Harriet Winstone and Doreen Huckster had been friends from their first day at Southmain High: they had done college together and were both on their way up in professional careers. It was natural that they had married within a month of each other, to husbands who they could count on controlling and ordering about, and there was nothing about their marriages that they didn't share with each other in their lengthy, intimate and daily exchanges by text. Both their husbands, Peter for Harriet and John for Doreen, had been found utterly useless in bed, which didn't faze the women at all. It gave them the perfect excuse to grow closer and closer in their disappointment, with affection that grew warmer and more deeply committed. And if they were to spend the rest of their lives living together, they needed to rid themselves of their painfully unwanted males.

They started of course by dressing them in their own clothes. Harriet told her effeminate husband one day that he was completely out of place wearing men's pants: he was so girly he belonged in her lingerie and dresses, so that was what he was going to wear. She stood him in front of her dresser and opened her drawers of panties and bras and suspenders.

"B-But Harriet, my darling, I - I want to be your husband - a strong male - your man!" he wheedled, close to tears. His hands clasped his blushing cheeks and his knees smoothed together in typically feminine reflexes of nervousness and confusion.

But she dressed him in her panties nonetheless. Who was Harriet Winstone to be deflected from her wishes by the bleating grumbles of this little pansy. She found, of course, that he suited pink silk panties best of all, with a matching brassiere and suspender belt, and when she showed him like this to Doreen, her sweetheart was greatly amused.

"Darling," said Doreen, standing up close to the crimson-faced husband and holding his pantied cock in her hand as she looked him in the eyes, "He is sooo effeminate. Your lingerie is just what was missing. Let's put him into one of your dresses."

So Peter Winstone was soon looking at himself in the mirror in a short cocktail dress in floral white silk, wilting with shame on account of how feminine he looked. That same afternoon Harriet booked him a hair appointment and the two women dressed him in six different dresses. He looked more and more like a girl with each one. Harriet insisted that he sat on the toilet, sat at her dressing table for them to do a complete make-over on him, and the put him into one of his wife's chiffon - "