The Elephant in the Room Ch. 01

Author's disclaimer: I am not a fan of 'Sissy' stories. Some crossdressed bloke dressed in taffeta and crinolines, frilly knickers, with blonde ringleted girly-girl hair being dragged along on a leash by some leather-clad dominatrix Mistress who forces him to be her sissy, spanking him and finally sticking a big plastic cock up his arse is not my forte.

That said, as the saying goes 'don't knock it, if you haven't tried it' so I'm going totally off genre and writing a 'Sissy story'. But this will be a Michele Nylons sissy story, with a backstory and character development. It will be a slow burn, but hopefully an intriguing story, with enough titillation to keep my readers engaged.

Enjoy...

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Chapter One: The Elephant In The Room

"We simply can't go on any longer with the Elephant in the room Stephen," my wife of twenty years said matter of factly.

"What on earth are you talking about Elizabeth," I lowered my evening newspaper to meet her gaze.

We were sitting beside the fire drinking sherry, me dressed in loose trousers, open-necked shirt, silk evening robe and slippers; my casual evening attire. She wore a satin full-slip and a silk robe and was still wearing full makeup and sheer hosiery, a kitten-heel pump dangled from one foot delectably.

"I found your trunk in the cellar darling; and the pathetic collection of knick-knacks that you keep in the bottom drawer of the desk in your study," she said, reaching into her handbag sitting on the floor beside the overstuffed chair.

She carefully lifted a semen encrusted nylon stocking holding gingerly between her fingertips, and then an equally soiled pair of satin panties, which she dropped on the little side table. She then reached into the bag and produced a flash drive, which she dropped beside the incriminating objects.

I paled and was unable to speak. I simply stared at the condemnatory objects with horror.

"I know you've had a fetish for stockings, knickers and such since I met you; Christ you are useless to me in bed unless I'm dressed like some modern day Betty Page. Rather ironic given that my name is Elizabeth."

"I've lived with that and I do find your endeavours in bed delightful when I'm dressed that way but recently I've wondered if it was you who you wanted to be dressed like the tart rather than me," she reached for a cigarette.

Normally as a gentleman I would light it for my wife but I was still frozen stiff; absolutely petrified.

She exhaled and blew her smoke my way.

"On the odd occasion, usually after too many gin and tonics, when you have requested to wear sheer tights to bed, to, how did you say it, 'to spice things up,' I didn't refuse but it reinforced my feelings about the severity of your fetish."

I tried to reply but Elizabeth held up her hand.

"No need to speak darling; not until I've said my piece," she went on.

"Over the years I've found other little oddities. I noticed sometimes what looked like the remains of eyeliner or mascara on your eyelids and little red crescents of nailpolish on your fingernails where it hadn't been properly removed."

"Then of course I found the trunk. Lots of lingerie; that came as no surprise, but the makeup, the wigs the high-heels? Some half-decent dresses, skirts and blouses by the way; and some abominably awful," she smiled at me dispassionately.

"Of course I made the assumption that you were crossdressing; how laughably British!" her red lips turned to a sneer.

"Then I found your little treasure trove in the study, where doubtlessly you fidget with yourself pitiably while looking at videos or pictures on your computer. Those stockings and knickers undoubtedly wrapped around your tally-whacker," she pointed at the pathetic crusty stocking and panties screwed up on the table.

She finished her sherry and poured more from the decanter. She didn't offer me any.

"But when I plugged that little drive into your computer a whole new dreadful world opened up to me. You really were stupid to put all of your links, logins and passwords on that one little flash drive."

I wanted to crawl away and die but I remained petrified in my chair, unable to move, unable to talk.

"'Stephanie;' really? Couldn't you come with a better name than that? And you really need to work on your makeup skills darling, you don't do a bad job with the wigs and the clothes but it's so obvious you are a man in a frock in all those pictures. Of course quite a few of the pictures make that obvious with your John Thomas poking out from your knickers," she mocked.

My pallor went from pale to deep red.

"I've also seen your deplorable home page on that TVChix site; just as well one can't make out who you are under that clown makeup," she lit another cigarette.

"And all those other sites you regularly visit; all transgender related. Men dressed as women fornicating with each other or men fornicating with crossdressed men for god sake."

"So back to the elephant in the room. What am I to do?"

"I could divorce you; scandalise you, make you a social pariah. My god Stephen! You'd likely loose your job!" she sipped more sherry.

I started to shake with fear.

"Or we could go on as always, with the elephant getting bigger until it one day it suffocates us."

I breathed a sigh of relief.

"But we are not going to do either."

"Stephen; we have been happily married for twenty years, no children of course but we made that decision before we married, and I'm not going to throw those twenty years away. But I'm not going to put up with you being a closet crossdresser; is what I believe they call them?" she drew on her cigarette and I found my voice.

"I'll stop! I'll throw it all away and never do it again! I'll wipe my computer clean and close down my online accounts," I beseeched my wife.

She laughed derisively; it was shrill and cutting.

"Don't be silly Stephen! Don't you think I haven't studied all about your fetish when I suspected you were crossdressing?"

"Crossdressers purge all the time...and then they start again. They can't stop; they're addicted. I bet you've purged before haven't you?" the question was rhetorical.

"I won't have the secrecy!" she slammed her palm down on the little table.

"Then what are we to do?" I whispered.

"I'm taking charge! That's what you pathetic little sissies like isn't it? To be dominated by a beautiful woman; to be her maid, to be her slave?" she took another drink.

I was about to speak but she held up a finger.

"It will be like this. We will never discuss this and you will never crossdress outside of when we are roleplaying. Never! Not once, otherwise these pictures get out," she dangled the little thumb drive by the lanyard.

"I will be in control. We will pander to your fetish; but when, and only when, it suits me. Do you understand!" she bellowed.

"Yes," I whimpered.

"What!" she shrieked at me.

"Yes ma'am," I snivelled.

"Good. I will make this simple. When I say the words and only when I say the words 'Where is Stephanie?' You will reply 'I'll go and fetch her ma'am' and we will indulge your peccadillos ok?" she stared at me menacingly.

"Yes of course dear. Thank you Elizabeth," I sighed with relief.

"Now throw those disgusting objects in the bin and make us some tea will you darling," she pointed at the crusty stocking and knickers.

She dropped the flash drive back into her handbag and gave me a severe look, which transformed into a wry smile.

"Do run along Stephen," she said.

She lifted her evening newspaper from her lap and began to read it as if nothing had happened.

To say I was dazed and confused would be an understatement; for one I couldn't believe I'd been found out; I'd always dreaded that one day that it might happen. But for Elizabeth to lay down the ultimatum that she did was astonishing! I would be allowed to crossdress but only at her convenience.

She surprised me that night by coming to bed still dressed in her satin full slip, sheer tights, full-cut satin knickers and full makeup. This was usually a signal to me that we were to have sex but I was reticent to explore if that was the case given the night's events.

She lay with her back to me reading a magazine by the light of her bedside lamp. I decided to try my luck and snuggled up to her; my erect penis found the groove between her buttocks and rubbed on her knickers.

Elizabeth pushed me away angrily.

"What on earth do you think you're going?" she hissed.

"After our discussion this evening how could you even think that I was going to let you put your wretched penis anywhere near me. Get over to your side of the bed and go to sleep!" she said tersely.

I reluctantly scooted over to my side of the bed and stared at the ceiling; Elizabeth snapped off her bedside lamp. I lay there thinking for a good while; contemplating the evening's events when I slowly became aware of a rustling sound. It was coming from my wife's side of the bed.

I tuned her way and through the gloom I witnessed the most astounding thing; the rustling was caused by the sheets moving in concert with my wife's movements under the bedclothes. Her breathing was laboured and she was quietly whinnying.

My god she was masturbating!

My wife and I had never discussed sex in any great detail; our generation took for granted that men masturbated to relieve themselves when necessary. But women! I assumed that girls might masturbate at boarding school or alone at night in their early teens thinking of some boy who had taken their fancy.

But my wife was in her forties! And she was brazenly masturbating in bed beside me!

I had never seen Elizabeth touch herself in all our years together, even when we were young and experimental. I found the sight and sounds of her masturbating extremely arousing and I pulled down my underpants and gripped my erect penis.

I began to stroke myself earnestly as my wife rubbed herself wantonly in the bed beside me.

Suddenly she stopped and turned over; a vicious look on her face. She slapped my hand away from my penis.

"Stop that you degenerate! You get no relief unless I allow you to do so! Do you understand?" she hissed.

"Yes! Of course darling," I blubbered.

"Good. Now go to sleep. As you are of no use to me I will take care of my own needs; you will not interfere when I do, and you will certainly not take care of your own needs when I do," she rolled back over on her side.

The rustling started again and I felt the bed begin to shake. Elizabeth began to moan and sigh and as she reached her crescendo she gave out a high pitched whine that I sometimes heard when she genuinely orgasmed when we were having sex.

A pungent smell of ladies sex assaulted my nose as she pulled back the sheets and arose from the bed and made her way to the ensuite bathroom. Water ran for a while and then she entered her walk-in robe. She emerged scrubbed of makeup and glistening with moisturiser; sans silken slip and tights; now clad in a sexless cotton nightdress.

I rolled over and tried to sleep as she slipped under the covers. My erection refused to subside and sometime during the night I had a nocturnal emission, dreaming of fucking Elizabeth, both of us wearing full makeup, silk stockings, satin panties and high heels.

I dabbed at the mess with my pyjama sleeve and then fell into a deep sleep. The musty smell of semen seeped from the bed linens.

I didn't see Elizabeth lying on her side facing me with one eye open.

The next few weeks were torture; as we agreed, we didn't discuss my crossdressing and I refrained from dressing myself or engaging in any form stimulation on the Internet. I was frustrated both sexually and mentally; I was not allowed sexual release and the craving to crossdress was almost unbearable. Elizabeth was right; even if I had purged I would have had to have gone right out to replace all of the clothes, wigs, shoes and makeup, the urge to crossdress was undeniable.

I became acutely aware of how the women around me were dressed. Most of the younger generation of women seemed to be waging war on femininity; hosiery was sneered at, makeup was minimal and clothing was dowdy and 'comfortable'. But in the office, where I was one of two senior partners, we had a dress code and most of the women were mature and sophisticated by necessity.

I noticed every flick of a skirt, every rustle of a stocking, the click-clack of high heels on the parquetry floor, every scintilla of perfume, mascara clinging to lashes, and red lipstick carefully applied to full lips. It was like the women of my world were in a conspiracy to torture me by their very womanliness.

To make matters worse, at home Elizabeth seemed to be persecuting me too. Liz had always been one for being well dressed; that's one of the very reasons I became enthralled with her and married her. Her mother was of generation who insisted that a lady always wore makeup, nylons and dressed nicely, even if one were just staying home. 'You never know who might turn up and when' was her motto.

But now it seemed that her makeup was bolder, her eye's darker, her cheeks pinker, and her luscious lips redder and fuller. She had her hair cut and styled and wore it straight with a fringe, cut so that it just touched her shoulders. She'd always had black hair but she'd obviously had it dyed raven black with subtle merlot highlights. It looked wonderful and took five years off her. When I complimented her she shrugged it off claiming that a 'change is as good as a holiday.'

But there were also other differences. She had taken to wearing stockings instead of tights when the fancy took her and her choice of dress or skirt allowed. The fully fashioned kind that required a suspender belt and she continually wore high heels around the house and made a habit of absentmindedly dangling a shoe from her foot whilst seated. But I wasn't so sure if it was absent-mindedness or more subtle torture.

When she elected to wear stockings she also wore silk French knickers because she claimed briefs would catch on her garter belt. Not that I got to discuss Elizabeth's underwear with her; nowadays the subject was taboo.

"I quite like those French knickers," I had simply said to her one day when I walked past her walk-in robe while she was dressing.

"They're worn for practicality Stephen, not for titillation," she'd replied sharply.

But she was lying. Her whole wardrobe changed suddenly; her dresses were tighter, better fitting; she'd developed a penchant for pencil skirts and satin blouses, tight-fitting business suits with kick-pleated skirts were de rigueur when out on the High Street attending to the household transactions. Housedresses were exchanged for sheath dresses, often with a split seam that showed a lot of leg. One particularly warm day she even wore a pair of black velvet hotpants with sheer flesh-toned tights, strappy high-heels and dress t-shirt. I walked around the house all day hiding a constant erection.

Elizabeth seemed to be out and about more and started to stop by the office regularly and I'm sure this was to further tease and torment me. I noticed all the heads turn, the men outright ogling her, or subtly leering; their eyes clamped on her legs and buttocks in those tight skirts and dresses. The office girls cooed over her new look and the more senior ladies hardly disguised their jealousy.

She made a point of perching herself on the corner of my desk so that her skirt rode up her legs displaying acres of nylon-clad thigh or on some days; a chocolate stocking welt. I seemed to get a lot of male visitors to my office when she was there. Her crocodile smile did not hide the ridicule and torment that she was subtly putting me through.

Despite my penchant for crossdressing I did desperately love my wife; I adored her and the withholding of sex was nearly crippling me. Elizabeth had always been beautiful, she was tall, with a trim body and long legs and pert breasts, kept that way by frequent yoga sessions. And now at forty she had blossomed into mature womanhood, her new choices in hairstyle, makeup and clothing had caught more that just my attention.

I cast my mind back to one day a few years ago when she had returned from yoga wearing her tight yoga leggings and body-hugging t-shirt. She was flushed and her makeup had run. For some reason women of her age insisted on wearing makeup to the gym, not that I minded. Anyway I found her whole presence deeply arousing and I chased her around the house until I caught her.

"Stephen I'm sweaty and tired," she complained as I lay on top of her on the bed.

"Please just let me do this darling," I begged as I extracted my penis and began to rub it on her lycra-clad mons.

"Oh for god's sake Stephen if you must; but hurry will you; I want to shower," she said resignedly.

I humped away at her, staring down into her pretty face with her smeared mascara and lipstick, my cock finding the folds of her sex through the tight-fitting yoga tights. I tried to kiss her but she turned her face away.

"God no Stephen, I stink!" she said; disgusted with me.

She reached out and lit a cigarette and stared vacantly and disinterestedly up at the ceiling, smoking her cigarette while I humped away at her.

Her indifference only fuelled my ardour as I pushed and gyrated against her. She gasped once when my glans pushed the sleek fabric of her tights inside her labia and rubbed her clitoris but it was too late; I was at extremis.

I moaned and shuddered as I ejaculated against her lycra-clad cunt. My slippery seed soaked into the fabric but some of the viscous milky ejaculate pooled on her mound.

I climbed off her and looked at her lying on the bed, her legs slightly apart, clad in those shiny black body-hugging leggings and top, her hair damp, her makeup smeared pretty face; and my semen splashed on her lycra-clad pubic mound. It is a mental image that fuelled a thousand masturbatory fantasies.

She didn't talk to me for the rest of the day; sulking like a child, but when I came to bed that night she was ravenous and raked her nails down my back and murmured obscenities while we made love.

Elizabeth had also become more gregarious and outgoing; she had never been a wallflower and was always opinionated but she often had to be coaxed to air her views or to become engaged at social and private functions. She would find excuses not to show up or complain bitterly about having to attend the many dinners, soirees, and events that my profession demanded.

Now she leapt at every opportunity to mingle with our friends, peers and acquaintances. She laboured over her preparation, ensuring her makeup and hair was perfect and she always wore something that although it might not be downright revealing, certainly showed off her assets to full advantage. Split dresses that revealed her long legs clad in shimmering hose; often my favourite fully-fashioned stockings whereby a tasteful glimpse of dark gauzy welt and glittering garter snap were displayed. Low cut dresses revealing her pert decolletage; everything was tight, displaying her ample but delicious buttocks, wide hips and trim waist to full advantage.

Her reference to Betty Page on that fateful evening of the elephant in the room often sprang to mind when I saw her dressed to the nines.

She was bubbly and attracted men to her like flies to honey; they hung off her every word and hardly disguised their lustful attraction. Lingering touches and 'accidental' brushes against her body were commonplace and Elizabeth did nothing to discourage them. At one party a friend of ours, well into his cups, actually cupped her buttock whist standing beside her. Liz simply smiled and allowed him a brief squeeze, and then gently disengaged his hand and said nothing at all, still smiling and engaging in conversation is if nothing had happened.