Metalogue Pt 01

(Like "Prologue," the "Metalogue" series is written from the viewpoint of a man who desires to be feminized, then pegged by his wife. Chronologically, it is part of a wider story arc beginning with "Prologue" and the four episodes of the "Her Story" series which pick up the story as seen from the wife's side. When finished, a story called "Epilogue" will complete the arc. All nine episodes feature voluntary male feminization and male sexual submission. Readers who have a problem with those subjects are advised to look elsewhere for something more to their liking)

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The scent of perfumed hair filled me with an odd combination of exhilaration and disgust as I sat on the edge of my bed anxiously awaiting her arrival. Absent-mindedly, my tongue chased a final lingering drop of rich dessert sherry only to recoil in revulsion from the glossy feel and taste of freshly painted lips.

They were my freshly painted lips . . .

I'd been pursuing this moment for a long, long time. Although my wife bears responsibility for sowing the seeds, it was I and I alone who finally begged her to dress me in women's clothes and take my virgin ass with a strap-on. I felt I had to be taken, I told her, and I needed her to do it the same way men take women when they just want to fuck something. I wanted to experience sex with her from the wrong side of total submission's one-way street. But the exhilaration I'd somehow expected to accompany such unconditional surrender went missing in action the moment I began worrying that I'd bartered away my own sex for a void covered in panties -- an empty hole which longed only to be filled by some ridiculous plastic phallus.

"Just what the fuck do you think you're going to prove?" I asked myself, knowing at this point I no longer had an answer to that question.

Maybe I mentioned earlier how a sports injury (and my idiotic pride) prompted me to abandon the great obsession of my youth? If I did, I probably put one hell of a spin on it. I don't talk about it much and when forced to confront the reality of how it happened, I usually bury it beneath a pile of blustering bullshit.

The sport in which I once excelled in high school and college -- a peculiar American form of wrestling known as "folkstyle" -- has been described as physical chess, often requiring rapid and effective decision making to overcome raw physical strength through the appropriate uses of leverage and momentum. When I began wrestling in middle school, strength and I were total strangers, weighing well under the 75 pounds maximum allowed in the lightest class for Indiana junior high wrestlers.

Smaller and skinnier than most girls in my classes, I was all arms and legs on a wrestling mat. Even at 128 pounds in college -- maybe 5-foot-6 in thick soled shoes -- I fit a typical jock meme no better then than I do anyone's idea of a farmer today. Watching me scramble away for an escape point during my first 107-pound high school scrimmage, an assistant coach laughed. "Holy shit -- get a load of the spider boy!" The name stuck, although only a few old friends today still think of me as that person. Confidence and plenty of it is needed if you hope to become the college conference champion I once was, but 25 years of chronic indecisiveness has taught me to keep my head down on the farm I share with my school teacher wife. This current fiasco is only the latest, proving once again that my confidence is a hot mess of angst dunked in a cold puddle of ennui.

Reaching toward the nightstand to set aside my empty glass, a heavy steel butt plug shifted uneasily within me, and I looked down to glimpse a bright pink chastity cage flashing its knowing wink through my white lace panties. Once I'd imagined myself dressed like this, sky-high at the thought of becoming my wife's permanent sex toy. I eagerly anticipated my impending anal deflowering, feeling somehow it would be the solution to all my problems.

Now, as the seconds ticked down toward that penetration becoming an actuality, the only face I recognized in the vanity mirror across from where I sat was not the person I imagined playing this part. Instead, the image belonged to an idiotic feminized caricature of myself wearing white eyeliner and surrounded by a wreath of long wavy hair tumbling from a feminine middle part.

I attempted to imagine myself somewhere else -- anywhere else -- but my body only writhed in what I'll admit was mostly self-inflicted and totally self-indulgent agony. This futile physical gesture only served to further grind that heavy steel mass against my prostate, leaving me once again feeling good feeling bad as my caged cock strained against its restraint and attempted to lube itself for nothing. Do I get off on moments like this, I wondered? Was that why I so often chase things which leave me feeling miserable? I thought back to the NCAAs my sophomore year when the team doctor and trainer tried to get my injured shoulder through the semi-final round. "Why the hell am I even doing this," I remember howling in pain. "I only want to own a little farm. Is any of this shit going to get me my little farm?"

I'm uncertain how long I sat there on the bed feeling sorry for myself before I realized that for much of this same time my wife must have been standing in doorway to the ensuite, regarding me with that characteristically bemused smile I so often found unnerving.

Convinced I'd once again humiliated myself for God knows what, I furtively attempted to pretend we'd never made eye contact, and that's when I felt her -- in some weird metaphysical manner -- assume control of me. Reaching out from across the room, the one shining thing in my past 16 years reassured me with nothing more than a warm smile that my fears were once again a product of my own overworked imagination. This moment wasn't the end, that smile informed me; it was just another station stop in our 16-year-old journey together as lovers.

Revived by the feel of her dancing eyes, I was amazed once again by how little she'd changed from that first day when a bad battery brought her to my old motorcycle shop. I thought she still looked as fabulous as she had when she first stepped into my life, perhaps even more so now since her compact tomboy jock body had provocatively transformed itself for the occasion into an iconographic image of my own ruling goddess.

Her long dark brown hair was slicked back tightly in a tucked French braid (when did she learn to do that, I wondered). A black basque I'd never seen before hugged her torso, lifting her small but beautifully proportioned breasts just so. The basque, which left the impression of being entirely of lace, also provided suspenders for the sheer black lace tops which masked her adorably bumpy field-hockey shins. I knew that body better than my own mind, but I still loved every single bit of her!

First to catch my eyes, though, was the lace-trimmed blue silk nightie which loosely draped over her upper body -- the same nightdress she'd dropped over my head after she'd shaved away all my body hair two weeks earlier. She instantly recognized its sexual provenance had not been lost on me, and the way her warm smile widened into an enormous grin proved she was more than aware that she now fully had my undivided attention.

"You know what?" I heard this goddess ask me. " I just saw this in your 'lil blue zippah bag,' and I said to myself, 'Well, now, isn't this just the sweetest little thing you ever saw? That little girl -- what's her name now, Roni? Damn, but that little girl has some mighty Frenchy tastes in nightgowns!"

My wife/goddess was finding it difficult to keep a straight face while she riffed on dialogue found in one of my favorite movies -- "Period of Adjustment." Unable to hold it together any longer, she gave it up to an escalating series of giggles. "I surely hope you don't mind, Lil Bit," she finally concluded, addressing me with the film's nickname for the Jane Fonda character, "but I was sorta kinda hopin' you'd let me borrow this tonight?"

"God, no, I don't mind!" I said, pulling off an escape from the grasp of my latest funk worthy of my former self. "I've got this brand-new one I'm wearing . . . see here?" I stood from the bed and did a twirl for her, and she clapped her hands, shrieking in glee. "It's blue, too . . . you know, like yours?" I tried to continue but now I was laughing, too. "You know, if you really like that ol' thing so much, why . . . you just keep it, you hear?"

The tension which had twisted both of us into knots over the past two weeks collapsed into laughter over this silly exchange, but that's when her convulsing body first revealed an unmistakeable bulge tenting the blue silk. God, I thought, staring at her crotch -- there it finally is! The days were gone when all this could be written off as some weird intellectual exercise; it was still weird, all right, but now it was happening in realtime! We'd reached that final countdown to the moment when my wife really would remove that smooth, cold, uncaring steel plug which in only an hour's time already seemed to have relentlessly stretched and taunted my virgin ass throughout its entire existence. That bulge might tell me my life was still fucked-up -- my home-grown solution to my problems already proved that! But it was also a reminder that a woman I adored also wanted to own me completely. It also told me she would always be here for me, no matter how ridiculous I often appeared to her or myself!

Doubt took wing at this point, and I told myself there was nothing I wanted more from life right now than to feel this woman replace that heavy plug in my ass with the life-like dildo I now knew for certain lurked between those black nylons' lace tops. My wife only laughed at my gawping stare. "Come here, Lil Bit," she motioned toward me with a crooked, beckoning finger.

"Come here . . . NOW!"

No school boy-lump in the throat in the principal's office ever compared to what I felt as I crossed the room to submit myself to her. As only she could do, her wide smile drew me from myself, and I felt our marriage lifting us upward into some strange parallel dimension. I watched her hands reach out for my shoulders, and a light-but-firm downward pressure initiated the beginning of our power exchange.

"Time to go to your knees for me, dear," she said evenly. A quick inventory of my life told me there was nothing left but to let her have her way with me. Hadn't that been the plan in the first place? As I submitted to her will, I heard her whisper in my ear as if we were playing this scene out before an unseen audience she wanted to keep in the dark. "I've known now for some time that you fear what's next most of all, but you can do it, trust me. You will suck my cock, dear, and the way you do it will make me proud," she said. "For all your crazy fears, Ron, it's still just you, and it's still just me. You are my husband; I am your wife. Just remember that."

I was no longer in control. I knew it for sure. My body lowered effortlessly before her. Her fingers lightly grazed my face and brushed through my hair as I floated downward, and I watched in slow motion as those fingers turned back to raise the hem of that silk nightie ever so slightly. My astonished eyes -- wide in white eyeliner make-up just the way she'd wanted them -- became completely captivated by their first look at the beige she-cock they watched bobbing between those black lace tops . . .