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Message-ID: <43587asstr$1059264605@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern)
Subject: {ASSM} Last Summer by Vickie Tern 6/11 TG femdom wife
Date: Sat, 26 Jul 2003 20:10:05 -0400
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                         Last Summer
                       
                        by Vickie Tern  



                            vi.

By early evening Scottie seemed at ease with his new look, and when
I had located an old purse for him and some clip-on earrings I made
a daring proposal.

"Honey, you're beautiful!  I'm proud of you!  I want to show you
off to the world.  Let's go out right now, dinner and a movie."

He suddenly got very tense.  "Mandy, no!  Don't ask me to do that! 
I can't."  We were having a drink in the living room at that point,
and he was holding his wine glass delicately, the way women do
especially when on the prowl in singles bars.  He nearly dropped
it, and looked about wildly as if seeking an escape route.  But the
only door in sight led to our front door and the car.  He looked
back at me, and for the first time all day his faint ironic
detachment vanished.  He'd been indulging me, doing what my humor
seemed to require.  But now he was frightened!

The man in him was frightened, that is.  Good!  I wanted the man in
him scared to death, or at least scared into hiding out for the
rest of the summer!  "Are you planning to spend the next three
months in the house?" I asked him.  "I say you're ready to be
seen."  

"But I still look like me in drag," he said.  "What if someone I
know sees me?"

"If someone you know sees you, you're your sister, honey.  What I
hear you telling me is that you don't want to look like yourself at
all.  You want Doreen to make you look altogether different.  All
right, I'll tell her that!"  I didn't mention that I'd already told
her that.  "We're going out.  The sooner you're seen, the sooner
you'll realize that you've been seen and it's no big deal.  Women
want to be seen!  We take pains with our appearance and love
thinking that people notice!  Come on, it's night-time, and movie
theaters are dark!  Here, drape this shawl over your shoulders and
catch it up with your arms like so."  I showed him how, and turned
toward the door without looking back.  

After a moment he trusted himself entirely to me, and
apprehensively followed me out to the car.  His first time out of
doors in a skirt -- it must have felt strange.  He looked around to
make sure no neighbors were noticing.  Well, they'll notice
something soon enough, I thought with some satisfaction.  An
elaborately made-up blonde about Scott's size coming and going, all
summer?  Maybe even cutting the grass?  The thought amused me. 
Scottie in shorts and a halter!  He really was too thin right now!

I deliberately chose a large steak and ribs restaurant in order to
make yet one more point.  He sat gingerly on the edge of his seat,
afraid to lift up his eyes, and surveyed the vast arrays of red
meat listed on the menu when I commented as if casually, "Never
mind those.  You need your waistline reduced.  I want you looking
fashionably slim while you're being a woman.  Fashionably slim
women have more fun.  Order a small salad."  For myself I ordered
a rib eye medium rare and a side of onion rings, and I smiled at
him.  "My metabolism is greater than thine," I said smugly.  "Ask
for the dressing on the side, and then use only half of it."  

He looked wistfully at me while I ate, picking at the small Caesar
salad he'd ordered.  And then even more wistfully at my plate when
we got up to leave.  I had deliberately left half my food uneaten. 
"Self-restraint," I told him.  "I do it all the time, to protect my
figure.  You'll do the same for yours.  Next time we're out, I'll
allow you to order whatever you wish if you'll promise to eat only
half and leave the rest."  

It was fun, tormenting the poor dear for his own good.  But finally
I relented.  "This really is necessary, baby," I told him
earnestly.  "You can do this!  You need curves, a waist and bosom
and rear end, but otherwise you're well-proportioned.  Maybe we can
bring you down to a size 12 and then build you up again
selectively.  Or a 10?  Women's clothes are designed to display a
woman's figure while flattering it, maybe by being tight, maybe by
being calculatedly loose.  They say it's to attract men, but except
for certain obvious kinds of slut gear that isn't really true.  It's
more to make statements about yourself while impressing other
women, to feel good about yourself.  So do!  Never forget to watch
your figure.  You'll have so much better a choice if you don't need
to go to Women's sizes, if you can select from the middle of the
Misses' section." 

He was baffled.  "A Miss isn't a Woman?" he asked. 

I was about to explain these mysteries when a woman's voice close
by suddenly called out "Amanda!"   Then again, "Amanda!  How have
you been!"  

I looked up and saw two of Scott's departmental colleagues standing
there. My God Scott must be paralyzed this very moment!  His worst
nightmare!  After a moment, thankfully, I recalled their names.

"Marge!  Annemarie!  How lovely!.  I'm just fine, and you two?" I
asked cheerily.  These two I remembered were inseparable.  They
lived together, as women often do for convenience and also to
preserve their respectability.  Some because they're lesbians. 
Scott thought it likely but was uninterested in knowing for sure. 
He and they were friends, allies in his department's small
curricular struggles.  

I could tell at a glance that there was no doubt they were in a
relationship.  Like mine and Scottie's, I thought with amusement.

Scottie!  There he was standing next to me in a sedate skirt and
blouse, shawl draped over his arms, nicely made up, quite
convincing as a woman even without Doreen's contribution.  At this
moment he was trying to make himself look altogether invisible.  I
turned to him immediately, before he could bolt, and said, "Sherri,
these are two of Scott's favorite colleagues at the College, Marge
and Annemarie." I noticed that he was avoiding eye contact with
everyone in sight, and I glared at him.  He saw and understood, and
glanced at them.

"How do you do," he managed to say in his downscale flute voice,
then again tried to look as if he were altogether elsewhere. 
Turning back to them I said breezily, "I don't know if you've ever
met Scott's sister Sherri?"

"Why no," Marge said, looking at Scottie attentively.  "Isn't that
remarkable!  I see the resemblance.  Will you be staying in town
long, Sherri?  We'd love to have the three of you over, now that
summer's here and our time is our own." 

All my newly christened Sherri could do was gurgle, so I came to
his aid.  "Sherri's leaving tomorrow morning I'm afraid," I said. 
"And tomorrow evening our house guest for the summer will be
arriving, another sister, one who's led a rather different sort of
life and now needs peace and quiet so she can write her memoirs.
rather racy memoirs, I suspect.  So I'm afraid it won't be
possible."

"Nonsense!" Annemarie declared firmly.  "You and Scott and Scott's
sisters are always most welcome!  We all have books cooking in our
kitchens!  Even writers need to see other people now and then.  I'd
love to meet her!  We'll call." 

As she said this, she looked me in the eye to assure me that there
was no doubt she meant it.  The two of them then moved sideways and
were gone as swiftly as they'd arrived.

I came aware that Scottie had not breathed through the entire
interchange.  Now he spoke.

"She recognized me," he said.  "Annemarie did, I mean.  She was
staring at that old scar on my cheek!  What must she think?"

"Oh, pooh!" I said.  "Your scar isn't visible.  That's why women
use foundation, to hide all our blemishes, because we're always
expected to be perfect and we aren't.  Not always.  We sometimes
have our faults."  

I decided not to go further in that direction, or the next thing
I'd be telling Scott -- or Sherri -- would be all about my own most
recent fault, my passion for Craig's body.  It was wonderful
gossip, and I was bursting to tell someone.   But certainly not
Scott.  Not even Scottie.  Not yet anyhow.  Cheryl would call me
soon to find out everything, and I'd unburden on her.

"She saw," Scottie said from out of his depths somewhere.  We
started toward the car.  "She knows.  And suppose she does invite
us.  The three of us, when there are only two of us."

"In that case I'll accept for the two of us," I replied.  "No
problem.  I'm sure we can have a delightful time with them."  My
mind was working ahead of Scottie's, for once.  I thought Annemarie
indeed might have recognized him.  They'd be accustomed to seeing
and reading off-gendered people in the circles they moved in, and
though Scottie looked unqualifiedly feminine, there was lots of
Scott still visible, in little things.  Her look when she promised
us an invitation seemed pretty much to confirm it.  It was
suspicious, curious, delighted, and determined all at once.

Well, if so, then so much the better.  I'd like setting up a closer
relationship with those two, as one lesbian couple to another, as
it were.  I was wary of fixing Scottie up with women, but pushing
him into a relationship with a man had its problems too.  Men were
fun to date, and Mort apparently didn't mind dating them.  I'd been
thinking about fixing Scottie up with a man, 'bitching' him as
Doreen called it, but my motives were not admirable, I knew.  They
were worse than admirable.  I wanted to humiliate him for making me
feel guilty, that was the main reason, and I didn't respect myself
for that.  

It occurred to me that down deep I didn't know if I'd respect Scott
either, if he ever had sex with a man.  A husband who pleasures
other men with his asshole?  And sucks other men's cocks?  Maybe
for Cheryl, but for me?  That would take some major re-adjustments
in my attitude toward Scottie.  

But Marge and Annmarie were something else.  Neither Cheryl nor I
wanted our husbands to take up with other women.  But would I mind
if my new lesbian Scottie was taken up by two other lesbians?  

I had to think about it.  Off the cuff, I'd prefer it.  If he were
with a man he'd still be being faithful to me, merely doing what
women do, one more of the things I want him to do anyhow, so he can
enjoy being a woman and I can enjoy my new man without feeling
pangs of conscience.  But if he took up with a pair of lesbians
he'd still be doing things that come more naturally to a man.  They
have vaginas, and whether or not they call it a dildo, he has a
penis.  Sooner or later the twain would have to meet.  Yet, I was
already having extramarital sex -- wasn't it only fair for Scottie
to do the same?

No, I did not want Scottie to have extramarital sex.  Not with a
man nor with a woman nor with a lesbian.  

"Can we go home now?" Scottie asked me miserably.

"We're here for a movie," I said.  "We're two girls out together. 
I feel like seeing a romantic melodrama and having a good cry.  So
that's what we'll see.  A 'chick flick.'"

I chose well.  The plot was about a bored housewife who runs off to
have a tempestuous affair with a suave passing stranger, then after
weeks spent with him in the most glamorous places in Europe,
returns home gorgeously gowned, impeccably groomed, well-fucked,
and inspired by a new appreciation for the ordinary things in her
life.  And of course for her ordinary husband, who quickly
understands and forgives her.   It was schlock of course -- she
gobbles her cake greedily with both hands and yet there it still is
on the dining room table when she gets home, perfectly decorated. 


Even so, much of it brought tears to my eyes.  That was me, in a
way, I hoped.  I found as the music swelled up at the end that
Scottie was moved too -- we'd been holding hands the whole time,
his fingers intertwined with mine.  Had he been identifying with
the heroine too?  I loved that.  Had he identified with the hero,
the thoroughly cuckolded husband?  Did he suspect something?  If so
I loved him all the more.  At that moment I loved all understanding
and forgiving husbands.  I loved the idea that Scott was willing to
risk humiliation and embarrassment and pretend to be a woman for
me, just so I could believe I was keeping my affair with Craig a
secret from him.  If he found out about it for certain, would he be
as forgiving as that husband?  

I could hope so, though I'd never want to know.  I didn't want to
hurt him.  He's such a sweet man.  He'll make such a sweet woman! 
I do love my husband! 

Anyhow, now, after his close encounter with Marge and Annemarie, he
was probably ready to let Doreen do anything to him.  Anything at
all.  He'll probably let me do things to him too, I thought, or at
least he'd more quickly reconcile himself to them once I've done
them to him.  He knew now that there are advantages in disguising
himself beyond all chance of recognition, so he might even accept
a few really serious adjustments to his figure.  Not just filling
him out a little, but giving him real tits and a round tush,
committing him unmistakably to his new feminine appearance.  For
his own good, in some ways.  So he'd cease being my cuckolded
husband altogether and become instead my genuine girlfriend, or
better, his own somewhat racy sister.  Then the slightly trampy
woman I wanted Doreen to make him could wear tight, revealing
dresses, low-cut blouses, and slacks that left no doubt that his
sex was female.  

So overall, our chance meeting with Marge and Annemarie was all to
the good.  I hoped they'd call soon.

The next day we spent shopping together.  Scottie protested that he
could make do with the clothes I'd loaned him, but I wanted him to
have his own things and enjoy having them, to feel comfortably
proprietary about them.  I didn't want him to feel that his new
gender was on loan.  I wanted him to think "my bra" and "my heels"
rather than "my wife's bra and heels."  Then he could learn to love
his favorite outfits for the ways they make him look and feel, as
all women do.  And he'd learn to take care of them.  Keep them
longer than just the summer?  That would be up to him.

He also protested the quantity we bought -- when we'd finished, his
closet looked as full as mine.  There were way more things than
he'd need during the next few summer months.  He wanted to know
why, did I have some kind of hidden agenda for him?  Did I want him
to stay this way when the summer ended?

That was a difficult question, I realized.  I told him that women
dress according to mood, and don't like being seen wearing the same
outfit twice, which was true enough, and itself reason enough for
me to fill his closet with dresses and blouses and suits, and his
drawers with day wear and lingerie.  But I began to wonder myself
why I kept urging more and more lovely things on him.  

In part, because it was fun playing dolls with him, maybe playing
mommy and daughter with him too?  Probably -- it was fun!  In part,
was I compensating for betraying him with Craig, trying to placate
my guilty feelings by buying him the kinds of presents I'd enjoy? 
Maybe.  In part because the nicer-looking a woman he became, the
more worthwhile for him my affair would seem to me?  Maybe.  The
more I bought him, the more my feelings of guilt seemed irrational. 
I felt no affection for Craig, only a lust that would soon pass. 
But meanwhile Scottie was benefiting from it, gaining a gorgeous
wardrobe many women would kill to own.  

Or was it malice, that I wanted to bury my husband Scott in women's
clothing?  Maybe.  I did resent feeling like an unfaithful wife, an
unrepentant adulteress who had violated her vows to her husband. 
But by agreeing to become a woman, no longer the man I married,
he'd given me an annulment.  I ought to reward him for that.

All of these possible motivations occurred to me, and I couldn't
reject any of them.  It remained that I loved shopping with him,
and that I eagerly anticipated seeing him try on all of his new
outfits at home, teaching him what kinds of occasion each was best
fit for.  And wonderfully, he caught the fever -- after a while he
did too!

Later that afternoon I sent him off shopping on his own for jewelry
and accessories, a few odds and ends any man might buy for any
woman, so he wouldn't feel self-conscious about buying them even
though he was still dressed as a woman.  Mainly to build his
self-confidence, so he'd know beyond doubt that he could pass
easily.  But also for his own enjoyment.  Shopping is another of
women's many pleasures.  I told him he should enjoy the questing
and purchasing.

Oddly, he did.  He concentrated his mind on buying certain things
that pleased him, and finding them within a certain budgetary
range, so it became a game.  He came back feeling pleased with all
his purchases, and as he showed them to me I ooohed and aaahed over
them, his prizes, though they were mostly  belts and necklaces I
thought rather ordinary, and several pairs of clip-on earrings I
knew he'd never be wearing after tomorrow.  It was a beginning
though.  

He also purchased a winter skirt, a long wool plaid so heavily
discounted as he said excitedly that it cost nearly nothing.  "At
that price I couldn't resist it," he said pridefully.  I didn't
point out to him that it was reduced because it was out of season,
too warm for summer wear, that no one would be wearing such skirts
again unto the Fall, when I no longer expected him to wear any such
things.  He was pleased to have found it, though, so I said nothing
at all.  For any woman, a bargain is a bargain.

This was working out well, I thought.  I feel much better now.  He
was actually beginning to enjoy it!


end 6/11
VickieTern@AOL.COM

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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