FICTION

METAMORPHOSE

Helen O'Connor

My husband, Bill, loves textures like silk, nylon, velvet, and satin. He buys me the loveliest slips, panties, and dresses, and much of our love-making begins when he strokes and fondles me while I am dressed in my soft fabrics to please him. His hands caress the material and me, and then move onto the creamy texture of my skin.

Coupled with this is his love for the sound that women can make with their skirts and dresses. The whisper of silk, the rustle of nylon, the rasp of taffeta, makes him sit up and take notice. I believe that he first proposed to me when I dressed in my full taffeta skirt which I had made with him in mind; the rustle of my clothes heralded my entrance, and I found him paying complete attention when I walked up to him, then as well as the rest of the evening. We had a lovely time dancing to soft music, eating to candle-light, and then he pro- posed. It was a wonderful evening.

When we were married, I already knew of his desires, as well as his liking for bright colors, dainty ruffles, sheer fabrics, and the lavish use of lace wom by us women. I had considered him very carefully while we were dating; he was an aero-space engineer making a good salary, but he always had a little frown furrowed into his forehead as if he didn't like his job, or as if it were too much for him. And he had some very feminine qualities. I gathered my notions together, and after we were married, I put my plans into effect.

He is a rather tall woman, about 5′10′′, but he is small-boned, slender with smooth muscles, and a round face with big eyes, what people call a "baby face." I'm getting ahead of myself, but he is very attractive in his delicate girlish things.

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