Stiff Competition
by Gingerfred Man
Chapter One – Every Sissy's Dream
When I was growing up, I guess I was like every other young sissy boy. I dreamed about being Miss Panty Boy, or, as she's often called, "Sis America."
The Miss Panty Boy Pageant, which took place every October at the Convention Center in Fromage, Wisconsin, was always televised, but Mama wouldn't let us kids watch it. She said it was "trash." She refused to watch it herself and she put my younger brother Eddie and me (whom my parents insisted on calling "Herman") to bed extra early that night. Daddy didn't think it was trash, though. I know he watched it because I used to hear Mama and him arguing about it for days before and then Mama would give Daddy the cold shoulder for a few days after. But Daddy watched it every year.
The newspapers, magazines and TV were full of stories about the pageant and each year's winner, of course. And every time another Miss Panty Boy married another multi-billionaire, the media went nutsy.
They were all so beautiful and feminine, those Miss Panty Boy winners. And the other contestants were almost as beautiful. The first time I saw a pageant was in 2008, when Pamela Sue Beauregard, Miss Louisiana, won. She's always been thought of as one of the greatest Miss Panty Boys, but I guess her film career added to her legend. You probably remember that Pamela Sue was the originator of what has become one of the great traditions of the pageant – spraying the audience. For her victory walk down the long runway, Pamela Sue, dressed in the traditional black outfit – bra, fully-fashioned and seamed stockings, garter belt, five-inch spikes and panties, was VERY excited. Like every other winner, she was crying and she was fiercely erect from the arousal of future fame and untold riches. But when Pamela Sue, tiaraed and clutching a huge bouquet, reached the end of the runway, her excitement "boiled over." Her miniscule, over-challenged panties couldn't restrict her stiff girlie pole, whose head extended above the waistband, and thick ropes of sticky, girl's cream leaped from her pretty, pink popsy, all over the startled spectators. At the time, she was horribly embarrassed, but the drenched spectators loved it, the sponsors loved it, America loved it, and a new tradition was born.
I guess I was lucky that I saw that moment, though I had to be sneaky to do it.
Mama and Daddy were still making Eddie and me pretend to be boys – a very unenlightened view, since we hated being boys and moaned about it all the time. Mom was convinced that it was the fault of the new, permissive society, Hollywood values, and abominations like Miss Panty Boy. But the truth was that, like many boys before us for thousands of years, we were girls on the inside. Watching the Miss Panty Boy Pageant showed us that we were not alone and that we could be girls on the outside too.
Anyway, during that 2008 pageant, Mama scooted us to bed early, gave Daddy a last ration of crap for the evening, and went to bed herself.
I was thirteen years old, and I decided that I was missing no more pageants. Defiantly, I wore the pink nightie that Grandma had given me, but Mom forbade me to wear. At the halfway point in the pageant (to ensure that all were asleep) I sneaked down the stairs. Daddy was in the family room on a long couch, the back of which was facing sneaky, little me. So, since I was extra quiet, Daddy didn't detect me.
Daddy never watched TV with all the lights out, but that night he was. When I looked a little more closely, I almost gave up my quest and went back to bed.
Daddy's pants were down and he was stroking his big, stiff cock as he watched the show.
Ewwwwwwwwwwww!!!!
That sight is still bouncing around somewhere in my psyche.
The "lingerie competition" had just begun and even at 13 years old, I could see that Daddy was "touching himself."
Who could blame Daddy? Fifty-one of the prettiest cupcakes in America were parading around in black or white lingerie and, ironically for Miss Panty Boy, no panties!
I noticed several things about them. They were all young, beautiful, perfectly coiffed and made-up, and very well assembled. They were also all very erect! But the killer observation was that they were all, and I mean all, tiny-cocked. At 13, I was bigger than any of them. By at least an inch!
Couldn't big-cocked girls like me compete for all that "scholarship money" and an opportunity to represent American sissy ideals to the world? What if, as it seemed likely, my already-big-for-my-age popsy grew into a cock the size of Daddy's by-then-spurting (Ewwwwwwwww!) monster?
I should have left then, but I averted my eyes from Daddy and watched the show of sissy dreams. I just had to see more of that wonderful pageant that was forbidden to me, but was watched by more Americans than the Super Bowl and The Simpsons combined. (Yes, I'm 21 now, it's 2016, they're still making new Simpsons episodes, and Lisa Simpson is still in second grade).
I found a good hiding spot, where I couldn't see Dad abusing himself in homage to American sissyhood, and settled in.
Oh how I enjoyed that glorious night. Sissy beauty queens competing in "sleep"wear, evening gowns, and <gasp> wedding gowns. They were so lovely and so submissive to the male judges and the host, Bart Sparks.
At that moment, I could see why Daddy spent $12,000 on a 96-inch, high-definition, flat, plasma TV. Mom almost scalped Daddy when he brought it home and he slept on the couch for two months, but Daddy clearly wanted his big TV for the "Sis America" Pageant.
Daddy wasn't alone in his love for the pageant. MILLIONS of American men (and an international audience) imagined that they were Bart Sparks, interviewing each pantied treasure. It was such a nice touch that the finalist interviews were conducted with Bart in a tuxedo and each sweet confection wearing only pink panties and pink, five-inch stiletto pumps. That outfit was the true, pure expression of a panty boy and it made the little cuties even more deliciously submissive and girly.
Poor Daddy. I wasn't looking, but from the noises he made, I could tell that, like most of America, he was "captivated" by the sight of Jane Everhard, Miss New Mexico. Jane's big, brown, puffy nipples were an astounding sight. She was so sweet and sexy standing there next to Bart Sparks as he asked her questions about her life and her plans, should she become Miss Panty Boy. Jane was talking about how her dream was for world peace, but Bart's fishing expedition into her panties and his fondling of her little mushroom, were making her gasp and pant. When she said, "Why can't we all just get along?" then squealed and spurted big globs of sticky cream, I was pretty sure that she had the title in the bag.
No one could envision how Pamela Sue Beauregard would "innovate," however. Rather than wait for Bart Sparks' interrogatives and manual attentions, the girl the media call "Princess of the Panty Boys," got on her knees, then extracted and began to suck on the host's cock. She answered Bart's questions between sucks, a methodology that discouraged Bart from engaging Pamela in too much conversation. When the horny host blew his big, creamy load, Pamela took it all in her face, squealing with glee. Then she stood up and gave the camera a big, cummy smile.
The voting wasn't even close.
After Pamela Sue's triumphant, "climactic" runway stroll, I sneaked off to bed, my sissy head filled with dreams of pantied glory. That was the night I resolved that someday, I would be Miss Panty Boy.
Chapter Two – Herman No More
Even Mom knew that the water wouldn't stay behind the dam much longer. When I was 14 and Eddie was 13, she listened to her mother, father, mother-in-law, father-in-law, psychoanalyst, four best friends and <surprise> husband and decided to let us live as the people we truly were. Pantyboys!
Eddie, who was younger, thus a lucky duck, got an extra year in frillies. And we both got new names. Most sissies like the traditional names like Linda or Susan. Eddie and I liked newer names, which, as it turned out, along with our large "equipment," helped make us outsiders in the world of competitive pantiness,
Eddie became Britney. I became Destiny.
Our teen years were lots of fun. Life is good for a young, pretty, fully "out" pantyboy and Britney and I lived it fully. We were, of course, complete virgins throughout high school, except for the occasional chaste kiss of greeting or an infrequent, birthday-party game of spin-the-bottle.
You believe me, don't you? I mean, I hope you don't think that Britney and I got those sports cars, paid-up beach condos and bearer bonds from anything other than charm and wit.
But what happened to us then isn't really the point of the story. This tale really begins on Britney's 18th birthday, when she and I announced our intention to enter our local Miss Panty Boy competition.
Predictably, Daddy was thrilled and Mom was appalled. I remember thinking, if Daddy was going to see the competition, local and national, he would see his sissy sons naked, spewing their gooies and making others spurt as well. Wouldn't most fathers be concerned about that?
Not Daddy. He never touched us "that way," but it was clear that he thought we were hot tamales. I was pretty sure that Daddy sometimes was picturing us when he "tickled his pickle," but since he didn't act on it, it was OK, I guess.
I was almost positive that he was "satisfying" himself when he took a stack of Britney's non-nude magazine spreads into the bathroom, which he often did, emerging 45 minutes later, flushed and short of breath.
Daddy wasn't alone. Did I mention that Britney Spermmaker, my sister, was at the age of 18, a very successful fashion model? Before her 18th birthday, she was too young for Panty Boy magazine or anything involving sexual poses, at least in the United States. But Britney had appeared in a number of foreign magazines, including Il/Elle [He/She] a high-end, French fashion magazine that showed the latest fashions for sissies. There was no nudity, since the models were young, but the lingerie section was quite hot and MANY a man found sticky comfort while "reading" the publication.
Britney had also done some fashion modeling in the United States, but no lingerie or swimsuits. She appeared often wearing wedding gowns in Pantied Bride, a lovely publication aimed at pantyboys, the rich "daddies who ached to marry them, and the not-so-rich guys who could afford $9.95 to buy the bi-monthly, non-nude periodical. Apparently, many of the readers had strong enough imaginations to look at pictures of my sister in a wedding gown, imagining her as their submissive, little boy-wife, while stroking "Mr. Beasley" to a creamy, sticky conclusion.
I guess you think I was nuts to enter the competition the same year as a beauty like my sister, but we had agreed long ago that we would enter it together, when Britney turned 18. By the way, I'm just as beautiful as my sister. Maybe more so. Both our cocks are huge! Even for men, which we are not [Ick!]. If Britney hadn't "tucked" her cockhead into her anus for her jobs, no one would have hired her as a model. It's the worst kind of prejudice against big-cocked pantyboys and we were determined to wipe it out.
As luck would have it, the regional competition for Miss Panty Boy was scheduled for two weeks after Britney's 18th, so we could get rolling on realizing our dream right away. Only one of us could win the regionals and competition was stiff [ha, ha]. But let the best creampuff win, I always say.
Chapter Three – Regionals
The regional competition was one of 16 held around our state, and like all of the pageant's events, wherever they were held, it was very well-attended. Especially by men. Heterosexual men. Married men who told their wives a plausible story to get the night off. Like, "I'm giving blood at the children's hospital. Four pints, so I'll need several hours to recover after. Plus, when I get home, you're supposed to give me a series of blowjobs to make sure that I have enough blood left in my body for erections." Or, "I'm joining the Marine Corps Reserve and we're going to be practicing for an invasion of Canada. All weekend, probably."
Or single men who longed for the comfort of a pantyboy, pretty or not. Sweet and feminine and unlike most of the women they have had the misfortune to know.
The single men were often quite fortunate in striking up relationships with what my cattier fellow pouffers call "C-list pantyboys." The catty ones think that only an A-list nancyboy is worthy of a man's attention. In fact, men are very tolerant of the looks of a sweet, loving, sexually hungry companion. And the C-listers often make far better "boy-wives" than the pantyboy beauty queens who are full of themselves.
Like me, I guess. Though I don't feel like one of those vagina-burdened "Heathers" or "Tiffanys" who cut down other girls and make men miserable all their lives. But I'm pretty confident in my beauty and femininity.
Anyway, the regional competition was always held in our town's National Guard armory. The year the Spermmaker girls entered, there were 14 entrants, ranging in age from 18 to 23, a panel of five judges, and about 3,000 spectators, almost all of whom were men or pantyboys. It was always a fun night for everyone, especially the pantyboys of all 18+ ages in the audience, all of whom found the overheated men sitting near them to be easy pickings for at least one night of enthusiastic coupling.
Of course the real business of the regionals occurred long before pageant night, when the contestants, the ones who wanted to win, at least, "lobbied" with the judges.
We Spermmakers were serious lobbyists. So we did our duty with the judges. Often. More so than the other competitors because the judges were, well, good judges of beauty and sexiness. So they wanted to fuck our tiny bottoms. Not those bottoms destined to lose. The sadness for Britney and me was that one of us would lose, at the lowest level. Which was unfair, since Britney and I were convinced that we were easily the two prettiest pantyboys on earth.
And two of the savviest. We knew that helping the judges at the regional spill their sperm was good public relations in a way, but to reach a broader audience, we would have to "interact" with the news media.
So the day before the regional pageant, Britney and I called a press conference at the local Holiday Inn. Our media-alert sheet said we were going to discuss the horrible prejudice rampant within the community of pantyboys and their male admirers. The prejudice against pretty boys with big thingees. We made a list of local male reporters who covered the competition every year and some who we just thought were cute. Then we faxed an invitation to ten of them. Twenty-five showed up.
Britney and I "worked the room" as the reporters arrived. The lads were very steamed up when Britney and I called them to order.
I'm older and smarter, so I did the talking.
"Thank you for meeting the Spermmaker pantyboys today, gentlemen. We don't have a lot to say, but we have a demonstration that will do much of our talking for us. We're here to tell you that the time has come for, how can I say this delicately, big-cocked girls to receive fair treatment in not only the Miss Panty Boy competition, but in all aspects of pantyboy life. First, I think you'll agree that my sister Britney and I are fine examples of pantyboy beauty and femininity."
There was a murmur of agreement among the crowd. And no wonder. Britney and I were wearing wet-dream producing attire. Silky, tan stockings covered our long, long legs. Black, five-inch-stiletto pumps that pushed our bottoms back and our flat chests out. Tight, sexy, micro-mini-dresses that screamed femininity. Big hair (both blondes, of course). Big, hoop earrings. And our beautiful, carefully and tastefully made-up faces. Since neither of us had "tucked" our cockheads inside our anuses (all-in-all, not a totally unpleasant experience), our erections were severely tenting our dresses.
We had an emergency medical team present just in case some of the reporters became overexcited.
It was Britney's turn to speak. "Destiny and I want to show you, not just tell you that big-cocked sissies can stop a man's heart. Destiny, would you unzip me, please?"
The murmuring in the crowd increased. Britney and I unzipped each other, then removed our dresses. The men's eyes were bugging out at the sight of our black lingerie. Things got warmer when we removed our panties.
A single, loud gasp came from the crowd as they viewed two spectacular, pantied, huge-penised specimens. We were natural exhibitionists, so we were very excited (and stiff) about showing our "popsies" to a crowd of appreciative men.
If we had quit then, we probably would have gotten some stories on page seven, below the fold. And maybe 10 seconds of TV at the end of the newscast. But we were going for the headlines. So Britney said, "Destiny and I know that the best way to learn is the hands-on approach, so please form two lines. You can walk up, and see for yourselves. Feel for yourselves. Just to be sure that our 'equipment' is real. And guys, if you make our pretty slits ooze, you win a kiss."
A stampede. I was hoping that they would all get in my line and leave my sister pulling her own doodle. Competitiveness, you know. But I also know that, like me, she's a spectacular piece of pantyboy. So the lines were about equal.
Charlie Heinrich from the Bugle was first in my line and he looked as if he had just seen the tree on Christmas morning. He looked at my face and panted. He looked at my cock and gasped. "Go ahead, touch it, Sailor," I said. "It won't bite."
Poor Charlie. "I've never been this close to a pantyboy with her clitty exposed before," he told me. "And you're the prettiest person, not just pantyboy, in the universe!"
I oozed. And he didn't even touch me. As promised, I kissed him.
The paramedics sat up and watched carefully, but Charlie survived the kiss, then he scampered to the end of the line for seconds.
Soon after, the TV crews had set up their cameras and were getting some good shots. Cumshots, actually. From me. And Britney. We couldn't help it. All those nice men going gaga over fondling our prize possessions had us in a stir. The third man in my line, Louie Schultz of the Beacon, knew how to handle a girl's cock. Louie maintained a steady monologue of how pretty and feminine I was and how I was going to be Miss Panty Boy and rule the pantied world. What would you have done? My poor tee-tees clutched up on me, my big, pretty eyes got wide and I started spurting thick globs of my sissy cream all over Louie and his reporter's notebook.
That scene, captured on videotape, led off our local five o'clock news on Channel 19. It was also sent to the network via satellite, and made available to affiliates, who adored news of the Miss Panty Boy goings-on. So I, not Britney (ha!) was on the news around much of the country that evening, spurting my cream from my large equipment, which anyone could reason was not a deterrent to pantied stardom.
Britney and I stayed for four hours, until everyone had been through the line several times. To get rid of those naughty boys, we had to give each of them at least one nice handjob – I mean you can't send a man home in the condition they were in. Britney and I were bone dry when we went home, having made cummies several times each, much to the delight of the press corps.
That night, we had to rest up to refill our bags for the regionals the following night. We didn't even have dates! Most nights we were squired around by a devoted, delighted man, then taken to his home and fucked within an inch of our lives. That night we rested.
The next morning we were delighted to see that Britney and I dominated the front pages of newspapers in a 100-mile radius. There was a nice picture of Britney's huge tickler spurting sauce into the face of Barney Scoops, the star reporter for the Semen City Times. Another of Britney and me, side by side, pricklets erect and spewing, throwing kisses at the camera. Of course I loved the picture of me kissing Warren James, anchor for Channel 19 news, as we rubbed our spewing cocks.
The editorials glowed with appeals for fairness from the Miss Panty Boy administrators. "All that we're saying is, 'Give the big-cocked a chance,'" a full-page editorial from the Pinktown Tribune said.
Fair enough, don't you think?
Well, there was such a stir after our little press conference that the local stations decided to televise the regionals locally! That had never been done anywhere.
It was pretty clear to the judges that if they were to select anyone other than Britney or Destiny Spermmaker, they would have a lot of 'splainin to do. Still, they were faced with the difficult task of choosing one of us. Not both.
On regionals night, when we finished the wedding-gown competition, I figured I had it won. Britney was a wedding-gown model, so that was her natural event. But I smoked her. I mean, ask anyone who saw the competition. My gown, cut in front to expose my erectness through my crotchless panties, was incredible. My beauty was impeccable. My carriage and self-confidence were untouchable.
Men have written to tell me that they taped my appearance at the wedding gown competition that night and have worn the tape out playing it over and over. And it has never failed to make them cum. They say that it makes them dream of possessing me. Making me their boy-wife, serving them in and out of the bedroom, but mostly in. Throwing me on my back, still in my wedding gown, removing their trousers and mounting me. Fucking me without preamble or mercy. Making me squeal and beg to be fucked harder!!!
Britney didn't get letters like that. Ok, some, but not as many as I did.
When they announced the second runner up, Barbara Eaten, who was kind of cute, but too tiny-dicked for my tastes, the moment had arrived. Which of us would advance to fame and fortune and who would stay in town and work at Burger King?
The judges took the coward's way out. They said it was a tie and we were both going to the state competition. Well, that was OK, I guessed, though it made sibling rivalry that much sharper.
Just to console her, I took Barbara Eaten into the back room and offered her a chance to be my Miss Congeniality. "Only if you get on top and put that monster in me," she said. "It's been making me drool since I met you."
Afterwards, Barbara said it was the best consolation prize anyone ever got.
Chapter Four – State Finals
One big-dicked sissy in our state competition was news. Two was a media frenzy.
Britney and I held a big press conference at the state capital two days after we tied for the regional championship. As we had at our first press gathering, we portrayed ourselves as freedom fighters. Defenders of civil rights for the big-dicked pantyboy. To illustrate our point, we did have to drop our panties and show our big popsies. Our big, stiff, drooling peenies and dangling pink purses. The newshawks made sure that they got lots of close-ups of those pretty sights for their front pages and TV news.
We got the usual dumb questions from reporters, like, "So Destiny, do you really want to defeat your own sister to become Miss Panty Boy?"
What I said: "Britney is a lovely pantyboy and a great competitor. I only wish we could share the title. If either of us wins, it will strike a real blow for equality of the well-cocked."
What I thought: "Oh, yes. In fact beating her would be way better than beating any stranger. She's always thought she was the pretty one and tried to twist Daddy around her finger. She's always tried to steal my boyfriends, not that she ever could. Then there was that time when we were about ten and she ate the last poptart in the house without even asking me."
Once again, we allowed the gentlemen of the press to examine the subject matter – our stiffies and pretty purses. It was another creamy day for all who attended and another round of major, statewide, news coverage.
So Britney and I were feeling good about our chances that one of us would win state, thereby qualifying for the national pageant in Fromage, Wisconsin. Us. One of us anyway. In the pageant. Every sissy's wet dream.
Then everything changed.
Like any teen-pantyboy supermodel, Britney encountered countless admirers. A full range of admirers, from mouth-breathing, public wankers to billionaires.
The only dream as big to a sissy as being Miss Panty Boy is to be a billionaire's boy-wife.
Britney had greatly impressed one billionaire, Richard Gotrocks, when she was still "underage." They hadn't really "dated," but had spoken several times and "exchanged pleasantries." Gotrocks seemed smitten with Britney. They had not seen each other since Britney's 18th birthday.
But absence had apparently stiffened Gotrocks' resolve to "possess" my sister. The day after our press conference at the state capital, he showed up at the Spermmaker family home with everything a man needs to propose to a world-class pantyboy -- a dozen-dozen, perfect red roses, a Rolls Royce engagement present for his intended, a pre-nup agreement surrendering $500 million to Britney if she married him, stayed married five years, and had sex with him at least four times each day.
Britney and I had never seen anything half as romantic. Once her attorney checked out the prenup, Britney lovingly accepted the five-carat engagement ring and lost total interest in the pageant. "I'm going to be Mrs. Gotrocks," she bragged to me. "Why would I care about being Miss Panty Boy?"
I knew she would chicken out when it came down to it. She always hated to lose to me and that was what she would have done at the state competition. You can see that, right?
For a day or two, the papers were full of natter about Britney and her billionaire, but then Britney's 15 minutes of fame were up until she would get another 15 minutes at the wedding, a month after the Miss Panty Boy finals. By then, I should be the one squarely in the center of the headlines.
Anyway, who cared about that little quitter? She was out of the competition and I was still in.
The world was spinning correctly once again.
And I had 15 little-cocked sissies to defeat and be declared the femmiest little creampuff in our state.
As they always did, our local newspaper covered the state finals as if it were a combination of a celebrity trial and a presidential scandal. Exhaustively. There were profiles about all the girls, of course, but I, as the local entrant and, disadvantaged, big-cocked minority, got most of the coverage.
It was just a teeny bit worrisome to me to see those pictures of my competition. Unlike the regional finals, there wasn't a "woofer" among them. And who knew what carnal capers they were pulling off with the judges?
Unlike some beauty contests in the last century -- the seven judges took out ads in the paper, listing their phones, faxes, beepers, cell phones, email addresses and days and times they would be home to "interview" candidates for the state championship and trip to the finals in Fromage. I was going to have to get moving if I was going to give each of those judges Destiny Spermmaker's guided tours of heaven.
But I would need more than that to overcome the deeply rooted prejudice against the well-cocked sissy.
I would have to become a celebrity.
In the United States, celebrities can do pretty much anything they want. Felonies. Misdemeanors. Crimes against decency. Traffic violations. Spousal abuse. Rehab after rehab. And the public still loves them. A celebrity can even be elected to high office without even the most basic qualifications. Even more significantly, no judge wants to draw the public's ire by holding a celebrity responsible for his or her missteps. No judge would shame a celebrity. Not even a Miss Panty Boy judge.
Thank goodness I had a good sense of how things worked in the news-media world. I made a list of some key reporters in our state, then some reporters in key national publications. Male reporters. I didn't want some female scribe writing a piece about how sissies, big-cocked or teeny-weenied, were stealing all the best hetero men. I mean, duh! Everyone knew that. The smarter women were doing something about it, like dressing femininely and getting on their backs and spreading their legs for their men. Other women just wore their flannel shirts and complained.
I looked at my list of reporters and set my priorities – the weekly mags that profile celebrities looked like a good place to start. So I called Stanley Hardman of Us-People and asked if he would like to do a profile of a big-cocked pantyboy's typical day. Stanley said that would be great, but as a reward, he would get to fuck me several times during his interviewing process.
Well, duh! That should have gone without saying. I mean, the world is give and take, right?
Anyway, Stanley arrived the morning after I called him, the eager scamp. Just to make sure he did a good job, I gave him eight hours advance payment.
The next day we got serious about my well-deserved path to celebrity. Stanley met me at 6 a.m. at the home of Rod Pumpwell, my "date" from the previous evening. Rod wasn't a celebrity or anything, but he was a major hottie and had a cock that, once it appeared in Us-People, would make Rod a celebrity. As we had arranged, Stanley let himself in and found his way to Rod's bedroom, where the first pictures of my "typical day" were to be taken.
Stanley told me later that he almost creamed his pants (which was OK) and forgot to take pictures (which was not) when he opened the bedroom door and saw Rod furiously fucking me. We had been awake for half an hour and Rod was actually ready to pump his second sticky load of the young day into my hot, young bottom when Stanley took his first picture.
I was screaming with lust as Stanley snapped away. On all fours, with my tiny, red nightie up by my armpits. My own, thick, long peener was spurting big, warm blobs of my girlish juices.
Through a haze of lust, I hoped that Stanley was making sure to take shots that emphasized both my big "package" and the bigger passion my men had for making it spurt.
Rod was soon grunting his way through a blissful orgasm as he creamed my pretty butt for the readers of Us People. Maybe that would be the cover photo.
Rod was such a determined lover, though, that he didn't stop there. I was quickly on my back, with Rod on his manly knees at my side, his mouth full, and I mean full, of my skinned, red cock.
From the gasps and pants Stanley was making as he photographed the exquisite blowjob that Rod was applying to my most sensitive parts, I could tell that he would soon be in need of some sissy TLC himself.
Rod took his time, however, teasing and licking, sucking and kissing from my cum-drooling bottomhole to the tip of my peehole, then, when "completion" was imminent, applying his full, oral powers to my young, tender, pink mushroom.
That week's Us-People readers would enjoy a perfect, mid-stream shot of my ample cream leaping from my huge "business" onto my lover's eager face. That picture alone should make me a celebrity, I thought, and strike a blow for big-cocked sissies everywhere.
But just to make sure, I let Stanley photograph Rod and me as Rod took me standing-up, from behind, in the shower. Then as I, naked, kissed goodbye to Rod as he left for work, then got onto my knees, extracted his Johnson, and gave him a little sendoff to make the workday a little easier to handle.
Us-People readers would surely want to know that I supported the American work ethic.
The next two hours were recorded for posterity as the time when I "got ready" for my day. Every stroke of make-up application was a picture. As my beauty grew, I reasoned, so would the readers' penises.
We didn't photograph the vigorous fuck Stanley gave me right after Rod left for work. Nor the other two times I had to "cool off" the poor boy with my mouth.
Men just seem to "need things" when I'm around.
Stanley tagged along as I went off to my volunteer work at the homeless shelter, where I go every Tuesday morning. Reasoning that just because you're homeless, doesn't mean you don't need a good testicle evacuation now and then, I had been volunteering my services there for several months. Britney used to assist my manual ministry to the downtrodden, but I was pretty sure that she wouldn't bother with such things now that she was becoming a billionaire's boy wife.
I was wrong. Britney wasn't as shallow as I had imagined. She was sissied up in a lavender teddy, with matching stockings, stiletto mules, garters and eye shadow and was applying Lubriderm to her pretty right hand when my personal paparazzo arrived.
I must admit, it was good to see her. I gave her a nice hug and kiss, rubbing stiffies with her sweetly though our panties. Of course I instructed Stanley that he was, by no means, to include even a slick finger of my sister in any picture he took. This was about ME and the penalty for disobedience was withholding of nookie.
A harsh threat, but a necessary one, especially since Britney was flirting with Stanley the whole time she was rubbing the unfortunate, and taking them to a better place.
Clearly, I had the last laugh. The line to be whacked off by me was considerably longer than the one to be whacked off by her sorry lavender manipulations. A lot of it may have been due to the fact that Stanley was photographing ME, thus implying that I, not my trampy sister, was the celebrity.
Even when you're down on your luck, you would rather have your ashes hauled by someone famous, wouldn't you?
Some of it may have also been the fact that, in order to do my volunteering more properly, I had removed my bra, exposing the sweetest, puffiest set of nipples in a 500-mile radius.
After two hours of "making a difference," I was ready for some sex.
I took Stanley to the lovely dressing room the shelter provides for its best volunteers. Then I bent over a table, wiggled my pretty bottom and offered Stanley a bit more payment for his labors. Stanley accepted my offer enthusiastically. Then I showered up, got dressed for the world, and, with Stanley, headed off for a lunchtime tryst with a very married, very powerful man, who didn't allow Stanley to photograph his face as Stanley recorded every sordid moment of our lunchtime coupling on the clean sheets of the ritziest hotel suite in town.
Like anyone would care about him anyway. I was the star of that article.
My Tuesday lover is a very BIG man down there, so I wanted to show the readers that even the very biggest, manliest men prefer a sissy with a rammer in the same league as their own. He always leaves me very wet, sore, open and satisfied and that Tuesday was no exception.
At 2:30, he had to get back to some meeting where he was going to outsource every job in two states to Kazakhstan or somewhere, so we kissed our goodbyes. After that, I always need a nap, which I always take right there on the cum-drenched sheets. Stanley caught the flavor of that nap in his Ansel-Adams-like artistry. He also caught the flavor of my cum, when, for the first time, he sucked me to a delightful, pre-nap conclusion, swallowed, then curled up in an easy chair for his own respite.
At 4:45, I awoke to a very pleasant sensation. I always sleep on my stomach, with my pretty bottom plump and exposed. Which seems to stir men up when they awaken next to me. Stanley said that when he watched me breathing like a little angel, legs slightly parted to reveal my dangling tee tees and flaccid peeny from the rear, he couldn't control himself. The scamp moved onto the bed, got on his knees, bent down and spread my bottom cheeks with his thumbs. Taking a loving look at my pink rosebud, Stanley kissed it sweetly. I stirred and gave a little moan, which encouraged my photographic phriend. Then he moved in for the good stuff, digging into my pussy with his long, hard, wet tongue.
That woke me fully. And made me grunt and squeal.
Stanley took that as a license for further liberties.
I handed out more licenses than the Department of Motor Vehicles.
Before I knew it, Stanley's stiff prick was a mile deep in my wet pussy. The bad boy was pumping and grunting his way to an outstanding orgasm.
His job benefits were the rival of any old 401(k) plan.
Stanley emptied his bag quite thoroughly, then he flipped me onto my back and kissed me toungily as he gave me an excellent, good-old-fashioned handjob. After ten minutes of that, I cried out and spurted my sticky cream.
Even for the sexiest sissy on earth, I was having a great day.
Stanley wanted another round of guided tours of heaven, but I told him that I had a dinner date and he had to record it for his readers.
Reluctantly, Stanley agreed.
Stanley drove me to the House of Sissify, my favorite beauty parlor, where they know that we special girls need to recharge our beauty batteries between our frequent dates. Rhonda, the sissy proprietress, greeted Stanley and me warmly. Actually, me she hustled off to Alyssa, my personal beauty consultant and Stanley, she greeted warmly and personally. Few men came to Rhonda's establishment and she wanted to make sure he was welcomed appropriately.
Stanley was welcomed so appropriately that he only managed a few photos, all at the end of my treatment.
Stanley was starting to look a bit tired.
Well, as they say, if you can't run with the big dogs, stay on the porch.
Anyway, Stanley and I headed off to my next engagement, which was a dinner date with Jamal Dunkley, professional basketball's player of the year. Jamal liked to show me off, taking me to a fancy restaurant where we both dressed up, then to his apartment for an extremely energetic night of fucking. He was an athlete, after all.
I liked showing Jamal off too. He was an incredible hunk. Six feet, ten inches of muscular man. Handsome. And his cock. Oh.
Like everyone else that day, he wasn't shy about letting Us-People magazine record his sexual exploits with a genetic male who wore feminine clothes, makeup and accessories and fucked like the femmiest girl ever born. It wasn't that Jamal needed the fame. He had had and would have all the fame anyone could have. I think he was in love with me and didn't care who knew it. And he was proud that someone like me would get on her knees and open her bottom for him.
He was so sweet. I loved Jamal too, but I wasn't about to be exclusive with anyone. Maybe when I was 22 or some old age like that. But I was 19 and about to become Miss Panty Boy if there was any justice in the world.
Jamal didn't seem self-conscious about Stanley's presence as we lit up the Petite Chou restaurant with our entrance. Or the 116 rolls of film Stanley used to record the eight hours of fucking Jamal graced me with that evening.
When I said goodbye to Stanley at 6 a.m. the next morning, he promised me he would have the story in the following Monday's Us-People.
I predicted that just the pictures of Jamal's huge, three-inches-bigger-than-mine cock drenching my pretty, spurting popsy should be enough to make that issue the biggest-selling magazine issue in history.
And win me the state Miss Panty Boy competition.
I was right. That issue made me a huge celebrity. And won me state. But the national competition would be a tougher challenge.
I was ready for it.
I was a sissy on a mission.
Chapter Five – The Finals
I entered the finals with an advantage. Celebrity is a huge advantage. But I wanted a bigger advantage. So in the week between the state competition and the finals, I worked with a very important retailer to put together a deal that would make me rich and the retailer richer. But more importantly, it would make me Miss Panty Boy.
The 51 finalist candidates (one for each state and the District of Columbia) for Miss Panty Boy, always arrive in Fromage on Saturday, one week before the huge TV extravaganza. The sponsors put us through our publicity paces and there are lots of photo ops and such. It's a great opportunity to publicize Panty Boy Magazine, the primary sponsor, and all the secondary sponsors, like Spermco and Timmy's Girlish Secret, the sissy clothing retailer. But mostly it's an opportunity for the judges to fuck us.
Which was fine with me.
As I've said before, I would do ANYTHING to become Miss Panty Boy.
The other girls were very pretty and very feminine. A big distraction if you're the kind of pantyboy who likes to writhe around with a sissy creampuff now and then as an alternative to man-sissy sex. And I am definitely that kind of pantyboy.
Between fucking the judges, all of whom wanted me, of course, and "sizing up" the competition by a close examination of their bodies, I had a busy week.
By Wednesday, I knew who my competition was.
There was Mary Lou Headturner, Miss Alabama. She was pretty all right. And very southern. Beauty contest judges always favor southern girls, with their drawls, giggles and heavy make-up. Mary Lou was very, very southern. And she had the tiniest cock I have ever seen. Maybe two inches stiff. And exceptionally small tee-tees. Very pink.
Exactly the kind of traditional sissy babe that makes judges cream their jeans just looking at her.
And there was Rhonda Daddysgirl, Miss California. She was pretty too, in a long-blonde-hair, tanlines-around-the-puffy-nipples, surfer way. But what made her special was that Rhonda was a true SAP. Sissy American Princess. She had been told since she was about two years old that she was the prettiest sissy on earth. Best clothes. Personal beauty attendants, poise coach, make-up crew. Super-doting Daddy who bought the little SAP anything she wanted. A long line of men eager for the opportunity just to sniff her panties.
Rhonda expected to win. And confidence like that affects judges.
Thank goodness I had my own plans to make the judges stiffen up and take notice.
Mary Lou and Rhonda figured out early on that I was their competition in what was sure to be a three-sissy race. So we sort of circled each other. Mary Lou would be a tough customer in the "sleep"wear competition. I figured her for lacy, white night clothes that exposed her quite-suckable nipples and adorable little tinkler. She would probably win that phase as the judges went with traditional sissy values. I was guessing that Rhonda, who had worn delicious, elegant girlie clothes all her life, would win the evening gown competition.
In the spirit of competitive research, I had sucked down large dollops of cum from both Mary Lou and Rhonda. I must say that I was surprised that they didn't do a better job sucking my cock. Was it too big for them (unlikely) or were they just spoiled, half-hearted fellatrices (a logical conclusion).
That would surely work in my favor as well.
My strategy was to rank high, not necessarily win, in "sleep"wear, and evening gowns. I figured I could win wedding gowns, since I had a lovely little number that was modified to expose the enormity of my mammoth Johnson. Any man, and the judges were men, who saw a submissive, gorgeous, "virginal" bride with a huge cock would fall in love on the spot. But even if I didn't win that phase, I had a secret weapon that would win for sure.
On the day of the televised, final competition, Britney and her fiancé, Richard Gotrocks arrived backstage to wish me luck.
It was so sweet of Britney and I think she really meant it. I felt a little sad for her, settling for the first billionaire who proposed to her and all. I always outshone Britney though, girls.
And Britney had better keep her eye on that almost-husband of hers. He was looking at me as if he wanted to throw me down and fuck me until I was full of cum up to my eyeballs.
Of course, most men look at me that way. Why wouldn't they?
I gave Britney a big hug and air kisses – mustn't mess the make-up – then settled down to the business of the biggest night of my life.
Right after I greeted my parents. Backstage security isn't what it used to be.
Poor Daddy's eyes were bugging out as he swiveled his head around looking at my fellow contestants. Mom was just all weepy, telling me how she wanted me to win and how she was sorry she gave Britney and me such a rough time about being who we really were.
I guess the thought of Britney's imminent, immense wealth, had turned Mom's head.
I planned to make Britney's half billion look like chump change.
Earlier that week, I had arranged for Daddy to have a true Miss Panty Boy experience with Miss Hawaii, Aloha Goodlei. Aloha, who was named the pageant's Miss Congeniality, was quite congenial with Daddy.
Everyone needs at least one opportunity to realize his lifelong dream. It felt good to help Daddy realize his.
It must have felt good to Daddy too.
Mom and Dad wished me well, then proceeded to take their primo seats, right at the end of the runway.
The Pageant's TV show started off with a production number where all 51 of us did this hokey, "Salute to the American Sissy" song and dance. We didn't really sing – just lip synched. And we didn't really dance. Just wiggled our bottoms and walked around a lot. The only interesting part of it was that we wore only garter belts, stockings and five-inch stiletto sandals. American men, at least the portion of American men who had women partners who allowed their men to watch us, got a really good look at the state winners. A really good look. Which was great for me, since it was "One of these things is not like the others," and I was the big girl among the small.
Some of the girls weren't even erect during the number. How embarrassing for them.
If you can't be aroused by the chance to be Miss Panty Boy, you're not much of a sissy now, are you?
Right after the production number, they showed a whole bunch of commercials, so we pretty boys could sissy up our make-up and get into our evening gowns.
When we were dressed, the emcee, Bart Sparks, introduced us one-by-one to the national TV audience. I was sure that in homes across America, men were touching themselves vigorously as they witnessed the greatest annual collection of sissy beauty ever assembled.
The first little bit of drama came next. The ten finalists were selected. Of course, I was chosen, as were Rhonda and Mary Lou. We finalists cried, though not enough to smear our make-up. We hugged, though not vigorously enough to spurt our creamies. We all wanted to save ourselves as best we could to spurt a big, creamy load for our victory march down the long runway.
Too bad for those 41 poufers who didn't make the final ten. Losers.
The ten of us then began the evening-gown competition. It was different from the usual, beauty-contest, evening-gown stuff. We wore beautiful gowns and all. I had on a shimmering, midnight-blue, spaghetti-strapped, sequined number. Black, fully-fashioned stockings and silver, five-inch-stiletto sandals. And my favorite, those long, soft, over-the-elbow gloves that make a girl look as if she's been in a Fred and Ginger movie.
That year, in an effort to spark up the competition, the gloves had a practical purpose.
In an effort to boost ratings, or perhaps just to amuse himself, Bart Sparks had us add a bit to the show. At his signal, we finalists hitched up our gowns, skinned down our panties and, gloves on, rubbed our popsies until they erupted.
All lovingly captured on national television.
It was an Emmy-worthy moment. And one that people suggested later was something I had suggested to Bart during one of our moments of intimacy the week before the pageant. Of course I had vigorous, cummy sex with Bart before the big show, silly. Why wouldn't I?
I can't claim credit for such a great opportunity to show off my sissy stallion to a national audience. Big and thick and meaty. Oozing with pearls of precum as I stroked and gasped, locking eyes, first with Bart, then with the camera. Then the look of agonized ecstasy on my face as I squealed and pumped thick globs of precious cream. American men got something to think about that night.
During that "touching" moment, the cameras spent a bit of time on the other finalist's masturbatory antics, particularly that Mary Lou. But most of the attention, as it should have been, was on me. Bart certainly didn't look at anyone else. I think he was half in love with me. <Giggle>
I must admit that Mary Lou, which I confirmed later when I looked at the tapes, put on a good show. Her teeny peeny didn't look as if it was even going to reach its full two inches. And those itsy bitsy testicles of hers didn't look as if they could produce enough cum to wet a man's tonsils. But she spurted almost as much goo as I did. And she had that "traditionalist" thing going for her. Thank goodness Bart seemed to have already abandoned tradition and was embracing the big-cocked wave of progress.
After the last sissyboy erupted (Daley Evans, Miss Montana) and America caught its breath and mopped up its mess, the judges whittled us down to seven (including, of course, Rhonda, Mary Lou and me, the show went to commercial and we went to get ready for the "sleep"wear competition.
It was challenging to get dressed in a room with your competitors. They were all so deliciously feminine and fuckable. But this was business,
We were rushing to get ready. I had chosen a pink, almost completely sheer, 1950s-style babydoll, with matching panties and stiletto powderpuff mules. Looking at myself in the mirror "tented" my panties perfectly and I was very confident in a good showing at that event. Even more so when I glanced over at Rhonda, who wasn't even dressed yet, except for her six-inch stiletto mules and a lot of make-up. When they called us to go back out there and Rhonda was still naked, my first thought that she was crazy.
Then I realized she was crazy like a fox.
I have a great body. Slim and feminine. Pointed, puffy nipples. Delicious.
Rhonda, the California Sissy American Princess, I will admit, had a better body. The best I had ever seen on a sissy. Probably the result of many surgeries and indulgences of her doting Daddy.
And she had a great tan, with tan lines in the right places – around her perfect nipples and her penile region.
She was going out there to show it off, saying that she slept nude, so nude was her "sleep"wear.
I had to hand it to her. Rhonda outfoxed me on that one.
She won the "sleep"wear competition and I was in a real race, with only five contestants in the wedding gowns and interviews to go.
No problem.
We all played the wedding gown competition straight. The object was to show American men a virginal boy bride, about whom they could fantasize when things got tough in their own marriages. Which was probably often. Sissies are a great balm to men's sore egos.
To this day, I don't know who won that phase, but after it, we were down to three finalists, Rhonda, Mary Lou and me.
Traditionally, all we did for that was to come forward in our pink panties and heels.
Down to that. And two competitors.
It was a good thing I had a plan.
As America sat back in its Lazy Boy and slowly stroked its cock, Bart interviewed Rhonda, then Mary Lou. I didn't hear either of the interviews, because they didn't want me to gain an advantage by hearing the questions.
Like that would have been any great advantage.
What do you want more than anything in the world? (World peace, of course) If you become Miss Panty Boy, how will you change the world? Yadda, yadda.
I saw later that Mary Lou and Rhonda had tried their little tricks. Mary Lou had slowly eased out of her panties during the interview and stroked her nubbin to a very creamy conclusion. <Yawn> Rhonda had turned and shown her perfect ass to the camera, parting the cheeks with her hands and exposing the pink parts of her "pussy" to 53,675, 422 male viewers. <Bo-ring>
I hoped many male viewers had saved their loads for my interview, because I was going to give them something to remember.
As I wiggled over to Bart, flashbulbs popping, men drooling, I saw the look in Bart's eyes and I became very confident. Bart wanted me. Right there. In front of the world.
If I did that to him, what was I doing to the judges?
Bart asked the first question. "If you were crowned Miss Panty Boy, what would be your first act?"
Perfect.
I sighed, then signaled to my helpers backstage. Miss Arizona and Miss Delaware carried a changing screen on stage. Miss Rhode Island carried a suitcase.
The audience stirred. They knew they were about to be part of history.
I began to speak as I moved behind the screen. Misses Arizona, Delaware and Rhode Island assisted me, exactly as we had rehearsed. I said over the top of the screen, "Bart, American men need new fantasies in their lives. Every man wants to fuck a pretty sissy. Every man. It's a deep instinct that they need to satisfy. But there's another instinct that men have. An instinct that, until now, men could not satisfy with a sissy. The urge to procreate."
The audience gasped. What was happening?
As we timed it, the three sissies moved off stage. I said, "Today, after extensive coordination with my business partner, Timmy's Girlish Secret, I can announce that beginning next month, men can have their cake and eat it too. For only $599, men can have the feeling they all want. The feeling men get when they see that they have made their sissy <pause for effect> PREGNANT!!!!"
I pushed the screen over and stood there. Pregnant. Very pregnant. Not really, of course, but who cared?
I was wearing a similar babydoll to what I had worn in the "sleep"wear competition, but my swollen belly pushed it out. The "addition" to my body was in my skin tones, attached with sturdy, but removable adhesive, and looked 100% real. I had also abandoned my heels and stood before the world not only pregnant, but barefoot and pregnant.
In millions of living rooms across America, men groaned and emptied their balls. Refilled them, then spurted again.
The live audience was stunned as well and the smell of spilled sperm filled the air.
Even better was the effect I had on Bart.
I looked him in the eyes, and the camera shot over his shoulder to record every moment, every sultry, pouty expression as I said to the emcee, "I was just an innocent boy when you met me. Pure and virginal. You corrupted me. You made me dress in stockings. Taught me to walk in big heels. Showed me how to wear make-up and lingerie. Then you stuck your big, hot cock in my mouth and humiliated me. Pumped your sticky cum down my throat, calling me your 'girl.' Your sissy. Your little 'fuck toy.' But that wasn't all. When I fell in love with you – when I fell in love with being a girl, you told me you would leave your wife for me. But you never did. You stuck your big cock into my tiny bottom and pushed it in and out until you filled me with your sperm. Many times. Over and over. So big. So hot. So hard. Then it happened. No one thought it was possible, but you were so manly…your sperm was so potent… You got me 'in trouble.' Got my belly up. Made a baby in me. Our baby. Made me pregnant. What are you going to do about this? Look!" And I raised my nightie to expose my big, girlish belly, with incongruent, dangling cock and balls.
Many men have written me to say that they came so hard at that moment that they passed out. Not Bart.
He was a wild man. He discarded his trousers, turned me around, bent me over and fucked me! I mean fucked me hard. And he reached around to stroke my big business as he fucked me. We lasted maybe five minutes at that, then came together in a squealing, grunting cummy mess.
It was glorious. And the network never even went to commercial.
At a signal from me, all 48 of the non-finalists appeared on stage, all barefoot and "pregnant" – waving at the crowd. Debilitating men by the millions.
Bart didn't even wait for the judges. His cock drooping and dripping, but showing twitching signs of recovery, he summoned Miss Missy Skinner, the previous year's Miss Panty Boy, to crown me. I was crying tears of joy and triumph as I clutched my roses and, barefoot and pregnant, marched down the runway to the standing ovation of a delirious crowd.
It was wonderful. I was Miss Panty Boy 2017, and I would always be one of the great ones. All I had to do was get to the end of the runway, spray the audience with cum and take my place in history.
But history has a way of being quirky.
At my moment of triumph, at the end of the runway, poised for greatness, my body failed me. I was fully erect, but for the first time in my life, I was unable to summon a nice, copious, creamy cum load.
Everyone was waiting. Perspiration beaded my beautiful forehead.
I was terrified. But then there was a commotion. Someone was trying to climb onto the runway, but security was restraining him. Was it some nut?
No. It was my Daddy! There to rescue his little sissy. Just as all good daddies do.
I told security to let him climb up to the runway. Daddy got up, dusted himself off, and melted me with his smile. It was like the final scene in a movie.
"I thought you might need Daddy's help, Pumpkin," he said.
"Oh, yes, Daddy," I said. And I surrendered to him.
Daddy laid his beautiful hand on my cock. The first time since he had diapered me as a baby. And he began to stroke me.
"These people have just declared you their queen, Baby," he said. "Let's show them what you can do, your majesty."
Daddy <pant> had a very nice <gasp> stroke. And it was wonderful to feel the paternal hand tickling my pink parts. I felt the first stirrings of a tsunami of a spermstorm and squealed softly.
Daddy smiled, "That's my girl. Give it all to them now, Baby. Show America what a sissy you are."
And then he kissed me.
Right there.
In front of bijillions of people.
That did it, girls.
My gut clenched. I screamed with lust. And pumped seven long, thick ropes of cum over seven rows of the audience, including a nice creamy one on Mom.
It was the greatest moment of my life.
It was the greatest moment of many people's lives. That picture, of Daddy kissing me as I pumped out rope after rope of sticky sperm, was on the front page of every newspaper in the world. It's at the entrance of the Smithsonian, depicting true American family values for the world to see.
It's titled "Daddy and his pregnant sissy" and if you don't know the story, you assume that the sissy is carrying her Daddy's baby. Isn't that so deliciously extra naughty?
But that's not all.
Nine months later, 10,544,756 babies were born in the United States. Apparently, crazed American men impregnated everyone within reach. Local school boards are panicked about how they'll accommodate that many kids in the near future. Congress has called it the deathblow for Social Security in 2082.
And that's not all.
Viagra and its copycats' sales went down 85%. Apparently, all men had to do was look at the tape of that show or some of the pictures and they were ready for action.
So in a way, I kind of had a bad effect on the American economy.
The whole thing had a great effect on my economy, however. Timmy's Girlish Secret sold 6,873,098 units of the sissy pregnancy kit, not to mention the accessories like the maternity lingerie, body adhesive and optional "kick unit" that can go into the "belly-up" device and simulate actual baby kicks within the sissy's stretched tummy.
My cut was minor. I only made around $100 million, which meant I didn't need to run out and find a rich husband before I reached the age of 20.
Though I had many offers.
No, for now, I'll just date a few close friends, count my money and savor the greatest honor of all.
The title of Miss Panty Boy.
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