My Landlady Had Different Plans - Part 4

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"Oh my darling!" gushed Mrs. Johnson as soon as she saw me. "I'm so happy I can't tell you! I thought today might be today."

She gave me a kiss on the cheek and pulled me into a warm hug.

Mrs. Johnson had just come back from her charity event and I had greeted her at the door wearing the vintage 1950's housedress she had picked out for me days earlier that I finally had the courage to wear.

"You have made an old lady very happy," she said, blinking back tears of joy. "Now, let's sit and talk." She led me to the kitchen table, where she pulled out two glasses and poured us both some wine.

"Now, my dear, how do you feel?" Mrs. Johnson asked, placing a hand on my knee.

"Nice," I admitted. "Scared. Nervous."

"Shhhhh," she said, soothingly, stroking my leg. "There's no need to be nervous or scared. Do you trust me?"

"Yes," I said. "Absolutely."

"Do you willingly put yourself into my hands?"

"Yes, Mrs. Johnson."

"Then why are you trembling so? Why are you scared?"

"Because," I said, starting to shake. "I put on this dress and…"

"And..?" she prompted.

"And I love it," I cried. "I want to wear it forever. But what does that mean? What will become of me?"

I sank to the floor, sobbing my heart out. Mrs. Johnson reached down and pulled my head into her lap.

"Oh, my poor sweet darling," she said, stroking my hair. "Please don't worry. Please don't be scared. I know exactly what will become of you."

"Y-you do?" I asked, looking up at her.

"Yes, my dear. You will become a wife for my daughter."

"A… what?" I asked, shocked.

"A wife. For my daughter."

"But Jessica hates me!" I said, without thinking. "There's no way she'll want me for her…."

I paused. Oh my god. What was I saying? Was I really saying that word?

"… wife," I finished.

My mind was a whirl of confusion. What was happening to me? Here I am arguing about the practicality of the plan when I should be rejecting the idea out of hand! Did this mean I was already accepting that someday I could actually be someone's wife?? And what did that say about me? About who I was… about who I am… inside?

"She will," Mrs. Johnson said. "I'm sure of it. Jessica is a headstrong girl, she takes after me in that way. But she also takes after me in other ways. I know that she does. I've seen indications."

"But she has a boyfriend," I said. "Why should she want me, when she has… him?"

"You mean that white trash, Randy Thomas?" Mrs. Johnson scoffed. "He's not right for her. No, she needs someone who will adore her and take care of her. Someone like you, Paul."

"Melissa," I corrected her.

"Melissa?" Mrs. Johnson said, taken aback. "Did you really say Melissa?"

"Yes?" I said, but with a question mark, suddenly worried. "Is that okay?"

"Of course it's okay! But did Jessica tell you that name? Did you see it somewhere?"

"No, not at all. It just… It just came to me. Why?"

"Because," Mrs. Johnson paused for a long time. "Because that was my husband's name. When we were dressed as women."

At Mrs. Johnson's suggestion, I changed into a nightgown for bed. It was a simple, long white cotton nightgown with pink embroidery and delicate lace trim.

"This is the proper nightgown for a housewife," Mrs. Johnson had said when she picked it out for me to wear.

"Yes, Mrs. Johnson," I said, humbly, as I ran my hands down the soft cotton folds.

"Melissa," Mrs. Johnson hummed as she thumbed through the racks of dresses in my closet. "Melissa. I just can't believe it. And you say it just came to you?"

"Yes," I said, standing beside her with my hands folded in front of me.

"It's just amazing. Melissa. My Melissa. Now here, for Jessica."

"But what if Jessica doesn't accept me?" I asked, as Mrs. Johnson held out a dress to me, decided against it, and returned it to the rack.

"Oh, she will."

"But what if she doesn't?" I persisted.

"Why Melissa, you're shaking!" Mrs. Johnson said, grasping my hand. "Are you really that worried?"

"Yes," I whimpered. "What if Jessica doesn't accept me and I'm left all alone. And then no one will want me because, you know, I'm a man dressed as a woman, and god knows I can't go back to my family, my father would completely freak out, and then what will become of me?"

"Shhh, shhh, dear, it will be okay," Mrs. Johnson pulled me into a hug and held my head to her breast. "You will always have me. And this room. And your very own closet full of clothes."

"Really?" I asked in a small voice.

"Yes, really, for as long as you want, and for as long as you are a good girl."

"A good girl?"

"Yes, dear. A good girl. It's important that you be a good girl… my good girl. And as long as you are a good girl, then this house will always be your home, and this room will always be your room, and these clothes will always be your clothes."

"Thank you, Mrs. Johnson," I said. "But what does it mean to be a 'good girl'?"

"Obedience," she said simply.

I gulped. "Obedience?" I asked. I felt a shiver run through me.

"Yes, dear. Obedience. To me, first and foremost, and then Jessica."

"Okay," I said. "Ma'am."

"Oh, sweetie," Mrs. Johnson pulled me into another hug. "You don't need to worry. You're already such a nice, humble, thoughtful, and considerate girl that obedience to your betters comes naturally to you. Do you trust me?"

"Yes," I said, without hesitation.

"And so then all I ask is for you to continue to trust me, and then, through that trust, obey me. And as long as you trust me and obey me, and as long as you are always that modest, considerate girl that I know you are - deep down inside - then this will be your home."

"Thank you, Mrs. Johnson," I said, truly meaning it.

"Also, I will admit that I have an ulterior motive."

"An ulterior motive?"

"Yes, indeed. I want you to be my spy. To spy on Jessica."

"Your spy? Really?" I looked at her, shocked. "But she's you're daughter! Why would you need me to spy on her?"

Mrs. Johnson sighed.

"I'm afraid you'll only understand when you have daughters of your own. Of course you want them to be independent and successful, but at the same time you miss them so terribly! And then they drift away from you and somehow you bear up, because you must, but that doesn't mean you have to like it. And so I want you to be my obedient and faithful spy. To help keep me connected with my daughter, tell me what's going on, and to help me to maintain a close connection with her. Because…"

She placed a hand on the back of my neck and gently stroked it.

"… because I miss her so," she finished. "Does that make sense? Do you understand?"

"I think so."

"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Johnson went back to sifting through the racks of clothes. "There! I think this one will do." Mrs. Johnson held out a belted dark blue dress with a collar done in a fun, flowered print. The skirt was A-line with soft, feminine folds.

"I think it's just the right sort of dress for an aspiring intern at a local museum," she said, smiling.

"Wha-what do you mean?" I asked, nervously. "About this being the 'right sort of dress'?"

"Now you'll need pantyhose, of course," she continued, ignoring me, "and some practical black flats…" The shoes she chose were basic black, with a light pink interior.

"…and of course a matching purse to hold all your things." The purse was a classic dusty-pink leather bag.

"But doesn't the bag need to match the dress?" I asked.

"Oh honey, no one does that anymore. See? The bag will bring out the color in the collar." Mrs. Johnson showed me the two items together, and I had to agree with her; the two really did look smart together.

Mrs. Johnson led me out of the closet. Back in the bedroom, she hung the dress on the back of the closet door, facing the bed, and put the shoes and the purse on the floor, to the side.

"Come, let's sit together," she said, leading me over to the bed where she had me sit so that I was facing the dress. Mrs. Johnson took a second to arrange my cotton nightgown, smoothing it out, and then she sat next to me and pulled me into a hug, her arm encircling my waist, and gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek.

"Now this dress is a very special dress," she said, referring to the dress hanging on the closet door.

"A sp-special dress?" I stuttered, suddenly worried. "Why is it so special?"

"Now I don't want to pressure you," Mrs. Johnson said, "and so we will do this like before, okay? And this starts by warning you not to touch the dress."

"Don't touch the dress?" I asked, fearfully. "Why not?"

"Because, this dress is special. When you touch the dress, it is a sign that you want to wear the dress."

"Okay…"

"And so, when you touch the dress, you will have to call this number."

From somewhere Mrs. Johnson pulled out a piece of paper with a phone number and placed it into my hands.

"Whose number is this?" I asked.

"That's the number for Richard's cell phone. Richard Anderson."

"The museum director?" I gasped.

"That's right, Melissa. The museum director. Your boss's boss. And do you know why you will need to call the museum director?"

"Uhhhh…" I thought I knew, but even though my mouth opened, no words came out.

"Because," Mrs. Johnson continued, "you will need to tell him that you have decided to transition, and that you will be coming to work, every day for the rest of your life, as a woman."

"Oh, no…" I moaned.

"Oh yes," she corrected. "Now, Melissa, put your trust in me. Remember to obey m,e and everything will be okay." Mrs. Johnson put a hand on my chest and gently caressed it.

"Everything is happening too fast," I said. "Can't you talk to the director for me?"

"No, that wouldn't work. You need to talk to the director because you need to be the one to say the words. Do you know what words those are?"

"I… uh…"

"Here, I'll help you. Here is what you will say to Richard when he picks up. You will say, 'Hi, Mr. Anderson, this is Paul Kelly.' Go ahead, Melissa, say it."

"Hi Mr. Anderson, this is Paul Kelly," I repeated, feeling the hairs on my arms prick up.

" 'I want to tell you…' "

"I want to tell you…"

"… that I have decided to transition to being a woman full time."

"… that I h-have… d-d-decided…. t-to…" I halted, my breath suddenly coming out in short gasps, my heart racing.

"Shhhh, oh honey, it's okay. I understand that this is a big step. You don't have to say it until you're ready, okay? Just remember, don't touch the dress."

"Don't touch the dress," I repeated, looking at the dress and all that it symbolized.

"That's right. Don't touch the dress, because if you do, you will need to call Richard and tell him that you are transitioning full time. Okay?"

"Yes, Mrs. Johnson," I said, humbly.

"That's my girl. My beautiful, modest, obedient girl. And once you have told Mr. Anderson that you are transitioning full time, then when you wake up the next morning, you will need to prepare yourself, shave and use makeup, choose some nice but functional underwear, put on the pantyhose, the dress and the shoes and then come see me and I will drive you to work. We certainly cannot have you riding a bike to work! Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand. But why?" I pleaded. "Why do I need to transition full-time? Why can't I just dress up at home?"

"Oh my dear!" Mrs. Johnson said, kissing me again, this time her lips lingering a bit. "You called this home! Oh, I am so happy you feel that way!"

"Well, it is. It feels more like home than where I came from."

"Oh, that is so sad."

"It's true," I shrugged my shoulders. "But you didn't answer my question. Why do I have to transition full-time? Why can't I just continue to dress up at home?"

"What is your name, dear?"

I looked down at the floor for a long time.

"Melissa," I said.

"That's right. You are Melissa. And would Melissa dress up as a man when she went to work?"

"No," I admitted. "I guess not."

"That's right. But there's also another reason."

"What's that?"

"It's Jessica. We need to show her that this is you. That you really are Melissa. The only way that Jessica will accept you as her wife is if it's perfectly clear that you are fully committed, do you understand? You need to be fully committed with no hope of returning to your old life. She needs to understand that this is your choice and your destiny. That's the only way she would agree to make you her wife."

I gulped. Fully committed? No hope of return?

Mrs. Johnson turned me to face her. She placed a lingering kiss on my lips.

"Do you understand, Melissa?" she asked softly. Her face was right next to mine. I could smell her makeup and perfume and feel her warm breath on my cheek. I looked into her kind, understanding, and experienced eyes.

"Y-yes, Mrs. Johnson," I said, my heart pounding in my chest. "I guess that makes sense."

"Oh, Melissa," she sighed, and just like that, we were kissing for real.

Oh! Oh, oh oh! I thought to myself. I'm kissing Mrs. Johnson! She put her arms around me and pulled me in. I felt weak and in her power, me in my long cotton nightgown and her still dressed.

"Thank you," she breathed, finally breaking the kiss. "Thank you, Melissa."

Mrs. Johnson got up and fetched the white washcloth from the nightstand.

"Pleasant dreams," she said, placing the washcloth into my hand before leaving the room.

Again with the dress? I thought to myself.

After using the washcloth to masturbate, I placed it on the nightstand and snuggled into bed in my nightgown, staring at the dress on the closet door.

Earlier today, I thought I had conquered my fears by putting on the blue and purple flowered house dress and admitting to myself (and Mrs. Johnson) that I wanted to wear women's clothing.

But now, dressing as a woman at work? Transitioning to female, full-time?

I tried to imagine what that would be like. I imagined putting on the dress and walking out the front door, skirts bobbing around my legs, carrying a purse, neighbors staring at me. Who is that man dressed in a skirt? They would ask. I imagined walking into the museum. How would people treat me? What would they say? Would they say it to my face? Or just snicker to each other behind my back?

I could imagine my boss, the education director, Janice, staring at me with a disdainful smirk.

"I'm sorry, I'm not working with him… her… whatever the hell that is," she would say, pointing at me. "Get me another intern."

I sighed and looked up at the ceiling. I knew I was being unfair, but I couldn't stop myself from imagining the worst. People staring. People whispering and smirking at me. Being fired from my job.

And all my life I had done my best to be quiet and unobtrusive. Invisible. Let my obnoxious brothers fight for attention, I was happy to go unnoticed and be by myself.

"No way you'll go unnoticed wearing a dress to work," I said out loud.

My fingers played with the neckline of the nightgown, feeling the embroidery and lace. The nightgown was warm and comfortable. I snuggled deeper under the bedspread.

"You do love wearing girly things," I said to myself, looking at the work dress.

But wearing them to work? How could I possibly do that?