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From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern)
Subject: New TG The Two of Us by Vickie Tern 1/3 femdom
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New TG The Two of Us by Vickie Tern 1/3 Femdom M/F F/M etc.
This is the kind of story people like who like this kind of story,
but they are allowed to read it only if they're the age they need
to be to be allowed to read it. If you know what I mean.
Other Vickie Tern tales can be found at:
http://library.gaycafe.com/nifty/transgender/by_authors/vickie_tern
or click on this:
Index of /nifty/transgender/by_authors/Vickie...
She'd love hearing from you about any of them, even if they aren't
the kind of story you like to read, though especially if they are.
The Two of Us
by Vickie Tern
i.
That blonde woman back there in the Florida room? Reading her
magazines, watching the sun set behind the Catalpa branches in the
back garden? Why Loretta, you don't recognize him? Really? No,
of course not, it's been a while, we've all changed I suppose. And
you've never heard the whole story anyhow. That's Jim! Jim, my
husband, that's right! That's where he loves to sit evenings,
these days, when his household work is done. It's peaceful, and
he's been feeling a little down since his favorite boy friend got
transferred to another city. Doesn't he look lovely, with the warm
late-afternoon sunlight on his face?
Yes, he always dresses like that! Well, no he didn't always, but
for the last year or so, certainly, that blouse is one I bought him
back when he first realized he'd just better accept the way things
are. I guess it has been a while! Of course he's a lot thinner
than when you last saw him -- he's been trying for a more
attractive figure -- when he sees yours he'll be so jealous! And
his hairdo is brand new -- I treated him to it just this week, to
try to cheer him up. Isn't it darling? A new operator at the
salon, Marsha, she's a marvel! All in all he's looking quite the
lady, don't you think? And you should see him when he gets dolled
up! He'll take hours, but he knows now how to make himself really
beautiful. He once took a special "Beauty Tips for Girls Who Love
Men" course at the Community College, and it really shows! His men
friends certainly appreciate it!
Why does he want to make himself look like a woman? Because that's
what he is, now, Loretta. Or that's what he usually thinks he is,
which is much the same thing. Why? Well, he's better off being a
woman, though it took a little persuasion on my part for him to see
it. Why'd I persuade him? Well, he'd gotten himself into a little
trouble, with my help I'll grant you, and this was the only way he
could get himself out of it, with my help I mean. He's reconciled
to it now, given the alternatives. He knows he's much better off.
I know I certainly am!
Yes, there is a certain peacefulness about him. A kind of
serenity. I love it, he's so calm all the time, even when things
around here get frantic. And there's really nothing to maintaining
him that way. Each morning a double dose of tranquillizers and
anti-depressants along with his daily estrogen, and then he just
doesn't get upset about anything.
For a while it took some really heavy doses to convince him. He'd
swallow enough Thorazine and other psychoactive drugs to knock down
a cow. Then the next morning he'd sit dazed by his dressing table,
still in his negligee, just staring down at his boobs. He'd been
nearly a year on hormones by then, and they'd grown in pretty full.
They even hung down a little -- he really needed his bras by then.
I suppose after a night's sleep some of his medication had worn
off, and he'd begun to come to himself, and he couldn't remember
how those breasts had gotten there. But I'd remind him again who
he really was, the woman I live with, my dearest friend since we
were girls together, that's who he needs to be. Then he'd be fine,
and take his pills, and he'd get dressed appropriately, and we'd go
down, and that was that. There we were chatting away, two nice
ladies having breakfast who live together and lead separate lives.
I don't think he remembers any more that he was ever anything else.
He's a real help, you won't have to do a thing with the house, he
does it all! I work most days and some nights, and he takes care
of everything here. And often on weekends he'll help me with my
client load too back at Hospitality House, when I take on too many.
Ever since he quit his earlier job. Even before then I'd taught
him how to dress and behave, and how to do his make-up, the basic
things. But when he went full time he needed a lot of attention,
serious training, to help him decide what kind of a lady he was,
and how to keep his voice gentle, and how to move, and so on. You
know. Then later on, what to watch for when he's out shopping for
the house, and which cookbooks to rely on.
He was always grateful, I will say that. At first he relied on me
for everything, how to dress properly, how to be a fun date, he had
no idea how girls manage things like that. I had no choice,
Loretta! After his conversion he had no social life, so I had to
help him out! I certainly couldn't have him moping around here all
the time. He had to get out and circulate, get to be known, if you
know what I mean. And to really enjoy pleasing his dates, because
a man can always tell if a girl's sincere or not.
He was such an innocent! He knew nothing back then! Do you know
that when he went out on a really serious date for the first time
he didn't even think to douche his little rear end beforehand? I
had to tell him that! What can he have had in mind? How did he
think his date would feel, pushing a prick into his asshole and
finding squishy stuff already there? We gaffed his cock and balls
nice and flat, what was left of them after the hormones, and I told
him always to plead his period and offer his ass if his man was
interested. Then just lie back and spread your legs and enjoy it,
I told him, or else hump the air with your rear and wait for your
date to find the right place.
I wasn't worried about his mouth -- he's good with that, and he
loves giving blow jobs, no problem there. Once he begins he can
swallow oceans of cum. He does bachelor parties for me now and
then, and other affairs like that -- it helps bring in household
money. When he gets back sometimes his tummy's really bloated with
all the sticky stuff he's sucked and coaxed out of cock after cock.
He's wonderful at it -- men watch his tongue stroke the underside
of a prick and then they just can't wait for their turn.
But still, some men just have to fuck a girl down under before the
night's out, and this man who'd just asked him out for his first
real date looked like one of those. And he was! When Jim came
back the next morning there was cum oozing out of his anus and all
over everything. It utterly ruined his dress, a pretty black
slip-dress with a jewel neck I remember, luckily not his best
brocade, the one he'd wanted to wear because it's his prettiest.
He cried a little when I gave him another douche to clean him out
-- it hurt him. You know why? Loretta, in all the excitement of
getting him ready I'd completely forgotten that Jim's ass was
virginal. Never so much as a dildo in it previously! That date of
his had ruptured whatever it is that passes for a hymen in a man,
there were even traces of blood. Well, I kissed my poor Jim and
assured him it was going to be beautiful for him next time, and
then I slipped in a tampon and showed him how to change it, and he
was fine.
Then when I looked the dress over, I saw there was cum all over the
front of it too. Jim told me that when he felt cum spurting into
his bowels he'd gotten so excited he'd just let loose and cum too,
he couldn't help it. Wasn't that lovely? A wet orgasm, his first
as a girl, the very first time he gets fucked! They dated for
quite a while after that, those two, I remember. Jim kept his rear
sweet and neat, and carried tampons to protect his dresses after
making love. I'll bet he's a lot more satisfactory in his
lovemaking as a woman than he ever was as a man. And a lot better
satisfied himself, too, though I've never bothered to ask.
Anyhow, nowadays Jim takes care of his own social life without any
help at all from me, the dear. He takes his own phone calls from
men who think he's attractive, and he flirts with them if he likes
them, and sometimes he stays out all night. I never ask why or
where, as long as he looks happy. He's his own woman. These days
there's a man who's trying to teach him to play golf. Jim tells me
he pretends he can't swing a club, and then he swings his tush back
and forth in the man's face -- between the hormones and his diet
it's really rounded out, that tush, really cute -- until the man
can't wait to get off the golf course and bury himself in it. And
that's the way the golf lessons always end up. He can be such a
slut, sometimes, my Jim!
There's no question my life is easier now that he's a woman,
Loretta. I don't know why I didn't think of it years ago. Maybe
the same reason I never paid any attention to all the hunky guys
who were always hitting on me at work. They were all trying to
tell me something about what married life could be like, but I
wasn't listening. They were telling me that Jim might be a sweet
dear, and mean well, and that I didn't ever need to regret marrying
him, and so on, but that all that was no reason for me to deny
myself. Jim was always salt of the earth, you know? Solid,
dependable, predictable, you know? But when he was still a man,
boring? Don't even ask!
Loretta, after five years of yawning through my marriage I had to
do something! It got pretty obvious even to me. The Jim I'd met
and married wasn't at all what he'd turned out to be. He loved me,
I never doubted it, I'm sure he still does, somewhere down under.
When we were just friends, and then when we were living together he
was so considerate, such a perfect gentleman. He'd follow up every
hint or suggestion I ever made, what little gifts I might like,
where we should eat out, what shows we should see, where we could
enjoy a little weekend getaway, even how I'd like him to fuck me.
It was exciting to meet a man who cared about my least whim.
But after we got married and moved down here and Jim got his job
with that bank, it was different. It turned out he'd gone along
with all of my desires because he had practically none of his own.
And once we were married, he figured that was that, and stopped
paying attention to my needs altogether. Lots of men are like
that. From day one he'd come home from work and read his paper,
and if he had anything to say at all it was about business. Not
office gossip, not dishy stuff, who's in, who's out, who's into
who's pants, you know. Business talk. Exchange rates.
Collateral. Takeover bids. Marry a banker and that's who you end
up married to, Loretta, a banker. And at night in the dark he
doesn't stop being a banker, either, if you know what I mean.
You remember after I miscarried, and we had all those tests? Well,
it came clear that we'd never have kids to help break the monotony.
That's when a lot of other things came clear to me too. He'd
petered out in bed practically on our honeymoon. His prick wasn't
ever much, and he seemed to think then that oral sex is unsanitary.
I suppose it is, in some ways, but so what? Anyhow, for a long
while the only suspense when we were having sex was, would he
somehow manage to cum, and if he did, would he somehow knock me up?
That's what kept me awake until he'd finished dipping his dick in
and out of me and then rolled off me and started snoring. And that
was only maybe once a month on average!
Well, you play the cards you're dealt. You remember a few years
ago I may have told you that they'd made me a floor manager at
Sportsman's Paradise? You meet a lot of sporting types there, and
they're not exactly bankers. Summers they like to hit and run, and
in winter they glide and slide, in and out of trouble. You know
what I mean. I began to think about sampling one or two. Well,
one afternoon this really gorgeous guy walked in and made his moves
on me, and this time I couldn't think of a single reason why not.
A half hour later I was down the road in his motel room, and down
on him, and then in his bed, and he's down on me, and then he's
into me!
Oh, glory! Considerate? Gentle? Rough? Everything, you name it!
He kissed me on my neck where I never could resist anyone, even you
Loretta, you remember when we went together for a while, when we
were still in college, before you met Helen and left me for her?
And then he licked his way down my belly and into my pussy, up and
down, up and back, in long, easy strokes! Oooooh my! And you'll
never guess what came next! His lips closed on my clit and he
began giving me a blow-job! Can you imagine, Loretta? Sucking on
the dear little thing as if it were the world's greatest cock --
and he's got a world class cock himself, I found that out soon
enough. I bet Jim doesn't know even now that I have a clit. I
don't think he'll know it when I finally get him one! But this
man, sucking and licking, as if it were a real penis, or maybe a
third nipple down there giving him sweet milk! I can feel his lips
on me even now. Ooooh, I'm shuddering!
Well, I went wild, I couldn't stand it, it felt so wonderful, and
I was shouting at him to fuck me, fuck me, push that glorious thing
into me, now, now, and I was *crying* can you imagine, Loretta,
*begging* him, me begging a man for anything? I felt so utterly
marvelously out of this world! So he came up and eased himself
into me, and then he built up the pace until he'd gone berserk and
I'd gone just plain crazy! By then he was a pile driver, with his
huge arms and thighs, and that thick cock, and I was flying and
twisting and tailspinning and screaming while he was slamming my
ass into the mattress. Then my whole body started clenching and
unclenching! Orgasm after orgasm! O God, they went on and on and
on! Never anything like that ever! Then when finally he cums it's
a river!
I thought he was done, Loretta, and I kissed the tip of his thing
in gratitude, and I pushed a hankie into my panties to blot up some
of the leaking and I got ready to go back to work. But Loretta, it
wasn't over! Twice more that afternoon! Not even in college when
I took on that whole pledge class have I ever been so thoroughly
fucked! I began to remember again what it was like!
Well, after that how could I not spent more afternoons with other
guys? A few weeks later I went half-time at the store and
half-time at the motel. A few weeks after that, to make up for the
lost income I began to charge some of the men I took up with, those
who didn't especially appeal, you know? Not much, but soon I was
making more money in one afternoon than they paid Jim for all week.
It was easy work, too -- blow them or fuck them or sit on their
faces, whatever they wanted, and some of them had some pretty
curious kinks. I'd think of variations, and then they really began
to come back for more! I had more orgasms each day than in my
entire married life, and not one of them faked!
Well, my client list grew and I grew selective. Kept only guys I'd
have fucked for free, though they never knew that! I raised my
rates and rented a discreet apartment suite with separate entrances
and exits, I call it Hospitality House, and hired a
receptionist to answer the door and look after my billings
and debits and things, and I got cards printed up, and I
got a cellular phone number and a beeper. And there I
was, a professional! I opened a bank account in my maiden name, at
Jim's bank, no less. Loretta, it began to fill up with obscene
amounts of money. I bought all kinds of sex toys and fetish gear,
and I got to be very good at encouraging shy clients to confess
their darkest desires to me, and then guessing at others they
didn't dare mention, and then satisfying all of them. Well, the
word got around, and pretty soon I was booked for weeks and months
ahead, and accepting only clients who were recommended by other
really wealthy clients.
I quit the Sportsman's Paradise altogether, and raised my rates
again, and began scheduling morning and some evening appointments,
and I even started booking weekends for special parties. Jim
figured that was the way things were in the sporting goods business
and never thought to question any of it. He read his paper and
watched television, and fell asleep after dinner on days when I
told him I was going out on call and on other days when I just went
without saying a word. I don't know why we stayed married. He
wasn't a friend, or companionable, or helpful around the house, and
I had my own considerably larger income, and I certainly didn't
need him for sex! Just habit, I suppose. I can't say I felt
married. I doubt he knew what he felt.
What kept us together? Loretta, you won't believe this! One
afternoon I was on the bidet cleaning a previous client out of my
pussy and perfuming it for my next, when the receptionist poked her
head in and told me we have a walk-in. She didn't know him, should
she send him away, and she showed me the card he'd had in his hand.
It was Jim! My Jim!
The card was signed by one of my best clients, Brian, a
vice-president at Jim's bank, his immediate boss in fact. Brian
was a regular who liked being blindfolded and whipped, because it
made him horny as a goat! His wife never had a clue about that!
I met the two of them once during a theater intermission. He
introduced me to her as if I were a major depositor in his bank,
which I was getting to be, and she looked at me as if she already
knew that he was a major depositor in my pussy, though she couldn't
decide what to do about it. If she'd asked me, I'd have told her
to get a whip. Anyhow, Brian and Jim somehow had got to talking
about how wives are usually offended by kinky desires but
professionals are happy to satisfy them, because they make for
happy clients and return visits. Jim must have said something
more, because here he was, carrying his boss's seal of approval.
My receptionist said that this new client was so embarrassed he
didn't dare look up at her. He was waiting in the parlor. Well,
that's where I keep a half-a-dozen videotapes going, gay, lesbian,
straight, b&d, something for everyone. And on the tables are
stacks of magazines from "Hustler" through "Stud Muscles," even the
"Marquis De Sade Quarterly Review." A client's tastes are pretty
obvious when you see what video he looks at, and what magazines,
given lots of choice. I peered into the room and there's Jim all
right, looking at a video, a leather scene, a tall woman standing
astride a naked man, who's kneeling between her legs and looking up
and licking her cunt. And meanwhile a lingerie catalog open on his
lap! My Jim? My no-cum no-go husband a secret submissive, maybe
also a panty fetishist? I should have guessed! But how to keep
him from recognizing me while I find out exactly what he wants?
It happens that I was still made up for my previous client, wearing
black eyes and a scarlet mouth, my hair pulled back severely, and
laced into a tight leather bustier and jack boots. I could make
him grovel while I'm dressed like this, I thought, and he'd never
dare look up. But did I need to? I wear my hair loose and full
and soft at home, and almost no make-up, so even if he saw me he
might never put two and two together.
That turned out to be true enough. But for this first time I took
no chances. I picked up the very pantyhose I'd worn that morning
to work -- I'd felt especially horny anticipating my first fuck of
the day, and the crotch had gotten soaked. Then I summoned Jim
into one of my chambers in a stern voice, and ordered him to face
the window. He came in quivering, and collapsed onto his knees
without even being asked! What a specimen of a man! I blindfolded
him with my pantyhose, and that smeared my cunt juices all over his
nose and eyelids, and he got harder than I've ever seen him at
home!
Add in the smell of my perfume and the feel of my leather boobs
brushing on his back, and my dear hubby was near fainting with
excitement. It was his first visit to someone who really knows
what she's doing, I was sure of it! I stroked his stiff little
dick through his pants to relax him, and I asked how I could help
him. Surprise surprise! Panties! He wanted to wear women's
panties! Soiled women's panties! The prettier the better! And he
wanted to be ordered to wear them! And that was all he wanted! To
feel himself humiliated by a little forced femininity! My modest
little pervert! He almost didn't blurt it out, he felt so ashamed!
Can you imagine? My Jim has this one kinky desire, the only one of
his whole life, and when he finally gets up the nerve to gratify
it, who does he ask to do it for him? For money? His own wife!
That's Jim!
Well, of course he got exactly what he wanted, and then some. When
he left me that day he was wearing a pair of black lace tap pants
I'd pissed up earlier for a client who was into golden showers.
And he'd masturbated into them for me, and I'd told him to wear
them sopping and sticky back to his office. He actually did squeak
some cum into them, more than he usually managed to put into me!
And when he left I'd put him into a matching black lace bra, too,
for discipline's sake, and also because there was an interesting
scenario forming in my head!
I knew almost at once what I wanted to do with him. I'd already
dealt with a few pantywaisted husbands eager to "explore their
femininity" as they said, to spend their salaries getting
high-priced whores to make them wear dresses. One in fact had been
sent to me by a bored wife who wanted him turned into a
streetwalker so he'd have something income-producing to do evenings
when she was out with her various boy friends -- he lacked even
that much talent, it turned out, so she had to settle for him
ending up a hustler in a gay bar. Anyhow, I knew exactly where I
wanted to bring Jim, and how to do it. I admit it, Loretta, I was
feeling gleefully spiteful about my blighted expectations for a
happy married life, the years of futility he'd inflicted on me.
But I also felt some pity for him. He didn't know any better, and
his needs were so puny. Such a useless man! Such a second rate
husband! Well, Loretta, I decided my second rate husband might
make me a first rate wife! Someone I could enjoy living with. I'd
improve him! Why not? I had no use for him at all the way he was!
I told him in a steely voice that he should wear his bra and
panties all the rest of that day, and from now on. His wife needed
to know it, so tonight he should ask her permission to sleep in
them, and he should tell her he wanted to wear them all the
following day. Then he had to tell her the next evening that he
wanted to rinse them out and wear them again. "You can tell her
your Mistress insists, and see if that gets her cooperation," I
told him. "Or you can tell her you've always yearned to look
pretty, that you feel more complete wearing them, that you want to
wear only bras and panties from now on. Tell her whatever you
like. But do it!" Then he should return and tell me what
happened.
He did it. It was so funny, that evening at dinner, watching him
twist his shoulders to free up a binding bra strap he didn't dare
reach for while I was looking. I accidentally on purpose spilled
wine on his pants and then insisted that he strip them off at once
so I could blot them before the stain set in. He did the weirdest
contortions to keep his shirt tail below the black lace fringes of
his tap pants, and when he danced upstairs to get some fresh slacks
he was clutching his behind. But I could tell that the risk of
exposure excited him -- he was happy. His little dick stayed stiff
the whole time! What a sweetie!
When we were undressing and getting ready for bed, I could see that
he was beginning to tremble again. He just couldn't get the words
out, yet he had to ask my permission to sleep in his undies. So he
solved the problem by pretending there wasn't any. He removed his
pants, then his shirt, and then he took off his shoes and socks,
and then he just sat there with his black bra and sexy panties in
full view.
I'd decided that because his Mistress was strident and demanding,
I would keep my own voice relaxed and gentle. I also knew he was
terrified. I didn't want to spook him, and that gave me my
strategy for his whole transformation into a woman. No matter how
idiotic I might seem, I would regard each step as a dull
commonplace, no big deal, hardly worth noticing. So in the most
casual voice imaginable, I said "They're rather becoming, those
panties. Vanity Fair, aren't they? I usually buy Olga. Do you
get many washes out of them?" My attention the whole time
concentrated on a chip in my fingernail polish.
"Not yet," he croaked out. "I like to wear them. They make me
feel complete. Do you mind?"
"Why should I mind?" My tone of voice told him that even the
question was of little interest to me. "It's a good brand, well
made, and they're pretty. It's nice to look pretty. But the bra
isn't quite right. Do you plan to grow breasts or to just let it
slide around on your chest like that?"
"I don't know," he replied. Well, that sounded promising! Then he
remembered his specific mission. "Do you mind if I sleep in these
tonight?"
"Suit yourself," I replied. "I wear my bras and panties to bed
sometimes during my period, when I'm a little swollen and leaky.
Are you expecting a period?"
"No," he replied. "I don't think so." He was more bewildered by my
question than by my indifference to the bizarre spectacle he
presented, a husband in ladies' lingerie. I must have sounded
surreal to him, a little lunatic. Or maybe sarcastic, as if I
didn't care about him. I didn't want that. I didn't want him
feeling guilty and defensive. Not yet.
So I added, "Well, honey, if you'd like to pretend it's your
period, you'd better borrow one of my tampons for tonight, you know
where they are. Slip one into you before you get into bed. Better
be safe than sorry. But buy your own for after tonight, enough for
four more days. At least buy yourself some sanitary napkins. It's
so thoughtful that you want to know what it feels like. And oh,
yes, we're almost out of toothpaste. Try to pick up a tube too, on
your way home."
And I put out my bedside light and turned onto my side to sleep.
I knew he wouldn't dare ask for clarification, and I soon heard him
struggling in the bathroom, trying to push a tampon into his rump.
Then I saw him waddling back to bed. It was so funny!
The next day he wore his bra and panties to his office with no
comment from me. The next evening he couldn't decide how to ask me
for permission to rinse them out, as his Mistress had ordered him.
Several times he started to say something, then stopped.
I decided to help him. "What a bother it is, doing undies by hand
every evening, instead of just throwing them in the clothes
washer."
"Yes!" he replied eagerly. "I've had that very thought!"
"Would you mind rinsing out mine tonight with yours, Jim? I'm
really tired. I'm going to bed as soon as I do the dishes."
"Not at all! Go right ahead. I'll do the dishes tonight too,"
tumbled out of him. But he knew he had to ask me, those were his
orders. "You don't mind my rinsing out my underwear along with
yours?" He waited. Technically he'd fulfilled his obligation.
"Of course not," I replied. "You've worn those undies for two days
now haven't you?"
"Yes" he said. And he started upstairs to perform for the first
time the womanly task he'd be doing for the rest of his life,
rinsing out his undies. And he didn't know it yet, but I never
touched another dish from then on either.
end 1/3
Vickie Tern@AOL.COM
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