(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 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 . . ."
