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Paid in Full, A Pantyboy Love Story By Gingerfred Man Chapter One -- Zithers and Smithers You don't hear much about zithers anymore. Not since the post-World War II movie classic "The Third Man" have you heard very much zithering in mainstream music. That's why those of us afflicted with a passion for that rather obscure, stringed instrument find it so difficult to find a proper tutor. Mom and Daddy encouraged my love for the zither, but knew that, in my mid-sized town, the chances of finding a suitable tutor to help move me to zithering stardom were quite remote. Then we found Maxwell Smithers. Daddy found him on the Internet, actually, and it wasn't on some American Zither Association website or Dr. Smithers' own site. No, as luck would have it, after Dr. Smithers won six consecutive world zither championship titles, he sort of disappeared for a while then, in an astonishing coincidence, he settled in our town. What a break for me! Daddy was pretty well off, so I was pretty sure that Dr. Smithers, who appeared to be living frugally, would jump at the chance to tutor me for a large sum of money. He jumped all right, but it wasn't for money. Daddy had to pester Dr. Smithers for an appointment, but one was eventually set for Daddy and me at the Smithers residence for 11 a.m. one Saturday. Let me tell you a bit about me. I was born Ronald Brosnan to Regina and Stephen Brosnan. When I met Dr. Smithers, I had just turned 18 and was a senior at Harry Lime High School in Middleville. I was five foot six, a bit scrawny and totally committed to my zither. Daddy and I set off for Dr. Smithers' home with my stringed instrument and great excitement. The man we were meeting was a renowned master. If he could teach me, a prodigy, I could reach the top. We arrived on time at Dr. Smithers' modest house in a middle-class neighborhood. He opened the door in answer to our knock. He was a tall, nice-looking man. Younger than I had imagined -- no more than 35, I guessed. Oddly, Smithers was very much in control of the interview. Daddy was a powerful man who usually dictated to the Dr. Smitherses of the world, but not that time. Smithers had me play for him, eying me down carefully as I played. Looking at me appraisingly. I played beautifully. My father applauded. I sat back expecting the praise I always got. I didn't get it. "I don't think so," Smithers said to Daddy. Daddy looked stunned. Did we hear him correctly? Was Smithers rejecting me? Rejecting Daddy's money? Rejection was a stranger to me at that time in my life, and my eyes filled with tears. Daddy composed himself and asked, "Are you serious? The boy is a fantastic zitherist." Smithers shook his head. "He needs a great deal of work to become a world-class zitherist. I don't think it would be worth it for me to try. I don't think he has the determination to be great." Smithers seemed to be enjoying my assimilation of real criticism, something I had never received before. More than anything else in the world, I wanted to prove that SOB wrong. And he knew it. Daddy said, "If this is about money, I can offer you quite a bit." Smithers looked at me. Up and down. I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable at the first expert appraisal I had ever had. Smithers shook his head. "It's not about money. I don't want your money. But I'll tutor the boy for something else." Daddy and I looked at each other, then at Smithers. Smithers answered the unasked question: "I'll tutor him for kisses." Chapter Two -- Whither my Zither? Well, that certainly chilled the room. Daddy's mouth was open. My mouth was open. But my mind was racing. Was Smithers gay? Did he like young men like me? Daddy became angry. He began to sputter and was about to verbally assault Smithers. But I said, "Daddy, please wait a second. What do you mean by that, Dr. Smithers? Kisses from whom? Surely not me!" Smithers smiled slightly, showing good teeth. "I will tutor you, Ronald, three times a week for two hours each session. At the end of each session, I will kiss you for 30 minutes. You can quit any time, including after the first two hours of the first session. Before the first kiss. Or you can kiss me for 90 minutes each week and become great. I will tell no one about what we are doing. I will do nothing you refuse to do. Of course, your refusal ends our arrangement." Oh my. Daddy had murder in his eye. If he killed the only decent zither tutor in a 500-mile radius, where would that leave me? "What would be the harm of just taking the first two hours of instruction, Daddy?" I asked reasonably. "Maybe Dr. Smithers isn't a very good tutor. I can see if he is and then ... decide about whether to ... uh ...move ahead." If my father hadn't been a terrible stage father, whose own zither dreams had been crushed when he had to take over as chief financial officer of his father's corporation at age 14, I think he would have punched Dr. Smithers in the nose and dragged me out of there. As it was, I wanted to punch that smug look off of Smithers' face myself. It was as if he knew, the queer ... queer guy, that I would be drawn to the zithering so much that, rather than let my zither wither, I would consent to his obviously homosexual advances. On the way home. Daddy and I hardly spoke. "You'll drive yourself to your lesson or, maybe, lessons, Ronald," he said. "And your mother need not know of the arrangement. Understood?" Daddy would get no argument from me. I was half ashamed and half excited about the whole deal. The best part, I thought, would be fantastic, zither instruction from a multiple, world champion. I was wrong. Over the rest of the weekend, I tried to put the whole sordid arrangement out of my mind. Daddy and I didn't talk about it. Several times, I considered canceling the deal, or just not showing up. But on Monday at precisely three p.m., zither in hand, I knocked on Dr. Smithers' door to begin the rest of my life. Chapter Three -- Coming Hither with my Zither I was extraordinarily nervous for two obvious reasons. First, I was about to face my comeuppance as a big zither fish in a small zither pond. Second, I was about to see how far I was willing to go to become the best zitherer on the planet. Smithers was surprisingly cordial and polite. It was a different Smithers from the negotiations only 52 hours earlier. I wondered which one was the real Dr. Smithers. Regardless, the Smithers I experienced that day was an astoundingly good tutor. He began by telling me that each session, both, distinct PARTS of each session would focus on a specific objective for that day. In further sessions, earlier lessons would be reviewed, but a new objective would be the new lesson's focus. The first zither lesson was to be about finger control. The first kissing session would focus on my lips. Not his. Mine. My spine froze at the thought and, oddly, my four-inch penis twitched. Smithers took me back to zither basics and showed me things that I knew would make me far better in my chosen field. The two hours flew by and I was hungry for more, hungry for weeks, even months of that kind of instruction. At precisely five p.m., a small bell sounded on a timer Smithers had set and my decision was at hand. Smithers acted as if I had already decided to press on. "I'm setting a second timer for 30 minutes, beginning now," he said. "We'll be kissing during that time unless you want to quit your lessons with me permanently." It wasn't extortion really. He was offering me a full choice. A choice to give up something I loved because I couldn't pay the price. The clock was running. Smithers rummaged in a drawer and extracted something small and pink. "It would be way too gay for us to just start kissing as we are," he said. "I want you to go into the bathroom, take off your trousers, underpants, shoes and socks, put these on, then return to me and sit on my lap while I kiss you." Smithers was holding a pair of silky, pink panties. Oh my. Did you ever want something so much that you would do practically anything? Even what Smithers wanted of me? Perspiration formed on my upper lip. Smithers' face was expressionless as he extended to me the uniform of my degradation. I took the panties. And went to the bathroom, stripping as he instructed, leaving on my polo shirt, but only panties from the waist down. Idly, I realized that the clock was running. He wasn't hurrying me or anything, so he was giving up "payment time" without complaint. Maybe the whole thing was a big joke. Or a test of my commitment to my instrument or something. Or maybe Smithers was serious. My whole body was shaking as I assessed myself in the bathroom mirror. Why did Smithers want me? I was no young Adonis or anything. And if he wanted a girl, he was out of luck with me. My legs were pretty good, though. I didn't want to go out there, but Smithers had certainly kept up his end of things. The most humiliating thing of all was that I had an erection in my brief, pink panties. Me, a hetero guy wearing a girl's thing for the first time and I had a stiffie that would not go away. Crimson with shame and with "pointed panties," I emerged from the bathroom to meet my fate. Idly I noticed that only 20 minutes remained on our "contract." I could do that if I closed my eyes and thought of the zither. Smithers was fully dressed and sitting on a hard chair, both feet on the floor. When he saw me, he smiled slightly. Pleased, but not gloating. That was kind of him, I thought. I awaited his instructions. "Come sit on my lap, Ronnie," Smithers said. No one called me "Ronnie." Mostly Ronald. Sometimes Ron. Ronnie seemed "girlie" to me. For some reason, I didn't mind Smithers calling me that. I took the life-altering walk to Smithers' lap slowly. He put his left hand on my left hip and guided my pantied bottom across his thighs. I hadn't sat on anyone's lap since I was about seven. There I was, 18, half naked, in panties, on a man's lap. With an erection. I wondered if Smithers was erect too, something I could have determined by sliding a thigh a few millimeters toward him. Then I chided myself for thinking that. I said nothing, waiting for the teacher's lead. He said, "This speaks well of your commitment to your instrument, Ronnie, and it's very flattering to me as well. If you didn't like my teaching, my lap would be the last place you would be." True. 18 minutes to go and no kissing yet. Maybe it was a test. Maybe he wasn't really going to kiss me, just wanted to see how committed I was. Maybe...mmmph. Gently, sweetly, Smithers covered my lips with his. It was a very tender kiss, except we were both men and it was gay as a carnival!!!! I gasped at the rush of emotions and feelings. Nice kiss! Better than I had ever gotten from the few girls I had dated. Huge feelings of gayness and shame, though I consoled myself by thinking that I was FORCED into this. Which was crap. But self-delusion is the greatest social skill anyone can develop. If nothing else, it makes one virtually impervious to criticism. The shame dissipated a bit as physical feelings pushed for my attention. The man could kiss!! No tongue. No open mouth. Just lips, as he had said before. He took a couple of detours to kiss my neck and ears, both of which made me pant and gasp in a most unmanly fashion. His hands were not completely idle either. While they touched none of my "naughty bits," his left arm encircled my body from behind, resting his large hand on my left shoulder. His right hand rested on my bare, left thigh as we kissed. I didn't do anything gay, such as kiss him back or anything. I didn't need to. He was as much a master and I the apprentice on kissing as he was on zithering. The real humiliation wasn't that I sort of surrendered to whatever that man wanted to do to me. The real humiliation was that I enjoyed it. At least, that was what my stiff, little "barometer" was telling me. I was praying that I would not cum. Oh. Imagine the shame and guilt. If that bell hadn't rung ending our session, my guess is that I would have drenched my panties, then gone out and jumped off the nearest bridge. Smithers stopped kissing me immediately when the bell rang and was all business once again. "Right, then. See you Wednesday at three and practice what I gave you, Ronald. Any questions?" My head was spinning as I said no. I gathered my zither and was about to leave when Smithers handed me a pair of black panties. "And Ronnie," he said, "Please have these on when you come to the next session." I took them. When I got home I was completely confused and totally aroused. I answered minimal questions from Mom, then dashed upstairs to release the juices that had been threatening to rise up my esophagus to my throat and choke me for the past hour. I stripped off my trousers and underpants and flopped onto my back on my bed. Lifting my shirt, I skinned my cockhead back to the tender pinkness and rubbed. That rude man, thinking he could have his way with me for a few zither lessons. But it was horribly exciting that anyone could break every convention in the civilized world just to gain access to my body. I wasn't gay, but there's something extraordinarily erotic about someone wanting you so badly. Even Jody Foster must have felt a tingle when she learned about John Hinkley, don't you think? Anyway, I thought of how he just POSSESSED me for those 20 minutes and I gasped so loudly that I'll bet it scared the cats next door. Then I started spurting thick globs of sticky cream -- arching it on its cummy wings to a landing field on my chest. Before the first hot blast singed my midsection, I was slammed into by Guilt and Shame, our constant companions. Though Messrs. Guilt and Shame were clearly not recognized by Mr. Smithers in any way. Only by me. I had let a man kiss me!! And OWN me! All my conditioning from all my life swept over me. Shaming me. The ickiest, biggest possible gag reflex. I had sold my masculinity for some zither lessons. I was worse than Jack, that beanstalk guy, selling the cow for some beans. I cringed and hid my face and vowed to never see Mr. Smithers again. Chapter Four -- Zither, then dither. Forty-four hours later, at 3 p.m., Wednesday, I knocked on Smithers' door -- zither in hand and lacy, black panties firmly in place. On Tuesday morning, I had decided that I had exaggerated my reaction a bit. I mean, Smithers was eccentric; the lessons were good. Daddy seemed a bit disgusted with me for going to the first lesson and positively pissed when I said I was going back. And anything a teenager can use to tick his parents off is a good thing, right? Smithers smiled broadly when he saw me. He didn't seem surprised that I was there. Maybe I was more surprised than he was. But I didn't have time to think about it, because he set the timer for two hours and we zithered madly the whole time. It was wonderful!! I saw how little I really knew about my instrument, but Smithers was the clear path to correcting that. Then it became time to pay the piper. Something I had almost forgotten about. But not quite. During zithering, I had been "Ronald," but when he set the 30-minute timer for "kissing," he addressed me as "Ronnie." "Are the panties I gave you on, Ronnie?" Smithers asked. I nodded a timid assent. Blood rushed to my prick and made the little thing stand erect and throbbing. "Well, then, off with your trousers, shoes, socks and shirt. Come sit on my lap in just your panties and undershirt." He was so masterful. As if I were his apprentice in "kissing" as well as zithering. I was FORCED to comply. (Not really, but it made me feel better to think so.) I had no ten-minute grace period that time. It would be 30 solid minutes of mouth-to-mouth payback for lessons. Even worse, Smithers removed his own trousers, shoes and socks!! I was going to have to sit on his naked thigh! Why was I so scared, yet terribly excited, nearly spurting, I wondered reasonably. The darned panties were rubbing my pink parts. That was the problem, I decided. Manly men such as I were not expected to endure such stimulation directly on their exposed cocktips, I decided. Trembling, I settled onto Smithers' thigh. He didn't "take liberties;" a good thing, since I would have slapped him and departed. Wouldn't I? But he did something I wished he hadn't. Smithers produced a tube of red lipstick, which he applied to my lips, then showed me in a compact mirror. "It's less gay this way, Ronnie," he said. "Trust me." Yeah, right. It was a good thing I didn't have a bigger mirror. The compact mirror let me believe that the red lips belonged to someone else, since I didn't see them attached to my whole face. As you can tell, I had the rationalization thing down cold. Smithers seemed very pleased with his work. He looked at me very strangely before he said, "You look very pretty, Ronnie. Today, our area of concentration will be your mouth." And then he kissed me. What did he mean, my mouth? Isn't that what he said the last time? No, he said "lips." Did he mean... Whoa! Smithers had my mouth open and was licking my tongue with his own. That was incredible!! Incredibly arousing and incredibly disgusting -- one of the sexiest combinations known to humankind. The lipstick added a new dimension to the kissing. I couldn't identify it at the time, but I know now that it was a dimension of femininity. Which, despite myself, excited me terribly. We kissed very hotly and very heavily for 15 minutes. Smithers' left hand had reached under my tshirt and was placed in the center of my bare back. His right hand was on my left thigh. Just my thigh. The outside of it. I can't remember where my hands were, but I remember that my cock, the dumb thing, didn't know the difference between a girl kissing me like that and my tutor/world-class zitherist kissing me like that. It was about to explode. Smithers must have sensed that, because he broke off the kiss. Why did he do that? I was really enjoying ... I mean, enduring it...and I was about to orgasm -- the prospect, even remote, of which, is what gets men out of bed in the morning. We were both breathing very heavily, but neither of us said a word. Nor looked at each other. After five awkward, puzzling minutes, Smithers began to kiss me again. Very, very well. It was all I could do to avoid making sounds some might characterize as girlish. The man could kiss. And his tongue had me gasping and panting. He had to know the effect he had on me. Oh, I was beginning to feel the distant rumblings of the kind of orgasm that rips your toes off and feeds them to you one by one. It was in the early stages, but it was definitely on the way. It was going to be wonderful. And then the timer bell rang. The 30 minutes were up. And Smithers stopped. My mind (and penis) screamed, "Don't stop!!!" But he stopped. Just like when the alarm clock goes off just as you're going to do something really great in your dream. Agggghhhhh!!!!! No orgasms for me. None for him. Why did he do that? When the bell rang, he was all business again. Though he did look funny with my lipstick smeared all over his mouth. How must I look? He cleaned me up with a wet, soapy face cloth. Then, as I was getting dressed, he said that I should practice putting the lipstick on myself and that I should wear the yellow panties to the next session. I couldn't wait! I was so randy, I would probably rape a tree knot on the way home. Why had he stirred me up then left me? Why was I so excited? I got the answer to the first question when I got home, gave my minimal answers to Mom and ran up to my room to empty my nuts. I stripped to my panties, lay on my back, and extricated my little friend. I formed a clear image of being on Smithers' lap, stroked myself fewer than ten times, spasmed, and almost screamed at the force of my orgasm. And the force of the shame that followed. Ronnie's first law of cumming -- each action of orgasm associated with Smithers is followed by an equal and opposite reaction of shame and guilt. When I gathered my wits, I saw Smithers' plan. He didn't want me cumming in his house, because he knew I would be racked by shame and guilt. He wanted me to be excited and to take my shame elsewhere! Well, add that, I thought, to the list of reasons why I was never going back there again. Hmmpphhh. My resolve was weakened a bit the next morning and by Thursday afternoon, I was listening to one of the few zither albums Smithers recorded, "Moon River and 13 Other Zither Classics from the Movies." Until you've heard the theme from "The Magnificent Seven" properly zithered, you haven't lived. At 3 p.m. on Friday, I knocked on Smithers' door -- yellow panties (very pretty if I do say so) in place, zither in one hand, lipstick in the other. We had another excellent zithering session, then I awaited my fate and the new "area of concentration." Smithers almost floored me when he said, matter-of-factly, "For our 30 minutes today, we'll be reviewing previous material, then concentrating on your nipples. So strip down to just your yellow panties, Ronnie and put your lipstick on. Here's a mirror." My nipples!!!!! Just my panties???? Was he insane? I couldn't!!! Oh my goodness. Oh. I struggled to control myself. After the first wave of male-based revulsion, I had to admit that the prospect of being nearly naked and having a man suck and kiss my nipples was, besides being world-class faggotry in my unschooled estimation, also incredibly exciting!! And it wasn't as if it were my idea or anything. I was only doing it because, I was young -- I needed the lessons. I guess you can imagine what I did. Exactly what "Master" Smithers asked me to do. I stripped to my panties. Just my panties. I felt so VULNERABLE. So helpless. Then I went over to a mirror near the front door and put my lipstick on as well as I could. Smithers was checking out my keyster, I know he was. I thought about wiggling it a little, just to tease him. But that would have been gay. I do remember hurrying, however. Hurrying because I knew the 30 minutes were dwindling. Wasn't that odd? Satisfied with my lipstick, I turned toward Smithers. He was looking at me in a strange way. Like I was a delicious meal or something. Poor guy. He really was gay, I guessed. Mom says we should feel sorry for gay people. But we shouldn't bring them into our house. For some crazy reason, I covered my nipples with my right arm as I walked back to Smithers and climbed onto his bare thigh. Smithers had stripped to his boxer shorts and I was stunned by the differences in our bodies. He was hairy and buff. I was mostly hairless and kind of soft, though slim. His thigh hairs tickled me, even through those ridiculous, sissy panties that had had me in a state of arousal since I had slipped into a stall at school after dismissal and slipped them on. I was at Smithers' mercy. Though I was sort of looking forward to the kissing part. The nipple part was scary. I was ready for the kissing part. Why wasn't he kissing me? Hey! Clock's running, Mister! By golly, he was admiring me! Looking me over. Then he said something that made my whole body blush hotly. "You're very pretty, Ronnie." No one had ever admired me like that. Or said anything that nice. Oh, goodness I was hot. Wasn't he going to... Oh my. He held me in his strong arms -- completely, for the first time -- and kissed me deeply. With lots of tongue. His arms held me gently, but firmly. Now that was kissing! I was afraid I would faint. Or cum and get those awful feelings again. We kissed for five glorious minutes and then he stopped. Something big was going to happen. It did. He held me firmly, with a hand on either side of my torso. Then he kissed my right nipple. Lightly. Just brushed it with his lips, actually. I made a very unmanly squeaking sound, which I repeated when he did the same thing to my left nipple. I pulled my chin in and looked down at the little nubbers. They were erect!! Like two little cocks. How did that happen? Who cared? I wanted to see what would happen next. He kissed my right nipple and gave it a very nice, but almost imperceptible lick. Light the Christmas tree, Mama, Santa can't wait until December 25. Who would have ever thought such pleasure existed? From my nipples? Boy's nipples? I was actually gasping and whimpering when he repeated the actions on the left nipple then returned to pay full, licking, sucking homage to the right nipple. Then it happened. What I didn't think I wanted. I squealed loudly and filled my panties with about a pint of the thickest, stickiest load I had ever produced. Six, creamy spurts of boyish juices. I was in heaven, but I expected the arrival of its antithesis at any moment. But Smithers outflanked shame and guilt. He moved to my left nipple, and administered such intense pleasure that shame and guilt slunk away, at least for the moment. Even better, as he kissed and licked and sucked my puffy, little treasure, he touched me "down there" for the first time. He didn't reach into my panties, merely rubbed the soaked pretties from the outside. He rubbed my limp, soggy penis through my limp, soggy panties as he adored my left nipple. He rubbed and licked so nicely that I was soon hard again and very needy. Please don't let the bell ring, I prayed, as I concentrated on my second orgasm, the fifth and final spurt of which drenched my sopping panties at precisely the bell ending our 30 minutes. Since there was no further "activity" I felt some shame pangs again. I mean, look at me...a little, pantied faggot -- cummy-pantied faggot to be precise, in smeared make-up. The worst guilt came, however when I realized how selfish I had been. Two ball-busting orgasms for me. None for my tutor. What did it all mean? Smithers was all business again. "Do those zithering exercises on pages 105 to 113, Ronald. And these panties for Monday, please, Ronnie." Baby blue ones. With little, white hearts. "And Ronnie, practice your lipstick-application. See you Monday. Have a good weekend." As I sat in my car, imprisoned in cum-soaked panties, with sort of sore nipples, and issues about my sexuality, I was 95% sure that I would not be back for any zithering or kissing on Monday or ever from Mr. Gayman Smithers, thank you. On Monday at 3 p.m., I knocked on Smithers' door. Zither in one hand. Baby blue panties with little white hearts firmly in place. I had practiced my lipstick application. Daddy had looked at me strangely all weekend. But being guys, we didn't talk about it. That was better. What could I have told him? I didn't even understand what was happening to me. How could I have explained it to anyone else? My resolve to quit Smithers' lessons had dwindled steadily as the weekend went on. "Everyone has to make career sacrifices," I rationalized. And never, never, never did I admit to myself that there was something I enjoyed just in the teeniest about wearing panties and submitting to a man's lust. Speaking of lust, in one of the weekend's few, unguarded moments, I realized that I had neither seen Smithers' "big thing," nor been in his presence while it was spurting goo. My unguarded reaction to that thought was, "Didn't he like me? Didn't I excite him? Am I ugly?" Those thoughts were swept away, but not before it occurred to me that Smithers was probably pounding his pud the entire time we were apart. I bet that he thought of nothing but me. But that was another thought too gay to allow to exist for long. In the five seconds or so between my knock and his appearance at the front door, I shuddered, wondering what that day's "area of concentration" would be. There were lots of good ones left. Monday's zithering session was quite uplifting. I was already showing improvement and the praise Smithers gave me, though sparse, was earned. And I appreciated it very much. Then came "kissing time." Smithers set the timer for 30 minutes, then said, "All right, Ronnie. Today I want you to strip naked, everything off, including your panties. Then I want you to put these black stockings with elastic tops on. Your lesson today will focus on your scrotum, so panties would be in the way. Naked? Stockings? Scrotum? My testicles? He was going to kiss and lick and suck my testicles as I stood there in girlie stockings? Oh, if I had had one ounce of masculinity left, I would have punched him in the nose, taken my zither and huffed out of there. But I applied my lipstick, stripped naked, then accepted the rolled-up stockings Smithers handed me. My left leg was shaking so badly that I was afraid I would pass out. If I did, what would Smithers do? How would he explain a naked, 18-year-old boy to the paramedics? But if I passed out, he wouldn't be kissing my scrotum! I calmed myself and rolled the silky treasures up each leg. Oh, baby! I don't know if I'm one of those guys with a nylon fetish, but I felt the earth move when I slid those stockings on. Smithers admired me and said that my legs looked beautiful. Oh, gee, I was blushing at the compliment. I was so EASY! It's embarrassing. Smithers produced a pair of black, women's, low-heeled pumps and asked me to put them on. I did so immediately, then chided myself for looking so eager. Smithers offered me some time at a full-length mirror, which the narcissist in me accepted gratefully. I turned this way and that, amazed at how good my legs looked in stockings and heels. And how my bottom stuck out invitingly -- dangerously for a young man of my unsullied virtue. I adored admiring myself, but wanted some kissing time too, so I turned and walked sissily over to Smithers, who had used my "mirror time" to strip to the buff! An amazingly virile and buff buff. What was he going to do to me? I was helpless, practically naked in a man's home! But all he would do was what we had agreed upon. That was good, right? Anyway, I'm ashamed to admit that my flagpole was completely vertical as I settled into his naked lap. I sneaked a look at Smithers' rammer as well -- it was as vertical as my little guy, but a monster compared to my bunny rabbit. I wasn't touching it! Though it was sort of nice how it rubbed against my thigh as he laid his lips on mine. It was wet and hard and very hot. His cock. Which I was not touching. I was already very excited and all we were doing was dueling with our tongues. How delightful that was, especially with lipstick. And I found that I enjoyed it even more when I just let Smithers kiss me the way he wanted. Me not initiating. Just following. I should have been prepared for the "review" of nipple noshing, but it was so darned GOOD that it slammed right into me again and, despite myself, I was cumming hard. What a mess. All over my privates. No shame or guilt that time. Just curiosity. How would he kiss my scrotum with that mess down there? The answer was, very well indeed. After I came, Smithers kissed my mouth deliciously for a short time, then had me stand facing him as he sat. Smithers considered my privates. Was I too small down there for him? At that moment, I desperately hoped not. Was my cock in the way of my testicles? No. It had regained its vigor and was erect and throbbing once again. But it was drenched from my cum, as were my pubic hairs and my balls. "I'm going to kiss and lick and suck your little pink purse now Ronnie," Smithers said. "I'm fairly certain you'll enjoy that very much." Then he dove in, nose first. And proved that he was right. Oh did he prove it. The first thing Smithers did was lick up all my sticky juices that had settled on my testicles. He took scrupulous care not to touch or lick my penis, which was not today's area of concentration (but eventually, it would be, wouldn't it? ). If you've never had your balls licked by a skilled, loving man, I recommend it highly. Smithers swirled his tongue around my wrinkled bag, kissed each sack tenderly, then took each "little pearl," as he called them, between his lips and sucked it most deliciously. It was exquisite. Gay beyond belief. Off the charts. But exquisite. Twelve lovely minutes was all I could endure. I felt the spermstorm approach and warned the ship's captain, but he licked on. And on. Until, a squealing, sissyish, wimpering, poor excuse for a man, I spunked the lovely man's face with a cupful of hot love juice. Here's what a little sissy faggot I was that day. I sat on Smithers' lap, kissed him and laid my hand on his stiff pole for the first time. He didn't try to stop me. My face was smeared with my own cum as we kissed. I skinned his cockhead up and down, rubbing my thumb in his peehole until the beautiful man began to moan and drench my hand with his thick, rich manly cream. And the bell rang, ending our session. I thought we would go on. I wanted to go on. But Smithers gently lifted me off his lap and arose. "That was lovely, Ronnie," he said. "You can go in the bathroom to clean up." I was miffed. Was I some business arrangement with him? Couldn't we kiss for another five minutes? Do other things too? Was it just slam-bam, thank you ma'am for this guy? My dissatisfaction increased when I saw my cum-covered face and smeared lipstick. What was I doing? Was I crazy? I cleaned up and dressed and couldn't wait to get out of there. I almost didn't take the pink panties and tan stockings Smithers gave me to wear on Wednesday. Because we were through. I was no pantyboy! Hmmmmppphhh!!! On Wednesday at 3 p.m., zither in hand and panties and stockings firmly in place, I knocked on Smithers' door. Perhaps I had been too hasty. Smithers was basically a nice guy. He was just a little smitten with me, that was all. Should I be insulted about that? Certainly not. I should be flattered. And I was. Plus, the "kissing" wasn't that bad. Better than standing out in the rain or skipping lunch, both of which I had done to pursue my craft. On Tuesday evening I had lain on my bed, listening to one of my favorite CDs -- the sound track of "Saturday Night Fever" done by a zither quartet. I think it far exceeds what the Bee Gees intended with their disco classic. Disco and zithers are natural partners. Surely, you've heard the zither interpretations of "Stayin' Alive" from that soundtrack and who can forget the zither versions of Kool and the Gang's "Celebrate, Good Times, Come On" and The Trammps' "Disco Inferno." ("Feelin' hot, hot, hot.") Well zither disco (or zisco, as the cognoscenti call it) always improves my mood and it allowed me to forgive Smithers for being gay and for stopping at that darned bell the day before. That Wednesday, for the first time, Smithers complimented me on the emotional component of my zither-playing. "You've always been technically competent, Ronald," he said, "but now it appears that you putting more of your soul into your playing." I glowed with the praise. He was right. I could feel it. I think that a large part of my improved playing was the release from my former, buttoned-down self I was getting from the second part of our instructional sessions. I'll admit that I had thought often about what our next second session would be like. At 5 p.m., I found out. Smithers set the timer and said, "Today, Ronnie, we'll be focusing on your toes. Now I want you to remove everything except your stockings and put your lipstick on. No panties." I hustled to comply, saving precious kissing minutes. But I was startled at the choice. Toes? I'll admit that I was disappointed. After a "scrotum session," I was pretty certain that something very sensitive would be kissed, licked and sucked next. Things picked up when, after stripping naked and leaving the room as I was putting on my lipstick, Smithers returned with what appeared to be a pink, openfront, babydoll nightie with pretty red rosebuds. And that's what it was. "You'll look lovely in this, Darling," the naked, hunky man said. "Darling?" My poor peener was outrageous. Darling. I put the nightie on and felt waves of something that can only be described as girlishness. Lots of girlishness. I knew it was consuming time, but I had to see myself in lipstick, an ultra-naughty babydoll, and black stockings. No shoes because of the toes thing. Smithers stood behind me as I admired my feminine self in his full-length mirror. He put his hands on my upper arms and began to kiss my neck. And rub his cock against the small of my back. Good gravy, that was exciting! I turned and fell into his arms, submitting to his deep kisses. Zithering was forgotten as my pricklet poked through my opened babydoll and found Smithers' stiff monster. They introduced themselves to each other as we kissed. Rubbing hot, sticky heads. Slick friction. Ooze. Tongues exploring each other's mouths. I wanted Smithers to master me and do something with me and to me. But what would he do? What we both did after a few minutes of erotic agony was to suck in our breath and, almost at the same moment, pump hot cream onto each other's private parts. It was the best moment of my life. I was way down a road I had never even imagined existed and I still had a notion that I wanted to be able to retrace my steps eventually to the beginning of that road. But there was a lot to see on that road. Many amusements. Many stunning attractions. Maybe I would look around a bit more. Smithers carried me in his arms over to his couch, laying me down carefully. He began to kiss his way from my mouth to my toes, stopping for some "review" at my nipples and my scrotum . Again, he ignored my rejuvenated popsy, but he did take the time to lick my balls clean of the joint residue of our recent pleasure. Suddenly, he was at my feet. He asked me to sit up and I did. Then he got on his knees and held my right foot in his hand. Lovingly. Gently. "I'll leave the stocking on you for now," he said. Then he began to kiss and lick each toe. Oh. I needn't have worried about that being a boring session. My head was back and I was squealing like a sissy running from a bully. It was intimate, sexy and, even better, dirty. I loved having my toes sucked! And I had the presence of mind to extend my free, stockinged foot to rub and tease Smithers' re-erected cock. He liked that. I liked that. The naughty man made me cum once from his attentions on each foot. I made him cum just as I began to cum from his toe-adoration on my left foot. I had to admit. The man was as good at tutoring "kissing" as he was zithering. Ding. It was a good thing the bell rang. I had cum three times in 30 minutes. My privates were drenched with Smithers' and my cum. And my right, stockinged foot was soaked from Smithers' monster cum. Smithers thanked me, handed me a towel and sent me to the bathroom to clean up. I did something naughty in there. I took my cummy stocking off and licked Smithers' cum from it. I didn't know why. It just seemed right. Ten seconds later, I was grossly ashamed of myself again. Smithers, who apparently understood the shame cycle, was not upset when he saw me hang my head as I left. "Here are three pairs each of panties and stockings, Ronnie," he said. "Please begin to wear them 24/7 from now on." Outrageous, I thought, as I left. Well, it didn't matter. I wasn't coming back. At three p.m. on Friday afternoon, zither in hand and panties and stockings firmly in place (24/7), I knocked on Smithers' door. Having reflected on things, I realized that Smithers' cum had tasted pretty good. Plus, no one had seen me swallow it. Except me. And when I played a little for Mom and Daddy on Thursday night, they said that it was the very zithering of angels. So no big deal with Smithers and the kissing, OK? Plus I just had to know where he was going next. The eyelids? The armpits? My penis, perhaps? That made my knees wobble. To think of a man as hunky and cute and loving -- I mean talented, zitheristically -- as Smithers, kissing my little prick! That was exciting. At 5:01, after two fruitful hours of tutoring, I found out. "Today, Ronnie, we'll be focusing on your bottomhole, or anus. Now I want you naked except for this training bra and these frilly, little-girl socks and I want your lipstick on." My anus?!?! He was going to kiss, lick and suck my bottomhole? No one had ever... Even I hadn't touched... Oh. I looked young and vulnerable in my training bra and girlie socks, which was what I was, I guess. I was scared. That was irrational, I knew, because Smithers would die before he hurt me. I guess I was afraid of losing the last, thin shard of my masculinity. It was a good thing Smithers was a man of action, not reflection. He had me in his arms a la Rhett Butler and was carrying me around the room as he kissed me. Again, I felt totally helpless in his arms. And it was wonderful. The man tongued my tonsils, breaking only to tell me how lovely I was. Then he had me stand in front of his coffee table. He asked me to lean over, placing my palms flat on the table. I did. Ohh. Then he asked me to spread my feet apart a bit more than normal. I did. Oh, oh. Smithers sat behind me and spent at least a minute just looking at my plump, pink bottom. "It's a lovely, lovely bottom you have, Ronnie," he said. I blushed . He gently kissed my left bottom cheek. Then the right one. It was not possible to be more totally erect than I was at that moment. Unexpectedly, Smithers dove between by thighs and in a bold, rear-guard action, took both my testicles into his mouth and gave them a thorough sucking. That got my attention. So did Smithers' nose pushing against my anus as he sucked my bag of pearls. By most measures, I was having an excellent afternoon. I was wiggling and whimpering in my little socks and training bra as my tutor (and lover) licked a trail from my balls, along that sensitive seam, to my pretty hole. Which he first touched with his lips, then just the very tippy tip of his stiff tongue. And that was it, ladies and gentlemen. Your raconteur flinched, then screamed. Then began pumping more cum than I thought a person's balls could hold. As I pumped, Smithers cuddled my tee tees and even gave them a squeeze as I endured the sweet agony of my orgasm. But the bell had not rung and Smithers kept licking. And then he stuck his tongue "in there" even farther. And farther. It was spectacular. Due to the circumstances, Smithers was mostly nonverbal. But at one lovely point, he withdrew his tongue, replaced it with two probing fingers within my secret place and began speaking to me. "You're a perfect angel, Ronnie," he said. "Made for a lucky man to adore. You're smart and beautiful. You have a fantastic body. Your femininity is nearing perfection. And you seem to be very responsive to a man's adoration." He was cuddling my little pellets as he delivered that high praise and the combination would have been more than enough for another of those spermstorms I had come to adore. But, girls, that bold explorer found my prostate and he began to rub it. Gently. Sexily. It was true overload. Debilitating, almost. And it was the moment that I knew I wasn't going back to my old life. Boys didn't have fun like I was having. Boys didn't get worshiped the way I felt worshiped. Boys didn't get their toes blown off by the force of their cums. Fingers "violating" me. Cum all over my front and anal juices drizzling out of my bottom and down each inner thigh. Lipstick smeared. No sign of manliness except for my dribbling dickie and the dangling dainties below it. The need to do something for my benefactor overwhelmed me the way shame and guilt had intruded days before. I wanted to suck Smithers' cock. Me. Can you believe it? Me. Was I gay? Not really. I was a pantyboy. I didn't even know the word at that point, but I do now. And that's who I was. By my estimate, your favorite pantyboy had about ten minutes before bell time. But I would not be denied. I stepped forward, disengaging Smithers' fingers from my bowels , startling him. I turned quickly and before my agenda-setting tutor could protest, I fell to my knees between his legs. I held his cock in my soft hands and examined it carefully. Smithers' protests died before they reached his lips. The guy knew when to keep quiet. Holding that hot pole in my right hand, I hefted his nuts in my left. Wow! This was a man who could drown a girl, or a pantyboy, with his cum, I thought. Ooooohhh. With eight minutes until bell time, I began to kiss my first cock. I think I did it right. Smithers had a long, thick foreskin. So long that when fully-forward, the skin covered all but the peehole. I stirred his stones with my left hand as I unhooded the tender, pink parts of his manly weapon. His best bits exposed to me, I laid my lips all over that sweet mushroom. Yes, I know I did that correctly. Smithers showed me that I did. All that moaning and appreciative grunting. I think I enjoyed making him happy almost as much as I did having my own life-threatening cums. I took the whole, big, meaty helmet into my mouth and swirled my tongue around it. Slowly. The poor guy's peehole was leaking very badly. All over my tongue. My first taste of that sticky, pre-gooey stuff. Nice. Kind of sweet, actually. Made tastier by the naughtiness of it all. For the first time since I had been with Smithers, I was in charge. I directed the action. I could have walked away and left Smithers in a state. I could have hurt Smithers badly with my teeth. Or, I could have just dampened my enthusiasm. What I did was give Smithers the first of what I hoped would be many knock-down, drag-out blowjobs. When his gut clenched and he scalded my mouth with five thick globs of his creamiest spunk, Smithers and I visited undiscovered galaxies. Hot cream gagged me. I choked a bit, then let the goo ooze from either side of my mouth and onto my chin, throat and chest. I even managed to swallow some. Smithers lay back, chest heaving. Breathing shallow. I considered calling 911, but I wanted to suck it again. Smithers didn't make me suck him off. He didn't even suggest it. It wasn't even in his plan, which by then was obvious to me. Bring Ronnie along slowly. Kiss him somewhere else after each tutoring session. Make him alternately crazy with anticipation and/or lust. Try to minimize the shame and guilt until something happened. Want to know the funniest part of the whole thing? The bell system sort of went away when it pleased Smithers. I took his limp cock into my mouth and sucked it to another stand. He was delighted. I kept sucking, escorting him to second, life-altering experience. The bell rang. Smithers made a fist, leaned over, and smashed the timer. It took 20 minutes of sucking and ball licking to get Smithers on the verge. When I licked two fingers, inserted them in his bottom and resumed sucking, I got my "girl's big reward" in about 45 seconds. Reluctantly, I had to clean up and leave. Smithers looked blissfully happy when he kissed my newly scrubbed face. He opened his mouth and was about to say something. Something important. But he didn't. Rats. Instead, he gave me fresh panties and stockings, kissed me again and said he would see me on Monday, where we would focus on a new area of kissing concentration. My pretty popsy. I was very happy when I got home. And very curious about what Smithers had wanted to say. Chapter Five -- No zither; just slither The next morning, Saturday, I played my zither for Mom and Daddy. I was terrific. Miles ahead of where I had been two weeks earlier. Mom and Daddy were delighted, but Daddy was disturbed by his inside knowledge of what went on after the lessons. Though Daddy had no idea how far Smithers and I had progressed. My zither-playing had improved somewhat technically, but my emotional quotient had advanced in quantum fashion. Had Smithers done that for me in the first 120 minutes of our lessons or the last 30? After the family recital, Mom served a nice lunch. I loved the food and the praise, but I had unfinished business. When I was finished helping Mom clean up, I got in my car. My zither stayed home. I slipped in a CD. One of my favorites -- "Ice Zee: Hip Hop Classics Performed on Zither." Aimlessly (I told myself) I drove around. Miraculously, I ended up in front of Smithers' house. Hmmm. Well, I was there. Might as well go to the door and tell my tutor about my family recital. The kind thing to do. Couldn't stay. At 1:36 p.m. I knocked on Smithers' door, no zither, but panties and stockings in place. I stood there for a full minute. What if he wasn't home? I felt sick to my stomach with disappointment. Or worse, what if he was in there "tutoring" another young man in panties and stockings? Kissing and rubbing and licking the little nancyboy the way he did me. That two-timer! Probably had some pretty little thing lined up for Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Kept us both on a string. I wanted to claw Smithers' eyes out (as well as the little sissy tramp who was probably sucking his cock right at that moment). I was boiling with jealous rage. Though I only went over his house to tell him about the recital. You know. Dejectedly, I turned to leave. But suddenly, the door opened and there was Smithers. Bewildered at first. Then wearing the biggest smile I had ever seen on anyone. Tears filled my eyes. Smithers opened the door fully, stepped forward and consumed me with his arms. "Thank goodness! I was praying you would come today," Smithers said. "I couldn't live without you until Monday. I never want to be apart from you again. I love you, Ronnie!" So that was what he had wanted to say. My tears quadrupled as he pulled me inside and closed the door. We were groping and kissing and pulling each other's clothes off until he was naked and I was down to my panties and stockings. His mouth and tongue engaged me so much that I couldn't even speak. Didn't even want to speak. My heart was bursting with happiness. Smithers carried me up the stairs as if I weighed nothing and into his bedroom -- my first time there. I noticed idly that everything was clean and tidy, though very masculine. Smithers laid me on his bed, then got on top of me, pinning me helplessly under his magnificent body. Between kisses, he said, "I saw you at the junior state championships two years ago and fell in love with you. I moved to this town right before you were 18, hoping we could meet. Then your father delivered you to me. I knew you were a pantyboy when I first saw you. You're not gay and neither am I, so don't worry." I wasn't worried, only that he might hurt me when he put that huge truncheon into my tiny bottom, which I was hoping he would do soon. He PLANNED to meet me and make me fall in love with him all along? I was that central to his life? That precious? Oh, girls, that's the greatest aphrodisiac there is. I freed my lips long enough to say, "Oh....Max. I love you too. Please make love to me the way a man loves his sissy." Tears formed in Max's eyes, then flames leapt from his nostrils. I was about to be fully fucked. The man reached into his nightstand drawer and extracted some lube in a tube, which he applied to his fingers, then entered my anus with one, then two digits. I gasped as he found my prostate, then almost screamed when, for the first time, my lover took my penis into his mouth and sucked me as he fingered my "pussy." I was slithering with pleasure as my man thrilled me at both ends of my pelvic bone. What made it so wonderful was that he didn't just suck my doodle, he ADORED it! He took his time to kiss and lick all around the rim of the head. He tongued my peehole in a way that most of us with penises only dream about experiencing. And his use of friction in my anus was downright stupefying. I heard squealing, as if someone were a helpless little sissy in a man's power. Loud, frantic squealing. Then I realized it was me. My anus, which had been relaxed a bit by its bold visitors, contracted on my lover's fingers. I arched my back, screamed, "I love you, Max!" and pumped a pint or so of sticky, girlie juices into Max Smithers' hungry mouth. The bad boy took advantage of my trancelike state, withdrawing his fingers from my "dirty," removing my panties completely, then mounting me while I was still on my back. He threw my calves onto his shoulders. Max was a man consumed by lust. Lust for me. His girlish, sissyboy lover. Through my post-orgasmic haze, I realized that my time had come. The road was greased. The vehicle was fueled by hot blood. Max rubbed my anus with the wet tip of his cock, teasing me. Making me whimper. Making me beg for it. "Fuck me, Max." I said. "Fuck your pantyboy. Love me." He pushed the head of his bludgeon slightly forward. Ow!! Maybe it wasn't such a good... Owwww! He pushed the whole head in and that stung. Max saw my fear and kissed me sweetly. "I'm pausing to let you get used to its size, heat and hardness, Darling," he said. "In a minute or two you'll feel no pain, only a desire to take in the other six inches." He was right. When I was ready, Max delivered the whole package. Filled by cock. On my back, squealing and begging for my man to fuck me. Stockinged legs in the air. Popsy limp and flopping against my tummy after each of my man's strokes. Helpless. Existing only to serve my man's carnal needs. Enjoying my man's joy as much as my own. Living the girl's life the way most girls work hard to avoid. Strangely, though my pricklet was limp, I felt that old feeling. The one that precedes a cum-to-end-all-cums. Max's rammer rubbed against my prostate. So big. So hot. So hard. I had just cum 15 minutes earlier and anyway, I couldn't cum with a limp noodle, Right? Wrong. The 2:15 from Spermville slammed into me like the world's first supersonic locomotive. Thick drool after thick drool oozed from my sissypole as I cried out in powerless lust. Feeling my agonizing ecstasy fired Max's libido, tipping him over that narrow, cliffside ledge we walk as we near orgasm. Max fell hard. He was shaking and moaning as he drenched my derriere with its first spasms of spunk. When the last drop of Max's sperm was deposited where it was always fated to go, and my rectal muscles involuntarily expelled the thoroughly welcome visitor, Max got off me, then took me into his arms. We kissed with hungry tongues and I knew that I had met my soul mate. Not just for zithering, but for our whole lives. Chapter Six -- Hither and thither with my zither Well I guess you can figure out the rest of the story. You never heard of the zitherist Ronald Brosnan, but I know you've heard of the world-famous Veronica Smithers! Of the Smithers Zithers! That clears things up, eh? Veronica Smithers is who I am now. And have been since Max and I were married five years ago. Our two-person "band" has been extraordinarily successful in the zither community and we're even considering going more mainstream if Lawrence Welk's grandson puts that TV show together as he's been saying he will. Everyone tells me that people would watch the show even if they didn't like the zither. Just to see me in my pretty gowns with deep slits that show off my long, sexy legs. In tan stockings. With my trademark silver or gold stiletto sandals. But I think viewers would respect me as a zitherist first, don't you? Max and I are deliciously happy, especially since we don't limit "kissing" to 30 minutes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays any more. Max found me a great doctor who put me on the right hormone regimen and made a few nips, tucks and improvements, so that I can be a pretty pantyboy for many years to come. We've discussed getting me titties, but I hate the thought of losing any sensation from the puffy, A-minus-cup, hair-trigger nipples I have now. And Max says he loves my boyish, girlie body just the way it is. I'm very happy with who I am. Mrs. Maxwell Smithers. Please let me know what you think at [email protected]