Husband to housewife
A true story.
My wife Belinda has a very high-powered job on the trading
floor in the City of London. She dresses
for work in beautifully tailored, very expensive power suits – usually a pant
suit but sometimes a skirt suit. She
pays £500 for designer high heels and £480 to have her light brown long bob cut
and styled regularly at a top London hairdresser near her office building. She can afford it. Belinda is paid a lot of money but works very
long hours. She is on the trading floor
before 7:00 am most mornings, and often needs to go out and socialise with
clients until late in the evening. Her
clients are billionaires and require a personal service in the handling of
their very large share portfolios.
As a primary school teacher, I naturally get paid far less,
and with all the government interference in state schools my job was becoming
increasingly stressful and less rewarding.
So I guess it was logical that when we had children, I would give up my
job, which by that time I loathed, and stay at home to look after the children.
When George and Samantha were babies it was okay, although I
did find it embarrassing to go to the mother and baby groups with the young
mothers. When the children got to school
age, I began to hate being the only man standing at the school gate waiting for
the children to come out. The
expressions of the mothers who I caught staring at me, but who looked away when
I met their gaze, ranged from mild puzzlement to open hostility and even disgust. It was so humiliating. I didn’t feel like a ‘real man’ any more.
I discussed my problems with Belinda, and she listened
sympathetically, but the idea that I could go back to teaching and she would
give up her extremely lucrative profession was unthinkable – we simply couldn’t
manage without her very generous salary, as we had a huge mortgage on our house
in St John’s Wood.
My wife didn’t come up with any practical solutions but
suggested that I was run down and maybe vitamin pills would help.
She said she’d get some for me.
It was after taking the pills for about six months that I
started to notice the changes.
My
breasts seem to be getting enlarged and my nipples were feeling tender, and the
distribution of my body fat seemed to be altering. My hips were widening, and I
was putting on weight on my thighs.
My
wife at first assured me that it was probably just lack of exercise.
I didn’t do much physically beyond ALL the
housework, cleaning, doing the shopping and walking twice every day to the
school gate.
(Actually, that sounds like
quite a lot of exercise and hard work, as many stay-at-home mothers still
know.)
She suggested maybe I should take
up jogging on join a local gym.
I had no
enthusiasm to do either.
Belinda could see how unhappy I was. Finally, she announced: “I am going to
suggest something that might sound silly, but will you give it a try for
me? Let’s call it a sort of
experiment.” She went upstairs and
brought down a package tied up in pink wrapping paper and a pink bow. “I want
you to go upstairs and put on what’s in the package and also the clothes I have
laid out on the bed for you. I went
shopping up Oxford Street in my lunch break.”
I took the package and went upstairs to our bedroom. On the bed were laid out a black mini skirt
and a cream silk blouse, and a pair of sheer black tights. I opened the package. Inside I found a pair
of black lacy panties and a matching bra. I looked and looked at the female
clothing in astonishment. What on earth
was Belinda playing at? I sat on the bed
and burst into tears.
Belinda came into the bedroom, sat down next to me, putting
her arm round my shoulders.
“Come on, love, this is just something I want you to
try. Let me help you.” I undressed and Belinda helped me into the
bra and did it up at the back for me. My
new breasts seemed to fit snugly into the bra cups. I slid the silk panties up my legs and rolled
on the tights, after my wife had explained how to do it, then stepped into the
mini skirt, put on the blouse, and she helped me do up the buttons, as my
fingers felt clumsy. Belinda sprayed
some of her Dior scent behind my ears, then went to the wardrobe and produced a
pair of Jimmy Choo black high-heeled court shoes.
“Sit down on the dressing table stool, love,” coaxed my wife,
tapping the fluffy faux fur top of the stool with her hand. She combed back my hair, which had grown
quite long, as I hadn’t had time to get it cut for quite a while. She put it into
a pony tail with a black elastic scrunchie. “I’m going to make up your face,”
she said. She explained what she was
doing, applying foundation, eye makeup to my lids, and outlining my eyes with a
black pencil. “This is called kohl, it’s
an eyeliner,” she said. She applied mascara to my lashes and lipstick in a
shade of lustrous red to my lips and completed my makeup with a touch of blusher
to my cheeks. Then she removed the scrunchie and brushed out my blonde hair,
which had grown to near shoulder-length.
“Slip on the shoes,” she said. I put on the black stiletto court
shoes.
It felt very strange, wearing
high heels.
Belinda opened the wardrobe
door, which had a full length mirror on the inside. “Have a look,” she said. I
stood in front of the mirror, and saw an attractive blonde woman looking back
at me.
“What have you done to me?”
I felt tears again brimming in my eyes.
I wasn’t sure whether it was from shame, humiliation – or a strange
emotion I couldn’t clearly identify. Was
I a bit turned on and at the same time almost grateful for what my wife had
done to me? How could that be? I was a
man, wasn’t I?
“What do you think of yourself, dressed like this? You make a very pretty girl!”
I didn’t know how to respond. I felt confused but also strangely
- excited? I was reluctant to admit it
to myself, as if I had crossed some forbidden barrier that should not, ever, be
opened to those born into the male sex.
“Stay like it for now, love.
Come downstairs and let’s watch something on Netflix.” I found it quite hard to go down the stairs
in high heels, but managed it somehow without falling headlong.
I sat down on
the sofa and looked down at my nylon-clad legs in the mini skirt.
“Can I do your nails?” Belinda asked. Before I could reply, she produced some red
nail varnish from her handbag, took my hand, and proceeded to paint my nails.
We watched a science fiction film, then went up to bed. On the bed there was a baby-doll nightie of
burgundy silk. “That’s for you tonight,” she said. “Will you put it on for me?”
We had the best sex that night for a long time. Gentle,
passionate. We both orgasmed repeatedly.
The next morning was
Saturday. We took the children for a
sleepover at grandma’s. Belinda announced: “We’re going shopping. Will you wear again the mini skirt and blouse?”
‘
I’ll look ridiculous. Everyone
will know I’m a man.”
“I don’t think so – you pass very
well as a woman. No-one will think
anything other than that you are a very attractive woman.”
“I don’t know - ”
“Try it, for me.”
So off we went to Covent Garden,
where we had a coffee in one of the up-market coffee shops. “To give you confidence,” Belinda explained. Then
we hit Oxford Street and the stores.
Belinda helped choose skirts, dresses, shoes, lacy underwear, including
even a silky suspender belt and sheer stockings; more nighties, coats, handbags
– a complete female wardrobe - for me. I
even went in the ladies’ changing rooms to try on some of the clothing for
size. The shop assistant who gave me a token for the number of items I was
trying on did not give me a second look.
After our shopping, we went for a
drink and something to eat in Blame Gloria,
a swanky basement cocktail bar. Belinda looked across the table at me, as we drank
Porn Star martinis.
“Would you like to stay like this
forever – be my girl?”
I didn’t
reply.
I gulped down a lump of the ice and
used the straw to suck up a big slug of my drink, feeling immediately the heady
hit of the vanilla-infused Eristoff vodka and passion fruit liqueur.
When the children came back from
grandma’s on Sunday, I was still fully dressed as a woman. Belinda brought me into the living room. George and Samantha stared at me in
amazement.
“This is your new Pa,” my wife
explained – “she’s no longer called Alan.
Her name is Alice now, but she is still your father, and you can still
call her Pa – or Alice, if you prefer.
She is going to be a woman from now on.”
That’s news to me, I thought.
It is amazing how accepting children of nine and seven can
be. It
is amazing how accepting I was.
“Okay,” said George.
“No problem,” said Samantha, with
all the maturity of a confident nine year old.
“We know all about transgender people. There’s a trans boy in my class,
who always come to school dressed as a girl. Her name is Kylie. She has long
hair and plays with me and the other girls on the playground. “
“Can we go and play on the X-Box
now?” asked George.
The kids hurried off into the
study to play on the X-Box.
“I don’t remember saying I was
agreeing to be a woman from now on,” I said.
“I love you more than ever as a
woman,” replied my Belinda. “Give it a go for me, love. There’s some
advantages, you know. For one thing it
will be much easier for you, standing with the other women at the school gate,
for example. And it will be much easier for me to have a wife to take care of
things at home, as I work such long hours.”
Well reader, you have probably
guessed the rest. Belinda took me to Marbella to have facial feminisation
surgery. Dr. Luis Capital and Dr. Daniel
Simon performed the feminine brow sculpturing, lip lift, and liposuction under
my jaw, while a German plastic surgeon whose name I forget carried out my nose
job. The nurses at the Marbella clinic were wonderful, and I was also looked
after by Lilia Koss, a very friendly and supportive American lady who worked as
English-speaking liaison for the Facial Team.
Lilia was married to a Spanish guy. They lived in a little Andalusian
village a few miles from Marbella.
After the FFS there was no turning
back. I continued with the female hormones (I had already guessed they weren’t
‘vitamins’). My wife urged me to complete
my feminisation. She persuaded me to
visit our GP, who referred me to the NHS Gender Identity Service at Charing
Cross Hospital.
I arrived at the first
meeting fully dressed as a woman (I had been living full time as a woman for
over nine months), so it was no surprise that I was diagnosed as having gender
dysphoria. They assumed I would continue with the female hormone treatment,
prescribing Estradiol – 4 mg a day – which was free on the NHS, although we
could have afforded to pay for it privately of course.
It was understood that there was no doubt
that I would proceed to full sex reassignment surgery.
I didn’t seem to have much say in it - I just
went along with it all. I concluded that as my wife had been able to feminise
me so easily, I really must have gender dysphoria, although it's not a term I care for much. I must have wanted to change
my gender, deep down.
The subconscious
is a funny thing.
Sometimes we don’t
even recognise our own deepest yearnings.
Had I always wanted to be a girl?
Did the fact that my mother had sometimes dressed me up in my sister’s
clothes have anything to do with it or was I born this way?
Who knows?
So, I accepted my fate. I went down to the private Nuffield Health
Hospital in Brighton, and stayed there for ten days, to have the sex
reassignment (or gender reassignment – or ‘gender confirmation’) surgery. (I never know whether it is correct to call
it SRS or GRS or ‘Gender Confirmation Surgery’, as they seem to prefer in the
U.S.) The surgeon was one of the top
U.K. consultants for sex change surgery – Mr. Thomas. He was very kind, as were the nurses. Of course I had to wear a catheter for the
first five day after the surgery, then the day came for the plaster bandage to
be removed.
“There we are dear,” announced
the nurse, ‘you’re a girl!” The nurse
was called Tracey, a pretty, slightly over-weight, brunette girl who had been
caring for sex reassignment cases for several years. The catheter was removed
and I peed for the first time sitting down.
“That’s the way you will always be peeing in future!” announced Tracey,
with something akin to glee.
Belinda and the children stayed
in a hotel nearby and came to visit every day. Unusually in view of her
high-powered job, my wife had taken time off to be with me while I was
undergoing the surgery.
I was naturally a bit sore ‘down
below’ for several weeks, but it was surprising how fast things heeled up and
looked ‘normal’ down there. After three
months, you really wouldn’t have been able to tell my new vagina from any other
woman’s.
Belinda delighted in seeing me in
my panties and bra when I was getting dressed, particularly how femininely smooth
and flat my crotch looked now, and how well my boobs had come on, although she
still urged me to have implants to make my chest a bit bigger. Eventually I
gave in and now can easily fill a D-cup.
Well dear reader, that’s the end
of this part of my story.
I am not sure
why you are reading this, which is all true, and as it happened. Perhaps you
are a poor male who wishes it could happen to him? Even without a beautiful wife like Belinda to
feminise you completely, it can still happen to you if you really want it
enough.
Do you?
© 2019 Amber Goth & Kate Lesley
(Some of my readers may be wondering - did this really happen? Yes, it did. Most of it, and particularly the details of the facial feminisation surgery, sex change surgery, female hormone treatment - I have personal experience of - it really happened to me.)
If you enjoyed this story, you will certainly love my book of classic transgender fantasy stories, available from Amazon:
Click cover above for Kindle version
Reviews on Amazon
best trans fiction ever
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Interesting reading
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