Stocking Boys

by Gingerfred Man

 

Chapter One—Scholarship

Daddy always wanted me, Jason Spermer, to get an athletic scholarship. I wasn't big or athletic or manly enough to even make my high school football team, let alone get a scholarship at a big-time college. So I guess it was only natural that I would train for competitive femininity.

As I'm sure you know, colleges have gotten into competitive femininity in a big way since ESPN6 became the "all-compfem-all-the-time" network. It has a very devoted fan base and there's even been talk of a pro league starting up soon in the big cities. High schools have lagged, what with stodgy old school boards afraid what might happen if they let their ten or twelve prettiest boys femme up and sissy around for some horny old judges.

My high school's board was one of those old-fashioned ones, so my lack of compfem experience put me at a scholarship disadvantage -- a disadvantage I was able to overcome for two reasons—an aggressive "stage" Daddy and what a lot of people tell me are the most beautiful, femmy looks they've ever seen on anyone with a Y chromosome.

Daddy, who was a widower since I was four, arranged the femme training, made sure I stuck to it, worked with the photographer to put together my dazzling portfolio, then helped me sort through the more than 100 scholarship offers my portfolio engendered. I loved the praise and [gulp] adoration, even though 99% of it came from males. I hated when everyone assumed I was gay and was [blush] just aching to suck every man's cock. I didn't suck any cocks. And no one sucked mine. I was completely, totally, fiercely heterosexual. Too bad for all those men who looked at me with their tongues hanging out, pounding their peters. I was a student-athlete. A serious competitor. And compfem was a means to an end. It would get me my education at an outstanding college—Saint Travestia's University—and give me the name recognition and contacts I would need for a career in endophilology, my lifelong dream.

I reported to Saint Travestia's or STU as it was called, intent on two things—getting my degree and making the STU Stocking Boys the national champions of compfem, with the defeat of their hated rivals, the Fromage University (AKA FU) Pantypackers, as an added bonus.

Chapter Two—First School Days and a Flashback

As I'm sure you know, compfem is a spring sport. So I had most of first semester to get oriented to the school and begin my studies.

As a freshman, I was required to live in the dorm—the male dorm, of course. With a male roommate.

That could have been a bit sticky, since I seemed to make men's pants bulge when I was around them—always when I was en femme, but even sometimes when I was en homme. My roommate, Alan Busyfinger, greeted me warmly—"Hi, Jason, or do you prefer 'Patricia'?"

See, he was polite.

"Hi yourself, Alan. I'm in boy's clothes now, so I prefer Jason. But you can call me Patricia whenever it makes you comfortable. I answer to both."

I smiled. Oh, crap. Was his cock stiffening? It was, and I was dressed "preppy boy," wearing khakis and a polo. I had been living with reactions like my new roommate's since I was 16.

You see, Daddy dragged me to a beauty salon on my 16^th birthday, just to see if his suspicions were right about my compfem potential. He arranged for the full-day special and I was miserable—VERY upset and TOTALLY against it. After all, I told Daddy, I was a boy. A boy who liked girls. No girl would even look at me again, I told Daddy, if word got out that I was a compfem wannabe. The boys would beat me up every time they saw me. In fact, they would gather in packs, storm my house, and drag me off to pummel me.

Boy, was I wrong. About everything.

But I was the most wrong when I said to Daddy, "It's useless anyway, Dad. I could never be pretty like those little creampuffs on ESPN6."

That first myth was mutilated about halfway into my spa day. I knew something was up when, Justine, the shoppe owner, called in her colleagues to look at me. Until that point she had kept me away from mirrors, so for all I knew, she was going to ridicule me. Wrong again.

The staffers gasped when they saw me. When Justine held up the mirror to my face, I saw why.

Helen of Troy's face may have launched a thousand ships. My face would have made the 20,000 sailors on those ships cum their Greek guts out.

I was stunned. And scared. And [blush] aroused. I mean, I was a boy and that girl I saw in the mirror was knockdown, knockout and drag-the-body-away gorgeous.

It appeared that Daddy was finally right about something, which was very difficult for a teenager to admit. But there was more.

Justine and her staff spent the rest of the day teaching me about cosmetics, which took me another year to master fully, but it was a great start.

Then Millie, a perky, cute, 19-year-old beauty-school graduate suggested that they "dress [me] up for the full effect."

That proved to be exceedingly embarrassing

First, I didn't want to wear panties and stockings, ever. Then, when I got them on, I never wanted to take them off. I wear them (and a sexy garter belt) every day, even when I'm in boy clothes.

Second, I sort of had an accident when I put the panties on. What happened was, Millie made a comment about having to see for herself whether I was really a girl who was "putting them on" about being a boy. She sort of rummaged around in my boxers, giving things a thorough check, which had me in a state. Which was made worse when Millie pulled my boxers down to show six giggling ladies my stiff, respectably-sized cock and nice, hairy ballbag. The coup de cum, however, was when Millie seated my "pink package" into a pair of silky, white, bikini panties—which I promptly spasmed six creamy globs into, crying out in equal dollops of lust and shame.

Third, after an embarrassing cleanup and a fresh pair of panties, again with much good-natured giggling, I was introduced to my first pair of stockings. Silky. Black. Reinforced heel and toe. Eased so sexily up each freshly-shaven leg. And I filled my second pair of panties with my second tribute to femininity. Mortification.

Fear.

And anticipation of a new life far beyond what I had expected. A life as a delicious compfem athlete. Heterosexual and proud, but the object of lust for every male who viewed me. I didn't just stroll out of that beauty salon into a new life of femininity. It took a few months until I had practiced enough of feminine mannerisms, voice control, cosmetics and hair styling so that I felt semi-comfortable about going out in public. Not to mention learning to walk comfortably in four-and-a-half-inch or five-inch stiletto heels—the only shoes I really like to wear these days.

Daddy hired a femininity coach named Fifi—that's right, Fifi -- to ensure that I learned to mimic the female persona well enough to get a compfem scholarship.

Let's face it, girls, in the end, Daddy would have been financially better off just paying the $35,000 tuition each year. Between the coach, the lessons, the make-up and, oh yes, the clothes, tuition would have been a bargain. I adore buying girlish clothes—lots of them—the frillier and sexier the better—all with hefty price tags. And Daddy doesn't seem to want to deny me much of anything. He calls me his SAP or Sissy American Princess. Which I always smile at, while batting my eyes at Daddy. But I don't like that "sissy" tag. I'm a serious competitor. And not some gay nancyboy. Did I mention that I'm heterosexual?

Daddy can be bighearted and hardheaded about not paying tuition and thank goodness, I say, because for the most part, I've really enjoyed my athletic career.

Fifi was a bit difficult to manage. She was a strict coach, drilling me on manners and movement and beauty. That was OK, I guess, but at least twice each day, she would have me pull my panties down and caress my pink stiffie until I filled a Kleenex that she kept for the purpose of "emptying all my boyish toxins." Since she was a girl and I like girls, it was OK, I guess. But hitching down your panties so a girl can wank you doesn't seem very John Waynish, does it?

Fifi and Daddy took me out the first time on my sixteen-and-a-half birthday. She had to wank me three times in a half hour so that I wouldn't embarrass myself with a woodie in the fancy restaurant where they were taking me. Fifi was a very beautiful, 24-year-old French girl, accent and all, with big boobs and an excellent sway to her derriere, but every head in the restaurant that night turned to me. Daddy realized that night that his dreams of a scholarship were certain to be fulfilled. I realized that night that three excellent wanks weren't nearly enough to keep me from getting rigid when I got the public adoration I was getting that night. I LOVE when people recognize my superior femininity. What athlete doesn't love to excel? It was a bit disturbing to me, and still is today, that my most ardent legion of admirers is 99.9% male. I told "Compfem Illustrated" that in an interview my freshman year at STU, but all they wrote about were my "full lips and haunting eyes." I was afraid the guy who interviewed me was going to pass out when all the blood in his body rushed to his penis.

But not all my admirers were male.

I took Heather LaBuste to the junior prom. I had to take her, just to fend off all the invitations from just about every boy in the junior class. You see, Daddy insisted that I live full time as a girl from the time of my half birthday at the restaurant. Something about ensuring that he got a return on his investment. I know you think I'm exaggerating, but the first day I showed up at school as a girl, I almost caused a riot among the boys. The principal had made an announcement over the PA about me preparing for a compfem career by dressing as a girl. The boys in school assumed two things about that. First they assumed that I would be ugly and a caricature of the girls they knew. Wrong—the girls looked like garbage collectors on casual Friday compared to me. Second, once they saw how spectacular I was, they assumed that I was some sissy boy eager to suck their cocks. Wrong again. But that didn't stop the boys from circling me like a lusty wolfpack. So my only defense was to seek safety among girls.

Girls liked me too.

Not at first. They thought I was a competitor for the boys. When they discovered that I was "straight," there was a transition period where they just sort of tried to figure me out. Then came the period I really liked.

Heather LaBuste offered her body to me a month before the junior prom. I accepted. Other girls followed. And other girls followed the other girls.

My soft, glossed lips against theirs. Lingerie on lingerie. Stockings rubbing stockings. And my seven-incher deep within the hottest, wettest places on earth.

All the pussy I wanted. And I wanted a lot.

High school was great. Except for those insistent boys. They kept trying, but no male ever touched my "pretty parts" until my physical exam for Saint Travestia's University. Daddy and I agreed that Saint Travestia's was my best choice. They had won the elite Femme Eight Conference title three of the past five years and were NCCFA (National Collegiate Competitive Femininity Association) Champions two of the past three years. Oh, yeah. And they had an outstanding endophilology program too. The Femme Eight was the "power conference" of competitive femininity, and besides our squad and those no-goodniks at Fromage University, there were the Katooey College Ladyboys, the Jaye Davidson University Pantycreamers, the Boneca Institute Lingerie Lads, the William in Mary University Pillowbiters, the Christine Jorgensen College Swishyboys and Barbara Pinkpanties College Pantylifers.

The Saint Travestia's coach, Francine Fraumacher, closed the deal for STU and me with a visit to our house. She, I mean he was a deliciously feminine young man of 26 years, who had been an All-American compfem athlete at STU. There was no pro league in her, I mean his, day, so coaching was the only real outlet for an accomplished competitor.

Almost all of the compfem athletes at STU and most other schools ended up living full time as femmes. I had no such plans. I wanted to get my education, then get a job as a manly endophilologist, perhaps at Endophile Partners. Busty wife. Three and a half kids.

Although, and I hate to admit this, it's been said that a few of the athletes went over to "the Dark Side." Consorting with men. Sucking men's cocks. Taking men's cocks into their tiny bottoms. Even [gasp] marrying men and being their submissive, often-fucked wives.

How horrible!

Is it hot in here? Anyway, my first, and I hoped ONLY contact with a man was with Dr. Pumpmore, the STU team physician. Daddy and Coach Francie seemed to hit it off really well. In fact when Daddy invited her to spend the weekend with us, she accepted eagerly. Very eagerly. She called Dr. Pumpmore and asked him to come to our house to give me my entrance physical. When he said he wouldn't be able to make it to our house for four days, Coach Francie told the doc not to worry or hurry. Daddy said she was welcome to stay as long as she liked. Then he suggested that I stay with my latest girlfriend, Tiffany Kulikowski and her family for few days. Daddy and the Coach had important business to discuss about my scholarship, he said.

I didn't think there was anything odd with that. Should I have?

Anyway, Daddy called me on the fifth day to tell me to come home for my physical. He and the Coach seemed really close when I arrived home. Daddy makes friends easily. Dr. Pumpmore was setting up in my bedroom for my physical. He greeted me warmly. Just like all men seemed to. With a smile and a stiff dick. The big difference was, he was the only man in the world (except for Daddy), who could tell me to undress and I would obey him.

"Strip down to your bra, panties, stockings, garters and heels, Patricia," the doctor said.

I complied, though I felt all tingly and strange. I had never been so "exposed" to a man before. It was OK, though. He was a doctor.

A doctor with an even bigger stiffie.

"We have to check you out, Sweetheart," the doctor said. "You'd be surprised at all the actual, genetic girls who try to sneak into our sport."

I was horrified. Was nothing sacred?

The doctor continued. "Not only girls. We also have boys who

'juice'"

I thought, "Steroids? But that would…"

The doctor said, "Female hormones. Totally against the rules."

Those lowdown cheaters!

"Of course," he said. "I have to verify that you're a man and that you're not taking hormones."

I thought, a blood sample and a DNA sample should take care of that.

But no.

"On the bed, on your back, panties off, Darling," he said. I gulped. What was this? If I screamed, Daddy would run in with a shotgun. Assuming he and Coach Francie weren't discussing my scholarship or something.

"I have to examine your equipment and make sure it's functional."

That was reasonable. I guessed.

I got on the bed, on my back and showed my privates to a man for the first time since Daddy used to diaper me. Why was I so stiff?

Why was Dr. Pumpmore drooling?

"Mmmm. Yes. That big, fat pole looks real enough, but I'll examine it to be sure."

And examine it he did. Skinning back the head. Listening with delight to my little, girlish squeak as he exposed the pink jewel with drooling peelips.

"Oh, what a fine competitor, you'll be, Doll. The judges love a thick cock on a girlie girl like you. And the way you love it so when I tickle your privates. It's so charming. And delightful. Do you like when I 'milk' you like this? Do a lot of boys milk you, Sweetheart?"

I shook my head and squealed softly, enjoying being handled by a man much more than I had ever dreamed. If he kept that up, I was going to….

He stopped.

Why did he stop?

Smiling, teasing, he moved slowly to his medical bag and extracted a tube of something that he squeezed out and applied to the three middle fingers of his left hand. "I have to check your responses, Lover. Just to make sure hormones haven't dulled them."

Was he going to…?

He was!!!!

"Lift those pretty, stockinged knees, Beautiful. That's it.

I'll just…. There. How's that?"

It was incredible! But I would never tell him that. The naughty man had first one, then two, then three slick fingers of his left hand in my previously virgin bottomhole. And he was skinning my pretty peeny with his right hand. I almost told him to stop. Forget the scholarship. My virtue was far more important. But then his fingers found my prostate. And I would have followed him to Pompeii on the day of Vesuvius' eruption.

I was cumming!! Hard. With spasmodic jerks. Thick globs of my manly juices leaping from my pink sack, through my stiff pole and onto my flat tummy. I was in an agony of pleasure. Guilty and disgusted with myself and fully intending to enter a reverie that would result in self-loathing. But I never got the chance. Dr. Evil kept massaging my poor, enflamed prostate. And rubbing my own cum all over my cock and balls. I looked at him and did not see medical research in his eyes. He was seething with lust. My eyes were filling with tears. I opened my mouth to beg for mercy, but all I heard was a scream as I started cumming again. Harder than the last time. Less cum. More debilitation. A lot more noise from me. The third time he made me cum was seven minutes later. After that ballbuster, I began planning my own funeral.

But he stopped. Withdrew his fingers. Tossed me a towel. "Welcome to the STU Stocking Boys, Patricia," he said. "You'll be an All-American some day. I look forward to next year's physical exam."

And he left. Left me in a sodden pool of my own sperm.

Wallowing in my doubts about my "preferences." Since then, I realized that the incident was an aberration. I was firmly straight. And would always be. So there.

To prove to myself that I was only dressing for the competition, I decided to dress as a man until the Stocking Boys began their season. It would certainly make living in the male dorm easier.

And the first male I met at STU was my roommate, Alan. Back to him.

He and I went around campus, processing in. Getting our books and stuff. Were some of the upperclassmen giving me, "That look?" Even though I was in boy clothes?

I was probably imagining it.

After dinner that night, Alan and I talked for a while. He's a really nice guy and things were pretty normal. Until we got ready for bed.

I can give up a lot of things, but not everything. As I told you, I always wear panties, stockings and a garter belt, even under my boy clothes. I also couldn't give up my silky nighties.

When Alan and I got undressed for bed and he saw me in my stockings, he was so nervous that he was shaking. When I slid off my stockings, panties and garters and put on my pink, knee-length nightie, he was almost in cardiac arrest. We turned the lights out and got into our single beds, on each side of the room.

I was tired and almost ready for sleep, except for being a bit restless, since I was "unmilked." Fifi had kind of gotten me used to being milked regularly—and then there were all my girlfriends.

At that moment, my only option was Alan. Who was sighing so loudly, I was never going to get to sleep anyway. Someone had to be the grown-up.

"Alan," I said. "Here's a deal for you. I'll milk you, and then you milk me. No kissing. No gay stuff. Then we go to bed and sleep. No talking about it to each other or other people or it stops. Tonight. And forever. Behave yourself and we'll milk each other at least once a day. Deal?"

A slight pause. A gasp. A longer pause. And then a croaked, "Deal."

A fair exchange, I thought as I crossed the room to Alan's bed.

I had to ask him to pull the covers down and expose his willie. Did he think I was going to tunnel through the bedclothes and "go fishing" to give him his strokes?

Alan's was rather a nice willie, I must say. Dark and stiff, with a fat sack of hairy balls and a pink, mushroom knob. Nice, thick foreskin. Had I been gay, I would have been excited. My own "tickler" was stiff, but only because I was unmilked. Not because I was "on the other team."

I hadn't wanked anyone before. Ever. But it didn't seem too difficult. Especially since Alan's cock was twitching as he stared into my pretty eyes. Alan looked as if he would orgasm if I breathed on him.

Well, I thought, I had better define the parameters for this stiff young man. I began giving him a stern lecture about my heterosexuality and how I wasn't the least bit attracted to him or any other man. About halfway through my planned soliloquy, I touched Alan's "business." I thought he would cum right away, but he had gone limp!!

Was I ugly and unattractive? Who did that twit think he was?

Was I some undesirable bag lady or something? Listen to me, I thought. Worried about what this, this man thought about my femininity. The compfem judges were men. That was my biggest worry. And if I couldn't even toss Alan off, I'd be a loser at compfem. Sent home in disgrace! Maybe it wasn't my looks. Could have been my manner. Hmmm.

Try again.

"Oh, Alan," I said in my sexiest compfem voice. "What a big, hot, manly cock you have. I'll bet you keep all the ladies back in Sperm Hole, Wyoming very happy. Will you cum for me Alan? I want to see your hot cum spurt. Cum for me, Al…" And so he did.

Thick ropes of hot cream. Erupting and forming a splatter pattern on his flat, hairy stomach. Grunting with animal pleasure. And so Patricia learned her first lesson about men. Be nice to them and they'll like you. Even if you're gorgeous, you still have to be nice to them.

Lots to learn. And Alan taught the first lesson. Time to pay him back. And have a little fun doing it. I handed Alan a box of Kleenex to clean himself up, then went to my bed, lay on my back and lifted my nightie to expose my pink treasures. The poor, uselessly infatuated lad hurriedly cleaned himself off, covered his genitals and hustled over to examine the task at hand—my stiff goods.

With Alan, it wasn't like it was with the doctor. Dr. Pumpmore was older and had something I wanted, so I was a bit submissive with him. But, I must admit that I was enjoying the experience with Alan very much. He was so needy and I was so in control. But that wasn't all of it. Showing myself to a man like that was so dirty. And who doesn't enjoy that? Plus, I was eager to feel a hand, male or otherwise, on my privates—ridding me of my cream and my temporary-insanity naughtiness.

Alan was enjoying himself too.

He gave me a very charming smile, then set about his pleasant task. He began with some sweet talk: "Oh, my, Patricia. You're so beautiful. You're beautiful everywhere. From your beautiful hair, those incredible eyes, your kissable mouth, all the way to your pretty, painted toes. And your little popsy! It's angelic." My cheeks were burning with embarrassment. I was being praised by a man and loving every nanosecond of it. My cock twitched and dripped as he told me was the prettiest girl who ever came to STU. Then he began to rub my leaky goo around my peehole with his thumb and that was all she wrote.

Why did I cum so hard when those darned men were messing with me?

Alan's gentle fingers made me blow my guts in about two minutes. A new world's record, I imagined. I was afraid he would give me a gay kiss or something, but he didn't.

Why didn't he?

Not that I wanted him to.

But he didn't.

"Sleep well," he said as he handed me a box of Kleenex.

I did. After three hours of restless soul searching. I was going to have to act sultry toward men if I wanted to succeed at compfem. Maybe Alan would be good practice. Just as a means to an end. A theme in my life.

Chapter Three—The Team

The next few days were hectic, but fun. I started my classes, which were all top-notch. Alan and I gave each other a lovely wank each night before we went to sleep. I found myself wearing lipstick for those "tickle sessions" and [blush] flirting with him a little bit too.

He was nice. For a man.

Things took a bit of a turn when Coach Francie called the first STU compfem meeting of that school year and I met my eleven teammates.

We met at 3:30 on a Wednesday afternoon in the lobby of the STU compfem fieldhouse. And I got a big surprise. I was the only team member wearing boy's clothes. The handbook said that boy's clothes were optional during first semester. The handbook was wrong.

I think the upperclassmen were snickering at my faux pas. And I think one of them said something like, "There's one every year." The impact of the practical joke didn't sink in, though. Because I was so overwhelmed by my teammates that I was in a semi-stupor.

Remember, I was a femmy boy who fucked the prettiest girls in my high school. And I had been watching ESPN6 religiously (when I wasn't fucking the prettiest girls in my high school). And I was a major girlish dish myself.

But none of that prepared me for being in the glorious presence of a national-champion compfem squad in their girlish magnificence. They were cock-stupefying!

Dressed in short skirts that exposed yards of stockinged, shapely legs. Cosmetically exquisite. Moving easily in the highest, thinnest heels. Tastefully and expensively bejeweled. Heartbreakingly beautiful faces. No "racks," that was true.

But asses to expire for.

Not a whiff of estrogen was in the air, but the feminine delights that were laid before me were a sensual feast for anyone who had ever felt the tiniest of twinges of desire to possess a woman.

Even though they were all good-naturedly ribbing me about being so "butch."

I panicked for a moment. Would "Butch" be my team nickname? I was saved by the intervention of three-time All-American and two-time "Huffman Trophy" winner Samantha Suckwell. "Leave Patricia alone you silly cows," he..she..he said, with a girlish tinkle that melted my heart. "You fellow seniors know that I was the dumb 'boy' who believed the handbook when I was a freshman. And I did all right for the glory and endowment fund of good-old STU."

Giggles all around.

They were so girly. And astoundingly beautiful. I was half-delighted, half-terrified and half-apprehensive that I wouldn't make the grade. So one of those halves was wrong. But which one?

I guess it makes little sense to call my coach and teammates by masculine pronouns, so I won't anymore.

Coach Francie clapped her pretty hands and said, "Settle down, ladies." We have a lot to do today."

So we all sat and listened while Coach told us about the rules changes for this year, especially the restrictions against making an "O" with the lips to suggest that you wish to suck a judge's cock [even if you do] or even showing the tongue to a judge. I was sitting with my two fellow-freshman teammates, Kimmie and Victoria, I felt like such a "boy" compared to them, but they were already treating me like a sister. Each gave me a big hug and kiss. Was that something hard I felt in Kimmie's panties when she hugged me? Victoria was "packing panty pork" as well. Coach told us that we would have our annual kick-off spa day that following Saturday, which would be a good teambuilding experience. Fall practice, which the NCCFA limited to 20 sessions in deference to the study needs of its student-athletes, would begin the following Monday, "Our intra-squad game will be on October 1 and fall practice will conclude with a "scrimmage" against our Femme Eight rival, the Katooey College Ladyboys, on October 10. After that, you'll have until spring practice begins on February 1 to work on your femininity skills. The season will start on March 1. And remember, girls, especially you, Patricia [giggle], the only boy things I want next to you are boys' 'things.'"

[Gulp] How embarrassing. It was all in good fun, I guessed. Didn't bother me. What did bother me was that remark about boys being "on" my teammates. Were some of them gay? My answer to that would come soon enough. Coach Francie gave each of us a nice hug as we left. Was that a stiffie under her skirt when she rubbed against me? "Say hi, to your Daddy for me, Patricia," she said. "Tell him I'll see him the weekend after next."

More scholarship-related business, I presumed. Moments later, I was walking out of the fieldhouse, chatting with Victoria and Kimmie, the other, older, nine athletes mincing along in their skyscraper stilettos in front of us. We went out the front door and there they were.

Boys. Men.

Eleven of them.

One for each of my delicious creampuff teammates. None for me.

Not that I wanted one.

The three seniors and two of the juniors were greeted by older men. In expensive suits. With chauffeured limos. The other six were greeted by what appeared to be male, fellow STU students. All good-looking, fit and very eager for the company of the student-athletes. Greeting them.

And I mean "greeting."

Deep, tonguey, greeting kisses. Half-obscene greeting embraces. Then scurrying off to do unspeakable acts with unnatural couplings.

Eleven of them. Gone. And me, dressed like the boy, standing there.

One of these things is not like the other.

Which was OK with me.

I didn't swing that way.

I wondered. How did Kimmie and Victoria find boyfriends so fast? Why did they want boyfriends when there were so many girls eager for compfem athlete cock? Were they born "that way?" Or—and this is the best possibility—were they just "training" for compfem by learning what turned men on?

That had to be it.

Kissing and such was the limit. I was sure of it.

Training.

Made sense.

Another thing that wasn't in the handbook, but everyone except me had figured out.

Why were they all so "together" and plugged into what was needed for compfem success and I wasn't? Was I stupid? Was I ugly? Was I unwilling to commit to success? My self doubts and disgust turned out to be extremely good fortune for my roommate Alan.

Walking back to my room that afternoon, I made several resolutions.

First, no more boy's clothes until I graduated. Second, I was going to be an All-American—that year—every year.

Third, I wasn't going to be the odd duckling out any more.

Nosirreebob.

When I got back to my room, Alan wasn't there. I took off my boy clothes and threw them out the dorm window. Stripped to my panties, stockings, garters and bra, I found a pair of four-and-a-half-inch-stiletto pumps and slipped them on. Then I sat down at my team-supplied vanity and began to "doll-up" my face for the first time I had arrived at STU.

Oh my.

It wasn't my absolute best make-up effort, but it was awfully good. I had a major woodie just looking at myself. I slipped on a pink peignoir, then sat at my desk to do my studying.

At nine, Alan returned from the library. He was probably expecting me to be in my boy clothes, which I usually wore until 10:30, then slipped into a nightie for our mutual wank, followed by my beauty sleep.

Things were looking a bit better for Alan and his prospects that evening.

I pretended not to notice Alan when he came in the room. Then, when I looked up from my book, I gave him my 10,000-watt smile. It's shocking, really, the raw, primal power of such a smile.

"Hi, Honey," I said. "How was your day?"

Alan's head snapped back. When he recovered, he wondered whether he had hit the Power Ball, Super Seven, Lotto Jackpot. I was at least THAT good.

"Hi, Jason," he said. "You look fantastic. Lovely.

Incredible."

Even though Alan was a man, I loved the praise for my beauty. I would have accepted a wildebeest's praise. But Alan was far better looking than that.

"Jason doesn't live here anymore, Alan," I said. "Patricia's your roommate now and she needs a kiss and a cuddle." It's not hard to say stuff like that, girls. Really. Try it.

Men melt.

That sounded awfully good to Alan. "Should I, you know, put my tshirt and pajamas on, like I usually do?" He wasn't really in command of the relationship yet. "Whatever you say, Alan. But kissing and cuddling are all you're getting tonight. Or any night, because.." "You're not gay. Yes. I believe you mentioned that," he said. "Then I'm going to strip to my tshirt and show you something about kissing and cuddling that you won't forget." Spine.

Alan had one.

I liked that.

Surprisingly.

He manfully strode to the door to brace a chair against the knob so we wouldn't be interrupted by our floormates. Then, true to his word, he stripped to his tshirt. Naked from the waist down. His nice-sized cock quite rampant.

The show of forcefulness stiffened mine as well. I began to feel something new about my femininity. I had just submitted, willingly submitted, to a man. It was only Alan and it was only for kissing and cuddling. But I tingled at the feeling. Alan moved over and took charge even more. He slid my peignoir off, leaving it puddled on the floor. Then, with one practiced motion, he unhooked my bra and let that slip to the floor. My nipples were exposed. To a man.

What would he do with them?!?!

No one had ever…[gasp]. The rogue was kissing me, rubbing his stiff, leaky cock against mine. Dripping. Mixing juices. That wasn't what I said we would do.

Was it?

No, but it was awfully nice.

And I'll bet my teammates weren't getting any better treatment from their "practice males" than I was getting from Alan. He certainly knew how to use his tongue on a girl's, I mean a compfem athlete's, mouth.

He was getting me very worked up and I know Alan was not an athlete like me, but it seemed that he was an excellent "ball handler."

Before we knew it, we were lying on his bed, side by side. We were kissing deeply and stroking each other's fat, swollen cocks. Alan stopped his kissing and…unnnhhhh….

He was kissing and sucking and licking my poor, tender, puffy, right nipple.

No fair.

That was still on my "gay list."

And well it should have been, because anything that felt that good had to be evil. It's the Law of the World, right? The bold assault on my right nipple ended and he transferred the attack to my left nipple!

As he was stroking my enflamed cock.

And that was the end of that lovely stiffie. My erection died a horrible death as the cream filling, which was clearly what had stiffened things, sought free space, leaving the outer shell to collapse in a sodden heap. Alan stopped his nipple torture long enough to examine the fruits of his evil deeds. He seemed fascinated by my orgasm. Delighted that he could give me such pleasure.

What a nice guy.

And a pretty good titty kisser too.

I decided that the best way to repay him would be to suck his big, hot, hard cock.

Still, I couldn't bring myself to do that. And NEVER would. The only fair thing would be to kiss him and stroke him until he spurted his own guts out.

Which I was willing, no—eager—to do.

[Stroke] [Kiss] "That was wonderful, Alan." [Stroke] [Kiss] "What a man, you are." [Stroke] [Kiss]"Do you think I'm pretty?"

Well, this story is about me!

[Stroke] [Kiss] "Show me you think I'm pretty, Alan. Cum for me. Cum for Patricia."

And he did.

Hot, hard and creamy. All over my hand and arm and his stomach.

It's really easy, girls. No experience necessary. And you can try it at home.

Alan wasn't through with me yet. The bad boy rubbed HIS cum on MY cock!! [Were we gay yet? I don't think so.] And he stroked me nicely as he kissed my neck, my ears, my eyes, my lips and then [gasp] my poor swollen titty bumps again. I couldn't be rude. After he made me cum, screaming like a girl playing dodge ball, I returned the favor. Rubbing MY hot, sticky, juices all over HIS restiffened pole—kissing him and sucking his ….. tongue. Until, bada bing—creamy time! All in all, it was a reassuring evening for me. I felt confident that I had the feminine looks and wiles I needed to not only make the team, but to put the rest of them on the bench!

Chapter Four—College life for Patricia

College students traditionally sleep late. But I didn't mind so much the next morning at seven when Alan woke me up for more kissing and friendly "tickles."

I knew that there were men who liked to stick their "things" up the bottomholes of other men, and I knew that some men sucked other men's "things." I'm not naïve, you know. If Alan had tried that sort of "funny business," I would have changed roommates and Alan would have started mainlining Prozac. Some gay lines I would not cross, especially since I hadn't done anything gay up to that point. I mean rubbing cockheads together, mixing our drippy juices as we kissed deeply and I moaned and squealed was part of my compfem training regimen. I certainly hoped that was how Alan viewed it. Even when we were gasping and shooting our sticky sperm loads all over each others' cocks, balls, stomachs and chests. The smell of cum from six combined steamy loads over the past ten hours must have been wafting into the hall. I mean, cum is not a foreign smell in a male dorm. But we had produced enough semen to float an aircraft carrier.

What the other guys in our dorm must think! Especially since "Patricia" had only revealed herself to Alan at that point.

Well, that was about to change,

Alan was reluctant to let me leave his side, but I made him femmy promises of more delights that evening. "And I have to go tinkles, Sweetie," I said coquettishly.

I put on a girlie, but concealing robe over my cum-drenched nightie, slid on my pink, four-inch-stiletto, mule slippers, grabbed my bath towel and toiletries, removed the chair barricade from the door and set off to the common, dorm bathroom down the hall.

Few were stirring in the dorm that time of day. Two actually. When they saw me, they did a classic double-take, then, like in the cartoons, their eyes just about telescoped out of their heads. Shock.

Awe.

[Giggle]

I made it to the bathroom, entered a stall and, of course, sat to tinkle. Wiped myself girlishly. Two minutes, tops. When I opened the stall door, there were 20 guys in the room. All pretending not to look at me as I washed my make-up off my face, brushed my teeth, shaved (sadly, I must), and flossed. By the time I was ready to undress for my shower, there were 30 people in a bathroom built for about 15.

Three guys were naked and showering in the four-showerhead shower.

I removed my robe to expose my nightie. Though "no one" was looking at me, I heard a collective gasp. I hung the robe up, then removed my nightie. Over my head, revealing my fiercely-stiff pink bits.

With all that male attention, you would have been stiff too, believe me.

Another gasp.

Daintily and with great pseudo-feminine dignity, I entered the shower and wet my hair, then laved it with shampoo. My eyes were closed as I worked the shampoo in. It was fun to listen to the appreciative murmurs and grunts as I showed my onlookers first my thick, girlish cock and stiff nipples, then turned to display my perfect, pink bottom. The three guys in the shower had the best view. I sneaked a look at their cocks. Stiff, of course. When I soaped my nipples, one of my shower buddies "lost his cargo." Soaping and rubbing my privates, did the second one in. When I ran my washcloth between my two plump bottomcheeks, door number three opened and flooded.

Yessir, I was feeling a lot better about convincing those compfem judges who the All-American was.

Everyone pretended to be about his business as I dried off (patting, not rubbing) then returned to my room to dress for my first class. Poor Alan. He looked so jealous when he saw me return, flushed and aroused by the experience. To reassure him (and to take care of a stiff issue of my own), I gave him one more round of "kiss and tickle," this time in my clean, unused bed, since I had just showered and didn't want to roll in cum—at least until that evening.

After we emptied our bags, I set about making myself beautiful for Patricia's first day of classes. My make-up was nuclear. My hair, while still at a boyish length, was cute and perky. I packed my package into pink panties, added a matching bra (for the full-femme experience), tan stockings with a frilly, white garter belt, a tiny, black miniskirt to show off my killer legs, and a pretty, pink top. Black, four-inch-stiletto pumps completed the ensemble.

I considered myself in the mirror. Felt my cock stir at the sight of my own beauty. Worse, saw Alan's cock stir. If I didn't leave then, it would be more tickles and missed classes. I left the room.

Herds of nonchalant men seemed to be everywhere that morning. Not one of the men I saw was chalant. No one was very ept at concealing a chalant look either. And none of them looked kempt. Men.

In the cafeteria where I ate my Special K with skim milk. All over the quad.

When I got to class, my Principles of Endophilology professor, Dr. Sodomista, seemed flappable for the first time since I had known him. He kept staring at my legs during the whole class. And so did all the men in class. And half the girls. Surprisingly, the girls' attention didn't excite me. Except for the gorgeous sex-bomb sitting directly to my left. I had sort-of noticed her since the first day of school, but I had a lot on my mind, you know? That day, she annoyed me a little, because I wasn't sure if Dr. Sodomista's attention was all on me or if he was sneaking peeks of her long, beautiful, stockinged legs and [gasp] huge rack.

The men in the class had all noticed her from day one. Today, with "Patricia" Spermer attending class, they seemed torn about where to direct the majority of their drools. I clearly didn't want to have any sort of sexual contact with Dr. Sodomista, though he was drop-dead gorgeous, had the sultriest Spanish eyes and a major lump in his trousers. Not that I noticed. I did feel heat building in me for the delicious babe behind me.

Only her. No other girls.

It was clear why. Babe-A-Licious was the only woman in class who dressed like a woman. Not counting me, of course. Stockings. Big heels. Big hair and great make-up. Tiny skirt.

Should I introduce myself?

After class, she took care of that for me. "Hello, Patricia," she said. "I'm Mary Grace Flynn. I hope to get to know you better. I don't have a class now, would you like to get a soda in my room over in the girls' dorm?" Eighteen minutes later, I had lost my skirt, top and shoes and was lying in Mary Grace Flynn's bed, kissing her and being kissed with the hunger of extended starvation. I was desperately trying to get my panties off so I could spread her legs and stick my thick cock into her sopping pussy. Which I planned to occupy soon, since she was already frantically removing her panties. But there was no pussy. Sopping or otherwise.

What there was was a lot more intriguing.

Mary Grace Flynn had a big, stiff cock. Bigger than mine.

No wonder she was so feminine.

I remember thinking that the big boobs had to be "falsies."

So my streak of being wrong remained intact. When she pulled her top over her head, I could see that everything she had was absolutely real. Hugely real. Maybe 42D. She flipped onto her stomach and, in a voice thick with lust, she said, "Unhook my bra."

I did. And out they flopped. Mammoth, but high and solid.

Big, two-inch-diameter, brown nipples.

But how?

Who cared? When she rolled back onto her back, I licked and sucked those magnificent nipples. Just as I did Tiffany Kulikowski's 34Cs. And [blush] just as Alan had been doing to my perky nipples.

Which made Mary Grace Flynn, even more sexually aroused. For a fleeting instant there, I wondered whether it was the right thing to suck the nipples of a girl with a cock. The fleeting instant fled.

"Oh, Patricia," she croaked. "That's wonderful. The best since I left home. But I need a good, hard fucking. In the nightstand drawer. The tube."

Without thinking about how that "good, hard fucking" was going to happen, or its consequences (I already told you, my cock was hard, OK?) I opened the drawer and extracted the tube of lube. My logic function had automatically gone dormant when my cock got hard, so I couldn't reason out what was expected of me. Mary Grace filled in the blanks so I could fill in her bottom. "Slather some of it on that hot, hard monster of yours, then put some on your fingers and run them inside my pussy. Then let's go before I faint from overheated lust."

Oh. By her pussy, I presumed she meant… Well, you know.

Putting my fingers into someone else's "dirty place" was new to me. Dr. Pumpmore had done that to me. Alan looked as if he desperately wanted to "finger my pootie" as well.

I had sort of enjoyed it when the Doctor had made me cum so hard I thought I was having a stroke—three times—in fifteen minutes. So maybe it was all right. Then again… Mary Grace was tired of waiting for me to ruminate… "Excuse me! Patricia! I really need your cock, Honey. But I can't take it 'dry.' Could you save your thoughts about shame and guilt for later?"

Good point. I could do the lube thing. Especially since there would be a big reward after.

Mary Grace was on her back—legs spread, knees raised. Beautiful, pink bottomhole completely exposed. Huge, delicious nipples erect and pointing at me.

Tentatively I touched the little, pink, wrinkled rosebud with my lubed middle finger.

Mary Grace gasped, then moaned softly. She was so beautiful.

And she needed me and my cock so much.

I thought about what it would be like for Alan, I mean Mary Grace, to "tickle my innards" like that. My cock stirred. Then I sort of wiggled my slick finger into the place Mary Grace called her "pussy."

It was very warm in there! And squishy. And my visit seemed to make Mary Grace very happy…if her cock's twitches were to be believed. I was starting to really get into it when she said, "If you keep that up, I'll cum all over myself." So I kept it up. And she was right. She gave out a couple of the sweetest little squeals, which I would never do, since I'm a guy. Then she got this really desperate look in her spectacular eyes, gasped loudly, then started spurting thick globs of cum all over her stomach, all the way up to her monster titties. Mary Grace was having a good day. So was I. And it was about to get better for both of us.

Mary Grace drew me to her, kissing me. Tonguing my mouth.

Rubbing bodies. Getting her spunk all over me.

"Fuck me now, Honey," she gasped.

I wasn't sure how I was supposed to do that, since the lovely mysteries of anal sex were complete strangers to me at that time. Thank goodness they were no mystery to Mary Grace. Still on her back, Mary Grace lifted her knees again. I loved being on top with my girlfriends, but the angles related to Mary Grace were challenging. I was already "in the saddle," but was unsure… Mary Grace held my stiff rammer in her delicate fingers. Wiggling her ass a bit, she positioned my peelips at the entrance to her warm place and said one word: "Push!" I did.

The head of my cock popped in, past her wrinkled defenses.

Mary Grace drew her breath in, then repeated her "suggestion."

"Push!"

I did and three inches slid in. Oh, that was VERY nice.

Warmer than a girl's pussy. With an entirely different "grip." My chest rubbed against Mary Grace's magnificent breasts. I smelled her "Obsession" perfume. Rather than await further instructions, I pushed yet again, this time seating my entire "business" in the best spot it had ever occupied. Mary Grace squealed when I was "all in" and my balls slapped against her bottomcheeks. She kissed me hard, then harder when I reached between our bodies and stroked her stiffening cock. We enjoyed a long, slow fuck. Through a mammoth effort, I was able to hold back my orgasm until Mary Grace was "on the verge" herself. When her frantic movements told me she was "there," I lowered my defenses, cried out and emptied all my creamy juices deep into Mary Grace's magnificent pussy. Midway through my cum, Mary Grace began her own "trip to the moon." Oh, the things her orgasming bottomhole did to my orgasming cock!

It's always great to make a new friend.

Drenched with cum, but sated for the moment, Mary Grace and I engaged in some pillow talk. She told me a fantastic story about her family. The Flynns, she said, were a family of girls whom the silly hospitals who delivered them said were boys. She has six older sisters: Mary Alice, Mary Beth, Mary Clare, Mary Denise, Mary Ellen and Mary Frances—all big-boobed (with hormonal help) and big-cocked like Mary Grace. She said you could read about her family at this link: http://www2.storysite.org/story/irishgirls~01.html. Mary Grace and her sister Mary Frances were actually adopted by their aunt and uncle, the Flynns, after having spent their early years as boys. You can read about that too in: http://www2.storysite.org/story/stiffresistance~01.html. But do that later, because I'm talking here. OK?

Sadly, I had to leave Mary Grace to attend my afternoon class. Sometimes those class things get in the way of a real college education, don't you think?

We kissed and hugged. I repaired my appearance as well as I could. When I was almost ready to leave, Mary Grace said, "I haven't met any nice men here yet, but I'd still like to spend time with you, even when I'm dating. Have you found a boyfriend here yet?"

I guess I looked flustered or something. Whatever look I gave Mary Grace told her everything she needed for a wild surmise. "Oh. You don't date men, do you? That's why you were hesitating at the 'critical moment' with me. Am I right?"

I blushed.

"Oh, Honey," she went on. "I'm sorry to come on like such a little tramp. I'll bet you've never even been with a girl like me…or yourself, have you."

"No," I admitted meekly. Why was I ashamed of that?

Mary Grace gave me a sweet embrace.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry if I did something you'll feel guilty about. But a beautiful flower like you is too spectacular to keep from the entire world. Why should women have you all to themselves? They certainly don't deserve you. Look for love and sex wherever you want to look. I prefer men… always have…though I love the comfort of pretty 'pantyboys' like you. Not all of us 'girls' are that way, though. You'll have to find your own path." She gave me a sweet kiss and sent me on my way. There was a lot to think about. Like why did she call me a "pantyboy?" I was an athlete, not some sissy pansy. Though being a sissy pansy seemed to be quite a lot of fun. I was so distracted in my afternoon class that I almost didn't notice all the male attention I got from my classmates and the instructor, Mr. Penilingus. Well, I did notice, but I didn't enjoy it. No, that's not right either. I did enjoy it, but I was thinking about other things besides how beautiful I was. I kept thinking about Mary Grace Flynn and how "settled" she was in the world of lifelong femininity. She had admitted…openly…that she was gay, which was always sad to me. She had just decided to surrender to all the wrong "urges." She had "mutilated" her male body with those huge breasts. No going back on that. She was living in the girls' dorm. Pretending she was a girl, and not even as an athletic endeavor. Still. She seemed happy.

And that was something.

Plus, she was a magnificent fuck.

Which not many people can lay claim to.

I grabbed an apple and a small salad with lemon for dinner and took it back to my room to think.

Alan wasn't there yet. We had sort of agreed that each evening he would hit the library until nine p.m. or so, or we would be "relieving our tensions" so much that we would both flunk out of school.

I studied for my next-day classes as I ate my meal. Then, around seven, I went into my room-size walk-in closet. Did I mention that each compfem athlete living in the dorm had a huge closet for her "things?" Daddy had bought me so many wonderful "things" that they barely fit in the 12x14-foot closet room. I knew just what I wanted.

It was in my lingerie chest.

The tiniest, sheerest, pink babydoll nightie, with matching panties.

I stripped off everything, including my stockings, then put the wispy thing on, omitting the panties. I slipped my painted toes into a pair of pink, five-inch stiletto mule sandals. Then I went to my favorite place in the dorm room (except for Alan's bed). My full-length mirror.

Looked at myself.

Not bad.

I mussed my hair a bit. For the "bedroom" look. My babydoll was so short that I could see my entire peeny and "pink purse."

Of course, looking at myself made my poor peeny stiff as a fine for littering in an operating room.

All those men were right. I was pure sex in skyscraper heels.

I was no Mary Grace, though.

I lifted my nightie and exposed my nipples to the mirror's evaluation.

They were lovely nipples. Reddish-brown. Perky.

But they were not titties.

Not that I wanted titties.

Couldn't have them either.

No "juicing" allowed in compfem. No hormones. No implants.

Rules were rules.

[Sigh]

Titties on someone like me would be incredibly terrific. The investors who are said to be putting together a pro league for compfem have been talking about allowing all sorts of things—hormones—implants—all kinds of surgery, except for the "big operation."

Not sure if I thought that was a good idea. Still, I would look awfully good with titties like Mary Grace's, I thought.

I got on my bed on all fours, turning around to examine my bare bottom in the mirror.

Now that was a beautiful sight.

Every bit as nice as Mary Grace's.

A real bubble butt.

Plump, pink cheeks.

I spread the cheeks a bit. Took a peek of my anus. That was sweet-looking too. Like Mary Grace's, though I hadn't seen hers from that angle. I looked more closely. My girlish butt had a long, loose bag of balls hanging down beneath it. That could be a real turnoff to a lot of "thrill seekers." Not that I was running an amusement park for men.

No way.

But it was fun to see the world as someone like Mary Grace saw it.

Couldn't see my cock from that angle, since it was hard as iron against my belly. My "pussy" looked so impossibly tight. How had Mary Grace managed to take my whole "big weapon" into her tiny pootie?

She seemed to do it so easily. And enjoy it so much.

Was it that much fun?

Well, I had certainly enjoyed it when Dr. Pumpmore made his little fishing expedition into my heinie. I wondered if maybe I should let Alan…well…just to see….

And just at that moment, Alan came in the door of our room.

Well, that was embarrassing.

I wasn't planning on letting Alan see me in that nightie just yet. Maybe in April or May. Or on his birthday. Like all the things that Daddy bought for me, he had had me model it for him. Poor Daddy's ears were on fire when he saw me in that pink nightie. He had to excuse himself from that night's fashion show and "take care of himself."

Alan's reaction to the pink nightie was similar to Daddy's.

But he didn't walk away.

He dropped his pants is what he did. Then he removed his shirt, shoes and socks. That made him naked. Did I mention that Alan looked pretty good naked? No movie star looks. Cock not huge. But pretty buff body. Kind of cute. And a nice guy. With a very stiff cock. And steam emitting from his nostrils. He barely had the presence of mind to wedge a chair to secure the door. But that only distracted him for a moment. Fear rippled through my body, which only made me cock and nipples harder. Was he going to FUCK me?!?! I didn't want that. I was saving myself from that. That was total emasculation and I wanted to be truly, fully male again someday. After college. Soon after. For sure. Maybe. Alan was advancing toward me. Cock at the ready. If I screamed, would my dormmates break down the door to save me? Maybe they would see me in the pink nightie and be so aroused that they would "gang-bang" me!!!!!

Alan was getting closer.

What was I to do?

It wasn't always easy being a fabulously beautiful, compfem athlete.

I drew in my breath to scream, but all that I could muster was a submissive whimper.

It's true, girls. I surrendered.

Not completely. But the white flag was definitely out of its case and being unfurled.

I wondered vaguely if Alan's big cock would hurt when he shoved it into my gorgeous ass.

But Alan was still full of surprises.

He didn't stick his big, wet cock into my red-hot pootie. He got on his knees, grabbed my hips, and stuck his big, wet tongue into my red-hot pootie.

His tongue!

My virtue was safe. For at least a few more minutes. Well, not completely safe. Having a man's tongue in your butt is a bit disconcerting to someone who has pledged him/herself to lifelong heterosexuality. But it was darned thrilling too. Fabulously thrilling.

Spectacular.

Alan was French-kissing my bottomhole. He was kissing it and tonguing it the same way he kissed and tongued my mouth. And it was delicious. I felt adored and worshipped, that anyone would do something that dirty for and to me. And it felt better than anything I had ever felt.

I was on fire with lust.

Alan kept it up. I wanted to tell him that he couldn't get to China digging in that direction, but it was very loud in the room, what with all the squealing and moaning. Where was that coming from? Oops. That was me.

I think I would have orgasmed even without him touching my peener, but when he reached around and gave the head a nice, sweet skinning as he "ate me," I found that scream I couldn't muster before, as well as about half a gallon of cum that I blew out in seven thick spurts.

I saw the gates of Heaven on that one, girls.

But damnation was fast approaching!

While my tortured cock was drooling out the last few drops of a mammoth ball drainer, Alan was gathering his resources for an attack on not only my loosened, sopping bottomhole, but on my fundamental heterosexual virtue.

He was going to FUCK me and the thousand or so guys who were surely outside my door in response to my dick-stiffening screams of ecstasy would hear it all!

There was only one way to save my heterosexuality and virginity, girls. I had to suck Alan's cock and let him cum in my face and down my throat.

You've gotta break eggs to make an omelet. Moving as nimbly as someone who was freshly wanked and analingused could move, I fell to my knees in front of the advancing Alan. I cupped his balls in my left hand, held the base of his cock in my right hand, and began to place soft, feather kisses on the exposed, almost-purple head of his rampant masculinity.

He liked that.

A lot.

It sort of distracted him too. Made him keep his mind on what I was doing, rather than his horrible, gay plans to ravage my poor, defenseless pussy.

He seemed nice and calm and happy that I was on my knees at his feet, licking the drool from his peelips as it seeped out. There was a lot of that creamy stuff. It wasn't tasty or anything, but it didn't taste bad. And it was a miniscule price to pay to avoid gayness.

I gave his balls a nice stir as I took the whole, mushroom knob into my mouth and gave it a proper licking. The way Tiffany Kulikowski and Heather LaBuste used to do for me in high school. I licked Alan the way I liked to be licked. Which seemed to suit him just fine. The Golden Rule, well-applied. [Blush] The whole cocksucking experience was quite pleasant. For both of us. Alan, just like a man, seemed to be very pleased with himself that he had "conquered" the best looking "girl" at STU. Little did he know that I, having protected my masculinity, was the real victor. He wouldn't be FUCKING me. No way! Alan's breathing picked up and I knew he was near the chasm we all love to throw ourselves into. I could have pulled away. Sent him off to "finish" himself. But I was bigger than that. Alan had respected my needs. I respected his. I continued to suck his enflamed, swollen cock until, with a mighty roar (for the guys listening outside, I guessed), he began pumping creamy cum into my mouth. I tried to swallow it—to avoid a mess, you know—but there was too much. It flowed out of both sides of my mouth, down my chin, drenching my pretty, pink nightie. And that was how I avoided being gay for yet another proud day of my life.

Chapter Five—Team spirit

Alan and I enjoyed "similar pleasures" the rest of that lovely evening. His fingers spent hours in my bottomhole as he kissed me and massaged my tender prostate. He almost killed me with pleasure until we fell asleep from exhaustion.

No time for tickles when we awoke. Had to get to "spa day," which would be my first real opportunity to interact with my compfem teammates and their first real introduction to "Patricia." Well, I did suck Alan's cock once that morning. But only once. On my knees, of course. And he spermed all over my face. For the fifth time in the past 12 hours.

Just to tease the boys on the floor, I wore the cum-soaked pink nightie and showed my "frosty face" all the way down the hall to the bathroom for my shower. By exposing my sperm-free bottom, I wanted people to know that I had not been fucked—I had willpower and my masculinity was intact.

It was Saturday morning of Labor Day weekend, so it was still OK to wear a pretty summer dress. With strappy, white sandals and tan stockings. I wore big, hoopy, gold earrings, which were a little trampy, I know. My make-up was killer and I just dared those jokers on the team to try any tricks on me that day. Looking spectacular, I entered the compfem fieldhouse through the main rotunda. My teammates were almost all present. From the collective gasp when they saw me, I presumed that I was no longer to be thought of as the boyish ugly duckling. All this without the benefit of long, flowing hair, which my teammates all had. I had chopped it off over the summer in an effort to "go butch" before my college compfem career began. Some have told me that my boyish hair on an otherwise feminine masterpiece made me even more "dick-stiffening." I chatted with my teammates a bit, especially Victoria and Kimmie, my fellow freshmen. Victoria was a redhead and Kimmie was a blonde, of course. With a name like that, what else would she be? They were both beautiful and deliciously feminine. Not in my league, of course, but very pretty. Despite my "hard work" of the previous evening (and morning), I felt a certain stiffness in their presence. I hadn't been attracted to other pretty boys before. Was it that darned Mary Grace Flynn's influence? I wondered briefly how and what Mary Grace was doing at that moment. Was someone like Dr. Sodomista dumping a big load of manly cream into her beautiful bottom?

The thought made me envious. But of whom? Dr. Sodomista or [gasp] Mary Grace?

[Sigh] It was getting so difficult to sort out my feelings. At that moment, I could feel something very nice. Samantha Suckwell, All-American and Huffman Trophy winner, was holding my hand, saying something about being my "big sister." I loved the look of envy on the faces of Kimmie and Victoria as Samantha said, "I want to be your senior 'big sister' so badly. Please say yes!"

The compfem star of all stars was entreating me! Little old me!

I don't do humble very well, but I tried, accepting as graciously and unassumingly as I was able. Casting a sly look at Kimmie and Victoria to wallow in their envy, just a bit. Samantha clapped her hands and gave me a big kiss. Right on the lips. With a hint of tongue.

Oh, my.

There was that stiff feeling again.

She broke the kiss and said, "Kimmie and Victoria, your big sisters, my fellow seniors Mitzi and Lulu, will be over in a moment. I just can't wait to show Patricia her locker. We have a little over an hour until the 'icebreaker.' Will you excuse us?" The disappointed girls nodded.

Samantha grabbed my hand and off we clacked in our big heels. I wondered what the "icebreaker" was as I half-listened to Samantha chatter on about how wonderful STU was. Then she led me into a door that said, "Stocking Boys Lockers: Authorized Persons, Platinum Roosters and Invited Guests Only." "Roosters?"

"Platinum Rosters?"

I followed Samantha, wondering what the big deal was about seeing some old room full of metal lockers when… Shazam! Shazam.

Shazam.

It was a suite. Make that a series of suites. Each with the name of a compfem athlete in gold letters on a door. My door was all the way down the hall. A long hall. What was all this?

Samantha was eager to show me.

She opened the door of my "locker" and I beheld…girlish paradise.

A huge room with a bigger closet, which was filled with yards of magnificent, girlie things. A spectacular vanity table with oodles of mirrors and all my favorite feminine beauty aids. A mammoth bathroom, with sunken tub and double shower. And [blush] a king-size bed, made up in fluffy pink bedclothes. I did what any girl would do. I cried.

Samantha was crying too. "It's all yours, Sweetheart," she said as she held me in my arms. "You can dress there for the practices and games. But you can wear anything that's in there anytime and anywhere you want. And, of course, you can 'entertain' there anytime you want too."

Entertain?

Oh.

"You could even move in here if you want, but that's a bad idea. You need to stay connected to campus for the true college experience. Do you like it?"

I began to sob again. Samantha held me until I stopped.

Then I was curious.

"Where did all this come from? How was it paid for?" "Good questions," she said. "NCCFA rules are quite a bit different than those silly rules that govern football players, basketball players and such. Those poor schlumps can't even take a cup of coffee from a 'booster,' also known as a "friend of the program.' In compfem, our boosters, whom we call 'roosters,' since they're so 'cocky,' finance everything. They buy us our clothes and many lovely, expensive gifts. They're sweet, rich older men with real college spirit. Sometimes they're alumni, but usually they're just compfem fans."

I processed all that. And came up with a question. "But why would they do all that? What would they expect in return?" In response, Samantha gave me a very coquettish smile.

Oh.

That.

Well, they were very generous. And maybe I could do a little for them. Just a little.

"We all answer that question in our own way, Patricia," Samantha said. "I can say that I've shown a lot of 'school spirit' over my compfem career and I'm sure you will too. Let me ask—have you 'been with' a man yet?"

I blushed fiercely. That was a very personal question. But I answered—obliquely.

"Sort of," I said.

"Sort of. Have you ever rubbed a man's cock until he spurted?"

[Blush] "Yes."

"Did a man, other than that old lecher, Dr. Pumpmore, put his fingers into your pussy and rub your prostate until you spermed?" I looked away as I blushed redder than ever. But I admitted it.

"Did you take a man's cock into your mouth and lick it until he spermed all over you?"

It was a torturous interrogation, but I admitted to that too.

Samantha smiled and said, "Did you enjoy all that?" I looked down. Unable to meet her gaze, I mumbled, almost inaudibly, "Yes."

"Honesty is a beautiful thing, Patricia," she said. "And it should be rewarded. Before I do that, let me ask the last question."

Before she did, I blurted out, "No one has put his thing in my bottom yet. I mean he won't ever. I'm not gay!!" "None of us are, Darling," Samantha said as she slid to her knees. "We're all girls, so we love men. Everything about them. Especially when they put their fat, swollen cocks into our tiny pussies. Oh my. That sort of talk has enraged your 'panty snake.' I'd better kiss him before he spits."

She lifted my skirts and eased my panties down to mid-thigh. She began kissing the head of my enflamed cock. With those lovely "red-pillow" lips of hers. Then she applied soft little licks on the tenderest, most sensitive parts. I moaned. I had cum a bijillion times or so during my thus-far college career, but I hadn't had my cock sucked in weeks. Not since Laura Lovecock had lifted my skirt and pulled my panties down at my high school graduation party.

Samantha Suckwell was a far better cocksucker. Since I had cum so often in the past 24 hours, Samantha was able to make it last. After about 20 delicious minutes, I was going to cum in her mouth, but there was no hurry. That made it all sweeter.

Until she stopped.

Bummer.

Samantha stood up, removed her own panties, got onto her back on my nice, new, king-sized bed, then lifted first her skirt, then her knees.

What a wonderful sight!

A perfect ass, with a bottomhole that promised the delights of paradise. A tiny peeny, maybe three inches if one were being generous. Very stiff. Dripping goo. Lovely, swollen, pink ballbag hanging low.

I was a bit unsure how to proceed until she said. "I lubed up back there already, Patricia. Just go ahead and have your way with me."

Again, an incredible boy-girl wanted me to "be the man" in her perfect bottom. Well, "being the man" doesn't mean taking orders from the girl, so I changed things up a bit. I got on my knees, leaned over and took the All-American, Huffman Trophy-winning cock into my mouth and applied everything I had learned while ingesting Alan Busyfinger's creamy spendings.

Whoopy-do. She liked that. I licked and kissed and sucked, stopping occasionally to tell her how beautiful she was and how gloriously I was going to fuck her once she sploogeed her gooies into my mouth.

Then, just to leave nothing to chance, I stuck three manicured fingers into her boyish pussy, found her prostate and, sucking away on her cock, proceeded to drive her half-mad with lust. Samantha Suckwell screamed in a perfect soprano when she came in my mouth. Her bottomhole clamped so hard on my fingers that I was concerned with their amputation.

I was pretty proud of myself, but the best was yet to cum. Extricating my poop-stained, lubed fingers from her bottom, I climbed on top of our STU team captain and pushed my entire cock into her with one swift, merciless motion. Samantha gasped loudly and tried to sit up. I held her down and fucked her, with a slow, steady motion. As we fucked, I leaned over and kissed her with my cum-filled mouth. When I felt my "best friend" approaching, we picked up speed. Samantha was a noisy fuck. I like that. She didn't even get hard, but right before I filled her bottom with a half-gallon of Grade-A, she squealed and her limp cock drooled out a pretty nice load of girlish cream all over herself and me.

My own orgasm was stupefying.

College was so much fun.

And I hadn't even been to a kegger yet, though I had already expended a kegful of cum.

We kissed and hugged and I thought about a round two until Samantha said, "Oh, you're going to be a great addition to this team. And a really good friend of mine. Really good. We have to go to the icebreaker. Can't be late. But I definitely want to see what else you can do in the near future." I remember thinking that we would have to change our clothes before we rejoined the team. Couldn't show up with cum all over us, could we? So I wasn't surprised when Samantha stripped naked and asked me to do the same. But when both of us were naked except for our earrings, she grabbed my hand and said, "OK, let's go." Naked?

Which, by the way, looked awfully good on Samantha. And on me.

But, naked?

"At the icebreaker, we begin with essentials. Kind of like Coach Lombardi beginning practice by saying, 'Gentlemen, this is a football.' It's a tradition with Coach Francie." An odd tradition.

Samantha led me to a large room with tile floors, ten naked teammates and one naked coach. Hey, no fair. Coach Francie had titties. Nice ones. I wanted titties. Temporarily, of course. I would get rid of them when I graduated, resuming the manly life.

Since Francie wasn't a competitor, she could have big titties. We couldn't. Still, that was an amazing potpourri of naked, feminine pulchritude I saw before me.

Kimmie, Victoria and I were the shy ones. Everyone else seemed comfortable in her skin. I decided not to be uncomfortable anymore, especially since a cursory inspection revealed that I clearly had the biggest cock on the team. All being present, Coach Francie spoke. "Welcome, Ladies. I like to start each season with a little icebreaker to build teamwork and break down barriers. Just two lovely hours when we all get to know each other at the basic level. On that table, there's a bottle of baby oil for each girl. We'll hit the showers at 1 p.m., then have a light lunch, followed by spa activities. Enjoy."

Huh? Baby oil?

A pretty, blonde sophomore named Lisa already had her bottle and was handing me one. "May I rub you, Patricia?" she asked sweetly.

That sounded like a really good idea. I guessed I could rub Lisa a bit too, since everyone had a bottle and everyone seemed to be rubbing everyone very nicely. Even Coach Francie was getting a nice oil rub from a junior named Melinda and a sophomore named Nancy.

Oooh. The baby oil was warm, girls.

Warm oil being applied to my shoulders by a warm girl.

I could feel ice melting all over the room. Lisa stepped behind me, held the bottle at the nape of my neck and drizzled it slowly down my back. I could actually feel the trail of slick juice running down, all the way to the crack of my bottomcheeks.

Lisa eased some oil into her right hand, then gently spread it all over my back. I groaned softly at the intense sensuality of it all. Then she upped the ante. Lisa attached the front of her torso to the back of mine. Rubbing oily skin to oily skin. Reaching around and rubbing oily fingers on my chest and then [gasp] each puffy nipple.

I gasped.

And somehow, erected, yet again.

I turned around to face Lisa. She was mega-cute. And quite aroused herself. I think she had the second-biggest cock on the team. And its eye was looking right at me. I oiled up my own hands and, as we rubbed the fronts of our torsos, I ran my oily hands on Lisa's back, then along the cheeks of her perfect bottom. We kissed. Deeply. Licking tongues desperately. I entered Lisa's anus with two oily fingers and she reciprocated with mine. Cocks rubbing. Kissing. Rubbing. I could feel school spirit surging through me. And cum from my balls and Lisa's all over us both.

Over the next two hours, I met and bonded with Kimmie, Victoria, Mitzi and even Coach Francie. Her titties were so sensitive that she spurted her gooies just from me rubbing them as we kissed.

Great idea for an icebreaker, Coach.

After two hours, my balls were completely dry and they felt as if they had been whipped with a stick.

But I was happy.

And I decided that maybe I shouldn't worry too much about being "gay."

We showered chastely, since everyone was "fucked out." Then put on fluffy robes and sat down to lunch. Everyone was in a friendly, chatty mood. And the chatting told me some interesting things.

Kimmie asked me, "How do you like your roommate?"

Warily, I said, "Very much. Do you like yours?" "Oh, yes," Kimmie said. "He's dreamy. And his Daddy is a rich rooster."

Wow, I thought. What a coincidence that a compfem athlete would room with a rooster's son.

Wasn't it a coincidence?

I asked Kimmie in a voice loud enough for several teammates to hear, "My roommate is Alan Busyfinger and he's very nice. He's from Sperm Hole, Wyoming."

Senior Mitzi perked up at that. "Oh, Patricia. You hit the jackpot. Alan's daddy is Byron Busyfinger. He's a billionaire oilman and a huge rooster. He just gave $20 million to Saint Travestia's and they're re-naming the Compfem Fieldhouse, Busyfinger Hall."

So…I thought. It wasn't a coincidence that Alan was my roommate. It was a favor to his daddy. Rich daddy. So…I thought. Alan was not only cute and loving, but his daddy was a billionaire.

Gosh. That made him even more attractive.

Hmmm.

I pondered that as we went through three-hours of manicures, pedicures, massages, facials (the cum-free kind) and lovely pampering.

At 6 p.m., we were all beautifully made up and dressed for a Saturday evening. I had to wear one of the dresses from my "locker," a pretty little yellow number with big white polka dots. My teammates and I air-kissed goodbye, protecting our make-up. Then we left Busyfinger Hall. I sighed. My eleven teammates all had dates waiting. And I had my heterosexual values. Was it worth it?

I thought about that as I stepped outside. A bit dejected.

Until..

There was Alan. In an expensive business suit. With a big, expensive bouquet.

For me.

And I felt incredibly special. And loved.

Because of Alan.

That was so sweet. And so good for me. And very good for Alan.

I knew what I must do that evening. Submit fully to a man's passionate lust. Lie back and let him have his complete way with me. Be totally and fully fucked!

Chapter Six—Alan's Lucky Night…and Mine.

A girl is defenseless when a man is thoughtful. It's so rare and so special that we usually just drop our drawers and surrender. Alan was extremely thoughtful that evening—meeting me at the "stage door," when I would have been the only Stocking Boy without a male admirer.

So it was inevitable that I was going to offer my pussy to his cock that evening. For his complete pleasure. And mine. I was going to surrender completely—a whimpering, helpless little girl at her man's sexual mercy.

My exhausted cock stiffened at the thought.

But first, dinner and some proprieties.

I gave Alan a killer smile, then a big, tonguey kiss. I giggled and gushed and girlied all over him. He had rented a car that evening and took me to the best restaurant in town—Le Chat Heureuse. All the men in the place were eying me or flirting with me, which was great for my ego and the greatest aphrodisiac in the world.

By nine p.m., my tortured balls seemed rested enough for a resumption of "activities," so I suggested to Alan that I show him my "locker."

He liked that suggestion.

"Check, please," he shouted, and we were on our way back to Busyfinger Hall for an evening of anal bliss. We didn't say much during the ten-minute ride, though I did have Alan's cock out of his pants and was daintily stroking it. I monitored his breathing, because I didn't want him cumming in the car and wasting a big load of cream that belonged rightfully in my pantied bottom.

We were both in a high state of excitement when I placed my palm on the access code box to gain entrance to my locker suite. I'm sure Alan was impressed with the room's décor, but all he seemed interested in was my pussy [giggle]. We were kissing frantically and I thought he was going to fuck me standing up, without even removing my pretty dress. But he cooled off enough just to unzip me and strip me down to my stockings, garter belt and big heels.

Oh, he was an animal, girls. A primal beast taking what he wanted by FORCE!

It was wonderful!!!!!!!!

Lifting me with a hand on each of my bottomcheeks and kissing me as if he were feeding on a caribou carcass, Alan carried me to the bed and laid me on my back.

There I was. Helpless. Cornered. Looking at a man in full arousal, his stiff, drooling cockeye staring at me greedily. In my girliest little voice I asked, "Oh, sir! What are you going to do? Are you going to FUCK me?"

Alan replied, "Until my balls are dry. Then we'll rest a bit and go again until I get calluses on my prick." Oh.

That settled that.

Since my deflowering was now inevitable, I decided to relax and enjoy it. Really enjoy it.

Once the issue of lubrication was settled.

Even I knew about lubricate, dilate, penetrate.

I hoped Alan did.

Alan strode over to the nightstand to search for what he needed. But surely my locker room couldn't be that well equipped. No one would have thought to put….

Alan reached into the nightstand drawer and withdrew six different kinds of lubrication, four of which had handy application devices.

Well, Samantha did say that the room was to be used for "entertaining."

And I was about to be entertained.

Alan selected a lube called "Pantyboy's Best Friend." It had a semi-stiff applicator tube the size of a thick finger. He checked the directions, then returned to the pleasant task at hand.

"I'm going to fuck you on your back, the way a woman is fucked. You'll be trapped and helpless. And when I cum inside you, you'll be my girl. I'll fuck you so much that I'll get you pregnant." That would stop the presses, I thought. But it was good that my young man had goals.

I lifted my knees to give him full access to my pussy. Alan gently eased the slippery applicator tube inside my love hole. He stifled my gasps with sweet kisses, squeezing the tube and injecting me with soothing balm. The applicator lubricated as it dilated.

All that was left was penetration.

Oooh.

After several sweet moments of kissing and dilating, I thought he would be replacing that little device with something bigger, hotter and harder.

But not quite yet.

Alan had one more surprise for me before he fucked me.

He stopped kissing my mouth and began kissing my cock!

He hadn't done that before.

Was he supposed to do that? As he removed the applicator and replaced it with two naughty, lubed fingers? Well, I was not complaining!

It was incredible. The man could suck cock.

Had he done that to anyone before?

I think about things way too much, don't you think?

I decided to just enjoy the moment.

Which was not difficult. Since his prostate massage as he sucked my cock was so intense that my eyes watered. I felt the naughty feeling. Then the very naughty feeling. Then the extra naughty feeling, spurting goo I didn't think I would ever produce again after the afternoon's "icebreaker." I was having a way better time than I did at the icebreaker. Alan swallowed my stocking boy's cream, smacked his lips with delight, then moved on to the main event. My poor cock was limp and my balls ached as Alan covered my little, girlish body with his big, manly form. I moved my stockinged knees up as high as I could get them, abetting my "attacker" as much as I could.

Alan's cock was bigger than I had ever seen it. I would have given it some licks and kisses if he wanted, but he was on a mission.

I felt the head of his hot mushroom pressing on my tight hole.

Maybe this wasn't a good idea!

More pressure and a slight twinge of pain. I whimpered a bit. "I'll give you a moment to get used to it," Alan said. "But then I'm going in."

Men are beasts!! All they want is to stick their cocks in our pussies.

Isn't it wonderful?

True to his word, I got used to it. Then he went in.

The whole head.

Ouch.

It hurt a bit. What I mostly felt was pressure. And emasculation. And a tiny built of shame and guilt. But I still DESPERATELY wanted to be fucked.

And Alan was DESPERATE to oblige.

I wiggled a little to help Alan ease it in me. This was taking too long. "Just shove it all in, Honey," I said. "I want it. I need it."

That's all even the most polite and sensitive man needs to hear.

Alan pushed. And his whole cock went into my pussy. It hurt. I screamed. And threw my arms around Alan. Kissing him so he wouldn't think I wanted him to stop. Alan gave me a moment to get used to his fat cock. It was so big and hot and hard! Then he began a proper fucking motion. Unhhhh.

The pressure on my prostate was exquisite. The feeling of adoration from my man was even better.

My masculine spirit left my body. Never to return.

Good riddance.

I really enjoyed watching Alan enjoy fucking me. He was in

heaven. And very intent on his own orgasm. I had just cum in his

mouth and the pain of insertion kept me from getting a stiffie. So

I wouldn't be…

Oh my.

Was that what I thought it was?

But my peeny wasn't even vaguely stiff.

It was all that rubbing in there. His cock on my sore, tender prostate. And all the girlish feelings.

I was going to cum again. Long and hard. No spurts. Just a long, excruciating drool of watery cum. But tsunami-like in intensity.

I squealed like the helpless little girl I was that night.

And clamped my anus on poor Alan's erect cock as I orgasmed. Alan had to wait until I finished until he could make his own "night deposit." He waited. Kissing me and telling me how beautiful I am as I endured my sweet agony. Then he pursued his own.

Alan picked up his pace, pistoning his cock in and out of my special place. I felt his balls slap against me on each thrust. It wouldn't be long.

And then he came. Closed his eyes. Pumped his sperm into me. Making me pregnant? I didn't think so. But you couldn't fault him for trying.

It was a very messy cum. And I felt as if I had to poop. Or at least fart. But we were both spared either indelicacy. Now the book says that after you fuck, you're supposed to withdraw the cock, restiffen and try again later. Alan hadn't read the book.

He was still half-stiff after he orgasmed. He stayed right where he was, rubbing and pushing until he was stiff again. Then he fucked me for another glorious 20 minutes. We both climaxed again, grunting and gasping and squealing. Then exhaustion.

Delicious exhaustion.

And soreness.

Delicious soreness.

In my balls—a dull ache. A pleasant ache.

In my bottom. Sort of the vestiges of pain. Not real pain. Just a reminder that there had been pain. Even though it was long gone and overwhelmed by intense pleasure. Alan's cock slipped out of my bottom.

I felt empty.

It seems I liked having a man's cock in my bottom. Which is a succinct, accurate description of my life's goals from that moment on.

Alan was lying on his back, breathing heavily. I turned over on my stomach and wiggled my bottom, thinking Alan might take that as a sign that he should regain his stiffie and "plug me up" again. Not that I was a little sissy tramp or anything.

I just thought that we had momentum and should go with it.

But Alan just kept breathing loudly. Was he…?

He was. Asleep!!!

Typical insensitive male.

Empties his balls in a girl's bottom…twice…then takes a break. No thought of what the girl, who has only had three screaming, debilitating orgasms still needs.

Well.

I guess I couldn't fault Alan. All men are like him. My intensive research since that wonderful night has confirmed that hypothesis.

Still, I decided to move the agenda along, rather than just wait for Alan to wake up and decide if he felt like fucking me again.

I arose from Alan's crypt and headed for the huge bathroom. Sat to pee. Oh my. A whole bunch of that gooey man stuff oozed from my poor, ravaged bottom. I felt so naughty as I "pooped" as much of it out as I could. I removed my big heels, cum-stained stockings and cum-stained garter belt. Gave myself a nice sponge bath all over, especially my pussy.

Then I washed off all my make-up and [blush] closely and carefully shaved my face. The last thing I wanted was for my lover to awaken, lean over to kiss me in preparation to fuck me, and encounter stubble. I applied fresh make-up, as slutty as I could get on the eyes. Fixed my hair. Then sissied into the closet to pick a nightie.

All colors and all styles of nighties, though they were all so short that they didn't even cover my "pink things." Hmmm. White? No. Too late for that. Black? Too obvious and too "needy for a fuck."

Red. A nice one. Sheer and girlie. It said "fuck me" without using uppercase letters.

I slid into it. Looked at myself. Got a self-admiration stiffie. And went back to bed. Checked the clock. 10:06. I covered a lightly-snoring Alan and me with a cum-spattered sheet, cuddled up next to him and went to sleep. Until 1:17.

When I was awakened by the oddest sensation. My pretty, red-lacquered toes were being kissed, licked and sucked.

That was so intimate. And so adoring.

Maybe Alan really loved me?!?!?!

Did I love him?

Well, every time I looked at him my cock got hard. That's a pretty good working definition of love, I guess. Oh the toesie adoration!

So subtle. So loving.

And it produced a lovely new stiffie for me. Which Alan began to stroke as he switched from my left foot to my right.

He skinned my mushroom so nicely as he sucked my toes that I creamed all over his hand.

Then he really got oral.

He licked up all the cum from my naughty discharge. Then he sucked my balls until I got all stiff and drippy again. Then he flipped me over on my stomach, spread my bottom cheeks with his thumbs and ate my pussy until I began to ejaculate helplessly once again.

The bed was getting awfully messy and Alan was about to litter on it a bit more.

Grabbing me by both hips, he hitched me up a notch, covered my body with his and entered my anus with one smooth, delightful stroke.

No pain that time. Or the next two times over the next eight magnificent hours that he entered and fucked me within an inch of my girlish life.

Must have been the red nightie.

Chapter Seven—Fall Practice

If I had to choose a word to describe my life in the weeks after I lost my "virginity," it would be "busy." I had pretty much adopted a new look on life. I wasn't worried about that gay thing anymore. And I had rid myself of the delusion that I would be going back to life as a male after my college compfem career.

And that's why I was so busy.

Alan and I clearly had a good thing going. We fucked at least twice a day. OK three times. Sometimes at my locker. Sometimes in our dorm room. And we definitely had strong feelings for each other. Which you would have to say is normal for people who were fucking three times every day.

But I had other "responsibilities."

Alan, having been raised in a compfem-rooster family understood my responsibilities. Sort of.

Some of my responsibilities were easy for anyone to understand.

I had schoolwork to do—classes, studying, papers.

I had family obligations, since Daddy loved when I called him. Though he hadn't been available on weekends at all. And Coach Francie seemed to be gone every weekend too. Hmmmm.

I had team obligations. Practices three times a week, with the intrasquad scrimmage coming up that Saturday night. I had obligations to the new friends I made at college. Well, one in particular. Mary Grace Flynn, who couldn't seem to get enough of my cock.

I didn't talk to Alan about Mary Grace and the "naughty stuff" we got together for three or four times a week. And I didn't tell him about the "very naughty stuff" my teammates and I did every chance we got—Oh, that Samantha Suckwell! And Kimmie! And Victoria!

But I don't think he would have minded if I told him about my "girlfriends."

What would have bothered him would have been the responsibilities I had to our dear old Saint Travestia's University and its Platinum Roosters.

To become a Platinum Rooster, you had to give the University at least $5 million a year—every year.

That's a lot.

But you get value for your money. Premier seating for all of STU's compfem home games. An annual luncheon with the school president. Featured mention in the compfem program and media guide.

Good stuff.

And, oh yeah. You get to fuck the members of the compfem team until your balls dry up.

No one ever looked me in the eye and said, "Patricia, Joe Randyrichguy will be dropping by today to fuck you. Take care of him will you?"

But we all understood what our responsibilities were. Though I never really figured that out until after I put aside manly things that night with Alan.

Those were the responsibilities that I knew would upset Alan.

Though they excited the heck out of me.

Older men. RICH older men.

[shudder]

There were only nine Platinum Roosters that year. I had seen their pictures and they were all handsome, powerful, older men. It was only a matter of time until one would request his seigneurial rights of me. And I knew what I would do. Give it up. Eagerly.

I was turning into such a little tramp.

The Tuesday before the intrasquad game, there was no practice, but Coach Francie called me to ask if I could "do something for STU?"

Trembling, I asked what.

"Jean-Pierre L'Hunque [pronounced Lunk], the French movie star, is the Platinum Rooster who bought all the things in your locker. He's dying to meet you. Can you have dinner and go dancing with him tonight?"

I had an endophilology midterm the next day and a paper due.

"Of course," I said, eagerly.

"Great," Francie said. "Wear an evening gown and meet him at Le Chat Heureuse at seven. He likes red." So does Alan, I thought.

Jean-Pierre L'Hunque was the most gorgeous fifty-year-old man on earth. And he wanted me!!

Jean-Pierre's female admirers, who called themselves L'Hunqueheads, were legion. And he wanted me!! I had seen all of his movies. Not that I ever was gay or anything. I just liked seeing a sensitive, beautifully handsome, male movie star who never seemed to be in possession of a shirt. And he wanted me!!

Well, that called for some preparation.

I left Alan a note that I had "team responsibilities" and wouldn't be "sleeping" with him in our dorm room that night. He would be disappointed and that made me sad. But hey—Jean-Pierre L'Hunque. Alan would get over it.

By 3 p.m. I was in my locker room, wondering vaguely how I was going to get my balls drained and bottom spermed and still finish my paper and study for my midterm. Coach Francie had told us several times that the university cared about our "team responsibilities" first and that other issues like schoolwork would "take care of themselves." I hoped she was right. I sure didn't want to have to explain my scholarly negligence to Dr. Sodomista. Oh well. It was 3 p.m. and there was much primping to be done.

Thorough primping.

Thank goodness we Stocking Boys had regular, first-rate manicures and pedicures. My red finger- and toenails looked spectacular. But there were other areas where I needed some work. I stripped naked and admired my bare form in the mirror. As always, the sight of me excited me. Self-love is the purest love.

I decided to begin with a nice close shave of all my hair below my ears, except for my [blush] pubic hair. My lovers have always liked that soft little tuft. I decided I would perfume it lightly for Monsieur L'Hunque.

It's always a bit of a bother to shave my pussy. One needs a good handmirror, a supple nature and some personal courage. But it's so much more pleasing for a man to enter a freshly shaved bottomhole.

Speaking of the bottomhole, since this was a special night, I made special preparations. I gave myself two successive enemas, so my "nether parts" were sparkling clean. Then I took a bubble bath and washed my boyish head hair.

After patting myself dry, I blow-dried my hair, styling it with a bit of mousse. Then I went to work on my face. Red lipstick. A slutty bit of rouge. Heavy eyeliner. Dark eyeshadow.

Perfection!

Almost time to get dressed. But first I gave my pussy a nice, liberal injection of lubrication. Just in case Jean-Pierre was extra-frisky early in the evening.

Then I went into the closet to select my dress. There it was. A fire-engine-red, sequined, floor-length gown. Slit high on both sides. Spaghetti straps (oh to have 44DDs!). I hung the dress, then dabbed on my Eternity perfume in nine strategic spots. Panties next—red and lacy, of course. Inadequate to cover my swollen peeny. Matching bra and garter belt.

I considered red stockings, but thought it was overkill. Settled on dark-tan, fully-fashioned, seamed, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings. The kind only pretty boys wear these days. So sexy and so alluring to men. Red, strappy, five-inch-stiletto sandals completed the ensemble. I accessorized with a lovely gold necklace my benefactor had stocked my locker with and a pair of two-karat diamond earrings.

I have to admit. I love the male attention. And I adore all the fucking. But the girlish dressing is awfully good too. The mere act of becoming beautiful is as good as any of it. The dress was slinky and sexy and weighed about 20 ounces. I slithered into it, then looked in the mirror to consider my beauty.

Stupefying.

Which was what the cabbie who picked me up to take me to the restaurant thought. He didn't even charge me. "It's a pleasure to serve you, Miss," he said.

It seemed I had some power over men.

Jean-Pierre was waiting for me at the restaurant. And so, apparently was every male in the restaurant. They all looked at little old me. The women too. No one was looking at that big, French movie star. Except me.

He was gorgeous. And totally shocked at my intense, feminine beauty, Poor man. At his age, he didn't need a shock to his system like seeing me in full battle array.

He was in evening dress. And looked good enough to eat. Which was something neither of us was interested in. The photo editor of the local paper, which was what passed for Paparazzi in that college town, snapped our picture about 30 times. Then he went home before the streets were rolled up for the evening.

Jean-Pierre and I were seated, then he ordered Champagne. We chatted for a few minutes about my favorite subject—me. Then he asked me if I wanted to dance—in that suave, French-accent way, you know?

We danced a slow dance. Closely. Slowly. My cock was poking my dress. His cock was threatening to split his pants. As he held me, his lump rubbed my lump.

Everyone in the place was looking at the most beautiful couple to ever grace the state. It was so exciting and his "iron pipe" kept rubbing my gown-covered stiffie. The band played a second slow number, just so we would keep dancing. Halfway through "The Way You Look Tonight," Jean-Pierre kissed me. I didn't mean to cum right out there on the dance floor. It wasn't my fault really. He was so handsome and so suave and he was kissing me. We were rubbing stiffies through our clothes and I looked so beautiful and everyone was adoring me with their eyes. I actually gave a small squeal as the first spurt leapt from my pink mushroom. With great effort, I was able to only whimper as spurts two through seven debilitated me. It was enormously embarrassing!

I was sure that everyone in the place knew I had cum in my panties. Actually, only my balls and the lowest two inches of my cock were in my panties. The head and the rest of the shaft had escaped my little red teasers when I first saw Jean-Pierre.So I had created a dark, eight-inch-circumference cum spot on my pretty dress.

At first, Jean-Pierre seemed pleased with himself about my "condition." But then he became very gallant. He and I sort of danced our way to the door, then he hustled me outside to the parking valet. He stood in front of me when the valet retrieved the Mercedes, minimizing my exposure and embarrassment. For an instant I thought about asking him to take me back to my dorm. But that would have been stupid.

He hadn't even fucked me yet.

Well, my temporary insanity passed and we went back to my locker room, where that gorgeous man gave me a night to remember. He couldn't cum as often as a younger man like Alan—only two times in twelve hours. But he made me cum eight times. Each better than the previous.

My first "older man" made me want my second older man.

Which I got the very next day.

Jean-Pierre left me in a quivering, cum-depleted heap at around eleven the next day.

The next day.

The day, I suddenly remembered, that I was supposed to be taking an endophilology test and handing in an endophilology paper. In fact, the test was over. Which meant I was going to have to be very charming to save my academic career. I did charming very well, though. Especially when men were involved. And my endophilology professor, Dr. Sodomista, was a man.

I checked the Internet for Dr. Sodomista's schedule, then showered and primped myself for the task at hand. For an outfit, I chose my skimpiest pink panties, black stockings and matching garterbelt, and highest, shiny, black fuck-me pumps. My skirt was schoolgirl-pleated and so short that it barely covered my panties, let alone my stocking tops.

I swayed my pantied bottom across campus to Dr. Sodomista's office, hoping I could find him and persuade him to let me do some make-up work for his class.

He was waiting for me outside the professors' building! "I've been hoping you would be by, Patricia," he said. "I wanted to congratulate you on your fine classwork today. I've graded your papers already and you got a 100 on the test and an A+ on your paper."

For the first time in weeks, my mouth was wide open and it wasn't about to be stuffed with cock.

Or was it?

"Thank you…Dr. Sodomista," I stammered. "I'm very grateful."

He smiled. A nice smile. He was a real hunk too. Then he said, "I'm sure you're grateful, my dear. May we go to your locker room to discuss your academic career?" Well, I wasn't an ingrate. And he was a good-looking man.

And someone dressed as I had to expect to be fucked.

Repeatedly. And wetly.

So another night without Alan. He would be heartbroken. I made sure he got a note that I'd be gone. I was sure he would understand that I needed to do things for my athletic and academic career. And they all involved fucking.

Chapter Eight—Warm-up Match

How shall I describe my little dalliance with Dr. Sodomista?

Well, he was certainly manly and handsome.

And his cock was big and fat and hard.

And he was awfully enthusiastic about "playing tickles" with me.

And I was enthusiastic about getting good grades.

But I need a man who gives me his full, careful attention.

And Dr. Sodomista was in a hurry.

My first concern when we got to my locker room was that the place would be so messy from my cum-drenched encounter with Jean-Pierre that I would be embarrassed and Dr. Sodomista would be turned off.

Before going any further, let me offer my complete gratitude to the housekeeping staff of Busyfinger Hall. The room was fresh as a daisy. Except for the cum smell. Which would be there centuries from now when future civilizations unearthed the ruins. Dr. Sodomista couldn't wait to lift my tiny skirt and see what was hiding in my panties. Before he even gave me any nice kissing, he was on his knees, with his head under my skirt, "licking my pickle." It was very nice and he was very good at it and when I filled his mouth with my desperate ejaculation, he swallowed every drop.

If I hadn't insisted that we get undressed, he would have sucked me straight through to another spurty. When we did get undressed, him to a very nice naked and me to my stockings and garters, he was oral again—this time having me sit on his face as he dove into my muffie with his talented tongue. As he drove me wild with sodomistic thrills, I leaned over and sucked his thick prick—not to make him cum, just to "keep him interested" until I was wet enough to fuck.

I thought he would be eating my pussy for a good half hour or so but seven minutes was all I got, followed by a nice, but not spectacular doggy-style fucking. Arf!

I didn't even cum he was so eager to empty his load in my tunnel. An error that he sort of made up by hurriedly sucking me off to another so-so spasm.

After only one more "rear entry" and with very little kissing and no nipple adoration, he said he had to go! I was lying there, his for the entire night, and he was leaving!!

Men would start wars for the opportunity he was giving up. If he hadn't been responsible for my academic success, I would have told him what I thought of his lovemaking. But then I learned the horrible truth.

He was married!

"I'm sorry, Darling," he said. "Have to get home to the family. Mrs. S is making meatloaf, macaroni and cheese tonight, after the kids' soccer games. Let's do this again real soon." He chose meatloaf over Patricia Spermer?

What a blow to my enormous ego.

After he left, I cried for a while. Then I decided that I would get myself together and go see someone who loved me. Someone who would fuck me until I said it was time to stop. Alan Busyfinger.

I showered and primped and put on a fresh, sexy outfit for Alan. It was about 7:30 when I arrived back at the dorm. Didn't expect him to be back from the library yet, so I was surprised when I couldn't open our dorm room door. Was there something wrong with the key? No.

There was a chair wedged under the knob!!!

Alan was in there WITH someone!!

Insanely jealous, I banged on the door and hysterically demanded that he open up.

Seconds later he did.

There he was. Naked except for a guilty expression and the dribbles all over his cock.

And there on his dorm bed. The bed he and I shared. The bed where we dumped buckets of sperm every night. There was Mary Grace Flynn!!

As naked as Alan, but without the guilt—which in itself, since she was a Catholic girl, was remarkable. Well, she should have been guilty, that two-timer. That man stealer.

I wanted to leave. I wanted to punch them. If I had had a gun I….

"Hi, Patricia," Mary Grace said. "We didn't expect you, but now that you're here, please join us."

Huh?

Mary Grace continued. "You haven't exactly been taking a kitting class the past two days, so I wouldn't get any ideas about your moral superiority in all this. If it's any consolation, when he hasn't been fucking me, Alan has been telling me how much he loves you. You've got a winner in him, Honey." Really? Well that soothed the ego a bit. And Mary Grace was sort of right about my activities of the past two days. And she and Alan were sort of my favorite naughty partners.

Individually though. I had never thought about, well, a threesome. Mary Grace continued her assumed role as the mistress of ceremonies. "As you can see, Alan and I are both stiff and eager to make a 'Patricia sandwich.' You can get inside me and Alan will get inside you. You can experience the rare joy of being the fucker and the fuckee at the same time."

I've turned down a lot of offers in my life, girls, but not that one.

It's an indescribably delicious sandwich. Especially the second and third helpings.

All was well with Alan, Mary Grace and me the next day, though we agreed that "trios" like that more than once a month would probably ruin our health. Well, maybe every three weeks. Or two. Anyway, time rolled on and then it was Saturday, the day of the big intrasquad scrimmage for the Saint Travestia University Stocking Boys.

Usually something like that would be attended by team relatives who couldn't think of a good excuse. Not at STU. The football players were having some silly game at their stadium that night with Notre Dame, but hardly anyone was there. Busyfinger Hall was packed with 30,000 compfem fans and the media were all over the place. ESPN6 was televising the scrimmage and Coach Francie was giving all sorts of media interviews in between instructions to us. I guess it's time to tell you how compfem matches are run. Compfem matches are judged by men, but not in the way you think. In compfem's early days, judges filled out subjective scorecards, but scoring was rife with corruption. The judges were always being bribed with sex from the athletes, sometimes by athletes from both competing teams. So the records from those days are suspect.

Today, judges are fitted with devices that measure changes in heart rate, perspiration and, most importantly, cock-stiffening, when they view the athletes.

That's the easy part. The tricky part is the part you never see on TV. Two hours before the match begins, the athletes are brought out in boy clothes, without makeup. The judges' responses to the athletes en homme form the baseline for scoring. Points are scored by how much feminizing increases each athlete's appeal to the randy judges.

Each match has four events—chosen at random an hour before the match begins. Each team chooses four athletes for each event. No athlete can compete in more than two events. For each event, an athlete has two minutes to display herself to the judges. No showing of panties or stocking tops is allowed until the last 20 seconds of the athlete's program. During the last 20 seconds, an athlete can show her panties to the judges and, through the miracle of television, to millions of sweaty males. No nudity is allowed, but panties can be translucent. A "backstage judge" checks the athletes before they go on stage to ensure that they have not stuffed their panties or, worse, cum in their panties. Cumming in one's panties while on stage, however, is permitted. It happens rarely, but when it does, it ALWAYS makes the "Top Ten Plays" on SportsCenter that evening.

Got it?

I know it's a bit complicated, but just listen and you'll get it. Only the athletes care about the rules anyway. Everyone else is just watching us and jerking off.

So that night, the night of my first compfem game, I was nervous. Alan had given me the sweetest sendoff—two dozen roses and a bottom full of his cum. Mary Grace took a bottom full of my cum while Alan was administering my good-luck charm. The match started at seven. We arrived at three and saw fans lined up around the block. "They've been camped out here since last week," Samantha said.

Athletes are so lucky to have fans.

When I got to the locker room, Francie and Daddy were coming out of the Coach's office. He looked a little tired and flushed. And so did Francie. Poor Daddy. He works so hard.

"I'm here to cheer you on, Pumpkin," Daddy said. I have the best Daddy in the world. I'm sure that extended pat he gave my bottom was entirely paternal.

I made sure Daddy had a really good seat, right next to the Platinum Roosters in the front row. Most everyone else saw the match on the huge TV screens all over the fieldhouse. I gave my other comp, front-row tickets to Mary Grace and Alan. Dr. Sodomista was sitting in section 336.

Coach Francie gathered us and called up the captains for the scrimmage—Samantha Suckwell, of course, was captain of the Pleasers and Mitzi Gurleyman, another senior, was captain of the Teasers.

Coach Francie flipped a coin and Samantha won first pick. I almost fainted with joy when she picked me. Take that, teammates! When two sides of six each were selected, each group gathered to discuss strategy.

"All right, girls," Samantha said. "We're going to win this thing if we keep our heads and our cocks up. I'm counting on you all to give it your girliest effort. Help each other out. Now let's get ready for the boy round."

Ick. That was where we all went out pretending to be boys to get the baseline for our scores. I thought that part was stupid and I didn't give it the attention it deserved. A mistake I learned to regret.

For the boy round we all wore regulation grey shirts, grey gym shorts and white socks. We scrubbed off all our make-up. The veteran athletes with long hair tucked it into a ponytail. I was stunned to see how boyish Samantha had made herself. She was a different person. Totally unattractive and androgynous almost. I wanted to be like that, since I knew it was important to the team's score to get low boy scores. But it went against all my girlish nature.

I know I looked awful. Drab and boyish.

But when we went out there—on that lit stage, with cute, admiring judges. I lost it. I smiled at the judges and even batted my eyes at them. Samantha shot me a look that made me stop, but it was too late—or so I discovered later. "Rookie mistake, Honey." Samantha said to me. "I hope we can make it up later."

Well, that made me feel awful. Samantha consoled me with a stunning blowjob and reminded herself and me that it was just practice and a learning experience.

Since this was a scrimmage, the rules were amended. We only had three events and every athlete participated in each. At six p.m., the draw of events came up. "Birthday Party," followed by "Peignoir," with "Bikini Beach" as the closer. We had practiced all of those, of course, but we still scurried around to get all our accessories lined up. For "Birthday Party" we wore the dresses 10-year-old girls wear to play pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, complete with fluffy petticoats, hair ribbons, little, lacy white socks and Mary Janes. I wondered vaguely what strange minds came up with these events, but the TV audiences and the Roosters seemed to think they were just fine.

At seven p.m., the building was stuffed with cheering, eager fans and marriages across America were threatened by the husband's insistence on watching "sports" on a Saturday night. After some TV nonsense. Coach Francie, who, in the spirit of things, was dressed in a "Birthday Party" outfit as well (with tan stockings and five-inch, fuck-me pumps as unauthorized accessories) sissied out on stage to welcome everyone and introduce the judges. The backstage judge was checking out Kimmie's "package" before she went out on stage first. The judge was very thorough and hands-on, making sure that her pricklet was "dry" and all hers. Kimmie was the first competitor for the Teasers. I was number three for the Pleasers.

Kimmie got a great hand when she skipped out on stage in her Mary Janes, walked around, looking back at the judges over her shoulder, teasing, girlying.

Compfem scores are never announced until an event is over, so we didn't know how well Kimmie did until later. But she got a nice hand. Especially during the last 20 seconds of her routine, when she showed her white, cotton panties and stiff "point." I was very nervous, but very excited too. I felt very comfortable in my white party dress accented by pretty blue ribbons on the dress and in my boyish hair. I had never worn such an outfit in real life, since I began "girlhood" at age 16. It was certainly fun catching up on what I missed. When I was next up, I eagerly stepped up for the backstage judge's inspection. This was a man who enjoyed his job way too much. He gave me quite a "feel-up," getting me into a bit of a state. The warning buzzer announcing my imminent call was the only thing that stopped his "panty fishing."

The light backstage went to yellow, which meant I was on in 20 seconds. When it turned green, my compfem career truly began. I stepped out on the stage and was greeted by first a collective gasp, then thunderous applause.

They liked me! They really liked me!

I had to shake my head a bit to remember to sissy around in little-girl fashion for the judges. Mindful that I had only one minute and 40 seconds before I could show my panties for 20 seconds.

The judges were practically drooling all over themselves and the crowd was near a riot. When the yellow, 20-second light went on, I lifted my petticoated skirts to reveal my white, cotton panties tented by a big stiffie. It was all so thrilling that I couldn't help myself….

I orgasmed.

Right there on national TV. On perfect cue. My panties filled up with hot cum, which dripped down from the drenched cotton onto the floor.

The crowd exploded.

And so did men all across America.

I shuddered and gasped and ejaculated helplessly into my soaked panties, not knowing whether I should be humiliated or delighted. Thank goodness I had enough of my composure left to drop my skirts back and mince off the stage when the red light went on. My teammates, smelling another national championship in store for our school, congratulated me enthusiastically. Even Samantha, who, I thought would now view me as a threat to her Huffman Trophy chances.

When the event was over, I saw why Samantha wasn't worried. I had scored a 104 on the event. Until then, no one thought a score of 100 was attainable. My teammates scored in the 80s and mid-90s. That was the good news. The bad news was that I had scored 46 during the boy phase and my teammates had scored in the teens and low 20s. So their differential scores were all higher than mine.

Samantha told me she would work with me on lowering my boy score so we could repeat as national champs. What a great girl! I was still burdened by that 46 the rest of that wonderful night, but I didn't let it bother me…that much. I got a 106 on the peignoir event—pink, of course, with five-inch-stiletto mules with a fluffy puff on each shoe. When I slid back my peignoir to expose my pink stockings and panties during the last 20 seconds, I didn't cum, but I was sure that two of the five judges did.

On the bikini event, I only got a 102 -- clearly an area for improvement. Since there are no panties to expose, it's the one event where we're allowed to show our full, plump, pink bottoms, not our pussies, of course, during the last 20 seconds. My big cock was tenting my bikini bottoms so much that I was afraid it would escape and disqualify me, so I didn't flirt as well as I should have. But the judges loved seeing my pretty bottom. And so did America.

The Teasers won the scrimmage, thanks to my dumbness. But no one really cared. Especially since, after we gave the postgame interviews and such, we had the traditional, one-hour, baby-oil team celebration.

I made sure that I saved lots of gooies for Alan, since I promised him a night of delights in my locker room. At 11, Alan and I stopped fucking for a half hour to watch SportsCenter, where I was, of course, the lead, star-is-born story. They showed me cumming in my panties like three times, from different camera angles.

Lucky Alan. My new fame got me so excited that I gave him the night (and morning) of his life.

We managed to separate around noon on Sunday. Alan had homework and I wanted to meet Daddy for lunch before he went home. I met Daddy at a nice restaurant in town at 1:30 and was surprised that Coach Francie was with him. What was she doing there?

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather when Daddy said that he and Francie were in love.

In love? I didn't even know they were seeing each other.

But there was more.

"Francie's going to be your stepmother, Sweetie," Daddy said.

"We're getting married the day after Christmas." Once I got over my astonishment, I was delighted. Daddy would be happy and Francie would be happy.

And apparently, I would be happy.

 

That's my story so far. I'm excited about the upcoming season.

Maybe I'll tell you all about it.

Please tell me what you think at gingerfred2005@yahoo.com.

  

  

  

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