Tupperware Queen

by Gini Lane

 

Shortly after our little tryst on the hallway floor, I found myself again in the kitchen making tea for Bobby. As I stood at the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil, it was difficult not to look at him. He made such a pretty picture, really very cute. I had to resist the urge to cast more than the most discrete of glances. Each time I dared, Bobby appeared the same; so much so that the pretty image remains with me: Bobby at the table in his lovely new shirtwaist, very prim, very proper, patiently seated on his hands, the finely manicured nails hidden by his volumous skirts. He seemed so lost in his thoughts.

Oh, how I wished I knew what they were! And yet I felt it best not to ask…to give him a few precious moments in contemplation of his new feminine role.

We were both silent, as if a couple of girl friends seemingly too embarrassed to acknowledge the indiscretion that had taken place only minutes before. When he did speak, it was a whispered "thank you" as I placed the new cup of tea before him. The ice having been broken, we reverting to our previous roles. Chatting just as we had before. I was once again the hostess, serving tea to a neighbour who had dropped by for a visit…

I raised the topic of shoes, and learned that my friend was new to heels and the accompanying experiences. When I complimented her taste in footwear, Bobby told me that the shoes were, in fact, a gift. Of course, I knew this – after all, I'd purchased them at Hathaway's only the day before. Still, I couldn't resist teasing her that she might have an admirer I hadn't been told about.

Really, it was all so innocent – and so much fun. I was really trying to be sensitive to Bobby's feelings. I so appreciated what he was doing for me and very much wanted to make him feel comfortable in what would only be the most uncomfortable of situations. I thought it important that I treat Bobby in every way as the woman he appeared to be. In doing so, I thought he might gain at least a small amount of confidence.

Eventually, the hour of the Tupperware meeting drawing close, I had to tell Bobby that we should be on our way. I'm not certain that he felt too disturbed by the news; he did manage a somewhat nervous smile.

When he stood it was to a rustle of crinoline, silk, satin and paper nylon; the sounds of which, I truly believe, subconsciously served to remind Bobby to smooth his skirts. He need not have – not really – and I told him as much.

"You look lovely, darling," I reassured him, "very attractive; a flawless young woman."

As I say, I thought it best to treat Bobby as a true woman, but as I walked him to the garage door I couldn't help but wonder whether he was again erect beneath his lovely petticoats and shirtwaist – and, if so, how would he feel as the silk and nylon rubbed against the pretty white satin bridal panties that covered his magnificent penis. Was he now flushed from nerves or excitement?

Just before entering the garage, I took a moment to freshen my Bobby's make-up. There was little to do, but his lipstick, smeared from our passionate kisses in the hallway, required a touch of work. Also, though it wasn't necessary, I couldn't resist powering that cute up-tilted nose of his.

We'd already decided it would be best for me to drive, something I would have never done under normal circumstances. I watched as Bobby slipped in on the passenger side. As expected, he struggled somewhat with his skirts, trying to gather and arrange them so as to avoid getting them caught in the car door. I felt a bit bad as I did nothing to help him. It really was quite amusing. Still, I was pleased to see how he cared for his delicate new clothes.

When he had finally settled I took his hand in mine and brought it up to my lips.

"You have nothing to worry about," I said. "You make an extremely attractive woman, and no one can say otherwise."

He said nothing. To be honest, I'm not even certain that he heard me. I knew what Bobby was thinking. He was thinking that the garage door wound soon be open, that I would be backing up the car, and that he would soon be out – in his new feminine finery – under the glare of the bright summer sun for all our neighbours to see. But, as it turned out, no one really did see Bobby – our street appeared deserted. I drove slowly through our sleepy little neighbourhood, content in the knowledge that anyone spotting us would see nothing unusual. While is was true a careful observer might note that I appeared a bit more make-up than usual, they would find nothing unusual about my companion. Bobby looked every inch a woman, and if he attracted anything more than a passing glance it would be due to his beauty and refinement.

Of course there were some who did see my Bobby. The first was a woman – our age, I should think – who was about to cross the street, but paused when she spotted our car. I drew to a stop and motioned her to cross. She smiled, gave a friendly wave and proceeded across the street. There was also a woman pushing a stroller and another removing shopping bags from the trunk of her car, but we saw no one else until the parking lot of the community hall. There, about twenty yards from where we parked, a groundskeeper was pruning the hedges. He put down his shears and watched as I got out of the car, casting a smile in my direction. Of course, I smiled back, but the smile was forced as I realized Bobby was still in the car. Was it all proving too much for him? I hoped not. Just as I was approaching the passenger door, it opened. A pair of shapely legs swung out and Bobby emerged from the car with a grace and style one would normally associate with a movie starlet. Only his smile – a nervous smile – gave any indication that anything was other than it appeared to be. I noticed that as we walked to the forty or so paces to the community hall's doors, Bobby ignored completely the groundskeeper. I actually felt sorry for the man as he removed his hat in deference to my pretty companion.

It really was a baptism by fire for my poor Bobby. While we were the first to arrive at the hall, it seemed only minutes later that the large room was full of enthusiastic Tupperware ladies. Bobby found himself in a sea of smartly dressed women – all of whom, it seemed, seeking to emulate our role-model Brownie Wise. Fortunately for Bobby, all appeared keen on discussing their accomplishments and ideas, meaning my husband didn't have to say one word. He sat in the front row, legs crossed, hands folded on his skirted lap, silent as the ladies on either side of him swapped stories of recent Tupperware parties they'd given.

I called the meeting to order and gave a speech that I won't bore you with. I will say, however, that I made a point of looking anywhere but at Bobby. Though I didn't think anyone would even suspect that he wasn't the attractive young woman he appeared to be, I simply didn't want to make him any more nervous than I was certain he was.

I finished my speech by asking several ladies to stand in recognition of their recent successes. There was a round of applause, which I allowed to die down before adding that I believed there was a Tupperware Lady who we hadn't yet heard from. Traditionally, this was the point at which the Tupperware "Lady" would make "her" appearance. The ladies looked about the room, and seeing no "Lady" present, looked at the door at the rear of the hall. There were a few giggles.

I let confusion reign for a moment.

"Ladies, I'd like to present to you my Bobby – a true lady."

With the same grace he'd demonstrated in the parking lot, Bobby rose from his chair.

There was, to use a cliché, an audible gasp in the room . At least a few women said "no" in disbelief. Then…applause…a standing ovation, in fact.

Bobby never did get a chance to speak. He was immediately surrounded by dozens of women. He was peppered with questions about his clothes, undergarments included. Each answer, given in a feminine voice, brought a new round of giggles. Although shy and reluctant to go into detail, he responded politely when asked to describe the delicate floral lace design of his bra, how it felt to wear such a confining girdle, or how he kept the seams of his stockings so straight. The greatest laugh came when Bobby was asked, repeatedly and at great length, about his pretty bridal panties.

I noticed several women seemed to take delight in running their hands over the fabric of his shirtwaist, one even going so far as to raise the skirt a few inches in order to get a better idea of the petticoat she had asked him to describe. It really was quite fresh; these were liberties they daren't have performed with a real woman. Yet here they where, feeling that it was quite acceptable to paw this delicate creature simply because she was really my husband in a dress.

The final straw occurred when an attractive, rather curvaceous blonde placed her hands on my Bobby's breasts.

"Oh, my goodness, they feel so real," she said, and invited a friend to feel.

Just as Bobby was being groped a second time, again by a buxom blonde, I pulled him away.

"Now, ladies, let us remember that we are all ladies here. Whatever happened to the notion of ladylike decorum?"

I'm certain they all thought I was teasing, but inwardly I was actually quite angry – and I'd truly meant what I had said. Ushering Bobby through the throng of women, it was all I could do to hide my rising anger.

"Hey, baby," one woman said, attempting a masculine voice, "what are you doing Friday night?"

It really was a bit hard to take.

 

I managed to calm down during the ride home. Bobby, on the other hand, appeared increasingly excited by what had taken place. I think he felt a sense of accomplishment, and a relief that the meeting he had dreaded so much was finally over. As I listened to him talk, his pretty powdered face bathed in the dashboard light, I reminded myself that he had helped me so, and vowed not to let the actions of a few of the ladies spoil the evening.

I parked in our driveway, instead of the garage, and together, for all the neighbours to see, we walked the path to our front door. And what would they have seen, really: two tastefully dressed women; one blonde, one brunette; one in a shirtwaist, one in a skirt and satin blouse; both obviously wearing petticoats.

As I rummaged through my purse for the door key I smiled at Bobby and was so happy to see that he smiled back. He didn't appear at all in a hurry to leave the front stoop for the sanctuary of our home.

We went inside and I put my purse where I always do, beside the others on the top shelf of the foyer closet. Funny that it only then occurred to me that I had neglected to give Bobby a purse. It really was the only thing lacking in his feminine costume. I turned to see Bobby standing in the hallway, waiting. This pleased me to no end as I'd had a fear, albeit a slight one, that he might simply make his way upstairs and begin removing his dress, his lovely petticoat, his stockings, girdle, Charmante bra, and those pretty ruffled panties of his. Instead, Bobby appeared genuinely confused, as if wondering what to do next.

"Why don't you sit in the living room, darling?" I said.

I had planned on going to the kitchen to prepare a nightcap, but seeing Bobby's feminine walk, the sway of his skirt, the white petticoat peaking beneath, and his beautiful stockinged calves, set something off within me. Instead, I followed him into the room. He was just sitting down on the couch, smoothing his skirt when I caught up with him. Standing over him, I reached down, took his beautifully made-up face in my hands and kissed his lipsticked mouth. Bobby struggled for an instant, no doubt taken aback by my forcefulness. For the second time that day – the second time ever – I forced my tongue in his mouth. He seemed to go limp beneath me, accepting my demands.

Gradually, he began to suck my tongue, circling it with his lips. His soft manicured hands cupped my breasts, caressing them, before unbuttoning my satin blouse.

I straddled his hips, kneeling on his skirt and petticoats as I pressed my body to his.

Reaching back, I unclasped my bra and released my breasts from the lace-trimmed satin cups. My nipples were so hard and I pushed one between Bobby's painted lips.

"Suck me, darling," I cried out.

Bobby did as I commanded, his mouth sucking, his tongue teasing, as I undid the buttons of his shirtwaist. I pushed my Bobby's lips away from my breasts and began running my hard nipples over the smooth silk of his camisole. I could feel the pretty bra it covered and imagined its intricate lace design. It excited me so much to think of all the delicate little flowers and bows; so pretty in the store, yet I had never actually seen it on Bobby. I again pushed him away. I took the camisole and pulled it up, revealing my husband's bra.

"Oh, Bobby, such a lovely bra. And to think you wore it just for me," I said. "You did wear it for me, didn't you? You wanted to look pretty for me."

I gathered his many skirts, forcing them about his waist, and lowered myself. His panties were simply drenched, as were mine. Slowly, I began moving back and forth, my silk against his satin.

"You really do look pretty, Bobby. Such a pretty girl. I'm such a lucky woman to have you."

Bobby moaned just like a girl.

"Don't cum yet, darling. Be a good girl now. You'll stain those pretty panties of yours even further."

I stood up and, taking the elastic waistband of Bobby's panties between my fingertips, slowly pulled them down. I was ever so mindful not to let any part touch his rigid cock. Gently, I placed the elastic at the base of his shaft, the frilly bridal panties cupping his balls. I let my own panties fall to the floor, and lowered myself onto his hard cock. It was all so delightful, so fantastic, as I rode my husband to the accompanying sound of our rustling petticoats. My fingers clutching at his bra straps, my stockings rubbing his, I drank in his pretty made-up face as we climaxed.

  

  

  

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