Message-ID: <13304eli$9807231508@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/13304.txt>
From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern)
Subject: {Vickie Tern} New TG: Dolls 1/9 F/m M/M F/f femdom
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-Id: <1998072311534700.HAA12494@ladder03.news.aol.com>

{VickieTern} New TG: Dolls  1/9   F/m M/M F/f femdom

I'll appreciate knowing what you think of this:VickieTern@AOL.COM

Other Vickie Tern stories are archived in http://www.fictionmania.com  and
http://library.gaycafe.com/nifty/transgender/by_authors/Vickie_Tern
I'll appreciate knowing what you think of any of these too, if you can still 
write after reading them.


If you shouldn't be reading this, don't.  

     
                             DOLLS
                        by Vickie Tern

                                 PART ONE
                                       
     Bob still didn't know how he felt about it, or even how he was
supposed to feel.  At first he'd said "No!" abruptly, without
thinking, and she'd called it a typically mindless male response,
which of course is what it was.  She said she'd hoped for better
than that from him, especially given the way he claimed he felt
about her.  This was something she wanted him to do, she really
did, never mind why.  It was for her!  And he'd refused.

     She'd told him he had better rethink his answer, or she'd
start rethinking lots of things about their relationship.  So
that's what Bob was doing, more and more desperately, over and
over.  The old sufficient reasons he came up with at first got more
vague and meaningless with each repetition.  She was marvelous, an
incredible girl, and he was hopelessly in love with her.  She'd
become his whole life, his reason for breathing, practically.  He
didn't dare risk losing her.  But she was odd in some ways too. His
refusing her "one teeny little request, please, for me, just
because I want you to is why," now looked as if it was going to
destroy everything they'd been to each other.

     It had all started out casually enough, a straightforward
slow-percolating affair with a girl who seemed at first to be far
beyond the reach of his desires.  He'd met her in a singles bar.
He'd been leaning over the bar alone as usual, nursing his
Chardonnay and meanwhile looking sideways at different couples
chatting each other up.  They all looked like people he'd like to
get to know, he thought.  Maybe less lonely and uncertain than he
was these days, but who wasn't?  

     He was still new in town, and still knew hardly anyone.  Still
with no job, though thinking of looking.  He'd come a month earlier
from another town where he also knew no one, to collect an
inheritance from his grandmother, and he'd planned to leave that
evening.  But when the lawyer handed him the check it looked a lot
more sizeable than he'd anticipated, like real money in fact.  So
he'd decided then and there to stay and try to make a fresh start,
take his time looking around, and if he liked what he saw settle
in.  Now, being a little shy, he still didn't know anyone.  But
this singles bar was the one place he could go to get out of that
drab furnished apartment he rented by the month, and who could
tell?  

     This particular evening he was glancing down the bar to his
right at a dark-haired girl in a green silk breast-hugging blouse,
wondering if those small bulges poking forward through the fabric
were her nipples or some dressmaker's contrivance.  She was looking
sideways through heavy black eye makeup at a chunky man leaning
over her, and laughing as if amused by something he had just said,
though she sounded a little forced.  Girls on dates always did
that, tried to look pleasing and seem pleased.  The man was hefty,
a football player once maybe, not yet gone soft.  No matter.  Bob
was thin.  Always had been.  Too thin to interest a girl like that?

          "I notice you always order the same wine.  Don't you ever
feel feel like trying something new?"

     Startled, he looked left, toward a voice too close not to be
talking to him.  At first he saw only a mass of loose blonde hair,
piled up but then falling like theatrical curtains to frame a
strong, beautiful face.  Its almond-shaped eyes stared steadily at
him, amused, confident, friendly, seeming to share something.  She
had bright, pouty lips.  Bob didn't dare look down further, to
check out her body -- that would be too obvious, too rude.  A
single sweep of his eyes and he might lose her.

     "I try different things till I find what I like, then I stick
with it," he replied.

     Dumb!  Still, it was the best he could think of on such short
notice, not too bad.  Quick.  Something else!

     "Can I order something for you?  What would you like?"

      She looked surprised, as if this never happened in singles
bars, even somewhat grateful.  Yet her eyes remained amused, and
never left his.  The bartender noticed that finally something was
happening in Bob's vicinity, and came over.

     "Bailey's Irish on the rocks," she said.

     "Bailey's Irish on the rocks," Bob repeated to the bartender,
who was already turning away.  Then feeling foolish, he added,
"Make that two."

     "I thought you stick with what you like," she said.

     "I'd like to try what you like," he said, now feeling rather
racy. 

     "What I like can get you into trouble," she said, "Unless
you're really up to it, really ready.  Creamy, thick, sweet.  You
lick it and suck on it, its more like kissing than drinking, and
then you lick it off your own lips.  You think you'd like that?"

     "I'll find out, I guess," he said guardedly. "I'm willing to
try."  This conversation's eroticism was racing past him.  He'd
better change the subject.

     "I'm Diana," she said abruptly, holding out her hand.  It was
as if he'd somehow just passed some kind of test.

     "Bob," he replied, resisting a gallant impulse to bring her
hand to his lips.  He let it go.  "Mistress of the hunt," he added,
to show her he'd read some Greek mythology.

     "Not mistress," she replied.  "Though I suppose I've been. 
Goddess.  Maybe you'll find out.  Or maybe all you'll find is what
else I can be."
     
     "I hope so," he said, hoping that was the right answer.  She'd
lost him.

     And that was how it started.  They'd set up a date, he had no
car so she told him she'd come by his place to pick him up, and
still looking straight into his eyes, she picked up her purse. 
Then suddenly she was no longer there.

     For a while Bob had every reason to believe he was dating
Diana the Chaste, not Diana the Huntress.  He couldn't understand
why such a beautiful girl -- with really a ravishing figure once he
got to look at it, round yet trim and willowy -- why she sounded so
pleased every time he asked her for a date, and never put him off,
and always seemed reluctant to leave when it ended, yet never
accepted his invitations to come in and relax in his place before
driving on home.  She had the brisk ease of a woman raised wealthy,
and her clothes showed it.  She could afford to buy whatever she
liked, and she seemed to like him.  The more they saw of each
other, the further their talk advanced into small intimate
confessions, the luckier he felt that such a marvelous girl was at
all interested in him.  It was beyond hope or belief.  

     Yet physically she remained reserved.  He never pressed her
for more than their brief good night kisses because the initiatives
were all hers.  She'd pick him up and drive them wherever they were
going, then drop him off before disappearing into the night.  When
he'd asked for her phone number she'd waved her hand and given it
to him, but she'd said something about calling her being difficult,
she shared her phone, and she was so often out.  She'd take his
number and call him regularly.  As she did.

     On their fifth date she surprised him with an unexpected and
elegant blow job, quite casually, while they were sitting and
talking in her car in front of his apartment building.  While she
was saying something in her comfortable, matter-of-fact manner,
she'd reached into his lap, unzipped him, taken it out, bent over,
and no mistaking it, he'd immediately felt himself enclosed in her
moist warmth.  When he came he spurted semen in helpless surrender
deep into her mouth, and it seemed that she swallowed all of it. 
But then when she sat up again and leaned over his face to kiss
him, there it all was, some of it dribbling from her mouth into
his, then all of a sudden her tongue pushing great glops into his
mouth while she sealed his lips tightly against hers, so he had no
choice but to accept it and swallow it down.  It tasted a little
creamy, a little salty, very odd, not too bad.  He was licking his
lips as she leaned back to watch his reaction, and she smiled at
him, and he smiled back.  "See," she said.  "It's like I said, you
lick it off your own lips."  He'd thought she'd meant her own
juices that night they'd met at the bar, bantering in that racy way
he could barely follow.  Maybe she did.  But he decided not to say
anything.

     It was just as well he didn't object to licking and sucking
his own cum out of her mouth and swallowing it, because that turned
out to be a regular thing with her, a kink she enjoyed, and not at
all accidental.  She liked doing it.  The next few times she held
all of his cum in her mouth and then spooned it slowly back to him
with her tongue, in ardent kisses all the more sensuous and sultry,
it seemed, for being laced with his own jism.  She pressed her lips
tightly against his mouth, and repeatedly her tongue pushed a teeny
bit more to where his tongue could lick it off, their two tongues
so salaciously entwined that he had no choice but to receive it
gratefully and swallow it down.  

         It bothered him at first, but that was what she wanted him
to do, obviously, and he saw no harm in it.  His semen became part
of their shared desire, and after a few more dates he was avid each
time to sip it from her lips and swallow it down.  Once she didn't
give him her prolonged cum kiss after she blew him, instead
swallowing it while looking at him with a mischievous smile, then
giving him a peck on the cheek and settling back for him to leave
the car.  His face fell.  She noticed, and smiled half to herself. 
She said next time she'd make it up to him.

     That next time, a week or so later, she surprised him with a
moment that was utterly magical.  Under the stars on a deserted
turnoff high above the valley, they parked and looked at the town's
lights far below.  He walked a little distance away to take a leak
behind a tree, and when he returned he found her sitting sideways
on the front seat, the car door open and both her legs dangling
toward him, thighs spread wide, Diana with her pussy open to the
chaste moon.  She sat imperiously over her open crotch watching him
return, and as he came up to her she made a single sweeping gesture
downward with her whole arm, pointing to the juncture of her
thighs, or maybe to the ground beneath.  He fell to his knees
between her legs as if clubbed, and buried his face in her slit,
and lapped and sucked and thrust his tongue into her like a man
demented.  It was true.  She was creamy, thick, and sweet.  She
wrapped her legs around his head and shoulders, and pulled him
close into her with her thighs, and stroked his hair.  She seemed
to cum several times, pressing her pussy ever more tightly into his
face while tensing her legs and making mewing sounds.  Perhaps not. 
No matter, he loved it.

     From then on he was hers.  He loved her, helplessly,
hopelessly, utterly, more completely than he had ever fallen for
any girl anywhere.  He doted on her, and lived only for their time
together.  She began to allow him to go down on her before each
date as well as after, each time in her car, Bob's bowed back
tucked down under the dashboard, his face thrust forward eagerly
into her pussy, tongue fucking her until she seemed to cum with
those cute little squeals and gasps he loved to hear.  He was
ecstatic that he was able to please her.  Then, she always went
down on him too before the night was out, always feeding him his
own cum out of her own delicate lips, in small sips, like a rare
wine. He couldn't get enough of her.  

     Once she agreed to spend the night with him in his bed, if
he'd promise to keep his penis to himself or else available to her
mouth and no where else.  He nodded joyously, unable to speak. 
That one night she'd lain back completely naked, hands clasped
behind her head, watching him, saying nothing at all.  He'd kissed
her from head to toe over and over, in little nibbles, pausing at
her nipples and returning to them again and again.  She'd allowed
his mouth free access to her cunt, and he wore down his tongue on
her slit and clit while she heaved her hips into his face
repeatedly.  Who knows how often she'd orgasmed?  That same night
she'd gone down on him three times, each time more sweetly, each
time serving him his own fresh juice from her own sweet mouth.  Yet
she denied him entry into her body except with his nose and his
tongue,  And she never seemed to hear his pleadings for an
explanation, to know why or why not.  

     The next morning as she prepared to leave his flat, another
odd kink showed up.  She was standing at his bureau making up her
face in his mirror, and he looked over her shoulder and pressed his
cheek to hers, to see their two faces reflected together.  They
were about the same height, both thin, with the same high cheek
bones.  His blonde hair was shorter than hers, but getting longer
-- she liked long hair she'd told him, and she'd asked him not to
cut it.  What little beard he had was thin and blonde, and anyhow
still smooth-shaven, hardly visible even the morning after.  His
cheek snuggled against hers, she placed her palm on his other
cheek, and they smiled at each other's images.  They looked so much
alike, like brother and sister.  It was a marvelous moment.  

     Then she resumed putting on her lipstick, looking seriously at
her own face in the mirror, her mouth partly open, her cheek still
pressed against his.  When she was done, she opened her mouth wide
as a signal to him, her lips stretched taut.  He opened his the
same way.  Then before he knew what was happening, she'd lipsticked
his mouth just the way she'd just done hers, as if his lips were
alternatively hers, all the while she held her palm firm on his
other cheek so he couldn't move away.  Then she pressed her lips
together in another signal for him to do the same, to spread the
lipstick evenly on his upper and lower lips.  He did.  It was all
so unexpected, he had no time even to think about it. 

     Suddenly she turned and put her hands on his shoulders, backed
him to a chair, sat him down abruptly, bent over him, turned his
face up to hers with both hands, and deftly, in a series of quick
strokes, made up his face to match the way hers looked in every
particular.  Foundation, blush, powder, eyeliner, eye shadow,
mascara, and each time he'd wiggle or protest, or grin to ask her
what in the world, she'd hush him with such ferocity he quickly
lapsed into silence.  Then when she was done she led him back to
where he'd first seen himself with her, cheek to cheek in his
mirror, her palm on his other cheek.  They looked again at their
faces reflected together over his bureau.  No longer were they
brother and sister.  Now they were sisters, a pair of very pretty
girls, though his hair hung in rather lank strands not quite to his
collar.  

     She grinned, and patted his cheek reassuringly with her
upraised palm, and said to him, "I'd hoped so.  You'll do.  Leave
it on all day today, see how you like it.  As a favor to me."  Then
she'd picked up her overnight bag, her cosmetic kit, and her purse,
and the door closed behind her while he was still staring
astonished at his own reflection, no longer him, wondering what all
that was about.  One more odd thing about her, he thought.  But in
a way that was why he loved her, these unpredicatble impulses of
hers.

     Because she'd asked him to, he left his face made up all day. 
At first each glimpse of himself in a mirror surprised him, but by
the afternoon he'd gotten used to it.  He barely registered that
his lipstick had worn off though his eye makeup was still as dense
as ever.  He put off running out for a few errands, and washed his
face only that evening, just before bed.  When he showered the next
morning he no longer remembered.

                          ***************

     But now her "teeny little request, for me, please" was
destroying everything they'd been to each other.  What was it he
was refusing her?  As their previous date ended, he'd been lying
content with his head in her lap, his nose pressed against her
mound.  She'd cradled his face between her breasts as she leaned
forward across him to suck on his cock.  He'd come so sweetly into
her tender moist mouth, so deliciously, as always.  As always she'd
loomed over his face as he raised himself up to her, and she'd
lovingly pressed gobs of his sperm through pursed lips down into
his open mouth.  As always he'd received it gratefully and
swallowed it all, and each time he swallowed, she'd kissed him, so
very sweetly.  Then she'd cuddled him, and in the most
matter-of-fact manner mentioned to him that she'd had a marvelous
idea for their next date.  Together they'd enjoy a girls' night
out.   She'd come to his place two hours earlier than usual to help
him get ready, and then the two of them would go on a date with
each other as girlfriends.  She'd make him up to look as pretty as
she did.  It would be such fun!  Nothing much, dinner and a movie,
maybe dancing afterward.  She knew a lesbian bar where no one would
notice or care that two pretty girls were in each other's arms,
rubbing themselves against each other.

     He'd felt a sudden severe qualm in his belly and said "No!",
allowing himself no time even to think about it.  She'd reacted as
if he'd slapped her.  

     The strength of his own denial surprised him.  But he was
indeed shocked by her proposal, and to tell the truth, he was also
a little frightened.  He was a man!  He had his dignity!  And he
wanted her to admire him, to respect him.  She couldn't possibly
admire and respect some nancy faggot mincing along beside her on a
date!  He told her that.

     There then followed the  conversation that still gnawed at his
mind.  She wanted him the way she wanted him, she said, and it was
not for him to decide how she wanted him.  She'd hoped for a more
loving response from him, less brutal, more considerate of her
desires.  She asked him to reconsider his decision, while she
meanwhile reconsidered their whole relationship.  That much sounded
stern.  Then suddenly she'd begun to tease, and wheedle, and tickle
him, saying "Please!" and "For me!" over and over until he'd agreed
to reconsider the matter.  

     Then for the next few days in repeated phone calls she'd
coaxed him along, just this once, just for fun, just to please her. 
Plainly it meant a lot to her, and the more he thought about it the
less it meant to him.  But still he'd held back his consent, as a
matter of pride, he realized.  His manly image of himself in her
eyes was at stake.  And he didn't want to seem too pliable, too
easy.  

     Then for two days, no phone calls came, and his resolution
turned to jelly.  He thought he'd lost her.  

         One morning he woke up hoping she'd call yet again, while
he was still in bed, so he could tell her "Yes!  Of course! 
Anything!"  He couldn't forget that earlier glorious morning when
he had awakened to find her dear head with its gray-shadowed
eyelids on the pillow beside him, her blonde hair streaming back
from her pillow and tumbled free, just as it had fallen the
previous night when he'd set her down gently and then leaned over
her, and kissed her.  That morning her wide eyes had opened to look
at him innocently for a moment, then to study him as her mouth
curled as usual into a sweet smile on seeing him bent over her,
just looking.  This had happened only once, that one time she'd
been willing to spend the night with him while his penis was out
elsewhere.  That one time.  The thought that he might never again
see her face and golden hair on a pillow next to his suddenly
devastated him.

     Of course he'd go along with her.  He'd wear whatever clothes
would please her.  It was what she wanted.  He'd tell her that when
she next phoned.  The whole issue was too trivial to think about
any more.  

     By ten she still hadn't phoned, and he decided he had to call
her.  As he dialed, he realized suddenly that had no idea where she




end  1/9
(c) 1998 by Vickie Tern  May be archived if made freely available.  
Not if not.

Vickie Tern@AOL.COM


-- 
+----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+
| <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> |
| Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/>----<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>