Panty Secrets

by Gingerfred Man

 

Chapter One - Carded

Timmy. My parents named me Timmy. Timmy Garconette. They didn't hate me or anything. In fact they loved me very much. And they're good parents. They probably thought Timmy was a nice name. But it just gives you an idea of the flavor of my life. Timmy is not the name of a guy who scores the winning touchdown or scores with the winning babe. It's kind of a wimpy name.

My one-year-older sister Clare got a pretty good name and some pretty good looks too. She's actually tall, blonde and gorgeous. With big, firm boobs.

I didn't think my looks were very good, but that turned out to be a matter for much discussion. I thought of myself as small and scrawny. And so did the girls at my school.

And it didn't help any that I was hung like a mouse. Probably the smallest penis in Western Civilization.

By the time I was a senior in high school, I had pretty much abandoned hope of becoming the next great American ladies' man. As my 18^th birthday closed in, I was wondering if I would be a virgin all my life.

Fate didn't just jab me, it threw combination punches at my jaw. You would think that someone born on Valentine's Day would be a great lover. Hah! It was just an irony piled on an irony.

But things took a turn in a brand new direction for me on February 13, the day before my 18^th birthday, when the mail arrived.

The only thing about that day that I was grateful for was that Clare was at her friend's house when it happened.

I remember it vividly. It was a Saturday afternoon. Mom went to the door and came in with the mail. Dad was on the couch watching a basketball game. Since I didn't have anything better to do, I was sitting next to Dad.

The arrival of the mail meant little to me. I was getting a lot of stuff from military recruiters, but that didn't interest me. I guess you're getting the idea that I was just sort of bored and saw little hope for relief.

Then Mom said. "Timmy, you got a Valentine."

And the whole world began to spin backwards.

I couldn't be getting a Valentine. Who would be sending me a Valentine? Did I have a secret admirer? I was totally baffled. And extraordinarily curious.

Until Mom said, "It's from a man!"

What??????

My neck got red and my stomach threatened to reject its contents. What sort of a malicious creep would play a joke like that on anyone? Who would insult another person like that - a new low?

My first reaction was to grab for the unopened envelope, then rip it back into its molecular structure. But curiosity about my tormentor's identity seized me. I had to know.

I looked at Mom, whose extended arm offered me the instrument of my humiliation.

Mom didn't seem sympathetic to my pain. Instead, she seemed…hopeful. How odd.

The question flashed through my head, how did Mom know it was from a man? And a Valentine?

The envelope told the tale. It was pink, with tiny red hearts all about. And the return address said: Richard Hardwood.

Mr. Hardwood. My favorite teacher. The guy who was almost a mentor to me until he mysteriously quit teaching at the end of the previous school year. Leaving without a reason or a goodbye or a forwarding address. Creating what became a hole in my heart. I mean, he was the only reason I enjoyed school. Then he was gone.

And then he was sending a Valentine's card.

Surely Mr. Hardwood didn't mean what Mom was acting like he meant by the card.

Mom and Dad were looking at me as I stared at the card. "I'm not gay!" I blurted out. Just for the record. "And I didn't encourage this. It's probably not at all what you think."

Mom and Dad made little noises of comfort and agreement. They really are nice people. But it was still pretty humiliating, you know?

Dad pretended to watch TV and Mom pretended to putter as I slinked off to my room to read the card.

I was trembling as I opened it.

If it was a joke, it was an over-the-top one.

It was a pink monstrosity loaded with hearts and flowers. And there, in the center, the words, "Be my Valentine. I love you!"

My heart sank. Mr. Hardwood was gay! And he thought I was gay.

I wasn't. I mean, I liked Mr. Hardwood, but not "that way."

Oh no. There was a message.

"Dearest Timmy," it began. "I have great affection for you. So sorry I left without explaining. Please let me tell you everything at a birthday dinner at Chez Nancy on Valentine's Day - your 18^th birthday. I'll pick you up at 7. Love, Richard."

I was trembling with rage and embarrassment. So much so that I almost missed the P.S., which said, "Don't worry. I'm not gay and neither are you. 'R.' "

Well. That should take some fancy 'splainin.' He's not gay and neither am I. He has great affection for me. Practically asked to fuck me. Wants to take me out for Valentine's Day. And we're both men. But neither of us is gay.

Hmmm.

I should have ripped the card and note, then flushed it. But I didn't. I just calmed down a bit, slipped it into my underwear drawer, and returned to my parents to set the record straight.

I boldly entered the family room and announced to my parents, "Mr. Hardwood is obviously crazy. If he calls me, please tell him I'm unavailable. And please, don't tell Clare any of this!"

Mom and Dad readily agreed.

I did an about face, then marched back to my room. Turned on a basketball game. Loudly, so the parents would know that I was involved in a manly pursuit. Then I extracted the card and read it again. I felt a vague, unfamiliar stirring in my gut. What did all that mean? Well, I was nipping it all in the bud and that was that.

 

Chapter Two - A Panty Proposal

I didn't sleep very well that night. It's difficult to set your mind at rest when your dull world develops a point and stabs you.

What the heck was Mr. Hardwood up to? Had he lost his mind? And why was I the object of his craziness? Had I encouraged him in any way? I didn't think so.

I knew I wasn't gay. I mean, in the shower at the gym, all I ever felt was humiliation at my teeny weenie. And fear that some of my naked, moronic classmates would ridicule me.

Mr. Hardwood had been the bright light in a miserable high school experience. Now even that was ruined.

Wasn't it?

As I tossed and turned, I wavered about what I should do if he showed up to take me to dinner.

The possibilities ranged from not even being home when he showed up to dumping a bucket of cold water on him to going to dinner with him to tell him why I could never do or be what he wanted.

My compassionate side won out.

Mom and Dad took Clare to dinner that night so that she wouldn't be around when my "date" came for me. Clare thought it was awfully fishy that the whole family, less the birthday boy, was going out to celebrate my birthday. But no one enlightened her, thank goodness.

I wore a sweater and khakis - casual - heterosexual. And I made sure my cell phone was charged in case I needed to call the police.

I was nervous, even though I had rehearsed a very compassionate refusal. Of course, I wasn't sure what the proposal was, but I was ready to decline it, nevertheless.

At precisely seven p.m., the doorbell rang,

I took a deep breath and opened the door.

There he was. Mr. Hardwood. Exactly as I remembered him. A nice, steady, thirtysomething, regular guy. Who obviously needed mental treatment.

Thank goodness he didn't try to kiss me or anything. But he did hug me. Which I didn't mind all that much.

I searched my mind for my brushoff speech, just in case I needed it sooner than I thought. I mean, if he tried any funny business. But he didn't.

He just said, "Happy Birthday, Timmy. I've been looking forward to your 18^th birthday and I'm sure you have been too. It's going to be an incredible turning point in your life…and mine. You'll see."

Didn't know what he meant by that. As far as I knew, my life was going to be more of the same. Unless it got worse. Which Mr. Hardwood's actions so far suggested that it would.

He released the hug, then held me at arm's length to look at me.

"Wow," he said. "You've gotten even more beautiful in the past eight months. I've missed you so much!"

I don't know why, but I blushed at that. And sort of felt good.

He had been a good mentor and friend. Before his mental illness.

Still in charge of the agenda, Mr. Hardwood said, "Let's get going. Don't want to miss our reservation. Not easy to get on Valentine's Day."

That made me balk a bit. It suddenly occurred to me that I would be sitting in a restaurant with a man on Valentine's Day. What would people think?

Then I thought, what do I care what people think? The world hadn't been very good to me. Why should I worry about the world?

So I got into the car with him and listened to him prattle on about how all that time he had been living in the bigger city 30 miles away, working on his "business plan."

"What business?" I asked.

"I'll tell you at the restaurant, Sweetheart," he said.

I wished he wouldn't call me that. Then I thought, was he going to be giving me a sales pitch to sell Amway products or something? Well, at least it wouldn't be gay.

We didn't raise any eyebrows at the restaurant, even when he took my coat and held the chair for me. I guess everyone was too lovey-dovey with their dates. I had a crazy man as my escort.

After we ordered, Mr. Hardwood opened the folder he had brought in with him. "Timmy, I want you to look at this picture. I took it of you back in June and you've developed since then, but tell me what you think."

I remembered when he took the pictures - about a week before he left town unexpectedly. He handed me an 8 by 10. I looked at it.

Huh?

It wasn't me. It was some gorgeous, glamorous, dick-stiffening babe in perfect make-up, with fantastic blonde curls.

Wait a minute. It was me. With a lot of computer enhancements.

What kind of sick trick was this?

Still, I had no idea that my face, with some changes, could be anything but ordinary. That babe was beyond extraordinary. And she was me!

I looked at Mr. Hardwood. He was smiling broadly and expectantly. But I didn't say anything. I was sort of angry, but curious too. So he went on.

"You have the greatest feminine potential of any boy in the history of the world. I've tried lots of boys' pictures in that computer program and only you come out so spectacular. As a pantyboy, you will be a superstar. You'll make us both rich and yourself famous. Together, with our investors, we're going to open a chain of boutiques around the country, then later, the world. Boutiques where 'daddies' will bring their pretty boys to buy them expensive lingerie because they saw you wearing it in our nationwide advertising. The boutiques will have milking stations where overheated pantyboys can empty their testicles so they can continue shopping without injuring themselves. It'll be big! Bigger than big. And we'll call it, 'Timmy's Girlish Secret.'"

 

Chapter Three - Screen Test

But I didn't have a girlish secret.

Why did Mr. Hardwood think I did?

Although my teeny weenie did twitch a little when I saw my picture as a gorgeous babe. That was because I was a heterosexual guy, right?

Plus, who says I would really look like that crazy computer simulation anyway?

It was all silly and stupid and I was about to end it when Mr. Hardwood pulled out a larger, thicker envelope.

"Timmy, I know you're skeptical and you should be. But I'm not alone in my belief that this is a huge financial windfall waiting to happen. I've found an investor - a very rich venture capitalist named Norm Creamer. He believes in you and in Timmy's Girlish Secret. In fact, he's put up the money for our entire startup, but only if you - only you - will be our spokesmodel. He believes in you so much that he's giving you this and all you have to do is a 'screen test.' Go ahead. Open it. It's yours. But don't flash it in the restaurant or we'll be mugged."

Oh my, I thought. It must be a significant amount of money. Maybe $500.

That was a lot of money. More money than I had ever had in my life.

Well I wasn't dressing in girl's clothes and doing 'things' while I was wearing them. Not for $500, not for any amount of money. Proudly and heterosexually, I put the envelope on the table and pushed it toward Mr. Hardwood.

He looked at the envelope, then at me. "You may want to open it. It's $25,000."

My mouth hung open. I looked at Mr. Hardwood. Then the envelope.

I took the envelope.

I'm principled, but not stupid.

Mr. Hardwood smiled. "I'll take you home. I'll pick you up after school tomorrow for your screen test, OK?"

As reluctantly as someone who had just made $25,000 could be, I said, "OK."

He returned me home without incident. When we pulled into my driveway though, he said, "One more thing, Honey."

I was terrified that he would try to kiss me or something. But all he said was, "I'll need your signature on this waiver."

I was so eager to get out of there before he "tried something," that I just signed the waiver without reading it.

Which, as you might imagine, eventually turned out to be important in this story.

All that night and all the next day at school, I wondered if I had made the wrong decision. The only reason I was going forward was that I trusted Mr. Hardwood. And the $25,000.

More money that I could have imagined.

I didn't tell my parents about the money. Let's see. It would be, "Mom, Dad, I have $25,000 in an envelope in my closet. Mr. Hardwood gave it to me so I could dress up in girl's clothes and get men to buy their gay little sissyboy lovers expensive lingerie at Mr. Hardwood's store. Is that OK?"

Of course, when I bought my sports car the day after graduation, they might still get suspicious.

Well, $25,000 was all I was getting, because the "screen test" was the beginning and end for me. That I knew for sure.

True to his word, Mr. Hardwood was there to pick me up from school. He seemed really excited, the pervert. He was a perv, wasn't he?

We drove silently to an unpretentious-looking photo studio in a nearby strip mall.

An hour or two, I thought. Just grit my teeth, suffer these crazy people for an hour or two, and I'll be rich.

I was trembling though as I entered the studio. Mr. Hardwood wouldn't hurt me. I knew that. But what about that Creamer guy? Was he there?

He was. Standing inside. With a huge smile on his face and [horrors] a big stiffie in his pants. Just what I needed - pervs in stereo.

He was a pretty nice-looking man - normal looking. Mid-30s. Fit. With a really expensive suit. And he wasn't alone.

There was a VERY beautiful young woman there. With big titties. A really short skirt. Stockings and heels.

Mr. Hardwood made the introductions. "Timmy, this is Norm Creamer, the man whose investment will make us all very rich. And this is Freda Fraumacher, the world's greatest femininity coach. She's coached many of the country's top competitive femininity athletes, including her 'brother' Francine, who coaches the Saint Travestia University Stocking Boys."

Wow. I knew all about "compfem." Everyone did. It wasn't for me, of course, and Mom wouldn't allow "that trash" on our television. But it was on the sports pages every morning and I read about it…sometimes. Teams of pretty boys dressing up and competing with other colleges for lots of endowment money for their colleges. Sad, really. But a lot of people liked that sort of thing, I guessed.

Why was she there? I wasn't going to be a compfem athlete.

"Freda will get you ready for the screen test, Sweetheart," Mr. Hardwood said. "Follow her instructions while we get things ready."

What "things?" Were they going to take pictures of me in girlish clothes?

Panic.

Three things calmed me. The thought of $25,000. My faith in Mr. Hardwood. And the fact that no one would recognize me in girlish pictures.

Maybe this would take more than two hours.

Freda took charge. "Follow me, pretty one. I'm going to make you into someone you will always ache to be."

I knew that wasn't true.

Boy was I wrong.

Freda smelled great. And did I mention that she had really big boobs? And long, sheer-stockinged legs accented by her skyscraper heels. So, despite my fear, I already had a stiff willie when she led me into a small room and told me to strip down to just Timmy.

My work ethic told me that I should at least put out a minimal effort if I was to earn $25,000. So, blushing fiercely, I complied.

Freda made me relax a little when she looked at naked me and said, "Don't worry, Honey. The money you already received is yours. And you don't have to do anything you don't want to do. But I must say, Honey, you are an incredible beauty."

How was I supposed to take that? I was naked with a gorgeous babe and she was admiring me as a fellow gorgeous babe.

My body reacted normally. I blushed. My cock got stiffer and began to drip.

Freda commented, of course. "Oh, Timmy. Look at the good time your 'little person' is having. Your 'pink things' are perfect. So tiny and pretty."

That made me lose my stiffie. A four-star babe had just called me tiny- dicked and girlish. That appeared to be a script for my future. Except for the part where beautiful babes were looking at my exposed penis.

To complete my humiliation, Freda giggled.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean it as an insult. It's a compliment, really. Of all the pretty boys I've trained to be pantyboys, your face and body, especially your sissypole and little peanuts, are the prettiest."

Shockingly, that made me stiff again. For the first time in my life, I was excelling at something.

Freda seemed to understand my every emotion and thought. "This is only the beginning for you, Honey. Your life just went from a D minus to a C. In a month, and for the rest of your life, it'll be an A plus. Just follow my lead."

Was she sincere, or was I being hustled? If she was sincere, was what she said about me possible?

It was worth a bit of trust. I relaxed half a smidge and was about to ask what was next when Freda placed her warm, soft hand on my bare bottom. Oh, it felt so good! Was she going to do something naughty?

Not yet. Freda gently steered me to a full-length, four-way mirror on the other side of the dressing room. She stood behind me and showed me my naked body. And for the first time, I really saw myself.

I did have a lovely body.

Not a manly body.

But lovely.

I always hated looking at myself in a mirror because it never met the manly standard I convinced myself was best.

Freda showed me a new standard.

A standard that I was setting. Not trying, impossibly, to meet.

"Look at yourself, pretty one," she said. "Look at that slim body. Your perfect, pink skin. Those slim hips. And your nipples - so big and puffy!"

My nipples? I can honestly say that until that moment, I had never noticed or given my nipples one passing thought. They WERE big! For a guy, I mean. Maybe even for a girl. And stiff. Was that from arousal?

"Oh," Freda said. "Look at your little popsy! Its pretty pink head is coming out of its tiny cave of foreskin. So much pre-drool. Do you play with yourself, Timmy? I'll bet you do and you make a lot of cum. Pretty boys often do. And look at that lovely, pink purse of yours, with your sweet peanuts throbbing from your excitement! Men will dream of kissing and sucking your pink bits until you shudder and cum all over them."

Was that possible? Was I that beautiful? Wasn't that all gay?

I groaned softly at the thought of being adored. Though the fact that it was men who would be the adorers was very unsettling.

"Look at this other mirror behind you, Darling," Freda said. "I want you to see your pretty bottom. Look how pink and plump and pretty it is."

It was all that. Not manly. But those three P's, definitely.

What did it all mean?

Freda told me.

"You will rule the world, if you want to. When I train you and you accept yourself, you will be the object of billions of men's fantasies. And a man will do anything for the personification of his fantasy."

I trembled at the thought. Even if she was right, wouldn't I have to become "gay" to realize that so-called destiny?"

Freda didn't leave me an ample opportunity to wallow in my angst. Still standing behind my naked body, Freda said, "Look at this, Pretty Boy." And she cruelly produced an item that complicated things.

Freda draped a tiny, silky, pink, shorty nightgown over my trembling torso. Just held it there…by its white spaghetti straps. Showing me how it would look if I put it on.

I stared at my reflection. Open-mouthed. Admiring the nightie's pinkness and frothy white lace at the bodice.

I groaned softly as Freda slid the delicious garment softly across my erect, sensitive nipples.

"Try it on," Freda whispered.

I couldn't. The humiliation. The gayness.

But I had to do SOMETHING for that $25,000, didn't I?

I whimpered and nodded my consent. Already I was acting like a pathetic little nancyboy.

I held my arms over my head and gasped as Freda slipped the little confection through my arms and head and settled it on my body. Afraid to open my eyes at first, I finally gathered the courage to peer at "the new me," as Freda called me.

Oh.

I was a boy in a supersexy nightgown. With my enraged penis sticking out beneath the pink hem. Pink bag dangling saucily; little plums swollen.

No I wasn't. Not a boy exactly. Something else. Something feminine AND boyish.

"You look divine, Darling," my so-called femininity coach gushed. "And we've done virtually nothing to you. When we paint femininity in its fullness on your pink canvas, you'll stop the earth's rotation."

What was she talking about? I was only there for that one day. Earning that ridiculous fee. Doing Mr. Hardwood a favor.

Freda pressed on. "We won't shave your legs or paint your toenails or anything…today. And no make-up. Well, maybe a little lipstick. Let me show you how… Wait. How insensitive of me. You're in need of relief. Look at your poor popsy. The head is positively purple. Let me help you."

I panicked. Was she going to jerk me off? Well, that wouldn't be that bad. She was, after all, a magnificent babe.

But no. I'm not making this up…what happened next, I mean. Without further how-dee-do, Freda Fraumacher got on her stockinged knees - her knees - in front of me and began to suck my cock.

And I was getting paid for her to do it!! So far, the deal wasn't half bad.

No one had ever sucked my cock before. No one had even touched it except my mom and dad when they bathed me as a small child. I had, of course, tickled my own pickle. But that was a poor substitute for what was being done to and for me at that moment.

My poor peener was already in a state of extreme arousal from the nakedness and the humiliation (an amazing stimulant all in itself) and being around Freda and seeing a small hint of my potential femininity. Looking down to see myself wearing a pink nightie and a fabulous babe sucking my cock, with full eye contact as she did it, was fantastic. Feeling her hot, swirling tongue licking my sensitive parts was indescribably delicious.

Freda gave a very good blowjob. At the time I had no basis of comparison. Now I do. That was a very good blowjob. It was amazing that I didn't cum in the first 30 seconds. Or the second. When she pressed her right index finger between my bottom cheeks and grazed my anus with just the pad of her delicate digit, I gasped, cried out and came a bloody flood. Right down her throat. As she skillfully sucked and swallowed until I could stand no more and begged her to withdraw.

She complied, smiling like the cat with a bellyful of canaries. Then she arose and gave me a deep, tonguey kiss. I was a quivering wreck when she broke the kiss, wondering what was next.

"That was nice," Freda said. "So much sissy cream! And so delicious. Do you always cum that much? Anyway, back to work. Now here's how you put on lipstick."

I guess I could forgive Freda for asking me questions and then not letting me answer. I mean she had just swallowed my boyish juices. But I was not happy about putting on the lipstick.

Until I saw the result.

OK, I've already told you that at least one crazy man, Mr. Hardwood, thought I was beautiful. I guess that on an ordinary day when I looked at myself in the mirror, all I saw was a boy who didn't look the way a boy should look. My hair was a very light blond and a bit too long for most boys. My features were too "delicate." My eyes were a brilliant blue. Not much manliness there.

But put me in a nightie, add lipstick and apply a feminine standard, not a masculine one…Mr. Hardwood was right.

I was a balldrainer! Men who were attracted to someone who looked like me weren't weird. I would want to fuck me too. I mean, if I were a man and if the girly me were a real girl. Know what I mean?

But I didn't want men to want to fuck me. I wanted women to love me, Beautiful, big-titted, wet-pussied women.

I was straight!

A heterosexual male. Who looked like a man's soggiest dream.

Freda moved me along. "You look pretty good, eh? Wait till you see what I show you over the next few days. Full make-up. Shaved legs. Stockings!!! High heels. Manicures. Pedicures. And lovely lingerie. I'm getting excited just thinking about it. Now wipe that horrified look off your face and let's continue your 'screen test.' You did take Mr. Creamer's money for it."

Oh, right. Duty called. I would finish that and that would be it. Never to speak or even think about any of this again.

Though I did steal another look at myself in the dressing room mirror. And my limp cock twitched and stiffened a bit.

Freda led me from the dressing room down a short hallway to what she called "the studio," though to me, it just looked like a bedroom. It was an ordinary teenage boy's room, with traditional furniture - a single bed, dresser, desk, desk chair, comfy chair, full-length mirror. It also had an "en suite" bathroom - tub/shower, small sink, big mirror over a countertop.

Where were the cameras? Where were Mr. Creamer and Mr. Hardwood?

Freda didn't give me a chance to ask. "All, right, Timmy. Off with that nightie. Wash off your lipstick and put your boy clothes on again."

Was I finished? Already? No more femmy things? No more money? No more cumming?

Not really.

I complied, but not entirely willingly.

As I dressed, Freda sat in the comfy chair, hiking up her skirt to show me her beautiful thighs. I loved looking at her feet in those impossibly high spike heels. When I was all "boyed up," Freda said, "OK. Let's start the screen test. Go out of the room, come in and follow my verbal directions."

I nodded. "No cameras?" I asked.

"Just do as you're told, Honey."

I could do that.

I left the room, entered and listened to what she said.

"Don't look at me. Just listen and comply," she said. "You've just gotten home from school. No one else is home and you're going to indulge your girlish secret."

I thought yet again, "But I don't have a girlish secret." Didn't say it.

"You take off your clothes, slowly sensuously. Then you reach under your folded undershirts in your top, center drawer and take out what you've been hiding - a lovely white nightie with pink ribbons."

Another nightie. Oh.

I did as Freda said. Strip teasing. For her. And then it hit me. Mr. Creamer and Mr. Hardwood were watching me. Through that big, floor- length mirror, I imagined.

Men looking at me. I was naked. And they had seen me strip.

I almost covered my dickie. But then I thought, that would be cheating on my screen test fee.

It was SO humiliating though to think that men were looking at me naked. The teeniest part of me wondered if they liked what they saw.

And that made my dickie hard.

And drippy.

Which, I imagined, had those pervs in a regular dither.

And the thought of exciting them with my body made me gasp involuntarily. I hurried my strip show a bit and walked, a little sissily perhaps, to the dresser. I opened the proper drawer and reached under the undershirts to find the white nightie. With pink ribbons. And I gasped again.

It was adorable. And feeling the satin made me wonder what it would feel like on my body.

I slid it over my head and wiggled it onto my body, making sure that I gave the full-length mirror a nice view of my "privates" and my by-then- very-erect nipples.

Freda spoke. "Excellent. Again, don't look at me. Stand in front of the full-length mirror and put on your lipstick - just the way I showed you. That's it. Good. Oh, you're spectacular."

I was eating the praise in big gulps. And the nightie was a sensual delight.

"All right," my "director" said. "Now reach in your top right drawer and take out two things - a small tube of lube and a framed picture."

Lube? A picture? Of whom?

The lube was K-Y. The picture was of Freda. Naked from the waist up. Exposing her magnificent, huge titties and their two-inch diameter nipples.

Wow.

"All right, Baby," my taskmistress said. "Prop up two pillows on your bed, then lie on your back."

I did so, setting the lube and the picture to my right.

"Now lift your pretty nightie all the way up to your neck. Show me your nipples, your little pink bag and your pricklet. Oh, it's all naughty again, isn't it?"

It was that.

I could see what was coming next.

"Now I want you to slowly and lovingly lube up your popsy and your testicles. Lots of slick stuff. Take your time. But don't cum yet."

Easier said than done.

I took my time. I slicked my pretty parts up nicely. Three times I had to stop, lest I spurt my gooies. At Freda's direction, I also lubed my nipples. Mmmmm. That was very nice too.

When was I going to be able to "ease my pain?" Hadn't the two men had their look?

Freda must have thought so, because she said, "All right, Sweetie. Now hold the picture in your left hand, play with yourself with your right. Look at the picture as you play with yourself. Cum whenever you want."

A very welcome order.

Freda's picture was nice, but the real Freda was there with me. She said not to look at her. And I was an order follower.

That didn't stop her from talking to me. "You're so beautiful, Timmy. You make me jealous. I'm already half in love with you. If you stay with our enterprise, I'm sure you and I will be lovers. And Mr. Creamer will pay you big. $5,000 for each after-school session. $10,000 for a Friday afternoon and night or an all-day Saturday or Sunday. You'll be rich! And beautiful! And serially orgasmic!"

The thought of being Freda's lover was intoxicating. The excitement of the day. The humiliation of it all. I squeaked, most unmanfully, and pumped out six, thick strings of cum. All over my greased pubic area. And girlish nipples.

I was exhausted. Heaving, desperate for oxygen. And shamed beyond words. I was a little faggot sissy nancyboy. I wanted to crawl in a hole and pull the dirt over my head.

But Freda would have none of it.

"Nice work. But there's so much for you to learn. Here's your $5,000 for tomorrow's modeling session. I'll pick you up after school by the south entrance. Here's a towel. Get dressed. Mr. Hardwood promised your Mom you would be home for supper every night. And you have homework to do. I'll drive you home."

Mr. Hardwood and Mom had colluded on this? Did I have any say in what was happening to me?

Despite my serious reservations, I had to come back the next day. Praise, sex and money are the world's greatest incentives.

Freda drove me home, pulling into a spot four houses from mine at 6:10. She gave me a deep, tonguey kiss. Then she handed me a plastic bag and said, "Here, put this in your backpack."

"What is it?" I dared ask.

"Your first girlish secret. Wear it to bed tonight and you'll sleep well."

Mom gave me the usual "How was your day?" As if nothing happened. So did Dad. Clare was considerably more suspicious, but didn't have enough to indict me yet. I mumbled something to her about looking for an after- school job, but wasn't very convincing.

Looking at Clare, my one-year-older sister, that night, I realized that she looked very much like the "girlish me" I had begun to see that afternoon. The rare times when she had girlied up, she was a real dish. No wonder she had all those young men stalking her all the time.

Clare didn't have a lot going for her at that time. After graduating from high school the previous year, she decided to take a year off to "find herself," though I didn't know what she would find asking people what they wanted in their lattes.

After supper, I did my homework, said good night to everyone and locked my bedroom door.

Then I opened my backpack to discover Freda's "gift." It was a black nightie. Tiny. See-through.

Oh.

I wondered if I should cut it into small pieces and flush it down the toilet. Destroy the evidence. If I kept it…and it was discovered…

What would my family think? Would I be sent off to Gayness Prison? Would I be excluded from all family gatherings until they attended my funeral?

The smart thing was to destroy or dispose of the girlish item at the earliest opportunity.

But I wasn't very smart.

I stripped naked and put it on.

My goodness, I looked good in lingerie.

My prickie certainly agreed.

I was terrified of discovery. Which made it all the more exciting. And dirty. I turned out the lights and got into bed. Covering myself from with sheet and blanket.

I have to admit. I felt very girlish in my pretty lingerie. And aroused. I put my knees up, lifting the sheet and blanket to give myself unfettered manual access to my pretty privates. With the thumb and forefinger of my right hand I skinned my little hood. With my brain, I recalled my astounding afternoon. And thought about the next afternoon. Would Mr. Hardwood be there? What would he do? What would he want me to do?

Unnnhhhh!

I spurted for the third time that strange day. Hard. Then fell into a sweet, exhausted sleep.

 

Chapter Four - Basic Girlishness

The next day was also weird.

Why are you not surprised?

And it began long before Freda picked me up after school for modeling.

At breakfast, I kept sneaking peeks at Mom for clues to what she knew and what she thought. She knew Mr. Hardwood had sent me a Valentine and taken me to dinner on my birthday. She knew I had seen him after school the day before and was seeing him again. At least he saw me - I didn't really see him.

Mom clearly did not disapprove. Which was also darned disconcerting.

Clare was bursting with curiosity, but had learned long ago that observation is a better way to gain information than interrogation.

Dad had already left for work, but what did he think?

We were not great communicators.

Then there were the oddities at school.

I was a boy who was fully accustomed to being ignored. I had come to embrace it, really. But that Tuesday, I began to be only partially ignored.

Which was disconcerting too.

Barry Broadback, a football star who would soon be going to one of those thug universities on an athletic scholarship, had been in school with me since the fourth grade. I was willing to bet that he didn't know my name, first or last.

It wasn't meanness on his part, really. I was invisible.

That day, coming out of English class, Barry locked eyes with me - and held the lock.

I shuddered when he did it.

It amazed him as well. He seemed to grasp for my name and then…and I'm not making this up…he said, "How's it going, Timmy?"

I was so stunned that I said nothing. But THEN…THEN…he held the door for me and said, "I'll see ya. Have a good day."

Where did that come from?

I wasn't wearing anything the least girlish. Even under my clothes.

I was the same person I had always been. Wasn't I?

But wait. There's more.

That afternoon, in biology class, Mr. Darwin looked at me several times during his lecture. After class he spoke to me for the first time, saying, "Nice lab work last week, Timmy."

Nice lab work?

He had never said that to anyone, especially me, before.

Men were already noticing me.

Just as Freda said.

I shared all that with Freda as she drove me to "the studio."

She beamed with pride. "Already it's happening and you aren't even wearing panties yet. You have powerful feminine juju, Honey. Killer juju."

Panties?

Juju?

Freda was in a great mood as we entered the studio and she explained the day's activities. "Today we'll introduce you to foundation to go with your lipstick. I'll show you how to shave your legs and you'll wear your first stockings and a garter belt. Then I'll give you a little homework."

I was trembling. Was it fear? Or sexual excitement?

Would Freda and I be - doing the nasty?

We would see.

We went to the studio, where Freda had lined up some appropriate cosmetics for me.

"Strip naked for me, Sweetheart," she said.

"For her," she said, but I knew it was for those two men too. Were they there? Looking?

I was betting on it.

I peeled my boy things off as sexily as I could. Then stood naked in front of the full-length mirror. I admired my body, looking right and left, up and down. I even turned to give my audience a nice view of my pink bottom.

By that time, my pricklet was in a state. Which I hoped, when I joined Freda in the bathroom, would give her the idea that she should relieve my suffering.

Not yet. Freda was all business. When I caught on quickly with the foundation and lipstick, she added to the day's agenda by teaching me about eye liner, mascara and eye shadow.

My makeup was nowhere near perfect that day, but seeing the full effect of essentially full makeup made both Freda and me gasp.

Freda moved behind me as I looked at a beautiful, truly beautiful me in the mirror.

"Take a good, long look, Darling," Freda said, as she reached around my right hip and skinned my peeny up and down…up and down. "Is there any doubt that everything I've told you is true?"

I cried out in sexual agony, spurting my creamy load.

"No doubt," I groaned.

When I had recovered a bit, Freda said, "Let's make you even sexier. Wouldn't you love to have smooth, hairless legs to draw your silky stockings across?"

I was pretty much with any aspect of Freda's agenda at that point. I nodded assent.

"Goodie. Let's shave those legs."

Freda showed me how to lather up my legs and then carefully draw my ladies' razor across each sensitive spot. I wasn't really hairy to begin with, but I had to admit that it was thrilling to feel Freda's warm hand slide sensuously along each now-silky leg.

Nighties were one thing. But if I wore stockings, was I doomed to becoming a lifelong pantyboy?

Probably. But at that moment, I was willing to believe that Lee Harvey Oswald was Osama bin Laden's cousin if Freda suggested it.

Stockings.

How can I describe my first feelings when I rolled them into doughnuts and slowly slid each black teaser up a smooth leg?

You know how it felt, girls. And how it feels now. It's one of the many wonderful things that make us love our girlishness.

I hadn't framed it in those grand terms at that time. I was LOVING the sensations, while fighting the unsettling notion that two men were probably creaming their boxers watching me slip into a frilly, ruffled garter belt and lovingly hook each stocking clasp.

Life's all about good and bad, isn't it?

Freda asked me how I felt as I stared at my lovely, cosmetic-enhanced face and stunning, stockinged legs.

I was too overcome to speak. I could only blush.

Which told Freda all she needed to know. She had me…for the whole project…whatever it would be. And she knew it.

"All right Sweetie. Just a couple more things to do today and then I'll give you a big treat. I want you to lie on your back on the bed. Oh wait. Make that on your knees. Prop yourself up with your left arm. That's it. You're on 'all threes.' Now I want you to tickle your pickle with your right hand until you cum. I know you can cum, Baby."

No problem there. My ears were on fire.

I thought about those two men looking at my pretty, plump, pink bottom, framed by black stockings and garters. Pointed right at their hiding place.

No picture to look at, but that was OK. Freda was telling me how beautiful I was and how Barry Broadback and Mr. Darwin were probably home in their beds, right then, rubbing their big, stiff, hot cocks. Dreaming of me. Thinking about how they wanted to make love to me. And stick their big rammers in my tiny pussy."

For an instant I said to myself, "But I don't have a pussy." Then I realized what she meant.

And that triggered a starburst of cum. Heaving spurts. And the girliest little squeals.

I was humiliated at what I had already become.

But even more eager to find out what would happen next.

Freda gave me a few minutes to return to the earth. Then she said, "Time for your rewards, then we'll go home."

Rewards? More than one?

"Here's your first reward. Tomorrow's $5,000."

Oh. That. Well, there had to be more.

"I know your want a second reward and here it is."

Freda removed her blouse. I gulped. She unhooked her bra, releasing two spectacular specimens. Really spectacular.

But there was more. Freda shimmied out of her skirt. I saw her garter belt, panties and stockings. She kept her stiletto heels on. I liked that. Were the panties next?

Not that night.

"I'm having my period, Sweetie. But make yourself at home in my cleavage."

I was having a good day. A nice heterosexual day, once again.

I sat on the side of the bed as Freda stood in front of me. I licked and kissed and sucked Freda's huge nipples. And her big, warm, glossed lips.

She really seemed to enjoy it. I know I did.

Then she got on her back on the bed and invited me to lie on top of her.

No problem.

More kissing and titty sucking. Mmmmm.

Then Freda took it up a notch. As I was snogging away, I noticed that Freda was lubing up some fingers on her right hand.

Why would she?

Oh.

I didn't know people did that.

Freda slowly and thrillingly entered my bottomhole with the middle finger of her beautiful right hand. And wiggled it. And found a spot I didn't know I had.

But my cock knew what she was rubbing.

My tender little "anal walnut." So sensitive.

Her slick finger rubbed and teased.

Encouraged by my helpless squeals, Freda drew her finger in and out..in and out. Then - something new! She added a second finger.

Aaaaaah. More insistent rubbing on my prostate. More stretching of my virginal bottomhole. I was in heaven.

Freda rolled me over onto my back. Kissing me deeply, with an overactive tongue, Freda added a third, lubed finger into my stretched pootie.

"Doesn't that feel wonderful, Baby?" she asked rhetorically. "Your pussy is so hot and tight. Just imagine how delicious it will be when a man's fat, hot cock is in there, not just my fingers. A man's cock spurting his thick cream."

I arched my back, screamed and exploded. All over my pretty tummy.

A lake of boy's cream formed on my flat stomach, with strings as far as my nipples.

I had just experienced the deep, shuddering pleasure of my first anal orgasm.

And the notion that had pushed me over was a very gay one.

Freda brought me back from the dead, insisting that I take a shower before we go home so that I didn't odorously announce to my family how I had spent my afternoon.

Before we left the studio, however, she gave me $5,000 and my homework. "Wear these stockings and this garter belt under your boys' things until I pick you up at school tomorrow."

I agreed, only semi-reluctantly. Wearing girlie things was making me rich and orgasmic. And they made me feel good too. They made me feel pretty…oh so pretty.

That evening, it was three for supper. Clare had a date with someone Mom described as a "very nice man."

Man, not boy. I should have picked up on that, but I was too delighted that she wouldn't be around to ask dumb questions.

After homework, I locked my room, stripped down to my stockings and garter belt and inspected myself in the mirror.

Wow. Was I getting femmier by the minute or what?

The tan, seamed stockings and white garter belt looked natural on me. As if I had been wearing them all my life. I wondered what my legs and [blush] bottom would look like if I wore big heels like Freda.

My conclusion was - fantastic.

Then I remembered the plastic bag Freda had given me and fished it out of my backpack.

Oh my.

It was a magazine.

A very dirty magazine.

Called "Panty Boy."

Where had I seen it before?

Oh, yeah. I caught my Dad reading an issue of it one day about a year ago. He seemed very embarrassed when he knew I saw him. He asked me about something he knew I would talk a lot about as he tried to hide the magazine. I had forgotten about it.

Panty Boy!

Was that was I was becoming?

And why would a man like my Dad want to read about boys like me?

The cover photo seemed normal enough. It was a pretty, eighteen-year-old boy and a fortyish man going into an "intimate apparel" store. "Shopping with 'Daddy'" was in the bottom right corner of the cover.

The words "Panty Boy" were across the top of the magazine, with a pair of pink panties draped over the "P."

I decided to get comfortable before I opened the magazine.

I lay on my bed, head propped by two pillows. Stockinged knees up. Popsy stiffening as I opened to pages 2 and 3. It was a double page picture of the young man, identified as "Peter" and the man, identified as 'Daddy,' but not Peter's biological father" shopping in a wonderful, very large lingerie store. They were the only two men in the place, which didn't seem to bother "Daddy," but Peter seemed embarrassed, bordering on humiliated.

Next page, a saleslady was helping "Daddy" and Peter pick out loads of intimate dainties. A crowd of ladies had gathered, and Peter seemed mortified. But "Daddy" stayed the course. The two carried seven or eight shopping bags of stockings, nighties, teddies, bustiers, bras and panties to "Daddy's" car.

"Daddy" and Peter were sitting in the car. "Daddy" asked Peter, "Was that exciting for you?"

Peter said, "Oh, 'Daddy,' I was mortified. And I've never been more excited in my life. Please take me home and fuck me!"

My pricklet throbbed and drooled a thick drop.

I turned the page.

Peter and "Daddy" arrived at a very nice house - did they live together? Peter kissed "Daddy," took the bags upstairs, and Daddy puttered around, waiting for Peter's call.

The call came quickly. "'Daddy,' I'm ready," Peter called.

Daddy took the steps two at a time and entered the lovers' bedroom.

Peter was stunning!

Almost as pretty as me.

He, I mean she...or he…Peter was all in pink. Stockings, garter belt, bra and five-inch stiletto sandals. Perfect makeup (I had to work on that). Lying on the bed with pink panties down to his mid-thighs.

"Daddy" undressed in a picosecond. Nude, he climbed onto Peter and for the next 40 full-color pages, "Daddy" and Peter exchanged sperm. In Peter's mouth. All over Peter's pretty face. And three large loads in his plump, tiny bottomhole. Peter came twice for every one of "Daddy's" orgasms.

Sperm was everywhere. In the pictures. But especially, all over me.

I was fatally excited by what I saw.

What an eye-opener it all was.

That exact magazine issue had to be Mr. Hardwood's inspiration for the "Timmy's Girlish Secret" stores. A place where "daddies" can take their pantyboys without being ridiculed. A place where pantyboys can stock up on their girlish needs. Then model them for their randy daddies.

I had no idea that big-dicked daddies could fit their johnsons into a pantyboy's tiny pootie.

I had no idea that a pantyboy could enjoy his "daddy's" big cock in the pantyboy's "pussy" so much.

I guess I had already known that Mr. Hardwood wanted to do all those things with me.

The question was, what did I want?

After all that cumming, I was exhausted and just wanted to go to sleep. But at least I had the good sense to clean myself up before I went to bed and had to explain cum-drenched sheets to Mom.

I began to wonder, though if that would surprise Mom all that much.

I washed out my stockings and hung them to dry, since I had promised Freda to wear them under my boy clothes the next day.

Back in bed, I tried to sleep. But couldn't.

So much to think about.

Clearly, I loved exploring my femininity. Clearly I loved playing slap and tickle with Freda.

But how would I deal with the issue of Mr. Hardwood's infatuation?

After a restless night, I cleaned up and dressed, ready to face a day with a true girlish secret - stockings and a garter belt under my clothes. I had no panties - hadn't worn any yet. Boxer shorts seemed inappropriate. So I "went commando."

It was terrifying to walk around school all day hiding stockings and garters under my trousers. Mortification was prevented only by the thin material of my boy's pants.

But it was horribly exciting too.

No one actually saw my stockings that Wednesday. But three more boys and two more male teachers "gave me the time of day." Something about me was connecting with the deepest male instincts. Something they didn't understand, but were compelled to act on.

Freda picked me up on time after school and we had another great afternoon. Though Mr. Hardwood and Mr. Creamer were still no-shows.

I wore my first panties! My tiny testicles and pink knoblet felt their silky embrace. And, of course, I filled a tiny, pink pair of teasers with a big, gooey load of sticky cream.

Freda schooled me more on makeup and began to teach me how to walk in three-inch heels.

She also gave me a long, lovely slurpy, on-her-knees cocksucking and tons of sweet kisses.

Then she gave me my homework.

"This is an anal probe, Honey. I want you to lube it up and explore your pussy when you get in your bed. Wear this lovely lemon yellow babydoll nightie and imagine as you're "probing," that a nice sweet man is fucking your pretty bottom. Can you do that?"

I was mildly horrified. But you didn't say no to someone who's emptying your ball bag on a regular basis.

Clare was on another date that night. Again, I was glad to avoid her scrutiny. And didn't think through why or where she was out.

That night, I dressed in my lemon babydoll and admired myself for several minutes. Which had the usual effect of putting my peeny in severe distress.

I was a bit nervous about using the anal probe, but I didn't want to disappoint (or disobey) Freda. Following her instructions, I lubed the probe head thoroughly as I admired its design. It was a foot long, with a thick, five inch handle, a thin, five-inch tube and a two-inch long, one-inch diameter, curved head.

Freda had explained that I should lubricate my bottomhole thoroughly with my finger(s), then ease the lubed head in. I should then probe around a bit until I located my prostate.

"What do I do then?" I had asked Freda.

"You'll know, Honey," she said.

Delaying the "probing" a bit, I decided to review the literature that Freda had given me earlier - Panty Boy magazine.

I lay on my back, placing the lubed probe and the tube of lube by my side, then reopened the magazine.

I opened to a random page. Peter was receiving one of "Daddy's" thick creamy loads all over his beautiful, carefully made-up face. His pretty features were sopping with sperm. He should have been disgusted. Or mortified. But he wasn't. He was…delighted.

He should have been humiliated for many reasons. Even forgetting the horrible gayness of it all, that, that…man was emasculating poor Peter. Peter was being used. He was giving himself to the man as his receptacle…for all the man's disgusting needs. Peter was so submissive to the man that he called him, "Daddy." Giving the man complete authority over the boy. He even let the man mortify him in public at the lingerie store.

And yet, Peter loved his "Daddy." That was obvious.

Peter wanted to be emasculated. He wanted to serve his "Daddy." He wanted to give "Daddy" the greatest present of all - himself.

Peter had surrendered himself and his masculinity to his "Daddy."

Could I ever do that? Would I want to? Who would be the lucky "Daddy?" Well, it wouldn't be Mr. Hardman, I could tell you that. Or Mr. Creamer. They had abandoned me. Not that being with Freda was bad. It was fantastic. But shouldn't Mr. Hardman be…well…there for me?

My little pickle was in powerful peril. I put the magazine down and lubed my penis gently, careful not to cum too soon.

Then I lubed the fingers on my left hand. I had never entered my bottom with my fingers. How bad could it be?

Oooh.

It was very nice.

Why hadn't I discovered that before?

I lay back and enjoyed wiggling two fingers in my tiny pooper.

My nipples erected, which made them rub against the satiny material of my nightie.

Double oooh.

Reluctantly, I removed my fingers. They made the cutest pop as they exited.

Replacing the fingers with the probe, I slowly eased it into my wrinkled hole.

I was still a tiny bit worried that it would hurt, but after seeing all those TV public service announcements from the LDP (Lubricate, Dilate Penetrate) Foundation about painless anal sex, I was pretty sure I would be OK.

OK is too mild a word.

I was delighted.

Freda was right.

When the head of the probe found my prostate, I knew just want to do.

Rub.

Rub.

Gasp.

Pant.

Squeal.

Cum.

Wow. Was that what being fucked was like?

  

Chapter Five - Intermediate Girlishness

I woke up on Thursday morning in a bit of a panic. Rather than covering my tracks as I had earlier in the week, culpatory evidence was everywhere.

My nightie was still on, though I had pulled it up to my neck. My [blush] nipples and privates were fully exposed. Dried cum seemed to be everywhere, especially on the pages of my Panty Boy magazine. There was even some on my chin.

But worst of all, the anal probe was still in my bottomhole.

I liked it there.

Cum was also all over the sheets.

Oops.

Mom would know I was whacking my weenie. And spurting it copiously and indiscriminately,

I panicked.

Briefly.

Then it hit me.

Everyone whacks their weenie.

Mom wouldn't even blink, would she?

So, all I would need to do was clean up the girlie things.

Whew.

I wasn't prepared to let anyone know about my apparent girlishness.

Not yet.

But that didn't mean that I was going to wear icky boxers and a tshirt under my boy clothes. Not when I could wear pretty white panties, black stockings and a white garter belt that day.

I was causing a bit of a stir at school. For reasons they barely understood, about 20 boys and male teachers who had never before acknowledged my existence found an urgent need to speak to me that Thursday.

Barry Broadback, the jock whose finely-attuned sissy radar was the first to connect with me, had gotten positively chummy. Despite the disapproving stares of his thuggish fellow jocks and his legion of female admirers, Barry sat with me at lunch and told me about his family.

He was, it turned out, quite human.

And, though he only dimly realized it, eager to get into my panties.

Well he could just forget that. I had a girlfriend, Freda Fraumacher, who knew about my girlish secret, and still loved me in a healthy, heterosexual way.

Still, it was awfully flattering. And it took a bit of effort to avoid flirting with him and the others, particularly Mr. Darwin. I shivered when I thought that, had I actually flirted, one of those beasts would have probably thrown me on a lunchroom table and had his disgusting way with me.

Why did that thought make "Little Timmy" so stiff and drippy?

Anyway, after school, it was the usual, except that we began the session by Freda showing me how to paint my toenails a bright red. I loved wiggling them. It all felt so sweet and girlish.

Then I earned my $5,000 by trying on various pretty outfits, learning how to "volumize" my eyelashes, improving my makeup and high-heel- walking skills, lying on my back, tickling my pickle until I made sissy cream and enjoying a fantastic cocksucking, with anal stimulation from my lovely Freda.

I was eager to lick her "pink pie" in return, but Freda said, "My period will be over tonight. Tomorrow, you'll get what you want and need. A real fucking."

Oh, joy! Freda was going to let me fuck her on Friday, and we wouldn't have to be home until 11 p.m., my Friday curfew.

That was what she meant, wasn't it?

As we drove home, I took roll call of the missing - Mr. Hardwood, Mr. Creamer and my sister Clare.

Oh well. I had Freda. And my girlish things. The others would turn up.

That night, at bedtime, I girlied up in a lovely red nightie with white bows. I loved looking at my pretty toes. Then I lubed up my popsy and my probe and opened Freda's latest gift - another copy of Panty Boy magazine.

This one featured a pretty boy named Terry, who was a college student. He came home from school, got undressed and then redressed as a delicious pantyboy. He did his make-up perfectly and his lingerie was spectacular. In the end, he excited himself so much that, with slick fingers in his bottom and his other hand rubbing warm oil on his "pink purse," he drenched his tummy with a half gallon of girl's cream.

The big difference for Terry was that, unlike me and the pantyboy in the other issue, Terry had a VERY large cock! At least eight inches! And very thick.

The lesson from Freda, I think, was that you don't have to have a teenie weenie to have girlish secrets.

As I probed my pooper, I thought about Terry. What would it be like, I wondered, to make love to another pantyboy? What if Terry and I were making love and he wanted to put that big, thick, hot thing in my tiny bottom? It would rip me open. I would be permanently shamed and emasculated.

And that made me spill my girlish load in six, thick globs all over my stomach.

Then I did something very naughty.

I tasted my spendings.

Be honest. We've all done that. But it was my first time.

And I didn't die.

It wasn't bad. It wasn't particularly good. But it wasn't bad. Kind of like a raw egg.

Rocky drank raw eggs before doing his roadwork.

So it was kind of manly.

I fell asleep, eager for the next day.

I awoke that morning and realized that it was the only day in my life for which I had been promised fucking.

It was bound to be a turning point in my life. A big turning point.

Actually, it was a series of turning points - making a revolving point.

Beginning with me, in my boy outer clothes (girlish secrets underneath) heading for breakfast in the kitchen. And running into the first "missing person" - my sister Clare.

I think it was my sister.

When I had last seen Clare, she was wearing no make-up and no jewelry. Her hair was a disheveled mess. She was wearing a grey "hoodie" sweatshirt, men's plaid pajama bottoms rolled-up to expose her unshaved calves, and dirty slip-on sneakers. In other words, her usual outfit.

That Friday morning, Clare, if she had been flat-chested, could have been on the cover of "Vogue." She was wearing a lovely, stylish, navy blue dress, with perfect accessories. Four-inch-stiletto fuck-me pumps. Tan stockings. And her face and hair were perfect.

Wow!

All I could say was, "Clare?"

Clare smiled. I erected. I know she was my sister, but she was a big- boobed, gorgeous eleven.

"Timmy. I'm sorry I haven't been there for you these past few days, but I hear you're doing great."

"There for me?" "Hear you're doing great?"

Huh?

Who was she talking to?

But Clare was in a hurry. And she had a small suitcase.

"I'm in love, Timmy. He's perfect. A bit older, but rich. And he adores me. We're going to Paris for a few weeks. I'll call you on Monday or Tuesday and tell you everything. Feel free to borrow any of my things when I'm gone." Then she kissed my cheek, hugged me, and ran out the door to a waiting limo.

Huh? Huh?

I went to the kitchen to ask Mom for an explanation, but she was evasive.

"Isn't it wonderful, Timmy? Clare's in love with a wonderful man. Maybe you'll fall in love soon too. Hurry up and eat your breakfast. Don't be late for school. I have to run," she said. And she did.

Strange.

School was getting weirder every day. Thirty-five boys and teachers made friendly gestures to me and Barry, my lunch "date" yet again, brought me a sandwich he made at home. The sandwich wasn't very good, but I must admit, I enjoyed the attention. And was frightened by it. What would all those horny guys do when they found out I was purely a ladies' man?

After school, I was wildly excited about my impending intercourse. And…since it would be a double training session, I had already received $10,000 instead of my usual $5,000. That made $55,000 I had received so far. Wow!

Freda had told me that a taxi would be picking me up because she wanted to have some time to make herself beautiful for me. The cabbie was on time and he delivered me to my little lovenest. Freda opened the door for me and took my breath away.

She must have spent the whole day on her hair and make-up and it showed. She had taken the eye make-up all the way to "trampy." Her pretty brunette hair was styled deliciously. And her clothes… Wow!

Freda was all in black - silky stockings over her long legs. Strappy, mule, five-inch-stiletto sandals. Skimpy panties. No bra encumbering her magnificent mammaries. And the sheerest black peignoir.

Freda defined sex.

And she was all mine.

But not right away.

After a deep tonguey kiss that had me in a stiff state, Freda said, "I want you to get girlied up first. Then the fucking. All you want!"

Sometimes life is good.

I showered first in the studio's bedroom, cleaning myself all over and shaving my legs. Then I made my face up in the sultriest way I knew. I stepped into the bedroom and saw Freda laying out my clothes.

She was doing the minimalist thing that night. I eagerly put on skimpy, pink bikini panties, an open-nippled, pink bra made from two ruffled triangles, and strappy, pink, stiletto sandals.

As was my new habit, I admired myself in the mirror. And tented my panties. Were those men watching? Were they still alive? I decided that I didn't care. Ignoring the new me had become a capital crime.

As I was posing, Freda said, "You're magnificent, Darling. Prettier than me. Prettier than anyone. I'll be right back and then I'll show you how wonderful you are."

Freda left the room. I was enjoying the view of myself so much that I didn't mind. I was a little nervous about whether I would fuck her well. But I knew it wouldn't be from lack of effort.

I could see what the boys at school were so riled up about. I was probably the prettiest girl I had ever seen - except for maybe Clare. I was prettier than that Peter in Panty Boy and that Terry person too.

Maybe someday, if that Barry was still nice to me, I would let him kiss me. No tongue. Well, maybe just a taste. It would have to be in secret, because we wouldn't want people to think we were gay.

I was sort of speculating about all kinds of things when the door opened and Freda returned.

At least I thought it was Freda. I looked in my mirror to see Freda behind me and saw….

Oh, no.

It was…

Mr. Hardwood.

Fully dressed in khakis and a long-sleeved polo, but with a HUGE, vertical, iron pipe in his pants!!

He came up behind me and held me by my trembling shoulders. I felt his hot breath.

"You're spectacular," he said. "I love you. I've loved you since I met you. And before the night is out, I think you'll love me."

I gasped.

Where was Freda?

Had she left me alone with that…that man?

And what about the fucking she promised me?

The fucking?

Oh.

Was THAT what he intended to do with that big, fat pole?

Oh.

I looked at Mr. Hardwood in the mirror. He had a sappy, lovestruck look on his face. For the first time in my life, it appeared that I had caused someone to actually fall in love with me. And he really did love me.

What was I to do?

I began the next chapter in my life most uncharacteristically.

I began to shudder and weep.

Mr. Hardwood's heart split cleanly in two.

He looked stricken.

But he didn't force himself on me to satisfy his despicable urges. No. He sympathized. He turned me to face him and held me in his strong, manly arms.

Embracing me tenderly, he said, "Oh, I'm so sorry, Darling. I didn't mean to upset you. I thought you… I mean… Let me get Freda and she'll give you a ride home. I'm sorry."

"NO!!" I shouted frantically between two sobs. "I mean, don't go."

Did I say that?

Apparently.

Mr. Hardwood smiled sweetly. And he hugged me a bit harder. Then he said, "If you don't want me to leave, why are you crying?"

Good question.

I thought about it a moment. And arrived at something we almost never experience in our lives. A moment of full clarity.

My world was wounded when Mr. Hardwood left eight months earlier. It was conditionally rehabilitated when he returned a week ago. It's OK to lie to others sometimes. But it's always a bad idea to lie to yourself. Worse to keep lying. At last I knew how I felt about Mr. Hardwood. And it wasn't teacher-student in nature.

I took a deep breath, then answered him as honestly as I could. "I hated when you left me last year. I thought you left me again after Monday. I'm scared that you'll tease me and use me and then leave me again."

Oh my.

I guess I did have a girlish secret.

It appeared that, despite my self-inflicted lies, I was pretty much in love with Mr. Hardwood.

Mr. Hardwood's heart exploded with love.

He gently held me, staring deeply into my pretty eyes.

And then he kissed me.

Deeply.

With tongue.

And full, boiling lust.

"This is wrong. This is gay. This is icky," flashed through my brain for a picosecond, then departed the earth, never to return again. Headed for Pluto, the former planet.

To be replaced by pure, blissful pleasure.

I surrendered unconditionally to my man's virility.

Kissing him back. Pouring myself into his arms. Swooning when he slid a big, rough paw down the back of my panties and stroked my pink cheeks.

My poor little penis was frightfully erect, stretching almost to a full four inches, with so much blood in it that the head was purple.

And the rogue was mercilessly rubbing his stiff rammer against it as he consumed me with kisses.

It was sweet torment.

Urgently, I lowered his zipper and reached in to free my lover's cock. It was no small feat to be able to extract that stiff pole through his boxers and his trousers, but a pantyboy in search of cock will not be denied.

It was the first cock, other than my own, that I had ever held. I wanted to look at it, but my head was occupied with kissing and tonguing. So all I could do was feel it.

It was big and hot and hard. Maybe eight thick inches. With a long, dark foreskin that exposed only the peehole. A situation that I corrected by skinning it back sweetly to expose the entire head.

Mr. Hardwood liked that.

And that was when he took charge. He broke our kiss, smiling at my resulting pout.

His first order of business was to get naked.

He looked good naked.

Really good.

Hairy in the right places. Hard in the right places too.

I was totally in love.

Or at least in lust.

When it's difficult to sort those out, you know you have something good going.

He sat on the bed and beckoned me. I sissied over to him in my high heels, giggling. Standing in front of him.

He looked like a man sitting down to a banquet. And I was the whole meal.

For an appetizer, he chose my "titties."

He eased my bra up to expose my "rack" and began kissing and licking my right nipple.

I squealed with girlish pleasure. How did he know that adoring my nipples would put me in the girliest possible mood? Had he had a lover like me before?

I thought about how I would scratch the hypothetical little tramp's eyes out. But only briefly. I had pressing business. Like enjoying his adoration of my left nipple as he continued to "feel me up," without actually removing my panties. I think he was saving that.

By the time he was ready to de-panties me, I was gasping and panting for relief. I had never been in such a state of pure lust before. My ears were blazing and my poor "little person" was in mortal peril.

Sensing all that, my lover showed mercy. Kissing his way from my nipples to my tummy, he reached my panty waistband, then stopped. Pausing to savor his imminent triumph, no doubt, over a poor, helpless, defenseless pantyboy who was being FORCED to submit to his virile charms and animal lust.

Of course I had surrendered a while back, I thought, but let the man enjoy his fantasies.

Slowly, with near-reverence, Mr. Hardwood slid the front waistband of my panties over my purple cockhead. He gasped when he saw just the peelips.

He looked me in the eyes and said, "A perfect love drop," referring no doubt to the creamy drool that was escaping from my tortured peeny.

Then the bad boy did something I didn't expect. He opened his mouth, extended his tongue and licked the creamy glob from my peehole. I shuddered with pleasure.

Returning to his welcome task, he eased the panties down to expose the entire tiny, pink head. He gasped. "It's beautiful, Darling," he said. "But you're in such pain, aren't you?"

I whimpered in reply. He'd better do something soon or he would have a lot of explaining to do at the emergency room.

But Mr. Hardwood would not be rushed. He eased the panties down to expose the entirety of my penile magnificence - all 3.82 inches on that, its very best day.

He paused again and said, "I'm the luckiest man in the world. Thank you."

I blushed. I have learned to take abject adoration when and where I can get it.

Then he proceeded to expose my baby balls.

They fascinated him. He considered them for several moments, without touching them. Then he said, "Two perfect, pink pearls. Magnificent." He held my silky sack with the fingertips of his right hand, giving then a little stir. Then he leaned forward and gently kissed each testicle.

Oh, girls. It was all I could do to avoid cumming right then. All over his face! Probably humiliating him and losing him forever.

Somehow I held back.

Briefly.

I didn't know what his agenda was for that day and night, though I had a pretty good idea of what the grand finale would be. But I must say that he surprised me when he took my penis head into his warm mouth and began to suck it.

Very well.

With wet, active tongue in all the right places.

There was no stopping me then, girls.

I didn't want to cum in his mouth. Well, I did, but not if it would anger him. But I was only human.

"Mr. Hard…! I'm…." was all I could say.

I screamed like a little girl running for the ice cream truck. Then pumped what I have to believe was the thickest, biggest, hottest load of sperm I had ever made, right into Mr. Hardwood's mouth.

He kept sucking and licking through my spasms and spurts, then sucked me to another hard stand. All without losing a drop.

I had to lie down.

On my back.

On the bed.

Chest heaving.

Looking up through teary eyes at a smiling Mr. Hardwood. He's proud of himself, I thought. Men are such beasts. He almost killed me with pleasure and now he probably wanted to FUCK me. Or have me suck his cock. Or something.

Well, he was going to get all that…and more. Once I could get my heart rate down to 150 or so.

The bed was narrow - only a single. Mr. Hardwood lay on his side next to me. Kissing my hair and neck as he tickled my reborn peeny and peanuts.

How was I randy again - already?

"You're perfect," he said. "Feminine perfection."

I glowed. He was saying all the things a man says to a girl so he can "get in her knickers." Even though he didn't need to say all that. My knickers were all his.

I had already raised the white flag.

I decided that someone that sweet deserved a nice orgasm.

"Please sit, Mr. Hardwood. On the side of the bed."

He was eager to comply.

I stood up, then knelt on the floor, between his open legs. He clearly knew what the next event in his life was. And he was ready.

I looked down at his cock. It was very angry. His balls were hairy and huge. They appeared to be swollen with hot cum.

Could I go through with it?

Definitely.

I began by rubbing my flat, right palm all over his beautiful stiffie.

All over.

Up and down.

Slowly.

He liked that.

Then I relaxed my hand and, using both of my soft hands, gave his penis a full, tactile examination.

It was so warm and alive. And eager for me.

With a thick, blue, protruding vein along the right side. And lovely ridges on the underside. The dark foreskin was completely back and the pink head was completely exposed. He had a huge lovedrop on his peephole. Just sitting there. Teasing me.

I took a deep breath, then leaned forward and licked it off.

That was a big line to cross. Some may call it a gay line. But I crossed it. Then began to put a significant distance between me and the line.

I gave his cockhead a proper kiss. Then another. The peelips dribbled again as Mr. Hardwood moaned in lustful appreciation.

One little pontoon bridge left. I opened my mouth as wide as I could, then took the entire, huge head of his thick rammer into my mouth

It felt very good there. I felt very good about having it there. I was sucking a cock, on my knees. Wearing only pink, stiletto sandals, a barely- there bra, and a half pound of makeup. The sum of the experience was that I felt extraordinarily girlish.

I ran my tongue along the underside of the head - at the arrow point - the oh-so-sensitive part. And I tormented the poor man. Licking and sucking. Making those little noises of awe and appreciation and surrender that guys adore.

It was better than Disneyland for Mr. Hardwood. He was enjoying an afternoon in Timmyland.

And so was I.

Then I decided to enhance the thrill ride a little bit.

I held his heavy ball sack in my soft hand. Cuddling the fat eggs. Stirring them as I sucked and licked his hot prong.

Our second date was going really well.

He was groaning and saying things like, "Oh, Baby" and "So good." Nothing original, but I liked the appreciation.

The inevitable took about sixteen lovely minutes. He began to pant heavily. And his cock seemed to get even hotter and drippier in my mouth. I felt him spasm just a bit and then he cried out in merciful release. "Timmy!" he groaned. Good thing for him he didn't say, "Peter" or "Terry" or somebody.

I gave his balls a gentle squeeze and that did it. Mr. Hardwood, my mentor turned lover, he began to pump his burning cum into my little mouth. I tried to swallow it. I knew a pantyboy's solemn duty. But the dam burst after the second glob of sperm. The last three globs drooled out the sides of my mouth and slid down my chin and onto my shoulders, chest and tummy.

Wow.

I think he liked that.

And so did I.

I must have looked like the Whore of Timmyland. With cum all over me. And smiling like a proper little tart. Proud of "her"self after sucking her man into a tsunami of semen.

I was all that.

Mr. Hardwood drew me up and sat me on his lap. He began to kiss me o the mouth. Big, tonguey, cummy kisses. Clearly the man was not squeamish around cum - mine or his.

He gathered some of the cum from my chest and tummy and began rubbing it on my aching cockhead.

Oh, that was so dirty!

I loved it.

He swirled the semen around my tender parts as he kissed me deeply, pausing every now and then to pledge his eternal love.

What would you have done, girls?

That's right. You would have spurted all over his warm hand.

And that's what I did. Hard.

Not quite as much cream as the first time, but a goodly amount.

Wow.

Mr. Hardwood kissed me all through my sweet agony, then laid me on the bed. On my back. My mascara was a mess. My face was smeared with my man's cum and my privates and my tummy were smeared with my own. I must have looked a fright.

But not to my man. He stood there admiring me for a while, then said, "Let's take a small break, Baby. I'll go get us something to eat. Then we can shower up and you can redo your makeup and show me how you look in stockings and a pretty nightie. I'm going to make you mine tonight. I'll cum in your 'pussy,' planting my seed in you. And you'll be my girl forever. Maybe I'll get you pregnant!"

My cock twitched at that. Pregnant! That wasn't going to happen, but it appeared my poor bottomhole's doom was sealed.

Ooooh. I didn't want to bother cleaning myself up. Or eating. Fuck me now, articulates my mood at that moment. But maybe he needed a bit of time to recharge. He was 35 years old, after all.

Then, just as he opened the door to leave the room, a bad thought gripped me.

"Wait," I said. "Is something strange going to happen, just as it has all week? Is Freda coming back in, instead of you? Or Mr. Creamer? That's it. Mr. Creamer's going to come in and try to make love to me. Isn't he? This was all set up so you could pass me around, like a cheap bottle of wine in a paper bag."

And, for the second time that afternoon, my girlish emotions had me crying again.

Mr. Hardwood rushed to comfort me. He put his arms around me and said, "No, Honey, I swear. Norm Creamer isn't even in the country. He's in Paris."

Paris?

That was comforting. I stopped crying.

Paris?

Wasn't that where Clare said she was going with her boyfriend?

That was a startling coincidence.

Hey.

Wait a minute.

My lover saw me doing the math and said, "That's right, Sweetheart. Norm and Clare. He's head over heels in love with her. And she's getting that way with him."

Creamer and Clare? But how?

"Norm and I sort of called your Mom on Saturday night and explained the whole venture to her. She was delighted that you would be realizing what she recognized was your destiny. Plus she was delighted with the $50,000 we gave her for her help. When we came by on Monday morning, while you were at school, Clare was there. Norm saw Clare. Clare saw Norm. Thunderbolts!"

Mom was in on this? She was getting $50,000? And I was doing all the work?

Ouch.

Mr. Hardwood went on. "I'm very happy he fell in love with Clare. It was a big loose end, because I was sure that Norm would fall in love with you when he met you and we would be territorial and vicious with each other. And to tell you the truth, I saw early signs that it was happening. Then he met Clare. He said, 'Timmy's fantastic, but he's all yours. With Clare, I get Timmy with tits. And a wet pussy."

Creamer took Clare over me?

Huh.

Mr. Hardwood understood what I was feeling. He said, "Wasn't he stupid? Well, there's no accounting for taste, I guess. I got the way, way, way better end of that deal."

So there was at least one man in the world who preferred a "two-pussy" girl to a pantyboy. That stung a little, but life goes on. It was good my sister had found someone. Though I hadn't totally forgiven her for hitting me in the head with that wiffle ball bat when I was nine.

Since it was Q and A time, I asked, "What about Freda? She was dressed for sex. Was that just to steam me up so I would be ready for you?"

Mr. Hardwood winced at that a bit. "I deserved that. Freda told us that I couldn't just show up with my dick hanging out and ask if you wanted to fuck. You had to be shown your feminine side. And taught girlish things. Plus, she had to allow you your illusion that you were only attracted to women. It was the right thing to do."

Hmmm. That was what "W" said about invading Iraq.

He went on. "Freda's getting lots of sex right now, don't worry. Her boyfriend is taking care of her in the lovely studio apartment where she's been living on the other side of this building. She has so many boyfriends, which is a real illustration of how much men love boys like you and Freda."

Wait a minute. "Boys like Freda?" Was she?

Oh.

Well, it was certainly truth-telling time.

More to come. "Freda's just like you, Timmy, except she's had some surgeries and got herself some brabuster titties. And her cock is bigger than mine."

Huh? A pantyboy, I mean a shemale, with a huge cock? Who had already sucked my cock several times? Now that presented some interesting possibilities.

But back to Mr. Hardwood's confession.

"Is that all?" I asked.

"You're not angry, are you?"

I thought about it a minute. A woman would have been angry, I was sure. But one of the many reasons a pantyboy is superior to a woman (or even a shemale) is that we don't pout with our lovers. It gets in the way of the fucking.

"No," I said. "But no more secrets, OK?"

Mr. Hardwood smiled. "That's wonderful. See what I mean about how I got the better deal? Clare would have pouted for at least 24 hours."

He was right. Twenty-four stupid hours without sex. And for what?

"I guess I'd better tell you the last bit then. I know you think you're going home tonight, but no one is there. Norm paid for a getaway weekend for your parents in Vegas. So, if you want, we can make love from now until Sunday night."

My heart twitched.

"Oh, yes," I said. "Yes, please…'Daddy.'"

"Daddy's" face ignited. The food forgotten, he devoured me with kisses and carried me into the warm shower, where we kissed and groped and cleansed in hot anticipation of my deflowering.

  

Chapter Six - Advanced Girlishness

As promised, I dollied up my face for Daddy (no further quotation marks needed, since you know he's no relation), then slid on white, seamed stockings and a frilly white garter belt. I wiggled into a tiny white nightie, fixed my hair and re-entered the bedroom to find Daddy naked and changing the sheets.

"You're even prettier than before," Daddy said. "Let's love each other right now."

Lead on, I thought.

Daddy lay on his back on the twin bed, head propped up by two pillows. His flagpole was straight and proud.

He looked yummy. Apparently, so did I.

"Come here, Baby. Do you know what a sixty-nine looks like? Get on top of me and straddle me. That's it. Put your bottom right by my face. You can kiss my prick if you want, but you don't have to. I'm going to lubricate you and dilate you so you'll feel only pleasure, no pain."

"Yes, Daddy," I said. His cock twitched every time I called him that.

Daddy must have seen all those LDP Foundation public service announcements too.

Daddy said the last words he would say for quite some time. "I'm going to eat your pussy, Honey. For a long time. I'm going to get you all nice and wet and open so we can have the best time of our lives. Do what you want, but you may just want to relax and enjoy it."

Eat my pussy? Was he going to…?

Unnnhhhh.

He was. The bad boy began by planting soft, butterfly kisses on my bottom cheeks. That was very nice. I returned his affections with similar kisses on his cock and balls.

Then he gently parted my cheeks and began to kiss the delicate inner folds of my buttocks. With little naughty flicks of his tongue to punctuate his efforts. That was nicer. So intimate. So dirty. Dirtier than sucking cock, really.

I began to give Daddy's balls a nice tongue bath. His small squirms showed that he was quite delighted with the intimacy of my response.

Then he got serious. A tiny, tentative lick of my anus.

I'm not making this up.

A man was licking my anus.

And sending an electric shock through my libido.

Guilty pleasures are the only true pleasures. And dirty pleasures produce the guiltiest pleasures of all. What could be dirtier than having one's anus licked?

I found out. Daddy dug in with his tongue.

I couldn't help it.

I screeched.

He liked that.

But he liked my "pussy" better.

He licked and dug and tongued me for at least 45 minutes. Reducing me to a quivering mess. A blissful, quivering mess.

And my bottom was wet and ready for his big cock. Or so I thought.

Daddy wasn't through yet.

He shifted his lustful attentions from my bottomhole to my baby balls. They were dangling over his nose. He rubbed his rough beard against them very gently, just to show me a bit more of his manliness. Then Daddy sucked and licked and tongued my tortured testicles until I screamed out and pumped thick globs of sissy juices all over Daddy's hairy chest.

My tormentor was more delighted than I was. "Just what I need," he said. And he proceeded to scoop up my juices with two fingers and use it to lube the portions of my poor bottomhole that fingers could reach but a tongue could not.

Thick, cummy calloused fingers. Way bigger than Fred's delicate digits that had pierced my pooper earlier in the week. I was being stretttttcccchhhhhed mercilessly.

Things just kept getting dirtier.

Wasn't that wonderful?

Of course Daddy didn't neglect my prostate. He rubbed my tender "little walnut" with his thick, cummy fingers and my eyes filled with tears of lust.

At last, it appeared, Daddy was ready to fuck me. He had eased my agony a bit by removing his fingers. My hole was gaping and wet. His cock could split diamonds.

It was time.

How would Daddy attack?

"Let's put you on your back, my Angel," he said. "I want to fuck you like a man fucks his woman."

I scooted willingly into a position to meet my fate. He eased two big pillows under the small of my back to give him a better attack angle.

Then he stepped back to admire his work. It was almost as if he were taking a mental picture of me, ready for my first fucking. My white- stockinged legs were spread. My white babydoll was pulled up to expose my titties and tummy. I knew my bottom must be a gaping "manhole."

I was trembling and whimpering. Then begging for my fucking. "Please, Daddy," I moaned. "Please make love to me. I want your baby, Daddy."

After a minute or so of that, even he couldn't wait.

Daddy mounted me, covering me completely with his large, virile body. I was trapped! A helpless little girl! Powerless in the presence of an aroused, merciless man. I couldn't fight him. He was going to force his big thing into me and pump me full of his seed.

Any moment now, I hoped.

Daddy apparently didn't want to miss any of it. He kissed me deeply for several minutes, rubbing our cocks together as he tongued my tonsils sweetly.

Then, abruptly, he stopped and said, "I love you, Timmy, Darling."

He reached down with his right hand and guided his stiff truncheon to my defenseless hole and with one steady push, slipped the entire head into the warmest, tightest place it had ever been.

I squealed. It hurt a little. But the thought that I was giving myself to my man made me wildly excited. He possessed me now, I thought. I was his property. Those thoughts made my poor, limp cock drool out my fourth orgasm of the day. Making me shudder with the intensity of a jackhammer on Jell-O.

And he wasn't even completely in yet.

Then he was.

Taking advantage of my orgasmic vulnerability, Daddy pushed the whole blasted thing into me. I dug my nails into his back - scars he bears today. Then hung on as he fucked me hard and long. In and out. For a really long time. Daddy says it was 25 minutes, but it seemed like three glorious hours.

Either way, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. And to him. We kissed and made all kinds of animal sounds the whole time. And when Daddy "lost his load" in my aching bottom, I spurted three watery dribbles in an orgasm that was like getting thrown off a roof during a hurricane.

I liked fucking.

So did Daddy.

We liked it so much that two hours later, after another shower, makeup change and switch to pink delicates, we did it again.

And that, with occasional breaks to eat from the studio refrigerator and go "tinkles" and "poo," describes the best weekend two people have ever had.

When Daddy pulled into the driveway of my house on Sunday night, my poor bottom was wasted and I doubted if I would ever poop properly again.

"Squeeze your bottomhole several hundred times each day," he advised. "Keeps things tight."

OK. I would.

"When will I see you again," I asked somewhat fearfully.

He kissed me tenderly. "I'll be working in New York all week, getting ready for the Timmy's Girlish Secret opening there soon. But I'll be back on Friday night for another weekend just like this one."

My heart fluttered. "Oh, Daddy. I love you so much," I said. And, right then, in a car, in my driveway, I pulled out his cock and gave Daddy a long, slurpy blowjob to keep him cool until Friday.

When I had swallowed all the evidence (my skills had already improved) Daddy reached into the glove compartment and handed me an envelope. "Here's the $20,000, as promised, for Saturday and Sunday," he said.

I almost said, "But Daddy, I don't want Mr. Creamer's money. That was all pleasure, not work." But I didn't say it.

$20,000 is $20,000, after all.

He also gave me another envelope with $5,000. "That's for Tuesday with Freda," he said. "She'll still be helping you with your feminine skills two days a week - Tuesday and Thursday. No more money for making love with me, I'm afraid."

Well. That was OK. But I sure enjoyed the money, as well as the sex.

"This will seem like chickenfeed to you when we get the enterprise going. If it goes as it should, we'll all be multimillionaires."

I liked the sound of that.

It was time to go. One last tonguey kiss. A tear of longing. And I left Daddy to return to my normal, but evolving life.

 

Chapter Seven - Pre-Opening Antics

When I went in the house, Mom and Dad acted as if I had just gotten home from a Boy Scout campout. Not a weekend where I wore 14 girlish outfits and was fucked a dozen times. By a man. And earned $30,000.

I decided to play along. "How was Las Vegas?" I asked, hoping they would say, "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" and I could go to my room. Instead, they spent 30 minutes telling me about their weekend.

They didn't ask me one thing about mine.

But Mom knew. She didn't know the details. But she knew the big picture.

Good old Mom.

My life the next week continued to get odder.

At school on Monday, Barry asked if he could start giving me a ride to and from school. Against some part of my better judgment, I agreed, though I told him I worked on Tuesdays, Thursdays and weekends.

He beamed with joy over my concession to him. Would he expect something in return?

Barry was a gentleman in the car all week, though I did observe that he sighed a bit whenever I sat next to him in the lunchroom or the car. And his cock was always embarrassingly stiff whenever I was near.

Freda and I had a lovely Tuesday and Thursday. She apologized for deceiving me, then made up for her sins by fucking me with that, as- promised, bigger-than-daddy's cock of hers. It was weird. But very nice.

The weekend was fantastic! Daddy introduced me to baby oil, which applied to the pantyboy in ample portions turns the entire girlish body into a cunt.

I was in a Saharan state of dehydration the whole weekend. And blissfully happy.

Daddy said one odd thing. "I'm going to be away now and then getting the business ready - even some weekends. . And so will Freda. I know someone with your hormones and beauty has needs. I would be fine with you taking care of those needs with a nice boy. Like that Barry. I would prefer that I be the only mature man in your life, but that's your decision."

He waited to see my reaction.

I was confused. Was he saying he wanted us to see other people? No. Clearly not. He seemed to be genuinely concerned about my needs. Which, since they had been triggered, seemed to be growing daily.

He was very sweet and I told him so. Then I lay back to take his cock up my bottom yet again.

But I didn't say, "Oh, Daddy, that would never happen." Because it could.

And it did.

What I said was, "You'll always be my only Daddy." Which was true and just ambiguous enough to serve us both.

What a blissful two months I had. Filled with femininity and sex. And money - $10,000 a week.

But things were odd and odder outside my circle with Freda and Daddy.

Mom and Dad acted as if I was working at an ice cream store or something on Tuesdays, Thursdays and weekends. It was definitely "don't ask, don't tell." Were they waiting for me to say something?

And that's not all. Clare and Mr. Creamer's "weekend" was still going on in Paris. Mom and Dad acted as if that were normal too. Maybe they thought Clare and her man were taking cathedral tours all day and sleeping in separate rooms at night or something.

But the weirdest thing was that Mom and Dad seemed to have rediscovered each other - as lovers I mean. Mom lost eight pounds and was dressing like a woman again - skirts, stockings and big heels. It's icky to say, but my Mom was still quite a babe, despite her advanced age of 41. I mean, no surprise. She had laid the gene-work for Clare and me. Dad sure noticed. They were spending all their spare time in their bedroom. And from the noises in there, they weren't playing monopoly.

At school, I would say that at least 70% of the boys and half the male teachers had discovered, to various degrees, that I was alive. The girls were watching me, trying to figure out what I was and why I was attracting what should have been their easy prey.

I wasn't dressing any differently, at least outwardly. Though I wore panties, bra, stockings and a garter belt every day under my khakis and polo shirts. Good thing I didn't have gym my senior year.

I must have been acting femmy or something, though I wasn't trying to. Whatever signals I was sending, male instinct was reading it loud and clear.

Around school, it was generally acknowledged that Barry and I had something going. Though no one, especially Barry and me, knew what it was. It didn't diminish Barry with the other kids. In fact, I would say they were envious.

Odd, huh?

The Tuesday and Thursday with Freda and weekends with Daddy pattern held deliciously until late April.

Then Daddy said that neither he nor Freda would be able to see me for two months! Two months!

He cried. I cried.

He gave me a key to the studio, if I ever needed to "bring a friend" or get some clothes. He said that he and Freda had added some "street clothes," pretty dresses and stuff, if I wanted to venture out some day.

That sent an odd chill through my sissy stick.

Freda gave me 20 back issues of Panty Boy, a whopper of a toy penis and a huge jar of lube.

Then I was on my own.

Almost.

Would I take pity on Barry? And on myself?

What do YOU think?

I actually made it through a week of celibacy. OK, almost. I made it from Sunday, when Daddy drilled me to a quivering pulp, through Friday, when I was supposed to be getting my RWA (recommended weekly allowance) of semen.

Barry couldn't help smiling when I told him on Tuesday that he could take me home from school all week since my "job" was on hiatus.

He saw it as his chance.

He was right.

By Friday afternoon, I was in a sad state. I needed relief. And reading Panty Boy wouldn't do it anymore. I needed cock. And I needed male adoration.

I looked over at Barry as he drove me home. He would do.

"Barry," I said. "Could we not go home right away?"

Poor Barry almost drove off the road.

"Where would you like to go?" he asked.

"Someplace where we can…talk."

Barry gulped.

I could see nervous sweat forming on his upper lip.

I couldn't help it. I giggled softly. He looked over at me with that lovestruck look men get. He knew it would be his lucky day.

Barry drove me to a quiet spot in the woods just out of town. He stopped the car, put it in parking gear and said, "What would you like to talk about?

I looked down, girlishly and said in my most feminine voice, "Us."

Barry gulped again, then said, "Is there an us?"

"If you want there to be," I said shyly. "You're the man."

Barry's voice had deserted him. So I said, "Would you like to kiss me?"

He actually groaned. "More than anything," he said.

I smiled then said, "I want to kiss you too. But just a moment."

I reached into my backpack and pulled out a tube of lipstick and a compact. Then applied it right in front of him. He was fatally excited.

But that wasn't all. "Let's get in the backseat," I suggested.

He was there in a flash. But I stopped outside the door and removed my shoes and boy socks, polo and khakis to reveal the true Timmy. Not the nerdy, boy identity.

I was wearing all black that day. And you know what they say about a girl who wears black panties and bra. I was especially fond of my black, seamed, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings. The Bettie Page kind. And my black leather garter belt.

Poor Barry. On the one hand, he was hugely relieved to discover that I was, as he suspected, a serious pantyboy and that he wasn't gay and neither was I. On the other hand, he was having near fatal heart palpitations because he was about to realize his fondest wish - me.

I got into the back seat with him. "Be gentle with me, Barry," I asked. "I'm just a helpless girl." Then I pouted my lips for a kiss.

I will give Barry credit. He didn't attack me. He was quite gentle. Savoring the moment, much as Daddy had.

He encircled my shoulders with his right arm, drew me to him and kissed me. Deeply. I could feel his hot tears of joy on my cheeks as we kissed.

How delicious it is to be someone's dream come true.

Barry was a very good kisser. And so was I. The naughty boy pressed his luck, giving me some nice tongue, which I returned gratefully. I had a very wicked thought about how that tongue would feel in my pussy.

My poor peeny was terribly stiff. And my pussy was itching from nearly five days of neglect. So you can't blame me for what happened the rest of that day.

Barry decided at that moment that he was the man and he was going to take charge of things. So he pressed his advantage by "feeling me up," under my bra and along the smooth, exposed skin of my thighs above my stocking tops.

When I shuddered with pleasure, he grew bolder.

By unspoken agreement, I was to show him mine and he was to show me his.

He eased my panty waistband over my tender cockhead, exposing the object of his fondest desire to his lustful gaze. Then he unzipped his own pants and slid them and his boxers down to his ankles.

I didn't look at first. My eyes were closed as I was kissing him. But I knew "Mr. Peasley" had joined the party.

His gentle hand surrounded my throbbing stiffie. I reciprocated.

Oh my.

He had a nice one. Not that I was any expert, but it seemed to be smaller than Freda's and bigger than Daddy's. But the odd thing, as I fondled it exploratorily, was that I couldn't find the foreskin. Then it hit me. He was circumcised! My first "skinless beast." A good thing that I'm an equal-opportunity sexpot.

So his poor cockhead was "out there in the world" all the time. No "home."

That was different.

But I was OK with it. So was he, if his panting and gasping as I kissed him and tickled his privates were any indication.

Things were moving along rapidly.

I felt "my good friend" well on its way. And so did he.

I wasn't really keen on letting all that yummy cum of his just jump into thin air so I decided to do my sissy duty and…

He beat me to it. Barry leaned over and took my aching popsy into his mouth, giving it several unskilled but enthusiastic sucks and licks. He was so sweet and eager and so head over heels with me that I released his cock, threw my head back and enjoyed the moment. Then, in a feral flash, I REALLY enjoyed the moment. Right down his throat.

I am completely convinced that Barry Broadback had never done anything remotely like that in his entire life.

I do things to men. Things no one can explain.

He seemed just a teeny bit embarrassed by his impetuous cocksucking. But I didn't give him time to regret it. I had him sit up and we switched roles. I put my head into his crotch and took his big, fat cock into my wet, experienced mouth. If Barry lives to be 100, he's told me, he will never forget the "BJ" he got in his car that afternoon. Six times I took him to the explosion point, then squeezing his nuts and backing off, I pulled him back from the brink. On the seventh venture to the edge, I pushed him off Cum Cliff. And he was falling…falling…falling…SPLAT!

Big, thick ribbons of cum. Filling my mouth. Even I couldn't swallow it all and it dribbled down my cheeks.

That boy had been denying himself. Saving himself for me. I admire that in a man.

We sat for a while, side by side, not touching. I didn't want him telling me he loved me or anything. That spot was taken by Daddy. But I did like Barry, very much. And I wanted to feel that big skinless hot dog in my lonely little pootie. Soon.

So I proposed the next agenda item.

"That was wonderful," I said. "Would you like to see where I work? I think you'll really enjoy it. We'll be alone. We can do things…whatever you want."

No sane man in the history of the world has ever refused that offer.

I put my boy clothes back on, but left my lipstick on, as well as Barry's cum all over my face. He liked that a lot.

Barry repositioned his pants, but I told him to leave his "Johnson" out so I could attend to it a bit as we drove to the studio.

It's a wonder we arrived alive. I fondled Barry's cock the whole time he drove. If we had been stopped by a policeman, he would have found two boys, the passenger wearing lipstick and his boyfriend's creamy load, the driver with his stiff cock bared, stiff and dripping. That could have been fun. Humiliating, but sexy. But it didn't happen.

We made it to the studio and I insisted that he keep his cock out as I opened the outside studio door. It's so difficult to find the right key some times, isn't it?

Finally, we got inside. I was sure Barry would pepper me with questions about the studio and my "job," but he was thinking of only one thing. My pussy.

Well, he would have to wait. "Let me wash up and get pretty for you, Honey," I said. I'll be about half an hour.

I might as well have said, "You're going on a hunger strike for the next 30 days." He was devastated at first, but then he must have reasoned that he had waited two months to "get in my panties," so another 30 minutes would be easy.

Actually, I took 46 minutes. Washing carefully. Powdering and perfuming myself. Doing my face. Dressing in a pretty white silk babydoll, white stay-up stockings and white stiletto sandals.

When Barry saw me, he knew the wait had been worth it.

He was in love.

I was going to have to watch that. Couldn't have every man I met wildly in love with me. It would be very complicated. Wars would be fought over me. And I would have to do two or three thousand of those butt clenches every day, just to stay tight back there.

But I could deal with two adoring men, couldn't I?

Barry didn't know where to start, so I helped. "Maybe you would feel better without all those hot clothes," I said.

"Good idea," Barry croaked.

I lay on my back on the twin bed as Barry stripped. He had a VERY nice body. Not as nice as Daddy's. More boyish. But very nice. And my guess was that, like me, at 18, he could cum three times an hour.

This was going to be an interesting relationship. I hoped there were plenty of clean sheets in the dresser drawer.

Barry joined me on the bed and began kissing me again. A very good opener. I love kissing. I wasn't wearing any panties, so he had full access to my "pink package," which he caressed very nicely.

Since Barry was new to pantyboys, I decided that it was OK to advise him. "There's some lubricant in the nightstand drawer. If you want to make love to me, you'll need to lubricate me first. Then dilate me. Fingers work well. Of course, there's a more intimate way of lubricating me…if you're up to it."

Barry's face looked confused. Then he figured it out. He gave me a sweet grin. Thought about things a bit and said. "Turn over on your stomach, then get on your knees. Not all fours, just your knees."

How could I refuse a welcome order like that?

I complied, then cooed and purred as Barry licked and kissed and drilled my bottomhole with his tongue for AGES. Then he got out the lubricant and slathered some on three fingers of his right hand and his stiff prick. He entered my special place with his thick fingers, making me squeal with pleasure. With his left hand, he rubbed some of the lube all over my pink things, putting them in some distress.

I was ready.

Barry withdrew his fingers, kissed my bottomhole one last time, settled into position on his knees and, lifting my hips a smidge, entered me.

Oh.

Despite his initial, totally understandable cluelessness, Barry was a very good sissy fucker. Gentle when he needed to be. Firm and frantic when I needed that. He fucked me really well and gave me the sweet bonus of an excellent "reacharound" that made me cum twice during his pussy pounding.

When he finally lost his thick, creamy load in my tight tushie, we were both sweaty and exhausted. But very happy. We kissed and cuddled and I was sure he would say something sweet, but sappy. I was right about the sweet part. "You're the girl I've wanted all my life. You're beautiful and sweet. And the best fuck on Planet Earth. It's too early to say that I love you, but you would be VERY easy to fall in love with."

No questions about how I became a pantyboy? No angst about being or not being gay?

Good work, Barry. You accepted me for who I am. And who you are.

I was going to offer him more pussy as a reward when I realized that it was time for dinner. I'd better call Mom and tell her I was out with a friend or something.

I excused myself and called her. Her response was, "That's great. You and Barry enjoy yourselves. I've already called his mother and said he would be sleeping over at our house tonight. You're welcome to bring him to your room here or stay with him at that studio. Dad and I don't mind being alone." And she hung up.

Huh? I hadn't mentioned Barry. Or the studio. Or what Barry and I were doing at the studio.

Mom seemed to have a better grasp of what was happening than any of us.

Barry was delighted when I told him about Mom's call. He celebrated by flipping me on my back and filling my pooper with another load of his semen and my belly with another load of mine. Then he fucked me from the side. Then on all fours. It was a great night.

At around 9, I decided to take Barry home and spend the night with him in my room - something Mom had practically dared me to do. But just to show Mom I could be bold too, I did something I had not done before. I dressed as a girl in public!

Freda had a lot of pretty dresses for me at the studio, just in case, she said, I ever wanted to be fully "out." That night was as good as any. It was a warm, early-May night, so I showered off several loads of cum and freshened myself into a pretty pink dress, tan stockings and pink, four-inch-stiletto, fuck-me pumps.

Barry wanted to fuck me again right there when he saw me, but I made naughty promises about how I would reward him if he was a good boy until we got home.

It was thrilling to be riding in the car, out in the world, in my girl things. So exciting that I decided to push my luck. "I'm hungry, Sweetie," I said. "Will you take me to the diner for a hamburger before we go home?"

Barry knew this would postpone his next bellowing orgasm by 30 minutes or so, but he was not risking my displeasure.

There were about 30 people in the diner when we arrived. Every one of them stared at me. The men were actually drooling. Every man in the place found a reason to come by my table for a closer look.

It was exhilarating. I could not only "pass," I could kick, punt, catch, block and tackle.

Life was getting interesting.

When we got home, Mom and Dad were still up. I think Dad was especially "up," since Mom was sitting on his lap and he was kissing her passionately and had his hand under her blouse as we came in.

The last pretenses were obliterated when I entered the house in my lovely frock. "You look fantastic, Timmy," Mom said. Dad could only nod. "And your timing is perfect. Your sister called today from Paris. She and Norman are getting married in Paris in September and she wants you to be her maid of honor. Oh, hello, Barry. So nice of you to be so sweet and loving to Timmy. He's getting adjusted to his new life and it's very kind of you to assist him. I'm sure you two have plenty to talk about upstairs. Timmy's father and I have a discussion to finish as well." And she gave Dad a look that, if he were 18, would have made him cream in his pants.

Well. Mom seems to have adjusted well, I thought.

Poor Dad. At first, I thought his torpor was because everything was happening too fast for him. Thinking it through later, I realized that Dad was in a rare place for a man. For reasons completely unknown to him, he was suddenly getting all the great pussy he could ever want. And he was doing or saying NOTHING to mess it up.

Barry and I had a wonderful night in my bedroom. I was shy at first about fucking in the bedroom next to my parents. But not so shy that I forewent fucking. Barry and I kissed hungrily as he led me to the bed, guided me to my stomach, flipped up my skirts, pulled down my panties and, in one forceful stroke, impaled me on his cock. The beast didn't even take off my dress. Or let me take my heels off. He still had his pants and shirt on.

What an animal he was that night!

It was fantastic.

I bit the pillow during our first, glorious fuck that evening. Didn't want Mom hearing my pre-orgasmic, orgasmic and post-orgasmic girlie squeals.

But as we were kissing and cooing during the cool-down phase, I heard so many horribly raunchy screams and loud, lewd "suggestions" from Mom to Dad (such as "Fuck me harder! More!") that we omitted the pillow in succeeding rounds.

I remember thinking about stuff that night as Barry pounded my pootie. Did I still love Daddy? What would it be like to be Clare's maid of honor? What would all those Frenchmen in Paris think of me? Who would be my date - Barry? Daddy? Someone new? How would I find a maid of honor of dress that didn't make me look like a refugee from a 1950s musical?

We eventually fell asleep, which was a good thing, because, in addition to rest, sleep produces two wonderful things - morning wood and morning cream.

I woke at first light to view the full magnificence of Barry's morning wood - the hardest of the hard. I awoke him in man's favorite way - wet, girlish lips and a slick girlish tongue bathing his cockhead while delicate, sissy fingers stirred his "fat eggs."

When Barry awoke, he groaned a little, then began to pull away, intending to fuck me with that spectacular specimen. But no. "I want your 'morning cream' in my belly, Sweetie," I said. "It's the thickest, tastiest treat in the world. I want to lick it all up and swallow every drop. You can give me a nice creamy enema with the next one, OK?"

No man has ever turned that down.

Barry went home happy at around 9 a.m. that morning, with a "date" set for that evening at six. "You have to take me out to dinner tonight, and then you can have your way with me all night if you want," I insisted. Barry eagerly agreed.

I LOVED the attention I had gotten from the public the night before and was determined to get more.

Mom and Dad left the house that night at five to go or an "Early Bird Special" dinner that old people like them go to. So the house was mine until eight, Mom said. I could have changed my mind and just let Barry fuck me on the living room floor until 7:55, then move to my room to just miss Mom and Dad. It sounded like a pretty good idea, since I had apparently misjudged my need for sexual fulfillment. It would be NINE HOURS since I had been fucked when Barry showed up. And another two or three until after dinner.

I decided to compromise. I recalled Freda's comprehensive training. "This is a little item we're going to sell as the 'Dating Friend,'" she had said. "Impetuous pantyboys or pantyboys and their daddies or boyfriends who are pressed for time can 'prepare the field' a bit. Just lube it up really well and put it in your pussy. When your date arrives, you can eliminate the preliminaries, though I wouldn't recommend it, since the preliminaries are at least half the fun, and you're already lubricated and dilated. Ready for stage three - penetration."

It was a naughty little device. Too short to stimulate the prostate, but fat enough to prepare the road for a very large cock indeed. Its design also allowed it to stay in place during a pantyboy's normal movement, if it's secured by a nice, tight pair of panties.

After dressing spectacularly in a red dress, with big white polka dots and flouncy skirts, darker-tan stockings, white garter belt and bra, pink, bikini panties, red stiletto sandals and, for the first time, an exquisite, blonde, spiral curled, human-hair, high-end wig that Freda had provided, I was almost ready for anything. When I lubed and "housed" my "Dating Friend," then secured it with my dainty panties, I was completely ready for my date.

Barry arrived exactly on time. How could he have anything better to do than be with me? I let him in the house and wondered for a moment whether we there was a defibrillator on the premises. The boy was stricken with love/lust.

I just adore that reaction from men!

I could tell that the poor boy wanted to forego our excursion to the restaurant and take me instead on a guided tour of the solar system. But no. I wanted to go out. There was plenty of good time for fucking later.

"We're going out to dinner," I said. So don't mess up my makeup. And no maneuvering me into bed, you bad boy. Not until after dinner." Barry groaned with disappointment.

I smiled. "But I have taken some 'precautions' that will let us have a quickie. How would you like to bend me over my kitchen table and give me a nice 'quickie' from the rear?"

He would. Barry took me to the kitchen and watched me place my arms on table.

Eagerly, Barry lifted my flouncy skirts and eased my panties down and off. I stepped out of them and heard his pants drop to the floor. He was going to fuck me like an animal. No preliminaries! How exciting!

"Take out the little thing from my pussy, Barry," I said. "It's got me lubricated and dilated. So poke away."

Barry removed the Dating Friend. Then he did a very dirty thing. Instead of just fucking me instantly. He got on his knees and still gave me a ten-minute pussy-eating. Which I enjoyed so much that I came all over the spot where I had had my Cheerios that morning. Then he stood up and fucked me. More like rutting, actually. Hot, hard and nasty. I loved it. And I was starting to love him. As much as I loved "Daddy" Hardwood.

Complications.

That night I made a big discovery. You shouldn't put your panties on right away after you've been sodomized with a monstrous cock. The hole doesn't close right away. Big leakies. On your panties. On the seat of your dress. I guess the men who checked out my butt at the restaurant that night knew it had had a recent visitor. Oh well.

Other than that, the next month went very well for me.

I was still wearing my boy clothes to school, but at home, it was all girlie all the time. I knew that after graduation, I would never wear boy clothes again. I was almost right.

Barry and I talked about going to the prom as a couple, but he said he didn't want me to face the grief from "some knuckleheads." I didn't worry about that, really. But why court trouble.

All that month, Barry was filling my mouth and pussy with his cock three or four afternoons and nights each week. I knew he loved me, but he knew I didn't want to hear it. I went out "dressed" more and more often, including some clothes shopping trips with Mom, who was becoming my best girlfriend.

Which was good and bad.

The good was that for the first time in my life, I was a girl with a real girlfriend. The bad part was that my girlfriend was my mom. I guess Freda was my girlfriend too, but that was more of a business arrangement.

It was also bad that Mom occasionally got a bit too free with the girlish intimacy.

I remember the first time we went shopping at the Eastgate Mall. She and I were both dressed in pretty dresses, stockings and heels. Probably the only females in the place dressed that way. Being around me had reawakened Mom's considerable, but latent femininity. For some screwy reason, Mom had parked almost a mile from the mall. Right by a construction site.

I mentioned to Mom that it was a considerable distance to walk in the four-inch heels we were wearing, but she said, "We all have to make sacrifices to experience our femininity."

What did she mean by that?

I found out.

We turned a corner and faced a gauntlet of maybe 50 construction workers on their lunch break. I looked at Mom, thinking she would lead me back to the car and away from the inevitable sexual harassment.

But no. Mom picked up the pace and began swinging her excellent bottom this way and that.

What could I do?

I joined her. Looking straight forward, as she did. Swinging my bottom. Listening to the hoots and jeers and lewd suggestions.

It was frightening. And my poor peeny was severely tenting my pretty dress.

Mom noticed.

When we passed the gauntlet, Mom said, "Wasn't that exciting? I see that it excited you. My, my. You don't have much 'down there' do you, Honey? Even when it's stiff. It's a good thing your father's genes are different. He's 'all man' down there, let me tell you."

Ewwwwwwww!!!!

As if I'll need one more thing to tell my therapist when I'm 40.

I guess I was drifting away from "Daddy" Hardwood, who sent me the occasional email, with equal portions of complaints about his busy schedule, his love for me and how he would love me when we got together again. I won't say I cooled on Daddy, but "love the one you're with" is pretty good advice for life.

Things were very good. Things were steady. Two days before graduation, things changed.

 

Chapter Eight - Grand Openings

It started out simply enough. I was home on the Wednesday afternoon two days from graduation, killing a little time before my date with Barry that night. Thought I would read Sports Illustrated. The compfem news part. I loved reading about my favorite team, the Saint Travestia University Stocking Boys, coached by none other than Francine Fraumacher, Freda's "sister." She had two major star athletes, last year's Huffman Trophy winner, Sarah Suckwell, and freshman sensation Pamela Spermer.

Let's see. It's usually near the back -away from that roughneck stuff. There it was. "This week in competitive femininity." Hmmm. Nice ad next to the…

Huh?

No!

It couldn't be.

The horror!

A full-color, full-page ad for a new pantyboy lingerie boutique. Called "Timmy's Girlish Secret."

That wasn't a surprise. Daddy said they would advertise.

The pictures were. A big surprise.

Pictures of me. Three pictures.

Two smaller pictures, one in each upper corner of the page.

One of me, clearly me, in boy clothes, "coming home from school" and entering "my room." Actually the studio bedroom. The only day I had done that was my "screen test.

A second smaller picture showing me naked, my skinned peeny sticking up, pink head exposed. Putting on girlish makeup in the studio bathroom mirror. In a national magazine!!

But the big picture, the one that covered most of the page, that was the worst. It showed me, in full makeup and girlish nightwear, on my back. Looking at a framed picture that was not visible to the reader. Stroking my teeny privates as cum leapt from my peehole.

In a national magazine!!

And they said Janet Jackson was bad.

The caption was bad too - Timmy says: "Oh if only I could tell 'Daddy' my girlish secret."

Then the "signature" of the ad: Timmy's Girlish Secret Boutiques - for discriminating pantyboys and their "Daddies." Opening in July in New York, Los Angeles and Fromage. Join us on the Web at xxxxxxxxxx.

The Web!?!?

There was more? More pictures of me?

How did they get those pictures? There weren't any cameras? But there had to be. Were there hidden cameras? There had to be.

How could Daddy do that to me?

Tears of betrayal filled my pretty eyes as I streaked to the computer and punched in the address.

Worse horror!

There were tons of pages offering sissyboy lingerie, which was great. But there were also about 20 sample pictures of me. And an offer, for only $29.95 a month, access to "more than 4,000 intimate photos and 60 hours of explicit video about Timmy, his Daddy and his boyfriend."

I had been thoroughly duped. A fool.

By Daddy. And his evil partners.

I would sue! And take every one on Creamer's ill-gotten pennies.

Then I remembered that release I had signed.

Ooops.

Gloom.

Trembling, I looked at the sample pictures. Horrible pictures. Pictures of me on my knees, sucking Daddy's cock. My face doused in cum. Pictures of me being fucked by Daddy. Fucked hard. Pictures of me in ecstasy as cum leapt from my teeny peeny during a fucking.

A before and after picture set was particularly embarrassing. The before showed me in "Bettie Page" black stockings and garters, on all fours, my bottom exposed to the camera. I was looking back and you could see my beautiful, sexually desperate face, eyes pleading for a fucking. My pretty pink bag was dangling, inviting kisses, and my bottomhole had been lubricated and dilated. The picture screamed, "Fuck me. I'm yours. I'm ready!" The after picture showed the same pose. The testicles were drained and hanging low. Cum drenched my bottom, and was oozing from my gaping, well-fucked hole. My facial expression was one of pure sexual fulfillment.

Worse pictures. Pictures of me on the toilet! Pictures of me cleaning my pussy after a gooey fucking. Intimate stuff. Stuff I wouldn't let my lovers see. How did they get those pictures? There must have been hidden cameras everywhere. A hundred of them!

There were even pictures of me and Barry. But I knew he wasn't in on the dupe, because Daddy's face was all over the pictures of me and him. Barry's face was not visible in any of them. So they never got his consent. Or even asked for it.

The cameras must have been sensor activated when Barry and I made love in the studio. The digital pics must have been automatically emailed to my tormentors.

My life was ruined.

Wasn't it?

I had to admit though. I was spectacular. Men all over the world would be producing millions of gallons of cum when they looked at those pictures. Because of me.

But that didn't excuse what those evildoers did to me.

Just then Barry arrived.

I sobbed bitterly in his arms as I told him what had happened to me…and him.

To his credit, Barry seemed much more concerned about me than about himself. That's pretty rare for a man, don't you think?

Barry was definitely a keeper. Not that Mr. Hardwood person, who was no longer worthy of the title "Daddy."

I was so upset that I didn't want to fuck!

Barry counseled me to call Mr. Hardwood and tell him what I thought.

I did just that. Called him every dirty name I knew.

That felt better.

When I calmed down, Mr. Hardwood said, "I'm sorry, Timmy. But I knew you wouldn't agree to all this if you knew what we planned. Things have worked out pretty well so far, haven't they? And they will from now on too. You'll be rich and famous. And the most desired femme on earth."

"Pretty words, MISTER HARDWOOD," I said. "But I'm the one who's humiliated. I believe we're through!"

"Now don't act like that, Timmy. Just hang on a bit. Things will be hot for a while, but if the plan goes as we think, you'll make ten million dollars in the first year and probably twenty million a year after that. All you need to do is come to the opening in New York four weeks from now and the one in LA a week, la…"

[Click]

I hung up.

I didn't have to listen to any more lies. From that lying liar. How many times did he think he could fool me?

Ten million dollars. Hmmph. A pipe dream if there ever was one.

He and I were through.

Maybe no one would see that ad. Even if they did, maybe they wouldn't know it was me.

Maybe I needed to work off a little energy with Barry to clear my head.

Three hours and four empty testicles later, I felt better. Barry was very comforting. And understanding. He was with me no matter what.

Mr. Hardwood tried to call me about 100 times over the next two days, but I refused to speak to him.

No one in town had connected the dots between me and the Sports Illustrated ad.

But then I made a tactical error.

I wore a dress to graduation. It just didn't feel right to graduate as Boy Timmy.

But that blew my cover. Several compfem fans/Sports Illustrated subscribers at my school figured out who I was.

And they told the media.

By noon the day after graduation, my house was surrounded by reporters. And paparazzi.

Barry and I had to draw the shades to even fuck in peace.

I was trapped.

Didn't want fame. Just wanted to be left alone.

No chance.

Because of that rat, Mr. Hardwood, and his evil companions.

Mom devised a plan. "Uncle Harry has that cabin upstate, remember? He's not using it this summer. Why don't you take Barry, a wad from that cash under your bed and seven or eight suitcases full of your clothes, cosmetics and personal items and stay in the cabin until it all blows over? Dad and I will be the only people who know where you are and we won't tell."

Great idea, Mom!!!

At 3 a.m. the next morning, dressed for the very last time in my life in boy clothes, I slipped out of the house and through the enemy lines of media. Two blocks away, Barry waited for me with the car.

We drove joyfully north. Free of school. Free of parents. Free of the evil media. Free of the evil Mr. Hardwood.

I sucked Barry's cock to cool him down so he could drive properly. Then I fell asleep with my head in his lap and his cock in my mouth.

Four hours later, we arrived at the cabin. It was rustic and lovely. Nice furnishings. Full kitchen. Washer and dryer. But the best part was what it didn't have. No TV. No phone. No computer. No cell phone service.

We were free.

The next three-and-a-half weeks were idyllic. Wall-to-wall sex with my wonderful Barry. Like being on our honeymoon. No distractions.

Barry went food shopping only twice and didn't even buy a newspaper.

Free.

Then it happened.

A car was coming. It was Mom and Dad.

Had someone died?

Mom said, "A lot has happened since you left."

That was an understatement.

The news media were bursting with stories about Timmy's Girlish Secret.

I was on the cover of Time Magazine. And Newsweek.

Three million worldwide subscribers to the Web site. Forty million dollars in Web merchandise sales and the first store hadn't even opened yet.

"Mr. Hardwood says he's revising his estimates to $20 million this year and $30 million a year for you, every year after. But only if you attend the openings. And, oh yeah, he's already wired $200,000 to your bank account for attending the openings in NY and LA. There will be another $100,000 if you attend the opening after that in Fromage, Wisconsin."

Wow.

The world liked me. It really liked me.

Maybe it would be OK to just, you know, go to those openings. Certainly not speak to Mr. Hardwood. But meet my adoring public. And take the money.

A girl needs money to be truly independent in life, after all.

So it was settled.

Barry was his usual supportive self. But I have to believe that he hated to leave the cabin and his full access to every molecule of me.

I planned to make it up to him later.

We gathered up our things and drove with Mom and Dad to a local airfield, where Mr. Creamer's private jet awaited. We flew to New York mostly in silence. I wasn't sure what my feelings were. I did wonder how much Mr. Hardwood and his co-conspirators bribed Mom with to get her to come get me. Did she have that all figured out in advance?

I'll never know.

On the plane, I read some of the periodicals I had missed while playing "Grizzly Adams and his Mate" in the woods over the past few weeks. Time Magazine had a picture of me in just panties and a big smile on my cum- drenched face. The caption was, "The face of things to cum."

They could have done better than that.

The latest Sports Illustrated had an ad that will go down in history. I was naked, except for my lace-top, sheer, white stockings and a wispy garter belt. I was smiling radiantly. My incredibly beautiful face, artfully enhanced with high-end cosmetics, was drenched with Daddy's life-supply of sperm. My flat, girlish stomach was a lake of my own creamy juices. My puffy, gorgeous nipples were orgasmically erect. My minute popsy, pink and uncircumcised, was limp and drooling seminal juices.

The ad's "copy" was even more provocative: "I'm so glad I told 'Daddy' my girlish secret," the ad's cum-soaked angel said. And the subhead said, "And so is 'Daddy.'"

Daddy had no shame. And mine was fading fast.

We arrived in New York and were whisked by limousine to the tony address that housed the new essential destination for the world's pantyboys and their lovers.

It was stunning. A palace of pantydom, covering a city block. Oceans of panties. A continent of lingerie. Milking booths manned by mature men (who paid for the privilege to milk overwrought sissyboys). Lots of cash registers.

And there he was all the way in the back. My former Daddy. The Evil One. Smiling at me.

I didn't want my peeny to stiffen. I was angry at him, really I was. It was just some crazy physical spasm. I didn't love Mr. Hardwood anymore. I loved Barry Broadback. Who wouldn't? He was sweet and supportive. And he fucked exquisitely.

But I was still very stiff and excited at the sight of Mr. Hardwood.

And there was that other treasonous traitor, Miss Freda "Bernadette Arnold" Fraumacher. Barry stood by my side as the evil twins approached. Mom and Dad were looking around the store. Did I see Mom grab some lingerie then lead Dad into one of the empty milking booths?

Barry and I stood alone against Evil.

"Hello." I said icily. "I'm here in a professional capacity, so let's keep this professional."

"Of course, Miss Garconette," he said. "My associate, Miss Fraumacher will escort Mr. Broadback on a VIP tour of the facility. You and I can discuss wardrobe and the particulars of the press conference scheduled in 90 minutes."

90 minutes? Well he was being professional at least.

Just wish I could lose that stiffie. Had he noticed?

Probably not, I thought. He led me professionally in a professional manner to his office. Nice room. He had a table with several outfits, one of which I would wear for the press conference. "Since this is a lingerie store," he said, "you'll wear lingerie. I would recommend this lovely pink outfit with white, frothy accents." And wear this new wig.

It was a long, straight, golden-blonde wig that would make me look like a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. I loved it.

The whole girlish lingerie set was delicious and I would look fantastic in it. I almost gave him attitude and demanded something else to wear, but that would have been denying myself. The thought of appearing in that wispy outfit in front of all those reporters (I hoped there were a lot of men) was exciting.

"I'll leave the room while you dress, Miss Garconette," he said. "Please call me when you're ready."

Well. He was being professional. Didn't beg and plead for forgiveness. Didn't try to force his completely unwanted attentions on me.

That was a relief.

And a bit of a disappointment.

Had I gotten ugly?

Did he think that my activities with Barry made me used goods?

Well, we were through. I knew that. So it didn't matter.

I prettied up. As usual, the results were earth-shattering. I notified Mr. Hardwood that I was dressed and ready to discuss the press conference.

He sat in a nice chair, bade me to sit and said, "Just answer the questions honestly. You'll be great."

And that was it.

That was it?

I couldn't be civil any more.

I screamed at him, accusing him of treachery and treason. I accused him of breaking my heart. Abandoning me. The Robert Kennedy assassination.

He listened, thought about it and said.

"You're an ungrateful brat."

Shock! I was a brat?!?! Ungrateful? Why that…

He went on.

"Where would you be right now if I hadn't come along? Where would you still be 30 years from now? Where are you because of me - rich, famous and deliriously happy. And you give me attitude?"

He paused. I looked at him. There may be just a smidgen of truth in what he said.

He looked at me and I could see him make a decision. He sprang out of his chair, grabbed me by the wrist and sat down again.

"Daddies spank their brats," he said. And he threw me over his lap.

Panic!!!

He wouldn't dare. No one spanked me. I was on the cover of Time Magazine. And Newsweek. He wasn't my Daddy.

But he didn't seem to care about all that.

In a flash, my panties were down and Mr. Hardwood was smacking my bare bottom.

Ow!!

It was horrible.

The pain. The indignity.

He had my peeny between his thighs and every time he hit me the friction was intense.

The pain. The pleasure. The ongoing lecture from [blush] "Daddy" about my brattiness.

I cried bitterly. Then oragsmed as strongly as I ever had in my life.

I was amazed at how much I enjoyed being spanked. Not the pain. Ick. But the humiliation! The subjugation to a dominant male and his animal emotions.

[Shudder]

It was incredible.

After my orgasm, "Daddy" let me up. I was crying and rubbing my flaming bottom. Daddy looked very pleased with himself.

He pulled me to him and kissed me deeply. Then again. We kept interrupting each other to apologize, between kisses, which led of course to a most energetic fuck into my blistered posterior.

I guess we weren't through. As a couple, I mean.

Suddenly Daddy realized that we had about ten minutes before the press conference. So we straightened ourselves up. I repaired my makeup and hoped that the redness of my bottom would abate.

Then it was time.

Daddy asked me to stay in the office while he introduced me to the media.

I was nervous. I was confused about my relationships.

I heard polite applause, which was my cue to walk toward the press conference.

When I stepped from behind a dramatic curtain, the room went silent. All I could hear was a collective gasp, followed by thunderous applause and cheers.

I stepped up to the microphones and said, "Thank you for coming today. I hope you like our store. My name is Timmy Garconette and I'm a pantyboy. Can I answer any of your questions?"

Every reporter's hand went up. Flashes snapped all over. There were a dozen TV cameras.

Daddy recognized the reporters to ask questions.

A very handsome TV guy asked, "Timmy, are you excited today?"

I giggled and said. "Very excited, can't you tell?"

They all laughed. My popsy was tenting my panties.

Another male reporter: "Why are you excited, Honey?"

"All you handsome men, I guess."

More snickers. I looked out into the crowd to locate Mom, Dad, Freda and Barry. I found them. Freda was standing awfully close to Barry. Was that a guilty look on his face? Well, I hadn't been a girl scout either.

"Why are you a pantyboy?" a female reporter asked.

"I owe that to the people I love. My Mom and Dad. (I pointed to them). My femininity coach, Freda Fraumacher. My loving boyfriend, Barry Broadback and my Daddy, Richard Hardwood."

Everyone applauded them.

Female reporter: "What's your girl name, Timmy?"

I was confused. Girl name? "I don't have one," I stammered.

"Why not?" someone shouted.

I tossed my blonde hair girlishly. "Don't need one. I'm not a girl. I'm a pantyboy. A girlie little nancyboy. I like keeping my boy name. It shows you who I am."

Male reporter: "How big is your penis, Timmy?"

I blushed. "Not very big. Three and three quarters inches when it's excited."

Female reporter: "Can we see it?"

My popsy had been in every news medium in the world over the past month. What could it hurt? I eased down my panties to show my erect tickler.

The crowd gasped. Seeing the Mona Lisa in person is different than seeing a reproduction.

Camera flashes. Women fainting. Men panting. Chaos.

I have to admit. Showing my pink popsy to the world was exciting me tremendously. And clouding my judgment. I should have turned down the next two requests, but I was on a roll and adoring the adoration.

That handsome TV reporter asked, "Can we see your sissy cream, Honey"

The crowd gasped. Then looked at me expectantly. Surely I wasn't trampy enough to spurt my goodies for them. They were sure I would refuse. They were wrong.

I looked down, batting my lashes and giving my best little-girl pout. "I don't think so," I said. And the crowd gave a disappointed "Awwwwww." But then I added, "Unless you can help me."

Cheers!

The handsome TV reporter bounded to my side. Reverently, he touched my aching, exposed penis and rubbed my swollen balls. He skinned the head, sweetly and then the bad boy leaned over and kissed me full on the mouth.

I spasmed and spurted. Delighting the reporters and the billions of viewers around the world. If I had given the reporter a tiny bit of encouragement, he would have fucked me right there. But I have SOME standards.

When things settled down a bit, the questions resumed.

Shouted question: "Can we see your bottom, Sweetheart?"

I shrugged. Sure, why not? I thought. I turned around. But I had forgotten. I had just been fucked and spanked a few minutes earlier.

My bottom was not ready for prime time. The petal was still somewhat open and Daddy's manly sperm was still oozing lewdly from its delicious precincts.

Its recent history was obvious to all. Especially to Barry. Oh no. Did he hate me for being spanked and fucked by Daddy? By his expression, he still adored me.

Wow, he must have been doing some pretty nasty stuff with Freda.

A female reporter asked, "What has that bottom been doing in the past half hour?"

I smiled coquettishly and said, "Enjoying my pantyboyhood."

Daddy said, "Thank you everyone. Miss Fraumacher will now take you on a facility tour."

And Daddy led me back to his office.

"You were fantastic!" he said. "Brilliant. I knew you would be. I love you. Just stay here. I need to finish the opening and let the first customers in. Please, just stay."

I stayed.

But I wondered. What was next for me? I was torn between two lovers. Was about to become filthy rich. Made men salivate in the far corners of the globe (if globes could have corners).

I sure had better choices than I did on Valentine's Day.

What would you do?

 

Please let me know what you think at gingerfred2005@yahoo.com

  

  

  

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