Metamorphosis

Rosie is one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. I'm William Rivers and I'm married to Rosie. I'm biased, of course, but if you were to notice how other men, and most women, look at her, you'd agree with me. She stands five foot, six inches tall with a slim build and nice curves. She weighs only 135 pounds but, if you meet her, you can't tell her I know. It's one of her more closely held secrets although I haven't a clue why. It's a perfect weight for her.

She has dark, curly hair that she keeps in a sexy, Orphan Annie-like hair do. She has a monstrous, infectious smile that sometimes draws the attention of the men she meets away from her 34-23-34 body. She has C sized breasts and a seize sized ass.

Except for her lighter skin and larger breasts, she could be Whitney Houston's twin sister if Ms. Houston had been born fifteen years later in 1978.

I've told her that hundreds of times but she won't believe me. I've told her she's the most beautiful woman in the world and, of course, she doesn't believe me. I've modified it to suggest she's certainly among the top fifty most beautiful women in the world and she doesn't complain, probably just to keep me quiet. She's very self-conscious about her body and, while she's comfortable around the house with me, she dresses very conservatively whenever we go out for anything, including the super market.

That's my only problem with Rosie. I'm married to a top fifty woman and no one, except me, knows it. I'm a guy. I like to brag a little and I'd really like to show off Rosie. I want everyone; especially other men, to know how lucky I am and she should get the attention she deserves. I've repeatedly suggested she develop a sense of pride in her looks and show off more often. I've avoided "exhibitionism" to describe what I've suggested but that's what I, and others, would like to see. I'd like to transform Rosie and, until recently, I didn't think I'd get the opportunity.

Rosie loves to take care of the house. She's always looking for ways to improve its looks and comfort. The outside is no exception. She adores gardening. It's more than just a hobby. It borders on an obsession. It's also the one place outside the house where she doesn't dress to hide her figure. She doesn't dress to expose herself in any way either, wearing a floppy hat, long sleeved men's flannel shirts and loose fitting jeans.

Even dressed in shirt and jeans when she's outside, I've noticed men walking by on the street slow their steps to check her out. Last spring was unusually hot and Rosie would come inside after hours in the garden, sweating profusely and badly in need of a shower. I talked to her about it and suggested that she should dress more appropriately for the weather. The heat was oppressive and, rather than give up gardening, she listened to me. I suggested a t-shirt and shorts would be more appropriate.

Rosie disagreed and countered with an old lightweight sweatshirt and she would keep the jeans. I got a pair of scissors and took the shirt from her. "Hold on. What are you going to do with those?" she asked.

"I'm going the cut off the sleeves so it will be cooler for you," I replied.

"Okay. If you insist," she said. "But not too short."

I took the shirt and when I started to cut off a sleeve at the shoulder, she quickly pulled the shirt from my hands. "No you don't," she said. "I'll do it."

She cut off both sleeves about six inches down from the shoulder.

Two days later, after both days working in the garden, she was still over heated when she came inside. "You still need to lighten your clothing further if you want to work outside in this heat," I said. "You need a lighter shirt and dump the jeans."

"I suppose you have a suggestion," she said sarcastically.

"I think I do," I said. "Give me a minute."

I returned with an old t-shirt of mine. It had a crew neck, moderately short sleeves about the same length as the modified sweatshirt and it was long, well below her waist.

"Its light enough but no way I'm wearing that with this bra. You can see through it in the sun."

That night we went shopping for a suitable bra. Rosie bought one of those opaque sports bras. You know, the kind with super tight elastic that, if a guy had his hand under it, it would cut off the circulation to his fingers.

Rosie gardened like that for the next few days. She agreed she was cooler but the sweat pooled under her sports bra, ran down under her jeans and pooled in her underwear as well. That night, I distracted her and she didn't do the laundry. The next day, she was readying to head out to garden in the front of the house but she couldn't find her 'garden' bra. She found it in the pile of clothing next to the washing machine. It was a cold, damp mess. "I can't wear this like this," she complained.

"Look, Honey," I said sympathetically, "just wear one of you other bras. You'll be cooler and no one will notice."

Rather than not garden and between a rock and a hard place, she took my advice; picked out a full, opaque bra and headed out in the hat, t-shirt and jeans. I sat on the front porch, pretending to read but actually watching Rosie and the reactions of the few men who walked by. Their faces revealed they were impressed and one guy, walking by with his wife, got a stern tug on his arm when his gaze lingered too long. I walked around the yard and confirmed that, at certain angles, the sun shone through the shirt and her bra, and the breasts it supported, were nicely silhouetted.

I took the opportunity to complement her on her work in the garden and how nice she looked in the t-shirt and jeans.

"I was a little uncomfortable," she said.

"Why? You looked fine," I asked.

"I was afraid someone could see through the shirt when the sun was behind me."

"Honey," I said seriously, "You looked fantastic. So what if the sun shone through your shirt. You were more than adequately covered by your bra."

"I thought the men walking along the sidewalk were staring at me."

"They go by every day. They look to admire the beautiful work you do in the yard."

"But they can see my bra."

"Not really. You're wearing your t-shirt and it diffuses the outline of your bra and, even if they noticed your bra, they've seen bras thousands of times. Relax. Just do your work and not worry about what they think."

The next day, Rosie was again out in the yard with a similar t-shirt, bra and jeans. She came inside for lunch. "Bill," she said, "I think Harold, up the street, is some kind of voyeur."

"How so?" I asked.

"Normally he walks his dog, with his wife twice a day, mornings and afternoons. Today he walked by with his wife and, later, he walked by again with just the dog."

"How is that a problem?" I asked.

"Well, he's never done that before. You know, walk the dog twice in the morning and without his wife. I think he took the second walk just to look at me in the yard."

"Was that a problem for you?"

"It was. He was staring. It was one of those strange interactions. He was staring at me; I knew it and he knew I knew it and he didn't stop."

"How did you handle that?"

"I did something stupid."

"Stupid?"

"I stood sideways between him and the sun so he had a better view of my profile. He could see the outline of my body through the t-shirt."

"Bingo," I thought.

"Rosie," I comforted her, "You were just having fun. You assumed he was having thoughts other than walking the dog and you teased him a little. Probably made his entire day."

"I've never done anything like that."

"It's natural for a woman to tease a man that way. There's no harm done. What was he, probably thirty feet away? You probably had some fun doing it."

"That's the thing. I did have a little fun. I stood there for a few seconds, smiled and turned my back on him. When I turned around again, he was gone."

"See. No harm. It's like fishing without a hook. You dangle the bait in front of the fish but you don't expect to catch anything and if you did, its catch and release. You had a little fun. He had a little fun. How can that be a problem?"

"I bet he'll walk the dog again this afternoon," she guessed.

"Then you should get some lunch and get out there again so he's not disappointed."

Rosie ate and went out to work again. I sat in the shadows on the porch and watched the action. Harold walked the dog twice more that afternoon. The first time with his wife and the second time with just one dog. He lingered as he walked by the second time. The dog was pulling on the leash and Harold worked to slow it down.

Rosie was aware of Harold watching her. She did something I thought I'd never see. She gave him a little show. Not much. She just lingered, displaying both profiles before she went around the back of the house and Harold let the dog pull him further down the sidewalk.

Later, we shared a salad for dinner. Rosie asked me, "You were watching this afternoon, weren't you?"

"I was. I thought you were discrete and Harold wasn't."

"He wasn't, was he?" she said.

"He almost tripped over the dog," I added.

Rosie laughed. "I have to admit, I was having fun."

That night we had a longer than usual sex romp. I'd put in the top three evenings of the year and I think Rosie would agree.

The next morning, over breakfast, I suggested to Rosie that she add something to intensify Harold's experience.

"What do you have in mind?" she asked.

"Everyday its getting hotter outside and you're sweaty when you're done. I think you should wear something lighter, that lets your body breathe easier."

"I'm not going braless, if that's what you're thinking."

"No. I'm not thinking braless. Something natural given the heat."

"Yeah. Just what would that be?"

"Shorts. I think you should trade the jeans for shorts."

"Shorts? What? And show my legs to everyone?"

"No. Something conservative. Maybe just above your knees. Like golf shorts. It's a natural change but it's sure to get Harold's undivided attention."

"I think it would do that. He'd probably trip over his own feet and fall on the dog," Rosie agreed with a smile.

"Then you'll do it?"

"I'll think about it."

The next morning, Rosie came to breakfast wearing a t-shirt with a bra and a pair of my golf shorts with a belt to hold them up.

"You look terrific," I offered.

"I look silly in your shorts. Tonight we're going shopping for my own shorts."

Silly or not, Rosie went to work in the yard in my shorts and captured Harold's attention. So much so that his wife had to walk back for him when he lingered and she wasn't paying attention. She grabbed his arm and pulled him up the sidewalk. Harold returned later in the morning, as did two other neighbors who suddenly needed to take morning walks.

Over lunch, Rosie was animated. "Harold is hysterical," she said. "This is more fun than I imagined."

"And you're not self conscious?" I asked.

"I thought I'd be but I'm not," Rosie answered. "It's funny. I feel safe with the distance to the walk and I'm in control. The combination is intoxicating. I'm having fun and I like the attention."

"Damn woman. You make we want to take you into the bedroom and have fun with you myself."

"What, and miss my afternoon outside? And what's wrong with the kitchen anyway?"

Rosie went outside to have fun and left me wondering what it would be like to have her bent over the kitchen table, naked with me entertaining her from behind.

Rosie and I went shopping after dinner. Rosie bought a pair of lady's shorts and a second pair of shorts. The lady's shorts came to about mid thigh, shorter than the shorts she borrowed from me. She wouldn't show me the second pair of shorts.

The next morning, Rosie was happily working in the garden in the front yard. She looked terrific in her new shorts. They fit much better than my borrowed shorts. They were shorter and tighter clinging to her ass tightly, nicely outlining her cheeks and the cleavage between them. I watched from the living room window. She was drawing more attention from the men in the neighborhood. Walking past the front of our house seemed necessary to a number of men who suddenly realized walking was healthy and beneficial. However, Harold's wife was walking the dog alone. That afternoon, two men walking by on the other side of the street, crossed over to finish walking by closer to Rosie.

Two evenings later, Rosie wanted to talk about her gardening attire. "Bill," she said, "I'm having more fun than I thought possible just working in the yard with all the attention I'm getting from the neighbors."

"Rosie, I've been telling you for years that you're a perfect woman and how lucky I am to be married to you. I'm really glad you're finally enjoying teasing the other men in the neighborhood. Like you said, you've got distance and control and that means safety."

"I admit that you've been right and I've refused to agree with you. I was always taught that modesty was an absolute requirement for a real woman. The less seen the more desired. Today, that thinking seems old fashioned. Today the expectation seems to be desire follows observation and, while I thought that I'd be uncomfortable being observed, I'm actually having fun. I'd really like to push it further but I'm unsure how you'd feel about it."

"Why would I be a problem? Remember, I've encouraged you and I'm enjoying watching you being watched as much as you enjoy being watched."

"I need your opinion. Wait here."

Rosie went into the bedroom. About five minutes later, she called, "Close your eyes."

I did as she requested. Rosie walked back into the living room, stood in front of me and said, "Okay, you can open your eyes now."

Rosie was standing there with her hands on her hips wearing what I could only describe as Daisy Dukes denim shorts with torn legs. Actually, they were shorter than any shorts I'd seen on line or in the stores. They were also very tight. As she turned around for me to see a complete picture, I noticed they nicely outlined both the space between her ass cheeks and the crevice between her pussy lips. I was instantly hard.

"Rosie," I said, "You look incredible in those shorts," as I adjusted myself in my own shorts.

"I can see you like them," she said. "Are you sure I can garden wearing these?"

"Honey, you can do lots of things wearing those shorts, including gardening but I don't think your primary motivation for wearing them is gardening."

"Am I being too obvious?" she asked.

"Obvious is exactly what you want to be," I answered. I stood up in front of her. "In fact, I want to show you exactly what being obvious gets you in this house."

I tried to unsnap the shorts with both hands. Laughing, Rosie tried to hold her breath and help me. We laughed together as we managed to tug and wiggle the shorts off her along with the bikini underwear. We had raucous fun screwing on the living room floor.

Later, we sat bottomless on the sofa. "Tell me," I asked. "Where did you find shorts that short?"

"I didn't. I cut them off further myself."

"You're a bad girl, you know," I stated.

"I've never been a bad girl. I never even considered being a bad girl before and I kinda like it."

"I like it too," I said. "Do bad girls screw twice in the same evening?"

"Only in the bedroom," she told me.

For the next two days, Rosie 'gardened' in her new shorts. I coached her to bend over frequently with her back to the street and stretch the shorts to their limit. It seemed that every man in the neighborhood was walking for the exercise. They all lingered as they slowly wandered by our house. Even Harold walked by multiple times. I considered setting up chairs and charging for tickets. It was a fantasy I couldn't actually do because, if Rosie lost control of the situation, I knew she would instantly stop and revert to her earlier modest self.

For the rest of the week Rosie happily performed in the yard for the neighborhood men and several women. Friday night, Rosie approached me with another concern. "Bill," she said, "I think there were fewer passersby today than there were earlier in the week and I wonder why?"

"You're really into 'gardening' aren't you? So much that you're taking a daily head count."

"Not really a count. Just a sense and there seems to be a decline in walkers."

"I have a possible reason and a suggestion if you want to hear it."

"I do."

"Over the last several weeks you've changed from flannel shirt and jeans to t-shirt and short shorts in multiple small steps. Each step raises the neighborhood's awareness and expectations. You've got their attention. So much that I bet most of them go home and masturbate thinking about you and your shorts."

"Ordinarily, I'd disagree with you about the sexual innuendo, but, I'm embarrassed to admit, I've actually been a little wet myself when I'm done gardening."

"That's incredible," I enthusiastically said. "I love it."

"It doesn't bother you that I'm actually excited about those men watching me?"

"No. If anything, I'm aroused just knowing about it. Look, we both know that nothing's going to come of their arousal or yours except here in this house, between us. We both benefit and that's not a bad thing in my book and, if they're lucky, those guys are getting more sex at home because of you."

"That's a lot of responsibility," Rosie opined.

"More of an obligation," I suggested. "You've done everyone a favor and, to be a little crude, the show must go on."

"I have been putting on a show, haven't I? I didn't think of it that way but I'm not unhappy with the description. Actually, I embrace it. So what's your suggestion?"

"You need to take the next step."

"What step is that?"

"Prepare yourself. I think you need to lose the bra."

"You want me to go braless?"

"You'll still be wearing the t-shirt. It has a high neck and it covers you. The only difference your breasts will move as you work and the shirt will move with them. It'll drive the walkers crazy."

"But what about the profile when the sun is behind me?"

"It won't be much different. The shape will be more realistic and your shadow may include the shape of your nipples if you're aroused."

"Oh, I'll be aroused all right."

"At least think about it."

"I already have. You had better be serious because I'm going for it so prepare yourself."

"I'm more than prepared; I'm hard as hell just imagining it. You want to push the envelope even further?"

"Further than braless? What else is there?"

No panties either."

"Oh my God. You are serious aren't you?"

"I am. Think about it. Your shorts restrict the view. They'll just fit a little tighter where it counts."

"That's obvious but I can't."

"Why not?"

"My pubic hair would show around the shorts."

"I can help with that," I offered hopefully.

"How? Wait! You want me to shave my pussy."

"It's only a suggestion."

"Shit. Why not? Only you have to do it. I can't see well enough to do a proper job."

I smiled. "I was hoping you'd say that."

We went into the bathroom, gathered the scissors, shaver and shaving cream and Rosie got up on the counter. I carefully trimmed, creamed and shaved every part of Rosie's vulva I could see. Rosie checked repeatedly and pointed out places I had missed or could improve upon. Thirty minutes later, we agreed everything from Rosie's navel to her rectum was free of hair or bristles of any kind.

I got a bottle of moisturizing cream. "What are you going to do with that?" Rosie asked.

"Just going to finish the job and leave your skin smooth and shining."

Rosie let me proceed. As she suspected, along the way I lost a finger or two when I passed between her labia. She quickly responded to my touch and we ended up with her bent over the counter with me pumping into her from behind. It wasn't the kitchen table but it worked just as well.