Date: Wed, 30 Nov 2016 23:37:11 +0000 From: Beau Kramer Subject: Hosed Part Two (transgender tv) Hosed Part Two (transgender tv) By Gingerfred Man You may want to refresh yourself with part one before reading this, since I posted part one in the Paleolithic era. Yes, I'm back after only seven years or so. New email too None of this is true, of course. But wouldn't it be nice? You should contribute to nifty. Nice people. Good cause. Nice tingles you know where. Chapter Five – Restoration I was, of course, under the total sway of my sway-hipped seductresses. Even to the point where I would put myself in emasculating, total humiliation's way, just to be able to breathe the same air that they did. And they knew it. It was clear to me, even in my sex-addled state, that Jessica and Stephanie were trying to get me "interested" in men. Or one man in particular. Or one man now and a legion of them later. I was terrified. And simultaneously, fiercely excited. Terrified/excited at the huge possibility of being massively humiliated. Terrified/excited at the emasculation that would inevitably follow that public humiliation. But worst of all, terrified/excited at the thought of seeing Mr. Spunkwell again. Dressed as a girl. In stockings. Would he know it was me? What would he think of me if he did? Would he laugh? That would be the worst. Or maybe it would be worse if he laughed, called me cruel names, then spanked me! Calling me a stockings-wearing homo as each painful swat bruised my bum cheeks. Was all that possible? No, wait. The worst would be if Mr. Spunkwell thought I was hot. And wanted to "do things" with me! Right there in the restaurant! As people were brunching! Ick!!!!!!!!!!!! What if he tried to kiss me? Stick his tongue into my mouth? What if he got hard "down there?" And it turned him into a raging beast? What if he tried to [gasp] shove his cock into my mouth? It wouldn't be entirely his fault. I had looked pretty good in my stockings the night before. And men are just hormone-driven animals after all. But still... What if Mr. Spunkwell threw me on the floor, right in the restaurant, pulled my panties down, then forced himself on me? Kissing my "wrinkle!" Licking it so that he could pull out his "stiff business" and FUCK me!??!?!? I was gasping and panting at the horror of it all as Stephie and Jessie happily shaved my legs, then [blush] shaved me around my "pink wrinkle." The fantasy about being practically raped in public was so silly. I dismissed it. Mostly. And paid extra-special attention to what was happening to me/ At the delightful, but insistent shemales' urging, I was pulling on a pair of tan, ultra-sheer, seamed, fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings. Over my freshly-shaved legs. For the first time. Which was very different from the first time my mildly hairy legs hosted a pair of nylonic delights. It was like Almond Joy candy bars used to describe themselves – "indescribably delicious." Every man must do that at least once in his life. But that was only the beginning. The two pushy shemales hooked my stockings to a white, ruffled, garter belt. Touching the exposed, creamy flesh above my stocking welts as they attached each clip. Oh! Marginally tamer fantasies invaded my brain. What if Mr. Spunkwell reached up my skirts and tried to touch me THERE? On my tender, exposed thighs? I would have to fight him off! Tell him NO! Because I was NOT gay! But what if he caressed each thigh thrillingly as he told me how beautiful I was and how much he had always loved me? What if that made my peener stick straight up? And leak in my pretty panties? What if, sensing my unwilling arousal, he took that as consent to do gay things and began to kiss me as he rubbed my stiffie through my sheer, silky panties? What if I opened my mouth and sucked his tongue as he rubbed my enflamed knob to a ball-draining orgasm? Right there in the restaurant! It wouldn't be my fault. Any of it. It sounds homosexual, but it's all very hetero. I would be engaging in what appeared to be homo activity for very hetero purposes. Staying in Jessie's and Stephie's good graces. So I could fuck them. Heteroly. And suck their hetero cocks. While I was wearing seamed, reinforced-heel-and-toe, fully-fashioned stockings. With a garter belt. And taking the cock of the girl I wasn't fucking at the moment up my bumhole. See what I mean? Pure hetero logic. I was in quite a state when Jessie and Stephie gave me my first cosmetics lesson. Though I couldn't pay much attention to what I was doing since I was stunned by the evolution my face underwent as it assumed foundation, lipstick, blusher, eyeliner, eye shadow and mascara! I was a real beauty!! Not as pretty as Jessie or Stephie. maybe. But real potential to play in their league some day. As I was coming down a bit from the dazzle of my beauty, the ladies challenged me by putting strappy, red, three-inch-stiletto sandals onto my stockinged feet and then giggling wildly as I tried to stand. Followed by more peals of laughter as I took my first high-heeled steps. I was a bit ticked to be the object of their mirth, so I concentrated on the task. Twenty-eight minutes later, the girls clapped in awe as I strode easily in the girlish shoes. It's great to be a quick study. Though it hastened the moment when, in a pretty white minidress with big red polka dots and flouncy skirts, I sissied out to their car, got in and headed out to my doom. We parked in the lot of a trendy brunch spot and I carefully dismounted the car. Keeping my legs together. Keeping panty viewers at bay. Though it didn't seem that any panty peepers would be looking at me with Jessica and Stephanie as my companions. Apparently, I was selling myself short. True, I didn't have big boobs. Or any boobs, for that matter. But I got at least my share of male drool when the three of us entered the restaurant, then va-va-voomed our way to our table. I was blushing from all the "unwanted" attention and trembling from the fear of Mr. Spunkwell's reaction. So upset was I that I didn't see him, already at our table. He was standing politely. Paying no attention to Jessie and Stephie. While smiling, dare I adverb it, lovingly, at me. "It's wonderful to see you, Dwayne," Mr. Spunkwell said. "You're amazingly beautiful. I'm flattered and flabbergasted that you wanted to have brunch with me." These words stuck in my mouth: "But I didn't want to, Mr. Spunkwell. Jessica and Stephanie blackmailed me about withholding stockinged sex if I didn't". Instead, I just blushed and smiled. Quite girlishly. "She calls herself, `Jeanette' now, Mr. Spunkwell," Stephanie lied seamlessly. "Jeanette?" But I... Where did that come from? My name was... "Jeanette. What a lovely name for a lovely girl," Mr. Spunkwell said. I blushed and smiled. OK. This wasn't all going the way I had fantasized. He wasn't mocking me or ravishing me. He was acting sort of, well, smitten by me. Wasn't that worse? For my fragile heterosexuality, I mean. And why was he looking so handsome and muscled and manly? And being so polite and attentive? I asked myself that. And my cock asked more loudly. It was standing at the complete vertical and leaking like a Congressional committee. He pulled out my chair. Went and got my food. Told me how pretty I was. A lot. Told me how he had always wondered what I would be like if my femme side emerged. My femme side? Until the day before, I didn't know that such a side existed. I did a lot of blushing and smiling at that brunch, but very little eating. I pretended to look down at my plate now and then, but I was actually looking at Mr. Spunkwell's penile region to see if I had excited him. And if he had a lot there to excite. Yes and yes. Which was good to know and bad to know. You know? Anyway, my lovers/ tormentors seemed to be having a wonderful time. Chatting and flirting with Mr. Spunkwell. Though the flirting fell a bit flat. He only appeared to have eyes (and cock) for me. Then I wondered. What fresh hell did Jessie and Stephie have planned for me? Would they suggest we move to a local dungeon, where they would tie me up, strip me down to my bra, garters, stockings and heels while Mr. Spunkwell satisfied all his filthy urges with my hetero-yet-powerless body? Phew! Why was it so hot in that restaurant? The reality was much tamer. Or so it seemed. We finished our meal. Mr. Spunkwell gallantly paid. He held my chair. I got up. He touched my batre shoulder and said, "I'm very much looking forward to having dinner with you tonight, Jeanette." Dinner? I didn't agree to have dinner with Mr. Spunkwell! Who was and is a man! Dinner wasn't like brunch or lunch. Dinner was a date. With date things to follow. Like sex!! Horrors!! I began to question the premise when Jessica stepped in and said, "Yes. Thank you for brunch, Mr. Spunkwell. We'll bring Jeanette to the restaurant at 7. Let's go, Jeanette. We have a busy afternoon." Dinner? At 7? Busy afternoon? Jeanette? Huh? Stephanie drove the car (though I find it hard to believe that she could do so in 5-inch stilettos) as Jessica and I sat in the backseat. I was looking at my hand where Mr. Spunkwell had kissed it, ever so gentlemanly, as we parted/ A kiss on the hand. That was all I got. >From that man person. Nothing homo, really. I didn't want homo. Have I mentioned that? So why did I keep looking at my hand where he kissed me? And why had my penis been painfully stiff for 90 straight minutes? Which made my balls bluer than the deep blue sea. Jessica recognized all the symptoms. "You need relief in the worst way, honey. Your balls must ache like an abscess in your wisdom teeth. Just scoot your hips up and get those panties down. Nurse Jessica knows just the treatment." I whimpered needily. And most unmanfully. As I lowered my panties to my knees and held my skirts up for Jessica's sweet attentions. Jessie kissed the dripping lips of my "little person," then looked me in the eyes and observed, "You have that blushing-and-smiling-shy-girl thing down, Jeanette. Men love that. You're already quite a prickteaser, aren't you?" I blushed and smiled. Hoping she would "relieve" me before my "peanuts" got gangrene or something. Jessie smiled back. Then gave me a super-sexy, saliva-rich, lipstick-intensive blowjob. I fired my baby bullets into her pretty mouth and shuddered with delight and relief as I watched her devour its creamy goodness. It was so delicious and satisfying that I was almost able to ignore that as Jessie licked my helmet, I was fantasizing that it was Mr. Spunkwell doing the dirty deed. Was Jessie a mind reader? Probably. Because as my temporarily incapacitated soldier slipped out of her mouth, she asked, "That was the most cum I've seen you make, Jeanette. Was that for me or for Mr. Spunkwell?" I stifled a gasp. And merely blushed and smiled. I had barely stuffed my drooping and leaking prick into my panties and reordered my garments when Stephie pulled into a parking garage under a large downtown building. Few places were taken on that Saturday. I asked where we were going. "Some place you will love, Jeanette," Stephanie said. Hmmm. Was it a ten-year reunion of a high-school football team where my heterosexual body would be offered up for the amusement of 30 twenty-something studs? Was it a kissing and fondling booth where men would pay $100 a minute to feel me up as they sucked my tongue? I wouldn't put either of those past Jessica and Stephanie. Oh no! My stiffie was back. Just from imagining those worst-case scenarios! How hetero was I still at that point? We entered the parking-garage elevator and sped to the 16th floor, where a big reception desk and a logo with the letters HRL greeted us. HRL? No sign of hunky ex-linebackers. Or booth enthusiasts. So far so good. Then things changed. In the form of the most sex-dripping creature I had ever seen. A woman (?) standing six feet, with an additional 5.5 inches of stiletto heels. Stunning facial beauty! The longest legs I had ever seen – encased spectacularly in black, seamed, reinforced-heel-and-toe, fully-fashioned stockings. Boobs that dwarfed those of Jessica and Stephanie!! And an outsized ass that was plump, but not fat. In a skin-tight, electric-blue minidress. She seemed to be about 40 years old, but that "seasoning" added to her sexiness. And she was looking at me and smiling. "Thank you so much, Stephanie and Jessica for bringing Jeanette by today. You're a rare beauty, Jeanette. and I hope you will let me help you bring that beauty to its full potential." Blushing and smiling wouldn't do it with that babe, so I stammered out a "Thank you, Ma'am." "You're welcome, Jeanette. And you may call me Ms. Stunner." [Gulp] "Welcome to the headquarters of the Hosiery Restoration League, Jeanette," Ms. Stunner continued. "It is our mission to relieve the world or the scourge of pantyhose or even [shudder] bare legs on women, shemales and crossdressers. Thanks to the extraordinary generosity of like-minded, male donors, we have been able to stand on our stockinged legs and fight for truth, justice and the hosiery way." At least I think that was what she said. It's hard to think straight when your cock's straight. I never wanted to fuck anyone as much as I wanted to fuck Ms. Stunner. And she knew it. She obviously got that reaction a lot. She knew what was on my mind about something else too. "You needn't look for a lump in my genitals, Jeanette. I'm a genetic girl. Born and raised. The HRL is a big tent. Any stocking lover is welcome, not just pretty boys wanting to be prettier." Ms. Stunner was a natural-born female? Wow! There was a plot twist, huh? Anyway. I didn't know any of it at the time, but Ms. Stunner was a committed stocking enthusiast since the age of seven. Even though her parents didn't allow her to wear seamed, reinforced-heel-and-toe, fully-fashioned stockings, garter belts and heels until her 12th birthday. She wore and wears them every day of her beautiful life since then. Which got her intense male attention from the age of 12 years and one day. And pregnant by the age of 18 years and three days. Again at age 21. And twice more at the ages of 23 (twins) and 25. Mother of two girls and three boys, one of whom was a shemale, one a crossdresser and one a hetero stud who fucked girls, crossdressers and shemales who wore stockings, garters and heels. Grandmother (!) of six! It seems that the babe I had guessed was 40, was actually 53, with children who were 35, 32, 30 (x2) and 28. Ms. Stunner had been married to her only husband, who was the father of the youngest three children, for 31 years. Before we anoint him as the luckiest man on earth, we need to recognize that their loving marriage was based on a sound principle insured to ensure its surety. Ms. Stunner's husband had full access to the loving arms, vagina, anus and mouth of his constantly-damp-pussied wife every moment except when she was working or sleeping and except for two weekly periods. From 6 p.m. on Friday until 9 a.m. on Saturday and from 6 p.m. on Sunday until 9 a.m. on Monday were "Ms. Stunner can be anywhere she wants with anyone she wants doing any nasty thing she wants and NO ONE can ask questions about it" times. So Ms. Stunner's husband could put up with cuckoldry for 30 of each week's 168 hours. Fucking her silly in all three stunning orifices for much of the other 138 hours. Or he could divorce her. He chose wisely. And so did I. I stood there and listened as Ms. Stunner looked me over from all angles. "Yes," the world's sexiest grandma said. "You will do very nicely, my dear Jeanette. Very nicely. I don't imagine that those two scamps Stephanie and Jessica said anything about why you're here, did they?" Rather than throw my two best sources of ball-busting sex under the bus, I just blushed and smiled. Ms. Stunner actually giggled at that. With the looks and demeanor she had, she would have been a five-star dominatrix, but that was not her style. "Of course they didn't, Honey. The girls, who were two of my greatest transition achievements in 30 years, by the way, brought you here because a) they like you a lot, b) want you to be happy and c) know that the Hosiery Restoration League is your key to that happiness. They also owe me, and know that it's girls like you who fund the League." I was confused. Ms. Stunner saw that and said. "No, Sweetie. No one is cleaning out the $70.12 from your savings account. Let's say that you'll be the catalyst for our funding by a number of wealthy stocking enthusiasts." That confused me even more. Why would wealthy stocking enthusiasts give money to the Hosiery Restoration League because of me? Unless... Oh no! Did she want to... "No, Sugar," Ms. Stunner interjected. "No one is whoring you out. You'll be given some options about meeting one or more male admirers, who will help you get on your feet as you transition fully from Dwayne to Jeanette." "But I'm not gay" I blurted out. Ms. Stunner smiled and said to Stephanie, "Does that sound like anyone we know?" "Yes, Ma'am. Jessica and me when we were 18." Ms. Stunner smiled and said, "So true. And are you gay today, my sweet girls?" "No, Ma'am," Jessie and Stephie said in chorus. "Of course you aren't. You are both masterpieces of femininity. The feminine loves the masculine." That made some sense, I guessed. "And what's all this nonsense about your fear of sucking cock and taking a big cock up your bottom, Jeanette? My spies tell me that you did all that and more with Jessica and Stephanie." I looked to Jessie and Stephie to confirm my nuanced contention that sucking a beautiful shemale's cock and taking said cock up one's pooper was not "gay" in the traditional sense. But nuance was losing big with Ms. Stunner. "Enough of that for now. Jeanette has her photo and video shoots to do and Stephanie and Jessica have their Saturday afternoon dates. So let's go, Jeanette." Photo shoot? Video shoot? What was she talking about? Shoot! The girls kissed me goodbye and disappeared. Ms. Stunner led me to an inner studio, where I met Franco. Franco. The chief photographer and videographer. Who would be recording my beauty for the HRL restricted-access web page. So that a bunch of rich, clearly homo pervs could look at me in makeup and lingerie and beat their cocks to an early grave. Imagine that. Men. Masturbating and cumming hard as they fantasized about making sweaty love to Jeanette, the feminine me. My erection was back. Stiffer than ever. And Franco noticed. I blushed and smiled. My goodness. I was becoming a prickteaser, wasn't I? Anyway, that afternoon, Franco and his assistants were either dressing me, making up my pretty face, posing me or otherwise directing me through one scenario after another. The only constant was that I was always wearing seamed, reinforced-heel-and-toe, fully-fashioned stockings and heels and my legs and face were in every shot. Most of the pics and vids were rated PG. I would be wearing a pretty dress and big heels in a garden or a living room. Some were rated R. I would lift my skirts to show my stocking tops and panties –tented with my fierce and painful erection. Franco frequently asked if he could give me some "stroke relief." But I was pure and hetero. Until we reached the X-rated stuff. Me in just my lingerie. Pantied and then [blush] unpantied. Showing my popsy and my pretty bumhole to who knows how many men. Making them shoot their disgusting fluids. Because of my beauty and sexuality. Franco sensed my distress and, before I could protest, he skinned my knob the requisite dozen times then, as I whimpered with fierce lust, he took my penis into his mouth and swallowed the biggest load I had ever produced. All recorded in photos and video, of course. Which the record will show that I never asked him to do any of that. So I was NOT gay. Though I must admit that it was VERY nice. And, being a polite young pantyboy, I did French kiss him and skin his knob until he shuddered and shot his man's cream. But I did NOT suck his cock. We were done with all the Hollywood stuff around five, at which time Franco kissed me goodbye and slipped me his phone number. Which I vowed to lose, very soon. Three pleasant ladies then showed up to get me ready for dinner with Mr. Spunkwell, who was NOT my date. They got me bathed, dried and powdered. Shaved and perfumed. Then into black, seamed, reinforced-heel-and-toe, fully-fashioned stockings; a ruffled, black garter belt; a tiny, little black dress; and my first strappy, four-inch-stiletto pumps/ Then the makeup attack commenced. And ended with me the victor. I was almost as stunning as Ms. Stunner. Facially at least. Which she confirmed at 6:32 p.m. that Saturday night. She kissed me, put me into an HRL limo, handed me a purse and said, "There's lipstick, powder and a phone in there. Call our 24-hour line if you need a ride somewhere later tonight. But I don't think you will. Have a good time, Jeanette." Was she implying that I would be spending the night with Mr. Spunkwell? I certainly wasn't. Why after dinner, I was going straight... Where was I going? Not home, looking as I did. Not to Jessica's and Stephanie's place. They hadn't invited me. Hmmm. Chapter Six – Mr. Spunkwell's lucky night OK. Maybe I shouldn't have called this chapter what I called it. It sort of took out the suspense. You were probably thinking that I stuck to my firm heterosexual orientation and REFUSED Mr. Spunkwell any liberties. After which I led a strict, male-lesbian life – granting sexual favors only to like-minded crossdressers and shemales or women. But no. I surrendered. Not at first. But unconditionally. To Mr. Spunkwell to begin with. And then... Well. It began that night with me making a cock-raising entrance into the fancy French restaurant my former teacher had selected. It wasn't just Mr. Spunkwell's cock that was raised at the sight of me. It appeared that I erected every male who caught a glimpse of me that lovely evening. My "date" (which was how I had begun to think of him) kissed me on the cheek and initiated what would be the evening's conversational theme - my feminine beauty! I wasn't feminine. Really. Though I was feminine enough to make 13 fellow male diners go home later and stroke themselves to a monster cum thinking of me. For the first time, though, I wanted to be feminine. For Mr. Spunkwell. For Jessica and Stephanie. For Ms. Stunner. But mostly for myself. And I wanted the ultimate feminine experience. The loving, carnal attentions of a manly man. I assumed correctly that securing those attentions would not be difficult. I can't remember what we ate or what we discussed. But I do remember Mr. Spunkwell holding the door for me as I got into his car. By then, I think, Mr. Spunkwell had pretty much recognized that I was ready for sex with him. But just to dispel any lingering doubts, I gave him a flash of my stocking tops and panties as I pulled my long legs into the car. He gulped. A throat contraction reoccurred moments later when he took the driver's seat and I said, "Oh, Mr. Spunkwell, that was a lovely dinner. Would it be OK if we went back to your place? It's still early and it is Saturday night." Which sounds still semi-innocent until I tell you an important contextual point. My left hand was on his upper thigh and as I said the last words, I brushed his stiff cock with my fingertips. My first male lover auditioned for NASCAR that night, getting us to his home in mere seconds. He helped me out of the car, getting a bigger panty/thigh flash that time and as I stood, I locked eyes with him, parted my lips and nodded slightly. And then he kissed me. A big, lipsticky kiss, with lots of tongue. The kind that sets a man's pants on fire. It certainly ignited my panties. Because moments later, I was stripped to my bra, panties, stockings and garters. Lying in a man's bed. With a naked, rampant man feasting on my nipples. Oh! Mr. Spunkwell was VERY oral! And very good at the oral stuff. I darned near spunked just from that. And when he continued the oral smorgasbord by removing my panties and devouring my cockette and peanuts, I did spunk. Spunkily! With not a soupcon of hetero guilt. I was a girl, having nasty sex with my man. Whose cock I NEEDED to lick very soon! Mr. Spunkwell was very generous with his cock. He let me lick it all I wanted. And I must have been doing it right because he moaned and arched his back more than once. On the biggest moan and back-arch, my man shot his cream into my mouth. Yum! I was so proud of myself for giving my man such pleasure and for paying him the respect of swallowing every sperm and semen molecule he donated to the "Let's Make Jeanette a Full Pantyboy" Foundation. We kissed a lot after that. Tonguey, passionate, desperate kisses. Kisses that pursued a hunger we could only satisfy a little at a time. Halfway through our kissfest, Mr. Spunkwell said hello to my bumhole with one, then two, then three of his fingers. The naughty man knew just where my prostate is and he assaulted it mercilessly. Oh, girls! It was heavenly. I made a big messy after fewer than five minutes of that exquisite attention. And my oral lover orally oralized every drop of girlie goo I squirted onto his voracious tongue. His tongue wasn't tired after that, because he flipped me onto my stomach, with three pillows on my midsection, then ate my bumhole as if he were starving and it was the last food on earth. I screamed, of course. Ninety percent from lust and ten percent from fear for my life – a delicious combination! After 26 minutes of that, I screamed some more. That time as an accompaniment to the ten-megaton explosion in my testicles. I was dazed and exhausted when Mr. Spunkwell replaced his bum-diving tongue with his bum-seeking cock. And there I was. Being fucked. In my bumhole. By a man. My man. A man who adored me. Who worshipped me. With good reason, of course, since I was the hottest piece of ass he would ever know in his life. But still... I LOVED being fucked. By a man. My man. And he loved fucking me. No doubt. He groaned and moaned and told me how I was the most beautiful girl on earth. He reached around my right hip, found my foreskin and frigged me as he fucked me. Even better. He didn't call me "bitch" or give me demeaning orders in capital letters. So I guess all the pornos are wrong. I don't care. I was in love. And so was Mr. Spunkwell. I know that because as he shot his manly seed into my girlish garden, he cried out, "I love you, Jeanette!" It was a great night. But morning always seems to follow great nights. And there I was. Just waking up. Smelling bacon cooking. Mmmm. How many times had we "done it?" I think six, but the historical record is foggy on that point. My bra was gone. My panties were gone. My stockings and garters were still on, but they were stained with cum – mine and his. Oh no. I needed a shave. And I didn't have my makeup. Mr. Spunkwell would see that I was just a boy paying sissy dress-up. He would hate himself for being a "homo" and hate me for making him one. Oh no. Maybe I could just get dressed while he was cooking, slide down a fire escape or something and go. Go where? The problem again. Just as I was about to rethink a plan B and the meaning of life, Mr. Spunkwell reappeared. All cheerful and giving me those, "I love you" mooneyes. Well. He didn't hate me. Yet. That was good. But what would I... "Good morning, Honey. I hope you got SOME sleep last night. I was going to ask you for a waker-upper, but I let you sleep. Why don't you go take a shower while I change the sheets, and then we'll have breakfast and a waker-upper, or vice versa "But first, some good news. You didn't hear the doorbell this morning, but it was a messenger from the Hosiery Restoration League. Ms. Stunner sent you eight days worth of stockings, heels, and other lingerie as well as outside dresses, cosmetics and the tiniest nighties I've ever seen. It's all in the spare bedroom for you. She sent you a note too. Here." Tears of joy filled my eyes as I took the note. "Dear Jeanette," it said. "I'm delighted that you spent the night with Mr. Spunkwell. He's a good man, worthy of you. Please enjoy a nice honeymoon with him until you meet me next Monday at 10 a.m.in my office. I'm working on some solid opportunities for your future and will present them to you then." It appeared that my problems would be over. And that the next eight days of my life would be the best ever! I hugged my man, scooted off to the spare bedroom, gathered the cosmetics, a pair of pink, seamed, reinforced-heel-and-toe, fully-fashioned stockings; a pink garter belt and a pink babydoll a ran for the shower. I wanted to look spectacular for my waker-upper with my man. Chapter Seven – Six months later I was flitting around my 2,200-foot condo in the center of town. Getting myself together for my regular Monday visit from Mr. Smith, the Hosiery Restoration League benefactor who had graciously donated the flat to me. Along with a trust paying all taxes and insurance for the next 40 years. And a nice $5,000 a week income for "incidentals" I might need. Mr. Smith was such a sweetheart. All that for little old me. All he expected in return was knock-down-drag-out, nutbusting sex every, Monday from 6 p.m to Tuesday at 9 a.m. and every Thursday from 6 p.m. to Friday at 9 a.m. And we can stop the sex anytime I want, so I'm no w-word. The condo is mine regardless. But the money would stop. That won't happen. I like the money. But I LOVE Mr. Smith. When Ms. Stunner posted all my pics and vids on the HRL site, she said 78 "gentlemen" wished to establish a relationship with me, in exchange for favors for me and a big donation to the HRL. "Mr. Smith 32 is a good man, Jeanette," my sissy mentoress said. "He's good to his word, he is very rich, pantyboys love him and he has a very large and active cock. It's the best deal you can get." First let me clear up the Mr. Smith 32 part. Apparently, there are 57 Mr. Smiths and 19 Mr. Joneses who are HRL benefactors. My Mr. Smith is an amazingly wonderful man! He's about 40 years old. Super handsome. Buff and hairy and [blush] as big-cocked as Ms. Stunner said he was. Though I sometimes wonder how she knew that. Oh well. Mr. Smith adores me! He tells me so all the time. And he's so expressive of that adoration. Not just from all the man's cream he deposits in my mouth and my bumhole either. He buys me things. Diamonds. Which are still a girl's best friend. I have an unlimited account at Timmy's Girlish Secret, the sissy mega-store where I buy all the things I need to look pretty for Mr. Smith. And [blush] my other gentleman friends. Mr. Smith isn't the least bit jealous about what I do during the days and hours we're not together. And I do a lot. Friday and Saturday nights I entertain Mr. Spunkwell. My first love. Who, as a teacher, is poor, but spunky. And I never seem to have trouble finding companions for Sunday, Tuesday or Wednesday nights. Sometimes I get together with Stephanie and/or Jessica those nights. But the three of us all prefer men to each other for sex. So the three of usually get together on Sundays for brunch, shopping and, OK, some afternoon sex. So that encapsulates my last six months. At 5:45 that particular evening, I had dinner in the oven for my man. I had put the finishing touches on my semi-slutty, fuck-night makeup and was deciding which tiny pink nightie I wanted to greet Mr. Smith with. I was, of course, already wearing my tan, seamed, reinforced-heel-and-toe, fully-fashioned stockings, with pink garter belt and pink, four-inch-stiletto, bedroom-slipper mules, with white powderpuffs on each instep. Should I wear a more revealing nightie that would show Mr. Smith my growing titties? Why not? Mr. Smith was paying for my hormone treatments. He should get a good look at some of the results before he kissed them and sucked them until I was filling my pretty panties with sissy cream. My titties at that point were the size of apples. And almost all nipple. A presentation that seemed to drive men particularly wild with lust. Twelve-year-old-girl titties one of my gentlemen called them. Very much unlike the 38Cs' I sported six months later. It was a great time in my life. I had let my hair grow out. I had become a blonde. With a hundred curls. Weekly mani-pedi treatments. Pink polish mostly. Red occasionally. I was delicious. The mirror agreed. And so did Mr. Smith, who rang the doorbell just as I had completed my beauty review. I squealed most unmanfully when he took me into his big, manly arms. Kissing me with all the tongue a pantyboy could hope for. And, between kisses, telling me how lovely I was. Oh. That Mr. Smith! One of the reasons I adored Mr. Smith was that he wasn't your typical multi-multi-millionaire. He had worked hard to be in a position to oppress the masses and his callused hands showed it. There's nothing like three thick, lubed, callused fingers up your bumhole, torturing your prostate, girls. Let me tell you. We weren't anal yet, that lovely Monday evening. Mr. Smith was carrying a squealing me to the bedroom. I was giggling between squeals. Then staring in awe as Mr. Smith stripped to a gorgeous nude. We weren't ones for warmup conversation. It was a good thing that the oven was programed to shut itself off, because the only food Mr. Smith wanted at that moment was my girlie goo. The naughty man feasted on my stiffie and licked my pink purse until I was screaming and creaming. My semen/sperm production had been reduced a bit since I started my hormone regimen, but the stiifies and nuclear orgasms were better than ever. Even so, I was surprised when Mr. Smith caught all of my first-of-the-evening creamload in his mouth and didn't swallow a drop. Instead, he relocated his mouth to my right boobie, where he spat out half my sissy cream onto that titty, then the rest on its mate. Then the bad man slowly, torturously licked it all up from my oh-so-sensitive nipples. Which had me gasping and panting until I could take no more. Blam! My second nutblast of the young evening. So that was how it would be that night, huh? Mr. Smith was going to be the sexual aggressor. And my poor peanuts would be making fresh juice until they were sore and achy. Isn't pantyboyhood wonderful? Well. His plan was all very well, but it was time for Mr. Smith to cum. Which he could do by ass fucking me first (which I loved). But he would have to eat me out first (which Mr. Smith LOVED). Oh my! I stuck my clean, delicious asshole right in his face and Mr. Smith went after it with every bit or tonguiness and saliva he could produce. It was messy. And prolonged. And so darned erotic that I spilled my baby bullets again. Almost passing out with the force of Orgasm Number Three, The brute took advantage of me in my weakened state by flinging me onto my back, sliding three pillows under my hips, lifting my ankles up to his shoulders and RAMMING his considerable man's thing into my sopping wet heinie hole. It was glorious! Just as it always was with Mr. Smith. He kissed me tenderly as he pummeled my ass. A mixture of textures. Maddeningly erotic. There I was again. Cumming so hard that my eyes were rolling back in my head. When he finally spunked, it was with a beastly roar. Such an animal! The perfect lover. We lay there after. Chests heaving. Cum oozing from my butthole, my penis and his "big boy." Too tired to even kiss. I felt fucked out, Wondering if I would ever recover fully enough to get a fresh erection. And then, phoenix-like, Mr. Smith popped out of bed, crossed the room to where he had flung his pants, and returned. With a box. A small box. The kind of box that... Oh! Could it be? Was he really getting down on one knee by the side of the bed? Opening the box and saying, "My darling Jeanette. Will you marry me and make me the happiest man in the universe? "Don't say yes or no until I state the terms. You'll come and live with me, four days a week. The other three you can stay here at your condo. I ask you no questions about those three days and you ask me none. I'll double your weekly allowance to $10,000. And no pre-nup. If you want a divorce, you get half of my fortune. That's how much I love you." I gasped. Through misted eyes, I saw a diamond ring that had to be four carats! The terms he stated ...Oh. They were the most romantic thing I had ever heard! I could keep my "other interests" besides my new husband! And so could he! I would be financially secure for life. And get to wear a white wedding gown. And stand up in church in front of 500 people, at least half of whom would want nothing better than to FUCK me! It was perfect. I nodded through my happy tears. Mr. Smith slid the ring onto my finger. We kissed tenderly. But before I could admire the rock properly, he had me on my stomach, bum up, with my asshole full of cock. Mine was as stiff as his was. It appeared that the proposal and acceptance had injected us both with new vigor. It also appeared that we would be living happily ever after. Please tell me what you think at bc20002015@hotmail.com My other stories on nifty: "Acting Up" transgender -- control "Panty Pleasures" transgender -- young friends "Woodville" transgender -- tv "Mothered" transgender -- control "Panty Town" transgender -- teen "Tradition" transgender -- teen "Punished" transgender -- high school "Panty Paradise" transgender -- teen "Kevin and Molly Go to Camp" -- transgender -- teen "Lovelife" -- transgender -- high school "My Three Sissies" -- transgender -- tv "Acting Out" -- transgender -- high school "Explorers" -- transgender -- high school "Pantied" -- transgender -- young friends "Rebuilding" -- transgender -- teen "The Au Pair" -- transgender -- surgery "Birthday Girl" -- transgender -- teen "Genes" -- transgender -- high school "Brothers in Panties" -- transgender -- teen "Coach" -- transgender -- control "Intervention" -- transgender -- high school "Winners" -- transgender -- teen "Teased" transgender -- high school "Irish Girls" transgender -- teen "Finished" -- transgender -- teen "Role Model" -- transgender -- high school "Freedom" -- transgender -- high school "Panty Fiesta" -- transgender -- control "Experiments" -- transgender college "One Fine Day" -- transgender -- teen "Stiff Resistance" -- transgender -- teen "Poker" -- transgender -- tv "Panty Sabbatical" -- transgender -- high school "Published" -- transgender -- tv "Stripped" -- transgender -- high school "Trained" -- transgender -- control "Something Better" -- transgender - tv "Fulfilled" -- transgender -- tv "Private Matters" -- transgender -- high school "Hard Times" -- transgender -- tv "Girl Nights" -- transgender -- control "Geography" -- transgender -- tv "Somewhere" -- transgender -- high school "Next Door Bride" -- transgender -- chemical (though I don't think it has chemicals) "Service" -- transgender -- tv "Test Driven" -- transgender -- tv "Sissy Stepmother" -- transgender -- tv "Slacker Moms" -- transgender -- tv "Sissies and the City" -- transgender -- tv "Paid in Full" -- transgender -- tv "Alternative Education" -- transgender -- control "The Boy Bride" -- transgender -- high school "Stiff Competition" -- transgender -- teen "Reservations" -- transgender -- tv "Panty Pride" -- transgender -- tv "The Panty Life" -- transgender -- tv "Super" -- transgender -- tv "Stocking Boys" -- transgender -- tv "Panty Secrets" -- transgender -- tv "Auntie's New Panties" -- transgender -- tv "Good Riddance" -- transgender -- tv "Generations" -- transgender -- tv "Fully Fashioned" -- transgender -- tv "Tommy's Summer Job" -- transgender -- tv "Tuition Assistance" -- transgender -- tv "Sweeties" -- transgender -- young friends "Pretty Boy" -- transgender -- high school "Competition" -- transgender -- high school "Strokes" -- transgender -- high school