Darren couldn't believe his luck. Couldn't believe this was his wife Joy's birthday present to him. It was by far the best—the most exotic and erotic anyway—he'd ever received, in 35 disappointing years.
He thought about this as his self-announced "date" rolled a condom down his beautiful cock, and again, moments later, when he was penetrated by it. Darren was now officially and certifiably, if you did not count dildos, no longer a virgin. Let the same-sex fucking begin!
Oh, darling!
When he arrived home about an hour and a half earlier, Joy had met him at the door wearing one of her "I'm going out on the town" outfits. A skirt in other words, this one pleated, a silk button-down blouse, dangly gold-loop earrings that had not been a gift from Darren, and a tad more makeup than usual. Joy also wore a mysterious, if magnanimous, closed-mouth smile—but one decidedly different from this morning when they were both getting dressed for work. When Darren asked his wife somewhat glumly if she was going out on a date tonight, she replied, wearing nothing but mismatched skimpy underwear, for school, "You'll find out when you get home!"
True, it was a Friday, and most Friday evenings she spent with her lover Clay, who apparently somehow managed to convince his wife, his wife and two kids, that Fridays were mandatory late nights at the office. (Joy and Clay did most of their fucking on weekday afternoons, and sometimes on Sundays.) But tonight wasn't just any ordinary Friday. It was Darren's 35th birthday! Would his ever-increasingly promiscuous wife of nearly eight years really abandon him on such an occasion in favor of an intimate dinner with whatshisname?
Darren went with his instincts, and all day rode the fantasy train—multiple cars—that featured Joy meeting him at the apartment door wearing one of her teddies; or in black leather with whip, strap-on dildo bobbing; or naked under one of her flowery silk kimonos; or...just plain naked. Sporting her birthday suit for the birthday boy.
Darren's heart sank upon six o'clock arrival. His wife was dressed for action of the extracurricular sort: Asian food with fuckface followed by some ginger-scented necking followed by an in-blow carjob. Blowjob! Or maybe, panties down, she athletically mounted him between BMW steering wheel and his loosened necktie. Darren could only imagine. At least when they fucked in the apartment it was more-or-less clear what had happened: it was Darren's job to change the soiled sheets afterwards, when he arrived home from work. Even so a blank-faced Darren asked:
"You're going out?"
It was a stupid question. Stupid. Even Joy's tidy little date-night purse was hanging low on its gold chainlinks from her right shoulder. "For a little while. Now come here and give me a kiss. Happy birthday, darling!" She patted his flattish bottom: "Now go get ready for action. OK? Your birthday present is arriving at seven sharp."
Darren's hopes lifted. "You're coming back?"
"Of course I'll be back," Joy replied, ambiguously frowning. "Now hurry up. Your present will be here in less than an hour," glancing at her gold Citizen's, another gift not from her husband.
As Joy left the apartment Darren jumped on the fantasy train again. Perhaps she was running out to Elizabeth's Secret, or to a sex shop, and was bringing back a erection-arousing new outfit. Or, Darren having graduated over the months from a slimline dildo to one medium-sized to one, well, now quite large, relatively, his rectum eventually expanding in turn to accommodate each...maybe it was time to go extra large. Darren's mouth dropped open just thinking about it.
Christ! What was next? His wife's slender fist, coated with Crisco?
"Get ready for action" was Joy's code phrase. Alerting her husband to prepare his body for the submissive role he was about to play in their bedroom, usually, but not always, on Wednesday nights. Joy had not invoked it this past Wednesday, for what now became an obvious reason. She was saving it. She was coming back with Darren's birthday surprise. The thought made his heart skip a proverbial beat.
"Getting ready" involved many things: douching oneself; showering; showering again if necessary (ditto the douching); shaving whatever parts necessary; applying eyeshadow, face powder and lipstick; donning a page-boy wig; a panty and A-cup bra. Going Full Sissy as Joy liked to say—as she chased her squeaking and squealing fem husband around the apartment bedroom with her whip; or, having sedated and corralled him with nylon ropes, plowed him with her current largest strap-on dildo. How humiliating! How...Mean. What fun!
Darren had warned Joy early on that these strap-on sessions were causing him to undergo some sort of...change. Transition. Physical, psychological he couldn't say. It was just that he was feeling more and more the woman in their relationship—one who now desired to dress the part. And do housework.
Joy, ever the feminist, took umbrage: "You're not becoming a woman, Clay," she declared, flatly. "You're becoming a sissy. You're going...Full Sissy on me. I can see it happening before my eyes." (Lately Joy, despite her 20-something youth, had taken to wearing readers.)
"My name's not Clay," Darren declared, resentfully, lying there in his tangle of hardware store ropes, Joy's panties down around his knees, his shaved ass-crack all glossy in the overhead light. Joy, distracted, had poked an unpainted index finger into her cheek.
"Gee, I think I just came up with something. A term."
"What? Can I go clean up now, darling?"
"Full Sissy. Think I could, you know, take claim for it, maybe publish it?"
"Where?" Joy, a public school teacher, had endless aspirations—both sexual and academic. Good for her! Odd that, many moons and divorces later, she would end up an upstate hair stylist.
"I don't know, Bartlett's?"
"Bartlett's is a pear."
Another successful and now newly christened Full Sissy session over, Joy didn't laugh. She was busy undoing her own tricky knots. And wondering, worrying a little, if it was her imagination or if the weekly whipmarks she was inflicting on her husband's pale bottom were taking longer and longer to heal...? He was getting old.
"You've been watching too much Curb Your Imagination," she said, distractedly.
"Enthusiasm," not-Clay provided, now free to pull his—Joy's—panties back up, and stretch his legs. In thigh-highs.
So Darren, the birthday boy, was all dolled up and ready for his sexy wife's return when...the doorbell rang.
Fuck!
He tossed his wig and donned a white terrycloth robe "borrowed" from a Hilton during their fourth anniversary stay on Miami Beach years ago, back before their relationship, though sexually frayed, had taken its turn—turns—toward and through the bizarre. Darren was still years away at that tropical point from going Full Sissy in other words.
As for his makeup...Well, there was no law against not answering the door. Unless it was the police. And they had supposedly gone through tolerance training, at least for white people. Darren looked through the spyhole. It was seven pm. Sharp.
