Lately I've been fantasizing about ordering some swimwear, lingerie and shoes online and having it delivered in a plain FedEx box to my office. I would then hide my new fetish items somewhere and indulge in them whenever my wife isn't around.
At times, I feel ridiculous about it. Will I be able to hide it properly from her? Will anyone notice where the packages are coming from when they arrive at the office? How often will I even be able to use it? Is it worth the risk? Other times, I am overwhelmed with longing for self-feminization. Last night, I masturbated in the dining room while browsing for such toys, imagining myself sneaking into the garage and slipping into that glorious silver one-piece swimsuit from Ujena, while T__ sleeps upstairs, none the wiser. I felt shame when I ejaculated, but I was aroused all night.
Even now, having made raucous love with her only an hour and a half ago, I gravitate here to ponder my secret feminization. I have finally developped the setting for my story: the fictional world and characters that I've sought all my life just happen to be centered around my perversion. I want to write about it, develop a web site around it, possibly make some money from it. How can I possibly do this in secret? I love my wife, but I have never had the guts to even hint at my secret desires. How can we be complete together when she doesn't know this most essential truth about me?
Thus, I have inevitably begun to imagine what it would be like for her to know. I would tell her somehow, break it to her gently, but unequivocably. What follows, I can only imagine now. I present a few scenarios, plausible or not, of how it might shake down.
She's in denial at first. Then I prove it to her somehow. She's devastated. She's horrified. She cries for days, refuses to speak to me. She tells everybody, and I'm publicly shamed and humiliated. She files for an annulment. Meanwhile, I continue to cavort in my stash of undies, but I lose my intimate companion, my wife. Remember, I suffered such terrible despair before I met her. It would be unbearable, if not for my pathetic outlet.
Denial, as always. She understands immediately what I'm going through, and she's a bit surprised about it, but enthusiastic about sharing some clothes. She wants us to shop for lingerie as soon as possible, and we immediately romp around in her lingerie. It becomes a staple of our sex play.
She hates the idea. I have crushed her image of me as a masculine sexual powerhouse. She's appalled that I've spent so much of my spare time over the years contemplating this sick delusion of mine. She's livid that I've worn her clothes, and masturbated in them. She weeps for days. She hates me. But she can't stay upset with me, because she loves me. She forgives me, and learns to understand and support my fetish. She adapts to it, and eventually finds it delightfully kinky. She indulges me once in a while, but I have to do her some serious favours to earn the right to do it. We work out a deal that when I buy her lingerie, I get some for me, too.
She'll be devastated, there's no question. But she'll come around. She'll lose a lot of respect for me, and feel terribly betrayed that I never told her before we got married. She won't understand that I still love her, and that I'm not gay. She will insist that I stop, that I never do it again, and that I seek help to kick the habit.
I'm almost fantasizing about wearing that silver swimsuit in the bedroom with her. She'd indulge me to the point of having me shave my body and prance around like a girl. She'd do my makeup and we'd giggle like schoolgirls as we model lingerie.
Perhaps it's preposterous, but damn would it ever make my life easier. I wouldn't have to hide (unless I indulge when she's not around), and I could keep my stash in plain view. However, as I figured above, it's highly unlikely that she'd accept it. Moreover, the more I sneak around, and the more careless I get, the more I risk getting caught. Part of the reason I want my own stash is to avoid using her clothes, and therefore avoid damaging or soiling them. Also, I get to choose whatever strikes my fancy, as long as I can order it inconspicuously. The drawback, of course, is always the risk of her finding it, or worse, catching me in flagrante. It's pretty well guaranteed to happen eventually.
In conclusion, I really must come clean, no matter what. It's going to be extremely difficult, and most likely extremely painful, but it must be done, somehow. At least by telling her, it wouldn't be so much of a shock, and it wouldn't be so heartbreaking.
Too bad it'll never happen.
What I need to do is lead her to it. I've been thinking about really emphasising the lingerie for the next little while. Then I can start admitting at the very least that I have a thing for ladies' underwear. I can reinforce it slowly, and work up to how I have stolen some before. I can gauge her reaction to know how far to go. But I must not stop. I have to continue until she knows all about it, and is sworn to secrecy.