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The Panty Life by Gingerfred Man A long time ago, in an era far, far away, there was no place called the Internet for all the pretty pantyboys in the world to meet, communicate and comfort each other. There was no United States Sissy Corps, no sissy-centric country of Gingerfredonia, no Panty Boy magazine or annual Miss Panty Boy competition. There were no sissy milking stations at malls and no Panty Pride gatherings in all towns, great and small. There were no Boy Brides Society chapters or sissy strip clubs. There were no Panty Boy spas or Sissyboy World stores. And there was no Lovejoy Institute or even a place like the City Hotel in Fromage, Wisconsin. Those were dark days. Of course, Woodville was well-established at that time, as was Miss Cynthia's School for Young Ladies, havens for the "vivants" of The Panty Life. But communications were so rudimentary, that the great majority of the world's pantyboys imagined that they were alone in their "appetites." One beacon stood out in those dark days of the mid-1980s - a pamphlet, printed on simple paper, sparsely illustrated, and authored by a pioneer who has yet to be identified - Miss Barbara Pinkpanties (perhaps not her "real" name.) Miss Pinkpanties was the author of the "seminal" work of its time - "The Panty Life." Learn your pantied history, girls. "The Panty Life" is the very scripture of "our passion." It gave hope and inspiration to every panty enthusiast that it touched and it endures today. Eons ahead of its time, it has recently resurfaced, via the Internet, for us all to admire and yes, learn from its timeless wisdom. This account offers the testimony of a girl whose life was bettered by our treasured "The Panty Life," then offers the work in its entirety. PART ONE - Panty Life Testimony - Panty Partners I've been asked to testify about how "The Panty Life," that wonderful little pamphlet, changed my life. I'm very happy to do so. Even happier when I have the opportunity to follow the panty pamphlet's principles. Maybe you're thinking about living The Panty Life, but don't know how to get started. I was lucky in that regard, since The Panty Life found me. I guess the best way to tell you about me is to tell you about recent events. My name is Don Benson. I'm married to the lovely Ashley and have two sweet children -- five-year-old Joey and three-year-old Brenda. I love them all. I love my job. And most of all, I love Mondays. Don't get me wrong. Weekends are great. I spend the time with my family - wonderful stuff! My children are terrific kids. My wife is a spectacular babe, with the world's biggest titties and tightest pussy (where I am a frequent visitor). But Mondays begin the work week. And I love the work week. My business partner Larry and I travel more than 40 weeks a year in our consulting business. I love consulting. I love not having to do household stuff and worry about he kids. And I love ...being who I really am during the week. Monday usually starts terrifically for me at around 4 a.m. And this past Monday was typically magnificent. My permanently horny wife woke me by enthusiastically sucking the drippy, pink, thick-foreskinned head of my big cock. She always seems desperate to get as much sex from me as possible - tiding her over until I return on Friday evening. We fuck a LOT on Friday night, Saturday and Sunday too. My life sounds pretty good so far, doesn't it? It gets better. That Monday, I awoke to watch Ashley's head bobbing up and down on my cock. Vigorously. With feeling. She was even making the slurping sounds and little girlie "effort grunts" that I enjoy so much. I was able to endure very little of that before I felt the first stirrings and warned her that I was about to cum - but she persisted. "The first cream of the day is the tastiest," Ashley often says. And she loves a bellyful of my cum. Ashley ran her red, manicured nails along my swollen balls as she deep- throated my big rammer. And, of course, I soon obliged her need for creamy nourishment. That was great! I love pumping a thick load down my beautiful wife's throat. And I adore when she sucks me to a fresh stiffie, scurries onto her back, spreads her legs, and begs for a good, hard fucking. I always oblige. Eagerly. And that Monday we engaged in a 60-minute, wet, noisy, knock-down-drag-out fuck. Ashley came, screaming as if she were being axe-murdered, four times to my grunting, heaving twice. By then it was time to get up, shower, shave and get myself together so I could catch my 7 a.m. plane. Ashley, the naughty mynx, followed me into the shower, then managed to extract from me, through a splendid effort, a nice, fresh stiffie. I turned her away from me, pressed her body against the glass shower door, rammed my thick splitter into her impossibly tight asshole (her scream awoke the inhabitants of a cemetery three miles away), and fucked her bottom mercilessly until we were both spent, dry and exhausted. But that's still not why I love Mondays. Somehow I managed to make it to the airport and scurry onto my flight seconds before the plane door closed. Whew! There was Larry, my partner, in seat 17A. I slumped into 17B. Took a deep breath. "I knew you'd make it," he said. "Ashley wants to drain you so you won't cheat on her during the week. But she knows you have to leave home, to work, so she can have a nice home and 'things.' If she only knew that you would never cheat on her." Larry was right. Ashley would always be the only woman in Don Benson's life. After I caught my breath, I asked Larry about his weekend. It was always the same with him. A bachelor, Larry's weekends were always sex, sex and rock and roll. He loved to give details. Messy details. And I pity the woman sitting in 17C. He was not exaggerating. Larry had all the sex he could handle - every weekend. And with good reason. But more about that later. We arrived at our destination city at 9 a.m., hustling to retrieve our bags, rent a car and drive to a 10:30 client meeting. We were engaged by the client for the entire week and the work days were full and very professionally satisfying. The time after work was personally satisfying. By 5:45 that Monday, we had checked into our hotel. Ashley thinks it's a great idea that Larry and I share a hotel room to "save money." I once withered at looks we got from hotel staff when Larry and I checked into a shared, single, king-sized-bed room. Now I find it amusing. Larry went into the bathroom to "freshen up" while I called Ashley. I enjoy talking to my wife and kids and do so every day when I'm on the road. We spoke for an unhurried 45 minutes - just as Larry was emerging from the bathroom. Or should I say "Rhonda" was emerging from the bathroom. Rhonda was the real Larry. The one the world doesn't see as often as it should. The legion of men who fuck her brains out every weekend, buy her expensive gifts and pelt her with marriage proposals know who Rhonda really is. And I certainly know who she is. Ashley doesn't know Rhonda. Nor does she know Pamela. I'm Pamela. At least I am evenings, Monday through Thursday - 40 or so weeks a year. And that's what makes Mondays special. Rhonda was already in full make-up and femme persona. She was rolling a silky, black stocking up her left leg, while giving me a coquettish look through her long-lashed, lined, shadowed and mascaraed eyes. "Don't get any ideas, mister," she teased. "Your bag of 'things' is in my suitcase. Now get to work." I sighed. She was right. I wanted to get into full femme before...whatever. Rhonda kept my "things" at her place. No sense worrying about explaining "things" to Ashley. As I showered, dried and powdered, I remembered the early days of my business partnership with Larry. After about six months of working together, he asked me a question that perplexed me. He asked, "Are you a friend of Barbara?" Who the heck was Barbara? My blank look was Larry's answer and he quickly changed the subject. About three weeks after that, I was in my hotel room [in those days, we had adjoining rooms on the road], looking at some work documents. There in the midst of some boring drivel was a pamphlet that changed my life - "The Panty Life," by Barbara Pinkpanties. What the heck? The cover was illustrated with a Bill Ward cartoon of a gorgeous, very sexy, 50s-style woman with huge breasts, towering pencil heels and a skin-tight dress over her mega-voluptuous body. Was it porn? Was a client making a joke? Or had a client inadvertently shared something he shouldn't have. The picture alone stirred my cock. It was a Wednesday and I hadn't been laid since Monday morning. I opened the pamphlet. And read it. And read it. And was overcome with awe as I peered into a world that I didn't know existed. A world of feminine pleasures. A world that I had never thought was for me. But I thought about what it would be like to visit. I thought a lot. That night, reading Ms. Pankpanties' masterpiece for the third time, I removed my cock from my boxers and stroked it. Imagining that I was wearing panties and stockings and kissing another delicious pantyboy. Before long, I cried out and emptied my testicles in six powerful spasms. Shame and guilt followed immediately. But my dreams of achieving my femininity stayed with me. Over the next week, I was terribly preoccupied - dreaming dreams I never dared to dream before. Ashley noticed. I said it was dyspepsia or something. She still had me fuck her brains out - dyspeptic or not. The next Wednesday, one week later, at the hotel bar after work, Larry asked me again if I was a friend of Barbara. Oh my. Was he...? Oddly, I had forgotten that Larry had asked me the Barbara question before. Had Larry slipped "The Panty Life" into my workpile? How was I to answer that question? Was I a friend of Barbara? Trembling, I answered my partner. "No. I mean, maybe. I think so." And then, "Yes." Larry smiled broadly. "So am I," he said. "Let's go to my room." We did. In anticipation of my positive response, Larry had a full array of "things" for me. And we enjoyed an evening similar to the one I was about to enjoy that Monday night. That Monday night. In the bathroom, I slowly slipped into my feminine persona - a role I found easy to inhabit?and enjoyed immensely. I had gently eased my stockings up my clean-shaven legs and stuffed my huge cock into my wispy panties. I mused about how wonderful the stockings felt on my unhairy legs, silently thanking Rhonda for getting me that "doctor's note" to show Ashley about my skin condition that required me to shave all hair below my sideburns. I wondered what disgusting, degrading acts Rhonda had to willingly perform for the doctor to give her that note for me. I giggled at the thought of how much Rhonda enjoyed that. I could have never gotten the note on my own, since I was not interested in men as sexual partners. No - that was too gay for me. Even though Rhonda seemed to have made the ingestion of male seminal fluids, while covered by one or more sweating, grunting, rutting men, a pivotal part of her life. Not for me. I was a pantyboy's pantyboy. I fussed a bit with my make-up before presenting myself to Rhonda. I had gotten quite skillful at its application and loved the result. It was, I thought, a very pretty face that I was admiring in the mirror. As I exited the bathroom, Rhonda was fussing with her slutty make-up and her "big-hair" wig. Oh, Baby. She was dishy. I moved quickly to share a mirror with her, putting the last highlights on my pretty eyes and pouty lips. Then slid on the rest of my "things" for the evening. It was to be all-pink for me - black for Rhonda, While only a pornstar woman would wear pink stockings, pink garter belt, pink five-inch-stiletto sandals, a pink, sheer, babydoll nightie, pink panties and a blonde, curly-hair wig, it worked for me. Rhonda's black outfit was equivalent, including her blonde wig. All dressed, we took things slowly. Prancing around the room in our big heels. Admiring each other's loveliness and femininity. Our excitement was building nicely, if my crowded panties had anything to say about it. No wonder all those men wanted to fuck Rhonda - and did fuck her - I thought. She's spectacular. I shuddered at the thought of Rhonda's weekends - men in bed with her. Kissing her. Stretching her tight bottom with their thick cocks. Making her cum her guts out. Well, that was fine for Rhonda - but not for me. I was quite happy with the way things were, thank you. Rhonda and I were sitting in chairs across from each other. She had removed her left shoe and was rubbing her stockinged foot up and down my left calf. Oh. I darned near spurted, just from that. The femininity of the whole thing, I've decided, is what excites me. Mine and Rhonda's. Rhonda and I reveled in our girlishness - giggling and batting our eyes at each other as we visually teased each other's libido. Things were growing a bit warm for further teasing, however. My "pink bag" hadn't been emptied for 12 hours and it was bursting with sticky juices. Rhonda and I stood, moved slowly toward each other, and embraced. I shuddered at her touch as her lingeried body rubbed against my own. Rhonda's lipsticked mouth opened as my hungry tongue probed for her tonsils. I adored kissing Rhonda. She was a better kisser than my Ashley because, unlike my wife, who like almost all spouses was striving for dominance in our marriage, Rhonda surrendered to me completely. It was an interesting paradox. Rhonda definitely set the agenda for our lovemaking as far as where and when. But once we had begun, she was the most submissive of partners. That suited my subdued-but-still-present male ego perfectly. I loved being girly, but I also enjoyed being the "top." Though sometimes, in my naughtiest dreams, I imagined what it would be like to be a complete "bottom." Maybe I'll discuss that a bit later. At that moment, I was thinking about the smell of Rhonda's perfume, her white-hot lips and her pantied bottom cheeks, which I had cupped in both my soft hands. Rhonda whimpered softly as I French-kissed her pretty mouth and ground my pink-pantied cock against her black-pantied teeny weenie. I made girlish murmurs too as I felt the first stirrings of my first cummy messy of that wonderful evening. Rhonda takes great delight in making me "fill my panties," even before I get to take them off. Rhonda's feminine scent. The sounds of her passion. The sight of her delicate beauty. The taste of her lipstick. And the feel of her skin and lingerie as they created a delicious friction against my tingling body. My five senses convened and produced a helpless, spurting, screaming flood of sperm from my agonized testicles, drenching my panties and making me a very happy Friend of Barbara. Rhonda's first orgasm of the evening was yet to emerge. The little showoff was a lot better at keeping her spermies in her "purse" than I was. She always says that's my lingering maleness showing itself - always looking to drop my load as soon as possible. I guess she's right. Rhonda seems to have lost all the maleness she was born with and whatever she picked up along the way. When my breathing returned to near-normal, and I remembered that Rhonda was still there, I was ready to move the evening along. Rhonda smiled as she moved me over to sit on the bed. "Oh, what a mess my Pamela made," she said with a girlish giggle. "Let's have a look." She eased my panties down and held my soaked, semi-limp cock in her hand. "Poor baby," she said. "It's wounded. How can I fix it?" Before I could answer that rhetorical question, Rhonda scooted up on the bed, lay on her back and said in a little-girl voice, "Let's go to bed." "Great idea," I said. And it was. Rhonda had slid the covers off the bed, leaving only six large pillows and the white, fitted sheet - a blank canvas that we would paint with our plentiful, sticky, girl's cream. A history of our night of passion. Rhonda slid her panties down, showing me her four-inch stiffie in all its girlish glory. Her sissy stick was about the size of my middle finger. Rhonda's legion of male admirers knew full well that she was a "special girl" long before they went panty fishing with her. When they discovered that this sexy little thing had a weenie worthy of a mouse, they were even more delighted. Another reason why I could never submit to a man. What would he think if his girlfriend's sausage was meatier than his own? Awkward! Anyway, back to Rhonda and me. On the bed. My panties were at mid thigh. My cock was half-stiff, wet and slick with cummy goo. Rhonda and I had kicked off our big heels. She was pointing her stockinged toes in a most provocative manner. She was holding her skimpy, black nightie up, exposing her considerable nipples to my lustful gaze. Had those nipples puffed up since our last love session the previous Thursday? Was Rhonda taking those injections girls like us take to enhance our boobies and our overall girlishness? Regardless, they were too delicious to ignore. I was going to suck her peeny until she gave me a warm treat, but I had to attend to those puffy treasures first. Rhonda gasped as I encircled her right "titty" with my mouth and began to suck and lick it. My own popsy was stiffening as I feasted on Rhonda's nipple. Rhonda really enjoyed what I did next. Ignoring her stiffie, I licked two fingers and eased them into her "pussy." Rhonda loved my fingers in her pussy. And I loved teasing and pleasing her prostate as I tormented her left nipple with my tongue and lips. I love when Rhonda squeals. It means she's about to cum a bucket. She squealed and spurted and gasped and spurted. All over her tummy. Then she rolled over on her stomach to rub the cum on the sheets. It's something she does. "Cummy sheets illustrate a love story," she likes to say. What must the maid think of us, I often think. Anyway, Rhonda and I had each emptied our pink purses once, but that had barely singed our passion. Our next activity was our very favorite. We were going to fuck. And I mean fuck. I fuck my sweet Ashley. A lot. She loves to fuck. And I love to fuck her. But I always seem to fuck Rhonda within an inch of her life. And mine. With Rhonda and me, it's more than a fuck. It's not life or death. It's way more important than that. I'm the fucker. Rhonda is always the fuckee. Positions vary. That night, round one was going to be doggie. Rhonda knew we were gong to fuck and she couldn't wait. She got on her knees, piled four pillows under her tummy and wiggled her pretty bottom at me. What a sight. Black, fully fashioned stockings and a lacy, black garter belt framed two perfect globes on either side of her wrinkled, pink/brown pussy. What a pussy! No wonder those men she "dates" every weekend adore her. My big rammer was drooling and was of course, fully stiff again. Had I been a brutish man, I would have just shoved it in - dry. But girls are more considerate. I was going to eat that pussy before I fucked it. I eased up on my pink-stockinged knees, parted Rhonda's bottom cheeks with my thumbs and dove into her pussy with my tongue. Yummy! I gave her a tonguing for the ages. Made her cum, shuddering, into the top pillow, which may have soaked down through the other three. Then it was my turn. Rhonda's bottomhole was wet and loose from my muffiediving. My cock was at full stand. Time to get the two matched up. I eased the head to the entrance and rubbed it around, teasing her - listening to her whimpering, then begging for a proper fucking. So I gave her one. Rhonda groaned loudly when I inserted my whole mushroom knob. She gasped when I eased the entire shaft into her warm canal. She screamed when I fucked her through two spasmodic cums, then flooded her bowels with a gallon of my own girlish juices. The sheets got a lot messier that night. Somehow, the next morning, as we always did, we tidied up the room and butched up for work. Somehow, we got a full day's work done and found ourselves back in the room on Tuesday night. Of course we had gotten some odd stares from the hotel staff. You just can't get that cum smell out of a room. Plus, the cum stains on the sheets tell a story you don't need a CSI team to decipher. Anyway, when I finished my call to Ashley, Rhonda had laid out a whole different set of "things." "What's this, Honey?" I asked. "These look like..." "That's right, Sweetie," Rhonda said. "We're going out." Out? Pamela had never been "out." Out where? Out how? Outside of bed, Rhonda was not to be denied. But I was terrified of what she wanted to do. Rhonda was "out" all the time. She dated men. They took her to restaurants and hotels and dancing. But me? Out? Submissive as Rhonda was in the sack, she seemed to be able to get me to do whatever she wanted when we were vertical. I was trembling as I put on the "things" Rhonda had brought for my maiden excursion. A simple blouse. A tiny miniskirt that showed off my long, black- stockinged legs and black, stiletto sandals. Looking at myself in the mirror, I realized that my raging erection presented two problems - 1) it would draw a public stare or two and 2) it raised my skirt so high that my stocking tops were exposed, which would draw more stares. Not to mention the stares I knew I would get from people who didn't appreciate those of us living The Panty Life. The thought of being in public, with people, especially men, looking at me was humiliating, terrifying and, surprisingly, wildly exciting to me. I wanted to tell Rhonda that I couldn't and wouldn't, but I found myself clacking through the hotel lobby, blushing furiously and trying to think of things that would calm my erection. The puzzled looks the hotel staffers gave me made me even more humiliatingly stiff. Somehow we made it to our rental car. I must admit that I did enjoy the feeling of the breeze up my skirt as Pamela breathed free air for the first time. But I was trembling and my eyes were filled with girlish tears. Rhonda took a measure of pity on me. "Don't worry, Pamela," she said. "It gets easier and then it gets to be irresistible." That was it? No, "I see you're not ready for this yet. Maybe when we're 60?" No. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself when Rhonda pulled into a small strip mall a mile from our hotel. The biggest store's name leapt out at me - Timmy's Girlish Secret. The store for pantyboys. And their "daddies." I had seen their ads, of course. They were in all the big newspapers and magazines and all over TV. But the gayness of them all put me off. The chain's "spokesmodel," the alleged "Timmy," was a doll of epic dimensions. And the little angel's image was everywhere in the store. The first sign as one entered was a large reproduction of an ad I had seen in Time magazine the week before. Timmy, naked except for lace-top, sheer, white stockings and a wispy garter belt, was smiling radiantly. His incredibly beautiful face, artfully enhanced with high-end cosmetics, was drenched with someone's life-supply of sperm. His flat, girlish stomach was a lake of his own creamy juices. His puffy, gorgeous nipples were orgasmically erect. And his minute popsy, pink and uncircumcised, was limp and drooling seminal juices. The ad's "copy" was even more provocative: "I'm so glad I told 'Daddy' my girlish secret," the cum-soaked angel said. And the subhead said, "And so is 'Daddy'" Had I thought about that ad even a little, I would have realized that it epitomized Ms. Pinkpanties' concept of The Panty Life. A sweet pantyboy accepting himself for the feminine person he was. Choosing to share his body and its sexual delights with an older man, not his actual father, whom he called, "Daddy." But in my fear, discomfort and wild arousal, my eyes passed over the ad and surveyed the rest of the store. Row upon row of girlish "things." Lovely things. Things that fascinated me, Things I wanted. But the customers were even more interesting. A few "girls" like Rhonda and me. But many more couples. Actual pantyboys (of various ages) and their adoring and apparently deep-pocketed boyfriends. There were even some young pantyboys and older "daddies." Ms. Pinkpanties' treatise come to life. In front of my eyes. Rhonda was in her element. Shopping methodically. Calling me over to show me what I could purchase to "pep me up a bit." Bustiers. Bras. Teddies. Corsets. Delicious stockings and cute shoes. And oceans of panties. I had found heaven. Despite my fears, I joined Rhonda in a successful, expensive and exciting lingerie-hunting-and-gathering expedition. Over $900 worth! Rhonda put it all on our corporate card so that Ashley wouldn't get a rude shock when she paid our credit card bill. ("Honey, why would that disgusting, awful, perverted sissy lingerie place send us a bill for $973.14?") I couldn't wait to get that exquisite collection...and Rhonda...back to our hotel room for some proper ball-draining. Lots of ball draining. And soon. I was horribly aroused from all we had seen and done. But Rhonda had other ideas. After she signed the credit-card charge, she said to the sales"girl," "Can we leave these bags here while we're in the milking booths?" The sales"girl" smiled, "Of course, Madam. Please go to booth three. Your lovely companion can use booth five." Huh? Milking booths? Rhonda had me by the elbow and was leading me to the back of the store. "This is such a wonderful feature of 'Timmy's Girlish Secret.' They know the merchandise arouses us, so they offer us volunteer milkers to relieve our 'stress.'" Milkers? What was she talking about? I thought Rhonda and I would be milking each other. And I would be fucking her. Hard. A lot. Rhonda was moving me so fast. "Who are these milkers?" I managed to say. "Are they the sales'girls?'" Rhonda giggled, "Of course not, silly. They're local, successful, older businessmen, who pay the store for the privilege of wanking our little wilies until we make spermies. They're daddies!'" Terror gripped my heart. Men?!?!?! I couldn't. It was gay. It was horrible. It wasn't me. But Rhonda was so insistent. And my ballbag was bursting with hot, thick, creamy sperm. I needed relief. Rhonda would be going into booth three to get her purse emptied. If I refused the slippery-pawed brute in booth five, I would have to wait. Painful waiting. Owww. I could always just go into booth five and see what he was like. The milker. That man. Who milked customers at Timmy's Girlish Secret. Rhonda said he was a successful businessman. Maybe he would be a good business lead for our company. So it would be a good business move to see who he was. What he was like. Giggling, Rhonda scooted into booth three, lifting her skirts as she swept into the booth. The little tramp. I gripped the doorknob to booth five, took a breath and entered. The man in the booth was a big surprise. He wasn't a mouth-breather or an obvious pervert. His suit must have cost $3,000. And he filled it very well. Lean and fit. Silver-haired and about 50 years old. And very handsome. Ms. Pinkpanties' archetypical "Daddy!" He was sitting in the booth's lone easy chair, reading a thick book that extolled the virtues of capitalism. He looked up and smiled at me. I was trembling violently. He was a man. What would he want from me? Well, I wasn't going to give it to him. What if he just decided to TAKE my virtue? I would resist him of course, but I was only a weak girl. Wasn't I? Looking at him again, I didn't think he looked violent. But he was still a man. And I didn't "swing that way." As I considered my fight- or-flight options, "that man" spoke. "Oh my," he said. "I'm so glad I was lucky enough that you joined me instead of your companion. I saw you both come in the store and I said, I hope the pretty one joins me for her milking." He thought I was prettier than Rhonda! It was true, but it was very nice to hear it. Even from a man. I blushed a bit and glowed a little with the praise. But I couldn't speak and was still trembling. "My name is Tony," he said. "What's your name, Sweetheart?" Normally that's a reasonable question, but I was still dumbstruck. He smiled again. "I'll just call you Sweetheart until you're ready to speak. I can see that you and your friend are having a torrid romance. My guess is that she has a collection of male admirers. My second guess is that you have not yet given up all your masculinity and masculine notions. How am I doing?" Oh! How did he know? What else did he see when he looked into my soul? My throat unclogged a bit and I was able to say one word, "Pamela." Tony smiled more broadly, then stood up and walked over to where I was tottering on my five-inch, pencil heels. "I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Pamela." He leaned over and kissed my hand, most gallantly. If he was trying to erode the vestiges of my masculinity, that was a great way to start. My poor, aching popsy twitched when his lips brushed my fingers. Tony stood straight again. "You poor girl," he said. "All the excitement of being en femme, enhanced by the lovely feminine things of Timmy's Girlish Secret. And then there's the notion of being alone in a milking booth with a man. Your poor testicles must be aching." I actually whimpered. Another smidge of masculinity slipped away from me. "I know you've never been with a man, Pamela, but let me at least give you some of the relief we both know you need." Oh. He was even using reason as a weapon. The beast! I wavered. "Well...." "Pamela...my dear. If you would remove your panties, I could assist." Reasonable. The panties were an obstruction to relief. "In fact," Tony went on, "I could remove your panties for you, if you wish." Well, it could expedite things. "OK," I said, in a little-girl voice I didn't know I had. Obediently, I lifted my miniskirt to reveal my pink, wispy and severely tented panties. It was excruciatingly mortifying. And I felt as if I would cum at any instant. Tony drew in his breath. "I see your problem. Two problems, actually. First, you are in severe need of a milking. That's obvious and easy to fix. Your second problem is your enormous cock. It's keeping you from achieving your true femininity. Not because of its size, but because of what you think its size means." That sort of made sense. I guessed. I thought. No, not really. Tony stood behind me and slipped his thumbs into the hips of my panties. As he began to ease them down, Tony continued. "The Panty Life is a big tent, Pamela. Just like that big tent in your panties. A big cock is no disqualification from a life of feminine joys. Just as a smaller cock is no disqualification from being a man who loves to please pantyboys. You've decided that your big cock is a license to hang onto your maleness. Let me ask you, do you and you girlfriend live around here?" "No," I whispered as he exposed my cock to the elements and all his virile lust. "Oh, Sweetheart," Tony said. "That's a lovely, lovely cock. A beautiful girl with a big, pretty popsy. What a delight! But let me ask you some other questions. I'll assume that you're here on business as 'gentlemen,' perhaps business partners or co-workers. You probably spend weekends as men and weekdays as girls. True?" Amazingly close, but..."Almost," I said. "Rhonda spends her weekends as a girl too." "Aha," he said, as he held my balls in his left hand, gently stirring them. "So, you're married, then?" "Uhhh," I grunted in affirmation. He knew how to handle a "girl's pink purse." "You're worried about your wife finding out about Pamela, but not so worried that you'll stop fucking Rhonda, are you?" "No," I groaned, as he gently skinned back my foreskin, exposing my most sensitive and pinkest part. "You need this very badly, don't you? But you think it's gay. In fact, you don't even suck Rhonda's cock do you?" I cried out with a little squeak as he teased my pink knob with his skilled fingers. "Look at all that goo you're leaking. You're going to cum soon, I think. And I think you'll enjoy it. Even though I'm a man and you don't like men 'that way.' Your cock seems to like this man, however." He was right. He was rubbing my slippery goo all over my pee lips and the tender underside of my cockhead. And tickling my balls so nicely. But what pushed me off the cliff was when he began to plant soft kisses on my neck. With a girlish squeal, I began to pump large spurts of hot cum into the air. I turned my head to look at him and the rogue kissed me. Right on the mouth. Which made me cum even harder. Shuddering and whimpering. And kissing back. I was so ashamed. Apparently, I was gay. Or at least had gay tendencies. Which so far had only emerged in desperate situations. So maybe I wasn't gay. Or only a little gay. It was all so confusing. I wanted to say, "Thank you, very much, sir. You've performed a valuable service to a lady in some physical distress. I'll just be on my way now. Have a good life. Goodbye. Forever. But it never came out. What did come out was my tongue as we continued kissing. I had cum hard, draining my balls quite nicely, but all that gay kissing was making me all hot and needy again. And Tony kept kissing me. He turned me around so we were face to face and, hungrily licking and sucking my tongue, he did something quite rude. He ran the pad of his right middle finger along the entrance to my anus. I wanted to say, "Excuse me sir, but my pussy is off limits! I don't even let my lover, Rhonda touch me there. It's too gay!" What I said instead was, " ." I suppose the rude man took that as encouragement because he entered my anus up to the first knuckle. That made me issue a soft scream. Was it the cry of a demon of masculinity leaving my body? Between desperate kisses, my milker said things like, "so beautiful" and "your pussy is so hot and tight." And he pushed his finger in all the way. I drew in my breath as if I had been kicked in the stomach. And then I felt a second finger in there. How did it fit? I had never even stuck my own finger in there. Boy, had I been missing something. When Tony found my prostate with both fingers and began to massage it gently, but insistently, I screamed as if I were being chain-saw- massacred. Then my poor tummy contracted and my half-limp cock began to drool and spurt more cum than I knew one person could ever discharge. It was a different orgasm than I had ever had. I felt it as much in my pussy as I did in my cock and balls. And it went on for almost two minutes. I was a whimpering puddle of emasculation when my orgasm subsided. Tony, the beast, seemed very pleased with himself. Though I was wondering how he would explain to the dry cleaner how he got a half- gallon of cum all over his beautiful suit. "I'm so happy you enjoyed that, Darling," he said. "Exploring new aspects of The Panty Life can be delightful, can't it? I suppose you'll have to go now. You and your companion will return to your hotel room and make love all night. She's so fortunate. You're an angel of love. I suppose I'll go home now too. Take this cum-drenched suit off. Think about you and 'relieve' myself. All alone." That didn't seem right. He had been so nice. And accommodating. Rhonda could wait a minute or too while I did the polite thing. Fair's fair. A cum for a cum. Actually a cum for two cums. I wasn't giving him a double-header. "I could milk you," I offered. "I mean, I don't do that with men, but you've been so nice. And you seem to need it. Just as I did." He smiled that sweet smile again. He really was so handsome and so masculine. Tony removed his cummy pants and jacket, then removed his boxers, exposing a very nice cock that was almost as big as mine. It looked so dark and angry. Except for the tip which was skinned back and very pink. Well, I certainly wasn't going to suck it. But, I could "help him out." Tony sat in a straight-back chair and beckoned me over to sit on his lap. That seemed reasonable. My panties, you'll recall, were still off, so my bare bottom was tickled by his hairy thighs. His cock stood proud. Mine seemed down for the count, but it twitched a little at my new, somewhat compromising situation. I hesitated at touching his stiffie. That was another line to cross in a very linear evening. But fair was fair. I touched his cock. And didn't die. He touched my cock. Handling it very nicely. I loved the way he handled it. I tried to imitate his technique and he moaned softly. Then he kissed me. That was fair too. I mean, I was kissed during my milking. Shouldn't he be too? He was an excellent kisser. And I guess he forgot that this was supposed to be his milking. Because he got me back in a stiff condition as he wanked me and we kissed deeply. I wanted him to enjoy himself. So I kissed my fingertips, then rubbed them all over his twitching cockhead. Not that I was going to put my actual lips on his cock. Or any cock. No. But the teasing seemed to excite him. And me. For some crazy reason, despite two cataclysmic cums within 20 minutes, I was panting and gasping my way toward a third. Was the man a warlock or something? Or just a man; and I needed a man? When his orgasm seemed imminent, I stopped kissing him and looked down at my handiwork. His peelips were leaking furiously. His cockhead was red and angry-looking. Then, with a manly grunt, he began to pump sperm. In thick jets. Straight up. All over my hand and arm. And his tummy and pubic area. What a fine mess I'd gotten him into. Seeing all that put me in my own distress. My sensitive milker saw that and responded beautifully. He stood me up turned me around and bent me over. Tottering on my heels, bent at the waist, my bottom exposed to a lustful man, my semi-stiff pricklet on the verge of yet another orgasm. What a great way to be! What he did next was REALLY horrible. Almost too gay to describe. I can't tell you. It's too embarrassing. Well, I'll tell you, but keep it to yourself, OK? I thought he was going to put his fingers back in my pussy. But he didn't. He put his TONGUE in my pussy! It was the most emasculating thing that had ever happened to me. It was the most humiliating thing that ever happened to me. And it made me cum so hard that, when it was all over, I sank to my knees. Sobbing. Was I crying because I was sexually exhausted? Yes. Was I crying because I was mourning my lost masculinity and "heterosexuality?" Double yes! Was I crying because I didn't think would see Tony again? And that I was half in love, or at least lust, with him? Definitely not. Well, maybe. A partial maybe. I was still whimpering when he kissed me goodbye. He gave me his business card. Begged me to call him when we were in town the next time. When was that, I asked myself. Soon, I hoped. Panties in hand. Lipstick and mascara a disaster, I staggered out of the booth and saw Rhonda's big smile. "I knew you would enjoy it," she said. "Let's get back to the hotel and you can tell me all about it." So much for sensitivity to my humiliation and emasculation. I whimpered and remained silent until we got back to the room (having run the gauntlet of disapproval from the hotel staff). Then, when we got into our nighties and into bed for a nice cuddle, I said, "It was horrible, Rhonda. A man. Doing things. Making me cum against my will. Why did you force me to do that?" Rhonda chuckled. "Nobody forced you, Honey. That was all on you. How many times did he make you cum against your will?" "Three," I spat back. "But that's not the point." "It isn't?" she said. "What is the point? And did you make him cum too?" My ears were hot with shame. "Yes," I admitted. Rhonda chuckled. "Sounds as if you had fun. And so did he. Did you enjoy it?" "It was gay. And humiliating. And I felt like a little tramp." "But did you enjoy it?" Truth was victorious. "Yes." "A lot?" "Yes." "Wonderful! Oh, Honey, I'm so proud of you. You took a big step and you won't regret it. You'll enjoy The Panty Life even more now." I thought about that. Then I said, "Rhonda, can I suck your cock?" "I thought you'd never ask, Pamela. I thought you'd never ask." PART TWO - The Panty Life - A Pantyboy's Guide to Feminine Joys ©1987 By Barbara Pinkpanties Welcome to your new life! Welcome to the never-ending joys of lifelong femininity! Welcome to a life of satin and lace. A life of taffeta and silk. A life of adoration from males and resentment from the women whose femininity you exceed in every way. Welcome to a life of orgasms beyond all expectation. Endless and stunningly intense cums that leave you helpless and quivering with temporarily sated lust, only to repeat the delights in short order. Welcome to a life of girlish joy. Of teasing and pleasing your fellow sissies and the many virile men who will dominate you in bed and submit to you in all other ways. Welcome to the life of a belly full of manly cum and bottom full of manly cock. Whether nature made you a girl in appearance, except for your saucy little cock and your pretty, pink purse filled with cute, girlish testicles, or a somewhat hairier, manlier-looking, yet still feminine person, you have chosen well, Grasshopper. The Panty Life is the best life. This pamphlet can help guide you through the transition to feminine bliss. Its knowledge and wisdom have been hard-earned. Use it well. THE SISSY BOY - Some of you knew you were girls when you were very young. You weren't like the so-called, "other boys." Thank goodness! You were always called "sissy boy," which mean children thought was an insult. But you knew it wasn't. You were proud to be a sissy boy, weren't you? You cried when they teased you, but you knew they could never make you act like them. You were delicate. You were sensitive. You were wearing your mother's or your sisters' panties. And you were not about to stop. What you didn't know was that those mean boys' big things were hard whenever they thought of you. They mocked you, but they really wanted to pull your panties down and stick their big, boy stiffies in your pretty bottom. They wanted to make you squeal and tell them how manly they were. They wanted you to submit to them. They wanted to fill your pretty bottom with thick globs of their sticky cream, then stand over you beating their chests. You have your instincts and they have theirs. THE CONVERT - Maybe you were thought of as being "one of the boys." Maybe you played football and smoked cigars behind the barn. Maybe you thought of yourself as manly. Then it happened. One day, when you were alone in the house and your cock was hard, you spied a pair of your mom's or your sisters' panties. No one would ever know, you thought, if you would just pick them up and inspect them. Maybe you even gave them a good sniff in the messy parts. Something happened to you then. You didn't know why. But you took off all your boy clothes and you tried the panties on. Settled your tender testicles into the panties' silky embrace. Gasped. The sensations were more thrilling than anything that had ever happened to you. Your boyish prick was standing more stiffly than it ever had. Tenting your panties. Aching. Sore. You touched the skinned head through your panties and you experienced an orgasmic seizure so intense that you fell to your knees. Even as the last glob of goo was evacuating your girlish balls, panic seized you. You had cum in a female relative's panties! You were a pervert, soon to be exposed as such if you didn't immediately, frantically clean up and set things right. But the wave of guilt and panic was quickly replaced by a tsunami of lust. Your cock was stiff in the sopping panties once again. The odor of your cum assailed your nostrils. You feared that you were gay and twisted and a pantyboy and suddenly, intensely, you were cumming again. Crying out in a most unmanly squeal. Sound familiar? THE RECRUIT - Maybe you were led into the panty life by someone else. A dominant male. A dominant female. A fellow, pantied princess. Thank goodness for that! Perhaps an older man befriended you, praised your beauty, had you try on panties and, before you knew it, your pretty bottom was regularly playing host to his thick cock and gallons of hot sperm. Perhaps your mother or a girlfriend persuaded you into your first panties. It's the rare boy who can resist such an opportunity to experience feminine joys. Perhaps a friendly fellow near your age showed you his panties and asked you if you had ever tried putting panties. Assuring yourself that a little experimentation was normal, you went to a sleepover at his house. The night evolved into the best experience of your life thus far. Pink nighties. Lipsticked mouths swallowing each other's tongues. Your first blowjobs - given and received. Your first bellyful of cum. Your first experience of fingers in your pretty bottom. It was all so delicious. So many routes to The Panty Life. So much to look forward to. "FORCED?"?Maybe you've convinced yourself that it's not your "fault" that you're a helpless, simpering, little pantyboy. Uncle put you in panties and stockings, forced you to your knees and stuck his big cock into your unwilling mouth. Right. Maybe uncle was strong enough to "force" you to slowly, sensuously pull your silky stockings up your delicious legs, then carefully attach them to your pink, ruffled garter belt. Maybe uncle slid the four-inch stiletto pumps on your pretty feet, then "made" you get on your knees to swallow his cock. Maybe. But uncle didn't make you swallow his big, creamy load, did he? And he certainly didn't make you trail your tongue down his cock to lick up that thick strand of sticky cum that had migrated to his balls. And he didn't make you bathe his big, hairy sack with your wet tongue to clean it thoroughly of his ecstatic discharge. And he certainly didn't "make" you tongue his anus to get him hard enough to fuck you for the third time that night. Did he? That was all your idea. Face it, Honey. You're a pantyboy because you adore being a pantyboy. And, though you've told yourself that you can "stop anytime you want," we both know that's not true. Don't we? THE G-WORD - Gay. That's what some will call you. Then run home and abuse their cocks while thinking of you. Forget them. They're just jealous that you live The Panty Life and they don't. They call you "little faggot." But they're wrong. You're not gay. The boys and men who will make endless, moist love to you aren't gay either. "Homo" means "same." You're as different from manly men sexually as you could possibly be. Not the same. GIRLFRIENDS - We pantyboys need girlfriends - other boys who are like us. Pretty boys who like to wear panties and nighties and suck other pretty boys' girlish stiffies. Intuitively we know there are others like us, but meeting them is always challenging. A pantied girlfriend reassures us that, while we may be a pervert in the eyes of the world, we are normal to at least one other person. Plus, having that person's mouth frequently wrapped around our cock is a good thing. Find girlfriends. You need them and they need you. But how? You can't just advertise in the newspaper. Or set up an 800 number. Maybe someday there will be a better way for us to find each other, but for now, I recommend you just go up to someone you suspect is a pantyboy and ask, "Are you a friend of Barbara?" If she's read this pamphlet, within the hour the two of you will be locked in a panties- down, full 69. If you get a blank stare, you make up a cover story... "I thought you knew Barbara Smith from 3rd Grade. Sorry." No harm, no foul. Try it. Members of Alcoholics Anonymous identify each other by asking, "Are you a friend of Bill?" (for Bill Wilson, founder of AA). Gay men identify each other by asking, "Are you a friend of Dorothy?" (for the Wizard of Oz character gay icon Judy Garland played.) Why shouldn't we pantyboys discover each other by asking if we are friends of...well...me? Once you have a girlfriend, you can tell each other your sissy secrets, paint each other's toenails, show each other your best panties, trade nighties and suck each other's cocks until you're drained and gasping. And oh, yes, you can talk about boys. BOYFRIENDS - Oh. This is definitely the best part of being a pantyboy. The adoration from the males of the species. The delicious orgasms - given and received. The affirmation of our femininity by the only true measure - the stiffness of the aroused male's penis. And you will stiffen penises. As many as you wish to stiffen. Men adore us. We fulfill the male's primal need to dominate another male. And the male's need to deposit his sperm in the female. We're nature's two-fer. And we're far more feminine than the squeegee-man-attired females whom males encounter on a daily basis. Males want femininity, submission and hot, wet sex. We give it to them. All they want. And more. Some advice. Let the good guys fuck your pretty bottom until cum runs from your nostrils. Tell the bad guys to hit the bricks. You don't need them. Let the "two-pussy" girls reform the bad guys. They seem to like that. And spread yourself around. Don't stay with one boyfriend. A new boyfriend is an exploration. A new boyfriend is fresh adoration, different smells, new techniques and an opportunity to expand one's knowledge of sexual responsiveness in males. Be nice to your old boyfriends. Spread your legs for them now and then. Introduce your old boyfriend to your girlfriends. Give a LOT of men the experience of a lifetime. But stay away from adult men until you're 18. It's the law. And it makes sense. MILKMEN?Sissies like us need to have our "purses" emptied every day. Several times is a lot better than once a day. Ridding yourself of the creamy male "toxins" is OK. Having a girlfriend do the relieving is better. Having a real man bring you to several screaming, trembling cums every day is best. A milked sissy is a happy sissy. Imagine the joy of entering the room where your milkman awaits. He is new to the duty. Someone you met through a girlfriend. She gave him a high recommendation and you're always eager for new experiences. Shyly, you cast your eyes down, the shame of your carnal desires becomes too much at times for you to endure. Your milkman beckons you to face him. "Head up, girl!" he commands. "I want to see your face. Hmmm. Very nice. Very pretty. Yes. I think I'll relieve you of your troublesome sperm. Off with those panties and onto my lap. Now." You move quickly to comply. He's so manly and forceful that a tingle of thrilling fear makes you eager to obey his orders. As you strip below your waist, you note that he has removed all his clothing except his tshirt. You'll be sitting on his bare, hairy thighs as he milks you! His big thing, and you can see that it's big, and stiff, will be rubbing against you as he skins your most sensitive parts. Your cheeks are flushed with heat and your tiny testicles are swollen with need as you move to sit on his lap. But he stops you. "Off with that top too, Missy. I want you naked on my lap, now!" Blushing with humiliation at the thought of a "naked milking," you nonetheless comply. Somewhat eagerly, in fact. You place your plump bottomcheeks carefully on the milkman's left thigh. The hairs tickle you and you give a slight whimper/giggle. The milkman places his left hand on your naked left hip. You feel his hot breath on your long, girlish neck as he breathes deeply, taking in the smell of your femininity and fear. Your pricklet twitches as the milkman kisses your mouth softly, then hungrily. He is surprisingly gentle as his right hand tweaks and caresses each of your bare, rigid nipples. Kissing you harder. Giving you all of his tongue. You utter a full moan as his nipple manipulations put you into a complete dither. He reacts to your obvious pleasure by intensifying it, moving his mouth and tongue to your left nipple. Kissing and licking it. Ohhhhh. He hasn't even touched your "package" yet. And then he does. Still orally worshipping each nipple, he gently stirs your little "pink purse" with three calloused fingertips. You emit a tiny squeal, which spurs him on. His thick, workman's fingers slowly explore your pink parts. Skinning back your foreskin. Rubbing the pad of his thumb along your weeping peephole. Your pleasure builds exponentially as he resumes the deep kissing of your mouth. His huge cock rubs against your right hip as you join in a deep kiss as he wanks you - perfectly and deliciously. Should you be so bold as to?...you should. You reach to your side and take his stiff, burning penis into your girlish hand. Now it's his turn to moan. You feel its length, gasping at its size and strength and at the magnitude of his heavy, hairy, cum-laden balls. Kissing. Stroking. So much pleasure. So wonderful to be a pantyboy. So happy with The Panty Life. Then, the sweet inevitable. Stirrings. First mild. Then insistent. That glorious feeling in your tummy. The little death. Then spurt upon spurt of thick, sissy cream leaping from your little bag, through your peeny and onto the milkman's hand, arm and chest. Stirrings from the milkman as his own ecstasy approaches. You stop your manipulations, sink to your knees and take your benefactor's meaty cockhead into your pretty mouth. Sucking. Licking. Rolling your tongue. He grunts. His stomach contracts. His cockhead swells and suddenly, you are drowning in thick, creamy, delicious cum. Joy. And sissies get to do that three or four times a day. Still wavering about whether you want to live The Panty Life? DADDY - This is complicated. I know a lot of you little nancies have dreamed of getting on your backs and letting your daddies pound your pussies with the prick that gave you life. We pantyboys are drawn to our daddies, just as two-pussy girls often are. Though pantyboys have the sex drive to do something about our attraction, not just fantasize about it. Let's say this together girls: "Fantasy is one thing. Reality is something else." You can imagine sitting on Daddy's lap, wearing only the skimpiest, pink panties, rubbing your plump bottom against Daddy's thick, stiff cock as he kisses your mouth and tickles your nipples. Oh, Daddy is the very essence of manliness! And he loves you so! One thing leads to another and Daddy's cock escapes its confinement, standing skinned and proud. Sweet syrup leaking from his pink peelips. Begging for your kisses. You succumb, of course. Standing, turning away from Daddy, slowly peeling down, then removing your pink dainties. Blushing fiercely as you turn full-face to Daddy. Watching his look of delight as he beholds your tiny, stiff, drippy popsy and pink pellets. Squealing as he places a hand on each of your bottom cheeks and pulls your peener to his wet mouth. Almost fainting with pleasure as he takes your peeny into his mouth and devours it with paternal lust. Ejaculating joyously and helplessly into Daddy's sweet mouth as he swallows every drop of your girlish juices. Blushing with pride as Daddy tells you that he loves you much more deeply than he ever loved Mommy. Then sinking to your knees to give Daddy the long, slow, near- death experience of an unhurried, loving blowjob. But that's not going to happen. Never. If Daddy still loves you when you tell him you're living The Panty Life, you're way ahead of the game. There are several billion other men in the world who will gladly fuck you senseless anytime you want. Stick with them. "DADDY" - That's not to say that your deepest, darkest desires need to remain unfulfilled. Oh no. While Daddy is off limits, "Daddy" is to be enjoyed to the fullest. Sissies love older men. They adore older men. They need older men. Does it fulfill an incestuous imperative in our genes? Who cares? Find an older man you like. Let him worship you. Let him shower you with expensive gifts and beg to possess you. Let him fuck you senseless, revive you, then repeat. You won't regret it. Find a "Daddy" who adores you and gives you what you need. "Daddy" will buy you flowers and furs and jewelry. He'll buy you expensive gowns, slit up the sides to expose both of your scrumptious, stockinged legs and silver or gold stiletto sandals. He'll take you everywhere and show you off, making his friends and adversaries hopelessly envious. And he'll fuck you. In your mouth...oh, yes...past your glossed lips and into your throat. Flooding your oral cavity with his thick, creamy, musky sperm and semen. He'll cover your face with his sticky man cream, then send you outside and around the corner to get him a pack of cigarettes. You'll be humiliated beyond your darkest dreams as the store clerk eyes your cum-drenched face. You'll be sobbing softly as you whimper out your request for "Marlboro Gold in the box, please." You'll skittle quickly back to "Daddy," avoiding human contact. Getting into "Daddy's" room, locking the door. Realizing that the humiliation aroused you more than you had ever been in your life. Flopping on your back. Ripping off your panties. Lifting your knees. Begging "Daddy" to fuck your achingly tight asshole. Screaming for it. Then getting it. Hot and meaty. Then messy. "Daddies" love their pantyboys, but they also discipline them when they're bratty. Every sissy needs "Daddy" to remind her now and then who the Lord and Master is. Oh, the anticipation as "Daddy" orders you over his knees, lifts your pleated skirt and pulls your panties from your pretty pink bottom. The trembling from just enough fear and uncertainty as "Daddy" lectures you on proper respect for his wishes. Then the sweet pain of total submission as "Daddy's" hand spanks your soft cheeks. Not hard enough to cause real pain or injury. Just enough to impart mild humiliation and submission to the superior male. Of course, no good "Daddy" would leave his sissy in the aroused condition your red buttocks would impart to you. So "Daddy" will no doubt carry you in his arms to his bed, place you on your stomach and apply soothing cream all over your abused posterior. Some of the cream will slip between the tender folds of your bottom. Drooling down to your anus/pussy. "Daddy" will use his two rough fingers to rub the cream around your pussy, then inside it. Finding your prostate. Rubbing. Making you squeal, "Oh, 'Daddy!' I love you." Then making you cum big globs all over his great-grandmother's 19th-Century quilt. Oh well! Priorities. Then "Daddy" will stick his big cock into your bottom, proving that, even though he spanked you moments earlier, he loves you deeply. Very deeply. He even deposits a large load of soothing "balm" in your bottom to ease your pain. Only a "Daddy" could love you like that. YOUNG MEN - Not that there's anything wrong with having a boyfriend who is "young, dumb and full of cum." There is definitely something appealing about a guy with six-pack abs who can fill your bottom with hot creamy cum every ten minutes or so. Nothing wrong at all, actually. Just be careful. Young men are not as settled in their appetites. They may fuck you silly, then get angry at you for "making them gay." What nonsense! Just be careful, OK? MOMMY - She can be a problem when it comes to you and The Panty Life. Women hate competition. They know that sissyboys are the most severe threat to a woman's standing in the hierarchy of the world. Men defer to women because they want sex. Women give out only enough sex to get what they want. Sissies give lots more and far better sex. And they ask for far less in return. Didn't we learn about something like this in economics class? Mommy is a woman. She'll still love you when you live The Panty Life, but she'll see you and your ilk as a threat. Just so you know. CLOTHES, HAIR AND MAKE-UP - Lots of each, please. It's not all that difficult to out-femme the femmes. They want to slide by on clothes, hair and make-up. We want to excel. A true pantyboy would never go out en femme without full, seductive make-up, proper panties, stockings, garter belt and the biggest heels she can manage. It's OK to look like someone in a 1950s girlie magazine. It will drive men insane with lust. Some of us find it sexier to wear wigs (big hair, please!). Some have evolved to growing and styling their hair a la femme. Others attract their men with boyish hair augmented by a ribbon or barrettes. No matter. Do what works for you. But always go way beyond what a woman would do. Along with our generosity about our bodies, our intense effort to achieve feminine allure is our greatest advantage over women. NO CLOTHES - Nakedness and the pretty boy. Is it girlish clothes that make us feminine, or is it our girlish attitude? Nakedness, done the right way, can be very stimulating for the pantyboy and her playmates. At a minimum, I would recommend that a beginner wear high, stiletto sandals, silky stockings, hooked on lovingly to a frilly garter belt, then covered with skimpy panties. But once your girlish ways intensify, you can show your man EVERYTHING you've got. Sissy up with your femmiest, trampiest make-up. Wear your biggest wig. Paint your toe- and fingernails a deep red. If you're really a little tramp, rouge your nipples! Then report to "Daddy" for your well-deserved, disciplinary spanking, your afternoon milking, or your evening love session wearing only your natural, sissy skin. Won't "Daddy" be pleased when he sees you in complete submission to his will! Naked and exposed to him for the complete fulfillment of his every disgusting need. There will be no hiding your arousal and excitement. Your teeny peeny will be reaching for the stars (or "Daddy's" sweet lips). Nothing can save you from "Daddy's" lust! For some delicious variety on that sweet theme, girls, let me make a suggestion from my own experience. One of my first "daddies" gave me a pair of short, oh-so-lacy socks. He loved fucking me when I was wearing only those femmy articles. He would have loved fucking me if I was wearing shoulder pads and a football helmet too, but he seemed to pump extra bursts of semen into my pretty butt when I was naked and helpless except for my lacy socks. Try it now and then for delicious variety. TEASING AND PLEASING - Pantyboys need to show men their panties. It's born in us. Pantyboys. Panties. Men seeing them. Men getting aroused. Pantyboys enjoying men's arousal. The inevitable consummation of that arousal. Another way that we pantyboys differ from the women some say we imitate (I say we improve upon). No self-respecting pantyboy would ever show a man her panties, then act all huffy or virPamelal when the man offers to fuck her. Accept the invitation gratefully. You earned it! If he fucks you extraordinarily well, give him your panties as his trophy (another thing our alleged "competition" would never do). You can bet that he'll be sniffing them frequently as he strokes his thick meat and dreams of you. There is no legal, reasonable, sane need that a man has that a pantyboy will not eagerly satisfy. We certainly won't do "scat" things, but we'll happily swallow gallons of our man's cum, squeal with delight as he eats our "pussies" or massages our prostate with his fingers or his cock. We'll lick his balls or even his hairy "manhole" if he wants us to. And yes, some of our men want us to "penetrate" them occasionally. That's sort of out of mainstream pantydom, but if your man really likes it and you need a bit of variety in your lovemaking, why not? We please ourselves by pleasing our men. And the men show their gratitude in the sweetest ways. Teasing is the way we arouse men so they'll fuck us longer and harder and love us even more. Be creative about your teasing. Perhaps you would want to wear a long, cotton nightgown with the back pinned to the rear collar with a wooden clothespin - exposing you