Cinderfella Visits Home free porn video

CINDERFELLA VISITS HOME Wow, this is creepy. Nothing whatsoever has changed. Not d?j? vu, more like entering a time warp. My parent's house and the surrounding homes have not changed one iota. I can swear, tar patches on the street in front of their place are the same from my childhood. Clouds shift, partially blocking the sun, cause a strange hue as the remaining sunlight filters through the leaves of the five oak trees standing sentinel in the schoolyard. Goosebumps form on the back of my neck as I walk around to open my wife's door. Shela opens her door and exits of her own accord. Looking up, I see my mother looking over her rose-colored glasses at us. Too far to accurately bear witness, I watch as she sets her knitting aside, knowing she wears a disappointed grimace on her face. I come up short of doing my gentlemanly duty. Shela opens the back door to retrieve our offering to supper. Handing me side dishes, she takes the lilies that she picked out to make a good impression. Straightening my collar and dusting wrinkles from my shoulder, she wraps her arm through mine and moves us forward up the driveway. At the door, I look at my wife. She is as ready as she will ever be. Looking to my left through the bay window, my mother sits in her place, not moving. My sister opens the door and greets us warmly. She has been looking forward to meeting my wife for some time. My whole family has wanted to meet Shela. Life is busy. We didn't want a large ceremony, deciding on a small beach wedding with just our closest friends. Starting a marriage in deep financial debt didn't appeal to either of us. The money and planning seem such a waste. God forbid, some individuals may not get along. If that happens, guests tend to remember the ensuing shenanigans instead of the bride. Our quiet declaration, vows spoken to each other, and all of nature in witness was romantic and endearing. Shela's eyes bore into my soul while sounds of water coming and going keep time to the earth's rhythms, immortalizing our wedding deep in cherished memories. For my part, the minister and the witnesses didn't need to be there. I never remember a time feeling so comfortable and content. Shela by my side, voicing her commitment for me and demonstrating it in her loving body language. Eyes like hers do not lie. We may have ruffled a few feathers by keeping our marriage to ourselves, but it sure was nice putting a rather large downpayment on that cute ranch house. My niece is very excited to see Shela again. Of my family, only Renee has spent any quality time with her. She is the only member of my family to have met Shela. "Put any ax murders away since last I visited?" Shela, quite amused, smiles and informs Renee, "The weapon of choice changes, but yes, three." Renee beams with pride that her aunt is a fearsome prosecutor. She even wrote a school paper on Shela when assigned to describe someone you admire. My mother has not as of yet moved or even vocalized a greeting to her daughter-in-law or myself. As I look in her direction, I see her roll her eyes. A smile creeps across her face as she pushes herself to a standing position. "Come in, come in. It's so nice to finally meet the woman my son has kept hidden from us. Shela, isn't it? Yes, I think it is if memory serves. You'll have to forgive me; five years is a long wait." Shela gently puts her hand against my chest, stopping me from engaging my mother, and closes the space between herself and my lethargic mother. Holding the lilies out to our family's matriarch, she embraces her closely and then pulls back and presents her with the white flowers. I can't help but notice how corpse like my mother looks holding the lilies. A warm smile spreads across my face finding the mental image, while disturbing, a little comical. "How are you, Mother? You know Shela was getting started as a public prosecutor." "Of course I know that, but family is also important, and what is your excuse for not visiting? Don't they have phones where you live?" "Phones work both ways, Mother. And I have called you." A master of engaging and causing conflict, Mother changes course and engages Shela in pleasant conversation. Just like her, start something and leave a bunch of tension in the air. She proceeds as if nothing has transpired. Seeing Shela now engaged in a lively conversation with my mother, I relax, knowing my wife can hold her own. Facing down some of society's most depraved individuals for a living, indeed, my mother is no threat. I may have misjudged my family and now feel a little guilt for keeping Shela away from them. It is nice to be amongst loved ones. My father is outside barbequing something other than what my mother has prepared in her handy-dandy electric frying pan. Carrots are burning on the bottom, bringing sugars to the forefront but not much in the way of beneficial nourishment, but tasty in a weird way. A halved chicken with copious amounts of salt elevated by the carrots and drownding in Campbell's mushroom soup is topped with peach halves marking it as something special. Thank God dad is preparing an alternative. It's good to be home. Nostalgia kicks in, and a warm fuzzy feeling engulfs me. Memories of playing with hot wheels in the hallway or flying my battery-powered helicopter in circles at my mother's feet, oh yes, she telling me to "get that fucking thing away from her," as her legs became chilled. Again I feel conflicted. Shela has insisted that we visit my family. We are here, and my comfort level is diminishing. I'm happy my wife is hitting it off with my mother and, therefore, my family, but I am also afraid of the other shoe dropping. Honestly, I don't even know what the other shoe is. Cindy pipes up that we should play Nertz. This is something that, as a child, I enjoyed. When they finally let me play, they found out that I was as competitive as any of them. Our family is very competitive, and Nertz can be almost hazardous to your health in our arena. A precursor to playing for Shela, and the confusion ensues. The fast pace raises blood pressure, and Cindy yells "one under," causing an additional move by everyone to place a card in the Nertz pile to realign with one card placed under the three apiece draw as intended. My mother looks on to make sure Shela understands what is transpiring. A little jealousy comes to the surface as I remember I was entirely on my own learning the rules that were this game. What is wrong with me? Why on earth would I be jealous of my mother helping my beloved? I should be happy Charlene is taking a shine to Shela. Who wouldn't take a shine to my wife? Highly educated and taking the altruistic route that doesn't pay much, trying to make a difference in society, Shela is one of a kind. I thought that when it comes to my mother's opinion, Shela has a significant handicap. Being a pasty and pudgy Irish woman, my mother didn't usually disguise her disdain for beautiful people. Shela possesses this quality in spades. Just as the game entered a complete understanding and things got good, it started. "Pretty boy, go and bring everyone the pistachios," my mother commanded. Shela raised an eyebrow and waited for the prompted story to unfold. "David, have you told Shela about when you spent three weeks with your grandparents," my mother inquired. "I'm not sure, Mother. What are you referring to?" "Nertz," I shouted as it pertained to the game and grabbed the misplayed card. "Why exactly was I at grandmother's house for three weeks anyway?" I was always curious why my parents dropped me at my grandparent's house when I was just over five. Their home was ten hours away. I never did find out what prompted the sudden prolonged visit, out of state. "That is none of your business David!" "The pistachios, David!" I'm now rolling my eyes and fetching, yes, fetching the pistachios. I do not need to look back. I know my mother has that nasty look conveying her sense of power. An embarrassing story, a narrative of luck, leads to great joy for my grandfather. A little tease that will endear the new daughter-in-law to herself. I'll let it ride as everyone seems to be enjoying themselves. A little good-natured ribbing is no big deal. My mother drops me off at my grandparent's house. Well, she came in, of course. It is a ten-hour ride. They whispered at the door, and then my mother bent down, told me to behave, and gave my five-year-old version of myself a peck on the cheek. She was gone. Thinking about it now really spikes my curiosity. That is driving straight by herself for twenty hours. What was so important? "Dinner will be ready, so go wash up, David." It was nice seeing my grandparents again. It was very nice eating a meal where nothing is burnt. My grandparents engaged me and talked about what we might do tomorrow. Comforting to be the center of attention for once, a feeling that I rarely received. Dinner was over, and I started clearing the table as I've been raised to do. Grandma seemed nervous about her glasses, but I made it to the counter with her fragile wares. I brought the little stool over and prepped the sink with warm water, and added the soap. Behind my back, looks were being exchanged. I noticed and figured they were proud of me, but as soon as I went to grab a drinking glass with wet soapy hands, Grandma stopped me. "You don't have to wash the dishes here, Grandson." "Why?" She looked over to Grandpa, and then inspiration hit. "Because you are pretty boy. And Pretty boys don't do dishes ever." I knew her drinking glasses were at the bottom of this, but being elevated to a privileged status was something every child would like. So for the foreseeable future, I was "Pretty boy." They played it up, and I soaked it in. I don't remember the visit, but this incident will forever be burned into my memory. My mother appeared around supper time. We waited a little later than usual, but I didn't mind. Dinner tonight was with my mother also in attendance. The meal finished, and I just sat in my chair. Noticing this, my mother sitting to my left, looks down on my small frame and inquired why I'm not doing the dishes. "I don't have to do the dishes," I inform her. "Why is that?" she calmly and evenly asked but had an edge in her tone. Looking over at my grandfather, I notice him about to burst. For what is about to transpire, joy is written all over his face. My young mind knows that grandma doesn't want her drinking glasses broke. What I don't know is what is the correct answer. "Because I'm pretty boy." As it happens, that was the wrong answer. Grandpa is hardly able to keep his seat with the mirth that erupted within himself. My mother conjured up such anger and hatred while building herself up to the full height that her seated stature would allow. Those evil-looking rose-colored glasses accentuate her harsh words growled at her youngest child. "Get over there and do the dishes!" My grandmother calmed her down, and I did the dishes. This was not a fond memory for me. My grandfather probably filed that one away as a very fond memory. My mother started to speak up as I bring the pistachios to the table and several small bowls for the shells. "I know, mother, I'll get the napkins." I cut her off before she can belittle me. I did not know until I was much older that you could buy pistachios without the red die. My mother only bought pistachios that were dyed red. Why would anyone in their right mind want this crap all over their fingers, especially while playing cards? As usual, all of my sisters just sit there waiting to be served. "Nothing ever changes," I think to myself. Sitting back down across from Shela and strangely enough with my mother sitting to my left again, I see Shela trying to work out something. When I make eye contact, she shrugs her shoulders and asks Charlene to tell her story that she obviously wants to share. Cracking a pistachio and placing it in her mouth, she spreads a little of the die across the corner of her mouth. I'm fascinated watching my mother spin her version of this tale. Her reddish-blond hair piled high on her pasty head with hellish eyes filtered through rose-tinted glasses and now what looks like some victim's blood on the corner of her mouth. What was so intimidating about her when I was growing up? My grandparents had spoiled me in her version and reduced all her good parenting null and void in as little as three weeks. She had to be firm but was fair in correcting my wayward attitude. "That's adorable," Shela gushed My mother now decided that she is hungry and we should call this a practice run. Jen and Tami, my other two sisters, were separating the decks of cards, desperately trying to keep the red dye off of our mother's vintage cards. They didn't want to stop playing, but the bbq has started smelling good, and they also didn't want their carrots burnt any further. In short order, the table is ready to receive supper. Dishes followed by side dishes still in the squat cardboard containers bought from Jewel and then the platter of meats that my father has been tending. Then the overcooked chicken sitting atop of burnt carrots and onions now stuck to the ribs of that poor chicken that gave its life for our sustenance. A sacrifice in vain drown in cream of celery soup with minute rice poured into this concoction at the last few minutes. One of the peach halves has gone missing, but still, 'whala," mother exclaims. She puts her creation in the center of the table. Shela looks on and seems a little putout. Not the fare that she is used to, but I know this is not the problem. I get up to retrieve my wife's dishes that have been left out on the kitchen counter. "Where are you going, David?" My mother asks. "Shela's dishes, mother." "There is no room. Just leave them over there." My mother instructed. "Ok," I relent but now have an opportunity to twist the knife as it were. I turn and grab my plate, heading towards the most edible food source in this house. I fill my plate with the dishes we brought. Shela is an excellent cook. The special meal my mother prepared makes me cringe and brings up other bad memories of sitting at the table until I consume broccoli that has been boiled for better than four hours. A cow could not eat this nutrient-drained confection, let alone a human. Several times as a small child, I begged to eat the broccoli raw or slightly blanched, only to be rebuffed. I would have been better off drinking the water the broccoli was boiled in than ingesting the actual vegetable. Shela follows suit and takes off her created dishes so as not to go hungry as all that seems to be of quality is several low-end types of meats my father has prepared. Back at the table, she takes a pork chop that is cooked medium-well. Adding coleslaw to my plate from Jewel's cardboard container, I see Shela would like some to add moisture to the chop. While passing the side-dish to my wife, I see my mother start to stew over us, not partaking from her hard work. It is a little embarrassing, but I want some of the burnt carrots. Seriously this was my mother's best food she ever cooked for us. I spooned a few onto my plate, and afterward, several of my family dissected the dead bird with Campbell's soup, looking a little like latex film covering the sacrificed bird. CHAPTER TWO The unfortunate meal is over, and the dishes cleared from the table, and Jen asks if we wanted to play volleyball or start a real game of Nertz. Five to two, it is Nertz. My mother and two sisters are on the large size, so this is not a surprise. Red pistachios in place and everyone with a different looking deck of cards, the game starts in earnest. Shela is a little shocked at how competitive everyone is. The pace is feverish. She is reminded of court cases where things are coming to a head, and the tension is palpable. A simple card game causing such anxiety, or is it these players in attendance? Having won the hand, I am confronted with my mother having her dig. "Cinderfella, take it easy; this is only a card game." "Oh shit," I think to myself. Surely, my mother would not go there to win a card game. "Cinderfella?" Shela inquires. While still playing, Cindy offers up a very embarrassing time in my life. My mother had empowered my sisters to make me clean the house and do all "woman's work," after I exclaimed that "If I had to do all of what is considered man's work, then I shouldn't have to do any woman's work. Shortly I was introduced to the tremendous double standard. Although there is no such thing as a woman's work, mowing the grass and taking the garbage out was men's work. Along with shoveling the snow out of the driveway, bringing in the groceries, feeding the dogs, and cleaning up after them, and everything else that women preferred not to do, I found myself inundated with the nonexistent woman's work. My sisters were prodding me on. Each and every task was performed by yours truly. My sisters were all watching the little house on the prairie, telling me what I needed to clean next. The sixth task completed while my sisters sat back and indulged themselves led me to a nasty proclamation. "I'm Cinderfella, and I can't take this anymore." My sisters zoomed in on this statement. Soon after, I found myself stripped and pushed towards the shower. In the span of ten minutes, every hair on my young body was taken from me. Freshly shaved and rubbed with a lotion that smelled of a young woman, my life took a path much different than expected. Soon I was dressed in complete female garb. "Here you go, Cinderfella." My nails were the next assault. When I stopped crying, makeup was added to complete my humiliation. Back at the task commanded by my sisters and enforced by my mother, I cleaned and fetched and did everything that a servant girl would be expected to do in the eighteen hundreds. Even when the doorbell rang, I was made to answer the intrusion. My best friend stood on my parent's stoop, gobsmacked at my appearance. "Your Mother?" he inquired, and I nodded in the affirmative. I never lived that day down. My sisters kept me dressed until my mother arrived home, and she intern insisted that my father see me dressed in this strange garb. Unfortunately, dinner prep was part of my punishment as my sisters lounged around. He was late, and it was my "honor" to serve him the meal that I cooked that evening. Dressed as I was, it was with shaking hands that I brought his dinner to him. He looked on with a strange detachment until he tasted real food for the first time in many years. His comment shocked us all. "Any time this feminine creature acts up, make sure to dress her up and make her prepare such fine vitals as I have ever tasted. If it is this good, keep her dressed up." My limbs on shaking heels enjoyed my mother and sisters receiving such a slam, but I didn't know where to lay my father's comments pertaining to myself. Tami pipes up, "yes, when we dressed David up, his little thing stood at attention the whole time." My sisters felt that I enjoyed the whole experience and conveyed that to Shela. Their explanation of what could be considered child abuse by sisters of age and almost of age was they were egged on by my positive response. We added every aspect of his femininity due to his raging hardon. Every addition to sinking him further into a feminine existence brought the same reaction, so they knew he really was enjoying himself. Shela was beside herself. I've never seen her so angry. "Let's go, we have two and a half hours to get back home, and I have court in the morning." My mother was ecstatic. Every opportunity to ruin anything for me was never missed. This would be her crowning achievement. Clearly, I was not one of her daughters. Having caused irreversible damage, she sought to lessen the impact of her commits. She had caused the desired effect she wished to push. Now she wanted absolution for her damaging actions. Why on earth didn't I keep Shela away from my family? She was livid. In the five years that we have been married, I have never seen her so agitated. In the car with our dishes untouched by anyone but ourselves, Shela proclaims that she is so mad. I felt guilty early on in the evening but now see that I was right to keep my wife from my nasty family. Never have I been so mortified. Shela expects me to drive, and she is so mad that nothing is relayed between us. My mother may have just destroyed my marriage. And if that is the case, I do not know what I will do. I pull into the driveway, having driven two and a half-hours home without a single utterance from Shela. She is still fuming. I put her side dishes in the refrigerator in the kitchen when she announces that I need to come with her. "Can we talk about this?" I implore. "Come with me, and no, I'm still too mad," Shela informs me. She starts a bath and pours bath salts in the mix, and orders me to disrobe. "No arguments now, just do as I say," she informs me. My mind steps up into hyperdrive as my wonderful relationship may have been permanently damaged by my mother. The tub is almost full, and Shela commands me into the tepid water. I've never taken a bubble bath before and now feel out of sorts. She produces a safety razer and taps the side of the tub, inviting my leg to rest on its side. She makes short work of my leg hair and demands my other leg. I feel two completely different emotions at the same time. Part of me mourns the loss of my relationship with Shela as it was, and the other revels in soft skin that only women have. It is very erotic to have someone you find beautiful removing all of your body hair. My penis is as my sisters have described earlier in this horrible evening. Shela has not missed this fact, and her anger seems to return. "Stand up for a moment and let me get at the hard places," Shela directs. Standing up, scented bubbles cascade down my now denuded chest and arms. She has me turn around, and the back of my thighs receive the same treatment. Pushing softly against my ass cheek Shela rubs some soap up and down my skin around my bunghole. The razor soon follows. I don't think I have ever stood so still in all my life. Turning me once again, I look at Shela, and she is concentrating on her efforts to make me smooth and feminine. Handling my erect penis, she soaps up everything and shaves my inner thighs slowly and with precision. My muscles start to quiver with her ministrations. The air conditioning has come back on, and my nipples constrict. Goosebumps start to become prevalent, and a stubborn hardon adds to my embarrassment. Shela looks on and tells me to get back under the warm water. I can't help the hardon. These are intimate actions Shela is performing on me. It is embarrassing that I respond the way I am. It makes it impossible to claim that this is not what I want. The evidence is contrary. Shela has some unshared conclusion about my physical response. "Put your feet and hands on the edge of the tub," Shela commanded somewhat tersely. She dried my extremities as the rest of me soaked in a bubble bath. I will not argue with her as she is my soulmate, and my family has turned her against me. Her anger radiates through the room. Five years of bliss, and now everything is uncertain. Shela begins coating my finger and toenails in a beautiful soft pink lacquer. Hair-free and now sporting nails covered in varnish, I lay still as Shela dumps perfume into the water. Letting the varnish dry, she moves up the side of the tub and attacks my eyebrows with first a tweezer, then a length clipper. She grabs flowery shampoo and lathers my hair up, giving a nice massage to my scalp. If things were normal, this would have been a precursor to making love. Now, not being allowed to move for fear of messing up my nail varnish, I'm not too fond of the pleasant feeling keeping my erection on solid ground. I had hoped to inform Shela when she had calmed down that my condition was a simple childhood reaction to unfamiliar clothes. Now all evidence supports whatever nasty conclusions Shela has formed about me. Conditioner followed after she took a plastic bowl and rinsed my hair out. Her face was still contorted in aggravation. The attention that my scalp was receiving only enlarged my condition. I don't know what Shela must think of me, but she will now not be dissuaded to whatever end she started towards. Out of the tub, Shela tells me to dry off. She is riffling through her lingerie drawer, looking for something in particular. "Come over here," Shela demanded. Perfume and a big fluffy scented talcom powder puff, and I am coated head to toe in feminine floral scents. Lotion follows and seems to make a big greasy mess. She grabs black lace-lined panties and has me step in them. "I want you to think of your mother," Shela says. "Why?" "Just think of that pudgy, pasty lethargic woman that raised you," she commanded as she brought the panties close to their intended goal. "I thought that might work." Shela grabbed my deflated penis while pushing my testicles up into the prebirth position holding them in the interior cavities by pulling my pride and joy back between my freshly denuded and greased-up thighs. All of this was kept in place by the black panties. The effect was astonishing, and I looked to be a woman in the crotch at this point. This made my penis react once again, but it only achieved a partial swelling in the folded back position. Now I had constant arousal rocking back and forth with any movement that I tried. I am scared about the future with Shela. She still will not talk to me, and I have no idea where this is going. Suddenly she takes my nipple between her finger and thumb and twists gently back and forth as I have done to hers many times during our lovemaking. This is a bit much as I watch my nipple react as any woman's might. If all these new experiences were not occurring now, I really would probably cry as everything has cascaded to a severe marital crisis. She has a matching bra from when she let herself go while studying for the bar. Fig newtons were her nemesis. She wraps this garment around my torso and pulls trapped flesh up into its cups. I actually now sported cleavage. Shela had me sit on the edge of the bed and handed me my first pair of pantyhose since I was a child made to dress and act the part of the family's maid and cook. "Damn my father for caring more about his stomach than my pride and manhood." I almost cried, but the feeling is exquisite. Rolling the soft, stretchy material into donut shapes and bringing it to my polished toes, I saw Shela out of the corner of my eye, watching with anticipation. My eyes caught my glistening fingernails manipulating this forbidden material encapsulating my lower half while my penis strains against the black panties. The greasy lotion mess has all turned into soft, supple skin being enhanced with the feminine covering shining in the artificial light as I'm slowly engulfing myself in extreme feminity. My mind has reached a place that I do not comprehend. I love my wife. My family has caused damage to this relationship. My wife's response has brought me to a place that is equal in desire. I love these feelings brought down upon me. I didn't even realize that I missed these clothes. Now I am torn between the feelings that these garments cause in me and my wife's love. I can do nothing but wait and see here Shela takes this. She will still not talk to me about what is happening, claiming that she is still too mad. Shela drops a nightgown over my head. A gift from me when she was feeling down about her weight gain. Multi-colored and pure silk with spaghetti straps and showing the full decollate. The skirt of it was rubbing my thighs deliciously, and as I looked down, my breasts sort of filled the top end. So dressed, we went to bed. This was a long and exasperating day. I have no idea what is happening. The clothes are wonderful. I'm so turned on but mentally exhausted. Climbing under the sheets, I'm just happy Shela hasn't asked me to sleep in the guest bedroom. Shela crosses her leg over mine and spoons up behind me. She softly kisses my neck while simultaneously rubbing her beautiful leg up and down my pantyhose-covered legs. This confuses me even more, but I enjoy the sensation. My penis has never been so stimulated for such a prolonged time. Its position doesn't allow for a full-on erection, but the feeling is sex personified. I fall into a deep sleep. I do not know if Shela has the same experience. CHAPTER THREE Waking the next morning, Shela is not in bed. I think that I had better be rid of these beautiful clothes and resume our relationship as it should be. One more appreciative rubbing of my legs together and my penis fills to its capacity in the position it has been entrapped in allows. God, I will miss this. If only... Shela brings coffee. She seems somewhat chipper, but still, the edge is there. Handing me a cup, she places her manicured hand on my inner thigh. "We have a full day ahead of us," she states as she takes a long slow drag off of her cup. Uncertain about my fate, I nervously enjoy my coffee, reveling in the clothes I was about to relieve my form from. I'm still in a state of constant arousal and scared to lose what we have together. At least Shela seems civil this morning. I know that my mother and family can be hard to take. That is why I kept her from them. "We have a long day ahead of us, Danielle." Three-quarters of the way through my coffee, I'm brought up short. "What do you mean?" Shela intended to bring me the rest of the way. Dressed as I was is only the beginning. Makeup will be next. For two hours, I sat in her chair. Powders and creams applied to my face creating the perfect vision that Shela desired. I spent most of this time admiring my legs jutting out from underneath my silk nightgown. The smells and taste of the makeup added to my arousal. The tactile feeling was a little surreal. The fragrance wafting up to my nostrils was almost intoxicating. I know Shela is mad at me, and maybe we will never be the same, but this is an experience that supersedes anything that I have ever experienced before. Looking in the mirror, I only see two attractive women. My reflection only betrays me due to my short hair. Otherwise, either would be of interest to bed. The feelings so different from my regular clothes tease and enrapture me in a different plane of existence. If only this could last. Shela removes my nightgown and tries to put a slip over my undergarments. It is too small and is replaced with the nightgown. A sexy asymmetric brown dress is fastened around my body. I feel sexy. I don't know where this is going, but Shela seems a lot less agitated today. I pry if we can talk about it. "Not yet, Danielle, I'm much better today, but I want a little wine in me before we proceed." This sounds encouraging. I'm not sure how much I care any longer. Shela has forced me to dress much as my sisters and mother did to me all those years ago. I do not want to live my life around abusive people any longer. If Shela wants to continue my family's abuse, she can count me out! "Bring the ninety-five Merlot and two glasses." This was so scary. Opening the Merlot, I poured two glasses with shaking hands. I liked the polish. I liked the way my dress rubbed against my hosiery. Everything comes down to a few minutes that I immediately understood was at hand. Shela was selecting from music channels. She did seem relaxed. I was a bundle of nerves. Handing her glass, I curtsied. She looked at me with a questioning look. Patting the sofa next to herself, she invited me to join her. Taking a large draw of her wine, she corrected me on how to sit ladylike. "Now we need to talk, I need you to tell me about it. First, though drink your wine it's very good." I started to tell her about dressing up. "No.no. How did you possibly survive in that nasty, hateful family?" I did not understand. When Shela had heard about what I got up to as a small child, she was outraged. Made to prance around for my family's pleasure so that they could avoid chores or to partake of food that wasn't burnt, I spent many days and evenings in female garb. Not only that, she has formed me into a female of her own accord. She has done a much more thorough job. I've never felt pretty before. Now however, I do. "It's ok, take your time," she encouraged. "I don't understand. Are you not mad at me?" "Why would I be mad at you? You are the sweetest, loving and supportive person that I have ever met." "Oh my God," Shela exclaimed. "You poor dear." Suddenly I understood that Shela realized that I misinterpreted her treatment of me. She took me in hand and kissed me in a way that curled my toes. Honestly, I did not know that a bent-back penis could achieve such pressures. We certainly do need to talk. THE END