Nelle

by Sarah Dechand

 

Part 6

Our sex life was dead, but Nelle was much more about head games than sex, anyway. She saw to it that my public exposure in my little shorts outfits was maximized. I was not allowed a car, and had to take the bus to a commuter train to work. Every morning, there among the professionals in their grey suits and the workmen in their jeans and cotton duck, and the handful of professional women, in their pantsuits, I sat, knees together, in my white pantyhose and sweet little mock-three-piece shorts outfits that zipped up the back.

It seemed that no matter how many times I experienced the stares of the men and the smirks of the women, the humiliation stayed sharp and fresh. It didn’t get any easier. Although each outfit was more or less the same, each had its own particular character. One had fuller shorts, one had slightly longer shorts. Another had a false lace handkerchief in the false vest pocket. One had a wide matching belt, and another had a contrasting red neck bow attached. I had a few "weekend" suits in denim – a white one, a pink one, and a blue one with embroidered flowers on the vest. Nancy had laughed aloud when I wore the blue one to a company outing one Saturday. It figured, she said, that I’d be wearing a romper and white pantyhose on the weekend as well.

One day, my acute self-consciousness became even worse, when a regular customer of the bank approached me, with the best of intentions and whispered in my ear: "Dear, I don’t mean to talk where I shouldn’t, and you are always so well put together (by now I was blushing furiously), but did you know that you almost always are showing panty lines!" It was as if I were made of porcelain, and shattering into a million tiny pieces. I seemed to lose control over my jaw, and it fell open, leaving me gasping in silent mortification. I couldn’t be sure, but I think the old bird chuckled as she strutted to the exit.

The next time I was allowed to use the bathroom, I looked over my shoulder, and could see plain as day, the gently curving line of the bodyshaper around the edge of my wide, fat ass. I could just see Nelle’s amusement. She must have known that she was sending me out this way.

Nelle obviously enjoyed my humiliation, which continued unrelentingly, but not much else about me. Our routines became more and more separate, with only a few moments of shared time each day. Every morning I was required to have breakfast ready by the time she had completed getting showered and dressed. That meant that I had to get up early and shower and get dressed first. In turn, that meant that Nelle would have to come to my room, supervise my dressing, and secure me in my outfit for the day, before going on to take her shower.

This was the most intimate moment of our day, since in the evening, Nelle tended to avoid me. It was the one time when she paid attention to me physically. I could sense her pride and satisfaction as she zipped up my little outfits, and tied the bows in the back. Occasionally, Nelle would reach around and smooth the front of my shorts, feeling the soft smoothness of my belly, and my smoothed-out and flattened front, as if to say "not much of a man, these days, are you?"

But mostly, she didn’t say much to me, barely even a good morning. Her interest seemed to be elsewhere. Her upward trajectory at the office seemed uninterrupted, and she put in long hours at work, but she didn’t talk about it. Our sex life was utterly gone, and I had only my hands to satisfy myself. Nelle didn’t even use the dildo on me. I felt only the cold hard truth of her turning away from me, and for the first time ever, I actually had a hard time getting it up. Mentally, I was off the sexual map, totally lost, and feeling terribly wrong.

And what was worse, I felt helpless to change it. I was so deep in the doghouse that it seemed like years would have to pass before I got her trust back. Still worse, since Nelle was so controlling, and liked so much to dictate my actions, it would be even more difficult for me to find a way to work on earning her trust.

So I felt like I had nothing to lose after 6 months when I finally got up the nerve to ask Nelle what I could do to gain back her trust. Her answer was surprisingly quick, as though she had known I’d ask: "give up your penis and your testicles." I did indeed have something to lose, so I shut right back up.

My shorts outfit misery continued into the winter. I wore thicker tights and lace up ankle boots, and also wool cardigans, but the shorts outfits remained the mainstay – the only item, really, in my wardrobe. Nelle had bought me a long, wool, full-skirted double breasted coat, which kept the cold out. It also gave me a sense of confidence as I faced the day. It actually made me feel like a normal woman. This sensible and kind gift from Nelle in the midst of the freezing weather, let me start to feel that Nelle was thawing out a bit, but she proved me wrong again.

I asked her one morning, if maybe I could wear pants, or even a long dress that day, instead of the shorts outfit she had selected for me (a large navy blue and white check on the shorts, with a crocheted vest.) Nelle’s answer was swift and to the point: "No. You’re being punished, and you’ll wear the shorts outfit. Period. End of Story."

"Isn’t there anything I could do to lessen the punishment or shorten the term?" I pleaded, but to no avail. Nelle’s response was silence.

The seasons turned and turned again, and by midsummer, the second of my shorts punishment, I was growing increasingly uncomfortable. My job was nothing short of ferocious boredom, interrupted only by the "humiliating" capers that Nancy put me through. You can only be truly embarrassed so many times by having to go buy cigarettes in a silly outfit. Nelle was never around, and I found myself stuck in my outfits from 6:30 in the morning until 11 at night, when she finally returned to release me. I was learning to exercise zen-like control over my bodily functions, since I left work at 4.

The years of wearing a body shaper and pantyhose all the time were starting to take their toll, as well. I ministered daily to a rash which grew around my cock and balls, and had removed most of the hair in that area in order to avoid the rather unpleasant smell which tended to develop. It was a particularly hot summer, and the discomfort was frankly awful. So I tried once again if I could get relief or amnesty on the evenings and weekends.

One night, when Nelle was very late getting home, I made a point of saying that I was relieved at her return, since I had to pee ferociously. This seemed to have no effect on Nelle, but I was determined to keep trying. The next morning, when it was time for her to dress me, I asked if it would be possible to wear a dress or a skirt, so that I could take off the pantyhose at home. Her answer was a categorical "No," but I wanted to see if it was negotiable. I took a deep breath said: "Even if I gave up my penis and testicles?"

"I thought you’d never agree to that." Nelle seemed interested. So I asked her what she meant by "give them up." She meant have them removed permanently. I pondered the current value of of my genitals as she zipped up the outfit, a navy blue nautical themed number with striped shorts and piping around the collar, tied the bow in the back, and secured the padlock. "Are you really thinking you might agree to let me take them?" asked Nelle. I replied that I was thinking about it, but it would depend on what I got in return.

It turned out to be complicated. Nelle said that even though it seemed like we were negotiating something, nothing was negotiable. In other words, if I allowed her to remove my penis and testicles, I didn’t necessarily stand to gain anything. But on the other hand, it was clear that she would regard such a sacrifice as a major step towards rekindling the trust that once held us together as a couple.

"I don’t know." I said, and left to prepare her breakfast.

We repeated this conversation several times over the next few weeks, in one form or another. Each time, it ended with the ball clearly in my court. Finally, after one of these conversations, Nelle called me on it. "Listen, Linda, I’m not going to talk to you about this anymore until you decide. Next time you bring it up, you’ve got to tell me whether you’re going to do it, or not, once and for all."

So there you had it. On the one hand, it appeared that I had been awarded a distinctly feminine name, but on the other, I had been given an ultimatum. Nelle definitely had a talent for negotiation. "Did you just call me ‘Linda?’" I asked.

"Yes."

Linda. Linda. Linda. Nelle’s giving me this name was the first sign of a new trust, and it was a deeply affecting gift. I was near tears as I prepared her breakfast. I hadn’t realized how important it was for me to feel accepted as a woman, as somebody who was, in essence, not me. And the name itself, which means "pretty" in Spanish, it made me feel strange and warm just to think about it. The other thing it made me feel was excited. For the first time, I could feel my confined member stirring deep under several layers of confining clothes.

When Nelle arrived for her breakfast half an hour later, I said I’d do it.

"You know that it won’t change your punishment one bit, don’t you, Linda. You’ll still be kept in your little shorts outfits." Nelle wanted to make absolutely sure of my decision, so I confirmed it. I would give them up.

"OK," said Nelle. "Give Nancy her two weeks notice, and I’ll make the arrangements." I left joyfully for work, and made it a point to misbehave generally for the next couple of weeks.

Two weeks later, we went together to have the procedure done. I was actually permitted to wear a dress to the operation. For obvious reasons, I didn’t have to wear the bodyshaper and pantyhose either. I felt comfortable and radiant. The procedure was performed under general anesthesia, and I woke up groggy and sore. Nelle was a real angel, and took great care of me over the weekend.

During my three days of recovery, I was bandaged and catheterized, and did not have the opportunity to appreciate the work. However, Monday morning came, and it was time to remove the bandages. I looked down at my new, completely smooth crotch. There were still some ugly looking stitches, but the swelling was beginning to go down. It was clear to me now that while I could no longer ever dream of passing as a man, my chances of being a full-fledged woman were virtually nil. All of my sex had been neatly removed. I really had given them up and sacrificed any chance of constructing female parts from the sensitive areas of the removed male items.

Before I could get too worked up about the loss, Nelle consoled me. In order to avoid the perils of osteoperosis, I would have to take hormones. Naturally, these would be female hormones. My skin would soften, and my mindset would change. My spirit began to lift.

 

 

 

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© 2002 by Sarah Deschand. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.