Date: Fri, 17 Apr 1998 17:48:18 EDT
From: VickieTern <VickieTern@aol.com>
Subject: The Two of Us

New TG The Two of Us by Vickie Tern Femdom M/F  F/M etc.


This is the kind of story people like who like this kind of story,
but they are allowed to read it only if they're the age they need 
to be to be allowed to read it.  If you know what I mean.


She'd love hearing from you about any of them, even if they aren't
the kind of story you like to read, though especially if they are.  


                        The Two of Us  
                       by Vickie Tern


                             i.

That blonde woman back there in the Florida room?  Reading her
magazines, watching the sun set behind the Catalpa branches in the
back garden?  Why Loretta, you don't recognize him?  Really?  No,
of course not, it's been a while, we've all changed I suppose.  And
you've never heard the whole story anyhow.  That's Jim!  Jim, my
husband, that's right!  That's where he loves to sit evenings,
these days, when his household work is done.  It's peaceful, and
he's been feeling a little down since his favorite boy friend got
transferred to another city.  Doesn't he look lovely, with the warm
late-afternoon sunlight on his face?

Yes, he always dresses like that!  Well, no he didn't always, but
for the last year or so, certainly, that blouse is one I bought him
back when he first realized he'd just better accept the way things
are.  I guess it has been a while!  Of course he's a lot thinner
than when you last saw him -- he's been trying for a more
attractive figure -- when he sees yours he'll be so jealous!  And
his hairdo is brand new -- I treated him to it just this week, to
try to cheer him up.  Isn't it darling?  A new operator at the
salon, Marsha, she's a marvel!  All in all he's looking quite the
lady, don't you think?  And you should see him when he gets dolled
up!   He'll take hours, but he knows now how to make himself really
beautiful.  He once took a special "Beauty Tips for Girls Who Love
Men" course at the Community College, and it really shows!  His men
friends certainly appreciate it!

Why does he want to make himself look like a woman?  Because that's
what he is, now, Loretta.  Or that's what he usually thinks he is,
which is much the same thing.  Why?  Well, he's better off being a
woman, though it took a little persuasion on my part for him to see
it.  Why'd I persuade him?  Well, he'd gotten himself into a little
trouble, with my help I'll grant you, and this was the only way he
could get himself out of it, with my help I mean.  He's reconciled
to it now, given the alternatives. He knows he's much better off.
I know I certainly am!

Yes, there is a certain peacefulness about him.  A kind of
serenity.  I love it, he's so calm all the time, even when things
around here get frantic.  And there's really nothing to maintaining
him that way.  Each morning a double dose of tranquillizers and
anti-depressants along with his daily estrogen, and then he just
doesn't get upset about anything. 

For a while it took some really heavy doses to convince him.  He'd
swallow enough Thorazine and other psychoactive drugs to knock down
a cow.  Then the next morning he'd sit dazed by his dressing table,
still in his negligee, just staring down at his boobs.  He'd been
nearly a year on hormones by then, and they'd grown in pretty full. 
They even hung down a little -- he really needed his bras by then.  
I suppose after a night's sleep some of his medication had worn
off, and he'd begun to come to himself, and he couldn't remember
how those breasts had gotten there.  But I'd remind him again who
he really was, the woman I live with, my dearest friend since we
were girls together, that's who he needs to be.  Then he'd be fine,
and take his pills, and he'd get dressed appropriately, and we'd go
down, and that was that.  There we were chatting away, two nice
ladies having breakfast who live together and lead separate lives.  
I don't think he remembers any more that he was ever anything else.

He's a real help, you won't have to do a thing with the house, he
does it all!  I work most days and some nights, and he takes care
of everything here.  And often on weekends he'll help me with my
client load too back at Hospitality House, when I take on too many. 
Ever since he quit his earlier job.  Even before then I'd taught
him how to dress and behave, and how to do his make-up, the basic
things.  But when he went full time he needed a lot of attention,
serious training, to help him decide what kind of a lady he was,
and how to keep his voice gentle, and how to move, and so on.  You
know.  Then later on, what to watch for when he's out shopping for
the house, and which cookbooks to rely on.  

He was always grateful, I will say that.  At first he relied on me
for everything, how to dress properly, how to be a fun date, he had
no idea how girls manage things like that.  I had no choice,
Loretta!  After his conversion he had no social life, so I had to
help him out!  I certainly couldn't have him moping around here all
the time.  He had to get out and circulate, get to be known, if you
know what I mean.  And to really enjoy pleasing his dates, because
a man can always tell if a girl's sincere or not.

He was such an innocent!  He knew nothing back then!  Do you know
that when he went out on a really serious date for the first time
he didn't even think to douche his little rear end beforehand?  I
had to tell him that!  What can he have had in mind?  How did he
think his date would feel, pushing a prick into his asshole and
finding squishy stuff already there?  We gaffed his cock and balls
nice and flat, what was left of them after the hormones, and I told
him always to plead his period and offer his ass if his man was
interested.  Then just lie back and spread your legs and enjoy it,
I told him, or else hump the air with your rear and wait for your
date to find the right place.  

I wasn't worried about his mouth -- he's good with that, and he
loves giving blow jobs, no problem there.  Once he begins he can
swallow oceans of cum.  He does bachelor parties for me now and
then, and other affairs like that -- it helps bring in household
money.  When he gets back sometimes his tummy's really bloated with
all the sticky stuff he's sucked and coaxed out of cock after cock. 
He's wonderful at it -- men watch his tongue stroke the underside
of a prick and then they just can't wait for their turn.  

But still, some men just have to fuck a girl down under before the
night's out, and this man who'd just asked him out for his first
real date looked like one of those.  And he was!  When Jim came
back the next morning there was cum oozing out of his anus and all
over everything.  It utterly ruined his dress, a pretty black
slip-dress with a jewel neck I remember, luckily not his best
brocade, the one he'd wanted to wear because it's his prettiest. 
He cried a little when I gave him another douche to clean him out
-- it hurt him.  You know why?  Loretta, in all the excitement of
getting him ready I'd completely forgotten that Jim's ass was
virginal.  Never so much as a dildo in it previously!  That date of
his had ruptured whatever it is that passes for a hymen in a man,
there were even traces of blood.  Well, I kissed my poor Jim and
assured him it was going to be beautiful for him next time, and
then I slipped in a tampon and showed him how to change it, and he
was fine.  

Then when I looked the dress over, I saw there was cum all over the
front of it too.  Jim told me that when he felt cum spurting into
his bowels he'd gotten so excited he'd just let loose and cum too,
he couldn't help it.  Wasn't that lovely?  A wet orgasm, his first
as a girl, the very first time he gets fucked!  They dated for
quite a while after that, those two, I remember.  Jim kept his rear
sweet and neat, and carried tampons to protect his dresses after
making love.  I'll bet he's a lot more satisfactory in his
lovemaking as a woman than he ever was as a man.  And a lot better
satisfied himself, too, though I've never bothered to ask.

Anyhow, nowadays Jim takes care of his own social life without any
help at all from me, the dear.  He takes his own phone calls from
men who think he's attractive, and he flirts with them if he likes
them, and sometimes he stays out all night.  I never ask why or
where, as long as he looks happy.  He's his own woman.  These days
there's a man who's trying to teach him to play golf.  Jim tells me
he pretends he can't swing a club, and then he swings his tush back
and forth in the man's face -- between the hormones and his diet
it's really rounded out, that tush, really cute -- until the man
can't wait to get off the golf course and bury himself in it.  And
that's the way the golf lessons always end up.  He can be such a
slut, sometimes, my Jim!  

There's no question my life is easier now that he's a woman,
Loretta.  I don't know why I didn't think of it years ago.  Maybe
the same reason I never paid any attention to all the hunky guys
who were always hitting on me at work.  They were all trying to
tell me something about what married life could be like, but I
wasn't listening.  They were telling me that Jim might be a sweet
dear, and mean well, and that I didn't ever need to regret marrying
him, and so on, but that all that was no reason for me to deny
myself.  Jim was always salt of the earth, you know?  Solid,
dependable, predictable, you know?  But when he was still a man,
boring?  Don't even ask!

Loretta, after five years of yawning through my marriage I had to
do something!  It got pretty obvious even to me.  The Jim I'd met
and married wasn't at all what he'd turned out to be.  He loved me,
I never doubted it, I'm sure he still does, somewhere down under. 
When we were just friends, and then when we were living together he
was so considerate, such a perfect gentleman.  He'd follow up every
hint or suggestion I ever made, what little gifts I might like,
where we should eat out, what shows we should see, where we could
enjoy a little weekend getaway, even how I'd like him to fuck me. 
It was exciting to meet a man who cared about my least whim.

But after we got married and moved down here and Jim got his job
with that bank, it was different.  It turned out he'd gone along
with all of my desires because he had practically none of his own. 
And once we were married, he figured that was that, and stopped
paying attention to my needs altogether.  Lots of men are like
that.  From day one he'd come home from work and read his paper,
and if he had anything to say at all it was about business.  Not
office gossip, not dishy stuff, who's in, who's out, who's into
who's pants, you know.  Business talk.  Exchange rates. 
Collateral.  Takeover bids.  Marry a banker and that's who you end
up married to, Loretta, a banker.  And at night in the dark he
doesn't stop being a banker, either, if you know what I mean.  

You remember after I miscarried, and we had all those tests?  Well,
it came clear that we'd never have kids to help break the monotony. 
That's when a lot of other things came clear to me too.  He'd
petered out in bed practically on our honeymoon.  His prick wasn't
ever much, and he seemed to think then that oral sex is unsanitary. 
I suppose it is, in some ways, but so what?  Anyhow, for a long
while the only suspense when we were having sex was, would he
somehow manage to cum, and if he did, would he somehow knock me up? 
That's what kept me awake until he'd finished dipping his dick in
and out of me and then rolled off me and started snoring.  And that
was only maybe once a month on average!

Well, you play the cards you're dealt.  You remember a few years
ago I may have told you that they'd made me a floor manager at
Sportsman's Paradise?  You meet a lot of sporting types there, and
they're not exactly bankers.  Summers they like to hit and run, and
in winter they glide and slide, in and out of trouble.  You know
what I mean.  I began to think about sampling one or two.  Well,
one afternoon this really gorgeous guy walked in and made his moves
on me, and this time I couldn't think of a single reason why not. 
A half hour later I was down the road in his motel room, and down
on him, and then in his bed, and he's down on me, and then he's
into me!  

Oh, glory!  Considerate?  Gentle?  Rough?  Everything, you name it! 
He kissed me on my neck where I never could resist anyone, even you
Loretta, you remember when we went together for a while, when we
were still in college, before you met Helen and left me for her? 
And then he licked his way down my belly and into my pussy, up and
down, up and back, in long, easy strokes!  Oooooh my!  And you'll
never guess what came next!  His lips closed on my clit and he
began giving me a blow-job!  Can you imagine, Loretta?  Sucking on
the dear little thing as if it were the world's greatest cock --
and he's got a world class cock himself, I found that out soon
enough.  I bet Jim doesn't know even now that I have a clit.  I
don't think he'll know it when I finally get him one!  But this
man, sucking and licking, as if it were a real penis, or maybe a
third nipple down there giving him sweet milk!  I can feel his lips
on me even now. Ooooh, I'm shuddering!

Well, I went wild, I couldn't stand it, it felt so wonderful, and
I was shouting at him to fuck me, fuck me, push that glorious thing
into me, now, now, and I was *crying* can you imagine, Loretta,
*begging* him, me begging a man for anything?  I felt so utterly
marvelously out of this world!  So he came up and eased himself
into me, and then he built up the pace until he'd gone berserk and
I'd gone just plain crazy!  By then he was a pile driver, with his
huge arms and thighs, and that thick cock, and I was flying and
twisting and tailspinning and screaming while he was slamming my
ass into the mattress.  Then my whole body started clenching and
unclenching!  Orgasm after orgasm!  O God, they went on and on and
on!  Never anything like that ever!  Then when finally he cums it's
a river!  

I thought he was done, Loretta, and I kissed the tip of his thing
in gratitude, and I pushed a hankie into my panties to blot up some
of the leaking and I got ready to go back to work.  But Loretta, it
wasn't over!  Twice more that afternoon!  Not even in college when
I took on that whole pledge class have I ever been so thoroughly
fucked!  I began to remember again what it was like!

Well, after that how could I not spent more afternoons with other
guys?  A few weeks later I went half-time at the store and
half-time at the motel.  A few weeks after that, to make up for the
lost income I began to charge some of the men I took up with, those
who didn't especially appeal, you know?  Not much, but soon I was
making more money in one afternoon than they paid Jim for all week. 
It was easy work, too -- blow them or fuck them or sit on their
faces, whatever they wanted, and some of them had some pretty
curious kinks.  I'd think of variations, and then they really began
to come back for more!  I had more orgasms each day than in my
entire married life, and not one of them faked!  

Well, my client list grew and I grew selective.  Kept only guys I'd
have fucked for free, though they never knew that!  I raised my
rates and rented a discreet apartment suite with separate entrances
and exits, I call it Hospitality House, and hired a 
receptionist to answer the door and look after my billings 
and debits and things, and I got cards printed up, and I 
got a cellular phone number and a beeper.  And there I
was, a professional!  I opened a bank account in my maiden name, at
Jim's bank, no less.  Loretta, it began to fill up with obscene
amounts of money.  I bought all kinds of sex toys and fetish gear,
and I got to be very good at encouraging shy clients to confess
their darkest desires to me, and then guessing at others they
didn't dare mention, and then satisfying all of them.  Well, the 
word got around, and pretty soon I was booked for weeks and months
ahead, and accepting only clients who were recommended by other
really wealthy clients.  

I quit the Sportsman's Paradise altogether, and raised my rates
again, and began scheduling morning and some evening appointments,
and I even started booking weekends for special parties.  Jim
figured that was the way things were in the sporting goods business
and never thought to question any of it.  He read his paper and
watched television, and fell asleep after dinner on days when I
told him I was going out on call and on other days when I just went
without saying a word.  I don't know why we stayed married.  He
wasn't a friend, or companionable, or helpful around the house, and
I had my own considerably larger income, and I certainly didn't
need him for sex!  Just habit, I suppose.  I can't say I felt
married.  I doubt he knew what he felt.

What kept us together?  Loretta, you won't believe this!  One
afternoon I was on the bidet cleaning a previous client out of my
pussy and perfuming it for my next, when the receptionist poked her
head in and told me we have a walk-in.  She didn't know him, should
she send him away, and she showed me the card he'd had in his hand. 
It was Jim!  My Jim!  

The card was signed by one of my best clients, Brian, a
vice-president at Jim's bank, his immediate boss in fact.  Brian
was a regular who liked being blindfolded and whipped, because it
made him horny as a goat!  His wife never had a clue about that! 
I met the two of them once during a theater intermission.  He
introduced me to her as if I were a major depositor in his bank,
which I was getting to be, and she looked at me as if she already
knew that he was a major depositor in my pussy, though she couldn't
decide what to do about it.  If she'd asked me, I'd have told her
to get a whip.  Anyhow, Brian and Jim somehow had got to talking
about how wives are usually offended by kinky desires but
professionals are happy to satisfy them, because they make for
happy clients and return visits.  Jim must have said something
more, because here he was, carrying his boss's seal of approval.

My receptionist said that this new client was so embarrassed he
didn't dare look up at her.  He was waiting in the parlor.  Well,
that's where I keep a half-a-dozen videotapes going, gay, lesbian,
straight, b&d, something for everyone.  And on the tables are
stacks of magazines from "Hustler" through "Stud Muscles," even the
"Marquis De Sade Quarterly Review."  A client's tastes are pretty
obvious when you see what video he looks at, and what magazines,
given lots of choice.  I peered into the room and there's Jim all
right, looking at a video, a leather scene, a tall woman standing
astride a naked man, who's kneeling between her legs and looking up
and licking her cunt.  And meanwhile a lingerie catalog open on his
lap!  My Jim?  My no-cum no-go husband  a secret submissive, maybe
also a panty fetishist?  I should have guessed!  But how to keep
him from recognizing me while I find out exactly what he wants?   


It happens that I was still made up for my previous client, wearing
black eyes and a scarlet mouth, my hair pulled back severely, and
laced into a tight leather bustier and jack boots.  I could make
him grovel while I'm dressed like this, I thought, and he'd never
dare look up.  But did I need to?  I wear my hair loose and full
and soft at home, and almost no make-up, so even if he saw me he
might never put two and two together.  

That turned out to be true enough.  But for this first time I took
no chances.  I picked up the very pantyhose I'd worn that morning
to work -- I'd felt especially horny anticipating my first fuck of
the day, and the crotch had gotten soaked.  Then I summoned Jim
into one of my chambers in a stern voice, and ordered him to face
the window.  He came in quivering, and collapsed onto his knees
without even being asked!  What a specimen of a man!  I blindfolded
him with my pantyhose, and that smeared my cunt juices all over his
nose and eyelids, and he got harder than I've ever seen him at
home!

Add in the smell of my perfume and the feel of my leather boobs
brushing on his back, and my dear hubby was near fainting with
excitement.  It was his first visit to someone who really knows
what she's doing, I was sure of it!  I stroked his stiff little
dick through his pants to relax him, and I asked how I could help
him.  Surprise surprise!  Panties!  He wanted to wear women's
panties!  Soiled women's panties!  The prettier the better!  And he
wanted to be ordered to wear them!  And that was all he wanted!  To
feel himself humiliated by a little forced femininity!  My modest
little pervert!  He almost didn't blurt it out, he felt so ashamed!

Can you imagine?  My Jim has this one kinky desire, the only one of
his whole life, and when he finally gets up the nerve to gratify
it, who does he ask to do it for him?  For money?  His own wife! 
That's Jim! 

Well, of course he got exactly what he wanted, and then some.  When
he left me that day he was wearing a pair of black lace tap pants
I'd pissed up earlier for a client who was into golden showers. 
And he'd masturbated into them for me, and I'd told him to wear
them sopping and sticky back to his office.  He actually did squeak
some cum into them, more than he usually managed to put into me! 
And when he left I'd put him into a matching black lace bra, too,
for discipline's sake, and also because there was an interesting
scenario forming in my head!

I knew almost at once what I wanted to do with him.  I'd already
dealt with a few pantywaisted husbands eager to "explore their
femininity" as they said, to spend their salaries getting
high-priced whores to make them wear dresses.  One in fact had been
sent to me by a bored wife who wanted him turned into a
streetwalker so he'd have something income-producing to do evenings
when she was out with her various boy friends -- he lacked even
that much talent, it turned out, so she had to settle for him
ending up a hustler in a gay bar.  Anyhow, I knew exactly where I
wanted to bring Jim, and how to do it.  I admit it, Loretta, I was
feeling gleefully spiteful about my blighted expectations for a
happy married life, the years of futility he'd inflicted on me. 
But I also felt some pity for him.  He didn't know any better, and
his needs were so puny.  Such a useless man!  Such a second rate
husband!  Well, Loretta, I decided my second rate husband might
make me a first rate wife!  Someone I could enjoy living with.  I'd
improve him!  Why not?  I had no use for him at all the way he was! 

I told him in a steely voice that he should wear his bra and
panties all the rest of that day, and from now on.  His wife needed
to know it, so tonight he should ask her permission to sleep in
them, and he should tell her he wanted to wear them all the
following day.  Then he had to tell her the next evening that he
wanted to rinse them out and wear them again.  "You can tell her
your Mistress insists, and see if that gets her cooperation," I
told him.  "Or you can tell her you've always yearned to look
pretty, that you feel more complete wearing them, that you want to
wear only bras and panties from now on.  Tell her whatever you
like.  But do it!"  Then he should return and tell me what
happened. 

He did it.  It was so funny, that evening at dinner, watching him
twist his shoulders to free up a binding bra strap he didn't dare
reach for while I was looking.  I accidentally on purpose spilled
wine on his pants and then insisted that he strip them off at once
so I could blot them before the stain set in.  He did the weirdest
contortions to keep his shirt tail below the black lace fringes of
his tap pants, and when he danced upstairs to get some fresh slacks
he was clutching his behind.  But I could tell that the risk of
exposure excited him -- he was happy.  His little dick stayed stiff
the whole time!  What a sweetie!

When we were undressing and getting ready for bed, I could see that
he was beginning to tremble again.  He just couldn't get the words
out, yet he had to ask my permission to sleep in his undies.  So he
solved the problem by pretending there wasn't any.  He removed his
pants, then his shirt, and then he took off his shoes and socks,
and then he just sat there with his black bra and sexy panties in
full view.

I'd decided that because his Mistress was strident and demanding,
I would keep my own voice relaxed and gentle.  I also knew he was
terrified.  I didn't want to spook him, and that gave me my
strategy for his whole transformation into a woman.  No matter how
idiotic I might seem, I would regard each step as a dull
commonplace, no big deal, hardly worth noticing.  So in the most
casual voice imaginable, I said "They're rather becoming, those
panties.  Vanity Fair, aren't they?  I usually buy Olga.  Do you
get many washes out of them?"  My attention the whole time
concentrated on a chip in my fingernail polish.

"Not yet," he croaked out.  "I like to wear them.  They make me
feel complete.  Do you mind?"

"Why should I mind?"  My tone of voice told him that even the
question was of little interest to me.  "It's a good brand, well
made, and they're pretty. It's nice to look pretty. But the bra
isn't quite right.  Do you plan to grow breasts or to just let it
slide around on your chest like that?"

"I don't know," he replied.  Well, that sounded promising!  Then he
remembered his specific mission.  "Do you mind if I sleep in these
tonight?"

"Suit yourself," I replied.  "I wear my bras and panties to bed
sometimes during my period, when I'm a little swollen and leaky. 
Are you expecting a period?"

"No," he replied. "I don't think so."  He was more bewildered by my
question than by my indifference to the bizarre spectacle he
presented, a husband in ladies' lingerie.  I must have sounded
surreal to him, a little lunatic.  Or maybe sarcastic, as if I
didn't care about him.  I didn't want that.  I didn't want him
feeling guilty and defensive.  Not yet.

So I added, "Well, honey, if you'd like to pretend it's your
period, you'd better borrow one of my tampons for tonight, you know
where they are.  Slip one into you before you get into bed.  Better
be safe than sorry.  But buy your own for after tonight, enough for
four more days.  At least buy yourself some sanitary napkins.  It's
so thoughtful that you want to know what it feels like.  And oh,
yes, we're almost out of toothpaste.  Try to pick up a tube too, on
your way home."  

And I put out my bedside light and turned onto my side to sleep. 
I knew he wouldn't dare ask for clarification, and I soon heard him
struggling in the bathroom, trying to push a tampon into his rump. 
Then I saw him waddling back to bed.  It was so funny!

The next day he wore his bra and panties to his office with no
comment from me.  The next evening he couldn't decide how to ask me
for permission to rinse them out, as his Mistress had ordered him. 
Several times he started to say something, then stopped.

I decided to help him.  "What a bother it is, doing undies by hand
every evening, instead of just throwing them in the clothes
washer."

"Yes!" he replied eagerly.  "I've had that very thought!"

"Would you mind rinsing out mine tonight with yours, Jim?  I'm
really tired.  I'm going to bed as soon as I do the dishes."

"Not at all!  Go right ahead.  I'll do the dishes tonight too,"
tumbled out of him.  But he knew he had to ask me, those were his
orders.  "You don't mind my rinsing out my underwear along with
yours?"  He waited.  Technically he'd fulfilled his obligation.

"Of course not," I replied.  "You've worn those undies for two days
now haven't you?"

"Yes" he said.  And he started upstairs to perform for the first
time the womanly task he'd be doing for the rest of his life,
rinsing out his undies.  And he didn't know it yet, but I never
touched another dish from then on either.

"Oh, by the way," I said as he was half-way up the stairs, not
troubling to look up from my magazine.  "With that kind of
underwear you really should get rid of your body hair.  Shave it
off tonight, and use some 'Nair' on the stubble.  Instructions are
on the box."

Nothing more from me, so he continued on his way.  When I went up
myself and started preparing for bed, Jim was already under the
covers, reading.  He was in regular pajamas, and he looked up at me
puzzled, still working through why I thought his shameful
transvestism was too routine to notice.  Was it? 

"Men don't wear panties, do they?" he asked.

"You tell me," I said laconically, giving my hair its twenty-five
strokes with the hair brush, as if that were far more important
than his question.

He had to test again.  "And bras?"

"Apparently.  Why not?  Most men love women's breasts."  I looked
at him.  "If your skin feels smooth now, you'll find a nightgown
nicer to sleep in than those pajamas.  Here!"  I took one out of my
lingerie drawer and tossed it at him.  "This is yours now, but get
yourself your own so you won't always be borrowing mine.  More bras
and panties too, if you mean to wear them regularly, enough so you
can change every day.  Did you remember to lock the rear door?"

I pretended not to see him slip the first nightie of the rest of
his life over his head.  It was a salmon-colored baby doll, with
ruffles on the short hem.  He looked so precious, sweet and silly,
all at once!   That my husband now wore lingerie as a matter of
course seemed of so little interest to me that he let the subject
drop.  The next morning he made no effort to hide from me the fact
that he was putting on his now-hand-washed bra and panties again,
though he seemed a little self-conscious about it.

"Remember to pick up the cleaning on your way home," I said. "You
need help with that?"  I stepped behind him and did up his bra's
three hooks.  "I should think that by now you'd have learned to
hook bras in front first and then turn them, if you can't reach
around behind you.  You aren't exactly a young girl with her first
training bra, you know!"  He was speechless.  I decided that if he
ever slid back into male underwear I would make a show of anger
that he couldn't seem to make up his mind about anything, and he'd
shift back again.  Phase one completed.

                             ii.



He showed up at Hospitality House ahead of schedule, and I began
his training at once.  My receptionist had him wait for me wearing
only his lingerie, on his knees, and warned him that in my presence
he must always remain on his knees and look at my feet, never under
any circumstances higher than my crotch.  When I arrived my hair
was tight back and I had a cat mask on just in case, though I
needn't have bothered -- his eyes stayed draped under his lids the
whole time.  I gave him the middle finger of my left hand to kiss,
then to lick, and finally I began to pump it into his mouth while
he sucked on it, and then I added my forefinger for thickness.  His
first dildo.  He slid his lips up and down on it devotedly after a
bit.  He wasn't very good at it, Loretta, but you'll have to admit
it was a beginning.  It's hard to criticize.  I had lots of high
school boys' pricks to practice on, and you've had your experiences
too, I'm sure.  And he's certainly come a long way since then.

I asked him in my strictest voice if he had obeyed my every order,
and asked his wife for permission to sleep in his bra, and so
forth.  The words tumbled quavering out of him.  He told all, even
about her suggestion that he borrow and wear a tampon, and that he
remove his body hair, and about the nightgown.  Then he paused. 
His wife's indifference to his perverse vice baffled him.  He said
so. 

I replied contemptuously, "Do you actually believe you're the first
man in the world ever to wear women's underwear?"

"No, ma'am!"  

"Or the ten thousandth?"

"No, ma'am."

"Obviously she knows more than you do about these things. Do what
she says!  Buy yourself a few nighties and undies.  From now on
when I come in I want to see you kneeling here wearing your own
bras and panties.  Go to a department store and be sure to ask the
sales girl for help.  Tell her they're for you. Tell her proudly. 
If your wife wants you to dress in panties daily, try to be worthy
of the honor."

I then got to a key point he'd overlooked.  "What else did she ask
you?" 

I waited.  And waited.  Jim hesitated, unable to speak. He tried
twice, but only when he saw my toe begin to tap impatiently did he
say it.

Eyes down and muttering, he said, "She asked me if I intend to grow
breasts, so my bras won't slide around." 

"And do you think it's proper for your bras to slide around?"

"No," he said.  He saw where I was headed, and couldn't find a way
to deflect the next question.

"Then you want to grow breasts?"

"I suppose," he said without conviction.

"Then if she'll let you, you should!  Ask her to acquire the
hormones you'll need, and begin immediately!"

I then gave him a freshly soiled pair of panties and a new push-up
bra to wear, and handed him his old ones in a pink quilted lingerie
bag to carry back to his office and leave visible on his desk for
the rest of the day.  We set up a schedule, three visits a week. 
I told him he would pay me $500 for each visit, $1,500 weekly due
the first session of each week, in cash, to prove to me that he
appreciated my services.  If I could keep him hooked, I figured, he
would exhaust our savings and investments within a month or two,
then begin to beg, borrow, or steal my fees, and I'd have him.  He
looked a bit stunned when he heard how much I charge, but he was
already pulling away on his little penis, and so near cumming into
his soiled panties that he just nodded.  A few squirts finally
came, and he stared at them.  What were these moments of
masturbation going to cost him?  Everything!  "Good!" was all I
said.

As he left I told my receptionist to give his hair a quick spray of
her perfume, a strong, musky, romantic fragrance called
"Surrender!"  He'd smell of it all afternoon at work.  He blushed
but said nothing.  I suppose he hoped people would think it was a
man's aroma, a hair tonic, or aftershave.  But not "Surrender!" 
Others at the bank would certainly begin looking at him peculiarly. 
The women would notice first, of course.  But women often feel
kindly toward transvestites and transsexuals and effeminate gays,
people whose desires for themselves seem to flatter what women are
normally.  Men might not notice him unless I sent him to work
dressed like a go-go dancer.  As I just might, I thought -- it was
a matter of timing.  I did want to be ready for a showdown by the
time Jim's tits ripened.

After dinner that night I sniffed the air in our living room, then
looked at Jim.  He hid behind his paper.  Things were moving a
little fast for him, obviously.

"It's very nice, but don't you think that scent is a little heavy
for work?" I asked him.  "It's more for formal dances, evening
gowns, things like that."  I stood up, picked up my purse and
checked its contents, and took my topcoat out of the closet.  "For
daytime find something lighter, more flowery, or more casual or
sporty.  Stop in at the perfume bar at Everson's tomorrow on your
way to the bank, and ask the girl there to try a few samples on
your wrist and neck.  Tell her you want something romantic, but
more delicate.   And while you're at it, do buy those nightgowns
and undies." 

Then I clicked my purse shut.  I had a brief evening appointment
with a Japanese client who came to town now and then, a man who
would enter my ass in a nervous tremor and then vibrate his cock in
and out like a rabbit doing a fast fuck.  A remarkable man -- he
could cum inside me two or three times in quick succession without
my even noticing, and without even pausing.  I scarcely ever saw
him face to face.  Fortunately he had a small cock and he didn't
visit me too often, or I'd have had to charge extra for the down
time while my rear end recovered.  Or charge his firm, anyhow.  But
really, he was no trouble to accommodate.  "I need to go out," I
told Jim.  "Be back in an hour or two."  

"All right," he replied. Then he remembered, and as casually as
possible he said, "Oh, while you're out would you pick up whatever
I'll need to start growing breasts?"  He hid again behind his
newspaper.

"All right," I said.  "I'll try to remember." I already had the
necessary prescriptions, provided by a Doctor client of mine.  "You
do know that with hormones instead of implants you'll have to be
patient.  It'll be six months before you begin to look respectable. 
But if that's what you want.  Anything else?"

"No," came a small voice.  

"Remember to load the dishwasher and to rinse out our undies again
before  you get to bed."  Those were now his jobs, whether he knew
it yet or not.  The first of many, as far as household matters
went.

And I was gone.  I came back three quick assfucks later carrying
his six-month's supply of estrogen, progestin, and androcur.  And
as an afterthought, Prozac to keep him mellowed out.  I told him to
take one of each kind each day the moment he woke up, and I left
them on the night stand near our bed so I could see that he did. 
I knew that his hormones would soon end even those pitiful
erections and ejaculations he managed to coax out of himself at
each of our sessions, that soon his orgasms if he ever had any would 
resemble a woman's delicious tensions and relaxations.  All to 
the good.  The mood pills would help keep him from worrying about 
what was happening, where I was leading him, until he'd arrived there.

Not too bad, my progress so far.  

The next evening I came home feeling irritable after an altogether
unsatisfactory group session.  Five men from a single men's club,
Rotary or Kiwanis, I forget which, who'd signed up for severe
discipline.  They'd been slow to follow my orders, so I'd set them
circle-fucking each other in a daisy chain, then I'd told them I
was through, no more, they could go fuck themselves now that they
knew how.  Then they offered me double my fee to keep them on,
pleading, and I was still annoyed with myself that I'd finally
relented.  But I was cheered when I saw Jim fondling a couple of
nighties and a half-dozen new panties and bras while he cut off
their price tags.  

"Do they fit?"  I asked.

"Yes, they're fine, thank you," he replied calmly.  The Prozac at
work!  "The salesgirl insisted I try on each one and come out and
show her, because they don't permit returns of lingerie, she said,
once it's left the store. It was humiliating, all those women
shoppers gathering to see.  They looked amused.  I was glad I had
no body hair, or I'd have felt really ashamed.  When I came out
wearing this beige set they actually applauded."  

"I can see why," I said.  "It's very pretty.  It's hardly
humiliating, wanting to wear pretty things.  A nice choice."

I noticed that the house still reeked of perfume.  He'd overdone
splashing it on himself, probably, but I said nothing.  I had to
smile that now his "after shave" or whatever he imagined people
thought he was wearing was as unmistakeably dainty and feminine as
lipstick.  My hubby in lingerie, wearing a woman's fragrance!  What
next?

Obviously, lipstick was next.  And eye make-up.  A week later he
was jerking off into some really filthy panties, brown-stained cum
from someone's asshole, not mine, when his Mistress stroked some
light cosmetics on him.  Not much, just a touch of mascara and a
little eye-liner, some shadow on his lids, and a mauve lipstick. 
I told him his face needed more drama, a more lively expression.

Of course he'd forgotten it was there by the time he returned to
the bank.  He was still wearing it, I saw, when he arrived home
that evening and opened his Wall Street Journal to wait for dinner. 
That created a problem.  Should I tell him?  If so, how?  Should I
ignore it?  If so, what would he think when he was getting ready
for bed and stared into the bathroom mirror, and saw those stark
eyes and that fashionably dark brown mouth?  What had people
thought at the bank, those who had seen him?  Add in his perfume
and they'd be sure that he was a transsexual or faggot coming out
of the closet.  Not untrue. 

I decided as usual to say nothing, in order to build his confidence
that his increasingly feminine appearance was neither feminine nor
noticeable.  I commented only that he looked especially bright-eyed
and alert, and asked if he been working out, or had gotten a raise
at the bank, or what?  He was bewildered but pleased.  He knew what
had really impressed me, and now he felt encouraged to keep it up
on his own.  

As he did.  The following day was especially busy for me if boring,
just straight fucks one after another.  I arrived home tired --
after all, Loretta, how many times a day can a woman ride how many
cocks to orgasm?  Or douche and then get filled up yet again with
more cum?  But there was Jim, wearing fresh make-up!  

Wonderful!  He'd actually bought it on his own, actually found the
courage!  And put it on, presentably enough.  And worn it all day
at the bank, so far as I knew in a sort of reversal of "The
Emperor's New Clothes," thinking that it made him look better and
yet remained invisible!  I commented again on how alert he looked
these days, and again he looked pleased.  And this time he
re-applied it before coming to bed.  Does he do that at work, I
wondered?  Take out a compact and mascara and a tube of lipstick
and freshen his face at his desk?

The next weeks were routine.  Jim knelt naked except for his
undies three times each week, smelling wonderfully feminine and
looking prettily made up, trembling, sucking on my fingers and then
receiving from my hand another pair of panties streaked with
who-knows-what, the sacrament of his devotion.  He'd kiss them and
slip them on, then stroke cum into them if he could, attach a new
brassiere around nipples he said had become quite sensitive, and
after re-applying his make-up he'd leave with his old undies in a
"Victoria's Secret" or "Frederick's of Hollywood" bag, once in a
"Lady Madonna" bag my receptionist provided for the secretaries at
his bank to marvel at.  

A few months more and he was mine.   If he hesitated to do my most
trivial bidding I spoke to him harshly, and he was crushed.  When
I praised him, it was always for some utterly feminine trait or
gesture.  He blossomed and beamed whenever this happened, and tried
even harder to please me.  His breasts were budding, and I gave him
strict orders to play with his nipples for at least fifteen minutes
every day.  This gave him so much pleasure, I saw at home, that
sometimes he caressed himself unthinkingly -- if we were at a
restaurant or otherwise in public I had to caution him not to. 
Gradually I weaned him away from soiled to fresh panties -- though
I still had him cum each session into a sanitary napkin and then
wear it for the rest of the day.  He produced very little fluid,
unless I said something to excite him, like praise for the way he'd
plucked his eyebrows, or comment on his two-toned lipstick and
lipliner.  At home even the thought of sex ceased.  

His accumulating bras and panties finally overwhelmed his bedroom
bureau.  I remarked one day that since he seemed to prefer them and
they looked so nice, he should pack away his men's things to make
more room for them.  He did.  The next day his Mistress scornfully
informed him that since he was a woman, not a man, he should wear
full lingerie all the time, not just bras and panties.  A woman
could not feel altogether neat and sweet and pretty and respectable
unless she was wearing hosiery, pantyhose, teddies, slips, and now
and then even a panty girdle.  That he should begin thinking about
shoes and outer garments too.  He was old enough to be wearing
heels, and to appear at least now and then in a dress!  At home Jim
asked me what I thought, and as always I answered without looking
up, as if the issue were trivial, "Of course wear slips -- your
dresses will hang better when you get around to wearing them.  I
don't know why you don't.  And there are tailored suits for women
as nice as those made for men.  Skirts are much more lady-like.  Of
course if you wear a skirt to work you'll have to style your hair
differently."   So it was two against one.  Jim began wearing full
regalia under his business suits, and began to think about wearing
a business suit with a skirt.  He played with his hair, trying to 
make it curve coyly over his ears.  My perfumed fairy princess was
developing nicely.  

On a warm spring day on a Friday, I remember, his Mistress forced
a crisis.  She sent him to a boutique to buy a rather cute cocktail
dress she'd seen, and a simple cotton frock to use as a house dress
as well as a smart-looking woman's pin-striped suit, with pinched
short jacket and straight skirt, for a day at the office.  From
then on he was her woman, she told him, and he would be dressed
appropriately whenever he appeared for his tri-weekly sessions. 
Later on he would need to take a few weeks off to learn how to do
it really right, and he would need to ask his wife's help.  But for
now all he had to do was appear to be a credible woman -- she would
not tolerate a clown for a client.

Jim was proud of his new purchases.  He kept them at Hospitality
House in a Client's Closet for a time, and changed into them
just before his sessions were scheduled, and then changed back. 
His Mistress sent him out onto the street now and then, so he could
get used to people seeing him in women's clothes.  With make-up and
earrings, no one ever looked twice at him.  

The Closet eventually filled to bursting, and under orders he
carried everything home.  That evening he put on a fashion show for
his wife.  I told him they were nice, but not being worn
tastefully.  That the cocktail dress and the suit needed heels, not
the one pair of flats he owned.  And -- as I again reminded him --
he needed a more sophisticated hairdo.  And where were his
accessories -- jewelry and purses and the like?  When he told me he
had none he was close to tears -- the hormones had made him much
more sensitive to supposed rebukes.  I told him I'd shop with him
to get him started, but that if he meant to appear in public
dressed like a woman all the time it would take a few weeks for him
to learn everything he needed to know.  Was he sure he wanted to
look like a woman instead of a man?  He nodded.  I knew that what
he really wanted was to please his Mistress, that he had private
reservations, but we were reaching a critical point in his
transformation now and it was no time to split hairs.  That Friday
was his last day in men's clothes, Loretta, and that Saturday was
the birth day of that gentle blonde lady you see sitting over there
reading and crocheting and smiling to herself now and then. 

A near knockout dose of Thorazine the next morning, and Jim put on
his house dress, and we went to a salon I sometimes use for certain
customers, where they do feminine make-overs on husbands if wives
request it, without feeling they have to ask if the man himself
wants it.  Four hours of electrolysis on his beard and chest (of
many more the rest of that week), and meanwhile eyebrow plucking,
body-waxing, ear-piercing, fingernail strengthening, lengthening,
and painting, hair-permanenting, curling, frosting, and styling, a
make-up consultation, and my Jim was way past the point of no
return.  As a man he'd been a pitiful drudge, but as a woman he was
getting to be really attractive.  You can see that for yourself
now, of course!  When we left he looked just charming, a lot like
the way he looks now, Loretta, though not quite as lovely -- that
came later, when he finally agreed to add to his disguise with
facial plastic surgery.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.  There
was just time enough before the Mall closed to get him a few pairs
of shoes too -- heels and more flats.  And a few blouses and
skirts.   

The next day he didn't recognize himself in the mirror and called
out to me rather frightened.  It took another really heavy dose of
tranquillizers to calm him down, and really, I have to say,
Loretta, he's been more or less cheered or zonked by one or
another kind ever since.  That Monday I had him phone in sick for
the week, and claim his two-weeks vacation time as well, so he had
three weeks before he'd have to face going to work looking the way
he now looked.  I shrugged when he worried the problem to me, as if
no one would bother to notice that the man they knew was now a
woman.  I knew, as he didn't yet know, that his days of employment
at the bank had ended.

I started him on the other things he had to learn.  How to apply
full, persuasive makeup, even for sophisticated occasions.  How to
take care of his hairdo.  Now that it was permed it was manageable
-- I showed him how to put it up in rollers one evening, and he was
delighted the next morning when he combed it out and found it was
a beautiful mass of sculpted puffs and swirls.  He had to learn
feminine habits of walking and moving.  I taught him to walk in
heels with short steps, elbows close to his body, head high, hips
swaying, his now quite noticeable breasts proudly thrust forward. 

I began calling him "Jamie" instead of "Jim," because that was a
woman's name and would help him remember -- and if he didn't
believe he was now a woman, who would?  I told him to appear more
feminine when doing his domestic tasks at home, to wear a frilly
apron over his skirt instead of the velvet slacks he sometimes
favored.  He was busier in the kitchen than I'd ever been, and was
doing all of the cooking now.  With practice his voice became
thinner and took on a wider range of inflections.  I still remember
the first time he used the words "sweet" and "darling" and
"precious" in a single sentence.  He was describing a cute-looking
movie star pictured in one of his women's magazines, and I was
amused that he was referring with those words not to her appearance
or her figure but to her matching skirt and sweater.  

Of course I still had a living to earn, and clients who needed my
attention, and Jim still had his tri-weekly appointments with his
Mistress.  But now I could greatly accellerate his feminizing -- in
fact it had to be completed, essentially, before he felt he should
return to work.   It turned out to be a lot easier than I'd
expected.

                                iii.


Luckily I'd overcome Jim's prejudice against oral sex a few weeks 
earlier, almost by accident.  For an appointment just before
Jim's, I was wearing a slip-on rubber love-doll mask, sitting
regally on an ornate, throne-like chair and allowing a client to
lick my feet as if I were some kind of goddess.  That was his
thing.  You know those masks with their own hair and big red oval
lips set in an "O," and huge bimbo eyes?  Gay men use them to hide
their identities when they're sucking some stranger's cock, and
wives in sex clubs use them sometimes when they'd rather not be
recognized by whichever next-door neighbor they're fucking.  My
earlier client couldn't get off at all unless I wore the kind of
blow-up doll mask his girl had once worn every afternoon while he
mouth-fucked her behind the high school gymnasium.  So that's what
I wore.  He'd worship my feet, then I'd lie back with my crotch
over the edge of the throne and imperiously crook my finger at him. 
He'd crawl forward and then, half-standing, half-crouching
apologetically, he'd fuck me.  What some men need to do to get off!

This client had the thickest cock I have ever seen, Loretta.  It
was like a baseball bat.  He always left my pussy swollen and
stretched wide, and his spunk was a thick, viscous fluid he'd pump
into me for what seemed forever.  It took forever to ooze out, too,
always in huge, phlegmy globs. Well, a few weeks before Jim's final
phase began, with his enforced vacation, I happened to feel too
sore and too lazy to bother using the bidet after my client left. 
I decided that it would be more comforting to have my cunt licked
clean by my next client, my queenly husband Jim, who had once
refused the honor as unsanitary.  In he came wearing a red satin
teddy, his breasts now grown out and filling his matching red bra
like half-grapefruits, perfumed and made up, looking more like a
butch lesbian than a man.  As always he kneeled at my feet!

My face was still masked like a love-doll, my swollen cunt was
beginning to leak blobs of thick sperm, and I knew it smelled
strong, freshly fucked.  I gave Jim my fingers to suck on as usual,
but this time I first dipped them into the slime inside my pussy. 
I scooped up a huge gobbet of cloudy cum.  Jim hesitated for only
a second, but then licked it as devotedly as always.  He must have
realized what it was and been turned on by the humiliation,
because after a few more fingers full, without my permission he
lunged his mouth onto my crotch like some starved animal, and began
to suck it out of me passionately.  The way he thrust his face into me
so was so primal I couldn't possibly think to punish him for it.  He
couldn't help himself, he was obviously out of control.  And besides,
it felt wonderful!

You know, Loretta, he slurped and sucked and swallowed cum from me
for nearly his whole scheduled session.  He was transported!  It
was as if the mask had rendered me more than human, an immortal fit
for worship.  He looked up at my face once or twice, and as the
cute, wide-eyed, Bimbo "Oh!" expression stared back, he seemed
reassured.  His tongue curled and curved and probed and poked and
reached deep into me!  My desires rose up and I came in a
beautifully blossoming orgasm, feeling as chaste as a wild flower
the whole time, and then I rose up and came yet again!  So sweetly
gentle, yet so full, so complete!  Jim's tongue in my pussy was 
like an armful of heather and roses, or like a young man 
shyly offering his best girl a bouquet of violets.  And I was always
sparkling clean when he finished.  I wished we'd gotten into it 
years before! 

Well, two days later I was again brim-filled with fluids and
secretions from that same fat-cocked client, with my fairy husband
again scheduled next on my calendar. I took off my mask so that
this time  I would appear to be what I was, Jim's familiar severe
Mistress with her usual black dominatrix eyes and red slash of a
mouth.  But this time when Jim came in and knelt down humbly I
simply stepped forward over him, mounted his upraised face, and
pressed my spunky cunt against his nose and mouth.  Then without a
word I began to squeeze my cunt muscles.  Thick mixed sperm and my
own cum poured from my pussy into his mouth.  All of everything my
prior had squirted into me ended up in Jim, and when I stepped from
his face with my cunt licked utterly pristine, he was still swallowing 
and licking the memory of it, eyes closed, in heaven!  I decided 
that whatever else, from then on I would use Jim instead of a bidet 
to clean out whatever secretions and fluids there were in my pussy. 
At last I'd found his primary sexual talent!  

By now Jim's breasts were more than ample, and he would fondle his
nipples by the hour if I'd let him, a serene smile on his face.  I
do believe his character changed to match -- he became more
sensitive, gentler, more tentative, sweeter.  His face and figure
grew softer, too.  Understand, Loretta, Jim didn't want to be a
woman at first, and he still didn't, really.  He'd only had a panty
fetish when I started with him, and I'd degraded him to do nearly
anything to please his Mistress.  Now here he was, wearing
pantyhose, make-up, everything, quite presentably feminine, sucking
a stranger's cum out of my cunt like any submissive husband of any
whore of a wife anywhere.  And loving it!  That was his sex life
now -- when he tried to jerk off nothing ever happened at all. 
When he pleased me, my little hubby, he was overjoyed that I
rewarded him by making him my douchebag. 

The next spunk he sucked so devotedly out of me was Brian's, his
own boss's, the very bank official who had first sent him here.  It
happened the first day after Jim's total makeover, when without
being fully aware of it Jim had committed to dressing and looking
like a woman for good, the first day after his three-week full-time
crash course in femininity had gotten under way.  I thought of
telling Jim this to mortify him, that he was sucking his boss's
cock at one remove, but I couldn't violate client confidentiality. 
Then I realized that with Brian's cooperation I could convert Jim
completely and irreversibly by the end of the three weeks
available.  So why shouldn't he suck his boss's cock directly, and
enjoy it?  Many women do.  No news there! 

I mentioned to Brian that I had this curious transsexual client,
a man he had recommended to me who now thought he was really a
woman and who thinks semen on a cock tastes like melted ice cream.
Brian immediately recognized that it was Jim, as I'd
intended, and immediately asked for an introduction to this "lady"
who felt so impelled to suck cock.  He'd wondered what was
happening with Jim because, as he said, Jim's perfume and make-up
had been duly noticed by everyone.  In fact he'd become something
of an embarrassment, fixing his face daily, arranging his hair like
a woman's even while he pretended to be a man, so he'd been
reassigned to a back office. 

I asked Brian straight out, would he let Jim suck his cock.  He was
amused by the idea.  He quipped that many employees seem willing in
order to secure  professional advancement, but even so, he'd have
trouble letting a man come near his prick.  He thought a bit
longer.  A man who looked and acted like a woman might be another
matter.  And a man who was already so much a woman he could never
again become a man, why, he'd enjoy being serviced by that kind of
woman.  Especially -- and he looked at me -- especially if there
were no charge for the service.  Was I sure that Jim's conversion
was now irreversible?  

I told him that in another week or two it would be, that with his
help there could be no going back for Jim ever.  What he had to do
was quite simple -- audit Jim's books at the bank.  But in absolute
secrecy, and to do absolutely nothing about whatever he found.  

Brian looked quite serious when I said this, and was about to
refuse.  But I added quickly that any irregularities in Jim's
accounts would be set straight together with whatever interest was
required to convert missing funds into "loans."   That I personally
guaranteed whatever the sums, as long as they remained
confidential.  That no one need ever know about them, nor about the
slack supervisorial hand that had allowed them even when the
employee began acting peculiarly unconventional.  That not even
Brian's wife needed to know that he had been tipped off to the
embezzlement, if any, by a woman who regularly gratifies his need
to be whipped.  I now looked back at Brian equally seriously.  

He grinned, and explained that when money has been mismanaged or
embezzled, most businesses prefer getting it all back quietly to
pressing charges against the embezzler and perhaps thereby giving
other employees ideas of their own, and meanwhile needlessly
distressing stockholders.  Of course the malefactor had to
disappear and never reappear again, or Brian would be obliged to
order his arrest.  I nodded and agreed.  Jim would disappear.

I then told Bryan that just as banks give depositors gifts of
radios or toasters, he would receive a bonus -- no charge for his
first few deposits into Jim's mouth, and afterward the two of them
would be free to make their own arrangements.  Brian might never
have to pay for oral sex again.  Brian smiled. "I wonder why you're
so generous," he commented.  Brian was no fool.

The next day, while Jim was slurping away at my pussy and drinking
up who knows who's cum, and while I was moaning, my mind delightedly
dancing through fields of fragrant flowers, I told Jim I had a 
arranged a special surprise for his next appointment.  I told him 
it would change his life.  I told him to try to look as beautiful 
as he could when he appeared, as feminine as possible.  I told him 
to ask his wife to help him look seductive.

That night he laid on the bed a choice, a beautiful, black
sequinned, figure-clinging cocktail dress, very classy, and a
really racy, silver-threaded, mini-slut dress.  Then he tried to
find the courage to broach the subject with me.  I knew he'd be
nervous, so I laced his pre-dinner cocktail with fresh
tranquillizers instead of relying as usual on whatever effects were
left from his usual morning pills.

"I'd like to look especially nice, tomorrow after lunch," he said. 
"I need to wear something appropriate.  Would you help me choose?"

I was a teeny bit cruel.  "Nice how, sweetheart?"

"Seductive," he said, and swallowed hard.

"All right," I said.  "Then slather on the eye make-up.  But
'appropriate?  For what?  A wedding?  Yours?  Who's the groom?" 

I said this unhelpfully while nibbling on the shrimp souffle Jim
had made as an appetizer.  He was spending more and more time in the
kitchen during the week doing fancy things, maybe because he felt
guilty that he was deceiving his wife with a paid mistress, maybe
because the hormones and the clothing and the role-playing had
turned his mind to doing traditional women's work.  When he'd
confessed that much to his Mistress one afternoon, I'd ordered him
to do something special for his wife each day, to show his
appreciation for her.  He'd started cooking exotic dishes for our
dinner each night.  That is, in addition to making the beds,
vacuuming and dusting, tending to our laundry, clearing up after
dinner, and rinsing out our delicate undies. 

He needed encouragement, not teasing, so I got serious.  "I've been
wondering when you would want me to see more of your dresses," I
commented.  "High time, too.  There's no reason for you to feel
restricted in the way you present yourself here in the house or
outside either, just because you used to be a man.  I love wearing
all kinds of dresses myself.  Let's see what you've chosen for this
special occasion."

Well, of course I urged him to wear the silver mini, which had a
teeny open jacket to match and a see-through blouse.  A girl
dressing up to suck her boss's cock should look like a tart, I
reasoned to myself, and I offered to lend him a ton or so of junk
jewelry to add to the effect.  "With a dress like this," I said,
"get yourself a special hairdo.  Piled way high, maybe with a
rhinestone hair piece on top."

The beauty salon operator went all out.  When Jim showed at Hospitality
House for his tryst with Brian his hair was piled high, his
nails were bright red, his new breasts were bulging in their scanty
lacy bra, deep cleavage fully visible through his see-through
blouse, his silver skirt scarcely covered his crotch, and he wore
long legged black net stockings.  I must say, Jim was a living
sex-pot sex-doll, all pretence of masculine appearance wiped away. 
I'd experimented with Lesbian sex in college, and the sight of him
reminded me of things I'd not myself done with a woman for a while.

He entered the room daintily on his five-inch strappy silver
slippers, and immediately saw a figure wearing my doll face sitting
on my throne at the other end of the room.  He approached and then
fell to his knees, eyes lowered.  But then came a moment's stunned
shock, when he saw a long, sheet-covered tent pole rising high out
of what he thought was my lap, and then heard my familar commanding
voice not in front of him but behind him.

"Now what does a pretty girl like you want to do when she sees a
handsome prick like that rising in front of her face?" 

I guess for all the feminizing and the humiliation and
scum-sucking, Jim had never expected to go this far!  Actually to
take another man's cock into his own mouth and suck in it.  Before,
whatever the humiliating act he had performed, it was in submission
to feminine power, deeply fulfilling to a submissive like Jim.  But
cock sucking was submission to masculine power.  It required that
all male competitiveness and jealousy in himself be suppressed, and
that he find within instead a truly feminine desire to please, to
make a man happy.  He looked around at me, imploring, seeking my
eyes for reassurance and guidance.  For the first time in all these
many months he looked closely at my face!  There was a sudden
narrowing of his pencilled-in brows!  Did I suddenly look familiar
to him?  "How dare you look at me!" I shouted, as if enraged.  "You
klnow what to do, slut!  Prove to me that you're a woman!"

Well, there was a call for submission to feminine power, mine!  His
habituation from all those sessions of sucking on my finger and
drinking cum from my cunt paid off.  Jim immediately turned back to
the task at hand, and performed it, and very well, too.  He peeled
back the sheet and engulfed Brian's long cock half way into his
mouth, and began to slide his lips up and down.  He still didn't
know how to deep throat then, Loretta, so when I saw that his mouth
could go no further I just placed those red tipped fingers of his
where they could stroke the lower part of his boss's cock while his
mouth honored the upper part.  His hand looked so tentative, so
feminine, so right, wrapped around another man's prick!  His
fingers looked even slenderer than mine, and his grip seemed so
loving!

Then his mouth and his hand each did their things.  I waited and
watched as Brian settled back and then began to thrust his hips and
then to hump Jim's mouth.  Finally what I could see of Brian's cock
lurched and spasmed, and pearly liquid began to seep out of the
corners of Jim's mouth.  He swallowed as rapidly as he could, and
licked the excess off his face and swallowed that.  I wondered if
the cum tasted familiar.  

I then said in a kindly way, "Do it again, princess!  This is a
man, and you're a woman!"  

Well, discipline tells!  I left the two of them in that room
together -- I had my other clients, after all --  but I paused at
the door to look back.   Jim leaned forward and began again,
tenderly kissing the tip of Brian's dong and licking the sides,
altogether on his own this time.  He looked so pretty kneeling
there in his silver mini outfit with his red lips wrapped around
Brian's cock, his very first cock, trying to bring cum up out of it
for the second time!  This time he wasn't merely surprised or
obedient, he really wanted it!  As Brian's meat began to firm up Jim
again plunged his rounded lips way down onto it, and again tried to
suck up whatever juices he could through it.  Gently and lovingly. 
Brian's second coming soon followed, and when the sticky harvest
rose up again into his mouth Jim this time was whimpering and
groaning in heat.  He loved it!  My husband was a natural!  As
devoted to sucking cock as to lapping cunt!  He'd never have known
it, but he surely knew it now!

Well, Loretta, Brian left soon afterward, with a grin and a wink,
mentioning that he'd phone for his next appointment in a few days'
time.  I went back into the room, where Jim was still on his knees
licking his lips.  Even as I watched, he straightened his silver
mini skirt and arranged it in a neat circle around him on the floor
and waited, as if the throne would shortly be re-occupied by
another upright stalk and he could again drink his fill.  It was
time for me to turn his world upside down.

I came up behind him and covered his eyes with one hand, mostly so
he wouldn't be tempted to turn his head, and pressed the palm of my
other hand against his jaw, pushing it down, opening his mouth
wide.  He recognized my intention and opened wider.  I had
consulted several of my medical clients about this moment, and a
senior psychiatrist at the State Hospital had provided me with
exactly the optimal drug I needed.  Two large pills.  I popped them
into Jim's mouth, and like a dutiful girl he swallowed them.  Then
I sat down on the throne, and kneeling, he stared at me.

He saw his wife sitting on the throne, Loretta.  I could see it in
his eyes even before he said, "You!" in dumbfounded disbelief.  His
wife was dressed just like his Mistress, her hair pulled back and
her eyes blackened and her lips crimsoned.  "Where is she?" he
added.  But as I'd been told, he had swallowed some very powerful
fast-acting psychoactive drugs, and almost immediately he began to
look confused.  Who was "she" -- the Mistress he'd served for now
six months or more?  His wife?  His own image in the mirror?  This moment
addled him utterly.  

"I'm here, Jim," I said in my familiar, wifely voice.  Then, "I'm
here, slut!  Do it again!"  This last I ordered ferociously, in my
most outraged Mistress voice.  I placed a huge dildo against my
crotch, its rubber balls loaded with gelatinized Gatorade, real cum
accumulated in the last day or two, and finally, a sedative.  "Suck
on this, slut!"

In flight from his increasing confusion and bewilderment, Jim
leaned forward and began to lick the head of the dildo as he had on
Brian's prick.  He then sucked on it, his lips riding up and then
down again.  That became his only reality as his eyes grew more
confused and groggy, then glazed.  Just before they closed, I
squeezed the dildo's balls repeatedly, and jets of warm artificial
cum squirted into his mouth.  He swallowed it all like the slut he
really was, and his head fell forward, and he fell asleep with his
cheek snugged up against my mound.  He looked so sweet, his hair
still almost perfect, his eyes closed but each still beautifully
made up, his lipstick smeared in a good cause.

I took him home and put him to bed and kept him in a kind of
twilight zone for nearly a month, Loretta.  The "Sleep Cure" is
what the French called it a hundred years ago, when they'd drug
mental patients for weeks on end to cure them of their delusions.
I was doing it to induce in Jim a delusion that would become his
reality, that he was a woman, that he had always been a woman, and
that he loved performing his chief obligation as a woman, looking
pretty and giving head to men.   

Two more of those special pills the moment he woke up.  Prozac in
between, double the dose more often than not.  When he opened his
eyes, sometimes he'd see a woman who looked like his wife looking
down on him lovingly, and sometimes -- after he'd recognized he was
home in his own bed -- he'd see his Mistress telling him "Suck!" 
Followed immediately by cocks, one after another, because he'd then
be back in a chamber in Hospitality House dressed like a cheap slut 
stationed at a waiting-room glory hole, taking on whatever cock came 
through it. Then dressed in his silver mini with his hair piled high, 
he'd spend hours making love to Brian's cock.  Or someone's cock,
someone wearing the Bimbo mask, someone whose cock was fatter than
Brian's though nowhere near as long, or was longer, until it no longer
mattered whose.  At home in his own bed, he sucked for hours on 
his wife's cock, while she wore the Bimbo mask, ordered and 
encouraged by his Mistress sitting in a chair and watching them. 

Hallucinated realities gradually gave way to realities that were
not much different.  My five Rotarians earned their way back into
my good graces by making their pricks available to Jim's mouth any
time on short notice, whenever I called their 800 number, and
during the next weeks they gathered to gang rape his face
repeatedly.  Brian's cock was of course available almost any time
for more servicing, now that he knew how talented a cock sucker Jim
was.  In my gratitude I whipped him far more severely than I ever
usually whip a client, then fucked him far more vigorously and
joyously.  He'd cum like a fountain into me, and when I brought it
home to Jim still warm and woke Jim up by sitting on his face, he'd
begin drinking and lapping as if he'd not stopped from the
previous time.   

During the next few weeks Jim learned to take any long, hard, warm,
soft object into his throat unquestioningly, and to tongue and head
fuck it until it spurted directly into his belly, if it could.  A
carrot, a banana, a frankfurter, a dildo, a real cock, they
were all the same.  Toward the end of this Twilight Training period
I'd lighten up on his drugs so he could at least walk and talk like
some zonked out little girl, dress him up like a pretty coed, and
rent his pretty mouth out to fraternity parties for the weekend. 
While in college I'd done it once on a dare and had OD'd on all the 
cum I swallowed the first night, so they had to put me out on the lawn
still retching until my date came to claim me.  Not Jim!  He had a
cast iron stomach it seemed.  He couldn't swallow enough of it! 
But boys that age are the same way they always were, Loretta.  You
remember.  You can't trust them.  Whatever they'd promised, no
matter how many times they'd use Jim's mouth, some of them were
always trying to get into Jim's pants too.  So I'd always have to
stay and watch, and warn them, and finally bring Jim home before
the weekend was over.

While Jim was still home sleeping, or learning womanly skills, or
wandering dazed from cock to cock, Brian's audit was completed.  As
I'd suspected, there was no way Jim had been paying for my services
out of pocket.  Our joint savings account had gone before Jim had
filled his bureau with bras and panties.  A month or so after his
first visit Jim had paid out to me our entire life savings -- many
thousands of dollars.  Then for additional month after month he'd
continued to hand my receptionist $1500 of the bank's money weekly,
sometimes borrowed on his signature with no hope he could ever pay
it back, sometimes just stolen.

I'd deposited the money in my own account and said nothing, of
course.  By the end of the time Jim spent as a slut
who woke in the morning, selected his outfit, painted his face,
fixed his hair, and then sucked cock all day, more than $55,000 had
changed hands.  He'd increased his capital debt to the accounts in
his charge by $1,500 each week in return for the privilege of
masturbating into a panty or kotex in my presence.  His wardrobe
costs rose many thousands more.  

Do you know, Loretta, that a few pieces of his lingerie cost him
more than all of mine cost me?  But of course when a satin and lace
nightie fascinated him, I never wanted him to deny himself.  That
dress he's wearing right now is an original Oscar de la Renta, did
you know that, Loretta?  He loves to dress well!  His boy friends
all know that no matter how posh the place they take him, Jim will
always fit in.  Some of his jewelry is rather valuable too, though
it's true, much of it was given to him by grateful admirers, and a
lot more he bought with the proceeds from his mouth and asshole.
 
Came the reckoning, I paid Brian's Bank back with substantial
interest, and there were no further questions.  For months
afterward Brian would call Jim for personal services, and Jim would
oblige Brian the way women will, but nothing serious ever developed
between them -- they remained just good friends.  Jim -- or Jamie
I should say -- has tried recently to get Brian interested in his
ass as well as his mouth, but Brian has always told him "No, I
prefer fucking your wife."   He says this rather directly, though
I've asked him not to.  Poor Jim hears him and looks puzzled, but
can't put two and two together.  He has no wife, he thinks, because
he's a woman.  The pills of course.

For a clincher I took Jim off the sedatives and tranquillizers and
anti-depressants and so on for a few days.  When he was nearly
himself, I could see he was edgy, trying to figure out if his thin
arms and curved thighs and women's boobs were his, and where his
shirts and pants had gone, if he'd ever had any.  Then I hired some
burly men to come to the door asking for him and using words like
"bank" and "subpoena" and "shortfall" and "warrant" and "ciminal
embezzlement" and "arrest."  Jim was terrified, and when they'd
gone I found him hidden up in his bedroom in his negligee, his face
only half-made up and his hair a mess.  He knew why they had come,
and he could scarcely breathe until their car left.  He said that
if they saw him they'd recognize him.  

I doubted it.  I pointed out that they were looking for a man, and
he'd always been a woman.  Still, now was as good a time as any for
him to get his nose bobbed and his chin shortened the way he'd
always wanted to ever since we were teenaged girls together, best
friends who told each other everything.  He looked at me strangely
when I said that, but as you can see, Loretta, that's what he did.

When the so-called bank investigators came back Jim broke down and
confessed everything to me.  He had paid out our money and the
bank's to a woman who had turned him into my childhood friend -- he
didn't know why.  When his fresh pills kicked in, I asked him if he
was sure such a woman ever existed.  It seemed improbable, after
all, why should any woman conspire to change another woman into a
woman?  Jim had no answer.  He described Hospitality House accurately
as a place where they'd given him panties and bras for free
whenever he sucked men's and women's cocks.  I chided him that he
was describing my place of business, well-known to him, not some
supposed other woman's.  I reminded him that now and then he helps
me out there, by sucking cocks or helping me to relax between
customers by licking my cunt clean.  That explanation made sense to
him.  Girlhood friends would do that for each other.  Loretta, even
now he'll stop by to lick me clean whenever he's in the vicinity,
shopping or something, and it feels as womderful as ever!  He's such
a dear!

Once he woke up sobbing, and he confessed that in some of his dreams
he couldn't tell this supposed Mistress from me, and that once in
his dreams he had even imagined that I was his wife, that he had
once been a man and had been married to me, and that he had done
something bad and that with my help he was hiding out as a woman. 
I kissed him then, and told him that was sweet, that we were indeed
the dearest of friends, and it was as if we were married, 
and that whenever that apprehension came upon him again he should 
remember what the doctor told him and take an additional pill.  
He should always be happy, never afraid of anything.  
In the not-too-distant future he'd have that operation
we've talked about that would remove his imaginary penis and balls
from his crotch and reveal the real vagina underneath, just like
any other women's.  I reminded him he should look forward to it, 
if only because his vagina will share the strain on his ass when 
he dates too often and his dates get too manly with him too often.  
He's gotten used to the idea now, and in fact he likes it.

I hired one more investigator last year ago to shoulder
his way into the house with a supposed search warrant and go
looking for any evidence that any man named Jim had ever lived
here.  I wanted to know if I'd overlooked anything Jim might
stumble upon some day, that might bring back unwanted memories. 
Jim let him in, but told him calmly that he must have the wrong
address.  The man finally agreed, after looking all morning in all
of our drawers and closets and cubbyholes.  There was no Jim. 
There never was.  We were a household of two women, me and Jamie. 
And that's what we've been for over a year now, and will be for
years to come. 

It's so good of Helen to lend you to us, Loretta!  Not many wives
would!  But you know how things get down here during the winter
season.  I need all the help I can get right now, and then on top
of it to be called away!  I'm delighted you can stand in for me
while I'm away.  Really grateful!

She did do a wonderful job with you, Loretta, you know?  As her
husband you were a decent enough man, but you're gorgeous now!  And
a dominant, too!  That's rare -- you know of course that most males
are submissives like Jim when they become women, that's why they're
so good at keeping house and sucking cocks and so on.  They can't
give an order to another man to save their skins.  And whip one, or
manipulate him to do what you want?  Forget it!  You must have
really wanted to be a dominant woman for the longest time.  No? 
Your wife persuaded you that you wanted to be one, someone like
herself, or like me, and then she trained you to it?  Then I'm
really impressed, Loretta!  Especially with Helen!  What she did
with you was much more difficult than anything I've done, with Jim
or with any of the other men who've wanted me to feminize them.  

Loretta, has Helen ever thought of moving down here with you?  
Together we could form a partnership, and pretty soon I bet we could 
be supplying half the brothels in the State with whores.  With cock
suckers at the very least.  There's a military school just outside
of town, with all the boys we'd ever want, plenty of them easily
turned into girls or catamites just as soon as they confess their
little kink to us.  Really, any kink at all.  Do tell your wife to
think about it.

Well, Loretta, I've got to get going now.  The sooner I'm there,
the sooner I'm back.  Now that it's time to leave, I really wish 
now I hadn't promised Brian's wife I'd help her out when Brian 
wakes up.  When he sees what she's had done to
that terrific prick of his, and realizes it's gone for good,
he's not going to be happy.  I've told her it'll take a really
big cock inside his new cunt to show him that there's been gain as
well as loss, that he won't really quit mourning for his lost
manhood until he's been devastatingly fucked over and over again. 
She says that'll happen in good time, that maybe in fact she'll
hire a stud to service both of them for a while.  She has a man
in mind who'd visit her, sometimes, when Brian was visiting me. 
She thinks that'll be poetic justice.

Anyhow, she wants me to come, she says, because she needs me and I
owe her.  I owe her because I led Brian into infidelity, she says,
whipping him to get him hot instead of just telling her what he
wanted, then providing him with several places a married man's
prick should never be found, including my vagina and my own
husband's mouth.  And she finally told me that Brian's now also
hiding from bank examiners, only from real ones.  It seems I'd
given him ideas, or Jim had.  Now that she has control of the
money, she says, the bank will never see it again, so Brian has to
disappear the way Jim did.  She's done no more with Brian than I
have with Jim, she says, all unsatisfactory husbands being pretty
much the same.  Only she thought it wiser in his case to castrate
him first and then feminize him, instead of doing it the other way
around.  I couldn't disagree.

Finally, she says that I'm more experienced than she is in helping
a man become a woman, and friends help each other out.  We are
friends now, you know, Loretta.  I called her for a friendly chat
the very first day that Brian told me that now that he knew all
about Jim, and how I had tricked Jim, he didn't think he should 
have to pay my fees for his sessions with me any more.  Maybe 
I'd need to pay him!  Well, Brian's wife and I did a lot of 
talking about that, figuring out what to do with Brian.  
She's right.  Friends help each other.  

So, Loretta, now you know it all.  I've got to be with Brian and
his wife for the next two weeks, till he really knows in his heart
that he's got only one direction to go now.  You have their number
if there's a problem.  Hospitality House and its equipment and its
client list and this house and Jim are all yours now, and thanks in
advance for offering to mind them for me.  Take good care of them. 
My receptionist'll brief you on my different clients' special needs
day by day, and now you know all about Jim's.  

Remember to call him Jamie, would you, so he doesn't get confused? 
And see to it that he gets a cock to suck now and then, if his
usual men don't call.  He was never really much of a man, I
suppose, though he used to imagine he was once a husband
at least, poor thing!  Even I used to think so, sometimes.  I guess
he was, in a way.  He did do it all for the two of us, for his
Mistress and his wife, if you think of it that way.  Now of course
he knows better.  He knows that he and I are each old girlfriends
who live together and enjoy each other's company, and share
everything, but not our men.  Make sure that he takes all his pills
every day, would you, Loretta, so he doesn't get himself confused
about that?  And if you should ever want to try him out for yourself, 
be my guest!

END


(c)1998 by Vickie Tern.  Archiving for free access and
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