Adjustments

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Adjustments
By Angela Rasch

Sandra’s Perspective

Our dog was on the front lawn in toe-to-toe battle, with the same sprinkler that had driven him crazy, for five years. One time, he dug a hole around it the size of a garbage can lid. That was how he kept sane.

I hadn’t found a way.

Ron had gone to the doctor. It has been the single biggest item on our “to do” list, for weeks. It was an occasion to be reckoned with.

Not that my husband was really ill. For about the last six weeks, he had been experiencing a feeling of warmth, sometimes associated with flushing, that spread over his body and was accompanied by perspiration. His symptoms sounded strangely like the hot flashes I’d been having, for years.

The doctor went through a thorough check-up and a list of questions regarding his diet. Ron long ago gave up caffeine and spicy food. He showed no signs of cancer, or any other disease or illness that might be the cause.

“He gave me this bottle of pills,” Ron said. He held them up for my inspection, demanding a comment, about who knows what. “He said they’re estrogen. He wants me to take estrogen!”

Ron put the “hype” in hypochondriac. He has never really been sick a day in his life -- but took plenty of sick leave. He moaned and sniffled, if his body temperature varied by more than a tenth of a degree.

Conversely, he’d only been to the doctor three times in his life, other than school or life insurance physicals.

I’ve been a good wife, in that I hadn’t hounded him, to go against his beliefs.

“People die in hospitals,” he’d say, “and you only go to the doctor, if you really need to go to the hospital.”

The hot flashes have put the fear of the Lord into poor Ron. How do you live with someone who’s so inconsistent? Hopefully, those pills contain something to pep him up. He’s been so lethargic, without his work to interest him.

I looked at the wristwatch he’d given me for our thirty-fifth anniversary. Five o’clock, time to make our evening meal. I started for the kitchen -- leaving him to fuss over what supposedly ailed him.

“I’ll get dinner,” he said, scooting by me. “I’ve got it all planned out.”

Shoot. In his retirement, he’s taken over my house. I haven’t cooked a real meal, in almost four months. He isn’t all that bad a chef. But I enjoyed cooking and he won’t give his “helping” a rest.

“Sandra, you just sit yourself over there -- so we can talk. I’ll put something together. You fed me for thirty-five years and now it’s my turn.”

The first time he said it, it had sounded charming. The next thousand, or so, times it spilled from his lips, it had started to wear thin.

“Sandra, you’ve washed clothes for me for thirty-five years and now I can do it for a while. Sandra, you’ve vacuumed for me for thirty-five years and now I can clean for a while." Ad nauseum. Which is Latin for “It sucks.”

Ron has no hobbies. His friends are still working and will be for seven to ten more years. It appears he intends to do every household chore.

I’m supposed to do. . . nothing.

I worked for a few years -- until Brian had been born. I had complications and he would be our only child. In 1997, he went to Glacier National Park with his buddies and had an unfortunate meeting with a grizzly. That bear killed a little of both Ron and me, in addition to our Brian.

My best friend, Christine, who I’ve known since high school, told me that any woman, in her right mind, would love to be in my place. BUT. . .what do you do when you’re battling for your rightful position in your home?

“Estrogen,” he moaned. “Isn’t that what you take?”

“Mmmmm.”

“A man shouldn’t have to take estrogen,” he whined. “But if I have to - to stop those darn hot flashes - I suppose I should.”

I buried my head in a National Geographic and intently studied a story about extinct reptiles. Not many of them are extinct -- as it turns out. Reptiles are resilient to change and somehow make it in one era -- and out the other.

“What if I grow breasts?” His eyes were wide, with dismay, at the thought of such a horrible fate.

Good gravy! Can’t he see that I had two of them and manage to make it through the day?

He’s been a good father and provider. Let me rephrase that. He had been a disinterested parent, who hadn’t abused his son. He brought home a slightly under-average salary. I had asked him for a household allowance, which he let his mother set. Through careful spending, I managed to put aside a good deal of money, which I invested, long before people like me were called “day traders.”

Put it this way. We live in a gated retirement community and drive very nice cars. . .and Ron had never earned more than forty thousand a year. We have several million in the bank and seemed bulletproof, through our retirement.

“I’m having enough problems already,” he said. “A man’s testosterone level goes down in his older years.”

“Oh.” Ron’s best friend Dan looks much like he did when he stood next to Ron, at our wedding. Dan’s wife, Nancy, had been a wonderful woman. I was in the room with Dan and her when she died, two years ago. His strength had been admirable throughout the ordeal.

I decided to placate Ron and took a look at the pill bottle. I wasn’t familiar with the name of the drug, but it had to be powerful, since Ron only had to take one pill a week.

“The doctor had a sample of those in his cabinet. He just gave me a whole year’s supply for nothing. Isn’t that something? Just so long as I don’t wake up one day, with a vagina.”

Ron was wearing one of my aprons. He looked appropriate, in that he had left his hair grow out.

“Your hair’s getting a little long, Ron.”

“What do I need to have haircuts for? I don’t have to answer to ‘the man’ anymore. No sir-ree. Can I get you a nice cold glass of ice water, Hon? Your magazine? Some cheese and crackers?”

I got up and circled a date on the calendar. March 5th. Six months in the future.

That was the date they would commit me to an insane asylum -- unless things changed.

***

Three days later, we were about to turn off the lights and go to sleep, when opportunity knocked. Ron had been scratching his crotch, the most masculine thing he’d done in bed, for years.

“Hon, I’m getting a rash.”

He’s been using twice as much soap as needed, in the wash. His skin probably has reacted adversely to it.

What I said next surprised even me. Perhaps, I had accepted my role in his “fate.”

“Uhmmm,” I said. “That happened to me about a year ago. I solved the problem by wearing cotton panties.” Inside, my heart smirked.

“Cotton? My underwear are made of cotton.”

“I know Ron, but you probably should try a pair of my panties, for a few days. They don’t have elastic where you’re getting your rash.”

“Ohhh.” He looked over his glasses at me. “Panties, huh?”

“It’s probably a day or two cure -- thing,” I said. “Your body needs some time to get used to that estrogen. Tell you what,” I jumped out of bed and opened my undergarment drawer, “you wear these until Wednesday, or so. Let me know what you think. We wouldn’t want your skin condition to worsen, or for you to be permanently scarred.” I took care to give him panties that I’d always hand washed. I also made sure they were pink.

“I don’t know,” he said. But my little hypochondriac dutifully donned pink panties.

Four days later, I went to the store and bought him a dozen pink panties of his very own. Several were covered with little purple and green flowers. “I wouldn’t even chance going back to your kind of panties -- until after you’re off that estrogen,” I commented.

“But that’s a year from now,” he wailed.

Goodness gracious, what a tragedy!

I replaced our detergent with a milder brand that allowed him to use a generous amount, without bothering his skin. Not knowing the difference he continued to wear the sissified panties without argument.

***

That next weekend, he had trouble turning the mattresses and had strained his pectoralis major. Later that night, he sat up in bed. “My chest hurts.”

Alert the media!

His effeminacy hadn’t been a difficulty when we lived, in our previous home. It had been a larger home, on a four-acre wooded lot. At that time, Ron liked to say the four greatest technological advancements in our lifetime were the chain saw, power washer, woodchipper, and snow thrower. Since the association where we now lived, did all of our yardwork, he had traded his tan work-clothes and tools for an apron and a vacuum, food processor, washer, and dryer.

“Oh,” he bravely stated, “it’s probably not a heart attack. It’s more of a dull ache when I move too fast.”

Once again, something came over me. I just had to play with him. “Where does it hurt?”

“Ahhh. It’s painful all over, but the worst is here. . .and here.” He pointed to both sides of his chest.

“Omigosh! Omigosh! I faked minor terror.

“What! What!” He wouldn’t be able to go to sleep with all the adrenaline I’d caused to flow through his body -- just then.

“You know what it is?” I asked, just to get him to beg.

“Tell me, please. Please tell me. Please.”

Enough. “It’s that estrogen. You said it yourself. It was only a matter of time, before you grew breasts.”

“Nooooo.”

I nodded slowly.

“Nooooo.”

“Uh-huh. I noticed how much you’ve grown when you were wearing the t-shirt that says, ‘Dad’s Make the Best Lovers.’” I’d given him that shirt hoping for a self-fulfilling prophecy, that never came into fruition. The truth was there hadn’t been any change to his chest.

“But . . . boobs?”

“Poor baby,” I said. If I had a dime for every time I’ve said “poor baby” to that sap, I’d have millions, which we do, so what’s the use? “Tomorrow I’ll fix it for you.”

“How?” He asked softly.

“A bra, of course.”

“Nooooo.”

“Poor baby.”

The next day I bought him several padded 38B bras that took the fat he’d always had on his chest and made little titties, to fill the cups.

***

From that day forward, it was just one thing after another. Each time I saw an opening, I used his estrogen intake as an excuse to heighten his femininization.

My guilt was mitigated by the knowledge that he couldn’t have been as comfortable as he appeared, without his own approval.

A blemish on his face led to nightly skincare -- using Oil of Olay products. That escalated with other blemishes to foundation, translucent powder, and then blush. Mr. Gullible would buy anything I said, as long as I somehow made him think it was because of the estrogen.

He soon was wearing a camisole to protect his delicate skin from his rough clothing, clothing that was traded within weeks, for softer things from the women’s department.

All the while, he continued to clean the house and make all the meals because, “Sandra, you’ve ‘done’ for me for thirty-five years; and now I can ‘do’ for you for a while.”

The only signs he gave of discomfort, with his new role, was ordering our groceries delivered, over the computer, rather than going to the store, and continually putting his friend Dan off -- when Dan tried to get together with him.

It was absolutely amazing what the power of suggestion was doing, to little Ron. I had been bored out of my skull. He’d provided an intriguing game for me to play.

***

“The doctor called today,” I lied. His doctor hadn’t called. Lying had become part of my daily arsenal, to lead little Ron to his destiny, much like moisturizer had become part of little Ron’s nightly beauty ritual. I excused my duplicity as necessary, in the process that was obviously making little Ron so very happy.

“My doctor, I hope,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was happy that I wasn’t ill, or because he was receiving a new medical dilemma, to dither about.

I have to make sure my acting is perfect on this one. “Your doctor is concerned about you.”

“Uh.”

That got his attention. A concerned doctor isn’t anything Ron wants any part of.

I picked at the meal he’d prepared. I did that every so often, so that he wouldn’t get complacent. His culinary skills had gotten much better. If I showed any kind of subtle displeasure, he worked all the harder the next time. “I told him about all the problems you’ve been having.”

“You didn’t tell him how. . ..”

“I told him exactly what remedies you’ve come up with to resolve each problem.”

“But, it was you who. . ..”

“He thought you were doing exactly the right thing, each time.”

“He said that?”

I struck a scout’s honor pose. Ron had been an Eagle Scout and took that kind of thing quite seriously. I had made love to a scout, in a tent in his backyard, when I was thirteen.

“Then I guess. . ..”

“He said you’re in deep trouble.” I scowled.

“What?” His eyes were the size of the hubcaps on a ‘57 Chevy.

I loved the spacious backseats, in those cars.

“Did he say why?” Ron asked.

I had set the hook. “He said your body is going to get confused, if it isn’t already. Have you noticed any problems, lately?”

Asking Ron if his body had health problems was like inquiring if Johnson and Johnson had any Band-Aids.

“My muscles have been a little sore.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And my eyes have been watering.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh no???”

“Oh no. He mentioned that as a possible next step in your troubles.”

“What did he say I have to do to stop the ailment?”

“Dresses”

“Dresses?”

“The more feminine, the better,” I said with gravity.

“He said that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I can’t.” He folded his arms across his little titties encased in his bra.

“Can’t?”

“Can’t.”

He probably would have stomped his foot had he been standing, but he was perched on a stool going through his cookbooks trying to determine what error he’d made fixing the meal I’d found so distasteful.

“Ronnie, you’re wearing panties, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And a bra, right?” I fixed him in my gaze.

“That’s right -- and all sorts of other things and make-up, too,” he whimpered, “But a man has to have limits.”

“That’s what the doctor said.”

“????”

“He said any man in your situation would be horribly conflicted. The medical term for your ailment is cognitive dissonance. Because you have to take the estrogen, you need to eliminate your internal conflict and make yourself completely feminine.”

“Completely feminine?”

“Or else.” I shook my head to let Ronnie know that “or else” would not be good. It had been the universe, who had assigned his position in life, not me.

The next day I bought him a complete wardrobe and stocked his bedroom with a dozen enchanting perfumes.

“Did you say that’s ‘my’ bedroom?” He was wearing an outfit that I thought made him look exactly like Donna Reed, in the fifties.

I’d searched all over for it. He always wore a frilly apron, over his pretty clothes, so that they didn’t get “ruined.”

“Ronnie, Honey. All the lotion and perfume you have to use now would give me a migraine, if I have to sleep, in the same room as you. You don’t mind, do you? I can make my own bed, if making two beds is too much for you.”

He rolled his eyes at me. “Sandra, you’ve made beds for me for thirty-five years and now I’ll make two beds for a while.”

***

“It’s my turn to host the dessert club, next month,” I said.

His face turned white. For the last six weeks, he had dressed completely as a woman. He hadn’t left the house even one time, so I was the only one who had seen him. His total transformation had not always been certain, but it had been most likely.

“I could get in the car and go for a long drive,” he offered.

“What if the police had to pull you over, for something?”

“Ohhh? I’ll just stay in my bedroom.” His hands were shaking.

“Nonsense, little Ronnie.” I shook my head. “It’s high time you get over your shyness. What you’re going through is as natural as putting Neosporin on a cut. There isn’t one girl in my dessert club, who’s going to think zilch -- about how you look.”

“You think?”

I put my hand on my hip and scratched my chin with the other. “Now that you mentioned it -- there are a few things that would bother them.”

“Like what?”

“The way you stand, sit, and walk for starters. When you wear a dress, you need to look a certain way.”

“Ohhh.”

“In fact, have you been feeling okay, lately?”

He listed a number of minor ailments that the average person would never, ever notice.

“I was worried about that.” I knitted my brow to express my deep concern. It wasn’t easy leading this horse to water. But once he was there, he would always drink.

“Worried?”

“Uh-huh. You know what the doctor said about becoming completely feminine. It doesn’t surprise me at all that you’ve had so many ailments. It’s a wonder you’re not on your death bed. Conflicts — you’ve got to avoid them.”

“Conflicts?”

“You know — the way you dress and how you walk, talk, sit, stand, and your voice. What kind of books and magazines have you been reading?”

“Magazines?”

I sighed and shook my head. “Why do I even bother?”

“Did I do something wrong?” He looked totally distraught. Not only had he placed his health in jeopardy, with neglect -- but in the process he had apparently, displeased me. For almost anyone else, he would be the perfect mate. He was totally devoted. BUT — he wasn’t happy in his devotion and it appeared I could deal with that.

“Nothing we can’t fix,” I allowed.

That very moment we entered into a serious round of education to improve “Veronica.” She dived into yoga and other exercises to help her body to express itself in a feminine manner -- and to enrich her appearance. It would have been just wrong, to continue to call her “Ron.”

Prior to the dessert club meeting, I took every member to an individual lunch and explained what I had done to Ron. They all thought it was a remarkable approach to husbandry and vowed to help me. I assured them that all they had to do was act as if Veronica was one of us, and not express anything other than total acceptance of her as a female.

Which they did.

***

“Dan called,” I said. “He wants to know if I killed you and stuck your body in the freezer.”

“Did he say that?” she giggled. Ron’s hair had been almost jet black, but “the doctor” and I had made her bleach it. Almost everything she wore was pink and short. She still managed to keep the house immaculate and had mastered cooking, so that I looked forward to each meal, with fascination. She had been reading nothing but romance novels for weeks.

“He wants to hold a surprise party, for your birthday.” I waited for Veronica to break down, or throw a fit.

Instead, she smiled. “When?” She obviously felt confident in her appearance and was ready, for the next step.

I had been prepared to play “doctor” one last time -- but there was no need. “I’ll tell him no surprise party, Veronica. We’ll just have a regular party. He can be the bartender.”

“That sounds nice. I could make. . ..”

She went on and on planning the menu, while I made a few plans, of my own.

Later that night, I called my garden club members, again. Each of them was to bring to the party a “most likely new spouse” for Veronica.

***

The day of the party, I took Veronica to my salon and treated her to a complete package. She got up the nerve to shop for and purchase her own outfit. Veronica looked as pretty and confident as she ever had -- when we welcomed our first guest.

It had been a long road from conception to completion.

Dan took one look at her in her chiffon ruffled shirtdress and then dragged me into my bedroom to talk. He locked the door behind him to assure our privacy, before demanding, “How long has this been going on?”

“Almost a year,” I sniffed and then collapsed, into his manly arms. Thirty minutes later, we rejoined the party having consummated the end to over three decades of frustration.

All of my friends had lived up to their word. Veronica was surrounded by men who were fascinated by her.

***

The phone dragged me away from our new hot tub, an addition that Dan had recommended.

“Hello, doctor,” I said, looking out at Dan snacking on hors d'oeuvres. We would later enjoy a sumptuous banquet that I’d been preparing all day. I couldn’t wait to get back in the tub to let the jets bubble water across my deliciously stiff muscles — residue from a delightful week of spring cleaning.

“How is Ron doing?” The doctor asked.

“Ron?” I stumbled. “Ahh . . . ‘Ron’ is just fine.”

“He never came back for a follow-up appointment. I guess those placebos I gave him did the trick.”

“Placebos?”

“Your husband is a bit of a hypochondriac. I keep a supply of placebos for people like him. They’re harmless and men like Ron seem to love them.”

“Oh.”

After the phone call, I checked my calendar. It was three days to my wedding and just over three months, before Veronica’s.

We had agreed upon an amicable divorce. In fact, we were going to be each other’s maid-of-honor.

Dan moved in with me and Veronica is living with her Sammie, who loves her just the way she is.

I’ve hired a maid to take Veronica’s place. That and everything else just had to be done. Nothing could be truer than what my grandmother often said, “A place for everything, and everything in its place.”

I’ve already realized Dan is never going to give me an orgasm. Sammie and I have been meeting for sex on the side and I’ll enjoy ruining Veronica’s marriage -- just a few months from now.

The End of Part One


Ron’s Perspective

Our dog stared out at the sprinkler, in the middle of our yard, and dreamed about what he would do, if he only got the chance. We never allowed him out of the house when the sprinklers were on, because he’d once dug a hole the size of a garbage can lid around that particular sprinkler head. His wagging tail indicated that he was perfectly content waiting. And, so was I.

Plotting his conquest kept my dog sane.

I haven’t found a way.

My recent trip to the doctor had been the single biggest item on our “to do” list for weeks. Not that I was really ill. For about the last six weeks, I had been experiencing a feeling of warmth, sometimes associated with flushing. It spread over my body and was accompanied by perspiration.

My symptoms sounded strangely like the hot flashes Sandra had been having for the last eighty gazillion years. I went to the doctor because I can’t believe I care enough about Sandra, to have empathetic hot flashes.

Even though, I had never really been sick a day in my life, I had taken plenty of sick leave. I would moan and sniffle, if my body temperature varied by more than a tenth of a degree. It was the only way I could get any valid attention, from my life partner.

I’d only been to the doctor three times in my life, other than school or life insurance physicals. Any caring wife would have hounded me, to have regular checkups.

“People die in hospitals,” she would say, “and you only go to the doctor, if you need to go to the hospital.”

My doctor went through a thorough check-up and a list of questions regarding my diet. I had long ago given up caffeine and spicy food. I showed no signs of cancer, or any other disease or illness that might be the cause.

Sandra and I were sitting in our living room reading the paper.

“He gave me this bottle of pills,” I said. I held them up for her inspection, demanding a comment I doubted was forthcoming. “He said they’re estrogen. He wants me to take estrogen!”

Sandra lives in a world, about two inches in front of her nose. I’m not really sure why I told her the pills were estrogen. I suppose I thought it would get a rise out of her. It’s been years since we’ve had anything resembling a real conversation, in which one or both of us wasn’t lying or, at least, presenting a false reality.

Hopefully, those pills contained something that will pep me up. I’ve been lethargic ever since I retired and been faced with seemingly endless days, living with her.

She was looking at the expensive wristwatch I’d wasted on her for our thirty-fifth anniversary.

Five o’clock, time to make our evening meal. I bolted for the kitchen. “I’ll get dinner,” I said, scooting by her. “I’ve got it all planned out.”

In my retirement, I’d taken over the house. She hadn’t cooked a real meal, in almost four months. Let me take that back. Her cooking reflected her putrid soul. She tortured food, until it flopped down on our plates, in rancid resignation. We can barely eat my fare. But I’m getting better every day and already can cook rings around her.

“Sandra, you just sit yourself over there so we can talk. I’ll put something together. You fed me for thirty-five years. Now it’s my turn.”

I’d been using the same line to take over every other household chore. “Sandra, you’ve washed clothes for me for thirty-five years. Now I can do it for a while. Sandra, you’ve vacuumed for me for thirty-five years. Now I can clean for a while.” I’m simply tired of living in filth and watching my clothes get ruined by her incompetent laundering. The lengthy list of domestic duties she can’t accomplish effectively is as long as my enumerations of justifications for revenge, for the life she’s wasted, for me.

I had been offered a retirement package I couldn’t refuse, nearly six years before I wanted to retire. I have no hobbies. My friends are still working and would be for seven to ten more years. Basically, I have no life.

I intended to do every household chore. She was to do -- nothing.

I’d heard about people who retire and die, within months. That was my plan for her, unless something better came along. I meant to ease her along toward a cardiac arrest.

To supplement that effort, I’d developed a devilishly simple secondary plan — I would kill her with kindness - which was both lethal and legal. I would wait on her hand and foot, until the mortician carried her away, in a pine box.

She’d worked for a few years -- until Brian had been born. Because of her complications during his birth, he had been our only child. In 1997, he went to Glacier National Park with his buddies and had an unfortunate meeting with a grizzly. That bear killed a little of both Sandra and me, in addition to our Brian.

At first, we’d maintained the marriage for the sake of our son. Later, the amount of pure hate I had for that woman kept me near enough to her, to inflict revenge.

My best friend, Dan, thought the world of Sandra. He said any man in his right mind would love to be in my place. BUT. . .what did he really know about her?

“Estrogen,” I moaned. “Isn’t that what you take?”

“Mmmmm.”

“A man shouldn’t have to take estrogen,” I whined. “But if I have to - to stop those darn hot flashes - I suppose I should.”

Then I had a decisive moment, one of those flashes of brilliance that separates the weak, from the powerful. If I play my cards right, I’ll drive Sandra, to her grave, within months.

If there’s one thing Sandra despises -- it’s an effeminate man. She’s totally femophobic. Throughout our marriage, if I wore a shirt or pair of slacks that were a color that hadn’t been brought over by the Puritans, Sandra would call me a “fairy.”

Singing the National Anthem at a ballgame brought her wrath down on me, for “acting like a sissy in front of people.” It was okay for women to sing, “But men should preserve proper decorum.”

I would find ways to act like a complete sissy -- and it would kill her.

She buried her head in a National Geographic and intently studied a story about extinct reptiles. Reptiles are resilient to change and somehow make it in one era and out the other.

Just like Sandra.

“What if I grow breasts?” I forced my eyes wide, as if I was dismayed at the thought of such a horrible fate.

Her head flinched.

That hit her where it hurt. My plan is set in concrete. I’ll find a way to act so feminine that she will expire.

She’ll turn black and curdle, just like milk or cottage cheese. At that point, I’ll set her out on the curb and the big blue truck will pick her up with its mechanical arms and haul her away to the landfill.

I had been a good father and an excellent provider. Even though she had done everything she could, to turn our son against me, I had remained calm and brought home a weekly paycheck.

She had demanded a household allowance.

Through miserly spending, she’d raked off a good deal of that money, which she invested in an account I wasn’t supposed to know about. Often, I had to spend other money, to have even a minimal amount of food in the house -- or to do much-needed maintenance.

Her investments barely broke even. Once I saw what she was up to and how incompetent she was at managing money, I put all the raises and bonuses I got, after that, straight into a retirement account. We had nearly three million dollars in the bank and seemed bulletproof through our retirement — especially after I arrange for her to die young from shame and apoplexy.

She’ll never divorce me and take a chance on losing her share of our money.

“I’m having enough problems already,” I said, carrying on my look of despair. “A man’s testosterone level goes down, in his older years.”

“Oh,” was all she said. It was amazing that she’d missed another opportunity to tell me that she never has had an orgasm with me.

Before Sandra and I met, I had spent a night with one of the women in the office. Linda was full-figured and blondish-cute. I had been the first in the office to sleep with her, but not the last. She organized her version of a company welcome-wagon, which eventually topped a dozen willing sexual partners -- who sat in cubicles around her.

Then she compared all of us. I had been ranked as Linda’s best lover.

On another occasion, I had been in a bar when an old girlfriend and her new husband sat down with me. She drank a bit too much and suddenly stated to him, “You could learn a thing or two about what to do in bed, from Ron.”

And yet, somehow it was my fault that Sandra never fully enjoyed our lovemaking. She would sigh and say, “That was . . . okay.” As the years went on, she expanded her attacks upon my “inadequacies” by suggesting that I look into products she saw advertised in magazines and on television that promised an increase in the size of my penis - or better performance. Eventually, I gave up sex with her entirely.

I looked across the kitchen. She probably was thinking about Dan, which she did quite often -- and never failed to tell me about in some way. He pretty much looked like he had -- when he stood next to me at our wedding. He was a metro-sexual long before it was popular. He worked out and was fairly into himself.

Dan’s wife, Nancy, had been a wonderful woman. I’d been in the room with Dan and her when she died two years ago. His strength had been admirable throughout the ordeal, almost to the point that I wondered if he really loved his wife.

Sandra finally took a look at the pill bottle. Obviously, she wasn’t familiar with the name of the drug, but I was. I knew exactly what they would - and wouldn’t - do.

“The doctor had a sample of those in his cabinet,” I said. “He gave me a whole year’s supply for nothing. Isn’t that something? Just so long as I don’t wake up one day with a vagina.”

I was wearing one of her aprons, which looked appropriate. I had left my hair grow out, because I no longer had to answer to “the man.” My long hair would blend right into the plan I was formulating.

“Can I get you a nice cold glass of ice water, Hon?” I asked. “Your magazine? Some cheese and crackers?” I added a little lilt to my voice, to get under her skin.

She got up and circled a date on the calendar. March 5th. Six months in the future.

She didn’t say what that date was, but I knew what it meant to me.

That was the date they would commit me to an insane asylum — if my plan didn’t work.

***

Three days later, we were about to turn off the lights and go to sleep, when opportunity knocked. I had been scratching my crotch. More than likely I had used too much soap, in the laundry. “Hon, I’m getting a rash.”

What she said next surprised me so much, that I almost missed my chance.

“Uhmmm,” she said. “That happened to me about a year ago. I solved the problem by wearing cotton panties.”

Inside, my heart smirked. “Cotton? My underwear are made of cotton.” Could it be possible that she’s trying to do something to trick me?

“I know Ron, but you probably should try a pair of my panties, for a few days. They don’t have elastic where you’re getting your rash.”

Damn! She’s trying to make me into a woman! “Ohhh.” I looked over my glasses at her. “Panties, huh?”

“It’s probably a day or two cure -- thing,” she said. “Your body needs some time to get used to that estrogen. Tell you what,” she jumped out of bed and opened her drawer, “you wear these until Wednesday, or so. Let me know what you think. We wouldn’t want your skin condition to worsen, or for you to be permanently scarred.”

They were pink. She almost always wore plain white. She was obviously trying to make me feminine.

If that’s her plan — well — game on! We’ll see how far she pushes it and I’ll go right along with her. I don’t really give a damn and her friends will think she’s nuts, for living with me. They all hate her, anyhow.

“I don’t know,” I said to play along, but I dutifully donned her pink panties.

Four days later, she went to the store and bought me a dozen pink panties of my very own. Several were covered with little purple and green flowers.

There’s little doubt what she’s up to.

“I wouldn’t even chance going back to your kind of panties -- until after you’re off that estrogen,” she commented.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think she really cared. “But that’s a year from now,” I wailed, for effect.

That Saturday, she replaced our detergent with a milder brand that allowed me to use a generous amount, without bothering anyone’s skin.

***

That next weekend, I slipped while turning the mattresses and strained my pectoralis major. Later that night, I sat up in bed and said. “My chest hurts.”

Her eyes brightened. She appeared ready to raise the stakes.

I couldn’t have played this game in our previous house. It had been a larger home on a four-acre wooded lot. At that time, I liked to say the four greatest technological advancements in our lifetime were the chain saw, power washer, woodchipper, and snow thrower. My real love for using those power tools rose from their ability -- to drown out her screeching voice.

Since the association where we lived now, does all of our yardwork, I had traded in my tan work-clothes and tools for an apron and a vacuum, food processor, washer, and dryer. All of which I used, to finally make our home less than a pigsty, which was how she had kept it.

“Oh,” I said, “it’s probably not a heart attack. It’s more of a dull ache when I move too fast.”

She smiled, although she tried to hide it. I prepared myself for more of her B.S.
“Where does it hurt?” she cooed.

“Ahhh. It’s painful all over, but the worst is here. . .and here.” I pointed to both sides of my chest.

“Omigosh! Omigosh!” She faked minor terror.

“What! What!” I did my best to look like I was worried sick.

“You know what it is?” she asked, trying to get me to beg.

I did exactly what she wanted. “Tell me, please. Please tell me. Please.”

“It’s that estrogen. You said it yourself. It was only a matter of time before you grew breasts.”

“Nooooo.” I deserve an Oscar, or at least a “Femmy.”

She nodded slowly.

I delivered my line, again. “Nooooo.”

“Uh-huh. I noticed how much you’ve grown when you were wearing the t-shirt that says, ‘Dad’s Make the Best Lovers.’” She’d given me that shirt hoping to entice me back into another attempt at love-making that she could critique. She’s frozen from the waist down and I want no more of it. The truth is, if there had been any change to my chest it would have been a miracle.

“But . . . boobs?” ACTING!

“Poor baby,” she said.

If I had a dime for every time she’d said “poor baby” to me, I’d have millions, which we do, so what was the use?

“Tomorrow, I’ll fix it for you,” she said.

I can hardly wait to see what she was going to do to me next. “How?” I asked softly.

“A bra, of course.”

Of course, a bra. “Nooooo.” Better Acting! I’ll see her bra and raise it by a breast-form -- or two.

“Poor baby.”

The next day she bought me several padded 38B bras that took the fat I’d always had on my chest and made little titties to fill the cups.

The game was afoot.

***

From that day forward, it was just one thing after another. Each time she saw an opening, which I made sure were plentiful, she used my estrogen intake as an excuse to heighten my femininization. It galled me to think she thought I was that easily manipulated, but her ego was such that she never suspected that I was actually playing her.

A blemish on my face led to nightly skincare -- using Oil of Olay products. That escalated with other blemishes to foundation, translucent powder, and then blush. Each time she made some flimsy excuse that mystically related to the estrogen pills.

At her suggestion, I was soon wearing a camisole to protect my “delicate skin” from my rough clothing . . . clothing that she systematically traded, within weeks, for softer things from the women’s department.

All the while I continued to clean the house and make all the meals -- being careful to state, “Sandra, you’ve ‘done’ for me for thirty-five years; and now I can ‘do’ for you for a while.”

Sandra delighted in taking pictures of me. She evidently thought it would embarrass me to see how ridiculous I looked. In fact, the photos gave me opportunities to look for visual flaws in my feminine appearance, flaws I quickly corrected.

One of the flaws had been my weight. Women are smaller than men. To project the image of a woman, I had to go on a diet, which I found to my liking.

I also started a regimen of stretching and yoga. Sandra saw the results I was achieving and began daily workouts at her gym, which gave me three to four hours a day on my own, when she was out of the house.

I used that time to scour the internet for beauty tips and other ideas.

I also used the internet to order groceries delivered rather than going to the store, so I didn’t have to leave the house looking so odd.

The only person who seemed to miss me was my “friend” Dan, who kept calling to get together. I found one excuse after another not to see him.

It was absolutely amazing what the power of suggestion was doing to Sandra. She had been entirely sucked in. I had been bored out of my skull. She’d provided an intriguing game, for me to play.

***

“The doctor called today,” she lied.

What a moron. I live in the same house and would have heard the phone ring. Lying had become part of her daily arsenal to lead me to what she evidently thought was my destiny, much like moisturizer had become part of my nightly beauty ritual.

“My doctor, I hope,” I said. It would have been all right by me had her doctor called to tell her she was succumbing, to the stress my plan was creating.

“Your doctor is concerned about you,” she added.

“Uh.” This is going to be good. She obviously wants to up the ante. I smiled at her. One of the tips I’d learned online was to smile all the time, which I did. Not just my lips. My whole face was lit up in a “radiant” smile, during all waking hours.

She picked at the meal I’d prepared. She did that every so often, to get my goat.

My culinary skills had gotten much better. Whether or not she enjoyed my efforts meant little to me.

“I told him about all the problems you’ve been having,” she said.

“You didn’t tell him how. . ..” How cute she is when she’s being her evil best! Like a Disney villain.

“I told him exactly what you’ve come up with, to resolve each problem.”

“But, it was you who. . . .”

“He thought you were doing the right thing each time.”

“He said that?”

She struck a scout’s honor pose. I had been an Eagle Scout and took that kind of thing quite seriously. She had screwed George in his scout shirt, in a tent in his backyard, when she was thirteen. She had told him that she loved a man in uniform.

“Then I guess. . ..” I gave her an opening.

“He said you’re in deep trouble.” She scowled.

“What?” I made my eyes the size of the hubcaps on a ‘57 Chevy. Sandra had loved the backseats of those cars. That’s where Brian had been conceived, just before our shotgun wedding. “Did he say why?”

She seemed ready to set the hook. “He said your body is going to get confused, if it isn’t already. Have you noticed any problems lately?”

Part of her scheme seemed to be to convince me that I would become ill, if I didn’t follow her every advice, so I made up some things.

“My muscles have been a little sore.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And my eyes have been watering.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh no???”

“Oh no.”

“What did he say I have to do?” I asked. I was curious what her fictitious doctor had prescribed.

“Dresses”

“Dresses?” Wow, she’s serious in her intent.

“The more feminine, the better.”

“He said that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I can’t.” I folded my arms across my chest. It sounded interesting, but I couldn’t cave too quickly.

“Can’t?”

“Can’t.” I was perched on a stool going through my cookbooks trying to find a recipe that I could prepare that would make her deathly ill, without putting any suspicion on me.

“Ronnie, you’re wearing panties, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And a bra, right?” She fixed me in her gaze. Her eyes were dark and clouded with her personal bile.

“That’s right -- and all sorts of other things and make-up, too,” I whimpered, “but a man has to have limits.” My only limit will be her death. Until that wondrous day arrives, this game has no boundaries.

“That’s what the doctor said.”

“????”

“He said any man in your situation would be horribly conflicted. The medical term for your ailment is cognitive dissonance. Because you have to take the estrogen, you need to eliminate your personal conflict and make yourself completely feminine.”

“Completely feminine?” Her ruse would be more believable if she hadn’t mispronounced dissonance.

“Or else.” She shook her head, which was to let me know that “or else” would not be good.

My hate for her reached a new level as my resolve to become as feminine as possible became the focal point of my life.

The next day, she took my measurements and went out on her own to buy me a complete wardrobe. She came home loaded down with purchases and directed me to put them away in our spare bedroom in drawers and the closet. Some of the dresses bordered on costumes, but there were others that I found very sweet. I couldn’t wait to wear them. When I held them up against myself, in front of a mirror they looked enchanting.

In my race to drive her insane, I’ve stumbled across a personal need.

“I didn’t know what perfumes you would prefer,” she said, “so I bought you a dozen different kinds - complete with powders and bath oils.”

I tested them on paper and found each to be something I would definitely use. I had been using Sandra’s White Shoulders. The swan logo seemed to match the “Ugly Duckling” process I was going through.

“You can put all your perfume, in your bedroom, with your clothes.”

“Did you say that’s ‘my’ bedroom?” I was wearing one of my new outfits. It made me look exactly like Donna Reed, in those old films. She had done my hair in a fifties style. I was wearing pearls and full make-up. She must have worn herself out finding such outdated clothing.

I had developed the habit of wearing a frilly apron over my pretty clothes, so that they didn’t get “ruined” which added to my Eisenhower-era look.

“Ronnie, Honey. If I had to sleep in the same room as you, all the lotion and perfume you have to use now would give me a migraine. You don’t mind -- do you? I could make my own bed, if making two beds is too much for you.”

I rolled my eyes at her. “Sandra, you’ve made beds for me for thirty-five years; and now I’ll make two beds for a while.”

But, in a way, I did mind. She had purchased exquisite silk nightgowns for me to wear to bed each night. I loved to curl up next to her imagining how nauseous I was making her. Surprisingly, the gowns seemed to give me a much better night’s sleep.

The only negative side-effect was the recurring dreams, in which I was courted by various men and bedded for their pleasures. Several mornings, I had awoken to find that I had had a nocturnal emission, something that hadn’t happened since puberty.

***

“It’s my turn to host the dessert club next month,” she said.

Despite having mentally prepared myself, for this moment, I felt dread sweep through my body. It had only been a matter of time, before she would want to take my humiliation public. For the last six weeks, I’d dressed completely as a woman. I hadn’t left the house, even one time. Up until that time, the only person who had seen me was the Amazon man.

The world was only a mouse click away. The undergarments she had given me were nothing compared to the wonderful things I found for myself on the many websites I shopped. I augmented and supplemented all of my feminine needs, with things the hunky Amazon man delivered, on almost a daily basis.

“I could get in the car and go for a long drive,” I offered, knowing she wouldn’t go for it.

“What if the police had to pull you over for something?”

“Ohhh? I’ll just stay in my bedroom.” My hands were shaking, with excitement. I really wanted to test my appearance on other people. I also wanted to humiliate Sandra, in front of her friends.

“Nonsense, little Ronnie.” She shook her head. “It’s high time you get over your shyness. What you’re going through is as natural as putting Neosporin on a cut. There isn’t one girl in my dessert club that’s going to think zilch, about how you look.”

“You think?”

She put one hand on her hip and scratched her square chin with the other. “Now that you mentioned it, there are a few things that would bother them.”

“Like what?” I had studied myself in the mirror endlessly. The pictures she took showed no flaws that I could detect. My days were filled with becoming the perfect housewife. If I wasn’t thinking about how to better take care of the house, I was working on making myself all the more delightfully feminine.

Or I was daydreaming about the Amazon man.

My nightly dreams about sex with a variety of men had spilled over into the day. I had actually sighed when “Stan” handed me my package filled with Sephora cosmetics, yesterday. There’s something about a man in uniform.

“The way you stand, sit, and walk - for starters,” she persisted. “When you wear a dress, you need to look a certain way.”

“Ohhh.” I haven’t even thought about those things. Does “Stan” know of my birth sex?

“In fact, have you been feeling okay, lately?”

Once again, I made up a list of minor ailments that the average person would never, ever notice. My mind was racing with a list of all the things I needed to do, too. I couldn’t wait to get online and research ways to train myself to look, act, and sound much better.

“I was worried about your health.” She knitted her brow, to communicate her deep concern.

It amazed me that she never once suspected I was putting one over on her. “Worried?”

“Uh-huh. You know what the doctor said about becoming completely feminine. It doesn’t surprise me at all that you’ve had so many ailments. It’s a wonder you’re not on your death bed. Conflicts — you’ve got to avoid them.”

“Conflicts?”

“You know — the way you dress and how you walk, talk, sit, stand, and your voice. What kind of books and magazines have you been reading?”

“Magazines?”

She sighed and shook her head. “Why do I even bother?”

“Did I do something wrong?” It appears she might have grown tired of our game. There are moments when my all-encompassing hate of her goes full circle to actually having fond feelings.

“Nothing we can’t fix,” she said.

That very moment, we entered into a serious round of education to improve me.

Without ever realizing the exact moment, I convinced her to address me as “Veronica."

Over the next few weeks, I received calls from Marcy, Patty, and Yvonne. All of them are members of Sandra’s club and had been taken to an individual lunch by her, to explain what “she” had done to me. They all had told her that it was a remarkable approach to husbandry and vowed to help her.

Secretly, they were concerned about her mental health. I told them that her doctor had cautioned me not to disturb her fragile psyche and had advised me to do everything I could to carry out her fantasies.

They praised me for playing along with her. I assured them all that all they had to do was act as if I was one of them, at the club meeting, and not express anything other than total acceptance of me as a female.

Which they did.

***
“Dan called,” she said. “He wants to know if I killed you and stuck your body in the freezer.”

“Did he say that?” I giggled. I was studying my hair in the mirror. It had been almost jet black, but “the doctor” and Sandra had made me bleach it. It actually looked quite cute.

Almost everything I wore was pink and short. I still managed to keep the house immaculate and had mastered cooking, so that we both looked forward to each meal, with fascination.

I had been reading nothing but romance novels for weeks, which fueled my curiosity and desire to experience sex with a man.

“He wants to hold a surprise party for your birthday.”

I smiled. I would present the perfect picture of femininity and she would be totally mortified. “When?” I felt confident in my appearance and was ready for the next step.

“I’ll tell him no surprise party, Veronica. We’ll just have a regular party. He can be the bartender.”

“That sounds nice. I could make. . ..”

As I discussed the menu, her mind wandered, she was coming loose from the real world right before me.

Later that night, Marcy called. Each of them was to bring a “most likely new spouse” for me to meet.

I laughed and assured Marcy that she should tell all of her friends in the club, to humor Sandra, by doing what she asked.

Hopefully, one of them would bring Stan, the Amazon man, with his amazing package.

***
The day of the party, Sandra took me to her salon and treated me to a complete makeover. I got up the nerve to shop for and purchase my own outfit in a real store.

I looked pretty and confident when we welcomed our first guest. It had been a long road from conception to completion.

Dan arrived -- about fifteen minutes after the party started. He took one look at me in my chiffon ruffled shirtdress and then dragged Sandra into what had been her and my bedroom.

Within a few moments, we all heard muffled sounds of lovemaking.

The men who had been selected as “my next spouse” surrounded me with words of consolation.

There was only one thing to do. I selected Sammie, the one who looked the most like Stan, and led him to my bedroom to make a little noise of our own. After Sammie’s first penetration, I could see nothing but advantages, in being a woman.

***

I looked around at what had once been my house.

Dan had taken my place.

I had moved in with Sammie.

“The doctor called the other day,” Sandra said. We were looking through a catalog, for last-minute ideas for the weddings. In three days, Sandra would be wed to Dan and just three months after that, I was to marry Sammie. We had agreed upon an amicable divorce. In fact, we were going to be each other’s maid-of-honor. “He said the pills you took were placebos.”

“Uhm.”

“It’s amazing what the mind can do,” she posed.

It’s almost as amazing as what Dan can do. I gazed lovingly at him in a picture on her mantel.

My new plan was to steal Dan from Sandra. He and I had been meeting for sex every day, for the last few weeks, while Sandra was at her gym. I would never go through with my marriage to Sammie. It wouldn’t be fair to him, given my plans for Dan.

Within six months, I would convince Dan that he can’t live without me. After all, he and I had much more in common than he would ever have with Sandra.

The End

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Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

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Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
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All Those Things You Always Pined For
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Swifter, Higher, Stronger
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Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

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Comments

Alienation

joannebarbarella's picture

Years of mutual loathing suddenly give each of them an opportunity to dispose of the other. Veronica is just as guilty and twisted as Sandra. Although I have never been in such a situation which one of us would not be delighted to be gently feminised and to use that as an excuse to escape the frustration of a hateful marriage.

What makes them both truly evil though is their mutual determination to continue with their attempts to destroy the other when they have both achieved their primary goals.

While the very fact that I have read this story on this site is evidence of a predisposition to empathise with Veronica I just wish she would rest on her laurels and enjoy her new life without exacting further revenge.

Jill, if I didn't know this was fiction and that you write many stories espousing different protagonists I would almost suspect that you were as nasty as Sandra and Veronica. (SNORK!)

Putting the motive

Of the narrator aside, something I do with virtually every Vicky Tern story, it's all about how our crafty narrator will convince or trick the poor soul into being feminized. As it's only fiction I don't get wrapped up in bemoaning the poor soul's fate. I spend my time enjoying the twists and turns of the narrator's plot knowing what is coming but enjoying the journey.

It's like going to a horror film and shouting 'don't go in there' knowing full well the poor schlub is going to do exactly that. It probably says more about the viewer than anything else. After all who watches NASCAR for the race? We all watch fir the inevitable wrecks. And Angela always provides spectacular ones!

Commentator
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It's a good story, really

It's a good story, really good. And not only as TG. Especially years after it was written.

I was mad at Sandra at the

KateElizabethSuhr13's picture

I was mad at Sandra at the end of the first part feeling bad for Ron/Veronica but then after reading part 2 I went from feeling like ok Ron wasn't clueless to Ron equally hated his wife. The two of them deserve what they each got.

It got to the point it felt like that cartoon Spy vs Spy. Lol

What a mad house

Jamie Lee's picture

The Queen of Hearts had nothing compared to Ron and Sandra. These two are looneyer than actual Lonney Tunes.

They go through this whole rigamarol just to divorce, which they could have done in the beginning. Talk about two nuts who fell off the wrong tree.

This sure is a crazy story, but nicely done.

Others have feelings too.

I actually read the sequel

I actually read the sequel first (da doo Ron Ron Ron) and that makes a difference it seems a little more humorous though light or dark I'm not sure but it just proves idle hands will get you in trouble once you have time to carry out those crazy ideas

Absurdity

Had this couple spent a fraction of the time and effort on repairing their marriage that they did on destroying it -- it's quite possible they would have found a great deal of happiness.

It appeared to me that they never adequately dealt with their son's death.

So many stories have been written for this site that suggest that resolving gender issues is the epicenter of life. It might be a huge factor. . .but is it really the only thing that matters?

Imagine if they had gone through couples' counseling and dealt with some of their lack of communication.

Actually my spouse and I spend nearly all of our time with each other. . .with only the rare nasty moments.

Thanks for the interesting comment.

Jill

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Ah, casual manipulation!

How wonderful that a woman can totally forego being straightforward with her husband, and instead use his neurotic obsessions to completely feminize him! And so casually, too, almost effortless, without a pang of conscience -- as if editing someone else's life and twisting it to your own needs over a year's time is a perfectly acceptible way to get whatever you want.

(Sorry, folks -- the sarcasm was getting too thick for me to slog through, so I couldn't keep it up anymore.)

No qualms about the quality of the tale, Angela dahlink. It was well-written as always -- you are truly talented. It's just hard for me to get past my usual distaste for treating other people's lives as if they exist for your convenience, to be altered to suit your whim. A certain amount of respect for free will and all that, making your own choices ... well, it's all been said before, often by me, and had as much impact as a whisper in a wind storm.

And it really doesn't matter that "Veronica" is so happy this way. "She" wound up in a place he never would have gone voluntarily, because Sandra decided to mess with his head and take advantage of his hypochondria. After all, what better way to get rid of the wimp and have the "manly" man she really wanted?

Oh, and Ronnie "deserved" it, of course, for taking over all the household chores and leaving his wife without a thing to do! God forbid Sandra would actually be straight with her husband of however many years and divorce the big dope for trying to do things for her, when it's so much easier to lead him down the road into a femininity he probably never would have wanted in the first place.

Oh, heck. Don't mind me. Like I said, I'm just a whisper in a wind storm. Everyone else is probably just laughing their heads off and congratulating Sandra for a job well done.

As you were, everyone. Enjoy!

Randalynn

P.S. - Yes, people. I know I'm stupid to react this way, and I apologize in advance. It's just a story, and as usual, I overreact. Empathy for fictional characters? *snort* My picture is probably in the dictionary next to the word "gullible." Pay no attention to the girl behind the curtain. You can go about your business. Move along.

The story was funny and...

mostly for me it was not what was done to Ron. But let's think for a moment, what did Ron gain? Sandra did little to change him and without pain, surgery or drugs that normally turn the unsuspecting victim into a cum-sucking mindless, slut maid. Ron gained a loving companion and lost a truly malevolent spouse. Who, is probably already thinking of ways to twist Dan into a new future. Once tried and successful could there be any chance she'd not do it again?

I was at first ready to assassinate Sandra but maybe Veronica will do it for us, in her job as maid she will see first hand what happens to Dan or will it be Danni, Denise, or maybe Desiree?

The only thing that bothers me is the suspension of reality that everyone they know is as malevolent as she and accepts the plan when she asks for help. Not even one "but he , err she.. looks like a horse?!!" or "Are you NUTS!!" However that is par for fiction anyway, a little stretch of reality.

*grovels at the feet of the author goddesses*

Suna - I gave thought

to showing how Sandra manipulated the minds of her dessert club friends. After consideration, I made the decision to leave that in the minds of the reader. By that point in the story the reader knows all about the narrater's lack of character. I did have Sandra take her friends to lunch one-by-one, indicating a situation where she could twist the truth without too much risk.

All of the males at the party, other than Dan, have been hand-picked to be receptive of Veronica. My guess would be that some might even be quite envious.

Dan represents reality. He takes one look at Veronica and wants an explanation -- from Sandra. He doesn't ask "Ron" what happened. He goes directly to the person he believes is responsible and reaps the fruit of her efforts.

The story was a silly bit of fluff that became a study of Sandra's twisted mind, as she justified her manipulation through Machiavellian logic.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Couldn't there have been one??

I understand about all the people who were invited to the 'comming out' party were persuaded that Veronica wanted the change. It would have been nice to have Sandra confronted and consider for just a moment what she was doing? To hear it in her own thoughts why it was so important that she couldn't explain that she wanted to do the housework... maybe share some. I saw a later comment that Veronica was more than she appears. That comment offers a view of Ron that is not so clear. Was there a history in your minds eye that you felt would make the story too long? or too complex for the way you wanted to present.

*smile* I'm a pest I know.. but my mind wanders.. err.. wonders *blush*

Ah, Angela, I see you are going after ...

Jezzi Stewart's picture

... the Vickie Tern FEMMY award*.
I sense a winner ! :-)
OK, as with Vickie's stories, intellectually and morally I abhor, as does Randalynn, what is done by the female, but emotionally on some levels, I really like her writing and enjoy her stories. I enjoyed this one of yours, too. I especially liked the concentration on the transition without Vickie's focus on sex ... and the fifties outfits were a nice touch; I could be quite happy being Veronica ... for awhile anyway.

* Female Evildoer Manipulates Male Yutz

"All the world really is a stage, darlings, so strut your stuff, have fun, and give the public a good show!" Miss Jezzi Belle at the end of each show

BE a lady!

Jezzi - What I Really

wanted was an OSCAR* so I could simper, "You like me, you really like me." and promenade across the stage in a dress that was way too short AND barely kept my breasts from falling out.

*Only Serious Characters Are Real

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Kept Waiting...

...for the payback; couldn't see the point of the story if the narrator turned out to be successful.

It's skillfully written; the reasons that the narrator is seeking to punish Ron -- dissatisfaction with their sex life, and making her feel useless by taking over her home chores -- come out casually as the story progresses. I guess there's something to be said for the story as a look through the eyes and mind of an insanely manipulative woman. But I don't get the feeling that Angela intended the story that way.

(Then again, this is hardly the first time that Angela has created a sweeter-than-real male character who gets manipulated into becoming female by characters who often claim to have the victims' best interests at heart but mostly just seem to enjoy the manipulation. Stories like that make me acutely uncomfortable, but that's not the author's fault. I don't read them, if there's something in the synopsis or the first few paragraphs to warn me away.)

Eric

Eric - It's There

You bemoan the lack of a first paragraph that would disclose an insane narrater who was going to inflict damage on the passive and totally harmless victim.

Perhaps you should go back and read my first paragraph.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

You're Right

Certainly not your fault that I overlooked the last few words of that paragraph. I apologize.

Eric

Eric

Nice of you to apologize, but if the reader doesn't get it, especially a sophisticated reader, it's the writer's fault.

I'm thinking about writing a mirrored story from the POV of Ron. Would that be interesting to you? Veronica is not the person you seem to think she is, BTW.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Adjustments

Okay, so haven't given up on writing a short story every once in a while. It is apprecited greatly that you are using your talents wisely. Your story gave ma an idea. Ron on a rampage.

Jill Micayla
May you have a wonderful today and a better tomorrow

Jill Micayla
Be kinder than necessary,Because everyone you meet
Is fighting some kind of battle.

Nearly mised this one ...

... as I've been away for a few days - the joys of old age :o)

I always feel I should give a serious and thought provoking review of stories that are, in fact just that. And Jill's usually (always?) are. I just sometimes find it difficult. Someone recently, somewhere commented that if we're looking for 'literature' we should look elswhere than on a 'fetish' story site. I don't agree. There are a precious few writers of this genre that achieve at least to some degree claims to be literate, and Jill is certainly one of them.

In fact I find this an amusing story with a neat 'hanged on his own petard' twist. I'm not at all surprised that its well written and constructed with little clues that I, as often a speed reader, miss (eg the insanity phrase at the end of the opening paragraph). I don't think Ronne/Veronica minded at all where his/her hypochondria left him. It just shows the power of mind over matter.

Great stuff, Jill. I'm so glad you haven't decided to purge.

Geoff