You Can Always Say No Ch. 02

"I love you so very, very much for being so brave for me," I intoned emotionally. "Your nails areexquisite! I am so hot for you right now, I can't sit still - and it's only going to get better."

My mind was racing. The domina in me was on Cloud Nine. If you know anything about sculptured nails, you know the first time you have them – going from nothing to instant nails – is an awkward experience. Your brain literally has to re-wire itself, adjusting spatial relationships between your fingertips and objects they come in contact with. You have to re-learn how to do even the most mundane, everyday tasks, such as picking up objects, handling money (especially coins), buttoning buttons and zipping zippers.

The transition from nothing to extreme, glamour-length nails, as Alan had just done, is especially difficult. Effectively, he was as helpless as if I had handcuffed him. In order to cope, he would have to learn to use small, delicate movements of his hands, just as he had learned the short, mincing, undulating gate of a woman in high heels. Unlike heels, this was not something he could just kick off and go back to being plain old 'Alan'. These were a very visible and at least semi-permanent reminder of his feminization – and submission to me. What an incredible turn-on!

Alan became agitated as we approached the mall.

"How am I going to get away with this?" he asked querulously, holding aloft his starkly-feminized hand. "These sweats have no pockets."

"Nor would I allow you to keep your hands in them," I admonished, "not after the amount of money we just spent making them beautiful. You don't seem to grasp how good you look, just as you are.WEwill 'get away with it', as you put it, by acting as though your nails, like the rest of you, are the most natural thing in the world. Ifwebelieve that, and project it to the rest of the world, everyone else will believe it, too. I already believe it, because to me, itisthe most natural thing in the world – just like adoring you."

I punctuated my lecture by placing my hand behind his head and drawing him into a deep, sensual kiss. By the time our lips parted, we were both short of breath. I gently lifted one of his ultra-feminine hands, admiring once more the stunning results of my daring. I gazed up into Alan's eyes. Mine were misty.

"Don'teverforget how much I love you!" I gasped, looking once again at those unbelievable nails. "This is... this is...."

My voice trailed off as I sat there, simply shaking my head in wonder. I couldn't even find the superlatives to express how I felt at the moment. I bussed him lightly on the lips once more, my eyes and mind filled with determination.

"We're going in," I commanded.

***

As I had predicted, by acting normally, we received no untoward reactions – other than admiring glances; a lot of them. I noted with smug satisfaction most were directed towards Alan's nails. I squeezed Alan's arm, winked, and mouthed the words "told you". We purchased more lingerie – a girl can never have too much – hosiery, and a larger pair of breast enhancers. Alan's erection had long since become a problem. It was threatening to 'out' him to the weekend throngs. I broke one of my own cardinal rules and purchased a pair of jet-black pantyhose, then took him to the fitting room, made him strip below the waist, and put them on. It was good experience for him to work the sheer pantyhose up his legs without snagging or running them with his new nails. I wasn't going to let him cum – yet – but I managed to get his genitals tucked backward between his thighs, then snugged the pantyhose into place. That did the trick. I'm sure he was more than a little uncomfortable down there, but his front was nice and smooth.

I was really turned-on by what we had done so far. We went a littlemeshuggahshopping. BetweenBebeandAldoalone, we dropped a couple thousand dollars on clothes and shoes that had no earthly use other than making dicks hard. Of course, I didn't tell him that. If I had had a cock of my own at the time, it would have beengranite, thinking about my baby all dolled up in one or another of the outfits we had purchased. I had murmured exactly that in his ear, soliciting his response to wearing this outfit or that for me. He responded how heavenly it sounded, wishing we were home already. He loved his new nails and all the things we had purchased, but felt really self-conscious, out in public in his current in-between state, desperately afraid someone we knew would appear at any moment and recognize him.

"Well," I cooed, "we'll just have to take care of that, won't we?"

We were passing theMACcosmetics store. I happened to glance through the window – and almost gave myself whiplash as I came to a screeching halt. Alan had continued on a few steps before he realized I was no longer next to him. He returned to my side, puzzled. I was completely oblivious to anyone and anything buther. Everyone has seen, if not met, a woman like the vision before me, demonstrating a product on a prospective customer. How she could work with those incredible, curving talons, I didn't have a clue. They were two inches long if they were a millimeter!

Realistically, she was probably in her late thirties, perhaps older. She appeared, and dressed, much younger. The woman sported sizzling Platinum Blonde hair, huge boobies and a deliciously narrow waist, flaring out into full, rounded hips and the most incredible bubble butt. The sprayed-on zebra-print dress barely contained her prodigious proportions. Long, shapely, stocking-clad legs, flowed downward into zebra-patterned, stiletto-heeled, ankle-strap platform sandals. When she turned, presenting a straight-on view of her backside, the thin, stretchy fabric of her dress clearly revealed her impossibly-small waist was the product of a lace-up corset.

Any number of narrow-minded people would have labeled her makeup "gaudy", "trampish", or worse. It was certainly heavy-applied, with long, thick, curly eyelashes and impossibly-thin, high-arched brows; more appropriate for a dimly-lit nightclub or honky-tonk than daytime in a busy urban mall. Still, it was obvious this 'look' had been skillfully applied, not troweled on with a putty knife. It fitthiswoman to a 'T', like her spectacular anatomy, impossibly-tight dress and skyscraper stilettos. This was, after all, a cosmetics store and she was a (presumably) licensed aesthetician, charged with demonstratingpossibilitiesto her clientele ("This is what wecando, Honey. Now, let's put together a look that is right foryou.").

Suddenly, the idea that had been ruminating in the back of my mind since the nail salon gelled. I seized my hubby's hand and marched into the shop, just as Blondie was ringing up her sale. Ignoring other offers of service, I approached her directly. It took her but a moment to size us up with the practiced ease of a professional who knows what she is doing. Her nostrils flared slightly as the scent of Alan'sObsessionreached them. I felt my juices gush into my panties as I gazed into her heavily-made-up baby blues. The twinkle in her eye and smile on her pouty, crimson lips spoke volumes. She made "May I help you?" sound more like confirmation than inquiry.

We made our introductions. With a firm grip on Alan's arm, holding him in place, I leaned forward, murmuring my desires for her ears only, not even glancing at my husband for confirmation. She beamed a smile and nodded in the affirmative, murmuring how happy she would be to help. In that instant, I instinctively knew Faye, as she had introduced herself, was exactly the right woman for the job – and would be a friend for life.

We moved toward a corner demonstration table, each of us holding one of Alan's arms; me on his left, Faye on his right. It was a casual hold – our arms slipped through his – but there was no way he was going to escape. Together, we seated Alan on the stool, as if his assent was a given. Faye went to work immediately, tying his hair back with a scrunchie and chatting breezily with us, citing her experience in both stage and screen.

"I've also done hair and makeup for hundreds of drag shows and pageants over the years," Faye revealed, as she applied a third coat of plumper to Alan's lips, "and dozens of transsexual videos, as well. I adore Girly-Boys. Making them the femmiest they can be makesmeso wet. I've been presented with some real challenges in the past; trying to make a real 'brick' appear more feminine..."

Her smile cranked up a notch at Alan's sudden wince. She winked at me.

"... but I rarely have the opportunity to work with such fabulous raw material. When I'm done with you, Angie, you are gonna be one hot babe. You don't mind if I call you Angie, do you? I thinkAngelais such a lovely name. With that face and complexion, you couldn't be anything but. Don't you agree, Donna?"

I could have kissed her! She seemed to know my mind better than I did. Since finding out about Alan's feminine side, I had been struggling to construct a mental image of what I wanted my sissy hubby to be. As of this morning, that image was in sharp focus – and now had a name.

"I couldn't agree more," I concurred. "As much as I love Angie, and have since the day I first laid eyes on her, she has always been so shy and insecure about herself. She didn't even want to come to the mall with me today, afraid of what people would think of her."

"Well, will just see aboutthat!" Faye announced, applying thick, lacy false lashes to my lover's lids. "Confidence, Sweetie; that's what it takes.Con-fi-dence. People will think what they think, regardless of what you say, do – or look like. To paraphrase Abe Lincoln: 'you can't please all the people, all the time.' Live your life the way you feel it, not the way you think those cretins expect you to.

"Best of all, and I hope you realize this, you are not alone. When you stepped through that doorway a little while ago, you already had the unwavering support of one woman who will move Heaven and Earth to make you the best you can be. When you step through that doorway again, you will havetwo. It's just such a shame I'll have you looking so hot in a little bit, and here you are in dumpy sweats and Nikes. Really, yourmothershould dress you better...."

I beamed, flicking my eyes towards the shopping bags at our feet.

"Oh," I remarked casually, "I think we can do something aboutthat, too."

As Faye completed her efforts, we hustled 'Angie' into a back room for a quick 'costume change'. Upon our return to the main floor, her transformation was complete – and a complete knock-out. Angie sported a full C-cup bustline, thanks to one of her new bras and larger silicone enhancers. Her new curves were stuffed into a shiny red tank top, thebebelogo in glitter across the bust, and a pair of skin-tight black lambskin low-rise Capri's. She strutted gracefully in a pair of open-toed black calfskin Italian mules with thin soles and five-inch stiletto heels.

If her outfit was visually stunning, Angie's visage was a jaw-dropper, transcending mere beauty. Faye had pulled off an effect I hadn't thought possible; my sweet twenty-something sissy appeared to be an angelic-faced teenager, attempting, as young girls do, to impersonate an adult through the use of too much makeup. As is usually the case, the girl in question ends up looking less like an adult and more like a slut. If that wasn't eerie enough, the aesthetician had played up my lover's delicate features and Baby Blue eyes, so similar to her own, and chosen a specific combination of colors and application to fool the casual eye into believing Angie was Faye's own daughter!

Angie was lost in her own little world as she gazed at herself in the mirror. She happened to catch the reflection of my beaming Cheshire smile in the mirror and turned to face me.

"You said you were worried someone we knew would recognize you," I effused. "I'm married to you, see you every day, and know by heart every curve and contour of your face. Right now,Idon't recognize you. You look that good."

We stuffed Angie's black calfskin clutch purse (purchased atAldo, along with the shoes) with makeup essentials (powder, brush, lip liner, lipstick, lip gloss, lip brush). The rest of the cosmetics Faye had used went into a littleMACbag to take home. A couple of the other cosmetologists engaged my Angie in conversation, commenting they just couldn't get over how good she looked. They made her sit for a series of digital snapshots, vowing her likeness was going into their folio of all-star makeovers, to be used to show prospective clients the range of choices – and level of expertise – available to them.

It was a set-up, hastily arranged by Faye, to allow us to slip away to the register for a few minutes to have a little "girl talk" out of Angie's earshot. I paid Faye's fee, plus a hundred-dollar tip to show my appreciation. We traded business cards and a promise to get together for lunch the following week. Then, collecting my new, improved 'girlfriend', Faye bussed her lightly on the cheek, so as not to leave a lipstick imprint.

"Be good, Angie," she effused. "We'll be seeing a lot more of each other real soon."

"We are so lucky to have found someone like you to help her find her way in life, Faye," I enthused. "I feel we are going to become the best of friends."

The breathtaking blonde winked in agreement.

"Theverybest of friends," she confirmed, smirking. "We haveso muchin common."

We made our way slowly down the promenade, window-shopping. I stopped at a specialty perfume store, bought a purse-sized spritzer ofObsession, spritzed her behind the ears, at the throat, and on the inside of both wrists, then plopped the little atomizer in her purse.

Stopping a few doors farther down at a jewelry boutique, I had Angie's ears pierced then, on a whim, pierced a second time. We bought her a dozen pair of ear rings, including a set of four-inch gold hoops I couldn't wait to see her wear.

Back on the concourse, Angie was taking the opportunity to check herself out in the windows' reflection, still not believing that was really her. Okay, I confess; so was I. Faye de Castro (so read her business card) was, in my estimation, an Oscar-caliber make-up artist. Yes, Angie's face washeavilymade-up; much more than I would have felt comfortable with for myself, even on special occasions. The similarities to Faye's image, right down to the expert application, were obvious, and striking. On Angie, it just lookedright, just as it had on Faye.

That similarity had been no coincidence. I had whispered to Faye at the onset; my undivided attention had been riveted on her the moment I laid eyes on her through the window. Hers was exactly the look I wanted for my sissy. She had been only too happy to oblige. I realized that was the domme in me speaking; strip my mate of a little more of her masculinity, separate her a little further from her 'comfort zone' – make her that much more dependent onme. I had not counted on the depth of the aesthetician's expertise, nor on her obvious appreciation of the similarities between my hubby's features and her own. IadoredAngie's new look, and her new femme identity! I hadn't anticipated taking her to the next level so soon, but there was no way I could avoid it now. Anyway, I had already taken the first steps to nudge her down that path....

The whistle jolted us both out of our reverie. We turned to take in our immediate environment. We were in front of a window along the main pedestrian walkway connecting the East Concourse with the Main Concourse. There were lots of people passing by in both directions – and lots of faces appraising us as they went by. Angie quickly turned back to the window, blushing furiously through her heavy makeup.

"I knew it," she muttered, voice trembling. "They've read me."

I stared at her as though she had lost her mind, then turned back to scan the faces, just to see if I had misinterpreted the looks on them. The expressions ranged from disgust (mothers with small children), to outrage (old ladies), to covert admiration (single men), to undisguised lust (teenage boys) – exactly the span of reactions one would expect from the crowds when a girl so obviously from the wrong side of the tracks invades this bastion of chic, trendy,wholesome'Family Values'.

"Sweetie," I demurred, "nothing could be further from the truth. They haven't 'read' you as anything but the provocative young woman you appear to be."

Just then, a distinctivethumpresonated through the air.

"What was that?" Angie inquired.

"That," I confirmed, "was a teenage boy so intent on staring at you, he wasn't watching where he was going. He walked face-first into one of those poured-concrete colonnades supporting the ceiling. Baby, you are a star!"

She blushed, turning back to the window.

"I like the look," she explained slowly, tracing her lips lightly with her fingertips, "but isn't it a little... much?"

"Oh, Sweetie, no!" I protested, hugging her tightly. "On you it looks just right, just as it did on Faye. She has a real eye for this kind of thing. As I said earlier,no oneis going to look at you and see Alan Ames. You are 'Angie' now, and can be,willbe, anytime we wish."

"I'm not so sure about that," she demurred. "I don't think I could come close to doing it as well myself. Honey, what do you suppose Faye meant when she said she was sure she and I would be seeing each other again real soon?"

I couldn't suppress the smirk from overtaking my lips.

"Oh, that," I began. "You said it yourself; you don't think you could do that look as well as she does. I can't, either. So, I signed you up."

"For what?"

"Make-up lessons. Faye will be your teacher, Tuesday and Thursday nights, seven to close, beginning next week."

"Where?"

"Why, at the MAC store, of course. That's where Faye will be."

"But you usually have to work late Tuesdays and Thursdays!"

"That's right, Sweetie. That's why I picked those nights. I'll be working, so you will have the time available for your lessons. It works for Faye, too. Those are the nights she usually sets aside for classes. She let me know she doesn't have any other students this cycle, so you will be getting private instruction for the standard course tuition. We will meet at home later and you can show me what you learned."

"But that means...."

"Itmeans," I interjected, slipping my arm around her waist, "my big girl is going to dress sexy and go to the mall all by herself a couple evenings a week, to spend time with her girlfriends, catch up on all the latest gossip and learn how to make herself pretty for me."

"I can't do that," she protested, a touch of panic in her eyes. "Can I?"

I looked around us again, inviting her to take in the stares of the people who beheld us – stares that showed no clue of recognizing the overdone young tart as anything other than that.

"Oh, yeah," I purred, "You can do that – in a heartbeat. Of course, you could always say 'no'. I know this is a lot to absorb in such a short time. Maybe you aren't ready, after all. We could just go home, get you undressed, remove all the 'war paint', then call Suzi and make an appointment to remove those beautiful nails. Then, we could snuggle up on the sofa and catch a football game, maybe evenWWE Smackdown. Perhaps we could try something a little less extreme later on, say, in a couple of months."

I told you I didn't play fair. In any incarnation, Alan bores easily watching televised sports. He especially loathes the phony theatrics of professional wrestling. Then there was the veiled threat of taking away his dress-up activities fortwo months. With our loving relationship, I knew he could survive the 'penalty box'; we both could. Still, neither one of us would like it.