One Day Sunday by debee part 4

And we did. Ninety minutes and four boutiques later had a hot little faux leather number, black, just at the knee. Its slightly stretchy fabric hugged my curves nicely, and to my surprise (and with Katherine giving me another vigorous cinching), I was down to a 23! We also picked out a more practical mid-thigh navy a-line, and two satin blouses, one black, the other cream.

Katherine new most of the shops and the help and chose stores that she thought would be open to my adventure. While some saleswomen weren’t thrilled about helping us, most were enthusiastic and cheerful. It was wonderful to have them fuss over me, offer tips and suggestions, and pretend to be jealous of my figure and legs.

During my blouse and skirt shopping, I’d given my clitty a rest and it was now back in its proper place. I asked Katherine if I was to wear a skirt out or my jeans, that I was to silly to decide on my own.

“Of course you are, Hun. Better get back into your long jeans and boots. I noticed your stockings are sagging. We better find you something to hold them up. And guess what we’re right next door to!”

I soon was pulled by the hand into a well known lingerie franchise. The femininity of the environment was intoxicating. All the help looked like the models in their own catalogue.

Katherine soon picked two styles of panty/garter sets with matching bras. One, a simple black satin, the other a more lacey light pink. “The garter is easy. Small. Your bra size is trickier. Here, start with this 34 AA padded, and we’ll go from there. In you go,” and she guided me to the changing room.

“I’m sorry. We can’t let you use our changing rooms,” a tall blonde intervened.

Oh. And why not?” Katherine politely asked.

“Just store policy. Cross dressers in the changing rooms sometimes make the other customers… uncomfortable.” She spoke in low tones in an attempt to keep our conversation somewhat private.

Katherine had now such thoughts. “Your dressing rooms are gender neutral. There’s no other place to change. How do we get the right fit?” she demanded in a firm tone.

Before the woman could answer, I heard a familiar voice chirp in, “What’s so ‘uncomfortable’? I don’t mind if he uses a room.” It was my wife. I didn’t know how long she’d been in the store.

“There,” Katherine said to the blonde, “you see? She doesn’t mind. How about you, miss?” she asked the nearest customer.

“Hey, help yourself,” the mid 30’s soccer mom said. These last few exchanges were rather loud. There were three other shoppers and another saleswoman in the place.

Katherine addressed the room, “anyone else mind?”

Two of the customers gave affirmative replies, the other merely shrugged. The two clerks also shrugged to each other. The blonde spoke apologetically, “Look, it’s no big deal and I don’t care, really, so ok, this once. But keep it under your hat, ok? We really don’t want to become a drag haven…”

And I was in. As I tried on different sized bras, I marveled at my two “girlfriend’s” deftness. They used the situation to accomplish: a) making a valid political point about discrimination, b) allowing me to get in and try on sexy lingerie, and c) made me a focal point for all the customers. Not only were they all aware of what I was doing, but they all were kind of “invested” in my activity. Indeed, none left as I occasionally opened the door to let Katherine check the fitting on a particular size. Most gazed openly at us.

My wife kept up a chatter with Katherine, still pretending to be a stranger. “Wow, so well trained! That’s so wonderful. Does he cook and clean? Iron? Hand wash your dainties? Is he a live in? Oh, you ‘borrowed’ him? From who? How cool is that! Do you get to do anything you want with him? Anything?? (giggle) Hey! Can I borrow him when you’re done? Will his… ‘owner’, is that the right word? ‘Owner’ mind?”

This, and other such chat went on while I was in and out of my bras. Katherine selected the pink set and paid for it while I waited in the cubicle. She soon returned with the garter set and handed it over the door. Panties first then your stockings and belt and bra, then your cincher. Cream blouse, black skirt, boots. Hand me the rest, here’s your purse back. See you in a few, Hun.”

I stepped out a few minutes later. The same women were still there, “browsing.” I felt their stares but didn’t return them. Katherine motioned me over saying “well done, Hun, well done! You look so pretty! Now I have agreed to let this woman borrow you and use you as she sees fit, just as I have done. I will tell your owner. But stay with me for a few minutes. I have another task for you.”

These words were voiced as the three of us left the store, all eyes and ears on us. We walked quickly around a corner and collapsed on a sitting bench. “God what a RUSH!” Katherine said. “What a hoot. God this has been fun!”

I know!” my wife said. “Katherine, you’re fantastic. So nice of you to help us play dress-up”

I could play with you two all day,” she sighed. “But, the work thing. Gotta get back. But anytime you want a third… here’s my card… and my cell.’ Katherine jotted it on the card. My wife took another card and wrote our number it and gave it back to her. Hugs, kisses and a quick good-bye.

We sat down again happily. I looked down at myself, my leather skirt and spike heeled boots, felt the garter pull at my stockings, and a fresh wave of horniness came over me. “Stop admiring yourself,” said my wife, guessing my thoughts. “Tell me, how’d you know to sit down that way?”

“What way?”

“This is the first time we’ve sat since you put that sexy skirt on. As you sat down, you smoothed the skirt under your butt. Your knees are together, your ankles turned nicely to the side… I mean it’s lovely, ladylike… deportment. I don’t even sit that way…. There’s a lot of girly in you, Hun.” She gave me a long kiss. “I wonder why I like it? And you do too,” she kissed me again, “don’t you Hun?” kissing, whispering in my ear, “don’t you, my little, horny bitch.” Her hand was on my thigh, fingering the garter snaps through the fabric.

Like before, she abruptly stopped and sat up straight. She looked dreamily around and sighed. “Remember how we both hated malls? Now I see this place as Wonderland. A beautiful Wonderland. And, you, my dear Alice, you and I have stepped through Looking Glass. We can have anything we desire here. All dreams can be fulfilled.” Giggle.

Before I could reply, she kissed me again. As she nuzzled and kissed, she whispered into my ear, “For example, our dear Katherine highly recommends that salon around the corner. And just behind you, she says that nail place is where she goes for her manicure and that the pedicures are delicious. And several of the jewelry stores here will pierce your ears for free with a purchase of good earrings. Too bad that tan and spa place is closed today. They do waxing. We’ll do that another day… but hair, nails and ears are a must.” She put a hand on my theigh and looked into my eyes, “You couldn’t say ‘no’ to me even if you wanted to, and you definitely don’t want to, do you, you little cunt?” I start to squirm my clit against the bench.

“I’ll let you decide which to do first.” She pondered. “Now, shall I go in with you, speak to the girls myself? We would decide what to do with you, making it clear that you’re opinion isn’t relevant, like you’re my property. That’s been really fun, hasn’t it? Or, do I come in later and watch you? Make you do it alone? Watch you ask to be prettied up, while I snicker and giggle with other customers… Hmmm? What do you like best? Both must be so humiliating!”

As it turned out, she did some of both. My wife and the hair stylist decided that a “Jamie Lee Curtis look” would work for me. They seemed more concerned with my eyebrows than anything else, and spent a good deal of time plucking and shaping them. My cut was short, simple, but clearly feminine.

My “look” apparently called for some large rhinestone earrings, so my ears were pierced next, and they chose a pair of silvery squares.

After that, it was to the nail place. My wife played a “stranger” again and giggled and teased with other women as I had my fingernails and toenails done. The pedicure was, as Katherine said, delicious. I chose an opalescent, pale pink for the fingernails, and a deep red for the toes. Rolling my stockings down was also fun, and I needed to use the “ladies room” to reattach them to my garters.

The experiences and feelings I had as I became more and more feminine is impossible to describe. Between each stop my wife necked with me and tried to feel up my skirt, which was always met with a slap of my hand.

It was getting to be closing time for most of the shops. While there was time, my wife headed us to one of the larger department stores. She pointed to the make-up counter and told me to enquire to the girl about a quality brand of lipstick. And to ask about the easiest way to apply eyeliner. And with eye shadow, is it darker colors that should go closest to the eye?

In fifteen minutes I had my lips and eyes done expertly by the saleswoman, and a ruby red lipstick, mascara and liner, eye shadow, and a little blush in my purse.

In fifteen more minutes, we were in the lounge of the same restaurant that we had had lunch. My wife ordered me a Manhattan, allowing me only one, “since you’re driving,” she ordered. She was on her second scotch when she started to get really, really horny, and somewhat verbally abusive. I needed “my brains fucked out. Really, totally fucked out,” whether I “wanted it or not, ‘cause any bitch cunt that dresses like that… not only wants it, she’s asking for it. Ain’t that right? You want it?” More kissing and nuzzling. More of her hand creeping up my skirt, fingers sliding into the top of my stocking. I squirmed in my seat. Again.

“This has been a very fun day.” I said hoarsely. “I’ve never seen you so excited. Or aroused. And I think I feel the same. Tell me,” I stared into her eyes, “do you like me… better… this way…?”

It was a serious question and I thought it warranted a thoughtful answer. But she quickly waved it off. “Nah,” she dismissed. “If I was a lesbian and wanted a girl, I’d have got me one of those. I married a guy that’s what I want,” and she sat up and drained her drink. I felt confused and disappointed with her answer. What was I expecting? I retrieved a mirror and my lipstick from my bag and gave myself a fresh coat.

“But,” she said when I’d finished, and kissed me so hard she smeared my lipstick again, “I would love having a go at being bisexual…with you. Let’s go home and have a fresh look at our toys. We may see them in a whole different light.”

“Let me powder my nose.”

Epilogue

I left work two hours early and I still had to scurry. It was our One Year anniversary and I wanted to be completely changed and ready when my wife came home. It wasn’t our “girl week” yet, but this was a special occasion.

We’d eventually settled on a “one week on, four weeks off” schedule. We agreed to stick to it regardless of our ‘moods’. Discipline in such matters being an important element. A week was enough for plenty of playtime. Dressing games, undressing games, shopping games, public games, in the bedroom games. A week of sating our desires.

Four weeks off kept things fresh, with time to whet our appetite, time to plan, share new ideas, dream up a new variation on the theme.

And there were so many lovely variations. Male lesbian, domestic maid (the house was never cleaner), role reversal, rape play (I recalled with a thrill the time my wife slapped me around, because I ”looked and acted like a slut all day long,” which was quite true. She tore my clothes the then and forcefully and painfully entered me with her strap-on), various forms of bdsm, femdom…

As I heard the front door open I timed my peek in the oven so that I would be bent over when she came in the kitchen. I was rewarded with a hardy slap on the ass. “Welcome home dear,” I said turning. “I’ve started on some wine, can I get you one?”

She walked to the ‘fridge and took out a can of beer and cracked it open. She held it up in toast and I clanked my stem glass against the aluminum rim. “To the wife beaters,” she said.

“And the sluts that deserve it,” I returned. We smiled at our familiar toast and drank. “Funny, I was just thinking of the first time we invented that toast.”

“You’ve changed already. Gawd, how can you stand those confining clothes?”

“…price of fashion.”

“Well, I can’t wait to get out of these.” She took her beer and headed for the bedroom and I followed behind with my wine. “And it’s not yet our ‘on’ week, is it?”

I watched her change into a t-shirt, gray sweat pants, white gym socks. “Well I thought… that the occasion called for… a bit of … festivity.“ My wife stood looking blank. “Do you recognize my outfit?” I had since acquired much to fill my wardrobe. I hadn’t, until now, repeated the exact same combination as I wore home from the mall that evening.

“Looks like what you wore that first…” I watched the dawn break. “Has it been a year?” I turned my back and folded my arms in a pout. I normally pretended to be womanish and petulant for fun, but my feelings were really hurt.

“A year,” my wife repeated, “well in that case… there’s something on your vanity for you.” She cracked a grin. I spied a small gift wrapped in newspaper and string.

“You knew all along, you prick,” I laughed. “Oh, what is it?” I tore at the paper.

“Don’t break it in your lust for booty. I think you’re greedier when you wear a skirt. I wonder why that is…?”

“You darling. Oh, I love her! Whoever she is,” and I kissed the glass on the frame, leaving a lovely red kiss mark.” Under the glass was the girl in the ad from the magazine a year ago. My wife had found it and framed it. Jotted at the bottom was “ The Girl that Started it All xxox”

“That’s so nice. You’re a darling. But really,” I said looking at the picture, “don’t you think that top’s cute? Eeek!”

My wife threw me on the bed and climbed on top. “I want to fuck!” and she smeared my lipstick with hard kisses. She liked doing that. “Come here my little shemale. The ‘she’ is sexy to kiss, but right now I need the ‘male,’ down here. Let’s free it up”

I exhaled and made my body limp in mock exhaustion. “I can’t. The tie’s under my corset and I’m not getting all undone. I want to stay nice for dinner.” I made weak fists and pounded on her chest.

“Fuck the dinner. I want an appetizer right now!” and she started to unbutton my blouse.

“Don’t pop the button, you clumsy. Let me.” I sighed. “ If you must, you must. But I’m not getting all undone. Take those sweat pants off.” I removed my blouse and unzipped my skirt and let fall to the floor. I walked casually to the dresser where we had out special drawer of things and pulled out her strap-on.

“Hey, that’s mine.”

“I know. You always get to wear this. My turn.” I strapped the holder around my waist and the thick black dildo hung in the place where my own manhood should have been.

“That’s hot. That’s a good look for you, Hun.” She was right, I thought as I gazed in my vanity mirror. Black spike heel boots and stockings, pink panties, black ‘cock,’ pink garters, black corset, pink bra, all in an hourglass package. She reached over and grabbed my “cock” and pulled me to her. “Yum,” she said. I crawled on the bed and flipped to my back.

“Mount me, please.”

“With pleasure.” As she started to roll on top, she hesitated. “But what about you? This is so selfish.”

“We both like a good fast fuck sometimes. I just like pleasing you. Use me, I’ll enjoy that.” I held my big black ‘cock’ steady while she slowly settled on it. She gasped as she pushed in the last two inches and my body took her weight. My wife looked down at me lovingly, smiled and closed her eyes. She slowly began to gyrate. I studied her intense expression as I counter pointed her movements with my pelvis.

You know we’re “on” next week?” I said, almost conversationally.

“Um hum” was the dreamy reply.

“I was thinking ‘school girl.’ A plaid mini, white blouse, Mary Janes. all easy stuff to get. Except the stockings… When did you last see opaque white stockings?”

“Humph.” She picked up the tempo a bit.

“Of course there’s always knee highs. Or tights,” I said.

She opened her eyes to say, “Boring.”

“Well in a perfect world, I’d wear…”

“This is a perfect world,” and she bent down and kissed me tenderly. She closed her eyes again and settled back into her motion. “Amy Catlin was a cheerleader in my class.”

My ‘school girl’ idea apparently triggered a memory. “What a bitch.” She continued, ”they all were, really. The cheerleaders. Big clique. All bitches. Snots.” The eyes remained closed, the motion steady.

“I never dated one,” I said. “Always wanted to.”

“You didn’t want a cheerleader. You wanted to be a cheerleader.” She giggled and continued her rhythm. When I moaned, she reached behind and down to rub my clit, but the position was awkward and she broke her stride. “Here, let me.” I slid my hand under my ass and took over the massaging. She smiled, relieved, and resumed her rhythm.

“So true,” I admitted. “But you are right. Snots and bitches all. But cute outfits. Bare legs though. I better get another wax.” I united our trains of thought. “The cunts, with their wool pleated mini skirts. Wouldn’t you love to teach one a lesson? Hold that cunt down and give it to her? Give it to her hard like she deserves?” The motion picked up tempo. ”You know how she wears that shit. Twirls around just to show her panty ass to the crowd… rip those fuckers off and teach that snotty cunt a lesson… sneakers… tight sweaters… hair spray… flavored lip gloss… bare legs… fucking endless boyfriends…”

She was really was starting to thrust.

Another variation, I thought to myself.

“Fucking pompoms,” my wife said and pumped faster.