|"I've started him on female hormones" she betrayed to his work colleague.|
I was quite amazed at the number of cases of men in female clothes mentioned, for I had quite thought that the transformation of my own husband, Phillip, into an attractive girl, Phyllis, was a solitary instance. Perhaps a few details about our life will interest your readers and may even lead to some others writing about theirs.
I had originally. been attracted towards Phil because of his decidedly feminine characteristics, and I had often wondered what sort of girl he would make if dressed and made up. The first time I suggested he should let me dress him up he just laughed at me and refused.
My chance came, however, when he lost his job and, seeming quite satisfied to live on my earnings, he did nothing about finding another post. Instead, he spent most of his time drinking at his club. I soon got tired of this situation and told him I was going to change it.
The following day, when he came home the worse for drink, I was ready for him. I quietly told him I wasn’t going to put up with his wasting any more of his time and, as he hadn’t taken any steps to get work, I was going to do so for him and get a post for him as a waitress in the restaurant where I was head supervisor. He just laughed again, till I produced a cane and started to beat him unmercifully. With him crying and cowering before me, I said he could choose between getting out and staying out, or agreeing to my proposal to dress him as a girl and to train him at home, till he was ready to begin working at the restaurant. As an after thought, I reminded him that he had always enjoyed lacing me in tightly and seeing me wearing high heels and my pretty things; now he would be able to appreciate these things from a different viewpoint – on himself.
He began to make excuses of every sort – that he’d never look like a real girl, that his voice would give him away, that he’d never be able to go to his club again, etc. I listened to him patiently and then replied quite firmly that missing his club would be a good thing and, as for the success or failure of his changeover, I should be the judge about that, after a period of trial at home. He became sullen again, and I had to give him another sound thrashing before he would submit.
I took him to the bathroom and made him take a hot, scented bath. I rubbed him down and powdered him all over; in readiness for the long, stiff corset I had procured in anticipation of success. This I clasped round his shapeless middle and then began to pull in the laces. In spite of his protests, I made good progress, reducing his waistline by several inches. Then long silk stockings followed, to be attached to the corset by frilly little suspenders. A padded brassiere came next, before his undies, in the form of lace-trimmed satin cami-knickers, were put on. Then a pair of cross-strapped shoes with four-inch heels caused him to complain again, but all to no avail. A neat cotton printed frock came next, and then I put on his makeup. As I had no wig for him, I swathed his head in a scarf, to look like a turban, and clip-on earrings completed the picture.
I stood back and surveyed the result, a decidedly pretty girl, as I had anticipated, though a sullenly frowning one at the moment. I led him to the mirror and left him there, unable to hide his surprise at his very realistic transformation, while I went out of the room for a moment. I came back quietly to see what he would be doing, to find him preening himself before the glass and obviously admiring his girlish reflection, in spite of his former attitude to the whole affair. He had good reason for holding up his frock to admire his long, silk-stockinged legs, for they were most attractive, and would certainly have made several of my girl acquaintances envious. Catching sight of me, he dropped his skirts and stood there blushing deeply. I congratulated him on this initial success, laughingly telling him he would always have a pretty pair of legs to look at whenever he wanted to.
He became quite accustomed to his unusual attire as the evening wore on, and, with this familiarity, he began to be far more cheerful and willing to listen to my ideas. At times he protested mildly, but without avail, for I was now determined to have my way in everything. I laid my plans before him – three months of progressive training at home, with some occasional sorties after dark, until he should be thoroughly accustomed to his feminine role and so be ready to become a “waitress.”
And so it was. Phil’s opposition gradually died away, and in the end was replaced by willing cooperation. I disposed of his male attire, having decided he should live entirely as a girl. Systematic tight lacing produced a waistline of 19 inches over his clothes. This corseting pushed his bosom up and, after a while, pads were not necessary to give him a figure. He became accustomed to six-inch heels, and the muscularity of his legs and arms gradually disappeared, as did also all sign of hair growth both there and on his face, following special treatment: The hair on his head, however, was encouraged to grow, and was treated and trained into a neat, girlish style, so that at the end of three months, he could dispense with a wig, and so remove one more fear of discovery in public by the wig coming off. I had his ears pierced – I had quite a struggle with him over this – and his eyebrows plucked, and I also had his hands attended to, till they became a pair of daintily manicured feminine hands. A course of vocal training ensured his being able to talk in a soft, husky way, which was almost alluring in its femininity.
Side by side with all these physical changes came changes in his mental outlook, as, apart from our maintaining a happy married life at home, he came more and more to think and act as a woman would. Feminine mannerisms became quite natural to him, and he began to take a keen interest in his female things, even to the extent of learning to do minor darning and mending. We had long since moved to another district where we were not known, and where, from the first, we passed as two sisters. Apart from our more and more frequent sorties, including some in daylight, such as shopping expeditions, Phyllis (or Phyl, as I continued to call him) had to answer the door all the time to the tradesmen. Unbeknown to him I watched him once as he answered the door in a rather diaphanous house gown over his pretty undies and long silk stockings, and I had to warn him of the danger of playing with men’s affections and even passions, for I had seen him deliberately trying out his feminine attractiveness on the unknowing male. He made a hit all right, both then and on a number of occasions later. Indeed, he became a really pretty girl by the time I considered he was ready for work.
I had no qualms on that first day, even though he felt uncertain of himself at first. Long before the end of the day, he was happy in his new job, quickly becoming popular with customers and staff alike. The uniform of the waitress suited him, for the black satin fitted close to his girlish figure and hung in a short flared skirt from the hips, thus giving him ample opportunity to show off his best points, his shapely legs in fine black silk stockings, and his trim little feet in high-heeled shoes. At the end of the day, after he had changed out of his waitress uniform into a smartly tailored coat and skirt and he had put on his chic little hat and his kid gloves, we walked home together. I told him of the small faults I had noticed in his behavior, he telling me of various things he had noticed. In mirrors he had more than once caught clients secretly admiring his silk-clad legs and trim little feet, and he had got quite a kick out of it. I pulled his leg about his having to change his frock in the girls’ retiring room, and he said that the girls had be come quite friendly, saying how nice were his undies. He even told me without hesitation just what each of the girls was wearing, so openly in fact that I knew he was speaking as a girl.
And so began Phyl’s life in public. He has had his share of would-be amours, and has, at my instigation, had more than one “affair”, my intervention at the crucial moment preventing trouble. Maybe you’d like to hear further of Phil as Phyl. If so, you must say so, and I’ll write again. In the meantime, take it from me that Phil is perfectly happy with his effeminized features and in his girlish things. I would mention that, almost since the beginning, in spite of our being much of a size, he has had a completely separate wardrobe, and one which would gladden the heart of any girl.
He knows I’m writing this letter, for he’ s sitting opposite me in an armchair, reading a fashion magazine, and rather daringly dressed – or should I say “undressed” – in a filmy wrap over his chic crepe-dechine cami-knickers, opera-length sheer nylons gracing his shapely underpinnings and held taut by suspender clips just visible through the lace edging of the brief legs of the camis, black court shoes with six -inch pencil heels and last, but not least, a pair of emerald-green satin ribbon garters right at the tops of the legs just below the suspender clips, a present of mine on Phyl’s third birthday. Phil is half curled up in the armchair. What a picture of girlish “innocence”!!!