A story about a husband whose unfaithful wife slowly transforms him into womanhood - starting with the dressing him up, then making him wear make up, then forcing him to stay at home and do all the housework, and finally persuading him to make more permanent changes to his body...

For the next few weeks I encouraged my crossdressing husband to think of our new arrangement as normal. He did everything as usual, but as a woman. Most evenings he'd report that there were no problems, people seemed to assume that's what he was. He awoke each morning already quite pretty, thanks to Doreen's facial dyes, but we performed our half-hour beauty routines together anyhow. He needed extra time with his hairdo, and while he fussed I told him little tales from my own girlhood, about different exciting first tries of grown-up things like bras and lipstick, about prepping for dates, things like that, so he could share my girlhood, not having had one of his own. We had a lovely time, chatting together like two girls (or perhaps one girl and one crossdressing sissy) anywhere about almost everything. Except about men -- men who did I was sleeping with, men with whom I was cuckolding my sweet hubby.


Then we'd have breakfast and I'd be off for the office, leaving my sissy crossdresser to do his own things. We'd always shared the housework, but since he had more time available, he took it all over, as he had last summer too. He spent a lot of time working in his study. I guessed it was on his "I was a woman for three months" project. I hoped so, because that would give his new life legitimacy in his own eyes.

He was no longer my mildly whimsical, lightly ironic, even-tempered hubby. As a sissy crossdresser maid, his moods varied. Some mornings he'd awaken a little solemn, maybe mournful, maybe impatient, though he never said anything. I could tell because in that mood he'd never volunteer to share stories about his day, only answer me listlessly, and he'd apply his make-up as if it were a boring routine, not an artful honor. Those mornings he'd always get a pill before I left for work, if it wasn't a Saturday when I knew Doreen would be feeding him one anyhow. I'd tell him to relax by gardening, to put on his flared shorts and a halter and get into the sunshine and fresh air and cultivate our flower beds. That he had nice legs, especially now that they were waxed smooth and Doreen's treatments had made their skin so soft, that he should show them off more.

He did. The neighbors saw a lot of my crossdressing sissy husband on those days: a strange blonde woman impeccably made up, moving among our lawns and shrubs as if in a dream, combing the soil between plants. I later learned that he'd once gone mall-shopping dressed in those same scanty shorts and halter -- one of our local wives sent a letter to the editor of the neighborhood newspaper deploring a hussy she'd seen parading herself in and out of stores dressed that way. My crossdressing husband looked wickedly pleased when he showed it to me.

But most mornings he'd awaken zestful, choose an outfit for the day -- casual, sporty, or dressy -- and do things I'd read about afterward. He started a journal and left it open on his desk. When I looked into it, as I did regularly, it became obvious that he was now actively seeking out womanly experiences and enjoying them, diligently doing his research for his book. His perfume had become a non-issue, as I'd predicted. He always wore a light spray when dressed casually and a heavier scent in the evening, but even when not, his oil treatments infused his skin with a faint aroma. It was so lovely! I'm sure it brightened the moods of others who caught his scent as he passed them, but of course now it raised no questions at all. When he went in to use his college's library, he showed the librarians his faculty ID card and then proceeded as if he were the person pictured on the card. They never questioned him -- rather, they assumed he was his own somewhat provocative summer research assistant, and granted him all of his usual borrowing privileges.

Once while crossing the quad one of his colleagues in Mathematics made a pass at him, inviting him to pass some time in his office, where my crossdressing cuckold husband knew there was a couch. My cuckold told him primly that he never dated men, that he lived with another woman and dressed this way only to please her, and that she was his partner for life. All true enough. The man got flustered and practically fled, my cuckold told me.

But that wasn't the only time he was hit on. He often expressed annoyance at how bold and persistent some men could be, how irritating the intrusions on his attention. That was especially satisfying -- he was was learning that men respect their own lechery more than a woman's privacy -- they were always testing the availability of anything in skirts. That was certainly true of Craig until I took to mocking his impotence when we were both exhausted with fucking and he realized he'd better concentrate his energies if he ever hoped to get the better of me. Though it was never true of my cuckold, my one-woman man who was now my one woman woman.

He ran errands in the neighborhood secure in the knowledge that no one would recognize him. The genial professor was nowhere visible in the tallish, brassy, flashily dressed blonde. Sometimes he went downtown to look about in upscale stores, as he put it to "simulate shopping," trying to feel his way into women's thoughts and rhythms as they engaged that recreational activity. He'd chat cheerfully with other women shoppers, with shopgirls, with waitresses, on Saturdays with Doreen's manicurist, anyone. He was always friendly, always grateful for their help, and I think secretly delighted that they accepted him as one of them. At night he watched the young women in TV sitcoms to see which of their mannerisms he could imitate and make his own. He developed the cutest ways of asking questions, or of indicating surprise, as if he too were a sprightly actress.

I was proud of my hubby. He'd been such a lovely man, and now he was becoming such a lovely woman!

Some women realized after a while that they were really dealing with a beautifully disguised man. A few turned away disgusted, but more were rather taken by the idea. They were fascinated by the idea of a man who crossdressed because he wanted to be what they already were, perhaps a transsexual who believed he really was a woman despite his body -- that gave them a sense of privilege, that what they were was desirable.

Or, they thought him a man perhaps so exuberantly confident of his masculinity that he wanted to try anything life offers, even living like a woman. They liked it that he could share their special concerns and appreciate even their trivial frustrations, and many regretted that their own cuckold husbands lacked his sensitivity as well as his courage. My crossdressing cuckold talked about everything with them except his own boyfriends and he gave them excellent advice about theirs. He'd listen to them the way women listen to each other, sympathetically, not like a man who wants to identify a problem, find a quick solution, and then move on.

He cultivated an impudent personality to go with the look Doreen had given him, a lightly sardonic, liberated manner, and he enjoyed what then followed. Some women told him their most intimate secrets, knowing he'd understand. Some offered to find him dates, and never understood why he always turned them down. Many just wanted to dress him up, he was so eager to learn about fashion, so eager to put on dresses, skirts, bras, pantyhose, heels....

What kind of man makes a better companion? What kind might make a better lover? These women found him as attractive as I did, but as a man who had chosen to live their lives, not just as a female friend. This wasn't what I wanted for him. I especially began to worry when I read in his journal that the salesgirl in a darling little boutique where he'd already bought a few dresses and a bustier for me had invited him back to her place after closing hours for what she obviously hoped would be some private fittings. He'd been unable to accept, that particular time, but he did offer her a rain check.

I wondered about that, and was tempted to increase his tranquillizer dosage to keep his penis soft, and I confess I did just that for a few days. But then all he did was stay home smiling at the TV or at his own reflection in the windows. And that was unfair -- I didn't want him merely warehoused for the summer! So I returned him to his usual dosage, enough to leave him his mind and energy intact yet keep him moderately content. As a hot looking woman, or as a man who was dressed as a woman, he was going to attract various kinds of people, women as well as men. It was inevitable. That's just how things are, I realized. And he was enjoying himself, while remaining as faithful to me as ever. I liked that. Often, when Craig's face was buried in my ass because I'd dared him to taste what he'd just done to me there, and there was nothing else to think about, I got a warm glow thinking about my honey and her bees.

Maybe it was unfair to him not to move him further, make him even more womanly? I realized one day that his journal entries had an odd tone. He was writing as if his ventures were reconnaissance missions into enemy territory. He was thinking and feeling like a man disguised as a woman, a transvestite, or perhaps a sissy crossdresser. This was not what I wanted. If he thought he was a man, other women might too, and that could lead to mischief. And I certainly didn't want to think of him as a man -- Craig was all the man I wanted to deal with. Plainly, I had to push my crossdressing cuckold further. But how?

It dawned on me only slowly. His tranquillizer pills began to show some distinct secondary effects. His nipples became noticeably larger, protrusive, puffed out and incredibly sensitive. I found in fact that I could make his slack penis drool just by touching them. One morning when I was sucking and caressing them gently I noticed him grow raptly attentive to some inner kind of music, breathing more and more deeply, his eyes closed. Then suddenly he stiffened and gasped and moaned aloud in a kind of agony, then with joyous satisfaction. I reached for his cock and found it slick and slippery, and his balls and belly too. He'd actually climaxed without my touching him down below at all! My new girlfriend with his boy's equipment had actually had a girl's orgasm! The same as when I'd fucked his ass with a dildo!

That was as satisfying to me as I am sure it was for him, because it meant he didn't need erections in order to enjoy for himself the erotic pleasure I was getting from Craig. So I wasn't cheating him after all. He seemed too embarrassed to mention his inability to get hard or his nipples' altered appearance, but I knew he had to be puzzled or anxious about both. So I raised the topic one evening while caressing and kissing his new little boobs, his head flung back on the pillow in ecstasy.

"Being a woman can be just heavenly, can't it?" I asked.

"Oh, y..y..yes" was all he could gasp. "It's a shame that when it's over, your body will go back to the way it was. That your clit will become a stiff penis again." "Oh," he said, as I leaned in to lick the fat nub his nipple had become. "It will? ...ooooh! ...oh!... That's a relief... ahhhh, I didn't know, I was worried!" I then began flicking my tongue on one nipple, and teasing the other between two fingers. He let out a little yip. "But if you like this you can keep these afterward. They don't have to disappear. Do you like this?" "Oh! Oh Mandy! Oh, yes, yes, I do!" "Really? Good! Then it's settled, you'll keep them."

I said no more. He was half out of his mind, but he'd agreed to keep his enlarged nipples. He didn't know he had no choice of course

I might have been mistaken, but his rear end actually began to look cute too! At first I worried about it, but finally I liked even that. A nice round butt instead of his skinny one, yet another physical change all to the good. It too would remain when the summer and my glorious affair with Craig had ended, but I didn't mind. Whenever I saw them, his nipples and his ass would remind me of my wonderful hubby's unknowing sacrifice of some of his manhood so I could enjoy another man's greater manhood guilt-free. And each day he was getting more and more understanding of my point of view. Our morning chats really were getting to be like gossip and giggle sessions between two women.

I couldn't escape the idea. If his body and his attitudes were turning the corner from masculine to feminine, I should make some other changes too. Make him more of a woman, give him a real figure. In fact give him everything but an actual vagina. Cheryl persuaded me that a vagina would be too much, it was too dangerous. If Mort had a vagina, she pointed out, he'd feel free to leave her altogether to live a normal woman's life. Without one, he'd always be incomplete, and that was how we wanted our girly men. "But that doesn't mean he can't develop above the waist as we all did," she added. "Especially since you say he gets so much enjoyment out of his titties already."

That made sense. I was starting to conclude that my cuckold crossdresser needed breasts. Not just the tokens he was growing, but large, heavy breasts. Daily, hourly reminders that he wasn't an imitation but mostly the real thing, that he had no choice but to think of himself that way. A resident woman, not just a visitor or a spy.

I'd already gotten him a beautiful pair of curved silicone breasts, heavy, soft, glue-on prostheses, so he'd appreciate how women feel about wearing bras, how bras provide essential support yet pull at the shoulders, So he'd always remember to wear his own bras or else endure an uncomfortable and absurd bobbling when he was jogging or doing his morning jazzercise routine. So he couldn't possibly relapse and go out dressed as a man when I was at work. But now I realized that his artificial breasts weren't enough. Real ones were better.

I did want him to want them, but I couldn't figure out how to make him want them. I couldn't tell him how Craig did certain things to mine that drove me wild, in fact led me into chain orgasms by touching, licking, or sucking my breasts in special ways, especially my nipples. I did much the same to him as his nipples grew. But his lacked the heft, the generous, soft, ripe handfuls of flesh Craig could clasp and lift gently until I couldn't resist him and had to climb back onto him until he was into me. My crossdressing cuckold didn't have anything like that even though his nipples became impressive.

I always encouraged him to make love to my breasts, to caress and kiss and tongue them, and I always made ecstatic sounds suggesting how that made me feel. And of course I brought him to orgasm repeatedly with his. But he never envied my boobs. I realized that on his own he'd never ask for larger breasts. I decided he had to be granted them as if they were a special blessing, a gift, as a fait accompli. Then he'd have to accept them, and I was sure he would. But how?

The perfect opportunity arrived a month into my affair and my crossdressing cuckold’s womanhood. Craig and I were each due two weeks of summer vacation. Craig proposed that we sail away together for the whole time on a yacht he could borrow, to Bermuda and back, just the two of us alone in a small boat on a wide ocean, naked and in close quarters the whole time. His intentions were obvious enough. He wanted to lay serious seige to me, to capture my heart entirely if he could, so he could then feel free to toss it aside if he wished. He wanted to conquer me. I thought I could do the same with him, or maybe two weeks of uninterrupted lovemaking would weary both of us beyond any desire to continue the affair. Or maybe we'd find that climbing into and around each other as a daily thing habituated us, build our passion to an intensity that would sustain itself during the succeeding months of the summer, when we'd be seeing each other only weekly again.

Well, if I could get my crossdressing cuckold out of town, he'd never know that I was out of town too! I asked Cheryl how to do it, and she provided the easy answer. Tell my crossdressing cuckold that he had to get rid of all the hair on his whole body for good, permanently, excepting only his Bikini patch and his eyebrows. That the soft, silky skin Doreen had given him was denied its proper sheen by the hair follicles he'd unfortunately developed in his puberty. That his natural beauty required perfect smoothness. That his close daily shave was onerous for him and scratchy for me, tiresome for both of us. That he deserved to be liberated from that ordeal so he could spend more time gracing his eyes and cheeks with shadows and blushes. That he didn't deserve the pain of a weekly full body waxing either. That I'd love him forever if he got rid all of his hair permanently, by electrolysis and lasers, if he'd make that small sacrifice for me, no sacrifice really, since since he never intended anyhow to grow a beard or a moustache. That I didn't like them.

I told him that there was a special clinic in Texas for transgendered men where they could render anyone hairless skillfully, thoroughly, and painlessly in only two weeks instead of the years otherwise needed. That they eliminated all bodily and facial hair while their clients were in day-long tranquillized stupors. I told him I'd make all the arrangements, that all he had to do was travel there and then at the end of two weeks travel back looking prettier than ever.

He agreed. "It's only hair," he commented. " No big deal. If that's what you want."

"Oh yes," I said. "I do!" I certainly did. I told him I could bear up and live without him for the two weeks, knowing that he'd be returning to me perfected in his resolve to live as a woman until fall classes began again. That he really and truly cared about how I felt.

He smiled, pleased that he'd pleased me.

That same clinic offered other cosmetic procedures I didn't mention to my crossdressing cuckold. I phoned them and ordered the full body and facial depillation for which they were famous, then also ordered large breast implants for my crossdressing cuckold. On impulse I also ordered a modest amount of fat redistribution for him, liposuction of fat from his waistline to his buttocks, so they'd be really round. He'd not only have smooth skin and boobs, he'd have an incredible ass! Let him try to be a man like Craig looking like that! I recalled that first Sunday of our new arrangement, when I'd first seen him standing naked and contemplating my panties, and I'd realized that if his figure was less thin, more feminine, more curvacious, I wouldn't at all mind. That then he'd be my girl, and Craig would be my man, and my life would be complete. Best of all, by the time he returned to full consciousness and to me, he'd be mostly healed. It would be a done deal. I knew him -- he'd accept it and decide to live with it.

My hubby now well tended, I was free to enjoy my trip to Bermuda. It was incredible! We sailed and fucked, sailed and sucked, sailed and rolled all over each other. I seduced Craig and had his cock working deep inside me before we'd even left the inner harbor and set the mainsail, and that set our schedule for the week. In Bermuda we found a luxurious hotel and never left the room except for a brief trip when I bought myself some seductive outfits that had Craig all over me, tearing them off, the whole trip back. When we returned to port we were even more feverish with desire for each other than when we'd begun, and could barely unplaster ourselves. As I lay with my palms flat against across Craig's bare, hard, bronzed, muscular chest that final morning, and kissed him once each on nipples he could hardly feel, I had to smile. Because I knew that at that very moment my my crossdressing cuckold was flying back to me with a chest as white, soft, heavy, and well-hung as my own. That he now had full breasts suspended from his chest fully proportional to his enlarged, protruding nipples. I'd seen pictures of what the clinic could do -- he had an ass now too I knew, buns to die for! We'd shop for tight pants as soon as we were back together, and then he'd be able to show them to the world! My girly hubby, who now needed to wear a support bra every day! I did so want to see him give men erections just by walking away from them!

Now my sweet my crossdressing cuckold was no way a man. I was free to fuck Craig without a care in the world. I was free to cuckold him with all and every man I wanted. But I'd make sure while my affair lasted that my cuckold never regretted trading in his penis for a beautiful figure. It was only temporary anyhow, I told myself.

I did fuck Craig yet again when the boat was finally secured in its slip and we were free to go below one last time! We stayed for hours. I wanted to fill my pussy full up with fresh sperm and my own sweet lubrication to welcome my dear hubby home again! And I did. This time I had him kneel beside the bed while I lay across it casually, my feet still on the floor, and I had him push his face into my pussy and fill his tummy. Then I fucked his ass and squeezed almost a cupful of Craig's sperm out of my dildo's balls and into his ass. I'd saved it for his welcome home! The poor dear leaked half the night.

A few days later I read his journal entries of what had happened to him in Texas. When he'd emerged from his long stupor he knew he'd be hairless, and he certainly was. But he was altogether unprepared to see his voluptuous figure. When the nurses helped him to his feet, there were large, pendulous breasts pushing out from his chest and then arching delicately down, massive yet dainty. And his body no longer descended from chest to thighs in an approximately straight line as men's bodies do -- instead, he curved steeply to a small waistline, then around and out into broad hips. He was a girl! No, his cock was still there, bald as when he was a boy, but it looked small, non-consequential. His shape seemed as exaggerated as a stripper's or a porn star's, no longer recognizable as his own.

At first he was horrified. But even as he looked he felt his soft cock begin to stir! He looked so incredibly sexy! He felt turned on by his own mirror image. Did he want to fuck himself?

No, he told himself, I'm already fucked! But as I read on, as I'd hoped and expected he accommodated to it. 'This is no accident,' he wrote. 'Amanda wants me this way, and she's tricked me into it just as she intimidated me into spending the summer as a woman. But why? Is she a closet lesbian? If she is, I still love her. All she'd had to do was ask me, and I'd have done what she wanted! Well, we'll see. I trust her. She'll tell me why she wanted me this way when the summer's over and I can shift back to being myself.'

It was that easy. That was all I had to do. For a couple more months now I could be a hard-fucking, sexually voracious woman with Craig and a loving lesbian with my crossdressing cuckold. Then in September we'd sort things out. That night I found I no longer needed a pillow in order to give his ass a long, slow, lingering love-fest with his favorite dildo, all the while I was giving his breasts a taste of what Craig often did with mine, lifting and shaping and caressing them with both hands and my mouth. He went blissfully ecstatic. Any lingering resentment he might have felt at being tricked vanished. When the summer ended, I told him, he could easily have his breasts removed, but meanwhile they were his to enjoy, my surprise gift to him. Did he like having them? He did.

And by mid August I was so accustomed to being married to a crossdressing cuckold with tits that I no longer noticed them. He'd gotten accustomed too, so much so that when he put on a bra in the morning he'd bend forward and dunk himself into the cups while clipping the band behind his back all in a single fluid motion, without thinking. He was more graceful at it than many women I've seen getting dressed. ..


But if she knew I knew about her uncontrollable passion for this guy, whoever he is, it would devastate her. She couldn't handle it. Between her feelings of guilt, her frustration, her antagonism toward me for interfering, and her thwarted passion she'd tear our marriage to shreds. So I need to protect her from knowing I know.

And the fact is, I don't mind having these boobs. Not having them but trying to be a woman anyhow has been inconvenient. Now I feel authentic. They open a whole new world to me. And besides, they feel incredibly sexy.

And did I mention that I now have a woman's butt too? I can wear pants again and never for a moment be mistaken for a man! Those guys on the street who pinch my ass in passing now really have something to get their fingers into. But I won't encourage them.

Mort thinks we should stop seeing each other so often. Cheryl doesn't mind the way we've been going at it so hot and heavy lately, and she promises not to tell Mandy, but it's getting pretty intense, all this smooching and stroking, all this fingering of each other's pussies. Even though the orgasms are fantastic. I think Mort's feeling grieved because I won't suck his clit to climax even though he sucks mine every time we meet. I keep telling him I want to be a one-man girl, I want to keep my mouth faithful to Mandy's lover's cum, to respect the integrity of Mandy's decision to share it with me, whatever her reasons. That's my way to stay married and faithful to her. I wish Mort could understand that.

More and more I like being a girl. In fact I love it! Especially now that Marge and Annemarie have accepted me as one of them, and allow me to get naked and form a daisy chain with them now and then. We sometimes lick each other non-stop, round and round all afternoon when we should be doing our proper work. And sometimes we use dildos on each other. I wish my 'meat dildo' as Marge calls it would get stiff enough to use on them. I love getting fucked. But I also love just being one of the girls together with them, hanging out, chatting, just being with them the way Mandy likes to be with me, she says. And often is, when she has the time. It's really lovely.

Last night Mandy set me up to suck a guy's cock. She sucked another guy's, but I think only to encourage me and keep me company. We found them in a bar. He was a nice man, and he hadn't the foggiest that I wasn't a desirable girl. It wasn't easy for me, watching Mandy suck off the other guy, I am her crossdressing sissy after all, and it shook me up so badly I could hardly hold my own guy's cock in my mouth. But that's how it is, she's faithful to me in her fashion, and I have to live with it. So now I'm a cocksucker. She has something else in mind for me too, I don't know what. Nor why.

Anyhow, today I called Mort up and told him now it was all right, I was willing now to go all the way with him orally. We met for lunch at Les Bergeres and then we went to a motel, and it was wonderful how we slipped under each other's skirts and then sucked on each other's clits all afternoon, and never even felt the need to undress! Mine stays soft, but what it can't shoot out leaks out, and it all feels wonderful. We arranged to do the same thing next week, first lunch, then blissfully suck on each other.

Mort is a sweet girl. He's been such a big help to me, what with all his advice about girlish mannerisms and makeup and shopping, little tricks to make a girl's life easier. And repeating to me over and over, stay with your wife, wait out the summer. That's what he does, in fact that's what he'll be doing for his whole life, not just one summer. He knows it isn't easy.

Last night Mandy's boyfriend fucked me. I could tell that's who he was, because who else would have dared to do that in our own living room with Mandy only a few steps away in the kitchen. A setup. But do I mind? It's wonderful to be a woman when there are men like that in the world, I know that now! I don't blame Mandy one bit. In fact I'm grateful she really shared this time, her whole man, not just his leftovers! I'll try to return the favor some day.

Now that I've been well-fucked I might want to stay this way when the summer's over, though I won't tell Mandy that just yet. She'll need time to get used to the idea that she could find herself a lawfully married lesbian. We've agreed already that if I remain a woman, we'll have casual relations with men whenever we feel the need. So no fear I'll ever be deprived of that, now that I know how it feels.

This morning I told my Dean I'd be returning to the campus this fall as a woman, if he didn't mind. He didn't. In fact he told me it would be illegal for him to mind, that in fact he was rather pleased to hear I'd found my true calling, if that's what it is. Then he joked that of course now I'm a woman he'll have to reduce my salary by one-third to keep it in line with what other women earn. I told him I was about to say "Fuck you" in response, but that ladies don't use that kind of language except for one thing, and I didn't want him to think I was propositioning him. Our regular monthly poker game is still on, even though I'm now a woman. "Your money's still good," he said as we shook hands. He gave me a courtly kiss on the cheek, too. I better get used to that kind of thing.


he people at the Driver's License Bureau were less polite, but they were efficient, so I now have a changed license with my new photo. I'm a blonde officially now.

Mandy seems sad. I think she's feeling the way anyone would when a grand passion ends. And she still doesn't know whether our marriage will also end a few days from now, when all our agreements end. Poor thing. I've known for two weeks now, ever since that hunk of hers fucked me, but the uncertainty's good for her. I'll try to make it up to her afterward, be her best girlfriend ever and all. Mort is already pleased, because our little luncheon trysts together can now become a regular thing. I'm so glad I took his advice and decided not to force the issue, but instead to stay married and wait. Some day maybe Mandy'll feel she can confess all to me, tell me what she's been doing this summer and why she thought she had to feminize me, tell me all about this Craig she was seeing. The poor dear. But I won't force her. I love her. I can wait.

Well, that's the kind of thing I found in my cuckold's private diary. Isn't he sweet? Isn't he a self-centered, manipulative, pompous hypocrite? He knew about me and Craig all along, how trapped and ashamed I felt, the bastard, and he used me, he allowed me to feel responsible for doing to him exactly what he wanted me to do, so he could enjoy the pleasures of unwitting martyrdom, stoop to become a woman and then rise nobly to the challenge! He seemed so understanding, so tenderly concerned for me! And all the while I was feeling so terribly guilty about what he didn't know, and what I was doing to him, and what I had to do to him to relieve my guilt and keep my dread secret safe. But he already knew!

And here he is pretending to be unsure how he'll decide to live, maybe leave me, maybe resume his manliness, maybe stay in the sex I supposedly forced him into, when in fact he's already decided and filed the papers and made it official. And meanwhile he's been cavorting with Mort, and Marge, and Annemarie, and who knows who else, not feeling the slightest bit ashamed or guilty. Enjoying it! And all through the journal he parades his compassionate understanding and forgiveness of himself and sometimes even of me!

Well, I'm now purged of guilt for my transgressions against him. He used me as an excuse to drift into different transvestite humiliation fantasies he's always had and never shared with me I guess, different forced submission scenarios. Now I'll see to it that he lives in them for the rest of his life! I mean to put him to the test. When he wakes up, first thing I'll feed him his last portion of Craig's cum, between his teeth, and when he's swallowed it all down, yum, I'll deliver him an ultimatum.

I'll tell him he really has no choice. He's been a woman for three months now so if he's to live with me, that's what he'll have to be for the rest of his life. Because that's what he'll always be in my mind from now on anyhow. If he goes back to being a man I'll always see him as an effeminate facsimile man. I'll always remember how pretty he looked in his bras and panties no matter how manly his appearance, and of course he'll always have those nipples even if he tries to get breast reduction surgery. Once my girlfriend, I'll tell him, always my girlfriend, and never again a masculine lover, never ever again the most distant imitation of a real man like Craig.

That much maybe he won't mind, since he's already decided to do me a favor and live as my girlfriend from now on. But he'll need to consider this too. I may be his loving wife, but he knows what I've done, so I'll always also be an adulteress in his eyes. We both know that. He'll always be tempted to get off on the fantasy of me fucking someone else, and I mean to help him envision just that. Often.

He won't mind, not deep down. He really does love the idea, that's why he didn't insist I stop the moment he saw what I was doing, saw that I was obsessed with screwing Craig over and over. He didn't feel broken up at all! That's how come I was able to emasculate him so easily and feminize him so thoroughly, and that's why week after week he meekly licked up Craig's spunk as if he didn't know what it was! I was right, he should be a woman! As a woman, he'll never need to compete for my affections with the Craigs of this world, and he should know this. He should also know that as a man he'll always be nowhere, out of the running.

So as he likes to say, he has no choice. Those are the paths we've each chosen to walk, me forever a passionate adulteress, and him forever a feminized crossdressed cuckold. So be it. I can't ever again live with him as a man.

But as a woman I can still respect him. Respect her, I mean, even admire her. And love her, love her deeply even. She's still the girl I married, gentle and clever, and a wonderful companion. She'll always be my favorite cuckold. I'll never have a better,and I'll never want one!

That's what I told my cuckold later that day. For once she was genuinely remorseful. She fell into my arms in tears, and we then discussed the whole matter slowly and carefully. I showed her everything I'd written, and told her the rest, and we talked about alternatives. Leaving me was out of the question for her, unthinkable, she loves me, she said. Meaning perhaps that she's addicted to what I've been doing to her for the past three months, she loves her feminine submission fantasies, but I'm sure that some of it is genuine love, that she cares deeply for me. In the end she agreed to remain a woman, and that's what she'll be from now on, without pretending this time that it's all for my sake.

Our marriage is more important than anything else in her life, she told me, and she'd do anything to preserve it. I believe her. "Even cut off your balls?" I asked her on impulse. She already has, very nearly, figuratively speaking, I was thinking. I insisted that she nod 'yes,' and slowly, she did just that


Yes! The poor dear. "It must be terrible to be obsessed like this," I told her. "But we both have to ride it out, don't we. And hope. Then when it's all over, we'll be able to see what's left." Those words seemed vaguely familiar to her, but all she did was nod again.

So she'll start on proper hormones, and in the not-too-distant future we'll get her a proper vagina to please the men we'll occasionally pick up and fuck when one of us gets the urge. As for sucking my cunt when it's dripping cum, I always did love seeing her wide eyes staring up at me while those pillowy lips were pressed against my own lips, and nowhere in that journal of hers did my darling ever complain of indigestion. She'll have opportunities.

My sweet, beautiful crossdressing cuckold. My lovely girl! I do so love her! From now on I intend to live guilt free, and my darling will live that way with me. I'll spare her all burdens of choice. Does she have any choice anyhow, now?

Oh yes. When I got to the office the next day, after kissing my lovely crossdressing cuckold goodbye at the door and reminding her to make some new appointments with Darleen, I found a callback from Craig waiting for me. We talked business a while, and then we talked about the summer. He still thinks he got the better of me, all in all. I still think I can prove that he's wrong, and one of these days I mean to do just that, and I know just how. I mean, I still have more of those pills, and my sissy cuckold's ass and mouth still yearn for Craig's cock, don't they, and hasn't Craig already offered that cock to both his ass and his mouth? In return, Scotty can let Craig practice cocksucking his limp dick, if I can set up just the right circumstances. If Mort's willing to move over and make room. Then from that humble beginning maybe I can move him on to bigger things.

Yes! Maybe even get him to love other men's cum. my cuckold does. We'll see.

Our gratitude to Vickie Tern who continues to write the most lovable stories for our clients!