Ron and Nadine Ch. 05

I felt nervous. I flashed back to my first date. I was eleven or twelve I think, maybe sixth grade, and I was supposed to take my first love, Bonnie was her name if it matters, roller skating. Skating started at noon as I recall, and I was supposed to pick her up at 11:30. I was ready by about 9:00 and spent the next two hours fretting, trying to watch TV, and looking at the clock about every thirty seconds.

Keeping true to the image, I looked at my watch and realized it was far too masculine for my wrist. I promised myself a new one the next time I went to the mall. I pictured something delicate, maybe silver.

I sat, remembering what Carl had told me. A gurl is always posing. My back was straight, my shoulders back showing my small breasts to their best advantage, my legs crossed, my ankle barely touching my calf.

Nadine came in and looked around.

I liked, very much, that it seemed to take her a few seconds to recognize me in my new look.

"Oh. My. God," she said softly, coming to me and offering both hands. The way she said it made each word a separate sentence.

She looked me up and down and I giggled.

"Oh. My. God," she said again and kissed me. I pulled away just a little, as she had done when freshly made up for years when I got grabby before we headed out for date night, and gave her a puckered-up peck on the lips.

"Oh, Ronni," she said, and I thought she was going to cry, "You are stunning."

I wished I could blush on command, but I settled for giggling, looking at the floor, and saying, "Thank you," in a low voice.

She walked to the counter, handed her Platinum card to Brian, and said, "You guys did an amazing job. Twenty-five percent tip for all."

He smiled, said, "Thank you," and ran the card.

She signed and then took my hand as I stood, being as graceful as I could, just like Carl had drilled into me.

"God," she said, walking me to her truck, "You look so good I don't think I can keep my hands off of you."

I giggled, turned, and said, "Not until we get home. I don't want this," and I made a motion with my hands, starting at my face and moving down my body, "messed up."

She smiled, offered her hand to assist me into the truck, and said, "Fair enough."

She was quiet on the way home, not even singing along with the "oldies" station on the radio.

I was oddly nervous. There was something about sitting there in the truck as she drove, dressed and made up and feeling pretty that was getting to me. I realized, as I looked ahead and felt the butterflies in my belly, that I had probably passed by my last chance to salvage any masculinity I might have retained.

I was a gurl and, dammit, I was a pretty gurl.

And I knew, suddenly, clearly, frighteningly, what I wanted.

"Call Diego," I said, not daring to look at her, "Please."

I could sense the sudden tension in her.

"Ronni," she said softly, and I noted that she used my "gurl name," "Are you sure?"

"Yes, no, God, shit," I babbled, "Nadine, I'm not sure about anything anymore." I kept looking straight ahead.

She was silent for a mile or so, expertly handling the truck through traffic.

"No," she said at last.

What I felt was a complex of happy and sad and disappointed and relieved.

"Never?" I said, still looking straight ahead.

She laughed, a soft laugh full of, well, I'm not sure what it was full of, but it didn't feel like humor.

"I did not say that," she said, "But tonight I already have plans for you."

"Oh," I said in my best small, gurly voice.

"And I have plans for about twenty minutes from now," she said.

"Ohhh," I said, trying to put as much excitement as I could into my voice.

We finished the ride back to the house in silence.

At home, she opened the door for me and then held my hand until we were inside the front door.

"Wait here," she said, leaving me in the front room.

I've said Nadine can never really look, you know, "butch." But when she came back for me, this was pretty damn close. She had scrubbed her face and pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail. She was wearing a man's shirt with the sleeves torn out, if you've ever seen "Larry the Cable Guy" you've seen the shirt, a pair of loose-fit jeans, well worn but not with those artfully placed holes women pay a lot for, and boots. Not sexy go-go boots or even not-quite-as-sexy cowboy boots. These were square-toed stirrup boots. They looked well worn and I wondered where she had been wearing them.

She sat on the end of the couch and crossed her legs in the ankle-on-the-knee way no woman ever uses.

"Get us a couple of beers, Babe," she said, and she pulled a little round can of fucking chewing tobacco from her back pocket and put a healthy wad inside her lip, "And an empty can," she finished.

I put some extra swing in my hips, making the poodle skirt sway as I went into the kitchen for the beer and a can. I giggled when she whistled.

I got the mugs out of the freezer, poured the beer, found an empty green beans can in the recycling, and put all three on the little serving tray that we had used maybe three times since we got married.

Jesus, she looked so much like a man sitting there that I almost stumbled. Her legs were still crossed and she leaned back against the arm of the couch. She was smiling, no, check that, she was grinning but I didn't see much humor in it.

She took the beer and the can, held the can to her mouth and spit, took a drink of her beer making me wonder how she managed that, and grinned.

"Put on some music, Ronni," she said, "and strip for me, Show me what they taught you at the spa."

My bowels got hot and watery with the sudden rush of adrenalin. I couldn't tell if it was fear or excitement. But as I looked through our playlists and found something called Torch Songs I realized it was excitement. I wanted to give her what she wanted but deep inside it was more than that. I wanted her to think I was pretty and sexy.

I took another drink from my beer, turned to face her, and picked up the beat of Stormy Weather, the Ethel Waters version, and started my hips moving making the skirt sway, holding my shoulders still so that my hips were the only thing moving.

I was watching her face, well, watching her eyes in that way Carl had shown me, watching for the little tells that would show I was getting to her. And there it was. Her right boot twitched a little and I saw a tiny tremble in her hand as she lifted that disgusting can to her lips again.

"Take it off, Baby," she said and whistled shrilly.

I kept my hips moving to the beat and did the thing with the Angora sweater. I pulled it up so it was bunched at the top of my bra and then did the crossed-arms thing to pull it up and over my head in one smooth movement. I swung it around over my head a couple of times and tossed it to her. She caught it deftly, held it to her nose, inhaled deeply, and laid it across the back of the couch.

There's really no way to get out of a poodle skirt gracefully but Carl had taught me something he called an "alibi" for it. I started moving, taking very small steps to slowly turn, and moving my arms in what I hoped was a sexy way, my fingers finding the button and zipper of the skirt in a move I realized I needed to practice.

I spun, pretty quickly, making the petticoat flare, and then kicked the skirt to her, making her giggle and applaud.

As Dinah Washington started into What A Difference A Day Makes I pushed the petticoat down and kicked it away.

She whistled again as I stood before her, well, as I danced before her in my bra, panties, garter belt, nylons (with ruler-straight seams), and red pumps to match the undies. I turned my back and squirmed prettily as I pushed the panties down - yes, the proper way to wear a garter belt and nylons is with the panties on the outside. Come on, think about it. Otherwise, you'd have to practically undress to pee - and kicked them to her.

She held them to her nose like a flower, smiled, and said, "Don't stop, Beautiful."

I did the double-jointed thing, reached around, unhooked the bra, and let it slide artfully down my arms. Then I pinched my nipples, making them hard. They were barely titties, but they were more than chest muscles. My nipples had seemed to grow first, covering quite a bit of my tiny titties.

I shimmied and she giggled.

She crooked her finger and I went to her using the exaggerated model's walk about which Carl had coached me.

As I approached she lifted that can to her lips again and when she sat it down a line of brown tobacco spit ran down her chin. I thought it was probably done deliberately. I also thought it was both disgusting and strangely sexy at the same time.

She smiled, a broad smile, showing me that disgusting brown mash in her lower lip.

As I stood there she rolled up onto one hip and reached into her pocket. She came out with a small tube, like a tiny tube of toothpaste, and carefully unscrewed the long top.

"What?" I started, but she held her hand up in a peremptory gesture, so I shut up.

"This is a little trick I learned at the WIVES Club," she said, "Don't worry, Baby, you'll like it."

Her hand pulled my little dick, stretching it. I was soft of course, my days of coming erect behind me. She laid my stretched-out wiener against my belly and I felt a growing line of cold as she squeezed a line of the clear gel along the line of its bottom.

She waited a few seconds and then used her fingertips to push the head of my dick until it was just a tiny stub and then pressed it against my scrotum, tight against my body from the little wire. She held that for a few seconds, watching her fingers very intently.

"What?" I started again but she said, "Wait."

She used her fingers, pressed against the base of my dick, to stretch the skin a bit, and then put a drop of the clear gel just behind where the head, the glans, emerged from the shaft and used her fingernails, being careful not to touch the gel, to fold the skin, stretching it a little, and then pressing it against the top of the little stub of my dick. She held that pressure for a few seconds.

She released me and then leaned back, took a drink from her beer, spit into her can, and grinned.

"There we go," she said, grinning, "You might not have a pussy, but that's sure a cute little kitty."

"What?" I asked for the third time.

She smiled. No. She grinned then, the line of brown spittle running down her chin giving her a little bit of a demented hillbilly look that I found exciting.

"Super Glue, Baby," she said, "if we decide we like the look, we can make it permanent."

"Oh, God," I said, bending to look but all I could see was the top of my glans.

She stood, smiling, and took my hand, leading me into the bedroom. She swung the door shut and turned me so I could see myself in the full-length mirror.

And I almost swooned. I guess it was lucky that the memory of a long-ago conversation flashed through my mind, unbidden but welcome, of the time Nadine and I had been watching some silly period drama. "I hope she makes it to the fainting couch," she had said and we had both cracked up.

I had that sort of reaction, looking at myself in the mirror. I needed a fainting couch.

There was no hint of masculinity in what I was seeing. My hair was very fluffy and feminine. My makeup was perfect. My breasts were small but clearly breasts, and the little red line where the bra cut reinforced my new, well, gender I suppose. My hips were flaring with the weight the hormones had me adding, and my legs looked DAMN good, assisted by the pumps on my feet.

And there, at the cleft of my legs, was my little pink kitty, just a pink bump with a tiny slit in it.

"You're beautiful, you know that?" she said, moving close behind me, the coarse material of her jeans brushing against my ass, her hands starting at my hips and slowly moving up to cup, well, to press, my breasts.

And I had to have her. This wasn't a need or a compulsion. This was down at the cellular level, the DNA level of an imperative. I HAD to have her. I HAD to have her RIGHT NOW!

I turned and dropped to my knees, fumbling at the heavy black belt she had on, my trembling fingers having trouble getting the prong of the buckle free.

"Oh shit," I thought, "boots."

I lifted her foot into my lap, looked up, and said, "Pull."

She grinned and pulled as I held onto the boot. It was a struggle, but I got the boot off of her and then the other one before going back to the belt.

Here's one of those words you see written but never actually use. I was frantic with my need. My hands were trembling so badly I couldn't seem to get the button of her jeans undone and she chuckled but did nothing to help me.

I don't know what I was crying for. Frustration maybe? But when I finally got that goddam button unbuttoned I practically tore the zipper off in my need. She laughed as I yanked the jeans and panties down and then held them as she stepped out of them.

"Good gurl," she said as I buried my face between her legs. Her coarse pubic hair carried the scent of urine and that small part of my mind that was still thinking pictured her sitting to pee and giving herself a quick shake when she was done, ignoring the toilet paper, enhancing her position as the Man of the House by doing even that simple act in a masculine way.

It was a blow job, plain and simple, that need so deep inside of me demanding that I make her cum.

I was, when you get down to it, masturbating her with my lips and tongue. And I was absolutely LOVING it. My hands were on her ass, holding her to me, and I felt, well, complete when her hips started rocking and thrusting, meeting what I doing.

And she started talking.

"Oh, yeah," she said, "Yeah, Baby. Just like that. So good. RIGHT THERE! Yeah, yeah, GOD YEAH."

When she came I pulled back, feeling her thick, white, sticky ejaculate spatter against my breasts. My fingers dig into her ass, making her groan a little.

We stayed like that, her body rigid with her ecstasy, until the immediate need had passed.

"Oh, shit," she breathed.

I stood and looked into the mirror again. Her thick ejaculate looked so much like what I used to leave on her that I half expected to see a cock when I looked down.

I turned to her then, smiling, and said, "Thank you for my beautiful pearl necklace."

She smiled and said, "It looks good on you."

I thought she was right.