"JayCee" by Vickie Tern, teen femdom

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

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

Vickie Tern’s stories are archived at
http://library.gaycafe.com/nifty/transgender/by_authors/Vickie_Tern and www.fictionmania.com.

Here and now, on behalf of authors and readers everywhere, she would like to thank the archivists everywhere who make stories like these freely available to those who enjoy them. You are high among the glories of the Internet. Also, she appreciates any kind of e-mail comment on her stories, VickieTern@AOL.COM, and usually replies in kind.

JayCee                     by: Vickie Tern

 

I made my first really intimate girlfriend just before my last year in High School, the summer I was nearly seventeen. Strictly speaking, his mother had already shaped him out, but I put on the finishing touches, so I guess you can say we both made him my girlfriend. When I finished with him he loved what I’d done, and we’ve been good friends ever since, though since we went away to different colleges we’ve hardly seen each other, only when I’m home on vacation and he is too. He’s still a girl and will be for life, but with a difference. But I’m getting ahead of myself. When I began with him he thought he was a boy and wanted to live like one, and I could understand that. I’d wanted to be a boy too until I hit puberty and my body began to round out and smooth over, and my tits ripened, and I realized I had no choice. Then I discovered it’s much better to be a girl. Marianne, the boy I’m talking about, he never had any choice either, not really, but he didn’t know that till later.

I better explain all this. When I was little I hated wearing frilly dresses and ribbons whenever we went visiting, and sitting up straight with my Mary Janes dangling off the floor, and listening to the grownups talk, and always being neat and ladylike. My boy cousins could stretch out all over the floor and wear torn jeans and boy-size work boots, and pick their noses, and make disgusting noises all they wanted. Or they could go out and climb trees, or throw footballs, but I always had to be a lady, even when I was still a little girl. It wasn’t fair, just because I happened to be born a girl. I really envied them. So whenever I could I wore jeans and boots and learned how to swallow air and belch the same as them. Anything they did, I decided I was going to do too, better! And I did, too!

My mom despaired, though she never gave up on me. She’d ask me over and over, "JayCee, why don’t you play with dolls like all the other girls. There are such pretty dolls these days, and whole wardrobes for them, and even makeup."

I’d answer, "Because I’d rather play with boys, Mom." She never could figure out how to answer that, so mostly she’d leave me alone then until the next time.

In fact I was quicker than most boys, and smarter, and tougher, and more stubborn, and I never refused a dare dodging traffic or climbing trees. But when we crossed into our teens all the boys began to develop deep chests and shoulder muscles, and got so they could swing on branches like apes. Not me. With my thin arms I could only hang there and then let go. They got bulkier and stronger and I only got softer and rounder, a lot softer and rounder on my chest. So I had to quit trying to compete with them. I bought a bra and took up being a girl as a life sentence.

That pleased my folks, who’d never thought it would happen. Especially my mom was delighted when she found she had a daughter to shop for after all. Then once I got some girl clothes and started wearing them, and got a girl’s hairdo, and started wearing a little makeup, wow, I found out that for my whole life I’d been absolutely wrong! Talk about dumb? What I found out was that no way did I ever have to prove I was as good as a boy. I found out that girls never have to prove anything. They’re already better than boys in every way that matters. And I found that deep down, boys already know this. Girls don’t ever have to do anything boys do because they can always get boys to do it for them. A girl can make a boy stumble all over his own feet and fall on his face if she feels like it, no problem. Girls can even hurt boys real bad, and if they do it just right the boys’ll never complain—in fact they’ll say thank you. They can’t help it. That’s how they’re made.

Even my boy cousins couldn’t help themselves, I realized. One day when we were still thirteen or so two of them were showing off in trees in their back yard, and one of them paraded right off the end of a branch while looking over his shoulder to see if I was watching. He broke his collar bone when he hit the ground, but when his parents hustled him off to the hospital he was still looking back to see if I’d seen it happen! It’s obvious. Boys want to please girls. They need to. The only choice they get, maybe, is which girl especially. They’ll do anything we say, if we know how to say it just the right way. And that’s how it is.

I.

I guess I was still fourteen when I first found out how far I could push a boy, and how much fun it was. Our house has a swimming pool in the back yard. The previous owner used it just to look at, but our family uses it all the time, and so do a few of my friends from time to time, when I invite them over. Well, one day when it was hot and my folks were out, two boys I knew from school came by, a year or two older than me. They hoped I’d ask them to hang around and use the pool, and I figured why not—they were both cute. They weren’t the smartest boys around, but still, good enough for me to practice being a girl on them. Ronnie, the tall one, he was into body building, and his shoulders and legs showed some promising bulges even then. Petey was short and thin and not too hard to fake out—I once beat him at Indian wrestling because he went for a sucker shift-of-weight, and then he fell for the same move a second time too. It bothered him, my faking him out, because I was only a girl. He kept asking me how I did it, and did I knew any other tricks. I told him lots, but that only girls can get away with using them. That didn’t stop him, so I told him a few. Maybe he’s still trying them out. Anyhow, they were sweaty, and it was hot, so I told them sure, we’d all use the pool. Then it turned out they already had their bathing suits and towels with them. That annoyed me, because it meant they were pretty sure I’d invite them to stay, and I don’t like anybody to feel pretty sure of anything when they’re around me. But I let them think they were right as we splashed each other, and laughed, and they tried to grope me, and I swam circles around them.

Then came time for them to change back into their clothes. We were all three sitting around a big poolside patio table, and I suggested we play a game. They glanced at each other. Petey wagged his head at Ronnie, and Ronnie nodded, and then they both grinned at me, and then there was a pause. They had a plan. I tried to keep a straight face.

Then Petey asked me if I’d like to play "Show and Tell" with them. The way we play is, each person gets to ask the others to show or tell about something personal or embarrassing, or to do something like that. All the players then have to do that same thing, even the person doing the asking. That’s so no one will ask for anything too far off the wall.

Well, what they’d want me to do was obvious enough. I mean, did I have to put on a red riding hood and take a walk through the woods to figure that one out? But I got this idea I wanted to try, so I said "Sure."

They stole another quick look at each other, and Ronnie, he said, "You’re sure, now," and I said sharply, "I just said so, didn’t I?" I wanted to get on with it. Then a quick thought: "You guys too, no chickening out by anyone! And there’s two of you, and you each get to ask one thing, but there’s only one of me, so to even it out I get to ask two things of you guys, right? That’s only fair." Then I added, "You first, I’ll go last." Well, they were so eager to play they didn’t think through whether that was fair or not. I’d be getting two of whatever I asked for each time, one from each of them each time, four all in all. But they’d get only one thing from me apiece. So my taking two turns wasn’t really fair. But they were thinking it was themselves versus me, two boys versus one girl, not each of us versus each other, so they couldn’t add up two and two, so they just nodded without thinking. In a way they got what they deserved.

We sat around the big table and just looked at each other, until finally Ronnie lost it and started to leer, and he said right on schedule, "Me first. Ok. Stand up and show us your boobs, JayCee. Naked."

Well, I was wearing a two piece bikini, and I still didn’t have much to show when I was fourteen. My nipples were large and pointy, but I was only beginning to swell out. Still, given what I had in mind for them, I had no problem exposing my tits. I sort of took center stage and started to untie my halter in back. Then just to make sure there’d be no misunderstandings, not now, not for the rest of the game, I paused still holding my string ties together and said, "You too, Ronnie. You too, Petey." They looked at me as if I’d gone weird, because they were both already bare chested. But finally they both stood up, and waited, and then Ronnie thought to say, "Ok, that’s how we are." So I nodded and undid the rest of my bathing suit top, and then held it out to the side at arm’s length, and stood there with my other hand on my hip. Their eyes followed the top as I held it out, then shifted back to my exposed nipples and the slightly round mounds behind them. They stared at me solemnly for a while, and made whatever they could of what they saw. Then Pete said, "OK, now my turn. Show us your pussy, JayCee. Take off your bathing suit bottom." He paused, then added, "You promised, remember?"

Talk about unsure? He didn’t think I’d do it, so he fired off his reserve argument right off. But he didn’t need to worry. "No chickening out, that’s what we said," I said. I untied the two side bows on my Bikini bottom. Then I paused and waited. "You too," I said.

Well, they’d been so eager to see what was between my legs they forgot they’d have to drop their pants too, but they hesitated only a moment. A little embarrassed but with his eyes on the prize, me, Ronnie pushed his bathing suit down to his knees, took a deep breath, and stood up. Then Pete. It was sort of funny. They both tried to stand up straight like me, shoulders back and chest out and all, but they hunched over anyhow, as if they could hide their private parts behind their bellies, and they finished in a kind of half-crouch. It was pathetic. I let go the strings on my bikini bottom and then pulled it off straight out from between my legs. Petey gasped! Then I held the bottom to one side too, with my other hand.

Now there I was, standing before them completely naked, arms out, shoulders back, head high, looking straight into their eyes. Not that I didn’t want to check out the scene further down on them. But in due time. I knew that now, for what I meant to do, they had to know who was in charge. And it was odd. I didn’t feel any way exposed or vulnerable or immodest, or even naked. In fact the reverse. It was as if I were fully dressed, only in my skin, like those nude women in those paintings over at the museum, those Greek goddesses. As if I were standing in front of a throne. So I took over. "All the way off," I said. "Put your bathing suits on the table." And I put my bikini top and bottom down on the table to set them an example, and then I stepped back a few steps and put my both hands on my hips, legs a little apart, and I stared at them again, and my bare tits stared at them too. Still embarrassed, they stripped down the rest of the way, then picked up their bathing suits and put them on the table. Ronnie tried again to pull his shoulders back and stand tall, like me, but when he straightened up his knees bent. Pete was having his own problems. He was trying to cover his whole body with just his hands. "I can’t see you," I said to him. "Are you ashamed? Of what?" I leaned back and cocked one hip at them, my pelvis thrust forward, my hands still draped on my hips, and I looked at them sideways amused, like girls I’ve seen in the movies when they’re playing seductive but hard-to-get. Then when I saw what I saw, I was amused.

There they were, both of them, naked penises at half-dangle, balls shriveled and trying to hide behind their penises. Pete’s prick had a pointed foreskin, but even with the extra flap it hung only maybe half way down his balls. It looked maybe only an inch or so long, soft the way it was. But Ronnie’s big purple cock head hung way down below his balls, maybe six inches down altogether, maybe more.

I’d already seen my cousins’ equipment the previous Thanksgiving when we were all playing "Show and Tell" together out in back while the grownups watched football inside, so these were no big deal. Ronnie’s and Petey’s cocks looked just as silly, hanging there between their legs. I hadn’t known that cocks could vary that much in size, so that was something, anyhow. And Ronnie’s was the biggest I’d seen yet, so that was something else. Meanwhile, they both stared fascinated at the vee of my crotch, which then was just barely covered with tan fuzz. There was nothing else for them to see, just my fuzzy mound, and maybe the beginning of my pussy, where the flat space disappears into the crease tucked between my legs. But they couldn’t take their eyes off it. I suddenly realized that what they were staring at was for them the unthinkable. They saw nothing! Nothing at all. A smooth curved surface unlike anything they’d ever seen between anyone’s legs. No cock sprouting out of it, and no balls. Nothing. I suddenly realized that in some deep place way down inside them, they were awed and a little frightened. Here was the place they’d come from, the same as their mothers’, and that was mysterious in itself. But worse! Here was what their own crotches would look like if everything hanging there was cut off, missing, gone. They had cocks and balls, but I had nothing. I had nothing to lose. They were exposed and at risk, and I wasn’t. It was as if the worst thing they could imagine happening to them had already happened to me, in some primordial way, yet I wasn’t the least bit bothered by it. In fact I was completely at ease, and that made me superior beyond their comprehension. Was that why they instinctively tried to hide themselves, and why I felt so powerful at that moment?

"Now my turn," I said. "I get two things to ask." I looked at their eyes. They were both still staring down at my mystery, silent, coping with their thoughts. "Now, my first show and tell is, show me how you guys masturbate."

They both stiffened, surprised, and raised their eyes up to look at me, and found I was already staring back at them steadily, not even blinking. I sensed in them a sudden tension I could use if I could tip them the right way, so I decided to go for the gold.

"How you masturbate each other, I mean," I said, as if I were completing my original sentence. Then I sat down at the table and waited, never taking my eyes off them, making myself into an audience of one waiting for them to begin their performance. Well, as I’d expected, there were delaying tactics and denials, a stream of "You’re kidding, right?" and flat out "We don’t do each other," and "No way, Jose!" and so forth. I gave them a minute to vent and get used to the idea, even to think they’d persuaded me, and then I cut them both off with "No chickening out, remember?" Then I couldn’t resist. "Even though those little pricks do look like chicken skin, the necks when the heads are chopped off!"

They flinched, but I kept looking at them steadily. They looked at me a moment longer, then averted their eyes and looked at each other. I had them! Gently, even seductively, I added, "Just reach over, you two, and pick up each other’s cocks, and then show me how you do it. Pull very gently. Be nice to each other!" Then they couldn’t resist. It was as if I were doing it to them. They didn’t dare look at each other or say anything, but they each edged closer, faces fixed in a sort of smiling grimace, and Ronnie’s hand reached out for Petey’s little thing. Ronnie groped too high, so Petey took Ronnie’s hand, pulled it further down, lifted his cock, and placed it on Ronnie’s palm. Then Petey looked at Ron’s crotch, reached over, and tenderly cradled Ronnie’s long dingus in his whole hand. Better than I’d hoped, I was thinking. They both stood still for a few seconds, each hand getting used to the heft of an unfamiliar penis, each one aware that the other had custody of his most prized possession. Then they each closed their hands on the other’s cock and began to pull back and forth, gently. Soon the pricks swelled up to fit their open fists, and then they had no more problems holding and pulling or stroking them. They closed their eyes. Ronnie held the whole of Petey in his hand, now all of four inches, and squeezed it rhythmically, and Petey slid his palm up and down on Ronnie’s long monster as it got longer, and they each pulled and stroked, over and over, and a slight smile came over each one’s face. "This doesn’t count as my second show and tell," I said. "But wouldn’t it be a little more friendly if you looked into each others’ eyes?"

They opened their eyes and looked at me and then at each other, a little evasive at first. Then more directly at each others’ faces, as each one tried to concentrate his mind on the pleasure the other was providing. In a few minutes they were each lost again in their own sensations, but now they were looking at each other unashamed, even a little fondly. It was so dear! Really, precious!

So I decided it was time for me to take care of my own slit, which by now had gotten pretty slick. There were two guys jerking each other off under orders, mine, looking like they were in love! That alone was enough to get me going! Also, I didn’t want either one of them to realize fair is fair, so one of them could do me next, or I’d have to do both of them.

So I licked my middle finger and pushed it into me, and then when it was wet and slippery I diddled it back and forth across my clit, flipping that little button faster and faster. Real nice. I could feel myself mounting, oooh!, really reaching higher and higher, and in another minute Oh! Wow! I shuddered into a delicious orgasm, a tremendous squeezing and expanding of all of me all at once, a kind of explosive celebration of my pussy by my whole body! My first one always comes fairly quick, but this was my strongest ever, and it went on and on! When I opened my eyes I saw that Ronnie and Pete were still so absorbed with each other they’d never even noticed. They’d picked up the pace, and their breathing had gotten faster and deeper, and now their hands were flying across each other’s crotches. Each one’s face was twisted as if in pain, or in concentrated yearning.

"Stop!"

They froze, each one with his hand gripping the other’s swollen dong, and looked at me dazed.

"Before you guys blow each other off, you should know what’s my second Show and Tell. Now, my second one is, I want one of you to fuck the other in the ass."

They stared at me horrified. Pete swallowed, and swallowed again, but still couldn’t say anything. His eyes avoided mine and stared into the middle distance. Ronnie swallowed too, then stared hard straight at me. I noticed neither of them let go the other’s prick. I suppose they were afraid if they did their fun might be over, and by now they were both desperate to cum. That’s why I thought I could get away with this.

"You’re kidding!" Pete said finally. What he meant was, "You’re serious!"

"That’s not fair," Ronnie said. "If we did that what would you do?" He was talking at least, single syllables, and just barely thinking. Does a boy’s brain close down when his cock rises? Anyhow, he was opening a negotiation! He was seriously considering my proposal!

I already had my answer. "Whoever gets fucked can fuck me," I said. "In the ass. That’s fair."

I knew that was the clincher. Ronnie heard me loud and clear. I could tell by the way he was still staring into my face, his eyes lit by speculations I couldn’t myself imagine! His cock lurched in Petey’s hand. I bet both of these guys are virgins, I thought to myself. Well, my ass wasn’t. The previous Thanksgiving I’d traded in its virginity to a cousin, for a baseball.

Well, it was a little more complicated, it happened this way. I’d gone off with that cousin, and had cheated on a game of forfeits, and had gotten him to kneel between my legs and slide his tongue in and out of my cunt while I was lounging back in a soft chair with my thighs resting on his shoulders, reading a book as if he didn’t matter to me at all. He looked so sorrowful and so earnest, staring over my mound into my eyes while his mouth slurped and sucked on me, and I felt so good with him down there, that I let him know it when his tongue brought me off. That was a mistake, because then he felt good too, and wanted to fuck me. I told him no way with his prick, I was saving my pussy for my husband and the father of my children. He bought that argument, and asked instead for a blow job. Fair’s fair, he pointed out, the way kids always do.

Well, just about then I’d been reading some stupid grownup woman’s magazine that said that cocksucking was servile worship of the male phallus, and one of the ways men dominate women and keep them subservient, and stuff. I didn’t know then that a phallus is really like the control stick in an airplane—once you take hold of it you can fly a guy anywhere. One lick and he’s yours, he’ll do anything. But I didn’t know that. I still didn’t know it that day with Ronnie and Petey by the swimming pool, when I was getting them to play queer with each other.

Anyhow, I’d told my cousin I wouldn’t blow him, no way, I was liberated and wouldn’t demean myself. Then with a sudden inspiration I told him he could push into my asshole instead, if he’d throw in the baseball with Babe Ruth’s signature his father kept in a little plastic shrine on the mantel. I’d always envied them that baseball, but mainly I was curious what it felt like to have a guy inside me moving in and out, what all the fuss was about. There was no way I’d let him into my cunt, because then he’d forever after lord it over me that he’d been Number One. Boys do that. My asshole he’d never boast about, because at that age most boys still think a back door is a shithole, and yukky. But he’d just been down there inspecting everything with his mouth and nose, and he knew that after my pussy my rosebud was the next best thing. So he agreed.

And he did it. We got him oiled up, and he got in after only a little bit of trouble, and he felt real good in there, but barely two swipes in and out and he came into me and then all over my ass. I was disappointed, but didn’t let on. He told me later that his father really belted his ass over and over for supposedly playing with that baseball and then losing it, but that getting into me made it all worth while. I was his first. He was grateful, the way I like guys to be when they’ve done what I want them to do. The way I expected Ronnie and Petey to be when I was finished with them. I always give satisfaction.

Well, Ronnie just stood there staring at me, his dong still stiff in Petey’s hand, its purple head poking out into the sunshine, and I could see that wheels were whirring in his brain. A chance to stick it to a girl at last! Or into Petey? But at what price?

Petey may not have registered any of it yet, that whoever gets fucked gets to fuck me. "You haven’t whacked off yet, JayCee," he said, maybe stalling for time. "Or whatever it is girls do." "Oh, yes I have," I said. "I came. You two lovers were too busy with each other to notice." I pushed two fingers into my quim, pulled them out gleaming wet, then stood up, walked over, and held them under Pete’s nose. "What do you think this is? Or wouldn’t you know?" I wiped my juice on his upper lip so the smell would last and maybe he’d get to like it, and then I gave Ronnie his chance, drenching my fingers a second time and then holding them up to his mouth. "Suck on this!" I commanded. He did, as if he were licking a candy cane. "You can do it, Ronnie," I told him in a low, sultry voice. "Be Pete’s girl, for me." I won that gamble too. I’d figured that Ronnie would calculate even in his coma that Pete’s little cock shoved into him was a small price to pay to get his big one into me. I hoped so, but I didn’t want him feeling too macho about it. Now whatever he did, he’d be following my orders. Better, in his own mind he’d be the girl who got laid, or he’d think I was thinking that. And once a girl in your own mind, I was thinking, always a girl. Once fucked, always fucked. I’ll have to remember to call his cock a clit, I thought, and later I’ll have to ask how his pussy felt with Pete’s cum still leaking out of it. Because I had other uses for him now that I’d seen how obediently he’d licked pussy juice from my fingers. He’d be handy to have around when I felt like slinging my legs over someone’s shoulders. More manageable than a cousin. Ronnie finally decided. He pulled a few more times on Pete’s pecker, then leaned in and muttered something to him, and then turned toward me. "He’ll need lube of some kind, or he’ll hurt me, JayCee" he said. His voice sounded very respectful. "How about we use some more of your juice?"

"I use my juice for me," I said with finality. "You’ve got a mouth, Ronnie. Take care of your own needs! Petey’ll do the same for you afterward, blow job for blow job, won’t you Petey?" I flashed him a smile to keep him encouraged, didn’t even glance at Petey, then turned and sat down again to watch. Can you imagine? I was only fourteen then!

And sure enough, Ronnie looked at Petey, and Petey nodded, a little overwhelmed by all this wheeling and dealing. So Ronnie dropped to his knees in front of Petey and took Petey’s little cock into his mouth. He gave it just a few licks all over to coat it with thick saliva, and only a few sucks and strokes up and down with his lips to spread the slick stuff around, but it was enough for Petey to forget himself, and stiffen up all the way, and then to start fucking his friend’s face.

I was ecstatic! Here before my eyes was a boy I’d turned into a genuine cock sucker, home-made, my very first! I wished I had a camera. Petey’s cock grew as swollen as it would ever get, sliding in the warm moisture of Ronnie’s mouth, and his face again took on a glazed look. But Ronnie took no chances. He stopped suddenly, then got down on his hands and knees and lowered his head and chest onto a towel on the ground, with his butt way up in the air. Petey mounted him doggy style, spread his cheeks, felt for his asshole, and pushed at him a few times with that stubby cock. At first all he did was shove Ron forward. But I could tell when he finally managed to get it into Ron, because on that stroke, the third or the fourth, instead of lurching forward when Petey’s cock shoved on him Ron’s body held steady. In fact Ronnie wriggled and snuggled back, and then Petey really began fucking him! Ronnie was now genuinely queer at both ends! I felt like a Maestro conducting an orchestra! A few more lunges, and then Petey was sprawled onto Ronnie, hugging him tight and squeezing his belly against his ass, and shouting "Hah! Hah! Hah!" Each shout another spurt of semen squirting into Ronnie’s guts! Then Pete softened and flopped out of Ronnie’s ass almost at once, leaving behind a trail of oozing cum.

Petey may have been small, but he had semen to spare. Ronnie’s asshole was filled to the brim and running over. I bet he’ll still be leaking tonight, I thought to myself idly. I’ll try to remember to lend him a tampon before he goes home, or his folks’ll ask about the stain on his bathing suit. I wondered if he’d want to fuck himself with the tampon while putting it in, now he’d had a taste of it, the way I sometimes do. He would if I told him to. Maybe he would for no reason at all. I caught a glimpse of Petey’s softened cock, and marveled that anything that small had even gotten past Ron’s ass cheeks. But he’d done it! They both stood up. Pete’s cum leaked down Ron’s legs and glistened in his crack, and Pete looked like any boy who’s just blown his wad, complacent and a little arrogant. Ron looked disturbed. I knew why, of course. He did feel more like a girl than he’d meant to feel, now he’d been irrevocably fucked by a stiff prick up the ass. But he wasn’t a girl. Not with that cock, he wasn’t. And he still hadn’t managed to cum yet himself. It was time.

"Sit here under the umbrella, Little Peter," I said to him. "I’ll give Ronnie back to you so you can be his girl next time, now that he’s yours. Put your bathing suit back on now. If you can’t find it I’ll lend you some panties to wear home." I don’t know, I suppose I was just teasing these would-be macho studs who’d come by my house cocksure that any girl’s swimming pool was theirs for the asking. But Pete turned bright red, and when I looked I saw Ron was red too. Well, well! A discovery of some kind! Had they done each other previously, or dreamed of it, these buddies? Had they just now been girls in their own minds, while they jerked each other off with such loving affection? Had I just ordered them to enact a really secret desire? Maybe that’s how boys use each other sexually and yet keep their self-respect, by pretending one of them at least is a girl. Were guys so ashamed to do it with other guys that they’d rather pretend they’re the other sex, to avoid thinking they must be gay? Do gays do that too, pretend they’re girls when they’re really only guys who prefer each other? All interesting to look into later, but I said nothing. Pete put on his bathing suit and sat down without another word.

Well, this time I let Ron lubricate himself on the outside of my pussy. It was my ass, after all. "Now go easy," I said to him. "Remember how Little Petey felt in you when he was moving in and out of your ass? Did he stretch you out first, and then feel real good? Delicious? Yummy? Could you feel his cock pulse when he came, and did his cum feel hot when it splashed inside you? At that moment did you think to yourself, now at last I’m a real woman? Remember that my ass isn’t slippery like yours is right now with that cum leaking all over, so go slow!" Then I got down the way he’d done it, and let him slowly push that long cock of his into my rear, a little at a time. I instructed him inch by inch, like a steelworker signalling how to work a girder into position. It took a while. This was only my second ass-fuck, so mainly I was comparing it to my first, to see what new sensations were available—I don’t like expecting something and ending up disappointed. Well, Ron’s cock was really huge compared to my cousin’s, and it did feel tremendous when he finally got it all in. I felt full. Complete. It’s nice, something that swollen way down deep inside you, I decided. School would begin again before too long, and this was something I could use to reward boys who were especially obedient, or as they liked to think of it, especially gentlemanly and courteous with me. I’d let them put their most prized possession into my shithole. But that was the best of it. Ron began thrusting, and it seemed to me that each stroke in and out was like a slow commute to the suburbs and then back into the city. Each one took a while, and together they got repetitious. He pumped me, and my mind drifted to the magazine I’d been flipping through a couple of hours earlier, when the two of them first came by looking for a free ride and I’d taken them for one. For sure, from now on, I decided, whoever’s doing my ass will at least diddle my clit at the same time, unless they’ve gotten me excited some other way. If he isn’t Mr. Right.

When finally Ron came I let him stay in me a minute longer, and then I wriggled out from under him. He looked so grateful I almost laughed. But instead I turned and kissed him on the cheek, thanked him, and told him that now he was my favorite stud as well as my favorite girlfriend. Then I asked him to let me know the next time he and Petey jerk each other off or fuck each other, because I’d enjoy knowing I was the one who’d helped them find themselves.

That reminded Ronnie. He stood up and went over to where Petey was sitting and watching the two of us. His cock was still half-engorged, and still slick with semen and who knows what from my bowels. He walked over where Petey was sitting and just stood there with it touching Petey’s nose, and didn’t say a word. Feeling macho? Too embarrassed to ask? But after only a second’s hesitation Petey took it into his hand, then dropped his mouth onto the big purple knob and plunged his head all the way down onto it. All the way down! It swelled up full even as I watched, and then disappeared down Petey’s throat! Petey bobbed his head up and down on it several times! Had I discovered something about their relationship they’d rather have kept to themselves? Had Petey done this before? He took in Ron’s cock like a master sword swallower! Ronnie then leaned back slightly with his hands on his hips, and Little Petey dropped his hands to his sides, headfucking Ron unassisted in long, easy, comfortable strokes. Then Ron grunted, clasped Petey’s head tight to his crotch, squirted his load straight down his throat, and reached over and lifted Petey’s head off his cock by both ears.

When they left I told them I’d love to have a picture of Petey sucking on Ronnie as a souvenir of the afternoon, and Ron nodded his agreement absent-mindedly while looking for one of his sandals. Apparently nothing even to think about. So maybe I was right about them. They may or may not have done it before, but they surely were going to do it again. Ronnie would see to that.

A few days later, three Polaroid pictures arrived in the mail:

Little Peter cocksucking Big Ron the way I’d seen, and another of Petey grinning at the camera while wiping a blob of cloudy glop off his lips, and last of all the two of them blowing each other in a classic 69. On the back of that last one was written "Here’s how we learned to swim at your place!" These were pictures with their faces fully visible! Talk about trust? The next three or four times they got together to do each other they phoned to tell me. I congratulated them each time, and wished them a long and happy life together.

They often invited me to come watch once they were well into it, and I took them up on it just often enough to keep them eager to see me. They liked doing whatever I told them, and I never ever had to remind them about the pictures they’d sent me. I sent them on lots of little missions to keep them busy and happy. For example, it turned out after a while that they weren’t really girlish, they were gay. They even preferred sex with each other dressed normal, like guys. Even so I made Ron buy Petey a full girl’s outfit from K-Mart, from a bra on out, one item each day, the two of them livid with embarrassment each time Ron had to ask the salesgirl if Petey could use a changing room to try the item on. I told Petey to dress up for Ron for a big date out at least once a month. And to wear makeup, and to make himself as pretty as he could. And to send me a picture now and then of Ron lifting his skirt to ream him in the rear. During the next year those pictures got more and more elaborate as Petey got more and more into dressing up, and spent more money on costumes. He turned out to be a real Drag Queen, no mistake about it, a real contest-winner. Of course other kids at school caught on in no time at all. The two of them got careless, and sometimes they were seen holding hands, and there was talk. The clincher came when they were seen together in a pizza parlor on the other side of town, Petey dressed like a girl, though in bad taste, another girl told me. Well, I’d seen that outfit and thought he looked rather cute in it, a low-neck peasant blouse and a teeny denim mini-skirt, with sort of clunky shoes and big bold eye makeup. I liked it on him. Anyhow, after that, girls lost interest in dating them, though some girls felt especially comfortable with them and invited them to slumber parties, and gave them advice how to use makeup with more restraint, and asked them how it felt, doing each other. Girls are curious about things like that.

Boys wanted no part of them of course, and called them all the usual names. So they got more and more dependent on each other for their social lives, and by the end of the year they were living practically in each others’ pockets. Petey’s parents caught on eventually, and when the school year ended the family moved across the state to another town, so Petey could get a fresh start. But by then he didn’t want one. Petey soon found some new boyfriends, and Ron knew where he lived, and they visited each other now and then.

I dated lots of guys the next few years. A girl with my kind of self-confidence who isn’t afraid to tell boys what to do attracts certain kinds of boys. I’d let them do my homework for me if they were smart enough, or drive me to school mornings, and I’d reward them by letting them perform little services for me. They got to be known as "JayCee’s nursery school," and it turned out they were real popular with other girls when I was finished with them. They had all kinds of special skills.

The jocks took me on as a personal challenge, and of course got nowhere. None of them ever got into my pussy, because I was still saving it for the boy I would one day marry, I told them. Also because they were boastful adolescents who still thought a fuck was a conquest, even the smart ones. It was easy to outthink them. They were never sincere with me, so I saw no reason to be sincere with them when I put them through hoops. The other boys at our high school all knew that my pussy was out of bounds except to their mouths. But they knew I expected that much lip service from them at least, and they looked forward to offering it. They knew that if I really liked them, or if I was in just the right mood, or if I wanted something special from them, they knew that I might even use my mouth on them too, to help persuade them to do whatever it was I wanted. And they knew that if they were really attentive and submissive and grateful and courteous, and if I was especially turned on, and if they were willing to do certain especially humiliating things while I watched, they knew I might actually allow them to fuck my ass, enter me near that sacred place where my eventual husband’s semen would eventually unite with my own eventual egg. Knowing all these things, they’d all try extra hard to please me as soon as their faces got down to business. I had no complaints, and I heard none.

Ron never got into my ass again—despite its size his cock was just plain boring, and it turned out to be mutual, because he’d discovered girls just didn’t interest him. He liked Petey and a few other boys he hung out with, and that was it. He’d let me put my legs on his shoulders when I wasn’t going with anyone else and wanted someone down there, though he confessed once that he did it only because I asked him. In return I let him use our swimming pool without his ever having to ask. Oh yes, I also got good grades in school, very good grades, though that was never what school was really about as far as I was concerned.

II.

So along came that summer when I was nearly seventeen, and had half the boys in my class, practically, under my pussy or my thumb. But that summer nearly every boy I knew left town. They went to be camp counselors, or for sports training, or to learn mountain climbing, what they called "Leadership School." What a joke! Some wimp hangs from a rope between some rock and nowhere, and that’s how he learns how to be a leader. Really! Any girl who can’t get a guy to do that any time she wants ought to turn in her tits. Anyhow, some guys went out of town because there weren’t too many summer jobs that year, or else they were farmed out to relatives in other cities to broaden their experience. Ronnie talked his parents into letting him spend part of the summer with an Uncle who lives in Provincetown, on Cape Cod, and then talked Petey’s parents into letting Petey go there too. Some families moved out of town, the way families do. It’s sad when that happens, just before a kid finally get to be a Senior in High School and can do anything. But it happens.

It also happens that families move in. In fact it happened just down the street from us. Right after school ended I noticed how dull everything got suddenly, how the place emptied out. There were still a few guys around, of course, not my usual crowd, though you make do with what you’ve got. I almost took up my mother’s idea I should find summer work of some kind to earn money for college. In fact, that’s what my family still thinks I did do, that that’s where I got all that money I saved up that summer, that that’s how I won that whopping scholarship that’s paid my way through college mostly. I guess in a way I did find summer work. For sure I found what I wanted to do when I graduated. This new family that moved in down the street a block away wasn’t really a family. Just two people, a mother and a son. The day the movers came I saw him outside cutting the grass. He looked to be about my age, a little taller but not much, and real thin, though it was hard to tell from a distance because he favored loose clothes. He had long hair worn straight and loose the way all the guys did that year, when only geeks wore pony tails. A girl’s hair that year had to be long too, but mainly it had to be as crimped and curly as rollers and hot irons and drug store permanent waves could get it. Slaves to fashion, that’s what we all are, all of us. The guys too. But this guy checked out OK on that score. My mother went over with a tray of sandwiches the day they moved in, and stayed about an hour. "Nice people," she reported to my father and me at dinner. "At least she’s very nice. Jane is her name. She runs some kind of merchandising by mail thing, and is very successful at it to judge by the furniture and china they’ve got. Spode, service for twelve, she was unpacking and putting away—beautiful—it must be priceless! I don’t know why she didn’t buy a bigger house on the other side of town, but she says this one is ample for the two of them, and she likes the location. She was divorced when her son was just starting kindergarten, she tells me—her husband ran off, or ran off once too often, or something. The boy seems a little quiet, maybe even shy, but he’s very polite, very well brought up. He’ll be a Senior when school begins again, same as you, JayCee. I told them you’d come over some time and introduce yourself, and maybe show him around a little, where you kids hang out, things like that. With school out and so many families away, he’s got no way to meet people his own age. His name’s Marion."

I didn’t say anything. My Mom was always trying to fix me up with boys she thought she could trust, our cousins for example, which is how my ass lost its cherry and my Uncle lost his baseball. Or with boys from families that belong to our church—she thinks they’re respectable because they call her "ma’am." I tell her they’re the worst, because by the time she quits talking me up they think she’s already guaranteed them a piece of my ass, and they expect me to hand them the rest on a platter. That’s why so often I hand them their own asses, not always as nicely as I did it that time with Ronnie and Petey. I stay away from polite creeps. They’re the worst.

What I was actually thinking was, with a name like ‘Marion’ this kid better be a fighter, with a nickname like "Spike" or "Crusher," something to slow the guys down when they want to lean on him a little. Polite won’t cut it. Boys like to push each other. Nice boys in our neighborhood don’t stay that way. Anyhow, a week later I happened to be out front getting ready to visit my friend Marcie, when I saw this Marion kid coming down the sidewalk toward me wearing his oversized shirt and baggy pants, carrying a plastic bag from that drugstore in the mall on the highway two blocks south of us. Sort of hip-hop, his clothes, I saw, acceptable enough, big, everything out and hanging loose. I checked myself. Just the reverse—real tight jeans and a black stretch sleeveless pullover with a turtle neck, no bra, fresh lipstick I’d just put on to show Marcie the shade I think goes with a jumper she just bought. My hair up in the Betty Grable forties look I’m trying out. I’m OK, I decided. If I smile at him he’ll fall over.

So I crouched down pretending to do something with a flower bed alongside the sidewalk, and when he got nearer I wiggled my tail at him a little. Looking him over sideways, I could see he was trying hard not to notice me, the way polite boys do, but he couldn’t help himself. Then when he was just about to pass by I suddenly stood up in front of him and faced him down and smiled. I gave him both barrels at close range. I can be devastating when I want to be, and I can be mean, too, and sometimes it’s the same thing. I didn’t know which it was yet myself, in this case. He stopped walking as if he’d hit a wall, and then he stared at me with no change of expression.

"Hi!" I said brightly. "I’m JayCee, the girl who lives here? My mother was over to your house the other day, a week ago? When you were moving in, and she met you and your mother?" I saw he had huge almond-shaped eyes and long black lashes and high cheekbones. Close up he looked real cute! In fact he was a living doll! Stroke him the right way, and he’ll purr like a cat I’ll bet. Or a tiger. He might be worth getting to know after all! He smiled just a bit, a little nervous, and he passed the bag he was carrying over to his other hand, then half-hid it behind his leg. I’d already seen through the plastic that it had some big bottles of pills, and a big blue and purple package with "Kotex OverNite Maxi Pads" in white letters. No mystery—he was on an errand for his mother. But at his age mothers can seem an embarrassment. "Sure," he said. "JayCee. Your mother said you might be coming by real soon. I’m pleased to meet you." "I’ll walk you," I said. "Then I’ll have come by." No sense letting anyone get any advantage over you, any time. I started down the sidewalk. But he kept standing there, so I stopped and looked back at him over my shoulder, and I gave him my slow steady inquiring look with one eyebrow raised real high. I once turned two football players into drooling mush with that look. "No, I didn’t mean that," he said, now altogether flustered. "I mean I’m very pleased to meet you. I was looking forward to it." Now he clutched his shopping bag in front of him with both hands.

I realized that he was one of those boys who have a hard time speaking to girls, a late bloomer or something. He wasn’t just jockeying for position when he’d said that about me supposed to come by and I didn’t, trying to hang a guilt trip on me. He’d said it because that was all he could think to say. He understood that I misunderstood him and that I was miffed, and now he was trying to apologize and be nice! Now that was something! The other boys I knew wouldn’t have had a clue to anything that had already happened in this little conversation, and if they could have figured it out they couldn’t have cared less!

"Likewise," I said, and this time I gave him my special smile. Sincere. I really do have one, though there isn’t much call for it. "I’ll walk you. I’d like to." Should I tell him I’ve seen him cutting the grass? No, too relaxed and neighborly. Keep the initiative. Stay on him.

"Your name’s Marion, isn’t it," I noted.

He realized he’d forgotten to say so, and felt further disadvantaged, which was my intention. "Yes." he said. "’Marion’ spelled with an ‘O.’ That was John Wayne’s name, too, before he was John Wayne."

The poor boy was belly up! So sensitive about having a name that sounds like a girl’s that he had a canned speech prepared to prove he’s really a man’s man like John Wayne. Who’d doubted it? Obviously he was first in line!

I decided to keep after him. "Marion with an ‘O," I said. "That’s pronounced ‘Marianne,’ right? Then you won’t mind if I call you ‘Marianne’? ‘Mary’ for short, maybe?" Then the clincher so he wouldn’t dare object. "It sounds more friendly that way. You don’t mind, do you?" Now let him hang himself. What’s in a name?

He surrendered. "No, not at all," he said. "Whatever you like." I had him. He was outclassed. But he knew he was outclassed, and that showed more intelligence than ever glimmered in any of the boys I knew. I decided that I liked him. Maybe I should have come by after all? I decided that this could be a prize fish, so I should reel him in. Keep up the pressure so he won’t throw the hook.

"Mary," I said to him, taking his arm real comfy, so he’d know I wasn’t being sarcastic or threatening, but also so he wouldn’t spook and run off, "Why did you buy Kotex at the mall? Are you having your period now?"

I hung on tight until he could get a grip on himself. Now his doll face was bright red. "Oh, JayCee," he said finally. "Quit teasing me, OK?"

Terrific! I loved it! He respected himself after all! He didn’t fall all over himself to explain the obvious, that it was for his mother. He was uneasy about his name, but he didn’t feel totally apologetic about everything, as if everyone’s opinion but his own mattered. He knew I was mocking and testing him, maybe even insulting him, but he took off the edge by calling it teasing. And it worked! All of a sudden, I’d only been teasing him, in a friendly way, the way girls do when they meet an interesting guy. I liked that. I squeezed his arm to tell him, and I knew he knew that too. His blush faded, not altogether. "OK, Marianne," I said. No reason to back off just because I was beginning to like him. "Deal!"

"What’re the pills?" I asked him, now just making conversation. We were only about halfway to his house from mine. "Vitamins," he said. "I had asthma and such when I was little, and I took a lot of pills. Now my mother feels better when I take them."

"Prescription vitamins? Let’s see!" I could see the typed RX labels through the translucent plastic bag, so I reached over and took the bag from him before he could pull back and be embarrassed into playing tug of war, and I reached in and started reading the bottles. They had his mother’s name on them, not his. "These pills are for your mother too," I said, to put my Kotex taunt behind us once and for all.

"She’s got the health insurance policy," he said, "So she gets the prescriptions, even the ones for me."

Was he kidding me now? About asthma and vitamin pills? I could read, and I saw that these were birth control pills. Female hormones of some kind. One was "Estynil Estradiol" and the other was "Progesterone." The same stuff the doctor started me on last year, to make my period more regular, and as Mom said, to forestall any little problems. Only mine come in a cute little pill wheel inside a compact, so I won’t forget to take one each day, or forget which one. And mine are a lot smaller. These were big pills, like the kind my Mom started taking after her hysterectomy, massive doses of female hormones to keep her in womanly trim. I checked again in the bag. It was Kotex all right. No hysterectomy. A mystery. I decided he was kidding me but wasn’t very good at it. "Well, here we are, Mary," I said. We stopped for a moment on the sidewalk in front of his house. And I added sincerely, because he needed all the encouragement he could get, obviously, "It’s nice that we live near each other, Marianne." He smiled. "I like you. You stop by. We have a pool."

He hesitated, and then asked if I’d like to come in and meet his mother. Meaning he wanted me to meet her. Meaning, he really liked me too. He led the way into the kitchen, and there she was standing by the window, cutting vegetables. Marion’s mother was thin too, like him, with a nice figure, and though she wore no makeup at all it was obvious that she could look stunning whenever she chose—she had the same high cheekbones as her son, and the same almond-shaped eyes, and she had the same black lashes, though on a woman you can never tell. She carried herself like a dancer—there was something poised and formally gracious even in the way she turned to greet me. Her hair was fairly long for a woman her age, and piled high up on her head, the way mine was pinned up. She made pleased and surprised noises to see the two of us together, looking from one of us to the other and saying something about my mother’s visit the day they first moved in. So she knew who I was already, without being introduced. I saw that the kitchen window in front of her cutting board on the counter gave her a full view of our entire promenade, from my calculated crouch in front of my own house practically to their front steps. I glanced out that window, then at his mother again. She was watching me, and we saw we understood each other perfectly.

She smiled. Marion put the bag on the kitchen table between them. "JayCee, isn’t it," his mother said wiping a hand on her apron, and offering it. "I’m Jane. Just ‘Jane’ please. No formalities here. I’m delighted to meet you, I’m sure you know that." Then to her son, "You got the prescriptions too, Marion? The vitamins? Yes, here they are." She opened the pill bottles and took two from one, then one from the other, huge as pills go, and handed them to him. "Take these now," she told him. "Then if you don’t mind, that washing machine isn’t hooked up right. Would you mind going down and reversing the hoses, and put it up on its blocks, and check it over, then holler to me when you think it’s finally installed right, so I can bring down some washing and we can test it out?"

"Sure, Mom," he said. "I’ll see you, JayCee!"

"When you come up. I’ll look after your friend meanwhile. I’d like to get to know JayCee a little, if she doesn’t mind, now that she’s here. You go down and we’ll talk, and we’ll be here when you’ve done what you need to do."

He went down to the cellar to fix the washing machine or whatever. I looked at her expectantly. She hadn’t gotten rid of her son just to pass the time of day with me. "Your mother told me you were a nice girl," his mother said to me when we were out of his hearing. "She didn’t tell me you were also clever. I see that for myself. I’m pleased to know you."

"Likewise," I said, not much into formalities myself. I looked her straight in the eye, and she looked straight into mine. I liked her immediately. "Mrs....um, Jane, you have a nice son.

I like him."

"Yes, I just heard you tell him that," she commented with a small smile. Meaning she’d also heard me call him Mary. She didn’t seem to mind. Also meaning, she didn’t want secrets between us.

This emboldened me, but I remembered my manners. "Can I ask you something, Mrs...Jane, I mean? Right out, with no ‘I know its really none of my business, but...’ stuff?"

I had never spoken to anyone like that before. Not so blunt. But Marion’s mother seemed to invite it. I could sense that, and I wanted her respect, and I sensed this was how to get it. "Absolutely, JayCee! No ‘none of my business stuff...’ between us ever, OK?"

"Great!" I said thinking to myself that there were certainly some secrets around here, if she’s that open about being open with me. "I guess I’ve got two questions, really. The first is, why did you name your son ‘Marion’? That was asking for trouble for him."

She looked at me steadily, then sat down at the table and leaned on her elbows, and twined her wrists together and clasped her hands. It was a graceful gesture, like an actress or a model, and I thought I might try that some time myself. It might be useful. She found it useful, obviously. She nodded for me to sit too, so I did.

"You ask without preliminaries, so I’ll answer the same way. By the time Marion was born I knew I was going to divorce his father. His father is a real shit, a vicious man with no respect for anyone he can’t control, especially women, and a foul-mouthed wife-beater. I’d wanted a daughter of my very own, so at least I could carry something good away from my years with him, not a son who might look up to that bastard and maybe some day choose to live with him, and to think and behave like him. And a daughter he’d never contest during a divorce. He’d want all kinds of rights over a son."

"But we take what we get. I got a boy. So I gave him a boy’s name I could imagine was a girl’s name, and everyone else could think was a girl’s name if they wanted to. That way I saw to it that I was asking for the right kind of trouble for him. He’s still a little defensive, the way adolescent boys are, but you must have noticed, he doesn’t feel it’s al all demeaning to be carrying what sounds like a girl’s name. You can call him ‘Mary’ to tease him, if you like, or even ‘Marianne’ all the time, and it doesn’t bother him at all. He takes no notice. He’s not insulted that his name sounds like a girl’s. He respects girls. He’s had to learn to respect them in order to respect himself, and not go through life cringing and apologizing for things that aren’t his fault." She sat back and smiled. "Then when his father came home from some long overseas engineering and whoring trip and got infuriated to learn that he now had a son named Marion, well, that was another plus."

"Ok, Mrs. ... uh, ma’am, fair enough. Just now I...."

"’Jane,’ please, JayCee, if you don’t mind."

"No, Jane, I don’t mind at all. I like it. I like you too." I really did. Why did I want her to know right off? "That explains why he didn’t mind my calling him ‘Marianne’ or ‘Mary.’ I didn’t get anywhere near him with that."

"Closer than you’d think, but not the way you’d think, JayCee. ‘Marianne’s’ a lovely version of ‘Marion.’ And so is he. I wish I’d thought of it! I’m glad you did. You had another question?" "Yes, ma’am. Yes, Jane. This one’s a little more serious." I really hesitated, then I just blurted it out. "Why are you feeding your son female hormones and telling him they’re vitamins?" Jane glanced at the bottles between us on the table, then looked at me mildly but steadily. "When he was a boy he had asthma," she said, "And he got accustomed to taking vitamin supplements and allergy shots. He thinks he still is." That wasn’t really relevant, except that now I knew that he was also shooting up female hormones, and didn’t know that either. Pretty heavy duty stuff. I sat there waiting. "May I ask how you know what these are?" She picked one up and held it as if to read the label, but didn’t bother looking at it.

I told her. And how I knew they weren’t for her. She glanced at the Kotex package when I mentioned it, with a quick smile. Then she resumed looking straight at me. She added gently, as if reminiscing, "Yes, I saw you reading the labels earlier while you two were walking here. I knew you knew. And I notice that neither then nor just now did you say anything to him. You saw as soon as you both walked in here that he didn’t even blink when I called them vitamins and handed him some. He still thinks they’re vitamins. "

Now I felt like a co-conspirator. Was that was how she wanted me to feel?

"He also gets hormone shots, as I’ve just told you, and I have his blood monitored carefully each month. I love him, and I take no chances with him. He needs to overcome his body’s natural production of male hormones, so he needs heavy doses of estrogen and so forth. If he’d had an arranged accident when he was younger, and lost his testicles, he could have gone on much smaller doses to complete his puberty. But it’s too late now—now he’d think it was a disaster if it happened, and I don’t want him to suffer anything traumatic like that ever!"

But she still wasn’t answering my question. She looked steadily at me a moment longer, then she suddenly straightened up. "JayCee," she said. "Can I talk to you frankly, woman to woman? No ‘stuff’ at all?"

Now she really wanted to make me a co-conspirator, no question about it. What she wanted to say was not to be known even by her own son. It could be a barrier between me and Marion, if we ever got close. I hesitated, but I’d never known anyone like this woman. She was elegant and yet down-to-earth, direct yet extremely tactful, gracious, smart, and she knew her own mind. She was already some of the things I realized I wanted to be. "Yes, of course, ah, Jane," I said. She knew I knew what she was really asking. But that wasn’t good enough for her. She had to underline it.

"What I say now never leaves this room. And Marion or ‘Marianne’ is never to hear of it. Are you willing to agree to that?"

"Sure," I said. I love mysteries, and a big one was about to be unfolded.

"I just told you that when Marion was born I wanted a girl, didn’t I?"

I nodded.

"Well, in a nutshell, I’m getting one. Marion is becoming a girl. I’ve arranged for him to have a girl’s puberty instead of a boy’s puberty. He doesn’t know it himself yet, but this summer coming up is a crucial one for his development. I want to use it to ease his transition to living as a girl full time by the time school begins again, not merely so he’ll accept it, but so he’ll enjoy it. So he’ll love it! So he can start school this Fall as a girl, and never again be anything else, and for the rest of his life never look back. Never wish to be anything else. That’s one reason why we moved here, where no one knows him. No questions, no curiosity, no mockery. A whole new beginning." I was dumbfounded. I leaned forward and asked her yet again.

"Jane, why are you doing this to him."

"Not to him, with him," his mother said. "For him. For different reasons. Let me list a few, and let’s see if they don’t make sense to you."

"First, girls are nicer than boys. If you don’t know that yet, you will. But I think you do. Also, girls have more character than boys. They can endure and survive more, and once they understand how boys tick they can put themselves in charge without even seeming to be there at all. Because most boys really want girls to be in charge. I think you’ve already found that out too, haven’t you, JayCee?"

"Yes, I suppose I have," I said evenly, wondering how she knew.

"Well, that’s what I want for my baby. To be what you are. To know what you know. To live the life you’ll live. You be the judge, JayCee. Which would you rather be? A girl or a boy? For the rest of your life."

A girl, of course. For the rest of my life? Why should anyone ever want to be a boy? But I didn’t answer her. There was really nothing for me to say. She didn’t mean for me to answer. I waited.

"Secondly, I’m still young. Still in my thirties. I go out, and I invite friends back to the house now and then, and sometimes I’ll ask them to dinner here, and sometimes a special friend’ll stay overnight. It sounds selfish, I know, but it isn’t. Now, I am not a storybook mother whose whole life is dedicated to her child. I wouldn’t want to burden any child of mine with the notion that I sacrificed my life for him. For her. That’s a terrible burden for any child to bear. So I have my friends over. I enjoy their companionship and the sex, and so on, and I expect my child to understand. It’s my life too."

"Well, responses to a parent’s sexuality are fairly standard according to a child’s gender. At Marion’s age boys resent their mothers’ sexuality. Girls don’t. A girl may even admire their mother’s boyfriends, though usually they resent their father’s girlfriends. Well, I don’t need a resentful adolescent son implying to any of my guests that they’re not welcome, or moping about unhappy because my life and my affections aren’t exclusively devoted to him. I love Marion dearly, but I’d love to fall in love again with someone I can take to bed and dedicate to my own pleasure, and I’d never want Marion to be in the way. I’m still looking."

I thought, I should be feeling embarrassed to hear that. But I wasn’t. I understood well enough.

"On the other hand, it’s nice for everyone when a woman is living with a teenage daughter. Daughters understand how their mothers’ feel, and don’t feel threatened themselves. In fact, sometimes a pretty daughter somewhere in the house can’t help but enrich a guest’s fantasy and intensify any romantic moods. Even a decent person who’d never touch her. You’re a daughter. Don’t the older men who come into your house sometimes seem to feel a compulsion to turn on the charm when they look at you? Even though you’re your father and mother’s child, and untouchable?" "More often than sometimes," I said. I grinned to myself, and she saw and grinned back at me.

"You’re a real pet, JayCee. You hear me perfectly, I can tell. Now, so far what I’ve described are the advantages of having a daughter instead of a son. My third reason is why it’s necessary for Marion to be my daughter, not my son. Not just advantageous, but necessary. Crucial. It’s this. His father comes back now and then to claim his unlimited visitation rights over Marion. That was the price I paid to get a decent child support allotment when he first abandoned us. I make plenty of money now, but I didn’t then. I needed every penny, and the price I paid for it was, any time after Marion turns 16, and he’s just done that, his father can take him away from me for as long as he likes, and keep him as far away as he likes."

"Well, that man resents me. In fact he has contempt for all the women who have ever associated themselves with him. He’s boasted to me that he means to come back and take Marion away and keep him away for good. He said he was going to turn Marion into his kind of man, which means a self-gratifying, conceited, sexist boor like himself. A calculating rapist who’ll never get caught. And he could do it. At Marion’s age a young man is attracted to the idea that women exist only for his pleasure. It solves all of his problems, of relationship, and responsibility, and adequacy, and respect, everything, all at once. Marion will want to believe it, and his father can be persuasive. Already there’ve been times when Marion came home from a week’s visit with his father with his mouth spewing filth, arrogant, for weeks useless around the house, because he’d adopted his father’s belief that women are lower forms of life placed on earth to serve men."

"Well, I mean to put Marion beyond his reach, beyond the slightest interest his father might ever have in him. That bastard is overseas now, and means to take Marion away from me when he returns next year. He’s told me that repeatedly, to upset me and then gloat. Well, when he gets back next year I want him to discover that his son is the sweetest, loveliest daughter any man ever disowned. A lovely girl and a respectable young woman. And I’ll confess it to you, JayCee, I’ll get a lot of personal satisfaction from seeing my ex when he sees he’s lost a son and gained a daughter. That’ll fix him once and for all!" Changing her son’s sex just to get back at her ex struck me as a little harsh, but I saw she wasn’t really doing that. She was protecting him from her ex, and protecting a lot of women from what he might become after her ex corrupted him. I really couldn’t quarrel with that. In fact I decided to enter even deeper into our conspiracy by asking some more questions. "Marianne knows nothing of any of this?" "Nothing, JayCee. Well, he knows he’s having an odd adolescence, but I’ve assured him he’ll get over it. As he will." "When are you going to tell him?"

She stood up and went to the fridge, and took out a Coke. Then she looked at me with one eyebrow raised, and I nodded. She took out a second coke, handed it over, and sat down again. I cracked the can open.

"Obviously, some time this summer, he’ll have to know that he isn’t going to get over it. Not ever. That he isn’t a peculiar boy. That like it or not he’s a transsexual girl. That he’ll have to be a girl for the rest of his life. That his body is already a girl’s, except for his genitals, and that he needs to change his gender in his own mind and become a she. That she can enjoy being a girl. But I’m hoping it won’t be necessary to tell him." "What do you mean?"

"Think about it. I’m hoping he’ll want it to happen all by himself, and accept what’s happened, so we don’t have to tell him anything. That he’ll help it happen."

"How do you plan to do that?"

"By making each step in becoming a girl delightful. As attractive as possible. More desireable than remaining the kind of boy he is now." She paused and then looked directly at me. "Will you help me, JayCee? Will you help him? Will you help Marianne become herself?"

I took a swig from my coke can and considered the matter. "If he knew, he’d never agree," I said, avoiding a direct answer. "No, of course not. It has to happen because he wants it, not merely because he agrees to it. I don’t mind if he thinks he has no choice, and only reconciles himself to it, because I know that in the long run he’ll be grateful. But back to my question. Will you help Marianne become the daughter I want him to be? The daughter she should be? For the rest of this summer? It would be so much easier with your help. You know you’d be doing him a huge favor, really. And I can make it well worth your trouble. I thought about it. I didn’t have a summer job yet. "I was going to work ten or fifteen hours a week at Chicken Licken or Burger Bob’s," I said. "Evenings. I figured on earning maybe $75 a week through Labor Day."

"This is irregular work, but it’s a lot more than ten or fifteen hours," she said. "It can be a lot of most days. It’s whatever it takes. Whatever it costs. It’s my son’s life. My daughter’s life, for the rest of her life."

She paused, near tears, swallowed, and recovered herself.

Then she listened to my silence. Encouraged, she then went on. "JayCee, we can tell your parents you’re working for me. I’m now setting up training courses for various businesses, the kind they need when they bring in new computer software to teach to beginning employees. I can tell them honestly that at your educational level you’re a typical targeted client and customer who for that reason can be a very persuasive sales representative. That’s all true enough. Each week for the rest of the summer I’ll pay you three times whatever you’d have earned at Burger Bob’s. And if we accomplish what we wish to accomplish by the end of the summer, and Marion begins her Senior year in High School as Marianne, and enjoys being Marianne, I’ll see to it that you win my firm’s annual employee full scholarship to any four-year college of your choice, the money to be held in trust for you by your parents until you can use it. That will be a bonus that will need no explanation." I just stared at her.

"Moreover, I’ll pay whatever your expenses all summer. And that includes clothes. You’ll be enormously helpful going on buying excursions with him, two girls together deciding on skirts and things. You know what girls are wearing these days. You can build his confidence by assuring him he’ll fit right in with the other girls. Her confidence, I should say. Does that seem fair?" I still couldn’t speak.

"She’ll be on her own once school begins, of course, because you’ll have prepared her for that. But I’ll want to keep you on retainer through all of next year, just in case something comes up that only you can handle. For my own peace of mind." This was beginning to sound like all the money I’d ever need for college. My parents want the best for me, but they aren’t well off, and I’d been expecting to work my way through State, and then take a job to pay off the loans and debts, leaving graduate school a long way down the road.

"JayCee? Will you help me? She doesn’t have to be the Prom Queen when she graduates. Just an ordinary girl. I’d be so happy for her if only there’s some boy she likes who’ll take her to her prom, and if she’s beautiful in her prom dress, and she can feel the magic I remember from that time of my life, when I was pretty and young and desireable, with everything ahead of me. I loved my own high school prom. That was the last time in my life I felt happy and alive when I woke up each morning, before that lying bastard I married swept away my girlhood, and all my beautiful dreams." She blinked and turned her face away from me, and took several deep breaths. Then she just kept looking away from me, looking out of her own kitchen window past my house. And waited. Was I being bought? Yes. Well, I thought, also no. His mother was right. What she was asking matched my own deepest feelings about boys and girls and what’s most desireable. I would be doing Marianne a favor. I liked him. I could help him. I would be helping her too. And the money I’d earn would be real money. If it worked, if I could bring it off, I could go to any college or university that would have me, anywhere in the whole country.

Well, I stood up to shake her hand. As she saw me reach out toward her, her whole body suddenly shook with a great sob, and then she opened her arms to me and rushed around the table. Then as we hugged each other she really began to cry, and I did too. I couldn’t help it. She kissed my cheek and my neck, and I could feel her wet eyelashes. My eyes were wet too. I really was a co-conspirator, but it felt good. All in Marianne’s best interest. I knew that when the dust settled she’d thank us for what we’d done.

We broke our embrace and separated a little. Now we were two women conspiring together, but we still clasped each other like two girls dancing. She was so pleased! "Invite him over to use your pool tomorrow, would you?" his mother said. "And to spend the day? He’ll say ‘No,’ of course, but be sure to leave quickly before you can hear him say it, and I’ll see that he gets there. Then you’ll see soon enough what his problem is, what our problems are. And I’m sure you’ll begin to cope."

His voice came from the cellar. "Mom? It’s all set up now!

Let’s try it!"

The two of us grinned at each other. I never saw a woman so happy.

"JayCee? Please sit for a moment more, dear. At least tell me how you got your name."

"It’s what my Dad said when he first saw me, right after I was born. Or it’s the initials, anyhow. He’d wanted a boy, and the nurse just held me up new born and naked for him to see, and when he saw my cunt he just said it out loud without thinking. My Mom liked what he’d said, what she thought he’d named me, but she didn’t think a girl should have a boy’s name. Not that boy’s name, anyhow. So they settled for the initals, spelled out sort of. I like it."

Jane smiled at me, and nodded some more. "I’m very lucky to know you, JayCee. I can’t believe how lucky I am! You know, we used to live across the state in another town about this size, and I’ve got a client there with a son named Petey, and Petey once told me an extraordinary tale about a teenage girl in this town who helped him discover himself, and how cleverly she did it. I’ve been hoping to meet her so she could help me too. In fact, that’s why I bought this house in this neighborhood, near you. To create opportunities. I can tell you that, now that we understand each other, and now that you’re on the payroll. No secrets, right?" I just stared at her. What an extraordinary businesswoman! If she was as resourceful and persuasive with her clients as she’d just been with me, she must be very wealthy by now, I thought. No wonder she can afford to hire me, and even pay my full college costs for four years, and probably her daughter’s too when Marion becomes her daughter, and yet here she is living in a small house in a modest part of town, where most kids can’t afford college at all. She really does love her son. Her daughter. "Jane," I said. "I’m very lucky to know you too. I hope we’ll become very good friends. There’s so much you can teach me." She beamed. "I just may end up with two daughters," she said happily, "Where I’ve had none. That’s just lovely! So very lovely!" Then she shouted down the cellar stairs. "Marianne! Come on up now! JayCee wants to ask you something!" I stood up to deliver my invitation and then make my getaway as she’d suggested, before Marianne could say "No!" And that’s what I did.

III.

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, if it is, why don’t you."

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

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

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

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

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

"That’s not how to swim," I shouted. Then just when he was on tiptoe on the edge where the shallow end suddenly gets a lot deeper, I dove in, came up next to him under water, took his arm, and pulled him under. He splashed off balance and even his head went under for a moment. I was pleased to see he was at home in deep water—at least now I wouldn’t need to rescue him. He lifted his head and shook the water out of his eyes in a reflexive gesture, swam toward the deep end, did a racing turn, and swam back. He could swim all right! I could see that his shirt’s heavy, loose fabric was waterlogged, weighing him down, and his sleeves were clinging to his arms. But he stayed on top easily, and paused a little distance away from me, looking concerned about something while absent-mindedly treading water. It was time for him to face a moment of truth. The first of many. I hopped out of the pool and went over to the big patio table where I’d already set out a tray full of sandwiches and a cooler with cans of soda. "Lunch time," I shouted. "C’mon out" "No, I’ll swim around a while more," Marion said. I went over to the edge of the pool and looked down at him. This time I wasn’t thinking I was a cute young thing on the cover of "Seventeen." I was thinking I was Shalimar the Jungle Queen looking down on her subjects from a high cliff. I stood with my legs wide apart and my knuckles against on my hips, elbows squared, and my chin high up even though I was looking down on him. "Marianne," I said. "Get out of the pool. Now!"

He looked up at me.

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

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

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

"JayCee, I’m going home now." He turned to leave. "Marianne!" My voice was as abrupt and forceful and as stern as I could make it. He turned back astonished, and just stared. "Don’t you wimp out on me! Ever! You hear? I know what you’ve got under there. I know lots of things. If you want a friend, the only friend you’ll ever have who can really help you, you’ll be straight with me and do what I say! Now take off your shirt and unwrap that bandage and tell me the story!" I was sharp, but I really was a little angry, and I let it show. No one with Marianne’s potential should ever be allowed to run away from himself.

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

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

"Why Marianne! They’re beautiful! How can you want to hide them? They’re just gorgeous! You must feel very proud!" This was not at all the reaction he’d expected. He’d gotten used to thinking he was a freak, and he looked at me as if I were crazy to think he was anything else. I suppose I would have been, except that I knew what I was doing. And actually, his problem wasn’t that he was a boy with huge tits. It was that he had a girl’s body, a beautiful one at that, but thought he was a boy. This will be easier than I thought, I said to myself, and a lot easier than his mother thinks.

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

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

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

Dazed, he sat down. I sat too, one knee between his, one of his between mine. I reached over, and before he could pull back, I ran my fingertips delicately over his nipples, one hand across each. They immediately stiffened. I saw that that his nipples were those of a mature woman, practically of a nursing mother, sticking out a half-inch or more like the tip of a finger, longer and thicker even than mine. But he didn’t know that, of course. It crossed my mind he might still be a virgin, that he’d never seen any girl’s figure naked, perhaps not even his mother’s. He might not know his breasts were exceptionally well-developed even for a mature young woman, and that the shape of his whole body was also female, not male. To him his breasts were just an embarrassment. "How long have you had these, Marianne ?" I asked gently. I ran my fingertips back over those huge nipples again, this time pausing while still touching them, then ever so lightly I started to caress them. I noticed that he didn’t back off at all. In fact he seemed to lean in ever so slightly, and a slight sigh escaped. So they felt the way mine do whenever I caress them, or gave a boy permission to touch them. Delicious. Melting. I saw his eyes had gone slightly distant, and that his mouth was a little open, his lips parted. If I keep this up, I thought, he might dissolve into a puddle. I decided then and there that I would seduce him this very day. It would be like seducing a girl. I’d never tried that, never even vaguely thought of doing something like that. I wondered if he had a little boy’s cock, or a man’s. Lowering my eyelids, I saw a bulge in his bathing suit, and saw it throb once as I tweaked one nipple and then resumed a gentle circular caress. Not much there, but something.

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

Now his voice got very quiet, and began to quaver. "But they haven’t gone away, JayCee. They’ve gotten huge. They bounce, so I can’t run any more. They’re heavy, amd sometimes they hurt. I don’t dare take my shirt off in school, so Mom gets me medical excuses from Gym. She keeps saying it’s nothing, it’s normal, she has big breasts too so it’s probably hereditary. She says it’s not necessary for me to see a doctor to get them fixed." He paused. Then he looked up at the sky, as if he couldn’t bear to look directly at me. "JayCee, it isn’t normal! Boys shouldn’t have tits. Not like these tits. I’m so ashamed!" And he started crying. At first his eyes teared up, and then a strange keening whine came from the back of his throat, his pent-up misery squeezing under tremendous pressure through a crack in his impassivity. Then a wail. Then the dam burst, and he began crying out aloud in great wrenching sobs. His face contorted, and he surrendered himself to his anguish. The years of uncertainty and embarrassment had finally found an outlet, someone listening, and he couldn’t suppress his feelings any longer. He practically howled out his grief.

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

"Oh, my poor baby!" I held out my arms. He lurched forward out of his chair and fell to his knees in front of me, reaching out and wrapping his arms around my waist with his fists still clenched, and he buried his face in my breasts, still sobbing. I folded my arms around his head and hugged it tight. It was that easy! "My poor, poor baby," I crooned. "Marianne, my dear, dear Marianne!" I stroked his hair and hugged him close. "The luckiest boy in the world, and yet you’re miserable! Why? Why?" I kept hugging him and stroking his hair, and I kissed his face repeatedly, tasting real salt tears. Over and over I kept making comforting sounds, until finally he began to get a grip on himself. His wails softened into sobs. Then I kissed him. Not too gently, and not too consolingly, either. His manhood needed reassurance that he wasn’t ruined, that he could still be attractive to a girl his own age. I knew he needed that reassurance while he changed slowly into an attractive girl his own age, with an attractive girl’s desires.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So you say. But you coulda fooled me," I smiled at him. I decided to take a chance. I’d read a lot about hormones last night, and thought it was worth putting it to him now, while he was still vulnerable, because he was also still malleable. "Think about it. Obviously you’re both at the moment. You were raised to think you’re a boy. But you have great breasts. A wonderful figure. A pretty face. You’re a terrific girl. Are you also a terrific boy? How well are you hung?" I was pretty sure that with the kinds of hormones he had taken to grow those boobs, his penis and testicles were still pre-pubescent, a small boy’s. "Never mind," he said, obviously embarrassed. Piece of cake, I thought to myself. "You know what your friend John Wayne once said," I said, reaching for an unlikely authority. "’A man should be what he can do.’ You can do being a girl a lot better than most girls can do, I’ll bet." I looked more closely at his face. The same almond shaped eyes and high cheekbones I’d noticed when I first saw him. And a small, rounded chin. A doll! "You’re beautiful," I told him. "you really are!" I meant it. I kissed him again. He was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"More ashamed than you are now?"

He said nothing.

"After the summer you can be a boy again if you want, and no harm done, and you can decide which is better. Which you really are. When you’ve been a girl for a while, you’ll know what you’re better at. What you really should be. What’s more fun. OK?" He didn’t answer.

"The next few weeks we’ll spend lots of time together, and I’ll help you, if you’ll promise to go along with anything I ask you to do that girls do. Then we’ll see what we’ll see. Of course any final decision is yours. OK?" I put my hand on his knee, and left it there, and looked up at him. Of course no decision of his would ever be final in my own mind until it was the right one. "Right now try out being a girl, and no one will know. Change back if you want when kids start to come home from the summer, and noone’ll know any different. There’s a pretty rough crowd of boys lives around here, if that’s what you think you are, and you don’t mind getting punched around a little, the way boys do." Still, he delayed. Was he worth my bothering with at all?

The money was, I reminded myself.

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

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

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

"OK," he said finally. "For a few weeks, anyhow." It was mostly to placate me, I knew. But now he’d pledged it. to try it my way. The rest was a matter of time. "Starting today!" I said. "Today you’re mine until I send you home. This’ll be so cool!" Now he got my most dazzling smile. He looked uneasy but half-smiled back.

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

I nodded.

They’d moved this time, he said, mainly because she wanted him to make a fresh start with people his own age, to find himself and live up to his best potential. Whatever that means, he added. I nodded. We’d always lived here, and I’d always been eager to live somewhere else. But he’d lived nowhere really, and that’s why he was so much a loner. He’d had no close friends all the while he was growing up. I’d had plenty, more than I wanted, which is why I didn’t feel I needed any more I suppose, except maybe to play mind games with them. Boy friends, that is. I told him I needed a good friend, a really close friend, if he’d be willing. I’d never had a really close girlfriend, someone who’d share everything with me. More boys I didn’t need. He didn’t answer. Then I went back to work. "Marianne," I said. "Why don’t you put on your bathing suit, and then we’ll go back into the water." "I’m wearing my bathing suit," he said.

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

"It’s a girl’s bathing suit," he said. As I’d suspected and assumed.

"Do you think she’s been trying to tell you something?. You want to look nice, don’t you? You’ve been a boy who’s ashamed of his tits. Now be a girl and be proud of them. Go. I’ll wait for you."

He was still uncertain. I had to use Petey’s dumb line. "You promised, remember?" I sounded reasonable and confident. The fact was, he didn’t have a choice. He went in.

A few minutes later he came out wearing the bathing suit his mother had selected. It was a an irridescent blue Maillot with flowery front panels, one piece with supported cups—and he really did need them—and a draped detachable skirt gathered to one side. With the skirt clipped on I couldn’t see how his male parts or his female-shaped buttocks fit the suit’s bottom, but one thing at a time.

"Now you’re decent. Stop trying to hide your boobs by slumping—it won’t work. Be proud. Shoulders back. That’s it. Whether you’re a boy or a girl, be proud. It’s easier for girls."

I decided to go further. "And you’re a very pretty girl, Marianne. Let’s swim some more, and then we’ll see what kind of a girl you can be when you really try. So far you haven’t been trying. Another time maybe I’ll help you become the best boy you can be, though I’ll be frank, you don’t look like much of a boy to me. Then we’ll be able to see which one of you is more you." I stood up and walked over to the edge of the pool. He did the same, a little awkwardly. I decided he was going to learn to walk with mincing little steps, like some cutie pie who’s a little timid but thinks her ass is made of candy. That would be attractive. A bimbo walk is always reassuring to guys who are unsure of themselves. I watched him unhook the skirt and drape it over a chair. His bathing suit was severely hi-leg, and it left bare the lower globes of his rounded rear end. They were gorgeous. I saw that he needed a Bikini shave, and added that to my agenda for later this afternoon. I also saw that whatever grew there between his legs barely disturbed the neat V line of his bathing suit’s crotch. His genitals weren’t very consequential. They’d tuck, and a sanitary napkin would give him a smooth mound, and then any boy could grind his groin into him while dancing, or could feel him up during a heavy petting session, without suspecting anything. As long as the boy doesn’t try to dig his fingers in. Off and running, at $225 a week and expenses, and my college money pretty much assured. I began to think about which expensive private colleges attract the most expensive boys, boys who like doing things girls ask them to do, boys who can afford to indulge girls that way. But first things first.

I was careful to keep him out in the hot noonday sun and the broiling early afternoon sun too. We splashed, and lay around, and talked some more. I showed him how to sit down on the side of the pool and pose, and stand up again, and lie around, without ever spreading his legs or being caught looking awkward, how to keep his elbows high when he reached behind his neck with both hands to lift his long hair off his back, and how to spread it over his breasts to dry. I decided that we’d both take the two-week modeling course being offered at the high school next week, so he could learn more girlish poses, and how to walk like a lady. He reluctantly agreed. I didn’t tell him that posture was only part of what they’d teach him, that makeup and appropriate clothes and attitudes toward boys was much of it, not only "Tips on Travel" but also "Manners and Men" it said in the catalogue. I expected that ten days of enforced sociability with girls who thought he was a girl would have its effect on a lonely, ungainly, embarrassed boy. I figured he’d come out of it happy for the companionship, glad to be one of them. He was so desperate to belong!

By mid-afternoon, his scoop back and bra top and V-shaped bottom were outlined in a pretty pink sunburn. When his mother saw those shoulder strap marks there’d be no question I’d earned my money today, I thought to myself. But we had more to do yet. Though we’d talked about this tryout lasting only a few weeks I wanted to set things up so there’d be no turning back. So he wouldn’t want to turn back.

IV.

I took him up to my room and sat him down, and studied his face a while, and decided first of all to pluck his eyebrows severely. Girls these days can have wide eyebrows, if they’re not too thick but look neat and refined, and taper to the outside edges. Mine are like that. But I wanted Marianne’s to be high and arched and thin like my Mom’s, a real lady’s, no way a boy’s, no mistaking them. He objected, but I told him these three weeks were mine, he’d promised. Before he could think through how thin, feminine eyebrows would ever pass for a boy’s when the three weeks were up, they were shaped, and before he could see them I told him to take off his bathing suit and get naked, so I could check out his proportions.

That gave him new feelings to deal with. This time not that he was ashamed—I’d already seen his most shameful feature, those glorious boobs—but that his modesty was violated. I just said a little angrily, "Now you’re supposed to be a girl, so be one! Here, we’re girls together! Strip down the same as me!" And I whipped off my Bikini and stood before him altogether in the buff. Like a few years earlier with Ronnie and Petey, and sometimes since, on certain special occasions when I needed to intimidate some guy with my goddess pose. So he did the same. When he was bare, cringing in different directions with his hands fluttering to try to hide his nipples, and his legs crossed to try to hide his cock, I proposed five minutes of calisthenics. Not enough for a workout, but enough for him to quit being ridiculous trying to hide his body, and to notice that even when I was bent way over with my legs apart, and he could see way up my slit, I was never troubled by the fact. We were just two girls together. So he began trying to be one of them. I then made him stand up and practice standing perfectly erect, shoulders far back, hands gathering his hair at the nape of his neck, his lovely breasts lifted as he raised his elbows up as high as they’d go. Then I had him clasp his hands against his buns and pull his arms straight down, pulling his shoulders back and thrusting his boobs even further forward. Then back to gathering his hair behind his neck again. Then to clasp hands on his elbows behind his back—that really pulled back his shoulders and pushed his breasts into the middle of next week. A few more repetitions, and he no longer seemed self-conscious about them. They were more prominent than ever, but he seemed now to be taking them for granted. Better still, he’d finally forgot about hiding his cock and balls. There they were, though I seemed to take no notice at all!

Next I sent him into the shower with a depillatory and a razor to get rid of all his body hair, especially that dense mat around his genitals. I suppose his boy hormones and girl hormones together had grown it. No objection from him. Then when he came out as hairless as a baby, I could see that if it were fully erect, his cock might reach three or four inches, like Petey’s, long enough to pleasure himself but touch when it came to pleasuring a grown woman. It was a boy’s cock, not a man’s. It had no real future. His testicles were little more than marbles—there’d be no problem stowing them to make a smooth girls’ crotch whenever he needed to hide his sex. Obviously his prick would never get past an average girl’s buttocks to reach into her ass. It was cunt or nothing, probably nothing when girls saw that pitiable thing. He had no future as a man.

Which returned me to my earlier idea. The more I thought about it, the better I liked it. In fact, I loved it. I’d do it! It was past time. Here was a prick ideally designed to take my virginity.

But fucking me had to be a reward for obedience. I went into my lingerie drawer. "Here, put these on," I told him, handing him my prettiest bra and panty set, the bra size larger than any I usually wore, and underwired for support. I’d been keeping it in a kind of hope chest, though my own figure hadn’t changed much during the past year. It would fit him, I figured, and once dressed in my undies, he’d feel he was mine in a way, sort of gift wrapped.

"I can’t," he said. "These are girl things!"

"Well, duh!" I said, and turned to find him a blouse and a pair of shorts. I took out a full cut white satin blouse buttoned along one shoulder, draped from the neck and sure to cling and then drape from those boobs of his. Perfect. And I found shorts with elastic to fit him at the waist, flared way out at the legs to look practically like a mini-skirt. And thin-strapped sandals, delicate looking.

When I turned back holding his new outfit, I saw he’d slipped into the panties, but otherwise he hadn’t moved. "Marianne, you need dry clothes," I told him firmly. "You can’t walk down the street wearing that soaking wet shirt. And your bathing suit’s wet too. And you can’t walk bare-chested! It wouldn’t be decent! With that body you’d stop cars!"

Before he could object I slipped the bra over his arms and clipped the band snug behind his back, where I knew he couldn’t reach the catch. Boys never can. It’ll take him a while to figure out how to get it off without cutting it off, I thought. "Well, OK, but why this? Why a brassiere?" "Tuck yourself into those cups," I told him firmly. "So you don’t bobble. Because girls with titties wear brassieres, that’s why. And boys with titties should too. It isn’t healthy to have those things jouncing around loose. After a while, they’ll sag." I paused. "And besides, girls who don’t wear bras always seem to be asking for something. If you go without a bra, everyone will think you want to get laid. Do you want to get laid?" He blushed and looked down, reaching for some flaw in my argument but unable to find any. I suppose he never noticed that yesterday, when we first met, I wasn’t wearing a bra. He knew he needed one, but he had to put up one last rear guard defense. "I stick way out, JayCee," was all he replied. His voice sounded a little mournful. "How’m I supposed to look like a boy sometimes if I look like this?" He was staring down at what were now obviously a great pair of knockers held firmly supported far out in front of him. I didn’t answer. There was no answer. "JayCee, these’ll stop cars too," he then said. And he flashed me his first smile of the day. A joke! It was so utterly endearing. Then he added, "I bet I could charge money if anyone wanted to cop a feel!"

Well, that was true enough. And before I could say so he stood up wearing only his bra and panties—his now, though he didn’t know it yet—and struck a girly-girly pose with one hand tucked into the hair at the nape of his beck, and the other planted on his hip. He waggled those great breasts and his round tush and added, "I wonder how much?"

I smiled back. I understood. He was scared. His identity as a boy was slipping away. So he was getting a grip on his fear by joking with me, by pretending to be a loose woman. He thought he was joking. I smiled even more broadly as I wondered seriously whether to include a week as a real streetwalker in his summer’s curriculum. A week spent patrolling the freight station area would teach him more about being a girl than any of us knew, for sure, including his own mother. No, I thought. When school begins there’ll be plenty of guys hitting on him, and we’ll deal with those problems then. He was now moving down the track his mother had laid out when she’d started feeding him those knockout doses of vitamins: if his body looked like a girl’s, and it couldn’t be changed, then he shouldn’t be ashamed of it. As I’d been telling him, he should accept that he looked like a girl, and he could begin to work out for himself what kind of girl he’d like to be. "How does the bra feel, Marianne? Nice? It doesn’t bind of pinch?"

"Better than I thought it might," Marianne said, a little uncertain. No, it was a little shy. "I like the support. It’s like being held and hugged, and when I move my chest doesn’t seem so...floppy."

"Well, wait till you feel this on your skin." I handed him a satin blouse.

When he slipped on the blouse, there came another moment of truth. If anything, the shiny fabric draped across his breasts in a way that accentuated them. Now even his nipples jutted way forward. In fact they stiffened and poked through to form two pointed tips accentuating the effect. He looked sexy, downright provocative, indecent. It was no longer a joke. "I can’t wear this," he said. "Don’t you have a loose shirt?" Not for him I didn’t. "No," I said. "You look fine. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

He was looking down again, and his manly pride struggled with what I’d just said. Not to feel ashamed. But I was reminded again that he was no fool. He just said very quietly, "JayCee, now I do look like a boy with breasts. I look like a freak." "No," I said. "You look hot. No one will ever believe you’re a boy." I eyed him, and realized that with that cute face and those globes on his chest, that was true. Was I myself responding to him as a boy or as a girl? Why worry about it? "Just wait," I said. I saw now that I could move very fast.

"Put these on and sit down," I said, handing him his flared shorts. He did quickly, without noticing that just off his hips they swirled out to form a cute, flirty mini. Then in no time at all I had his hair pinned up into one of my Betty Grable styles, and he’d slipped into those delicate sandals with just a little heel, and before he realized what I was doing I’d given him just a touch of mascara and lipstick. When he saw the lipstick in my hand coming at his face he tried to object, but I just ordered him to stop fussing. I was thinking to myself that from now on, for the rest of his life, he’ll be wearing at least this much makeup, because that’s what girls do, and that’s what he was. Another first. And that’s all it took. "Now you don’t look at all like a boy with breasts," I said. I gave him my hand mirror, and busied myself as if with other things. But I kept an eye on him.. "No, I don’t," he said, as he stared at the face staring back at him from the mirror, obviously uncertain what to think. He couldn’t quite say what he saw, a passable teenage girl. So I said it for him.

"You look like a girl with breasts. Enjoy it! A girl should be what she can do. From now on those knockers of yours belong to the world, and that face over them. They’re your best features. No more trying to hide them! Bras and a little makeup from now on!"

"Are you telling me I should look like this from now on?" he asked, As if somehow I hadn’t just said it. "For the summer," I said. "That’s the deal. After that, it’s your choice. You can look like a pretty girl, or like a freaky boy with breasts. I’m telling you nothing. You figure it out. But for the next few weeks anyhow, you’re what you see. Now sit down on the bed. I want you to know there are certain advantages." He sat down on the bed. He seemed a little resentful, still trying to think of someone or something to blame that the boy he’d thought he was was getting more difficut to locate. I sat down next to him, and before he could realize what I was doing, I reached for his nearest hand, and placed it squarely on my naked breast. It felt warm on my cool skin.

"Feel this," I said to him. "What do you feel?" ‘Your breast, JayCee." He turned very quiet, very solemn all of a sudden. I guessed mine were the first he had ever touched, apart from his own.

"A girl’s breast, Marianne. Like yours. Caress them, please.

Kiss them, please. Both of them."

I lay back and he leaned over me, bringing up his other hand too. Now each hand held one of my breasts for a moment, cupping them underneath with the finger tips fondling my nipples ever so lightly. I began again to feel a stirring down under, Probably like what he was feeling under his panties and flared shorts at this moment. I reached for his breasts as he leaned over me, and began to touch and squeeze his jutting nipples in their satin enclosure, and run my fingers around them, and stroke them. He shivered.

"Oooohhhhh" he said in a delicious, high pitched sigh. He closed his eyes, though his hands were still busy on me. "Kiss them," I whispered. He did. Tenderly, one kiss on the nipple of each. Then gently he put his mouth over one and began to suckle on me, lapping the tips of my nipples with his tongue. "Mmmmmmmm" he sighed again, in that same flutelike tone of voice. I reminded myself to train him to use that voice from now on. It was so very seductive! I cupped both his breasts and then again gently tweaked each nipple. Each grew stiffly erect inside his bra and blouse. His mouth now firmly planted on one of my boobs, he started to breath more rapidly.

"These are mine now, aren’t they, Marianne?" I said in a tense voice.

He wasn’t sure which pair I meant, of course, but he was in an exquisite trance and he wanted to stay there. "Mmmmmmmmm" he moaned again, and his lips took in more of me more ferociously, his tongue tip now flicking my nipples, first on one breast, then on the other, then back to the first.

"You’ll wear a bra until I tell you it isn’t necessary," I continued. "And you’ll feel proud of your breasts, always!" I began kneading them with my thumb and forefinger, delicately pinching the tip of each. "Because they’re beautiful and they’re a woman’s breasts. And because they’re mine and I’m proud of them. Promise me!"

"Mmmmmmmmmm!" was all he said. My nipples are small, much smaller than his, but he was slurping and sucking on the one in his mouth like a starved infant. His first since he’d been an infant, I suppose.

"Promise!" I repeated. I stopped moving my hands for a moment.

He lifted his head. "I promise!" he whispered intensely, and began to lower his head again.

"Promise what?" I asked.

He raised his head and held his face just above mine, and looked into my eyes. "I promise not to be ashamed of my breasts, JayCee," he said quite seriously. His breathing slowed down. "Because they’re a woman’s breasts. And because they’re yours." Such a lovely boy! Already my lovely girl! It was time to raise the ante. I knew I hadn’t made a mistake about him earlier! I smiled up at him, looking deep into his eyes. "Now take off your shorts and panties, Marianne. Then lie back down on the bed. Right where I am. It’s all warm and snug right here." I slipped to one side and stood up, and he stripped and replaced me on the bed, his little prick pointing straight up, stiff as a clothes pin, swollen thicker than I’d thought it could get, but really not much longer. Long enough. I quickly hopped back onto the bed and straddled his crotch, my wet pussy now an inch or two above that jutting boy-cock of his. It would never get bigger.

"I’ve never done this with any boy," I told him. "You’ll see I’m telling the truth. And I won’t do it again until I meet the boy I’ll marry, if I ever do. But I want to do it with you. You’re special. You’re not a boy. You’re a girl who can put her cock into me and fuck me. Aren’t you?"

He drew in his breath sharply and nodded, obviously unable to believe his extraordinary luck. It was happening! At last! He closed his eyes and held his breath, unsure what to expect next. I was about to lose my cherry too, and not just as a figure of speech. But I’d had lots of chances before, so it wasn’t as big a deal for me. I started to fondle his breasts and his nipples again, and he let out his breath in a sweet sigh. He was already in paradise!

"Say it," I said. "Aren’t you?"

"Yessssss!" My fingertips were rubbing the tips of his satin-tipped boobs again, and he could think of nothing else. He lifted his chest into my hands, ecstatic.

"Yes what? What are you?"

"I’m a girl who can fuck you, JayCee," he whispered, distracted from his pleasure by the need to speak, eager to relax into those delcious feelings. I let him.

"Yes," I repeated. "You’re a girl. You’re my girl now." And I lowered my pussy until my outer lips touched his little cock. He felt them and held his breath again. I lowered myself a little more, and felt myself gripping his cock head. Just like my small vibrator he felt, but a lot warmer! He lifted his hips as high as he could and held himself absolutely still. I lowered onto him a little more and felt more of him inside me, and finally felt his prick press on an obstruction further in. I stopped for a moment. "Look at me, Marianne!"

He opened his eyes. They were filled with so much happiness they glistened! He was such a darling dear! My very first boy! With his hair piled on his head, and his mascara’d eyes, and traces of lipstick still on his lips, and above all those women’s breasts rising high over his chest, he was also my very first girl! So wonderful! I looked tenderly and steadily into his eyes as more tears welled up in them, smiling at him, and he smiled back. "My sweet girl!" I whispered when his eyes looked just right, and I felt just right, and it all felt just right, the two of us felt clasped intimately by each other in full sight of each other. Then I closed my eyes and thrust my pussy all the way down on him. There wasn’t much left to go on that prick, but enough. I was very tight, and I’d felt him pressing on me on all sides, but then something inside me popped with a sudden sharp sensation, not really a pain, and suddenly I felt much more wet than I’d been. Blood, I decided. My virginity was gone. And, I supposed, that was the moment wwe could say he lost his too. "Are you all right?" he whispered. I opened my eyes. He was looking at me, worried that my face had suddenly gone serious. I smiled.

"Yes," I said. "My darling girl. I’m just fine. Come when you can, my sweet darling girl. I won’t this time. Some other time!"

He closed his eyes, and I resumed caressing his breasts. He reached for mine, and began to roll his hips. I rocked with him, and decided not to ride up and down on him. Even so, after a minute or maybe less, he reached up and pulled my body toward him, and sucked one of my breasts into his mouth as it deep as it would go, and pushed his little cock into my pussy with a single great thrust upward as far as it would go, and I felt him suddenly begin to pulse. It felt odd but delicious, better than a prick pulsing in my ass, and suddenly I felt very wet! Really slippery! He was breathing almost frantically.

When his breath steadied down, I raised myself off him and tucked a towel between us, to blot up some of the blood and semen I was leaking all over his groin. I leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. He raised his chin to meet my mouth, and kissed me. Our tongues tangled. So tenderly. There was no question here who was the dominant partner. From the way he nibbled on my mouth I knew he felt like a shy, compliant young girl who has just been fucked and feels humble and grateful. He’ll be easy to break in for boys to use, I thought. Even now I bet he’ll kneel down and blow any stud who has the good sense to caress those breasts of his first. I allowed Marianne another moment to grow softer in me, then slowly climbed off him.

"There you are, my girl," I said. "I’ve used you. Now you’re a sex object. A fallen woman! We just gave each other our virginity, didn’t we? So we’ve just used each other to become two fallen women, haven’t we?"

He nodded, overwhelmed by the enormity of the gift he’d just received.

"Now you’re a lesbian," I went on. "Your little clit has been inside a girl. You’ve been kissed and caressed by a girl. Some day you’ll be kissed and caressed by a boy, and that’ll feel nice too." He nodded again in his trance, eyes still shut. I bent over and kissed him on his sweet mouth. Did he understand what I’d just said? He kissed me back ever so gently, only his lips moving. Then more briskly I said, "Now into the bathroom and clean up, sweetheart, then put your panties and shorts back on. Look at that! You didn’t even take your sandals off, you were so eager to put out for me! What a slut!"

I grinned at him, and after a moment he opened his eyes and grinned back. His eyes were beautiful, with those long, dark, wet lashes, and they were gleaming. He glanced down at the pink splotches on his groin.

"JayCee, you’ve made me so very happy," he tried to say, and he finally got it out the third time. Then he started to cry. "I know," I said. I felt moved too. "But hurry, my mother’s due home about now."

When we came downstairs about ten minutes later, there was my Mom already in the kitchen putting away groceries. I hadn’t even heard her come in. I glanced at Marianne, and saw that with all the color in his face from all that unaccustomed sun and sex, he’d turned pale, and his eyes were just a little wild. He was trying not to panic. I knew what he was thinking. He was the boy who had just taken her daughter’s cherry! He was a boy with breasts who was wearing her daughter’s bra and blouse, a boy who had just freshened up his lipstick at my insistence. Could she guess it?! What must she think of him?!

"Hi, Mom," I said. "I didn’t hear you. This is Marianne. I don’t remember if you’ve met. We’ve been swimming and talking and stuff. We’re getting to be really good friends, I think." Marianne’s politeness overcame his fear, and he spoke the scenario drilled into him since childhood, in a low voice, "Hi! Thank you for your hospitality today. I’ve had a lovely time. JayCee loaned me these clothes to get home in, I hope you don’t mind."

"Not at all, Marianne," my mother said. "You’re very welcome. Now if you two girls will excuse me...." She gestured vaguely toward some pots and pans, and more packages of food. She was hardly paying any attention to us at all!

"Sure, Mom," I said. We left by the back door so Marianne could pick up his damp shirt and other things he’d left by the pool.

"See?" I said when we were just out of earshot. "You’re a girl. Parent-certified. You really don’t have a choice, sweetie." "I was so frightened!" he said in his small, high voice. "For no reason." Then I added, "I’m proud of you. You’re a brave girl. And we are getting to be dear friends after all, aren’t we."

"I hope so," Marianne replied. Then suddenly he grabbed my arm, his eyes staring desperately into mine. Yes, I thought, staring back at his, that’s just about the right amont of mascara for daytime. "JayCee!" he said. "My mother! What’ll I tell her now, dressed like this? What’ll she think?" I took hold of his arms, both of them, and leaned toward him until my face was only inches from his, and said to him forcefully, "Nothing, Marianne! You’ll tell your mother nothing! What I told you to tell her! She’s a loving mother, and she knows you’ve been having ... problems, and if she asks you anything you just tell her I’m helping you with things, and we’re doing things together. And that’s all you need to tell her. Then she won’t question you more than that, because she trusts me. Do you understand me?" He didn’t, I thought, but he nodded. I have that affect on boys when I’m being firm.

"Are you proud to be you? Are you proud to be my girlfriend?" He nodded again. I wanted it, and he was too much a gentleman to deny me!

"Good! Let your mother see that you’re proud. You have every reason to feel proud of yourself now especially, don’t you?" He nodded and grinned a little.

"Tomorrow we’ll go shopping for girl clothes for you. You need a few outfits. Wear what you’re wearing now. Ten in the morning?"

He nodded again, not fully comprehending. It would dawn on him on the way home. Then it wouldn’t matter. "Here. Fix your lipstick again. You’ll want to look your very best for your mom. Shoulders back, remember!" He was so throughly addled that he did just that! That night his mother called, and chatted with my mother about some Church arrangement, then asked to speak to me. When I got on, I heard her take a deep breath, and then say it all in a rush. "JayCee, you’ve performed a miracle! Marion looked just lovely when he got home. He just glanced at me with those breasts of his held way out in front of him in that bra, and his skirt flipping off his hips, and his hair piled up on his head, and he didn’t say anything except ‘Hi, Mom.’ So I didn’t either, and he went straight up to his room. But that isn’t the miracle! The miracle is, he still hadn’t changed his clothes when he came down later for dinner! And his hair was still up! I had to say something, so I told him that was a very pretty blouse, and all he said was ‘Thank you,’ and then he told me you’d loaned it to him until he could get some things of his own. ‘I’ll need some blouses and skirts of my own to wear now for a while,’ he said. "So JayCee and I intend to go shopping tomorrow." So very calmly! So all I said was, ‘Oh! That’s nice.’"

"JayCee, he looks so ... so developed, now. He has such a beautiful figure! You know, he hasn’t let me see him completely naked for over a year now. His breasts, of course, because he was worried about them, and I had to tell him they were nothing, when obviously they’re not. Oh, JayCee, he really does look like the daughter I’ve always dreamed of having!" "Then he added, quite matter-of-factly, ‘JayCee thinks I should try to see how girls feel about everything, have lots of girl days this summer, to see what it’s like.’ So I decided I could push him just a little. I asked as casually as I could, ‘Oh? You mean days you’ll play with girls, or days you’ll play at being a girl?’ And he answered ‘Both, until I find I’m not playing any more.’" "So what could I say? ‘Do you like that idea, dear?’ He answered, ‘I think JayCee’s right. Every boy should know what it’s like. So that’s what I’ll do.’ I said, ‘That’s nice. JayCee sounds like a very thoughtful girl.’ And you know what he replied? It almost broke my heart! He said, ‘Yes, we’re getting to be good friends, me and JayCee. My very first really good friend. In a way I’m hers, too, I think. I know I’m special for her. I know it.’ Then he added, ‘She wants me to be her special girlfriend. What do you think?’"

"I told him, ‘Whatever makes you happy, dear. I want you to be happy!’" "Well, JayCee, he’s upstairs now playing his CD for the first time since we moved here. Loud. Madonna, I think, of all things, and he’s singing along with her! But I don’t care! He’s happy! JayCee, I just called to tell you and to thank you. For everything. You’re wonderful."

"You’re very welcome, Jane," was all I could say. Then I added, "I’m sure he’s goimg to make a marvelous daughter." She said a few more things like be sure to use Marion’s credit card until she could get me a company credit card of my own, and then we hung up.

Well, Marion wasn’t ashamed to tell his mother. He saw how it all made sense, and he’d accepted it. He’s really a dear person, I decided. A really special girlfriend.

V.

Well, that was most of it, getting Marion willing to try. The next few weeks went quickly, much more quickly than I’d have expected, and as I’d figured, by the end I had him hooked. Let me tell you how.

The next day he showed up in the same outfit I’d sent him away wearing, and I re-pinned his hair and instructed him in the uses of mascara and lipstick, light touches of each. He put on his own, several times, and took them off again, until he found he was putting them on neatly without really paying any attention, just chatting away with me.

"Always that much makeup," I said. "Never less. More when you learn how to use more. Here, keep them here, and take your wallet." He clipped the lipstick and mascara and his wallet into a purse I gave him to use, and off we went.

First I bought him some shorts and blouses of his own, and together we selected a sun dress, and then from another store a better dress for summer evenings, and then a nice slinky clingy party dress, green, sparkling with sequins. I figured his own jeans were good enough for now, even though I supposed they were as oversized as everything else he owned, but I made a mental note to size him for slacks and minis that would take proper display of that curvacious tush. If boys are always eager to poke into my ass, I was thinking, how will they feel when they see Marianne’s?

In every store we bought him more bras and panties, drawers full, enough to last through his whole Senior year. He kept asking what this or that style was for, and how it would fit and feel, and when he tried each one on he had to have it. I only own a few bras myself, but I realized for him bras were special. They were what girls wore closest to themselves. Wearing one was like having a girl wrapped around him. If it was true that every man has a girl inside him afraid to come out and be seen, the way I’d read, Marianne’s girl sure had her man hooked on undies. We did a lot of teasing about the party dress. I wanted him to start sedate, with the kind of dress his mother would want him to wear on a first date, any respectable mother who would want her teen age son wear to look pretty. A dress in good taste, high and flouncy, maybe even tulle, with a hem at least half way down his thighs. But Marianne got fascinated by the little green clingy number, though it barely covered her ass, and he wanted to try it on, so he did. Then he claimed that he loved it, that he just adored it, that it was just too precious and he had to have it. I thought he was putting me on with talk like that, but when I looked at him to signal "Enough, already," he just said, "JayCee, if it attracts me, and it does, it’ll certainly attract the boys, won’t it?" That sounded reasonable until I realized that now he was certainly putting me on. I looked at him quickly and saw he was watching me and grinning. I grinned back. He still had no idea yet how attractive boys were going to find him, that what we were really discussing was whether he’d be a demure young lady who ends her big dates with a sweet good night kiss, or a hot dish who finishes with her date’s semen still dribbling out of her mouth. "If you buy that dress," I said, "You’ll never be able to keep it on through a whole evening." He grinned again, but I noticed he didn’t return it to the rack.

Well, he did have good legs, really, and I knew that with a Kotex napkin snugged down on it, his mound under that clingy dress would be something any girl could envy and no boy could ignore, so I suggested he go for it. I knew of at least one house party coming up where he’d get groped all evening long in that dress. But that would provide useful initiation, I realized, and if he was going to be that kind of girl he’d better get used to getting groped. His buns flirted with exposure whenever he bent over. At least with that ass visible to the world, I thought, there won’t be any doubt about his sex. Not that there’d be any doubt anyhow. The dress’s low scooped back meant that he couldn’t wear a bra with it, but it had a high neck and long sleeves, and was form-fitting around his torso, so his natural endowments would be on display even so. The dress projected the generous curves of his breasts as if he were naked. When he first came out of the fitting room wearing it, they jiggled seductively.

He wanted to wear that dress out of the store, but I drew the line there. "Only a slut would wear a dress like that during the day," I told him. "Nice girls wait until after dark to seduce men with dresses like that."

"Well, then," he replied. "Why can’t I wear it during the day?

No time like the present!"

I held firm, and he was teasing, but when we left that store he was wearing his sun dress, scarcely any longer in length, and with much less on top. At least it allowed him to keep his bra on. I insisted he buy a cardigan sweater to cover his shoulders, though his arms were thin enough. A pair of sandals, and flats, and heels for the party dress, and a makeup case with just a few items, and that was the morning.

It was odd. Overnight, he’d gotten ahead of me. I’d expected a certain amount of reluctance, and expected to spend some time wheedling him into girlish attire here and there, even ordering him into it. Instead, he was a serious, attentive student, listening carefully to my lectures on bra styles and on the mixing and matching of patterns, obviously absorbing it all. In between he play-acted different feminine roles, alternatively acting like a coquette, a harpy, a bimbo, a spinster, whatever came to mind. I realized he was trying out various feminine selves, looking for one he could adopt and become comfortably. He was into it. Just how far into it I didn’t realize until just after lunch. While we were sharing a burrito it occurred to me that I hadn’t changed his gender in my own mind, and I’d better, or I might give him away. Several times I’d asked salespersons which changing room "he" had disappeared into, or told a cashier that "he" had our credit card. They thought they’d misheard me. But that afternoon I did it again without thinking.

This time, a saleswoman responded with, "That friend of yours is a man?" I only smiled and lifted my eyebrows, inviting her to share with me a conspiratorial shrug, as if to say, what can we women do when men get an idea in their heads? Instead, she frowned and looked down, and where she had been making small notations in her order book, she began slashing at it. A woman with a problem, I realized, and went on my guard. Then when Marianne came out of the changing room to show me a rather pretty "better" dress, a cotton print nice enough for a party but usable for daytime wear, she said to him, "Sir, you should not be using these changing rooms. The men’s changing rooms are in another part of the store." Marianne was a little shocked. "Are they?" was all he could say at first. I think what hit him was the saleswoman’s severity, not his embarrassment at being read. But he wasn’t at all embarrassed! I realized that when he had agreed to try living like a girl, he had decided to go all the way and enjoy it. He was a girl, and that was that! Maybe I was confused about his gender, but he wasn’t! He meant to enjoy his femininity, at least for the next three weeks. He’d play the roles improvisationally. He felt liberated. That was why he’d been such a delightful tease and mimic.

But with one glance at my facial expression, apologetic and dismayed, he realized what had happened. I had goofed. He saw. I was dreadfully remorseful. He saw that. Then he came through beautifully. "My dear young woman," he said to the saleswoman, who was ten or twenty years older than he was. "Are you suggesting that I parade myself half-naked in front of half-naked men in another part of the store?" He shook his high-piled, Betty Grable head in disbelief!

The saleswoman was momentarily addled, but then she stood her ground. "I’m suggesting that you satisfy your taste for trying on...dresses"—she spoke the word as if it were foul-tasting— "in another part of the store."

"You’re telling me I shouldn’t be wearing a dress in this part of the store?" Marianne now turned bright-eyed, curious, eager to understand and to please but not quite grasping the woman’s point just yet.

"That’s correct, sir!"

In a blur of cloth and elbows Marianne swept off the dress he was wearing. He laid it inside-out across a rack of other dresses, and now there he was, standing on the sales floor in nothing but his bra and panties—my bra and panties still, really—and my sandals, otherwise altogether naked. His crotch, I noticed, looked perfect—the sanitary napkin I’d loaned him until he could buy his own must have had tapered edges. But his breasts spilled out of my bra on all sides—we hadn’t yet managed to buy him some better-fitting ones of his own. He stood there a moment, as un-selfconscious in his bra and panties as I had been when I’d stood naked in front of Ronnie and Petey, or Marianne once I’d begun seducing him. Then he reached up with one hand and patted the back of his hairdo, as if flattening a stray curl. "Now, where are these men who want to see me trying on dresses in their part of the store?" he said.

And Marianne started to stroll down the aisle wearing only his bra and panties. He was prepared to tour the whole store, I was sure of it. His eyes were still wide open and round, innocent and compliant, trying to oblige. But I could see his jaw was rigid. It struck me that he was indignant! He was not in the slightest ashamed that he’d been caught masquerading as a girl. He was defending his right to wear dresses as if it were a birthright! He resented that this saleswoman had intruded into our fragile agreement that he would be a girl for a while to see how it felt. Now he was outraged! Of course he was a girl! But how far would this conviction carry him?

"Marianne! Please!"

I was shocked, and had to let him know it. I certainly didn’t want him arrested—publicity would do neither of us any good. I was also deeply unhappy, because I knew I was responsible for this scene, and I had to let him know that too, that I wanted out the easiest way available. He heard me, and turned to look at me. He was still posturing for effect, his eyes barely aimed in my direction. But I know he saw me even so.

The saleswoman, however, was staring at his chest, his undersized bra with its billowing spillover titflesh, horrified! She’d blundered terribly! "Sir!" she cried out. "I mean Ma’am! Miss! Please! I...uh...please, can you return to your changing room, and ...please, Miss?" Now she was pleading. She glanced nervously down the aisle at a few customers looking up from some discount racks at the far end.

Marianne took pity on her, and walked back into the changing room without another word, and emerged a moment later wearing her familiar blouse and flouncy skirt, the ones I had loaned her...him...only yesterday. The saleswoman almost fell on her knees in thankfulness. I realized that before my very eyes Marianne had indeed changed gender. By an act of insolent assertion she had bluffed out the saleswoman’s indignation and had intimidated me out of feeling that this was only... a game, that Marianne’s femininity was only pretend. Marianne had become a woman. She was now in her own mind and mine no less than she claimed to be!

I was subdued as we continued down the mall, and not at all surprised when Marianne asked, as we passed an ear ring kiosk, "Shall I get my ears pierced?"

"Are you sure you want to?" I asked cautiously. "A girl with my eyebrows and my tits should have pierced ears," she replied.

Again I couldn’t argue, and fifteen minutes later Marianne displayed a pretty gold stud on each ear. It was as if she had to prove something to herself. This was the boy I’d been consoling only yesterday, so miserable because he looked so much like a girl he’d never be a normal boy. And shouldn’t try to be a boy any longer, I’d tried to persuade him. And now she wasn’t. We passed a hair salon. Two hours later Marianne’s blonde hair was a shade lighter, crimped and curled the way we were all wearing our hair that year, pinned up but with a crinkly fall down her back, a style so feminine I’d never try it myself. And her fingernails were groomed and polished a glossy pink. She was wearing pale green eye shadow, and I envied her that drama, because with my dark hair I could only wear brown or purple. A few more shops, and then as we headed back to the bus stop I realized that there were only a few more things left to do to complete Marianne’s conversion. Well, more thn a few, maybe. She still walked like a boy, shoulders moving from side to side, legs a little wide-set. And she had no delicate gestures at all, no little feminine moves like flipping her hands loose-wristed, or tossing her head back as if to clear hair from her eyes, or looking at you sideways with a slight smile. That modeling course was coming up none too soon, in just a few more days.

Even so, at worst Marianne looked like a girl who was still something of a tomboy. Like what I’d wanted to be before I’d caught on to the way things really are. Maybe it was time Marianne caught on too? She had a few things to learn. When we left the mall late that afternoon I decided to invite her back up to my room for another session of lovemaking. Being intimate again had distinct appeal, especially because this time I could enjoy her to the full. Not very full, I thought with a small smile. But snuggling with her, caressing her, kissing her, that might be nice. I began to daydream about seeing her crinkly hair nuzzling between my legs.

We linked arms as we walked toward our houses, the way girls do, affectionately. My heart melted toward Marianne, and I glanced over at her clear profile, and saw her satisfied expression as she looked straight ahead. I realized that here might well be my dearest girlfriend. She saw me looking at her, stopped walking, turned toward me, leaned over, and we kissed each other, daintily, just once. Then without a word spoken, when we arrived at my house we set down our packages and went straight up into my room. There we made love girl style. It was heavenly! We looked lovingly into each other’s eyes as we slowly unbuttoned each other’s blouses and unhooked each other’s brassieres. Marianne’s eyes began to gleam, and I saw she had the same faint half-smile I’d seen on her mother. We touched and stroked each other with infinite tenderness, on our shoulders and arms, and finally on our breasts. When I leaned in to kiss her nipple she gasped and clutched my head tight to her breast with both arms for a moment, while I suckled her, passion growing. Then we slid out of our skirts and panties and tumbled together into bed, eager to feel our skin pressing on each other’s skin along the entire length of our bodies, our hands roaming freely, then our mouths, all with exquisite gentleness. It was magical.

We rolled into each other’s laps, then into a 69 when we found ourselves unable to stop kissing and licking. I lifted my knees and opened my legs to welcome her mouth to my lips. Her tongue found my slit and began to stroke up toward my clit, just along the inside of my pussy lips, and I turned to jelly as she found my clit and began to nurse on it as if it were a teeny nipple. I reached around her plump ass cheeks and pulled her mound firmly into my face, and took her big clit and balls and all into my mouth, then sucked and licked and tongued them in a frenzy, moaning because I couldn’t pull her deeper into me, and all the while her tongue made the sweetest tensions rise and flow from my pussy to suffuse my whole body. Desire rose, and grew, higher, and filled me full, and finally overflowed and overwhelmed me as I orgasmed, and she came at that same moment into my mouth. I loved it, and swallowed it all. So very creamy! So very much like my own cum! I licked wherever I could taste its sweet silky salt, and then pressed frenzied kisses all over her clit and her balls while she continued to lick me with long, sweet strokes of her satin tongue. I realized she was trying to sip up and lick up all of my juices down there in my crotch, trying to take my liquids in to become a part of herself. A wonderfully feminine instinct! "Lick my face too, darling," she said in a low, throaty voice when our breathing had quieted down. We were both drenched with each other. So we uncurled and turned, and then cuddled against each other the whole length of our bodies, and writhed to feel each other’s pillowy softness and bony solidity. We ran our hands over our various billows and hollows and crevices wherever we could reach, and we licked each other’s faces. Hers was soaked with me! I’d never ever gotten so wet before when someone was eating me.

But then, I’d never before eaten anyone while she was eating me. Usually I preferred seeing boys on their knees in front of me, worshipping my cunt while my thighs clamped their heads and pulled their faces into the altar. But this was different. This was affectionate, loving, spontaneous, beautiful. Passionate. Just gorgeous. I kissed her face with all my heart! "Time to go," she said finally. We reluctantly untangled ourselves.

"That was beautiful, Marianne," I said to her from deep in my own throat.

"Yes," she said. "It was. Now I know how girls make love.

And we’ll do it some more, I hope. Lots more." She smiled. Then while she was clasping her bra over her breasts again, she added thoughtfully. "I could be happy being a lesbian with you, JayCee. But I do need to know how it feels to be a girl making love with a boy, too, I think. The idea was just awful at first, when you first mentioned it, but it’s a little more attractive now that I’m getting into what girls do and how they feel about things. Now that I feel more attractive. Can you arrange something like that?"

I told her, no problem. This was a new, ‘Take Charge’ Marianne. Eager to get on with it. And I was curious myself how she’d get on with a real boy. Would she feel attracted at all? How deep were her new feminine feelings, and how sincere? How far would her role-playing carry her?

We arranged to meet tomorrow to spend the day together again. Standing just outside our front door, Marianne suddenly remembered to fix her face before going on home. I knew why—she wanted to look as lovely as she could when her mother saw her new hairdo, and her piereced ears. With a compact mirror in one hand and a lipstick in the other, it took her a moment to figure where to tuck her purse. Under her arm. Then she made some deft strokes, as though she’d been fixing her lipstick all her life, snapped shut her compact, slipped her makeup into her purse, snapped the purse shut, and looked up at me as she bent to gather her parcels. "Today was the nicest day of my life, JayCee," she said. "The nicest ever. I love you."

The late afternoon sun glinted on her ear ring studs, and she reached up to pat her new hairdo, checking that every crimp and curl was in place. I could see she was getting excited, anticipating the moment he mother saw the new Marianne. Then the sun gleamed off her long pink fingernails too. It had been quite a day. As I handed her more of the mountain of boxes and packages, she added, "Yesterday was the best I’d had till then, but also one of my most awful ever."

"I know. I’m very glad for today, Marianne," I replied. "Your decision to try being a girl seems so right! I think we both learned a few things."

"I think so too," she said. "I certainly surprised myself today!"

"And me," I said. There’s no doubting that, I thought to myself. I wondered if it was always this easy. Then I wondered why I was wondering that. "Ten tomorrow morning again?" She nodded and went kiss with her lips, then headed off doing a balancing act, packages held high. I watched with genuine affection as she stepped down the street toward her own home, a cheery lilt in her walk. Such a lovely, lovely girl! Now she really and truly was my best girlfriend. We’d now made love two different ways I’d never made love before, and I realized that both of them were the ways most people make love most of the time. On both occasions I’d wanted to do it that way to share the experience with her, not merely because it empowered me, put me in a dominant position, gave me a leg up. Though that too. I wondered if I should try out my new dildo on her, or save it for me, now that I was finally rid of my hymen. Then I got a much better idea. Before I went to bed that night I called Ronnie.

VI.

Ronnie wasn’t leaving for Cape Cod for another two weeks. I asked him about Petey, and he told me that both of them were now seeing other people, though they still sometimes got together, and they’d be seeing a lot more of each other pretty soon for old times’ sake. Neither of them had anybody special right now, he said, though Petey had been through a really heartbreaking affair, hard on the other guy too, because Petey had called it off when his partner decided he was really bi and wanted to date real girls too. Ronnie didn’t have that problem, but he’d do just fine to help accustom Marianne to the feel of real guys. I asked Ronnie over to the house the next day for lunch and a dip, to meet someone I’d just met.

"A really cute guy?" Ronnie asked.

"You’d be surprised," I answered. "And even if you knew, you’d be surprised!"

Well, the next day, there was Ronnie. I hadn’t seen him for a while. He still wasn’t in the least flouncy, though I noticed a lilt had developed in his voice. He explained that his new friends talked like that too. It was one way they recognized and reassured each other in a world of straight women and men alike, and also it sounded a little bit bitchy when he felt that way. "So where’s this guy? Do we get to play Show and Tell with him? You and me against him this time?"

He looked disappointed when Marianne showed up wearing her Maillot bathing suit under a gauzy wraparound barely suitable for walking down the street, hair pinned up curled as cute as could be, and of course wearing lipstick and mascara. She wasn’t surprised to see a stranger standing there, just curious, and I looked again at Ronnie through her eyes. He was taller than when he and Petey had jerked each other off and decided on a lifetime of buggery in this very place. And more heavily muscled—he still worked out. In fact he’d sent in a picture of his oiled, pumped up torso to a gay men’s magazine, where it had been published, and he’d gotten a number of letters from readers, he’d told me, and even met a couple of them. They didn’t go away disappointed. I didn’t really formally introduce Ronnie to Marianne—kids our age can still survive without social graces. I wanted to keep it all cool and casual. But I was real curious to see what they’d see in each other, and how soon.

"Hi, Marianne," I said. "My old friend Ronnie’s come over today—he gets to use the pool whenever." Marianne looked at him and just said "Hi, Ronnie." She nodded at me. "JayCee!"

"Pleased to meet you, Marianne," Ronnie said in his lilting voice, looking at her a little more closely than he usually looks at girls.

I watched Marianne. She heard the lilt and I could tell from the way her eyes suddenly focussed that she understood instantly what I had planned for today. Today sex with a man. A man not interested in girls but one who’d never object to sex with another man, once he found it, which seemed inevitable given Marianne’s inexperience. Marianne could test out this part of her passage into full girlhood undistracted by problems with some boy who would loathe her if he knew she was still a boy. Ronnie by now had done it many times with other men, but not before that I knew of with a chick with a dick. But would Marianne agree to let a boy actually fuck her?

It didn’t look that way at first. "Likewise," said Marianne, and she settled into a lounge chair and wriggled her shoulders to settle them in comfortably, then her hips. Then twisted her pelvis to cross her legs, and arched her instep. It was the most provocative set of moves I’d ever seen a girl perform. I even felt like jumping her bones myself! I was about to ask her where she’d learned to do that, but remembered just in time that there was a more interesting drama going on.

Then when Marianne got comfy she reached back to the nape of her neck in that feminine gesture I’d taught her and began to pin up imaginary loose hair back there. Her breasts bobbed and thrust themselves at whoever was watching, as her elbows rose and fell. "Are you an old friend of JayCee’s?" she asked innocently, in a higher, more girlish voice than I’d ever heard her use. Heard him use! Today, I realized, it would be better not to think of Marianne as a girl, or I could blow this arrangement the way I nearly blew yesterday’s. I tried to remember that she—HE! -- had been a boy just a few days ago, a fit partner for Ronnie. Marianne continued to play the minx. "I’ve just moved to this town," he said with a satisfied smile, "But JayCee and I are already loving friends."

"JayCee is one of my dearest friends, for a long time now," Ronnie replied. "In a way, she made me what I am today, and I’m very satisfied. And grateful."

"She likes to do that, doesn’t she," said Marianne, as if I weren’t here. "To me too. ‘A man should be what he can do,’ she told me once. John Wayne said it first. Did she say that to you too?"

‘A man.’ Ronnie looked at this catlike babe preening herself on the lounge chair, and began to understand. A smile started on his face, and I noticed his arm and shoulder muscles, his biceps and triceps and latissimas and stuff, all started to swell up, as if his muscles were like his cock, the bigger they got, the more irresistible.

"How good are you at being what you can do?," Marianne went on. "Can you rub sun tan lotion on my back?" He amazed me! What a slut! But Marianne really was using this opportunity to try his skills at naked seduction. He slipped off his shoulder straps and lowered the front of his bathing suit down to his navel, and flashed his huge tits at Ronnie for a moment as he turned over onto his stomach. Now that luscious ass was up in the air, and his bare back open to Ronnie’s hands. "JayCee, would you hand Ronnie that sun block? I don’t want to be too exposed to the sun this time, not after last time." Now Ronnie looked addled. He’d decided that Marianne was a gay transvestite femme, more persuasive even than Petey. But with those tits? His muscles didn’t deflate, exactly, though his shoulders came forward again, just a bit. I’d trained Ronnie to serve well, however, and when I handed him the little plastic bottle without a word, he dutifully began to massage lotion onto Marianne’s back.

Marianne really was something! He knew what I was up to, and had made up his own mind about it. If sex with a man was the agenda, he was going to have that first experience as straight sex, as a girl with a guy, not as a guy in drag in a homosexual encounter. If I was using Ronnie to initiate Marianne into the pleasures of sex with boys, Marianne would use Ronnie to practice being attractive, even seductive with boys. He would begin twisting a boy into love knots as only a girl can. "You do that very well," came muffled from where Marianne was face down on her arms. "Do you do everything as well?" "Some things," Ronnie said, still uncertain, in the most bitchy lilt imaginable. "With some people. It depends." He was sending a warning signal to this girl under his hands, if that’s what she was, not to play teasing games with him. Marianne got the message. He lifted his head and looked Ronnie straight in the eye. "I’ll bet you say that to all the boys," he said. Then he lowered his head again. "A little to the left, honeybun." he said. "And much lower down. Ooooh, that feels just scrumptious! JayCee, do you think you might be getting a little too much sun now yourself?"

"Sure," I said. "I guess so. I’d better go in for a bit. I need to fix lunch. And it looks like we’ll need more towels, anyhow." I was a little annoyed to be asked to leave my own swimming pool, but had to be amused by that fact, because it was just what I had wanted to see happening. Marianne getting it on with a boy, and better, enjoying the pleasures of being in charge while getting it on with a boy.

I hung out inside for about a half hour, looking out the back window now and then to see what was happening. Marianne has a real vixen’s instinct for this kind of thing, I thought. The first time I looked, Marianne was on his back and Ronnie had his hand on Marianne’s crotch, massaging whatever he felt there. Marianne meanwhile had his arms clasped and extended around Ronnie’s neck and shoulders, experimenting with different holds and grips. He settled finally on one hand on the back of Ronnie’s neck and the other arm draped across Ronnie’s shoulders so his hand could caress the hills and valleys of Ronnie’s back muscles. As I watched, the hand on Ronnie’s neck pulled him down into a kiss, and held him there for a long time. I turned away to look in the fridge. When I next looked Ronnie was on his knees in front of Marianne while Marianne sat regally on the lounge, one leg forward, looking down at him. He had taken off his bathing suit, and was now every boy’s wet dream of a girl. No way could I think of her as a boy. SHE was now naked, and her tits curved questioningly up into the sunlight as she leaned back on one hand, playfully caressing and ruffling Ronnie’s hair with the other, that same half-smile on her face. Ronnie’s face was in her lap, bobbing and sucking away on Marianne’s cock. Then both of her hands pressed Ronnie’s head close onto her as she pumped her hips up repeatedly to meet his mouth, a blissful smile on her face. Ronnie seemed to be swallowing as fast as he could.

Chile and crackers this time, I decided, and cans of soft drinks. I began heating it—it would take a few minutes. Now Marianne was lying langorously back on the lounge chair, arms and hair strewn in casual relaxation, while Ronnie was straddling her chest and—I had to say it—servicing her mouth with his prick, offering his goddess that impressive long sausage. Cocksucking an act demeaning women? No way here. She lay there as if the head of his penis was a peeled grape offered for her delectation, licking it, feeling the whole of it with full, rounded lips for just a moment, tugging on it with those lips only, enjoying its velvety texture. Marianne’s first cock! With a royal wave of her hand, she commanded Ronnie to sit higher over her neck so she could reach and lick his balls without raising her head, then lower down again so she could taste a delicate pearl of pre-cum she saw formed on the tip of his penis. I’d left the chile on the stove a bit longer than I’d intended, and turned away.

Then when I glanced out again I saw history repeating itself. On a towel on the ground, Marianne was crouched on her knees, her head thrown back, and through the double-glass window I could hear her shouting a muffled "Yes! Yes! Yes!" with every thrust of Ronnie’s long cock, now lunging deep into her, over and over and over, in and out and in. Ronnie was gripping her around her waist with both arms as if holding on for dear life, and Marianne bucked and pitched and heaved, that beautiful round ass grinding and pushing back into Ronnie’s cock and balls as if trying to wipe them off his body. I could see Ronnie’s dong sliding and lurching in and out, and Ronnie half hysterical with desire, and as I watched I saw Marianne’s face twist into ecstasy as she threw her head far, far back, then began shaking it from side to side violently. She shouted "Ohhhhhhhh, yesssssss, ohhhhhhh, yessssssss!" in a voice audible through the whole neighborhood I’m sure, and her own little prick began spurting into the towel under her. Then to my amazement she turned and said something to Ronnie, who hesitated. She said it more firmly. Ronnie looked bewildered, disbelieving. But he then pulled out of Marianne, and with his purple-headed cock with its long white shank now glistening in the sun, he lay down on his side on the towel. She lay down facing him, and took hold of his shoulders with both hands. Then while she held him at arm’s length, she watched him jerk himself off until he came into the towel! Just where Marianne had just cum! I couldn’t believe what I was seeing! Her first fuck, and she was already taking charge of her stud’s climaxes! She allowed Ronnie to cum only as it pleased her, not as he might wish and she might too, inside her. She said something else, and Ronnie then bent down to lick up the towel’s mix of sweat amd cum. I decided it was time for me to bring out the chile and soda. Marianne’s ass was now no more virginal than mine, and she’d spared herself the indignity of cum dripping out of it while we ate lunch. I looked at her carefully as I set down the tray and the two of them put their bathing suits back on. Her face was hard to read, but there was no mistaking her spraddle-legged gait as she came over to the poolside table and sat down in a chair, carefully. She had been well and truly fucked.

Did she like it? She looked over at me earnestly and sent me a kiss, to reassure me, and I realized, to thank me. Was she now addicted to sex with penetration, as a girl with her guy? If so, I might need to haul out that dildo after all, a pity in a way, because sex with Marianne was so...natural, so lovely, just the way we’d done it, as two girls together who cared for each other. I smiled, but Marianne wasn’t sure yet whether to smile back. In the end she did, just enough to be reassuring. She reached for my hand and held it a minute. It was so quick, so overwhelming, all of this. She needed time to process it.

Ronnie came forward and sat down, picked up a bowl and ladled out his own chile. "Ah," he said. "As Marianne keeps saying, just lovely! Is there ketchup too?"

We ate and splashed and joked with each other through much of the afternoon, and as the sun began to lose its warmth Ronnie said "I’ll have to go soon, Marianne. Will we see each other again?" "I don’t see why not," Marianne replied, flashing him a smile and a cute little wriggle of her rump. "In fact, I don’t see why not now. May we use your room, JayCee?" I nodded, and off they went.

I felt a twinge of jealousy I guess, despite the fact that the day was working out perfectly. Marianne was getting laid by a good-sized prick, her curiosity about that part of being a girl satisfied and piqued, getting it out of her system or getting it into her system, whichever. Whichever, it seemed to me that her boyhood was fading further and further behind her, and would soon be over the horizon. She’d now fucked a girl and a boy, and obviously there was more in it for her fucking a boy. I’d seen and heard that through the window, and she still hadn’t gotten enough. When Ronnie finally left with a promise to phone her, I looked over to Marianne with my eyebrows raised to say, ‘You don’t have to tell me everything, but you have to tell me something.’ "JayCee," Marianne said. "Thank you. Three days ago I had no friends. I’ve never had any friends. Now I have two dear friends, and I love you both, really, truly, and passionately. And you’re the person who introduced me to both of them. Maybe to three wonderful people, if we count Marianne too." "Just doing my job, ma’am," I said in my best Sergeant Joe Friday imitation. Then I nudged her again. "The facts, ma’am?" "The facts are, we fucked, and I love having a prick up my ass. I love sucking on cock when it’s me doing the sucking, not the prick getting itself sucked. Now what do you think of that?" "You’re quite a girl, Marianne," is all I could say. "More a girl than I’d ever imagined!"

"I guess," she said, beaming at me. "Everything I am today I owe to you," she said. "And, of course, to my mother." She did an elaborate, ungainly but theatrical bow after delivering that line, her arms wide apart. One part of my mind registered that she certainly does need those modeling classes, but another wondered what she really meant by that last remark. "More than you’d think," I said. It was a broad hint, a little stupid I guess, but I was curious to find out if she knew anything, and I don’t know, I was feeling a little catty. I’d wanted Ronnie and Marianne to hit it off, no question, but they’d flowed into each other like maple syrup into pancakes. But Marianne answered, "No. Not more than I’d think. I think I know what there is to know, JayCee. I saw those books you’ve got up in your bedroom, the ones you took out of the library a few days ago, after you had that long talk with my Mom while I was down in the basement. Books about hormones, and transsexuals, and things like that. I can read, and I can add things up." I just stared at her. Those books! Mostly hidden, but I’d hauled them out again only this morning. My bedside reading! She went on. "What’s done is done, JayCee, and there’s no use crying over spilt mother’s milk. I know you both think it’s for the best. Maybe it is. I promised you I’d try it out, and that’s what I’m doing. You said that Modeling School begins next Monday?" I went over and kissed her. Marion had been my first real lover, and Marianne was my first real girlfriend for sure. I couldn’t speak. She kissed me back.

"JayCee," she said quietly, but not at all shyly. "Do you think we could go back to your room now for a little bit? Ronnie doesn’t understand anything about breasts. I suppose it’s because he’s never had any himself, or desired any, so he has no feel for people who do have them. He’s a great lay, but I have feelings for you he’ll never come near."

I tried to say something, but nothing came out. "Sure, Marianne," I finally managed to whisper. "Whatever you say."

VII.

Modeling school was a blast. There were fifteen other girls besides us, half of them genuine dyed-in-the-hair bubbleheads, the other half in a range from feline to friendly to efficient. The teacher read Marianne right off, from the way she moved, or didn’t move, or something, and called her over. Then after a moment she called me over.

"Uh, JayCee," she said. "Marianne says I should speak to you about this. She puzzles me. She has the lines and hips and height of a high fashion model, but also of a man, and frankly, she moves like a man. I don’t mean she’s klutzy, and I don’t even mean she isn’t gracious or dainty sometimes—that doesn’t matter—I can teach anyone that. I mean she doesn’t walk and move like someone who holds herself in, someone who’s spent a lifetime taking up no more space than she must. Like a woman. She’s far too open. Is there something I should know?"

"Tell her, Marianne."

Marianne hesitated and then squared her shoulders. "I was born a boy, and my mother’s given me a girl’s puberty without telling me. Why I don’t know, and I won’t ask her until I’ve become as much what she wants as I can be. She loves me and has her reasons, I’m sure, and I love her. What she wants is for me to live like a girl. So I’m giving it my best shot, and we’ll see. JayCee’s my dearest friend, and has been helping me. She thinks you can help me too."

"I think Marianne needs to learn to walk with cute, short steps," I blurted out. It had been on my mind. "Not the long stride of a high fashion model. We want her to be attractive to boys, and a long stride would intimidate them, I think." The teacher looked at me. "Straight to the point, aren’t you, JayCee." She considered a moment. "All right! I just don’t want any ringers in here, any peeping Toms taking advantage of my girls. You’ll all be seeing a lot of each other, and I don’t mean just in terms of time, though that too. We have a single common dressing room here."

"There’ll be no problem, ma’am," Marianne said. "You’ll see soon enough. None."

She looked over at Marianne. "Those are real then? They’d better be, or we’ll all know straight away, the first time we change clothes, and we do a lot of that. Around 36 C, aren’t you? Too large for high fashion anyhow. All right, I’ll teach you how to make boys’ pricks drool into their pants whenever they see you. So they’ll want to fuck the air you’ve set in motion after you’ve passed by. You know what I mean, don’t you? Do you drool into your pants now when a girl goes by?"

A trick question. She was asking Marianne how she was equipped, and warning her there’d be no fucking around with the other girls. Marianne caught on right away, "No ma’am," she said. "I get a little wet there sometimes, the way girls do when the right kind of guy goes by."

Hearing that evasion, the teacher just looked at Marianne and said nothing. Then "All right, let’s get started!" Right off we both learned that a girl is always on display, and that walking around with books on your head is old hat. "You are mannequins, suspended from the top of your head by a cord fastened to the ceiling," she began. "Whenever you stand, whenever you walk, even when you are bending over to get into a car, you are suspended by the tops of your heads, lighter and more fragile than you have ever imagined yourself!" And so it went. By the end of the two weeks we had relearned every gesture, even how to use a knife and fork, and how to chew. And lots more about makeup, and clothes, and how to say "yes" and "no" without giving a guy any more ideas than we want him to have.

I suppose lots of girls actually live and move and think the way the teacher taught us to live, move, and think, but lots don’t. I didn’t worry it, because everything I do is what a girl does whatever I may do. But Marianne carefully learned everything, each move and posture and gesture, and practiced them all the time, because for her that was all there was. The weekend between the first and second week of classes, she never let down. Not even when her face was in my pussy and mine was sucking her clitty cock and licking her crotch, and we were both stroking each others’ breasts and bursting out of our skins with passionate feeling, her hands always stayed arched, so her fingers seemed longer and more delicate, and her neck always stayed swanlike. When she left my house to walk to her own, it was always with the tight little short steps she had learned, and the cutest sway of her hips and wiggle in her ass, a real busybody blonde walk that attracted men as if she were walking stark naked. She loved it, and told me how cars passing on the street had started honking at her even when she was wearing a respectable A-line skirt ending well past her knees. She learned even more from being with all the other girls. The talk was boys and sex and clothes, and sex and boys, and because we weren’t going to see each other again it was altogether uninhibited. Marianne told some wicked stories, partly true and partly not, and became a favorite—some of the girls even developed girl-crushes on her, and they hugged and kissed their greetings each morning before classes began. We found out everyone’s kinks, who liked leather, who pulled trains, who swung both ways, and who were swingers.

I told them once that I told every boy I dated that I was keeping my vagina for the boy I’d marry. Clara asked, "You mean you’re a virgin?" Clara was a frail wisp of a girl, all blonde lace with pale, dreamy eyes, teeny, weighing not even 100 pounds, seemingly helpless, a doll. But don’t believe it. Underneath her delicate appearance she was a tough dyke who loved using whips on boys or girls, and loved people who loved whips. I told her "No, not a virgin." Marianne caught my eye, and we grinned at each other, and Clara saw..

Then she said, "My mother was a professional dominatrix, and I mean to be just like her. She told me she used that line too, all the time, when she was in High School. It gets guys’ attention and respect, and then you’ve got them by the balls." "But in her case it was true, enough, until she got married to my Dad and got pregnant with me. Then she reversed field. After that my father became the only man in her life who was never allowed into her cunt. The postman could fuck her silly, while he listened, and on rare occasions might be allowed to watch, and never to come nearer. For the next twelve years he slept in their bedroom closet, lying on her soiled linens from whatever her previous day’s bedroom activity, her panties from her previous day always stuffed in his mouth, listening through the door to whatever Mom was doing with her clients. He never again shared her bed, and she told me he wore a cock cage for the rest of his life, so he could never masturbate and of course could never cum himself. He just lay there and listened all night to other men screaming and moaning and pleading, their cries of joy and their grunting and sighing."

"That was his gift to her, self-denial, and he knew she loved him above all the others because of that gift. He told me when he was already terminally ill, near the end, that he wouldn’t have changed a thing, and I know he died happy. Mom was inconsolable. That’s the kind of boy I’ll marry some day, when I can find one. I use that line too, I’m saving myself, and so on. But meanwhile I fuck whoever pleases me."

I told her I felt the same way sometimes, but didn’t know what kind of boy I’d marry, if any. She glanced at Marianne and said nothing.

Mostly wearing only our bras and panties, getting in and out of different dresses and outfits with all those other girls all the time, always poised and hanging from a cord suspended from the heavens, then from a string, then a thread, then from nothing at all, wearing perfect makeup every moment no matter what, everything we did got to be second nature. My mother commented on how refined I’d become all of a sudden, even in my table manners, and I smiled at her in a wearied woman-of-the-world way. Marianne saw Ron a few more times, so it wasn’t necessary for me to haul out my dildo ever when we made love together. The second weekend of modeling classes, in fact, Ronnie called to ask me why Marianne was being so dainty, so utterly feminine. "She’s almost no fun to fuck any more," he said. "She’s getting to be too much like a girl. She even makes those delighted squeals girls in porn movies make, whenever I pump her just right. My other boyfriends never do that. It’s kind of sweet, but doesn’t she ever let down? When I mentioned it she told me that if I complain again, she’ll order me to sleep in my own bedroom closet. Can you imagine?"

I told him not to worry about it. Marianne had a moment of decision coming up in another week or two and was giving being a girl her all now. I thought it was a foregone conclusion. But Marianne had to realize that herself.

A while later, a friend phoned as expected to say she was throwing that house party now that her folks were going out of town, and she was short a few girls. Would I come, and did I know who else to bring?

Well, it happens I did. Marianne got wonderfully excited, and got herself up in that slinky green dress and high, high heels. With her delicate air and her brilliant smile outlined in bright crimson, she was a smashing success.

The day before the party we practiced dancing while suspended by a cord. Our slow dancing got so amorous we never managed to finish a set. Marianne got so hot that she told me whatever we’d done with each other, and that was a lot, she always had to go over to Ron’s for a good fucking afterward to finish her off. She kissed me in case I needed reassurance, but she told me she now thought a hot cock spurting into her bowels was one of God’s greatest gifts. I wasn’t sure about that myself, but I couldn’t disagree.

I warned her that during this first night of partying she should put out for no one no matter how badly she might feel tempted, or she’d get a reputation for being easy, and that meant she’d have to put out for everyone. Especially, she’d be bothered all year by nerds who could only get dates with sluts no one else wanted.

I doubt she needed to be told that. During the party she played games. She got one guy groveling on the floor looking for an earring for her, and then she straddled his head with her high heels, and looked down at him, and flashed her panties at him, and asked if he’d found what he was looking for. He must have creamed in his jeans right then and there. During every dance, she brushed her breasts against her partners unrelentingly, with noticeable effect on the size of the bulge in their pants. Then, the way she glanced at their swollen crotches and pursed her mouth the way we’d been taught, then smiled at them, she seemed to promise every guy she met a fabulous cocksucking. Shameless? Guys drooling in their pants? There wasn’t a dry pair of drawers in the house, I’m sure. The next night after the house party Marianne had dinner with my family so we could get an early start on a movie together. Registration time for the school year was approaching, and she’d need soon to make up her mind, was she Marianne, a tease who had lots of fun, or was she Marion, a boy with tits. That was the deal.

When we were both of us were using our best modeling school manners to butter bread and scoop up salad, my mother said, "You know, it’s strange, dear. When I first met you the day you moved in, I thought you were a boy. I suppose it was those loose clothes you were wearing to help with the move."

"Marianne?" I said surprised "A boy? Did you see her in that green dress yesterday?"

"As it happens, I did see her," said my mother, quickly distracted, "That’s a lovely dress, dear. Green is certainly your color. I wish JayCee would dress herself as attractively. But to each her own I suppose."

"I think we’re lucky," Marianne answered thoughtfully. "Girls can wear anything we want. We can play with who we are. Boys and men don’t get much chance even to find out what they might enjoy wearing if they could."

So there we were. Marianne was one of "we" girls in front of my mother. If Marianne was ever going to be a boy again, she’d certainly have a lot to explain to my mother, who now thought she’d been wrong when she first met him and thought he was a boy. Or else she’d have to leave town. Marianne seemed unworried by the prospect.

Then after the movie when we were walking home from the mall, two guys I knew showed up. It was a hot night, and Marianne happened to be wearing not much at all. Some sandals with three inch heels, because it was one of her "heel" days, when she wanted to practice walking in heels as she’d been taught, with a really provocative sway to her rump, and short shorts, and the barest see-through blouse with her prettiest lace bra altogether visible. Her hair was piled high off her neck, and held there with a darling little gold comb. And she’d slathered on the eye makeup, because I’d commented that at night in dark places you can’t wear too much eye makeup, and for a joke she’d been trying to prove I was wrong. Seductive? She looked scorching! And who should happen by?

"Hi JayCee. Arent you going to introduce us?" I looked, and immediately saw manna from heaven! Money in the bank. "Hi, Jeff, Will. This is Jeffrey and Wilmott, Marianne," I said. "Jeff is President of the Senior Class this coming year. He bought the votes with Wilmott’s money. They do things like that together."

They were paying no attention to me. "Hi, Marianne," they both said together, each one taking one of her hands, and then realizing they were being ridiculous, but neither one wanting to let go. We walked four abreast for a while, bumping into each other, and finally we split off, Marianne with Jeff and me with Wilmott, talking about how our summer had gone as they walked each of us home.

Willmot was already on my string—we’d already dated a few times, and he had graduated from only licking my pussy to my jacking him off if he said sweet things to me, though he was still a long way from my ass. I began scouting him in a new way, though. His parents had maybe even more money than Jane seemed to have, and I was thinking I should know more about what rich boys like, if I’d be going to college where they went. I later found out rich boys want the same things any boy wants, only they think they’re entitled. That gave me special pleasure later on, when I’d make someone especially wealthy beg permission to humiliate himself, and then refuse him.

Soon after I got home from our movie date my bedroom phone rang. It was Marianne of course, just delivered to her house by Jeff.

"Wasn’t that wonderful, JayCee, running into those two boys.

Are all the boys in the senior class that nice? And handsome?" "No, Marianne. But lots are. Why are you so excited now about two more guys in your life. You were one yourself not long ago, remember?"

"One thing at a time, JayCee. First, Jeff wants to take me to the RamaRama concert a week from Saturday. He’s got tickets! JayCee, no one can get tickets to that concert, not for weeks now! I told him Yes! I’m so excited! Can I borrow that embroidered jumper of yours? I’m sure it would fit, maybe it would be a little short, but for a concert that’s fine, and with a boy like Jeff, better than fine. Or would you go shopping with me to help me buy something like it?"

I checked and doublechecked the calendar in my head, then looked at the one on my desk.

"Marianne, slow down. Listen carefully. You accepted a date with Jeff for a week from Saturday?"

"Yes. Is there something about him I should know?" "No. Something about yourself. The previous Wednesday you and your mother will be registering for the Fall term at the High School. As what? That’s when our agreement ends. You’ll have tried out what it’s like to be a girl, in order to make up your own mind which you prefer."

"So?"

"So?" I mimicked her. "You sound as if you’ve made up your mind."

"JayCee, how can I ever go back to being Marion? Jeff knows where I live. He thinks he knows who I am. He thinks I’m a girl. So does your mother. And you know something, so do I, most of the time these days. It’s so much more fun!" "Marianne, listen to me. Do you want to be Marion in school?" "I’d thought that was what I wanted. I mean, playing Marianne for the summer was a good idea, certainly, but.... Well, if all the kids think that’s who I am, I can’t be anyone else, can I?" "No, you can’t. But Marianne can disappear, and Marion can replace her. Who’d suspect foul play? This is a small town. Decision time. Who would you rather be?" "JayCee"—she was still playing hard to get to decide—"I have more fun as Marianne. I look more like Marianne. With you I feel more like Marianne. As Marianne, I felt like kissing Jeff goodnight just now, so I did. It was so sweet, JayCee! Don’t worry, only on the cheek. But how could I do that as Marion?" "Talk it over with your Mom."

Now her voice changed. I realized that she’d been riding the high wave of her excitement over dating Jeff, a charmer and the class President, a kind of signature on her success as a girl. But all the while, she knew there were serious things going on. "I did talk with my Mom, JayCee. She says I can date boys through the first term, and enlarge my circle of friends among the girls in the class. I can giggle and be one of the girls easily now, ever since the modeling class, thanks to you, and I’m sure I’ll get on fine with the other girls. The other girls, JayCee, that’s how I feel about them."

"Marion never had a social life, and never will, he’s so self-conscious about his body. You were right all along, JayCee. I love being Marianne. I really have no choice anymore anyhow. But if being Marianne doesn’t work out, my Mom says, we’ll move again to another school at mid year. If it does work out, then I’ll be Marianne through the whole of next year, and that’ll mean through college and for life. I like the idea." "You’ve helped me wonderfully, JayCee. I hope you still will. Now I know how to make love to a girl because of you, and how girls can make love to each other. I know how to satisfy boys with my mouth and my ass, and how to satisfy my mind by making them jump through hoops too if I feel like it. I know how to tell boys not to use my pussy because I’m not on the pill (even though I am), but that if they want to push into my ass I’d love it. And I do. I do love it. So will they too, I expect. Marianne hasn’t got a pussy for them to lick, the way you do, but you can’t have everything, and there’s really no choice any more."

"Think about it. The way I move and talk, and the things I like talking about these days, how can I ever be a boy again? I’d look and sound like the most flaming nancy anyone ever saw. And with tits? I’d be a real freak! You made the point weeks ago, but I didn’t want to believe it them. I’ve got no choice." She paused. "JayCee, will you lend me that jumper? Please? Or else come shopping with me?"

"Come over tomorrow, and we’ll try it on you," I said. "But while we’re on the topic, will you take one more word of advice?" "As many as you have, JayCee."

"After the concert, you should try to swallow all of it when he cums. Boys like that. For them it’s kind of like cumming inside you. I don’t know if you ever did blow Ronnie all the way or if you mostly let him cum only when he was fucking Mary Fist, but that’s the way it is with boys like Jeff." "I appreciate that, JayCee. I really do. Thank you." A half hour later Jane called to thank me as well, and to find out how she should address her firm’s letter of congratulations to me on my being granted a four year full scholarship to any college of my choice. And to ask my opinion about various ways to set up the trust fund, before she spoke to my folks about it. Part way through, she started crying. So did I. And ten minutes later, neither of us had managed to stop crying, so we said we’d talk together again real soon and hung up.

VIII.

Well, our two Senior years went about how you’d expect. We saw a lot of each other, as girls will, and double-dated sometimes, but we each had our own separate lives to get on with too. I got into interscholastic Brain Trust competitions, and wiped up the floor with competing teams from lots of other different high schools, not because I knew more than they did, but because I knew how to look at the boys on the other teams when they thought they knew more—sometimes an injured look, sometimes furious, I could always tell what would fluster them. I won a Thousand Dollar Scholarship from the competition’s sponsors for the highest scores in the All-State division, but that was scarcely noticeable when it went into the trust fund Jane set up for me. I got good grades, but that’s never been a problem for me, and I got into just the right kind of college too, and I’m about to graduate this year. But wait, I’ll get there.

My sex life that last Senior year also went the way you’d expect. I enlarged the number of guys I had on my string, and they kept me plenty satisfied. Five of them earned rear end privileges that year. I took in guys with wealthy parents and big allowances, who bought me the nicest presents whenever I gave them the opportunity, and took me to terrific shows and concerts. Gradually I refined my ways of dealing with them, and even now they appreciate it when I give them a call and let them do things for me.

I finally allowed two real dolts to fuck me properly in the cunt, the way Marianne had done it with her little clit when she took my virginity. I could let them because they were both big, tough, and nasty, so it was easy for me to threaten each of them with quick retribution from the other if he ever said anything about me and word got around. It was OK. Guys are guys, I decided, no big deal.

Way better were my sessions with Marianne. She was so sweet! So all-girl! Somehow, whatever we ever did together, go to the beauty parlor, cheer the hunks at a football game, shop, check out a movie or a concert, share our homework assignments, we always ended up in bed together, and it was always just lovely. Toward the end, I got a feeling that Marianne was less passionate than I was, even a little absent-minded when we were making love. But my own desires more than made up for it!

Marianne looked like she was having a blast, and it turned out she was. She auditioned for the role of Viola in our class play, Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, Viola being a girl who pretends to be a boy, usually played by a boy actor in SHakespeare’s time, only Marianne was a boy no longer pretending to be a girl but pretending to be a boy. She got a standing ovation—no one had ever seen as dainty and feminine a girl become as noble and gallant a gentleman, and then change back again. She dated Jeff a few times more, and they really looked like an Item for Keeps, but one sad evening she told him she wasn’t really ready for him, and she started dating lots of other guys. Lots. I lost count. Ronnie told me they still saw each other now and then, I figured probably for the same reasons we still saw each other, for the sake of old times and present friendship.

But Jeff was her date for her Senior Prom after all, and just as her mother had wanted, it was magical for her. He’d carried the torch for her the whole time, all through that year, and when he asked her late that Spring, he looked so sorrowful, she told me, she had to accept. I remember her well, the specially chosen date of the President of the Senior Class making her grand entrance on his arm. She was radiant. True, she wasn’t voted Queen of the Prom, but as Jeff’s date she got to crown the Prom Queen, a twit we all knew was already pregnant by the son of the local bookmaker. She did it as if she herself were made of whipped cream, parfait, and air, and no one looked at the Queen. Wherever Marianne went in her floating white gown, that night she seemed suspended from the heavens.

That night was Jeff’s night too. She told me that Jeff’s prick was even bigger than Ronnie’s, and a lot fatter, she knew that from blowing him after the RamaRama concert, and that she wanted to make his Prom night with her unforgettable. She owed him so much. He had been her first real crush, one of the most important reasons why she had become what she was, and she couldn’t ever forget it. So during the weeks preceding their big night together we worked systematically to enlarge Marianne’s rosebud, with bigger and bigger butt plugs, and before she started to get dressed for her Prom—she looked absolutely angelic, have I mentioned that? -- we gave her four successive enemas, so she would be clean and sweet for him. And she was.

She danced every dance, with Jeff more than with any other guy, but also with lots of the guys she’d dated during the year, who kept coming back to her the way mine did when I’d let them. For Marianne though, that night, Jeff was special. When the dance ended at two in the morning we all went together to Burger Bob’s, and then afterward we each went withour dates our own separate ways.

I was feeling nostalgic, and arranged to play Show and Tell with two utterly straight arrows I wanted to see blow each other before my high school years ended—my date and another girl’s date, a girl who bet me I couldn’t get either of them to do it, and who thereby lost a double forfeit. They looked beautiful, 69ing together on the grass with their eyes tight shut, like hungry nursing infants. The other guy’s date, the girl who lost her bet with me, was just amazed to watch my techniques as I persuaded them to go ahead and suck each other off. As tuition alone she got her money’s worth But Marianne’s was the real romantic adventure. As she told me afterward, at four in the morning when the early dawn light in the sky was just enough visible to keep the street lamps from seeming lonely, she and Jeff parked on High Ridge Hill and looked down on all the gleaming and twinkling lights of the city below. Marianne blew Jeff twice, and the second time when they kissed, he sipped his own semen from her lips, lost in a delicious erotic trance. Then he wanted desperately to do something for her, anything, as she knew he would. So she bent way over in the car seat, on her back with her legs high in the air, and with what she later described as an imaginary blare of trumpets, Jeff entered her rear with his enormous cock. She was absolutely rapturous, telling me about it a few days later, when she could again think about it without choking up for joy. He fucked her for nearly an hour before she came finally into her Kotex pad, delerious with pleasure for the last half-hour of it and hoarse from screaming, and then finally he came deep inside her. They solemnly traded class rings, which was just as well as a gesture Marianne told me, because their fingers were each the same size and the rings were identical. She had stars in her eyes the whole time, Marianne said, and when she got home and woke up the following afternoon, she found her mother had already pressed her corsage into the family Bible. It was perfect!

We went to different colleges that fall, and we stayed in touch during the next few years. Marianne majored in business to prepare herself to take over some of her mother’s spinoff companies, and she means to do just that now that she’s graduating. I majored in psychology, developmental psych because I wanted to know everything that’s known about bringing people from one concept of themselves to another, and abnormal because as I already knew, people’s kinks are their most interesting features, the ones where they find their greatest joys, and I wanted to teach them how to accept them. The world could do with more more accepting of oddity.

IX.

Not long ago I returned home for the Easter break just before graduation from college. I’d already been admitted for graduate training in Clinical Psychology, and decided to specialize in gender identity transformation, a core area of concern to me. It seemed to me that there’s an enormous need for specialists to help men convert to become the women they wish to be, or women the men. My own experience with Marianne I found was in no way unique. But I had an idea I wanted to float past Jane. I had plans for the future, and I wanted to see if she was interested in a partnership. It was old home week. I ran into Ronnie almost immediately—he’d tried different things and had finally become a hairdresser, with his massive, muscled physique the most fashionable and successful one in town. He smiled wickedly when he told me that two of his seven employees, his cute little manicurist and his vivacious curling assistant, were both really boys under their short-skirted smocks and impeccable makeup, and that in fact they were going steady with each other. We chatted about different people we’d known. I asked him about Petey, and Ron shook his head. "Petey never straightened himself out," Ronnie said. "He went with a couple of tops like me for a while, then with an s/m motorcycle gang, and lately he’s taken up with a little girl way below the age of consent. He says he prefers her to anyone he’s ever met, because she doesn’t boss him around. But the FBI are already watching him, and I don’t think that relationship has a future."

A pity, I thought, and Ronnie agreed. And what of Marianne?

I hadn’t seen her for several years.

Ronnie brightened. "JayCee, I thought you knew. We’re going steady, in a way. We’re even thinking we might get engaged. Marianne often comes home to learn more about taking over a big chunk of his mother’s business. I see him all the time. Didn’t he write you?"

"No," I said. "Marianne didn’t write me. Why do you call her ‘he’ when you speak of her? You’re thinking about an engagement? To each other? I’m confused."

Ronnie moved to the edge of the streetcorner where we’d just run into each other. "I have to go. Why don’t you phone ahead, then show up for cocktails this afternoon at Marianne’s mother’s house. He’s home from college just before graduation, just like you. I know they’ll both be overjoyed to see you. They always speak of you with love and respect and admiration, even a little awe. And Jane mentioned you need to talk business with her anyow, isn’t that so?"

I did. But Ronnie and Marianne, a couple? This was bewildering! Had Marianne reverted back to being a boy? When I came to the front door, there was Marianne looking as beautiful as ever. We immediately fell into each other’s arms and hugged each other, and kissed each other with deep affection, immediately back in our old relationship. It was so wonderful! It was as if years and separate lives had never come between us, and there we were about to complete our last year in High School all over again.

"My dearest JayCee! Do come in! Mom’ll be here shortly—she stepped out only a minute ago. We’ve got so much to tell each other!" Our cheeks were wet, and Marianne’s eyes were as brimfull as mine, pools of mascara beginning to flow from them as she pulled me into the house and sat me down in the kitchen, in the very same chair where nearly five years earlier I’d discussed her transformation with her mother. I’m sure my face looked a mess too, but it was a terribly moving moment for both of us. We couldn’t let go of each other, or stop kissing each other’s cheeks and hair.

When I could recover. I just looked at her. "Marianne, you haven’t changed at all. You look just the same." "And you too, JayCee! It’s so good to see you haven’t really changed either! Despite how you do your hair now. That’s lovely too, incidentally!"

"But you’ve changed in other ways, just a little, haven’t you, Marianne? When we were still close, you were dating straight men, the prize studs in our high school And delighted to be the attractive girl you’d decided to become."

She nodded, still looking so very pleased to see me she seemed scarcely to be listening.

"Now Ronnie tells me you two are thinking of getting engaged?"

She smiled her half-smile, and nodded.

"That’s wonderful news, but a little puzzling. I’m sure you know that. Everything I’ve learned tells me that physical sex can be changed surgically, and gender identity sometimes, as in your case, but sexual preferences rarely. Maybe never. Isn’t Ronnie still gay? Gay, and planning to marry a gorgeous woman like you? How can that be? He’d never marry just to go stealth with his homosexuality. He’s proud of it."

Marianne looked at me with kindly affection. "This may shock you, JayCee, but I know you’ll understand. I haven’t changed. I’m not a woman. I’ve never been a woman. That summer we met I was a boy with tits, and now deep in my heart I’m a man with tits."

I stared at her speechless.

"I’m gay, JayCee. Like Ronnie. And I’m proud of it too. My mother never knew it. I didn’t know it when you started teaching me how to become a girl, a woman, the woman I seem to be even now. But I knew it soon after that last year of High School began, and I accepted it, and I’ve never looked back. I don’t really regret it. I am what I am. It’s been just wonderful! It will be for the rest of my life, I just know it."

I tried to smile with her. I was happy for her. She was happy, and she always looked especially beautiful when she was happy, and she looked especially beautiful. She? Ronnie had called her "he." And she had just called herself a man. A man with tits. A man with tits in a beautifully cut Chanel type suit and a silk, scoop-necked blouse. And diamond drop earrings. And trim, elegant 3" heels.

She saw me looking her up and down, struggling with this revelation.

"That time I made it with you as a man was nice, JayCee, and I appreciate what you did for me that day especially, and that I was your first man where it mattered, and all. I’ll never forget it. And we’ve had some beautiful times together, making love as women. But Ronnie really opened me out to what I am, that time by your swimming pool. And then that night with Jeff after the concert, our first date, when dawn came and I was still making love to his cock, and couldn’t stop myself, and he was still able to get hard and cum in my mouth yet again, as I so wanted him to do—I didn’t understand it. I couldn’t come near him without feeling my own cock start to drool."

"It was hopeless, of course. Jeff is as straight as a man can be, which is why he was attracted to me in the first place, and even fell in love with me, a little. I did try to cool it with him and take up other guys. All through that last year, with lots of other guys. And I loved sex with them, the same way I love it with Ronnie. I used your line about saving your cunt for the father of your children, and I used them to pleasure me the way you use men, but I didn’t love any of them. If anyone, I loved Jeff. I truly loved Jeff."

"That’s only natural, Marianne. You were a girl. A woman.

Women love men."

"No, JayCee, just listen. Women love men. But so do gay men. I loved Jeff as a gay man. That Prom night is still the happiest night of my life. I was back with Jeff one last time, kissing and sucking and licking him the way I’d always wanted ever since we first met at the movies and he first walked me home. I wanted to eat him up. It was just marvelous! And then when finally I was ready, and had to have him, for the first time to feel his meat crammed deep into me, to feel him pump his juices deep into me—heaven! And when he fell asleep in my arms as dawn came on High Ridge Hill, and the sun rose and woke him, and I looked at his face and held him all the while he slept? Ecstasy! Beyond belief! He’s the man I was born for, JayCee. His is the penis destined to enter my vagina, if I had one, and it’s his sperm I’d want to have share in the creation of my children, if I could have any." "But it can’t be. I knew instinctively, from the very beginning, that all the wishing in the world would never get him interested in me if I weren’t a girl. Even when he was walking me home, that first time, when you first introduced him to me, I knew it. Only a girl can ever get close to him. That’s how he is. And really, that’s why I agreed to start High School as a girl that summer. Then we started getting really serious, and I knew if we went much further he would have to find out about me, I knew that he’d hate me for deceiving him. And that would break both our hearts. I knew then that I had to break off with him. I cried for days when I realized that. But I did it. Except for Prom night, our one last glorious fling into a fantasy fulfillment of what might have been."

"Anyhow, that’s why I was such a slut for so much of that year, JayCee. After Jeff, I felt sheer delight that I’d discovered I love boys, and love being fucked by boys, and love pleasing them and being pleasured by them! I’m gay, JayCee, and probably always have been but never knew it. I know it now. And I’m not ashamed to say so."

Marianne’s confession—Marion’s? -- confounded me utterly. I stared at the gorgeous girl in front of me, my dearest friend from that summer, my own creation in a way, the reason I’d been able to go to the smart college I’d chosen, and meet so many wealthy potential clients, and plan the career for which I was preparing myself. I was speechless, and could barely splutter out, "Wait a minute, Marianne, just wait. You say you’re gay? You mean you’re not a girl, you’re a boy who likes other boys?" She—no, he—was patient with me. "That’s right, JayCee. And I’m really, truly indebted to you for helping me find that out."

"I did? But Marianne, I was teaching you how to be a girl. And teasing you into being a girl. And persuading you how much better it is, being a girl. None of that took?" She—he—she—smiled that absolutely darling half-smile again, wry yet knowing, with that narrow sidelong glance I knew had caused stumbling in corridors and drooling in lots of pants all through our Senior year.

"Oh, a lot of it took, JayCee. And you were right. It’s a lot better being a girl. I’ve been willing to let my Mom change my sex to "Female" on my school records, and my birth certificate, and so on. I’ve gone to college as a girl. I mean to marry as a girl, and live in some respectable neighborhood as a girl. As you see, I still dress like a girl, and I’m deeply grateful you taught me how. But deep down I’m a boy. Always have been. I could never fool myself about that. I tried to be a girl, but I really had no choice in the matter. My gender is "man". And my sexual preference is "other men." I love other men. Some of them, anyhow."

I was still baffled!. "But, Marianne! Marion! But John Wayne, for goodness sake! If you’re not a girl and you’ve got no choice in the matter, why are you still dressed like one, and still living like one? Why haven’t you changed back?" She leaned forward and took my two hands in hers. Or he did in his. "For two reasons, JayCee. I figured you’d be smart enough to see them without me telling you, but I guess this is a real blow to you. Anyhow, one reason is what you proved to me that first day by your swimming pool. With my big boobs and my little cock, and my shape and my face after all those hormones Mom fed me, I had no future as a boy. It’s easy for me to pass as a girl, but there’s no way I can pass as a man. Mom meant well, and she meant to lock me in. And she did."

"But I don’t feel imprisoned in a girl’s body. I like looking like a girl. It’s fun! It’s so much more free than being a man! I don’t want to change back. Ah, I can see now by your face you’ve just suddenly realized why I don’t want to change back! You just caught on, huh?" He grinned at me conspiratorially. I was amazed! I grinned back, and then stood up and came around the table and impulsively hugged him. "You sly creature you!" I said, looking him in the face, delighted. "You clever boy, I mean! It’s so obvious! Looking the way you do, dressed the way you do, you don’t need to go searching for other like-minded gay men when you want sex or companionship! You can date anyone, and looking the way you do when you’re all dolled up, you really can date anyone at all! You can sleep with any man you can get into bed with you, straight or crooked! You can stuff your mouth or your ass with any cock in America, if that’s what pleases you and you can please whoever’s attached to it."

Marianne’s grin broadened even more. "You’ve got it, JayCee! Looking like a girl, with everyone thinking that’s what I am, my grazing grounds are the whole male population. Most of them low risk as far as AIDS goes, with a huge range of compatible interests and temperaments to choose from. And you taught me how boys really want to do what girls want anyhow, and how to get them to do it, so it’s no trick for me to get a guy into bed with me if I like him. And then to get him to please me any way I want him to." I was highly amused by this realization. "And I’ll bet I know what you tell them when they want to fuck your pussy, and instead you offer them your ass."

Marianne glanced at me sideways again, still grinning. "That’s right! And I really am saving it for the man I love and will one day marry. I can marry a man now, you know. Legally." She stood up and posed, placed her whole body on display, arms extended, the way we’d been taught. "And after I’m married, I can always get a vagina installed surgically if my husband wants me to have one. Though Ronnie says he’s happy with me the way I am." We had gotten to it.

"Yes," I said. "Ronnie’s a sweet boy and all that, Marianne. But we both know that he has certain ... limits, as a companion for someone as clever as you are. You could have your pick of the whole straight or gay population, it seems. Why Ronnie?" "JayCee, I can’t pick from the straight population except for one-nighters or brief affairs. I’m not a transsexual, a man who feels he’s a woman and wants to be treated like one, and perhaps live with a man. I’m gay, a man who finds it convenient to look like a woman, inescapable really, but who wants to live with a man. Ronnie’s the only man who knows this. He’s so wonderfully understanding. He’s there for me whenever I need him. I adore him! And he loves me, too! He’s even letting me sow all the wild oats I want, until I’m ready to settle down, whenever that happens. I guess I should say, he’s letting me encourage all the men I find attractive to sow their wild oats in me. And it happens that after all, I did save my pussy for the man I may most likely marry. As you know, Ronnie really was my first."

"We’ve exchanged little tokens, and we think it’ll happen some day, but there’s no hurry. And it’s convenient for Ronnie, too. He’s never been flamboyant about being homosexual, not since you started him with Petey, way back. Not too many people outside this town know about him. And once we’re married there’ll be no reason for anyone ever to know. We can both seem utterly respectable to the outside world. We both find that prospect amusing." Marianne went into the living room and started mixing cocktails for both of us, Margaritas with salt frosting on the rim of the glass. He then carried them back into the kitchen and we sat there sipping them. The kitchen seemed more familiar, more intimate ground. I complimented him on his lovely outfit, and he complimented me on my hair again. I’d finally decided to wear it straight, cropped at earlobe length, with bangs, blow-dried but nothing else. A 1920’s flapper style. No more Betty Grable. He smiled, and asked me if I’d been waving my ass at very many men in college the way I waved at him when we first met. I was about to tell him no, and why, when his mother walked in, and looked at me disbelieving.

"JayCee! That is you! It seems like years! It is years!" We practically shouted our joy at seeing each other. And we rushed into each other’s arms and hugged as close as we could. "Jane! It has been too long! Much too long!" When our delight had calmed down, and we’d asked all the usual questions, and exulted together in each other’s triumphs in the interim since we’d last met, the ones we knew about, a key question occurred to me.

"Jane, you remember one of the reasons you gave me in this very kitchen for why we have Marianne with us today, and not Marion, was that that you wanted to thwart your husband, and maybe spite him too? Whatever happened with him?" Jane and Marianne glanced at each other and broke out laughing. Marianne leaned forward, eager to tell me, but Jane touched his arm. "No, let me. It was my plan, after all!" Marianne assented, just barely.

"It was later than we’d expected, only a year ago last January. He’d been busy stirring up misery and discord in other parts of the world I suppose, but finally he served notice that he’d be coming here, ready to pull Marion out of college and take him into his company and teach him the ways of the world, and that Marion should pack his things and stand ready. He had his lawyer deliver the message to forestall my throwing up barriers. I suppose he’d lost track of the years, and it didn’t occur to him that Marion was over 18, no longer a minor, and could now make decisions about his own life whatever our original divorce agreement."

"Well, it was then that Marion and Ronnie were first talking about perhaps getting engaged, and that gave us an idea. I wrote that bastard inviting him to dinner on New Year’s Day, to discuss arrangements for shipping Marion’s things to him if Marion wanted to go, and for him to explain to Marion what he had in mind, and to explain it to Marion’s fiance—I told him Marion was now engaged, and he would need to speak to the two of them. That’s ‘fiance’ with one ‘e’ not two, the French word for an engaged man, not ‘fiancee,’ the word for a woman. So I was scrupulously honest with him, as well as thoroughly deceitful. But he’s an ignoramous as well as a snake, and I suppose he never noticed. "Marion came home from college especially to take part in this reunion with his father, and Ronnie was invited as his fiance. Marion bought himself an especially lovely dress to wear, all tulle and lace and chiffon, and I must say, dear you looked exquisite. Like a fairy princess! And Ronnie got himself a new dinner jacket to wear, because nothing he owned fit properly once he began pumping iron in earnest for the statewide Mr. Muscle contest. I must say, he looked great, as if he were built out of granite. He took second place, you know."

"Third, mother," Marion interrupted. "He deserved first, but the entire board of judges had just been fucked in their singular and collective asses by the first and second place winners, and I suppose the board felt an obligation to reward them. Ronnie’d been invited to join in and make it a gang bang, but I’d told him to decline."

"Anyhow," Jane resumed, "When Ronnie’s father showed up, he was more vicious than ever. He thought Ronnie was his son, of course, because Ronnie looked overwhelmingly like the man in the family, and he then took over the conversation so we couldn’t correct him. His real son, my gay transvestite daughter over here, gave him the most affectionate daughterly kiss, as was his due, but he merely wiped it off while admiring Ronnie’s physique and saying how proud he felt to have sired it. He then made insulting remarks about women in general, and me and Marianne in particular. Finally he looked directly into Marion’s eyes, our dear little fairy princess here, his son, sitting there as demure as right now, in her pretty dress and fresh-from-the-salon hairdo, and that son of a bitch had the gall to advise Ronnie—his son, supposedly—to break off the engagement, because she didn’t look fit even to suck cock."

"At that Marion piped up with a flat denial. He said that he was as fit as any girl or any man at sucking cock. He had sucked hundreds of them, and was ready to be put to the test. He said he hoped some day to be as good at it as Ronnie was. Well, this addled my ex a bit, who turned to Ronnie, and asked what she meant, his supposed fiancee. Ronnie said, ‘Sit down and we’ll show you.’ The miserable prick of a man sat down, and Ronnie and Marion immediately handcuffed his hands to the chair behind him, and his legs to the chair legs.

Then before the shit’s horrified eyes, Ronnie lifted Marion’s skirt and dipped under it while Marion unzipped Ronnie’s fly, and in another moment the two of them were slurping and humping away on each other, sprawled over the couch. They deep throat each other now, you know, so it was a moment or two before all the cloth and crinoline was to one side, and that vicious animal could see that there were two dicks involved, that they were cocksucking each other. He could’t see Marion’s at all at first—it is rather small. ‘Marion,’ he called out to Ronnie, ‘Take your mouth away from that filthy woman’s cunt this instant! Real men don’t lap a woman’s pussy! Disgusting! Women are here on earth to serve us, not the other way around!’"

"’Sorry, Dad,’ Marion said, with his beautiful lipsticked mouth sliding up and down Ronnie’s long cock, pausing to lick it now and then. ‘I knew you felt that way, so Ronnie and I decided to leave women out of our lovemaking altogether. Disgusting creatures, women. Except for Mom, of course. Ready to cum, Ronnie?’ Ronnie answered from deep inside Marion’s muff, ‘Ready!’ and then the two of them spritzed their goo all over each other’s faces. And then rearranged themselves and stood up. "Then Marion stepped over to his father and said, ‘Welcome to the family gene pool, Dad. I’m your son. Ronnie here’s my fiance, maybe. Here’s how to tell us apart. We’re different. Taste us.’ And then he wiped some of his own cum off Ronnie’s face with his hand, and smeared it on his father’s mouth, and then Ronnie’s cum off his own face, and did the same. ‘See?’ he said." "Then we left that miserable shit there and went back into the dining room for desert and coffee. When we went back out to see how he was doing, he wasn’t there. Neither was the chair. It turned out later he’d gotten a hand and a leg loose, and managed to drive to a police station, where he claimed that his son who was dressed like a woman and his son’s ponce who looked like Arnold Schwartzenegger had handcuffed him and then sucked each other’s cocks and then subjected him to unspeakable perversions. Well, the cops know that handcuffs on a civilian mean bondage and domination games, and cum on the face means only one thing when bondage and domination’s involved, so they charged him with sodomy and other unnatural acts and threw him into the clink. His lawyer got him out, and advised him to jump bail and never return to the State. We’re rid of him."

"Can you stay for dinner, JayCee? I promise you, no cocksucking unless you really want to."

I told Jane sure, and the three of us together started to prepare dinner. For a moment I thought I was hallucinating, that there were three women in the kitchen cutting and chopping and lining the broiler pan. That’s what I saw, and that’s what we were at that moment. It was a lovely moment. Marion may have felt himself to be unalterably a man, but he had all the virtues and graces of a woman. All of the easy superiority. I guess I’d taught him well.

Jane asked me what I was planning to do when I graduated. I’d left her that message about some kind of partnership, she said, and she’d like to hear more.

So I told her. After graduate work and licensing I mean to set up as a professional sex therapist. It seemed to me to be the life’e work I was destined to perform. I meant to specialize in gender conversions. Sometimes of a husband at a wife’s request, if she wants control over her husband’s will, or his money, or is just plain kinky. Or at a man’s mistress’s request, for her own reasons. Sometimes at a man’s request, if he has the money to indulge a secret desire to be a woman, or to look like a women. That’s often all they want, usually, the guys I’ve worked with already, but if they look worth the effort I always see to it that they end up buffing their manicures in some secretarial pool somewhere, or wearing suits with short skirts and pantyhose and cutting deals in whatever their former business, out in the open as women with their manhood lost and gone and irretrievable. I told Jane I wanted to offer a complete service, with fashion consultants living with them, for example, until they can manage their new lives as women altogether on their own.

Jane thought I was thinking too narrowly. Why not open a chain of therapeutic clinics where men who wish to be feminized, humiliated, or dominated by women may have their wishes fulfilled for a fee covered by routine medical insurance. Replace the amateur dommes who dominate the market with well-trained and seasoned professionals. Franchised mental health clinics are already everywhere, she pointed out. Franchised sexual fulfillment clinics of all kinds may well be only just over the next horizon. We talked about it, and new ideas emerged. Chains of different kinds of Gender Change Clinics. "Femme Incorporated" for example could be for genuine transsexuals and for dominant women who want to place their men permanently under them, offering a one-stop service from the necessary psychological counselling through cosmetic modifications such as beard electrolysis, all the way to Sex Reassignment Surgery. Then there were other services we could offer. The "TLC" or "Tough Love Corporation" could set up franchised dungeons around the country, to train husbands and wives how to achieve the most meaningful relationships available to them, and offer a full line of whips, chains, leather goods, rubber and vinyl, stocks, and other apparatus under the "TLC" rubric. There were other possibilities, too. Jane said she was ready to commit to a partnership just as soon as I had the necessary professional credentials, in another two or three years, because she had no doubt whatever that I would succeed at something like this. Meanwhile, she would look into the advantages over a partnership of issuing Stock and going to the public for the necessary capital. We decided we would make an excellent team, with me in charge of the gender change services themselves, and Jane managing the business end. We shook hands on it. Conversation then relaxed, and I decided to share with the two of them an observation I’d made only a couple of years earlier. I had realized that the best part of my sex with Marianne had been that it was sex with a woman, or at least with someone I thought was becoming a woman. I had found that men were far too easy, too easily manipulated. The main reason why it’s more desireable to be a woman than a man, I’d learned, is simple. Women are more desireable than men. Just as Marianne had learned that she’s gay, I’d learned during the past few years that I’m by preference a lesbian. I’ve used men, I commented, but I can’t say I’ve enjoyed them as men. Both Marianne and I have probably been homosexual since birth, I pointed out, though it takes a while to find out things like that, and meanwhile we do a lot of things we think we’re choosing to do, even though we’re not really. "Really," Jane said, looking at me with new respect. Suddenly she broke off and stood up, and turned her back to me and went to the kitchen window and looked out, down the street back toward our house, where she’d first seen me waggle my ass at her son by way of introduction, five years ago. "You know, after Marion’s father left me, and good riddance, I was so turned off men I lost all interest in them. I tried one or two, and I still mean to do so, especially when Marion’s entry into the firm gives me more free time. But mainly, I’ve been bringing home more women. I prefer sex with women now. Women are so much more...sensuous, if you know what I mean. More sensually aware, more artful. More tender and caring. Men are crude. It seems almost demeaning now for me to have sex with men." She seemed a bit embarrassed by that confession. "I think we must be about ready to serve dinner now." I stood to help carry out dishes and help set the table, and I looked at Jane with renewed interest. "I know what you mean," I said. "How interesting that you feel that way too. I mean about men. About dinner too, of course."

I looked her over more carefully. She was still trim, a slender woman with clear smooth skin, and she still had nice curves top front and bottom rear. Previously it had seemed to me that she moved like a dancer or at least an aerobics instructor, but now for some reason she also reminded me of a cat. She saw me checking her out, and she looked back at me, and smiled. "Yes, isn’t it," she said. "No ‘stuff’ between us, ever, JayCee? Same as before, five years ago?" I nodded, and held out my hand, same as before, and she started to take it but instead began to hug me, same as before, and I hugged her. She smiled even more broadly at me. We both started to giggle, then to laugh, still looking steadily into each other’s eyes. I’m sure mine started to gleam, and I know hers did.

"What’s so funny?" Marianne asked, looking from one to the other of us.

"You wouldn’t understand," I told him. "You’d have to be a woman to understand!"

 

END

 

© 1997 by Vickie Tern

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