Maybe it was the shopping that started it. I had a corner of David’s closet all to myself, and the bottom drawer of his bureau was filled with embarrassingly feminine items. Perfect for me, of course, but if one of David’s flings were to do some exploring, she would be sure to find some of the things that were meant for me.
The package arrived on a Friday, at the beginning of the three-day weekend. It contained a few refills for makeup, some new underwear and a pair of stockings I couldn’t resist, and, most importantly, three outfits designed less for casual use than for business or more public affairs. When I loaded them into the cart and checked out, I waited for David to protest, to wonder where clothes like these would be worn, or even a note of what a waste it would be to dress so nice in private. The checkout sounded its cash register sound and the purchases were made and on their way.
I waited to open the box, content with our usual routine. We shaved and made us up, then found a matching pair of beige underwear, the bra and panties real silk, sensual on my skin. Not until then did we open the box. David was still my co-pilot, and I enjoyed his excitement at being back in his feminine wardrobe. When I sifted through the new items, only then did he make comment on the black, knee-length skirt and the blouse. Beneath was another skirt, two more tops of varying formality and a dress that was built for a dinner party or a date. Add to that a few pairs of matching heels, and we had added significantly to the options available to us. To me.
It was then I pushed forward, made David’s body my own. He was happy to release, to let me fill him up. And now I was me again, standing in the small kitchenette of our apartment, my new clothes hung over the back of a chair. I gathered them over an arm and retired to the bedroom, hitting the stereo to play some old Billy Joel. David liked his rap and house music, but I had more refined tastes.
I spent a good deal of time hanging and putting away the clothes I knew would be used later in the weekend, then turned to the dress that made my heart flutter. Black and simple, clean lines, a single long zipper running up the back, hidden when it was zipped up. I had to guess at the size, but my experience in purchasing other items gave me a good estimate, and I was spot on. The dress fell to mid-thigh, and my regimen of exercise, shaving and lotion showed off the smooth, healthy skin.
My waist was flat, thanks to David’s male genetics, but I was slim and the dress gave the suggestion of curves where there were none. My bra was stuffed with tissue paper, like a girl dressing up in her mother’s clothes, and the covered neckline hid the truth of the small, yet very visible, bust line. My hair, while short, had enough shag that looked cute when properly styled. I fussed with it until it framed my face like I liked and then twisted before the mirror, admiring the way I looked. Despite the testosterone that plagued me, my ass had bubbled out nicely and looked wonderful in the dress.
David’s cock threatened to rise on me again, but the thought of seeing the dress bulging with the stiffening flesh made my nose wrinkle. I unceremoniously did some tucking and went back to admiring myself. I looked good, and good enough to be seen as more than David. I slipped into a pair of the heels I purchased along with the dress, strappy back affairs with an ambitious three-inch heel. I’d done enough practicing on the weekends alone that I felt good about my stride, and a little parade through my apartment confirmed this, along with the noticeable shift in hips the heels gave me.
Confident in my appearance, I spot-checked the bathroom mirror and snagged David’s phone along with mine and pocketed his ID, just in case.
“Where are we going?” David asked, but he knew the answer.
“Out,” I said, and that’s just what I did.
