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FANTASIES FULFILLED by Throne "Priscilla, we are ready for our tea," his wife Abagail said, intentionally using a plummy voice. Paul took a steadying breath. He couldn't believe this was actually happening. It had been one thing to have the fantasy. To imagine himself as a perfect maid, serving his wife and one of her friends while he was in full uniform. His face made up conservatively but femininely. No hair anywhere on his body. But it was something else again to actually be doing it. He licked his lips and nervously smoothed down his short skirt. His stockings were straight. He knew because he had checked them a half dozen times. And after lots of practice he could walk on heels as if he had been doing it for years. Of course, they were two inches, and wide, but even so it was essential to make no missteps, literally or figuratively. Making sure his frilly cap was centered on the short-haired, auburn wig he wore, he picked up the carefully prepared tray. A thin trail of steam was rising from the teapot. The cups and saucers were positioned exactly. "Coming, Mum," he answered, with no trace of masculinity in the way he sounded. As he left the kitchen, Paul was careful to place one foot precisely in front of the other. He entered the sunroom. His wife Abagail was seated at the small table. She was neatly dressed, looking formal but not overly so. Across from her was her friend Lynette. She too was attired for a cultured event. This was the first time that Paul had been seen by anyone else in his role as Priscilla. He swallowed with difficulty, glad that his high collar would hide the bobbing of his Adam's apple. Stepping close to the table, he bent forward from the waist and set the tray midway between the two females. Then he poured a cup of tea and presented it to Lynette, who indicated with a slight nod that he should place it in front of her. He did and then turned to his wife to do the same. She, however, took the cup and saucer from him. He was relieved that he hadn't put it on the table without waiting. That would have been an unforgivable faux pas. "Thank you," Abagail told him. "Please bring us the finger sandwiches in five minutes." He retreated to the kitchen, self conscious about his movements, aware that Lynette could see how shapely his legs were made by the heels. On one level it bothered him that his outfit was so brief. If they had wanted to be more accurate, it should have covered him more. Shouldn't have left his arms bare below the capped sleeves. But on another level that was exactly what he desired. Paul didn't want to resemble some fusty, by-the-numbers, housemaid. He preferred to resemble a young serving girl, still learning the details of her job, constantly fearful of making mistakes. Having exposed limbs, in his mind, reflected this inexperience. He hadn't earned any more dignified attire. Having his wife, and especially her friend, see him that way kept him in a state of constant arousal. Abagail, however, didn't want him to feel even a residual sense of male entitlement. Instead he had to be reminded of how controlled his sexuality was in this role. That was why his penis was locked in the smallest chastity device she had been able to find. It reduced his member to a pink nubbin. When he got aroused it caused him not pleasure but discomfort. Unfortunately for him, being restricted that way was part of his fantasy, and therefore exciting. So being denied erections made his body try harder to achieve them. His frustration fed back into an endless loop of fulfillment denied, emotions excited, and pain produced. It was exhilarating and maddening. And he loved it. Back in the kitchen, he checked the wall clock. His wife might be timing him. He wanted to serve those small sandwiches that he had labored over earlier at exactly the right time. Paul took them out of the fridge and stood there with his thighs pressed together, full of anxiety and dizzy with sexual energy that had no outlet. Under the top of his outfit his nipples tingled insistently. Acting out this scene was even better than he had imagined it would be or could have hoped for. He tried to calm himself as the second hand swept around, at once too fast and too slow. Hoping that he would be right, he adjusted his grip on the silver tray. It was still so cold from being refrigerated. He hoped he had hadn't been wrong to leave it in there until the last minute. Should he have removed it sooner and let the food warm slightly? As he reentered the sunroom his chin was high, shoulders pulled back slightly so that the breast forms sewn into his bodice thrust forward. He was experiencing newfound confidence in his appearance. Paul was proud to look so feminine. He set the tray between the two women and then realized he hadn't brought plates for them to place their sandwiches on. Paul was horrified. He had allowed his concentration to slip for just a few precious seconds. Hadn't picked up the plates that where right there where he had left them, next to the tray. His heart beat faster with dread at the possible consequences. His wife turned her face toward him and elevated one eyebrow. The rest of her expression didn't change. In a hushed voice he said, "I will bring you plates." A suggestion of a frown played around the corners of Abagail's thin- lipped mouth. To Paul it was like he had been harshly scolded. Yet the tension added to his mounting desire. He left the room, taking measured steps, not letting his fluctuating moods alter his precise movements. When he returned and distributed the plates his wife didn't display any additional reaction. He stepped back as Lynette took the miniature tongs and set two of the triangular bits of food on her plate. Then Abagail did the same and Paul dared to think that a potential incident had been averted. The two women sipped tea and nibbled thin bread between which were a variety of fillings. Mortadella and watercress. Cucumber and butter. Crab salad. Paul had to struggle not to fidget as he worried about disapproving reactions. He also had to keep himself from squeezing his buttocks together repeatedly, for the minimal stimulation that would gain him. He was so desperate for relief. If only he could roll his firm nipples between thumbs and forefingers, it would feel impossibly good. But he couldn't. He could only stand there and, when necessary, add tea to the women's delicate china cups, filling them to exactly the correct level. "So," Abagail said to her friend. "Have you seen those new scarves designed by Bevington?" "I have," Lynette said, managing to convey both coolness and mild approval. "There are some that might fit neatly into my wardrobe." Were they talking about women's fashions intentionally, to add to Paul's involvement and, hence, his excitement? Even though this maid scenario was his ultimate fantasy, he loved all sorts of dressing, with an emphasis on sophisticated looks. Give him a little black dress and a string of pearls, and he was ecstatic. Did they mean to tantalize him with their subject matter, or was it just a fortuitous coincidence? He couldn't be sure but, as the talk turned to shoes and bags and even (gasp!) gloves, he hung on their every word. So involved was he that he almost missed the subtle signal Abagail gave him, a mere twitch of her finger, to let him know it was time to remove the tray of sandwiches. He did notice it, however, and performed the job when expected. In the kitchen he allowed himself a deep sigh of relief. Thinking back, he remembered an advance instruction to bring the desserts at this point. There was a dish of petits fours under a glass cover. He removed the lid and took them to the table. As he offered them around, each of the females took one of the bitesize confectionaries. Lynette admired the elaborate icing before daintily popping the treat into her mouth. They enjoyed several each, along with one more refill of their tea. The conversation drifted toward a novel that they were both reading and the mixed reviews it had received. Paul silently longed for them to say more about fashions, maybe discuss jackets trimmed with faux fur, perhaps stylish hats to go with them, but that was not to be. Even so, his mental involvement remained at a fever pitch. Being dressed that way, in the presence of unconcerned, otherwise occupied women, knowing he might make a mistake at any time and be soundly reprimanded -- it was like some exotic and powerful aphrodisiac. At last his wife said, "Priscilla, you may clear the table." There was a meaningful pause before she added, "And now that you're done handling our food, do tuck that stray wisp of hair back under your cap." With a quick curtsey, Paul told her, "Yes, Mum. Of course." Being corrected like that, mildly delivered though comment was, made him feel more under her control than ever, like a weak and helpless type of female who was in constant fear of attracting blame. He took the dish with a few remaining petits fours on it and hurried back to the kitchen, trying not to go too fast but unable to reign in his feelings. He slipped from there to the powder room and checked his hair. Sure enough, there were a few reddish-brown strands falling across one side of his forehead. His hand trembled as he pushed them back into place. He was deeper into his Priscilla identity then ever before, with the part of him that was Paul fully submerged and yet yearning as only a male could. His undrained testicles throbbed. In the mirror his saw his lower lip quiver and his long-eyelashes flutter. His nerves were frazzled. Yet his libido remained elevated. Paul calmed himself enough to return to the sunroom, where he stood discretely off to one side, available but unused, like a mere object. Even though the women weren't looking at him, he felt as if he was being evaluated. Finally, Lynette thanked her hostess and said she must be going. "I must say," she added, "this has been quite nice." "You are such good company," Abagail praised. "We must do it again soon." A shudder of anticipation ran through Paul. Again? Might these quiet but oh-so-compelling visits become a regular occurrence? Would Lynette see him as Priscilla over and over, perhaps taking more notice of him in the future? He managed to maintain his decorum as the women rose, said goodbye, and exchanged air kisses. After the guest had departed, he risked letting his muscles untense. Abagail came to him and stood with her eyes peering into his. She wanted to know, "So, Priscilla, how did you enjoy that teatime?" "Oh my," he said breathlessly, voice still high and feminine. "It was amazing. For a short while near the end, it was as if I really did become Priscilla." His wife allowed herself a sly smile. "Well, I'm happy to do it for you. And Lynette was quite... entertained... by your presence. I'll be curious to see what she has to say when we chat about it later. But for right now, I think you owe me a generous thank you. In the bedroom. And since your penis is all cramped up in that miniature cage, you'll have to show your gratitude some other way." "Yes, dear. Thank you dear." He waited two seconds before asking with submissive respect, "And the... um... key?" "To your chastity? I finally did remember where I put it." When she saw his look of hope, she went on, "But after you forgot the plates with our finger sandwiches, and then shamed yourself by having hair out of place, well..." Abagail looked at her spouse as if she expected him to already know what she would say next. "... naturally I can't unlock you now. And that was a touch forward of you to ask me. So taking all those matters into consideration, I'm afraid I'm going to have to extend your time in dick detention. Let's say we add another three." He knew she didn't mean days. But the alternative was positively unsettling. Paul was so upset that he squeaked out, "Weeks?" "Of course not." She patted him on the cheek. "Months, Priscilla." The feminized man blinked back tears. "Yes, darling. I understand." "I know you do. And I understand just what you need to make your dreams come true. You do trust me to do what is necessary, don't you?" Paul knew she was right. He nodded and said, "Yes, Abagail. You haven't been wrong yet. Thank you from the bottom of my heart." And he truly meant it. ********* Reynold knew he might be in a lot of trouble. The tension in the air was almost palpable. The guy in the next room might slap him around and do who-knew what else. But it was too late to turn back. He had to try once more to fulfill his vision. The college age young man was dressed all in black. A clinging leather top that left his flat midriff bare. Bikini panties that didn't hide the fact that he had male privates. A garter belt that held up fishnet stockings. And shoes with three inch heels plus pointed toes. There were also a studded neckband and matching wristlets. His mousy blond hair had been dyed black and was consciously mussed, held that way by careful application of product. There was dark make-up around his blue eyes, shadow on his soft cheeks to suggest gauntness, and the perfect finishing touch, black lipstick. He called this look 'goth slut'. Still, how would the fellow in the next room react? He was a few years older then Reynold, who in this role called himself Raven. After meeting on-line, when they got together at that bar on the edge of the business district, the responder to Reynold's profile had seemed nice enough. Tall and with a lean hard-muscled physique. Dressed in a denim shirt -- sleeves cut off -- and worn jeans, with his large feet in work shoes. His blond hair was worn short, which enhanced his broad face and angular features. Reynold had noticed that he also had on a wide leather belt that was plain rather than stylish. He was responsive to the scene Reynold wanted them to play out. Of course, there had been others before him. Some just wanted the blowjob at the end. One had shown up too drunk to be of any use. And another had seemed ready to react with violence. So now there was caution in Reynold's attitude as he prepared to enter the modest living room of his apartment. The props would all be in place. A cold beer, of course. The optional bowl of pretzels. The bulky secondhand recliner for his visitor to sit on. And that big banner hanging on the wall. It was for one of the major sports teams, none of which Reynold followed or knew much about. He had picked that particular one to order, via computer, because he though the team logo was attractive and well designed. Reynold had gotten involved in the goth scene in his mid teens. He realized now that he had been drawn to it by the element of gender fluidity. His tastes in the dark fashions had gradually become more feminine, until he realized that he was less interested in the music and lifestyle than having an excuse to dress more like a girl. After that admission to his self, a fantasy began to evolve. The same one he had tried to play out numerous times with varying degrees of success, but never complete immersion. Perhaps this time he would achieve the ideal scenario. Or maybe it would fall short again and he would simply give up. And that was without dwelling on the possibility of the guy turning rough on him. A painful face slapping was not part of his dream scene. Okay. He had left the front door unlocked and had heard Kurt -- that was his name -- let himself in as agreed. Reynold braced himself. He adopted his detached goth girl attitude and went from his bedroom to the small living room. There sat his latest partner. On the big chair. Beer in hand. With the TV tuned to a sports channel but the volume turned off. Wearing nothing but his jockey shorts. Wait, that was off- script. Reynold was so taken aback that he just stood there, staring. Kurt had a patch of blond hair in the middle of his chest, more peeking out over the waistband of his shorts, and an ample amount on his nicely developed legs. At last Reynold found his voice. Trying to sound uninterested, he said, "Hey." Kurt waved him to silence. "Hold on. I'm getting the scores." Reynold could only stay where he was, feeling awkward. That wasn't all bad because it played into his fantasy. A few minutes later Kurt looked up at him. He tilted his blond head to the side and considered the interestingly dressed young man. With a sneer, Kurt asked, "What's your name?" "Raven," Reynold shot back at him, lower lip thrust out defiantly. "So, Raven, you're staring pretty hard at me. Want to say anything about what you see?" "Yeah." He made it sound defiant. "You're not my type." "Oh," Kurt said as he put his hand up the loose leg opening of his shorts and scratched his crotch. "That's too bad... for you." As he withdrew his hand, the end of his cock slipped into view. It was fat and dark, with just a hint of the shaft visible. "Let me know if you change your mind." Reynold cleared his throat as quietly as he could. "Well, I don't see why I would." "It's all the same to me." Kurt took a swallow from the can of beer. Weak in the knees, Reynold took two uncertain steps forward. He tried not to look as interested as he felt. Kurt smirked at him. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck, making his muscles flex and revealing the nest of hair under his arm. The business end of his cock was still peeking out. Reynold unconsciously licked his lips with the tip of his tongue. The blond guy didn't miss that. "You look kind of hungry." Taking another step closer, Reynold attempted to stay in character as the aloof goth girl. That was the role into which he had cast himself. But there was more to it. He was also assuming the personality of a girl who secretly craved what she was acting so blas? about. He rubbed his thumbs against his other fingers and put his hands in front of his crotch without intending to. "I'm not," Reynold protested. "Not hungry." "And there's not a damp spot on the front of those tight panties." When Reynold glanced down his eyes went wide. He was losing his composure. Kurt was expert at reading him. And he was not only fulfilling the wishes Reynold had revealed, but others that he had kept to himself. Kurt's unaffected confidence was weakening Reynold's resistance. He took yet another step, reducing the space between them once more. "You know," Kurt said with his attention split between the TV and Reynold, "I'm going to need you to show more respect, girl. If you're going to keep working your way over here, you can do it on your hands and knees." Reynold was caught off guard -- again. He hadn't suggested that. But it fit perfectly. While Kurt creased his wide brow at something on the TV screen, Reynold sank slowly to his knees. A wave of disabling submissiveness washed through him. And from his new position he was eye level with that mostly hidden manhood. In spite of his efforts to contain it, Reynold let out a small whimper of need. That was the crux of his fantasy. To be the distant and unattainable girl who was defeated by her own urges. Who was switched from being independent to needing to surrender. Went from not caring to being desperate to please. That was how he was reacting at that moment. Kurt had become the center of his world. He had convinced Reynold that he honestly didn't care about the sex and that if the kneeling young man wanted it, he would have to demean himself and earn the right to serve. Reynold's mouth was dry. He took a deep breath and put his hands on the thin carpet. As if under a spell, which wasn't far from the truth, he continued his approach, but under the sway of his new mindset. When he reached Kurt, Reynold wasn't sure what to do next. He felt like he needed permission just to touch the capable stud. Trying not to be obvious about it, he inched his face closer to inhale natural male musk mingled with sweat. "If you're trying to huff my funk, Raven, you should get rid of your leather top. Don't want to confuse the scents. Besides, what I've got is better. So just do it. Or go away and play with your make-up kit." Although Reynold didn't alter his posture, in his mind he was groveling. He sat up on his haunches and undid the front of the top with unsteady fingers. Kurt was looking over him at something on the TV. Reynold got it all the way opened and shrugged out of it, baring his undefined hairless chest. Turning his eyes to Kurt's pectorals and ab made him feel less masculine than ever. It was as if he was being transformed from Reynold into Raven for real, except that the new Raven was completely without confidence, focused totally on gratifying her man. Reynold set the top aside and got his hands back down. "So," Kurt wondered out loud. "Do you want to get these shorts off me?" Sounding meek and unsure, Reynold said, "Yes, Sir. Please." Kurt chuckled. "Whatever." He raised his hips. "Just be quick." Working swiftly but with care, Reynold got those shorts down over Kurt's firm thighs, past his knees, and down to his ankles. When Kurt didn't do anything else to help, Reynold was left bent well forward, holding the rumpled underwear, unable to finish removing it. His eyes came up and he was gaping at the seated man's genitals. His cock was even bigger than those earlier glimpses had suggested. And his balls were proportionately large. He had a thick growth of blond pubes between his navel and the base of his tool. He finally lifted one foot. Reynold got the shorts free on that side. Kurt made him wait before he allowed him to complete the job. The kneeling figure couldn't prevent breathing Kurt's heady aromas in or eyeing his desirable three-piece set. "You want to bury your face in my boxers," Kurt stated. "Let's see you do it." With his head spinning, Reynold covered his features with the underwear. He breathed in the potent scents, sure that he detected the clear discharge that accompanies arousal. Kurt wasn't hard yet, but that didn't seem to be necessary to produce pre-cum, he was so manly. Reynold exhaled a shuddery breath and then clutched the undergarment to his chest. Kurt said, "Something else you want to get a snoot-full of? Go ahead. It's obvious how much you want it. A girl like you just falls apart when she gets that close to the real thing. You're such a weakling. But you can't help it. That's just your nature. And it will never change. Right?" He was trying to provoke Reynold. To make him draw back. Get him to defend himself, if only so he could be broken down again. The goth sissy took the bait. He muttered something about not being that way. Making his own choices. "So, fine," Kurt said. "But if you decide to do what you really want to give in, you can begin by lifting up my Johnson, nuzzling my balls, and giving them a thorough tongue bath. It's up to you, Ray-Van." It was like something inside Reynold crumbled. Probably his willpower. He gingerly took hold of that enviable piece of man meat, so superior to his own, elevated it, and got his face into the space below. He rubbed his nose gently against Kurt's scrotum and got intoxicated by the contact and the even more intimate smells. Reynold kissed the taut sac. He began to lave it with his willing tongue. In his hand Kurt's organ expanded. Reynold wanted to fondle it, to coax it to maximum size, but he had been told to do something else. So he continued to wash the bigger man's testicles, lapping and sucking. When Kurt at last permitted him to stop, he reluctantly did so. His own penis was rigid and pressing outward against the tight panties. That wet spot must be considerably bigger by now. Kurt sighed. In a resigned tone he said, "Go on. Slobber all over my rod. But for crap's sake, take your time, Raven the Cock Maven." Reynold could no longer help himself. He got his lips around the big knob of that irresistible cock. Sucked. Swirled. Swallowed several inches. He was sorry that his previous encounters hadn't been this wonderful, but glad that they had given him practice to do a superior job now. The goth gobbler used every trick in his playbook to increase Kurt's enjoyment. Reynold held onto the big man's legs, relishing their development and that rich blond hair. He massaged Kurt's balls. Kissed his inner thighs. The man on the receiving end of all that attention only had to issue a few instructions to assure the best possible performance. His main order was, "Slow down, Raven." His voice was becoming strained. The closer he got to finishing, the more he perspired, and the more he did that, the better he smelled and tasted to Reynold. They were joined in a thrilling flight to the heights of the sexual stratosphere. But all good things must come to an end. Kurt groaned, "Back off so just the head is in your mouth, Raven. I want you to get my whole load in your mouth, not down that accommodating throat." Soon after that he grunted, froze, and was launched into a gasping orgasm. Reynold greedily gulped down his output. He kept his mouth fastened over that plump head until every drop was out and the last ones got licked off the slit. At last he rocked back on his knees and exhaled through pursed lips. The salty flavor was strong on his tongue. Then he folded forward and hugged Kurt's legs as if he was afraid to let go. After the two of them had descended back to the mundane world, Reynold whispered, "Thank you, Kurt. That was everything I could have asked for. And more." "You're welcome, you naughty pervert. I loved how you got into being overcome and getting all starved for it." "Yes, I was kind of... enthused." "Damn right you were." "But I guess it's all over for you. I mean you had the experience and what else is there? I don't expect you'd want to repeat my fantasy scene over and over." Kurt reached down to cup Reynold's smooth chin in his big hand. "Who said anything about repeating? I mean, we can start with the same basic idea, but I know there are endless changes we could play on that tune. Trust me, neither of us will get bored." "You mean...? You do want to see me again? And you don't mind that we'll be doing my fantasy?" "See, here's the thing you have to understand. The reason I got so into it, besides the fact that you sucked me like a popsicle, and that I knew just what to give you is... well... that's sort of my fantasy too. I mean, as long as there can be a few variations. But we can work all that out." He stroked Reynold's cheek. "So don't you worry about a thing, baby." Reynold kissed the point where Kurt's flaccid member joined his body, burying his nose in golden pubic hair. His words were slightly muffled as he said, "I trust you." "Good. And right now you can trust me when I tell you to get your hand on what's between your legs. I want you playing with yourself while I give you some hints about what comes later." "I... All right." As Reynold cuddled against those inviting legs, he lowered his panties and started manipulating his own penis. It was already hard from everything that had just occurred, but it felt so good to have it out and be stroking it. "So," Kurt said. "You're one of those stuck up girls who thinks she's too good for guys. Well that's fine with me. I just hope that being stuck in this elevator with me won't keep you from maintaining your high standards. We'll be here for quite a while." "Elevator?" Reynold said. "I have a walk-in closet at my place. It would be perfect for acting out that little drama." "Oh," Reynold said, impressed. He switched to a voice that sounded like that snobby girl. "That's right. Somebody like you, with your good looks and five o'clock shadow doesn't impress me at all. I mean, sure I'm aware of your... um... appeal while were trapped here together." He started to breath faster. His hand worked more rapidly. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to (huff, huff) let you turn me to the wall and (moan) bend me over (gasp) so you can plow me from behind." "I'm sure," Kurt said with a chortle. He began to toy with Reynold's nipples. "And I'll help you demonstrate your powers of resistance by giving you some added stimulation." Reynold picked up Kurt's discarded shorts. "I'm sorry. I have to finish into... I don't want to make a mess on... It's too late for me to..." The seated man grinned down at him. "That's fine. Just do what you have to, Raven. Or Ashley. Or the rich brat who hired me as her personal trainer. Everything will turn out fine." And it did. ********* It was the first night of July and warm even for that time of the year, in that portion of the country. Don stood with his back toward the rear door of his modest home. His lady friend who he called Mistress was in front of him, crowding him toward the exit. He shifted his stocking clad feet nervously. "What's the matter, Darling?" she wanted to know. "Do you feel overdressed?" That certainly wasn't the case. He was practically naked. There wasn't a single hair on him anywhere below his eyebrows, which had been darkened and given added shape by clever application of a cosmetics pencil. That gave him a perpetually startled look. All he wore was a posture collar that forced him to keep his chin up high, a tight corset that lent him a somewhat curvy shape, and shiny stockings with elastic tops. That last item was a cheap brand, bought intentionally because they were expected to get ruined before this evening was over. And as always, his penis was locked in a confining cage, several sizes smaller than a less demanding woman might have required. Mistress examined him approvingly. At the same time, he took another good look at her. She had on her familiar outfit of a man's shirt, loose pants with big pockets, and comfortable athletic shoes. Her long, dirty-blond hair was pulled back and tied in a knot. All of that lent her a suggestion of manliness, which made the contrast of his feminine appearance that much more pronounced. "I don't know why you're so antsy," she said with a crooked smile. "After all, what we're going to do is number one on your wish list. Right?" "Yes," he conceded. "It's just that everything is so... suspenseful." "Of course. If we just stayed home and I made you step outside for two minutes, where no one would see you unless they were lurking in the woods back there, that wouldn't be very exciting. No, Darling, we have to do this the right way. So let's finish getting you ready." "Finish...?" "I need to tighten up that pretty red corset. Why, it's practically falling off you." "No it's not. It's..." He realized the futility of arguing. "Just remember, Mistress is never wrong." She gave him a devilish grin. "Now turn around so I can see that smooth pink fanny and grab hold to the ties back there." He did what she wanted and she immediately got busy snugging the cords, applying lots of effort, so that he soon felt like he was being cut in two. Not until she had tightened the punishing garment to its limits did she knot the ties. "And now," she went on, "because you're going all drama queen on me and acting reluctant, you've earned yourself some punishment. I'll give you a choice. Twenty on the bare right here, or only ten if you wait until we get to where we're going." "But that's..." He almost said it wasn't fair. Of course, fairness had nothing to do with it. Like she said, Mistress is always right. And she delighted in giving him decisions like that to make, where either alternative had its disadvantages. But even though it would mean half as many swats, he didn't want to get his discipline where she was taking him. So he mumbled, "I'd prefer to have twenty... on the bare... right here." "Terrific. I think I'll use the rubber paddle. It makes that glorious 'splat, splat, splat' sound. Bring me my bag, Darling." He brought her the capacious carrier, she produced the implement of pain from its interior, and he assumed his familiar pose, hands against the wall, body bent over, rear end thrust out to make an easy target. She let him stand in that humiliating posture for a minute before explaining, "On no, sweetie. I'm going to color your bottom outside, on the back porch. In the light of the rising full moon. Won't that be romantic?" That wasn't the word he would have used. But with no other choice, he left the house and retook that pose, this time with his hands on the rear of an Adirondack chair. She had brought a feather duster from the house. Now she used it to tease his nipples where they were pushed out on man boobs created by the corset. Next she applied the tickling feathers to his receptive bottom. His unlucky penis tried to get hard in its undersized container. Just as he became distracted, she stuck the handle of the duster between his teeth, running side to side. Then she got behind him, raised the paddle, and brought it down hard and fast. The sound she had described sounded loudly through the still evening. She loved knowing that there were no neighbors close enough to hear it. On the other hand, it might be fun if someone did show up, drawn by the fleshy sounds of impact. He squirmed and moaned into the handle as the first ten smacks were given. Then she took the duster and resumed playing it over his bottom, so that it's gentle touch and the stinging from the paddle combined to create strange sensations. At last the duster went back between his jaws and she landed the second set of ten, spacing them out more this time. The finish was another round with those tickling feathers on his nerve endings. Then she set the duster aside. His bottom blazed as he followed Mistress to her truck. It was a rugged model that had seen plenty of use. He felt girly and vulnerable as he got into her powerful vehicle. The corset squeezed his middle more tightly as he sat. Soon they were on the road and he was anticipating what was to follow, with both excitement and dread. The latter came, in part, from not knowing their destination. After about twenty minutes, he thought he knew where they were heading. Sure enough, they soon after reached the Blue Light Tavern. It was out in the woods, a modern roadhouse. The name came from the fact that they had a long mirror behind the bar, made of blue glass, and a few matching colored lights scattered around. There was a large unpaved parking lot in the back. She pulled in there and drove to the far end, stopping with his side closest to the trees. Mistress gave him a wide smile. "Out you go, Darling." Don said, "But I assumed you were going to leave me somewhere more... remote." "What fun would that be?" She reached past him to open his door. "Now scoot." His heart was racing as he got out and stood there on the sandy ground at the edge of a stand of pine trees with undergrowth between them. "Please," he said pleadingly. "I'm going to move this truck in about one minute," she pointed out. "And if you're still standing there, somebody might see you looking all smooth and pink." He made a high pitched sound and scampered out among the trees. Low bushes brushed against his stockings. He crouched down so that only his head protruded. His compressed waist protested. Mistress got into her vehicle and drove around in a half circle that brought her back to their starting point, except that now her open window was facing him. "How you doing out there, nature girl?" "Couldn't we do this somewhere else?" "That's exactly what we're going to do. If you go straight through those woods you'll come out on Old Log Road. And you know what's there." "The Old Log Inn?" "Correct. All you have to do is take a nice refreshing stroll through the woods to get there." "But how far is The Old Log Inn?" She chortled. "I love that punchline. It's far enough, Darling. I'm giving you plenty of time to get there. But don't be late. I'm going to drive around first. Then I'll head over there. And then I'm going home. So if you don't want to get left out in the dark, I suggest you make sure you're there and ready to be picked up in a reasonable amount of time." Mistress put a finger alongside her nose and gave him a mischievous wink. Without thinking, he stood up and started to say something else. But she rolled away and out of the lot. For long seconds Don just stood there, forgetting his state of near nudity. Then he dropped down into a deep crouch and hugged himself. He hadn't expected anything this extreme. But he knew Mistress and understood that she wasn't just kidding around. He had to get to the other bar as quickly as he could. Just as he was about to start, someone sped into the lot, came as far in as Mistress had been, and parked. Their headlights were aimed directly at him. He cowered in the bushes, staying low and mentally begging for them to extinguish their lights. At last they went out, but then a young couple emerged and stayed by the car. The girl leaned up against the front fender and played with the ends of her long blond braids. She had on tight jeans and a shirt with the tails knotted in front to leave her bare from waist to just under her substantial boobs. "Oh, Trace," she said impishly. "Do we have to go right inside? I mean, we are kind of far from the other cars. And if we went over in the bushes, no one could see us." For several seconds, that seemed endless to the hiding man, Don could only stay where he was and silently shake his head 'no'. If they came his way he would have to go racing into the deeper woods, making plenty of noise and giving away his presence. "Honey," Trace said smoothly, "you know I'd love to do that, but there might be poison ivy. Besides, I'm parched. If I don't get a beer right away, I might dry all up inside." She slapped him playfully on the arm. "All right, you. Unless you want a quick knob job right here." She smacked her lips meaningfully. "Nothing would be better than that," he told her. "Except that tall cold glass with my name on it." The girl pressed herself against him. Her hand went between their bodies at crotch level. "It's your loss, handyman." They kissed and then headed for the entrance. Don sighed in relief. But he still wasn't out of the woods... literally. Turning away from the building, he began picking his way among the bushes, snagging his stockings and stepping on several irregular objects in the dimness. Enough moonlight filtered down through the trees that he could keep moving and didn't have to grope ahead of him. Still, it was tricky going and he almost tripped more than once. He kept thinking about Mistress and how amused she had been by his plight as she left. That had been exciting but he didn't even have the consolation of achieving an erection, not with his penis in it's undersized cage. On the other hand, at least he didn't have to worry about his manhood getting scratched or worse while it was locked up in there. Don had to detour around two overgrown areas. He was so stressed out that at one point he stopped and leaned against a tree. Just as he was telling himself he needed only a few more minutes, there was a sudden noise off to the side, like some nocturnal animal travelling through the undergrowth, and he decided it was better to start moving right away. At last he spied some lights in the distance, presumably from The Old Log Inn. As he came closer, however, he also noticed several cars and pick-ups, plus one van, parked on cleared areas partway into the woods. Standing perfectly still, he listened and heard male and female voices. There were some girlish giggles and male grunts. Loud gasps. Excited words. Oh no. A convenient lovers' lane had been created behind the place. If he skirted around it he might be late for Mistress's return. Don would have to sneak between the vehicles, among the trees and brush that separated one make-out spot from the next. Tugging up his stocking tops and wishing he didn't have that uncomfortable collar around his neck, he slipped into a particularly dense area of undergrowth. On one side he heard a couple in the throes of passion. From the other direction came giddy laughter and the wafting scent of marijuana. He ducked down and kept moving. Just as his hopes were rising, a car from the parking area rolled into one of the lovemaking spaces. He dropped to the ground to avoid the glare of headlights. They stopped directly alongside him. Something was flung from the window, a beer can, and it nearly hit him. There was an exchanged of overheated sex talk. The girl must have gotten her hand on the guy's tool, because she started gushing about how big and warm and hard it was. All that reminded him of how completely Mistress controlled his own cock. And how he had come to crave her doing that. He waited until the chatter was replaced by the wet sounds of a BJ and the answering moans of the recipient. When he was confident that both the participants were fully distracted (and the girl's head was well below the level of the window), he scuttled forward. Near the edge of the paved parking area, where more cars waited, all of them appearing vacant, he halted. There was one final clump of bushes, just high enough to hide him, but far enough away from any other cover that he wouldn't be able to go elsewhere without risking exposure. Don certainly didn't want to be detected in his current, mostly nude, feminized state. He hunched down low while more cars arrived and people got out. They were too close for his comfort. But he had to be near the lot when Mistress returned. His tummy fluttered at the thought of her not following through. But finally she did appear. To his dismay, however, she parked directly behind the building, got out, and went inside. Don had to stay where he was. Several guys emerged and congregated not far from him. They sounded a bit drunk as they debated something he couldn't follow about sports. Then they produced cigars and all lit up. Just Don's luck, the mild breeze was blowing toward him. Soon he was breathing in the foul smoke and trying not to cough. He had nightmare visions of getting a tickle in his throat and being seized by a fit of coughing. Of course the smokers would investigate. When they found him, he could only guess what might happen next. The idea of being surrounded by horny young men who had a couple drinks in them was unsettling. His balls were sore from too much chastity. Something was making his ankles and calves itch. The corset tormented his body. He sank lower and was rewarded with a twig poking him between his bottom cheeks, almost making him yelp. Mistress emerged from the building. She got into her sturdy old truck, started it, and swung around close to where he was concealed. "Hey, guys," she called to the impromptu cigar club. "You seen anybody around here? I'm supposed to meet my... girlfriend... back this way." "Ain't seen nobody." "Care to join us, sweetheart?" "No," she said. "I'd better go check over at the Blue Light. Maybe she got mixed up and went there instead." The guys laughed. Mistress told them that the local band was about to start playing inside. They started back and she pulled away. Don was more distressed than ever. Should he retrace his path back to where he had started? Was that what she just said was supposed to tell him to do? But then, to his deep relief, Mistress's truck came back around the other side of the building. She had simply made a loop. As she pulled up she was laughing. Don saw that she wasn't coming as close as he would have preferred. And the door he had to enter was facing the building. He darted across the blacktop and got his hand on the door handle. When he pulled, though, he found it locked. With a strangled sound of dismay, he whispered hoarsely, "Please, Mistress, let me in." He turned at the waist to look behind him, the collar making it too difficult for him to swivel his head. Sure enough, a couple was just exiting the bar. "Pleeeease." With a loud chuckle, Mistress reached across to unlock the door. He gratefully yanked it open and climbed up into the cab. From behind him he heard the couple say something, sounding surprised, and knew they had spied him and his uncovered backside. Mistress moved her vehicle, but very slowly. She told him to smile and wave to his admirers. He did it, aware of how he must look with his bare shoulders and drawn-over eyebrows. The pair outside considered him and waved back, not entirely sure what they were seeing. He thought he heard the girl say the word 'lezzies'. He sagged as they reached the open road. Mistress told him to put on his seatbelt. "You wouldn't want us to get pulled over, would you? By some hunky young cop?" She snickered. "Do you want to stop anywhere else before we head back to your place?" In a small voice he told her, "No, Mistress." "Sounds good, Darling. After all, you owe me for the nice night out I gave you. I made your wicked fantasy come true, didn't I?" He had to admit, "Yes, you did." "So there'll be plenty of paybacks. I think we'll put you in that pink baby-doll nightie, but without the panties. Maybe I'll just toss those out, along with whatever's left of your male underwear." He was nervous all the way home. Once they were there he hurried inside. She helped him out of the collar and corset, then let him get cleaned up but insisted that he keep on his ruined stockings. Next, Mistress followed through on having him wear that overly girlish nightie. She teased his nipples through the filmy material. Then she freshened up the marks on his bottom with an application of a metal, one-piece spatula from the kitchen, that she made him fetch and bring to her between his thighs, so he had to take tiny steps. At last it was time for him to thank her for making his dream scenario a reality. She sat on a kitchen chair. Her mannish trousers had a button fly. He knelt and opened it. Mistress wore nothing underneath. He had to use a phallic vibrator on her after wetting it in his mouth. Under her instructions, which were mostly cautions not to go too fast, it took over a half hour to fully satisfy the sexually amped up woman. Then he had to lick clean the sex toy. His own needs were neglected, with his trapped member straining against its confinement. At last she was sated and they moved to the bedroom. She patted him on the head as if he was an obedient house pet. Then she stretched out on top of the covers and turned onto her side. He got behind her and spooned his body against hers. The contract between the soft material of the nightie, that rubbed against his receptive nipples, and the rougher fabrics that covered her, was not lost on him. It felt wonderful. All of it. "Thank you," he said softly. "You're welcome," she answered, sounding sleepy after all the satisfaction he'd given her. "I never thought I'd get to live out that fantasy. But you made it happen. And even expanded on it. You're so good to me." "Because I love you, silly." "I know. And I love you, Mistress." ********* (There you have it. Three different tales about fantasy wishes and what it takes to make them come true. Did one of them resonate more than the others for you? Please let me know.)