Food Court Frolic
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Feline Frolic 2 free porn video
© Copyright 2012, by Leslie P. Lowe. All rights reserved.
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Synopsis: A sissy is publicly exposed by a beautiful girlfriend with a
wicked sense of humor. Donna gives Kitten a peek at her true intent.
Feline Frolic 2
By Leslie Lowe
"Happy half-birthday, Kitten!" Donna said, handing me the tiny but
precious pink and white package.
"Well, open it, birthday girl!" Sandi said, passing by. "I'll be right
back."
I began to open it, my hands trembling, my breath labored, my panties
and thin girl jeans hardly hiding a rather embarrassing bump. Why
didn't I think of wearing a gaff? I was having trouble getting the
ribbon off, struggling with it. Now Sandi was back. She and Donna
chatted like old friends as they watched. Finally, I slipped the ribbon
off the end and ripped open the package to find, as I had hoped and
feared, a tube of lipstick. I just sat there and stared at it, knowing
everyone would now have abundant proof of what a sissy Donna was
displaying to them, leaving no room whatsoever to doubt whether she was
just kidding around with me earlier.
"Well open it, Kitten, and see if you like the shade!" Donna said,
laughing at my discomfiture.
I pulled off the cap and rolled up the shaft, noticing again the people
at the bar and passers-by craning their necks to see what all of Donna's
loud girl-talk was all about.
"Sandi!" said the handsome bartender. "Order up!" She left.
My new lipstick was a rich, creamy pink, very pretty and very practical
for daytime wear in my opinion. I checked the label, for I enjoyed the
names of female products, especially lipstick and nail polish, which
were usually a cute play on words. It was Pink Twilight by Avon.
"Thank you so much, Donna. I love it!"
"It's my favorite," Donna said. "That's why it's used. I told you I
was broke!"
"Oh, Donna! I would much rather have a lipstick you love, and even more
so, one you've worn. You're my model!"
"And it's not like we haven't shared our lipsticks before, right?"
"True," I said, getting up. I went over and hugged her, still holding
the open lipstick, forgetting my shame at public exposure for a moment,
starting to cry tears of joy. I sat down and rolled down the lipstick
and put the top on the tube, before asking Donna, "Do you mind keeping
it in your purse until we get to the room and I can try it on?"
"As if," she said. "You're going to do your lips right now, birthday
girl. Your sweet face looks totally washed out. You need some color!"
I gulped. So that was her plan, forcing me to wear lipstick like a girl
while dressed like a guy. It was a dream come true, but one we'd never
discussed. How could she possibly know? "Don't be silly," I said.
"This is not the place, in a straight bar among all these men."
"Why not live your fantasies? Go for it, girlfriend!" she asked,
leaning over close and whispering in my ear.
I whispered back, glad to make the conversation private, intuiting that
something scary was coming. "Where did you get the idea that--?"
"FictionMania, silly," Donna said. "Did you think I couldn't find your
stories on there? Don't you remember telling me you were having fun
writing sissy stories?"
"I didn't think you were interested."
"Well, not exactly, but I'm interested in you, and I'm interested in
writing, aren't I?"
"Totally," I said. She had been one of my muses from the beginning, and
we had even started a writing group together at one time.
"Besides, there are some seriously great stories on there, and very good
writing! But I like it because I can read girlfriend's mind!"
"Uh-oh," I said.
"Right," she said. "I know what you want, and you are going to get it
this weekend."
"Those are only fantasies!" I hissed, trying to keep it low, almost
whining, begging her not to believe what we both knew was the truth.
God knows I had dropped enough hints in our girl-talk over the years.
"But they're harmless and so fun! Just relax and leave yourself in my
hands. Besides," she said, leaning back and changing at that point to
her room-filling public-speaker's voice, "You have no choice. I'm going
to make you do what I say. You are completely under my control. You
are my slave!" She rolled her fingers in a mock mustache-grooming move,
giggling at me.
"How?" I asked, still whispering, trying to be private again.
But she was having none of it. She wanted to display my proclivities
for all to hear. She crowed, "Seduction, spankings and brute force if
necessary."
"Donna!" I said, seeing that other people were watching the show.
She looked at me with that dead, flat, predatory stare she had. Her
lips were pursed, she now sat up on the edge of her chair, very erect,
excited, eager to engage me if I chose to resist, poking her index
finger at me like a sword, continuing to skewer me with her booming
words. "And I for one hope it's necessary to spank you, girlie-boy. I
could use a good workout this weekend." She laughed, perhaps letting
our onlookers think she was hamming it up for their benefit, enjoying
their attention, but her real intent was not lost on me. She had always
been the queen bee of our two-girl hive, and both of us knew it. I
would do what she said; I always had; I had tried to resist her before
and failed ignominiously.
"You wouldn't dare!" I said.
"Just try me, prissy sissy." Still playing dominant and maintaining the
cold stare.
I believed it. I felt a ripple of submissive delight travel up my
spine, and a weakening, falling feeling, as if I were going from
clueless to helpless, which I was. I must have been really drunk to
tell her about my online stories. But then, who else could I tell?
"And if you chicken out on me and use our safe word, I'm going straight
home. That's a promise, Bony."
I nodded submissively and bowed my head, hiding my blush, too humiliated
by the thought of what she had planned for the next three days,
wondering if I could do it. The "Bony" was her cue to remember our safe
word, which was "Waterloo." I was Bony not just because I was thin like
a model but because I was the diminutive defeated one, the Napoleon,
surrendering to superior force, admitting defeat, abdicating a throne I
never had, accepting exile from the sweet country of her glorious
attention until she got good-and-ready to take me back as her toy.
Oh yes, it was always understood that I would be the one using our word.
Donna was the one who had thought it up when she realized how submissive
I was and began to test my limits. She had made me memorize it when I
had protested that she was being mean to me, scaring me, teasing me too
much, such as by making me wear a cocktail dress to an afternoon coffee
call. At least I was a girl then, passing all but the most refined
female scrutiny, and most girls didn't care how a little fairy-looking
guy like me dressed anyway. But the scariest trend of all was her
tendency to titillate me to the max by making me do girlie things and
wear girlie things while still visibly a guy. It was sexy but
mortifying.
Only one time before this had I considered using the word. It happened
when she got so mad at me for chickening out in a Bleekers department
store. She had wanted me to try on makeup. The store was too close to
home. What if someone I knew saw me? The moment of greatest fear, when
I had come within a breath of saying "Waterloo," was soon after I said
no, when we reached my car in the parking lot. She told me not to drive
away, and proceeded to punish me for losing my nerve at the makeup
counter by calling me a wuss and worse names and forcing me put on the
Estee Lauder Rich Berry lipstick we had bought. Then, right there in
the car, in the parking lot, with flaming lips and burning face, when
someone could have walked by at any time, she forced me to masturbate as
she watched, measuring my "little clitty," as she called it, with her
pinky, laughing and teasing me about how tiny it was compared to her
boyfriend's "real cock." I loved it. It scared me that I loved it so
much.
"Did you hear me, sissy?" Donna said. "Don't you chicken out on me
again!"
I looked up at her now in the hotel bar, surrounding by nosey onlookers,
and not just the sweet Sandi. I leaned back, wanting to look relaxed
and cool, knowing I needed to be strong about this. "I'll try not to,"
I said, attempting gamely to flash Donna a jaunty grin as if this were
merely a game of words. But I really was scared down to my pedicure-
ready toes, and fully aware that several people were hearing all of this
humiliating exchange, whispering and laughing at me and at Donna's
imitation of a dominatrix. She wasn't as mean as she sounded, because
the watchers didn't know that she was acting her part, creating my
fantasy, which of course had originally been all about her, for she was
not only my platonic girlfriend in real life but the sexual playmate of
my dreams.
"You'll do better than try," she said, "or your sissy ass will be rosy
red before I allow you to leave for home."
I wanted so badly for the adventure to continue, and I knew that my only
possibility of relief was that safe word, Waterloo, because she was not
flattering herself by stating that she could handle me physically. She
was four inches taller than I was and had always been a prodigious
athlete, tanned, muscular and amazingly strong, lately even a kickboxing
instructor, while I was more of an inside wallflower type, given to
feminine crafts like crochet and sewing and long walks with my dog,
Ginger, a male who had been fixed, named by Donna, naturally.
"Yet you love me," I said, shaking my head, almost to myself.
"I do," she said, going on in a whisper, so none of our audience would
know the truth. "You're my sissy protagonist in your own story, or
rather my better, naughtier version of your story."
I just sat there, trying desperately to remember what those stories were
about, which of my many half-finished fantasies I had polished and
uploaded. I swallowed hard. "Naughtier?" I whispered back, thinking we
must look like a couple of teenage girls talking about their late
periods or cute boyfriends. I realized that I was still holding my new
lipstick!
"And you know what they say," she continued, getting up now and
whispering in my ear, "about what we're supposed to do to our favorite
characters, don't you?"
"What?" I asked.
Sandi rushed by with a tray full of drinks, unable to to stay in our
conversation, but wanting to so badly. I thought we had made a new
friend. There was at least one person who didn't care if I was a sissy.
But Donna had not yet begun her work in earnest, so Sandi might be
grossed out yet.
"You torture them, Kitten," Donna said, turning me on not only with her
words but with her hot breath in my ear, her left hand caressing my
neck, fingering my other ear, foreplay in a bar. "Yes, sweetie. You
punish them. You put them in a hole so deep that your readers cannot
imagine how they will get their sweet little ass out. And you, my
pretty, are my protagonist this weekend, all weekend."
I swallowed hard, shook her off with a girlish wiggle, and tried to
smile. "Can't we work up to it?" I begged.
"We are working up to it. You still have your boy clothes on, don't
you?"
"Yes, but--"
"Now get your ass into the ladies' room and do your lips. I want to see
my lipstick on you, and NOW!"
"I'm--I'm not dressed for the ladies'!" I protested.
At that, the five or six onlookers, males and females, who were now
apparently a permanent audience to our little drama, all laughed.
"I'll only say this one more time, Kitten. If you think you're man
enough to do your lips in the men's bathroom, be my guest. But if you
don't take your lipstick to one of the bathrooms right now, I'm going to
spank you in front of all these nice people."
"Come on, Kitten," said one of the watching women. "I'll be your
bodyguard in the ladies!" The others shouted encouragement to her and
to Donna and me, as if cheering on a schoolyard fight.
I stood up, holding my new lipstick, realizing I was already unsteady on
my feet. It was approaching late afternoon and I had forgotten to eat
since breakfast, and my single cosmo had begun to work its magic.
"She's drunk!" one of my bodyguard's male friends said. "Fucking fairy
holds his liquor like a girl, too."
I ignored that comment, but Donna stared unsmiling at the abuser and
waited for him to turn away.
"I'll go," I said, walking over and trying to smile at my savior, "Thank
you so much. My name is--"
"Kitten!" she said. "I'm Kate! Isn't that just the cutest thing?" She
had a marvelous southern belle accent.
"I love your voice, Kate," I said as we walked toward the back.
"Thank you," she said, "I've done some acting. This is so fun. I can't
wait to see you all dressed up!"
"What makes you think--"
"Oh, I think it's pretty obvious that you're going to be a total drag
queen before this night is over!"
"You think so?" I asked her, stopping at the first door, at the sign
saying, "Mademoiselles," a golden stencil on the dark wood further
conveying the gender of the bathroom for the obtuse by displaying a
woman in an early hoop skirt and parasol, cocking her head to one side
as if she had just been asked for a kiss.
"Mademoiselles," Kate said. "That would be us, or at least you. I'm a
madame, that asshole with the big loudmouth out there being my beloved
husband, Bart. I'm so sorry for what he said."
"Oh, I'm used to it," I said, wondering what Bart had in fact said while
I was all fogged up with Donna's revelations and the effects from my
cosmo, which I had apparently gulped down in the post-gift confusion.
Then I added, hoping to give sweet Kate a laugh, "Look at my girlish
hair!" It was shoulder length, a mousy brown, and I had it in a
ponytail with a common rubber band around it, so masculine.
"Oh, I like it!" she said, smiling warmly, holding my hand. "It suits
you! Except I want to give you a high ponytail, more suitable for a
girl. I think I have a scrunchy in my purse. Now wait here and let me
make sure there are no fragile little girls in here who might faint dead
away at the sight of a cute sissy in their holy of holies."
Own it, I thought, waiting outside the door for the big-hearted Kate to
finish her walk-through inspection, watching the guys in her group
sniffing around Donna, flirting with her if experience is any guide.
Donna had always attracted the men, lots of them. Trying to ignore my
fears about what they were all saying out there about me, I talked to
myself. You are a sissy and you might as well enjoy it. How bad can it
get?
How bad? I could not have imagined how far Donna would go with it even
as I stood there holding my lipstick like so many women before me had
done at the door to the ladies', nor could I know that walking through
that pretty Mademoiselles door at that moment instead of invoking
Wellington's victory would take me through a door not only to a little
harmless makeup play but through a portal into another dimension of
humiliation and submission and yes, ecstasy, from which I would return
as a totally different person, and make me the prima ballerina in a
spectacular dance of bondage, a spectacle that over the next three days
would make the blacked-out parties in The Hangover seem as mild and
uneventful as a girl's first kiss.
Kate came out. "All clear, girlie girl! You go ahead and do your lips,
and I'll stand guard." In I went, to my doom. Or at least that's what
it felt like, remembering the loud drunken men who had already begun to
haze me out in the bar.
I went up to the bright mirror in the spotless bathroom, noticing
nothing like the filth covering the floor of most men's room. But then
this was a very nice hotel. The fixtures were gold, the mirror as large
as a picture window, the four stalls behind me empty--I double-checked.
I looked at myself, stalling, lingering in this peaceful, guarded place
among the ghosts of my favorite people on earth, women. Any one woman
was more fun than ten men, and ten women were more fun than a barrel of
cosmos, which they would drink if given half a chance. I loved women!
A loud rap on the door. Kate's voice, saying, "How long does it take
you to put your lipstick on, Kitten? We have girls who need to go!"
"Yeah!" shouted a couple of them.
I pulled off the cap hastily and hurriedly began to do my lips. I was
good at this, no problem. I had one coat on in the flicker of an
eyelash, even though I slipped and made my lips a little bit clownish,
disoriented by the alcohol coursing through my system, chased by
adrenaline and whatever hormones responded to the terror of imminent
gender-crossing humiliation. I took a tissue from the pretty pink
granite box glued to the counter, and was about to smooth and correct my
edges, smiling at how pretty I looked, thinking for a second I really
should let my hair down to frame my face better, loving the fact that I
had no beard at all, many hours after shaving.
The door banged open and about five women flowed in. "I don't give a
fuck if this sissy sees me pee! He probably squats himself, don't you,
Kitten?"
Who was this woman being so diabolically familiar? How was it that
everyone knew my name? I tried to smile at them as they headed for the
stalls like so many mares at the gates of a horserace, giggling and
already starting into their own rounds of girltalk, so quickly jaded
with me. I was just another rather strange-looking girl to them.
What's the big deal? None of us likes her body anyway. She's got the
right to be a woman if she wants. That's what their behavior said. I
loved that about women!
"She squats herself," Kate said to the woman, then she came close to me,
and grabbing my shoulder, she spun me around. "You're too drunk to do
your own lips, girl. Let me finish you up."
She took the lipstick from my hand and held my chin. She played with my
lips, wiped with her fingertips, smiled at me and said, "Pretty! You
were born to wear color on your lips, Kitten. Check it out yourself and
let's go, before the ice in my drink melts!"
I did, and I was pleased. Yes, another cosmo or two and I would be all
right.
"Oh," Kate said. "Let me do your hair! And do you need to pee? I
could, for sure."
"OK," I said, helpless in this woman's hands, a woman I suspected was a
little tipsy too.
She spun me around and started playing with my hair. Several women
flushed, washed their hands--unlike most men after they pee--and left,
many making cute comments about me and my hairdresser.
"Come on, Kate," said one of them. "This is not a salon."
"Yeah," said another, "Our guys are out there with that knockout
dominatrix of hers."
Laughing, Kate showed me a pink fuzzy thing, and I figured out it was a
hair band. She didn't ask if I was OK wearing it. It seems I was
everyone's doll to dress up as they pleased.
Submission is more fun in anticipation than in realization. I was so
embarrassed! Would I ever get used to this?
I compliantly moved as Kate positioned me to check my new high pony. I
could see my new hairdo in the mirror now. "Very cute!" I said. Where
did that girlie voice come from? The cosmo, no doubt. I wondered if
Sandi had another waiting for me. I would so need the liquid courage
once Sandi took me back out to the crowd!
After we both peed--yes, sitting down--and washed up, I let Kate hold my
hand and lead me away from my public boudoir, out into the world of men.
I wondered as we walked unsteadily toward our group of revelers, already
grown noticeably larger, whether I would just die of humiliation. I
thought, can that happen? I felt as if my lips were burning with
visible flame, or at least glowing as red as Marilyn's always were in
her sexiest closeups. Lipstick was the most sensual symbol of my real
nature, and at the same time, wearing it in public, especially among men
still dressed as a man, was the most humiliating spectacle I could
conceive of in my erotic fantasies. How could a little shaft of colored
wax, painted so lovingly on my pouty lips, imbuing them with the
fragrance of summer flowers, yield such powerful waves of sexual cunning
in me, and provoke in others such outrageous displays of masculine
contempt and feminine connection?
I stepped into the light, smiling like a drunken beauty-pageant
contestant taking the stage, which in a way I was, hearing the oohs and
aahs mocking me. A couple of women applauded and cheered.
"Can I kiss her?" a deep male voice said from the crowd of Kate's
friends, the joke was rewarded by several groans and hoots. "What took
you so long, KITTEN?" he said, with a tone of utter derision, rubbing my
name in, making sure everyone knew who and what they were bullying at
Donna's behest, probably showing off for Donna, totally buying her role
as a dominatrix.
"I guess I'm a little drunk?" I said.
And they all laughed, as if that was the funniest thing they'd ever
heard, which made me realize that I had again used my total-girl voice,
prompted by wearing my lipstick and gulping my cosmo. I was helpless to
resist the onslaught of my transgendered nature in this sensual
environment.
"Another round for the birthday girl!" said the loudest voice of all,
Kate's husband, what's-his-name? Bart. "And her beautiful dominatrix!"
he added, all of them pulling up chairs to our once-cozy little table.
Apparently, Donna's display of her sissy slave had created a party?
Speaking of Donna, where had she gone? I looked for her in the crowd of
maybe ten or twelve people, most of them much taller than I, and I found
her, finally, relaxed and smiling imperiously, sitting there patiently
in her seat, observing the results her work had wrought, watching me
like a hungry lioness timing her pounce on a frightened rabbit.
And there, on the table in front of her, sat six pretty pink-and-white
packages.
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© Copyright 2012, by Leslie P. Lowe. All rights reserved.
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