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Fully Fashioned By Gingerfred Man Chapter One - Baited and Switched Margie married me under false pretenses. Really false pretenses. When we first encountered each other, she was the only girl I had ever met who could satisfy my highly unusual, but raging need. I adored stockings. Not just any stockings. Real stockings. Not knee-highs. Or those so- called modern stockings. And never, never, never (ugh) pantyhose. Never. REAL stockings. The kind Bettie Page wore. And Betty Grable. And lots of other betties out there. Fully fashioned. Black, brown or tan. Thick, dark, two-tone welts at the top. Reinforced heels and toes at the bottom. And seams. Oh yes. Seams. Oh, and a garter belt. That goes without saying. The more straps the better. Big, high, stiletto heels too. Pumps. Mules. Sandals. Sandal mules. Yum. My cock is in mortal peril every time I think about stockings. Always has been. Always will be. At the time I met Margie, I thought my fetish was for women in stockings. I was only partially correct. Margie. She was a wet dream come true. She had it all. I first saw her walking down a busy street near where I worked. Only saw her from behind that time. But that was just fine. Margie's four- inch pencil heels clacked on the sidewalk as she swayed her perfect bottom back and forth, Her legs were stunning. Shapely and artfully encased in black, real stockings. Seams and all. I almost creamed my pants. Then I went into hot pursuit. No way was I letting my nylonic soulmate escape my life. Margie's face wasn't in my line of sight, but it didn't matter. I was stricken with lust and she could have looked like Yasir Arafat and I would have still been in love. Well, maybe like a young Margaret Thatcher on a bad hair day. I followed her for quite a while, my cock so aroused that I know passers-by noticed the big tent in my pants. If I didn't make my move, my stockinged angel could be lost. So I speeded up, almost overtaking her. Didn't want her to think I was a stalker or a homicidal maniac. But I had to introduce myself. What to do? Thankfully, she turned into a park, walked to a pond and reached into her handbag, producing a bag of duck food. An animal lover. Nice. But totally irrelevant. Stockings. [Gasp] [Pant] Somehow I managed to chat Margie up that day. Things moved along nicely. Six months later, Margie was lying on a bed on her stomach. I had lifted her wedding gown up to her shoulders, pulled down her panties and was gazing with raw lust at her dripping pussy and the beauty of her tan-stockinged legs. I mounted her and fucked her gloriously throughout our honeymoon. Fucking day and night. Margie in her stockings, in bed or out. Her stockinged legs spread for me and my big, fat cock. Margie knew her stockinged legs drove me wild and throughout our brief marriage, she used that power to get me to agree to anything she wanted. Which was a very fair deal as far as I was concerned. I would have given Margie the solar system as long as she satisfied my lifelong ache for stockinged sex. We returned from our honeymoon, then settled in for the rest of our lives. Rented a nice apartment, furnished it, fucked like condemned bunnies. A man with empty balls is a happy man. But then it happened. Nine months after we met - three months into our marriage - Margie stopped wearing stockings! !?!?!?! She knew I was burning with lust for her stockinged legs, white-thighs and the sopping, hairy pussy between them. But she just stopped. I begged her to wear her stockings again. She refused. Something about too much bother. What effing bother? Something about none of her girlfriends wearing stockings - calling Margie old-fashioned and a "dickteaser." All pisspoor reasons to destroy your new husband's life. The marriage went sour after that. Margie knew it. She could have repaired it. Easily. She didn't want to, I guessed. Something about power. Or stupid peer pressure. My parents were sad about it. Margie's widowed father Derek tried to help us. We didn't tell him any of the details, but he wasn't blind. He could see how Margie had changed, but he couldn't get her to fulfill her implied promise to her husband. A promise to remain at least as good to her husband as she was when they courted. So six months into our marriage, Margie moved out. We each got a lawyer. I cried a lot. I'm not sure if Margie did. We didn't talk. Women! Chapter Two - A New Life After she left, every day I went to work and came home to the empty apartment Margie and I had shared. That was my life. That and Derek, my soon-to-be-ex-father-in-law. He was great to me. Better to me than my own Mom and Dad, who seemed to be more interested in the goings-on with my eight siblings than with me. Derek tried like heck to get me out of my depression. Took me to ball games and movies and dinner. Eventually it worked. There were clearly other aquatic creatures out there in the big wet world and I was going to find one. I was 24 years old. Life was not over. So one Saturday, I decided that I was going to purge my apartment of Margie. She had taken almost all of her stuff, but as a final "fuck-you" to me, she had left behind ten gorgeous pairs of stockings, five lacy and/or ruffled garter belts, five lacy bras, some pretty nighties and three pairs of come-fuck-me, stiletto pumps. I got a box to put that stuff into. Was going to throw it all out. Break Margie's hold on me. All very good intentions. Until I held a pair of black stockings in my hands. And felt their power over me yet again. I shuddered as I held the sweet, nylon dainties. My cock was painfully erect. Though I wasn't an avid devotee of masturbation, I made an exception that day. And many days thereafter. I dropped my pants, ripped down my boxers and surrounded my cock with those stockings, then my right hand. Three long strokes. Then four. Five. And I was pumping thick cream into the objects that had played a central role in the formation and dissolution of my marriage. Oh, it felt good. My first thought was that there were nine other pairs I could fill with cum before I needed to wash them out. Pretty sick, eh? I filled four more pairs that day before I had to clean up and get myself together for dinner at a Chinese restaurant with Derek. All during the meal, I had separation anxiety for those stockings. Could Derek tell? Probably. He was pretty sensitive to my needs. An all-around good guy. "You seem different tonight, Bradley," Derek said at one point. "Is everything all right?" "Yes, thanks, Derek," I said. "I've just decided that a new chapter in my life begins now. Margie's gone. I'm still here." Derek smiled. It was a nice smile. He was a good-looking guy for his age - 45 or so. "I finally reached that point after Margie's mother died," Derek said. "It took me a while - two years. But I moved on. You'll find someone else." I'd already found something else. Wanking with stockings. And was contemplating a further step. One I'd had in mind for sometime, but couldn't bring myself to do. Being with was Derek was nice, but I missed those stockings I had left back at the apartment. I got home at 9:30, eager to follow up on a very naughty thought inspired by my fortune cookie: "Tonight you will shave your legs, wear stockings and wank your weenie," it said. Those fortune cookies are getting a lot more specific, aren't they? Perhaps it didn't happen exactly that way. But it was good advice, wasn't it? Especially since, for some time, I had considered wearing nylons, not just admiring their wearers. Sort of a direct approach thing. Not weird. Efficient. Still, shaving my legs was a big step and a bit creepy. But I remembered that Margie always said that stockings felt the most sensual right after a leg shave. She was right. Very right. Rolling that first stocking up my smooth left leg was one of the great experiences of my life. I had never worn stockings before, which told me that the first 24 years of my life had been wasted. When I got the second stocking to my knee, my tummy clenched and I started spurting my sticky cream. The joy. I felt wonderful all over. But as far as putting those feelings into certain categories, I was at a bit of a loss. I mean, I didn't feel feminine. I didn't feel pretty or submissive. I just felt very good. Putting on the garter belt made it extra naughty. I stood in front of the full-length mirror where Margie used to admire herself and admired myself. My legs looked pretty good, though I knew that big heels would have made them look better. The sight of my big cock (did I mention I have a whopper?) sticking straight up and overlapping my garter belt was incongruously sexy. I pranced and preened, reining myself in when I felt I was acting too "gay." I mean I was clearly a hetero guy with different "needs" from my fellows. Summoning sperm was extraordinarily easy that wonderful evening. Walking, or even standing in those devilish heels was another matter. At first I thought the issue of heels was moot anyway. Margie's pumps wouldn't fit me, would they? Margie and I were almost the same size in many ways. Both five foot seven. I was 15 pounds heavier at 145. My shoes were a men's size eight. I selected a pair of black-patent-leather, come-fuck-me pumps and tried them on. Oh my. They fit. It was fate, wasn't it? Like that fortune cookie. Fitting was a small part of the challenge, however. Standing was the tough part. Before attempting a rise to my feet, I spent a good amount of time admiring how my stockinged legs looked in those sexually-charged shoes. Not only did they feel marvelous, they looked marvelous. I had HOT legs. It was sad that no one would ever see them but me. [Sigh] That was a sobering thought, though it didn't deter me from a frantic wanking of my hyper-excited cock. Things were quite messy as I attempted to stand in those devilish heels. When old folks fall, many break their hips. All I lost was a bit of pride. I fell flat on my pretty tushie. And there was no dignified way of getting up. But I was determined. After a death-defying 75 minutes, I trained myself to stand and yes, even walk a bit, in four-inch spikes. Not gracefully, but I was convinced that that was possible. I LOVED wearing the stockings instead of counting on women to wear them for me. Over the next two weeks, during all my free time (and under my man clothes when I went to work), I wore my stockings, garter belts and heels. And drained my testicles in tribute to my nyloned beauty. Whacking my tortured weenie was a bit solitary and lonely. But hey, we obsessive-compulsives must make sacrifices to scratch our itches. I must admit, I was a bit short-sighted at that point in my life. You can't really call "wearing-girlish-things-while-having-undefined-vague- and-unresolved-gender-issues" a plan. Nor can one rely on self-abuse- for-the-next-40-years as a plan either. But who thinks very far ahead when you're 24 and perpetually, sexually overheated? Not me. Chapter Three - A complication Toward the end of that semen-drenched fortnight, I did manage a bit of reflection. During the brief periods when my horse-whipped balls sought recovery. Reluctantly, I admitted to myself (the person to whom I lied most often and most lavishly) that I sort of, kind of, was experiencing a few (just a few) tiny hints of girlish feelings. Which made sense, since I was constantly "gilrling up." From the waist down, I was as sexy and girlish as any babe I had ever known. Better legs than Margie. Way better. Since I had never worn panties, my big Johnson was always part of the "below-the-waist" view I saw of myself. Strangely, my stiff thingee seemed to enhance the picture. I felt as if I were on the strangest expedition of my life - exploring feelings and ideas where I had never dreamed of going. And, with any expedition, sooner or later, you begin to explore artifacts along the way, as well as the boundaries of the newly discovered land. That second Friday night, after work, I decided to see if girlier was better. Rather than conceal my "package" with panties, I decided to enhance the territory above my waist. Looking a bit more closely at Margie's leave-behinds, I found three pretty nighties and four pairs of sexy panties. I examined the nighties carefully, feeling their silky softness. What a lovely accompaniment to my nylonic cravings! I selected a black, diaphanous teaser, with pretty lace at the hem and bodice. Sighing, I remembered fucking Margie's wet pussy when she wore it - with stockings, of course. Back when she cared about me. Deciding that this was a special occasion, I stripped off the stockings and garters I had worn to work that day, drew a bath and eased myself into the hot tub. My bath was scented with delightful oils and awash in bubbles. It was so luxuriant and yes, girlie. When I had bathed fully, I patted my body dry, then indulged in my every-48-hours pleasure of shaving my legs. I used scented powder all over my pink body, then teased a pair of lovely black stockings up my smooth legs. It was an amazing feat of self-control to be able to resist cumming yet, especially after hooking my garters and smoothing my stockings carefully all over. Checking the seams. Slipping on a pair of black, strappy sandals as I admired my pretty self in the mirror. By the time I eased my very first nightie over my head, my balls were navy blue. Though they ached for release, I wanted to admire the new, femmier me in the mirror a bit before I "spunked myself" that Friday evening. I was quite dishy, girls, let me tell you. The face needed work, since I wore no makeup. But the rest! Oooh la la! One detail remained before I could begin my auto-erotic evening. I had purchased some DVDs from a Web site called "stockingobsessedpervs.com." I was going to watch them as I sought nirvana that evening. I lay on my back, then started the film. It was the softest of soft porn. Just a beautiful, fully-dressed, young woman putting her stockings on, pointing her toes a lot, smiling at the camera, and adjusting her garters and seams. For an hour. To most porn fans, it would have been a sleeping potion. To me it was nuclear fission. During that glorious hour, I blew three huge loads all over my nightie, which I had tucked under my cock as I stroked away. I was drenched with cum. Messy. Exhausted. With two questions. First, should I clean up a little first before I got out of bed and put the other DVD on? Second, and this was the naughty one, what would someone think if they saw a DVD of me doing things like what that DVD woman did? Someone like a man - with a nylon fetish equal to mine. Would it arouse him? Seeing pretty stockings on shapely legs - man's legs, but still shapely. Probably. Would he think I was pretty? Not likely, since, without makeup or a girlish hair style, I looked quite boyish. But would he think I had lovely legs? Would my legs make his cock hard? Make him want to stroke his big boner as he drank in the sight of my nyloned beauty? My guess was yes. Why was I even thinking things like that? I was deep in such crazy thoughts, thus oblivious to something really important. Something I shouldn't have missed. My eyes were closed and I was rubbing some of the wading pool of cum from my nightied tummy all over my rapidly stiffening prick when I heard, "Bradley?" No! It couldn't be. My father-in-law, Derek, was standing in the doorway of my bedroom. Looking at me. Not in a mean or disgusted way. Just looking. Obviously surprised at seeing his soon-to-be-ex-son-in-law in an unexplainawayable situation. Terror. The biggest jolt of fear-adrenaline I had ever experienced. My choices, fight or flight, were both terrible alternatives. What could I say? Thankfully, I didn't need to. Derek apologized enthusiastically and sincerely. "I'm so sorry, Bradley. I've just been so worried about you. And then when you didn't meet me for dinner tonight, I thought I'd better check on you. You didn't answer my knocks, so I let myself in with the key you gave me." I was doomed. Because I had forgotten about our dinner, Derek had discovered me in full girlie. He would storm out, then tell everyone he knew that his ex-son-in-law was a pansy, crossdressing, sissy, fagboy. I would have to move to Azerbakistan. Or Mars. My first indication that no such scenario would come true was the fact that Derek didn't look at all horrified. And he didn't leave. Instead, he seemed?interested. Interested in what was happening. Interested in the new me. He sat in a chair across from my bed and said, "Is there anything you'd like to tell me, Bradley? It's OK. Whatever you do, it's OK with me." As he had always been with me, Derek was sympathetic, compassionate and respectful. Why did I doubt that he would be like that? Even for a moment. My response was way girlier than I thought it would be. I started crying. Sobbing, actually. So hard that Derek sat on the side of the bed and, heedless of the canal of cum, he hugged me as I wept in his arms "I know it's wrong," I bawled. Derek, said a very strange thing in response. "No. No, Bradley," he said as he rocked me in his arms. "It's not wrong. You needed to do it." How did he know that? Derek held me a bit longer. It felt very nice. Nicer than I thought it would. Nicer than it should have felt. Then, gently, he released me, rose from his seat on my bed and returned to his seat in the corner of my bedroom. "Tell me all about it," Derek said. So I did. After covering up my cock with my nightie. I sat up in bed and began. "I was attracted to Margie because of the way she dressed?stockings?real stockings and garter belts." "I know," Derek said. He knew? I asked him, "How did you know?" He cleared his throat, unsure about whether he had said too much. Then he decided to explain. "You and I share an appetite. Not in the same way, apparently, but we definitely share an appetite." Huh? Seeing my confused look, he went on. "I fell in love with Margie's mother Andrea partly because she dressed the way Margie did before Margie's so-called friends talked her out of being good to her husband. Andrea wore stockings, garters and big, spiky heels every day of our courtship and married life, until she got sick. "We had a fantastic life together - every blessed day of it - and the sex was nuclear. Andrea did everything she could to please me. She taught Margie right too - had her in real stockings and heels from freshman year in high school. Which meant the boys were always circling the house like a pack of wild coyotes. "Margie wasn't really that pretty. Neither was Andrea, if the truth be told. But the stockings!!! That was what stirred male stocking lovers' souls - stocking lovers like you and me, Bradley." Derek was a stocking lover too??? Did that mean he wore them, like I was apparently destined to do? Derek understood the question before I asked it. "No, Bradley. I don't wear stockings. Never had the desire. Though they clearly agree with you. You look great in them! Fantastic." I blushed. And my cock twitched. Did he notice? The shame. But wait. Was that a lump I saw in Derek's pants? Was that for me? Talk about terrified. Desperate to get him talking about anyone but me, I asked him why he thought Margie continued wearing stockings after his dear Andrea died. Derek smiled. "Good question. If I asked, I don't think I would get a straight answer from her. Maybe it was habit. Maybe she liked the slavish devotion she got from men like you?and me. Maybe she just loved to arouse her Daddy. Many girls enjoy that. I didn't enjoy it from Margie and I certainly never acted on it." Wow. Derek seemed to have said all he wanted to say. Then he asked me, "How long have you been wearing stockings?" I blushed fiercely, then answered honestly. "About two weeks." Derek nodded. "Obviously you enjoy it. Do you intend to keep wearing stockings?" I thought about lying, but couldn't. "I have to," I said. Derek liked that answer. "Yes you do. Well, I won't get in your way. In fact, I'll help if you need me to." Wasn't sure how one person helped another person wear stockings, but I thanked him anyway. And wished he would leave. He got the hint, stood up, then said, "I'll be by tomorrow at 6. We'll go for pizza and a movie. Wear your stockings under your clothes if you want." As he left the room, I noticed that his shirt was spotted with my cum from when he held me. It didn't seem to bother him. I was almost glad that Derek had discovered me. I was much gladder later. Chapter Four - Excellent developments Needless to say, I was a nervous wreck until the next afternoon when Derek knocked on my door. How do you deal with someone who knows a deep secret about you? A potentially humiliating secret that has already humiliated you because he knows it. I tried to stay optimistic. Derek had never hurt me and I didn't think he was going to start now. Then there was the whole "sex" part of the whole thing. Derek's pants had been very lumpy in my stockinged presence. He was a confessed stocking "enthusiast." How did I feel about that? Well, my pants got lumpy and my cheeks got hot when I thought about Derek seeing me in my stockings again. Which I had no real plans of allowing. Still, he had suggested that I wear stockings for our "dinner-and-a-movie" night. And I would never pass up an opportunity to wear stockings. So at around 4 that afternoon, I shaved my legs yet again, powdered up and encased my legs in a lovely pair of brown, fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe, seamed stockings. I lovingly attached them to a white garter belt. Then, for the first time, I put on a pair of panties. Very nice. Hadn't really thought much about panties - mostly a stocking man. But panties were very nice. I loved the way the silky material caressed my cockhead. And they did augment my girlishness. Not that I wanted or needed any gilrishness. It seemed a shame to cover that loveliness with boy khakis, a polo shirt and boat shoes. For a crazy moment I thought that Derek would rip them all off, strip me to my nylons and then "do things" to me that I was helpless to prevent. No such luck. Derek arrived exactly on time. His manner and our conversation were as if the previous evening hadn't happened. We enjoyed a pizza at a favorite spot, chatting about my work (office drudgery) and his (firefighting). Then he suggested a movie that I had never heard of at a 28-cinema multiplex. I agreed to go, relishing the thought of sitting with him and not having to talk about my "problem" for two hours. When we got to the theater, I wondered again why Derek had picked that movie. I t was a real stinker and in a room that held 300 seats, only six were filled. The four other people in the theater were seated in the front, 20 rows or so ahead of us. So we were essentially alone. Alone? Hmm. Derek and I always sat together in a movie theater, without the obligatory empty seat guys like to put between them to appease the heterosexual gods. That evening, it seemed there would be no such appeasement from us. Twenty minutes into the movie, Derek leaned over to me and whispered, "Did you wear your stockings and garter belt tonight?" I shuddered. Was it fear? Lust? Or a heady brew of both? I managed to croak out a "yes," then waited for Derek's next move. He drew out my anticipation. Thirty seconds. A minute. Then he said, "May I see them, please?" That engendered a huge adrenalin rush of fear/lust. But I answered, "OK." Unsure of how to comply I began to roll my left pant leg up to expose my calf. That wasn't what Derek was after. And he said so. "Show me your thighs, Sweetheart," he whispered. Sweetheart? Thighs? I could have left the movie theater right then with my heterosexual virtue intact. Funny how that thought never occurred to me. Instead I did as Derek asked. Looking back on it, I think I actually whimpered softly when I unbuckled my belt, lifted my bottom and slowly scooted down my trousers to my ankles. I was exposed. My pink panties. Tented severely by my aching stiffie. The dark brown welts of my fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings. Attached to a six-strap white, ruffled garter belt. And, most vulnerable of all, my smooth-shaven, creamy-white thighs. Derek gasped when he saw what I offered him. Being exposed in public made everything extra-naughty. As if things weren't naughty enough. A man was looking lustfully at my most intimate self. And I was letting him. What would he do? Would he just gaze a bit, then ask me to pull up my trousers as he resumed his assault on his popcorn? Not bloody likely. Tentatively at first, as if he were seeking permission, Derek eased his right hand onto my left thigh, just above the stocking top. He stroked the area where bare skin met garter strap and nylon. By his intake of breath, I could tell that he was thrilled. He couldn't tell much from my breath, since I hadn't taken one in quite a while. He could, however, notice that my body temperature had increased by a few thousand degrees, I was nearing a massive stroke and my cock was nearing meltdown. Perhaps I exaggerate. But I was pretty darned excited. Growing bolder, Derek stretched his arm to give equal attention to my right thigh. His touch was electric. Here was a man who needed nylon as much as I did. In a different form than mine, but his need was just as intense. I sighed with guilty pleasure as my handsome father-in-law stroked from my stockinged knees to my garter belt, every part of me except [blush] the pantied area. What would I do if he stroked me th?. Oh. The bold rogue rubbed my pantied cock. First with his flat palm. I shuddered. Then with his rough, calloused fingers. I actually squeaked. Things were getting quite warm for both of us. Derek's breathing was heavy as he focused his digital attack on my panty-encased cockhead. Beyond embarrassment, I groaned with lust. Derek stroked my distressed pantied popsy with fierce determination. When my tiny grunts told him I was near orgasm, he redoubled his efforts. Thank goodness there was a loud explosion in the movie at the exact moment that I squealed and pumped six thick globs of girlish cum into my pink dainties. We would have certainly been arrested, hauled down to Gayness Court and sentenced to hang. I had never enjoyed anything one-tenth as much in my life until?.guilt and shame made their unwelcome entrances. What had I done? I had just allowed an unspeakable gay activity upon my person. By my father-in-law for heaven's sake. And worst of all?and this was the truly unredeemable part?I had enjoyed myself. After the first agonizing assault wave of guilt and shame passed, they were replaced by something worse. Terror. What would this?this?this man expect next? Would he pull out his own thick thingee, which I could see clearly tenting his trousers in a most lewd manner? Would he expect me to touch it!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!? To rub it until he spurted his creamy seed all over my ungloved, unprotected hand!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!? Or worse? Would he force my head down onto his cock, forcing me to suck it until he filled my mouth with his disgusting juices? Would he try to kiss me? I was flushed and trembling when the answer to that last question presented itself. "Pull your panties off, Sweetheart," Derek ordered. He was so forceful. So ordering. He didn't even say "please." What could I do? I didn't want to do all those gay things. He forced me. Yeah, that's it. He forced me. Not physically. He just sort of said, "Do it" and I did it. So, his fault. Not mine. Right? Submissively, I eased my panties down to mid-thigh. Exposing my half- stiff, cum-drenched cock to Derek's lecherous gaze. I was horribly exposed. In public. Totally vulnerable. Helpless and girlish. I had never been so excited in my life. Derek began to scoop up the thick globs of cream that I had ejaculated. Carrying it on two of his rough, calloused fingers, he rubbed it smoothly and erotically along the length of my cock. I think I actually began to pant and gasp. Though I had cum scant minutes before, my twitching peeny soon regained full stiffness. From the rubbing. With those fingers. And my cum. That he was rubbing. Derek had my foreskin pulled back and he was rubbing sticky juices all over my pink, exposed cockhead. And that was when he upped the stakes. He kissed me. Oh my. That was the point when I should have skedaddled. Sayonara. Bye bye. Adios. A big line was completely crossed. Funny how that thought didn't occur to me at the time. Instead, I kissed Derek back. In fact, I think I slipped him my tongue first. Or maybe he slipped me his. Anyway, it was incredibly wonderful. Derek was a great kisser. Way better than Margie. And his stroke was way better than Margie's too. The man knew how to stroke a cock. Probably because he was the proud owner of one himself. I lost all sense of time and place and just enjoyed the sensations of nylon on my legs, Derek's tongue in my mouth and his slippery hand bringing my stiff penis to sweet fulfillment. When I came the second time, there was no explosion to cover my half- scream. Maybe the kids in the front rows heard us. I didn't care. I was even able to fend off post-orgasmic shame and guilt for a while. Derek kept kissing me after my balls had thoroughly emptied. Was he reluctant to face what was next too? Apparently not. He broke the kiss and said. "Let's get you home. You have to clean up and we have things to discuss. Unless you wanted to stay and see the rest of the movie." Movie? What movie? Somehow I managed to get my panties back on. Then my trousers. Cum was everywhere, but I hardly noticed. Derek was taking me home. And we wouldn't be playing Parcheesi. Chapter Five - Developments develop The game was more like "Risk." I would be risking what was left of my masculinity in exchange for what? A few, cheap orgasms? A chance to wear beautiful, feminine finery as I submitted to the loving attentions of a handsome man? I wasn't ready for that bargain just yet. But I was close enough to let Derek take me home. Which was an adventure in itself. First, we had to get out of the multi-movieplex, through the Saturday night crowd and to Derek's car. That should have been easy, except my pants and shirt were drenched in cum. Derek solved it by literally giving me the shirt off his back. He stripped to his undershirt, then told me to hold his shirt in front of me as if I were carrying it. It wasn't perfect, but it covered most of the visible cumspots and we got out of there without total, abject humiliation. He was saving that for later. We got to his car and drove home, talking about dumb stuff - everything except what had just happened. When we got to my front door, I was still so ashamed and so afraid of both the immediate and long-term future that I'm still shocked that I didn't just scurry in, close my door on Derek and never answer his calls again. Three reasons why I didn't do that. I liked Derek?very much. I liked [blush] what Derek and I had done in the theater?very much. Who else in the world besides Derek understood what I was going through with the stockings thing? We needed each other. So I let him in. And put coffee on as he sat on the couch. If I had had a clue about what to say or do at that point, I would have said and done it. But I did not. So I watched the coffee brew, then poured us each a mug and went back to the living room. I set the coffee down and was about to seat myself when Derek said, "Those pants and shirt are a bit messy, Bradley. Why don't you go into the bedroom and take them off. I'd love to see you in heels too, if you wouldn't mind?and if you can walk in them." I blushed hotly. Of course I could walk in them! Who did he think?wait. Did Derek just ask me to strip to my stockings, garter belt and panties? And put on stiletto, fuck-me pumps?" I couldn't. "Oh, and Sweetheart," Derek said, "A bra would look nice too." He was so masterful, yet kind. How could I disappoint him? Dutifully, though a bit reluctantly, I went to my bedroom, locking the door to keep out pushy men and their penises. Another turning point. Could have stayed in there until Derek gave up waiting for me and left. But no. I found one of Margie's sexy, lacy bras and selected a nice pair of black, patent-leather pumps with four-inch pencil heels. The bra was a disappointment. Margie didn't have much of a rack, but I had none. Still, it felt kind of nice to wear it. The heels were great. I love the way my legs and bottom look when I wear them. There were a couple of cum stains on my stockings, but that was too bad. The panties I ditched. They were a nuisance to get over my painfully extended erection. And not wearing them excited me. And would probably excite Derek. I looked at my still-boyish, make-up free face and sighed. Maybe I could do something about that, but not at that moment. Deep breath. Unlock door. Stride out on my big heels. Led by my cock. When Derek saw me, he was smitten. No doubt. I knew the advantage had shifted to me when he saw me in my "girlies" that night. I gave him a good show too. Walking back and forth. Smiling at him. Giving him a 180 view, then a 360. He sat there on the couch. Drooling. Erect in his pants. Remember, Derek hadn't even cum yet. The next thing I said must have been dictated to me by aliens, because I don't know how I came up with it. "Take your pants off, Derek, and I'll sit on your lap." Whew. The die was cast. Derek complied with my generous offer, shucking his pants, shoes and socks in record time. Derek was stripped to just his tshirt. To fulfill the bargain, I had to sit on his lap. Which was naked. With a protruding penis. Which I glimpsed for the first time. It was uncircumcised and a little smaller than mine. Very red. Very stiff. Very manly. Very needy. I would be sitting right next to "it" if I sat on his lap. Touching "it" with my leg. And maybe my hand. And maybe other parts of me. Oh well. It seemed like a good idea at the time, so I strode to his right side and began to sit on the hot, bare, hairy flesh. Derek intercepted me and guided me with his strong hands to sit on his lap the way he wanted me to. His cock was between my warm thighs. Sandwiched between my stocking tops. Rubbing. Oh. He groaned with lust. Which I loved. It was wonderful to be giving back to someone who had been so good to me. He was sort of rubbing his cockhead against my stocking "welts," then against the neighboring creamy thighs. And enjoying himself greatly. I chose to participate in his pleasure a little more fully by offering my mouth for a kiss. Wasn't sure he would accept, since we were no longer in a dark movie theater but in a well-lit room, where he could see my boyish face and hair. Not to worry. Derek kissed me eagerly and tonguily as he got a proper rhythm going with his cock in the thigh sandwich. It was all very exciting for both of us, especially when he began to stroke my drippy peeny in time with all the other delicious activities. I had already cum twice that night, so I had a bit more restraint than Derek. Ten seconds worth. Derek cried out as he spurted his hot juices all over my thighs. Moments later, we mixed juices. As Frankie Vallee said, "Oh what a night." Even though it ended then. Derek kissed me deeply and said, "Thank you for the best evening I've had in years. I don't want to outstay my welcome, so I'm going home. I have fire duty tomorrow, Sunday, then Monday because I switched with someone so I could get Wednesday off. I'd like to see you Tuesday, if that's OK." I nodded as I gasped and panted. Moments later, he was dressed and gone. Rats. We were just getting started, weren't we? Maybe he was right though. If he had stayed longer, we might have done something gay. I mean, "Ick," right? As it was, I was feeling a bit ashamed at what we had done. Maybe I should tell Derek "no mas!" and be done with all that. Not bloody likely. Chapter Six - While Derek's away I slept fitfully that night, unsure if I was kept awake by the guilt and shame or the need for more to be guilty and ashamed about. The next morning, I wanked, of course, thinking about Derek. On top of me. Rubbing cock to cock as he kissed me. More guilt and shame followed. As did more wanking. I went out for a while and when I came home about 3 p.m. I found a package at my front door. It was from Derek, with a note: "Thanks for last night and many more nights to come, I hope. Here's something to think about." What could it be? It was a set of five magazines. All recent issues of a periodical called "Regular Guy." Each had a picture of a handsome, normal man on the cover. No bulging biceps or elaborate tattoos. No surly, superior looks. Just nice looking and normal. Dressed preppy - khakis and polos. The way I dressed - as a man. Was it a "gay" magazine? To this day, I'm not sure. Each issue contained a series of four or five pictorials featuring a different "regular guy." No guy-to-guy stuff. No women. Just the guy. Dressed at first and smiling. Then gradually undressing until he is naked and lying on his back, alone in a bed. Capped by one or two shots where he's cumming all over his belly, then two or three shots of him smiling at the camera, displaying his cum-drenched condition and limp cock. "Reading" that magazine was like watching a train wreck. Except train wrecks don't make you cum. The question occurred to me, who reads this stuff? Gay men? Women? Curious hetero men? Stocking-wearing, ever-more-effeminate, sissyboys like me? Apparently "yes" to the fourth power. I lay in bed, in my pretty stockings, garters and pink nightie, and for three hours, I wanked and "read" "Regular Guy: magazines. The men varied in age, from about 25 to 50. But I was convinced that each one had blown his load because he was dreaming of me. Or looking at my stockinged beauty. And suddenly, it didn't seem so weird to be with Derek. Which was surely why he sent me the magazines. Derek called me from the firehouse that night at nine. We had a benign conversation until he mentioned the "package" he sent me. When I whimpered in response, he knew his plan had worked - so far. "There will be another package for you tomorrow when you get home from work, Honey. And please, tell them you're taking Tuesday as a personal day. I'll explain in the package. Good night, Pumpkin." Honey? Pumpkin? Packages? Personal day? [Whimper] Surprisingly, I slept well that night, exhausted from an evening of wild surmise. The next morning, as I had done for some time, I wore my stockings and garters to work under my boy clothes. That day, I augmented a bit by adding a pink camisole and even [gasp] pink panties. When I got to work, I discovered that my fantasies had evolved a bit. I began looking at the men I worked with in a new light. Were they like the guys in "Regular Guy" magazine? Cute and delicious when naked? Randy for unspecified reasons, which could include sissy, little me? When I greeted Charlie, my best friend at work, at the coffee pot, I giggled to myself when he asked me if I had a good weekend. I wondered what he would think if he knew what I had done with a man. Would Charlie want to carry me off to the supply closet, rip my boy pants off, lower my panties, bend me over a shelf and fuck me? I shuddered at the exciting thought. I was beginning to realize that such things might develop into far more than notions when I saw Derek again the next day. The day dragged a bit, but I secured time off for the next day and made my way home. To find another package at my door. Smaller this time, with this note: "For your viewing pleasure, Darling. Please go to the attached address at precisely 10 on Tuesday morning. Wear stockings and garters, please. You look magnificent in them. Love, Derek." Darling? Love? Oooh. What awaited me at 10 on Tuesday? What awaited me in the package? First answer later. Second answer - a DVD. "Hot. Hosed Honeys" Porn? Yeah, but good stuff, which, as we know, is rare. Not the usual grunt-and-groan crap. Not the usual man-woman stuff either. It was a video production of Panty Boy Magazine. I had heard of Panty Boy magazine, of course. Everyone had. But I didn't know they did videos. The cover itself was compelling. It showed an impossibly beautiful, barely-legal, perfectly made-up boy. He was wearing only tan, seamed, fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings, a pretty, pink garter belt, and five-inch-stiletto-sandal mules. He was smiling at the camera as his tiny cock was spurting half a gallon of sperm and semen in thick, arching ropes. That alone made me rush to load the DVD, then get undressed and into bed. On my back. In just my stockings, cami and garter belt. I rubbed a bit of baby oil onto my cock and balls. Then I started the show. The cover boy, named Rob, looked quite different in a male suit and tie as he worked an office job for a few establishing moments. Then, his good-looking, manly friend, Damon, asked if he wanted to take a break. Cut to the supply closet, where Rob dropped his pants to reveal tan, seamed, fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings, and a pretty, pink garter belt. Damon dropped his pants too, to reveal the biggest cock I had ever seen. And it was angry. Was Rob going to suck it? He could never get it into his mouth! It was so deja-vu-ish of my fantasy earlier that day. I was Rob and Charlie was Damon. That alone was exciting me as I stroked my defenseless cock. But then - I saw the most amazing thing I had ever seen. Rob bent forward over a table, girlie from the waist down, white shirt and striped tie from the waist up. Damon aimed his two-inch-diameter monster at Rob's half-inch-diameter bottomhole. Impossible. No way. Contradicts the laws of the universe. Unless it was a snuff film. He would kill that poor pantyboy! But wait. Damon slid his whole, fat, rock-hard cock into Rob's tiny pucker. And didn't kill him. Unless he planned to dehydrate him. Rob must have cum four times as Damon fucked his tight hole. Then Damon pumped a tsunami of cream into Rob's perfect pootie. Cum oozed out everywhere as Rob stood up and kissed Damon deeply. That did it for me. Big glops doused my tummy. How was what I had seen possible? How could a pantyboy be buttfucked like that and adore the experience? Could I risk something like that without permanent, perhaps fatal consequences? Before I could figure it all out, the scene shifted to Rob returning to his apartment after work. He seemed in a hurry as he dropped his briefcase, then began to shuck his clothes. "Hmmm," Rob muttered. "It's 5:15. Daddy will be here in an hour and a half. I'd better hurry." Daddy? Was Rob's own father going to fuck him? Ick. But no. Rob muttered a bit more as he stripped to his garters and stockings. "George loves when I call him Daddy. I told him when we met that since he was 20 years older than I, I would call him ?Daddy.'" Thanks for clearing that up, I thought. Twenty years older? Hmmm. I saw why Derek had sent me this particular DVD. Rob stripped to a very nice naked, then the camera lovingly followed him into the shower, where he interrupted his cleanup by double- fingering his bottom with his soapy left hand as he wanked his cock to a very nice cum with his right hand. I heaved out another big cum sometime during the sequence of Rob toweling off, blow-drying and guiding his longish hair into a girlie style, perfuming and powdering himself, then applying cosmetics to stunning effect. The little creampuff was a dazzling beauty, which was no surprise since it was a Panty Boy production. I watched with great interest as "she" slid on her black, seamed, fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings, hooked them with the straps of a waist-cincher, then slid into the tallest black, patent-leather pumps I had ever seen. The little doll took a moment to pose herself in front of a full-length mirror, which she doused with a generous blast of cum in tribute to her own beauty and femininity. Then she slid on her panties, tucking her rather large willie in tightly. The obligatory little black dress came next - and it was little. So short that it gave a whiff of stocking top as she walked and so deliciously silky that it clung to her body in a loving embrace. She had no boobs, but I honestly didn't think anyone would notice - she was scorchingly hot. She touched up her lipstick just as the doorbell rang. She answered it and there stood "Daddy" - a very handsome, very prosperous-looking, middle-aged man. They kissed deeply and I thought he was going to fuck her right there. If I had been Denise (Daddy called her "Denise"), I would have gone nowhere. I would have dragged Daddy into the bedroom and surrendered my body to him completely. Did I just say that? [Shudder] But in a brief video collage, the film showed Daddy and Denise having dinner in a restaurant room where all the men's tongues were hanging in Denise's direction. Daddy could have taken her dancing after that, but he obviously only wanted to do the horizontal tango. They came home, went into the bedroom and fucked. I mean fucked. In a dozen positions. From a multitude of camera angles. Noisily. Lovingly. Through six spunks by Denise and four by Daddy. Denise also sucked thick two loads from Daddys' cock and swallowed the whole thing. Daddy returned the favor twice. Now I know that's impossible and that they had to have filmed all that over a week or so, then spliced it. But still - it was thrilling stuff. Fantastic sex between a stocking-loving sissyboy and his older male lover. I decided to try that myself at home. Soon. Chapter Seven - The return of Derek I awoke the next morning in a crusted pool of my own sperm. I was hoping that the next morning I would awaken in a crusted pool of my sperm and Derek's sperm. And that Derek would be serving me up some fresh stuff soon after greeting the day. The probability for that to occur was very high. But first I knew I had to go to that mysterious appointment Derek made for me at 10. It was only 7:30, so I decided to watch the second half of "Hot Hosed Honeys" again. Derek had clearly been sending me signals with his gifts. "Regular Guy" magazine showed me that I probably had sexual feelings for men and that was OK. The story of Rob/Denise showed me that there were other young men who led "normal" lives except for getting stocking-femmed up and fucked by nice men. Especially older, nice men. The rest of the DVD, which had engendered two creamy loads the previous evening, started out with a bunch of eight young men carrying athletic bags. They showed up at a nice, suburban house on a Saturday morning. Once inside, in groups of two or three, they entered the various bedrooms of the house and stripped naked. They then opened their gym bags and proceeded to dress in delicious fully-fashioned, reinforced- heel-and-toe stockings, garters and heels. They took their time about it and spent quite a while getting their hair and makeup just right as well. When everyone was well-girlied, they gathered in the house's great room for some girly giggle-gossip and allowed the various cameras to adore them for the viewers' pleasure. Each pantyboy was a feminine jewel. Fair of face and form. Prick exposed, skinned and stiff. A pearl of pre-cream gracing each pretty peehole. When we'd all had a good look, they paired off and, taking sofas, chairs and the floor, engaged in a 45-minute spectacle of pantyboy- lesbian lovemaking. Gasps and pants. Squeals and screams. Random and intense. Sperm and semen covering every lovely doll, every horizontal surface and most vertical surfaces. I remember the film's focus on a blonde pantyboy named Nicole and a brunette named Susan. They were clearly having a torrid little affair that had nothing to do with the "acting" in the film. Those two were in love and the others teased them a bit about it. Pantyboy Linda whispered to Pantyboy Marie as Marie was ingesting Linda's popsy that, "Those two have almost forgotten about men, though I don't think Nicole will be too happy when she finds out that they're sharing a certain construction worker named Matt. Oh, Marie, that's so good," Linda said. "If we didn't need men to fuck our bottoms, I would move in with you tomorrow." Hmmm. That was right, wasn't it? For all that vigorous sexual activity, no one had prick-pierced another's pretty bottom. It must be against the code, or something. At the end of the film, the "girls" all showered and changed into fresh lingerie and pretty dresses and heels. Apparently, they all had men arriving soon to take them out for Saturday night dates. What a great life! I guess the message from Derek was - if I choose to be a pantyboy, I will not be alone. And that I should find some pantyboy friends as soon as I could - since firefighters work one night out of three. Of course, I could interpret the message as I needed a male lover for my non-Derek nights. Oh well. After spilling my spunk twice, I arose, spruced myself up and changed the spermy sheets. I shaved my legs carefully and put on my favorite stockings, a pair of dark-brown, seamed, truly retro teasers, and my favorite white, ruffled garter belt. With luck, Derek would be at the 10 a.m. rendezvous and by 10:10, I would no longer be encumbered by my anal virginity. But no. I drove to the address and found it to be a four-bedroom colonial on an ordinary street. I rang the bell and was semi-surprised to be greeted by a very attractive, forty-something woman. Wearing a very nice dress that displayed her ample boobs and spectacular legs. Which were, of course, deliciously encased in black, seamed, fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel- and-toe stockings. "You must be Brenda," she said. "Welcome! Come in, please. I'm Marcia. I'm so glad your friend Derek arranged all this for you. Let's get started." Started at what? And who was Brenda? Oh. I guess that was me. Brenda. Derek thinks of me as Brenda. OK. Brenda it is. Brenda. "We're going to give you a complete makeover today, dear. You'll look and feel stunning. But we're not just going to cook you fish and chips. We're going to teach you to fish on your own. You'll learn how to do femmy things for yourself - a lot today - more whenever you need it. Oh, you're going to be a beauty, I can see it." She could? Oh my. Me, beautiful? Me. Beautiful. Wow. That sounded wonderful. And it was. Marcia and her two knockout, thirty-something assistants, Jan and Cindy, spent the day transforming an ugly boy duckling into a pretty good imitation of a female swan. It was all very exciting, especially since I was naked a good deal of the day in front of the three girls, two of whom I thought might be pantyboys. Or one. Though my opinion of who that was shifted several times during the day. The girls were friendly but professional. Around noon, when my arousal threatened to be a distraction, Marcia brought me to a messy climax with a pink silk handkerchief. Jan tossed me off with a blue silk hankie at 1:30 and Cindy joined the party at 3 with a yellow one. All very exciting. And the results of our efforts were beyond my wildest wet dreams. I was at least as pretty as any of the girls in that Panty Boy movie. And despite my frequent, urgent testicular needs. I paid attention, so I was confident that I could replicate the beauty I saw in the mirror. The girls had me in a hundred-curl, blonde wig (until my own hair grew in, they said). My mouth was glossed to kissable perfection and my bedroom eyes promised carnal delight to all males whose gaze met mine. I was admiring myself in a mirror at 4 o'clock, thinking that I may need another handkerchief session. Black, minidress. Black, seamed, fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings. My first four-and- a-half-inch heels. The doorbell rang. My heart leaped. Was it Derek? It was!!!! I girlie ran as well as I could in stiletto pumps to Derek and showed him what I know now is the real me. It was a good thing Derek had a strong heart. Because I know he was revising his notions about the limits of feminine beauty. He was stunned at my beauty. What girl doesn't like that reaction? No one was ever stunned when they saw me as a boy or a man. Nobody would cross the street to breathe the same air as me. Already I loved being a girl. When Derek rejoined the earthlings, he looked at me, then looked at Marcia. Thank you, he mouthed to her. Then he mouthed my mouth. Really well. With lots of tongue. Stepped back to make sure I was still there. Then dove in for another tonguey kiss. I was pretty sure that he wasn't going to fuck me at Marcia's house, so I managed to say, "I think we should go now." Derek agreed eagerly. He handed Marcia a thick envelope, kissed her on the cheek, and hustled me to his car. We drove off and he spent the whole ten-minute ride telling me how sweet, gorgeous and feminine I was. Which made my cock very hard - usually known as a non-feminine reaction. Though I was an exception. When we arrived at our destination, I realized that we were at the best hotel in town. The valet who took our car ogled me so hard he had to go to the optometrist. The bellman took our suitcase (huh?) and led us inside. "They look at you strangely when you have no luggage, Brenda, darling," he said. Brenda. Darling. [Contented sigh] I caught lots more ogles when we checked in. And from the bellman when we went to our room. Which was beautiful. Like a honeymoon suite. A good place to dispose of one's anal virginity. The bellman who carried our bag to the room was pretending not to stare at me, but he was. I know that because he had a big lump in his pants. A lump I caused. Isn't being a girl fun? The bellman was probably thinking that a man had just brought a girl young enough to be his daughter for an evening and morning of fine fucking. An impish impulse seized me as Derek was handing him a tip. I said, "Could you unzip me, please, Daddy. I can't wait to get undressed." The bellman probably ran from our suite to a men's room where he wanked to the mental image of nasty, incestuous sex in Suite 2113. Besides affecting the bellman, my calling Derek "Daddy" had quite an effect on Derek. "I liked when you called me, ?Daddy,'" he said. Well, he was old enough to be my Daddy. And he was my father-in-law. I thought, why not call him "Daddy," if it pleases him so much. So I did. Daddy looked like a guy holding the only winning ticket in the Supermegapowerball Jackpot Global Lottery. Smiling broadly. Pants tented. Yum. Daddy had unzipped my dress while the bellman was in the room, but I hadn't removed it yet. I told him to sit in a chair while I showed him more of what they had done for me at Marcia's house. I did a little strip tease for him, giving him a bit of an upskirt view of my stocking tops and tented panties as I eased my dress over my head and off, stripping down to the pretty black camisole Marcia gave me.. It was fun to prance back and forth in my big heels as I eased my panties down to expose my pink bottom for Daddy. I teased him with it a little, wiggling its pretty cheeks about a foot from where he was. I knew my bottom was a ball drainer from my weeks of post-Margie, self- admiration. Framed by black stocking weals and garter belt and intersected by naughty garter straps, it was sure to set men's privates aflame. It certainly affected Daddy. Terminating my teasing, he lunged for me, seizing my hips and drawing my bottom to his handsome face. I was barely able to stay on my high-heeled feet as Daddy kissed all over my pretty, pink bottom cheeks. He especially seemed to love kissing where my stocking tops met bare thigh. I was wondering if he was going to kiss me "there." You know. In my most private, "brownest" spot. But instead, he asked me to turn around and face him. Which I did, of course, since he was my Daddy and Lovemaster. Daddy removed my panties completely, dropping them to my ankles. He looked at my stiff cock, then at me. I locked eyes with Daddy, looking down at him as his mouth poised inches from my hard, aching, sissy pole. Was he considering what he should do, or just savoring the moment? No matter. Daddy acted. He began by kissing each of my dangling testicles as he burrowed his nose into my privates. Sweet, loving ball licks followed, as did my whimpers of lust and surrender. Daddy gave me an exquisite ball bath, then kissed his way up my stiffie until he reached my dripping, skinned, head. He feathered my cockhead with kisses, making me gasp and pant. Then he licked all around the swollen head. Oh. Way better than a silk handkerchief, let me tell you. Daddy tongued my dripping peehole magnificently as my breathing picked up and I neared climax. Daddy caught the signals and capped my pink head with his loving mouth. He sucked and licked and adored my cock until I cried out, "I love you, Daddy!" and spurted glob after glob of girlish cream into his grateful mouth. It was true. I loved Derek. First when he was merely my father-in-law and now, as my lover. Derek deserved my love. And I was going to reward that love in ways that women often don't. The naughty boy swallowed every creamy drop, then drew me to his lap for some deep kissing, where I got to taste my own juices. Not bad. After about a minute of delicious kissing, Derek drew back, looked me in the eyes and said, "I love you too, Brenda. I loved you as a man and I love you as a girl. I want to spend the rest of my life with you." Oh. Talk like that certainly turns a girl's head. And spreads her legs. I almost expected him to produce an engagement ring. And then he did just that. A 1.5-carat rock! "Will you marry me, Brenda, darling, and make me the happiest man in the world?" I was expecting to be fucked that night, but not engaged. What could I say? How the heck could we get married? How would it ever work out, with my job, my parents, my life? And what would Margie think? Or do? It was impossible to imagine how severe her rage might be at the coupling of her father and ex-husband. It would never work. Hopeless, stupid romanticism. So I gave him the only possible answer I could. "Oh, yes, Derek," I said. "I want to be your wife and love you forever. I want to wear a white wedding gown and declare my love for you in front of all our family and friends." All that, I said. And I meant it. I was ready to marry a man whose cock I hadn't even sucked. Or taken his cock into my "pussy." Guess I'm an old-fashioned girl. Our loving glow quickly turned to sexual heat as Daddy gave me a proper "feel-up." He was driving me crazy by tongue-kissing my mouth as he "groped my goodies." First my "pink package," then he moved his rough, calloused (oooh) hand up my tummy to my nipples. I had no idea that proper manipulation of my nipples would be so gut- clenching sexy. The thought flashed through me that it would be great to have proper boobies. Just to fill out my wedding gown. And to drive Daddy insane with lust. And maybe to make other men stare and flirt too. I decided to ditch the old-fashioned girl routine. My mouth and pussy were each going to swallow Derek's load before that wonderful night was over. I broke our kiss and gently and reluctantly removed Daddy's hand from under my camisole. "Stand up, Daddy," I said sweetly. "And take off your pants and underpants." That's the exact phrase that men love to hear most. Daddy was no exception. Daddy stood and got naked from the waist down.. Then, for good measure, he took the rest of his clothes off. The first time I had seen Daddy naked. And, as I knelt before Daddy's beautiful erection, I got my first really good look at his cock. It was a beauty. And so was Daddy. His physical job kept him physically fit. He was hairy in all the right places too And painfully handsome. Daddy was worth fighting for. Even if Margie showed up at our wedding wearing a flannel shirt, coveralls and work boots, then protested when the question about objections to the marriage was raised. And his cock was worth fighting for. As I said, it was a teeny bit shorter than my whopper, but very nice. Uncut, with a nice, thick foreskin. Hard and hot. Smooth and silky. I knew all this because I was stroking Daddy's cock with my soft hand as I kissed his large, cum-filled testicles. The first cock I had ever touched. But not the last [blush]. Daddy was having a really good time. Sweet dribbles of pre-cum were oozing from Daddy's "big boy" as I skinned the head and kissed the nice, pink parts. Cocksucking was fun! For me and Daddy. I kissed and licked and sucked my new best friend - Daddy's stiffie. Daddy's breathing got faster and his cock seemed to swell. Was I going to get my very first "girl's big reward?" Oh yes! I capped Daddy's rammer with my mouth just as the first creamy glob caught my tonsils. Five more globs almost gagged me. I hadn't just sucked a cock. I'd swallowed a good three-quarters of a man's sperm load. The other quarter dribbled down my chin and onto my camisole. I looked up at Daddy. He smiled at me and said, "That was an outstanding blowjob, Brenda. Thank you, Sweetheart." I was so proud. I wasn't just a cocksucker. I was good at it! Daddy drew me to my high-heeled feet and kissed me some more. Then he picked me up and carried me to the suite's huge bed. He sat me on the side of the bed, then stripped my camisole over my head. Then he removed my pumps, leaving me in my stockings and garter belt. Daddy laid me on my back, then lay beside me. He obviously had a game plan and the touchdown was his cock in my bottom. I knew it would fit in my bottom because that Panty Boy movie had a much bigger cock going into a tiny hole. Still, it was scary. I also knew it would be a while before Daddy stuck that cock of his anywhere. After that nice blowjob I gave him, Daddy was limp. I knew that feeling, though at my age, I was usually "interested" again in about 15 minutes and ready in 30 minutes. That is, if I didn't fall asleep first. No chance of that that evening. Things were way too interesting to fall asleep. Whereas Daddy had only tweaked my nipples before, he began an all-out oral assault on their pink puffiness. I don't have to tell you girls how wonderful it is to have a beautiful man sucking your nipples. Oooohh. I was stiff and needy just from that. Then Daddy upped the ante. He produced a small tube of some very slippery lube and coated the middle and index fingers