Crystal's StorySite



by meeah soo


It was one of those stupid arguments that, later on, you can’t for the life of you remember what it was all about. I don’t know what had gotten into me. The fact is, any argument with Gwen was a stupid argument because there was no way I’d ever win and I always ended up the same way: over her knee, humiliated, presenting my bottom for a spanking. But this was a punishment that, no matter when the infraction occurred, was always deferred to the privacy our bedroom. So I thought it must be some kind of cruel joke when my wife ordered me to drop my shorts right there in the television room where our daughter Jen was watching a reality show on MTV.

"I’m not joking," Gwen said, reading the incredulous look on my face. "Drop you shorts Trina," she added, using my heretofore "secret" girl name. "Do it, now."

"But," I gasped, stunned, betrayed. I made a helpless motion towards our daughter Jen who had ripped her attention away from the reality show to watching, fascinated, by the unreality taking place right in her own home. "But…"

"She’s seventeen now Trina and it’s about time she knew. It’s about time everyone knew. In fact, more or less, everyone does."

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Was I hearing right? One thing I knew for sure: the years of conditioning, the instant physical and emotional response to Gwen "taking control" had its usual overwhelming effect. Pleasure, pain, humiliation, desire, submissiveness—it all blended together and my wife knew it.

"Now Trina," she said.

As if hypnotized, I obediently pulled the shorts I was wearing to my ankles and delicately stepped out of them, one bare foot at a time.

"This," Gwen said, turning towards our daughter, "is how you take control of a man."

Jen giggled. "Is he wearing panties?"

I guess it was really a rhetorical question. There was no doubt I was wearing panties: red lace, thong, a little satin ribbon on the waistband. There was a wet spot on the front where I was already leaking. I stared down at my toes in submissive misery.

"Yes," Gwen said. "He’s been wearing panties for years. He keeps his body smooth, as you can see, and, usually when you kids are out, he’ll wear nighties, heels, lipstick and become my little girl-toy, won’t you darling?" She pinched my already red cheek and continued. "He’s not much of a man, as you can imagine, and it’s been difficult keeping my affair with ‘Uncle Jack’ a secret, although I’m certain that you and your brother have been able to figure out that he’s not really just a family friend, but a lover, and has been, since you two were little."

"This is priceless. He looks so cute!"

Oh god, I thought, how could this get worst? And then, of course, it immediately did. The front door opened and Kyle, our sixteen-year-old, came home from football practice.

"Your father is what they call a sissy," Gwen concluded five minutes later, filling our two children in on the secret of our marriage. "I could never live with him fully as a woman. I’m sure you understand."

Not only did they understand, Jen and Kyle seemed completely sympathetic to their mother. Even more surprising, although I suppose it shouldn’t have been, was that neither of them seemed to be completely surprised. Kyle, already so much larger and stronger than me, fresh from his post-practice shower, his huge arms crossed over his chest, was smirking.

"You want me to spank the little bitch, mom?"

"No thank you honey. Maybe next time. This time I want to show you both how it’s done. Jen, hand me your hair brush."

My daughter stopped combing out her long blonde hair and handed Gwen the big plastic brush. My wife sat on the end of an ottoman and I lay over her lap, but not before Kyle was dispatched to the kitchen for a "sissy-rag" to put under me. "He leaks something terrible," my wife explained, "when he’s being abused." I don’t want him messing up my stockings. I have a date tonight. The three of them laughed.

I hardly felt the spanking, I was so numb from shock and shame, even though I could tell that Gwen was putting something extra into my punishment. She had asked Kyle to hold my ankles to make certain that my toes didn’t rise from the carpet and I felt my son’s strong hands grip my bare feet with unnecessary roughness. I was too petrified to move. Meanwhile, after making an appointment, at my wife’s suggestion, the funky salon at the mall where she and Gwen had their own hair done, Jen got on the cordless phone to some of her high school friends to describe what was happening to me. That night, and the next night, and every night after that, I slept in the guest room. Everything was about to change.

At the salon, I listened as they discussed what could and couldn’t be done to me. They held pages torn from fashion magazines next to my face. I heard things like "he has her eyes" and "we could do his hair like this." Other women in the shop came up to me as if I were an exhibit. They asked Gwen questions about me as if I weren’t there. I almost wasn’t: Gwen had permitted me some xanax to feel less self-conscious, but whatever she gave me I could have used twice as much. I left the salon with hair extensions, puffy lips, and painted toes. I was given a light makeover and a card that listed all my "colors." I was whisked to a few stores where Gwen and her friend Joan bought me some new things. We sat at a place and they ordered me a diet lunch that I didn’t touch. I was in a daze. When we finally got home, I went straight to my bed in the guest room and cried. On the way upstairs, I heard Kyle and one of his friends from the football team wolf-whistle at me from the kitchen.

Things settled down a bit after that: I guess if you could call living 24/7 as a feminized sissy settling down. The guest room was fixed up and all my stuff moved there permanently. That was it: I wouldn’t be sleeping with Gwen any more. I wore nighties and slips and babydolls to bed and during the day it was unisex outfits that were rapidly shading toward the unmistakably feminine. At work, word seemed to have spread that I had "come out" in some undefined way, although I think people were quickly catching on in just which way. There were some looks and whispers as I passed in the hall but basically it was okay. It just wasn’t as cool to be abusive about sexual preferences in the workplace as it used to be. Still, I had the distinct impression that my career trajectory had reached a permanent plateau. If anything, I’d be sliding backwards from now on.

At home, however, it was another story. Everyone pretty much abused me and they all seemed to have a great time doing it. I had always done pretty much all the housework and taken a back seat to Gwen in how things were run, but now that everything was out in the open, my position in the household had been reduced to absolute zero. Gwen was openly dismissive of me, and ordered me around like her slave. Kyle, taking his cue from his mother, treated me with macho disdain, and liked putting me on the spot in front of his football pals, proposing tests of strength I had no chance of passing, especially not in five-inch strappy sandals. He especially liked ordering me to go upstairs and put on "something sexy" so I could wait on him and his friends by the pool. All those muscular, hairy high-school jocks sitting around drinking power-shakes, and me prancing and tottering around in heels, bikinis, sarongs, belly-shirts, whatever I thought they wanted to see me wear.

Of everyone, Jen was probably the nicest. My daughter would let me sit in her room and cry, listening to my confused despair, while combing my long blonde hair. She usually ended up defending her mother in some way, and trying to get me to see how everything that had happened was my own fault and for the best. We’d often end up talking about her boyfriends or painting each other’s toenails. She was helping me the most, I guess, in accepting what was happening—either that, or she was destroying me the most, depending on how you looked at it. When my wife didn’t have time, which was more and more these days, it was up to Jen to administer my spankings, and these could be ordered by anyone, for the least little disobedience, or just for entertainment.

I’d lie across my daughter’s lap, after putting my "sissy-rag" across her thighs, and she’d spank my bottom with a hairbrush, bare hand, flyswatter, or rolled up issue of Elle, whatever inspired her . Kyle watched, often with his friends, and they seemed to enjoy watching me spanked, often suggesting that Jen do little things, like bunch the panties into the crack or squirt baby oil over my jiggling asscheeks. Gwen had forbidden Kyle to spank me because my son was way to rough with me and things often got out of hand. Jen was more careful even though she usually did whatever Kyle and his pals suggested because she had a crush on one of Kyle’s friends. One time, to be repeated several times thereafter, she even forced me to take and hold an enema while she spanked me. After she was done, I rushed off to the bathroom as they howled with laughter and had to relive the entire humiliation the next morning while serving breakfast as they told the story to an amused Gwen and Frank.

They didn’t even hide it any longer. Gwen and Frank were all but a couple. He was practically living at our house by now, sleeping in the bed I used to share with my wife, having me take his suits to the laundry, serving him meals, taking his phone messages. Jen and Kyle all but called him "dad" and if they needed advice or to talk "seriously," it was to Frank they went and not to me. I tried not to watch as Frank frolicked in the pool with Gwen, or the two of them kissed each other while watching television, or walked off to the back of the yard holding hands. But how could I avoid seeing them together when it was my job to bring them coffee and paper in the morning and I’d find Frank lying in bed, hair ruffled, smiling, unshaven and satisfied, beside my happy, affectionate, oh-so-obviously sated wife.

The new "situation" was made clear to the rest of the family at the first summer get-together at our house. Frank was late getting back from a business trip and as we all sat down to eat the chair at the head of the table, which I used to occupy, was left significantly empty. I sat down towards the end of the table, with my little nieces and nephews, where I was also closer to the kitchen, allowing me to get up and down to fetch things without disturbing anyone. I guess it was all pretty obvious but it was Gwen’s mom who stated the obvious, and with obvious glee. "I see someone has a new place at the table," my mother-in-law said, all but cackling. She had never thought much of me, and now, dressed as I was in white pleated shorts, one of Jen’s pink sleeveless t’s, and pink platform thongs, she thought even less.

"Yes," Gwen said, gazing along the table full of her relatives who were now all turned to look at me, blushing furiously, where I sat among the pre-adolescents. "We’ve had some changes around here."

A humiliating conversation about my new role in the household started that I was rescued from, albeit only briefly, when Frank arrived and I was permitted to jump up, rush to the door, and usher him to my former place at the table. It was all pretty embarrassing at first: the comments and jokes, especially from my mother-in-law, about how pretty my legs were in heels, what a nice color toenail polish I was wearing, how nice my figure was in A-line dresses. As time went on, both sides of our family, as well as our friends, came to accept the new reduced role I played in the scheme of things. I was sort of like a maid, or a house-girl, and when my hours at work were reduced to part-time and Frank moved in full-time, it seemed as if I were barely treated as a member of the family at all. I learned not to offer any opinions or suggestions about anything, because, as Gwen had witheringly told me the last time I had tried to join a conversation, "No one, Trina, is interested in your meaningless silly patter." I was speechless, mortified. And the fact was that I really couldn’t imagine anyone taking me very seriously.

I cried a lot. I told myself things could always change. I tried not to get anyone too mad at me. I was certain that things, at this point, truly could not get any worst. And then one hot afternoon, I was lying on a lounge chair by the pool, ordered to work, as Gwen put it, on my "slave tan." Jen had come out with a fat paperback and plans to catch a few rays of her own. As she passed by my chair, she stopped and considerately spread some sunscreen on my back, my thighs, my calves, and pulled my bikini bottom up into my crack like she often did when she spanked me, only this time rubbing lotion onto my asscheeks. "Thank you," I murmured sleepily, and grateful for the affectionate attention. She really was the only one even remotely nice to me nowadways.

Just then Gwen called out from inside the house…something I had to do or had forgotten to do for Frank. I rose automatically to my feet, still half-asleep, and started for the house when I heard Jen, laughing. She was pointing at me, and I just stood there, dazed and confused.

"Ewww…gross," my daughter said, and I looked down to where she was pointing at the bulge in my flimsy white bikini bottom.

Kyle, who’d been doing laps in the pool, stood up to see what the laughter was all about.

"Nice try dad," he sneered.

"Please," I said, knowing, somehow, this was some kind of trap, and that Jen was my last hope. I looked at my pretty daughter with pleading eyes. "Please don’t…"

Gwen had come out the door by now and my fate, I knew, was in Jen’s hands. She was my last hope.

"Mom," she said, still pointing to the damning evidence. "Daddy’s trying to be a man again!"

I was finished…finished even before Gwen spoke.

"Trina…" my wife said, and I knew she’d been planning this speech for a long time. She looked at my crotch and said, "…do you really think that’s appropriate…do you think that’s even relevant?"

My son and daughter were laughing. I could tell that it was all Gwen could do to keep from breaking up herself. I was nearly in tears.

"But..but…it’s not my fault," I sputtered weakly, "you make me wear these flimsy…"

My wife held up her hand. "Please I really don’t want to hear it. I simply won’t have you walking around here like that," she said, waving her hand dismissively at my bikini bottom, where humiliation and fear had effectively smoothed me to nothing. "You sissy, you should be ashamed of yourself. You’re starting hormones."

There was no point, I knew, in arguing with Gwen; it would only get her angrier and god only knew what she would decree then. Later, I knocked softly on Jen’s door and ducked inside when my daughter gave me permission to enter. I was wearing an electric blue satin slip and matching polish on my fingers and toes. My blonde hair, so much like Jen’s now, only longer, hung in a single, complicated braid down my back. I climbed up on her bed, legs crossed, and talked to her back as she sat at her vanity brushing her own golden mane. I knew, despite how she’d betrayed me earlier, that she was still my last hope. "Please," I begged her, crying now, "talk to your mom about this hormone stuff. This can’t happen to me."

"Oh do shut up," Jen said, looking at me briefly in the mirror, "and stop being such a whiny brat. I have no idea how mom and dad even put up with you. And, umm, by the way, you’re wearing way too much eyeliner."

By the end of the week, I was taking hormones. I protested a bit at first, in my whiny, bratty, passive-aggressive way, which only earned me double doses, and then I very quickly got used to the idea and just started getting pretty calm about things in general. I didn’t mind when Kyle and Frank teased me about the new jiggle in my hips or the way they smacked me on the ass as they squeezed passed me in the kitchen. I even kissed back and flirted now when Kyle’s friends groped me around the pool. The whole thing about Frank and Gwen being together and all just didn’t seem like that much of a big deal anymore even when they carried on right in front of me and basically I just smiled a lot about nothing much in particular. I started wearing some of Jen’s old training bras until I started growing out of them and I lost my embarrassing and inconvenient erections somewhere along the way. With the loss of those confusing erections, I also seemed to lose the need to argue or resist the rest of the changes happening to me: the breast implants, the cosmetic surgery to my nose, lips, jaw, and voice-box, among others. Everyone commented on how sweet and cooperative I’d become.

I have to admit that from time to time I still get nostalgic for the old days and now that Jen herself is engaged to be married and the wedding plans are being made it’s Frank who will give her away. But, all in all, in spite of everything I’ve lost, I have to believe that I’m better off this way. Yes, although I still live with my ex-wife and her second husband in the house I only thought I owned, our marriage has vanished along with any trace of my former male identity. But what can I say? Frank is a man: all brawny body and hairy muscle and as I lie across his lap, my skirt hiked up over my waist, my panties pulled down around my ankles, my butt plug deep inside me, trying to keep my painted toes on the carpet as he spanks me-- twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six--for some unknown infraction, I can feel his big hard erection under my soft tummy and I feel all fluttery inside and I know, finally, why it is that Gwen loves him so.


<the end>




2002 by Meeah Soo. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.