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Trust 1
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From: [email protected] (Amy Matthews)
Date: Sun, 25 Jul 1993 15:14:23 GMT
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: STORY: Trust (1/?) (Consensual feminization)
PLEASE READ THIS FIRST
The following story is a complete fantasy; the names do not correspond to
anyone who exists in real life. It contains elements taken from my own
experience, of course, butin my darker moments I doubt that the heroine,
in particular, could possibly exist.
This story contains elements of cross-dressing, a somewhat dominant
female, and a rather submissive and effeminate male. If such things make
you want to toss cookies, don't read it, okay? If it bothers you that
they even exist on 'your' newsgroup, send me a polite note asking me not
to post such stuff any more, and I'll take it into consideration. If
you're rude, I'll assume that you're using someone else's account and
ignore you.
This story also contains one fairly graphic scene of eroticism between two
consenting adults. If *that* squicks you, what the hell are you doing on
this group? Grow up and get a life.
Copyright © 1993, all rights reserved. The following text may be
distributed electronically with no restrictions except that these warnings
and the attributions must be left intact. Individuals may make a single
printout for personal use. Hey, it's mine, okay? If you wanna make money
off it (gimme a break, I know you're not for real), you gotta give me some.
If you actually like it ('He *likes* it! Hey, Mikey!'), drop me a line
saying so, and maybe, for once, I'll finish a story.
Amy A. Matthews
Trust
Part 1: The File on Lee
I was pretty tired when I got to Nancy's. Long day with the
little darlings (that's undergraduates to the uninitiated),
including some of those sessions where the pretty little
defenseless undergrad girl tries the old Higher Grades Through
Salt Water trick. Tears, that is. I hate that. I hear that
they've nicknamed me "Old Stoneface," because I freeze up and
turn sour when the faucets start to leak. Anyway, I was
definitely in the mood for a little sympathy.
"Nance?" I called, as I entered. And I owed her an apology
for being late. I could smell food from the kitchen; we had an
agreement that we wouldn't fall into the stereotypical male-
female chore division, and tonight was my night to cook (So why
was I supposed to be cooking at her house, and why did we spend
90% of our time together there? After all, she'd end up cleaning
up any long-term messes, and by default keeping the place up. I
can hear you sneering. Well, there *was* a reason. Basically,
I'm a slob, and she hated it so much that she'd either have to
clean it up, or suffer. She refused to do either, so except for
rare occasions when I got active and cleaned things up, we stayed
at her house).
"There's some stuff for you on the couch!" she called back,
cheerily. Sounded cheerful to me, anyway. I felt warmed a
little; she sometimes bought things for me, totally spur of the
moment.
I stopped cold when I saw what was on the couch, though. A
pink satin little girl's party dress, the kind with puffy sleeves
and big white satin floppy bows on the skirt. My heart stopped
beating for a moment, until I realized that it couldn't be for
me. She didn't *know*, after all; she *couldn't* know. She must
have bought it for herself. Not really her style, of course. I
noticed matching shoes, little pink patent-leather flats, with
white bows, and relaxed. She was doing a Little Bo-Peep costume,
or something. Not my concern. Whatever she meant for me must be
somewhere else on the couch.
So I stepped closer, and spotted it. There were some
packages and stuff, but they obviously went with the dress. The
stuff for me must be the stack of paper. It was enormous,
too--at least a ream there, I guessed. I picked up the top
sheet, and my heart stopped again. I guess maybe it shouldn't
have started after the first time.
I was still standing there, in shock, with the sweat pouring
down my face and my gut feeling as if someone had rudely used it
for batting practice, when her voice, behind me, snapped me out
of it. "Are you going to change for dinner?" she paused, and
added, sarcastically, "Amy?"
I blinked, letting the pain wash over me, and turned to face
her. Gods, she was crying! "I, uh, can explain," I began,
nervously, but let it trail off. What was there to explain?
She'd asked to use my computer that day, to do some project
involving graphics for her company. My computer wasn't ideally
suited for graphics, but it was better than hers was. However,
the graphics programs all ran under Windows. Windows is a bitch
for security. Judging from the stack of paper, she'd printed out
the contents of the \data\personal\stories\porn subdirectory.
Which would explain the dress, alas. The stories weren't really
porn, but most of them *did* feature a boy or a man wearing an
outfit like the one laying in front of me. I glanced back at the
couch. Yup. The other packages were panties and stockings.
Probably pink nylon with ruffles and white lace, respectively.
That tableau held for perhaps three minutes, her crying
softly, me staring alternately at her, the couch, and the
printout of the first page of one of my stories. She broke it
finally. "Well?" she prompted.
My mind raced briefly, testing and discarding dozens of
explanations. But ... really, what was the point of denying it?
I shrugged, letting the old emotional armor settle into place. I
smiled, sardonically. "I guess there *isn't* an explanation," I
said.
Silence. "You don't trust me," she accused.
"Of course I ...!" Pause. "Umm. No, I guess not." Pause
again, and an olive branch: "*I* hate it. I mean, I hate *me*
when I do it. How could you not? So, uhh, I tried to stop, and
... umm, write it out."
"Cross-dress, you mean," she elaborated. A bit
unnecessarily, to my mind. That was what we were talking about
already, right? "You like to dress up and look like a girl."
She was taking this too calmly. I was a little worried.
Sensitive position, as a professor, you understand, and junior
faculty is not notoriously immune to being fired on moral
grounds. They'd dress it up, of course, call it something else.
I shrugged again, looking away from her. "You want somebody to
dress you up and treat you like a little girl," she continued,
remorselessly.
"No!" I protested, genuinely shocked. My traitorous glands
did their trick, though, and my heart raced, my mouth dried, my
palms got moist, and my belly took the down elevator without
warning. I had to explain this one. "No, really! I don't, uhh,
know *why*, and I've tried to stop--honest!" I emphasized as she
rolled her eyes. "But it isn't, uhh, because I want to be a, a
girl!" My face felt hot. It got hotter when I realized that I
was blushing.
She looked disgusted. Well, wouldn't you have been? I
would have, if I had been a girl and ... oh, never mind. "Lee,"
she said, still much too calmly, "I read those stories." I
glanced at them. Not possible. Hundreds of pages. Skimmed,
maybe. "The hero is always named Lee. And Amy," she added. "He
always gets forced into a dress like that, sooner or later. And
likes it. Then, poof, he's Amy for real."
*Good synopsis*, my profesorial side commented. I snarled
at him. To Nancy, I smiled, mechanically, and replied, "Uhh,
well, hardly any of them even have *endings*, and I was going to,
uhh, turn him back, at the end. Just, you know, let him have a
real experience of being a girl." That was pretty weak, I
admitted to myself. It was half-true, though. None of the
stories *did* end, and I had always gotten stuck halfway through,
looking for a conclusion that was emotionally satisfying. No,
not even that--just a *progression* toward an ending that was
emotionally satisfying. Come to think of it, most of the stories
never even got to the sex-change part. A little foreshadowing,
but it had only happened in two or three of them. How had she
gotten the impression that it was universal?
She cleared up that little question. "Lee, dammit!"
Finally a little emotion, something to understand. "I read your
analysis, too!" Analysis? Oh, gods, that must mean the file
called 'anal,' where I speculated on commonalities in the stories
and possible reasons behind them. Once I knew she had read that,
her earlier comment made more sense. A quote, a direct cite from
that little bit of introspection. The dry-voiced little observer
in my head commented that she probably hadn't gotten the joke
behind the name of the file--reference to my rather obsessive
need to categorize. Christ, that damned file was written like a
scholarly article!
I'd been so obsessed tracking down all those little
information trails that I hadn't answered. She had crossed her
arms, was leaning against the doorframe, and the tears were
streaming down her face faster. No mascara, I observed. She
stifled a sob, and visibly gathered herself. Here it came, the
ultimatum. "Lee, either you decide you *trust* me, or get out."
I must have looked puzzled. She explained the part that didn't
need explaining. "Forever."
"I, uhh *do* trust you," I told her. "And I *promise* I'll
stop, this time." I actually had a plan, one that would probably
work, if she didn't stop me from doing it. It had worked once
before, until somebody found out about it.
"You *idiot!*" she shrieked, and sobbed some more, before
controlling herself. I had taken a step closer, dropping the
page, then paused, uncertain if she would *accept* comfort from
me. "You *can't* stop, you *know* that!" As a matter of fact, I
had written something of the sort in that wretched file. I lost
count of my attempts to stop before I got into grad school. She
took a deep breath. "So trust me, and get dressed, or get out."
Get ... *Get* dressed? It took me maybe thirty seconds to
figure out what she expected me to get dressed in, not because it
wasn't obvious, but because I simply refused to believe it. My
fantasy come true? And then the spanking? No way! My fantasies
were erotic; this was simply terrifying. And I shook my head
sharply.
Another sob broke loose, and then she whirled and left. Out
of my sight, she could let herself cry more freely; I heard her,
from the bedroom. Doing something. I stood there, imitating a
statue (except for the lack of pigeons, but I felt I'd been shat
upon altogether sufficiently already). She came back with a bag,
which she dropped by the front door. "G-get your d-dress and g-
get out!" she said. Oh. My stuff, in the bag. I flinched when
she called it 'my' dress, but not even the powerful yearning
within me was enough to convince me to touch the damned thing.
I wanted to say something, but when she opened the door, the
choice was pretty clear. Shame-faced, I slunk out, picking up
the bag on the way. It occurred to me, then, with a sinking
feeling, that she must have cleared her stuff out already. In
anticipation. That brought it home to me: the relationship was
*over*. I barely made it to my car before I started crying.
It cleared my head a little. It occurred to me that she had
a very complete file on me, if she wished to blackmail me, or
make me lose my job. Junior faculty can wear long hair, and
maybe even get away with an earring (I'd waited until my first
year was over before putting an earring back in, and never wore a
pair, of course), but the only panty-clad faculty the
administration was interested in were those that would help the
Equal Opportunity statistics. Transvestic faculty were possible,
I supposed, but only with tenure.
It didn't occur to me until I got home that Nancy had been
wearing a black silk blouse and miniskirt, and wearing high
heels. Not that I understood it, then; I thought it was another
taunt, a reminder of how the standard "accepting woman" of my
stories was always dressed when they met. It wasn't her style.
She might even have bought it that very day.
When I got home, I discovered that she *hadn't* taken her
stuff away. Oddly, though, she'd found my stash of stuff--which
was pretty pitiful, except for the lingerie, which was, umm,
extensive--and mixed it with hers in her side of the dresser. It
had been there before we'd met; I'd had it hidden for the eight
months we'd been together. It took me a while to disentangle my
stuff from hers. I *had* to do that. I'd promised myself that I
would *never* touch her stuff, except to take her out of it, and
I'd kept that promise. It hadn't been easy; she was pretty
damned sexy, and just her clothes could push all my buttons. She
tended toward indian print skirts, pants, and casual blouses, but
she had some really killer outfits, and after she had realized my
weakness for sexy lingerie, she'd indulged me by equipping
herself with some.
I didn't bag her stuff up, though. I bagged *mine* up
again. I still ... hoped, you see. Then I laid down on my futon
and cried and cried and cried.
Well, the hope got dashed over the course of the next week.
I gave her a whole day to calm down, then called her up. It was
an awkward conversation. Once we got past the preliminaries, she
asked me if I was willing to trust her, and when I asked,
clarified that that still meant wearing the damned ridiculous
dress. Now, I admit I desperately wanted that dress, wanted to
wear it, wanted to play at being Amy for real ... but I was *not*
going to admit it. I look *stupid* in a dress. I mean, really
ridiculous. Hairy legs, knobbly knees, big hands and feet. The
mustache doesn't help much either. Or the nose, I guess. So I
refused, of course. I mean, I *knew* that she would never be
interested in me sexually if she once saw me dressed, and I had
my pride. The dregs of it, anyway. And what she wanted, I
thought, was to try to humiliate me, to make me stop. I asked if
I could have the stories back. She said no. But I could have
the dress. We were both crying when we said goodbye.
I tried again two days later. It might have been the exact
same conversation. We were both locked into our positions, and
couldn't budge out of them. I wasn't going to be a party to my
own humiliation. I didn't tell her that, but I did say that I
had stopped. The only thing she asked to that, was whether I had
carried out a purge of my clothing, and she strictly forbade it.
Anyway, she refused to return my papers again, and we were both
crying, again, and we said goodbye, again. Except she added,
"Lee, don't call me until you're ready to trust me." Which
meant, ready to be humiliated, I understood. The last thing she
whispered I wasn't sure I'd heard, for months. "I still love
you."
I worried about her concern for a purge all weekend. The
only thing I could think of was that she planned on exposing me,
and wanted that for evidence. Well, I could get around
that--I've got lots of experience, lots of dodges. I found a
self-storage warehouse place, and dumped a box full of clothes
and cosmetics into a five-by-five. I wrote a careful note,
basically, "I'd really like to have the printout," put it with
all her stuff, and dropped it off at her house one day when she
wasn't home. Left the key on top. I suppose I could have
searched for it, but that would *really* have been a betrayal of
trust, and I shied from it. I had to take her things back,
because I was getting tempted to wear them. I admit, I sort of
hoped she would give me the dress when she gave me the printout,
but when the dress turned up, alone (well, with the accessories,
but without the printout), I realized that I didn't really want
it. No, that's not right, either. I realized that I wanted it
*too much*. I put it all in the mail to her. And then hoped
she'd mail it back. But she didn't.
A pair of months passed, and I spent Halloween at home, with
the lights out, pretending there was nobody there--and in boy
clothes. We were coming up on the end of the semester. I'd been
feeling truly wretched. Other girlfriends had found out; I used
to tell them myself, in my college years. In grad school,
though, one had broken up with me, using that for an excuse, and
my armor had gotten a lot thicker. She had claimed that I would
eventually become a transsexual, and I suppose I had beenin
reaction against that ever since, refusing to admit that, at some
deep level, I *did* want to be a girl. It was a hard thing to
figure out, anyway, since I knew, quite clearly, that I also
*liked* being a boy, that I loved sex, and that I was a pretty
good lover.
I was using an old technique to avoid cross-dressing, one
I'd pioneered in college. It depended on the fact that I smoked.
Basically, it was aversion therapy. I waited until I felt the
familiar signals--sweaty palms, dry mouth, empty stomach, racing
heart, and a fixation on pink, soft, and lacy. Then I went and
got the one pair of panties I had left in the house, and put them
on. And put out a cigarette. On my arm. Or sometimes my leg.
The pain was ... extreme. In college, a friend's girlfriend had
learned what I was doing (I told her, proud of myself for having
figured out how to stop), and she had had a fit. She was angry
with me for hurting myself, not for dressing up. This was the
same woman who had been angry with me, when I told her that I
liked wearing women's clothes, because I stole them. On the
other hand, the one time that she had taken me shopping, she had
made me pay at the register, refusing to take my money and do it
for me, so I knew that she didn't *really* approve.
But I finally stopped, and put the last pair in storage.
I'd discovered myself contemplating the idea of putting the
cigarette out elsewhere. And had also been contemplating filling
a hypodermic needle (I had them from when I had visited a third
world country, in order to not get an injection from a dirty
needle) with air and ending the pain. I still hurt every time I
walked by a place that had been 'ours,' and I was paying less
attention to my courses than I should have been. The semester
ended, and I found out how much less, from the student
evaluations.
The day after I got the evals, after much soul-searching, I
went and took everything back out of storage. I needed it,
needed the release, in order to concentrate on my job. About
half of it, unfortunately, had been ruined; it turned out that
the warehouse I had chosen had water and insect problems. Some
of the clothes were hopelessly stained, and much of my makeup had
turned into puddles of goo. So I had a sort of purge, if not a
voluntary one. About a week before Christmas, the day before
leaving for my parents' house, I went shopping. Christmas had
always been a pretty good time for me, since a man buying women's
clothes was actually common, at that time of year.
I ran into her in the drugstore. I had gathered some
foundation and blush, and had just picked an assortment of
eyeshadow, when Nancy's voice, behind me, remarked, "Those
*really* aren't your colors, Lee."
I choked, looking around frantically, but no one else
appeared to be within earshot. She'd gotten close to me because
I always kept my eyes fixed firmly on the merchandise, avoiding
the knowing looks of the other--inevitably female--customers.
"It's not for me," I lied automatically. And blushed. Her face,
which had been open and amused, went closed and cautious. Hurt?
I don't know. "It's for my sister," I added. I did have a
sister. "Christmas present," I mumbled.
"I see," she said, coldly. "Do you know what colors *she*
prefers? What does she look like? Green eyes, brown, curly
hair, high cheekbones?" She raised a sarcastic eyebrow.
"No," I replied, softly, feeling as if someone had taken a
knife to my gut. "You've seen her pictures. Sort of dirty
blonde, brown eyes. I don't know about cheekbones, I never
noticed." I was looking down. I didn't want her to see how much
it hurt.
"Oh," she replied, sounding disconcerted. I still didn't
look up. She released the basket I was holding, and I glanced
up, quickly, to see that she had a puzzled, worried look. I gave
her the famous mechanical smile, and walked away.
She was right, I decided at home. They weren't my colors.
At least I hadn't got any mascara; the tears would have made it
run.
I got back from my parents around the second of January. It
had been the usual hideous Christmas, with inappropriate gifts
and the required oohing and ahhing. I was as guilty as anyone
else, of course, but that only made it worse. The only bright
point was my sister's baby, who got things she really *did* like,
and enjoyed them quite openly. I almost asked my sister for
makeup advice, but ... what did it matter? Nobody was ever going
to see *me* in makeup. And if it made me look ridiculous, well,
that would go well with the rest of my outfit, right?
There was a gift waiting for me. From Nancy. Two sets of
makeup, one for a blonde, one for a green-eyed brunette. Or
brunet. Also a little booklet of beauty tips. The note: "I'm
sorry I misinterpreted ... if I did. Here's something that
should be more appropriate for your sister. And some for your
friend, Amy. Merry Christmas. Love, Nancy."
I worried at that note, and the package, for days. Why was
that comma there, after the word 'friend?' Sending the makeup
off to my sister was an easy decision. A good one, too, it turns
out; she sent a letter back a week later effusively thanking
Nancy (I'd told her who it was from). When I nerved myself to
try the other, I discovered that she had been right. The
mustache looked more out of place than ever, but in a bad light,
if I put my hand over my mouth and upper lip, I might have passed
for a woman with absolutely no skill in putting on makeup. I'd
gotten a pretty nice haircut at home, too, more feminine than I
had let myself wear it when Nancy and I had been together--just
bangs in front, but that made an incredible difference from
pulling it all straight back in the usual ugly guy's style.
Once I'd used the makeup, I had to keep it. So I told
myself. I also found a present for Nancy, one that I agonized
over for longer than I had spent on all the presents for my
family. I had to find something that wasn't trivial, but that
also wasn't super expensive; I didn't want her to feel
uncomfortable about the cost. It had to be
appropriate--personal--without being intimate. I finally settled
on a soft leather over-the-shoulder handbag, one as casual as she
usually was, but as quality. I figured she wouldn't know how
expensive it was. Hey, it may be obvious to any idiot that women
know the prices of things that they usually have to buy, but I'm
not an ordinary idiot, okay? I included a copy of my sister's
letter, too.
Classes had just started when I got a note from Nancy.
"Lee, the bag is beautiful! But you spent much too much! Let me
make it up to you: I'll buy you dinner. Give me a call. Love,
Nancy."
I was in an absolute panic when I finally placed the call.
But the chemistry had somehow changed; she teased me fondly,
friendlily, and demanded that I let her buy me dinner and take me
to a movie. I agreed, of course, hoping that something would
start up again.
We went on a Friday night. In her car, with her driving.
Not so astonishing, it was, as she pointed out, her treat, and
we'd always shared those kinds of tasks before. She gave me a
slight panic, early on, when I asked where we were going, and she
replied, "Trust me." I was very restrained all through dinner,
wondering if she was going to demand that I prove my trust, and
wondering if I would refuse, if she presented me with the dress
again--she was wholly desirable, that night, and wearing the
perfume I had given her, long ago. At the movie, she was very
affectionately aggressive, her hands teasing me at odd moments,
but fending off, gently, my attempts to return her caresses.
By the time we were in the car, I was confused, and a bit
unsettled as well. Were we together again? I've never been good
at reading the signals. She drove me home, parked the car, and
leaned over to kiss me. I thought, for a moment, that I was
going to come in my pants; I'd missed that so badly, the softness
of her lips, the sweetness of her mouth. She broke the kiss, and
I sighed, licking my lips.
She giggled. "I love the way you do that," she whispered,
and my heart leapt into my throat.
I managed to open my eyes, and surreptitiously cleared the
tears from the corners. Hers seemed unnaturally bright as well.
I hesitated, fearing the 'no,' that was sure to come, but managed
to force the words out--they had to turn sideways and slither
past my heart, which was still blocking things up. "Will ...
would you like to come inside?"
She smiled, and I thought my heart would break. But then
she asked, "Did you like the makeup I gave you, Amy-Lee?"
Something crept into her eyes as she whispered the question.
I know that my eyes probably reflected abject fear. I was
trying to figure out what hers were saying, there with the dim
light from the streetlamps, and caught in a struggle between fear
and desire. I'd never thanked her properly, she was hinting, or
so I thought, and I'd lied to her and hadn't trusted her. Could
I trust her even enough to tell her that I liked her gift?
"Yes," I croaked, answering my question and hers.
She kissed me again, and the release of tension was enough
to let me decide what I'd seen in her eyes. Fear. Fear of being
hurt, of being lied to, again, probably. This time, when she
broke the kiss, she laid her head on my shoulder, and her
fingertip followed the tip of my tongue. It was an old trick of
hers; she'd always been fascinated with the fact that I savored
her kisses so much that I had to lick them all up when they were
over. "Will ... Can you show me, if I come in?" she asked, in an
oddly thick voice.
That question was more or less equivalent to a handful of
speed. My poor, abused heart, that had just spent several
minutes crowded into my throat, and then brittle as glass, took
off like an Olympic sprinter. It didn't have far to go, really.
Nancy had always had it in her keeping; it fled there, where it
had always been well-treated. I made an absurd little whimpering
sound, and squeaked, "Y-yes."
She hugged me tightly, for a long pair of moments. I
absently returned the hug--I mean, really absently. Most of me
had run for shelter somewhere, and I felt weirdly detached, like
in the middle of an acid trip. There and not-there. She pulled
back, finally, and whispered, "Come on," taking my hand to pull
me out her side. As if she was afraid to let me get too far
away. In that oddly detached mood, I let her lead me to the
door, and watched as she repeated my actions from the car,
surrpetitiously blotting tears from the corners of her eyes.
We went in, and she led me to the bathroom. My hands were
trembling convulsively when she let go of them, and took my coat.
She disappeared, and I found the makeup, still operating on
autopilot. When she came back, a moment later, I had tears
standing in my eyes again, because the lipstick had mostly missed
my lips. I started to wipe it off with the back of my hand,
feeling horribly ashamed, but she stopped me, then gently cleaned
my lips and my hand with tissue. Her glance, now, seemed
compassionate, and I hoped, desperately, in the part of me that
was shrieking in terror, that she would let me off the hook. She
did, sort of. I guess. She put the makeup on me; I just stood
there, obediently.
"There!" she said, finally, turning me to face the mirror.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?"
"Yes!" I gasped, and then laughed, half-hysterically, before
bringing myself under control. Her eyes looked concerned, when I
caught them in the mirror, reaching up to blot the tears again.
"You'll run your mascara," she warned softly, and I gasped a
laugh again, as she slid her arms around me from behind. I
relaxed into her, and finally dared to look.
It was a more remarkable transformation than the one I had
managed on my own. Well, that was predictable, I guess, she had
experience with the stuff, and got the blush in the right places,
and the shadow properly feathered. I stared, a bit taken aback,
and then, reflexively, laid my forefingers across my mustache,
hiding it. She giggled at that, and I blushed, and got
fascinated by the way the blush made my face look even softer and
more feminine.
The terror was receding, turning into a fear that was more
controllable. It was very odd, and I didn't really understand
it. We stayed there, staring at the mirror, or at each other's
eyes in the mirror, for what seemed a very long time. Then she
let out an enormous breath, and the world all came back into
focus for me. It was an ordinary, mundane world, and I hadn't
died of wearing makeup in front of her. I was enormously proud
of myself.
"Where's your makeup remover?" she asked.
"My what?"
She giggled. "Okay. I know you have coconut oil. That'll
work." She found it, and then said, "Watch me." She started
taking off her own makeup. I hesitated, then followed suit, and
when I was finished, relaxed even further. I suddenly realized
that I was exhausted.
"I'm beat!" I said. I caught her eyes in the mirror, again.
"Are you, umm, staying?"
She looked at me, calculatingly. "I don't have a nightie,"
she said.
I blanched. Okay. Another step. Just make the words come
out. "I'll loan you one," I answered. 'Of mine,' her lips
shaped. I nodded, feeling the heat return to my face, and added,
in a small voice, "P-please, don't make me w-wear one." She
looked, nodded.
Now's the time for me to claim that our emotions, after
having such a workout, turned into heated passion, and we made
love all night. Well, no, we didn't. We both wanted to, I
think, but my cock wasn't willing. I finally whispered, "Sorry,"
and started to move to go down on her--she was wet, and I didn't
want to leave her unsatisfied--but she stopped me, and suggested
that we cuddle instead.
But she was gone in the morning, when I awoke. The only
thing that convinced me it wasn't all a dream was my nightie,
with her scent still strong, laying on the side of the bed. I
had a vague impression of her getting up, kissing me, and moving
around looking at things and talking to me, but I sleep like
death, and have been known to carry on midnight conversations on
the phone without ever remembering a word of what I said.
I wasn't quite sure what to do, so I didn't do much of
anything. She called in late afternoon.
"Hey, sweetie! When will you be free to talk?"
"Umm, I don't know. About what?" There was a long silence.
My heart returned, and slammed against my ribs. "Did we agree to
something this morning? I don't remember. Whatever. I'll do
whatever I said. I don't remember, that's all!" Calm, Lee, I
told myself. Don't sound so desperate! Why not? I wondered. I
*am* desperate.
There was another slight pause, and then she chuckled
throatily. "I could tell you that you agreed to anything, you
know."
I grabbed my nerve with both hands. "Yes. Anything. I'll
do it." There was another moment of silence. "It's worth it," I
added. "You are."
"Anything?" she asked archly. A hint of a laugh?
Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-wham. Hearts, I decided, are a
bother. If I could get rid of mine, I wouldn't be in this
position. Time for the magic words. "I trust you," I said. But
my voice sounded strangled.
This time the silence lasted forever. I started to panic,
when I realized that she was speaking. Her voice was very soft,
and it sounded as if she might be crying. "...on the first bench
in the park, at 7:30. All right?"
"Yes!" It came out harsh. More obstructions in my throat.
"Pink ones," she said, obscurely. "I love you."
"I love you, too," I choked. Before I could ask, 'pink
what?' the line had gone dead.
Well, but it was obvious, right? Panties. I have a
weakness, I guess you could call it, for panties. And for pink.
And for nylon, and ruffles. My all-time biggest button pusher is
pink nylon panties, with ruffles. Little-girl panties. Little
Bo-Peep panties. I found out that the previous night's impotence
had been only temporary; just thinking about showing up for a
meeting with her, wearing pink panties, was enough to make
walking uncomfortable. I debated stopping by some store, and
getting new, but decided that I had only a limited amount of
courage, and needed it all to show up so dressed in the park.
At 7:20, I settled myself on the bench where we'd met,
almost a year before. On Valentine's Day. I'd bought a bouquet
of flowers--for myself, to be honest, but when I'd seen a
beautiful woman sitting there all alone, I'd impulsively handed
them to her. It had taken a while to convince her that I wasn't
some odd masher or rapist. I was warmed by the memory, and
dwelled on it, since it distracted me from the fact that every
time I shifted position, the nylon caressed my cock and my
bottom, and the elastic gave me tender little nips around my legs
and my waist.
She showed up late, of course. Woman's prerogative. Her
face brightened when she caught sight of me, and my heart
swelled. She ran the last couple of steps, and shyly handed me a
bouquet of roses. Pink ones. I accepted them, blushing. It
occurred to me that I had missed a very important bit of
conversation. I stood and walked with her, uncomfortably aware
at every step that I had made an utter ass of myself. She
noticed, finally.
"What's wrong?" she asked. "Have you changed your mind?"
She looked a little hurt.
"Umm, no. I just ..." I looked around, desperately. Not
too many people in the park, not in mid-January. I gulped,
looked down at the flowers I was clutching--crushing--in my
hands. "I didn't hear what you said," I confessed in a miserable
whisper. "I didn't, umm, want to ask. And you said, 'pink
ones.' So I wore ... I'm wearing pink ones."
No response. I finally dared to look up. There was an
astonished grin spreading over her face, as she understood what
it was I had to be referring to. She reached for my hip, and I
shied away, face flaming. She giggled. "Really?" she asked, her
voice vibrant. "My god, how wonderful! I didn't think you'd
have the ...." She looked at me. "You really do mean
'anything,' don't you?" I nodded, relieved when we started
walking again. "Even if I take you home right now and tell you
to show me that you trust me." That was a statement, not a
question. But I confirmed it with a nod and a glance. I was
wishing she'd take charge of my heart again, since I was getting
very tired of its antics. It was trying to break my eardrums.
We walked to the edge of the park before she spoke again.
"Why were you so stubborn four months ago?" She didn't wait for
an answer, but continued, gently, "I told you to meet me here at
7:30; you must have gotten that part. And that I wouldn't demand
anything beyond your strength. And that to symbolize the start
of a new relationship, I'd bring you flowers. Pink ones, like
the ones you gave me, in our first relationship."
Well, good news and bad news all at once. I didn't
understand what she meant by 'new relationship.' On the one
hand, I wanted whatever she was willing to give. On the other
hand ... on the other hand, I corrected myself, I also wanted
whatever she was willing to give. Did that settle that?
Although it worried me a little that she was giving *me* flowers,
instead of the other way around. We were heading for a
restaurant that had been one of our casual, talking spots. It
had always been easier for us to talk in a public place, a
neutral zone, rather than at one of our houses.
Between the flowers, the panties that *kept* reminding me of
their existence, and the things that she had said, that I had to
mull over, I was abstracted, and she ordered the table, guided me
to it, and took my coat as I sat down. I flushed, realizing that
since we had met in the park, I had taken the 'feminine' role.
She smiled, in a way that said she understood why I was blushing.
I crowded myself into a corner of the booth, and tried to adjust.
We had used this place, in particular, because the lighting was
dim, the booths reached the ceiling, and so we could talk with a
sense of privacy. I laid the flowers on the table, and picked up
a menu.
"Let me, okay?" she asked, reaching for the menu. I looked
up, blinked, hesitated, and nodded, letting her take it. She
ordered for us both, and I sat there, feeling a bit foolish. And
a bit cosseted, protected, taken care of. There is an odd
security that comes in total dependence. I think girls learn
that when they're young. Most men never do. Maybe they don't
want to. I wasn't sure I wanted to.
Once the waitress had gone off to put in our orders, she
leaned forward, looking at me searchingly. "Lee," she began,
"four months ago you preferred blowing up our relationship to
letting me see a part of you that you were ashamed of. Now you
seem to be saying exactly the reverse, that you'll suffer
anything to have a relationship. Why should you trust me now,
when you didn't then?"
Taking the bull by the horns, apparently. I shrugged, for
an answer, but she waited. "I don't know," I said, finally. "A
lot ... a lot happened, after we broke up. I tried to quit ...."
I thought about telling her how, but remembering the reaction of
my friend's girlfriend, decided that it could wait. "I got ...
depressed." Suicidal, in fact, but again, let's not dramatize.
"I always ... trusted you. I think, maybe, I just didn't trust
me." That wasn't really right, either. I just didn't *like* me.
Well, let it pass.
She considered that, nodding. "I think you're right. I
think you still haven't admitted some things to yourself that
you're afraid of." I flinched. "But it was probably for the
best. Four months ago, I couldn't have given you what you want.
What you need, maybe. I did a lot of reading." She shook her
head, and laughed drily. "A *lot* of reading, and not just your
stories. I was trying to find a reason to be as disgusted with
you as you are." She looked straight at me. "I couldn't. I
kept on loving you, and hoping you'd grow up enough to come back
to me. I even followed you around, whenever I saw you going to a
store!" She laughed. "That finally worked out--but you *lied*
to me. Are you ready to admit what you need, what you want to
be?"
I was a bit nonplussed. My stories, some of them, got
pretty radical. There were some things I didn't think I was
ready to try, and maybe never would be. "What ... what is it you
think I want to be?" I asked.
She cocked her head to one side, just looking. At me. For
a long time. A very long time. I finally had to drop my eyes,
and nervously fiddled with the flowers. "I'm a very assertive
woman," she began, elliptically, "but four months ago, I would
have been a little shocked, a little uncomfortable, maybe, to
have a sissy boyfriend."
My head shot up, and the denial sprang to my lips. But she
was smiling, warmly, a little challengingly, and I flushed,
remembering that she had read all those stories. I looked away
again, and nodded once, sharply.
The waitress brought our food. I took a deep breath,
released it, and glanced at her warily. She answered the
unspoken question without words, laying her hand over mine, the
one that was playing with the stems of the flowers. "I'll go
slow," that gesture said. The food, though, wasn't a total
reprieve. As soon as the waitress was out of earshot, Nancy
continued. "Some of what you want, I can't offer. I can't turn
you into a girl if you snap your fingers." Another story
reference. An embarrassing one. In that one, the boy (he wasn't
really a man, I think) was asked at one point what he would do if
he was told he could turn himself into a girl just by snapping
his fingers, with no possibility of turning back. 'Decide now.
You have thirty seconds.' At twenty-five seconds, he was staring
at his fingers. Her fingers. Magic, remember? I'd actually
heard about that as a sort of test, and tried it on myself, and
shocked myself in just the way suggested by snapping my fingers,
at about twenty-five seconds. But I'd convinced myself that it
was only because it wasn't for real, and because I wanted to
shock myself, and ... oh, all sorts of excuses. "Four months
ago, maybe, I would have been trying to push you far enough to
make you want to quit ... maybe that's what I did, anyway." She
paused. I pretended I was absorbed with my food. "Are you
really wearing pink panties?" she asked, quite casually.
When I finished coughing, I nodded. She patted the bench
beside her. "Come here. Show me."
I looked around, shocked. She waited. I thought about it.
Like I say, it was a dim restaurant. Finally, I gulped, slid
out--feeling as if every inch of my ass had been specially
sensitized--and slid in beside her, on the other side. She
looked at my lap, and raised an eyebrow. I looked around,
furtively, and tried to look like I was doing something other
than unzipping my jeans. I put my hands, shaking, on the table
when I was done.
I couldn't help but gasp when her hand slid over the nylon.
Boing! Instant erection. She stroked it, and I gasped, again,
shuddering, before I brought myself under control. "Well," she
said, with satisfied amusement in her voice, "I think you'd have
a little trouble denying that you like wearing panties at the
moment." Stroke. I shook my head, darting little glances to the
side. "No, what?"
"Umm, no, I don't," I said, confused. "I mean, don't deny
it."
"Deny what?"
I looked at her. Question and answer, the Truth Will
Out--common elements of my stories. I tried twice to say what
she wanted me to say, and finally leaned closer to whisper it.
"I like wearing panties." Stroke. I shuddered again. Gods,
don't let her bring me off in public. Please. Please.
Instead she took my hand, and guided it under her skirt.
Up. Up. Her skin was like satin. "And this is proof that I
like seeing you in them ... sissy," she whispered back. Her
panties were warm and damp. She was aroused by *something*. She
left my hand there, stroking her, for several moments, then
sighed, and urged it back out, closing her legs. "I don't want
spots on my skirt, sweetie," she explained. She reached across
the table, and pulled my plate across. She ate the rest of her
dinner one-handed; the other hand stayed where it was. I don't
know what I ate. Boiled sand, maybe. I didn't taste it. She
only sent me back to the other side when she ordered dessert for
us, and I was just as tongue-tied and mute as before. The
waitress gave me an odd look. 'Why is she the one doing the
ordering?' We'd been there before, you see. Dessert gave me
just enough time to get my breathing, and my, err, circulation,
under control. She paid the bill, and motioned me toward the
door.
When we got to the park, she gave me a sidelong glance, then
shrugged her purse off and hung it on my shoulder. I blushed
again. Purse, flowers. But, hey, I justified, people can put it
down to young love. An odd feeling, though, to have the thing
banging on my hip. On the other hip, Nancy's familiar softness,
her perfume. Her arm around my waist, walking me home. The park
was four blocks from my house.
I wasn't sure what she would do, at that point. Back off?
Come inside? I *needed* some time to deal with this, and to deal
with the disturbingly deep arousal her taking the dominant role
provoked in me. She came inside. She didn't even ask. I got
cranked up another notch, just looking at her for directions.
She looked around, frowned, and then smiled at me. "Go put on
your makeup, sweetie," she told me, turning toward the kitchen.
"Oh, I almost forgot. There's something for you in my purse."
The package that I opened with trembling fingers turned out
to contain perfume. The same kind that I had bought for her,
that she wore. A hint, obviously. And if she had read the
stories, she knew the effect perfume had on me--well, on the
"hero," which was me in drag. I blushed slightly. "Infelicitous
choice of phrase, Lee," I muttered to myself, and drifted off to
the bathroom. Where I would put on perfume, and start *feeling*
feminine. Panties arouse me. Perfume softens me. Weakens me.
Feminizes me, I guess.
Strengthens me oddly, I discovered. With the delicate scent
in my nostrils, the trembling of my hands decreased, and I got my
makeup on in reasonably well, if still clumsily. I heard music
start up from the direction of the bedroom, where my stereo was,
and then Nancy came through the door, carrying something. "You
look very pretty, sweetie," she told me. "But we're going to
have to do something about your wardrobe!" She slipped back out,
and I discovered that she had brought the least objectionable of
my skirts, and a blouse that happened to fit very badly. It was
pretty, which was about all one could say for it.
The perfume hadn't given me quite enough strength, it
seemed. I changed into skirt and blouse easily enough, but
leaving the relative safety of the bathroom was beyond me. I
looked ridiculous, and knew it. I dreaded the moment when Nancy
discovered it. I stood there, trying *not* to look at the
mirror, and shaking every time I considered going out the door.
And aroused. I had a feeling that I would have a case of blue-
balls to match any sixteen-year-old's if this went on much
longer.
"Are you practicing the 'Make 'em wait' part?" She was
there, and I drew a breath, waiting for her to laugh. To giggle.
To smile maliciously, even. "Come on, I want to dance," she
said, and drew me toward the bedroom.
I have *never* been much of a dancer. Too self-conscious.
Slow-dancing, though, was usually all right. I mean, all it
amounts to is foreplay in public, with your clothes on. This
turned out to be a little different, though. First, *she* led,
signalling with pressure of her hands, or her hips, or her body.
That inflamed me further, just as it made me even more
uncomfortable. Something was slipping away, something was
getting revealed, and I was beginning to feel extremely
vulnerable. She danced me female, is what she did. She was
wearing high heels, tall ones--maybe the ones she had bought for
the all-black costume. She'd told me once she didn't like them.
Since I had taken off my shoes to change, and left them off, it
meant that we were about the same height.
So we danced through three songs, and then the CD ended. It
ended, and I realized that I was dancing with my head on her
shoulder, while she had her face in my hair, and that she had
been stroking my bottom through skirt and panties. My hands were
just around her waist. Passive. I started to flush, painfully,
when the music stopped and she broke the clinch. I heard myself
whimper.
She held me back from her, her hands holding my arms to my
sides, and looked at me. Then drew me closer, and kissed me.
Taking the initiative, again, and this time demandingly. When I
tried to kiss her back, her mouth and tongue turned punishing,
demanding, until I simply submitted, and let myself *be* kissed.
As the kiss ended, my skirt slithered down my legs to puddle on
the floor, and she urged me to step forward, stepping out of it,
as her hands caressed my bottom again. She was nibbling and
licking my ear. Another of my weak spots, one that she had
learned, long ago, sent me into trembling ecstacy. Then another
shift of position, and she was pulling my blouse over my head.
I'm a fraction short of six feet tall, but standing there in
front of her, wearing nothing but makeup and a very silly pair of
panties, I felt very small. She stepped back, unzipped her skirt
and stepped out of it, then unbuttoned and discarded her blouse,
keeping her eyes on me the whole time. Stepping toward me again,
she unbuckled her bra, and let it slither off her shoulders and
land with a snick of fasteners on the floor. She took my hand,
and led me, unresisting, toward the bed.
I was out of my depth. Every time I started to respond, she
pulled back, gently laid my hands aside, and then started over.
She pushed me to sit on the bed, then sat beside me and started
kissing me. My lips, my nipples--unfortunately, they aren't at
all sensitive--my ears--they are--and everywhere else. Her
tongue traced a trail along my waistband. I used to do that to
her. Eventually, she had me laying back on the bed, arms at my
side, eyes closed. She'd somehow lost her high heels and
pantyhose while she was teasing me.
I turned over my will to her, at that point. Whatever she
wanted. Shortly, she was straddling me. Nylon binds when you
press it together, but if you back off, and sort of brush it, the
feelings are unbelievably erotic. She stroked me, through two
layers of nylon, moving nothing but her hips. And then pressed
down, and ground us together. I could feel her heat, and the
damp spreading into my crotch as well. After a few minutes of
this, I started to toss my head and make little noises. She
slowed down, lowered herself directly into contact, and started a
sort of slow bump and grind. Simultaneously, she took one of my
wrists in each hand and raised them over my head, lowering her
body until her nippled traced erotic circles on my chest.
Then she made a noise, ground herself into me convulsively,
and kissed me hard, shuddering. My eyes popped open in
astonishment. She was coming! I had usually been able to bring
her off--say three times out of four--but usually only after I
had come, and then usually manually. She'd let go of my wrists
when she started to peak, so I hugged her, hard, and started to
kiss her back. I stroked her back, down to her beautiful ass,
and stroked her cheeks and her hips. She had very sensitive
hips. She not only didn't stop me, but her kiss turned into
something very soft, very wet, and very tender. And then she bit
my lip! I yelped, but she was ignored me, and plundered my mouth
again, the waves passing through her body again. The junction of
our hips was hot, and very wet; it was very similar to
penetration, and I had started climbing toward the peak myself.
Then she stopped, and raised her upper body with a jerk,
pushing her elbows between my arms and my body and pinning them,
somewhat painfully, to the bed. Her thighs had clamped shut, and
stopped me from moving. I was pinned underneath her, her
complete weight resting solidly across my hips and the insides of
my elbows. "Oh, no!" she breathed. "Not like that!" She took a
deep breath, to calm herself. I was amazed that she was able to
do so. I'd only managed to bring her to orgasm twice in one
night once. And her eyes were flashing with passion; I had a
glimmering idea that the night wasn't over yet for her.
"Tonight, I'm in control," she whispered, and lowered her head to
nibble on my ear again. "When you come, you're going to come
like a sissy."
I moaned, partly from the pleasure that was thrilling
through me again as she deep kissed my ear, and partly from fear.
A delicious fear, though, one which seemed to channel itself
directly to my groin, increasing my arousal. Revenge on my
heart, you see. It was having to work double time to supply
sufficient blood. Or maybe revenge on my brain, since I think it
just shut off the blood supply there to send it to areas with a
higher priority.
The next time she came, she had me trapped. Forearm to
forearm, with our fingers tightly entwined, and all the weight of
her upper body keeping me pinned and motionless. She was biting
my face, giving me sharp little nips, and I almost lost control.
I bucked my hips, and managed to stroke twice, to get right to
the edge of the abyss when she sat up and let all her weight pin
my hips to the bed. I shuddered, clenching my fists, and tossed
my head in frustration. When the wave began to recede, I could
feel sweat ... sweat? ... trickling from the bottom of my cock,
between my legs, into the crack of my ass.
She waited until I managed to recover enough to open my
eyes. She licked her lips, and I closed my eyes again, biting my
lip. I opened them when she raised herself up off of me, and I
felt her hands at my waistband. She locked gazes with me, and
wouldn't let me look away, as her hands gently urged me to raise
my hips, so she could push my panties down. I felt a thrill of
shame, and of excitement; it made me feel very passive, very
submissive. Very feminine, I guess. It felt like a very
feminine thing to do. She pulled them down to my knees, stopped,
and swung herself off the bed. Before I could recover, and maybe
decide that we'd had enough of this role reversal, she had
shucked her own panties, and was back on top of me. Warm, soft,
and wet against my erection.
I tried to avoid her hands, when she started to resume the
position that kept me pinned and helpless. She didn't argue with
me, or demand anything, she just chased my arms into position,
then clenched her hands over mine, and slowly transferred her
weight forward, which had the secondary effect of parting her
nether lips to engulf the shaft of my cock.
When she kissed me again, I closed my eyes. "Good," she
whispered, nuzzling my lips. "Keep your eyes closed, sweetie.
Just feel. You're helpless." She trailed kisses from the side
of my mouth to my ear, and whispered again, "Overpowered. The
nipples are hard, hard and tender, brushing the chest." I
gasped. Yes, they were--her nipples, brushing my chest, lightly,
erotically. She shifted her weight, inching forward, until the
head of my cock was between the softness of her lips. "You're
ready," she breathed, and the kisses trailed down my neck and
back to my lips. "Feel the penetration begin. Soft lips
spreading, accepting." Her lips fastened to mine, closing them
rather than opening, and then her tongue, harder than it had a
right to be, pushed my lips apart, without actually entering my
mouth fully. I made a noise deep in my throat as I understood.
And a vivid hallucination, that lasted a microsecond, of *being*
penetrated.
She broke free, kissing my eyes, my cheeks, and down to my
ears again. "So beautiful," she murmured. "So soft, and
helpless, and then it's deeper." She moved, and swallowed more
of my cock, pulled back, and impaled herself further. She
gasped, and chanted, "Deeper, deeper," as she stroked, taking in
more and more. "And it's ... all the ... way in." She gasped.
"Between, inside, together," she said, her voice changing to a
moan, and then she all but shouted into my ear, "Oh, God!" and
ground her hips against mine, in a circular motion, our pubic
bones grinding one another--with a bit of her soft flesh caught
between--and she broke into sobs.
My eyes snapped open, and I tried to say something, to
reassure her somehow. But I just whimpered again instead. And
she didn't *need* comfort. That was her third orgasm, I
realized, a little awed. Frightened, too. I mean, maybe it was
just the long drought, though I'd heard that she had had a couple
boyfriends after we broke up, but she was more responsive, more
uninhibited, more outrageously sexy than I had ever seen her. It
turned me on unbelievably, but she *wouldn't* let me finish.
She pushed herself up onto her elbows--my elbows,
actually--and a couple tears fell onto my face. She bit her lip,
fighting for control, and then opened her eyes. Lowered herself
again, slowly, and moving again, this time in a way that provided
friction for me. My eyes snapped shut, as I realized just how
close I was. She kissed the corner of my eye, and I realized
that I'd been crying too, as she murmured, "You cried together as
the waves swept over, pulsing through the walls of flesh, so that
they closed over the magician's wand, stroking, kneading ...
needing." I heard the difference in the words. Don't ask me
how. Sexual telepathy, maybe. Her voice was tight and shaking.
"And then they begin to move together, p-perfectly m-matched, and
reach th-the ... Oh, God! Feel it! P-penetrating, penetrated,
inside, within ... together! Together!"
I thought that I was dying. I didn't care. I was released,
and found release. Or, vulgarly, I came, and so did she. I
think she started crying again. I can't say for sure, because I
passed out. Not for long, but when I woke up, she was cradling
me in her arms, and moving against me again, sobbing. Using the
twisting bump-and-grind that kept me from moving inside her,
much, while she reached another orgasm. And another. I'm not
sixteen, though, and once a night is about all I'm good for, so
the, umm, 'magician's wand' was shrinking. She finally relaxed a
little, her sobs dying out.
I was, I realized a bit fuzzily, exhausted. Completely
satiated, from the most intensely erotic bout of love-making I
could remember. I had drifted half into dream land, with vague
dreams of a finger tracing the outline of my lips through a pair
of thin, lacy panties, when Nancy bestirred herself. Moving as
swiftly as before, she sat up, and I slithered all the way out,
feeling another little trickle. "Hey, sweetie," she whispered,
her voice trembling. "Wake up a minute. "If we don't take our
makeup off now, we'll look like raccoons in the morning." I was
going to object that I didn't care, but she had moved again, and
was pulling my panties back up. Rather than argue, I let her
push me toward the bathroom, and accepted the little jar of
makeup remover she dug out of her purse.
She left, probably to go put her own panties on, and I
looked in the mirror. Now, there's a classic syndrome among
cross-dressers. Arousal, dressing up, more arousal,
masturbation, and then total revulsion. When I saw myself in the
mirror, my first impulse was to dig out a razor, or the
hypodermic, and *end it*. In an agony of shame, I shucked the
panties, tossing them in the corner, and started cleaning my face
with vicious, hard strokes.
"No," said Nancy's voice, behind me. Not angry, but very
firm. "Put them back on. And this." She was wearing a white
nightie I'd never cared for, since it was supposed to fit through
the bodice and then flare into a sort of puffy chiffon skirt.
I'm not built like a girl, though, so it was loose in the chest,
tight in the waist, and the skirt wasn't made of an erotic
material, not to the touch, at any rate. It was to the eye.
'This' was a pink nylon chemise, one of those things that mail-
order houses sell cut-rate on the back of the order form.
"N-nance," I stuttered, "I c-can't!"
"Why?" she asked. When I didn't answer, she continued,
"Because it's sissy?" I winced, then nodded.
"I ... it makes me look, s-sil- ... ridiculous," I added, in
a whisper.
"You *are* a sissy," she said, matter-of-factly. "And
tonight, you're going to sleep like one," she stated, picking up
the panties and handing them to me. It wasn't a request, or an
order. It was a statement.
It turned out to be true.
I felt even more deeply embarrassed the next morning, when I
woke up next to this beautiful, desirable, feminine creature, in
little-girl drag. And with amazingly stained panties, too. They
were almost crusty. So were Nancy's. She ignored my glumness,
and joked that it was too bad I was so narrow-hipped, or she
could borrow a clean pair from me. She kept up her light chatter
as we showered--separately, alas--and got dressed. She did end
up wearing some of my underwear, some of the nasty 'one size fits
all' kind. She put it on with a wry joke. I wore boy clothes,
from the skin out. She asked me what was for breakfast, by which
I guessed I was making it. Which was fair enough. She stayed
and cleaned up a little in the bedroom, and then we ate, not in
total silence, but not very happily. Her cheer was wearing thin,
against my wall of gloom.
I was disgusted with myself. I had given in and done some
things that I'd fantasized about, but that wasn't the real
problem. The problem was, I enjoyed them. I knew it, and Nancy
knew it. I couldn't understand why she didn't hate me yet--I
did--and wondered what was going to happen next. Nothing good, I
was sure. What if she continued to try and bring my stories to
life? I shuddered, and dropped my fork, when I had a sudden,
hideous image of stepping up to the lectern, in front of a class
full of students, in high heels and a miniskirt.
She did the dishes when we were done, and came out to the
living room, where I was sitting and staring at the window,
trying to decide what I was going to do. "Lee," she said,
softly, kneeling in front of me and taking my hand. "You need
some time alone. So I'm leaving." I started to protest, half-
heartedly, but secretly relieved, when she laid a finger on my
lips. "I'm not going to demand anything of you that you can't
do, and that includes demanding that you try to hide your
feelings when you're feeling particularly raw and vulnerable.
However," she added, and her voice became very firm, "you *are*
going to have to make a decision. You'll have to decide if you
want to be my sissy or not." I flushed and again started to
protest, but she shushed me again. "It isn't that hard a
decision," she said, with a smile, "since one way or another,
you're going to be a sissy. The question is whether you'll be
*my* little sissy, and let me make the decisions and take the
responsibilities. No, don't answer! I don't want to hear it,
and I don't think you're ready, or able, to make a decision in
the state you're in. So I'll give you time. Friday I'll come by
to pick you up, and treat you to dinner and a show. If you've
decided you can trust me, you'll be wearing panties. And
perfume--that's easier to see." Well, smell, I corrected, but
not aloud. "That gives you a week to torture yourself with it.
Agreed?"
There was something in her eyes again, and I had to work it
out before I answered. Anxiety? Yes, it seemed to me, she was
anxious. And considering things, I realized that whatever
decision I made when I was depressed nearly to the point of
suicide was probably going to be the same one. "All right," I
agreed.
"Good!" she said, and sealed the bargain with a kiss. A
promising kiss, a tender one. I had to blink the tears back when
I was done. I was going to give this up? But any other decision
seemed just impossible. She stood, found her coat and her purse,
and started for the door. But she hesitated, halfway out, and
turned back to look at me consideringly. "Lee," she said, in an
amused voice, "lose the mustache, too, okay?" She was gone
before I could answer.
Amy!
[email protected]
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