Kylie and Chrissy Part 4 Rabbit Hole
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Thinking With My Dick - Ch 3 - Back Down The Rabbit Hole free porn video
What am I doing? I'm a dude, and even with fake nails I'm sure I still
look like a dude wearing fake nails, and here I am jacking off over it.
I got out of bed and stomped back to the bathroom to clean all my cum off
myself. In the end, it seemed easier to just shower again, I was already
naked anyway. Showering with long nails was another odd experience,
having these things that weren't me attached semi-permanently to my body.
I was so conscious of them through the whole shower and drying off,
trying not to catch them on the towel.
By the time I was done, I'd calmed down a bit, and come to a decision.
I'd put the nails on because I wanted to see what it was like. I didn't
need to be anywhere for a few hours, so I might as well leave them on for
a while and actually experience it. This wasn't something I was ever
going to do again, and it was a waste to use it for one jerk session
before removing them. So I got dressed, and went about my day.
The nails ended up being both more and less trouble than I'd expected.
Some things were pretty easy with them, I made myself lunch, played some
video games, operated the TV without any problems. But some things were
unexpectedly hard, like the working the button on my jeans. I spent most
of the day sitting around the house, living the lazy moping ex-boyfriend
routine that I'd originally intended for the weekend. I did indulge
myself by wearing Annie's leftover ballet flats for a while, despite them
being a touch small. Other than that, I was a perfectly boring
dude...with fake nails.
I lasted until early evening, when I realized I was out of real food in
the apartment and needed to grab dinner. Knowing I needed ditch the
nails before I could do that, risking the supermarket with painted nails
had been bad enough, I wasn't going to risk a takeout place with quarter
inch extensions, I got one last jerk off session in before getting out
the nail polish remover.
Post-orgasm and resenting my bad choices all over again, I dug out the
nail polish remover, and after half an hour of soaking, rubbing, and
scrubbing and my fingers and toes with acetone, I was finally free of it
all. I was never doing that again. I gather up all the feminine stuff
that I'd been using, the remaining nail polish remover, the cotton pads,
the ballet flats, everything, stuffed it back in the plastic bag holding
the rest, and sat it on top of my trash can. First thing tomorrow it was
all going in the dumpster.
Feeling more like a man than I had in days, I walked down the street and
picked up some thai food, came home, laid it all out on the coffee table
in front of my couch, put Die Hard on the TV, and relaxed, the weirdness
was past, and I still had half a weekend of well deserved post-breakup
moping around. Things were finally back to normal.
At least until an hour later when I realized that I had tomorrow all to
myself as well. I still had that new bottle of purple nail polish I'd
bought, I could try it for hours tomorrow and still have plenty of time
to get it off and be ready for work on Monday, and, most importantly, if
I started work now my nails would be dry in time for me to go to bed and
wake up tomorrow with painted nails.
Half an hour later my nails sparkled from the glitter in the deep purple
polish, as I fanned my hands through the air like I'd seen girls do in
movies and tried not to touch anything that would ruin my manicure.
------------------------------------------------
Sunday was oddly uneventful. I screwed around at home, much like I would
on any other weekend. I jerked off a little more often than normal, as
every so often my pretty purple nails pushed me over the edge, but I
always ended up regretting it. I even kept the nail polish on for a run,
trying a more remote trail that I'd been meaning to hit which I knew
would have almost no one on it. I had to masterbate the moment I got
home and into the shower after that. The dangerous thrill of being out
of the house in nail polish was amazing, the worry of what would have
happened if someone had spotted my nails didn't hit me until I'd
spattered the shower floor with a hefty load.
That evening I went to work with the nail polish remover, trying to make
a break with my weekend's deviance. I was momentarily terrified as I
realized the glitter polish didn't come off as easily as Annie's leftover
bottle, sticking stubbornly to the crevices at the edge of my nails, but
after forty minutes of determined scrubbing, and hands raw from the
acetone, I was reasonably sure I got it all off.
I went to bed fully masculine for the first time in days. It had been a
fun experiment, but I'd put it behind me, and all of that feminine crap
would go in the trash tomorrow.
------------------------------------------------
Of course the bad of forbidden objects didn't go in the trash. I
overslept on Monday and didn't have time to worry about anything but
getting to work.
I was a librarian and archivist at the University's library. It was a
pretty decent job, and the University had good benefits. The building
was nice, with some old school character, I had ready internet access to
entertain myself during slow period, and could always slope off into the
stacks if I needed some time to myself. Even when it was busier, the
students were all pretty decent folks, and usually the ones who bothered
to do actual library research had reasonable interesting questions they
were trying to answer.
A few people asked me what had happened with Annie, the gossip network
working as efficiently as ever, but no one was really surprised. Most
made some sort of sympathetic statement and moved on. The most notable
highlight of the day (I know, a low bar) was my friend Nicole from the
admissions office walking across campus to the library specifically to
congratulate me on finally getting out of the relationship, because
"Annie was a monster-bitch", and ask a couple of innocent but awkward to
answer questions about what I'd done on the weekend. Otherwise, I
handled the few students who came in, and browsed the internet a lot.
Initially I tried to ignore my weekend, but that wasn't as easy as I'd
anticipated. Stubble was starting to come in on my legs, and kept
rubbing annoyingly against the inside of my pants every time I moved.
Eventually my browsing, in a private browser tab, meandered off in the
direction of my weekend escapades as I idle browsed around for a few of
the kinds of shoes or clothes that I always thought looked good on girls.
I was surprised to see that so many things were so cheap. I was probably
looking at cheap stuff and not really knowing it, but it still shocked me
that fancy looking (to me) heels got sold at $40 or less whereas I'd been
used to dropping a hundred bucks or more on a pair of running shoes, or
clubbing dresses could be had for $20 or $30 when jeans alone at the mall
might cost me $40 or $50. But apart from some questionable web browsing
I kept it together at work, and once I got home.
Ok, maybe I browsed some of the darker corners of Reddit, like /r/traps,
in the privacy of my living room but that seemed a perfectly innocent bit
of kink compared to the weekend. I went to bed confident that everything
was back to normal, or at least as normal as the recently dumped get.
------------------------------------------------
Tuesday was a completely uneventful day for which I was grateful. I even
had some idle thoughts about maybe hitting some bars on the weekend and
making some sort of attempt to move on from Annie. The bag of feminine
items still sat, untouched, by my trashcan in the kitchen. The trouble
started on Wednesday.
The stubble on my legs had finally gotten to be too much. I clambered out
of tub mid-shower, and, dripping wet, retrieved the can of ladies shave
gel and the pink lady razor from the bag in the kitchen. Back in the
shower I lathered up, and carefully removed all the itching stubble on my
legs. I was about to put the razor away, when a sudden perverse instinct
took hold, and I went back and shaved crotch, chest and armpits as well.
It wasn't much hair, I'd only just shaved it all off on the weekend, but
somehow it made a difference. I could see suggestions of a feminine form
in my hairless legs again, and by the time I was done, I was easily at
half staff. I'd never understand how I could get turned on by myself,
but I couldn't deny the evidence, and I was forced to take care of the
problem before work.
The day somehow moved even slower than normal, and I couldn't help
browsing back to women's clothing sites. It all seemed so tantalizing.
So much of the stuff I was attracted to seemed so impractical, yet I'd
seen students around campus wearing similar stuff. It obviously couldn't
be that bad, but I was fascinated by the thought of what it was like
trying to get through the day in heels, strappy sandals, ultra-tight
pants, tops that only help on by ties, or clothes that left the back or
belly bare. Willingly putting yourself to all that trouble just to look
good seemed such a commitment.
I even ended up finding a few places with local retail stores, and
browsed their stock. The knowledge that I theoretically could, though I
never would, walk into one of these shops and physically acquire some of
these clothes was tantalizing. There was even a big discount fashion
shoe store a few minutes drive from my apartment. I'd been in before to
look at the men's section, a small fraction of the retail space, and I
was aware of the aisles of women's boots and heels. The sale prices on
the website surprised me, I'd always figured they were pricey to match
the fancy.
I tried to put all this out of my mind as the end of the day rolled
around and I went home. A good hard run should have taken the energy out
of me. But showering off afterwards, feeling my once again smooth and
hairless skin, my mind drifted back to the bag of feminine gear. If it
was something under my clothes, no one would know. It would just be me
pulling one over on the world. Getting out of the shower, I pulled on
pants and a shirt, and went to the bag to pull out the bottle of purple
nail polish. Somehow this was 'my' polish in a way that Annie's
leftovers weren't, so it felt right to use it. I sat down on the couch
and carefully painted each toenail in turn a glittery deep purple. I'd
be wearing shoes tomorrow, and no one would be the wiser. Even now, the
thought of wearing nail polish all day, in a public place was beginning
to turn me on.
But as I sat there, waiting for the nail polish to dry, a thought
occurred to me. I wonder what they'd look like in women's shoes. I had
Annie's leftover flats, but they were still on the small side, and
regardless they were closed toe, which would defeat the point. I
couldn't help thinking of the shoe store website I'd been browsing
earlier. It was a quick trip away. I could go and have shoes to try
tonight, no waiting. The store wouldn't be that full in the evening, and
I could pretend to be getting it as a gift for a girlfriend, no one would
know. Estimating a size up from the shoes Annie had left behind, I
wouldn't even need to try things on, just grap the right number and go.
I even remembered a pair of shoes that would be just right, a pair of
platform wedge sandals. Not too much of a heal, with wide leather straps
that would reveal my painted toes.
I didn't debate with myself too long. The act of painting my toes had
already primed my excitement, and the thought of buying heels only egged
me on. In the end, I could barely wait for my nails to dry enough to put
socks and shoes on. A quick drive later and I was in the store. I tried
to casually browse, looking at the men's section, browsing the slightly
more obviously gift-type purchases like handbags and wallets on the end-
caps as I surreptitiously browsed the store's selection of women's shoes.
But after 10 minutes of wandering the aisles, in the middle of my second
lap through the store I came to the realization that the shoes I'd come
to buy weren't there. The store was a national chain, maybe they had a
wider variety on the website than they did in the store, or maybe the
store was just plain out of stock.
After driving all the way over here, I was loathe to give up. This was
my whole plan for the evening: come home with some heels to try. I
didn't want to give up, but frankly none of the other wedge sandals
really appealed to me, they were all much too clunky and utilitarian for
my taste (I had a taste in shoes, who knew?). There was one pair of
shoes I'd spotted on my first lap that kept jumping to mind though. In
the store's nominally 'bridal' section, there'd been a pair of platform
heels, with a five inch spike heel on an inch tall platform. Wearing
them would raise me from a small 5'6" to a whopping (for me) 5'11". Even
worse, they were strappy sandals, just a few quarter inch wide strips of
leather to snake around the foot, in a champaign color covered with
glitter to make the shoes sparkle. They were the sort of thing a bride,
or perhaps more likely a girl headed out to the clubs, might conceivably
wear if their taste ran to the trashy side of sexy. At that moment, I
coveted them more than anything in the whole store. I swung back to the
aisle with the small bridal section at the end, and there they were, with
one last pair in my size. As I pulled the pair's box free of the stack
of shoes I noticed the small sign by the display pair. The shoes were
40% off, I was sold.
Checking out was far easier than I'd feared. The sales clerk was happy
to give me a gift receipt, and was far more interested in trying to talk
me into signing up for their frequent purchaser list than why a man was
buying bridal heels. I tried to walk nonchalantly out of the store and
back to my car, but inside I was giddy. I kept sneaking peeks into the
box on the short drive home.
Back in the apartment, I quickly shucked out of my regular sneakers and
socks. Sitting on the couch I ripped open the shoebox, it was oddly
square for someone used to men's shoes to accommodate the shorter but
taller shape of the heels. They felt so delicate in my hands, with all
the straps hanging shapelessly from the sole of the shoe. It took a
little more doing to get it on than I'd expected, and for a moment I
wondered if I'd misjudged the size, but then I realized that the straps
didn't hold their form like I expected a rigid shoe to, and I needed to
make sure the straps running criss-cross on the top my foot were settling
in the right positions. It was still a little bit of a squeeze to get my
toes under the front strap, my pinky toe ended up slightly squished
beneath it in the end. I figured that was probably just how the shoes
were made, girls were always complaining about how heels squeezed their
toes, it was the price of beauty. A thrill ran through me as I fastened
the clasp on the ankle strap that held my foot into the sandal. It
wasn't just the knowledge that I was wearing heels, extremely girlie ones
at that, almost the complete antithesis of men's shoes, but also that I
had strapped myself into them, held there, and my foot wouldn't be coming
out without at least some minor effort. A part of my brain wondered what
it would look like for fingers with painted nails to fastle the delicate
buckle, but I pushed that thought out of my mind, I was going far enough
already. I rushed to finish with the second shoe, which went much faster
now that I knew what I was doing.
And then I was wearing heels, my glittering purple toe nails dark against
my light skin and the champagne color of the shoes. There was nothing
masculine about my feet at that moment. I stood, much more easily than I
expected, and let my jeans fall over the tops of the shoes. My baggy
mens jeans almost mimicked the effect of women's pants cut long to wear
with heels, except mine were loose at the top as well. The tips of the
shoes poked out from under my pants, and the back of my pants hung loose
around the spike heel. I had to see what this looked like. I scurried to
my bedroom, my heels clicking audibly on the wooden floors. God, even
the sound was exciting me. I had a mirror in my room that sat on the
floor, like they did in shoe stores, so I could se what they looked like
from the side, like other people would see them. Strutting back and
forth in front of the mirror, and all I could think was, this is what a
woman's feet look like, this is what walking around like a woman feels
like.
I had to see what they looked like with just my bare legs. I sat on the
bed and fumbled the heels off, yanked down my pants and was about to put
the shoes back on when I hesitated. I went back to what I was starting
to think of as the 'girl bags' in the kitchen and pulled out one of the
thongs. It was a pretty utilitarian piece of clothing, just plain blue
cotton panels bordered with green cotton thongs. But I for this, I
wanted to see the full effect, I stripped out of my boxers and pulled up
the panties, doing my best to tuck my smooth cock back between my legs,
and nestled the thong between my ass cheeks. Then I want back to the
bedroom and put my heels back on.
Tilting the mirror so I could stand and see everything from the waist
down, I was amazed. I didn't look half bad, I certainly didn't look
male, other than a bit of a bulge in the panties. Not my panties, unlike
'my' heels, they still felt like they were Annie's. Maybe I needed to
get some that were mine for this. No, that's crazy, I'm a guy, I don't
own panties. But, I owned heels, and they looked great. My smooth
shaved legs worked to good effect, all the running I did had given my
nice tight calves and thighs as the heels worked to stretch my legs, push
my butt out, and my weight slightly forward. I had a slight tan line at
my ankles, where the sun didn't reach my feet while running, but that was
almost the only thing that marred my appearance below the waist.
I couldn't take it anymore, I lay down on the bed, and pulled my cock out
from it's hiding place between my legs and began to stroke it.
"Mmm...Don't you like my pretty shoes? I like them, and my long smooth
legs, they look so sexy." I whispered to myself, or perhaps an imaginary
lover. "I look so good mincing around on these heels, I look so
fuckable." I was rock hard now. I pulled my legs up, enjoying the new
sensation of having heels on in bed, constricting how I moved my legs and
placed my feet, feeling heels catch on the sheets as I pushed down to
arch my back a little, and then lifting up in the air so I could see them
and my glittery painted nails, unconsciously mimicking the motion that
would expose my ass to a lover. Soon I devolved from whispered dirty
talk to unintelligible moans, and came, again depositing a hearty load on
my belly. I touched a finger to it, and smeared it around on my skin,
then before I could think about it, I raised my finger, and touched the
barest hit of cum to my tongue. I tasted the faintest hint of salt,
before my post-orgasm clarity, relief, and shame crashed down on me.
I'd just wanted to satisfy and idle curiosity about heels, and somehow
that had turned into this. Stiletto platforms, panties, and the taste
of...no, that didn't really happen, it was so little it didn't count.
And anyway, it wasn't going to happen again.
I sat up, and took off my heels, and slipped them back in the box. The
thong returned to the girlie bags, and I cleaned up, getting dressed
again in male clothes. I was worried and disturbed by what I'd done, but
even then, I didn't throw out the girlie bags, or the heels. The bags
stayed where they were, and the heels got tucked away in the top of a
closet. I half-heartedly went about the rest of my evening, but
eventually gave up and went to bed, swearing this would be the last time.
But even as I did that, I'd never gotten out the nail polish remover, and
my nails still glittered with a deep rich purple as I drifted to a
anxious sleep.
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