A Modern Romance free porn video

A Modern Romance Some people spend years trying to figure out where their particular kinks come from. They spend years in therapy searching their memory for a particular redhead or a half-forgotten TV show in which a villainess wore shiny, shiny gloves. They pay hypnotherapists to reignite their earliest pre-pubescent sparks of desire and cross reference them in Freud or Jung or else wade through scientific papers full of ambiguous brain scans and experimental data trying to untangle the twisted threads of sex and power and desire that make them who they are. Not me though. No, I know exactly what makes me tick and I know precisely why. It all began when I was ten years old, back in 1994. It was summertime and I was off school, and my mother was helping look after a friend's kid, a boy named Billy who was seven and lived down the road from us. Mother had some housework to do so she sent us off to my room and expected me to keep her charge entertained. Needless to say I resented that, even then. I had my own plans which I had to put on hold and my mother's suggestion that it would be good practice for when I had kids of my own did not impress me at all. I knew even then that she would not have used that argument on a boy. Nonetheless I took Billy up to my room and decided to keep him entertained. "Billy, would you like to play at being a girl?" He looked up at me, confused for a moment. "I want to play Hungry Hungry Hippos!" I smiled at him sweetly. Of course you can play Hungry Hungry Hippos. But Hungry Hungry Hippos is a girl's game. And you don't want everybody to know you like playing girls games, do you?" "It's not a girl's game!" "Of course it is. I'm a girl, and it's my game. But if you play at being a girl this afternoon then you can play hungry hungry hippos." He looked up at me, puzzled. "But playing at girls isn't for boys!" "Of course it is. Only boys can play at being girls. If girls tried it, well, they wouldn't be playing at it, would they?" "I suppose not." "So you play at being my little sister then we can play hippos, yeah?" "Okay." With that, I went through my drawers and pulled out a pink dress I never wore unless I was threatened or bribed, and a pair of my old black tights. I helped him put them on and spent the next fifteen minutes tying his hair in bunches and putting pink nail polish on his fingers. By the time I was done with him he looked like a little girl on her way to a party. "So... what's your girl name, then?" "Sophie?" "You can't be Sophie. That's my name!" "Sophie Two?" Billy never was the most imaginative child though he did have a flair for lateral thinking. "How about Claire?" "Okay." With that we played Hungry Hungry Hippos and we read my magazines together and we did all the things sisters do together. It was fun; more fun than it would have been with a real girl. For one thing, I kept having to tell him to sit with his legs together, or not to slouch, or not to be so loud, or to behave in a proper, ladylike fashion. I always hated it when my mum did that to me but it was fun to do to someone else. It was like I was getting my own back somehow. I never realised how much of being female consists of policing each other's behaviour, something which always comes back nowadays when the girls in the office are bitching about Susanna's fat thighs or Julia's sluttishness. When half five rolled around Claire's mother came to pick him up and I led him downstairs. My mother gasped in outrage; his mother started to laugh. "My word... look at you! Aren't you pretty..." she gasped. "We played at being girls..." said Billy. "I think you'd better change back..." seethed my mother. Our parents exchanged glances. "No, if you want you can borrow the dress for as long as you like..." I said. I really hoped this sounded generous. "No, I can't let Billy keep such a pretty dress... Very kind of you, Sophie..." said his mother. "It's Claire!" insisted Billy. He had really gotten into his role after the second hour. "Of course it is. Run upstairs and get changed, now..." Claire did so, and came back down five minutes later, back to his old self. After ten minutes of mumtalk, Billy and his mother left. My mother stared at me. "Why did you have to dress William up as a girl?" she asked. "It was fun! Besides... he can be such a spoilt brat at times. How many times have you had to come up because he was throwing a tantrum or messing with my stuff? But he behaved himself today." "Well, yes. But it might be embarrassing for him!" "Why? Because girls aren't as good as boys? And you don't want him playing at being an inferior creature?" "That's not what I said..." "Okay." "Well, don't do it again. Some people don't like it when you make their sons play at being girls." "Billy's mum thought it was great!" Billy was the youngest of three brothers and from what I'd overheard Billy's mum didn't want another kid and was sad that she would never have a little girl. I think that was why she was so happy seeing him in my dress. "That's not the point, Sophie. Now, I don't want to hear any more about this, okay?" I paused. I think I had done as well as I could out of this argument. I went to my room until tea was ready. The rest of the evening seemed normal: I watched TV and did my piano practise and read my book, but something had changed in me forever. That afternoon had lit a tiny spark in my imagination, one which would start a fire that would burn for the rest of my life. In the days and weeks to follow I would conceive ever more elaborate fantasies about feminising boys. I would even write them down sometimes. In my fantasies I was headmistress of the Sternheart School for Naughty Boys, I was the presenter of game shows like "Girlification Challenge!", I was the president of Femmewear, the leading Boys Dress Manufacturer, and I was ChairGirl of the League of Big Sisters - a kind of national club where girls would compete to make their little brothers into the best behaved little girl they could. I sort of assumed I would grow out of it but I never did. Instead as I crashed through puberty my fantasies only became more explicit, and my victims became famous footballers or singers or boys in my class. * This continued until I was sixteen or so. I matured into a rather academic young thing; near straight As, though perhaps a little stand- offish. I preferred my own company and unlike my contemporaries I didn't obsess over boys and dresses and the thought of becoming the receptacle for the cum of any of the tedious football obsessed louts in my school bored me. I didn't want to fuck them. I wanted to dress them. I wanted to dig deep inside them, pull out their secret, delicate girlish interior and force them to confront it. I did however have a boyfriend for some of this time. His name was Paul; a clever lad with a geeky side. He wanted to study politics and he loved science fiction. He was gentle and kind and funny and I genuinely really liked him. But after six months or so he started to get a little bit... pushy, sexually. He wanted me which was flattering and everything, but I wasn't sure if I was ready for things to get sexual and I wasn't sure if I wanted my first time to be with him. But I realised that part of the reason I was holding back was because I wasn't letting him into my particular fantasy life. So I decided that I would put him to the test; if he was ready for the kind of sexy antics I was into then I was ready for the kind he was into too. One Saturday my mother was out at a conference and my Dad was visiting his parents, so I had the house to myself for the better part of the day. I called up Paul and invited him round. I told him my parents would be out all day and he leapt to a certain conclusion about what I had planned for him which was at best only partly accurate. I invited him up to see my bedroom; he had never seen it before although he had been round to my house many times. I wasn't allowed to have boys in my room. "Anything could happen!" said my parents. That was what I was planning. We started to watch a movie- I forget what it was - Ace Ventura, perhaps?- and as we did so I felt his hand creeping under my t- shirt. His other hand was on my lap, a polite distance from my crotch. I reached over to my bedside table and picked up a bottle of nail polish: pastel pink, but with silver sparkles. Adorable. I started to paint his nails. He sat there awkwardly for a while, looking at me and at the screen and back again. I was onto the fourth finger before he said anything. "Sophie? What are you doing?" "I'm painting your nails, silly!" "Why?" "Because it looks cute. Other hand please." By the time the movie ended we weren't paying that much attention to it. We were lying on the bed kissing, his hands on my breasts, stroking me through my bra. The thought of his feminised hands cupping my breasts did excite me a little, I must confess, in fact it was the most excited I had ever been with him. I could feel his erect penis against my crotch and was tempted to stroke it, but I was worried where that would lead. I needed to put a stop to this and reassert my authority. I stood up and stepped away to close the curtains. "Paul? Take off your clothes." The poor boy looked baffled for a moment, then smiled. He stripped to his underwear and my eyes lingered on the bulge in his shorts. I wasn't really watching though. I was going through my drawers. I pulled out a bra and a pair of panties as if at random, though of course I had spent over half an hour the previous night choosing what I would make him wear. In fact, even then I had two separate collections of underwear: the stuff I buy for myself which is usually very plain, if not boyish, and the stuff I buy for my men which tends towards the prettier end of the lingerie spectrum. I threw the panties and the bra at him. "Put these on." "Soph?!" "Please. I'd really really like it if you wore them for me. Please." I looked him right in the eye, and he took off his shorts. It was the first time I had seen a boy's penis before and it was quite the fascinating sight. Ugly, yet compelling to look at. Do boys feel the same way about our parts, I wondered? He looked around nervously and stepped into the knickers. His penis bulged out of them obscenely, the head of his cock sticking out the top. The panties were black with a bright blue trim; young, funky, and vibrant. The bra was a black A- cup - I was B, but I had bought it especially for him, as I wanted it to fit, at least approximately. He held the bra and looked puzzled: was he uncertain how to put it on or did he not want to admit he knew? He looked so helpless, so powerless; it made my heart race, and I will remember that moment for the rest of my life. I came up behind him, pulling it around his back, putting his arms through the straps, and adjusting them. "Sophie... what's this all about?" I shushed him and kissed him gently on the lips. I picked up a dress that was hanging over the wardrobe door and told him to put his arms up. He obeyed. The thought of arguing never even crossed his mind. I had broken his will so sweetly, so tenderly bought his submission, and I felt so horny I almost felt sick. I pushed him onto the bed and took off my top and my bra. My breasts hung like the tension in the air; it was the first time he had ever seen them. I have a small mole on my left breast; I'm rather insecure about it, but he just stared at my erect nipples, as if entranced. I took some lipstick from my bedside table, and smeared it on his lips, my hand shaking. We started to kiss, and I took off my socks and my jeans, until I was lying there, kissing my beautiful girlboy wearing nothing but my plain grey knickers. He started to kiss my breasts, smearing his lipstick all over them, and he started to ease my knickers down. "Uh uh," I said. "The pants stay on." His hand started to knead at my crotch, the wet patch must have been visible, but I don't think he cared. I was embarrassed about it, scared it might smell, even though I had had a shower that morning. I lifted up his dress and masturbated him, stroking his dick up and down. I wasn't sure if I was doing it right. Was my grip too tight? Too loose? Was I going too fast? Or too slow? He didn't seem to mind, at least, and he came all over the black dress my Aunt bought me last Christmas. I took a couple of paper handkerchiefs from the box on my bedside table, wiped my hand and passed him the box. As he lay there with a dazed smile and splashed with cum I reached into my drawer and pulled out a vibrator. I turned away from him, pulled my knickers down a little, and masturbated. He held my other hand as I did so. As far as I was concerned my orgasms were still strictly my own affair, although I saw him trying to peek down my knickers. I resented that. I had not granted him quite that level of intimacy yet and it was presumptuous of him to take it. But I came quickly, and we relaxed together into a daze. Then it was cleanup time. He cleaned himself off and I wiped off his makeup and nail varnish and an hour later we were heading off into town for lunch together. It was a beautiful, perfect day; one I will remember for all my life. We broke up two weeks later. After that one perfect day, he became awkward around me, and after a week I heard a rumour that he'd been snogging Susan Winters at a party. He admitted it as soon as I confronted him about it and there were tears and recriminations. He said it was a stupid, drunken thing he did, that he was sorry and he didn't mean to hurt me but I knew he didn't mean it. I had scared him and he wanted a way out of our relationship. Maybe I was demanding a type of intimacy he wasn't ready for. Maybe he didn't like our dressing up game or maybe he liked it too much and was scared to admit that. I don't know. * I rather gave up on relationships after that. If anyone asked - and they rarely did - I simply said I was focussing on my studies. I wanted to study law, after all, and I needed good GCSE results if I wanted to get in. Some people - including my dear mother - speculated that I had been hurt too badly by Paul; that I was still holding a candle for him. This was half true and half ridiculous. After three months or so had passed I regarded Paul with little more than disdain. The cheating wasn't what hurt most. I had tried to ease him into my most secret, private fantasy world and he had responded with fear and disgust. When I offered him the most private part of my mind, it turned out that he only wanted access to the most private part of my body. Although I knew intellectually that this would not necessarily be true with other guys, I simply no longer wished to put this theory to the test. Dating seemed like a tedious chore at best and one which frankly disgusted me slightly. The thought of subjecting myself to the ludicrous pawings of any of the boys around me, to have to play along with their absurd belief that any of their inept manoeuvres would do anything to arouse me - simply disgusted me. I was still a virgin when I went to University. I confessed this to my new friends after a drunken night out, and they immediately decided that I should become their project. They introduced me to various men they knew; course-mates of theirs or lover's flatmates. Many of them were pleasant but their efforts to impress me - whether with their wealth, prospects, sporting prowess, or ability to consume vast quantities of alcohol - did nothing but incur my disdain. After a while my friends started to suggest I was a lesbian, still struggling behind the closet door. They introduced me to Siobhan, and although we soon became friends she quickly realised that we were not sexually compatible. After nine months at Uni, I finally decided to get the whole rotten business over and done with. I went out to the Union one night, located a boy who struck me as a reasonable human being by all accounts, and let him seduce me. He took me back to his place, and he took off my clothes. I let him climb on top of me, and he fumbled at my breasts and at my vagina. I felt horribly disaffected by the whole procedure, but after a while I started to imagine him wearing a pair of black knickers, lace arcing across his buttocks. This helped sustain my interest as he put himself inside me. He held me by the wrists and I raised my legs in the air as he pleasured himself with my body. Time passed and he ejaculated inside me - or rather inside the condom- and withdrew. He fell asleep and after a while I left, glad to have gotten the whole experience over and done with. Afterwards he tried to flirt with me a few times but I always made excuses. I sometimes worry that I hurt him though it doesn't really bother me. He was simply someone who performed a service for me and I regard him with little more affection than you might recall a motorway service station where you once ate on a long journey. To be honest I can't even remember his name. * After a couple of years my sexual itch got too much for me. I tried a couple of other random hookups, mostly while drunk, mostly at my friends request but they all failed to entertain. Fortunately it was 2004 by then and the internet had gone from being a weird niche interest to a place where everybody in the western world would go to explore their weird niche interests. Finally I had a readership for my strange little fantasies which I would publish on sites like Fictionmania. I must have had a readership in the tens of thousands and most of the comments I received were positive. I built up a dual identity like a bizarre parody of Hannah Montana: an ordinary law student by day, a semi-famous erotic writer by night. However, this was not enough. It took me two years of Uni before I worked up the courage to try to live out my fantasies again but finally, one rainy Friday night I decided to put my plan into action. I had told my friends I was visiting a friend in Glasgow which was an approximation of the truth. I wanted to go out somewhere I would not face the risk of being recognised. I had never been to Glasgow before- I had grown up in Surrey and studied in Edinburgh but it was just the right distance away: close enough to visit, far enough away not to risk being recognised. I hired a cheap room in a generic chain hotel in the city centre which would serve as my base of operations. I went along to a sleazy nightclub - a meat market, basically, but a business run on the simple premise of provide a location for people to meet for no-strings sex where they could get drunk enough to talk to each other and where the music was loud enough that they wouldn't have to. I went along at midnight, early enough for everybody to be sufficiently drunk and quickly befriended a group of girls who I got speaking to in the toilet. This was intended as a cover so that I wouldn't be alone. I drank water mostly, or orange juice, which I pretended contained vodka though I did have three or four drinks to calm my nerves. I acted drunker than I was: louder, gregarious, I laughed louder than normal at jokes I didn't think were funny. I cheered my new friends on in silly sub-hen-night antics. I waited desperately for 1am, which was when I would make my move. I had kept my eyes open for my ideal target: the skinny, waifish boy who knew he didn't belong here. He had come with friends: too drunk or too horny to say no. I think his name was Kevin, but it might have been Kieran or Kenneth, or maybe James or Michael or Doug or Alex. I flirted with him, faux drunken, told him he was cute. "Wanna come back to my hotel?" I slurred. I nibbled his ear. "I'm gonna do things to you you've never even dreamt of," I whispered. I felt sexier than I ever had before, and powerful too. When we got back to my hotel room, I ordered him to undress. "Okay," he said. He smiled and stood naked before me while I grabbed a pair of pants and a bra from a drawer. I threw them at him and he caught the bra but the knickers splashed dramatically across his shocked face. "Put these on." He smirked. "No." "Yes." I insisted. He could tell by my face I meant it. He hesitated. "Put them on or get out." He hesitated. "I can call security. Tell them I came home to find a naked man in my room, poking around in my underwear." His face turned crimson and he looked as if he was about to cry. He stepped into the panties - black ones, with a red trim. He pulled them up, his penis bulging in the front. "And stick that ridiculous looking thing of yours between your legs. I don't want to see it." "Look, I think maybe I should go...." he started. "Okay. I'll just call security. It's extension 813." I picked up the telephone, my fingers hovering over the buttons. "Okay! Stop! " As I turned round he was stuffing his junk back and in a moment he was as flat up front as a geldling. "Good. Now the bra." I paused. "Don't worry, I'll do the back up for you." It was a black A-cup bra, which matched the pants and fit him quite well. Then I gave him a red dress from the cupboard and a pair of stripy red and black tights. He put these on as well. The dress was quite short, it only came down to mid-thigh. Then I put him in eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick. The hair was still wrong and he could do with a shavebut he looked perfect. By the time he had my knickers on I was really quite horny and getting more than a little wet. That was the main reason I never bothered to pluck his eyebrows or put him in foundation. "Right, now stand in the corner and play with yourself." "What?" "You heard. In the corner. Now." As he did so I sat down on the bed and removed my jeans in a businesslike fashion. I was wearing the plainest, least feminine boyshorts I could find. I always do: in my mind, frilly delicate underthings are a tool that women use to humiliate men, not to wear themselves. I reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out a small, black vibrator, and slid down my shorts a little - just enough so I could get access to my clit, not enough that he could see my vagina. As he stood in the corner, terrified and humiliated, I noticed his penis was getting hard. Until now I imagine he must have been too drunk and too nervous to become aroused but now he had managed to rub some life into the damned thing. He was pointing it right at me. As I buzzed away at my clit I could feel orgasm approach; it hadn't taken long at all. In fact, rather than struggle to reach my peak as I sometimes did, now I was trying to hold back, using all my discipline and willpower to keep the vibrator off my clitoris, to count for a few seconds and put it back. I was determined that he come before I did. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" I hissed at him, my tone almost threatening. He nodded. I don't think either of us knew if he was lying or not. His knee was starting to shake and he clenched his teeth together, his hand going up and down beneath the dress, inside his cute black panties... Suddenly an arc of semen sprayed across the room, and I let myself enjoy the orgasm I had been holding off, my thighs clenching inwards, my back arching as I watched the dear, stupid boy blushing in his makeup, staring at his wet hand and at the wet patch that was growing on the front of his knickers. When I was finished I smiled and sat up. I stood up and handed him a box of tissues from beside the bed. He nodded gratefully and dried his hands. I ordered him to strip to his panties and put his own clothes back on. "I'm keeping your underwear. As a souvenir. Anyway, what you're wearing is much more appropriate for a little girly boy like you." He dressed and I told him to leave. I watched him leave the hotel grounds from the corner of my window. I wondered if he had enjoyed our night together. In truth I rather imagine he found himself compelled to wear the panties I gave him, first to masturbate, but then to classes as well. He would go to the club where we met hoping for the chance to meet me again, hoping that I would humiliate him again. I imagined him wandering into the lingerie department of Marks and Spencer's or Miss Selfridge, desperately trying to summon the courage to pick up some knickers and take them to the till. I imagined, many years from now he would make an excellent boy toy for a girl like me, a woman who wanted a man who had already had his spirit broken and been trained to enjoy being feminised. For years afterwards the memory of that night would entertain the darkest corners of my imagination and would keep me company in my loneliest hours. For all the deliberate disdain I showed him I wondered if he would ever realise how much he ever truly meant to me. * Life continued in much the same fashion for the next few years: every couple of months I would go a strange city, seduce drunken men and turn them into my darling little sissies. Most of the time I would order them to masturbate for me, sometimes I would allow them to go down on me. Occasionally I would suck them off, especially if I found them entertaining. This may surprise you: nowadays the act of fellatio is considered an act of utmost submission. This is incorrect and in earlier, more enlightened times the opposite was held to be true. Consider: you put someone's most sensitive organ into your mouth, into a place where you could tear it apart with sharp incisors capable of exerting 120 lbs of pressure, then reduce them to a quivering wreck with tongue and spit, begging you to satiate them. Yeah, *obviously* that's a position of submission- what *was* I thinking? Sometimes my darlings would try to fight back, sometimes they would submit. Sometimes they would make no secret of how much they enjoyed it. I found that deeply distasteful - it took all the fun out of their final submission, and frankly I found their constant begging for further humiliation quite tiresome. Sometimes I took photos. That added a certain extra spice to the affair and certainly gave me some lovely souvenirs of my adventures. I imagine I gave many a boy a sleepless night, dreading the day those photos found themselves online or they received a call ordering them to meet me for more humiliation or the pictures make their way to parents, partners, and employers. And yet I also imagine that part of them, deep inside, longed for that day to come. However life moved on and I graduated from University, spent a year on a legal practice course and before long I was working an entry level legal role in a large corporation in London. Needless to say I shall not be naming them. My family starting dropping hints that I should find myself a boyfriend, then further hints that they'd be entirely fine with it if I was a lesbian. I think they just wanted grandchildren. I dismissed their complaints as good-naturedly as I could but I found it tiresome. I had long since given up on any thought of having a relationship with someone. Most men bored me - sexually, at least - and those who had a reciprocal fetish to mine were too weak, too needy or fundamentally uninteresting in other ways. I would grow old alone and I would die alone. The prospect did not scare or sadden me. The other women at work didn't entirely trust me: they spread rumours about me behind my back: that I was sleeping with him, or him, or him, that I was gay. They simply didn't know what to make of me. I was entirely professional in my manner, but cold and a little distant. The secretaries would bubble and titter over celebrity magazines and ask if I thought the vapid celebrity in the picture had a cute bum. I would shrug indifferently, wondering what he would look like in a black satin Victoria's Secret cami and short set. After a while they would ask me if I thought a woman was pretty; probing my sexuality under the guise of female bonding. I responded equally indifferently. After a while they learned to leave me alone. Then I met Mark. * I was into my second year at the unnamed corporation, negotiating contracts, doing background research, and all the other minutiae of corporate law when my computer broke down. One moment I was typing away, the next - Bam! - everything turns blue and I'm staring at a mad column of digits and nonsense, and at the bottom, a helpful English translation: DRIVER_IRQL_NOT_LESS_OR_EQUAL. For a moment I wondered if this was how normal people felt when I push a contract in front of them. I rebooted but after five minutes work it happened again. I got on the phone and called tech support and ten minutes later they sent a guy up. He was a tall man with mousy hair and a grin that walked a fine line between gormless and mischievous. He had a delicate figure, and a curious precision to his movements. Perhaps he had been forced into ballet lessons as a kid, I thought, a tiny part of me enjoying the thought of his humiliation. He was dressed in street clothes as was the way of the IT department. His t-shirt informed me that 'there are 10 kinds of people in the world: those who understand binary and those who don't.' I was evidently one of the latter. I told him what had happened and he nodded. "Yeah, it's fixable, but it'll take a while." He had a north of England accent, a voice which spoke of whippets, brass bands and striking miners. "I'd suggest you take your lunch break - it's nearly noon - and hopefully I'll be done when you get back". I nodded, picked up my bag, and headed out of the building to the local sandwich shop. This was an annoyance as I usually spent my lunchtimes writing. When I got back my computer was back to it's log-in screen, and there was a note attached to my computer. It read as follows: Hey, fixed your computer - some malware had corrupted one of your drivers. It should be fixed my now but if you have any other problems, mail me. Incidentally, I was using your web browser - to re-download the driver in question - and I noticed your browser autocompletes to Fictionmania. I also noticed a document on your desktop entitled LoFc6 - are you Scarlet J? If so... I LOVE your work. That said I think you would be well-advised to start using your browser's privacy mode in future. All desktop documents are backed up on the company's server daily. I would suggest that if you want to work on any private documents you keep them on a memory stick in future. Anyway, if you have any further questions, call or mail me. Mark. When I read it I blushed - I had been outed. I felt a little sick and a little guilty. He seemed trustworthy, I supposed, but I spent the rest of the day agonising about what to do about it. Should I just ignore it? I should. Obviously. Just let the guy forget he had met an author he liked. I had built a nice little life for myself. Sure, it was getting harder to find the time to go out of town and pick up strange men to scratch my particular itches but... I was happy being alone. I put the idea out of my head and spent that evening drinking wine, watching a movie and reading TG fiction. The next morning I emailed him. "Hey Mark, I just wanted to say a big thanks for fixing my computer. Everything is running smoothly. Any chance I could buy you a drink sometime as a show of my appreciation? Sophie." He emailed back almost immediately. We were going for drinks after work. * The rest of the day was spent in an agony of butterflies, poor concentration and watch checking. I was dreading five thirty and longing for it all at once. I sat in the pub in question, in a private little corner, a secret little space where sexual dissidents could weave conspiracies of perversion. He somehow managed to arrive ten painstaking minutes late despite the fact that we left at the same time and from the same place. He smiled at me and sat down. "Thank you for coming," I started. He squinted slightly. Was that too formal? Did he expect me to start taking minutes? Had I made an idiot out of myself with my first four words? "You're welcome," he replied. "What're you drinking?" He bought the round, despite the nominal point of the meeting being so that I could buy him one. I opted for cider, not wanting to go with anything too girly. I took a moment to ground myself. "Remember, Sophie, you're a sexual predator. A hunter. He's your prey, albeit a slightly more delicious prey than most." He returned with my drink. "Look... I wanted to say thanks... for that... uh, security matter." "It's okay. I've seen far worse. And like I say, I genuinely like your stuff. You're definitely in my top ten Fictionmania authors. It's sexy and fun, but it avoids the clich?s most of the time and... God, well, there's too much sadistic stuff out there. Jealous ex-wives selling their husbands into slavery, that sort of thing... and that's hot and all, don't get me wrong, but... it's a bit of a shallow fantasy really. Your stuff is really fun. Bright, exciting. You make feminisation into something fun and sexy." "I...." I paused. "Thank you." I blushed. "Sorry... I continued. "I'm not used to discussing this in public." "Uh yeah... me neither. I've never told anybody about this stuff. " "So tell me about yourself!" I started, changing the subject. He looked relieved and he started to tell me all about his family in Manchester, where he studied computer science. He wrote computer games in his spare time and had sold a couple - nothing major, but he had made a few grand out of it over the years. And I told him all the same stuff about where I grew up and why I studied law, what I wanted from life. By the second pint we were onto films and music and books: he liked science fiction and alternative rock, and I told him how I liked to dance to electronic music, my love of disco, romantic comedies and classic English literature. By the second pint it was obvious we had nothing in common. I was ambitious and driven; he was basically just a slacker. We had completely different tastes, goals, drives, ambitions - nothing. I was starting to plan my exit strategy when he bought me the third drink. As he headed to the bar I saw his bottom, as he leaned over the bar, I saw what I consider to be one of the most delightful features on a man: a visible panty line. I smiled, wondering what he was wearing; the colour, the shape, the cut. I wanted to know. I needed to know. He sat back down opposite me and I leaned in close to him. "Mark? I whispered, "Are you wearing women's underwear?" He blushed and shook his head. "No. They're mine. Sure, they're designed for women, but... well, I just see that as a recommendation, really. It's not a hard and fast rule. It's more like the serving suggestion you get on the front of cereal boxes." "That's pretty hot. Do you wear them all the time?" "Not all the time," he whispered. "But often enough." "Do they make you feel pretty? And sexy and girlish?" I whispered. "Yes." "You like to feel girly, don't you?" He nodded. "Why?" "I like to feel... submissive," he whispered. "Ah. And have you ever had a woman take charge of you properly? Give you the supervision you need?" "No. I've never told anyone about... this." "Ah." I smiled. "Look, I've got to go," I lied, standing up and finishing my drink, "But I'm going to call you up real soon and give you a night to remember." I left before he could even reply. * I didn't speak to Mark for the next three days. In fact I ignored his text messages and emails. I was playing a waiting game, teasing him, while I worked out every little detail of the exquisite night of humiliation and servitude I had planned for him. The sixth day, the Monday, I amped the teasing up a little; I would email him at work urging him to come and fix a computer problem, every time it would be something so trivial even I could have fixed it or the error would suddenly vanish when he got there. It must have been annoying for him but I wanted him to know I hadn't forgotten about him. I spent fourteen days dreaming up the scenario, fourteen days choosing his outfit, researching and choosing and preparing, until finally one Thursday morning I sent him the text message I had been agonising over for the past three days. Dear Mark, Your attendance is required at the house of Sophie Wilson on the evening of Friday the 15th of June. There is no need for formal dress as appropriate attire will be provided. Sophie. * Friday night, eight o'clock, my heart was pounding, waiting for the door to ring. Eight oh one. He wasn't coming. He'd given up. Decided I was weird and pushy. Eight oh-two. Even as we speak he's faxing my boss a link to all the stories I've written. Eight oh- four and I'm drafting my statement at an 'inappropriate use of office resources' meeting. At Eight oh five the doorbell rings. One part of me is flooded with relief, another with desire, and another with a terror I can barely understand. I've done this sort of thing a dozen times before with strangers; why does it terrify me now? I open the door. He stood there dressed more smartly than I had ever seen him before, shirt ironed, clutching a bottle of wine. I beckoned him in, looked him up and down, and closed the door behind him as I slipped into character. "Do you have a girl name that you like to use?" He looked startled for a moment: I don't think he expected things to start so suddenly. I took his wine off him and glanced at it disdainfully. "Jennifer. Jenny." "Well Jenny, pop into the bedroom and change into something a little more appropriate for a girl of your stature. When you're done, you are to make dinner. There's a recipe book in the kitchen with a page marked- a beef stroganoff. All the ingredients are where you'd expect them to be and the cupboards are all labelled." "Yes... yes Miss." He said, looking at the floor, smiling coyly. "Well, it's nice to finally get a girl with some manners. Now get on with it." He went into the bedroom and I sat in the living-room. My stomach was churning as I imaged what was happening within my bedroom. I could see him in my mind's eye holding the purple and white top shop panties in quivering hands, dropping his trousers. Was he wearing knickers for me? Would he wear the ones I had bought especially for him? I hope so. I imagined him pulling them over his semi-hard penis. Had he shaved his legs for me? I would have to check. Was he peeking in my drawers? Would he steal a pair of my knickers as a souvenir? Now he was putting on his bra, one I chose specifically not to match his knickers because I wanted just a hint of tackiness to this whole affair. I didn't want him thinking he was a sexual goddess for me as then he would get ideas above his station. I wanted him to play the inexperienced, slightly naive girl, barely out of her teens, playful and energetic and absolutely lacking in authority. Now he was putting on his makeup as per the instructions on the typed leaflet I had printed for him in the bedroom. Eyeliner, mascara, lipstick. How well would he do them? How good were his makeup skills? How convincing a girl would he make? I wanted him to be... imperfect. I wanted to be able to take him in my hand and turn that sissy boy, full of potential, and break him down and turn him into a woman. Five minutes later I changed my mind completely. He came out the door with catwalk confidence, his makeup perfect, the T-girl dream. I tell you, I wanted to pounce on him right there and then, take his stiff little clit in my mouth and make him squirt his girly goo inside me. I wanted to fuck him with a strap-on and make a real woman of him right there in the corridor. But I know how to resist temptation, so I just smiled. "Well, you've made a reasonable attempt to dress appropriately for the job required of you tonight. But I'm hungry, so get cooking." He nodded, and headed into the kitchen. The next forty-five minutes were agonising. I had a set of exams coming up - the joy of Continual Professional Development - but I could barely hold a sentence in my head for more than a second. The words passed through my eyes and disappeared without ever entering my brain. All I could think of was Mark - no Jennifer, Jennifer in my kitchen, struggling to keep her cock held back in her satin panties as she raked through my cupboards looking for the most appropriate saucepan, his tights stretched across his pert bottom as he bent over to look in the lower cupboards. Did he have an erection? Was he perhaps even now reaching into his pants, adjusting his stiff willy? Stroking it just a little, scared I might pop in to see. If so that was terrible in terms of food hygiene but I suspected that there was no risk of anything going into my food that wouldn't end up going into my body one way or another. I struggled to focus on the minutiae of Trust law and not the thought of his nipples pressed against the material of his tiny bra. Forty-five minutes later he emerged. "Miss? It's nearly ready." I smiled and went off to wash my hands. When I returned he was standing in the kitchen beside the dining table, two empty plates on the table, the wine uncorked, and sitting in the middle of the table. "Two plates?" I asked. "That's a little presumptuous of you." He gazed at the floor. A moment later he took my plate and served the stroganoff. I looked at it, puzzled, and tasted it. It was delicious. "This is not the version of the recipe I instructed you to make, Jennifer," I said sternly. "Yes miss. But, well... I improvised. I know several different recipes for it, and the one you suggested wasn't very good." "Hmmm," I said, trying not to laugh. "I don't like it when my staff use their initiative. It's insubordinate." I took another taste of the amazing stroganoff. "Its adequate", I said. A few mouthful later, I poured myself some wine. I took a sip. "Would you care to join me?" "Yes miss," he said. He sat down and started to eat. The conversation started to flow from there, resembling the honest flow that you would expect on a first date - although of course, he still called me 'Miss'. We spoke of our families, our childhoods, our education, our friends. He asked me about my latest story and I told him. I had never spoken to anyone about my fantasias before and I always thought that even if I had someone to share my work with I would never tell anybody about it until it was finished. But I started to roll out every detail of my latest story, the details of the protagonist's religion, The Church of the Holy Transformation and the characters quirks and traits. From there I started to get into what I call Trans- literary theory; all my ideas on what makes a story good, the psychological theories of the origins of our kink, the social and political ramifications of my work. He listened, rapt, throwing in questions and comments, arguing against this point and agreeing with that until we got into the big issues of the area: Michael Bailey's theory of autogynephilia, how TG erotica intersects with feminism... I don't think I have ever been more excited by a simple conversation. We finished our first course and the dessert - a tiramisu I made the previous night- and we retired to the living room for coffee. By ten o'clock I was ready for the main event of the evening, the bit I had been waiting for. "Jennifer, I said. "Strip to your underwear for me please." He was in the middle of a sentence at the time but got to his feet without hesitation and removed his shoes, dress, and tights. I noticed he had painted his toenails. I pulled out the remote control, turned on the stereo and started some music playing. I Feel Love, Donna Summer. "Dance for me." He started to move, dancing like a stripper, running his fingers over his bra, his dick half tucked back but still bulging in his panties. "Are you hard?" I asked. "Does your penis work, or are you too much of a sissy?" He nodded. "It works, miss." "Good. Make it hard for me." He kept on dancing, pulling his stiffening dick from his panties as he moved, shaking his hips to the music. It was all too much for me. I lowered my trousers and my underwear, careful to ensure he didn't see what underwear I wore and pulled a small vibrator from down the side of the couch. I was already quite wet. "Would you like some assistance, miss?" he asked, moving towards me. "No. You don't have permission to touch me," I snapped. He looked so disappointed. "Not yet." He danced and I stared at his makeup, at his empty bra, at his stiff cock, the vibrator buzzing away at my clit. I winced and grunted, orgasm swelling quickly as my sissy danced for me. I came in one final spasm, rolled my head back on the sofa, and took a sip of my wine. Jennifer had stopped dancing, and was simply watching me, her cock in her hand. I smiled at her. "That was very good, Jennifer." He beamed. "Would you like to go to the toilet and masturbate now?" * Our second date took a certain amount of planning and I made sure to tease and taunt Mark in the meantime. I bought him a box of girl's underwear from Top Shop and had it delivered to the IT department, care of Jennifer Andrews, his nom de femme. I would send him emails containing snippets of my stories from temporary email accounts but ignore any replies or anything he sent to me directly. He would pass me in the corridor and I would ignore him, refusing to meet his gaze. One day, two weeks after our first date, I texted him. "Are you wearing the panties I sent you?" "Yes." He replied. "Prove it." Ten minutes later I got a photo back of his belly and crotch, focussed on the bulging crotch of a pair of wonder woman boy-shorts I had sent him earlier. "Very good." Five more minutes. "But did you send those from the men's toilets? That's unacceptable. Try again." Half an hour later I received a short video of him in a cubicle in the ladies bathroom of our building; I could tell from the sanitary towel disposal bin beside the toilet. He was wearing the panties. Good. He was responding well to my training. Perhaps it was time for our second date after all. "I have been considering the services you provided for me recently and despite some insubordinate and frankly inappropriate behaviour on your part, I am willing to consider you for an ongoing role. If you would like to be considered for further work, please respond. "Yes." He only took a minute to reply that time. "Good. Come round to my house at 8pm on Friday." * Friday took a lifetime to roll around but eventually I was sat at home at seven o'clock, my preparations all in place, waiting for him to arrive. I tried to study but found myself compelled to check my email and phone every five minutes, convinced he would change his mind and cancel. But finally at seven fifty-six, the doorbell rang. My heart pounded and my stomach churned; this was the first time one of my sexual adventures had ever gone to a second date. I opened the door, he stood there beaming and I gestured him into the flat, safe from the gaze of onlookers and into my private world. "Hello Jennifer," I said. "Go into your room and get changed into something more appropriate. Maybe the rest of the world thinks it appropriate for sissies to dress in such an unladylike fashion, but under my roof we uphold certain standards." "Yes miss," he replied, his bowed head barely concealing his grin. I had left a set of clothing in the bedroom out for him with notes and pictures where appropriate indicating how I wanted him to dress. He went in and shut the door and presumably started to get changed. I walked away as loudly as I could, took my shoes off, tiptoed back to the room and peered at him through the keyhole. He was holding up the outfit I had got him - a very pretty purple skirt with a black top - and staring at himself in the mirror. He took off his t-shirt and his trousers and was standing there wearing nothing but the green and pink boyshorts I had bought him earlier. His ass looked beautiful, framed by the pink trim and bulging in the fabric and as I watched I could feel my clitoris stirring, urging me to masturbate. I ignored it's demands, stood up and went in. As I flung the door open Jennifer gasped and covered her pants with the dress. "Jennifer!" I tutted, "Cover yourself at once! Show some decency, girl!" She looked puzzled. "Your chest," I hissed. "I can see your nipples!" She blushed, and covered herself with her arms. "You surprised me, miss." "This IS my house. I can go where I wish. I wanted to be sure you were wearing suitable underwear." Jennifer put her skirt and top down and she stood there wearing nothing but her panties. I stared at her and she stared at the floor, her penis semi-erect and visibly bulging in the front of her knickers. "Very good," I said, "but you really ought to be wearing a bra. Still, you can use one of mine for now; I'll see to it that you have proper undergarments in future." "Yes miss, sorry miss." "Now, I want to watch you dress. Get on with it." With that, I sat down on the bed. Beaming, I watched her dress, now awkward, now blushing, pulling her dress on over her head, sitting down on the corner of the bed as she pulled up her tights, standing to straighten them, embarrassed and inelegant. She went over to the mirror, scared to turn her back on me and worked on her makeup: mascara, eyeliner, lipstick, and tied her hair up in a simple but elegant manner, twisted round and flowing down to one side. She turned to me, and I smiled. "You look lovely, dear," I said and she smiled back, proud as a button. "Now, I want you to make me dinner again and I must say that I found it most impertinent of you to make something different to what you were instructed to last time. I appreciate you want to impress your new mistress by taking the initiative but you haven't earned the right to do so yet and frankly it demonstrates a most unladylike ambition. So this time I must insist that you follow the recipe as instructed. You'll find it in the kitchen and if you need me I'll be in the living room. I have some important work to attend to." With that I withdrew and watched him scuttle off to the kitchen. I tried to focus on the nuances of my law textbook but I certainly couldn't concentrate on the subtleties of Pritchard V Gainsbourgh (1983), not when I knew what was going to happen next. Fifteen minutes later Jennifer appeared in the living room. "Miss - sorry to bother you when you're working" - his face was bright red and he stared at the floor - "but I can't find the pasta." I stared at her for a moment as if she were an idiot. "It's in the dry goods cupboard with the rice. Just above the cooker." This was a lie. "Begging your pardon, miss but I looked there - I took everything out and there's none there." This was true. I knew this was true because I took the packet of pasta that was in the cupboard out that morning and hid it under my bed. "Oh. Oh dear. Well, I suppose you'd better go to the shops and buy some then." Now she was no longer blushing. Now she had turned pale. "But... I can't!" she said, rather too forcefully for my tastes. "Why not... oh - of course. I'll give you some money. I don't expect you to pay for it yourself!" I reached into my pocket and pulled out a fiver. "That's not what I..." "I'll keep an eye on the sauce, if that's the problem. I don't mind stirring it once in a while. After all, it was my fault we ran out of pasta." "I can't go out like this!" "I'll let you borrow my coat if you're worried about getting cold." The poor dear looked as if she was about to cry. She stared at me for a moment, her eyes pleading with me, before she turned away, walked down the hall, put on her shoes, picked up my furry black jacket and headed out the door. The moment she turned away was exquisite for me; there was just a tiny moment, a fraction of a second long where her eyelids tightened; it was as if you could see the precise moment when her spirit was broken. She was mine now; she was my sissy and she would do whatever I told her to. I would think of this moment as I masturbated for many weeks to come. Fifteen minutes later she returned, still blushing and ashamed. She rushed in the door and I closed it gently behind her. "Jennifer!- you seem a little out of sorts! Is something wrong?" "I just... I'm sure they were staring at me." "Nonsense dear. If they were looking, it was simply because they had never seen a girl as pretty as you before." This was almost certainly true; When dressed, there was very little to give away the fact that she was in one regard at least slightly better endowed than most other girls. If she wore a scarf then there was no way to tell at all. "But I..." "Anyway, back to the kitchen dear!" I smiled. She was embarrassed and scared, but also a little proud of herself too. I had pushed her, but not pushed her too far, and I suspected that she was as excited about her trip out as I had been. After twenty minutes, he served the food - it was delicious, though I noticed with a smile that he had almost certainly been playing fast and loose with the instructions, at least as far as the herbs went. Still, it was very tasty and I decided to overlook the indiscretion. We ate and we drank and we talked again, now slightly more relaxed around each other. I told him of my work; he was unwilling to break character, so mostly he listened. we talked about books a lot - authors we liked, both TG and non. We talked about clothes; and as we grew drunker - it was quite potent wine - I grew more flirtatious, or perhaps simply more filthy. I asked her what type of knickers she liked best; whether she'd ever used a vibrator on herself. When she said she hadn't I said I'd lend her one of mine. As we moved through to the living room I squeezed her bottom; she wasn't expecting it and nearly jumped in shock and surprise. I was every bit the lecherous old man; ready to use her and humiliate her and I knew she loved it. I sat down on the sofa, pulled out my tablet and gestured for her to sit on the floor at my feet. She kicked off her shoes and started to massage her feet through her tights - a little bit too informal, I thought, but I let it slide. "I want to read you a story -I just finished it yesterday. Tell me what you think when I'm finished." My latest story was about a teenager who discovers his sister is a witch. He wants to learn the craft but to do so he must become a girl and as the tale unfolds he overcomes all sorts of obstacles and learns a lot about himself as he becomes increasingly female. You'll laugh! You'll cry! And you'll probably find it pretty hot, too... An hour later I put the tablet down, the tale complete. "What did you think?" "I liked it. I liked the twist at the end; and the way you mess with the power dynamics. He wasn't turned into a weak helpless humiliated little sissy - he became more powerful, but he gained power *and* lost some at the same time. There was more going on there than just gender stuff. Some interesting points about political power and identity, actually. And did I see a couple of nods to Pride and Prejudice in there?" "Guilty as charged!" "Very bloody postmodern," she smiled. "Miss." "But you did enjoy it?" I asked, a trifle awkwardly. "Yes - of course I did, miss!" "It's just... well... I didn't see you masturbating. I thought it was awfully rude of you not to show your appreciation in this fashion." Jennifer blushed. "I'm dreadfully sorry, mistress. It's just... well..." She turned her gaze to the floor. "It's just my clitoris is... rather large, and frankly unfeminine. In fact, were it not for my girlish dress and demeanour you might even mistake it for... for a boy's thingy." She paused, her mouth dry at the confession. "I thought it might disgust you and so for fear of your disapproval and my shame, I withheld my... my natural desire to show my appreciation." "Oh Jennifer, dear," I said, a fine mix of pity and patronisation in my voice, "girls nowadays have such silly ideas about body image. Just because you have a big clitty doesn't make you any less feminine than a girl with a dainty one like mine. Why, some of the most feminine creatures I've come across have had very large clitorises. In fact I've even known some silly little girls who actually thought they were boys, just because their rosebud was a little bit bigger than some of the others in the garden." "Thank you miss. I didn't mean to be rude but I hope you appreciate my sense of shame." "Of course, dear. Think nothing of it." There was a moment of silence. "Mistress? May I have the honour - and I hope you don't think it presumptuous of me to ask... but might I have the privilege of licking your clitoris?" She gazed at the floor, embarrassed. I smiled sweetly. "My girl, you've been wonderful tonight - of course you can go down on me!" With that I stood up, unzipped my trousers, and dropped them to the floor. She stared at my tight black boyshorts, and I wriggled them down a foot from her face to reveal my perfectly hairless vulva, then sat back down, a wine glass in one hand, my coffee nearby. "Proceed." Now I have long been of the belief that in general, women are far better at performing cunnilingus than men. The opposite is true, I suspect - men give better blowjobs, after all, how can you know what to do with a cock if you don't even have one? In my experience the best option is simply to approach the matter with as much good natured enthusiasm as one can muster and hope that your cheerful can-do attitude renders your incompetence endearing rather than disappointing. This asymmetry is one of the many reasons why I consider the traditional heterosexual arrangement to be a recipe for tedium at best and one of western society's biggest errors of judgement. However Jennifer could tantalise a clit like nobody I had met before. Within five minutes I had to put my wine glass down, abandoning my original plan to sip it, cool and detached, while she beavered away between my thighs. By the ninth minute I was raking my fingers through my hair, desperate for it to end, desperate for it to last forever. By the fourteenth minute I was making noises I never thought humanly possible, my fingernails digging into the arms of my armchair, my legs tensed against the floor. As the embers of pleasure died, I smiled at my girl, my little cutie, as she stared up at me. I sipped my merlot for a moment, waiting for my breathing to return to normal. "Would you like me to masturbate you?" I asked. "If it's not too much trouble, mistress." I instructed her to take off her dress, and she lay on the floor in her knickers and bra. I took her erect penis in my hand and worked it up and down in my hand, methodical and precise. "What are you thinking about, Jennifer?" I asked. "There are no secrets in this house." "I'm thinking about those silly girls you knew. The ones who thought they were actually boys!" "Well, I soon showed them the error of their ways. After I had them dressed and made up, they understood: how could anyone so pretty be a boy?" "Well, yes." "Do you think you're ready to ejaculate yet, dear?" I asked. "I do so love to see the patches form on a pair of cummy knickers." "Mmmm," he murmured. "What are you thinking now, sweetie?" I whispered. "Tell Miss Sophie all." "I'm thinking about how you made me go for pasta. All those people saw me." "Do you think anybody suspected? That you're not quite like the other girls?" "No... maybe one or two..." "And how do they make you feel?" "Ashamed. Really dirty. Like I'm a naughty..." he paused, and his penis twitched, and wet, creaminess spurted over my thumb and finger, and over the front of his panties. He convulsed again and moaned gently, as if asking me to stop so I put her penis down and tucked it back inside her knickers. I lay beside him for a few moments, then he went through to the bathroom to clean up while I washed my hands in the kitchen. He emerged dressed in his male clothes again, and came through to see me. "Uh... I'd better get going..." he started. "I'm... We've got work." I looked at my watch. "Shit, yeah - it's nearly midnight." He turned to leave, unsure what to say. After all he was Mark now and everything that had happened had happened to Jennifer. Was he embarrassed by me? By what we shared? I opened the front door for him, and he said goodnight. "I had a... it was..." he stopped. "Goodnight, yeah?" "Goodnight Mark." He wandered away down the stairs and suddenly I felt strange. I had had a wonderful time but I knew more was possible. Suddenly a whole new realm of possibilities was starting to open up before me and I was scared - scared to risk even acknowledging them, yet alone pursue them but fully cognizant that to let them wither was a far more terrifying prospect. He was directly beneath me. I could hear his footsteps and I started to run. In truth, it baffled me. 'Oh look, I appear to be running now. How peculiar'. I watched myself with detached bemusement. 'I wonder what I'll say to him when I catch up?" "Hi," I said, as he turned and looked at me, his face confused and worried. I grabbed him by the shoulders and put my tongue in his mouth as if to force this strange feeling he had induced in me back onto him. I kissed him and kissed him like I was a boy and he a girl, suddenly a conduit for passion I wanted to flow into him. I pulled away and watched his eyes; they gleamed, confused but eager. "We should go see a movie together next week. I mean, you and me. As Mark and Sophie. No games, no... you know. "I paused for a moment, suddenly scared. "I think that would be nice," I added. He smiled. "I'd love to," he said. "Mail me and we'll figure out the details, yeah?" * The next six months were like a daydream. We went out on dates- usually once a week or so- then at the weekends I would turn him into Jennifer and treat him like dirt. We balanced things out, I think - I would often invite him round for a home-cooked meal and make sure I pampered him. Sometimes I would get a little scared that he might forget that the contempt, the patronising glances and the orders I gave him were only a game. We didn't tell anyone at work that we were together but after three months the rumours got out: we were spotted, perhaps, or somebody saw us together on a date. Nobody understood what we saw in each other. "That's nice!" said Audrey, a paralegal from the 4th floor who was probably one of my closest friends at the company. "But I thought someone like Colin or Jason would be more your type." This was probably a fair assumption. Colin was a squash player, tall, who worked in middle management. You could practically see the muscles under his suit - barely six months went by without him doing something athletic for charity. He had a domineering personality; and I was sure a lot of other women would be happy to have him pin them down and squirt DNA inside them. He would fill them with children and buy them pretty things. I'm sure that would make a lot of women happy but not me. Mark got a similar treatment. His friends thought I was stuffy, boring, bossy and cold. "She's no fun!" said Mike, the big gay socialite from admin. But Mark was loyal, and Mark was true. He told people that we had connected on a deeper level. People shook their heads and smiled; they didn't understand and I can see why. They couldn't see what we had in common and I doubt they would ever understand. Over the next few months we started to change each other; a little, at least. He introduced me to Star Trek and Star Wars and by way of a homage to the former I forced him to dress up in a little gold bikini. I got him listening to daft punk and van Helden and a lot of old school acid house. He tried me on the Misfits - who I described as 'stupid but catchy' and Sonic Youth, who I didn't get at all. It's just noise- I don't care how critically acclaimed they are, somebody has to be the one to point out that the Emperor is naked. We worked well together and not just sexually. My focus and drive mad