Date: Sat, 31 Dec 2022 20:09:12 +0000
From: y.f.n.s.p. <yfnsp@protonmail.com>
Subject: Warm and Welcoming

After losing his job, a widower moves in with his stepson and offers to
keep house for him until he can get back on his feet. But he finds that
his new role, making a home warm and welcoming, is not only rewarding but
also transformative.

Warm and Welcomingby yfnsp
Copyright© 2022 by yfnsp

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When my wife died, my stepson was still at home. I took care of Brad the
best I could for the two years before he went away to college. By then
his real father had reestablished contact with him and had agreed to help
with tuition costs, which I wasn't able to do.

I got a chance to meet Doug at Brad's graduation. It was hard to imagine
my wife Cindy being married to him; he was so different from me. He had
that kind of macho swagger you see in some business executives, you know?
The kind of guy who acts like every female is a potential mate and every
male is probably jealous. I'm glad he didn't raise Brad; he grew up a
lot more like me: kind and considerate of others, male or female.

Then, when the recession hit, I was pretty badly affected. I lost my job
and the house. By then Brad had been out of college for four years and
was well established in his career as a software engineer, unaffected by
the recession. So he invited me to move in with him until I could get
back on my feet. He had recently purchased a "starter home," a small
suburban house with two bedrooms, one bath, and a den. "Stay as long as
you like, Bill," he told me, using my first name instead of `Dad'.
"It's the least I can do, considering how well you took care of me
after Mom died."

So that's how I became his cook and housekeeper. It was a role I was
surprised to find I enjoyed. It was so much easier now than when he was a
teenager and I was working full-time. Now I had the time to really make
his home as warm and welcoming as a home should be, and enable him to
focus on his rising career. I loved having a meal ready for him when he
got home from work, and hearing all about his busy day as we ate our
dinner together. After dinner he would catch up on his emails while I
cleaned up from dinner and did the dishes. Then we'd usually watch some
TV, usually sports, or we would stream one of the series or movies he
liked.

Not surprisingly, Doug was pretty derisive when he heard about our
arrangement. He thought it was funny. He sent me a frilly apron with a
note about a woman's place being in the home. I was only mildly
embarrassed; I'm sure he wanted to shame me. For whatever reason, I kept
it; I put it away in one of the kitchen cupboards and forgot about it.

After about six months as his homemaker I confessed to Brad that I had
stopped looking for a job - it's hard when you're over 50 - and he
admitted that he wanted to keep things just as they were. "I'm spoiled
now. I really don't want to do my own cooking and cleaning ... not to
mention the shopping, laundry, yard work..." he smiled at me and added,
"The landscaping looks really great, by the way."

"I'm so glad! Really I am," I replied. "You have no idea. I never
would have thought it would be so fulfilling to be a..." I was going to
say `housekeeper, but that struck me as inadequate. " ... to be a
housewife," I joked. It suddenly seemed quite comical how much my life
mirrored the old 1950s stereotype.

Brad totally got the joke. "Lucy! I'm home!" he cried out in a Desi
Arnaz voice.

"Oh, Ricky!" I falsettoed. We both laughed.

It's odd how a passing thought can linger and grow, especially when
it's been shared out loud. After that day, I couldn't get the housewife
idea out of my head for more than a few hours at a time. I wondered if it
had struck Brad as strongly as it had me. It seemed unlikely. But I
couldn't help thinking about it. It reminded me of Cindy, and how she
had done all the daily housework and cooking. She had worked, but only
part-time, and although I helped a little, I knew how it felt to be taken
care of. And there was the other dimension that was missing now, as I
thought of her. Not just the sex - I certainly missed that - but just the
day-to-day physical intimacy and affection I had taken for granted. I had
almost forgotten how hard the first months - the first couple years,
really - had been, and how much I had missed that closeness after her
passing.

I admit that from early on I had started to feel less masculine, being
dependent as I was, having to rely on Brad for support. Sharing the joke,
if that's what it was, with Brad helped me realize that by throwing
myself into the housewife role I had saved myself from what could have
easily turned into a severe depression. I was so grateful, but I also
felt guilty. Brad should have been out there dating, looking for a real
wife. Wasn't it selfish of me that I wanted him home with me instead?

I had become an excellent cook and housekeeper, but surely a healthy
young man had other needs! I ruminated on it while doing my chores around
the house over the next couple of weeks. Soon I began to fantasize about
the housewife role, imagining myself as a "little wifey" who could
attend submissively to her man in many other ways as well.

My self-image became so dissonant with the reflection I saw in the mirror
that one morning after Brad had gone to work I shaved off my mustache. It
was a pretty dramatic change. I had worn either a full beard or at least
a mustache for over thirty years, so my face looked almost like a
stranger's. My lips were much fuller than I remembered. They looked
soft, kissable, I thought. I examined my reflection, turning my head this
way and that. I fluffed out my shaggy gray hair - I hadn't had a haircut
since I lost my job - giving myself a more androgynous look. I wouldn't
pass as a woman like this, but I definitely looked more like I felt,
having erased a lot of the overt masculinity.

That's when I remembered the apron Doug had sent me. I tried it on
before cleaning up the breakfast things. From then on I wore the frilly
apron almost daily, at first just when doing housework, but after a while
I started wearing it whenever I knew I'd be alone in the house. I liked
the way it made me feel.

"Wow, you shaved off your mustache!" was what Brad said when he got
home that evening, stating the obvious. "I don't think I've ever seen
you without one." He looked at me appraisingly. "You know, I might not
even have recognized you if I passed you on the street!" He then smiled
kindly and added, "It looks good, though," sounding a little sheepish.
Like it or, not, I wasn't going to grow it back; I was pretty sure of
that. In fact, soon I went further and started shaving all my body hair,
too. I loved how I looked and how it felt to have no pubic hair, with
smooth legs and hairless chest and underarms.

I think it was more than just my new role in life that prompted these
changes in me. Maybe it was part of the natural aging process - lower
testosterone, or whatever - but I was definitely feeling that my
masculinity was waning. Seemingly by contrast, I became more aware of
Brad's maleness. He had grown up tall and broad-shouldered and now, at
25, his boyish charm had developed into a manly confidence that made his
gentle kindness to me all the more attractive. The idle housewife fantasy
I had been entertaining in my solitary hours began to intrude into other
times, making me feel self-conscious and a little vulnerable around Brad.

This heightened awareness of his masculinity led me to thoughts and
actions that would have been unthinkable before. I noticed the odors he
left behind, especially in the bathroom we shared that I cleaned weekly,
and in the clothes hamper. I started doing the laundry more often because
I liked the smell of his dirty clothes. I was especially attracted to his
underwear and would hold his them to my nose and inhale deeply. That
never failed to give me an erection. There were three distinct scents to
be found in his boxers. There was the warm musk of his balls; I liked
that best. Then in front there was often a sour tang of urine, which for
some reason I also found alluring. And third was the back side, where
there was often a spicy sort of smell, the scent of his asshole. Lord
help me, that was delightful too.

As these habits and habits of thought became routine and even a bit
obsessive, I gave no thought to how peculiar they were. It didn't occur
to me that I might be gay, for example. No, I think I was so absorbed in
the housewife persona I had put on, that it seemed completely normal to
me. If Brad noticed the changes in my appearance and behavior, he didn't
say. Even when I started wearing the apron to serve him meals, he didn't
say anything, but his demeanor towards me was changing too; he seemed
less boisterous and more solicitous; he started to help more with outdoor
chores, especially if any heavy lifting was needed.

Then something happened which was to have major repercussions. One
afternoon when I was starting to prepare dinner, I heard the front door
open. I put down the raw chicken and was giving my hands a quick wash,
when I heard Doug's voice.

"Hello, Bill? the door was open so I..." He entered the kitchen to see
me drying my hands on the apron. "Well, now, don't you look pretty?"
he said sarcastically, eyeing me up and down.

I blushed crimson and said nothing for several beats, and then said,
"Doug! What are you doing here?"

"I was just in the neighborhood and..." he paused. "You look quite the
hausfrau!" He grinned and winked. "I always thought there was something
about you ... Are you putting out more than just meals for my son?"

"I ... I don't know what you mean," I protested, lying shamelessly
while blushing shamefully.

"Sure you do, honey. I bet you're a sweet little cocksucker, too.
Giving Brad some much needed relief after a long day at work." His eyes
twinkled mischievously. "Is that it?"

"No! I never..." I replied all too hastily. I was mortified, but also a
little aroused, and not with anger.

"No? Well, maybe it's time you did!" He grabbed his crotch obscenely.
"Maybe you need some big daddy dick, huh? Is that what you want,
sweetheart?"

Maybe it was the way he called me sweetheart, maybe I just wanted to call
his bluff, or maybe, just possibly, it was the phrase `big daddy dick'
that made me say it, but anyway, what I said was, "Oh yeah? Let me see
it."

He stepped up really close, opened his fly and tugged out a thick, red
cock that flopped out and hung down, it's purple head swinging loose,
with a tangle of dark black hair at the root, bristling from his wide
open pants. I saw all of it at once, although at an emotional level it
seemed to happen in slow motion, as if it were a movie scene crafted for
maximum impact. I think I gasped.

"Yeah, baby? You like that?" Doug inquisited. "Maybe you need a closer
look!" He grabbed me forcibly at the shoulders with both hands and
pressed down, making my knees buckle and hit the floor. He grasped his
thickening snake and thrust it in my face. "Open up, doll-face. I know
you want it."

I let him force my head toward him with his other hand as he pressed his
cock against my lips. My mouth opened and let him push that big angry
cockhead inside. My tongue receded compliantly to welcome the invader
with an exploratory caress. I was astonished. My lips and tongue seemed
to have a mind of their own; I was simply a spectator. It was evident
that they liked their new friend; he fit right in! And they joined him in
a joyous game of mutual stimulation. My lips were tingling from their
stimulating friction against the stiffening shaft; and my tongue danced
around the swelling head, exploring its shape and texture. The taste was
oddly satisfying and the scent emanating from the hairy nest in his pants
made my head spin. My whole mouth was reflexively participating, sucking
on the fat plum inside it.

"Good girl!" I heard Doug say as I surrendered to his assault. I felt a
rush of euphoria. Was I pleasing him? He certainly seemed to like it. Was
I a cocksucker now?

He grasped my head in both hands and forced his cock in deeper. I gagged.
He paused, relenting, while I swallowed and blinked away my tears. But I
didn't protest or try to evade him as he renewed his assault. "Easy,
girl ... that's it," he coaxed, as I managed to take the head of his
cock past the gagging point. I tried to relax as I felt that big plum
stretch my gullet. He held my head still and let his cock rest there. I
took deep breaths through my nose and managed to quell the panic that had
occurred on his first attempt. There were a few involuntary spasms, but
Doug seemed to like that. "Yeah, baby, that's the way!" I felt a
grateful sense of accomplishment.

Then he started fucking my face. There's no other way to describe what
he did. Gently at first but with increasing force, he thrust his pelvis
forward and back, driving his cock in and out of my throat while he
clamped my head immobile between his strong hands. His cock was thick,
but fortunately not too long, maybe six or seven inches, but even so,
that thick shaft sliding in and out between my taut, sensitive lips and
stimulating my tongue that pressed hard underneath it in my earnest
sucking, was a sensation I could never have imagined. But the fullness in
my throat that came and went, and the sensation of his cockhead popping
in and out through my pharynx, gave me intense pleasure. I could just
imagine how good it felt to Doug!

When his tempo slowed and his thrusts became more forceful and erratic, I
knew he was about to cum. He pulled my head in tight to his belly and
thrust deep, deeper than before. All was still for a second or two. Then,
I heard a deep groan of satisfaction, I felt a seismic pulse through his
cock, and his cum began to spurt into my throat, each spurt an expanding
pulse of the dickhead in my throat. I felt helpless - he was holding my
head so tight against his body - but I also felt victorious, as if making
him cum had been a hard-fought goal.

He released my head. I didn't pull away, but sucked on his softening
cock as it retreated, savoring the bitter-salty taste of his cum, until
it popped audibly out of my mouth and he tucked it away. I was still on
my knees. I looked up at him. His expression was sheepish, almost
apologetic, but there was also an edge to it, as if he were challenging
me to dare to complain.

I looked down, embarrassed. "Thank you," I said quietly. Doug had
unwittingly confirmed the direction I felt my life had already been
heading.
"You did like it then," he said triumphantly. His swagger was back. "I
knew it! I knew you were a fag. You like being the hausfrau, don't
you?"

"Yes, I do, Doug." I tried to reclaim some dignity. "But I'm not a
fag. I've never done anything with guys before."

"Well, Billie, that's not true any longer, is it?" he asked
condescendingly.

"No, I guess it isn't. Are you going to tell Brad?"

"So there's really nothing going on between you two?"

"No, and I really don't want..." I started, but I really didn't know
what it was that I did, or did not, want. Except this, "Please don't
say anything. Please."

"I won't. I'm not prepared to explain what happened here to anybody,
believe me!"

Needless to say, I was greatly relieved. Doug left, but not before
saying, "Are you serious? You've never sucked cock before?" shaking
his head in wonder.

I managed to pull myself together, not without some difficulty, by
deciding not to think about what had happened until later; I had dinner
to prepare. A glance at the kitchen clock forced me to change my plans.
Instead of roasting the chicken whole, I cut it up, browned the pieces,
added a jar of marinara sauce, and made chicken cacciatore in about half
the time.

I was grateful that Brad was oblivious to what had transpired between
Doug and me, but it had definitely pushed the envelope, rapidly
accelerating what up till then had been a very gradual process of
emasculation. It felt like I was a whole level deeper into what could be
called feminization for lack of a better term. I felt it in my
interactions with Brad that evening as I served him dinner and during our
time together later. It seemed that he too was acting different, but that
was probably just his reaction to my behavior.

Things settled down for the next couple of weeks, until my birthday, when
Brad insisted on taking me out to dinner. We ate at a very good
restaurant and shared a bottle of wine. We talked a lot about his mother,
my wife, and he told me how withdrawn he had been for years after she
died, during high school and in college. He told me that he finally
started dating for a while in college, but gave it up after his
girlfriend dumped him. I listened as empathetically as I knew how. I
really understood how he felt, having gone through the grieving process
myself. It occurred to me that this was the first time - after ten years!
- that we had seriously discussed our grief over Cindy's death. It
brought us closer. It also shed a lot of light on his disinclination to
go out with women.

When we got home he said he had a present for me. I waited on the couch
in the den while he went to get it. He came back carrying a small box and
sat down beside me. "I thought you might like something pretty," he
said tentatively, handing it to me. Inside was a thin gold chain
necklace.

"Oh, Brad, thank you! It's..."

"It's like the one Mom used to wear all the time," Brad said,
interrupting me. "I wanted you to have one too."

"Yes, it's almost identical," I said wistfully. "It was her
mother's, your Grandma Joan's. It went to Aunt Sarah. I didn't know
you liked it so much."

"Well, I miss her," Brad said, his voice thick. "I miss her all the
time, but not as much since you moved in." He picked up the necklace.
"Let me put it on you."

I turned toward him as he picked up the necklace. He unfastened the clasp
and put his arms around my neck to refasten it in back. His face was so
close, I couldn't resist. I kissed him on the cheek. He gave me an
awkward hug around the neck, pressing his just-kissed cheek to mine.

"Thank you, Bradley," I whispered breathily in his ear. "It really
means a lot to me."

He got up quickly, somewhat clumsily, and said, "You're welcome,
Billie." Then he blushed and said "Goodnight," and turned to go. I sat
for a long time with an erection that didn't subside for a good while,
and then I finally went to bed too.

The next day, while Brad was at work, I went shopping. I bought a tube of
lipstick and I browsed through a thrift shop till I found a housedress
that looked like it would fit. It was a pastel blue plaid; I thought it
would look nice under the apron. Then I stopped in at a hair salon and
made an appointment for the following day. When I got home, I tried on
the dress with the apron and practiced applying lipstick - not as easy as
it looks. I was so pleased when I saw myself in the full-length mirror,
that it was hard to get back to my regular look before Brad came home. I
wanted to wait until my hair was done before trying my new look on Brad.

I was very nervous about my trip to the salon, but the hairdresser was
very welcoming and made no reference to my being a male or to
transgenderism or anything else that would have made me uncomfortable. I
told her I just wanted to make my hair neater and more presentable. She
showed me some styles on her tablet and helped me select a short but
stylish cut. I thought it was really cute in a not too feminine way, a
sort of modified pixie cut with a long section that flowed across my
forehead and over my right ear, giving my face a soft sort of frame. I
liked it a lot.

When I got home, I changed out of my male clothes and put on the dress
and the apron. I decided right then that I needed to buy new shoes and
underwear. And stockings. Things being as they were, though, I decided
not to wear any underwear and I put my tennis shoes back on. That would
have to do for now. I put on my lipstick, brushed my hair and went to
cook dinner. I had timed it just right.

When Brad came in the front door, he called out, "Billie, I'm home,"
like the joke we had shared. It made me smile.

"I'm in the kitchen, Bradley," I called back.

I heard him entering the kitchen behind me as I plated his dinner. "I
made you a steak tonight, I'm just going to have some salad," I said.
"Go ahead and sit down," I added, turning around with his plate in
hand. He was standing stock-still in the doorway, staring at me.

"Please, sit down, Brad, everything is ready," I said.

He sat in his place at the table and I placed the plate in front of him.
Still standing beside his chair, I bent forward to reach for the salad
bowl so I could add a little salad to his plate. That's when I felt his
hand on the back of my thigh just above my knee. I was pleased and
flattered as much as I was surprised.

"Did you shave your legs for me?" he said in a tone of wonder.

"No, silly, I shave them for myself," I answered coyly. "Why, do you
like it?"

"Yes, feels nice!" he said, his hand moving upward, reaching my ass
unimpeded. "You're not wearing underwear!" he blurted out upon making
contact with my soft cheek. He squeezed it affectionately.

An "Oh!" escaped my lips before I explained, "That's just because I
didn't have anything suitable." I was still leaning forward as I was
serving him the salad.

"We'll have to do something about that," he said, his hand lingering,
feeling my ass, as if assessing its properties of compressibility and
resilience "Ooh, you feel good!" he murmured. A fingertip grazed my
sensitive anus, sending a shiver up my spine.

I straightened up and brushed his hand away. "Not now, Bradley, it's
dinnertime!" I tried to sound indignant, despite knowing full well what
I was implying.

Brad shifted his attention to the meal before him. "That looks
delicious, too. Thanks. Billie." I liked the way he always called me
`Billie' now. It sounded like a girl's name.

As usual we talked about his day at work. I was a bit distracted. I
congratulated him on the news that he was being given the leadership role
on a software enhancement project, but I kind of lost the thread when he
went on about dev ops and continuous deployment, whatever those are. He
kept looking at me when he thought I wouldn't notice and at one point he
said, "I'm glad your wearing the necklace."

"I never take it off, Bradley." I replied demurely. He blushed.

After I'd cleaned up the kitchen, I joined Brad on the couch in the den.
"What're we watching?" I asked.

"An old movie - supposed to be a classic."

It only took about 30 seconds for me to recognize "The Graduate," the
1967 classic depicting a young man fresh out of college in a torrid
affair with a woman old enough to be his mother. Well, this is
interesting, I thought. Not his usual fare. "Is there a reason you chose
this?" I asked archly.

"Looked interesting is all," he answered, turning toward me. We stared
at each other for a moment, neither of us knowing what to say next. I was
going to imply that he chose it for the May-September subject matter, but
he spoke first. "I've never kissed a girl with lipstick on," he said
tentatively.

I blushed, but I took the bait. "Do you want to try it now?"

He leaned in and pecked me softly on the lips. I closed my eyes and held
still, my lips still puckered. His lips pressed mine again, firmly this
time, lingering. I relaxed my mouth and let his lips devour mine. I felt
his tongue, too, not just tasting my lipstick, but seemingly wanting to
explore my tongue and the mouth beyond my lips. I felt his arms around me
and I surrendered to his embrace, my arms going around him too, my hands
gently stroking his lean, muscled back and his neck, his hair...

"Oh, Billie..." he said, breaking our kiss and looking in my eyes. He
sounded a bit shaky. "Thank you for doing this ... for being..." He was
at a loss for words.

"For being womanly?" I asked, unsure if that was a good word for what
he meant, or even for what I felt.

"Yes! For that. For all this." He gestured, waving his arm over the
length of me, sitting by him so close.

"I had to do it, Bradley. It's how I feel being your housewife," I
tried to explain. "I'm just so grateful that you like me like this!" I
added with emphasis. "You might not have. You might have been
repulsed."

"No. Never!" he replied. "Without you it was just so awful ... I was
getting seriously depressed. You saved my life!"

"Oh, Brad, that's just so sad," I responded, pulling him toward me and
kissing him. "I don't want you to ever be sad. I just want to take care
of you. Can I take care of you, Bradley?" I felt such a need for him.
"I want to be a woman for you, if that will make you happy."

He kissed me again, long, deep, and breathtaking. Then he pulled away and
looked at me. "Your lipstick is getting smeared," he observed. "But
that might be my fault," he chuckled. And then, in a mock-curious tone
he said, "What's this? That's not very womanly." He pointed to the
tented skirt of my dress, my erection having created a bulge sticking up
from my lap.

"I know. Not sure I want to change that." I grinned sheepishly. "It
just means that I like you, you know," I added.

"Yes, and I like you too," he said sweetly, taking my hand. He then
placed my hand on the big bulge in his lap. "Can you tell?"

I squeezed his cock hard. "Yes. It feels so big! Don't you need someone
to take care of it for you?" I started to unbuckle his belt. He took
over when I had trouble loosening it.

I slipped of the couch onto my knees before him as he opened his jeans
and stood up to pull them down along with his boxers. I couldn't resist.
I put my arms around his thighs and buried my face in his crotch, kissing
all around his hairy balls and breathing in his familiar scent. His hands
were in my hair, petting me. He groaned.

I released him and gave him a gentle shove to seat him back down. His
long cock was pointing up, straight as a flagpole. "You just relax and
let me take care of you," I said before I put my mouth on his knob and
took his full length inside me, lowering my face down into his lap. He
gasped and gripped my head, bucking slightly from the unexpected
intensity of my tight gullet. I sucked furiously and then, almost as soon
as we'd started, it came to a violent conclusion. He jerked violently
and his cock began to pulse. It pulsed and pulsed ... I don't know how
many spurts, but I swallowed a lot of cum, I can assure you.

I was lost in the euphoria of cocksucking nirvana, deliriously happy. I
heard as if from a distance, "Oh my God, Billie, Oh, Oh, Billie..." and
I looked up into Brad's astonished face. "How did you do that?" he
blubbered, "That was amazing! I've never come so hard in my life!" He
pulled me up beside him. "Or so fast," he added apologetically.

"That was perfect," I told him, licking my lips. "Just perfect!"

"But what about you? It was over so fast..."

"No, I got exactly what I wanted," I assured him. "So perfect. Thank
you!" I smiled conspiratorially. "Don't worry about me. I'm sure
there's more where that came from."

He grinned. "For you, yes. Just give me a few minutes," he said
eagerly.

"Well then, I'll just go get ready for bed," I announced, surprising
him. "I'll be in bed in thirty minutes. Will you join me?" I said,
with what I hoped was a very inviting smile.

"Thirty minutes? I'll be there!" he enthused.

I got to my feet to go, but he grabbed me, pulled me onto his lap, and
kissed me. I wondered if he could taste his cum on my lips. Then he let
me go and said, "Thank you, Billie, this has been the best night of my
life."

"You ain't seen nothin' yet!" I quipped as I turned to go.

So it was that a half-hour later, he got into my bed. And I spread my
legs for him, hoping that he would find my virgin hole every bit as warm
and welcoming as any man could want.