The Two Of Us free porn video

This is the kind of story people like who like this kind of story, but they are allowed to read it only if they're the age they need to be to be allowed to read it. If you know what I mean. She'd love hearing from you about any of them, even if they aren't the kind of story you like to read, though especially if they are. The Two of Us by Vickie Tern i. That blonde woman back there in the Florida room? Reading her magazines, watching the sun set behind the Catalpa branches in the back garden? Why Loretta, you don't recognize him? Really? No, of course not, it's been a while, we've all changed I suppose. And you've never heard the whole story anyhow. That's Jim! Jim, my husband, that's right! That's where he loves to sit evenings, these days, when his household work is done. It's peaceful, and he's been feeling a little down since his favorite boy friend got transferred to another city. Doesn't he look lovely, with the warm late-afternoon sunlight on his face? Yes, he always dresses like that! Well, no he didn't always, but for the last year or so, certainly, that blouse is one I bought him back when he first realized he'd just better accept the way things are. I guess it has been a while! Of course he's a lot thinner than when you last saw him -- he's been trying for a more attractive figure -- when he sees yours he'll be so jealous! And his hairdo is brand new -- I treated him to it just this week, to try to cheer him up. Isn't it darling? A new operator at the salon, Marsha, she's a marvel! All in all he's looking quite the lady, don't you think? And you should see him when he gets dolled up! He'll take hours, but he knows now how to make himself really beautiful. He once took a special "Beauty Tips for Girls Who Love Men" course at the Community College, and it really shows! His men friends certainly appreciate it! Why does he want to make himself look like a woman? Because that's what he is, now, Loretta. Or that's what he usually thinks he is, which is much the same thing. Why? Well, he's better off being a woman, though it took a little persuasion on my part for him to see it. Why'd I persuade him? Well, he'd gotten himself into a little trouble, with my help I'll grant you, and this was the only way he could get himself out of it, with my help I mean. He's reconciled to it now, given the alternatives. He knows he's much better off. I know I certainly am! Yes, there is a certain peacefulness about him. A kind of serenity. I love it, he's so calm all the time, even when things around here get frantic. And there's really nothing to maintaining him that way. Each morning a double dose of tranquillizers and anti-depressants along with his daily estrogen, and then he just doesn't get upset about anything. For a while it took some really heavy doses to convince him. He'd swallow enough Thorazine and other psychoactive drugs to knock down a cow. Then the next morning he'd sit dazed by his dressing table, still in his negligee, just staring down at his boobs. He'd been nearly a year on hormones by then, and they'd grown in pretty full. They even hung down a little -- he really needed his bras by then. I suppose after a night's sleep some of his medication had worn off, and he'd begun to come to himself, and he couldn't remember how those breasts had gotten there. But I'd remind him again who he really was, the woman I live with, my dearest friend since we were girls together, that's who he needs to be. Then he'd be fine, and take his pills, and he'd get dressed appropriately, and we'd go down, and that was that. There we were chatting away, two nice ladies having breakfast who live together and lead separate lives. I don't think he remembers any more that he was ever anything else. He's a real help, you won't have to do a thing with the house, he does it all! I work most days and some nights, and he takes care of everything here. And often on weekends he'll help me with my client load too back at Hospitality House, when I take on too many. Ever since he quit his earlier job. Even before then I'd taught him how to dress and behave, and how to do his make-up, the basic things. But when he went full time he needed a lot of attention, serious training, to help him decide what kind of a lady he was, and how to keep his voice gentle, and how to move, and so on. You know. Then later on, what to watch for when he's out shopping for the house, and which cookbooks to rely on. He was always grateful, I will say that. At first he relied on me for everything, how to dress properly, how to be a fun date, he had no idea how girls manage things like that. I had no choice, Loretta! After his conversion he had no social life, so I had to help him out! I certainly couldn't have him moping around here all the time. He had to get out and circulate, get to be known, if you know what I mean. And to really enjoy pleasing his dates, because a man can always tell if a girl's sincere or not. He was such an innocent! He knew nothing back then! Do you know that when he went out on a really serious date for the first time he didn't even think to douche his little rear end beforehand? I had to tell him that! What can he have had in mind? How did he think his date would feel, pushing a prick into his asshole and finding squishy stuff already there? We gaffed his cock and balls nice and flat, what was left of them after the hormones, and I told him always to plead his period and offer his ass if his man was interested. Then just lie back and spread your legs and enjoy it, I told him, or else hump the air with your rear and wait for your date to find the right place. I wasn't worried about his mouth -- he's good with that, and he loves giving blow jobs, no problem there. Once he begins he can swallow oceans of cum. He does bachelor parties for me now and then, and other affairs like that -- it helps bring in household money. When he gets back sometimes his tummy's really bloated with all the sticky stuff he's sucked and coaxed out of cock after cock. He's wonderful at it -- men watch his tongue stroke the underside of a prick and then they just can't wait for their turn. But still, some men just have to fuck a girl down under before the night's out, and this man who'd just asked him out for his first real date looked like one of those. And he was! When Jim came back the next morning there was cum oozing out of his anus and all over everything. It utterly ruined his dress, a pretty black slip-dress with a jewel neck I remember, luckily not his best brocade, the one he'd wanted to wear because it's his prettiest. He cried a little when I gave him another douche to clean him out -- it hurt him. You know why? Loretta, in all the excitement of getting him ready I'd completely forgotten that Jim's ass was virginal. Never so much as a dildo in it previously! That date of his had ruptured whatever it is that passes for a hymen in a man, there were even traces of blood. Well, I kissed my poor Jim and assured him it was going to be beautiful for him next time, and then I slipped in a tampon and showed him how to change it, and he was fine. Then when I looked the dress over, I saw there was cum all over the front of it too. Jim told me that when he felt cum spurting into his bowels he'd gotten so excited he'd just let loose and cum too, he couldn't help it. Wasn't that lovely? A wet orgasm, his first as a girl, the very first time he gets fucked! They dated for quite a while after that, those two, I remember. Jim kept his rear sweet and neat, and carried tampons to protect his dresses after making love. I'll bet he's a lot more satisfactory in his lovemaking as a woman than he ever was as a man. And a lot better satisfied himself, too, though I've never bothered to ask. Anyhow, nowadays Jim takes care of his own social life without any help at all from me, the dear. He takes his own phone calls from men who think he's attractive, and he flirts with them if he likes them, and sometimes he stays out all night. I never ask why or where, as long as he looks happy. He's his own woman. These days there's a man who's trying to teach him to play golf. Jim tells me he pretends he can't swing a club, and then he swings his tush back and forth in the man's face -- between the hormones and his diet it's really rounded out, that tush, really cute -- until the man can't wait to get off the golf course and bury himself in it. And that's the way the golf lessons always end up. He can be such a slut, sometimes, my Jim! There's no question my life is easier now that he's a woman, Loretta. I don't know why I didn't think of it years ago. Maybe the same reason I never paid any attention to all the hunky guys who were always hitting on me at work. They were all trying to tell me something about what married life could be like, but I wasn't listening. They were telling me that Jim might be a sweet dear, and mean well, and that I didn't ever need to regret marrying him, and so on, but that all that was no reason for me to deny myself. Jim was always salt of the earth, you know? Solid, dependable, predictable, you know? But when he was still a man, boring? Don't even ask! Loretta, after five years of yawning through my marriage I had to do something! It got pretty obvious even to me. The Jim I'd met and married wasn't at all what he'd turned out to be. He loved me, I never doubted it, I'm sure he still does, somewhere down under. When we were just friends, and then when we were living together he was so considerate, such a perfect gentleman. He'd follow up every hint or suggestion I ever made, what little gifts I might like, where we should eat out, what shows we should see, where we could enjoy a little weekend getaway, even how I'd like him to fuck me. It was exciting to meet a man who cared about my least whim. But after we got married and moved down here and Jim got his job with that bank, it was different. It turned out he'd gone along with all of my desires because he had practically none of his own. And once we were married, he figured that was that, and stopped paying attention to my needs altogether. Lots of men are like that. From day one he'd come home from work and read his paper, and if he had anything to say at all it was about business. Not office gossip, not dishy stuff, who's in, who's out, who's into who's pants, you know. Business talk. Exchange rates. Collateral. Takeover bids. Marry a banker and that's who you end up married to, Loretta, a banker. And at night in the dark he doesn't stop being a banker, either, if you know what I mean. You remember after I miscarried, and we had all those tests? Well, it came clear that we'd never have kids to help break the monotony. That's when a lot of other things came clear to me too. He'd petered out in bed practically on our honeymoon. His prick wasn't ever much, and he seemed to think then that oral sex is unsanitary. I suppose it is, in some ways, but so what? Anyhow, for a long while the only suspense when we were having sex was, would he somehow manage to cum, and if he did, would he somehow knock me up? That's what kept me awake until he'd finished dipping his dick in and out of me and then rolled off me and started snoring. And that was only maybe once a month on average! Well, you play the cards you're dealt. You remember a few years ago I may have told you that they'd made me a floor manager at Sportsman's Paradise? You meet a lot of sporting types there, and they're not exactly bankers. Summers they like to hit and run, and in winter they glide and slide, in and out of trouble. You know what I mean. I began to think about sampling one or two. Well, one afternoon this really gorgeous guy walked in and made his moves on me, and this time I couldn't think of a single reason why not. A half hour later I was down the road in his motel room, and down on him, and then in his bed, and he's down on me, and then he's into me! Oh, glory! Considerate? Gentle? Rough? Everything, you name it! He kissed me on my neck where I never could resist anyone, even you Loretta, you remember when we went together for a while, when we were still in college, before you met Helen and left me for her? And then he licked his way down my belly and into my pussy, up and down, up and back, in long, easy strokes! Oooooh my! And you'll never guess what came next! His lips closed on my clit and he began giving me a blow-job! Can you imagine, Loretta? Sucking on the dear little thing as if it were the world's greatest cock -- and he's got a world class cock himself, I found that out soon enough. I bet Jim doesn't know even now that I have a clit. I don't think he'll know it when I finally get him one! But this man, sucking and licking, as if it were a real penis, or maybe a third nipple down there giving him sweet milk! I can feel his lips on me even now. Ooooh, I'm shuddering! Well, I went wild, I couldn't stand it, it felt so wonderful, and I was shouting at him to fuck me, fuck me, push that glorious thing into me, now, now, and I was *crying* can you imagine, Loretta, *begging* him, me begging a man for anything? I felt so utterly marvelously out of this world! So he came up and eased himself into me, and then he built up the pace until he'd gone berserk and I'd gone just plain crazy! By then he was a pile driver, with his huge arms and thighs, and that thick cock, and I was flying and twisting and tailspinning and screaming while he was slamming my ass into the mattress. Then my whole body started clenching and unclenching! Orgasm after orgasm! O God, they went on and on and on! Never anything like that ever! Then when finally he cums it's a river! I thought he was done, Loretta, and I kissed the tip of his thing in gratitude, and I pushed a hankie into my panties to blot up some of the leaking and I got ready to go back to work. But Loretta, it wasn't over! Twice more that afternoon! Not even in college when I took on that whole pledge class have I ever been so thoroughly fucked! I began to remember again what it was like! Well, after that how could I not spent more afternoons with other guys? A few weeks later I went half-time at the store and half-time at the motel. A few weeks after that, to make up for the lost income I began to charge some of the men I took up with, those who didn't especially appeal, you know? Not much, but soon I was making more money in one afternoon than they paid Jim for all week. It was easy work, too -- blow them or fuck them or sit on their faces, whatever they wanted, and some of them had some pretty curious kinks. I'd think of variations, and then they really began to come back for more! I had more orgasms each day than in my entire married life, and not one of them faked! Well, my client list grew and I grew selective. Kept only guys I'd have fucked for free, though they never knew that! I raised my rates and rented a discreet apartment suite with separate entrances and exits, I call it Hospitality House, and hired a receptionist to answer the door and look after my billings and debits and things, and I got cards printed up, and I got a cellular phone number and a beeper. And there I was, a professional! I opened a bank account in my maiden name, at Jim's bank, no less. Loretta, it began to fill up with obscene amounts of money. I bought all kinds of sex toys and fetish gear, and I got to be very good at encouraging shy clients to confess their darkest desires to me, and then guessing at others they didn't dare mention, and then satisfying all of them. Well, the word got around, and pretty soon I was booked for weeks and months ahead, and accepting only clients who were recommended by other really wealthy clients. I quit the Sportsman's Paradise altogether, and raised my rates again, and began scheduling morning and some evening appointments, and I even started booking weekends for special parties. Jim figured that was the way things were in the sporting goods business and never thought to question any of it. He read his paper and watched television, and fell asleep after dinner on days when I told him I was going out on call and on other days when I just went without saying a word. I don't know why we stayed married. He wasn't a friend, or companionable, or helpful around the house, and I had my own considerably larger income, and I certainly didn't need him for sex! Just habit, I suppose. I can't say I felt married. I doubt he knew what he felt. What kept us together? Loretta, you won't believe this! One afternoon I was on the bidet cleaning a previous client out of my pussy and perfuming it for my next, when the receptionist poked her head in and told me we have a walk-in. She didn't know him, should she send him away, and she showed me the card he'd had in his hand. It was Jim! My Jim! The card was signed by one of my best clients, Brian, a vice-president at Jim's bank, his immediate boss in fact. Brian was a regular who liked being blindfolded and whipped, because it made him horny as a goat! His wife never had a clue about that! I met the two of them once during a theater intermission. He introduced me to her as if I were a major depositor in his bank, which I was getting to be, and she looked at me as if she already knew that he was a major depositor in my pussy, though she couldn't decide what to do about it. If she'd asked me, I'd have told her to get a whip. Anyhow, Brian and Jim somehow had got to talking about how wives are usually offended by kinky desires but professionals are happy to satisfy them, because they make for happy clients and return visits. Jim must have said something more, because here he was, carrying his boss's seal of approval. My receptionist said that this new client was so embarrassed he didn't dare look up at her. He was waiting in the parlor. Well, that's where I keep a half-a-dozen videotapes going, gay, lesbian, straight, b&d, something for everyone. And on the tables are stacks of magazines from "Hustler" through "Stud Muscles," even the "Marquis De Sade Quarterly Review." A client's tastes are pretty obvious when you see what video he looks at, and what magazines, given lots of choice. I peered into the room and there's Jim all right, looking at a video, a leather scene, a tall woman standing astride a naked man, who's kneeling between her legs and looking up and licking her cunt. And meanwhile a lingerie catalog open on his lap! My Jim? My no-cum no-go husband a secret submissive, maybe also a panty fetishist? I should have guessed! But how to keep him from recognizing me while I find out exactly what he wants? It happens that I was still made up for my previous client, wearing black eyes and a scarlet mouth, my hair pulled back severely, and laced into a tight leather bustier and jack boots. I could make him grovel while I'm dressed like this, I thought, and he'd never dare look up. But did I need to? I wear my hair loose and full and soft at home, and almost no make-up, so even if he saw me he might never put two and two together. That turned out to be true enough. But for this first time I took no chances. I picked up the very pantyhose I'd worn that morning to work -- I'd felt especially horny anticipating my first fuck of the day, and the crotch had gotten soaked. Then I summoned Jim into one of my chambers in a stern voice, and ordered him to face the window. He came in quivering, and collapsed onto his knees without even being asked! What a specimen of a man! I blindfolded him with my pantyhose, and that smeared my cunt juices all over his nose and eyelids, and he got harder than I've ever seen him at home! Add in the smell of my perfume and the feel of my leather boobs brushing on his back, and my dear hubby was near fainting with excitement. It was his first visit to someone who really knows what she's doing, I was sure of it! I stroked his stiff little dick through his pants to relax him, and I asked how I could help him. Surprise surprise! Panties! He wanted to wear women's panties! Soiled women's panties! The prettier the better! And he wanted to be ordered to wear them! And that was all he wanted! To feel himself humiliated by a little forced femininity! My modest little pervert! He almost didn't blurt it out, he felt so ashamed! Can you imagine? My Jim has this one kinky desire, the only one of his whole life, and when he finally gets up the nerve to gratify it, who does he ask to do it for him? For money? His own wife! That's Jim! Well, of course he got exactly what he wanted, and then some. When he left me that day he was wearing a pair of black lace tap pants I'd pissed up earlier for a client who was into golden showers. And he'd masturbated into them for me, and I'd told him to wear them sopping and sticky back to his office. He actually did squeak some cum into them, more than he usually managed to put into me! And when he left I'd put him into a matching black lace bra, too, for discipline's sake, and also because there was an interesting scenario forming in my head! I knew almost at once what I wanted to do with him. I'd already dealt with a few pantywaisted husbands eager to "explore their femininity" as they said, to spend their salaries getting high-priced whores to make them wear dresses. One in fact had been sent to me by a bored wife who wanted him turned into a streetwalker so he'd have something income-producing to do evenings when she was out with her various boy friends -- he lacked even that much talent, it turned out, so she had to settle for him ending up a hustler in a gay bar. Anyhow, I knew exactly where I wanted to bring Jim, and how to do it. I admit it, Loretta, I was feeling gleefully spiteful about my blighted expectations for a happy married life, the years of futility he'd inflicted on me. But I also felt some pity for him. He didn't know any better, and his needs were so puny. Such a useless man! Such a second rate husband! Well, Loretta, I decided my second rate husband might make me a first rate wife! Someone I could enjoy living with. I'd improve him! Why not? I had no use for him at all the way he was! I told him in a steely voice that he should wear his bra and panties all the rest of that day, and from now on. His wife needed to know it, so tonight he should ask her permission to sleep in them, and he should tell her he wanted to wear them all the following day. Then he had to tell her the next evening that he wanted to rinse them out and wear them again. "You can tell her your Mistress insists, and see if that gets her cooperation," I told him. "Or you can tell her you've always yearned to look pretty, that you feel more complete wearing them, that you want to wear only bras and panties from now on. Tell her whatever you like. But do it!" Then he should return and tell me what happened. He did it. It was so funny, that evening at dinner, watching him twist his shoulders to free up a binding bra strap he didn't dare reach for while I was looking. I accidentally on purpose spilled wine on his pants and then insisted that he strip them off at once so I could blot them before the stain set in. He did the weirdest contortions to keep his shirt tail below the black lace fringes of his tap pants, and when he danced upstairs to get some fresh slacks he was clutching his behind. But I could tell that the risk of exposure excited him -- he was happy. His little dick stayed stiff the whole time! What a sweetie! When we were undressing and getting ready for bed, I could see that he was beginning to tremble again. He just couldn't get the words out, yet he had to ask my permission to sleep in his undies. So he solved the problem by pretending there wasn't any. He removed his pants, then his shirt, and then he took off his shoes and socks, and then he just sat there with his black bra and sexy panties in full view. I'd decided that because his Mistress was strident and demanding, I would keep my own voice relaxed and gentle. I also knew he was terrified. I didn't want to spook him, and that gave me my strategy for his whole transformation into a woman. No matter how idiotic I might seem, I would regard each step as a dull commonplace, no big deal, hardly worth noticing. So in the most casual voice imaginable, I said "They're rather becoming, those panties. Vanity Fair, aren't they? I usually buy Olga. Do you get many washes out of them?" My attention the whole time concentrated on a chip in my fingernail polish. "Not yet," he croaked out. "I like to wear them. They make me feel complete. Do you mind?" "Why should I mind?" My tone of voice told him that even the question was of little interest to me. "It's a good brand, well made, and they're pretty. It's nice to look pretty. But the bra isn't quite right. Do you plan to grow breasts or to just let it slide around on your chest like that?" "I don't know," he replied. Well, that sounded promising! Then he remembered his specific mission. "Do you mind if I sleep in these tonight?" "Suit yourself," I replied. "I wear my bras and panties to bed sometimes during my period, when I'm a little swollen and leaky. Are you expecting a period?" "No," he replied. "I don't think so." He was more bewildered by my question than by my indifference to the bizarre spectacle he presented, a husband in ladies' lingerie. I must have sounded surreal to him, a little lunatic. Or maybe sarcastic, as if I didn't care about him. I didn't want that. I didn't want him feeling guilty and defensive. Not yet. So I added, "Well, honey, if you'd like to pretend it's your period, you'd better borrow one of my tampons for tonight, you know where they are. Slip one into you before you get into bed. Better be safe than sorry. But buy your own for after tonight, enough for four more days. At least buy yourself some sanitary napkins. It's so thoughtful that you want to know what it feels like. And oh, yes, we're almost out of toothpaste. Try to pick up a tube too, on your way home." And I put out my bedside light and turned onto my side to sleep. I knew he wouldn't dare ask for clarification, and I soon heard him struggling in the bathroom, trying to push a tampon into his rump. Then I saw him waddling back to bed. It was so funny! The next day he wore his bra and panties to his office with no comment from me. The next evening he couldn't decide how to ask me for permission to rinse them out, as his Mistress had ordered him. Several times he started to say something, then stopped. I decided to help him. "What a bother it is, doing undies by hand every evening, instead of just throwing them in the clothes washer." "Yes!" he replied eagerly. "I've had that very thought!" "Would you mind rinsing out mine tonight with yours, Jim? I'm really tired. I'm going to bed as soon as I do the dishes." "Not at all! Go right ahead. I'll do the dishes tonight too," tumbled out of him. But he knew he had to ask me, those were his orders. "You don't mind my rinsing out my underwear along with yours?" He waited. Technically he'd fulfilled his obligation. "Of course not," I replied. "You've worn those undies for two days now haven't you?" "Yes" he said. And he started upstairs to perform for the first time the womanly task he'd be doing for the rest of his life, rinsing out his undies. And he didn't know it yet, but I never touched another dish from then on either. "Oh, by the way," I said as he was half-way up the stairs, not troubling to look up from my magazine. "With that kind of underwear you really should get rid of your body hair. Shave it off tonight, and use some 'Nair' on the stubble. Instructions are on the box." Nothing more from me, so he continued on his way. When I went up myself and started preparing for bed, Jim was already under the covers, reading. He was in regular pajamas, and he looked up at me puzzled, still working through why I thought his shameful transvestism was too routine to notice. Was it? "Men don't wear panties, do they?" he asked. "You tell me," I said laconically, giving my hair its twenty-five strokes with the hair brush, as if that were far more important than his question. He had to test again. "And bras?" "Apparently. Why not? Most men love women's breasts." I looked at him. "If your skin feels smooth now, you'll find a nightgown nicer to sleep in than those pajamas. Here!" I took one out of my lingerie drawer and tossed it at him. "This is yours now, but get yourself your own so you won't always be borrowing mine. More bras and panties too, if you mean to wear them regularly, enough so you can change every day. Did you remember to lock the rear door?" I pretended not to see him slip the first nightie of the rest of his life over his head. It was a salmon-colored baby doll, with ruffles on the short hem. He looked so precious, sweet and silly, all at once! That my husband now wore lingerie as a matter of course seemed of so little interest to me that he let the subject drop. The next morning he made no effort to hide from me the fact that he was putting on his now-hand-washed bra and panties again, though he seemed a little self-conscious about it. "Remember to pick up the cleaning on your way home," I said. "You need help with that?" I stepped behind him and did up his bra's three hooks. "I should think that by now you'd have learned to hook bras in front first and then turn them, if you can't reach around behind you. You aren't exactly a young girl with her first training bra, you know!" He was speechless. I decided that if he ever slid back into male underwear I would make a show of anger that he couldn't seem to make up his mind about anything, and he'd shift back again. Phase one completed. ii. He showed up at Hospitality House ahead of schedule, and I began his training at once. My receptionist had him wait for me wearing only his lingerie, on his knees, and warned him that in my presence he must always remain on his knees and look at my feet, never under any circumstances higher than my crotch. When I arrived my hair was tight back and I had a cat mask on just in case, though I needn't have bothered -- his eyes stayed draped under his lids the whole time. I gave him the middle finger of my left hand to kiss, then to lick, and finally I began to pump it into his mouth while he sucked on it, and then I added my forefinger for thickness. His first dildo. He slid his lips up and down on it devotedly after a bit. He wasn't very good at it, Loretta, but you'll have to admit it was a beginning. It's hard to criticize. I had lots of high school boys' pricks to practice on, and you've had your experiences too, I'm sure. And he's certainly come a long way since then. I asked him in my strictest voice if he had obeyed my every order, and asked his wife for permission to sleep in his bra, and so forth. The words tumbled quavering out of him. He told all, even about her suggestion that he borrow and wear a tampon, and that he remove his body hair, and about the nightgown. Then he paused. His wife's indifference to his perverse vice baffled him. He said so. I replied contemptuously, "Do you actually believe you're the first man in the world ever to wear women's underwear?" "No, ma'am!" "Or the ten thousandth?" "No, ma'am." "Obviously she knows more than you do about these things. Do what she says! Buy yourself a few nighties and undies. From now on when I come in I want to see you kneeling here wearing your own bras and panties. Go to a department store and be sure to ask the sales girl for help. Tell her they're for you. Tell her proudly. If your wife wants you to dress in panties daily, try to be worthy of the honor." I then got to a key point he'd overlooked. "What else did she ask you?" I waited. And waited. Jim hesitated, unable to speak. He tried twice, but only when he saw my toe begin to tap impatiently did he say it. Eyes down and muttering, he said, "She asked me if I intend to grow breasts, so my bras won't slide around." "And do you think it's proper for your bras to slide around?" "No," he said. He saw where I was headed, and couldn't find a way to deflect the next question. "Then you want to grow breasts?" "I suppose," he said without conviction. "Then if she'll let you, you should! Ask her to acquire the hormones you'll need, and begin immediately!" I then gave him a freshly soiled pair of panties and a new push-up bra to wear, and handed him his old ones in a pink quilted lingerie bag to carry back to his office and leave visible on his desk for the rest of the day. We set up a schedule, three visits a week. I told him he would pay me $500 for each visit, $1,500 weekly due the first session of each week, in cash, to prove to me that he appreciated my services. If I could keep him hooked, I figured, he would exhaust our savings and investments within a month or two, then begin to beg, borrow, or steal my fees, and I'd have him. He looked a bit stunned when he heard how much I charge, but he was already pulling away on his little penis, and so near cumming into his soiled panties that he just nodded. A few squirts finally came, and he stared at them. What were these moments of masturbation going to cost him? Everything! "Good!" was all I said. As he left I told my receptionist to give his hair a quick spray of her perfume, a strong, musky, romantic fragrance called "Surrender!" He'd smell of it all afternoon at work. He blushed but said nothing. I suppose he hoped people would think it was a man's aroma, a hair tonic, or aftershave. But not "Surrender!" Others at the bank would certainly begin looking at him peculiarly. The women would notice first, of course. But women often feel kindly toward transvestites and transsexuals and effeminate gays, people whose desires for themselves seem to flatter what women are normally. Men might not notice him unless I sent him to work dressed like a go-go dancer. As I just might, I thought -- it was a matter of timing. I did want to be ready for a showdown by the time Jim's tits ripened. After dinner that night I sniffed the air in our living room, then looked at Jim. He hid behind his paper. Things were moving a little fast for him, obviously. "It's very nice, but don't you think that scent is a little heavy for work?" I asked him. "It's more for formal dances, evening gowns, things like that." I stood up, picked up my purse and checked its contents, and took my topcoat out of the closet. "For daytime find something lighter, more flowery, or more casual or sporty. Stop in at the perfume bar at Everson's tomorrow on your way to the bank, and ask the girl there to try a few samples on your wrist and neck. Tell her you want something romantic, but more delicate. And while you're at it, do buy those nightgowns and undies." Then I clicked my purse shut. I had a brief evening appointment with a Japanese client who came to town now and then, a man who would enter my ass in a nervous tremor and then vibrate his cock in and out like a rabbit doing a fast fuck. A remarkable man -- he could cum inside me two or three times in quick succession without my even noticing, and without even pausing. I scarcely ever saw him face to face. Fortunately he had a small cock and he didn't visit me too often, or I'd have had to charge extra for the down time while my rear end recovered. Or charge his firm, anyhow. But really, he was no trouble to accommodate. "I need to go out," I told Jim. "Be back in an hour or two." "All right," he replied. Then he remembered, and as casually as possible he said, "Oh, while you're out would you pick up whatever I'll need to start growing breasts?" He hid again behind his newspaper. "All right," I said. "I'll try to remember." I already had the necessary prescriptions, provided by a Doctor client of mine. "You do know that with hormones instead of implants you'll have to be patient. It'll be six months before you begin to look respectable. But if that's what you want. Anything else?" "No," came a small voice. "Remember to load the dishwasher and to rinse out our undies again before you get to bed." Those were now his jobs, whether he knew it yet or not. The first of many, as far as household matters went. And I was gone. I came back three quick assfucks later carrying his six-month's supply of estrogen, progestin, and androcur. And as an afterthought, Prozac to keep him mellowed out. I told him to take one of each kind each day the moment he woke up, and I left them on the night stand near our bed so I could see that he did. I knew that his hormones would soon end even those pitiful erections and ejaculations he managed to coax out of himself at each of our sessions, that soon his orgasms if he ever had any would resemble a woman's delicious tensions and relaxations. All to the good. The mood pills would help keep him from worrying about what was happening, where I was leading him, until he'd arrived there. Not too bad, my progress so far. The next evening I came home feeling irritable after an altogether unsatisfactory group session. Five men from a single men's club, Rotary or Kiwanis, I forget which, who'd signed up for severe discipline. They'd been slow to follow my orders, so I'd set them circle-fucking each other in a daisy chain, then I'd told them I was through, no more, they could go fuck themselves now that they knew how. Then they offered me double my fee to keep them on, pleading, and I was still annoyed with myself that I'd finally relented. But I was cheered when I saw Jim fondling a couple of nighties and a half-dozen new panties and bras while he cut off their price tags. "Do they fit?" I asked. "Yes, they're fine, thank you," he replied calmly. The Prozac at work! "The salesgirl insisted I try on each one and come out and show her, because they don't permit returns of lingerie, she said, once it's left the store. It was humiliating, all those women shoppers gathering to see. They looked amused. I was glad I had no body hair, or I'd have felt really ashamed. When I came out wearing this beige set they actually applauded." "I can see why," I said. "It's very pretty. It's hardly humiliating, wanting to wear pretty things. A nice choice." I noticed that the house still reeked of perfume. He'd overdone splashing it on himself, probably, but I said nothing. I had to smile that now his "after shave" or whatever he imagined people thought he was wearing was as unmistakeably dainty and feminine as lipstick. My hubby in lingerie, wearing a woman's fragrance! What next? Obviously, lipstick was next. And eye make-up. A week later he was jerking off into some really filthy panties, brown-stained cum from someone's asshole, not mine, when his Mistress stroked some light cosmetics on him. Not much, just a touch of mascara and a little eye-liner, some shadow on his lids, and a mauve lipstick. I told him his face needed more drama, a more lively expression. Of course he'd forgotten it was there by the time he returned to the bank. He was still wearing it, I saw, when he arrived home that evening and opened his Wall Street Journal to wait for dinner. That created a problem. Should I tell him? If so, how? Should I ignore it? If so, what would he think when he was getting ready for bed and stared into the bathroom mirror, and saw those stark eyes and that fashionably dark brown mouth? What had people thought at the bank, those who had seen him? Add in his perfume and they'd be sure that he was a transsexual or faggot coming out of the closet. Not untrue. I decided as usual to say nothing, in order to build his confidence that his increasingly feminine appearance was neither feminine nor noticeable. I commented only that he looked especially bright-eyed and alert, and asked if he been working out, or had gotten a raise at the bank, or what? He was bewildered but pleased. He knew what had really impressed me, and now he felt encouraged to keep it up on his own. As he did. The following day was especially busy for me if boring, just straight fucks one after another. I arrived home tired -- after all, Loretta, how many times a day can a woman ride how many cocks to orgasm? Or douche and then get filled up yet again with more cum? But there was Jim, wearing fresh make-up! Wonderful! He'd actually bought it on his own, actually found the courage! And put it on, presentably enough. And worn it all day at the bank, so far as I knew in a sort of reversal of "The Emperor's New Clothes," thinking that it made him look better and yet remained invisible! I commented again on how alert he looked these days, and again he looked pleased. And this time he re-applied it before coming to bed. Does he do that at work, I wondered? Take out a compact and mascara and a tube of lipstick and freshen his face at his desk? The next weeks were routine. Jim knelt naked except for his undies three times each week, smelling wonderfully feminine and looking prettily made up, trembling, sucking on my fingers and then receiving from my hand another pair of panties streaked with who-knows-what, the sacrament of his devotion. He'd kiss them and slip them on, then stroke cum into them if he could, attach a new brassiere around nipples he said had become quite sensitive, and after re-applying his make-up he'd leave with his old undies in a "Victoria's Secret" or "Frederick's of Hollywood" bag, once in a "Lady Madonna" bag my receptionist provided for the secretaries at his bank to marvel at. A few months more and he was mine. If he hesitated to do my most trivial bidding I spoke to him harshly, and he was crushed. When I praised him, it was always for some utterly feminine trait or gesture. He blossomed and beamed whenever this happened, and tried even harder to please me. His breasts were budding, and I gave him strict orders to play with his nipples for at least fifteen minutes every day. This gave him so much pleasure, I saw at home, that sometimes he caressed himself unthinkingly -- if we were at a restaurant or otherwise in public I had to caution him not to. Gradually I weaned him away from soiled to fresh panties -- though I still had him cum each session into a sanitary napkin and then wear it for the rest of the day. He produced very little fluid, unless I said something to excite him, like praise for the way he'd plucked his eyebrows, or comment on his two-toned lipstick and lipliner. At home even the thought of sex ceased. His accumulating bras and panties finally overwhelmed his bedroom bureau. I remarked one day that since he seemed to prefer them and they looked so nice, he should pack away his men's things to make more room for them. He did. The next day his Mistress scornfully informed him that since he was a woman, not a man, he should wear full lingerie all the time, not just bras and panties. A woman could not feel altogether neat and sweet and pretty and respectable unless she was wearing hosiery, pantyhose, teddies, slips, and now and then even a panty girdle. That he should begin thinking about shoes and outer garments too. He was old enough to be wearing heels, and to appear at least now and then in a dress! At home Jim asked me what I thought, and as always I answered without looking up, as if the issue were trivial, "Of course wear slips -- your dresses will hang better when you get around to wearing them. I don't know why you don't. And there are tailored suits for women as nice as those made for men. Skirts are much more lady-like. Of course if you wear a skirt to work you'll have to style your hair differently." So it was two against one. Jim began wearing full regalia under his business suits, and began to think about wearing a business suit with a skirt. He played with his hair, trying to make it curve coyly over his ears. My perfumed fairy princess was developing nicely. On a warm spring day on a Friday, I remember, his Mistress forced a crisis. She sent him to a boutique to buy a rather cute cocktail dress she'd seen, and a simple cotton frock to use as a house dress as well as a smart-looking woman's pin-striped suit, with pinched short jacket and straight skirt, for a day at the office. From then on he was her woman, she told him, and he would be dressed appropriately whenever he appeared for his tri-weekly sessions. Later on he would need to take a few weeks off to learn how to do it really right, and he would need to ask his wife's help. But for now all he had to do was appear to be a credible woman -- she would not tolerate a clown for a client. Jim was proud of his new purchases. He kept them at Hospitality House in a Client's Closet for a time, and changed into them just before his sessions were scheduled, and then changed back. His Mistress sent him out onto the street now and then, so he could get used to people seeing him in women's clothes. With make-up and earrings, no one ever looked twice at him. The Closet eventually filled to bursting, and under orders he carried everything home. That evening he put on a fashion show for his wife. I told him they were nice, but not being worn tastefully. That the cocktail dress and the suit needed heels, not the one pair of flats he owned. And -- as I again reminded him -- he needed a more sophisticated hairdo. And where were his accessories -- jewelry and purses and the like? When he told me he had none he was close to tears -- the hormones had made him much more sensitive to supposed rebukes. I told him I'd shop with him to get him started, but that if he meant to appear in public dressed like a woman all the time it would take a few weeks for him to learn everything he needed to know. Was he sure he wanted to look like a woman instead of a man? He nodded. I knew that what he really wanted was to please his Mistress, that he had private reservations, but we were reaching a critical point in his transformation now and it was no time to split hairs. That Friday was his last day in men's clothes, Loretta, and that Saturday was the birth day of that gentle blonde lady you see sitting over there reading and crocheting and smiling to herself now and then. A near knockout dose of Thorazine the next morning, and Jim put on his house dress, and we went to a salon I sometimes use for certain customers, where they do feminine make-overs on husbands if wives request it, without feeling they have to ask if the man himself wants it. Four hours of electrolysis on his beard and chest (of many more the rest of that week), and meanwhile eyebrow plucking, body-waxing, ear-piercing, fingernail strengthening, lengthening, and painting, hair-permanenting, curling, frosting, and styling, a make-up consultation, and my Jim was way past the point of no return. As a man he'd been a pitiful drudge, but as a woman he was getting to be really attractive. You can see that for yourself now, of course! When we left he looked just charming, a lot like the way he looks now, Loretta, though not quite as lovely -- that came later, when he finally agreed to add to his disguise with facial plastic surgery. But I'm getting ahead of myself. There was just time enough before the Mall closed to get him a few pairs of shoes too -- heels and more flats. And a few blouses and skirts. The next day he didn't recognize himself in the mirror and called out to me rather frightened. It took another really heavy dose of tranquillizers to calm him down, and really, I have to say, Loretta, he's been more or less cheered or zonked by one or another kind ever since. That Monday I had him phone in sick for the week, and claim his two-weeks vacation time as well, so he had three weeks before he'd have to face going to work looking the way he now looked. I shrugged when he worried the problem to me, as if no one would bother to notice that the man they knew was now a woman. I knew, as he didn't yet know, that his days of employment at the bank had ended. I started him on the other things he had to learn. How to apply full, persuasive makeup, even for sophisticated occasions. How to take care of his hairdo. Now that it was permed it was manageable -- I showed him how to put it up in rollers one evening, and he was delighted the next morning when he combed it out and found it was a beautiful mass of sculpted puffs and swirls. He had to learn feminine habits of walking and moving. I taught him to walk in heels with short steps, elbows close to his body, head high, hips swaying, his now quite noticeable breasts proudly thrust forward. I began calling him "Jamie" instead of "Jim," because that was a woman's name and would help him remember -- and if he didn't believe he was now a woman, who would? I told him to appear more feminine when doing his domestic tasks at home, to wear a frilly apron over his skirt instead of the velvet slacks he sometimes favored. He was busier in the kitchen than I'd ever been, and was doing all of the cooking now. With practice his voice became thinner and took on a wider range of inflections. I still remember the first time he used the words "sweet" and "darling" and "precious" in a single sentence. He was describing a cute-looking movie star pictured in one of his women's magazines, and I was amused that he was referring with those words not to her appearance or her figure but to her matching skirt and sweater. Of course I still had a living to earn, and clients who needed my attention, and Jim still had his tri-weekly appointments with his Mistress. But now I could greatly accellerate his feminizing -- in fact it had to be completed, essentially, before he felt he should return to work. It turned out to be a lot easier than I'd expected. iii. Luckily I'd overcome Jim's prejudice against oral sex a few weeks earlier, almost by accident. For an appointment just before Jim's, I was wearing a slip-on rubber love-doll mask, sitting regally on an ornate, throne-like chair and allowing a client to lick my feet as if I were some kind of goddess. That was his thing. You know those masks with their own hair and big red oval lips set in an "O," and huge bimbo eyes? Gay men use them to hide their identities when they're sucking some stranger's cock, and wives in sex clubs use them sometimes when they'd rather not be recognized by whichever next-door neighbor they're fucking. My earlier client couldn't get off at all unless I wore the kind of blow-up doll mask his girl had once worn every afternoon while he mouth-fucked her behind the high school gymnasium. So that's what I wore. He'd worship my feet, then I'd lie back with my crotch over the edge of the throne and imperiously crook my finger at him. He'd crawl forward and then, half-standing, half-crouching apologetically, he'd fuck me. What some men need to do to get off! This client had the thickest cock I have ever seen, Loretta. It was like a baseball bat. He always left my pussy swollen and stretched wide, and his spunk was a thick, viscous fluid he'd pump into me for what seemed forever. It took forever to ooze out, too, always in huge, phlegmy globs. Well, a few weeks before Jim's final phase began, with his enforced vacation, I happened to feel too sore and too lazy to bother using the bidet after my client left. I decided that it would be more comforting to have my cunt licked clean by my next client, my queenly husband Jim, who had once refused the honor as unsanitary. In he came wearing a red satin teddy, his breasts now grown out and filling his matching red bra like half-grapefruits, perfumed and made up, looking more like a butch lesbian than a man. As always he kneeled at my feet! My face was still masked like a love-doll, my swollen cunt was beginning to leak blobs of thick sperm, and I knew it smelled strong, freshly fucked. I gave Jim my fingers to suck on as usual, but this time I first dipped them into the slime inside my pussy. I scooped up a huge gobbet of cloudy cum. Jim hesitated for only a second, but then licked it as devotedly as always. He must have realized what it was and been turned on by the humiliation, because after a few more fingers full, without my permission he lunged his mouth onto my crotch like some starved animal, and began to suck it out of me passionately. The way he thrust his face into me so was so primal I couldn't possibly think to punish him for it. He couldn't help himself, he was obviously out of control. And besides, it felt wonderful! You know, Loretta, he slurped and sucked and swallowed cum from me for nearly his whole scheduled session. He was transported! It was as if the mask had rendered me more than human, an immortal fit for worship. He looked up at my face once or twice, and as the cute, wide-eyed, Bimbo "Oh!" expression stared back, he seemed reassured. His tongue curled and curved and probed and poked and reached deep into me! My desires rose up and I came in a beautifully blossoming orgasm, feeling as chaste as a wild flower the whole time, and then I rose up and came yet again! So sweetly gentle, yet so full, so complete! Jim's tongue in my pussy was like an armful of heather and roses, or like a young man shyly offering his best girl a bouquet of violets. And I was always sparkling clean when he finished. I wished we'd gotten into it years before! Well, two days later I was again brim-filled with fluids and secretions from that same fat-cocked client, with my fairy husband again scheduled next on my calendar. I took off my mask so that this time I would appear to be what I was, Jim's familiar severe Mistress with her usual black dominatrix eyes and red slash of a mouth. But this time when Jim came in and knelt down humbly I simply stepped forward over him, mounted his upraised face, and pressed my spunky cunt against his nose and mouth. Then without a word I began to squeeze my cunt muscles. Thick mixed sperm and my own cum poured from my pussy into his mouth. All of everything my prior had squirted into me ended up in Jim, and when I stepped from his face with my cunt licked utterly pristine, he was still swallowing and licking the memory of it, eyes closed, in heaven! I decided that whatever else, from then on I would use Jim instead of a bidet to clean out whatever secretions and fluids there were in my pussy. At last I'd found his primary sexual talent! By now Jim's breasts were more than ample, and he would fondle his nipples by the hour if I'd let him, a serene smile on his face. I do believe his character changed to match -- he became more sensitive, gentler, more tentative, sweeter. His face and figure grew softer, too. Understand, Loretta, Jim didn't want to be a woman at first, and he still didn't, really. He'd only had a panty fetish when I started with him, and I'd degraded him to do nearly anything to please his Mistress. Now here he was, wearing pantyhose, make-up, everything, quite presentably feminine, sucking a stranger's cum out of my cunt like any submissive husband of any whore of a wife anywhere. And loving it! That was his sex life now -- when he tried to jerk off nothing ever happened at all. When he pleased me, my little hubby, he was overjoyed that I rewarded him by making him my douchebag. The next spunk he sucked so devotedly out of me was Brian's, his own boss's, the very bank official who had first sent him here. It happened the first day after Jim's total makeover, when without being fully aware of it Jim had committed to dressing and looking like a woman for good, the first day after his three-week full-time crash course in femininity had gotten under way. I thought of telling Jim this to mortify him, that he was sucking his boss's cock at one remove, but I couldn't violate client confidentiality. Then I realized that with Brian's cooperation I could convert Jim completely and irreversibly by the end of the three weeks available. So why shouldn't he suck his boss's cock directly, and enjoy it? Many women do. No news there! I mentioned to Brian that I had this curious transsexual client, a man he had recommended to me who now thought he was really a woman and who thinks semen on a cock tastes like melted ice cream. Brian immediately recognized that it was Jim, as I'd intended, and immediately asked for an introduction to this "lady" who felt so impelled to suck cock. He'd wondered what was happening with Jim because, as he said, Jim's perfume and make-up had been duly noticed by everyone. In fact he'd become something of an embarrassment, fixing his face daily, arranging his hair like a woman's even while he pretended to be a man, so he'd been reassigned to a back office. I asked Brian straight out, would he let Jim suck his cock. He was amused by the idea. He quipped that many employees seem willing in order to secure professional advancement, but even so, he'd have trouble letting a man come near his prick. He thought a bit longer. A man who looked and acted like a woman might be another matter. And a man who was already so much a woman he could never again become a man, why, he'd enjoy being serviced by that kind of woman. Especially -- and he looked at me -- especially if there were no charge for the service. Was I sure that Jim's conversion was now irreversible? I told him that in another week or two it would be, that with his help there could be no going back for Jim ever. What he had to do was quite simple -- audit Jim's books at the bank. But in absolute secrecy, and to do absolutely nothing about whatever he found. Brian looked quite serious when I said this, and was about to refuse. But I added quickly that any irregularities in Jim's accounts would be set straight together with whatever interest was required to convert missing funds into "loans." That I personally guaranteed whatever the sums, as long as they remained confidential. That no one need ever know about them, nor about the slack supervisorial hand that had allowed them even when the employee began acting peculiarly unconventional. That not even Brian's wife needed to know that he had been tipped off to the embezzlement, if any, by a woman who regularly gratifies his need to be whipped. I now looked back at Brian equally seriously. He grinned, and explained that when money has been mismanaged or embezzled, most businesses prefer getting it all back quietly to pressing charges against the embezzler and perhaps thereby giving other employees ideas of their own, and meanwhile needlessly distressing stockholders. Of course the malefactor had to disappear and never reappear again, or Brian would be obliged to order his arrest. I nodded and agreed. Jim would disappear. I then told Bryan that just as banks give depositors gifts of radios or toasters, he would receive a bonus -- no charge for his first few deposits into Jim's mouth, and afterward the two of them would be free to make their own arrangements. Brian might never have to pay for oral sex again. Brian smiled. "I wonder why you're so generous," he commented. Brian was no fool. The next day, while Jim was slurping away at my pussy and drinking up who knows who's cum, and while I was moaning, my mind delightedly dancing through fields of fragrant flowers, I told Jim I had a arranged a special surprise for his next appointment. I told him it would change his life. I told him to try to look as beautiful as he could when he appeared, as feminine as possible. I told him to ask his wife to help him look seductive. That night he laid on the bed a choice, a beautiful, black sequinned, figure-clinging cocktail dress, very classy, and a really racy, silver-threaded, mini-slut dress. Then he tried to find the courage to broach the subject with me. I knew he'd be nervous, so I laced his pre-dinner cocktail with fresh tranquillizers instead of relying as usual on whatever effects were left from his usual morning pills. "I'd like to look especially nice, tomorrow after lunch," he said. "I need to wear something appropriate. Would you help me choose?" I was a teeny bit cruel. "Nice how, sweetheart?" "Seductive," he said, and swallowed hard. "All right," I said. "Then slather on the eye make-up. But 'appropriate? For what? A wedding? Yours? Who's the groom?" I said this unhelpfully while nibbling on the shrimp souffle Jim had made as an appetizer. He was spending more and more time in the kitchen during the week doing fancy things, maybe because he felt guilty that he was deceiving his wife with a paid mistress, maybe because the hormones and the clothing and the role-playing had turned his mind to doing traditional women's work. When he'd confessed that much to his Mistress one afternoon, I'd ordered him to do something special for his wife each day, to show his appreciation for her. He'd started cooking exotic dishes for our dinner each night. That is, in addition to making the beds, vacuuming and dusting, tending to our laundry, clearing up after dinner, and rinsing out our delicate undies. He needed encouragement, not teasing, so I got serious. "I've been wondering when you would want me to see more of your dresses," I commented. "High time, too. There's no reason for you to feel restricted in the way you present yourself here in the house or outside either, just because you used to be a man. I love wearing all kinds of dresses myself. Let's see what you've chosen for this special occasion." Well, of course I urged him to wear the silver mini, which had a teeny open jacket to match and a see-through blouse. A girl dressing up to suck her boss's cock should look like a tart, I reasoned to myself, and I offered to lend him a ton or so of junk jewelry to add to the effect. "With a dress like this," I said, "get yourself a special hairdo. Piled way high, maybe with a rhinestone hair piece on top." The beauty salon operator went all out. When Jim showed at Hospitality House for his tryst with Brian his hair was piled high, his nails were bright red, his new breasts were bulging in their scanty lacy bra, deep cleavage fully visible through his see-through blouse, his silver skirt scarcely covered his crotch, and he wore long legged black net stockings. I must say, Jim was a living sex-pot sex-doll, all pretence of masculine appearance wiped away. I'd experimented with Lesbian sex in college, and the sight of him reminded me of things I'd not myself done with a woman for a while. He entered the room daintily on his five-inch strappy silver slippers, and immediately saw a figure wearing my doll face sitting on my throne at the other end of the room. He approached and then fell to his knees, eyes lowered. But then came a moment's stunned shock, when he saw a long, sheet-covered tent pole rising high out of what he thought was my lap, and then heard my familar commanding voice not in front of him but behind him. "Now what does a pretty girl like you want to do when she sees a handsome prick like that rising in front of her face?" I guess for all the feminizing and the humiliation and scum-sucking, Jim had never expected to go this far! Actually to take another man's cock into his own mouth and suck in it. Before, whatever the humiliating act he had performed, it was in submission to feminine power, deeply fulfilling to a submissive like Jim. But cock sucking was submission to masculine power. It required that all male competitiveness and jealousy in himself be suppressed, and that he find within instead a truly feminine desire to please, to make a man happy. He looked around at me, imploring