The Perfect Hubby

by Sharon Masterman

 

2. Billy to Billie Jean

 

Julie turned out to be right. A week later Billy came home to find me wearing heavy makeup, the previously forbidden 5-inch heels, black nylons, a bullet bra, and a tight sweater and skirt. My new acrylic nails were long, red, and pointed -- and I wore long dangling earrings and a sexy anklet. His excitement was apparent. So was his fear as I towered over him in my heels and fiercely glared into his eyes. He was speechless as I placed a hand along his neck and pressed my sharp red talons into it. Then I scolded him as if he were a child.

I could see from his face that he was scared -- really scared -- as I told him I was sick and tired of his macho posturing and that I’d drive my nails into his dick and cut it off if he couldn’t learn to control it. I’d never seen him look like that before. He was actually cringing -- cringing like a frightened little boy. Emboldened by his fear, I ordered him over my knee for a bare-bottomed spanking. Much to my delight he offered no resistance as I lowered his trousers and draped him over my knee.

It was just like Julie said. Towering over him in heels with aggressive missile-like breasts and long, sharp nails, I reminded him of the powerful women who dominated him as a young boy -- his mother, his aunts, and his teachers. They were big and strong, he was small and weak. Their outfits -- tight sweaters and skirts, bullet bras, low-cut, figure-hugging dresses, sky-high heels, heavy makeup, sharp painted nails -- also turned him on. Dressed like them, I triggered the same combination of fear and excitement he’d experienced as a boy. And I had total control over him.

He was exquisitely vulnerable lying across my lap with his cute little ass perched in the air. I began with a light spanking with my hand. If he thought he was getting off this easy, he was sadly mistaken. Then picked up a hairbrush and really let him have it! I brought the back of the brush down on his bottom as hard as I could over and over again. I loved the sound it made as his ass turned first pink and then bright crimson.

Billy tried to take it like a man. I could see him clenching his jaw, but he was unable to keep it from trembling. Finally, as I hit him again and again and again he began to whimper and sob. Then the tears started to flow. It made me so hot. I was breaking the veneer of masculinity to bring out his inner sissy -- the sweet, submissive sissy boy embedded in every male, no matter how old. He was now crying -- shamelessly sobbing and blubbering like a little boy and promising to do whatever I said.

Still, I couldn’t stop. Something was driving me on. I was wet and getting wetter with each blow. I hit him again and again -- making him cry even harder. What a rush! It was erotic -- having so much power over a man, hurting him and making him cry and beg for forgiveness like a little boy! I loved it! Finally I came -- harder and longer than Billy had ever been able to make me come before. And there was no turning back!

Billy was so ashamed of crying and blubbering like a child in front of his wife, he couldn’t look me in the eye. I told him to get up and stand in a corner, while I straightened myself up and fixed a drink -- and he submissively obeyed. I went to my room and straightened up my clothes and redid my makeup. Then I fixed a tall daiquiri and returned to where my chastened hubby was still standing in the corner. I made myself comfortable in a chair and admired my handiwork. His ass was a flaming red and must really stung! Good, I thought. He deserves it. Then I ordered him to crawl over to me on his hands and knees and put his head in my lap. The broken man continued to sob and whimper as he did my bidding. I held and comforted him as if he were a small boy and dried his tears with a perfumed hankie.

"It’s okay, honey," I said as I gently rubbed his cheek and caressed his neck, "you can cry if you want to. But you know, real men don’t cry and blubber like sissies, like little girls, do they? So I can’t think of you as a man anymore. But it doesn’t matter, sweetie. You don’t have to try to be a man for me anymore. Mommy will still love you. But not as a man. You were never much of a man anyway. You’re too small and slender for a man -- too small where it counts. But that’s okay, sweetie.

"From now on things are going to be different between you and me. You don’t have to be a man. We’re going to have a traditional marriage, but you’re going to be the wife -- a traditional wife, one who does all the cooking, cleaning, washing, and ironing and who is totally submissive. Of course you’re not a woman, you’re a male. So you’re going to be a male/wife. Notice I said ‘male’, not ‘man’. There’s a difference. Though you’re a male, you’re not -- and never will be -- a man. Men don’t weep and sob like little girls -- like you do. And they don’t have dicks as small as yours. So you’re going to be my male/wife!

"From now on you’re going to do everything I say, including dressing and serving as my maid. You’ll do all the cooking, cleaning, washing, and ironing, and you’ll turn your entire paycheck over to me. You’ll be gentle and submissive in bed and do everything I say. From now on, I lead, you follow; I’m top, you’re bottom; I’m active, you’re passive; I dominate, you submit. You’re no longer in charge of our marriage, sweetie. I am."

I placed my upturned forefinger under his chin and pressed the sharp red nail into his tender flesh. Then I lifted his jaw so he was looking into my eyes. His lips were trembling as he tried to hold back the tears. I gave him an icy stare. "Do you understand?" I asked. "Do you want to become my male/wife?"

"Yes," he said softly, almost girlishly.

"Yes, what?" I asked with clenched teeth. "Say it!"

"Yes, I want to become your male/wife," the broken man sobbed.

Then I drew him to my bosom and gave him a warm, reassuring hug. I smiled to myself as my tearful hubby collapsed in my arms and whimpered and wept and promised to be good and do whatever I said. It satisfied a deep yearning in me -- a maternal yearning.

You see, Billy can’t give me children. I knew that when I married him. Still, I have maternal instincts. I long to mother someone who really needs me -- someone small, helpless, and dependent, someone who worships and adores me, who will do anything for my affection and approval, and who needs to be disciplined and told what to do. So if Billy can’t satisfy my maternal needs as a man -- if he can’t give me a child to love and control -- he’ll become that child himself. He’ll be a sweet little submissive girly boy. And I’ll be his loving, domineering "mommy."

The next few nights I followed Julie’s advice and teased him in bed about his "petite" penis. I told him it looked ridiculous with pubic hair -- that "peenies" small as his were always hairless. So I got him to shave it all off. Now it really does look like a little boy’s dick. It’s completely hairless and I enjoy teasing and ridiculing it. I also told him he didn’t measure up to other men I’d known and that he’d never really satisfied me in bed. This made his dick shrivel up even smaller. He was so totally defenseless -- so completely under my power. He could no longer get it up when dressed or thinking of himself as a man. "Mental castration" Julie called it. I loved it! Being able to do this to a man -- mentally castrate him -- especially a man who had hurt and betrayed me in the past, was intoxicating. It gave me a rush, got me hot.

After this it was easy to get him to play dress up in my clothes. He seemed relieved at no longer having to live up to a masculine ideal. I sensed his pleasure when I told him how pretty he looked in bras, garter belts, nylons, and heels and that I loved him for being so girlish and sweet. Then I seductively stroked his stocking-sheathed thighs, stimulated his sensitive nipples, and fondled his panty-clad penis. It got him hard -- bigger and harder than he’d ever been before. After this I jerked him off while kissing and caressing him and telling him how pretty he looked. Before long he came to identify sexual excitement with dressing and acting like a sexy glamour girl, which is exactly what Julie predicted (and I wanted)..

I like the idea of feminizing a boy. If I had a son, I’d severely spank him for being rough and aggressive. Then I’d take him to my closet and encourage him to play dress up in bras, garter belts, nylons, and heels. I’d want him to turn on to his feminine side -- and I’d be very loving when he did. I’d kiss and caress him and train him to identify sexual excitement and satisfacation with dressing and acting like a girl. So I was never nicer to Billy -- never more affectionate and approving -- than when he was playing dress up in my pretty clothes and practicing a number of ultra-feminine gestures and mannerisms.

Desperate for maternal affection and approval, Billy became exquisitely gentle and feminine. At my suggestion he canceled his subscriptions to Sports Illustrated and Field and Stream and replaced them with Glamour and Cosmo. He even went so far as to ask if he could buy some pretty makeup, jewelry, lingerie, nylons, and heels of his own. Of course I said yes.

So one afternoon, towering over him in 5-inch stiletto heels, I took my sissy hubby shopping for bras, garter belts, nylons, heels and other pretty frillies of his own. We were like mother and son -- sissy son! The salesgirls could hardly contain their giggles as I spoke to him as if he were a child and made no attempt to disguise the fact that the pretty lipstick, lingerie, nylons, and heels I was selecting were for him. When it was time to pay for the pretty things I’d selected, I left him standing at the sales counter to do so himself, for all the women in to store to look and stare at. They could hardly contain their giggles, especially when the buxom, matronly saleslady at the lingerie counter looked at me and winked and then asked him if he wanted to save money by joining the store’s Bra and Panty Club! The poor dear. He was so totally mortified and confused. He sheepishly looked over to me for guidance. I nodded in the affirmative. And the ladies’ muffled giggles turned to outright laughter as he girlishly said yes, he would like to join the Bra and Panty Club!

When we returned home, I removed half of his male clothing from his dresser and closet and replaced it with his new purchases and those to follow. And in a matter of months, he was completely sissified.

Now, instead of hitting the singles bars on Friday nights, my sissy male/wife changes into a cute little maid’s outfit and fixes me a glorious gourmet dinner. He serves it to me, course by course, in the candlelit dining room. He himself eats in the kitchen. After cleaning up and doing the dishes, he is permitted to join me. Sometimes he polishes my nails and brushes my hair. Other times he sits at my feet as I watch TV and he worships my powerful spike heels.

The new 5- and 6-inch sharp stiletto heels that I constantly wear in his presence symbolize feminine power and authority. They make me much taller than he is. They’re longer and stronger than his cock. And because the heels are often made of metal and come to a sharp point, they’re powerful enough to cut it off. He’s afraid of them and the feminine power and authority that they represent. They also turn him on. So he sits at my feet and submissively kisses, licks, and sucks each of my high heels as if it were a dick. I love watching one of my powerful spike heels penetrate my sissy hubby’s pursed and painted lips. It gets me so hot! Sometimes I actually come! I feel as if I’m fucking him -- fucking his feminized mouth -- with a dick that’s longer, stronger, and more powerful than his own!

Later, my male/wife changes into a sexy baby doll nightie and performs all and only those submissive acts of love my heart desires. His release, when I permit it, is always secondary to mine.

Saturday mornings he does laundry and housework. I enjoy watching him handwash my delicate nylons and lingerie. Then I read magazines or watch TV while he irons my clothes. (I just love the idea of a sissy hubby ironing his wife’s pretty clothes. It’s so empowering!).

After lunch I dress him in a woman’s top and slacks and sandals. I add a pair of tiny earrings, lipgloss, a touch of mascara, a woman’s watch, and a unisex shoulder bag in which I’ve placed a compact, lipstick, girlish billfold, and a pack of Virginia Slims. Then I put on one of my many new pairs of 5-inch spike heels so I’m a lot taller than he is and we go to the mall.

It’s a real treat having a sissy hubby who shares your interests in fashion, hairstyles, and makeup and who never complains about spending hours shopping for makeup, jewelry, and pretty clothes. Sometimes we meet Julie and Marc at a Victorian tea shoppe frequented by women. There we add to the din of girl talk while sipping tea and munching on little cakes and sandwiches. "Billie Jean" and "Marcie" are so cute -- daintily holding their teacups and girlishly chattering away, exchanging recipes and housekeeping tips as Julie and I smile with approval.

Julie was right. Turning Billy into Billie Jean saved my marriage. It’s great having a male/wife. Every woman should be married to a submissive male who dresses and acts like a traditional wife. Before I thought I was lucky when Billy did some of the cooking, laundry, and housework. Now he does it all!

Not only that, but as I was soon to learn, turning a couple of sissy hubbies like Marcie and Billie Jean on to each other and making them put on a show was was marvelous entertainment for Julie and me.

(To be continued . . . )

 

 

 

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© 2002 by Sharon Masterman. 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.