He was no longer my mildly whimsical, lightly ironic, even-temperedhubby. Some mornings he'd awaken a littlesolemn, maybe mournful, maybe impatient, though he never saidanything.I could tell because in that mood he'd never volunteerto share stories about his day, only answer me listlessly, and he'dapply his make-up as if it were a boring routine, not an artfulhonor.Except about men -- men who did I was sleeping with, men with whom I was cuckolding my sweet hubby.
But most mornings he'd awaken zestful, choose an outfit for the day-- casual, sporty, or dressy -- and do things I'd read aboutafterward. When I looked into it, as I did regularly, it became obvious thathe was now actively seeking out womanly experiences and enjoyingthem, diligently doing his research for his book.
See Cuckold Theoretics or the next few weeks I encouraged my crossdressing husband to think of our new arrangement as normal. Most evenings he'd report that there were no problems, people seemed to assume that's what he was.
He awoke each morning already quite pretty, thanks to Doreen's facial dyes, but we performed our half-hour beauty routines together anyhow.
Once while crossing the quad one of his colleagues in Mathematicsmade a pass at him, inviting him to pass some time in his office,where my crossdressing cuckold husband knew there was a couch.
My cuckold told him primly thathe never dated men, that he lived with another woman and dressedthis way only to please her, and that she was his partner for life. The man got flustered and practically fled, my cuckold told me. He often expressedannoyance at how bold and persistent some men could be, howirritating the intrusions on his attention.