Turning Summer            by: Monika Ikon

 

I remember holding up that first tiny pair of swim trunks in disbelief.

"You want me to wear this?" I said. "Outside?"

"Of course silly," Kathy said. "Don’t you just love it?"

The bathing suit consisted of two tiny triangles of white nylon that hardly looked big enough to cover what by law had to be covered. I was used to my oversized blue boxer-style swim trunks. The little garment dangling from my fingers seemed like some kind of practical joke.

"Kath, its…ummm…so small."

"You don’t like it," Kathy said, looking hurt.

She was wearing her own skimpy little red bikini, her athletic brown body filling it out in all the right places. Summer was still two months away and we didn’t usually open the pool until Memorial Day, but, as Kathy said, bikini season was right around the corner. It was time we got ready. I looked again at the little white bathing suit and then back at her. We? Kathy had apparently bought the bathing suit at the mall the day before and thought to surprise me with it. Now with my callousness I had gone and hurt her feelings. I tried to put express my misgivings as gently as possible.

"Kathy, it’s not that I don’t like it, I just don’t think it’s…well…me…"

"Honey, you can at least try it on. For me."

I didn’t know exactly what to say. Kathy and I had been married for seven years and I’d like to think we were every bit as much in love as when she first said "I do." Still, a certain degree of staleness creeps into every long-term relationship. It’s inevitable, I guess. Lately, it seemed that Kathy was trying to do little things to spice up our sex lives. I guess she figured seeing me strut around like some kind of latin gigolo in a little white speedo might help. I should be flattered, I thought, and touched that Kathy thought enough about our marriage to go to the trouble.

"Okay," I said, looking uncertainly at the bathing suit. "I’ll give it a try."

"Thanks sweetie," Kathy looked happy, which, after all, was the whole reason for me agreeing to try the swimsuit on in the first place. She stepped forward and gave me a kiss and a little pat on the backside. "Now scoot off and change. I can’t wait to see how cute you’re going to look."

I forced myself to smile. I would try the swimsuit on to avoid hurting her feelings, but there was no way I was ever going to wear it outside—or anywhere!

 

I went into the bathroom, stared at my face the mirror for a few seconds, and shook my head.

"How do you get yourself into these situations," I said to my reflection.

Then I changed.

Until I put it on for the first time, I had no idea just how exposing the bathing suit was. I had to carefully arrange my genitals inside the front panel just so that my testicles wouldn’t show. Meanwhile, no matter how many times I tugged on the bottoms they just didn’t seem to properly cover my butt. I don’t know how long I was in the bathroom changing but I was eventually interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Johnny, are you ready yet? Let’s take a look."

Reluctantly, I opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom. I stood there in the tiny bathing suit feeling totally exposed and humiliated. I couldn’t even look Kathy in the eyes. Instead, I stared at the floor between my naked feet.

Kathy clapped her hands. "Oh honey, you look just scrumptious. Turn around and let me see how your buns look."

I dared a glance up.

"Kathy, this is just terrible."

My wife tilted her head, smiling, still fussing at the pouch of my new swimsuit.

"What do you mean?"

"I look so fat in this thing," I blurted out.

"Where?" Kathy said, as if I were just being silly.

I felt miserably self-conscious. "Here," I said, patting my belly. "And here." I grabbed the little love handles that had grown just above my hips. In my regular swim trunks they were virtually unnoticeable, but in the tiny briefs I now wore it seemed every flaw in my body was magnified a hundred times.

To my surprise, Kathy took my concerns seriously. "Well I think you look just fine. But if you’re concerned about the little extra tummy, we can start you on a diet tonight and you can begin using my ab roller."

I remember making fun of the exercise device when she first got it as just another gimmick. There is no substitute for old-fashioned crunches, I’d said. But I hated doing crunches, as evidenced by my widening belly, and besides, they weren’t very good for my back. I was desperate to try anything that might work.

"Do you really think that will help?"

Kathy patted her own perfectly flat toned stomach. "It’s done wonders for me."

I looked down at my body, turning a little from side to side. "Okay," I said. "I’m willing to try."

That evening I had a small dish of cottage cheese and some melon for dinner. Afterwards, we retired to the television room and Kathy put a DVD of The English Patient into the VCR.

"Can’t we watch something else," I moaned.

Kathy pointed to the ab roller in front of the television. "You’re here to exercise, not watch tv."

I lay down on the floor, positioned my head on the little rest, lifted my arms and began exercise. I was still wearing the tiny white swimsuit, as motivation I suppose. I had never really watched The English Patient. I had just seen bits and pieces when Kathy watched it and I had come into the room for one reason or another. It was a really nice movie, very sad, very romantic. More than a few times I found myself trying to surreptitiously wipe away the tears running down my face.

"It’s okay Johnny," Kathy said, smiling, her own eyes overflowing. "You’re supposed to cry."

 

All that week I got used to my new diet and exercise routine. After dinner, I’d change into the skimpy white bathing suit and work out on the ab roller while Kathy watched some chick flick. Only a couple of times after that first night did I ask if we might turn on something else, for a change, like maybe the ballgame. I already knew what her answer would be and I think I only asked out of some misguided sense of what, as a guy, I should be watching. The truth was that I actually enjoyed the presentation of emotions, relationships, gossip, advice, and humor that largely comprised the tv shows and movies that Kathy watched.

It didn’t take long for me to get used to the tiny white bathing suit. I wore it all the time around the house. Yes, I even started referring to it as a bikini. The first time Kathy called it a bikini I kind of balked, but she just laughed and pointed out that the underwear that I’d been wearing exclusively for about a year now at her suggestion were called "bikini briefs." She had me retrieve a package from my dresser. Sure enough, Kathy was right. They were called bikini briefs. Well, I shrugged my shoulders, I guess I was wearing a bikini, after all. What was the big deal? I also found that I was no longer quite so self-conscious about being half-naked. I suppose that Kathy’s encouragement helped. She was constantly telling me how cute I looked and how she thought my diet and exercise regime was already showing results.

"Really," I’d say, doubtfully, but still hopeful, putting a hand on my tummy and looking down my along my leg. "Do you think so?"

Not long after Kathy suggested that I remove all my body hair. I looked at her like she was crazy.

"Just think how much better you will look in your bikini," she argued.

Of course, my first thought was that she was certainly going too far this time. On the other hand, however, I couldn’t help but see her point. My legs would definitely look better if they were tanned and smooth like hers, but…

I think Kathy could see my hesitation. She pointed out that professional swimmers and cyclists and male bodybuilders had their bodies waxed to aid performance and make themselves more aesthetically pleasing. And if those beefcake guys could do it, why couldn’t I? It was true that I was no professional swimmer or cyclists. And I was certainly no bodybuilder. In fact, two years ago Kathy had gotten me to stop working out with weights at all, convincing me that walking was a far better all around exercise and one that we could share together. Still, if macho guys like bodybuilders could wax their bodies smooth to look better and no one said anything then I guess it had to be okay.

Still pink and stinging from the salon where Kathy took me to get waxed, we drove to the mall afterwards for lunch. While Kathy devoured a mouthwatering deluxe cheeseburger platter complete with fries, I munched a small salad and sipped a banana smoothie. All the while, as I ate my diet meal, I tried to tried to keep in mind that the sacrifice would be worth it come summer. We finished lunch and took a stroll around the mall, window-shopping. I always hated shopping. I was the kind of guy that would go right to the store I wanted, buy whatever it was I needed, and be on my way home in ten minutes. But now I found myself leisurely stopping to look at this or that, chatting away happily with Kathy the whole time.

"Hey, look at this," Kathy said.

I walked up beside Kathy. She was standing in front of the window of a swimwear store called California Dreaming.

"I like that one," she said, pointing out a little turquoise mesh bikini.

I imagined my beautiful wife in the suit.

"Oh," I said, "you would look so sexy in that."

Kathy pinched me playfully on the upper arm.

"I meant for you, silly."

The store was clearly a woman’s specialty boutique and the mannequins all wore very sexy colorful bikinis.

"Kathy, you can’t be serious, this is a girl’s store…"

"Really Johnny," she said, looking from the mannequin wearing the tiny turquoise bikini to me and back again. "What difference does it make? A bikini is a bikini…"

We moved on to the next store and the matter was dropped. But whether she meant to or not, she’d planted a seed in my brain…

Memorial Day came and we opened the pool on schedule. As was our custom, we invited over our friends Bob and Mary Pat for dinner and a swim. My wife and Mary Pat had been friends from long before I’d met Kathy. They both worked as psychotherapists with a specialty in the field of family counseling. Mary Pat was a pretty and perky blonde who usually dressed in short skirts and sexy shoes. Today she had on a denim miniskirt, a green bikini top, and a pair of jellies.

Bob and I were kind of pals by default. We usually talked about sports and work and cars and things like that. But the truth was that I didn’t really have a lot in common with him. He was a bit rough around the edges for me. He was a construction supervisor and I was an office professional. It’s not that I thought of myself as superior or anything. We just didn’t have a lot of the same interests.

"That’s some bathing suit you’ve got on there, pal," he laughed, pointing to the yellow bikini I was wearing. He took a swig of the Budweiser I had just retrieved for him and wiped his mouth. "Half your ass is hanging out."

I could feel myself blushing as I flipped the steaks on the grill. I told Kathy I was going to take a lot of ribbing from Bob. She told me not to worry about it, that everything would be okay. But now, sure enough, he’d started in on me.

"Oh leave him alone," Mary Pat said, coming unexpectedly to my rescue. "I think Johnny looks just adorable."

"Adorable?" Bob huffed.

"Yes, I think its sweet that he tries to look sexy for us girls. We like to see a little flesh, too, you know. His bikini is so much cuter than that baggy monstrosity you’re wearing."

I didn’t know if Kathy had spoken to Mary Pat beforehand or not, but I was extremely grateful for her defense. Kathy said nothing the whole time, but merely sipped her drink.

Bob looked annoyed. "He looks like a damn fag,"

"Bob!" Mary Pat reprimanded her husband. She apologized to Kathy and me. "What’s the matter with you?"

"Oh I didn’t mean anything by it," he said somewhat contritely. "But he’s shaved his legs for crissakes."

"So? It’s a much cleaner look. I love it, especially with the tan. I wish you’d shave your body, Bob."

"Oh Christ."

"Johnny, I think my husband is jealous of your pretty legs."

I decided to make light of the whole encounter. "Really?" I said, smiling flirtatiously and turning a smooth leg.

Bob moaned. "If you women had your way, you’d turn the whole lot of us into a bunch of goddam sissy boys."

As Kathy, Mary Pat, and Bob ate the grilled steaks and sipped their wine or beer, I picked delicately at a small plate of rice and steamed broccoli. Because it was a special occasion, Kathy allowed me to have a non-alcoholic lite beer.

"Where’s your steak?" Bob asked me. "Is that all you’re eating?"

This time Kathy spoke up. "Johnny is on a strict diet. He wants to be able to fit into a petite by the end of the summer."

Bob looked confused. Mary Pat looked pleased. I wondered if Kathy had somehow explained all this to her friend beforehand. Mary Pat didn’t seem at all surprised. Still I was deeply embarrassed. I blushed deeply and found myself staring intently at my steamed broccoli.

"A petite," Mary Pat said excitedly. "How delightful. You know Bob, you could stand to lose a few pounds yourself."

I could feel Bob glaring at me from across the patio table as he dropped another lumpy spoonful of potato salad onto his paper plate. Later on, he got me over to the driveway to shoot some hoops as we usually did. He was always bigger and stronger but I usually had a decent enough outside shot to make a game of it. On that day, however, I couldn’t come close to putting anything in the basket. I hadn’t played in quite a while and I hardly seemed able to reach the rim. Meanwhile, I couldn’t do anything to stop Bob from driving to the basket. If anything, I was a little afraid of him. He seemed to be playing a lot rougher than usual. I think he was still mad about what Mary Pat had said about the diet and the way she had complimented me. I basically just tried to stay out of his way and he easily ran up a 11-0 lead.

"Jesus Christ," Bob complained. "Why don’t you take those damn flip-flops off?"

He was referring to the bright yellow, thick-soled flip-flops that matched my bikini.

I couldn’t run in them at all and I spent as much time trying to keep them from falling off my feet as I did trying to cover Bob as he drove to the basket. I looked doubtfully down at the asphalt.

"I don’t want to burn my feet," I said.

"Then put on some sneakers."

"I don’t really feel like playing basketball," I finally admitted. I glanced over at the net stretched in a corner of the yard. The grass was green and cool there.

"Would you like to play some badminton?"

"Badminton!" Bob said, shaking his head in disbelief.

He ended up sitting sulkily by the side of the pool drinking another beer while I joined Kathy and Mary Pat in a leisurely game of croquet. I lost, of course.

That evening after our company was gone and we’d cleaned up, Kathy and I sat together in the tv room. We were both pretty tired and I thankful when she said I’d earned a break from my ab roller exercises for the evening. She turned on the Lifetime network and they were showing a made-for-tv-movie based on a bestselling relationship novel that Kathy had me read. I remember how the flap copy had called the novel one of the best women’s novels of the year.

"Oh goody," I said, as I settled onto the couch next to Kathy. "This was such a great book."

Kathy did her nails and when they were dry she asked me if I liked the color. I glanced over at the creamy red polish on her fingers and toes.

"Yes, its very pretty."

"Give me your foot, Johnny."

I looked at her with alarm. "What?"

Kathy smiled. "Give me your foot."

"Kathy, you can’t—"

"Oh Johnny, do you have to overreact to everything? I’m just going to put a little polish on your nails."

"But people will see."

"I’m just going to do your toes. I want to see how they look polished. No one will know unless you take your shoes off at work. Now, give me your foot, honey."

I reluctantly put my foot in her lap.

"I don’t know about this…"

"Don’t be silly," Kathy said. She started applying the red polish to my toenails. "All kinds of rock stars wear nail polish, not to mention make-up. It’s really not that big a deal."

I supposed she was right. And, after all, no one would have to know. I thought about going to work the next day, sitting in the focus meeting, my toenails painted inside my wing-tips. Good grief, what would Stuart and Ken and Tom think if they knew? I thought of Bob and the way he’d looked at my tiny bikini and shaved legs. What did he think of me? For a moment I found myself wondering…

"All done."

I looked up with a start.

"Huh?"

"Your toenails honey," Kathy said. "Look--"

I stared down at my feet in her lap. They looked—transformed. Somehow the polish made my feet look smaller, more delicate.

Feminine.

"Don’t your toes just look so adorable this way?"

I had to admit that my feet did look better with polish. In fact, I was having a hard time keeping my eyes off my own smooth legs and dainty-looking feet. Kathy noticed my interest. She suggested that from now I always keep my toenails polished and I didn’t object. She promised to buy me a toe-ring and the next day after work I found myself wearing not only the ring but a sexy little ankle bracelet. I had to admit that I found it kind of a turn-on to see my feet decorated like this. That evening, as I did my ab roller exercises in the tv room, I felt a little thrill every time I sat up and caught sight of my pretty toes.

Sex during that time, well, I suppose when I come to think of it, there really wasn’t much of it at all. I mean, from the start, I had figured that Kathy was trying to liven up our sex lives by buying these new bathing suits for me. And then there was the diet, the exercise, and the small alterations in my appearance. I went along with it all because I thought it would help spice things up. I didn’t notice that it seemed to be having just the opposite effect. I guess Kathy kept me too preoccupied with the changes she was making in me. Whatever sex life we did have was perfunctory, to the point, and seemed only in the interests of maintenance. Kathy would glance somewhat disapprovingly at the occasional unsightly bulge in the front of my tight bikini.

"Get into position Johnny."

I would lie down on the floor, my knees tucked under me, propped up on my elbows. My wife would step behind me and I would wriggle my hips as she peeled my bikini down my shaved thighs. At first, I had balked a little at the nipple-clamps, but Kathy assured me that plenty of men experienced pleasure through having their nipples stimulated. And sure enough, she was right. In fact, the more she played with my nipples the most sensitive they became. It got so that all she had to do was put the little silver clamps on my nipples and I would become fully erect.

The dildo was another matter.

I flat-out refused to let Kathy put it inside me. I figured that enough was enough. I had gone along with everything my wife had wanted up to now, but I wasn’t going to let her penetrate me with a lifelike rubber cock. I was putting my foot down. My toenails may have been painted a pretty creamy red color. But I was putting my foot down nonetheless. Kathy very patiently explained that she’d read that a man’s ass was a very powerful erogenous zone. She said that the feeling of penetration could be very erotic for a man. It had nothing to do with being gay. Something, she said, about tickling the prostate gland could trigger extremely intense orgasms.

I held firm. But so did Kathy. I soon came to realize that if I didn’t do what she asked I wouldn’t get any sex at all. I could masturbate myself, of course, but it was so much better when my pretty wife did it for me. If I wanted her to relieve me, as well as avoid the embarrassing situation of showing through my panties, I would do as she said. Sure enough, I eventually got so horny that being penetrated in the ass did not seem like such an outrageous thing, after all. Kathy let me suck on the dildo while she put on the nipple clamps. Then she took the life-like rubber cock from my mouth and pushed it deep into my upturned ass.

"Lift your bottom a little honey," she’d say. "That’s it."

By the time the dildo was all the way inside me, I’d be dripping. Kathy was right again. She turned the cock on and I could feel it vibrating inside me. Sometimes she wouldn’t even have to touch me. The vibration of the rubber dildo inside me would tickle my prostate and have me shooting my wad onto the special pink towel that Kathy had me lay on the floor beneath myself. From the time I lay down to the time I came, it would all be over in two minutes, three tops. I’d clean myself off and pull up my little bikini, which was once again nice and smooth between my shaved legs.

"You know, darling," Kathy said one day after she jerked me off. "We really should do something about that little problem of yours."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that little pee-pee of yours is so unruly. Don’t you hate the way it ruins the line of your bikini?"

I shrugged. "Yes, I guess."

I really didn’t see it as that much of a problem. Kathy, however, did. She said she had a solution. A few minutes later I was standing in the tv room, naked, while she slipped a tiny leather sleeve over my cock. Just her handling me after so long caused me to start to get hard. But Kathy worked quickly, lacing up the little sleeve, and tying it off, preventing my cock from growing any further. The urgent part over, she took her time pulling my tamed cock down and tying it around my balls. Then she had me turn around and bend over slightly while she inserted a long thin plug into my bottom. I felt my frustrated cock, trapped inside the tight confines of the leather, pulsing wildly.

"Oh god. Does it have to be so far in?"

"Yes," Kathy said. "Otherwise, your body will naturally try to force it out."

My wife reached between my legs and yanked the little leather cock sleeve back between my thighs. I winced. She told me to keep still and I did my best not to move as she finished me off by tying the leather laces at the end of the cock-sleeve to what felt like a little loop at the base of my butt-plug. I could feel how the cock-sleeve fit snugly up and back between my legs. Kathy had me turn around and face her once again.

"Pull up your bikini, Johnny." I did and Kathy looked at the effect the sleeve and plug had on my bikini line. "Not bad," she concluded. "What do you think?"

"It’s a little uncomfortable," I said, trying to sound game.

Any hope I had that Kathy would take the contraption off me were quickly dashed.

"You’ll get used to it," she said.

But I never really did get used to what, I later learned, was a good old-fashioned male chastity device. The plug deep inside my bottom made me walk sort of up on my toes, which Kathy said accentuated my legs and ass. She told me that I looked like I had high-heels on, which I didn’t quite know how to take, but Kathy seemed to think that was a good thing, so, what the heck. The leather sleeve tied between my legs served to both curtail my erections and keep me looking smooth where it counted. There were no more unsightly bulges. Unfortunately, the urge for sex didn’t go away. As a result, I was often quite uncomfortable.

"There are pills," Kathy said one morning at breakfast, "that can help with that."

I knew what she was talking about.

"No," I said. I was wearing a peach-colored knit bikini bottom and matching toenail polish. I had on my ankle bracelet and toe ring. My hair, which had grown out in the last several weeks, had been bleached, just like those surfer guys, Kathy and the salon stylist at the mall had assured me. I was wearing my chastity belt. I had each of my ears pierced three times. I had a little gold ring through my navel. I was adamant. This time I was not going to be convinced. "I’m not taking hormones."

"Okay honey," Kathy said and smiled. "Don’t go getting yourself all upset now. No one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. Now finish your grapefruit. I have to drive you to the plastic surgeon for your consultation at ten."

 

--to be continued--

 

 

 

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© 2001 by Monika Ikon. 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.