Kind Of Magical Realist Fairy Tale free porn video

Kind of Magical Realist Fairy Tale Copyright 2000, Melissa Virus This one's only my second try, so please, continue to try and be gentle. Know that there is an explanation. ***************************************************************************** Alissa was kind of young; I was eighteen and she was sixteen. You know, not young enough that it was sick or anything, but . . . just this side of the line separating good and bad taste. In retrospect, our relationship was kind of unhealthy, in that she was one of those young girls who becomes over-sexual due to some kind of bad experience, and I was inadvertently one of those guys who would date girls like her. I don't know the exact psychology behind it. All I know is that she was a fox. Not in a classical, healthy and athletic way, but in a very . . . trashy way. I was a senior in high school, and I was listening to a lot of Sonic Youth, and I was all into John Waters and MaximumRocknRoll, so I dug the trashy vibe. I figured her style was something conscious, intentional, like a high-concept po-mo social commentary thing. I've always been too willing to assign noble intent to people. She would wear things like nylon slips as skirts, tight, white trash shirts, daisy dukes, and poofy poofy thrift-shop skirts. And always, as a rule, she would wear some kind of big, clunky shoes with either a heel or a platform. She managed to always seem half-dignified and half-undignified. She was one of those troubled girls, and I can not stress enough how HOT she was. (Especially to a hormonally over-emotional 18-year-old guy.) She was tall for a girl, probably 5'8, and she was particularly thin. She had big, dark eyes with really long eyelashes and long, straight black hair. Her lips were kind of thin, but her mouth was kind of wide. The effect was mesmerizing. We met at a party at some kid's house. I think some lame Phish-sounding band was playing. She was wearing a red slip, with black lace toward the bottom, and some red petticoats over it, and a tight little yellow belly shirt out of which stuck the cutest little breasts I'd ever seen. She was sitting on the floor, against the wall, with her knees up; they were spread apart a little. Before I spoke to her, I knew that she wore red panties . . . She looked bored, and since I never liked jam bands, I sat down next to her and asked her if she was THAT bored. She said yes. She'd just told her boyfriend to go fuck himself and he'd left with some other girl, so she had no kind of ride home. And on top of that this band blew. If you've ever been to high school, you know that the whole thing, especially the parties, is a kind of hormone-soaked fever-dream. We wound up making out right there, on the floor, in about twenty minutes. I had my hand up her skirt before I'd known her two hours. She'd given me head before I knew where she lived. Actually, she'd given me head as I was driving her to where she lived. After I dropped her off I asked for her phone number, but she said she didn't have a phone. I believed it, because she lived in a tiny little trailer in a tiny little trailer park. The area I was from was pretty affluent, so I didn't really know whether trailers could have phones or not. And we both went to the same school, so she said I could see her Monday. She said she liked me as much as I liked her. Of course she had a phone. But she didn't want me to know that she was afraid of what her mother would do if she started getting phone calls. . . So that night I was in a very intense, very teenage state of mind. I met up with some friends at the truck stop that was our home base, after I dropped her off, and told them what had happened. All three of them - I had three friends - were happy for me. I'd only gotten laid a couple of times, with a girl friend who'd gone away to college. (I know it sounds like a cover - "sure, I've had sex. But uh, she doesn't go to this school" - but it's true.) Nobody knew much about Alissa, though they all knew who she was. She was the type that blended into the background, but once you gave her some thought, you realized that she was a fox. So for the rest of the weekend I looked forward to school on Monday, so I could see her again. I played my guitar and spent Sunday afternoon making a mix tape, but I couldn't get her out of my head. Monday morning I waited at the main entrance of the school for her, and she showed up about thirty seconds before the last bell. She looked magnificent. She was having a kind of Goth day, with pale face and heavy eye makeup, a tight long thin black nylon skirt and a little black tank top. She'd even made the little swirl at the corner of her eye, like Death from The Sandman. I didn't think anybody else at my school read The Sandman . . . Since we were going to be late for homeroom, we decided to go get breakfast instead. I was a senior, going to graduate, and I didn't give a fuck about a little tardiness. And she was a delinquent, so she didn't care either. We wound up driving through McDonald's and getting some Egg McMuffins. We both acted all silly, making jokes about the word "McMuffin," and putting "Mc" in front of everything we saw; for example, "hey, let's go McSit on the McSwings." It was a good method of easing the mild discomfort of the carnality we'd shared a few nights ago, at least for me, and it gave us something to say, not to mention it was a lot of fun. We went to a public playground and ate our McFood sitting on the swings. After we'd eaten and thrown our wrappers on the ground, she came over and sat on my lap, in my swing. The feeling of her weight on my lap, the femininity of her slinky skirt and shirt, not to mention the feeling of her body underneath, and the way she smelled, gave me a hard-on. She felt it pressing against her butt and squirmed a little, then asked me what we should do about it. I had never been a prude, exactly, but sexually, that was the moment I knew I was in over my head. She led me over to some orange plastic tunnels-slides that had been set up for kids to play in, and we made incredible love. We mostly kept our clothes on; she just took off her panties and playfully told me to hold them. Then she unzipped my pants and climbed on top of me. She was glistening wet, warm and ravenous. I laid on my back and looked up at her, squirming and jostling above me, and enjoyed the most blissful, serene, intense feelings I have ever felt. (This remains the most perfect moment of my life.) I remember her face. She looked a little like Kate Moss, just with this . . . look. She looked more innocent, or maybe just more young, because she always seemed to exude sex. Kind of like, kinky sex. Lolita-ish. (If you do a web search for "non-nude," or "tikini," you'll see this sad look in some of the girls' faces. She had a lot of that sadness.) I managed to last inside of her for a long time. I even wound up rolling over our beast with two backs and making love to her missionary-style. After I had come, she produced a couple Parliaments. Aaah. We talked for a while. We actually had a lot in common, at least in the arts. We liked a lot of the same bands, even though I was mainly into dream-pop stuff and she was more into rockabilly. She was a painter and I was a guitarist. She wouldn't show anyone her paintings and I wouldn't play my songs for anyone. We kissed and touched and rubbed against each other. I was really, really in love. Already. She told me to keep her panties as a souvenir. I put them in my pocket. The point was that when we got back to school, I knew she was walking around all day with a skirt on and no panties. Trying to pay attention to Ms. Koster's astronomy lecture was like trying to keep a wet dog in a kitchen sink: really difficult. I kept thinking about her, wondering where she was. In my mind I kept seeing up her skirt, to the wonderful naked girl I'd had earlier that morning. I had a hard-on all day. And whenever I needed confirmation of my horniness, I could feel her flimsy nylon panties in my pocket. Eventually the day ended and I caught her in the school's courtyard and hugged her. I couldn't help myself and I squeezed her ass. It felt especially good since only she and I knew that there was only one layer between her ass and my hand. She squirmed. I think she was into the idea of being the object of my libido, particularly in public. She had me drop her off after school. Usually she had to be home after school and couldn't hang out. Her mom was kind of a psycho. Sometimes her mom would be out doing something, or she'd take a trip to the city; that was where her mom had been when I'd met her. But most of the time her mom was home in their little trailer, making Alissa be home. At first I figured that her mom must be some kind of overzealous Catholic, or Mormon or something, but eventually that theory didn't pan out. Most of the girls I'd known who had religious parents were really vocal about how evil and sucky Christianity was; Alissa just seemed disinterested. Whatever it was, she always seemed reluctant to talk about what went on in her house, and I figured the best thing for me to do was wait until she felt comfortable, and simply be supportive until then. So I did everything I could to try to make her see how beautiful she was. I'm sure it's not hard to guess that she had self-esteem problems, and I did my best to show her what she meant to me: to make her see how different she was from everyone else we knew. I begged her to show me her paintings, and once she did show me one. It scared me. It was mostly black, with curvy green things kind of going around in broken ovals, and the occasional spot of dark brown or navy. It wasn't the type of "I'm depressed" work that most teenagers make; it was more like, "I'm absolutely hopeless so fuck off." The feeling of her painting was past desperation to, I don't know, disconsolation. I told her I loved it, and I did, but it was kind of intimidating how personal the painting was. Most paintings, like most forms of artistic expression, are at least somewhat accessible, but hers was absolutely not. I admired her for that, but I also worried about her for it. In any event, from then on I honestly praised her painting skill, even though it made me feel scared about and for her. I think I was the first guy she'd ever been with who hadn't treated her like shit. She grew to love me as much as I had loved her that first morning in the park. I could feel her attitude shift from "nothing matters so I'll fuck anyone" to a cautious optimism. The sex remained great. I got her to admit that she loved to be tied up, and I ate her out for what seemed like hours at a time. I made her come over and over, even though she'd rather have been making me come. I showed her what love was. I lavished her with it. Not only did I show her love, but I also spent money on her, which I think was another first for her. My parents could afford it. It turned out she didn't choose her clothes for any reason other than because they were all she could get her hands on. We went to thrift shops, and even regular women's stores, and I'd buy her anything she wanted. She figured out early on that the more feminine the outfit the more I liked it, and she'd get ridiculously girly with what she chose. And she always had me come into the changing room with her. I bought her things like old cheap thrift store prom dresses and bridesmaid dresses, and even costume stuff like 1920s outfits or cheerleader uniforms. She had a recklessness to what she'd wear; I think as she got more comfortably into a loving relationship she felt more at ease with dressing more and more wildly. It was kind of like she just didn't give a fuck, but it was really sexy. Sometimes she'd have me try on dresses and things in the dressing rooms with her. It wasn't sexual or anything, but she seemed to get a kick out of it. She'd get me in her panties and then have me try on an old prom dress or something. It was funny. We had fun . . .I only mention this to show how comfortable I was with her, and she with me. Eventually I started to glean things from her about her home situation. I guessed early on in our relationship that she had been sexually abused, but didn't realize the scope of the abuse until pretty late. One night when her mom was in New York doing whatever it was that she did, Alissa and I got drunk and she spilled her fucking guts, crying and frequently stopping and sobbing, makeup running down her face. Out of the blue, sobbing: "I fucking hate my mom. I fucking hate her. Do you know what she does to me? Do you know what I'm doing all the time, after school, instead of spending time with you? She makes me wear little fucking cotton panties and little girl dresses and sick fucking shit, and she takes pictures of me! I'm fucking famous with sick old men who read gross magazines. I see them, you know. I see the way these fucking men look at me, like they've fucking come on my picture a hundred times. I'm not a person to them; I'm a fucking underage pair of tits with an ass. The longer this shit goes on, the more often some fucking dad in the mall or some fucking teacher at school looks twice at me, and I know he's seen me almost naked. "I hate you mom! I fucking hate you! Right now she's in New York selling pictures of her only daughter, all dressed up in her best little girl panties, to some fat greasy asshole who smells like sweat and wants to put them in the magazine he's fucked enough to publish. I'm all she has, and all she sees me as is a fucking means to never have a job. Can I tell you where my dad is? He's fucking dead. He didn't skip town or anything. Fuck no. He killed himself when I was ten. He loved me! When he knew he had to be around my fucked up mom to be around me, he drank. And when he realized that he'd become a fucking drunk, who was only going to hurt me one day, he killed himself. He couldn't leave, and he couldn't handle it . . . "You're the only one who's ever loved me like my dad, without wanting to fuck me. You let me be a person, and I love you more than you can ever know for it." Finally, she completely lost out to her sobbing and couldn't talk any more. Her mom was photographing her for porn. There were occasional naked shots, but mostly, since she was not legal, they were like underwear shots and upskirts and stuff. Or there would be ones where she was supposed to look all innocent but wearing nothing but panties, with a teddy bear in front of her breasts. She was pretty much sexually degraded every day after she came home from school. Her mom was relentless, because she figured that as long as she had a hot daughter to photograph, she didn't need to have a real job. And I'm sure her mom figured Alissa would be running away any day. This had gone on for the last six years, since her dad had killed himself. (I'd been unaware of this suicide.) She said she was sure that he'd killed himself because he couldn't bear to be with her mom anymore since he'd realized that she was a psycho, but he couldn't leave his daughter; he especially couldn't leave her alone with her mother. So he'd eventually become a big alcoholic. Once he realized that he'd basically fucked up his life and that he was living in a trailer with a ten-year old daughter and a wife he hated, and that it was only a matter of time before he became violent because of it, he ate a shotgun barrel. She loved her dad though. She stressed over and over, through tears, that he'd never hit her or even raised his voice to her. And that he'd never ever have killed himself if he had been thinking clearly or if he had known what would happen to her. She knew - had to believe - that he had loved her more than anything. And she blamed her mom. Now her mom had men come over and play with her. They would touch her, and they would kiss her, and basically use her as a sex prop. Her little trailer home was not much more than a little porn studio. When her mom went into the city it was to make deals with fat greasy porn guys or to sell pictures to magazines. She didn't go home that night - we both slept in my car. I asked her why she didn't run away, or tell the police, and she couldn't tell me. I didn't understand, but I wasn't about to get all authoritative on her, and I think she appreciated it. The next day, a Thursday, I'd dropped her off at home and gone to school. I of course now faced a dilemma. Should I tell someone? Almost immediately I decided that it was Alissa's decision and not mine, and chose not to tell anyone anything. But my mind had already started racing around all the time. I stopped sleeping well and became pretty jittery. I tried not to show it around her but I think she knew that I was shaken. We stopped having sex. It had become apparent to both of us that she was pretty sick in the sex department, and it turned out she was kind of terrified of it. That was why she'd always been so cavalier about it. I thought of it as making love, but she was just lashing out by fucking, even though she loved me. So neither of us said anything, but it just came up less and less. She seemed not to mind though, and I was all about going along with whatever felt right to her. I trusted her instincts. I'd always thought my parents were kind of sheltered, but I'd also always kind of suspected that this suspicion was mainly due to teenage attitude. (I'm pretty self-aware.) But then they got it into their collective head that I was on heroin. I'd stopped hanging out with my friends, and I'd always spent most of my time in my room with my door locked, playing music. I guess dope had been on 20/20 one night and they made a little inference. What they forgot is that, as had noted a pamphlet at which Alissa and I had laughed once, "normal adolescent moods can resemble the signs of drug use." And I was moodier than most. I knew from experimenting a little that were I on heroin I would be absolutely un-jittery and would be sleeping fine, but my parents didn't know anything about drugs, except that they were bad. I refused to answer when they finally confronted me, and since they knew that I'd been seeing some poor girl from across the metaphorical tracks, the idea that I was a junkie was already all but cemented in their heads. But since I was legally an adult and they couldn't find any kind of paraphernalia, they couldn't really do anything. I still hung out and cut school with Alissa. There was a new bond between us, and this one went completely beyond sex. She felt really really vulnerable at first, but eventually she told me that she'd started to feel more comfortable around me than anywhere else, more comfortable than even when she was alone. The reason I was so moody, it turns out, was that I was going through a second puberty. At eighteen my hormone levels should have been leveling off, and I should have become relatively emotionally stable. But since even before Alissa had told me about her home situation I'd been more and more emotionally volatile, and in fact, was re-entering the hormone soup everyone experiences around age thirteen, but from the other end. I stopped getting erections, which would have been noticed if not for Alissa's sexual revelation. My groin kind of started shrinking in, and over the course of a couple weeks, it was as smooth as my stomach. I lost whatever little muscle mass I had, and eventually my body closely resembled the angels from The Sandman, or maybe the ones from "Dogma." It was subtle, and I wore baggy clothes, but it was there. I wasn't comfortable telling Alissa. She had her own shit going on, and she seemed a lot more interested in the close friendship we had developed than in my cock. And I wanted to spare her whatever emotional baggage I could . . . she finally seemed to me to be becoming healthy. So I kept it to myself, but the rush of estrogen, the smaller rush of testosterone, my changing body and my parental and social situations wound up putting so much stress on me that I was an absolute emotional wreck. And the fact that I was a wreck impacted most of the situations that were making me a wreck, in a vicious circle. Eventually I bugged out. Alissa and I were sitting on our McSwings talking, when we should have been in school, and she mentioned my friend Jay, whom I hadn't seen in weeks, except for occasionally at school. I broke down crying. "I haven't spoken to Jay in almost two months," I sobbed, "and I haven't spoken to Joe or Bern either, and I miss them, Liss . . . All I fucking do anymore is sit around in my room and listen to Placebo and the Bouncing Souls and wait for you and it doesn't make me sad but I miss you so much so many hours every day and I can't tell you I'm upset because I don't want you to worry and your life and home are so fucked that I'm in no position to complain about whatever's going on with me and I want to protect you from everything because you're delicate like a pink shard of glass and I'm so fucked up any more and I feel like I'm at the top of the mountain that shrinks to a point in the beginning of Rocky and Bullwinkle except that I'm not a flying squirrel and once the mountain point shrinks into the ground I'm just going to be floating in the air and disoriented before I fall miles to the ground and I feel like I'm at the point right before I hit and . . . and . . ." She took my hand in hers. She looked at my eyes and though I knew she didn't understand, I knew she was the only person who knew me well enough to sympathize and I knew she loved me enough to make me feel better. Then her big brown eye twinkled. "Want to lay down and I'll blow you?" Game over, for me. Not only was she reverting to communicating via fucking, but now there was no way I could avoid showing her what puberty had done to me. I felt again like I was stuck in the air, without a net, but I was neither floating nor falling. I stood up and walked away from our swings, and she followed me. She asked me to tell her everything that was going on with me and to remember that she wasn't quite a Faberge egg, and was in fact a little resilient and that to be a member of our relationship, I had to be open and communicative, too. So I took her hand and led her over to our orange plastic pipe-slide. I sat down and, with her hand in mine, told her that it upset me that she thought giving me a blowjob would fix anything. Comprehension dawned on her face - she knew that she'd had a relapse into the sexually fractured girl neither of us wanted her to be. But then she smiled, knowing I knew she'd realized, and, fucking with me, asked, "yeah, but don't you miss 'em? I mean, blow jobs?" I laughed a post-lachrymose laugh. There was a lot of psychology going on. I placed her hand against my crotch, through my corduroys. When she looked at me with large eyes, surprised not to feel anything, I moved her hand up into my waistband and down into my boxers. That was how Alissa came to be the first to know my hymen. She looked at me with huge eyes and a flat mouth, then kissed me on the lips. She was surprised, but I was still early on in female puberty; I'd developed primary sex characteristics but before I'd developed secondary ones. I was thin and when naked I basically looked like a tall ten year old girl; skinny indie rock kids pretty much look like ten year old girls, though, so it hadn't been apparent by sight that I was becoming a girl. She sat back and pulled my head into her lap, and I started crying again. I would never be on the giving end of a penis again, and while that seemed a ridiculously crude thing to rue, it made me sad. It was the end of something, and I hate it when things are over. She stroked my blond(e) hair, which came down halfway between my ears and my jaw, and patted my back. I sobbed and sobbed, but it was kind of a happy sobbing, since I knew I was not going to lose her. Finally I looked up into her face and thanked her with my eyes. Everything was still fucked up, but at least I had someone to go through it with me. I felt a touch of stability for the first time in months. My burden had left. We talked about my second puberty. She made light of it as best she could; she told me that maybe the body gets the hang of puberty after the first time, because second puberties always take way less time than the first one. She said my face looked softer, and my lips looked fuller. In her comfortingly guileless way, she told me that once my tits and ass developed, I was going to be much more of rounded, femininely shaped girl than she was. My frame, while skinny for a guy, was no kind of waif, especially for a girl. While I had grown thinner, I still had hips, and we figured that meant I'd probably have some ample breasts, too. Not to mention the ass. . . This was kind of disturbing me, but before I could bug out she said something that will always stick in my mind. She said: "We'll complement each other." Wait . . . Did she mean she'd remain my girlfriend, even after I became a girl? She said that of course she would. Sex was pretty much corrupted for her; it served not much purpose except to make someone else happy or to get something accomplished. And sex was also so strangely insignificant to her that she had no hang-ups at all about being bi. In short, she was only concerned with love; sex did nothing, in her opinion, but get in the way of love. So she would love me, who had shown her so much and who had made her feel like a real person, until everyone in the world and all their descendents were dead. She made me feel so comfortable and happy I started crying for the third time in about an hour. I was just so relieved and I had no other way of expressing it. This time she laid down next to me in our McPipe slide and hugged me. I felt safe and secure for the first time in months. Once I got my voice back I thanked her for the McCatharsis. I loved her because she knew what that was. I couldn't go back to school that day. Too much had happened. So instead Alissa suggested that we go to the mall. I agreed, since it wasn't school. We got in my car and drove to the mall. We went to the Gap, where I'd taken her shopping more than once, and we walked around, both picking out girly things for her to try on. It was therapeutic, and even though it didn't manifest itself physically, I did feel sexually excited. After picking out a bunch of things, we went into the dressing room. We'd found out early on in our relationship that the doors to the dressing rooms at this particular Gap went down to the floor and up to the ceiling, and that we could therefore go in together, without making much of a fuss. She'd picked out a couple dresses and some underwear. The first tip I had that something was up was that she'd brought some pairs of cotton panties and some cotton bras. She only wore nylon or satin-y panties, because she said she just didn't feel comfortable in cotton. So when she told me to strip and held up the horizontally striped mainly blue panties in front of my waist, I did as told. I knew I'd have to start wearing panties eventually, but I wasn't expecting to start that day. But Alissa was persuasive. I took off my pants and pulled on the cotton panties. The elastic was much thinner than that on my boxers, and even though they were bikinis, they looked really skimpy and I said so. So Alissa told me to look in the mirror. The panties didn't look remotely out of place, and I had to admit that the boxers did. Then she put the bra on me. It was an a-cup in the same pattern as the panties, and it hung loose on my chest. But it too looked like it belonged on my chest, due to my new skinniness or my as-yet-undeveloped curves or whatever. The point is that I'd already become more of a girl than I'd been aware. So I wound up buying a bunch of pairs of cotton panties and a-cup bras, both at the Gap and later at Victoria's secret. She explained that probably at some point I'd want to wear underwear that wasn't cotton, but for now, we never knew when I'd start my period, and we had to be prepared, because cotton could absorb it some instead of letting blood run down my leg like nylon would. Not to mention cotton was more easily washed. Alissa was into it. I think she was pretty excited at the prospect of dressing me up. She probably hadn't been able to play with dolls much, and now I was basically her doll. And I was enjoying it. After an initial mental barrier, I began to feel right in my girl underwear, even if I was still wearing my baggy-ass corduroys. I was wearing a sweater, so my bra didn't show through. At one point I checked my watch and saw it was four o'clock. Alissa was late to get home. We'd gotten totally carried away with buying ourselves underwear, matching and not, and had lost track of time completely. She was going to be home late. We ran to my car and I sped her home. I dropped her off out of sight from her trailer and she didn't say anything or even kiss me, she just sprinted off. She was terrified. I drove home and headed straight up to my room. My mom spotted me on the way up, though, and gave me a classic television "look:" at my face, down to my bags, and back up to my face. She did her best to remain stoic, but it didn't quite work. When I got up to my room, I realized the gravity of what had happened. In our glee at buying me lingerie, Alissa and I had forgotten to get a bag from someplace normal to put all the other bags into. My mom had just spotted me with two bags each from Victoria's Secret and the Gap, where I didn't shop. She knew something was up. Too late now, I thought, putting my bags in my closet and heading to my bed. I was tired as fuck. I wound up lying down and sleeping through the night. Alissa wouldn't tell me what kind of punishment she'd received, but I knew it was bad. The next day she looked like she hadn't slept. Over the course of the next few weeks I started to develop secondary sex characteristics. A month after I got my first pair of panties, my little tits didn't fit into my a-cups any more, and I had a waist I couldn't believe. My ass really stuck out. I still hadn't had my period yet, though. My panties looked really right, and I started shaving my legs to complete my look. From the waist down I was totally a girl. I managed not to break my hymen, which wasn't hard, since I never really did anything. One day Alissa's mom made one of her excursions to New York and Alissa actually let me come over into her trailer. It was really small. If they were making any money from Alissa's modeling, it didn't show. Alissa took me back to her room, which was about the size of the downstairs bathroom in my house. There were a clothes rack, a bed and a little dresser, a mirror, and some painting supplies. That was it. Alissa told me it was time for me dress all the way up in her clothes. I figured I might as well, since I was a girl, but I figured I should make some kind of protest, so I said that if she dressed me, I got to dress her. She said deal. First she gave me a pair of grey Victoria's secret stretch panties with a matching b-cup bra, and I put them on. Then she handed me a grey a-line dress with cap sleeves, made of a sturdy cotton material. It was stiff and must have been washed with starch. Either my feet had shrunk or she had big feet, or more likely a combination of the two, because her shoes fit me. They were a pair of big clunky platform Mary Janes. I put them on with a pair of thin white knee socks. She gave me a touch of makeup and put some barrettes in my hair, then asked me what she should wear. I had her put on the Goth outfit she'd worn the first time we'd made love. It was kind of a thrill to watch her dress, pulling on her black panties and thigh-highs and then doing up her bra. She did her makeup as she had that day (She remembered!) and then we got up and looked in the mirror. She's been right when she'd predicted we'd compliment each other. I hadn't even finished developing and already I had big tits, a small waist and a cute, round ass. (There was plenty of ass on me for grabbing.) I was much more woman than Alissa was. I wasn't fat - far from it - but I was buxom. I looked like sex. Alissa, on the other hand, was all skinny waif girl, all angles and sharp curves. She had black hair and I was blonde. She had long hair and mine was only around my chin. I could never pass for a man in a dress. She told me we were going out. Once again I figured it was inevitable, and went along with her. We went to the little truck stop where I'd hung out back in the day, and took a booth. I didn't notice that Bern, Joe and Jay were there until they came up to our table and asked Alissa if she'd seen me lately. They didn't recognize me at all. It was amazing. Alissa told them she didn't know what was up with me, and they left us alone. We split a plate of fries and headed out. We went to our park. We sat on our McSwings. I couldn't believe I was here in a dress, and I got the idea of sitting in her lap. I weighed a good ten pounds less than her now, and flounced over to sit on her lap in the swings. She kissed me and put her arm around the small of my back, and told me she didn't give a fuck if anybody saw if I didn't. I didn't. We kissed a little then went back to her place. She told me she wanted to eat me out, to take my cherry, but until I'd had my first period, I wasn't mature and a) it wouldn't be as good and b) my period might come at any time, and she loved me, but she didn't want that in her mouth. I agreed, but then I managed to get her on the bed and eat her out instead. As soon as I finished, I noticed that there was blood coming out of my vagina. I screamed, knowing exactly what had happened but still surprised. I don't care how much you get used to it or expect it, it's fucked up to bleed there, especially right after you eat your girlfriend's pussy. Alissa was happy for me and showed me how to put a pad in my panties so I didn't get blood anywhere. I took a shower, put in a pad, put my boy clothes back on and headed home to sleep and try to pass as a boy. It was getting less and less easy, though. When I got home, though, my mom and dad were waiting for me in the kitchen. They wanted to talk. They'd seen me being a transvestite whore at the park in order to pay for dope. (They're worked out the whole scenario.) My mom had known that my lingerie bags were somehow related to my perceived drug addiction, but only today had she figured out how. They were furious, and they told me to pack my bags, because I wasn't welcome to live with them any more. They didn't know where I'd go, and they didn't care. They weren't about to support a degenerate drug addict slut, especially if their drug-slut son was going to flaunt his shit in their town. They wouldn't listen to anything I said. I felt like Lou Reed. Graduation was in one week, and here I was homeless. I took some of my shirts and a pair of baggy pants, some sweatshirts and all of my girl underwear and threw them in the trunk of my car. I took all of my CDs and tapes and put them in a bunch of boxes in the back seat. It killed me to leave my electric guitar, but I had no place to plug in an amp, and anyway, it wouldn't stay in tune. I brought my acoustic. I left everything else. Fuck it - I was starting over as absolutely as possible. I had to make a bunch of trips because as my body had become female I had lost a lot of muscle mass. It was weird because while I'd never had any real muscles at all, I had still lost a lot of strength. I was such a girl. I parked in the school parking lot and slept under a blanket in my car. I had one pair of boy pants I could wear this week, and then I wouldn't have to go to school any more and I wouldn't have to pass as a boy any more. Every night I slept in the school parking lot and woke up when other cars started driving in, so I didn't miss school. One bonus of my newly acquired filthy living quarters is that it certainly made me look and feel a lot less feminine, so I could pass at school much more easily. I wore my progressively filthier corduroys and a succession of thicker and thicker sweatshirts. I don't think anybody suspected I was a girl. I was lucky that for my last semester I had Health class instead of gym, so I didn't have to change. Of course I told Alissa. She told me she wished that her mom would fucking kick her out, but that she knew it sucked for me. She wished I could come live with her, but we both knew that was kind of impossible. So I'd be living in my car for a while, with no money. The only way I knew to get food was to use a gas card my parents had given me a while back to buy like bagels and Hot Pockets and such from the local Exxon Mart, but I knew that the only reason my card still worked was because of an oversight on my parents' part. This would be amended any day, and once again I had the feeling of being in the air neither falling nor floating, just existing, not attached to anything. On the last day of school I picked up my diploma from the school office and told them I wouldn't be attending graduation. I knew that by the end of the month, around graduation, I'd be even less recognizable as a boy, and I didn't want to deal with all the shit surrounding the fact that I'd become a girl. Once I had my diploma in my hand, I was totally floating. I had no obligations, no ties to anything, and no connections to anyone but Alissa. The rest of my life was totally up in the air. I wasn't going to college in the fall any more. I didn't have any nepotistic connections to any kind of jobs. All I had was some clothes, some nice lingerie, my car, and my (newly lesbian) relationship with my girlfriend. And starting that afternoon, I had absolutely nothing to do. Not in a bored suburban teenager way, but in a very literal way. After I dropped Alissa off, I had nothing to do. I figured I should probably get a job, but I couldn't think of anything I'd like to or could do. I certainly wasn't feeling up to having responsibilities. I'd rather sit around and think, or something; basically, I had re-entered the point during adolescence where all you want to do is hang around at the mall and look at the girls. I guess an affinity for girls had been hard-wired into my brain my first time through puberty, because I was only curious about boys. I didn't picture man-butt in my head when I was feeling horny; I still pictured round girl-butt, like I had. I was curious how a dick would feel inside me, and I knew I'd have to find out, but I'd promised my cherry to Alissa. My period was pretty much over, and she'd promised to sneak out of her house that night and pop my little cherry. I drove out into a little spot in the woods and got ready for our date. I was already wearing a pair of white cotton panties, because that's what Alissa had requested. She'd given me a bag of clothes to wear, and I'd put off seeing what they were until the last possible moment. Inside the bag were the petticoats, slip and yellow T-shirt she'd been wearing the night I'd met her. I pulled the red slip up over my hips and turned it so the black lace strip at the front was at the front. It was really tight around my hips, and I remembered that it had kind of hung off of hers. I really had way more ass than she did. Then I pulled up the petticoats over the slip. I was wearing a white cotton bra and I pulled the tight little shirt over my head and over my tits. The sleeves were way shorter than any shirt I'd ever worn before, and the shirt fit me snugly from the shoulders down to its bottom, two inches above my belly button. There were four inches from the bottom of my shirt to the top of my skirt, showing off my tight little tummy. (I still had an adolescent's metabolism, and I wasn't eating much anyway.) I put on black thigh-high stockings and a pair of Doc Marten Mary Janes, and headed off toward the gas station to shave my legs. I used my card to buy a disposable razor and asked if I could use the bathroom. They let me. In the bathroom I hiked up my skirt to past my waist and pulled down my panties, sitting on a pile of toilet- paper on top of the toilet seat, and shaved my legs. I was careful as hell and managed not to cut myself. I pulled up my panties, pulled down my skirt and headed over to the park to wait for Alissa to meet me. It felt strange to drive in the puffy petticoats, and on a whim I threw my two remaining pairs of pants out the window. I knew it was a stupid thing to do, but I also knew it was impulsive and symbolic. It seemed like an important thing to do, and I couldn't help my adolescent self. In retrospect, I think I was kind of drunk on the idea of finally losing my cherry. I was fucking horny by the time Alissa skittered up to the passenger window and got in. She leaned way over without saying anything and kissed me. She put a hand on my thigh. It seemed like she was more into me than she had been in the past, because she wasn't wildly going at me like a sex-banshee. She was really taking her time, touching first my legs, then my stomach, then holding my face while she deep-kissed me, then pulling me up onto her lap and massaging my back while she kissed me. I didn't even know what to do with myself; the feelings were so different from what I was used to. I didn't know how to reciprocate, and I doubt she wanted me to. This was going to be my first time, and she wanted it to be perfect. I was so turned on I could barely catalogue what I felt. My taut little belly felt like I had taken a shot of whiskey, with a warmth and fuzziness that felt like having a wet dream, in that it felt very sexy but non- specific. I'd expected my pussy to feel dripping wet, and it did feel warm. But I had no idea how wet I was until Alissa went down on me. First she spread my legs with her hands and s l o o o w l y pulled her hand up from my right knee to my labia, then repeated on the left side. I was squirming in my seat, and she was teasing the hell out of me. The feeling was transcendent. Finally, when I didn't expect it, she brought her finger from the bottom of my slit to the top, and back down. It slid right in and out. She looked at me provocatively and slowly licked my girl juice from her finger. Then she laid me across the front seats and pulled my skirt up to my belly. She blew on my pussy and I had a shock of laughter. Then she licked my labia and I couldn't laugh. It almost hurt, it felt so good. She licked slowly upward, finally making it up to my clit. It felt electric, like you always hear clitoral stimulation is, but it wasn't sharp. If I may wax poetical, it felt like wet electricity. She continued torturing me with her slow tongue, until I couldn't help myself and I found myself mashing my pussy up into her face. I was gasping and making little clipped "ohs" and squeaks. My voice was higher than it had been a year ago, and I noticed that I wasn't moaning dramatically like porn girls do. I couldn't control my breathing long enough to moan properly - it went in and out in wet electrical jolts. I totally lost control of myself and my hips took over, and Alissa put a finger in my pussy. Moving her finger in and out, while flicking her tongue over my clit, was too much for me, and my first clitoral orgasm overtook me. It wasn't centralized at my crotch, but it wasn't removed from it, either. It felt kind of like stretching your back muscles, just all over, and I wound up arching my back way up high, and letting out my first sustained moan. I was absolutely female, and I was totally sexual. The orgasm quickly spread from my pussy to the rest of my body, and I could almost feel it spread, like ink through water. When the feeling reached my nipples they became even harder than they had been, and they stayed that way. Alissa pulled my skirt down over my wet pussy and thighs and crawled up next to me to hug me as I sweated and panted in post-orgasmic fuzziness. She held me and kissed me, and I could barely think. She stroked my breasts and told me I only got a little break and then she was going to do that again. My heart raced immediately; instead of being completely spent after orgasm, I was totally ready - eager - to go again. It was intense. We were really cramped in the front seat of my car, but I didn't even realize it until well after the fact. She headed down to my pussy and jumped right in, before I was ready. My back arched again, in surprise, and I was filled with the intense, heat on the neck feeling I'd felt earlier. I knew why girls tended to get all flushed when they were turned on - I felt like all the blood in my body had gone to my face, and all the nerves had gone to my pussy. By the time Alissa was done, I could barely move and there wasn't an inch of me or her that wasn't covered in sweat. My car smelled like girl-sweat, and that was really good. My head was swimming. I was delirious. This was better than any drug. Waaay better. Alissa let me rest for about forever in her arms, then asked if I'd give her a ride home. She had to "model" tomorrow. Without any kind of inhibitions, all post-orgasm and happy, I told her I'd get her away from her mom. I told her we'd run away to Italy, like in the Morphine song, but together. She laughed and reminded me that neither of us knew Italian. I told her I didn't care, and in my delirium I decided that I really would get us there. She told me her mom was going shopping tomorrow and to come by around ten A.M. to visit for a minute, if her mom's car wasn't there. I thought that sounded great and said I would. I shouldn't have been driving, my knees were still too weak, but I got her home without incident. I kissed her goodnight and drove to the parking lot I'd been keeping my car since school ended, by a train station. It was pretty well lit (I was actually concerned about being raped . . .), and it never filled up. Nobody seemed to mind me there, so I kinda moved in. The next morning I was dying for a shower. I stank like sex, and my shirt and skirt (in which I'd slept) were all crusty. I didn't know where to get a shower, though, so I went to the river. I put on a bikini that Alissa had gotten as a joke, back when my parents supplied us with all the money we could spend, and decided to dip in the river. My logic was that if I couldn't wash, I could at least rinse myself. So I did, and I actually felt better. I didn't have anything to do, and it was still early, so I decided to swing by Alissa's place, to see if I could peek into her trailer and see what went on, and maybe . . . I don't know what my plan was. But I had nothing to do, and being filthy kind of warps your thinking. So I wound up changing into some grey nylon panties with black lace and a matching soft cup bra, a white tank top and a pair of Daisy Dukes that barely covered my ass. I felt good, even though I was still pretty dirty. I parked in a lot about a mile away and sneaked over to Alissa's trailer. She said her mom had gone out shopping and that If I was quick I could sneak a shower. There was plenty of time, if I was quick, and there shouldn't be a problem. So I pulled off my shorts and got in her shower. It felt absolutely wonderful to bathe, and she had all kinds of girly soap and exfoliants and exquisitely thick, aromatic shampoo and conditioner. I washed myself quickly, and even though I was rushed, it felt good to pamper myself. I soaped up, washed my hair, shaved my legs, pussy and armpits, exfoliated my face and got out. I wrapped a towel around my middle, covering my breasts, and walked to Alissa's room. This was only my second time in her room, and it looked pretty much the same. Alissa gave me a pair of canary yellow panties and a tight red satin bra and rushed to blow my hair dry. I was sitting with my back to the door with Alissa blowing my hair dry and brushing it when her mom opened the door. There I was in panties and a bra when this most intimidating of women found me. She must have been six feet tall and she looked kind of like an older Alissa, with a little more meat and a lot more stern. Her scowl alone had my heart racing at about 200 bpm. The first thing she did was to grab Alissa by the hair and pull her over to the door. "Who is this little piece of ass?" she asked Alissa rhetorically. "Hmmm, this is that slut who's been living out of her car by the train station, isn't it. Hmm hmmm hmmm," she hummed tunefully. She knew who I was, sort of. "Well, since you've come into my home and used my water and my soap and shampoo, not to mention my daughter's underwear, I think you owe me. So you can start to pay me back with some pictures." This was it- she was going to do the same thing to me that she'd done to Alissa for years. She told me to strip naked, and her height and air of authority left me no room not to. Once I was naked and shivering in front of her, she walked around me, examining my body, looking at my ass or squeezing one of my 34c breasts, even gliding a finger over my pussy. Once she finished her assessment of me as a piece of meat, she sat me down on a stool and started to do my make-up. Remember, at this point I was bare-ass naked and I totally didn't know this woman, so I was vulnerable and terrified; I was on the verge of tears but I had to be tough. Anyway, I knew tears wouldn't help the situation. After what seemed like a whole lot of make-up, she stopped. I expected her to have put on a bunch of really obvious make-up and give me bright red whore lips and darkly ringed eyes, but when I looked in the mirror, it was a much more subtle slutty. She'd first painted my lips in a color close to that of my skin, and then put some ridiculous amount of lip-gloss on them. When I put my lips together, I could feel the sticky stuff all over them. On my eyes she hadn't put any black eyeliner at all; instead it was a soft girly purplish color that made me look somehow unthreatening. Finally, she had put blush on my cheeks. When many women wear blush, they just do it perfunctorily, without much effect; Alissa's mom, though, knew her blush. The blush made me look like I was deep in heat, or had just had an orgasm. I looked very seventies. The cumulative result of the making-up I'd received was that I looked even more jailbait than Alissa tended to. Without this makeup I looked like I was about sixteen, but with it I looked like I was fourteen or something, but trying to look older via looking slutty. Next in the day's series of humiliations were the clothes the woman wanted me to wear. There were white panties, like a little girl would wear, except that instead of cotton, they were made of nylon; they were cheap whore's panties. Then she gave me white petticoat and a plaid skirt, and I got a glimpse of where she was going with me. She gave me a little white blouse and told me to get dressed. I put on the blouse first, buttoning up the wrong side, and then pulled up the petticoat, tucking the blouse into it. Then I put the skirt over the petticoat. She gave me some really thin (that's how you know they're for girls, not boys) white socks and told me to pull them up to my knees, and finished with a pair of Mary Janes. She put my hair up into a pair of cute pigtails, with ribbons. I was the classic schoolgirl, made up like a slutty fourteen-year-old. I was kind of turned on by it, because I'd seen Alissa in a similar situation, and it had been erotic. Alissa looked at me mournfully, apologetically, from across the tiny room, and the woman glared at me mockingly before grabbing me by the wrist and dragging me outside the trailer and throwing me on the ground. Before I knew what was happening, she was taking pictures. She knocked me over, then took a picture of me with my skirt all in disarray, panties showing. She bent me over a low fence, threw my skirt up over my back, pulled my panties down a little and took another picture. She unbuttoned my blouse and made me take a breast out of one of the cups of my bra, and took a picture. She had me sit on the ground with my legs apart, skirt up, so my panties were showing. She had me finger myself a little. Then Alissa came out of the trailer, dressed the same way I was. She didn't need instruction from her mom; she just came over to where I was, on the dirty ground, and kissed me. Her mom started snapping away. She started to kind of feel me up, and I responded by doing the same to her. I left the verge of tears and entered the verge of arousal. You know how most girls, no matter how nice or prude they seem, tend to have some kind of exhibitionist side? It's most obvious when they get drunk. Most girls are into the idea of showing themselves off, it's just that they repress it. Well, the point is, I totally understand that now. Not only was making out with Alissa as much fun as ever, but the idea of being filmed by some remote third party made me hot. We moved our little operation to the floor of the trailer's tiny kitchen, since the middle of a trailer park was not the place for hot underage lesbian sex. There are rules. So we wound up making love on the floor, half clothed. We were in a state of frenzy - the camera seemed to rev up Alissa, too. There were pussy licking and nipple squeezing and ass slapping and fingering and spanking each other and especially kissing; lots and lots of girl kissing, with pink tongues. Eventually we were both entirely spent. This was the point that Alissa's mom informed me that what I'd just done was illegal, due to age and consent laws, and that if I didn't want to wind up in some kind of women's prison or teenage girls' Juvenile Detention Hall, I would be living here for a while. I was caught like a trap in a trap. Of course I couldn't leave. So I was allowed to share Alissa's tiny room with her, indefinitely. We slept together that night, exhausted but bonded. The next day held two photo sessions, one in French maid costumes and one in bikinis. After the second, though, I was allowed to go on the ancient computer in Alissa's room. It was weird. There was some kind of reverse Net Nanny installed, because the computer couldn't access anything but sex sites. I didn't understand how it worked, but it had its desired effect, in that by the time I was done killing time online, I was all horny again. This would become a daily thing. Before bed I would go online, sometimes with Alissa, sometimes not, and I'd look at smut. Then I'd be really horny for the next day. Sometimes, in my braver moments, I allowed myself to acknowledge that a big dick would feel really good in my pussy, but I had a lot of trouble with these thoughts, so I mainly looked at girls. Eventually, after about two weeks, I was bored with my life. Not with sex with Alissa, but with the fact that literally all we ever did was get all whored up and make love, with no room for reading, or going out, or anything. So I decided we had to escape. One night, when her mom was in New York, I told Alissa I'd had enough, and she agreed she had too. We packed a few dresses and some underwear, wrote a note saying we were leaving for California, and headed out the door, never to return. We went to my parents' house, and I sneaked in and stole a few things to pawn for bus fare. Then we started walking toward New York, figuring we'd be there by morning, and we could take a bus from there to Cali. Well, to make a long story short, we wound up in New York with a couple hundred dollars and the realization that Lissa's mom could find us if we went to Cali, and that she probably would. So we needed to go somewhere else. Fortuitously, we both got jobs as maids on a gay-friendly cruise ship. Working on the ship was a dream. All we did all day long was domestic chores like making beds and folding towels and cleaning bathrooms, which wasn't hard. The nylons and shoes could hurt at the end of the day, but since we shared a bed, we hardly noticed. Our uniforms were flattering, if simple; just black maid uniforms with white aprons and little white caps. But we were paid and since we were fed and roomed on the ship, we were coming out totally ahead. We were at the start of a new life together. We left our teenage "McJokes" behind. The atmosphere on the boat was wonderful. Since it was a gay cruise company, the whole boat was filled with people who had this huge sense of relief, not having to worry about being persecuted for being themselves, and absolutely supportive of each other. Everyone had such a great time, I felt like I was in paradise, even if I was a worker there. We made so many friends, men and women, and had such a great time. Eventually, we made it to Italy, and lived happily ever after. She continued to paint, and wound up having a following among teenagers, Goths, and generally depressed art types. I continued to play my music, and while I never really achieved any kind of fame, I did achieve intense personal satisfaction. I was inseminated and now we have a beautiful, healthy thirteen-month-old son. I'm the stay-at-home mom; Alissa spends a lot of time being a personality in the art world. She makes more than enough money to support us all, and from day one in Italy, we've been able to afford all the good red wine we could ever want. And we still don't wear pants; dresses and skirts just feel right. The End