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Trust 4/5 (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 4: Tables Turning
That winter remains in my memory as cold, miserable, and gray,
although it was probably little different, physically, from any other
winter. But as spring bloomed into freshness and beauty, so--at least
in the emotional sense--did I. There was always a lurking fear,
though. "Sooner or later," the Pessimist would whisper, and the joy
would go out of whatever it was we were doing. We ended up doing a
*lot* together.
Nancy set the tone, a light-hearted one. Take the weekend after
what we started to refer to as "The" pizza. She'd told me that I was
going to learn to cook properly, so I arrived on a Friday evening, a
bit trepidatious. There was a sign up over the kitchen door.
"Kitchen Anthrax."
"Thanks," I said, sourly, smoothing my skirt nervously, and
nodding at the sign. It wasn't the famous pink dress; I didn't see
that again for quite a while. "I'm not *that* dangerous."
She gave me an odd look, then burst out laughing. Refused to
explain why. Once she had me slaving over a hot stove, she said she
had to run an errand, and left. I didn't destroy dinner, mostly by
luck, and after we finished eating, she drew me into the living room.
Put a tape in the VCR.
Monty Python and the Holy Grail? Well, okay. I *still* didn't
get the joke, even when Sir Galahad was in Castle Anthrax. Nancy
waited until the line, "First the spanking, then the oral sex!" and
froze the movie, then turned to me.
"First the pizza, then the spanking," she said.
I caught my breath, crossed my legs--and blushed when she made a
point of noticing me cross my legs.
Or she played these nervous-making tricks on me, always in such a
way that I couldn't resent it. For instance, she started dropping by
my office occasionally, when she knew I had office hours, and she was
out of her office for whatever reason. She was a translator, did I
mention that? Well, it just meant that she often had to go places to
pick up or drop off translations, or find obscure dictionaries, and
sometimes even do simultaneous interpreting. Well, one afternoon, in
March I think--at any rate, after she had convinced me to shave my
legs, but that's another story--she showed up in my office, with some
packages.
"Hi, sweetie!" she greeted me. "I've been out spending your
money." That's another story, too, but suffice it to say that she had
spent money on my wardrobe, I had started to spend more and more time
at her house, and so on, so she had charge of a big chunk of my
finances. Well, all right, all of them. I had an allowance, though.
"Stand up, and try this on. Does your door lock?" It did. She
locked it.
"Nancy! Come on, I have office hours? What if somebody comes?"
But I was standing up. *Really* nice skirt. Slim, in a sort of pale
rose. She said I looked nice in pink, and I think she was trying to
make sure that I was aware when I was wearing feminine stuff. Oh,
hell, that's not really the point. I *like* pink.
"Oh, I wouldn't do that to you," she said, disconcerting me
further. "Go on, try it. I want to see if it fits.
So, breathing fast, I kicked off my shoes, stepped out of my
pants and into a skirt. In my *office*. I was already wearing
panties, a garter belt, and white lace stockings. Well, trust Nancy
to be prepared. She had a new pair of shoes, too. White heels, a bit
taller than what I was used to. So I put them on.
"What do you think?" she asked, brightly.
I stepped back and forth, to make the skirt swirl, and to listen
to the sounds of the heels. "It's nice," I finally managed. It was a
good fit, too.
"Nice?" she asked, pouting. "It's *perfect*. You look adorable!
Turn around, I want to look at your bottom some more." I turned, and
wiggled at her. Lightening the situation, you understand. "It goes
better with your jacket than these pants do," she said. Then, "Here,
try this one, too."
A gray skirt, slightly shorter, with pleats. Sort of purplish,
under the gray. My jacket was an expensive camels' hair thing, that
I'd bought when I got my appointment. This time, when I pulled the
skirt on, she frowned. "It is sort of hideous with this jacket, isn't
it?" I commented. Strange to see two grays clash. They did, though.
My taste was improving.
"That's *awful*," she said. "And it isn't even the right size."
She frowned, but the grin kept slipping through. I recognized it.
She was about to spring something on me. "And it was on sale, too.
I'll have to exchange it today. Do you want to come with me?"
"You set this up!" I accused her. "And no, I don't. You'll ask
me if I want to try it on, like last time." We'd gone shopping once,
and ended up having a terrible fight, because she insisted on holding
things up to measure against me, and then had even asked me if I
wanted to try one on! Loud enough for the cashier to hear, I was
sure. I'd been so angry that I'd caught a bus home. Fortunately,
according to the rules she had set up, she agreed that I didn't have
to go trying dresses on in stores in order to see her again. It took
some fast talking, though. That was at the beginning of March.
"All right, then," she said, with a big smile. "But I'll need
either your jacket or your pants to match colors with."
I stamped my foot in anger. Looked down in confusion. I hadn't
quite expected to make a womanish sound. In fact, I'd picked up that
habit, of stamping my feet, putting my hands on my hips, and glaring,
at Nancy's house. She chuckled. "You *know* I can't give you my
jacket," I complained. She nodded, her eyes dancing.
I suppose I should explain that. On what would have been our
first anniversary, if we hadn't broken up--Valentine's Day, that is--
we'd given each other remarkably similar presents. Well, she knew me
pretty well, so she probably knew what I was going to give her.
Flowers, candy, and sexy lingerie. In this case, a bra-panties-
garterbelt set (in red and black, to match the dress she'd worn for
The pizza, which I desperately wanted to see her in again). Maybe it
was telepathy, since I could equally well have bought her a negligee,
or something, but she gave me a matching set--same cut and everything,
from the same store, only mine were pink and white.
So we'd smelled the flowers, and then we made a romantic little
arrangement with them both in the same vase, intertwined with one
another, and stolen candy, giggling, from one another. Modelling our
lingerie. Then, however, she wanted to take me to dinner, and she
wanted us both to wear our presents. It made me horribly nervous. I
was wearing a white shirt with my jacket. I usually did. The pink
was visible. I'd worked up my nerve to ask, "Please, Nancy, I'm
afraid to go out in a bra. Look. You can *see* it!"
"You're right," she said, looking carefully, and surprising me.
I was greatly relieved. I pulled off jacket and shirt, and was
struggling with the bra, when she came back from her bedroom with a
dark blue silk blouse. "Nobody'll see the sleeves, if you keep your
jacket on."
Well, I gave in. But I didn't have much fun during dinner. I
was sure that the lines of the bra showed through the jacket. She'd
noticed, of course, and a couple of days later, she gave me a handful
of bras. Which, she said, I should wear whenever I was wearing
panties.
I refused. For one thing, she'd traded me about half of my old
collection of panties back, in exchange for my boy underwear, which
she'd destroyed. I only *had* a couple pairs of boy underwear left,
and I didn't *dare* wear them to her house. They were too likely to
disappear, and at that point I thought that there would be times when
I *had* to have them. In fact, that was the first time, after the
time I burned dinner, that I took the boy-clothes option and went
home.
It was also the only victory I won. I went back two days later,
armed with pictures and some new purchases. I didn't start arguing as
soon as I walked in the door, and in fact I changed into the bra that
she had laid out for me, before I sat down to show her some things. I
felt a bit silly, which was what I'm sure she intended by laying out a
sheer white blouse to go with the pink bra. I was also a little
warmed, though, that she had laid out my Valentine's underthings.
The pictures I showed her were of business and professional
women, wearing jackets, but in every picture, the bra straps and
ridges were visible. That set her to frowning slightly. And then I
offered a compromise. I laid out the three blouses I'd bought. She'd
given me the idea herself. I'd found blouses that mimicked men's
dress shirts from collar to waist. One of them was a bodysuit. All
of them, though, were obviously feminine, but in a manner that was
*covered* when I put on my jacket. I suggested that I could get more
of them, and replace my dress shirts with them. She had agreed,
although she had made the further condition that I wear a bra at her
house. Which turned out to be okay ... oh, we're being honest here,
aren't we. Well, it happened to be another thing that turned me on.
I don't have very sensitive nipples, but the brush of nylon over them
for a few hours could actually make them reasonably responsive. And I
like the straps.
Well, but I was hoist by my own petard. The day that Nancy
brought me the skirts, I was wearing a back-buttoned blouse with a
false front placket and puff sleeves. It had a belt, too, but the
belt gave the game away, so I didn't wear it. "Nancy," I said, with
exaggerated patience, "if I take off my jacket, I look like I'm
wearing a blouse. Right?" I slipped it down my shoulders, to make
the sleeves visible. I wasn't about to *give* it to her. I was
trying to figure out how to make her give me the pants back. "And I
can hardly meet students wearing a skirt!" I grabbed a couple
handfuls of skirt and flipped it at her. "That is, unless you've
decided to make a fool of me and dump me," I blurted, then bit my lip.
I was pretty sure that that was what she would eventually do, but
there was no point in giving her ideas, and she didn't like it when I
said things like that.
This time, though, she ignored that outburst. She looked around
my office. My desk was in the exact center of the room, facing the
door, with a couch and a chair for students facing it, beside the
door. She walked up to the desk, leaned down, and banged on the front
of it. "Do you know what this is? It's called a modesty panel. So
nobody can look up a secretary's skirt." She smiled winsomely. "Or a
professor's. All you have to do is sit behind your desk, and nobody
will know, will they?"
I walked around the desk ... tap, tap, tap, went the heels, and
you walk different in heels, and it made me uncomfortable to be doing
it somewhere outside Nancy's house ... and looked. "They'll see my
shoes," I argued. "And my ankles," I added, hastily, since shoes just
meant she'd give me back mine. Lace stockings don't much resemble
socks, though.
She smiled. My heart fell. She'd been in my office before. She
walked around to my chair and sat down, feet under the desk. "Sit
down and tell me what you see," she said.
I sat. Stewed. "Nothing," I grumbled. There was a footrest
attached to the inside of the modesty panel.
She gave me one of those heartbreakingly sweet smiles. "Oh, Lee,
don't look so tragic! You need a couple of nice office skirts. I
know you; you're going to be making a lump in your skirt the whole
time, especially if some cute little undergraduate comes in to sob her
heart out over your cruelty. No one will know but you, and you'll get
a secret thrill from sitting there, so professional on the surface,
and so feminine underneath! Well? Won't you?"
I gulped. It still made me nervous to admit this sort of stuff
to someone else. Hell, I hadn't been able to admit it to myself all
that well, until recently. I settled on a nod.
"Then change skirts again, dear, so I can go exchange that one.
And relax. You told me nobody ever comes in on office hours." She
took the tags out of the pink skirt for me. I was trembling when I
sat down, and anxiously asked her to make sure that nothing was
visible, once I put my feet up. Leaving, her hand on the doorknob,
she said, "Don't worry, Lee. I'll be back in a couple hours, and
bring you some pants." I missed that phrasing. She opened the door.
Trust my luck. One of my more attractive, and fluff-headed, students.
"Oh, sorry," Nancy said, "we were just discussing what to do for
dinner." She looked at me mischievously. "Pizza then ... first?"
I got my breath back a few minutes later and invited the student,
who looked a little puzzled, to sit down. Nancy was right, though. I
suppose I acted a bit distracted. Every once in a while, I'd shift,
and feel the draft, and glance down; at other moments I caught myself
about to put my feet on the floor. I resolved to build a little
wooden screen to go around the front and sides of my desk. The rest
of the afternoon was uneventful.
At five, Nancy called, laughing, to say she'd been delayed, maybe
an hour or so. At six-fifteen, she called again to say she was on her
way, as soon as she finished up one last thing. By seven-thirty, when
she finally arrived, I was in agony. Not emotional, this time. But I
seriously needed to go to the bathroom. I blew out an enormous sigh
of relief when she showed up, and then doubled over slightly.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, cheerfully, then paused, looking at
me. "Is something wrong?"
"I hafta go t'the bathroom," I gritted.
She burst out laughing. I had to strangle my temper. "Well,
come on, then," she said. "You can change in the bathroom."
"Ngh!" That was to emphasize the orders to the nerves that
controlled sphincters. "Nancy, don't. Please, just don't. If one of
the other faculty, or even some student happened to be there, I'd be
out of a job. So please just give me my pants, okay?"
She hesitated, frowning. Then smiled. "I'll keep guard for you.
There's nobody in any of the offices on this hall, though, I already
checked." She opened the door. I hadn't managed to pick one from the
withering comments I'd thought of, when she turned back to say,
"Hall's clear. I'll wait for you outside the ladies' room."
"I ... Nancy!" I got to my feet, carefully, since I was sloshing
like an overloaded tanker. The ladies' room? Forget it! I stuck my
head cautiously around the door, saw her at the corner, and whispered
fiercely, "Nancy!" I *couldn't* shout. I heard her footsteps fading
down the hall.
"Damn, damn, damn, damn," I whispered, like a litany, as I tried
to tiptoe down the hall. The heels seemed unnaturally loud. I
slipped them off, and then it was a bit easier.
She was there, outside the door, though. I tried to glare at
her, but it might have just been a wounded look. Slipped inside,
white-faced and shaking. At least I'd learned how to pee in a skirt--
sitting, that is. A pair of pants appeared over the door of the
stall.
Women's pants, I discovered. High-waisted, narrow-ankled, and
pleated, with the zipper in the back. I finished, opened the stall
door, and found her by the sinks. "Not funny, Nancy. Can I have my
real pants, now?"
"The sun is already going down, Lee," she said. "Everybody's
gone somewhere off campus to eat dinner. Nobody is going to walk up
to you, lift the skirts of your jacket, and look at your pants." She
smiled. "Or you could wear the skirt, if you want. You really *do*
look adorable in it. Where are your shoes?"
I exploded, at that. "Damn it, I am *not* wearing heels across
campus! You *took* my shoes. Give me my damn shoes, *and* my pants!"
She lost her smile. "I didn't take ... did I?" I was too angry
to respond. "Lee, if I took your shoes, they must be down in the car.
I'm sorry about that. I forgot. If you're not going to wear the
heels, though, you should take off your stockings, too. You've
already half-ruined them walking around on these filthy floors." Now
I glared, and ground my teeth in anger and frustration. She returned
a level gaze, and finally spoke again. "Lee, the campus is quiet now,
but if you stay here forever, sooner or later someone is going to
come. If you insist on it, I'll go down to the car and get your
pants, and your shoes if they're there. But I know you've wanted to
do something a little risky, and now's your chance. Think of it as an
adventure, and trust me to keep you safe walking to the parking lot.
Which is not 'across campus.' If you want, I can give you my bra, and
we can find tissue to stuff it, and I'll fix your hair, and you can
try the whole thing. But I think you'd be more comfortable just
getting your feet wet. Well?"
I released the anger in another enormous breath. Thought about
it. "How do you talk me into these things?" I asked, a bit sullenly.
"Not a skirt, though."
She waited until I was zipping the pants, and answered, "Easy. I
let you do the talking."
As a matter of fact, I got off on it like a rocket. With Nancy's
hand around my waist, it wasn't as fearful as I had expected, and I
got a weird exultation out of sauntering, in high heels and everything
else, our hips bumping together as we walked. And conquered another
fear.
And we had pizza, too. First the pizza, then the spanking, then
the outstanding, mind-numbing sex. When we finally collapsed
together, into a perfumed, sweaty, satiated heap, she mumured, "If
that's what you're like after wearing heels in public, I can't *wait*
until I take you somewhere in a dress." Instead of reacting with fear
and shame, I found the idea intriguing. It was a memorable day.
There was only one blot on it. As we were walking toward the
parking lot, high heels tapping in unison, there'd been a football
player, or an athlete of some sort, at any rate, off in the distance.
Nancy nudged me with her hip, nodded his direction, and commented,
"Look at *that!* What a monster!" But in an admiring tone of voice.
The Pessimist gave an "Aha!" and I was a little quiet on the way home,
until we stopped at the carry-out pizza place.
Shortly after that, we went shopping again. A week, or two weeks
later, perhaps. At Nancy's, there were some new rules; she'd had me
learn how to pseudo-gaff, or tuck, with a tight pair of panties, and I
did that for an hour each day, at first. There were walking, and
makeup lessons, and bras started being less interesting, because now
sometimes I wore little water balloons in them. That started shortly
after Heels Day, and I'd been doing it for at least a week before she
showed up in my office, right after my Tuesday morning 8:00. It was
9:30 or so.
"You don't have office hours until one, do you?" she asked,
coming to sit on the edge of my desk.
"No, why?"
She got up, locked the door, and came back. "Because you're
almost ready for an outing." I paled. I'd been thinking about it,
but it seemed like a truly enormous step. "For that, I want you to
have a dress that's perfect--everything new, in fact. What I'd really
like is to get you a corset. But that means you try things on.
*Everything*."
"Nancy!" I objected. "You *know* I can't do that! What if
somebody from school saw me? I think all the cashiers are students!"
"No they aren't," she assured me. "It's really perfectly safe.
There's a store that sells exotic lingerie in the mall at the north
end of town. Hardly anybody from the University ever goes that far.
We can get you a corset there. We'll do the rest of the shopping
there as well. Tuesday mornings are a really quiet time for shoppers.
You'll see."
"Oh, come on! You can't be serious!"
"Lee, you know I'm being serious, and you know that sooner or
later you'll give in. Don't you?" I blushed furiously, and looked
away. "The only question is whether you want to try to pass for femme
while we're shopping, or whether you'd rather wear what you've got on
now."
Which explains why, ten minutes later, I was in the back seat of
Nancy's car, pulling on the pink skirt. She'd brought earrings, my
makeup, one of my bras, and the water balloons, too. The skirt and
heels came from my office; I folded pants and jacket and laid them
aside. Blouse, panties, and hose I wore every day.
When we got there, she fixed my makeup slightly, and let me hold
her hand, crushingly, sweatingly, as we walked inside. I suspect I
looked terrified.
First stop: the lingerie shop. Corsets, to fit right, have to be
actually fitted. So I expected to be discovered there. Nancy told
the saleslady that I'd lost a bet to her, and then wandered off while
I was being fitted in a back room. When I came out, wearing what I'd
worn in, though, she frowned, told the saleslady I wanted to wear the
corset home, and then, perfectly openly, handed me a pair of panties
she'd just bought, with a matching tap pant and camisole. "Tuck,
while you're at it," she told me. And before I could even turn away
from the amused grin on the cashier's face, she handed me a pair of
thigh high stockings as well.
It took me a while to come back out. The panties were high-cut,
a size too small (that was deliberate) and palest pastel pink, with
scalloping and lace. I thought about Serbian atrocities, tucked, and
started to pull them on. Then I had to stop again. I think more
Muslims got killed in my imagination, trying to kill a simple reflex,
than have died to date in Bosnia. It was hard, which made things
difficult. So to speak.
My skirt no longer fit quite properly, either, I discovered. It
was loose in the waist. And I was more trembly than ever. We went to
find a dress, next. That was embarrassing. The saleslady, an older,
matronly woman, approached as I was trying to act ladylike and
experienced, and asked, "Well, what can I do for you ... ladies?"
With just the slightest pause. "Is there something I can show you?"
Nancy giggled, and gushed, "Oh, you figured us out! My boyfriend
lost a bet, so he has to be the wife for a week, and I told him that
means he has to look pretty." I was gaping. Nancy *never* gushed, or
acted quite this silly. "Anyway," she prattled, brushing down the
back of my skirt, "I don't want to keep loaning him my clothes for a
whole *week*, and anyway, they don't fit! See?" She tugged at my
skirt, and I yelped and grabbed. Another giggle. "I just think it's
too bad it's only a week, though," she finished, turning a wide-eyed
stare on the saleslady. "He makes an awfully pretty girl, don't you
think?"
She gave me a sympathetic look. I finally reacted. I blushed
and looked away. "Girl," the saleslady said, a bit severely, "you're
going to lose him if you keep embarrassing him like this. Your bet
didn't include anything outside the house, now did it? And you've
dragged him down here to try on dresses, just because you're too
selfish to let him borrow yours."
"But I'm buying them!" Nancy protested, in a good simulation of
defensive hurt. She winked at me with the eye that was turned away
from the saleslady. "Besides, he *did* promise to look pretty, and he
has to take me to dinner one night." She pouted, and added, "If *I'd*
lost, he'd be making me wear skirts up to *here!*" And she put a hand
a couple inches above her groin.
The saleslady frowned at me. "Well, then. I suppose he wanted
you to go to dinner with him, dressed like a tramp?" Again the wide-
eyed nod, and now the saleslady chuckled. "All right, then, scamp,
you're getting what you deserve, aren't you?" I picked up the cue,
and smiled wanly.
"Not *that* high," I protested, in a very low voice. "Just a
miniskirt. Black leather, you know? She'd look really good."
The saleslady knew how to chuckle, too, though it was deeper than
Nancy's sexy throatiness. "Well, you find something to make him
pretty, and I'll make sure no one comes in the dressing room. This is
a good morning for shopping, as a matter of fact."
"Why did you do that?" I whispered fiercely, a few moments later
in the dressing room.
She chuckled, glanced toward the curtain, then pulled me close
and kissed me slow. When she released me, I was barely able to
concentrate on her words over the roaring in my ears. "Because now,
she'll let you try on as many different dresses as I want. And the
next time you want to buy one, you just show up and look for her.
Maybe next time you can get that black leather miniskirt. Or she'll
pick out things in good taste, and cover for you." She giggled
excitedly. "Besides, this way she'll let you wear one out of the
store. They don't, usually."
I tried on over a dozen dresses. With the saleslady looking on
benignly. Nancy bought three. Including a full-skirted, full-
sleeved, brilliant violet one, as shiny as her red dress, though cut
very differently. A second, more demure jade green, featured a fitted
bodice and flaring skirt, fitting over the corset like a glove. That
was the one I got to wear 'home.' The third was the one I wanted to
wear; it was simple, sleeveless, soft rose, with a kick-panelled
straight skirt and a black belt.
I got read at the next place we went, too. Makeup. A new kit.
And instructions on applying it. And nail polish.
"Now comes the fun part," Nancy whispered. But it wasn't. She
bought me a new purse. The 'fun part' actually came after that. We
went to another department store. We stopped in the mall to unpack
the purse, first, though, and I was carrying it when we entered the
other major chain store.
I was also pretending not to understand English. Nancy would
give me low voiced instructions as we approached each new section, and
then explain to the salesladies that I was just arrived from Germany,
didn't speak a word of English, and had lost my luggage. I acted a
bit bubble headed, spoke in my deepest voice, and only in German. It
was a riot. Nancy had me try on half a dozen *bathing suits*, as well
as leotards, some skin-tight pants, shoes, and nearly everything else.
I got to try on lingerie, even--though I didn't quite dare to walk
back out and model it. But we bought a bunch more stuff than I had
ever dreamed of, sending me into a kind of shocky bliss.
And then we had *lunch!* As we sat down at the table, I leaned
across to whisper, "I thought we were just *preparing* things today!"
Nancy chuckled wickedly. And started playing footsie under the
table. I was in a bit of distress by the time we left the mall. I
climbed into the back seat without prompting, and managed to release
my cock, which was trying to erect while being strained backwards.
Blessed relief! We were on the highway, and Nancy looked in the
mirror and chuckled again.
"That probably qualifies as cruel and unusual punishment, you
know," I told her, a little irritated. "And I hope you're planning on
stopping somewhere, because I can't get this corset off by myself."
As a matter of fact, I couldn't get the dress off, either, I
discovered. She didn't answer, but a few minutes later, we went off
an exit ramp, down a block, and turned into a parking garage. I had a
bit of a shock; it was right next to where she worked. I'd been there
once.
She turned to look at me, and her eyes were burning like coals.
"Do you want to fuck here, or in my office, sweetie?"
"Nancy!" I guess I'm easily shocked. "I have to get back to
school!"
"Well, I'll let you get away with a quickie, then. Here in the
car?"
"Somebody'll *see* us!"
She chuckled. "The office it is. Better put some panties on,
though, or you'll stick out."
She wasn't an easy person to be with when she had moods like
this. I scrambled into my panties--the ones I'd been wearing in the
morning, not the new ones--and followed her, stumbling a bit, and
protesting in whispers. Once we were on the elevator in her building,
though, we were committed. I shut up. She *goosed* me. And then
went through my purse and found my lipstick and compact.
I was still fixing it, staring in the little mirror, as she
guided me by the elbow through her office. "Hey, Nance! Who's the
cutie?" I broke out in a sweat and concentrated some more, then
looked up to flash a nervous smile. Jimmy the Freak. My pet name for
him. A translator. He looked like a linebacker.
"You remember Lee?" Nancy said. My heart stopped. "This is his
sister. She's visiting, but she might move here."
One painful beat, as it started back up, and then another. I
didn't dare look up. "Shy, isn't she?" Jimmy commented. "Listen,
sweetheart, if that brother of yours doesn't show you around, you just
come to me. Jimmy knows *all* the best places. Ask Nance, here.
That's me, Jimmy," he finished, and thumped himself on the chest.
What was I supposed to do? I smiled--and probably looked like a
frightened rabbit--and whispered "Thank you," barely audibly.
"Any time!" he called heartily after me. "You just give me a
call! Nance has my number!" And then, thankfully, the door closed
behind us.
Terror appears to be an aphrodisiac. As soon as the door closed,
Nancy was all over me. She had been wearing pants, and didn't bother
getting out of them, before her lips fastened to mine. Since we were
both in heels (I was wearing one of my two new pairs), she was shorter
than me, and didn't like it; she had her hands under my skirt and was
pushing me down by my hips. I started to kneel, but the heels tripped
me, and I slipped instead. Landed on my butt. I was on my back a
moment later, though, with Nancy on top, deep-kissing me like she
meant business, and her hips straddling mine. She finished pushing my
skirt up, and then paused long enough to unbutton her pants and slide
them down to her knees.
That frustrated her; she couldn't spread her legs. It didn't
stop her, though. She pushed her hips, hungrily, against one of my
thighs, gasped into my mouth, and then wiggled. She was between *my*
legs! The perfect position reversal, and for some reason, incredibly
arousing. Especially since she was dripping wet; I could feel it
through the two layers of nylon that separated us. She thrust against
me perhaps three times, then groaned into my mouth, and shuddered, a
wave of orgasm passing through her body.
"Nancy," I began, when she freed my mouth, "holy mmmph!" That
was her, kissing me again, and wriggling her hips, and moving things
around. Her panties went down, I noted foggily. Mine didn't. She
pulled my cock out the leg, though.
And then, gods of the heights and depths, she started to ... what
do you call it, even? It wasn't 'entry,' I was doing that. But she
was between my legs, her legs barely parted, and totally in control,
and I was being enveloped ... yes, enveloped is the word ... in the
tightest, hottest, and wettest bit of sexy woman that ever existed.
And the corset, squeezing my body the same way, so that I felt as if
all of me was, in some fashion, just that slight piece of proud
(upstanding!) flesh.She came, again, when she had taken no more than
the head, grinding herself against my abdomen, and sobbing.
Then kissing my face, biting my ears (hard!), and whispering,
whispering. "Oh, god! Oh, god! Beg me, beg me, beg me!" Another
inch, or pair of inches, and another orgasm? Not as intense, perhaps,
and she was whispering, "So sweet, so good, so nice, so nice, oh,
god!"
And with a brutal sort of thrust, all the way on me. I moaned,
and she kissed me hotly, hugged me tightly, and began one ... slow ...
*thrust!* Tight, hot ... we both came, in a convulsive flailing and
bucking.
That was it for me. She got off *twice* more, though, stunning
me, before my shrinking cock slipped out of her. Finally collapsed
against me. "Jesus!" she whispered, in an exhausted voice. "That was
... that was *incredible!*"
I was too shaken to answer. Instead, a bit awkwardly aping
something she had used to do, I hugged her, with arms and legs.
After a moment, she raised herself on one elbow, and giggled.
"You're a mess, sweety!" Made a face, and added, "I bet I am, too.
Jesus! That must be what men feel like!"
I laughed, shakily. "I don't think so," I told her.
She smiled. "The sense of complete power, yes. I *knew* when
you were ready. When you were *mine*." A slight frown wrinkled her
brow. "But next time I tell you to beg me, you beg!" With that, she
wriggled off of me, and stood up.
I felt ... wrung out. Too tired to move. "Will you spank me if
I don't?" I asked, in the timidest voice I could manage. She looked
up from mopping herself with tissue, and chuckled, wickedly. Finally,
I sat up, and then gasped, and checked the back of my skirt. She
chuckled again, and tossed the box of tissue to me.
"I'll walk behind you, sweetie. You're going to have to change
your panties again, though. You soaked those."
"*I* didn't," I muttered, face flaming.
She giggled. And kept giggling, and teasing me with occasional
caresses, as she fixed my face. "Do you want me to tell James that
your name is Amy?" she asked. "He's sure to ask. He may even call
your house, if I give him your phone number. Or even if I don't; he
knows your name."
"Christ on a crutch!" I muttered. "No. Can you imagine anyone
actually naming a girl Amy Ames? Tell him ... tell him something
ugly. Brunhilda." That had always reminded me of witches.
She giggled. "Seriously?"
I looked at her. "Hey, wait a minute! You're gonna start using
that name, or something, aren't you?" Giggle. "Christ. That's all I
need. Tell him we're both named Lee."
"Do you think that's a good idea?" she asked.
"You're serious, aren't you?" She nodded. And giggled, not very
seriously. "Oh, hell. *You* pick something, okay?"
"You realize," she asked me, as she helped me out of dress and
corset in the car, "that now it's perfectly possible for you to come
visit me here, and no one will ever guess."
"Jeez, Nancy! Don't make me do that again, okay?"
After that day (and we had pizza again that night), my debut was
something of an anticlimax. Well, no, I guess you couldn't call it an
'anti' climax. I wore the new rose dress, white lace stockings, and
the matching shoes, with all sorts of little pink accents, here and
there. And by special pleading to Nancy, my Valentine's day lingerie
instead of the corset. Tucked, though, and with water balloons. She
wore her stunning red dress. This was the special occasion, I
gathered.
She timed it specially, too, I found out later. April first.
Ouch. Silly me, when I found out that she had planned it that way, I
assumed she was making fun of me. I'd started to remember how Jimmy
the Freak had stressed his *close* acquaintance with Nancy. That got
me both jealous and depressed. Which made me sort of desperate. Not
that night, though. The day was special; she attracted attention away
from me, and I actually got treated like a lady, which was a bit
frightening. She'd dubbed me "Ginny," short for Virginia. I dunno
why. But I kinda liked the name. And when we got home, I discovered
that she was wearing *my* Valentine's day present, too.
You wanna know what happened? There's a pretty good description
of the first bout above, already. Bam! As soon as we walked in the
door, she was on me. But even in the throes of passion, I couldn't
bring myself to *say* things.
Which meant that we adjourned to the bedroom, she changed into a
teddy, put me in the corset, and spanked me. SPANK! moan *stroke*
whimper. And so on. By the end of it, I was repeating anything she
told me to repeat, completely out of my mind with desire. SPANK! moan
*stroke* whimper ... "Yes! Yes, I'll be a good little girl, I'll do
what I'm told, oh gods, oh gods, please *fuck* me!"
She did. With me moaning, and begging her to 'fuck me, fuck me
hard!'
Now, why? I wondered about that, later. It was the next day
when I found out about the April Fool's Day planning. So then, I
decided it was because she wanted me to humiliate myself, completely.
It fuelled the already raging fire of my jealous anger. And that, in
turn, brought on the low point of that whole spring.
Don't get me wrong. It wasn't the only low point. I'd walked
out on her, three more times after the burned dinner, though not with
the extent of bad feelings that that had caused. Once over the bras,
but I already mentioned that. Once overshaving my legs. That was
mostly a case of my pig-headedness. She called up the next morning,
asked if I intended going places where I absolutely had to wear
shorts, and I gave in. Shaved them before I went to her house, in
fact. Badly, too. It took a while before they got to be smooth,
instead of rashy. The third time was after April First, and convinced
me that I had to complete my plans, and soon.
It was a Saturday. We were puttering around the house, not
really doing much of anything. She got a call to go in to work.
Fine. That had happened before, and she'd just left me at home. This
time, she wanted Ginny to go along. Her eyes gleamed with
anticipation.
I'd already laid my plans, though, and for over a week had
managed to avoid going out in anything like full drag. Nor was I
wearing my office skirts any more. I'd even gone so far as to start
wearing some of my remaining masculine underwear to school, then
dropping by my apartment to change. According to the letter of what
she had told me, I only had to wear a blouse when I was wearing
panties, and that meant that I could also stop wearing blouses. The
stockings had never been required; I'd started wearing them partly out
of pleasure and partly because I figured they would be required, if I
made an issue of it. So I was spending my days "in boy." Now, she
wanted to drag me, perilously, to her office. I refused. Maybe I
would have been better off accepting the implicit invitation in her
eyes. In fact, I'm sure of it.
I didn't, though. I lost my temper, started pulling off my
blouse (I wore dresses, or skirt and blouse, while I was in her house,
although I knew we'd bought some women's pants for me as well), and
headed for the clothes which were still, as agreed, there by the door.
When I grabbed them, I pulled up short. "What is this?" I asked,
outraged. A pair of shorts--men's, but so what? I had shaven legs!--
and a tank top--and I shaved my underarms, too. The tank top was
*pink*.
She smiled. "I promised a set of unremarkable clothes," she
said. "I didn't promise that they'd be unremarkable *men's* clothes.
Shall I get my copy of the agreement?"
She had one, and she knew it by heart. Every time she made a new
requirement, she wrote that down, too, and made me agree to it
explicitly. Like keeping my legs shaved, and wearing a blouse when I
wore panties. Well, anyway. I stamped my foot, and wailed, "That's
not *fair!*" before I even realized how ridiculous it sounded, how
silly I looked. And then I got stubborn. "Well, I'm *not* going to
your company, to let Jimmy the Freak stare at me again!"
She wouldn't give me my *shoes* back, either! And the tank top
*was* a woman's top, with one of those shelf bra things. I didn't
even have any pockets to carry my keys in! But like I say, I was
getting stubborn, even though I was about half-blinded by tears. I
pulled on shorts and tank top, and, barefoot and clutching my keys,
marched out of the house. I had painted toenails, did I mention that?
I stopped in the stairwell long enough to scrape the polish off with a
key.
I discovered a couple things. First, most people don't bother
looking at other people. I felt as if I were dressed completely
bizarrely, but nobody gave me a second glance, in the two blocks I
walked. Second, Nancy was not entirely without pity. She found me,
and gave me a ride the rest of the way home. Oh, my car was usually
at my house on the weekends. We usually went out, in her car, on
Friday night, and I spent the weekend with her.
She really did have a wider streak of mercy than I thought. When
I went back, the next day, prepared to expostulate, she asked if I
wanted to go to her office that very day. Which was great; a better
compromise I couldn't hope for. Her office didn't work on Sundays.
In another sense, it wasn't so good, because we didn't have great sex
at her office; I just sat around and kicked my feet while she caught
up on work she could have done about any time. She cut me off again,
for three days.
That wasn't uncommon, either. By early April, I was spending
virtually all my time at her house, with maybe one evening and night a
week at mine. Otherwise, I just went to my house to check the mail.
It didn't mean that we screwed every night, though. Oftener than in
our first relationship, now that I think about it, but since I wasn't
getting invitations, I spent a lot of days and nights in drag, without
getting sexual release from it. On fact, by that point I was pretty
blase about what I wore around the house, except when she made a point
of dressing me up pretty, or started teasing me. Well, the fact that
she never let me watch her dress or undress was also a form of
teasing, but it hardly counts, since it happened every day, just
about. When she undressed in my presence, that was something
powerfully stimulating, maybe just because it happened so rarely. Or
maybe because it always meant sex. Conditioned like Pavlov's dog.
And it was a case of her undressing in my presence; I didn't get to
undress her, no matter how much I wanted to. She undressed herself,
and she undressed me.
Well, to get back to the point, Jimmy the Freak had, for some
reason, provoked my undying jealousy, anger, and fear, and the
Pessimist was elected chairman of the Committee. Ginny (the little
girl adopted the name eagerly) got securely trussed and dumped
inconspicuously in a corner, and Tough Guy was assigned the task of
proving what a man we were.
I sprung it on her on the Friday night following Office Saturday.
Quite casually, while we were having dinner, I asked, "Why don't you
let me cook you a dinner at my house, sometime?"
She looked up at me, quizzically. Then ... calculatingly?
"Yes," she agreed, far faster than I thought would happen, "that might
actually be a good idea." I'd expected resistance. *Lots* of
resistance. She'd only visited my house *twice* after The pizza. I'd
tried invitations a number of times, and she always made it clear that
if she came in, she wouldn't stay.
So I pushed my luck. "Tomorrow?" I had everything already
prepared, a special meal, new cologne, a very sharp outfit, and so
forth. I'd even straightened the house up. I did most of the
cleaning at Nancy's house, though, so I'd mostly given that a lick and
a promise.
She nodded, her eyes glinting. "Shall I plan on spending the
night?" she asked.
Ka-thud. Yes, oh, yes, oh, yes, it's all working out so
perfectly! I nodded, my own eyes gleaming their excitement back.
I tried to hold back a bit that night, but she was very
demanding. I finally decided that it was sort of a warmup, and
responded as best I could--and as much as I was allowed. I left in
the morning, to make sure that everything was as perfect as I could
manage.
Musky, masculine cologne (my perfume was always something
flowery; she'd bought me several varieties, and I tended to even wear
it, very lightly, to school). No jewelry. Hair swept back, but not
put up in any fashion. I couldn't grow hair on my face, underarms, or
legs on such short notice, of course, but that was okay. Black pants,
a black silk shirt, and a black leather belt. Black men's bikini
briefs. We're looking to achieve a sense of power, here.
She arrived carrying an overnight case, and dressed in the
spectacular red dress again. I met her at the door, and kissed her
inside, taking the initiative in the kiss for the first time in
months. She was wearing her tallest heels, but since I had on boots,
I still overtopped her, and could force her head back. It turned into
more of a struggle than a kiss, and then she gave a sort of
surrendering bend of the neck, and started to kiss me back sweetly. I
felt my heart leap with exultation. Then she broke the kiss and
slipped out of my arms. Very frustrating.
"Mmm," she said, with a bright smile, "that smells good! What is
it?"
Well, okay, Tough Guy said. We go to Phase Two. I smiled, and
went to the oven. Yep, they were just getting finished. I lit the
candles on the table, let her put her stuff down and look at my house
in its changed, clean state, and then pulled out her chair for her.
She hesitated, then smiled warmly and sat. I placed the salads, and
got the main course out of the oven. As I put them on the table, to
cool slightly while we ate the salad, I smiled as warmly and sexily as
I could, and said, "It's a sort of pizza." I forget the name, now; it
was one of those closed pizza dishes, one per person, with the crust
that goes over the top and makes it look sort of like a loaf.
She raised an eyebrow, and giggled. "Oh?" she said, and relaxed
somewhat. "Well, first the pizza, by all means."
I'd also even carefully plotted out a course of inconsequential,
but amusing chatter. The jokes fell kind of flat, but otherwise it
went pretty well. A nice wine with dinner, and I tried to urge a lot
on her. That was mistake number one--number two, if you count the
kiss. The way I tried to encourage her to drink was by drinking a
fair amount myself. I don't much like wine, and it goes to my head
pretty fast.
A sweet, but inconsequential dessert (the fruits of my cooking
lessons), and dinner came to an end, with me coming on as strongly
male as I could. "Well," she said, laying down her fork. "Do we do
the dishes, or shall we adjourn for ... what comes after pizza?"
Slightly light-headed, I beamed at her, convinced that everything
was working like a charm, and she'd love me for my masculinity. I
stood, extending a hand, and answered, "Let us ... adjourn." I
escorted her, with pomp and ceremony, into the bedroom.
Her overnight case was already there. She started for it, and I
stopped her. And, well, things went rapidly downhill from there. I
bungled another kiss, from which she escaped, this time with an angry
shake of her head. Tough Guy decided to cut to the chase. So I
grabbed her, and fought her over to the bed. Yes, fought her; she was
resisting quite strongly. That was confusing at first, but after one
"Lee, stop it!" her forehead puckered, and then she fought me in
silence, a slight smile coming over her lips. That was encouraging.
Well, I was stronger than her. I got her, finally turned over my
lap. But that didn't stop her struggles, and I had barely managed to
start working her skirt up, when, with a lurch, she broke partway free
and half-pinned me to the bed. Okay, said Tough Guy, go for it! We
wrestled, and she finally started speaking again. "Lee, dammit, stop
it! You're stronger than me, I can't *do* it this way. Stop it,
Lee!"
By that time, though, I had her skirt mostly out of the way. I'd
gotten her arms pinned over her head, holding her wrists with one hand
and part of my weight, while she bucked and twisted quite
realistically underneath me. Quite realistically. Yeah. Quite. I
fumbled my belt and my fly open, and started to lower myself onto her,
with the agonizing slowness that she used on me to such effect. Her
eyes suddenly grew wide, as I tried to project power, power, maleness,
and as my lips descended, ready for that first sweet, submissive kiss,
she suddenly stopped struggling.
And turned her head aside, at the last moment. "Lee," she said,
tensely, "if you rape me, I will never forgive you. I will *never*
speak to you again. I *swear* it!"
Oops. Tough Guy started to tell me "Hey, it's a rape fantasy.
She wants, it really! I'll show you." But some of the rest of the
Committee were gifted with a bit more brain. She was serious. Not a
game. Confused, I hesitated, trying to decide who to listen to--I was
leaning toward Tough Guy, because, I mean, obviously she wanted a
*real* man, right? Right?--when she bucked again and Tough Guy
wilted. With the rest of me.
Excruciating, overwhelming, painful pain. She'd gotten a knee
free, and I collapsed in agony around my abused member, sobbing. She
scrambled away. I ignored her. Not too difficult. I was ignoring
most things. Priorities, you know.
She was speaking, I realized through a haze, and leant her half
an ear. "... *what* you were thinking of. *I* thought you were ready
to extend out relationship here, to your last bastion. I even," pause
for something. A sob, maybe? "I even brought your things, and when
you served *pizza!* Oh, god!" Yes, that was a sob. The pain was
subsiding. I spared her an eye as well. She was crying! Pulling her
clothes into order, and grabbing her overnight case. She'd lost a
shoe in the struggle. "Well, whatever you planned, I'm *not*
interested! God!" She grabbed some tissue, daubed at her eyes, blew
her nose. I choked off the animal noises I was making, and started
trying to uncurl. The body wasn't cooperative. She looked at me.
"Good," she said, heaving a sigh. "You're all right, then. I thought
I'd hurt you." I tried to laugh at that--it tickled me--but ended up
groaning instead. She waited until I looked at her again. "Lee," she
said. "Don't come to my house. I'll call you, when I decide what to
do about this."
When *she* decided? *She* wasn't the one with severely bruised
genitalia! My speech apparatus was not, though, in working order.
She left.
I heard you got a MAK. At the gun show, I found a Sten. The deal came
with a bayonnette and two cases of ammo. It's cool. My friend knows
about a mechanic. He's done quite a few autoconversions already.
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