Bob And The Wife

(A short story based on Bob and Bigfoot.)

"I want to be a little girl."

Bob's wife stared at him in shock.

He was a lithe, strong man. He was a couple of inches taller than her, and he made sure he worked out enough to keep his figure trim. His features were even, though a bit delicate, and his face was a strong and pleasant oval. On top of that, he had the ability to make money. And listening to what he was saying she felt like somebody had just doused her with water, touched her nipples with a cattle prod, and tickled her goosey.

That's what she called it, her goosey.

"A little girl?"

Bob nodded and stared at his wife with sad, mournful, brown eyes. Funny, his eyes seemed not so sharp, not so glinting, more soft and tender, and it had all happened after that hunting trip. That damned hunting trip. What had happened on that hunting trip? (Interested readers should see 'Bob and Bigfoot.')

"Yes. All pink and pretty. Maybe wear a dress with that fluffs out all pink. Do little girls wear high heels?"

Barbara was rooted in spot in their living room, listening to his raving. She was a pretty woman--hell, a gorgeous woman--with high breasts, thick, dark, curly hair, and perfect make up. Of all her attributes, she was most proud of her make up: her darkly shadowed eyes, her bright, red lip gloss, the perfect shades and shadows of professional pancake.

Now, however, she thought not of her make up; all she could think about was how her life was oozing away before her eyes.

"I guess I could wear falsies, or something, maybe just put some water balloons in a bra, and I could learn to cross my knees properly and the right way to walk in heels...."

"But...Bob--"

"I could wear pale, pink lipstick, just enough to accentuate my light skin..."

"But...but..."

"I could fix meals and tidy up the house...

"But...but..."

"And, Barbara..."

"But...but..."

"Could we buy a strap on?"

"BUT, BOB!" Barbara finally managed to insert her words forcefully enough to interrupt Bob's meandering but hard to derail train of thought, "YOU'RE A REPUBLICAN!"

Bob blinked. He hadn't thought of that. Being rich and white and not believing in gun control--hmm, he was going to have to rethink that one--he was becoming a force in the state Republican party.

"You're a force to be reckoned with, you have businesses, you...you can even write bad checks!"

That was true, he was getting so powerful that he could write bad checks, and the powers that be in the Republican party didn't really care. As long as Bob kept writing enough good checks, what did it matter if he wrote a few bad checks?

"But I really want to be a little girl. You can do my hair up, when I grow it out long enough, and you can help me learn to dress--"

"Bob," Barbara felt a weariness deep down inside.

"Do you think the Republicans would care if a little girl wrote them checks?"

"Bob," Now she felt hysterical, and his name was all she had to hang on to.

"Do you still have those outfits from your beauty pageant days?"

"Bob," and she could handle no more. She ran from the room, stifling her tears, desperate that her make up remain intact.

Bob stared after her for a moment, but she wasn't really in his mind, hadn't been ever since he had gotten home. He was thinking of other things. He stood up and walked out of the room.

Upstairs, on the side of their large, double king-sized bed, with the motor that caused everything to shimmy and shake, and the mirror that swiveled on hinges out of the baseboard, Barbara sat. The room was perfect, everything she dreamed of, the dresser just the right grain of oak, the vanity large enough to secure all the oils and stains she used to make her face just perfect, the pictures of her winning the various pageants, and life was so grand and good and just the way she liked it, and now...and now...Barbara's hands shook as she dialed her telephone. Shortly, a ringing came back to her ears.

"Hello?"

"Diane?"

"Barbara? Are you all right?"

"I...I..."

"Calm down now, girlfriend. Take deep breaths."

Barbara tried to calm down, tried to take deep breaths, before she was able to talk to her friend, however, Diane said, "Has that brute been beating you?"

"Funny how Diane always expected that to happen. Not a day passed that she didn't ask whether Bob had begun beating her. And the tone of her voice was always satisfied, secure that she just knew that he had.

"No...no..."

"Then tell me what happened, girlfriend? An accident? Your stocks fall? What?"

"Bob...Bob wants to be a little girl."

Silence so thick and sheer, so long and loud, so utterly, genuinely puzzled.

Diane was wise to the ways of the world. She was a lawyer, after all, and she had done things; she knew the depravity to which men could fall. But...Bob?

"Bob wants to be a girl." Parroting was all Diane was capable of in this situation.

"He wants to be a girl."

Slowly, Diane's thoughts pushed through the silence and sniffles. Bob wanted to be a girl. Now that was psychotic break stuff if ever there was.

"Breath...breath...now tell me all about it."

Barbara began talking.

Downstairs was a big basement that ran the length of Bob's big house. Half of the basement was given over to a rec room, and it held a ping pong table, weight lifting paraphernalia, a big screen TV, a pool table, a wet bar, stools, and so on.

Part of the rec room was a storage dump for Bob's tools, of which he had plenty. Power drills, power saws, stacks of left over planks, harnesses and leather working gear for the horses, and so on.

At the back of the room, in the shadows, was a door which led to storage. Bob headed for that door, and shortly was switching on the light in that gloomy area.

Like a casual beaver, Bob rooted through the boxes and bags until he found a couple of trunks. Springing the latches on the trunks, Bob looked inside, and he smiled.

Gowns. Lingerie. Make up. All of the items necessary to make a beautiful woman even more beautiful; all of the things Barbara needed to make her way to the top in the beauty contest world.

Bob closed the trunks and began pulling them back into the rec room. Once in the rec room he opened the trunks again, and he began taking clothes out, holding them up to inspect them, and selecting what he needed.

Little girls were out. He couldn't be a little girl. He would be hard pressed to make these outfits work at all. He was, after all, just a little larger than Barbara. Not unduly so, but enough.

He selected nylons and garter. Those sizes were easy.

He found a set of falsies--those were necessary to any beauty queen--and he found a bra with straps that could be lengthened enough to fit his body.

He found boxes of make up, and he found, deep in the darkest corner of the box, the prettiest dress he had ever seen.

He held it up and sighed. Close to his size,--Barbara had probably bought it too large and never worn it--and a little stretchable.

First, Bob took off his own clothes, and he was surprised to find that he had a boner. It jutted out, a steady rock hardness that bounced and quivered.

Well, so be it.

He stepped into the garter and pulled it up over his throbbing, bobbing cock. He untangled the dangling straps and sat down on a low stool and began pulling the nylons up his legs.

Smooth, they shivered over his flesh, a delicate breath of sensuality that he had never experienced before. He fastened the clips into the tight material and stood up.

His legs were encased in light shadow, smooth and slick and hiding the hair of his legs.

He wished he had time to shave his legs, but that would have to come later.

He held up the bra and tried to figure it out. Barbara always slipped her arms into the things, pulled them straight back over her large breasts, and then fastened the clasps in the back by reaching behind herself. Bob was not capable of this.

Bob pulled the bra around his middle like a belt and fastened it, then he slid it around so that the cups were in front. He thought he had seen Barbara do it this way, but he wasn't sure. Whatever, he lifted the straps and snaked his arms and, through a bit of contortionism, he was able to get the straps over his shoulders.

He looked at the mirror on the wall. It was a large, long mirror that was good for inspecting his biceps after doing a few curls, and checking out his poses, and just generally strutting and looking at his proud, Republican self.

Now, however, it was perfect for dressing.

He slipped the falsies into the cups and adjusted them until the nipples poked outward at the right spots.

His body was starting to look a little better, a little more voluptuous. The curves were there.

He frowned. He knew that more curves would be better.

He took off the bra and found a corset. He undid the garter snaps and slid off the garter belt, slid on the corset, and began to tighten it up.

The corset, unlike the bra, could not be done in front and then adjusted. Once tightened it could not be turned so that the ties were in the back.

So be it.

Bob pulled the ties tight, until the corset came together at the front, knotted the ties hard, and did his best at tucking the loose ends under the edges of the corset.

When he was done he again inspected himself in the mirror. That was better, even without the bra he had achieved a certain hourglassness to his figure.

He pulled on the garter belt, redid the stockings, and then did the bra thing again.

In the mirror he had the figure of a woman. A voluptuous woman.

He sighed in pleasure (thought it was hard to breath), and turned again to the trunk.

A rich, auburn wig. Long and flowing tresses. A color to match his skin just perfectly. He pulled the wig over his head and adjusted it.

Again the mirror.

If it wasn't for unsightly body hair here and there, he had a woman's body.

He turned to the dress. Oh, god, it was lovely. It was stretchy and clingy and black, and Bob's cock bounced a little extra just looking at it.

Carefully, he slipped the dress over his head. Taking extra time, so as to get the tight thing past his lingerie without accident, Bob slithered and shimmied and wiggled. The dress slid, as tight as a rubber over a penis, into place.

Bob stared at himself.

His arms were bare, but he could shave them later, and perhaps use a gallon of skin softner on them. And he could shave his armpits. And the dress rose up over his breasts--his breasts looked like they were surging under the dress--to a silver ring around his neck. The dress rode a little high on his legs because it was short, but that was fine. He could see the darker material at the top of his nylons, and it was just, oh, so sexy.

His manhood, straining and poking, was kept pushing the crotch of the dress forward.

Well, he could get a gaff later. Right now, the Republican party would just have to understand.

He hoisted a make up kit, staggered under the weight--it weighed more than his biggest tool kit--and walked over to the wet bar. The lighting was good over the wet bar, and the mirror was sufficient. He sat down and began rummaging through the oils and potions and paints.

Barbara and Diane walked down from the stairs, and they were, to be truthful, two very beautiful women.

Diane was a darker shade of brunette than Barbara, and she had styled her topknot in a flowing series of waves that cascaded around her neck and down her back. She also had a few more curves about her. She had round hips that indicated that she would always have to watch what she ate, and her breasts were fuller, heavier than Barbara's. Oddly, though Diane was slightly larger in the breast department, hers were natural, whereas Barbara's had been calculated and bought with the best interests of the pageant of the day in mind.

"I know he's around her some...who are you?" The two women stopped. Their eyes were caught by the profile of the woman staring at herself in the wet bar mirror. The woman slowly pivoted to face them.

Under the track lighting , she was extraordinarily beautiful. She was buxomy with the most incredible reddish-brown waves of hair. Her eyebrows were finely trimmed arches over eyelids painted a delicate shade of light blue, all of which made her eyes stand out electric. Her lips were a full, lush red, a delicious red, a red designed to cause men to drip.

She sat on a tall stool, her sleek and powerful legs primly crossed, her back straight and breasts presented so strongly, and stared at them.

"Oh, my. It's Bob." Diane whispered her revelation. She was in awe of the creature holding such a statuesque pose.

Barbara got it then, and it was like an audible click in her head. Those tresses, that dress, those were hers, from the trunk, and that meant that...this beautiful creature...this...this woman, was...."Bob?" His name, coming from her lips, was a whimper.

"And he ain't no little girl." Diane's eyes were alight. Truth, she had always had a bit of a lesbian tendency, but she had never been able to take the plunge, make the connection, do the deed with one of her own.

But Bob, on the other hand, though he was a woman, was also a man, and that made things a little bit different.

Diane felt her nipples tighten in her bra. She felt a stirring at the juncture of her legs, she moistened her lips nervously.

"I need a drink," said Barbara.

(There is going to be a third story called 'Bob and the Lawyer,' or 'Bob and Diane.')