This story is about an athletic but small man who has fantasized about cross dressing from an early age. When his wife finds a strange number on the phone bill, she calls the number and has a conversation with his phone mistress. What follows contains blackmail, humiliation and of course - sex. If sex and crossdressing offend you, or if you are underage, please move on to more appropriate material.
I've always been a pretty good basketball player. Granted I'm small, only five foot six inches tall, and I'm pretty frail, but I've used that as a motivational tool. As a child I was often picked on and bullied, so I ended up playing by myself an awful lot. Since I could never hope to dunk or fly through the air in a act of magnificent athleticism, I concentrated on my shot and my dribble. Over the years, I developed quite a deadly outside shot, and my range is fairly prolific. I like to think that when my game is on I can drop my shot from just about anywhere on the court during a half court set. I played a little ball in college, and even made it up to first team my senior year, winning the conference sixth man award for my ability to come off the bench at crucial moments and drain a three from way out in the corner. Still I never maintained any illusions that I could play pro ball, my frail frame (at my heaviest, I only weigh about 120 lb.) and short stature made sure that I would be all but forgotten at draft time. With this in mind I used my skills for what they could get me, an undergraduate degree in computer engineering and then enough local fame to translate this degree into a position as a software engineer for a state company, and a beautiful if bitchy wife who stands about six inches taller than me. I would say the game treated me well enough and I have always been happy with my success. My basketball prowess is pretty much limited now to pickup games I play at the local Y. Yes I am still routinely passed over in picking teams, at least until people get to know me.
Along with my public prowess on the court, I have another more secret past time I like to pursue. You see, when I was a little boy, my step-sister use to dress me up in her clothes as a means of punishing and humiliating me. Even after I grew and began to play high school ball, my step-sister maintained a psychological grip on me. Though always bigger than me, I suppose I didn't have to go along with her demands. After all I stood up to power forwards all the time on the court, I certainly could have stood up to her. the fact is I didn't. She knew exactly the way to talk to me, to embarrass me, to threaten me in a way that would make me do what she wanted. And what she wanted were usually small things. She made me wear a g-string panty under my gym shorts to the state high school championship game. She said she did it so that even if I hit the game winning shot I would still be able to feel that string of tight nylon scraping against my hole, I would know that I was just her little bitch.
The power of childhood conditioning is enormous. When my step-sister died in a car accident my freshman year in college (she was drunk at the wheel) my first reaction was to finally feel free of her torment. But as time passed, as I was no longer "forced" to dress as a girl by my step-sister, I found I was just as mentally compelled to do so as if my step-sister were still alive taunting me and threatening to expose me to the town paper with pictures she had taken. I got an erotic charge out of dressing up, and through collage, I began to collect different articles of female clothing. As I grew up poor, my college dormitory was the only safe haven I had. I often had close calls, when I would just manage to pull a sweatshirt over my head covering up the black lacy training bra I was wearing as my room mate entered the room.
Still I never was caught, and in my mind, my fetish was a harmless enough diversion. On Halloweens I would often dress as a girl and go to school parties. In these atmospheres, my deviant behavior was viewed as normal college fun, and sometimes I could even manage to dance with a few of the guys on my basketball team. I acted for all I was worth like the team clown, and they were happy to play along, thinking all the while that I was just goofing around - joking. Little did they know ho much time I would spend styling my shoulder length blond hair, applying eye liner just so, and picking out the perfect dress to compliment my nearly hairless, lithe young body, to look good for them.
I have to brag a bit, and tell you I looked good. I know, this it is common for cross dressers to think they have pulled off passing, when really they fool no one but themselves, but I am a special and lucky case. As evidenced by my success on the court, I have a strong athletic facility characterized by balance and grace of movement. My moves to the hoop were described as balletic by our State School's newspaper, and I must admit they are. I have the gift of physical self awareness in that I am always conscious of how my body fits into the space around me. I have a pretty face, triangular in shape with high cheekbones. Because I lack the large jaw or square head that most often screams male, I am able to style my androgynous looking face to appear as female as the next girl. Certainly it takes me more effort than the average girl, but once that work is done, it is difficult to tell the sparkle in my delicate blue eyes from those of a genuine ingenue batting her eyelashes. When I add a practiced smile, developed from hours of primping in front of the mirror, the illusion becomes complete, and not even a leap of faith is required to convince yourself that you are staring into the face of a remarkably beautiful, if a bit unusual, girl.
I considered my compulsion to dress a harmless one as far as compulsions go. I knew many people in our small town in trouble with the law, or worse, because of compulsive gambling or drinking habits. My private dressing seemed remote from the real world, a play fantasy I enacted. The closest to reality my dressing ever came is the phone sex calls I made to a number I found in the back of a magazine. While on the phone with these professional women, I would divulge my fantasy of dressing up and getting caught by my wife. We would role play, and the phone girl would pretend to get very upset at me, and then let the bitch in her come right out. In my fantasy, I was humiliated in the way my sister had trained me to be. I was called names, like slut and bitch, fairy and cocksucker, as I was led through a story in which different men ravished me and used me as their whore. I never thought much of it and thought I was careful to conceal it from my wife. As I paid all the bills in my house and worked at home, the thought of actually being caught never really crossed my mind. I was always the first to gather the mail, no matter what.
The subconscious is a powerful thing however. The more you play a fantasy out in your head, the closer you come to making it happen. If you were to ask me, "Would you like for your wife to catch you dressing up and expose you for the closet fairy that you are?" I would have of course answered in the negative, but the truth is something in me that must have wanted precisely that to happen.
I left the phone bill on the counter. I have no idea why I did. I swear it was a mistake, an accident, but Freud always said there are no accidents. What is the most amazing about it, is that I thought of myself as very careful all the time. I never touched my wife's clothing, I used a stash of my own that I kept locked in a trunk in the attic. I was always careful to call another number after phone-sex, so if my wife ever decided to use the radial feature of our phone all she would get was my parents house, or the library. generally I paid the phone bill, with evidence of the numbers I called, and the credit card bills, with evidence of the clothing I bought, on the day they arrived, and immediately I would throw the bills away. Why I left that particular phone bill on the table I can never tell you, but you can be damn sure I didn't get away with my little 'accident'.
"You little bitch." is what my wife said to me as I walked in from the gym. I was a little startled, taken aback, but immediately aroused.
"Excuse me." I said in a tone that I am sure sounded far less innocent than I intended.
"Don't play me for a fool, you faggot whore. I found your phone bill, it was right here on the counter. I was looking through it innocently enough, when I noticed all of these long distance calls to Los Angeles. I thought to myself, gee, Alex and I don't know anyone from Los Angeles, so I decided to call the number."
I admit, I was in shock. As I said, I never consciously intended for her to catch me, I had not even been aware that I had left the bill out. I was a little disturbed, but still confident that my service wouldn't have told my wife anything about me. "So . . . " I asked nervously, waiting to hear the damage.
"So! So!!! All you can say is so? I'll tell you so. So, I called this number expecting to find some business partner of yours, in my wildest delusions I was fearing some type of girlfriend. Little did I know."
