ed. As the title indicates this is a continuance of an earlier post. You can start from scratch here, or pull Daylight - Part 1 up out of the blog archive section below and on your right. I think I will be able to wrap the story up in 3 servings, unless overwhelming negative commentary forces me to reconsider just how I spend my spare waking moments.
I cannot really recall precisely how the day ended. Nor should I. When not en femme, I am nothing if not a gentleman. I was in short supply of everything the next day though. Everything except hope, delirious hope. I was short of breath, short of clear thinking at the office, and short of focus on the homicidal drivers that haunted my drive home. My wife had other distractions on her way home though. She had made a little pit stop of her own accord at Victorias Secret. When I saw the famous pink striped bag I must have gulped air.
The contents were her attempt to gather some things for me that I might wear without feeling too too girly. There was a stretchy pull-on bra top that was as close as Victorias Secret got to sports gear back then. There was a black chemise without lace, stays or garters. I really believe that she was gingerly stepping away from classically, overly feminine styles to keep me in the spirit of helping out with her bosses party. The sweetness was unbearable. And O so absolutely unnecessary.
We spoke a little about what was required of me at the party. She explained what she knew, which wasn’t really very much, but it seemed that the whole evening and the “drag” part of it was designed more for comedy (and likely closer to tragedy) than for fantasy come true. But that little reality was not going to get in the way of some good spirited exploration in the intervening days.
There were lots of pretty things in drawers nearby, and I gamely volunteered myself up and into a waiting pair of pantyhose. While I was able to suppress verbal clues about my delight, other clues about my enthusiasms for the effort were not to be suppressed. Especially in a pair of nude light support hose. And so we discovered a new wrinkle on our time together. I am not sure that I heard the choir of angels sing, and whether it really was a fiery comet streaking the darkening sky but I may have more happily met my maker that night than any other in my life to date.
There were repeat engagements over the course of the week, and wonderful all of them. And gradual admissions on my part that this whole crossdressing thing, it was … well …. interesting. In fact I might be persuaded to try on some other things if she thought that was all well and good.
But one thing at a time. We had a party to attend after all. I was fearful that out in public I would be seen to liking this just too much, that my kink for crossdressing would shine like a beacon. False fear. The look was all camp, no tramp. A completely hideous electric blue Bridesmaid dress, bare legs and white pumps. After the little pageant was over I talked politics and golf with some of the other guests, drinking a beer straight out of the bottle, very butch and natural for maybe 30 minutes, got back into my civilian cloths and blended back into the party. Really nothing to it. I think one of the women did fondle my butt and think I feigned indignation, but things were not going to get out of control out with this public.
In private though, things were poised to get out of control. I felt that I had been waved on, green-lighted and given a passport to pursue this passion, this hidden thing, that had not been shared for long decades. Men are famously self-centered and insensitive creatures though, even those of us with a carefully tended other side. And this, I forgot about myself. If I was not so intoxicated by events, and if I was more sensitive to my surroundings, I may have been bright enough to detect some misgivings on my wife’s part. But you must know that I did not.
I did the next bit of shopping for myself, panties and pantyhose only. I remember justifying the purchase by suggesting that we could save some wear and tear on her things. I snuck in a little private underdressing and squeezed my way into some of the more risqué items in her top drawer. Lingerie rapidly became the fetishistic starters pistol for our moments of intimacy. Yes, the moments were more frequent, but now they were not ours alone.
My wife had a business trip out of town, and I had home to myself for a few days. There was a flurry of shopping. Fredericks, Charlotte Russe, a no-name shoe shop. I had my first little black dress, heels to teeter on, and the beginnings of a feminine shape underneath the outer layers. She came home, and breathlessly, I debuted my full new look without a word of warning, and without any consideration that this mad, wild escalation might somehow not be met warmly and fully anticipated. And before really even saying, “hi honey, how was your day, and can I get you a drink of something?”
Any of you who have been “caught” by significant others or wives (or anyone I suppose) can imagine the look on her face, and some of the questions she was able to pose. And perhaps you can remember or imagine how difficult it is to articulate a complex and nuanced thing with a waist cincher tugging at your stocking tops.
I stammered and blushed and changed. Back in drab, I could only explain that I was not any of the things she feared. I could not explain exactly what I was though. And in so failing, managed to walk out of the daylight I had been so freakishly fortunate to find.
And so now, like last week, I will hit the pause button. Next week I will attempt to conclude the story for you and me both. Observations on this story, or your own story are most welcomed here. Thanks for reading - Petra