You Can Always Say No Ch. 02
Keywords: You, Ch., Always, No, 02, Say, Can,
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We had had 'The Talk' in the afterglow of that first evening of sex in our newly-revised relationship, less than a month before we exchanged vows. There is nothing more abjectly terrifying – for either person – than laying bare your soul at such an intimate level. He admitted his wants, needs, and desires; I reciprocated. He did, indeed, have a 'sissy' streak a mile wide, had had it since childhood, yet was unsure of how, or how much, he wanted to express. His cock had "throbbed "within me when I revealed my dominant desires and need to be in control.
Still, he gulped hard when I related my BDSM experiences with Deidre and the others. My revelations both fascinated and frightened him. I could see the visions in his head, of me as the cold, cruel, manipulative bitch we both had read about. The truth is, I "am "a manipulative bitch, but neither cold nor cruel where my precious Alan is concerned. Still, I adored playing the role in the past and wasn't sure I was completely over that.
Also, my curiosity had been piqued. My lover had all those stories on his computer. More than a few – more than could be simply dismissed as coincidence - were tales of haughty, arrogant women who had enslaved and sissified their men, then subjected them to maid service, cuckoldry, spankings, sexual subjugation to men, even Infantilism – and this was just the tip of the iceberg. There was some of the most vile public degradation and humiliation I could imagine; far eclipsing, in my mind, the 'adult games' I had enjoyed with Deidre and the rest. Yet, "he had never purged these stories". Had he downloaded them, then never bothered to read them? Or was there some part of his psyche that was morbidly drawn to such fantasies? I didn't have to ask to know he would hotly deny it. Still....
I was very honest and up-front with him. The cross-dressing, sissification, "and other "aspects of our relationship were a new vista for me, one I wished to explore to the fullest. I wouldn't "guarantee "our union would go to the extremes of bondage and pain those earlier ones did, but in fairness, I wasn't willing to rule it out, either. In the end, we did what lovers have always done; we negotiated, opting to see where the day took us. We both knew without saying; the road ahead would very likely push our trust in each other to its very limits, then beyond.
From that moment on, I not only encouraged his dressing; I helped him with it. A war raged within me, the Jekyll and Hyde of my soul each demanding his due. On the one hand, I had a loving, caring relationship with a smart, sassy, considerate guy who gave me oodles of great sex, was a joy to cuddle with "after "the great sex, and enjoyed going out with me after a hard day of work, rather than becoming a 'spud stud' on the sofa in front of the television. He sent me flowers 'just because'. He actually gave a damn about our house being neat and clean, to the point of sometimes making "me "look like a slob. He cleaned the sink when he was done in the morning. "He put the seat down". He talked "to "me; not at me, through me, or over my head. Oh, yeah, and he could cook, too – and I don't mean "Hot Pockets "in the microwave. Guys like that "actually exist"? Yuppers; I got me one!
On the other hand, the domina in me wanted to come out, express her supremacy. Certain lifestyle dominas, writing on the Internet, had expressed their pleasure at completely crushing the will of their supplicants. Maybe it's just me; I didn't see how they could possibly do that, yet claim they had feelings for those poor wretches. Alan presented a unique intellectual challenge; how far could I go to bend my husband's will to submit to mine without breaking his spirit? I thought back to, of all things, a war movie (not my favorite genre): "Twelve O'Clock High". What is 'maximum effort'? I "wanted "to push his limits, beyond any he might ever have imagined. How far was I willing to push my own? The 'doormat dilemma' loomed large in my mind; I wanted my obedient, uninhibited, sexy, sissy submissive, minus the "Welcome "sign tattooed across his chest.
Taking my inspiration from a series of television beer commercials featuring the usual plethora of has-been jocks, actors, and other comedians, I established a few "Ma'am Rules." For instance: "If you want to "wear "the clothes, you have to "look good "in them. There is nothing grosser-looking than a hairy, fat man in a dress; am I right, or am I right? Alan, a lifelong runner, was "not fat". Still, it was fun to take him to my aerobics and tae-bo classes Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons after work. Even he huffed and puffed a bit in the beginning. He threw himself into it though, adding Tuesday and Thursday afternoons as well. I couldn't make it those days, as I reserved Tuesday and Thursday evenings for taking clients to dinner (old business, new business, or just general schmoozing) or catching up on my paperwork. Such is the life of a Veep. The five-day-a-week exercise classes, plus severely restricting Alan's intake of cheeseburgers, pizza, sugared sodas and the like, made the pounds melt away and firmed up his body nicely.
Some women like men with facial and/or body hair; I am not one of them. Hey, I like teddy bears as much as the next girl, but I will only share my bed with one – the stuffed variety – if my hubby is out of town on business. Besides, that image was all wrong for my sexy Alan. It's amazing what a few heartfelt words of encouragement, spoken during a good, therapeutic fucking, will do to get a man over the what-will-people-say-when-they-see-me-hairless stage.
I think he was more relieved than anything else when he finally capitulated. Alan hated to shave, much less shave every day, but he hated body hair even more. I accompanied him to the clinic for each session of laser depilation. After all, this was something he was doing for me, for us, not just for himself. After the treatment regimen was complete, he never had to shave again. Once he was hair-free, I required him to keep his body satiny-smooth with daily applications of rich, emollient-laden body lotion and scented powder. He felt, and smelled, "wonderful".
In for a penny, in for a pound. The laser tech happened to mention in passing a similar process, using a broader-beamed high-intensity light, rather than a narrow-focused laser beam, to re-surface the skin, removing the same imperfections micro-dermabrasion did, but giving better results with fewer treatments. They did not perform that procedure at the depilation clinic, but the technician gave me the address and telephone number of a clinic that specialized in it.
Caught up in the adventure of it all, I convinced Alan we should both undergo the course of therapy ("It isn't all that, Sweetie. The nurse says they have actresses, actors, millionaires, and business professionals, both male and female, coming in here all the time."). That meant we both went home a dozen times, looking like we had bad sunburn. In the end, it "did "make me look like I was twenty-two again. Chalk it up to bad luck or good genes; Alan looked like he was about sixteen – the bitch! Honestly, I was afraid when we went out for a night on the town from then on, he was going to be carded.
To celebrate the results of his hard work and sacrifice, I took him shopping for lingerie, skirts, shoes, boots, camisoles, wigs, and other frilly, feminine delights. That led to my second Ma'am Rule: If we are shopping for you, we are shopping "for ""you". That may sound redundant, until the two of you – and you haven't convinced him to dress in public yet - get to the store, where you announce, ever so sweetly: "my husband needs to be fitted for bras and panties. Is there a changing room available?" That led to some deliciously embarrassing moments for him right away: smirks, snickers, plus more cloying "Dearie's" and "Sweetie's" than you can possibly imagine.
The upside was two-fold. First, we amassed a fabulous wardrobe for him, from dreamy/romantic to sexy/kinky/fetish, and it all fit perfectly. Second, apart from their teasing remarks, the sales associates we dealt with agreed to the last; sight unseen, Alan would make a really attractive 'girl'. We even picked out a perfume for him; a sensual, provocative 'signature scent' that would be his and his alone. Of all the fragrances we tested, I liked "Obsession "on him the best. It became part of his 'dress code' (Ma'am Rule Number Three): he was to wear his signature scent whenever he went out in "en femme".
I decided two things about shoes for him early on. First, I wanted him to wear only the femmiest, sexiest of heels. After all, if I was going to construct my fantasy 'girlfriend', why would I want some dull suburban "housfrau "in flats? Call me a revisionist; I look and feel better in spikes than chunky heels, and Alan does, too. Second, Ma'am Rule Number Two would be strictly enforced; he not only had to try each pair on in the store, he had to model them for me and the sales associates by walking back and forth across the floor. This wasn't just another way to embarrass him. A badly-fitting bra can be an annoyance; a badly-fitting high-heeled shoe can be crippling.
We began our search in specialty fetish shops, attended to by associates who had 'seen it all'. Once Alan got over his initial fright, I graduated him to the trendy chain shoe stores in the mall, restricting our initial forays to weekday afternoons when there were fewer gawkers traipsing back and forth. It may have been a humiliation for Alan (and an industrial-strength turn-on for me, watching him) to strut back and forth in high heels in so public a venue, but to our attendants, it was just another commission – and a handsome one at that, given the amount of money we spent. Of course, if I saw something I liked for "me", I wouldn't hesitate to buy it.
Unless you have ever experienced it, you have no clue how erotic and sexually-charged shoe shopping with, and for, your lover can be.
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Keywords: You, Ch., Always, No, 02, Say, Can,