You Can Always Say No Ch. 05byAngelCherysse©
As they say, time flies… well, you know the rest. We settled into a pattern of functional schizophrenia, acknowledging the existence of both 'Alan' and 'Angie' to cope with the requirements of his career, versus the desires of our private lives. When either one was present, the other was referred to in the third person, if at all. Inevitably, there was a certain amount of 'bleed-over' from one to the other - and 'Alan' increasingly paid the price. It wasn't always a comfortable coexistence for either of us, but it was a workable one.
To my delight, Alan had yet to request I remove the chastity. That thought would never have occurred to Angie; the device did not impede her pleasure in the slightest, and made her look and feel deliciously feminine. I knew it was physically uncomfortable at times, particularly when I hugged and kissed my husband. His cock did attempt to rise to the occasion, but was thwarted by its dainty, yet effective stainless steel prison. Through continual reinforcement on my part, my sissy hubby came to accept that, for the time being at least, he had no 'husbandly duties' to perform. As time passed, he gave the impression he wasn't even aware it was still there.
That pesky 'poison ivy rash' just seemed to hang on and on. If Suzi had been delighted when Alan did not return to remove his nails, she was ecstatic to meet Angie in person when she began accompanying me for weekly touch-ups. Alan's co-workers finally gave up asking about his affliction. Some anonymous prankster had posted a sign on his office door: Leper Colony. Given the sly smiles on the faces of some of the female staffers in his office the day the sign appeared, Alan took it in context and reveled in the joke with them over lunch. I thought it was actually quite humorous when I heard about it.
Jason professed he had no room in the budget to hire people specifically for the project on which Alan labored, advising my husband instead to 'be creative'. In response, Alan had marshaled a formidable ad hoc 'staff' of secretaries and P.A.'s who were only too happy to assist him on a time-available basis. He frequently catered in lunch for them all, on his expense account, to facilitate the coordination of individual tasks and times available, as well as just socialize and let off some of the pressure-cooker atmosphere under which they all toiled.
It had been one or more of these women who had been responsible for the sign on his door and other light-hearted pranks. They told him he was the best boss they had never worked for. Earlier in our relationship, I had been irked by the way women gravitated, unbidden, towards my attractive husband. I still was, but marveled at his ability to turn that into a business asset, recruiting a viable, if irregular workgroup out of not much more than personality. Any smart manager would envy that.
The same budget that prevented hiring people for the project precluded paying overtime for it. Alan was salaried, so he had to make up the difference with his own time. Whenever possible, he limited his late nights to Mondays and Wednesdays, but Jason was notorious for an occasional spontaneous, mid-afternoon "what if we tried this" meeting or memo – and a late Tuesday or Thursday crept into Alan's calendar, while the boss left to do whatever bosses do. I knew what that cost Alan personally, yet he never whined about it. Instead, he always came home with enthusiasm, recounting his day's accomplishments. I allowed the more technical aspects to glide smoothly over my head and rejoiced with him in the excitement of a difficult project coming together.
If his 'staff' had a complaint, it was that his long hours and the stress of the project must be adversely affecting their surrogate supervisor's eating habits. They told Alan he had lost too much weight; his suits were beginning to look terrible on his slenderized torso and they were, somehow, feeling like it was their fault. They insisted he either start eating or buy a new wardrobe that looked like he belonged in it. I enjoyed a private smile when I heard that.
Jason Miller invited us both to dinner on occasion; a 'peace offering', as he put it, for taking advantage of Alan the way he was. He couldn't have been more complimentary of his Executive Assistant's (the title Alan had chosen for himself at the beginning of the project) work and the amazing progress he was making. The joke was, Jason was spending an inordinate amount of time smoothing ruffled feathers with one executive or another over supposed productivity lost because the man's secretary or P.A. had been unavailable when he needed her – off performing some task for Alan. Even Patti Drake, Jason's own secretary, had been enlisted into Alan's 'Lepers' as they teasingly referred to themselves.
Jason effused enthusiasm for Alan's boundless energy, drive, and determination to bring the project in on time. He did lament the longer hours Alan had to put in – time spent away from me – as the project drew closer to the deadline. He also fretted the same observation the other staffers had made, that his assistant had lost a noticeable amount of weight. Jason hoped I wasn't holding it and the lost 'quality time' against him personally. It wasn't that Alan looked bad, he contended; far from it. Alan now radiated an inner glow that seemed to be infecting everyone who worked with him. In spite of the petty grousing from the executives, the office was, overall, a brighter, happier place to be on a daily basis.
My hubby's boss promised me faithfully; even if they didn't win the contract, he would not forget the sacrifices my husband and I had made to advance his company. Of course, he couldn't conceive of Alan's efforts as being anything but an unequivocal victory. If he, Jason, could do anything to ease the burden on us, anything at all, say, digging into the office 'discretionary fund' to buy Alan a new suit or two….
I couldn't help but smile (I was smiling a lot lately). Here was a successful entrepreneur, well on his way to becoming a gazillionaire, who remembered the people that helped him realize his dreams. He gave me hope that the future of Business was not as bleak as the Bernie Ebbers and Ken Lays of the world made it appear.
Although Jason professed we were not there to 'talk shop', the project seemed never far from their minds whenever the two were together. Sitting between them, my head darting back and forth to catch the rapid-fire exchange of ideas and data, was a bit like watching a tennis match between two superbly-skilled athletes – or, perhaps, a glimpse of what it was like with Bill Gates and Paul Allen in the early days of Microsoft.
It was only natural for me to point out; an aggressive media campaign, designed to bring the virtues of Miller Avionics into the public consciousness, could not help but benefit his cause, particularly if there were taxpayer dollars involved. I used my most effective 'closer' on him.
"It's not just a case of 'money talks'," I pronounced with a practiced confidence. "Talk is money, makes money when wielded effectively. That's what I do."
The entrepreneur was enchanted with the idea and asked me to follow up with him at my earliest convenience.
Outside of business hours, Alan went away and Angie came out to play. She was done; perfection to the nth degree. Dependant on her mood, her makeup, hair and attire might be a little more subdued or really 'out there'. I'm not sure which of us was more excited at the prospect of her scurrying home from work to make herself ravishing for me. By that time, her hip and derriere prosthetics had arrived. If she had any complaints about the additional time and effort involved in application and makeup, she didn't voice them.
What she did voice threw me for a complete loop. It had been a particularly tortuous day on the job, followed by a nasty commute home on the parking lot that was our local freeway in the afternoon; two separate accidents, plus their respective Gaper's Blocks. I was not a happy camper as I stepped through our front door. That lasted about thirty seconds.
"Hi Hun-nee!" Angie gushed as she scampered up to me, heels clicking across the marble foyer, throwing her welcoming arms around my neck and hugging me. "How was your day?"
I was too stunned to hug her back. It wasn't what she said, but the way she said it. The breathy, lilting, higher-pitched quality of her voice was a perfect compliment to the overdone 'Angie' who welcomed me home. I grasped her arms and pushed her back, glaring at her warily with my 'Okay, what's the deal?' stare. She giggled, her eyes alit.
"Do you like it?" she tittered. "Faye has had me working with a voice coach, someone she knows from the movie industry. She told me not to tell you, that we should wait and keep it a surprise. Beverly – that's my coach - says we are just about there and I could 'take it for a spin' for you. Lately, it's been so difficult not to give it away. What do you think?"
My nether regions were doing my thinking at that moment and they were pleading to start the bilge pumps. Damn the girl! No matter how evil my day had been, she always had me thinking of sex the moment I walked through the door.
"You sound so… natural," was all I managed to squeak out.
It was true. She was not speaking in some contrived, patently-phony falsetto. Rather, it sounded utterly appropriate for her, in a Marilyn Monroe/Jayne Mansfield/Jennifer Tilly sort of way. Even as I thought the comparison, Angie blushed, fluttering her eyelashes.
"Well, I still need a little help," she confessed. "There's this spray Beverly gave me that tightens the cartilage in the larynx, causing the vocal cords to pull taut. The effects last several hours if you don't push your voice too hard. Still…."
"Enough, Wench," I growled teasingly. "Too much information. That is the sexiest thing I have heard since 'take me to bed or lose me forever'."
"Take me to bed or lose me forever," she chimed enthusiastically, extending her arms to me.
"That's a no-brainer," I affirmed, grasping her hands firmly and leading the way.
I sometimes had trouble believing our relationship had come as far as it had so quickly. There were similarities to the best of the downloaded stories from the Internet, as well as some glaring differences. No, we did not spend all that much time shopping. No woman is that obsessive, except perhaps Paris Hilton and there is nothing real about her, anyway. No, I had no intentions of transforming my sissy hubby into my full-time domestic servant and handmaiden. We did indulge ourselves in a few French Maid fantasies, but mostly split the household chores equitably as we always had. If I decided to go the servant route, I would contact an agency. Likewise, my 'baby' was too damn good to waste in a bonnet and diaper, languishing in some outsized crib. Infantilism? Sorry; that was just wrong for us.
Angie was at the shop most Tuesday and Thursday evenings while I took care of the things I had to. As one might expect, people noticed the amazing resemblance between Faye and her new 'student' – and Faye was quick with a response. She told all who asked Angie was her nearly-eighteen-year-old daughter – exactly the age Faye's own child would have been, had she survived.
If any mentioned they hadn't known she had a daughter, Faye admitted she had made mistakes earlier in her life. As a result, Angie's father, who didn't approve of Faye's flamboyant lifestyle, had been granted primary custody of their child. As Angie had recently come of age, she had reached out to her mother to reconcile. The girl had blossomed under Faye's nurturing, embraced her mother's attitude towards life wholeheartedly, and now wished to join her in the 'family business'. The striking similarity between them, plus Angie's youthful countenance beneath all the makeup, made the fabrication believable.
Other than Faye and myself, the only individuals who knew differently were the two co-workers she enlisted to talk to Angie that first Saturday. They were enchanted with the way Faye's 'baby girl' was developing and enthusiastically joined the plot. The three of them gave me a 'credit' in their storyline; I was the trusted friend and confidant who had acted as go-between and brought mother and daughter together. I thought the cover story was delightful - and potentially useful.
Faye told me 'our girl' had finished her Introductory and Intermediate phases in record time and was now working on her Mastery level courses. Angie had actually begun working on those evenings and some weekends, doing consultations and makeovers in her 'internship'. By the time she got home, she was gushing with enthusiasm about this or that client and how she had made the woman look her best ever.
I gushed too, but for a different reason. One would think, after a while, I would begin to take it all in stride, perhaps even become a bit blasé about it all. Nothing could be further from the truth. Each time my Angie shimmied up to me and held out her arms, it was like seeing her for the first time – and feeling that same electric thrill.
It seemed so improbable this siren was also the husband whom I loved just as dearly, the one who was even then assembling a multi-million-dollar contract bid. Lately, they were so radically different in appearance and demeanor, it was almost as though they had become two distinct individuals. Perhaps they had, in a way. At work, Alan bore a terrible burden; no less than the future of his company and, inevitably, his own career. Everyone has their preferred escape mechanism from that kind of pressure. Some climb inside a liquor bottle every night. Some overeat; that's why they call it "Comfort Food". Others do drugs. Still others take their frustrations out on their spouses and/or others around them, often spitefully, sometimes violently.
For the most part, Alan eschewed those self-destructive behaviors. Instead, he sought refuge in Angie, the sometimes brainless bimbo (at least, that was part of the act) who existed solely to be as beautiful, feminine and sexy as she could be, pleasure me in any way she could, and be pleasured in return. When taken in that context, Angie's sometimes vapid, hedonistic behavior made perfect sense, right down to acceptance of her own chastisement; the greater the pressure on Alan, the greater his need to get away from it all – and Angie's need to assert herself. I could hardly complain; look what I received in return.
Angie was more attentive to my sexual and emotional needs than ever, taking me to heights that made K2 and Everest seem like anthills. More than a little of that ecstasy was me, lost in the fantasy and having no desire to find my way out. Our expanding toy collection was superbly crafted, expensive, and worth every penny. On more than one occasion, I raised a painful and embarrassing lump on the back of my head from banging it repeatedly against the headboard of our bed. Angie was just as proficient at shredding an occasional sheet or pillow with her talons as I claimed her pussy for my own. Each experience was better than the last, but like any junkie, I was always looking for that next, higher high.
Humans are inherently social animals. It is not desirable to spend every night at home (nor work or class), no matter how drop-dead gorgeous and sexy your significant other may be. I had made the development of Angie's social skills – and exposure – a priority. If she craved 'escape', what better way than to be seen and accepted by others as the vamp she wanted to be? I wasn't about to deny; the thought of taking my little chippie out on the town and showing her off kept me in an advanced state of arousal.
She was already an accomplished 'mall rat', so the progression to more adult venues – theaters, restaurants, concerts (no, no mosh pits), night clubs and dance clubs – was a rapid one. When we went out together, I drove. There were control issues, of course, but there was also the matter of Angie having to show Alan's driver's license if, God forbid, we got pulled over. Why court disaster? For the same reason, I tended to take us places where I was already known, or where two attractive young women would be admitted, unchallenged, for their appeal to lots of young, impressionable, free-spending guys. From the clubs' perspective, that was just good business. I could, and did, appreciate that.
I was elated with the reactions my girlfriend elicited, not unlike those of your typical porn star. The svelte, trés-chic, A-cup urban party girls hated her, period. I expected that, even relished it; After all, I was making my honey over for me, not them. Not every man gave her an approving once-over, either. Most of those were with their wives or girlfriends. The men who did pay attention – either unburdened with a mate's disapproval or undeterred by it – cast frequent, surreptitious glances our way or just stared, mouth agape. You could have re-built Noah's Ark with all the freshly-raised wood they sported. That gave me a perverse thrill, like going shoe shopping and coming home with a pair of total 'Come Fuck Me' pumps.
Of course we got hit on; why do you think I took us to places like that in the first place? I love being the center of attention. With Angie by my side, there was no way we could be anything but. We drank, danced and had a good time. I encouraged her to dance with guys. She was hesitant at first. After all, interacting with a boy that way for the first time is an intimidating step in any girl's life. I took the lead for both of us, as I always have.
Finding a couple of interested guys was easy. Getting her dance partner to snuggle up behind her, do a nice, slow, sensual bump-and-grind was easier still; I just got behind him and did the same. My partner made it four in a row. Once things were going nicely, I broke my partner and I off so I could dance facing Angie, keeping my eyes on her and her alone. My partner was free and easy with his hands, which was certainly a turn-on. It was an even bigger turn-on to see Angie's partner doing the same. I kept a close watch on his hands, making sure he wasn't getting too close to something we probably didn't want revealed to complete strangers, but the aroused expression on my lover's face was priceless to me. I willed her with my eyes to understand I was cool with it, and she should be cool with me and my dance partner, too.
Ulterior motive time; I wanted Angie to get used to flirting with men – and men flirting with me, right in front of her. Humiliation was the furthest thing from my mind. If we were to survive as a couple – and I wanted with all my heart for us to survive as a couple – she would have to get used to the fact that men were going to find both of us attractive and wouldn't think twice about putting the moves on one of us with the other right there. With the right attitude, it could be a fabulous time for us both. As I had taught my husband so long ago: I came with you, I leave with you; anything that happens in-between is strictly business – in this case, sensual business. On that first night, the ensuing sexual romp when she and I returned home was off the charts. Others were to follow.
After returning home from one such evening, I had performed my nightly ritual and was coming out of the bathroom, on my way to a much needed night's sleep. Angie was sitting at the vanity, gazing into the mirror. She didn't seem in any hurry to remove her prosthetics or makeup; a cardinal rule Faye had taught her. She just sat there, absentmindedly caressing one breast – much as her dance partner had done earlier that evening. That gesture, plus the absent, slightly dejected look on her face, spoke volumes – and I got the message. I stood behind her and massaged her shoulders. She nuzzled my arm with her cheek, covering my hand with her own. She smiled at me in the mirror, although I detected a touch of sadness around her eyes.