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'Becoming Bea' Chapter four There I was, dressed as a woman and sitting next to a handsome man who had no clue that I wasn't really a woman. I sat with my smooth legs crossed, giving no impression that I had, supposedly, the same type of genitalia as him. But I had no doubts that the little nub that I had nestled inside my panties could not compare to Frederick's cock. He sat there with his legs spread wide apart and... I can't lie, my eyes glanced quickly at his crotch and I noticed a considerable bulge. He was a real man, and I wasn't. I knew that for certain, now. But Frederick was unaware of the underlying subtext in our meeting. He did not know just how much his masculinity was erasing and overpowering mine. He expressed no disappointment over the fact that all I had to offer him was a salad. Either he was too perfect of a gentleman to cause me any embarrassment, or he genuinely did not mind. Still, he did pick the chicken salad, leaving me with the vegetarian one. Not that I minded, much. I've always felt underweight and like as if I should eat more protein, but now that I'm acting the part of a woman, maybe it is for the best that I don't develop any unsightly muscles. At least now I have an excuse for being so weak and frail. Truth be told, the lunch soon became a little awkward. I did not know what to say, and clearly Frederick wasn't much better than me at coming up with a good conversation starter. We shared a few smiles, indicating that we both still wanted to get to know each other, but very few words came out of our mouths. I set my eyes on my plate and noticed an appetising cherry tomato. As I pierced the skin of the tomato with my fork, I noticed, to my absolute horror, that it burst open and squirted all of its juice and seeds at Frederick! I arose from my chair and began apologising profusely for using my fork so irresponsibly. Everyone knows that cherry tomatoes have a tendency to squirt like that. And I should know what it is like to be a squirter. You could hear the sound of my clicking heels on the kitchen floor and it sounded near-exquisitely feminine. I've always adored the sound of women walking in heels. But I also realised that the words that I was saying, as I desperately attempted to clean Frederick's jacket with my napkin, sounded equally as feminine. I'm so submissive, I can't help it. I didn't want the big strong man to be mad at me. He could squish me like a bug! He took hold of my wrist and attempted to calm me down. The way he so effortlessly held my hand in place with his strength made me immediately stop what I was doing. I looked at him with my wide and mascara-clad eyes. He smiled and laughed and said that it was all okay. 'It is just a bit of tomato,' he said and took the napkin from my hand and urged me to sit back down. Even though he had not touched me much, the feel of his firmness against my delicate wrist made me shiver. He probably did not mean to appear so dominant, but I was shocked at how natural it was for me to assume the subordinate role to someone like Frederick. Someone who is in control. For lack of a better term, he was the 'alpha,' and I was the little female he was about to conquer. "I just tend to be so careful with my clothes," I said. "If I ever get any stains on me, I just immediately have to go and wash it off." "But your clothes must be far more expensive than mine," Frederick said. "I'm not an expert, but I've noticed that you're quite the fashionable woman. Impressively, so." I blushed as I crossed my smooth and feminine legs. I made sure that the dress fitted my body the best it could. I did not have the curviest physique, but I knew how to make my hips look rounder. Frederick was admiring me. I was about to say that 'no,' and that 'I only like to dress nice because I can afford it,' but then I realised that I do in fact know more about fashion than most other people. Certainly most other men. Well, except for those who happen to actually work in the fashion industry. "Well, y'know, I like to look nice..." I said as I playfully toyed with my hair. "And I guess that I've picked up on one or two things over the years. I'm not a young woman, you know." "You look plenty young to me," Frederick said. "How old can you be, really? You can't be older than me and I'm thirty-five." I laughed. It was a womanly laugh, and I instinctively put my hand over my mouth. Frederick thought that I was younger than him? I thought that I looked like an old woman when I got all dressed up. "I'm actually about to turn thirty-four," I said, surprising myself by the fact that I lied. "Oh, so you're thirty-three then?" Frederick said. "No point in saying you're thirty-four if you haven't had your birthday yet!" "No I suppose that's true. I guess that I'm just not one of those women who pretends to be younger than I actually am. I think honesty is important," I said. That was a particularly ironic thing for me to say considering that I had just lied about my age. And how am I honest when I am lying about my gender? If I wasn't already so teetering on the edge of embarrassment and emasculation, I'd feel twice as bad about being a compulsive liar. "You sound like my wife... Well, like she used to sound," Frederick said. "She was a journalist and she used to talk for long hours about integrity and honesty." "Oh, yes, I remember," I said, sensing a shift in the conversation. "You told me that she had passed." "Over five years ago. Shortly after our daughter was born," Frederick said. "But I'm happy that I had her for as long as I did. My life is richer for having once had her in it. Though, this isn't the cheeriest topic to be talking about." "No, no... It's fine," I said. "I am actually kinda interested in hearing what you have to say about it as... I... uhm." I was unsure whether or not I should tell Frederick about my childhood, about how I lost my mother, but I was really interested in hearing what Frederick had to say about it. Considering what happened to my father after he lost my mom, and became such a bad parent, I was intrigued by how well Frederick seemed to be handling it. He seemed like a good man, so unlike my father. What was his secret to holding it all together? "Truth is," I said, sounding a little somber. "One of the reason why I wanted to invite you over is because I lost my mother when I was young, and I just thought that... well, I just got curious about what it is like for you. I guess that I would have been your daughter's age when it happened... I was just a little, ehm, girl." It felt awkward being so candid, but it was the truth, and Frederick might as well know. Though, it did pain me to call myself a little girl when it happened. It reminded me of how my father would berate me for not being a real man. I guess that he was right. I'm far from a real man. "Oh, I am so sorry to hear that!" Frederick said. "But I see. I'm actually happy that you told me. I feel as if it is good to talk about these things. Even after you've stopped mourning, you still have these lingering thoughts and fears about what happened." "I think that, for better or worse, I wouldn't be the woman that I am today if my mother hadn't died when I was so little," I said. "It is nice that you appear to be a good father for your daughter. My father... well, he was a little 'rough' around the edges." "Oh, I really don't see how I could treat my daughter like anything but the sweetest girl in the whole world," Frederick said. "She's the most important gift that I have in my life, and I'm sorry if your father doesn't feel the same about you. But does he know what kind of beautiful woman you are now?" I laughed nervously. My father certainly wouldn't be pleased knowing what kind of beautiful woman that I am now. But I liked hearing Frederick talk about these things. He made it all seem so obvious and as if he didn't even have a choice in the matter. He just had to be a good father, because he could not conceive of himself being a bad one. "Oh, you're too sweet," I said. "But really, I want you to know that I admire seeing you working so hard to make your daughter's life better. I respect that very much." After that, there was a short silence between us, but I saw Frederick smiling at me. Without realising it, I had put my small hand on top of his much larger hand. I was horrified, and pulled it back towards me, like as if I had just touched a hot stove, but Frederick just smirked at me. He knew that he had just caught me doing something without realising it. He must have thought, at that moment, that I was truly attracted to him. Was I attracted to him? *** For the rest of the afternoon we talked about a variety of topics, some involving the deep questions of life, like how to deal with the passing of a loved one, but we also ended up talking about music and films and almost everything else under the sun. I felt as if it was easy for me to talk to Frederick, especially after having let it spill that I shared a similar experience to his daughter. And he seemed like such a tolerant and understanding man. He never talked too loudly or too aggressively. He was always patient and was willing to let me say the things that I wanted to let out. Honestly, I hadn't had a conversation like this one with anyone before, and for a moment I thought that I had just made a friend for life. But he thought that I was a woman. If I was going to be his friend, then I would have to keep lying to him. I couldn't reveal the truth to him now. He might get hurt that I would deceive him. I didn't want to hurt him. He was... too good for that. But while we were swept up in the whirlpool of conversation, the time had gotten late. The clock was ticking away, and it was almost evening now. Our little lunch had far exceeded the limited hours supposed to be reserved for 'lunchtime.' Frederick did not seem to be in much of a hurry to leave, though. With his daughter visiting her friend for a sleepover, Frederick had no reason to rush. But considering that I had only invited him over on a whim, it seemed appropriate to end our little lunch meet before it transitioned over into becoming a fully-fledged 'date.' Sure, I could tell that he still wanted to spend time with me. And, frankly, I wanted to spend time with him. But part of being an adult is knowing when to take things slow. If we were both teenagers, we could spend the whole evening and the whole night together. I shuddered at realising just how a couple of teenagers would spend the night together. The things a teenage boy would do to a teenage girl. Would Frederick do those things to me? As I led Frederick to the door, I noticed that he still had small bits of tomato stuck on his jacket. I leaned in close to pick it off with my long fingernails. I knew that this gesture made me look extremely feminine, especially as I had to reach up to get close to his chest, but I couldn't help it. Sure, it looked as if I was looking for an excuse to touch him, but that wasn't why I did it. I'm just being a good host(ess.) I can't let my guest leave with tomato on his clothes! We looked nervously at each other, but we both smiled. It was easy to tell that we both wanted to meet up again. But neither one of us wanted to be the first to ask, fearing that the other would reject the idea. Still, I braced myself and opened my mouth. "Do you want to meet again?" we both said, nearly in unison. We giggled. We were acting like a silly couple of kids. I decided to let Frederick speak, and I leaned my body against the wall. He's the man. I'm the woman. He gets to be the one to take initiative. "Would you like to meet me again, some time?" Frederick said. "I could invite you over to my place. Perhaps dinner? Maybe we could drink some wine?" "I would love that," I said, staring straight into the tall man's eyes. "I'll give you my number." Of course I had not planned on giving him my number, but I really did want to meet him again. Yes, it'll be awkward once I have to tell him the truth about who I am, but that's for future me to deal with. I handed him a small post-it note with my number written on it, and I noticed Frederick's face beaming with pride. He pocketed the small note and grinned at me. "Y'know it has been a very long time since I got a woman to give me her number," he said. "I'm happy this one belongs to such a smart and beautiful one." "Well you better not lose it," I said. "And if you do, I just have to wait for you to come 'round jogging again." Without warning Frederick took my hand, lifted it up towards his lips and gave it a kiss. It probably only lasted a second or two, but it felt like it lasted for minutes. And again I felt how strong he was, and how easy it was for him to overpower me. It made me realise that if he wanted, he could lift me up and carry me back to his place and I could do nothing to stop him. He could have me, right here, and I could only plead with him to please be gentle. But as much as that thought should be scary, it made me feel oddly safe. I knew that he wouldn't do that. He was strong, and forceful, but he would never use his body to harm me or any other woman (or sissified man.) He would only use his power to keep me safe. I shivered and I felt my poor little penis twitch ineffectually inside my panties. "Goodbye, sweet Bea," he said as he closed the door. "Goodbye... handsome," I whispered to myself, now alone again. *** That evening I was in a strange and conflicted mood. The way I had fawned over a man, acting like a flirty woman, it all just seemed so crazy. He must have been able to tell that I wanted him. And he wanted me! It was as if we were inches away from undressing each other, and kissing each other and... If he had asked to make love to me, I am not sure if I could have stopped myself. Would I have allowed him to stick his dick inside of me? But I don't want that, not really. I am not gay, I don't like men. Not in that way. Right? I placed my exhausted body on the sofa to relax. I had to remind myself that I was permitted to spread my legs wide apart when there was no-one else around. I had become so used lately to sit with my legs pressed neatly together. And I was not supposed to get used to sitting like that. After all, it is supposed to hurt a man to squeeze his junk between his thighs. But with my little penis so effectively tucked away I felt as if I had nothing at all special dangling between my legs. Just a smooth and feminine crotch. I had completely emasculated myself. I wanted to reclaim a small shred of masculinity, so I tried to force myself to spread my legs. I wanted to 'manspread' like men are stereotypically supposed to. The way men sit down and take up as much space as possible. But I found that the dress that I was wearing constricted me from sitting down like a man. If I wanted to stop sitting like a demure woman, then I would have to go and get changed to a different outfit, and I was too tired to even consider doing that. I pushed my legs together, and just accepted that I don't have a penis between my legs to worry about. It's practically non-existent. I put my right hand against my face and I felt for the first time truly just how small and weak it was. It was never something I had thought about before, but after having had Frederick handle it, like as if it was some dainty little doll's hand, I couldn't stop thinking about it. That kiss, his lips on my soft skin, I still felt it. It felt as if I had been given a tattoo. No matter how many times I would wash my hand in the future, that kiss will never go away. It's permanently stuck to me. What did he call me again? 'Sweet Bea?' Ah, that was clever. And cute. Was he going to call me later? And would I agree to come over to his place? That would require me to walk outdoors dressed up. Considering how passable I clearly look that won't be much of a problem. Maybe a neighbour could recognise me, but certainly not from a distance. I don't look much like Bernard any more. If someone saw me they'd just assume, like I had told Frederick, that I was just some female relative staying at the house for a while. The thought of going outside dressed as 'Bea' seemed exciting to me. I could wear some of Mary's outerwear. She's got some nice coats and scarves and gloves that I don't get any opportunity to wear while I remain indoors. Maybe I could take a trip to the town centre. Maybe I could buy something exciting for myself. Sure, I could just keep ordering things that I want online, but just imagining myself surrounded by all those other people and having no-one recognise me as a man made me shiver. Imagine being called 'ma'am' and 'lady' and 'miss' by people who'd never suspect that I wasn't a real woman. I'd be humiliated! And I know that would make me more aroused than ever. "I'm really happy my father isn't here to see me, right now," I sighed to myself as I practically melded into the sofa cushions. *** At this point I had become obsessed with chasing the most intense orgasm. I had felt that really intense orgasm earlier, a few days ago, but I was now struggling with replicating it. I realised that I needed to build up to it, slowly. If I hurried it, and attempted to force myself to get aroused, then it wouldn't work. I certainly did not get there by watching porn. Frankly, I've never been that aroused by watching porn. It was only through subjecting myself to further emasculation that I would be prepared for another earth-shattering orgasm. So I spent that Sunday working my hardest on perfecting the illusion of womanhood. I made a conscious decision to only wear underwear that whole day, figuring that seeing my own smooth and petite body in the mirrors would be a surefire way to emasculate myself. And I certainly picked out the most girly pair of panties that I could find. It was a pink lace thong, with a small little white ribbon at the top. You could even see some of my 'bush' sticking out through the fabric, but there was no bulge to speak of. My penis had clearly given up hope, at this point. I wore no sanitary napkin, as I wanted to feel the wetness grow between my thighs. I wanted to feel like a woman in heat. Ah, I... erhm... I wanted to feel like a slut. I decided against wearing a bra. It was a hard decision, as I had a bra that matched the panties I wore perfectly, but I wanted to feel my false breasts swinging around freely. I wanted to feel the same back pains that busty women feel when they're unable to provide their breasts a good supportive bra. I wanted to feel embarrassed about potentially being seen topless. It is not a worry that real men should have. A real man doesn't care if anyone spots them topless, but I am a woman now, and as such I should be terrified at the prospect of being caught with my upper body naked. I made sure to only walk on my toes. I fantasised about reaching a day when I would get so used to wearing heels that I would be unable to walk normally. I would skip around, like a complete fairy, and I would not be able to stop it. No-one would have to force me to act like a sissy, I would simply act that way because it is impossible for me to act like a real man. Any time I did something that Sunday that could be perceived as in any way masculine, I forced myself to say something emasculating about myself in return. I made sure to not slur a single word, taking exceptional care in my pronunciation, like as if I was reciting the confession in front of an audience. Each time I slipped up, I would have to improvise something new. "If I was living in a muslim country, then I would be forced to wear a hijab at all times." "I have a deep desire to have real breasts, because I fantasise about being able to breastfeed a child." "I am beginning to see marks on my shoulders from wearing bras daily. I am excited that they may be permanent." "I fear that I am infertile. I don't think I could get any woman pregnant." "My wife doesn't want me, because she is not a lesbian." On the whole, these emasculating confessions did excite me, but I also knew that they weren't enough to get me in the right mood. They were only words, and though they stung at my masculine ego, none of it felt real. It was still just fantasies, and I needed something more than fantasy. As I stood there looking like a total and naked woman, I looked down at my feet. I saw my toes. For a moment, I thought that I should paint my toenails. I have these painted false fingernails now, and I really ought to make all my nails match. After all, when I start dressing like a man again I can easily just cover up my toenails with socks and shoes. I was actually kind of disappointed in myself for not painting my toenails earlier! That certainly counts as a slip-up worthy of another emasculating confession. "I have a secret crush on a real man and I can't stop thinking about him." *** That night I had another dream come to me. But I wasn't in this dream. It wasn't a memory, but in some ways it felt as if it had to be one. Like as if it had to have happened. But in the dream I was Mary. And she was twenty-three. At that time we were living together, but we hadn't yet become engaged. As I looked down I saw her chest and I saw her legs. I looked at my hands and they were Mary's hands, and in the mirror I saw her face. Yet I was just the passenger, and I did not control her body. It was a surreal experience. The actual me, Bernard, wasn't there. I was alone in Mary's body in the apartment. She was studying, and I could see the pages she was studiously reading. The academic language in her textbooks always seemed like nonsense to me, but Mary appeared to understand every single sentence without any struggle. I was impressed with her mind back then, and I am still impressed by her intelligence today. Even though Mary has slipped away from me as of late, she is still an impressive woman and I should consider myself lucky to have married her. Mary sighed, and I heard her openly wondering to herself whether or not she'd ever get to visit the places that she's read about. She looked at a small map in her textbook and I saw that she had circled a few locations around the world. She made an additional circle. Mary must have always had that wanderlust inside of her, I realised. She must have always been dreaming of travelling the world. The doorbell rang, and Mary rose from the chair. I was curious to see who it was. Maybe it was me, Bernard, home from a lecture or hanging out with my geeky friends, or whatever else. Maybe I would kiss Mary... while future me was still in her body. That would be awkward. Yet, even as I began to realise that I might be dreaming, the whole scenario just felt so real. A terrible thought occurred to me: what if Mary had somebody else? What if Mary used to cheat on me? But the person on the other side of the door wasn't Bernard or some other secret lover. It was Bernard's dad. My father. He looked... well, frankly he looked surprisingly good. But with my father that wasn't saying much. He still had his puffy face, the receding hairline and the big bags underneath his eyes. But he didn't look angry or bitter. He looked defeated. "What?" Mary said tersely. Mary recognised my dad and she knew how he had treated me throughout my upbringing. Needless to say, Mary did not feel much in the way of affection for my father. "Is, uhm... Is Bernard around? You're Mary, aren't you?" he stammered, sounding surprisingly frail. "Bernard is away with friends," Mary said. "And if that was all you wanted to ask, then I will close the door now." "No, no, wait," my father said. "Just... just let me say a few things. Can you promise to tell Bernard what I'm about to say?" It was shocking to see my father like this. It was still recognisably him, but gone was the image he presented to the world. Gone was the bitterness and hatred of the world. He just appeared weak, like a husk of a man, and it seemed strikingly evident that he was carrying a great amount of shame and guilt. I had never seen a person in such a sorry state. I pitied him, even though I felt as if I shouldn't. It was actually sad seeing him like this. "Depends entirely on what you're about to say," Mary said. "He isn't exactly interested in hearing a thing from you. And neither am I." "I know..." my father said. "I haven't exactly been all that good to him. I know, and... Well, frankly I know that I've been a total piece of shit. And I know that I don't deserve forgiveness." Mary simply stared at him. I was surprised that she managed to stay so cold and uninviting, even as my father was crumbling into pieces before her, but she has always been stronger than me. For as bad as my father had been to me, if I had seen him like this then I would have been much more eager to hear him out. I would definitely have invited him in, even if I would later regret it. But Mary just stood there. She stared at him. "I have been going to AA meetings. Part of their program is to... to find people you hurt, when you were drinking, and to apologise. I am not sure if the program is working... I still want to drink booze, but I've been sober for a while now. If I one day overcome this... I want him to know. Even if he doesn't want to meet me again, I want him to know that I regret everything about how I treated him," my father said. "I don't deserve his forgiveness, but he deserves to know that I regret everything I did." I was stumped. All I could wonder is why Mary hadn't told me about this meeting... If it happened, that is. It probably didn't happen. I realised that it was a dream as I was having it, but it did feel so very real. So plausible, in a way. I never learned what happened to my father, but I knew that if he got sober, the guilt would probably be overwhelming for him. But Mary did not show him any sympathy. "If you do get sober, then I will tell him," Mary said. "Goodbye Mr. Torres." She closed the door. The dream ended. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. I knew that there were two possibilities. Either my father was now sober, but too gripped by guilt to ever contact me. Or my father had continued drinking and was now most likely dead. Neither one of those possibilities felt particularly preferable. And I had to accept that I will likely never learn which one is true. But at least now I knew just how much Mary must love me. Even if it was just a dream, and maybe none of that actually happened, it clearly showed me just how much my relationship to Mary means to me. Our marriage may be struggling, but it is not yet over. I knew that I could not give up on the idea of having Mary back and being her husband. In dread I began wondering if my flirting with Frederick counts as cheating on Mary. But I am not a real woman, so maybe technically it isn't really cheating? *** On Monday I did not feel like continuing the game of emasculation that I had started the day before. I still wanted to dress like a woman, but I did not feel like punishing myself for not acting like a perfect woman. I'm a beginner at femininity, after all, and I should allow myself the occasional mistake. But there was one thing I was absolutely resolute in doing, and that was building up enough courage to go outside. This need to venture outdoors came about because of one particular reason. I wanted to get a feminine haircut. At this point, the improvised style that I had given myself had become boring, and I wanted to go that extra mile by getting a professional to style my hair. Obviously, I knew that it would be awkward once I needed to go back to work the next week, but I also knew that I could figure out some way of hiding it. I could just start wearing a hat, or I could use so much gel in my hair that no-one would be able to tell. Nobody would comment on my hairstyle looking a little different. Maybe they'd assume I'm making some odd fashion statement, that it is just me entering some early stage of a midlife crisis. And once I had made the appointment, I knew that I couldn't back down. Sure, I could avoid showing up, but I wasn't such a pitiful coward. Or was I? It was an odd situation that I had found myself in. If I did go to the salon and got a feminine haircut, then I could think of myself as having been brave. But if I chickened out, then I would have been a real wimp. So, no matter what I choose to do, I will be emasculated. But I knew that I had to do it. I wanted to experience what it is like to get your hair done as a woman. I picked out an outfit consisting of a medium-length skirt, a thin cardigan with a small belt that emphasise my trim waist, and underneath that a top with a flowery pattern on it. I had a coat on. It was deep red and it looked unmistakably feminine. Unlike coats made for men, it swung out towards the bottom, emphasising the curvy figure of a woman. My curvy figure. I also doubt that a real man could even get it on their body, seeing how narrow the shoulders were. It made me confront the fact that I was never particularly broad-shouldered and that was just another emasculating fact that ended up thrilling me. I repeated to myself the fact that a real man could never wear an outfit like this. Not because it would humiliate him, but rather because it simply would not fit him. I could wear it, it looked good on me, because I had a woman's figure. I am a woman. When I took those first steps out of the house I nearly panicked. I was so worried that any of my immediate neighbours would see me and ask questions. But this was a Monday and most of them were busy at work. No- one was out, except someone I could barely spot far away in the distance. If they looked in my direction they'd see only a woman about to get into her car. I reached into my handbag trying to find the car keys, frustrated at how much easier it is to be a man and have functioning pockets. 'That was truly one of the most stupid features of women's fashion,' I thought. As I backed the car away from my house I smiled. I knew this would be an exciting day. I knew that I would come away from it with a trophy. I felt like a cougar closing in on its prey. I would get back home feeling proud over my new hair, like I had just come home successful from the hunt. I could feel the now regular little twitch from my tiny panties, tucked away between my legs. What I did not realise was that aside from just the new haircut I would also find myself getting my ears pierced. *** I could not believe it. I sat motionless on a bench in the mall. I probably looked as pale as a ghost. My ears hurt, but not so bad. What hurt most was the realisation that I had allowed it to happen. I had pierced my ears. My new hairstyle was one thing, it was just hair, I could eventually get a regular crew cut, and that would be that. But I wouldn't be able to hide my pierced ears. How was I going to explain this to Mary? I'm not the kind of guy that gets piercings. The stylist had convinced me to get a short haircut. She had convinced me that with my facial features I would look great with shorter hair, she even giggled and said that I had the sort of face that could get away with any kind of hairstyle without anyone thinking I looked 'mannish.' How could I deny her after she said that to me? The thrill of that emasculation, a woman telling me that I could convincingly pass as male? It just got me so unbelievably aroused, that I was so thankful for my sanitary napkin, or else I might just have left a noticeable wet spot on the chair. I just nodded and let her work her magic. And it sure was magic. Now, my new hair isn't really that short... It is about as far away from a buzzcut as possible. It certainly isn't 'short' by the standards of a male cut. It certainly doesn't make me look manly. With the rest of my face made up, the first thing that came into my head the moment I saw myself in the mirror was Audrey Hepburn. And, absolutely, there are only a few famous women better to look like than her. But with my hairstyle now looking like a pixie's, it drew attention to my naked earlobes. The stylists noticed. She gave me such grief for not having them pierced, asking how a woman my age could have any self-respect without beautiful earrings adorning the sides of her face. I condeeded and told her she was right. It was something that I had to get done sooner or later. The stylist then said that the beauty salon does in fact offer to do piercings of all sorts, and she was even willing to do it for a reduced price, just to right this particular wrong. She even complimented me on my ears, saying just how cute and delicate they were. Of all the parts of my body that I thought would be recognised as looking female, my ears certainly weren't that high up on the list. But what could I say? I feared that she wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. And... honestly, my newly developed feminine pride was quite hurt at the fact that I had indeed gone all these years without having my ears pierced. I was a grown woman, after all. Not some young girl afraid of what her mother might think. As I allowed her to approach me with the tool used to create the holes in my earlobes she seemed quite eager to sell me on other kinds of piercings. Even some intimate ones, like nipple piercings... She giggled and told me that men love the look of pierced nipples, and then she pointed towards her own chest, intimating that she had learned this from personal experience. But I managed to convince her that getting my ears pierced was enough for now, and it was lucky that she did relent at that point. Because although my false breasts were stunningly realistic, I don't think they'd be able to hold up under such close scrutiny. But I did agree to take a pamphlet from her showing just the marvels of having bejewelled nipples. *** Later, at home, I found myself unable to stop staring at myself in the mirror. My earlobes didn't look like my own earlobes any more, as strange as that may be to suggest. It was like I had stolen a new pair of ears from some poor random woman. Sure, I was only equipped with a pair of non-remarkable silver studs, but I had never before imagined looking at myself looking like this. Now as I was staring at myself in the mirror, I fantasised about all of Mary's earrings that I hadn't gotten the chance to try on. Maybe it wasn't so horrible. Plenty of men have pierced ears these days. Though, not the kind of man that I am. Most people would act surprised if they saw that such a nerdy looking fella as me had gotten my ears pierced. Still, maybe the thrill of immersing myself so fully in this new role was worth a little potential embarrassment later when I am back being a man. After all, once this is done I ought to be all but immune to future humiliation. I could be surrounded by a mob of people teasing me for my pierced ears and I would simply laugh and shrug. I had experienced so many things more humiliating than that lately. Maybe if it was a mob of people making fun of my tiny penis that would be different. But I guess you have to pick your battles. I continued staring at myself in the mirror. This haircut was truly something. It was shorter than my previous styles, but it looked so much more womanly. So lacking in anything male. Something about the shortness only emphasised its womanliness. It seems paradoxical, to the simple mind short hair equals masculinity. But it is not that simple. The way that this hair has been lovingly shaped into the form it now has, just gave away the fact that it belongs to a feminine creature. Someone who is surely dripping with estrogen. Someone so confident in their femininity that they don't care about length, they only care about feeling radiant and unique. And it is not as if every long haircut is feminine. Can you imagine a woman in a mullet? Impulsively I kissed my reflection in the mirror. It left an imprint of my red lipstick. Embarrassed, I started wiping it away with some tissue. *** It was strange to be home on a Monday evening feeling no requirement to go to bed early for work tomorrow. But this whole week I would be at home, free from such dull obligations. I was going to be a free woman. I could do anything I wanted. As long as the boss kept thinking I was at home with a bad case of the flu, then I could just be myself for a whole week. At some level I was beginning to feel as if Bea was more real than Bernard. After all, she seemed way more comfortable socialising than Bernard ever was. I sat down on the sofa just taking in the day. What I had done, what I had let that overeager hairdresser do to me, and I felt satisfied. I didn't feel anxious or nervous about what might happen once I decide to look like a man again. Sure, it might be difficult, but it has always been difficult for me to look like a man. Most people just wouldn't notice it if little Bernard looked a little more femme. This was just for the best, and I felt that now. I had to go down this path. I was wearing pantyhose and a soft black sweater long enough to cover my hips, but not my legs, and with arms so long that they covered up most of my hands. Only my little ladylike fingers could be seen, with the fake painted nails on each fingertip. I had a pair of warm socks on, but I didn't feel the cold so bad. So I didn't care to put on any trousers or a long skirt. I felt comfortable. The outfit reminded me of something a girl might wear at home when she is on her own, not really caring if someone gets to see what panties she's got on. I let one hand move between my legs. I wanted to touch myself tonight. Then I was rudely taken out of the sensual haze beginning to overcome me by the sound of my phone ringing. A list of names went through my head of who it could be. Mary? My boss? My Dad? Some sleazy salesman? I didn't want to hear from any of them. But then it occurred to me. Was it Frederick? I did want to hear from him. I didn't recognise the number, but that would only make sense as I didn't have his number. He had mine. That gave him all the power. "Hello," I said, sounding particularly meek, almost frightened. "Hi, is it Bea?" Frederick said. "Or did I call a wrong number?" "No, it is me," I said as I found myself smiling. "You've got me." I hadn't talked to him since our lunch Saturday. I guess that it is appropriate for a man to wait a day or two before calling a woman, to give her some time to gather her thoughts. But honestly, I felt as if I had waited ages to hear his voice again. It provided me with some sense of safety. "I wanted to thank you for being such a friendly neighbour," Frederick said. "I thought about you all day, yesterday." "Mm, you did?" I said, sounding clearly delighted. "Well, I suppose you made quite the impression on me," Frederick laughed. "Hope it was mutual." "It was," I said. Without thinking, as I was listening to Frederick's surprisingly deep voice, my free hand had again moved between my legs and was now massaging my wet crotch. I began to lean back on the sofa, letting my legs spread wide, and I felt a stirring warmth pervade my body. I started rubbing my 'clit,' softly and I tried to be careful as to not make any too noticeable sounds. I wanted him to speak, to hear his masculine voice, and the fact that I was feeling this desire, this arousal, it made me even more turned on. "Oh, but you must make an impression on all women," I said. "Being such a handsome man." "You'd be surprised," Frederick laughed. "I was more of an... active... lover in my twenties, but since settling down it's been a long time since I've been out dating. It's hard to find anyone single in the suburbs. Mostly married couples around, as you, yourself, probably know." "Oh, I know that very well, being unmarried myself," I said. "What should a couple of singles, a male and a female, do when they're all alone together in the suburbs?" I felt my self-massaging getting more intense. I made wild circling motions over my clit, and although the panties I was wearing weren't weren't made out of some thin and flimsy fabric, they were now so soaked in my own juices that I felt completely naked. Exposed. In my mind I was spreading my legs for Frederick. I was exposing myself to him. I was wet for him. "Well, it is almost as if the male single, in this hypothetical situation, should ask the female single if she wants to go out on a date," Fredrick said. "It would only be logical." "Oh, a date, now that sounds promising," I said, really inbetween moans, hopefully subtle enough not to be noticed by Frederick. "Is the male single interested in the female single?" "Are you kidding me?" Frederick said. "If I could go on a date with you, then I would consider myself lucky." I let out a small moan, though significantly louder this time, but I still don't think Frederick heard it. I was feeling as if I was losing all control, like I was melting from just hearing his voice, reacting to my words. I wanted him to see me. I wanted him to say nice things about me. I wanted him to affirm my femininity. I wanted him, this shining beacon of true masculinity, to emasculate me. Oh, I wanted him to take pride in making me feel so much like a girl. I wanted him to humiliate me. "Honestly, I admit that I would have ignored you sitting in your backyard if it weren't for the fact that I found you... well... completely stunning," Frederick said. "Lucky for me, I could tell that you were interested in me right from that moment you came up to me, and looked at me with that nervous but intrigued expression on your face. I thought you looked so very cute. I guess it was magnetic." I felt myself twitching. I felt my chest, my tits, heaving up and down. I felt as if I was making all sorts of loud noises, but Frederick gave no impression that he could hear me masturbate. He was only patiently waiting for me to put together some kind of response. But I couldn't stop thinking about how I would have felt if I had kissed me then, when we first met. His strength. I yearned for it. "And I admit that I have been looking forward to seeing you jog past my backyard," I said. "You're quite the pleasant sight to see so early in the morning." I admitted it. Not just to Frederick but to myself. I had tried to intellectualise it previously, but I couldn't deny it any more. I found Frederick attractive. Not handsome in that way a man might cautiously admit that another man is attractive, with several qualifiers first to make it very clear that he is not personally attracted to other men. My attraction to Frederick had become positively carnal. I wanted to touch him, to smell him... to taste him. I didn't know what this meant for me as a person, was I now bisexual? Well, I didn't feel bisexual. It felt more like as if Bernard was heterosexual and Bea was... also heteroseuxal. As a woman, I did not feel like a lesbian. I felt straight. I felt like I desired the love of a man. I was craving the love of men. "It's almost as if we should consider becoming a couple," Frederick said. "It's a little too soon to tell, but if we're both single, and if we both find each other attractive, and if we both had fun just talking to each other... Maybe we're a match." A couple? Could I become a man's girlfriend. This man did not for a moment suspect I was anything but a real woman. I felt a surge of pleasure mixed with humiliation mixed with genuine joy spread through my body. I was such a pathetic man, but I had surprised myself by how vibrant I could be as a woman. My little shrivelled clit squirted with full force, but it was nothing like a male ejaculation. I didn't orgasm. I didn't feel as if I was done. I was only getting started. I was only getting prepared for... I was getting prepared for penetration. I was wet and ready, now I just needed my man to come and fuck me. "It's all so natural," I said, feeling tears of joy coating my cheeks. "You're a man and I'm a woman. We could be a couple." "Are you free sometime this week to come over for dinner? I'm a great cook," Frederick said. "And there might be wine." "I'm free all week," I said. "No work this week." "No work? Lucky you..." Frederick teased. "How 'bout Wednesday? I work from home on Thursdays." I shivered. My legs were shaking like mad, like as if I was experiencing a great earthquake in my soul. I was getting frustrated. I was feeling hotter than ever, and I was more than ready to orgasm, but I couldn't moan as loudly as I wanted. I couldn't completely let go. I had to restrain myself. I didn't want to make Frederick aware of what I was doing. He'd think of me as some kind pervert if he knew that I had been masturbating this whole time, fantasising about him in all his naked glory. I felt as if I was just inches away from climaxing, though, and I knew this would be a big one. "Wednesday it is," I said, struggling to get the words out. "I'll pick out something nice to wear." "Good," Frederick said. "I'll see you then, 'Sweet Bea.'" And that did it. That, the silly little affectionate nickname. Something about hearing him utter those words just struck a chord with me. It felt like Frederick almost must have known what I was doing, because this was just the right final note I needed to hear before letting myself go completely wild. I became like a possessed she-beast, losing myself entirely to the feral nature of the sexual bliss I had just discovered. I screamed, I shouted, I cried out for more. "Fuck me! Oh, fuck me! Oh... fuck!" I howled. No doubts about it. I was in love with a man. *** As I lay there, like a completely lifeless doll, I pondered on what had just happened. I had not only agreed to date Frederick, but I had pretty much confessed to wanting to be his girlfriend. And when I was at the height of arousal, the image I chose to focus on was him... naked. Not only naked, but jogging at the same time. A strange image, but I knew what it was that made that image so arousing. It was seeing his cock bounce up and down as he ran. Nothing compared to mine. Mine wouldn't even be noticeable underneath my bush of pubic hair. If you saw me run naked you'd think I was a eunuch. I was lying in my sweat and my wetness. knew that I had to get up, I couldn't fall asleep here on the sofa. It would be disgusting to wake up in the morning like this. And it would ruin the clothes that I had on. I needed to take a shower, but... Now I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes and dream of him. The feelings of love hadn't faded. I experienced no post-climax clarity lifting me from this haze of emasculation and womanhood. I still wanted him. I wanted a man. I wouldn't fall asleep... no, I refused to fall asleep... My eyes blew open. I had to get up. As terrible as it was to break this moment of tranquil peace, I had to force myself awake. I was not a teenage boy content with living like a pig. I was a grown woman, and I have to take care of myself. Grown adults, even those that do masturbate themselves into a full-on stupor, don't end their evenings like this. I will take a shower. Then I will fall asleep in my warm and comfortable bed and worry about my upcoming date on Wednesday. I would surely have to take the entirety of Tuesday preparing. Making sure that my look was as flawlessly feminine as possible. As I made the feeble attempts at standing up I could feel just how sticky and wet I had become. My whole outfit seemed soaked, not just my panties. I wondered if this evening would leave a permanent stain on the sofa, seeing as I had so completely melted and seemingly become one with the fabric of the cushions while I was talking to Frederick. Worst case scenario, I'll get a new sofa. Mary will never know. With each step, it felt as if I was walking on shattered glass. I noticed that even though I was not wearing heels, I was still walking on my toes. Well, at least I managed to train myself to be ever so dainty and womanly, even in desperate moments like this one. It was frankly very difficult to see myself as anything but a woman at this moment. With my clothes in a mess, with my pixie haircut all over the place, and with my wetness leaking from my panties where my cute little clit was as well-hidden as always. It would take close inspection for anyone to realise that I wasn't a woman. I looked like a woman that had just been ravished. I could smell the arousal emanating from my skin, still. As I walked through the hallway I bumped into several objects. I felt like I was drunk, but I hadn't had a drop of alcohol this evening. I was just tired, and I was confused and frightened of what the future would bring. Now the doubt was showing itself. Now the need and desire to purge showed its ugly head. The urge to simply go back to being a boring unnoticed man overcame me. I wanted to forget. But, at the same time, I realised that it was obviously too late to purge. And I wasn't going to feel ashamed of myself. No, no longer would I hide away from the rest of the world, let everyone treat me like I don't exist. I didn't want to cancel the date with Frederick this Wednesday. I was, in fact, looking forward to it. I wanted to see him. And besides, it would be a terrible thing to disappoint him like that. I didn't want to break his beautiful heart. Halfway through the hallway, I bumped into a tiny chest of drawers with a plant on it. I managed to catch the plant before it fell onto the floor. I sighed with relief, but I also squealed with some pain. Perhaps a louder squeal than it deserved, but I felt like being dramatic. I don't need to pretend to be made out of harder stuff now that I am a proud and delicate woman. As I gathered myself, preparing myself for the rest of the journey to the bathroom, I heard a little bump from something falling to the floor. I looked down and I was confused. I thought the drawers were all empty. We only kept it there because we liked it as a piece of furniture, but we had nothing special to put in it. Mary must have hidden something under it or in it, I couldn't quite make sense of it, as it was dark and I was still quite confused. But I guess that I had to find out what it was. What secret was Mary keeping from me? I don't know what I was expecting, perhaps some stash of cash? A gun? That certainly would have surprised me. What I did not expect, though it was perhaps the most predictable thing a woman might want to hide from her husband. A dildo. A pink vibrating little rod. Well, perhaps not so little. My own rod was certainly smaller than this one. I couldn't help but be shocked. Was I such a lousy lover that I couldn't keep her satisfied? Well, considering the size of my member, it shouldn't exactly have surprised me that she sought an outside source for sexual satisfaction. But she always said good things about the way I would so expertly lick her pussy. She always seemed to enjoy it, and she told me that I had a tongue made for pleasing her. But I suppose that I was overreacting. If she was really displeased with my lovemaking, then she would have cheated on me. And she would never cheat on me. I shouldn't be a prude, women get to own dildos without being seen as hypersexualised nymphos. Women get to masturbate, too. Just as much as men do. And it's only a piece of plastic. What am I? Jealous? Still... Why did she keep it a secret from me? *** I lay in bed after the shower. I was wearing my nightie and I felt calm, but slightly puzzled. I started thinking about Mary, and I hadn't thought about her in a while. Was I cheating on her with Frederick? I had gotten so wrapped up in the fantasy that I had forgotten that for as much as I pretend to be Bea, I am also still going to be Bernard, and Bernard is married. I sighed to myself and wondered if I really should cancel the date with Frederick. Not because I was frightened that he would see through my disguise or that I was falling too far down this seemingly endless pit of femininity, but because it would be unfair to Mary. Sure, she might be horrified to find out what I've done, and just how much of a woman I've allowed myself to become, but she would be just as displeased if I went off one a date with a woman. However you look at it, it's infidelity. It was difficult for me to fall asleep that night. I had too many thoughts running through my mind. I was starting to feel guilty for what I've done to Mary. I've always blamed her for not being at home often enough, but what if I made her want to travel to these places because of how dreadful of a husband I really was. Maybe I was to blame, and it was really unfair of me to be angry at her when I should be good enough for her so that she would never want to leave home. Here I was wearing her clothes, obviously without her permission. I was taking advantage of her, in a way. Using our house to experiment with this debauched crossdressing. Expressing my vile latent homosexual urges... I couldn't escape this woeful self-loathing and I knew that I had to try to clear my mind. I decided to go and grab a glass of water. *** Out of impulse I decided to turn on my computer. I hadn't checked my emails that evening, and I could have gotten one from the boss telling me that I was fired for 'lying about having the flu.' Obviously, that wasn't going to be the case, I was just being paranoid. But I may have gotten something else important that I had missed. And yes, what I got was certainly important. It just wasn't what I had been expecting. "Dear Bernard," it began. It came from Mary. First time I had heard from her in quite a while. Ideally a married couple should call each other each day, but we only exchange emails every now and then. I knew that this wouldn't be good. I read on. "I've found another man," the email said. "We're in love. We want to be together. We are soul mates." My eyes were wide open and my mouth was agape. Mary was not only cheating me, she was leaving me? "His name is Gabriel and he is from Portugal," Mary wrote. "He's a real impressive man, and I think you would even like him. I'm moving to Lisbon with him. I will settle down with him." She's moving to Portugal! To settle down! All this time I've thought Mary simply didn't want to live a stillful life when she could be out travelling the world, but now she's settling down with this Gabriel? She's leaving me! "You can keep the house and everything in it. It never felt like home to me, but I suppose you know that," Mary wrote. "All I hope is that you will agree that it wasn't working out, and that you won't object to signing the divorce papers. I'm afraid we'll likely never see anyone again, but I do wish you the best. But we're in two different worlds, now." Mary left me for a real man. To say I cried is an understatement. End of chapter four