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From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern)
Subject: RP JayCee 4/9
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TG: "JayCee" by Vickie Tern, 4/9 teen femdom, m/f etc

This story contains no unnatural acts only because nothing in
nature is unnatural.  But various characters here do uncommon
things with each other, as well as the usual things, always
considerate of each other's feelings.  If this offends you, read no
further.  

If you're under whatever the age of consent where you live, read no
further.  You might learn to do uncommon things while being
considerate, as well as the usual things, and we can't have that.

Vickie Tern's stories are archived at
http://library.gaycafe.com/nifty/transgender/by_authors/Vickie_Tern 

To archivists everywhere who make stories like these freely available 
to those who enjoy them, thanks.  You are among the glories of the Net.

Also, I appreciate any kind of e-mail comment on my stories, 
VickieTern@AOL.COM, and I usually reply in kind.




     
                              III.

     He arrived wearing his usual loose shirt and a pair of
swimming trunks, and also a sour expression, carrying a bag no
doubt with something dry to change to later on.

     "Hi, Jaycee."

     "Hi yourself, Marianne."  He was acting as if someone had
condemned him to death.

     Well, I'd already figured out what his problem was, and how I
was going to deal with it.  After all, now I was his mother's chief
assistant in charge of his transition, and she expected me to cope. 
He may have been gloomy, but I'd put on a bright yellow string
Bikini under a short orange terry cover up, and there I was, all
brilliant colors in full sunlight.  Why not?  Girls have
advantages, and should use them.

     "What's in the bag?" I asked him, ignoring his tone of voice
altogether.

     The answer was interesting.  "Another bathing suit my mother
wants me to wear.  She says it's more proper and decent and
fitting."

     "Well, if it is, why don't you."

     "JayCee," he said exasperatedly.  "I just don't want to!" 

     This was not the moment to push him, so I just pulled off my
cover up, pushed my chest way out, stretched up on tiptoe, and dove
in.  I knew I looked terrific at that moment, like a girl on the
cover of "Seventeen" preparing herself for the cover of "Sports
Illustrated," and I wanted him to admire girls like us.  There's
only a thin line between desiring a beautiful girl and envying her. 
I felt glamorous and natural, and did three quick laps, and then
climbed out again.  Marion was looking at my figure and my
glistening skin rather mournfully while I arched my neck and bent
way over sideways and wrung out my hair and began to towel-dry it,
and smiled at him.

     "What's wrong?" I asked.  "Can't you swim?"

     "Of course I can.  I just don't want to."  

     "Well, at least get in the pool.  That's the polite thing to
do, you know."  

     Seeing there was nothing for it, he stepped down into the
shallow end still wearing his shirt, and waded around in water up
to his hips.

     "That's not how to swim," I shouted.  Then just when he was on
tiptoe on the edge where the shallow end suddenly gets a lot
deeper, I dove in, came up next to him under water, took his arm,
and pulled him under.  He splashed off balance and even his head
went under for a moment.  I was pleased to see he was at home in
deep water -- at least now I wouldn't need to rescue him.  He
lifted his head and shook the water out of his eyes in a reflexive
gesture, swam toward the deep end, did a racing turn, and swam
back.  He could swim all right!  I could see that his shirt's
heavy, loose fabric was waterlogged, weighing him down, and his
sleeves were clinging to his arms.  But he stayed on top easily,
and paused a little distance away from me, looking concerned about
something while absent-mindedly treading water.  It was time for
him to face a moment of truth.  The first of many.

     I hopped out of the pool and went over to the big patio table
where I'd already set out a tray full of sandwiches and a cooler
with cans of soda.  "Lunch time," I shouted.  "C'mon out"

     "No, I'll swim around a while more," Marion said.

     I went over to the edge of the pool and looked down at him. 
This time I wasn't thinking I was a cute young thing on the cover
of "Seventeen."  I was thinking I was Shalimar the Jungle Queen
looking down on her subjects from a high cliff.  I stood with my
legs wide apart and my knuckles against on my hips, elbows squared,
and my chin high up even though I was looking down on him.

     "Marianne," I said.  "Get out of the pool.  Now!"

     He looked up at me.

     "I know why you didn't want to go in and get wet.  I know why
you don't want to come out and get dry.  It's obvious, Marianne! 
But you've got to come out of the pool sooner or later, so come out
now and we'll talk about it.  We're supposed to be friends, aren't
we?  And it isn't as if I've never seen anything like them before,
is it?  Lots of my friends have them." I hesitated, then said it.
"I've got them too, you know.  You shouldn't feel the least bit
ashamed.  Its insulting to girls everywhere that you're ashamed of
what they're proud they have."  I stood up straight, head high, and
ran my hands up my sides to caress the sides of my breasts, then
just stood there cupping them in my palms.  "Out!" I added, as
impatiently as I could.

     Marianne looked at me with an anguished expression.  I felt
sorry for him, really, but I knew I had to be firm.  For both of
our sakes.  Then he swam to the shallow end, walked up the steps
out of the pool with his back to me, and then with a cry of
exasperation, fury, and despair said "All right, then!"   He turned
suddenly to face me, and then started striding toward the table
with the umbrella and the sandwiches, as if sandwiches were the
only thing on his mind.

     When he got close I told him, "Unbutton your shirt and dry
off.  What's that underneath?"  I saw he'd wrapped some Ace
bandages tightly around his chest as if he'd broken some ribs. 
"Oh, sure.  Take that off too, or you'll catch cold."

     "JayCee, I'm going home now."  He turned to leave.

     "Marianne!"  My voice was as abrupt and forceful and as stern
as I could make it.  He turned back astonished, and just stared.

     "Don't you wimp out on me!  Ever!  You hear?  I know what
you've got under there.  I know lots of things.  If you want a
friend, the only friend you'll ever have who can really help you,
you'll be straight with me and do what I say!  Now take off your
shirt and unwrap that bandage and tell me the story!"  I was sharp,
but I really was a little angry, and I let it show.  No one with
Marianne's potential should ever be allowed to run away from
himself.

     Like some whipped puppy, slowly, he turned back and unwrapped
the bandage.  Then he slipped his shirt back on unbuttoned, unable
to bear being completely naked while I was looking him over.

     They were impressive!  How long was it now he'd been on
hormones?  His mother'd said since puberty.  Years!  I must say,
they were bigger than mine, and mine create suspense whether my
bikinis can hold them in!  His wet shirt clung to his curves,
wrapped form-fitting around those two huge melons jutting way out
in front of his chest, each one punctuated by a thick dark nipple
poking through the soaked fabric.  He was stacked!  When his shirt
was dry I'd noticed he hunched his shoulders way forward, so he
wouldn't bulge too noticeably.  But now there was no hiding them! 
At least a C Cup, maybe bigger!  A pair of stunning knockers,
thrust out and self-supported.  He didn't really need a brassiere
yet to hold them up, I saw, though I knew he'd be wearing one
before this day ended, and wearing one for all the days of his life
after today.  Were they freakish, breasts on a boy's body?  No, I
saw that he had narrow shoulders and a very narrow waist, and thin
arms, and wide hips, and even a well-rounded bottom.  A beautiful
girl's figure!  Those hormones had been everywhere in him for years
and years, doing their things.  He had a girl's body, no mistaking
it!  He'd said very little yesterday, I suddenly realized, and
today he'd spoken only in a low, grumpy voice.  Did he also have a
girl's voice?  I tried to remember.

     But this was not a moment for remembering.  I had to respond
immediately, and pretend there was nothing wrong, that everything
was the way it should be.

     "Why Marianne!  They're beautiful!  How can you want to hide
them?  They're just gorgeous!  You must feel very proud!"

     This was not at all the reaction he'd expected.  He'd gotten
used to thinking he was a freak, and he looked at me as if I were
crazy to think he was anything else.  I suppose I would have been,
except that I knew what I was doing.  And actually, his problem
wasn't that he was a boy with huge tits.  It was that he had a
girl's body, a beautiful one at that, but thought he was a boy. 
This will be easier than I thought, I said to myself, and a lot
easier than his mother thinks.

     "Come over here and let me see!  Oh, Marianne, you are so
lucky!"

     My enthusiasm bewildered him.  He came toward me baffled.  I
could see through the open shirt that the upper halves of the round
globes of his wonderful tits were gleaming, smooth, white, and wet
in the sunlight!  In a way I really did envy him.  My boobs were
OK, nothing much.  But his?

     "Come sit down right here," I said, patting his chair, which
was snugged up against mine so our knees would interlock.  I'd set
it up that way first thing this morning.

     Dazed, he sat down.  I sat too, one knee between his, one of
his between mine.  I reached over, and before he could pull back,
I ran my fingertips delicately over his nipples, one hand across
each.  They immediately stiffened.  I saw that that his nipples
were those of a mature woman, practically of a nursing mother,
sticking out a half-inch or more like the tip of a finger, longer
and thicker even than mine.   But he didn't know that, of course. 
It crossed my mind he might still be a virgin, that he'd never seen
any girl's figure naked, perhaps not even his mother's.  He might
not know his breasts were exceptionally well-developed even for a
mature young woman, and that the shape of his whole body was also
female, not male.  To him his breasts were just an embarrassment.

     "How long have you had these, Marianne ?" I asked gently.  I
ran my fingertips back over those huge nipples again, this time
pausing while still touching them, then ever so lightly I started
to caress them.  I noticed that he didn't back off at all.  In fact
he seemed to lean in ever so slightly, and a slight sigh escaped. 
So they felt the way mine do whenever I caress them, or gave a boy
permission to touch them.  Delicious.  Melting.  I saw his eyes had
gone slightly distant, and that his mouth was a little open, his
lips parted.  If I keep this up, I thought, he might dissolve into
a puddle.  I decided then and there that I would seduce him this
very day.  It would be like seducing a girl.  I'd never tried that,
never even vaguely thought of doing something like that.  I
wondered if he had a little boy's cock, or a man's.  Lowering my
eyelids, I saw a bulge in his bathing suit, and saw it throb once
as I tweaked one nipple and then resumed a gentle circular caress. 
Not much there, but something.  

     "Four years ago they started growing," he answered, his voice
a little resentful, as if in long-standing disapproval.  I noticed
that his tone was a little thin, but also gruff.  Probably he's
been habitually faking a boy's resonance, I thought.  I'll have him
practice sounding like a girl, just being himself.  "I asked my
mother if it was normal, and she said yes, it happens to some boys
when they reach puberty.  One or two other guys said they'd had
lumps in their nipples too for a few months, but they went away. 
So I figured these would go away too."    

     Now his voice got very quiet, and began to quaver. "But they
haven't gone away, JayCee.  They've gotten huge.  They bounce, so
I can't run any more.  They're heavy, amd sometimes they hurt.  I
don't dare take my shirt off in school, so Mom gets me medical
excuses from Gym.  She keeps saying it's nothing, it's normal, she
has big breasts too so it's probably hereditary.  She says it's not
necessary for me to see a doctor to get them fixed."

     He paused.  Then he looked up at the sky, as if he couldn't
bear to look directly at me.  "JayCee, it isn't normal!  Boys
shouldn't have tits.  Not like these tits.  I'm so ashamed!"  

     And he started crying.  At first his eyes teared up, and then
a strange keening whine came from the back of his throat, his
pent-up misery squeezing under tremendous pressure through a crack
in his impassivity.  Then a wail.  Then the dam burst, and he began
crying out aloud in great wrenching sobs.  His face contorted, and
he surrendered himself to his anguish.  The years of uncertainty
and embarrassment had finally found an outlet, someone listening,
and he couldn't suppress his feelings any longer.  He practically
howled out his grief.

     My heart reached toward him, pitying so much terrible
suffering.   If his mother had known he'd feel like this, would she
have done it to him?  Probably.  She'd felt she had to do it.  I
tried to remember that there were enormous advantages to his being
the way he was, though he didn't know that yet.  That it was my job
to show him he was better off.  But right now what he needed was
sympathy.

     "Oh, my poor baby!"  I held out my arms.  He lurched forward
out of his chair and fell to his knees in front of me, reaching out
and wrapping his arms around my waist with his fists still
clenched, and he buried his face in my breasts, still sobbing.  I
folded my arms around his head and hugged it tight.  It was that
easy!  "My poor, poor baby," I crooned. "Marianne, my dear, dear
Marianne!" I stroked his hair and hugged him close.  "The luckiest
boy in the world, and yet you're miserable!  Why?  Why?"

     I kept hugging him and stroking his hair, and I kissed his
face repeatedly, tasting real salt tears.  Over and over I kept
making comforting sounds, until finally he began to get a grip on
himself.  His wails softened into sobs.  Then I kissed him.  Not
too gently, and not too consolingly, either.  His manhood needed
reassurance that he wasn't ruined, that he could still be
attractive to a girl his own age.  I knew he needed that
reassurance while he changed slowly into an attractive girl his own
age, with an attractive girl's desires.  

     I held his face in my two hands and pulled it up to mine, and
plastered my mouth against his, and pushed my tongue as deep into
his mouth as it could go.  Down in those dark, moist recesses, I
felt his own tongue press back against mine and then maintain the
pressure, as if mine might disappear if he eased off even for a
moment.  His fists opened and his palms turned, and he pulled my
body toward his, timidly, tenderly, holding me the way a shy young
girl might hold another ... another girl.  Our mouths stayed locked
in place.  Gradually, his breathing slowed.  No doubt about it, he
would be the first boy to probe my pussy with his penis, and the
first girl too.  If it felt right. 

     With that thought, I pulled his head back from mine, my
fingers linked now around the back of his neck, and looked at him
with the brightest smile I could find in me, as if I had suddenly
discovered in him the love of my life.  I suppose in a way I had. 
I looked delighted at his face, as if I couldn't get enough of
seeing it.  He really was a dear, my Marianne!  I kissed each of
his eyes, and then his mouth, and then his closed and waiting
eyelids again.  Then I let go of his neck and again let my hands
drift down to the tips of his nipples, and gently, daintily, I
caressed them again.  His eyes opened as new sensations coiled down
into his groin, and I lowered my own eylids demurely, looking down
at my own breasts.  He reached for them and tenderly touched my
nipples, then fondled them as delicately as I caressed his.  Just
for a moment -- I wanted him to feel that we were similar and
desireable, no more than that.  But I felt it down below too.  I
lifted my eyes to his.  He was studying my face so seriously,
looking a little puzzled, though his mouth was contented enough. 
He kissed me tenderly.

     He was still kneeling at my feet, leaning across my lap, now
finally calm.  No new paroxysms of sobbing, nor of shame at having
let go so desperately earlier.  He really did have strength of
character!  I really did like him!  I kissed him again on the
mouth, gently, this time for myself, and then with both my hands I
lightly tugged him up by his elbows, reminding him to sit back in
his chair.  He reluctantly abandoned his position at my feet, and
his hands left my breasts, and he sat down.  He did have the
longest, darkest eyelashes!  He was going to look just gorgeous! 
I began planning his makeup.

     When he had calmed down all the way I handed him a sandwich
and a can of soda, and took one of each myself.  I said nothing,
but just looked at him with a kind of bright curiosity, as if I
really couldn't understand why he was so miserable.  He took my
cue.

     "Why did you call me the luckiest boy in the world just now,"
he asked timidly.

     "Because they're beautiful," I replied calmly and reasonably. 
"They're bigger and better shaped than mine, and they're
beautifully proportioned to your figure."  He probably doesn't know
that he has a girl's figure as well as a girl's breasts, I thought,
more feminine than most girls' figures.  "And you have a beautiful
figure too."  I looked at his cheeks. I saw not a whisker and
figured he probably thinks he's a late bloomer.  He doesn't know
he's already in full bloom.

     "And there's another reason, too.  I've read about people like
you.  Most people have to be whatever they're born.  Boys have to
be boys and girls have to be girls.  But some people are lucky. 
Some people get a choice when they get to be your age.  You've got
a choice.  You can be a boy or a girl.  Have you figured out yet
how you're going to decide which you'd rather be?"

     "I'm a boy!" he said.  "I was born a boy."

     "So you say.  But you coulda fooled me," I smiled at him.  I
decided to take a chance.  I'd read a lot about hormones last
night, and thought it was worth putting it to him now, while he was
still vulnerable, because he was also still malleable.  

     "Think about it.  Obviously you're both at the moment.  You
were raised to think you're a boy.  But you have great breasts.  A
wonderful figure.  A pretty face.  You're a terrific girl.  Are you
also a terrific boy?  How well are you hung?"  

     I was pretty sure that with the kinds of hormones he had taken
to grow those boobs, his penis and testicles were still
pre-pubescent, a small boy's.  "Never mind," he said, obviously
embarrassed.  Piece of cake, I thought to myself.

     "You know what your friend John Wayne once said," I said,
reaching for an unlikely authority. "'A man should be what he can
do.'  You can do being a girl a lot better than most girls can do,
I'll bet."  I looked more closely at his face.  The same almond
shaped eyes and high cheekbones I'd noticed when I first saw him. 
And a small, rounded chin.  A doll!  "You're beautiful," I told
him.  "you really are!"  I meant it.  I kissed him again.

     He was silent.

     "Let's think about it together.  How are you with girls?  How
often do you date?  Are you popular?"  The questions were cruel,
because any answers were obvious enough.  With those boobs I knew
he'd never allowed a girl near him.  For sure.  Until me, today. 
And though he thought he was a boy, probably he felt he had nothing
to offer a girl, and maybe he didn't.  

     "I've never dated," he said.  Tears were starting up again. 
"I've been too ashamed."  Then he added, "I don't even have friends
who are boys.  They'd laugh at me if they saw what I really look
like.  Or worse!"

     "Most of them, maybe," I said, thinking about Ronnie and
thinking I should get him involved in this conversion project. 
"But anyhow, Marianne dear, you're dating me.  Right now.  We're
going to see lots of each other.  We're going to straighten this
out.  And I'm going to help you get lots of other dates.  I'm going
to fix you up so this fall you'll be with the prettiest girls in
our class, girls who'll love being with you, and I promise you'll
never lack for dates!  OK?"   Every word was true.  He didn't have
to know just yet that he'd be with the prettiest girls as one of
them, and that his dates would all be with boys.  "OK?"

     He nodded, baffled but trusting.

     One more nudge and then I'd leave the subject alone.  Let him
think he has a choice.  Of course he doesn't, I knew, but I didn't
feel sorry for him at all.  He really is lucky, I thought.  Who'd
want to be a boy, given a choice?   

     "You've been trying to be a boy, but you haven't got much
talent for it, and you don't have a boy's body.  You're ashamed
you're a boy, in fact, because you've got a girl's body.  Except
for that one little thing down there between your legs.  You've
been trying to be a boy, and you're not very good at it.  Are you?"

     I paused.  He nodded, reluctantly.

     So here's what I propose.  Till near the end of the summer
when you have to register for school, you forget you're a boy. 
Let's see what kind of a girl you can be.  See which you can do
better.  See if you can be proud of your body just the way it is. 
I'll help."

     He looked up at me peculiarly, started to say something, then
looked down at the ground, frowning.  "JayCee, I'd be ashamed," he
said.  "I'm not a girl.  No way!"

     "More ashamed than you are now?"

     He said nothing.

     "After the summer you can be a boy again if you want, and no
harm done, and you can decide which is better.  Which you really
are.  When you've been a girl for a while, you'll know what you're
better at.  What you really should be.  What's more fun.  OK?"  

     He didn't answer.

     "The next few weeks we'll spend lots of time together, and
I'll help you, if you'll promise to go along with anything I ask
you to do that girls do.  Then we'll see what we'll see.  Of course
any final decision is yours.  OK?"   I put my hand on his knee, and
left it there, and looked up at him.  Of course no decision of his
would ever be final in my own mind until it was the right one.

     "Right now try out being a girl, and no one will know.  Change
back if you want when kids start to come home from the summer, and
noone'll know any different.  There's a pretty rough crowd of boys
lives around here, if that's what you think you are, and you don't
mind getting punched around a little, the way boys do."

     Still, he delayed.  Was he worth my bothering with at all? 
The money was, I reminded myself.

     "What'll I tell my Mom?" he asked.  "If I go with your plan,
that is."

     He'd decided!  "Don't worry about your Mom.  She wants you to
be happy.  Just tell her we're playing a game kids play around
here, to help boys learn to respect girls.  She won't say anything. 
I guarantee it."

     "No one else will see me looking like a girl?"

     "No one," I said.  Except for every clerk and shopper in every
mall inside of ten miles, I thought.  And every boy I introduce you
to later on, all of them trying to feel you up and get into your
panties.  "And then we'll be able to see a lot of each other.  My
folks don't care how much time I spend with my girlfriends."  As if
they'd ever object to my boyfriends, if I ever brought one home. 
As if I'd listen if they did!.

     "OK," he said finally.  "For a few weeks, anyhow."  

     It was mostly to placate me, I knew.  But now he'd pledged it. 
to try it my way.   The rest was a matter of time.

     "Starting today!" I said.  "Today you're mine until I send you
home.  This'll be so cool!"  Now he got my most dazzling smile.  He
looked uneasy but half-smiled back.

     I passed the plate of sandwiches, and he took another, and we
talked about what it was like growing up in this town.  He'd lived
with his mother in lots of different places, early on following his
father's different engineering projects, then wherever his mother
went while she attended different schools and training institutes,
until she'd set up her own mail-order training business and it
succeeded.  Now she was making very good money at it, he said, with
lots of employees.  She had an office with a large staff, he said,
but a good office manager, so she herself could work out of her
house whenever she wanted.  She had a knack for hiring people who
could figure out whatever needed to be done and could do it without
needing to consult her.

     I nodded.  

     They'd moved this time, he said, mainly because she wanted him
to make a fresh start with people his own age, to find himself and
live up to his best potential.  Whatever that means, he added.

     I nodded.  We'd always lived here, and I'd always been eager
to live somewhere else.  But he'd lived nowhere really, and that's
why he was so much a loner.  He'd had no close friends all the
while he was growing up.  I'd had plenty, more than I wanted, which
is why I didn't feel I needed any more I suppose, except maybe to
play mind games with them.  Boy friends, that is.  I told him I
needed a good friend, a really close friend, if he'd be willing. 
I'd never had a really close girlfriend, someone who'd share
everything with me.  More boys I didn't need.  He didn't answer.

     Then I went back to work.  "Marianne," I said.  "Why don't you
put on your bathing suit, and then we'll go back into the water."

     "I'm wearing my bathing suit," he said.

     "No, you're wearing a half a bathing suit," I said.  "That's
why you're so ashamed, with your tits hanging out like that. 
Breasts are private.  You should let only your dearest friends see
them.  Other girls.  Yours are very attractive, and shouldn't be
just flaunted out in the open like that.  People might think you're
a tease.  What would your mother think?  Put on the bathing suit
she gave you."


end 4/9
Vickie Tern@AOL.COM

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