My wife looked at me, stricken. “It’s yours?” she asked. I could only nod my head in shame. How had I brought us to this? She was holding up, of course, a lilac silk camisole. There was nothing like it in her wardrobe, and like any women finding another woman’s clothes in her bedroom she had assumed the worst. Or maybe the truth was the worst, and her assumption mild by comparison.
Yes, it was mine. As was the flared linen skirt stashed away in the back of my wardrobe, the bra and knickers set, hosiery and longline jacket. Two days before, that Sunday, I’d been home alone, and had spent most of the afternoon dressed up and chilling. Not doing anything in particular, just enjoying the retreat into my alter-ego, my imaginary persona. It’s not that I felt I was somebody else, or became another person when I was dressed – I just felt like me, but different. Relaxed and at ease, enjoying the feel of soft fabrics, the swish of my skirt. The escapism, and the sense of doing something forbidden too, I suppose.
I thought I was pretty clever at keeping secrets – keeping out of sight of the windows, hiding everything away after a session, being quick on the change on the odd occasion when she returned unexpectedly… not careful enough it appeared.
I’d been escaping into crossdressing since I was a kid, and nobody had known. Ok, Amazon’s computer system might have wondered; it surely offered me some unusual recommendations from time to time. But I’d never yet been confronted with my secret. Well it was confronting me now
“It’s mine,” I muttered. “I… sometimes… I mean…”
“You’re gay?” she asked,
“No, of course not. I just like… um… dressing as a woman from time to time. I’ve done it for years.”
There, I’d managed to say it. I’d thought about confessing all from time to time, and had felt bad to be keeping a secret – but the risks of telling had always seemed too high to me. But my wife seemed more curious than angry. Perhaps she was saving anger for later, but for now at least we seemed to be having a heart to heart conversation rather than the shouting match I’d been dreading. We went through a bunch of questions that night. Was I a transsexual, did I want to get surgery? No. Was I going to parade down the street in high heels? Was I gay after all, or trying to attract men? No to those too. Why did I do it? Couldn’t I just give it up? Don’t know, and I doubt it.
Somehow we got through the evening and to bed. I think we both had a sleepless night.
Next morning nothing was said; we both got off to work with our usual farewell kiss. We exchanged a few texts during the day – nothing adana escort interesting, just routine domestic messages about what was for dinner, what time we would be home. Usual stuff. Midafternoon she pinged me something different:
“You sure you’re not seeing another woman?”
“Yes. I would have noticed :)”
“Good. See you later :)”
What was I supposed to read into that? I spent the rest of the day in a torment of uncertainty, wondering what lay ahead for me when I got home. Sally was back before me when I got in, pottering around in the kitchen. “Hi babes”, she called. “Go ahead and get changed, I’ll see you in a minute.” I went upstairs, much relieved. I wasn’t sure whether this was acceptance, denial or something else, but at least we were still talking to each other.
Laid out on the bed was a dress I’d never seen before. Bright yellow, cotton, with a bit of a vintage look to it. If anything, it looked like something out of a ’50s movie. My heart was in my mouth. No way. Could this be what it looked like?
It was. The card placed carefully on top of the dress said “I said get changed! Love Sal.”
I trailed over to my wardrobe, wondering how I felt about this. I was equal parts thrilled, mortified with embarrassment and filled with love. For a few seconds the embarrassment won through, and I nearly reached for a pair of old jeans. But surely it wouldn’t hurt to try it on. Would it?
I stripped to my pants, fumbled with a zip and slipped the dress over my head. It sat knee-length, with a beautiful flare down from the high waist. Sleeveless with wide shoulder straps, it was something Sandy Dee would have been very at home in. I reached round behind my back and edged the zip up. No bra or padding, no slip or underskirts but it felt like it was going to fit me perfectly. Ok, I needed a few accessories to go with this!
I stripped again, feeling a pang of loss as I carefully slipped out of the dress. Back to my wardrobe. Virginial white new knickers. My matching new bra, padded out as best I could manage. Matching suspender belt, slipping on my black stockings with the greatest care not to cause a ladder. I didn’t have the crinoline I felt the dress deserved, but I had a cotton full slip that was about the right length. A cheap sparkly pendant I’d bought only that weekend. I slipped the dress back on over my ensemble and felt much more the part. My hair, long already just needed a bit of a brush, out of my daytime ponytail and flicked into a slightly more feminine look. Perfect… except for my feet. The best I had were a pair of simple eskişehir escort black flat pumps; they would have to do.
I checked myself in the mirror. I didn’t own any makeup, and it hardly felt the right time to raid Sally’s supplies. I would have to do as I was. I wasn’t really sure what I looked like to tell the truth. 90% of me felt natural; just right dressed like this. The remaining ten percent of me could still see a bloke in a dress. I tried to ignore that part of myself.
Steeling my nerves, I went downstairs to the kitchen. Sal was cooking still. She didn’t look up as I loitered in the doorway – but I had an idea she knew full well I was there. The buttercup yellow in the doorway could hardly have been inconspicuous, and it was not exactly my regular look. Was that a hint of a smile?
After a second or two she did look up, came over and gave me a peck on the cheek without batting an eyelid. I kissed her back, suddenly wanting a lot more but feeling as self-conscious as if we were on a first date. “That’s a good fit”, she said, matter-of-fact. “You look nice”. “Could you bung some plates on the table, this’ll be ready in a mo?”
Dazed, I did as she had asked, setting up plates, cutlery and a bottle of wine for the two of us. Was this really happening? Was I dreaming? Had I wandered into some parallel universe where my deepest dreams came true? My beloved had defused all embarrassment at a stroke, was talking to me as if nothing was different. Everything was different! I had been caught out, shared my deepest shameful secret, and now was being indulged – reluctant toleration would have been my wildest hope before tonight. We sat down to eat.
“Thank you,” I managed to get out.
“‘s’okay, it was my turn”, she said. I was about to explain that wasn’t what I meant, when I saw a devilish smirk playing on her lips. Always the windup merchant, my wife.
“So what are you thinking?” I asked her. “With your husband sitting opposite you in a pretty new dress.”
She looked at me for a second.
“Yellow does suit you, you know. The thing is, I don’t think it’s for me to judge, to tell you it’s right or it’s wrong. If you like to do this lets see where it goes.” That grin again. “You know I love clothes, and when I was little I played with dressing-up dolls. Now maybe I can play dress-up with you a little too!”
I smiled back. “You really are my dream wife!”
“Well don’t get too carried away,” she told me. “It’s still your turn to wash up.”
I cleaned up, using a kitchen apron to protect my dress, and carefully avoiding my usual habit of drying my damp hands on the backside of my jeans! Through in the living room, Sally was curled on the sofa, painting her toenails in a pretty shell-pink. She looked up.
“Your turn in a minute sweetie. Do you want to get those tights off?”
Self-consciously I hitched up the skirt of my dress and unfastened suspender straps. Slid stockings down my legs, and sat next to her.
“Suspenders!” She said. “Wow. I suppose I might have guessed though. How long have you had all this stuff? Do you have much else?”
“Well, the top you have seen, a skirt to match, some underthings… sometimes I wear knickers to work, it’s a bit of a secret thrill”.
She looked at me, wriggling her toes. “Dry now. Your turn. We’re going to have to do something about those legs too, but not tonight I think.”
I sat still, my feet in her lap while one by one she did my nails. Could this be happening? It seemed it was. Finally she finished up, and we sat for a few minutes for the polish to dry.
“Coming upstairs?” she asked. You bet I was. At her suggestion I put stockings and shoes back on. We stood, and enjoyed a lingering kiss, her hands warm on my skirted waist.
“I’m going to tear that dress off you where you stand if we don’t get upstairs. Let’s go,” she told me.
Upstairs we kissed again, Sally’s body pressed against mine. I felt a hand wandering down my backside, pulling up the hem of my skirt, caressing my bum through knickers. Exploring suspender belt, straps and lacy stocking tops. Then sliding up my back, investigating bra straps and stroking bare skin at the base of my neck. I moaned softly as Sally found the zip and eased it down. She slipped the dress off my shoulders, knelt and removed my shoes one by one as I stepped out of dress and slip.
Sally stood, gave a gentle shove to my chest and pushed me back down onto the bed. “Stay there she whispered as she stripped off her own top and jeans, leaving her curvy and gorgeous in just her underthings. She threw her own clothes on the floor, then sashayed over to my wardrobe carrying the yellow dress. She hung it in my wardrobe, then stepped over to the bed, unhooking bra and removing knickers as she came.
It was the best sex I’ve had in years, perhaps ever. She left my suspenders and bra in place, climbing on top of me and riding me to ecstasy. Again and again she came; finally I lost all control and reached a crashing orgasm of my own. We lay together, exhausted and savouring the moment.
“Wow that was hot,” she said. “I wish you had told me about this years ago.”
“Me too.” Was all I could manage.
She got out of bed, threw me one of her oversize sleep shirts. Purple, with pink heart patterns. “Here you go. We’ll have to find you something a bit more sexy one of these days, something in satin I think.”
I slept like a baby that night.