A Change in Our Marriage - The Sissy Cuckold

by Sara Desmarais

  "No," I said, looking down.

  "You know you are failing, and I can tell it frustrates you, doesn't it?"

  "Yes," I blushed.

  "Of course it does. I can only imagine how it must make you feel. As a man. Unable to satisfy his wife. It strikes me as a failure. Does it you? I know you squirt in me, and I can tell the way you look at me. How do you feel after, when you roll off me?"

  "Guilty."

  "And," she pushed?

  "Ashamed."

  "And?"

  "Helpless."

  "Do you feel like a big stud? The top dog? The king of the jungle, taking the bitch in heat so hard she never forgets who the alpha male is?"

  "Sara!"

  "Do you? Stud?"

  "No, Sara...I'm...I'm sorry."

  "I know how you feel John. Those stories on those cuckolding web sites spell it all out, if they are right. You feel like a thief in the night, stealing the crown jewels, hoping not to get caught. You feel like the weakest lion in the pack, like you cornered some poor lioness, hoping to get in a quick fuck before the leader of the pack catches you."

  "Sara," I gasped.

  "Come on John, we have to work this out, before we go any further. If I'm right, everything will be okay, don't worry."

  "But..."

  "No buts...are you the alpha male, taking what's yours as the king of the pride, fucking the lioness, marking her as yours, owner , asserting your dominance, or are you the weak link, stealing a quick fuck, too small to ever be the king, hoping he doesn't get caught, getting a scrap when you can?"

  She was so right, and we both knew it.

  "Alpha male or weak male?"

  "Weak male."

  "Deep down inside, dear? You do know that, don't you?"

  "Yes," I whispered, "but I can try to..."

  She cut me off, "No John."

  "But I..."

  "John. Does the alpha male wear lingerie just so he can make sweet tender love to a woman, just to have the chance to lick her pussy, to worship her body?"

  "Well, I don't know."

  She was smiling now. "No, John. The alpha male does not wait around to collect some scraps. The alpha male takes what is his. He wants the lioness, so he simply mounts her and fucks her, and leaves her panting, hardly knowing what hit her," she breathed deeply, "ready or not, he gets what he wants, when he wants it."

  "He doesn't beg her to let him fuck her, like you do when you want to steal a quickie. He doesn't say, 'please baby, can we tonight?' like you do. He simply takes her when he wants, because he knows she will always want a stud like him."

  "To continue this silly lion analogy, dear, the king of the pride never asks the lioness if she wishes to fuck, he simply takes her."

  "But you, my dear, not only beg me to fuck, you don't even enjoy it, you feel so guilty about it. And now all you do is look over your shoulder and wonder if the king is going to catch you. Or whether your pretty wife is going to go looking for the king and be taken like a slut. Am I right?"

  "Yes," I whispered, my cock now raging hard in the panties.

  "And, be honest, you even fantasize about your wife being taken by a real man, don't you?"

  "Yes, Sara."

  "Silly, silly dear, of course you do, so you don't have to worry any more about it. Let a real man do a real man's job, and let you be who you really are, am I right?"

  "Yes," I gasped, unable to believe where this went. I was shocked how far inside my head Sara had gotten. How she knew what I felt, feelings I hardly was able to recognize myself. She was right, of course. I did feel tremendous guilt when we fucked. I knew I was not really doing much for her and it was driving me crazy.

  "But John, here is the most important part. I want this for both of us. I know you feel guilty, and that bothers me. John, I love you so, and seeing you suffer makes me suffer. That's part of the reason I hardly ever want to fuck, your pain becomes my pain. Why are we doing this to each other? When we make love, when you embrace your feminine side, we both find emotional and physical pleasure without guilt. When we are 'one' like that, its...pure bliss."

  "Oh, Sara, I'm so sorry," I cried, moving to hug her. She opened her arms, and accepted me. "Shhhh," she whispered, patting my head, "come here baby, I know...I know."

  Her warmth comforted me. "Sara, I love you."

  She smiled, "I love you too." We kissed, a sign of acceptance.

  "What do you want from me Sara? I...I don't know...I mean...I don't want a...a sex change."

  She laughed. "John, John, my goodness, John, I married a man, not a woman. I'm not a lesbian. I like your little thingy," she smiled, her hands finding me, softly touching me. "This stays, don't worry. But that doesn't mean I don't want you more feminine. In your look, your dress, your mannerisms. I want you to be like a woman in many ways, even though I don't want you to become a woman."

  I breathed a sigh of relief. "I could not do that, change like that."

  "Honey, I know, I know, and I would never ask that. Now, listen, I know your web surfing habits, dear, I know what you look at, besides those cuckolding web sites."

  "You...you mean the..."

  "Yes, dear, the crossdressing...honestly...you think that surprises me? Cuckolding is often full of femdom themes, and even transvestite themes. I know you look at that stuff."

  "Yes, but..."

  "Stop...no buts. Anyway, forget about that for a minute. Go back to your question, about a sex change. You know the difference between a transvestite and a transsexual, correct?"

  "Um, yes, a transsexual is really a, well, mostly, a woman, trapped in a man's body. A gender identification error, I suppose. A man who wants to become a woman."

  "Yes, John, she is a woman, mentally, but somehow nature stuck her in a man's body. She wants to fix that mistake. She is not confused. She does not feel masculine sometimes and feminine sometimes. She is a woman. There is no question in her mind. But a transvestite is different. A transvestite only dresses and acts like the opposite sex. A transvestite does not want to 'be' the opposite sex, but merely 'be like' the opposite sex. That's is you."

  I saw her point. And I knew it for some time. Yes, I was a transvestite, I wanted to act like a woman, I didn't want to 'be' a woman.

  "Yes, Sara," I answered, my head lowered.

  "John, look at me...why are you ashamed?"

  "Because I feel like I let you down. You married a man and got me."

  "John, I didn't 'marry a man' I married you. I married you because I love you," she said, her subtle reference not lost on me. "I want you to be you."

  "But you still want a man, Sara."

  "Yes, yes, but not to love and be with and share my life. Like the lioness, I want a man to take me, and fuck me and be done with me. I don't want a man emotionally, only physically. And you want that too, don't you."

  "Yes," I whispered again, knowing how deeply I did fantasize about that.

  "I know, sweetie, I know. But first I want you. Let me run you a bath, sweetie. Relax and feel the warmth of the water, let it wash away your worries, baby, relax."

  I undressed, letting the soft lingerie fall to the floor and sat on the bed, while Sara went into the bathroom to run the water. Left with my own thoughts, I realized I was both scared and relieved at once. It's as if, finally, for the first time in my life I did not have to hide. Feelings I had since I was a child were free, at least between Sara and I.

  "Ready, dear," Sara called out. I walked into the bathroom, the lights were off, and Sara had lit several candles. The scent from the candles...and looking around, the bathwater, could only be described as some feminine heaven.

  "I hope you like your scent," she smiled pointing to a tray of products from Bath and Body Works. Jasmine Breezes, to be specific. Shampoo, conditioner, bath soap, body oil, shaving gel, the whole works.

  As I slipped into the tub, the warm water, the bath oil, the scent, Sara's smile, they all overcame me. I relaxed for the first time in my life.

  "N
ow, you relax in there, let the water and the oils soften your skin. And here," she said, handing me the tray, "wash your self carefully, let the bath oils soak into you, the soap, pushing their scent on your skin. And use this, sweetie, I think you know what I mean," she said, handing me a pink razor.

  Sara left me to my peace, and as I lay there, I drifted off into a light sleep, the heat, the scent, the oil all relaxing me to my core. I pictured Sara, but with my face, pictured me as beautiful as her. I dreamed of her dressing up, going on a date with a man and going back to his house. As I let my mind wander I felt so at ease about it all.

  I looked over at the pink razor, drawn to its power to change a person. Truth be told, I had little hair to worry about. It was pretty easy to shave my fifteen chest hairs. My legs went much better than I thought. I was worried about nicks, but the blade was sharp and though it took some time, I did smooth them out. I thought of Sara shaving, and decided to do what she did. Trimming around my cock took a very steady hand, but I carefully trimmed my bush, and left my balls as smooth as I risked. The same goes for my ass crack. Damn, I thought, that razor does make a difference.

  Rinsing off with the shower nozzle, I saw the towels she left. The masculine blue was gone, only pink left for me. With some inspiration, I dried off and took a second towel, wrapping it around my chest, as Sara would. Difficult to do without breasts to hold it up, but I managed and walked into the bedroom, where Sara was sitting on the bed, a few packages around her, watching television.

  Sara was dressed too, she must have used the shower in the hall bathroom. She was wearing some sort of white smock, but I could not quite place it. She stood, smiling at me. She had dressed up, it appeared, black skirt, nylons or hose, heels, her makeup was done up, a flash of gold on her chest, and I placed it. She was in costume, the smock was something a woman working a cosmetic counter at a fine department store would wear. The heavier makeup, mandatory, I'm sure at those counters.

  "Are you ready for your make over, ma'am," she smiled, playful, not fully in a "part" but teasing just the same. "I like the towel, that's a nice touch, but it must be hard to keep it in place. We should work on that. I have just the thing."

  She picked up a UPS package, and I thought back to yesterday. Breastforms. As if on cue, my towel slipped off my flat chest onto the floor. "Yikes, I'd better hurry," she chuckled, eyeing me.

  "Oh, baby, I love it," she cooed, eyeing my smooth body. "Oh, you even did here," she said, taking my soft cock into her hands. "Your little cock is so cute, it's really like a big clitty. You know, I should remember that...this little cockette or clitty. Heck there really is not going to be anything to have to tuck away, it's so small."

  "But enough about that, we have other things to do."

  With that, she opened the UPS box and pulled out two...well...breasts. Okay, I knew they were fake, silicone, they had a dull sheen to them, but their size and shape were amazingly life like. "Oh, John, they are amazing...the weight, holy shit," she giggled.

  "Quick, on the bed, on your back, we just have to get these on you," she laughed, pulling out several bottles of solvent and a couple of instruction books.

  "Um, you know how to use those things," I laughed nervously.

  "The better question would be whether you know how to use them, dear," she quickly retorted, "but yes, I read the instructions on their web site."

  She applied the glue, cold of course, to the forms and my chest, carefully, taking her time. I closed my eyes, drifting off again, a far away room, soft, scented, feminine, my escape.

  "They take five minutes to set, lover," my wife whispered, "so just lay still." I felt her hair move down my stomach, and I was afraid to end the dream, afraid to open my eyes. Her face rested on my stomach, hair around me, her breasts, through her smock, pressing onto my cockette, trapping it pointing downwards. She nuzzled my stomach, carefully, I assume to avoid messing her make-up. I drifted off into a light sleep.

  I felt Sara move off the bed, but I was still a bit sleep dazed. I felt her touch my chest, opened my eyes, to see her using a make-up brush on the two mounds on my chest. She was lightly powdering them, their color becoming mixed with my flesh. I could not tell where my skin ended and the breasts began.

  "Touch them," Sara whispered, cupping them in her hands. I moved my hands to the forms, shocked at their feel, so life like. "Oh my," I gasped, as her fingers laced with my own hands, our twenty fingers touching my breasts.

  "Okay, okay, stop," she laughed, "are you trying to seduce me, sweetie?"

  "Oh Sara," I sighed.

  "And you wondered why you had trouble being the man," she chuckled. "Let's get you dressed, shall we?"

  Sara went to the closet and got the boxes from Victoria's Secret we bought yesterday. She opened a box and pulled out some white lingerie. "Stand up, let me help you, please," she asked.

  I stood; Sara walked behind me, wrapping the white satin bra around my chest. She slipped my arms through the straps, fitting my breasts into the cups, letting the weight move in them. Oh, I was in heaven. I actually had cleavage.

  Sara knelt down behind me, "turn around, Miss," she said, in her half sales woman role. "Please step into the panties." As I did, she pulled the matching satin panties up my hairless legs, over my ass. "I think we can easily tuck this little cockette away," she smiled. Every chance she got to reinforce how small I was, she took it. The emphasis was always on the feminine.

  "Turn around again, dear," she ordered, moving her hands around my waist. Of course, the matching garter belt. The dangling straps bounced on my thighs and I practically stood up on my tip toe, like I had on heels. The lingerie, coupled with the breasts, moved me in a way I had never been moved before. The feminine feeling was almost overwhelming.

  "Are you ready for your first pair of stockings, love," Sara asked from behind me.

  "Yes," my voice cracked.

  "Good, I'll help you with them, but watch, because you should learn to do this yourself."

  Sara took the lead again, and it's a good thing, because the feeling of the white nylons on my hairless legs caused me to darn near pass out. Sara had my psyche nailed perfectly. I felt so feminine.

  We continued this, Sara dressing me, each piece of clothing making more and more of a feminine impact on me. Did I want to "be" a woman like a transsexual (who really was a woman)? No, I know I was not a woman. But words can hardly describe how much I wanted to act like a woman, how that feeling was pulling me. I did not want to give up my manhood, I just wanted to make it even smaller, lock it up for awhile.

  Sara helped me into a white satin slip from her collection, commenting that there was something else we needed to get me. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I put me feet into the strappy heels she had ordered for me. "These are kind of chunky, dear, I don't want you to fall flat on your face, but you need to walk before you can run. Stilettos will come later." The heels were gorgeous, nevertheless.

  An a-line lavender skirt and a white satin blouse completed me for now, but not for good. "We are doing a complete makeover, ma'am, correct," Sara playfully asked.

  She led me by the hand across the hall, to her dressing room, where her makeup table was. She was right about the heels, they would take getting used to.

  Sitting me at her table, she placed a cape around my shirt to protect my clothes from makeup. I smiled at the swelling my breasts caused. Sigh, 'my breasts'. The thought made me shudder. Sara worked like a champ, doing my nails with something press on, working on my face (OUCH! Plucked eyebrows HURT!); keeping the mirror pointed away from me. Finally, my lips, which felt heavenly when I ran my tongue over them, silky, satiny, smooth.

  The final piece to the puzzle was in a box next to her, which Sara pulled out with a big smile on her face. "I assumed you were a blond," she smiled, "because men prefer blonds." She winked at me, and a quiver fluttered through my stomach, at her double meaning. I didn't know if she meant that I would prefer myself as a blond or that men would prefer me as a b
lond. Shit, what was I getting myself into? Did I care?

  Sara stood me up, stepped back, and looked me over. "Holy fucking shit," she said, shaking her head.

  "What...don't laugh, please, I know I must look like a freak," I said, self conscious at how I looked and felt.

  She laughed, "Look," she said, motioning me over to the full mirror hanging on the closet door.

  Well, looking at my reflection, I could certainly admit I was not a freak. Far from it. Far, far from it. Looking back in the mirror was not Miss America, but, Sara was right, holy fucking shit. There was a woman in the mirror. An honest-to-gosh, pretty, long legged blond. There was not a man trying to be a woman looking back at me. There was a woman. Sara came and stood next to me. "Pop quiz. Which one is the man and which one is the woman? Think the odds are better than fifty-fifty?"

  "Oh, Sara," I smiled, "you...you are amazing."

  She smiled. "Want to go shopping?"

  I turned to her, shocked, "are you kidding me? Go out?"

  She laughed. "I know, all in good time. But don't lie to me, don't you want to, a little?"

  I couldn't deny it. Yes, I did. "Yes, a little," I answered.

  "Of course you do, but we'll save that for another time, my love, don't worry. But tell me, be honest with me, how do you feel," Sara asked me as we stood before the mirror, looking at our own reflections.

  "How do I feel?"

  "Yes, John, how do you feel? Are you revolted by what you see?"

  "No, not at all," I answered, staring at myself, amazed at the transformation, shocked at how sexy I actually looked as a woman.

  "How do you look, as a woman," Sara asked me.

  "Um..." I looked again, smiled shyly, "pretty." It came out as a whisper, because I was really afraid to say it.

  "Pretty," she repeated back to me. "That's an interesting choice of words. Not sexy, but pretty."

  "What's wrong with pretty," I asked her?

  "Oh, let me put it this way. Name me a man that is sexy," she asked.

  "Hmmm, Brad Pitt?"

  "Sure, Brad is very sexy," she smiled. "Now, name me a woman who is pretty."

  I hesitated. "Umm, Catherine Zeta Jones?"