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Related post: Reasonableby Brandy Dewinter "I am NOT being unreasonable," I insisted to my irate wife. "Millions of women do anything I've ever asked you to do, wear anything I've ever asked you to wear." "Millions of women are STUPID," she declared loudly, unconvinced. I continued in a calmer tone, trying to get the argument back to the reasoned conversation level, "Look, Julie, I just think you should take a little more pride in your appearance, just as I am proud of you, and of the way you could look if you tried." "So you're not proud of me now," she pounced on my perhaps unfortunate phrasing. "I am proud of you," I declared. "You're very beautiful, but I'm also a creature of our society. Certain things trigger my responses better than others. I just want . . . hope . . . whatever, that you'll meet me part way." She turned away in continuing irritation, her long waves of dark hair shimmering with the motion. But at least she had quit arguing and she didn't storm out of the room. "Really, honey, the only stupid thing is to argue. I honestly don't real nude preteen think anything we've ever discussed is unreasonable, but if you do, then . . . " I sighed in frustration, knowing I could never force her anyway. At this she twirled back to face me, irritation still apparent on her face, but an arched eyebrow signifying curiosity as well, about what I was soon to find out. "How long is your current project going to last?" she demanded in a stunning non sequitur. I guess I preteen pussy download should explain a little. My name is Jay Connors. I'm a contract computer hacker. I break into other people's computer systems in a test of their security, then help them fix the holes I found. I can get in just about anywhere (yes, I even broke into the DOD systems, however they never knew I was there). I provide computer security tools, software only, but better than anyone else has developed (if you ignore my little private back doors). Most of my projects take at least a month since I really do deliver a good service, boilerplating systems against anyone but myself. If there's a better hacker out there, he (or she) is so much better than me that no one ever even found out they'd been anywhere I'd protected. Certainly they'd done no harm, so at least my systems kept out the riff raff. Actually, I believed there wasn't anyone else in my licking preteen ass league and that no one had ever broken one of my defenses. "Maybe three weeks," I answered in puzzlement. "Why do you care?" "So no one needs to see or talk to you, professionally, for at least three weeks?" "Yeah, about that time. I could certainly stretch it that long without anyone thinking anything suspicious." A smile of tiny horny preteens triumph, a matching tone, framed her words when she said, "Okay, then we'll just see what you think is reasonable. Pick one of your little fantasies and do it yourself. If, after doing it, you still think it's reasonable, I'll give it a try." "Don't be silly," I laughed. "The things that turn me on are things that women do for men, not things that men do." "I'm not being silly," she insisted in a parody of my earlier position. "My problem is not with the man-woman thing and you know it. I love you and only you and want to make you happy. My problem is that the things you want are unreasonably awkward or uncomfortable or inconvenient. If you think I'm wrong, prove it by putting up with the inconvenience yourself." Like a collapsing balloon her anger deflated, replaced by tired sadness. She came close and put her arms around me and laid her head on my chest. "Really, dear, I do love you and don't want to argue. But I think you don't understand what you're asking. If you had to go through what I already go through to please you, you'd understand." She pulled her head back and looked me directly in the eyes, "I'll even trust your judgment. Pick one of your fantasies and we'll make it real, only with you doing what you want me to do. We'll pick a duration that convinces me you really understand what you're asking for, and if you still want me to do it after that time, I'll give it a try. I'll try my best, too." "Only one?" I prodded her gently, still not really considering the idea, but smiling to try and keep the mood light. "Or a dozen," she laughed. "Just so you'll get off my back until you know what you're talking about." I snorted at the thought, "No, this is silly. Look, longer fingernails, higher heels, maybe a little figure control to make you even more shapely, these are not unreasonable." Her irritation returned even more quickly than it had left,. "Put up or shut up," she demanded, "but get off my back unless you're willing to try it." She turned away from my arms and started to walk from the room, fists clenched at her sides in anger all the more terrible because it was silent. I knew I had to do something but I really believed my requests were reasonable, at least for a woman to do, and I didn't want to give up on a more fulfilling love life. "Wait, Julie, okay. You win. I won't bug you about anything I haven't tried myself." She turned back with a renewed smile. The easy way that emotions appeared and disappeared in her always surprised me. "So, what are you gonna try first?" she giggled. "Huh? Nothing," I said, "I just said I'd quit bugging you." Her laughing correction was hot on the heels of my statement, "No, actually you said that you'd quit bugging me on things you hadn't tried first. So what are you gonna try?" Trying to maintain my hold on the "reasonable" high ground, I insisted, "I think my requests are reasonable, but I admit they're not trivial. They're also intensely feminine, not something I could do." "You could in private," she asserted. "You could wear high heels in private and no one would know. That's why I asked how long before you had to report in person on your latest job. Other things, too. I'm sure I could talk Sally, the manicurist where I get my hair done, into giving you the long fingernails you've been going on about." "I couldn't work at the keyboard with long nails." "My point exactly," she crowed in triumph. "I work with a keyboard, too, but you want me to have long nails. They're just too much bother, for me, for you, for anyone." Now I was getting irritated. I had seen plenty of secretaries with long, glamorous nails, let alone real estate agents like Julie. I knew it was something you could get preteen panty gallerys used to, if you wanted to, even on a job with lots of typing or keyboard use. It was just that I needed to work very quickly in some of my more time-sensitive system penetrations. That was different. I was about to try and explain that when I saw the look of triumph still gloating from her face. Any excuses I might make would just be fuel to feed the fires of her self-righteousness. My own stubborn streak reared its ugly head and I heard myself agreeing to her outrageous proposition. "All right. You're so sure of yourself. I'll do it. Arrange a private session with your fingernail lady and I'll have nails put on that will show you how reasonable I've been." "For how long?" she kept pushing. "For however long it takes to convince you I'm right, up to the three weeks I've got on this project." "Okay," she grinned, "now, what about high heels?" An overwhelming impulse, a tidal wave of irritation swept me along on a course I was sure was going to be idiotic, but I heard myself saying, "Fine, and a corset and whatever other clothes you think I'm being unreasonable about. As long as I can keep it private." "Deal," she said quickly. Too quickly. I began to wonder if I'd been manipulated all along. Her triumphant grin hadn't subsided a bit as I called her bluff. Maybe it wasn't a bluff. Maybe I was in deep trouble. "When do we start?" I asked tentatively, wondering what I'd gotten myself into now. After a moment's thought she declared, "Tomorrow. I'll get your clothes tomorrow and set up an appointment with Sally at the time she would normally close her shop, so you'll be the only customer. After you get back from the salon, I'll help you into your clothes. After that, you need to wear the heels and things, and keep your nails looking nice, until three weeks from today." I nodded abruptly and went back to my cave to hack for a while, still angry at her stubbornness, still worried about what I'd gotten myself into. In a little while I got lost in my work, sneaking into my customer's systems and snooping on his private business. This job would actually be relatively easy since the Spencer Industries general manager, Richard Bancroft, didn't really understand software, and more importantly hackers. He thought this was all about logic and rigid rules. True hacking is more of an art than any old master ever demonstrated. The general manager had only hired me at the insistence of his board of directors, a few members of which also worked for other companies I'd serviced. He was sure he was well-protected and it would be a pleasure to show him just how wrong he was. Maybe this time I'd arrange for a phony set of identification to his company and just show up at one of his meetings with my results. That should get his attention. Part of the service I provided was showing the customer how important his vulnerabilities were by demonstrating how they could be taken advantage of. Sometimes I wrote myself checks (which I never cashed, I just took them in as evidence), sometimes I sent bogus memos around their system, calling people to false meetings. Once I showed up with an already-made-out patent application (that I never submitted) for a customer's most secret new development. It's amazing how much information is floating around company systems these days, and all it takes is intermittent traffic between supposedly isolated systems to let me in to all of them. The evening passed quickly, becoming night, then morning before I finished the initial stages of the penetration I was developing. It wasn't unusual for me to get caught up in my work, sometimes it was even necessary for me to work deliberately at night. Still, I was exhausted when I finally went to bed and had completely forgotten Julie's challenge and my idiotic acceptance of it. I woke up at noon, after about six hours sleep, to the ringing of the phone. We have free phone service, a fringe benefit of one of my penetrations, so we have several lines. One of them is dedicated to private calls between Julie and me and I put a special bell on it so I'd know it was her. This was the phone that was ringing so I struggled up through the cotton fogging my brain and fumbled with the receiver. "Yeah, what?" I said grumpily. I heard a silver giggle from the other end, then Julie's excessively cheerful voice, "Wake up, sleepyhead, you're buying my lunch." "What? Huh?" I glibly replied. Her laughter was my only answer as she waited for me to wake up. After another moment I was tuned back into the real world and able to carry on an adult conversation. "Okay, where and when?" I said. "How about Daniel's in twenty minutes?" she asked. "Better make it thirty," I countered her offer. "I still need to shower and shave." "Oh, yes," her giggle seemed a little ominous, "you certainly need to shave today, Jay." Actually my beard was a little sparse and I often only shaved every other day. When Julie has taken the time to really work at it, I consider her a world-class beauty, with lustrous dark hair and shining blue eyes like Lucy Lawless (TV's Xena, did you know her hair was dyed?). I was more of a dirty blond, though my eyes were also a clear, crystal blue. My light hair color seemed to fade away against my arms and it looked like they were practically hairless. My chest was also pretty sparse, with just enough for Julie to catch in her fingers and pull when she wanted to tease me a little. When I looked in the mirror to shave, the face I saw was, as always, disappointingly weak. My facial bone structure was soft and unimpressive, except for high cheekbones that stood out with surprising prominence. Due, I supposed, to the irregular meals I had when I was deeply into a project. That was probably the reason I was so scrawny, too. Even at only 5'9" my 130 pounds were spread pretty thinly. For some reason my bones didn't jut out too much, though. No knobby knees or anything, just thin. I quickly finished getting ready, pulled on my standard jeans and sport shirt, and launched off. It was pretty much of a launch, my one vice being my pocket rocket, uncensored preteen galleries a 300ZX Turbo convertible in bright, flamboyant red. Julie always teased me about that car, calling it overcompensation for my otherwise shy personality. Maybe she was right. I didn't really care. I liked the car and didn't have much to show off in my own body. Computer hackers aren't all nerds, they just seem that way because the private lifestyle doesn't lend itself to building big muscles or developing flashy conversational skills. Anyway, in a few minutes, I was pulling into one of our preteen archives nude favorite places to eat, famous for juicy, thick hamburgers. When I do eat, I eat big. The restaurant was adjacent to, actually sort of a pseudopod extending from the body of, a neighborhood mall. When I went in, I saw Julie already sitting in a booth, surrounded by packages. "Goodness, somebody having a sale?" I grinned in greeting. "Not really, but I couldn't wait. I told you I'd be ready for you today." My look of bewilderment must have been pretty obvious, because she started to laugh. "You don't even remember, do you?" she chortled, the triumphant grin resurrecting itself on her face. That grin did it, reminding me of the stupid commitment I'd made. I was tempted to back out but that same irritating grin got my stubbornness up and I decided that I'd just go ahead and show her how reasonable I could be. "Yeah, I remember. What did you get?" Her answer was a giggle, "No peeking. Let me see your hands." I held them forward, palms up, but she motioned me to turn them over. "No, I want to see your fingernails. Well, at least you don't chew on them so Sally will have something to work with. You're all set up. Her last appointment is over at 4:00, so you be there by then. Now don't get wrapped up in your project and forget. If you stick it out, you'll have plenty of time at home later." My response was a growl, "I'll stick it out." "Look, dear, I'm not trying to make you mad. I'm just trying to make the point that what you're asking for is unreasonable. Don't do it if you don't want." "I don't want this to be the way I have to convince you," I replied, "but I also don't want you thinking I'm unfair or anything. Your attitude's a little different than last night, though. Last night it seemed like you were pushing me into this, now you seem reluctant. What do you want, really?" She sat pensively for a minute, then shocked me when she said, "Actually, having you dress up is a fantasy of mine. I've always thought a man that understands women better would be a better lover. I know you try, dear, and I love you for it, but sometimes I think you just don't understand my needs any better than I seem to understand yours. I thought this might be a way to find some common ground. After I got to buying the clothes, though, it began to seem a little extreme. I'll back out if you want." Now it was my turn to sit pensively, doing a little overdue soul searching. I had always thought I kept Julie pretty happy in bed and in our lives. It seemed I was too focused on my own wants and needs to really pay attention to the one I claimed I loved. For the first time I thought maybe I was being unreasonable, not about the absolute amount of inconvenience from long nails and high heels, but at least about the amount I could reasonably expect from my wife when I gave so little in return. "I never knew you felt that way," I said softly. "I'm sorry. I've been very selfish. I'll do whatever you want. I owe you that much, and much more." "Oh, don't get too down on yourself. It's a two-way street. I know I haven't fulfilled you, either. Let's just go on from here. You try this out for me, and the good ideas we'll keep. Besides," she continued with another silvery giggle, "it's deliciously naughty. We might find that this is fun." "Yeah, right," I said with a snort, but I was still thinking about how little I had done to please Julie, and how much more I should do. We switched to less emotional topics for the rest of our lunch. I ate my usual ridiculous hamburger, causing a visible bulge in my stomach. Julie laughed when she saw it. "Enjoy that burger, it's the last one you get for a while?" "Why," I asked. "You'll see," was all she would reply. "Now, don't be late for your appointment." She gathered up her packages and got ready to leave. "Can I help you with those?" I offered. "Not on a bet. I innocent preteen nude told you no peeking until later. I'll see you at home." I had intended to go home and work on my project, but Julie's gentle accusation that I didn't really understand her needs made me look around with a more open mind than I usually had. With sudden clarity I could see just how much she had had to put up with. I generally left coke cans laying around, and computer magazines. My clothes were seldom picked up and while they were durable enough preteens kds pics to stand the mistreatment, the house looked messy. I started back into my cave again, but the disarray stopped me at the doorway. Instead of working on my project I spent the afternoon cleaning up. Everything except my cave, that is. I had spent years getting that place into the shape it was in and it wouldn't recover in one afternoon, but I got pretty busy working on the rest of the place. The time snuck away on me and I was a little surprised when all of the sudden it was close to 4:00 and I had to hurry. Nonetheless, when the time came to go to Julie's salon, the dishes were all washed and all the clutter was picked up in the other rooms of the house. My pocket rocket got me there in time, though. Just as I was pulling up my mind caught up with the hurry my body had been in all afternoon and I realized what I was about to do. It still seemed silly, also sort of frightening as I entered territory I had been taught was forbidden. But I realized at some level I had never studied in myself before that it was kind of exciting as well. Maybe it was just the naughtiness as Julie had indicated, or maybe it was the thought that I was getting closer to Julie. But I realized I really wanted to do this, really wanted to try out some of the things I had been pushing on my wife. It was clear this adventure was going to bring lots of changes in our lives, not the least because it had made me really think about our relationship. The last customer was paying her bill as I entered the salon. It was still light outside but dim in the salon since most of the lights at the preteen little panties stations were off, leaving only the lamps at the manicurist's table. The lady leaving had incredibly beautiful nails, glamorously long without being ludicrous, polished to a deep crimson shine, shaped in an elegant style. I noticed that the girl behind the counter had equally beautiful nails and I leaped to the obvious conclusion that this was Sally, the manicurist. Sally greeted me with an airy, "I'll be with you in a minute." The other lady asked, "Oh, are you going to get a manicure?" "Um, yes, my wife set it up," I stammered. The lady chuckled at my discomfort, "There's nothing to be embarrassed about. Lots of men get manicures. It won't turn preteen without panties you into a woman." Sally's mouth twitched in a grin at this comment, but she said nothing. The customer left and Sally escorted me back to her table. "Now, the first thing," she began talking and working, "is to take care of your cuticles. Mrs. Sanders was right about men getting manicures. I can help your hands even besides the "special" you're getting. I gulped, "Special? Just what did Julie tell you to do?" "Actually, she didn't tell me much, except about the background for your agreement. As I understand it, she's agreed to wear her nails long if you will first try it out and then remain convinced it's not too inconvenient. I'm to let you pick the length and shape and type of nail extensions, but she told me to remind you that she won't go any longer than you do." At my nod of confirmation she continued, "So what type of nails do you want." "I don't know," I shook my head in confusion. "You mean there's more than one type?" "Oh, yes," she laughed. "Many types and styles. What did you have in mind?" "I guess I never thought about it. Your nails are very pretty. I think Julie would look good in them. That lady that just left had good-looking nails, too." "So this is just for Julie, huh?" she asked with a hint of teasing in her smile. "Of course," I insisted. "This whole thing is to convince her that what lots of women do, you for example, is not that bad. She should try it." Sally pushed a little further, "I agree she should try it, but what about you?" "I'm only doing it to convince Julie. Whatever we choose should be what's best for her." "Okay," she backed off. "But I don't think you want what I wear. My nails extend almost an inch past my fingertips and they take a lot of getting used to. You should probably start out shorter and work up to this length." I disagreed. "No, this is a one-time deal. Once is enough to convince Julie to try it and I don't want her using a short length on me to avoid doing what would look best on her." "Well, how about a compromise? Mrs. Sanders wears hers about half an inch past her fingertips. We could split the difference. You said her nails looked good." "Okay, that sounds fine. Let's get started." "Not so fast," Sally laughed again. "You still need to pick out the type and style." "Do them like yours, or like that other lady's." "Those are two different styles, didn't you notice?" "No, they looked about the same to me, except for the color." The expert in Sally started a patient explanation, "Well, hers are squarer on the tip, that's a more professional look. She's an attorney. Mine are actually just extension tips, but these are relatively fragile. I only recommend it for those who don't have to work with their hands, or who can come in anytime they need to get repairs. Unless you want to come back preteen nn sites every day you'll never make them stay on, especially if you insist on a glamorous length right off. " "So what do I do?" I groaned, becoming overwhelmed and we hadn't even started. "I recommend a durable silk wrap if you don't mind the expense. It will look very good, just a little thicker than my nails, but it will hold up a lot better. That's what Mrs. Sanders uses. "Okay, okay, just like hers except longer, just get started." "Once we get your cuticles done. I already told you we have to start there." she chuckled. However, she had been working as we talked, and it wasn't much longer before she was putting the first of the forms on my fingers. She worked quickly, but carefully, struggling a little with the wider profile my masculine fingers had. Still, she insisted, my hands were well within the range of woman's hands that she had worked on, actually rather slender and shapely. "All that computer typing you do, I'll bet," she smiled. "How did you know I do that?" "Julie tells me lots of things. Women talk when they're forced together like this. What else should we do?" "Oh, I see," I considered. "What else did Julie tell you about me?" "Well, I never really repeat conversations. That's one of the reasons ladies feel comfortable talking with me. I guess it's safe to say, though, that Julie is really looking forward to this. I think she's more excited about seeing you dressed up than about how this little experiment turns out." "Did she really tell you that?" Sally shook her head, "No, she didn't say anything like that. It's just an impression I got. You'd be surprised, though, at how many women have that fantasy. A man who really understands what a woman goes through makes a much better lover, at least we all think he does. It's even better when a man will do it because his wife asks him to as a sign of love and willingness to please. I'm jealous of Julie, so maybe I'm reading more into it than she intends." "You're jealous of Julie, about me?" I asked in surprise. This brought a blush to Sally's cheeks as she realized that she had let the conversation slip from hypothetical third person fantasies to her own personal interests. But she didn't deny it, just looking intently at my hands as she worked on them. Finally she glanced up to see if I was still waiting for an answer, and her eyes were caught by mine as I stared in continued curiosity. A small nod bounced her hair before she looked back down. "Sorry, Sally, I'm taken," I grinned, trying to defuse the tension but flattered by her interest. "I know," she blushed again, "I didn't mean anything by it." "Thank you, though," I said softly. "It's been a long time since any woman has indicated I might be interesting. I'm flattered, just taken." She grinned as I indicated I wasn't angry, and also that I wouldn't try to take advantage of her admission to be forward with her, then bowed her head again to her task, working industriously. I was amazed at how restrictive the forms on my fingers were. Every time I tried to move my hand, I bumped one form against another. I got the obligatory nose itch part way through the session and went quietly nuts trying to ignore it. Finally it was not so quietly, and I carefully raised one hand to rub my nose with the back of a knuckle. Sally chuckled as she watched me struggle with the impedimenta of her trade but didn't say or do anything except to check and make sure I hadn't screwed up her handiwork. After what seemed like hours, but was really about 20 minutes, she sat back. "Okay, what color?" "Color?" I repeated stupidly. "Right, this style requires a color coat. The materials aren't natural color so they need to be covered. Besides, the sun will cause the gels to yellow. Oh, that reminds me. Julie told me to tell you that she won't use any more noticeable color than you do, either. If you choose some pale, fadeaway pink, so will she. For this elegant look, I suggest a bright, fiery red. It will go well with your hair color." "What about Julie's hair color? That's what matters." "Well, she should probably use a darker color, which will be okay. That's no more noticeable than the bright red I recommend for blondes," assured Sally. I struggled with the concept. "I really have to have them polished?" Sally laughed, "Yes, and you'll either have to re-polish them every couple of days, more if you chip them, or come in here for me to do it." I suddenly realized I didn't know how to terminate this trial. "How long does this last?" "Forever, unless you break one or something. This doesn't come off. I could probably file them down to look more ordinary, but unless something unusual happens they're with you until your base nails grow out, probably 3 or 4 months. Is that a problem?" "I'll say," I shouted, "this is only supposed to last three weeks at the most!" "Calm down. Nobody told me that. Well, I'll think of something. In the meantime, pick a color so we can finish." She held out the vibrant red she recommended and I numbly nodded, too overwhelmed by the thought of months with these strident claws to care about this final shock. By the time she had the first coat on, though, I was recovering and realized I had made another unthinking commitment. My nails almost glowed with a riot of brilliance, shining, shapely rubies that flashed in the lights of the table lamp. My hands looked long and elegant, even, I admitted to myself, beautiful and feminine. Those feelings of excitement I had recognized as I entered the salon resurrected themselves and I realized that I really wanted to do this. Earlier I had wondered if Julie had somehow manipulated me into this adventure. Now a part of me wondered if I had manipulated myself to this point, a part of my subconscious prodding me to things I didn't really know I wanted to do. Sally applied several coats, I lost track but it must have been at least four, cycling me through the dryer. She carefully explained her technique, reminding me that I would need to do the same every couple of days unless I wanted to admit it was too inconvenient. Part of the price of maintaining beautiful nails, she claimed. Finally we were done and she led me to the counter to pay. I had been waving my hands around, watching the highlights gleam in the depth of the polish, but hadn't tried to actually do anything with my hands. My first trial came when my nose itched again and I almost poked my own eye out. "Careful," Sally laughed. "I told you they take some getting used to." I nodded, then reached for my wallet. I almost lost my first nail right there as my hand reached my hip pocket well before it should have. Only the tough silk wrap kept me from immediate disaster. It didn't solve my problem, though. I couldn't get my wallet out of my pants! When I carefully slid a finger down beside it, the long nails kept me from curling the tip to get a purchase on the smooth leather. "I, um, have a problem," I stammered. "What? Oh, I see," she giggled, then waved her own even-longer nails at me. Finally I managed to work my thumb down one side of my wallet, and one elegant finger down the other and extract it. I had further problems trying to get the correct bills from within it, but after an interminable and frustrating delay Sally was paid (don't ask how much, if you don't know how much a full set of long silk wraps cost, it would shock you). I didn't even try to put my wallet away, just holding it in my hand. Sally escorted hot preteen underground me from the salon and closed the door behind me. Keeping my fingers carefully folded so that the nails were hidden against my legs, I walked to my bright red sports car. I had left the top down so there hadn't been any reason to lock it and I reached for the door, learning to be careful not to bang my nails on the handle. I was surprised to see that the nail polish almost matched the color of the car, which set me to wondering about subliminal choices while I casually reached into my pants for my car keys. Right. Casually reached right to the edge of the pocket on my tight jeans and was stopped even more thoroughly than I had been by my back pocket when I went for my wallet. I wasn't sure I'd ever get those keys, but I finally managed to work them out and then noticed the first chips in my polish. Damn, not even 15 minutes. I never realized that polish was that sensitive. I had the bottle and was about to toss it onto the seat when I realized that I couldn't have Julie seeing my hands looking tacky or she'd use that as evidence that the nails really were too much bother to keep up. So I carefully opened the bottle, my long nails waving like flags around the base and the applicator, and carefully applied polish to the chipped area. Thankfully Sally had used a pretty good polish and it filled in seamlessly. I put a second coat on for good measure after the first one had dried, then carefully closed the bottle and drove home. Carefully. I ended up carrying both my wallet and my keys as I approached the door to our house. It was unlocked and I managed to get inside without further damage to my beautiful nails. I was really beginning to get enamored with the flashing ruby highlights. Setting my things down on a table in the entry way, I went to find Julie. My nails still made me self-conscious enough that I kept my fingers folded while I walked. As soon as Julie saw me her eyes went to my closed hands, though she couldn't really see anything. "Show me your hands," she demanded with a laugh. I held my hands out to her, palms up as I had done in the restaurant. My eyes were on her face, and I saw the almost immediate look of exasperation as she was frustrated in her desire to see what my new nails looked like. As soon as she realized I was holding them upside down deliberately, her eyes flicked up to meet my wide grin. "Gotcha!" I bounced my own laugh off of her, provoking an embarrassed blush. While she was looking at my face I turned my hands over. She noticed the flicker out of the corner of her eye and her glance darted back to the target of her interest. "Wow!" she said breathlessly. "You really went all out." "Nothing is too good for my wife," I teased. "They're beautiful, so long and elegant. How can you stand it?" "Oh, they're not so bad. I did have a problem getting my keys out of my pocket, though," I admitted. Julie laughed, "I'll bet! Did Sally help?" "No way, her nails are even longer than mine." "Well, we'll just have to get you a purse to carry your things in," she teased. "Not likely," I denied her offer. "I may have to work something out, but I'm not carrying a purse. With these nails, I'm probably not even going outside. You were right when you said I'd have plenty of time to work on my project." "But they're so beautiful, and so feminine. You ought to show them off." "Earth to Julie," I called. "This is just a test. You're the one that will be showing off." "Maybe," she smiled, "but only if you stick it out for the three weeks." "I'll manage." "Maybe," she repeated with a mischievous grin. "Now," she continued, "go strip off your clothes and go to the bathroom. We have to get you ready for your other clothes." "Ready? Bathroom? Just what do you have in mind?" I asked with a combination of suspicion and growing concern. "You'll see. Wearing a woman's clothes takes preparation. That's part of the price, part of the inconvenience. If you won't do what it takes, the test doesn't count." She pointed toward the bedroom and made a shooing motion with her hands, the grin regaining its triumphant air as she asserted the power that controlling our little test had given her. I went to the bedroom and stripped down to my underwear, managing to get my sport shirt off fairly easily and my belt undone. However, the zipper on my jeans almost ended the trial right there, as I first got frustrated, then irritated, then angry enough to consider ripping those incredible nails right off my hands. Somehow, though, I managed to get a hold on the tab and lower the zipper. I toed my shoes off and walked into the bathroom in my socks and underwear. "No, no, no, that will never do," she chortled. "I said strip!" "What do you think you're going to do?" I demanded as I complied. "We're going to remove that unsightly body hair. It won't look right with your new clothes and it might cause the stockings to run. Stand in the shower." I was a little surprised the shower wasn't already running to set the temperature, but even more surprised when instead of a razor she reached for a pink can. "What's that stuff?" I asked in growing concern. "Hair remover. Now hold your arms out to the side and stand still." She applied the cream from the can liberally all over my body below my neck, except for a small area directly around my masculine package. Even though I found my glamorous nails strangely exciting, the hammerblows of succeeding surprises were too much for my saturated mind to accept and I was completely deflated, even when she moved my cock and balls around to spread the cream into hidden areas. Julie set a timer for 20 minutes and cautioned me to stand still, then left the room. The twenty minutes stretched on and on, seemingly without end. Without the timer I would have sworn it had been hours. My arms got tired after less than five, but the worst part was the itch that started after about ten minutes. It seemed like the foam was making my skin crawl and I began to twitch and shiver as my nerves exploded with the strange sensation. I was watching the timer creep down to the end, calling up all the stubbornness I could muster to keep from calling out and giving up, when Julie came walking back in. "That should be enough. Let me rinse you off," she offered. I stepped out of the direct flow of water just long enough for the temperature to rise above freezing (it must have been just barely above freezing, it was certainly cold) and then moved into its blessed relief. Julie's gentle hands and a sort of rough sponge helped me rinse all of the stinging foam off my body. I was so grateful for the relief from the itch that the rubbing scrub Julie from was giving me that I didn't realize just how smooth and sensitive my skin was feeling. When she was sure all the foam had been thoroughly rinsed, Julie motioned for me to step from the shower. She blotted my skin with a thick, soft towel and then reached for a powder puff. Before I realized what she was up to, clouds of softly scented powder were settling onto my shiny body. "Why'd you do that?" I asked, once again feeling helplessly attached to the tail of an out-of-control tiger. "Your skin needs the softness of the powder after that chemical. You know, you really do have beautiful skin. It must run in your family, just like your thick, soft hair." My father and both grandfathers had full heads of hair even when they died. Just as importantly, my female ancestors also had thick, full heads of hair. Women can carry the bald gene, too, it just shows as thinning hair rather than actual bald spots. In any event, baldness was one thing I didn't have to worry about. I kept my hair reasonably short, mostly so I could ignore it rather than worry about it, but I never thought of it as special. In fact, I always considered it plain and uninteresting. The mirror in the bathroom had fogged up and I couldn't really see what I looked like. I could tell the thin hair on my arms, legs, and chest was gone, but it had never been all that obtrusive. Before I could really start examining myself, however, Julie pulled me back into the bedroom. On the bed were boxes and bags in a bewildering array of sizes and shapes. Surely I didn't need that many clothes! They were still closed, though, so I couldn't tell what she had included. "Okay, Mr. Reasonable. Do you remember all the things you've been nagging me about wearing?" Julie launched her attack. "Now, honey, I haven't really been nagging you, just making suggestions," I counterattacked, weakly. "Once is a suggestion. More than once is a nag. You've been nagging," she threw in her reinforcements. "It wouldn't have been a nag, if you'd even really considered my suggestions," I retreated in grumpy disarray. She laughed and picked up the first package, "Actually, I'm going to go easy on you. I'm going to help you out with things you didn't even know enough to 'suggest', like removing your body hair so it doesn't pull when you slide on your stockings. This is another example. It's called a camisole, and it will keep the corset from pinching your beautiful, smooth skin." Julie pulled out shimmering wisp of nylon, tinted a pale pink, edged in delicate lace. She gathered it up and motioned me to put my arms in it, then draped it softly over my torso. It fell in gentle waves, lighter than air, so cool and smooth. Despite my sense of being overwhelmed I couldn't help but be impressed, pleased, even delighted at the sensual feel of the thin material. I found my hands smoothing it out over my waist while Julie busily adjusted the straps for a proper fit, whatever that meant. She didn't say anything, but the grin that was still prominent on her face took on a less triumphant air, filling in with a more quizzical expression. I was too distracted to notice. "Ahem, now for the next item," she interrupted my reverie. In the second package was a snowy white corset, decorated with delicate pink lace that matched the border of the camisole thing that I already wore. I recognized it in a general sort of way, but when I had urged models preteen bbs Julie to wear one I hadn't understood just how many different styles there were for figure control. She proceeded to explain about the one she had chosen for me. "This is a traditional corset, called Victorian style. It's out of date for today since bras have come along. Most modern figure control clothing, basques and merry widows, incorporate bra cups but you don't really need that, do you?" she teased. There were laces down the back of the garment, but there were also hooks down the front, hidden by a cover panel. Julie quickly undid the hooks and wrapped it around my waist. When she started fastening up the hooks again, I thought it was a little snug but no big deal, really. "That's not so bad," I commented as she was finishing the last couple of hooks. "I don't know why you made this seem like such a big deal when I asked you to wear one." For some reason this made her giggle carol out, silvery and full. I was surprised at first, but then a little concerned when her hilarity continued beyond a quick chuckle. What was so funny? She walked around behind me, struggling to get her laughter under control, then managed to blurt out between titters, "I'm just getting started. Hang on to the bedpost." I tried to turn around to look at her, but she caught my shoulders and held me facing the bed, then rotated them to make me lift my arms. I was still trying to look over my shoulder at her, though I was also reaching for the bedpost, when I remembered how much slack there was in the laces when she first showed me the corset. preteen fashion catalog She wasn't going to try and pull out all that slack. Surely not! Surely yes! With a strong tug she started pulling on the strings of the corset. My hands grasped the bedpost in reflex to keep from being pulled back and I started to complain, but she beat me to the first comment. "Be still. This is what a corset really means. If you want to understand it, then stand still and take it." I could hear the triumph back in her voice, and it triggered a response that was fast becoming a conditioned reflex. That sense of triumph she felt caused my always-adequate stubbornness to assert itself and once again I decided to show her I could take anything she could dish out. I held my tongue and grimly determined to ride out this latest indignity. She had started her lacing near the top, squeezing much of the breath out of my lungs, anyway, so talking would be difficult. There must have been six or eight sets of holes that she pulled the slack out of before tying off the ends near my much-reduced waist. I tried to breathe a sigh of relaxation, but the inadequate breath her tight lacing had left me was choked off even further when she started pulling out slack again, this time from laces near the bottom of the surprisingly long garment. I tried to look down to see how much my waist had already been pulled in, but all I saw was my own chest, barely captured within the top of the corset and squeezed up until it almost looked like I had a bust. She worked the lower laces up my waist and I was beginning to consider capitulation, giving in and admitting I couldn't take any more, when she went back to the first set of laces again! I was too surprised to say anything when I felt her strong fingers pulling out additional length from strings I was sure were already drum tight. She only went about half way up the top set of laces, starting at the lower level of my ribcage, but she managed to yank out enough to increase the already crushing embrace of the corset a noticeable amount. Finally she tied off these laces a second time and stood back. "There, that should about do it, for now." "For now?" I gulped softly, trying to get some air back into compressed lungs. "Yep, after about an hour, we should be able to get nice preteens a little more out." "Don't be ridiculous. This is already too tight." I whined. "That's what a corset is all about," she maintained. "Now, if you had really tried to understand what you were talking about and asked for a waist cincher or body briefer, you might be a little less constricted, blessed with modern stretchy materials instead of satin and stiff boning. But no, you were always so sure you were being reasonable that there was no need for understanding." I said nothing. This example added to the self-assessment that had started when she told me at lunch that she felt unfulfilled and I began to think I hadn't been reasonable at all. But maybe I was just getting lightheaded from the lack of breath. While I had been lost in my thoughts, she went to a small package and I heard the whisper of long, sheer stockings. When I glanced at the sound, I saw her set those carefully on the bed, then pick up a handful of small elastic straps with clips on the ends, I recognized them after a second as garters. When she began to attach them to hooks on the lower fringe of the corset I tried to interrupt her. "Wait a erotic preteen boy minute! Don't I get any underwear?" "Did you ever ask me to go without?" she replied with a grin brimming with mischief. "Well, yes, but only once, a long time ago. You said that doesn't count as a nag." I offered in my defense. Julie giggled and nodded, "You're right. I have underwear for you. They're even men's underwear, though not like any you've ever worn. But they go on over the garters so you can go to the bathroom, or remove them quickly just in case you're in a hurry." My pretty tormentor chuckled as she gathered one of the stockings neatly, then knelt at my right foot. I had considered offering to do it myself, but she was obviously enjoying her time dressing up her full-sized Barbie doll. Besides, in that infernal corset I probably couldn't have bent over that far, anyway. The slither of the smooth, shimmering material up my smooth, shining leg reminded me of the camisole, and a bit of excitement returned. I was still too deflated from the intensity of the corset to get fully erect, but my dormant cock started to stretch down my leg. Julie noticed, but didn't say anything. Her giggles did damp out though, and I saw that quizzical look return to her eyes. In a moment she had the first one hooked, to three garters as my saturated mind finally absorbed, and started on the second. Normally, I take a bit of pride in being pretty aware of what's going on around me. Unless I'm deep into cyberspace of course, then the rest of the world doesn't exist. But anyway, when I'm not lost in space, I try to pay attention to things. However, it was only with the second stocking that I noticed they were dark and elegant, and seamed! She had carefully straightened the seam on the first one without me even noticing and when she started to do the same to the second, I became a bit overwhelmed. My pride in my awareness came tumbling down and I realized I was truly out of my depth. I shuddered a little preteen girl thong and reached for the bedpost to steady myself. "Are you alright?" she asked in concern. "I think so," I murmured. "But this is just going too fast. How much more is there?" "Just a few things," she promised. She opened another package and drew out a tangled set of thin straps in a bright, vibrant red. Untangling the straps, she revealed thong underwear, the thin bands emanating from a small triangle of material. Once again she had me raise my feet and started pulling the tiny thong up my tautly covered legs. "You want to do this? Or do you want me to?" she asked gently, still a bit concerned. "I'll get it," I offered. My cock was still soft, a condition that didn't change when little girls preteen I poked it with my long, clumsy nails, so I managed to get it back between my legs and then pull the underwear up to cover my masculine (how masculine was I, really?) package. The bands of the thong barely drew up above the globes of my ass, just enough to keep from sliding back down (I hoped). Still, they were high enough that they had to be tucked under the lower fringe of the corset, which extended from my armpits to my hips. I could see what she meant by the need to put underwear on over the garters. If my ordinary underwear had been trapped up under the corset, I never would have gotten them down. Those tiny underwear were strange, but putting them on myself had allowed me to absorb their strangeness and I didn't feel quite so out of control, so I stood up a little straighter (mostly a thing of my legs and head, since my torso was already rigid) and smiled reassurance at Julie. An answering smile of relief lit her face and her good humor returned with the lightning speed of her normal emotional transitions. "Okay, almost done," she assured me. "All we have left are heels, skirt, and blouse." The unfamiliar words echoed in my mind, threatening another overload. I carefully husbanded the little breath the corset allowed to me and waited for these latest assaults on my senses. The blouse was first, all lace and ruffles, extravagantly feminine. Another of my "suggestions" at work, that she should dress in more feminine styles. I sighed (well almost, I didn't have enough breath for a real sigh) and fed my arms into it. It fastened up the back, of course, all the way to a ruffled, stand up collar. I had deliberately set up my career so I could work at home and avoid wearing a tie and here I was with even more stuff around my neck. "Does it have to be such a bright color?" I complained. She giggled, "It is rather red, but red is really your color. It matches your nails. Besides, women wear brighter colors than men. This is what you get when you go for dainty, feminine styles like you nagged me about." Whoever had tailored the black skirt had decided to use the material for fullness rather than length. It was definitely shorter than typical for Julie (me and my big mouth, but I thought her legs were beautiful and deserved to be displayed). When she slid it up my legs I watched my knees reappear below the hem, then more and more of my thighs as well. Finally she zipped it up behind me and closed the single button. "Good, the size is fine. In fact, I could have gotten a size smaller. With that corset, you could wear a size 7, I'll bet we'll be able to share clothes. Now, this is just a simple cotton/polyester blend, but it's lined, so you don't need a slip," she explained. Thank God for small favors I thought to myself. "Oops, I forgot, you need a belt," she exclaimed, then drew out a wide, stretchy, fish scale belt in shining gold. She quickly wrapped this around my waist. I noticed there were no belt loops, and while the belt was stretched a bit it was hardly tight since my waist was so compressed. What good was it, anyway? My thoughts on the uselessness of the belt had distracted me while Julie turned to yet another package, obviously a shoe box. When she turned around this time, I finally had to call a stop to the nonsense. "No! No way! I'm not wearing those shoes," I declared. They were some sort of sandal things, open toed, with a single red strap over the foot that was an inch or so wide at the sides, but twisted into a knot in the middle, obviously right behind the toes. Near the back of the shoe there were two long, thin red straps that must tie up around the ankle in some way that wasn't immediately clear to me. Those features weren't too bad, though I didn't know why she hadn't just chosen some simple slip-on design. But the heels were unreal! They towered up at least 5 inches, maybe more, covered in the same bright red as the toe strap. "Those are just too high, be reasonable," I heard myself blurt out. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I wanted them back. I was claiming reasonableness for myself and didn't want to lose control of that word by letting her capture it. Too late, though. And worse, it provoked that irritating triumphal grin back onto her face. "Reasonable?" she jumped on the word. "You mean you don't think these shoes are reasonable? I'll have you know these heels, in my size, are less than an inch taller than the ones I was wearing the last time you nagged me about my shoes. In your size they're up a little more, but overall only about an inch over what you found inadequate. Now that's only reasonable, isn't it?" I was really caught, now. Flinging my own words back into my face was bad enough, but doing it while wearing that damn grin was too much. My lsmagazine preteen own stupid stubbornness reared its perpetually ugly head and I growled back. "Fine, then, have it your way. How do those things fasten up anyway?" I tried to bend down to pick one up, but that stupid corset kept me almost straight and I couldn't reach them. She quickly grabbed one and held it for my foot. Guiding my stocking-clad toes into the toe strap, she wrapped the other straps around my leg in a pattern that still wasn't entirely clear but left them elegantly poised at the thinnest point of my ankle. She fastened the tiny buckle and motioned for me to raise my other foot. Right. Until that point I hadn't been putting any real weight on the high-heeled shoe. When she made it clear I needed to lift my other foot, I tried to roll my hip a little, but found I needed to step up instead. I immediately swayed, trying to find some sort of balance between my toe and heel. Clutching at the bedpost, I felt unfamiliar muscle tensions as I tried to stabilize my leg. I was so distracted by the effort that Julie had the other shoe fastened before I realized what was going on. After a moment, I realized that I really could put some weight on the heel, though my toes were clearly bearing the majority of the load. Still, that did give me a few inches of wheel base to work with, better than just the ball of my foot. It also let me relax the arch of my foot a little which helped with my leg muscles. I gingerly put some weight on my other foot and then slowly let go of my death grip on the bedpost. "There, that's not so bad, is it?" Julie teased. "I'll manage," I gritted out, still tottering but not in imminent danger of falling. "Would you like to take a look at yourself?" she offered, moving back so I could turn to look in the full-length mirror. "Not really," I denied, but as the panic brought on by the towering high-heels subsided, the excitement I had previously recognized flooded in behind it and I knew I wanted to see what I looked like. I turned toward the mirror, too quickly and almost fell, but I caught myself with a small step and attained a clumsy, awkward balance. I had turned far enough to see myself in the mirror, though, which was all that mattered at that moment. My glance started at those silly shoes . . . which weren't so silly anymore. They lifted my foot into a graceful arch and the thin straps made my ankles look slender and delicate. The dark stockings led my eyes up glorious, long, smooth, sculptured legs to the short, dark skirt that nipped into a waist so tiny it couldn't possibly be mine. I saw the value of that stupid gold belt as it provided a magnet for the eyes in celebration of that slim, dainty waist. My glistening nails caught a highlight from somewhere and I realized my hands looked as elegant and feminine as my legs. Though my hands would never be called dainty, with the long, glamorous nails they looked slender and beautiful. The bright red blouse exploded in ruffles at throat and wrists, surrounding the delicate airy lace that threatened to reveal a bosom that I didn't really have. Not a real risk anyway since I knew the blouse was lined and fully opaque. Actually, I had a bit of a bosom with that corset squeezing my chest up almost to my throat. The Victorian style of the body shaper prevented any definition of breasts that weren't there, nonetheless I had a definite bust, especially in contrast with that impossible waist. The image I saw in the mirror buried my anger under bewildering amazement, confused excitement, and I realized, pleasure. It might have been okay if my gaze had stopped there, but my eyes just had to go and complete the examination, finally reaching my face. While Julie resisted my suggestions about clothes, she had always been proud of the beauty of her face and glorious hair. Even before we met she had developed the skilled, subtle touch of an artist with cosmetics and had always taken the time to care for her tumbling dark tresses. The only comment, other than compliments, I had ever offered on her makeup or hair had been a single complaint the first time she had worn curlers to bed. I had asked if that was really necessary and she had curtly said it was. However, I noticed that after that night she had started using hot rollers in the morning, at least most of the time. Anyway, I had always loved the way she enhanced the considerable natural beauty of her face, and loved the flowing cascade of her darkly shining hair, and never "nagged" her about either one. As a result, she hadn't done anything with my face or hair and what I saw in the mirror was a man's face over a gloriously beautiful, amazingly feminine body. Actually, that wasn't quite right. With my soft features and squeaky-clean shave, it looked more like a boy's face over a woman's body, but still desperately, foolishly, pathetically incongruous. Julie had already seen what I looked like as she dressed her grown-up Barbie doll so she had been watching my face as I studied the vision in the mirror. It must have shown surprise, wonder, then growing pleasure as I looked at the body she had created. Then it must have shown dismay bordering on pain as my line of sight finally lifted to my head. I was too overwhelmed by the unending stream of shocks she had introduced into my life to maintain any control over my expression and I must have revealed every thought as emotions flooded through me in trip-hammer succession. "Jay, what's the matter?" she said in alarm. "Huh? What? Oh, nothing," I denied, the lie still written on my face. "Don't give me that. I haven't seen you look that unhappy, not angry or frustrated or worried, but just plain sad, since I can't remember when. Now what's wrong?" I tore my gaze away from the mirror and looked at my loving wife, all gloating triumph gone from her worried face. In truth, I wasn't sure what was wrong with me. I didn't really want to be a woman, did I? If not, then why was my face what I wanted to change in the image and not my body? Why was I feeling so proud about my tiny, decidedly feminine waist when I knew it was due to the corset I hated so much? I did hate these clothes, didn't I? I was just putting up with them, in private, to win an argument point with my wife, right? The confusion rampant behind my eyes must have flowed across my face, leaving Julie just as concerned as ever. I was too consumed by the sensations to speak and just stood there, swaying a little on my unaccustomed heels. Finally, she broke the frozen silence. "Look, this has gone far enough. Let's get you out of those clothes." "No!" I cried, an expression torn from my confusion without conscious thought. "What?" Julie asked in surprise. Somehow that one word that had forced itself from me had caused my locked up systems to re-boot and I was able to speak again. "I don't understand what all this means, love, but part of me is really excited by these clothes. So much that I'm worried about it, but I don't want to give it up, at least not yet," I explained. My thinking out loud continued, "This has all been a little too much for me. This little game we were playing has gotten entirely too real. I'm sort of out of control, here, and I need to get myself back together. But when I looked at myself in that mirror I was so pleased with what you had done to me that I was about to explode. Something about dressing like this is reaching deep into wants and needs I never even knew I had. Do you think I'm really gay?" "No, don't be silly," she assured me. fresh preteen angel "I read somewhere that most cross-dressers are thoroughly heterosexual. You obviously enjoy our marriage, just as I do. Actually, all of us have a little man and woman inside, nobody is 100% male or female. Maybe you've just repressed preteen nude candid a little more femininity than we knew." Building excitement bubbled in preteen euro photos her voice, "Maybe I was more right than I knew when I said that you needed to understand what it means to be a woman a little more. Not just so you'll understand me better, but so you'll understand yourself better!" Julie continued, "But I don't understand why you looked so sad, there. I can understand being confused. I'm confused by what's going on and it must be much worse from your side. But what made you so sad?" I was finally resurrecting a bit of control over my tangled, frantic thoughts as the shock of my appearance was absorbed and her words began to help me understand things, at least a little. Her question was enough to prod me back into a single, clear emotion. Embarrassment. I felt a flush set my cheeks on fire and I ducked my head, staring at my elegant shoes. "Now what's the matter?" she asked in exasperation when I didn't answer. I tried to take a deep breath to calm myself, but though I was getting used to the corset enough it was not actively uncomfortable, I still couldn't manage more than tiny sips of air. So I closed my eyes for a minute and took a mental breath instead, then looked at the beautiful woman I loved. "I was disappointed when I saw my man's face on a woman's body. I wanted it to be a pretty woman's face instead. And hair, lots of beautiful hair, like yours," I finally admitted. There it was out. Now what would she think of me? "Oh, Jay," she cried, tears forming in her eyes. I knew it. I'd blown a good marriage. I should never have agreed to this stupid test in the first place. I should have been satisfied with my gorgeous wife just as she was, instead of being so selfish. I should have . . . Julie interrupted my mental self-flagellation by wrapping her arms around me and hugging me tightly, almost tightly enough to feel through that infernal, magical corset. She looked up to me with tears in her eyes, but instead of disgust or anger I saw glorious love there. "Dearest Jay," she murmured into my . . bust, "you can't imagine how much I hoped you would feel that way. I always wished you would want to do this. I used this silly test as a way to get you to go along with a more important test, not about fashions, about us. It's a secret I've kept from you these years we've been married, even before that actually. With your face and features I just knew I could make you look like a woman, even a beautiful one. In my fantasies I dreamed of making love with a woman, but it always turned out to be a man under a woman's clothes and you were the man. This test, the clothes I dressed you in, were all the sorts of things you nagged me about, but you never complained about my face or hair so I had no excuse to do anything to you there. But I so hoped you would w