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It All Came of Wearing Tights
by : Debbie Cybill
IT ALL began when I was jogging along the path alongside the Rideau River one day in late winter. I was not doing too well and stopped when I felt a stitch in my side and had to rest until it passed. I idly watched the Varsity crew practising on the river, and for a moment wondered just how cold they were. The blustery wind blew right through my sweats and chilled me to the bone, but the oarsmen seemed warm enough in their short-sleeved shirts and shorts. Then I noticed that they were all wearing tights under their shorts. That's pretty sensible, I thought; it will help them keep warm.
The next day, a Sunday, was the day I usually rode with the Gatineau Mountain Bike Club. I was a beginner, and I found the hill climbs rather tough, toiling along and puffing for breath. At one point on King Hill another more experienced rider came streaking past me, his legs pumping away, almost sprinting up the hill, every muscle clearly defined under his sleek-fitting black leotard and tights. That decided me: I would buy several pairs of tights; if these macho oarsmen and cyclists could wear them, so could I.
The next time I went jogging I wore my new Danskin tights under my sweats, and for that weekend's mountain bike ride I wore tights without the sweat pants. They gave me a lift somehow. On the final stretch up Pinks Hill I fell in beside Beryl, one of the new friends I had made in the few weeks I had been a member of this club, and we chatted amicably as we rode along. We did not really know each other well, barely more than each others' names, and this was an opportunity to get to know her better.
"You look good in those tights, Cyril. You'd look even better if you wore a leotard too." Why did my parents have to give me that name?
"I can't really justify wearing tights, as if I were an extremely good rider, let alone a leotard. You need to be someone like Andrew to dress like that." Andrew was the cyclist who inspired me to buy the tights in the first place.
"Nonsense! Tights and leotard are more appropriate than sweats for cycling for anyone. Sweats just catch the wind and slow you down. Besides, you have good legs."
That was true enough, but I thought that it would be showing off. "I can't really shed my sweater, Beryl. I'd look ridiculous in a leotard with my belly. The main reason I joined this club is to get rid of it. In the meantime I'm going to hide it."
Beryl and I stopped at the clubhouse for a drink that afternoon. I found her strangely sympathetic, and during the week that followed I contemplated buying a leotard just to please her, but felt that I would look ridiculous. Andrew came over and joined us. "May I sit down with you for a few moments? I really admire you two guys. Youre both new at this game but you try hard. Give it a few more weeks and you will be as fit as I am."
"Its good of you to say that, Andrew, but we both need to lose a few pounds, dont we Cy?"
"You may need to lose a few, Beryl, but I need to lose more than a few."
"Cheer up! The warmer weather is coming and you will be able take more exercise and lose those pounds."
I did not seem to be losing any weight, which was the chief reason I had started jogging and cycling. Perhaps I should jog every day instead of just on Saturdays. As I jogged slowly along the river path that week I looked enviously at the crews on the river; none of them had pot bellies. The next Sunday Beryl and I rode together for the whole outing on our mountain bikes, and then I suggested that we have a meal together in the clubhouse. We had finished the soup and were waiting for the server to bring the main course, when Beryl shyly said, "I bought this as a gift for you, Cyril," and handed me a package. I felt disconcerted that I had not thought of buying her a gift, but at least I would pay for her dinner.
I did not open the package immediately for just then the waiter brought our main courses, but as we were drinking coffee and chatting I finally got around to it. You have guessed, I am sure: it contained a leotard, a black Danskin leotard, like my tights. "Now, you're not to wear that until you have lost five pounds. This can be an incentive." Beryl grinned at me. At least I think she meant it to be a grin, but her impish face broke into an angelic smile that lit up her whole countenance. Beryl is blonde but hardly petite, and like me she was overweight. It was indiscreet of me, I know, but I said, "And if you lose five pounds I'll buy you one too."
"Done!" She held out her hand to me to shake on it. "Let's go jogging together each evening after work." I escorted her out to her silver Ford Explorer, a big car, I thought, for a woman.
I did not think it would take very long for either of us to lose five pounds if we really set our minds to it, so during my lunch hour on Monday I went out and bought not just a leotard, but also tights for Beryl, guessing her size; roughly the same as mine, I thought. I chose electric blue for her, to match her blue eyes and fair complexion. We jogged together every day after work and after the second day we started dining together too, either at my house or at her apartment, always a low-calory meal, a salad of some kind usually. We both possessed bathroom scales, and we weighed ourselves each day after jogging but before eating dinner. I quickly decided that this was not accurate enough and splurged on a decent set of scales, White Cross, the sort you find in physicians' offices, bar scales I think they are called, with a bar along which you can slide a counterpoise weight.
It was just eleven days into this regime that Beryl achieved her loss of five pounds, and I gave her her prize. The next day I succeeded too. We celebrated that Sunday at the clubhouse of the cycling club.
The weather was beginning to warm up now, and we both went jogging in our leotards and tights each day without our sweats, feeling much trimmer than before. We had already begun to take a longer run each Saturday, covering as much as five miles, instead of our weekday two. The next Saturday seemed like the first day of spring. I arrived at Beryl's apartment to pick her up in my Lexus and take her out into the country where we would attempt ten miles for the first time. Beryl was wearing her leotard but not her tights; instead she had black bicycling shorts and pantihose, with her running shoes.
"You're going to be hot today, dressed in those tights."
"I had not realized quite how warm it was today when I set out," I said. "I should have worn shorts too."
She reached out a perfectly manicured hand and touched me on the cheek.
"Let me lend you a pair." She left the room for a moment and came back. "I hope these will fit you, Cyril. It's the best I can do."
She handed me a pair of linen shorts with a zipper up the back, blue with a flower print. I looked at them dubiously. The label in the back read, "Shirley Williams Creations: Womens size 18."
"You'd better wear pantihose under them."
She saw the look on my face. "I can lend you a pair of black ones that will look like tights."
I started to shake my head, but then I thought, 'Why not?' I took them into the powder room to change. I glanced at the label: "Hanes Queen size."
When I emerged I complained, "My shoes are a little loose without the thickness of the tights."
"Let me lend you a pair of socks to wear over the pantihose."
They turned out to be sockettes, with bobbles, but who would see us? We drove out to the headwaters of the river where there were several trails and completed our run, then we came straight back to Beryl's place after running and she asked me to stay to dinner. I had not brought any clothes with me other than my running gear, but somehow I forgot that until I had showered. I wrapped a towel around myself, "I'm afraid I shall have to put on my running clothes and go back to my house for something to wear, Beryl."
"Don't bother, Cy, I am sure I can find something for you to wear. You are about my size I think."
What she found for me was a white blouse buttoning up the back and a pair of denim shorts so long and wide that they looked more like a skirt at first glance. She also handed me a pair of pantihose, very pale this time. "I know you liked wearing pantihose for running, Cy. Why don't you wear these this evening? Oh, and I found you a pair of slippers that should fit."
The slippers were ice-blue satin flats embroidered with tiny flowers. So that is how I dressed for dinner that evening. I must say I enjoyed it. For the first time we discussed our work over dinner. I had not had any idea of what Beryl did for a living up until then and I found that we were in the same line of business. Beryl was employed by a big environmental consulting firm and she was currently engaged in a study of the effects of sewage outfalls on reproduction in fish.
"Would you believe that all the fish downstream from the city sewage plant are all females?"
"Well, actually, I knew that. Is that what you are working on?"
"Yes, and I have just found out the cause. Half of them are genetic males, but the oestrogens in the sewage feminize all of them. But how did you know that? Its not the sort of topic that comes up at a dinner table conversation."
"I'm an environmental consultant too. I run my own company specializing on the runoff from mines and how to control the environmental damage that causes. What kind of things are these in sewage that cause the feminization? Where do they come from?"
"The first things that I found were natural oestrogens which seem to come from the urine of women and include the oestrogens found in birth control pills. But that is not all. Many industrial chemicals have much stronger oestrogenic effects causing feminization and they all come from the sewage of factories."
Her work explained her need for a large SUV. I use a Lexusmyself for running about town, but for business when I need to visit mine sites and often drive over dirt roads or even cross country I use a Jeep Grand Cherokee. As head of my own firm I could afford two vehicles, but Beryl had to make do with just the one. Both of us need to take quite heavy equipment out to our study sites and often bring back heavy loads of samples too for chemical analysis in the lab.
We chatted more about our work then passed on to our plans for losing more weight. We both knew that we should lose more, and that dieting alone would not do the trick; we must combine exercise with dieting, just as we had started, in fact. "Let's try to lose another five pounds each, Beryl."
"Yes, but I think we each need an incentive, like last time." She paused to think. "I know what I will buy you as an incentive, Cyril." She gave an impish smile.
"What's it to be?"
"Not telling. It will be a surprise."
I could not budge her, and I had not yet thought of an incentive for her, so I could not press too hard.
The next two weeks saw a great improvement in the weather and as we became fitter we were running farther and farther, until we were covering five miles on the flat each evening except on those days when rain compelled us to shorten our outings to a mere two or three miles. For some reason that I could not really fathom I continued to wear pantihose and Beryl's shorts for all our runs, with the bobble socks, and even bought my own sockettes. I was conscientious about my diet, and the two of us ate a dinner of salad together every night. We were feeling more and more comfortable with each other. Once more Beryl achieved her goal first, and I gave her her prize - a new pair of Nike running shoes. She seemed delighted with them, and I knew that her old ones needed replacing, but I could sense that she was somehow disappointed, as if she were hoping for something more exotic.
I discovered what she might have in mind when I achieved my own goal three days later. For me she had purchased several pairs of pantihose, both black and 'nude', not the rather robust ones I usually wore for running, but sheer ones, and four pairs of silky panties and matching camisoles. I was startled, to say the least. "Go on; put them on. I've left a pair of shorts and a blouse in the bedroom for you to wear over them."
The shorts were the same kind as last time, but the blouse was more elaborate - and more feminine, white organdy with a pleated front and buttoning up the back. I began to feel that her studies on feminized fish perhaps extended to other species as well, but nevertheless I enjoyed dressing this way. The camisole showed through the blouse and I thought my legs looked feminine in the "nude" pantihose, which, unlike those I wore for running had a sheen to them.
"You should shave your legs when you wear pantihose," she said as I emerged from the bedroom.
She was quite right.
Before dinner the conversation turned to the difficulties of keeping to our diets.
"Once I start eating, I have difficulty in stopping," I said. "It's not so much that I need to eat often, for I have been able to stop myself from snacking between meals, but rather that I seem to stuff myself when I do sit down to table."
"Well, I know one way to stop that." She gave a mischievous grin and went to her bedroom.
It was almost half an hour before she returned, wearing a see-through blouse, and holding something behind her back. "Try stuffing yourself when you have one of these on."
Under her blouse I could see a heavily boned corset, laced down the front..
"This corset nips me in so tightly that I have difficulty in eating even a small portion of food."
"I can see that." Her figure was stunning in the corset, her breasts stood out more than ever, her waist could not have been more than 22 inches, and below it her hips were more rounded and buxom than before.
"Here's one for you to try." She brought her hands from behind her back and held it out to me.
Without waiting for an answer - I was too taken aback even to offer one - she moved behind me and started unbuttoning the blouse that I was wearing and slipped it off. "Drop your shorts," she ordered, and I obeyed without question, standing before her in lacy peach-coloured camisole and panties, and "nude" pantihose. She placed the white satin corset around me, "It fastens in front," she said, "Hook it up and I will tighten the laces behind."
I fumbled with the busk.
"Here, let me do it for you."
Once that was done she moved behind me again and started to lace me in. At first the lacing was easy and I began to feel the corset not as constricting but rather as supporting me, but then the really tight lacing began. "Hold on to the door jamb."
I discovered why I had to hold on as she put her foot in the small of my back and hauled away. Finally she tied off the laces and stood back.
"Put on your blouse and shorts, Cyril, and let me look at you."
I put my arms through the sleeves and Beryl stepped behind me to fasten the buttons of the organdy blouse. I picked up the shorts, but she stopped me. "I think you should wear a skirt with that outfit, Cyril." She took the shorts into the bedroom and returned with a denim miniskirt which she held out for me to step into. In a state of shock I did as she expected.
"Let's go and have dinner now."
She was quite right - it was impossible to eat very much while constricted like this. "Why have I never seen you in a corset before?" I asked.
"I used to wear them regularly at one time, but then I put on weight so they would not fit. Now I have lost it again I can wear them once more."
That night I slept over for the first time and, you guessed it, I wore a nightgown to sleep, a diaphanous, ankle-length, white, nylon gown heavily trimmed with lace, but we slept only after we had made love, both of us wearing nightgowns. Our intercourse was gentle with long foreplay. I did not want to be rough in any way for this first wonderful occasion. The next morning, over a breakfast of grapefruit juice and skim-milk yoghurt, we agreed that we would each find secret incentives for the other for the loss of the next five pounds.
I started wearing my new underwear under my working clothes. I rarely wore a suit, only for meeting clients, for most of my work was in the laboratory or occasionally in the field. The camisole, panties and pantihose felt most erotic under jeans and work boots. By now it was too warm to run in pantihose, but I continued to wear sockettes in my shoes and purchased several pairs of ultra-short tight women's shorts. I had to take care to secure my male appendage properly to ensure that it did not show at the leg holes and I had to shave my pubis as well as my legs to stop the hairs from showing. For cycling I wore the rather longer black spandex cycling shorts.
I pored over catalogs searching for just the right trophy for Beryl for the next time. By now we could steam up the hills on our mountain bikes on our regular Sunday outings with the club, and barely even breathed heavily. I for one was feeling far better than I had in years. This time I was the first to reach my goal, on a Monday; I had now lost 15 pounds in all, and felt that I could usefully lose another fifteen. "Why don't you wait for Saturday evening to give me my trophy, Beryl? You might have earned yours too by then, We'll celebrate with dinner at my house."
By the time we had completed our fifteen-mile run on Saturday Beryl had indeed lost her next five pounds. Before dinner that night we showered at my house and dressed. I thought that I would be wearing male attire, apart, that is, from my underwear, but Beryl brought a garment bag in from her car. This turned out to contain matching outfits consisting of white frilly blouses and black leather miniskirts and that was what we both wore. Beryl looked far better than me in her blouse, since it was filled out by her breasts. I noticed she was wearing her corset; I could not help but notice, with that magnificent figure.
We sat down to a glass of wine before dinner, an unusual luxury that we generally denied ourselves as too calorific, and exchanged prizes. I gave Beryl a leather minidress from Danier Leathers that had a bustier top with bare shoulders, and an accompanying jacket, all in ice blue. "I have chosen it in a size too small, so that it will fit when you have lost more weight, Beryl. For the moment you can get into it so long as you wear your corset."
She came over and gave me a great kiss on the cheek. "Help me into it. I can't wait to try it on. On second thoughts I'll wait till after dinner. I don't want to risk getting spots of salad dressing on it. Now open your prize, dear."
My prize consisted of three corsets.
"I bought them online from Axfords. They lace in front, so that you can manage them yourself. Put the white one on now, Cy, and I'll show you how."
She unbuttoned my blouse and I unzipped my skirt. Beryl handed me the corset and said, "Make sure the laces are loose."
I wrapped it around me.
"Now fasten the line of hooks and eyes on the busk, Cy."
I did so, then started to tighten the laces. I had helped Beryl a few times with hers so I had the general idea. I alternately tightened the laces at the top and the bottom and gradually worked towards the middle. I felt my hard-on starting inside my panties. I hooked the loops of the laces over the doorknob and leaned back. Then I started all over again from the top and the bottom. I managed to gain another 15 inches in the loop of the laces, then wrapped the loops around my waist and tied them in a bow in front. When I was finally laced in Beryl helped me back on with my blouse and skirt and we sat down to dinner. I now had a 21 inch waist instead of my normal 25 inches. Even that was ten inches less than the 35 inches it had been a scant six months ago.
"Youre beginning to look beautiful, Cy. You have a great figure in that corset and superb legs. I cant wait to see you in heels, which will make your foot arch better and slenderize your ankles.
From that moment on I have always worn a corset except when jogging or biking. So did Beryl, and I must say I have never noticed any other woman wearing a corset, even though I have been looking at women's figures, wondering how mine compared. This surprised me.
It took three more weeks of hard exercise and dieting for us to reach our next goal, another five pounds, making a twenty pound loss in all. This time I decided that Beryl's prize would be . . . well, it would be duplicated so that she could enjoy the same garments on me as I did on her.
Her prize to me was a complete Clinique makeup kit and an auburn wig. I produced my gift to her, three garter belts for each of us with a dozen pairs of sheer thigh high stockings each and two pairs of patent leather pumps with three inch heels, one black and one beige, and a duplicate set for me. We dined at her apartment that Saturday, so after we had showered and dressed in our underwear she sat me down at her vanity and started making me up, telling me to take good note so that I could do it myself in future.
First she felt all over my face with her fingers. "I think you would do well to have your beard removed by laser electrolysis, Cy."
Then she sponged on Dermatone to hide any trace of my beard, slight as it was. Next a faint layer of foundation, fixed with a brushful of powder. She whisked the loose powder away and started on my eyes.
"With your green eyes, Cy, I am going to start with deep green eye shadow. Then I can fade it to light green above the crease, and finally to grey-green below the eyebrows. But first I must pluck your eyebrows. They are far too bushy for my taste."
She touched me delicately on my right eyelid. I luxuriated in the touch, though I was wondering why I was allowing this to happen to me. The next sensation was far from pleasant: the first hair came away from my right eyebrow.
"Ouch! I didnt know that this process was so painful."
"Dont be such a baby. By the time I have finished you will be used to it."
Twenty hairs later each one felt just as ouchy. And there were still hundreds to go, it seemed to me. Finally Beryl was satisfied. My brows were arched in a gentle feminine curve, thinning towards the outer ends. Beryl ran an eyebrow pencil over them . "This will give your brows better definition, Cy."
Then came the eye shadow, applied with tiny sponges on the end of sticks, shaded, just as Beryl had told me, from a mid green on the lids to light green above the crease and greygreen under my attenuated brows.
"Now we must outline your eyes, Cy. I am going to use a brown pencil along your upper lash line and a liquid eye-liner along the lower. Now keep very still and dont blink."
It was difficult not to blink when I saw that pencil approaching my eye, but the brush of the liquid eye liner was easier to bear. She drew the lower line just beyond the outer edge of my eyelids and painted a slight upward curve.
She made no move to add artificial lashes, but just drew out from the bottle a mascara brush loaded with brown mascara and stroked it over my own eyelashes, top first and then the bottom lashes of each eye.
We both looked at her handiwork in the mirror. I liked what I saw.
"You must learn to do this yourself, Cy. I cant do it for you every time. Now to give some shape to your cheeks."
She took a small folding compact of blusher and stroked a brush across the surface. She applied a touch below my cheekbones leaving a spot of palish red-brown, just the colour of my tan. She blew the excess blusher off the brush and then started to fade out the spots on my cheeks, contouring them with the brush.
Next came the lipstick, a pale pinkish tan called "sunshade". She used a small brush to outline my lips with a slightly darker shade then filled in with a direct application of the lipstick itself. Somehow this made more impression on me than the rest of the makeup, perhaps because I could taste the lipstick.
Matching nail varnish seemed to take for ever to dry, and on my short mannish nails did little to enhance my femininity.
Beryl took the wig off its stand and eased it onto my head. It was quite short, not even down to my collar, but with a few touches of the brush Beryl produced a feminine style, central parting with bangs in front swept to the right and the rest of the hair falling over my ears in a page boy fashion.
"I had thought of buying you a blonde wig, but it would have been quite wrong for your colouring, Cy, and a short one will be more convenient for exercise until you grow your own hair long enough for styling.
I looked at myself in the mirror. Definitely feminine, quite beautiful, in fact, though I could see lingering traces of masculinity in my square jaw and poorly defined cheekbones.
"Stand up, Cy. Lets walk over to the full-length mirror so that you can see yourself."
There in the mirror standing side by side I saw two fit, sexy women, one blonde and one a red head. Not much difference in height and both dressed the same in white chiffon blouses, black leather skirts, black stockings and black pumps. Our camisoles and corsets showed through the chiffon and we were both beautiful. Beryls hips were wider than mine but we both had the same 20 inch waists. And, there was Beryls perfect bosom, those beautiful boobs. How I envied her.
Still she had made me beautiful too, and our exercise had given us both good figures. I admired our legs. I was not going to say so, but I thought mine were more feminine than Beryls, curving from hip to toe, slender of ankle, extended by standing on heels for the first time.
We dined, if that is the right word, on our usual spartan meal.
"Lets not bother with coffee tonight."
Beryl reached out her hand and touched me on the cheek. I could not help noticing how beautiful and slender her hands seemed, with the long lacquered nails, how much more elegant than my own stubby hands and nails. We both stood up and I hugged her close. We kissed lightly at first then more passionately.
"Its a good job this is kiss-proof lipstick," she said.
"Lets go to bed, Beryl," I said, taking the plunge. She jumped to her feet, took my hand and led me to the bedroom. Once more I looked at that elegant hand clasping mine. I turned her and hugged her again. I could feel her starting to unbutton my blouse down the back so I felt for her buttons as well. We discarded our blouses which fell to the floor. I picked them both up and laid them over a chair.
"My arent we neat, tonight?"
"I guess I am a little bit shy at the moment and was delaying, Beryl."
"Silly girl, come here."
"Girl!" I loved it. That was the first time she had called me "girl". I went to her again and hugged her once more, delaying more perhaps. She unzipped my skirt and unfastened the waist button. I stepped back and did the same for her.
"Now go and hang our skirts up too, Cy." She gave her impish smile.
While I was hanging them over another chair Beryl turned down the bed and sat down.
She patted the bed beside her. "Come and sit here for a moment, Cy."
We sat with our arms around each others waists, then suddenly Beryl rolled over onto the bed, taking me with her. I had not realized how strong she was, but then it was not until this evening in the mirror that I had first realized that she was as tall as me and as muscular with all our exercising.
I ran my hands down her corset, savouring the curve of her waist. I felt her hands on me doing the same. I kissed her eye and licked her eyeshadow. It did not taste as good as lipstick. I kneaded her breasts. She was wearing a bra under her camisole. I thought to myself that I would love to wear one too. I made no attempt to remove it. It seemed that Beryl wanted to make love this evening with us both in our underwear.
I ran my hand up her inner thigh, past the top of her stockings. She reciprocated and freed my cock from its silken confines. I found her labia and gently stroked both sides, carefully skipping over her clitoris for now. Beryl scratched my glans with her long nails and at last I took her clitoris between my fingers. I felt her shudder. She scratched me some more. I placed one hand on the well-covered left breast and pulled at the nipple while continuing to play with her clitoris.
Take me Cy," she begged.
I eased the crotch of her panty to one side and place the head of my prick against her labia. She was moaning now. Gently, gently I eased my cock into her vagina, pushing in a little way and withdrawing almost totally, moving further in with each slow stroke. At each forward stroke my corset bit into my belly and the fabrics of our camisoles and panties slid over each other. Our stocking legs intertwined in an orgy of nylon heaven. I had never felt anything like it and it was driving me wild with lust. I had difficulty controlling myself to a slow stroke. Finally, My cock was buried right up to my pubic bone. I was fully in. Beryls moans changed to screams and at last I moved to a faster stroke, almost withdrawing on each backward stroke and grinding my crotch into hers on the forward stroke. I could feel myself coming, but I wanted to hold it until Beryl came too. I wanted us to come together. At last, I felt Beryl tense with the beginning of orgasm and let myself go with one great thrust into her cunt. I shot jet after jet into her while she lay shaking below me.
I relaxed and fell asleep lying on top of her. When I woke, I dont know how many hours later, I was surprised to discover that Beryl was asleep too. In my experience, men usually fall asleep immediately after intercourse, gaining strength for the next encounter, while women lie awake savouring the next orgasm. Beryl had fallen asleep just like a man.
The next morning we made love again, still in our lingerie, again with those erotic sensations.
Over breakfast in Beryls kitchen, taken in our lingerie with the addition of nylon robes, we decided that the next one would be the big one, when we had lost 25 pounds each. To my eyes we were both pretty fit already, but my private goal was 30 pounds. My muscle definition was moderate, and Beryl too had well-defined muscles. It was going to be very hard to lose the next five pounds, and the final loss to make a total of 30 pounds seemed impossible. But then any loss at all had seemed impossible only three months earlier.
It was the very next week that the lease of Beryl's apartment came up for renewal. I suggested that she should not renew it at all but move in with me.
"I'm not going to move in with you if you insist on dressing as a man, Cy. If I do move in you must keep hold of your feminine persona at all times. You must learn to walk and talk like a woman . . . except in bed of course."
I began to wonder what I was doing, and what Beryl was doing to me. I had never had any transvestite urges before all this began, or at least no transvestite experiences. Perhaps I had secretly wanted to cross-dress, but if so it had been a secret even from me. And now I was revelling in it and even contemplating living as a woman.
I accepted Beryl's offer, with one proviso. I would wear a man's business suit on the rare occasions when I had to make a presentation to a client. She looked doubtful even about that. It was my birthday next week, and by then Beryl had settled into my house. I knew she had something special planned for the day and wondered, somewhat uneasily, what it was. After our usual evening run we showered, soaping each other under the warm water, and dried. "Don't get dressed yet, Cy dear. I want to give you your birthday present." She produced a box. "Go on, open it."
I tore off the wrapping and found that it contained a pair of silicone breast forms, complete with nipples, about the size to fit a C cup, together with two bottles, one of adhesive and the other of releaser, together with the cosmetic filler that was needed to blend the edges of the forms into my own skin. And of course three bras to go with them. That night I sat down to our usual salad dinner with a bust as full as Beryl's. I was delighted with my appearance. She decided I needed a new name to go with my new feminine persona. We discussed it for some time, and finally hit upon Cybill, a sort of modern version of Cybele, the Phrygian goddess of old who was worshipped by a transvestite priesthood. It was near enough to Cyril, and I could still answer to my old nickname of Cy.
On Saturday morning Beryl woke before I did.
"Come on, time to get up. We have a lot to do today before we go for our run."
I groaned, but she just rolled me out of bed onto the floor.
"You have the rest of your birthday present still to come." That brought me fully awake. I knew it would be something unusual, but probably quite exciting.
"I thought you gave me my present yesterday."
"Only part of it. Now get up and let's make breakfast." She felt my cheek with one hand.
"Your electrolysis is going well. I don't think you have to shave, at least not your face, but do shave your legs, Cyb, after breakfast."
Breakfast was no more than a glass of grapefruit juice and a cup of black coffee these days. "Now dress and make yourself up carefully, Cybill."
I wondered what was about to happen. Beryl inspected me carefully. I was wearing a white high-necked blouse, high enough to cover my Adam's apple, a black leather miniskirt, sheer black stockings and high heels, and of course my corset, bra and breast forms. "You'll do."
She led me to the door to the garage, but I held back. I had never been outside in full dress despite what I regularly wore for jogging. "Where are you taking me, Beryl?"
"We're just going to the mall, Cyb. You have an appointment with my beautician for a make-over."
"What?" I protested. Secretly I liked what Beryl was doing to me, and my protests were more for form than anything else. I allowed Beryl to lead me to her silver Ford Explorer and she drove me to the Rideau Centre. I was shaking like a leaf. Here I was venturing out for the first time, and in daylight at that. What was I thinking of? I couldnt get away with it, could I? Apparently Beryl was sure that I could.
The make-over was what you would expect, everything from a facial to a pedicure, manicure and perm. Three hours later I was a redhead with gentle waves and bangs framing my exquisitely made up face, scarlet nails that extended half an inch beyond the ends of my fingers and matching toe nails. I had not realized that my hair had grown enough for that. I looked in the mirror and I really was beautiful. I dont think it was just my ego talking, I really did think I was beautiful.
"You expect me to go mountain biking like this, Beryl? My new hair do will get spoiled." I grinned.
"Now you know how the rest of us girls feel about our hair. Of course we are going. You will just have to redo your hair afterwards. I hope you learned how to do your makeup better, Cyb. Did you enjoy that experience?"
"You are certainly intent on feminizing me aren't you, Beryl? Is this how you treat your fish?"
That night at dinner I suggested that she join my company. I had not been to my laboratory at all since she moved in with me, as I had promised her that I would dress as a woman all the time. There was no work in hand that the technicians could not manage without my micromanaging their endeavours. I had kept in touch by email and phone.
"The company can have two new employees, Beryl," I said: "You and Cybill, my sister. The boss will do most of his work from home, writing reports, and only come in on those few occasions when he has to make a presentation to clients."
This suggestion was only half in jest, for I had been wondering how I was going to be able to show myself to my employees in my new persona. We bandied the idea around for a time and it sounded better and better as we did so. "I will have to give a month's notice to my employer, Cyb, and finish the report I am writing too. It's going to be a bit of a struggle to get it all done."
"I can write the report for you, Beryl. I don't have very much on now, that the technicians can't do without me. You just take your last month easy and use the time to tie up loose ends."
I find report-writing quite easy, and that is one of the reasons for the success of my company - the clients are always pleased with my reports. I spent the next week reading Beryl's notebooks and set about writing it all up for her and put her name on the title page. I then sent an announcement to her clients to say that she would be joining Ottawa Environmental Consultants Inc. as Vice President. This all paid off well, for the next contract that they had to offer came to us, not to her old firm. But that is another story.
We spent some time over the next few days sorting out exactly how we would reorganize my company. We decided that Cybill would be president and Cyril would step down from this position and become a figurehead, the Chairman. Beryl would be vice-president, a position the company had never had before. The existing technicians, all three of them, could stay. I should have to turn up at my office in my male dress and introduce Beryl, and announce my decision to step down from my position as president, telling them that my sister would take over from me; then Beryl would later, on another day, introduce me as Cybill, Cyril's sister, the new president.
"Those people know me well, Beryl. Are you certain that they will not recognize me when I turn up as Cybill. Its all very well going to the mall where nobody knows me, but into my own lab."
"You are a beautiful woman, Cyb, and noone would ever imagine that you are a man. Dont be silly."
The attempt to lose yet more weight was becoming desperately difficult, especially for Beryl. Neither of us had much body fat left to lose, and we were in danger of losing muscle mass instead of fat. But we persevered. I began to wonder about this matter of my cross-dressing, something that I was enjoying more and more quite apart from the effect it had on Beryl. She certainly stimulated me to dress and we often went together to the mall to shop for more clothes.
"So far you have only worn denim and black and white, Cyb. The latter is elegant, but its time you tried colours. Then you will need to coordinate colours, just like other women."
Yet again she was determined to make a woman of me. And why was she so insistent that she would only live with me if I dressed full time? Did my transvestism mean that I was gay? I did not think so, for then I would not be interested in Beryl. What did it all mean?
I decided to research the general subject of transgender on the web, not confining myself to transvestism. First of all, I found several sites with TG fiction. I found this mostly unsettling, concentrating, as most of the stories did, on gay themes and anal sex. Was this the norm? It took me some time to find the sites that dealt with the true facts of TG. I discovered that gays formed no greater proportion of the TV and TS communities than they did of the general population, no more than about 5 percent. The large majority of cross-dressers were heterosexual. Most of the problems they met were concerned with an unsympathetic Significant Other. The small percentage of gay transvestites were the most flamboyant, the drag queens and those who participated in gay rights parades. They were the cause of the stereotype of the cross-dresser, because they were the most visible. I began to feel better about myself.
Then I looked into the matter of the TS. Again, I found that most of them were not gay, and that one of their main problems was the attention they received from gays, especially during the period of transition. To my surprise I found that the change of body from male to female produced no change of sexual orientation in most of them, despite the hormones. The result was that 60 percent of them ended up in a lesbian relationship with another woman, often with another transsexual.
At this point in my researches, when I was reading a screen about transsexuals, Beryl came up behind me, without my being aware at first.
"What are you reading?" There was panic in that voice, and I wondered why.
"I was just trying to find out more about transvestism and I got carried away and followed up with transsexualism."
"You've been spying on me." The panic was more evident now. "You know all about me."
"I know that you are the most wonderful woman in the world, the most beautiful, the most desirable, the sexiest. I know that I love you dearly. I know you are witty, intelligent, well-educated, good company and have a wonderful personality. What else is there to know?"
"There's a lot else to know, and you are going to hate me."
I was getting out of my depth now, mystified by all this. She burst into tears. I turned away from my computer and held her close, comforting her, pulling her onto my lap and holding her head against my bosom (I say 'bosom' deliberately, since that was how I thought about my chest now). I wiped away her tears and kissed her on each eye.
"I could never hate you, Beryl dearest, whatever else I ever found out about you. I love you. I should go down on my knees to say this but . . . will you marry me?"
She broke into sobs again, and finally managed to get out, "Did you really not know?"
"Know what, dearest?"
"That I'm . . . " She began booing again; I waited. "That I'm. . . that I'm. . . that I'm a post-op transsexual." She hurried it out at last and buried her head in her hands.
I held her tight again for a few moments until her sobbing subsided somewhat. "Is that all, sweetheart? You are a woman; that's all that matters, a woman by choice, not one of those people who are born women and have no choice in the matter. You are all the more of a woman for having chosen to be one." She looked up at that with a tear-stained face. I went on, "I love you for everything that you are, and always will. You haven't answered my question, though."
"I don't remember your question, Cy. What was it."
"I asked if you would marry me."
She looked at me in shock; I realized that she had been so wrapped up in her belief that I had discovered her secret that she really had not heard me. "You ask me that after what I have just told you?"
"Yes I do. Your revelation made me crystallize my ideas about our relationship. I discovered for the first time that I could not envision my life without you at my side. And I told you: you are all the more woman for having chosen to belong to the female sex and the feminine gender instead of being thrust into it at birth."
I lifted her off my lap and sat her down in the computer chair instead of me. I then went down on my knees in front of her, intending to propose once more, but instead said, "You should know by now that I can think of no better way to live. I adore what you have helped me to do. But what gave you the idea, and why do you insist on it? There is really no need to insist, you know."
We moved to the sofa and we sat side by side. "You must have guessed part of it by now from what you seem to have been reading on the web," she said. "I was heterosexual in the days when I had to pretend to be a man; I was attracted to women, and I was even married for a time. I never had any kind of affair with a man."
I nodded. I had found out that this was normal for transsexuals. She continued, "After I had my final surgery I wanted to try out my new toy, and slept with several men. At first I did not enjoy the physical side of intercourse, and I never had an orgasm. I already expected that from my reading, but I hoped that I would eventually recover sensation and that I might be able to achieve an orgasm, though that was never a prime consideration in my sex reassignment."
She was having difficulty telling me this, but finally continued, "After about a year I did eventually have my first orgasm, and adored the sensation, but I continued to be horrified that I was kissing a man. I felt as if I were being used as a gay man's toy. After a couple of affairs I decided that I never wanted to be used by a man again. I began to fantasize about having a lesbian affair, and even had one such encounter, but it was useless. I needed a female lover but one with a prick who loved me as a man, but came on as a woman. In other words I needed a she-male for a lover."
It was becoming clearer to me now, just what she was up to. She continued, "When I found that you were a closet transvestite, even if you did not know it yourself, I encouraged your cross-dressing."
"You were right about my hidden fantasies," I said.
"Did it ever occur to you that we did not sleep together until you were fully dressed, and that night you wore a nightdress?"
"That's true," I said, "It was the night we first wore corsets."
"Since then I have found it easier to accept you as you have become more and more feminized. I loved it when you had your beard removed and I could not longer feel stubble. I no longer had the least impression of kissing another man. Do you realize why I need you to be a woman in public and man in bed? But a man with no other male attributes than your cock and balls?"
"Yes, my love, I understand. Now will you answer me?"
But she just continued. "I should love it if you had breasts. I want to go on making love to a woman, while accepting your maleness in my female body. I know that sounds like some sort of contradiction, but I have always been attracted to women, not to men, but now I want sex as a woman, without really involving a man."
"I love being your she-male, Beryl. I wouldn't have it any other way. But why don't I acquire breasts? What would that require?"
"Well, I don't want you to use hormones, for that would interfere with your ability to have an erection. That leaves surgery of some kind."
"Very well," I said, "surgery it shall be." I knelt down in front of her again, but once more she paid no attention.
"There are two possibilities for surgery: the first is implants and the second is by injection. I believe the second is less traumatic but the first is more permanent."
"Then implants it shall be, but not silicone," I said. "Now about my question . . . "
"What question was that?" She was still teary.
I made an extravagant gesture while still kneeling, "Your humble swain requests your hand in marriage."
She laughed through her tears, "Of course, you silly boy-girl, I will marry you, if we can find anyone to perform the ceremony." She turned serious again. "But the same condition applies: you must dress and behave as a woman at all times."
"Yes," I said, "I understand now what that means to you. You can make the breast implants the prize for my next loss of five pounds more."
"And what is my incentive to be?"
"A wedding dress, of course. In fact two wedding dresses, one for each of us."
I achieved my final goal of losing 30 pounds long before Beryl did, so that by the time we were married the scars had healed. Not that the scars were particularly bad, for the implants had been done by keyhole surgery and the scars were hidden in the crease under the breasts, but I would not have liked to have gone on our honeymoon with that area so sore.
Shopping for wedding dresses was quite an experience. Up until now most of my clothes-shopping had been done by mail from catalogs, or at stores where I could buy off the rack, but wedding dresses must be fitted and altered. Beryl and I went to several bridal boutiques before we found one that had the kind of dress we both wanted, crinolines, with bell skirts and tiny nipped-in waists, emphasized by our corsets. We spent hours trying on wedding dresses and when we found one that pleased us both I made the down payments. The dresses arrived in the boutique (or bridal salon as the owner preferred to call it) in time for a fitting ten days later. By then we had purchased the satin pumps in which we intended to be married so we wore those for the fittings, to ensure the right height. I was worried that the seamstress would notice something under my skirts, but she never had anything to do in that area, as she pinned and tucked and marked my dress.
The same day we chose all the accessories for the wedding, the hose, the garters, the head-dresses, the fancy panties and the bras and corsets, all heavily trimmed with lace, even the compulsory garters. We walked through the mall to the florist where we selected bouquets; like everything else they were identical.
We found a pastor of a gay church, Saint Andrews in the Glebe, to marry us - he must have thought he was performing a same-sex marriage. In a sense he was, for we are both genetic males, though Beryl is legally a woman and I am legally a man.
We processed up the aisle side by side, with no-one to give either of us away. The only guest in the church was Andrew from the Cycle Club, who was the only one who had observed my gradual transformation from Cyril into Cybill.
We spent our honeymoon in a wilderness area in Yukon, where we acquired an interest in a mining property (it has since proved most profitable) and spent the rest of the time riding trails on horse back. We are both intending to learn to ride side-saddle.
Oh, about those corsets: I finally found out why I never saw any women wearing them. Only models in fashion shows wear them - and transgendered persons, like us. They are not garments worn by normal women, and have not been for forty years at least.
I now faced the problem of introducing Beryl as the new veep of Ottawa Environmental Consultants. For the first time in months I tried on one of my old business suits. Even without my breast forms I could never have fitted into the suit. The waist was far too loose, the pants were too tight in the hips, and the jacket would not button across my bosom. What was I going to do? I had to introduce Beryl to my staff in my male persona. The suit was out of the question.
I could not imagine how I could present myself to my staff and pretend to be a man. Yet it was something that had to be done.
What was I to do?
(Continued in part 2)
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