Barbara's Dressy Watch

by Gloria Marshall

 

Starting when I was only four or five years old, my stepmother Barbara begn dressing me like a girl every Sunday morning. It was always the same routine: I would eat my cereal and read the Sunday funnies until Father left for his weekly outing. As soon as his car pulled away, Barbara would come into the kitchen and say something like "Well, I suppose you want me to dress you up again, don't you?" I always nodded shyly, even though I had never asked her to. She would then sigh dramatically, say, "Oh, all right, then. If you really want me to," then take my hand and lead me to the master bedroom.

The early dressings consisted of a blouse (long enough to be a "dress" for me), a headscarf, some beads and clip-ons and, if there was time, a little lipstick. It had to be our little secret, Barbara said, because if Father ever found out that I was being feminized during his weekly golf game he would beat us both. She may have been right.

When Father was out of town on long business trips Barbara dressed me daily, and more thoroughly. On those days I was greeted at the door after school and immediately trundled up to the bathroom to be stripped, bathed, and powdered. I was then elaborately dressed in a full set (bra, panty, garter belt and stockings, full slip) of satin lingerie, a nice dress in my size (4 Petite), high-heeled patent leather pumps, a wig, a careful application of lipstick, and Barbara's nicest jewelry. She then fussed over me for awhile before sending me off to perform my chores, my outfit covered by a full-length ruffled cotton pinafore. When bedtime came she undressed me and redressed me in one of her satin nightgowns before tucking me in.

The "simple" Sunday dressings became a rarity when I was eight or nine years old, because Father gave up golf, but the more elaborate dressings continued for several more years whenever we had the opportunity. For Halloween, which was the only time Barbara could get away with showing my girl side off to others, she pulled out all the stops. The two of us usually went trick-or-treating at some of our neighbors' houses. They invariably oohed and aahed at my costume--one year I was a little gypsy girl weighted down with heavy bangles and large doorknocker earrings; another year I went as a fairy tale princess in a wispy gown and pointed hat with veil; one year I was even an ever-so-young bride.

The last time she dressed me up, though, was different. I was eleven years old, and went as Marilyn Monroe--but that year I did not go trick or treating to the neighbors. Instead, she drove me to the house of a friend of hers where there was a costume party going on. All of the other guests were women--there were probably a dozen or so--but the only one I recognized was one of Barbara's friends.

At some point I realized that all of the other women were referring to me as "her" and "she," and as I glanced at the long mirror over the fireplace it occurred to me that in my pleated gold lamŽ dress, blonde "Marilyn" wig and elaborate makeover I really did look like a girl. I even felt like a girl. I will never forget that moment of awareness.

Although that was my last "dressing," I was completely sissified by then and regularly fantacized about dressing up. A few times I was able to indulge myself somewhat by slipping on Barbara's dressy bracelet watch when she left it lying by the bathroom sink. (It was one of my favorite items of jewelry from our sessions.) Which explains why it was so easy for my stepsister to--but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Back to Barbara's dressy watch. When I was a sophomore in high school she bought herself a 1930's-style leather-strap "tank" watch that she began wearing for everyday use. That meant that her old watch--the elegant brushed gold Seiko that I loved to wear--was always nestled in the top drawer of her largest jewelry box. I thought about it constantly, and if I was alone in the house for even a short time I would dash upstairs to try it on. Just the sight of it made me almost helplessly aroused, and once I had clasped the bracelet watch around my wrist and felt it slowly slip down against my hand I was always in danger of soiling my jeans.

If I had time I would run into the bathroom then to masterbate, but usually I would hear Barbara coming in the front door while I was still standing in front of her vanity mirror wearing her watch, and my heart would leap into my throat, and I would feverishly take off the piece of jewelry and carefully replace it in its drawer, then step into the hallway and pretend to be looking for something in the linen closet.

Looking back now, it's obvious that Barbara caught me looking in the linen closet enough times to suspect that I was up there for another purpose. However, she never said anything about it. It was a hint of what was to come.

Another hint presented itself on my sixteenth birthday, but I was still oblivious. Father was out of town again, so Barbara and I had a private birthday supper. After dinner she handed me a slim gift-wrapped package. I opened it to find an oblong hinged case, and when I opened that I gasped slightly, for inside was a beautiful gold bracelet watch.

I wasn't sure how to react, so just stared. Barbara said "It still needs to be fitted--" but broke off as she noticed my expression. "Don't you like it?" she asked, with a slight frown. "Oh yes," I said, "It's very, um, nice . . . it's just that Father might think it would make me look like a, a sissy. . . .

She looked at it again and slowly raised her eyebrows. "Oh dear," she said. "Yes, I'm sure you're right. It is rather effeminate. I hadn't even considered that. It's just that I know how much you like--"

She stopped short. "That is," she said quickly, "I know that you like, ah, fashionable things, and this was so stunning . . . well, you're right. We'll go back to the store and exchange this for something more macho."

I panicked slightly, as I wanted to wear the "sissy" watch in the worst way. "Maybe if I didn't wear it around Father," I said tentatively. She brightened considerably. "Yes, that's what we'll do," she said. "I'll tell you what. After we get it fitted tomorrow, I'll put it in the top drawer of my large jewelry box, and you can get it out when you want to wear it. He doesn't have to know."

I gulped and agreed to the plan. Looking back at it, the plan should have made absolutely no sense to me, but I desperately wanted it to make sense at the time. It certainly made sense to Barbara--but I was to realize that much later.

The next day we went to the jewelers to get my watch fitted. I noticed the woman behind the counter raise her eyebrows a bit as Barbara handed her the elegant watch. It really is quite feminine. It has a square shiny gold case and a black face with no numbers, just a single diamond where the 12 should be. The integrated bracelet is made up of overlapping rows of shiny gold "fishscales" ending in a clasp closure.

The saleslady measured my wrist, then draped the heavy bracelet watch in place. It looked huge--the face alone was practically as wide as my somewhat frail wrist--and she gave Barbara a concerned look. "I'm not so sure this is the style you want," she said. "On such a slim wrist it looks a bit, well, clunky."

Barbara eyed it critically. "I suppose," she said. "But we were so set on this particular style . . . what if--" She looked at me with an unreadable expression, then back at the saleslady. "Isn't there a more, ah, petite version of this watch?"

The saleslady gazed at her steadily, then pursed her lips in a small smile. "Why yes," she said, "There is." She walked to a display counter and returned with a smaller version of the watch Barbara had gotten me. The saleslady draped it over my wrist and nodded. "That looks better," she conceded. "But I must tell you--this is technically the ladies' version of that style. Not that it matters. The men's version is already . . . that is, they are almost identical. This one just has a slimmer face, and a narrower bracelet." She was right--the men's watch was nearly an inch and a half wide, while the ladies version was closer to an inch.

"It's perfect," Barbara said. "Can we exchange it?" And so it was a done deal. The watches were exchanged, the smaller version was cut to fit my wrist, and I walked out of the store sporting a fashionable ladies bracelet watch, a blushing countenance, and an incredible hard-on.

My shirtsleeve covered up the item, for the most part, but I was still embarrassed. Barbara seemed oblivious to my distress, and chatted inconsequentially on the way home. Once there she told me to follow her and we went upstairs to the master bedroom. I felt a strong sense of deja vu, and realized that I was remembering our early dress-up sessions.

She immediately went to her vanity and opened the top drawer of her jewelry box. "Your father will be home soon," she said. "You'd better take off your watch and put it away for now." I unclasped it and placed it in the drawer, right next to her own watch. Mine looked every bit as feminine as hers. She beamed at me. "Feel free to wear them--I mean it--anytime," she said, shutting the drawer.

I stared after her as she turned to leave the room. Them? Was that a Freudian slip? I shook my head. No, I must have heard her wrong.

My stepsister Marci visited not long after that. She is six years older than me and gorgeous, and I have always had an incredible crush on her. On top of that, she works at an upscale clothing store and is something of a clothes horse.

Before I go further I should point out that I am not especially attracted to most woman's clothing or jewelry. On the contrary, I'm fussy--I'd say 99 times out a 100 a woman's attire does not intrigue the crossdresser in me at all. So for a mother and daughter to both wear clothing and accessories that arouse the priss in me is unusual.

On this visit Marci had just come from work, and was wearing a fluffy red sweater, mid-length black leather skirt, and high-heeled black patent leather pumps. Her blonde hair was in its usual carefully tousled 'do, and her makeup was as flawless as ever. Her jewelry consisted of gold hoop pierced earrings and her wide goldtone bangle bracelet watch, which I have lusted after since I was twelve.

By coincidence Barbara was also dressed up, as she had just come home from a semi-formal tea. She wore a silky royal blue dress, matching pumps, heavy brushed gold necklace and earrings, and, of course, her dressy watch.

The combination was a bit much for me, and as the three of us sat in the living room chatting I kept lapsing into daydreams. Finally I could take it no longer--I simply had to put on something feminine or I would burst!--so I excused myself, saying I had to go to my room to study.

However, after a few minutes I crept out of my room and quickly went upstairs to the master bedroom. I opened the top drawer of Barbara's jewelry box, took out the dressy bracelet watch, and draped it over my trembling wrist with a sigh. I clasped it shut and looked into the vanity mirror to see Marci standing in the doorway.

Her eyes widened, and she lifted one crimson-nailed hand to her mouth. "Oh," she whispered, and then without another word she turned and walked away, her heels tapping out a quick staccato on the wood floor of the hallway.

I felt caught and guilty, but then realized that I had nothing to fear. She had seen me wearing my own watch, that was all. Barbara would explain. I put the watch back in the jewelry box and followed her back downstairs. When I got there she was in the living room with her mother.

"That must have looked odd," I began, but Marci looked up at me quickly and ever so slightly shook her head. I looked at her quizzically, but Barbara had not seen the exchange. "What looked odd?" she said. Marci answered quickly. "Nothing. He--I mean, I walked in on him in the, the bathroom and saw his, uh, tush. Don't worry," she said to me with a nervous smile, "I've seen them before."

Barbara smiled and continued with what she was doing, and Marci looked at me and put her finger to her lips, silently telling me to "Hush!" I was still puzzled but did so. After a few moments Barbara went out to the kitchen and Marci sidled over and spoke to me sotto voce.

"Don't worry," she said, "I won't tell." I shook my head and smiled. "You don't understand," I said. "You just saw me wearing my own watch--" Marci rolled her eyes and cut me off. "Oh, it's yours, is it?" she said sarcastically. "And you keep it in Mother's jewelry box? Don't lie to me--I said, I understand. I remember all of your ÔHalloween costumes' after all."

"That was a long time ago--" I began, but she again cut me off. "Oh, I know," she said. "But lots of boys who are dressed up the way you were turn out to be, well. . . ." She lowered her lashes and smiled to herself.

"Listen," she said quickly, looking up at me and glancing toward the kitchen. "I won't tell Barbara what I saw if you'll let me--you know--Ôdress you up' sometime. Is it a deal?"

I couldn't believe my ears. I of course didn't care if she told Barbara what she had seen, as it was perfectly innocent. But if I acted like I did care, Marci would fulfill my biggest fantasy. My mind whirled.

"Please don't tell her," I said. "I'll let you . . ." I gulped. "I'll let you do anything you want to me. Just don't tell." She smiled broadly, and I knew that I had said exactly the right thing. Barbara returned from the kitchen just then. "So, what have you two been talking about?" she said.

"Oh, not much," Marci said, giving me a significant look and adjusting the fashionable watch on her wrist slightly. "Just passing the time."

Marci slipped the bra straps over my unresisting arms and reached around back to hook it in place. As she did so her bare breasts brushed against my chest, and for the umpteenth time that afternoon a delicious chill ran up my spine.

"You're going to be so pretty," she purred, as she slipped small balloons filled with warm water into the breast cups. As she stepped away I stole another glance at the vanity mirror. I was already pretty, I thought. I pursed my creamy red lips and lowered my long false eyelashes, still amazed at my change in appearance after the lovingly thorough makeover Marci had given me.

What incredibly good luck, I thought, that Barbara had gotten the call from Father and had gone to meet him up north for dinner. She was going to join him on the rest of this business trip. They would be gone for three days, leaving me and my stepsister alone in the house only hours after Marci had made her surprising request to dress me up.

"Let's move in front of the big mirror, shall we?" Marci said, startling me. It was still tricky for me to walk at all in Marci's five-inch heels, so I minced carefully across the room and stood with her in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the door, and gazed appreciatively at her handiwork so far. My mind drifted back to an hour earlier.

As soon as Barbara's car pulled out of the driveway Marci had stripped me, dragged me to the bathroom and shaved my legs. I was still gasping as she fitted me with a panty liner and took me to the bedroom. She matter-of-factly took off her outfit, carefully laying each piece on the bed as she did so, then just as matter-of-factly redressed me in her panties, stockings, garter belt and heels. She then gave me a full makeover.

Now as I admired the way I looked in the matching black satin and lace bra I also admired my stepsister--nude except for her jewelry--standing beside me. She was fussing with my long hair, pinning it up in back but letting a few tendrils hang down on my cheeks. "We'll buy you some nice wigs, but for now this will have to do," she said.

Next she dressed me in her black slip, which slithered sensuously down my body. She was dressing me methodically now, and I could hear her breathing getting a bit ragged. She held her sweater up for me and I carefully slipped my hands through the midlength dolman sleeves, careful not to snag my new press-on nails. The sweater was soft and fluffy, and my faux breasts filled it out nicely.

"Hold my shoulders as you step into this," Marci was saying, holding out her skirt. I did so, carefully guiding my high-heeled feet into the supple black leather skirt. It was slightly baggy in the hips ("We'll take care of that later," Marci said mysteriously), but the waist fit snugly, and the luscious material hugged my legs together in a delightfully restrictive way.

"As I recall you like jewelry the best," Marci said. "Do you have any favorite pieces of Mother's?" She was standing by Barbara's jewelry boxes, one hand expectantly on the lid of the largest one. "Oh, I've never--" I began, but then I stopped short and stepped over to the vanity. "Here," I said, opening one of the drawers. I took out a pair of oversized goldtone dome clipons and a goldtone bead necklace. It was made of five strands of alternating half-inch thick barrel-shaped and ball-shaped beads, and as I handed it to Marci so she could drape it around my neck I saw that it went well with the outfit.

Marci noticed as well. "You have good taste, little Ôsister,' " she said. "Now, do you want to wear Ôyour' watch or mine?" I glanced down at hers and she smilingly indulged me, taking off the wide, hinged dome bracelet watch and slipping it around my wrist. "Thank you," I whispered. "Oh no," she said. "Thank you. I knew that I would enjoy this--but I had no idea you'd be enjoying it so much."

She stood me in front of the mirror again and as I gazed again at my reflection she told me that ever since seeing Barbara dress me up she had wanted to do the same. "I've always been taken with swishy little fairy boys," she said. "Swishy little fairies . . . like you." I had been caressing my faux breast with one hand as she spoke, so was completely taken aback as she took my face in her hands and kissed me soundly.

"I forgot my purse," Barbara called out. We froze as we heard her heels clicking down the wood floor of the hallway. When she walked in the door Marci was still holding me bent over, in a tango-like position, as I hung limply in her arms, wearing her clothing and Barbara's jewelry. Both of us had smeared lipstick. And, of course, Marci was still naked.

It was a difficult situation to explain.

We didn't even have to try. Barbara took in the tableau in front of her without batting an eye and continued across the room to her nightstand where she picked up her purse. She turned and regarded me thoughtfully, then took off her watch, crossed to her jewelry box, and put it in its drawer. "My Seiko's one of his favorite things to wear," she said to Marci. She then picked up my Ôsissy watch' and put it on as she walked back by us toward the door.

"Of course, you like this one too, don't you dear? You look adorable, by the way," she said to me as she passed. She stopped suddenly in the doorway and turned. "Marci, for heavens sake, put your clothes back on and dress him in something of mine. You'll catch a cold like that! Just be sure to put my things away properly. Oh, and there is a wig in the closet, you know." With that she swept out of the door. Marci and I both stared after her.

Finally Marci began to smile, and turned to me with a very amused expression. "My Seiko is his favorite thing," she said, mimicking Barbara. Then her eyes widened. "Ohmigod," she said wonderingly, "she never stopped, did she? She's been dressing you up all this time. . . ."

"No," I said, for some reason especially embarrassed by that accusation. "That was only when I was little--" I began, but was cut off by Marci suddenly taking me in her arms and forcefully French-kissing me.

"If I'd only known," she gasped once. She continued to ravage me until I was weak with desire, then quite abruptly stopped.

"Mother is right," she said. "I'll catch a cold like this. Take off my things." I paused, which made her angry. She grabbed my chin in one hand and said, "When I tell you to do something you will do it immediately. Is that understood?" I gulped and nodded. "Yes, Marci," I said weakly. As quickly as I could--for my long nails got in the way--I removed jewelry, shoes, clothing and lingerie, and soon I was naked again except for my slightly soiled panty liner, which was still keeping my erection snug against my belly.

Marci eyed my manhood critically as she put on her panties. "That won't do," she said. "We can't chance getting a stain on Mother's things. Run down to the kitchen and get a couple of baggies."

I did so, and returned to find her fully dressed and rummaging in the bathroom medicine cabinet. "Ah, here we go," she said, taking out a roll of surgical tape. She removed my panty liner and giggled as my erection popped out. She grabbed a handful of tissue and before I knew it she was giving me a handjob. I came right away.

She used the baggies to envelop my limp member, securing them in place with the surgical tape. She then had me hold my penis back between my legs as she helped me step into a pair of white nylon hipsters with a powernet waistband. She hiked them up in back with enough force to keep my penis back out of sight.

"Hmm," she said, looking at me thoughtfully. "There's not much there, but it just ruins the look." She picked up Barbara's electric shaver and in just a few seconds had shaved the hair from my chest and stomach. I was then once again trundled back to the bedroom.

After some thought Marci laid out an outfit from Barbara's closet, then chose matching lingerie from the lingerie chest. I was soon wearing nude pantihose, a white longline bra, and a white satin camisole and halfslip, both generously trimmed with lace.

Next Marci looked for the wig that Barbara had mentioned. It was a curly blonde wig that I had never seen before. Marci adjusted the headband then stretched it over my head and went to the bed and picked up the dress she had selected.

It was a white starched cotton dress covered with large red polka dots, with a cinched waist and long back zipper. When she zipped me up the pinched waist and longline bra combined to give me a waspish waist, and the full skirt gave me the illusion of actually having hips.

Red patent leather high heels were next, and as I tottered in them Marci wrapped a 4-inch wide red patent belt around my waist and snugged it up, buckling it in place. I could barely breathe--but I looked fabulous.

Next Marci sat me at the vanity and clipped gold-back red enamel button earrings onto my ears and draped a matching bead necklace around my neck. "I'm sure you can put this on yourself," she said, handing me Barbara's watch. I slipped the elegant piece of jewelry over my hand and fumbled with the clasp, finally succeeding in clasping it securely.

When I stood up Marci handed me a red patent handbag which I slipped over my forearm. She then settled a red patent leather pillbox hat on my head, then stepped back so I could see my reflection.

I stared hard at the full-length mirror. I had never looked so convincingly feminine, even in my dreams. I turned to Marci, who was giving me a delighted look. "Oh, that's just right," she said. "Now, let's take it nice and slow this time, shall we?"

She slipped her hands behind my neck and slowly kissed me. As I glimpsed her doing so in the mirror, it looked like two "lipstick lesbians" locked in a torrid embrace. I drew her to me and kissed her back.

We made out for a long time, finally moving to the wide vanity bench, then to the king-size bed. We ended the evening hours later by cleaning off our makeup, changing into satin nightgowns, and making tender love into the wee hours.

The next two days were a dream come true. Each day Marci and I went shopping for "Christie" and on our return I was dressed in the outfits we had purchased. On the third and final day she took extra careful care with my makeover and outfit--which included a short-sleeved pink turtleneck sweater to cover my Adam's apple--then took me to the mall to try on prom gowns.

It was my first outing as Christie, and I was quite nervous about being "exposed," but when I admitted my fears to Marci she just laughed. "You look more like a girl than I do," she said. I looked at her in surprise. She was wearing a simple cotton blouse, jeans, sandals, just a little makeup, and had her hair back in a pony tail. I was wearing my blonde wig, pink sweater, white linen slacks, white leather pumps, and had a very nice "daytime" makeover. She was quite right.

Even so I was trembling as we entered the mall and made out way to the shop Marci had chosen. It was primarily a bridalwear store but also featured cocktail dresses and formal gowns. We moved to a display of formals and I nearly drooled over the multitude of satin, chiffon, velvet and lamŽ.

"May I help you?" asked the saleswoman. "Yes," said Marci. "My friend Christie is having her coming-out party, and would like to look at some gowns. She has laryngitis, that's why I'm talking for her." The saleswoman nodded and led the way to the special occasion dresses.

For the next hour or so I modeled dress after dress for my stepsister. A few dresses made the saleswoman raise her eyebrows--a black sequin cocktail gown, for a coming-out party?--but I didn't care. I was in priss heaven.

Finally we made our selection: a ruby red taffeta ballgown with spaghetti straps and big poufy netting filling out the skirt. It also made the saleswoman raise her eyebrows, come to think of it, but she seemed a little prudish. We also bought coordinating gloves, shoes, bag and capelet. My heart was pounding like a bass drum by the time we left the store. We had made it without my being exposed!

Once we were "safe," though, it suddenly dawned on me that I was about to be dressed in the formalwear we had just purchased. I had been so afraid of exposure that I had forgotten, but now as I glanced at our puchases in the back seat I smiled contentedly. Mm, I thought, soon I'm going to look in the mirror and see--

***

--a princess.

I pursed my heavily lipsticked mouth and swiveled my hips slightly, causing the skirt to rustle deliciously around my legs. It felt wonderful! I ran my hands down the full skirt again with delight. I loved my new inch-long ruby-red nails--they made my hands feel all fluttery, and it felt so wicked to brush them over my taffeta-covered thighs--

My chin was suddenly grasped between Marci's thumb and forefinger, and I felt her own long nails at my throat. "I said pay attention," she hissed. I looked contrite. "I'm sorry," I said. "All right," she said, "but do pay attention. By the way, you will address me as Ôma'am' from now on" she continued briskly. "Is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said meekly. "Good," she said. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Put these on." She handed me a pair of long white satin fingerless gloves. I slipped them over my long-nailed hands, then carefully tugged them bit by bit up over my elbows. It was still difficult to do much with my hands, as I could not get used to having such long nails. These were not the cheap press-on variety, but were nail tips that had been super-glued in place, so I was able to at least use them.

When I finished she had me sit at the dressing table. She had placed a large chest-style antique jewelry box on the table. "Open it," she suggested. Trembling with anticipation, I reached out with one long-nailed, satin-clad hand and started to open the lid. It was too heavy, so I used both hands, and lifted the lid to reveal a black-velvet lined chamber nearly overflowing with rhinestones. I gasped, then gasped again, and my dainty hand flew to my mouth.

I suddenly caught sight of myself in the mirror and froze. I had not seen my reflection up close since my makeover, but as I did so now I saw that Marci had given me far and away the most extensive feminization I had ever had. "Oh," I gasped, "I look--lovely. Thank you, ma'am."

"You're welcome," said Marci, amused. "Now, what do you think about my grandmother's jewelry box?" I looked down again at the plethora of jewels and reflexively shuddered. She smirked. "I thought so. Why don't you pick out something?"

"Oh, yes, thank you," I said. "Thank you--what?" Marci asked. "Thank you, ma'am," I said. I had already seen something I wanted to try on, so I immediately reached down and picked up a rhinestone cuff bracelet. It was surprisingly heavy.

I handed it to Marci. "Could you put this on me please, ma'am?" I asked demurely. "Why, certainly," she said, taking the bracelet from me. As I held out my limp left hand she draped the elegant piece of jewelry over my wrist and clasped it in place.

"Thank you, ma'am," I murmured. She smiled warmly at me, then leaned over and nuzzled my ear. "Let's try on some necklaces," she whispered hoarsely.

She stood up and picked up a V-shaped rhinestone necklace, then stood behind me and slipped it around my slim throat. She almost immediately took the necklace off and put it aside, then picked up another which was also tried and discarded. The third one she liked--it was a wide choker necklace made of rows of rhinestones and crystal and rimmed with a row of red crystal at the top and bottom. A large round faux ruby was inset at the throat.

She carefully adjusted it on my neck so that the ruby was centered, then she searched for the matching earrings. These were round faux rubies ringed with a double row of rhinestones, and once they were clipped onto my ears I was deemed ready for a photo session.

I got up slowly, not wanting to look away from my reflection, and was led to the bedroom door. Marci held my arm as we went downstairs to the living room, where I posed in my usual spot, sitting on the velvet-covered loveseat. Marci took several Polaroids of me sitting, then standing in front of the fireplace, and then--after the trek back upstairs--shots of me sitting at the dressing table.

Then, however, Marci asked me to do something new: pose on the bed. I was first carefully stripped of my lovely gown, then she helped me get on the bed wearing only lingerie, jewelry, and heels. As instructed I sprawled out on the ivory satin comforter and began to vamp outrageously.

Marci took several photos, then murmured, "Now, let's pretend you're a high class hooker." My eyes widened, for that was exactly what I felt like.

Marci sat her camera down and went to the closet, where she took out a faux mink stole. "Pretend that I've hired you," she continued, in the same soft voice, "to make love to me."

She draped the fur over my bare shoulders as she continued, "I'm lying underneath you in my slip, and you're on top of me, wearing what you're wearing right now, fucking me like crazy."

I closed my eyes and squeezed them shut. Yes. Oh, yes. I could see it. I could feel it.

"And now," she whispered, "Pretend that my boyfriend is climbing on top of you, mounting you, slipping his thick dong up your ass as you continue to fuck me . . . soon we're rocking back and forth together, as both of us get the fucking of our lives. . . ."

I writhed, eyes still closed. "Mmm, yes," I breathed, "Oh yes. Fuck me. . . ." My eyes snapped open, and I saw that Marci was laughing silently at me. "M-my god, you are such a fairy!" she exclaimed. "Oh dear. Maybe we really should go find someone who'd be willing to give you a good reaming. Oh, if you could see your face--!"

She stopped to compose herself. "Hmm. Well," she finally said. "I suppose I might allow you to have gay sex sometime. Before that happens, though, you'll need some training." She opened her purse and took out an item that made my eyes widen, and my pulse quicken. It was a rubbery dildo that looked exactly like an erect penis. "We'll work up from this," she said, also taking out a small, slim vibrator. "I don't think it will take long to teach you how to be on the bottom. You're already such a natural."

***

Marci was exuberantly fucking me with the large dildo when my stepmother Barbara once more unexpectedly entered the room. Marci stopped abruptly, and I whimpered slightly. "Don't stop--" I began, turning my head, but then I saw Barbara in the doorway and cut off my protest.

However, Barbara seemed nonplussed. "No, dear, don't stop," she murmured, taking a seat on the vanity bench. "I thought you might have progressed to this stage by now. Please continue."

Marci began again to ream me, gently now, and I nearly forgot my stepmother was there as the incredible sensation continued. It was too unreal! A feeling akin to an orgasm washed over me again and again, even though I was physically restrained from actually achieving an erection. After several long moments Barbara spoke again. "Let him up, now, and let me get a good look at him," she said.

Marci yanked my pantihose up into place and helped me stand for inspection. As I blushed hotly Barbara circled me commenting on my appearance. "These are Mother's rhinestones, aren't they?" she asked as she slightly adjusted my necklace. Marci nodded. "She said it would be all right," she said meekly.

"Yes, I'm sure she did," Barbara said with a small smile. "I remember Simon wearing the same--"

She stopped abruptly and blushed. Marci jerked her head toward her mother and looked both surprised and amused. "Uncle Simon?" she asked.

Barbara looked at Marci and gave a little shrug. "Well, it was when he was young . . . Mother and I dressed him up a few times. He was so feminine. . . ."

"I know what you mean," Marci said with warmth, turning her gaze to me. "It's hard to resist feminizing a boy when he's already so prissy. And Uncle Simon--why, he's still a bit, um, wispy." She broke into a giggle and Barbara joined her.

"Oh, he certainly is," she gasped. "And he still looks so cute . . ."

Marci's eyes widened. "Why Mother," she asked, "Have you . . . hmm. When was the last time you Ôhelped' him?"

Barbara looked uncomfortable again. "Now, dear, I'm not sure I should . . . that is, I don't think his wife knows--"

"It's been since he was married?" Marci asked with disbelief.

Barbara was now clearly flustered. "We shouldn't talk about it here, in front of--" She turned and looked at me, then to my surprise she burst out giggling again.

"I--I'm sorry, dear," she said, gasping, "I just can't get used to seeing you like this." She regained her composure and turned to Marci. "You mustn't tell Simon I told you," she said seriously. "He's quite, ah, shy about his hobby. But yes, I still dress him up on occasion. Not as often as I like . . . only once a month or so."

Marci was surprised and amused. "Once a month?" she exclaimed. "Oh my. If Christie found out--no, I won't tell. It will be our secret. So is Uncle Simon . . . you know . . . gay?"

"Well, no--he is married, after all. But sometimes I wonder . . . on our outings he is quite the flirt--"

"Outings?" gasped Marci. "You take him out--in public?"

"Of course," Barbara said, more relaxed now in talking about her and her son's secret. "Properly made up and dressed he's quite convincing. And I'm sure he dressed on his own--now I wonder . . . do you suppose he's gone out on his own? Maybe he does like men as well."

She turned to me abruptly. "And how about you?" she asked frankly. "You certainly seem to enjoy Marci's little toys. Would you like to, ah, be with a man?"

A vivid image sprang into my mind and I gasped a little. "I believe that was a yes," she said to Marci. "Why, maybe I should fix you up with Roberto," she said to me. "He simply loves to dress--"

She cut herself off and blushed again. Marci stared at her. "Roberto--your hairdresser? Good Lord, Mother," she exclaimed. "How many young men have you done this to?"

Barbara looked at her sheepishly. "Not that many," she said. "A few . . ." Her voice faded as she thought about it with a small smile. "No more than eight or nine, I should imagine," she said.

"So," she said, turning back to me. "Would you like to meet Roberto?" As a matter of fact I knew who she was talking about. Roberto was a little slip of a thing with a dark complexion and large brown eyes, and was almost stereotypically swishy. Besides, my head was still swimming from Barbara's admission. She had feminized eight or nine boys? Who else? And when?

"I don't know--" I began, but Barbara had opened her purse and taken out a wallet size photo. "Are you sure?" she asked, showing it to me. A studio shot of a gorgeous woman looked back at me. I gaped, and realized that I was quite sure. "Well," I said hesitantly, "maybe we could play dress up together, sometime . . ."

Marci's eyes widened. "Oh!" she said, "Can I help?" "Of course you can," said Barbara, smiling broadly. And of course they did--but that's another story.

 

The End

  

  

  

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