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Panty Pride By Gingerfred Man Chapter One -- Mutual interest All your life, people tell you that you need to find others who share your interests. Common ground. Birds of a feather. Flocking together. Sounds like a good idea, doesn't it? It is. Unless you're so ashamed of your "interest" that the mere act of looking for someone who is like you foreshadows a pit of potentially abject humiliation. Sure, it's no problem if you like to collect Crimean War hand weapons or to needlepoint scenes from Charles Dickens novels. With the Internet, you can match up with a gaggle of the similarly obsessive in no time. But what if you like to...you know...uh...well...wear women's panties? Obviously, this is no problem if you're a woman. Or even a girl. The pantier the better, society says. But society makes a big, nasty frown if, like me, you're a man who wears panties. Peter Pertbottom is my name. I'm 27 and I've always adored wearing panties and various women's things, like stockings, garter belts, frighteningly high heels, slips, half slips, nighties, bras, bustiers, waist cinchers and teddies. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start with panties. I've worn panties just about every day of my life since my last "gym day" in high school. This has had two major effects on my life. First, it has terrified me about forming a relationship with a woman. I tried it, without the panties, mind you, and chose the panties over the relationship. Second, wearing panties and other feminine folderol has been a constant and reliable source of sexual arousal for me, leading to an immense number of stupendous, though self-inflicted, orgasms. So, you're asking yourself, what's Peter's sexual orientation? Good question and one that I found puzzling as well. I mean, women excited me sexually. The thought of making love to a woman was always part of my fantasies. But in my dreams I was always as girlie as the woman I was making love to. Did I want to "be" a woman for a rampant, rutting man? That was also a part of many of my fantasies -- a very naughty part that I tried to drive from my mind, but it always returned. My concerns were that men would ridicule me and that, though I may have liked the idea of being with a man, my natural heterosexuality would make the reality of it pretty disgusting. The only thing I was pretty sure of was that it would be great to have someone just like me to have girlish, cummy sex with. A psychologist might say that I wanted to make love to myself (which was, in a way, what I was already doing). It was all moot, because, if there was to be any risk in it at all, I was far too chicken to take any steps to improve things for myself. Until I saw that ad. In my local newspaper. In the Sunday entertainment section. It said, without pictures or art, "Looking to meet other men who share your enjoyment in wearing panties? Come to a nightly get-together at a Panty Pride center, the national association for proud male panty enthusiasts (or pantyists as we like to be called). Total discretion and confidentiality." It gave an address (close to my home), phone number and Web site. Was I seeing things? Was such a thing possible? One thing was certain. I could never visit such a place. My reputation. My fear. Things were better left as they were. But it wouldn't hurt to visit the Web site. So I did. It was the oddest thing. There were pictures of men all over the site. Normal men doing normal things. Chatting. Drinking beer. Watching sports on TV. In a normal, VFW-Hall-type setting. And they were all wearing panties. Some had stockings and garters and things. But many just wore panties and soft slippers. They looked relaxed. They looked happy. Some were erect in their lovely panties!! Looking at that Web site made me frantically erect and needy. Thinking about walking around as a free man. In my panties. Letting other pantied men see me. Seeing other pantied men. Some of them getting erect from looking at me, perhaps. Ohhhhhhh. I came hard in my panties, spurting out glob after glob of my hot juices. Crying out, "Panty Pride" as I vowed to summon my courage and visit the local center. Chapter Two -- Courage at last My courage took 17 days to build up, but I finally assembled the moxie to keep my promise to myself. Seventeen days of reading everything I could find on the Internet about Panty Pride. A New York Times review: "New nationwide club caters to men who choose to express themselves through lingerie." The text of a Fox News review: "Selfish hedonists promote godless activities in organized, liberal-inspired debauchery." Seventeen days of surveilling the rather-non-descript building that housed the local Panty Pride. Watching men enter and leave. Normal, manly-looking men. Watching to see if police were surveilling the place. Or blackmailers. The men who frequented the building didn't seem to worry about being "outed." The reviews seemed to agree that no one was going to publicly hanged on the Fourth of July for entering a Panty Pride facility. Still...I spared no caution. Waiting. Considering. Then, startling even myself, I decided to take the biggest leap of faith of my life. At 5:03 p.m. on a Wednesday, I left my job, where I work as an accountant for a manufacturing firm. Breathing only occasionally into a brown paper bag, I decided to walk the 12 blocks from my office to Panty Pride. Easier to see if someone was following me. No one was. I arrived at a spot across the street from Panty Pride with my prettiest, sky-blue, satin, bikini panties under my navy-blue-suit pants, caressing my private parts and not one plausible reason why I shouldn't cross the street, enter a room, remove my pants and show my panties to other men. Other men in panties. Tented panties. Looking at my tented panties, which were getting significantly more tented by the minute. I crossed the Rubicon, also known as First Street, and walked past the small "Panty Pride, lower level" sign and through the revolving door. Down the stairs, moving quickly before my meager courage failed. Twenty feet down the hall to a door on the right. "Panty Pride, Please join us," it said. I was trembling, yet as resolute as possible for me, as I emerged from the revolving door and thought I had arrived at the wrong place. There were no men such as myself. Merely two overly muscled young fellows in tshirts that proclaimed: "Security." Was I in the building security office? Oh, how embarrassing if I were. I would have to explain to these brawny men that I was looking for a place where I could prance around in my panties. No way I would do that. I would just bolt, run down the street, and join a monastery in Nepal. Or perhaps Mars. But no. The larger of the two lads said, in a very kind voice, "You have the right place, sir. This is Panty Pride. Would you please fill this out to register as a new member? I'll also need your $50 registration fee and $20 for this session, please." So polite. So understanding. So...manly. And firm in manner. I did what he said. Quickly. Then he said. "Thank you, Peter. My name is Eric. My associate is Walter. Do you have your panties with you, or would you like to purchase a pair...size 8, I believe." He knew my size! I blushed and stammered, "I have my...things, thank you." Eric smiled. "I thought so. Here are your complimentary soft slippers. You'll want to wear them, unless you brought your stockings and heels. And here's your locker key. Just go through that door to the locker room, put your things in the locker, apply your make-up at the row of vanities if you wish, and go through to the main room. Since it's your first time, Walter or I can take you through the locker room and into the main room." Was Eric flirting with me?!?! Oh my! And I was still just in the reception area. I followed Eric into the locker room, then blushed furiously as he watched me strip to my panties. Eric, that handsome, muscular man, was the first person to ever see me in my panties. And he appeared to be fascinated by what he saw. Oh the shame! How delicious it was! Someone seeing me in my most basic, feminine state. Looking at me. Smiling. Was he being friendly, or was he...admiring me? What if he was admiring me? What would I do? What would I want to do? What if Eric forced me -- took advantage of me? I shuddered, then began to quiver a bit as I contemplated the room I was about to enter. If it was anything like the scenes I had seen on the Web site, there were lots of men in there. Men in panties. Men like me. "You look very nice, Peter," Eric said. "You'll be very popular in the main room. The 'guys' are very nice. You'll like them. And I know they'll like you. Will you stop by and say goodbye to me on the way out?" I nodded shyly. I was sure of it. Eric was flirting with me! Did I really look that good? Or did Eric say that to all the "girls?" Why did Eric want me to say goodbye to him? Did he like me? Ohhhh. I felt as if I were in high school again. Wondering who "liked" me. Just as my overheated brain was processing all the new stimuli, Eric opened the door to the main room and gestured for me to go through it. The second Rubicon. With many more to come, no doubt. I walked into the room and saw -- not much. It was a non-descript, club room. Couches, chairs, lamps, tables, plants. A long bar. Two big-screen TVs at either end. And no people. I looked back at Eric, who said, comfortingly, "It's early, Peter. It usually gets busy about an hour or so from now. There are usually a few guys here early. And Andy the bartender is almost always here. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you the rules. Just two, really. Keep your panties on for now and keep your 'package' in your panties. Bye." What did that mean? Why wouldn't I keep my panties on? Why would I show my "delicates" to the other "pantyists?" I was about to ask him for some clarification, but he closed the door. Leaving me, alone and pantied, to face a new world. I was quaking a little in very real fear. And my popsy was drooping from dread. I needed a drink. And that Andy guy was around somewhere, Eric said. Eric was right. I heard some clinking and noticed a nice-looking, 40-ish man stacking and cleaning glasses. Just a normal bartender, except that he was wearing red, string-bikini panties, thigh-high black stockings and two-inch-stiletto pumps. Oh my. Definitely a new world and I was about to make "first contact" with an indigenous species. I stood there waiting for Andy to notice me. When he did, his reaction startled me. He actually wolf-whistled at me! I blushed crimsonly. "Hello there, Cutie," Andy said. "Welcome to Panty Pride. Oh, I'm sorry. I'm embarrassing you. It's just that we don't play games here. If we think someone looks good, we tell him. And you look really good. Can I get you a beer? First one of the membership is free. After that, I run a tab, but I figure you won't ever pay for a drink here. The guys will be climbing all over each other to pay for your booze." That would have been the moment to run out of there. I had met two people at Panty Pride and they both foreshadowed a "popular" future for me. Was I ready for that? Not really. Popular had always evaded me. I didn't know how to be popular. It was a whole new set of rules. I guess I had better share a bit more about myself with you. I'm 5'10" and 145 pounds. Slender and with minimal body hair. People have been telling me all my life that I'm very cute for a male. Some, especially my mother, have even hinted that I would be cute even for a female. My features are somewhat feminine and, in the rare times that I made myself up totally as a woman, I was quite pleased with the results. Having someone else affirm all that was having quite an effect on me. Especially on my vigorously resurrected penis. Oh, about my penis. Nothing special. About five inches erect -- three when soft. Circumcised. Small testicles in a nice pink bag. Much smaller than what I was observing grow in Andy's panties. He was getting erect looking at me!! No one had ever done that, as far as I knew, in my whole life. I was simultaneously flattered and terrified. Apparently it was true. I was cute. At least to two guys who saw men in panties every day at their workplace. It was also quite strange to me that I thought Eric and Andy were cute too. Andy was even wearing a bit of lipstick and some blush! I had been at Panty Pride for 20 minutes and I was already having the oddest/scariest/best experience of my life. And the evening was only beginning. Andy had completely stopped setting up the bar and was giving me the ocular onceover. Twiceover even. He said, "I'm sorry if I'm being forward, but you look so pretty in those panties. Could you give me a 360? I mean, spin around slowly for me?" In for a penny, in for a panty. Thrilled, yet humiliated, I spun. Slowly. When my back was to Andy, he said, "Stop. Please. Wow. You have a lovely bottom and it looks spectacular in those panties. Your plump cheeks fill those blue bikinis perfectly. I love the way you show just about a half-inch of 'crack' at the top of your silky treasures in the back. You're a little teaser, aren't you?" Was I? Had I shown my crack on purpose? I didn't know. Was I really a little teaser? How unlike me. How naughty. Andy went on, "I really have to set the bar up, but will you make sure you say goodbye to me before you leave?" I nodded. Men were setting up "goodbye" appointments with me. How did I feel about that? No time to sort it out because at that moment, the regular crowd began to swish, not shuffle in. Three men chatting vigorously burst through the door. All wearing panties. One, like me, was in just panties and soft slippers. One had stockings, a garter belt and very high, strappy stiletto sandals. The other was wearing a pink bustier above his panties and soft slippers. When they saw me, the conversation stopped. And stared. "Garter Belt" said, "You must be Peter. Eric's been telling everyone about you at the security desk. He wasn't exaggerating. You're very dishy." Oh my. "Bustier" was even more enthusiastic. "I agree. And I'll bet you've never shown yourself off to anyone before. You're so deliciously innocent." "Just Panties" made an interesting observation. "I think you're excited by all this attention, Peter. Not only are your panties tented, your nipples are very hard and erect." Sensory overload. I became aware that my stiff, needy peeny was making a big sticky spot all over my "panty point." It was mortifying to think that others might notice. What would they think of me? Then I noticed that they were stiff too, and their "pretties" were as moist as mine. It seemed I had an effect on my fellow pantyists. Who knows what would have happened with those three cute men if lots more fellows hadn't come streaming in at that point. Over the next 20 minutes, more than 40 pantied men filled the room. And each one made a point of introducing himself to little old me. I guess at that point, I wondered, "What happens next?" Would we just flirt and preen? Or would there be "more?" My peeny was quite needy and my balls were getting uncomfortably swollen with heavy desire for something vague but insistent. Eric had told me to keep my panties on and apparently that was a firm rule at that wonderful place. But about 40 minutes after I arrived, the mood in the room began to change. Most of the pantyists were chatting or watching sports on TV. Some were more...active. I first 1noticed it when I saw two cute pantyists standing belly-to belly, rubbing pantied peenies and kissing!!!! That was horribly gay! And right out in the open. But the jaws of hell did not open up to swallow them. Even when the first one cried out and began to fill his panties with warm juices. Or when the second one joined the first in pantied ecstasy. The odd thing was that no one seemed to notice. As if that sort of thing happened all the time. "Oh," I thought, "If only something that delicious would happen to me." As hormones spilled over, more pantyists began to pair up. Some were delicately manipulating each other's silk-covered treasures. Rubbing. Teasing. Some were kissing. I stared in wonder until I heard, "Peter, would it be all right if I touched your nipples? They're so lovely. And so erect and needy." I looked at the source of that sweet question and was intensely pleased with what I saw. A pretty, girlish young fellow in a wispy, aubergine bra, matching g-string panties, tan, seamed stockings and four-inch-stiletto mules was looking at me hopefully. His big, liquid eyes were made up perfectly and his lips were glossed invitingly. I almost drenched my panties just looking at him. Then he smiled. "My name is Francis and you're the cutest new member we've ever had. Please let me give you a little pleasure." All I could do was moan softly in surrender. Francis took that as assent. Oddly, he stepped behind me. Then I saw why. The naughty man rubbed his pantied cock in the pantied crack of my bottom as he took each of my tender nipples between a thumb and forefinger. I gasped and surrendered to the assault on my virtue. Eager capitulation. Francis tickled and rubbed my aroused nubs for several minutes as he told me how pretty and feminine I was. I was soon losing the last of my reserve as my masculinity packed up and left the building. After three or four truly delicious moments, I felt the first, stern warning of an impending orgasm. Francis kissed my warm neck as he tormented my titties and rubbed his silky cock around my private property. The second, more insistent warning. Panting with lust, I turned my head back toward Francis. The bad boy met my lips with his as he dropped his right hand around my pantied pricklet. Rubbing, kissing. I squealed, then spurted glob after girlish glob into my overchallenged dainties. Gasping. Drowning with ecstasy. For the first, real time in my life -- an orgasm with another person. Then, to make things even better, Francis squealed and began to fill his own panties with his hot, sticky cream. Moistening the rear of my panties as the front was drenched with my own semen. "Let's get out of here," Francis breathed. "Oh yes!" I answered breathlessly. Chapter Three -- Francis Ten minutes later, I was seriously questioning my sanity. I was sitting in the passenger seat of Francis' car, driving who-knew-where. In our fog of lust, Francis and I had somehow gotten our boy clothes over our frillies and staggered past a disappointed Eric, to the parking lot and out into the night. I was riding with a man who wanted to do things to my body. Things I would probably adore and remember all my life. But what if Francis were a sicko or a blackmailer or, even worse...gay? Looking at him in his male drab, he didn't look that attractive or worth the risks he presented. Thank goodness I maintained a firm mental picture of what he looked like as a pretty girl. And how he had begun to make love to me. Did Francis have a plan? If so, he hadn't shared it. In fact, we hadn't said ten words since we left the main room of Panty Pride. Francis had undaintily wiped his make-up off and hastily dressed. Like me, his panties were heavy with cum. He obviously wanted to take me somewhere where we could remove our panties and "do things." What things? Would I like them? It was all very scary. But I wasn't resisting. Two blocks from Panty Pride, Francis spoke. "I can't take you home, Honey. My wife does volunteer work on Wednesday nights, my Panty Pride night, but she could come home at any time and catch us in bed. I know a motel where they don't ask too many questions, if that's OK with you." Francis was married? To a woman? I hadn't considered that. Actually I hadn't considered much. My cock was doing all the thinking at that point. I still think it was my cock that blurted out something that I immediately regretted: "We could go to my apartment." Great. Now I was taking a probably-gay, potential serial-killer to my apartment. I was stunned that I had said what I said. But Francis seemed more stunned than I. "You're single?" he asked, wide-eyed. "You have your own place and you've never 'entertained' a 'girl-like-us' before?" Gee. Had I done something wrong? Francis saw my puzzlement and scrambled to make me feel better. "Sorry, Honey," he said. [I liked when he called me "Honey."] "I just thought someone as pretty as you would be married. The pretty ones almost always have wives. And I'm shocked that you never had anyone to your apartment for girlish fun. Now that I think about it, I'm very honored. And even hornier. I'll do whatever you like and stop when you say 'no.' I promise." I believed him. And relaxed perceptively. Fifteen minutes later, Francis had parked the car and we were opening my apartment door. Thank goodness I had tidied up and changed the sheets that morning. Almost as if I had planned on bringing someone like Francis home. Who knows what kinds of things had rumbled through my strange brain? What was I supposed to do next? The answer was to submit to Francis. "Let's girlie up before we get serious, Sweetheart," he said. "Can I borrow some fresh panties? We're both a size 8, I think. I'm going to freshen my make-up too. Would you like to 'do' your face a bit?" Whatever you say, Francis, I thought happily. I led Francis into my bedroom, then fetched white, g-string panties for Francis and pink bikinis for myself. I then soaped up a damp washcloth for each of us and went into the bathroom to clean my privates, make my face and dress the way I loved to dress. When I emerged, I was wearing a pink babydoll nightie over my pink panties. My face was a feminine masterpiece. And I was horny as a Sousa march. Seeing Francis quadrupled my randiness. He had found one of my nighties and sluttied up his make-up most tastily. I was about to sample the full joys of male lesbianism. With a man about whom I knew five things -- his first name, his marital status, the kind of car he drove, the kind of clothes he liked to wear and the fact that he was very hot for me. So much blood had rushed to my own penis that I was facing erotic anemia. Francis gasped when he saw me. My cock twitched when I saw him. He moved toward me, took me into his girlish arms, and kissed me deeply. I moaned and opened my mouth to accept his sweet tongue. We swam in a hazy pond of pantied passion. Glossed lips burning glossed lips. Silken nighties pressing against each other's torsos. Stiff cocks rubbing through our feminine frillies. Licking the inner regions of each other's mouths. My ears were on fire and I was ready, I thought, for just about any loving activity. If Francis wanted me to, I could even take his "dirty thingee" into my mouth and suck it until he spurted. But first things first. Francis was at least as excited as I was, but he seemed to know the steps to the dance we were about to perform. The first thing he did was to disengage from our embrace, then lead me gently but firmly to my bed. He eased me onto my back, then peeled my nightie up to expose my flat tummy and my erect little tittie bumps. Francis assaulted my nipples with his tongue and lips. With his very soul. The girlish man was ravenous for me. I grunted and squealed, enduring the sweet torment with awe and complete surrender. At that moment, I was a woman in sexual congress with another gorgeous female. And in that congress, there were no taxes, no empty rhetoric, and no deficit. Though, by the feel of Francis' pantied cock rubbing against my leg as he adored my left nipple, there was plenty of pork. Francis was frantic with lust and so was I. Moments before I would have fainted from his nippular attacks, Francis withdrew his mouth from my erect, sensitive nubbies. He looked into my eyes in a way that made me think that I was the most important person in the world to him. Then he slowly, carefully removed my panties to expose my pretty jewels. Blushing furiously, I covered my face in shame at my nakedness. We hadn't known each other an hour and my unadorned, erect cock and pretty pearls were revealed to my newest friend. How brazen and trampy I was. And how delighted by Francis' gasps of pleasure as he drank in the sight of my girlish excitement for him. "You have the prettiest package I've ever seen, darling," the flatterer said. "Tell me more about how beautiful I am," I thought, but didn't say. Instead, Francis showed me. Francis gently and sweetly took my right testicle into his mouth and licked it, slowly and sensuously. Tonguing. Then withdrawing and kissing the sweet sphere gently. Ohhhhhhhh. When he offered a similar enjoyment to my left testicle, I arched my back, screamed and helplessly pumped out jet after jet of stored-up girlie cream. All over my soft, warm tummy. Welling up in my belly button. Merciful release. Why had I screamed? It seemed like the right thing to do as a girl, my new, lesbian lover, licked and sucked my pink purse. Francis was delighted at my trigger-happy, frantic orgasm. Even before I stopped pumping hot juices, the bad girl ran his hot tongue around my pink knob. Then he began to lick up the spunky river that streamed almost up to my neck. He was swallowing my sperm!! I guess at that time I didn't know people did that for each other. So intimate. So deliciously DIRTY! I whimpered unmanfuly throughout the entire process. Then, suddenly, Francis was on top of me. Kissing me with his cummy mouth. Rubbing his pantied cock against my sticky drooper. It's amazing that I didn't swoon. As it was, I had just enough of my wits about me to propose to Francis that I do something nice for him in return. Francis immediately stopped his assault on my withering virtue and lay on his back. Awaiting my attentions. Trouble was, I wasn't sure what to do. The first order of business seemed obvious though. Get Francis' panties off and see what I was dealing with. Francis gave me complete access, holding his forearms up in sissy surrender. Francis' white, g-string panties were severely strained by what appeared to be a very significant and extraordinarily stiff penis. I couldn't wait to perform a thorough inspection. Francis was making girlie-little-pleasure noises as I carefully untied the panty strings at each of his hips. Then I peeled back the sticky, gauzy fabric covering Francis' precious goodies. Oh. For someone as girlie as Francis, his cock and balls were quite manly. And large. And dark. And hairy. Francis' cock was thick, long, veined and angry-looking. His hairy balls were huge. Hanging arrogantly. Engorged with cum. My first thought was, his wife was a lucky woman. What a shagging that monster could give a woman. Then I wondered, did Francis shag his wife? Being all manly when he did it? Making her submit to him? Pumping big globs of sperm into her wet pussy? Oh, I was stiff again, just thinking about it. Then I thought, I was the lucky one at that moment. Francis' cock was stiff and throbbing and it was all mine! Gently, I held Francis' heavy bag in my soft hand. Stirring the contents. Watching Francis squirm with lust. Feeling the power of being in control of another person's pleasure. Poor Francis' huge prick was leaking juices. And he was in great distress. Mercifully, I helped him ease his joyful misery. And it was so easy. I laid my hand on Francis cockhead. The first time I had touched a cock other than my own. It was warm and, despite its diamond hardness, velvety smooth. Francis moaned audibly when I massaged the sensitive head, then leaned over to give him a sweet kiss on his full, red lips. I adored every moment of it. As we kissed and I rubbed Francis' goo all over his pink knob, I felt as if I had taken a huge leap off a very steep cliff. I had slipped the surly bonds of my old life and the ground was rapidly advancing toward me. Would the ground of my new life embrace me or would it crush my skull? Heady questions, but nowhere near as pressing as the question of how best to bring Francis to a screaming orgasm. Did Francis want me to interrupt my exquisite handjob and take his fat, wet glans into my mouth? Could I do that? Did I want to? Ah, Eros himself saved me from all that conjecture. Francis gasped through our deep kiss and began to drench my pumping hand with his scalding goo. He almost swallowed my tongue as his mammoth balls emptied their creamy contents. The real question was, why had I waited until I was 27 years old to find someone like Francis? I teasingly dipped my fingers into the reservoir of semen on Francis' hairy stomach, then rubbed my sticky digits all over Francis' aching, empty balls. Should I taste his sperm? Push my face into his crotch and lick up all his naughty spendings? Again I was saved from my deliberations when Francis did two things in succession -- one most welcome, the second very disappointing. First, Francis renewed his command, easing me onto my back, then kneeling next to me. Was he going to.....? He was. He took my half-soft, fully tingly cock between his lips and gave my knoblet his full oral attention. A girlish man whom I had met that evening was sucking my cock. What would Emily Post say about the etiquette of the situation. A thank you note was clearly in order. At least. And some form of reciprocation. But there was time for the tribal aspects of the ritual later. At that moment, for the first time in my life, my cock was in someone's mouth. As I imagine you would know, it was quite an enjoyable experience. For me, certainly. Apparently for Francis as well, if his enthusiasm for the task was an adequate barometer. Francis was an excellent fellatrix. I had no frame of reference at that time. All I knew was that my cock was being pleasured very, very well. And I felt what was happening to my cock in every flaming crevice of my body. A body that had endured two heaving cums over the past two hours. And was inching toward a third. Francis involved the entire cock in his slurpy attentions. Not just the head, as many fellatrices will preach. His theory -- the entire cock is embraced by the vaginal walls -- which is, after all, the penis' basic, intended use. Francis' head bobbed on my itsy-bitsy peeny. His tongue mimicked, yet surpassed the actions of a pussy's walls. But enough about fellatial theory. The practitioner was driving me half mad with pleasure. I often wonder why my neighbors didn't call the police that night. I'm sure they thought, from all the screaming, that I was being murdered. Apparently, that prospect did not alarm or even disconcert them. Francis sucked and slurped and licked and put me into a spurting, exhausting frenzy, where every spermal corpuscle left my body, as did a great deal of my declining reservoir of masculinity. When my spirit rejoined my body, I was ready to do my amateurish best to lick and suck his stiff beast. But then he did that bad thing I foreshadowed earlier. He left. "This has been the best night of my life, Honey," he said. "Better than my wedding night. And you're precious to me. But I have to get home before my wife does. If I don't shower and butch up, she'll know before she comes in the door that I've been rolling around in cum all night. And I'm not ready for that yet. I'll be back at Panty Pride next Wednesday. I hope you'll be there." Bummer. He likes me better than his wife, but he's afraid she'll find out about me. How many mistresses have heard that one? Not that I was his mistress. Before I could work up a good protest or a better pout, Francis had kissed me and was gone. Slam, bam. Is that all there is? Until next Wednesday? Apparently so. But maybe not. Chapter Four -- Not, indeed. The next 48 hours were odd indeed. The first eight of those passed very quickly, since the emotion and exertion of the night had exhausted me. After Francis closed the door behind his fleeing bottom, I stood there and stamped my little feet a bit. Felt way sorry for myself. Then, avoiding mirrors, I flung myself into bed, closed my eyes and fell into a deep sleep. When I awoke at six the next morning, my first feeling was one of shame. I had been a stupid, indiscreet, gay, little sissy faggot. I had compromised my pride and masculinity for a few cheap orgasms. The mirror confirmed my hypothesis. I was a man with morning beard and a pink nightie. Smeared lipstick. Sticky, dried cum all over my pubic area. It was horrid. And it was ending right then. No more sissying up. No more girlie stuff. And especially no more Panty Pride or that faggy Francis. With his big cock and his talented, though gay mouth. That was over. That night, when I got home from work, I was burning all my panties and frillies and taking my computer to the landfill. As soon as I got home. That night. And no panties to work that day. Boxers. Dirty ones, if possible. If I could find some. It had been a while since I had worn anything but panties. I found a pair of old boxers, showered and "butched up" for work and for the rest of my life. Filled with resolve. And I stuck with it. All day. Mostly. Though I had to adjust my "package" now and then in the unfamiliar boxers. My "things" just weren't comfortable in them. Maybe I would get some cotton briefs. Or wouldn't that be manly enough? I was all for being the manliest I could be. Forever. Anyway, on the way home from work to purge the girlish parts of my life forever, I stopped off at my local newsstand to get some reading material. To distract myself from that girly stuff that used to tempt me. Before. I went directly to the manly magazine section and picked up "Cigar Addict," "Steroids Quarterly," and "Aggressive Alpha Asshole." Good, solid stuff. How that other magazine fell in with my purchases, I'll never know. It was right in the manly section too. So I must have grabbed it unwittingly. Completely unwittingly. Just a coincidence that it was what it was. "Panty Enthusiast: the Official Publication of Panty Pride." A man on the cover. In panties. Just panties. Smiling. So cute and comfortable in his skin. And his panties. I never knew such a magazine existed. I really needed to get out more. The "cover boy" was identified as "Nigel -- Liverpool, England." So Panty Pride was international. Nigel was VERY cute. I found myself speeding to get home so that I could investigate those other three magazines thoroughly. Purging my mind and body of those pantied persuasions that seemed to resist purging. It didn't bode well for my future manliness when I locked my apartment door, stripped off all my clothes as I beelined for my bedroom and lay on my back on the bed. The bed where Francis and I had been so deliciously intimate less than 24 hours earlier. Nor did it bode well when I realized that the only magazine that I seemed to have brought to bed with me was "Panty Enthusiast." The boding was pretty much one-sided when I held the magazine with my left hand and rubbed my pink parts with my right. I didn't really even open it. Just looked at the cover picture of Nigel. Nigel was about my age. Maybe a bit younger. And he had a very cute face. His panties were even cuter. Pink and sheer. With lacy, white trim. And he filled them very nicely. Was I a bad person because I took a long look at the erect posture of Nigel's cock? How could I miss it? I mean it was so big! And leaking furiously, if the sticky stain at the "point" of the panties was any indication. Nigel was the kind of man I could meet at my local Panty Pride. That very night, if I wanted to. Francis was home with his wife, probably sticking that big cock into her pussy. Making her moan. And cum. Maybe he was even putting that big cock into her bottom! What made me think of that? I began to wonder what it would be like to be in bed with Nigel. Maybe I should open the magazine and see what I could learn about Nigel. Hmmm. Page 35. There it was. Oh. "British Baby," was the name of the pictorial. It showed Nigel posing in a number of lovely pairs of panties. In every picture, Nigel had a big stiffie. There was a model who enjoyed his work. On the seventh page of the extensive pictorial, the tenor of the article changed. Not that Nigel was a tenor. He looked more like a baritone to me. Anyway, Nigel was shown in the act of changing panties. Which meant I got a really good view of Nigel in his natural state. He gave the camera the cutest, most sheepish smile as, with panties down to mid-thigh, Nigel "stood" for all to see. Nigel's thick foreskin was all the way back and his pink, leaky peelips were in clear view. I thought about what it would be like to put my girlish hand around that pretty pole and give it a proper seeing-to. It was such a gay, unmanly thought. And it was that single, naughty idea that made me step up my gentle wanking pattern into a purposeful pumping. I turned the page. Francis, I mean Nigel, who was obviously furiously excited by the act of displaying his femininity to the panty-loving world, was cumming in big globs. Right at the camera. What else could I do? I came too. Hard. Pumping my sissyish cream all over myself. Surrendering to who and what I really was. Pretenses dropped as thoroughly as I planned to drop my panties at Panty Pride the following night. At least that was a resolution I knew I could keep. Chapter Five -- Friday Night Flits The next morning, I was a new girly man. I got up early, showered, shaved my legs and painted my toenails. As I eased on a silky pair of reinforced-heel-and-toe, seamless, black stockings and hooked my garter belt. I began to wonder what my co-workers would think if they knew what their fellow toiler had on under his suit pants. Some would be appalled. But just as many would be, I imagined, fiercely aroused. Panty selection took a bit of time. But I decided on a lacy pair of black dazzlers, which I slipped on over my garter belts straps. I packed a pair of stiletto sandals under my baloney sandwich in my briefcase and hoped that the day would go quickly. It didn't. But 5 p.m. eventually arrived. And so did 6. I wasn't going to be pathetically early the way I was the first time. I wanted to make an entrance. I pulled into a parking space across from Panty Pride at 6:12. The corrida awaited. But was I to be the matador or the bull? And did a matador wear panties under his "Suit of Lights?" All good questions, but pretty useless for what I was about to do. I descended the stairs, went down the hall and opened the door to Panty Pride. Oh my. Eric was there. And that other guy -- Walter or something. It was pretty busy in the security anteroom, but Eric stopped everything when he saw me. "Peter!" the burly young Eric said. "It's wonderful to see you again. I was afraid you were scared off after the first night. Panty Pride is not for everyone. But we're all hoping it's for you. I hope you had a good experience with Francis." Gee. So much information. Eric seemed a bit smitten with little old me. And, he hinted, so was much of the membership. How terribly flattering. I just sort of nodded. Eric beamed. "Say, Peter," Eric ventured. "Would you like to get a cup of coffee sometime on Saturday? I'm off all day." Was a man asking me out? As a man would ask a woman? How strange! How horribly exciting! All I could do was just stare at him. Or so I thought. Apparently, I must have nodded my assent, because Eric's face lit up and he said, "Wonderful! I'll see you at noon tomorrow at the Starbuck's on 23rd Street. Do you know where that is?" There I was nodding again. I knew where the Starbuck's was, but I didn't want to meet a man there. A man who wanted me as a woman. That was what Eric wanted, wasn't it? And I didn't want that, right? I should have told Eric that, but I seemed to neglect the delivery of that message. He got busy at the counter collecting dues and such and it appeared I had a date with a man the next day. What to do? At the moment, what I did was to go into the locker room and girlie up. I had shaved my face before I left work, and I had panties, stockings, garters and heels under my boy clothes. So all I had to do was strip and enter the panty pit. But I couldn't resist putting on some foundation, lipstick and blush and doing my eyes. My chest was bare and titless and I had a head of boy hair, but, when I slipped my stiletto sandals on, I was a very hot-looking chicklette. I took a deep breath, opened the door and entered the pantied gathering room. I don't want to say every head turned. Some of the heads were involved in naughty things. But most of the pantyists in the room gave me a large slab of their attention. Something like that does a lot for a fellow's ego. My ego needed all the help it could get. I didn't recognize many of the faces or pantied penises from Wednesday night. I guessed that most of the pantyists were like Francis -- married and sneaky. But the word about me was apparently out. Two pantied patrons moved my way. "Hello, Gorgeous!" a 40-something fellow in a full slip and tan, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings said. "Yes, Hello," a 30-something cutie in a purple teddy and matching panties echoed. My small-talk gene was apparently recessive. Theirs was in complete control of their personalities. "You weren't here last Friday, were you?" Full Slip said to me. I shook my head. Cutely, it seems, since I couldn't help noticing the twitching in Full Slip's panties. Purple Teddy smiled broadly and said, "You must be the Peter everyone's talking about. It's wonderful that you've joined us. Can I buy you a drink?" Again, all I seemed to be able to do was nod. By then the word must have been out at Panty Pride that I was not only vastly cute, but equally stupid and inarticulate -- a heady combination for many of those of the XY persuasion. Purple Teddy led me to the bar, where Andy the bartender smiled and welcomed me back. "Amstel Light, isn't it, Peter? And by the way, you look extra-delicious tonight. I hope I can see you later." Goodness. Everyone wanted me. I was the belle with the balls. I sipped my Amstel Light as Purple Teddy, who introduced himself as "Gary," engaged me in conversation about himself. Married. Two kids. Broker. House in suburbs. Tells wife he has a poker game on Friday nights with three other guys, including Full Slip, who attend Friday Panty Pride sessions. Well, I wasn't about to be a home wrecker, but he was sort of cute. And I was randy as Dennis Quaid's brother. Gary sort of steered me to a couch area where several guys were sort of watching a college basketball game on a bigscreen TV. There was also quite a bit of outside-the-panties fondling and even some very hot kissing. It wasn't as if Gary and I were running away together or anything. Just sitting on the couch. Him talking. Me sipping my beer and listening to what a genius his second-grade daughter was. Then feeling his soft fingers on my pantied cock. Stroking me. Exciting me. Making me drip and gasp. I guess I'm a bit of a tart, because I sort of reached over and stroked Gary's cock through his panties as he stroked mine. Making him actually stop talking (thank goodness) and just sort of squeak as I tickled his glans with my girlish fingers. It was very exciting. I was in that stage of high excitement right before the cum warnings are issued. Building toward frenzy, but not there yet. When Gary moved in for a kiss, touching his hot, glossed lips to mine, I groaned softly. It was delicious. Was I going to surrender what remained of my virtue to any pantyist who made a move on me? Apparently so. And apparently, I was going to enjoy it immensely. Gary's kissing and peeny-petting had me in a solid dither and I appeared to be headed for the messing of yet another pair of precious panties. But then, unexpectedly to me, at precisely seven o'clock, a soft bell rang. The room full of pantied Pavlovs did two things. First, they groaned. In apparent disappointment, not lust. Second, they stopped whatever they were doing -- naughty or benign -- stood and sissied out of the gathering room, through a door and into a large room filled with chairs and headed by a dais and a podium. I was reminded of the scene in "The Time Machine," where the beautiful Eloi, at a auditory signal, stopped enjoying their idyllic lives and marched off to the Moorlocks' evil clutches. But nothing that awful was about to happen, was it? Like everyone else in the world with a penis, I HATE to be interrupted when I'm in the pre-orgasmic state that Gary and I were entering. But the entire membership seemed to find something worth stopping for. And I was curious about what it was. Gary explained. "This is a really special night for our group, Sweetie," he said. "Our international president, Luke, is here tonight." Luke? There he was. Standing at the podium, saying, "All, right girls. Take your seats. And no 'slap and tickle' during the meeting. Plenty of time for that after. Let's have some pride. Panty pride!" Luke was a fine specimen of pantyist. He was about 40, I would guess. Very slim and fit, which was apparent, since he was wearing only silky, yellow-with-black-trim, bikini panties and matching bra, black stockings, a yellow-with-black-trim garter belt and very high, black-patent-leather pumps. He wore lipstick and what was either his own, girlish hair or a very stylish, curly blonde wig. He was very attractive and very self-confident. It was a wonder that I didn't cream my panties just from the naughty thoughts I had about Luke. I took a seat next to a very manly-looking, fortyish fellow who smiled at me, but didn't drool all over me like most of the pantyists did. Maybe he was one of those "hetero" crossdressers I had heard about -- the ones who only like women. To each his own, I always say. Or at least I do now. At that time, my philosophy was more like, "to each what the world thinks he should be." But that was about to change. "Settle down, girls," Luke said. "Let's stand and recite the Panty Pledge." Panty Pledge? Everyone but me and a couple of other newbies seemed to know it by heart. And they recited it with gusto: "I am a panty enthusiast! I love the constant caress of silky teasers on my girlish testicles. I love to rub my stockinged thighs together as my pretty penis shoots its sissy cream all over me and my companion of choice! I may be a 'girls-only,' manly sissyboy, a 'male lesbian' who favors the pleasures of my fellow pantyists, or a cock-sucking little slut, who adores men and welcomes their big pricks into my tiny pussy. But whatever I am, I am who I am -- without shame or guilt -- and without judging my fellow pantyists. I am pantied and proud!" Holy pink dainties! What a great manifesto. Non-judgmental. No shame. No guilt. Only pride. But was it a practical way to go through life? Luke seemed to think so. "Thank you, everyone," he said. "Please be seated." "It's wonderful to see the Friday night crowd. And a special welcome to our members, new and old, regardless of your needs, wants or physical attractiveness. "As always, we will follow the pledge with testimony. Carlos, please take the podium." Carlos sissied up to the podium in the first actual six-inch heels I had ever seen. He was about my age, clad in a pretty, pink, mid-thigh-length nightie, with matching pink stockings. His only make-up appeared to be a little blush and some pink lipstick. Testimony began. "I'm Carlos, and I'm a panty enthusiast!" "HI, CARLOS!" the audience enthusiastically replied. "I started wearing my three older sisters' panties when I was about twelve. At first, it was just to enjoy the feel of them, but then it became sexual -- autoerotic at least. Over my adolescence, I spurted thousands of sticky loads into my sisters' (and sometimes my Mom's) best undies. I was always super careful and unlike most of us, I was never caught." A small groan went up from the audience as many remembered their mothers swooning as they discovered their pantied sons in the throes of helpless, drenching ejaculations. Carlos continued. "Then, like many of us, I gave it all up. Put it away. Broke the habit. Got on the wagon. I lasted for almost the entire four years I was in college. Mostly. OK, I strayed once or twice a week, but that was all. Anyway, things were going well for me after I graduated. I was a grad student and a research assistant to a professor whom I greatly admired. He was a great teacher and a good guy and we were really close...until that Saturday." We all leaned forward in our chairs as Carlos got to the good stuff. "Professor 'Smith' and I had been in the lab for 11 hours on that Saturday and had made some real breakthroughs. When he offered to take me to his home for celebratory pizza and beer, I eagerly accepted. "Smith' lived in a nice condo near campus. I knew where it was, though I had never been there before. Being invited made me feel special. We went in, 'Smith' threw his keys on the coffee table and said, 'I'm going to clean up a bit. Why don't you order us a super deluxe pizza? Just call 67 on the speed dial. Then make yourself comfortable. Here's the money for the pizza in case he comes by before I'm out here.' "That was a little odd, I remembered thinking. What would take him so long? Anyway, I ordered the pizza, was told it would be 25 minutes, then looked around for something to occupy my time while I waited. I didn't have to look very far. "There they were. A whole stack of them, right on the coffee table. Back issues of 'Panty Enthusiast.'" A slight chuckle went up from the audience. They saw where the story was going and they liked it. "First of all," Carlos testified, "at that time, I had no idea that Panty Pride existed. And I had no idea that there was any magazine that portrayed men enjoying what shamed me as it fed my greatest need. "I trembled as I saw the cover of the top magazine. It was the very first issue -- a real collector's piece. It showed our founder, Luke, and it called itself, 'The Journal for the Rest of Us.' There was no mistaking the content because Luke, as we've seen him many times, was dressed only in panties and his considerable penis was pointed and proud. "I gasped when I saw it. I was thrilled to think that I was not alone. Then I was horrified. 'Smith' had left pantyist magazines out for me to peruse as he did whatever he was doing in his bedroom. "But then I was thrilled again. I opened the top magazine and turned to Luke's pictorial. It showed him coming home from work, wearing a man's Brooks Brothers suit. He peeled it all off, revealing that he had a pair of sissyish white panties with a ruffled bottom beneath his power duds. As Luke is in real life, he was delicious in the pictorial. Luke lowered his panties to mid-thigh, then lay back on his bed, stroking his big, meaty bone." I looked over at Luke. Surprisingly, he wasn't smug about the endorsement of his pulchritude and endowments. Maybe Luke was the real deal. A leader who cared more about his troops than his ego. "It didn't take many pictures for Luke to spurt his creamies," Carlos continued. "And it was a big messy one too. Thick globs, all over his flat tummy. And he made the cutest little scrunchy face. All from his excitement at wearing those sissyish panties. At his girlishness. Girlishness he was showing to the world. My excitement was building as quickly as my flight instinct. Where the heck was 'Smith?' and what was he doing anyway? "I turned the page and saw Luke mopping up his cummy mess with his boy tshirt, then shucking his sissy panties and slipping on a pair of sheer, black bikinis. He was erect again as he slid on his delicious, reinforced-heel-and-toe, seamless stockings and strappy, four-inch-stiletto sandals. He sat at a vanity and made his face up beautifully. Luke was, and as you know, is, amazingly feminine -- even more so when he added a diaphanous, black peignoir and a curly, blonde wig to the ensemble. He stood and preened in a full- length mirror for several pictures, then extracted his sweet sissy meat again and began to stroke it. "I was beyond excited. Fearful that I would cum right there...in my professor's house...in my baby blue, g-string panties which I happened to be wearing that day because all my boxers were in the wash. Fearful that my instructor would catch me in my high state of excitement and think I was a simpering little pantywaist faggot. Fearful.... DING-DONG!!! My heart skipped several beats. It was the pizza guy at the door. "Blushing furiously and trying to will my outrageous erection down, I closed the magazine and covered it with a Sports Illustrated. Somehow I managed to get myself to the door and pay for the pizza, though I'm sure that the pizza guy wondered what the heck had made me so flushed and my trousers so lumpy. "I decided that I had to get out of there. I would just put the pizza on the kitchen table and yell to Smith that my grandmother had just called to remind me that her funeral was that day and I had to leave. "I got as far as the kitchen, when the bedroom door opened and out stepped...someone I had never met before. Someone as unlike Smith as I am unlike a velociraptor. "It was a totally feminine person in totally feminine lingerie. A pink bustier adorned with tiny white ribbons, matching silk panties, white stockings attached to pink garter straps, pretty pink stiletto sandals and a pink-chiffon, floor-length peignoir. "The totally feminine person said, 'Whew! What a relief to get out of those awful, man's clothes. I may have to wear them for work, but I certainly don't wear them at home. Oh good, the pizza came. I'll get us some beers. Have a seat.'" The crowd tittered. Apparently Carlos had just met his first, no-shame, no-guilt pantyist and was at a complete loss as to how to handle the situation. Many had been there before, apparently. Carlos continued. "I guess I just stood there with my mouth agape. And my erection threatening to puncture my trousers. "Smith said, 'Oh, I'm sorry. Sometimes I forget that my openness about what I like can startle some people. Frankly, Carlos, not that I would act any differently, but I thought you would be fine with it. I mean, you've been a pantyist most of your life, haven't you?' "How had Smith seen into my soul like that? Could we all recognize each other that easily? "I gulped. Then I said. 'Yes, sir.' "Smith smiled. Then he said, 'I thought so. Let's do two things. First, don't call me "sir" when I'm en femme. I prefer "Rita." Second, let's get you comfortable too. I'll put the pizza in the oven to keep it warm. We're about the same size. Let's go into my bedroom and femme you up. You do have your panties on today, don't you?' "Gulp. 'Yes, sir...I mean yes, Rita.' Rita smiled and I followed her submissively into what had to be the most feminine bedroom I had seen. Lace and ribbons and chiffon everywhere. Pink and more pink. "At that time in my life, I would have never suspected what I really was. But apparently Rita knew about me all along. "Rita said, 'Let's get those clothes off, down to the panties. And don't worry about being "firm" between your legs. I know being feminine is the most exciting thing in the world to you.' "Blushing furiously, I stripped to my panties. "Rita said, 'You have a lovely body, my dear, and I think those panties are covering something pink and pretty. May I have a look?' "Apparently I could refuse Rita nothing. Rita gasped when she saw my big, thick clitty. Pink and proud. Skinned and throbbing. Fat, cum-filled balls dangling saucily below. " 'Oh, Honey,' Rita panted. 'This little girl is in a serious condition. Rita has to help you out here or you'll implode.' "Rita's diagnosis was correct. And so was the treatment she prescribed. She got onto her stockinged knees and took my fat girlfriend between her glossed lips. Licking and sucking. Long, slow slurps. "It was divine. I couldn't believe it was happening, but it was divine. A girlish, sweet, fellow pantyist was on her pretty knees sucking my girlish cock, occasionally licking my swollen balls. Well, girls, that's a situation with only one reasonable conclusion. And that conclusion happened quickly. My gasping, wrenching orgasm. Pumping creamy sperm all over my academic mentor's feminized face. "Generally, sperming your mentor's face does not auger well for your academic future. But Rita was different. And so was I. "When I stopped trembling from the aftershocks, I dropped to my knees and kissed Rita's cummy face, digging my burning tongue into her mouth. Not sure about the agenda, I sort of eased Rita onto her back, peeled her panties over her pink pricklet and dangling sissysack. Then I became the cocksucker I had always dreamed of being, licking Rita's hot, live love piston the way I had been sucking toy cocks for much of my life. "Practice makes perfect, girls. I was awfully good at making Rita pant, gasp and, finally, spill her sperm into my hungry mouth. "That night we eventually got around to getting me completely en femme and yes, Rita ensured that I didn't have to endure one more day as an anal virgin. But the important thing I learned that night was ATTITUDE. "Living the way you were made to live is a good thing, girls. Rita taught me that. And Luke and all of you have never let me forget it. PANTY PRIDE!!!!" Everyone cheered at Carlos' stirring words. Luke gave Carlos a big hug and a tonguey kiss, right on the mouth. Then the crowd hushed as Luke began to speak. It was clear that Luke was a major icon to the pantyists. He was almost hypnotic in the way he talked about being what you are and banishing guilt from guiltless actions. Plus, he was extraordinarily feminine and attractive for a man his age. For a man of any age. Or a woman. I felt inspired and I hadn't really bonded with the cult yet. Luke was also quite pragmatic about why a lot of the people were there. He concluded by saying, "Now for the moment you've all been waiting for. Anyone who wishes to remove her panties is welcome to do so. We close at midnight tonight. Enjoy your evening." Hearty applause. Overwhelmed by all that I had heard and observed, I stood in awe as most of the giggling horde removed their panties and cocks sprang free. What was this place going to be like for the next four hours and 22 minutes? Did I want to be part of it? Several of the pantyists, including me, did not remove their knickers. Not that I was opposed to it. I just felt that I would be so...exposed. The other non-removers didn't appear to be interested in sex play with their pantied sisters. Just wanted to femme up, show off, and get some support. Everything was happening so quickly that I.... "Excuse me," a newly familiar voice said. "Are you Peter? I'm so happy to meet you." I turned to see...Luke! Chapter Six -- Luke Luke. I could see why he was so revered by the pantied multitude. No only was he gorgeous (despite his two-fifths-of-a-century of life); he was magnetic. I mean, he wasn't flirting with me or shooting mind-control rays at me or anything. He was just standing there, introducing himself to me. The one who had begun it all for the pantied and proud was smiling at me. And probably thinking I was an idiot for not answering his pleasant inquiry. Blushing and erect in my stressed panties, I ventured, "Yes, thank you. I'm happy to meet you too." Or something like that. Now what? Luke was still smiling. He must have had a lot of experience with ninnies. He said, "I'm no good at small talk either. Can I buy you a drink? Or would you like to come to my office and I'll show you my etchings?" In an upset worthy of Podunk College thrashing Enormous Football U, I startled Luke and myself by croaking out, "Etchings." Surprise flashed across Luke's face, then -- interest. In me. From him. Oh. Things were moving very rapidly for me, all right. Luke was chatting about nothing as he escorted me out of the room to the chapter president's office, which Luke used when he was in town. We clacked along in our big heels. Luke confident. Me scared. Both erect in our panties. It was pretty clear that Luke wasn't going to be taking me to the office to teach me how to play Pac-Man. Luke held the door for me and I entered a nice room with a big desk, comfy chair, and a nicely made, queen-sized bed. Maybe for naps? No. Luke said, "You're the reason I'm here tonight." I was? I must have looked surprised, because Luke continued. "Yes. Matthew, the chapter president, told me that a lovely, once-in-a-lifetime, new member was here on Wednesday night. Dropped everything in Jakarta and here I am." OH MY!!! I was that special?!?! Or was I that gullible to believe a line like that? "Yes, Honey," Luke said as he brushed a strand of hair from my left eye. "You're that special." I knew it was an odd moment for such thoughts, but I couldn't shake the notion that Luke reminded me of someone. A movie star, maybe? What a silly thought to have as Luke leaned into me and pressed his soft, red pillows of lips against mine. Oh. A lovely, supremely feminine, yet supremely masculine person was kissing me. I surrendered, trusting the force that was Luke. I seemed to be making a habit of leaping off cliffs in the hopes that the chasm below was filled with downy pillows. Sooner or later, my astounding docility seemed likely to get me in trouble. But not that evening. Surrendering to Luke was an excellent decision. Luke kissed me deeply. Penetrating my mouth with his wet, probing tongue. He pulled my burning body to his and rubbed flesh-to-searing-flesh. But he held his pubic area back from me. Denying me penis-to-penis contact. Teasing me, perhaps. Or merely allowing me to experience the delights of his body in a sequential fashion. What I did feel amazed me. Luke either had breasts or the finest falsies in world history. How did that happen? I decided to save the chatter and questions until I was recovering from my ninth or tenth heaving orgasm. So, consistent with my Panty Pride experiences to date, I remained a functional inarticulate. I did manage to utter an "Oh, Luke," as the "cult's" founder kissed my neck and cupped my bottom in his soft, girlish hands. Luke nuzzled my right earlobe and said, "Please call me 'Barbara,' when we're making love, Darling. It's my girl name and these days I really only use Luke when I'm at Panty Pride." Barbara! He -- she, really -- had a girl name. And a very plain one. Not Desiree or Renata. Barbara. That suits Luke, I thought idly. Then it all came together for me. Who Luke reminded me of. Barbara Stanwyck! Remember her? A 1940s through 1960s movie actress who played very tough-minded, dommy women. Damned good looking with great legs. But a face that had masculine elements. The nose in particular. And a husky voice. I remember seeing her films and wondering if she had a penis between those nicely-stockinged legs. In her early films, like "The Lady Eve," she was a real sexpot, with lots of scenes of her hooking her stockings to her garters. Later on, she wore pants and was the matron of ruling families and such.