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Trust 3/5 (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 3: Know Thyself
I made a hell of a mess in the bathroom, too. Cheap beer. I
usually drink imports. This stuff was just supposed to put me under
though. It did, but my system had sustained enough shocks that it
decided poisoning was going just a bit too far. It was a good thing
that the next day was Wednesday. I had one class, an upper-level
course, and office hours, but that was it. I called the secretaries
and told them I was sick. By midafternoon the hangover was mostly
gone, the bathroom was reasonably sanitary, and I'd cleaned the
broken glass out of the frame that held Nancy's picture.
I was sitting in the kitchen, chain-smoking and morosely
considering the consequences of using that hypodermic needle that was
lying on the table, when the door rang. I thought about ignoring it,
but it was probably the damn yard man. He wasn't worth a damn; he
cleaned my yard whenever he needed money, not when the yard needed
cleaned. So he'd done the leaves, finally, in January. Brilliant.
Now he'd come and expect me to fork over cash, since he at least had
the sense not to try cleaning things when I was around to tell him I
wouldn't pay him. Sourly, I started for the door, and remembered that
my wallet--my new wallet, genuine latest women's fashion--was in the
car.
I was so sure it was him that I just flung the door open,
expecting him to understand I was in a bad mood. It wasn't him. So,
okay, you knew that. I'm a little slow on the uptake. It was her. I
had to choke a sob, but I got my composure fast.
"Whadda you want?"
"Isn't it a little cold for shorts and a tee shirt? I was in the
neighborhood, and I thought I'd drop your clothes off." I must have
flinched or something, because she clarified, "The ones you wore to
school yesterday."
Okay, we were pretending to be polite, were we? Mechanical
smile. "I've been inside all day, it's warm enough. I've got some of
yours, too. Wait here a minute." I felt a slight thrill of
exultation in being able to close the door on her, to make her wait on
the steps. Good thing I'd taken off those clothes before I'd gotten
sick. I found them, shook them out, and carried them back to the
door.
Her face went back to an expression of complete neutrality as
soon as I opened the door, and I wasn't sure what expression it was
chasing away. "I was going to bring them by the school, but they told
me you'd called in sick."
"Burns," I said, feeling a little smug at being able to tell the
truth and make her feel guilty about it. I gestured at my leg. I was
keeping my arm carefully turned so she couldn't see the inside of it.
Should have been more careful. Should have put on a long shirt,
or something. Two piles of clothes, two arms. My attempts to keep
one arm turned in toward me weren't effective enough. "Lee!" she
gasped, dropping the clothes I had just handed her, and grabbing my
arm. I almost dropped mine. "What happened to you?"
"Nothing!" I snarled. "I just made sure I won't be acting
'sissy' any more, okay?"
She stared at me. Her face had gone very pale. My emotions got
all jumbled up. She was acting almost like she cared. "Lee, dammit,
I never meant ... no." She looked at me, and her face firmed up. She
looked incredibly sad, but firm. "You'll have the right to ask
questions once you don't have to, once you trust me." She glanced
back down at my arm. "But *that's* ... you did that to yourself,
didn't you?"
"It works, okay? And it hurts less than being ... whatever."
"Good God!" she exclaimed softly. It was weird, she acted like
she really cared. She stared at my arm in horror, and I more or less
put it on display. Badge of pride, so to speak. She glanced at my
face. Her face changed. Grew thoughtful. She took a step back, and
I started to move inside. But she hadn't picked up her clothes, and
she wasn't leaving. She dug something out of her purse. I paused,
intrigued in spite of myself.
I'd forgotten about the cigarettes I'd abandoned in her car. She
dug them out, and found the lighter. She didn't smoke. My heart
started to pound heavily. She wasn't going to .... She lit a
cigarette. Were there tears in her eyes? Looked at me, and pushed up
the sleeve of her coat. Almost, I started for her. No, she was
grandstanding. "How many times do I have to do this?" she asked, in a
shaky voice, and started pressing the fiery tip against the inside of
her wrist.
"Stop that!" I shouted, and she winced and bit her lip. Dropped
the cigarette. She looked at it, then started fumbling in her purse
again.
I threw the clothes behind me, and closed the distance between us
in two steps. Grabbed the pack out of her hand, crumpled it, threw it
to the ground and stomped on it. Grabbed her wrist--carefully. "Why,
Lee, I thought you didn't care?" she said softly.
Something had snapped the night before. Something else snapped
now. "I ...." I couldn't think of anything to say, except the banal
three words, which seemed insufficient at the moment, so instead I
kissed her. It was a very vigorous kiss. I damn near attacked her
mouth, and she responded to that, hungrily, softly, and I felt a sob
rack her body, and then she changed it, or tried to. We fought for
control, our tongues and lips duelling, me stubbornly determined not
to let her take the active side, until I realized what I was doing.
Who I was doing it to, I should say. Then it was my turn to stifle a
sob, and relax, and let her do the kissing while I responded. I think
we sealed some sort of bargain in that kiss, too. Or maybe I just
agreed to something. I don't know.
She broke the kiss, and pulled my arm out where she could see it.
"Seven," she whispered. "Oh, God!"
I felt ashamed of myself. "Y-you don't understand. I can ... it
hurts, sure. But I can, can stop the compulsion. The craving. And
then, you know, I almost like myself."
"You're not going to do that any more," she said, in a tone that
brooked no demur.
I demurred, clenching my jaw. "Not if I don't have to. It
shouldn't take much more, I think." She was staring at me, shocked.
"Nancy," I explained, fiercely, "I *hate* it! I hate wearing p-p-pa-
p- ..." I clenched my jaw. Damn word. "I hate dressing up. Even
when I'm doing it, I hate it! I hate that it makes me horny when I
*do* do it. But it's, like, an addiction, or something, and even
though I hate it, I do it."
"Ah!" she said, softly, looking tenderly in my eyes. "I didn't
know that. Lee, I have something to prove to you, but you'll have to
come to my house."
I broke the clinch, and let the suspicion show. "New rules?" I
asked. "I told you, I'm not going to wear any of that stuff again.
That's what this is *for*."
"Same rules," she replied steadily. I started to shake my head.
"If you don't agree," she told me, "I'm going to go down to the
Stop'n'Rob, buy a pack of cigarettes, and do six more." She held out
her wrist.
"Why?" I asked, bewildered.
She smiled again, slightly, her eyes still brilliant with tears.
"Well, if it hurts you as much as those," and she nodded toward the
burns on my arm, "hurt me, then it should help you out even more. If
pain is what you're after."
"I ... this is insane!" I exploded.
"I agree completely," she said fervently. "Are you coming?"
"No! Y-you wouldn't!" But she *had*. She just shrugged, and
knelt to gather the shirt and pants she'd dropped. I sat down
abruptly, feeling the chill, and hugged my knees to my chin. "I don't
understand!" I spat, in exasperated staccato.
"Lee," she said, softly, urgently, "I want you to come to my
house. I want to show you something about yourself that you don't
believe, and that you won't find pleasant, but that will give you a
great deal of peace, once you know it. I promise you ... I *promise*
you that you'll understand, but I can't explain it here. You have too
*many* defenses, Lee. We have to go back to the very basics." I was
wavering. Stupid. I'd figured everything out, and now she was just
messing up my head again. "I love you, Lee." Damn it! I nodded.
"Go put on some clothes, then, all right? You'll need something to
wear home."
I sighed. "You may as well come inside, then." A thought
occurred to me. "Oh. I don't have any p-pa- ... any underwear." I
glanced at her, shame-faced. "I, umm, threw everything away."
"Hmm. I should have guessed. In the dumpster?" I nodded. She
gestured me inside, finished picking up clothes, and followed me.
Good, then. At least she wouldn't make me crawl around in the trash
and recover them. I started for the bedroom. Heard her breath catch.
"Lee. What's that on the table?"
I gulped. "A needle. Umm, I can ... can I explain later?"
"I *read* those stories, Lee," she said, looking at me. Gods,
she was furious! "Do you have any more?"
I strangled on admitting, "In the bathroom." She went that way;
I went into the bedroom. I wanted a minute or two alone, anyway. I
heard her rummage around in the bathroom, then the sound of plastic
breaking. Oh, well. I could probably get more. Then she was out the
door, and I let myself think.
Go through with this? That meant the dress, didn't it? Or was
that rule suspended? Hey, wait a minute! This was an invitation!
Ka-WHAM went my heart. I jerked to my feet, paced jerkily for a
moment. She probably hadn't thought about that part. But it *was* an
invitation, and if I didn't trust her some ways, still, I had an idea
that when I pointed it out, she'd agree with me. I grabbed clothes.
Hmm. Let her do what she liked. In fact, I could probably even
appear in public dressed like Little Bo-Peep, once, and claim that it
was a joke, or a bet, or something. *This* time, there was a reward.
Yes, ma'am!
She was coming in the front door when I came out of the bedroom.
"What's in there?" she asked, pointing at the bag under the table by
the door. I laughed, and she looked at me, startled.
"That's, umm, stuff ready to bring to your house," I replied,
smiling. "Makeup, perfume, a nightie, stuff like that." I grinned.
"I forgot about it," I confessed.
"What brought on this remarkable change of mood?" she asked me,
picking up the bag to hand to me. "Not that I object," she added.
I considered waiting, but then decided ... she was fair-minded.
"This counts as an invitation, doesn't it?"
She stared at me, a little blankly. "Is that all it takes to
make you happy, Lee?" She shook her head, then laughed herself.
"Yes, it's an invitation. Do you have clothes for tomorrow? And are
you bringing your car, or are you getting up earlier than usual so I
can drive you somewhere?"
The glitter faded a bit when we got to her house. For one thing,
she had a garbage bag in her trunk. When I asked, she grinned
impishly, wrinkled her nose at me, and said that someone had thrown
all these nice clothes away, so she was going to go through and see if
anything was salvageable. I started to object that they were mine,
but saw the trap early enough, and grumpily lugged it to her door.
They were anybody's, once they were thrown away, of course. Then, as
we approached the door, I began to get cold feet. I stopped just
outside her door, looked at her. She looked sympathetic, but firm.
"Go easy!" I pleaded, flushing. Then I took a deep breath and stepped
inside. One small step for a ... oh, never mind.
"Don't put the dress on just yet, all right? In fact, if you
want, you can leave without doing that part, if you're not ready for
it. Put that bag on the balcony, would you?" She disappeared into
the bedroom. I took a steadying breath, moved the bag. Then wondered
what to do. Well, the bedroom, probably.
There was some stuff on the bed. My Calvin Kleins, a pair of
tights, and a slightly ragged black leotard that she sometimes wore to
work out in. She was rummaging through books on the top of her
bookshelf, and looked very appealing, stretched out like that. I
stood and admired the view until she noticed me.
"Voyeur," she said fondly. "Go ahead and put that on, all right?
It's pretty vanilla, you know. You could wear it to the local health
club and not get an eyebrow raised." She glanced back at me, giggled.
This was more like the woman I remembered. "I've got a leotard for
you, and *much* sexier lingerie than those awful things--why'd you buy
them anyway? I thought you didn't like cotton. Anyway, *that* outfit
is about as sexy as a dishrag, and that's important for what I want to
show you."
"Why can't I just wear my clothes, then?" I asked her, moving to
the bed and beginning, obediently, to disrobe. It was a lot easier
this time, I noted. I snuck a glance at her chair, and sure enough,
the dress was there, but it didn't seem so intimidating this time. I
thought I could at least put it on without help. Maybe not quickly,
but myself.
"Partly because I won't let you wear men's clothes in my house.
The other reason you'll find out about soon enough." She got down a
fat book, and a couple of tall, thin ones. I couldn't see what they
were. She caught me trying, and admonished, "No peeking! Come on,
I'll be in the living room."
I pulled on the clothes she'd laid out. Her leotard was a little
small for me. Worse, I'd gotten a little aroused putting it on, and
that was very visible. I waited for the swelling to go down, and the
padded out into the living room. She was sitting on the couch, next
to the table. Looked up, with a smile, as I came in, and patted the
couch next to her. I managed to check out the book this time. Mark
Twain? Why Mark Twain?
She set it aside as I sat down. "Okay," she said, digging
through the stack, then turning to look at me. "Hmm. Let's get the
fear out in the open first, shall we?" She pulled out a book. Joy of
Sex. I rolled my eyes slightly. How-To for Hippies. She turned it
so I couldn't see it, and leafed through it. Then she stopped, and
flopped it down on my knees. "What do you think?" she asked,
brightly. Woman goes down on man.
I grimaced slightly. That had been a sore point, early on in the
relationship. "You know I don't like it, Nancy. I'm sorry, but I
don't."
She left it there, a smile hovering on her lips. Finally, "I
know. Now look at your lap."
Look at my lap? "It's still there, I reported." She grinned,
took the book back. Flipped some more. Didn't find what she wanted.
Pulled out another book. Giggled when she found it.
"Here's another nice picture," she said. Umm. Rear entry, wrong
hole. I looked, and shrugged. "Your lap?"
"What's with my lap?" I asked. She grinned, took the book back.
Dropped How-To for Hippies on my knees again. My favorite picture, as
it happens: man kneeling, woman standing. Stir, throb, throb, throb.
"Umm, okay, I get it. Was that all?"
She leaned forward, kissed me. "That's just the start, darling."
Sat back. "I'm glad the idea still turns you on. Can we agree that
wearing that particular outfit, we have a fairly obvious barometer to
what you like and what you don't like?"
"Wait a minute!" I protested. "Sexy pictures turn me on. So if
you hand me a lingerie catalog, you won't prove anything. That is,
you won't prove that I like *wearing* it. I told you, it's
stimulating, but that *doesn't* mean I like it."
Her smile didn't fade. "Get up, walk around, and come back when
you're flaccid again, all right?"
So I did, and as soon as I sat down, she started reading to me.
"Next morning I said it was getting slow and dull, and I wanted to get
a stirring up, some way." Huckleberry Finn, Chapters X and XI. You
can read it yourself. It's where Huck dresses up like a girl. She
was watching me as she read, and I tried to hold off, but ... well,
when she finished, she wrinkled her nose, giggled excitedly, and said,
"*Sexy* story, huh?"
I glared. "Now that I know what you're looking for, you could
probably read me *anything* and I'd react," I retorted, angry and
ashamed.
"Bet you wouldn't," she said, and immediately dropped a book on
my lap. Two men. She started reading something out of another
magazine, which I guess some people would find pretty hot--it went
with the picture--and I cut her off.
"That's sick!" I said.
She looked at me a little oddly. "No, it isn't. But it isn't
*your* cup of tea, is it?" She touched my hip. I glanced down, but I
already knew. Instant deflation.
"So what have you proved?" I asked, belligerently.
"Do you really think it's 'sick?'" she asked. It was a serious
question, I discovered.
I sighed. "No. It's just ... like you said. Since I always had
this *compulsion*, I was always sorta afraid that that was what it
meant, I guess."
She touched my cheek. "Lee," she said, still very serious, "if
you don't know who you are, you'll always be afraid of what you might
be, if you dared look. Once you know, you'll find it's maybe not such
a horrible thing as you thought. That's what this is about. Know
thyself."
I gulped, nodded, looked away. It made a disturbing amount of
sense. "What if ... what if it *is* as bad as I think?" I asked in a
low voice.
"Then you'll at least have a *reason* for suicide. Don't you
think it's a bit cowardly to die rather than face the truth about
yourself?" she snapped. That was her top sergeant voice.
I actually sat and thought about that one. And breathed a huge
sigh. "Okay. You're right."
I won't bore you with the rest of that demonstration. It went on
for a couple of hours. She showed me pictures, read me things.
Eventually, she went and got some stuff made of different fabrics, and
rubbed them against my skin. Different things to smell, too. She did
an uncomfortable bit with compliments, pointing out my physical
responses to being called various pleasant masculine and feminine
adjectives. It was all a little much to take in. The important part
of it was that I *was* taking it in. She wasn't particularly
surprised by any of my responses. And she didn't press me on them,
either, or at least on most of them. Once more, betrayed by what I
wrote. She had a really good idea of what my tastes were before she
started.
The end of the conversation was a little embarrassing, though.
"Now, Lee, I want you to repeat after me. Sex. Cunnilingus.
Lingerie. Breast. Cock. Vagina. Panties."
"P-p-pa- ... P-panties," I forced out.
"One 'p,'" she said gently, smiling. "Panties."
"P-p- ... P-pa- ... Pa-panties! Damn it!" I was a complete,
brilliant red, and I had a throbbing, obvious erection.
She went on. More words. After that, some of them seemed
downright silly. I even laughed, at one point, repeating "Peter
Piper," and "She sell seashells." She picked up her books, and read
some sentences. Then, "I like to wear soft, lacy undergarments."
"I .... I won't say that!"
"I like to give blow-jobs to passing strangers. Say it."
"What is this? I like to give blow-jobs to passing strangers," I
repeated, flushing.
She waited, looking pointedly at my lap. Nothing happened. "I
like to wear soft, lacy undergarments. Say it."
"I like t'wear soft, lacy underthings," I repeated, harshly.
"Are you satisfied now?" She stared at my lap until I gave up. "All
right. So I like it. So what?"
She sighed. "Good question. You think about it. Does it hurt
anybody? It doesn't even hurt you. Just remember that you *like* it,
and quit claiming you're *compelled* to do it." I nodded, angrily.
"Lee," she said, in a much softer voice, "I think you've been through
the mill today. Why don't you go home? You have one visit to my
house, by invitation, whenever you wish to call it that." I gave her
a wounded look, and she kissed me. "Oh, Lee!" She sat back, and
looked at me. "I think, if you think about this for a day or so, you
might even be ready to trust me. To trust *somebody*, at any rate,
and I'll hope it's me. Friday? Don't have dinner, though. And come
here at 8:30."
I was feeling rather irritated when I left. All that buildup,
and no pay off, except "think about it." Oh, I could have pressed her
on it, but I really *was* tired, my emotions were in turmoil, and she
looked pretty bedraggled herself.
I went to bed rather confused. The problem was that I wanted
something nice, something sexy to sleep in, and didn't have it. So I
couldn't feel guilty about it. But I didn't feel guilty even about
*thinking* about it, not really. I thought maybe I ought to, and
started feeling guilty that I wasn't feeling properly guilty, until I
realized what I was doing. Well, that didn't stop me from feeling
guilty, but I was so involved in being confused I didn't have much
attention to spare for it. Nor did the confusion clear up the next
day, when I got up and started to dress, and wistfully wished I hadn't
thrown all my multiple-p panties. Which got me to thinking about
*why* I stuttered so comprehensively on that word. Why even
*thinking* it made me have to walk with my fists in my pockets. I had
a very thoughtful evening. The Committee had a wild and woolly
conference. Once I started *thinking*, or maybe a better word is
*feeling*, a lot of what I thought I knew about myself started getting
shaken loose.
When I was in college, I used to tell people that I told about my
cross-dressing that I only wore underthings, and only silky ones.
Because of the *feel* of them. It was, so to speak, merely sex,
merely a quirk ('And I can stop any time I really want to'). Sex is
neat, sex is fun, sex brings joy to everyone. Even then, however, I'd
had to admit that it wasn't just that. Thing was, I didn't just wear
them to jack off. I'd only gotten the guts to wear them under my
clothes in public fairly recently. Why did I *want* to, though, if it
was just sex? I don't jerk off in public!
Well, the whole 'sissy' bit, maybe. I mean, they made me feel
nice. Feel, I dunno, pretty. No, that's not it. *Attractive*. That
made it palatable. I wanted to be attractive, and that was what I was
attracted to. Yes. That was it. I was sure of it. I was *so*
attracted to women, that I wanted something of theirs with me all the
time. No, wait, that's a different argument, leave that one alone.
Right. Just ... attractive. I wanna be attractive, and so I dress in
a way to attract me. Does that make any sense? Yes! Sure it does!
It *has* to be something like that!
Just stop thinking about those chapters from Huck Finn, then, the
Codger advised me.
I didn't have all of this worked out by Friday, though. I dunno,
it's a lot harder to work through than to tell. What *did* happen on
Friday is that I went shopping. So that when I showed up at Nancy's
door, and got my kiss of greeting, she pulled back and exclaimed,
"You're wearing perfume! Where did you get it?"
I grinned, a little excited. "I bought it. I think it's more,
umm, my style, than the other."
She inhaled again, then frowned. "Maybe. Maybe something a
little more flowery. Delicate." I drew back a little. She chuckled.
Oops. "Maybe I'll find you something," she said, whimsically. "Do
you need help getting dressed?"
I shook my head, working up my courage. "W-will you help me with
m-my m-makeup?" Blushing again. She nodded.
It wasn't hard to slip into an outfit that had left me a
quivering heap of terror only days before. It still leeched all my
courage, so that by the time I was dressed, looking mournfully at my
bare, male face in the mirror, I felt very small, and quite silly.
"Sooner or later," the Pessimist whispered, "she's going to get tired
of a man that isn't much of one. Enjoy it while it lasts." The
Committee held a quick meeting, decided that the Pessimist was right,
and gave me orders to be a little better prepared for the breakup,
this time. I agreed to watch for the signals.
So I was once again prim and proper when she put on my makeup,
though this time she demanded that I watch, and learn. I did so, with
a rather heavy heart. When she had finished, and had put my hair up
(and given me a kiss when she discovered that I was wearing the
butterflies; I'd put them on in the car), she hugged me strongly, and
said, "Umm, is it the dress that makes you so adorably submissive?" I
blushed instead of answering.
"Lee, go wait in the living room. I need to change," she said,
stepping back.
I glanced at her. Literally starting where we had left off,
apparently. Stood, and marched out. Well, maybe not marched. It's
hard to march in pink shoes with white satin bows. It just doesn't
come off. I stopped to marvel at myself in the mirror--it was the
same odd mixture, of girl-face and boy-body, in girl-clothes--and then
glanced guiltily at the bedroom door and hurried to the living room.
There wasn't anything there, to speak of. I mean, just the usual
stuff. So I flopped down, and remembered that one doesn't flop in a
dress, and sat properly. And waited. And waited. She was taking a
hell of a long time, I realized anxiously. I was getting more and
more tense. I could *probably* pull this off. Was she taking so long
so that it would be dark when we went out to the car? It occurred to
me, then, that I wasn't really obligated to go *anywhere* in a dress.
I mean, she had said, 'When you cross the threshold,' or something
very similar.
I had worked myself into a minor panic, and the Committee had
convened a meeting to discuss the legalities involved, based on the
rules she had given me, when she finally appeared in the living room.
She was completely stunning. She's a sort of dirty blonde, who
usually dresses down, and doesn't attract much notice.
She'd attract a *lot* of notice in a tight red dress. It
*screamed* notice. Black fishnet stockings. Black high heels. She
didn't usually wear much makeup, but she had on lipstick and nail
polish that exactly matched the shade of her dress. And somehow, in
piling her hair up on top of her head, she'd made it look much
blonder, more golden. She *oozed* sex appeal.
"Wow!" I said. I couldn't manage anything else. She hadn't
dressed like that even the time I took her to the fanciest restaurant
in town. Well, it might not have been appropriate.
"Do you like it?" she asked, and twirled. "It'll certainly draw
attention, won't it?" Whoof! I felt as if I'd been sandbagged. I
didn't *want* attention. I nodded. "Are you ready, then?" she asked.
I swallowed heavily. Nodded again, tensely. "Stand up and let me
look at you." I stood. She motioned, and I did a pirouette. Turned
back to face her, and forgot about keeping a stiff upper lip. I gave
her an agonized look. "Good. I think we're ready then. What do you
like on your pizza?"
"On my ...." I stared.
"Mushrooms and ham, right? Why don't you call?"
I felt a bit light-headed. Took a step toward the phone. I kept
my eyes on her the whole time. Dialled. Ordered, rather confusedly.
Hung up the phone. She had kept her eyes on me, a tiny smile playing
on her lips. When I hung up the phone, I finally broke eye contact,
and stared at it.
She burst out laughing, and then she was hugging me, "Oh, good,
good, good girl! Oops! Good boy, I mean. Sissy. Whatever!" She
pulled back, and I stared, as she chuckled and wiped tears from her
eyes. "You *did* it!"
"Was ...." This was simply not possible. "Is that what you
meant to do on Tuesday? Order a *pizza?* You *said* 'go out!'"
She laughed again, and stroked my cheek. "Tuesday I was going to
run down to the deli and bring back sandwiches. But *Tuesday*, you
went into a panic. Now. Am I going to do anything to hurt you?" She
turned her wrist out, to show the cigarette burn. I blanched.
"W-why are you dressed like *that* for pizza?"
Chuckle. "I'm going to go change again. I bought this dress for
a special occasion, and this isn't it. I'm sorry to tease you, love,
but Tuesday you worked yourself into a panic very quickly. You were
upset, of course, but so was I. That didn't make me want to humilate
you in public, though." She gave me a rather hurt glance, "*Or* to
call you names. So I needed to get you tense, and this seemed like
the best way to do it. That's why I sent you home Wednesday, too.
You were too tired to be anxious."
"W-*why?*" I was a bit shrill, I suppose. "I mean ... why did
you have to, to get me anxious? And, and upset, and *scared?* Are
you going to tell me I liked *this*, too?"
"No," she replied, so quietly and soberly that I paid careful
attention. "Because if I had asked you to, you would have walked out
the door with me, trusting me to keep you safe. Wouldn't you?" I
looked toward the hall, looked back at her, and my eyes filled with
tears. I nodded. "Trust," she finished, simply. Then shook herself.
"Relax. I've got to change again."
I sat back on the couch. Well, I suppose it was important. I
thought about it. She came back, a bit later, dressed in a style more
typically her: indian print skirt and soft blouse. She distracted me
quite nicely by having me take her hair down, put it up again, and
take it down. I was unpinning it the second time when the doorbell
rang. "Do you want to get that, or should I?" she asked, mirthfully,
and at my stricken look, chuckled and kissed me on the cheek.
We went to the kitchen, and she got out a pair of plates and
forks. I sighed. I like to *much* pizza. She always ate hers that
way, neatly. I looked down at my dress, then, and grinned wryly. But
after a couple of pieces, I discovered that I wasn't hungry any more.
"Don't you want any more?" she asked, noticing. I usually ate my
half and part of hers. Two and a half pieces was definitely off my
feed.
I shook my head, shrugged. "Not hungry. Too much ... too much
has happened, maybe."
"Well, clean your plate, at least." I gave her a disgusted and
slightly resentful look, an 'I'm not a baby,' look. "Momma spank,"
she warned, teasingly.
"Is that a promise?" I muttered, too soft for her to hear, and
cut off another piece. Pizza's a rather unpleasant food, when you
don't feel like eating. When I looked up a moment later, with a sour
look, my jaws froze in mid bite. Her eyes were gleaming,
speculatively. Maybe *not* to soft for her to hear.
She let me finish before she said anything, though. "You *can't*
ever have been spanked in a dress, Lee. Why is that in so many of the
stories?"
"I, uhh ..." I shifted uncomfortably, and then froze. After
that two-hour long discussion, she'd know what that discomfort was,
quite exactly. And she had read me some bondage stuff, and some
genuinely hardcore stuff, as well. I stared at her, feeling a bit
like a mouse with the cat in sight. Look, I have a *lot* of
fantasies, but that doesn't mean I necessarily want to find out about
them in real life! Do I? Don't use that argument, Leeling, the
Professor advised. "It's just a plot device," I lied glibly. I
should say, the Champion Liar did. He didn't get involved in
Committee work, much, and tended to take over my mouth when I least
expected it. "Since the guy is always against it, he has to be made
to, uhh .... You don't believe me."
"Well, you're lying aren't you?" she asked, perfectly calmly.
"Umm, yeah, I guess."
She chuckled. "Well, if you hadn't earned a spanking for burning
the dinner, you certainly earned one for lying, didn't you?" She
stood, and held out a hand. I let her pull me to my feet, and trailed
her to the bedroom. "Bend over, and lift your skirt." Was that
another quote?
I hesitated. "You're not really going to, are you?" I asked. "I
mean, you were talking about, uhh, trust, and all."
She looked at me, still with that gleam in her eye. "You'll
never find out if you like it or not if you don't try it, Lee. Now.
You've been very naughty. Let's see." She began to tick off on her
fingers. "Burning dinner. Hurting yourself. Throwing away perfectly
good clothes. Talking back. And now disobedience. You better get
yourself bent over my knee in a hurry, or you may *really* not like
it." I blushed, and fumbled with the skirt, and awkwardly obeyed. On
my knees, over her lap, with my head turned away from the mirror and
carefully not quite in contact with her leg. No reason to let her
know I was aroused already.
Oops. Damn, I kept forgetting. She *read* those stories. She
wiggled, and then she had my legs trapped between hers, and my
erection was pressing hard into one thigh. Through a layer of nylon,
another of satin, and another of cotton, true, but nevertheless, quite
obvious. "Turn your head to face the dresser, Lee," she ordered me.
"I want you to see it coming."
I turned my head and flinched convulsively. My eyes had gotten
enormous, increasing the illusion of prettiness; my legs and my lack
of, err, mammalian hypertrophy were quite nicely concealed by my
position. The back of my skirt was up around my waist, revealing pink
ruffled p-p-p- you-knows, and I looked, and felt, helpless. And
girlish? Was that the timid little voice telling me, "You have to be
brave?"
"What pretty panties, Lee! Such a pity no one can see them."
She patted my bottom, and I writhed. Raised her hand. Heh. Hardly
more than a pat. My bottom tingled, though. She *stroked* me, and I
couldn't help it, I wiggled again. Spank. A little harder. That one
really did tingle slightly. Stroke. Whimper. No, she didn't
whimper, someone else did. Me? Don't be ridi- Spank! Ooh! It
didn't *hurt*, you understand, but ... Stroke. Whimper. Okay, I
admit it, it was ... Spank! Moan. I bit my lips. Stroke. Did you
know you can make some awfully interesting noises while biting your
lips?
*Spank!* Stroke. My face was turning rosy pink, to match the
dress, I noticed a few minutes later. I was gasping, between making
inarticulate noises, and bucking against her knee at each stroke. I'd
lost count. SPANK! moan, *stroke*, whimper, SPANK! moan, *stroke*,
whimper! The watching was nearly as arousing as the spanking.
"Y-you've been very naughty, h-haven't you, Lee?" SPANK! Moan.
Stroke. "Haven't you?"
"Mm-yeess!"
"Y-you l-lied to me, didn't you?" Was her voice trembling, too?
I nodded frantically. This *was* a punishment; you have to
understand that. I didn't hurt, but I was in *torment*, I needed
*release*, and she was slowly- SPANK! "Yes! Yes! I lied! Don't
*do* that! Don't ... nngghh!" That was the stroke, over my now
achingly sensitive bottom, and I nearly went into convulsions of
pleasure. I turned to face her. "G-gods! D-don't *stop!*"
She bit her lip, and pushed me to my feet. "G-go to the living
room, Lee, and *wait* for me."
I stared. "B-b-but ..." I began.
"Is it sore?" she asked, slipping a hand under my skirt and
smiling smokily. She caught her breath. "G-go."
I went, confused. Stopped at the mirror in the hall, and was so
aroused from the spanking that I couldn't even find the strength to
condemn myself.
"L-lee! Come here!"
Like a shot! I clattered back into the bedroom, heels loud on
the floor, and stopped as if shot. She was standing a couple feet
from the foot of the bed, between it and the door--right in front of
me!--wearing nothing but a black g-string, a garter belt and fishnet
stockings, high heels--and a confident smile. She stood, posed like
that, just long enough for the image to etch itself indelibly in my
brain, and then she was kissing me. Pushing me onto the bed, and I
writhed at the pressure against my sensitized ass. Taking the lead,
pinning my arms, pushing my skirt out of the way, and then nylon-over-
cock brushed nylon-over-bush. Once. Twice. Three times and ...
explosion! Her mouth fastened to mine, her body trembling as the
shock waves went through it, and me moaning into her throat and
bucking like a bronco.
Passing into the golden afterglow. We lay there, entangled in
... well, in my dress, okay? The guilt woke up, at that, and pounced,
and I groaned with the shame of what I had just done.
She sat up, still straddling me, and keeping my hands captured in
hers. "Little sissy," she said, deliberately, and waited until I
turned my eyes back to face her again. "Little sissy," she repeated,
reprovingly, "I didn't give you permission to come. And you've made a
mess of your dress. You need a spanking."
Impossible! I flushed, opened my mouth to plead with her, and
stopped. She'd moved, and drawn my attention to something. I looked
down at where our laps were separated by two layers of nylon and about
a centimeter of air, refusing to believe it.
Throb. Could I deserve a spanking for wanting one? My eyes
flashed back to hers. She was waiting for that, and lowered herself,
slowly, to kiss me voluptuously. "Are you going to waste time denying
it?" she whispered then. "Or hating yourself for it? Or shall we ...
investigate the possibilities?"
I shuddered, half in pleasure, half in fear at the vistas that
were opening. Swallowed, and whispered back, "I'm a researcher."
It still wasn't easy to wake up in a frillier negligee than my
girlfriend, the next morning. But when she asked, "Are you going to
stay the weekend?" it wasn't at all difficult to decide.
I stole 10kg of dynamite from Lybia. We're waiting for them make the
press release then we'll plant the bomb.
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