I'd only been dating Chloe for a few weeks when I discovered her fine and very expensive collection of lingerie. Chloe was from Paris, an attractive graduate student who had recently moved to San Francisco to pursue her studies in linguistics. We met on the University of San Francisco campus, and we hit it off almost immediately. Our first date was at the Exploratorium, where we both impressed each other with our knowledge and love for science. I was a fan of foreign languages too, and I used the opportunity to work on my French. Neither of us will ever forget the first time I stammered out je t'aime to her, late at night on Market Street after dinner at Zuni Cafe, her being half-moved by my gesture, half-laughing at my pronunciation. We moved in together shortly after, into a one-bedroom apartment in the Lower Haight, and things were moving along pretty well.
It was late at night when she was out with friends that I stumbled upon her lingerie drawer, and realized that the French stereotype applied a lot to Chloe! No woman I'd ever been with had such an extensive collection. There were sexy babydolls, panties in every style, elegant hosiery, sheer stockings, bras.. It was paradise.
Of course, seeing her in her underwear was a really nice perk of our relationship. But the lingerie collection was of interest to me for another reason entirely. For as long as I could remember, I had had a deep attraction and desire to wear women's clothes and underwear. Over time, it had blown up into an addiction. I had a small collection of bras and panties myself, although not as large as Chloe's, and I kept it well hidden.
I couldn't resist the temptation. I started trying on her underwear whenever she was out and I had some privacy. It didn't happen too often at first, but as time went on I would start making excuses to go home early without her, so that I could have some underwear time. I was very careful, of course, and always left every item I tried on exactly where I left it. She would never find out...
--
It was Wednesday night. We'd just come back from a movie downtown. Chloe was reading a book on the couch, and I was busy folding our laundry on the dining table. Folding her laundry was always a thrill and a frustration at the same time. A thrill to handle her delicates so closely, a frustration because I couldn't do anything more than touch with her around. I stole a few glances at Chloe as I folded her panties, trying to see what she was wearing under her tank top and shorts. A flash of orange, around her ample breasts, surely that was the orange bra from Agent Provocateur I had tried on just last week!
Almost on cue, Chloe took a deep breath, as though preparing herself for something unpleasant, and closed her copy of L'Insoutenable légèreté de l'être with a snap. Her piercing green eyes met mine directly.
"Honey", she said in a steelier voice than normal, "we need to talk."
I dropped the blouse I was folding, looking at her with a certain nervousness. Surely she couldn't know? "What's going on?", I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.
Chloe held my gaze for a second, and cleared her throat, as though searching for the right words. "We need to discuss your taste in underwear," she said firmly, her eyes dropping to the table of now-folded clothes in front of me.
"What are you talking about?", I asked.
She threw back her head and laughed. "Are you really going to make me say it?", she demanded. "You know what I'm talking about! You've been stealing and trying my lingerie for weeks, probably since the day we moved in together!"
Chloe has lost most of her French accent since moving to the US, but notes of it return to her voice when she is angry or passionate. I find that an intense turn-on, despite the direness of the current situation.
"How did you - ", I started, and then stopped, realizing how silly the question was. Of course she knew. There were probably bits of pubic hair in everything I had tried on, maybe even precum stains. A lot of them were probably stretched out by my wearing them. It wouldn't have taken an intelligent woman like Chloe long to put two and two together.
Chloe sighed. She checked her watch, and then beckoned to me to come sit on the couch next to her. I obeyed. She put her hand on my knee, rubbing it all the while looking at me with an expression of sympathy.
"I was really mad at first, you know. I was wondering what kind of sicko I had moved in with. You seemed so masculine, on all our dates. But here you were, trying on my panties? My bras? Rubbing yourself all over them, by the looks of it. It was awful. I thought I'd found the right man, the perfect man, but here it was, the illusion all ruined. I was ready to break up with you, then and there."
I could hear the anguish in her voice and see it in her beautiful face, and I felt more guilty than ever more. I understood the tightness in her voice talking to me the past few weeks. She must have been really upset. And who could blame her?
"But then I decided not to make a hasty decision. I decided to look this up online. And what I found there was really interesting, mon cheri. Turns out, you're not weird at all. In fact, all things considered, you're actually pretty normal. You are what people call a sissy. Yes, a sissy. A sissy is a heterosexual man who likes to wear women's clothing. And you know, the more I read into it, the more it all made sense. In addition to being into women's clothing, sissies are also generally submissive individuals. They crave a woman's authority. I had never really thought about it before, but it makes sense. It makes particular sense for you. Now that I thought about it, you'd always been happy to cede authority to me. You let me pick the movie tonight. You rubbed my feet in the theatre. Even right now, you were being a good boy and folding my clothes while I lounged around with a book."
I felt intense shame and arousal at the same time. Shame, at the way my girlfriend was talking to me, and the way she was calling me a sissy in such a matter-of-fact tone. But arousal too. I hadn't been this hard in a while.
