by Brandy Dewinter

(c 2001, All rights reserved)

Chapter 6 - "Read Between The Lines"

     Sunday morning Jayla got up first and fixed breakfast in bed for 
Logan.  She was a bit late, finding him coming out of the shower when
she arrived with the tray, but that wasn't a real problem for either 
of them.  They lounged in bed together, nibbling at toast and sipping
coffee while they watched the political talk shows.  By mutual though
unspoken agreement, they each seemed to be clinging to an image that 
was normal after the intensity of their decidedly unusual 'experiments'.  

     Despite the mundane actions of the morning, though, they each were
reminded constantly of the choices they had already made.  Jayla's 
bracelets glinted brightly in the sun streaming through the windows, and
the feel of Logan's smooth, hairless legs was a sensual secret hidden 
beneath the thin sheets.  They could ignore it with their words, but 
their bodies each demonstrated in the way bodies do that they were aware
and appreciative of the other's commitment.  Yet, in another unspoken 
agreement they did not act on that awareness, merely accepting it as
a sort of mutual flattery that was - for once - better honored by 
sustaining it as it was than by exploiting it.  

     There was no distinct decision made when the time came to get on 
with the day's activities, whatever they might be.  One show had ended 
and the guests on the next one didn't seem particularly interesting.  
Logan rose to take care of the dishes while Jayla went to take her own
morning shower.  He was back in the bedroom doing his hair when she 
walked out wearing nothing but a smile.

     "Nice outfit," he said with a smirk.

     "This old thing?" she replied.  "I've had this for ages."

     "Well taken care of, then, it looks brand new."

     "Hardly," she laughed, lifting her small but not at all childish
bosom.  "When it was brand new, I didn't have these."

     "Ah, well, then I'll take the 'used' version any day."

     "Promise?"  

     His answer was obvious even through the constriction of the pantyhose
he had again donned.  Words were hardly necessary between them in any 
event.  They were fluent is much more effective forms of communication.  

     They didn't demonstrate their . . . vocabulary right then, though.  
Jayla's eyes made it clear that she had noticed his answer, and her laugh
made it clear she was pleased with it.  But her motions were to her 
dresser to select clothes for the day.  

     "What should I wear?" she mused, her tone pitched so that it was 
clear she didn't expect Logan to answer, but did expect him to pay 
attention to her own selections.  She stood with her hips swayed out
provocatively to one side, showing the long, smooth contours that had
made her fame as a model, though never so clearly revealed to the public.  

     "What's on tap for today?" Logan asked, not quite playing her game 
but very definitely paying attention.  

     "Oh, yard work mostly, I think," she replied.  "And cleaning the 
house, and laundry, and all sorts of exciting things like that."

     Logan sighed.  "Oh, joy."  

     "Yeah, I know," she agreed.  "Still, I think we can make things
interesting."  

     "Ah ha!" she said as she pulled out a red satin basque with dangling 
garters.  "Lace me up, darling?"

     He moved quickly to comply with her request.  Jayla was model-slim
and achieving any significant waist reduction was not practical.  Still, 
Logan was only too happy to pull the strings on the smooth garment snugly 
tight.  And while it might not have done a lot to her waist, it definitely 
provided a distinct accent to her curves.  Grunting quietly, she bent over 
far enough to pull sheer, seamed stockings up her legs and fasten them 
tautly.

     "Don't go away, lover," she ordered airily as she disappeared into 
their walk-in closet.  When she returned, she was wearing thigh-high 
dominatrix boots with the tallest heels Logan had ever seen, and long 
black gloves slipped under her bracelets and up her arms.  

     "Nice, ah, gloves," Logan said in a choked voice.

     "Glad you like them," Jayla said, snickering.  "Well, I guess I 
better get busy."

     "Is, um, that all you're going to wear?"

     "Why, don't you like it?"  

     "Oh yeah," he breathed.

     "Good," Jayla said, laughing.  Then she swayed out of the room on 
her towering heels, fanny cheeks winking at him with every strutting 
step.  

     It was a while before Logan joined her on the chores.  He had taken
the time to make up his face in the glamour style Jayla had defined, not 
as perfectly as she did, but creditably nonetheless.  Exercise shorts
covered only the very tops of his legs and the waistband of his 
pantyhose, leaving his flat, well-defined abdomen showing.  

     When he caught up to Jayla, now ironing clothes, he had to stretch up
to kiss her.  "Goodness," he said, "you certainly are tall."  

     "Do you mind?" Jayla asked uncertainly.  "When you were so long in 
coming down, I thought you might have been upset that I was so much, um, 
that I was coming on pretty strong, and, well, taller than you."

     "Upset?" he snorted.  "Hardly.  I was so, ah, interested that I don't
know if I breathed for ten minutes."  

     "I see you made good use of the rest of the time, then," she smirked, 
snaking her tongue out to touch lightly on his tinted lips.  

     "For you, my love."  

     "For you, my love," she echoed softly.  

     "You'll smear my lipstick," Logan warned as she leaned down to him.  

     "It'll be worth it," she promised.  She was right, of course.  

     "Hang the towels on the line, will you?" she asked after a moment,
laughter in her eyes but definite signs of arousal showing she had been 
. . . touched by the kiss as well.  

     "As you wish, beautiful," Logan said cheerily.  Still wearing 
distinct makeup and little else, he grabbed the laundry basket and 
headed out the back door.  

     A few minutes later Jayla stepped out on the patio to watch him.  He
noticed that she was taking very short steps in her incredible heels.

     "Don't those hurt your feet?" he asked.

     "A little," she admitted.  "But I've learned to walk in them over
the years."  Then she giggled and amended her comment.  "Not these boots,
of course.  These are only for you."  

     "Thank you," Logan replied, bowing formally to her.  She did sit down
for a moment though, while he finished.  At first, her normal reflexes 
caused her to sit with legs tightly closed and knees averted.  But after a
moment she shifted her position, providing Logan an unobstructed view of 
her feminine secrets.  
    
     "What's next?" he casually asked as he walked over to her after 
finishing his task.  Of course, his outward calm was shown to be false
by other signs of very active interest.  

     "Oh, nothing for a while," she said.  "I have some more laundry in,
but I think I'll have to take off these boots before I try and walk in the
yard weeding the flowerbeds."  

     "Hmm, likely so, unless you intend to see if we have an oilfield 
under the grass," he agreed.

     "Don't laugh," she demanded, spoiling her own edict by laughing 
herself.  "Yardwork is one thing I've never been able to do in spike 
heels.  I'd leave them on for you if I could."  

     "Don't be silly," Logan countered.  "I think you look incredible, 
and knowing you're willing to do something like that for me is absolutely
the best part.  But I DO know, and you don't have to break an ankle out 
here showing me again."  

     "You look pretty incredible yourself," Jayla said.  "I wonder . . ."

     "What?" asked Logan.

     "Oh, nothing," she said, but her tone said there was definitely 
something.

     He raised an elegantly arched brow at her, a motion much more 
effective than it had once been, and settled in his seat with an 'I'll
wait however long it takes' look on his face.

     "It's just . . . um, I'm not sure what I can do to keep things, um, 
interesting for you."

     "Oh, hell, gorgeous, with what you've done already you don't EVER 
need to wonder if I'm interested in you."

     "Oh, I know that, sort of," Jayla said, smiling.  "But this is not 
about whether you love me, or will continue to love me.  I've been having 
a lot of fun with this.  A LOT of fun.  But I sometime wonder if I'm, uh,
reaching you like I hope to."

     "Considering that I couldn't breathe for ten minutes after you put
that outfit on, nor stand up for twenty, I think you're reaching 
SOMEthing," he laughed, standing up again.  He reached for her gloved 
hand and said, "Don't worry about it.  You are spectacular, and 
deliciously inventive.  I'm just sorry I'm not as creative myself."

     Then, after she was standing, he reached out and pinched her exposed
fanny and said, "But I'll work on it."

     She jumped and swatted at him, but her motions were so restricted by
her heels that she missed - or at least that was her excuse.  Logan fled
into the house with her tapping quickly after him.  By the time she 
caught up to him, coincidentally in the bedroom, his 'interest' was 
showing quite unambiguously again.  So much for the yardwork.

*****

     The next week while McDaniel was at Harrison's, visions of his tall
wife in her blatantly sexual outfit kept running behind his eyes.  Tyler 
Andrews noticed his distraction, several times in fact, and finally 
mentioned it on Tuesday.

     "What has been on your mind this week?"

     McDaniel started at his comment and stalled, "Why?  What's wrong?"

     "Oh, nothing," Andrews said.  "You're still helping us a lot, but 
I haven't been seeing the leaps of brilliance from the first couple of 
weeks.  I figure your mind, at least part of it, is elsewhere."

     "Oh.  Well, maybe," admitted McDaniel.  "Sorry."

     "Nothing to be sorry about," Andrews said.  "From the smile that 
shows when your eyes unfocus, I figure it's not a bad problem.  I just 
wondered if I could help."

     "I don't think so," McDaniel said.  "Thanks anyway."  

     Andrews looked around the room, confirming that there was no one
close, then whispered.  "You can tell me to go to hell for intruding if
you want, but I truly may be able to help.  I know about your, um, 
secret."  

     "What?!"  

     "Calm down.  I don't mind.  I have some, uh, similar secrets myself."

     "I don't know what you're talking about," Logan insisted, but they 
both knew it was a bluff.  

     Andrews began a litany of accusations, though his tone held no note 
of censure.  "You curl your hair every morning on a curling iron, a large 
diameter one.  You shaved your arms, or did something else to pull the 
hair, and I'll bet your legs are the same.  You wear makeup sometimes."  

     Caught so obviously and accurately, McDaniel said nothing for a long 
moment.  Finally Andrews broke the silence.

     "Believe me, I don't think there's anything wrong with that.  As I 
said, I have some similar secrets myself.  I'm not saying this to 
blackmail you or anything.  I just think that if your distraction is 
somehow related to that, I might be able to help."

     "How?"

     "I won't know that until you tell me what is bothering you," Andrews
declared calmly.  

     McDaniel looked at Andrews, more closely than before.  The 'normal' 
tendency for men to avoid looking closely at each other had obscured things 
that seemed stunningly obvious when he really let himself look at Andrews.  
The shorter man had shaped brows, not extreme but clearly showing the same
sort of contouring that McDaniel knew now showed in his own arches.  
Without saying a word, Andrews let his hair down and shook it out, then 
pulled up one pants leg to show smooth, hairless skin above his sock.  

     "I guess you could say that I saw what you did because I knew what to
look for," Andrews finally said.  "I'm reasonably sure no one else knows.  
If they do, then it's pretty obvious they know I'm the same and I haven't
ever been harassed or anything, so I wouldn't worry about it.  But like I
said, I really don't think anyone else noticed anything.  Well, except 
that you've been distracted this week.  Do you want to talk about it?"

     "I, um . . . what did you mean by saying we're 'the same'?"

     "Cross-dressers.  Transvestites.  Guys who like to wear women's
clothes."  

     "I don't really do that," McDaniel claimed.

     "Oh?" Andrews said.  "You didn't deny it when I pointed out what I 
had noticed."

     "Oh, that.  Well, that's different."

     "It usually is," Andrews replied, smiling.  

     "No, really," McDaniel protested.  "I just did a couple of things 
for my wife, because she asked me to."

     Andrews' face fell.  "Oh.  Well, that's okay, if that's what you're
into."  His tone said that he was definitely NOT into whatever McDaniel 
had just admitted to.

     "Look, I'm not 'into' anything.  My wife asked me, in private, to 
let her experiment with a couple of makeup designs.  She's a cosmetics 
expert and needed a redhead with green eyes.  That's all it was."

     "In private?  Only?"  Andrews asked.

     "Well, one time we went out.  But even though she had done a very 
subtle job on my face, people noticed and Jayla, my wife, felt really bad 
about that."  

     "Oh.  I see," Andrews said, thoughtfully.  "I guess I misjudged you.
Sorry."

     "It's alright," McDaniel said.  "I guess it would seem a little 
strange, if you know what to look for.  But I'm not like most, um, TGs."

     "So you know about that?  That term, and what it means?"

     "I've browsed a couple of websites," admitted McDaniel.

     "Oh, good.  Then maybe you'll understand that when you said your 
wife was making you do this, I assumed you were into that femdom scene,
the humiliation stuff."  

     "No!  Neither of us would do that.  Ever."  

     "Okay, okay," Andrews said.  "I believe you.  It's probably more my
problem anyway.  I mean, we're all supposed to be tolerant and all that, 
but there are things that just, um, bother me."

     "I should hope so," McDaniel said strongly.  

     Andrews nodded, then looked carefully at McDaniel for a long moment.
"Look," he said, "I obviously owe you an apology.  I butted in where it 
wasn't any of my business, and made some bad assumptions about you.  I'm
truly sorry."

     "That's okay," McDaniel said, though it was clear he was still a bit
uncomfortable.

     "I just thought I could help," Andrews continued.  "I can put you in 
touch with some outstanding people here in Denver, if you wanted to 
explore that side of yourself a little more, is all."

     "Thanks, but, no thanks," McDaniel said, rising to go back to work.  

     Andrews was very quiet the rest of the day, obviously bothered by his
forwardness.  In turn, that bothered McDaniel.  In their time together, he
had recognized that Tyler Andrews was not only a hard and creative worker,
but a truly nice guy.  He never got angry, though he would argue 
passionately for things he believed in.  Even when arguing though, he kept
his comments focused on the ideas and not the people themselves, never 
insulting anyone.

     If he could be that controlled when arguing, then McDaniel wondered 
why he should assume Andrews meant any insult in a quiet, private 
discussion.  Of course there wasn't any reason, only reaction to a 
sense of being threatened.  Even from someone who, by showing an 
equivalent vulnerability, was clearly no threat.  By close of business
for the day, McDaniel was feeling as guilty as Andrews no doubt felt.  
While they were heading out to their cars, McDaniel walked over to 
Andrews.  

     "Tyler, um, wait up a minute."

     The shorter man turned to him, looking guilty.

     "Uh, Tyler, I just wanted to say, um, I was sorry.  For what I, 
um for the way I reacted earlier.  I know you were just trying to help, 
and I do appreciate it."

     "Oh, well, thanks, but I shouldn't have intruded."

     "No big deal.  Look, ah, I know you didn't mean anything bad.  Would
you like to go somewhere for a drink or something?"

     "I don't drink," Andrews said.

     "Neither do I, actually," admitted McDaniel, grinning.  At that, 
Andrews' face finally cleared and he smiled, too.  

     The blond man said, "I live by myself.  Do you have supper plans?  We 
could catch a meal together.  It beats eating alone."

     "Deal," McDaniel said quickly, sticking out his hand.

     They arranged to meet at a nearby yuppie chain restaurant and resumed
their interrupted conversation after they were seated.

     McDaniel asked, "You know my story, such as it is.  What's yours?  If 
you don't mind my asking."

     "I don't mind," Andrews answered.  "I don't think it's much like 
yours, though.  I assumed way too much from some small things."

     "Look, Tyler, quit beating yourself up about it.  I know you didn't 
mean any harm, and none resulted.  Just relax."

     Andrews smiled, then continued.  "I guess I've always felt . . . 
different.  I've always wanted to be pretty, to wear pretty clothes."

     "Nothing wrong with that," McDaniel said. 

     "Oh, yes there is.  To lots of people, it's terrible.  But I couldn't
help myself."

     This time McDaniel didn't interrupt.  He nodded, though, in silent 
encouragement.  

     "From, oh, at least age six I knew I wanted to wear dresses and 
things.  I remember asking my mother to let me wear a dress that belonged
to an older sister, 'because I was six, like she was when she wore it.'  I
remember saying that, which is one of the reasons I know for sure what age 
I was.  But that wasn't really the first time."

     "What did she say?  Your mother, I mean," McDaniel asked gently.

     "You don't want to know," Andrews said, a sudden glisten in his eyes 
showing an answer nonetheless.  

     "I'm sorry."

     "It's history, now," Andrews said.  "But I never really had a chance 
to, um, understand what was 'wrong' with me.  I'd sneak into my sister's 
room sometimes, and try to understand, but . . ."

     "I take it things didn't work out too well."

     "Hardly," Andrews snorted.  "I got caught a couple of times, and 
got humiliated.  That's why, well, why I don't like that sort of thing.
I don't understand why so many people do."

     "They do?" asked McDaniel, surprised.

     "Well, they seem to like reading about it, in any event.  There are 
lots of stories out there about humiliating men who dress as women - 
forcing them to do all sorts of terrible things."

     "Who would ever put up with that?  Or do that to someone?"

     "Well, the doer is usually the wife, it seems.  At least in the 
stories.  As to who would put up with it?  I really don't know."

     "So, that's why you thought . . . when I said my wife had gotten
me to do a couple of things, that . . . "

     "Yeah," Andrews nodded.  "Sorry."  

     "No problem," McDaniel replied, distracted.  He didn't say anything 
for a few minutes while Andrews sat patiently.  Finally McDaniel looked up
and said, "So, what happened after that?"    

     "I moved out as soon as I could.  And never looked back."  

     "I'm sorry," McDaniel said.

     "Not your fault," Andrews countered.  

     They were interrupted by the waiter bringing their meals, and by the
time that was taken care of Andrews was sitting straighter and smiling 
again.  The smile didn't touch his eyes, but his posture sent a message 
that it was time to move on.

     "So, if you don't mind my asking, just why were you so distracted, 
and why do you wear makeup?"

     Before McDaniel could reply, Andrews hurried on, "Now remember, I'm
just asking because I might be able to help.  If you don't want to talk
about it, don't.  How 'bout that Avalanche?"

     "Avalanche?" McDaniel repeated, stunned by the non sequitur.  

     "Hockey," Andrews explained, grinning.  

     "Oh, um, yeah.  Well . . ." McDaniel floundered for a minute, then
smiled at his colleague.  "Okay, here's my story, then.  My wife truly is
a makeup designer, and asked to work on my face because of my coloring.  
She's a model, and gorgeous, and the most loving, wonderful person in the
world.  I am way luckier than I could ever deserve to have found her, and
if I can do something for her, well, that's about all I should need to 
know.  One thing led to another and we did end up out in public one night,
but she felt really bad about people noticing, or at least that they 
showed that they noticed.  I guess she was hoping that no one would care, 
or maybe even that they would like it.  She surely does."

     "What did you think?  How did you feel?" Andrews interrupted to ask.

     "I didn't care for it all that much," McDaniel said.  "I didn't worry
much about what anyone else thought, but I didn't particularly like being
stared at."

     "Did you like the way you looked?" asked Andrews.

     "I guess so," McDaniel replied.  "I'm not sure it would be worth the
bother, just for myself, but it does please Jayla."  

     Andrews nodded, then sat for a few minutes thinking.  Finally, he 
said, "Well, then I guess I'm not going to be much help.  There are places
here in Denver where you could go and get a wonderfully effective 
transformation, but you're not really into the, um, sensations of being 
feminine.  You just do it to please your wife, in private.  Is that 
right?"

     "Yes," McDaniel confirmed, then a pensive look came over him.  
"Though . . . "

     "Yes?" Andrews prodded after a moment.

     "Oh, well, it's just that, um, Jayla has done some things that were, 
are, very . . . sort of . . . enduring . . . to please me.  Things that 
can't be easily undone.  And I was trying to think of something . . . 
sort of . . . I don't know, something to balance that."  

     "Piercings?" Andrews guessed.

     "What?  Oh, no.  I mean, not other than her ears.  Or, did you mean
me?  I couldn't do that."  

     Andrews waited for a long moment to give McDaniel a chance to offer 
more information on what his wife actually had done, but McDaniel just 
looked at his food.  Shrugging, Andrews made his own offer anyway.  
   
     "It seems to me that your wife likes the way you look when you're
feminized, at least to some extent.  If you want, there are lots of 
things you could do along that line.  Some of them are, as you said, 
'enduring'.  If you want, I can put you in touch with some people who 
are experts."

     "I don't think so," McDaniel said.  Then he looked up at Andrews
and changed his mind.  "Well, maybe.  I wonder . . . "