Reasonable

by: Brandy Dewinter

 

"I am NOT being unreasonable," I insisted to my irate wife. "Millions of women do anything I’ve ever asked you to do, wear anything I’ve ever asked you to wear."

"Millions of women are STUPID," she declared loudly, unconvinced.

I continued in a calmer tone, trying to get the argument back to the reasoned conversation level, "Look, Julie, I just think you should take a little more pride in your appearance, just as I am proud of you, and of the way you could look if you tried."

"So you’re not proud of me now," she pounced on my perhaps unfortunate phrasing.

"I am proud of you," I declared. "You’re very beautiful, but I’m also a creature of our society. Certain things trigger my responses better than others. I just want . . . hope . . . whatever, that you’ll meet me part way."

She turned away in continuing irritation, her long waves of dark hair shimmering with the motion. But at least she had quit arguing and she didn’t storm out of the room.

"Really, honey, the only stupid thing is to argue. I honestly don’t think anything we’ve ever discussed is unreasonable, but if you do, then . . . " I sighed in frustration, knowing I could never force her anyway.

At this she twirled back to face me, irritation still apparent on her face, but an arched eyebrow signifying curiosity as well, about what I was soon to find out.

"How long is your current project going to last?" she demanded in a stunning non sequitur.

I guess I should explain a little. My name is Jay Connors. I’m a contract computer hacker. I break into other people’s computer systems in a test of their security, then help them fix the holes I found. I can get in just about anywhere (yes, I even broke into the DOD systems, however they never knew I was there). I provide computer security tools, software only, but better than anyone else has developed (if you ignore my little private back doors). Most of my projects take at least a month since I really do deliver a good service, boilerplating systems against anyone but myself. If there’s a better hacker out there, he (or she) is so much better than me that no one ever even found out they’d been anywhere I’d protected. Certainly they’d done no harm, so at least my systems kept out the riff raff. Actually, I believed there wasn’t anyone else in my league and that no one had ever broken one of my defenses.

"Maybe three weeks," I answered in puzzlement. "Why do you care?"

"So no one needs to see or talk to you, professionally, for at least three weeks?"

"Yeah, about that time. I could certainly stretch it that long without anyone thinking anything suspicious."

A smile of triumph, a matching tone, framed her words when she said, "Okay, then we’ll just see what you think is reasonable. Pick one of your little fantasies and do it yourself. If, after doing it, you still think it’s reasonable, I’ll give it a try."

"Don’t be silly," I laughed. "The things that turn me on are things that women do for men, not things that men do."

"I’m not being silly," she insisted in a parody of my earlier position. "My problem is not with the man-woman thing and you know it. I love you and only you and want to make you happy. My problem is that the things you want are unreasonably awkward or uncomfortable or inconvenient. If you think I’m wrong, prove it by putting up with the inconvenience yourself."

Like a collapsing balloon her anger deflated, replaced by tired sadness. She came close and put her arms around me and laid her head on my chest. "Really, dear, I do love you and don’t want to argue. But I think you don’t understand what you’re asking. If you had to go through what I already go through to please you, you’d understand."

She pulled her head back and looked me directly in the eyes, "I’ll even trust your judgment. Pick one of your fantasies and we’ll make it real, only with you doing what you want me to do. We’ll pick a duration that convinces me you really understand what you’re asking for, and if you still want me to do it after that time, I’ll give it a try. I’ll try my best, too."

"Only one?" I prodded her gently, still not really considering the idea, but smiling to try and keep the mood light.

"Or a dozen," she laughed. "Just so you’ll get off my back until you know what you’re talking about."

I snorted at the thought, "No, this is silly. Look, longer fingernails, higher heels, maybe a little figure control to make you even more shapely, these are not unreasonable."

Her irritation returned even more quickly than it had left,. "Put up or shut up," she demanded, "but get off my back unless you’re willing to try it."

She turned away from my arms and started to walk from the room, fists clenched at her sides in anger all the more terrible because it was silent. I knew I had to do something but I really believed my requests were reasonable, at least for a woman to do, and I didn’t want to give up on a more fulfilling love life.

"Wait, Julie, okay. You win. I won’t bug you about anything I haven’t tried myself."

She turned back with a renewed smile. The easy way that emotions appeared and disappeared in her always surprised me.

"So, what are you gonna try first?" she giggled.

"Huh? Nothing," I said, "I just said I’d quit bugging you."

Her laughing correction was hot on the heels of my statement, "No, actually you said that you’d quit bugging me on things you hadn’t tried first. So what are you gonna try?"

Trying to maintain my hold on the "reasonable" high ground, I insisted, "I think my requests are reasonable, but I admit they’re not trivial. They’re also intensely feminine, not something I could do."

"You could in private," she asserted. "You could wear high heels in private and no one would know. That’s why I asked how long before you had to report in person on your latest job. Other things, too. I’m sure I could talk Sally, the manicurist where I get my hair done, into giving you the long fingernails you’ve been going on about."

"I couldn’t work at the keyboard with long nails."

"My point exactly," she crowed in triumph. "I work with a keyboard, too, but you want me to have long nails. They’re just too much bother, for me, for you, for anyone."

Now I was getting irritated. I had seen plenty of secretaries with long, glamorous nails, let alone real estate agents like Julie. I knew it was something you could get used to, if you wanted to, even on a job with lots of typing or keyboard use. It was just that I needed to work very quickly in some of my more time-sensitive system penetrations. That was different. I was about to try and explain that when I saw the look of triumph still gloating from her face. Any excuses I might make would just be fuel to feed the fires of her self-righteousness. My own stubborn streak reared its ugly head and I heard myself agreeing to her outrageous proposition.

"All right. You’re so sure of yourself. I’ll do it. Arrange a private session with your fingernail lady and I’ll have nails put on that will show you how reasonable I’ve been."

"For how long?" she kept pushing.

"For however long it takes to convince you I’m right, up to the three weeks I’ve got on this project."

"Okay," she grinned, "now, what about high heels?"

An overwhelming impulse, a tidal wave of irritation swept me along on a course I was sure was going to be idiotic, but I heard myself saying, "Fine, and a corset and whatever other clothes you think I’m being unreasonable about. As long as I can keep it private."

"Deal," she said quickly. Too quickly. I began to wonder if I’d been manipulated all along. Her triumphant grin hadn’t subsided a bit as I called her bluff. Maybe it wasn’t a bluff. Maybe I was in deep trouble.

"When do we start?" I asked tentatively, wondering what I’d gotten myself into now.

After a moment’s thought she declared, "Tomorrow. I’ll get your clothes tomorrow and set up an appointment with Sally at the time she would normally close her shop, so you’ll be the only customer. After you get back from the salon, I’ll help you into your clothes. After that, you need to wear the heels and things, and keep your nails looking nice, until three weeks from today."

I nodded abruptly and went back to my cave to hack for a while, still angry at her stubbornness, still worried about what I’d gotten myself into. In a little while I got lost in my work, sneaking into my customer’s systems and snooping on his private business. This job would actually be relatively easy since the Spencer Industries general manager, Richard Bancroft, didn’t really understand software, and more importantly hackers. He thought this was all about logic and rigid rules. True hacking is more of an art than any old master ever demonstrated. The general manager had only hired me at the insistence of his board of directors, a few members of which also worked for other companies I’d serviced. He was sure he was well-protected and it would be a pleasure to show him just how wrong he was. Maybe this time I’d arrange for a phony set of identification to his company and just show up at one of his meetings with my results. That should get his attention. Part of the service I provided was showing the customer how important his vulnerabilities were by demonstrating how they could be taken advantage of. Sometimes I wrote myself checks (which I never cashed, I just took them in as evidence), sometimes I sent bogus memos around their system, calling people to false meetings. Once I showed up with an already-made-out patent application (that I never submitted) for a customer’s most secret new development. It’s amazing how much information is floating around company systems these days, and all it takes is intermittent traffic between supposedly isolated systems to let me in to all of them.

The evening passed quickly, becoming night, then morning before I finished the initial stages of the penetration I was developing. It wasn’t unusual for me to get caught up in my work, sometimes it was even necessary for me to work deliberately at night. Still, I was exhausted when I finally went to bed and had completely forgotten Julie’s challenge and my idiotic acceptance of it.

I woke up at noon, after about six hours sleep, to the ringing of the phone. We have free phone service, a fringe benefit of one of my penetrations, so we have several lines. One of them is dedicated to private calls between Julie and me and I put a special bell on it so I’d know it was her. This was the phone that was ringing so I struggled up through the cotton fogging my brain and fumbled with the receiver.

"Yeah, what?" I said grumpily.

I heard a silver giggle from the other end, then Julie’s excessively cheerful voice, "Wake up, sleepyhead, you’re buying my lunch."

"What? Huh?" I glibly replied.

Her laughter was my only answer as she waited for me to wake up. After another moment I was tuned back into the real world and able to carry on an adult conversation.

"Okay, where and when?" I said.

"How about Daniel’s in twenty minutes?" she asked.

"Better make it thirty," I countered her offer. "I still need to shower and shave."

"Oh, yes," her giggle seemed a little ominous, "you certainly need to shave today, Jay."

Actually my beard was a little sparse and I often only shaved every other day. When Julie has taken the time to really work at it, I consider her a world-class beauty, with lustrous dark hair and shining blue eyes like Lucy Lawless (TV’s Xena, did you know her hair was dyed?). I was more of a dirty blond, though my eyes were also a clear, crystal blue. My light hair color seemed to fade away against my arms and it looked like they were practically hairless. My chest was also pretty sparse, with just enough for Julie to catch in her fingers and pull when she wanted to tease me a little. When I looked in the mirror to shave, the face I saw was, as always, disappointingly weak. My facial bone structure was soft and unimpressive, except for high cheekbones that stood out with surprising prominence. Due, I supposed, to the irregular meals I had when I was deeply into a project. That was probably the reason I was so scrawny, too. Even at only 5’9" my 130 pounds were spread pretty thinly. For some reason my bones didn’t jut out too much, though. No knobby knees or anything, just thin.

I quickly finished getting ready, pulled on my standard jeans and sport shirt, and launched off. It was pretty much of a launch, my one vice being my pocket rocket, a 300ZX Turbo convertible in bright, flamboyant red. Julie always teased me about that car, calling it overcompensation for my otherwise shy personality. Maybe she was right. I didn’t really care. I liked the car and didn’t have much to show off in my own body. Computer hackers aren’t all nerds, they just seem that way because the private lifestyle doesn’t lend itself to building big muscles or developing flashy conversational skills. Anyway, in a few minutes, I was pulling into one of our favorite places to eat, famous for juicy, thick hamburgers. When I do eat, I eat big.

The restaurant was adjacent to, actually sort of a pseudopod extending from the body of, a neighborhood mall. When I went in, I saw Julie already sitting in a booth, surrounded by packages.

"Goodness, somebody having a sale?" I grinned in greeting.

"Not really, but I couldn’t wait. I told you I’d be ready for you today."

My look of bewilderment must have been pretty obvious, because she started to laugh.

"You don’t even remember, do you?" she chortled, the triumphant grin resurrecting itself on her face.

That grin did it, reminding me of the stupid commitment I’d made. I was tempted to back out but that same irritating grin got my stubbornness up and I decided that I’d just go ahead and show her how reasonable I could be.

"Yeah, I remember. What did you get?"

Her answer was a giggle, "No peeking. Let me see your hands."

I held them forward, palms up, but she motioned me to turn them over.

"No, I want to see your fingernails. Well, at least you don’t chew on them so Sally will have something to work with. You’re all set up. Her last appointment is over at 4:00, so you be there by then. Now don’t get wrapped up in your project and forget. If you stick it out, you’ll have plenty of time at home later."

My response was a growl, "I’ll stick it out."

"Look, dear, I’m not trying to make you mad. I’m just trying to make the point that what you’re asking for is unreasonable. Don’t do it if you don’t want."

"I don’t want this to be the way I have to convince you," I replied, "but I also don’t want you thinking I’m unfair or anything. Your attitude’s a little different than last night, though. Last night it seemed like you were pushing me into this, now you seem reluctant. What do you want, really?"

She sat pensively for a minute, then shocked me when she said, "Actually, having you dress up is a fantasy of mine. I’ve always thought a man that understands women better would be a better lover. I know you try, dear, and I love you for it, but sometimes I think you just don’t understand my needs any better than I seem to understand yours. I thought this might be a way to find some common ground. After I got to buying the clothes, though, it began to seem a little extreme. I’ll back out if you want."

Now it was my turn to sit pensively, doing a little overdue soul searching. I had always thought I kept Julie pretty happy in bed and in our lives. It seemed I was too focused on my own wants and needs to really pay attention to the one I claimed I loved. For the first time I thought maybe I was being unreasonable, not about the absolute amount of inconvenience from long nails and high heels, but at least about the amount I could reasonably expect from my wife when I gave so little in return.

"I never knew you felt that way," I said softly. "I’m sorry. I’ve been very selfish. I’ll do whatever you want. I owe you that much, and much more."

"Oh, don’t get too down on yourself. It’s a two-way street.

I know I haven’t fulfilled you, either. Let’s just go on from here. You try this out for me, and the good ideas we’ll keep. Besides," she continued with another silvery giggle, "it’s deliciously naughty. We might find that this is fun."

"Yeah, right," I said with a snort, but I was still thinking about how little I had done to please Julie, and how much more I should do.

We switched to less emotional topics for the rest of our lunch. I ate my usual ridiculous hamburger, causing a visible bulge in my stomach. Julie laughed when she saw it.

"Enjoy that burger, it’s the last one you get for a while?"

"Why," I asked.

"You’ll see," was all she would reply. "Now, don’t be late for your appointment."

She gathered up her packages and got ready to leave.

"Can I help you with those?" I offered.

"Not on a bet. I told you no peeking until later. I’ll see you at home."

I had intended to go home and work on my project, but Julie’s gentle accusation that I didn’t really understand her needs made me look around with a more open mind than I usually had. With sudden clarity I could see just how much she had had to put up with. I generally left coke cans laying around, and computer magazines. My clothes were seldom picked up and while they were durable enough to stand the mistreatment, the house looked messy. I started back into my cave again, but the disarray stopped me at the doorway. Instead of working on my project I spent the afternoon cleaning up. Everything except my cave, that is. I had spent years getting that place into the shape it was in and it wouldn’t recover in one afternoon, but I got pretty busy working on the rest of the place. The time snuck away on me and I was a little surprised when all of the sudden it was close to 4:00 and I had to hurry. Nonetheless, when the time came to go to Julie’s salon, the dishes were all washed and all the clutter was picked up in the other rooms of the house.

My pocket rocket got me there in time, though. Just as I was pulling up my mind caught up with the hurry my body had been in all afternoon and I realized what I was about to do. It still seemed silly, also sort of frightening as I entered territory I had been taught was forbidden. But I realized at some level I had never studied in myself before that it was kind of exciting as well. Maybe it was just the naughtiness as Julie had indicated, or maybe it was the thought that I was getting closer to Julie. But I realized I really wanted to do this, really wanted to try out some of the things I had been pushing on my wife. It was clear this adventure was going to bring lots of changes in our lives, not the least because it had made me really think about our relationship.

The last customer was paying her bill as I entered the salon. It was still light outside but dim in the salon since most of the lights at the stations were off, leaving only the lamps at the manicurist’s table. The lady leaving had incredibly beautiful nails, glamorously long without being ludicrous, polished to a deep crimson shine, shaped in an elegant style. I noticed that the girl behind the counter had equally beautiful nails and I leaped to the obvious conclusion that this was Sally, the manicurist.

Sally greeted me with an airy, "I’ll be with you in a minute."

The other lady asked, "Oh, are you going to get a manicure?"

"Um, yes, my wife set it up," I stammered.

The lady chuckled at my discomfort, "There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Lots of men get manicures. It won’t turn you into a woman."

Sally’s mouth twitched in a grin at this comment, but she said nothing. The customer left and Sally escorted me back to her table.

"Now, the first thing," she began talking and working, "is to take care of your cuticles. Mrs. Sanders was right about men getting manicures. I can help your hands even besides the "special" you’re getting.

I gulped, "Special? Just what did Julie tell you to do?"

"Actually, she didn’t tell me much, except about the background for your agreement. As I understand it, she’s agreed to wear her nails long if you will first try it out and then remain convinced it’s not too inconvenient. I’m to let you pick the length and shape and type of nail extensions, but she told me to remind you that she won’t go any longer than you do."

At my nod of confirmation she continued, "So what type of nails do you want."

"I don’t know," I shook my head in confusion. "You mean there’s more than one type?"

"Oh, yes," she laughed. "Many types and styles. What did you have in mind?"

"I guess I never thought about it. Your nails are very pretty. I think Julie would look good in them. That lady that just left had good-looking nails, too."

"So this is just for Julie, huh?" she asked with a hint of teasing in her smile.

"Of course," I insisted. "This whole thing is to convince her that what lots of women do, you for example, is not that bad. She should try it."

Sally pushed a little further, "I agree she should try it, but what about you?"

"I’m only doing it to convince Julie. Whatever we choose should be what’s best for her."

"Okay," she backed off. "But I don’t think you want what I wear. My nails extend almost an inch past my fingertips and they take a lot of getting used to. You should probably start out shorter and work up to this length."

I disagreed. "No, this is a one-time deal. Once is enough to convince Julie to try it and I don’t want her using a short length on me to avoid doing what would look best on her."

"Well, how about a compromise? Mrs. Sanders wears hers about half an inch past her fingertips. We could split the difference. You said her nails looked good."

"Okay, that sounds fine. Let’s get started."

"Not so fast," Sally laughed again. "You still need to pick out the type and style."

"Do them like yours, or like that other lady’s."

"Those are two different styles, didn’t you notice?"

"No, they looked about the same to me, except for the color."

The expert in Sally started a patient explanation, "Well, hers are squarer on the tip, that’s a more professional look. She’s an attorney. Mine are actually just extension tips, but these are relatively fragile. I only recommend it for those who don’t have to work with their hands, or who can come in anytime they need to get repairs. Unless you want to come back every day you’ll never make them stay on, especially if you insist on a glamorous length right off. "

"So what do I do?" I groaned, becoming overwhelmed and we hadn’t even started.

"I recommend a durable silk wrap if you don’t mind the expense. It will look very good, just a little thicker than my nails, but it will hold up a lot better. That’s what Mrs. Sanders uses.

"Okay, okay, just like hers except longer, just get started."

"Once we get your cuticles done. I already told you we have to start there." she chuckled.

However, she had been working as we talked, and it wasn’t much longer before she was putting the first of the forms on my fingers. She worked quickly, but carefully, struggling a little with the wider profile my masculine fingers had. Still, she insisted, my hands were well within the range of woman’s hands that she had worked on, actually rather slender and shapely.

"All that computer typing you do, I’ll bet," she smiled.

"How did you know I do that?"

"Julie tells me lots of things. Women talk when they’re forced together like this. What else should we do?"

"Oh, I see," I considered. "What else did Julie tell you about me?"

"Well, I never really repeat conversations. That’s one of the reasons ladies feel comfortable talking with me. I guess it’s safe to say, though, that Julie is really looking forward to this. I think she’s more excited about seeing you dressed up than about how this little experiment turns out."

"Did she really tell you that?"

Sally shook her head, "No, she didn’t say anything like that. It’s just an impression I got. You’d be surprised, though, at how many women have that fantasy. A man who really understands what a woman goes through makes a much better lover, at least we all think he does. It’s even better when a man will do it because his wife asks him to as a sign of love and willingness to please. I’m jealous of Julie, so maybe I’m reading more into it than she intends."

"You’re jealous of Julie, about me?" I asked in surprise.

This brought a blush to Sally’s cheeks as she realized that she had let the conversation slip from hypothetical third person fantasies to her own personal interests. But she didn’t deny it, just looking intently at my hands as she worked on them. Finally she glanced up to see if I was still waiting for an answer, and her eyes were caught by mine as I stared in continued curiosity. A small nod bounced her hair before she looked back down.

"Sorry, Sally, I’m taken," I grinned, trying to defuse the tension but flattered by her interest.

"I know," she blushed again, "I didn’t mean anything by it."

"Thank you, though," I said softly. "It’s been a long time since any woman has indicated I might be interesting. I’m flattered, just taken."

She grinned as I indicated I wasn’t angry, and also that I wouldn’t try to take advantage of her admission to be forward with her, then bowed her head again to her task, working industriously. I was amazed at how restrictive the forms on my fingers were. Every time I tried to move my hand, I bumped one form against another. I got the obligatory nose itch part way through the session and went quietly nuts trying to ignore it. Finally it was not so quietly, and I carefully raised one hand to rub my nose with the back of a knuckle. Sally chuckled as she watched me struggle with the impedimenta of her trade but didn’t say or do anything except to check and make sure I hadn’t screwed up her handiwork. After what seemed like hours, but was really about 20 minutes, she sat back.

"Okay, what color?"

"Color?" I repeated stupidly.

"Right, this style requires a color coat. The materials aren’t natural color so they need to be covered. Besides, the sun will cause the gels to yellow. Oh, that reminds me. Julie told me to tell you that she won’t use any more noticeable color than you do, either. If you choose some pale, fadeaway pink, so will she. For this elegant look, I suggest a bright, fiery red. It will go well with your hair color."

"What about Julie’s hair color? That’s what matters."

"Well, she should probably use a darker color, which will be okay. That’s no more noticeable than the bright red I recommend for blondes," assured Sally.

I struggled with the concept. "I really have to have them polished?"

Sally laughed, "Yes, and you’ll either have to re-polish them every couple of days, more if you chip them, or come in here for me to do it."

I suddenly realized I didn’t know how to terminate this trial.

"How long does this last?"

"Forever, unless you break one or something. This doesn’t come off. I could probably file them down to look more ordinary, but unless something unusual happens they’re with you until your base nails grow out, probably 3 or 4 months. Is that a problem?"

"I’ll say," I shouted, "this is only supposed to last three weeks at the most!"

"Calm down. Nobody told me that. Well, I’ll think of something. In the meantime, pick a color so we can finish."

She held out the vibrant red she recommended and I numbly nodded, too overwhelmed by the thought of months with these strident claws to care about this final shock. By the time she had the first coat on, though, I was recovering and realized I had made another unthinking commitment. My nails almost glowed with a riot of brilliance, shining, shapely rubies that flashed in the lights of the table lamp. My hands looked long and elegant, even, I admitted to myself, beautiful and feminine. Those feelings of excitement I had recognized as I entered the salon resurrected themselves and I realized that I really wanted to do this. Earlier I had wondered if Julie had somehow manipulated me into this adventure. Now a part of me wondered if I had manipulated myself to this point, a part of my subconscious prodding me to things I didn’t really know I wanted to do.

Sally applied several coats, I lost track but it must have been at least four, cycling me through the dryer. She carefully explained her technique, reminding me that I would need to do the same every couple of days unless I wanted to admit it was too inconvenient. Part of the price of maintaining beautiful nails, she claimed. Finally we were done and she led me to the counter to pay. I had been waving my hands around, watching the highlights gleam in the depth of the polish, but hadn’t tried to actually do anything with my hands. My first trial came when my nose itched again and I almost poked my own eye out.

"Careful," Sally laughed. "I told you they take some getting used to."

I nodded, then reached for my wallet. I almost lost my first nail right there as my hand reached my hip pocket well before it should have. Only the tough silk wrap kept me from immediate disaster. It didn’t solve my problem, though. I couldn’t get my wallet out of my pants! When I carefully slid a finger down beside it, the long nails kept me from curling the tip to get a purchase on the smooth leather.

"I, um, have a problem," I stammered.

"What? Oh, I see," she giggled, then waved her own even-longer nails at me.

Finally I managed to work my thumb down one side of my wallet, and one elegant finger down the other and extract it. I had further problems trying to get the correct bills from within it, but after an interminable and frustrating delay Sally was paid (don’t ask how much, if you don’t know how much a full set of long silk wraps cost, it would shock you). I didn’t even try to put my wallet away, just holding it in my hand. Sally escorted me from the salon and closed the door behind me. Keeping my fingers carefully folded so that the nails were hidden against my legs, I walked to my bright red sports car. I had left the top down so there hadn’t been any reason to lock it and I reached for the door, learning to be careful not to bang my nails on the handle. I was surprised to see that the nail polish almost matched the color of the car, which set me to wondering about subliminal choices while I casually reached into my pants for my car keys. Right. Casually reached right to the edge of the pocket on my tight jeans and was stopped even more thoroughly than I had been by my back pocket when I went for my wallet. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get those keys, but I finally managed to work them out and then noticed the first chips in my polish. Damn, not even 15 minutes. I never realized that polish was that sensitive. I had the bottle and was about to toss it onto the seat when I realized that I couldn’t have Julie seeing my hands looking tacky or she’d use that as evidence that the nails really were too much bother to keep up. So I carefully opened the bottle, my long nails waving like flags around the base and the applicator, and carefully applied polish to the chipped area. Thankfully Sally had used a pretty good polish and it filled in seamlessly. I put a second coat on for good measure after the first one had dried, then carefully closed the bottle and drove home. Carefully.

 

I ended up carrying both my wallet and my keys as I approached the door to our house. It was unlocked and I managed to get inside without further damage to my beautiful nails. I was really beginning to get enamored with the flashing ruby highlights. Setting my things down on a table in the entry way, I went to find Julie. My nails still made me self-conscious enough that I kept my fingers folded while I walked. As soon as Julie saw me her eyes went to my closed hands, though she couldn’t really see anything.

"Show me your hands," she demanded with a laugh.

I held my hands out to her, palms up as I had done in the restaurant. My eyes were on her face, and I saw the almost immediate look of exasperation as she was frustrated in her desire to see what my new nails looked like. As soon as she realized I was holding them upside down deliberately, her eyes flicked up to meet my wide grin.

"Gotcha!" I bounced my own laugh off of her, provoking an embarrassed blush. While she was looking at my face I turned my hands over. She noticed the flicker out of the corner of her eye and her glance darted back to the target of her interest.

"Wow!" she said breathlessly. "You really went all out."

"Nothing is too good for my wife," I teased.

"They’re beautiful, so long and elegant. How can you stand it?"

"Oh, they’re not so bad. I did have a problem getting my keys out of my pocket, though," I admitted.

Julie laughed, "I’ll bet! Did Sally help?"

"No way, her nails are even longer than mine."

"Well, we’ll just have to get you a purse to carry your things in," she teased.

"Not likely," I denied her offer. "I may have to work something out, but I’m not carrying a purse. With these nails, I’m probably not even going outside. You were right when you said I’d have plenty of time to work on my project."

"But they’re so beautiful, and so feminine. You ought to show them off."

"Earth to Julie," I called. "This is just a test. You’re the one that will be showing off."

"Maybe," she smiled, "but only if you stick it out for the three weeks."

"I’ll manage."

"Maybe," she repeated with a mischievous grin.

"Now," she continued, "go strip off your clothes and go to the bathroom. We have to get you ready for your other clothes."

"Ready? Bathroom? Just what do you have in mind?" I asked with a combination of suspicion and growing concern.

"You’ll see. Wearing a woman’s clothes takes preparation. That’s part of the price, part of the inconvenience. If you won’t do what it takes, the test doesn’t count."

She pointed toward the bedroom and made a shooing motion with her hands, the grin regaining its triumphant air as she asserted the power that controlling our little test had given her. I went to the bedroom and stripped down to my underwear, managing to get my sport shirt off fairly easily and my belt undone. However, the zipper on my jeans almost ended the trial right there, as I first got frustrated, then irritated, then angry enough to consider ripping those incredible nails right off my hands. Somehow, though, I managed to get a hold on the tab and lower the zipper. I toed my shoes off and walked into the bathroom in my socks and underwear.

"No, no, no, that will never do," she chortled. "I said strip!"

"What do you think you’re going to do?" I demanded as I complied.

"We’re going to remove that unsightly body hair. It won’t look right with your new clothes and it might cause the stockings to run. Stand in the shower."

I was a little surprised the shower wasn’t already running to set the temperature, but even more surprised when instead of a razor she reached for a pink can.

"What’s that stuff?" I asked in growing concern.

"Hair remover. Now hold your arms out to the side and stand still."

She applied the cream from the can liberally all over my body below my neck, except for a small area directly around my masculine package. Even though I found my glamorous nails strangely exciting, the hammerblows of succeeding surprises were too much for my saturated mind to accept and I was completely deflated, even when she moved my cock and balls around to spread the cream into hidden areas. Julie set a timer for 20 minutes and cautioned me to stand still, then left the room.

The twenty minutes stretched on and on, seemingly without end. Without the timer I would have sworn it had been hours. My arms got tired after less than five, but the worst part was the itch that started after about ten minutes. It seemed like the foam was making my skin crawl and I began to twitch and shiver as my nerves exploded with the strange sensation. I was watching the timer creep down to the end, calling up all the stubbornness I could muster to keep from calling out and giving up, when Julie came walking back in.

"That should be enough. Let me rinse you off," she offered.

I stepped out of the direct flow of water just long enough for the temperature to rise above freezing (it must have been just barely above freezing, it was certainly cold) and then moved into its blessed relief. Julie’s gentle hands and a sort of rough sponge helped me rinse all of the stinging foam off my body. I was so grateful for the relief from the itch that the rubbing scrub Julie from was giving me that I didn’t realize just how smooth and sensitive my skin was feeling.

When she was sure all the foam had been thoroughly rinsed, Julie motioned for me to step from the shower. She blotted my skin with a thick, soft towel and then reached for a powder puff. Before I realized what she was up to, clouds of softly scented powder were settling onto my shiny body.

"Why’d you do that?" I asked, once again feeling helplessly attached to the tail of an out-of-control tiger.

"Your skin needs the softness of the powder after that chemical. You know, you really do have beautiful skin. It must run in your family, just like your thick, soft hair."

My father and both grandfathers had full heads of hair even when they died. Just as importantly, my female ancestors also had thick, full heads of hair. Women can carry the bald gene, too, it just shows as thinning hair rather than actual bald spots. In any event, baldness was one thing I didn’t have to worry about. I kept my hair reasonably short, mostly so I could ignore it rather than worry about it, but I never thought of it as special. In fact, I always considered it plain and uninteresting.

The mirror in the bathroom had fogged up and I couldn’t really see what I looked like. I could tell the thin hair on my arms, legs, and chest was gone, but it had never been all that obtrusive. Before I could really start examining myself, however, Julie pulled me back into the bedroom. On the bed were boxes and bags in a bewildering array of sizes and shapes. Surely I didn’t need that many clothes! They were still closed, though, so I couldn’t tell what she had included.

"Okay, Mr. Reasonable. Do you remember all the things you’ve been nagging me about wearing?" Julie launched her attack.

"Now, honey, I haven’t really been nagging you, just making suggestions," I counterattacked, weakly.

"Once is a suggestion. More than once is a nag. You’ve been nagging," she threw in her reinforcements.

"It wouldn’t have been a nag, if you’d even really considered my suggestions," I retreated in grumpy disarray.

She laughed and picked up the first package, "Actually, I’m going to go easy on you. I’m going to help you out with things you didn’t even know enough to ‘suggest’, like removing your body hair so it doesn’t pull when you slide on your stockings. This is another example. It’s called a camisole, and it will keep the corset from pinching your beautiful, smooth skin."

Julie pulled out shimmering wisp of nylon, tinted a pale pink, edged in delicate lace. She gathered it up and motioned me to put my arms in it, then draped it softly over my torso. It fell in gentle waves, lighter than air, so cool and smooth. Despite my sense of being overwhelmed I couldn’t help but be impressed, pleased, even delighted at the sensual feel of the thin material. I found my hands smoothing it out over my waist while Julie busily adjusted the straps for a proper fit, whatever that meant. She didn’t say anything, but the grin that was still prominent on her face took on a less triumphant air, filling in with a more quizzical expression. I was too distracted to notice.

"Ahem, now for the next item," she interrupted my reverie.

In the second package was a snowy white corset, decorated with delicate pink lace that matched the border of the camisole thing that I already wore. I recognized it in a general sort of way, but when I had urged Julie to wear one I hadn’t understood just how many different styles there were for figure control. She proceeded to explain about the one she had chosen for me.

"This is a traditional corset, called Victorian style. It’s out of date for today since bras have come along. Most modern figure control clothing, basques and merry widows, incorporate bra cups but you don’t really need that, do you?" she teased.

There were laces down the back of the garment, but there were also hooks down the front, hidden by a cover panel. Julie quickly undid the hooks and wrapped it around my waist. When she started fastening up the hooks again, I thought it was a little snug but no big deal, really.

"That’s not so bad," I commented as she was finishing the last couple of hooks. "I don’t know why you made this seem like such a big deal when I asked you to wear one."

For some reason this made her giggle carol out, silvery and full. I was surprised at first, but then a little concerned when her hilarity continued beyond a quick chuckle. What was so funny?

She walked around behind me, struggling to get her laughter under control, then managed to blurt out between titters, "I’m just getting started. Hang on to the bedpost."

I tried to turn around to look at her, but she caught my shoulders and held me facing the bed, then rotated them to make me lift my arms. I was still trying to look over my shoulder at her, though I was also reaching for the bedpost, when I remembered how much slack there was in the laces when she first showed me the corset. She wasn’t going to try and pull out all that slack. Surely not!

Surely yes! With a strong tug she started pulling on the strings of the corset. My hands grasped the bedpost in reflex to keep from being pulled back and I started to complain, but she beat me to the first comment.

"Be still. This is what a corset really means. If you want to understand it, then stand still and take it."

I could hear the triumph back in her voice, and it triggered a response that was fast becoming a conditioned reflex. That sense of triumph she felt caused my always-adequate stubbornness to assert itself and once again I decided to show her I could take anything she could dish out. I held my tongue and grimly determined to ride out this latest indignity.

She had started her lacing near the top, squeezing much of the breath out of my lungs, anyway, so talking would be difficult. There must have been six or eight sets of holes that she pulled the slack out of before tying off the ends near my much-reduced waist. I tried to breathe a sigh of relaxation, but the inadequate breath her tight lacing had left me was choked off even further when she started pulling out slack again, this time from laces near the bottom of the surprisingly long garment. I tried to look down to see how much my waist had already been pulled in, but all I saw was my own chest, barely captured within the top of the corset and squeezed up until it almost looked like I had a bust. She worked the lower laces up my waist and I was beginning to consider capitulation, giving in and admitting I couldn’t take any more, when she went back to the first set of laces again! I was too surprised to say anything when I felt her strong fingers pulling out additional length from strings I was sure were already drum tight. She only went about half way up the top set of laces, starting at the lower level of my ribcage, but she managed to yank out enough to increase the already crushing embrace of the corset a noticeable amount. Finally she tied off these laces a second time and stood back.

"There, that should about do it, for now."

"For now?" I gulped softly, trying to get some air back into compressed lungs.

"Yep, after about an hour, we should be able to get a little more out."

"Don’t be ridiculous. This is already too tight." I whined.

"That’s what a corset is all about," she maintained. "Now, if you had really tried to understand what you were talking about and asked for a waist cincher or body briefer, you might be a little less constricted, blessed with modern stretchy materials instead of satin and stiff boning. But no, you were always so sure you were being reasonable that there was no need for understanding."

I said nothing. This example added to the self-assessment that had started when she told me at lunch that she felt unfulfilled and I began to think I hadn’t been reasonable at all. But maybe I was just getting lightheaded from the lack of breath.

While I had been lost in my thoughts, she went to a small package and I heard the whisper of long, sheer stockings. When I glanced at the sound, I saw her set those carefully on the bed, then pick up a handful of small elastic straps with clips on the ends, I recognized them after a second as garters. When she began to attach them to hooks on the lower fringe of the corset I tried to interrupt her.

"Wait a minute! Don’t I get any underwear?"

"Did you ever ask me to go without?" she replied with a grin brimming with mischief.

"Well, yes, but only once, a long time ago. You said that doesn’t count as a nag." I offered in my defense.

Julie giggled and nodded, "You’re right. I have underwear for you. They’re even men’s underwear, though not like any you’ve ever worn. But they go on over the garters so you can go to the bathroom, or remove them quickly just in case you’re in a hurry."

My pretty tormentor chuckled as she gathered one of the stockings neatly, then knelt at my right foot. I had considered offering to do it myself, but she was obviously enjoying her time dressing up her full-sized Barbie doll. Besides, in that infernal corset I probably couldn’t have bent over that far, anyway. The slither of the smooth, shimmering material up my smooth, shining leg reminded me of the camisole, and a bit of excitement returned. I was still too deflated from the intensity of the corset to get fully erect, but my dormant cock started to stretch down my leg. Julie noticed, but didn’t say anything. Her giggles did damp out though, and I saw that quizzical look return to her eyes. In a moment she had the first one hooked, to three garters as my saturated mind finally absorbed, and started on the second. Normally, I take a bit of pride in being pretty aware of what’s going on around me. Unless I’m deep into cyberspace of course, then the rest of the world doesn’t exist. But anyway, when I’m not lost in space, I try to pay attention to things. However, it was only with the second stocking that I noticed they were dark and elegant, and seamed! She had carefully straightened the seam on the first one without me even noticing and when she started to do the same to the second, I became a bit overwhelmed. My pride in my awareness came tumbling down and I realized I was truly out of my depth. I shuddered a little and reached for the bedpost to steady myself.

"Are you alright?" she asked in concern.

"I think so," I murmured. "But this is just going too fast.

How much more is there?"

"Just a few things," she promised.

She opened another package and drew out a tangled set of thin straps in a bright, vibrant red. Untangling the straps, she revealed thong underwear, the thin bands emanating from a small triangle of material. Once again she had me raise my feet and started pulling the tiny thong up my tautly covered legs.

"You want to do this? Or do you want me to?" she asked gently, still a bit concerned.

"I’ll get it," I offered. My cock was still soft, a condition that didn’t change when I poked it with my long, clumsy nails, so I managed to get it back between my legs and then pull the underwear up to cover my masculine (how masculine was I, really?) package. The bands of the thong barely drew up above the globes of my ass, just enough to keep from sliding back down (I hoped). Still, they were high enough that they had to be tucked under the lower fringe of the corset, which extended from my armpits to my hips. I could see what she meant by the need to put underwear on over the garters. If my ordinary underwear had been trapped up under the corset, I never would have gotten them down.

Those tiny underwear were strange, but putting them on myself had allowed me to absorb their strangeness and I didn’t feel quite so out of control, so I stood up a little straighter (mostly a thing of my legs and head, since my torso was already rigid) and smiled reassurance at Julie. An answering smile of relief lit her face and her good humor returned with the lightning speed of her normal emotional transitions.

"Okay, almost done," she assured me. "All we have left are heels, skirt, and blouse."

The unfamiliar words echoed in my mind, threatening another overload. I carefully husbanded the little breath the corset allowed to me and waited for these latest assaults on my senses. The blouse was first, all lace and ruffles, extravagantly feminine. Another of my "suggestions" at work, that she should dress in more feminine styles. I sighed (well almost, I didn’t have enough breath for a real sigh) and fed my arms into it. It fastened up the back, of course, all the way to a ruffled, stand up collar. I had deliberately set up my career so I could work at home and avoid wearing a tie and here I was with even more stuff around my neck.

"Does it have to be such a bright color?" I complained.

She giggled, "It is rather red, but red is really your color.

It matches your nails. Besides, women wear brighter colors than men. This is what you get when you go for dainty, feminine styles like you nagged me about."

Whoever had tailored the black skirt had decided to use the material for fullness rather than length. It was definitely shorter than typical for Julie (me and my big mouth, but I thought her legs were beautiful and deserved to be displayed). When she slid it up my legs I watched my knees reappear below the hem, then more and more of my thighs as well. Finally she zipped it up behind me and closed the single button.

"Good, the size is fine. In fact, I could have gotten a size smaller. With that corset, you could wear a size 7, I’ll bet we’ll be able to share clothes. Now, this is just a simple cotton/polyester blend, but it’s lined, so you don’t need a slip," she explained. Thank God for small favors I thought to myself.

"Oops, I forgot, you need a belt," she exclaimed, then drew out a wide, stretchy, fish scale belt in shining gold. She quickly wrapped this around my waist. I noticed there were no belt loops, and while the belt was stretched a bit it was hardly tight since my waist was so compressed. What good was it, anyway?

My thoughts on the uselessness of the belt had distracted me while Julie turned to yet another package, obviously a shoe box. When she turned around this time, I finally had to call a stop to the nonsense.

"No! No way! I’m not wearing those shoes," I declared.

They were some sort of sandal things, open toed, with a single red strap over the foot that was an inch or so wide at the sides, but twisted into a knot in the middle, obviously right behind the toes. Near the back of the shoe there were two long, thin red straps that must tie up around the ankle in some way that wasn’t immediately clear to me. Those features weren’t too bad, though I didn’t know why she hadn’t just chosen some simple slip-on design. But the heels were unreal! They towered up at least 5 inches, maybe more, covered in the same bright red as the toe strap.

"Those are just too high, be reasonable," I heard myself blurt out. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I wanted them back. I was claiming reasonableness for myself and didn’t want to lose control of that word by letting her capture it. Too late, though. And worse, it provoked that irritating triumphal grin back onto her face.

"Reasonable?" she jumped on the word. "You mean you don’t think these shoes are reasonable? I’ll have you know these heels, in my size, are less than an inch taller than the ones I was wearing the last time you nagged me about my shoes. In your size they’re up a little more, but overall only about an inch over what you found inadequate. Now that’s only reasonable, isn’t it?"

I was really caught, now. Flinging my own words back into my face was bad enough, but doing it while wearing that damn grin was too much. My own stupid stubbornness reared its perpetually ugly head and I growled back.

"Fine, then, have it your way. How do those things fasten up anyway?"

I tried to bend down to pick one up, but that stupid corset kept me almost straight and I couldn’t reach them. She quickly grabbed one and held it for my foot. Guiding my stocking-clad toes into the toe strap, she wrapped the other straps around my leg in a pattern that still wasn’t entirely clear but left them elegantly poised at the thinnest point of my ankle. She fastened the tiny buckle and motioned for me to raise my other foot.

Right. Until that point I hadn’t been putting any real weight on the high-heeled shoe. When she made it clear I needed to lift my other foot, I tried to roll my hip a little, but found I needed to step up instead. I immediately swayed, trying to find some sort of balance between my toe and heel. Clutching at the bedpost, I felt unfamiliar muscle tensions as I tried to stabilize my leg. I was so distracted by the effort that Julie had the other shoe fastened before I realized what was going on. After a moment, I realized that I really could put some weight on the heel, though my toes were clearly bearing the majority of the load. Still, that did give me a few inches of wheel base to work with, better than just the ball of my foot. It also let me relax the arch of my foot a little which helped with my leg muscles. I gingerly put some weight on my other foot and then slowly let go of my death grip on the bedpost.

"There, that’s not so bad, is it?" Julie teased.

"I’ll manage," I gritted out, still tottering but not in imminent danger of falling.

"Would you like to take a look at yourself?" she offered, moving back so I could turn to look in the full-length mirror.

"Not really," I denied, but as the panic brought on by the towering high-heels subsided, the excitement I had previously recognized flooded in behind it and I knew I wanted to see what I looked like. I turned toward the mirror, too quickly and almost fell, but I caught myself with a small step and attained a clumsy, awkward balance. I had turned far enough to see myself in the mirror, though, which was all that mattered at that moment.

My glance started at those silly shoes . . . which weren’t so silly anymore. They lifted my foot into a graceful arch and the thin straps made my ankles look slender and delicate. The dark stockings led my eyes up glorious, long, smooth, sculptured legs to the short, dark skirt that nipped into a waist so tiny it couldn’t possibly be mine. I saw the value of that stupid gold belt as it provided a magnet for the eyes in celebration of that slim, dainty waist. My glistening nails caught a highlight from somewhere and I realized my hands looked as elegant and feminine as my legs. Though my hands would never be called dainty, with the long, glamorous nails they looked slender and beautiful. The bright red blouse exploded in ruffles at throat and wrists, surrounding the delicate airy lace that threatened to reveal a bosom that I didn’t really have. Not a real risk anyway since I knew the blouse was lined and fully opaque. Actually, I had a bit of a bosom with that corset squeezing my chest up almost to my throat. The Victorian style of the body shaper prevented any definition of breasts that weren’t there, nonetheless I had a definite bust, especially in contrast with that impossible waist. The image I saw in the mirror buried my anger under bewildering amazement, confused excitement, and I realized, pleasure.

It might have been okay if my gaze had stopped there, but my eyes just had to go and complete the examination, finally reaching my face. While Julie resisted my suggestions about clothes, she had always been proud of the beauty of her face and glorious hair. Even before we met she had developed the skilled, subtle touch of an artist with cosmetics and had always taken the time to care for her tumbling dark tresses. The only comment, other than compliments, I had ever offered on her makeup or hair had been a single complaint the first time she had worn curlers to bed. I had asked if that was really necessary and she had curtly said it was. However, I noticed that after that night she had started using hot rollers in the morning, at least most of the time.

Anyway, I had always loved the way she enhanced the considerable natural beauty of her face, and loved the flowing cascade of her darkly shining hair, and never "nagged" her about either one. As a result, she hadn’t done anything with my face or hair and what I saw in the mirror was a man’s face over a gloriously beautiful, amazingly feminine body. Actually, that wasn’t quite right. With my soft features and squeaky-clean shave, it looked more like a boy’s face over a woman’s body, but still desperately, foolishly, pathetically incongruous.

Julie had already seen what I looked like as she dressed her grown-up Barbie doll so she had been watching my face as I studied the vision in the mirror. It must have shown surprise, wonder, then growing pleasure as I looked at the body she had created. Then it must have shown dismay bordering on pain as my line of sight finally lifted to my head. I was too overwhelmed by the unending stream of shocks she had introduced into my life to maintain any control over my expression and I must have revealed every thought as emotions flooded through me in trip-hammer succession.

"Jay, what’s the matter?" she said in alarm.

"Huh? What? Oh, nothing," I denied, the lie still written on my face.

"Don’t give me that. I haven’t seen you look that unhappy, not angry or frustrated or worried, but just plain sad, since I can’t remember when. Now what’s wrong?"

I tore my gaze away from the mirror and looked at my loving wife, all gloating triumph gone from her worried face. In truth, I wasn’t sure what was wrong with me. I didn’t really want to be a woman, did I? If not, then why was my face what I wanted to change in the image and not my body? Why was I feeling so proud about my tiny, decidedly feminine waist when I knew it was due to the corset I hated so much? I did hate these clothes, didn’t I? I was just putting up with them, in private, to win an argument point with my wife, right?

The confusion rampant behind my eyes must have flowed across my face, leaving Julie just as concerned as ever. I was too consumed by the sensations to speak and just stood there, swaying a little on my unaccustomed heels. Finally, she broke the frozen silence.

"Look, this has gone far enough. Let’s get you out of those clothes."

"No!" I cried, an expression torn from my confusion without conscious thought.

"What?" Julie asked in surprise.

Somehow that one word that had forced itself from me had caused my locked up systems to re-boot and I was able to speak again.

"I don’t understand what all this means, love, but part of me is really excited by these clothes. So much that I’m worried about it, but I don’t want to give it up, at least not yet," I explained.

My thinking out loud continued, "This has all been a little too much for me. This little game we were playing has gotten entirely too real. I’m sort of out of control, here, and I need to get myself back together. But when I looked at myself in that mirror I was so pleased with what you had done to me that I was about to explode. Something about dressing like this is reaching deep into wants and needs I never even knew I had. Do you think I’m really gay?"

"No, don’t be silly," she assured me. "I read somewhere that most cross-dressers are thoroughly heterosexual. You obviously enjoy our marriage, just as I do. Actually, all of us have a little man and woman inside, nobody is 100% male or female. Maybe you’ve just repressed a little more femininity than we knew."

Building excitement bubbled in her voice, "Maybe I was more right than I knew when I said that you needed to understand what it means to be a woman a little more. Not just so you’ll understand me better, but so you’ll understand yourself better!"

Julie continued, "But I don’t understand why you looked so sad, there. I can understand being confused. I’m confused by what’s going on and it must be much worse from your side. But what made you so sad?"

I was finally resurrecting a bit of control over my tangled, frantic thoughts as the shock of my appearance was absorbed and her words began to help me understand things, at least a little. Her question was enough to prod me back into a single, clear emotion. Embarrassment. I felt a flush set my cheeks on fire and I ducked my head, staring at my elegant shoes.

"Now what’s the matter?" she asked in exasperation when I didn’t answer.

I tried to take a deep breath to calm myself, but though I was getting used to the corset enough it was not actively uncomfortable, I still couldn’t manage more than tiny sips of air. So I closed my eyes for a minute and took a mental breath instead, then looked at the beautiful woman I loved.

"I was disappointed when I saw my man’s face on a woman’s body. I wanted it to be a pretty woman’s face instead. And hair, lots of beautiful hair, like yours," I finally admitted. There it was out. Now what would she think of me?

"Oh, Jay," she cried, tears forming in her eyes. I knew it. I’d blown a good marriage. I should never have agreed to this stupid test in the first place. I should have been satisfied with my gorgeous wife just as she was, instead of being so selfish. I should have . . .

Julie interrupted my mental self-flagellation by wrapping her arms around me and hugging me tightly, almost tightly enough to feel through that infernal, magical corset. She looked up to me with tears in her eyes, but instead of disgust or anger I saw glorious love there.

"Dearest Jay," she murmured into my . . bust, "you can’t imagine how much I hoped you would feel that way. I always wished you would want to do this. I used this silly test as a way to get you to go along with a more important test, not about fashions, about us. It’s a secret I’ve kept from you these years we’ve been married, even before that actually. With your face and features I just knew I could make you look like a woman, even a beautiful one. In my fantasies I dreamed of making love with a woman, but it always turned out to be a man under a woman’s clothes and you were the man. This test, the clothes I dressed you in, were all the sorts of things you nagged me about, but you never complained about my face or hair so I had no excuse to do anything to you there. But I so hoped you would want to complete the transformation in your appearance. Do you? Do you really?"

Somehow, holding her had helped me find a mental stability that had been lacking all evening, not to mention a little help with physical stability as I struggled even to stand in those incredible heels. The warmth of her body next to mine, the soft scent of her hair, the gentle emotions she displayed added memories from the previous parts of our marriage to the confusion of that night, building a combination that buttressed the new experiences with an enduring love that was more than just a man-woman physical attraction. I knew that I could count on her, no matter where this strange adventure led us, and that chased away the fear that had lurked in the back of my mind like a dark cloud. It seemed the fog of confusion was dissipated like the fear, and with sudden clarity I knew what to do.

"Julie, honey, will you show me how to do makeup? And is there something pretty you could do with my hair?"

The small, tentative, hopeful smile that had quirked her lips gave way to a genuine grin. Her eyes glistened with new tears, but this time I knew they were tears of joy. She wiped quickly at her eyes and stood back.

"I can do better than that," she proudly declared. "Come sit over at the vanity."

She moved quickly over to the seat and turned it around for me. I stepped after her, but almost fell from the skyscraper heels, feeling as clumsy as an oversized gorilla. She giggled, which didn’t help much, then offered some useful advice.

"Take shorter steps. Let your hips swing so you can put one foot directly in front of the other, like you were walking a tightrope. Point your toes."

I tried out the things she had suggested and they really helped. I still felt clumsy but I wasn’t in danger of catastrophic contact between my nose and the carpet. At least not as much danger. I walked slowly and carefully over to the seat by all of Julie’s cosmetics and gratefully lowered myself into it. No slouching though, that stupid, wonderful corset kept me stiffly upright with forced perfect posture.

"No, stand up again," she commanded.

I struggled to my feet and looked at her quizzically.

"When a lady sits down, she smoothes her skirt to keep it from wrinkling. Try again."

I sat again, still with excellent posture but this time with a smooth swipe of my hand to straighten my skirt as I lowered myself to the seat. She nodded acceptance of my effort, then looked at her vanity table. To my surprise, Julie just shoved a bunch of her bottles and things to the side and got yet another new package, this one from the closet. She looked embarrassed for just a minute, then admitted, "I got some for you, in the colors you’d look good in. You couldn’t really use mine. I mean, you could use them if you wanted, but they wouldn’t look right."

While she had talked she had been pulling bottles and tubes and small plastic boxes from the package, arraying them on the cleared space like an army positioning itself for combat.

"Okay, how far do you want to go with this. I won’t do anything permanent, of course, but some of what you need will take a little while to go away. For example, I need to shape your eyebrows."

"Do whatever you think is best, gorgeous. The reason I never complained about your makeup is because you do it so perfectly. It would be pretty stupid for me to interfere with your genius. These silly nails are with me for a while anyway, so hit me with your best shot. Fire away."

She gave a little-girl giggle and reached for her tweezers. In a second I was reflecting on my idiotic habit of leaping before I looked, getting myself into things without really understanding the consequences. Pulling my eyebrows out hurt! Not badly, but the series of little stings went on and on and on. I figured she hadn’t left any hair at all long before she was done, but she just kept at it. Finally she tapered off, spending more time looking than pulling, carefully balancing out their shape. At least, that’s what I hoped she was doing. She had me facing away from the mirror.

"Okay, that’s the worst part. The rest won’t hurt a bit, I promise."

"Good, if it’s all that bad I’m ready to admit defeat right now and never complain about anything you do, or don’t do, again."

She laughed and shook her head, but her mind was clearly on the selection of cosmetics she had spread out.

"Hmm . . . Actually, with the right hairstyle, now that your eyebrows are shaped you could pass as a woman just as you are, with maybe a little lipstick. You really do have the right bone structure for it. Still, this is not about getting a passing grade, you’re going to ace the course. It’s going to take a few minutes but when I’m done, you’ll be the best-looking babe on the block."

"Not while you’re around, beautiful," I disagreed, but my excitement was building. If she, with her expert knowledge, thought I had potential, maybe I really did.

It took more than a few minutes. I didn’t understand everything she did, at that time, but she seemed to be reaching for skin-colored or even colorless things for a long time before she started with what I had always considered was real makeup. She spread creams and lotions over my whole face, even undoing the collar of my blouse and lowering it away from my neck. Finally, though, she started to lightly dab soft colors onto my eyelids, gold and pink and purple. Even then she returned to neutral colors adding a smoky gray, even a little white. At her direction I looked up and down and wherever while she stroked a pencil to line my eyes, then I repeated the eyeball exercises when she added mascara, and then more mascara, and then still more. By the time she was done, my eyelashes felt like they weighed a couple of pounds apiece.

"You’re lucky," she interrupted my thoughts, "your natural eyelashes are already pretty long and full so I won’t have to use false eyelashes."

Goodness, if that’s what she did to long, full lashes, what would she do to thin ones? Once my eyes were done, she moved on to more definite colors to add shape and contour to my cheeks, though even then she blended it in so thoroughly I thought she might have rubbed it all into obscurity. Finally, she took a small brush and started to paint a careful crimson outline on and around my lips. She must have used the color to expand their size a little, since it felt like she had exceeded where I felt my actual lip shapes to be. After she had the outline the way she wanted it, she filled in the space with bright, ruby color, a suspiciously good match for the shine on my nails.

"Just how long have you been planning this?" I asked, though I smiled to let her know I was pleased, not angry.

"In my dreams, just about forever, but I didn’t actually buy anything until today," she claimed.

Julie stood back from her creation and I started to turn to the mirror.

"Not yet," she stopped me.

She buttoned my blouse back up, then went to her jewelry box to get a gold chain with a shining heart locket, just right for the antique style of the blouse. A quarter-sized pair of gold earring disks, leftover from before her ears were pierced, were clipped to my ears and a couple of rings with colorful crystalline gems were placed on my fingers. My men’s watch was removed, then she tapped her finger against her forehead for a second in thought, snapped her fingers and reached for her perfume.

"Now this we can share. I think Opium works well even on blondes, especially if they’re as hot at you look. Oh! That reminds me! Whatever was I thinking?"

With that cryptic exclamation she went to the closet and drew forth yet another new package. This one looked like an old-fashioned cylindrical hat box, except much taller. It must have been two feet high. Reaching inside she showed what the box had protected, a glorious golden wig. Unlike my dirty blond color, this wig positively glowed like pure sweet honey. It flowed over her hands as she positioned it with the same sort of honeyed, liquid grace, highlights dancing within the warm color.

It would be wrong to say I had gotten bored while I was sitting there, but perhaps not too wrong to say I had become a little more relaxed. The struggle to breath through the corset’s constriction, the unnatural arch of my feet, the sense of coolness as the room’s air currents played beneath my short skirt had all receded into the background of my mind as I waited for Julie to finish with my face. That gorgeous wig brought it all back, though. My chest tightened in a way that even the corset couldn’t match and I forgot to breathe for a long moment as the wig came closer. Julie carefully placed the cap over my own short hair, tucking up any loose ends, then pulled the bangs and locks of golden beauty into position to properly frame my face. The ends spilled over my shoulders down to the level of my breasts . . uh . . bust and I felt soft, gentle whispers of it caress my cheeks.

Finally, hours after she had started, or at least a half hour, Julie stood back. The look of triumph was in her face, emphasized with smug satisfaction that would have been intensely irritating except I knew that this time I would share in that triumph. She reached out one hand and gently helped me to my feet, as polite as any courtier, then held my shivering shoulders as she turned me around to look in the mirror.

I don’t know how long it had been since I had breathed. It didn’t matter really. I had passed beyond breath, beyond any mundane limits. I was air itself, and sunlight. I was shimmering flame and molten gold. I was sparking diamonds and dancing rubies. I was beautiful. Now my image was complete. My unbelievable figure hadn’t been diminished at all but now it was topped by a delicately feminine face and a liquid cascade of flowing honey.

Probably I did start breathing somewhere in there, because I know I stood frozen in homage to the image of perfection in the mirror for a long time. Finally Julie poked me in my armored ribs and said, "Not bad, huh. I told you I’d make you into a real babe."

"Oh, Julie, this is incredible. You’re a genius. I love you!" I gushed.

"Good, cause you’re stuck with me," she grinned.

Then she ordered, "Now, go practice your walk while I change."

I struggled to get myself together again, mentally, for the umpteenth time that night. Reviewing her advice, I started to sashay across the bedroom, delighting in the swish of my hair and the flip of my skirt.

"Here," she called, tossing me a red leather purse with a long shoulder strap. "Go get your wallet and keys and put them in this. I’ll pick out the makeup you need to take along."

It finally penetrated my bemused state that she was changing from the casual clothes she had been wearing. I saw a pair of darkly elegant pantyhose laid out, as well as a snug leather skirt and a shimmery satin blouse in a deep blue that matched her beautiful eyes. High-heeled pumps were sitting near her feet (not as high as my heels, of course). She was obviously getting ready for a night on the town.

"What’s going on?" I demanded.

"We haven’t had dinner, yet. I’m hungry, aren’t you?"

"Well, sure, but we can’t go out. I figured we’d fix something here."

"Why? After all the trouble you’ve gone to in order to look hot and sensuous, quite successfully I might add, why should we hide in our house?" she asked as though it were silly to consider any such thing.

I stammered out a not-very-coherent protest, "But . . but you said . . uh . . we said . . that this would be private What will people think?"

"Look in the mirror, you silly girl, and tell me what people will think," she laughed.

She was right, of course, no one could possibly tell, at least not by looking at a static image, that I wasn’t a natural born woman, a spectacularly beautiful one at that.

"But . . . but . . I don’t know how to act like a woman. How to talk, what to do." I stammered on with only borderline coherency.

"Then it’s high time you learned," she declared relentlessly, then softened a little. "Look, darling, you need to approach this with joy. It’ll be fun."

"Say, that’s your new name. Joy. See that you live up to it," she commanded with mock sternness. "Now go get your wallet and keys. Remember your walk."

I stood dumfounded for a moment, but she turned back to the mirror in absolute dismissal, her body language totally precluding the possibility of further discussion as she attended to her own makeup. In a sort of daze I turned to the door and went toward the table where I had left my things. The purse already had some tissues and a compact in it, and something I recognized as a tampon. There were also a couple of breath mints, a lipstick in Julie’s shade, and some other things that seemed unnecessary, but somehow typical. There was plenty of room for my wallet and keys, though, so I put them inside and turned back to the bedroom. By this time my walk was settling down. I knew I had to quit looking at my feet and made myself keep my head up all the way back down the hall to the bedroom. It actually worked easier, since my body quickly adopted a swaying rhythm of hips and gracefully pointing toes. When I got back to the bedroom, Julie had finished her makeup, dressed, and was slipping on her pumps.

"You never get dressed that fast when I want to go somewhere," I accused with a laugh.

She excused herself with a giggle, "Well, I didn’t do my hair and I only needed to add a little flash to my makeup."

Julie motioned for me to hand her my purse and looked inside. The compact and lipstick that were there came out, to be tossed among her stuff, then a compact from my array went in, along with lipstick, eyeshadow, blush, and mascara.

"What, no eyeliner," I teased.

"Oops, thanks, I almost forgot."

"I was just kidding. I won’t need all that stuff."

"Actually, you might," she disagreed. "It takes attention to keep yourself looking good and I expect you to do your best."

"Yes, ma’am," I agreed meekly, then felt myself giggle as well, somehow caught up by the mood into a feminine mannerism.

She praised me for it, "Good, remember that giggle, but otherwise you better speak softly and let me carry the conversation until we train your voice a little."

"Yes, ma’am," I repeated, this time in a soft breathy voice not much more than a whisper.

Julie nodded and motioned for me to precede her from the room. I realized she was trying to get me to adopt more feminine mannerisms and that I certainly needed the practice. When we got to her Thunderbird she opened the door for me, whispering quick advice on how to sit. I placed my heels as close to the car as I could, clamped my knees together, and sat, or rather fell, into the seat. Once my weight was transferred to the car, I lifted both legs together, knees still carefully squeezed, and swung them in. Not too bad, I thought, but getting out will be tough. Julie went around to the driver’s side and slid into her seat with a similar motion, but with a grace I envied desperately, a grace made even more impressive by its lack of apparent effort. She backed out of the drive without the launching rocket style I used, but we were quickly on our way.

"Where are we going," I asked in my normal voice.

"Joy, you need to speak in a more feminine manner at all times," she chided me. "Keep your voice soft, but let the tone vary, and don’t be so abrupt. It would have been more appropriate to say something like, "Oh, I do so hope we can find a place with a fabulous salad bar!"

"Oh, I do so hope we can find a place with a fabulous salad bar," I giggled, trying for the soft tone she indicated while still gushing with emotion, then I laughed through the rest of my wish, "and a thick, juicy prime rib."

"No, no, no," she chuckled in response. "Ladies don’t wolf down thick slabs of red meat. I’ll bet you couldn’t anyway, while you wear that corset."

"You know, you’re right," I realized. "I was hungry earlier, but right now, I don’t feel a bit hungry."

"That’s because your stomach is too compressed to be empty. Be grateful. It will help you preserve that girlish figure," teased Julie. "We better get something to eat, though, before we go bar-hopping."

"What?" I cried, in a surprisingly feminine tone since my full-bodied shout was too robbed of air for strength by that infernal corset.

"You heard what I said," Julie declared. "By the way, you don’t mind if I remove my wedding ring for the night, do you? We’ll just be two hot women out for a good time. Why should you be the only one that looks ‘available’?"

She suited her actions to her words and worked her wedding ring off her finger, dropping it into a side pocket of her purse. I hadn’t worn one for years since it was always getting in the way when I put in some upgrade or another into my computer. I suddenly realized it would be a long time before I put in any upgrades myself, if I kept my nails this glamorous. That distraction kept me from really absorbing the sense of her statements, that we were going to go trolling for men!

The first place we stopped was a yuppie soup and salad place. Julie caught my eye with a stern look that I didn’t understand at first, then she ordered only the salad bar, skipping both the soup and baked potato options. A second stern look to me following her order and it was finally clear that I was to order the same, though I would normally have sampled all of the soups (with big bowls) and stuffed a potato until I could hardly carry it. This girl thing looked like it was going to be boring, at least in the food department, but I ordered in accordance with her orders, or order, or whatever.

The girl behind the cash register barely looked at me when she said, "That’ll be $5.32, Miss."

Miss, she said, not even ma’am. I must look like a young lady as well as a pretty one, at least to this inattentive attendant. That reminded me of the rapidly expanding circle of witnesses to my impersonation, none of whom were paying any more attention than the cashier. Or at least, no more than the cashier had been paying me just a moment before. As soon as I started digging through my purse for my money (why couldn’t Julie have just paid for us both?) those long nails began to show just how inconvenient lady’s fashions could be and I started to hold up the line. Worse, Julie was standing there with that damn amused grin on her face as I struggled, just waiting for me to admit that it was too much for me to handle and ask for help. It’s a good thing I looked up to see that smile, or I would have asked for help. Somehow I fumbled out enough money and handed it to the cashier.

"I don’t know how you can put up with those long nails," the cashier sighed wistfully, "but they sure make your hands look beautiful, so slender and elegant. I wish I could learn to handle them."

"I only had them put on earlier today," I admitted in a soft voice. "I’m still learning myself."

"You’re very brave to try," she grinned, "but then, if I looked as hot as you do, I’d probably make the effort, too."

"Thank you," I replied, ducking my head to hide my blush. This caused a flow of my hair to surround my face and reminded me of just how extreme my disguise was. Maybe I could get away with this, after all.

The purse that Julie had inflicted on me had a shoulder strap so I arranged it carefully, then took up my tray and walked to the salad bar. The swaying motion made necessary by my towering shoes and the partial obscuration by my bust of the items on the tray kept me nervously imagining a cascade of silverware and crockery from what I carried, but I reached the salad bar in safety. While I was working my way down the array of items, I felt a funny, itchy feeling at the back of my neck under the softly tickling mane of golden hair and shook my head to try and settle it better. The itch didn’t go away, and I shook my head again, even more sharply, provoking a sensuous ripple and quick flip of the ends. That didn’t help either and I was considering trying to balance my tray and reach behind me to scratch that itch when Julie came close and hissed at me.

"Stop that! You’re just showing off. You don’t want to pick up any of these guys."

What was she talking about? I turned around and saw men sprinkled through the restaurant, all of whom seemed to be staring right at me. That itch had been the funny feeling I get when I’m being watched, magnified beyond anything I’d ever felt before by the number and fierce intensity of the stares of the men. I wish I’d have known that was what it was, not only because I would have been able to understand and discount the itch, but because when I turned around, my eyes met those of several of the staring men and at least two got up and started to walk my way. I looked around in panic for Julie and saw her nearing the end of the counter. This provided me with more than enough incentive to hurry through my last selections and catch up with her. Thankfully she led us to a table away from my pursuers, if that’s what they really were, and we sat down to our skimpy meal.

Julie was still mad at me, maybe jealous? Anyway, she started in again with another harshly whispered comment, "Quit flirting with these guys. They’re losers. You let yourself get picked up by one of them and you’re on your own, girl."

"I wasn’t trying to flirt!" I whispered back just as intensely. "I felt an itch at the back of my neck. You know how it is when someone is watching me. It was just so intense! I’ve never felt it that strongly."

"Well, those guys thought you were tossing your hair to get their attention, which was a stupid waste since they were already so focused on you that a dozen elephants could have paraded through here and they wouldn’t have noticed," she giggled, her good humor restored when she realized my distraction hadn’t been deliberate. "Eat up, and we’ll go where the hunting is better."

"I’m NOT hunting for men!" I insisted.

"Hah!" retorted Julie. "With those looks, all you need to do is smile and they’ll keel over at your feet. You’re a knockout. Don’t tell me you’re not flattered by their interest."

"I am not!" I denied her claim, but a part of me wondered if she were right.

Looking around the room, I tried to keep my eyes moving too fast to make eye contact with any of the men, but also to figure out what made them such losers in Julie’s eyes.

"How come you think these guys are so bad?" I asked. This was a mistake since my own thoughts had moved on to other issues and I had forgotten Julie’s last comment. She hadn’t though, and thought we were still on the topic of my alleged flirting.

"See, I told you so! You are interested in them!"

"NO, I’m not," I insisted. "But I don’t understand why these guys are so bad if we’re looking to be picked up anyway."

"We’re not looking to be picked up, at least not really. But we are going to have a good time tonight. We’re just not going to let anyone come home with us. We’re not going to waste our evening on these losers, though. Look at them."

I looked again, and again failed to see what she found so objectionable . . . or did I? I had never really considered men from an attractiveness standpoint before. For me, they were just part of the scenery, unless maybe I was worried about a confrontation of some sort. Those I avoided whenever possible since as a man I was too short and thin to be much of a fighter. Now, I looked at the men in the salad place with new eyes, considering them as counterparts to my displayed gender. Maybe I was beginning to see what Julie was noticing. The men seemed to fall into two categories. One type was a bit overweight, trying to control it just as we women needed to by eating a light meal. The ones that were not harmlessly attached to other women were constantly looking, staring, evaluating, trying to decide if they could meet a worthwhile woman in this female feeding ground. A bit desperate, I could now see. The second type of unaccompanied man was a geek even worse than I had been at my worst. Thin, gawky, usually with unflattering glasses, they looked at the unescorted women with a hunger that was definitely desperate. They seemed the bookish type that read all about nutrition and came to places that offered what the books indicated, even though they would have been better off with a meal loaded with fats and carbohydrates to add a little bulk to their scrawny frames. Definitely not my type. What did I just say . .er . . think? No men were my type. Were they?

I buried my gaze in my salad and ate carefully, trying to guide the fork with my glittering nails without sticking one in the dressing, or my mouth or whatever. I had heaped a pretty good pile of things on my plate, even if they were all salad things, and started in greedily to make up for the lack of potato and soup. After less than half of it, however, I found myself picking at the plate, literally unable to stomach another bite in my squeezed condition. I had held myself primly erect throughout the meal, what there was of it, so overall it seemed quite dainty and feminine, an effect no doubt magnified by the need to periodically sweep my ruby nails through my glowing blonde hair as it cascaded sensually down the front of my blouse.

"You’re doing it again," Julie hissed, but there was enough laughter in her eyes to show she wasn’t angry.

I froze in confusion, completely caught up in my internal musing and so comfortable with my feminine attire that I had forgotten that people were watching . . closely . . every move I made.

"We need to go," I whispered back. "I can’t eat any more anyway."

"Told you so," gloated Julie, "while you wear that corset, you’re going to eat like a lady, at least."

I nodded her the victory in this little point of contention, but I stood up to walk out. I picked up my tray to take it to the conveyor, when Julie hissed at me with yet another mistake I had made.

"Don’t forget your purse, Joy," she grinned, then whispered, "from now on that needs to be welded to your arm, wherever you go. Welcome to another inconvenience of womanhood."

I put my tray back down, carefully arranged the strap of my purse, and picked the tray up again, all the while maintaining my balance on those teetering shoes, which had begun to hurt just as soon as I stood up again.

"We’ll have to go home," I pleaded, "my feet are killing me."

"Oh, poor baby," she grinned wickedly, "do you want to just give up now, or at least wait until we get to the car. I’ll help you take off your wig."

"No!" I whispered back. "I don’t want people to know I’m not a girl. I just want to rest my feet."

The gloating triumph was back in her smile, "High heels aren’t worth it, huh?"

"They aren’t that bad, but it takes a little getting used to.

With practice, I’ll be fine, just not all in one night."

"Too bad. I’m going out for the evening. You can come along or make your own way home," she giggled, knowing I wasn’t ready for a solo trip.

"Oh, all right. Have it your way. I can handle it."

"Good, follow me," she ordered, and headed for the exit. I had to hurry a bit to catch up and that make me put even more wiggle in my walk than normal (what was normal, anyway?). I know a heard a low whistle, and maybe a deep sigh as I left, but I wasn’t about to turn around to see who had done what. We escaped into the parking lot and made our way to the car, where I repeated the careful attempt to preserve what little modesty the short skirt allowed.

The next stop on Julie’s agenda for the evening was Feathers, a nightclub that we had heard about.

"We can’t go in there," I gasped.

"Sure we can. I’ve wanted to check it out since it opened," she said blandly.

"But it’s a singles bar," I protested.

"So what? We’re single, at least for tonight," she grinned.

By this time she had parked the car and swung her own shining legs out. She stood up and walked to the front of the car to wait for me, that irritating challenge back in her smile. It worked, as usual, and my own determination overwhelmed whatever good sense I might have possessed, not much it seemed, and I struggled out of my own door. I still couldn’t stand up in those high heels from that low seat without showing everything I owned. At least it seemed that way.

As we were walking toward the door, yet another problem occurred to me and I grabbed her arm, "Wait! I don’t have any ID. They won’t let me in. They check ID even for people more obviously over 21 than I look."

"Oh, don’t worry about that. We’ll get in."

"How," I demanded.

"Look, I’ve known you for a little over two years and we’re both 24. What does that tell you?"

"Huh? Nothing. What’s that got to do with anything?" I answered with my own question.

"Don’t ever say, ‘huh’, dear. It’s not ladylike. A lady says, ‘excuse me’ or ‘I’m so sorry, but I don’t seem to be able understand what you mean’. It means you didn’t even meet me till I was over 21. You’ve never seen me get into a bar while I was underage. You can do it, too."

"Right," I snorted. "What works for a beautiful woman won’t work for me."

"Why not?" she asked. "You’re a beautiful woman."

It’s amazing how much you can get used to. There I was standing near the entrance to the nightclub dressed in a short skirt and towering heels, with a corset squeezing my middle and long golden hair tickling my face in the gentle breeze, and I had forgotten all of that. It seemed quite natural to be dressed like that. On the other hand, while I recognized the problem with ID, deep down inside I still didn’t consider myself a woman. When Julie called my appearance back to the front of my mind, my cheeks flamed in embarrassment and I quickly looked around to see if anyone was about to call the cops on me, or something. No one was paying particular attention, though we were getting scoped out by most of the men and some of the women who where making their way to the same bar.

"Just flirt with the bouncer at the door a little while you hold your ID out. Twirl those gorgeous nails in your hair, drop your head a little then look up at him through your lashes with your head turned slightly to the side. Smile. Improvise a little, use your imagination. Do whatever you need to do to keep his attention on you and not on your ID. It’ll work. Trust me," she urged.

"I couldn’t do all that," I gulped.

"Then you’ll get bounced and I’ll have a good time by myself. Your choice," she said with a dismissive toss of her own lustrous hair.

Without another word or any possibility for further argument, Julie headed toward the door. Once again I was forced to hurry to follow her, putting that extra wiggle back into the orbit of my hips. When she got to the entrance, she blandly extended her ID and passed through effortlessly. Of course, her ID was real and there wasn’t any reason for her not to be passed. Mine said I was a man, but I sure didn’t look like one.

When I got near the door, I fumbled in my purse for my own ID. I finally got it out and held it before the bouncer with my scarlet wands carefully draped over my picture. My other hand was clutching at a lock of hair and I nervously waited for him to check out the person in front of me in line. The bouncer was a good looking dude, with dark, curly hair balanced by a mass of even darker hair curling up from the open collar of his shirt. I realized my nervousness would absolutely be my undoing, so I forced myself to relax (or at least pretend to relax) and started a slow twirling of the hand that held my hair, letting the ruby highlights of my nails flash in the lights of the entrance. I thought back on the things that had flustered me when I was on the receiving end of a girl’s flirtation, and the memories brought a smile to the lips Julie’s magic had made so full and red. Those private amusements started a matching smile lurking behind my lashes as I looked down again to see if I had my ID properly placed. Glancing up at the bouncer, I saw his eyes on my hand and hair and then looking into my eyes. For some reason, I found myself caught up in this flirtation thing, enjoying the power it gave me, a power that just didn’t happen the other way around. His eyes flickered back to my twirling fingers and I felt my own eyes drawn to follow his gaze.

All of the sudden I saw a tiny spot of salad dressing on one of my fingernails. Without thinking I popped it up to my mouth and licked it off, freezing when I realized the bouncer was watching me. A crazy urge captured my out-of-control mind and I decided to see just how much power I had as a flirtatious woman. I slowly completely licking along my nail, my middle finger as it turned out, all the while letting my eyes smolder at the handsome bouncer. His eyes bulged out at the gesture and I could see a flush start down from his hairline. I reached out with the long, nails of that hand, wiggling them to keep his attention captured, and lightly plucked at the curly hair peeking from his collar.

"I understand that lots of chest hair is a sign of lots of testosterone production. Do you suppose that’s true?" I mused in my soft, breathy voice.

"I’ll be glad to show you," he grinned, then captured my wandering hand. He brought my fingers to his lips in a genteel kiss, provoking a most amazing shiver to run up my arm. Before I knew what was happening, he had captured the nail of my middle finger, the one I had just licked, into his own mouth. I felt his tongue flick the very tip of my finger, hidden under the nail, lightly but very rapidly. It was clear that he was offering to use that talented tongue to flick another place on my body, or one he thought I possessed. Now it was my turn to gasp, and to blush. I pulled back at my hand, but for just a second he held is as easily as if it had been set in concrete to show his power, before casually letting me go. I dropped my eyes, then returned my gaze to see if he was looking at me. He was, but he was also motioning me to move on into the bar with his grinning eyes.

I found my feet carrying me along, though I was still too dazed by the sensations that had come flooding through me to manage more than the most basic of motor skills. A bit of awareness returned as my wandering hand was again captured, this time by Julie.

"You’re wicked!" she hissed, but her grin threatened to split her face. "I told you to flirt with him, not fling yourself at him."

"Um . . uh . . I just did what you said," I protested.

"Oh, be still. You’re not even convincing yourself, let alone me," she giggled.

"Okay," she continued, "here’s the plan. We’re going to separate for a while, to check out the single men, before we join up."

"I obviously don’t have to tell you anything about flirting," she giggled as she ostentatiously straightened out the golden locket that surrounded the antique collar of my blouse. "Just remember, a lady never gives a blowjob on the first date, and use the right bathroom when you have to go."

"Blowjob?" I hissed, "I’m not going to do anything like that!"

"After that show with the bouncer, I’m not too sure just what you’ll do. Besides, haven’t you nagged me about that as well?"

"No!," I denied, "at least, not lately, not since you . . um

. ."

"Well, I still haven’t sucked your cock till you came, so I obviously haven’t swallowed your cream. You asked about those, too. If you want me to put out, you have to put out. Think about it."

"I couldn’t," I gasped.

"Then I won’t ever hear anything about it again, right?"

I bowed my head in defeat, but some things are just too much. Nodding unhappily I looked up to see her already disappearing into the crowd, leaving me standing there open-mouthed and alone. I hadn’t intended to go anywhere near the bathroom that night, either, but the power of her suggestion started working on me immediately and I felt the first twinge of need.

I started to go after her before she disappeared completely, but found myself stopped by a wall that had magically appeared directly in front of me, a wall of living muscle, neatly dressed in a stylish shirt and a butter-soft tan leather jacket.

"Pardon me, but you look like you could use a drink," a subterranean voice rumbled from somewhere in that massive wall.

Looking up . . and up, I found myself face to face with the biggest man I had ever seen. At my normal 5’9" I am only average in height at best. With my skyscraper heels, though, I was over 6 feet tall and had gotten used to being a little taller than most of those around me, at least I was over average height for once. However, next to the mountain that blocked my path I was short again. Then I recognized the mountain in front of me. I may not be very athletic myself, but I watch the games on TV and my blond roadblock was Steve Gage, pro linebacker for the Montana Thunders and MVP at the latest Super Bowl. I felt like some latter-day Dr. Strangelove as I watched the crimson spears on my rogue hand reach out without my conscious command, out and up that is, to lightly touch the shoulder that blocked out about half my field of view.

"Goodness," I said softly as I let my nails tap on his muscles, "I always thought your shoulders were so big because of the pads. Now I’m not sure you wear any pads at all. Is that all you?"

"Yes, though I do wear pads on the field" he said with pride.

"Now, how about that drink?"

He didn’t really wait for an answer, but took my elbow with surprising gentleness and steered me toward a booth. A couple of other Thunder players were there already, some accompanied by spectacularly pretty girls. It came to me suddenly that Steve Gage must consider me in their class if he was willing to bring me over to meet them. Introductions were limited to first names so when they got to me I just said, "Joy" and then looked up at my massive escort for guidance.

"Sit down. You guys slide over a little. Make room."

Remembering Julie’s instructions I smoothed my skirt and slid into the booth, trying hard not to show too much leg. I started out okay, but as I slid over, my skirt started to rise up more and more and by the time I was in position the top of my stockings was showing, along with a bit of creamy thigh. The corset also made me sit much more formally than the lounging lions around me, or their fawning attendants.

"Relay, Joy, we don’t bite, except on game days," another of the players, John Taggert, a defensive back, promised.

"Sorry, it’s just that you guys are so . . tremendous," I smiled.

"Get her a drink, Steve," Billy Swift, a wide receiver, ordered, "or I will."

Steve stood up and waved at a scantily-clad waitress. While she was on the way over he asked for my drink choice. Just in time I remembered that ladies don’t guzzle beer and asked for an innocuous white zinfandel instead. The waitress nodded, took refill orders from the rest of the crowd, and vanished back into the dim nightclub.

"So, beautiful, where have you been keeping yourself?" Steve asked me.

"Isn’t that supposed to be your opening line?" I giggled. "Not that offering a drink is a bad opening. However, it was your imitation of a wall that really got my attention. Just how tall are you?"

"Only 6’6"," he claimed with false modesty. "Old Studdly Wellhung over there (pointing at a defensive linemen at another table) is 6’10" and we’ve got a rookie that’s over 7 feet."

At the obvious reference to the lineman’s masculine equipment I had blushed and ducked my head, for an instant reminded of my own hidden secret. I realized as I lowered my gaze in embarrassment that I had been so absorbed by the role I was playing that I had forgotten I was not a real girl, or at least, forgotten that I was not interested in men.

"Dammit, Steve," said one of the other girls as she slapped him on the shoulder, then winced as her hand hurt, "Joy is obviously a lady. Don’t be so crude."

This embarrassed me even more as the lie I was living moved another girl to come to the defense of my supposedly delicate sensibilities. I was getting in deeper and deeper, drowning in the rapidly-expanding flood of implications from my masquerade.

"Perhaps I should just go," I offered quietly, still staring at my hands.

"Please don’t," Steve said gently. "It was my fault. I should have treated you with greater respect. I’m truly sorry. Will you forgive me?"

I looked up to see if he was teasing me, but I saw real remorse in his eyes. He was either even a better actor than a football player, or he truly regretted his coarse comment. I brushed back the golden hair from my face in a gesture that was fast becoming an instinctive reflex, then nodded and gave him a shy smile.

"I’m sorry, I’m just a bit new to the city. You men are so . . huge . . that I’m feeling a bit out of my depth."

"Huge is right," Swift, a black man, said with a leering grin. His reward for his comment was a slap to his own hard shoulder by the girl seated nearest to him. Perhaps more importantly, it got a serious sort of growl, wordless but nonetheless very explicit, from Steve. Swift immediately showed his own embarrassment and turned away to speak to the girl on the other side of him.

"Perhaps we should go," Steve offered, still looking angrily at Swift. "It seems my friends can’t tell the difference between a lady and the animals they play with."

I found my voice responding in a surprisingly subservient tone, "Whatever you say."

He smiled as this comment placed at least my immediate future in his hands, and slid from the booth. Holding a hand out to me, he pulled me easily from the booth, seemingly oblivious to my skirt riding even higher, though I thought I could detect a small quirk of a grin for just an instant. As we turned away from the booth the waitress finally arrived with our drinks and Steve snared my wine and his beer from the tray.

"We’ll let Billy pay for them," he whispered to me with a conspiratorial grin, then once again deftly steered me through the crowd with a gentle touch on my elbow. The nightclub consisted of a lot of small rooms surrounding a dance floor. Many of the small rooms or high-wall booths held only a few or even one table. The design of the rooms varied so that some were quiet, the dance music only a murmur, while others were exposed to the full fury of the pounding rhythm. As we moved away from Steve’s friends, who had been sitting at a sort of intermediate volume level, we passed first through an explosion of sound that threatened our eardrums with immediate destruction, then down a passageway to surprising tranquil corner. In it was a single table, shielded from view as much as from the noise.

"Goodness, imagine finding this table unoccupied on such a busy night," I said in wonder.

"No surprise, I had it reserved and pay the bouncers to keep it clear. I like the guys on the team, but I’m not really a party person. Every now and then I need a chance to get away and hide," he claimed.

"You play in front of 100,000 screaming fans, and who knows how many more on TV, and you tell me you like to hide?" I said in disbelief.

"That’s different. On game day I’m . . . different . . I guess you could say. I get pretty focused, pretty intense. Off the field, though, I’m just like other guys."

I giggled at him, but smiled with new respect, "Yeah, other guys who can do a convincing imitation of a wall."

"That’s the second time you’ve mentioned that. What do you mean?"

"Well, when I bumped into you, I was trying to follow my . . sister who was disappearing into the crowd. You’re so big I couldn’t see over you, couldn’t get around you, and couldn’t move you. That sounds like a pretty good description of a wall to me."

"Oh," grinned my massive escort without a single shred of guilt. "Where is she now?"

"I don’t know. She said she was going to circulate a little, then get back to me."

"Well, let’s ask her to join us," he offered, pushing on an unobtrusive button set in the table, obviously still trying to put me at ease after his crude remark. Right, like that was the problem. If he found out what had really embarrassed me, I’d be a grease spot under the table. My problem was that part of me was feeling so guilty I wanted to be turned into a grease spot, while part of me was thrilled by the attention he was paying to me. At this rate I’d not only have two external appearances, but I’d develop a split personality and have two people inside me as well.

Almost immediately one of the waitresses showed up. That button not only requested service, it got it quickly, at least when Steve Gage pushed on it. He explained to the girl about my sister, letting me fill in a description, and asked her to find Julie and bring her to our table. There must have been a couple of hundred people in the place, and the design was deliberately set up for hidden places so it couldn’t have been easy to find her, but Steve and I had only started to talk again when Julie appeared, escorted by our waitress.

"Thank you," I smiled at the girl. "That was quick."

"She was looking for you. I just went to the place where you can best see around and found her scanning the crowd. It usually works when people get separated."

Julie hadn’t said anything, only staring at my companion, huge even while sitting.

"Julie, this is Steve Gage. He got in my way when I tried to follow you earlier, so he offered to buy me a drink and find you," I explained.

"THE Steve Gage?" she asked in awe. She’s not as much of a football fan as I am, but she was certainly aware of who won the Super Bowl MVP.

"At your service," he said gallantly, standing as she sat.

Julie had brought a drink with her, so the waitress left and we started to talk.

Steve politely drew my "sister" into the conversation, "So, Julie, Joy tells me this is her first day in town, and that she’s your sister. Are all the girls from your neck of the woods so beautiful? I may find a new home for the off-season."

With a wickedly amused grin directed at me, Julie said, "I guess there’s a lot of girls like me, but I think I can safely say that there’s not another girl like Joy in our whole family, or in our whole home town."

I tried to seem unconcerned, but somewhere in her tone or expression there was an implied threat to reveal my secret and once again I ducked my head in embarrassment, sending waves of honey flowing past my face. This time it was Steve’s giant hand the softly brushed the strands away from my burning cheeks.

"Don’t be embarrassed, Joy. I agree with your sister. You are a unique beauty."

Julie strangled a giggle while his eyes were on me, but I saw it and it finally moved me past embarrassment to irritation at her teasing me for a situation she had done a lot to get me into. I glared at her quickly before looking back at Steve.

"Thank you, sir. You’re a gentleman, even if not everyone in this booth is a lady."

Julie burst out laughing at the meaning buried within my comment, and in a moment I had to join her as I realized just how true my statement had been. Once again I had forgotten who, or what, I really was. Maybe I didn’t even know. Steve looked at us in confusion, not understanding why something that sounded like an elegant insult provoked both of us to laughter.

Julie caught the confusion in his expression and choked out an explanation that set us both to laughing again, "Never mind, Steve, it’s a girl thing. You just wouldn’t understand."

Now he began to look a little embarrassed as he seemed to be interfering in something that only the two of us shared. I tried to reassure him by getting him back into the conversation.

"What are you and the team doing in our little town? Obviously we’re all proud to have you, but it is a little out of the way."

"Not really," he disagreed. "Several of us have homes in the bay area. There were people here before Silicon Valley ever got started. It’s a beautiful place to live. What do you two do?"

"Joy is a computer . . uh . . programmer, and I’m a real estate agent," offered Julie.

"However do you work on computers with those nails?" he asked.

"I don’t know, yet," I admitted. "I just got them put on today. I still have to learn to work with them."

"Well, good luck," he offered. "I’d hate to think you couldn’t keep them. They really look . . um . . nice."

I smiled again at him, looking from my hands that were the center of attention up to his rugged face. Those long lashes got in my way, again, and I seemed to peer at him with deliberate enticement. I could see his eyes widen a little as he thought I was coming on to him and I knew we needed to get out of there before things got even more confused. Julie caught a hint of my concern and, for once, offered to help out a little rather than make it worse.

"Joy, I need to go to the powder room. Would you like to come along?"

Not really, I thought, though the twinge of need her first suggestion had triggered had been building in me ever since. Still, it would get me away from a situation that was rapidly heading into dangerous territory. I nodded and stood up, provoking Steve to stand up in a gentlemanly reflex, one that even Jay had seldom bothered with. Julie led me from the booth and toward the facilities.

"Where did you find him?" she whispered.

"He sort of found me," I realized, "when I tried to follow you, he intercepted me."

"I told you that you were going to ace the course, but Steve Gage, the most eligible bachelor in America. You’re incredible."

"It’s all your doing. You chose the clothes and the makeup and the wig. All I’m doing is trying to be polite and stay out of trouble."

"Right," she scoffed. "I saw those looks you were giving him. You think he’s a hunk, and you’re right. And you’re a babe. I may have put a little polish on the surface, but you’re acting very sweet and ladylike. Plus, you have a gorgeous face. I told you you’d pass with just a little lipstick and you’re a long ways beyond that. You’re truly pretty. I wonder why I never noticed before."

"So," she continued, "are you having a good time?"

I admitted, "Yes, this is all so strange, but it’s more exciting than I could imagine. I don’t want it to end, but I really don’t want it to end badly. What am I going to say to Steve?"

By this time we had reached the powder room and I followed Julie in without thinking. All of the sudden I realized where I was and looked desperately around for a place to hide. Julie caught my arm and steered me to a stall in a parody of the way Steve had earlier guided me, but with a great deal more force.

"Take care of business," she hissed in my ear, "and meet me back out here so we can touch up your makeup."

The prim, demure manner forced on me by the corset became an almost overpowering obstruction when I tried to get my underwear down. I couldn’t see whether I had my skirt up all around nor whether my thong was adequately clear. I didn’t dare try to relieve myself standing up, not just because my feet would be pointing the wrong way in the stall, but because I couldn’t see over the bust formed by the corset to guide the stream. I sat down instead, finally getting a little blessed relief from the pressure that had built up. At least Julie had made me put the thong on over my garters and wear stockings instead of pantyhose. That kept the tangle to a minimum, especially when I tried to get myself back together. Those long nails didn’t help anything but I finally had my secret hidden back away and my skirt draped down the little distance it covered my legs. I went out toward the mirrors to find Julie finishing her own touchup. She motioned for me to hand her my purse and then