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You Can Always Say No Ch. 01

By: AngelCherysse



I have always considered myself a liberated woman. Rising through the business ranks to become a Vice-President at a major media consulting agency was just one of many goals I set, then met. I don't see any conflict between that and being a 'girly-girl'. I'm not ashamed to admit; I have used my raven-haired beauty and generous natural charms to advance my career, not to mention my private life. Earlier in my career, an aging 'sugar daddy' I had met through work left me a nice bequest in his will; not enough to retire and live lavishly on, but more than enough to provide a nice hedge against the future. The confidence I gained, knowing the conduct of my life wasn't enslaved to my next paycheck, allowed me to take chances and opportunities I might not ordinarily have done. I went to night school, got an MBA, then began to voice my ideas and opinions to my supervisors and others. My ideas were good ones and began to get noticed, then adopted. My star has been on the rise ever since.

At the time I met Alan Ames, he was a rising star in the avionics company that employed him. I had gotten jaded about relationships in general and wasn't looking for one at the time. Alan changed all that in an instant. Talk about love at first sight! Those liquid blue eyes and sandy blonde hair, pert nose and sensual lips had me before "hello". So what if, at five-foot-seven, he was my height? He didn't have a problem with me towering over him in heels and I didn't, either! Did somebody say shoes? Oh, God; they're like an instant orgasm for me – and Alan understood that implicitly. If he was something less than Mr. Olympia in the muscles department, he more than made up for it with one muscle in particular. As the months went by, the passion only got stronger. When he finally asked me to marry him, I didn't say yes; I said Hell, Yes!

I had never before met a man who had such an uncanny knack for gifting me with exactly the right clothing, lingerie and shoes, in exactly the right sizes and colors, which made me feel like the hottest sex bomb on Earth. Being out on his arm, dressed the way that made me feel like a million bucks, seeing all the other guys drool over me, made me ooze. Alan knew; I loved to show off, be a flirt. He wasn't threatened by my career success, or the 'games' I sometimes had to play for my job, even when we were together. He understood, better than any man I had ever known before: I came with him, I left with him; whatever happened in-between was strictly politics. Before Alan, I had never even considered having sex in public places. With Alan, there were times I just couldn't wait 'til we got home – and didn't.

About a month before our wedding, I discovered his taste in women's clothing came from wearing it, rather than just admiring it. The subject had come up often in the past, with casual, light-hearted references to 'sissies' and 'girly boys' chuckled at by both of us. The frequency with which these references kept cropping up aroused my suspicions. We were living together in my sumptuous four-bedroom home by then, so I did a little nosing around - okay, a lot of nosing around - in his private things, on his computer, even with the aid of a detective agency planting hidden surveillance cameras, until my suspicions were confirmed. My hubby-to-be possessed a small stash of his own feminine things and had been secretly dressing up in my lingerie, dresses and heels, even experimenting with my makeup.

I confronted him with my discovery one day, surprising him with a homemade DVD of one of his dress-up sessions for our private entertainment while we sat together on the sofa. The coup de grace was lining up the lingerie, stockings and heels he had worn that day on the coffee table before us. The deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face was the stuff Ambush Journalism and Reality TV thrives on. He broke down in tears, confessing his lifelong mania for feminine things and feelings, how he had tried to purge himself of such thoughts, but just couldn't do it. He begged my forgiveness for his deception over and over, certain I must think him a pervert.

He could have still have attempted some lame denial, despite the overwhelming weight of evidence arrayed before him. I have read of countless others who have done just that. He didn't. It must have taken a boatload of courage for him to 'come out' to me; perhaps the single most courageous act of his life to that point. We both knew other women might have bitten his head off and stormed out of his life, then ruined him out of spite. I am not 'other women'. Still I had a role to play.

"I don't know, Alan," I replied crossly. "I just don't know. Were you ever going to tell me if I hadn't found out for myself? Would you have just married me and kept this little perversion to yourself, leaving me to live in blissful ignorance while you carried on your secret life behind my back? That doesn't seem like love to me, Alan. That seems like you using me as your 'beard', to make people believe you lead a normal, respectable life. I feel like I have been cheated on – and the 'other woman' is you! What other little surprises are still out there for me to discover? How do I get back the trust I used to have in you?"

I was fingering my engagement ring as I spoke. I'm sure he was expecting me to whip it off my finger and toss it on top of that damning evidence – as I intended him to. He knelt before me, tears staining his cheeks.

"I love you with all my heart, Donna Lynn Peterson," he avowed. "I hid what I did for fear of losing you and no other reason. How do I admit to the woman who has become my reason for living, I am not the man she thought I was? Hiding it was wrong; I admit it. Never seeing those violet eyes, feeling your touch, or hearing the sound of your voice again is a horror I couldn't face.

"Now it's up to you. I'm willing to fight for you to prove my love. You could kick me to the curb right now, but I won't go willingly. If I need to do 'penance' for my sins, I will – within reason."

"Within reason," I repeated. "Within reason? I caught you red-handed in a lie, even if it was one of omission. I have discovered a side of you which fundamentally changes the nature of our relationship, less than a month before we walk down the aisle. I will lose a ton of money if I cancel the wedding now…"

"We will lose a ton of money," he corrected.

"Don't talk to me about we," I spat. "Why should I care about what you have to lose? You obviously didn't care about me! By rights, I should already be ordering you out of my house. You say you love me with all your heart and are willing to prove it – and then you have the gall to set conditions?"

"That isn't what I meant," he growled.

"That is the way it sounded!" I retorted shrilly.

"Hysteria doesn't become you, Donna," he intoned solemnly.

"Lecturing me about what is or is not becoming doesn't become you, you little faggot!" I shrieked.

Something in his face changed; the cast of his eyes, the set of his jaw. He rose to his feet, turned, and headed for the bedroom. 

"Don't you walk away from me!" I barked. "Where do you think you are going?"

"To pack," he replied quietly.

"So, Mister 'I will fight for your love'," I chided, "Mister 'I won't go willingly'; those were all lies, too?"

"We've had our fight," he responded with maddening calm. "Now I'm leaving."

I ran towards him, planting myself between him and the door.

"Give me one good reason," I commanded.

"For?" he asked.

"Allowing you to stay," I finished.

He stared at me as though I were from another planet.

"I think 'you little faggot' is one good reason to leave," he observed. "If you need another, I told you I loved you with all my heart. You didn't say that back."

"I could ruin your life," I hissed.

He pondered that a moment, looking towards the ceiling, then re-focused his eyes directly on me.

"Yes, you could," he admitted truthfully, "just like any other stupid…"

He finished the sentence with the "C" word. Alan never, ever uses the "C" word in my presence, much less call me one. He knows the "C" word just… makes… me… go… berserk….

The slap was reflexive. I was stunned when he intercepted my wrist with his hand before the blow landed. He just held it there, staring into my eyes impassively as I struggled to break free. He made his point; I ceased struggling.

"Are we calmer now?" he questioned evenly, then released my wrist. "I could knock you into next week - and lose my freedom. I could sit here while you call me every petty, mean-spirited name your vanity can devise – and lose my self-respect. Since we seem to be stuck on stupid over the 'real man' thing, I choose to do what a real man would; walk away, allow each other to recover our respective dignity, and move on. Now, if you will excuse me…."

He walked around me, down the hallway towards the Master Bedroom. After a minute or two, I could hear faint sounds of drawers opening and closing. Is there anything more maddening than a man who won't sit still for a perfectly good argument?

This wasn't the way it was supposed to turn out. The fact was, I wasn't anywhere near as upset about Alan's cross-dressing as I let on. Oh, I was stunned when I first found out, but that was for a different reason. What I hadn't told Alan was, along with my discovery of his cross-dressing, I had also found a wealth of downloaded stories from the Internet on his laptop computer. They were ripe with themes not only of cross-dressing, but female supremacy, forced feminization, humiliation and cuckoldry. I read one story, then another, then another, and still another, until I had devoured them all. I then followed the links from his History file to the source web sites and read more. I learned a lot about my lover, his fetish – and myself.

For a long time, I had had a fantasy; to be the dominant partner in a relationship. I had had such a relationship, with strong BDSM overtones, with a female roommate in college. I had seduced her, first into the relationship itself, then into becoming my sweet submissive slave. I can still picture Deidre kneeling on our coffee table, forehead resting on the smooth wooden surface. Her wrists were cuffed together behind her thighs; her ankles were similarly secured. I adored the thrill of strutting confidently around her in extreme high-heeled pumps or boots, dressed in leather (sometimes latex), makeup flawlessly applied, not a hair out of place, a long, nasty riding crop in my gloved right hand, flicking menacingly against my left palm. Her naked, upturned butt had been so enticing, the scene so sexually-charged, my pussy had wept its juices freely. 

I had ever-so-gently smoothed my leather-clad left hand across the exposed flesh. The whisper of butter-soft hide against her skin, a prelude to what was to follow, caused her to tremble uncontrollably.

"So, My Love," I had purred, "are you ready to accept this token of my affection?"

"Are you offering me a choice, Mistress?" she had replied.

"Choice?" I echoed, the corners of my crimson lips twitching into a bemused smile.

Thwack!

"Of course, My Love," I had continued. "You can always say 'no'…."

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

"… I'll just have to come up with stronger methods of persuasion."

She had submitted, of course. She always did. Deidre was a natural-born submissive; I had sensed that in her when we first met. Still, the threat of stronger 'persuasion' had not been an idle one. Her tender flesh had tasted the thin, split-ended bamboo cane before. She knew it to be infinitely worse than the crop.

It had been immensely satisfying – for a time. I came to realize there was some indescribable… something missing from the mix. I eventually broke the relationship off and it hadn't ended well. Other, similar trysts ended even faster and more disastrously. I had even attempted a few, more traditional relationships with men, sans bondage, in which I became the 'little woman'. Dirty clothes strewn about. Trash and empty beer bottles littering every surface and underfoot. Whiskers in the sink. Monday Night Football – every day of the week. That had been unspeakably bad. After that, I had enjoyed flirting with men and occasionally fucking them to get what I wanted – but a relationship with one? Uh-uh. Then, Alan had come into my life….

As I read Alan's stories about strong women who took control of their relationships and transformed their men into 'girly-boys', my clit throbbed with desire. Those stories were so hot! If I had been honest with myself, I would have admitted that was why I had been so strongly attracted to a smallish, slender, surreally-pretty boy, instead of a more manly man. When I inserted myself and Alan into one or another of those stories, I went through a lot of batteries in my vibrating dildo.

I had done everything right. I had confronted my sissy with his 'perversion', insulted him, belittled him, humiliated him, then threatened him with banishment from my life and exposure to his family and peers, just like in the stories. He was supposed to cave in, offer his throat to me. I would then mouth his offered flesh like the benevolent alpha female and take possession of what was rightfully mine. That hadn't happened. Instead, he had stood up to me, both figuratively and literally, and walked away. In desperation, sensing my control of the situation slipping away, I had resorted to petty name-calling, then base physical abuse. At each turn, he had called me on my boorish behavior, exposing it for what it was. I remembered one previous relationship where my then-boyfriend battered me. He is still in prison. I remember what the judge had told him at his sentencing: Violence is the last resort of the incompetent. And I was a Vice-President? I hadn't just played my hand badly; I may have burned down the casino.

What was it Alan had said about recovering our dignity? He had it in spades. Here was a guy with a strong submissive streak (I longed to find out how strong), but hadn't lost sight of the fact he was still a human being, his own person. He wanted me, wanted to be with me. I knew, with every fiber of my being, he wanted the kind of relationship we had both read about in those stories. I wanted to be the dominant partner in that relationship, wanted Alan to submit to me - wanted it so badly, I could taste it. 

There was a difference this time; within reason. I think I understood it, at last. It's about choice; real choice. I had mouthed the words to Deidre, and others, but it hadn't been true. They submitted, period, end of discussion – and I had tired of them. I couldn't live with a doormat, anymore than I could be one. For the first time in my life, I faced the prospect of a relationship of equals, where Alan would submit to me, not because he had to, but because he chose to. That is so hot!

This would be terra incognita for me. Was I up to the task?  Perhaps what I needed to do was have Alan give me lessons on how to be a real man. I had a pretty good idea where to start…. 

He exited his closet and approached the open suitcase, a stack of crisp, white dress shirts in his hands; I stood in his way. Without a word, I gently removed the stack from his hand and tossed it on the bed, then took his hands in mine and sat down, pulling him down with me.

"Hi," I began, "I'm Donna. I do love you with all my heart and you are not a little faggot."

"Hi Donna," he responded. "I'm Alan. I still love you with all my heart and you… nah, we aren't going there again."

I laughed. He did, too. It felt really good, really right, as it always had.

"So," he continued earnestly. "Where do we go from here?"

"You," I responded, kissing him softly on the lips, "aren't going anywhere…"

I released one hand and reached behind me on the bed. Picking up the stack of folded lingerie, stockings and heels, I placed it in his hands.

"… except to the bathroom – to change."

He looked at me questioningly.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

I could already feel the wetness soaking my panties.

"Oh, yeah, I murmured emphatically. "I have never been more sure of anything in my life."

"What if I don't want to?" he queried.

"You could always say 'no'," I suggested, flicking my eyes towards the bedroom door – and freedom, "but I would just have to come up with stronger methods of… persuasion."

My hand gently caressed his inner thigh. I could already feel the stirrings of his stiffness.

"What's in it for me if I say 'yes'?" he continued.

That one was easy.

"Me," I breathed softly, bussing his nose, then cheeks, "us, this."

"What's in it for you?" he demanded playfully.

That one was easiest of all.

"Silly girl," I chided, devouring his mouth with my own.

***

We were married in a beautiful church ceremony with our families and friends in attendance. At my direction, the groom wore white - a lacy padded bra with silicone enhancers, camisole, garter belt and stockings - under his tuxedo. The cut of the tux was such that only I could tell his femmy finery was there – and believe me, I checked at the altar to make certain it was. If it hadn't been…

You Can Always Say No Ch. 02



We had had 'The Talk' in the afterglow of that first evening of sex in our newly-revised relationship, less than a month before we exchanged vows. There is nothing more abjectly terrifying – for either person – than laying bare your soul at such an intimate level. He admitted his wants, needs, and desires; I reciprocated. He did, indeed, have a 'sissy' streak a mile wide, had had it since childhood, yet was unsure of how, or how much, he wanted to express. His cock had throbbed within me when I revealed my dominant desires and need to be in control. 

Still, he gulped hard when I related my BDSM experiences with Deidre and the others. My revelations both fascinated and frightened him. I could see the visions in his head, of me as the cold, cruel, manipulative bitch we both had read about. The truth is, I am a manipulative bitch, but neither cold nor cruel where my precious Alan is concerned. Still, I adored playing the role in the past and wasn't sure I was completely over that. 

Also, my curiosity had been piqued. My lover had all those stories on his computer. More than a few – more than could be simply dismissed as coincidence - were tales of haughty, arrogant women who had enslaved and sissified their men, then subjected them to maid service, cuckoldry, spankings, sexual subjugation to men, even Infantilism – and this was just the tip of the iceberg. There was some of the most vile public degradation and humiliation I could imagine; far eclipsing, in my mind, the 'adult games' I had enjoyed with Deidre and the rest. Yet, he had never purged these stories. Had he downloaded them, then never bothered to read them? Or was there some part of his psyche that was morbidly drawn to such fantasies? I didn't have to ask to know he would hotly deny it. Still.... 

I was very honest and up-front with him. The cross-dressing, sissification, and other aspects of our relationship were a new vista for me, one I wished to explore to the fullest. I wouldn't guarantee our union would go to the extremes of bondage and pain those earlier ones did, but in fairness, I wasn't willing to rule it out, either. In the end, we did what lovers have always done; we negotiated, opting to see where the day took us. We both knew without saying; the road ahead would very likely push our trust in each other to its very limits, then beyond.

From that moment on, I not only encouraged his dressing; I helped him with it. A war raged within me, the Jekyll and Hyde of my soul each demanding his due. On the one hand, I had a loving, caring relationship with a smart, sassy, considerate guy who gave me oodles of great sex, was a joy to cuddle with after the great sex, and enjoyed going out with me after a hard day of work, rather than becoming a 'spud stud' on the sofa in front of the television. He sent me flowers 'just because'. He actually gave a damn about our house being neat and clean, to the point of sometimes making me look like a slob. He cleaned the sink when he was done in the morning. He put the seat down. He talked to me; not at me, through me, or over my head. Oh, yeah, and he could cook, too – and I don't mean Hot Pockets in the microwave. Guys like that actually exist? Yuppers; I got me one! 

On the other hand, the domina in me wanted to come out, express her supremacy. Certain lifestyle dominas, writing on the Internet, had expressed their pleasure at completely crushing the will of their supplicants. Maybe it's just me; I didn't see how they could possibly do that, yet claim they had feelings for those poor wretches. Alan presented a unique intellectual challenge; how far could I go to bend my husband's will to submit to mine without breaking his spirit? I thought back to, of all things, a war movie (not my favorite genre): Twelve O'Clock High. What is 'maximum effort'? I wanted to push his limits, beyond any he might ever have imagined. How far was I willing to push my own? The 'doormat dilemma' loomed large in my mind; I wanted my obedient, uninhibited, sexy, sissy submissive, minus the Welcome sign tattooed across his chest. 

Taking my inspiration from a series of television beer commercials featuring the usual plethora of has-been jocks, actors, and other comedians, I established a few "Ma'am Rules." For instance: "If you want to wear the clothes, you have to look good in them. There is nothing grosser-looking than a hairy, fat man in a dress; am I right, or am I right? Alan, a lifelong runner, was not fat. Still, it was fun to take him to my aerobics and tae-bo classes Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons after work. Even he huffed and puffed a bit in the beginning. He threw himself into it though, adding Tuesday and Thursday afternoons as well. I couldn't make it those days, as I reserved Tuesday and Thursday evenings for taking clients to dinner (old business, new business, or just general schmoozing) or catching up on my paperwork. Such is the life of a Veep. The five-day-a-week exercise classes, plus severely restricting Alan's intake of cheeseburgers, pizza, sugared sodas and the like, made the pounds melt away and firmed up his body nicely. 

Some women like men with facial and/or body hair; I am not one of them. Hey, I like teddy bears as much as the next girl, but I will only share my bed with one – the stuffed variety – if my hubby is out of town on business. Besides, that image was all wrong for my sexy Alan. It's amazing what a few heartfelt words of encouragement, spoken during a good, therapeutic fucking, will do to get a man over the what-will-people-say-when-they-see-me-hairless stage. 

I think he was more relieved than anything else when he finally capitulated. Alan hated to shave, much less shave every day, but he hated body hair even more. I accompanied him to the clinic for each session of laser depilation. After all, this was something he was doing for me, for us, not just for himself. After the treatment regimen was complete, he never had to shave again. Once he was hair-free, I required him to keep his body satiny-smooth with daily applications of rich, emollient-laden body lotion and scented powder. He felt, and smelled, wonderful.

In for a penny, in for a pound. The laser tech happened to mention in passing a similar process, using a broader-beamed high-intensity light, rather than a narrow-focused laser beam, to re-surface the skin, removing the same imperfections micro-dermabrasion did, but giving better results with fewer treatments. They did not perform that procedure at the depilation clinic, but the technician gave me the address and telephone number of a clinic that specialized in it. 

Caught up in the adventure of it all, I convinced Alan we should both undergo the course of therapy ("It isn't all that, Sweetie. The nurse says they have actresses, actors, millionaires, and business professionals, both male and female, coming in here all the time."). That meant we both went home a dozen times, looking like we had bad sunburn. In the end, it did make me look like I was twenty-two again. Chalk it up to bad luck or good genes; Alan looked like he was about sixteen – the bitch! Honestly, I was afraid when we went out for a night on the town from then on, he was going to be carded.

To celebrate the results of his hard work and sacrifice, I took him shopping for lingerie, skirts, shoes, boots, camisoles, wigs, and other frilly, feminine delights. That led to my second Ma'am Rule: If we are shopping for you, we are shopping for you. That may sound redundant, until the two of you – and you haven't convinced him to dress in public yet - get to the store, where you announce, ever so sweetly: "my husband needs to be fitted for bras and panties. Is there a changing room available?" That led to some deliciously embarrassing moments for him right away: smirks, snickers, plus more cloying "Dearie's" and "Sweetie's" than you can possibly imagine. 

The upside was two-fold. First, we amassed a fabulous wardrobe for him, from dreamy/romantic to sexy/kinky/fetish, and it all fit perfectly. Second, apart from their teasing remarks, the sales associates we dealt with agreed to the last; sight unseen, Alan would make a really attractive 'girl'. We even picked out a perfume for him; a sensual, provocative 'signature scent' that would be his and his alone. Of all the fragrances we tested, I liked Obsession on him the best. It became part of his 'dress code' (Ma'am Rule Number Three): he was to wear his signature scent whenever he went out in "en femme". 

I decided two things about shoes for him early on. First, I wanted him to wear only the femmiest, sexiest of heels. After all, if I was going to construct my fantasy 'girlfriend', why would I want some dull suburban housfrau in flats? Call me a revisionist; I look and feel better in spikes than chunky heels, and Alan does, too. Second, Ma'am Rule Number Two would be strictly enforced; he not only had to try each pair on in the store, he had to model them for me and the sales associates by walking back and forth across the floor. This wasn't just another way to embarrass him. A badly-fitting bra can be an annoyance; a badly-fitting high-heeled shoe can be crippling.

We began our search in specialty fetish shops, attended to by associates who had 'seen it all'. Once Alan got over his initial fright, I graduated him to the trendy chain shoe stores in the mall, restricting our initial forays to weekday afternoons when there were fewer gawkers traipsing back and forth. It may have been a humiliation for Alan (and an industrial-strength turn-on for me, watching him) to strut back and forth in high heels in so public a venue, but to our attendants, it was just another commission – and a handsome one at that, given the amount of money we spent. Of course, if I saw something I liked for me, I wouldn't hesitate to buy it. 

Unless you have ever experienced it, you have no clue how erotic and sexually-charged shoe shopping with, and for, your lover can be. After such a trip, we invariably hurried home and fucked like bunnies. Later, I had him practice in those shoes for hours on end (Ma'am Rule Number One). He perfected that short, sure-footed, heel-toe-heel-toe strut with the full, rolling hip sway that drives men wild. Okay, me too; I thrill to the click-click-click of my sissy hubby's stiletto heels across our marble foyer and hardwood floors. It's obvious to me why guys love to have their women wear heels to bed.


I assured my hubby there was nothing wrong with letting his full, thick head of sandy blonde hair grow longer. In this day and age, Society had gotten past such Draconian decrees as 'men must have Crew Cuts' - not that his hair was anywhere near that short to begin with. From there, it was easy to convince him Rudy, my flagrantly Gay hairdresser, was best qualified to keep his lengthening tresses looking their best, rather than the national-chain haircutters he usually used. 

I took him to my salon and stood by his side that first time. I could tell Alan was embarrassed by the way Rudy fawned over him. At that point, my lover had already become accustomed to being addressed as "Sweetie" by a lot of sales clerks. The shampoo and scented conditioner Rudy recommended made his hair smell flowery and fragrant, which I admitted was really sexy. As a lasting reminder of that first visit, "Sweetie" became my pet name for my hubby.

With increasing frequency, I asked him to come to bed in his silky nightgowns, stockings and garter belt, high-heeled marabou mules, even lipstick and mascara, fantasizing about making lesbian love to him. We started to gossip like girls during our lovemaking sessions. Our musings turned to thoughts of the kinds of guys we'd like to pick up, what we would do to them, and what we would want them to do to us. I carefully guided the tenor of the talks, ensuring the freewheeling, stream-of-consciousness patter degenerated into the kinkiest, raunchiest, sluttiest scenarios imaginable.

***

I had been in a daring mood one Saturday morning, the first day of a three-day holiday weekend. As we cuddled in bed, I told him how much it would mean to me if I could go shopping with my 'girlfriend'. We had had this conversation before. I knew he wanted it, but was afraid to take the plunge. I calmed his fears, saying we would work our way into it slowly and not do anything he wasn't ready for. I would just make him a bit more feminine in appearance and dress, mostly in a way we would know he was more feminine. He had swallowed hard, but promised to allow me to do what I wanted. 

I had dressed myself in snug-fitting designer jeans and a sparkly, pearlescent white tube top, finishing off with four-inch pumps. I had done my makeup and hair quite a bit more pronounced than usual for me, then spritzed myself with Shalimar. I knew Alan liked this casual-sexy look on me. In truth, I did it because I felt like it – the thought of what I had planned had me in an advanced state of arousal - and as a set-up for what was to come. I had flitted around my husband randomly for the past twenty minutes – on purpose. By that time, he had to know my firm D-cuppers were braless.

"Now, Sweetie," I purred, "let's get you ready."

I had dressed my husband in a bra with B-cup silicone breast enhancers, waist cincher and bikini panties, then put sweats and athletic shoes on over that to placate him. I had begun to brush his now-shoulder-length hair back into its customary ponytail. Then, on impulse (and if you believe that, I have a bridge to sell you), I had brushed it out again, fluffed it up a bit, then used hairspray to give it volume and shape. 

I had then used a subtle hint of mascara, eyeliner and lip gloss on his face. The bulky sweats hid his feminized torso – mostly. Wearing any kind of makeup in public, not to mention an anything-but-masculine hairstyle, was new to us – and on a busy Saturday....

He looked at himself this way and that in the mirror. In his mind, I was sure all the little femme touches stood out like a neon sign. Still, I had allowed him enough 'wiggle room' to convince himself he looked basically butch in the sweats. 

Then I picked up his spritzer of Obsession. He jumped, startled. 

"What are you doing?" he asked, clearly rattled.

"Why, getting you ready, Sweetie," I cooed. "You have your lingerie on for me. Your hair and makeup look perfect. You're just about as femmy as I could ever want. I'm just adding a little perfume, just as we agreed upon. You remember the rules, don't you?"

"But," he protested, "I'm not..."

"Yes you are," I butted in. "Just look at you! Maybe you're a little on the tomboy-ish side, but definitely more femme than masculine. Now, hold still."

I spritzed him lightly a couple of times, just to add the unmistakable scent to his androgynous appearance, tilting the scales in favor of 'femme'. The rosy flush on his cheeks was all him, rather than cosmetic.

"I can't do this," he mumbled.

"You could always say 'no'," I murmured teasingly. "You could just stay home and putter around the house while I go out shopping – and flirt with the cute guys in the mall."

I love my husband more than my life, but I was prepared to play dirty to get what I wanted – and I wanted this. One of the really neat traits about sissies is, the more femmy they become, the more insecure they get about losing their mate to a more masculine man. I wasn't at all hesitant about using this weapon against my balking beau. Besides, I liked flirting with a real hunk when I saw one. Seeing me standing before him, I had no doubt what his fevered imagination foresaw the outcome of that flirtation to be – just as I had planned.

Alan caved, grudgingly. We slipped into my DB9 coupe and zipped away.

Our first stop was a scheduled one; at my favorite local nail salon, staffed by a bevy of Oriental girls. It was one of the newer, cutting-edge establishments, using padded, reclining loungers rather than upright chairs. One of my guilty pleasures is the weekly pampering of my fingernails and toenails by Suzi, my regular nail technician. I make my appointments early – as soon as they open their doors - so I can get in and out before the customary Saturday mob scene. On this particular morning, there were no other patrons yet. I sat with Suzi, gossiping, while she worked on my nails. Alan perched on the sofa by the window, one leg crossed over the other at the knee, idly leafing through an old issue of People. A half-dozen of Suzi's co-workers were flitting around, trying to look busy.

Suzi and I had gotten onto the subject of our respective significant others. I had mentioned Alan and I were going shopping after we were done here, nodding in his direction. Suzi stopped dead; her jaw dropped.

"That is your husband?" she asked, astonished. "I had no idea. If you don't mind my saying so, I think he... or is it she?"

I shrugged my shoulders, smiling coyly.

"Either works."

I gave her a brief overview of my kinky relationship with Alan. Suzi winked conspiratorially.

"Anyway, she is adorable! You are so lucky. Back home, we cherish our 'special girls'. Who is she with today?"

I furrowed my brow, not comprehending.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"Her nails," Suzi continued matter-of-factly. "You said the two of you were going shopping after 'we' were done here."

The thought hadn't even occurred to me. I glanced around, noting the available operators, then thought: Why not?

After a brief, whispered consultation, Rose and Jackie approached Alan, informing him they were ready for him now. My thoroughly confused husband was led to the lounger adjacent to mine. When he finally figured out what was going on, his eyes grew as big as saucers.

"It's all right, Sweetie," I softly reassured him. "You can do this. It's my treat. Everyone here is cool with it. Don't even try to tell me it's not something you have ever wanted to do. We have all weekend to enjoy it. Just relax and savor the experience with me."

After Suzi had finished with me, I had pulled up a chair next to my lover. I brushed his cheek with my hand and whispered words of soothing encouragement in his ear while Rose worked on his fingernails and Jackie did his toenails. This was making me really wet. My dominant side took over, selecting the appropriate length and style for my sissy's new nails, as well as all aspects of their finish.

Upon completion, Alan had deep red sculptured nails with gold nail art, about one and one-half inches long, square-cut with softly rounded edges. His sculptured toenails matched perfectly, highlighted with gold rings on two toes on each foot. It was such a shame to hide those feminized feet away in his Nikes, once the polish had dried. Suzi, Rose and Jackie all added their compliments, noting how long and slender his fingers were and that his new nails made them that much more feminine in appearance. After escorting us to the door, Suzi handed Alan her card. 

"We are open on Monday," she advised us. "If we need to make an adjustment for... business reasons, call me; we'll fit you in – but only if you promise to return later, so we can restore them to their current loveliness. In the meantime, enjoy your weekend, and your new nails."

She kissed Alan softly on the cheek.

"You are a very special person," she expressed with sincerity. "You two are very, very lucky to have each other."

We walked hand-in-hand to my Aston Martin. Alan was so deep in thought, I wasn't sure he remembered his own name, much less where he was. That gave me something to mull over for a while. I opened the passenger door for him. He slid in, still admiring his new nails, lost in reverie. I closed his door gently, made my way around to the driver's side and slid behind the wheel. Slipping the key into the ignition lock, I paused, turned to him, took his chin in my hand and kissed him deeply.




You Can Always Say No Ch. 02



"I love you so very, very much for being so brave for me," I intoned emotionally. "Your nails are exquisite! I am so hot for you right now, I can't sit still - and it's only going to get better."

My mind was racing. The domina in me was on Cloud Nine. If you know anything about sculptured nails, you know the first time you have them – going from nothing to instant nails – is an awkward experience. Your brain literally has to re-wire itself, adjusting spatial relationships between your fingertips and objects they come in contact with. You have to re-learn how to do even the most mundane, everyday tasks, such as picking up objects, handling money (especially coins), buttoning buttons and zipping zippers. 

The transition from nothing to extreme, glamour-length nails, as Alan had just done, is especially difficult. Effectively, he was as helpless as if I had handcuffed him. In order to cope, he would have to learn to use small, delicate movements of his hands, just as he had learned the short, mincing, undulating gate of a woman in high heels. Unlike heels, this was not something he could just kick off and go back to being plain old 'Alan'. These were a very visible and at least semi-permanent reminder of his feminization – and submission to me. What an incredible turn-on! 

Alan became agitated as we approached the mall.

"How am I going to get away with this?" he asked querulously, holding aloft his starkly-feminized hand. "These sweats have no pockets."

"Nor would I allow you to keep your hands in them," I admonished, "not after the amount of money we just spent making them beautiful. You don't seem to grasp how good you look, just as you are. WE will 'get away with it', as you put it, by acting as though your nails, like the rest of you, are the most natural thing in the world. If we believe that, and project it to the rest of the world, everyone else will believe it, too. I already believe it, because to me, it is the most natural thing in the world – just like adoring you."

I punctuated my lecture by placing my hand behind his head and drawing him into a deep, sensual kiss. By the time our lips parted, we were both short of breath. I gently lifted one of his ultra-feminine hands, admiring once more the stunning results of my daring. I gazed up into Alan's eyes. Mine were misty.

"Don't ever forget how much I love you!" I gasped, looking once again at those unbelievable nails. "This is... this is...."

My voice trailed off as I sat there, simply shaking my head in wonder. I couldn't even find the superlatives to express how I felt at the moment. I bussed him lightly on the lips once more, my eyes and mind filled with determination.

"We're going in," I commanded.

***

As I had predicted, by acting normally, we received no untoward reactions – other than admiring glances; a lot of them. I noted with smug satisfaction most were directed towards Alan's nails. I squeezed Alan's arm, winked, and mouthed the words "told you". We purchased more lingerie – a girl can never have too much – hosiery, and a larger pair of breast enhancers. Alan's erection had long since become a problem. It was threatening to 'out' him to the weekend throngs. I broke one of my own cardinal rules and purchased a pair of jet-black pantyhose, then took him to the fitting room, made him strip below the waist, and put them on. It was good experience for him to work the sheer pantyhose up his legs without snagging or running them with his new nails. I wasn't going to let him cum – yet – but I managed to get his genitals tucked backward between his thighs, then snugged the pantyhose into place. That did the trick. I'm sure he was more than a little uncomfortable down there, but his front was nice and smooth.

I was really turned-on by what we had done so far. We went a little meshuggah shopping. Between Bebe and Aldo alone, we dropped a couple thousand dollars on clothes and shoes that had no earthly use other than making dicks hard. Of course, I didn't tell him that. If I had had a cock of my own at the time, it would have been granite, thinking about my baby all dolled up in one or another of the outfits we had purchased. I had murmured exactly that in his ear, soliciting his response to wearing this outfit or that for me. He responded how heavenly it sounded, wishing we were home already. He loved his new nails and all the things we had purchased, but felt really self-conscious, out in public in his current in-between state, desperately afraid someone we knew would appear at any moment and recognize him.

"Well," I cooed, "we'll just have to take care of that, won't we?"

We were passing the MAC cosmetics store. I happened to glance through the window – and almost gave myself whiplash as I came to a screeching halt. Alan had continued on a few steps before he realized I was no longer next to him. He returned to my side, puzzled. I was completely oblivious to anyone and anything but her. Everyone has seen, if not met, a woman like the vision before me, demonstrating a product on a prospective customer. How she could work with those incredible, curving talons, I didn't have a clue. They were two inches long if they were a millimeter!

Realistically, she was probably in her late thirties, perhaps older. She appeared, and dressed, much younger. The woman sported sizzling Platinum Blonde hair, huge boobies and a deliciously narrow waist, flaring out into full, rounded hips and the most incredible bubble butt. The sprayed-on zebra-print dress barely contained her prodigious proportions. Long, shapely, stocking-clad legs, flowed downward into zebra-patterned, stiletto-heeled, ankle-strap platform sandals. When she turned, presenting a straight-on view of her backside, the thin, stretchy fabric of her dress clearly revealed her impossibly-small waist was the product of a lace-up corset.


Any number of narrow-minded people would have labeled her makeup "gaudy", "trampish", or worse. It was certainly heavy-applied, with long, thick, curly eyelashes and impossibly-thin, high-arched brows; more appropriate for a dimly-lit nightclub or honky-tonk than daytime in a busy urban mall. Still, it was obvious this 'look' had been skillfully applied, not troweled on with a putty knife. It fit this woman to a 'T', like her spectacular anatomy, impossibly-tight dress and skyscraper stilettos. This was, after all, a cosmetics store and she was a (presumably) licensed aesthetician, charged with demonstrating possibilities to her clientele ("This is what we can do, Honey. Now, let's put together a look that is right for you.").


Suddenly, the idea that had been ruminating in the back of my mind since the nail salon gelled. I seized my hubby's hand and marched into the shop, just as Blondie was ringing up her sale. Ignoring other offers of service, I approached her directly. It took her but a moment to size us up with the practiced ease of a professional who knows what she is doing. Her nostrils flared slightly as the scent of Alan's Obsession reached them. I felt my juices gush into my panties as I gazed into her heavily-made-up baby blues. The twinkle in her eye and smile on her pouty, crimson lips spoke volumes. She made "May I help you?" sound more like confirmation than inquiry.

We made our introductions. With a firm grip on Alan's arm, holding him in place, I leaned forward, murmuring my desires for her ears only, not even glancing at my husband for confirmation. She beamed a smile and nodded in the affirmative, murmuring how happy she would be to help. In that instant, I instinctively knew Faye, as she had introduced herself, was exactly the right woman for the job – and would be a friend for life. 

We moved toward a corner demonstration table, each of us holding one of Alan's arms; me on his left, Faye on his right. It was a casual hold – our arms slipped through his – but there was no way he was going to escape. Together, we seated Alan on the stool, as if his assent was a given. Faye went to work immediately, tying his hair back with a scrunchie and chatting breezily with us, citing her experience in both stage and screen.

"I've also done hair and makeup for hundreds of drag shows and pageants over the years," Faye revealed, as she applied a third coat of plumper to Alan's lips, "and dozens of transsexual videos, as well. I adore Girly-Boys. Making them the femmiest they can be makes me so wet. I've been presented with some real challenges in the past; trying to make a real 'brick' appear more feminine..."

Her smile cranked up a notch at Alan's sudden wince. She winked at me.

"... but I rarely have the opportunity to work with such fabulous raw material. When I'm done with you, Angie, you are gonna be one hot babe. You don't mind if I call you Angie, do you? I think Angela is such a lovely name. With that face and complexion, you couldn't be anything but. Don't you agree, Donna?"

I could have kissed her! She seemed to know my mind better than I did. Since finding out about Alan's feminine side, I had been struggling to construct a mental image of what I wanted my sissy hubby to be. As of this morning, that image was in sharp focus – and now had a name.

"I couldn't agree more," I concurred. "As much as I love Angie, and have since the day I first laid eyes on her, she has always been so shy and insecure about herself. She didn't even want to come to the mall with me today, afraid of what people would think of her."

"Well, will just see about that!" Faye announced, applying thick, lacy false lashes to my lover's lids. "Confidence, Sweetie; that's what it takes. Con-fi-dence. People will think what they think, regardless of what you say, do – or look like. To paraphrase Abe Lincoln: 'you can't please all the people, all the time.' Live your life the way you feel it, not the way you think those cretins expect you to. 

"Best of all, and I hope you realize this, you are not alone. When you stepped through that doorway a little while ago, you already had the unwavering support of one woman who will move Heaven and Earth to make you the best you can be. When you step through that doorway again, you will have two. It's just such a shame I'll have you looking so hot in a little bit, and here you are in dumpy sweats and Nikes. Really, your mother should dress you better...."

I beamed, flicking my eyes towards the shopping bags at our feet.

"Oh," I remarked casually, "I think we can do something about that, too."

As Faye completed her efforts, we hustled 'Angie' into a back room for a quick 'costume change'. Upon our return to the main floor, her transformation was complete – and a complete knock-out. Angie sported a full C-cup bustline, thanks to one of her new bras and larger silicone enhancers. Her new curves were stuffed into a shiny red tank top, the bebe logo in glitter across the bust, and a pair of skin-tight black lambskin low-rise Capri's. She strutted gracefully in a pair of open-toed black calfskin Italian mules with thin soles and five-inch stiletto heels. 

If her outfit was visually stunning, Angie's visage was a jaw-dropper, transcending mere beauty. Faye had pulled off an effect I hadn't thought possible; my sweet twenty-something sissy appeared to be an angelic-faced teenager, attempting, as young girls do, to impersonate an adult through the use of too much makeup. As is usually the case, the girl in question ends up looking less like an adult and more like a slut. If that wasn't eerie enough, the aesthetician had played up my lover's delicate features and Baby Blue eyes, so similar to her own, and chosen a specific combination of colors and application to fool the casual eye into believing Angie was Faye's own daughter!

Angie was lost in her own little world as she gazed at herself in the mirror. She happened to catch the reflection of my beaming Cheshire smile in the mirror and turned to face me.

"You said you were worried someone we knew would recognize you," I effused. "I'm married to you, see you every day, and know by heart every curve and contour of your face. Right now, I don't recognize you. You look that good." 

We stuffed Angie's black calfskin clutch purse (purchased at Aldo, along with the shoes) with makeup essentials (powder, brush, lip liner, lipstick, lip gloss, lip brush). The rest of the cosmetics Faye had used went into a little MAC bag to take home. A couple of the other cosmetologists engaged my Angie in conversation, commenting they just couldn't get over how good she looked. They made her sit for a series of digital snapshots, vowing her likeness was going into their folio of all-star makeovers, to be used to show prospective clients the range of choices – and level of expertise – available to them.

It was a set-up, hastily arranged by Faye, to allow us to slip away to the register for a few minutes to have a little "girl talk" out of Angie's earshot. I paid Faye's fee, plus a hundred-dollar tip to show my appreciation. We traded business cards and a promise to get together for lunch the following week. Then, collecting my new, improved 'girlfriend', Faye bussed her lightly on the cheek, so as not to leave a lipstick imprint.

"Be good, Angie," she effused. "We'll be seeing a lot more of each other real soon." 

"We are so lucky to have found someone like you to help her find her way in life, Faye," I enthused. "I feel we are going to become the best of friends."

The breathtaking blonde winked in agreement.

"The very best of friends," she confirmed, smirking. "We have so much in common."

We made our way slowly down the promenade, window-shopping. I stopped at a specialty perfume store, bought a purse-sized spritzer of Obsession, spritzed her behind the ears, at the throat, and on the inside of both wrists, then plopped the little atomizer in her purse. 

Stopping a few doors farther down at a jewelry boutique, I had Angie's ears pierced then, on a whim, pierced a second time. We bought her a dozen pair of ear rings, including a set of four-inch gold hoops I couldn't wait to see her wear.

Back on the concourse, Angie was taking the opportunity to check herself out in the windows' reflection, still not believing that was really her. Okay, I confess; so was I. Faye de Castro (so read her business card) was, in my estimation, an Oscar-caliber make-up artist. Yes, Angie's face was heavily made-up; much more than I would have felt comfortable with for myself, even on special occasions. The similarities to Faye's image, right down to the expert application, were obvious, and striking. On Angie, it just looked right, just as it had on Faye. 

That similarity had been no coincidence. I had whispered to Faye at the onset; my undivided attention had been riveted on her the moment I laid eyes on her through the window. Hers was exactly the look I wanted for my sissy. She had been only too happy to oblige. I realized that was the domme in me speaking; strip my mate of a little more of her masculinity, separate her a little further from her 'comfort zone' – make her that much more dependent on me. I had not counted on the depth of the aesthetician's expertise, nor on her obvious appreciation of the similarities between my hubby's features and her own. I adored Angie's new look, and her new femme identity! I hadn't anticipated taking her to the next level so soon, but there was no way I could avoid it now. Anyway, I had already taken the first steps to nudge her down that path....

The whistle jolted us both out of our reverie. We turned to take in our immediate environment. We were in front of a window along the main pedestrian walkway connecting the East Concourse with the Main Concourse. There were lots of people passing by in both directions – and lots of faces appraising us as they went by. Angie quickly turned back to the window, blushing furiously through her heavy makeup.

"I knew it," she muttered, voice trembling. "They've read me."

I stared at her as though she had lost her mind, then turned back to scan the faces, just to see if I had misinterpreted the looks on them. The expressions ranged from disgust (mothers with small children), to outrage (old ladies), to covert admiration (single men), to undisguised lust (teenage boys) – exactly the span of reactions one would expect from the crowds when a girl so obviously from the wrong side of the tracks invades this bastion of chic, trendy, wholesome 'Family Values'.

"Sweetie," I demurred, "nothing could be further from the truth. They haven't 'read' you as anything but the provocative young woman you appear to be."

Just then, a distinctive thump resonated through the air.

"What was that?" Angie inquired.

"That," I confirmed, "was a teenage boy so intent on staring at you, he wasn't watching where he was going. He walked face-first into one of those poured-concrete colonnades supporting the ceiling. Baby, you are a star!"

She blushed, turning back to the window.

"I like the look," she explained slowly, tracing her lips lightly with her fingertips, "but isn't it a little... much?"

"Oh, Sweetie, no!" I protested, hugging her tightly. "On you it looks just right, just as it did on Faye. She has a real eye for this kind of thing. As I said earlier, no one is going to look at you and see Alan Ames. You are 'Angie' now, and can be, will be, anytime we wish."

"I'm not so sure about that," she demurred. "I don't think I could come close to doing it as well myself. Honey, what do you suppose Faye meant when she said she was sure she and I would be seeing each other again real soon?"

I couldn't suppress the smirk from overtaking my lips.

"Oh, that," I began. "You said it yourself; you don't think you could do that look as well as she does. I can't, either. So, I signed you up."

"For what?"

"Make-up lessons. Faye will be your teacher, Tuesday and Thursday nights, seven to close, beginning next week."

"Where?"

"Why, at the MAC store, of course. That's where Faye will be."

"But you usually have to work late Tuesdays and Thursdays!"

"That's right, Sweetie. That's why I picked those nights. I'll be working, so you will have the time available for your lessons. It works for Faye, too. Those are the nights she usually sets aside for classes. She let me know she doesn't have any other students this cycle, so you will be getting private instruction for the standard course tuition. We will meet at home later and you can show me what you learned."

"But that means...."

"It means," I interjected, slipping my arm around her waist, "my big girl is going to dress sexy and go to the mall all by herself a couple evenings a week, to spend time with her girlfriends, catch up on all the latest gossip and learn how to make herself pretty for me."

"I can't do that," she protested, a touch of panic in her eyes. "Can I?"

I looked around us again, inviting her to take in the stares of the people who beheld us – stares that showed no clue of recognizing the overdone young tart as anything other than that.

"Oh, yeah," I purred, "You can do that – in a heartbeat. Of course, you could always say 'no'. I know this is a lot to absorb in such a short time. Maybe you aren't ready, after all. We could just go home, get you undressed, remove all the 'war paint', then call Suzi and make an appointment to remove those beautiful nails. Then, we could snuggle up on the sofa and catch a football game, maybe even WWE Smackdown. Perhaps we could try something a little less extreme later on, say, in a couple of months."

I told you I didn't play fair. In any incarnation, Alan bores easily watching televised sports. He especially loathes the phony theatrics of professional wrestling. Then there was the veiled threat of taking away his dress-up activities for two months. With our loving relationship, I knew he could survive the 'penalty box'; we both could. Still, neither one of us would like it. 




You Can Always Say No Ch. 02



Faye had done her job well. I knew 'Alan' was in there, somewhere. I simply could not picture this vision of overdone loveliness as anything but the young woman she appeared to be. I watched the range of emotions in Angie's eyes. It was almost like watching the thoughts themselves as they jetted through the neural pathways of her mind. She held one hand out, away from her, fingers spread, admiring her nails – just as a girl would do. All it would take was one more little nudge.... 

"It would be such a shame to take those away so soon," I added slyly, echoing what I knew to be her thoughts.

"Yeahhhh," she sighed dreamily.

"Look at it this way," I offered. "If you do this for me, you will learn how to make me pretty for you. I would love for you to be my personal makeup artist."

That brought a dimpled smile to her lips that made my heart melt.

"How many lessons are there?" she asked softly.

"The introductory course is twenty-five lessons," I informed my hubby, "but Faye told me there are Intermediate and Mastery courses, as well. I would like you to take them all...."

"But I'm not sure I'll have all those nights free myself," my baby groaned. "What if I have to work late, or Jason sends me out of town...."

"Shhhhh," I shushed soothingly, placing my hands on her bare arms and rubbing them gently up and down. "All of that can be worked out. Faye has been teaching a long time. I'm sure she's had to deal with students needing to make up classes before. You can just go in on another night, or possibly on the weekend. Besides, you are so damned organized at your job, you almost never have to work late. The few times we've chatted with Jason Miller socially, he has sung your praises to the heavens. Everything will be fine. Let's just take it as it comes."

I gazed into those sultry, alluring eyes, losing myself in them.

"I can't begin to tell you how horny all of this makes me," I murmured, "thinking of you, all dressed up and out on your own, learning to be all the woman you can be – for me."

"Try," she taunted.

"Why don't I take you home and show you, instead?"

I didn't last that long; I couldn't. My panties were already making squishy noises as we hurried down the concourse towards the parking lot exit. I lost it in the elevator on the way down to our parking level. I crushed myself against her, grinding my crotch into hers, devouring her mouth with my own. The touch of her body, the whisper soft grazing of those crimson talons across the exposed flesh of my shoulders and upper back, the taste of her lipstick, the scent of her heady perfume threw me into sensory overload.

My car was only a couple of spaces from the elevator door. I dragged her to it, grabbed her, then crashed backward against the passenger door, pulling her to me, into me.

As I expected, Angie could not yet manage my button and zipper. I whipped my jeans and soaking panties down around my thighs in one swift motion, then pressed down on my lover's shoulders. She squatted down before me, grasping the backs of my thighs with her talons, sending shivers of delight coursing up my spine. My sex was soaked, pulsing, and way more than ready.

The first flick of her tongue on my clit sent me over. I seized the back of her head with my hands and jerked her head forward into my pussy, screaming – and I mean screaming – my passion. The pipes above us reverberated from the aural assault. At that moment, I didn't care who heard us or what they thought. I wanted the whole, wide world to know this girl, this intensely sexual being, was taking me to heights of ecstasy I had never even suspected to exist. She ate me with those incredible lips and demonic tongue like a thing possessed, raking my exposed flesh with her talons. I came six more times in rapid succession: bing-bing-bing-bing-bing-bing. My legs were so wobbly, I had to press down on Angie's shoulders to keep from falling over. My vision was swimming, the world spinning around me. I was gasping for air, as though I had just run a marathon.

We heard voices, shouts, asking if everything was all right. Angie managed to get my jeans pulled up, though not fastened. She fished the keys out of my purse, lowered me into the passenger seat and closed the door, then dashed around and slipped behind the wheel. The fabulous V-12 roared to the touch of the ignition, then settled into a silky-smooth purr. She backed out of the space, snicked the shifter into Drive, then roared off, up two ramps to the safe anonymity of the street.

As we had backed out of the space, I had lazily glanced up, noting a ceiling-mounted surveillance camera, pointing almost dead-on to where Angie and I had been having hot, animal sex. I hoped the Security guys had gotten an eyeful and suspected that was one tape that was going to make the rounds. I hoped it had captured my sly wink and satisfied smile, just as we slipped out of the camera's field of vision.

We stopped at a stop light; one I knew to be unconscionably long because the cross-street was a feeder for the freeway. Angie did something that made my breath catch in my throat. She flipped down the visor to reveal the vanity mirror, then made a slow, loving show of fixing her lipstick and powdering her nose – just as I had done to entice my husband dozens, perhaps hundreds of times in the past. Then, this overdone hussy turned to me and tilted her head coquettishly, the coyest of smiles on her perfectly-repaired lips. Butter would have melted in her mouth. Damn, this bimbo had instincts like nobody's business! I trembled with desire as I weakly reached up to stroke that face.

"Take me home, you slut," I hissed. "It's your turn – and I have plans!"



You Can Always Say No Ch. 03



It was my distinct pleasure to take my lunch Tuesday at Dante's, an elegant little trattoria in the mall. Faye was right on time. I saw her approaching across the courtyard and marveled at the fluid motion of those fantastic hips and tush. I wasn't the only one admiring her strut. Every male eye in the place was fixed raptly on that poetry in motion, clad within the confines of a red and black print rayon dress with long, pointed sleeves, sweetheart neckline, and a tight skirt ending four inches above the knee. As before, the dress appeared sprayed-on and left nothing to the imagination. She was obviously braless and, as the boys say, 'her headlights were on'. On this day, she had opted for full-fashioned stockings with French heel, reinforced toe and full back seam, ending in black patent ankle-strap sandals with five inch heels. I just shook my head in amazement, watching her approach; hips undulating smoothly, breasts jiggling, head held high and a dazzling smile on her painted lips. Let the naysayers take their best shot at her personal sense of style; this woman had it together. 

We hugged, air-kissed, and settled into our chairs. While we waited for our lunch to be served, we sipped wine and got to know one another better. I had been inaccurate in my assessment of her on one point; she was an Emmy-award-winning makeup artist (two times); she had only been nominated for an Oscar. As I suspected, she was on the wrong side of forty, but only just. I complimented her on her youthful visage and sense of style, avowing she put me to shame. I commented I wanted to grow up to be just like her, causing her to beam proudly.  

I filled her in on the details of my weekend with 'Angie' over Chianti and eggplant parmesan. I tried hard not to fixate on Faye's magnificent long, curving fingernails and the way they wrapped so enticingly around the stem of her wineglass. I had a sudden vision of Angie, with nails like that wrapped around a man's erect cock, which she was sucking enthusiastically. I shivered with excitement at that mental image. I noted Faye shifting in her chair, rubbing her thighs together, as I related the incident in the parking lot after we left her. She almost choked on a swallow of wine, followed by peals of laughter, when I mentioned the security camera.

"I know most of the guys in Security," she admitted. "You are absolutely right. By now, everyone will have at least seen it, if not made a copy of it. Talk about Girls Gone Wild! You will be lucky if it doesn't wind up on YouTube."

My face fell.

"I hadn't thought of that," I stated with a little trepidation. "That would be death for my career."

"Don't worry," Faye reassured me, squeezing my hand. "They're mostly good guys. If the recording sees the light of day at all, your face – and Angie's, if it is at all visible – will be digitally erased. Leave that to me; I will personally attend to it."

I knew I liked this woman!

Perhaps it was the wine. Perhaps it was the growing sense of closeness I felt with this stunning siren. I shared with her the most intimate details of my weekend. Upon arriving at home, Angie and I had rutted like minks. This was my first real taste of sex with what Suzi had referred to as a "special girl" – and I couldn't get enough! We made it in every room in the house, in positions I had never considered before. Faye enjoyed another moment of sexual tension as I described Saturday night, when I popped Angie's 'cherry' with an eight-inch strap-on.

"How did she… take it?" Faye inquired, her excitement apparent.

"All… the… way," I smirked.

I described how Angie had cum spontaneously as I fucked her, without any physical contact to her 'clit'. Words couldn't begin to describe the sense of empowerment I had felt, taking my lover as a woman is taken, bringing her to an orgasm, then scooping up her cum in my hand and feeding it to her. The slut had gobbled down every last drop greedily.

At this point, Faye's eyes were slightly glazed.

"Faye," I asked candidly, "how did you do it?"

"Do what?" she replied, genuinely puzzled.

"When I met you Saturday, I had only the vaguest idea what I wanted with my sissy. I didn't even have a name for his femme side. When I saw you through the store window, I suddenly knew I wanted her to be just like you. Talking to you here, now, only convinces me more."

"Thank you, Faye replied, deeply moved. "That is the nicest compliment you have paid me yet."

"When I introduced myself," I continued, "you had all the answers, seemingly before I even asked the questions. You came up with the perfect name for her – Angela – so effortlessly, as though you had been contemplating it all your life." 

"I have," Faye remarked quietly. "Angela was my daughter's name."

"Was?"

"Yes," Faye responded, her eyes glistening. "She was my little angel, my gift from God; one thing in my life I really got right. She died shortly before her first birthday. SIDS. They told me she didn't suffer."

It was like a body blow. I snatched up her hands in mine, kissed them, then clutched them to my cheek.

"I am so sorry," I offered sincerely. "That had to have been devastating."

"It was," she sighed, "but that was a long time ago; more than sixteen years."

"My God," I uttered, shaken. "You were two years younger than I am now; about the same age as my Alan."

"Your husband is younger than you?" Faye inquired, intrigued.

I shrugged my shoulders a little bit.

"It's only a number," I replied. "In light of our evolving relationship, that knowledge gives me a subtle psychological edge."

"But both of you look so much younger," Faye commented, "Alan especially. He looks like a teenager."

I smiled coyly and winked.

"The miracles of modern Medicine," I confessed, fishing the clinic's business card out of my purse and offering it to her. "I can't imagine what you went through, losing Angela like that. My husband could; he lost his parents to a drunk driver when he was six and was raised by an aunt. I know I would be crushed if I ever lost Alan. How did you cope?"

I can't say I have ever gotten over it," the introspective blonde explained, "but I have gotten past it. As for having all the answers, no, I don't. I do have a lot of previous experience with feminine men; I told you that already."

"So you did."

The waiter unobtrusively removed our luncheon dishes. I ordered another carafe of Chianti, refreshing our glasses when it arrived. We were just getting warmed up.

"I love sex with masculine, well-muscled men," Faye confided. "I love cock. I love being taken, used like the slut I am. I'm just not particularly enthralled with what that cock is attached to after I'm done with it. If I could just, somehow, wave my magic wand and turn the guy into a pizza and six-pack…."

I had to laugh.

"I know exactly what you mean," I agreed. "I feel the same way; at least, I did before I met Alan."

"But he is not exactly an Adonis, now is he?" Faye countered.

"No," I chuckled, "he isn't – and Vive l' difference!"

"Amen," Faye confirmed, clinking glasses. "I adore sissies. Nothing gives me a bigger emotional lift than finding a really cute girly man and transforming him into the softest, sweetest, sexiest, femmiest sissy he can possibly be. I ooze over the really good ones. That is why I stay so closely involved with the Drag/Tranny scene. Sooner or later, I'll meet 'Missy Right'."

"I have," I replied, trying not to sound boastful, "and I am in sheer bliss. Sometimes, though, I wish I had…more."

Faye raised one eyebrow questioningly.

"More?"

"Yes," I confirmed, blushing a bit. My eyes dropped to admire Faye's lush, womanly curves.

"I told you," I murmured. "I would love 'Angie' to be just like you."

"A slut?" Fay teased, smiling coyly.

"Yes," I admitted guiltily. "What can I say? I am discovering I adore sluts!"

"No wonder we get along so well," Faye enthused.

"I have to ask," I began hesitantly. "If Angie was… I mean, more like you, doesn't that mean her… I mean, she wouldn't be able to…"

Faye took my hand in hers and gazed tenderly in my eyes.

"Not necessarily," she comforted. "As you pointed out, the miracles of modern Medicine are capable of exactly that; miracles. Realistically, yes; if you were to make Angie 'just like me', she would be soft, squishy… harmless down there. It's a question of what is important to you. I love my sissies soft and squishy; the femmier, the better. If Angie is as talented with her tongue and as responsive in her femmy pussy as you attest, then with the right toys, there is no limit to the pleasure you two can enjoy. If you decide, later on, you need something more from time to time, remember; attractive women like us can get cock anywhere."

"I won't cheat on my husband," I avowed tersely, shuddering. "My mother did that. She succumbed to the charms of some smooth-talking little shit who convinced her she was 'better than all that'. Dad caught them one day; in my parents' marital bed. It almost destroyed our family. For all that, her lover dropped her flat; never called her again. In the end, my parents stayed together, but it was only for us kids. They were never the same. I can't remember a time when I saw my father even touch my mother."

My companion squeezed my hand tenderly.

"I am not advocating you cheat," Faye explained softly. "That is as repugnant to me as it is to you. It isn't 'cheating' if you share. That is what a loving, caring relationship is all about; sharing your hopes, dreams and desires freely. You have needs; your partner has needs. If the two of you can be open and honest with each other, holding nothing back, the fulfillment of those needs should be a joy for you both."

This sexy talk was going right to my pussy. It was my turn to rub my thighs together.

"I still can't get over how good Angie looked on Saturday," I mused. "What you accomplished on such short notice, so effortlessly…."

"They say a sculptor," Faye interjected, "a really good one, like Michelangelo or Rodin, can look at a solid block of granite or marble and see the finished work of art contained within. I can size up a client, female or sissy, and see the potential – or lack of it – in a glance. When you introduced me to Alan on Saturday, I didn't ooze; I gushed."

"We are in complete agreement on that," I concurred.

"There's more," Faye went on in a more serious tone. "When I first laid eyes on Alan, I was terrified."

"Why?" I questioned, shocked at her assertion.

Faye stared at the tabletop for a moment or two, then fortified herself with another sip of liquid courage before continuing.

"I looked at Alan," she spoke quietly, "and saw that 'sculpture' within the bulky sweats. I saw… Angela, my daughter, the way she would be today; at least, the way I would want her to be."

"I saw the resemblance after the makeover," I admitted. "It was uncanny."

"You saw what I had seen in my mind," Faye avowed. "My hands merely brought that vision to life, like some latter-day Pygmalion."

We both needed a sip of wine and a moment to reflect.

"It must have killed you to put 'Angie' away last night," my companion opined, "so 'Alan' could go to work today."

"It did," I agreed, "both of us…"

I glanced aside and down, my eyes unfocused, a bemused smile on my lips. I chortled just a bit.

"What?" Faye prompted insistently. "Tell me."

"It's just that," I giggled, trying not to lose my composure altogether, "yesterday afternoon, I had gotten out the card to call Suzi, to get Alan in to remove his nails. Then I looked at those beautiful nails, and he looked at those beautiful nails, then we looked at each other. He placed his hand on my cheek, then softly, ever-so-softly, scraped his nails down the side of my face and neck. It sent chills up my spine. I had to have him right then and there. I ripped his clothes off, then my own, then threw myself backward across the kitchen counter. As he took me, he gently raked my naked flesh with those gorgeous talons. I came so hard, I saw stars – and just kept cumming! After that, we just didn't have the heart to remove them, so…."

"So?" Faye demanded. "TELL ME!!!!!"

"So," I smirked, "I bought him a pair of Isotoner gloves instead. I sent him off to work this morning, promising he had nothing to worry about, that I would take care of everything. Then, I called his office and spoke to Jason Miller personally. I explained to Jason, Alan had run afoul of a patch of Poison Ivy while doing some gardening for me over the weekend. The rash was really bad and the doctor had advised he wear the gloves until it cleared up, both to keep the hands medicated and to prevent spreading the toxin to others. Being a manager myself, I knew how especially important that was in an office environment, so I had insisted my hubby do just that. Jason thanked me for being so considerate to him and his employees."

We sat there, laughing so hard, we couldn't make a sound.

"Do-do-do the gloves do a good job disguising the nails?" Faye managed to squeak out.

"Mostly," I responded, dabbing at the tears in my eyes with my napkin. "Of course, his fingers look about twice their normal length. If you look closely, you can see the outline of the nails in the stretchy fabric, as well as the impression of the nail art on them."

My girlfriend lost it completely. She clutched her sides and stamped the tiled floor rapidly, alternating her feet in a little stutter step. I teasingly held up one palm. She gently high-fived me.

"You go, Girl!" she exclaimed with glee. 

"So," Faye asked, finally regaining her composure, "where do you want to go in your relationship with our Angie? More to the point, where do you want to take Angie herself?"

'Our Angie' wasn't lost upon me. Faye, too, had made an emotional investment in my lover.

"My head tells me go slow, stick to our agreement, let Alan set his own pace," I revealed. "After last weekend, my heart, and the domme within me, are telling me: more."

"How much more?" the ravishing blonde asked pointedly.

I took a deep breath.

"A lot more," I gushed, exhaling.

Faye sat there with a silly smile on her lips. So did I. 

"Now we really need to talk," she expressed confidently.

We clinked glasses again.

***

Jason called Alan into his office late that afternoon. My husband later related the event to me, and that he had been scared to death. I had met Jason and chatted with him at several company social functions. He may have been a GQ poster boy, right down to his chiseled good looks, designer suits and hundred-dollar hairstyle, but he was also one of the most unprepossessing men I had ever met. He radiated self-confidence naturally, not as the affectation of an overcompensating ego. 

Alan entered the office with trepidation, closing the door behind him. This is it, he had thought to himself, they know about my nails. I'm screwed.

"Thank you for coming, Alan," Jason had effused warmly. "Please, sit down. Under the circumstances, you will understand if I don't shake your hand."

"It's quite all right," Alan had responded cheerfully, grateful his boss had chosen to keep his distance. Alan seated himself on the edge of the chair. He held his legs together with knees to one side, gloved hands clasped loosely, resting in his lap.

"Is there any… discomfort?" Jason inquired solicitously.

"A little," Alan ad-libbed smoothly. "This junk I spread on my hands keeps the itching down to a tolerable level."

"Please express my gratitude again to Donna for the heads-up," Jason continued. "I admire your wife a ton. You are one lucky sonofabitch."

"Don't I know it," Alan had sighed, relaxing from the sense of camaraderie Jason had infused into the conversation.

Jason shook his head in disbelief.

"Poison Ivy," he muttered. "What incredibly bad luck – especially now."

"Jason," Alan inquired, deciding to launch a pre-emptive strike. "Is there some... problem with my work?"

"Of course not," Jason demurred emphatically. "How could you even think it? I wish all of my employees had your enthusiasm and dedication to the job. Your department's numbers are through the roof! That is why I asked you in today. Alan, I'm in a bind. I have a major new project on my plate; a bid for a five-hundred-million-dollar contract with DoD. I don't have to tell you, this is huge for us; the biggest thing yet. If we win the bid, and do well, this company and its employees will be pretty much set for life, in terms of future business.

"Of course, you don't just waltz through the front door of The Pentagon and say: 'Show me the money.' This bid will require a massive amount of research; collecting and collating mil-spec data, assessing our current production capabilities, versus re-tooling to meet their specifications, lining up the necessary suppliers, shipping, warehousing requirements, additional security requirements, pricing, contract proposals, a thousand and one little details, not one of which can be blown off. We have to have all I's dotted and T's crossed on this one. 

"The problem is one of manpower. Gayle, my P.A., did the preliminary research, then left on maternity leave. I have talked to her a couple of times and I don't think she is coming back after she has her baby. She couldn't have left at a more critical time. She was my good right hand; I just had to tell her what I needed and it was done. I can call an agency and have a temp here this afternoon, but no stranger is going to know the nuances of our business; where the 'stepping stones' are, so to speak. It would take too long to bring a 'newbie' up to speed, even if I could find one with the necessary credentials. That's time we don't have to meet the bidding deadline. I can't do the project alone and run the company, too. Hell, I'll admit it; I can't do the project alone, period.

"I think you can see where I am going with this. Alan, other than myself, there in no one in the entire organization who knows the ins and outs of this company like you. You have proven time and again; you have work ethic, organizational skills, and attention to detail like nobody's business. You are also a whiz when it comes to crunching numbers. In short, I need you on this.

"I know you have your heart set on the Vice-Presidency of Manufacturing when Bob Bailey retires. I also know this would not only remove you from management of your department, it might, on the surface, appear to be a major step backward in prestige and responsibility, taking you out of consideration for the promotion. Nothing could be further from the truth. The future of this company will rest squarely in your hands. You put together the proposal, keeping me in the loop with regular reports. We'll work on this together when the press of day-to-day business doesn't interfere. Jimmy Darnell can handle your department for now; if he does well, we'll probably make that permanent later on. When you nail this down for us - and I have every confidence you will - you will be moving up, not back. There will also be a sizeable bonus in it for you.

We'll move you right into Gayle's former office. It's close to me – in 'executive country' - and her preliminary research is already there; we won't have to move a thing. We'll keep you at your current salary and benefit package for the duration of the project. I'll let you write your own title and job description. If you want me to juggle two apples and an orange while riding a unicycle, I'll do it, just don't... say... no. Okay, Alan?"




You Can Always Say No Ch. 03



"Uh... okay."

Jason bounded out from around his desk – and paused just as he was about to take Alan's hand. He awkwardly held his hand in mid-air for a moment, not knowing what to do with it, then gently patted Alan's shoulder and beamed his brightest smile.

"I knew I could count on you," Jason enthused. "Say… Alan? Have you been working out or something?"

"Well, yes," Alan answered hesitantly. "Why?"

"I thought so," Jason responded. "You look... different."

Alan told me the chill had begun at the base of his spine and crept all the way up.

"Different... how?" he inquired warily.

"Different, like you are taking better care of yourself," Jason observed. "With the workload we have around here, it's easy to lose yourself in your job and go to seed. We're all guilty of that from time to time. You've obviously turned it around; you look really, really good. In fact, you look… younger, more revitalized than before. I just wanted to tell you, whatever it is you are doing, keep doing it. You have my full support."

***

I was waiting for Alan when he returned home; a rarity for a Tuesday night. He related the events of his meeting with Jason.

"He really said that?" I asked him. "'You have my full support?'"

"That's what he said," Alan affirmed.

I hugged him tightly.

"Honey, that's wonderful!" I gushed. "I told you, you had nothing to worry about. In fact, this is a golden opportunity for us. You will have a big new office, away from everyone who is familiar with the old you. You will be working directly with the one guy who can really open doors for you - and he already likes the way you look. Jason all but handed us a blank check to bring your feminine side out even more."

"More?" he repeated, his face losing color. "I don't know. I don't want to jeopardize…."

"We won't," I stated emphatically. "I haven't let you down yet and I'm not going to start now. Just tell me you haven't dreamed about being a little more feminine in your day-to-day life, being able to wear lingerie, and stockings, maybe even a little makeup and ear rings in those sexy new piercings of yours, and I'll stop. Say to me: 'Babe, I really think we should have my sculptured nails removed,' and we'll do it. Let me know you are tired of all this and want it over, and it will be! 

I won't like it; Hell, I will hate it. I've gotten a taste of 'Angie' now and I can't conceive of being without her – but I will, if that is what you want. I will make it all go away. I will be your woman, you will be my man, and we will have a nice, safe, sane, normal loving relationship. That is how much I love you. Just… say… the… word."

I meant every word of it – but knew it was about as likely as a snowstorm in the Sahara. Who says a domme can't top from the bottom?

I was coming to enjoy watching the conflicting emotions race through my lover's eyes. Finally, Alan closed his eyes altogether and embraced me back. I really needed that reassurance at that moment.

"Damn you," he murmured in my ear. "You know I can't!"

"I know," I murmured back, planting little kisses all over his face. "I counted on that. Baby, if our relationship is going to work – in any incarnation, we have to trust one another. I love you and only you. That is the way it is. That is the way I want it. That is the way it will be – whatever happens."

"That sounds… ominous," Alan intoned cautiously.

"Not ominous, Baby," I corrected, "exciting, thrilling, electrifying. There is a whole world of possibilities opening up before us. All we have to do is have the courage to take what we want. Sweetie, our future's so bright, we gotta wear shades! Trust me, believe in me, and all of my fortunes I will lay at your feet."

The gloves came off – literally. I closed my eyes and reveled in my Angie's tender, sensual touch. The light rasp of her nails across my cheek gave me goosebumps.

"C'mon," I urged softly, "we have to get you dressed. You have a class tonight, remember? We'll pick this up where we left off when you come home. I guarantee I will be wet and ready for you."

***

It was actually a good thing Angie had to go to class – on several levels First, I wanted her to learn how to make herself beautiful for me. Second, I regarded Faye to be exactly the influence I wanted my Angie to have at this stage of her development, helping her become the lover I so desperately wanted. I loved my husband dearly, but 'Angie', the surreal vamp who had kept me in a near-perpetual state of ecstasy all weekend, was in a different league entirely…. Third, even though I had come straight home from the office – specifically to see my sweetie after he came home – I did have business to attend to; a lead I had to follow up on from earlier in the day. I did a cursory once-over of hair, makeup, lipstick and perfume, then grabbed my purse and scurried out the door to make my appointment on time.

The appointment ran late; such is the nature of new negotiations. I knew the mall closed at nine, so I had to hustle to get home in time to greet my sweetie. I was agitated all the way, cursing every red light and slowpoke driver in my way. I wasn't only worried I would be late; I was soaked with anticipation of what our reunion would bring. I was home by nine thirty-five, thanking my lucky stars I had arrived first. I made quick work of brushing my teeth, applying a fresh coat of lipstick, arranging my hair, spritzing on a little perfume, then changing into a lace teddy and high-heeled mules.

At nine fifty, I heard the car pull into the garage, followed shortly after by the staccato click-click-click of high heels scurrying across the driveway and up the front walk. There was a brief snick of key being inserted in lock and the snap of the bolt being thrown back. The door swung open and…

Time stopped. My heart skipped a beat. My breath caught in my throat. The rest of the world faded away, inconsequential. All that existed was me… and this vision before me. The heavily-made-up face was as it had been the previous weekend. There were new things, too; a lot of new things. The hair was teased; I mean, teased. The cloyingly-sweet scent of hairspray vied with her Obsession for preeminence in my nostrils. The juxtaposition of the two fragrances fit her and was oddly compelling. The four-inch gold hoop ear rings were where they should be, flanked by a smaller set of one-inch loops. Multiple neck chains cascaded down her upper chest. Gold bangles jangled musically from each wrist. A slender chain was double-wrapped around her ankle. I did a double-take to be sure. Yup, right ankle, announcing: 'Sorry Guys, I'm Taken.'

Damn straight, Skippy! 

She was poured into a black and white python-print top with deeply-plunging neckline, a black lambskin microskirt, sheer black stay-up stockings and python print ankle-strap sandals with pencil-thin skyscraper stilettos. How did I know the stockings were stay-ups? The elasticized welts, hugging her firm, shapely thighs, were clearly visible beneath the obscenely-short hem of the skirt. I had never seen this outfit before. It wasn't one we had purchased in any of our shopping trips. She wouldn't have been able to wear this top, anyway; her bra and enhancers would have been visible a block away. That wasn't the case now; Girlfriend had boobs.

No, 'boobs' was too mild a descriptor. Girlfriend had tits, jugs, melons, udders, gazongas, bazoomers, boulders. My Angie was suddenly built like a brick shithouse! I felt like a fucking thirteen-year-old schoolboy, in the bathroom with his pervert friends, discussing the relative merits of the girls in class. There was more. She also had hips and ass like nobody's business. I didn't remember that tiny waist, either. I tentatively reached out with trembling hand to finger that smooth, shiny python top – and felt the reassuring hardness of vertical steel boning underneath. I knew without looking, her back would be a latticework of tightly-cinched laces. She had… a tiny ring… perhaps a quarter-inch in diameter… piercing her delicate right nostril. Oh… my…dear… God….

I was struck dumb. I couldn't even form words in my head, much less articulate them. I stood there, trembling like a leaf in a Force-Five gale. Somebody call Roto-Rooter; there's a burst pipe between my thighs….

Angie, bless her heart, seemed completely oblivious to my plight.

"Does this look all right?" she prattled on nervously, smoothing her talon-tipped fingers along the sides of her magnificent chest, down that tiny waist, over those thrusting hips and tush. "Mom lent it to me. She lent me the…upholstery, too. She said you would like it. Guess what? I did my own makeup! Does it look all right? Mom said I was a 'natural' for it. She did my hair this time, but promised she would show me a few styling tricks next time. Oh, you don't know about 'Mom' yet, do you? It's just that Faye is such a super lady and she told me about her little girl and I felt awful for her and she told me how much I looked like her, well, what she would have looked like now and I have always wanted a Mom and Faye has been so sweet to me since we met her and I figured you really wouldn't mind and do you like the nose ring, it's not too much, is it? If it is, I'll take it out, and Faye said you would like this look on me and if it's too much, I can change into something…"

"Shut up," I murmured, finding my voice at last. "ShutupshutupshutupshutupshutupSHUT UP!!!!!"

Adrenaline is a wonderful thing. I planted both outstretched hands against her upper chest, and launched Angie backward through the air, landing with a muffled whoosh on the overstuffed leather recliner behind her. I was on her lap in a heartbeat, scrabbling frantically under that all-but-nonexistent hem. A heavily-padded panty was responsible for those flaring hips and delicious backside. I clawed like a madwoman, trying to find my way inside.

"Whereisitwhereisitwhereisitwhere'sthefuckingopeningdon'tevenTRYtotellmeIhavetotakethewholedamnthingofftowaitwaitwaithereitisoh,yesyesyesyesyesThankYou,Jesus; she's… hard…."

"HUNNNNNGH!" came out more through my nose than my mouth. Such was the force with which I impaled myself on Angie's throbbing clit. So, you were expecting bright, witty, tasteful repartee? Better luck next Bitch! I was a good girl. Really. I lasted three whole strokes this time – before going off like a five-alarm in a fireworks factory. I dimly remember thinking to myself: Who is that rude bitch screaming her head off? Dammit, there goes the neighborhood! Doesn't anyone have consideration for others anymore? Hey, Bimbo; people trying to fuck here! Oh, wait; it's me. Heh, heh, heh – my bad!

I had no idea where I was, the time, day of the week, or date. I was floating, drifting, looking down. I saw two women; one, the crotch piece of her teddy flapping in the air, straddling a truly scandalous-looking slut, humping, humping, humping. The woman on top had her head thrown back and eyes closed. Her hands rested comfortably on the twin peaks of the slut's chest. She swayed gently back and forth, screaming through each orgasm, always humping, humping, humping. Through it all, the slut beneath her showed no sign of slowing down, much less stopping. She just kept humping, humping, humping…. Then the slut pulled out, flipped the teddy-clad woman on her back and attacked her pussy with an eager tongue, lapping, lapping, lapping. The teddy-clad woman grasped the slut's head, holding it tightly, thrashing spasmodically and screaming continuously. Then my brain… just…shut…down….

I awoke to the first rays of dawn filtering through the bedroom windows and the sounds of the shower running in the Bath. I had no recollection of walking from the living room to the bedroom and no idea of how I got here. There was no trace of 'Angie'. Was 'she' in the shower? 

I attempted to move – and stopped short, groaning. Aside from being weak as a kitten, I felt like I had been hit by a truck south of my waistline. I knew I would have to pee soon, but would put it off as long as possible; this was going to be bad. 

For all that, I was dry down there. For all the rutting we had done – at least, I think we had done – I would have expected long trails of cum running down the insides of my thighs and a puddle on the sheets under my pussy. There was none of that; perhaps just a hint of crustiness, that's all. Had my lover… washed me, then put me to bed?

The shower stopped. Shortly after, a naked Alan exited the bathroom, blotting his damp hair with a towel. The only hints of 'Angie' were his gorgeous fingernails and toenails. I watched my husband dress for work, longing for it to be my beautiful, sexy Angie. Such were the demands of Real Life. Perhaps I could do something about that….

"Hey," I called out weakly.

He turned to me and smiled.

"Hey," he called back.

He walked to my side, lifted my head and kissed me tenderly on the lips.

"Are we all right?" he asked with genuine concern.

I just stared at him as though he had lost his mind.

"All right?" I echoed.

With every ounce of strength I had remaining, I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled myself up to him, pressing my body against his and crushing his lips with my own. Once my reserves were spent, I collapsed onto the bed once more.

"No, we are not 'all right'," I growled. "We will never be 'all right' again. You raised the bar last night and it can never go back to where it was before. Anything less would simply be… less. I hope you are comfortable with that; you will have to be. As it is, I will have to call in sick today, although I am contemplating skipping the preliminaries and calling in dead. What did you fuck me with; a telephone pole?"

"Viagra," he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. "Mom gave it to me. She said to tell you, she 'thought you might enjoy it, until you decided otherwise'. Does that make any sense to you?"

"Yes, Baby," I responded, a weak smile on my lips. "It does. Thank you for giving me the message. Later, if I'm feeling up to it, I'll call… 'Mom' and thank her myself."

I watched him dreamily as he prepared for his work day, marveling at how he could already manage buttons, hooks, zippers, even tie his tie with those beautiful nails. Maybe 'Mom' had been right; he just might be a 'natural'. I sincerely hoped so. 

He slipped on his suit coat, then gloves, and was about ready to walk out the door when my curiosity got the best of me.

"Baby," I called out. "Did you… cum… at all?

The blush on his cheeks and dreamy, unfocused smile told me everything I wanted to know. I pulled the covers up to my chin and watched my beloved Alan step through the door, ready to tackle the workday head-on. An idle vision popped into my head; that of Angie strutting haughtily out the door, heels clicking, inflated breasts jiggling sweetly, hips rolling as though on rails, ready to take on that same world. 

Perhaps, I thought, perhaps….



You Can Always Say No Ch. 04



"Hi… Mom!" 

I drew out that last part, my voice dripping with sarcasm, and heard her giggle at the other end of the line.

"Hi, Donna," Faye chimed musically, the smirk in her voice apparent. "Did Angie give you my message?"

"With a vengeance," I groaned melodramatically. "She literally fucked me stupid; I went out like a light. This morning, I was so sore, I had to call in sick."

"Oooooh, that was a good one, then," Faye snickered. "I wish I could have been a mouse in your pocket."

"Forget it," I growled good-naturedly. "My 'pocket' was stuffed as it was. Where on earth did she come up with a body like that, and where did it go afterward? This morning, she had only her nails to remind me it was really her."

Faye described in detail her extensive use of special effects prosthetics in movies and television. When properly applied and made up, they were indistinguishable from real flesh. The 'tits' Angie had sported so proudly the night before had already been on-hand; cast from Faye's own prolific proportions.

"I didn't have the prosthetics for the hips and ass," Faye explained. "We took the castings, but I didn't have the money for them and the boobs, too. Custom-made prosthetics cost a mint. I had to substitute a padded panty from Frederick's of Hollywood. Fortunately, Angie and I are real close in bone structure. That's why her titties looked so good last night; it was as though they had been made expressly for her. If we ever decide…."

"We just did," I affirmed. "I'll pick up the tab. I adored Angie's new look last night. I want more – if I can survive it."

"There is that word 'more' again," Faye intoned mirthfully. "If you are not careful, people will suspect you are a greedy little bitch."

"Too late," I lamented. "Guilty as charged. Let them think what they will."

As for your 'survival'," Faye continued, "this is the point in the conversation where you are supposed to admonish me to 'never do that again'. You know what I am talking about."

"Well… yeah," I uttered pensively, hesitating a moment. "It's just that…."

"What?" Faye queried.

"Oh, I don't know," I answered, hesitant. "All the time Angie was pounding away inside me, I felt so… used, like a piece of meat, and I… loved it. I felt like such a, a…"

"Slut?" Faye offered.

"Yes, dammit," I groused, "and it felt good. Are you happy now?"

"Ecstatic," she responded, that smirking lilt in her voice still apparent. "You did tell me you adored sluts."

"Yes, but I hadn't pictured myself as one," I contended.

"Some of us are more honest with ourselves than others," Faye volunteered. "Let's see if I can guess how it played out. You were already hot to trot when you came home last night, anticipating your little tête-à-tête with our Angie. Then she came in, looking so fine, and you about gushed an ocean. You attacked her, right then and there, couldn't get enough. As it turned out, she was just as insatiable."

"Thanks to you and that damned little blue pill," I pointed out. 

"Who, me?" she replied glibly. "So, all's well that ends well, right?"

I tried to put my thoughts together in some coherent pattern. Meanwhile, the silence was deafening.

"Don-na?" my self-appointed 'mother' challenged. "Could it possibly be you are somehow… conflicted over a truly magical experience like last night?"

This woman's intuition was truly scary.

"Let me guess," she continued. "She, not you, is supposed to be the slut who can't get enough of your cock; your domme side has been salivating over that thought since… when? Saturday? Before that? You like the idea of her being 'soft and squishy', receptive to a good fucking, as I described it yesterday. Don't try to deny it; I saw the way your eyes lit up as I spoke the words."

"It's true," I admitted ruefully, "but after last night, I don't know how I can follow through with that. It was absolutely, positively, the hardest, rawest, most animalistic sex I have ever had in my life, much less with my husband. I couldn't think. I couldn't talk, other than to scream my head off. The individual orgasms melded into one continuous, sublime orgiastic thrill ride. It makes me shiver now, just remembering it. It changed me, Faye. I can't imagine never having that again."

Describing the scene to Faye and confessing my resultant emotional turmoil caused my libido to awaken. Subconsciously, my free hand dropped to my spread thighs and began to ever-so-gently finger my bruised, but aroused sex.

"How can I do what I want to do with Angie and still do what I want to do with my husband? Angie came, too; at least she said so. I wasn't sure. She must have cleaned me up afterward."

"She washed you?" Faye inquired. "She really is thoughtful."

"Washed me?" I repeated. "Well, she laved me…."

"Oh," Faye commented. "Oh…."

I suddenly got this vision of Faye massaging her clitty as I described my night with Angie. That made me hot. Suddenly, the tide was coming in again. As sore as I was, I couldn't help but delicately finger my own engorged love button through my now-open dressing gown.

"Just the thought of my loving Angie… my gorgeous little sissy-slut hubby, eating out my-my-my… well… used… c-c-c-cunt…" I gasped, so lost in the moment, I was only dimly aware of the filth streaming from my own lips – and was beyond caring.

I closed my eyes, threw back my head, and gave a barely-audible gasp as I shuddered through my release. As lost in my reverie as I was, I swear I heard an echo from the other end of the line. There was a pregnant pause in our conversation; a long one.

"Let's… recap," Faye intoned at last, sounding winded. "You want to have your cake and eat it, too. You experienced the pleasure Angie gave you, something more intense than you have ever had before, and you want it again, presumably often. Being the thoughtful, loving, caring partner you are, you want her to enjoy the same pleasure. The domme in you wants her to enjoy it your way, as the soft, squishy, receptive slut; that makes you hot. The greedy little bitch in you is afraid if you do that, you will be taking away your own candy and Angie's, too. Is that pretty close?"

"Damn," I gasped softly. "How do you do that?"

"That's what 'moms' do," Faye responded smugly, "and Angie called me from work this morning to tell me about last night. Knowing the two of you as I now do, the rest was elementary, dear Watson. Seriously, I don't see the problem."

"Why not?"

"As I told you yesterday, you have options. There is a big, wide world of pleasure out there for both of you to share and enjoy. Angie's choice seems to play a big part in your personal happiness; I respect you for that. There is too little genuine caring in relationships these days; that's why so many fail. My baby's father – my first Angie, that is – never married me. He split as soon as I told him he'd knocked me up."

"I'm sorry," I sympathized.

"I'm not," Faye avowed. "I adored his cock, not him. He and I never shared even a tenth of what you have with Angie. If the asshole had stuck around, I would just have found an excuse to kick his ass to the curb – maybe even subconsciously blaming him for my baby's death. What you have is rare, Donna. The fact that you don't take it for granted is rarer still. So, if Angie's choice in this is so important to you, ask her.

"I can't ask Alan to sacrifice his cock for my fantasy," I avowed.

"Really," Faye mused. "So, who said anything about Alan? We have been discussing 'Angela' this entire time."

My heart skipped a beat when I realized she was right; I hadn't uttered my husband's name even once in our conversation. Was I that far gone? What kind of obsessed, selfish bitch was I becoming?

"That doesn't make you selfish," Faye asserted, reading my mind yet again. "It merely means you are being honest with yourself. Besides, you had no problem making demands of… what was her name? Deidre?"

"This is different," I huffed. "It was just a game with Deidre and the others who came later. They meant nothing to me. I love my husband."

"I would not have presumed otherwise," Faye attested. "I could see it in your eyes when the two of you were in the shop; hers, too. The question is, would you love her less as the Angie we both envision – or more?"

I closed my eyes. That vision returned to me. Angie – the big-boobed version who had visited me the night before – was on her knees before some faceless stud She had long, curving talons like Faye's and they were wrapped around a big, fat, throbbing cock. Angie was sucking that cock with wild abandon, making loud, obscene slurping noises. I just knew when she had him ready, he was going to turn her around and sink that cock into her tight, inviting pussy – and she would invite him to do so. In fact, I would insist on it….

"What was that little gasp about, Donna?" Faye teased. "Were you thinking of something that made you wet?"

"Um, yes," I admitted sheepishly, noticing my hand playing with my clit yet again. Why was it, every time I was with this woman, even talking to her on the damn telephone, all I could think about was sex? I hadn't been aware I had reacted audibly to the vision, much less resumed playing with myself.

"I think we both know the answer to my question, don't we?" Faye confirmed softly. "Before you beat yourself up any more over that revelation, you need to ask yourself one question: What made Angie cum last night? Don't jump to conclusions, either; the real answer might not be as facile as you believe. Ask her - and ask her what she wants."

I felt so conflicted. I could not get that vision of 'Slut Angie' out of my head. I knew in my heart Faye was right; even if Angie became incapable of making love to me the way Alan had, there were toys out there that could launch both of us into lunar orbit. There were other options, too…. I shuddered at that thought.

"I don't know if I can just come out and ask…"

"Then don't," Faye admonished. "Ask her without asking her. Give her a taste, then ask her if she wants more. You know about wanting more, don't you?"

"Yes," I admitted sheepishly. "I do."

"Good," Faye mewed. "Then it's settled. You know you can count on me to help in any way I can."

"I really appreciate that," I assured her, "but why? If you don't mind my asking, what's in it for you?"

Dead silence – then a slow intake of air.

"I'm getting my baby back," Faye admitted softly. 

I could almost hear the tears. 

"She is going to be exactly the girl I – we – want her to be," she continued. "My intuition tells me, she wants it that way, too; or will, once she gets a real taste of it. You wouldn't begrudge a mother her baby, would you?"

"No, Mom, I wouldn't," I answered honestly, "as long as you understand she is my baby, too."

"Then we'll just have to make sure she is the biggest, best babe she can be," Faye chirped, "enough for both of us to enjoy."

I terminated the call, amazed at myself for the umpteenth time in the past five days. Had I really just agreed with my new best friend - and admitted slut - to turn my own husband into a slut just like her… and myself? I couldn't deny what a turn-on the idea was. How far was I willing to go with this fantasy? How far did I want to go? Get your hand out of your damn pussy and think with your BIG head, Donna!

***

I had a nice dinner waiting for Alan when he returned from work; candlelight, soft music, wine, the works. I was attired in a maroon French lace babydoll, plus matching floor-length dressing gown, stay-up stockings and marabou mules. My makeup and hair were 'boudoir' all the way, more sultry than he was used to seeing on me. I personally slipped his gloves off his hands, marveling at the soft, unwrinkled, moisturized flesh and lovely nails. I ran my hands softly over his body, emitting a small gasp of delight. I hadn't been awake as he dressed for his day and it was a complete surprise to encounter the telltale ridges of a bra with B-cup enhancers, panties, garter belt and stockings under his suit and tie. He shrugged his shoulders and blushed.

"After last night, I was feeling a little daring," he admitted.

I kissed him lightly on the lips, gently stroking his cheek. I had been mulling over this moment since ending my call to Faye. She had suggested I "ask her without asking her"; in other words, use subterfuge or outright deceit. Now Alan was all but handing me carte blanche to steer the scenario to a place where he couldn't possibly say 'no'. I certainly could have done that, but what would it have cost our relationship in terms of trust? It was time to make a choice.

"Go take them off," I murmured. "I need to have dinner with my husband tonight. This is important. Just lay them out on the bed; I want them where we can find them easily."

He returned about fifteen minutes later, looking about as masculine as possible, given his long ponytail and nails. As we supped, our dining experience was all about eye contact and gentle touching of hands. Although I had my loving husband before me, as I had intended, my head was filled with visions of Angie, as Faye and I had described her. After rinsing our plates and putting them in the dishwasher, I retrieved the bottle of champagne I had stashed in the refrigerator, plus the companion flutes from the freezer.

Alan took his cue unbidden, fetching the oversized ice bucket from its cupboard, inserting the champagne bottle, then packing it with ice. Even now I marveled at the perfect couple we made, so finely attuned to each other's thoughts. With him carrying the bucket and I the flutes, I took his free hand in mine and led him into the living room and to the sofa. He did the honors with the champagne bottle while I ignited the pre-arranged logs in the fireplace. This night would be all about seduction and suggestion. I was still too sore to take him into me, but that was not my intention, anyway.

We sipped champagne and made out like two teenagers by candlelight and classical guitar. In time, I was on my knees on the carpeted floor between his legs, giving him a long, soft, teasing blowjob. It was all about pleasuring this man of mine who had given me indescribable pleasure already. Yet, the subtle scrape of those magnificent crimson talons at the sides of my head as he held me filled my fevered brain with visions of my sweet Angie once again. 

He moaned softly as he came, filling my mouth with his seed. I could tell it had been good for him, yet nowhere near the explosive, earth-shattering climax he had enjoyed/endured the previous Saturday night. He, not I, pulled me close to him and kissed me passionately. I had teasingly retained his cum in my mouth, just to gauge his reaction. Not only was he not repulsed, he eagerly snowballed his load with me. I wrestled with my conflicting desires for him as our tongues dueled. We came up at last, gasping for air and some semblance of sanity. 

Before I could stop him, he had slipped off the sofa and between my thighs. Sliding off my diaphanous panty, he lapped and nibbled delicately around my inner thighs, working inexorably towards my treasure. The light, teasing touch of his lips, teeth and tongue, plus that subtle rasp of his talons on my exposed flesh, was exactly the tender touch my battered sex craved that night. My first orgasm was an exquisite torment of pleasure/pain. There were four more before my screams, spastic thrashing and pounding fists on his shoulders convinced him to desist. It took some time to regain my composure. As we sipped champagne, I ordered my thoughts.

"My Darling," I began, "I am dedicating the rest of this night to your pleasure, as you dedicated last night, and just now, to mine. You make me happier than I can find words to express. You compliment my thoughts, moods, and desires as no other ever has or could. Last night, the sex was so intense, you literally fucked me into unconsciousness.

"This morning, I was afraid it hadn't been as good for you as it had been for me. You said you had cum, but you didn't look very enthusiastic about it; certainly not at the level of intensity I had felt. Earlier tonight was good for you; I could tell. Still, there was not that explosive passion we have known in the past. Saturday night seemed much better; you erupted like a volcano. What did we do differently then? Tell me how I might please you the way you please me."

No, I am not incredibly dense. I wanted Alan to admit it to me – and himself. He was silent for long moments, presumably trying to formulate an answer that wouldn't offend me. 

"Baby?" I prompted. "Baby? It's okay, really; you can say whatever you want to say. I promise I won't take it the wrong way. I love you, without reservation. We have already shared so much. Please, you can share this with me."

"Saturday night," he began, "you fucked me."

"And you… like that?" I prompted.

"God, yes," he gushed. "After the day we had Saturday, it just seemed… perfect."

"But I didn't touch you… there… at all," I pointed out. "How could it be better for you?"

He shook his head,

"I can't explain it," he responded, confused. "Perhaps you hit my G-spot."

"More likely, I hit your P-spot," I teased. "Go on."

"Anyway," he continued, "I came harder that night than I have ever cum before in my life. It felt like my whole body was hard-wired to my pussy and every nerve ending was firing at once. It made me feel like such a… slut."

This was looking promising.

"You really love that feeling, don't you Baby?" I prompted. "It isn't about just dressing up anymore, is it? You have become caught up in the whole slut experience. In the process, we have discovered sex is more intense for you when you are being fucked than the more traditional sex we have always had. You do realize if we continue with this, things will never be the same for us, don't you?"

He hesitated, then nodded his head slowly.

"Please don't hate me," he pleaded. "I want our sex to be as good as it has always been, for you as well as for me."

"Don't hate you?" I asked crossly. "Don't you ever think anything we do consensually, in bed or otherwise, would cause me to hate you. Still, things are different now. Our sex can never again be as good as it was; it has already proven to be better than ever before. Last night was, physically, the best, most intense sex I have ever had in my life. It was the best because I was being fucked by the slut I have come to adore. 

"I get goose bumps just seeing you walk through my door. I behold you, looking the way you did last night, and my brain turns to mush. As much as I love 'Alan', I can't get 'Angie' out of my mind. Each new day, each new experience we share, makes me feel stronger, more positive about us as a couple. I like the direction we are taking, at least a much as you do. Would it surprise you to know I enjoy fucking you?"

"I deeply appreciate that, but it can't be as good for you as last night," he asserted. "In fact, I'm troubled you don't seem to want a repeat tonight."

"Oh, but I do want a repeat of last night," I countered, "but not tonight. Sweetie, I truthfully can't; that's how totally, thoroughly, completely you wore me out. I literally couldn't get out of bed this morning to see you off to work, much less go to work myself. As worn out as I was, you showed up tonight and still managed to make me cum hard five more times. That was all you, Baby. 




You Can Always Say No Ch. 04



"If I could give back to you ten times the pleasure you have given me in the past two days alone, I wouldn't feel I had done enough. If last night was the most physically intense sex I have ever had in my life, Saturday night was the most emotionally intense. I don't want you to ever think you can't please me unless you take me the way a man does."

"Y-you don't think of me as a man anymore?" Alan asked querulously. "Oh my God, what have I done?"

"Shhhhhh," I hissed. "Stop that. You are just being silly now. The truth is, I don't think of 'Angie' as a man. How could I? Why would I want to? She is my girlfriend, my slut, and I love her dearly just that way. That doesn't mean I deny the existence of my husband or have stopped loving him. I just… put him away, someplace safe, while Angie is here with me. When you, Alan, return to me, I love you unconditionally, as I always have and always will. 

"If it is really important to you, you can go back to being my man right now, full time. We will cut your hair and remove your nails. I will put 'Angie' away, welcome you into my arms and our bed and I will be your loving, devoted wife forever more. But Baby, if you will be honest with yourself, I don't think that's what you really want; not now, after what we have already experienced - and what might lay ahead. 

"I'll admit; there is something about the last five days that confuses me. You told me Saturday night – the night I fucked your sweet, tight little pussy – was the most intense sexual experience of your life. I don't need any convincing on that; I saw it with my own two eyes. You also told me 'Angie' came last night while fucking me like a man. I will have to take your word on that because you fucked me so hard, I was completely out of my mind. If you came, it also means you ate your cum out of my pussy afterwards, because I was mostly clean down there. Did you?"

"Yes," he admitted softly.

"That is what confuses me. Last night, Angie, the most delectable little trollop I have ever known, pounded my pussy in a way you, My Husband, never have in all the time I have known you. It was… ferocious, like being fucked by a complete stranger, a strange man, not my Angie. Then, Angie sucked the cum out of my just-fucked pussy like the slut she is. Perhaps the question I should have asked this morning is, was it good for you; as good as Saturday night?

He hesitated.

"No," he sighed.

"Sweetheart," I admonished firmly, "this is really, really important. You have to be honest with me; more honest than you have ever been in your life. Aside from the obvious, what was different about the way we made love last night, versus all the nights I have made love to my husband? What were you thinking about as you were fucking me?"

Another hesitation.

"I-I wasn't," he stammered.

"You weren't… thinking?" I sought in confirmation.

"Nooo," he explained slowly. "I wasn't… fucking you."

That confused me more. I'm sure the expression on my face said so.

"What I mean is," he went on, "everything was working… down there, thanks to the Viagra. I was giving it to you really good, probably better than I ever had before. You were responding like a woman possessed, cumming almost continuously. I think that was the first time I have ever seen you completely lose control of your senses like that, surrender yourself to the moment and feeling – and it was something I was doing for you. If there is such a thing as a 'perfect moment', that was it. There has never been a question in my mind how completely in love with, and devoted to you I am, but last night was certainly a confirmation. I don't know if I can ever recapture that moment, but I will certainly never forget it. 

"At the same time, it felt so…alien to me. It was an incredible turn-on in the sense that I was turning you on, but it really wasn't doing anything for me. I might as well have been fucking you with a dildo. I don't see how there could have been any difference physically; it had to have been in my head.

"Then I let my imagination run away with me. I became you, or rather, took your place. I was the slut I envisioned myself to be – the slut you have helped turn into reality – and my pussy was taking the pounding of my young life, at the hands of some big, muscular stud. The harder I pounded you, the harder he was pounding me. It was turning me on something fierce. I was so close, so close…

"Then, you screamed as you came again, a long, piercing scream that started low and built in intensity, as though it was being ripped from your soul. In my mind, that was my scream. I was experiencing that orgasm, and it was tearing my soul to shreds, even as it ripped apart yours. That was the moment I came in you. In my mind, my stud was filling me with his seed. It made me feel so complete, just as you did Saturday night."

At that moment, I shuddered through a spontaneous orgasm; just a little one, but perhaps the most emotionally satisfying yet. I didn't want to merely hold Alan; I wanted to climb inside him, and he in me, and combine our essences. I knew I had a confession to make to him, for which I would have to dig deep.

"My Love," I murmured, "since you have been honest with me, I need to be honest with you – and you must promise me you will keep this within the context of the love we share. Can you do that for me?"

"I promise," Alan avowed.

"I mentioned before, our lovemaking last night was like being fucked by a complete stranger. What if I told you that vision actually entered into my head? There I was, being taken, used like a piece of meat by some macho stud, right there before your eyes. It wasn't me trying to be mean or cruel, trying to humiliate you. It was me, laying bare my soul to you in the most personal, intimate way a woman can. It was me proclaiming: 'Here I am, My Love, laid out before you. I, the strong, assertive, confident, oh-so-proper professional, now throw all that away for you. I become the shameless slut you see here, because you have become that slut for me; one I treasure and cherish above all else. Everything I have of value, even pride, dignity, and self-respect, I offer to you now; I hold nothing back.' Can you accept me like that? Will you?

Alan paused for a moment, searching my eyes for… perhaps some sign of deceit? Apparently, he was satisfied with what he saw.

"Yes," he replied. "I can."

My heart began to pound. We were so close.

"We have also both expressed a desire for more," I continued, emboldened by his previous acceptance. "Now I want to ask you a serious question. Think about it carefully, in light of what we have already discussed. Do not allow your petty insecurities to speak for you. Here goes. Baby, I flat-out adore you as the slut you have become this week. If I asked you for more, would you give it to me?"

"Yes," he replied straightforwardly. "I would give you more."

"If what I wanted included you becoming the woman in our relationship exclusively, at least for a while, would you do it; just for me?"

His eyes clouded.

"Exclusively?"

"Yes, Sweetie," I explained softly. "That means behind closed doors, you would be giving up 'Alan' for a while. You would be 'Angie', my delectable little slut and fucktoy. We would still have sex, lots of sex, but I would be fucking you, just as we did Saturday night. Your clitty would not enter my pussy at all unless and until we decided to end our little arrangement. That's what I meant by you becoming the woman."

There was a brief flicker of panic in those Baby Blue eyes.

"Would you… want that?" he asked incredulously. 

"Oh yes, Baby, yes," I assured him. "I now understand how fundamentally the dynamic of our relationship has changed. I know how much Angie means to you and I have never been happier. I just couldn't ask my Angie to fuck me as a man anymore, knowing how you felt about it now. Do you really think I could enjoy myself, knowing you were just going through the motions for my benefit? The answer is 'no'. We have already proven, with the help of toys, our sex life can be better than ever – for both of us. Let's try this new relationship for a while and see where it takes us. Please?"

He was trembling, afraid to ask that next, make-or-break question – the one I even now willed him to utter.

"T-then if we don't… anymore," he stammered, "t-that means you…."

"No, Baby," I avowed forcefully, gazing intently into his frightened eyes. "There is no 'me' or 'you'; there is only 'us'. We will do what you are suggesting. That is the logical end for the direction we are taking. I could not conceive of doing this behind your back and still proclaim my love for you to the whole world. I long to share your world and for you to share mine; all of it, every facet, to prove to you your happiness means everything to me." 

"That is such a big step," he pointed out, "one that can't help but have consequences beyond our bedroom…"

"We will deal with those as they arise, together, as it should be," I countered.

"I can't help but feel it will change me, fundamentally, as a person – and us as a couple," he worried.

"Exactly," I encouraged. "That is the point of all of this, isn't it? You will have the opportunity to let loose the constraints of petty conformity and embrace the woman you envision yourself to be – the woman I envision you to be. I can only say again; you are not doing this for me, nor I for you. We are doing this for us. I know how scary this must all sound to you, to turn everything you have ever believed your relationship with me should be upside-down. Yet I know in my heart it is right for us."

"What if we decide it isn't right for us?"

"Then we will have at least tried, and can move on," I pronounced, "rather than never having tried and wondering 'what if?' I will welcome my husband back from that place in my heart where I have him locked away and we can live a full life together."

"In spite of everything," he confessed, glancing between his legs, "the more feminine I appear and feel, the more excited I become. I can't stop… I mean, it…."

"It gets hard," I finished for him, "and ruins everything. How can you truly feel like a girl when you have this thing down there, getting hard, spoiling the look, reminding you; you are just a man in a dress?"

Alan nodded his head, ashamed.

"Baby, you are so much more than that," I avowed. "I can help you with this problem, and any other that may arise. Your clit just requires a little extra 'persuasion' to catch up with the rest of you. If you will trust me, believe that I want this as much as you, nothing can come between us – not even this."

"How can we take care of this?" he asked.

"Let me show you," I offered, rising from the sofa with the two champagne flutes. "Come with me. Bring the ice bucket with you."

I led him to our bedroom, setting the two flutes down on my bedside table.

"Set the bucket on the dresser, then come to me," I instructed.

My husband complied.

"Remove your clothes for me," I purred. "All of them."

He did. I folded them neatly and placed them on the nearby chair. As I suspected, our talk had made him hard again. I went to the bathroom to fetch a washcloth, then filled it with ice from the bucket. Returning to Alan, I pressed the icy compress into his sex, even as I pressed the rest of me firmly against him, wrapping my other arm tightly around his waist. He trembled violently, trying to escape my freezing embrace.

"Calm yourself," I trilled soothingly in his ear. "Let it happen. It is all for the best."

His erection subsided in a minute or two. I set the washcloth down on the nightstand, then opened the bottom drawer and removed the shiny contrivance. Alan took one look and his eyes flew open in trepidation, recognizing the device for what it was.  

"Honey, I don't know about this," he demurred.

"I do, I asserted without hesitation. "It might seem scary at first, but trust me. Once it's in place, I know in my heart you will feel better about yourself. Now, your clit goes into the tube like this… see how snugly it fits? So, let's wrap these two bands around your hips like so… then the tube pivots down and between your thighs like this… and then we…"

click – click – click

"… lock it all into place like this. Voila; you are properly chastised. See how slim and graceful it looks on you? It hugs your contours as though it is part of you. Now you won't have to worry about being strong for me, Baby. Your chastity will be strong for both of us. You can still pee – sitting down, as a woman should – but your little clitty won't be able to get hard, much less poke itself into places it doesn't belong. See how flat your front appears now? You are effectively a woman, my woman, and the only temptation you will have to resist is my cock in your pussy…."

I stepped up to my now-emasculated sissy, held him close and kissed him deeply. At the same time, my right hand gently caressed his exposed butt. I snaked my index finger between his cute buttcheeks and wiggled it teasingly at the entrance to his love nest.

"Of course," I murmured. "that's one temptation we don't want to resist, do we? See? It's designed to allow me unlimited access to your sissy sex. Let me prove it to you. Dress for me."

"H-how do you want me to…" he stammered.

"Shhhhh," I whispered gently, silencing him with one upraised finger to his lips. "Indulge yourself. Dress the way you feel right now. I want to watch."

We were at another crossroads, of a sort. His suit and other male accoutrements lay before him on the chair in the corner; his black-satin-and-lace lingerie was spread out on the bed. I smiled to myself as he reached for his stockings. Picking up the pile of male clothing, I strutted elatedly to his closet and hung everything up neatly, then positioned the loafers in the shoe rack. Selecting his black patent open-toed mules, I re-traced my steps to his dresser, selecting a recently-purchased garment from there. Once he had his stockings in place, I stepped in, eschewing the lingerie for something more erotic.

I wrapped the new black satin corset around his waist, fastened the front busk, then began cinching the laces closed. I didn't cinch them all the way down; that would come later. Still, once they were tied off, his torso had a nice shape to it. He fastened his stockings to the corset's garter tabs, showing amazing dexterity with those fabulous nails, then slipped his dainty feet into the high-heeled mules. While doing so, I had freshened our champagne flutes. Handing my lover his, I escorted him to the vanity table and pulled up a chair next to it.

"Make yourself sexy for me, Angie," I murmured. "You know what I like."

She did make herself sexy, doing a credible job after only one lesson. I sipped champagne and enjoyed every moment of the transformation. Although I hadn't requested it, she fetched her titties from a dresser drawer, sprayed the rear surfaces with a super-strong medical adhesive, applied them, then blended the makeup into her chest to make them appear to be real. I swallowed frequently to avoid drooling like a gibbering idiot.

She bent over on the bench until her head was between her knees, brushed her hair out and down, spraying it liberally with hair spray, then tossed it upright again, adding yet more spray to her fluffed-out mane. She finished with a few spritzes of Obsession, then turned her head over her shoulder and smiled coyly at me. By that time, my heart was hammering madly in my chest. My gorgeous sissy-slut had returned to me!

Arising from my chair, I strode deliberately to my bedside table and once again opened the bottom drawer. I made an elaborate show of strapping on the thick, eight-inch latex dildo, cinching it tightly in place. I saw the longing in Angie's eyes. She licked her lips in anticipation.

Come to me, My Love," I cooed, holding out my arms to her. "Get on the bed, on your hands and knees."

She complied, with my assistance. I positioned her, then myself behind her, spreading her thighs.

"Reach back, Slut," I commanded. "Feel my cock. Feel how hard I am for you. Do it now."

She reached back with her left hand and came in contact with my hardness, scant inches from the entrance to her love nest. She gasped in awe as her fingertips explored its girth, trailing down its length.

"Do you see how hard you make me?" I asked. I want you real bad. Do you want me, Baby?

"Yessssssss."

"I don't think you are wet enough yet, Baby. Wouldn't it feel better if I made you wetter?"

"Yesssssss."

I had the tube of K-Y at the ready. I squeezed a generous dollop on the first two fingers of my left hand and eased them forward, parting her puckered star on the first attempt. She had closed up a little since Saturday night. Still there wasn't as much resistance as there had been that first time. That was good. When Alan had popped my anal cherry, I had needed three nights a week for two weeks before it had really begun to feel good, and that had been with a smaller dildo than this. She would need several sessions at least before she was sufficiently stretched out to truly enjoy the fucking I would most certainly enjoy giving her. After a few in-and-out thrusts, another dollop of K-Y, then a few more thrusts, I knew she was about as ready as she was going to be.

"I think you are ready now, Slut," I cooed. "How about it? Are you ready for me? Do you want my cock as much as I want you?"

"YESSSSSSSSS!"

"Show me, Slut!" I ordered. "Take my cock in your hand and guide it into you. I know you know how. Show me how much you want me!"

She reached back once again, grasped the slippery shaft with one hand, then eased it forward to the entrance of her hot little hole. Without hesitation, she pushed the knob head into her pussy until it was buried inside her. I took over from there, easing forward with my hips. It took two dozen gentle in-and-out thrusts before my cock was buried to the hilt. I heard the exhaled sigh as I bottomed out. I could just picture her face, eyes closed, with the look of supreme satisfaction on her lips. I began gently fucking her, in and out, in and out.

"Do you like that, Baby?" I asked.

"Oh, yesssssss," she hissed. "That feels wonderful."

I suspected it wasn't quite as 'wonderful' as she let on, being only her second time. Then again, the power of fantasy, aided and abetted by my verbal stream-of-consciousness skill at getting inside Angie's head, seemed to be making a difference. I knew she wanted it to feel wonderful – the sooner, the better. She wanted me to enjoy it, too, which I was. God, I loved my sissy hubby!

"You make me so hot for you, Angie," I intoned softly, caressing his smooth, supple body. You are such a little tease. You dress so conservatively for work, Miss Prim and Proper, the good little office girl no one suspects to harbor wicked thoughts. We know differently, don't we? I mean, I strip off that prim, proper little business suit and what do I find? Why, the sexiest, dreamiest, most feminine lingerie a guy could ever hope to see – and stockings, not pantyhose! Do you know what a turn-on it is to see real stockings, held up by a garter belt? That would make any guy instantly hard in his pants. It made me hard, Baby. All I could think about was ripping off my pants, sinking my big, thick cock into your tight, tantalizing pussy and making you my little bitch.




You Can Always Say No Ch. 04



"You would like that, wouldn't you Angie? Being my bitch, I mean? You dress like you want it. You paint your face and do your hair like a cheap whore. You wiggle your big, luscious bubble butt on those skyscraper stiletto heels like a cock magnet. That's what you really want, isn't it? You want to be taken, used like the slut you are, don't you? You can't wait to get home each day, strip off that dull, drab office wear and slip into some slinky, sexy, little next-to-nothing number, slip on those high heels, paint your face, fluff up your hair, then go out and tease all the little boys, tease them so bad they have to run into a dark corner and jack off, just from watching you walk by.

"I like that in a slut. I like watching the way you tease them, make them hard, make them hurt so much, they want, need, beg for a little relief. Then you sashay on, denying them their relief, like the prick tease you are – for everyone but me, Baby. You know you can't, don't want to say 'no' to me. You love my long, thick, hard cock too much, don't you?"

"Yesssssss," she whispered.

"Yes," I echoed, "you do. You know full well how difficult it is to find a lover with a big, thick cock like mine – and you are a size queen; you could never be satisfied with some limp little pencil dick, could you?"

"No!" she pouted.

"Of course not," I confirmed. "You like a big slab of U.S. Prime filling your twat; one about which you will never have to ask: "is it in?" You know when I am in you, Sugar. You feel every luscious, manly inch taking you, invading you, making you my own. That's what you want, don't you? You want to be taken, used, owned by my cock. Isn't that right, you little slut?"

"Yesssssss," my lover hissed.

"I'm sure your mom would love to see you turn out like that. She so wants you to be a slut just like her. If she had her way, she would turn you out twenty-four/seven. Think of it, Sugar. You would have tits and ass just like Mama. All those dull, drab business suits, shirts and slacks would be history, replaced by a closet full of the sexiest slutwear money can buy. Of course, you would have a new job, too; one more appropriate for your talents. What could be better than working in the MAC store with your Mama? You can keep yourself looking flawless all day. Meanwhile you help other women look the best they can be. Of course, none will ever come close to you or your Mama in terms of drop-dead desirability, but hey; that's life. 

"And the boys, Honey; think of all those boys walking by the window, seeing you, lusting for you. Think of all those hard cocks trapped inside their tight jeans, yearning to be free, free to take you and use you like the little slut you are. You know what? I just might let them. I would love to see you with another guy, or two, or three, maybe even a gangbang. Just think of it; my Angie, the gangbang whore. Your pussy would be getting a lot of action. I'm not worried. I have the cock you really want, the one you will always come home to. Isn't that right, Baby?"

"Y-y-y-yesssssss," she stammered. 

I could tell she was close; really close.

"You've got me so hot for you, I can't stand it anymore, Baby," I moaned. I have to shoot my load right now!

"Give it to me!" she hissed. "I want it all. Give me every… drop… of… your… cum, right…NOW!"

"I'm coming for you, Sugar," I called out. "Here…I…CUM!!!!!!!!"

My cock gushed its hot, sticky load deep into her like a fire hose. It may have only been a concoction of whipped egg whites and light vegetable oil, shot from a hideously expensive ejaculating dildo, but she wouldn't be able to tell the difference between that and the real thing. She screamed loudly enough to rattle the mirror as she came, shuddering uncontrollably. I had been ready with a plastic tumbler which I placed over the tip of her cock, catching all her seed. I bottomed out my cock in her as the last spurts emptied into her. She collapsed on the bed, spent, with me lying behind her, holding her in my arms, feeling her body tremble. 

"Drink this, Baby," I demanded. "A good little cumslut never wastes a drop!"

I placed the tumbler to her lips and tilted, The greedy little slut drank every drop of her own nectar, just as I had coaxed her to do Saturday night. That was unbelievably hot to watch. I snuggled up to her, my cock still inside her.

"I can't get over what a tramp you have become in such a short time," I marveled. "Just a few short weeks ago, we had… well, not a vanilla relationship, but you were definitely a shy girl. Just look at how you have blossomed! Now, you even wear lingerie to work without being prompted."

"Oh, that," she tittered, pushing back against my thrusts. "I don't know how I summoned up the courage. As I said before, after last night, I guess I just felt more…daring."

"And well you should, Sweetie," I assured her. "If I had known about it this morning as you were going out the door, do you have any idea how wet I would have been all day, just imagining getting you home so I could fuck you? Better still, you now have no fear of going to the mall, dressed the way you do – by yourself – where anyone can see and lust for you. That is so hot! I love the slut in you; the more wicked, the better. Is it as good for you as it is for me, Baby?"

"Oh, yes, Honey," she sighed. "I had no idea how easy, how exciting it would be. You should see the way the boys stare at me now."

"I have, Sweetie, I have," I confirmed. "Do you remember how wet I was when you went down on me in the parking garage Saturday afternoon, and how hot our sex was when we got home? That's why. I want everyone to want you. It is a huge thrill for me seeing you give all those boys hard-ons, knowing they will have to go somewhere and jack off to the fantasy, while I take the real thing home and fuck her. You do like the way I fuck you, don't you, My Love?"

"Oh, Donna," Angie gushed, "I love what you do to me! I want more."

"More?" I queried, not believing my luck. "Well, Baby, I want more, too – a lot more. We will work that out in the days and weeks ahead."

I held her tightly to me as we spooned, thrusting into her occasionally to remind us both of this dramatic new twist in our relationship. I didn't think I would get a wink of sleep that night. Much of my stream-of-consciousness patter was fantasy, of course. I knew how to get into my lover's head for maximum effect. It was a powerful fantasy for me, as well.

I had actually had Angie's chastity belt custom-made to her measurements before there even was an 'Angie'. It had been an unrealized fantasy of my own, left languishing in that drawer until this amazing confluence of our desires. I would wear the key on a chain around my neck as a constant reminder of this shared fantasy. Whenever she requested to be released from her confinement and our agreement, I wouldn't hesitate to do so; such was my love for my husband. Of course, if she didn't request it…. 

This evening had taken my breath away. My lover had surrendered herself to me, given up her masculinity of her own free will, with neither coercion nor deception on my part. We would each reap the benefits of our altered reality; a true win-win situation, as any loving relationship should be. 

That put the responsibility for our relationship squarely on my shoulders; a position I felt supremely comfortable accepting. I did not expect the path ahead to be a smooth one, but there would be no problem we could not overcome as long as we trusted and believed in one another. How much better that was than all the loathsome Fem/Dom trash we had read on the Internet! I couldn't remember ever feeling more content, and looked forward to the dawning of the new day.



You Can Always Say No Ch. 05



As they say, time flies… well, you know the rest. We settled into a pattern of functional schizophrenia, acknowledging the existence of both 'Alan' and 'Angie' to cope with the requirements of his career, versus the desires of our private lives. When either one was present, the other was referred to in the third person, if at all. Inevitably, there was a certain amount of 'bleed-over' from one to the other - and 'Alan' increasingly paid the price. It wasn't always a comfortable coexistence for either of us, but it was a workable one. 

To my delight, Alan had yet to request I remove the chastity. That thought would never have occurred to Angie; the device did not impede her pleasure in the slightest, and made her look and feel deliciously feminine. I knew it was physically uncomfortable at times, particularly when I hugged and kissed my husband. His cock did attempt to rise to the occasion, but was thwarted by its dainty, yet effective stainless steel prison. Through continual reinforcement on my part, my sissy hubby came to accept that, for the time being at least, he had no 'husbandly duties' to perform. As time passed, he gave the impression he wasn't even aware it was still there. 

That pesky 'poison ivy rash' just seemed to hang on and on. If Suzi had been delighted when Alan did not return to remove his nails, she was ecstatic to meet Angie in person when she began accompanying me for weekly touch-ups. Alan's co-workers finally gave up asking about his affliction. Some anonymous prankster had posted a sign on his office door: Leper Colony. Given the sly smiles on the faces of some of the female staffers in his office the day the sign appeared, Alan took it in context and reveled in the joke with them over lunch. I thought it was actually quite humorous when I heard about it.

Jason professed he had no room in the budget to hire people specifically for the project on which Alan labored, advising my husband instead to 'be creative'. In response, Alan had marshaled a formidable ad hoc 'staff' of secretaries and P.A.'s who were only too happy to assist him on a time-available basis. He frequently catered in lunch for them all, on his expense account, to facilitate the coordination of individual tasks and times available, as well as just socialize and let off some of the pressure-cooker atmosphere under which they all toiled. 

It had been one or more of these women who had been responsible for the sign on his door and other light-hearted pranks. They told him he was the best boss they had never worked for. Earlier in our relationship, I had been irked by the way women gravitated, unbidden, towards my attractive husband. I still was, but marveled at his ability to turn that into a business asset, recruiting a viable, if irregular workgroup out of not much more than personality. Any smart manager would envy that.

The same budget that prevented hiring people for the project precluded paying overtime for it. Alan was salaried, so he had to make up the difference with his own time. Whenever possible, he limited his late nights to Mondays and Wednesdays, but Jason was notorious for an occasional spontaneous, mid-afternoon "what if we tried this" meeting or memo – and a late Tuesday or Thursday crept into Alan's calendar, while the boss left to do whatever bosses do. I knew what that cost Alan personally, yet he never whined about it. Instead, he always came home with enthusiasm, recounting his day's accomplishments. I allowed the more technical aspects to glide smoothly over my head and rejoiced with him in the excitement of a difficult project coming together. 

If his 'staff' had a complaint, it was that his long hours and the stress of the project must be adversely affecting their surrogate supervisor's eating habits. They told Alan he had lost too much weight; his suits were beginning to look terrible on his slenderized torso and they were, somehow, feeling like it was their fault. They insisted he either start eating or buy a new wardrobe that looked like he belonged in it. I enjoyed a private smile when I heard that.

Jason Miller invited us both to dinner on occasion; a 'peace offering', as he put it, for taking advantage of Alan the way he was. He couldn't have been more complimentary of his Executive Assistant's (the title Alan had chosen for himself at the beginning of the project) work and the amazing progress he was making. The joke was, Jason was spending an inordinate amount of time smoothing ruffled feathers with one executive or another over supposed productivity lost because the man's secretary or P.A. had been unavailable when he needed her – off performing some task for Alan. Even Patti Drake, Jason's own secretary, had been enlisted into Alan's 'Lepers' as they teasingly referred to themselves.

Jason effused enthusiasm for Alan's boundless energy, drive, and determination to bring the project in on time. He did lament the longer hours Alan had to put in – time spent away from me – as the project drew closer to the deadline. He also fretted the same observation the other staffers had made, that his assistant had lost a noticeable amount of weight. Jason hoped I wasn't holding it and the lost 'quality time' against him personally. It wasn't that Alan looked bad, he contended; far from it. Alan now radiated an inner glow that seemed to be infecting everyone who worked with him. In spite of the petty grousing from the executives, the office was, overall, a brighter, happier place to be on a daily basis. 

My hubby's boss promised me faithfully; even if they didn't win the contract, he would not forget the sacrifices my husband and I had made to advance his company. Of course, he couldn't conceive of Alan's efforts as being anything but an unequivocal victory. If he, Jason, could do anything to ease the burden on us, anything at all, say, digging into the office 'discretionary fund' to buy Alan a new suit or two…. 

I couldn't help but smile (I was smiling a lot lately). Here was a successful entrepreneur, well on his way to becoming a gazillionaire, who remembered the people that helped him realize his dreams. He gave me hope that the future of Business was not as bleak as the Bernie Ebbers and Ken Lays of the world made it appear.

Although Jason professed we were not there to 'talk shop', the project seemed never far from their minds whenever the two were together. Sitting between them, my head darting back and forth to catch the rapid-fire exchange of ideas and data, was a bit like watching a tennis match between two superbly-skilled athletes – or, perhaps, a glimpse of what it was like with Bill Gates and Paul Allen in the early days of Microsoft. 

It was only natural for me to point out; an aggressive media campaign, designed to bring the virtues of Miller Avionics into the public consciousness, could not help but benefit his cause, particularly if there were taxpayer dollars involved. I used my most effective 'closer' on him.

"It's not just a case of 'money talks'," I pronounced with a practiced confidence. "Talk is money, makes money when wielded effectively. That's what I do."

The entrepreneur was enchanted with the idea and asked me to follow up with him at my earliest convenience.

***

Outside of business hours, Alan went away and Angie came out to play. She was done; perfection to the nth degree. Dependant on her mood, her makeup, hair and attire might be a little more subdued or really 'out there'. I'm not sure which of us was more excited at the prospect of her scurrying home from work to make herself ravishing for me. By that time, her hip and derriere prosthetics had arrived. If she had any complaints about the additional time and effort involved in application and makeup, she didn't voice them.

What she did voice threw me for a complete loop. It had been a particularly tortuous day on the job, followed by a nasty commute home on the parking lot that was our local freeway in the afternoon; two separate accidents, plus their respective Gaper's Blocks. I was not a happy camper as I stepped through our front door. That lasted about thirty seconds.

"Hi Hun-nee!" Angie gushed as she scampered up to me, heels clicking across the marble foyer, throwing her welcoming arms around my neck and hugging me. "How was your day?"

I was too stunned to hug her back. It wasn't what she said, but the way she said it. The breathy, lilting, higher-pitched quality of her voice was a perfect compliment to the overdone 'Angie' who welcomed me home. I grasped her arms and pushed her back, glaring at her warily with my 'Okay, what's the deal?' stare. She giggled, her eyes alit.

"Do you like it?" she tittered. "Faye has had me working with a voice coach, someone she knows from the movie industry. She told me not to tell you, that we should wait and keep it a surprise. Beverly – that's my coach - says we are just about there and I could 'take it for a spin' for you. Lately, it's been so difficult not to give it away. What do you think?"

My nether regions were doing my thinking at that moment and they were pleading to start the bilge pumps. Damn the girl! No matter how evil my day had been, she always had me thinking of sex the moment I walked through the door.

"You sound so… natural," was all I managed to squeak out.

It was true. She was not speaking in some contrived, patently-phony falsetto. Rather, it sounded utterly appropriate for her, in a Marilyn Monroe/Jayne Mansfield/Jennifer Tilly sort of way. Even as I thought the comparison, Angie blushed, fluttering her eyelashes.

"Well, I still need a little help," she confessed. "There's this spray Beverly gave me that tightens the cartilage in the larynx, causing the vocal cords to pull taut. The effects last several hours if you don't push your voice too hard. Still…."

"Enough, Wench," I growled teasingly. "Too much information. That is the sexiest thing I have heard since 'take me to bed or lose me forever'."

"Take me to bed or lose me forever," she chimed enthusiastically, extending her arms to me.

"That's a no-brainer," I affirmed, grasping her hands firmly and leading the way.

***

I sometimes had trouble believing our relationship had come as far as it had so quickly. There were similarities to the best of the downloaded stories from the Internet, as well as some glaring differences. No, we did not spend all that much time shopping. No woman is that obsessive, except perhaps Paris Hilton and there is nothing real about her, anyway. No, I had no intentions of transforming my sissy hubby into my full-time domestic servant and handmaiden. We did indulge ourselves in a few French Maid fantasies, but mostly split the household chores equitably as we always had. If I decided to go the servant route, I would contact an agency. Likewise, my 'baby' was too damn good to waste in a bonnet and diaper, languishing in some outsized crib. Infantilism? Sorry; that was just wrong for us. 

Angie was at the shop most Tuesday and Thursday evenings while I took care of the things I had to. As one might expect, people noticed the amazing resemblance between Faye and her new 'student' – and Faye was quick with a response. She told all who asked Angie was her nearly-eighteen-year-old daughter – exactly the age Faye's own child would have been, had she survived. 

If any mentioned they hadn't known she had a daughter, Faye admitted she had made mistakes earlier in her life. As a result, Angie's father, who didn't approve of Faye's flamboyant lifestyle, had been granted primary custody of their child. As Angie had recently come of age, she had reached out to her mother to reconcile. The girl had blossomed under Faye's nurturing, embraced her mother's attitude towards life wholeheartedly, and now wished to join her in the 'family business'. The striking similarity between them, plus Angie's youthful countenance beneath all the makeup, made the fabrication believable. 

Other than Faye and myself, the only individuals who knew differently were the two co-workers she enlisted to talk to Angie that first Saturday. They were enchanted with the way Faye's 'baby girl' was developing and enthusiastically joined the plot. The three of them gave me a 'credit' in their storyline; I was the trusted friend and confidant who had acted as go-between and brought mother and daughter together. I thought the cover story was delightful - and potentially useful. 

Faye told me 'our girl' had finished her Introductory and Intermediate phases in record time and was now working on her Mastery level courses. Angie had actually begun working on those evenings and some weekends, doing consultations and makeovers in her 'internship'. By the time she got home, she was gushing with enthusiasm about this or that client and how she had made the woman look her best ever.

I gushed too, but for a different reason. One would think, after a while, I would begin to take it all in stride, perhaps even become a bit blasé about it all. Nothing could be further from the truth. Each time my Angie shimmied up to me and held out her arms, it was like seeing her for the first time – and feeling that same electric thrill. 

It seemed so improbable this siren was also the husband whom I loved just as dearly, the one who was even then assembling a multi-million-dollar contract bid. Lately, they were so radically different in appearance and demeanor, it was almost as though they had become two distinct individuals. Perhaps they had, in a way. At work, Alan bore a terrible burden; no less than the future of his company and, inevitably, his own career. Everyone has their preferred escape mechanism from that kind of pressure. Some climb inside a liquor bottle every night. Some overeat; that's why they call it "Comfort Food". Others do drugs. Still others take their frustrations out on their spouses and/or others around them, often spitefully, sometimes violently.

For the most part, Alan eschewed those self-destructive behaviors. Instead, he sought refuge in Angie, the sometimes brainless bimbo (at least, that was part of the act) who existed solely to be as beautiful, feminine and sexy as she could be, pleasure me in any way she could, and be pleasured in return. When taken in that context, Angie's sometimes vapid, hedonistic behavior made perfect sense, right down to acceptance of her own chastisement; the greater the pressure on Alan, the greater his need to get away from it all – and Angie's need to assert herself. I could hardly complain; look what I received in return.

Angie was more attentive to my sexual and emotional needs than ever, taking me to heights that made K2 and Everest seem like anthills. More than a little of that ecstasy was me, lost in the fantasy and having no desire to find my way out. Our expanding toy collection was superbly crafted, expensive, and worth every penny. On more than one occasion, I raised a painful and embarrassing lump on the back of my head from banging it repeatedly against the headboard of our bed. Angie was just as proficient at shredding an occasional sheet or pillow with her talons as I claimed her pussy for my own. Each experience was better than the last, but like any junkie, I was always looking for that next, higher high.

***

Humans are inherently social animals. It is not desirable to spend every night at home (nor work or class), no matter how drop-dead gorgeous and sexy your significant other may be. I had made the development of Angie's social skills – and exposure – a priority. If she craved 'escape', what better way than to be seen and accepted by others as the vamp she wanted to be? I wasn't about to deny; the thought of taking my little chippie out on the town and showing her off kept me in an advanced state of arousal. 

She was already an accomplished 'mall rat', so the progression to more adult venues – theaters, restaurants, concerts (no, no mosh pits), night clubs and dance clubs – was a rapid one. When we went out together, I drove. There were control issues, of course, but there was also the matter of Angie having to show Alan's driver's license if, God forbid, we got pulled over. Why court disaster? For the same reason, I tended to take us places where I was already known, or where two attractive young women would be admitted, unchallenged, for their appeal to lots of young, impressionable, free-spending guys. From the clubs' perspective, that was just good business. I could, and did, appreciate that.

I was elated with the reactions my girlfriend elicited, not unlike those of your typical porn star. The svelte, trés-chic, A-cup urban party girls hated her, period. I expected that, even relished it; After all, I was making my honey over for me, not them. Not every man gave her an approving once-over, either. Most of those were with their wives or girlfriends. The men who did pay attention – either unburdened with a mate's disapproval or undeterred by it – cast frequent, surreptitious glances our way or just stared, mouth agape. You could have re-built Noah's Ark with all the freshly-raised wood they sported. That gave me a perverse thrill, like going shoe shopping and coming home with a pair of total 'Come Fuck Me' pumps.

Of course we got hit on; why do you think I took us to places like that in the first place? I love being the center of attention. With Angie by my side, there was no way we could be anything but. We drank, danced and had a good time. I encouraged her to dance with guys. She was hesitant at first. After all, interacting with a boy that way for the first time is an intimidating step in any girl's life. I took the lead for both of us, as I always have.

Finding a couple of interested guys was easy. Getting her dance partner to snuggle up behind her, do a nice, slow, sensual bump-and-grind was easier still; I just got behind him and did the same. My partner made it four in a row. Once things were going nicely, I broke my partner and I off so I could dance facing Angie, keeping my eyes on her and her alone. My partner was free and easy with his hands, which was certainly a turn-on. It was an even bigger turn-on to see Angie's partner doing the same. I kept a close watch on his hands, making sure he wasn't getting too close to something we probably didn't want revealed to complete strangers, but the aroused expression on my lover's face was priceless to me. I willed her with my eyes to understand I was cool with it, and she should be cool with me and my dance partner, too. 

Ulterior motive time; I wanted Angie to get used to flirting with men – and men flirting with me, right in front of her. Humiliation was the furthest thing from my mind. If we were to survive as a couple – and I wanted with all my heart for us to survive as a couple – she would have to get used to the fact that men were going to find both of us attractive and wouldn't think twice about putting the moves on one of us with the other right there. With the right attitude, it could be a fabulous time for us both. As I had taught my husband so long ago: I came with you, I leave with you; anything that happens in-between is strictly business – in this case, sensual business. On that first night, the ensuing sexual romp when she and I returned home was off the charts. Others were to follow.

After returning home from one such evening, I had performed my nightly ritual and was coming out of the bathroom, on my way to a much needed night's sleep. Angie was sitting at the vanity, gazing into the mirror. She didn't seem in any hurry to remove her prosthetics or makeup; a cardinal rule Faye had taught her. She just sat there, absentmindedly caressing one breast – much as her dance partner had done earlier that evening. That gesture, plus the absent, slightly dejected look on her face, spoke volumes – and I got the message. I stood behind her and massaged her shoulders. She nuzzled my arm with her cheek, covering my hand with her own. She smiled at me in the mirror, although I detected a touch of sadness around her eyes.




You Can Always Say No Ch. 05



"Get cleaned up, then come to bed," I urged, smiling suggestively. "Leave the 'body' on 'til morning. I want to feel it as I snuggle up to you."

The simple act of spooning had never felt so tender. Angie slept like a baby. In fact, I half expected to look down on that angelic face and spy her sucking her thumb. I, of course, had perverted visions of her sucking a much larger appendage. In contrast, I don't think I slept a wink, my mind ablaze with a whole new scenario in our lives, engendered by that simple, forlorn gaze on her face before the vanity mirror.

***

My weekly luncheon with Faye the following afternoon was a seminal one.

"She told you that?" Faye gasped, mouth agape. "Donna, that's marvelous!"

"Not in so many words," I averred. "It was more in the way she looked; I just sensed it. I think a little of you is rubbing off on me."

"Oh, Donna, I am thrilled for both of you," Faye gushed. "It's about time, too. I've seen the same look in her eyes and was going to mention it to you. I know exactly who to contact. She's an old friend I met through the 'scene'. She's not into it to the extent you and I are, but she is certainly supportive. If you will allow me, I will give her a call."

"Do it," I urged. "I didn't get a wink of sleep last night, just thinking about it. How long do you think this will take?"

"I will call Shelby right after lunch," Faye avowed. "I think you should meet with her first. Depending on her schedule, we should be able to set that up quickly. I would be happy to go with you and make introductions."

"Yes, do," I breathed, relieved. "I want your moral support on this one. I was going to ask you anyway."

Faye took my hands in hers.

"Then it's settled," she pronounced confidently, winking. "Shel and I have always gotten along like a house on fire. She teases me about my personal style, but trusts my judgment. I have no doubt she will adore you. Meeting with Angie after that will be a formality, but I just know she will be okay with it. Damn, I haven't been this excited since Terri won Miss…."

The stunning blonde paused in mid-sentence, her eyes staring into space. In a few moments, she returned from her private reverie. When she saw me appraising her, she actually blushed; a first between us.

"Terri Tunney was one in a million, like Angie," she explained. "It had been a couple of years since my baby died. I had thrown myself into my work – and started doing makeup on the T-girl pageant circuit on the side. I suppose I had always been fascinated with that scene. Let's face it, that's what I do; transform ordinary, even plain women into extraordinary ones. Perhaps there was even a little 'domme' in me, something that got off on the idea of transforming sissy boys into ravishing beauties.

"Terri was all of that, and then some. 'Terry' was the mousiest little button-nosed, freckle-faced, red-headed boy you could possibly imagine, like something out of Huckleberry Finn. You could almost picture the straw hat and tattered-hem clam-diggers. He was even from a small town on the Mississippi. How ironic was that?

"His dreams were anything but small. He had always wanted to be a girl, and not just any girl; he wanted to be famous, glamorous, like a movie star. He made his way here like so many others, chasing that dream. I met him at his first pageant; a little local thing sponsored by a bar in 'Boys Town'. I was there to do makeup for another contestant. Terry looked so lost, with those big green puppy-dog eyes, so I offered to do his, too. You would not believe the stunner that emerged as the makeup went on. She was still rough around the edges, talent- and comportment-wise. Even so, she took third place…"

Faye snapped her elegant, graceful fingers for effect.

"… just like that.

"I kind of adopted her after that, taught her about makeup and hair, how to carry herself, all the little feminine things that we do. Remember that fast-food commercial: 'I soaked up Philly like a sponge'? That was Terri; she channeled 'girly-girl' like nobody's business. Going full-time was a given; I had thought of her as a girl since that first night, seeing her out on stage with all those people applauding. I actually had to burn all her boy clothes to get her to admit it to herself.

"I'm not sure when or where I fell so hard for her, but I made a pass and she responded; God, did she respond! It was like a Fourth of July fireworks spectacular that just went on and on. I moved her in with me right after that. Our relationship went on for nearly two years. She did make-up with me by day and worked every night on improving her 'presentation' for the next pageant. I introduced her to Beverly Martin, the same voice coach I have Angie working with now. Terry took dance and singing lessons, too. Our relationship was magic. No guy, certainly not my baby's father, ever did for me what Terri did.

"Did she… how do you put it… transition?" I asked, genuinely intrigued with this glimpse of Faye's past.

"Mostly," Faye answered, dreamily recalling some fond memory. "She couldn't do her gender reassignment surgery while she was still competing; that's against pageant rules, not to mention the expense. In all other respects, she was fully female – and I mean fully. Two years of hormone therapy, plus some other little 'scene' tricks, had given her a body teenage girls and some Hollywood starlets would kill for.

"Donna, when I saw her walk into a room, my heart started pounding. I had to remember to breathe, to blink my eyes, to think. Forget about whatever had been on my mind at the time; that was a lost cause. When I saw guys ogling her, I was proud. I never worried about one of them taking her away from me. There just aren't that many who would risk social censure for a T-girl. 

"When I noticed other women giving her the once-over, I got… insanely jealous. I've actually heard women say they were so infatuated with their boyfriends, they wanted to scar their men's faces so other women wouldn't find them attractive. I wanted to go the other way, making Terri so outlandishly femmy, every other woman would feel threatened by her. I encouraged her to get 'body' like mine and she was thrilled with the suggestion. We were saving money for her boob job. Does any of this make sense to you?"

"Oh yeah," I agreed, nodding my head sagely. "Believe me, it makes perfect sense."

"I kinda thought it might," she surmised, squeezing my hand.

"Faye, what happened to you and Terri?" I inquired. "Why aren't you two still together?"

Her face paled. She stared a hole in the tabletop for a long time before looking up.

"We made the big time," she began quietly. "Terri won a preliminary for Miss Continental; that's the granddaddy of all the T-girl pageants, their Miss America. They gave her a tiara and this big trophy; a brass figurine atop a marble base. I got to hold it for a while; the thing weighed a ton. There were spotlights, music, a bouquet of roses and a couple hundred people applauding and cheering. You should have seen her cry! I cried, too. When she finally realized we were going to Chicago that Labor Day weekend to compete in the nationals, I about had to pry her off the ceiling with a crowbar.

"I was emotionally spent after the excitement of the pageant itself, not to mention the jubilation after. Plus, I had an early call the next morning for a film. I went home to get some sleep. Terri was too jacked up. She grabbed her trophy and went out to party with her friends. That was the last time I saw her. I filed a missing persons report, with photo, after the twenty-four-hour waiting period; then, nothing. 

"The police found her – what was left of her – in an alley behind a downtown dance club. I guess she stepped out for a breath of air with some guy and he didn't like what he found under her skirt. They made a tentative ID by her hair color and physical description from the missing persons report; her fingerprints weren't on file anywhere and the photo was useless. I got a call three days after she disappeared, asking who her dentist was. Donna, I can't begin to describe how sick in my heart that made me feel. It turned out there were just enough teeth left to make a positive match. They never did find her purse – or that damn trophy. I heard later they suspected it might have been the murder weapon; a 'crime of passion', they called it. That was before hate crimes were recognized by law."

I felt an icy hand grip my heart. This time, I squeezed her hand in support.

"How did the case come out?" I asked sincerely.

"Case?" Faye snorted derisively. "You need a reality check, Sister. The 'official inquiry' was closed the same week it was opened. No arrests were made, no charges were filed, no donuts were left unfinished. Forget about the 'leads'; I don't think a single chair went cold. She got a three-line obit in Section D of the Times; end of 'case'. That's the way things work in the Scene."

"So you lost another baby," I intoned softly.

My companion nodded. There were tears in my eyes. Faye's were running down her cheeks. God, what more could happen to this woman? Then I thought about the dance clubs I had taken my sweetie to….

"That could have been my Angie," I mumbled, stunned.

Faye squeezed my hand again and forced a smile.

"We'll just have to make sure it never is," she pronounced resolutely, "for both our sakes, not to mention hers."

Faye was as good as her word. She and I met with Shelby Fairchild the following afternoon. I was glad to have my friend with me. Although I hid it well, I was a nervous wreck. After all, Shelby held our future in her hands. I needn't have worried. She was a southern gal with a smile and personality as big as all outdoors. We got along famously, just as Faye had predicted, chatting like old friends right up to the end of our session. 

Faye and I stopped at a nearby sidewalk bistro afterward. We sipped chilled Chablis as we mapped our strategy. I couldn't help but remember my high school commencement ceremony. Our rather unremarkable principal uttered that classic, lame exhortation: "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." That had never been more true than now. As my friend and I parted, each of us to return to our jobs and make arrangements, I was tingling with excitement.

***

"Can't you tell me where we're going?" Angie wheedled in her best little-girl voice, clinging firmly to the overhead bar. 

She had learned early on I was a soft touch when she played me that way. She wasn't the slightest bit hesitant to employ it now to get what she wanted. Not this time, Girlie!

"I told you, it's a surprise," I confirmed, yanking hard on the black satin corset's laces for emphasis. "You like surprises, don't you?"

I tied off the laces at last and tucked them into the webbing, more to discreetly hide them from view under her clothing than prevent Angie from reaching them. I wasn't worried she would try to loosen them; not anymore. Faye and I had been figure-training her since that Wednesday night she surrendered herself to me. It was no wonder the girls at her office had noticed how badly her male suits draped on her body. We had wondered all this time if any of them would notice the corset, garters, stockings and enhancer-stuffed bra under the suit.

I had already had all her pants re-tailored to nip in the waistlines as much as could be done. We had had to abandon Alan's belts, replacing them with reasonably-masculine-looking ladies belts that would cinch down tightly enough to keep the pants up. I now marveled at the twenty-two-inch corseted waistline proudly displayed before me, exaggerating even more the swell of her hips, tush and bustline. She wore it all so effortlessly now; barely an afterthought, like the chastity.

"Honey, you know I love your surprises," she gushed breathily, lowering her thick, curly lashes in a 'bedroom eyes' tease. "I know! We're going to that new club Mom told us about, aren't we? What's the name again? Neo? I've been dying to check it out. That's why you had me do your makeup heavier tonight, isn't it?"

I adored that hushed, breathy tone in her voice, for which the corset's steely grip was responsible. It made the similarity between Angie's voice and Marilyn Monroe's all the more striking.

"Could be," I hinted with a coy smile and wink. "Mom said this was a special occasion and requested us to share it with her."

"Mom is going to be there with us?" she chirped. "Oh, Honey, that's perfect!"

The fact was, the three of us – Faye, Angie, and myself – would be making the scene at the new 'in' venue later that evening. The advanced word was, Neo was a decadent delight; throbbing Techno beat, subdued lighting, tall, recessed booths and niches, shrouded in the gloom of the night, lending themselves to privacy – for whatever pleasure the patrons wished to pursue. The buzz was, away from prying eyes, that could be just about anything. The club offered special theme nights throughout the week to draw a broad spectrum of club-goers. Wednesday was Ladies Night – with a special emphasis on special 'ladies', as well as those who admired them. 

For the occasion, I had requested Angie give me the 'Glam' look and she had responded with joy. She had gone a little over-the-top for her own look – okay, more than a little – but it was just right for her and I certainly wasn't going to complain. Of course, all of that would come later. We had another stop to make first.

"Oh, wow," she gasped. That's Mom's dress."

It was indeed the zebra-print creation Faye had been wearing when we met her. I held it open for Angie to step into.

"Mom said she wanted you to wear it for her tonight," I explained, shimmying the thin, shiny fabric over her plush curves. "She told me it was a mother-daughter thing; that she wanted to see her little girl all grown up, looking just like Mama."

"This is just so good, I can't stand it," she gushed. "I love this dress! It is just so wicked."

My sissy hubby hugged me tightly around the neck. 

"Okay, enough!" I exclaimed with mock severity. "We have to finish getting you dressed so we can get out of here – and don't you dare cry! We don't have time to shovel out that mudslide."

With a little effort, I shoehorned Angie into the shiny, unyielding fabric and managed to zip the zipper up. The garment gripped her voluminous curves like a thin rayon cocoon. The sleeveless little number's deeply-plunging neckline revealed her cavernous cleavage almost to her areolas. The narrow waist and tight, over-the-knee skirt emphasized the sprayed-on look, outlining every ridge and cross-hatched lace of the corset beneath. I positioned the two-inch-wide gathered straps just off her shoulders, coming to rest on her upper arms, in a nod to screen sirens from years past. 

In the same vein, the sheer, jet black stockings with reinforced toe, French heel and back seam caressed her shapely lower limbs like a gossamer whisper. Angie's black patent sandals had inch-wide straps that criss-crossed over her instep, plus the slender ankle strap that cinched it into place. My lover balanced effortlessly on the shoes' two-inch platform soles and pencil-thin six-inch heels. 

I completed the picture with long, dangly black lacquered teardrop earrings, a matching multi-tiered necklace, and four outsized black lacquered bangles on each wrist that clacked together as she moved. Everything, even the most subtle nuance, fit her perfectly, all bathed in an essence of hairspray and perfume. But for the darker blonde hair, she appeared to be a teen-aged Faye standing before me, in the flesh. In essence, she was.

My own black sequined sheath showed off the swell of my breasts, the inward curve of my natural twenty-four-inch waist and the flair of my hips and firm butt. The hem ended just above mid-thigh – just below the dark welts of my sheer, seamless stockings. The black sequined shoes had been pure kismet; found separately from the dress, in a different store on a different day. I knew the moment I saw the sexy little five-inch pumps they would be a perfect match. I accessorized with a single-strand diamond-and-gold necklace with matching drop earrings. A few spritzes of Shalimar and I was good to go.

We filled our respective clutches – Angie's black patent and my black sequined – with our makeup essentials, perfume spritzers, mini-Altoids tins (we both liked Cinnamon) to keep our breath kissing sweet, and cell phones. Angie was about to transfer her wallet from her day purse when I stayed her hand.

"Just take your ID, Baby," I purred. "Realistically, you won't even need that, will you? Tonight is my treat; you are my date. Revel in it."

I air-kissed her, not wanting to muss our lipstick.

She removed her ID from her wallet and inserted it in the inside pocket of her clutch, then returned the wallet to her day purse. I removed the house key from my key ring, replaced the ring in my own day purse, put the solitary key in my clutch, then picked up my cell phone and called for a taxi.

"We're not taking the DB9?" Angie asked, puzzled.

"We can't fit all three of us in my car, Sweetie," I pointed out. "Besides, I would like to have a couple or three cocktails tonight. We'll take a cab to Mom's place, then go on from there. That way, I can give my 'date' the undivided attention she deserves."

She hadn't even offered to drive her BMW, which had plenty of room; such was the depth of her conditioning.

"Honey, it's still so early," Angie pointed out. "If we're going to a club, we'll be the only ones there. Are you sure you want to leave so soon?"

"Positive," I assured her, "and you will be, too, when we get where we're going."

Faye was out the front door with the first beep of the taxi's horn. As she strutted proudly down the sidewalk of her building, I couldn't help but admire her. This was classic Faye; a shocking pink four-way-stretch spandex knit dress with deeply-scooped neckline, long, off-the-shoulder sleeves and a hemline that could best be described as there, if the wearer didn't wiggle around too much. Admittedly, that was a lost cause where Faye de Castro's hydraulic hips and pneumatic, braless boobs were concerned. With a dress like that, she had to have been wearing pantyhose; a no-no in Faye's fashion lexicon, unless they were the crotchless variety.

Long crystal chandelier earrings with matching multi-tiered necklace, seven-strand tennis bracelet and five-strand ankle bracelet sparkled in the available light. Her lips, talons and toenails matched the dress flawlessly. The pearlescent-white-over-sky-blue shadowed eyelids were a departure from her customary darker tones, but with the broad swaths of black eyeliner and showgirl lashes, her Baby Blue orbs were anything but demure. 

Completing the 80's-retro look, her shimmering platinum mane was a mass of fluffed-up curls, draping over her shoulder blades. Well, why not? I thought. The timing is right. Maybe we're ready for a comeback. This entire package shimmied seductively our way atop pink patent ankle-strap sandals with clear Lucite platform soles and six-inch Lucite heels. Delightfully, "act your age" was simply not in this minx's vocabulary, which made her so much fun to be with.

Faye slid into the rear seat opposite me, positioning Angie between us. Her eyes sparkled like diamonds as she beheld her 'little girl', all grown up.

"Baby, you look sensational!" she effused, hugging Angie. "Mama is so proud of you."




You Can Always Say No Ch. 05



Faye and I clasped hands and exchanged air kisses.

"Are we ready?" Faye questioned, her eyes dancing.

"As ready as we can be," I responded, winking and smiling coyly.

Angie looked at me, then at Faye. She stared straight ahead, obviously pouting, arching her left hand, palm down, over the top of her head – indicating the path of our conversation. I slipped my arms around her shoulders and held her close to me.

"Relax, Sweetie," I expressed. "Don't take it that way. I couldn't give away the surprise until your mom was here to share it with us. This involves her, too. Now, what is the one thing you want more than any other?"

"You mean, other than world peace, universal happiness, Net Neutrality, and a Democrat in the White House?"

"Smart Ass!" I chided derisively. "Yes, other than those things."

She didn't hesitate a moment.

"To be happily married and devoted to you for the rest of my life."

Okayyyyyy, way to make my heart take a flying leap into my throat!

"S-sweetheart," I stammered, misty-eyed, "you managed to say the one thing that was guaranteed to leave me speechless – as you always do. That is just one of the countless reasons I love you to pieces and always will. This one time, I was actually looking for something a little more… selfish."

"I – well…."

She turned her head away from me to stare out the window into the twilight. Faye smiled, placed her index finger under Angie's chin, lifting her face until their eyes met.

"Tell her," she commanded. "I know you are thinking it. I see it in your eyes every night, just as Donna did. Admit it; if not to us, to yourself."

Faye pushed gently with her hand, pivoting Angie's face towards mine. She met my gaze for a moment, then looked down.

"I want… more," she murmured softly.

"Déjà vu," Faye purred, winking at me.

I placed my hands on her cheeks and lifted her face to look me in the eye once again.

"What do you mean, Baby?" I crooned. "What more do you want? You can tell me. Haven't we been able to tell each other anything?"

She was struggling with it. I could actually see the words in her eyes, trying to come out, yet she seemed incapable of putting voice to them. I knew why, too. It was as Faye had just alluded to; she was having trouble admitting it – to us and herself. 

Epiphany. Inspiration. Perfect Moment. My entire life had been leading to this person, this place, this instant in time. My husband – smart, self-reliant, strong, proud, defiant – had joined me in a voyage of discovery, beginning that magic night before our wedding. In the course of that journey, we had fought, maneuvered, negotiated, reasoned, cried, ranted and loved. In the process, we had re-defined our perceptions and expectations of each other and ourselves. Little by little, Alan's tough, defiant façade had eroded, exposing the soft, compliant, accommodating soul within. 

It was nothing I had robbed him of or ripped from him. We had sparred, as two wolves might vie for hegemony over the pack. In the course of that struggle, he had recognized me as the Alpha and he, the Omega. The overstated, yet ethereally-attractive result of that realization sat next to me now; expectant, hopeful, needy. Angie knew full well what she wanted; so did I. She didn't, couldn't voice her desires because she understood it was not her place to do so; it was mine, as leader of the pack.

Confessing she 'wanted more' was a flirtation, an opening gambit; she was lowering the last of her defenses and offering her throat, as I had once envisioned. It had been too soon then. I hadn't realized – Alan probably hadn't, either – such intense intimacy required a period of courtship, just as any good, lasting relationship did. That time of adjustment and accommodation was now over. I had only to step up and take her proffered flesh in my mouth. I couldn't believe this incredible timing; tonight of all nights. It was enough to make me believe in Synchronicity.

"It's difficult for you, isn't it Baby?" I cooed, gazing deeply, knowingly into her eyes. "You want so much, so very much, yet you are afraid to express the words. You feel so small, inadequate, to make such a request of me, but without it, you feel so incomplete, unfulfilled. It's all right, Sweetie. I know; I have always known.

"Let me be the one, Baby. Let me be strong for you, for both of us, as I have always been. I will say the words for you and as I do, I will purge you of your doubt, shame, and fear. You want… release, once and for all, from the burden of constraints and unreasonable expectations a cruel, uncaring society has heaped upon you since birth. You yearn to be free to express yourself, visually, physically and emotionally, in the manner that makes you feel good about you. That role they assigned you to, that person they demanded you become doesn't exist, never did, and never will. It clung to you awkwardly, draped clumsily over your essance like one more ill-fitting suit.

"Slough it off, Sweetheart. Shed that uncomfortable, unsightly skin and reveal the young, vibrant, alive soul it sought to suppress. This is the 'you' you were born to be. This is the skin the whole, wide world should see, and appreciate, and know in their heart of hearts; this is where you belong. I can see it in your eyes, Baby; can you see it in mine? I have known forever you and I were destined to be here, now, this way. I would not have missed this for the world because you are my world. 

"The past is the past; we will neither dwell in it nor mourn its passing. We will move forward, you and I, and never look back. In so doing, you will leave behind that burden, becoming that which you covet most, for all to see. You have my blessing, my unequivocal support, and my undying love. I want this for you. I know you want it, too – don't you?"

She didn't say yes. She didn't say no. She sighed; deeply, emphatically, gently resting her head on my left shoulder and her left hand on my right. I put my arm around her possessively, smiling at Faye in triumph. She acknowledged my smile with her own, willing me with her eyes to understand how proud she was to take part in this moment. Angie gazed up at me, adoringly. I had never before in my life beheld such… unconditional love as I did at that moment. It felt great to be alive, in love, and in the company of such fabulous soul mates.



You Can Always Say No Ch. 06



We pulled up in front of the professional building opposite the sprawling medical center. The intervening multi-story parking structure was well-lit, but sporadically populated with vehicles this long after business hours.

"What are we doing here?" Angie questioned as we stepped out of the cab.

"Baby, Faye and I have someone we want you to meet," I explained confidently. "Shelby is a friend of ours, a therapist..."

Angie's hand tightened around mine apprehensively.

"It's all right, Sweetie," I assured her. "Shelby works with girls like you to help them realize their dreams. We told her about you and she really wants to meet you. If we want the whole world to see and appreciate you for what you really are, this is the right place to start. We'll just chat for a little while, Baby; that's all. We need this – you need this."

"But I – I..."

I anticipated this. It's one thing to admit to your secret desires in private, to your spouse – or in this case, spouse and 'mother'. It's something else to come face-to-face with the first concrete step towards realization of those desires. I had experienced a similar reticence with Deidre. She had required a little 'nudge'; so would Angie.

"Shhhh," I murmured soothingly. "Everything will be fine. I understand it's scary for you. Do you remember what we talked about in the taxi? You don't have to worry about making the wrong choice. You have ceded that responsibility to me and I have made the choice for you. You want to be my girl. I want you to be my girl. Now, you are going to be my girl. How could that be wrong? See how easy that was? 

"I'll let you in on a little secret. Shelby adores girls like you, just as your mom and I do. All you have to do is be your sweet, sweet self and the two of you will get along famously. Faye and I will be right there with you for moral support. Now, let's get inside. Shelby is expecting us."

It was the tiniest of little white lies. Faye had said Shelby was not into T-girls to quite the same extent as us, but I wasn't so sure. She had admitted to us she enjoyed counseling girls in transition and was affiliated with several local gender support groups. I was willing to bet, she didn't see many as good as my Angie. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but....

***

Our meeting with Shelby was a mixed blessing. After some initial shock at how 'turned out' Angie was – in Faye's own style, with which Shelby was already well-versed – Shelby was enchanted with my sissy hubby. The four of us chatted together for thirty minutes, then Shelby asked Faye and I to leave the room so she could chat with Angie privately. I didn't like cooling my heels in the outer office for thirty minutes at all. My place was by Angie's side, representing her best interests. Faye assured me this was a necessary part of the process, to ensure this is what Angie really wanted. Of course she wanted it! We had agreed on that just a little while before, in the cab. I had forged a career around my ability to take responsibility and get things done. Being reduced to the status of 'bystander' was anathema to me. 

In the end, Shelby had been in favor of recommending Angie for Hormone Replacement Therapy – with a few reservations. She expressed concern about the lack of a 'real life test', in which Angie lived as a female full-time. The therapist wanted to continue seeing Angie for a while to make certain her desire was genuine. Genuine! What was I, chopped liver? My company paid me six figures to make that kind of judgment call. 

I had diplomatically asked her if it would make a difference if Angie embarked on this 'real life test'.

"Certainly," Shelby had replied. "It would be a strong indicator of her commitment to transition. That sort of 'sea change' in one's life doesn't come about easily, particularly when a career is involved. If Angie decided she wanted The Change badly enough to face even that hurdle, I don't see how I could deny her sincerity."

That was certainly food for thought – especially in light of the evening ahead. I was buoyant with anticipation of a bright, shining future for us that was within my grasp.

***

The cab dropped us off in front of what could only be described as a gothic-looking castle in the middle of a Near-North neighborhood. I was still floating on air, as I had been since stepping out of Shelby's office. Despite our first stop, it was still early; barely nine-thirty. As we approached the door, I crashed back to earth with a resounding thud. As was often the case with new nightclubs, the looming, body-builder bouncer was carding everyone, regardless of gender or sex appeal. Yeah, okay; Alan was twenty-four years old and had the ID to prove it. I supposed it was inevitable, despite her surreal passability, she would be 'outed' somewhere along the way. In light of recent events, it might even be desirable. She would have to become tough enough to endure this embarrassing – and potentially dangerous - facet of transition. Was she ready for this? Was I?

Was the 'gatekeeper' going to be cool with this, or a macho asshole? I was going over the permutations of my rebuke to the doorman's possible snide comments when we stepped up to the velvet rope.

"Good evening, Ladies," he greeted oh, so smoothly. "May I see your identification, please?"

"You flatterer, you," Faye schmoozed, handing her card over with a wink.

He examined her ID with a suave smile and cursory glance, taking only a bit more time with mine, then turning expectantly to Angie. Before I could get a word in edgewise, she retrieved her ID from the inside pocket of her purse and handed it to him expectantly.

My sissy certainly has balls, I thought, for a functional castrati.

Mr. Olympia took his own sweet time scrutinizing Angie's credentials, then glanced up at her face, then examined the card once more. What was he doing; memorizing Alan's vitals so he could tell his buddies at the gym about the 'fag' that had tried to get into the club the night before? Perhaps he was committing our address to memory so he could swing by with his buds and give my sissified hubby a little 'tune-up' later? What did he think he was, NYPD Blue?

"Thank you, Angela," he intoned with a gleam in his eye, "Happy Birthday. Ladies, welcome to Neo. Enjoy your evening."

He handed back Angie's ID as pretty as you please. The velvet rope parted like the Red Sea for Moses – and we were inside.

I knew I had somehow been 'had'. I kept my mouth shut. We found an available booth, illuminated by a single flickering tabletop candle, and slid into the plush, semi-circular bench. A waitress appeared almost immediately and took our drink order. As she departed, I held out my hand to Angie, palm up.

"Okay," I demanded, "let's see it."

She adopted a look of wounded innocence which was ruined almost immediately by her giggle. She opened her purse, fished the identity card out of its pocket and extended it to me, gracefully clasped between two fingers.

"You mean this?"

"Yeah, Miss Butter-Would-Melt-In-My-Mouth," I groused, snatching it away from her. "This."

I adjusted the card proximate to the candle to allow the maximum illumination possible to fall on it. To my astonishment, the authentic-looking driver's license had been issued to Angela Faye de Castro, residing at what I knew to be Faye's home address. The picture was definitely Angie; no trickery there. The card showed today to be her birthday – her twenty-first birthday! The lettering was crisp; the state seal hologram and safety watermarks all appeared genuine. Our drinks arrived. I handed the card back to Angie, then raised my glass and turned to Faye.

"You never fail to amaze me," I marveled. "That has to be the best fake ID I have ever seen. It even shows our girl to be old enough to drink legally, after we have been telling everyone she is eighteen. That's a nice touch."

"Thank you," Faye acknowledged, "but it happens to be the real deal. I took Angie over to DMV a few weeks ago. I brought along my baby's birth certificate for authenticity. The card arrived in the mail yesterday. You see, this really is my baby's birthday. That's why I asked you two out tonight. Thank you both for sharing it with me."

"Faye, we wouldn't turn down an invitation from you, regardless of the occasion," I responded, then furrowed my brow in thought, "but the birth certificate would have shown Angie to be eighteen, not twenty-one."

"I know," Faye smirked, winking. "I have a friend who is a supervisor at that DMV office. I called him the day before we went. He was on hand to personally escort us back to his office, where I, ah... pulled some strings, so to speak. He was yummy."

I was glad I hadn't taken a sip of my drink yet; I would have choked on it, laughing.

"Let me see if I understand this correctly," I challenged, looking directly at Angie. "You now possess..."

"... a fake fake ID," she finished glibly.

We clinked glasses, then had to set them down on the tabletop until the laughing fit passed. So, why did I have a vague sense of uneasiness about this new development? Perhaps I should have thought of a discreet, plausible reason to hold on to her ID for her....

It was an amazing evening. We drank more than we should have on a work night, but certainly not enough to incapacitate us. We were, by far, the most popular stop for men seeking dance partners – and all three of us said 'yes' far more than 'no'. As the evening wore on, we were having a giddy, giggly good time. When we weren't dancing, the talk around the table turned to Sex. Not unexpectedly, Faye was a wealth of anecdotes about lovers, their penis sizes and shapes, and where she had done them – or they had done her – and her favorite positions and techniques. She loved it all; vaginal, oral, anal, light bondage, multiple partners, double-penetration, even airtight. Angie was not in the least put off by this talk of cock. In fact, she seemed fascinated, even enthusiastic over Faye's depictions of past debauchery.

Heartened by this, I encouraged Angie to tell her 'mama' about her own experiences with her 'husband' – me. She didn't disappoint, regaling us with 'his' size, how sublime it was to be taken, used by him, and how much she absolutely adored giving him long, slow, deep, sweet blowjobs. Even a heavy-lidded Faye was rubbing her thighs together as Angie described it.

"Oh, how I wish I could have seen that," she pined. "My baby really is all grown up. There is so much of her life I have missed. What about you, Donna? Tell us about the cocks you have known and loved."

I cast a wary eye towards Angie. I was not sensing any danger signals from her. She seemed as caught up in it all as before, as though we really were girlfriends out for a night on the town.

"C'mon, Donna," Angie chirped. "Tell us. Don't be such a prude."

In the face of such a challenge and tipsy as I was, I didn't mind recounting my favorite sex ever, starting with that magnificent fuck from Angie and her 'strap-on', some of my best experiences with Alan, then some of the studs that had come and gone in my life, going back to an hysterical romp in a tricked-out Chevy with my high-school-quarterback boyfriend. Then came the inevitable comparison of cock sizes, techniques, and all the other sex talk inebriated girlfriends share during a girls' night out. I don't think I was the only one getting horny as a result.

I was taking a break in the booth, my shoes off, massaging my feet. Faye and Angie were on the floor, dancing together. What a voyeuristic delight! I was indulging myself in one of my favorite pastimes; people-watching. I scanned the crowd, watching the people watching my companions, and observing the individual melodramas play out; boyfriends getting slapped by their miffed girlfriends for ogling, groups of women making what was obviously catty remarks about the pair, and groups of guys making their own analyses, or comparing notes on how to approach the duo. I checked the time display on my cell phone. Hurry up guys, I thought, your window of opportunity is closing.

I happened to notice an exceptionally attractive couple dancing next to Faye. He was a tall, handsome, distinguished-looking African-American gentleman, perhaps forty-something. The body under his crisp, well-tailored suit could have been that of a professional athlete. There was something in his demeanor that said he was comfortable both with authority and the skin he was in. His dance partner was a beautiful twenty-something Redhead with a peaches-and-cream complexion and slender, shapely body.

What most captured my attention was the attention they were paying to Faye and Angie, who seemed completely oblivious to their admiring neighbors. Similar to others I had been observing, the other couple couldn't seem to take their eyes off the two brassy blondes. Unlike the others, their smiles and whispered asides appeared to be of genuine admiration. If the Redhead felt any animosity towards them, she didn't indicate it. To the contrary, she seemed every bit as fascinated as her companion.

From my angle, her 'accidental' bump of Faye was anything but. Angie noticed the other couple for the first time at that moment. I didn't see any subsequent contact between Faye and Angie, but my sweetie stumbled all the same. Only the lightning reflexes of the Redhead's companion saved her from falling. I thought his hands lingered on Angie a bit longer than was necessary to save her from falling. Apologies were offered, some small talk was exchanged, and the two couples began dancing together as a foursome. Although I was more than a little uncomfortable with the way the Redhead was making eyes at Angie, I couldn't tear my eyes away from this unexpected, unplanned scene playing out before me. Oh, the possibilities.... 

The foursome returned to our booth and slid in; first Faye, followed by the Redhead, then Angie, with the Redhead's escort taking the outside. We made our introductions. He was Jerome; she, Trisha. Seizing the opportunity, I introduced myself, then my friends, Faye and her daughter Angie. Although our new guests were anything but rude to me, they were clearly smitten with my companions. For her part, Angie was clearly nervous. Her first act upon taking her seat was to down the remainder of her drink in a single swallow. The consummate gentleman, Jerome ordered another round for everyone.

The conversation drifted once again to Sex. Jerome and Trisha were obvious 'players' – and touchy-feely ones, at that. I stifled my urge to rip the redheaded hussy's lungs out as she alternated between fondling Faye's luscious curves and my Angie's. After all, I had intentionally hidden our relationship from the pair in hopes of exactly this scenario playing out. All for the greater good, Donna. Despite her earlier unease, Angie was responding to the attentions of the sensual pair, as I had hoped she would. 

Jerome made no bones about his attraction to Angie. Actually, that wasn't accurate. If Angie's increasingly-fevered ministrations under the table were any indication, her ebony suitor had a formidable bone down South. Trisha's hand covered Angie's, encouraging my sissy to fondle her first genuine hunk of manmeat. At the same time, she whispered words of encouragement in Angie's ear, helped along by the tip of her darting tongue. This bimbo was rapidly staking a claim to the top spot on my Ten Most Hated list. Faye looked on with heavy-lidded eyes, breathing heavily at the sight of her baby's seduction at the hands of our guests. Trisha was spending considerable time ensuring Faye's arousal was more than just voyeuristic delight.

"Do it," Faye crooned softly. "I want to see it."

I knew immediately what she meant. Angie raised her eyes to me, in search of confirmation. I nodded imperceptibly.

"Me too," I trilled, winking.

With the pounding Techno beat filling the air around us, I sensed, rather than heard the subtle rrrriiiipppp of Jerome's zipper coming undone. After some deft hand movements, Angie's head began bobbing up and down over his lap. Trisha rested her hand lightly on Angie's head, more in affirmation than command. I couldn't help it; I had to see this for myself. I slipped out of my side of the booth and stepped next to Jerome. There was my Angie, her exquisite talons wrapped around a truly amazing black fuckpole, making sweet, passionate love to that rod with her lips and talented tongue. My mind turned to mush at the sight of this yearned-for fantasy coming true.

Faye swallowed hard to avoid drooling. Her left hand was under her skirt; her right, massaging one of her pendulous globes. Trisha turned to the sound behind her and softly gasped at the lewd, erotic sight. Leaning forward, she covered Faye's plush lips with her own in a gentle kiss, slipping her left hand between Faye's right and her breast, while Trisha's right hand joined Faye's left beneath her hem. Startled, I suddenly realized I was fondling myself in exactly the same way.

Angie was taking her sweet time with her new paramour, just as I had taught her. Jerome leaned back against the booth's wall, eyes closed, lost in his own private Nirvana. Still, no man can hold out forever under such a determined assault. He grunted like a rutting animal as his hips bucked, ejecting his load into Angie's eager mouth. She, in turn, claimed every precious drop for her own. Faye and Trisha, who were now fondling each other's snatches while keeping one eye apiece on the erotic tableau unfolding before them, both shuddered to their own climaxes. I was a mere heartbeat behind.

I had to return to my seat quickly, before my legs buckled beneath me. In time, Jerome opened his eyes, turned towards his redheaded companion and nodded. She winked conspiratorially. Both turned their attention to me.

"Donna," Trisha purred. "We really hate to break up your Girls' Night Out, but could you find it in your heart to lend us your girlfriends? Jerome is leaving town in a couple of days and I promised him a proper... sendoff. As it happens..."

She turned and smiled coyly at Faye before returning her gaze to me.

"... I think I could find something to keep myself amused as well. Will you forgive us?"

I gave her this much; this bitch had brass balls the size of my clenched fists. This threw a monkey wrench into my plans, not to mention the very thought of this trollop making time with my Angie drove me up the wall. Still, I think fast for a living and the alcohol had not diminished my capacity that much. I realized I might yet turn this new situation to my advantage – if I could just keep my rage in check.

"I'm fine with it," I lied smoothly. "If you will just give Angie and Faye a ride home after, I would appreciate it."

"Done," she mewed kittenishly. "I promise we won't keep them out too awfully late."

"Perhaps I should stay here and keep you company," Faye offered graciously.

She was a true friend. As much as I appreciated her generous offer, the thought of that fiery-maned witch having my sissy hubby alone, boyfriend or no boyfriend, was more than I could handle. I trusted Faye.

"Go, have a good time," I urged genuinely. "If anyone deserves it, it is you. I'll be fine here."

Faye cupped my cheek with her hand, gently scraping my flesh with her talons in the way Angie did so well.

"I'll call you soon," she murmured, smiling.

They all slid out and made their way towards the rear corridor. My guess was, Jerome had eschewed the valet service in favor of self-parking in the rear lot. He and Trisha flanked Angie. Each had one hand on her full, rounded ass. Trisha's other hand was on Faye's. I marveled at the way mother's and daughter's fluid tushes undulated in perfect harmony. I sat there, alone, for long moments, lost in a sexual rush. The thought of the two of them, together in a ménage, was an incredible turn-on – especially in light of what it would mean to me later on.




You Can Always Say No Ch. 06



My musings were interrupted by lips pressing against mine. I sensed his bulk, his manliness, his indisputably male essence and needed him badly. I reached up, wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him to me, devouring him with my mouth. We kissed madly until my body screamed for air.

"Wow, Babe," Jason gasped. "I'm sorry I'm late. If I knew I was going to get this kind of reception, I'll be late more often. Where are they?"

"Change of plans," I gushed, still grasping for breath. "They just left - with a couple of playmates."

"Damn," my lover cursed. "I was really looking forward to finally seeing the little twerp in full drag. I figure I've earned it, after playing this little charade for so long."

Sometimes I really hate men. If it weren't for his big cock and what he could do for me and my sissy hubby, I would have kicked this jerk's ass to the curb long ago.

"For the umpteenth time," I corrected carefully, "she doesn't do 'drag'. I am changing her into the sissy shemale she wants to be and I crave. I need you to help make that a reality."

"You need me for a lot more than that, Sweetheart," Jason bragged. "From what you have told me, a whole lot more."

I couldn't hold out anymore. His closeness was overwhelming; my body was screaming for release.

"Yeah, like right now, Stud," I growled, yanking him down by his designer silk tie. "Give it up."

"Here?" he questioned incredulously, glancing around at the crowds.

"Yes, right here," I hissed, jerking up my skirt to expose my bald, pantiless snatch, "right now. Fuck me, you bastard!"

I pulled the arrogant swine into the booth's dark recesses with me. We fumbled at his trousers like novices, finally unzipping him and exposing his cockflesh. He might not have been as impressive as Jerome, but he was longer than Alan and a lot fatter. I grabbed that throbbing, familiar girth, pressed it to my pussy lips, then grabbed his buns and jerked him into me, hard. After the events of the last hour, I needed him desperately.

Realization had come slowly, over time. As I penetrated the thin veneer of boyish charm, I had discovered Jason Miller was just another superficial, self-involved egoist. I no longer attempted to rationalize my sex (I wouldn't even dignify it with the term "affair") with him. Yes, it was good - sometimes. Yes, he got me off, although he really didn't give a damn whether he did or not, as long as he came. It wasn't better than sex with Angie. She and I used strap-ons (I had her use a strap-on on me, rather than releasing her from her chastity. It was all part of her sissy training.) that made my toes curl; much bigger than Jason. I just sometimes craved the real thing. More to the point, I couldn't have accomplished what I already had with Angie, nor what I wanted to accomplish in the future, without Jason's willing participation. I didn't particularly like the 'harness' this dildo was attached to anymore, but it was a necessary evil and, on good days, a pleasurable one.

This was a very good day, thanks to the 'foreplay' before Jason's arrival. I grunted like a sow in heat as his schlong pistoned me. I came twice before his snake gushed its load like a firehose, then came again as I felt him fill me with his spunk. It took a while before the mist cleared from in front of my eyes.

"Your place or mine?" Jason asked without preamble.

"Mine," I insisted. "I've got a plan to salvage this evening."

"Just call me Pâté," he grumbled, zipping his pants.

An apt description, but I didn't need to tell him at that moment.

"I didn't mean you, Lover," I schmoozed. "I meant what I... we had in mind for my hubby."

We canoodled by the front door as the valet brought up Jason's E500 Sport. I had insisted on taking a cab earlier so I wouldn't have to worry about jockeying cars later; the silver Mercedes would have accommodated all four of us easily. Faye had told me it wasn't cheating if we shared. I had planned to take her at her word that evening – literally. The situation hadn't worked out exactly as I had planned it, but I was already envisioning a viable workaround. At the moment, I had pressing personal needs.

I touched up my lipstick and straightened my hair in the passenger visor's vanity mirror as the smooth German V-8 propelled us through the night streets.

"So, what kept you so long?" I asked my companion, allowing a touch of annoyance to creep into my voice.

"I've been stroking a bigwig from the Pentagon all day," Jason grumbled. "We're ready to do a preliminary presentation for our bid. He flew in early, so I've been giving him the Grand Tour, taking him to lunch, buttering him up. I noticed him eyeing my secretary, so I pawned him off on her. I gave her my corporate Platinum card and told her to show him a good time. I also told her to take tomorrow off if she needed to, as long as the General was available for our meeting Friday morning."

"That was awfully decent of you," I replied, trying not to allow my disgust to show.

"I thought so," he responded, non-plussed. "It's nothing the Big Boys don't do. Besides, I'll do whatever I have to to get this contract."

"Including taking credit for all of Alan's hard work?" I insinuated.

Jason grinned.

"He does have his uses," he gloated. "That was the deal, right? I pull him out of his department, set him up in his own office and look the other way while you do whatever it is you are doing to him. In return, he does what he does best to get this contract for me – and you and I get it on twice a week, sometimes more. Don't even try to tell me these Tuesday and Thursday nights haven't been good for you, Baby. Nobody is that good at faking it."

I didn't want to give the smug sonofabitch the satisfaction of knowing they had been. At the same time, it might have ruined everything to tell him at that point, what really got me off during our sex was the thought of Angie watching Jason fucking me – and perhaps participating. I had learned early; Jason was an unapologetic homophobe and he regarded my sissy hubby as exactly that. That was just one more unattractive thing about the man, but I still needed him. At the same time, he still had not met Angie in all her glory. She was a male fuck fantasy, and then some. Who knew what his reaction might be? I gritted my teeth.

"You know I can't do that, Lover," I purred, dripping with sincerity. "You're too damn good. Get me home and I will show you how appreciative I am."

The new, revised plan was elegantly simple: fuck like bunnies and wait for Angie to come home and catch us in bed. You left me to have your fun with Jerome, Trisha, and Faye, Dear. I was lonely and Jason just happened to show up. Aren't I entitled to my own pleasure? The fact she had openly and willingly gone home with a man, violating our vows in the most flagrant way, merely reinforced my argument. Once I had established the pattern of us each having our respective male lovers, in addition to the rich love life we already shared, there would be no further barriers to our own version of 'living happily ever after.' If that meant continuing to fuck Jason to allow Angie to 'come out' at work, thus going full-time and facilitating her transition, so be it. It's not like the arrogant ass was a bad lay....

The story wasn't without its flaws. Jason just happened to show up? That sounded lame even to me, but Angie would have no proof otherwise. There was no way I was going to tell her I had been fucking her boss since that first Tuesday night class with Faye. I had known since the first moment our eyes met; Jason Miller would do anything to slip his dick into my tight, wet pussy. I merely had to call him up that morning after Alan left for work, set my terms; then show up that night and 'hold up my end', so to speak, to seal the deal. 

I had been racked with guilt that first time; coming home with my pussy full of another man's cum. As I hurriedly cleansed myself in the shower, I had visions of treading that same tragic path my mother had walked before me. Then, when my Angie walked through that front door, looking as fine as she did, I just knew it would all be worthwhile. My little treasons actually did get easier in time. I also had a greater appreciation for Faye's outlook on life. I still needed that masculine cock, but needed my gorgeous, sissified Angie even more. I would just have to find some balance between the two. 

Jason had arranged his occasional 'apology tour' dinners as an ego boost, subtly flaunting Alan's cuckolding in his face. I hadn't enjoyed that part of it, but went along to get along. I will admit; I got tingly playing the dual roles of dutiful loving wife to my husband and shameless cheating slut to my lover. Jason's under-the-table advances were relentless; sometimes, I allowed them to be successful to keep him interested. 

Later, we had even fucked in Jason's office after the rest of the staff had gone home. Jason occasionally stroked his own ego by making Alan work late on those occasions, so Jason could hump me over his desk while my husband toiled right down the hall. My cover story, if seen coming or going, was impeccable; I was working with Jason on his media campaign, even as Alan was firming up the particulars of the contract bid that campaign was designed to support. Then I could take my husband to dinner and compare our busy, productive days.

Seeing Jason's inner sanctum confirmed everything I had come to dislike about him as a person. His 'Me' wall took the concept of self-aggrandizement to new heights – or depths? Framed diplomas, certificates, and other awards, mostly honorary, were hung in two rows along the wall behind his desk. The credenza beneath them was a maze of trophies: Football, baseball, track, tennis, golf, even one large, garish one touting him as "Big Man On Campus" at his university. There is actually an award for that? 

Alan never caught us; nor did any of the other office staff. In fact, I hadn't even met Jason's secretary; she had been hired after Gayle left, to split off those functions from the job description and free Alan to concentrate on the project. I'm pretty sure Jason would have gotten off on making my husband his secretary, but he wanted the millions from the contract more.

Knowing how close Jason's secretary and other staffers were to my hubby, I was grateful for not having to face them. They couldn't report to my husband what they didn't know. I would never want my Angie to agonize over any of this. What I had done, I did for us. Still, if I tingled over the dinners, I took a genuine perverse delight in portraying the slut wife scant yards away from my loving husband. Now I was ready to close that gap and bring Angie into the scene itself; no more hiding, no more guilty conscience.

I would love to say I hated every moment I spent in our bed with Jason, waiting for Angie to 'discover' us. That just wasn't so. Among his other faults, Jason had a pipeline to the Little Blue Pill. So, we 'honeymooned' in Viagra Falls, taking turns at falling over the precipice or leaping there together. I didn't worry about sneaking around or hurrying to get cleaned up before my mate came home; I wanted to be found out. The digital readout on the bedside clock told the tale: One AM, Two AM, Three AM, but no Angie.

Dawn broke. I called in sick; so did Jason. We dozed, awoke, showered, then fucked again; still no Angie. 'We won't keep them out too terribly late.' Damn that redheaded bitch! I hadn't even gotten her phone number. Angie's cell was off. Calls to Faye's home went to her answering machine. The MAC store said she had arranged to take the day off. A quick check back with Miller Avionics confirmed; Alan had taken the day, too. At least I knew they were still alive. I started to seethe. Was Angie trying to taunt me? Was this her way of asserting her independence, as Alan had once done? Why now?

The questions kept repeating themselves in my mind, over and over. The answer kept coming back to the beautiful, redheaded Trisha. Jerome is leaving in a couple of days. Not "my husband is leaving" or "the love of my life is leaving". She also hadn't given any indication he was coming back. Had the witch staked a claim to my Angie in his place before the body was even cold? Had Wednesday been some bizarre 'Changing of the Guard' ritual, where Jerome had approved of his replacement with a nod of his head? Or had he been placing an order 'to go' and Trisha helped him fill it? What about Faye? Why would she go along with any of this? Was everyone but me being a selfish, uncaring slut? Well, I'll show them a thing or three!

Jason had been teasing me with his cock, attempting to re-direct my passions back to him. He had taken a double-dose of V as a lure. It worked. I turned on him and gave him my undivided attention, inhaling his engorged stick to the root. Once I had him throbbing, begging for release. I sank that turgid tool into my sex until bone scraped bone. We fucked like maniacs all afternoon and into the night. The more I came, the more I craved. I wasn't aware what time we passed out, nor how long we slept.

I was awakened by mid-morning sun streaming through the windows onto my eyelids. Awareness came slowly, like a dense fog lifting along the shore. I eased myself to a sitting position and took stock of my surroundings. The bed qualified for FEMA intervention; spread, blanket, sheets, and pillows scattered wildly, as though a bomb had gone off and this was Ground Zero. Birds chirped in the trees outside. A lawnmower rose and fell in crescendo as its operator plied the rows of some nearby lawn. Jason snored peacefully on the opposite side of the bed, mouth ajar. I had learned one more of his not-so-endearing traits in the night; when the sex was over, he hated to cuddle. His 'five o'clock shadow' read somewhere around forty-eight o'clock. Other than that, the house was peaceful, serene.

I shook him gently and received a small groan for my efforts. A sharp shove to his shoulder knocked him to the floor with a resounding thump.

"What did you do that for?" came the disembodied growl.

"Time to get up, Lover," I chirped, syrupy-sweet.

I heard, rather than saw him scratch his head as he lay on the floor. At least, I hoped it was his head.

"What time is it?" he inquired.

I checked the readout on the bedside clock.

"Ten forty-five," I replied.

Nothing happened for a moment. Then, he was on his feet in a flurry of motion.

"Fuck!" he shouted, gathering up his clothes. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

"Been there, done that," I replied dreamily. "Don't you remember?"

"Why didn't you wake me?" he railed. "The presentation was supposed to begin at ten o'clock!"

"Gee, I'm sorry, Honey," I cooed. "You must not have left a message for a Wake-Up Call at the Front Desk. They're usually pretty good about those things."

With some awkward hopping around, he managed to get his boxers, socks, trousers and shoes on. His shirt was half-tucked, half-not. He grabbed his tie, suit coat and car keys and raced for the door.

"Call you later," he tossed over his shoulder.

"Anytime," I replied diffidently to the empty space in the doorway.

I went to the bathroom, peed, brushed my teeth, then returned to the bedroom and retrieved my laptop. I phoned the office, told my secretary I would be working from home today, and asked her to download my messages to e-mail. Logging in to the company server through VPN, I downloaded my mail, then synced my PDA for relevant messages and phone numbers. I spent the rest of the morning returning calls, setting appointments, mapping strategies. Then I took a long, leisurely shower. There was no hurry. I knew my Angie would be home soon and I wanted to look my best for her.

She arrived around three PM, well ahead of her normal time. Hearing her pull into the garage, I was waiting for her in the foyer, dressed in my floor-length black silk dressing gown. She – and it was she – closed the door behind her and leaned against it. She was wearing a two-piece charcoal-grey skirt suit with wide-spread lapels, nipped-in peplum waist, and fitted skirt that ended at mid-thigh. Sheer black hose graced her shapely legs, ending in simple black patent pumps with five-inch stiletto heels. Her white silk blouse was open to the cleft of her lapels, revealing a generous amount of her deep cleavage. It was obvious from her hourglass shape she was tightly-corseted. The makeup and understated jewelry were perfect, just on the provocative side of business-proper. A full, fluffy mane of Platinum Blonde curls swirled around her face, cascading over her shoulders and down to mid-back. A faint trace of Obsession completed the picture.

She extended both arms, offering an Oriental-style vase filled with two dozen red roses. Her longer, curving talons were readily apparent – and gorgeous.

"For me?" I exclaimed with surprise.

She nodded, smiling radiantly.

"I had a really good day at work," she purred. "I wanted to share it with you – and bring you a little something to show how much I love you."

"Thank you, Sweetie," I responded. "You look... stunning."

The gorgeous Blonde actually blushed, then pivoted expertly on her toes, partially extending her arms. She halted her spin facing me, casually slipping the fingers of one hand under the top of a lapel, then sliding them down to the bottom.

"You like?" she asked with a touch of uncertainty.

"It's perfect for you!" I assured her sincerely. "Absolutely perfect."

"I'm so glad you like it," she gushed. "I did it just for you. Well, I like it, too."

I transferred the vase to my left hand and extended the right.

"Come," I said. "Let's go into the living room and you can tell me all about your day. I've already poured us some wine."

I slipped across the sofa, setting the roses down on the coffee table. Taking my seat, I raised my wineglass.

"To us," I toasted.

"To us," Angie echoed, clinking her glass against mine and taking a sip. "Mmmmm, yummy. A Pinot Noir? What's the occasion?"

"I would say this is occasion enough," I observed, setting down my glass to gesture towards her with my hand. "So, you tell me; what is the occasion?"

She took another sip of wine, barely able to contain her excitement.

"We made the presentation this morning," she advised, glowing. "General Clayton was really impressed. He is going to recommend us to the full review board. Honey, we have a real shot at landing the contract."

"That's wonderful!" I effused. "So, Jason made a good presentation, huh?"

"Jason?" Angie snorted, taking another sip. "He missed it entirely. When ten o'clock came and it was apparent he wasn't going to show up, we had to think fast. I told the General Jason had called in and told us he had a real bad case of flu. We were in the car and had just pulled out of the parking lot to take General Clayton to lunch when I saw Jason in the rear view mirror, pulling in. I couldn't think of a good excuse for explaining his miraculous 'recovery', so I didn't mention anything."

I had to smirk, picturing Jason rushing into an empty conference room.

"So, if Jason wasn't there," I queried, "who is this 'we' that made the presentation?"

Angie shrugged her shoulders just a little and smiled coyly, sipping from her glass.

"I made the actual pitch," she admitted. "Patti backed me up with charts and data."

"Patti... Jason's secretary?" I asked, stunned.

"That's right," she confirmed.

"And you made a pitch for a multi-million-dollar defense contract... to a General who flew all the way out from Washington..." I murmured, teasingly, "dressed like that?"




You Can Always Say No Ch. 06



She grinned sheepishly, like a kid who had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

"Yuppers," she mewed, lowering her eyelids. "He liked it well enough. To be honest, I don't think he even glanced at the charts."

"You went in to work... like that?"

She couldn't stop giggling. She almost spilled her wine as she sipped.

"It was Patti's fault," Angie professed, slipping me that heavy-lidded, bedroom-eyes look. "She outed me. She knew all along. She told all the other girls, too. She told me, if I didn't... show up this way, they would... tell everyone about the corset and stockings I wore under my suit every day."

"She sounds like quite a girl," I attested. "I'll have to thank her when I meet her. So, you did all of this... this morning, before the meeting?"

"Oh, no," she demurred. "It took most of the day yesterday. The hair took all morning..."

"That isn't a wig?"

"Uh-uh," she professed, fluffing her silky mane with her free hand, then shaking her head. "First we did the color, then extensions. Right now, it's just curled. We'll do the perm next week. I adore it!"

"I do too, Baby," I assured her. "It's so you."

"Suzi did my nails yesterday... afternoon," she gushed, holding out her arm, hand down. "See?"

"I noticed them right away," I confessed. "They're exquisite."

"Then we went... shopping to find this... suit and the shoes," she added, shaking her head a bit.

"So, Sweetie," I interrupted. "That was yesterday and today was today. What happened to you Wednesday night? And last night? Why didn't you come home? Why couldn't you have at least called me to tell me you were all right? Was there something going on you didn't want me to know about?"

She sat silently, sipping her wine, swaying gently, eyes unfocused.

"Babyyyy," I murmured. "You've been a naughty girl, haven't you? A very naughty girl."

Angie's eyelids drooped. Her body swayed towards me then paused, like a tree about to fall.

I reached out and gently took her wineglass from her hand, then caught her with my other hand as her body sagged against me.

"Mama's going to have to punish you," I purred.

I allowed her to slump lengthwise on the couch as I leaned forward to inhale the aroma of the roses. They were lovely, and very thoughtful. I picked up my wineglass, took both to the kitchen, and poured them out in the sink. I then rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher. Taking a deep breath and exhaling heavily, I returned to the stairs and slowly, resolutely, made my way upstairs to change. There was no hurry; I had all the time in the world until the sedative wore off.... 



You Can Always Say No Ch. 07



She awoke slowly, just as I had that morning. I gazed down longingly at her figure, still seductively attired in corset, stockings and heels, as she knelt before me on the coffee table. Her face rested to one side on the tabletop. I strolled slowly around the table, allowing her to drink in the sight of my body, tightly corseted in black calfskin with my breasts riding high and pushed together by the corset's demi-cups. The matching custom-made boots laced up the front, all the way to my bare pussy. Their five-inch stiletto heels lent the right air of authority to the image, as did the black kidskin gloves that clung to my upper limbs like wet tissue from fingertip to armpit. My makeup was provocative without excess and my hair was done up in a chignon, not a strand out of place.

As I circled her, I noted with satisfaction the cuffed-together ankles and wrists cuffed behind her thighs. I gently caressed her shapely, upturned ass with the tip of my crop.

"Angie, Angie, Angie," I crooned softly. "What am I going to do with you? On the one hand, you are making magnificent progress towards becoming the sexy sissy I want you to be. When you walked in my door this afternoon and proudly proclaimed you had gone into work today, looking the way you did, I thought I had died and gone to Heaven. I don't think there is any question you are enjoying it, too – perhaps too much. That brings us to the other hand…."

THWACK!

Her whole body flinched, even as she emitted a muffled shriek.

"WHAT RIGHT DO YOU HAVE TO CHEAT ON ME, BITCH?" I screamed in her ear.

THWACK!

Another flinch. Another stifled scream.

"We are married you and I. 'Love, honor and cherish, forsaking all others,' remember? Doesn't that mean anything to you?

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

She was crying and whimpering now.

"What's the matter, Baby?" I purred in her other ear. "Cat got your tongue? Ball gag got your tongue?"

She glared at me through her tears, unable to reply.

"I wouldn't have minded so much if it was just the man," I hissed. "I was okay with my little sissy taking her first real cock – although I would have preferred to see it for myself. No, my problem is with that little redheaded slut who obviously decided to keep you for herself for a couple of nights – and you went right along for the ride, didn't you?"

THWACKTHWACKTHWACKTHWACKTHWACK!

Continuing my circuit of the table, I passed out of her line of sight, allowing her to digest that last part. I stopped at the end of the sofa to once again smell those magnificent roses. I had placed them on the end table to make room on the coffee table for our fun and games. The thought occurred to me to transfer the spectacular bouquet to my heavy, more formal Baccarat crystal vase later on. I resumed my prowl up the opposite side, stopping to place my lips right at her ear.

"Did you think I would be okay with that? Hmmmm? Did you think I wouldn't have a problem with some other girl seeing you, meeting you, dancing and chatting with you, then deciding 'hey, this little chippie is a really good catch' and stealing you away from me? WELL, I DO!!!!!!!!"

THWACKTHWACKTHWACKTHWACKTHWACKTHWACKTHWACKTHWACK… THWACK!

Angie was quietly sobbing now. Tears streamed from her closed eyes and her body was quivering. I noted the savage whipping had loosened one edge of her buttock prosthetics. The stripes on the lower, unpadded portions of her flesh where I had been carefully directing my blows were turning a livid purple. 

With Deidre and the others, I would have been feeling supreme satisfaction, even arousal at that moment. A session might have lasted hours. I would have cum more than once from the intense emotion alone, if not the sensation caused by the rims of my boots rubbing against my pussy. Now, after only a couple of dozen vicious swats on Angie's upturned tush, I felt… empty and unsettled. The intense emotion had been there, but this time it had been the suppressed rage of betrayal, of which I had already purged myself.

That was the difference. With the hopelessly submissive, masochistic Deidre and the others, it had been consensual; an act of admittedly perverse pleasure for both. I had made love to them with my whip; light, caring flicks and caresses, building slowly, passionately in intensity, in tune with our emotions. 'Release' had not been about the eventual soft, sensual unbuckling of a buckle or flick of a strap; those were mere afterthoughts. There was none of that romance here. This had been a unilateral act of petty vengeance, with no pleasure for either of us. The sight of my Angie's bruised, battered rear end, knowing I had done this to her, was making me sick. I wanted to end this farce. Still, I had started this; I had to play it out….

"Look at you," I sneered loudly, stifling the sob that threatened to creep into my voice. "Little Miss Sweet Cheeks; just shake that luscious tush of yours and all the big, strong boys and foxy girls come running, don't they? Not so hot to trot now, are you? I wonder what your little redheaded girlfriend would say if she were here right now?"

"How about, 'Nitie-nite, Bitch'?" came the malevolent growl from behind me.

My peripheral vision caught a swirl of red hair, then a blur of motion. I felt, as much as heard the crash; then oblivion….

I regained consciousness sometime in the gloom of night – and immediately wished I hadn't. My head throbbed, pounded. There was a huge, hyper-sensitive knot on the back of it. The room was dimly illuminated by a flickering light. There were voices in the background, two of them; one male, the other female. I shook my head to clear it, instantly regretting the effort as the wave of pain washed over me. As my vision came into focus, I noted the roses and shards of thin, glazed ceramic scattered about me on the floor, in near-perfect symmetry to the point of impact. Thank God for that cheap florist's throw-away. If I had already transferred the blooms to my heavy crystal vase as intended, I might have been killed; my skull crushed.

I summoned my righteous indignation, resolving to follow those voices to their source, confront the lovers and vent my spleen on them. They had callously left me lying there on the floor while they left to do… whatever they pleased. How dare they? Then I realized the voices, like the flickering light, originated from our wide-screen plasma television. Two figures cavorted in bed; our bed, Angie's and mine. The sex was graphic, raw, and intense. So were her lustful screams. The red mist of my rage blotted out vision and reason itself. I cast my eyes about, looking for something I could hurl at the screen, at the lovers who taunted me with their passion. Then I took a good look at those figures again. My heart sank when I realized this was no 'revenge fuck' staged for my benefit. The girl on the screen was me; the man was Jason. The recording captured us in all our glory – or infamy.

How… I started to ask myself, then just as quickly realized the horrifying answer. The ultra-sophisticated surveillance system I had had installed, at hideous expense, to capture Alan's cross-dressing peccadilloes had never been removed. I hadn't even given thought to it after it had done what I had intended it to do. Obviously my spouse had - and gone looking for the source of the recording I had used against him. Alan may have been a de facto administrator when our adventure began, but Jason had originally hired him for his expertise in electronic engineering. That, plus the army of geeks at his disposal at the time would have made short work of uncovering the system and unlocking its complexities. 

I had paid for the best and gotten it. Now I tried to remember the buzz phrases the installers had bandied about after completion of their task. DVD burner. That was an easy one; it had created the disc I had flaunted in Alan's face – and most likely the video I was now watching. Motion- and sound-activated cameras. That was also easy to understand; efficient, unattended, around-the-clock surveillance, for which I had paid a premium. What were the other features they had enumerated? RAID tower storage. Removable hard drives. One Terabyte capacity. I hadn't paid attention to such technical jargon, but now fully appreciated a frightening statistic the installers had quoted me; when activated, my in-house spy system would record up to three months of activity before it began overwriting old information with new. Worse, the automatic backup-to-disc software would ensure nothing was ever lost, as long as fresh discs were inserted regularly.

The time stamp appeared in the upper-left-hand corner of the image. It was not the romp of Wednesday night and Thursday. I might have been able to explain that away, given the events at Neo. No, this was a record of the very first time I had brought Jason into our bed. How had Sam Irvin put it during the Watergate hearings? What did he know? When did he know it? The intent of this little docudrama was crystal clear; Angie knew it all, from then to now, and had a record of it. I had been hung with my own rope.

I knew at that moment I would not find Angie anywhere in the house; nor would I find her discs, or the hard drives in their bays in the surveillance server. I didn't bother looking for a note; the video on the big screen was the note. Dear Donna, it proclaimed, You asked how could I cheat on you? What do you call this? What HAVE you called it all these months? If you insist on pointing fingers, start with yourself. Even as I flogged her, she had been staring at me with those defiant, knowing eyes. With this video, she was now voicing the utter contempt which the gag in her mouth had stifled, flinging my own hypocrisy back in my face. 

I went upstairs, removed my domina garb and took a long, hot shower. After toweling dry, I slipped into my silk robe and slippers, then made my way downstairs to the kitchen. Pouring a glass of the Pinot Noir – unadulterated this time – I filled an ice pack with cubes and made my way back to the living room. Upon igniting an extended-duration fireplace log, I retreated to the sofa, curled my legs beneath me, propped the ice pack between my head and the back of the couch, sipped wine and stared at the flames. Through my tears, I could have sworn I saw the casino walls crumbling to ash.

***

Each day was a gift. I went to work, did my job and did it reasonably well. After all, I had nothing but memories and a guilty conscience to distract me. I went home, ate something or other, perhaps watched a little television, then went to bed. As I turned out the light, I counted my blessings. I had not yet been served with a divorce petition. I had not been called into our President's office to discuss an ugly and potentially embarrassing situation that had been brought to his attention. No police had shown up at my door with a warrant for my arrest for Aggravated Battery. I had not received the dreaded e-mail:

Been to YouTube lately? Click HERE. 

I knew if that day ever came, my life, as I had known it, would truly be over.

To no surprise, my repeated attempts to contact Angie were rebuffed; gone to voicemail on the cell phone and "may I take a message?" when I called the office. At least my emails were not returned as 'undeliverable'. She would contact me when and if she was ready. The fact she had not already done so - through an attorney or process server - was encouraging.

Of course, Jason called; several times a day, every day. I let those calls go to voicemail. Among his messages, he mentioned he had received an 'anonymous' e-mail containing a really interesting video clip. He had viewed it several times since then, enjoyed it immensely, and wanted to know how soon we could make another one.

Finally, he called my office, requesting a meeting to discuss the status of his media campaign. I couldn't turn that down. Yes, I really had been developing a campaign for him; after all, business is business. We were ready with some newspaper and magazine spreads and even had storyboards for possible television spots, all of which were ready for his approval. I had hoped to convince him my office was the better location, but he was not having it. He insisted I come to his office for a mid-afternoon appointment.

No problem, right? Just stay away from Alan's – or was it now Angie's? – office and everything would be fine. That's what I told myself as I crossed the parking lot from my car to the front door. My resolve began to crumble the moment I announced myself to Sally Bennett at the front desk. We had met and chatted at several company functions. She now stared a hole through me as though I were a homeless person begging for a handout.

"One moment, Mrs. Ames," she purred oh-so-syrupy-sweet. "I'll announce you."

She dialed an extension and informed the party on the other end of my arrival. After acknowledging the response, she hung up and turned to me.

"Patti will be right out to escort you back," she informed me with a glint in her eye. Then she turned her attention to something on her desk, dismissing me peremptorily.

Well, I thought to myself, at least I'll have the opportunity to meet Jason's secretary at last. How bad could that be?

Pretty damn bad. I would have recognized those flashing emerald eyes and fiery red hair anywhere.

"Would you follow me please, Mrs. Ames?" she intoned, all business. "Mr. Miller is expecting you."

She escorted me resolutely, eyes straight ahead, past female staffers who stared coldly at me.

"I should have guessed… Trisha," I muttered out of the side of my mouth. "The whole thing was a set-up."

"You would know about set-ups better than anyone, Mrs. Ames," she smirked. "I'm sorry; that would be Ms. Peterson-Ames for someone like you, wouldn't it? How's the head? No permanent damage, I trust? Too bad about the roses. I picked them out myself, for her to give to you."

"Why?" I hissed, "to give the knife another twist?"

"Look who's talking," she spat. "You wanted Angie to come home that night so you could flaunt your infidelity in her face, rub her nose in it? You don't have a clue; never did and never will. You and your boyfriend deserve each other."

I was about to counter "he is not my boyfriend," then realized the utter absurdity of the contention. We reached Jason's door. Patti knocked twice and opened it.

"Mrs. Ames is here for her two o'clock appointment," she announced in her sincere-efficient-secretary voice.

"Thank you, Patti," Jason responded. "Would you please hold my calls? We won't want to be disturbed."

I winced at his abysmally-bad choice of words, given the situation.

"Of course, Mr. Miller," Patti answered, doing a good job of keeping the sarcasm out of her voice. "I'll just shut the door behind me."

As I walked by her, she shot me a look that would have turned Old Faithful instantly to ice.

The moment the door closed, Jason was out from behind his desk like a shot.

"Thank God you're here, Baby," he exhorted, all over me like an octopus. "I have missed you so much. It's been awful around here the last couple of weeks, especially not being able to see you. Why haven't you been returning my calls?"

"Jason, please, not now," I asserted, fending him off as best I could. "Let's go over these galleys, shall we?"

I wanted to say "not ever", but thought it best to stick to business for now. I would find a better time to explain my personal feelings to him and let him down easy.

"Oh, sure," he responded with his boyish grin and a wink. "Business before pleasure, right? Okay, let's see what you have."

I explained the different ads, presented the results of our market research and offered my recommendations on media buys to maximize the impact on broadest demographic possible. At the same time, we would be focusing on the 'movers and shakers' who had the ear of the people who awarded the contracts. 

Disturbingly, Jason made no attempt to return to his chair during the presentation. Instead, he stood next to me – right next to me – as I leaned over his desk, pouring over the contents of my folio. My brain and body sent conflicting messages on the desirability of this invasion of my personal space. When his hand moved to my butt and began massaging it, I shifted my hips back and forth to shake it off. That sent the wrong message; he slipped his hand under my skirt and grinned triumphantly when he encountered my soaked panties. It had been two weeks since I had had any sex; I hadn't even masturbated. My body was writing checks my brain did not want to cash.

"What has been going on here in the last two weeks?" I asked, as much to distract myself as Jason.

He snorted and shrugged his shoulders.

"The important thing is, we're a step closer to securing the contract," he responded. "Did you know 'Angie' made the presentation without me? I don't have any idea how he pulled it off, but apparently the General liked the pitch a lot. When I met with him later, he told me he would be taking a personal role in presenting our bid to the review board and was looking forward to working with 'my charming assistant' in the future."

"Then Angie has…" I began.

"Oh, yes," Jason interjected with a smirk. "He certainly has. He…"

"She," I corrected.

"Whatever," Jason conceded. "She has come out in a big way. All my female staffers are solidly in her corner – and have made no bones about it. I had to hold an emergency meeting with my executives to tell them to back off. If 'Angie' has become so important to securing that contract for us, then she can wear a tutu and ride a pink pony, for all I care."

"So you are going to be okay with all of this?" I asked hopefully.

He grinned evilly and took me in his arms.

"The way I see it," he opined, grinding his crotch into mine, "this is what you asked for – and I delivered. You owe me big time."

"But we've been caught," I protested. "Angie walked out on me."

"All the more reason for us to hook up again," he chortled. "You want it and so do I. Now we don't have to sneak around."

I had to push him back to keep this situation from getting out of control. 

"Slow down, Lover," I urged, smiling coyly. "There will be plenty of time for that later; somewhere we can be more comfortable. I always pay my debts." I stepped away from the desk and walked over to his 'me' wall, pretending to be interested in his college diploma. I had never really paid attention to his little shrine before. Then I realized; the framed certificate before me proclaimed him a Bachelor of Science in Recreation Science.

"You amaze me," I pronounced genuinely. "You came from a P.E. background, yet started such a successful high-tech business. Your parents must be proud of you."

He stared at me quizzically, thrown off-balance. Then he pursed his lips and made his way over to me, smirking, planting his hands firmly on the credenza on either side of my body, trapping me in-between. He lowered his face to within an inch of mine, with that same silly smirk on his lips.

"I didn't start anything," he schmoozed. "My father started this company thirty years ago, producing communications and navigation equipment for general aviation aircraft, Cessnas, Pipers, and Beechcraft, mostly. He retired five years ago and turned it over to me. Really, I could just as easily be building Kitchen Magicians or Pocket Fishermen, as long as it was my company to run. I buy whatever technical expertise I need to get the job done – like your gayboy husband. I deserve this, just like I deserve you. You started this thing between us. It's a little late for you to be playing hard to get. 




You Can Always Say No Ch. 07



"Oh, and that lame excuse about 'what will they think of us'? As you said, they know what's going on between us, and why; we have your little sissy to thank for that. So, no more playing games. You've run up quite a tab; it's time for me to collect."

I would be lying if I said the bastard's masculine essence wasn't getting to me, just as it always had. I had to stay focused. He was making it easier for me to repulse him by insulting Angie.

"Jason," I murmured, "I'm married."

"Yes," he agreed. "I know. This is as exciting for me as it is for you. I won't spoil that for us. Once he has this contract wrapped up for me, I'll fire his fairy ass. Then, when the little faggot has to come home with his tail tucked between his legs, we can move him into one of the other bedrooms and keep him as our maid. We'll get him one of those cute little French Maid uniforms and he can wait on us hand and foot. We can even have him stand by our bed and watch while a real man fucks you. Then he can suck my cum out of your pussy when we're done. I hear they get off on that sort of thing."

That was more than my guilty conscience could take. I had desired a similar fantasy scenario, although not taking it to the extremes of humiliation and degradation he suggested. It was to have been a way to take our relationship to the next level; sharing a man with my beloved Angie, while ramping up my own domme/sub desires. Viewing it through Jason's eyes made the whole thing seem sick, twisted – very much like the whipping I had given her two weeks previously. Jason's head snapped back with the force of my slap; a convenient proxy for my own self-loathing.

"You arrogant, ungrateful little prick," I hissed. "My Angie is down the hall, busting her butt to make you rich beyond your wildest dreams, and that is all she means to you? She is twice the man you will ever be!"

My head rang with the force of his punch. I would have screamed, but his hand around my throat was squeezing the breath from me. His other hand reached under my skirt and ripped my panties away.

"You cunts are all the same," he growled, his eyes glinting with hate. "You come on so lovey-dovey, begging for it. Then, when the time comes to get down to it, you snatch it away. It's all a game to you, isn't it? Worse, I find a really cute chick who lets me know she wants to get it on, then I find out she's really a little faggot like your sissy Alan. Well, I'm not a faggot, I never have been, and I'll show you what being a real man is all about."

The force of his cock jamming its way into my naked pussy barely registered on my brain. Stars were exploding behind my eyes as I gasped for breath. I fought him at first, scratching at his face and neck. As my strength and consciousness ebbed, my hands flailed away behind me, grasping only air. Then my right hand closed around something solid, metallic, comforting. I seized it, held on for dear life, and swung it around in an arc with every shred of strength I had left. I heard the satisfying crunch of bone as my ersatz cudgel connected with my attacker's temple. Jason dropped like a sack of potatoes, taking me to the floor with him.

I gratefully sucked a lungful of air as though it was my first ever, then another and another. My eyes glanced downward, beholding the instrument of my salvation. How ironic was that? It was that oversized, garish Big Man On Campus trophy. Its brass-and-marble heft had put my attacker in touch with his inner Twilight Zone with one swing. Something was out of place with the heavy award - literally; the brass face plate had been knocked askew by the force of impact. I idly slipped my fingernail along the edge to nudge it back in place. Instead, it fluttered away entirely – exposing a second brass escutcheon underneath. As I read its engraved legend, I would have gasped in astonishment if I wasn't already gasping for air.

Miss Sunset Strip – Continental

 1992

Releasing my grip on this horrific nightmare, I crawled on my hands and knees to the desk, reached up with one arm and managed to pull my purse to the floor. Locating my cell phone, I punched 911 and attempted to organize my thoughts as it rang.

***

They processed the rape kit at the emergency room. Scrapings were taken from under my fingernails, then photos and swabbings recorded the bruising on my throat. The doctors decided to keep me for observation overnight. I was a little unnerved when Patti showed up at my hospital room the next morning.

"No, I'm not here to gloat," she began as she seated herself. "I wouldn't wish this on any woman. Faye is parking the car. She will be up in a minute."

"I didn't know Faye drove," I commented, not knowing what else to say.

"It's my car," Patti informed me. "She offered to drive and I accepted. I always knew Jason was a pig, but I've been pretty shaken up since finding out what kind of monster I've been working right next to these past few months."

"I can appreciate that," I consoled. "So, Angie isn't…"

"She flew out to see Jerome early this morning," Patti interjected.

"Oh, I see," I acknowledged dejectedly.

Patti just closed her eyes, shook her head and sighed heavily.

"Major General Jerome Clayton, United States Air Force," she intoned, as if it were the most obvious thing on earth. "Angie was on the phone with him a couple of hours last night – after making sure you were going to be all right. She wanted to come with us today, but we convinced her we would take care of you and it was more important for her to get together with Jerome and try to salvage this disaster."

She grimaced even as she said the words, holding up her hand in anticipation of me saying something.

"That… didn't come out right," she explained apologetically. "I didn't mean to sound insensitive or minimize what you went through. You did all of us a service by getting that animal off the streets. In spite of everything, Faye wants to nominate you for a medal. The problem is, without him, the review panel may reject our bid outright. Even if that doesn't happen, the FBI performs an extensive background check on all companies in consideration for Defense Department contracts. There is no way they will sign off on a bidder whose CEO is an accused murderer. For that matter, there may not be a Miller Avionics anymore. It's privately-owned and he hasn't named a successor. We may all be out of jobs."

No good deed goes unpunished. Again, I didn't know what to say.

"Then Angie has been staying with you?" I asked.

"No," she reprimanded, as though I were a wayward child. "She has been staying with Faye. Those first two nights, she couldn't face the prospect of going home to you and Jason. She had somehow found the strength to allow you your lover all that time because that was what you wanted and you kept it discreet. Confronting the two of you in her own bedroom, as Angie, and being expected to submit to him was more than she could handle. From what I hear, it may have been the smartest decision she has ever made."

I shuddered as I considered what might have happened.

"Are you telling me you two didn't…" I inquired tentatively.

She turned her head slightly and looked at me askance.

"I won't even attempt to tell you that," Patti demurred. "Faye, Angie and I had a wild night that Wednesday night. Jerome is quite a stud; he took on all three of us. I found out a bit earlier, he really likes girls like Angie and me."

I just stared at her, dumbfounded.

"I don't advertise," she asserted. "I've spent the last eight years, since I was sixteen, attempting to pass. It wasn't until I got this job I really felt comfortable that no one suspected."

"I didn't," I admitted. "I still can't tell."

She smiled coyly, stood, and discretely pulled up the hem of her skirt while pulling down her panties, revealing a more-than-adequate 'clit'. She restored her clothing and took her seat once more. 

"I recognized the telltale signs in Alan as soon as he started wearing lingerie, then a corset, under his suits. You know; 'it takes one to know one'? I had gone through exactly the same phase as I transitioned. I encouraged him as best I could without actually admitting I knew. I understood how sensitive a subject it would be to him and didn't want to embarrass him. I looked forward to each new day, watching to see how far he would go. He had dropped little hints that led me to believe you not only knew, you were in on it with him. I was so envious. I would have killed to have a relationship like that!

"We were working late on a Tuesday night. We took a break and were on our way to the break room to get sodas when we spotted you and Jason coming out of Jason's office. You were all over him like a cheap suit. I didn't know who you were at the time; just another one of Jason's many conquests. Alan grabbed me and pulled me against the corridor wall, out of your line of sight. From his reaction, I knew exactly who you were. I didn't like you much after that.

"Contrary to your assumptions, we didn't 'set you up' that Wednesday night. Jason set me up with Jerome, intimating he wanted me to fuck the guy's brains out. I was scared to death. Jason didn't know about me and I didn't want him to find out. That may have been the smartest thing I have ever done. Now I was faced with the possibility of having to 'out' myself to a man, a client, I had just met. I would have told Jason to shove it, but I liked my job and Jerome was a charming, attractive man. I didn't know how we were going to get around the gender issue, but I decided to at least go out with him. After all, Jason was paying for it all. 

"We were at a lounge, having cocktails. Jerome is an easy man to talk to and we talked about a lot. After about the third round, the subject of sex came up. Jerome said he liked his on the wild side, especially girls with 'something extra', and did I know of anywhere where a guy like him could have a good time? That was just too much of a coincidence. I knew he had somehow 'read' me – perhaps from previous experience. I remembered it was Ladies' Night at Neo, so I told him I knew just the place. 

"Mind you, I had never seen 'Angie' before. Still, I recognized her immediately. That is one of the advantages of having been in the Scene so long and seen so many transformations. She looked so good in that over-the-top style of hers and was having such a good time, how could I not like her immediately? The fact she was there with another woman who looked just like her was too good to be true. Jerome adored both of them. We were going back and forth; were they mother and 'daughter', or two T-girls? I asked him if he wanted to meet them and he was enthused. I was dancing next to Faye at the time, so I… introduced myself.

"Yes," I responded, stifling my laughter. "I saw that part."

Patti giggled.

"Angie noticed me then. I thought she was going to have a heart attack when she recognized me. I told her I was completely supportive and if she wanted to, we could have a real good time. After we left you, the four of us went back to Jerome's hotel suite and did exactly that."

"I wish I had gone with you." I noted wistfully.

She beheld me for a moment, as if making up her mind about something.

"You know what?" she asked. "So do I. We might have avoided a lot of grief."

"Where did 'Trisha' come from?" I asked.

"Jerome," she responded, shrugging her shoulders. "He said 'Patti' sounded like some perky little high school cheerleader. 'Trisha' was more sensual, with a hint of mystery to it. I hadn't really considered it until he mentioned it, but I kind of like it. 

"Anyway, Jerome was… unbelievable. He was completely knocked out that he was with not one T-girl, but two – plus Faye. I have never had a man like him before – and I wasn't the only one. All three of us were walking gingerly Thursday morning."

"Oh my," I murmured.

"Yeah," Patti agreed, almost ruefully, "oh my. So, that morning, Faye was in the bathroom, taking a shower. Angie and I were sitting at the desk, doing our makeup in the mirror. We were each lost in our own little world. Jerome came up behind us and began massaging our shoulders; one hand on my left, the other on Angie's right. He asked if he could see the two of us again before he left. I don't know what I was thinking; maybe it was all those hours Alan and I had put in on this project and the anticipation of actually making the presentation at last. I just put my arm around Angie, hugged her, and told him: 'Tomorrow morning, ten AM, rain or shine'.

"I don't know which of us was more embarrassed; Angie or me. Jerome hadn't met Alan yet; didn't know anything about the hours we had put in on the project. I couldn't take back what I had said and Jerome was not going to let it go. He started asking us questions, really probative questions about the project and established we both knew what we were talking about. He told us exactly those words. He said he was impressed with the hard work we had obviously put in on the project and was looking forward to seeing us there. 

"Angie was nervous; she asserted it hadn't been planned for her to be there at all; the presentation was being made by Jason and his senior male assistant. Jerome saw through that in a heartbeat. He just let us know; he was confident we were Miller Avionics' 'first string'. If either one of us did not show up, he would know the company was not serious about doing business with the Department of Defense and would be on the next plane back to Washington. I had visions of all our hard work going down the toilet. Before Angie could say anything, I promised we would both be there without fail.

"I thought she was going to haul off and slug me the moment we were out the door. I filled Faye in on what had transpired while she was in the bathroom and she was all but bouncing off the walls. We called in to take the day off, then spent that whole day getting Angie ready. Faye may have gone a little overboard, but… Angie just looks so damn good like that. You can tell she likes it, too. We weren't sure how we were going to square it with Jason; only that we were committed. As it turned out, that wasn't an issue."

I had to suppress a smile at that.

"Friday, after the presentation, Angie was dancing on air. She knew Jason had left your place, so she couldn't wait to get home to you and share everything that had happened. She wanted to show you how much she loved you and try to win you back from Jason. I suggested the roses and went to the florist to pick them out for her. Then she thought of something really wicked she was sure you would adore. She asked me if I would take part in a threesome with her and you. The plan was, she would seduce you into bed. I would slip in and surprise you while she had your undivided attention. When I agreed, she gave me a key to let myself in. It was a surprise, all right."

Her eyes met mine. We both remembered the result of Angie's homecoming.

"What you did that night was heinous," Patti asserted. "Angie hadn't done anything you hadn't set her up to do. She was afraid to go home after that; afraid of what you would do to her next. When I think about it, I still want to strangle the life out of you."

"Too late," I replied, staring at the wall. "Someone beat you to it."

"Sorry," Patti apologized, stifling a smile, "another unfortunate choice of words."

"Don't be sorry," I asserted. "You were right. For what it's worth, I am seeing it in a whole new light, having been a victim myself. Angie must hate me for it."

"Surprisingly, Angie does not hate you," Patti attested. "Neither does Faye. They convinced me you are basically a decent person, but somehow got caught up in an ego trip over Angie's transformation. I have to tell you; whatever your issues are, you really need to get a grip. If it means anything to you, I don't hate you either; not anymore. In fact, I owe you a debt of gratitude. Because of you, I found what I have always been looking for."

And there it was. I just wanted to curl up and die. It was my own damn fault.

"I understand," I answered quietly. "I wish you the very best."

"Thanks," she responded cheerily. "I had no idea there was someone out there like her – or that she would fall for me as hard as I fell for her."

After what I had done, I couldn't complain about her taunting me with it. That didn't make it any easier to take.

"Sorry I took so long," Faye breezed as she swept into the room. "That parking lot is a zoo this time of day. I had to wait a solid twenty minutes for someone to leave so I could park."

Then she turned her attention to Patti.

"Hi, Baby."

She leaned over Patti's shoulder. The redheaded girl put her arm around Faye's neck and devoured her with a kiss that curled my toes.

"So," Faye gasped, breaking the kiss at last. "What did I miss?"

"Not nearly as much as I have," I murmured in amazement.

***

Criminalists have a cherished saying: there is clean, and there is forensics clean. Jason had been thorough in polishing his 'trophy', but the crime lab still found trace blood trapped between the walnut base and marble pedestal. They also found a usable print from his right index finger on the original plate, establishing chain of possession.

Then, when they ran Jason's DNA through CODIS, the computer screen lit up like a Christmas tree; three rapes, two deviant sexual assaults, and the murder of a sorority girl, who took a header from the second-story fire escape of yet another downtown dance club – all previously unsolved. Both that girl and Terri Tunney had fought their attacker valiantly, as trace scrapings from beneath their fingernails had attested. The sorority girl bore the same pattern and dimensions of bruising from manual strangulation which the crime scene investigators had documented on my throat. I guessed she had said "no", too. As for poor Terri, my original assumption had proven horrifically correct.

Times had changed. The current District Attorney had the usual political ambitions. However, she also had a 'hard-on' for sexual predators, regardless of their victims' gender, and was not inclined to plea bargain. After all, there was a mountain of hard DNA evidence arrayed against Jason, plus my deposition and those of the five girls who had survived their attacks. His attorney used the excuse of not handling criminal cases and ran for cover; so did most of the other attorneys in town. One, who had a national reputation for defending high-profile clients in impossible situations, agreed to take Jason's case, but it would take money – a lot of money. 

The smell of blood in the water brought all the sharks out. Jason's attorney fielded several offers for Miller Avionics – at fire sale prices. One offer stood head and shoulders above the rest; a fair price from an offshore corporation, apparently with deep pockets and a ton of clout. The embattled defendant took the money and ran – all the way to his attorney's outstretched hand.

Jason had paid for a silver-tongued devil and got one. The trial lasted a month; most of it delay and obfuscation. The day I took the witness stand, Alan – his nails removed and his platinum blonde mane somehow hidden under a short, decent-looking resemblance to his original sandy tresses - took me by the arm and silently walked me past the gauntlet of press into the courthouse, then sat in the first row of the gallery, ever the loving, dutiful husband for all to see. 

Jason's precious e-mailed video became a matter of public record, in an attempt to impeach my credibility as a witness for the prosecution. Alan sat stoically through the visual record of his cuckolding and verbal references to his sissification. I cringed at the thought of the humiliation he must have been suffering on my behalf, as a show of support for his 'loving' wife. After Jason's attorney's vicious cross-examination, even I suspected I had been 'asking for it', and I had been there. I wasn't really surprised Alan disappeared after court was recessed for the day; just… disappointed.




You Can Always Say No Ch. 07



After seeing how my character had been assassinated on the public record, the other five survivors declined to testify. Still, the physical evidence was unequivocal and the nature of Jason's offenses were so egregious, the jury could not possibly have acquitted him on all counts, then gotten a good night's sleep. In the end, he was convicted on a single count of Murder Two – that of the college co-ed – and drew twenty-five to life. With model behavior, he could be out in time to celebrate his fiftieth birthday. No mention was made of the injustice done to Terri Tunney – again. It was chilling the way a wrongful death could be so callously dismissed, just because the person hadn't lived up to some pre-conceived notion of what she should have been.

I resigned before being fired. YouTube pales in comparison to the nightly news - on every broadcast network, plus cable, every night for a month. At one point, I was even Nancy Grace's cause du jour. Being a media person myself, I could appreciate the can't-miss ratings appeal a story like this represented. At the same time, media people are supposed to report – or in my case, spin – the story, not become it. I wouldn't be hurting for money immediately. Still, I knew my prospects for future employment – anywhere – were limited at best. Eventually, I would see the house, the car, and the other accoutrements of my high-flying lifestyle slip away, one by one. I discussed that, among my other shortcomings, in my weekly sessions with Shelby Fairchild.

As Trisha Drake had predicted, Miller Avionics did not survive. Its new owners reorganized and reincorporated it as DC Systems. There was the inevitable shakeout at the executive level, as individuals opted to seek their fortunes elsewhere, rather than trust their careers to the whims of the new management team. They were largely replaced by capable, experienced candidates found within the existing office culture. DC Systems started life on a high note; a multi-million-dollar contract awarded by the Department of Defense to manufacture a high-end radar-intercept package for the next generation of fighter aircraft. The future of the fledgling firm was bright indeed, as reported in a widely-covered news conference by its immensely-popular and media-friendly new CEO, recently-retired General Jerome Clayton.

Two months later, long after the media circus had struck its collective tent and moved on, I was a bit early for my weekly session with Shelby. I was delighted to see Angie exit the inner office. She looked radiant; the fitted, Navy blue two-piece suit and crisp, open-necked white blouse lent the right business image to her prodigious curves. Her makeup, hair and nails were flawless, but Angie was Angie; they were toned down for daytime, yet anything but demure.

Upon seeing me, she hesitated but a moment. Then, her smile lit up the outer office, warming me as I had not felt in months. She strode confidently across the room, swept me up in her arms and hugged me like there was no tomorrow – or recent yesterdays. The difference in our personal styles was apparent in the number of inches she stood over me, her heels being that much taller than my own.

"Donna," she gushed, "it is good to see you again. I'm finally ready for it now."

"I didn't know you were still seeing Shelby," I pointed out. "I thought that ended…"

Angie shook her head.

"Far from it," she asserted. "I'm continuing with my transition. I've been on hormones since leaving home. I'll be having my first round of surgery next month."

She shifted her body back and forth.

"I can't wait to get rid of these prosthetics at last; same proportions, just more me."

"Then Alan is…." I began hesitantly.

She closed her eyes, pursed her lips and gave a little shake of her head.

"What you did in court – not just for yourself, but for Terri, Faye, and the rest – was the bravest, most selfless thing I have ever seen. I was there for you because I wanted the whole world to know how much I loved and respected you. At the same time, sitting there, knowing what the whole world perceived they knew about what you and Jason were doing behind my back, what you were doing to me…. 

"It's my own fault, really; all of it. I e-mailed Jason that video clip to get him to stay away from you. I should have realized the arrogant ass would just view it as another testimonial to his sexual prowess. In the end, I had given him all the ammunition he needed to destroy both of us in open court. I can't go back to that; I'm just not that strong. I would rather move ahead – as Angie. You're all right with that, aren't you?"

"You must be joking," I replied. "I adore you this way. Why would it even matter to you anymore what I thought?"

Angie smirked, sucking in her cheeks.

"As someone pointed out to me once, we are married, you and I," she teased. "Of course it matters."

"But," I protested weakly, "after everything I did…"

"Old news," she interjected. "Shelby helped me understand I couldn't get on with my life until I had forgiven you - particularly for that nasty S/M session. I have put it all behind me…"

She rolled her eyes upward and jiggled her bewitching backside with both hands.

"… no pun intended," she continued. "You need to do the same."

"That's why I'm here," I admitted, pointing to Shelby's office door. "I'm trying to put that part of me behind me."

She smirked again, beholding me with sparkling eyes.

"Um, don't be so hasty," she cooed in her little-girl voice, tracing one fingernail teasingly down my chest. "I mean, I didn't appreciate the… wretched excess, but the rest of it was hot – especially you. I never expected to say this, but… I think I envy Deidre a little. Do you think, perhaps, we might be able to explore it from time to time – without the anger?"

My eyes brimmed with tears.

"I'm certain of it," I choked out, "if that is what you want."

"I guess what I am trying to say is," she continued earnestly, "it's all about choices. I could have destroyed you for what you did to me, or not. Instead, you chose to fall on your own sword to put Jason Miller away. I respect you for that more than words could say. I could return to you, in spite of everything, or not. Jerome, Trisha, and Faye have shown me; I have options, a future, whatever I choose to do. I choose to believe what we had… have is real, that you love me as much as I love you. I won't pretend to understand why you did things the way you did. The fact you are here, meeting with Shelby, tells me a lot. If we can get a handle on our respective issues, I would rather be with you than without you."

My stunning and much-missed life partner kissed me warmly. After so long, I had forgotten what it was like to feel whole. Our lips parted and she glanced at her watch.

"Look, I know you have to get inside, so I won't keep you," she prompted. "Actually, I was thinking it was time we started seeing Shelby together, as a couple again. Are you all right with that, too?"

I had to restrain myself from jumping up and down for joy.

"Yes," I gushed.

She squeezed my hands with hers.

"I'm meeting Mom for lunch at Dante's," she informed me. "Will you join us when you are done here? I'll even order for you. I know what you like."

"Wild horses, Sweetie," I admonished, hugging her for all I was worth.

***

Seeing mother and daughter together like that, as I approached the table, had always made my heart soar. They were so much alike in appearance and mannerisms. Both arose from their chairs, hugged me and bussed my cheeks in turn, before we took our seats. My timing was impeccable; the waiter appeared as if by magic, serving Eggplant Parmesan for three. The sparkling diamond on Faye's ring finger caught my attention as she lifted her wine glass. She followed my gaze and smiled as brilliantly as the diamond.

"I won't even attempt to understand how these things work out," she attested. "All I can say is thank you, both of you, for making me so damn happy. Trisha is everything I have ever hoped for – and then some."

That was worth a toast, and the glasses clinked. I gave Angie the once-over, including a glance under the table.

"I couldn't help noticing how fetching you appear today," I asserted playfully, "but that suit looks way too tight, you seem to be showing a bit too much cleavage, even for 'business casual', and those heels…. How do you avoid them sending you home for violating the company dress code?"

"Excuse me," Angie piped up, with an air of wounded dignity. "As Executive Vice President and Chief Operating Officer of DC Systems, the dress code is whatever I damn well say it is. Believe me; the CEO is fine with it, and the only other opinions that matter to me seem to agree."

She cocked one eyebrow speculatively, gazing first at me, then Faye. We both nodded enthusiastically.

"I couldn't help admiring the new name of the company," I smirked.

"You like it?" Angie teased. "Faye and I adore it. I had been working with the venture capital people for months, in preparation for ramping up our production and distribution capacity. When the company became available – and Jerome agreed to come on board as CEO – we were a shoo-in. After that, it was just a matter of setting up the appropriate… acquisition instrument."

"You mean, an offshore shell corporation to deflect any suspicion of insider hanky-panky," I accused mockingly. "What about the FBI?"

"Oh, they love a war hero," Angie intoned bemusedly. "Did you know Jerome flew jets in the first Gulf War? Besides, he had his brother Lawrence smooth things over with the Bureau's director."

"Lawrence… Clayton," I mulled. "The Attorney General?"

"The very same," Angie chirped. "They come from a family that strongly believes in service to their country. The two brothers have always worked well together. Their friends called it the 'Jerry and Larry Show'. Who knows? Once he leaves office, we might be able to convince him to come on board as Corporation Council. We could use his expertise handling bureaucratic red tape."

"Wouldn't that be considered a conflict of interest, considering his role in your company's reformation?"

"Possibly," she surmised, "but no more so than Jerome becoming our CEO at the same time as our being awarded that fat contract. That was something I wanted to discuss with you."

"What do you mean?" I asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Wellllll," she drew out expansively, "we're in the Big Leagues now, with Big-League image issues to contend with – like that one. I've talked it over with Jerome and he agrees; we need a Communications Director, someone with experience and savvy, to handle our media relations. With this new contract, and more certainly to follow, our budget can afford the very best. If things worked out, this director might even be given a seat on our board, thus having a say in how the company was run. We were wondering if you knew someone who might be interested?"

"I could think of a name or two," I responded glibly, my heart pounding. "In fact, I believe there might be a campaign already available, tailor-made for your needs. It would only require a tweak or two, like a name change."

Angie beamed.

"I was hoping you would say that," she cooed. "It's fun to be a boss and make decisions that benefit lots of people. It's also fun to be able to acquire nice stuff…."

She reached into her purse and withdrew a small, square box, placing it on the table between us. I opened it and beheld a dazzling blue-white diamond solitaire, set in a platinum band. Glancing down at my own hand, I noted it was virtually a clone of the ring Alan had slipped on my finger years ago. I looked up, puzzled. Angie gazed at the ceiling, whistling; so did Faye. Beneath the table, I heard a toe tapping impatiently. I got the message. Removing the ring from the box, I took Angie's left hand and slipped the exquisite gem on her ring finger.

"Angie, my love," I asked earnestly, "would you marry me… again?"

"You betcha," she gushed. "I was thinking sometime after my first surgery – but not too much after. I don't want to have to mess with the whole 'civil union' thing. Mom is looking forward to being the Mother of the Bride. Trisha will be my Maid of Honor – or Matron, depending on the timing. We sorta have this 'tit for tat' agreement…."

"Who is going to give the bride away?" I inquired mirthfully.

"Jerome, of course," she responded carefully, tracing the back of my hand with one long, curving talon. "In fact, I was hoping to bring him over this weekend so you could… get to know him better. It's kind of a package deal. I mean, he's going to play a big part in our lives – a very, very big part."

"Oh my," I gasped, rubbing my thighs together.

"Of course, you could always say no," she added smugly.

I just stared at her as though she had lost her mind.

"Fat chance," I replied.

***