Pansi--Thursday (and Thursdays Past) free porn video

Thursday (and Thursdays past)--Pansi "emasculated" It's the rare word so special to allow it inked on my blemishless skin--twice actually. The script is delicate cursive (timidly uncapitalised) written across a spray of darling little pink and yellow stars. It's on the sensitive inside of my right wrist. It's tiny with muted colors, so more of a personal thing than to be noticed; something to give me a lift if I'm feeling too much like a boring girl. The other is the same but bigger, brighter, and over my left hipbone. It's nearly four inches across, so not being able to hide it really adds to the thrill of prancing in bikini bottoms, or tiny hipster cut-offs and a belly baring top! God knows what the tat shop dude thought. He didn't know I wasn't a girl even while making the signs to advertise it. Even "Lulu Pansi Bottoms" on my credit card didn't do the trick. It was so lacking in blush- worthiness I had to go back for just one more. The guy had many qualities I appreciate: huge and ripped, good-natured, with that whiff of no-nonsense and intimidating. This time I asked for "sissy." Letter style? Whatever floats your boat, my dude, just not too big! I'm not going to see it without contortions and a mirror. I was really there for the thrill of having my hips raised and cheeks spread so he could get to where I wanted it. He certainly noticed Flimsy then. He threw me out! Very unprofessional, if you ask me. But most don't, and I don't mind. Two years later men tonguing my hole, or preparing to stick it in me notice a little, off-center, "sis" near my entry! ================================== I first heard "emasculated" when I was maybe ten or eleven. I felt a warm tingle from this dimly understood word. I was smart enough to realize this was an interest to research in private. So one day I got my Mom to drop me at the library for a few hours. I quickly checked-out a few books, blindly grabbed from the shelves. Then I settled before a computer. Emasculated! There it was: transitive verb, definitions, usage, the lot! Sometimes this led to blocked sites. I sort of knew these had to do with sex. Yucky! As if! Though it's not a proper job, I immediately knew what I needed to be when I grew up. So, nine *agonizing* years later, hearing of a place where Sissy was a job description seemed the perfect opportunity! I could be used by lots of strong men while among like-minded friends! Of course it's not really like that. Generously, I'd count legit emasculates here easily on one hand. All the Sissies are sex objects, though not all share an enthusiasm for that. Some aren't nearly effeminate enough. Most want a vagina. Practically all say they are transgender, with some claiming to literally be women! I can't imagine wanting to be a drab normal woman than being so much rarer and precious. This fundamental disagreement is a big part of why I'm not a very popular "girl" in the dorm. Yeah, like, I get that The Sissy Prayer is meant as a joke, but it is my mantra. I AM A PRECIOUS GEM. I AM RARE IN NATURE. ONCE CUT AND POLISHED I SHINE. THEN I AM READY FOR MOUNTING AND DISPLAY. It's super-affirming! I wish I knew it when I was younger, even without getting the, ummm, sub-text. Now that being displayed and mounted is my life purpose it feels like it was written just for me! ============================================ I blush easily, which is a super-exciting talent. The thought that questionable searches would draw attention made me absolutely scarlet! What if some nosy librarian happened upon a young b*y avidly investigating emasculation? That would be so emasculating! At that age I feared alarms were going to ring before I could type the last letter. My tushie and inner thighs felt electrified. I tented my hideous b*y jorts. I really think my love of language started with this. I was an indifferent English student at the time. But I discovered this rush from simply reading ravishing words. Hearing them too; if softly spoken. My nipples will harden and my thighs quiver just from hearing a pleasant voice say "flimsy" on a crowded subway car. Which is, admittedly, not a daily concern in the environment. To recreate this feeling, I had to collect them all! Starting that day, and for the next few months, I was (to Mom's pleasure) dedicatedly studious. To mince, simper, primp, flounce or flit. You can see the appeal of such*deliciously* unmanly behaviors. Demure, fey, pouty, sissyish. Docile is IMHO one of the loveliest words! In the top tier, where I'll get so flushed and light-headed that I practically feel my opening becoming dilated and dewy. [Only if it's pronounced with two long syllables. "Doss'l" is a serious buzzkill]. (Com)pliant gets me, and I it. Though I'm in love with being submissive, the word is just O.K. Obedient clunks like an old used-car. I rarely have a tingly response to specifically sexual words. Pussy, maybe, but I'd be thinking about kitties. Lots of cutesy words end in a "y-sound": panty, fancy, lovely, comfy, cummy, or cami. They are all yummy words to use, but not having the erotic power to use me! Flimsy excepted. Sex words are mostly harsh, or long and clinical. Fellatio is fine, but a bit of a mouthful ;) Shiny and shimmery terms can be super-arousing. Sparkle works, and bijoux is darling! Jewelry, like sperm, should always be accepted, but the word sounds like gargling marbles. Glimmer is iffy. Glitter is too harsh, and like sand it gets everywhere! There are some oddballs I respond to. I can justify dumpling. But tacit and vermouth defy explanation. Come to think of it "oddballs" is atrocious; possibly slurring the symmetrically-challenged. I love twinkle! It was runner-up when I needed to name "the thing." It surely *had* to be Flimsy though. It's 100% a girl, by the way, even though Pansi isn't--she/her pronouns puhleeze! It's a bit silly that I, a grown-ass emasculate, still call her that. But I've been using it more than half my life. Pee-pee isn't even a close second. So Flimsy stays, biches! ================================== I decided on a project to emasculate myself. Mostly on Thursdays. As Mom worked late that day, it was convenient for my "big homework" day away from home. Little homework was done, but my efforts convinced my mother when I earned my first "A" in English! My M.O. was seeking the most flagrantly girly books. I'd read some immediately, as I needed *a lot* of time to summon the nerve for my next step. Usually they were boring. Sometimes words like "Princess Lilly" would spark a tingle. But the plan was to collect a big pile of books that plainly would be "judged by their cover"; and the best for the purpose were picture books aimed at very young girls. Some were more age-appropriate. "YOUR FIRST PERIOD: A GUIDE" was confusing because of all the weird "men"- words. Menses sounds like a Pharaoh; menstruation sounds bloody awful. But the big swirly letters on the fuschia cover caused me to select the book every week. I'd spend hours choosing and worrying. Just for two minutes at check-out where I'd blush furiously. I hoped the employees were thinking that I would never-ever-ever-ever-ever become a m*n. Sometimes it was a woman at the counter--though I'd try to time it so I got a male librarian. In time, I became dissatisfied by the appalling shortage of manly librarians. I tried writing letters of complaint. I thought my arguments that they be taller, younger and wear fewer cardigans and glasses were pretty convincing. Signing as "A Concerned Adult" was brilliant! Email was too risky. So the downfall of my plan was handwriting them in pencil. On my way out I'd shove all the hard-won books in the returns slot, so they'd be shelved and ready for me to not read them again next week. Long before High School, I began experimenting more publically. Mincing was my aim. I must have looked mentally challenged at first. Always reminding myself to take the teensiest steps, but since my walk to school wasn't magically halved, I'd have to rush. I was careful not to mince at school, but would sometimes be caught accidently copying a gesture I'd seen a girl use. They weren't as useful for this as you might think. I didn't have props for things like hair twirling, smoothing a skirt or (in my next grade) adjusting a bra strap. Besides, no girl in my school was anything near the daintiness I was aiming for. I wasn't trying to impersonate actual girls, just watch for their least masculine behaviors. It's a serious conundrum that I always struggle with. It's impossible to eradicate m**liness and not be mistaken for a girl (or worse trans)! If you refuses to talk deeply and flatly then light and lively is the only option. Well-behaved emasculates shouldn't be too talkative, but have to speak sometimes. If you reject every shred of m*n's clothes in your closet, women's are the only practical choice. Nude is an alternative, but it's impossible to match with anything! And the list goes on. It's so hard being not mistaken for a b*y without being mistaken for a girl. I really hate that. Hyper-effeminate castrated sperm extractors aren't a dime-a-dozen, you know--so I deserve the recognition! "Faggot" is a super-ugly word. Especially when yelled at you by older boys in a passing car. Also, just plain wrong! I sort of knew the meaning of the word, and knew that it had *nothing* to do with me. Hello! I'm talking about, like 2006, not 1956! Even as an innocent child I had an idea homosexuals were like regular men, and if not they were brashly flamboyant. If there's one thing I'm more *not* than a m*n, it's queeny!! Sometimes I'd be in safer situations, like when this grumbly old man staring at me, mumbled "pansy" to his dumpy old wife. This early experience thrilled me enough that I hoarded the word until I needed a professional name. ====================================================== There's not much better than a virile man groaning your name as he fills your mouth with his rich essence of masculinity, especially when it's a totes sissyish one. Which is exactly what's happening this Thursday; courtesy of Ricky Romano. As I swallow, he adds "ball-less cum eating bitch!" You might expect Ricky not my type at all. However, he's taller than you'd think, and not the hyperactive man-child he plays on his talk show. The right-wing and gay stuff is also mostly a gimmick. Real Ricky has the swaggering arrogance of a star and is pretty misogynistic, so I've got no worries he'd want romantic services or (shudder!) respect me as an equal. His dick's nothing special. His cum is as tasteless as his opening monologues. Whatevs! I care a whole lot more about the quantity and consistency of semen anyway, and he's solidly above average for those. Still, his best quality is a talent for disdainful dirty talk. As long as he's using me before he starts I adore that! Ricky thinks anyone allowing themselves to be castrated is a pathetic pervert, though he'll get super-erect at any mention of it. Ricky has come with his husband Sidney in-tow. That's highly irregular. I don't know who's getting blown or bribed to allow it, but not my place to question. Maybe they're playing it like Sidney's doing a prospective Member tour; though Sidney is in no way suitable to join a men's club. "Turn the damned TV off!"Ricky says, as always, when opening my door. I do it, leisurely, while pretending I've lost the remote. When lounging in my rooms I like nature documentaries, or this: an endless stream of 5- 10 second porn snippets, on mute. It's all massive (on my 40-inch screen anyway) erect penises erupting; spermy nectar thickly dribbling down throbbing shafts; mixed with girls being rewarded for pleasing a man with nutritious loads pumped on their tongues, or a delightfully degrading facial. This always annoys Ricky, though Sidney seems disappointed when I turn it off. Sidney greets me with a big fruity *HELLO* and a hug, like we're besties who haven't seen each other in forevvvah!! We literally haven't. He says he says he has heard *so much* about me. This probably from Ricky describing every time he's been in my holes. Ricky sometimes talks about Sid, I've seen their wedding pics in the tabloids, and some TV interviews about it. That's it. Up close I see he's wearing lip gloss and some crappily applied mascara and liner. Some chin stubble mixed with red spots and ointment suggest he's come from an electrology appointment. He's a handsome--almost pretty--guy usually, but looking a bit of a draggy wreck right now. From a mile away I'd see his massive too-too-much bag. The thing looks like it was dropped in a vat of glue and crystals, then had massive red bows randomly attached, before a couple of drag queens farted glitter on it! Ricky snaps his fingers and points to a chair in the corner, where Sid meekly retreats, while whining about something. I'm not paying attention to anything but Sidney's awful mewling voice being not his own. In interviews last year he had this rapid precise patter, with a touch of the New York Jewish accent that's nearly extinct nowadays--at least for "P.R. professionals." Sydney tells me his name is with "y" now. Like, uh, thanks, I guess? They're pronounced the same damned way, and not like I'll be writing him. What would we have to say? If his husband fucking me instead of him counts as something in common, well yeah, I guess we have that. I hadn't planned sending him an invite to the viewing party. Ricky starts off gossiping about one of his guests today. He thinks I'm a fan, but it's the other Ryan I like. Meanwhile, Sydney is silently undressing, and carefully folding the items. He's dressed upscale male business-casual. His slim-cut khakis are losing the fight to hide a widening bottom. Underneath, panties in my usual style--open backed. In fact, I have three like them in the same color. Bulging under that is plainly a chastity cage. He's wearing an underbust corset similar to one of mine--all business, no frills, though of an appealing rosy hue. This has the effect of making teensy titties look halfway respectable. He has barbell piercings through both nipples. His areolae shockingly large--like they are waiting for the boobs to catch up. I'm eyeing Syd warily while Ricky tries to impress me with his guest roster for next week. One thing is a triple-S Sissy certainty: *that's* getting nowhere near me! It's one thing being properly obedient to Ricky's wishes, but there are limits. Sydney merely being here is sketchy. I'm contracted not to have sex on the clock with anyone other than Members or fellow Sissies, so clear cause to just say "NO!" I swear I'll scream if he even hugs me again, unless he's fully dressed and leaving! Ricky is undressing while Sydney is having trouble rolling stockings up his legs. At least that's not an attempt to look like me. I only wear them on request. I'd shrugged of my fluffycomfyshorty robe the moment they arrived, so I'm in my typical caged-back panties in black, and a matching bralette. I nearly always wear a choker or collar while working. This one is almost too delicate to fix a leash to. It's got soft transparent ruffles all around with a thin satin ribbon woven through its center, ending in a long-tailed bow at the front. All in black, with a teensy O-ring in back and a cute little jingle bell hanging from the center of the bow. On my feet a standard stripper-heel (6 inch with 2 inch plat) version of a more respectable pump. They're red and black with a peep toe and thin ankle strap. I'm a bit love/hate about shoes. I love the sense of vulnerability and the mincy steps caused by really tall shoes with thin heels. But I don't like being taller than men--which I usually am with six inches added. I'd be eye-to-eye with Ricky in kitten heels, for god's sake! I like wearing them best when I'm on my knees or on my back. Ricky is laid back with his head propped on two pillows, lazily stroking his erection. I'm curled up near the head of the bed, stroking his chest. Syd's cursing under his breath at the difficulty of hooking garter straps to the welt. Ricky is amused by this; I check to see if there's anything interesting on the ceiling. Once that ordeal is over Ricky orders Syd to stay silent, turn around, bend-over and grip his ankles. The purpose is to display a corkscrew pig's tail plug occupying his rectum. Just one in a string of "thanks for nothing" moments. I could really use a dick in my face right now, but need to be told first. When Ricky says "don't move, don't speak, watch!" I think the time has come. ====================================================== Eventually my diligent practice of prissiness began to show at home and at the High School I had now entered. My mother was surprisingly accepting of her (supposedly) gay son. In part due to my improving grades, sunny disposition, and willingness to do household chores. This was never spoken of, only suggested by odd comments. One time when I had a rare male friend over to the house, she accidently called him my "boyfriend," before totally losing her shit about the mistake, and running to her room. I hadn't had a boyfriend, and this goofy bookish kid sure wouldn't be my choice. But after my mother basically called him gay he totally ghosted me. Naturally, I took that as proof he wasn't gay, which made me more interested. For a month I had this silly fantasy of a doomed romance. My fresh*** year was *terrifying,* though real danger wasn't as great as I imagined. Anti-bullying rallies and diversity campaigns were administration gospel. Ostracized, "accidently" jostled, the butt of jokes were as bad as it got in school. Walking home was riskier. I was lucky the first boy who tried to pick a fight with me got seriously razzed by his buddies for trying to look tough with someone so weak. The second ended-up with some wrestling on the ground. Imma guess he quit it cos he was getting a hard-on while pinning me down. After that it was mostly taunting. This was also when I became aware of my excitement from prettier sounding name-calling: the old man who called me pansy; either powderpuff or creampuff from another. One really memorable time I was called a "panty- wetter." That sounded so delightful that I actually tried becoming one! I guess I was thinking that displaying the tiniest spot of wetness might get me called a panty-wetter again. This didn't work too great cos it's not easy to control the flow. Being a shoe-wetter isn't exciting at all. Nowadays I only like damp panties when freshly deposited sperm is oozing from me. A happy side-effect was getting my first panties. I thought about a man discovering me wearing them but, not being a girl, I was still iffy about female clothing. The idea of getting some specifically to be a panty- wetter eliminated my resistance. Buying a three-pack of cotton Hanes hipster bikinis (purple, teal, and a zebra-stripe) was a life changing moment! I was sooooo over the childish library check-out routine. Shopping for panties was a new way to get that old thrill back! For sure it made me honest and hard working. There was no point stealing them--unless to get caught. Buying more than you'll ever need is tough on a fifteen-year- old's budget. I *aggressively* marketed my babysitting business. That memory makes me cringe a little--as it's about the last time that I'd need to describe my actions with so butch a word. Though possibly the safest non-girl sitter, I was at a disadvantage compared to girls. When I got a job I'd be sure to use my free-time for above the call of duty stuff like vacuuming, dusting, or emptying the dishwasher. I was soon being hired for cheap light house-cleaning around the neighborhood. I had to hide half my income from Mom, because this was being spent on panties that I also had to hide, in a half-filled gym-bag. Nothing girlish about this, of course. It's only underwear for them, and they hopefully don't buy more than they can wear. For me the fear of shopping for them and the nervous, blushing purchase was the point. I'm still recklessly addicted to panties. I've got a 317 pairs even though there's no shame in buying them anymore. They're hard to resist for the memory of them making humiliation the core of my naturally emasculate sexual development. I also wore them. I mean, Hello!! Ten bucks a day is a lot of money for a kid to spend on something that won't be used. I got more value out of them than a girl ever would. One great thing was running my fingers through them while whispering things like "*my* scrumptiously flimsy panties." Not that any were scrumptiously flimsy then. It was years before I started adding sexy pairs to my collection. My idea was buying the sexier ones might be taken as they were a gift for a girlfriend--which isn't what I wanted people to think at all! I enjoyed browsing the frillier, lacier, tinier styles, but felt too safe doing so. I preferred the basics--mostly hipsters or thongs--that men wouldn't usually buy for women. Their variety being in super-girly colors and prints, like hearts, flowers and teddybears. I maybe got a few that were sheer just across the ass or ruched down the cleft, because the thought of displaying my pretty backside really turned me on! To adapt to my new panty wearing life it was way simpler sitting to make water. Not as a female thing at all! How many of them chose that so men at urinals won't see their underwear? My fantasies about men glimpsing mine did not include (eek!) stinky washrooms while I had Flimsy in my hand! Besides, Flimsy is always comfortably tucked in the proper direction for sitting while peeing. She already needs resituating a few times a day so why add a few more? The sensible choice is minimally lower the back of my panties, sit, dab with tissue, and done. No problem, except a rare little squirt a on my bottom. Bonus feature: lowering my panties at the back sometimes gets me thinking of spankings, so adds a touch of fun to a dull daily necessity. =========================================== When I'm on my knees, at the end of the bed, in front of Ricky, he turns us so neither are blocking Syd's view. I don't know is this is just a torture/humiliation thing, or whether it's a lesson for when Syd will be required to perform wifely duties. I don't know how much instruction I could give. Ricky's isn't much for finesse and foreplay. He'll tell me how he wants me positioned and, if its oral, when I can start. I'm allowed maybe a minute of simply bobbing until my lips comfortably reach the base of his shaft, then he clamps my head and starts face-fucking--not by thrusting at me but by controlling the motion of my head. After a flurry of fast and deep he'll do interludes of longer, slower strokes. Always, though, to maximum depth with his hands on my head and him barely moving. There's not much to do with him except avoid gag reflexes and whiplash. My original contribution is usually knowing the moment he's about to unload in me. Then I'll clamp my fist at the base of his shaft, otherwise Ricky is liable to cum directly down my throat. I'm getting nearly nothing for my trouble then! The payoff for me is feeling the moment when a strong load is pumped on my tongue; and the joy of knowing thousands of sperm are coating my mouth. After the "ball-less cum-eating bitch" comment the only variation on our routine is Ricky telling me to "show Sydney" (obviously his semen on my tongue). I do, while keeping my eyes closed. Ricky tells Sydney to "go sit down". He's been watching the face-fuck upside down while bent-over double the whole time. I expect I'll get a break now. Rick will nearly certainly fuck me before he leaves, but his on/off switch with nearly everything is abrupt. He could barely care what I do until he's ready to enter me again. I go to the bathroom to check my makeup. Not bad--only a puff of powder needed around my nose/mouth/chin. If I'm expecting Ricky first on my shift I'll skip lipstick, knowing how quickly ruined it'll get. My mascara couldn't be more perfect!! It's exactly the right slightly smudged and streaky effect that I'll try to do myself. That never looks as good as getting the look naturally, from gagging on cocks! I grease and carefully insert the biggest pill to be ready for later: a S-2-XL. A quick one because Ricky's usually ready to fuck within a half hour. I go a step-up from my normal thinnest lube, cos I haven't been entered today or yesterday. The Extra-Large isn't at all necessary, except Ricky likes to feel the hot squirting mess being rammed out of me. Ricky and Sydney are talking, or more correctly Ricky is dictating Syd's schedule. There's a bit of switching a business appointment that conflicts with a social engagement. Ricky was supposed to give a house tour to some lifestyle mag photographer, but he'll be out of town, so Sydney has to do it. Most of it's about fitting in Sydney's limitless electrology appoints/surgical consultations/corset fittings/makeup lessons. Sydney being here now was likely a scheduled sex lesson. Sydney takes notes, while occasionally whining "do I have to, Richard?" The way I look at it, Ricky found a volunteer for his grand project. Apart from castration specifically, Ricky is more broadly fascinated by physical transition. Aside from obedient testical-free emasculates, he only likes fucking the new talent that arrives half-baked. He likes to watch them develop. Me, for example, he sniffed around for my first couple of months on the job. I think he wanted to watch my titties grow, or was expecting I'd get implants. Once he realized I wasn't getting much above 34A he barely even spoke to me for a year. I only became a favorite when I mentioned my orchi plans. Ricky wanted a personal Sissy, rather than a fancy rental arrangement that he hasn't much control over. He wants to direct and watch the whole process from soup to (no) nuts. I don't know whether Ricky found it convenient to have a fake gay boyfriend first, and lucked-out with Syd, or that it was a plan from the start. Anyway, fake boyfriend or not, they're focused on "family matters," so I excuse myself for a trip to the basement, to find a washer for my lingerie load. ============================================ The way I see it, the problems with a "gay boyfriend" are: 1. Gay. 2. Boy. Get rid of those bits, he's simply "friend," which is the best use for them. Of course there were a few openly gay kids at my school. Duh! This is only like eight years ago in Eastern Massachusetts. They were usually too gay to hide it; which had no appeal for me. My association with them was attempting to hear dish on which older boys might be closeted. This information was rarely reliable. They never talk about Dennis with the zits, coke-bottle glasses, and a secret iPod full of showtunes. The rumors are as often wish-fulfillment as true. My first "straight" boyfriend was a tall black kid on the C.C. team (cross-country, not to be confused with my later employment). We were really close and relaxed together. Trouble was his strictly religious homophobic family pent-up his "inner-self." Once he became relaxed sharing himself with me, what he shared was his inner RuPaul! So I asked him to sashay away. I can't describe every problem encounter. One bro-type invited me to "play videogames." This was strange, as he'd never been at all nice to me before. But whatever! He had a PS3, oodles of games, and made an effort to think of some titles that had a little girly appeal. It'd turned out his plan was to use each other's joysticks. After a half hour of him beating me at some cartoonish racing game, he unzipped to start beating himself. Digging a travel-sized bottle of lotion from between the sofa cushions showed he'd planned this. As I didn't scream and run away he gestured I do the same. I did expose Flimsy--like him only out the fly, but couldn't bring myself to follow his actions. He took my hand and wrapped it around his own dick. It was my first time seeing a male erection up-close and touching one! Naturally it happened on Thursday, as so many of my milestones have. I was too skittish--or perhaps dazed by feeling manhood pulsing in my hand--to move. He covered my hand with his to guide me in pumping up and down. Once I got comfortable with the rhythm he fumbled to unbutton my shorts. I lifted my butt and squirmed to lower them a little to my hips, while he started rubbing me. Of course he was way ahead of me; already with his eyes closed and thrusting. I had no experience with how long it took boys to cum, so everything happened with shocking suddenness! He let go of Flimsy seconds before shots were fired. The sight of him fire- hosing creamy baby-making juice in a two foot arc was totes mind- bendingly awesome! For me this was a seminal moment in more ways than one. I thought maybe this would be the end and we'd go back to the video games, without me cumming at all. That would still be worth it, but ending without a little taste seemed a wasted opportunity. I stroked my fingertip on his tip to get a dab of the last semen bubbling there, and tentatively brought it to my mouth. Meh, whatever, OK. I've since become enraptured by the nuanced flavors and textures of liquid male essence. But it is an acquired appreciation which, like many things, requires an adult palate and tasting experience. At that moment he came down-to-earth to open his eyes and look at me. Me in cute panties (white cotton-blend thong with a lipstick kiss print) sucking his sauce off my finger. "Dude, you are so fucking queer," he screeched! I saw anger and confusion building in his eyes for seconds before he could say anything, so I was already halfway to the door, holding my shorts up with one hand. There were a few other incidents of like these. Though resigned to the fact that a boyfriend I could get would have to be gay, I was super- strict in my requirement they not seem that way. Maybe bad luck that they were all repressed flaming bottoms or the self-loathing regret after hook-up dudes. One thing I learned from PS3 kid was that him touching Flimsy was as awkward as it was fun. Him saying "Go ahead. I'll whack you off too" was revolting! Jerking-off, beating meat, spanking monkeys--all these sound so awful that words alone advise against the practice. So I decided to cut back on it myself. Brimming with beastly t***toterone made a spotless record impossible, but I was managing to keep her in my panties for weeks at a time. The self-denial was super-awesome because when I did backslide I didn't need much stimulation. I could get myself off in a feminine style of two-finger stroking under the tip, or pushing between my closed thighs. I even used certain vegetables and fruits! I swore never again to do that disgusting fisty thing unless I was stroking a male penis; a vow I've kept for nearly seven years! No regrets though. I got enough practice in my early years that men often compliment me on my technique. There was one big problem. The fairly manageable spotting I'd sometimes get when excited became greater in volume and frequency. Nocturnal emissions were an issue, as well as accidental discharges in uncontrolled environments. I had a really messy one the first time I was dead-certain I'd hooked a man doing my usual thing of bending down in the drugstore with panties peeping over my waist-band. I was wearing a neon green thong that I could pull up very high, for max attention. He was very handsome and more than a little menacing--with lots of tattoos and a look suggesting regular contact with the criminal justice system. When I knew he'd seen my thong I felt he was too risky, so speedily went to a distant aisle to do my trick. There he was again! I was genuinely scared, but he looked like he was casually browsing the shelves beside me. I thought about running from the store, but figured I was safer in it. When I went to the third aisle I was too shook to bend over. He was still following me, and erect. The only time I looked directly at him, he winked and did a downward hand-wave directing me to bend over again. So I did! He passed by, quickly hooking the keyhole at the back of my panties and releasing them with a snap. Then I followed him. Not worried he'd assault me (non-sexually, at least) it became a fun cat-and-mouse game. The unspoken rule was pretending not to notice each other while shopping by ourselves. We nearly ran a lap of every aisle in of the store. Once, in an empty aisle, my hand "accidently" grazed the bulge in his jeans, but mostly we'd stand side-by-side with him looking at the top shelf, and my ass and panties. I'd be bent at the waist looking at the bottom shelf, and the outline of his hard dick. I often think of him: what he was really like and where he is today. My bet is buggering his prison bunkmate. But I wish him well. At the end he swatted my backside, said "Later, bitch," and threw a few crinkled dollar bills at me. I couldn't help it--*total sploosh!* and another, and a last little squirt! It's running down my legs while I'm supposed to be choosing the best store-brand toothpaste! It was maybe the biggest cummy I'd ever had--certainly the largest that wasn't handmade. The whole thing was such a heady mix of fear and fun building up that the final disrespect threw me right over the edge! Fortunately, the drug store offered a solution for my dilemma. I was no stranger to feminine hygiene products, because these seemed to me even more embarrassing than buying panties. Cheaper thrills too, though not having as much use. I'd also learned to scratch the UPC so they'd have to do a price check. I was kinda stuck there with more people knowing what I was buying. Dragging out the purchase for as long as possible was splendidly awkward. One time, while we were waiting, this chatty older lady at the register complimented me being "such a good b*y helping my mother." Seriously, gross! Lucky I didn't vom on the spot. But in a roundabout way she was right. I bought my Mom's brand of pads. Not having a use for them and not wanting my purchase discovered, I'd hide them in the back of Mom's bathroom cabinet so she'd find a spare box she'd "forgotten". Tampons, well, yes, I was too curious not to insert one. They're pretty useful. They kind of kept me aware of my tushie, so reminded me to maintain good posture by curving my back and presenting. I didn't make a daily habit of wearing tampons, but they're fun for like a few days a month. Panti-liners became a real godsend though! To be careful I'd stick one in my panties nearly every night before going to bed. Daytimes, not so much. I worked out that if I'd made an emission in the past 4-5 days there wasn't serious risk of an accidental one. When approaching a week constant protection was totally required! I didn't have many chances where I could do a load of laundry without risk of Mom coming home, so it was super-important the used side of my panty bag didn't have gross, messy ones in it for days. I worked out which styles and absorbency best filled my needs. I found a cute little pocket calendar and put a tiny star for every day I had a you-know-what. I was really proud of tracking when my next one was due and making sure I had a supply of panti-liners, rather than get caught by surprise. It worked like a charm, and wasn't at all like anything a girl... umm, OK, nevermind. =============================== Every deet that ended my gaylationship phase is too much to go into. The basics of my disastrous summer romance were Brandon was twenty-two, had just graduated college, had his own apartment, and hit me up in a coffee shop. I felt he was my first real man, after all these troubles I'd had with schoolboys. He took me on dates, bought me lots of little gifts, and loved my panties! The last was a big, big deal as something I could finally share with someone, and get affirmation as a panty wearer. That was our special thing! Every time we met I'd give him a quick peek at the pair I had very carefully selected for our date. He wasn't too pushy about sex. I'd squirm out of it if he tried to put a hand down there. I gave him a few handjobs and tasted his semen. Sometimes I dreamed he'd grab me by the head to ram his rod down past my lips. But if we *went there*I knew I'd be ravished. I was torn between him being too gentle and, you know, the big thing happening before I was ready for it. Looking back there were possible red flags. I never met any of his friends, but he never met anyone I knew either. He'd push me away if I tried to cuddle or hold hands in public. Frustrating, but I *very much wanted* an at least *straight-acting* boyfriend, which he couldn't be if people knew we were an item. Worse, if our intimacy was noticed we risked disapproving glares for more than gayness. I was sixteen-and-a- half but looked a smidge younger. Brandon already had a slightly receding hairline, and a very buttoned-down adult style. People might easily imagine he was twice my age. I adored calling him Daddy so much that I'd sometimes forget it wasn't a good idea when we were out! One late summer Thursday afternoon I'd been shopping with Brandon, who was in a very energized and generous mood. It took only the slightest hinting and pouting for him to get me a few items of drugstore makeup to keep at his apartment, and cute new panties (a set of two--one white with yellow pin-dots, the other the opposite--in nylon and pretty plain aside from daisy embroidery all around the elastic waistband). I thought with my long-term adult boyfriend I should progress to more sexy grown-up styles, but Brandon would praise the cutesy ones more. I was delighted that he bought me tangerine capris and a lemon baby-t to match--not the first clothing he'd got me, but the first I'd picked! As soon as we got "home" I rushed to thank him by showing-off the purchases. I slipped on the new yellow panties, and swapped the liner (always a wise precaution if we would be making-out) from the morning's pair. The capris were fabulous! The t-shirt not so much, but a good length to bare just an inch of my tummy. I'd experimented applying makeup a bit, though only to scrub it off. I did an OK job of just mascara, blush, some shimmer powder, and lipstick that wasn't a great color for me. With nearly another eight hours before I was expected home this was my best oppo to wear the stuff for a while, so I was especially careful to get it right. I enjoyed a bit of modeling this for Brandon; threw a few clumsy poses that made me blush. Then we had some pizza on the couch while watching TV. I'd barely swallowed the last mouthful before Brandon had his tongue in my mouth. Things moved very quickly then. Brandon mounted me, and I wrapped my arms and legs around him. Flimsy got very thick. The only thing keeping her between my legs was the pressure of Brandon grinding me there. He lifted and carried me to the bedroom, with his hand supporting my thighs. Though fairly scared, I'm pretty sure I asked him to carry me to bed. If I had to walk there I knew I'd get an awful bulge in the front or down the leg of my capris--which was really going to spoil my mood, if not Brandon's. On the bed I curled on my side, with thighs squeezed to hold things in place. I heard him unbuckle his chinos, but he was on the bed spooning me before he took them off. He fumbled with the little hook before pulling down the back zip of my capris. He spent a few moments pushing his erection near the small of my back. When he tried to ease down my pants I wriggled my hips--not out of any eagerness to have him inside me sooner, but cos I worried that if I didn't make it easy he might tug my panties down with them. I definitely did not want them removed any sooner than needed. "This was *the moment*," I thought. Me laying in silence with my eyes tight shut and my mind racing: would I be clean enough, would he use a condom, how would he prepare and position me for entry. I don't think he knew about my protection when we made- out, so I wondered if he'd freak about that. Not the deflowering of my dreams, but the room was pleasantly lit by sunset, Brandon kept it tidy, and the sheets smelled fresh. I'd imagined this moment many times with me always wearing much fancier white bridal-wear panties. But here we were. Time I learned what it's all about. My body stiffened even as Flimsy dribbled a little. Brandon whispered calming words in my ear. He said we had a lot of time so he'd take it slow. He promised that after my first-ever blowjob I'd feel relaxed and warmed-up. I could see how suckling on the velvety tip of his penis might be good stress-relief. If that didn't do the trick maybe Brandon would be satisfied shooting on my tongue, so we could raincheck the intercourse? He described how he liked oral, while lowering his shaft to work it between my clenched thighs. I should cup his balls in my soft palm while slowly licking up his shaft, before getting my lips around the head, except... *Trigger Warning!!!* ... all topsy-turvy!!! Brandon doing that to me! Six years later I still get a touch of reflux thinking of it! I screamed and kicked, but he painfully grasped my shoulder and thigh. I thought he would force himself on me! Suddenly he cried "Dammit!" and let me go. I rolled off the bed and crawled up a wall to get to my feet--breathless, pants below my knees, Flimsy out and quickly wilting. Brandon was on the bed... wearing panties. My panties! Grape purple, a bit of ribbon lacing down the hip. Not a fave, but I'd worried for weeks how I'd lost them! So. *That!* Plus the petty theft and moderate bruising later. Right then I made my NoMo Homos chastity pledge. Like, I still felt a destiny to have strong men's sperm in me. But asexual seemed a good plan for now. I'd researched anal sex a whooole lot! I knew I could try pushing a cucumber up there. I was so infatuated by thoughts of "deflowerment" though, so didn't want self-abuse to spoil the beauty of that. It was another of my most special word discoveries as a kid. I may have literally thought of petals falling around me in the sanctity of the moment. Doubling down on virginity until a real deflowering (best panties, champagne toasts, and maybe a choir) helped heal the sting of not being penetrated by Brandon. My distress was less thinking I'd dodged a bullet, and learned not to be "easy" again. Well. *If* I had *any clue* how divine it felt being anally entered... *if* I knew how long I'd have wait before being taken and inseminated by a man... *if* I knew that event would be the opposite of magical... well, I'd have been looking for an "7" realistic vibrating cock" to ride before I was done crying over that Thursday! ===================================== SEXUAL MINI-BIOS MALLORY is bisexual with a significant homoromantic/heterosexual divide. Her favorite sex acts (in order) are being anally penetrated, receiving analingus, and sucking cock. However, she enjoys sex with women and much prefers them for intimate relationships. Her job works out well, since she gets more sex with men than she needs there, without the complications of dating/relationships. Sex with men (or women) outside of work only happens if her girlfriend and "twin" Dana wants to join in. Identifies as bisexual transgender. PANSI only wants strong, confident "real men." As a very distant second she'll tolerate playacting with a weaker man or Sissy. She's horrified by vaginas and male homosexuals (whose orientation disqualifies them from being real men). She completely presents as female and accepts she/her, but is annoyed by her co-workers regarding themselves as women. Shame is her aphrodisiac. Being known as emasculated, castrated and used by men excites "her" more than the comfort of being a girl. Her hobbies are seeing/feeling ejaculations, receiving many loads of essential manly semen, panties, and collars. Identifies as emasculate bottom. DUVALL'S formative experience is as a gay homophobe with the prison machismo idea that it's only gay if yo are receiving. His former interest was in the most effeminate male homosexuals, whom he despises. Finding guys to fuck was complicated by not wanting to be seen with them, nor be seen in gay settings, nor socialize with any homosexuals. His discovery of "trannies" fit the bill of reinforcing his personal and public identity as a straight man, while accommodating his primary interest in male genitalia. Identifies as the Roger Ebert of tranny porn, the greatest disco dancer since 1980, and straight. ELLIE loves big cocks and she cannot lie. She's been fascinated by their contrast to her own miniscule equipment since an early age, though this wasn't sexualized before she transitioned. She'd like women just as well as men, if they had massive erect penises and liked to fuck her with them. She has to be receptive in intercourse, because she's not sufficiently endowed to penetrate. She is intersexed and had a scarring childhood due to her parents insisting on raising her as male. Dating as a heterosexual boy was a hurtful failure since (besides genitals) she was very short and had babyish features. Her "switch" to girl was largely motivated by being physically more suited to the role. Identifies as Straight Female Intersexed. SUZY loves her fashions and rich men above all. She's pretty narcissistic. She had a (somewhat weak) attraction to girls as a youth. She was frustrated being cornered into a male role in dating, since she'd have preferred girls wooing and courting her. She is sexually very passive. She wasn't attracted to men when she transitioned. But them becoming so obviously attracted to *her* was wildly exciting! Her biggest thrill is her power to incite lust and desire. She kind of fell backwards into having male sex partners--consenting only because his lust was overpowering. When mounted by a man for the first time assuming the womanly role during sex just felt so right! Lightly bisexual: she adores kissing, petting and cuddling young girls, but not much beyond that. Identifies as a woman and lady. MR. GOULD is the most uncomplicatedly heterosexual. He's highly aroused being surrounded by displays of sexualized femininity at work, but only has sex with cis-women. He credits his business (pimping) success to never getting sexually involved with Sissy employees. He's had a few favorites/crushes over decades on the job though. If a transgirl doesn't work for him (yet) he can suspend disbelief enough to enjoy a blowjob from a job applicant. Identifies as straight. AMARANTA swings both ways, though she prefers trans-women/girls over men, since when a fling with a man is to her advantage she does not top him, and her preference is above all domination. She's nearly asexual and quite predatory. For her sex is a strategy, not a pleasure. She doesn't do "relationships" and views passion as a weakness she can exploit. Sex with a man is an offer to improve her negotiating position. Otherwise it nearly always occurs with one of her transgender recruitment prospects. She likes trying them out--for quality assurance purposes--before deciding if she should recommend them to The City Club. Identifies as none of your fucking business-woman.