Date: Tue, 5 Feb 2013 00:46:18 -0500
From: oberon ofavalon <oberon_52@hotmail.com>
Subject: Mr. Wallace and Me (Part 2) TG Control

Mr. Wallace and Me (Part 2)

By Robin O.

(The author welcomes comment at oberon_52@hotmail.com)


The cool air hit me outside Mr. Wallace's doublewide trailer as I staggered
to the car I had borrowed from my mom. My body was shaking and I was having
trouble catching my breath. I don't even remember starting up the engine
and driving away. I couldn't make my mind believe what had just happened to
me. Fat, disgusting, old Mr. Wallace I always thought was such a loser, had
turned me into ... into ... my eyes started to mist up.

I looked in the rear view mirror and turned my head a little. There was the
red mark where Mr. Wallace had taken that last bite of my neck. I had let
him kiss me ... and I kissed him back as his big, fat hands had held me and
caressed me like I was some girl. He was in total charge of me. He didn't
even have to play with my tits to get me all pliant and girly. He had put
his stubby finger up my bottom. He made me beg for him to let me cum. My
mind went back to seeing his thick, old cock hanging there flacid. My heart
started beating faster. What if he ... what if he had told me to suck it?
Would I have? The answer came over me along with a wave of incredible
nausea.

I pulled the car over, kinda screaching the brakes. I opened the car door
and lunged out, certain I was about to throw up. There I was, hanging half
out of the door, and trying to keep from vomiting in my mom's car. I had
been too nervous to eat breakfast, and I was in Mr. Wallace's house for
hours without eating anything, and instead of actually throwing up, I had
the dry heaves. It felt awful, almost as awful as realizing that I would
have sucked that fat prick's prick if he had wanted me to.

It took me about 10 minutes before the nausea let up enough for me to
resume driving. As I drove, I got more and more angry, more determined that
no one -- least of all that fat bastard Mr. Wallace -- would ever make me
feel like anything other than a man again. When I got home, I said hello to
Mom and Dad, then I took a hot, cleansing shower, determined to scald off
any vestige of the humiliation I had been feeling.

I dried myself off, then put on my white terrycloth bathrobe, tying the
belt snug around my narrow waist. I started brushing out my blond hair in
front of the mirror as the fog on it slowly dissipated. I am a man,
dammit. I looked at my thick hair in the mirror, remembering, despite
trying to forget, how it had fallen over my shoulders and neck after
Mr. Wallace had snapped the rubber band holding my ponytail. Almost
hypnotically, I moved the top of my robe just off my shoulders, revealing
them, in addition to my chest, baring it in a triangle to the start of my
small, firm swimmer's breasts.

My eyes misty, but still seeing how beautiful and sexy I looked in the
mirror, I hated myself for what I was feeling, for how sexy I felt, for
shimmying my bare shoulders ... for imagining fat Mr. Wallace behind me,
his gross, pasty, hairy body, his thick, ugly cock hanging there, his rough
hands on my shoulders, his breathing hard as his mouth neared my neck, my
eyes closing, tilting my head to give him access to that spot between my
neck and shoulders that made me tingle ...

And then I literally saw stars as I came. I hadn't even realized that my
right hand had been pumping my tiny dick. My cum was spraying all over the
sink and mirror, and I was making helpless girlie noises in the back of my
throat.

My knees shaky, slowly, I regained my equilibrium, ashamed as I looked in
the mirror at the disheveled person in front of me, my torso bare, the robe
clinging to me by the belt around my tiny waist. I was still undeniably
sexy, but so ashamed. I wiped up my cum from the sink and mirror with some
toilet paper, hoping I hadn't missed any, then went back into the shower,
so confused, so humiliated. I couldn't help but lean my head against the
shower wall and cry.

The next week seemed to crawl at times, and also somehow to fly by. When I
saw Mr. Wallace at work as I took over the night watch, he was all
business, only his confident eyes giving any indication of what we had done
... what he had done to me ... on Saturday. As the days and nights went by,
I grew more and more determined that I would not countenance a repeat of
what happened Saturday. I'll go to his crummy double-wide house and
clean. I'll even wear the damn dress, but no more physical contact, no
matter what.

Saturday finally arrived, and so did I at Mr. Wallace's trailer. He was
wearing only that same ratty bathrobe, and I couldn't believe how much of a
mess he had made in just a week.

"Come in, Billy," he said.

I didn't like the way he said my name, putting extra emphasis on the second
syllable, making it sound like a feminine bill-EEE.

He told me to go into the bedroom and change my clothes and not to forget
to look at myself in the bedroom mirror every 15 minutes.. I went in, and
there was the same puffy-sleeve blue dress. I took off my boy clothes and
put it on, getting a little chill going through me as it slid over my body
and revealed so much of my chest..

I walked into the living room and saw that fat slob on the couch watching
football, his rolling, flabby, hairy belly showing outside the robe. I
started in on the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, then had to stop when
Mr. Wallace told me to get him a beer. The refrigerator stunk to high
heaven. I made a mental note to clean that today and took out a beer. When
I walked over to Mr. Wallace with it, I saw a flash. The son of a bitch had
taken my picture with a camera! Now he was pointing his cell phone at
me. He was taking a video!

"You look so pretty in that dress, Bill-EEE, that I wanna add to my
collection of you. After all, at the office you weren't wearing much when
you were jerking off, but what you had on was male clothing. Smile for me,
will you, honey?"

I didn't smile. I stamped my foot, maybe a little femininely, handed him
his beer and turned to do the dishes. I began washing them, occasionally
looking over my shoulder at the fat fuck, and each time, he was either
pointing his phone at me or snapping another picture. That's the way the
afternoon went. No matter whether I was cleaning out the fridge or picking
up the living room, Mr. Wallace stayed on the couch, except when he went to
piss because of all the beers I had to fetch for him, and he would take my
photo or do a video every so often. Every 15 minutes, I would go look at
myself in the bedroom mirror, each time seeing a pretty, young girl.

After a couple of hours of this, I went into the bedroom to pick up his
clothes and make the bed. I figured that's when he might make his move
... like he did last week. I was determined not to give in this time. Yes,
determined.

But he never did come in. I looked at myself in the mirror, wondering why,
after last week, he wasn't molesting me, kissing my neck and ...well, you
know. After a while, I looked closely at myself in the mirror, finding
mostly imaginary flaws in how I looked. Was there something wrong with me?
I'd find excuses to walk into the living room, but other than taking my
picture, he pretty much ignored me. I looked in the mirror again, and for
some reason, this time, I moved my puffy sleeves just off my slender
shoulders, as if they might have slipped while I was doing housework. I
didn't want Mr. Wallace to touch me again, I really didn't, but ... well,
he did find me prettier with my shoulders bare, and I felt so vulnerable
and -- yes -- sexy as I moved around from room to room.

Mr. Wallace is disgusting. I don't want him to touch me, but something
within me wants to be considered pretty enough for him to try. When I
swayed while I walked into the living room with my shoulders back and my
palms facing forward in a feminine way, he stood up, smiled a knowing,
confident smile and told me to stop right in front of him. He took several
pictures of me, then spoke.

"Billy, you're looking very pretty. Now, turn a little sideways, yes, like
that," he said as he snapped more pictures."Your shoulders look so soft and
slender, like a girl's."

I blanched, and didn't know what to say. I just stood there, twisting my
lean upper body sideways as he took pictures.

"Now, Billy, I want you to put your pinkie between your lips and give me a
little smile.|

I did so, my right shoulder touching my chin, feeling so girlie as he
snapped my picture.

"Tell me, Billy, did you like it when I kissed you last week?"

I was so surprised. The question had come right out of the blue. I shook my
head. "No, Mr. Wallace," I said. "I didn't."

"He sat on the couch and put down the camera. His right hand reached into
his robe and started slowly to pump his penis.

"Billy, we both know you're lying, don't we?"

I shook my head "no" again, and he laughed.

"Come closer, Billy," he ordered.

I paused for a moment, then took a tentative step forward. Mr. Wallace took
his hand off his dick, grabbed my left wrist and placed it on his thick
cock. I pulled it back like it was a piece of hot coal.. His eyes bore into
mine.

"You're going to put that hand back where I put it, Billy, for two
reasons."

I was breathing very hard, both my hands facing outward behind the skirt of
my dress.

Mr. Wallace's voice was so arrogantly confident as he smiled at me.

"The first reason is that video of you jerking off at work along with the
pictures I took of you today in your pretty dress."

I bit my lower lip, trying not to cry.

"And the second reason," he said with an evil grin as his robe fell off his
disgusting body, "is that you want to."

I started to quiver, slowly shaking my head "no" as I peered down at the
ugly hunk of flesh between Mr. Wallace's legs, mostly hidden by the great
mass of flab over it.

"Do it, sweet thing," he ordered, his voice so harsh, as if I had no
choice.

I felt so weak, so girly. What little willpower I had was drawing me to
that thick, flacid cock. I felt my bare right shoulder touch my chin as my
right hand pinkie moved between my lips ... just like Mr. Wallace had
ordered me to do minutes earlier, except this time it was a genuinely
girlish thing that just seemed to happen.  My other hand moved slowly
... slowly down to grasp his thick prick. It felt so hot. I could feel his
pulse through that awful cock. I gave out a little moan as I moved my
little hand up and down. When I looked up at his face and saw his
triumphant smirk, I had an overwhelming feeling of horror. I let go of his
cock and started to move away when he grabbed me and pulled me onto his
flabby lap, his thick arms pinning my slender ones to my body, my bare
shoulders hunched in, his mouth so close to mine.

I struggled, but it was no use. He was going to kiss me, and there was
nothing I could do to stop him. The skirt of my dress had ridden up, barely
covering my tiny, hard penis, and I could feel his thick cock -- in my hand
moments before -- on my bare thighs, Was he going to ... take me? I could
smell the beer on his breath, his putrid after-shave, almost feel the rough
stubble on his three chins. No one was going to come and rescue me from his
clutches.

"Do you want me to kiss you, Bil-eeee?" he whispered.

I wanted him to so much. He was so repulsive, so ugly, so disgusting, so
fat and old, my boss at work, and yet I yearned to surrender to him, to be
the beauty to his beast. I took a deep breath, summoned up the last of what
had been my male persona and whispered, not really meaning it: "No, let me
go, please."

Almost before the words were out of my mouth, Mr. Wallace suddenly dumped
me off his lap onto the floor. I was stunned. I lay there, propped up on my
elbows, looking up at him. If anything, being manhandled and looking up at
him scowling at me made me feel even more feminine and sexy.

"Have it your way, Billy," he said, matter-of-factly. "Now, get your ass
into your boy clothes and get the hell out of here."

Don't ask me why, but I reached out and put my right arm around his hairy,
chunky right leg and hugged my body to it.

"Please, Mr. Wallace," I pleaded. "I'm sorry. I ... I didn't mean it. You
can kiss me. I mean .. I want you to kiss me."

Mr. Wallace stood up, his huge belly hanging over his now-soft prick that
was so close to my face that I could smell its musky scent. My eyes locked
on it. It was so big, so manly, so overpowering and dominant. My mind was
in a soft daze, and my lips parted.

The next thing I felt was this incredible pain as Mr. Wallace yanked my
hair, pulling me off of his leg.

"I said to get the hell out of here, Billy," he said harshly. "What part of
that didn't you understand?"

Utterly humiliated, I ran into the bedroom crying. Sobbing, I put my boy
clothes back on and walked sullenly back into the living room on my way to
the door. Mr. Wallace was back on the couch in his ratty bathrobe, playing
idly with his cock while watching TV. His voice had a no-nonsense air to
it, as if to reinforce what we both knew: that I had debased myself to him
even as I had not been forced to do anything -- other than wearing that
dress and cleaning his house -- against my will.

"See you next Saturday, Billy," he said, dismissing me. "Don't even think
about being late."

(To be continued.)