Ron and Nadine Ch. 04

[Preliminary Note: There was an interesting comment on Chapter Two of this series. I tried to contact the commenter, but he doesn't accept communication through Literotica. So, if you read this, and I assume you will, please contact me. I would love to have feedback to make sure I'm getting things right.]

I felt pretty in my poodle skirt and Angora sweater. The bra was tight and I liked the feel of it against my little titties. The pantyhose were comforting in the way they squeezed gently. It took me three tries, with Nadine's coaching, before I managed to get that movement I've seen a bazillion times down and I smoothed the skirt as I sat. I managed to bang the heels of my unaccustomed high heels against the door sill as I stepped up into the truck. I felt awkward and I was reminded of what Marylouise was going through as her pubescent body grew so quickly and arms or legs that would have cleared the table or the chair yesterday banged into it today.

Nadine and I both got the giggles as I finally settled into the seat with a sigh.

When she got into the truck she sat with a sigh, turned, and looked at me.

"Are you happy Ron?" she asked, and I noticed it was "Ron," not "Ronni."

I started to reply but she touched my lips with her finger.

"No, Honey," she said, holding my eyes with hers, looking as serious as she had in months, "are you really happy? What we've done so far, me with Diego and you with all of this," and she gestured with her arm, taking in my new look, "has been good. Hell, it's been wonderful. But if we go to the next step, there's no turning back."

Again I started to speak as she sat for a second, quiet, organizing her thoughts, and again she stopped me.

"No, Honey," she said again, "if we take the next step we'll have to tell the girls. And they can't keep a secret."

This time I touched her lips.

"We would have had to tell them when you brought Diego home," I said, "I've known that all along."

I stopped and touched her lips again when she started to say something.

"Are you ashamed of me?" I asked.

Her eyes got big and overflowed, sudden tears making dark, mascara streaks down her cheeks.

"No, God no, Ronni," and I noticed it was "Ronni" again, "I love you. I could never be ashamed of you."

"Do you want to go back to the way things were a few years ago?" I asked.

"No, Baby," she said, and she was crying now, those dark streaks running all the way to her chin and her nose was running now, water-clear mucus flowing over her lips to make a thick teardrop, dangling from her chin, wobbling a little with each breath, "I'm so sorry but, no."

"Are you happy?" I asked.

"Yes," she said, and I could see her control failing, "Yes, oh, Ronni, yes, I'm sorry but I'm happy."

"Then Sunday, when I make dinner, I'll dress in that Donna Reed outfit we bought and we can tell the girls that they now have two mommies," I said, my fingertips lightly brushing imaginary hairs from her forehead.

For the first time in over a year, for the next five minutes, I was the Man of the House, comforting her. I held her as she cried, softly said the words you say to gentle a crying wife or a frightened dog. "It's okay, Honey," my hands brushed her hair lightly, "I've got you. Ronni's here," fingernails lightly dragging down the side of her face, "We'll be okay," my lips brushed her forehead. Things like that and I realized I was crying with her.

It was a timeless moment and I felt oddly male, comforting my wife, but also female, consoling a lost child.

Finally, she pushed me away, grabbed the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white, took a long slow deep breath, and huffed it out.

She turned to look at me and smiled in that crooked way she might have when one of the girls came home, crying with a skinned knee or stubbed toe.

"Oh, Ronni," she said and I recognized the tone from that knee or toe, "I've ruined your pretty sweater."

I looked down and saw black streaks along with shiny snot on my sweater just above the small rise of my breasts.

"I think Woolite will take it out," I said.

"Okay, then," she said, and with the decision made my old Nadine was back, "let's get you ready for your presentation."

We drove back across town and she pulled into a parking lot but surprised me by driving around the building to the back. Across the front, the sign proudly proclaimed the Olympus Spa was inside, the image supported by the faux Greek columns bracketing the door. In the back, a smaller sign over the doors identified it as the entrance for GURLS with that stick figure of a woman you see, the skirted figure symbolizing the ladies room, with a little dick peeking out from under the skirt.

There were only three cars in the lot on this side of the building.

Inside there was a counter with the gayest looking man I had ever seen behind it. He was a bleached blonde, made up like it was prom night, dressed in a vest and the shortest shorts I had ever seen, most of his ass on display, and Go Go boots that would have been in style in the 1970s but worked with his outfit.

"Ronni for her one o'clock," Nadine announced.

He did something on his computer, smiled, and said, "Oh, here you are." He smiled up at Nadine, "The full treatment I see."

"I'm presenting her to the WIVES tonight," she said as if that explained everything.

Apparently, it did, because he nodded and said, "I understand. Come back around four, and you'll see your new gurl."

Nadine smiled, said, "She's all yours," kissed me, muttered something about, "Gotta wash my face," and disappeared into the bathroom.

"I'm Brian," the blonde said, offering me one of those limp-wristed, palm-down hands, "Now hold on sweety and I'll get Carl out here for you."

I stood, a bit frightened, a bit anxious, a lot excited.

Carl, it turned out, looked a LOT like a professional wrestler. He had arms almost as big as my legs with those big veins clearly on display. His chest was similarly muscled, and it was on display because all he had on was a pair of silk briefs with his package prominent in the sack at his crotch.

"I'm Carl," he said, and this hand offered was ALL male, "and I'll be taking care of you today, Ronni."

I thought that was a nice touch, that he already knew my name.

When I offered him my hand, as I had all of my life, he smiled and said, "No, Ronni. Lesson number one, you offer your hand like this."

He showed me, taking my hand and showing me how to offer it as Brian had done.

"Now, let's start over," he said.

I liked the theater involved as he turned his back to me, took a dramatically deep dress, and then turned again. "I'm Carl," he said, extending his hand, "and I'll be taking care of you today."

"I'm Ronni," I said, offering my limp-wristed hand which he took, his forefinger against my fingers and his thumb covering the backs of my fingers.

"Better," he said, "Now, let's get your ready."

The next three hours were a blur of sensuous and painful by turns. But mostly it was sensuous, giving me thrills I had never imagined.

Carl started with the most basic lesson, how to undress. It went like this -

Carl: "Show me how you take off your skirt."

Me: Reaching for the buckle of the belt built into the skirt.

Carl: "NO! Like this." He guided me, showed me how to run my hands down my sides to find the line of the belt, then bend my neck so I could look down to see the buckle, and then work the prong of the buckle through the hole and gently lay the buckle aside.

Me: Reaching for the button and zipper.

Carl: "NO! Like this." His hands were strong, and irresistible, as he showed me how to turn my head to the side and look down as my hand found the button and undid it. "That's better. Understand, Ronni, that a gurl is always posing if she's doing it right." As he said that his mouth was so close to my ear that the words made little warm puffs, giving me a tingle deep in my belly, not my worthless cock and balls, but deeper inside.

Carl: "Now, take off the sweater."

Me: Reaching back with both hands to the back of the neck opening of the sweater.

Carl: "NO! Like this." He guided my hands to the bottom hem of the sweater and then had me pull it up until the bottom hem was just above the line of my bra and then showed me how to cross my arms in front and pull it straight up. "A gurl should always exude sex and make every movement something that makes her desirable, Ronni." He made me do that a half dozen times before he was satisfied I had the movement down.

Carl: "Now, take off the bra."

Me: Starting to work the left strap off with my right hand.

Carl: "NO! Like this." Again, he guided my hands behind me, using my fingertips to trace the line of the bra until I came to the hooks. This was a move I had always thought of as kind of double-jointed but it turned out to not be terribly difficult. He had me hook and unhook it a dozen times and then do that sexy pose I had seen Nadine do a thousand times, my arms straight and the bra sliding down them.

It went on like that, kind of a basic training for gurls. With each new lesson, I felt myself accepting my new, well, my new role more completely and felt myself "internalizing" it as I might have read in a Psychology textbook.

When Carl was satisfied with the way I undressed he led me to a small room, I flashed to the image of the exam room at For Her, and had me sit in a chair that reminded me of a dentist's chair but much more comfortable.

"Relax," he said and did something that reclined the chair back until I was almost prone on my back.

I watched as he brought a white porcelain bowl from somewhere and then used the small flat wooden paddle to start applying some sort of greenish good to my face. It was warm and after the first second of surprise, I realized how perfectly sensual it felt.

He didn't say anything as he smoothed the stuff on my face.

"Close your eyes," he said and when I did he chuckled and said, "Just close them, Ronni, don't scrunch them up it'll give you lines."

I relaxed and he said, "That's better."

I smelled something, well, medicinal, something with an alcohol base to it, and then felt cold as he brushed something along the tiny wrinkles at the bottom of my eyes. He did my eyelids like that and then said, "Okay, Ronni, let's get you softened up."

He helped me stand, correcting the way I moved as I did and making me do it a half dozen times before he was happy with how I handled this simple move, and then led me down a short hall to another room.

As I walked into the new room the first thing I noticed was the combination of heat and humidity. The air was well into the 90-something degree range and I guessed the humidity at effectively 100 percent. The room was barely big enough for the small hot tub.

"Sit and soak for half an hour," Carl said, "and then the pain before we make you pretty."

"Pain?" I asked, feeling the sudden adrenaline rush.

"Yes, Ronni, the pain," he said, grinning a happy grin, "The work order calls for not a hair on your body below your neck. That's a lot of wax."

"Oh," I said, relaxing a little. Nadine had various things waxed regularly so how bad could it be?

"Now quit stalling and soak," he said.

The water was HOT. I guessed it at about 105 degrees. It was pretty much as hot as I could stand so I walked in slowly, letting my body adjust. By the time I was up to my neck, I could feel the lassitude that goes with such a hot bath.

Between my legs, there was an interesting conflict. My body was trying desperately to relax my Cremaster muscles so my balls could escape my body heat and try to cool down. The little trickle of electricity from the implant Heidi had placed was stronger, though, and held them up, snug, almost inside my belly. It was uncomfortable and sensual at the same time. I knew the sperm would be dying and wondered if my balls were too, it was THAT hot.

"Come on, Sleeping Beauty," I heard Carl's voice pulling me from my half-asleep reverie, "Time for the pain."

He helped me to stand, help I needed, and then led me, naked and not caring, to yet another room down the same hall. This one was another small, almost clinical room, with a massage table in the middle, the obligatory paper cover across it.

Carl helped me up, positioned me so my face was in the hole at the front, and started smoothing the warm wax on my body.

"Back first," he said as he smoothed the wax and then I felt him patting the cloth into it. Honestly, it felt good.

And then it didn't.

"Okay," he said, "on three."

"One."

"Two."

Rrrrriiiiippppppppp

Me: OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW FUCK!

He pulled the strips off, one at a time, until he finished at my heel.

When I felt fingers spreading my ass cheeks I said, "What the.."

"The order calls for bleaching," he said and I felt coldness around my asshole, or maybe around my pussy. I was getting pretty confused by then.

"Okay, roll over," he said, giving my ass a slap.

I rolled over, being careful with my newly exfoliated back and he did my front. He was thorough, hell, he even did the backs of my fingers and the tops of my toes. My armpits and crotch were, of course, a fresh hell.

Oddly, the thing that made me ashamed was that I was weeping as Carl finished with the wax.

He repeated the undressing process, in reverse, coaching me on how to properly put on my panties and bra the pantyhose and heels, the skirt and sweater.

And then he walked me down the hall to a third door.

This time I found myself in a salon.

"I'm Walter," the second-gayest man I ever saw greeted me. We shared limp-wristed handshakes and he led me to a comfortable chair with wings on each arm, kind of like your grade school desk.

"Mani/Pedi to start," he said, easing to his knees in a motion so graceful I was suddenly jealous, and undoing my shoes and starting to work the pantyhose down. When my feet were bare he got a small tub of hot water and put my feet in it and then smaller bowls with a skim of bubbles across the top suggesting some sort of soap was in the water for my hands.

"Fifteen-minute soak," Walter said, "while we talk about this," he said, running his fingers through my hair, the last word with such loathing in his tone I was ashamed of my hair for a minute.

He pushed my hair back, oddly gently for all that he was hurting me the way he pulled it back, and studied my face. Then he held up one finger in the universal "Just a second" gesture, left me there with my feet and hands soaking, and went into an adjoining room.

I relaxed, wallowing in the attention.

"Okay," he said, sitting back down with a flourish and said, "What do you think?"

He had a picture labeled "A Bob," showing an oval face like mine, framed in hair not quite to the shoulders at its longest but tapered. No bangs hid the face.

"You think I can pull this off?" I asked.

"I think you'd be the belle of the ball with this," he said, and then leaned in confidentially, "Especially if you'll let me take you to strawberry blonde."

"Oh, God," I said softly. It had never really occurred to me to have my hair colored but now that he said it I loved the idea.

"Yes," I said, "Do it."

Walter did my nails then. Fingers and toes, carefully filing and shaping and then doing them in the brightest scarlet red I have ever seen.

Then it was my hair and another first as he laid me back and washed it first.

The color and cut process was lengthy but when he finished and I looked in the mirror I couldn't stop the tears. I'll never be beautiful, I know that, but I was pretty. In fact, I was VERY pretty with my new hair color and style.

Walter kissed me on the cheek, dried my tears with a soft cloth, and turned me over to Maddie, a tall man so over-made-up that I flashed those Drag Queen contests I had watched a couple of times on television. He was nice to me, and I liked his deep voice as he showed me how to do my makeup properly.

God, I had been fucking it up so badly I'm surprised my skin hadn't fallen off. First, he showed me how to apply moisturizer, along the way selling me a lightly tinted brand. I had never used a moisturizer nor, the next step, a "primer." He showed me how to gently pat that on. Next was the foundation, another thing he sold me, stressing about a bazillion times as I tried to follow his instructions, "thin layer," and then, "THIN LAYER," and finally, "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, WHAT PART OF THIN DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND? The "th" or the "in," which made me get the giggles and need to start over.

It went on like that until he finally patted my head and said, "Oh yes, that'll do."

He held up a mirror and said, "Now don't you cry and ruin my work."

My breath caught.

Okay, I said I'm not beautiful, and I'm not. But what I saw in the mirror was damn pretty and I could not wait for Nadine to see me when she picked me up.

I thanked everyone and followed Maddie out to the waiting room where I had started where I sat, legs crossed carefully, my right knee on top of the left, my right ankle touching low on my left calf.

I felt pretty and ladylike as I waited.