Her Story Pt. 03


(The third sequel to “Prologue”)

What is this?

Do we call it “Sissification?” “Cross dressing?” “Feminization?” “Forced feminization?” How about “Voluntary forced feminization?”

All I know is 24 hours earlier I didn’t have this problem. But 24 hours earlier, my husband of 15 years hadn’t begged me to dress him in women’s clothes and fuck him in the ass with a dildo, either. Yeah, my first thought, too . . .

Maybe, had I been wiser, I might have just laughed it off and found some way to change the subject. But, there he was, the guy I love, for once so damn desperate and needy about something. Maybe there was no other choice for me beyond just trying to give him what he wanted . . .

From its very beginning, I’ll admit I thought his fantasy went beyond batshit crazy. He was a farmer, for God’s sakes – a former college wrestling champion, too, who could still make weight 25 years after his final match. I stretched my memory trying to recall moments during our marriage that might have told me to expect this. I kept drawing blanks.

Once I reached the point where I no longer felt he was joking, I thought it might be possible to prevent him from painting himself into a corner just by providing enough space to put himself into reverse. I told him we couldn’t just half-ass something like this. I told him if he agreed to become my full-time, although decidedly ersatz lesbian lover and wore only women’s clothes when we were alone together, I’d be willing to play along. If not, I said, we could just agree to forget he had ever raised the subject in the first place. Logic told me he’d reach the latter conclusion on his own soon enough.

I’m still not certain how I could have been so foolish to imagine he’d not make the first choice, instead . . .

That’s the explanation as to how I found myself around midnight that evening, leaning over the edge of our warm bathtub with a pink woman’s safety razor, scraping away every bit of body hair from below his neck. It says a lot about why I spent the wee small hours spooning a slumbering husband swathed in a silk nightie and lace panties while I remained sleepless and commando, wondering just what the fuck was happening to my life. And finally, it answers why I packed him off to go shopping with his new feminine alter ego that morning while I spent the next two hours with what seemed to be a gallon of tea in my bladder, attempting to guess what came next.

“I gotta do SOMETHING!” I finally said in total frustration, pushing away from the kitchen table and heading up to our bedroom. Events during the previous 12 hours had left it looking like the aftermath of a train wreck, but my first big surprise came when I passed through the door and found the room neat as a pin, the bed crisply made and pillows fluffed.

Entering the ensuite – scene of last evening’s late-night shearing party – provided the next surprise. The large towel I’d stood him upon when I took up electric clippers to begin his transformation was gone, as were the remnants of his pubic hair which had escaped from the towel. The floor itself had been swept clean, and the blue silk nightie I last saw him wearing now hung neatly alongside my own pajamas. The most impressive sights, however, were the black lace panties he’d worn, now freshly laundered and neatly hung on the drying rack next to my own pair from yesterday, also freshly washed. “Neat” seemed to be the operative word for all of this . . .

“Obviously ‘old school,'” I laughed loudly, comparing my thought of him in fresh panties with the farm women of my grandmothers’ generation who never thought of “going to town” in anything less than a fresh set of drawers. One just never knew when one might be struck down by a runaway beer cart, I chuckled. I wondered what he was wearing now and began filling the tub myself, suddenly feeling a desperate urge to give up all my own body hair, as well . . .

So the afternoon came and went, with the morning tea in the kitchen eventually making room for the evening’s first gin and tonic out on our farm’s secluded patio. A second g & t was definitely in the cards when at last I heard the crunch of truck tires on the gravel lane. A minute later my little hero popped through the back door of the garage, our dog barking at his heels and his arms loaded with conspicuously branded shopping bags from about a half dozen up-scale women’s clothing stores. “About time!” I said, making a show of tapping my wrist. “Just where the hell do you go to do your shopping?”

“South Bend” was the answer.

“South fucking Bend?!! Why all the way there?” I asked.

“Well, ‘Mishawaka,’ to be more precise,” he said, spreading out the bags on the patio table. “I guess I could have gone to Fort Wayne, but I figured you’d prefer that no one you knew would see me buying panties and women’s nightwear by the carload.”

“Good catch,” I laughed. There are definitely times when he’s not as dense as he acts, I thought, at the same time mentally kicking ısparta escort myself for not considering the “friends & neighbors” angle. My eyes shifted to the bags on the table. “Tell you what, Roni dear: while I take a look at what you bought today, why don’t you go inside and make us two nice spinach salads and a couple cock-suckin’ gin & tonics. We’ll just eat out here this evening . . .”

Most of his bags held the 24 assorted pairs of women’s panties which had made up the larger half of his shopping assignment. The majority were the full briefs I’d recommended, and he’d chosen Olga, Vanity Fair, Jockey Elance and Aerie (Aerie?) in various colors. I particularly became interested in seeing his ass parked inside some brightly colored lace French and V-kini briefs from Hanky Panky. “Well played, sissy hubby!” I said, holding up a Hanky Panky V-kini. I was instantly unsure where I wanted to see it next – neatly folded in his full panty drawer or caressing his smoothly-shaved butt cheeks?

My little “Roni” seemed to be already exhibiting his own feminine panache, and nowhere was this more obvious than inside the large bags containing his new sleepwear. The first four I checked impressed me for being particularly classy choices by a male who’d never before shown much interest in what I wore. They were notable for their combination of simple elegance, understated girly detail and soft feminine colors. There were several lovely chemises and a teddy set along with a classic long nightgown in a blue similar to the pale shade he’d worn last evening. Looks like someone already has his favorite color, I thought . . .

Hidden at the bottom of the second bag was the fifth nightie – a babydoll in black see-through lace. “What the fuck?” I said, pulling it from the bag for a better look. “That little girl has very Frenchy tastes in nighties,” I chuckled, echoing Lois Nettleton’s comment about the nightdress she borrowed from Jane Fonda’s “lil’ blue zipper bag.” The Tennessee Williams “comedy” – “Period of Adjustment” – was one of hubby’s Christmas favorites (author’s note: TCM 12/23/20 noon, if you’ve never seen it), and I wondered if that particular scene was playing out in his mind when he’d picked this one . . .

The bag, however, was far from empty, and a black lace bralette and garter belt also tumbled out, along with a pair of black lace tops, just as he returned with our salads and drinks. “Going slutty on me already, Roni?” I asked, eyebrows arching toward my hairline while I held up his last little treasures. “I suggest this morning that you need a robe; instead you go off your list to buy this?”

“Billie thought you might like them,” he said quietly.

“Oh, ‘Billie’ did, did she? And just who the fuck is this ‘Billie?'” I erupted. “Some freakin’ salesgirl? Please don’t stand there and tell me you told some damn little salesclerk you were buying all of this for your wife!”

“No,” he replied, tossing my words right back into my face. “I told her I was buying it for me.” Wow, I thought, attitude and rebellion on the first day? “She was very pleasant,” he insisted, obviously prepared to die on this hill. “She was a lot of help, really; at least, I thought so . . .”

“And she didn’t start laughing out loud?” I couldn’t believe he got away with this shit. “She didn’t point you out to her co-workers so they could all have a good snigger in the break room at your expense?”

“Actually she did,” he said. “It was slow in the store, so she brought all the other ladies over and introduced them to me. They thought what we were doing was very exciting and began giving me tips and suggestions. One of them – I think her name was Cheryl – specifically asked me to please tell you she’d be glad to take me off your hands whenever you’re ready to dump me . . .”

“Which is way closer to happening right now than either of you might guess, toots,” I interrupted. “I suppose you used this same “technique” to painlessly charm your way into the rest of this swag?”

“Only the nighties,” he said. “Before I came down this morning, I researched the panties on my laptop. I put together lists for a number of different stores. Whenever a saleslady asked if she could help me, I just looked hopelessly lost and pulled out a list. They were all more than happy to help, no questions asked. If they thought they were your lists, that was purely an assumption they made on their part and one completely uninfluenced by me.”

I’m sure he could tell I was having a tough time buying his explanation because he volunteered additional information: “If I learned anything in school about girls,” he said, “it was that you’re always the most dangerous when you smell blood in the water. I determined to remain as polite as possible and show no fear.”

Who the hell is this person? I wondered. I just stared at him, shaking my head while he ate his salad. “Well, look at you now; aren’t you the clever little shopper!!” I said mockingly. “I always thought you hated istanbul escort to shop, but now I’m finding you’re really a regular little shop-till-you-drop kinda girl, chatting up the help, first-name basis and everything . . . You really got a lot more from your mother than her ability to wind me up, didn’t you?”

He just laughed, and for the first time since we started this little journey, I began to sense he was happy and at ease with himself. Unlike this morning, he seemed fully engaged. Shit, I thought. This bears watching . . .

I admitted to him that overall I was impressed by what he’d brought back. Hell, I told him – assuming it fit – I’d wear most of it myself without reservation. “You went a bit heavy on the cotton,” I told him, “a lot more than I told you, but you bought good stuff. Your palette is a bit limited – you’ll get that buying Olga and Vanity Fair – but I like how you mixed things up to put variety in that new panty drawer of yours.

“And then there’s Aerie! Jesus! I’ve never even set foot in one of those stores,” I said, beginning to laugh. “I guess you’ll have to give me the guided tour. I can see my shopping experience going through some major changes when I start hitting the malls with a risk-taking underwear fashionista like you’re becoming. Just so you know, toots; I’m confiscating a couple pair of these Hanky Panky lace panties for myself – again, assuming they fit . . .

“Don’t think for a moment, though, that you crushed this little challenge,” I added. “I am more than just a bit pissed that you ignored my instructions and chose to color outside the lines your first time out,” I said. “I’d expect that from a pre-teen’s first solo trip to the mall which, if we’re being brutally honest here, pretty much best describes your little outing today . . . Just a warning, but I think you should expect a little something in the way of punishment.”

“Punishment?” he asked. He genuinely looked worried, but I only laughed. “Oh, don’t worry your cute little ass about it, Roni. At the same time, trust me to think of something appropriate.” I tossed him the black babydoll and bralette, followed by the lace tops, the garter belt and a pair of black Hanky Pankies. “You know, I’m just dying to see exactly how your new girlfriend ‘Billie’ thinks I should dress my little sissy . . . How about you go make us a couple more of these cock-suckin’ gin & tonics, then come back out here and give me, the dog and the crickets a little twilight lingerie show?”

He was still wearing the babydoll and stockings two hours later when he carried our dirty dishes back inside the house. He looked absolutely ridiculous, but I had to give it up to that goddamned Billie – I absolutely loved what she’d picked out, especially once he was in it! “I’ll just bet you were really hot in your cute little wrestling singlet, too,” I said as I followed his pert little butt up the backstairs. “I’m sorry I never got a chance to see you in it.” I reached out and snapped one of his garter straps, and he let out what I thought was a particularly girlish squeal as he bounded upward, taking the stairs two steps at a time into the upstairs hall.

I grabbed him at the top, spun him around and kissed him fiercely. “God damn it, just look at what the fuck you’re doing to me, you silly little bitch!” I told him. “I love you, you know that, don’t you? I didn’t honestly think I could ever say this, but I love you just the way you are right now!”

I could see tears beginning to fill his eyes when he buried his face in my neck. “You don’t know how happy you make me by saying that,” he said. “Since I first began thinking about this, my biggest fear has been that it was going to cost me your love.”

“That, dear, is the least of your problems,” I said, shoving him through the bedroom door. “Over there,” I said, pointing toward my vanity. “I want to try something . . .” Pulling out the vanity bench, I made a wide gesture: “Have a seat!”

A smile crossed my lips as I watched him confront his own face in the mirror as he slowly settled into the cushion. He always avoided this little shrine to my former teenage girliness like the plague. Though seldom used today, my vanity table has remained the lone place in our house immune to whatever junk comes out of his pockets when he empties them. How he handled this next experience, it occurred to me, would tell me a lot about where we were headed.

He’d had long hair from well before our marriage – shoulder length, usually; occasionally longer as it was now. He actually cut it himself and frankly there were times when that would have been a surprise to no one. Like many men with long hair, the idea for it began and ended at “long” just as surely as any idea of its maintenance began and ended with “shampoo.”

He never liked anyone touching his hair. He didn’t object if I handled it – but only occasionally – during sex, but I could count on him going all weird if I tried to introduce a little casual hair izmir escort play into any part of our normal routine. “Don’t” was usually the only warning he gave, and he didn’t mean it to be coy, either. As I released his hair from its usual loose male pony, I prepared to get the warning. The eyes meeting mine in the mirror, however, seemed more eager than apprehensive, so I grabbed my wooden paddle brush and slowly began working through his tangles. Success!! I thought, congratulating myself. I’ve been waiting years to do this!

Faced by no resistance, my brush strokes accelerated into a rhythmic assault on his locks, uncovering body and volume I never guessed existed in his hair. “Did you use conditioner this morning like I told you?” I asked. The blushing face in the mirror nodded in the affirmative. “Good! Even though you’ve got about million split ends, you still have absolutely beautiful hair, you know that, don’t you? I have friends who would fire their colorists in a New York minute if they only knew these blonde and auburn highlights are only the result of riding around bareheaded on your tractor. Just the idea that you would have hair like this seems criminal!”

I paused both the brush and the laughter, emphatically patting his shoulder with the backside of the brush and warning him he was getting a little old to continue treating his hair like shit. “Tomorrow, we’ll start work on these split ends. I haven’t dusted another girl’s hair for a long time, sweetheart. I hate to brag, but I was once really good at it! It’ll be just like college all over again.”

As my paddle brush resumed its pace, he remained still and quiet, absorbed by the image of a girl emerging inside his mirror. It seemed like I brushed his hair out for hours until I could hear him purr. “Now, tilt your head back,” I told him, continuing to work his locks upward, gathering them into a smooth high Fifties-style ponytail and securing it tight to his skull with an elastic. “Cute!” I announced, totally delighted by my effort. Reaching into a drawer, I shook out a silk scarf and tied it around the tail’s base. “Toss in a poodle skirt,” I laughed, “and that’s still good for a heartbreak or two!”

He stared dumbstruck at the girlish image staring back, but I quickly removed the scarf and elastic and resumed brushing and smoothing his hair. “What are you doing now?” he asked, beginning to fidget like a six-year-old. “You’ll see,” I said, drawing a center part from front to back and sectioning his now-glowing tresses in half. Isolating one side with an elastic, I brushed the other side smooth and gathered it into a tight bunch. I then did the other side, leave him with perky pigtails on either side of his startled eyes.

Taking his hand, I led him to our bed. While I kicked off all my clothes, he stood there obediently compliant in short pigtails, still dressed in the babydoll and stockings. “To begin we’ll start with a little refresher course in something you already do very well,” I said. “Think of this as a bit of a confidence builder.”

Taking him in my arms, I gave him a long kiss, and he joined in, slowly at first before revealing his own raging hunger. I felt the babydoll’s lace brush my naked body as I pushed him slowly down toward my cunny, then took a firm grip on those little schoolgirl pigtails. I steered his mouth onto my clit and, as I rubbed my freshly shaved sex into his face, I felt his body begin to buck with emotion. “That’s right, sweetheart! Use your . . . what did you always call it? Your ‘nine-pound tongue?'” I laughed, and he was suddenly everywhere inside my dark cavern.

“Do you think you can still do me the way you did that first night on the sofa?” I asked. The only answer I got was a low moan as he rooted through my pussy like a wild thing. “Answer me, damn it!!” I shouted, punctuating my demand with two painful tugs on his pigtails. “Do you still have what it takes to do me like that again?” The best answer he could offer was a softly-stated “I’ll try,” and I just lost it.

“Try? Try? Damn right, you’re going to try, you fucking little split-tailed slut!” I roared. “And you’re going to do it, too. You’re going to eat my pussy until I explode, even if I have to ride your fucking face all night long!”

I rolled us over until it must have felt like my cunt was swallowing his face. His nose pushed my clit to the side, and his moans and sharp gasps resonated through my vagina like the song of the hump-backed whale. His tongue was soft and tender at the same time it was wild and explosive, and it flicked about in my cunt like the tongue of the snake in the Garden of Eden. Suddenly I felt his hands grab my ass, prying it open, and I felt first one finger, then a second penetrate me. Out of nowhere I heard a great roar approaching and I could feel myself turning to face it; My entire body shuddered as the roar crashed over me, falling away into a stupefying, unexplainable numbness which claimed me at the close of a climax more enormous than anything I could ever remember. Spent and wrung out, my cunny continued to spasm involuntarily on his still-gasping face, sparks randomly showering away in the aftermath of what could only be described as a massive short circuit of the world’s entire electrical grid.

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