Face the Facts

 Dear friends and fellow admirers of strong women and pretty clothes,

I'm posting a short story, actually more of a snippet I wrote in attempt, of sorts, to reclaim my free will, and my brain, after again falling into the abyss of fooling around with generative AI.

I promised myself I would stay away from that, but all it took was a moment of weakness and I discovered that the new version of ChatGPT was far more lenient regarding the rules of stories with dominant female characters that are intent of feminizing the male hero. As long as the hero has at least token leaning towards femininity, the wife, mother-in-law or the lady boss is allowed to take full control of his destiny. To an extent.

Then, I found that extent to be extended even further with DeepSeek. It has no trouble generating a story where the woman flat out forces the man into femininity. I did still get it to refuse to cooperate a couple of times, but in essence, I was able to recreate most of Bea's scenarios.

The story posted below is also a recycling of Bea's scenarios (and names). Like stated above, I wrote it mainly to prove to myself I am still capable of writing something sensible that is not an AI chatbot prompt, and something that I can wrap up in a limited amount of time.

I'll let you be the judge of whether I succeeded or not, but I do hope you'll like it.

Face the Facts

by Rosie

After weeks of wearing Angela’s jeans that I could sneak under my mother’s radar, the cream colored pants, with their flat front and clearly visible side zip, are something she cannot even pretend not to notice. I try to find an excuse to leave the room, or at least get away from her, but somehow I find myself seated in her living room, almost face to face with her, as Angela is still in the hallway.

“Nice slacks,” she says to me, loud enough for Angela to hear her, and I can already feel myself blushing.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“These are Angela’s, aren’t they?” she says.

“They look good on him, don’t they?” Angela quips and sits next to me.

“Is that your blouse he’s wearing, too?” my mother asks and Angela nods happily.

“Goes well with the slacks,” she says, “Don’t you agree?”

“No complaints at all,” my mother replies, “I’m just surprised, Jake didn’t seem like someone who’d willingly put on women’s clothes.”

“He did need some encouragement,” Angela says, patting my leg.

Shamefaced, I keep my eyes on my lap.

“Some persuasion,” Angela adds.

“Oh!” my mother exclaims, making me look up.

“I guess you’re lucky she doesn’t make you wear a skirt then,” she muses, making Angela laugh.

“Now there’s an idea!” she says.

There is a slight surprise on my mother’s face when I join her in the kitchen with hands full of dirty plates from the table. It doesn’t last long, and she’s in control of the situation before I know it.

“Shouldn’t you be wearing an apron?” she says, “Angela probably won’t like it if you ruin her clothes.”

Before I can reply, she drapes one of her floral aprons over my neck. For a moment, I feel an urge to take it off immediately, but then I remember I have something else to say, so I decide not to start an unnecessary argument. I turn around for her to tie it at the back. Besides, I don’t want Angela finding out I didn’t take proper care of her clothes, if it comes to that.

Clumsily, I push the plates towards the sink and clear my throat.

“Maybe I was wrong to count on support from you, but at least you didn’t have to give her new ideas,” I mutter bitterly, disappointed at the lack of conviction in my voice, further softened by the new addition to my already feminine attire.

“You know what, Jake?” my mother says, “You’ve been acting like an asshole towards Angela. I don’t know how in the world you managed to catch a girl like her, but instead of counting your lucky stars each single day, you were putting on this alpha male macho bullshit. Not that I know whatever you think gave you the right - Angela’s better educated than you, she’s now got a better job, hell, she even looks bigger than you. If making you wear her slacks and shirts helps her put you in your place, then so be it.”

She looks at me challengingly but I cannot think of anything to answer, anything to credibly counter her description of my behavior. I sink my eyes to the floor, and as I do, I notice her give me a thorough look over until her eyes stop at my cream loafers, and the clear flash of pearly nylon on my ankles.

“Does she make you wear her panties, too?” she says, more to herself than me as I let my silence be the answer.

Not for a second did I think that I had a chance of getting out of wearing the skirt. The only shock I got was to learn at the last moment that Angela’s mother, Jennifer, was coming along for the ride with my own mother.

At the end, I am actually revealed when I finally hear the doorbell, and I almost rush to let them in, at the same time bracing myself for their comments when they see me wearing my blue and green checkered, pleated skirt, together with my black cotton blouse, black tights and black ballerina slippers.

“I don’t remember you wearing this particular skirt,” my mothers says to Angela.

“That’s because it isn’t mine,” Angela replies, “This one’s Jake’s own.”

“Oooh,” Jennifer sings, “Got any more skirts, Jake?”

“A couple,” I admit.

“Can’t say you wear the pants in the house, now, can you?” she says to me, “In either sense of the word?”

I feel myself blushing furiously, but then Angela mercifully beckons me to start making coffee and I rush to the kitchen.

When I come back, I have to blush again as the mothers comment on my full apron with the satin frills at the bib, but at least it draws away the attention from my blouse and my skirt, at least for now.

I can spot my mother and Jennifer easily in the sunlit restaurant. Thinking that they must have spotted me, as well, I almost wave at them, when I suddenly realize that they probably don’t recognise me. It’s only when Angela walks through the door that their heads turn in our direction, and by the time we reach their table, they must have figured it out.

“What’s up with Jake?” Jennifer asks.

I feel Angela nudge me gently.

“My name is Margaret now,” I say, quietly, “I will thank you for using that name for me. And…”

I have to pause to keep my voice from breaking. I feel Angela’s arm on my shoulder.

“And refer to me as a woman,” I finish in almost a whisper.

“He was too embarrassed to wear a skirt in public,” Angela explains, “Begged me to change my mind. Cried like a little girl. So I gave him the choice - wear the skirt as a man, or, if he wanted me to, I could help him make him look like a woman.”

“Well,” says Jennifer, “Very pleased to meet you, Margaret.”

The warm afternoon air is a pleasant change from the increasingly crowded restaurant. Clutching the terrace handrail, I turn my face to the breeze, hoping it will blow off the soft glow of the wine that has made its way to my head and anyway, after having eaten my meal, the already tight waistband of my skirt felt even less comfortable sitting down.

Suddenly, a touch on my elbow makes me turn sideways and see my mother clutching it.

“A walk?” she says.

“Sure,” I nod.

She’s not a fast walker, but my three inch heels and my tight pencil skirt are making me have to really work at keeping up with her.

“It’s not unheard of for a man to wear a skirt," she says, “Even in public. Even to a restaurant, to have a meal with his wife, his mother and his mother-in-law.”

“I know, it’s just…” I begin to reply, but she doesn’t seem to be interested in what I have to say.

“It does take some balls to do it, I suppose,” she says, “A little of that alpha male macho swagger.”

I hang my head and silently strut along with her.

“I guess we learned just how macho you really are,” she said, “Haven’t we, Margaret?”

I don’t answer.

“Are you busy tomorrow?” she asks, in a cheerful tone.

I try to think of an answer, wondering how much news of our marriage Angela has given them while I was away from the table.

“No,” I answer earnestly.

“Good,” she says, “I’m taking you to have your ears pierced.”

I look at her and stop in my tracks. She waits for a second or so, then beckons for me to catch up with her. Obediently, I mince towards her and this time I take her outstretched elbow.

Wordlessly, she turns us back towards the restaurant.

“I’ll have to ask Angela first,” I say.

“By all means, honey,” my mother smiles, “By all means.”