|
Trust 1/5 (m/f, light dom, trans)
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
The following story is one in a five-part series, all copyright © 1993
by me. You are welcome to distribute the story under the following two
stipulations: you cannot change it (no editing, thank you very much!) and
you cannot make money from it.
This story contains sex, some fairly mild bondage play (spanking), and
focusses on cross-dressing. If that bothers you, don't *read* it.
Amy!
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 been in 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 any
nightclothes," 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." A hint of a
laugh?
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.
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.
Mohammed stole 25 pounds of C4 the day before yesterday. If they leave
that fire escape open one more time then we'll kill him.
--------
For more information about this anonymous posting service,please send mail
to [email protected] with Subject: remailer-info.
--------
To respond to the sender of this message, send mail to
[email protected], starting your message with
the following 7 lines:
::
Response-Key: the-clipper-key
====Encrypted-Sender-Begin====
MI@```%5^&2?(E<U9BPG1]W7L'=.KH_SN0@)2!P;";;'OV8K:X7WW?O'@ZHDR
M0IM]H!L360*2<0HA*/P!%XS#3/(('0BYE:>;#<?&XF^F_R*$B;X)9?PVV1#(
====Encrypted-Sender-End====
|
|
