I opened it up and pulled out an eight by ten-inch photograph - a photograph of me - in full drag. I was dressed to the nines, wearing a bright red spaghetti strap cocktail dress that was made out of tiered layers of chiffon.

Hey gang! I’ve got a new story! I think it’s pretty good. It’s been five years since I posted something new, and I can only blame real life and my apparent inability to write anything shorter than 50,000 words.

One of the nice things I’ve learned about writing is to share the process of creation with others. It’s not just that this keeps me from writing badly, but also because it’s fun to engage other writers. As a result, there are several people to thank. First and foremost is Jill MI. She’s a great editor and put in more time than I could ever thank her for. She has posted many of her own stories (some as Angel Rasch) and edited the work of a number of the writers who post here, and she surely must be one of our community’s biggest supporters and assets. Matti Berliot (who you may know as Dee West if not, check out Home on the Range or a Touch of Palm on FM) is a terrific writer and has been my dear friend for quite a while. She not only helps me avoid mistakes and missteps, but pushes me towards my strengths as well. Dimelza Cassidy, who’s Cornering was (deservedly) such a big hit here recently (read it if you haven’t yet) also contributed insight and much needed advice. I also have to thank Ellen Hayes, my sharpest critic, for pushing me closer and closer to reality, even if I don’t get close enough for her tastes.

With that out of the way, let’s get on with the show. I’m going to post this in thirteen chapters. This is both logical and selfish. Logical because the chapters break the story into logical and easily digestible chunks, selfish because I want to keep the story in your minds for more than just a couple of days, and this is a way of spreading over time. Happy reading.

An unfinished Symphony

by Kelly Ann Rogers

Chapter I It wasn't my fault

"Omigod! Michael, that was delicious," Rebecca said, patting her lips clean. "I really didn't think having you work from home would pan out, but it did, and with delicious side benefits as well." She arched a knowing eyebrow at me as she neatly folded her blue, red, and yellow striped napkin and placed it next to her empty plate. When she looked up, her warm, generous smile was all the reward I needed, especially because she had seemed tense and annoyed with me when she had gotten home.

"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it," I replied, quietly thrilled by her compliment. "It's a new recipe I've been dying to try. Didn't you love the way the cilantro and ginger perked everything up?"

"Ummm. Yeah." she replied, getting up from the table. She had changed from her business suit into jeans before dinner and I watched with quiet pleasure as her lovely ass unaffectedly swiveled towards the living room. It was Friday night and we didn't have anything planned for the weekend.

*Yes,* I thought, as I turned to collect our plates. *This arrangement really is good for both of us.* We'd decided to try it about two years after we had both left our corporate advertising and marketing jobs to start our own company. Rebecca was our CEO and public face. She ran the company, did all the negotiating, and most of the meetings with clients. Her good looks, warm, funny personality, and piercing intellect made her perfect for this job. She was quick to size up both people and situations, and rarely hesitated to make a decision once she figured out what she wanted to do.

I, by contrast, was the artistic one. I was by no means a dummy, but I didn't love the negotiating, personnel work and shmoozing as much as Rebecca. Instead, I did most of the actual design work. I had a great eye and confidence in my esthetic judgment, so I was quite comfortable with artistic decisions, but those were about the only ones I made easily. My sister Leah, a corporate attorney, who, if anything, was even more decisive than Rebecca, always told me that I was too passive and too often just waited for things to happen.

With our creativity and complimentary skills, Rebecca and I had each been big players at the midtown Manhattan advertising firm where we worked. We met on a big project for a Fortune 100 company, which turned out to be hugely successful because of our efforts. That put us on the fast track, both to corporate success and love. After a year, we married, and started saving up the money we eventually used to bank roll our own company, which we call Mind Games. After nearly three years on our own, we had built a solid client base, mostly of small startup companies. They can't afford the big guys with their plush midtown Manhattan offices, but they wanted edgy, eye-catching logos, ad campaigns and product packaging nonetheless. Now, we had six full time employees and a team of about a ten really good freelancer graphic designers, many women with children, who we brought on as we needed them and they were available.

Rebecca oversaw the work of our administrative and copy-writing staff, and I was in charge of the graphic design group. I had always gotten along easily with women, and there was a real feeling of community that allowed the creative juices to flow easily among us. I was really careful to always share the credit with my team, and if one of the freelancers came up with a key concept that helped to make a campaign work, she got a bonus. This kept everybody engaged and eager, and made sure that mine wasn't the only brain on the job.

When we had to bring on a seventh full-timer, we ran out of space at our beloved office/studio. We had both instantly fallen in love with it, which helped convince us just how perfect we were for each other. While we were trying to figure out where to move our offices, I suggested that I work from home. That way we could keep our headquarters in the turn of the century loft we already owned. It was in a building that had once been a factory in a small manufacturing neighborhood in the southern Connecticut town where we now lived. Once totally abandoned, this area had now become quite trendy. Artist galleries, fancy shops and chic restaurants now fill up the lower floors of the old factories and warehouses, while the upper floors have newly renovated condos and lofts. With me at home, we would have room for Roger, a clever young copy writer Rebecca had been trying to recruit for six months.

In order to convince Rebecca that working from home was a good idea, I had promised to handle the housework, shopping, and cooking. It wasn't such a big deal; I was doing most of it anyway. Sadly, I was the neat one. If I didn't keep things neat, no one would. Rebecca's penchant for dropping things wherever she finished using them just drove me nuts; she was like a teenager. What that meant was that while I loved the sexy lingerie that Rebecca wore, I hated picking it up from wherever she had tossed it the night before. But truth be told, once I had gotten the house in order, it just didn't take that much work on a daily basis to keep things neat. And besides, I hired a wonderfully effective cleaning woman to do the heavy stuff.

The other reason I really liked this arrangement was that it gave me plenty of time to dress. I just love women's clothing and the feeling of femininity they give me. Rebecca knew about it; I had fortunately told her not long after we began dating seriously. She wasn't entirely enthusiastic about it, but after we satisfied her curiosity that I wasn't a freak, she was tolerant. She had simply decided it was like a minor disability, something like a limp. We had even made love as women a few times, which she seemed willing to put up with as long as I spent a good deal of time with my tongue in her delicious cunny. But basically, it was my activity, just as teaching Sunday school at our synagogue was hers.

She, of course, immediately understood why I wanted to work at home, and my promise to essentially become the homemaker was the quid pro quo for all the dressing she knew I would indulge myself with. But there were ground rules. First, I had to be completely presentable, and as passable as possible, whenever I was wearing any women's clothes. That meant no panties under my work suits, no pantyhose over unshaven legs, and no dressing like a hooker. I had gone out dressed many times before we met, and was damn good at it, even though I was hardly model-thin, and didn't have the delicate features of some of the real TG beauties I had met. What I did have were large eyes, a killer smile and almost no bulk.

"When you're a man, be a man," Rebecca had said when we discussed it. "But when you're a woman, be a real woman; no caricatures or stereotypes. Take the time to do it right."

Given that first rule, however, I thought the second rule was rather strange. Rebecca didn't want me to wear my breast forms when she was home. She couldn't explain why, but somehow breasts on me really bugged her. At first it annoyed me to take them off at the end of the day, but after a while I thought I had figured it out: the more feminine I looked the more uneasy she felt. My hunch was that Rebecca would put up with my dressing as long as my femininity didn't start to bring hers into question, or something like that. With some experimenting, I soon came to realize that if I was in slacks and a simple blouse or sweater when she came home, she was much more comfortable than if I was in a dress.

I appreciated Rebecca's generosity in this, and I wanted to make it easy for her. So when she was home, and I wanted to dress, I mostly wore women's pants and simple tops. I especially enjoyed a pair of low-cut Diesel jeans with a big, cream-colored, cable-knit turtle neck sweater. I wore either my white Keds, a pair of pink and blue running shoes or any of a number of flats I owned. Underneath would be panties and a nice camisole. In fact, that's what I was wearing this evening. I hadn't done much with my hair, which was collar length with a slight curl at the ends and long bangs that I could sweep over one eye or the other, for a nice feminine look. When I was dressed as a guy, I combed it straight back with gel. Women seemed to like it that way, and I got many compliments, probably because they could easily see my big blue eyes.

My eyebrows were neatly trimmed, with a bit of an arch underneath, but not obviously feminine (at least without makeup!). Tonight I was wearing some smoky brown eye shadow you could hardly see, a touch of mascara, and very light blush, just enough to bring out my rather high cheek bones. I probably looked more androgynous than feminine, but I didn't care. I was dressed in a way that delighted me and didn't appear to make Rebecca feel uncomfortable.

Finally, there was the last rule: keep it private. I wasn't, for example, allowed to have a web site, like so many of my T-girl friends. And I wasn't to go out dressed as a woman. The one exception was that I did get to go to some of the t-girl conventions, as long as they were far away. This was all fine with me. I got to indulge myself more than almost all my online friends, and Rebecca and I had found a comfortable compromise we could live with.

"So what's worrying you?" I asked as I settled into the blue leather wing chair just opposite the matching couch where Rebecca was sitting. She had her favorite pillow snuggled to her chest, with her legs curled under her. With a shake of her head to throw her softly curled dark brown hair off her equally dark eyes, she motioned to the large manila envelope lying on the otherwise artfully arranged coffee table.

I opened it up and pulled out an eight by ten-inch photograph - a photograph of me - in full drag. I was dressed to the nines, wearing a bright red spaghetti strap cocktail dress that was made out of tiered layers of chiffon. It was a flapper style that did a lot to hide my lack of waist and hips, and it had the most adorable fabric belt that rode low around my hips, and closed on the left with a big, red, fabric rose. Of course I was dripping in rhinestone jewelry and gorgeous in full make up. My head was adorned with what had then been my favorite long blonde wig, which had a delightfully feminine spray of bangs, but otherwise was parted in the middle and fell straight top the top of my shoulder blades. I was looking over my bare shoulder, my face full on to the camera. I had a big smile on my face, and I looked great, having emerged from a professional makeover just an hour earlier. I knew just where this had been taken.

As I looked at it, becoming increasingly uneasy, Rebecca said, "Phil Jacobson gave it to me today. He recognized you."

"Ohhh shit," slipped softly from my lips. Phil was one of our biggest clients, and a good friend. Losing his account probably wouldn't kill us, but its steady work made it our backbone account, and we'd really have to hustle to make up for it. And how could I face him now? We hung out together a lot, and were even racquetball partners, typically showering together after a match.

"But honey," I said, feeling both appalled and full of guilt. "I wasn't out in public. That was at the Southern Comfort convention two years ago. You knew I was there."

"Yes, but I didn't know you were posing for pictures. You promised you wouldn't," she said, a hint of anguish in her voice as the fine laugh lines that she hated, but which I loved, showed at the corners of her eyes as she stared at me.

"I wasn't," I protested, my voice starting to rise in indignation. "You can see there are people all around who were cropped out. This must have been someone just taking pictures of the crowd."

"Whatever, you broke your promise, and now Phil knows."

"What can I do? I'll do anything. Did he threaten to drop us?"

"No, he didn’t say anything at all like that."

"Well what does he want? I don't get it."

Rebecca let out a big sigh, glanced briefly down at the picture, which I had carefully placed back on the table so I could easily look at it. Frankly, it was one of the best pictures ever taken of me. She then looked back up at me, sadness in her eyes. "He wants you, my dear. He wants to take you on a date."

"What?" I squeaked again. "I'm not gay. I can't go out with him."

"That's just what I told him. He claims that he only wants you as a companion for the evening. Consider it a business dinner." Her voice was starting to quiver a bit and tears glistened in her eyes.

"Rebecca, this is crazy. I can't just..."

"Yes… you… can," she said firmly, clipping off each word so they were perfectly clear. "Women do this all the time. They go out with clients, behave like the guy is terribly interesting, and if he’s been nice give him a quick peck on the cheek at the end of the evening. And that’s that."

I sat there staring at her stupidly. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. My wife was insisting I go out on a date with a male client, and a friend of mine at that. "I can't," I said again.

"You will," she replied instantly, raising her voice. "Your little," and she said ‘little’ in a way that let me know she meant big, "secret has gotten out, embarrassing me to my core. How do you think I felt when he showed me that picture?"

I looked up, helplessly shaking me head, having not a clue about what to say.

She went on quickly, saving me from saying something stupid. "No, don't guess. Let me tell you. I was humiliated, absolutely mortified. My worst fear had come true. You were supposed to keep your ‘little’ secret, secret. But you didn’t. You selfish shit!"

Bristling at her accusation, I started to respond, “But I didn’t… ,” Then I noticed the tears in her eyes and the frustration on her face. I shut my mouth and grimaced, trying to show her with my eyes how bad I felt for her. It hadn’t been my fault that the picture was taken, but I didn’t have to go to the convention either. My own narcissistic need to show off my great feminine look created the situation that allowed the picture to be taken.

Rebecca was right though, and I would do whatever it took to fix things with Phil.

“You've had your fun and games, and now it's time to pay your dues. You've humiliated me, and if you have to humiliate yourself to make up for it, then so be it," she said sharply.

I flinched at the tone of her voice, and she immediately changed it. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I swore I wouldn't yell at you, and I did anyway. Come here and sit by me," she said with a pained look on her face, and sounding really remorseful.

So I got up and stepped over to the couch, carefully sitting down beside her. I didn't know what to expect and felt totally awkward. Normally when dressed in women's clothes, I would press my thighs together and shift my feet off to one side, sometimes even crossing one ankle over the other. But given the circumstances, I was afraid to look too feminine, and was caught between genders for a moment. Finally I just sat with my legs apart.

Rebecca watched my confusion, apparently amused. But as soon as I was settled, she shifted her position so she was looking straight at me, and took both my hands in hers. "This isn’t a punishment," she said apologetically. "It should be a lot of fun, and I've decided to help you. I don't want you to be embarrassed; I want you to get in the mood and do it as a lark. We've both wined and dined lots of clients, and you know it can be fun if you're in the right mood. And Phil promised he would be a gentleman. Wouldn't it be fun to have a real date with a real guy? Isn't that something you've always wanted to do?"

*Well, yeah, I've had my fantasies about being out on a date with a guy; but I never actually imagined it could happen,* I thought to myself. And doing it with a guy who knew me just seemed all wrong. How could it not be embarrassing? What would I say to him? I mean, we did all kinds of things together. We had gone to football and hockey games, savored unblended scotch and ogled pretty girls, evaluating their various assets. *One thing's for sure, Phil likes long legs and trim assess - just like mine,* I thought ruefully.

I guess Rebecca could see the thoughts flitting through my mind because she pulled me close to her and hugged me. "We'll do it right," she said. "Get you some gorgeous clothes and a full make over - hair, nails, makeup, everything. We'll make you perfect, so no one can read you. You'll love it."

"You're going to help me?" I asked unsurely. "I thought you weren't all that fond of this," I said, spreading my arms and looking down at my femininely clad body. When I saw myself, I almost gagged, because without thinking about it, my legs had come together and shifted themselves to my right, and my left ankle had wrapped itself around the right. *Do I do that when I'm dressed as a guy?* I wondered. But I couldn't dwell on it because Rebecca was answering my questions.

"I wasn't; it's your thing. It doesn't really do anything for me. But I always thought it was mostly harmless, and often rather sweet." She gave me a small smile. "Besides, I figured out long ago that it's a part of who you are, and it probably helps to make you the person I love. Really, I can deal with it." And she gave me one of those anchorwoman nods, which usually annoy the hell out of me, but in this case felt really reassuring.

She went on, "I wouldn’t have decided by myself to let you go out, but since the opportunity presented itself, I started to think that maybe things need to change. It’s time. Now you can help us both by being the sweetest and most feminine girl you can be. In the past, it was always selfish - what you wanted, whether I did or not. Now that Phil is pushing it, and since I think it might be good for both of us, it's something I want to help you with. Really, it is time."

I looked at her slightly askance, not quite sure what I was hearing. Even though I really wanted to believe she was going to help, she was still calling me selfish. Worse, I felt ashamed of myself. Even though I had always known that my dressing was a really self-absorbed thing to do, I had suppressed that knowledge so I could engage in my fantasies guilt free. At the same time, however, I was excited by the prospect of having Rebecca really supportive of Sara, my femme self. I was so happy to hear what I was hearing, I didn’t even bother to wonder why Rebecca had changed her mind about me being Sara or what had changed to all of a sudden “make it time.”

I guess my uncertainty was stronger than I realized because when I asked, "How much time do we have?" I sounded like I was asking how long till my walk to the gallows.

"Oh, don't be so glum," she scolded, cupping my cheek in her soft palm. "This is the opportunity of a lifetime for you. You can wear whatever you want, even a pair of those four-inch heels you love. I’ll bet you can’t wait to show off your legs in some really short skirt and seamed stockings."

The idea of high heels perked me up. I loved them at least as much as Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City, although I didn't own any of the Manolo Blahnik's she so adored. But at five nine, my favorite four-inch stilettos put me well over six feet. When I wore them out, I towered over just about everybody else.

But Phil had to be at least six four. As a guy, he dwarfed me, so as a girl, even in my four-inchers, I'd still be shorter than him. But he wasn't just tall, he was big, a former line backer for the New York Jets before two concussions convinced him that selling high end computer systems was a great career move. No doubt about it, even a tall girl like me would seem dainty next to him, or at least a good fit.

My mind started to drift for a moment, imaging the two of us together. As soon as the image had formed, however, I snapped back to reality. *What am I thinking?* I wondered, slightly startled. I had just imagined myself in a little black dress and my favorite black heels, the ones with the t-strap over the arch. I was standing next to him and he had his arm around my waist and I was looking up at him adoringly.

And then it hit me. "Wait," I almost shouted, snapping my head up to look at Rebecca. "Why in the world would Phil Jacobson want to go out with a crossdresser?"

"He said he likes T-girls. He said he prefers full time shemales, but a hot crossdresser would do in a pinch," she giggled, like a teenage girl telling her friends about the first time she ever held a penis.

"What?" I squeaked again.

"It's true," Rebecca replied doing that stupid anchor nod again. "That's exactly what he said. He didn't even blink. I think he's telling the truth."

"Is he gay? I always thought he had the hots for you."

Rebecca rolled her eyes at me just to be sure I understood how clueless I was. "No, my dear, it's you he's had the hots for. I've seen the way he’s looked at you. And how often do you two go off without me? And what about all those gifts he buys you? He's even given you cologne and jewelry!"

"But those bracelets are copper. They're supposed to keep me from getting arthritis!"

A smile spread slowly over Rebecca's face. "And what would you think if he bought me a bracelet?"

*Holy shit! Was I that clueless?* "You never said anything."

Rebecca paused for a moment and then said, "I just put it together today. The whole thing seemed so far-fetched, I couldn't believe it."

"So he is gay."

"No, bi. According to him he sleeps with women all the time, and enjoys them, although he'd rather be with a guy. One of the reasons I believe him is that he told me a lot about himself, things that could be damaging to him if they got out. I think he purposefully made himself vulnerable to demonstrate that he was on the level."

"Shit, if he likes guys, he's gonna to want to...."

"Michael! Of course he won’t. Would you sleep with a friend’s wife?”

I shamefully shook my head no. I don’t know what I was thinking to say such a thing.

And besides, he said he wouldn't. But he also said that if you want to, he won't say no." Only the twinkle in her eyes gave me any hope she was teasing.

"Well that's not going to happen," I said with as much confidence as I could muster. Unfortunately, it sounded hollow when it came out. Still I went on. "First of all, I'm not gay, and second, there's no way I would cheat on you. I haven't and I won't."

"I know sweetie, and I trust you,” she said patting my knee in what I thought was a rather condescending way. But aren't you in the least bit curious?"

Actually, I was curious; it was something I had first considered not long after I discovered my inner girl. But there was no way I was going to admit that! Instead I lied brazenly. "No. I'm not. I've seen hundreds of men undressed in locker rooms and I never once felt the least little bit of attraction to any of them. Women turn me on, especially you!" At least that was true!

"Oh you're so sweet,” Rebecca replied, this time sounding like she meant it. Then she clinched the deal by putting one hand on my thigh and leaning in to kiss me. Then, with her tongue in my mouth, she reached up with her other hand and started to play with my hair. I spent a lot of time caring for it and it was soft and smooth. After a few moments, I just let myself melt into her.

When she emerged for air, she put both hands on my shoulders, cocked her head flirtatiously and looked at me carefully. "Hmmm, if Phil thinks you're hot, maybe I've been missing something. Wanna go get dressed up for me?"

With that, she dropped her hand to my crotch, and rubbed gently. There really wasn't much to feel because with these jeans I had to do a complete tuck. Nonetheless, her hand on my crotch had the intended effect and I started to swell. I had to shift my position to try to get comfortable.

"Mmmmm," Rebecca replied, her voice soft and sexy. "Does my little Sara like that?"

Sara loved what she was doing. As I looked into her eyes, though, I began to wonder whether Rebecca was up to something. She had never given me any reason to doubt her love for or loyalty to me, but this situation was making me a little paranoid. It was one of those things that seemed too good to be true, although I couldn’t think of anything she might gain from having me go out on a date as Sara — unless… it was some kind of test, or perhaps she was trying to get rid of me. But there was absolutely no evidence for that, so I let go of that idea as quickly as it had appeared as she continued to fondle me.

"What should I wear?" I replied a little breathlessly as I leaned back in to kiss her again.

"I just love your little black dress, the one with the mid-thigh skirt," she said, pulling slightly away from me and talking between little kisses. "And put on some sexy lingerie, including a garter belt. Oh, and your breast forms. I'll see if I can find something just as cute and we'll meet back here in half an hour." Then she kissed me once more and said, "Scoot. Time's a' wastin'."

Even though I took more than forty minutes - I just had to put a quick coat of polish on my nails - I beat Rebecca back downstairs. So I put on some soft music, set the coffee table in front of the couch with wine and cheese, and sat down carefully to have a glass.

*God, a hummingbird’s heart couldn’t beat this fast,* I thought, feeling small and anxious, vulnerable even. *On the other hand, I do feel delicious.* As I settled onto the couch, I rubbed my thighs together to feel the sensuously luxurious joy of one stocking caressing the other.

Rebecca came down ten minutes later. By then I had finished the glass of wine, and gotten up and was standing in front of the three quarter length mirror in the foyer, admiring myself, turning to and fro so that the chiffon skirt of my dress swished around my legs. In addition to the dress, I was only wearing my black pumps and black nylons. I had underdone my makeup except for my red, red lips and darkly lined eyes. My nails matched my lips.

Since I wasn't watching the stairs, the first I became aware of Rebecca was when I heard, "Hey babe, lookin' good."

I spun around, deeply embarrassed to be caught admiring myself, and saw Rebecca standing before me with a smirk on her face. But she wasn't dressed "cute." Instead, she was wearing tight black jeans, a stretchy, figure hugging, black turtle neck sweater and a short black leather jacket. She was wearing her ankle boots, which had sharply pointed toes and a spike heel. She had on no makeup and her hair was pulled severely back into a pony tail low on the back of her head.

*Omigod! She's a dyke.*

"Whatsa matter babe? You too good to talk to me?"

"N..n..no," I stammered, trying to get my voice right. "I...I'd love to talk with you. Would you like to join me for a glass of wine? I hate drinking alone." I pointed to the living room. *I can play this game. If she wants to role play, I'm willing to see where it goes.*

"Sure babe. What's your name?"

"Uhh.., uhh, Sara," I finally replied. *Why am I so nervous?*

"My name's Becca," the black clad woman who was trying to pick me up replied.

*Becca? Rebecca hates it when people call her that. I guess she's not going to be Rebecca tonight.*

"Becca, huh?" I like that. It's a strong name."

"You bet babe."

*Babe?* I thought. *I'm four inches taller than you.*

"And I'm gonna take care of you tonight," she went on. "Just you wait."

I didn't have to wait long. After a couple of glasses of wine and a few dances, which we at first stumbled through as she tried to lead and I tried to follow, she ravaged me - first on the couch, and then later in our room. She insisted on calling my penis, clittie, and refused to let me use it for its intended purpose until the very end. By that time, she had me flat on my back, and before she finally impaled herself on me, she made me beg her to fuck me.

As we fell asleep, I was still wearing my garter belt and stockings. I was too exhausted and too sated to move from the now wet spot where she had finished me off.