STAIRS
"Oh, by the way," I said as he was half-way up the stairs, not troubling to look
up from my magazine. "With that kind of underwear you really should get rid of
your body hair. Shave it off tonight, and use some 'Nair' on the stubble. Instructions are on the box."
Nothing more from me, so he continued on his way. When I went up myself and
started preparing for bed, Jim was already under the covers, reading. He was in
regular pajamas, and he looked up at me puzzled, still working through why I
thought his shameful transvestism was too routine to notice. Was it?
"Men don't wear panties, do they?" he asked. "You tell me," I said laconically, giving my hair its twenty-five strokes with
the hair brush, as if that were far more important than his question.
He had to test again. "And bras?" "Apparently. Why not? Most men love women's breasts." I looked at him.
"If your skin feels smooth now, you'll find a nightgown nicer to sleep in than those
pajamas. Here!" I took one out of my lingerie drawer and tossed it at him.
"This is yours now, but get yourself your own so you won't always be borrowing
mine. More bras and panties too, if you mean to wear them regularly, enough so
you can change every day. Did you remember to lock the rear door?"
I pretended not to see him slip the first nightie of the rest of his life over
his head. It was a salmon-colored baby doll, with ruffles on the short hem. He
looked so precious, sweet and silly, all at once! That my husband now wore
lingerie as a matter of course seemed of so little interest to me that he let the
subject drop.
The next morning he made no effort to hide from me the fact that
he was putting on his now-hand-washed bra and panties again, though he seemed a
little self-conscious about it. "Remember to pick up the cleaning on your way home," I said. "You need help with
that?" I stepped behind him and did up his bra's three hooks.
"I should think that by now you'd have learned to hook bras in front first and then turn them, if
you can't reach around behind you. You aren't exactly a young girl with her
first training bra, you know!" He was speechless. I decided that if he ever
slid back into male underwear I would make a show of anger that he couldn't seem
to make up his mind about anything, and he'd shift back again. Phase one
completed.
ii.
He showed up at Hospitality House ahead of schedule, and I began his training at
once. My receptionist had him wait for me wearing only his lingerie, on his
knees, and warned him that in my presence he must always remain on his knees and
look at my feet, never under any circumstances higher than my crotch.
When I arrived my hair was tight back and I had a cat mask on just in case, though I
needn't have bothered -- his eyes stayed draped under his lids the whole time. I
gave him the middle finger of my left hand to kiss, then to lick, and finally I
began to pump it into his mouth while he sucked on it, and then I added my
forefinger for thickness.
His first dildo. He slid his lips up and down on it
devotedly after a bit. He wasn't very good at it, Loretta, but you'll have to
admit it was a beginning. It's hard to criticize. I had lots of high school
boys' pricks to practice on, and you've had your experiences too, I'm sure. And
he's certainly come a long way since then. I asked him in my strictest voice if he had obeyed my every order, and asked his
wife for permission to sleep in his bra, and so forth.
The words tumbled quavering out of him. He told all, even about her suggestion that he borrow and
wear a tampon, and that he remove his body hair, and about the nightgown. Then
he paused. His wife's indifference to his perverse vice baffled him. He said so.
I replied contemptuously, "Do you actually believe you're the first man in the
world ever to wear women's underwear?"
"No, ma'am!" "Or the ten thousandth?" "No, ma'am."
"Obviously she knows more than you do about these things. Do what she says! Buy
yourself a few nighties and undies. From now on when I come in I want to see you
kneeling here wearing your own bras and panties. Go to a department store and be
sure to ask the sales girl for help. Tell her they're for you. Tell her proudly.
If your wife wants you to dress in panties daily, try to be worthy of the honor."
I then got to a key point he'd overlooked. "What else did she ask you?"
I waited. And waited. Jim hesitated, unable to speak. He tried twice, but only
when he saw my toe begin to tap impatiently did he say it.
Eyes down and muttering, he said, "She asked me if I intend to grow breasts, so
my bras won't slide around." "And do you think it's proper for your bras to slide around?"
"No," he said. He saw where I was headed, and couldn't find a way to deflect the
next question. "Then you want to grow breasts?" "I suppose," he said without conviction.
"Then if she'll let you, you should! Ask her to acquire the hormones you'll
need, and begin immediately!"
I then gave him a freshly soiled pair of panties and a new push-up bra to wear,
and handed him his old ones in a pink quilted lingerie bag to carry back to his
office and leave visible on his desk for the rest of the day.
We set up a schedule, three visits a week. I told him he would pay me $500 for each visit,
$1,500 weekly due the first session of each week, in cash, to prove to me that he
appreciated my services. If I could keep him hooked, I figured, he would exhaust
our savings and investments within a month or two, then begin to beg, borrow, or
steal my fees, and I'd have him.
He looked a bit stunned when he heard how much
I charge, but he was already pulling away on his little penis, and so near
cumming into his soiled panties that he just nodded. A few squirts finally came,
and he stared at them. What were these moments of masturbation going to cost
him? Everything! "Good!" was all I said.
As he left I told my receptionist to give his hair a quick spray of her perfume,
a strong, musky, romantic fragrance called "Surrender!" He'd smell of it all
afternoon at work. He blushed but said nothing. I suppose he hoped people would
think it was a man's aroma, a hair tonic, or aftershave.
But not "Surrender!" Others at the bank would certainly begin looking at him peculiarly. The women
would notice first, of course. But women often feel kindly toward transvestites
and transsexuals and effeminate gays, people whose desires for themselves seem to
flatter what women are normally.
Men might not notice him unless I sent him to
work dressed like a go-go dancer. As I just might, I thought -- it was a matter
of timing. I did want to be ready for a showdown by the time Jim's tits ripened.
After dinner that night I sniffed the air in our living room, then looked at Jim.
He hid behind his paper. Things were moving a little fast for him, obviously.
"It's very nice, but don't you think that scent is a little heavy for work?" I
asked him. "It's more for formal dances, evening gowns, things like that." I
stood up, picked up my purse and checked its contents, and took my topcoat out of
the closet. "For daytime find something lighter, more flowery, or more casual or
sporty.
Stop in at the perfume bar at Everson's tomorrow on your way to the
bank, and ask the girl there to try a few samples on your wrist and neck. Tell
her you want something romantic, but more delicate. And while you're at it, do
buy those nightgowns and undies."
Then I clicked my purse shut. I had a brief evening appointment with a Japanese
client who came to town now and then, a man who would enter my ass in a nervous
tremor and then vibrate his cock in and out like a rabbit doing a fast fuck.
A remarkable man -- he could cum inside me two or three times in quick succession
without my even noticing, and without even pausing. I scarcely ever saw him face
to face. Fortunately he had a small cock and he didn't visit me too often, or
I'd have had to charge extra for the down time while my rear end recovered.
Or charge his firm, anyhow. But really, he was no trouble to accommodate. "I need
to go out," I told Jim. "Be back in an hour or two." "All right," he replied. Then he remembered, and as casually as possible he said,
"Oh, while you're out would you pick up whatever I'll need to start growing
breasts?" He hid again behind his newspaper.
"All right," I said. "I'll try to remember." I already had the necessary
prescriptions, provided by a Doctor client of mine. "You do know that with
hormones instead of implants you'll have to be patient. It'll be six months
before you begin to look respectable. But if that's what you want. Anything
else?"
"No," came a small voice. "Remember to load the dishwasher and to rinse out our undies again before you
get to bed." Those were now his jobs, whether he knew it yet or not. The first
of many, as far as household matters went.
And I was gone. I came back three quick assfucks later carrying his six-month's
supply of estrogen, progestin, and androcur. And as an afterthought, Prozac to
keep him mellowed out. I told him to take one of each kind each day the moment
he woke up, and I left them on the night stand near our bed so I could see that
he did.
I knew that his hormones would soon end even those pitiful erections and
ejaculations he managed to coax out of himself at each of our sessions, that soon
his orgasms if he ever had any would resemble a woman's delicious tensions and
relaxations.
All to the good. The mood pills would help keep him from worrying
about what was happening, where I was leading him, until he'd arrived there.
Not too bad, my progress so far. The next evening I came home feeling irritable after an altogether unsatisfactory
group session.
Five men from a single men's club, Rotary or Kiwanis, I forget
which, who'd signed up for severe discipline. They'd been slow to follow my
orders, so I'd set them circle-fucking each other in a daisy chain, then I'd told
them I was through, no more, they could go fuck themselves now that they knew
how.
Then they offered me double my fee to keep them on, pleading, and I was
still annoyed with myself that I'd finally relented. But I was cheered when I
saw Jim fondling a couple of nighties and a half-dozen new panties and bras while
he cut off their price tags. "Do they fit?" I asked.
"Yes, they're fine, thank you," he replied calmly. The Prozac at work! "The
salesgirl insisted I try on each one and come out and show her, because they
don't permit returns of lingerie, she said, once it's left the store. It was
humiliating, all those women shoppers gathering to see.
They looked amused. I was glad I had no body hair, or I'd have felt really ashamed. When I came out
wearing this beige set they actually applauded." "I can see why," I said. "It's very pretty. It's hardly humiliating, wanting to
wear pretty things. A nice choice."
I noticed that the house still reeked of perfume. He'd overdone splashing it on
himself, probably, but I said nothing. I had to smile that now his "after shave"
or whatever he imagined people thought he was wearing was as unmistakeably dainty
and feminine as lipstick.
My hubby in lingerie, wearing a woman's fragrance!
What next? Obviously, lipstick was next. And eye make-up. A week later he was jerking off
into some really filthy panties, brown-stained cum from someone's asshole, not
mine, when his Mistress stroked some light cosmetics on him. Not much, just a
touch of mascara and a little eye-liner, some shadow on his lids, and a mauve
lipstick. I told him his face needed more drama, a more lively expression.
Of course he'd forgotten it was there by the time he returned to the bank. He
was still wearing it, I saw, when he arrived home that evening and opened his
Wall Street Journal to wait for dinner. That created a problem. Should I tell
him? If so, how? Should I ignore it? If so, what would he think when he was
getting ready for bed and stared into the bathroom mirror, and saw those stark
eyes and that fashionably dark brown mouth?
What had people thought at the bank,
those who had seen him? Add in his perfume and they'd be sure that he was a
transsexual or faggot coming out of the closet. Not untrue. I decided as usual to say nothing, in order to build his confidence that his
increasingly feminine appearance was neither feminine nor noticeable.
I commented only that he looked especially bright-eyed and alert, and asked if he
been working out, or had gotten a raise at the bank, or what? He was bewildered
but pleased. He knew what had really impressed me, and now he felt encouraged to
keep it up on his own.
As he did. The following day was especially busy for me if boring, just straight
fucks one after another. I arrived home tired -- after all, Loretta, how many
times a day can a woman ride how many cocks to orgasm? Or douche and then get
filled up yet again with more cum? But there was Jim, wearing fresh make-up!
Wonderful! He'd actually bought it on his own, actually found the courage! And
put it on, presentably enough. And worn it all day at the bank, so far as I knew
in a sort of reversal of "The Emperor's New Clothes," thinking that it made him
look better and yet remained invisible! I commented again on how alert he looked
these days, and again he looked pleased.
And this time he re-applied it before
coming to bed. Does he do that at work, I wondered? Take out a compact and
mascara and a tube of lipstick and freshen his face at his desk? The next weeks were routine. Jim knelt naked except for his undies three times
each week, smelling wonderfully feminine and looking prettily made up, trembling,
sucking on my fingers and then receiving from my hand another pair of panties
streaked with who-knows-what, the sacrament of his devotion.
He'd kiss them and slip them on, then stroke cum into them if he could, attach a new brassiere
around nipples he said had become quite sensitive, and after re-applying his
make-up he'd leave with his old undies in a "Victoria's Secret" or "Frederick's
of Hollywood" bag, once in a "Lady Madonna" bag my receptionist provided for the
secretaries at his bank to marvel at.
A few months more and he was mine. If he hesitated to do my most trivial
bidding I spoke to him harshly, and he was crushed. When I praised him, it was
always for some utterly feminine trait or gesture. He blossomed and beamed
whenever this happened, and tried even harder to please me.
His breasts were budding, and I gave him strict orders to play with his nipples for at least
fifteen minutes every day. This gave him so much pleasure, I saw at home, that
sometimes he caressed himself unthinkingly -- if we were at a restaurant or
otherwise in public I had to caution him not to. Gradually I weaned him away from
soiled to fresh panties -- though I still had him cum each session into a
sanitary napkin and then wear it for the rest of the day.
He produced very little fluid, unless I said something to excite him, like praise for the way he'd
plucked his eyebrows, or comment on his two-toned lipstick and lipliner. At home
even the thought of sex ceased.
His accumulating bras and panties finally overwhelmed his bedroom bureau. I
remarked one day that since he seemed to prefer them and they looked so nice, he
should pack away his men's things to make more room for them. He did. The next
day his Mistress scornfully informed him that since he was a woman, not a man, he
should wear full lingerie all the time, not just bras and panties.
A woman could not feel altogether neat and sweet and pretty and respectable unless she was
wearing hosiery, pantyhose, teddies, slips, and now and then even a panty girdle.
That he should begin thinking about shoes and outer garments too. He was old
enough to be wearing heels, and to appear at least now and then in a dress!
At home Jim asked me what I thought, and as always I answered without looking up, as
if the issue were trivial, "Of course wear slips -- your dresses will hang better
when you get around to wearing them. I don't know why you don't. And there are
tailored suits for women as nice as those made for men. Skirts are much more
lady-like.
Of course if you wear a skirt to work you'll have to style your hair
differently." So it was two against one. Jim began wearing full regalia under
his business suits, and began to think about wearing a business suit with a
skirt. He played with his hair, trying to make it curve coyly over his ears. My
perfumed fairy princess was developing nicely.
On a warm spring day on a Friday, I remember, his Mistress forced a crisis. She
sent him to a boutique to buy a rather cute cocktail dress she'd seen, and a
simple cotton frock to use as a house dress as well as a smart-looking woman's
pin-striped suit, with pinched short jacket and straight skirt, for a day at the
office.
From then on he was her woman, she told him, and he would be dressed
appropriately whenever he appeared for his tri-weekly sessions. Later on he would
need to take a few weeks off to learn how to do it really right, and he would
need to ask his wife's help. But for now all he had to do was appear to be a
credible woman -- she would not tolerate a clown for a client.
Jim was proud of his new purchases. He kept them at Hospitality House in a
Client's Closet for a time, and changed into them just before his sessions were
scheduled, and then changed back. His Mistress sent him out onto the street now
and then, so he could get used to people seeing him in women's clothes. With
make-up and earrings, no one ever looked twice at him.
The Closet eventually filled to bursting, and under orders he carried everything
home. That evening he put on a fashion show for his wife. I told him they were
nice, but not being worn tastefully. That the cocktail dress and the suit needed
heels, not the one pair of flats he owned.
And -- as I again reminded him -- he
needed a more sophisticated hairdo. And where were his accessories -- jewelry
and purses and the like? When he told me he had none he was close to tears --
the hormones had made him much more sensitive to supposed rebukes.
I told him I'd shop with him to get him started, but that if he meant to appear in public
dressed like a woman all the time it would take a few weeks for him to learn
everything he needed to know. Was he sure he wanted to look like a woman instead
of a man? He nodded. I knew that what he really wanted was to please his
Mistress, that he had private reservations, but we were reaching a critical point
in his transformation now and it was no time to split hairs.
That Friday was his last day in men's clothes, Loretta, and that Saturday was the birth day of that
gentle blonde lady you see sitting over there reading and crocheting and smiling
to herself now and then.
A near knockout dose of Thorazine the next morning, and Jim put on his house
dress, and we went to a salon I sometimes use for certain customers, where they
do feminine make-overs on husbands if wives request it, without feeling they have
to ask if the man himself wants it.
Four hours of electrolysis on his beard and
chest (of many more the rest of that week), and meanwhile eyebrow plucking,
body-waxing, ear-piercing, fingernail strengthening, lengthening, and painting,
hair-permanenting, curling, frosting, and styling, a make-up consultation, and my
Jim was way past the point of no return. As a man he'd been a pitiful drudge,
but as a woman he was getting to be really attractive.
You can see that for yourself now, of course! When we left he looked just charming, a lot like the
way he looks now, Loretta, though not quite as lovely -- that came later, when he
finally agreed to add to his disguise with facial plastic surgery.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. There was just time enough before the Mall closed to
get him a few pairs of shoes too -- heels and more flats. And a few blouses and
skirts.
The next day he didn't recognize himself in the mirror and called out to me
rather frightened. It took another really heavy dose of tranquillizers to calm
him down, and really, I have to say, Loretta, he's been more or less cheered or
zonked by one or another kind ever since.
That Monday I had him phone in sick
for the week, and claim his two-weeks vacation time as well, so he had three
weeks before he'd have to face going to work looking the way he now looked.
I shrugged when he worried the problem to me, as if no one would bother to notice
that the man they knew was now a woman. I knew, as he didn't yet know, that his
days of employment at the bank had ended.
I started him on the other things he had to learn. How to apply full, persuasive
makeup, even for sophisticated occasions. How to take care of his hairdo. Now
that it was permed it was manageable -- I showed him how to put it up in rollers
one evening, and he was delighted the next morning when he combed it out and
found it was a beautiful mass of sculpted puffs and swirls.
He had to learn feminine habits of walking and moving. I taught him to walk in heels with short
steps, elbows close to his body, head high, hips swaying, his now quite
noticeable breasts proudly thrust forward.
I began calling him "Jamie" instead of "Jim," because that was a woman's name and
would help him remember -- and if he didn't believe he was now a woman, who
would? I told him to appear more feminine when doing his domestic tasks at home,
to wear a frilly apron over his skirt instead of the velvet slacks he sometimes
favored.
He was busier in the kitchen than I'd ever been, and was doing all of
the cooking now. With practice his voice became thinner and took on a wider
range of inflections. I still remember the first time he used the words "sweet"
and "darling" and "precious" in a single sentence.
He was describing a cute-looking movie star pictured in one of his women's magazines, and I was
amused that he was referring with those words not to her appearance or her figure
but to her matching skirt and sweater.
Of course I still had a living to earn, and clients who needed my attention, and
Jim still had his tri-weekly appointments with his Mistress. But now I could
greatly accellerate his feminizing -- in fact it had to be completed,
essentially, before he felt he should return to work. It turned out to be a lot
easier than I'd expected.
iii.
Luckily I'd overcome Jim's prejudice against oral sex a few weeks earlier, almost
by accident. For an appointment just before Jim's, I was wearing a slip-on
rubber love-doll mask, sitting regally on an ornate, throne-like chair and
allowing a client to lick my feet as if I were some kind of goddess.
That was his thing. You know those masks with their own hair and big red oval lips set in
an "O," and huge bimbo eyes? Gay men use them to hide their identities when
they're sucking some stranger's cock, and wives in sex clubs use them sometimes
when they'd rather not be recognized by whichever next-door neighbor they're
fucking.
My earlier client couldn't get off at all unless I wore the kind of
blow-up doll mask his girl had once worn every afternoon while he mouth-fucked
her behind the high school gymnasium. So that's what I wore. He'd worship my
feet, then I'd lie back with my crotch over the edge of the throne and
imperiously crook my finger at him.
He'd crawl forward and then, half-standing,
half-crouching apologetically, he'd fuck me. What some men need to do to get
off! This client had the thickest cock I have ever seen, Loretta. It was like a
baseball bat. He always left my pussy swollen and stretched wide, and his spunk
was a thick, viscous fluid he'd pump into me for what seemed forever.
It took forever to ooze out, too, always in huge, phlegmy globs. Well, a few weeks before
Jim's final phase began, with his enforced vacation, I happened to feel too sore
and too lazy to bother using the bidet after my client left. I decided that it
would be more comforting to have my cunt licked clean by my next client, my
queenly husband Jim, who had once refused the honor as unsanitary.
In he came wearing a red satin teddy, his breasts now grown out and filling his matching red
bra like half-grapefruits, perfumed and made up, looking more like a butch
lesbian than a man. As always he kneeled at my feet! My face was still masked like a love-doll, my swollen cunt was beginning to leak
blobs of thick sperm, and I knew it smelled strong, freshly fucked.
I gave Jim my fingers to suck on as usual, but this time I first dipped them into the slime
inside my pussy. I scooped up a huge gobbet of cloudy cum. Jim hesitated for
only a second, but then licked it as devotedly as always. He must have realized
what it was and been turned on by the humiliation, because after a few more
fingers full, without my permission he lunged his mouth onto my crotch like some
starved animal, and began to suck it out of me passionately.
The way he thrust his face into me so was so primal I couldn't possibly think to punish him for it.
He couldn't help himself, he was obviously out of control. And besides, it felt
wonderful! You know, Loretta, he slurped and sucked and swallowed cum from me for nearly his
whole scheduled session.
He was transported! It was as if the mask had rendered
me more than human, an immortal fit for worship. He looked up at my face once or
twice, and as the cute, wide-eyed, Bimbo "Oh!" expression stared back, he seemed
reassured.
His tongue curled and curved and probed and poked and reached deep
into me! My desires rose up and I came in a beautifully blossoming orgasm,
feeling as chaste as a wild flower the whole time, and then I rose up and came
yet again! So sweetly gentle, yet so full, so complete!
Tim's tongue in my pussy was like an armful of heather and roses, or like a young man shyly offering
his best girl a bouquet of violets. And I was always sparkling clean when he
finished. I wished we'd gotten into it years before!
Well, two days later I was again brim-filled with fluids and secretions from that
same fat-cocked client, with my fairy husband again scheduled next on my
calendar. I took off my mask so that this time I would appear to be what I was,
Jim's familiar severe Mistress with her usual black dominatrix eyes and red slash
of a mouth.
But this time when Jim came in and knelt down humbly I simply
stepped forward over him, mounted his upraised face, and pressed my spunky cunt
against his nose and mouth. Then without a word I began to squeeze my cunt
muscles. Thick mixed sperm and my own cum poured from my pussy into his mouth.
All of everything my prior had squirted into me ended up in Jim, and when I
stepped from his face with my cunt licked utterly pristine, he was still
swallowing and licking the memory of it, eyes closed, in heaven! I decided that
whatever else, from then on I would use Jim instead of a bidet to clean out
whatever secretions and fluids there were in my pussy.
At last I'd found his primary sexual talent!
By now Jim's breasts were more than ample, and he would fondle his nipples by the
hour if I'd let him, a serene smile on his face. I do believe his character
changed to match -- he became more sensitive, gentler, more tentative, sweeter.
His face and figure grew softer, too. Understand, Loretta, Jim didn't want to be
a woman at first, and he still didn't, really. He'd only had a panty fetish when
I started with him, and I'd degraded him to do nearly anything to please his
Mistress.
Now here he was, wearing pantyhose, make-up, everything, quite
presentably feminine, sucking a stranger's cum out of my cunt like any submissive
husband of any whore of a wife anywhere. And loving it!
That was his sex life now -- when he tried to jerk off nothing ever happened at all. When he pleased
me, my little hubby, he was overjoyed that I rewarded him by making him my
douchebag.