Date: Tue, 17 Feb 2009 07:04:02 -0800 (PST)
From: Fred Gingerman <gingerfred2005@yahoo.com>
Subject: Tommy?s Summer Job -- transgender -- tv

Tommy's Summer Job
By Gingerfred Man


Chapter One -- A most unusual meeting

"Tommy, could you come downstairs for a minute, please?" my mother called
softly up the stairs.

Like any other sensible teenager at noon on a Saturday, I was lying in bed,
just waking up.  It wasn't as if Saturday was all that special.  Since I
had graduated from high school two days earlier, one day was the same as
the next -- aimless and relaxing.

Especially relaxing for me, since I hadn't burdened myself with a summer
job.  Or the thought of going off to college two months hence.  No, Tommy
Anderson was quite happy to just be himself for a while -- lazy and
parasitic on my nice, middle-class, middle-American parents.

That was to be the day that all that changed.

Grumbling softly, I got out of bed and slid on a pair of Bermudas and a
tee.  No sense giving Mom anything else to complain about.  She was on my
case about being a lazy lump already.  If I didn't cooperate a little, she
might even stop doing my laundry or (horrors!) stop cooking for me!

Scratching myself a bit, I looked out my window and saw an unusual sight.
Our across-the-street neighbors, the Johnsons, were standing by a taxi cab.
Mr. Johnson was giving Mrs. Johnson a deep, tonguey kiss and he had his
hand up the back of her micro-miniskirt, massaging her pink-pantied,
four-star ass.

Thank goodness for the Johnsons.  They were the only people on the street
-- heck, the town -- who made life even moderately interesting.
Mr. Johnson, who was about 35 and a major, hunky stud, was always, and I
mean always, fucking Mrs. Johnson, who was a teenager's soggiest, dampest
wet dream.  Hourglass figure.  Huge titties.  Beautiful face.  Big, blonde
hair.

How did I know they were fucking all the time?  Their bedroom window faced
mine.  And at least half the time, they "forgot" to close the shades.

I must have pumped out 100 gallons of cum watching them go at it over the
years.

[Sigh]

Anyway, unless my eyes deceived me, Mrs. Johnson was getting into a cab.
With suitcases.  And Mr. Johnson wasn't.  Which meant they were going to be
separated.  No fucking.  I snickered at that.  "I wonder how old Johnson
will deal with celibacy." I asked myself.

Interesting question.

The cab took off and Mr. Johnson waved goodbye to his wife.  I felt a
little sad for him, since they were obviously in love.  I mean, if your
cock's hard all the time, you have to love the other person, right?

I watched a moment more, expecting Mr. Johnson to go back into his house.
But wait...

He was walking toward...toward our house.  The doorbell was ringing.  He
was at our house.  Why?

"Tommy Anderson, come right downstairs this minute, young man," Mom
insisted.

This was all very odd.

"I'll be right down, Mom," I called.  Then I rushed off to the bathroom to
relieve myself.  Curious to see what was next.

It was quite interesting.

I walked downstairs and saw Mom, Dad and Mr. Johnson.  At least I thought
it was Mom.  The woman I saw was wearing full makeup and looked as pretty
as I had ever seen her.  She was wearing stockings and heels and a very
short skirt.  Dad didn't seem too happy about Mom's new appearance and he
kept shooting her dirty looks.  But the dirtiest looks he saved for
Mr. Johnson.  Who, surprisingly enough, was only looking (leering is more
accurate) at me.

Huh?

Mom spoke first.  "Oh, Tommy.  You look like you just fell out of bed
[giggle]."

Giggle?  Mom didn't giggle.

She looked at Mr. Johnson and said, "I'm so sorry, Carl.  I should have
gotten Tommy up earlier.  He could have showered and worn something more
suitable."

More suitable?

Mr. Johnson didn't seem confused at all.  He looked at me as he spoke to
Mom.  "That's all right, Ruthie.  Tommy looks great.  I can't wait to get
him home."

Mom giggled again.  "No need to be hasty, Carl," she said.  "You could ease
things along a bit.  Try `Plan B.' Other options.  You know."

Did Mom seem a little bit desperate?

Why?

Dad was weird too.  "Forget Plan B.  Tell Tommy about his summer job,
Ruthie."

Mom didn't giggle.  She made a little scrunchy face and said, "Oh, all
right.  Tommy, we've arranged for the most wonderful summer job for you.
With Mr. Johnson."

Summer job?  But I didn't want a summer job.  This was to be my "Summer of
Me."  And I didn't want to work with Mr. Johnson in that downtown office of
his.

I started to protest when Dad said, "That's right, Tommy.  This job is
perfectly suited for you.  Mom and I want you to take it.  Especially me.
In fact we insist."

Insist?

Mom started to explain.  "You see, Tommy, it's not the kind of job you're
probably thinking.  It's not an office job, though most of it will be done
inside.  Oh, darn.  I'm going to stop tiptoeing around this.  Mr. Johnson
is a very highly-sexed man.  His wife just left to spend the summer with
her sick mother.  He needs a substitute wife.  He wants you.  Not me...or
any other woman.  He wants you."

I froze solid.  Except for my eyeballs, which were able to ascertain both
Mr. Johnson's lustful smile and that horribly erect cock threatening to rip
his trousers apart.

Had everyone gone stark raving bonkers?  Was I dreaming?  Those three
lunatics expected me to go home with Mr. Johnson and let him..."do" me all
summer long?

Dad seemed very eager to get me to accept, since Mom appeared to be Plan B.
Mom seemed to ache to be Plan B.

It was too much to process.  Mr. Johnson was gay!  I would NEVER have
expected it.  And he was crazy.

Well, forget that, I wasn't gay and I wasn't......

"You really don't have much choice, Tommy," Dad said.  "As of now, you
can't live here any more until Mrs. Johnson comes back.  We know you
haven't saved enough money to support yourself.  So do yourself a favor and
go home with Mr. Johnson.  He'll take good care of you."

I was trembling with fear.  Mr. Johnson took pity.  A tiny amount.  "Don't
be afraid, Sweetheart," he said.  "I'll take good care of you.  And nothing
gay will happen."

Nothing gay will happen?  A man is calling me, an 18-year-old boy-man
"sweetheart," but nothing gay will happen.  That would have been
comforting, had it not been a huge; honking lie.

A lie that Mom seemed to believe.  "Daddy was a bit harsh, Tommy.  We love
you, of course and will always be there for you.  But he's right.  You
can't live here this summer.  Mr. Johnson won't do anything gay, because
you'll be his `wife' for the summer.  He'll get you all girlied up in
Mrs. Johnson's pretty things.  She left lots of them for you.  So when you
two have sex -- which should be pretty much all the time when Mr. Johnson
is home [sigh] -- you'll really be a girl having sex with her man.  So no
gayness."

That was supposed to be comforting?

I must have entered Catatonia (which I believe is a new EU member state),
because I only vaguely remember being escorted across the street to my
"summer home" by Mr. Johnson.  No luggage.  Just like going to a sleazy
hotel with one's lover.  Only I couldn't check out.


Chapter Two -- Making a New Friend

I thought I would have to defend my honor with my fists.  In fact, I was
trying to remember some of the moves from the kung-fu movies I liked so
well.  But Mr. Johnson didn't attack me.

Physically.

But he did "attack" me with his biggest weapon.  Besides his cock.

His charm.

"Tommy," he said.  "You just woke up.  I'll bet you're hungry.  Let me make
you some ham and eggs.  Is sourdough toast OK?  And strawberry jam?"

I nodded dumbly.

"Good," he said.  "Let's go in the kitchen and we can talk while I cook.
My wife Ellen loves my cooking.  She doesn't cook much.  Says I keep her
too busy."  He snickered at that.

He fried a nice slab of ham in the pan and said, "You're not entirely
surprised about what just happened are you, Tommy?"

I looked at him in shock.  Of course I was surprised.  Astounded.  And I
said so.

He turned the ham and said, "No.  I don't think so.  You've seen Ellen and
me making love hundreds of times.  Don't deny it.  We saw you often in your
dark room with those big binoculars."

My stomach clenched.  Mr. Johnson knew I was a peeper?

And he still didn't close the shades?

He put the toast in, then removed the ham from the pan and broke four eggs
into it.

"We knew you were watching.  Ellen thought it was exciting.  I didn't care
one way or another, so we let you peep.  And returned the favor."

WHATTTTTTTTTTTTT??????????????????

They knew about what I did?

Shame.  Mortification.  Fear.

He dished two hearty breakfasts out, then put one in front of each of us.

I couldn't possibly eat.  In fact I was about to lose whatever was in my
almost empty stomach.

"It's OK, Honey," he said.  "Everybody has their needs.  We knew you were
whacking your wiener over there but when we saw you in those black,
fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings, that changed things a
bit."

I turned beet red.  My upper lip began to sweat -- coldly.  My first
instinct was to lie.  "I never...OK, just that one time.  To experiment."

Mr. Johnson forked a big bite of ham and eggs into his mouth and said, "Now
we both know that's not true, Tommy.  You've dressed up dozens of times.
We even captured it on DVD if you would like to look at it."

Agggghhhhh.

I started sobbing, "No one was ever to know.  It was just fooling around.
Crazy kid stuff."

Mr. Johnson put down his fork and patted my back.  "It's OK, Tommy.  I
don't fault you for that.  In fact, it made me insanely randy to think
about `having you' when you were dressed up like that.  I'd never thought
about fucking a pantyboy before, but you looked so darned good, I wanted
you bad.  Then, when Ellen had to go away for the summer, I asked her if I
could have you fill in for her.  She agreed instantly.  Said it was way
better than me picking up some disease from a `pro' or having a hot affair
with a neighbor lady -- like someone you know who's been flirting with me
for years.  Ellen knew I couldn't be celibate for more than four hours or
so, so you're the perfect solution."

I was the perfect solution?

I began to blubber more loudly.  "But Mr. Johnson.  I'm not gay.  I don't
want to `do things' with a man."

He looked at me with compassion.  "Now we both know that's not true, don't
we, Tommy?"

I vigorously insisted on my heterosexuality.

Mr. Johnson shook his head.  "Tommy, Tommy.  When you watched us make love,
did you imagine that you were me, gloriously fucking my wife, or my wife,
being gloriously fucked."

I snapped back.  "I imagined I was the man!"

He looked at me as if I were the dumb kid in the class.  "What about on
Tuesdays?"

That stumped me.  "Tuesdays?  I don't..."

"Ellen has a quilting class on Tuesdays.  For years now.  When I get home I
make myself dinner, then go to my room, get naked and wank three or four
times to relieve the day's tensions.  When Ellen gets home, I give her a
good seeing-to, of course."

I didn't get it and gave him a puzzled look.

"Think, Tommy.  If you were imagining yourself as `the man,' why did you
watch another man masturbate for two hours?  You were watching my cock.
Seeing me rub and tease it until it spurted thick, creamy globs of my cum.
You wanted to be there with me. Touching that cock Sucking it.  Didn't
you?"

"No!  I mean, maybe.  I don't know!!!"

And I cried a whole bunch.  Which made Mr. Johnson pull me over to his
chair, sit me on his lap and hold me in his arms.  "There, there, Baby," he
said.  "It's no crime to be who you are."

It was happening all too fast.  Was Mr. Johnson right about my "feelings?"
I honestly didn't know.  It was true that I watched Mr. Johnson pleasure
himself on Tuesday evenings.  In fact, I looked forward to it.  But I was
just picking up technique from a world-class stud.  Wasn't I?

I mean, watching him coax cum from those melon testicles of his excited me
a LOT, but I told myself all kinds of lies about why.  He was my role
model.  Yeah, that was it.  Though occasionally, when my very
carefully-constructed guard was down, I had "the naughty thoughts."

About being a girl for Mr. Johnson.

Dressing pretty for him.

Surrendering to his rampant lust.

Thoughts that made my cheeks hot from shame.

And made my prick burst.

But I never thought that any of those fantasies would come true.  I was
still, even then, as I was sitting on Mr. Johnson's manly lap, with his
virile arms embracing me, pretty sure that I didn't want them to come true.

Fantasy is one thing.  Reality quite another.

But the line was blurring rapidly.

I was afraid that Mr. Johnson would kiss me or grab my peener or something,
but he didn't.  All he did was hold me and comfort me.  Which was quite
nice.  Except for the iron pipe I felt rubbing against my hip.  An iron
pipe which seemed to foreshadow my future.

When I stopped sobbing, Mr. Johnson kissed my forehead. Then he eased me
off his lap and took me by the hand.

"Let's go upstairs, Tommy and get you dressed.  You like to dress, don't
you?"

Omigosh did I love to dress!  Nothing excited me more.  Even watching the
Johnsons having serial anal sex as I stroked myself to a shuddering orgasm
paled in comparison to the feelings I had when I dressed in femmy clothes.

And now I could.  Without hiding or wondering when Mom and Dad would come
home early.  Or find evidence of my secret.

It was a little bit liberating.

But what would happen next?  I would dress pretty for Mr. Johnson.  That
was a wildly exciting notion.  But then he would expect sex, wouldn't he?
Lots of hot, sweaty, wet, shameful, homoerotic sex.

Did I really have a choice?  Did I really want a choice?  Probably not and
probably not.

Mr. Johnson was chattering on about how pretty I would be.  Which made me
suddenly fearful of disappointing him.  How odd that I would worry about
that.  But what if I was kind of a "canine?"

I think he would have wanted me anyway.  The man was horny!  And he hadn't
spilled his seed in almost an hour.

Fortunately, I was all he had dreamed of and more.

Mr. Johnson had me get into the shower as he selected my clothes.  When I
turned off the water and opened the shower door, Mr. Johnson was standing
there, holding a big, fluffy towel and wearing only a smile.

Oh my.  That monster of his looked even more formidable close up.  When
angry, which his cock almost always was, it approached eight inches in
length and was quite thick.  His huge balls were housed in an enormous,
hairy sack that was hanging very low and appeared to be menacingly full of
cum.

He was fucking gorgeous.

Had I thought about it very much, though, I would have bolted.  Wet and
naked.  Running away down the middle of Elm Street , my virtue intact.

But Mr. Johnson gave me no time for such reflection.  He patted me dry,
then blow-dried my medium-length, sandy-blond hair.  He was very attentive
and loving, taking care to brush my hair into a somewhat girlish style,
then attaching two pink barrettes to the hair at my temples.

I wasn't very hirsute, but a careful, slow shaving by Mr. Johnson was next.
My chest, armpits and legs were cleansed of hair.  Leaving my pubes intact,
Mr. Johnson then mortified me (and excited me) by shaving the very private
area between my bottom cheeks.  I was blushing nuclearly when he cleansed
me of all the lather with a washcloth.

Next, he rubbed scented powder all over my sparkling-clean, hairless body.

That felt nice.  So nice that I almost lost my creamy load when he powdered
my pink peeny.  A peeny that had been shamefully erect throughout
Mr. Johnson's careful attentions.

Mr. Johnson sat me down and proceeded to give me an excellent pedicure,
something I had seen him do for Mrs. Johnson dozens of times.  Followed by
a manicure and two coats of red polish.

He was in no hurry, wanting to make things just the way he wanted before he
"made his move" on me.

The sight of his rampant cock, skinned and purple with lust, constantly
leaking creamy goo, was very distracting.  I had the naughtiest thoughts
about it.  Thoughts I tried to suppress, but couldn't.

When Mr. Johnson slipped on the first black, fully-fashioned,
reinforced-heel-and-toe stocking along my sensitive right leg, all the
while giving me a full view of his beautiful cock, I couldn't help myself.
I began helplessly ejaculating all over myself and Mr. Johnson's hairy
chest.

Pure animal lustful relief!

Sensual heaven.

Mortification!!!

For me, anyway.

Mr. Johnson was delighted.  "So you ARE enjoying yourself?  That's
wonderful.  Well, there's plenty more where that came from."

He made no effort to clean any of my goo up.  From me. From him.  From the
floor.

Instead, he rolled up the second stocking, then stood me up and had me put
on a lacy, black garter belt, then hook the stockings to it.  When he was
sure that my seams were straight, he slid on a pair of Mrs. Johnson's best,
black, four-inch-stiletto, fuck-me pumps.

"Stand up, Darling," he said.  "I know you can walk in these.  I've seen
you in big heels before."

He was so masterful.  And I was so excited.  How could I deny him?

My legs felt wonderful!  Stockings on shaved legs are a spectacular
feeling.  And I loved the way the heels shaped my legs and made my bottom
stick out.  I walked around a bit and heard Mr. Johnson actually moan with
lust.

That was a great feeling, girls.  To make a man like that desire you.  Yum.

We weren't through with preparations yet.  Mr. Johnson sat me down at
Mrs. Johnson's vanity and began to apply makeup.  First foundation.  Then
blush.  Then some excellent work on my eyes.  He knew his craft.  I
wondered vaguely how a man's man knew such things.  But I forgot my
questions quickly when I saw the result.

I was gorgeous.

Just as I had always hoped.

Just as Mr. Johnson had hoped.

I would stop traffic.

Poor Mr. Johnson's prick appeared to be blood-red with excitement as he
stood me again for the finishing touch.  He eased a black, diaphanous,
babydoll nightie over my head then encouraged me to admire myself in
Mrs. Johnson's full-length mirror.

I did.

It was incredible.

No wonder Mr. Johnson wanted me.

Any real man on earth would want me.

I was a world-class ball-drainer.

And the man waiting for me on the bed had world-class balls.

How could I argue with that?


Chapter Three -- A Farewell to My Virtue

It appeared that my fate was inevitable.  Which is what all fates are,
otherwise they wouldn't be fates.

But mine was extra-inevitable, because I had decided that some cooperation,
not total surrender, was my best option.

I looked over at Mr. Johnson, who had stripped back the bedcovers,
revealing sparkling-clean sheets.  Either he had changed them while his
wife was dressing to go away or they had fucked on the floor.  Or against
the wall.  Or just standing in the middle of a room.  All of which I had
witnessed at one time or another.

He was lying in bed, on the farthest side from me.

His "beef bayonet" was twitching with need.  And frightfully hard.

Did he really intend to stick that meaty missile into my poor, tiny,
helpless bottomhole?

What do you think, girls?

Slowly, savoring the last few moments of my full heterosexual virtue, I
sissied over to the bed in my big heels.

"You can leave the heels on in bed if you want, Baby," Mr. Johnson
suggested.

That was what pornstars (and Mrs. Johnson) did routinely.  I always thought
it was sexy, so I complied.

That big, virile hunk held his naked arms wide and invited me to his naked
body.  I was stiff and terribly excited as I sat on the bed, then spun to
meet my new lover.

He enfolded me with those loving arms and my first thought, oddly enough
was, "He wants me more than he wants Mom."

I liked that idea.

He held me lightly for a moment and said, "This is the best moment of my
life.  Thank you."

The best moment?  Even after all that fantastic sex with his wife?

It couldn't be true.

But I didn't care.

I sopped it right up.

And surrendered myself to Mr. Johnson's agenda completely.  Almost
completely anyway.

The next morning...

Oh, wait.

Did you want details?

Why didn't you say so?

OK.  So he started kissing my lips.  He was a GREAT kisser.  Tonguing my
tonsils, really.  Getting me steamed and boiling hot.

The way he held me and adored me -- that was what really making me hot.
Being the object of desire is the biggest turn-on in the world.

Also the way he was rubbing the wrinkled button of my anus with his middle
finger as he kissed me.  That was exciting too.

I guess I could have just let him do things to me and let it go at that.
But I decided that Mr. Johnson needed relief and I was going to give it to
him.

With my hand, not my mouth.  I wasn't a cocksucker!

Yet.

Not a decision to be taken lightly.  The first blowjob.  Crosses a big
line.  Can't jump back over that line once you cross it.  Once a
cocksucker, always a cocksucker.

But the poor man needed me so badly.  He was going to implode if I didn't
do something soon.

Of course I was being a bit prudish, since I had only imagined sucking his
cock for like a hundred Tuesdays.  But a handjob it was going to be.

Imagine me thinking that I could hold him off with handjobs and kisses for
two months?

I broke off our kiss and gave him my first coquettish smile.  That melted
him.  And made his poor, needy cock throb hard.

I eased myself away from his torso, watching him react -- his hope growing.

I got onto my stockinged knees, bent at the waist and visually inspected
the object of my desire.

It was weeping precum.  Giggling girlishly, using the thumb and forefinger
of my right hand, I pulled a long, thin strand of the creamy issue straight
up.

He moaned with need.

So much sticky pre-cum!

And it was all because of little old sexy me.

I did a very naughty thing then.  It still surprises me that I did it.
Keeping full eye contact with my "husband for the summer," I licked a nice
load of Mr. Johnson's pre-cum off my fingers.

He groaned so loudly that I thought he would lose his load right then.

Gently, with my manicured, painted fingers, I skinned his thick, red
foreskin all the way back.

He liked that.

"It's so big and hot and hard, Mr. Johnson," I said.  "It's the most
beautiful cock in the world."

Guys like when girls say that.

I skinned and released.  Skinned and released.  All the while telling him
how much I had enjoyed watching him fuck his beautiful wife all those
times.

With my other hand, I rubbed the long, thick shaft of his cock.

"That's very good, Baby," he said.  "Kiss me now and I'll cum for you."

It was very exciting to me to think that I was making him cum.  Just as his
wife did.  Maybe better even.

I leaned over to kiss him, but just as my face reached his, he grunted
manfully and began pumping gallons of goo in thick, creamy ropes.  It shot
straight up and even burned a streak all the way up to and across my right
cheek.

Well, I can tell you that his wife never made him shoot his sperm so far.

Or maybe she was always swallowing it or taking it inside her.

Anyway, I was feeling pretty good about my femininity when he drew me into
a long, passionate kiss and said, "You're fantastic!  This is going to be
the best summer of either of our lives.  But let me thank you properly
right now.  Get on your knees and straddle my shoulders, baby.  I want you
to feed me."

Feed him?

Oh.

That.

Well, my stiffie was pretty outrageous at that point, even though its six,
uncircumcised inches looked wimpy compared to Mr. Johnson's rammer.  So I
was in serious need of relief myself.

I eased myself into a kneeling position, positioning myself so that my cock
was poised at Mr. Johnson's lips.

If Mr. Johnson didn't think sucking my cock was gay, I wasn't going to
argue.  Plus he was about to be a cocksucker and I wasn't.  Yet.

Are you getting the idea that I'm a bit competitive?

Mr. Johnson opened his mouth and said, "It's beautiful.  Let me have it."

So I did.

I slid my red-hot poker between his eager lips and groaned at the
sensations.  A wetness and warmth my pricklet had never known surrounded my
most tender parts.  I had never had any real sex with another person --
except for the three or four times Wanda Hickey had given me a fair-to-good
handjob as payment for helping her pass geometry.

And this was loads better.

And I mean "loads."

I was squealing girlishlessly as I fucked Mr. Johnson's handsome face.  He
seemed quite excited about pleasing me like that.  And I'm not guessing --
I looked over my shoulder and saw his "business" as stiff as it had been
when I "rubbed him off.'

Without thinking that I might be emasculating Mr. Johnson a bit, I slapped
my balls against his chin each time I brought my hips forward.

That didn't bother him either.

I did get a little worried when I felt a debilitating orgasm approaching
and he didn't stop sucking me.  I warned him.  I mean I distinctly remember
saying, "Unnnhhh.  [Squeak.]  Oh, Mr. Johnson, I...."

Plenty of warning, right?

But he just kept licking and sucking my hot, stiff, pink pole.  When I
screamed and pumped my goo down his throat he didn't protest.  He swallowed
eagerly, smacking his lips as if it were a gourmet meal.

My cum is pretty tasty, but he seemed to think it was ambrosia.

I was feeling a lot better about the summer.

So good, in fact that I decided that I would ease up on what I then saw as
an unreasonable policy of mine.

I mean, fair is fair.

He sucked mine, so....

I mean, I had held off sucking hic cock for 24 hours.

Well, 12.

Six, almost.

Actually it was three hours and 42 minutes, but it seemed longer.

It dawned on me that I was hungry for that big slab of prime meat.

Whose big, drippy eye was staring at me as I unstraddled Mr. Johnson and
looked down at his crotch.

It was so "regal," the way it stood so stiffly.  And yet it appeared so
needy.

His cock needed me.

And apparently I needed his cock.

My mouth was actually watering as I thought about taking it into my mouth.
The way I had seen Mrs. Johnson swallow it so many times.

She adored the experience.

Why shouldn't I?

I looked at his drooling peephole.  Then at his eyes.  And I made up my
mind.

"Mr. Johnson," I said.  "Would you please get out of bed and stand up?"

He smiled.  He knew what I wanted and this time he was surrendering to me.

"Whatever you say, Tommy" he said.

He lifted that magnificent, manly body up and hauled it across the room.

He turned and pointed that big weapon at me.

I let my breath out, deciding to move quickly before I lost my courage.

Still in my big heels (I had never removed them) I minced over to where
Mr. Johnson was standing and knelt before him.  My face was even with his
thick rammer.  I looked up at his expectant face, then at his more
expectant cock.

I leaned forward and began to kiss his cockhead.  All over.  Little feather
kisses.  Then a nice, long lick all along the long, blue vein on the right
side of his cock.

He liked it.  I knew.  Mrs. Johnson licked the blue vein a lot.

But it was time to start my own legacy.

I decided to really taste that meat.

Opening my mouth as widely as I could, I addressed Mr. Johnson's cock with
my mouth, then slipped the entire, swollen, velvety, pre-cum-slick head
into my warm, wet, eager mouth.

I know.  I know.  When this story started mere hours ago I was aghast at
being a little cocksucking sissy.

Well, maybe aghast, besides being a good vocabulary word, is too harsh.  I
was hesitant, perhaps.  Wary.

Oh, heck.  I was secretly hoping all along that I could dress up femmy and
find a Mr. Johnson of my own.  I just never thought it would be the real
Mr. Johnson.  Or that my Mom and Dad would be involved.  And so quickly.

But I was going with the flow.  Which would be arriving very quickly if I
kept rolling my tongue on the underside of his sensitive cocktip.

He really enjoyed my moist attentions.

So did I.

All pantyboys are potentially good cocksuckers, each being the proud owner
of an object similar to the one their mouths desire.  But I seemed to have
an exceptional knack for it.

Within three minutes of serious sucking, Mr. Johnson was spasming and
spurting into my mouth.

Way more quickly than I had ever seen him cum when his wife was swallowing
his pork.

Take that, Mrs. Johnson!

Of course with my "girl's big reward," which I worked to get, there were
messy consequences.

I always believed in swallow, not spit.  But it ain't as easy as it looks,
girls.  Especially with a man who has testicles the size of tennis balls.

He darned near choked me with his hot spunk.

Half of it ran out the sides of my mouth and all over my chin.  The other
half I valiantly swallowed.

I thought I would feel gay or guilty.  I felt great!!

And would have probably kept sucking him until he got hard again, then gave
me a second load.

But Mr. Johnson was concerned about me.

"Oh, Tommy!  That was fantastic.  Thank you so much my pretty angel.  And
such a little soldier -- swallowing all that man cream.  Thank you, thank
you.

"But aside from that protein shake, I know you haven't eaten all day.
Let's go downstairs and I'll fix you something.  Let me help you to your
feet.  Good girl."

And he kissed me.  As if my face weren't drenched with sperm.

That alone was very hot!

He went to his bedroom closet and got me a sheer black peignoir to wear
downstairs.  He put on a pair of grey boxers.  That's all.  Then he and I
walked arm in arm down the stairs.  Stopping every couple of steps to kiss
and fondle.

Oh, my.  I was hard again.

Oh my, oh my.  So was he.

The man was an animal!

Wasn't it great?

I thought he might just TAKE me right there on the stairs.  Plunge his cock
into my virginal bottom.  Pump it in and out until I screamed.  But he
didn't.  Darn it.

We went to the kitchen and he assembled the makings of a baloney sandwich
when the doorbell rang.

"Let's ignore it," he said.  Which was fine with me.

I wanted a baloney sandwich, then a baloney where I itched for it.

The ringer was persistent.  Then we heard, "Tommy, Carl.  It's Ruthie
Anderson.  I know you're in there.  I brought you something."

Mom!!

What was her problem?  Was she so horny for Mr. Johnson that she wanted to
push us apart so she could step in?  Or was she just nosy?  Or both.

I was girlied up with a faceful of cum.  Not really presentable, but before
I could duck upstairs, Mr. Johnson yelled, "It's open, Ruthie.  Come in"

And she was on us in a flash.  She was carrying a casserole dish.  She
looked at me, set the dish down and said.  "I just brought some food by.
Thought you would be hungry after an afternoon of getting acquainted.  It
looks as if things moved quickly."

Mom was always mistress of the obvious.  And a pain.

"So," Mom said.  "You seem to be fitting right in over here, Tommy.  I knew
you would.  Don't think I didn't know about you playing dressup and
watching the Johnsons through their bedroom window.  Mothers know these
things.  Still, I didn't think you would be sucking his cock the first
afternoon.  Good for you, Tommy.  We girls have to go after what we want."

Did Mom just compliment me for being a cocksucker?

And for my looks.  "You look beautiful too, Tommy.  You'll be a showstopper
when you get the hang of doing your own makeup.  I can help you.  I can see
your real beauty, even through that big load of sploogee on your face."

I was blushing crimson, but I felt kind of good too.  Mom and I hadn't had
a lot of "moments" in recent years and this was a good one.

Mom flirted with Mr. Johnson a bit, kissed my face in a non-cum-covered
spot, and left.

"Are you OK?" Mr. Johnson asked.

I nodded and said, "I am.  Thanks.  Mom makes good casseroles.  Let's eat
it, then get in bed and stay there for the rest of the weekend."

Mr. Johnson smiled.  And I could see his cock twitch in his boxers.

We were going to eat, then fuck.  Then fuck some more.  As good a plan as
any in the world.

I wolfed down some of the casserole, taking just enough of a break that my
balls had recharged with cum.  I was eager to empty my pretty pearls again
as soon as possible, since it's never a good policy to let sperm sit too
long.  It should be freed.

Mr. Johnson took his time though, eating and then cleaning the dishes.  He
seemed to like to let excitement build a bit.  Or maybe he was just making
sure he had lots of creamy bullets to shoot into my guts.

I, on the other hand, was at that point totally hot to trot.  All I could
think of was getting the "full treatment" I had seen him give Mrs. Johnson.
Though I was just a tiny bit worried about the fact that it might hurt a
bit.  I mean, Mrs. Johnson had one of those pussy things, which seemed more
designed for fucking than my tight, hot, tiny hole.  Still, Mrs. Johnson
had taken Mr. Johnson's Texas-size mustang into her back corral many times
and she seemed to adore entertaining "back there."

By the time Mr. Johnson was ready to bugger me, I was starting to get a
little bit afraid.  But my "summer husband" certainly knew how to distract
me.

When the last dish was washed and put away, he picked me up in his manly
arms and carried me, Rhett Butler style, up the stairs to the bedroom, all
the while kissing me with deep tongue.  I was panting and gasping with
excitement when he laid me on the bed, then turned to close the curtains.

Thank goodness!

If I knew Mom, she was sitting in my room with binoculars, ready to observe
my deflowering.

Well all she would see would be some thick curtains.  So there!

I lay on my back as Mr. Johnson sat next to me and untied my peignoir.  He
opened it fully, exposing my nightie, which he lifted all the way up to my
nipples.

I wasn't sure what his exact agenda was, but at that moment, I surrendered
to him completely.

He noticed.

And he smiled.

That's the part that men like the best, you know.

The moment of surrender.

I was waving the white flag big time.

He leaned over and I opened my mouth to accept his tonguey kiss.  But he
didn't put his lips on my mouth.  He put them on my right nipple.

And he licked it very sensuously.

I screamed.

For two reasons.

First, I was very surprised.

But most of all, I was VERY aroused.

I had no idea that having your nipples licked was so wonderful.  When he
began to gently suck the nipple, I almost lost my boy's cream.

The rogue knew what he was doing, of course.  So he did what men always do.
He raised the stakes.  The bad man interrupted his kissing enough to wet
three of his fingers with his mouth.  Then he repositioned himself slightly
and went after my left nipple.  This time with kisses, licks, sucks AND
little lovebites.

But that's not all.

As he assaulted my "titties," he inserted a wet, rude finger into my
previously untouched bottomhole.  I squealed so loudly, Mom probably heard
me across the street.

Licking and sucking my left nipple, he inserted a second, then third finger
in my "dirty place."  Wiggling them.  Probing.  Until he found what I later
discovered was my prostate.

That did it, ladies.

My eyes opened widely.  I yelped.  And I began pumping sperm from my
untouched cock.  Big, creamy globs of it.

Joy!

That was the best orgasm of my life.  And the night was young.  The summer
was even younger.

I looked at Mr. Johnson.  He was smiling at me.  Proud of himself for
making me into a shuddering, ejaculating, soggy mess.

Just like a man!

My belly was smeared with wet sperm and my face was coated with dry.  It
was time to get a nice load where it mattered most.  Right in the old
pooper.

Once again, Mr. Johnson took his time.  He kissed me and praised my beauty.
Then he helped me out of bed and led me into the bathroom.  He sat me on
his lap and lovingly washed off the cum and makeup from my face.

I thought about stroking his cock as he did all that, but didn't want to
make him cum.  He had a nice, thick, purple "chubby" for me and I wanted it
in my bowels, where it belonged.  Where girls like me took their man's
thick, creamy loads.

When he had cleaned my face, he eased me off his lap, then led me to
Mrs. Johnson's vanity table, where he sat me down and showed me how to use
the cosmetics he had applied on me earlier.  He really took his time
explaining it all to me and, though I was eager for a good stiff fucking, I
really enjoyed it.  Seeing my beauty emerge from a boyish face was like
watching a flower bloom in one of those stop-action films, you know?

I'm proud to say that I did a pretty good job on my first effort, which
took a good half-hour.  I admired myself a bit, but my youthful impatience
demanded action.

"Can we fuck now, Mr. Johnson?" I asked.  "Please?"

Mr. Johnson seemed delighted with my directness.  "Of course, Darling," he
said.  "Let me do what I need to do to make it more pleasurable for you.
But, in full disclosure, I'm afraid it will hurt the first time, no matter
what we do."

I nodded bravely and said, "That's OK, Mr. Johnson.  Make me a real woman,
no matter what it takes."

I wasn't all that brave, really.  I had witnessed Mrs. Johnson taking it
big and hard into her tight hole many times.  She did it with ease and she
did it with great pleasure.  Mr. Johnson was exaggerating, I was sure of
it.  Or maybe he was bragging about how big he was.

Was I ever wrong!

I sissied over to the bed in my big heels and stood there awaiting
instructions.  Mr. Johnson put two large, fluffy pillows on the left side
of the bed, with a hard chair facing the left side of the bed.  He sat in
the chair and directed me to stand with my butt toward him, lean over, and
place my stomach on the pillows.

Was he going to fuck me while I was standing?  And he was sitting?

No and no.

I couldn't see his approach, but I gritted my teeth a bit, expecting a big
cock entering my tender spot.  The surprise was that a different anal
visitor arrived first.

His tongue!

OMG!!!!

What was that wet prober doing in my poor, defenseless anus?

Making me half-crazy with lust is what it was doing.

Licking me in my dirtiest place!

Eating me out!!

The man had no shame.

And it was wonderful.

I felt so adored that someone would think me desirable enough to do
something that DIRTY to me -- for me, actually.  It was very pleasurable.
Even writing about it, making me remember it, gets me boiling HOT.

And, as he always did, Mr. Johnson took his time about it.  He ate my
sissypussy for a good hour, during which my stomach clutched and I spurted
my boy's cream twice.

I was a quivering mess when he stopped and laid me gently onto the bed,
with three big pillows under my stomach.

So I lay there.  Tears in my eyes from the humiliation, shame and raw
animal lust of what had just happened.

I lay there, waiting to be buggered.

Mr. Johnson disappeared into the bathroom.  I could hear him brushing his
teeth and washing his face and hands.  Later he told me that he didn't want
to kiss me with all my anal juices all over his face.

But I think he wanted to make me wait too.

Control.

When he emerged from the bathroom, I peered back at him and saw he was
carrying a tube of lube and sporting a massive erection.  Goodie!

As he stood behind me, I whimpered, encouraging him to do his business in
me.

"You're a perfect angel, Tommy," Mr. Johnson said.  "Let me just lube us
both up and we'll take you to a new solar system."

Gently, as he always acted, he lubricated and dilated my virgin pootie with
two, then three skilled fingers.  He only nipped my prostate, saving his
full frontal assault on that for his stabber.

When he was convinced that he had done all he could to minimize my
discomfort, he lubed his thick, stiff meat, tossed the lube tube away and
joined me on the bed.  Kneeling between my legs.  Positioning his cock at
the entrance to my bottom.

He teased me a bit by rubbing his peehole against my wrinkled button a bit.
I almost lost my creamy load right then, ladies.

But that was a mere appetizer.  A shrimp puff before the prime rib.

"Be brave, my darling," he said.

I mumbled, "Fuck me," softly and waited for my trip to paradise.

Unfortunately, the first stop was at paradise's antithesis.

He stuck his fist-sized cockhead into me.  My eyes opened completely wide
and I screamed like a little girl banshee.

My guts were being ripped apart!

The pain!!!

I had to get out of there!

The pain was too much.

But then he stopped his assault on my pussy.

I wiggled trying to escape.  But Mr. Johnson held me fast.

"It's OK, Tommy.  As I told you, it always hurts at first.  I'll give you a
moment to get used to it before I press on."

There was more?!?!

I couldn't!

I was leaving him.  Going straight.  Burning my panties.  Joining the
Republican Party.

But then he said, "Mrs. Johnson didn't like it at first either, but you saw
how much she enjoyed it.  You're as good as she is, right?"

Challenged.

I hated to be challenged.

I was at least as good as Mrs. Johnson.  Earlier my "summer husband" said
he had never been so excited in his life.  Maybe if I bit the pillow or
something I could endure it.

But then two good things happened.

Slowly, the pain eased, then disappeared.

Then Mr. Johnson reached around my hips and began to skin my cockhead.
Sweetly.  Up and down.  Beautifully.

And the pain melted into pleasure.

For the moment.

But wait.

"I'm going to put the rest of my cock into you, Sweetheart," he said.
"I'll hurt, but not as badly.  Then we'll pause and it'll be fine."

True to his word, he pushed and it hurt.  Bad.  But not as badly as the
first shove.  And his skillful skinning was making me pant and gasp as I
neared orgasm.

He paused again.  This time he leaned over and kissed my neck.  Sweet words
of love and a very nice peeny tickle made the experience as comfortable as
possible for a young man with a telephone pole up his ass.

The third and last push was the easiest of them all.  The rubbing against
my prostate and the manly fingers on my glans had me screaming and
ejaculating helplessly.

I was so overcome by my intense, mostly-anal orgasm that I didn't
immediately notice that Mr. Johnson was fucking me in full earnestness.
And it hardly hurt.  Then it didn't hurt at all.  Then it felt GREAT!!

I felt loved and sexy and randy as all-get-out.  But what I mostly felt was
"full."  If Mr. Johnson had had one more cubic millimeter of cock, my anal
cavity would have burst.  But he had just enough to completely, and I mean
completely fill me.

That hard, hot, huge cock rubbing against my tender prostate.  Ooooh.  I
couldn't get hard again just yet, but I felt rumblings in my testicles
anyway.  Was I going to....?

Mr. Johnson put more of his weight on me, kissed my neck and for the first
time whispered, "I love you, Tommy."

That did it.  My limp, tortured cock drooled out a stream of watery sperm.
But the rest of my body felt a tsunami-like orgasm.  An orgasm that I felt
to the tip of each painted toenail.

My shuddering cumfest triggered Mr. Johnson's own pleasure.  He grunted
manfully and shoved his rammer into me more rapidly.

I was stretched horribly!  But the walls held firm.  Even though they were
flooded with a rich, creamy cocktail of manly sperm and semen.

My bottomhole received its first load of sperm.

And I felt several things at once.

First, I felt an urgent need to reject the hot, creamy enema.  I needed to
poop, girls.  You know the feeling, I'm sure.

Thank goodness, I was able to suppress the urge.

Next, I felt horribly, totally and irrevocably emasculated.  I could never
hold my head high as a heterosexual male again.  Strangely, I was OK with
that.  Happy, even.

My future was either destroyed, or secure.  I couldn't decide which.

My mind and body were preoccupied, you see, by the complete sexual
gratification and boundless pleasure I was feeling.

And my anticipation of a whole summer of similar, if not better fun.

Mr. Johnson took his time completely emptying his testicles into my ravaged
bottom.  He had also put about 90 percent of his weight on me, which was
not uncomfortable at all.  I loved the feeling of his chest hairs rubbing
against my back.

And I loved that I had given him such pleasure.

I was happier than I had ever been and filled with broad anticipation for
the future.  A future, I hoped, that would soon include a second fucking.
Then a third.  And lots of other tasty treats.

But when Mr. Johnson had finished "doing his business" in my bottom, and
his thick, limp, sopping cock had plopped out, all I wanted to do was run
to the toilet and empty my very full bowels.

One of my high-heeled pumps had come off during our "wrestling match,"
which slowed me down as I wiggled from the bed to the bathroom.  I flung
the toilet cover up, then flopped my pretty bottom on the seat and let
things go.

Oh my.

It was messy.  Cum and poop.

And quite a bit of soreness back there as I made things better.

It was more than a little embarrassing.  And very private.  Which is why I
was a bit put out when Mr. Johnson opened the closed bathroom door and
intruded on me.

And he didn't even apologize.

Instead, he just walked over to the bathroom sink, grabbed a washcloth,
soaped it up, and began to wash his thick, drooping cock.

He smiled at me, the rogue, as I sat on the porcelain throne.  "That was
the best fuck I've ever had in my life, Tommy," he said.  "Thank you so
much."

Well, that made things much better.

I smiled back.

"You even look sexy cleaning out your bowels," Mr. Johnson said.  "It's
natural, you know.  Feeling like that after your first anal sex.  Ellen was
like that for a while, then no problem."

That was comforting.  I smiled again.  Was he going to ravage me again?
Right there in the bathroom?  Or soon, at least?

I hoped so.

Not yet.  The man was maddeningly patient.

"I'm washing my cock, Tommy, because it's been up your bottom.  If you
wanted to suck it or something -- hint, hint -- I want it to taste clean
and fresh to you."

Sucking his cock sounded like a great idea!

He saw that his message had gotten through, so he finished washing and
drying his cock (it was already half hard) and said, "I'm going back to
bed, Sweetie.  Join me when you're ready."

I was ready!  Almost.

I flushed, wiped myself really good, then cleaned myself "back there" with
a soapy washcloth.

I looked in the mirror.  Goodness.  I looked as if I had been run over by a
truck filled with big-cocked men.  Not much I could do at that moment,
being ultra-randy and all.  So I touched up my lipstick, tucked my hair
under my barrettes, straightened my garter belt and stockings seams, kicked
off my remaining high-heeled pump, and reentered the arena.

The lion was waiting.

And his cock was fully reawakened.

He stood when I entered the room and held his arms open for me.  I flung
myself into his arms and was pelted with kisses and desperate embraces.

Before I knew what was what, I had slipped to my knees and was sucking
Mr. Johnson's hot boner.

It was yummy.

With a faint taste of soap.

We both knew that was just a preliminary.  He was going to fuck me again.

Yum.

When his cock was scorching hot and tungsten hard, I stood up and lay on my
back on the bed.  I wasn't sure how ass-fucking in the missionary position
was done exactly, but I was counting on my guide to show me the way.

He said, "Now I'll fuck you the way a man fucks his woman.  On her back,
with her legs spread wide."

I shuddered with lust.

Mr. Johnson eased two pillows under my hips, then mounted me.  He slid my
ankles over his shoulders, then began to ease his cockhead into my
sissypussy.  It was much easier than the first time.  But no picnic.

It hurt a bit.  But not terribly.

I loved seeing the look of lust as we locked eyes and he eased his "big
boy" into me.

I felt pressure more than pain.  Then, I realized, he was all in.  He
stroked in and out once and I squealed from the delightful agony of the
prostate massage.  He liked that.

Men dig the sound effects, girls.

They also dig "surrender."

Lying there on your back.

Helpless.

Pinned under their superior masculinity.

Submitting fully to the man's filthy lust.

Satisfying all his disgusting needs.

I felt completely helpless and girlish as he grunted and pumped his beef
bayonet into me.

And completely delighted.

I spurted all over myself, of course.  And got my bowels soaked soon after.

Was this heaven?

It sure wasn't Iowa .

When Mr. Johnson was through "using" me, he rolled off and lay next to me,
on his back.

I think I actually had him fucked out, girls.  At that instant, anyway.

A proud moment for pantyboydom!

Just to be sure, I eased myself down and took his limp, cum-soaked,
poopy-tasting cock into my mouth and nursed on it until I heard the sound
we're most likely to hear after we've been well-fucked.

Snoring.

Superman was exhausted.  And I was his Kryptonite.

I stopped sucking, lay next to my man, covered us with a sheet and fell
asleep.

The bad boy recovered his powers at 3:13, fucked me from behind until 3:34,
then collapsed and snored yet again.  I got a similar, delightful dose at
7:12, on my back this time, with lots of great kissing.  Which would have
been greater had he shaved that sandpaper beard.

After we had both delightedly emptied our testicles, I was ready for
anything.  Except for what happened.

He carried me into the bathroom -- good -- fucked me beautifully in the
shower -- very good -- then told me we were going to church.

Huh?

"Ellen and I go every week, Tommy," Mr. Johnson said.  "We're following the
same pattern, so you're going too.  Besides, it'll be good for you to get
out.  Fresh air and all that."

But I didn't want fresh air.  I wanted stale, bedroom air.  That smelled
like cum.

And going out as Mrs. Johnson's substitute was something I hadn't even
considered.  I thought we were just going to stay in the house and fuck.
He was going to quit his job and fuck me all day long.  You know.

The beast wanted me to go "out!!!!"

I couldn't.

I refused.

He didn't accept my refusal.

"We're going to 10 a.m. mass at Saint Travestia's," he said.  "I'll pick
out a nice outfit for you, but you'll have to do your make-up and hair.
And, Sweetheart, don't forget to shave.  You're not hairy, but you have
some beard elements and I don't want anyone figuring out too much."

Well, that was humiliating.  And potentially mortifying.

As well as terrifying.

Quite a stew of discomfort.

I ALMOST told Mr. Johnson to stuff his cock into his pants and keep it
there.  I would just reclaim my masculinity, get a construction job for the
summer...and maybe a motorcycle...and butch up.  Just put the past 24 hours
down as one of life's cruel incongruities and move on.

Almost.

Truth was, I loved being a girl.

The dressing was almost as much fun as the fucking.

And he was offering me the chance to dress in street clothes.  Followed by
fucking, I was certain.

There were a few hideous hurdles, of course.  Like walking into a church
full of people, many of whom I knew.  As a girl.  A very sexy girl.  Being
"outed" probably.  As a crossdressing, cocksucking little faggot.  Which
was, apparently, what I was.  But no need to advertise it.

Of course, if I played my role really well, maybe no one would know it was
me under all that femininity.

That was the only real option.

Which was some comfort, but not much.

I sighed.  And shaved my face very closely.  Then I sat at Mrs. Johnson's
vanity.  Tried to remember the make-up routine I had learned yesterday.
When I was a virgin.  I giggled at that. It was much more fun NOT being a
virgin all right.

Mr. Johnson smiled smugly at my surrender and began digging into
Mrs. Johnson's closet for my debut outfit -- or "outed"-fit, perhaps.

I did a quite passable job on my face actually.  Darned passable.  I got a
nice stiffie looking at my beauty.  Or was it thinking about the potential
humiliation ahead?  For some primally obscure reason, the prospect of
humiliation and emasculation made my dick hard.

When I rose to show Mr. Johnson the results, I thought he might abandon his
plan and go back to mine -- ten weeks of housebound sex.

But no.

"You're gorgeous, Darling," he said.  "We only have an hour, so let's get
you dressed."

First, I put on a pair of ultra-sheer, tan, seamed, fully-fashioned,
reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings.  I almost creamed from their gossamer
embrace.  Then I hooked them to a pretty, white, ruffled garter belt.  I
looked at Mr. Johnson to see if he wanted to fuck me yet.  He did.
Mr. Johnson's namesake was stiff and drippy.  But he didn't make a move on
me.  Instead, he handed me my first bra.  A white trainer, that he must
have purchased just for me, since Mrs. Johnson had brabuster titties and I
had, at best, puffy nipples.

"I know you don't think you need a bra," he said, "but it'll make you feel
more feminine."

He was right.  The cruel beast.

Did I mention that he was completely nude and painfully rampant during the
whole process of getting me dressed for public viewing?

It was most distracting.

I loved the feel of a brassiere on my chest. The silky material tormenting
my tender nipples.  The sheer girlishness of it all.

And what goes with a first bra?

That's right.  My first panties.

Since my stiff popsy had been pretty much breathing free air for the past
24 hours, I hadn't yet experienced the girlish thrill of panties.

Mr. Johnson had selected a tantalizing pair for me.  Pink and translucent.
Gossamer thin and silky slick.  Wispy, yet capable of inducing a major
blood-to-cock rush in any man who viewed them in their occupied state.

I wanted to occupy them.

I slid each stockinged leg into the little teasers then slid them up and
over my testicles.  Ooohh.  But then they encountered "stiff resistance."

My aroused "package" was too big for the panties' delicate space.

I was disappointed.

But Mr. Johnson acted quickly and effectively.

He sat in a chair and asked me to "sissy over" to him.

I did so and received a delightful reward.  He took my blood-red peeny into
his loving mouth and kissed, licked, sucked, tongued and otherwise adored
it until I blasted a nice creamy load down his manly throat.

He swallowed it all, quite tidily.  Then, when I was at maximum, post-cum
droop, he tucked my cock and pink bag into the sweet panties.

I thought perhaps that we would then stay and make love instead of embark
on our hazardous expedition.

But no.

"Twenty-seven minutes until we leave for church," the obsessive brute said.

He arose and went to his closet for his clothes.  Like all men, it took him
about ten seconds to get dressed.  And he looked gorgeous in his tan summer
suit, blue shirt, yellow tie and brown wingtips.

Then he handed me the prettiest, sky-blue sundress!

"You'll look beautiful in this, Baby," he said.  And he was right.

It had inch-thick straps, covering my bra straps while exposing my bare
shoulders to the world for one of the first times in my life (except for
the pool and beach).  The way the sundress was cut, my lack of boobs was
not glaring.  The length was perfect too, just below my stocking tops --
sexy, but not slutty -- the look I found suited me best.

I slid on a pair of pretty, sky-blue, strappy sandals with
three-inch-stiletto heels and worshipped myself in the full-length mirror.

I was hot.  Great legs, accentuated by the heels and retro, seamed
stockings.

And even "passable."  Maybe.  If I acted feminine and didn't talk much --
work on the voice was definitely needed.

Mr. Johnson wolf-whistled appreciatively and I saw him almost abandon his
plan for my plan -- but no.

He kissed me lightly -- to preserve the makeup -- praised my beauty and led
me to the car.

He opened the door for me and said, "Keep your knees together when you get
in and out of the car.  That's it.  Seatbelt.  OK, let's go."

And we were off.


Chapter Four -- The new Mrs. Johnson meets the public.

I was trembling during the entire five-minute ride to church.  Mr. Johnson
tried to calm me down.  He even suggested that I call him, "Carl," at least
in public, since the ice had pretty much been broken between us.

I liked calling him Mr. Johnson.  It just seemed "dirtier" and I liked
dirtier.

But I decided that around others, I would call him Carl.

Mr. Johnson pulled into a parking space, got out of the car, and hustled
around to open the door for me.  I liked that, and I even remembered to
keep my knees together as I got out.  I was looking forward to separating
those knees when we got home from church,

I stood up and looked around.  It was about ten minutes before mass -- peak
arrival time -- and people were getting out of their cars in large numbers.

You'll be surprised to know that an odd thing happened -- one of many in my
odd life.  People were greeting each other and chatting and so forth.
Scanning the parking lot for people they knew.  But as each man and many of
the women saw me -- little old me -- they stopped scanning and started
staring.

I panicked.  They knew I was a male.  I was going to be drawn, quartered,
tarred, feathered and ridden out of town on a rail specially reserved for
gay people..

But no.

They were looking at me because, as they say in the movie trailers, in a
world of masculine women, I oozed femininity.  From my pretty, painted toes
shimmering beneath the reinforced portion of my tan, fully-fashioned
stockings to the blue, flat, circular hat Mr. Johnson gave me to hide my
shortish, boyish hair, I was feminine.  And darned pretty as well.

Well, well.

I noticed more than one lump in a churchgoer's pants.

For me!

Well, well.

We walked slowly toward church as I drank in the male adulation.  What a
lovely development.  And what a boost to both my confidence and my fragile
ego.

Everything was perfect until I heard, "Good morning, Carl.  Good morning,
Tommy."

I turned around to see Mom, with Dad in tow. Mom was such a pain, though I
must say that she looked stunningly gorgeous that Sunday morning.  Pretty
yellow summer dress.  Stockings and big heels.  Perfect makeup.  Where had
THAT Mom been all my life?

I prayed under my breath that Mom wouldn't blow my cover.  Mr. Johnson said
quickly, "Good morning, Ruthie.  Ralph.  I'd like you to meet my cousin
Tara.  She's staying with me while she does a summer internship at my
firm."

Tara ?

I was Tara ?

I guessed I was.

Good backstory too!

Would Mom go along?  Or make a scene?

"Of course," Mom said.  "So nice to meet you, Tara.  Please come by for
dinner with Carl some evening.  If you two aren't too busy.  [Giggle]."

Giggle?

Mom didn't giggle.

Dad seemed ambivalent about the strange goings-on around him.  He was
standing with his obviously, sexually-resurrected, newly delicious wife,
who was probably not girlying up for him (though I did learn later that he
was "getting more" than he had in years); facing his girly-sexy,
well-fucked son and the son's well-fucker.

Seeing me as a girl -- a sexy girl -- didn't seem to bother Dad.  In fact,
it seemed to tent his pants.  What bothered him, it seemed, was that his
wife was flirting -- obviously and excessively -- with Mr. Johnson.

If mass weren't starting in less than a minute, Mom would have had her
panties off, right there.  I was sure of it.  Or maybe she wasn't even
wearing panties.

What the heck had gotten into her?  Was throwing herself at Mr. Johnson
something she'd always wanted to, but couldn't do it when Mrs. Johnson was
around?

That made the most sense.

Well, she wasn't going to get past me, either!!

I would defend my turf, thank you.

We went into the church and, thankfully, Mom and Dad sat on the left side
and Mr. Johnson and I on the right.

Mass was uneventful, except for a man at the end of my pew who couldn't
seem to take his eyes off my legs.

Couldn't blame him, really.  I had great legs!  And the stockings and shoes
were very sexy.  I had a very naughty daydream about taking my shoes off
and letting that man smell my shoes...or even kiss my feet.  I'll bet he
would have creamed his pants!

When mass was over, I thought we were going home for a proper fucking.

Goodness knows I was ready.  All that walking around as a girl had me quite
hot and steamy.

But no.

Mr. Johnson led me to the car and helped me in.  When he got in and started
the car, he said, "Let's get lunch."

I was a little disappointed, since the lunch I wanted was between his legs.
But I had gained a little self-confidence and was OK with pushing the
envelope a bit.

We went to a nice, outdoor café near the church and had a delicious lunch,
which was even more delicious because of all the male attention I was
getting.

Everything was new and better in my life.  I even loved the short walks to
and from the parking lot.  Feeling the tug of my garters on my stockings.
The breeze up my skirts.  The tantalizing notion that a gust of wind or a
naughty man could easily lift my skirts and expose my panties!

We didn't go right home after lunch.  We stopped at a nice jewelry store to
get my ears pierced (ow!).

By then even slowpoke Mr. Johnson had had enough celibacy in his life.  We
sped to his home -- our home, really -- where, when we got in the door, he
guided me to the dining room, bent me over the table, lifted my pretty
dress from behind, dropped my panties and fucked me quite thoroughly.  I
was proud of how well I was able to take a good ramming without losing my
balance in pencil heels.  And, of course, I spurted a nice, creamy load all
over the inside of my dress.  Some gooies seeped through to the dining room
table where I had eaten Mom's casserole the day before.

An hour later, Mr. Johnson and I were in bed.  I had stripped to garters,
stockings and heels and Mr. Johnson was licking my testicles as he fingered
my bottom.  Which made me cum, screaming his name.  Then he mounted me
missionary-style and gave me another taste of paradise.

That pretty much described the rest of that fine weekend.  And when Monday
morning came, I did everything in my power to keep Mr. Johnson from going
to work and staying in bed with me.

No luck.

We said a reluctant goodbye at the front door.  I was wearing just a
post-shower, post-fucking, floor-length, diaphanous, black peignoir.  I
offered Mr. Johnson the full use of every wet orifice I owned, but he said,
"Sweetheart, for our `marriage' to work, we have to be honest.  First, if
we spent 24/7, 365 together, the magic would be gone.  Second, I have to
work for the mortgage and food.  And third, I promised Ellen that if I had
you for the summer, you had to follow the same schedule she did.  Monday is
definitely a laundry and dry-cleaning day.  I mean, look at all the cummy
sheets and clothes from our weekend, let alone the rest of the week.  And
you need to get dressed, get in the car and take that pile of drycleaning
to the cleaners, and pick up what's there.  We all have to earn our keep,
Sweetie.  I'll be home at 5:15.  Wear something pretty and lube up that
delicious tushie hole of yours.  Bye, Honey."

He kissed me and was gone.

The beast!

He expected me to stay home and do his drudgery?  And worse, get dressed
and go out as a girl?  Drive a car, with a boy's driver's license?  What if
I were stopped?

I'd probably have to do some unspeakable act (or acts) to get the policeman
to forget about a ticket.  [Shudder].

But there were two truly horrible aspects to what Mr. Johnson just said and
did.  First, it would be ten hours until I had sex!!!  And second, I didn't
have a clue about how to do laundry.

My eyes welled up with girlish tears of frustration, abandonment and dread.

Then the back door opened and I beheld a sight that was usually unwelcome,
but not at that moment.

"Good morning, ` Tara ,'" Mom said as she burst into the kitchen carrying
another casserole.  "Anything I can do to help the new bride?"

Mom looked sexy and feminine once again and the casserole meant that at
least my slavemaster husband wouldn't complain about not being fed that
night.  But the best part was that Mom knew how to do stuff and I didn't.
So I threw myself on her reasonably tender mercies.

I hugged her and sobbed.  "Oh Mom [sob].  My husband is a miserable beast!
He left me all this laundry and all his errands.  And he wants me to get
dressed as a girl, go out, and risk being molested to do his stupid jobs.
I don't know how to do laundry, Mom.  That was why I had you!  [Sob]
[Boo-hoo]

Mom hugged and comforted me for a couple of nanoseconds.  Then she said,
"He left you about 90 minutes worth of work to do in ten hours.  The rest
of the time you can spend in making yourself beautiful or whatever Ellen
Johnson does all day.  Now snap out of it and let's do things."

Good, old, sympathetic Mom.

She was right, of course.

The Johnsons had two huge washers and two dryers, since they changed
cum-drenched sheets and maybe cum-drenched rugs and draperies as often as
most people change their opinions.

When Mom showed me how to separate the clothes, I counted twelve sets of
sheets and pillowcases.  There were also six pairs of Mrs. Johnson's soiled
panties, which I must admit, I sniffed when Mom wasn't looking.  They
smelled like Mr. Johnson's cock tasted when I first sucked his cock.  The
delicious aroma of pussy, I presumed.

Having gotten that started, Mom took me to the bedroom and gave me another
makeup lesson.  She gave me some great pointers and I looked even better
than my normally beautiful self.  Couldn't wait until I could show
Mr. Johnson my new beauty.  In eight hours and 50 minutes.

By the time my makeup was finished, it was time to put the first loads of
clothes into the dryers and start the second loads in the washer.

While that was happening, Mom showed me the pretty outfit she "suggested" I
wear that day.  Nearly-nude, seamed, fully-fashioned,
reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings; a wispy white garter belt; a thin,
white, lacy, training bra she had bought me; pretty, pink, strappy mule
sandals with three-inch-stiletto heels, pink, bikini panties, and a pink
sundress that exposed my creamy shoulders once again to the world of men.

I drenched my panties looking at myself in the mirror and had to change
them as Mom watched.

After some more laundry switching and folding it was 11:30 and time to do
the errands.

I thanked Mom for her help and strongly encouraged her to leave.  I could
handle things from there, I told her with new confidence.

Plus, I was eager to go out into the world dressed as I was.  Even though
it was only to the cleaners and the post office.

I started Mrs. Johnson's car and backed out of the driveway.
Problem. Driving in pretty, pink, strappy mule sandals with
three-inch-stiletto heels took a little practice.

Somehow, I avoided fatalities and arrived safely at the cleaners.  I
grabbed my bag of clothes and clopped into the shop.

"May I help you?" asked the nice Korean-American man behind the counter.

"Yes, please.  I have two men's suits, two ties and six dress shirts, as
well as seven women's dresses.  And a pickup for Johnson."

"Johnson?" he said.  "Oh, you're Tara !  Mr. Johnson's cousin.
Mrs. Johnson said to expect you.  You're very pretty.  Just like she said.
You got a boyfriend?"

I blushed at the question.  I sort of had a husband, but no boyfriend.
Before I could answer, he said, "Sorry.  My son is single and I know he
would like you.  A lot.  Any man would like you."

I blushed again and wondered what he would think if he knew about the
"snake" in my panties.

The nice man gave me last week's dry cleaning and I paid him.  "See you
next Monday," he said.  And I left.

The trip to the post office, mundane as that sounds, was exciting too.  Men
staring.  Getting "lumpy" as they watched me.

I had been living in black and white.  Life as a girl was in Technicolor.

I was feeling pretty good about things when I pulled into our driveway at
around 12:45.  Mr. Johnson would be home in four and a half hours and I
would get what I really needed.

But the day took another unforeseen turn.

There was a van parked across the street. It was marked, "Lopez Pool
Service."

I had never seen a pool service van in the neighborhood before, but I had
always been at school or camp or working or something during the day.

When I got out of the car, a man got out of the van and walked over to me.
That was odd.  Though not unpleasant.  The man was young -- around 25 --
quite handsome.  Muscular too.  Manly.  And he was undressing me with his
eyes.

Should I be fearful?

"Good afternoon, Ma'am," he said, respectfully.  "My name is Ramon and
every Monday at this time I help Mrs. Johnson.  She told me she would be
gone, but I could help you.  Are you Tara ?"

I nodded, but I was very confused.

We didn't have a pool.  Nor did anyone in the neighborhood.

When I mumbled something about that to Ramon, he said, "Yes, Ma'am, but
what I do is for Mrs. Johnson, not for her pool.  She told me to tell you
that everybody loves Ramon."

Huh?

Ramon was fucking Mrs. Johnson?  Every Monday afternoon.  And he wanted to
fuck me?

I couldn't!!!

I had to remain faithful to my husband.

But I also had to follow Mr. Johnson's orders, didn't I?

He said to follow Mrs. Johnson's routine.

And Ramon was making my knees weak and my peeny drip.

I nodded and said, "OK, Ramon.  Let me get my house key.  But my husband
comes home at 5:15.  You're sure you'll be gone by then?  And you're sure
this is OK?"

Ramon assured me that he wouldn't take advantage of my trusting nature.
Just as men have assured women for centuries.

I had one additional moment of panic as I led Ramon up the stairs to the
guest bedroom.  How would he react when he saw my "little person" and my
"pink purse?"  Or had Mrs. Johnson warned him?

Ramon only seemed to be interested in the glimpses he caught of my pantied
bottom as I climbed the stairs.

I was trembling a bit as I led him to the guest bedroom.  I also thought,
"Crap, more sheets to wash."

But then Ramon began to show me all was for the best.

He strode up behind me and began to kiss my bare shoulders as he skillfully
and thrillingly felt me up.

His rough, calloused, workman's hands caressed my bottom cheeks deliciously
and his hot lips on the place where my left shoulder met my neck had me
practically cumming my panties (more laundry).

He reached up to fondle my breasts and seemed a little confused when he
couldn't find any.

Then, he reached to rub my pussy into soppingness, but that wasn't there
either.  Something hot and stiff was.

And that was the worrisome moment.  Bad things could have happened.
Physical harm to my person even.

Thankfully, Ramon was a very sensible young man.  And an intelligent one.
It took him about five seconds to figure out the situation, another five to
evaluate it and five more seconds to express his feelings.

"I think I hit the lottery today.  Tara , we're going to be great friends."

Whew!

Ramon was frightfully excited about the prospect of fucking a pretty
pantyboy every Monday that summer.

And the pantyboy was even more excited about being fucked by Ramon.

He was good.

He took his shirt off to reveal rows of muscles.  Then his pants to reveal
a nice, above-average cock.

He undressed me to my stockings, heels and garters, the uniform men want
their women in for a proper fucking.

Then, that macho, never-touched-a-pantyboy-before man, lay next to me and
kissed me as he stroked my cock to a creamy conclusion.

I got onto my knees and gave him an excellent blowjob, then proudly
swallowed a nice, creamy load (though not as creamy or substantial as my
husband's).

Things got a little awkward after that, since I don't think Ramon had
engaged in a lot of anal sex in his life.  I showed him how to lube me with
his fingers, which he was a little squeamish about at first, but became
quite enthusiastic when he saw how much I enjoyed it.  I was actually
hoping that he would "eat me out," but the summer was young.

Ramon spooned up to me from behind, both of us on our left sides.  I
relaxed my bottom and helped him as much as I could.  And what do you know?
Ramon learned a new skill.

He was a fast learner.  Once he got his cock inside me, Ramon was an
excellent fucker.  I turned my head for a kiss as we fucked and Ramon
eagerly smooched as we grunted and grappled to a very nice, simultaneous
orgasm.

Then Ramon showed me his biggest advantage over my husband.  Twenty minutes
after my anus rejected his limp, spent cock, he was hard as diamonds, had
me on my back and was skewering me properly, as the missionaries did.

By four o'clock, I had been fucked very nicely four times, Ramon had just
left and I was beginning to panic.  My husband would be home in 75 minutes
and the house smelled like a boy's boarding school an hour after lights
out.

Mrs. Johnson had dealt with this often, I reasoned quickly.  So I looked in
the linen closet and found about 20 cans of air freshener.  I frantically
sprayed the entire upstairs and changed the smell from cum and sweat to
cum, sweat and air freshener.

Then I stripped the sheets, buried them in a laundry hamper and remade the
bed.  I stripped off my stockings and garters and ran into the shower.  I
hastily cleaned my body, especially my drooling bottom.  Then I patted
myself dry and applied powder all over my body.  It took me about ten
minutes to apply my makeup (not bad) and another ten minutes to slide into
fresh, black, seamed, fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings; a
pretty, black garter belt; a black, filmy, babydoll top; and black,
strappy, mule sandals.  No panties.

Sex personified.

I was ready at 5:12 and standing at the front door to greet my husband at
5:15.

My plan was to greet him with an on-the-knees, sloppy blowjob.  Taking his
thick, all-day load all over my face.  Then throw myself at his mercy for
my sins.  Cry a lot -- that melts men's hearts.  Swear it'll never happen
again.  Then give him the night of his life.

Maybe he wouldn't kill me.

Mr. Johnson opened the door and saw me.  He smiled greedily, then kissed me
deeply and hungrily and my first worry was over.  I didn't think that,
after Ramon fucking me for three hours and making me cum until all I had
was drool, I would be able to "get it up."

I was wrong.

Mr. Johnson excited me.  Just looking at me was all it took.

Too bad he would be burying me in a shallow grave before the evening was
out.

We barely got the front door closed and I was on my knees extracting his
stiff cock. I locked eyes with him and took the whole head into my mouth
for a nice suck.

One complication.

A big one.

His cock didn't taste the way it did when he left for work that morning.
It tasted the way it had the first time I sucked it.  The day Mrs. Johnson
left.

His cock tasted like pussy!

At that moment, I remembered Mrs. Johnson's comment that Mr. Johnson
couldn't go more than four hours without sex.  It had been ten hours.

Mr. Johnson was fucking someone at work.  Or someones.

Two emotions for me.

Jealousy.  I would scratch that witch or witches' eyes out!

That passed quickly and was replaced with relief.  No need to confess
anything.  This was apparently the "deal" the Johnsons had made with each
other: when together, we fuck each other's brains out.  When not together,
we fuck everyone else's brains out.

Cool.

So, Mondays were for Ramon.

Cool.


Chapter Five -- Beyond Ramon

Well, that Monday night, you would have thought both Mr. Johnson and I had
been sex-starved all day. We humped heavily -- took a casserole break --
then resumed.  I had lots of spurties and so did Mr. Johnson.

We fell asleep exhausted at around ten, got a middle-of-the-night quickie
in around three or so, then an eye opener at six.  Although it actually
closed my eyes, because Mr. Johnson sprayed cum all over them and they were
difficult to open.

But that's a minor point.

We were monogamous sweethearts and would be until we got together after
work that night.

Ooops.  I had forgotten that Tuesday was Mrs. Johnson's quilting night.

BORING!  Instead of having my bottom stretched by Mr. Johnson, I would be
sticking needles into some old cloth thing with a bunch of old, dried-up
biddies.

I wouldn't even see Mr. Johnson until around ten that night, since
Mrs. Manfred would be picking me up at the house at 4:30 for the quilting
bee.

"It's all for charity, Darling," Mr. Johnson said as he left for work.
Where he would be doing some serious fucking.  Of women!

I thought idly that the charity thing must be why I saw no evidence of any
quilts or quilting stuff around the house.

I pouted a little after he left.  What was I going to do at a quilting bee?
I didn't sew.  Maybe I could gossip.

I decided to get out a little and see the world.  So I girlied myself up,
that time in a pink, summer, minidress with matching, pink,
fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings, pink garter belt, and
some darling pink pumps with a daring, four-inch heel.  I was just about to
get into the car and drive around a bit when Mom appeared again.

Was it me, or was she dressing sexier every time I saw her?  She was
looking quite fine in a yellow, summer dress, dark-brown, fully-fashioned,
reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings and yellow pumps.  And she accessorized
with a casserole.

"You two need to keep your energy up, Tara ," Mom said.

I blushed, of course, then more hotly when she said, "I believe some of
Carl's cum oozed from your bottom, soaked your panties and is running down
your left thigh.  You may want to tidy that up before you go out."

She was right.  Embarrassing!

I ran to the downstairs powder room and spruced up as Mom put the casserole
into the refrigerator.

When I emerged, she said, "Would you like to take a walk with me?  That is,
if you can walk in those heels."

Mom knew that pushing the "challenge button" always worked with me.

"Of course, Mom," I said.  "Lead on."

So she did.

We walked up the street to the park, where we saw all the kids with their
young mothers dressed shabbily in shorts, pants and flip-flops.

"That's our competition, Honey," Mom said.  "It's just too easy sometimes.
Men would crawl over broken glass to get to us, and over the same glass to
get away from some of them.  I just don't know why women squander their
femininity.  You certainly haven't.  You were born with no femininity and
look what you've done.  You're beautiful and sexy.  Men adore you and well
they should."

Did Mom just compliment me?  Did we have a moment?

We did.

I hugged Mom and thanked her.  I was beginning to feel like her daughter
and I loved the feeling.

Mom led me on a different route back home, through a construction site.
Where all the rough men whistled at us and made lewd propositions.

It was wonderful!

Mom said, "That's Disneyland for the female ego, Honey.  I walk past one of
those every chance I get."

I remember wondering idly whether she had ever accepted one of the
workmen's naughty proposals.  My guess was yes!

But that's just speculation.  We got home around 11:30 and I invited Mom in
for a sandwich.  She and I shared some food and some girl talk about s-e-x
with Mr. Johnson.

"He's very sweet and giving, Mom," I said.  "He always makes sure my needs
are met as well as his own."

Mom listened intently and then at 12:50, she went home.  I cleaned up the
lunch dishes and then, at precisely 1 p.m., the doorbell rang.

It was the Federal Package Service guy.  In his brown shirt and matching,
dorky shorts.  But this guy wasn't dorky.  He was extremely good-looking
and muscular.

Somehow, I wasn't surprised when he said, "My name is Patrick.  You must be
Tara .  Mrs. Johnson told me about you.  I make a very important delivery
to her every Tuesday at one.  She said you would be getting the delivery
all this summer."

Oh my.

I nodded dumbly and let him in.  He seemed comfortable in the house and he
said exactly the right thing: "Wow, Mrs. Johnson didn't say that you were
prettier and sexier than she is.  You're spectacular!"

He was right.

I was getting used to what was expected of me and what to expect.  So I
said, "So, what can Brown do for me?"

I found out.

Brown and pink had a wonderful afternoon.

With two urgent, loads delivered to the right address.  Though through a
different entrance than he usually delivered his packages.

He was sweet, loving, manly and above all, diplomatic.  He didn't even
mention my lack of something Mrs. Johnson had, nor its stiff replacement.

Since Patrick was on a fixed route, he was only able to stay until 2:45,
which gave me ample time to change the sheets, shower and dress for my
quilting club.  I honestly thought about wearing flats, bare legs, pants
and a tshirt, which was what I expected my fellow quilters to be wearing.

But then I thought, why should I dress down for them?  Or anyone else?  I
adored dressing in the sexiest, femmiest way.  Plus, it might raise the bar
for those women to see someone like me.  .  Thinking about it a bit, I
remembered that Mrs. Johnson still dressed as fine as she ever did when she
went to her quilting bee.

So I put on a pretty pair of dark-brown, seamed, fully-fashioned,
reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings with yellow garter belt, yellow sundress
and yellow, slingback pumps.  I did a really nice job with my makeup, even
going a little bit sluttier than usual around the eyes.

I was a bit disappointed about my hair.  It still looked boyish, though my
two yellow barrettes helped a bit.  To compensate, I dabbed a little
"Naughty," Mrs. Johnson's favorite perfume, under my ears and behind my
knees.

Judging myself edible, I glanced at my watch.  Almost 4:30.  It would be
five-and-one-half hours until I would see Mr. Johnson and have my rapidly
refilling balls drained again.

[Sigh]

At precisely 4:30, the doorbell rang.  I girlied myself over to the door,
eager to show that frumpy Mrs. Manfred (whoever she was) what femininity
looked like.

Or so I thought.

Mrs. Manfred made me look like a bag lady on casual Friday.

She was really old -- like 40 -- but she was fucking gorgeous.

The first thing you notice about Mrs. Manfred is the rack.

Big rack!

Maybe 38D.

And she was showing lots of cleavage.

The second thing you notice is the hair.

Big hair!

Blonde, curly and exquisitely groomed hair.

The perfect frame to a truly beautiful face.  Perfectly made up.  With
stunning, blue, bedroom eyes.  Large, pouty, red, kissable mouth.

Once you tore your eyes from all that, you saw that everything else was
equally phenomenal.  She had an hourglass figure and perfect, shapely, long
legs that were encased in black, seamed, fully-fashioned,
reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings, which her red minidress revealed
beautifully.  Her five-inch-stiletto pumps made my shoes look like
sneakers.

Now girls, I know I had been getting it nice and proper from three men
since I began my full girlish adventure, but no human of any gender could
have avoided the sexual gravity of Mrs. Manfred.

I wanted to fuck her!

Did that mean that I hadn't fully accepted my true, girlish nature?  Did it
mean that I had become "lesbian" or merely omnivorous?

Who cares?

Mrs. Manfred had obviously had a lifetime of reactions like mine.  She knew
how to deal with it.  "Good evening, Tara ," the most beautiful of earth's
angels said.  "I'm Kathy Manfred.  Ellen Johnson says you're Carl's cousin
staying with him this summer as you intern downtown."

What?

Oh, yeah.

The cover story.

The only "intern" stuff I had been doing was to take cocks "intern"ally.

I nodded dumbly, nevertheless.  Though I knew I would never touch
Mrs. Manfred sexually, I was eager just to share oxygen with her.

"Well, you're certainly pretty.  Ellen was right."

I blushed at that.  Deeply.  The perfect woman thought I was pretty.

My cock stiffened as I imagined lewd activities with Mrs. Manfred.  Who
would probably laugh derisively at any such suggestion from a pantyboy.

That led to some panic of discovery.  Couldn't let my pantyboyhood be
exposed.  Which deflated my peeny just enough.

Mrs. Manfred led me to the car and she drove us to her house, about 15
minutes away.

I don't remember much of the conversation, except that she suggested that I
meet her son.  "He would just adore you, Tara," she said.

A man?  Were they still on the planet?

We arrived at the scene of the alleged sewing and we got out of the car.
We walked in the front door to be greeted by the other two members of the
circle.

Mrs. Roberts and Mrs. O'Hara.

Gorgeous and spectacular.

They were almost clones of Mrs. Manfred, down to the big rack, big hair,
lovely face and fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings.

Mrs. Roberts was a brunette and Mrs. O'Hara was a redhead.  They were both
in their early 40s.

Each greeted me warmly, praising my beauty, hugging me and making my
"little man" obvious and outrageous.

I was trembling with embarrassment that they would observe my lack of full
gender qualification and exile me from paradise.  Even if I would have to
learn to sew to be with them.

But no.

Mrs. O'Hara smiled at me and almost singed my eyes.  "It's all right, Tara
.  Your two major concerns are over.  We know you're a pantyboy -- a
delightfully pretty and feminine pantyboy.  That's more than OK with us.
And we don't do any actual quilting on Tuesday nights.  It's sort of a
girls' night out for us."

 They knew about my peener?  And it was OK?

Joy!

And no sewing?  How wonderful.

I managed to speak.  "Thank you, ladies," I said.  "You're very sweet about
my little problem.  And it's so nice you included me in your Tuesday
get-togethers.  I'm not very good at feminine conversation yet.  But I'm
learning about make-up and stuff.  I could paint your toenails or make
popcorn or something."

They all giggled.  Sweetly.  Not mocking me.

Mrs. Roberts said, "No, sweetie.  That's not really what we do on girls'
night out.  We strip down to our garters, heels and stockings and have some
very steamy, girlie sex.  Our husbands all have their Mystic Knights of the
Sea lodge meeting on Tuesday night. So six nights a week, we have sex with
them and Tuesdays are for us.  We're very excited about you joining our
group."

[Gulp]

I was being asked to participate in a night of lesbian sex with three
stupendous women my mother's age?

[Gulp]

Well, I guessed I could do that.  Eagerly.  For the rest of my life!

Those husbands of theirs went off to their Mystic Knights of the Sea
meeting instead of fucking them all seven nights a week?

Were they insane?

I remembered that my Dad had joined that lodge about three months earlier
-- at Mom's suggestion, I thought.  They must have one heck of a meeting
agenda.

Back to the business at hand.  Mrs. Manfred asked me to unzip her dress.  I
complied eagerly.  Mrs. O'Hara and Mrs. Roberts helped each other out of
their dresses as well and soon enough we were all in our bras, panties,
garter belts, stockings and heels.

I could feel drool dripping onto my chin as I observed my companions'
feminine assets.  One of these things was not like the other -- they had
lumps in their bras -- mine was in my panties.

Self-consciously, I removed my bra to reveal, sadly, only two brown, puffy
nipples.  Mrs. Manfred's nipples were about the size of my palm!  And her
boobs were massive and perfectly shaped, even after three children.

What a man that Mr. Manfred must be, I thought, to hold onto someone in her
league.  I shuddered at the prospect of being boned by Mr. Manfred.  That
thought brought my sexual feelings back into the man-me arena once again.
But not for long.

Mrs. Roberts and Mrs. O'Hara had removed their bras and displayed their
fine goodies.  Think Jayne Mansfield boobs -- and all natural.

Panties were next.  Me first.  Sproing!!!  My little man was standing at
respectful attention in the company of feminine royalty.

Then the ladies.

And one of the best surprises.  They all had thick, hairy bushes!

Retro pussies.

A bush where a man could explore before he found his prey.

And each bush was sopping wet with anticipation of a fine Tuesday evening.

Mrs. Manfred led me to a sofa and sat down.  She pulled me onto her lap and
stroked my cock as she tongue kissed me.

So much for me "being the man" that evening.

I didn't think "being the man" was in my future anyway.

I didn't want to cum yet, so when she had me too close to the danger zone,
I ended the stroking, stood up and got on my knees in front of her.  She
was sitting, so her big nipples were almost at my eye level.  I kissed and
licked each nipple, then nursed on her right one as I rubbed my fingers
along her pussy.  At least where I thought her pussy was through all that
hair.

It must have been the right spot because she was gasping and panting a lot.
Then she eased me off my titty-sucking, stood up and led my face to her
pussy lips.

I had never licked a pussy before.  Hadn't seen one close up.  Though I had
tasted pussy on Mr. Johnson's cock.

Mrs. Manfred's pussy was very tasty.  Still on my knees, as I was when I
sucked my husband's cock, I learned about pussy licking.

The advanced class was going on across the room.  Mrs. Roberts was enjoying
the pleasures of Mrs. O'Hara's wet tongue inside her love box and her
noises spoke clearly of her enjoyment.

Mrs. Manfred was murmuring things about me being a natural-born muff-diver.
And she wasn't just trying to be nice.  I made her cum really hard (and
wet) twice, until her knees were weak and she sat back on the couch.

She drew me onto her lap once again, kissing me and rubbing her face in her
own pussy juices.  Then she had me stand up as she knelt in front of me.

Now Mr. Johnson gave a GREAT blowjob!  But Mrs. Manfred's was just about as
good.  And she added the lovely, little side dish of finger fucking my
pretty bottom as she sucked my life juices out of me.

When she had swallowed every atom of my orgasmic fluids, she stood, kissed
me and left me.  I was alone for a second or two, when suddenly, I was face
to face with Mrs. O'Hara, the flaming redhead whose bush was redder than
her head hair.

"Let's go to the spare bedroom, Tara ," she said.

I would follow her into a burning building, but this was much nicer.

It was a small room with a single bed.  She lay on the bed, on her back,
spread her legs and said, "I've always wanted to know what it would be like
to be fucked by a girl with a real cock.  Will you satisfy my curiosity,
Baby?"

With pleasure.

I mounted my lover and kissed her beautiful lips.  That was all it took to
reawaken my just-defeated champion into further combat.

Remember, girls, in my life I had been fucked, but not vice versa. And the
entrance to the Mrs. O'Hara's cave was camouflaged.  So I let Mrs. O'Hara
place "the boy" at the Gate of Love.  The Gate swung open easily and I
plunged in.

Heaven.

Not the same as having a heaving, rutting Mr. Johnson on top of me.
Plunging his thing into a defenseless little pantyboy's tender anus.  But
almost as nice.

I loved when she wrapped her stockinged legs around my waist and screamed
with lust as we fucked.  Another very lucky husband, it seemed.

She swears that I made her cum three times to my heaving, rutting once.
I'm not sure of that.  But I know she enjoyed herself.  And so did I.

We kissed for a long time after, then she sucked me to another firm stand.
Apparently achieving her object, she left the room and was replaced by
Mrs. Roberts, who whispered that Mrs. Manfred had properly baby-oiled
Mrs. Roberts' anus and would I please do her the honor of plunging that
nice new stiffie all the way in?

Can do.

I got Mrs. Roberts on her knees, then took her from behind, a la Fido.

My guess was that Mr. Roberts, who surely had a much larger cock than I,
had spent many a fine evening in those tight quarters.  So I slid in rather
easily.  Still, she seemed to really enjoy getting bottom-fucked by little
old me, especially since I reached around and rubbed her fat clitoris the
whole time we clinched.

It was a wonderful evening, capped off by Mrs. Manfred kissing me as
Mrs. Roberts alternately kissed and sucked my nipples as she finger fucked
my bottom and Mrs. O'Hara sucked my cock to a last, creamy conclusion.

We showered and tried to get as much pussy and cum stink off as possible.
Our husbands were going to be ready and randy when we saw them at 10.

Mrs. Manfred drove me home and was very sweet and complimentary.  "You're a
love angel, Tara," she said.  "We're very lucky to have you in our circle
-- now and after Ellen Johnson returns."

Wow.  I had a future beyond August.  Good to know.

She asked me for one favor.  "May I have my son David call you tomorrow?  I
know that Ellen doesn't have any regular visitors on Wednesday or Thursday.
She `freelances' those days."

Wow.  Was Mrs. Manfred asking me to let her son fuck me?  Well, I wasn't
going to turn her down.  And the more the merrier I always say.  Actually,
that was probably when I first started saying that.

Mrs. Manfred dropped me off at home at 9:55.  She gave me a nice tongue
kiss, said, "See you Tuesday, Lover," then drove home to a night of loving
from her husband.

Mr. Johnson came out on the porch to greet me.  Poor guy.  He didn't just
want me.  He needed me.

I submitted to him completely.  He carried me upstairs, practically ripped
my clothes off, then shoved his cock into my mouth.

Yum!

Except.

There was that taste again.

Pussy,

Stronger.

He'd been fucking a woman earlier that night.

The beast!!!!

Of course, I hadn't exactly been in church saying novenas myself.

I forgave him.

But one other thing bugged me.

The pussy taste was different.  Different, yet familiar somehow.  I
couldn't identify why.  Oh well.

I got onto my back, raised my knees and joyfully accepted the huge
implement of my impalement.


Chapter Six -- The adventure expands

The next morning, I was tired.

Mr. Johnson may have been fucking someone else while I was fucking three
ladies, but he genuinely missed ME.  The rogue fucked me most of the night
-- so I only got about four hours sleep.

No way was I going to keep my looks that way.  So after he made his last
anal deposit and left around seven, I went back to sleep until around nine.

I took my time getting dressed and wasn't ready for the day until eleven.
Mom called around ten and said she wouldn't be by that morning -- said she
was a bit sore that morning.  I thought that Dad must have been giving it
to Mom `good and proper" and she couldn't take it.  Old people get by day
to day, I guessed.

As I dressed, I wondered what I would do that day.  What would Mrs. Johnson
do?  She would probably go over to that construction site and let a couple
of those hot, sweaty men take her into the construction shack and fuck her!
Maybe she would stay there most of the day and let one man after another
fuck her!  She would emerge from the shack after several hours -- no
panties under her skirts.  Hair mussed.  Runs in her stockings.  Cum
running down her thighs.  Walking stiffly.

I shuddered with fear and lust at the thought.

I decided on white for that lovely Wednesday morning.  A pretty, white
dress with flouncy, pleated skirts.  Delicious tan, seamed,
fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings on my delicious legs.
White, four-inch-stiletto sandals.

I was just presentable when the doorbell rang.

The doorbell had always brought " Tara " good news, so I answered it
expectantly.

Despite what Mrs. Manfred had told me about Mrs. Johnson's Wednesday
schedule, I half expected to see a plumber or a pizza-delivery boy asking
for sexual favors.  Or a cop or soldier or Indian chief,

Which would have been OK.  I was a bit needy-edgy at that point.

Instead, I opened the door and thought I was looking into a mirror.

Except the mirror gave me boobs.  Big ones.  And blonde hair.  Big hair.

It was a pretty, young girl -- my height -- my age...maybe a year or two
older.  She was fully femmed, in perfect make-up and big, blonde,
multi-curly hair.  Her pretty, white dress was completely retro,
accessorized by petticoats for goodness sake.  Under her skirts were two
shapely legs, encased in tan, seamed, fully-fashioned,
reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings.  The dress's bodice was scooped out to
expose quite a bit of cleavage.  In her four-inch-stiletto, strappy, white
sandals, she could have been me.  If I had breasts.  Which I didn't.
[Sigh]

Who was she?

"Hi," she said, smiling brightly enough to blot out the midday, summer sun.
"I'm Ginger Manfred.  My mother still calls me her son, David, but as you
can see, I've moved on."

Oh my.

This was Mrs. Manfred's "son" she had mentioned was going to call me?

This feminine masterpiece was a boy like me?

Almost.  She had boobs.

And clearly more experience as a pantyboy.

I guess I just sort of stood there looking dumbfounded until she said, "I
thought we could talk, since you're going down a road I've been traveling."

That was so kind of him -- or her -- I guess, "her" was appropriate!

Eventually. I managed to express that thought and invite Ginger in.

She crossed the threshold and followed me into the living room.  She was so
pretty!  So feminine.  And so self-confident.

She sat, femininely, in a chair.  I offered her a drink, but she declined.

"First, Tara ," she said, "Let me tell you that I'm very envious of you."

That girlish angel was envious of me!?!?

She smiled when she saw my surprise, then said, "You're so pretty and sweet
and you're just starting out on your journey to femininity.  My journey was
wonderful and I wish I could start it all over again.  I'm also envious
that you've become a member of the `quilting bee.'  Mom could never see her
way to letting me join.  I promised I wasn't interested in any `relations'
with her, just Mrs. Johnson, Mrs. O'Hara and Mrs. Roberts, but she was too
squeamish about it."

I could see why.  I wouldn't want Mom at the "bee" when I was there.  Ick.

"Thank goodness," Ginger said, "that the three ladies and I have struck up
individual friendships, unbeknownst to Mom."

Wow.

It seems that my town wasn't half as boring as I had imagined it.

It was about time for me to contribute to the conversation, so I did.  "Do
you just like women then?

Ginger giggled at that.  "Goodness, no, Honey.  I love everyone.  Women.
Pantyboys.  Men.  Men most of all.  What about you?"

I blushed.  "I'm still sort of deciding.  I know I like women.  And I
certainly like men so far.  I haven't been with a pantyboy yet."

That produced a coquettish smile from Ginger.  "Then today could be your
lucky day."

Was she offering me what I thought she was offering me?

And how come my life had become so interesting in the past few days?

The panty life is a Technicolor life, girls.  Never forget that.

Ginger stood up and said, "Let me take you to my place and show you my
life.  When do you have to be home?"

I thought a moment and said, "My husband likes me to be here when he gets
home from work at 5:15."

"Your husband, eh?  And I'll bet he has his cock in your mouth by 5:16 and
in your bottom by 5:20.  Am I right?"

I blushed again and nodded.

"This won't take long; let me drive."

Submissively (I was getting good at that), I followed my new friend and
mentor.

Mr. Wilson, our neighbor, saw us leave the house and his eyes practically
bugged out.

Two pretty girls, clacking along in their big heels, off to
who-knows-where, probably to have sex with a lucky someone, someones or
each other.  I hoped Mr. Wilson had been taking his heart medicine.

Ginger drove me in her red convertible to the west side of town, where the
university is.  Was she a student?  We parked at a lovely apartment
building at the edge of campus.

"I'll be a junior this year at the university," she said.  "I lived in the
dorm as a freshman.  Well, for a few weeks anyway.  But then some of my
male friends were so sweet about getting a nice apartment for me...and this
nice car...and my pretty clothes.  Men just seem to want to be nice to me."

We walked through the building lobby, drawing lustful stares from the
doorman and other passing males.  Ginger greeted them all by name.  Were
they some of her "benefactors?"

Taking the elevator to the top floor, we walked down the hall to her
apartment and walked in.

Oh my.

It was roomy.  And expensive.  Beautifully furnished and tastefully
appointed.  Latest technology and appliances.

"I know, I know.  It's too big for me, but my gentlemen insist.  I think a
lot about getting a roommate, since there are two huge bedrooms and plenty
of closets.  It would have to be another pantyboy, of course.  Know
anyone?"

Was she inviting me to....

Before I could answer, Ginger said, "Unzip, me please, sweetie.  I think we
should get more comfortable, don't you?  We don't want to get cum stains
all over our pretty dresses, do we?"

Certainly not!

We unzipped each other then stripped to our bras, stockings, panties,
garters and heels.  We left our dresses and her petticoats puddled on the
floor.

She looked incredibly edible in her scanties, but apparently, so did I.

Both of our panties were tented.  But mine was a pup tent and Ginger's was
the Big Top.

Ginger was wearing those old-style "granny panties."  White.  Up to her
belly button.  Yet, she made them look sexy as a room full of cheerleaders.

And her titties!

They were spectacular!  Though I couldn't imagine that they were real.  I
resolved to ask her about such things later.  My poor cock needed some
loving attention.  And so did Ginger's.

Ginger reached behind her, the way girls do, and unhooked her challenged
bra.  Two glorious treasures spilled out.  Firm and shapely.  With big,
brown, and very erect nipples.

I unhooked my bra and out spilled nothing.  I had to get me two of those, I
resolved.

Panties were next.  Me first.  Freeing my respectable, six-incher.  Ginger
complimented me on my pretty equipment.  I blushed, of course.

Then she released "the beast."  Girls, it was bigger than my husband's!

Very red.  Very stiff.  Very moist.  And very angry.  With two fat balls in
a pretty, pink pouch.

I gasped and held my hands to my mouth.

Ginger laughed sweetly.  "I know what you're thinking.  With a cock like
that, why didn't David stay David and get all the pussy he would ever want?
I get that a lot.  Truth is, I couldn't stay David, because Ginger was and
is who I always was.  You probably know what I mean, don't you, Tara ?"

I was beginning to.  Even though I had only been Tara for five days, I had
had girlish feelings all my life.  And now that I saw what being Tara was
like, I wouldn't care if I had a foot-long cock.  I was going to be Tara
forever.

Ginger held my hand and led me to the master bedroom.  As we walked, she
said, "I started dressing in my Mom's clothes when I was 11.  It wasn't
about sex then, and it still isn't today.  Well, it is a little.  But I had
to be me.  I had my first boyfriend at 15 -- I wore panties as I sucked his
cock.  Then things just went from there.  When I turned 18, I `came out'
and moved out of my parents' home.  There were a legion of men eager to put
me up in order to put it up me.  A friendly admissions officer got me a
full scholarship and free room and board.  Nice professors have made sure I
got good grades.  The panty life is good."

[Sigh] It sounded like the perfect life for me.  Though with my grades, I
wouldn't be getting into any colleges soon.  Even with a "friendly
admissions officer."  Would I?

The talk seemed to be over and we were on top of Ginger's bed kissing
deeply.  She was a great kisser and I was getting very hot and bothered.  I
mean, I hadn't had sex in five hours!!!

As usual, I didn't take the lead.  I thought maybe I would give her a nice,
sloppy blowjob, if I could get that t-rex head in my mouth.

But no.

"May I fuck your bottom, darling?" my new best friend asked.  "I still
enjoy being the `pitcher' with my lady friends and with an exquisite
pantyboy like you.  Though I would never dream of sticking the `Terminator'
into a man's tight hole."

A cold sweat formed on my upper lip.  Would I be able to take such a
shagging?

I accepted the challenge.  "OK," I said, girlishly.  "But don't hurt
me...too much.  You can hurt me a little if you want."

Well, let me tell you.  Ginger Manfred knew how to buttfuck.

She lubricated me properly -- first with her tongue (ooh!) and then with
baby oil.  She dilated me fully with sweet, gentle, exciting pressure from
her fingers.  Then she penilly penetrated me, withdrew and re-penetrated me
until I was visiting solar systems beyond our own.

I was crying with pain/joy so much that I ruined my make-up.  I drenched
her sheets with two huge loads of cum.  When she came in my bottom I
thought her goo would be coming out my nostrils.

We kissed for a while after that.  Sweet, girlish kisses.  Then I sucked
her titties as I stroked her off, making her cum and squeal my name -- my
real name -- Tara .

A wonderful, sexually Olympic afternoon followed, leaving us both haggard
and cum-besotted.

And then I looked at the clock.

PANIC!!!!!

It was 5 p.m.!!

My husband would be home in fifteen minutes.  I was on the other side of
town.  I smelled like a bukakke conventioneer.  My makeup was wrecked.  And
my lingerie was cum-spattered.

I trembled with fear as I ran into the shower.  As quickly as girlishly
possible, I dried off, powdered, made my face up, dressed in some stockings
and gear that Ginger gave me, put my dress and shoes on, combed my hair,
ran with Ginger to the elevator, and then to the car.

During the ride home, Ginger asked, "What frightens you about being late?"

"I don't want to disappoint my husband.  And I don't want him to think I'm
a tramp.  Even though he fucks lots of women.  He's nice to me."

Ginger said, "Honey, that's exactly the kind of attitude that will make you
stand out above the women of this world.  You just described a recipe for
lifelong success with men.  Care about them and show your care.  Now,
Honey, I'm going to tell you two things.  Next Wednesday, my friend in
admissions, Dr. Bulger, gets back from his vacation.  He's going to want to
meet with you at 10.  Don't worry, he'll clear his schedule for you.  Wear
some sexy lingerie and stockings.  He likes black.  You'll be admitted on
full scholarship for the fall semester and beyond, as long as you visit
Dr. Bulger once a month or so to `thank' him properly.  He's very nice and
loving, so don't worry.  Second thing, you can room with me when your deal
with Mr. Johnson is finished.  We'll be best girlfriends and I'll introduce
you to a lot of people you'll love.  Including the doctor who helped me
grow these titties.  If you want your
 own, they're yours."

It was a good thing we pulled up in front of Mr. Johnson's house as she
said that, because I hugged her so hard we would have crashed if she had
been driving.

I thanked her again, that time with a deep tongue kiss, which I imagine got
Mr. Wilson thinking about things.  Then I opened the car door and ran into
Mr. Johnson's house.

It was 6:08 p.m.


Chapter Seven -- The Wrath of Carl

Mr. Johnson wasn't as handsome when he was angry.  He looked mean when he
was angry.  And he was angry that summer evening.

He said, in a low growl, "Where were you, Tara ?"

I opened my frightened mouth to tell him the best lie I could think of -- a
girlfriend and I had been assisting at a local homeless shelter -- but
before I could utter a syllable, he said, "Forget it.  I don't want any of
your sluttish lies.  You've been out getting fucked, haven't you?  As I sit
here, waiting 53 long minutes for the sex you're supposed to give your
husband -- your provider -- your best friend."

Wow.  He was laying the guilt on pretty thick.  Let's remember, girls, he
was Catholic.

I opened my mouth to deny everything but then he said, "Turn around and
drop your panties."

Well, that was promising.  He was going to fuck me and that would be that.
Nice, rough, makeup sex.

But no.

"Those aren't even your panties!  You couldn't even wear the panties you
left the house in?"

How did he know?  Did he recognize every pair of his wife's panties?
Apparently.

Then another promising sign -- he spread my bottom cheeks with his thumbs
and stuck his tongue deeply into my dirty.

But no.

"I taste cum.  And it's not mine.  Someone dropped two, no three thick,
creamy loads in there this afternoon.  And he had a big cock, judging by
the dilation of your pussy."

I was married to a CSI technician!

He stood up, then walked around the room disgustedly.  "What am I going to
do with you, Tara?" he asked.  Then he said, "A little tramp like you
shouldn't be dressed in white.  Get upstairs and change into black
stockings, black garter belt, black bra and black pumps, And put a lot of
black shadow on those eyes.  If you're going to act like a tramp, you're
going to dress like a tramp.  You have 15 minutes.  Every minute longer
than that will be three more strokes."

Strokes?  Did he mean strokes of his cock in my bottom?  I didn't think so.
I teared up a little and said, "Are you going to spank me?"

When he saw my tears, I saw him weaken a bit, but then he found his
toughness and said, "You're getting a whore's spanking.  A spanking you
richly deserve.  And the clock is running."

I was genuinely frightened as I ran up the stairs to comply with
Mr. Johnson's psychotic demands.  He was an animal!

I didn't know what a "whore's spanking" was, but it didn't sound good.  For
the first time, I wasn't enjoying being Tara .

Though I must admit that there were certain exciting aspects about what
faced me as well.  Submission to the superior male.  A full experience of
his rampant anger -- who knew what sort of sex that would produce?

I moved quickly, almost meeting the unreasonable deadline -- I was two
minutes, thus six strokes late.

But I did look hot.  Slutty hot.  "Whore's spanking" hot.

Mr. Johnson noticed.  I know, because he was naked and bigger and stiffer
than I had ever seen him.

Trembling with real fear, I complied with his order to lie across his naked
knees.  He closed his thighs on my stiff peener and rubbed them together a
bit as he adjusted me on his lap.

My stomach clutched and I came all over his thighs.  To this day, I'm not
sure why.  The whole thing just had me in a high dither.

He seemed pleased with that, but undeterred in his resolve to straighten me
out.  Even though I was "straightened out" very quickly after cumming.

The first blow came as a surprise.  I hadn't been spanked in at least ten
years and I was shocked at the pain.

I cried out and begged for him to stop.  But that only seemed to make steam
erupt from his nostrils as he slapped alternating cheeks and
counted... 18...[slap] [No!  Ow!  Sob!  Stop, please, I'll be
good!]....19...[slap] [Waaaaaa!]  20...[slap] [sniffle].

My bottom was on fire!  But my cock was stiff again.  Was the spanking
over?

"And now," the wild beast who was once my husband said, "The six slaps for
being tardy getting dressed for your spanking."

I screamed loudly and begged for mercy.  He hesitated, then said, "All
right.  Perhaps you've learned your lesson.  Mercy may be warranted in your
case."

Instead of being furious at the 20 strokes he inflicted on my red bottom, I
was manically grateful for the six slaps he commuted from my sentence.

I freed myself from the spanking position and sat (somewhat painfully) on
Mr. Johnson's naked lap.  I flung my arms around his neck and pelted him
with kisses, peppered with apologies and promises to be a good wife.

"I don't expect you to be the perfect wife, Tara," Mr. Johnson managed to
say between kisses.  "We all stray now and then."  In his case, that was
daily.  Mine too.  "But during our times together, we WILL be together.
That means you'll be here when I get home every night and with me all day
on weekends.  Understood?"

"Oh, yes, my darling husband," I sobbed.  "I'll be good.  Please don't stop
loving me."

"That will never happen, sweetheart," he said earnestly.  "I think I'll
prove how much I love you right now."

And he did.

He eased me off his lap, carried me to the bed and laid me on my stomach.
He applied a soothing cream to my welted bottom, then eased the cream into
my pussy, dilating and lubricating with three loving fingers.  Then he
mounted me from behind, put his full weight on me and fucked me gloriously
and repeatedly.

Our little discipline session seemed to have stirred his stones quite
nicely, because we fucked without his usual pauses and regroupings.  My
bottom was pretty sore as he fucked me, but it was a wonderful night.

The next morning began as all my mornings did, with a lovely shagging in
bed, followed by a shower shagging.

Mr. Johnson left for work and I was faced with a free day.  At least until
the doorbell rang again.  If it did.

By 10:30, the doorbell hadn't rung and I was bored.  And randy.  I had
already done two loads of laundry and watched "Judge Judy."  I was dressed
to thrill in a pink sundress, with dark-tan, seamed, fully-fashioned,
reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings, pink garter belt and strappy, pink,
four-inch-stiletto sandals.

I decided to do something useful -- a first step toward being a better
wife.  I had several cum-stained dresses and men's suit pants that needed
dry-cleaning.  And that shirt and tie that Mr. Johnson wore to work the day
before were all wrong for his tan, summer suit.  I decided to go to the
cleaners and the men's clothing store.  No way I could get in trouble
there, right?

It was glorious being out in the world as Tara .  I was getting the hang of
driving in barely-there high heels and loved scooting up my skirt to my
stockings tops as I drove to give passing truckers something to think
about.  I got lots of admiring toots.

My ego was well fortified when I arrived at the cleaners.  I toted the
clothes in and expected to see the nice, old, Korean-American proprietor.
Instead, I saw the son he said would like me.  The one I sort of wrote off
when I was in the store Monday.

He was not the kind of man a girl writes off.  He was the kind of man a
girl changed her penmanship for.  And he was staring at me.

Young and hunky!  Muscular.  Probably into martial arts or something,
though that may be a stereotype.

I guess we kind of stared at each other a while until he broke the spell.
"Hi," he said, "I'm Matt.  May I help you?"

I was thinking of all sorts of lewd replies, but kept my composure enough
to say, "Yes, please.  I have four dresses and four suit pants, please.
Johnson is the name."

He smiled at that.  "Are you Mr. Johnson's cousin?  Mrs. Johnson told me
about you."

It was at that moment that I realized fully that Mrs. Johnson was shagging
every good-looking male in the tri-county region. And many of the females.

"Yes, Matt.  My name is Tara ."

He smiled and my knees weakened.  It wasn't my fault.  It was 11 a.m. and I
hadn't had sex in four hours.  I was vulnerable.  And he was a hunk.

Matt examined the clothes as he wrote up the ticket.  He looked carefully
at the cum stains on the inside of the dresses, smirking a bit to himself.
Was everyone a forensics expert these days?  I blame those darned "CSI"
shows.

He handed me the ticket and I thought that was it until Matt said, "Do you
have any clothes for pickup?"

I didn't think the clothes I had brought in on Monday were ready yet, but I
asked if they were.

"I'll have to look in the back," Matt said.  "Would you help me look?"

I knew of course that we would be looking for something other than dry
cleaning.  So I eagerly agreed.

Matt locked the store and put up a closed sign.  Then he led me to the
back, where he had a little air-conditioned office which contained a
computer and a superannuated couch.  We sat on the couch.  And kissed.  He
lifted my skirts and felt my stiffie through my panties.  I unzipped his
pants and extracted his nice, long, thick cock.  I shucked off my panties
and we kissed and wanked each other until we spurted all over each other's
hands and wrists.  I licked his cum off my hand and he licked mine off his
hand.  And just like that, I had a nice new friend.

Matt wanted to take things a bit further, but I gave him my address and
told him to visit me at 10 on Thursday, one week from that day.  I wanted a
nice, proper shagging from him, not some sleazy, couch thing.

Matt reopened the store and I drove off to the men's clothing store.

The store wasn't busy that Thursday midday.  Only two clerks -- one was
busy with a very fat man trying to buy a suit that didn't really fit him.
The other clerk greeted me and my knees went weak again.

It was Kenny Kenmore.

Kenny Kenmore -- you know -- the quarterback who two years ago took my high
school to the state championship!

Every girl in school had a crush on him and he had probably fucked half of
them.  He had just finished his freshman year at State and was making a
name for himself on their football team too.

Kenny Kenmore.  In pre-Tara days, when I dressed up in my fully-fashioned,
reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings and lay on my bed, I would dream about
kissing him and having him make love to me.

And there he was.  Working a summer job and looking at me as if he wanted
to make my former dreams come true.

"May I help you, Miss?" he asked politely, though I could see he was quite
stiff in his pants.

"Yes, please," I replied.  "I'd like to buy a shirt and tie to match my
husband's tan suit.  Can you help me?"

I saw two reactions from Kenny -- disappointment that I was "taken" and
surprise that someone as young as I had a husband.  Maybe he thought I was
in a cult where all the women married young...and dressed like affluent
1955 housewives.

Then as he selected a tan suit from the rack and began showing me possible
shirt and tie combinations to accent the suit, I saw a third reaction --
recognition.

"I'm sorry, Miss," Kenny said.  "I don't mean to be rude.  But are you
related to a Tommy Anderson who lives on Elm Street ?"

Omigosh!  How could I answer that?  I WAS Tommy Anderson who lived on Elm
Street !

I nodded dumbly and suddenly it all clicked for Kenny.

"Tommy?  Is that you?  You look fantastic!  You're incredibly beautiful and
sexy.  I saw you all through high school and wondered what you would be
like as a girl and there you are.  I'm glad you found yourself.  Your
husband is a VERY lucky man."

Could have left it at that.  Thanked him.  Walked away.  Whistling a happy
tune.

But you know I couldn't.

"Well," I said.  "I'm not really married.  I'm just sort of a summer
replacement wife for Carl Johnson, who lives across the street.  I'm called
Tara now."

Kenny's smile could have lit our entire town through the Winter Solstice.

" Tara ," he said, "I've had a crush on you for years.  Is there any way
you could see including me in your life?"

My dance card was pretty full, but there's always room for the Kenny
Kenmores of this world.

I said, "I live at 123 Elm Street .  Could you stop by next Wednesday at
2?"

I figured I would be finished with Dr. Bulger at the university by then.

Kenny eagerly accepted, then sealed the deal with a GREAT, tonguey kiss.
Which led to us running back to the storeroom long enough for me to get on
my knees and suck him to a nice, creamy conclusion.  Then, surprise,
surprise, him getting on his knees, having me drop my panties and lift my
skirts and sucking me to a nice, creamy conclusion.

I left the store with a nice shirt-and-tie gift for my husband and a really
good attitude about the future.


Chapter Eight -- Carl and the Teenager

I was home by three that afternoon -- taking no risks of lateness.  Which
gave me time to freshen up and put on a sexy, red, peignoir outfit, with
matching heels, garters and stockings.  I wanted to give Mr. Johnson
something special that night -- and every night -- since he was so
understanding about my little adventures.

When he arrived home, precisely at 5:15, I could see that he liked what he
saw -- but he had other plans for the evening.  He led me upstairs and
asked me to strip naked for him.

I complied, of course, as he gathered some things we would need for the
evening he had planned.

"Your makeup is beautiful, Darling," he said, "but let's take it all off
and start over."

OK.  I guess.

I washed and scrubbed down to just me.  Then Mr. Johnson had me put on just
a little blush and some pink lipstick.  Then he had me put on white, cotton
panties and a simple, white, cotton nightie.

What was this all about?

Next, he had me lie on the bed with my feet hanging over the end.  He
pulled up a chair and placed my feet in his lap.  He proceeded to give me a
very nice foot massage, which we high-heel wearers know is always welcome.

"We just sort of moved into mid-stream married life, Tara ," he said.  "I
never knew you as a younger girl, and you're still a teenager.  So I
thought maybe we could back up a bit."

Back up?

Would we be role playing?

That didn't excite me, but it apparently had Mr. Johnson quite worked up.
What did excite me was what he did next.

"When Ellen and I met, we were both teens," he said.  "We would sit on the
couch in her family's basement and kiss.  I couldn't fuck her because her
Mom and Dad made a habit of popping downstairs unannounced.  What I did
enjoy doing for her was massaging her bare feet and then doing this."

"This" was quite nice indeed.  Mr. Johnson brought my left foot to his
mouth and began to kiss each of my painted toesies.  Then he sucked each
little squirmer.

For some reason, that was quite intense.  The sexual intimacy of a good
toe-sucking is really strong.  By the time he got to the middle toe of my
right foot, I had filled my white, cotton panties with a nice, creamy load
of sissyboy juices.

That pleased my roguish husband no end.

He lifted my nightie and proceeded to give my right nipple some excellent
oral adoration.  Then the left nipple.  All the while telling me how we had
to be careful because my Mom and Dad could catch us any time.

That kind of reminded me that I hadn't seen Mom in two days.  Had she
decided to let me live my life the way I wanted to live it?

Not bloody likely.

Mr. Johnson was enjoying his trip down his own memory lane -- reliving high
school and all that.  And I kind of liked it too.  I liked it so much that
all that delicious nipple-sucking made me fill my panties for a second
time.

I was quite messy, yet still aching to be fucked.

So I improvised.

"Carl," I said.  "Mom and Dad are at the movies.  A double feature.  They
won't be home for a couple of hours.  And my pussy needs lots of
attention."

Mr. Johnson smiled, pleased that I was playing along.

He undressed completely, removed my sopping panties, ate me out, then
fucked me gloriously for two spectacular hours.

That was my first experience with Mr. Johnson's need to "diversify" things
a bit through role play.  The next experience came the next night.  In a
very unusual way.

But first let me tell you about the Friday events that preceded that.

I woke up ass-achy and drooling cum, as I did every morning.  Which was
definitely a good thing.  Mr. Johnson gave me a great waker-upper, then a
nice, clean fuck in the shower.  When he kissed me goodbye, he said, "Don't
forget.  Ellen always joins me for lunch at my office on Friday.  We'll
have lots of opportunity to relieve our tensions then.  See you then,
Darling.  I love you."

Mr. Johnson didn't throw those "three little words" around lightly and it
melted my heart to hear them.  Maybe I would just do laundry and pretty up
that morning, rather than looking for love in all the right places.  I knew
I could survive without sex until noon.

So I spent about 90 minutes prettying myself up for my office visit.  I
didn't want Mr. Johnson's co-workers to think he was married to some frump.
I wore a lovely, yellow dress with big, white polka dots; dark, tan, seamed
fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings; a yellow, lacy garter
belt; silky, sheer, brief, yellow panties; and yellow, strappy, mule
sandals, with the highest heels I had worn -- four inches.  My make-up was
"daytime trampy," like the soap-opera actresses wore.  I had repainted my
toes and fingernails to a hot pink, which I think looks much better with
yellow than red, don't you?

I was hot.

And randy.

It was only 9 a.m.

Three hours to go.

Wait.  There was someone at the door.

Was it a policeman arriving to show me his big gun?  A soldier looking for
some warm comfort before he shipped out?

It was Mom.

Rats.

At least she had a casserole.

She was dressed even sexier than I was.  That couldn't all be for Dad.

She was complimentary as well.  " Tara , you get prettier every day.  Sex
agrees with you."

We actually shared a giggle about that.

I made her coffee and we chatted for a while about family and neighborhood
stuff.  Then she asked, "So where are you going today looking like the
princess of Pine Valley ?"  [A soap opera reference, I imagined]

"I'm meeting my husband for lunch at his office."

Mom smiled broadly at that and said, "That's right.  Ellen made a point of
going to the office once a week to `mark her territory.'  You're very smart
to follow that rule."

"What do you mean, `mark her territory,' Mom?"

"You'll see, dear.  You'll see.  Have a great weekend.  Daddy and I
probably won't see you this weekend.  We've decided to see how much spunk
the old fellow can produce for me and in me over 48 hours.  I'm betting
there's a lot still there.  I'll give you a full report."

ICK!!!!!!

What the heck had happened to my mother?  Who was this randy imposter?

Still, we did share an interest for once.  Men, their cocks and their
sperm.

We hugged and air-kissed goodbye.

Then Mom left and I was alone with my laundry.

Somehow I managed to remain celibate until I arrived at Mr. Johnson's
office, precisely at noon.  My ball bag was full and I was eager to drain
it.  Maybe he would take me to a nearby hotel and "nooner" me right away.

I stopped at the door and read the sign: "Carl Johnson & Associates."  I
had forgotten that he owned his own business.  It was doing well too, if
Mrs. Johnson's car, home and wardrobe were any indicator.

I opened the door and was greeted by the sight of Mr. Johnson's associates.

All 20 of them.  Bustling about. Working.

All women.

Aged 20-45, by my guess.  All very pretty.  Most with big knockers.

But none with fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings.  Thank
goodness.

They were all dressed as most modern women dress.  Pants.  Some dresses,
but all with bare legs.  Only one or two wearing heels.

Three were pregnant.  Very pregnant.  Did Mr. Johnson....?

I heard Mr. Johnson's voice and saw him walking rapidly toward me.  "Tara,
my Darling.  Welcome to CJ&A.  Everyone, this is my cousin Tara.  She's
staying with me while Ellen's out of town."

All 20 women were staring at me.  Evaluating me.

I think I passed.  I was at least as hot as they were.

Was Mr. Johnson fucking all these women?  Was it their pussies I tasted on
his cock every night?  Had he gotten those three babes preggers?

I know, girls, I should have been disgusted by the whole setup.  But, as I
imagined Mrs. Johnson to be, I was sort of proud to be the one he came home
to every night.

One of the world's sexiest men fucked me every night, every morning and all
day on weekends.  Not these little "appetizers" he surrounded himself with.
They were onion dip.  I was the filet mignon.

"Marking my territory," just as Mrs. Johnson did, I stepped forward and
gave Mr. Johnson a deep tonguey kiss, in front of all those little
mini-quiches.  He responded by slipping his hand under my skirts, over the
waistband of my panties, and inside their silky confines, his palm covering
my right butt cheek.

He led me to his office and said to his staff, "No calls."  Then we went in
and locked the door.

I was on fire with lust.

And so was he.

Walking that gauntlet of femininity, after five sexless hours, and the
thought that Mr. Johnson wanted me more than any of his employees, had me
mega-steamy.

And Mr. Johnson's Woodrow was threatening to rip his suit pants -- the ones
I had picked up from the cleaners for him on Monday.

He led me through his workspace to another room behind his desk.  A
bedroom!  With a king-sized bed and attached bath.

He smiled a little sheepishly at my startled reaction and said, "I had this
put in for the pregnant employees who may need to nap or get off their feet
now and then.'

Right.

And Hillary Clinton and Rush Limbaugh were running away together and living
on the beach in Tahiti .

No matter.  I was the princess and they were the serving wenches.  And the
princess was about to get a sex feast from the king.

But not quite yet.

We were both fully clothed as Mr. Johnson led me into the clandestine
"stabbin' cabin."  I thought we would strip and get with it right away, but
Mr. Johnson had a kinky little bit he wanted to take care of first.

I was standing on an oval, braided rug next to the bed, awaiting his lead.
He fell to his knees and began to kiss my feet.  Even though I was wearing
yellow, strappy, mule sandals, with four-inch, pencil heels.  He kissed my
pink toes where the shoes exposed them.  He kissed my instep and my ankles,
stopping every now and then to tell me how beautiful I was and how he
adored me.

That sort of thing turns a girl's head, ladies.  And stiffens her cock.

He kissed his way up my legs to my stockings tops, which I had eagerly
exposed for his pleasure by lifting my skirts to my belly button.  My knees
were buckling with desire as my man worshiped my beauty,

>From my stocking tops, Mr. Johnson kissed and licked my warm, creamy
thighs.  Then he began kissing my testicles through the thin, gossamer
material of my panties.  I was nearing orgasm as he licked my panty-covered
peeny shaft.  When he reached my love knob and soaked the covering panty
material with his saliva, I cried out and pumped my girlish juices, sopping
my panties and making me wonder two things: Why did my bad-boy husband
enjoy seeing me fill my panties with sissy cream and how was I going to
drive home in soaked panties?

Questions for another time, because Mr. Johnson removed my soggy teasers,
then laid me on my back on the bed.  The rogue didn't even undress himself
or me.  He just pulled his zipper down, withdrew his rammer, threw my
calves on his shoulders and stuck his big meat into me with one long
thrust.

I screamed.  Was the room soundproof?  Was that how he fucked all his
employees -- fast and hot?

I remember thinking that it was a good thing I had fully lubed before
arriving at the office.  Otherwise, my post-nooner visit would have been to
an emergency room.  Or a morgue.

Mr. Johnson was incredibly excited.  He pounded my pussy with a fury.  Was
he double-parked or something?  He usually wasn't in such a hurry.

I must say, though, it was a great fuck!

He only lasted about five minutes.  During which I came again, all over my
belly and the inside of my dress.  That was going to be an interesting
"look" as well when I picked up my car from the valet.

He bathed my bowels and then rested, but didn't withdraw.  When my
breathing eased, I tried a little pillow talk.

"Do you fuck all those ladies?" I asked.

He looked at me and I think he considered lying, but didn't.  "Yes, Honey.
Not every day, though."

We both snickered at that.  Twenty fucks a day would be a full day's work
all right.

I asked, "Did you get those three girls pregnant?"

He looked serious as he said, "I think so.  They have boyfriends and
husbands, but I think I was the one who hit the mark with them."

I didn't even try to think about the complications of that situation --
legal and moral.  Nor did I wonder too thoroughly about how Mr. Studwell
figured he was the father when he wasn't the only fucker.  Men love to
imagine themselves as super potent.

What I did say was exactly the right thing to make it a truly memorable
afternoon: "Will you make me pregnant, Mr. Johnson?  Please?  I want your
baby in me."

His eyes became embers of lust.  His cock hardened within me.  Begging for
impregnation was like a thousand doses of Viagra.

And my loving husband spermed me thoroughly for the next three hours.
Though I'm pretty sure he didn't make me pregnant.

At 3:15, we figured lunch hour was pretty much over.  Neither of us had
bothered to undress and we looked exactly like two people who had spent
three hours fucking while clothed.

I tidied myself as well as I could, though I didn't put my sopping panties
back on.  They went into my purse.  I would have to go back into the world
naked under my dress.  I wondered whether the parking valet would notice.
Or try to do anything about it.

Are you getting the idea that I was a rather randy young pantyboy?

Mr. Johnson kissed me and gave me some instructions.  "Don't greet me at
the door tonight.  Just go home, wash up, remove all your make-up and nail
polish and get in bed naked for me."

That was different.  I wondered what he had planned.

I walked past the office full of staring, envious-I-was-sure women and
collected my car from a leering valet.  I drove home wondering what would
happen if a policeman stopped me on a routine panty check.  What would he
do to me when he saw I was naked "down there?"

No such luck.

I got home, stripped naked and washed off three hours of sex and a badly
damaged make-up job.  Then I removed my nail polish, wondering if
Mr. Johnson was going to give me a makeover that Friday night before he
fucked me.  Maybe I would ask him for a baby in my belly again.  That
certainly worked well that afternoon.

I lay on the bed, as boyish as I had been one week earlier, except for my
pierced ears and the cum still drooling from my ravaged-but-happy bottom.
It was 4:30.  Mr. Johnson would be home in 45 minutes.  I closed my eyes
for a moment and suddenly...

Mr. Johnson was naked and lying next to me.  It was 5:25 and I felt
refreshed from a nap.

Mr. Johnson was holding me in his arms and saying some strange things.
"Oh, Tommy, I'm so glad you could get away from your parents tonight and
spend the night with me while my wife is away.  I've always been hot for
you Tommy.  You're the prettiest boy in the neighborhood."

"Tommy?"

"Boy?"

What happened to "Tara" and "girl?"

Mr. Johnson continued.  "I'm not gay, Tommy, but you make me so hot.  I've
always wanted to make love to you.  I know you're a virgin, so I'll be
gentle. May I kiss you, Tommy?"

Huh?

OK.  More role playing.  Apparently, this was "gay night."

Mr. Johnson had a lot of different fantasies and apparently I fed them all.

I played along.  "I'm not gay either, Mr. Johnson," I said, "but I know
what you mean.  I've always had funny feelings around you too.  I guess it
would be all right if you kissed me.  I've never been kissed before by a
man."

Again, twice in one day, I had hit Mr. Johnson's naughtiest fantasies
squarely between the eyes.

He was pretty lucky to have me around, wasn't he?

The "unusual" man spent the rest of the night "seducing," then fucking
silly his virginal boy neighbor.

I have to admit that I enjoyed it every bit as much as he did.

Though I was a bit surprised when we woke up the next day and he was still
role playing.  I wanted to go back to being Tara and wearing my "girlies."

After a vigorous Saturday-morning fuck, Mr. Johnson had me dress in boy
clothes -- Ick, Ick, Ick!

He then took me in the car to a small shopping area just outside of town.
There were two, side-by-side, department-store-size clothing stores.  One
was a mega-upscale woman's clothing store.  The other was a place called
"Timmy's Girlish Secret" -- a clothing store and fantasyland for sissyboys.

Mr. Johnson explained.  "I guess you wonder how Ellen had time to shop for
all those beautiful clothes of hers, with her busy schedule.  Well, every
Saturday, I brought her to the ladies store, gave her an unlimited credit
card, then volunteered my services at Timmy's Girlish Secret.  My
contribution to society.  We all need to do some of that."

He held my hand, even though we were both in male clothes, and led me into
Timmy's.

I had heard of Timmy's Girlish Secret, of course.  Their ads were all over
the television.  Little 30-second vignettes of the delicious Timmy
transitioning from a boy to a girl, then cumming his pretty guts out.

His picture was all over the store and I began to wonder if I was just as
beautiful as that little creampuff.  Tara 's Girlish Secret sounded good,
didn't it?

I didn't feel very pretty at that moment, though, without make-up or girl's
things.

Mr. Johnson saw my discomfort.  "Tommy," he said, "thank you so much for
indulging my `gay' fantasy.  We won't do that again, unless you really want
to.  [Hmmm, maybe] Today I want you to indulge yourself and buy your own
clothes -- a complete wardrobe of things for you.  Sized for you.  Styled
for you.  Clothes you can keep forever."

My eyes filled up with gratitude.  When I moved in with Ginger in
September, I wouldn't have to be naked all day.  Mr. Johnson was weird, but
a great husband.

I surveyed the store a bit.  We were at the entrance, beyond which I saw a
lake of panties, a cliff of nighties and a forest of fully-fashioned,
reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings.

"You'll love this place, Tara ," Mr. Johnson said.  "Upstairs there's a
huge selection of dresses, skirts and tops.  Evening gowns even.  And shoes
to die for.  You'll need some time to sort it all out.  But get whatever
you want.  And don't worry about getting everything today.  We'll come here
every Saturday until Ellen comes home."

Wow.  An ultimate shopping spree.  With reruns as needed.

I was impressed.  And excited.

Mr. Johnson went on.  "I think the first order of business should be
getting you back in girl mode.  I've arranged for...oh, good.  Hello,
Marlene.  Marlene, meet Tara ."

A gorgeous forty-something babe shook my hand.  She was wearing a red,
slinky dress that showed off her hourglass figure, huge boobs and
spectacular legs, encased in black, seamed, fully-fashioned,
reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings and ending in black, five-inch-stiletto,
fuck-me pumps.  Marlene.  Wow!

" Tara ," Marlene said, "What a lovely girl you must be.  We'll get you out
of those awful boy things, girlied-up and gorgeous.  Then I'll help you
shop.  I'll take over from here, Carl.  I know you'll want to do your
volunteer work.  We missed you last week, by the way."

Mr. Johnson looked a little sheepish about leaving me with Marlene so he
could do whatever he volunteered to do.

But he left anyway, after kissing me deeply.

And I was in Marlene's care.

She led me through the first floor to the makeover salons in the back.
There were lots of shoppers there that busy Saturday morning.  Most of them
were middle-aged men with a pretty young man in tow.  Daddies and their
sissies.  Buying them whatever pretties they wanted.  Then taking the
little dolls home, dressing them up, and fucking their little bottoms off.

My "daddy" wasn't even with me.  What the heck was he doing anyway?

Marlene took me to a private makeover room, where she transformed me from a
boy to a very sexy girl.  Painted my nails.  Taught me some make-up tricks.
Put me in my first wig -- a long, blonde, straight number with hair so
shiny and lustrous that it looked like the shampoo models in those ads.

I selected a perfect, little, black minidress that was perfectly suited to
my figure.  With my black lingerie, black, seamed, fully-fashioned,
reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings and strappy, black, stiletto sandals, I
looked more fuckable than I had ever looked.

On to the shopping.  Marlene and I started upstairs, picking out ten lovely
summer dresses that fit me exquisitely.  At Marlene's suggestion, I even
chose two "special" dresses that she said I could wear when I "really
wanted something from Daddy."

The first was a French maid's outfit.  What is it with men and those
anyway?  The second was a bit kinkier.  It was a 10-year-old girl's
birthday party dress.  White with light pink petticoats.  Frilly,
little-girl socks and black, patent-leather Mary Janes.

"Trust me," Marlene said.  "He'll love it."

Then we moved to the first floor and ravaged the store for panties, bras,
fifteen pairs of seamed, fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe
stockings, nighties, slips, teddies, basques and shoes, shoes, shoes.

It was a great day.

"You could never carry all that stuff home, Sweetie," Marlene said.  "I'll
have it delivered to your home.  Is Monday morning OK?"

I thought.  Ramon the pool boy was due at one.  "OK," I said.  "Thank you
so much."

"No, thank you, Tara," Marlene said.  "Your beauty is sublime and your
Daddy just contributed several thousand dollars to my store.  May I ask
you, you're squirming.  Do you need to cum?"

"Yes," I whimpered.  "It's so exciting here and it's been a long time since
I was fucked this morning."

"Perfectly normal," Marlene said.  "I can arrange for a visit to a milking
booth.  So many of our shoppers need relief while they're panty shopping."

Milking booth?  I looked confused.

Marlene said, "We have several booths, all manned when the store is open,
where sissies can empty their little pellets properly.  Each booth is
assigned a volunteer man, who takes care of our shoppers' needs.  They're
all fit, attractive men, 35 and older, and very respectable.  May I assign
you to a booth?"

So that's where Mr. Johnson was all afternoon!  And every Saturday
afternoon.  Wanking and/or fucking shoppers at Timmy's Girlish Secret.

I had to hand it to him.  Mr. Johnson got around.

"Why not?" I said to Marlene.  She smiled and led me to the milking station
where a pretty young attendant (girl or pantyboy?)  steered me to Booth
Four.

Maybe it would be Mr. Johnson.

I opened the door and saw -- someone else.

A very nice someone else.

A good-looking man of about 50 looked up from a magazine he was reading.
He sat in an easy chair, a floor lamp at his right.  At his left was a
comfy-looking double bed, with big fluffy pillows and 1000-thread sheets.

"Hello," the nice man said.  "My name is Franz.  And it appears that I'm
about to meet an angel."

Nice opening line, Franz.

We both liked what we saw.  Franz was older, but he was fit, with a full
head of silver hair and a kind, handsome face.

"What's your name, my angel?" Franz asked.

" Tara ," I whimpered.  He was a little intimidating.  Franz looked like a
CEO-type.  Very much in charge.  Perhaps he was a CEO.

"It's my very good fortune to meet you, Tara.  We could spend the next hour
or so trading life stories, but my guess is that you need to be milked.
And that you need that milking soon.  May I help you with that?"

I evaluated the situation.  I didn't want to offend Mr. Johnson.  That led
to a spanking.  Which hurt.  In a very sexy way.  Clearly, Mr. Johnson
wouldn't be offended.  He was "milking" pantyboys all afternoon himself.

"Yes, please, Franz," I said shyly.  Mustn't be too trampy.

Franz smiled happily.  "Wonderful," he said.  "I know you don't want stains
on that lovely dress, so let's take it off, OK?"

I happily agreed.  Franz helped me get the dress over my head, then
carefully hung it.

Franz sat in the easy chair and asked me to remove my panties.  I did so,
freeing my very needy, very stiff peener.  Franz gasped when he saw my
stockinged, high-heeled, hard, bare-penis beauty.  He removed his own
pants, sitting in his boxers, then he beckoned me to join him.

I wiggled over to Franz, then sat on his lap.  I felt his hard pipe next to
my thigh.  He was so fatherly and kind.  I put my head on his chest and
surrendered to him completely.

I reached into Franz's boxers and extracted his fine, stiff cock.  Franz
stroked mine nicely. I tilted my head back, offering my mouth for a kiss.

We kissed deeply and passionately.  Franz and I wanked each other slowly
and sweetly until my tummy clutched and I sprayed his loving fingers with
boy's cream.  Franz licked his fingers clean, which almost made him cum.
But I managed to slide off his lap, hit my knees and finish him properly -
with my wet mouth.  The nice man gave me a sweet, creamy treat, which I
swallowed gratefully.

We kissed and cuddled a bit until Franz asked me to stand and face him.  He
leaned forward and took my penis into his mouth.  He got it nice and stiff
again then gave me a great, sloppy ball bath.  I was very worked up when he
took my cock into his mouth again to finish me.  It was a real
knee-buckler.  The thought occurred that I would be visiting Timmy's
Girlish Secret every Saturday that summer.

Life was good.

I cleaned up, dressed, and said goodbye to Franz with a tonguey kiss

When I left the booth, I had a few moments before Marlene reappeared.  I
looked to my left and saw a pantyboy emerge from Booth Three.  She was
about 30 years old, nice looking, and she had a faceful of cum.  In a very
familiar spray pattern.  The pattern I had been seeing in the mirror all
week after Mr. Johnson gave me a daily facial.

Mr. Johnson was in Booth Three!  Right next to Franz.

Should I confront him?

No way.

I waited for Marlene.

She appeared moments later and took me back to the lobby.

She had one bag for me to carry. "Something persuasive if you need it
before Monday, Honey," she said. Then she kissed me and told me she was
looking forward to seeing me the next Saturday.  I told her sincerely that
I was looking forward to it to.

In fact, I was looking forward to every moment of the rest of my life.

Mr. Johnson appeared soon after.  He was stricken with lust at my
appearance and greeted me hotly.  I thanked him sincerely for a wonderful
day and his extreme generosity.

We left arm in arm and went home.

That weekend was a wonderful fuckfest.

Mom wasn't around at all.

Mr. Johnson disconnected the phone and the doorbell.

We fucked all Saturday night and Sunday morning.

He wanted to go to church again on Sunday and I didn't.  But I told him I
agreed with him and left him to get dressed.

But I was tricky.  I opened the "emergency bag" Marlene had given me and
dressed in its contents.

Fifteen minutes before we were to leave for church, I joined Mr. Johnson in
the living room.  "OK, let's go," I said.

But no.

I was wearing that beautiful, 10-year-old-girl's, birthday-party dress.
White with light pink petticoats.  Frilly, little-girl socks and black,
patent-leather Mary Janes.

Mr. Johnson abandoned all thoughts of leaving the house.

He turned me around, lifted my petticoats, and fucked me.  A lot.

On Monday morning, right after Mr. Johnson left for work, the delivery man
from Timmy's Girlish Secret brought all the swag from Saturday.

He was really nice and even helped me unwrap and put it all in a big closet
and dresser in the guest bedroom.

I didn't have any money to tip him, so I gave him free access to my pussy.

I think that was more to his liking than money anyway.

I was admiring my new wardrobe when Ramon arrived at 1 p.m.  He gave me an
enthusiastic shagging and left at 4, giving me just enough time to get
ready for Mr. Johnson.

It's reasonable to say that Mr. Johnson liked the peach babydoll nightie I
wore for him that evening.  No panties.  Sexy, dark-brown, seamed,
fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings.  Peach-colored garter
belt.  Peach, four-inch-stiletto bedroom slippers, with a nice puff on each
toe.

We had a very draining Monday evening, then another lovely Tuesday morning.
I did some laundry and then Ginger called.

"I just wanted to remind you about your appointment tomorrow with
Dr. Bulger, Honey.  I spoke to him and he's really excited about seeing
you.  Treat him nicely and you'll have your acceptance to the University
and a full scholarship by the end of the week."

I fully intended to treat Dr. Bulger very nicely and I told Ginger so.
Being nice to men was an area where I excelled.

We had a wonderful girlie chat for about an hour.  I told her about Teen
Thursday, Gay Friday and Shopping Saturday.

We giggled at that.  Ginger said, "All men would love to try the things
your husband does, Tara .  Mr. Johnson is the lucky one who can do those
things.  Lucky because he has a loving partner who puts her energy into
pleasing rather than avoiding."

I beamed at the praise.  Then I told her about my "territory marking" at
the office.  She seemed fascinated by that too, especially when I told her
how I had fired Mr. Johnson up by begging for a baby in my belly.

"You're so good at this, Sweetheart," she said.  "Begging for impregnation
is one of two tricks I use when my `date' appears to be limp and totally
fucked out.  It's always good for at least one more stiff fucking."

"What's the other trick?" I asked.

"Licking his bottomhole.  Really digging in with your girlish tongue.
Works every time."

Ginger was a true font of pantyboy knowledge.  I asked her about her life
these days.

"Very busy, Honey," she said.  "I've been entertaining all my professors
for the upcoming semester.  It certainly beats going to class and studying
and all that.  And I have a perfect 4.0 grade point average without ever
attending a class.  When we get you registered, I'll have to introduce you
to your professors as well."

It appeared college was going to be great fun.

I also told Ginger about my encounters with Matt and Kenny.  "Will I be
able to get home by 2 for Kenny after seeing Dr. Bulger?" I asked.

"Dr. Bulger will be in you by 10:15 and you'll be out of there by noon,
scholarship approved."

It was so uplifting to talk to Ginger.  We were going to be great roomies.

After a nice fucking from Patrick the deliveryman at 1 p.m., I got dressed
for my wonderful evening with the quilters.

The red dress Marlene and I picked out on Saturday was selected with the
quilters in mind.  I wore my darkest, blackest lingerie and black, seamed,
fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings, with slutty red pumps
and dramatic makeup.

Mrs. Manfred picked me up at 4:30.  She was deliciously sexy and we were
delighted to see each other again.  I was very eager to eat and fuck her
lovely pussy again.

The other ladies, Mrs. Roberts and Mrs. O'Hara, were as big-boobed and
beautiful as ever.

It was a wonderful evening and I never wanted to leave.

Which made what happened disturbing.

At 8:30, a full hour before we usually stopped our lesbian love,
Mrs. Manfred's phone rang.  She didn't answer it, but we all heard the
answering-machine message.

"Kathy, it's me [her husband].  The Mystic Knights of the Sea meeting hall
has lost power, so we ended the meeting early.  I'll be home in half an
hour."

Panic!

We had to clean up and get out of there quickly.

So we broke off from paradise and returned to earth.

Quickly.

Showers. Drying off.  Make-up.  Dressing.

We got out of there with barely a minute to spare.

Mrs. Manfred drove me home, arriving an hour earlier than planned.  Which
was OK.  I loved being with Mr. Johnson and I knew he was eager to see me.

I kissed Mrs. Manfred goodbye, then let myself in the house.

Just for fun, I was going to sneak up the stairs and catch Mr. Johnson
whacking his wiener.  Which is what I knew he did when Mrs. Johnson was at
quilting.

Stealthily, I gripped the bedroom doorknob, flung it open and
saw...something that singed my corneas.

Something I'll never forget.

Mr. Johnson was fucking Mom!

And Mom was REALLY enjoying herself.

She was on top of him, on her knees, parallel to his reclining body,
bouncing up and down on his delighted prick.

Looking at it objectively, which I couldn't at the time, Mom looked really
great.  She had huge boobs, with great big, brown nipples.  She had a thin
waist and big hips, adorned with a lacy, black garter belt that was
attached to black, seamed fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe
stockings.  She even wore her black, fuck-me pumps in bed.

But I wasn't looking at it objectively at the time.

I screamed in terror, jealousy and disgust.

Mom looked at me and I saw some unease in her eyes.  But that didn't stop
either of them from fucking.

Mr. Johnson looked at me and said only, "Close!"

They were both close to an orgasm and nothing would interrupt that quest.

So I stood there in horror as first Mom, then Mr. Johnson fell off Cum
Cliff.  Mom collapsed on her lover's chest and they both struggled to
rejoin the living.

When they had recovered, Mom eased her pussy off Mr. Johnson's cock, stood
up and put Mr. Johnson's shirt on to cover her nakedness.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, Tara ," she said.  "But in the Real World,
people take advantage of their opportunities where they can.  Your Dad was
at the meeting.  You were at that lezzie lovefest.  Carl was free.  I
wanted Carl."

I was crying and sobbing.  "Mom, how could you cheat on Dad?  And me!
Fucking my husband in our marriage bed?"

Mom snickered a bit at that.  "You may want to reconsider taking that firm,
moral stand, Tara .  You won't exactly be wearing a white gown at your
wedding some day.  You've been a bit active yourself, haven't you?  And so
has your husband."

She was right about that.  But I persisted, "But what about cheating on
Dad?"

Mom scoffed, "Grow up, Tara .  Your Daddy has never been happier.  I'm
taking him to worlds he's never visited.  After 20 years of marriage, I
even let him fuck my bottom.  The man is living large.  What he doesn't
know won't hurt him.  Unless some little brat squealed to him about what
she just saw.  Is that going to happen?"

I thought about that for a moment, then decided that telling Dad about Mom
and Mr. Johnson would be mean and counter-productive.  People should be
happy with what they have, not what they don't have.

"No, I guess not," I said.  "But both of you, listen.  If you're going to
do this, I don't want to see it or hear about it, OK?"

They both eagerly agreed.  Mom took a quick shower before going home to Dad
and some more, good fucking.  Mr. Johnson and I went to the kitchen to
talk.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, Tara ," Mr. Johnson said.

"That's OK," I said.  "It wasn't entirely your fault.  I should have
called."

It was pretty difficult to stay mad at a guy who filled my pussy so nicely.

Mr. Johnson hugged and kissed me and we both felt ourselves stiffen.

Mr. Johnson bent me over the kitchen table, lifted my skirts, lowered my
panties and entered me from behind.

We were hard at it when Mom breezed by, said a quick farewell and rushed
home to bed and Dad.

Maybe it was time for me to rethink what was moral.  Maybe people ruin
their lives by sticking to so-called morality and enjoy happy, healthy
lives when they do what feels good.

I planned to do the latter from then on.

But that was too much deep thinking.

I cried out in joy as I spurted my girlish sperm all over the kitchen
table.


Please tell me what you think at gingerfred2005@yahoo,com.


My other stories on nifty:

"Acting Up" transgender -- control
"Panty Pleasures" transgender -- young friends
"Woodville" transgender -- tv
"Mothered" transgender -- control
"Panty Town" transgender -- teen
"Tradition" transgender -- teen
"Punished" transgender -- high school
"Panty Paradise" transgender -- teen
"Kevin and Molly Go to Camp" -- transgender -- teen
"Lovelife" -- transgender -- high school
"My Three Sissies" -- transgender -- tv
"Acting Out" -- transgender -- high school
"Explorers" -- transgender -- high school
"Pantied" -- transgender -- young friends
"Rebuilding" -- transgender -- teen
"The Au Pair" -- transgender -- surgery
"Birthday Girl" -- transgender -- teen
"Genes" -- transgender -- high school
"Brothers in Panties" -- transgender -- teen
"Coach" -- transgender -- control
"Intervention" -- transgender -- high school
"Winners" -- transgender -- teen
"Teased" transgender -- high school
"Irish Girls" transgender -- teen
"Finished" -- transgender -- teen
"Role Model" -- transgender -- high school
"Freedom" -- transgender -- high school
"Panty Fiesta" -- transgender -- control
"Experiments" -- transgender college
"One Fine Day" -- transgender -- teen
"Stiff Resistance" -- transgender -- teen
"Poker" -- transgender -- tv
"Panty Sabbatical" -- transgender -- high school
"Published" -- transgender -- tv
"Stripped" -- transgender -- high school
"Trained" -- transgender -- control
"Something Better" -- transgender - tv
"Fulfilled" -- transgender -- tv
"Private Matters" -- transgender -- high school
"Hard Times" -- transgender -- tv
"Girl Nights" -- transgender -- control
"Geography" -- transgender -- tv
"Somewhere" -- transgender -- high school
"Next Door Bride" -- transgender -- chemical (though I don't think it has chemicals)
"Service" -- transgender -- tv
"Test Driven" -- transgender -- tv
"Sissy Stepmother" -- transgender -- tv
"Slacker Moms" -- transgender -- tv
"Sissies and the City" -- transgender -- tv
"Paid in Full" -- transgender -- tv
"Alternative Education" -- transgender -- control
"The Boy Bride" -- transgender -- high school
"Stiff Competition" -- transgender -- teen
"Reservations" -- transgender -- tv
"Panty Pride" -- transgender -- tv
"The Panty Life" -- transgender -- tv
"Super" -- transgender -- tv
"Stocking Boys" -- transgender -- tv
"Panty Secrets" -- transgender -- tv
"Auntie's New Panties" -- transgender -- tv
"Good Riddance" -- transgender -- tv
"Generations" -- transgender -- tv
"Fully Fashioned" -- transgender -- tv