Dressing for Pleasure                  by: Kassie Hugo

 

Light filters through the window, a breeze ruffles the curtains. He catches the scent of early morning dew and listens to the dawn chorus as his eyes follow the line of the wardrobe to the dress, hanging there like a beautiful ghost. Not yet, he tells himself. Not yet. It's not time. But the desire coils around him like a chiffon snake and he cannot struggle free of it. He rolls in the sheets, skin slick with sweat.

Like Christmas, all his presents are laid out. Like Christmas, when he was a child, the anticipation rising, heart beat quickening. Like Christmas. He squeezes his eyes shut, counts sheep, but sleep doesn't come. He takes deep breaths, trying to relax the muscles of his shoulders as blood sings in his ears. Although he has told himself not to, he turns and looks at the dress again. The sheer skirt catches the ripple of a breeze, its colour and brilliance shedding into the room.

Not yet.

He remembers when she dressed him. When she encased him in satin underwear and asked him over and over again how he felt. How could he tell her at that age?

"Wouldn't you rather be a girl? Girls get to wear such pretty things."

He turns away again and buries his head in the pillow. Another vision slips over him from the dark shadows still clinging to the walls by the mirror. A ballerina on a music box, turning slowly, gracefully, gentle chimes filling the room. The music box was the beginning. That and her scent suspended in the warm, country air.

Close your eyes. Don't think of her. Don't think of anything.

Water falls, cascading like hot lava over his scalp, his shoulders, running down his back, showering onto the tiles below. Soap slips over his flesh, water seeps between his lips, that fresh, apple smell billows up with the steam. His nerves are screaming. His heart is beating fast. A thrill of expectation rises in him.

It's so nearly time.

He reaches for the razor and begins to shave, running the blade slowly up his calf. Hair breaks away and congeals around his feet, the flotsam of his masculinity. He works deliberately, following a ritual, gradually rising up his thigh, leaving the skin below smooth and sensual. Droplets pearl on his pale, porcelain flesh.

Oh, how he has missed her. How he has wished for her presence every day.

He moves onto his other leg, starting in the same place as before, just behind the ankle, easing upwards, tracing the contour of the limb. Next, he works the blade over his abdomen, over his chest, sheering the thick hairs around his nipples and across his sternum. Finally, he draws the blade up his arms and down over the gully of his armpits. He watches the remnants of his hair swirl down into the plug hole and lets the hot water flood over him for a while.

"Isn't that better now?" Her long, graceful arm unfurls and she presses a finger to her full lips, kisses it and then places the finger against his lips. The ballerina twirls and the chimes fill his head and her beautiful almond eyes draw him into her world. She sprays perfume at him and giggles. The scent, her scent, clings to his skin.

The city drifts through the window and shakes him from the memory, the rumble of car engines, the pneumatic hiss of brakes, the roar of a plane taking off, the scream of a child in the street below. The city is coming alive.

He dries himself and then takes time to massage his smooth flesh with coconut scented oil, glorying in the silken touch of his body. He loves this moment, when his two worlds merge and reach some kind of balance.

He wraps himself in a towel and goes downstairs.

He makes coffee and some toast and sits in the kitchen and tries to read the morning paper. He can't concentrate. The words swim across the pages. A clock ticks above the fridge, second hand slowing as his heartbeat rises again. He tries to focus on a story, about some star who's been caught with another woman but it can't hold him. Not like she can.

She's been pounding on his mind for weeks now. At first he tried to resist her charm. That elusive smile on the folds of his mind. That sensual touch in his stomach when her face painted his thoughts.

He finishes the toast and goes upstairs to the bathroom and wipes away a cold film of shower mist on the mirror. He leans towards his reflection, picks up the tweezers and begins to tug at the hairs of his eyebrows. Pain tweaks across his forehead making his eyes water but he doesn't stop. Not until the brows have been transferred into fine arches. He hasn't gone this far before but he is pleased with the effect. He doesn't know how he'll explain it to his friends. Maybe he won't have to. Maybe she'll stay after this. Maybe he'll be the one trapped in the shadow land of his mind. He splashes hot water on his face and rubs oil into his chin, massaging it into the bristles. He shaves slow and close and then soaks his chin and neck in cold water to close the pores.

He moisturises his face and goes back into the bedroom to prepare for the final steps.

The sight of the dress takes his breath away. He can almost sense it clinging to his flesh. He hastily tidies the bed, straightening the duvet and then he lays out the underwear. Panties, suspender belt, stockings and bra and a Cherile full slip, all in cream satin. He strokes his fingers over the material of the slip and shudders. He thinks again of the ballerina and the music box. The woman at the dressing table, brushing colour across her features. Turning to smile at him.

"Such a pretty girl."

His hands are trembling. This is the moment. He stands on the edge of her world like a high diver. She is the dark water below and the fear is trapped inside him. Fear of the drop into her. Fear that maybe this time she will not let him go. Fear, too, that she will. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. The woman reaches out to him. "Let me help you with that." Her breath smells of mint, her flesh of summer flowers. How can he resist her? He lets himself fall. There's a slight jolt, a small bolt of electricity inside him and his stomach knots then loosens. Goose bumps flicker like tiny explosions over his skin before his shoulders relax and he plunges into her warm waters.

Her body envelops him.

He reaches down and lifts up the suspender belt. His eyes feast on its lace pattern and the small bud rose at the front, the silk and elastic strands hanging beneath. He wraps it around his waist and fastens the hooks. The suspenders tickle against his thighs and buttocks. He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls on one of the flesh coloured stockings. The 10 denier nylon slips over his toes and rides up the smoothness of his leg till the lace top reaches his upper thigh. He attaches the first garter and then stands and attaches the one at the back. The elastic stretches over the curve of his right cheek. He sits again and repeats the process. Cold nylon wraps around his legs and he runs a finger from his ankle up to his thigh, shivering with pleasure.

He picks up the panties and presses the soft material to his face. He slides the flimsy garment over the bare skin of his chest and down over his abdomen, the way she had done when he was a child. "You like that? Do you?" He pulls on the panties, admiring the high cut, the way they smooth his crotch and make him look more like a woman. He turns in front of the mirror, watching the light shimmer off the material. He could stand there for hours admiring himself but she wants more. So much more.

He sits at the dressing table and examines the contours of his face. This has to be perfect. Today of all days. A mistake now would destroy the illusion. He reaches for the pots of makeup, picks up a sponge and begins to apply the Max Factor foundation to his jaw line, working down onto his neck and up over his cheeks, nose and brow. He blends it to give a flawless, satin complexion. Enough to even out his features, not so much that it dominates. A natural look. He powders the foundation and while he waits for it to set, he takes the top off the bottle of blood red varnish and begins to paint his long, shaped nails. He was going to paint them a more subtle colour but he was in love with the red and she deserved it for her first trip out.

He practices his voice, raising the pitch a little to give himself a husky, feminine voice. He practices a pout, then pokes his tongue at the mirror. He tries that demure, almost submissive look that makes him blush even though there is no one to see him. She has many expressions and he will get to practice them all. When the varnish is dry on his nails, he brushes the excess powder from his face. Now, he has to be calm. To make it work, to give her the best, he must be calm. He reaches for the kohl eyeliner and sweeps it gently around his eys. He resists the temptation to make the lines heavy. Again, it must be natural. Next, he chooses a deep mauve shadow and blends it skilfully onto his lower lids, working slowly out into the cleft of his eye socket. He adds a lighter tone above that, brushing it out to the brow and then stops to admire his handiwork. That's not bad at all. He twists the lid off a maxi lash mascara and tilts his head back, stroking the brush over his lashes. They are quite long but the mascara makes them thick and lustrous and adds a new sensuality to his face. He darkens his eyebrows with the kohl pencil which seems to make them more arched, more feminine. He knows this is going to be good now.

He smiles at the mirror and passes the blusher brush over his cheeks, blending it towards his temples. The effect is pleasing. His face, her face, is coming alive. He takes up a maroon pencil and traces the outline of his mouth, excentuating the cupids bow, deepening the lower lip. He reaches for the lipstick and then stops. No. That is always the last thing. She told him that. More than anything the lipstick is the finishing touch.

He stands and sprays musk over his chest and arms and down the small of his back. The sensual scent wraps around him and then buries itself into his pores and becomes part of him. He picks up the bra and fastens it around his chest, then pulls the straps up over his shoulders. The silk raises his nipples with its soft embrace. He inserts the silicone breast forms into the cups. He likes their weight and admires the way they transform his figure in the mirror. He lifts the slip and raises his arms and lets the material glide down his body, the lace hem resting gently over his thighs. He stands there for a moment, wrapped in the sensation.

"Sweet thing. We'll call you sweet thing," she laughed.

"I want a proper name."

"Vanessa then. That's a nice name. I once had a friend called Vanessa."

You can look at the dress now. You can look. You can touch.

It hangs near the window, a chiffon creation in muted rainbow colours that shimmer in the light. The dress has a cowl neck and a tight fitting bodice and a flared, layered ankle length skirt of sheer chiffon. He takes it off the hanger and holds it against himself, trembling with anticipation. She wells up inside him, as she did the day he saw the dress. He cannot hold her back any longer. He cannot resist her.

He unzips the dress and steps into it. The sheer material glides up his legs, the bodice wraps around his ribcage as he pulls the straps up over his shoulders and zips up the back. He arranges the cowl and then twirls in front of the mirror. The skirt swishes around his thighs and knees, wrapping him in ecstasy. It fits him perfectly.

He clips on pearl drop earrings and ties a ring of pearls around his neck, attaches a ladies watch to one wrist and a silver charm bracelet to the other. He steps into a pair of four inch, cream leather courts and walks in front of the mirror, swaying his hips, his gestures growing feminine as the seconds pass. He picks up the rust coloured wig and teases out the curls, places it over his head and fixes it into place. He shakes his head and the soft locks cascade around his shoulders. He's beautiful. Sensual. Everything he wants to be. Before him stands a full figured, young lady with long curling hair, rounded breasts and a dress to die for. He's so excited by the transformation that he laughs out loud. But it is her voice that echoes around him. Her girlish laughter. He looks at the watch. It's nearly time. It's nearly time. He finds a clutch bag and puts in the makeup he may need, a purse and the front door key.

And finally. He picks up the lipstick, twists the bottom slowly and spreads the gloss over his lips, blending it into the liner. It tastes of strawberries and smells of her. It coats his flesh in a constant reminder of his femininity. He puts the lipstick in his bag and stands back to admire the finished product.

It's time. It's time.

She goes down the stairs, glorying in her new found freedom, glad to be out in the open. For a moment, she pauses at the door, wrestling with the last of her doubt. But that cannot stop her. Nothing can stop her. This was always meant to be.

She opens the door and steps out into the world.

 

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