That blonde woman back there in the Florida room? Reading her magazines, watching the sun set behind the Catalpa branches in the back garden? Why Loretta, you don't recognize him? Really? No, of course not, it's been a while, we've all changed I suppose. And you've never heard the whole story anyhow. That's Jim! Jim, my husband, that's right! That's where he loves to sit evenings, these days, when his household work is done. It's peaceful, and he's been feeling a little down since his favorite boy friend got transferred to another city. Doesn't he look lovely, with the warm late-afternoon sunlight on his face? Yes, he always dresses like that! Well, no he didn't always, but for the last year or so, certainly, that blouse is one I bought him back when he first realized he'd just better accept the way things are. I guess it has been a while! Of course he's a lot thinner than when you last saw him -- he's been trying for a more attractive figure -- when he sees yours he'll be so jealous! And his hairdo is brand new -- I treated him to it just this week, to try to cheer him up. Isn't it darling? A new operator at the salon, Marsha, she's a marvel! All in all he's looking quite the lady, don't you think? And you should see him when he gets dolled up! He'll take hours, but he knows now how to make himself really beautiful. He once took a special "Beauty Tips for Girls Who Love Men" course at the Community College, and it really shows! His men friends certainly appreciate it! Why does he want to make himself look like a woman? Because that's what he is, now, Loretta. Or that's what he usually thinks he is, which is much the same thing. Why? Well, he's better off being a woman, though it took a little persuasion on my part for him to see it. Why'd I persuade him? Well, he'd gotten himself into a little trouble, with my help I'll grant you, and this was the only way he could get himself out of it, with my help I mean. He's reconciled to it now, given the alternatives. He knows he's much better off. I know I certainly am! Yes, there is a certain peacefulness about him. A kind of serenity. I love it, he's so calm all the time, even when things around here get frantic. And there's really nothing to maintaining him that way. Each morning a double dose of tranquillizers and anti-depressants along with his daily estrogen, and then he just doesn't get upset about anything. For a while it took some really heavy doses to convince him. He'd swallow enough Thorazine and other psychoactive drugs to knock down a cow. Then the next morning he'd sit dazed by his dressing table, still in his negligee, just staring down at his boobs. He'd been nearly a year on hormones by then, and they'd grown in pretty full. They even hung down a little -- he really needed his bras by then. I suppose after a night's sleep some of his medication had worn off, and he'd begun to come to himself, and he couldn't remember how those breasts had gotten there. But I'd remind him again who he really was, the woman I live with, my dearest friend since we were girls together, that's who he needs to be. Then he'd be fine, and take his pills, and he'd get dressed appropriately, and we'd go down, and that was that. There we were chatting away, two nice ladies having breakfast who live together and lead separate lives. I don't think he remembers any more that he was ever anything else. He's a real help, you won't have to do a thing with the house, he does it all! I work most days and some nights, and he takes care of everything here. And often on weekends he'll help me with my client load too back at Hospitality House, when I take on too many. Ever since he quit his earlier job. Even before then I'd taught him how to dress and behave, and how to do his make-up, the basic things. But when he went full time he needed a lot of attention, serious training, to help him decide what kind of a lady he was, and how to keep his voice gentle, and how to move, and so on. You know. Then later on, what to watch for when he's out shopping for the house, and which cookbooks to rely on. He was always grateful, I will say that. At first he relied on me for everything, how to dress properly, how to be a fun date, he had no idea how girls manage things like that. I had no choice, Loretta! After his conversion he had no social life, so I had to help him out! I certainly couldn't have him moping around here all the time. He had to get out and circulate, get to be known, if you know what I mean. And to really enjoy pleasing his dates, because a man can always tell if a girl's sincere or not. He was such an innocent! He knew nothing back then! Do you know that when he went out on a really serious date for the first time he didn't even think to douche his little rear end beforehand? I had to tell him that! What can he have had in mind? How did he think his date would feel, pushing a prick into his asshole and finding squishy stuff already there? We gaffed his cock and balls nice and flat, what was left of them after the hormones, and I told him always to plead his period and offer his ass if his man was interested. Then just lie back and spread your legs and enjoy it, I told him, or else hump the air with your rear and wait for your date to find the right place. I wasn't worried about his mouth -- he's good with that, and he loves giving blow jobs, no problem there. Once he begins he can swallow oceans of cum. He does bachelor parties for me now and then, and other affairs like that -- it helps bring in household money. When he gets back sometimes his tummy's really bloated with all the sticky stuff he's sucked and coaxed out of cock after cock. He's wonderful at it -- men watch his tongue stroke the underside of a prick and then they just can't wait for their turn. But still, some men just have to fuck a girl down under before the night's out, and this man who'd just asked him out for his first real date looked like one of those. And he was! When Jim came back the next morning there was cum oozing out of his anus and all over everything. It utterly ruined his dress, a pretty black slip-dress with a jewel neck I remember, luckily not his best brocade, the one he'd wanted to wear because it's his prettiest. He cried a little when I gave him another douche to clean him out -- it hurt him. You know why? Loretta, in all the excitement of getting him ready I'd completely forgotten that Jim's ass was virginal. Never so much as a dildo in it previously! That date of his had ruptured whatever it is that passes for a hymen in a man, there were even traces of blood. Well, I kissed my poor Jim and assured him it was going to be beautiful for him next time, and then I slipped in a tampon and showed him how to change it, and he was fine. Then when I looked the dress over, I saw there was cum all over the front of it too. Jim told me that when he felt cum spurting into his bowels he'd gotten so excited he'd just let loose and cum too, he couldn't help it. Wasn't that lovely? A wet orgasm, his first as a girl, the very first time he gets fucked! They dated for quite a while after that, those two, I remember. Jim kept his rear sweet and neat, and carried tampons to protect his dresses after making love. I'll bet he's a lot more satisfactory in his lovemaking as a woman than he ever was as a man. And a lot better satisfied himself, too, though I've never bothered to ask. Anyhow, nowadays Jim takes care of his own social life without any help at all from me, the dear. He takes his own phone calls from men who think he's attractive, and he flirts with them if he likes them, and sometimes he stays out all night. I never ask why or where, as long as he looks happy. He's his own woman. These days there's a man who's trying to teach him to play golf. Jim tells me he pretends he can't swing a club, and then he swings his tush back and forth in the man's face -- between the hormones and his diet it's really rounded out, that tush, really cute -- until the man can't wait to get off the golf course and bury himself in it. And that's the way the golf lessons always end up. He can be such a slut, sometimes, my Jim! There's no question my life is easier now that he's a woman, Loretta. I don't know why I didn't think of it years ago. Maybe the same reason I never paid any attention to all the hunky guys who were always hitting on me at work. They were all trying to tell me something about what married life could be like, but I wasn't listening. They were telling me that Jim might be a sweet dear, and mean well, and that I didn't ever need to regret marrying him, and so on, but that all that was no reason for me to deny myself. Jim was always salt of the earth, you know? Solid, dependable, predictable, you know? But when he was still a man, boring? Don't even ask! Loretta, after five years of yawning through my marriage I had to do something! It got pretty obvious even to me. The Jim I'd met and married wasn't at all what he'd turned out to be. He loved me, I never doubted it, I'm sure he still does, somewhere down under. When we were just friends, and then when we were living together he was so considerate, such a perfect gentleman. He'd follow up every hint or suggestion I ever made, what little gifts I might like, where we should eat out, what shows we should see, where we could enjoy a little weekend getaway, even how I'd like him to fuck me. It was exciting to meet a man who cared about my least whim. But after we got married and moved down here and Jim got his job with that bank, it was different. It turned out he'd gone along with all of my desires because he had practically none of his own. And once we were married, he figured that was that, and stopped paying attention to my needs altogether. Lots of men are like that. From day one he'd come home from work and read his paper, and if he had anything to say at all it was about business. Not office gossip, not dishy stuff, who's in, who's out, who's into who's pants, you know. Business talk. Exchange rates. Collateral. Takeover bids. Marry a banker and that's who you end up married to, Loretta, a banker. And at night in the dark he doesn't stop being a banker, either, if you know what I mean. You remember after I miscarried, and we had all those tests? Well, it came clear that we'd never have kids to help break the monotony. That's when a lot of other things came clear to me too. He'd petered out in bed practically on our honeymoon. His prick wasn't ever much, and he seemed to think then that oral sex is unsanitary. I suppose it is, in some ways, but so what? Anyhow, for a long while the only suspense when we were having sex was, would he somehow manage to cum, and if he did, would he somehow knock me up? That's what kept me awake until he'd finished dipping his dick in and out of me and then rolled off me and started snoring. And that was only maybe once a month on average! Well, you play the cards you're dealt. You remember a few years ago I may have told you that they'd made me a floor manager at Sportsman's Paradise? You meet a lot of sporting types there, and they're not exactly bankers. Summers they like to hit and run, and in winter they glide and slide, in and out of trouble. You know what I mean. I began to think about sampling one or two. Well, one afternoon this really gorgeous guy walked in and made his moves on me, and this time I couldn't think of a single reason why not. A half hour later I was down the road in his motel room, and down on him, and then in his bed, and he's down on me, and then he's into me! Oh, glory! Considerate? Gentle? Rough? Everything, you name it! He kissed me on my neck where I never could resist anyone, even you Loretta, you remember when we went together for a while, when we were still in college, before you met Helen and left me for her? And then he licked his way down my belly and into my pussy, up and down, up and back, in long, easy strokes! Oooooh my! And you'll never guess what came next! His lips closed on my clit and he began giving me a blow-job! Can you imagine, Loretta? Sucking on the dear little thing as if it were the world's greatest cock -- and he's got a world class cock himself, I found that out soon enough. I bet Jim doesn't know even now that I have a clit. I don't think he'll know it when I finally get him one! But this man, sucking and licking, as if it were a real penis, or maybe a third nipple down there giving him sweet milk! I can feel his lips on me even now. Ooooh, I'm shuddering! Well, I went wild, I couldn't stand it, it felt so wonderful, and I was shouting at him to fuck me, fuck me, push that glorious thing into me, now, now, and I was *crying* can you imagine, Loretta, *begging* him, me begging a man for anything? I felt so utterly marvelously out of this world! So he came up and eased himself into me, and then he built up the pace until he'd gone berserk and I'd gone just plain crazy! By then he was a pile driver, with his huge arms and thighs, and that thick cock, and I was flying and twisting and tailspinning and screaming while he was slamming my ass into the mattress. Then my whole body started clenching and unclenching! Orgasm after orgasm! O God, they went on and on and on! Never anything like that ever! Then when finally he cums it's a river! I thought he was done, Loretta, and I kissed the tip of his thing in gratitude, and I pushed a hankie into my panties to blot up some of the leaking and I got ready to go back to work. But Loretta, it wasn't over! Twice more that afternoon! Not even in college when I took on that whole pledge class have I ever been so thoroughly fucked! I began to remember again what it was like! Well, after that how could I not spent more afternoons with other guys? A few weeks later I went half-time at the store and half-time at the motel. A few weeks after that, to make up for the lost income I began to charge some of the men I took up with, those who didn't especially appeal, you know? Not much, but soon I was making more money in one afternoon than they paid Jim for all week. It was easy work, too -- blow them or fuck them or sit on their faces, whatever they wanted, and some of them had some pretty curious kinks. I'd think of variations, and then they really began to come back for more! I had more orgasms each day than in my entire married life, and not one of them faked! Well, my client list grew and I grew selective. Kept only guys I'd have fucked for free, though they never knew that! I raised my rates and rented a discreet apartment suite with separate entrances and exits, I call it Hospitality House, and hired a receptionist to answer the door and look after my billings and debits and things, and I got cards printed up, and I got a cellular phone number and a beeper. And there I was, a professional! I opened a bank account in my maiden name, at Jim's bank, no less. Loretta, it began to fill up with obscene amounts of money. I bought all kinds of sex toys and fetish gear, and I got to be very good at encouraging shy clients to confess their darkest desires to me, and then guessing at others they didn't dare mention, and then satisfying all of them. Well, the word got around, and pretty soon I was booked for weeks and months ahead, and accepting only clients who were recommended by other really wealthy clients. I quit the Sportsman's Paradise altogether, and raised my rates again, and began scheduling morning and some evening appointments, and I even started booking weekends for special parties. Jim figured that was the way things were in the sporting goods business and never thought to question any of it. He read his paper and watched television, and fell asleep after dinner on days when I told him I was going out on call and on other days when I just went without saying a word. I don't know why we stayed married. He wasn't a friend, or companionable, or helpful around the house, and I had my own considerably larger income, and I certainly didn't need him for sex! Just habit, I suppose. I can't say I felt married. I doubt he knew what he felt. What kept us together? Loretta, you won't believe this! One afternoon I was on the bidet cleaning a previous client out of my pussy and perfuming it for my next, when the receptionist poked her head in and told me we have a walk-in. She didn't know him, should she send him away, and she showed me the card he'd had in his hand. It was Jim! My Jim! The card was signed by one of my best clients, Brian, a vice-president at Jim's bank, his immediate boss in fact. Brian was a regular who liked being blindfolded and whipped, because it made him horny as a goat! His wife never had a clue about that! I met the two of them once during a theater intermission. He introduced me to her as if I were a major depositor in his bank, which I was getting to be, and she looked at me as if she already knew that he was a major depositor in my pussy, though she couldn't decide what to do about it. If she'd asked me, I'd have told her to get a whip. Anyhow, Brian and Jim somehow had got to talking about how wives are usually offended by kinky desires but professionals are happy to satisfy them, because they make for happy clients and return visits. Jim must have said something more, because here he was, carrying his boss's seal of approval. My receptionist said that this new client was so embarrassed he didn't dare look up at her. He was waiting in the parlor. Well, that's where I keep a half-a-dozen videotapes going, gay, lesbian, straight, b&d, something for everyone. And on the tables are stacks of magazines from "Hustler" through "Stud Muscles," even the "Marquis De Sade Quarterly Review." A client's tastes are pretty obvious when you see what video he looks at, and what magazines, given lots of choice. I peered into the room and there's Jim all right, looking at a video, a leather scene, a tall woman standing astride a naked man, who's kneeling between her legs and looking up and licking her cunt. And meanwhile a lingerie catalog open on his lap! My Jim? My no-cum no-go husband a secret submissive, maybe also a panty fetishist? I should have guessed! But how to keep him from recognizing me while I find out exactly what he wants? It happens that I was still made up for my previous client, wearing black eyes and a scarlet mouth, my hair pulled back severely, and laced into a tight leather bustier and jack boots. I could make him grovel while I'm dressed like this, I thought, and he'd never dare look up. But did I need to? I wear my hair loose and full and soft at home, and almost no make-up, so even if he saw me he might never put two and two together. That turned out to be true enough. But for this first time I took no chances. I picked up the very pantyhose I'd worn that morning to work -- I'd felt especially horny anticipating my first fuck of the day, and the crotch had gotten soaked. Then I summoned Jim into one of my chambers in a stern voice, and ordered him to face the window. He came in quivering, and collapsed onto his knees without even being asked! What a specimen of a man! I blindfolded him with my pantyhose, and that smeared my cunt juices all over his nose and eyelids, and he got harder than I've ever seen him at home! Add in the smell of my perfume and the feel of my leather boobs brushing on his back, and my dear hubby was near fainting with excitement. It was his first visit to someone who really knows what she's doing, I was sure of it! I stroked his stiff little dick through his pants to relax him, and I asked how I could help him. Surprise surprise! Panties! He wanted to wear women's panties! Soiled women's panties! The prettier the better! And he wanted to be ordered to wear them! And that was all he wanted! To feel himself humiliated by a little forced femininity! My modest little pervert! He almost didn't blurt it out, he felt so ashamed! Can you imagine? My Jim has this one kinky desire, the only one of his whole life, and when he finally gets up the nerve to gratify it, who does he ask to do it for him? For money? His own wife! That's Jim! Well, of course he got exactly what he wanted, and then some. When he left me that day he was wearing a pair of black lace tap pants I'd pissed up earlier for a client who was into golden showers. And he'd masturbated into them for me, and I'd told him to wear them sopping and sticky back to his office. He actually did squeak some cum into them, more than he usually managed to put into me! And when he left I'd put him into a matching black lace bra, too, for discipline's sake, and also because there was an interesting scenario forming in my head! I knew almost at once what I wanted to do with him. I'd already dealt with a few pantywaisted husbands eager to "explore their femininity" as they said, to spend their salaries getting high-priced whores to make them wear dresses. One in fact had been sent to me by a bored wife who wanted him turned into a streetwalker so he'd have something income-producing to do evenings when she was out with her various boy friends -- he lacked even that much talent, it turned out, so she had to settle for him ending up a hustler in a gay bar. Anyhow, I knew exactly where I wanted to bring Jim, and how to do it. I admit it, Loretta, I was feeling gleefully spiteful about my blighted expectations for a happy married life, the years of futility he'd inflicted on me. But I also felt some pity for him. He didn't know any better, and his needs were so puny. Such a useless man! Such a second rate husband! Well, Loretta, I decided my second rate husband might make me a first rate wife! Someone I could enjoy living with. I'd improve him! Why not? I had no use for him at all the way he was! I told him in a steely voice that he should wear his bra and panties all the rest of that day, and from now on. His wife needed to know it, so tonight he should ask her permission to sleep in them, and he should tell her he wanted to wear them all the following day. Then he had to tell her the next evening that he wanted to rinse them out and wear them again. "You can tell her your Mistress insists, and see if that gets her cooperation," I told him. "Or you can tell her you've always yearned to look pretty, that you feel more complete wearing them, that you want to wear only bras and panties from now on. Tell her whatever you like. But do it!" Then he should return and tell me what happened. He did it. It was so funny, that evening at dinner, watching him twist his shoulders to free up a binding bra strap he didn't dare reach for while I was looking. I accidentally on purpose spilled wine on his pants and then insisted that he strip them off at once so I could blot them before the stain set in. He did the weirdest contortions to keep his shirt tail below the black lace fringes of his tap pants, and when he danced upstairs to get some fresh slacks he was clutching his behind. But I could tell that the risk of exposure excited him -- he was happy. His little dick stayed stiff the whole time! What a sweetie! When we were undressing and getting ready for bed, I could see that he was beginning to tremble again. He just couldn't get the words out, yet he had to ask my permission to sleep in his undies. So he solved the problem by pretending there wasn't any. He removed his pants, then his shirt, and then he took off his shoes and socks, and then he just sat there with his black bra and sexy panties in full view. I'd decided that because his Mistress was strident and demanding, I would keep my own voice relaxed and gentle. I also knew he was terrified. I didn't want to spook him, and that gave me my strategy for his whole transformation into a woman. No matter how idiotic I might seem, I would regard each step as a dull commonplace, no big deal, hardly worth noticing. So in the most casual voice imaginable, I said "They're rather becoming, those panties. Vanity Fair, aren't they? I usually buy Olga. Do you get many washes out of them?" My attention the whole time concentrated on a chip in my fingernail polish. "Not yet," he croaked out. "I like to wear them. They make me feel complete. Do you mind?" "Why should I mind?" My tone of voice told him that even the question was of little interest to me. "It's a good brand, well made, and they're pretty. It's nice to look pretty. But the bra isn't quite right. Do you plan to grow breasts or to just let it slide around on your chest like that?" "I don't know," he replied. Well, that sounded promising! Then he remembered his specific mission. "Do you mind if I sleep in these tonight?" "Suit yourself," I replied. "I wear my bras and panties to bed sometimes during my period, when I'm a little swollen and leaky. Are you expecting a period?" "No," he replied. "I don't think so." He was more bewildered by my question than by my indifference to the bizarre spectacle he presented, a husband in ladies' lingerie. I must have sounded surreal to him, a little lunatic. Or maybe sarcastic, as if I didn't care about him. I didn't want that. I didn't want him feeling guilty and defensive. Not yet. So I added, "Well, honey, if you'd like to pretend it's your period, you'd better borrow one of my tampons for tonight, you know where they are. Slip one into you before you get into bed. Better be safe than sorry. But buy your own for after tonight, enough for four more days. At least buy yourself some sanitary napkins. It's so thoughtful that you want to know what it feels like. And oh, yes, we're almost out of toothpaste. Try to pick up a tube too, on your way home." And I put out my bedside light and turned onto my side to sleep. I knew he wouldn't dare ask for clarification, and I soon heard him struggling in the bathroom, trying to push a tampon into his rump. Then I saw him waddling back to bed. It was so funny! The next day he wore his bra and panties to his office with no comment from me. The next evening he couldn't decide how to ask me for permission to rinse them out, as his Mistress had ordered him. Several times he started to say something, then stopped. I decided to help him. "What a bother it is, doing undies by hand every evening, instead of just throwing them in the clothes washer." "Yes!" he replied eagerly. "I've had that very thought!" "Would you mind rinsing out mine tonight with yours, Jim? I'm really tired. I'm going to bed as soon as I do the dishes." "Not at all! Go right ahead. I'll do the dishes tonight too," tumbled out of him. But he knew he had to ask me, those were his orders. "You don't mind my rinsing out my underwear along with yours?" He waited. Technically he'd fulfilled his obligation. "Of course not," I replied. "You've worn those undies for two days now haven't you?" "Yes" he said. And he started upstairs to perform for the first time the womanly task he'd be doing for the rest of his life, rinsing out his undies. And he didn't know it yet, but I never touched another dish from then on either.