I must have read about a million of these stories and I have to confess that mine isn’t so unique--maybe only in the details, but not so much in how things started or how things ended. You can probably write the first lines yourself: “Things started out so innocently. We had a typical relationship that somewhere, some way, took a dramatic turn that I never saw coming. At first, I was all for the plan, but by the time I had become my wife’s feminized slut, I realized that things had gone too far.” Sound familiar? Let’s compare details…

I already had two failed marriages when I started dating Melinda. I had known her since grade school, always thought that she was beautiful, and, by the time we reunited at a class reunion, was surprised to find that she’d never married. She was intelligent and beautiful, curvy but not stacked, a witty conversationalist but assertive. Upon reuniting, we fell immediately into a very physical relationship where we wouldn’t leave the comfort of her bed for days except to answer the door for delivery food. This continued for a couple years and the first change to the status quo was altogether surprising considering her dominant personality. Over beers and pot one night, the idea of bondage came up. I mentioned that I had never tried it but would like to. Though I wasn’t surprised when she said that she’d dabbled in it, I was downright shocked when she volunteered to let me try on her. It wasn’t like her to take a subservient role during our love-making sessions—she very often ended up on top. But I was happy for the chance to investigate this innovation in our sex life.

I don’t think either of us could have anticipated how quickly we would both take to B&D, especially with her as the bottom. In rapid order, we amassed quiet a collection of equipment and I turned the basement into a passable dungeon. Of course, it didn’t hurt that as an only child whose parents had long ago passed away and having recently moving to the area, I was able to makeover the downstairs without the threat of prying eyes, related or otherwise. These attributes that assured our privacy would turn out to be the very same attributes that would make my eventual disappearance unnoticed.

Melinda turned out to respond dramatically to the varied predicaments she found herself in. Whether it was spread-eagle bondage to the bed, being laced into a discipline helmet for a thorough spanking, or bound to an examination table that we procured, she loved the loss of control. And I enjoyed gaining it. We joined a sex club in the closest major city and I have fond memories of taking her there and leading her around clothed in outfits that made her availability to other guests obvious. A particular favorite was lacing her into a tight white corset that better displayed her now-augmented (large and pierced) breasts to better advantage. White or pink lace-top stockings, pink or white patent stilettos, a pair of open-crotch pink or white panties and her brown hair pulled up into a tight bun nearly completed the outfit. Details included heavy makeup, thick false eyelashes, pink wrist and ankle cuffs, a wide pink waist belt with D-rings, and finally, a locking pink posture collar made for the very image of sex toy. And used she was.

She was very popular at the club. If I’d have wanted to, I could have sold her several times over. And her popularity wasn’t limited to the guys. Several women took turns with he, a fact that she objected to at first, albeit with some degree of difficulty owing to her frequent ball-gagging. Initially, some of the women just wanted a taste of her, but after some early lessons on cunnilingus, she earned a reputation that created a substantial demand for her services. Upon reflection, I should have taken greater note of the looks I would get from her during the times she was serving one of her own gender—it was a look that was masking thoughts that I would eventually and rudely come to know.

Anyway, our new roles in the bedroom and the dungeon and at the club cemented our relationship and we decided to marry, doing so in a Las Vegas chapel one Valentine’s Weekend. The honeymoon suite hosted an unusual rite of consummation that found my new wife bound head-to-toe in various positions while I either used her or left her while I gambled away some of our travel money. On two occasions, I hired a prostitute to come back to the room where I would turn the tables and have Melinda service our “guest”. It was as ironic as it was exciting, at least to me.

So get to the good stuff, right? When did the worm turn? I would have to say that things started on a vacation to London. We had done some internet research and knew that there were plenty of opportunities to explore our BDSM relationship and packed accordingly. It was a great trip and we wore each other out, but only one of us would be coming home with the caning marks to prove it. But the moment that I will never forget was, at the time, seemingly innocent. We were sitting around the room late one evening reading to each other from stories magazines, each trying to top the other with the tales that people had submitted for printing. Melinda, without really reading ahead, read a story about a woman who had forcibly feminized her husband. I didn’t show too much of a reaction, but her passing remark, “we’ll have to dress you up like a woman when we get home”, certainly got my attention. And yes, I was immediately intrigued and excited. But I felt like expressing that would somehow make me look silly, so I kept it to myself. But I thought that it would be exciting to be “forced” to squeeze into some constrictive undergarments, be made up, crowned with a wig and then asked to parade around in high heels. That all seemed pretty harmless. That was where I was dead wrong.

Upon our return, Melinda failed to even so much as mention the idea of me dressed as a woman for several weeks, and I wasn’t going to broach the subject with her. I assumed she’d forgotten and I let it drop, too. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. The first indication that it was still on her radar seemed harmless enough: as I was exiting the shower one morning, she surprised me by asking me to wear a pair of pink panties that she was dangling from her fingers. She said that she had been shopping for herself the day before and when she bought herself some new underwear, it sparked her memory of the comment in London and she impulsively threw a pair onto the counter that she knew would fit me. Considering the success of our approach to new things (try anything once), I was compelled to accept her offer of the panties. I slid them on and dressed for work. She made the comment that she would be hot thinking about me all day wearing those panties. I had to admit to myself that it was going to make me hotter.

So that’s how it started. Later in the week, she met me with yet another pair—these of beige lace. The next week, it was nearly every day, each day a new pair. She evidently had thrown more than a random pair into her cart that day at the mall. As it turns out, her shopping trips since our return from London had been many, lengthy, creative and not altogether limited to “brick and mortar” stores—she had worn out the internet, too.

You can probably guess that she made other requests. I was instructed to shave all my body hair one morning, a process that was fortified with a Nair chaser. I was now as smooth as the day I’d been born. She asked me not to cut my hair. She asked me to wear pantyhose over the panties. Occasionally she would slide up behind me while I was dressing and slip a matching bra around my chest. Everything I put on fit perfectly. She’d really done her homework.

On the “bra” days, I had to wear a jacket and tie to work, if only to get to my private cubicle at the telemarketing firm where I worked.

It should probably be noted that my job entailed making lots of potentially sensitive phone inquiries per day, so each “marketeer” was provided a private workspace. That, along with my habit of keeping to myself, was what allowed my wife’s methodical feminization of me not to cause a stir at work. And all along the way, I noticed that our love life went from me as the top, to more of an “equal partnership” and then to her taking complete charge. The blazing sessions we had at the end of each day, with me wearing some measure of women’s underwear, always served to diminish my concerns, though. As it turns out, I was so far into the forest, all I could see were trees. I didn’t realize where she was taking me.

So over the course of the next several months, the frequency, amount and variety of styles of feminine clothing that I was required to wear steadily increased. My male underwear had long ago been donated to charity and in their place in my drawers were all manners of panties, bras, garter belts, pantyhose, stockings, and night gowns, along with the occasional girdle—an item that I rather enjoyed being “forced” to wear. I kept my body shaved and my fast-growing hair was already down past my neck. At regular intervals, I was required to wear progressively higher and higher heeled shoes around the house and I was getting pretty good at walking in them, although going down stairs still gave me a great deal of difficulty. Melinda kept a closer watch on what I ate and as a result, I lost considerable weight—a flat belly replacing the gut that had started almost as soon as I had graduated college.

I don’t remember when, but one Saturday on her way out the door to have her nails done, she asked me to tag along. She regularly had manicures and pedicures done by either Kim or Kristie, a pair of sisters who had a private salon where they also did hair, make-up and ear-piercing—more writing on the wall that I failed to notice. Once in the salon, Melinda suggested that since Kristie didn’t have a customer, I should get a pedicure and my first-ever manicure. And further, since Melinda was getting a facial, I might as well do that, too. The girls all insisted and I was in no position to argue. Shortly, I was seated on a rather large chair that was capable of being maneuvered for any service that the shop had to offer. They said that they would start with the facial since a step in the procedure was to wear a mask for an extended period of time during which they could administer the manicure and the pedicure. After waxing and shaping my eyebrows (out of my line of sight and, as it turns out, into razor thin, high arches), a thick past was applied to my face and patches soaked in some “hydrating compound” (so I was told) were taped lightly over my eyes. As such, I was completely blind and subject to their every whim. And as I was to find out later, this eye patch process was the end of Melinda’s treatment and the beginning or her videotaping of the entire afternoon, a taping segment that was accompanied by frequent stifled laughter.

I was then told that chest and arm restraints would be for my own good—if I were to inadvertently disturb the eye patches, the solution could get into my eyes and cause serious damage. So there I was, blindfolded and bound to this beauty salon chair. Over the next several hours, I was subjected to a series of treatments. I recall the relaxing feelings of both the pedicure and manicure, after which I recall having the feeling that my fingertips were now much heavier. At Melinda’s insistence, supposedly from the chair next to me, my hair was shampooed after which I was sat straight up for quite some time while one of the girls attended to small sections of my hair one at a time. After that, I spent some time just sitting and my questions about what was happening went unanswered. Eventually I was tipped back in the chair so that my head rested in the shampoo bowl again and my hair was washed again. I was again straightened up and one of the girls apparently did a little styling with some shears to my hair. I had been in the chair for a long time and complained that I needed to use the restroom. I still couldn’t move my hands and, by now, my feet. I was chastened and told to sit quietly while the work proceeded. The authority in Melinda’s voice was unmistakable, so I sat quietly, even through having both ears pierced. By now, it was futile to even resist. After all, I was still blindfolded and bound hands and feet to the chair.

The cut was followed by another round of attention to small sections of my hair. Though I’d never had rollers in my hair, the sensation of having sections of my hair combed through and rolled up tight were unmistakable. And the strong scent that accompanied the process made me wonder if I was indeed getting my first permanent. Bingo, Sherlock. After what seemed like hours the rollers were removed and I was tipped back into the shampoo bowl f or a third time. After some more fussing and hand-drying, I sensed that my hair was about done and that soon I would be able to see what all of the fuss was about. I was pretty anxious to see the result of all that Kristie had been doing, but the girls weren’t finished. Before the patches were removed, I was faced in such a direction that I couldn’t see myself in any of the shop’s mirrors. Once the patches were removed, I was able to take better stock of the situation. Melinda was operating a video camera sitting atop a tripod and the level of her excitement over my appearance startled me. Even Kim and Kristie, who were performing my transformation, took obvious delight in their work on me. And in my present bound state, I was defenseless to stop them from doing just about whatever they wished or that Melinda called for, a predicament made clearer by the thorough makeover that I was then subjected to.

Performed primarily by Kristie, every square inch of my face was attended to. She paid particular attention to my lips and eyes, telling me several times to hold them halfway open, a position that was difficult for me considering that I don’t think I had ever tried it. And just as with the weighty fingernails, one of her ministrations left me feeling that my eyelids were now substantially heavier. The first several times that I blinked, I put two and two together: the bottle of super glue on the counter in front of me meant that those new lashes of mine were going to be with me for a while.

When Kristie stopped to locate a particular brush, I took the occasion to glance down at my nails. Where previously there had been just nails, my fingers were now tipped with very long, beautifully shaped French nails. That explained the additional weight that I’d felt earlier. These were significant fingernails. And they exactly matched my toenails. When at last Kristie was done, I was slowly turned towards the mirror. I absolutely could not believe the image staring slack-jawed back at me. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I had been tuned into a beautiful woman, but turned into a woman I had been without doubt. Melinda was collapsed in a heap with Kim laughing while Kristie seemed to be lost in admiration of the fruits of her labor. It turned out to be the first of many visits over the next couple years to the sisters’ salon for me, either with Melinda or alone and at her command.

So that was the dramatic first step. After that, my life was never the same. I’ve never been without finger and nail polish, nor have I gone very long without getting some combination of a waxing, a makeover, or a perm. More recently, Melinda dictated tattooed-on make-up, adding yet another level of permanence to my state. And my current state can now be understood with greater clarity.