A Wife's Indulgence

from the home of WannbeGinger

 

"And if you touch another cosmetic before you find it, you have to use that as well."

Don't you just hate it when you see an error in your typing when you've transmitted a document!

Touch….. touch…. touch…. that's what I meant…. and that's what I said to my husband.

Don't you just hate spell-check!!

"And if you touch another cosmetic before you find it, you have to use that as well."

He was standing at the dressing table. His hair was tightly wound in rollers and sprayed with setting lotion. He was naked, despite my urge to suggest he wore a slinky wrap of some kind.

He had to find the eye shadow, or else…………….. no fuck!

But. But. If he was unable to find it, we were going to fuck anyway, I would make sure of that.

"Where is it? What colour case will it have? How big is the case?" He sounded desperate.

"Can't tell you!" I teased once more. "But you'd better make sure before you choose."

"I can't……."

"You have to, or else you'll end up with a full make-up to go with your beautiful hair."

His cock was huge again by this time, as he stood there. Nowhere to hide… except to push it between his legs and tighten his thigh muscles to keep it hidden. It embarrassed him that he had become so excited. He need not have been. The wetness in my pussy was equal if not greater. To see this honey of a man whom I loved, standing near my bed with his hair in rollers and lipstick over his mouth, meant I was as horny as I had been in weeks.

His cock was hidden. "Hurry up, or your hair will be dry." I urged him.

His hand strayed across the drawer of cosmetics and alighted upon a first package. The burgundy plastic case hid what was inside. Was it eye shadow?

Nothing like it! He had found the pot of foundation that I use every day.

Ideal. He could wear that anytime as far as I was concerned.

"No, my love. That's not it……. But you'll get to know that well when I have showed you how good it makes your complexion. It makes a great base for any other cosmetics you choose."

I was suddenly aware that my tone of voice had changed. It was just as though I was talking to a younger, perhaps inexperienced girl….. a girl…. not my husband.

My perspective looking back is that this was a turning point for me – if not for him, because he may not have noticed. I was talking that way because I wanted him to be this, or more, feminine. Standing there before me, it was like my teenage experiences with other girls. I relished the memories all of a sudden.

"You shall wear foundation for the rest of the weekend." I said, inviting no argument.

"You meant for that to happen, didn't you?" He said, with a knowing smile.

He later confessed that it was at this time that he began to hope that "things" would go quite a lot further than just a little make-up and "girl-on-girl" flirtation – that he would find himself "given over" to whatever I chose for him. He liked the teasing "game" we had been playing.

"Yes, but only in the moments before you chose it." I confessed.

His cock sprang from between his legs, again, adding a little to his embarrassment. I was conscious that clothing would help and even add to the sensuality of his situation, but maybe he still wasn't ready for that. Something tight around him? I had some nice stretchy lycra foundation garments – body smoothers, they're called……. But no, not …….yet.

He later confessed also that the idea of wearing some of my clothes struck hi at the same time…… a kind-of "sixth sense" struck up between us…… but neither of us said a word about it at the time.

"You'll have to let me deal with that….. (looking at his cock that wouldn't behave itself)… …come here!" I demanded. It was easy to take his cock between my lipsticked lips and begin a delightful, slow but certain blow-job. One that he would remember for the rest of his life! He was, or him, unusually huge that time… such a joy compared to the uncertain, confidence-lacking cock that often disappointed me and made him feel sad.

**********

He was back at the dressing table, but now the daylight from the window had faded. It was getting dark. How long had we been upstairs? His cock was now tiny and I had the taste of his delicious cum on my lips. I was in heaven. My hands were gently playing "down South" as I parted my labia to explore the clitoris that surely pulsed under each stroking. I had cum myself and was wet, quite literally wet.

He was where I had told him to be. Searching for the right cosmetics. His lipstick refreshed already.

"There are too many to choose from here!" He argued.

He needed a clue and so I gave him one simple one…… "Look for a flat little case that's no bigger than your four fingers across. It will have two or three little squares of colour, packed flat."

"Easy!!" He cried, grabbing what proved to be the right package. So there it was, the eye shadow he would have to wear. I knew it was a selection that included a pale purple, a deep dark purple and a white/frosted shade. Wonderfully sexy – for a night out even! Not now, but later.

"Come back here and let's feel your hair……" I said, as seductively as I knew how. "…..let me unroll one of these tight little curls….."

He sat down before me, with the eye shadow in hand, as I reached towards his forehead and unpinned one of the two curls that would make his fringe. It was still damp. I rolled the curl back even more tightly. He winced as the tightness of the curl connected……. He looked absolutely gorgeous, and I told him so. "You're a real honey!" I exclaimed.

Turning, he looked into my eyes, saying "Well, it's my turn to treat you right." Bliss. I dreamed of what was to come. A head crowned in rollers going down on my thighs, parting my labia once again. "I'll try to be like a girl would be. As good as she can be." He whispered. He threw his head back, showing me the full crescent of rollers around his crown. Tight. As I had enforced them. The style I had in mind, as feminine as could be.

It was as if the rollers in his hair shouted "I'm different!" So, when his hands strayed towards my tits, I knew I was in for a treat.. His mouth moved towards the first of my nipples whilst his finger and thumb teased the other, squeezing it tightly. His lips closed in on the first. His teeth closed in around the nipple and he began to nibble, lightly and flirtatiously at first. As the passion rose in both of us again, he chewed harder and harder, to my great delight.

His rollers made me imagine, just for a moment or two… or three, that he was "she" – I had made a long step in the imagined relationship we share in the last few minutes. The look of the man, with his face in part made-up, with his hair in part styled, with his body unclothed but needing satin or silk. But he was still my husband. There have been times, since then, that I have wondered what I started - times when I have wondered if my husband is "still here" because Pandora's Box has many secrets and we had only just explored the very first level.

Before very long, his head was at my bushy little love nest, his tongue was again between my labia. My legs were spread wider than ever because of the rollers in his hair. I leant back and indulged myself even more, floating in a wonderland of pleasure that he bestowed with his tongue. Just as a woman would do for a girl. He was so good at that, he should write a book. He could call it "Confessions of a male lesbian".

My orgasm was thunderous. I literally shook from head to toe for several minutes. Exhaustingly so. I was left nearly shattered. I was out of breath. I was almost unable to open my eyes, but when I did so, there he was……

"I felt chilly….." was all he said, standing there in the peach satin dressing gown that had hung on the wardrobe door. He now looked sensational. He looked female.

The temptation had been too strong, he said, watching me in that wonderful post-coital haze that overwhelmed me. He had seen the dressing gown where I had hung it. I was quiet. He didn't need to ask. He slipped, silently, from the bed. Trembling, he said, his hands had stroked the satin which was refreshingly cool to the touch. He took the garment down from its hook. He had looked over at me and wondered "if I should" – as he put it. He trembled at the thought that this might break the spell under which we were spinning.

"Then come back to bed, darling." As my haze cleared, I motioned to the pillow next to my head. And we hugged. The silk of my nightgown and the satin of his dressing gown flowed together.

In a wonderful slinky melee, the tenderness was overwhelming and it felt we could spend the night just as were, entwined.

**********

 

There was time, however, to eat a light supper together, to enjoy a glass of wine – as all our activities of the day had been sans alcool……. (as the French would say). I think we both needed a drink – and we deserved one!

I thought instantly that Ginger - I decided to call him that when we were playing this way - had something important to learn about wearing lipstick…… He had to learn. How to avoid leaving a smear of colour on the glass. What better lesson to teach than with a glass of champagne in our hands. We always kept a bottle in the fridge and there was one ready for us then. A suggestion was easy to make. "Time for fizz??" I asked.

"As if you haven't been fizzing all day!" He said. "I'll get to it." And off he went, rising from the bed in my dressing gown that swept his lower legs. He paused in the doorway and looked back. "This is really ok, isn't it?" He asked. As if he was in need of approval or reassurance.

"Of course, it is darling."

Putting on that dressing gown had been a big step for him – taken all by himself, laden with ulterior motives, or not. Maybe he was just "chilly". Or maybe the satin excited him. A thought came to my mind – again, one of whether to push forward or not at this time. Should I say, as I wanted to: "We'll need to go shopping for something like that for you." Should I push him towards wearing some of my other clothes? What about owning a garment of his own……. perhaps the first of many? Should I risk it?

I decided not to provoke what could be a storm of uncontrolled developments that I couldn't foretell as desirable. I wanted this. He wanted this. It was enough. He would go downstairs to get the drinks. He would walk the length and breadth of the house, in my dressing gown. He would feel the sexy touch of the satin on his skin. This was just wonderful enough.

His hair would be dry by now, that was for certain. Should I let him sleep in his rollers or should we play with his hair to finish the evening. Before sleeping. Before waking once more to who-knows-what. I thought so, as I heard him moving things around in the kitchen. I thought of the phrase "I've started, so I'll finish………"

He returned with a tray, carrying a half-bottle of Champagne and some "nibbles".

"It really is alright, you know." I said, as he sat down. "I love you even more. You're such a wonderful sensitive man. No wonder you can treat me so well. Hold my hand and squeeze me, to make sure I am awake!"

He looked at me longingly, for a long time, before answering. "Love comes in all sorts of shapes and sizes and colours, I know. But I didn't expect ever to be sitting here with a beautiful woman like you, dressed as I am. It's a very different scenario and one that few could understand. But it's feeling right for me…. but only if it surely is for you. I need to have that reassurance. Like this morning. It was how you said… regretful, even guilty."

"Let's not rush ourselves." … was all I could say.

I couldn't wait to get my hands on his hair. To unroll every curler and transform the rolls into curls and swirls around his face. To lift and backcomb the crown. To tease the fringe. To complement the lips that were smiling at me. To add colour to his eyelids as he seemed to want me to do.

But first, the Champagne!

It was a time to lose my thoughts of here and now………………. While we luxuriated in the taste of the wine and the warmth of the sex we were sharing, my thoughts went back to teenage years and the first experiences I could recall of sex with another girl. The heady days of stolen kisses and admissions of "having a crush", of laying awake thinking what it would be like to taste another girl's most private parts – that was what we were told they were – "private parts". The first time that I could recall happened at school, inevitably.

I had felt unattractive since puberty and longed for the long blonde hair of a particular girl. Karen was her name. I loved her sparkling eyes and wide, wide, smile. One day, pretending to be heartbroken at an argument with a boy we both knew, I confessed that I wanted more to be close to her, not to any boy. Then things happened with a speed that was breath-taking. She proved to be an aggressive lover – given the slightest encouragement that I had given her. She led where I followed. She pushed and I succumbed. There were times when we were together that I knew we would be discovered.

Did she care?

Did she hell! We never were. By the time we broke up, over something truly silly, as girls do,

I had learnt a lot about how to love a woman – and how to be loved by a woman. That would help if Ginger was keen to learn.

Back to reality. Here and now. Where I was the instigator of such things as I had never imagined to indulge myself with. Whatever willingness I had seen in my husband's joyful role-playing, he was still just a man playing "girly" for a night. I could encourage that without being threatened in any way. I was in control – no matter how much I said to myself that it was a "50:50 thing".

"Champagne… to celebrate…. Wonderful sex with a wonderful woman!" He gushed.

"Champagne… to celebrate with a wonderful man!" I agreed.

"Shall we colour your eyelids before or after we do your hair?" I put the choice to him…. after all, it was his call to make. If it were my call, I'd do the hair last of all. I'd do the eyelids with shadow first and find that they were incomplete without some mascara. I had ignored that possibility in the teasing game, but it was true. He had to have longer lashes, oh and dark silky liquid lines to define his eyelids – top and bottom – to make the eyeshadow have its full impact. That meant eyeliner too! Then, and only then, would I finish the story of tonight, by dressing his hair in the most sexy and feminine style I could possibly create.

All the way through, I would stroke the satin that covered his shoulders.

"I've been longing for you to do the hair, just longing to see how you can make it look. Bet it's going to be difficult but whatever, I'm loving the feeling…….." was his answer.

He related his foray alone into the house a few moments ago:

"I looked in a mirror on the stairs as I went down. It's truly erotic, of all things, to be walking around with tight curlers all over my head. Like I have no choice in the matter. It's going to happen. You're going to dress it, the way you said you would, as much like your own – which I just love!"

His breath was shallow again. "Please do that first."

My thoughts were elsewhere again: My hair, which he admired, had been as it was for months and months – probably as long as we had been married. Yes, that was it. I had changed the style and colour about six months before we married. For the wedding. I had been a redhead ever since. Mousey brown in the few months before that. Not always that way though! I had been many different colours while we were courting – sometimes he would never know what colour I'd be from one week to another. He always said he loved it, whatever I'd become…… blonde, frosted, beige, sometimes burgundy wine or raven black.

I'd added highlights to my auburn colour in the last days before marriage – so he would see me that way first when we had the ceremony. And I had been auburn with highlights ever since. He loved it so much, it turned out, that his fantasy later became to change his colour to the same auburn with highlights. Now was that my fault? Or his simple preference? When we eventually did it, was that my indulgence, or his? That would come later – and in this story, several chapters later.

Very well, the eyeshadow – and the mascara and the eyeliner – would wait.

I took the first roller in my fingers and tugged it gently, releasing the pin that held it to his scalp. The curl sprang into life and settled on his forehead. The second did likewise. Already, he had a fringe to frame his eyes. I worked back along the parting, from front to his crown, releasing the curls that, in turn, sprang into line. The larger rollers over the crown were wound only one turn, so the curls were much larger and his hair gained height and volume as a result. They sat proudly above the rest which were unwound in lines around the back and sides of his head. All over his head - just like that – wonderfully pronounced and almost formal in their design, each one stiff and kind-of erect.

"How does that look?" I smiled into the mirror and saw his eyes transfixed on the image in front of him. He said nothing.

"Girly enough for you?" I asked provocatively.

My hands fell to rest on his shoulders, still encased in the peach satin of the dressing gown.

I stroked the material across the back of his neck and ran a finger up into the backmost curls.

Still he said nothing. Had I provoked the wrong thoughts with the "girly" question?

Seconds of silence between us extended into minutes - it seemed - before I took the brush and gently – everso gently – smoothed the curls over. Not disturbing their shape or individuality. Just softening the style slightly.

Still nothing was said.

I took a curl from the crown with the tailcomb and backcombed it gently, right to the roots.

A second crown curl followed. I was making a more elaborate style take shape. Still no words. There were thoughts in my mind that were in conflict. His silence could mean loads of things. Fear, rejection, panic, "rabbit-in-the-headlights", plain embarrassment, or perhaps, disbelief? Alternatively, it could mean I was doing just what was right.

Then, it came, the judgement from the victim!?

"It's just wonderful. I love it. I just love it."

He paused.

"Could you do something with the colour one day?"

I had to answer, honestly, but without committing us to anything.

"Of course, darling, if you would like that. It doesn't have to be permanent. We could have a lot of fun with some of the funky colours that are "wash-in, wash-out" you know. We could do that ourselves and one day you might go to a salon, if you like."

Nothing more was said – but more than one seed had been sewn in that moment. Seeds that didn't take long to germinate, as you'll hear in a chapter that has yet to be written.

"So, to finish the creation, let's deal with your eyes………. and then let's fuck once more before sleep takes us away!" I picked up the eyeshadow that he had found, put the foundation away for another time, and made sure where the mascara and eyeliner were for the finishing touches tonight.

 

You can see how WannabeGinger became my husband's alter ego; he wanted, and indeed became for a time, my doppelganger.

Read on in Chapter 5.

  

  

  

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