Schrödinger's Girl, Ch. 08

I stared at the mirror in shock as a smiling Sammy smoothed my freshly trimmed bob into a ponytail.

Amber, the salon's makeup artist, had talked me into letting her clean up my eyebrows. "Just the stray hairs on your eyelids, hon," she had said.

To her credit, she did exercise restraint; but she had reshaped them in a way that was obvious. They somehow complemented my long-lashed almond eyes in a way that made them pop.

More than ever, I looked like a young version of my mother--with her heart-shaped face, plump lips, and snub nose.

"Noel, Noelle, Noel, Noelle!" sang Sammy in a passable tenor.

By good fortune, that afternoon was one of our "heads down, no meetings" days at work, so I got through the rest of the day without anyone commenting on my appearance.

When I got home, my wife Liz looked at me, her lips quirking. "What happened to you?"

"The makeup artist at the salon got over-enthusiastic," I sighed. "Or over-ambitious."

"Spooky. You look like your mother did when she and I first met. Oh, well--eyebrows grow back," Liz said with a smile. "Your hair looks nice."

"Thanks. They're not going to grow back before tomorrow night's concert, but I can live with that," I replied.

The next evening, Liz and I drove to a performance of Mahler's "Resurrection" symphony at a posh performing arts center about forty-five minutes south of us. The usual vibe of concert-goers was dressy casual, not black tie.

I decided to stealth-dress for the occasion--women's black viscose pants, a cream-colored boyfriend fit stretch button down shirt, a black blazer that was advertised as unisex but had more of a feminine cut, and black chukkas.

Liz wore a deep blue sleeveless sheath dress that flattered her slim, fit figure, and contrasted with her creamy skin. Pointy toed booties with stiletto heels (that I had sometimes borrowed) completed her ensemble, along with a dark blue wrap against the evening chill.

Traffic delayed us, and Liz wanted to attend the preview talk that preceded the concert by an hour, so I dropped her off in front of the concert hall, and drove off to park.

As I was walking to the venue, I felt a pop at the back of my neck, and groaned. The elastic band holding my hair in a ponytail had broken. I thought I might have some elastics in my glove box, but turning back would cost me another five minutes.

Well, there was nothing to do but own it. I fluffed my hair out and smoothed it into place; it still retained the fragrance from the hair salon, and fell softly just past my shoulders.

"Enjoy the concert, miss," said the usher as she handed me a program. I was somehow ten minutes late for the preview, and they were no longer seating people, so I headed for the coffee bar to kill the rest of the hour.

As I wandered the lobby, sipping my cortado and admiring the architecture, a tall, older gentleman in a docent's blazer approached me with a smile. He had a tanned, affable face, dark hair swept back from his brow, and an overall patrician air.

"Good evening, young lady," he said. "I'm glad to see you're enjoying our splendid concert hall. First time?"

"Not at all," I replied. "But I haven't spent much time just looking around at the building."

"The Hall is a wonder, I will say," he said. He stepped closer and leaned toward me; I caught a waft of expensive cologne. "Do you know that the chandelier above us," he said, gesturing, "is entirely made of Baccarat crystal?"

"I did not! It's a lovely work," I said as I turned my face upward. He studied me with a smile.

"Gustave Duchamps, at your service," he said with a slight bow.

"Noelle B, a pleasure to meet you, Gustave."

"All mine, my dear. There's almost an hour before the concert, perhaps you'd like a quick tour?" said Gustave. I could dimly hear the voices of interviewer and interviewee from the preview show emanating from the closed concert hall doors.

"Very quick, I think." I drained my cortado and tossed the cup. "Full disclosure, I've been onstage for the Choral Festival," I said.

"Ah, then let's explore the other end of the building," he said. After a short walk down a side passage, Gustave ushered me inside a narrow elevator.

The door closed without noise, and the elevator rose with little apparent motion. At last, the doors opened on the highest level of the hall--what the seating charts called the Grand Tier. Rows of seats fell vertiginously away, allowing a view of the entire stage even from this height.

Gustave delivered me back to the lobby with time to spare, and bowed over my hand as we parted.

"Thank you, Noelle, for indulging an old man. Should you ever find yourself unattached," he said with a wink, "please do look me up."

Half the orchestra was seated and warming up; I ambled down the aisle, my attention on the hubbub and cacophony onstage.

A trio of gentlemen coming the other way parted, smiling at me as I bobbed my thanks and walked past.

That's when I saw Liz; she was watching me wide-eyed, her lips parted.

We were seated in the front row of what the seating chart called the Orchestra Terrace, so at least I wouldn't have to climb over anyone to reach Liz.

An elderly lady usher who was standing at an intersection of the aisles glanced at my ticket, and gestured toward where my wife was seated.

"Thank you, miss, enjoy the concert," she said.

"Thank you," I replied, and wondered if I had just answered in Noelle's voice.

My hair and my hips swung as I strode toward Liz, who stood up to greet me, that wondering look still on her face.

"Where have you been, Noel? You missed a fascinating preview program."

"Sorry, it took forever to find parking, and it was too late to be seated when I got in, so I went for a coffee."

"What happened to your hair?" she asked, surveying my hair, my face, and my clothes.

"My elastic snapped when I was walking in from the parking structure, and I don't have a spare."

Liz just sighed and took my hand, and we took our seats as the orchestra began to tune.

The following morning, we ate a light brunch in our kitchen. Liz was meeting dental school chums for lunch, while I planned to do some trail running at a nearby regional park.

I found my sweats drawer empty, recalled that I had loaded the laundry yesterday, and checked the status of the dryer on my phone. "Crud," I said, seeing it offline.

"What's wrong, Noel?" Liz asked as I traipsed through the kitchen en route to our detached laundry room.

"I think the laundry room breaker tripped," I replied. "All of my sweats are probably sitting in the dryer, still wet."

When I returned, Liz was holding a pair of sweatpants and matching top folded over her arm. "Here, wear mine."

"Yours?"

"They're Adidas," she shrugged, "they all look the same to me."

The sweats were a dark blue fabric with a silk-like sheen. I put them on over compression underwear. I was surprised to find them a bit snug, although my wife and I were about the same size. The sweats clung to my feminine form.

I selected a denim cap from my collection, rearranged my hair from the tech guy ponytail I normally wore into a higher one, and fastened the fit-strap underneath it.

I was filling my canteen in the kitchen when Liz walked in, dressed for lunch in a teal poplin shirt, dark stretch pants, and black ballet flats.

"Oh, Noel, your butt in those sweats..." she said with a smile. Her mouth opened when she looked at my face. "I don't know why, but--your eyebrows really make your face look different when you're wearing a hat."

I screwed the top on my canteen as I tried to process her reactions. I decided to keep things simple, and replied, "You look nice. I hope you enjoy your lunch with the girls."

"I do too," she said as we walked to the door. I got the feeling that Liz didn't always enjoy the company of her fellow alums.

I gave her a squeeze, opened her car door for her, and waved as she drove off.

The regional park sprawled over more than six hundred acres, and contained a large number of trails. It was a popular training spot for school teams. I found one such group ready to set off for their run. Judging by the print on their grey cotton sweats, they were a visiting women's rowing team.

"Excuse me, how far are you ladies running?" I asked.

A heavily freckled redhead--their coxswain, I guessed, considering that she was the smallest in the group--looked up and said, "Ooh, check out Ms. Track Suit. Not how far, how long. One hour."

"Works for me. Mind if I run behind you?"

"If you think you can hang with us," said the coxswain with a grin.

While the girls were in superb condition, they weren't runners as such. The coxswain gave me a thumbs up when she glanced back at me at a bend in the trail, and saw me gliding along in their wake.

An hour and change later, I waved good-bye to the girls after taking part in their cool-down, wobbled to my car, chugged my canteen dry, and drove home.

I stood in the hot spray of my shower until my fingers started to wrinkle, turned off the water, shampooed, then turned it back on to rinse.

I thought I heard the rumble of the garage door, but it was much too early for Liz to be back. I put it down to the noise of our tankless water heater keeping up with my long, hot shower.

I was loading up the loofah with hot water and castile soap when Liz stepped into the shower.

I stayed facing the shower head, not wanting to expose the front of my torso and my budding breasts. "Liz? What--"

"The restaurant had an equipment issue, so lunch was curtailed. Here," she said, reaching for the loofah. I put it in her hand, and she squeezed soapy water down my back and started scrubbing it.

"I thought it was time I had a talk with my pretty hubby anyway," she said. She fondled my soapy butt with her bare hand. "My pretty hubby... and her pretty body."

She reached over my shoulder and squeezed soapy water onto my budding breasts. "Turn around, Noel."

I turned slowly and with great trepidation.

Liz gasped as she saw my breasts fully exposed for the first time. "Oh, Noel, you're almost past budding," she said, staring at my chest.

Taking a deep breath, I took the loofah from her unresisting fingers, squeezed the last of the soapy water onto her back, and gently ran the loofah up and down her spine.

Liz gently circled my breast buds with her long fingers as I stepped closer to her.

Her alabaster skin glowed in the muted light of our shower; her lovely face flushed as she touched my soapy nipples.

"I've never touched another person's breasts before," she said softly as she lathered my breasts with circular motions. I dropped the loofah into the catch bucket and took Liz's toned, silken butt in my soapy hands as she squeezed my breasts more firmly. Eventually, she was tugging at my erect nipples as though she were milking me.

She paused and looked at me with a mixture of shyness and excitement. "Let's finish washing up and get out of here."

We finished washing up, dried off, and tumbled into bed, hair still damp.

Liz rode me in cowgirl position, her eyes closed, her thumbs flicking my nipples rhythmically. She was usually inhibited enough that we tended to make love with the lights off, but here she was, bare and aroused in the afternoon light, riding me with abandon.

I tended not to last long with Liz in cowgirl position. I found it too stimulating; it felt like being swaddled in warm, pliant girl. But I could tell that she was building toward an orgasm, so I bit my tongue and focused on that.

Liz shuddered as she came, then moaned softly as I loosed a load of cum into her. She collapsed on me with a sigh.

A little later, I stood at the counter, preparing to make pour-over coffee. At Liz's insistence, I wore a short silk happi coat of hers and nothing else. It ended at my hips and left my ass bare; my torso was visible through its unbelted front.

Liz, in peach sweatpants and a white henley, set a saucer of lemon pound cake slices on the kitchen island and stood watching me work.

She said, "When you walked into the concert hall yesterday, I knew it was you, but it was like looking at a stranger. You looked so comfortable and so natural. You weren't pretending to be a woman; you were one. You even answered that usher in a woman's voice."

The electric kettle chimed. I inserted and prepped the coffee filter, then measured out the grounds as I considered my response.

"When I was a boy, I discovered I could sound like my mother, and I started answering the phone as her, as a joke. Even after my voice changed, I could still sound like her."

I glanced at Liz, who was looking at me intently, but not with anger, and asked, "When I was walking to my seat last night, you were looking at me with surprise. What was going through your mind?"

Liz pursed her lips and replied. "You've always been... feminine. Not swishy, not girly--it's just your vibe. When you and I got serious, my sister Marly used to troll me about marrying someone who was almost as pretty as I was."

I remembered one summer in college, working in the dorm kitchens, when a smart-ass co-worker described me to one of the cooks as muy femenina. I had always wondered what people who made that observation saw in me.

Liz continued, "Your body has always had this thing where, the more slender you got, the more feminine you looked, and I convinced myself that the changes I was seeing were down to that. But when I saw you last night, I realized that the changes were more than just superficial."

I poured hot water in a spiral pattern over the coffee grounds as I listened. I stopped the pour to let the grounds bloom, and said, "I know it's not your style to scream and throw things, but... what are you feeling?"

My wife stared at me in something like disbelief for a few seconds, then said, "My husband turned himself into a girl, and didn't think to tell me. How do you think I feel?"

I sighed, and said, "I'm sorry. I've spent most of my life hiding that part of myself from the world. It's not something that people can understand or accept, you know? A man wanting to dress in women's clothes; a man wanting to present himself as a woman."

I finished pouring, watched the coffee drip for a moment, and continued. "When the changes started becoming visible, I loved them, but I didn't know how to tell you about them."

Liz was quiet a moment, then replied, "I get that. I get all that. Do you remember Mila?"

Mila graduated from dental school maybe four or five years after Liz, who had been a TA for a number of the batches following hers. My first thought when we were introduced was that she could have been my wife's sister; like Liz, Mila was unusually fair for a Filipina, was taller than average, and carried herself with the same air of coolness and elegance.

Liz continued, "I knew Mila when she was an undergrad, when she was a scared, shy boy named Milo. People like to talk to me, and tell me their problems, you know? And one day, Milo came out to me."

I goggled at Liz. Sweet, lovely Mila was trans?

"By then, I knew most of the right people who could help Mila become herself," Liz continued. "I was there to help her through the rough spots; and she graduated from dental school as Mila."

I poured out frothed milk and coffee into our mugs as I tried to come to grips with this revelation.

As I brought the coffee to the island, Liz asked, "Your breasts are still developing, but the rest of your body is so feminine. How far do you want to go? Do you want to become Noelle full time?"

I tried to assess the question dispassionately, but it was in every way existential. I was never just a crossdresser; when my compulsion took me, I wanted to be a girl.

I took a sip of coffee and gave it a mental seal of approval. "I love being able to dress like a girl and have people see me as one." I took another sip, and met my wife's eyes. "But I love being your husband, and I wouldn't change that for anything."

Liz nodded. "I am annoyed with you, and I am hurt that you couldn't share your secret with me. But I can't find it in myself to punish you." She eyed me standing there half-dressed in a thin silk garment. "But I will expect a penance from you."

===

My penance was for Noelle to be Liz's housemaid for two weeks.

"You have vacation time you need to burn anyway, right?" she said with a twinkle. "It will give you a chance to share Noelle with me. Maybe Noelle and I can do things together, you know? I'll leave you an envelope each morning with your duties and what you're expected to wear as Noelle.""

I stood in my kitchen wearing a bib apron and nothing underneath, prepping the ingredients for dinner. The apron was made of a filmy black fabric with pink polka dots, and trimmed with pink lace. It was so filmy that my boy bits were often evident, so I tucked and taped. Apart from a pink loop around my neck and a pink belt around my waist, my backside was bare.

The apron deserved a little dressing up, so I borrowed a pair of high heel mules with fluffy black trim, and put on my favorite dark cherry lipstick and a coat of mascara.

I was just about to start cooking when the doorbell rang. Not thinking, I walked to the front door, my heels clicking, and pulled it open. A delivery man stood staring at me, then broke into a wide grin. "You need to sign for this package please, miss."

I carefully kept my front side toward him as I scribbled on the small tablet that he held as he looked me up and down.

"What's the name?" he asked, looking at the electronic scrawl.

"Noelle," I replied.

He leaned in and said softly, "I'm Cary. Do you want to have some fun, Noelle?"

Bold. I leaned against the doorjamb and smiled. "Thanks, Cary, but my wife would object. Oh, here she is now," I replied, seeing Liz's car turn in from the street.

"'Wife?'" said Cary, turning and watching the car come up the drive. "Oh, now that's a damn shame." He turned on his heel and walked away.

Liz came around the corner after Cary had passed, and grinned when she saw me standing there demurely. "Oh, he must have liked what was behind Door Number One," she said.

I giggled and said, "He propositioned me."

I saw Cary look back at us as he reached his truck. I turned my back to him and wiggled my bare derrière. When I turned back, his flushed face was clearly evident. He jumped into his van and peeled away.

"Why Noelle," said Liz. "What a naughty housemaid you are!" She gave my ass an affectionate pat as she walked by. I turned and stood exposed in the open doorway for a few delicious moments before I closed the door and went to cook dinner.

Liz decided to assist only with the junior black belt class that evening, so we had time to eat dinner before I drove her to our dojang.

Dinner was simple--stir-fried baby bok choy and shiitake mushrooms, with a side of steamed rice. As was our habit, Liz and I dined at our kitchen island. Liz wore a compression shirt and her taekwondo pants, while I perched on my stool in the bib apron and heels.

"Do guys often hit on Noelle?" asked Liz.

"I tend to choose venues where I can be seen, but not approached," I replied, "like a mall or a public market near closing time."

I tried not to think of how Walter had flirted with me at the cherry stand in the public market, and how my nipples had hardened in response to his attentions. I also tried not to think about how I was tempted to do to him what I had done to the cherries he'd offered.

Liz knew me too well, though. "Oh, so you have been hit on as Noelle," she said with a grin. "How do you deal with it? How do you feel about it?"

I felt myself blush. "It's validation, of course. If some guy sees me as an attractive woman, I figure I'm doing something right." I paused and took a sip of tea. "Usually, when I tell them that my wife would object, that cools their jets. Like our friend the delivery guy."

Liz paused with her chopsticks positioned as if she was going to catch a fly, staring off into space. She snapped back into focus, looked me in the eye, and said, "I can't decide whether I want to hear the details of Noelle's escapades or not. But do try to stay safe out there--Noelle."

The next day, my menial household tasks done, I showered and opened that day's envelope that described my duties as Noelle the housemaid--including my outfit.

The white pleated scrap of fabric that called itself a tennis skirt plainly would never see a court. It was paired with a cropped zip-front white halter.

The skirt came with a pair of undershorts that I thought took the fun out of the outfit. I set them aside, took my duffel of Noelle's things from my car, and pulled out a white lace string thong.

The skirt sat low on the feminine hips and ass that I'd developed under estrogen's magic influence, leaving the thong's lacy straps visible, riding my hip bones. Its hem barely covered the little crease where my slender thighs met what Liz called my 'plump, pretty butt'.

The white halter was lightly padded, and left my toned midriff bare.

I put on full makeup, pulled my hair into a high ponytail, and fastened a white visor underneath it.

To complete the outfit, I raided Liz's closet for a pair of white high-heeled wedge sneakers.

My heart was pounding as I parked outside the sporting goods store and walked through the parking lot in my hot tennis whites. I tucked my Ray-Bans into my white spaghetti-strap purse and wandered the aisles, enjoying the glimpses of the tennis babe I saw in mirrors.

Noelle's task was to stock up on the compression underwear that Liz and I habitually wore under our taekwondo uniforms.

There was a counter in the tennis section with a couple of stringing machines, one in use by a grizzled stringer, and a rack of demo racquets in front of it. A familiar red frame caught my eye, and I pulled it out and hefted it. It was the same model I had at home.

"That's a nice racquet, young lady," came a voice. I turned and saw a fit, mustachioed middle-aged man in tennis wear coming my way; he had wavy brown hair and an easy smile.

"Yes, I have one just like it," I replied.

"Ah. Do you play much?" he asked.

I hadn't played tennis since injuring my Achilles over a year ago, but I had played on a high school team that won the state championship. I dissembled and said, "Oh, I only started playing last year; I'm just getting into it."

He smiled and said, "I'm Coach John. You look like a natural. Would you like a few pointers?"

"Hi, Coach John, I'm Noelle. Sure; here in the store?"

"Right here," replied John, indicating a baseline painted on the floor, maybe ten feet from the tennis counter.

I walked over, racquet in hand, and smiled up at him.

"Ready position," said John. "Feet shoulder width apart, racquet up, and bend your knees." He stood behind me, placed his hands on my hips, and pushed down gently. I bent my knees, and my weight shifted back under John's guiding hands; my scantily-clad derrière found John's crotch. To my surprise, there was already a hard bulge there.

As John pulled me back against him, I centered the cleft of my ass on his bulge. I asked in an innocent tone, "Coach John, I see the pros bounce up and down when they're in ready position, should I do the same?" and began to slide up and down on his bulge. The back of my skirt must have ridden up, because I could feel John's shorts between my bare cheeks.

John groaned, "Yes, yes, that's perfect, Noelle." His hands gripped my hips as he pressed more firmly against my butt. His thumbs started to slide under the lacy strings of my thong and caress the skin there.

I dropped my racquet, pivoted left, and caught his left hand, twisting his thumb inward. I reinforced the wrist lock with my other hand as I turned to face him.

"Coach John! Playing with my panties is not part of the lesson!" I said as I pushed the wrist lock enough to make him step back.

I released him, deliberately smoothed my thong strings back over my hips, and turned my back on him.

The grizzled stringer was smirking at John; he gave me a surreptitious thumbs-up as I picked up the racquet (mooning John in the process) and replaced it in the demo rack. I smiled at the stringer and sauntered away to complete my errand.

I could barely keep a straight face in the checkout line as the incident with Coach John replayed itself in my head.

"Someone's having a good day," said the young female checker as she scanned my purchases.

I put on my Ray-Bans and practically skipped to my car.

My penance was off to an interesting start.