You Can Always Say No Ch. 02byAngelCherysse©
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.
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.