Denis watched Helen, his beautiful, sad-eyed wife prepare for work. Sitting nervously on the edge of the large bed that dominated their bedroom, he beheld her with a mixture of despair and desire. There had been yet another argument, this time during lunch, and the last fifteen minutes had passed in painful silence. The argument had been tediously familiar, tired ground worn down another few inches. An argument about money and work. An argument about him. Weak, pathetic Denis: unemployed for two years now following a nervous breakdown; a pale, frail, vaguely feminine man who, at thirty, was perhaps unemployable; an intense neurotic whose anxieties and fears had left him virtually housebound. Yet even in the closed environment of the house he was useless.

'I can't take much more of this,' Helen said, her first words since the bitter exchange over vegetable soup and French bread.

He nodded weakly, relieved that at least she was talking again. His sad, pale blue eyes met her own dark brown orbs of fierce contempt through the full-length wardrobe mirror she faced while combing her lovely, coal-black hair.

'I know, I'm sorry,' he mumbled.

She sighed wearily. 'You're always sorry. But nothing ever happens. You still just sit there all day, biting your fingernails and doing nothing. No cleaning, no cooking, no effort. Just worry, anxiety, inertia. I can't take it any more. I can't work and be the perfect housewife. Particularly with my job. You should understand that by now, Denis. You have to help!'

He nodded again, knowing this would change nothing, knowing this was merely the prelude to another wasted day watching rubbish television and eating junk food. He nodded and felt the stark truth of his utter humiliation before the woman he loved, a humiliation he appeared powerless to overcome. He stared helplessly at Helen and realised he was on the verge of throwing his marriage away. But it seemed he could do nothing: he was frozen by a strange, dark fear and a remorseless self-pity.

Helen, near to tears, threw down the hairbrush and moved to the large mahogany dressing table to fix her make-up. She was dressed in only a white silk bra, matching panties and black, seamed tights. He swallowed hard and tried somewhat hypocritically to resist the inevitable arousal this lovely spectacle inspired. Guilt and desire indulged in a brief tug of war that left guilt rolling in the mud and Denis with a violent erection.

His wife, his wonderful wife, just two weeks past her twenty-fourth birthday. His junior by six years. A tall, slim, athletic brunette with a shapely and carefully trained figure, the highlights of which were a pair of exquisitely ample breasts and the longest, sexiest legs imaginable, legs now wrapped in the scented embrace of the sheer black nylon tights and beautifully accentuated by their impressively straight seams.

He watched hungrily as she crossed her legs impatiently and began applying a little blusher to the golden flesh of her perfect cheeks. His eyes were drawn to the strips of darker nylon that covered her cherry-red toenails. Briefly, he recalled the sensual feel of this second skin against her warm thighs. Nylon on flesh: the interaction of artifice and nature. He also remembered clandestine trips to this room during so many bored, lacklustre afternoons, afternoons in which he had found himself exploring her private drawers, caressing the soft nylons, the electric silks, the tingling satins, to find in the tactile experience of her most intimate garments a substitute for her body, the body denied him for nearly six weeks.

'No work, no sex,' she had said to him, the first sign that his helpless laziness was a real threat to their marriage. A practical response from practical woman from a particularly practical family. And so the terrible tension that had built up between them had been heightened by a deeper, more physical frustration. And his own response had been to withdraw deeper into the inert world of petty neurosis that now so completely dominated his life.

He watched. He could only watch. Watch and remember, watch and indulge an increasingly fetishistic sexuality, a substitute sexuality. Yet he was vaguely aware that in this fetishism there was something more than the recent sting of sexual denial. In some way he felt that fetishism had always been in him, a part of his sexuality, but denied, repressed, sublimated in the joys of a superbly physical partner.

'And it's not just me, Denis,' his wife continued. 'It's Mummy, too.'

Denis felt himself physically shrink at the mention of Helen's mother. Her terrible mother: a beautiful but grimly threatening sword that hung so eagerly over his head. The woman who seemed to have bought shares in their marriage and had tried to manage it ever since they stepped out of the register office. The woman whose considerable personal fortune, inherited from a long-dead, older husband, had purchased the house they lived in and paid the larger bills that Helen's small National Health Service salary could not meet. The woman who had effectively replaced Denis as the breadwinner, who had taken over the role of financial manager with a disturbing enthusiasm, and who made no secret of her contempt for Denis.

'She won't put up with this much longer,' Helen said, tears filling her beautiful eyes. 'You know how she feels about you. You know she wants me to divorce you. Either that or--'

'Or what?' he snapped, gripped by a sudden, rare anger.

Once again he found himself staring at her reflection as she faced his, her eyes glistening with a deep-rooted annoyance, her cherry lips quivering, her lovely face red with shame and bitterness. We are miles apart, he thought, unable to touch, unable to face each other except through the mediation of a mirror.

'Or what?' he repeated.

There was no reply. Helen wiped her eyes and rose from the seat. He stared at her perfect back as she rushed to the wardrobe and pulled out her blue nurse's uniform. Helen Mann, his lovely wife, a senior ward sister. She hurriedly stepped into the uniform, zipping up the back with a single impatient gesture, and then slipped on her sensible black leather shoes. In less than a minute, she had pinned back her thick, black hair, grabbed her overcoat and rushed from the room. As she did so, he pulled himself off the bed and followed her out on to the landing, shouting that same question 'Or what?' over and over. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she turned to face him, tears pouring down her cheeks.

'I tried, Denis, I really bloody tried with you. But there's nothing I can do now. You've brought this on yourself. You've got nobody else to blame. Remember that!'

With this, she swept her handbag from the hall table and rushed out of the front door, slamming it loudly and leaving him staring into a familiar but now slightly altered abyss.

He descended the stairs wearily, walked into the living room and found himself staring at his pathetic reflection in the blank screen of the television set. He felt tears well up in his own sad, defeated eyes. He tried not to listen to the sound of Helen's car pulling out of the driveway. It was just after 1.30 p.m.: she would be out until at least eleven, maybe later. Until then he had only his dark, oppressive thoughts and the television to keep him company.

He had been active once: active, forceful and ambitious. An executive director, no less. A well-paid, driven individual. A man with a future. A future made brighter by the lovely Helen, whom he had met at a party thrown by an important client nearly three years ago and married six months later. But with money and a future came responsibility, and with responsibility came pressure. And pressure had a tendency to increase. And as it did, his responses became unsound. Never an overtly aggressive man, always uncomfortable with the cheap machismo of office life, he had begun to feel even more uncomfortable wielding a power that seemed to bring so much discomfort to those around him. His job was to make all the difficult decisions and thus all the enemies. The company was under tremendous financial pressure. People were 'let go', lives ruined. And it had been his job to do the ruining. And, eventually, he managed to ruin his own life, collapsing in his office from what the doctor referred to as 'physical and mental exhaustion caused by severe stress.' He had a month off work. A month became two, then three, then six. Then, knowing he could never face the office again, he resigned, determined to find a more meaningful job. But there had never really been any determination. Six months became a year. The world was suddenly a threatening, aggressive, vast place. And he was nothing: a creature who had crawled into its shell with no intention of coming out, who found even a trip to the local supermarket an ordeal of loud voices, angry eyes, pressing bodies; of threat and despair.

At first Helen had been wonderful: caring, sympathetic, a professional helper doing her bit to relieve another's suffering. After the breakdown, she had encouraged him to resign, to seek a new life. She often worked extra hours at the hospital and he had agreed to help out more at home until he found something else, something less stressful. But even her patience had been stretched and eventually snapped by the enthusiasm with which he had rolled up into a ball and blocked out the world. And as her understanding had disintegrated, the presence of Helen's mother became increasingly apparent. Samantha, as beautiful in her way as her daughter, another tall, statuesque brunette, a woman who had never liked Denis. His mental collapse had confirmed all her jibes about his weakness, his inability to cope and, worst of all, his effeminacy.

Now, facing this grim, blank screen, he felt the familiar knot of humiliation as Samantha's acidic comments were recalled. She had even begun to call him 'Denise', to tease him about his 'utter failure as a man', and to suggest the possibility of 'a change of gender'. The last time she had visited, she unleashed a series of brutal remarks about buying him a dress! But Helen had intervened and Samantha retreated. Yet in this humiliation there had been something else, something less unpleasant, something he still refused to think about. But even as he fought this ambivalent emotion, he found himself remembering the lovely Samantha, her long black hair, her body in superb condition for her 44 years. He remembered her in this very room less than a fortnight ago, in a trim blue suit, black sweater, black hose and high heels, her long legs crossed as she reclined in the leather armchair. He remembered trying to avoid staring at her impressive form, particularly her legs and the gleaming patent leather stilettos to which they led.

'A nice pink number, I think,' she had teased, her eyes filled with contempt. 'Yes. Very you. Pink with plenty of frills. Short as well, so we can see those shapely legs of yours. White tights for those legs. White tights and red high heels.'

He tried to cast the strange feelings inspired by this memory out of his mind. He walked to the living-room window and stared out at the world he so deeply feared. Almost the first thing he saw was the lovely Wendy -- Wendy Parsons, the eighteen-year-old only daughter of Mrs Adele Parsons, their attractive if somewhat haughty next-door neighbour, a cool-eyed widow who had recently arrived in the close after returning from a long period in the United States, and whose contempt for Denis now matched that of Samantha's. Yet Wendy, in her beautiful, fresh, almost naive manner, had only a mildly curious, polite smile for the unfortunate Denis Mann, her gorgeous eyes forgiving, understanding, helplessly girlish. And now, as usual, his eyes drank her up with greedy, gulping looks of desire. She was simply stunning, a tall, athletic blonde brought up since her early teens in America and now with a very American outlook. A champion swimmer, whose firm, subtle body was today encased in a tight black sweater, a very short, pleated tartan skirt, very sheer black tights and a pair of provocatively high-heeled shoes. A young woman returning to her sixth-form college after lunch at home.

He watched as she disappeared out of the close, then found himself staring into the oblivion of his frustrations and inertia. He took up the TV remote control, pointed it at the empty square of green glass and pressed the 'on' button. At the exact moment the ugly face of a well-known comedian filled the screen, the doorbell rang.

He sighed, flicked off the TV and walked sluggishly out into the hallway. The bell rang again, longer, impatiently. He mumbled an angry 'all right, I'm coming'. As he approached the door he could make out the figure of a woman through the frosted glass, a vaguely familiar figure. He opened the door. Before him was Samantha, a dark smile lighting up her beautiful face, a large leather travel bag at her side. He gasped in surprise.

'You look shocked, Denise,' she sneered, strolling past him into the house, a fog of powerful perfume engulfing his reddening face.

Taken off guard, he could only close the door and follow her into the living room, a sense of deep unease spreading over him.

'Well,' she exclaimed, turning to face her son-in-law while placing the large bag on the carpet, 'doing nothing, I see. How unusual.'

'What do you want?' he snapped back, trying to sound contemptuous, but only managing worried and uncertain. Her lovely brown eyes lit up, the cruel smile broadened. He found it difficult to hold her fierce, merciless gaze. 'A little chat to begin with,' she replied.

He was angered by his utter sense of helplessness before this beautiful woman, an anger made worse by the physical attraction that stirred within him every time she appeared.

She lowered herself on to the sofa next to his well-worn armchair, adjusting her short skirt around her knees, her eyes never leaving his. She was dressed in a short, tight but perfectly tailored red suit with a crisp white blouse, plus black hose and heeled shoes. His eyes wandered over this gorgeous display and rested on the shoes, stunning black patent-leather stilettos with five-inch heels, sado-erotic footwear for the dominant female. She crossed her legs, causing the skirt to ride up her marvellous thighs. He swallowed hard, but didn't move an inch. He was a rabbit trapped in the hypnotic powers of this woman's exquisite, sex snake form, a particularly frustrated rabbit.

'Like the shoes?' she teased, stretching out her lovely, nylon-sheathed legs. 'They do great things for my legs. Don't you agree?'

His gulping, high-pitched 'yes' broadened her bitter smile.

'Sit down, Denise. I really do need to talk to you.'

He moved towards the armchair, but she gestured for him to sit by her, on the sofa. He obeyed, never taking his eyes off her legs, riddled with desire and the fear of facing those splendid eyes. Suddenly they were inches apart, her sweet perfume washing over him, the rosy smell of her hair teasing his nostrils. He was overwhelmed by an intense sexual arousal, and no amount of fear or distrust could save him now.

'You know how I feel about you,' she continued. 'And I know how you feel about me. There's no getting away from the fact that we don't get on. But that doesn't change the fact that you're my son-in-law, that you're married to my daughter, and that your current behaviour is making both her and myself very unhappy. You've turned poor Helen's life into a nightmare, Denise. You've ruined her whole existence with your silly anxieties. We've tried to help you, but you seem to be beyond normal help. You just don't seem to be up to the role required of you; you can't behave like a man. So maybe we have to stop treating you like one.'

His eyes finally met hers. 'What on earth do you mean?'

'Look. If it weren't for me, you'd be out on your backside. I pay the mortgage, the bills. I keep you in trousers, trousers I don't think you deserve, or, moreaccurately, feel comfortable with. I've put up with you because Helen says she loves you. Well, now Helen has finally seen sense. This morning she phoned and told me to go ahead with a little plan, a plan we should have implemented ages ago, a plan designed to shake you up a bit, to give you a role that you'll feel more comfortable with, and which will hopefully result in you behaving more like an active human being.'

'Look, never mind the lecture, just tell me the bad news. You want me out. And now Helen's finally had enough and she agrees. OK. I understand. But where can I go, you just--'

'No, no. We don't want you out. We want you in. In skirts, to be precise.'

The last sentence took a few seconds to sink in. 'In skirts! What the--'

The slap to his face was hard and fast. Stunned, amazed, he felt a burning spread over his right cheek and tears fill his startled eyes.

'Shut up, Denise!' Samantha snapped. 'I'm talking. You're listening. Do you understand?'

The ironic tone had gone, replaced by a cool, brutal authority. He was speechless, yet outraged, appalled. But still he could only nod, rubbing his cheek, trying not to cry.

'If you can't behave like a man, then it's time you started to behave like the sissy you seem to be, a particularly submissive and extremely girlish type of sissy. Put simply, we've decided to feminise you. A complete transformation. And if you don't agree, then you are indeed welcome to leave. But as you will have nothing except what I've bought for you, including your now redundant underpants, I think this latter option may prove difficult.'

'You can't be serious!' he blubbered, feeling the tears begin to trickle from his eyes and the humiliation burn into him like an inescapable, all consuming fire.

'Of course I am! Deadly serious. I've watched you, Denise. Watched you roll up into a ball of self-pity and surrender to the void of fear and neurosis. And I know what your problem is: you can't stand being a man, you can't live with the pressures that rest so uneasily on most of your sex. Deep down, you want to be a more feminine being. You want to be controlled, dominated, overwhelmed. You want to be a slave, to have all decisions taken for you. And they will be -- completely. You'll become Helen's personal housemaid and general servant. On the surface utterly unrecognisable as a man, but beneath your panties still biologically male.'

There were no words left to protest with. He suddenly knew he was doomed to whatever fate Samantha had dreamed up for him. To leave, to walk out on Helen and face the real world, with all its awful threats, was too much to ask. His only option was no option at all: tearful acceptance. So he burst into tears.

'You cry very convincingly,' Samantha continued, her voice full of teasing sarcasm. 'Just like a little girl. Can I assume from this typically pathetic outburst that you assent to your new role?'

Amazed at himself, wiping the flood of tears from his burning cheeks, he nodded.

'Right. Let's get on with it. Helen will try to be back by eleven. That gives us eight hours to get you dolled up and the house spotlessly clean. On your feet and follow me.'

He obeyed her without hesitation, amazed by the ease with which he was accepting this bizarre turn of events. Yes, it was all too simple. Secretly, he knew why. Samantha smiled: he could see she was pleased, even surprised, by his speedy capitulation. She grabbed the leather bag and led him out of the lounge, up the stairs and into the main bedroom. He followed her shakily, unable to keep his tear-stained eyes off her shapely, black nylonsheathed calves and thighs, his sex rock hard and leading him almost as surely as his beautiful mother-in-law to a strange, new life.

Copyright © 2001 by Christina Shelly