, so we can take the whole month! Sweetheart, you and I will live together as women day and night for the next month! Then we'll see what we'll do." I was a little stunned. I looked up at her, bewildered. "You spoke to my boss? To Roger? And he ...?" She interrupted me. "He'll welcome you back in a month. Honey, I know how you've felt exalted yet ashamed and tried to keep all this a dark secret even from me. I know how fearful you've been that I might find out, or other people might find out. But there's nothing to find out! You're lovely, really quite attractive as a woman. So for the next month you'll be one, look and behave as we all do, and no one will ever think otherwise. I understand how you've been afraid to come out of the closet and enjoy your femininity openly. Well, starting tonight you're a genuine woman. Tonight we're going out together. The two of us. Starting right now, matter of fact!" Out? "Not stay here?" I managed to ask through my choked throat. "No." She glanced at her watch. "It's now the Friday cocktail hour. When people routinely congregate and relax from the week's tensions. That's what we're both going to do. I want you to know that you're a genuine woman in the eyes of others, to feel validated by that knowledge. To feel authentic, fully yourself. And meanwhile practice more than merely our clothes and makeup and movements, more than our superficial appearances. Something as well of our social skills, our behavior. You need to habituate yourself to the ways we behave with each other and with men. How we put on feminine mannerisms as naturally as our make-up. You know, how we chat, flatter, listen to flattery, reassure each other, all of it. How we enjoy being pretty and being admired for it! How we trade gossip and opinions and secrets and advice whenever we visit the Ladies', as all ladies do. For example, each Friday lots of single men go to bars and clubs to unwind and reassure themselves. So that's where single women go too, even wives if for some reason they're alone and bored. You have no notion how to flirt, do you? Nor even how to enjoy girl talk? Well, it's time. We're going out together. Stand up, baby, and go get your purse, and then let's go." "Marcie!" I exclaimed, now genuinely frightened. "I ... I don't have a purse! I've never been out of the house so I've never needed one! And I'm ...!" I began looking around the room for a way to escape. Yet I remained rooted at her feet. There was no way to escape and still retain her respect. Nor could I go with her. I couldn't move! "Don't worry, love, you're dressed just fine for a Friday evening. We'll go first to a discreet little cocktail bar I know, a place where women congregate and we can have a drink or two like two intimate friends, because that's what we are now, among other things. Girlfriends. To get you better acquainted with your own inner girl, and learn how to deal with any men who hit on us. To build your confidence. Maybe dance a round or two. Then we'll find a nice place to have dinner. Then we'll see." Terrifying! All those public places? Dressed like this? "Honey, I can't .... This is just for.... I ...." She looked at me, eyes now openly amused but with just a hint of ... was it impatience? She wriggled her hips a little, then smiled broadly. As if she was fully in her element, anticipating a night out on the town and at the same time dealing with my hesitation. "Oh, honey, you look gorgeous! You'll be fine! I know it! You'll persuade everyone that you are what you seem, and then everyone'll persuade you." She looked briefly mischievous as she added, "There's nothing to fear unless, maybe, you come on to some man too fast and he gets the wrong idea and .... But even then, we'll see! So don't be silly!" She stood up. Oh, God! "Maybe so." I began to babble. "But what if people see I'm not a ... that I'm a man pretending to be ... they'll think I look silly, they'll mock me, and I 'll ... I'll deserve it! I'll be ridiculous!" She looked at me, faintly annoyed. "I don't see anything at all manly about you, sweetheart. In no way do you resemble a man! Not the slightest bit! No one would ever dream you were once a man!" The very words I'd been terrified to hear from her one day! Moreover, she spoke sharply. With an edge of contempt in her voice? Was she reassuring me or putting me down? Both, I suppose. I must have looked mournful, as abandoned as I felt at that moment, because she took a deep breath and added more mildly, "No, no one could imagine it! You're much too beautiful. Women will envy you. They'll ask wherever it was you managed to find those wonderful strappy heels you're wearing, or that pendant necklace -- it does set off your neckline so delicately, did you know that? They'll ask who does your hair, though I know it's simply a lovely cut to fit a lovely face. I'll be with my beautiful and poised woman, and that will reflect well on me. Also I'll be with my courageous husband and proud of him because he isn't just indulging himself, he's indulging me because I'm asking him to live according to his inclinations despite his fears! To be not my fine husband but my gorgeous girlfriend." She paused. "And as for people looking at you, well, that's the whole point, isn't it? To be seen as a woman, so they'll behave as they do toward women and give you all those pleasures too. All sorts of opportunities to behave like one. Maybe they'll even persuade you that's what you are underneath, even though you may not know it yet!" Did she think I might be a transsexual woman without the courage of her convictions? I'd better not go there! "I'll be a fraud!" I declared aloud. I knew this was one of my weaker arguments. At worst I'd be a mere transvestite, a man who seems a woman to himself and the world. No fraud at all! "A fraud? Oh? You're raising moral objections? Well, think of it this way. You're wearing a wedding ring on one of those beautifully manicured fingers. You're married. Any married or single man who feels tempted and makes a move on you will know he's violating a sacred relationship, if he's himself married a sacred relationship that binds him too. And we'll know it. Then again, if he's a homophobe and makes a play for you we'll have the satisfaction of knowing he's been tricked into being a queer despite himself. We'll let him engage in queer behavior without saying a word, then maybe announce ourselves, and in that way teach him to respect other people's desires whatever their variety. Or we can accuse him of hypocrisy, lack of respect for people of all sizes and kinds and shapes and sexual preferences. Any which way we'll know we're his moral superior even if all he ever does is drool his mouth or his cock at us. The sum total of honest moral perception in the world, maybe also of moral virtue, will have increased. Any fraud we may perpetrate would be more than compensated by that outcome I should think." I couldn't quite grasp her logic well enough to refute it, but her determination was undeniable. She continued. "Besides, do you know that you aren't a woman? Do you know what there is inside you that compels you to play at being one?" I didn't, of course. "Maybe all I'm asking of you is to be true to yourself. To behave with integrity, so your inner and outer self can be one person. Maybe it's as a man that you're a bit ... fraudulent. After all, the same hormones flow in both our veins now, don't they? The same estrogen and progesterone and so on? You have a woman's breasts now, don't you? And a figure any woman can envy and any man can get stone hard hoping to penetrate? How much more authentic do you want to be?" More? I couldn't deny it. Each morning I'd taken one of her pills as an homage to my feminine inclinations. An homage to a desire for a better-proportioned figure. I'd been delighted when lumps formed behind each nipple and my body slowly began to resemble a woman's body -- I hoped -- except for those danglers on my groin. Wasn't I authentic? What Marcie was offering me was assured authenticity. To feel real. "Either way baby, who cares what people think? Don't be a silly wimp. You look fine, you want it, you should have it! Do you lack the courage of your own convictions?" She stared at me. And for the first time I felt ashamed, not for pretending I'm the other sex and violating my own male expectations, but for not acting according to my own wishful convictions! "Would a tranquillizer help?" she suddenly asked more gently. She began searching in her purse. Then held out a small white pill. "Here!" she said. "Take this. I sometimes take one before a stressful board meeting. Then, whatevever folly anyone proposes I can stay calm, and if need be I can accept whatever's coming." Dazed, I took it from her and swallowed it. "What is it?" I asked. She ignored my question, just looked at me calmly. "While it takes effect, do this. I've found it helps" She placed a hand under each of her breasts, lifted each one slightly, and began rubbing her thumbs across their nipples. "It feels so wonderful," she added. "Whenever I do this, I'm happy. Glad I'm a woman! Ecsatic that I'm a woman. Now you do it and say just that!" I lifted each of my boobs, one in each palm, and my thumbs grazed the tips of each. Oh, God! The sensations that arose? The desires? "Say it!" she repeated in a trance-like voice. "I'm glad I'm a woman!" I said. And I meant it too! My thumbs, my breasts, my feelings assured me it was true! "It feels so wonderful!" "It feels so wonderful," I repeated. It did, too! "Every morning and every evening, on waking up and on going to sleep, do this and say this! Any time you doubt it, do it again. Promise!" "Yes!" I said. My thumbs kept grazing my nipples joyously! "I promise!" "Good!" she said with a satisfied smile, and dropped her hands. I continued with mine a moment more. It felt ... exquisite! Then dropped my hands too, and let out a long, deep breath. Whether because of the pill or the self-pleasuring ritual she'd just taught me, going out dressed and being seen to be a woman now seemed much less threatening. It might even be fun! She gazed it me -- was it admiringly? I wanted to believe it. "I'm ready to go now!" she said. "You?" Now I have to, I realized, if only to avoid seeming a total wimp. I need to prove to her that I have the courage of my convictions. Well they aren't exactly convictions. My desires? My needs? I have to be a woman now to prove I'm a man! "I'll need a purse," I said in a small voice. "And probably a stole or a topper or whatever you call them, a pashmina maybe? For later, when it gets chilly." "No problem," she said approvingly. Obviously approving because now I was thinking like any woman planning to go out. "We have that lovely scarf you gave me last Christmas. It's in the front hall closet, and it's yours now. And I always keep a spare purse ready for emergencies, upstairs in my bottom dresser drawer." She gestured in that direction. "You'll find everything a girl may need already there, except her money and credit cards -- if she plays it right, her gentleman will provide those." She smiled, not exactly maliciously, more to amuse herself. "There're tampons -- there are times when a girl can't be perfectly sure she isn't leaking ." She smiled. "Even some condoms, because we can't always know for sure about those situations either, can we?" I tried to stand up, barely able. But I'd heard that last. She's accustomed to carrying condoms? She's unfaithful to me sometimes? I could barely look at her. "You're teasing me," I said a little grimly. "Am I?" she replied with wide, innocent eyes. She looked amused. Then she shifted to sympathetic. "Oh, baby, don't be so silly! We're two girls going out for an evening of fun, that's all. Fully equipped, that's all! If you meet someone and decide to go all the way with him, you wouldn't want to get pregnant, would you?" Of course, she was joking! "You look fine, and this is obviously what you need to do, your next step, what you've wanted to do but lacked ... courage or confidence to do on your own. To be a girl where other people see you and assume that's what you are and treat you accordingly. To act out and enjoy that whole different sense of yourself, until you feel as authentic being feminine as ... the other thing you act out. Maybe more authentic! You do have certain distinctly feminine desires and traits to display, after all." She looked at the cleft formed by my boobs long enough for me to notice, then looked at me with a pleased smile. "I want you to be exactly what you are," she said sincerely. "Yes," I said. "I suppose." That was good. But I could barely think. Was it that pill having its effect? "Women enjoy certain rewards when they make themselves beautiful. Admiration, affection, respect, desire, love, you know. From both men and women. We enjoy feeling confident that we're admired. Oh, Cary baby, we're going to have such fun together! You'll love it, I know you will! Just try to be all the woman you can be! Let's go!" Go?! She means it! More than an "it"! Slowly, trying desperately to delay whatever her plan, I started to my feet. My heels made it difficult. How do women in heels rise gracefully from the floor? "Oh, ahh ... Cary, do you have a girl's name? You need to feel you're a different person whenever you're like this." "Still Cary," I said. "But pronounced 'Carrie.' Short for Carolyn." Marcie's face lit with an enormous smile. Of encouragement? Admiration? No, satisfaction, she felt pleased. "Of course! Now and forever you're my 'Carolyn'! That's so sweet! Well, Carrie honey, get some sort of wrap and that purse and meet me at the car! I'll be waiting -- I want to watch you pass into the outer world entirely on your own. Toward me and the whole world!" She looked deep into my eyes. "You do look lovely, sweetie. When we return home you'll know that, feel quite sure of it, and we'll lie in bed together giggling and chatting about everything that happened like the two dear girlfriends we are now." For now, anyhow. I stood, turned, went upstairs, found the purse she'd provided, found my wallet and dropped it into the purse, and then came down again. Had she been joking about the condoms? I didn't look to see. She was no longer in the house, and the front door was ajar. I peered out and saw her leaning against her car in the driveway, talking casually with someone on her cellphone. Spreading word of my disgrace? Nothing for it, I followed her out the door and closed it behind me. I was outside in a dress and heels, wrapped in a colorful chiffon scarf. My red nails and lips and boobs were visible to all! But as I passed through the door onto our front porch I looked up and down and across the street and saw no one! No one at all there to see me, thank God! I was still scared nearly witless but much less stressed out. Probably that pill. I did appreciate everything she'd said. None of it had been anticipated. She not only didn't mind my crossdressing, she appreciated it! She'd praised me for it! She'd thought I was expanding my horizons, enriching my experience, being true to my self and all that, and at the same time becoming all the more respectful of all women, not least the woman within me. She wanted me to eliminate any ambivalence, to allow my pleasure in my own femininity to overcome any shame I might feel at betraying my masculinity. She wanted me comfortable as my female self. As I seemed. As I'd made myself seem. Now, I was definitely mellowed out. Was I partly a real woman, partly a man, entitled to be either as I chose? Had the man in me been suppressing the woman in me unjustifiably, selfishly? Out of fear? She seemed to believe the only way to find out was to throw myself into it and become all the woman I could be. Or anyhow, to act as if I were one. Maybe it was that pill, or maybe a new sense of conviction, but marvelously, I felt quite calm. I didn't at all mind walking down the front steps -- ladylike, clutching my purse -- and proceding to the car parked in the driveway. The prospect of being seen. Listening to my heels clacking on the driveway. I didn't even bother to notice which neighbors were watching. "Marcie?" I said to her as I got into the passenger side of the car. "What, sweetheart?" she replied, her voice preoccupied. "All this time I've been so afraid you'd leave me if you ever found out about this ... habit of mine." "I know," she replied quietly, looking straight ahead. "I considered it. I wondered if I still had a husband in some acceptable way, shape, or form. It didn't seem so." This depressed me, but I held still, still listening. "But I soon saw advantages. For both of us." She paused now as if she realized she'd said too much, then added, "I saw us as we are now, in this new relationship. Tonight, baby, you'll follow my lead and you'll do whatever seems ... appropriate. And you'll do fine. I know you won't disappoint me. Then tomorrow we'll talk about it and decide where we go next. Or where else. Tonight just be who you are. Not my dearest husband but my dearest girlfriend, just arrived in town and knowing no one just yet! Understood? Agreed?" She watched my face and waited to see me nod. When I did, she repeated herself. "Promise? You won't embarrass yourself or me?" She was reassuring me, promising that the evening would be without incident, we'd be two girls out for the evening and no more than that. But she needed reassurance too. I certainly wanted no trouble. "No," I replied. "No problem. Tonight I'm your dearest girlfriend, not your husband." I relaxed, sat back carefully in a semblance of girlfriendhood, and forced a smile. She saw and felt it. "Good!" she replied. "Remember!" How could I forget it? She started the engine and backed down our driveway. Was it still 'ours' now that I was someone else? Wasn't it now only hers? No, I insisted to myself, I'm still who I was, I'm still myself! It's ours, I live here too! Even so, I felt different, odd. More like a visitor. I looked down at my nylon-clad legs, my high-heeled pumps. Odd, yes, but not unfamiliar. "We're in this together, babydoll," she said as the car started down the street. "You really are a beautiful person. I'm so pleased to have you as a friend!" Me beautiful? That I couldn't say. But I was pleased that she was pleased, and didn't mind that I was now a 'friend' rather than a husband. Her confidence was reassuring even if also a little unsettling. Unsettling? I blamed mu residual manhood. Give up on it! You're a woman! I pressed my palms to my nascent breasts for a moment and felt their soft bulges, took a few deep breaths, diddled the tips just a moment, felt deliciously feminine, and told myself, 'I am a woman!' Then I touched my hair to be sure it was just so. It was, and I felt gratified. I settled with my hands on my purse in my lap. Marcie's eyes noticed all this as she drove. She seemed slightly amused, as through much of the evening thus far, but she said nothing. "We goin' cruising tonight, honey?" I asked her playfully as one girl might to another. "Maybe pick up some guys?" The notion seemed as amusing as ludicrous. "Another time," she said in the same mischievous tone of voice. "Not tonight. Tonight we've got dates. Guys. It's all arranged." I looked at her. Was she carrying on my little joke? Was she serious? "You remember, 'guys'? Those odd-shaped people who like girls?" She glanced at me and said almost seriously, "It's time you met some men who can appreciate you as you are. In fact past time!" Was she joking, as I'd been? Maybe not? "Are you joking?" I asked her. She glanced at me again, then looked straight ahead at the road again. "Not at all, gorgeous girlfriend," she said quite solemnly. "Don't you agree it's past time?" What I thought didn't seem to matter. She meant it. Dates? I have a date? With a man? And ... she has one too? My wife? With another man? My heart sank. "Nooo!" came out of me reflexively. "Oh, yes," she said quietly, even smugly. I suddenly grateful for the equanimity that little white pill had provided. Without it, I realized, I'd now be appalled and terrified. Even so, I wanted to hide, to seek refuge somewhere. But where? The only available hiding place was my own femininity. I reached for my breasts and lifted them ever so slightly again, and I asked my thumbs and lovely nipples to reassure me again, and I concentrated on the sensations. They grew and spread through me. I am a woman, I told myself. I can hide inside myself any time, behind these, and no one will think otherwise! Marcie glanced over at me as she navigated through the downtown traffic, and smiled to herself. If her purpose was to drive me further into a feminine identity, further away from my residual masculine self, she was certainly succeeding! "When a man feels you up that way, does what you're doing, when he does that to your breasts, it's heaven!" she said, as if that should reassure me! Of all things! "You'll see!" Lorelei's Lounge has a modest windowed front, curtained, on the unassuming side street it shares with small dress shops and a nail salon, A discreet sign declares what it is, dim neon showing the name and a picture of a a single cocktail glass. Like most of the watering holes I've been to, though this one by its location among the boutiques seemed designed to attract and cater especially to women. Inside, the same. Not hard dark wood but a long bar in blond wood, drapes covering the walls, and a dance floor visible at the far end. Further back still, edging the dance floor, a piano and a small low stage for an orchestra of sorts. A sign declared that "The Venus Five" would begin playing soon and continue till closing. Instead of booths, rhe main lounge area was clustered into small sitting areas, all of them open to the bar, each appointed with a few lounge chairs, a sofa, and a coffee table. Tastefully restrained, a comfortable domestic decor obviously designed to provide women and mixed groups a place to meet informally in supposedly familiar space, semi-privately. A kind of home away from home, comfortable and reassuring. A young woman appeared to seat us and take our orders, dressed as if a parlor maid in keeping with the decor. I watched her closely, to see if she saw anything odd about my appearance, that I was a man dressed as a woman for example. Apparently she didn't, I looked quite persuasive. "Will there be just the two of you, ladies?" she asked both of us. "Would you prefer a private salon or will one of these do? Or a larger one? Will anyone else be joining you this evening?" So, I was musing, these little parlors are called salons, and there are others elsewhere. How decorous! "Yes," said. "We're expecting friends, at least two men." What? I felt a shivering charge run through me! Two men to see me like this? Had I heard her properly? My odd sense of fear suddenly returned! "Of course," our hostess-maid said. "Not a problem!" She made a brief note on her order pad. "Something to drink while you're waiting for them?" spoke for both of us, and she left to fill our order. "Friends?" I asked. "Two men?" I was startled and frankly, frightened. "Your voice, sweetie," she replied. "Say that again, please?" "You're expecting other people to join us?" I squeaked. "To sit here with us?" "Of course!" she replied. "That's why we're here. You'll see. A date for each of us." She looked pleased with herself, almost smug. ", I'd thought ...." "Then you thought wrong, Carrie." Now she was serious, her gaze steady and aimed straight at me. "I've already told you, to feel you're a woman, among other things you need practice being sociable the ways women are sociable. Being lively, sympathetic, charming, complimentary, flirtatious, and so on. Learn how women chat among themselves and get men to talk about themselves while we listen as if fascinated, our eyes fixed on them. Sharing and sympathizing. You need to explore all of your feminine capabilities. All of them!" She looked hard at me for a moment, to emphasize her words. "Looking right isn't enough, and even moving with a certain ... delicacy, as you do, isn't enough. There's a lot more. Don't worry, you'll catch on. Just watch me and follow along, or do as any of the other women here do." She suddenly smiled a broad, reassuring smile. "Trust me, by the time this evening's over, you'll know you've enjoyed yourself as a woman!" Despite my surface calm I swallowed the lump of fear in my throat. Like a good wife, she wanted to broaden my experience. In for a penny, I suppose, I told myself. Our drinks arrived and I took a deep nervous swallow. Half of my drink disappeared. seemed once again amused. "We'd better order another for you." She waved, and pointed at my glass, and the waitress nodded. Soon another glass appeared. I emptied that too, and she carried it off. "Some time during the evening you'll be asked to dance," continued. "No problem, just nod and when you stand up offer him your right hand. Your right hand, remember. With fast dances, wriggle however you please and enjoy the way your body moves inside that dress -- that's something we do that men can't, the poor dears, with all their heavy fabrics and buttons and belts. We can always even feel naked when we swing our butts and booties. Then, during slow dances simply hug the back of your man's neck with both arms, to let him imagine you care. And plaster your body as close to him as you can, your boobs against his chest. That does turn them on. Tuck your hips and thighs snug against his hips and thighs, and your belly snug against his crotch. That's always a pleasure, if you know what I mean." She looked at me until I managed a conspiratorial-seeming smile, then nodded approval and continued. "You'll find it's easy to follow their moves. Do whatever they're doing, rub yourself on them, go with the flow. That's what's expected of us. It excites them, so it also tells us very quickly what they're made of, how much of them can be yours. Your body is soft and nicely curved these days. I doubt you'll have a problem." I didn't like that idea at all! Hold some man and rub myself against his cock? But she's right, that's what women do. Fortunately my own cock was now small, and tucked tight between my legs -- it would be undetectable. was enjoying herself. "You'll soon feel your first feel of a manly man pressing against your soft belly, sweetheart!" she mused. "How I envy you! Maybe it'll tempt you to get to know him better? Maybe you'll feel the kind of temptation girls feel when they're feeling ... sexy? A temptation to take him into yourself and then stroke him with your whole body?" She watched me closely, waiting for an answer. Was she mocking me or seriously encouraging me? "So who are these ... dates?" I asked, to change the subject. was delighted. A perfect opportunity to engage in girl talk! She leaned forward. "Oh, sweetie, you'll love them! A guy who works with me and one who works with you, one for each of us. But the one who works with you is mine -- you get the other one. You'll like him I'm sure, I selected him just for you for just that reason. He's bisexual, you can attract him both ways!" ", you know I'm not at all into this sort of situation. How can I deal with this ... man if he comes on to me?" She smiled knowingly at me, as if we were in fact woman-to-woman. "'If'? Oh, he will! You're a dish! Of course he will!" Then when she saw my discomfort growing in my face, she added, "You have to learn to deal with men the way they are when they're coming on to you, baby. When my date makes moves on me, and he will, just watch me and if you're comfortable with whatever I do, try it yourself! Both of our dates are gentlemen, never too insistent." She smiled while recalling something. "Yours might want to push things, I'm told. But you'll learn a lot along the way, and that's what you're here for, isn't it?" She waited for me to respond. And waited. "Push things?" I asked. No answer. I tried to look as if we shared some kind of understanding, though my face I'm sure expressed a wide- eyed failure to comprehend. "You mean his ...?" was amused. "On a first date? Maybe. Probably. Why not? Push you, certainly," she replied. "Push you further into womanhood than you might choose. Though nowhere you'll regret being when you get there, trust me!" She nodded. I was suddenly reminded again that at the moment, to all the world I was a woman. But if a woman, I knew myself to be one who preferred intimacies with women, not men. And was even married to one! This one! I felt momentarily addled. She saw it on my face. "You'll find out, honey," she said. "You may get lucky!" And having uttered that cliche, she winked at me. Then her tone got more sincere. "Oh, let me give you a clue about being fully feminine. Something I was told when I was sixteen and first started going out. How someone gorgeous like you can get a man breathing heavily without even being close. How you can reduce his mind to mush from across a room." I didn't want to know, but I couldn't say so. "How?" I asked, trying to sound eager. "Simple. Look into his eyes and imagine his hands are already on your breasts and that his fingertips are caressing your nipples. You have breasts and nipples now, so you know how they can feel -- yours are probably as sensitive as mine after all those girly pills you've swallowed. That idea'll arouse you, and when any woman's aroused, the concentrated 'come hither' expressions on her face will attract a man the way honey attracts bees. He'll know you are imagining intimacy with him, that you're already half way into his bed with him half way into you, and soon he'll be easily manipulated, ready to eat out of your hand or your pussy. Maybe even before he knows your name." smiled -- reminiscently? Then she added, "There's another advantage too. Whatever he's looking for, you'll already be putting yourself into the appropriate mood! So whatever you and he do together, you'll love it!" All well and good for a single woman out for an adventurous evening. But I'm a man, and anyhow, why does still remember such things? From her own girlhood, her dating days? I felt a surge of resentment. Maybe even anger? "You've done things like that recently?" I asked her abruptly. "Things like that? You mean, imagined some man was fondling my tits? A man like you?" she asked as if my meaning were unclear. "Of course! And remember, honey, I caress your tits too! Remember? Only a few nights ago? You've been pretending you don't have them, that they aren't there, that they haven't grown in. But whenever I suck on one and cuddle the other you go ecstatic! Several times you've come in my hand!" I had done that. Then she'd held that hand to my mouth, and when it became obvious what she wanted, to please her I overcame my distaste and licked up the puddle of my sperm in her palm. That had pleased her -- she'd then covered my face with kisses and I hadn't understood why. But now I did understand! She'd known all along about my ... effeminate tastes. Did she think my pleasure in a feminine appearance extended to a desire to please men? She sat there with that faint smile, eyebrows raised, until I realized she was deliberately provoking me. To distract me? Ease me out of my apprehension, strengthen my confidence, not merely to instruct me in feminine arts of seduction? Though that too? "No way do I want a man touching my tits," I said categorically. "Not in my imagination, and not in reality! Anyhow, I haven't got a pussy for a man to eat out of." burst out laughing. "You think? Well, silly, if you can't improvise one, you can be quite sure he will! Desire is the mother of invention! As a woman you're irresistible, I'm afraid, so you'll have to face the consequences! Aha, look over there, I see our guys have arrived!" Two men had entered the lounge and were talking briefly with the Maitre D', who gestured toward us. One was rather well-dressed, tall and thin, fairly good-looking! The other was turned away from us, but neat and stocky, or as I quickly realized from the way he moved, well-built. They'd be with us in less than a minute! I got really concerned now, and leaned forward. Marcie was being too cute -- was this was some kind of set-up? "Marcie, why are they here at all?" I asked in a hissing whisper. "How did they know we'd be here?" Marcie was unflapped. She opened her eyes wide as if astonished. "I've already told you. Maybe you don't believe me. I arranged it! So you can get more experience being a woman! The full experience! Feel like one for real! Enjoy what women most love, to be admired by men and then later share such experiences with other women. As for how they knew we'd be here, Carrie honey, I phoned them even before I came home to 'discover' you playing at being female. I decided quite some time ago that you've played girly games by yourself long enough, that it was time you moved on. Time for both of us to move on." Now she was serious. 'Both of us'? 'Moved on'? What did that mean? "For goodness' sake, Carrie, don't be so serious! This evening you're a woman, so have fun being what you are! Relax and enjoy your new freedom! Drink up! Here, finish my drink too so we can order another for each of us when they arrive here! And have another pill -- you're too nervous!" She thrust both at me, and I swallowed them down. Just in time. Because, when the stocky man turned toward us, I recognized him! He was Roger! My boss? The one who'd just been asked by Marcie and had given me a whole month off at her request, to do what I was doing, to become what I am! Had she told him? Has he known? He must have known! Staring at the two men as they were directed toward our part of ther 'salon', I began to feel more relaxed. That last pill on top of all the others no doubt. Marcie leaned over to kiss me gently on my cheek, just below my ear. "We love being women," she whispered. "Remember that! We'd want it no other way! After tonight you won't either!" What did she have in mind? I did suspect I knew, and four hours later I did know. Four hours later my belly and my ass were filled with cum from both men, and I was sucking the last dregs of my boss Roger's cum from my beautiful Marcie's cunt. She'd intended for me to suck Roger's cock only after I returned to work for him a month later. By then I'd be a chick in a new position, his personal filing clerk who labored occasionally on her knees or back. But when he saw how much Frank -- the tall gentleman, my date for the evening -- was enjoying himself. How utterly feminine I looked and behaved as -- urged on by my wife Marcie -- I pleasured Frank. When he saw these things I agreed to interrupted my throat's stroking of Frank's cock and to wet down Roger's with my tongue. Then give him the full treatment. It was remarkable how easily, how instinctively it all came to me, how quickly I learned how to provide that full treatment! "There'll be times when I'll desire my lovely husband, really need him to feel close, intimate, inside me, especially now that I know how delicate he can feel," Marcie assured me during a pause in the evening's activities. "And there'll be times I'm sure when I'll want some hunky hairy man pounding me, moving inside me. If I don't deny you your femininity, surely you won't deny me what I need now and then!" It was a statement, not a question. When she saw me looking sad after hearing that, and she reached toward my boobs. "Cheer up, sweetie," she said, caressing them. A wonderful feeling of delicacy began to spread through me. "Be a woman this evening, and I'm sure that you'll soon fully understand. Sooner than you think." She smiled. "Not that you really have a choice, honey. You are what you are, and tonight you are what you seem to be. I had to get you willing to be a woman full time so you ould choose which kind. Hetero or Lez? Now, can you choose?" I looked annoyed at her. She was really asking me if I intended to stay with her as her 'best gilfriend' or branch out. I was getting furious. "Hetero!" I said. "But also lesbian! I'm no queer!" She smiled when she saw the warmth of my smile, how my eyes seemed to glow whenever I remembered the filled feeling as Frank, then Roger slid their cocks in and out of me. But she said nothing. I understood why -- there was nothing more to say. I'd arrived. I was a complete woman. By the next morning I knew most of it. I woke to find myself stretching languorously in my bed beside Frank, looking down at him still asleep beside me. Every inch of my body felt ... appreciated. Better than 'loved' -- appreciated, given what we'd done the night before. I actually smiled! A smile of gratitude for Frank, however briefly he was mine, but it was also a smile of superiority. And of complete satisfaction! I finally understood what all that skin softener had been about, those faintly scented creams I'd applied to my body after every shower for months, merely because that was what women did and I wanted to feel like a woman. Now I understood why. So I'd feel like a woman to any lips that felt compelled to kiss me anywhere on my body. As had happened repeatedly last night. I looked down and saw that my right breast -- and there was no doubt whatever, it was a breast, small but hanging out exposed whenever I leaned over -- even had a hickey! Marcie spoke again. "It's so much easier for me to sleep with Roger knowing you're waiting for me back home in panties and a bra and a dress, not a man at all, not the kind of man who can have any claim on me. As I've now known for months. That you're not a man who can be jealous, nor a man who deserves my fidelity. That you're a natural cuckold. A rather pathetic, feminized cuckold. That's how I've been thinking of you while I've been screwing Roger. For months now! And from now on, the more I enjoy Roger, the more I want to plan your further emasculation. Yes! I want to feed you hormones that'll grow you huge breasts you can be proud of! That we both can be proud of! I want to teach you how to suck cock with finesse, not just the usual ways you've done it tonight! Yes! Then I won't feel the least bit guilty whatever I do. Understood?" I nodded. What she said made sense. "Yes, we're married, and I hope well remain married forever, but no, we can't have sex that way again. Maybe not ever again, not the way you think, anyhow. Because I'll always remember you and Frank and Roger too, how you did them, and what a marvelous girl you made, how wonderful it felt to see you as my very own creation fucking a man I'd once fucked, doing it like some high school whore. I loved seeing that. God, I got so hot I couldn't stop with Roger afterward, and I'm sure I wore him out. That's how I see you now right now, still sucking his cock or twisting your ass on it, I can't help it! That's how I want to think of you, as a bitch gone berserk and fucking away, pleasuring your man the same way I always want to pleasure mine. My real men!" She looked at me carefully. "That's how it'll be from now on. That's what we'll do. Not with each other. Honey, I can't help it, you're a girl to me now. A lovely, passionate girl. And unlike you, I can't throw my mind into a different way of feeling, become the other sex and then make love to my own former sex and enjoy it. You can, apparently. You can make yourself into a woman and enjoy sex with men! So naturally, that's what you are to me now, especially after everything I've seen you do. You're my own sex. Not my husband but my girlfriend, my marvelous girlfriend. So we'll live together as we have, and go out together same as we always do, but ... but baby, from now on it'll be each of us doing our own things. Both of us women doing our own things. Now gather up that peignoir of yours and sit down and let me pour you a cup of coffee and then tell you all the things we have to do to seal this new relationship. Never mind who's leaking out of you -- we'll tend to all that later, clean you up and get you soft and sweet smelling again. Just remember, I have some wonderful men for you now that you're available!" "You darling!" I replied, pressing my breasts against hers and kissing her red lips. "You love your men as well as you can, and make love to them as well as you can, and I'll do the same!" I paused and grinned. "Then we'll see which of us gets pregnant first!" Neither of us! Not three months later I lay in bed giggling and chatting about everything that had happened with a brand new girlfiend. No, not Marcie and me, she and Roger by then were off planning their wedding. A more marvelous girlfriend, one I'd just finished bringing into being, one whom I loved dearly! Frank and me! (c) 2018 by Vickie Tern