(Part 02 of the “Metalogue” series steps back from the end of Part 01 to provide backstory. Like “Prologue,” this series is written from the viewpoint of a man who desires to be feminized, then pegged by his wife. Chronologically it can also be read as the seventh episode of a wider arc which begins with “Prologue,” then moves through the four “Her Story” episodes. When complete, nine episodes will feature voluntary male feminization and sexual submission, and readers who have a problem with those subjects are urged to look elsewhere)
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In the end, perhaps the biggest surprise was how “random” my wife considered my request.
“Random?” As if our entire marriage hadn’t been one long stream of random events and I was the lone source of all that randomness? When I finally revealed my longtime fantasy of being feminized by her, my little farmer’s daughter had long ago forgotten that it had been her own bedroom act which set this train rolling in the first place. And in a nutshell, that was the problem since a moment she forgot to remember had become the moment I could no longer forget.
It all began in our first year of marriage during a particularly playful bedtime romp when she removed the panties she wore to bed and pulled them up my legs. The sudden feel of gliding nylon electrified me, and the moment was only enhanced when she dropped an old shapeless cotton nightgown over my head. and pulled it down over my ass.
Shoved back into a pillow, I waited in stunned silence as her slender body disappeared beneath the flimsy nightie to scurry up my legs like a spider and begin play with my cock and the rim of my ass. My submissive response to finding myself reclining passively on my back while she assumed complete control of my body was far more exciting than it sounds. Watching the thin cotton moving wildly set me on edge as unseen fingers explored an uncut foreskin and anal rim my overwhelmed imagination was now picturing as my clitty and man pussy.
The experience was transformational in my mind, and a final earth-moving blowjob sealed the deal, leaving me wanting more, more and more. Words seemed so unnecessary at that moment, and I thought repeat performances would surely occur. How could they not, I thought? How about tomorrow night? Well, maybe next week? Surely several more times before the end of the year . . .
But that year ended. And so did the next, and it just seemed inconceivable to me that she could treat something I’d found so incredible as only a throw-away moment. How could something too insignificant for her to remember open me to a flood of feminine feelings I truly found impossible to forget? Her enthusiasm had been so real I couldn’t believe the experience had been a turn-off for her. Was it something I had done or – even worse – was it something I hadn’t done? Something left unsaid?
The spontaneity I’d felt, the total randomness of it all, was its best part, but it left me confused and too uncomfortable to discuss it, even in bed. Our marriage was working out better than I has ever dreamed, but my confidence in both it and myself was sadly lacking. As time passed, I worried that dredging the subject up now might change the way she saw me. Numerous times I was only seconds from dropping well-rehearsed memories into our pillow talk. Instead I kept quiet and settled for dreams which, with each passing year, grew older and more shapeless than that cotton nightie had ever been.
Without any action on my part, that small random moment in time assumed a life of its own in my mind. In my imagination, I added and subtracted from it in attempts to keep it fresh and vivid, refining it through a series of tantalizing mental exercises which left me both thrilled and deeply embarrassed for myself, A common theme arose where I became objectified, a sex toy my wife used for her own sexual excitement. I pulled a pair of her panties from the laundry and wore them for a day only to feel absolutely nothing. Clearly it wasn’t about wearing panties just to wear panties. My wife also had to be involved in whatever this kink was and not just as a partner. The way my mind was working, only she and she alone could orchestrate this growing fantasy.
It always came down to her exerting control over me the way she had done that evening – spontaneously! The panties and nightgown, I realized, were only props, a means she might use to initiate control, and it excited me to wonder other ways she might accomplish it. If I could only get her to dress me again, I thought . . . take charge . . . surely all our forgotten and half-remembered thoughts would come tumbling down from the attics of our minds.
I imagined myself in a sexual version of what wrestlers call the “down position,” but this time there’d be no flip for top or bottom. In panties this time in place of a singlet, there would be no escapes. She was going to pin me, and that was what I wanted to feel. I saw my masculinity submitting giresun seks hikayeleri to every feminine humiliation she could imagine. How any of this would reconnect me to taboo thoughts first encountered long ago no longer seemed important, but thus far the only dreams playing were mine.
After a series of increasingly lame attempts failed to strike that lost chord, I finally turned to my unthinkable last resort – risking everything, I asked to be feminized. Well, that’s not completely true, either, since that would have implied some confidence on my part. Ten years older than my wife when we married, I knew I was rapidly approaching that elusive point where even the biggest dreamers heap ridicule on improbable notions. Had it been left to me, I would have probably just slouched my way past the point where dreams turned into sad jokes and I became a bitter old man. I was well on my way to bitter, too, when she announced she’d finally had it with my fucking shit. Just what in hell’s name is going on in that mind of yours, she demanded to know, because it sure as fuck ain’t doing anything for us here. Without going into it any further, let’s just say her response to my answer totally blew me away, especially after she upped the ante with a few outrageous proposals of her own. After all those years of nothing, I found myself overwhelmed with possibilities and, without a single thought for the consequences, I accepted on the spot.
Spadework for completing my own fantasy began immediately, and she wasted little time adding her own touches. That very first night, my underwear went in the trash, and I felt electric clippers lay waste to my natural covering as well. Shorn to stubble, my body was lathered with shaving gel, and I was warned to keep my mouth shut while her pink women’s razor meticulously rendered my body and my sex feminine smooth. In undoubtably the most-erotic-yet-sex-free moment of my life, this freshly moisturized and perfumed body for the first time experienced the sensation of new black lace panties gliding effortlessly on smoothly shaved legs and the feel of freshly shampooed and conditioned hair lifted from beneath the silk nightgown she lowered over my head and fanned out over my shoulders. Tingling from head to toe, I was led to bed like some drowsy infant and tucked in for the night.
Beyond a several inadvertent touches which occurred while she nestled my little spoon inside her big spoon’s protective embrace, the only sex involved in the remainder of the evening was by implication. As she wrapped her arms tightly around me, her soft voice whispered of her plans for us over the next several weeks, and the sexual frustration I felt was intense. At the same time, I first felt descending upon me the great peace which comes from feeling you’re totally loved and totally owned by one you worship totally.
It was a dream coming true . . .
Her own initial acceptance of my request was hardly as seamless as I just made it sound. She continued to be confused about motivations even I didn’t understand but, as she began filling the corners of my male life with little feminine touches, she quickly warmed to the concept of having a new live-in “girl friend” she named “Roni.”
My wife can be a difficult person to describe. More in attitude than appearance, I’d say if you could imagine Katherine Hepburn teaching middle school kids, you’d be halfway there. Totally conventional if that’s what it takes, my wife can come across as completely compliant, but she’ll always end up doing everything her way while making you like it even when you don’t. Physically, she’s about 5-foot-3, lithe and very athletic, with brown eyes and long dark brown hair. Most would agree she’s not a great beauty, but she has an attractiveness that is extremely honest and her sex appeal doesn’t require props. Very little make-up, if any. Fashion consciousness, yes, but not in a conventional way, viewing it as she sees most of the world – a source of endless amusement. Mostly she ignores it, preferring only those things which suit her quirky individuality and even those come and go on her schedule. At the same time she enjoys planning silly little weekend fashion sleepovers for her adoring nieces, and the latter, at least initially, seems to have been how she saw me – another paper doll for more of her Professor Higgins “make-over” and “dress-up” play.
“Our new arrangement,” as she took to calling it, also brought with it something I’d long denied her – unlimited access to my own long hair. It reached halfway down my back when we first met, but she complained how weird I could get each time she tried to initiate hair play or even discuss it. Finally she gave up trying. I knew I was a jerk about my hair. I even remember times when it seemed like I was on a cloud watching myself be that jerk and hating myself for it, but that only seem to make me worse.
Two weeks into our “new arrangement,” my hair still remained in its usual limp male ponytail whenever I was in what she called “boy mode.” But almost immediately, she spent nearly an evening dusting its split ends, and it responded so quickly to her lavish attention that women who before had ignored it as just another skanky male mop began to stare at it with envy. Only two days earlier I caught a total stranger touching my ponytail while my wife and I waited in a supermarket checkout. She apologized immediately when I saw her, joking that it just wasn’t fair for any man to have hair like mine. Hearing this, my wife also turned to look at the woman, and she was mortified. “Oh my God, is this your HUSBAND?” she said, now in total embarrassment. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Feeling the worst was now behind her, she couldn’t resist going girl-to-girl on the subject of my hair. “Just HOW does he get to have beautiful hair like that?” she asked. “It’s just gorgeous!” A crooked little smirk shot my way from the corner of my wife’s mouth as she answered simply, “Oh, good genes I guess.”
One development I never expected to see in my wife was the sudden addiction for sex toys. Some I have yet to see, presumably because they were bought with her own use in mind. One of our first joint activities involved locking my cock in a chastity device. This was something else that had not even crossed my mind, but it excited her immensely when I submitted to the pink CB-6000S she’d ordered the morning after my initial shearing. No o sooner had we heard the “click” of its lock than she became obsessed that her spider boy might escape its clutches. A Mini Vice – in an even more lurid shade of pink – arrived soon after, and she enthusiastically pressed its anti-pullout feature firmly into the flesh of my soft penis before another of those sharp little “clicks” informed both of us that, for all intents and purposes, my male member was now hers and hers alone.
Over the following week we explored various features of the “new arrangement” together, almost as if we were thumbing through some invisible owner’s manual. Both of us realized we were only marking time. Any day now – somewhere among the almost-daily trickle of small plain brown boxes which fed her new sex toy habit – we expected the real game changer in our relationship to arrive. It was a given that one of the first things she’d ordered had been a strap-on dildo, but the exact nature of this new she-cock was a closely-guarded mystery. She provided neither visuals hints nor verbal clues as to its appearance, and I became obsessed with how it might look, finally going on-line to search strap-ons offered there. How big was it, I wondered? What color? Did it have veins? Did a thick, meaty head thrust from uncut foreskin? Lurid thoughts, and most importantly, how would my wife look wearing it when she finally staked her claim to my ass?
I became so accustomed to thinking about “her cock” in “maybe tomorrow” terms that when the small note appeared on my pillow, its message hit me like a shot to the solar plexus. Coming from the field hot and dirty late one afternoon, I was passing through our bedroom to the ensuite when I saw a note pinned to my pillow. Scrawled in red felt-tip marker, it simply read: “Time to get ready. WE’RE coming!”
On the note’s backside were my evening’s marching orders: clothes for the evening were waiting on the vanity, I was told; no substitutes or omissions acceptable, thank you very much! At the bottom, underlined: “Make sure EVERYTHING is SMOOTH!!” Just reading it sent me racing to the shower, and instantly my cock began weeping pre-cum inside its tight pink prison as I lathered for a quick touch-up.
I was ensuring my ass crack would be ready for a full and final inspection when I felt my confidence plummet. The same fingers which had provided my eager ass with more than its share of attention the past two weeks now did not want to go there? WTF? I thought, shaking off this sudden reluctance and finishing my shaving chores.
She was waiting with towels when I stepped from the shower. Patting me dry and de-tangling my hair, she watched approvingly as I flipped my hair forward and wrapped it into a turban the way she’d taught me before standing back up. She moisturized my entire body, even dredging lotion through my ass crack and over my taint and balls which even got a squeeze for added measure. Then, with the experience of a lifetime, she smartly wrapped a towel around my body, not sloppy, hanging-off-the-hips male style, but instead so it neatly covered my entire torso. I nearly swooned when a steam-fogged glimpse in the mirror revealed a slender woman swathed in deep soft pastel terry, “her breasts” modestly covered and her hair wrapped in a turban.
She led me to her vanity where I’d already logged more bench time in two weeks than she had during the last two years. Her blow dryer and seldom-used hot rollers were plugged in and waiting. “I thought I’d like to see how my girl rocks some pretty waves in that luscious hair her supermarket fans love so much,” she said, seeing my eyes straying toward the hot rollers. “What do you think? Want to show your lover a bit more volume before your first big romp in the hay, sister woman?” At the very thought, she giggled like she was in the restroom with her nieces.
My mind quickly slid into the blue haze of subspace when she unwrapped my turban, then combed and rough dried my long hair. She then began to section it with her fingers, placing each roller a few inches from my scalp before loosely winding each section around it and clipping it off. “You really like having your hair played with, don’t you, dumbass?” she observed. “Just think! – if you hadn’t insisted on being such a butthead about it, we might have been doing this years ago.” The sensation of my hair being wound and clipped to a dozen or more rollers was something completely new for me, and their subtle warmth mingled with the soft wooziness of subspace to drive me even deeper into my feminine reverie. My ears, still warm from being pierced 10 days earlier, had been ringing non-stop since she began drying me, and the new studs now seemed red-hot in my lobes. Again I felt light-headed as she moisturized my lips, then painted them with a smooth heavy coat of bright red lipstick. Standing back to assess her work, she stepped forward to add a second coat . . .
“Can’t say this is really ‘your color,'” I heard her chuckle, “but when we finally blot it, honey, I guarantee it’s going to look cracker on . . . well, I think you know what!”
Taking my face in her hands, she gazed directly into my eyes. “You know what, Ron-ee?” she said, further drawing out the name she’d given me for these femme moments together. “I think I’m going to try a little something with your waterline. I want a sweet wide-eyed look on my little virgin tonight – something to take some attention from her slutty fascination for all that bright red lippy she loves so much. You shouldn’t appear like you know every fucking thing in the book your first time out, baby cakes, even when – like all little split tails – I’m sure you already think you do know it all!”
Still laughing, she brandished a white eyeliner pencil before my dazed eyes. “Now – open those peepers wide for me and don’t fucking move!”
In the best of times, it’s a struggle to get anything close to my eyes, but I was so far into the ozone I can barely remember the time she spent there or what she did with them. I only remember the rise and fall of that voice, just bits and pieces . . . “I love your eyes,” she said at one point, concentrating fully on blue orbs which had already lost their way staring into her own hypnotic brown eyes. “I guess I never realized how much goes on in these blue pools of yours – they have these little gold flecks in them! We should get you a consult, Roni; we could do so much with these eyes . . .”
She continued fussing over me, her happy, contented chat adding to my already-spaced-out feel. Her words tumbled down that long corridor in my mind, sounding like the laughter of kids on a distant playground, distracting me from the anxiety I’d been experiencing over what I knew was about to come next. “You’re a bit of a gamin, aren’t you, my precious little street urchin?” she injected at one point. “Maybe we should just quit fucking around and call you what you are – a gamine, my own little she-he! Given your type, it’s difficult at times to tell where that masculine yang exits and your feminine yin enters, but you certainly have it in spades, that’s for fucking sure! Once I realized that about you, I began to understand why all of this isn’t as ridiculous as it might seem. Not only might you just get away with this shit – you might also even look great doing it!”
She once again concentrated on her work only to pull up short. “We could have some fun; we could go shopping together on Saturdays,” she said thoughtfully. “You know – have lunch, a few drinks, go to a movie, neck like a pair of teen-age lesbians in the back row . . .”
I felt a shiver as she stroked my cheek while continuing to search deep inside of me. “God, but what I wouldn’t have done to have known you when you were still in high school, Ron. Of course, I was like, what? Eight? But it wouldn’t have mattered to me if you were a boy or a girl! I would have just ached to jump your bones!” The thought caused her to shake her head in wonder. “Back then I’ll just bet more than one of your little wrestling pals dreamed about putting moves on that waif-like body of yours, too – moves that had nothing to do with wrestling. God knows I’m sure I would have had I been a boy!”
I must have blushed at that point, prompting her to pat my heated rollers affectionately before once again stepping back to appraise her work-in-progress. “Say . . . you wouldn’t be up for letting me cut your hair some time, would you? You’d look great with a Louise Brooks bob . . . I guess a cut like that would be a little hard to hide in “boy mode,” wouldn’t it? Still, I think you’d look insanely great! You know what I mean, Ron-ee?”