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Stocking Boys By Gingerfred Man Chapter One -- Scholarship Daddy always wanted me, Jason Spermer, to get an athletic scholarship. I wasn't big or athletic or manly enough to even make my high school football team, let alone get a scholarship at a big-time college. So I guess it was only natural that I would train for competitive femininity. As I'm sure you know, colleges have gotten into competitive femininity in a big way since ESPN6 became the "all-compfem-all-the-time" network. It has a very devoted fan base and there's even been talk of a pro league starting up soon in the big cities. High schools have lagged, what with stodgy old school boards afraid what might happen if they let their ten or twelve prettiest boys femme up and sissy around for some horny old judges. My high school's board was one of those old-fashioned ones, so my lack of compfem experience put me at a scholarship disadvantage -- a disadvantage I was able to overcome for two reasons -- an aggressive "stage" Daddy and what a lot of people tell me are the most beautiful, femmy looks they've ever seen on anyone with a Y chromosome. Daddy, who was a widower since I was four, arranged the femme training, made sure I stuck to it, worked with the photographer to put together my dazzling portfolio, then helped me sort through the more than 100 scholarship offers my portfolio engendered. I loved the praise and [gulp] adoration, even though 99% of it came from males. I hated when everyone assumed I was gay and was [blush] just aching to suck every man's cock. I didn't suck any cocks. And no one sucked mine. I was completely, totally, fiercely heterosexual. Too bad for all those men who looked at me with their tongues hanging out, pounding their peters. I was a student-athlete. A serious competitor. And compfem was a means to an end. It would get me my education at an outstanding college -- Saint Travestia's University -- and give me the name recognition and contacts I would need for a career in endophilology, my lifelong dream. I reported to Saint Travestia's or STU as it was called, intent on two things -- getting my degree and making the STU Stocking Boys the national champions of compfem, with the defeat of their hated rivals, the Fromage University (AKA FU) Pantypackers, as an added bonus. Chapter Two -- First School Days and a Flashback As I'm sure you know, compfem is a spring sport. So I had most of first semester to get oriented to the school and begin my studies. As a freshman, I was required to live in the dorm -- the male dorm, of course. With a male roommate. That could have been a bit sticky, since I seemed to make men's pants bulge when I was around them -- always when I was en femme, but even sometimes when I was en homme. My roommate, Alan Busyfinger, greeted me warmly -- "Hi, Jason, or do you prefer 'Patricia'?" See, he was polite. "Hi yourself, Alan. I'm in boy's clothes now, so I prefer Jason. But you can call me Patricia whenever it makes you comfortable. I answer to both." I smiled. Oh, crap. Was his cock stiffening? It was, and I was dressed "preppy boy," wearing khakis and a polo. I had been living with reactions like my new roommate's since I was 16. You see, Daddy dragged me to a beauty salon on my 16th birthday, just to see if his suspicions were right about my compfem potential. He arranged for the full-day special and I was miserable -- VERY upset and TOTALLY against it. After all, I told Daddy, I was a boy. A boy who liked girls. No girl would even look at me again, I told Daddy, if word got out that I was a compfem wannabe. The boys would beat me up every time they saw me. In fact, they would gather in packs, storm my house, and drag me off to pummel me. Boy, was I wrong. About everything. But I was the most wrong when I said to Daddy, "It's useless anyway, Dad. I could never be pretty like those little creampuffs on ESPN6." That first myth was mutilated about halfway into my spa day. I knew something was up when, Justine, the shoppe owner, called in her colleagues to look at me. Until that point she had kept me away from mirrors, so for all I knew, she was going to ridicule me. Wrong again. The staffers gasped when they saw me. When Justine held up the mirror to my face, I saw why. Helen of Troy's face may have launched a thousand ships. My face would have made the 20,000 sailors on those ships cum their Greek guts out. I was stunned. And scared. And [blush] aroused. I mean, I was a boy and that girl I saw in the mirror was knockdown, knockout and drag-the-body-away gorgeous. It appeared that Daddy was finally right about something, which was very difficult for a teenager to admit. But there was more. Justine and her staff spent the rest of the day teaching me about cosmetics, which took me another year to master fully, but it was a great start. Then Millie, a perky, cute, 19-year-old beauty-school graduate suggested that they "dress [me] up for the full effect." That proved to be exceedingly embarrassing First, I didn't want to wear panties and stockings, ever. Then, when I got them on, I never wanted to take them off. I wear them (and a sexy garter belt) every day, even when I'm in boy clothes. Second, I sort of had an accident when I put the panties on. What happened was, Millie made a comment about having to see for herself whether I was really a girl who was "putting them on" about being a boy. She sort of rummaged around in my boxers, giving things a thorough check, which had me in a state. Which was made worse when Millie pulled my boxers down to show six giggling ladies my stiff, respectably-sized cock and nice, hairy ballbag. The coup de cum, however, was when Millie seated my "pink package" into a pair of silky, white, bikini panties -- which I promptly spasmed six creamy globs into, crying out in equal dollops of lust and shame. Third, after an embarrassing cleanup and a fresh pair of panties, again with much good-natured giggling, I was introduced to my first pair of stockings. Silky. Black. Reinforced heel and toe. Eased so sexily up each freshly-shaven leg. And I filled my second pair of panties with my second tribute to femininity. Mortification. Fear. And anticipation of a new life far beyond what I had expected. A life as a delicious compfem athlete. Heterosexual and proud, but the object of lust for every male who viewed me. I didn't just stroll out of that beauty salon into a new life of femininity. It took a few months until I had practiced enough of feminine mannerisms, voice control, cosmetics and hair styling so that I felt semi-comfortable about going out in public. Not to mention learning to walk comfortably in four-and-a-half-inch or five-inch stiletto heels -- the only shoes I really like to wear these days. Daddy hired a femininity coach named Fifi -- that's right, Fifi -- to ensure that I learned to mimic the female persona well enough to get a compfem scholarship. Let's face it, girls, in the end, Daddy would have been financially better off just paying the $35,000 tuition each year. Between the coach, the lessons, the make-up and, oh yes, the clothes, tuition would have been a bargain. I adore buying girlish clothes -- lots of them -- the frillier and sexier the better -- all with hefty price tags. And Daddy doesn't seem to want to deny me much of anything. He calls me his SAP or Sissy American Princess. Which I always smile at, while batting my eyes at Daddy. But I don't like that "sissy" tag. I'm a serious competitor. And not some gay nancyboy. Did I mention that I'm heterosexual? Daddy can be bighearted and hardheaded about not paying tuition and thank goodness, I say, because for the most part, I've really enjoyed my athletic career. Fifi was a bit difficult to manage. She was a strict coach, drilling me on manners and movement and beauty. That was OK, I guess, but at least twice each day, she would have me pull my panties down and caress my pink stiffie until I filled a Kleenex that she kept for the purpose of "emptying all my boyish toxins." Since she was a girl and I like girls, it was OK, I guess. But hitching down your panties so a girl can wank you doesn't seem very John Waynish, does it? Fifi and Daddy took me out the first time on my sixteen-and-a-half birthday. She had to wank me three times in a half hour so that I wouldn't embarrass myself with a woodie in the fancy restaurant where they were taking me. Fifi was a very beautiful, 24-year-old French girl, accent and all, with big boobs and an excellent sway to her derriere, but every head in the restaurant that night turned to me. Daddy realized that night that his dreams of a scholarship were certain to be fulfilled. I realized that night that three excellent wanks weren't nearly enough to keep me from getting rigid when I got the public adoration I was getting that night. I LOVE when people recognize my superior femininity. What athlete doesn't love to excel? It was a bit disturbing to me, and still is today, that my most ardent legion of admirers is 99.9% male. I told "Compfem Illustrated" that in an interview my freshman year at STU, but all they wrote about were my "full lips and haunting eyes." I was afraid the guy who interviewed me was going to pass out when all the blood in his body rushed to his penis. But not all my admirers were male. I took Heather LaBuste to the junior prom. I had to take her, just to fend off all the invitations from just about every boy in the junior class. You see, Daddy insisted that I live full time as a girl from the time of my half birthday at the restaurant. Something about ensuring that he got a return on his investment. I know you think I'm exaggerating, but the first day I showed up at school as a girl, I almost caused a riot among the boys. The principal had made an announcement over the PA about me preparing for a compfem career by dressing as a girl. The boys in school assumed two things about that. First they assumed that I would be ugly and a caricature of the girls they knew. Wrong -- the girls looked like garbage collectors on casual Friday compared to me. Second, once they saw how spectacular I was, they assumed that I was some sissy boy eager to suck their cocks. Wrong again. But that didn't stop the boys from circling me like a lusty wolfpack. So my only defense was to seek safety among girls. Girls liked me too. Not at first. They thought I was a competitor for the boys. When they discovered that I was "straight," there was a transition period where they just sort of tried to figure me out. Then came the period I really liked. Heather LaBuste offered her body to me a month before the junior prom. I accepted. Other girls followed. And other girls followed the other girls. My soft, glossed lips against theirs. Lingerie on lingerie. Stockings rubbing stockings. And my seven-incher deep within the hottest, wettest places on earth. All the pussy I wanted. And I wanted a lot. High school was great. Except for those insistent boys. They kept trying, but no male ever touched my "pretty parts" until my physical exam for Saint Travestia's University. Daddy and I agreed that Saint Travestia's was my best choice. They had won the elite Femme Eight Conference title three of the past five years and were NCCFA (National Collegiate Competitive Femininity Association) Champions two of the past three years. Oh, yeah. And they had an outstanding endophilology program too. The Femme Eight was the "power conference" of competitive femininity, and besides our squad and those no-goodniks at Fromage University, there were the Katooey College Ladyboys, the Jaye Davidson University Pantycreamers, the Boneca Institute Lingerie Lads, the William in Mary University Pillowbiters, the Christine Jorgensen College Swishyboys and Barbara Pinkpanties College Pantylifers. The Saint Travestia's coach, Francine Fraumacher, closed the deal for STU and me with a visit to our house. She, I mean he was a deliciously feminine young man of 26 years, who had been an All-American compfem athlete at STU. There was no pro league in her, I mean his, day, so coaching was the only real outlet for an accomplished competitor. Almost all of the compfem athletes at STU and most other schools ended up living full time as femmes. I had no such plans. I wanted to get my education, then get a job as a manly endophilologist, perhaps at Endophile Partners. Busty wife. Three and a half kids. Although, and I hate to admit this, it's been said that a few of the athletes went over to "the Dark Side." Consorting with men. Sucking men's cocks. Taking men's cocks into their tiny bottoms. Even [gasp] marrying men and being their submissive, often-fucked wives. How horrible! Is it hot in here? Anyway, my first, and I hoped ONLY contact with a man was with Dr. Pumpmore, the STU team physician. Daddy and Coach Francie seemed to hit it off really well. In fact when Daddy invited her to spend the weekend with us, she accepted eagerly. Very eagerly. She called Dr. Pumpmore and asked him to come to our house to give me my entrance physical. When he said he wouldn't be able to make it to our house for four days, Coach Francie told the doc not to worry or hurry. Daddy said she was welcome to stay as long as she liked. Then he suggested that I stay with my latest girlfriend, Tiffany Kulikowski and her family for few days. Daddy and the Coach had important business to discuss about my scholarship, he said. I didn't think there was anything odd with that. Should I have? Anyway, Daddy called me on the fifth day to tell me to come home for my physical. He and the Coach seemed really close when I arrived home. Daddy makes friends easily. Dr. Pumpmore was setting up in my bedroom for my physical. He greeted me warmly. Just like all men seemed to. With a smile and a stiff dick. The big difference was, he was the only man in the world (except for Daddy), who could tell me to undress and I would obey him. "Strip down to your bra, panties, stockings, garters and heels, Patricia," the doctor said. I complied, though I felt all tingly and strange. I had never been so "exposed" to a man before. It was OK, though. He was a doctor. A doctor with an even bigger stiffie. "We have to check you out, Sweetheart," the doctor said. "You'd be surprised at all the actual, genetic girls who try to sneak into our sport." I was horrified. Was nothing sacred? The doctor continued. "Not only girls. We also have boys who 'juice'" I thought, "Steroids? But that would?" The doctor said, "Female hormones. Totally against the rules." Those lowdown cheaters! "Of course," he said. "I have to verify that you're a man and that you're not taking hormones." I thought, a blood sample and a DNA sample should take care of that. But no. "On the bed, on your back, panties off, Darling," he said. I gulped. What was this? If I screamed, Daddy would run in with a shotgun. Assuming he and Coach Francie weren't discussing my scholarship or something. "I have to examine your equipment and make sure it's functional." That was reasonable. I guessed. I got on the bed, on my back and showed my privates to a man for the first time since Daddy used to diaper me. Why was I so stiff? Why was Dr. Pumpmore drooling? "Mmmm. Yes. That big, fat pole looks real enough, but I'll examine it to be sure." And examine it he did. Skinning back the head. Listening with delight to my little, girlish squeak as he exposed the pink jewel with drooling peelips. "Oh, what a fine competitor, you'll be, Doll. The judges love a thick cock on a girlie girl like you. And the way you love it so when I tickle your privates. It's so charming. And delightful. Do you like when I 'milk' you like this? Do a lot of boys milk you, Sweetheart?" I shook my head and squealed softly, enjoying being handled by a man much more than I had ever dreamed. If he kept that up, I was going to?. He stopped. Why did he stop? Smiling, teasing, he moved slowly to his medical bag and extracted a tube of something that he squeezed out and applied to the three middle fingers of his left hand. "I have to check your responses, Lover. Just to make sure hormones haven't dulled them." Was he going to?? He was!!!! "Lift those pretty, stockinged knees, Beautiful. That's it. I'll just?. There. How's that?" It was incredible! But I would never tell him that. The naughty man had first one, then two, then three slick fingers of his left hand in my previously virgin bottomhole. And he was skinning my pretty peeny with his right hand. I almost told him to stop. Forget the scholarship. My virtue was far more important. But then his fingers found my prostate. And I would have followed him to Pompeii on the day of Vesuvius' eruption. I was cumming!! Hard. With spasmodic jerks. Thick globs of my manly juices leaping from my pink sack, through my stiff pole and onto my flat tummy. I was in an agony of pleasure. Guilty and disgusted with myself and fully intending to enter a reverie that would result in self-loathing. But I never got the chance. Dr. Evil kept massaging my poor, enflamed prostate. And rubbing my own cum all over my cock and balls. I looked at him and did not see medical research in his eyes. He was seething with lust. My eyes were filling with tears. I opened my mouth to beg for mercy, but all I heard was a scream as I started cumming again. Harder than the last time. Less cum. More debilitation. A lot more noise from me. The third time he made me cum was seven minutes later. After that ballbuster, I began planning my own funeral. But he stopped. Withdrew his fingers. Tossed me a towel. "Welcome to the STU Stocking Boys, Patricia," he said. "You'll be an All-American some day. I look forward to next year's physical exam." And he left. Left me in a sodden pool of my own sperm. Wallowing in my doubts about my "preferences." Since then, I realized that the incident was an aberration. I was firmly straight. And would always be. So there. To prove to myself that I was only dressing for the competition, I decided to dress as a man until the Stocking Boys began their season. It would certainly make living in the male dorm easier. And the first male I met at STU was my roommate, Alan. Back to him. He and I went around campus, processing in. Getting our books and stuff. Were some of the upperclassmen giving me, "That look?" Even though I was in boy clothes? I was probably imagining it. After dinner that night, Alan and I talked for a while. He's a really nice guy and things were pretty normal. Until we got ready for bed. I can give up a lot of things, but not everything. As I told you, I always wear panties, stockings and a garter belt, even under my boy clothes. I also couldn't give up my silky nighties. When Alan and I got undressed for bed and he saw me in my stockings, he was so nervous that he was shaking. When I slid off my stockings, panties and garters and put on my pink, knee-length nightie, he was almost in cardiac arrest. We turned the lights out and got into our single beds, on each side of the room. I was tired and almost ready for sleep, except for being a bit restless, since I was "unmilked." Fifi had kind of gotten me used to being milked regularly -- and then there were all my girlfriends. At that moment, my only option was Alan. Who was sighing so loudly, I was never going to get to sleep anyway. Someone had to be the grown-up. "Alan," I said. "Here's a deal for you. I'll milk you, and then you milk me. No kissing. No gay stuff. Then we go to bed and sleep. No talking about it to each other or other people or it stops. Tonight. And forever. Behave yourself and we'll milk each other at least once a day. Deal?" A slight pause. A gasp. A longer pause. And then a croaked, "Deal." A fair exchange, I thought as I crossed the room to Alan's bed. I had to ask him to pull the covers down and expose his willie. Did he think I was going to tunnel through the bedclothes and "go fishing" to give him his strokes? Alan's was rather a nice willie, I must say. Dark and stiff, with a fat sack of hairy balls and a pink, mushroom knob. Nice, thick foreskin. Had I been gay, I would have been excited. My own "tickler" was stiff, but only because I was unmilked. Not because I was "on the other team." I hadn't wanked anyone before. Ever. But it didn't seem too difficult. Especially since Alan's cock was twitching as he stared into my pretty eyes. Alan looked as if he would orgasm if I breathed on him. Well, I thought, I had better define the parameters for this stiff young man. I began giving him a stern lecture about my heterosexuality and how I wasn't the least bit attracted to him or any other man. About halfway through my planned soliloquy, I touched Alan's "business." I thought he would cum right away, but he had gone limp!! Was I ugly and unattractive? Who did that twit think he was? Was I some undesirable bag lady or something? Listen to me, I thought. Worried about what this, this man thought about my femininity. The compfem judges were men. That was my biggest worry. And if I couldn't even toss Alan off, I'd be a loser at compfem. Sent home in disgrace! Maybe it wasn't my looks. Could have been my manner. Hmmm. Try again. "Oh, Alan," I said in my sexiest compfem voice. "What a big, hot, manly cock you have. I'll bet you keep all the ladies back in Sperm Hole, Wyoming very happy. Will you cum for me Alan? I want to see your hot cum spurt. Cum for me, Al?" And so he did. Thick ropes of hot cream. Erupting and forming a splatter pattern on his flat, hairy stomach. Grunting with animal pleasure. And so Patricia learned her first lesson about men. Be nice to them and they'll like you. Even if you're gorgeous, you still have to be nice to them. Lots to learn. And Alan taught the first lesson. Time to pay him back. And have a little fun doing it. I handed Alan a box of Kleenex to clean himself up, then went to my bed, lay on my back and lifted my nightie to expose my pink treasures. The poor, uselessly infatuated lad hurriedly cleaned himself off, covered his genitals and hustled over to examine the task at hand -- my stiff goods. With Alan, it wasn't like it was with the doctor. Dr. Pumpmore was older and had something I wanted, so I was a bit submissive with him. But, I must admit that I was enjoying the experience with Alan very much. He was so needy and I was so in control. But that wasn't all of it. Showing myself to a man like that was so dirty. And who doesn't enjoy that? Plus, I was eager to feel a hand, male or otherwise, on my privates -- ridding me of my cream and my temporary-insanity naughtiness. Alan was enjoying himself too. He gave me a very charming smile, then set about his pleasant task. He began with some sweet talk: "Oh, my, Patricia. You're so beautiful. You're beautiful everywhere. From your beautiful hair, those incredible eyes, your kissable mouth, all the way to your pretty, painted toes. And your little popsy! It's angelic." My cheeks were burning with embarrassment. I was being praised by a man and loving every nanosecond of it. My cock twitched and dripped as he told me was the prettiest girl who ever came to STU. Then he began to rub my leaky goo around my peehole with his thumb and that was all she wrote. Why did I cum so hard when those darned men were messing with me? Alan's gentle fingers made me blow my guts in about two minutes. A new world's record, I imagined. I was afraid he would give me a gay kiss or something, but he didn't. Why didn't he? Not that I wanted him to. But he didn't. "Sleep well," he said as he handed me a box of Kleenex. I did. After three hours of restless soul searching. I was going to have to act sultry toward men if I wanted to succeed at compfem. Maybe Alan would be good practice. Just as a means to an end. A theme in my life. Chapter Three -- The Team The next few days were hectic, but fun. I started my classes, which were all top-notch. Alan and I gave each other a lovely wank each night before we went to sleep. I found myself wearing lipstick for those "tickle sessions" and [blush] flirting with him a little bit too. He was nice. For a man. Things took a bit of a turn when Coach Francie called the first STU compfem meeting of that school year and I met my eleven teammates. We met at 3:30 on a Wednesday afternoon in the lobby of the STU compfem fieldhouse. And I got a big surprise. I was the only team member wearing boy's clothes. The handbook said that boy's clothes were optional during first semester. The handbook was wrong. I think the upperclassmen were snickering at my faux pas. And I think one of them said something like, "There's one every year." The impact of the practical joke didn't sink in, though. Because I was so overwhelmed by my teammates that I was in a semi-stupor. Remember, I was a femmy boy who fucked the prettiest girls in my high school. And I had been watching ESPN6 religiously (when I wasn't fucking the prettiest girls in my high school). And I was a major girlish dish myself. But none of that prepared me for being in the glorious presence of a national-champion compfem squad in their girlish magnificence. They were cock-stupefying! Dressed in short skirts that exposed yards of stockinged, shapely legs. Cosmetically exquisite. Moving easily in the highest, thinnest heels. Tastefully and expensively bejeweled. Heartbreakingly beautiful faces. No "racks," that was true. But asses to expire for. Not a whiff of estrogen was in the air, but the feminine delights that were laid before me were a sensual feast for anyone who had ever felt the tiniest of twinges of desire to possess a woman. Even though they were all good-naturedly ribbing me about being so "butch." I panicked for a moment. Would "Butch" be my team nickname? I was saved by the intervention of three-time All-American and two-time "Huffman Trophy" winner Samantha Suckwell. "Leave Patricia alone you silly cows," he..she..he said, with a girlish tinkle that melted my heart. "You fellow seniors know that I was the dumb 'boy' who believed the handbook when I was a freshman. And I did all right for the glory and endowment fund of good-old STU." Giggles all around. They were so girly. And astoundingly beautiful. I was half-delighted, half-terrified and half-apprehensive that I wouldn't make the grade. So one of those halves was wrong. But which one? I guess it makes little sense to call my coach and teammates by masculine pronouns, so I won't anymore. Coach Francie clapped her pretty hands and said, "Settle down, ladies." We have a lot to do today." So we all sat and listened while Coach told us about the rules changes for this year, especially the restrictions against making an "O" with the lips to suggest that you wish to suck a judge's cock [even if you do] or even showing the tongue to a judge. I was sitting with my two fellow-freshman teammates, Kimmie and Victoria, I felt like such a "boy" compared to them, but they were already treating me like a sister. Each gave me a big hug and kiss. Was that something hard I felt in Kimmie's panties when she hugged me? Victoria was "packing panty pork" as well. Coach told us that we would have our annual kick-off spa day that following Saturday, which would be a good teambuilding experience. Fall practice, which the NCCFA limited to 20 sessions in deference to the study needs of its student-athletes, would begin the following Monday, "Our intra-squad game will be on October 1 and fall practice will conclude with a "scrimmage" against our Femme Eight rival, the Katooey College Ladyboys, on October 10. After that, you'll have until spring practice begins on February 1 to work on your femininity skills. The season will start on March 1. And remember, girls, especially you, Patricia [giggle], the only boy things I want next to you are boys' 'things.'" [Gulp] How embarrassing. It was all in good fun, I guessed. Didn't bother me. What did bother me was that remark about boys being "on" my teammates. Were some of them gay? My answer to that would come soon enough. Coach Francie gave each of us a nice hug as we left. Was that a stiffie under her skirt when she rubbed against me? "Say hi, to your Daddy for me, Patricia," she said. "Tell him I'll see him the weekend after next." More scholarship-related business, I presumed. Moments later, I was walking out of the fieldhouse, chatting with Victoria and Kimmie, the other, older, nine athletes mincing along in their skyscraper stilettos in front of us. We went out the front door and there they were. Boys. Men. Eleven of them. One for each of my delicious creampuff teammates. None for me. Not that I wanted one. The three seniors and two of the juniors were greeted by older men. In expensive suits. With chauffeured limos. The other six were greeted by what appeared to be male, fellow STU students. All good-looking, fit and very eager for the company of the student-athletes. Greeting them. And I mean "greeting." Deep, tonguey, greeting kisses. Half-obscene greeting embraces. Then scurrying off to do unspeakable acts with unnatural couplings. Eleven of them. Gone. And me, dressed like the boy, standing there. One of these things is not like the other. Which was OK with me. I didn't swing that way. I wondered. How did Kimmie and Victoria find boyfriends so fast? Why did they want boyfriends when there were so many girls eager for compfem athlete cock? Were they born "that way?" Or -- and this is the best possibility -- were they just "training" for compfem by learning what turned men on? That had to be it. Kissing and such was the limit. I was sure of it. Training. Made sense. Another thing that wasn't in the handbook, but everyone except me had figured out. Why were they all so "together" and plugged into what was needed for compfem success and I wasn't? Was I stupid? Was I ugly? Was I unwilling to commit to success? My self doubts and disgust turned out to be extremely good fortune for my roommate Alan. Walking back to my room that afternoon, I made several resolutions. First, no more boy's clothes until I graduated. Second, I was going to be an All-American -- that year -- every year. Third, I wasn't going to be the odd duckling out any more. Nosirreebob. When I got back to my room, Alan wasn't there. I took off my boy clothes and threw them out the dorm window. Stripped to my panties, stockings, garters and bra, I found a pair of four-and-a-half-inch-stiletto pumps and slipped them on. Then I sat down at my team-supplied vanity and began to "doll-up" my face for the first time I had arrived at STU. Oh my. It wasn't my absolute best make-up effort, but it was awfully good. I had a major woodie just looking at myself. I slipped on a pink peignoir, then sat at my desk to do my studying. At nine, Alan returned from the library. He was probably expecting me to be in my boy clothes, which I usually wore until 10:30, then slipped into a nightie for our mutual wank, followed by my beauty sleep. Things were looking a bit better for Alan and his prospects that evening. I pretended not to notice Alan when he came in the room. Then, when I looked up from my book, I gave him my 10,000-watt smile. It's shocking, really, the raw, primal power of such a smile. "Hi, Honey," I said. "How was your day?" Alan's head snapped back. When he recovered, he wondered whether he had hit the Power Ball, Super Seven, Lotto Jackpot. I was at least THAT good. "Hi, Jason," he said. "You look fantastic. Lovely. Incredible." Even though Alan was a man, I loved the praise for my beauty. I would have accepted a wildebeest's praise. But Alan was far better looking than that. "Jason doesn't live here anymore, Alan," I said. "Patricia's your roommate now and she needs a kiss and a cuddle." It's not hard to say stuff like that, girls. Really. Try it. Men melt. That sounded awfully good to Alan. "Should I, you know, put my tshirt and pajamas on, like I usually do?" He wasn't really in command of the relationship yet. "Whatever you say, Alan. But kissing and cuddling are all you're getting tonight. Or any night, because.." "You're not gay. Yes. I believe you mentioned that," he said. "Then I'm going to strip to my tshirt and show you something about kissing and cuddling that you won't forget." Spine. Alan had one. I liked that. Surprisingly. He manfully strode to the door to brace a chair against the knob so we wouldn't be interrupted by our floormates. Then, true to his word, he stripped to his tshirt. Naked from the waist down. His nice-sized cock quite rampant. The show of forcefulness stiffened mine as well. I began to feel something new about my femininity. I had just submitted, willingly submitted, to a man. It was only Alan and it was only for kissing and cuddling. But I tingled at the feeling. Alan moved over and took charge even more. He slid my peignoir off, leaving it puddled on the floor. Then, with one practiced motion, he unhooked my bra and let that slip to the floor. My nipples were exposed. To a man. What would he do with them?!?! No one had ever?[gasp]. The rogue was kissing me, rubbing his stiff, leaky cock against mine. Dripping. Mixing juices. That wasn't what I said we would do. Was it? No, but it was awfully nice. And I'll bet my teammates weren't getting any better treatment from their "practice males" than I was getting from Alan. He certainly knew how to use his tongue on a girl's, I mean a compfem athlete's, mouth. He was getting me very worked up and I know Alan was not an athlete like me, but it seemed that he was an excellent "ball handler." Before we knew it, we were lying on his bed, side by side. We were kissing deeply and stroking each other's fat, swollen cocks. Alan stopped his kissing and?unnnhhhh?. He was kissing and sucking and licking my poor, tender, puffy, right nipple. No fair. That was still on my "gay list." And well it should have been, because anything that felt that good had to be evil. It's the Law of the World, right? The bold assault on my right nipple ended and he transferred the attack to my left nipple! As he was stroking my enflamed cock. And that was the end of that lovely stiffie. My erection died a horrible death as the cream filling, which was clearly what had stiffened things, sought free space, leaving the outer shell to collapse in a sodden heap. Alan stopped his nipple torture long enough to examine the fruits of his evil deeds. He seemed fascinated by my orgasm. Delighted that he could give me such pleasure. What a nice guy. And a pretty good titty kisser too. I decided that the best way to repay him would be to suck his big, hot, hard cock. Still, I couldn't bring myself to do that. And NEVER would. The only fair thing would be to kiss him and stroke him until he spurted his own guts out. Which I was willing, no -- eager -- to do. [Stroke] [Kiss] "That was wonderful, Alan." [Stroke] [Kiss] "What a man, you are." [Stroke] [Kiss]"Do you think I'm pretty?" Well, this story is about me! [Stroke] [Kiss] "Show me you think I'm pretty, Alan. Cum for me. Cum for Patricia." And he did. Hot, hard and creamy. All over my hand and arm and his stomach. It's really easy, girls. No experience necessary. And you can try it at home. Alan wasn't through with me yet. The bad boy rubbed HIS cum on MY cock!! [Were we gay yet? I don't think so.] And he stroked me nicely as he kissed my neck, my ears, my eyes, my lips and then [gasp] my poor swollen titty bumps again. I couldn't be rude. After he made me cum, screaming like a girl playing dodge ball, I returned the favor. Rubbing MY hot, sticky, juices all over HIS restiffened pole -- kissing him and sucking his ?.. tongue. Until, bada bing -- creamy time! All in all, it was a reassuring evening for me. I felt confident that I had the feminine looks and wiles I needed to not only make the team, but to put the rest of them on the bench! Chapter Four -- College life for Patricia College students traditionally sleep late. But I didn't mind so much the next morning at seven when Alan woke me up for more kissing and friendly "tickles." I knew that there were men who liked to stick their "things" up the bottomholes of other men, and I knew that some men sucked other men's "things." I'm not na?ve, you know. If Alan had tried that sort of "funny business," I would have changed roommates and Alan would have started mainlining Prozac. Some gay lines I would not cross, especially since I hadn't done anything gay up to that point. I mean rubbing cockheads together, mixing our drippy juices as we kissed deeply and I moaned and squealed was part of my compfem training regimen. I certainly hoped that was how Alan viewed it. Even when we were gasping and shooting our sticky sperm loads all over each others' cocks, balls, stomachs and chests. The smell of cum from six combined steamy loads over the past ten hours must have been wafting into the hall. I mean, cum is not a foreign smell in a male dorm. But we had produced enough semen to float an aircraft carrier. What the other guys in our dorm must think! Especially since "Patricia" had only revealed herself to Alan at that point. Well, that was about to change, Alan was reluctant to let me leave his side, but I made him femmy promises of more delights that evening. "And I have to go tinkles, Sweetie," I said coquettishly. I put on a girlie, but concealing robe over my cum-drenched nightie, slid on my pink, four-inch-stiletto, mule slippers, grabbed my bath towel and toiletries, removed the chair barricade from the door and set off to the common, dorm bathroom down the hall. Few were stirring in the dorm that time of day. Two actually. When they saw me, they did a classic double-take, then, like in the cartoons, their eyes just about telescoped out of their heads. Shock. Awe. [Giggle] I made it to the bathroom, entered a stall and, of course, sat to tinkle. Wiped myself girlishly. Two minutes, tops. When I opened the stall door, there were 20 guys in the room. All pretending not to look at me as I washed my make-up off my face, brushed my teeth, shaved (sadly, I must), and flossed. By the time I was ready to undress for my shower, there were 30 people in a bathroom built for about 15. Three guys were naked and showering in the four-showerhead shower. I removed my robe to expose my nightie. Though "no one" was looking at me, I heard a collective gasp. I hung the robe up, then removed my nightie. Over my head, revealing my fiercely-stiff pink bits. With all that male attention, you would have been stiff too, believe me. Another gasp. Daintily and with great pseudo-feminine dignity, I entered the shower and wet my hair, then laved it with shampoo. My eyes were closed as I worked the shampoo in. It was fun to listen to the appreciative murmurs and grunts as I showed my onlookers first my thick, girlish cock and stiff nipples, then turned to display my perfect, pink bottom. The three guys in the shower had the best view. I sneaked a look at their cocks. Stiff, of course. When I soaped my nipples, one of my shower buddies "lost his cargo." Soaping and rubbing my privates, did the second one in. When I ran my washcloth between my two plump bottomcheeks, door number three opened and flooded. Yessir, I was feeling a lot better about convincing those compfem judges who the All-American was. Everyone pretended to be about his business as I dried off (patting, not rubbing) then returned to my room to dress for my first class. Poor Alan. He looked so jealous when he saw me return, flushed and aroused by the experience. To reassure him (and to take care of a stiff issue of my own), I gave him one more round of "kiss and tickle," this time in my clean, unused bed, since I had just showered and didn't want to roll in cum -- at least until that evening. After we emptied our bags, I set about making myself beautiful for Patricia's first day of classes. My make-up was nuclear. My hair, while still at a boyish length, was cute and perky. I packed my package into pink panties, added a matching bra (for the full-femme experience), tan stockings with a frilly, white garter belt, a tiny, black miniskirt to show off my killer legs, and a pretty, pink top. Black, four-inch-stiletto pumps completed the ensemble. I considered myself in the mirror. Felt my cock stir at the sight of my own beauty. Worse, saw Alan's cock stir. If I didn't leave then, it would be more tickles and missed classes. I left the room. Herds of nonchalant men seemed to be everywhere that morning. Not one of the men I saw was chalant. No one was very ept at concealing a chalant look either. And none of them looked kempt. Men. In the cafeteria where I ate my Special K with skim milk. All over the quad. When I got to class, my Principles of Endophilology professor, Dr. Sodomista, seemed flappable for the first time since I had known him. He kept staring at my legs during the whole class. And so did all the men in class. And half the girls. Surprisingly, the girls' attention didn't excite me. Except for the gorgeous sex-bomb sitting directly to my left. I had sort-of noticed her since the first day of school, but I had a lot on my mind, you know? That day, she annoyed me a little, because I wasn't sure if Dr. Sodomista's attention was all on me or if he was sneaking peeks of her long, beautiful, stockinged legs and [gasp] huge rack. The men in the class had all noticed her from day one. Today, with "Patricia" Spermer attending class, they seemed torn about where to direct the majority of their drools. I clearly didn't want to have any sort of sexual contact with Dr. Sodomista, though he was drop-dead gorgeous, had the sultriest Spanish eyes and a major lump in his trousers. Not that I noticed. I did feel heat building in me for the delicious babe behind me. Only her. No other girls. It was clear why. Babe-A-Licious was the only woman in class who dressed like a woman. Not counting me, of course. Stockings. Big heels. Big hair and great make-up. Tiny skirt. Should I introduce myself? After class, she took care of that for me. "Hello, Patricia," she said. "I'm Mary Grace Flynn. I hope to get to know you better. I don't have a class now, would you like to get a soda in my room over in the girls' dorm?" Eighteen minutes later, I had lost my skirt, top and shoes and was lying in Mary Grace Flynn's bed, kissing her and being kissed with the hunger of extended starvation. I was desperately trying to get my panties off so I could spread her legs and stick my thick cock into her sopping pussy. Which I planned to occupy soon, since she was already frantically removing her panties. But there was no pussy. Sopping or otherwise. What there was was a lot more intriguing. Mary Grace Flynn had a big, stiff cock. Bigger than mine. No wonder she was so feminine. I remember thinking that the big boobs had to be "falsies." So my streak of being wrong remained intact. When she pulled her top over her head, I could see that everything she had was absolutely real. Hugely real. Maybe 42D. She flipped onto her stomach and, in a voice thick with lust, she said, "Unhook my bra." I did. And out they flopped. Mammoth, but high and solid. Big, two-inch-diameter, brown nipples. But how? Who cared? When she rolled back onto her back, I licked and sucked those magnificent nipples. Just as I did Tiffany Kulikowski's 34Cs. And [blush] just as Alan had been doing to my perky nipples. Which made Mary Grace Flynn, even more sexually aroused. For a fleeting instant there, I wondered whether it was the right thing to suck the nipples of a girl with a cock. The fleeting instant fled. "Oh, Patricia," she croaked. "That's wonderful. The best since I left home. But I need a good, hard fucking. In the nightstand drawer. The tube." Without thinking about how that "good, hard fucking" was going to happen, or its consequences (I already told you, my cock was hard, OK?) I opened the drawer and extracted the tube of lube. My logic function had automatically gone dormant when my cock got hard, so I couldn't reason out what was expected of me. Mary Grace filled in the blanks so I could fill in her bottom. "Slather some of it on that hot, hard monster of yours, then put some on your fingers and run them inside my pussy. Then let's go before I faint from overheated lust." Oh. By her pussy, I presumed she meant? Well, you know. Putting my fingers into someone else's "dirty place" was new to me. Dr. Pumpmore had done that to me. Alan looked as if he desperately wanted to "finger my pootie" as well. I had sort of enjoyed it when the Doctor had made me cum so hard I thought I was having a stroke -- three times -- in fifteen minutes. So maybe it was all right. Then again? Mary Grace was tired of waiting for me to ruminate? "Excuse me! Patricia! I really need your cock, Honey. But I can't take it 'dry.' Could you save your thoughts about shame and guilt for later?" Good point. I could do the lube thing. Especially since there would be a big reward after. Mary Grace was on her back -- legs spread, knees raised. Beautiful, pink bottomhole completely exposed. Huge, delicious nipples erect and pointing at me. Tentatively I touched the little, pink, wrinkled rosebud with my lubed middle finger. Mary Grace gasped, then moaned softly. She was so beautiful. And she needed me and my cock so much. I thought about what it would be like for Alan, I mean Mary Grace, to "tickle my innards" like that. My cock stirred. Then I sort of wiggled my slick finger into the place Mary Grace called her "pussy." It was very warm in there! And squishy. And my visit seemed to make Mary Grace very happy?if her cock's twitches were to be believed. I was starting to really get into it when she said, "If you keep that up, I'll cum all over myself." So I kept it up. And she was right. She gave out a couple of the sweetest little squeals, which I would never do, since I'm a guy. Then she got this really desperate look in her spectacular eyes, gasped loudly, then started spurting thick globs of cum all over her stomach, all the way up to her monster titties. Mary Grace was having a good day. So was I. And it was about to get better for both of us. Mary Grace drew me to her, kissing me. Tonguing my mouth. Rubbing bodies. Getting her spunk all over me. "Fuck me now, Honey," she gasped. I wasn't sure how I was supposed to do that, since the lovely mysteries of anal sex were complete strangers to me at that time. Thank goodness they were no mystery to Mary Grace. Still on her back, Mary Grace lifted her knees again. I loved being on top with my girlfriends, but the angles related to Mary Grace were challenging. I was already "in the saddle," but was unsure? Mary Grace held my stiff rammer in her delicate fingers. Wiggling her ass a bit, she positioned my peelips at the entrance to her warm place and said one word: "Push!" I did. The head of my cock popped in, past her wrinkled defenses. Mary Grace drew her breath in, then repeated her "suggestion." "Push!" I did and three inches slid in. Oh, that was VERY nice. Warmer than a girl's pussy. With an entirely different "grip." My chest rubbed against Mary Grace's magnificent breasts. I smelled her "Obsession" perfume. Rather than await further instructions, I pushed yet again, this time seating my entire "business" in the best spot it had ever occupied. Mary Grace squealed when I was "all in" and my balls slapped against her bottomcheeks. She kissed me hard, then harder when I reached between our bodies and stroked her stiffening cock. We enjoyed a long, slow fuck. Through a mammoth effort, I was able to hold back my orgasm until Mary Grace was "on the verge" herself. When her frantic movements told me she was "there," I lowered my defenses, cried out and emptied all my creamy juices deep into Mary Grace's magnificent pussy. Midway through my cum, Mary Grace began her own "trip to the moon." Oh, the things her orgasming bottomhole did to my orgasming cock! It's always great to make a new friend. Drenched with cum, but sated for the moment, Mary Grace and I engaged in some pillow talk. She told me a fantastic story about her family. The Flynns, she said, were a family of girls whom the silly hospitals who delivered them said were boys. She has six older sisters: Mary Alice, Mary Beth, Mary Clare, Mary Denise, Mary Ellen and Mary Frances -- all big-boobed (with hormonal help) and big-cocked like Mary Grace. Mary Grace and her sister Mary Frances were actually adopted by their aunt and uncle, the Flynns, after having spent their early years as boys. But do that later, because I'm talking here. OK? Sadly, I had to leave Mary Grace to attend my afternoon class. Sometimes those class things get in the way of a real college education, don't you think? We kissed and hugged. I repaired my appearance as well as I could. When I was almost ready to leave, Mary Grace said, "I haven't met any nice men here yet, but I'd still like to spend time with you, even when I'm dating. Have you found a boyfriend here yet?" I guess I looked flustered or something. Whatever look I gave Mary Grace told her everything she needed for a wild surmise. "Oh. You don't date men, do you? That's why you were hesitating at the 'critical moment' with me. Am I right?" I blushed. "Oh, Honey," she went on. "I'm sorry to come on like such a little tramp. I'll bet you've never even been with a girl like me?or yourself, have you." "No," I admitted meekly. Why was I ashamed of that? Mary Grace gave me a sweet embrace. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry if I did something you'll feel guilty about. But a beautiful flower like you is too spectacular to keep from the entire world. Why should women have you all to themselves? They certainly don't deserve you. Look for love and sex wherever you want to look. I prefer men? always have?though I love the comfort of pretty 'pantyboys' like you. Not all of us 'girls' are that way, though. You'll have to find your own path." She gave me a sweet kiss and sent me on my way. There was a lot to think about. Like why did she call me a "pantyboy?" I was an athlete, not some sissy pansy. Though being a sissy pansy seemed to be quite a lot of fun. I was so distracted in my afternoon class that I almost didn't notice all the male attention I got from my classmates and the instructor, Mr. Penilingus. Well, I did notice, but I didn't enjoy it. No, that's not right either. I did enjoy it, but I was thinking about other things besides how beautiful I was. I kept thinking about Mary Grace Flynn and how "settled" she was in the world of lifelong femininity. She had admitted?openly?that she was gay, which was always sad to me. She had just decided to surrender to all the wrong "urges." She had "mutilated" her male body with those huge breasts. No going back on that. She was living in the girls' dorm. Pretending she was a girl, and not even as an athletic endeavor. Still. She seemed happy. And that was something. Plus, she was a magnificent fuck. Which not many people can lay claim to. I grabbed an apple and a small salad with lemon for dinner and took it back to my room to think. Alan wasn't there yet. We had sort of agreed that each evening he would hit the library until nine p.m. or so, or we would be "relieving our tensions" so much that we would both flunk out of school. I studied for my next-day classes as I ate my meal. Then, around seven, I went into my room-size walk-in closet. Did I mention that each compfem athlete living in the dorm had a huge closet for her "things?" Daddy had bought me so many wonderful "things" that they barely fit in the 12x14-foot closet room. I knew just what I wanted. It was in my lingerie chest. The tiniest, sheerest, pink babydoll nightie, with matching panties. I stripped off everything, including my stockings, then put the wispy thing on, omitting the panties. I slipped my painted toes into a pair of pink, five-inch stiletto mule sandals. Then I went to my favorite place in the dorm room (except for Alan's bed). My full-length mirror. Looked at myself. Not bad. I mussed my hair a bit. For the "bedroom" look. My babydoll was so short that I could see my entire peeny and "pink purse." Of course, looking at myself made my poor peeny stiff as a fine for littering in an operating room. All those men were right. I was pure sex in skyscraper heels. I was no Mary Grace, though. I lifted my nightie and exposed my nipples to the mirror's evaluation. They were lovely nipples. Reddish-brown. Perky. But they were not titties. Not that I wanted titties. Couldn't have them either. No "juicing" allowed in compfem. No hormones. No implants. Rules were rules. [Sigh] Titties on someone like me would be incredibly terrific. The investors who are said to be putting together a pro league for compfem have been talking about allowing all sorts of things -- hormones -- implants -- all kinds of surgery, except for the "big operation." Not sure if I thought that was a good idea. Still, I would look awfully good with titties like Mary Grace's, I thought. I got on my bed on all fours, turning around to examine my bare bottom in the mirror. Now that was a beautiful sight. Every bit as nice as Mary Grace's. A real bubble butt. Plump, pink cheeks. I spread the cheeks a bit. Took a peek of my anus. That was sweet-looking too. Like Mary Grace's, though I hadn't seen hers from that angle. I looked more closely. My girlish butt had a long, loose bag of balls hanging down beneath it. That could be a real turnoff to a lot of "thrill seekers." Not that I was running an amusement park for men. No way. But it was fun to see the world as someone like Mary Grace saw it. Couldn't see my cock from that angle, since it was hard as iron against my belly. My "pussy" looked so impossibly tight. How had Mary Grace managed to take my whole "big weapon" into her tiny pootie? She seemed to do it so easily. And enjoy it so much. Was it that much fun? Well, I had certainly enjoyed it when Dr. Pumpmore made his little fishing expedition into my heinie. I wondered if maybe I should let Alan?well?just to see?. And just at that moment, Alan came in the door of our room. Well, that was embarrassing. I wasn't planning on letting Alan see me in that nightie just yet. Maybe in April or May. Or on his birthday. Like all the things that Daddy bought for me, he had had me model it for him. Poor Daddy's ears were on fire when he saw me in that pink nightie. He had to excuse himself from that night's fashion show and "take care of himself." Alan's reaction to the pink nightie was similar to Daddy's. But he didn't walk away. He dropped his pants is what he did. Then he removed his shirt, shoes and socks. That made him naked. Did I mention that Alan looked pretty good naked? No movie star looks. Cock not huge. But pretty buff body. Kind of cute. And a nice guy. With a very stiff cock. And steam emitting from his nostrils. He barely had the presence of mind to wedge a chair to secure the door. But that only distracted him for a moment. Fear rippled through my body, which only made me cock and nipples harder. Was he going to FUCK me?!?! I didn't want that. I was saving myself from that. That was total emasculation and I wanted to be truly, fully male again someday. After college. Soon after. For sure. Maybe. Alan was advancing toward me. Cock at the ready. If I screamed, would my dormmates break down the door to save me? Maybe they would see me in the pink nightie and be so aroused that they would "gang-bang" me!!!!! Alan was getting closer. What was I to do? It wasn't always easy being a fabulously beautiful, compfem athlete. I drew in my breath to scream, but all that I could muster was a submissive whimper. It's true, girls. I surrendered. Not completely. But the white flag was definitely out of its case and being unfurled. I wondered vaguely if Alan's big cock would hurt when he shoved it into my gorgeous ass. But Alan was still full of surprises. He didn't stick his big, wet cock into my red-hot pootie. He got on his knees, grabbed my hips, and stuck his big, wet tongue into my red-hot pootie. His tongue! My virtue was safe. For at least a few more minutes. Well, not completely safe. Having a man's tongue in your butt is a bit disconcerting to someone who has pledged him/herself to lifelong heterosexuality. But it was darned thrilling too. Fabulously thrilling. Spectacular. Alan was French-kissing my bottomhole. He was kissing it and tonguing it the same way he kissed and tongued my mouth. And it was delicious. I felt adored and worshipped, that anyone would do something that dirty for and to me. And it felt better than anything I had ever felt. I was on fire with lust. Alan kept it up. I wanted to tell him that he couldn't get to China digging in that direction, but it was very loud in the room, what with all the squealing and moaning. Where was that coming from? Oops. That was me. I think I would have orgasmed even without him touching my peener, but when he reached around and gave the head a nice, sweet skinning as he "ate me," I found that scream I couldn't muster before, as well as about half a gallon of cum that I blew out in seven thick spurts. I saw the gates of Heaven on that one, girls. But damnation was fast approaching! While my tortured cock was drooling out the last few drops of a mammoth ball drainer, Alan was gathering his resources for an attack on not only my loosened, sopping bottomhole, but on my fundamental heterosexual virtue. He was going to FUCK me and the thousand or so guys who were surely outside my door in response to my dick-stiffening screams of ecstasy would hear it all! There was only one way to save my heterosexuality and virginity, girls. I had to suck Alan's cock and let him cum in my face and down my throat. You've gotta break eggs to make an omelet. Moving as nimbly as someone who was freshly wanked and analingused could move, I fell to my knees in front of the advancing Alan. I cupped his balls in my left hand, held the base of his cock in my right hand, and began to place soft, feather kisses on the exposed, almost-purple head of his rampant masculinity. He liked that. A lot. It sort of distracted him too. Made him keep his mind on what I was doing, rather than his horrible, gay plans to ravage my poor, defenseless pussy. He seemed nice and calm and happy that I was on my knees at his feet, licking the drool from his peelips as it seeped out. There was a lot of that creamy stuff. It wasn't tasty or anything, but it didn't taste bad. And it was a miniscule price to pay to avoid gayness. I gave his balls a nice stir as I took the whole, mushroom knob into my mouth and gave it a proper licking. The way Tiffany Kulikowski and Heather LaBuste used to do for me in high school. I licked Alan the way I liked to be licked. Which seemed to suit him just fine. The Golden Rule, well-applied. [Blush] The whole cocksucking experience was quite pleasant. For both of us. Alan, just like a man, seemed to be very pleased with himself that he had "conquered" the best looking "girl" at STU. Little did he know that I, having protected my masculinity, was the real victor. He wouldn't be FUCKING me. No way! Alan's breathing picked up and I knew he was near the chasm we all love to throw ourselves into. I could have pulled away. Sent him off to "finish" himself. But I was bigger than that. Alan had respected my needs. I respected his. I continued to suck his enflamed, swollen cock until, with a mighty roar (for the guys listening outside, I guessed), he began pumping creamy cum into my mouth. I tried to swallow it -- to avoid a mess, you know -- but there was too much. It flowed out of both sides of my mouth, down my chin, drenching my pretty, pink nightie. And that was how I avoided being gay for yet another proud day of my life. Chapter Five -- Team spirit Alan and I enjoyed "similar pleasures" the rest of that lovely evening. His fingers spent hours in my bottomhole as he kissed me and massaged my tender prostate. He almost killed me with pleasure until we fell asleep from exhaustion. No time for tickles when we awoke. Had to get to "spa day," which would be my first real opportunity to interact with my compfem teammates and their first real introduction to "Patricia." Well, I did suck Alan's cock once that morning. But only once. On my knees, of course. And he spermed all over my face. For the fifth time in the past 12 hours. Just to tease the boys on the floor, I wore the cum-soaked pink nightie and showed my "frosty face" all the way down the hall to the bathroom for my shower. By exposing my sperm-free bottom, I wanted people to know that I had not been fucked -- I had willpower and my masculinity was intact. It was Saturday morning of Labor Day weekend, so it was still OK to wear a pretty summer dress. With strappy, white sandals and tan stockings. I wore big, hoopy, gold earrings, which were a little trampy, I know. My make-up was killer and I just dared those jokers on the team to try any tricks on me that day. Looking spectacular, I entered the compfem fieldhouse through the main rotunda. My teammates were almost all present. From the collective gasp when they saw me, I presumed that I was no longer to be thought of as the boyish ugly duckling. All this without the benefit of long, flowing hair, which my teammates all had. I had chopped it off over the summer in an effort to "go butch" before my college compfem career began. Some have told me that my boyish hair on an otherwise feminine masterpiece made me even more "dick-stiffening." I chatted with my teammates a bit, especially Victoria and Kimmie, my fellow freshmen. Victoria was a redhead and Kimmie was a blonde, of course. With a name like that, what else would she be? They were both beautiful and deliciously feminine. Not in my league, of course, but very pretty. Despite my "hard work" of the previous evening (and morning), I felt a certain stiffness in their presence. I hadn't been attracted to other pretty boys before. Was it that darned Mary Grace Flynn's influence? I wondered briefly how and what Mary Grace was doing at that moment. Was someone like Dr. Sodomista dumping a big load of manly cream into her beautiful bottom? The