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From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern)
Subject: {VickieTern} New TG: 6/9 F/m M/M F/f femdom
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{VickieTern} New TG: Dolls  6/9   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.  





housemistress of the price of her silence about this lamentable
attempted seduction of a young child. 

     To emphasize that she was serious, Diana insisted that the
housemistress get out of bed and kneel on the floor between her
legs, while Diana herself lolled back on the pillows with her legs
spread apart over the bed's edge, her toes just touching the floor. 
The housemistress's face looked up over Diana's crotch, outraged
but unable to think of a remedy.  So Diana had her spend the night
in that position, and dozed between tongue lickings.  

     By morning the housemistress was well trained to begin by
licking the length of Diana's slit, then to nibble Diana's clit
gently with her lips and front teeth, while occasionally flicking
it or trying to penetrate Diana's still virginal vagina with her
tongue.  She was instructed to keep doing these things until Diana
had orgasmed.  Then she was permitted to sleep briefly, her face
pillowed on Diana's crotch, until Diana awoke and asked her to
resume.  

     After a few nights of this, the housemistress was grateful
when Diana allowed her to kneel all night on a pillow.  By then she
had learned how to bring Diana off quickly and expertly, because
her adolescent mistress required that high standard, and also
because it increased the lag time for sleeping between the three or
four servicings Diana required nightly.  She learned to awaken and
begin again each time Diana flexed her toes and thrust her mound up
into the housemistresses sleeping face.  By the end of the week the
housemistress was resuming on signal, Diana was amused to notice,
in her sleep, and was scarcely disturbed by her new nightly posture
and duties. 

     The young football Captain needed different incentives, of
course, and Diana provided them.  Diana wanted him to take her
virginity as a service to her, not for himself, and to feel
properly privileged and humble about it.  It was not a trophy he
could be allowed to dare to boast about even to himself. Diana was
by now a slim and beautiful maiden, with budded breasts just
noticeable, and delicate lips she usually touched with pink
lipstick.  One afternoon, while watching a scrimmage at the nearby
boys' private school, she seemed to slip on the grass.  Immediately
the team was deserted while the Captain raced to her assistance. 
They spoke together on the sidelines just long enough to arrange an
illicit meeting that night, each sneaking out of a dormitory and
across the common playing field to a nearby grove of trees.  That
night they were together just long enough for Diana to get laid
three times, the first one painful and the second problematic, but
the third the justly fabled delight of a girlhood fantasy that for
once lived up to its promise, with shrieking multiple orgasms that
no way resembled moaning and shuddering her housemistress could
coax from her.  Boys were better than girls for some things.

      Then as she came down from heaven to face her partner and saw
a foolishly self-satisfied adolescent expression on his face, she
thanked him, then began to discuss charges of actual and statutory
rape she might bring against him.  This brought the Captain to his
knees in front of her, and as she directed him he was soon leaning
way back on his elbows, his head tilted back so she could straddle
his face, eagerly sucking up from her pussy her hymeneal blood, her
generous juices, and his own abundant semen.  

     This gave her an interesting idea.  So for the rest of the
year, like it or not her Captain had a steady date with her, for an
hour or so each night of five consecutive nights each month, to use
his prick and his cum as a douche to loosen her day's accumulation
of clotted menstrual blood and mucous, then to use his mouth to
cleanse her thoroughly and return her vagina to its customary
sweetness.  The much-used housemistress was happy to take those
nights off and sleep in her own bed.  In this way the Captain
learned that no one ever owned Diana, and that his highest function
was to please her.  By the time he graduated from Prep School she
had trained him to feel helpless before any woman who knew her own
mind, able to conceive of sex only as a service he should provide
without recompense or reward.  When Diana passed him on to a girl
she knew at the College he attended that Fall, the girl reported
back that he was too grovelling to be worth her trouble, and that
she had donated him to her sorority for general purpose uses.

       Once she herself reached College age, Diana found that it
was much more amusing to control her sexual partners by
manipulating their desires than by direct entrapment or blackmail. 
By the time her formal higher education ended she had refined her
techniques in many ways. 

     Her initial discovery that men were easy to self-entrap was
accidental. Early one summer she went to a Tennis Camp to improve
her game.  She arranged the first day to meet the handsomest of the
young instructors, a slim and pale blonde Adonis, for lunch and a
mid-day swim on his next day off.  On that day off they went to a
secluded pond he knew of, by a clearing deep in the woods.

     He then committed the folly of trying to talk her into
swimming with him topless as they changed into their swimsuits. 
This, he hoped secretly, might lead them in turn to bottomless
pleasures.  

     Diana reappeared from behind a tree where she had been
changing, wearing a pretty flowered bikini, expecting to be
complimented.  Instead the young Adonis eyed her with a calculating
smile and swung into action.

     "Take that top off, little girl," he urged in an overripe
voice. "You'll love feeling free and natural with the wind on your
skin.  Trust me!"

     Diana felt insulted by this crude gambit.  Annoyed, she
challenged him instead to spend the afternoon with her swimming and
sun bathing topped, as she was, to learn for himself how girls
sacrifice comfort to maintain respectability.  He agreed to placate
her, and reached for his shirt to put it back on.  No, she told
him, fair's fair, they should each have the same kind of top.  So
she went back behind the tree and emerged holding her black lace
brassiere, and offered it to him.

     Of course he balked.  But Diana then turned icy with contempt
and made a few references to his apparently fragile manhood,
taunting him whether she had uncovered in him some shameful secret
desire to wear women's clothing. He denied he had ever felt any
such thing, a bra being a bra, nothing more, and relented.  She
helped him slip the straps over his shoulders and fastened the
flimsy lace thing herself tightly behind his back, where he
couldn't reach the hooks.  He looked a little shamefaced, but she
stood back and took his measure with her eyes, noted his pectoral
muscles delicately swathed in her lace cups, smiled, and reached to
touch one of his nipples through the material.  "Just like mine,"
she said.  They both laughed, and he relaxed. Things seemed
promising, he thought, if a little kinky.

     Then for the next six hours they played delightedly, in the
water and out under the clear blue sky and hot sun, nibbling on
their sandwiches and occasionally on each other, and dozing under
the sky.  Diana's skin was well tanned from a Spring vacation in
Bermuda, so she didn't bother with sun block.  He had brought a
bottle, but somehow felt it would be wimpy to spread it on himself
when she wasn't using any, so he set it aside.  He altogether
forgot about his pale skin as he explored and stroked and kissed
the selected areas of Diana's body  she permitted him access, her
neck and shoulders, and the front parts of her thighs, and one
breast.  But Diana didn't forget.  She saw to it he remained in the
sun the whole time, and turned him toward it like a basting chicken
on a spit.  His skin turned pink, then a deeper pink.

     By mid-afternoon the air turned cooler, and Diana suggested
they think about returning.   She went back behind her tree to
change back into her t shirt and shorts, and reappeared bra-less,
pretending to be surprised and amused that he was still wearing his
damp bathing trunks and was still struggling to reach the triple
bra hooks in the center of his back.   She unhooked it for him and
stood back to admire her handiwork.  Her Adonis was now deep pink
except where the bra had been.  The outlines of thin white straps
rose over each shoulder and a bra band was branded in white across
his back.  On his chest appeared the white scalloped outline of two
bra cups, one for each pectoral muscle bulge, his nipples in the
center of each surrounded by a filigree of pink and white skin in
near-perfect reproduction of the bra's delicate lace rosettes.  He
was appalled when he saw this tattoo, but Diana was delighted.  She
told him it would last the summer, and would turn eventually from
pink to tan, but would never blend with the rest of his chest no
matter how much he tried to tan the bra-whitened areas.  She told
him it served him right.  She then suggested that the next time
they dated she would provide him with matching lace panties to swim
and sun bathe in, so he could have a matched set. 

     He quickly learned what Diana already knew, that for the next
six weeks he was hers.  She knew no normal American male would ever
want it known he had worn a brassiere even for the noble and manly
purpose of seducing a girl who had challenged him to wear one.   He
took to swimming in a T-shirt even on the hottest of days, for fear
of being seen in his suntan bra.  Sometimes when they were
perspiring freely on the Tennis Court and there were others
listening Diana would call to him to take his shirt off so he could
feel natural and free, and feel the wind on his skin.  

     She added different items to his daytime underwear wardrobe. 
A week later they went swimming together again, and this time she
insisted he wear the promised matched pair of black panties with
lace rosettes instead of his swimming trunks, worn all day in the
sun along with the same black bra worn to deepen its tan lines and
her grip on him -- this was the price she exacted from him for
letting him kiss her between the legs that day.  Then, to finally
let him fuck her, she bought him a panty-for-each-day-of-the-week
set and took possession herself of all his shorts and briefs, so
he'd have no choice but to wear them.  Then she spot checked, that
on Tuesdays for example he was wearing the cute powder blue
flowered bikini emproidered "It's Tuesday, so Kiss Me!" and on
Sunday, the pink tap pants embroidered "Every Sunday Tell Me how
Pretty I Am!"  

     A few weeks later, since she already held his reputation in
her hand, she had no problem dressing him up in a padded bra, a T
shirt reading "Secretly I'm a Princess," cute shorts, strappy
sandals, lipstick, and mascara, to go shopping with her in a nearby
mall.  She showed up for their date dressed in an oversized pair of
men's jeans and a workshirt, with her hair brushed boy style to one
side.  Then she challenged him whether he was man enough to wear a
complete cross-gendered outfit the way she was, and he agreed
before he realized she didn't mean him to wear another pair of
jeans and another workshirt.  He never did work out that their
mutual daring was radically unequal, women in pants being a common
sight, and men in skirts somewhat more rare.  But he knew by then
never to question her sense of fair play.  So he let her feminize
his appearance, and he tripped and strolled his way through the
mall as requested, taking short steps, periodically turning to her
and clasping his hands together in excitement, as ordered, a stiff
erection bulging the front of his flaring girlie shorts the whole
time.  

     She took due note that a summer with his manhood being teased
by a girl had in fact brought out an effeminate streak in him, and
that his effeminacy turned him on.  It amused her that this was so. 
That night she allowed him a sixty-nine position in their
lovemaking, telling him this was what women do, gently, kissing and
nibbling his penis for the first time, but as if it were a clit,
mouthing and licking only the head.  He went wild.  His lovemaking
that night had a desperate, even frenzied element in it, as if he
were trying to relocate some lost male center of himself.  She
helped him to find it again  by mounting him and then, before she
let him pump her from below her in throes of helpless eroticism,
she refreshed his lipstick and mascara, fondled his breasts, and
called him her darling girl.

     She returned home from Tennis Camp with an essential truth of
far great value than never to waste your second service by lobbing
the ball, namely that men will endure any amount of humiliation in
order to avoid being humiliated, that some even crave humiliation
because they feel guilty about their own desires.  Find what men
are ashamed of, she took due note, and get them habituated to it,
and they are yours.  For the remainder of her College years she
exchanged confessions of secret shame with each new date, her own
confession usually of some trivial occasion in her childhood,
theirs whatever embarrassing desire or event she could then talk
them into enacting or re-enacting, and they were hers.  

     A few years out of college she came into her inheritance, and
found that for the rest of her life she could afford nearly any
amusement she fancied. She kept herself busy running several
scientific, charitable, and environmental foundations, attempting
to spend her share of her father's money on good causes faster than
it earned even more of itself, and for the most part failing. 
While the militant feminist movement argued confrontationally for
greater access to male power and privilege, she acquired and
redistributed much more male power and privilege much more
seductively.  

     To do her bit for the feminist movement she seduced other
women's husbands, then honed to a knife edge the agonies of guilt
those husbands felt for betraying their wives, then informed their
wives that she was handing over to them a powerful weapon for
destroying their husbands, the news of their husband's
infidelities.  She then helped the wives do whatever they wished
with these hapless males.  

     The least imaginative wanted and got a divorce, and others
equally unimaginative wanted and got reconciliation based on the
old status quo.  But some others looked to convert their formerly
macho males into various kinds of wimps under their thumbs.  Some
wanted to enslave them to do their least bidding, to lick their
shoes, or their spittle, or their lovers' pricks while these were
still sticky with mixed cum, or to lick their own assholes while
still ripe from doing a dump.  Some in revenge wanted to fuck five
other men while their unfaithful husbands watched helplessly, and
some wanted five other men to fuck their husbands into an
effeminacy to be endured as an act of contrition, while their wives
watched and gloated.  These things could all be arranged, and Diana
arranged them.  But after a while she began to run out of husbands.
It was time, she thought, to find one of her own.

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

     Then Gene appeared as if from nowhere.   It was at a summer
lawn party in the Hamptons, and the hostess, her college roomate
from years back, grinned broadly at Diana as she brought them
together.

     "Diana, this is Gene.  Gene, Diana.  You two have a great deal
in common.  You both like power.  You're both movers and shakers,
and you both know how to make men do whatever you want!"    And she
turned away, laughing uproariously at her little joke

     Diana's first impression of Gene was of overwhelming maleness. 
A vigorous self-confidence poured out of him.  Gene reached out and
took slow possession of Diana's hand as if it were a continent, as
if he were already having his way with her.  He squeezed it gently,
irresistibly, and then he partly opened his own hand so she could
withdraw it if she wanted.  She didn't.  She couldn't.  Amazed, she
looked at what was formerly her hand, thin and long and pale in his
large relaxed grip, her red fingernails touching his wrist.   He
closed his other hand over it, so it was now a kind of bird in a
cage.  Then she looked up at him, and saw heavy black brows hanging
over his ironically amused eyes, a dark, handsome jaw already in
need of another shave, full lips carved into a smile like those
found on Greek statues of athletes, a large head capped by dense
waves of black hair, and wide shoulders spreading his cashmere
sports jacket like a thin sweater.  

     She saw he was also studying her intently for longer than was
necessary, and decided that this was his standard ploy with girls
who interested him.  Nevertheless, it worked.  Instinctively, she
covered his two hands with her own other hand, caressed his briefly
with her fingertips, then surrounded and gripped it.  She forced
herself to look into his eyes with the devastating force and
assurance she reserved usually only for only very important
potential donors to her various charities.  They said nothing for
a moment, gazing into each other's eyes and minds.  

     He flinched first.  He looked down at his hand encased in both
of hers and said, "I'd better hand these back to you."  

     But he couldn't.  She now held him as he had held her.  She
waited a split second longer, until he knew this, then released his
hand and finally pulled her other hand free.  His own suddenly felt
empty.  Then as if without thinking, she reached up and touched the
dense blue shadow on his chin with her fingertips, testing for
herself how rough an hour or so's growth of beard could feel.  A
faint uncertainty crossed his face.  Then satisfaction.  

     Good, she thought.  I bet that self-confident handshake gets
lots of girls.  But now I've got him, and he'll have to hang it out
to dry.  

     Diana took his arm and wrapped both of hers around it, twined
her fingers into his, and gently turned him back toward their
hostess.

     "Now that we've met, we're leaving," she told her
not-altogether-astonished old friend.  

     The genuinely astonished man on her arm was too busy replaying
in his head what he had just heard to object to it, or to question
her.  So they left together.  Two months later they were married,
on the same lawn, with most of the same people attending.  

     Gene was exactly what Diana had wanted.  He too had
independent means, but he was also an architect whose partner kept
busy designing town houses and country estates for friends.  This
got him out of the house on those mornings when an early golf game
didn't.  He was comfortable with himself, uncomplicated, forceful
when he wanted to be, easily taking charge when no real thought was
required, and inclined to do whatever she wanted whenever a
situation really needed thinking through.  He had an elaborate
office in town where his partner, a workoholic named Michael, and
various draftsmen and engineers drew up plans for things and
modified other things, a whole floor in a downtown building, and he
went there every morning.  He'd supplied the initial capital
outlay, and there was little more for him to do there.  While
Michael often worked late into the evening, Gene as often spent
afternoons playing a few sets or rounds with friends who also had
more money than ambition. 

     She loved showing off such a hunk of man when they went to
parties, concerts, or dinners, his dark good looks and manly
proportions a worshipful and attentive backdrop for her own slim
elegance.  Wherever they went and no matter what circle she joined,
whatever the animated talk in any of the fashionable living rooms
and country clubs they frequented, he was always in attendance upon
her, bringing her drinks, looking thoughtful when she seemed to
defer to him for an opinion, and then looking pleased when she
articulated it and called it his.  She was the envy of all the
women in her set.

     Within a few years, of course, Diana was bored down to her
bones.  Her work consisted of doling out large sums of money, then
seeing they were well-spent, and this required many of her skills
and all of her knowledge.  But after years of being courted by
worthy causes she found no thrills, flattery, or challenges in the
prospect of more of the same old same old.  It wasn't dull work. 
In fact it was rather challenging, even intricate in the way it
required that she bring people of many different temperaments and
interests together, to try to locate their mutual interest in
conceiving and completing one or another project.  But it was no
longer absorbing.  When some glitch or crisis arrived by telephone,
she knew how to deal with it almost mindlessly almost before she
had set down the receiver.  




end  6/9
(c) 1998 by Vickie Tern  May be archived if made freely available.  
Not if not.

Vickie Tern@AOL.COM


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