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Subject: {ASSM}  A Place of her Own by Vickie Tern 1/10 TG F/m Femdom
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{Vickie Tern} NEW TG: A Place of Her Own 1/10, F/m, M/M etc, femdom

This story depicts sexual activity of various sorts among consenting
if sometimes also credulous and deceived adults.  If you are not a
consenting adult don't read it, no matter how credulous or deceived.
It's not for you.  Not yet.






                        A Place of Her Own 
                          by Vickie Tern

                               





                                i.

I left on a Sunday and came back the following Sunday.  A full
week, the longest we'd ever been apart, and the longest time I'd
ever spent being a girl, looking and behaving and feeling feminine
all the time.  I was still enjoying the afterglow as I pulled into
our garage and leaving my luggage in the trunk, entered the house
directly through the garage.  

I had to remain invisible to the neighbors.  It was still daylight,
and I didn't want any of them to notice that my lovely upswept
curls had survived last night's Farewell Ball.  This morning they'd
looked so sweet I didn't have the heart to comb them out, and I
knew I'd be meeting no one who knew me, so I'd relented and flown
back with them just as they were.  Some other passengers on the
plane had stared at me puzzled or amused or interested and then
turned their attention elsewhere.  A middle-aged woman had glowered
as if I were somehow a threat to middle-aged women everywhere.  But
the flight attendant told me she wished her boyfriend had my
courage, that before going into public places he always combed out
the cute hairdos she sometimes styled for him, that mine looked
darling.  My heart melted!  For the rest of the trip I couldn't
smile at her gratefully enough whenever she handed me the airline's
little packets of pretzels!    

Tricia was nowhere to be seen.  A few years ago that would've
seemed ominous, my beloved wife not coming forward to greet me when
I came home from a long trip like this one.  But not now.  I
preferred now.  Now I went to cross dressers' conventions
routinely,  and that's how I wanted her to regard them.  Like
ordinary business trips, the kind we each need to take now and
then, separations just long enough to renew our appreciation of
each other.  Long enough for us both to feel grateful that whatever
the occasional stresses between us, we do still live together and
share our lives.  That we're married.

Everything in the kitchen looked the same.  The stove and the
counters were spotless -- either the cleaning lady had just visited
or else Tricia had eaten out a lot, probably near her office,
working the late hours she always worked when I wasn't expected
home.  I didn't doubt that at this moment she was sequestered in
our study or maybe even the room beyond the study, thinking through
strategies and prepping court cases for the coming week as she did
every weekend.  I almost shouted out "Honey, I'm home!" to make
sure she knew, then caught myself and grinned.  How domesticated
can you get?  

Of course she knew!  She'd certainly heard the garage door grind
and growl when I came in.  That sound reverberated well past our
study despite the walls lined with books and filing cabinets and
the other bric a brac of our professional lives.  Even into the
closed room beyond where I dressed and worked and kept my personal
stuff and led my fantasy life.   

Tricia had stopped calling it "your girly room" and now called it
"our" girly room or else just "the reading room."  I'd done it in
pink and cream chiffon, with delicate hangings and pastel sketches
and plump pillows on the overstuffed divan, with a French
Provincial bureau to hold my things and a huge mirrored Vanity
Table holding my other things.  It was where I went to be a woman. 
She'd resented it as an indulgence at first, but now she liked it
-- it had a distinct feminine feel where she could recover herself,
she said, when she'd had to be especially brutal on behalf of a
client.  She no longer minded that I now spent most of my time
there, dressed in frilly lingerie and peignoir, or a chic skirt and
jacket, or sometimes only an old house dress.  That's where I'd
work on some commissioned project, or browse some transgender web
site, or study my makeup in the mirror.  Or fix my hairdo while
thinking my way through some client's problems.

Eventually she felt so comfortable in that room that she preferred
it to any other in the house.  We'd sit there together after dinner
and do our different things like girlfriends, not like the snug
married couple we were.  If anyone looked in, and no one ever
would, all they'd see there would be two women comfortable with
each other, the tall one prim at her keyboard, more often than not
dressed elaborately as if about to go out (though she never did),
the short one dressed casually in tight jeans and a T-shirt,
sprawled across the floor while scribbling notes in the margins of
legal papers.  I always looked like the proper lady of the house,
and Trish more often than not like my cute younger sister
pretending to do her homework.   

Of course Tricia did dress appropriately at work or when attending
the social gatherings that were part of her work.  Then she wore
the expensive black dresses or power suits or beaded cocktail gowns
she needed to maintain her position in the firm.  I envied her that
wardrobe, though I owned one or two dresses as elaborate and
high-styled, because she could wear hers whenever she chose and I
got to wear mine only when I was out-of-town at gender meetings.  

But Trish didn't really care about clothes.  Immediately on
arriving home she'd hop into skimpy shorts or sweat pants, leap
onto the treadmill and stairmaster we kept in the room designated
eventually for our baby, sweat off her day's furies and
frustrations, pop into the shower, and then emerge smelling of
soap, glowing, wearing no makeup at all, her soft, ripe curves
barely contained by her jeans and T-shirts.  Then she'd peer into
my feminine "reading room," kiss me, ask how my day had gone,
discuss dinner plans, and if she felt a little horny sit in my lap
and begin to unbutton my blouse.  

Originally we'd both worked in town for the same large law firm,
Trish doing litigation and me as an industrial specialist for
patent and trademark strategies.  Now as a private consultant I did
the same thing at home, sending it out by phone, fax, or computer. 
I was an engineer at heart, not a lawyer, but I retained many of
her firm's clients as my own and I found I could pick and choose
among others.  I was plenty busy.  The firm moved heaven and earth
to try to keep me, offering me double my salary, a key to the
executive washroom, whatever it took.  I had the technical skills
needed to solve their clients' problems,  and the human skills to
persuade them to do it my way.  Finally my wife told them to give
it up, they'd never get me back by offering me money and privilege,
she'd try to find some other way some day.  Money and privilege
didn't matter at all to me.  What I wore mattered.

Like many engineers I hated to wear corporate suits and ties, and
at home I could dress as I pleased.  What pleased me, ironically,
was an even more demanding feminine dress code -- heels, skirts, my
hair set just elaborately enough to show care, my make-up
impeccable, tasteful jewelry, all of it.  That's how I did my job,
as my own woman in an office of my own devising.  

Then when Trish came home, most of the time I didn't feel like
changing into pants and scrubbing my face for a trip to some
restaurant.  So mostly I cooked for the two of us.  It was relaxing
after a day of solving other people's intricate problems, and I
liked doing traditional womanly things anyhow.  More often than
not, when Trish came down from her shower I'd already changed for
the evening into something pretty and romantic for her, and
sometimes I'd already set out the first course of an elaborate
candlelight dinner for two.  With wines for each course.  I did
love her, and I wanted her to love me as much.  All of me.

My devotion apparently had some effect -- she'd been uneasy about
my transvestism at first, but as she accepted more of her own
femininity she'd begun to accept mine, even to enjoy it.  She'd
begun to sit at my make-up table, face still fresh-scrubbed and
rosy from exercise, and ask my advice about this or that eye liner
or lipstick, subjects formerly beneath her notice.  She'd never
previously used make-up creatively or with flair, only to maintain
propriety when dating in College or when attending formal evenings
with clients arranged by her firm.  Lawyers don't, she'd told me. 
Her kind didn't, anyhow.  She kept what few cosmetics she needed in
an upstairs medicine cabinet, and kept a mascara and lipstick in
her purse, and that was it.  Nothing more.  She'd stroke them onto
her face after breakfast as an afterthought before heading out the
door.  

She didn't really need more.  Her skin was clear and her eyes were
huge and dark.  To me she always looked gorgeous.  But during the
past few years fashion had decreed that more is better, and even
styles for women lawyers had changed.  Maybe because the country's
feminism was maturing, women who'd felt they had to look masculine
to assert themselves now felt they had to look feminine to assert
themselves.  Or, maybe it was that Trish was now a partner in her
law firm and thought that as the only woman on the executive board
she should look it, go all the way.  I'd told her long ago that a
confident woman dressed in high style and perfectly made up always
had enormous intimidating power over men, an advantage in a
litigator.  She'd listened attentively and nodded, willing to test
the notion.  Which she then did, first on me and then on opposing
counsel.  It always worked.  Her poised beauty reduced them to
silence, and a flirtatious wiggle of her hips could then discompose
them utterly.

Maybe that was why she began to take the same care I did with her
daily make-up.  One morning after botching the blending of several
shades of eye shadow she'd delighted me by asking for help.  After
that I helped her daily, and eventually I became the one who made
up her face each morning, sometimes evenings too when she had late
meetings to attend or clients to see.  I loved enhancing her
appearance as if it were my own.  She began to tease me about such
effeminate concerns, of course, once she'd gotten over her
anxieties about them.  In fact it was around then that she began to
call me "Mr. Amy" as if I were some swish hairdresser, and she
began to tell envious friends about this wonderful personal
beautician she'd discovered, no, she'd never reveal who or where it
was "she" worked.  Soon I became simply "Amy," and she couldn't
praise Amy highly enough.

"Amy" was now what she called me casually whenever we were alone
with each other, even when there was nothing especially feminine
under discussion.  I was never "Andy" to her any more.  Even when
we made love.  "Oh, Amy, that was just wonderful!" she'd tell me
with her last hug before turning over to go to sleep.  She seemed
to like my being a sort of girl when we made love.  Oral sex was
as enjoyable to her as genital sex, and when I became "Amy" to her
she pressed my head down gently between her legs more and more often.
I loved it all!

In fact in recent months she'd begun in small ways to encourage my
being "Amy."  It never seemed to affect my performance in bed, her
earliest fear when I began to dress up daily like a girl.  Rather
the reverse.  She noticed that when I was dressed I was always
gentler and more considerate, that "Amy" was more affectionate than
Andy during foreplay and afterplay, more willing to serve as her
lesbian lover.  When I commented this she was amused, and said only
"Oh?  Now you're a lesbian too?  You mean that cute little thing
down there is a dildo?  I should poke one into you some time!"  

As Amy I didn't feel compelled to penetrate her with my cute little
thing, and some days when she was apparently sore down there from
her cycle she felt grateful.  Sometimes she would enter a trance as
I licked her, and would grip my face to her crotch through two or
three orgasms, stroking the back of my head and wriggling her
tender slit and clit further into my mouth and tongue.  "Lick me
deeper, Amy!" she'd mutter gutturally in her ecstasy.  And I often
did, marveling at her pussy flavors as it became more and more wet
and aroused, especially when it began to spasm juices into my
mouth.  When she was finally ready to sleep she'd gratefully kiss
the tip of my nose, tasting herself there.  "My sweet cumsucking
Amy," she'd say.  "Tell me how you love eating me."  I surely did! 
Then sometimes I'd suckle her breasts daintily while she drifted,
dozed, and made little contented sounds.  

I'd have become her hairdresser too if I'd known how.  I'd have
loved doing some new things with it.  It was long and blonde and
thick, and each day she'd swirl it high into a French Twist and
then leave it that way for everything, business, formal dinners,
even for the stairmaster.   My hair was dark and straight and not
even shoulder length, so there was less I could do with it.  I'd
play with curlers and a blow dryer now and then, but my need to
look male when I went out anywhere precluded a commitment to
anything other than a boyish bob with bangs I could brush off my
forehead.  I'd have loved to get a body perm and proper styling,
and have my hair layered into large waves to frame my face.  But
no.  We were in agreement that the real woman among us should look
as gorgeous as nature and art allows whenever she leaves the house,
and that the other woman should never leave the house at all.  Not
dressed or done up as a woman!

So during the past half-year or so Trish had came to look
increasingly gorgeous, and her morale and mine rose accordingly. 
As she took greater pride in her appearance she developed an odd
respect for my skill at making us both look pretty where originally
she'd been indifferent and sometimes scornful.  She became less
inclined to worry or resent that I doted on all things feminine.  

I adored her.

Two or three years ago when I first told her I meant to attend a
three-day crossdresser's convention in another State so I could
live like a woman full time, Trish had been dismayed, anxious,
deeply disturbed.  It was as if I were going off with another
woman.  I suppose in a way I was.  I explained to her that I wanted
to learn more about my peculiar compulsion to look like a member of
her sex, why it felt so satisfying and relentless.  To try to
understand why her otherwise reasonable Andy felt such joy when he
was being Amy.  Conference organizers always scheduled doctors and
psychologists to discuss the latest theories of gender divergence,
to reassure us that there were hundreds of thousands of us created
by nature or nurture or both, all self-identified by the same
instinctual processes despite all sorts of denials.  We listened,
now and then adjusting our skirts.  There were always
cosmetologists there too, to show us how even the craggiest male
faces could be softened into illusory prettiness.  

After a few such meetings I'd pretty much learned everything these
experts had to teach me.  But I kept going to them, just to do it! 
To wake up each morning deciding which accessories went best with
whatever I meant to wear to which occasion that day.  To look as
pretty as I could, all day every day.  To smile gently at other
women like me and at real women too, and always receive a smile in
return.  To chat with other women.  To shop and stroll the streets
of whatever the host city, blending into the female half of the
population, where everyone who saw me could think that's what I was
and where I belonged.  At such times I could even believe it
myself, blissfully. 

These days she merely nodded when I informed her I was going, then
returned to her work.  She knew that now and then I had to be seen
by others.  Most of the year I dressed only for my mirror and my
own delight.  But now and then I needed to feel ratified in the
eyes of others, confirmed in my femininity by their vision of me. 
I spent as much time as I could in my special feminine room feeling
dainty, pretty, and affectionate in ways men never dare.  I loved
the feel of nylon and silk on my thighs, and I appreciated my own
good taste when choosing the textures, colors, designs, and styles
of the ensembles I wore.  I loved seeing a flash of bright red on
my fingertips, and glimpses of myself reflected in the mirror as no
way masculine, rather distinctly ladylike, even coquettish,
desirable.  I felt sweetly serene at such moments.  I felt nice. 
A girl should always feel nice.  Being called "Ma'am" by some sales
clerk felt very nice indeed!  

But that was possible only when I was out of town.  At home we both
feared discovery.  Dressing up had felt terrifyingly dangerous if
also delightful ever since my early adolescence.  From the moment
I came aware that they were different, I'd helplessly envied girls
their grace, their delicacy, their charm, their freedom to be
gentle yet enthusiastic, their breasts and figures and faces, the
displays of decoration they allowed their faces, bodies, and
clothes.  Their ...femininity.  I still remember that day in high
school when with my heart pounding and my hands shaking I'd tried
on a bra I'd found while sneaking through a girls' locker room. 
The sensations were so powerful I was overwhelmed, and nearly
fainted. I stole the bra and during the next few years I wore it
out.

Then when I confessed this to a girlfriend at College she promptly
dressed me up completely as a girl for a Halloween Dance.  I was
terrified but enraptured, beside myself.  Unaccountably I felt an
incredible joy, as if I had just been liberated.  I thought I was
so very beautiful!  In fact she made me into so convincing a girl
that no one believed I was wearing a costume.  By the time the
evening ended she'd persuaded herself as well, explained to
everyone that my secret desire was to become the girl I seemed to
be, and had gone off with a basketball player whose manhood was up
front and unquestionable.

I never forgot that humiliation, and neither did anyone else.  I
became a figure of jest.  Only after I'd graduated and met Trish
did any woman take my manhood seriously.  Even I doubted it for a
time, because that Halloween night addicted me.  I found I adored
the feel of lingerie and the taste of lipstick.  I acted out my
girlhood in secret whenever I could, always fearful and mortified,
desperately afraid of discovery, yet at the same time blissful. 
Yet no matter how often I dressed I was always apprehensive,
ashamed of the smirking, of the fingers pointed at any man who
could sink so low as to wish to look like a woman.  Any unmanned
man!  

When Trish and I became engaged I confessed my vice to her.  She
was troubled at first, and demanded to see me dressed.  She saw
then that I was not grotesque but passable, and that I wasn't
camping or mocking womanliness but admiring it.  And she saw how
important it was to me.  "I suppose your dressing like a woman is
a form of flattery," she said.  She reluctantly allowed that I
could indeed cross-dress whenever I wished, since it was so strong
a compulsion, but only at home.  Never ever outside!  She repeated
that, her voice tense and deliberate!  I saw no problem.  Terror
kept me closeted.

Which was one reason why my first attendance at a gender convention
troubled her.  It also troubled me.  It was in a faraway city, but
even so I was ashamed to expose my guilty secret to others.  Even
though that was what I was there for, I barely forced myself
through my hotel room door the first morning, dressed and made up. 
I walked timorously down the corridor, acutely aware of my skirt
and heels, shoulders very still and clutching my purse, then into
an elevator with other hotel guests, and finally into a hospitality
room to meet other attendees.  I was wearing my favorite denim
skirt and a pretty matching embroidered vest that morning, and knew
I looked nice and was dressed appropriately.  I saw immediately
that I made a more persuasive woman than many of the other
conferees, and began to feel more comfortable.  We all shared the
same humiliating urge, but to my delight we all accepted each other
as normal!  After a few days among others of my kind I returned
home more at ease with my desire than I had ever before felt in my
whole life.  Being transgendered now seemed a gift!  I finally
accepted myself as normal!

Trish was troubled by my "girly sleepover" as she called it, for
additional reasons.  She'd been extremely uneasy when I left, and
when she met me at the door on my return it was with a distinct
hostile edginess.  She asked me abruptly whether I felt different. 


I understood what she was really asking.  She didn't know how far
I meant to go.  She feared that while I was away I'd be seduced by
perverts, or that I'd go gay.  She worried that I might not be a
mere transvestite but was an out-and-out transsexual in process of
self-discovery, that I'd now want to alter my body from my skin on
out.  That I'd already swallowed handfuls of female hormones, or
gotten my skin pumped plump with them.  That I'd already set a date
for surgeons to turn my penis inside out to line a functioning
vagina, and to empty my scrotum for reshaping as vaginal labia.  To
make me a woman ready to receive men in fact as well as in
appearance.  

She'd read about these things.  She knew that hundreds, thousands
of former men became New Women every year.  Though she knew that
many or most remain heterosexual, or "lesbians," she knew that many
change in their desires.  That Nature doesn't always get things
right, that the medical profession fixes Nature's more obvious
blunders sometimes better than they know how, that feminized
husbands will sometimes divorce their wives and take husbands of
their own.  In her fear she'd half reconciled herself to my
returning quite queer.

I replied immediately that in most respects I was no different. 
There had been no changes in my bodily sex, male, nor in my gender
identity, somewhat feminine but still at times masculine, nor in my
sexual desires, I still found only women attractive, one in
particular, her.  I was still the same man who'd departed a few
days earlier.  But I now understood more about how women feel.  I
was no longer ashamed to want to act or look like a woman.  I was
a man who felt free to enjoy his femininity  

Trish heard me out impassively that first time.  Then she'd nodded.
"You're still a man you say?" she'd asked.  "You call yourself a
man?  The way you've been dressing up all this time?  You could've
fooled me!"  

Then she'd smiled, and her smile converted that truculent
near-insult into a gracious concession, into acceptance of me as a
passable girl.  It was really a compliment!  If I seemed less of a
man it was because I seemed more of a woman!  I liked that!

I'd smiled back, tearfully grateful for small favors, any at all,
and then we kissed as we always did, as man and wife.  Later in bed
with her I was more passionate than ever.  In the morning when I
awoke I found her looking down at me seriously and affectionately. 
Her eyes were tearful.  When I asked why she just shook her head
and smiled reassuringly.  "Some things are different now," she'd
said.  "Some day I may tell you.  As a woman you might understand!"


Thereafter, each time I came back from a gender meeting she'd be
much more sprightly and playful.  She'd ask, "Well, has my boy
friend come home?  Or are you only my girl friend this time?  Both? 
Can we gossip together yet about the different guys we're sleeping
with?"  I loved hearing her put it that way, because it meant she
accepted and enjoyed teasing both aspects of me!  I couldn't help
but embrace and kiss her!  It was wonderful!  At such moments I
felt complete!

So during the half-dozen years we'd been married Trish went from
reluctant acceptance to relaxed approval of my transgenderism. 
Gradually she absorbed the truth that I felt, looked, and acted
more at ease in a dress, that I was more fun to be with when I wore
panties and a bra.  That women's clothes felt somehow right to me. 
She finally understood that I was much the better person for these
occasional excursions elsewhere.  I'd come back from the last few,
she reluctantly admitted, nicer in every way, more attentive,
sweeter, and otherwise unchanged. 

Moreover, my out-of-town transvestism in hotels a thousand miles
away eased her own fear somewhat that my compulsion might at any
moment disgrace me before the neighbors, our friends, her business
associates, everyone with whom we maintained our image as a solidly
respectable professional couple.  This was a serious matter.  We
lived in a small community with standards enforced by shame and
gossip.  Deviance of any kind signified an unsound mind,
unreliability.  An unmowed lawn could injure your credit rating at
the bank.  Sexual or gender deviance was unthinkable!

And Trish wasn't a fool.  She'd noticed that sometimes I felt I had
to break out and play the odds against discovery.  That after dark
sometimes I'd drive out in a dress to mail a letter.  That
sometimes I'd risk all by carrying a bin of recycleables out to the
curb dressed as if I were merely the woman of the house carrying
out one more household chore.  That once I'd tried to persuade
myself I could attend a company function wearing her flowery "Nuit
d'Amour" as if it were an after shave.  "Any woman would know what
scent you're wearing, and some men!  The same with that beige
lipstick you've got on!" she'd told me firmly.  


end 1/10  
(c) 1999 by Vickie Tern (VickieTern@AOL.COM, all comments welcomed)


VickieTern@AOL.COM


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