Crystal's StorySite

WARNING: The following story contains graphic descrip-tions of a sexual nature. It is intended for mature persons only. Any persons not old enough to legally receive adult materials or who are offended by them should read no farther. Further distribution of this story--and all others of this nature by this author--is permissible only to appropriate persons and only if the contents and author credit are unchanged.

Copyright (c) June 1999.
The persons and situations depicted in this story are entirely fictitious. Any similarities to actual persons or situations are completely unintentional and coincidental.
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Mommy's Bottom Drawer

by: Pervitron


The door closed behind her. Dad and I sat in silence a while, watching TV, waiting for the minutes to tick off, until it was safe to go about our business. I'd let him go first, I knew he'd be off to the basement any second now and that he'd be down there for about an hour. I hadn't learned yet exactly what he did down there, but I knew it was important - important enough to defer the chores my mother had assigned him on her way out the door. This was a typical weekend afternoon. Before Mom left to go shopping, she stood there with her hand on the door knob, looking around the house and telling him what needed to be done. He sat in his chair and wrote down each task: dust, clean the oven, two loads of laundry, and scrub the bathroom floor. Whatever popped into her head. He was given a lot to do, but I knew he'd take his hour downstairs anyway. Do what he needed to and then come upstairs, and rush around breathless the rest of the afternoon, catching up just in time.

I didn't know exactly what he did down there, but I had a sense. I was twelve, and I knew a bit about what men like to do when they're alone. I had my secret stash of Playboys underneath my dresser. Lots of other times when Mom was out I'd be up in my room, standing over the bed with my dick in my hand. My bed was like an altar, I'd have a dozen or so magazines scattered about, each open to a favorite girl. I'd take a long time arranging them, selecting just the right type of girl, carefully matching the look in their eyes against the mood I was in. The lingerie was important; I found the girls far more alluring if they were wearing something delicate - in fact I liked them best if I could just barely see the outlines of their snatch beneath a layer of stretched silk or nylon. When I had them arranged, I'd stand up, and I'd start to stroke myself as my eyes danced among them. They were my harem. I met their stares, and I loved the promise of their big breasts, and the hint of darkness hidden in the folds of their silk underthings. It was always the underthings that did it, I'd always explode while I was lost in the sense of nylon. Nylon. The thin skein of it stretched tightly against warm buttery flesh.

I knew what I was going to do today, and I was screaming inside for my father to get on with it. Shit! What was he waiting for? He probably waited just the same time he always had; it just seemed longer, because today my need was especially great, and I wanted as much time as I could get upstairs. Finally he glanced at his watch; he gave a quick look out the window, and he got up. He avoided my eyes, he seemed to feel ashamed. When he got up he looked out the window once again, as if she could sense his plans and was waiting outside. He started down the basement steps, and pulled the door tight behind him.

I let him get settled, it killed me, but I let a full five minutes go by before I got up, leaving the TV on so that my father might not hear me. I crept up the stairs, but instead of heading down the hall towards my room, I turned right. I was going into their room. Her room really.

The only sign of my father's presence was an unpainted wooden dresser on one wall, as if after fifteen years he was still a marginal occupant, on some sort of probation. The rest was all her: it as a room covered in light pastel colors and soft fabrics. Their bed was a large, antique four-poster with a high canopy. The bedspread was made of pure satin, a shiny, blood red fabric that gleamed in the sunlight streaming in from the west window. The wall on the other side of the bed had her vanity, a long shelf of polished mahogany with a five foot mirror in front of her high backed chair. Her things were arranged in perfect order: makeup on the far left, a half dozen brushes lined up carefully on the immediate left of the mirror. To the right was a collection of lotions and powders, and to the right of that was a white wicker basket of nail polishes. Her chiffon robe was laid carefully across the back of the chair.

The vanity wall on either side of the mirror was covered with a half dozen mahogany shelves; They covered the wall from the vanity surface almost to the ceiling. These held her shoes. She had almost fifty pair of the finest dress shoes, each pair was in its assigned place, and they were maintained carefully, as if they were precious items in a museum collection. All of them were kept free of dust, so that nothing would obscure the surface of the soft scented leather, and the thin buttery straps and slings that clasped her feet. I loved these shoes, whenever she came home at night my eyes fell on them first, I was fascinated by the differences in style and mood, from the classic elegance of her tan pumps to the brilliant, unrelenting hardness of her black stiletto heels.

I walked over towards her dresser, feeling as if I was in a dream. I opened the drawer, her bottom drawer, and the feeling I remembered from those other times came flooding back. Oh! The loveliness of her smell, the aroma of her preserved lovingly in the scalloped laces and shiny fabrics. The smell powered its way through me like an electric current, rushing to my privates, and giving me an instant, intense hard on. Christ! What a feeling! I reached my hands into the drawer, and pulled a handful of her things up close to my face. I felt the softness of them against my cheeks, and drew the sacred aroma they held deep into my lungs.

It was only then, after I paid homage to the primal senses of smell and touch, that I was able to draw back and look at the precious items before me. Each was lovelier than the next. I could tell that red and black had some intimate pull for her - or my father? - because these were the colors that were favored. I felt the loveliest, most erotic tingle, and I knew that I had some childlike remembrance, some reminisce from long ago. Some were on the edge of consciousness: I remembered the straps of her garters, the way they looked under her dress, as seen from a child's vantage point. Perhaps while camped under a table at which she sat. I remembered the way her toes looked within their stocking, the curl of them, reacting to the talk and laughter above. There was an intensity that only the most basic instincts could explain, and I knew in my balls that I had been held naked against fabrics just like these. Yes, once I had felt them against my skin as I pulled my earliest life from her breast. I was coming home, again, and my pulse was racing. I had enough sense about me to check the time before I started. I had almost 45 minutes left, more than enough time to what I planned. In the weeks since I discovered her bottom drawer an irresistible idea had taken shape. I had to put these things on, to feel what she felt like when she wore them. I looked among them and chose. My eyes fell on a pair of panties, a special pair that seemed to call to me. What caught my eye first was the color, a light black lace, that had the softness of nylon to the touch, and when I picked it up and stretched it in my hands I noticed that the lace work had a series of kisses knitted into the pattern. I imagined matching my lips against these, while my mother was wearing them, and I knew that this was the pair I had to put on.

I looked around me as I held them. Why, I don't know: my glance to the left and right was an instinctual sign of shame, of guilt. But I was going to do it anyway. I pulled my clothes off, and stood naked in the bedroom, looking at myself in the mirror over on the back of the door, feeling the gentle fur of the white rug between my toes. I knew I was about to do something I'd never be able to tell anyone about, but the secrecy, the illicitness of it only added to the erotic charge.

So I bent over and stepped into her panties, pulling them up my legs, and over my thighs like they were a magic cloud that would disappear. Finally, I pulled them tight up to my pelvis, and my cock and balls danced in a thrill they'd never felt before. I looked down and saw myself, thick and throbbing against the silky essence of them. I was struck with wonder: how could women STAND to wear these things all day? The thrill was so compelling, it was a feeling deeper than all thought.

There was no turning back. I could feel my cock pounding as I bent over the drawer again, selecting the next treasure. A pair of stockings. I found the pair I loved, the dark ones with the long, slender rose near the ankle. I picked them up, along with a sexy garter belt and brought them all over to her bed. The garter belt was black with numerous red hearts speckled about it, and red bows on the end of each strap. I sat on the bed and put the stockings on first. I guess I remembered watching my mother do this long ago, because I slipped naturally into the right way to put them on, the gentle feed from the hands as the body was pulled upwards. I never knew that legs were an erogenous zone until I put these things on. I stood and pulled each stocking tight as I hooked it to the garter belt. My entire lower body seemed to be fired with an electric glow.

There was only one thing missing: shoes. I wanted some elegant pair of heels on my feet to complete the feeling. I looked over to the vanity wall, and I looked for the pair of pumps that Mom had worn yesterday. I loved all her shoes - ever since I started having these feelings her shoes seemed so attractive to me. They seemed the most visible emblem of her station in life, so impractical, they could only be worn by someone who never needed to do anything physical, other than look sexy and enjoy the stares of strange men. I wanted yesterday's pumps. Like a dog I always hovered nearby whenever she got home from work at night. Seemingly to offer a kiss, but really to catch that first, almost imperceptible scent of woman that drifting upwards as she kicked off her shoes. The simultaneous kiss on her soft cheeks together with the almost earth smell thrilled me deeply. So I selected the pair, I took them down from the shelf, and held them up to my face, and I became almost dizzy in the full aroma of soft flesh and nylon. Such wonder! She loved especially high heels, they were so impractical, so awkward. I remembered the effect on me when I first noticed them, they seemed so hard, so unforgiving in their polished brilliance. It was this hardness, contrasted with the soft, smelly feet that interested me, for some reason I didn't understand.

After a moment I brought them over to the bed, and slipped them onto my feet. Of course, they were a little too large, but this only made my first game easier. I leaned back, crossed my legs, and let the pump hang from my outstretched foot. I almost cried from the sheer thrill of it. Oh! To be watched while I did this! To have a pair of needy eyes watching me! I understood then how my mother and the other woman I'd seen do this felt. I knew why they put me in such thrall. This was an almost self-conscious dance, the shoe dangled just on the edge of their consciousness, lilting on the playfully clenching big toe. A dangling heel is a sign of self absorption.

It was difficult to get up; difficult, but unbearably exciting.

I just stood there a moment, and my first step was a halting one. I had to fight to keep my balance. Small steps. Yes, keep the back arched, and my legs apart. Try not to think of the sensation of the panties and stockings. I stepped over to the full length mirror on the back of the door, rocking my hips like a doll as I did so.

When I got there, the sight took my breath away. There I was, all dolled up like one of them, those ... sluts I liked. Unconsciously I turned sideways, giving myself, no ... her, a coy look. I saw that if I turned sideways, I looked really good. I had shoulder length blond hair, and the still androgynous soft features of a twelve year old. I looked so... so...pretty! I had to do it, I had to reach down and rub my throbbing cock. I kept as much of it as I could inside the stretched panties, because the strokes felt better through that delightful material. It didn't take long to get there; my knees started to wobble, and while I was fearful of slipping from my perch on my heels, I couldn't stop. Not until I was finished. Finally, I was there, I exploded and my spunk burst out. Some of it flew through the lace and dropped on the rug, but most of it was caught inside the panties.

I just stood there for a moment with my eyes closed, catching my breath, and straightening up on my heels. It was then, at the worst possible moment, that I heard someone by the bedroom door. It was my father! I heard the door open, and when I turned around and looked at him, I saw his eyes scanning my body, jumping back and forth as if disturbed at what he was seeing. "Dad, I ... I" I started to talk, even though I had no idea what to say.

He walked towards me, as if to get a closer look, and as he approached I could see his gaze focus on the large mess I made in the panties. His eyes flew open. "Look at what you did!" pointing at the offending stain.

I was so shamed, I wanted to melt into the carpet. But after a brief moment, I had a strange realization. The look in his eyes wasn't anger - it was fear! I felt a chill as I stood there in my stockings and panties, because I recognized that he wasn't really surprised at all at what I was wearing. As if it was he most natural thing in the world for a twelve year old boy to put his mothers underthings on, and prance around in her bedroom. No, he wasn't surprised at what I was wearing. He was shocked at what I had done. I had soiled her panties, and he was terrified that she would find out.

He looked at his watch, seemingly undecided about something. "OK, OK, just take those things off!" He was beside himself, unable to catch his breath because of his agitation. Again, he looked at his watch, he was confused. His mind was racing, searching desperately for the way out, as if he that was in trouble. "Come on! Take them off, so I can get them washed before she comes home."

So I started to undress. I started by unhooking the garters from my stockings, bending my knee and standing on my toes to get the rear straps. While I did this my father went over to her drawer, and he got down on his knees and started refolding the things I had disturbed. He kept looking at the clock, and the window. "Dad, can't we just dry the panties off, why do we have to wash them?"

"No!" He looked back at me, shocked that I would even think of such a thing. "She'll know, believe me." And I saw then how pitiful he was, as he was kneeling there, arranging her drawer, getting it back the way he knew it belonged. I knew then that her drawer was very familiar to him as well.

When I unstrapped my garters, I pulled the panties down off my legs, somewhat reluctantly, as if I was parting with an intimate, deeply private part of myself. Even as I did it, I knew I would do this again, some other time, when I could really take my time. The panties dropped to the floor, I stepped out of them and walked over to the bed and sat down on it, so I could take the stockings off. When I sat, and felt the softness of the satin bedspread against the underside of my scrotum, I felt the tingles start again. My father had his back to me, still kneeling at her drawer, and I got hard again, notwithstanding my recent release. I was imagining what the bed spread would feel like if I lay on it face down, so my cock was in contact with its softness. I started to take her stockings off. I still had things to learn about women's undergarments. I crossed my leg and tried to take the left stocking off by pulling it from the toes. It wouldn't come, it just snapped back like a rubber band. My father kept glancing back at me. "Come on! Just get them off!" Finally, growing careless in my desperation, I grabbed the stocking toe with both hands, and then pulled with my hands while I pushed with my foot. And then it happened. My toes pushed through the stocking, leaving a gaping hole. Shit! "Umm, Dad?" He turned, and his face turned white. His mouth hung open in shock. "Timmy, what did you do?" He looked at the clock again, his nervousness was approaching a frenzy. "Oh shit!" He looked at the drawer, and the clock again, standing stock still, caught in a trap. Overload. He didn't know what to do.

"It wasn't coming off, Dad." I looked at the clock too, I'm sure my face was red as a beet, I felt so small, having gotten the two of us in such trouble. Why did I do this? I felt so ashamed, so angry at myself. "Maybe, if we get the other one off OK, we can put them in the drawer, she might think she did it." He didn't even answer, he just came over and knelt down in front of me. I uncrossed my leg, and he reached for the top of my right stocking. He almost touched my cock. I was obviously still excited, my mind was racing from stress, but my body still derived a malicious thrill from all this exposure. He glanced at my cock while he slid his fingers under my stocking. I was hard as a rock again; my stiff member arched out from its nest of sprouting boy hair. He drew a quick, short breath: he was still for a brief moment, looking at my erection. He was about to say something, but he hesitated, and the moment passed. I raised my leg off the spread and he drew the top of my stocking down towards him, gathering it carefully in his hand as he did so. The process seemed to take a long time; he did it so slowly and deliberately. Only one hand gathered the stocking - for some reason he kept the other hand open against the underside of my leg, as if it was needed to hold my leg aloft. As he rolled the stocking into one hand, the open hand trailed down the underside of my raised leg. I could feel the tips of his fingers gently brushing all along me. And yes, a shudder passed through me: I realized the sheer joy, the sacred power a ceremony like this would have for a woman. I might even have thrown my head back, so intense was the surge. I had already ruined the other stocking in my haste to get it off. But he went to work on the other leg with the same, intense ritual, and I made no move to rush him, the feeling was so exquisite. When both stockings were bare, I stood up in front of him, and pushed my garter belt down. I pulled my hard cock through it, and shimmied it down my legs. My father watched me do this. He was still on his knees.


Fifteen minutes later, we were standing by the sink, I was back in my boy clothes, watching him wash her panties in warm, soapy water. The washer was going, but he calculated the time against the fact that they'd have to be dry when she got home. So he'd have to do them by hand, before we threw them in the dryer. I watched him wash them, he rubbed the soap into the areas I had soiled with the tips of his fingers, and rinsed them by holding them under the faucet. He kept doing this, as if there was some residue of me that was only visible to him. I would have given them just a quick dunk under the faucet and them thrown them in the dryer, but for all the panic he showed before, he seemed unable to move quickly now. Once he started washing her panties he seemed to get lost somewhere, he looked down calmly as he rubbed soap into them, mesmerized.

Strange, he'd never mentioned sex to me, whatever I knew of it was from the Playboys I had stashed upstairs. And here I was standing next to him, watching him wash my spunk off his wife's panties. Nothing was said, but there was an undertone of sympathy between us, as if he understood why a boy would want to wear her clothes, and I understood the hold she had over him. I knew how overwhelming the her presence was.

I don't know where I got the nerve, it was so unlike me, so unlike the two of us to speak of such things. I broke the silence. "Dad, she must be really, ... nice when she's wearing ... that?" Since I experienced puberty I understood some things that always mystified me. They didn't fight anymore, but I remembered some arguments that happened when I was small, I remembered the shouting, and the tears, and the days of tension afterwards. But most of all I remembered one thing: the argument didn't end until he said he was sorry, and said it the way she wanted to hear it. In the days afterwards he'd be after her, desperately try to hold her, give her hugs or kisses, but she'd act cold, uninterested, she'd turn her back on him with crossed arms. The more distant she seemed the more desperate he got. I'd hear him at the door of their bedroom at night, pleading to come in. I knew then as a small child that she held all the cards, and as I saw him rinse her panties, we both understood the source of that power.

"She's ... really special." He seemed so far away as he said it, as if he were lost in some inner dream, under a spell. And then our world unraveled. I heard the car in the driveway.

She was home, almost an hour early. "Dad, she's home!" In an instant, he shut the water off, raced to the laundry room, The panties were dripping with soap, but he was oblivious. He opened the dryer and threw the panties in. It was the easiest place to hide them, for now. We'd have to improvise. Just as he closed the dryer lid, she opened the door.

My mother strode into the house, with a small Bloomingdale's bag hooked on her arm. Of course, she was impeccably dressed, today she was wearing a white, knee length fur coat, it was cinched smartly around her waist by a black belt. Black and white was the theme, her hair was naturally jet black, thick and lustrous it fell around the sides of her face in long, graceful waves. She stood in the foyer in her black pumps, taking a moment to survey her home. She glanced around quickly, measuring my father's progress on the chores, noting that the washer was still going. I knew he'd hear about that later. Before she started upstairs, she told my father to get the rest of the packages from the car. As she placed her foot on the first step, I walked over to her. She bent slightly to accept my kiss. I smelled her once again, once more I was lost for a moment in her delights. She looked at me briefly, I felt her gaze into my eyes. I looked away, feeling that if I allowed too long a look, she'd see what I'd done. I watched her climb the rest of the stairs, listening to the crack of her heels on the steps, seeing the shape of her lower legs in her pumps.

Did we remember to close her drawer? Shit! Were the stockings and garter still laying on the floor?

I knew we hadn't put them away before she got to the top step. I looked out the front window and saw my father walk towards the house, carrying her bags. I just stood there, like I was underwater, drowning in the sick knowledge of what was about to happen. My father seemed so far away as he came in the door, his face was red from the cold, and from the weight of her bags. She did a lot of shopping in just an hour, he had at least five bags, plus a coat box, and two large hat boxes. He was foolish, and tried to do all this in one trip. He struggled to get them through the door, turning this way and that, until he found the right angle to get the bulk of her purchases through the door. He continued up the stairs, I noted his shortness of his breath. I watched him climb the stairs, unable to speak. When he got to the top, and turned to enter their room he stopped dead in his tracks.

"Come in and close the door behind you!"

I didn't dare go up there, and try to hear what was said inside that room. I was anchored to the bottom of the stairs, listening to the drama that was played out. He did all the talking, I couldn't hear the words, but I didn't need to in order to understand what was happening. This wasn't the first time I had heard him called to account. He was fighting for an explanation, desperately trying to convince her of some innocent reason why her intimate things were scattered about. Occasionally I'd hear an impatient question from her, she was having none of it. He'd try again, he'd try a different explanation, but all that accomplished was to make things worse. He was like a foolish driver digging his way deeper into a snowdrift. Then I heard a slap, and I had no doubt that he was on the receiving end. Then another, and another. Now he spoke again, and this time I knew with a sinking heart that it was the truth. After a few moments of silence he opened the door and he called out to me. "Your mother wants to see you." Shit! It took forever for me to climb the stairs. When I got to their room, she was standing by the bed. She had taken her coat off, she was standing there in her white dress. It clung tightly to her body, showing the curve of her hips. It was tight enough on top to reveal the tips of her nipples. I thought of her walking in the mall like this, the stares that she'd get. Her arms were crossed across her chest, she looked at me, down at me really, from her perch on her high heels. I felt her gaze burn into me. "How DARE you! Go through my ... things!" Her look was unforgiving, pitiless. A coldness rose within me, I had the sudden fear that I had lost her affections forever. "Well, what have you got to say for yourself?"

Indeed. What could I say? That the scent of her, the sheer ... idea of her, clasped and trussed, held tightly in hose and belts, down there, down around the sacred precincts between her legs, was too ... alluring to resist. That I would do anything for some contact with her, even indirect contact, through things she wore. Did she have any idea how lovely, how desirable she was, even when she was angry? No especially when she was angry, I realized with a start how ... alive I felt, knowing that in the coldness I felt, that there was some secret language, a secret exchange between the fire in her eyes, and my cock, my cock that burned through the fear like a hot iron as she spoke... "OK, Mister, I'll deal with you after dinner. Get out of here, now!" I turned and left, closing the door behind me, leaving my father there, inside.

I don't remember much of that afternoon, between that first discovery, and dinner. If it was like the other weekend afternoons, my father would have been busy making dinner, and my mother would have been on the phone, talking with her girlfriends. Exchanging gossip and idle chit chat, while she lay back in her easy chair, dangling her high heeled slipper pump over the edge of the footrest. I'd watch it swinging there, suspended on the slightest catch of her toe, it was tantalizing. The pink, furry ball on the arch buckle, the teasing curl of her sole, the brilliant red of her nails, nails that were always freshly painted, never marked or chipped. Every once in a while my father would refill her drink. He'd take the empty and return with a fresh glass, and he'd bend down and give her a kiss. He'd keep the fire near her chair going, and as he walked back to the kitchen he'd take a last glance, like a waiter checking to see that everything was in order. She loved those talks with her friends, the lazy afternoons. Girl talk and giggles, and the talk about men, sometimes in the most explicit terms. All of this took place in my home, it seemed the most natural thing, like this was the true and natural order of the world. Women get waited on, they get pampered, primped, because they have something we need, something we can't live without, something we can get if we're, well, perfect. She started in on me during dinner. After my father sat down, she started with the comments. "I had no idea we had a little ... sissy ... in our family." Sissy. My face was beet red, I ate my meal with my face down. "Tom, can you image that, a twelve year old boy who likes to wear girls clothes!" My father tried not to take the bait, he kept silent too. So she continued. "Tom, have you had a talk with this boy?" I could tell she wasn't expecting an answer, she was just having fun. "Maybe you need to tell him what boys are supposed to know? Hum, Tom?" Dad just continued to look down, he wasn't going to look at her, he shot me a quick, surreptitious look. I could tell what she was going to say. "hmmmm ... as if you'd know." I chanced a look at her, she had a faraway look on her face, a look of pleasure, her expressive lips were curled in an unknowing smirk, the fun of tormenting my father danced upon her face like bright daybreak. "No,... maybe I'll..." The air was dead silent, these were uncharted waters, she was drilling for a hidden nerve she knew all about. "... maybe I'll .... have... Vern ... show him!" That got him, he looked up at her at last, wide eyed, and said "No!" It was the first, and only time I ever saw him get angry at her.

She saw the look on his face. She would have none of it. "Timmy, wait for me upstairs!" I did as I was told, I could feel the silent charge between them on my back as I left the room. I knew he was going to get it, she wouldn't accept any back talk. He'd probably spend a week on the couch.

When I got to her room, I saw that it was back in order. Her drawer was closed, and the offending garments were no longer on the floor. I sat in the bed, wondering what was happening downstairs, but I couldn't hear them. The silence from downstairs was ominous, I knew how cruel, how vicious her silent anger could be. Soon thoughts of them receded into the background. There were far more, well, interesting things here. I looked at myself in her vanity mirror, and then up at her shoes. So many of them I couldn't help but look at them, they seemed so ... precious ... up there, sitting on the bed looking at them was like being in the center of an amphitheater. Each shoe was utterly different, each seemed designed for a special ... mood. I had a sense of wonder at the diversity within me, knowing that I couldn't actually choose just one as my favorite; each seemed to speak to a different wish within me. They each looked so fine, so special. I was lost again, the erotic buzz was back, I was hard in my pants again.

I heard her heels on the wooden surface of the stairs. She had finished the quick business with my father - now it was my turn. I jumped off the bed as she entered the room, as if I had done something there to be guilty of. She strode into the room and came towards me, knowing exactly what she would do. "Look at me." She took my chin with her left hand, and drew my face upward. Still, I hesitated, the thought of a close look from her frightened me. She'd be able to see my thoughts, my desires... Seeing the reluctance, she pinched my chin between her thumb and forefinger, shook me slightly, and said again:

"Timmy, look at me."

When I met her eyes, I saw with wonder that she wasn't angry at all. "Mom..." I started to speak when I became trapped in her gaze, held suspended between those magic halos around the black well of her soul. Her eyes caught me like a snare, I was lost in them, and couldn't speak. No, she wasn't angry, it was worse: she was amused.

"So tell me, little man, what is this ... fascination ... with my stuff." She knew, of course, but she wanted to hear me say it. Better to be beaten, screamed at, than have to tell her my feelings, about the thoughts and desires she aroused in me. She said this with a smirk, contempt poured from her eyes down on me. I kept silent, I just looked back at her, in shock, unable to speak.

But she knew her little boy. She slid her finger up to my cheek, and stroked me there with the tips of her fingers, the outer edge of her nails. It was a slow, teasing caress. It sent an electric current straight down to my cock, I felt like I would explode, right there in front of her. "Come on! Tell me, little man." And she bent down and gave me a soft kiss, pulling gently on my lips. Ohhhh!

"Mom ... I just like to see the things you wear. They're ... special." I hesitated to tell her, and with each successive word I grew more excited. My heart started slamming within my chest, leaping at the proximity to her, the sense of intimacy from telling her things like this.

"And they give you a special feeling, I bet?" She continued to looked deeply into my eyes, I was grateful to hold her gaze. I didn't want her to look downwards, and see the obscene bulge in my pants.

"Oh, shit yeah!" I said, before I caught myself. Suddenly, having said it, her mood changed. She drew back from me, and looked cold and bitter. "Listen ..." I almost screamed from confusion, what was going on? She was so moody, so unpredictable! Her moods were like summer thunderstorms. "...listen, you little sissy..." Sissy. It was a word that cut deep into me, especially the way she spat it out, like she had something dirty in her mouth. I started shivering inside, from the shock of her transformation. I recognized the mood, remembering how she spoke with my father. "... I better not ever catch you going through my stuff again." She grabbed my chin roughly, held it between her clenched fingers and shook my head from side to side. She was hurting me. "You understand, you little shit!"

"Y-y-yes, Mom." I could hardly get the words out, she was squeezing my chin and mouth so tightly. I felt like a bug beneath her, so helpless before her. And despite the pain, despite the tears there was another feeling. A feeling of ... lust; the cut of her contempt was carving a new channel within me, a secret canyon of pleasures too deep to speak of. She let me go, and studied me for a moment, looking down with her arms folded across her chest. I just wanted to get out of there, I realized I had started to cry, a tear was rolling down the side of my cheek. I knew I would never be a man, like other men, so complete was my humiliation. "Tell you what..." Her eyes brightened as an idea formed, I had to look away. "...since you like my stuff so much, maybe you can wear something of mine." She was grinning from ear to ear. "You can wear it to school tomorrow." She was real happy with herself. "Yeah, something ... really pretty!"


Of course, the next day was a gym day. My class was in the locker room changing into our gym clothes. Or rather all the other guys were changing, I was doing everything but. Acting like there was a knot in my shoes, while the other guys stripped. I kept dropping things to stall for time. Almost all of them were naked when I was just taking my shirt off. I took the time to hang it in the locker while they were putting on their shorts. I took off one sock at a time, and put each one into the locker. It looked like I'd be OK, the group started moving towards the doorway. Mr. Lackman joined the stream at the back, saw me still getting ready, and said "Come on! Lets go!".

"Sorry," I said to his back. I was going to make it. I started undoing my belt, moving like lightening now. Then the door opened, and one of the other students came in. Shit! It was Cliff, a thin little geek with thick glasses, he got picked on a lot. The word was, he was a fairy, so no one wanted to be associated with him. He walked over to his locker, it was only a few feet away. "You late too, Tim?"

What was I going to do now? I had nothing left to take off, except for my pants, he was standing just a few feet from me. He already had his shirt off. Finally, It came to me. "Lackman said he wanted to see you..." Yeah, this might work. "... now!" "Why?" I could see his questioning eyes, he always got picked on, every day someone did something to make him look stupid. But never me, in fact I usually felt a little sorry for him. "Don't know - but he seemed pissed!" Anything to get him out of there.

Once he was through the door, I knew I had to move quick, since he'd be back any minute to get dressed, wondering why I had lied. I only had a minute or so. I looked right and left quickly, confirming that I was alone, and I pulled off my pants. There I was, standing there in the sweaty locker room in Mom's panties. She didn't pick them. No, she made me do it, she wanted me to participate in my own embarrassment. I hesitated, but seeing that she was determined, I figured I may as well select a pair that I really liked. So there I was, a sissy in my red satin undies. They were so soft and shiny, and despite my discomfort, despite the shame I had felt all morning and my fear of being discovered, I had a stiff hardon. It was like there were two separate parts of me, an outer shell and an inner, well, an inner ... girl, that liked soft fabrics and pretty things against my body.

Those thoughts raced through my head in just a few seconds, but I would have no time to savor them. No, Cliff would be back any minute, wondering why I played a trick on him, probably figuring I was just mean, like the other boys. So I had to get dressed. I reached into my locker for my gym shorts. They weren't on the top shelf, I looked down and started searching beneath my pile of regular clothes. Shit! Where were they? I grew more frantic, throwing everything from my locker onto the floor, desperate to find something to cover myself. I heard the door open quickly, and there was Cliff.

"Hey Tim, why did you ... " He looked down and saw what I was wearing, his eyes jumped back and forth between my face and my panties, and a grin started to surface. I felt so humiliated! My face was probably as red as my panties. "Nice undies, Timmy!" He was grinning from ear to ear, I could see how he enjoyed this. For once in his life he was on top, he was the one who could poke fun, to tease, and make someone cry from shame. "All mine were in the wash, so I had to ..." I didn't bother finishing, I could see the look of amusement on his face. I tried another tack. "Listen, Cliff, maybe we can keep this quiet." I was trying to come up with something I could offer him, and even as I thought, I realized how unequal our positions were. Me, standing there in my panties, and him, knowing he could ruin me with a few words. He'd be free of all the abuse, because I'd become the target.

He started unbuckling his belt. Real slow, with this evil grin on his face. "Yeah, we can keep this quiet." He unzipped himself, pushed his pants down slightly, and pulled his cock out of his underwear. "C'mon, you little faggot, show me how secret we can keep this." His eyes were shining brightly, he knew he had me, he knew I would do it.

That was my first of many blowjobs. I remember every moment of it, the scent of him, the strong, full boy odor, the taste of his scrawny hair, and the look in his eyes when he was just about to unload in my mouth. He wouldn't tell anyone, I knew, because I had done him so nicely, I could see in his eyes the thrill beyond all speech.

Of course, he'd want me to do this again, and of course I would, to keep my secret.

When I had finished him, he went into class, and I stayed behind to find my shorts. I felt a strange unexpected calmness, some inner joy at passing a boundary that I was more relaxed, less frantic, so I found them easily, I had already taken them out of the locker. They were on the bench, under my school clothes. I put them on, covering myself, and so when I went into gym, I looked just like all the other boys.


This was my secret all through adolescence. My teenage years were like everyone else's: acne, Quaaludes, rock bands, and wet dreams. I did all right, but I didn't have many friends, isn't that the only thing that matters when you're a teenager? I was on the fringes. I was good looking, but the jocks ruled my high school, we had the best basketball team in the county, and that's all anybody cared about. My school worshipped our athletes, the chiseled, hard boys with quick moves and restless cocks swaggered through the halls. They got all the action.

I never had a date in high school. There were probably girls who would have gone out with me if I had asked, but I was too shy, I didn't have the nerve. Besides, I wasn't interested in girls who would go out with me. I wanted the special ones. I wanted the cheerleaders. Girls like dark angels, sent by some unholy ruler to show us how flat, how empty life would be without the promise of their flesh. They might give blow jobs to the boys on the team in the bus after the game, but for guys like me they had icy contempt. Still, I couldn't stop dreaming about them, the way their micro skirts flashed their silk panties, and the way they pulled their panties tight underneath, so the stretched fabric would show the shape of their mounds.

I went to all the basketball games, I'd get there early so I could sit down low, right in front of their line, not really caring that they blocked the view of the team. It was them that I came for, the row of glorious, tight asses that danced, that got me stiff with desire. I knew it was a joke with them. They noticed I was there every game, and they knew why. Girls like that love attention, the love the rain of desire that falls on them from the looks of men. I'd see the smirk in their faces as they turned towards me during one of their dances. They'd blow me mock kisses while they all wiggled their ass for the boys on the team. I didn't care, I was on fire inside. Their contempt, the satisfaction they took in teasing only added to the erotic thrill. I was surrounded by a crowd of kids and parents, I'd have a boner pushing out the line of my shorts. Finally, it got too much, I'd have to get up from the seat, and walk through the crowd. Never mind that my excitement was obvious to anyone who looked closely. I had to get away, to go somewhere alone, and masturbate.

So I was a jerk off all through high school, my desire for girls was too intense, too overwhelming to relate to one normally. I was sick with fear that someone would find out my secret: I still loved to dress, it was still an escape from the expectations, the hard things you had to do to be a real boy. My secret life was a world of lace and frills, of soft scents, and fabrics so smooth and sexy that I wanted to cry when I put them on. The only person who knew about this, other than my family, was Cliff, and he moved away after my sophomore year. Only my mother and father knew about my "strangeness." Not that anything was ever said again. The incident with my mother's drawer was never mentioned. Now when my mother went shopping in the afternoon, I just went to my room and wacked off.

I never dared to go in her drawer again, yet still I had a secret stash of pretty things. I got them because I earned them - I became just like my father. I did as I was told. As I grew older, she grew more demanding, she began to treat me the same way as my father. I was given a strict, unalterable schedule of chores. There were a number of areas in the house that I was expected to keep clean when I'd come home from high school. I scrubbed the kitchen and bathroom floors, and polished the wood of the stairs. Every day. She'd come home from work at night and step around the kitchen in her heels, inspecting the cleanliness of the corners and the quality of the shine. She wouldn't say anything if it wasn't right. No, she'd wait till she sat down to dinner, and then she'd start in on me. She'd start with the insults, call me by my nickname: "Tissy" She'd tell me what a hopeless shit I was, and I'd feel the tears well up in me. I'd run to my room, and swear to myself I'd do better.

I got my stash because I did do better. By the time I was a junior in high school, I could clean like a whirlwind. I was determined she'd find no fault in the execution of her assignments. But I did more than that. Like my father, I began to develop an intense alertness to her moods, her needs. I don't know how I learned - I guess it was just the way of things in my house - but I would watch her closely; I learned to detect her unstated wants. I'd see a small look of annoyance in her eyes, and I'd notice a pile of untidy magazines. I'd notice her lips get tight, then I'd see that the windows needed cleaning. Somehow I knew I was supposed to do these things, but without her telling me. It was as if she was training me for a whole new level of attention. She'd come home the next day, and while she was inspecting the kitchen or bathroom floor, I'd tell her what I'd done, and it was satisfying to see her smile at me. She'd give me a kiss, and I was in heaven again.

And more than that. It might be the next day, it might be the day after that, but soon after I did my extra service I'd come home from school and find a present on my bed: a box wrapped in shiny pink paper, with a large, red bow. I'd feel an inner thrill, I'd close the door before I went over to the bed and opened it. It would have a card, a simple thank you from Mom. I could hardly restrain my excitement as I opened the wrapping. I'd smell the perfume as I opened the box. It was always something truly lovely! Mom had excellent taste when it came to lingerie. It might be a pair of panties and a matching camisole. Or sometimes something simple, like a pair of shiny, loose fitting silk undies. Whatever it was, I was hard as a rock just opening the box.

I loved wearing the stuff she bought for me. I always put it on right away, I'd be shaking with excitement. I'd spend a delicious few minutes sashaying in front of my mirror, loving the look and feel of me in my new teasewear. I felt like every cell of my outer skin was alive with sensation. This was a private heaven, a soft, sensual world of my own, where I could be myself. I took my time, caressing my raging cock within the soft folds of its new fabrics; I wanted to treasure the moment. I wanted it to last. Sometimes it would take a full hour until I could wait no longer, I'd let myself go, shooting all over the bed. I'd take the new items off, and carefully fold them. I had my own bottom drawer now, I'd add them to my stash. I'd leave the panties on, though. I'd put my boy clothes on over them, and I'd go downstairs and thank mother. She'd be sitting in her chair in the living room, relaxing. She'd see me coming and smile, she could tell by my mincing walk and the distracted look in my eyes that I was "dressed" underneath. I'd grow excited again as I approached her;

The truth was, she had an unbelievable erotic charge for me now. I'd give her a kiss on the cheek, and say "thank you", and she'd look at me with those lovely eyes of hers, and give a little titter, and she'd say: "Just don't make a mess in them, dear." It felt so good, I felt like such a ... slut, that I'd almost make my mess, right there.

There were many things I did for her, many presents. My father and I hovered around her, we were like busboys at an expensive restaurant, watching some rich bitch complain about the service. We never spoke about her, this pull she had over us. Gradually, as I received more gifts from her, I started putting them in the wash, with the rest of my clothes. My father always did the laundry, my precious things were washed, folded and placed in my drawer without comment. And I saw now that he had things of his own, there were colors and fabrics in the wash that must have been his. So Dad was a secret sissy too.

We never spoke of her, the two of us. She exercised a silent dominion over us. We'd each be doing our housework, finishing up our respective chores as the hour of her arrival approached. In this we were together, but there was still a great gulf between us. He was nothing to me, the more I became like him, the more contempt I had for him as a man. Still, there was something in him that I envied. The services I did were pleasing to her, I knew. But I also knew that despite her dismissal of him, her mockery, the many times I heard her speak of him with disgust to her friends, he had a path to her that would always be denied me. The services he did could be far more intimate, I could only imagine the sweet pleasures she drew from him during the night. And if my rewards, my pretty things were my encouragement, then oh! What gifts might he be getting?


I was 17 when I learned who Vernon was. I came home unexpectedly in the middle of the night. I was supposed to spend overnight at my friend's house, we were planning on partying since his parents would be leaving. But they never left, so there was no reason to stay over.

I arrived home about 2AM, and found a strange car in the driveway: A black Lincoln Continental. Dad's car was out in the street. When I went into the house, I saw Dad on the couch, fast asleep. I wondered if he was in some sort of trouble, it wasn't unusual for her to banish him from their room for a few days. I went upstairs, and when I passed my parent's bedroom I got the shock of my life. I could hear my mother moaning through the door. And there was someone else, there was a man in there. A man with a low deep voice, he was saying things to her while she was crying. I stopped by the door and listened for a moment. The bed was rocking, I could hear the obscene shivers of the springs, and it was clear that my mother was getting the fucking of her life. I was rooted to the floor, I couldn't move, so fascinated was I by the sounds, especially by the sound of her voice. There was a tone of endearment that I had never heard with my father. I had never heard her act so so feminine. She was talking to him in a loving way, the man was pleasing her so. I walked on to my room. I stripped off my clothes, and climbed into bed. I could still hear the low voices, I just lay in bed, listening to them, and trying to understand why I felt the way I did. Yes, the sound of her thrilled me deep inside, my prick was stiff with excitement. I had to do it - pulled my meat to the sound of their cries in the room next door. They seemed to go on all night, just when I thought they were asleep, I'd hear them start all over, the bedsprings would come to life, and she'd be screaming again.

I met him in the morning. I smelled bacon and eggs when I walked down the stairs, and when I turned the corner I saw my father through the kitchen doorway. He was standing at the stove, cooking breakfast in his pink robe. He had a pair of big, fluffy slippers on his feet, as if he was trying to look especially ridiculous today. He didn't know I was home; when he saw me approach, his mouth dropped open. He had the look of a trapped animal in his eyes. When I entered the kitchen, I saw why.

There was a big black man sitting at the head of the kitchen table. He was right at home, he was wearing a T-shirt and boxers. He was leaning back in the chair reading the newspaper, and he had his feet up on the chair across from him. When he saw me he looked up from the papers, and when I met his black eyes I saw how handsome he was. His skin was coal black, his face had sharp, angular features that were striking, in particular the long, sensual lips that opened in an easy grin. His teeth were brilliant white: "Hey, You must be Timmy. I'm Vernon, I work with your Mom. How you doin'." He held his hand out towards me without sitting up straight. He was completely comfortable, as if this was his kitchen, and I was the visitor.

I walked over and took his hand. "Hi." I couldn't think of anything else to say. I walked around the table, and sat down. He made no move to be polite and move his feet. I looked at him as I walked around. He looked to be in his late twenties, and I could tell he was tall, and lanky. There wasn't an ounce of fat on his body; He was all bones and tightly stretched muscle. He was laying languidly, easily in the chair. This was the stately, deceptive repose of a dangerous predator. He had a large diamond stud in his left ear, and there were a half dozen gold chains around his neck. I could see the ridges of his hard belly beneath his T-shirt. As I sat down, I took a quick, furtive glance at his shorts. He was hung like a horse, I could see the outline of his hammer snaking along his thigh, almost out the edge of his long boxers. It wasn't so much the length of it, although that was impressive. It was the spread, the fullness of it! Testosterone city.

"Good you got up. You Dad here is making everyone a nice, big breakfast." He was smiling at me, he found this amusing. "Ain't that right, Tom?"

Dad had his back to us, at the stove. "Yeah." I could hardly hear him, he kept his back to us as he answered. Vern looked at me. The grin was gone, he spoke to my father without looking away. "What's that Tom?" I could hear an edge in his voice.

There was a moment of silent tension, and then my father said:

"Yes, sir." He said it a bit louder than last time, his fear won over his shame.

"That's it, you my man." Vern looked at me with a big, wide grin. I looked down, in shame. We sat in silence for a few minutes, while my father finished everyone's breakfast. The only sound was the sizzle of the eggs, and the sound of Vern turning the pages of the paper, every once in a while he'd whistle a little tune, I could see that he liked this, he liked where he was right now. I kept quiet, still feeling disorientated. Every few minutes, I snuck another quick look at his shorts.

My mother came down the stairs, and breezed into the room. She looked radiant this morning, she was wearing a white silk nightgown that ended midway down her thighs, and she was barefoot beneath that. I could see her hard nipples in the thin sheen that covered her chest. She had a calm, contented air about her. She wasn't expecting to see me; when she did, her expression clouded, but just for an instant. She recovered quickly, she came and sat down on the other side of the table, next to Vern. He gave her a kiss, on the lips, as my father came over with the coffee pot.

"So I guess you guys have met." He filled her cup, then poured some hot coffee into Vern's.

"Yeah." I said this quietly. I still didn't know what to say. It was so obvious what was happening, it was so twisted, so far beyond even the strange things we did before. "Vern is another partner at the firm. We've worked together a long time." This made me uncomfortable too, I wasn't used to Mom ever explaining herself, but I knew that was the only concession we'd make to propriety. We'd never mention it, the three of us, we'd act like this was perfectly natural. Woman did this all the time, they had their husband cook breakfast for their lovers. Breakfast continued. I ate in silence while Mom and Vern spoke about the firm. I was fascinated to hear the way she spoke to him; I realized that I'd never heard her speak so respectfully, so deferentially to a man before. She agreed with everything Vern said, she laughed when he laughed, and when he reached his hand down on her knee and caressed her inner thigh, she blushed and batted her eyes like a schoolgirl. For some reason, I found this extraordinarily exciting, I kept imagining him pleasing her last night. I kept looking down at his boxers, fascinated by the size of the man. The thought of her underneath him, the reaction of her eyes to the push of that big thing inside her, thrilled me in a way I couldn't explain. My cock stiffened with every look she gave him. Yes, this was beginning to make sense. While this was going on, Dad had moved into the laundry room, I could hear him ironing, and I knew without looking that he was working on Vern's shirt. When he was finished, he hung the pressed white shirt on the laundry room door, and came back and cleared the table. Vern and Mom got up. I realized how big he was then. His shoulders were wide and muscular, his T-shirt hung loosely over his thin waist. He made no effort to conceal the huge thing in his shorts. They walked out of the kitchen together. Vern said: "I left my shoes by the door." I left the kitchen right after them, leaving my father at the sink. He was doing the dishes, and he wouldn't look at me. I went back up to my room to get dressed for school. When I passed Mom's room, I could hear them inside, they were showering together. I stood there by their door, listening to the talk and laughter. An incredible charge flew into my balls. Yes, they were doing it again, this time in the shower. They were partying, making no effort to keep quiet. I could hear her scream with delight. I imagined him behind her, reaching his big arms around her, pulling her ass close up against him. I reached into my panties and stroked myself. When I heard them shut off the water, I ran into my room and shot my load onto my bed. I got dressed for school and came downstairs. My father was shining Vern's shoes in the living room. He still wouldn't look at me. I went over and sat down next to him, and he continued what he was doing, as if he was dead inside, nd his body was working on autopilot. After a minute I picked up one of the shoes and a brush, and I started brushing along with him. My father stopped what he was doing, and now he looked at me. We said nothing; there was no need to speak of this.


I met Gabreille in Chicago, while I was working at my first job out of college. I was a runner on the floor of the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. Mom's sister was a Senior VP at one of the major brokerage houses, and she got me this job. It wasn't much of a job, all I did was hump orders from the phone banks on the side of the exchange floor to the traders in a pit. The trading floor was like a beehive, there were thousands of people packed into a congested arena about the size of a football field. Working on the floor was an assault on the senses, at the end of the day my ears would still be ringing from the continuos roar of the traders. The outer perimeter of the trading floor was covered with quote boards that hurt my eyes with their brightness. Workers on the floor wore colored jackets that distinguished their role in the chaos. Exchange officials wore bright blue, there were only a few dozen of them. Trading members wore red. The most active people on the floor were runners who took orders from the phone to the pits. There were almost a thousand of us, faceless young men like me, running all around the floor like drones.

There were about a dozen trading pits on the floor. Each was a circular amphitheater containing a few hundred traders, screaming continuously at each other for 6 hours a day. This "good job" that my aunt got me consisted of running between the phone banks and the outer perimeter of the pit, where I jostled my way between a few hundred other young men so that I could shout or signal an order to one of the firm's traders down in the center of the pit. More than once I was knocked to the floor by another runner, determined to get his orders executed faster than mine. After one particularly chaotic day, I was hanging up my gold runner's jacket when I noticed a footprint in the middle of the back. I had been trampled during a stampede near the International Monetary Market pit.

It was probably one of the most stressful places to work in the world. There were three thousand men on the exchange floor at any one time, all swarming around the financial gladiators in the pits. The vast majority of the people on the floor were men. It was such a high testosterone, "in your face" arena that most woman decided they wanted no part of it. But the ones that stayed were truly extraordinary.

That was Gabrielle. She was one of the head traders for our firm, and probably the best. And her looks! She had a shapely, athletic body, with long legs, and jet black hair. She wore faded jeans that hugged her thighs, and she kept the shirt under her member's jacket half open. The men on the floor would gape at her, their eyes would be drawn to her chest, attracted by the open shirt, and the heavy gold cross that danced in the warm, shadows of her flesh. More than once I found myself staring, only to glance at her, and see her icy, black eyes burn my cheeks. She stood in the center of the trading pit; As the head trader for one of the largest firms, she was a major player. She was the only woman in the pit, and she practically dared anyone to fuck with her. The inside of the pit was a chaotic place - traders pushed and elbowed each other to get their orders filled. But there seemed to be an invisible zone around Gabrielle; she was never jostled like the other traders, she stood still and regal like a goddess.

Nobody fucked with her.

Gabrielle could out trade anybody on the floor, she'd enter the pit in the morning like a prizefighter. More than once, some day trader thought he got the better of her, by making her take an unfavorable price early in the day; at the end of the day he was back, pleading with her to let him unload a position that was in a downward spiral, snared in one of those unpredictable lurches in the market that a trader like Gabrielle could cause. She'd just look at him and smile, enjoying her revenge. And she had something else that was even more feared: She had a mouth like a viper, Gabrielle had no qualms about taking a man apart in from of the other traders. The only time I've ever seen trading stop in the pit was one day when she started screaming at one of the other head traders; a hush fell over the pit, we all looked at her, pointing her finger in his face, calling him a "sissy-assed faggot" in her piercing, traders voice. The pit fell silent until she finished with him, he walked up the steps of the pit red-faced, almost in tears. She got excellent prices the rest of the day.

Needless to say, I was smitten!

She knew I liked her, it must have been obvious from the way I looked at her, and followed her around when she moved on the floor. I wasn't the only one; When she walked around the floor there was a wake of whispers and turned heads behind her. Men leered at her shapely ass, they stopped what they were doing, distracted by the teasing dance of her young body. Men that shouted all day whispered to each other about her, how nice it would be to feel the warmth of her body against them. She loved the all the attention, she loved the power her beauty gave her over men. She seemed to like the runners most of all, because we were new to the floor; we were like a litter of young puppies, and I was the youngest, most eager of all. I'd bring her lunch. I'd wait on line down on State Street for a half hour to get the sourdough sandwiches she liked, and on the way back I'd buy a rose, and place it in the bag. She'd give me a little smile when she opened the bag; I'm sure it was really a smirk, amusement at the sick loser who was making a play for her, but I was thrilled. I thought of her all the time, whenever I masturbated I fixed my mind on her. What I would give to kiss that lovely, perfect ass of hers.

One day I got my chance. My lunch time trips had become almost comical. She teased me by saying I was becoming annoying, or some days she'd have this smug look on her face, and say that another runner was going to get her lunch today. I'd be devastated, but I'd still try the next day. There were two other women who had lunch with her on the side of the exchange floor. They weren't traders, these were older order clerks who worked the phones. One of them had short, black hair, almost like a crew cut. She had a face like a bird, she was thin and angular, and she never wore makeup. The other was a hippie that had grown old, and overweight. She wore silver granny glasses and her gray hair was pulled back into a tight, almost painful pony tail; she looked like she hadn't been made love to since the 1960s. The men on the floor said they were dykes. They said this about all the women, but I believed them with these two. They seemed to hate men, and they spoke only to each other. I could see that they were as attracted to Gabrielle as the men were, but for a different reason. Gabrielle's beauty was still in full flower, when these girls were around her they seemed energized by its ambient glow. The two of them could convince themselves that the looks they got from the men that walked by were for them, too. They were just plain angry, angry at men who denied them the chance in their day to trade, and angry at the world, for extinguishing any beauty they once may have had. Gabrielle had none of their bitterness. She didn't like men any more than they did, it seemed, but her dislike was colored more by amused, icy contempt rather than anger. Gabrielle liked this lunchtime diversion, the chance to be with girls and bitch about men;

They were a buffer for her, a chance to eat her lunch and not be bothered by the other traders.

This was another day when she let some other runner get her lunch. It had been almost a week since she let me do it. I saw her and her two friends standing there, off to the side, in the relatively quiet area underneath the visitor's gallery. The gallery was full with lunchtime tourists, all looking at the pits and the electric quote boards that surrounded the perimeter of the floor. But any men among the visitors would be looking down at Gabrielle; I knew that was why she stood there every day. I ate my lunch near my broker's station, since it was close enough to see her. She and her friends were laughing among themselves, no doubt finding one of the men on the floor amusing. She looked so ... alluring, so tempting, I looked at her smile, her bright blue eyes and that gentle tones of her face, and I had a sudden inner image of her. She was above me with that same smile, and I was deep inside her, thrilling her with the slow, folding caresses of my tongue. The image threw a switch within me, and my cock hardened, and pushed against the silky tightness of my panties.

I was meant to have her.

Like a knight, fearless of all danger, I got up from the broker's station and walked towards her.

They saw me coming. One of the older clerks said something and they all laughed. I knew I'd be mocked, but still I had to try. I walked up to them, and they fell silent; I was like a solicitor at an impatient court. "Uh, Gabrielle, can I get you something ... like ..." I knew I sounded stupid. "... a soda, or something." My heart was pounding in my chest, I was still hard in my pants, and I knew my face was blood red. I could feel my pulse there, in my cheeks.

Gabrielle gave a little impatient sigh. My stammering and discomfort seemed to have disarmed her a bit. She actually held her tongue ... but just for a moment. "Christ! Will you just get lost!" She said this using the same tone of voice you'd use with a little brat. The words hurt, but the sound of her, the way she did it, sent an erotic shiver through me. The black-haired one chimed in: "Is this that guy you were telling us about. Shit! What a fuckin' joke!" "Yeah, what an asshole. Thinks he's got a chance!" This was the one with the pony tail, her eyes seemed to brighten behind her glasses. "Asshole!" She said it again, to be sure I heard it.

Gabrielle started laughing. They all did, this was such a hoot for them, especially for the two clerks. To bury a man like this, to humiliate him, rub his nose in his own, sick desire. Yes, they hadn't felt this good in years.

Gabrielle started in. "God, what a desperate sack of SHIT you are." She took a sip of her drink and thought a moment, choosing her words carefully. "Why don't you just go JERK OFF!" Now the clerks were really roaring. "God! What a friggin' PAIN IN THE ASS you are!"

This was a bad dream. The ground was opening beneath me. I could hear her voice rise, and I knew in a minute she'd be screaming, the floor would fall silent as the men listened to her rip my heart out. They'd be talking about it in the bars after the markets closed. The guides in the visitors gallery would stop talking, mesmerized by the more primeval scene just beneath them. Still, despite the panic, I was rooted to the spot. I couldn't move. Not yet.

Gabrielle looked me up and down, searching for something cruel, something vicious to say. She found it, of course. "Hey girls, I think he's got a HARDON!"

In a moment, they would know everything. They'd know the color and texture of my panties and garter. They'd know the look and feel the soft, feminine things I wore under my street clothes, and the secret thrill I got from them all day. Her friends looked down, and started to grin. The black haired one practically shouted. "Hey! He's GETTING OFF ON THIS!" I wanted to run past them, slam through the door and run out onto South Wacker, and leave this place forever. I wanted to be back in my apartment, where I could cry in my bed, and hide, and sleep. But I was kidding myself. Once I got there I'd start masturbating, because underneath the panic, beneath the breathless fear, there was an intense arousal. My panties were wet from the thrill of this, this ... exposure. Gabrielle just glared at me while the other girls egged her on. The one with the pony tail said: "You know, maybe he's like one of those guys who want to be a slave or something." "Yeah!" The thin one picked up the ball. "He seems to like this so much! Jenny Jones had a show on about guys like that." She was watching me while she said this, she seemed to scan my body and see the truth of what they were saying. "It was so cool, these guys would like, wait on you, hand and foot." "Yeah, I saw that show too." The other girl said. They were like two little demons on either side of Gabrielle. "Remember the one with the maid's outfit?"

"Yeah, that was fuckin' AWESOME!. I bet this guy would like that too. Fuckin' SISSY!" She had the quick, darting eyes of a reptile, and her mouth was leering with her excitement. "Come on! Ask him to clean your apartment."

"Yeah, Gabby, go ahead! I bet he'd do it!"

Gabrielle looked at me calmly, as if she was studying me, as if she could see in my face the depth of my desire. For a moment, the three of them fell silent, I looked back at Gabrielle, aware only of the beating of my heart, and the still overwhelming need for her. If anything, the mockery I suffered only added to the intense pull she had over me, she seemed like nothing so much as an erotic goddess, the mistress I was forever joined to. "I-I-I-I would " I didn't even wait for her to ask, the offer just spilled out of me like a desperate plea. Take me, I'll serve you forever!

Once I said it I saw a strange light in Gabrielle' eyes, and I knew that she had secret desires too, wishes that were the top half of mine. Yes, she had an inner bitch inside, I would show her how good it felt to let it out. I had seen it come alive with anger, in her volcanic explosions in the pits. Now we would both feel the heat of her awakening bitch, not for anger, but for pleasure.


She lived on Michigan Avenue, in a duplex on a high floor with a spectacular view of the lake. I kept it immaculate, my mother trained me well. I'd arrive there in the early evening, a few hours before her. I'd have dinner ready when she arrived, I'd meet her at the door with a drink, and she'd say how pleased she was, what a good job I'd done.

And yes, of course, I'd play in her bottom drawer. I cleaned so quickly, and so well that I had time to explore her room. Her intimate wear was terribly attractive to me, my heart beat wildly when I explored her dresser; I hadn't felt a thrill this intense since that day in my mother's room. Yes, it was nice to have my own pretty things, but these garments were charged with her beauty, her sex, and so when I put them on, the feeling of intimate contact with her was just indescribable. Silk was Gabrielle's passion, all her underthings were the finest natural silk. From her catalogues, I could see that most of the stuff was imported from the orient. My favorite item was a cherry red silk kimono, I loved wearing it when I cleaned. I kept myself naked underneath, it thrilled me deeply to feel it rub and caress my stiff dick. I was careful though, she never suspected that I did these things, I was afraid if she found out she'd send me away from her forever.

Our relationship took a while to develop. This was new to her as well, At first, all she was interested in was to treat me like a servant; she seemed content to have the place clean when she arrived, and to know that a man was doing it as a sign of devotion. She'd send me home shortly after she arrived at night. But slowly, she succumbed to temptation. Put a fine piece of ass in close proximity to any normal man, and sooner or later he'll put a move on her. Similarly, when a woman sees that a man is devoted to her, it won't be long before she listens to her inner devil, and asks for more. A man that takes orders on domestic chores might just as easily perform services of a more intimate nature.

I certainly let her know I was willing.

After a few weeks, she asked me to do more personal things. She'd call me before she arrived, and ask me to have her shoes polished. This I was eager to do, and when I showed them to her, I asked her if I could put them on. She sat on the couch, and I knelt before her. I took her foot and held it like it was made of delicate china. I placed the shoe on it slowly, using the tips of my fingers to tease and caress her skin down there. She was thrilled, I could tell from the film over her eyes that she must have been wet with desire underneath. After that she wanted her shoes polished every night, even if she wasn't going out.

I began to call her mistress. I brushed her hair, I cut and polished her toes, and I found an unspeakable pleasure in cleaning her toilet. I made sure to leave this chore undone until she arrived in the afternoon, it was so much better to be watched while I was on my knees scrubbing her bowl. This became almost a ritual for the two of us, she made sure not to flush in the morning, she'd leave a bowlful of shit and piss all day. I could smell it as soon as I entered the apartment. Shortly after she arrived home I'd go into the bathroom and start in on it. She'd follow me and observe, she'd point out the spots I was missing. Thus a sort of private language developed between us, my acts of devotion were like a mating dance that coaxed her to be even more demanding, to reach within herself for deeper, even more thrilling pleasures.

And of course, she wanted me to do more. After a few months together, I didn't leave at night until I had pleasured her. She'd lay back on her big Queen Anne's chair, and place her legs up on my shoulder. I was born to do this, to tease and tickle the nerve-filled crevices deep within her. She insisted that I do this slowly, a proper service needed at least an hour to bring her full passion alive. Oh! How I loved the sound of her, when I coaxed her inner demon out from the prison of manners, and respectability. I could feel in the heat of her cunt the approaching release, and I was proud of my ability to hold her there, poised on the brink. I was born to do this, I was made to press my lips against the lower, earthy lips that God mode for us.

I never dared to ask her for anything for myself. Despite all my probing within her inner thighs, she seemed as remote as the clouds, and I was afraid of any storm a selfish request might unleash. So I held my passion off. I'd think of her all the way home, the image of her snatch and the sound of her encouraging voice would be fixed still and waiting within me. I'd hold it like an inner light, until I got back to my apartment, and could masturbate, and bring the sense of it alive. I'd relive every sweet moment for my exploding cock.

She wondered why I was like this, and I told her about my Mom. This intrigued her, something about the notion of a wife and mother acting like a bitch was especially compelling for her. She made me describe at length all the things we did for her. She seemed particularly interested in my father. Did he ever get angry? Did I ever see any affection between them. What did he look like when she was angry at him? Did I think they had sex? I never told anyone about my family, I knew that most people would consider my parent's relationship to be, well, deviant. But Gabrielle wanted to know everything, and telling her of these things seemed only added to the intimate hold she had over me. I was handing her the keys to my soul.

So when Gabrielle asked to meat my mother, I had no choice in the matter. I had never brought a girl home. In fact, I had never even mentioned a girl to my mother. But Gabrielle was not to be denied.

I had my own bitch now.


Gabrielle and my mother just ... clicked together. Gabrielle was right at home by the morning of our first overnight stay. My mother would lay in her easy chair and be waited on by my father, and Gabrielle would be similarly reposed on the couch. I'd be in the kitchen with Dad, mixing drinks, doing our duties in silence. I'd be doing the dishes, he'd be cooking, and we'd hear them in the living room. Giggling among themselves, having a fine, lazy afternoon. Once in a while they'd call out to us. Mom would say: "Timmy dear, bring me my slippers." And off I'd go, ever obedient. I was mad with desire; I'd bring my mother a drink, or her slippers, an Gabrielle would give me this look, like she was a witness to the inner framework of my life. Now she understood me, she saw how I was raised with the single purpose of pleasing a demanding woman. Gabrielle was assuming the erotic charge of my mother in my mind, and the feeling was overwhelming for me. I couldn't wait or the night, so we'd be alone in my room. The visits home, and her developing closeness with my mother changed our relationship. To that point, I had been her personal servant, an expert provider for all of her needs. And she was very appreciative, she praised all my efforts to please her. I might have even convinced her to reciprocate, if I had dared ask. But once she met my mother, she seemed to realize that a relationship like ours had the potential for deeper, more intense satisfaction on her part. She was never one to hold back her anger, but now she realized that her anger could be used, she could ride her anger like a wave, and feel the sexual charge in its power. Bitchiness was such an elemental pleasure, once a girl saw it played out, it was irresistible. Humiliation is fun.

Those first nights were like a psychodrama: my mother made sure Gabrielle knew everything that happened between her and my father. My bedroom was right next to my parents. My mother would curse at Dad, she'd call him all sorts of names, filthy, dirty things, and I had the strangest feelings, knowing that Gabrielle could hear every word. She was taking all this in. Mom would say the vilest things, and it was clear from the tone in her voice, and the quickness of her breath between the words, that Dad was licking her all the while. I couldn't help it, I was hard as a rock, there was such an air of base sexuality in the air.

It carried over into the day. Gabrielle and my mother were inseparable, they'd sit in the living room, giggling like schoolgirls. Dad and I would bring them breakfast in the morning, they'd be in the living room watching TV. They'd burst out laughing when we left the room, as if they shared some private joke at our expense. Dad's face was as red as a beet: now he was being mocked not just by Mom, but by a strange woman as well, I could see him fight to control his anger. He came close to talking back once. Dad and I brought them each a tall glass of iced tea, and Gabrielle told him sharply to take it back and put more ice in it. I'm sure she told him, and not me, because Mom put her up to it. They were running a scene.

Dad turned to her with an angry look: "Hey, who do you " "Tom!" Mom cut in sharply. "Shut your mouth and do as you're told!"

Dad deflated like a punctured balloon. He took her glass back into the kitchen, and I followed. Their laughter fell on our backs.

I'll never forget one particular night. My mother was really cutting loose, this was like a clinic in abusive sex. Gabrielle turned to me. She had look of pure arrogance, and she said:

"No wonder you're such a USELESS PEICE OF SHIT!" Oh! My desire kicked into overdrive, the cruel hiss of her voice, and her foxy grin made my need even more desperate. So I went down between the covers, and showed her just what I was good for. That night, and all the nights thereafter, there were two loud voices in my home:

"Slow down, SHITHEAD!"

"Christ! Use your FUCKIN' TOUNGE!"

"Oh, fuck! I wish I had a real man."

"O-h-h-h! Keep it right there. Don't you DARE stop!" I knew they were talking about me. Sometimes at night, after I had satisfied Gabrielle, she'd go downstairs to get a glass of milk, or have a cigarette. It seemed that every time my mother would follow. I could hear them, and while I couldn't hear what they said, the whispers and the giggles convinced me that Gabrielle was telling her about me, and she was learning about Dad as well.

So now she knew everything. My mother must have told her about my crossdressing; I could tell from the way she acted when I was licking her. One time I was holding her right on the edge, keeping her there as long as I could, while she unleashed her abusive comments. And mixed in with that cruel torrent was my mother's nickname for me: "Tissy." She said it as she came, and I almost came myself when I first heard it - there was something about the hiss in her voice, and the thought of what I was doing to trigger it. I felt like an electric shock moved through my body - for days afterwards I masturbated every chance I got, hearing Gabrielle call me that again.

Another day she was getting dressed, she asked me if I had put the run in her stockings. As if she didn't know! She was sitting on the side of the bed, eyeing me coldly.

"I-I-I-I'm sorry." I knew I sounded like a baby. "God! What a fuckin' PUSSY." She looked disgusted, like I was repulsive to her.

Rather than make me angry, or ashamed, this only further eroticized Gabrielle in my mind. The lower her expressed opinion of my masculinity, the more desirable she seemed. I had always loved her, her first attraction for me was the shape of her body, the thrilling promise of it. But now that she knew all about me, she knew all the intimate, embarrassing details that my mother did, my desire took on the quality of a compulsion. Just a look from her would stiffen me, I'd be hard as a rock all through my nights of service. She knew all my buttons, she could see how I responded to the contempt in her eyes.

Finally, I understood my Father. I knew why a man would relinquish his conventional, everyday masculinity. It felt so good to be opened up this way, to feel once again the overpowering, helpless need that a baby feels. One night around 2AM, I had gone to the kitchen to get the nail polish remover. After a few weeks there, we'd settled into a routine. I'd satisfy her orally for an hour or so, and then I'd spend the next hour painting her toes. No doubt this was the same routine as my parents, because every morning both Gabrielle and my mother had a fresh coat of lustrous paint on their toes. So on this particular night when I went to the kitchen my father was already there.

He was reaching under the sink for the cotton balls as I walked in. When he got up he saw me there. It was awkward for a moment. Finally he held out the bag, and said to me: "I guess you'll need some of these."

"Yeah," I said, as I reached into the bag.

"How are you and Gabrielle getting along?" He was looking directly at me, he seemed a bit hesitant, and the question was uncharacteristically direct.

"Um ... good." I didn't quite know what to say, but the look in his eyes, and the fact that it was obvious by now that I was beginning to treat Gabrielle the same way he treated Mom made me want to be more open. "I know she's happy, I try real hard to please her."

"She's very beautiful, I bet she looks lovely when you're ... pleasing her." He had a distant, wistful look in his eyes. "They're talking about us, you know. I think Mom told her all about me." I didn't have to spell it out: I had a full length pink terrycloth robe on, and a pair of Gabrielle's black lace panties underneath it. He was wearing green silk robe that came down to his knees, and I could see that he had white stockings on his feet. We looked at each other quickly, scanning our bodies, realizing what we were both wearing. He could see in my eyes that I had something sexy on underneath my robe. But we kept to our pattern, the obvious was never discussed. "What color is it going to be tonight?" I wanted to let him know about her.

"Neon purple" He held up the small bottle.

"Gabrielle wants Harlot Red tonight."

"I know where that is." It took him just a second to find it in the large basket, he was in his element. Some men focus their energies on accomplishment in the world, mastering the skills of artistry or leadership. His skill and competence was focused on knowing where all of her things were. He handed it to me, and asked if I wanted any "top coat."

"What's that?" Much of this was still new to me. "It hardens the nails, and also gives them a glossy coat that catches the light." I had noticed that Mom's toes always looked better that Gabrielle's, even though both women liked bold, attention getting colors. There was something different about Mom's that caught the eye. I realized now that there was a certain brilliance to their color.

"OK, thanks." I took the bottle from his hand. "Gabrielle will be pleased."

He was silent for a second; It seemed like he was on the verge of saying something, so I waited. Finally, he spoke in a soft, fearful voice. "Gabriella has lovely feet."

"I know, Dad. It was one of the things that attracted me to her." I was talking as softly as he was, it was almost a whisper, like we were sharing some secret.

"She's a lot like your mother was. Very strong, very ... willful." The words came out of him only after great effort, I could see that he was struggling to overcome a lifetime of inhibition against saying things like this to other men. "I know Dad. She's really tough." I felt a warm tingle saying this, because I had the same inhibition, in the months since I met her, this obsessive need grew in me, yet it was passion of a sort I could never discuss with another man. "You got to hear her talk when she's mad. She's got a real mean mouth on her." His eyes started jumping around, partly from excitement, and partly from fear, the irrational, guilty fear that was a permanent part of his life with Mom. "You know, Gabrielle teases me." That got my attention, the thought of her working on Dad, doing some of the same shit she did with me. I found the idea exciting. "Sometimes in the afternoon, when she gets home early and I'm the only one home, she sits and watches TV with me." He had a whimsical look, he was looking off to the side, as if picturing her. "She kicks her shoes off, and starts flexing her toes." I could see what was coming, Gabrielle had the most lovely feet, they were delicate and so pleasing to the eyes. She had done this to me many times. Whenever some insult of hers cut too deeply, and I was sulking, she'd sit down and work her magic with her feet. She'd be sitting near me, seemingly unaware of me, but she'd cross her legs, and flex the toes of her top foot. It was like a call to prayer, my blood would start racing and my mouth would dry up. After a few minutes of this, I'd be on my knees before her, holding her lovely foot in my hands, and kissing her toes. I'd be lost in my passion, her insults wouldn't hurt anymore. No, I'd want her cutting words to rain down on me.

"She starts to rub them with her hands." He continued, eyeing me. "I try not to look, but then she says things like: 'I hear you're a master foot massager.' She stretches them out, they're only a foot or so away from me."

"I know Dad. She's a tease." I was thrilled at the idea of her giving Dad the Treatment.

"Shit! Don't I know it." He looked almost angry, miffed to be teased like this, to have his desires stirred and left unsatisfied, purely for her amusement. "She asks me: 'Come on. Give them a kiss. You know you want to.'" He was looking at me now, gauging my reaction.

His story had excited me. I had a thick hardon under my robe, beneath the pair of lace panties that Gabrielle let me wear. "It's OK, Dad, I won't mind."

His aspect changed, his mouth settled into a slight grin. I could tell he was looking forward to it. He smiled. "You're really lucky Timmy, to have a woman like that."

"Keeps me happy, Dad." I wanted to tell him all about her, the way she made me feel. "Just so you know, Dad, it only starts with the feet. She'll want you to suck them." "That's OK!" I could see the excitement grow in him, no doubt his dick was starting to swell under his nightie. "I-I-I like ... that."

I could picture it now, the smirk on Gabrielle's face, the triumph she'd feel with yet another pussy boy to get off on. "But then, you know, Dad, she really gets rough..." I watched him closely, I wanted to see the look in his face. "I mean, she really jams her foot in. I mean, the whole foot..." "The whole foot?" He was hoping I was telling the truth, the prospect of being treated this way by his alluring daughter-in-law had him salivating like a panting dog. "Yeah, she likes to be in up to her ankle." I was smiling at Dad, loving the need my words aroused in him. I knew we only had a minute, I'd have to get back upstairs soon or she'd be pissed for keeping her waiting. So I wanted to leave him with something to remember. "Yeah, she likes pushing her foot into your mouth. And if you don't get enough in, or don't lick her toes the way she wants..." I started to walk away, "... she likes to kick your nose with the other." I turned around and saw him, open mouthed. "Sure Dad, go for it, give her a kiss!"


Still the pattern remains, only now there are two of them. It's Saturday afternoon, they're going shopping together. We write down our chores, the list of things we're expected to do. But there will be time, they know this as well as we do. We can hear it in their laughter as they close the door. We stand at the window and watch them drive away. We walk up the stairs, the thought of our coming indulgence builds within us. He heads towards his room, and I head towards mine. When I open my door there is a surprise.

On the bed is an outfit: a maid's uniform. I feel a rush in my panties when I see it, it looks so perfect. I pick it up, and I note the shortness of the dress, how exposed my poor ass would be when I bend over to clean. And then I see the panties, the little girl frills and ruffles on the butt. Oh, they are sick, those cunts! Still, I put it on - I can't help it, it rouses such deep wishes in me. The lace at the top of the stockings, the sheer glory of the garter belt. I'm breathing hard as I sit on the bed, and put the shoes on. Heels impossibly high, there's no way to work effectively in any of this. This is an outfit for show.

I stand and reach under the apron for my cock. I pull it free from the panties and I start to rub it. I know I won't last, just a few quick strokes and I'll blow my stuff all over my floor; I'll miss my moment. No, I was meant to be seen like this, the thought of being seen in this state is too delicious. So I stop rubbing - I hold myself off. I stagger out the door of my room.

Dad is waiting in the hallway, with a matching outfit of his own.

We say nothing as we walk down the stairs. We start our chores. He dusts and I iron. We move slowly, partly because of the unsteadiness of our heels, partly because we are distracted by the pressing need within us. It takes an act of will to refrain from wacking off. We both knew they'll be home any minute. The cunts will open the door, and they'll see us, the teasing and the abuse will begin. I hold myself off for her. I want to feel like this when I see the contempt in her eyes, and hear her selfish laughter. I can hold myself off - she's taught me that. I'll hold myself off all night long, if she won't let me do it. I know it will be a long night.

Tonight Vern is visiting.

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