I asked him in my strictest voice if he had obeyed my every order, and asked his
wife for permission to sleep in his bra, and so forth. The words tumbled
quavering out of him. He told all, even about her suggestion that he borrow and
wear a tampon, and that he remove his body hair, and about the nightgown. Then
he paused. His wife's indifference to his perverse vice baffled him. He said so.
I replied contemptuously, "Do you actually believe you're the first man in the
world ever to wear women's underwear?"
"No, ma'am!"
"Or the ten thousandth?"
"No, ma'am."
"Obviously she knows more than you do about these things. Do what she says! Buy
yourself a few nighties and undies. From now on when I come in I want to see you
kneeling here wearing your own bras and panties. Go to a department store and be
sure to ask the sales girl for help. Tell her they're for you. Tell her proudly.
If your wife wants you to dress in panties daily, try to be worthy of the honor."
I then got to a key point he'd overlooked. "What else did she ask you?"
I waited. And waited. Jim hesitated, unable to speak. He tried twice, but only
when he saw my toe begin to tap impatiently did he say it.
Eyes down and muttering, he said, "She asked me if I intend to grow breasts, so
my bras won't slide around."
"And do you think it's proper for your bras to slide around?"
"No," he said. He saw where I was headed, and couldn't find a way to deflect the
next question.
"Then you want to grow breasts?"
"I suppose," he said without conviction.
"Then if she'll let you, you should! Ask her to acquire the hormones you'll
need, and begin immediately!"
I then gave him a freshly soiled pair of panties and a new push-up bra to wear,
and handed him his old ones in a pink quilted lingerie bag to carry back to his
office and leave visible on his desk for the rest of the day. We set up a
schedule, three visits a week. I told him he would pay me $500 for each visit,
$1,500 weekly due the first session of each week, in cash, to prove to me that he
appreciated my services. If I could keep him hooked, I figured, he would exhaust
our savings and investments within a month or two, then begin to beg, borrow, or
steal my fees, and I'd have him. He looked a bit stunned when he heard how much
I charge, but he was already pulling away on his little penis, and so near
cumming into his soiled panties that he just nodded. A few squirts finally came,
and he stared at them. What were these moments of masturbation going to cost
him? Everything! "Good!" was all I said.
As he left I told my receptionist to give his hair a quick spray of her perfume,
a strong, musky, romantic fragrance called "Surrender!" He'd smell of it all
afternoon at work. He blushed but said nothing. I suppose he hoped people would
think it was a man's aroma, a hair tonic, or aftershave. But not "Surrender!"
Others at the bank would certainly begin looking at him peculiarly. The women
would notice first, of course. But women often feel kindly toward transvestites
and transsexuals and effeminate gays, people whose desires for themselves seem to
flatter what women are normally. Men might not notice him unless I sent him to
work dressed like a go-go dancer. As I just might, I thought -- it was a matter
of timing. I did want to be ready for a showdown by the time Jim's tits ripened.
After dinner that night I sniffed the air in our living room, then looked at Jim.
He hid behind his paper. Things were moving a little fast for him, obviously.
"It's very nice, but don't you think that scent is a little heavy for work?" I
asked him. "It's more for formal dances, evening gowns, things like that." I
stood up, picked up my purse and checked its contents, and took my topcoat out of
the closet. "For daytime find something lighter, more flowery, or more casual or
sporty. Stop in at the perfume bar at Everson's tomorrow on your way to the
bank, and ask the girl there to try a few samples on your wrist and neck. Tell
her you want something romantic, but more delicate. And while you're at it, do
buy those nightgowns and undies."
