The Boy Bride Two -- Courted free porn video

The Boy Bride Two -- Courted by Gingerfred Man Previously I guess if you're reading this you've already read the first part of my story. The part where I, Dylan Griffith, a fairly normal boy of seventeen-and-a-half years, was suckered into joining a "society" with my two best friends, Tommy and Jay, and five other, 17, 18 and 19-year-old boys. Sissy boys! Little, feminized, feminine pantyboys. Receptacles for male, seminal juices! Maybe "suckered" is the wrong word. I was actually "sucked" into the society. By warm, wet, wonderful lips and moist, velvet tongues. When I reached the minimum age for our local chapter of the "Boy Brides Society," my so-called friends, who had already become simpering little pussyboys, invited me to Dennis Lemont's house on the rich side of town. Apparently, ten years ago, Dennis' older brother Gene had founded the chapter, with the help of Mr. and Mrs. Lemont. Everyone in town except me seemed to know that the prettiest boys in town got together every Friday night (and Saturday morning) to dress in femmy frillies, exchange dreams of marriage to adoring men (!) and suck and kiss and lick and rub each other's most delicate parts until everyone was exhausted and "fully milked." Well, I was having none of that ... until I sort of got caught up in things. It turned out that I, well, liked having my balls drained by pretty, feminine boys. Who wouldn't? But it also turned out that I was awfully pretty myself and awfully good about draining the "pink purses" of the other nancyboys. Mom and Dad, who had raised seven kids before me, took it all in stride. Mom taught me how to walk and talk and dress girly and make my face up. Daddy paid the bills. And, oh, yeah -- he "milked" me. I didn't want him to, but I found out that when I became a sissy, which is what I am, I guess, the need to be milked by a real man or boy, several times a day, became very strong. Having another sissy milk me would be a stopgap, but I really needed a male's hand on my privates, rubbing gently, lovingly coaxing out my sissy cream. So I guess telling myself that I wasn't going to get involved with men and boys wasn't fooling anyone. Still, even then, I knew I was never going to marry a man. It just wasn't in me. And "it" wasn't getting "into" me either. I would do some "things" with men if I wanted to (once I was 18 and legal), but nothing that "penetrating." And I wasn't marrying a man either. I had my male pride. Some of it, anyway. My immediate problems when I broke off telling you this story were two -- 1) how would I deal with dressing as a girl and dating boys during the hours when I wasn't in school as a boy and 2) how would I stop the humiliating act of submitting to my father's milkings when I woke up and just before I slept? Both challenges faced me my first Monday as a Boy Brides Society full member. I cleaned myself up after a very thorough, earth-shattering and humiliating paternal milking. Then I dressed in boy's gear. Except for a pair of sweet, pink panties under my khakis. Chapter One -- Adjustments I was still trembling from Daddy's latest milking when I got to school. Daddy was a former Marine and he was very task-oriented. The biggest evidence of that was the eight kids in my family. Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Lemont told Daddy that the more thoroughly milked I was, the less I would suffer during the periods between milkings. So Daddy decided that the way to protect his child would be to drain every molecule of cum from me before sending me to dreamland or into the big world. He wasn't naughty or sexy about it. He just knew where my buttons were and he pushed them mercilessly. He would stand me perpendicular to his seated self, panties down, shirt hitched above my nipples, and watch me grunt and heave as the strong, calloused fingers of his right hand rubbed baby oil over my stiffie and my dangling "peanuts." Meanwhile, two, sometimes three baby-oiled fingers of his left hand would enter my impossibly tight anus. He always eased them in carefully, but when he found my prostate, he abandoned mercy. Daddy rubbed my prostate as he masturbated me. It was mechanical. It was mortifying. It was emasculating. And it was complete agony. But I couldn't stop cumming. In rapid succession. First a big, creamy cum with fireworks and helpless squealing. Then another. Then a series of watery, half-limp spasmic ejaculations where I would babble and sort of half-ask Daddy to stop. When he was satisfied that not one sperm atom inhabited my body, Daddy would ease his fingers out of my rectum, release my cum-drenched penis and wish me a good night or a good day. As if we had just been talking about the Yankees' chances for the upcoming season. Daddy did say that when I found a boy to "do the duty" for him, he would gladly stop. And I believed him. The idea of a boy emptying my pink purse several times each day didn't seem so bad when I considered Daddy as the alternative. That morning at school was like any other day. Which was strange. I thought things would be a lot different, since I was clearly a different person. At least to myself. I felt fine until my study-hall/library period right after lunch. Then I started to feel the "malaise" that the other seven sissies in my club described to me. I wasn't sick, exactly. Just uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. I should have had a plan, but I didn't. There were three of my fellow prissies in school, but they were nowhere to be seen when my attack came. Were they avoiding me? Or were they in some sort of carnal clinch getting their own midday milkings? I could have just left the library and gone to the boys' room, found a stall, dropped my khakis and panties and milked myself. Why didn't I? Instead, I just sort of wandered into the stacks and held my stomach, as if I had cramps. It was quiet in the stacks. Sort of deserted. I actually considered just dropping my drawers and taking care of my ... "Are you all right?" Huh? Who said that? I turned to look. Oh, no! It was Jesse Holmes, my senior classmate. The coolest kid in school. If he had come by a few seconds later, he would have caught me with panties down, whipping my wienie. I would have had to flee to Katmandu on the next bus. Still, the situation at hand wasn't much better. I was in real discomfort, which I'm sure was evident. But I couldn't tell him what my problem was. I could say I had the runs. Yeah, I just have dia ... "You're Dylan, right?" Jesse said. "I'm pleased to meet you. Do you need to be milked?" ? He knew? How? Should I deny it? Could I deny it? What would he do? He showed me. "Don't be scared, Dylan," Jesse said. "I won't humiliate you or harm you in any way. It's not your fault you need a good, creamy milking. People are who they are." Imagine if everyone in the world thought like Jesse. Things were moving very rapidly. "I can help, Dylan, if you let me," Jesse said. I wasn't a tramp. Every slippery-pawed boy who came along wasn't going to rub my privates. Uh uh. But Jesse was so nice and I was so needy. Did I mention that Jesse was also the most drop-dead-gorgeous, hetero, masculine boy on the face of the earth? No? Well, that may have been a factor. I think I nodded submissively. Whatever it was, Jesse took it as assent. So he took charge. "Follow me, Dylan. No one ever goes back here. It's stuff about science and math, so no self-respecting American kid would go near it. They're all over in the self-esteem section. Come on. Don't be shy." He took my hand. It was very warm and dry. And very strong. Jesse had penetrating, blue eyes and very pleasing features. I sneaked a peek at his "bulge" and that seemed very pleasing too. And very stiff. I think I excited him. My poor peter was bursting through my panties. Because I needed to be milked. Not because of Jesse. We found a private spot where we could hear someone approach. That was when I got really scared. What if Jesse was mean and wanted to hurt me or humiliate me? He was neither. "Pull your trousers down, Sweetheart. And your panties too." He called me "Sweetheart!" How did he even know I was, I mean ... Well, I didn't like that "sweetheart" stuff. Maybe a little, but not a lot. I hoped he didn't get the wrong impression when I trampily pulled my trousers and panties down to my ankles, then lifted my shirt up to my nipples. So Jesse would have full access. To my stiff, drooling, needy parts. Jesse did something then that made me blush crimson. He complimented me. "You're beautiful," he said. "Pretty face. Lovely, girlish body. And your bottom is heaven on earth for a man." If he didn't start wanking me soon, I would be cumming just from the things he was saying. Jesse said, "I'm sorry I don't have any lube. I'll just wet my fingers with saliva." Then Jesse licked his fingers and laid them on my three-inch shaft. I groaned softly. Already I was showing loose morals. I didn't care. Jesse was rubbing me very, very nicely. And telling me how pretty I was. Even without make-up or girlie stuff. He was telling me how much he would like to take me on dates and then make love to me. I moved from simmer to boil. And then he kissed me! I didn't say that was OK!!!! He didn't ask!!!! He just kissed me, as if he were my Lord and Master. Good gracious, it was wonderful. Stars flew from my head. My balls clutched and I heaved cum in three-foot ropes all over a shelf filed with dusty, unread, science texts. All that self-delusion about how I wasn't going to let a boy touch me. The first one who touched me had me spurting my cream all over his hand as I swallowed his tongue and considered asking him to make me pregnant. I was actually sobbing from the intensity of the experience when he kissed me softly. The bell rang to end the period, or who knows what I would have done. "May I come by your house after football practice to give you some more relief?" Jesse asked sweetly. At that moment, I would have run off with him to the Sunni Triangle if he wanted. "Yes, please," I said, and kissed him. Then I pulled my panties and trousers up, straightened myself out and went to my next class. Of course I was a complete wreck the rest of the day, thinking about being alone in my bedroom with Jesse, a boy intent on relieving all my "pain." I would girlie up for him, of course. Super girlie! So girlie that I asked Mom to check out my make-up. Of course, I told her everything! I mean I had to tell someone and she seemed like the right one. Since I couldn't get pregnant and Jesse was a nice boy, she was fine with things. She asked a tough question though. "What about your night and morning milkings? Jesse has to go to bed early for football and can't be here. He needs his sleep in the mornings too. Rats. I had forgotten that. But good old Mom had a suggestion. "What about your classmate Greg across the street? He's a nice boy and he doesn't have a girlfriend. He could just pop over and 'pop you off.'" I blushed crimson again. "I could never ask him, Mom." "Don't worry, Honey. I already asked him. He'll be here at 10 every night and at 6:30 every morning. Don't say I never did anything for you." Wow. Chapter Two -- The Milkmen By the time Jesse's football practice ended, I had transformed myself into a tasty little tart. I had my best black lingerie on, including my silkiest, black, seamed, fully-fashioned stockings, a pair of killer, black, four-inch-stiletto mules, a naughty black camisole that exposed my creamy shoulders, and lacy, black, bikini panties. My hot-pink lipgloss was wet and fetching. My eyes were done a bit more dramatically than Mom liked, but I wanted Jesse to remember the first time he saw me as a girlie boy. I was sizzling hot and the mirror agreed. I was also trembling very badly and hoped that we had good paramedics on call that evening. I heard Jesse arrive around 6:20. He ran from his car to the front door and rang the bell. Mom spoke sweetly to him, but he had little time for pleasantries. Neither did I. My little pickle was twitching again and very needy. I was a "junkie for male attention," I guess. And I was about to get it. I could hear Mom escort Jesse to my room. He knocked. I opened the door. He gasped! Mom quietly withdrew as I looked at my first "boyfriend." He had obviously showered in a hurry, as his hair was sticking up in odd places. He was flushed and red, which may have been from exercise, but more likely was from lust. He looked magnificent. So did I. I almost saw Jesse's heart pounding from his chest, like in the cartoons. The mental image made me giggle softly. What I really saw was a boy who was smitten by my femininity. And that was a huge rush for me. Jesse stood frozen. I moved first, to close the door and to move him into the room. Didn't want Mom and Daddy peeking in on what was going to happen. And happen soon, I hoped. "You're incredible," the dazed boy said. I sort of smiled and posed a little and he sort of drooled. It's true. We make men hard as rocks and weak as puppies. I took the initiative. I hooked my thumbs into my panties, eased them just below my "silk purse," exposing what was for me, a major woodie. "Please help me, Jesse," I said to my knight errant. "It's so uncomfortable." That woke Sir Galahad up a smidge. He took my hand and led me to the room's only chair. He sat, then pulled me onto his lap. He offered me his mouth for some more kissing. An invitation I quickly and eagerly accepted. Jesse was a great kisser. He consumed me with his arms and locked me to him with his mouth. My panties were down and Jesse reached under my camisole to caress my stomach, then moved his hand to my right nipple. I've already told you how sensitive my little nubbers are. With all the anticipation, then the excitement and the delicious kissing, just feeling Jesse's fingers on my "titties" had me "on the verge." When he broke our kiss, lifted my camisole to my chin and began to lick, kiss and adore each nipple, I almost fainted with lust. When (finally) Jesse laid his strong fingers on my sissycock, I very sluttily squealed and began pumping out sissy cream in ample dollops. Three minutes with a boy and I was already cumming. And in full surrender. Jesse seemed to be very pleased with himself. Typical male. But to tell the truth, I was pretty pleased with him too. Even though I had just cum all over his hand and halfway up his arm, he didn't clean himself up. He didn't get up and go home. And he didn't pull out his own "business," which I knew was very stiff because I was rubbing my thigh against it. Instead, Jesse was still sucking away at my "tiny-top titties" and rubbing a nice glob of sissy cream all over my sore, sensitive bag of pearls. Jesse was a keeper. I leaned my head back, gasping and panting as Jesse sucked my puffy nipples and tickle-teased my testicles. Daddy was more direct, but I liked Jesse's approach much better. When Jesse sensed that the time was right, he stopped his nipple adoration and applied his lips to my glossed, wet, eager mouth. Easing his way up my privates, he began a delicious manipulation of my prickhead, rubbing his thumb on my oozing peehole. I'm only human. My achy nuts exploded again, blasting more hot cum than I thought possible into a vertical fountain. I sucked on Jesse's tongue as I shuddered through my climax. It was very nice. I told Jesse that. I also told him that I felt a deep need to recompense him in some way. Guys like to hear that. A lot. And Jesse was no exception. Jesse smiled and thanked me. Then he moved my bottom a bit off his lap, unzipped his fly, and invited me to "go fishing" for his stiff meat. Goodie! I giggled girlishly as I slid my fingers into Jesse's open fly. Jesse drew in his breath as I fished around a little. He was wearing boxers and the snaps were being challenged greatly by something long, tubular, hot and throbbing. I blushed as the thought of what I was doing occurred to me. I was about to cuddle and stroke a boy's cock. A very large cock. Oh, girls! I reached into the masculine cave and felt around for the monster who lived there. It was so hot that it probably breathed fire! I could feel its blood pounding, now that it had been cornered in its lair. It had risen to its full strength. Which made it feel like a very warm iron pipe. With a wet tip. It was so much fun to watch my new "boyfriend" gasp as I measured his considerable, manly girth with my soft fingers. Two fists tall from base to head, with two more inches of purple helmet! It made my diddler look like a peanut. But it was clear that I was the one in control, not Mr. Macho. I fiddled around in there a bit until I freed Jesse's Johnson from confinement. There it stood. Tall, skinned and proud. My first real cock. And it was all for me. Up to a point. I wasn't going to take it into my mouth and suck it. Not on the first day we were together. Boy Brides weren't tramps. Randy little dick-pleasers. But not tramps. Jesse would get a proper seeing to-with my hand and a few [hundred] more kisses. But I wasn't giving it all up the first day. If I did that, who knew what Jesse would expect? He'd probably be flipping me onto my back and trying to "stick his business" into me. Ouch! Plus, once you do that, there's no going back, is there? I mean if I wanted to go back to being fully male. I was keeping my options open. Not my legs. At that moment, as I stroked his cock and accepted his fervent kisses, Jesse would have been fine with those conditions. Jesse would have barked like a chicken for me at that moment, since he was in a man's most vulnerable condition -- on the road to imminent orgasm. No stopping. No turning. No discussions or acknowledgement of any of the male senses except for his sense of cock. I must have been pretty good at cockrubbing. Jesse seemed to think so anyway. His knob was slobbering juices and he was grunting manfully as I whimpered sissily under his kisses and cupped his cockhead with palm and fingers, rubbing his helmet with a ratcheting motion. When Jesse was "close" I removed my hand and replaced it with the tip of my own stiff, drippy tickler, which had been reinvigorated by the heat of the moment. We rubbed cockheads, "arrow point" to "arrow point," as we kissed hungrily. Then, suddenly, Jesse grunted and scalded me with his manly cream. In large globs. Kissing me. Ohh. Despite all my previous messies, I joined Jesse in a vigorous and creamy expression of my rapidly evolving sissiness. Was this what the rest of my life was going to be like? If so, would I live to see 21? Jesse kissed me, then asked for a towel, since his pubic regions were soaked with mingled globs of our sperm. Was he leaving already? Jesse cleaned himself off, then , cleaned me with the same cummy towel. It would have been nicer if he had licked my peeny clean, but I guess he wasn't ready for that. I was such a hungry, little, sissy tramp. I was disappointed when he kissed me and left, but it was a good thing. If I didn't put the brakes on then, my time as a "virgin" would have been measured in milliseconds. Plus, in about three hours, I would be seeing what my neighbor Greg brought to the party. I lay there in bed for a few minutes considering my "sticky" situation. My ball bag was empty (for the moment at least), but it appeared that I would be in dire need again in a few hours. I was all girlied up in seductive lingerie for a boy. A boy! Me, kissing another boy! He had treated me like a precious angel. Smearing my lipstick as he drew spurt after spurt from my sissified penis. It was so emasculating. And so horribly exciting. Was I stiff again, just thinking about Jesse and Greg? Yes. Mom's call to dinner saved me from self-abuse as I thought about all the compromising positions I would like to find myself in with Jesse. My stomach was roaring with need as I considered my attire for dinner. Mom and Dad surely would be upset if I appeared for dinner in my naughty, black lingerie. Though it would be fun to watch Daddy's "bulge" grow as he looked me over . I decided to do three things 1) fix my make-up to remove the evidence of the kiss-a-thon with Jesse, 2) put on a big, fluffy, modest, pink terrycloth robe that Mom had provided and 3) trade in my stilettos for fluffy pink slippers. Even dressed like that, I was so pretty and feminine that poor Daddy's throat constricted and pants tented when he saw me. Let's face it. Men liked me. We had a very pleasant dinner of fried chicken, mashed potatoes with chicken gravy, big biscuits and three different fresh veggies. Mom had gotten used to cooking for a crowd and even though I was the only kid still at home, I still benefited from some awfully satisfying cuisine. Mom and Daddy tiptoed a little around the circumstances of my new life. Mom seemed more comfortable than Dad. She even said, "Tell me if the Greg milkings work out, Dylan. If not, I have a long list of boys who will want to spend some quality time in your bedroom." I blushed fiercely at that. Lots of boys? Oh my. I was getting needy again. It was a good thing Greg was coming at 10. After helping Mom with the dishes, I went to my room and did homework until 9:30. Then I straightened the room and spritzed myself up a bit. I dabbed some seductive perfume at strategic body points, fussed with my make-up and noted that I was as randy as I had been before Jesse gave me three trips to Paradise. Precisely at ten, Mom led Greg into my bedroom. Dating has never been so easy. Mom smirked a little at my obvious "condition," then she said, "Take good care of Dylan, Greg. He needs you very much right now." Then Mom left. Thank goodness. I was such an eager tart that I had omitted panties, so my need was extended almost three-and-a-half pink inches in front of me. Greg took note. His own "package" was an obvious lump under his khakied trousers. "Hi," my glib suitor said. "Hi," I responded. "Could we talk later? I kind of need help now." And I propped myself on my back on my bed, lifting my camisole up over my red, erect nipples. So much for modesty. Greg seemed delighted with my directness. He removed a small bottle from his pocket and sat next to me on the bed. "You're very beautiful," he said, pouring baby oil into his small, right hand. "Yeah, yeah," I thought. I wanted him to get on with it. I did like the compliment, though. The naughty boy slathered the slick liquid on my flat tummy, rubbing very seductively. I liked that a lot. Then he moved up to my nipples, giving them an oily tormenting with skilled fingers. He wasn't kissing me, though I parted my lips and made little sounds. He wasn't like Jesse at all. Cute, rather than handsome. And less involved in the lovemaking part of milking than Jesse was. Still, he was technically very proficient. His nipple torture/caresses alone had me grunting and squealing and he didn't seem surprised when I started spurting my warm cream all over my stomach. Oh, that was delicious. Two different boys and two different types of orgasms. Would all boys and men affect me in different ways? Greg seemed very pleased with himself when he moved into phase two. He dipped his hand in my cum-covered belly, added a bit more oil, and began to massage my "pink bag." It was exquisite, girls. The bad boy hadn't even touched my penis yet, or shown me his own and I was whimpering my way to a second seismic spermstorm. Those soft, slick fingers were caressing and adoring my most sensitive parts -- my girlish testicles. Greg fingered each pearl, holding it just firmly enough to be erotic, not painful. Treating each sphere like a great treasure. And he kept a running commentary going about my beauty and femininity. He seemed to be truly moved by how sweet and girlish I was, which added to my erotic enjoyment tremendously. When the inevitable eruption came, he kissed me long and deeply. It wasn't a Jesse kiss. Different somehow. But very sweet. I sucked his tongue as I ejaculated helplessly under his expert, testicular massage. As my baby-oiled, cum-flecked chest heaved in post-orgasmic cool-down, I felt a great urge to return at least part of the sweet favors my milker had given me. "Let me feel your prick, please!" I groaned through my sexual haze. But Greg only said, "Mmmmmm," as he continued to milk the last sticky drops from my testicles. Then he said, "I can do better than that." He stood, and removed his pants, boxers, shoes and socks, then, naked from the waist down, lay next to me on my single bed. He had a very nice lower body. Slim, healthy legs. Hairless. Fine feet with cute toes. And a very nice pubic package. Greg's cock was bigger than my pathetic prick, but much smaller than Jesse's. It was slender and long -- sort of "pretty" and he "accessorized" with a cute, pink bag of nuts. He wasn't traditionally manly below the waist, but tradition was far from my mental nexus at that moment. Greg produced the baby oil again, this time lubricating his own pretty prick, then refreshing my droopy little sissy soldier with some clean oil. For the first time, he held my prick in his soft hand. It felt wonderful and I quickly regained half of my stiffness. I took equal liberties with him, reaching down and pleasuring his stiff willie with my girlish touches. He wriggled in appreciation, then kissed me as we tickled and cuddled and rubbed each other into a frothy state. I apparently excited him tremendously, since he arched his back and shot big jets of cum, then under my continued ministrations, repeated the lewd act ten minutes later. During his second cum, I produced my third, squealing like the sissy I had become. We cleaned up, kissed and promised a repeat performance at 6:45 the next morning. What a week that was! Greg milked me every day at 6:45 a.m. and 10 p.m. Jesse met me in the school boiler room at noon each day, then "did" me at 6:30 p.m. each evening. Who was better? Who cared? I liked it all. I was going to start dating one or both of them, but I worried about the jealousies that could create. So I decided to discuss it with the "girls" at my Friday night chapter meeting. I was also going to ask their advice about whether I should be taking my "milkmen's" cocks between my lips and even swallowing their seed. It was a good thing to have a support group. Chapter Three -- A Peek at the Future That Friday was a special meeting of the Boy Brides Society, because Dennis Lemont's older brother Gene, the founding sissy of our chapter, was going to be visiting and giving us a discussion about what life is like for a 28-year-old "boy bride." I'll admit that I wasn't even thinking about Gene when I was in the dressing room with my Seven Sissy Sisters: Tommy, Jay, Dennis, Eric, Jimmy, Patrick and Billy. The little creampuffs were all giggles and tickles as we sissied up for our weekly, sperm-drenched reunion. Anyone with at least one functioning testicle would have been very hot and very bothered in "their," actually "our," midst. We had all decided to wear black that Friday, so silky, seamed, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings were being slid up luscious, shaved legs. Delectable, black lingerie was being attached to warm, soft skin. Boys were painting their full, kissable lips and adorning their inviting eyes. Pantyboys were teasing and preening. The dressing part of the evening alone was as exciting as the rubbing, kissing and sucking that would make it a night to remember. Was it any wonder that one could hear the gasps and pants and squeals and smells that signified the spilling of sperm? As I slipped on my black, four-inch-stiletto, patent-leather, CFM pumps, I thought about asking for some advice. I hadn't gone on a real date yet -- hadn't been asked -- though I guessed my milkmen, Jesse and Greg, didn't need to take me out when they were quite intimate with me already. I hadn't sucked their cocks yet, either. In fact, I hadn't sucked any male cocks -- sissies didn't count. Should I start? How should I act on a date? What if my date or a milkman or a teacher or a construction worker wanted to fuck me? Not that I wanted any extraneous objects like that in my bottom. And I had a really weird question that I wanted to ask my sisters, but was embarrassed to. Neither Jesse nor Greg seemed put out in the least when I told them I wouldn't need their services for the evening and morning. Why were they so complacent? Anyway, I was delighted and excited to be among the sweet, cum-filled flowers again. My balls were aching for release and I was confident that they would be emptied over and over that night. The "Sissy Seven" treated Gene like an icon. A liberator, almost. The thought of their lives without a Boy Brides Society was too horrible for them to imagine. Gene, in their minds, was a lifesaver. "Lifesaver" wasn't the word I would have used to describe Gene when I first saw him. If words were possible, I would have uttered merely one: "Babe!" My first impression was that I was being joshed. The feminine masterpiece I saw before me couldn't have ever been a boy, a man or anything but an erection-producing, wet-dream-inducing, ultra-feminine beauty. Gene was wearing a very expensive, Chanel suit. Conservative, but incapable of camouflaging either Gene's bra-buster breasts or raging sexuality. Her/his voluptuously perfect legs were encased in tan, fully-fashioned, seamed, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings. Gene's heels were pencil-thin and skyscraper-high. Gene's luxurious, blond hair was long -- to the middle of his/her back -- and perfectly coiffed. His/her make-up accented a classically beautiful, heart-stopping face. She/he wore his/her 28 years well, seeming to be at the very beginning of her/his sexuality and beauty, not near its end. I guess I looked bewildered and a bit skeptical because Gene walked up to me, introduced him/herself, then set me straight in the only foolproof way. Smiling, the angel lifted his skirt, pulled down his panties and showed me a lovely, very erect, five-inch cock. So it was true! Gene was a boy! A man, actually. No, no. A transvestite. Or a crossdresser. A she-male? Screw it. Gene was feminine and gorgeous. Had I been a bit more forward, I would have dropped to my knees and sucked that sissy stick until I got to the warm cream filling. Instead, I just stood there, mouth agape, panties tented obscenely. Gene smiled with love and understanding. He gave me the sweetest kiss, right on the mouth, then said, "I'm so glad you joined the Society, Dylan. You're a hall-of-fame boy wife in the making. Beautiful and innocent. Sweet and feminine. And, I'm guessing, submissive to a man in all the right ways and at all the right times." I blushed and trembled. It was like Babe Ruth telling a rookie that he was going to be a great ballplayer. Even if the "rookie" wasn't sure that baseball was what he wanted. Dennis played the sissy taskmistress again, clapping his hands and saying, "All right, ladies. Enough milling around and admiring each others peenies. There'll be plenty of 'up close and personal' time later. We want to get started because Gene will need to get home to his loving husband later this evening. The poor man arrived home tonight and had no place to 'stick his business.'" Everyone giggled at that. I was amazed at the devotion of a boy wife to his husband. Gene was actually concerned about denying his husband one session of sex. Even if he planned to make it up to the dear man many times later that evening and night. Gene thanked Dennis and said, "Yes. If I don't get home soon, Harold could be poking a blow-up doll or even some 'freelancer.'" The nancyboys all gasped when Gene said "freelancer." I had no idea why, so I asked. "What's a freelancer?" At first, no one answered, but then Gene said, "Freelancers are our competition, Honey. The Boy Brides Society, I mean. Like women, they're not serious competitors because they're not as feminine as we are. But sometimes men like to wander a bit, especially if we're not draining their ball bags as often or as well as they want. Any genetic male with a pair of panties, a mouthful of saliva and a well-Vaselined bottomhole can be a freelancer. They don't have our standards, beauty or self-discipline. But men seem to 'get into them' all too frequently." Well. That was a bit unsettling. We were the cream of the crop but men sometimes sought their dairy products elsewhere? "Why do men like them?" I asked. Dennis answered. "Who really understands men? They're driven by their cocks and every man likes some 'strange pussy' now and then. Freelancers aren't evil. They just drag down the sissy standards. And no sane man would ever marry one. Although men do marry freelancers. Occasionally." How odd. Freelancers seemed to really aggravate the Boy Brides. As if every big-dicked, rich, handsome man should be theirs alone. Gene brought the agenda back to his topic. "I come here once a year to talk to you all, which is about as frequently as Harold can stand being away from me. He's such a good husband. Rich, loving and generous. And he fucks me at least four times a day. My first husband, Lloyd, fucked me five times a day, but I was younger then. I managed to negotiate my marriage agreement with Harold down to four times a day to give me a little more free time and to allow some rest for my aging bottom." From where I sat, that bottom hadn't aged one bit. "For you new girls, Boy Brides marry for five years at a time. Lloyd and I were very happy and he was despondent when I told him I wouldn't renew. Of course that despondence eased a bit when I introduced him to Maurice from our Montreal chapter. [That spread-legged, open-mouthed, little tramp!] "I was barely 18 and a half when I married Lloyd. He was 20 years older, richer than Daddy, and he swept me off my high-heeled feet. I could have had any number of men, you know. They were circling me like wolves and pelting me with marriage proposals. But Lloyd was such an ardent suitor. Did I mention that he was rich? Anyway, you'll think me shallow, but his was the first nine-inch 'sissypleaser' I had ever seen. It was so thick and dark and hairy that, poor virgin that I was, I was sure he would kill me when he put it into my tiny bottom. But what a way to go!" Even from me. I liked Gene. Though I didn't want to be like him. Completely, at least. Gene continued. "Well, Mom helped me get a lovely gown and Daddy got me a terrific pre-nup that guaranteed me five million dollars at the end of our five-year marriage. All I had to do was make Lloyd a happy man by making myself as beautiful and feminine as possible and by giving myself to him at least five times a day. Can you imagine that? Doing things I adored and getting five mil for it! Of course you girls should do even better, what with the competition for the best boy wives these days. Everyone wants a pretty, submissive, ultra-feminine wife who enthusiastically submits to a husband's filthiest desires. "The five fucks a day were a great pleasure. Lloyd fucked me in my bottom of course. A lot. It stung like fire the first time, but then the pleasure was total ecstasy. Lloyd also fucked me in my wet mouth, my soft hand, even in the crease between my bottom cheeks and between my stockinged feet. He would have done me in my boobies, but I didn't have them then. "No, I decided to get these beauties when I was almost 24 and between husbands. People ask me why I didn't get them when I was married so my husband would pay. Do you think someone who looks like me or you girls ever pays for anything from a man? Of course not. I paid the finest surgeon on earth with two weeks of heaven. And he called it a bargain. "I loved being a boy wife, but I wanted to be a bit more 'womanly' when I went after hubby number two. It's a pretty nice rack, don't you think, ladies?" And at that, Gene removed his jacket and blouse, then unhooked his overtaxed bra to expose a spectacular set of titties. I mean spectacular. There was oohing and aahing all around. I wondered if some of my pantyboy sisters would run out and get a "set" for themselves. But Society rules were clear on that. No "artificial enhancements" until after the first marriage. Men who married us were getting an extremely feminine boy with a virgin bottom. Anyone who violated the Society rules could be banished. Forced to be a "freelancer." Or worse, a panty-less boy. Gene continued. "The men who pursued me for a second marriage were looking for a bit more sophistication and a bit more 'womanliness.' They even wanted a female name they could call me now and then. I chose 'Gina.'" A great name, I thought. Would I get a girlie name too? And boobs? Big, perfectly shaped ones like "Gina's?" With big, brown, erect nipples? My prick was throbbing at the thought. Gene said, "I took about a year after my marriage to Lloyd to look around and see what the men situation was like. I know you're thinking, what did I do since I wasn't getting sex five times a day from my husband? The answer is, I was getting it about eight to ten times a day from some very eager suitors. And that time, I wasn't worried about preserving my anal virginity. "It was a great year for me. "When Harold came along, I knew he was the one. The one I wanted to live the next five years with. To grow older with -- from age 24? to 29?. Maybe longer. But probably not. I just love meeting new people, don't you? I must confess. I cheated on Lloyd. A lot. On Harold too. They never caught me, but they knew. They cared, but not enough to divorce me. Harold spanks me when he suspects I've been unfaithful. Hard. When he's done, I get to my knees with tears streaming down my pretty face and suck his cock until he frosts my face twice. That act of total submission and the begging I do for forgiveness makes me cum hard without even touching myself. And Harold likes it too. "But it certainly doesn't make me faithful. Goodness no. There are too many sweaty workmen and pool boys in the world for any pretty boy to be faithful to his 'Daddy.' And beneath it all, the 'daddies' know it. "As I look around the room, I see some very stiff situations. I'll leave you to your fun. Must get home to Harold. Don't want him bending our butler's assistant over the kitchen counter, pulling down the lad's panties and filling his freelancing bottom with sperm that is rightfully mine. Enjoy your night and your wonderful lives, girls!" We all cheered wildly as "Gina" left. What an incredible person. A role model. For some. Not me, of course. I didn't dwell on that thought because Tommy was on his knees in front of me, pulling down my panties in a frantic effort to suck my cock. Listening to Gina had made us both quite randy. I surrendered to his attack and let his soft, wet mouth envelop me with delight. The entire evening, night and morning was one of guilt-free (since I was doing it with girls) pleasure. I was thinking now and then during the Friday-night spermfest about the prospect of sucking my first male cocks. Saturday, I vowed, would be Jesse and Greg's lucky day. I was right about that, but for the wrong reasons. Chapter Four -- Sour Milkmen After a very active night with some very randy pantyboys, I made it home around noon. Mom and Dad were off shopping somewhere. Despite some heroic feats of overnight ballbag draining, my little sack was full again. And I had that dull ache that accompanied my condition. I called Jesse's house, but no one was home. Greg's house was just across the street, so I decided to walk over, through the pain of a crampy stomach, and have him set me right. If he used those soft hands on me just right, I was prepared, I thought, to suck his nice thin prick and swallow his boyish cream. A big step for me. But I was feeling good about it. As I crossed the street, I realized that I was in boy's clothes, with no make-up. I had panties on, of course, but I wondered if it would seem too gay to Greg to milk me in that state. I doubted it. He was always a very enthusiastic participant in the medically necessary, milking procedure. The only cars outside were a Chevy (Greg's) and another that looked familiar, but I couldn't place it. Greg's parents' car was gone. Goodie. And the door was unlocked. Double goodie. I would sneak upstairs and surprise him. Slowly I mounted the stairs. I heard little grunts and pants coming from Greg's room. The poor dear. He was racking himself off because I wasn't there to make him happy. Well, that would change. The sounds were getting more intense. As if he were getting near cumming. If I hurried, I could put his prick into my mouth just as he was about to spurt. He would like that. Then I smelled cum. Fresh cum. Greg had probably been masturbating since I left yesterday. Oh, what a shame. He deserved a nice hug and kiss as well as a killer blowjob. I got to the doorway of Greg's bedroom, pushed it to surprise him and ...got surprised instead. Horrified is a better word. I hardly believe it myself, even now. The sight almost burned my retinas. Greg was on his back, knees up. Pubic area drenched with the residue of multiple orgasms. He was wearing a pink nightie, pink, fully-fashioned stockings and some very well-applied make-up. That's not all. Jesse, my Jesse, was on top of Greg. He was completely naked and grunting with the effort of pushing his thick cock in and out of Greg's tiny bottomhole. Jesse was clearly near his orgasm. So near that he didn't even stop fucking when I screamed in shame and horror. I was so ashamed that I had given myself to those two-timing losers. Greg was ...he was ...a FREELANCER! And Jesse stooped so low that he was fucking a freelancer when he could have had me. Part of me anyway. Jesse's eyes filled with shame when he looked at me, but he was near orgasm too, so he didn't miss a stroke as I stood there shaking and screaming. Pretty bizarre, huh? But no one who makes creamy orgasms will be deterred from the completion of said action, regardless of the circumstances. I had to stand there as Greg spilled creamy globs all over himself and Jesse pumped his manly juices into a "freelancer's" sub-par bottom. Though it didn't look that sub-par to me. But if my sisters said so, I agreed. When they were finally done, for the fifth or sixth time by the looks of things, they acknowledged my existence. Jesse spoke first. "We didn't plan this, Dylan. It just happened." The most popular excuse of the 21st Century. "I didn't mean to shoot all those people, your honor. It just happened." Well I wasn't buying it. I straightened my spine, turned on my heels and walked away from those two chumps. At first, I hoped they hadn't seen my tears, but then I didn't care what they saw. They were no longer in my life. I was hoping they were so upset that Jesse wouldn't be able to fuck Greg for at least another hour. That would teach them. We Boy Brides Society members have our pride. At that moment I also still had a full "pink purse." Hot cum was sloshing around and making me feel queasy. Daddy would have given me a good seeing-to, but he wouldn't be back for hours. What to do? I guessed I would have to milk myself. OK, I thought. I can do this. I stripped to my pink panties and admired my form in the mirror. I was very HOT. No wonder all those boys at school had been eyeballing me. When the word got out that I needed a new milking crew, I would have several applicants. No doubt. But that was Monday morning -- 45 painful hours away Then I remembered that Jay had given me an "emergency pack" for those rare times when milkers were unavailable. I hadn't thought about it really, since milkers seemed to be lined up around the block for me. But now that I had been betrayed, I broke the pack's seal. What was that? A four-inch-long, thin, gelatinous, cock-like object with a small battery compartment left little doubt as to its usage. A warning label recommended lots of Vaseline on both the object and its intended target. There was also an official communiqu? from Boy Brides Society HQ in Fromage, Wisconsin that said use of such items did not compromise virginity. Nor did inserted fingers. I knew that. And what was the other thing? A comic book put out by a company called "Spermco," titled "Timmy, the Boy Wife: Honeymoon." A comic book? Hmm. The cover was only black-and-white line drawings, but very well done by an excellent artist named "Teri." It showed a man in groom's formal carrying a very lovely boy in a princess' wedding dress across a threshold to a suite in a ritzy hotel room. That looked interesting, but I thought I had better insert the little buzzer in my bottom before I opened the comic book. I stole little glances at my pantied self in my full-length mirror as I sissied around the room, getting the Vaseline, lubing up my first, "training-wheels" dildo, lying on my back, pulling my panties down, using my fingers to lubricate my tight "pootie," gasping and arching my back as I inserted the buzzing little object where only fingers had gone before. Ohh. It was small, but it was buzzing right on my prostate. And in my desperate condition, all I did was rub a little of the Vaseline on my oh-so-sensitive cockhead and bam! Cum was leaping from my aching nuts and all over my pretty tummy. It felt wonderful. Heavenly. But it was not enough. I needed to cum again. So I picked up the comic book and opened it. Timmy was a gorgeous little sissy who had just married a man who was twice his size, rippled with muscle, and old enough to be his Daddy. Timmy was doing a naughty striptease for Edward, who had removed all his clothes except for his heart-adorned boxers. Edward's cock was a good ten inches long, exposed, thick as a log and dripping a substantial amount of manly fluid. Timmy was about to be fucked without mercy and he seemed quite unafraid. Eager, in fact. The boy (18+, of course) was down to his corset, garter belt, fully-fashioned white stockings and five-inch-stiletto pumps. His panties had disappeared and his pretty, dripping pricklet was standing its full three inches. Edward was a man totally in love with his new wife Timmy and completely consumed by lust. Timmy sissied over to Edward and sat on his lap. Their mouths kissed hungrily as they toyed with each others' cocks. Timmy could barely get his hand around his husband's monstrous "business." Edward was skinning Timmy's foreskin most deliciously. Timmy shuddered and came hard, in thick globs, all over Edward's hand as they continued kissing passionately. I joined Timmy. All over my hand. And my stomach. It was an extremely exciting book. The ideas in it, I mean. A sissy boy married to an alpha male. His total fuck toy. The man was the boy's lord and master. Oh. I turned the page. Timmy's head was thrown back in ecstasy as his husband sucked and licked his erect, delicious-looking right nipple. In the next picture, the boy bride was cumming again as Edward sucked the sissy's left nipple. On the next page Timmy was on his knees in adoration to his husband. He was licking Edward's leaking knob like a lollipop and Edward was grinning in manly satisfaction. Then Timmy gave his husband a thorough ball bath with his girlish, little tongue. That made Edward so happy that he spurted a gigantic load of thick, hot cream all over the boy's beautiful face. Timmy was smiling angelically. I thought about having an Edward of my own to submit to like that and I blew my second load of the milking session. Timmy got into position to take his husband's cock into his mouth again, but Edward took Timmy to the bed. He laid Timmy on his pretty back and got on top of him. Then he kissed and licked Timmy's face clean -- his own cum! This was a man who adored his sissy. Edward continued kissing Timmy, rubbing hard, leaking cock to sissy clitty until they made a sticky mess all over each other. Was that what a wedding night was like? Oh my. Edward got on his back and had Timmy ease his bottom over Edward's handsome face. Edward tongued Timmy's girlish pussy as a squealing, grunting Timmy leaned over and sucked Edward to a creamy cum, then a new, strong cockstand. It appeared Timmy's moment had arrived. Mine had already been there. I blew my third load at a picture of Edward's tongue halfway into Timmy's G-I tract. The pleasure! Did I have the courage to turn the page and see Timmy get what every wife longs for? Yes. Did I have an erection? No. It appeared that my little tickler was too exhausted. But my curiosity wasn't. Edward lay on his back. Timmy straddled Edward's hips, facing him. The analingus had opened Timmy a little, but when the sissy boy began to sit on his husband's thick pole, tears of pain were in his pretty eyes. The brave little sissy pressed on, however, easing down, millimeter-by-millimeter, until Edward was in "to the hairs." Timmy's angelic smile and soft kisses of his husband's lips showed his complete enjoyment of anal sex at its best. Edward was obviously completely in love with his boy wife and, in many ways, would surrender to Timmy in all matters when they were not in coitus. I wasn't hard but ...unnnhhh. I was .... WHAM! Cumming so hard my eyes were watering. But only a few thin dribbles oozed from my limp penis. I guess that was a complete milking. And I did it myself. Sissies can be self-reliant too. And we can spite our ex-milkers by being so. Chapter Five -- A succession of wonders I guess I became a bit more realistic about things after Jesse and Greg decided to BETRAY me as they did. Some may say that I was sort of betraying them by sharing my girlish charms with more than one snorting, spurting male. But we sissies are supposed to be "generous" like that. There are not enough of us to go around, after all. When Mom and Dad came home late that Saturday afternoon, I didn't like the glint in Daddy's eye when he realized that he was my prime milker once again. Apparently, Mom didn't either, because she quickly got on the phone and lined up some eager volunteers for me. None arrived in time to save me from one more stupefying session with Daddy's knarly fingers in my little pooper, however. Tormenting my innards, especially my tender prostate, until I was a whimpering, orgasming little puddle of sissiness. Where did that man learn to do that so well? Did he and Mom ... ...? Ewwwwwwwww! Anyway, Mom lined up several, she wouldn't say how many, "nice boys" for me and the first one appeared for duty at my bedtime that night. Daddy had drained me so well at 6:30 that I was sure I wouldn't be able to manage even an erection. As I had been for most of those past few weeks, I was wrong. The first member of my "work crew" brought my dingle to full attention when he walked into my bedroom. Seeing me on my back in a tiny pink nightie, with my pink package exposed and needy, made my new milker's trousers quite lumpy as well. Norm Creamer was like the hunkiest guy in school. He was so popular that even the popular guys stood in awe of him. And there he was, swollen and panting, practically drooling at the opportunity to make me cum all over myself. He was so good looking that I didn't think he would have to work very hard to accomplish that. I won't bore you with a long description of what we did. Well, maybe I'll bore you a little. He was so bold that he stripped right there. In front of me. Down to his bare self. A young man comfortable in his nudity. He lay beside me, took me into his arms and kissed me. I moaned. When he brushed my cock with the back of his gentle hand, I squealed and came hard, arching my back and pumping goo like Old Faithful. What a tramp Norm must have thought I was. I didn't care. He was still kissing me and rubbing the hot cum all over my wrinkled bag. Making me hot and hungry again. I sucked his tongue as I reached for his cock. It was wet and hot. I was going to have to slow this down or I would be losing my virginity, my Boy Brides membership and my chance for a hugely rich husband (not that I wanted one) in one "penetrating moment." I would be doomed to the sad life of a freelancer. Sucking every cock that came along. Taking large, penile objects into my anus without the benefit of a gown, two rings and a pre-nup. Horrors. I had to put on the brakes, but the thought grabbed me as I rubbed the eager boy's velvet knob: what was Mom telling these milkers she recruited? They all came after me with heat and frantic lust. Or did I just inspire lust in boys, no matter what Mom suggested they do with and for me? Norm was certainly the most aggressive of the three milkers (not counting Daddy) whom I had had so far. But as I stroked his cock and sucked his sweet tongue, I realized that I was now in control -- not him. He was grunting and wiggling in anticipation of that moment all the boys live for. Had I stopped at that moment, he would have been crushed. Thus my power. I decided to wield it benevolently. I stroked and tickled and kissed and made girlie noises until Norm cried out, then bedewed my girlish fingers with several tablespoons of manly sperm and semen. When our breathing came back to normal, I took charge again. "That was very nice, Norman. Thank you very much. I look forward to seeing you the next time. Please see Mom for your schedule on the way out." Norm lay there. Naked. Chest still heaving. Splatters of his cum on his flat tummy. He played his last card. "Are you sure you're fully milked, Sweetheart?" That set me back a bit. Truth was, I was not sure. I felt stirrings of little swimmers still hiding in my pink purse. Maybe it was best to get them out. Medically best. I blushed and said, "Maybe once more, but remember, I'm a virgin and I'm staying that way. No funny business!" Norm smiled broadly. I had the power to reward and to punish. Hail Princess Dylan! Norm's and my definitions of "funny business" differed sharply. Which, as it turned out, was good. He rose to his knees, perpendicular to my hips. I was on my back on my bed. What was he .... The scamp leaned over and took my cock into his mouth! A boy had never .... I didn't know boys did .... He was so VERY good at sucking me that I almost didn't wonder where he learned to do that. It was heavenly. He swirled his tongue around my velvet knob. Then abandoned it for soft kisses on my balls. Too much. Too good. Returning his wet mouth to my restiffened shaft, he bobbed his head up and down on my delighted cock. Then, shockingly, he entered my bottom with two uninvited (but very nice fingers). I screamed. Then I pumped thick globs of sissy cream into his hungry mouth, squealing and screeching in lustful exhilaration. It was a good thing he wasn't an axe murderer because neither Mom nor Dad entered the room to see if I was still alive. Norm rose from the bed, gave me a sweet, cummy kiss, dressed and went home. I hoped that Mom would schedule him often. But Mom had other plans. I don't know how Mom knew, but whenever it appeared that I had gotten really hot and heavy with one of my milkmen, the lad wasn't scheduled for another draining session with me for quite some time. Maybe Mom had a hidden camera or something , but Mom knew things and she acted on what she knew. I didn't see Norm again for almost three weeks! Though I did see 18 other boys over that period. All woven into my four-times-a-day, medical-procedure schedule. And the ones who drained me while boiling my blood the least got the most opportunities. Mom, as it turned out, had decided that she wanted to be the mother of the bride at one more glorious wedding -- mine. She wanted me to marry a wonderful, rich man who would make all my dreams come true and fuck me until his cum came out of my ears. So she kept my milkings moderate. They all occurred in my bedroom, except for the appointments she arranged for my lunchtime milkings at school. Since they happened in areas that were, at best, semi-private, no lunchtime sessions got overly steamy. Thanksgiving was nearing, but still I hadn't been out on a real date. I guess I was pretty worried about what I would tell my seven older siblings when they came home and found their kid brother in makeup, panties and stockings. Mom said not to worry, but this was the woman who was on the phone every day setting up appointments for me to be masturbated by my very eager classmates. A week before Thanksgiving, I had to deal with the first of our chapter's Boy Brides Society quarterly fundraisers. BBS headquarters required chapters to send them lots of money. Money well spent, as it turned out, since they were the ones who did all the research and vetting on potential grooms for us boy-wives-to-be. When my "sisters" told me it was to be a Saturday car wash, I laughed out loud. How much money could we make from a car wash? That Saturday, after the usual Friday night spermstorm, we showered and got into our car wash outfits. I was expecting jeans and tees. But no. We were eight sissies in sheer black panties, black training bras, black, seamed stockings, black garter belts and strappy black sandals with four-inch, pencil heels. We got into Mr. Lemont's van and he drove us to the site, where cars were lined up for miles. A sign over the door said, "Charity Car Wash -- $250." $250? Huh? And they were lined up forever. The car wash place was indoors and heated. Our washing equipment consisted of four hoses, four buckets with soapy suds, four big sponges and eight lovely nancyboys. The other sissies thought it was great fun as we broke into two-pantyboy teams. I was with Dennis Lemont. The first car pulled up to our station. It was a black, 2005 Mercedes something-or-other in immaculate condition. The man had given Mr. Lemont his $250. He got out of his beautiful car, smiled at Dennis, leered at me and sat in a folding chair to watch us wash his already-perfect car. Dennis didn't think it strange that someone had spent a great deal of money to get a clean car washed by two people who could only be described as grossly incompetent car washers. We sprayed and sudsed, making a terrible mess. The poor man, who would have to take his beautiful car to a real carwash afterwards, seemed very happy nonetheless. He loved watching us sissy here in there in our big heels and skimpy lingerie. He loved watching us stretch and reach, our pretty bottoms tightening up with the effort. When we were finished ruining his car, he gave us each a $100 tip, for which Dennis gave the man a nice, tonguey kiss. Then he looked at me. I couldn't be ungrateful, could I? I tottered over to the man, blushing fiercely. Then I pouted my lips for my first kiss from a man. He held me in his arms and tongued my tonsils. It was wonderful. Wonderful. I felt his beard stubble rub against my soft chin. He smelled like aftershave and an expensive cigar. My poor popsy was "pointing" my panties. And his trousers were very lumpy -- because of little old me. Again, I was amazed at how much I enjoyed everything my sisters introduced me to. Really enjoyed it. The first real man I ever kissed left and I didn't even get his name. But there were others. 34 others that lovely day -- and $4,260 in tips, just for me! The most fun was the lunch break. Men who had paid $1,500 each got to relieve our "pain" several times as we relieved theirs once. It was carefully supervised, of course, by Mr. Lemont. And done all at once and in one large room. Mr. Lemont didn't pay anything, but Eric and Billy each relieved his tensions -- with their girlish mouths. The host should get some consideration, don't you think? That fundraiser was my first taste (though just a nibble) of men, and first inkling of the funds that sissy boys could draw from men's porous wallets. Five days later was my first Thanksgiving as a pantyboy. I had dreaded it, but all my worries were carried away on clouds of joy. My brothers and sisters began arriving late Tuesday. By Wednesday night, the house was full -- the way it should be. Not just with my four older sisters and three older brothers. There were three husbands, and two wives and four grandchildren. With all that going on, I thought, maybe no one would notice how I was now dressing in girlie things -- stockings, heels, dresses, makeup -- having boys come into my bedroom four times a day, milking me to a succession of screaming cums. Uh huh. I was very much the topic of discussion for the first day or so, but then everyone decided they had their own stories to tell, so my new status was pretty much ignored. I mean they were all pretty encouraging and sympathetic and listened to my story carefully. But then everyone started talking about the grandchildren and so-and-so's promotion and so-and-so's pregnancy or engagement. Yeah. Like THAT's half as important as stuff about me! What did I need to do to get noticed in that family anyway? Thank goodness for my brother Alex. Only 14 months older than I, Alex was the shy one in the family. Not a good survival tactic in a bunch like ours. He was a freshman in college, only 100 miles from our home. He seemed delighted that I was a member of the Boy Brides Society. Like everyone else on Planet Earth except me, he knew all about the organization and its presence in our town. It was nice that someone was paying attention to me. Besides my milking crew, of course. And nearly every man who looked at me. Alex praised my beauty and my courage. I liked that. Then he began to cry. I didn't like that. I held Alex in my arms as he sobbed. I asked him what was wrong. The answer was a surprise. "It should have been me, Dylan. I should have been the member of the Boy Brides. I wanted it all my life. But they didn't pick me. They picked you." Lots more sobbing. Well. That was a surprise. OK, I'll admit it. I'm self-centered. But I felt for Alex. And I did something about it. Making no promises to Alex, at my first opportunity I called Dennis Lemont. "Happy Thanksgiving, Dylan" the pretty creampuff said. "Did you enjoy the car wash on Saturday? A few more like that and you can buy your own Mercedes. And in four and half months you'll be 18 and can go for the big rewards." I hadn't thought of that. Wow. I would be rich! Men would probably give me expensive gifts just to smell my perfume. Focus, Dylan, I thought. "I have a serious problem, Dennis. If you can help, I'll be very grateful." "Ooooooh," Dennis said. "I would love your gratitude, Honey. What can I do?" I told him all about Alex and his needs and hopes. I made good arguments and was prepared to address his objections. But I didn't need to. "That would be great, Dylan," Dennis said. "Alex's very pretty and submissive. It's my fault that I didn't recruit him last year. Bring him to tomorrow night's meeting and we'll 'swear him in.' He'll have to drop out of that stupid college. Why would he waste his time trying to learn enough to get a $40,000/year job when he can make that much a week as a rich man's wife? He's already almost 19, isn't he? Daddy will be very excited to meet Alex too." And it was that easy. Mr. Lemont had a pretty good thing going with the over-18, unmarried members, so the more (if they're qualified) the merri