Date: Mon, 18 Mar 2019 20:07:00 +0000
From: Beau Kramer <bc20002015@hotmail.com>
Subject: Panty Polygamy (transgender-tv)

Panty Polygamy (transgender-tv)

By Gingerfred Man

Don't try this at home.  What you should do is contribute to nifty)

Chapter One – Tuesday

At three o'clock, that Tuesday, I slipped into a hot shower to begin my
preparation for my Tuesday husband's five p.m. arrival.

Mr. Richman is such a dear.

Of all my five husbands, he's the one who appreciates my wifely, homebody
femininity most.  So I try to be extra femmy for him.

Every Tuesday at precisely five p.m., his electronic key becomes active and
he can enter my luxury apartment on the 6th floor of the Panty Tower.

And he can enter little old me soon after.  <giggle>

He's not the best husband at sucking my girlish cock.  But he's good.
Really good.  And he has really good staying power once his big rammer is
up my tiny bumhole.

I shouldn't be comparing husbands like that.  It goes against my training.
And it's not fair. My five husbands, each of whom has a day from Monday
through Friday, are all good men and true.  And I love them all.

But they're very different.

Maybe the best way to tell you about them is to take you through last week.

As the warm water caressed my nipples, I thought back to six months earlier
when I was approached by a "recruiter" while I was attending a meeting at
my local high school's Miniskirt Club.

I had been a member of the club that lets crossdressing teens be
crossdressing teens since I was 16. My 18th birthday was fast approaching
and I was unsure of what I wanted to do next.

Everyone was pushing college at me.  But all I knew was that I wanted my
future to involve cock.

Lots of cock.

I liked men.

But men had been afraid to approach me until I was 18.  So I learned to
adapt to boy's cocks.

Not bad.  But boys mostly just wanted to get me on my back with my
stockinged legs up as they pounded my heinie with their rampant rammers.

No appreciation for my beauty.  Or my femininity.  Both of which I had in
great supply.

The recruiter knew that I was a future star the moment he saw me.  He said
so. And men don't lie to pretty pantyboys.

He explained the deal to me and I was peeing my panties to accept.

Which I did on my 18th birthday.

I dropped out of school, kissed my parents and sibs goodbye, and went off
to the Big City,

Three months training in femininity, fashion and fornication.  We even
learned to cook some things – an essential to good wifeyness.

We learned to dress and use makeup to FULL effect,

We learned to fuck.  Really fuck.  With some amazing instructors.

I was the honor graduate.

Which got me assigned to Even Bigger City. Where I was given a posh
apartment in a tower which housed Timmy's Girlish Secret on its first two
floors; a spa and beauty parlor on its third floor, and happy couples like
me and my five husbands on the fourth through eighth floors.

I arrived husbandless, of course, but that first Saturday, Mr. Richman and
I stood before a pseudo-authority and promised to love, honor and
yadda-yadda each other every Tuesday for exactly two years.

We left for our honeymoon as soon as I could wiggle out of my gown and into
a Chanel suit with stockings, heels and pillbox hat.

Two nights of lust in the city's swankiest honeymoon suite.

It was delicious.

But I didn't see Mr. Richman again until Tuesday.  And every Tuesday
thereafter.

Which was OK, because the following weekend, I was married to
Mr. Prettyman, my soon-to-be Thursday hubby.  Mr. Prettyman was very
different from Mr. Richman, but let's talk about that later.

Each of the next three weekends had me as the bride. And suddenly, I had
wifely commitments...and duties...for every night but Saturday and Sunday.
The marriages begin at 5 p.m. on the designated day and end at 8 a.m. the
next morning.  No contact is allowed except during those times.

It works.

Mostly because my husbands adore me.  Lust for me.  Would do anything for
me.  And I would do anything sexual for them.

Anything!

I know I don't have any titties.  Or a front pussy.  But they don't
mind. And neither do I.

They don't have to worry about me having a headache or having my period.
I'm always "in the mood."

They don't have to worry about me nagging, manipulating or emasculating
them.

And they don't have to tell me The Big Lie: "I love you, Baby.  And I'm
going to leave my wife and kids for you real soon.  When the time is
right."

To tell you the truth, I have no idea what my husbands tell their wives
what they're doing the nights they're with me.  And I don't care.

When they're with me, they're feasting on fucking and femininity.

That Tuesday, as I patted myself dry with big, fluffy towels, I shivered
with pleasure at the prospect of being in Mr. Richman's arms that evening.

He was the most "traditional" of my husbands.  Wanting me to greet him at
the door looking impossibly, femininely gorgeous.  Mixing him a cocktail.
Listening to his day and all that.  But in my particular, pantyboy way.

So I used an hour of my "Free Nine" as we pantyboy wives call our
husbandless hours each weekday, to have my hair styled the way Mr. Richman
likes it.  Sort of an exaggerated bob cut.  And I did the whole mani/pedi
thing with fire-engine red polish.

Just as Mr. Richman likes it.

When I was downstairs in the salon, the Panty Tower staff cleaned my room,
changed the sheets and refreshed the food and laundry.

It's a wonderful arrangement. For me.

After drying off, I powdered myself with a light scent.  Then I set about
getting dressed.

Black, seamed, fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings, of
course. A naughty, lace garter belt clipped to the stockings.  A matching
bra to cover my aching nipples.

I may not have titties, but my nipples are large, puffy, and needy for
men's attention.

I just love the feminine feelings I get when I put on my black,
patent-leather, four-inch-spike pumps.

I checked myself out in the mirror.  Oops.  I forgot my panties!  Again.

Should I or shouldn't I?

Not that night.

I sat down at my vanity to do the real work.  Changing my boyish face into
that of a cock-hungry, husband-satisfying woman.

Oh dear. I only had 65 minutes until Mr. Richman's arrival!  Thank goodness
I didn't need to set the table, chill the wine, or actually cook his
dinner.

That was all taken care of by the Panty Tower staff.

I love the cosmetics part. Maybe because I'm so good at it.  And I have
such great material to work with.

With 12 minutes to go, I was fully satisfied that my husband would ruin his
boxers when he saw my face as amended.

I stood, sissied over to my closet, and found the floor-length, black,
see-through peignoir that I had chosen to complete Mr. Richman's visual
feast.

By the way, I love my closet.  It is attached to my bedroom and is the size
of most rich-people's master bedrooms.  It's pretty much filled too, since
I have carte blanche at the Timmy's Girlish Secret downstairs.

There are five other, smaller closets in the room.  One for each of my
husbands.  Opened only with his key...or mine.  They can't very well go to
work the next day, wearing the same outfit now, can they?

All the Panty Polygamy apartments have one huge bedroom.  No need for a
spare room for kids, A visiting relative. A colleague who had too much to
drink.  Just one.

At the two-minute mark, I checked myself out once more, then moved to the
front door.  I watched the clock over the door roll to five p.m.  Then
<click>

The door opened.

It was Mr. Richman!!!  Rushing in, throwing down his briefcase.  Shucking
off his coat. And embracing me.  Then kissing me deeply. With tongues.

Mr. Richman is a very good kisser.

He didn't grab my ass or my penis or anything.  Just held me in his arms as
if I were the world's greatest treasure.

I liked that.

We finally broke the kiss and I led him inside to his comfy chair.  He sat
and I pulled his shoes off and replaced them with his slippers.

Just like a 1950s wifey would have done.

I even got him a martini from the pitcher the Panty Tower staff had made
for him.

I handed him his drink. He thanked me warmly.  Just like the 1950s.

Then I knelt between his legs, pulled down his pants zipper.  Extracted his
cock and balls and began to bathe everything most lovingly with my tongue.

Which probably happened to some men coming home from work in the 1950s, but
you don't hear about it much.

Mr. Richman groaned appropriately as I tormented his manly things with my
lips, mouth and tongue.

I stopped to ask him about his day.  Which he tried to do as I gave him one
of my galaxy-class blowjobs.

He would often tell me how he had had a rough but profitable day oppressing
the masses, foreclosing on widows and orphans, lying to investigators. That
sort of thing.

But I wasn't really paying attention.

I just kept working for the "pantyboy's big reward."  And there it was.

Rich and creamy.

The perfect appetizer for the boeuf bourguignon warming in the oven.

When I had swallowed the last spurt, Mr. Richman asked me to stand and face
him.  He parted my peignoir and began kissing my cockhead. Just the head.

Mmmmm.

He then started licking the head.  Just the head.  With particular
attention to the "arrow point" on the underside of the helmet.

Ground zero for us cockholders.

I cried out just in time for him to cap the knob with his mouth and give
him his own appetizer.

I'm sure it was rich and creamy too, since I hadn't cum since 7:38 that
morning with Mr. Youngstud, my Monday hubby.

Over nine hours!!

Like a good wife (in men's fantasies at least), I wanted to be ready and
randy for his every sexual need.

I sat on his lap after that and he kissed me in between sips of his
martini.

We held hands as we moved into the dining room.

He sat as I took off my peignoir and replaced it with a frilly, white
apron.  Then I served him dinner.

It was delicious, but he hardly noticed. Since I was to be the dessert.

Mr. Richman helped me stack the dishes in the dishwasher, then he picked me
up and carried me into the bedroom for the night's true delights.

The apron came off, as did my heels. And I lay on my back, penis pointing
up, as Mr. Richman undressed to a very nice nude.

I thought I saw a tear in his eye as Mr. Richman contemplated our amazing
marriage.

A lovely, impossibly feminine and randy partner, dressed in stockings and
garters.  Her mouth, cock and bum in complete surrender to any of his
filthy urges.

He lay down beside me and produced a tube of Spermbutt Anal Lubricant ("The
Pantyboy's Friend" as the ads call it).

Mr. Richman slathered three fingers of his right hand with it, then entered
my "pussy" with just the first knuckle of his middle finger.

I gasped. My training telling me that a pantyboy's man always wants to know
that his lady is tight for him.

He smiled.  As he moved "south" so he could suck my cock as he committed
aggravated assault on my prostate with three Spermbutt Anal Lubricated
fingers.

The man was a demon.

He loved sucking my cock and he loved driving me mad with prostate
friction.

He was a demonic artist, I guess.  Because I was soon crying out, desperate
for release.

And then I shot my cream.

Seven frantic spurts of wifely tribute to my husband's lovemaking skills.

Making him feel like a MAN!

And what's wrong with that?

My MAN then pounced on me.  Filling my bum from behind with his ferocious
fuckpole.

Thirty-five minutes of animal passion before he finally bellowed out his
love for me in the clearest way possible.

That was delicious.

And it was only 6:54 p.m.

Chapter Two - Wednesday

I rarely sleep during my Free Nine.  But that next morning after
Mr. Richman left, I needed three hours of shuteye.

He fucked me as if he were going to prison for securities fraud or
something.

Wouldn't that be awful?

I didn't need as much prep time for my Wednesday husband because
Mr. Fencesitter didn't require the same primping that Mr. Richman did.

Mostly it was unprimping.

After I scrambled myself some eggs, I went to the spa for my usual
Wednesday routine – an undoing of most of the femmy stuff I relied on
the other six days.

Mr. Fencesitter, it seems, likes femboys.

I wasn't sure what that was when we were married.  But I learned on the
honeymoon.

Femboys, by Mr. Fencesitter's definition, are pantyboys in training.

They are definitely leaning femmy. Leaning HARD.

They THINK they want to be full-femmed pantyboys.

But it hasn't really burned into their brains the way it did six years
earlier when Jimmy Thudpucker took me to the hayloft, had me put on a pair
of panties, and fucked me.  After that, I didn't want to be anything else
than a pantyboy.

Femboys haven't really conquered cosmetics yet.

They're afraid that their secret will be discovered.

They like sex with men, but still feel guilty.

Generally, we're not asked to role play in our two-year marriages.
Mr. Fencesitter was the last man I married and I was briefed thoroughly
about him before I agreed to deliver myself to him every Wednesday night.

I liked the challenge.  And I liked the variety among my husbands.

So I said yes.

I'm glad I did.

It's a fun role. And definitely different.

At around 4 p.m., I took my shower. Dried off. No powder.  No perfume.

I combed my hair in as boyish a style as I could manage.

Polish had been removed from my 20 nails.

I put on a pair of white, cotton panties and sat down to do my eyes.

The one makeup area that "Jennifer the Femboy" was alleged to have
mastered.

And I mastered it.

No false lashes.  But lots of cosmetic enhancement.

I looked at myself.  Nodded approval.  Let myself into Mr. Fencesitter's
closet.  Selected and put on one of his long sleeve dress shirts.  And
proceeded, barelegged and barefoot, to the front door.

The door opened at 5 p.m. and there he was.

Blond.  35.  Hunky as all get out.

Smiling at me, as if I had made progress in my self-femininization since
last Wednesday.  Which, to him, I did.

He stepped in and held me in his arms.  "Oh, Jennifer, my darling, you look
amazing.  Did you learn something new about eye makeup?  Your eyes and
stunning and you're more beautiful than ever."

I knew it was malarkey. But I was stiff as steel reinforced with diamonds.

Mr. Fencesitter noticed.

"Oh my poor darling. Look how you're suffering.  Let me take care of that
`issue' that's bothering you.  It won't hurt. And it won't mean you're gay.
It's almost medicinal."

In our playground, I was supposed to be worried about being gay.

A notion that made me reluctant to allow Mr. Fencesitter to rip off my
panties, open his shirt and suck my penis until I was screaming in
ferocious relief.

Followed by a show of guilt, of course. An emotion I've never felt. I hoped
I was faking it well.

To console my guilt, Mr. Fencesitter stripped nude, took me to my bed,
flipped me onto my stomach and ate my ass for a frantic half hour.

Thirty desperate minutes of anal cannibalism!!

And no one did it better than Mr. Fencesitter.

When I was able to concoct a cogent thought during that frightening half
hour, I began to wonder once again if Mr. Fencesitter was, shall I use the
word?, G-A-Y.

I mean, his interest in my femininity seemed only peripheral. His interest
in my penis and anus was intense.

Then there was the matter of our wedding.  My other four husbands wanted me
in full bridal-gown regalia.  Which was fine with me.

Mr. Fencesitter had me wear a white, silk tuxedo.  With open collar. And
two-inch-heel, clunky sandals.

Regardless, the man could eat ass.  And he could fuck!  Best of the five
husbands in knowing how to "move his meat" inside me.

So I stopped thinking about foolish technicalities and enjoyed the ride.

Four rides that night, actually, and two in the morning.

Whew.

I needed every minute of my Free Nine that day to let my ass tighten back
up and my "peanuts" recharge for my Thursday husband, Mr. Prettyman.

Chapter Three – Thursday

I guess you would think that Mr. Prettyman was the outlier among my
husbands.  Even after what I told you about Mr. Fencesitter.

But you would be wrong.

They're all outliers in their way.

Mr. Prettyman's uniqueness was pretty obvious, pretty early.

At our wedding, he wore a prettier wedding gown and lingerie than I
did. With higher heels.

Chronologically, I was shocked, appalled and aroused.

Really aroused.

I had never been in a coital situation with a woman and never intended to
be.

But Mr. Prettyman isn't a woman.  He lives 153 hours of each week as a man.
And 15 hours with me – as an almost woman.

And he's good at it.

So good that when the Panty Polygamy manager who married us said, "You may
now kiss the bride," we both lunged for a kiss. And giggled like crazy.

We did cause a bit of a stir when we walked into the Ritzi Plaza lobby for
our honeymoon, both wearing bridal gowns.

But I liked it.

And Mr. Prettyman liked that I liked it.

When we got to the bridal suite and we stripped to our lingerie, I gasped
at Mr. Prettyman's stockinged, corseted, garter-belted. high-heeled beauty.

But I uttered the biggest gasp when Mr. Prettyman dropped his panties and
showed me "Miss Pretty," his humongous cock that dwarfed my other husbands'
cockage.

Oh dear, I thought. Would I be able to consume that sweet morsel in my
mouth and <blush> bum? The answers were yes and not quite yet.

Size wasn't the issue that prevented my bum from being hospitable to Miss
Pretty.

Mr. Prettyman had an issue with himself, as a "girl" named "Heather,"
putting the wood to a fellow pantyboy. He wanted to be the submissive one.

Was I willing to fuck Mr. Prettyman's pretty ass?

Heck yes.

And it was WAY better than I, as first-time ass-fucker, thought it would
be.

Still, I wanted that massive missile in my silo.  And, without nagging, I
tried to get him to have it splash down in Landing Zone Jennifer.

I was still maneuvering for a proper fucking that Thursday. But I had a
plan.

Which would only work if "Heather" and I had the perfect evening.

So I did my very best to be a "hetero" crossdresser's fondest dream.

Beginning with a full makeover at the third-floor spa.  Some daringly
slutty, black lingerie and my first pair of strappy, fine-inch-stiletto,
mules.

I discovered early on that men (a condition with which Mr. Prettyman was
still mildly afflicted) like to hear the little flop-flop that a lady
wearing high-heel mules creates as she walks.

I also laid out a naughty set of pink lingerie and stockings for my
Thursday husband.

I wanted him at maximum burn when I suggested he fuck me.

When he arrived in his power suit and $5,000 loafers, he was actually
drooling as he saw me.

And with good reason.

We kissed for a while until I took him into the bedroom and stripped him
naked.

I watched his even-better-than-usual delight as he perused the night's
outfit I suggested for him.

He moved quickly. Dressing and femming his face in only 87 minutes.

You must understand that to Mr. Prettyman, the act of dressing was as
erotic as anything we would do together.

I decided to change that.

When we were married, I had had no experience in "lesbian" crossdresser
sex. It's different from man-crossdresser sex.

Very different.

But very delightful.

Dressing is even more elaborate than the effort we pantyboys put into
attracting our men.

There's much more kissing n lesbian crossdresser sex.  Lipstick-to-lipstick
kissing is awe-inspiring.  Much more fondling.  And nipple play.  More
all-over kissing.

In fact, in my brief experience, I've found that our brand of lesbian sex
is much less frantic than man-pantyboy sex.

But just as satisfying.

That Thursday, when Heather had completed her transformation, we spent
several minutes complimenting each other on our femininity.  Followed by a
lovely sitdown on the two-seater couch, where we kissed with lots of
saliva. And some sweet cock-fondling.

Kissing Heather was exquisitely erotic.  As was the firm-but-gentle way we
aroused each other's stiff penises.

Heather had a great stroke.

And a better tongue for kissing.

As I girl-handled Miss Pretty, I couldn't help but note the irony in the
fact that someone with a penis that big would reject the renown that such a
rammer would bring Mr. Prettyman among the ladies.

A squandered natural resource?  Not really. When you're a girl, you're a
girl. No matter how big your prick is.

All that luscious kissing and manual attention had us both cumming soon.

Heather came first. And I licked my fingers clean most seductively to
signal to Heather what kind of evening she could expect.

Heather mimicked my cum-eating when I spunked minutes later.

My guess was that Heather would want some nipple play next. So after we did
some post-orgasmic kissing, I stood and removed my bra.

Heather did the same.

We walked, hand-in-hand, to my bed. And lay down without removing our
heels. Like naughty little street walkers.

Heather assaulted my nipples first.  Taking her time. Watching me with
delight as I began to cry from the emotion of allowing Heather to nurse
from my "titties."

And then I got my first indication that things may be advancing that
Thursday.

Heather slid two fingers up my bum as she sucked my nipples.

I had done that for her often. Usually as a prelude to fucking her
delicious bottom.  But she had never pierced my pootie. Seeing that,
perhaps, as a prelude to fucking me with Miss Pretty.  Which she told me
was not happening.

I didn't even have to fake how much I enjoyed having her fingers abusing my
prostate.  I shot my sperm all over the place.

When I was able to focus my eyes, I saw that Heather was proud of herself.

I kissed her hotly. Thanking her between smooches for being such a sexy,
giving partner.

She was exceedingly stiff at that point.  So I got direct.  Sliding my body
down to swallow the entirety of Miss Pretty.  Which I had never done
before. And had only been able to do so after an hour of practice with a
dildo that afternoon.

Heather screamed with passionate delight!  No one had ever been able to
swallow her cock like that.

Soon after she was screaming with erotic overflow as she filled my mouth
with more cum than I knew was in the human body.

We had a lovely afterglow – another lesbian specialty.  During which I
played two big cards.

I snuggled up to Heather, stroked her limp, defeated penis and asked, "Did
you like that, Honey?  I've been practicing so that I could give you what
you want and need."

Card Number One played.

Heather kissed me and said, "Oh, yes, my darling.  Thank you so much!  It
was awesome."

Card Number Two was poised.

"I'm so happy to make you happy," I said.  "Let me offer you something
else.  Did you ever think about what it would be like for Heather to be
with a man?"

Heather stirred. Tensed up.  And her dead penis drew a small breath.

"Well, I don't know.  I..."

I let the silence sit for five seconds.  Then I said, "If you like, we
could double date.  Panty Polygamy has a list of totally vetted, handsome,
nicely-cocked men who would take us to dinner, then bring us back here to
`pay for dinner' if you know what I mean.

"We could even skip dinner, but you would pass anywhere."

My goodness.  Heather was silent, but her cock spoke loudly.  It was
iron-stiff.

"I don't know," she said.

"Yes you do, Baby. Your cock says so.  I guarantee you would enjoy it. And
if you don't, just say so and we'll send the men home.  I would be there,
so that could be extra fun."

Poor Heather.

She was shaking. But she managed to squeak out an "OK.  Thank you."  And
she kissed within an inch of my life.

Then, knowing what would please me most, not even requiring me to ask for
what I really wanted, Heather greased up my bumhole and fucked me silly.

Thursdays are such fun.

Chapter Four - Friday

At 9:30 a.m. the next say, I was walking funny.

Heather discovered that she had been wrong to deprive herself (and me) of
the pleasures of her big cock in my tiny anus.

Then she discovered it again.

And a third time.

Plus, as I said goodbye to Mr. Prettyman that morning, I promised him that
I would see to arranging a fucking foursome for as early as the coming
weekend.  I couldn't contact him about whether it was on or not, but
management could.

Then, lust having seized me, as it often does, I asked my newly-bi lover if
he would be able to do the double date in two days.  He practically fainted
at the prospect and swore he would participate.  Even if he had to tell his
family that he had joined the Marine Reserve and would be training on
Saturday and Sunday.

Now, except for my five weddings, I had never done any Panty Polygamy
business on Saturday or Sunday. That was always "rest my bumhole and ease
the ache in my testicles" time. Time to mix with my girlfriends – the
other wives in our building.

But there was something about being my Thursday husband's girlfriend and
sharing men with him that had me a bit stirred up.

So after breakfast, I showered, did my hair and makeup, put on a red bikini
and five-inch-spike sandals and sissied downstairs to the management
office.

I was glad to see that Kyle was the assistant manager that day.  He's a
good guy. I laid out what I wanted he agreed to make it happen.  Then he
laid me out.

Don't think that this was a #metoo situation.  The managers never pressure
us for sex.  Or even ask.  But sometimes we ask them. And they never turn
us down. I mean, would you?

Didn't think so.

To be fair, how could Kyle have resisted? He was a normal, hetero guy with
blood coursing through his penis. And I was a young beauty wearing a bikini
thong bottom that exposed my perfect ass and "pouched" my boy's things most
sexily.

I told Kyle that, if he was busy with work, a quickie was fine.

How foolish of me.

No sane man would settle for a quickie with me.

He put a sign on the door saying he would be back at a time 90 minutes in
the future.  Then he led me into the back room of the management office,
which had a large bed, clean sheets and a huge bottle of Spermbutt Anal
Lubricant.

Kyle is very oral.

So we kissed and kissed.

Then he removed my bikini bra and gave my nipples an excellent seeing-to.

By then I was gasping and panting and my penis was practically ripping my
bikini bottom.

But he didn't suck my cock.

He ate my ass.

Exquisitely.

Halfway through our 90 minutes, Kyle Smerbutted my bumhole with his thick
fingers, then replaced his fingers with his cock.

Doggie-style.

Arf.

With a nice reach-around for my enflamed cock.  Which spurted joyfully as
his cock ravaged my prostate.

It's really fun being me.

I spunked a second time 20 minutes later as Kyle filled my bum with his
creamy tribute to my beauty.

The afterglow kissing was delicious.  But he had to get back to work. He
promised to set up the four-way date with Mr. Prettyman and would leave me
a message that it was done.

Getting dressed after Kyle fucked me was easy. A bikini and shoes.  And I
was off to the Panty Tower pool.

Several of the wives were there that day – Cindy, Roberta, Dawn and
Beth.

And we gossiped.  Swam. Sucked each other's cocks.  Swam. Ate a late lunch.
And went home to get ready for our Friday husbands.

There was a note on the floor as I walked into my apartment.  All was set
for Saturday.  Mr. Prettyman would meet me at the Timmy's Girlish Secret,
dress department at 2, since Heather had no outside wear yet.  And our
dates would be arriving at 5.

Our lucky escorts were to be Rick and Steve, who, for five years, were two
of ten or so guys who had been "helping" Panty Polygamy wives get through
the long weekends without a husband.

I hadn't used their services, but they had a great rep.

Getting ready was easy for me on Friday because my husband, Mr. Showmore,
wanted me to greet him barefoot and bare-legged, wearing only nail polish
and a shorty robe.

Mr. Showmore enjoyed watching me transform from a "boy" to a woman.  Even
if it took 90 minutes of perfectly good fucking time.  And he never got
tired of it.

He also never got tired of taking me out for dinner at a busy bistro.
Showing me off.  Introducing ne to his friends and business associates.

He was genuinely proud of me.  Proud that I was his wife, even though it
was only once a week.

I was really flattered.  None of my other husbands did that.  They just
kept me to themselves.

So when we got home that night after dinner, I gave him another little
show. Taking off my dress, bra, stockings and garters. And putting on a
super-skimpy, translucent, babydoll nightie.

I then sat on his lap and barraged him with kisses and cock rubs.

Then it was time for our favorite warm-up game.

Lube-a-cock!

Mr. Showmore liked me all-lubed up.  And I liked Mr. Showmore.

His brand of choice was LubeLust (a Spermbutt Industries Product).  It was
the perfect match of just enough friction and just enough glide.

I used all my willpower to not cum when he sensuously doused my entire body
below my neck in LubeLust.  Then rubbed it in gently with his hands.

When he applied LubeLust to my aching penis, I was biting my pretty,
lipsticked, lower lip.

Somehow I held on until he finished lubing his belly and his cock.

Just his belly and cock.

Just enough.

Because Mr. Showmore's belly (and most of the rest of him) was covered with
thick, black hair. He had a bit of a paunch.  At 45, he was my oldest
husband.  His looks were ursine.

And seeing him naked, just seeing him, stirred my testicles.

Mr. Showmore lay on his back and drew me to him, face-to-face.

We kissed with desperate tongues. His lubed fingers thrilled my anus.

My cockhead was buried in his belly hair.  LubeLust friction allowed the
body hair to skin my knob hood back. LubeLust glide hurled my knobhead
flesh into erotic agony.

I drenched Mr. Showmore's hairy belly with my sissy cream.

It was glorious.

And the fuckings that followed consumed most of the night.

Chapter Five – Saturday

I awoke that next morning in a rare-for-me condition. I was naked – my
black babydoll having been cast aside during a night of intense lovemaking.

It was 8:02 and Mr. Showmore was gone.  If he were still there, he would be
facing penalties as harsh as being denied my company for an entire
Friday!!!

None of my husbands wanted that.

He was such a dear. So were they all.  But I was glad that I would have two
days to rest and ...

Wait.

I almost forgot.

That day was a special Saturday.

Mr. Prettyman was joining me at 2 to select a dress or two for his first
"outing" as Heather.  Then, at 5, we would be joined by our swains for the
day, Rick and Steve.  Who would take us to dinner, take us home and FUCK
us!

It would be fun watching Heather's first time with a man. Or two.

Assuming she didn't hyperventilate and spend the day in the emergency room.

I puttered around a bit, then got girlied up good and proper for our
meeting at 2.

I was 15 minutes early.  I think Mr. Prettyman had been there since dawn.

Ashley, my favorite salesgirl at Timmy's Girlish Secret, was working with
Mr. Prettyman and she looked a bit worn out.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Prettyman," I said.  "Is everything OK here?"

"Oh, Jennifer," Mr. Prettyman said, "I'm so glad you're here.  I just can't
decide among these 20 dresses.  Please help me."

I stepped forward, grabbed a little black dress and a summery, yellow
sundress and said, "Try these on, Honey."

Mr. Prettyman did. He loved them both.  And we went upstairs to transform
him into Heather, the man-loving babe.

Heather was a nervous wreck throughout our preparations.  I thought about
blowing her to calm her down.  She even suggested it.  But I said, "Save it
for the men."

Which made her even more jittery.

"Rick and Steve know it's your first time and they're eager to meet you.
They saw your pictures and they're even more eager to fuck you.  Now I know
you like being fucked, because I've fucked you plenty of times.  What's the
problem?"

It was a good thing that she hadn't put her makeup on because she was
bawling her eyes out.

"Will this make me gay, Jennifer?"

Oh.

So that was it.

"When you're Heather, are you a man or a woman?"

She thought, then said, "A woman."

"Right. So why wouldn't a woman want a man to fuck her? Is that gay?"

Cue the enlightenment music.

Heather got it.

That settled her down some.

So we went to work.

Heather was never going to be 100 percent passable like me and the other
wives in Panty Polygamy.  But who cared?

She was going to be a brave woman out in the world. And I was going to be
her mentor, though 14 years younger than she.

We got it all together with the little black dress, black stockings and
four-inch pumps, to greet the lads at the precise hour of 5.

Rick and Steve did not disappoint.

They treated us both like ladies.  Kissing our hands in introductions.
Holding doors.  Making little touches of assistance.

Heather was in heaven.

She seemed more attracted to Rick, the taller and blonder of the two.  And
that was fine with me.  Steve was delicious enough for this cheating old
married lady.

We enjoyed a great dinner at a swanky seafood restaurant and were back in
my home at 7:24 p.m.

Heather was trembling and blushing all over as Rick asked if she could show
him the rest of the apartment.

I stayed in the living room with Steve. On the couch. Kissing.  Freeing our
cocks and stroking. In no hurry.

I heard a cry from the bedroom at 8:02.  Not a cry for help. More like a
cry for "Oh, your cock feels so awesome in my bottom."

So I stood up and asked Steve to unzip me.

I was down to my stockings, bra, garters and heels.

Steve was all-the-way naked.

I knelt on the couch and leaned forward on the back support. Steve got the
message.

He ate my ass just the way I like it.  Lots of digging and licking.  And I
should have enjoyed it way more than I did.

But I kept hearing Heather's squeals, grunts, moans and screams.

And I was...distracted.

Steve stopped his carnal banquet and, rather than filling my bum with cock,
empathized.

"You're distracted," he said. "You want to be with Heather."

Already Steve was earning special hugs for later with his understanding of
my needs.

"Let's go in there with them," he said.  "I know Heather is your Thursday
husband, Rick is her first man and you're concerned about her.  We can just
go on in. They won't mind.  Your curiosity will be satisfied and we can
fuck in there as well as we can fuck here."

Bingo.  Steve was getting me next Saturday.  All day. And all night.

We walked to the open bedroom door. Steve was naked.  I was in my
stockings, garters and heels.  The couple on the bed were dressed as we
were.

And they were fucking.  REALLY fucking.

Heather was on her back.  Legs spread athletically.  Rick had put two
pillows under her hips to improve his angle.  And he was giving her all the
cock any girl could ever want.

In and out. Hard.

Heather was sobbing and whimpering.  Then she cried out and shot her spunk.
Judging by the condition of her tummy, it must have been her third orgasm.

She was having a swell time.

Steve and I were about to.

I lay on my back next to Heather.  Steve slid two pillows under my
hips. And he mounted me.

Oh!

Amazing.

Steve could fuck.

When Heather had regained her senses, she saw that Steve and I had joined
her and Rick. And she smiled.

"Oh, Jennifer!  Thank you, thank you for this. I love you!"

Mr. Prettyman had never said those three little words to me. But Heather
gave them to me with frantic sincerity.

Just then, Rick lost his massive load in Heather's pretty bum.

Heather kissed and hugged him throughout.

I was so overtaken by Heather's joy, plus the first-rate spunking that
Steve was giving me that I shot my sperm in a joyous, thrilling stream.

Then I committed another act of kindness.

Steve hadn't cum yet.

He was apparently a sensitive, caring sissyfucker.

I whispered to him.

He whispered to Rick, whose softening cock was being rejected by Heather's
asshole.

Rick nodded, then pulled out of Heather.  Rick pulled out of me and moved
over to fuck Heather.  Which he did with great aplomb.

I knew from experience that receiving a fresh, virile cock after lover
number one loses his load is a delicious delight.  This was Heather's
cumming-out party, so I donated Steve's first spunking to her.

She looked at me with those thankful, doe eyes and I told myself that I was
truly a good person. Even though I was cheating on my five husbands and
their five wives.  Ten adulteries.  More if Rick and Steve were married.

Oh well.

I mean it was Saturday night after all.  And nobody was twisting anyone's
arm.

Chapter Six – Sunday

I hope you didn't feel sorry for me.  Being such a philanthropist (if
that's the word) to Heather.

I got plenty of cock that night. But Heather got a lot more than the
Recommended Daily Allowance.

And she loved it.

We sent the lads home at 8 a.m. and slept together naked in the stiff
sheets until almost noon. At which point, Heather's fantasy life was over
for the day, but mine showed no signs of ending.

I made her eggs and toast.  She showered and dressed in man's clothes. And
we said goodbye.

Until Thursday.

Which raised some questions.

Would Heather even pretend to be Mr. Prettyman for me anymore?  Would she
be satisfied just dressing up and fucking me on Thursday?  Or would she
want to set up a Rick and Steve or their ilk situation for us every
Thursday.

That was really her issue, not mine.

All I knew was that the basic fee for being a Panty Polygamy husband was
enormous (much of it became mine).  The fee for "extras" such as what we
had just done on Saturday was also a skin-breaker.

So a regular, four-way, Thursday-night orgy would have been most
uneconomical.

Again, not my problem.

I needed to clean up and spend some time exercising and doing my
"tight-bum" drills.  Those and regular applications of ViseBum (a Spermbutt
Industries Product) seemed to be doing the trick so far.

Also, just reading the Sunday papers and hanging out at the pool make
Sundays relaxing.

I needed to relax, because Mondays meant Mr. Youngstud.

Chapter Seven – Monday

Each of my five husbands is a distinct character.

I think that his family name described Mr. Youngstud well.

He was young. At 23, the youngest of my husbands by a decade.

He was a stud.  Eight-incher that rarely drooped.  Super body.  Swooningly
handsome face.

So I often asked myself two questions.

Why was he paying for "it?"

Why did he choose a pantyboy?

The second answer is easy. We're superior to women in all the right ways.
But Mr. Youngstud was a guy who could fuck just about anyone in panties.

After these months of marriage, I've concluded that he likes me.

And that makes me happy.

And proud.

And I'm feeling a little superior.

OK, a lot superior.

But being Mr. Youngstud's wife, even just on Mondays, is taxing.

The man is practically a fucking machine.  It takes three orgasms just to
get him limp.  Then he's ready again in 20 minutes or so.

I like fucking.  Heck, I love fucking. But enough is enough.

I know.  You're reading this and thinking, "Jennifer has some nerve. She's
living a dream life.  And she's complaining."

And you're right.

I've done my best to adapt.  I haven't been as sore on Tuesday mornings
since I started using ShagMax (a Spermbutt Industries Product).  ShagMax is
what a girl would apply to her "insides" before an anal gang bang. Or a
one-man gang bang like Mr. Youngstud.

Oh well.  I had just taken my bottle of ShagMax out when I got a call from
Kyle in the management office.

"Mr. Youngstud will be unable to come home to you this evening, Jennifer,"
Kyle said.  "He's on some business trip or something.  His father has asked
if he could visit you for dinner instead. If that's all right with you."

I was relieved and intrigued.  Mr. Youngstud's father hadn't been at the
wedding.  None of my fathers-in-law were.  Clearly, he was the one who was
making all the money for Mr. Youngstud's marriage to me.  So he's
aggressive and successful.  Two qualities I admire.

And, having not fallen off any turnip trucks, I was sure that, no matter
what Mr. Youngstud Senior told Kyle, Mr. Youngstud Junior and himself, he
was not visiting me just for dinner.

There may have been a whiff of evaluating his investment in there.

But he wanted to fuck me.

I was interested. And gave Kyle the go-ahead.

Then I set to work to wear what would make a man in his mid-to-late forties
rip his pants with his penis.

Easy enough.

I chose an all-pink ensemble.  Seamed, fully-fashioned,
reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings.  Garter belt.  Bra.  Five-inch-stiletto
pumps.  Floor-length, diaphanous, peignoir with long slits on both sides.
And, for once, panties.

I almost never wore panties when my husbands arrived.

It just delays things, don't you think?

But a sweet, chaste, daughter-in-law like myself would never omit panties
for introduction to "Daddy."

I was powdered, perfumed and ready at 5 p.m. when the door opened and my
father-in-law stepped in.

Oh!

He was handsome!  Tall!  And wonderfully fit!!

I gasped.

He gasped.

He recovered first.

"I'm so happy to meet you, Jennifer. My son adores you and I can see why.
You're a spectacular beauty."

I blushed.  "Thank you, Daddy," I said coquettishly.

Mr. Youngstud Senior winced at that. Then smiled.  "I like when you call me
`Daddy,' Honey. Thank you for inviting me to dinner."

"Oh, it'll be more than dinner, Daddy," I said with a leer.  He blinked.
Then I added.  "I have martinis and appetizers too."

Leaving him wondering if I meant the "more" would be fucking or drinks.  Or
both.

We know the answer, don't we?

The lasagna was in the oven on low.  The salad was in the fridge. The
martinis were mixed and chilled.  Thank you, Panty Polygamy staff.

I seated Daddy in a comfy chair and set about putting out the canapes and
pouring him a martini.

I than sat across from him and made sure my legs found the opening in the
slits.

"I like to wear comfortable clothing at home, don't you, Daddy?"

Daddy gulped.  Nodded. Drank half his martini.

I then got him to natter on about lots of boring stuff.  Acting interested,
the way men expect us to act.

I didn't offer him a second drink. That would have cost me at least one
erection for a man his age and I wanted them all.

"Dinner is ready!" I announced and sprang up. "Can you help me?"

I think that at that point, he would have performed the Twelve Labors of
Hercules for me. But all I needed was for him to put the salad in the bowls
and pour the water.

Dinner was convivial. But I sensed great tension with my father-in-law.

It was time to end the suspense.

I got up, walked to him and sat on his lap.  I gave him a big, lipsticky
kiss with lots of tongue and said, "Since Junior isn't here tonight, Daddy,
I hope you'll do his husbandly duties."

I felt most of the tension rush out of him.  What was left was the prospect
of doing gay things with another male.

When will these MEN get over that?

He stood, I took him by the hand and led him to my bed.

I shucked the peignoir and he saw my panty tent for the first time.

And he said what most men in that situation say: "May I see it?"

I smiled and dropped my panties to mid-thigh.

My five-inch bijou stood girlish and proud.

"Oh my," Daddy said. "It's beautiful."

Then he said the second thing men say in that situation: "May I touch it?"

"Of course, Daddy."

In many ways, Daddy was a virgin that evening.  He handled me lovingly.
And then asked the third standard question: "May I suck it?"

I sat Daddy in the bedroom's easy chair and stood before him.

Cautiously, but with great affection, he kissed my knob.

It was thrilling to have this beautiful FILF adoring my feminine penis.

Warming to his task, he licked my shaft all over.  Then my peanuts, which
he held reverently with just his fingertips.

Oh!

When he returned his attentions to my knob, I couldn't hold back.

"Daddy, I'm cumming," I squealed.

He capped my knob and doubled down with his tongue.

Bazinga!

Daddy got his first mouthful of girlie goo.

Which seemed to delight him.

I squealed and shook.  And I wasn't acting. Which delighted him even more.

When the storm had passed, I sat on Daddy's lap and kissed him ferociously.

He was a way better cocksucker than his son.  It was time to find out what
else he could do.

"Take your clothes off, Daddy.  I want you to fuck me."  Which was pretty
directive of me. But Daddy didn't mind.

He stripped to a very nice nude and I removed my bra.  Leaving my
stockings, garters and heels on.

Still standing, I sissied over to my nightstand and got a big bottle of
Spermbutt Anal Lubricant.  Then sissied back.

"Put this on your fingers and use it to open me up back there. If you want,
you can suck my little penis while you do that.

He wanted.

Ten delicious minutes later, I was lubricated and dilated.

I thought for a beginner, Daddy standing, me bent over would be a good
first round.

So I went to my makeup table, gripped its edges, bent over and said,
"Please fuck me, Daddy!  I need it."

Daddy complied.

Later he told me it was the best moment of his life.

I liked it too.

He worked me slow and steadily. Tormenting my prostate mercilessly.  As it
should be.

So much better than his slam-bang son.

My orgasm was a hands-free streamer, rather than a spurter.  And it was to
be the second of nine for me that awesome Monday.

Daddy's first of four!

When he kissed me goodbye that Tuesday morning, he told me he couldn't wait
to see me in a week.

"But what about..." I asked.

Daddy smiled.  "He's being transferred to our Thule, Greenland office.
It's OK, though. They're opening a Panty Polygamy there this week."

What a loving Daddy he was!

And my new Monday husband.

So there you are. I hope you liked hearing about my life.  Please tell me
what you think at bc20002015@hotmail.com