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From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern)
Subject: New TG The Two of Us by Vickie Tern 2/3 femdom
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New TG The Two of Us by Vickie Tern 2/3 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.
Other Vickie Tern tales can be found at:
http://library.gaycafe.com/nifty/transgender/by_authors/vickie_tern
Let her know what you think.
"Oh, by the way," I said as he was half-way up the stairs, not
troubling to look up from my magazine. "With that kind of
underwear you really should get rid of your body hair. Shave it
off tonight, and use some 'Nair' on the stubble. Instructions are
on the box."
Nothing more from me, so he continued on his way. When I went up
myself and started preparing for bed, Jim was already under the
covers, reading. He was in regular pajamas, and he looked up at me
puzzled, still working through why I thought his shameful
transvestism was too routine to notice. Was it?
"Men don't wear panties, do they?" he asked.
"You tell me," I said laconically, giving my hair its twenty-five
strokes with the hair brush, as if that were far more important
than his question.
He had to test again. "And bras?"
"Apparently. Why not? Most men love women's breasts." I looked
at him. "If your skin feels smooth now, you'll find a nightgown
nicer to sleep in than those pajamas. Here!" I took one out of my
lingerie drawer and tossed it at him. "This is yours now, but get
yourself your own so you won't always be borrowing mine. More bras
and panties too, if you mean to wear them regularly, enough so you
can change every day. Did you remember to lock the rear door?"
I pretended not to see him slip the first nightie of the rest of
his life over his head. It was a salmon-colored baby doll, with
ruffles on the short hem. He looked so precious, sweet and silly,
all at once! That my husband now wore lingerie as a matter of
course seemed of so little interest to me that he let the subject
drop. The next morning he made no effort to hide from me the fact
that he was putting on his now-hand-washed bra and panties again,
though he seemed a little self-conscious about it.
"Remember to pick up the cleaning on your way home," I said. "You
need help with that?" I stepped behind him and did up his bra's
three hooks. "I should think that by now you'd have learned to
hook bras in front first and then turn them, if you can't reach
around behind you. You aren't exactly a young girl with her first
training bra, you know!" He was speechless. I decided that if he
ever slid back into male underwear I would make a show of anger
that he couldn't seem to make up his mind about anything, and he'd
shift back again. Phase one completed.
ii.
He showed up at Hospitality House ahead of schedule, and I began
his training at once. My receptionist had him wait for me wearing
only his lingerie, on his knees, and warned him that in my presence
he must always remain on his knees and look at my feet, never under
any circumstances higher than my crotch. When I arrived my hair
was tight back and I had a cat mask on just in case, though I
needn't have bothered -- his eyes stayed draped under his lids the
whole time. I gave him the middle finger of my left hand to kiss,
then to lick, and finally I began to pump it into his mouth while
he sucked on it, and then I added my forefinger for thickness. His
first dildo. He slid his lips up and down on it devotedly after a
bit. He wasn't very good at it, Loretta, but you'll have to admit
it was a beginning. It's hard to criticize. I had lots of high
school boys' pricks to practice on, and you've had your experiences
too, I'm sure. And he's certainly come a long way since then.
I asked him in my strictest voice if he had obeyed my every order,
and asked his wife for permission to sleep in his bra, and so
forth. The words tumbled quavering out of him. He told all, even
about her suggestion that he borrow and wear a tampon, and that he
remove his body hair, and about the nightgown. Then he paused.
His wife's indifference to his perverse vice baffled him. He said
so.
I replied contemptuously, "Do you actually believe you're the first
man in the world ever to wear women's underwear?"
"No, ma'am!"
"Or the ten thousandth?"
"No, ma'am."
"Obviously she knows more than you do about these things. Do what
she says! Buy yourself a few nighties and undies. From now on
when I come in I want to see you kneeling here wearing your own
bras and panties. Go to a department store and be sure to ask the
sales girl for help. Tell her they're for you. Tell her proudly.
If your wife wants you to dress in panties daily, try to be worthy
of the honor."
I then got to a key point he'd overlooked. "What else did she ask
you?"
I waited. And waited. Jim hesitated, unable to speak. He tried
twice, but only when he saw my toe begin to tap impatiently did he
say it.
Eyes down and muttering, he said, "She asked me if I intend to grow
breasts, so my bras won't slide around."
"And do you think it's proper for your bras to slide around?"
"No," he said. He saw where I was headed, and couldn't find a way
to deflect the next question.
"Then you want to grow breasts?"
"I suppose," he said without conviction.
"Then if she'll let you, you should! Ask her to acquire the
hormones you'll need, and begin immediately!"
I then gave him a freshly soiled pair of panties and a new push-up
bra to wear, and handed him his old ones in a pink quilted lingerie
bag to carry back to his office and leave visible on his desk for
the rest of the day. We set up a schedule, three visits a week.
I told him he would pay me $500 for each visit, $1,500 weekly due
the first session of each week, in cash, to prove to me that he
appreciated my services. If I could keep him hooked, I figured, he
would exhaust our savings and investments within a month or two,
then begin to beg, borrow, or steal my fees, and I'd have him. He
looked a bit stunned when he heard how much I charge, but he was
already pulling away on his little penis, and so near cumming into
his soiled panties that he just nodded. A few squirts finally
came, and he stared at them. What were these moments of
masturbation going to cost him? Everything! "Good!" was all I
said.
As he left I told my receptionist to give his hair a quick spray of
her perfume, a strong, musky, romantic fragrance called
"Surrender!" He'd smell of it all afternoon at work. He blushed
but said nothing. I suppose he hoped people would think it was a
man's aroma, a hair tonic, or aftershave. But not "Surrender!"
Others at the bank would certainly begin looking at him peculiarly.
The women would notice first, of course. But women often feel
kindly toward transvestites and transsexuals and effeminate gays,
people whose desires for themselves seem to flatter what women are
normally. Men might not notice him unless I sent him to work
dressed like a go-go dancer. As I just might, I thought -- it was
a matter of timing. I did want to be ready for a showdown by the
time Jim's tits ripened.
After dinner that night I sniffed the air in our living room, then
looked at Jim. He hid behind his paper. Things were moving a
little fast for him, obviously.
"It's very nice, but don't you think that scent is a little heavy
for work?" I asked him. "It's more for formal dances, evening
gowns, things like that." I stood up, picked up my purse and
checked its contents, and took my topcoat out of the closet. "For
daytime find something lighter, more flowery, or more casual or
sporty. Stop in at the perfume bar at Everson's tomorrow on your
way to the bank, and ask the girl there to try a few samples on
your wrist and neck. Tell her you want something romantic, but
more delicate. And while you're at it, do buy those nightgowns
and undies."
Then I clicked my purse shut. I had a brief evening appointment
with a Japanese client who came to town now and then, a man who
would enter my ass in a nervous tremor and then vibrate his cock in
and out like a rabbit doing a fast fuck. A remarkable man -- he
could cum inside me two or three times in quick succession without
my even noticing, and without even pausing. I scarcely ever saw
him face to face. Fortunately he had a small cock and he didn't
visit me too often, or I'd have had to charge extra for the down
time while my rear end recovered. Or charge his firm, anyhow. But
really, he was no trouble to accommodate. "I need to go out," I
told Jim. "Be back in an hour or two."
"All right," he replied. Then he remembered, and as casually as
possible he said, "Oh, while you're out would you pick up whatever
I'll need to start growing breasts?" He hid again behind his
newspaper.
"All right," I said. "I'll try to remember." I already had the
necessary prescriptions, provided by a Doctor client of mine. "You
do know that with hormones instead of implants you'll have to be
patient. It'll be six months before you begin to look respectable.
But if that's what you want. Anything else?"
"No," came a small voice.
"Remember to load the dishwasher and to rinse out our undies again
before you get to bed." Those were now his jobs, whether he knew
it yet or not. The first of many, as far as household matters
went.
And I was gone. I came back three quick assfucks later carrying
his six-month's supply of estrogen, progestin, and androcur. And
as an afterthought, Prozac to keep him mellowed out. I told him to
take one of each kind each day the moment he woke up, and I left
them on the night stand near our bed so I could see that he did.
I knew that his hormones would soon end even those pitiful
erections and ejaculations he managed to coax out of himself at
each of our sessions, that soon his orgasms if he ever had any would
resemble a woman's delicious tensions and relaxations. All to
the good. The mood pills would help keep him from worrying about
what was happening, where I was leading him, until he'd arrived there.
Not too bad, my progress so far.
The next evening I came home feeling irritable after an altogether
unsatisfactory group session. Five men from a single men's club,
Rotary or Kiwanis, I forget which, who'd signed up for severe
discipline. They'd been slow to follow my orders, so I'd set them
circle-fucking each other in a daisy chain, then I'd told them I
was through, no more, they could go fuck themselves now that they
knew how. Then they offered me double my fee to keep them on,
pleading, and I was still annoyed with myself that I'd finally
relented. But I was cheered when I saw Jim fondling a couple of
nighties and a half-dozen new panties and bras while he cut off
their price tags.
"Do they fit?" I asked.
"Yes, they're fine, thank you," he replied calmly. The Prozac at
work! "The salesgirl insisted I try on each one and come out and
show her, because they don't permit returns of lingerie, she said,
once it's left the store. It was humiliating, all those women
shoppers gathering to see. They looked amused. I was glad I had
no body hair, or I'd have felt really ashamed. When I came out
wearing this beige set they actually applauded."
"I can see why," I said. "It's very pretty. It's hardly
humiliating, wanting to wear pretty things. A nice choice."
I noticed that the house still reeked of perfume. He'd overdone
splashing it on himself, probably, but I said nothing. I had to
smile that now his "after shave" or whatever he imagined people
thought he was wearing was as unmistakeably dainty and feminine as
lipstick. My hubby in lingerie, wearing a woman's fragrance! What
next?
Obviously, lipstick was next. And eye make-up. A week later he
was jerking off into some really filthy panties, brown-stained cum
from someone's asshole, not mine, when his Mistress stroked some
light cosmetics on him. Not much, just a touch of mascara and a
little eye-liner, some shadow on his lids, and a mauve lipstick.
I told him his face needed more drama, a more lively expression.
Of course he'd forgotten it was there by the time he returned to
the bank. He was still wearing it, I saw, when he arrived home
that evening and opened his Wall Street Journal to wait for dinner.
That created a problem. Should I tell him? If so, how? Should I
ignore it? If so, what would he think when he was getting ready
for bed and stared into the bathroom mirror, and saw those stark
eyes and that fashionably dark brown mouth? What had people
thought at the bank, those who had seen him? Add in his perfume
and they'd be sure that he was a transsexual or faggot coming out
of the closet. Not untrue.
I decided as usual to say nothing, in order to build his confidence
that his increasingly feminine appearance was neither feminine nor
noticeable. I commented only that he looked especially bright-eyed
and alert, and asked if he been working out, or had gotten a raise
at the bank, or what? He was bewildered but pleased. He knew what
had really impressed me, and now he felt encouraged to keep it up
on his own.
As he did. The following day was especially busy for me if boring,
just straight fucks one after another. I arrived home tired --
after all, Loretta, how many times a day can a woman ride how many
cocks to orgasm? Or douche and then get filled up yet again with
more cum? But there was Jim, wearing fresh make-up!
Wonderful! He'd actually bought it on his own, actually found the
courage! And put it on, presentably enough. And worn it all day
at the bank, so far as I knew in a sort of reversal of "The
Emperor's New Clothes," thinking that it made him look better and
yet remained invisible! I commented again on how alert he looked
these days, and again he looked pleased. And this time he
re-applied it before coming to bed. Does he do that at work, I
wondered? Take out a compact and mascara and a tube of lipstick
and freshen his face at his desk?
The next weeks were routine. Jim knelt naked except for his
undies three times each week, smelling wonderfully feminine and
looking prettily made up, trembling, sucking on my fingers and then
receiving from my hand another pair of panties streaked with
who-knows-what, the sacrament of his devotion. He'd kiss them and
slip them on, then stroke cum into them if he could, attach a new
brassiere around nipples he said had become quite sensitive, and
after re-applying his make-up he'd leave with his old undies in a
"Victoria's Secret" or "Frederick's of Hollywood" bag, once in a
"Lady Madonna" bag my receptionist provided for the secretaries at
his bank to marvel at.
A few months more and he was mine. If he hesitated to do my most
trivial bidding I spoke to him harshly, and he was crushed. When
I praised him, it was always for some utterly feminine trait or
gesture. He blossomed and beamed whenever this happened, and tried
even harder to please me. His breasts were budding, and I gave him
strict orders to play with his nipples for at least fifteen minutes
every day. This gave him so much pleasure, I saw at home, that
sometimes he caressed himself unthinkingly -- if we were at a
restaurant or otherwise in public I had to caution him not to.
Gradually I weaned him away from soiled to fresh panties -- though
I still had him cum each session into a sanitary napkin and then
wear it for the rest of the day. He produced very little fluid,
unless I said something to excite him, like praise for the way he'd
plucked his eyebrows, or comment on his two-toned lipstick and
lipliner. At home even the thought of sex ceased.
His accumulating bras and panties finally overwhelmed his bedroom
bureau. I remarked one day that since he seemed to prefer them and
they looked so nice, he should pack away his men's things to make
more room for them. He did. The next day his Mistress scornfully
informed him that since he was a woman, not a man, he should wear
full lingerie all the time, not just bras and panties. A woman
could not feel altogether neat and sweet and pretty and respectable
unless she was wearing hosiery, pantyhose, teddies, slips, and now
and then even a panty girdle. That he should begin thinking about
shoes and outer garments too. He was old enough to be wearing
heels, and to appear at least now and then in a dress! At home Jim
asked me what I thought, and as always I answered without looking
up, as if the issue were trivial, "Of course wear slips -- your
dresses will hang better when you get around to wearing them. I
don't know why you don't. And there are tailored suits for women
as nice as those made for men. Skirts are much more lady-like. Of
course if you wear a skirt to work you'll have to style your hair
differently." So it was two against one. Jim began wearing full
regalia under his business suits, and began to think about wearing
a business suit with a skirt. He played with his hair, trying to
make it curve coyly over his ears. My perfumed fairy princess was
developing nicely.
On a warm spring day on a Friday, I remember, his Mistress forced
a crisis. She sent him to a boutique to buy a rather cute cocktail
dress she'd seen, and a simple cotton frock to use as a house dress
as well as a smart-looking woman's pin-striped suit, with pinched
short jacket and straight skirt, for a day at the office. From
then on he was her woman, she told him, and he would be dressed
appropriately whenever he appeared for his tri-weekly sessions.
Later on he would need to take a few weeks off to learn how to do
it really right, and he would need to ask his wife's help. But for
now all he had to do was appear to be a credible woman -- she would
not tolerate a clown for a client.
Jim was proud of his new purchases. He kept them at Hospitality
House in a Client's Closet for a time, and changed into them
just before his sessions were scheduled, and then changed back.
His Mistress sent him out onto the street now and then, so he could
get used to people seeing him in women's clothes. With make-up and
earrings, no one ever looked twice at him.
The Closet eventually filled to bursting, and under orders he
carried everything home. That evening he put on a fashion show for
his wife. I told him they were nice, but not being worn
tastefully. That the cocktail dress and the suit needed heels, not
the one pair of flats he owned. And -- as I again reminded him --
he needed a more sophisticated hairdo. And where were his
accessories -- jewelry and purses and the like? When he told me he
had none he was close to tears -- the hormones had made him much
more sensitive to supposed rebukes. I told him I'd shop with him
to get him started, but that if he meant to appear in public
dressed like a woman all the time it would take a few weeks for him
to learn everything he needed to know. Was he sure he wanted to
look like a woman instead of a man? He nodded. I knew that what
he really wanted was to please his Mistress, that he had private
reservations, but we were reaching a critical point in his
transformation now and it was no time to split hairs. That Friday
was his last day in men's clothes, Loretta, and that Saturday was
the birth day of that gentle blonde lady you see sitting over there
reading and crocheting and smiling to herself now and then.
A near knockout dose of Thorazine the next morning, and Jim put on
his house dress, and we went to a salon I sometimes use for certain
customers, where they do feminine make-overs on husbands if wives
request it, without feeling they have to ask if the man himself
wants it. Four hours of electrolysis on his beard and chest (of
many more the rest of that week), and meanwhile eyebrow plucking,
body-waxing, ear-piercing, fingernail strengthening, lengthening,
and painting, hair-permanenting, curling, frosting, and styling, a
make-up consultation, and my Jim was way past the point of no
return. As a man he'd been a pitiful drudge, but as a woman he was
getting to be really attractive. You can see that for yourself
now, of course! When we left he looked just charming, a lot like
the way he looks now, Loretta, though not quite as lovely -- that
came later, when he finally agreed to add to his disguise with
facial plastic surgery. But I'm getting ahead of myself. There
was just time enough before the Mall closed to get him a few pairs
of shoes too -- heels and more flats. And a few blouses and
skirts.
The next day he didn't recognize himself in the mirror and called
out to me rather frightened. It took another really heavy dose of
tranquillizers to calm him down, and really, I have to say,
Loretta, he's been more or less cheered or zonked by one or
another kind ever since. That Monday I had him phone in sick for
the week, and claim his two-weeks vacation time as well, so he had
three weeks before he'd have to face going to work looking the way
he now looked. I shrugged when he worried the problem to me, as if
no one would bother to notice that the man they knew was now a
woman. I knew, as he didn't yet know, that his days of employment
at the bank had ended.
I started him on the other things he had to learn. How to apply
full, persuasive makeup, even for sophisticated occasions. How to
take care of his hairdo. Now that it was permed it was manageable
-- I showed him how to put it up in rollers one evening, and he was
delighted the next morning when he combed it out and found it was
a beautiful mass of sculpted puffs and swirls. He had to learn
feminine habits of walking and moving. I taught him to walk in
heels with short steps, elbows close to his body, head high, hips
swaying, his now quite noticeable breasts proudly thrust forward.
I began calling him "Jamie" instead of "Jim," because that was a
woman's name and would help him remember -- and if he didn't
believe he was now a woman, who would? I told him to appear more
feminine when doing his domestic tasks at home, to wear a frilly
apron over his skirt instead of the velvet slacks he sometimes
favored. He was busier in the kitchen than I'd ever been, and was
doing all of the cooking now. With practice his voice became
thinner and took on a wider range of inflections. I still remember
the first time he used the words "sweet" and "darling" and
"precious" in a single sentence. He was describing a cute-looking
movie star pictured in one of his women's magazines, and I was
amused that he was referring with those words not to her appearance
or her figure but to her matching skirt and sweater.
Of course I still had a living to earn, and clients who needed my
attention, and Jim still had his tri-weekly appointments with his
Mistress. But now I could greatly accellerate his feminizing -- in
fact it had to be completed, essentially, before he felt he should
return to work. It turned out to be a lot easier than I'd
expected.
iii.
Luckily I'd overcome Jim's prejudice against oral sex a few weeks
earlier, almost by accident. For an appointment just before
Jim's, I was wearing a slip-on rubber love-doll mask, sitting
regally on an ornate, throne-like chair and allowing a client to
lick my feet as if I were some kind of goddess. That was his
thing. You know those masks with their own hair and big red oval
lips set in an "O," and huge bimbo eyes? Gay men use them to hide
their identities when they're sucking some stranger's cock, and
wives in sex clubs use them sometimes when they'd rather not be
recognized by whichever next-door neighbor they're fucking. My
earlier client couldn't get off at all unless I wore the kind of
blow-up doll mask his girl had once worn every afternoon while he
mouth-fucked her behind the high school gymnasium. So that's what
I wore. He'd worship my feet, then I'd lie back with my crotch
over the edge of the throne and imperiously crook my finger at him.
He'd crawl forward and then, half-standing, half-crouching
apologetically, he'd fuck me. What some men need to do to get off!
This client had the thickest cock I have ever seen, Loretta. It
was like a baseball bat. He always left my pussy swollen and
stretched wide, and his spunk was a thick, viscous fluid he'd pump
into me for what seemed forever. It took forever to ooze out, too,
always in huge, phlegmy globs. Well, a few weeks before Jim's final
phase began, with his enforced vacation, I happened to feel too
sore and too lazy to bother using the bidet after my client left.
I decided that it would be more comforting to have my cunt licked
clean by my next client, my queenly husband Jim, who had once
refused the honor as unsanitary. In he came wearing a red satin
teddy, his breasts now grown out and filling his matching red bra
like half-grapefruits, perfumed and made up, looking more like a
butch lesbian than a man. As always he kneeled at my feet!
My face was still masked like a love-doll, my swollen cunt was
beginning to leak blobs of thick sperm, and I knew it smelled
strong, freshly fucked. I gave Jim my fingers to suck on as usual,
but this time I first dipped them into the slime inside my pussy.
I scooped up a huge gobbet of cloudy cum. Jim hesitated for only
a second, but then licked it as devotedly as always. He must have
realized what it was and been turned on by the humiliation,
because after a few more fingers full, without my permission he
lunged his mouth onto my crotch like some starved animal, and began
to suck it out of me passionately. The way he thrust his face into me
so was so primal I couldn't possibly think to punish him for it. He
couldn't help himself, he was obviously out of control. And besides,
it felt wonderful!
You know, Loretta, he slurped and sucked and swallowed cum from me
for nearly his whole scheduled session. He was transported! It
was as if the mask had rendered me more than human, an immortal fit
for worship. He looked up at my face once or twice, and as the
cute, wide-eyed, Bimbo "Oh!" expression stared back, he seemed
reassured. His tongue curled and curved and probed and poked and
reached deep into me! My desires rose up and I came in a
beautifully blossoming orgasm, feeling as chaste as a wild flower
the whole time, and then I rose up and came yet again! So sweetly
gentle, yet so full, so complete! Tim's tongue in my pussy was
like an armful of heather and roses, or like a young man
shyly offering his best girl a bouquet of violets. And I was always
sparkling clean when he finished. I wished we'd gotten into it
years before!
Well, two days later I was again brim-filled with fluids and
secretions from that same fat-cocked client, with my fairy husband
again scheduled next on my calendar. I took off my mask so that
this time I would appear to be what I was, Jim's familiar severe
Mistress with her usual black dominatrix eyes and red slash of a
mouth. But this time when Jim came in and knelt down humbly I
simply stepped forward over him, mounted his upraised face, and
pressed my spunky cunt against his nose and mouth. Then without a
word I began to squeeze my cunt muscles. Thick mixed sperm and my
own cum poured from my pussy into his mouth. All of everything my
prior had squirted into me ended up in Jim, and when I stepped from
his face with my cunt licked utterly pristine, he was still swallowing
and licking the memory of it, eyes closed, in heaven! I decided
that whatever else, from then on I would use Jim instead of a bidet
to clean out whatever secretions and fluids there were in my pussy.
At last I'd found his primary sexual talent!
By now Jim's breasts were more than ample, and he would fondle his
nipples by the hour if I'd let him, a serene smile on his face. I
do believe his character changed to match -- he became more
sensitive, gentler, more tentative, sweeter. His face and figure
grew softer, too. Understand, Loretta, Jim didn't want to be a
woman at first, and he still didn't, really. He'd only had a panty
fetish when I started with him, and I'd degraded him to do nearly
anything to please his Mistress. Now here he was, wearing
pantyhose, make-up, everything, quite presentably feminine, sucking
a stranger's cum out of my cunt like any submissive husband of any
whore of a wife anywhere. And loving it! That was his sex life
now -- when he tried to jerk off nothing ever happened at all.
When he pleased me, my little hubby, he was overjoyed that I
rewarded him by making him my douchebag.
end 2/3
Vickie Tern@AOL.COM
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