Magic Dress Pt. 04


“Oh, you do look so great,” said my darling wife Eve, gazing at me. “As it’s such a lovely day, why don’t we take you to the park and show you off?”

But she wasn’t talking to me: she was talking to The Dress. If that sounds odd, then I must explain we lived an unusual life together. We now had a ménage à trois with Jean, who had who slept with her and had lesbian sex. But on the other hand, I got to fuck them both, quite a lot, and got sucked off once a week at least, and had the occasional handjob. And, like now, I often wore a dress at home. I didn’t feel or want to be like a woman: I just found it very relaxing to wear a dress in my spare time. I slept in a nightdress, but this in no way inhibited me from making love like a man. In fact I was a very typical man. I wasn’t very good at oral sex, and it took me too long to satisfy Eve, so it was great to have that particular chore taken over by Jean. Win-win!

This particular dress had been the one which started it all, and we called it The Dress, or sometimes The Magic Dress. It was totally different from the others. It seemed to have a mind of its own, and we sort of treated it like a person. Somehow it let us know which underwear it liked, and how much makeup I should wear. I didn’t wear makeup at other times, I was just a Man in a Dress. Except on Saturdays when the two women liked to dress me up in various outfits, and try makeup on me. For their benefit, I must add. They used me like two little girls with a dolly. I accepted this because of the other (very considerable) benefits I got from them.

Sometimes I had to dress up with in an outfit with suspenders and stockings, and sluttish makeup, and fuck one or both of them. They called me Sexy Sally, but I didn’t respond to the name otherwise.

Back to the question. Why not go to the park? For very good reason. Cross-dressing, as I suppose I should call it, was a private matter for me. Unlike some (and good luck to them, I don’t mind) I did not want to go around pretending to be a woman. They had often wanted to take the dolly out to play when they felt they had achieved a particularly good look, but I always refused.

So I said no. But The Dress said yes. Of course she wanted to be admired, including the transformed man now wearing her. This was another odd thing. It really did seem magical the way she changed me. No other dress or skilled makeup could achieve the same thing. Looking in the mirror, I saw someone beautiful in a beautiful dress. Looking it on the hangar, you would just say it was a nice dress. On me, we both changed into something really special, and liked just wandering around at home feeling lovely, and being admired by the other women. Did I say other women? OK, in The Dress I was a woman (with no effort or intention on my part) otherwise I was a Man in a Dress.

(To Eve and me, The Dress had opinions and could make decisions, which we both understood and accepted. Just psychology, I suppose. However, Jean could not see that at all, though she agreed it was a nice dress, and looked good on me, and I looked good wearing it. Jean said ‘it’ we said ‘she’.)

To be fair, The Dress had somehow chosen a set of underwear which fitted her bust size and encouraged us to buy breast forms to fill the bra. I didn’t wear a bra when relaxing in the other dresses, but of course Sexy Sally had to, and the girls naturally needed one for their dolly, but these did not make the transformation. We had also found a wig which suited her.

I tried to argue, but was outvoted heavily, and we got in the car as three women for the first time. It was a nice day and we found our usual bench. This is where we had often sat girl watching, by which I mean my wife commented on the clothes that women were wearing in an expert and frankly amazing way, which was an education in itself.

Somehow The Dress gave me confidence, and she did want to be admired, so we proceeded to promenade. I was wearing nice sandals, having never tried to learn to walk in heels, but found myself swaying a little. It would probably have looked silly in any other dress, but it seemed right. I was probably fooling myself, but I think I got a lot of admiring glances, particularly from women. Believe me, an admiring glance from another woman is really a great experience!

Of course, there were one or two people we slightly knew, but my companions headed off any attempt to start a conversation. For one or two, they introduced me as their friend Barbara. It was less than an hour istanbul escort before we headed home. I was exhausted, but The Dress seemed very happy, and I was sucked off as a reward.

However, it appeared that I was now Barbara, or was it the dress? No, I was myself, The Dress off me was The Dress, but together we made Barbara. Sexy Sally was, of course, pure fiction.

The Dress certainly liked to go out, though we did not do it very often. On a nice evening we would go to town and walk as if going to a club or restaurant, but not actually getting there. We were occasionally accosted by men, nearly always friendly, and although they looked at Barbara and spoke to her, they never touched, though there was often a hand on the arm of one of the others and occasionally more personal places. We even managed to go out and buy a dress for me. The Dress seemed to be looking from its hangar in the fitting room. Afterwards we had a coffee in the store’s café. Home without incident.

It was Jean who said Dolly should also get a trip out. Having become Barbara in The Dress, it seemed to them (but not me) that I became Dolly the person rather than just the dolly in the Saturday play sessions. The girls certainly talked about me and to me in this way, though Dolly had very little to say for herself apart from agreeing yes, they were nice panties etc.

The two girls had taken hundreds of photographs of Dolly in her clothes and now pored over them to select the best ones. After endless hours they selected five, and I agreed to three. They were smart but not outrageous, feminine but not provocative. A print dress to walk in the park; a smart, but unobtrusive plain dress and jacket for a visit to town; and my wife’s favourite, the blouse and skirt secretary combination. Of course, I had to have a handbag for each. And I have to say that while I learned a lot about female clothes and developed some sense of taste, the art of the handbag completely eluded me. I could never tell why with two similar handbags one would be perfect and the other no good at all. Fortunately, I did not have to select one, just take what I was given.

I was really hesitant about being seen in female clothing. We decided to go somewhere we didn’t know, and where we didn’t know anyone, which turned out to be Brighton. We found a modest hotel and booked two adjoining double rooms for me and Eve as Mr & Mrs, and for Jean and her sister Barbara. (Actually I was going to be Dolly, as we had not brought The Dress. We were concerned about it getting lost or damaged, so it stayed home on the hangar.)

We turned up and signed in, Jean saying she would take the key as her sister would be along later. Later on, three women on holiday took a stroll around. In a nice floral dress, sunglasses and a hat, I walked as daintily as I could along the prom and felt good about the experience. It was nice to feel the dress in motion, something I did not get sitting or standing around at home. I swished happily.

In the morning I had breakfast with my wife at 7. I would have liked the full English breakfast, but made do with cereal and toast. I then kissed her goodbye and said I would be off on my business and told her to have a nice day. At 8.30, Jean came to breakfast with her sister Barbara, who had an egg on toast and some fruit.

At about 10, Eve, Jean and Barbara went out on their holiday. In the smart dress and jacket we went to a café and shops. I went to the Ladies’ toilet for the first time, remembering to check myself in the mirror and apply lipstick before leaving. Back to the hotel for a nap, a different outfit for Dolly and out again. I can’t say I felt like a woman, but I enjoyed going around in women’s clothes, not being afraid of being recognised.

I was the straight skirt that caused the trouble. Although I looked nice (they said) I had too much of a bulge to be convincing, so Jean had brought something along. This proved to be an invention of the Devil. Essentially it was very tight pants called a gaff, but I had to rearrange myself in a way I didn’t like.

I refused, but Eve persuaded me. It was an expensive gift from Jean, and it wouldn’t hurt to just try it, surely? Then we would know the difference and could decide. What was the harm in finding out?

According to the instructions, I had to push my balls up into two cavities which I didn’t know I had (but it turns out, I did) which was odd and a bit unpleasant. Holding them in and pulling on the pants, my poor escort bayan willy was squashed at the front, and the bulge was greatly reduced. Good enough I thought, but not good enough for Jean. I had to go further and tuck my willy back between my legs towards my bum. There was a diagram which made it clear, and plenty of web pages which said it was OK.

The difference is the folks on the internet wanted to look like women, whereas I did not have their motivation. It was uncomfortable and did not feel right. Of course, mangling my genitals tended to cause blood flow, and wrestling an erection between my legs was out of the question. Somehow I persisted until I got it right. I was sorry I started, and am even more sorry that I actually succeeded in managing that bloody gaff.

Even worse, it was shaped and had padding enlarge my hips and butt cheeks. I should have realised that this was wrong. Up till now, I had only worn actual women’s clothes. They did not always fit so snugly to my male physique, but they had to be clothes sold for women. I didn’t wear a bra when relaxing in a dress, so left the bust unfilled, but I didn’t care. Only The Dress required a proper set of matching underwear, and liked having flexible breast forms in them. I wore bras and padding as the Dolly, but only because the girls insisted as part of the dressing up game, not for me.

It had to be women’s clothes. Pretty garments for men like kaftans did not relax me in the same way. I had specifically refused the clothes made for transvestite men wanting to look and feel like women, because that wasn’t me. I was just a Man in a Dress. Until now.

I was happy having as much sex as I could manage with two women, relaxing in dresses in private, and having a special feeling sometimes in The Dress. I admit I felt feminine (and very happy) then, but that was enough. I really had no desire to pass as a woman otherwise.

But the Devil is very subtle, and I succumbed to temptation. Those damned pants did make all the difference. The flat front and the extra curve at the back made the skirt really good. At last I had the shape and their dolly was perfect. Of course they wanted to show her off. As for me, I felt an entirely male sense of triumph, as if I had won a particularly pointless game of some sort.

With my contrivance on, we tried some other garments. Female jeans at last looked OK. A slightly clingy dress, and even some shorts (with a straight top to hide my thicker waist). Frankly, all the dresses looked better, though I was obviously less comfortable.

I should have refused, but I had to admit I looked really convincing in it, and agreed to go out. I even managed to totter in heels – not very high ones – with the practice I had from Saturdays.

I was proud of the achievement and how I looked, which is what the Greeks call hubris – the pride that goes before a fall. Literally in this case. We were doing our evening walk, strolling along, and I was feeling what in other circumstances I might have called cocky, but perhaps I may say smug because of my apparent lack of cocky. And of course, my girly rump. As they say, hubris.

I stumbled somehow and fell down a flight of steps. As is usual in such cases, the biggest injury was to my pride, and I just wanted to be left alone, but that was not going to happen. A female police officer was there in moments and told me to not to try to get up. She asked my name. “Barbara,” said Eve. “Dolly,” said Jean. “Er, she’s my sister Barbara, but everyone calls her Dolly.”

“I’m just going to check you for injuries, Barbara,” said the policewoman, obviously deciding to use the formal name, “starting with your legs and arms.” She felt me carefully and I must say very respectfully; then felt my hands. “I don’t think there’s anything broken, but we can get the hospital to check you. Now did you bang your head? Does it hurt? Did you lose consciousness?” No, I said, as she checked my pulse.

Then the moment I feared. “I’m just going to check your ribs and pelvis. Are pregnant or could you possibly be?”

“Definitely not!” said Eve a bit too strongly.

The policewoman was coffee coloured, and very pretty, and she was going to examine my pelvis. Immediately my body rushed to give maximum embarrassment and I felt a swelling between my legs under the gaff. It was uncomfortable, so my body pumped some more blood in to see if that would help. Now it was aching and blood had also gone to my face. I could hardly breathe Kadıköy escort with panic.

The policewoman felt under my back and pressed and squeezed my ribs, asking if it hurt. I said no. Then squeezed my hips and pressed on my belly and just above where my vulva was supposed to be, asking the same. She looked slightly puzzled, but I think couldn’t put a finger on it, as they say.

“Well,” she said. “Some grazes, but no obvious bleeding or broken bones. I think you don’t need an ambulance, but I can take you to the hospital in my car if you like. You really should be checked out.”

“That’s fine,” said Eve, hurriedly. “I haven’t been drinking yet, so I can take her. Thank you so much!”

They helped me up and back to the hotel, where I took off the pants, and decided that it really wasn’t worth going to the hospital as a man or a woman. It had been a close thing, though. Suppose I had broken a leg. No more high heels for me!

I wore the gaff and jeans for breakfast as Barbara. In the bedroom I tried on the clingy dress and was tempted, especially by Jean, but decided against it. So off went the gaff; on went plain cotton pants, white tights to hide my grazes, over them lacy knickers; and a nice dress with a slightly flared skirt. It was our last day so we went out to enjoy it and saw something amazing.

There was a good-looking couple of women walking towards us, and one of them was wearing The Dress! We stopped dead (and I suspect, open-mouthed) and they must have seen us. They paused, and the other woman (slim and very smart) took the arm of the woman in The Dress and started to steer her away.

“Just a minute!” called Eve, hurrying towards them. They looked apprehensive. “I just wanted to say how good you looked in that green dress. We’ve got one just like it.”

They gave nervous half-smiles and looked her up and down, then seemed a bit puzzled.

“Thank you,” said the woman in The Dress. “It’s my favourite.”

“It’s my favourite too,” I added eagerly.

They turned their gaze to me; then the slim woman smiled. “I see.” The woman in The Dress seemed to get the joke a little later and perhaps looked relieved. “I don’t think we know each other,” she continued, “but perhaps we should. My we invite you to coffee in our hotel. It’s just over there?”

We found a quiet corner of the lobby and ordered coffees, and introduced ourselves. They were Nancy (the slim one) and Jane (in The Dress). Nancy was very elegant. Jane looked as lovely in The Dress as only a real woman could, I thought to myself. They were an impressive pair, and I felt conscious of how I probably looked very obviously a Man in a Dress.

“So,” said Nancy. “This dress has been very special to us. Has yours been very special to you, Barbara?”

“Yes,” I said. “It changed my life.”

“It did for us,” Nancy replied. “To be plain, when my husband put it on, we discovered Jane.” Jane blushed. “What happened with you?”

We shared our stories, which were similar but different, and later became friends. Amazingly, there were other couples they knew, who had dresses like ours (each of which had made the husband something else) and whom we got to meet eventually. Some had gone further to being a woman, actually dating and having sex with men. It was clear that I was not going to do that, though all were happy in their different ways. I decided that trying to be more convincing was for others, but not for me. I was just a Man in a Dress, except when I was the Man in The Dress. I decided I did not want to be Barbara, and got rid of the gaff.

No offence to the many people who enjoy wearing a gaff and spending time ‘en femme’. They are clever garments and provide innocent pleasure to thousands, but they were not for me. I am just a man who likes wearing female clothes. It was not my feminine side but my male competitive side which led me into trying to pretend I was something I was not. Barbara was as much a fiction as Sexy Sally. I could see this in later meeting cross-dressers who really were actually feminine.

Of all of them, Jane was the most amazing. Jim was a normal, masculine man, an accountant in a suit. But changing clothes, he just became a woman, in a way I could never match and didn’t want to. Jane didn’t have sex of any form (and was happy without it) while Jim remained a husband in every way, Nancy said.

It convinced me that I should remain as a Man in a Dress and Dolly would have to be content with her Saturday time at home, though we do take The Dress out sometimes, which she appreciates. I always wear it when we visit Nancy and Jane. Jane wears something different, so as not to cause jealousy, as she can be feminine in anything, but I can only do so in The Dress. The Magic Dress.

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