|
Trust 5/5 (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
Conclusions
I did not have a happy week. As the joke goes, "She doesn't
call, she doesn't write!" Sunday I drank the rest of the bottle of
wine, a half-bottle of vodka that had been in my freezer forever, and
then went out and got some beer. I drank myself insensible. Nothing
Sunday. Or Monday. Tuesday I considered calling, but put it off.
Wednesday I did call, but she didn't answer. I began to be convinced
that instead of managing a brilliant coup, the Committee had, once
again, landed me in the soup. Thursday I even called her at work, but
when Jimmy the Freak answered, I just hung up. Called back again, and
got one of the women, but she refused to pass me on to Nancy. She
didn't pick up her phone that evening, either. I even drove over to
her apartment, but lost my nerve. I had a key. But she had
specifically told me not to come over. And, I guess, I was a little
afraid that the key wouldn't fit.
Friday afternoon ended things. I called her office again. Got a
runaround. Called back. Got Jimmy the Freak. And heard myself say,
"Would you tell her that my sister Ginny is in town and wants to speak
to her?" Held my breath.
"Ginny?" Thank the gods! Her voice. Like angels singing.
"It's me," I said, in a small voice.
"I'm glad you're back in town, Ginny," Nancy said, in an oddly
constrained voice. "I'd like to talk to you about that brother of
yours."
I couldn't think of anything to say. "Okay," I managed, finally.
I heard her let out her breath. "Sit tight," she said.
And hung up! I sat, staring at the receiver, for ten minutes
before I managed to put it in the cradle. And then I laid my head
down on the desk and sobbed (this was at my office. I like scheduling
office hours on Friday afternoons; I always get an undisturbed nap
that way).
I had recovered, more or less, when, astonishment of
astonishment, I got a knock on my office door. Could it be Her? No,
impossible. More likely to be that one-in-a-million student who
wasn't drunk by Friday afternoon.
"Come in," I called, and then cleared my throat and repeated it
without the quaver.
It was her. She didn't look happy, though. She eyed me
carefully. Closed the door. "Ginny?" she asked, cautiously.
Tears sprang to my eyes. "N-Nancy, it's *me!* Just ... me," I
repeated, and my voice quavered again.
She sniffed. "I *hate* that cologne. I want to talk to Ginny.
Or at least be sure that she's back."
"No!" I cried, and tried to squeeze back the tears. She turned,
abruptly, for the door. "No!" I yelped, "Please!" I thought I'd
sobbed myself out, but the tears welled up, and I added, "Please,
Nancy, *don't* leave me again!" Then covered my face with my hands,
and started crying in earnest.
I got my breath back when her hand touched my chest. My shirt,
to be exact. I swalllowed, hiccuped, and cut myself off. "Why aren't
you wearing a blouse?" she asked. When I looked up, she added, very
softly, "Lee, I'm not the one who keeps leaving. Who keeps running
away."
I bit my lip and turned my head, until I thought I had enough
control to speak. "I-I'm t-trying to be m-more masculine. Like J-
Jimmy the Freak, and that. So, so you'll want me, as a man."
Silence. I dared a glance at her face. She was shaking her
head, slowly, and looking troubled. "Lee," she said, catching my
eyes, "I thought we'd been through this already. What does an ape
like James have that you don't have? Why should I want *him* instead
of you?"
"H-he's a m-m-m-*man!*" I said, on a rising sob. Choked off the
hysteria again, and managed, "Not a f-freak. A p-pervert. Who'd want
me?"
Silence, again, until I met her eyes. "Anyone who likes men in
dresses. Like me. Does that make me a pervert, too? Careful how you
answer!"
I laughed, involuntarily. "N-no! B-but sooner or later, you'll
get t-tired of, of a sissy."
"No. I won't." Very firmly stated. "I love you. Not 'because'
anything, but it certainly doesn't hurt that you like making yourself
pretty and feminine. I like your feminine side. And there are a lot
of advantages to it, too."
"What?" *That* was a new one. "Like what?" In a tone of
complete disbelief.
She smiled. "Well, for one thing, I don't have to worry about
being raped. Or so I thought. You aren't going to try that again,
are you?" I gulped, shook my head. "For another ... oh, I know that
the only skirt you're likely to chase is one on *sale!*" That
startled a giggle out of me. "And, all things considered, you're not
likely to cheat on me. That might be different if you were gay, but
you're not. So long as I've got you in panties," she said, with a
sudden fierceness, "you're *mine!*"
That went straight to my heart. My face crumpled like wet
cardboard, and I doubled over crying. Her feet clattered on the
floor, and then she was *there!* With, when I exhausted myself again,
a rather damp shoulder. I sighed, and tightened my arms around her.
"I'd like to be yours, again," I whispered. "All yours, forever."
She leaned back, brushing my hair away from my face. She looked
troubled. "Lee. I want you to think about some things, all right?
Who's harmed by your dressing up? If someone doesn't like it, or
thinks it's wrong, or sinful, or, I don't know ..."
"Disgusting," I put in, in a whisper.
"Or disgusting," she amended, then looked at me, and asked, "How
could it be disgusting? It isn't baby raping, you know. Nobody's
hurt, except when you decide to torment yourself. Sure, there are a
lot of people out there who would disapprove. A lot of people
disapprove of oral sex, too. And spanking, probably. And
homosexuality, certainly. Does that make 'all those people' right?
Does it even make them worth listening to?" She was growing animated,
holding me by the shoulders and giving me little shakes for emphasis.
"Don't you think that people who get outraged are merely expressing
the narrowness of their own tiny little minds? Lee, *think!* Stop
being a little boy who feels guilty about stealing his sister's
underwear, and *grow up!* If it doesn't hurt someone, why can't you
do it? And why, in heaven's name, can't you believe that I *want* you
to, that it turns me on, that I could fall in love with a man who's
sentimental, soft, romantic, pretty, and a bit silly? Just because
*you* want to do it so badly? Is that a reason? Is *everything* that
you really want automatically bad?" She released me, then, and sat
back. "Now *that's* sick."
I stared, at a loss for an answer. She seemed to make so much
sense, but ... well, it contradicted what I thought I knew. Maybe
that showed on my face. "Well, it's a lot to think about, maybe. Are
you coming over tonight?"
And everything was all right.
Actually, of course, it didn't end there. It took about a week
for things to fall, more or less, into the pattern that had gone on
before. More or less, I say, because I was a lot quieter, and very
conscious of whatever I happened to be wearing, wondering how it made
me feel, and if that was really okay, and what other people would
think. Not only that, but Nancy, I thought, was avoiding me, often
getting home late in the evening, and exhausted. That initiated
something slightly new; I started trying to figure out treats for her,
that would entice her home, perhaps, earlier. Foot rubs, back rubs,
little sweets, hot baths, and ultimately, after a couple weeks of
this, I started laying out casual clothes for her and helping her
change.
The things that I began to recognize were disturbing. As Nancy
had pointed out, they didn't hurt me, or anyone else, but they were
far from the ideals of masculinity that I had grown up with.
For instance. I finally admitted to myself that I like to be,
put simply, pretty. I don't have a classically feminine face, but
it'll pass. I like my face better, though, when my lips are full,
red, and pouting, and my eyelashes long. When I have a pink bow on
the top of my head. It doesn't necessarily make me horny, but it does
make me feel, sometimes, languorous and sexy, and at other times,
simply secure in the knowledge that I have a pretty face.
Or panties. I finally learned to say that word without
stuttering. But, gods, there's a combination of fetish and
practicality. I like panties that are pink and lacy, and it is my
considered opinion that they fit men better than men's underwear does.
They hold me more securely, since the legs are elasticized, and are
actually easier to forget that I'm wearing. Except that the ones I
like are nylon, and if I want, I can remember them, and then feel the
cloth of my pants or skirt brushing against them, and the delicate
bite of lingerie elastic around my legs and my belly, and it makes me
feel just incredibly sexy. I like them pink and lacy because I like
pink and lacy, because those are the things that turn *me* on, and
because they remind me that I don't have to act macho. Because I've
got Nancy, I also have the assurance that they'll turn my *partner*
on.
They do that because she likes being in control, being dominant.
She likes me submissive, and in fact, I like being submissive. That
doesn't mean only spankings, either. I simply like looking after her,
taking care of her, and making sure that things around her are
pleasant. That's almost stereotypically 'girl,' the nurterer. Well,
maybe I should have been born a girl. But why should it be necessary?
Then I wouldn't have had Nancy, and being submissive and nurturing
doesn't mean I don't like sex! Just exactly the reverse, in fact. In
the weeks immediately after our reconciliation, though, I wasn't
getting *enough*, and so I sometimes floated around the house wearing
my sexiest perfume and sending her significant glances or pouts. I
didn't do that so I could imagine being a girl, but so she would take
me to bed and let me show her exactly how hot a lover a sensitive and-
-should I use the word?--*sissy* man could be.
I like the feel of skirts, and the look, and the way that high
heels show off my legs, and all sorts of other things that might make
a 'self-respecting' man laugh in derision. Let them respect
themselves, then, for narrow-mindedness and lack of imagination in
bed; I discovered, as I began exploring and accepting my submissive
and feminine qualities, that I could send Nancy out of her mind with
bliss. I *paid attention* to her, and my own gratification, though it
had driven me to bed, was something to be ignored--no, not merely
ignored, but put off as long as possible. I fully intended to make
her so dependent upon me as a gentle, sensitive, and responsive lover
that the thought of going for a piece of meat attached to a set of
muscles would be completely laughable.
I didn't work all this out in a day, of course. Nor was our home
life all smooth sailing, with turbulence reserved for between the
sheets. As I was considering these things, I started thinking about
the image I presented at school, and began to soften it, deliberately.
Until one day I wore a bra under my blouse to school, and got away
with it. I crowed about it to Nancy, that evening, and she went into
a rage.
She was tired from the extra work she was doing. But after she
calmed down enough to explain it to me, and managed to get me to stop
crying, she explained it. My acceptance, she pointed out, didn't
change the opinions, or if you wish, the prejudices of society. Had
someone caught me, doing a job in which I was known as male, and
expected to set some sort of example (a stereotypical example), I
would at least have become a figure of fun, and possibly something
much worse. It was, as she told me, *our* secret, and had to be,
because what I could share with her wasn't something that the world
was willing to share, or even to permit us to share, if it were to
become known. In fact, that was why she had introduced me as Ginny at
her workplace, because no one there had seen me more than a time or
two, back when I still had my mustache and dressed as drably as
possible. That meant that anyone seeing us together, when I was
dressed to pass--and her colleagues were likelier to see us than mine-
-would assume that it was Nancy and Ginny, not Nancy and Lee. Should
someone from the school catch sight of me, we had that alibi already
firmly established, and an entire business office ready to swear to
the independent existence of Ginny.
At that point, I realized that one of the other things I enjoyed
about cross-dressing was thumbing my nose at society. Secretly. Our
occasional (very occasional, at that stage) outings turned from
something dreadful and frightening to adventures. And did the sparkle
in my eye increase the gleam in hers? Just guess!
In mid-May, though, I found out what had been occupying Nancy all
those long evenings. She'd been trying to find us a house, that we
could together afford. One with a hedge, or a fence, or somewhere
enclosed so that I wouldn't have to be perfect just to get out in the
open air. Open air, in fact, is a marvelous aphrodisiac. When she
told me, my jaw dropped in amazement, and we went to see the house
together. It was wonderful. Perfect. Two bedrooms ("One for us and
one for Lee," she said, and I understood), an enormous living room, a
dining room with panelling ... a wonderful house. With a hedge all
around the property, and a neighborhood in which the neighbors weren't
nosy, and there weren't any kids to come and stare, giggling, through
a hole in the hedge. We could barely, together, afford the payments.
But we did it. On my birthday, even.
On the day we moved in, though, I got another shock. I made us
dinner, and Nancy solemnly produced our original relationship
agreement ... and tore it up. She refused to make another ... I
begged her to. I wanted to tie her to something. And then, with an
odd little smile, she told me that I could dress exactly as I pleased,
so long as I didn't try wearing a dress to classes.
I spent a very confused pair of weeks. At first, I thought it
was a signal that she had tired of me in feminine attire. So I
conscientiously began trying to play boy, again. It was an
uncomfortable time, with us new in the house, and new living together
(I had always, in the past, had the security of knowing that there was
a place I could go to.
It was really only at the beginning of June that all the insights
that I mentioned above, the true acceptance of myself, began to click
into place, and I began to veer from a carefully male presentation at
home to something more androgynous. I caught a few subdued smiles
from Nancy, and puzzled over them for days at a time. But while I may
be slow at figuring out things in relationships, I eventually got
there.
Release. "If you love something, let it go ...." And blah,
blah, blah. I caught on, in what was nearly a religious burst of
enlightenment, in the first week of June. And carefully hid the fact.
Nancy's birthday is exactly a month after mine, so this year, it was
going to fall on the one-month 'anniversary' of our new home together.
Better yet, it was a workday for her, but school was out for me.
I made very careful plans. I found that horrid black outfit. It
wasn't really so bad, and in fact I looked really good in it, but it
had some pretty horrible memories. I met her at the door, wearing it,
and let her avoid the kiss I offered, leering. I had to bite my lip
to keep from laughing at the look of horror that passed over her face.
She gave me a very mistrustful look. "Dinner will be ready in a few
minutes," I told her, and guided her to a table laid out as nearly
like that fateful dinner in my house as possible. She was beginning
to look seriously disturbed. I thumped off to the kitchen, careful to
make as much noise as possible in my boots.
The kitchen didn't take long, though. Just turn up the oven,
slip out the kitchen door, and into the window I'd carefully left
open. Coming back was slightly trickier, but I managed it without
tearing or running anything. I was literally giggling with
excitement, knowing that her tension was rising in the dining room,
when I smelled the first whiff of burning rolls. Then ... a match in
the fat, open the oven door ... damn. Hold a match under the smoke
alarm, and *then* push the bowl off the table. And let out a squeal,
as of dismay.
The hardest part was getting the silly grin off my face, and
manufacturing a look of frightened horror when she came dashing
through the kitchen door. "I b-burned the d-dinner," stuttering from
the effort to choke giggles, and then exaggerating it, as if I were
very embarrassed. I clutched the sides of my skirt in both hands and
raised them to my mouth, trying for the image of the little girl
caught being naughty, and also aware that she could see the triangle
of my Valentine's day panties perfectly clearly. The skirt proved
useful, since it hid the smile that I couldn't keep back, and I
managed to make the giggles sound more or less like frightened sobs.
I kept my eyes wide, though. Of course, the mascara helped.
She finally broke her paralysis, and rushed to the stove to put
out the fire. Good thing, I was getting a little worried. "You ...."
she said, and couldn't continue. She twisted, wildly, and fixed the
smoke alarm. "You ...." she tried again. She looked at the floor,
where the shattered bowl lay--nothing else, though, no beans or salad,
and I hadn't wasted chicken to burn, either--and then she grabbed a
potholder, dumped the rolls in the sink, slammed the oven door shut,
turned it off, and turned to face me. "You ... little imp!" she
cried, and dissolved into laughter.
I waited, manfully suppressing the wellspring of laughter that
was rising in me, until she began to recover, wiping her eyes, and
then I dropped my skirt, gave her my best tragic look, and asked
wistfully, "Do you suppose we could go out?" Paused, carefully, and
added, "For pizza?"
She rushed across the floor to envelop me in a hug, and this time
we both went into a fit of laughter, that turned into a fit of
giggles, and almost couldn't be stopped. We kept starting over every
time we looked at one another.
Finally, she blew out a breath, and slipped a hand under my
skirt. "Oh, god, Lee! Do we have to have the pizza *first?*"
"Ooh!" I squealed in mock fear. "Are you gonna send me to bed
without supper?"
She did, eventually, ask me again about my feelings. And so I've
written them down, all in order, just as it happened.
Epilog: Nancy claims it was a double wedding. I think that's
stretching the boundaries of the language a bit. The first one was
perfectly normal, as such things go, with her stunning in white, and
me in a tux. And the wedding night was as perfect as such things can
get; it's a bit nervous, being married. For both of us.
The second wedding was just us, no family, and some of our odd
new friends. Found through the internet. Some interesting sorts of
people. This time, the bride wore the tux, and the groom wore white.
It's a *beautiful* gown. We didn't have the traditional wedding
feast, either. We had pizza.
Well, we had pizza *first*.
I dug up my MAK-90. It's awesome. I know a mechanic whose on our
side, and willing to convert any weapon we want.
--------
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 8 lines:
::
Response-Key: the-clipper-key
====Encrypted-Sender-Begin====
MI@```%=^&2?(E<U9BPG1]W7L'=>KH_Q;E8W+E;IXU=)*G_Y/ASG7V"'O2Y12
M?8D<"9<$5\JBP4AR;FG:J3.,";2M;3',L+*U')&,5`#H9A@N`'\^J-CG=9YF
"L;<`
====Encrypted-Sender-End====
|
|
