Fic: All Dressed Up And.... (McKay/Sheppard, R)
Title: All Dressed Up And....
Author: icarusancalion
Recipient: dkwilliams
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: R
Prompt: You said you wanted cross-dressing, eh?
Summary: John had put a stop to it fifteen years ago. Even burned the evidence. But he just couldn't give it up. What's one more secret between friends?
*
"Thanks," John said, slamming the car door. He paid the cab driver then walked towards the local Denny's, skirting patches of ice on the walkway. He glanced back over his shoulder and watched the cab pause at the driveway, turn, and pull away.
He abruptly shifted direction, turning up the collar on his bomber jacket against the wind. He scanned over the Denny's patrons; a quick brush of a glance, making sure none of them had noticed him. Paranoid, maybe, but he couldn't be too careful.
He walked several blocks to the small local bank. Paused in the lobby to blow on and warm his hands. Then strode into the back, jingling his safe deposit key.
He hadn't been here in years. His hands shook as he turned the lock.
Inside the box was a military issue duffle bag. He threw the door shut and slung the bag over his shoulder. It was heavier than he remembered, but then again, he'd added to his collection over the years.
It was also a huge risk.
Fifteen years ago outside Fort Meade, he'd burned everything, all his stuff, in a metal barrel, watching the flames rise as his treasures curled and flickered. He swore that was the end of it... but, well. He'd just bought more a couple years down the line. So he stopped getting rid of it. He'd been raised not to be wasteful after all.
Out on the pavement he set the bag down and unzipped an outer pocket, his breath steaming. He retrieved a plastic Ziploc with a driver's license and folded papers. Major Jensen had died in Afghanistan, and hopefully he didn't mind his I.D. being kipped and put to good use, because he looked enough like John to pass a cursory inspection. John's trip out of Kandahar had been doubly gruesome, both for the blank mark and for the fact that he'd traveled with the dead. Though it had piqued his sense of humor at the time. Everyone on that C-130 was dead, at least as far as the Air Force was concerned.
"Major Jensen" stopped at a drugstore for food, snacks, bottled water, and other types of supplies that didn't hold up well in a locker. Little bottles and small boxes clacked together in the plastic bags. John kept his head down, hat pulled low, and didn't make eye contact with the clerk.
Then "Jensen" hired a second cab, disconnecting him completely from Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard.
The hotel had a floor of polished marble and was filled with tinkling piano music. Ther was a tasteful Christmas tree in the lobby. He paid cash for a month, signing the register illegibly. John used to do this in seedy no-tell motels, but the pampered side of him wanted to make it special this time. He'd been in Atlantis for five years and didn't know how long it would be before he'd get another chance.
He made a phone call from the lobby, leaving a highly cryptic message for Rodney.
The elevator was reflective brass and John made a point of not looking at the other guests. Once outside his room, he opened the door with the key card, then reached around and hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle as he shut it behind him.
One thing about nice hotels, they paid attention to the sign on the door. The no-tell places didn't always.
The room had a large mahogany bed and, John was grateful to see, a large mirror over the dresser facing the bed. The curtains were already drawn. There was a little seating arrangement around the corner from the doorway, with a refrigerator and microwave.
John dumped the duffle bag on the couch and stowed his supplies. He set a string of little colorful bottles in a line in front of the mirror, and then rubbed his hands together and checked the bathroom.
It had a makeup mirror with little bulbs all around it, an overhead heat lamp, a hair dryer plugged into the wall. And a huge tub. John smiled at it, his main reason to go upscale.
He pulled the rest of his supplies out, the plastic rustling, and spread them on the bathroom counter. Multiple packs of razors. A new Norelco battery powered shaver. Nair, which smelled like diesel combined with rotten eggs, but it got rid of the worst, most stubborn spots.
He looked up at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His eyes were fever bright. It had been too long.
Then he started to undress, hanging his bomber jacket on the door, pausing to turn on the water. In the bedroom, where he'd deliberately placed the duffle bag around the corner from the door (a precaution, though seen he'd be so deep into incriminating activity, there'd be no saving him if the SGC called or, God help him, beamed him up to the Daedalus), he spread out selected items Major Jensen's shiny new debit card had bought over the years. He'd been stuck in a hotel for weeks waiting for orders after Afghanistan: was he discharged? Placed on inactive duty?
He'd lucked out. In Antarctica he would be allowed to fly. It seemed the Air Force hadn't wanted to waste an expensive pilot.
Foolishly, he had risked bringing the stuff to Antarctica, so fucking dangerous. But he thought he'd had little to lose. Spent hours locked in his room like this, calling it consolation, but he might have been deliberately walking the line of self-destruction.
He'd lucked out again. In McMurdo everyone was squirrelly after a few months, so no one cared that he wasn't friendly. If you wanted to hide in your room all your off hours, that was your business.
Antarctica was intended to be a punishment. Instead, it was liberating as he practiced an art, hampered only by what he cursed himself for not bringing.
He'd known what he'd have to give up if accepted the Atlantis assignment.
Assignment. That's how he'd thought of it at the time. He'd had no idea. John shook his head.
John moved the duffle bag to the floor, and spread the items out lovingly. New colorful silky things he'd added in his rare visits to earth, never worn. They smelled musty, like sweat mixed with expensive perfume. They smelled like him. He pulled his pants and underwear off and dropped them on the floor. Tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. He withdrew the clippers from the bag.
Sitting naked on the toilet, socks abandoned at his feet, he drew the buzzing hot line of the electric clippers up his calves, over his knee to his inner thigh. He hesitated, then drew a triangle around his cock. It would look better in his underwear. The hair stripped away from his chest and arms in swathes, taking with it part of his masculine identity.
He climbed into the tub and let himself soak a long moment, luxuriating. He moved his arms along the surface, splashing little waves against the sides.
Lathering a woman's shaving gel between his hands, the smell sweet, familiar, he started in on his legs. He sleeked the razor over curves, following the landscape of his muscles, rubbing his thumb over a spot he'd missed and returning. Rinsed the razor in the water. Changed razors frequently. After several days of this there would no longer be that gritty bite and catch as he slid the razor across his stomach, his chin lowered to watch. He was pale after years in Atlantis, his skin as smooth as glass. Underneath it all, he was soft.
Sensually, he slid back into the tub and stretched his thigh out of the water to glide the razor down his inner thigh. He knew from experience that this part would take hours, and the time spent for the second pass would make his skin a prune.
He climbed out of the bath and toweled off, dabbing at his face. Standing in front of the makeup mirror, he clicked on the lights surrounding it. He ran his hand over his newly smooth chest. In the mirror, there was that knowing look in his eyes now.
All the directions on the bottle swore in bright red warning letters that he should never, ever use a depilatory on his face. John had also learned that for him, short of electrolysis, there was no other way. Beard cover never truly worked. He wrapped his hair in a towel, wrinkled his nose, drew back from the putrid smell, and carefully spread it across his chin and down his neck, wincing at the burn. The worst part? He'd probably have to do this twice.
He walked into the bedroom and turned on the TV, sat and smoothed some of the cream on his toes. That was an area he'd learned not to trust a razor and toes were surprisingly important to look just right. The little bottles of nail polish, ranging from clear to red, were lined up in front of the mirror on the dresser. John took in their candy colors hungrily, but bided his time with daytime television, skimming through CNN to a basketball game on ESPN.
He leaned back on the pillows to watch the game, and set to work on his nails with an emery board. He glanced at them. They were pretty screwed up after off-world missions. As a pilot he used to be able to keep his nails manicured and protected in gloves.
To get the pain over with quickly he plucked and shaped his eyebrows between applications. Someday he'd be able to make them narrow and thin, but for now he'd have to content himself with just cleaning up.
The stench of the depilatory still clung to his skin even after he showered. The game was long over so John turned on the radio to a classical station. He stretched out naked on the covers with the heat turned up. He sprawled like a cat and gazed at himself in the mirror. He looked five years younger with his face so baby smooth.
He called this phase his final check, but it was more than that. He ran his hands over his feet, up the curve of his calves... grateful he kept in shape... over his knees, all over his thighs, skimming in different directions, skin like silk, his cock growing hard. It was like having a woman under his hands, and John breathed deeper. He caressed his hips, the generous curve of his ass... there was a slight burr at his belly button which he took care of with the Norelco... it had to be perfect. People who thought John's casual manner suggested sloppiness, well, they didn't know him at all, had never seen him train. People like Ronon knew him better.
Everywhere else, his chest, his arms, were smooth, lithe, sleek. He curled on his side and looked at his now perfectly naked skin, which he rarely got to see. He thought he looked like a model who should be lounging on furs, and allowed himself to indulge his vanity, lowering his lashes at his reflection. A professional make-up artist had once tipped his chin, turning his face from side to side. Oh, you are beautiful, she'd told him in that sultry low transvestite's voice. He agreed.
Moving faster now, he climbed off the bed. He had learned the hard way to do this part before he got dressed. He decided to go with a vibrant (slutty) red. There was a little catch to his breath as he picked up the bottle of nail polish. Going so long without made him want color, and lots of it. Besides, drama was the point of tonight. Over the next month he'd go through all the colors on the dresser.
Tongue between his teeth, John sat on a chair, his knee tucked up next to his ear as he carefully painted. He wasn't good at it and had to fix a lot of mistakes, but he liked the look of painted nails against skin, against satin, against leather.
His fingernails were blunt and stubby but that was something that would remedy itself in a few weeks. Both his hair and his nails grew fast. He flexed his fingers like a cat's claws, impatient for them to dry. But he'd messed his fingernails up often enough in the past that he made himself wait, pacing the room. He checked the glowing red numbers on clock next to the bed. He still had plenty of time.
At last he allowed himself snatch up the waist cincher. The corset, though his most expensive piece, he rarely got to wear, and then only when he paid for professional company that specialized in this sort of thing. It took two people to lace up.
Do you wish to be dominated? a husky voice had once asked him over the phone. No, ma'am. He'd dipped his chin in smothered embarrassment. I want to dress.
He almost never said it out loud.
He untangled the strings on the cincher and rethreaded a few. Then wrapped it around his waist, clipping each of the little hook and eye closures. He sucked in his stomach, reached behind and pulled as tight as he could, feeling it squeeze him like a hug. He tied the strings with a quick string of bowlines, irritated as they gave more than he liked. He eyed himself critically. His shoulders were too wide, hips too narrow though he had a nice ass. The cincher gave him curves he didn't possess naturally. He ran his hands down his hips.
The corset was better... he licked his lips... but maybe later. Maybe. If everything went right.
He cast another quick look at the clock. He was taking a tremendous risk here. But maybe that was part of the thrill for him, the reason why he did this on base in Antarctica. Would anyone be surprised that John Sheppard liked to flirt with danger?
John smiled. Rodney would call him insane.
There was no way he could put on the gaffe to pull his dick between his legs and hide the bulge, not as turned on as he was. But he pulled on the silk panties, which were less exciting than everything else since that's what he had on Atlantis. He opened one of the boxes of nylons (he'd bought a supply) and slipped Silkience up perfect legs.
Now came the difficult part. Here was the only time he envied the overweight transvestites and crossdressers. His weight training on Atlantis was necessary but had a definite down side.
He pulled and tugged at the flesh on his chest, tape in hand. This had worked when he was a pilot and skimped on his workouts. He'd been able to tape up a small cleavage. But he was in prime condition now. He couldn't gather enough to make the pull of tape worth it. Damn. With a sigh, he gave up and set the tape aside.
He dipped into the duffle bag, removing another box. Men like him the world over had cause to be grateful to breast cancer survivors: real women demanded higher quality than the cheap plastic tits drag queens once wore. He slid the bra straps over his arms, hooking the back with ease and speed, then slid the falsies in place, cool against his skin. He pressed them appreciatively against his chest. God, they felt cold, but real.
Then the main event. Yes, John knew he was at least six years out of style. He'd seen the dress in a magazine in an ad for diamonds, and when he checked the back of the magazine, the price was breathtaking. But he sank an entire paycheck into it. You want V-shaped necklines, another Dominatrix had advised him, to visually cut your broad shoulders. And jewelry to draw the eye to your lovely face, she'd added, chucking him under the chin, tilting her head at him admiringly. You have the most sensual mouth.
He stood at the mirror fingering his chin a moment, then stepped into the faint crinkly rustle of taffeta. He lifted his head as he drew up the zipper, eyes closing. It came demurely to mid-calf and spread out from his hips in a sweep of red. It was sleeveless, and revealed enough of his back that he had to pin the bra to it in back, pricking himself with the little gold pins. He turned and adjusted his tits in front. He regretted the lost cleavage, but what could a guy do?
John poured himself a glass of juice, holding it daintily with the unpracticed elegance that seemed to appear out of nowhere when he was dressed. His nails gleamed red against the clear plastic cup. Outside, the sky had darkened to a deep blue. This much had taken most of the day.
He wanted so badly to put on the shoes, to hear the heels clicking across the tiles in the bathroom tile. But he made himself wait. Discipline was key.
John allowed himself one early indulgence and buckled on a tiny gold and diamond watch, changing it to local time. Another paycheck's worth. In the mirror, his face looked too bare in comparison to the rest of him. And his hair looked like hell. With a slow sideways smile, he set down the glass, half full, and crossed to the octagon shaped box that took up one entire corner of the duffle bag.
He teased out the wig, lifting it on his fingertips. A victory over his hair. The trannie at the crossdressers' retreat ten years ago had tried to talk him into tumbled black curls, putting the starlet wig on John and fluffing the curls over his shoulder. But after years of all out war with his hair John wanted it straight, long, and as smooth as an Asian princess. He bought one with a pixie cut, too, for variety, and then treated himself to a black Pulp Fiction wig which he couldn't pull off to save his life-as warned, it did make his face look heavily masculine-but he liked it anyway.
All right, he'd caved on the starlet wig. It did look good. But it didn't feel as good, sweeping across his bare back the way the wig did now as he tucked his hair into it, adjusting the ear tabs. He could admit, the curls looked better, but he wore his favorite tonight. He looked over his shoulder and winked.
Then he dug in his duffle bag, feeling as refined as Alice in Wonderland as his hair slid down his bare shoulder. He pulled out his red patent leather shoes and the makeup kit. From inside the makeup kit he drew out a tiny brocade-covered jewelry box. It was amazing the little feminine touches you could pick up on a pretext of buying them for your girlfriend. John smiled to himself as he opened it.
He checked the little gold watch. He had two hours, possibly less.
Licking his lips, he broke a triangle makeup sponge out of its wrapping, then smoothed on concealer and foundation. He laid it into the blue hollows under his eyes gently with a ring finger. Atlantis had taken its toll. He cursed the new crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the papery smile lines around his mouth. Clearly he frowned too much. Five years had made a scary difference. The wig hid the gray hair, and he'd shaved the rest off, but other signs of age persisted. Forty-one was forty-one. There was no getting around it.
He ran a slightly darker foundation in a triangle down from the underside of his cheekbones; a makeup artist's trick to disguise a masculine jaw. He ran a light streak of concealer to draw out the line of his cheekbones and take the eye away from his chin. His eyes would do the same. A last fine layer of powder helped disguise any imperfections. He dusted it across his face with a fluffy brush, his eyes squeezed shut. He fluffed on a little blush, touching some to his chin to minimize that, too.
Under his dress he adjusted himself uncomfortably.
With gentle fingers he opened the new eye shadow compacts. On leave one time, he'd found all his eye shadow had broken from the rough handling on cargo jets. He wouldn't go without. His eyes were without a doubt his best feature.
Eyelash curlers dealt with the way his lashes tended to stick straight out at the corners. Then a pink tube of mascara, brand new, stroked over his lashes like petting a cat; a long line of eyeliner above and below, softened at the edges to blend into the eye shadow, which he liked to lay on thick and heavy at the corners. John smiled at how the gray and blue shadow and thick mascara made his eyes look huge, and practically glow. He leaned his chin on his fist examining them, eyes narrowing, making sure he'd done it more or less evenly. Not really, but he figured fixing it would probably make it worse.
Finally, he drew the line of his lips in lip liner. This was the easiest part. He used to just lay on a little lipstick and a trashy nighty to jack off, but a Dominatrix he'd corresponded with from Guam gave him orders to only masturbate when fully dressed, with full make-up.
Yeah, he'd followed those instructions about as well as he followed any others. But when once he made the extra effort he'd improved with the makeup. With the lip brush he painted inside the line, then carefully blotted his lips (with one layer of tissue only, please) and painted them again, thick and glossy this time.
He glittered at himself in the mirror with satisfaction. Swept the long straight brown hair over his shoulders again. Adjusted his shoulders and the vee of his neckline. Rubbed excess makeup off his fingers and then adjusted his tits, squeezing them closer together. He lifted his chin and tilted his head, to look at himself at different angles. Smoothed his hands down the front of the red taffeta dress that spread lightly from his waist. Thank God, it hid how turned on he was.
He leaned forward and put on the braided gold and diamond choker-he'd bought the entire ad, so what?-saving the clip-on earrings for later. They hurt. He dotted perfume on his pulse points, then, as an afterthought, slid a little blush down his neck, too, the fluffy brush gliding and tickling his skin.
Pointing his toes, he balanced with one hand on the dresser and put on the strappy open-toed sandals. Then he fell backward onto the bed with a low groan, the dress fluffing around him. He wanted to touch himself, but he couldn't risk messing up his makeup with sweat.
He checked his watch and let his arm drop with a sigh. Full makeup was always a little itchy, too.
It took only half an hour, but it felt like ages to John, when the knock finally came. He grinned and sat up, straightening his hair over one bare shoulder.
"Just a sec!" John called out. At the mirror he put on the clip-ons, dangling like drops of water.
He stumbled in the three-inch heels. He'd forgotten how to walk in them.
"Colonel? You wanted to see me?" Rodney's voice came through the door. He'd seen the satin panties, even watched John masturbate in them.
John threw the latch, his heart pounding.
"Not exactly," John said. "More like, I wanted you to see me."
Rodney's eyes widened, amazed. His mobile face looked him up and down, all over. "John?"
John grinned, straightening. "Hi."
"Oh my God," Rodney said. He seized John about the waist, then held him out at arm's length. "Can I?" he asked, his hands running up and down John's hips like he couldn't help himself.
John nodded eagerly. Rodney was going to really mess up his lipstick.
The door shut behind them with a soft click, and the Do Not Disturb sign swayed.
Author: icarusancalion
Recipient: dkwilliams
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: R
Prompt: You said you wanted cross-dressing, eh?
Summary: John had put a stop to it fifteen years ago. Even burned the evidence. But he just couldn't give it up. What's one more secret between friends?
*
"Thanks," John said, slamming the car door. He paid the cab driver then walked towards the local Denny's, skirting patches of ice on the walkway. He glanced back over his shoulder and watched the cab pause at the driveway, turn, and pull away.
He abruptly shifted direction, turning up the collar on his bomber jacket against the wind. He scanned over the Denny's patrons; a quick brush of a glance, making sure none of them had noticed him. Paranoid, maybe, but he couldn't be too careful.
He walked several blocks to the small local bank. Paused in the lobby to blow on and warm his hands. Then strode into the back, jingling his safe deposit key.
He hadn't been here in years. His hands shook as he turned the lock.
Inside the box was a military issue duffle bag. He threw the door shut and slung the bag over his shoulder. It was heavier than he remembered, but then again, he'd added to his collection over the years.
It was also a huge risk.
Fifteen years ago outside Fort Meade, he'd burned everything, all his stuff, in a metal barrel, watching the flames rise as his treasures curled and flickered. He swore that was the end of it... but, well. He'd just bought more a couple years down the line. So he stopped getting rid of it. He'd been raised not to be wasteful after all.
Out on the pavement he set the bag down and unzipped an outer pocket, his breath steaming. He retrieved a plastic Ziploc with a driver's license and folded papers. Major Jensen had died in Afghanistan, and hopefully he didn't mind his I.D. being kipped and put to good use, because he looked enough like John to pass a cursory inspection. John's trip out of Kandahar had been doubly gruesome, both for the blank mark and for the fact that he'd traveled with the dead. Though it had piqued his sense of humor at the time. Everyone on that C-130 was dead, at least as far as the Air Force was concerned.
"Major Jensen" stopped at a drugstore for food, snacks, bottled water, and other types of supplies that didn't hold up well in a locker. Little bottles and small boxes clacked together in the plastic bags. John kept his head down, hat pulled low, and didn't make eye contact with the clerk.
Then "Jensen" hired a second cab, disconnecting him completely from Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard.
The hotel had a floor of polished marble and was filled with tinkling piano music. Ther was a tasteful Christmas tree in the lobby. He paid cash for a month, signing the register illegibly. John used to do this in seedy no-tell motels, but the pampered side of him wanted to make it special this time. He'd been in Atlantis for five years and didn't know how long it would be before he'd get another chance.
He made a phone call from the lobby, leaving a highly cryptic message for Rodney.
The elevator was reflective brass and John made a point of not looking at the other guests. Once outside his room, he opened the door with the key card, then reached around and hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle as he shut it behind him.
One thing about nice hotels, they paid attention to the sign on the door. The no-tell places didn't always.
The room had a large mahogany bed and, John was grateful to see, a large mirror over the dresser facing the bed. The curtains were already drawn. There was a little seating arrangement around the corner from the doorway, with a refrigerator and microwave.
John dumped the duffle bag on the couch and stowed his supplies. He set a string of little colorful bottles in a line in front of the mirror, and then rubbed his hands together and checked the bathroom.
It had a makeup mirror with little bulbs all around it, an overhead heat lamp, a hair dryer plugged into the wall. And a huge tub. John smiled at it, his main reason to go upscale.
He pulled the rest of his supplies out, the plastic rustling, and spread them on the bathroom counter. Multiple packs of razors. A new Norelco battery powered shaver. Nair, which smelled like diesel combined with rotten eggs, but it got rid of the worst, most stubborn spots.
He looked up at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His eyes were fever bright. It had been too long.
Then he started to undress, hanging his bomber jacket on the door, pausing to turn on the water. In the bedroom, where he'd deliberately placed the duffle bag around the corner from the door (a precaution, though seen he'd be so deep into incriminating activity, there'd be no saving him if the SGC called or, God help him, beamed him up to the Daedalus), he spread out selected items Major Jensen's shiny new debit card had bought over the years. He'd been stuck in a hotel for weeks waiting for orders after Afghanistan: was he discharged? Placed on inactive duty?
He'd lucked out. In Antarctica he would be allowed to fly. It seemed the Air Force hadn't wanted to waste an expensive pilot.
Foolishly, he had risked bringing the stuff to Antarctica, so fucking dangerous. But he thought he'd had little to lose. Spent hours locked in his room like this, calling it consolation, but he might have been deliberately walking the line of self-destruction.
He'd lucked out again. In McMurdo everyone was squirrelly after a few months, so no one cared that he wasn't friendly. If you wanted to hide in your room all your off hours, that was your business.
Antarctica was intended to be a punishment. Instead, it was liberating as he practiced an art, hampered only by what he cursed himself for not bringing.
He'd known what he'd have to give up if accepted the Atlantis assignment.
Assignment. That's how he'd thought of it at the time. He'd had no idea. John shook his head.
John moved the duffle bag to the floor, and spread the items out lovingly. New colorful silky things he'd added in his rare visits to earth, never worn. They smelled musty, like sweat mixed with expensive perfume. They smelled like him. He pulled his pants and underwear off and dropped them on the floor. Tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. He withdrew the clippers from the bag.
Sitting naked on the toilet, socks abandoned at his feet, he drew the buzzing hot line of the electric clippers up his calves, over his knee to his inner thigh. He hesitated, then drew a triangle around his cock. It would look better in his underwear. The hair stripped away from his chest and arms in swathes, taking with it part of his masculine identity.
He climbed into the tub and let himself soak a long moment, luxuriating. He moved his arms along the surface, splashing little waves against the sides.
Lathering a woman's shaving gel between his hands, the smell sweet, familiar, he started in on his legs. He sleeked the razor over curves, following the landscape of his muscles, rubbing his thumb over a spot he'd missed and returning. Rinsed the razor in the water. Changed razors frequently. After several days of this there would no longer be that gritty bite and catch as he slid the razor across his stomach, his chin lowered to watch. He was pale after years in Atlantis, his skin as smooth as glass. Underneath it all, he was soft.
Sensually, he slid back into the tub and stretched his thigh out of the water to glide the razor down his inner thigh. He knew from experience that this part would take hours, and the time spent for the second pass would make his skin a prune.
He climbed out of the bath and toweled off, dabbing at his face. Standing in front of the makeup mirror, he clicked on the lights surrounding it. He ran his hand over his newly smooth chest. In the mirror, there was that knowing look in his eyes now.
All the directions on the bottle swore in bright red warning letters that he should never, ever use a depilatory on his face. John had also learned that for him, short of electrolysis, there was no other way. Beard cover never truly worked. He wrapped his hair in a towel, wrinkled his nose, drew back from the putrid smell, and carefully spread it across his chin and down his neck, wincing at the burn. The worst part? He'd probably have to do this twice.
He walked into the bedroom and turned on the TV, sat and smoothed some of the cream on his toes. That was an area he'd learned not to trust a razor and toes were surprisingly important to look just right. The little bottles of nail polish, ranging from clear to red, were lined up in front of the mirror on the dresser. John took in their candy colors hungrily, but bided his time with daytime television, skimming through CNN to a basketball game on ESPN.
He leaned back on the pillows to watch the game, and set to work on his nails with an emery board. He glanced at them. They were pretty screwed up after off-world missions. As a pilot he used to be able to keep his nails manicured and protected in gloves.
To get the pain over with quickly he plucked and shaped his eyebrows between applications. Someday he'd be able to make them narrow and thin, but for now he'd have to content himself with just cleaning up.
The stench of the depilatory still clung to his skin even after he showered. The game was long over so John turned on the radio to a classical station. He stretched out naked on the covers with the heat turned up. He sprawled like a cat and gazed at himself in the mirror. He looked five years younger with his face so baby smooth.
He called this phase his final check, but it was more than that. He ran his hands over his feet, up the curve of his calves... grateful he kept in shape... over his knees, all over his thighs, skimming in different directions, skin like silk, his cock growing hard. It was like having a woman under his hands, and John breathed deeper. He caressed his hips, the generous curve of his ass... there was a slight burr at his belly button which he took care of with the Norelco... it had to be perfect. People who thought John's casual manner suggested sloppiness, well, they didn't know him at all, had never seen him train. People like Ronon knew him better.
Everywhere else, his chest, his arms, were smooth, lithe, sleek. He curled on his side and looked at his now perfectly naked skin, which he rarely got to see. He thought he looked like a model who should be lounging on furs, and allowed himself to indulge his vanity, lowering his lashes at his reflection. A professional make-up artist had once tipped his chin, turning his face from side to side. Oh, you are beautiful, she'd told him in that sultry low transvestite's voice. He agreed.
Moving faster now, he climbed off the bed. He had learned the hard way to do this part before he got dressed. He decided to go with a vibrant (slutty) red. There was a little catch to his breath as he picked up the bottle of nail polish. Going so long without made him want color, and lots of it. Besides, drama was the point of tonight. Over the next month he'd go through all the colors on the dresser.
Tongue between his teeth, John sat on a chair, his knee tucked up next to his ear as he carefully painted. He wasn't good at it and had to fix a lot of mistakes, but he liked the look of painted nails against skin, against satin, against leather.
His fingernails were blunt and stubby but that was something that would remedy itself in a few weeks. Both his hair and his nails grew fast. He flexed his fingers like a cat's claws, impatient for them to dry. But he'd messed his fingernails up often enough in the past that he made himself wait, pacing the room. He checked the glowing red numbers on clock next to the bed. He still had plenty of time.
At last he allowed himself snatch up the waist cincher. The corset, though his most expensive piece, he rarely got to wear, and then only when he paid for professional company that specialized in this sort of thing. It took two people to lace up.
Do you wish to be dominated? a husky voice had once asked him over the phone. No, ma'am. He'd dipped his chin in smothered embarrassment. I want to dress.
He almost never said it out loud.
He untangled the strings on the cincher and rethreaded a few. Then wrapped it around his waist, clipping each of the little hook and eye closures. He sucked in his stomach, reached behind and pulled as tight as he could, feeling it squeeze him like a hug. He tied the strings with a quick string of bowlines, irritated as they gave more than he liked. He eyed himself critically. His shoulders were too wide, hips too narrow though he had a nice ass. The cincher gave him curves he didn't possess naturally. He ran his hands down his hips.
The corset was better... he licked his lips... but maybe later. Maybe. If everything went right.
He cast another quick look at the clock. He was taking a tremendous risk here. But maybe that was part of the thrill for him, the reason why he did this on base in Antarctica. Would anyone be surprised that John Sheppard liked to flirt with danger?
John smiled. Rodney would call him insane.
There was no way he could put on the gaffe to pull his dick between his legs and hide the bulge, not as turned on as he was. But he pulled on the silk panties, which were less exciting than everything else since that's what he had on Atlantis. He opened one of the boxes of nylons (he'd bought a supply) and slipped Silkience up perfect legs.
Now came the difficult part. Here was the only time he envied the overweight transvestites and crossdressers. His weight training on Atlantis was necessary but had a definite down side.
He pulled and tugged at the flesh on his chest, tape in hand. This had worked when he was a pilot and skimped on his workouts. He'd been able to tape up a small cleavage. But he was in prime condition now. He couldn't gather enough to make the pull of tape worth it. Damn. With a sigh, he gave up and set the tape aside.
He dipped into the duffle bag, removing another box. Men like him the world over had cause to be grateful to breast cancer survivors: real women demanded higher quality than the cheap plastic tits drag queens once wore. He slid the bra straps over his arms, hooking the back with ease and speed, then slid the falsies in place, cool against his skin. He pressed them appreciatively against his chest. God, they felt cold, but real.
Then the main event. Yes, John knew he was at least six years out of style. He'd seen the dress in a magazine in an ad for diamonds, and when he checked the back of the magazine, the price was breathtaking. But he sank an entire paycheck into it. You want V-shaped necklines, another Dominatrix had advised him, to visually cut your broad shoulders. And jewelry to draw the eye to your lovely face, she'd added, chucking him under the chin, tilting her head at him admiringly. You have the most sensual mouth.
He stood at the mirror fingering his chin a moment, then stepped into the faint crinkly rustle of taffeta. He lifted his head as he drew up the zipper, eyes closing. It came demurely to mid-calf and spread out from his hips in a sweep of red. It was sleeveless, and revealed enough of his back that he had to pin the bra to it in back, pricking himself with the little gold pins. He turned and adjusted his tits in front. He regretted the lost cleavage, but what could a guy do?
John poured himself a glass of juice, holding it daintily with the unpracticed elegance that seemed to appear out of nowhere when he was dressed. His nails gleamed red against the clear plastic cup. Outside, the sky had darkened to a deep blue. This much had taken most of the day.
He wanted so badly to put on the shoes, to hear the heels clicking across the tiles in the bathroom tile. But he made himself wait. Discipline was key.
John allowed himself one early indulgence and buckled on a tiny gold and diamond watch, changing it to local time. Another paycheck's worth. In the mirror, his face looked too bare in comparison to the rest of him. And his hair looked like hell. With a slow sideways smile, he set down the glass, half full, and crossed to the octagon shaped box that took up one entire corner of the duffle bag.
He teased out the wig, lifting it on his fingertips. A victory over his hair. The trannie at the crossdressers' retreat ten years ago had tried to talk him into tumbled black curls, putting the starlet wig on John and fluffing the curls over his shoulder. But after years of all out war with his hair John wanted it straight, long, and as smooth as an Asian princess. He bought one with a pixie cut, too, for variety, and then treated himself to a black Pulp Fiction wig which he couldn't pull off to save his life-as warned, it did make his face look heavily masculine-but he liked it anyway.
All right, he'd caved on the starlet wig. It did look good. But it didn't feel as good, sweeping across his bare back the way the wig did now as he tucked his hair into it, adjusting the ear tabs. He could admit, the curls looked better, but he wore his favorite tonight. He looked over his shoulder and winked.
Then he dug in his duffle bag, feeling as refined as Alice in Wonderland as his hair slid down his bare shoulder. He pulled out his red patent leather shoes and the makeup kit. From inside the makeup kit he drew out a tiny brocade-covered jewelry box. It was amazing the little feminine touches you could pick up on a pretext of buying them for your girlfriend. John smiled to himself as he opened it.
He checked the little gold watch. He had two hours, possibly less.
Licking his lips, he broke a triangle makeup sponge out of its wrapping, then smoothed on concealer and foundation. He laid it into the blue hollows under his eyes gently with a ring finger. Atlantis had taken its toll. He cursed the new crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the papery smile lines around his mouth. Clearly he frowned too much. Five years had made a scary difference. The wig hid the gray hair, and he'd shaved the rest off, but other signs of age persisted. Forty-one was forty-one. There was no getting around it.
He ran a slightly darker foundation in a triangle down from the underside of his cheekbones; a makeup artist's trick to disguise a masculine jaw. He ran a light streak of concealer to draw out the line of his cheekbones and take the eye away from his chin. His eyes would do the same. A last fine layer of powder helped disguise any imperfections. He dusted it across his face with a fluffy brush, his eyes squeezed shut. He fluffed on a little blush, touching some to his chin to minimize that, too.
Under his dress he adjusted himself uncomfortably.
With gentle fingers he opened the new eye shadow compacts. On leave one time, he'd found all his eye shadow had broken from the rough handling on cargo jets. He wouldn't go without. His eyes were without a doubt his best feature.
Eyelash curlers dealt with the way his lashes tended to stick straight out at the corners. Then a pink tube of mascara, brand new, stroked over his lashes like petting a cat; a long line of eyeliner above and below, softened at the edges to blend into the eye shadow, which he liked to lay on thick and heavy at the corners. John smiled at how the gray and blue shadow and thick mascara made his eyes look huge, and practically glow. He leaned his chin on his fist examining them, eyes narrowing, making sure he'd done it more or less evenly. Not really, but he figured fixing it would probably make it worse.
Finally, he drew the line of his lips in lip liner. This was the easiest part. He used to just lay on a little lipstick and a trashy nighty to jack off, but a Dominatrix he'd corresponded with from Guam gave him orders to only masturbate when fully dressed, with full make-up.
Yeah, he'd followed those instructions about as well as he followed any others. But when once he made the extra effort he'd improved with the makeup. With the lip brush he painted inside the line, then carefully blotted his lips (with one layer of tissue only, please) and painted them again, thick and glossy this time.
He glittered at himself in the mirror with satisfaction. Swept the long straight brown hair over his shoulders again. Adjusted his shoulders and the vee of his neckline. Rubbed excess makeup off his fingers and then adjusted his tits, squeezing them closer together. He lifted his chin and tilted his head, to look at himself at different angles. Smoothed his hands down the front of the red taffeta dress that spread lightly from his waist. Thank God, it hid how turned on he was.
He leaned forward and put on the braided gold and diamond choker-he'd bought the entire ad, so what?-saving the clip-on earrings for later. They hurt. He dotted perfume on his pulse points, then, as an afterthought, slid a little blush down his neck, too, the fluffy brush gliding and tickling his skin.
Pointing his toes, he balanced with one hand on the dresser and put on the strappy open-toed sandals. Then he fell backward onto the bed with a low groan, the dress fluffing around him. He wanted to touch himself, but he couldn't risk messing up his makeup with sweat.
He checked his watch and let his arm drop with a sigh. Full makeup was always a little itchy, too.
It took only half an hour, but it felt like ages to John, when the knock finally came. He grinned and sat up, straightening his hair over one bare shoulder.
"Just a sec!" John called out. At the mirror he put on the clip-ons, dangling like drops of water.
He stumbled in the three-inch heels. He'd forgotten how to walk in them.
"Colonel? You wanted to see me?" Rodney's voice came through the door. He'd seen the satin panties, even watched John masturbate in them.
John threw the latch, his heart pounding.
"Not exactly," John said. "More like, I wanted you to see me."
Rodney's eyes widened, amazed. His mobile face looked him up and down, all over. "John?"
John grinned, straightening. "Hi."
"Oh my God," Rodney said. He seized John about the waist, then held him out at arm's length. "Can I?" he asked, his hands running up and down John's hips like he couldn't help himself.
John nodded eagerly. Rodney was going to really mess up his lipstick.
The door shut behind them with a soft click, and the Do Not Disturb sign swayed.