San Francisco Treat: The Spa

This story is in the "Unleashed by Nair" series, and takes place about a month and a half after Carla's momentous Fourth of July weekend.

***

In retrospect, maybe my wife and I should have chosen the same massage package at the spa.

We were in San Francisco for my wife's medical convention, which she would customarily attend for a couple of days to justify the tax writeoff.

After that, we did whatever struck her fancy.

We were staying in a delightful boutique hotel a short walk from SF's famous Chinatown.

It was August in San Francisco, which meant that the city's famously refrigerated climate was sending unwary tourists scrambling for outerwear.

My wife and I had visited SF regularly since we were students working summer jobs in nearby Sausalito, so were wise to the city's weather.

We arrived the day before the convention opened. My travel outfit of a pair of women's straight black CK pants (made of slightly stretchy viscose), a unisex navy turtle neck, an androgynous blue-grey puffer vest, and black leather women's chukkas, went unremarked through the airports, the BART, and on our walk up Grant toward Bush and our hotel. My wavy dark hair, which now reached the bottoms of my shoulder blades, was smoothed back into a ponytail. I perched my Ray-bans atop my head as we entered our hotel's lobby.

The room was in my wife's name (the second occupant was listed as one C. S. Silver), so when both the doorman and the front desk girl greeted us with, "Good afternoon, ladies," I did nothing to correct them. I just smiled, batted my long lashes, and shook my head at the bellman who was hovering to take my roller bag.

Unknown to my wife, I wore a thong panty under my boxer jocks. When we got to our room, my wife ducked into the bathroom, and I took the opportunity to remove my boxer jocks, so I was wearing only the thong under my viscose pants. I loved the feel of the stretchy material on my compact package, as well as the thong's straps riding my hips. I redid my ponytail to a more feminine position higher on my head.

We always enjoyed walking around SF, so we went out in the golden (if chilly) afternoon to stroll. I took advantage of my wife's distraction with our surroundings to put a more feminine swing in my walk. As we walked up Columbus through North Beach, restaurant hosts and hostesses, hoping to entice us inside, would call, "Hello, girls! Good day, ladies!" My wife squeezed my hand after the first one, but otherwise didn't bat an eye. We were just two young, attractive women, out and about in San Francisco.

After a light dinner in Chinatown of congee with roast duck, we made our way back to our hotel, where the staff again greeted us with effusive, "Welcome, ladies!""

While my wife caught up with her reading to prepare for her conference, I pretended to busy myself with the Judith Merril anthology I'd brought along. But my mind went back to where it had been for the past month and more: that eventful Fourth of July weekend when Nairing my legs sent me over a threshold of feminization that unleashed Carla, my feminine ego, and sent her on a weekend of unexpected sexcapades.

When that fateful weekend arrived, I had been what I called "the grip" for several weeks — consumed by a compulsion to dress like a girl, look like a girl, be a girl.

The daily running I'd been doing at the local high school track to combat the stress of months of unemployment had done nothing to ease my compulsion. If anything, it amplified my awareness of my body, and how it was somehow being shaped into more feminine lines.

Thanks to my Chinese mother, my body was naturally almost hairless. I'd been keeping my underarms smooth, and I gave in to a mad urge earlier that week, and waxed my pubes and surrounding areas bare. But I hadn't yet taken the step of depilating the dusting of hair that I had on my legs.

But my compulsion overrode any reservations, and I Naired my legs once my wife left for her swing shift at the local hospital.

When I stepped from our bedroom into the hallway, wearing makeup, three-inch heels, and nothing else, I saw a goddess in the hall mirror.

"Holy fuck!" was my heartfelt reaction. Her long bare legs were creamy and fair, her slender torso lean and trim. She gaped at me, her long-lashed doe eyes wide in shock. She was me.

Nude, feminized, depilated, and toned, I was suddenly the hot girl of my dreams.

My legs are unusually long (I have a 36-inch inseam while being just under average height); newly Naired, they looked miles long, trim, cream-colored columns leading the eye to the flawless globes of my toned posterior.

I was almost as translucently fair as my Chinese mother, and my hairless, nude body seemed to glow in the mirror. I had my mother's moon face, while I owed my big, brown, long-lashed doe eyes to "some random wench" (my father's words) on the Scots-Irish side of my family.

In the mirror, those eyes were wide in disbelief. I was agog at how feminine I looked with nothing on but makeup and high heels; I looked leggy and willowy and athletic, much like a female high jumper.

The best explanation I have for the events of the evening and weekend that followed is this: Once the girl in the mirror aligned with the girl inside me, the girl inside — Carla — came forward, and possessed me entirely.

Removing what little hair I had on my legs was like removing the scales from my eyes — or perhaps, from my psyche. But I didn't expect Nair to make a slut out of me.

To that point in my five-year marriage, my cross-dressing had been limited to furtive sessions around the house. My wife didn't exactly approve of what she called "my little habit," and I was wary of the neighbors seeing me and asking my wife about it.

But that weekend, emboldened by the neighborhood being practically deserted, and aflame with how delectably feminine I looked, I went out in public, fully made up and dressed up.

During that long holiday weekend, I teased three different men, on three consecutive days, into fucking me like a girl.

Hank, who owned the gas station one street over, caught me during my first public foray en femme on the eve of the Fourth, dancing in a mini-skirt, spaghetti-strap bandeau, and strappy high heels on his service drive. I dropped my skirt and lifted my top to expose my creamy, feminized body to him, danced naked for him, and gave him a standing lap dance. Hank picked me up and fucked me against the gas station wall in full view of the street.

Tim was my volleyball partner at the Fourth of July picnic my wife and I attended. I wore women's jeans and a long-sleeved women's running top, and slinked around Tim like a cat in heat, which had him bumping me and patting my ass after each point before long. After I displayed my long, hairless legs and bubble butt for him at the swimming hole, he gave my ass a thorough licking, then fucked me passionately against a cliff wall.

The day after the Fourth, after a photo shoot at home in several hot outfits, I went to the high school track to strut before the stands in white wedge heel sneakers, white yoga shorts that were airbrushed to my ass, a transparent crop-top, and a racerback shelf bra stuffed with perky breast forms. Alan, the assistant track coach, found me sashaying around the track, and 'made' me from my stride and long legs as the person he often saw running there. After we flirted awhile on the football field, I sucked Alan's cock (my first), after which we fucked on the 50-yard-line.

Three men in three days. I exhibited myself as a hot young woman to three different men, and they all voted with their cocks, enthusiastically endorsing my femininity. It was all so affirming, but now I had more questions than answers.

Since that weekend, I had been stuck in the grip.

My wife started working the day shift at the hospital the week after the Fourth, so I had no opportunities for further evening sexcapades. And I really didn't go looking for any — not that I had gone looking for the liaisons I already had — but I had enough to process as it was.

But, as I had been for months, I was still engaged in the soulless task of job-hunting, so I was home most of the day, and able to both indulge, and attempt to control, being in the grip.

I shifted my running to later in the day, so my wife and I could run together. For my morning exercise, I took up the ballet barre and floor exercises I'd grown up doing in my mother's dance studio.

Daily running during my unemployment had resculpted my body into more feminine lines, burning away pudge and excess fleshiness. I not only wanted to keep my reshaped body, but to keep it trending in a more feminine direction, and ballerinas had always been my ideal. Not only did ballet tone the glutes (ahem) and the abdominals, and improve posture; the constant stretching developed the long, lithe muscles that made ballet bodies so appealing.

After six weeks, my flexibility and litheness were returning to what they were in my teens, before I went away to college. My wife joined me at the barre before she left for work, and she claimed improvements in her flexibility and stress levels as well.

She also claimed that ballet was already making my ass — which she never tired of comparing to "a nineteen-year-old girl's" —— "more bubbly than ever."

Or maybe it had to do with the shift in her attitude that began the day after the Fourth of July picnic, the one where I had teased Tim in fucking me at the swimming hole.

My wife and I were showering together the following afternoon, and playing with each other's soapy bodies, when she noticed me staring at our reflections in the mirror.

"Why, hon!" my wife purred, "What naughty thoughts are you thinking? Are you imagining me with my hands on some young girl's ass? That Eurasian girl has such as sweet, lovely body, don't you think? What would she think if I did this?"

She slid her soapy middle finger down the cleft between the globes of my ass, and started fingering my hairless asshole, which she had never done before.

Then, as she rimmed my tight rosebud with her finger, she started teasing me.

"I saw you wiggling your sweet ass at Tim yesterday," she crooned. "Were you wishing he could do this, hon?"

I don't know where she would have gone with her teasing, because her alarm for work went off, and she hurriedly rinsed off, toweled off, and dashed out.

She had occasionally commented in the past about how femme I could look, "without even trying" as she liked to say. But in recent weeks, she would make remarks about her "supermodel roomie," or compliment me on how good my denims looked on my "sweet legs and dancer's ass."

This past week, as we made love after our post-run shower, she was teasing the rosebud of my ass when she suddenly buried a finger in my asshole, just as I was approaching orgasm, and started finger-fucking me. I heard a high-pitched moan escape my throat; I almost blacked out from the intensity of my orgasm as I came in gouts.

When I recovered my senses, I saw my wife smiling an enigmatic smile at me as she ran her fingers through my long, wavy hair. "What a hottie you are, hon," she said, before she kissed me, and slipped out of bed to wash up.

She still didn't seem ready to talk about "my little habit," or about why I kept my body hairless, but something in her attitude had changed.

I diligently kept my body and face moisturized and hairless and femme. I spent some part of each day en femme, dressed in something from my wife's wardrobe appropriate to my current task, but I tried to stay inside the house, and out of trouble.

But the urge to be out in public as Carla was building, and I thought that I might have opportunities to indulge those urges during my wife's annual conference in San Francisco.

There were a surprising number of general interest classes and seminars offered at medical conventions, such as personal finance and the like, and I would normally spend time in one of those, while my wife took her required continuing education classes.

But over coffee and croissants at breakfast the next day, at a cafe within sight of Chinatown's Dragon Gate, I told my wife, with a bit of a wink, that I wanted to do some shopping instead. She dimpled a smile (her birthday was coming up) and readily assented.

We said our au revoirs at the corner, and she set off down the hill toward Moscone, while I, my mouth going dry with anticipation, made my way back to our hotel to dress for my expedition.

I stripped, thoroughly remoisturized all over, and prepared Carla for an outing in San Francisco.

From a zippered compartment in my luggage, I extracted a pair of sheer Wolford seamless stay-up tights, still in their package. My mouth went dry as I held the gossamer hosiery in my hands; I carefully rolled and smoothed them onto my long, hairless legs. Their tops ended a couple of inches below my bare ass. They were so sheer that my creamy skin shone through, with the tights adding a barely perceptible shimmer.

I admired the effect in the mirror, and had to admit that I understood my wife's admiration for my legs and ass.

A black faux leather mini was packed flat inside the same compartment. Feeling especially bold and naughty, I stepped into it without donning any underwear. The faux leather magically clung to my hips and bubble butt, forming a perfect leather hemisphere. In a mild nod toward modesty, the hem dropped to just past mid-thigh, hiding the discreet tops of my sheer stay-up hose.

I pulled on a dark grey ribbed turtleneck that clung to the contours my slender torso. I decided to go braless, since I would be wearing my puffer vest against the chill; the material outlined my big, puffy nipples, remnants of a teenage bout of gynecomastia, giving the impression of small breasts underneath.

I peeked at the shoes that my wife had brought on the trip -- she tended to overpack just a tad -- and spotted a pair of dark brown high-heeled ankle booties. Perfect. My wife's shoe size was within a half-size of my size 8 feet (I would sometimes joke, "White girls have big feet!" while being glad of that, since I could wear her shoes), so I knew I could wear her booties comfortably.

My nylon-sheathed feet slid neatly into the booties. I stepped in front of the full-length mirror in the entryway, and thought, "Holy fuck!" as I saw the lissome girl reflected there. I turned and surveyed my rear view in awe; the high-heeled booties helped make my already long legs look even longer, and pushed my ass out more prominently, with the stretchy faux leather mini lovingly highlighting its fullness.

If I didn't know better, I would have thought that I was a sleek, leggy young woman, perhaps a dancer, certainly with a dancer's ass.

Since I was going to meet my wife for lunch, I didn't bother with makeup, since it would have taken too long to apply and then remove again. I compromised with a lightly tinted sunscreen that my Nordic-fair wife used, and clear lip gloss. Thankfully, my big doe eyes, with their thick, long lashes, only needed a shift in attitude to look feminine.

I pulled my hair into a higher ponytail, threaded it through the opening of a black CK baseball cap, and put on my puffer vest.

I had a dark blue camera/travel bag that looked like a woman's cross-body, but actually contained my camera. I slung that over one shoulder, slipped on my Ray-bans, and stepped out into the corridor, my heart aflutter.

I was walking down a hotel hallway in San Francisco, fully en femme! There was only one housekeeping cart in the hall, and I made it to the stairs without meeting anyone.

The staff already thought I was a female guest, so I entered the lobby with confidence, and received their usual cheery greeting. The bell captain's lips were pursed in appreciation, as if he was going to whistle, so I put a little extra swing in my step as I stepped out onto Bush and turned toward Chinatown.

It was one thing to be cross-dressed in public in my smallish home town; in a big city like San Francisco, I discovered, it was both more exciting, and more anonymous. More exciting, because there were so many more eyes on me, on the sidewalk, on the street, in the shops and cafes that I passed; and more anonymous, because the big city was largely a crowd of strangers, especially in this touristy area. I made it down Bush, my heels clicking on the sidewalk, without any hue and cry, and entered the Dragon Gate.

Chinatown was thronged with tourists along Grant, as usual; I ambled along with the crowd, just another tourist taking in the sights. The chill San Francisco air made me very aware that I was commando under my mini-skirt.

I eyed my leggy, mini-skirted reflection in the shop windows with mild disbelief; on the inside, I was filled with wonder and excitement at being out and about as Carla in the middle of San Francisco.

And to think that, just a month before, Carla was mostly limited to furtive dressing around the house.

While waiting for the light at California, watching the cable car climb the hill and enjoying the ambiance, I noticed a group of young men looking my way; one of them said, in German, "Was ein heisser Feger!" to which the others agreed, "Oh, ja, ja!" as all their heads swivelled toward me.

I knew some German expressions from a couple of exchange students in school, and I blushed as I recognized the first phrase, which meant, "What a hot babe!" They trailed me for another block, taking in my rear view and making more admiring remarks, and I rewarded them with a slow runway strut, before they took a right down Clay.

I crossed Washington, turned left on Columbus, and quickly came to my destination — City Lights Bookstore.

My wife was a Jane Austen fan — she often said that reading "Pride & Prejudice" was like comfort food for her soul — so I thought I'd see if City Lights had any titles or editions that might make a good birthday gift for her.

Also, for me, there were fewer better places on earth to pass the time than a bookstore.

I was in the basement stacks, browsing the Psych section, where I found a fortyish professioral type in denims and a brown herringbone sweater perusing the titles. His somewhat abstracted gaze sharpened as he noticed leggy, mini-skirted me pausing at his aisle.

I noted his wavy brown hair, brushed back from a high forehead, and piercing grey eyes as we exchanged smiles. I edged past him with a murmurred apology. I placed one hand on the shelf in front of me as I tiptoed and pretended to peer at the titles on the top shelf.

"Need a hand reaching anything?" he asked in a mellow baritone, stepping close enough to smile down at me.

There was a wooden step stool with wheels nearby, and I hooked it with one foot and slid it over.

"Thanks, I'll just step up on this," I said. I returned his smile as I stepped up onto the stool.

The two-step stool put my ass where he could view it more easily, which he seemed to appreciate. I rested my hands on the stool's waist-high rail, and we chatted amiably (if quietly) as I stood on the stool and posed for him.

As I surmised, Ross was a lecturer in psychology at a nearby university, and I chattered about the psych classes I had taken in school.

"Carla," Ross said, "I can't decide which is more lovely, your limpid, long-lashed eyes, or your wonderfully proportioned legs."

I smiled, batted said long lashes, gave my hips a shimmy, and said archly, "Professor, I'll have you know that my posterior is much celebrated in some circles. Doesn't it rate with you?"

Ross grinned. "Your posterior fills your skirt beautifully, but the leather obscures the details of its shape."

Seeing and hearing no one around, I yielded to a mad impulse, slid my hands down my leather-clad backside, and slowly lifted the hem of my skirt to expose my creamy, bare ass.