TG: Jack and Jill Ch 3 by Vickie Tern, femdom, wife, M/F, M/M 

Vickie Tern's stories are archived at 
http://library.gaycafe.com/nifty/transgender/
by_authors/Vickie_Tern

She appreciates any kinds of comment on any
of them,  and usually replies in kind.






If you shouldn't be reading this, don't!




Jack and Jill by Vickie Tern

3.  Chapter



Jill never did say anything about her discovery of my little tryst with
Darlene, and I never saw those pictures she took either, and she never
referred to them again.  She didn't have to.  I knew she would use them
ruthlessly any time it suited her purposes.  She knew what I most
feared about my crossdressing was exposure, and she knew I knew she
knew, so nothing needed to be said.  I spent that night in a motel, and
spent Sunday at the office hoping for a phone call and dreading one if
it came, though none did.  Again at the motel Sunday night, and again
at the office on Monday, with only business calls.  Darlene,
miraculously, had worked out that I wasn't going to be stopping by her
place to change my underthings any more, nor to drive her to work, but
she was otherwise her usual sweet, simple self, untouched by my
domestic catastrophe.

For a few more months after Jill discovered me with Darlene nothing
happened.  Oh things changed at home all right.  On Monday I came home
from work feeling seedy from too many days in the same clothes, and
found our bedroom door had a new lock on it -- now it was her bedroom
door.  Without forcing the issue, that night I slept once again in the
spare bedroom.  A day later I asked her to let me in long enough to get
my suits and shirts and socks out, and she shouted furiously "No!  Wear
your dresses, you freak!." It seemed better not to ask a second time,
so I bought a few new men's jackets and pants and things, just enough
to get by until things took shape or settled back down.  Meanwhile
Darlene gave notice that she was leaving town to work for another
company, and had enjoyed working for me, and had enjoyed getting to
know Jane, and that I should collect my things from her place.  So I
did.  I couldn't bring myself to throw them out but I certainly
couldn't start wearing them again either.  So I boxed them and put them
into the garage.  Time passed.

Jill had nothing to say to me.  We lived like strangers bedded down in
the same motel, each without knowledge of the other.  I tried starting
up conversations and she stared at me impassively.  I cooked a terrific
dinner one evening, and the smells saturated the house by the time she
got home, but when I asked her when I should serve it she just said
"Whenever you want -- I'm going out!" Then she went out.  I came home
once to the smell of something cooking, went eagerly into the kitchen,
and found only empty pans in the sink -- Jill had prepared and eaten
her own dinner, then left for the evening.  Soon we were both eating
most of our meals out, me by myself, Jill with different women friends
in different restaurants, I learned from time to time through the
grapevine, and I wondered what that grapevine might not be telling me.

I wondered especially what she was telling her friends, and what they
were telling her.  When I called a few, they seemed to know no more
than that I'd hurt Jill terribly and that no apology could possibly
make amends, at best only time could heal things.  One asked if I had
hit her, and when I replied "No, nothing like that, I couldn't do that"
she just replied "No, I didn't think so, you're such a wuss." I took
due note that I'd lost that round either way.  They all advised me that
the storm would pass, to wait it out .

We did see each other at breakfast.  Then Jill often looked directly at
me, as if I were some kind of problem she'd have to get around to
fixing one of these days, or couldn't quite figure how to fix yet.  I
usually avoided looking at her.  Plainly she didn't yet know what she
wanted to do, and didn't want to feel rushed into any decisions, and I
took that as a good sign.  After maybe ten or twelve weeks of this
silent treatment, one evening we found we were sharing the living room
as if we were together instead of each of us home alone, and I asked
her if we could talk.  She just said, "If you want, I won't stop you."
So I took a deep breath, and with my life hanging on it I began.

I told her I was devastated, and would do nearly anything if we could
resume our marriage.  I told her that my crossdressing was harmless in
itself, and a compulsion I couldn't resist.  I pointed out that in a
sense her absolute prohibition of it at home had forced me to the
office and then into the arms of that bimbo.  I told her I wasn't doing
it now, but that sooner or later I was bound to resume it, I had purged
and binged too many times not to know that.  I begged her forgiveness.
I offered to absorb any revenge or punishment she wanted to inflict
upon me, and to meet any conditions she might set if only she would end
her long silence.  Any.  I told her I loved her.  I told her I was
terribly sorry for having been unfaithful to her.  I went down on my
knees, and I started to cry.

She listened to all this with her face expressionless, looking at me
the whole time.  Then when I was on the floor sobbing, apparently done,
she said merely, "I heard you.  I'll let you know." Then she turned
back to the book in her lap and dismissed my existence.

Two days later we met at breakfast, and just before she left for work,
already wearing her coat and with her briefcase in hand, she paused at
the kitchen door and said, "Are you ready to listen?" I nodded,
speechless.  "Ok," she said, "I've thought about this.  I've talked to
a lot of people about it, and I've gotten advice, and I've looked at a
lot of options, and I've worked out what I want for me, and what I want
for you, and what I want for us, and I know now that there is a way we
can both of us have what we want, even if it isn't what we thought we
wanted.  It's the only way, and I'm not going to tell you what it is.
What I'm telling you now is what I want for you now.  That's all that
concerns you, and that's all you're going to hear." I nodded again,
still afraid to say a word.

She went on.  "You're right in one respect.  When I forbid you to wear
women's clothing around me I was asking too much from you.  You can't
help it.  It's like an addiction you're born with, and you can't be
blamed for that.  I thought I was marrying one kind of man, and I found
I'd married another.  It disgusts me to see my own husband parading
around thinking he looks like a woman, but I can control my disgust,
and I can change the way I feel about your...addiction.  I know how to
do that, now.  And I will.  I'm going to let you dress like a princess
or like a whore at home, again, since you must.  But only when it suits
my purposes.  And my purposes are mine."

"But nothing drove you to have an affair with that floozie.  You
violated our marriage with her.  You gave in to easy temptation, and
for that you owe me, and owe me dear, and for that you're going to pay
me.  Don't assume you're forgiven, or that there aren't punishments in
store.  I have plans for you.  You have a way to go, and you're only
just beginning.  You said you'd do anything and agree to anything if
I'd resume with you, and I mean to hold you to it.  Anything."

I nodded, afraid to hear what she was going to say next, but eager to
hear it.

"From now on you do not put on women's clothes, or makeup, or airs,
unless I tell you you can.  It may be a week, or a month, or six months
before I tell you you can do it, but you will control yourself.  Trust
me, the time will come.  But you'll do it when I say so, not when you
want to.  If it happens that when I say you can, you don't feel like it
any longer, I won't complain.  Then we can be together again the way we
were, or the way I thought we were, maybe.  But that's too much to hope
for.  From now on, you will be a woman when I tell you to be a woman,
and only when I tell you.  Is that clear?"

I nodded again, a slowly rising joy beginning to replace my fears.  In
a way this sounded like a fulfilment of my wildest fantasy, that my
wife might participate with me, and guide me, even order me to dress
up.  What she then said confirmed it.

"When you next want to be a woman, and I want you to be one, you will
do what I tell you.  I will make suggestions about what to wear and
how, and what's suitable and what isn't, and what I want you to do when
you're dressed, and where I think you fall short.  You may think that
being female is a game.  I don't.  If you're going to do it, you are
going to do it right.  Any time I suggest anything, you will cancel any
notions you may have concocted for yourself, and you will agree with
me, and you will be happy that you agree with me, and you will thank
your lucky stars that you agree with me, because I'm right and you're
not.  My suggestions are absolute commands as far as you're concerned.
And you will never hesitate to think of them that way, no matter how
odd any of them may sound to you.  Is that clear?  "

I nodded, my eyes beginning to fill.

"There are some real obstacles ahead for you, and I'm going to enjoy
watching you trying to deal with them.  You said you'd meet any
conditions and I mean to hold you to that promise.  Now do you agree to
everything I've said?  Absolutely, unconditionally, nothing held back?"

I nodded.  For some reason I was feeling a small stirring in my loins,
listening to her speak of hidden plans for me.

"Then here's the key to our bedroom.  That cheap sport jacket you've
been wearing to work for the past month is a joke.  Put on something
that looks decent.  The Harris Tweed is nice."

I nodded, not believing my ears.  My exile from our bedroom was over?
But  not quite.  Not just yet.  "Take the rest of your men's clothes
into your room.  You aren't going to wear any other kinds of clothes
for the time being, so you might as well wear decent ones.  Then lock
the bedroom again and leave the key for me on the front hall table.  I
may be in late again tonight."

I heard her.

"And those women's clothes you've got packed up in the garage.  Bring
them into your room too.  I'll want to look them over some time, to see
what we've got to work with."

I heard her.

"And let your lease at your office expire.  You are through working,
for now.  Maybe for good.  Pass your clients on to someone else.  I
want you where I know you are twenty-four hours a day.  I'll be the
breadwinner who goes to work in the morning, and you can be the
housewife who takes care of the house.  I'll have full charge of the
money and you'll have full charge of household matters." She looked sly
for a moment.  "Maybe some day I'll let you be the housewife who looks
pretty for me when I come home from work, but don't get your hopes up."

There was a lump in my throat.  I just stared at her and nodded.

"And dear, you remember that dinner you cooked up a couple of months
ago when you were feeling guilty, and you hoped you could buy me off or
that I'd let you off easy, and you found I wanted no part of you?  I
can tell you now that it smelled delicious.  If you can fix it again
for tomorrow evening, I'll pick up a decent wine to go with it, and I
think we can begin to enjoy being with each other again.  I do still
love you, and there are many things about you I admire.  But don't
think for a moment that this is going to be easy for you."

And with that last remark she disappeared through the door and was
gone.

More weeks went by, and we gradually resumed our old relationship,
except that I was still locked out of our bedroom, and some nights she
went out without a word to me, and I didn't dare ask her where when she
came back, not too late usually, maybe by midnight or a little later.
I no longer dressed up, and she said nothing more about it.  I would
stand wistfully in front of my closetful of pretty things, looking at
them not daring to touch them.  One day she told me that I could set
out my cosmetics on my dressing table, but not use any, so I did, no
questions asked.  Then another week passed with nothing more said.

One evening she laid out a new arrangement for us.  She told me she was
giving me a green light for whatever I wanted to wear, women's clothes
or men's, but with an absolute condition I must obey absolutely.  It
was this.  In any one 24 hour period, from eight a.m.  to eight a.m.
the following morning, I could wear the clothing appropriate to either
gender, either male or female, whichever I chose.  Whatever gender I
was imitating when she left the house just after eight each day, she
said, was my gender for the day and for the evening.  If I was in a
peignoir for breakfast and I had to go shopping that day, then I would
wear a dress to go shopping or I wouldn't go shopping at all.  If she
left me in men's pants, she wanted to see me in pants when she returned
-- not necessarily the same ones, of course.  If we were going out
together to visit friends that night, I had better know it when I woke
up that morning, because at eight a.  m.  we would both know what kinds
of clothes I would be wearing that night.  So I had better begin
planning ahead.  Unisex clothes were out, she said.  I would have to
choose who I was, each day, Jack or Jane.  And then hope the house
didn't catch fire, to force me into the street wearing a minidress or a
tutu.

I thought this was just wonderful, and it was!  The first morning I
woke early and bathed and slipped on my prettiest silk dress, and did
my hair, and made myself up carefully, and went down to prepare
breakfast for the two of us.  I was so excited!  I primped and fussed,
and when Jill came down I couldn't quite contain my shy pleasure.  She
looked me over.

"Not bad," she said, amused at my eager modesty.  "Maybe you'll be
worth the trouble.  Are you going somewhere after I leave for work?"

"Oh, no," I reassured her hastily.  "Not in a dress.  I wouldn't dare."

"No, I suppose not," said Jill.  "But aren't you a little overdressed
for just breakfast when you aren't going anywhere?"

"I wanted to look nice," I said, a little disappointed in her reaction.
"For you."

"For me," she replied.  "Well, I suppose you need to express your
feminine side, as you say.  But try to dress appropriately.  That dress
is more suitable for tonight, for dinner.  Are we eating out?"

I knew she was teasing me, or maybe needling me, and said nothing.

"Jack," she said, "Or, Jane, since today you're Jane.  Something else.
That dress does a lot for your figure, but you have to help it.  You
have no waistline.  You look too chunky, too much like a man in a
dress, or like some middle-aged woman who's let herself go.  You need
to nip in at the waist, at least a little.  For now, from now on you're
on a diet.  Toast and black coffee for breakfast, a small cottage
cheese salad for lunch, no more, starve yourself all day, and eat half
of whatever you were planning to serve yourself for dinner.  Decide on
a regimen and stick with it.  From now on.  Whether you're dressing as
a man or a woman.  The discipline will be good for you.  Go hungry all
day." She paused.  "And anyhow, you obviously like to shop.  I want you
into size 14 by the end of next month, and when you reach size 12 I'll
let you replace your wardrobe.  Not until then.  Understood?"

I understood.  She wanted moment by moment control over me, and any
time I felt like snaking during the day, she wanted me to be reminded
that she was in control and I had better not.  I nodded.

Mostly, when I knew I could stay at home all day and evening I fixed
breakfast for her in a blouse and denim skirt or the like, looking as
neat as I could, with just a touch of eye makeup and wearing a subdued
shade of lipstick, and my hair done simply.  Jill would come down,
glance at me, say nothing, comment on the weather, or the morning
headline, or ask my plans while she was having breakfast, and then
leave for work.  She never seemed to notice what I was wearing, or how
I looked.  At dinner time when she came home from work I was happy to
greet her in an afternoon dress, or a cocktail dress, or if we were
having something special that night, with candlelight, I would put on a
long gown and more dramatic makeup and put my hair up for her.  I was
still dressing for my own satisfaction, of course, but more and more I
was dressing for her.  I wanted her to admire me, to want me, to love
me.  But Jill never seemed to notice.  She would praise my dinners, and
admire the candlelight.  But she seemed stone blind to my appearance.

I finally became a size twelve, and began buying new things.  But
always as a man.  I became a familiar figure in stores all over the
city and suburbs, buying dresses and lingerie "for my wife" as if she
were too feeble to shop for herself.  I don't know who I fooled.  Some
saleswomen would tease me, I realized later, by asking me friendly
ambiguous questions like, "Are these for your pleasure or hers" while
wrapping and charging some intimate items.  I was too embarrassed to
pick up on their comments and kid back with them.  But for a while,
when Jill saw me wearing men's clothes at breakfast she could assume
accurately that looking male was not uppermost on my mind.

Twice I had a problem.  Once I forgot we were expected for dinner at an
friend's house and I began the day in a housedress.  When Jill saw me,
she said simply, "Is tonight's dinner party the place where, finally,
you mean to show the world that you're a transvestite?  Or do you think
you can pass as a woman when we're expected to show up as a couple?  Be
sure you have a dinner gown that won't disgrace us in your closet, or
you'll have to shop for one this afternoon.  I don't think you own
anything appropriate at the moment, and I'm certainly not lending you
anything of mine." I spent the day hiding in the house terrified,
wondering what was the least painful way I could injure myself badly
enough to decline the dinner invitation.  I was bailed out only by the
dinner's last-minute cancellation, because the host had the mumps!
Jill noticed that I was a wreck when she got home.  I told her about my
utter terror at being found out, and what I had been prepared to do to
myself.  She merely smiled a little grimly and said nothing.

Another time I was wearing skin-tight jeans and a T-shirt tight enough
to show my bra and my breastforms when I saw we had run out of charcoal
for the barbecued chicken Jill knew I'd planned.  Without thinking I
left the house dressed as I was and got into the car, and was halfway
there before I realized I couldn't pass as either a man or a woman.  So
I drove further, to a place a half-hour out of town that sold bags of
charcoal, sneaked to a far corner, hugged a bag of charcoal to my
chest, threw some dollars at a puzzled employee, and fled back to my
car.  A day later, wearing men's clothes, I bought an oversized woman's
sweatshirt to wear if that should ever happen again.  Jill allowed that
it was not a unisex sweatshirt, because it had small flowers all over
it, and said she'd like to see me go out some time at least wearing
flowers, if I had the guts.  She was only mildly amused when I told her
how I had bought the charcoal while my bra was visible.  She then asked
if I had ever bought myself a topcoat of some kind, and a purse, for
when I meant to go out, and I answered "No, what for?" She merely
smiled.

Now and then she would make a suggestion, and I took them as commands.
Very early on she told me to let my hair grow out, for example, and she
showed me how to use a barrette to hold it back when I was in femme
mode.  She asked me to practice a "lady voice," and then insisted I use
it on all appropriate days -- which as it turned out, meant most days.
She corrected my occasional lapses of taste, my wearing at the same
time two different patterned prints with clashing colors, and I tuned
my eye accordingly.  Once she told me to do something about my nails,
so I went to a unisex salon and had them trimmed, and shaped, and given
two coats of clear gloss.  Another time she told me to pluck back my
eyebrows, "the way they were when you were carrying on with Darlene." I
said I thought she hadn't noticed, and she gave me a contemptuous
glance and turned away.  I was very uneasy the first few times I went
out with thin brows arched high over my face, but no one seemed to
notice, and after a while I began pencilling their shape even higher on
days when I was Jane.  When I was in femme mode she insisted I walk,
move, and sit like a lady, and after a while her constant correction of
me became occasional, and finally unnecessary.  In fact, when I
sometimes made some effeminate gesture while in male clothes, she'd
call my attention to it with sarcastic comments like "Do that again.
Your boyfriends will love it."

Then one Friday late afternoon I was vacuuming in the living room when
Jill came home a bit early, glanced to see that I was wearing a short
cotton skirt and halter top, and went into the kitchen.  When I put
away the vacuum I saw that she was setting the dining room table for
three, using our good silver and good set of dishes.  A terrible fright
struck the pit of my stomach.  I clasped my hands behind me to stop
them from shaking.

"What's up?" I asked her in my feminine voice.  "Is someone coming for
dinner tonight?"

"Yes dear.  We have a new Associate at the office, unmarried, not yet
settled into town, still living in a motel as a matter of fact.  He's
been eating out all this time, and he tells me no one has invited him
yet for dinner or to meet people.  I'd like you to put on your
prettiest dress and look especially nice tonight for him."

To be dressed like a woman in front of a stranger!  I was petrified!
"Jill," I said, "No!  I'd feel humiliated.  I couldn't possibly.  And
besides, ...."

Jill cut me off.  "Jane," she said sternly, "That's who you are today,
Jane.  That was your choice this morning.  You are already humiliated,
in my eyes, and those are the only eyes you need to worry about.
You've been making a big deal over your so-called compulsion to dress
like a girl.  It has almost cost us our marriage.  It cost you your
dignity and your honour, and it led you to violate your marriage vows,
and it cost me my trust in you.  Now I'm allowing it, right?  You
haven't heard a peep from me when I come home night after night and
find you're wearing a peignoir, or a silk dress, or a tailored suit,
with your hair up in rollers or your face all tarted up.  For you it's
been a delightful game, titillating and safe!  You never dare to go out
and risk being seen.  You're so afraid of discovery you've never asked
me to go out with you to cover for you."

I started to protest I'd never dare ask her, but she cut me off.
"Well, now's the time for you to take a nice, safe risk.  Stay at home
and be a lady and enjoy our dinner guest in your own home."

I felt a little scathed by this argument.  She was right.  She'd paid
most of the cost of my crossdressing until now.  "But what if he reads
me?  What if he comes expecting to see your husband, and sees a husband
in drag?"

She dismissed it.  "He won't," she said.  "I told him my husband was
out of town, and that I was having a dear friend over for dinner, and
that he'd be welcome to join us, and that maybe he'd like to meet her.
That's who he'll see.  My dear friend Jane.  Let's see if you can pass
at least in your own home, this place where you've minced and pranced
around hundreds of times.  Let's see if you can manage to be a woman in
your own home in front of a total stranger who'll come thinking that's
what you are and won't see anything else!"

"But why?" I asked.  "Why now, in front of a man I've never met?" The
question sounded odd even to me -- would I rather it be a man who knew
me?  "Why not ask a woman I've never met, if you want other people to
see me?" I was reaching for any arguments I could find.  If a woman saw
I was a fraud I'd feel embarrassed, but if a man saw through me I'd
feel destroyed!

"Jack," -- and now her voice took on an edge -- "Do it!  You want to be
Jane, then BE Jane!  You'd never fool a woman at close range -- she'd
nail you as soon as she looked at you, certainly as soon as you moved.
But men never notice how women really look, and how they behave!
YOU've never noticed!  You wear dresses and lipstick, but you're not at
all feminine in the important ways.  You still have a lot to learn!
You do this and I'll teach you a few things you don't know.  I promise!
Trust me!" She sounded exasperated and also a little threatening.

Then she smiled, half to herself, and her voice softened.  "Here's the
truth, Jack, or Jane, or whoever I'm talking to.  This little hobby of
yours has cost me a lot of grief, but I've accepted it.  You've cheated
on me, and maybe I drove you to that woman and maybe I didn't -- I'm
still working that out.  But I won't live with a husband who's
chicken-hearted as well as deceitful.  I won't live with a closet
queen!  You want to dress like a woman, do it!  You do it, but do it
right!  Tonight your real education begins.  You are going to be a
woman in the presence of a man who thinks you're a woman, and you are
going to show me that you have the courage to do it!  You may not know
it, but that's what you want!  Go upstairs and get dressed, Jane dear,
and be sure you look pretty when you come down!  He'll be here in
another hour."

I had no option, not if I wanted to retrieve our marriage.  I had to
accept her challenge.  I had always imagined that my first public
appearances would be with women who would accept me as one of their
own, and shield me from exposure.  I had loved the vision of me sitting
with other women, and chatting, and going with them to a restaurant for
lunch.  But this was something else.

Even so, Jill was right, I thought.  I have been a wimp.  If I'd been
more assertive about wanting to dress up in my own home to begin with,
I wouldn't have gone to dress up with Darlene, and now Jill wouldn't be
feeling betrayed.  If I were more of a man I would have been more of a
woman to begin with, if that's what I wanted to be.  She seemed to
think so.  She even offered to help me be more of a woman, if I went
through with this!

Then a new thought struck me.  "Wait a minute.  You say you told him
'maybe he'd like to meet me'-- what does that mean?  You tell me to put
on my prettiest dress?  And to be sure I look pretty when I come down?
Are you trying to fix me up with him?  What if he starts coming on to
me?  What then?"

She got a very peculiar expression on her face, and looked at me with
deliberate care, as if beginning a jury summation.  "Well then Jane,"
she said, taking twice as long as needed to say "Jane", "If he comes on
to you, then welcome to the club.  That's what men do with women, don't
they?  That's what you did with that...Darlene of yours, didn't you.
You'll just have to learn to deal with it, dear.  If he's overwhelmed
by your beauty and your charm and he wants to get his hands into your
pants, then that will be a new feminine experience for you, won't it?"
Her voice grew tighter:  "You want feminine experiences, don't you?"
Then abruptly, she turned away and went into the kitchen.

I went upstairs feeling uneasy but also a little elated.  Finally she
seemed to be thawing.  Could it be that my wife was actually trying to
fix me up with this new associate of hers.  If so, was she trying to
embarrass me, to subvert my manhood in my own eyes, the way my
cross-dressing had subverted my manhood in her eyes?  Maybe she did
want me to feel like some queer queen flouncing around trying to
attract a man, not the way I liked to think of myself, as a tastefully
dressed girl chatting with other girls.  Maybe she wanted to see for
herself what kind of a woman I could be.

Well, if she was palming me off on him to humiliate me, it wasn't going
to work.  I would be friendly with him, but preoccupied.  I wouldn't
notice if he paid especially close attention to me.  I would be
pleasant, and no more than that.

Still, she was right in a way.  If a man did try try to make time with
me, that would be a new experience, a kind of affirmation of my
femininity I could feel very pleased with.  Real women enjoy that kind
of reassurance all the time.  My loins stirred, and I wondered what it
was like to be thought attractive by a complete stranger.  I wondered
if I should try flirting with him.  I began laying out my clothes for
the evening.  Some especially sexy lingerie, just for fun.

I heard Jill close the oven door and then come up, head into her room,
and close her door.  I called through it "How are we dressing tonight
honey?  You mean my prettiest dressy dress, or something more casual?"
"That's my darling," she replied.  "Don't push it -- we're supposed to
be two girls who were planning to have dinner together, with him an
extra third asked at the last minute.  A nice skirt, not elegant -- say
that black belted one that comes to mid-calf on you.  Then you'll need
a really attractive blouse to go with it, something that'll call
attention away from ...your shape.  That lovely flowered silk print,
the green one?  Heels.  And no runs in your hosiery!"

The silk print had a bold pattern, cap sleeves, and a deep neckline.
It was prim yet revealing, demure but assertive.  I loved wearing it.
It was me.  I gathered my outfit onto the bed and began to feel
optimistic.  This was the first time my wife had ever praised any of
clothes.  Before, she had ignored them.  Now she showed that she had
been noticing, and that she even approved of some.  All right!  I would
dress to please my wife, and not worry about the other man at all.  I
laid out a pair of medium-heeled black pumps, and went to shower.

Singing away in the shower, feeling good if a little apprehensive, I
suddenly realized the blouse she wanted me to wear was short-sleeved
and decollete.  The hair on my arms and chest would be visible!  I had
to do something about that.  When I dressed to please myself I could
ignore such details, as did Doreen for her own obscure reasons.  But
this was serious.  I had to look like a woman at first glance, close
up, and maintain the illusion for the whole evening, or else appear
ridiculous.

I had no choice.  Jill had spoken, so there was no way I could switch
blouses and come downstairs wearing something long sleeved and high
necked.  Besides, I wanted to look pretty for her!  With a rueful smile
but also a touch of excitement, I stepped out of the shower, reached
into the medicine cabinet, took down a razor and shaving cream, and
started shaving my whole body, chest, arms, and then for good measure
my legs and crotch.  It got to be amusing.  I decided to give myself a
bikini cut even though no one but me would ever see it, thinking that
my French-cut panties would look far nicer without pubic hair mixed
into their delicate lace edging.

Then I dressed, applied my makeup more carefully than I ever had
before, especially the foundation over my beard, but also more
sparingly than usual.  Mousse, rollers, blow-drying, and combing out,
and my hairdo was really rather flattering.  I checked myself in the
mirror.  No raving beauty, but nice, even attractive.  I noticed that
Jill was already downstairs as I came down, doing things in the
kitchen.

She smiled a wide, beautiful smile when she saw me.  "How sweet,
darling!  You remembered to shave everything!  That's very nice!  And
you look just lovely!" I was beside myself with delight.  "But dear,
you won't take offence if I make one little suggestion?  Use a little
more eye makeup.  You have very nice eyes, and you'll want them to
sparkle, and look mysterious, maybe even a little romantic." This
puzzled me, but I decided she could still be playing her own game, to
make me feel demeaned by a man's attentions, as if I dressed for other
men rather than myself and now, her.  Or maybe she had finally come
around, and she genuinely wanted to help me become beautiful?  My heart
swelled up.  Her tone had been gentle, not taunting, and I went back
upstairs to add a little eye shadow, and then slathered on the mascara.

While batting my new, long, thick eyelashes in the mirror, it occured
to me that Jill wasn't dressed the way I was dressed.  We weren't
exactly two girlfriends sharing a cozy evening, having dinner together.
Instead, Jill had put on sheer black stockings, a short leather
miniskirt I hadn't seen before, and a skin-tight, red stretch blouse
with long sleeves gathered at her wrist.  Her body and especially her
breasts were beautifully sculpted in the fabric.  She looked...sexy.
The overall effect was tasteful, but still...very sexy.

"I thought we were dressing for a casual evening at home," I said when
I came back downstairs, eying her up and down with much appreciation
and some concern.

"Oh it is, darling," she said, her head inclined, smiling slightly.
"But I want you to know right from the start, this is a very special
evening for you.  You won't forget it, I promise." She started to grin,
skipped into a little dance step, twirled, lifted both her hands up and
then out like a ballerina accepting applause, and beamed at me with
unrestrained delight.

My exile had ended!  Here I was, dressed and coiffed and made up, and I
was the man she was dressing to attract!  I reached out to embrace her,
but she deflected my attempt at a kiss and just barely pressed her
powdered cheek to mine, saying "Careful darling, you'll spoil our
makeup!"

I LOVED it.  "Our" makeup!  I really did feel like a girl among girls,
rapturously, and with my own wife!  Together we finished setting the
table, and while she looked after the last of the cooking, I set
glasses and a range of drinks out on the sideboard.  Now we were ready
for her guest.

But not quite yet.  Jill gave me a concerned look.  "Dear," she said as
I opened a bottle of wine to let it breath, "You're already acting like
this evening's host, the way you always do.  It's as if you lived here.
Remember, you're supposed to be my guest tonight.  an old friend who
feels at home here, but still, this isn't your house.  You're not
supposed to know where everything is.  You may give yourself away."

She paused.  "I know.  When he gets here it would be better if you
weren't here at all.  You have too many old habits, greeting people,
taking their coats, and we don't want them to surface, do we?" I agreed
"So," she said, "When we see him coming up the walk, you slip out the
back door, cut across to the next street, then walk around the block
and make a separate entry of your own.  That should do it."

I wasn't too happy about going outside dressed the way I was, and told
her so.  I just didn't want to risk it.  I never risked it even with
Darlene.  But she brushed aside my objections.  "Oh pooh dear, you look
just lovely.  Very much a lady.  Besides, it's dark out now.  There's
nothing to worry about.  If anyone sees you, I'm sure they'll respect
you."

I heard a car turn into the driveway.  "Quick, he's here.  Here, take
my topcoat to cover your shoulders in case its chilly out.  And you'd
better carry this purse." She gave me a delighted conspiratorial grin
and added, "Hurry back, dear.  Don't let some stranger find you too
attractive!" Then with a firm pressure stronger than I thought she
could muster, she pushed me out the back door and shut it behind me.  A
moment later I heard a car door slam shut out front.  The unexpected
evening had begun!

I felt many things, all at once.  Here I was out of doors finally,
passing as a woman at last, though to nobody in particular.  It was
scary and exciting.  I felt a cool breeze on my legs, and was suddenly
aware that my skirt felt warm against my thighs.  The air was a little
chilly.  I slipped Jill's topper onto my shoulders.  So this is how
women feel when they're outside, I thought to myself.  It's rather
pleasant.

Then it occurred to me.  I didn't know what Jill's associate was like
at all.  Whatever she wanted me to do, I'd do better if I went around
the side of the house and checked him over.  I'd feel easier about
making my own grand entrance if I knew what to expect.  Was he fat, or
young, or gawky, or dignified?  No man had ever seen me in women's
clothes, and only two women.  I wanted no surprises.  I need to match
my feminine manner to the occasion, I said to myself, and I have no
reflexes to fall back on.  Better if I watch him come up the front
steps and into the house.  So I stepped down the driveway to the front
of the house, my heels clicking, and I immediately went up onto
tip-toe.  Thank God these aren't really high heels, I said to myself.
At least I can get them off the ground.  I came around behind some
bushes in front of the house, and saw our guest's back silhouetted
against light from the open front door.  He was very tall.  Jill stood
there framed in the doorway, her hand still on the doorknob, looking up
at him.

He stepped forward, closed his arms around her, pulled her toward him,
bent over her, and leaned into an intense kiss.  She threw both her
arms around his neck and kissed him back passionately, her red sleeves
billowing over his shoulders, her legs planted apart and her hips
thrust forward against his, as though she were trying to climb into
him.  Then they separated, she stepped back into the front hall, he
took her hand and stepped inside, and Jill, her eyes never leaving his
face, closed the door.  There was nothing more to see.

I found myself still standing in our driveway, still hidden behind our
bushes, wearing my nicest black skirt, a lovely flowered print blouse,
respectable mid heels, a bit too much eye-makeup but still, very
romantic, a purse under my arm, and my wife's topper thrown across my
shoulders.  Now I had to walk around the block, then return and put on
my most genteel and ladylike manner and share dinner and the evening
with my wife and...apparently ...her lover.  I had no choice.  All my
other clothes were in the house where I couldn't get to them, and I was
outside in a skirt being Jane, my wife's best girlfriend, and it was
all arranged for me to come in and be Jane.  Again, I felt a cool
breeze across my legs.