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'Becoming Bea' Chapter three I don't know how it keeps happening, but that man, Frederick, always seems to run past my window each morning the exact same time as I sit down to drink my coffee. Even this day, a weekday like any other, he gets out there and starts his jog. It is a miserable day, it is cold outside and there is some light rain, but he keeps on jogging. At some level, I have to admire his dedication. Here I am, nearly asleep and about to go to a workplace that I loathe and all I want is to lay down and do nothing. But he's already on the move. I suppose that is what makes him a real man. Maybe if you asked him about it, and told him that I watched him every morning, he'd tell you that I was the one that timed my morning coffee drinking with his morning forest jogging. It is just a matter of perspective, I suppose. But it can just be a coincidence, not everything happens because it was willed by some greater force of destiny. Frederick just liked jogging, and I liked drinking my morning coffee. Today was a Thursday, and it may not have been such a special Thursday if it weren't for the fact that today I would get my breasts. Well, my false silicone breasts that cost me a small fortune. To some extent it was a heat of the moment impulse buy, but on the other hand... I would be lying if I wasn't greatly excited to see what they would look like on me. I hoped that the package would be plain enough so that I wouldn't be embarrassed when going to pick it up at the post office. It is one thing if a middle-aged man goes to pick up a package containing make-up. Everyone can assume that he is picking it up for his wife or even his daughter. Picking up a package labelled as being from the 'Female Impersonation Company' isn't quite as easy to explain. But I'll probably blush no matter what. I'm going to need that sanitary napkin in my panties all day. Sadly it wasn't the weekend already. Meaning that I had two days before I could have my fun dressing up. But I could handle it. I am a big boy. Work is boring, but I can spend the time fantasising about having breasts and not having to stuff my bras with socks. I can think girly thoughts, while presenting as a boring man. In fact, all my fantasies involve dressing up now. I haven't once thought about Mary in weeks. The rare times that I have thought about her was only to compare myself to her. Often I favoured my own femininity over hers when making those comparisons. *** As I held the package in my greedy hands I felt so excited that I could barely contain myself. I was about to burst. As I waited in that line for what felt like hours I wondered what would happen if the others found out what I was waiting for. My smile was so wide and manic that I must have looked like the Joker. (Not the image most ladies strive for, I admit.) I wonder how they'd all laugh at me if they knew that I was excited because I was getting my own pair of breasts. How did I become such a sissy? They were expensive. They were expensive as all hell, in fact. The company had several cheaper options and many would consider me picking the most expensive ones to be wildly irresponsible. But I had the money to spend and I chose to believe the comment section. The comments were more than just a little enthusiastic. All of these crossdressers were singing their praises about these near-miraculous fake tits. It made me wonder if they had lives similar to mine, with an absent wife that makes them feel lonely and puts them on some obsessive path of female impersonation. Some of the comments mentioned how they were able to wear these false breasts naked and no-one could tell that they weren't real. Some of them mentioned how they had worn these false breasts for 'naughty' times. But I didn't want to wear them to fool anyone, perhaps just myself. I just wanted to complete my transformation. For a few moments I just sat at home, in the living room, and I stared at the box. I didn't dare to open it. It could be like Pandora's box. It was exciting, but it was so emasculating. Had I really gone so far down this rabbit hole to put on a pair of false breasts? A pair so advanced that they'd be able to fool a hungry breastfeeding baby? I mean, I should have bought a cheaper pair. Sure, I wouldn't be able to be naked wearing them, but I wasn't planning on being naked and looking like a woman. And the money I spent, it made it more humiliating. For the same amount of money men my age are supposed to buy new golf clubs or something like that. Something dull... Something masculine. But I couldn't contain myself. I had to try them on. I knew that if I tried them on I would inevitably try on all of Mary's different bras, and her dresses and her lingerie. I wouldn't be able to resist the urge to put on make-up and stand in front of the mirror with my mouth agape as I marvelled at my own appearance. It was getting late. I could not afford that. But the box called out to me. It called for 'Bea.' Without even realising that I had picked it up, I held a small knife in my hand. I began opening the box. Alongside the realistic breasts, they really did look like they had just been chopped off a real woman, there were also some other products that I had hoped would help perfect my female appearance. A lot of the lotions and creams that I had begun using to make my body feel especially feminine were designed for women and, while I felt them working, I saw that this internet page sold lotions especially made for female impersonators and I got intrigued. They promised to work 'magic' on a man's skin to make it feel like a woman's. Maybe it was all a bunch of pseudo-scientific nonsense, but it made it seem like with a regular use of these creams your whole body would begin to change into a more womanly variant of itself. And maybe that was going too far, after all, I didn't want to become a woman permanently, but what were the chances of it working that well? I also got some fake nails. That excited me. I had avoided polishing my nails, even though I would often gaze over at the nail polish in my wife's make-up cabinet and feel a strong compulsion to just 'do it.' I had even avoided cutting my fingernails since I first started dressing this way, making them, while not exactly long, still potentially more feminine than masculine. I wondered about getting a manicure, some men do that and it didn't seem so bad, but I knew that I couldn't. Because even then I wouldn't want to get a manicure as a man, I would want to get it as a woman. To settle my anxious mind I thought that I could put these false nails on for the weekend, and I knew that I could remove them first thing Monday. Well, assuming I didn't forget. The humiliating thought of me sitting in the office with my fingers looking like a pretty woman's made my little penis twitch. I'm always making myself wet. But as I looked over at the items, my eyes were transfixed on the false breasts. They looked so real. They felt so real. When I held them they jiggled and bounced just like real breasts. They reminded me of Mary's, although, I would never get to hold hers like this. She liked it when I licked her nipples, sure, but if I ever held them or squeezed them too hard then she would scold me and say that I was acting like a horny teenager. For the most part she allowed my tongue to get near her intimate parts, but never my hands. But these breasts I got to squeeze as much as I wanted, and I found myself enjoying it, a lot. They were a great source of stress-relief, actually. I could imagine squeezing one of these liberally all throughout a tough day at work and all my worries would evaporate. As weird as that would look, I'm sure some chauvinist businessman uses a pair of fake boobs like these exactly for that purpose. If he can't get a real woman to stand there being fondled that is. In any case, I was now about to see what it is like to have them attached to my chest! *** I nearly panicked when I realised what I had done. I couldn't resist. In a thoughtless move I had put the breasts on and without even considering what day it was I had immediately run to the bathroom to 'put on my face.' I wasn't as heavily made-up as a drag queen, but I had used some of the semi-permanent stuff that promised to stay on your face for at least 48-hours. It was evening on Thursday, I would be at work in 24- hours! But as I stood there, fully naked with the make-up on my face, my most feminine hairstyle and with the breasts on my chest I looked just like a woman. I squirted right there. I couldn't help it, and it felt great. More intense than ever, but I hadn't gotten hard. In fact, when I looked down I embarrassingly noticed a little puddle that I had made on the bathroom floor. It looked less like a man's semen and more like the clear vaginal juices of a woman. I grabbed a tissue and cleaned it up, all while I felt my poor little penis continuing to leak it's 'juices'. I tried to wipe myself clean, but it only led to my fingers (now with the long false fingernails on) to become sticky and wet. How I was going to go back to looking like a man before tomorrow, I could not tell. I just had to put on a pair of panties and a sanitary napkin and think of another solution. I was too aroused, and my body was in too much of a feminine mode, to even consider stopping now. It would be like after an evening of thrilling foreplay to cut things short by prematurely ejaculating when you put on the condom. So now, wearing the panties protected by the sanitary pad that was getting soaked, I wandered towards my computer. With every step I took I felt the breasts on my chest jiggle and sway, and it made me equally as giddy as embarrassed. I blushed, realising that without a bra on I would have to hold them in place, which would make me look like a mortified woman caught by a man in a state of undress. But to my horny mind it just caused my little penis to continue twitching, and I was amazed at how I could still be aroused. I had to have one hell of a libido, shame it just seemed to be a woman's libido, and not a man's. As I tried to type on the keyboard with my long fake fingernails I found it incredibly frustrating. I kept typing the wrong thing and I had to keep pressing the backspace. I now understood why some of my female co- workers kept complaining about typing with long fingernails, because this really wasn't what I was accustomed to. In any case I managed to get a few sorry words typed out as I sent a panicked email to my boss. Well, I felt panicked, but my words were entirely succinct and polite, if entirely subservient and meek. I told him that I was worried that I may be getting the flu, and for the sake of everyone at the office, I shouldn't come in tomorrow unless I were to infect them all. I very much stressed that it wasn't because I felt too sick, but rather because I didn't want to cause anyone else to also catch my illness. It was another example of my innate lack of assertiveness as a man, I realised. But to my surprise, perhaps because my boss was such a professional, he sent me back a response almost immediately. I looked at the time, it was ten o'clock in the evening, but apparently my boss was still checking his emails while getting ready for bed. I wonder what his wife feels about that. It doesn't seem that romantic, I would hate to be with a man who keeps checking his emails every minute. Not that I would want to be with any man, of course. "Don't worry 'bout it, Bernie," he said in the email. "In all my years of knowing you, you've never once been out sick. If you tell me that you've got the flu, then I know that I can believe you. Take as much time as you need. Take the whole next week off if you absolutely need it. I can get someone else to cover for you, I'll even do it myself if I have to. You're one of the good ones, and I wouldn't want you to feel as if you gotta work when you're sick in bed." He ended the message with his kind regards, and I was honestly a bit stunned. I had always thought of him as having a rather cold view of me, and this seemed like such a friendly way of addressing me that it almost seemed like we were... well... friends. I had always thought of my work place as somewhere that wasn't quite right for me, with none of the people particularly caring for me, but maybe I had been wrong? Maybe I had actually a rather good job, with quite tolerant people. Maybe none of them would even care if I showed up wearing a dress. Still, I wouldn't want to actually take that chance now. I had been given my boss's permission to stay at home tomorrow... even all of next week. It felt wrong to take that option, as I wasn't really sick, but the temptation of spending a whole week in women's clothing, letting myself be as womanly as I could, was too tempting. I resolved to not decide what to do right now, but in the back of my head I knew that I would probably take that opportunity. If I were to think rationally about it, I figured that maybe it would be what I needed to finally get these feminine urges out of me. The climax to all of this. One week as a woman. That would surely make me want to become a man again. So I went to bed that night, actually really pleased with myself. As I slept with my realistic breasts on I first thought I was uncomfortable, but I soon got used to it. My body was adapting to having such big mammary glands, I guess. The nightie that I wore, a comfortable one made of polyester, fit me better than ever. I had, after all, made sure that the breasts that I had ordered were the exact same size as Mary's, to make sure that all of the clothes would fit me perfectly. It was going to be a sweet weekend, and perhaps an even sweeter week. *** I had another dream that night. It wasn't exactly pleasant, but I don't know if it was a nightmare. It was more like a memory that I had forgotten about. I was fifteen, and after walking home from school in my tattered clothes with the bullies behind me mocking me for my small size and nerdy tendencies. I remember one time they would throw rocks at me. Thankfully none hit me, but it just exemplified how brutal bullies can be. I mean, that could actually have broken my bones! In any case, as I was walking home this time I heard a car horn behind me, and noticed that it was my dad. But he never used to pick me up, I always had to walk an hour to get to and back from school. "Hop in," he said, without even saying hello. "Hello..." I meekly got out. "What are you doing here?" "Just get in the car," he said. I could sense him trying to restrain himself from using a slur to call me. Normally he wasn't at all shy about calling me 'sissy,' 'fag' or even 'princess.' But now he seemed, well, rather somber. He wasn't his normal bitter and angry self. I was thankful he didn't seem drunk, because I had no doubts he would drive the car anyways, even if he had drunk several bottles of beer. "Where are we going?" I asked. My father only grumbled in response. I had to simply accept that he wasn't going to tell me. But at least I wasn't worried that he'd take me somewhere bad. I mean, what place could be worse than our house? The place he'd continually berate me and make me act like a servant? In fact, it would be nice if he dropped me off somewhere and told me that he didn't want to live with me any more. Maybe he'd make me live with some distant relative that actually had a human heart, and not a shrivelled lump of coal, inside their chest. But I couldn't quite hold out hope that there was any relative close enough to my dad for me to think he had actually managed to give them a call. *** After some time travelling in awkward silence we got to what appeared to be a church. It had a rather large cemetery attached to it, and while I at first thought we were only passing by, my father ended up parking beside it and telling me to get out. If he was going to abandon me, I suppose it wasn't so bad to be so near to a church. The church folk must be friendly and willing to take in a struggling youth. But instead my father just walked towards the cemetery. "Follow me," he said, still avoiding calling me names. I made quick steps trying to keep up with my father's determined footsteps. He clearly knew where he was going, and I simply had to keep up. I knew that I couldn't ask him, because he wouldn't tell me, but I was getting very curious. Why would we be at a cemetery? And why was he so, well, unlike himself? We stopped in front of a rather impressive gravestone, and I immediately recognised who it was. It was my mother's. I had never seen her grave before, but her name was on there. 'Christina Torres.' She was the reason why my middle-name was Christian. My father had settled with giving me his surname, and now he probably thought that was a waste. But instead my mother decided to name me after her. I was okay with that, though. At least she didn't actually name me Christina. "Well, you can read for yourself," my father said, almost sounding as if he was about to ask me whether or not I could read. "That's your mother." It was surprising to see the grave so neatly cared for. I wouldn't have expected my father to come here often, being so out of touch with his emotions, but then I remembered that my mother still had relatives that I had never met. They probably were the ones to come here with flowers and candles. I didn't quite know what to feel about the grave, however. I had never known my mother, she died when I was far too young. I couldn't say I felt any grief for her. I felt sad that I didn't get to have her growing up, but that sadness was intellectual, not emotional. It would be one thing if I had a sense for the way she behaved, sounded and smelled, but I only knew her from photographs. But as I pondered on my own relationship with my mother, I saw my father trying to hold back tears. I had never seen him this way, and I wondered what kind of person he was when she was still alive. Not that it would excuse his behaviour now if he happened to be a better person when my mother was still around. Just 'cause you've lost your spouse doesn't give you the right to treat your son like he is dirt. But I guess that it was good to know that my father did have something of a soul in him. "It is your mother's birthday, today," he said. "Normally I avoid this place on this day, because your mother's relatives always come here and I don't want to talk to them. But they weren't gonna be here this year, and I figured someone oughta come here and pay their respects." I nodded in understanding and mouthed the words 'happy birthday, mom.' I felt a tear run down my cheek. Hopefully my father wouldn't berate me for crying this time. "I'll be in the car," my father said and turned around. "You can come along whenever you feel like it. I'll go smoke a cigarette." Like that my father left and I was alone. I'd naturally never have expected him to stick around and hug it out, but now I was feeling very lonely. I wasn't prepared to be told that today was her birthday. Now it all seemed so real, and I felt more of the tears come. There was no-one else around, not even a custodian or anyone else working for the church. Just me and the grave of my deceased mother. "How are you, sweetie?" I suddenly heard a voice behind me say. "Do you need a hug?" As I turned around, I spotted a woman. She looked a lot like me. We had the same face, but she was just slightly taller (perhaps because she wore heels) and a lot older. But everything about her seemed familiar, recognisable, and it was like looking into a strange mirror. One that showed an alternate version of yourself. But as she held her hands out wide and offered me a hug, I couldn't resist. I fell into her arms. "There there, baby," she said. "It's sad, but nothing can be done about it. She's gone, and you are going to have to go on without having her in your life." At first I thought that this woman could have been my mother... but of course she wasn't. Maybe she was my sister, but she seemed so old. She was my father's age. Could she be a relative? But she looked so similar to me, and she felt so otherworldly, that I honestly started thinking of her as a ghost. But she comforted me, she didn't scare me. She held me in a motherly way and I felt loved. "You have to learn to love yourself," she said. "And you have to be willing to accept yourself for who you are. Look for the things that will give you comfort. I'll always be with you, even when you are my age. Maybe then you will see that." Before I knew it she was gone. I stood there still by my mother's grave and I felt slightly calmer. I thought that the words she said seemed true, but I couldn't exactly say that I understood them. Still, I made a final look at my mother's grave and mouthed a goodbye. I couldn't make a sound even if I wanted to. This whole place was just too quiet. I couldn't interrupt the silence. As I reached my father's car I saw that he was back to his normal self. He clearly struggled with accepting any of this, and now he was rolling his eyes as he saw me approach with my eyes red from crying. He honked his horn to make me hurry up, which seemed wildly inappropriate in a place like a church's parking lot. "Come on, princess," he said. "Gotta get back home for the game." *** The next morning I felt rather dull, perhaps even melancholy. The giddiness of having breasts had begun to pass as I switched on the tv for the morning news. Now it just felt normal to have that extra weight on my chest. And I guess that is only natural. After all, women don't giggle any time they see their own naked breast. As I sat down to drink my coffee I was at first surprised not to see Frederick jog past my window. Then it struck me that it was Friday, and that I was having my coffee later than normal. It was only on the weekends that I would see him jogging this late in the morning. Ordinarily on the weekdays I drink my coffee before work, and that is around the same time Frederick goes on his morning run. But now it's 10 o'clock and it's only on Saturday and Sunday that Frederick is able to go jogging this late. Well, if you can call 10 o'clock in the morning 'late.' At first I felt like a stalker for keeping such track on a stranger, but I rationalised it by saying that I should keep tabs on a person who always runs past my backyard each morning. Even if he technically has that right and is hardly invading my property by running just close to it. I don't know why, but for some reason I began searching his name on Google. 'Frederick Nielsen.' I didn't expect to find much, but immediately I noticed a picture of his handsome face. He had his own web page and apparently he works as an art critic. He writes reviews of art exhibitions for various papers and magazines. He has had jobs working at museums and galleries all around the world, but now it seemed like he was settling down. The last time he worked abroad, according to the resum? on his site, was four years ago. He mentioned that he had a daughter, so maybe she was the reason. A single father and a successful art critic. He sure seems like a catch. I wondered how a man like that could manage to stay single, when there are so many women looking for dependable men. Still, it struck me as a little odd that I would be concerning myself so much with a stranger's life. It was definitely the behaviour of a stalker. After all, how would I respond if he had started Googling my name? Though, I told him that my name was 'Bernice,' and that's not my actual name. I had yet resisted the urge to create an online persona for my female self, so there was no way for any stalker to find any information about Bea. As I drank my coffee and watched the dull morning television, I started thinking that maybe I was too lonely. I seemed to have no friends, only my co-workers and I had done my very best to keep my contact with them as professional as possible. I think I've relied on Mary for social company in the past. Only exception being my college classmates, but I've kept in touch with none of them. I guess that I am not much of an extrovert, and without confidence it is hard to reach out to others. I tended to not be the kind of person who would feel comfortable inviting somebody else over for lunch or dinner. Especially considering the fact that I was a terrible cook. Even with my feminine tendencies, I am not at all competent in the kitchen. *** The rest of the day was relatively same-y. I was beginning to think that all of this feminine stuff was getting unexciting to me. I had put on only one outfit that day. A pair of tight jeans, one that stretched the way jeans aren't really supposed to stretch, and a loose-fitting light- blue pullover that let my new breasts really swing about freely, even though I wore a rather sturdy white bra underneath. I looked like any other woman caught between her youth and her coming 'maturity.' MILF- material. I tittered. I don't know why, but it seemed funny to me to think of myself as being a 'MILF.' Back in the day I used to tease Mary for becoming one when she was turning thirty... Perhaps it was my subtle way of encouraging her to consider becoming a parent. Almost as if I could get her to admit that it was time for her to accept motherhood by making her admit that she looked like one. But despite briefly humouring myself with thoughts of MILF-hood, I still felt bored. It wasn't enough of a thrill to dress up any more. I had gone from being a bored man to being a bored woman. I needed to step it up... I had thought getting the breasts would be the step-up, but that had only proven to be something I had come to take for granted. They felt too real, almost. It made me think of them as such, and to my weird mind, there was nothing exciting about that. No thrill of breaking a taboo, when it just feels real and natural. I watched a few episodes of Sex and the City, and although I liked it, it didn't feel odd watching it like the first time. And that was part of the excitement. Now I just... well, I identified with the female actors. I started thinking about their clothes and I pictured myself wearing them. And that wasn't as emasculating as it had been before, because it now seemed normal, to me. I was just a woman watching a show that lots of women like. I sighed and lied placidly on the sofa. I stared at the ceiling, like I had done times before in similar situations. I felt my smooth legs covered by the jeans and I felt disappointed. It wasn't womanly enough. I needed to change my outfit. I should wear stockings and pantyhose, all the time. *** I stood in front of the mirror in a new outfit. I had kept the underwear on, because I couldn't be bothered putting on something new. And besides, who was I trying to impress? I thought about wearing a pair of big 'granny panties.' After all, what was the point in wearing something uncomfortable just 'cause it looked a little sexier? I was just here at home by myself. No-one was looking at me. But my outfit was still strikingly feminine. I had put on a pair of pantyhose, with a figure-hugging green dress that reminded me just how round my ass was. Especially with the big breasts it occurred to me what a curvy figure I had. I didn't mind that, however, and it did not worry me. It just seemed like the sort of figure that I should have. I have a woman's body, because now I am a woman. I laid down in my bed and thought about playing with myself. Y'know, like that day last Saturday. Could I get such an orgasm again? Maybe that would make me feel more excited about all of this again. I needed a little kick in the rump, and it would remind me that I am supposed to be thrilled at all of this. After all, how was my weekend supposed to go if I didn't feel more excited than this? But as I let my hands explore my body it just wasn't the same any more. My hands were too soft and too feminine. I felt as if I was rubbing myself with feathers. There was no impact. No real sensation of feeling something. I even put my hand against my panties and my tucked penis. I told myself that I was feeling my clit, like back then, and that I was a woman massaging her wet pussy. But to my great disappointment, and rather big surprise, I found myself not wet at all. My panties were as dry as when I put them on. I looked at my finger and it wasn't sticky. I licked it and I tasted nothing. I just wasn't horny. I went to the bathroom and pulled down my panties to see. Sure enough, for the first time I saw that the sanitary napkin was entirely clean. My penis was still as small and shrivelled as always, barely poking out from under the pubic hair. I looked myself in the mirror and I tried to think the girliest thoughts that I could. I thought about grabbing my testicles and pinching them so hard that they would disappear. I thought about letting a doctor investigate why I was so underequipped, only to realise that I wasn't a man at all. 'In fact,' he'd conclude, 'if I only took the scalpel and made a hole right here, I'd have a fully functioning vagina, complete with a uterus that could be impregnated.' For some reason I had just been born with what looked like testicles in the way. I was a real woman. I had never been a man. At the frustration of noting that none of this aroused me I actually began to pinch my testicles in frustration. It ended up hurting, but I kept squeezing. Finally I had to let go when I realised what I was doing. Was I so desperate to be emasculated that I was willing to go this far? I saw my face in the reflection and realised that I had to give up for today. Maybe my lust for all of this would come back tomorrow. Today I just couldn't understand it. Maybe it was time to be a man again. *** It was Saturday, and I awoke earlier than usual. I put on my wife's morning gown and sighed. I didn't feel anything strongly. I looked out the window, and I wondered about drinking the cup of coffee on the porch again. Sure, Frederick would run past, but what was the harm in him seeing me again? I'd wave my hand and just say hello. I shouldn't be afraid of my own back porch. But as I sat there, it almost felt as if I was waiting for him. I crossed my legs, then I uncrossed them. Then I crossed them again. I tried to straighten my back, then I found myself adjusting the way the bra fit me. I wanted to squeeze my boobs together and make them look bigger. Bigger than they already were. I started feeling as if I was underdressed, that I should put on something nicer than the plain clothes that I was wearing, but then I thought that it would look strange if I sat drinking my coffee in an evening dress. It was just a normal spring morning, and what I was wearing was appropriate for a mature woman to be wearing. I drank my coffee and started tapping my feet. I was getting impatient. When was this man going to run past my lawn? Was he going to take a day off jogging? No, he seemed like a man of routine, he had come running any moment now. He would definitely pass by if he was at home. Only if he was not at home would he not pass by my lawn. Was he not at home? I mean, it could be possible that he was on a mini-vacation for the weekend, and I couldn't fault him for that, I suppose. I mean, he doesn't know that I am waiting for him. Though, if he knew then I am sure he would feel pretty ashamed of himself for making me wait. Now I was looking at my watch. Well, it was my wife's watch. It was definitely a woman's watch, as it looked made for a woman's weaker wrist. It was almost like a bracelet in design, and I think it looks pretty. As I sighed and was ready to walk back indoors, disappointed and embarrassed about having been so desperate to see a man run past my house. But then I heard the small rustling of someone making quick steps from a distance. He was coming! I was going to have to prepare myself. Did I look convincing enough? I thought about showing some cleavage. I knew that the new breasts looked convincing enough, and maybe that would thrill me. A man much taller than me trying to steer himself from looking straight at my breasts. That was bound to get me aroused and wet. I knew it. It would be so humiliating! So that's when I saw him passing by. He was dressed like he was always dressed, wearing near all black. He looked as hunky as always. A real man. A handsome man. Oh, I just had to make some noise for him to notice me. I arose from the chair and was about to shout a big 'hello!' But then I realised that I probably should appear more casual. I wouldn't want him to think I was some desperate woman he should be scared of. "Hello!" I shouted. I guess I couldn't restrain myself. He paused his jogging. He was prepared to just run past my backyard, and he seemed focused on getting back home. For a moment I worried that I might be about to waste his time. It made me feel like a silly old lady. He had a daughter at home, maybe she was sick and needed to be looked after. But his face didn't seem too serious, and he turned towards me and smiled. "Oh, hello. 'Bea' was it?" Frederick said as he smiled. "Ah, yes!" I said excitedly. "And your name was Frederick, right?" I hoped he wouldn't be able to tell from my face that I perfectly knew his name. I didn't want him knowing that I had been thinking about him nearly all week, even looking him up online. "Yes, that is my name," he said. "Some people call me Fred, but I like the full name. And it helps with making an impression sometimes." "Ooh, I can see that," I said, sounding like a breathless woman. I thought that sounded a tad pretentious, but I wasn't going to call him something he did not want to be called. "And it's a nice name. Sophisticated." "Hah! Sophisticated?" he laughed. "I suppose so. But it's more normal elsewhere in the world. I grew up abroad, so I never got used to being called 'Fred.' But I suppose I like having a more unusual name." "Well, you're far from an ordinary man," I said, realising that I appeared to be flirting. Maybe I was flirting. "You're handsome, and you're clearly quite athletic. I see you jogging every morning, and I could never get enough energy to go out and do that. I'd rather just sleep!" "Oh, but it is all about discipline. And routine. Once you start doing it every day, it starts to feel odd when you don't do it. Life in the suburbs can feel a little dull, so it is important that you make the best out of it," Frederick said. "But, I'm also not sure if you need it. You look to be in good shape... Very good shape." I noticed the big man inspecting my body. He definitely noticed my smooth legs and my made-up face. Of course, he must have noticed my cleavage, and that did undoubtedly thrill me. I felt my tiny penis twitch excitedly. This interaction was exactly what I needed to get my enthusiasm back. "Oh, it's just genetics, I guess," I smiled. "I must be lucky." "I'd say so!" Frederick beamed. "And you've got such a nice home. But you can't be living on your own, can you? You must have some company?" "It's not actually my house. It belongs to my sister... uhm, Mary, and her husband," I lied. "But she's away for work, and she took her husband with her and so she asked me to look after the place." I knew that I had to lie. When I go back to dressing as a man again, and when Mary comes back home, and if Frederick sees us, then he will be awfully confused about what happened to 'Bea.' Sure, he might ask Mary about her sister, but I'll deal with that problem in the future. For now this was just an easy way of handling it. Still, I wondered why I didn't claim to be Bernard's sister. Surely that would explain our similar appearance better. It was almost like at some subconscious level I felt more like Mary's sibling than her husband. "It's a fine house, still, but..." Frederick said. "It must get lonely being all on your own." "Well, I guess that it does get lonely," I said. "Say, would you mind if I invited you over for lunch some time? You seem like a good neighbour, and I could help you make a good impression with my sister once she gets back home." I felt proud over that excuse. It was a smart way of inviting him over, without making myself seem desperate for company. Though, the fact that was so eager for company with a man while dressed as a woman, deeply embarrassed me. But as always, whenever I felt that wave of humiliation run over me, I felt my panties getting wetter. "Sure, that would be fun!" Frederick said. "I wouldn't say no to someone trying to help me like that." I felt myself blush, and my eyes veered slightly to the side. I think he very well knew that I just wanted to get to know him better, and that this was my excuse to invite him over. But this is also how a woman tries to get close to men. You have to flirt a little and lie a little. It's all playing the game. "Y'know what, my daughter is going to spend the weekend with her friends at a sleepover. If you just give me some time to take a shower and get dressed up in something nicer than this, I could come over for lunch today," Frederick said. At first I thought that was a little bit presumptuous. Why would he think that I had the time to invite somebody over today? But then I thought about it. After all, I am here dressed in a morning gown slowly drinking my coffee and it certainly does not seem like I have something important to do, today. I clearly had the time, and I clearly wanted him to come over. He realised that. It was easy to tell that I wanted to spend time with him, and he was only acting the way a real man should act. By taking charge. "That would be great!" I said and clapped my hands. Such a girly reaction. "And, well, you know the place. Just knock on the door in a couple of hours and we can spend the whole day gossiping about the neighbourhood!" Frederick laughed, said 'see you soon,' and resumed jogging. I felt myself practically floating on a cloud as I made my way back indoors. I couldn't believe it had gone so smoothly. He had not for a moment suspected that I wasn't a real woman. I completely sold it. He surely must have thought that I looked feminine... perhaps even attractive. I had just managed to charm a man into lightly flirting with me! Of course I'm not interested in men, but what is the point for me to dress like this if I don't look attractive? And who knows better what is attractive in a woman than a man? A real man like Frederick. *** As soon as I got indoors I let my hands fondle my figure. I couldn't help it. I felt exhilarated. I was feeling my excitement coming back, and with some trepidation I moved my finger down between my thighs. To the valley where my tucked away penis lay dormant. Completely inert and purposeless between my legs. I rubbed myself gently, and I couldn't help but feel thrilled as I noticed that was indeed getting wet. Once again, I could enjoy this. I squealed. Then the humiliation came to me. The real imposing humiliation. It took over and grew stronger than the arousal. What the fuck was I doing? I was supposed to be embarrassed by the fact that Frederick had ever seen me dressed up, but now I was cheering the fact that I had gotten him to agree to come over for lunch. I was delighting in the fact that my undersized penis was able to get the sanitary napkin in my panties wet. No, not my panties! My wife's panties! Oh, I was at that very point so close to getting rid of all the clothes, throwing the false breasts straight in the trash and then try my hardest to forget about all of this. I had to stop it now, because clearly if I didn't I would just fall deeper and deeper into perversion. This pit of femininity. But Frederick would arrive at my door in only a couple of hours. What would it look like if I wasn't here to open the door? And what if I wasn't dressed as a woman? He was a nice man, and he didn't deserve to be told that I had duped him. I couldn't open the door, dressed as a man, and try to convince him that I didn't mean to make him feel like a fool. It would completely sever my chance to make a new friend. And I desperately needed a new friend. I am pathetically lonely as it is and I need some social interaction, or else I might go insane. I sighed. I had to accept that I was going to do this. My masculine side was worried that he would never recover, but what good has he ever done for me? In fact, my female side was better at making me feel happy and satisfied. Not that I would ever say that I want to be a woman. But I had to admit, being a part-time woman wasn't at all bad for me. Maybe doing this would have a great effect on my mental health. Still, I felt another big worry suddenly come to me. I had invited him over for lunch. I can't cook. What the hell was I going to offer him? Some coffee and a sandwich? I'd come across as a terrible mess! I'd need something better to impress him, but as I searched through the refrigerator I found nothing substantial at all to offer him. Sure, I had wine, but I was inviting him over for lunch and not dinner. And I don't think Frederick was the kind of man who would go day drinking with a stranger. I realised that I had to order something, and that meant that I would have to reveal my feminine self to another person. But, hey, it would just be some delivery boy or girl, so who cares? *** Considering the money that I had spent on make-up and my new breasts, it was funny that I thought that the prices for ordering food delivery were so expensive. I had settled for ordering a couple of salads, which would arrive here in an hour and a bit more. About half an hour before Frederick was set to appear. Maybe as a man, he would be disappointed at the idea of only eating a salad, but he also seemed like a modern and health-focused man. He wouldn't be petty enough to say no to a few vegetables, I didn't think. Still, I ordered one with chicken, as well as one without. I figured he would take the one with the chicken, but if he was vegetarian then I wouldn't disappoint him. But if he was vegetarian, then he should have told me that, because vegetarians can't presume that everyone will offer them a vegetarian alternative just like that, without them declaring that they would want a vegetarian alternative. Still, I knew that I was overthinking this. He'll be happy just to get to know me, the food isn't why he is coming over. I thought hard about what I was going to wear. I needed to impress him. But I couldn't exactly wear an expensive dress. That would just come across as weird, and not in the good 'eccentric' kind of way. I needed to wear something sexy, but still sensible. Something a woman would wear to grab somebody's attention, but not to be seen as being desperate. I certainly didn't want to be seen as being desperate. I'm not some promiscuous woman looking for a hunky man to spend the night with. I am willing to flirt with him, but I do not want to think that I want him to ravage me right on the spot. I laid my eyes on a dress that I particularly liked. A blue dress with some white floral patterns around the sleeves and the neck. It showcased a considerable bit of cleavage, but not in a way that was inappropriate. It was adult, not slutty. If you've got it, flaunt it. I cupped my breasts in my hands and giggled. I've sure got it. Underneath the dress I would wear sheer stockings, and I would wear a pair of shoes with only a one-inch heel. No stilettos or anything mad like that. But to make myself a little fancier, I would put on a nice pearl necklace. It was a necklace that my wife had gotten from her family when she turned thirty, but she had responded with little to absolutely zero gratitude. I thought she was crazy for not wearing it more often. It was a beautiful necklace, and it was real pearls. Probably worth a fortune. Now it was my necklace, and I admired myself in the mirror wearing it. Like with any woman with a sizable cleavage, I saw how the necklace seemed to point down at my breasts, and I felt real womanly. And even more, I felt powerful. I knew that I could look pretty, but even now I was kinda taken back by just how sexy I looked. I had the new breasts, but I hadn't shown them off the way I did now. I had to admit that when I was stuffing my bras with socks, it did make it seem like I had rather bumpy breasts. And I also couldn't quite get the breasts look equal in size. It was a giveaway that I was really just a crossdressing confused man. But now, the way I looked now, it would require a gynaecologist to determine that I wasn't actually a woman. The thought of visiting a gynaecologist made me shiver. It made my penis twitch and I felt a little squirting, at the thought of putting my legs up in those stirrups. To have a real man put on rubber gloves to start to prod my underdeveloped penis to determine if I was healthy 'down there.' I was already wearing a sanitary napkin, so it wasn't that crazy to think I would go that far in exercising feminine hygiene. Maybe I could go and meet the very same gynaecologist as my wife. At some level, though I felt more excited, every now and then I would feel the humiliation come back to me and I would wonder why I sought this out. I hated this, didn't I? I couldn't say it was nice to keep subjecting myself to these emasculating thoughts. I was like one of those medieval flagellants whipping themselves for their sins. I had always known that I had a submissive tendency in life, but I didn't think I was an outright masochist. Why did I crave to be humiliated? But then I heard the doorbell ring. First I thought it was Frederick, and as such I adjusted my bra to make my cleavage 'pop' as much as possible. But then I realised that it was just the food delivery, and that made me want to cover myself up. I thought about opening the door dressed in a sheet. With a heavy sigh I decided to face the music and allow myself to be seen as a woman by a second person. At least this person I would never have to see again. So I opened the door, and sure enough the snotty young kid's eyes opened wide. He was clearly enjoying the sight. 'Yeah, yeah. I look hot, but give me the delivery and get out of here,' I thought. *** I have to admit that I did nothing but sit in front of the door as I waited for Frederick to come. I paced back and forth the hallway just a little. I checked my appearance in the mirror, I straightened my dress and I tried to spot any potential 'mistakes.' Was there any part of my appearance that would give away my true sex? But there was nothing. Nothing gave away that the woman I looked like was just an illusion. Maybe it wasn't an illusion. Just as I was prepared to walk back into the kitchen, I heard the doorbell ring, again. He was here. He was here! My mind started panicking. But I also found myself getting excited. It was like when dogs get excited because someone knocked on the front door. I had to try to remain calm, composed and collected. I readied myself. I couldn't open the door immediately, he would think that I was too eager. But as I heard the second ring of the doorbell, I rushed towards the door. The sight was, well, near unbelievable. Frederick was a ridiculously handsome man. I knew that, of course, but now I saw it for real. He was wearing a simple outfit, with a shirt that was unbuttoned in a casual way, showing a tuft of chest hair, and he was wearing a blue jacket with a pair of darker grey trousers. His hair was casually combed, but it looked windswept and golden... like the sun. And as I looked up to look into his eyes, I saw that the sunshine was making it look like he had a gloria over his head. He was a tall man, but I hadn't appreciated just how tall he was when I saw him jogging past my backyard. He was standing before me, and he was far over six foot. Clearly, he could lift me up and carry me around, no problem. I find myself, without realising it, smiling. Then I nearly fainted, but I managed to keep my balance without making a scene. Though, it would probably humour him if he saw me literally swoon in front of him. Instead I simply just extended my womanly hand with its delicate fingers. It took him some time to respond, and I realised that he might be as impressed with how I looked, as I was impressed with him. He took my hand and held it with both of his hands. His big hands completely engulfed mine. It made me feel so small and womanly. Especially seeing his strong arms and comparing them to my own small arms, thin as noodles. I could never hold a woman and make her feel safe, but just seeing Frederick would make a woman feel more protected than she's ever felt before. He'd make a good bodyguard. "Thank you for inviting me over," he said. "Some of the neighbours here have been... well, a little reserved. It is nice to see someone be so welcoming." I felt myself opening my mouth, but nothing came out. I coughed, and I tried again. I was nervous, but I needed to say something. "You're welcome," I said. "Please, come inside." As Frederick walked past me, I was again reminded of my small stature. I have never struggled with making my way through our little hallway, but Frederick did have some issues. He nearly hit his head on the lamp that was hanging from the ceiling. I laughed a little as I saw him barely avoiding it, and I made a mental note to get another lamp in case I have Frederick come over more often. As I saw Frederick inspecting my house I found myself leaning against the door. I felt like fanning myself. I couldn't believe my reaction, it was like I had become some teenage girl harbouring a crush for a boy. But he was just so unlike myself. Living with Mary all my adult life, I had no idea men could just be so... perfect. So manly. So strong. I felt my penis twitch, and I squirted. Then I squirted again. I squirted a third time and I realised that this was what I most desperately craved. I tried to gather myself together, feeling as if I had been shattered into several smaller pieces. I tried to avoid blushing, but I couldn't stop it. I hoped the make-up would make it less obvious. "It is nice to have a man come over," I said. "The place was getting a little too feminine." End of chapter three