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Archive-name: Changes/trust.txt

Archive-author: Amy Matthews

Archive-title: Trust

The following story is a complete fantasy; the names do not correspond to

anyone who exists in real life.  It contains elements taken from my own

experience, of course, but it didn't relly happen, okay?

This story contains elements of cross-dressing, a somewhat dominant

female, and a rather submissive and effeminate male.  If such things make

you want to toss cookies, don't read it, eh?

This story also contains one fairly graphic scene of eroticism between two

consenting adults.  If *that* squicks you, what the hell are you doing on

this group?  Grow up and get a life.

Copyright (c) 1993, all rights reserved, Amy A. Matthews

( The following text may  be

distributed electronically with no restrictions except that these warnings

and the attributions must be left intact.  Individuals may make a single

printout for personal use.  Hey, it's mine, okay?  If you wanna make money

off it, you gotta give me some.


                          Part 1: The File on Lee

     I was pretty tired when I got to Nancy's.  Long day with the

little darlings (that's undergraduates to the uninitiated),

including some of those sessions where the pretty little

defenseless undergrad girl tries the old Higher Grades Through

Salt Water trick.  Tears, that is.  I hate that.  I hear that

they've nicknamed me "Old Stoneface," because I freeze up and

turn sour when the faucets start to leak.  Anyway, I was

definitely in the mood for a little sympathy.

     "Nance?" I called, as I entered.  And I owed her an apology

for being late.  I could smell food from the kitchen; we had an

agreement that we wouldn't fall into the stereotypical male-

female chore division, and tonight was my night to cook (So why

was I supposed to be cooking at her house, and why did we spend

90% of our time together there?  After all, she'd end up cleaning

up any long-term messes, and by default keeping the place up.  I

can hear you sneering.  Well, there *was* a reason.  Basically,

I'm a slob, and she hated it so much that she'd either have to

clean it up, or suffer.  She refused to do either, so except for

rare occasions when I got active and cleaned things up, we stayed

at her house).

     "There's some stuff for you on the couch!" she called back,

cheerily.  Sounded cheerful to me, anyway.  I felt warmed a

little; she sometimes bought things for me, totally spur of the


     I stopped cold when I saw what was on the couch, though.  A

pink satin little girl's party dress, the kind with puffy sleeves

and big white satin floppy bows on the skirt.  My heart stopped

beating for a moment, until I realized that it couldn't be for

me.  She didn't *know*, after all; she *couldn't* know.  She must

have bought it for herself.  Not really her style, of course.  I

noticed matching shoes, little pink patent-leather flats, with

white bows, and relaxed.  She was doing a Little Bo-Peep costume,

or something.  Not my concern.  Whatever she meant for me must be

somewhere else on the couch.

     So I stepped closer, and spotted it.  There were some

packages and stuff, but they obviously went with the dress.  The

stuff for me must be the stack of paper.  It was enormous,

too--at least a ream there, I guessed.  I picked up the top

sheet, and my heart stopped again.  I guess maybe it shouldn't

have started after the first time.

     I was still standing there, in shock, with the sweat pouring

down my face and my gut feeling as if someone had rudely used it

for batting practice, when her voice, behind me, snapped me out

of it.  "Are you going to change for dinner?" she paused, and

added, sarcastically, "Amy?"

     I blinked, letting the pain wash over me, and turned to face

her.  Gods, she was crying!  "I, uh, can explain," I began,

nervously, but let it trail off.  What was there to explain?

     She'd asked to use my computer that day, to do some project

involving graphics for her company.  My computer wasn't ideally

suited for graphics, but it was better than hers was.  However,

the graphics programs all ran under Windows.  Windows is a bitch

for security.  Judging from the stack of paper, she'd printed out

the contents of the \data\personal\stories\porn subdirectory. 

Which would explain the dress, alas.  The stories weren't really

porn, but most of them *did* feature a boy or a man wearing an

outfit like the one laying in front of me.  I glanced back at the

couch.  Yup.  The other packages were panties and stockings. 

Probably pink nylon with ruffles and white lace, respectively.

     That tableau held for perhaps three minutes, her crying

softly, me staring alternately at her, the couch, and the

printout of the first page of one of my stories.  She broke it

finally.  "Well?" she prompted.

     My mind raced briefly, testing and discarding dozens of

explanations.  But ... really, what was the point of denying it? 

I shrugged, letting the old emotional armor settle into place.  I

smiled, sardonically.  "I guess there *isn't* an explanation," I


     Silence.  "You don't trust me," she accused.

     "Of course I ...!"  Pause.  "Umm.  No, I guess not."  Pause

again, and an olive branch: "*I* hate it.  I mean, I hate *me*

when I do it.  How could you not?  So, uhh, I tried to stop, and

... umm, write it out."

     "Cross-dress, you mean," she elaborated.  A bit

unnecessarily, to my mind.  That was what we were talking about

already, right?  "You like to dress up and look like a girl." 

She was taking this too calmly.  I was a little worried. 

Sensitive position, as a professor, you understand, and junior

faculty is not notoriously immune to being fired on moral

grounds.  They'd dress it up, of course, call it something else. 

I shrugged again, looking away from her.  "You want somebody to

dress you up and treat you like a little girl," she continued,


     "No!" I protested, genuinely shocked.  My traitorous glands

did their trick, though, and my heart raced, my mouth dried, my

palms got moist, and my belly took the down elevator without

warning.  I had to explain this one.  "No, really!  I don't, uhh,

know *why*, and I've tried to stop--honest!" I emphasized as she

rolled her eyes.  "But it isn't, uhh, because I want to be a, a

girl!"  My face felt hot.  It got hotter when I realized that I

was blushing.

     She looked disgusted.  Well, wouldn't you have been?  I

would have, if I had been a girl and ... oh, never mind.  "Lee,"

she said, still much too calmly, "I read those stories."  I

glanced at them.  Not possible.  Hundreds of pages.  Skimmed,

maybe.  "The hero is always named Lee.  And Amy," she added.  "He

always gets forced into a dress like that, sooner or later.  And

likes it.  Then, poof, he's Amy for real."

     *Good synopsis*, my profesorial side commented.  I snarled

at him.  To Nancy, I smiled, mechanically, and replied, "Uhh,

well, hardly any of them even have *endings*, and I was going to,

uhh, turn him back, at the end.  Just, you know, let him have a

real experience of being a girl."  That was pretty weak, I

admitted to myself.  It was half-true, though.  None of the

stories *did* end, and I had always gotten stuck halfway through,

looking for a conclusion that was emotionally satisfying.  No,

not even that--just a *progression* toward an ending that was

emotionally satisfying.  Come to think of it, most of the stories

never even got to the sex-change part.  A little foreshadowing,

but it had only happened in two or three of them.  How had she

gotten the impression that it was universal?

     She cleared up that little question.  "Lee, dammit!" 

Finally a little emotion, something to understand.  "I read your

analysis, too!"  Analysis?  Oh, gods, that must mean the file

called 'anal,' where I speculated on commonalities in the stories

and possible reasons behind them.  Once I knew she had read that,

her earlier comment made more sense.  A quote, a direct cite from

that little bit of introspection.  The dry-voiced little observer

in my head commented that she probably hadn't gotten the joke

behind the name of the file--reference to my rather obsessive

need to categorize.  Christ, that damned file was written like a

scholarly article!

     I'd been so obsessed tracking down all those little

information trails that I hadn't answered.  She had crossed her

arms, was leaning against the doorframe, and the tears were

streaming down her face faster.  No mascara, I observed.  She

stifled a sob, and visibly gathered herself.  Here it came, the

ultimatum.  "Lee, either you decide you *trust* me, or get out." 

I must have looked puzzled.  She explained the part that didn't

need explaining.  "Forever."

     "I, uhh *do* trust you," I told her.  "And I *promise* I'll

stop, this time."  I actually had a plan, one that would probably

work, if she didn't stop me from doing it.  It had worked once

before, until somebody found out about it.

     "You *idiot!*" she shrieked, and sobbed some more, before

controlling herself.  I had taken a step closer, dropping the

page, then paused, uncertain if she would *accept* comfort from

me.  "You *can't* stop, you *know* that!"  As a matter of fact, I

had written something of the sort in that wretched file.  I lost

count of my attempts to stop before I got into grad school.  She

took a deep breath.  "So trust me, and get dressed, or get out."

     Get ... *Get* dressed?  It took me maybe thirty seconds to

figure out what she expected me to get dressed in, not because it

wasn't obvious, but because I simply refused to believe it.  My

fantasy come true?  And then the spanking?  No way!  My fantasies

were erotic; this was simply terrifying.  And I shook my head


     Another sob broke loose, and then she whirled and left.  Out

of my sight, she could let herself cry more freely; I heard her,

from the bedroom.  Doing something.  I stood there, imitating a

statue (except for the lack of pigeons, but I felt I'd been shat

upon altogether sufficiently already).  She came back with a bag,

which she dropped by the front door.  "G-get your d-dress and g-

get out!" she said.  Oh.  My stuff, in the bag.  I flinched when

she called it 'my' dress, but not even the powerful yearning

within me was enough to convince me to touch the damned thing.

     I wanted to say something, but when she opened the door, the

choice was pretty clear.  Shame-faced, I slunk out, picking up

the bag on the way.  It occurred to me, then, with a sinking

feeling, that she must have cleared her stuff out already.  In

anticipation.  That brought it home to me: the relationship was

*over*.  I barely made it to my car before I started crying.

     It cleared my head a little.  It occurred to me that she had

a very complete file on me, if she wished to blackmail me, or

make me lose my job.  Junior faculty can wear long hair, and

maybe even get away with an earring (I'd waited until my first

year was over before putting an earring back in, and never wore a

pair, of course), but the only panty-clad faculty the

administration was interested in were those that would help the

Equal Opportunity statistics.  Transvestic faculty were possible,

I supposed, but only with tenure.

     It didn't occur to me until I got home that Nancy had been

wearing a black silk blouse and miniskirt, and wearing high

heels.  Not that I understood it, then; I thought it was another

taunt, a reminder of how the standard "accepting woman" of my

stories was always dressed when they met.  It wasn't her style. 

She might even have bought it that very day.

     When I got home, I discovered that she *hadn't* taken her

stuff away.  Oddly, though, she'd found my stash of stuff--which

was pretty pitiful, except for the lingerie, which was, umm,

extensive--and mixed it with hers in her side of the dresser.  It

had been there before we'd met; I'd had it hidden for the eight

months we'd been together.  It took me a while to disentangle my

stuff from hers.  I *had* to do that.  I'd promised myself that I

would *never* touch her stuff, except to take her out of it, and

I'd kept that promise.  It hadn't been easy; she was pretty

damned sexy, and just her clothes could push all my buttons.  She

tended toward indian print skirts, pants, and casual blouses, but

she had some really killer outfits, and after she had realized my

weakness for sexy lingerie, she'd indulged me by equipping

herself with some.

     I didn't bag her stuff up, though.  I bagged *mine* up

again.  I still ... hoped, you see.  Then I laid down on my futon

and cried and cried and cried.

     Well, the hope got dashed over the course of the next week. 

I gave her a whole day to calm down, then called her up.  It was

an awkward conversation.  Once we got past the preliminaries, she

asked me if I was willing to trust her, and when I asked,

clarified that that still meant wearing the damned ridiculous

dress.  Now, I admit I desperately wanted that dress, wanted to

wear it, wanted to play at being Amy for real ... but I was *not*

going to admit it.  I look *stupid* in a dress.  I mean, really

ridiculous.  Hairy legs, knobbly knees, big hands and feet.  The

mustache doesn't help much either.  Or the nose, I guess.  So I

refused, of course.  I mean, I *knew* that she would never be

interested in me sexually if she once saw me dressed, and I had

my pride.  The dregs of it, anyway.  And what she wanted, I

thought, was to try to humiliate me, to make me stop.  I asked if

I could have the stories back.  She said no.  But I could have

the dress.  We were both crying when we said goodbye.

     I tried again two days later.  It might have been the exact

same conversation.  We were both locked into our positions, and

couldn't budge out of them.  I wasn't going to be a party to my

own humiliation.  I didn't tell her that, but I did say that I

had stopped.  The only thing she asked to that, was whether I had

carried out a purge of my clothing, and she strictly forbade it. 

Anyway, she refused to return my papers again, and we were both

crying, again, and we said goodbye, again.  Except she added,

"Lee, don't call me until you're ready to trust me."  Which

meant, ready to be humiliated, I understood.  The last thing she

whispered I wasn't sure I'd heard, for months.  "I still love


     I worried about her concern for a purge all weekend.  The

only thing I could think of was that she planned on exposing me,

and wanted that for evidence.  Well, I could get around

that--I've got lots of experience, lots of dodges.  I found a

self-storage warehouse place, and dumped a box full of clothes

and cosmetics into a five-by-five.  I wrote a careful note,

basically, "I'd really like to have the printout," put it with

all her stuff, and dropped it off at her house one day when she

wasn't home.  Left the key on top.  I suppose I could have

searched for it, but that would *really* have been a betrayal of

trust, and I shied from it.  I had to take her things back,

because I was getting tempted to wear them.  I admit, I sort of

hoped she would give me the dress when she gave me the printout,

but when the dress turned up, alone (well, with the accessories,

but without the printout), I realized that I didn't really want

it.  No, that's not right, either.  I realized that I wanted it

*too much*.  I put it all in the mail to her.  And then hoped

she'd mail it back.  But she didn't.

     A pair of months passed, and I spent Halloween at home, with

the lights out, pretending there was nobody there--and in boy

clothes.  We were coming up on the end of the semester.  I'd been

feeling truly wretched.  Other girlfriends had found out; I used

to tell them myself, in my college years.  In grad school,

though, one had broken up with me, using that for an excuse, and

my armor had gotten a lot thicker.  She had claimed that I would

eventually become a transsexual, and I suppose I had beenin

reaction against that ever since, refusing to admit that, at some

deep level, I *did* want to be a girl.  It was a hard thing to

figure out, anyway, since I knew, quite clearly, that I also

*liked* being a boy, that I loved sex, and that I was a pretty

good lover.

     I was using an old technique to avoid cross-dressing, one

I'd pioneered in college.  It depended on the fact that I smoked. 

Basically, it was aversion therapy.  I waited until I felt the

familiar signals--sweaty palms, dry mouth, empty stomach, racing

heart, and a fixation on pink, soft, and lacy.  Then I went and

got the one pair of panties I had left in the house, and put them

on.  And put out a cigarette.  On my arm.  Or sometimes my leg. 

The pain was ... extreme.  In college, a friend's girlfriend had

learned what I was doing (I told her, proud of myself for having

figured out how to stop), and she had had a fit.  She was angry

with me for hurting myself, not for dressing up.  This was the

same woman who had been angry with me, when I told her that I

liked wearing women's clothes, because I stole them.  On the

other hand, the one time that she had taken me shopping, she had

made me pay at the register, refusing to take my money and do it

for me, so I knew that she didn't *really* approve.

     But I finally stopped, and put the last pair in storage. 

I'd discovered myself contemplating the idea of putting the

cigarette out elsewhere.  And had also been contemplating filling

a hypodermic needle (I had them from when I had visited a third

world country, in order to not get an injection from a dirty

needle) with air and ending the pain.  I still hurt every time I

walked by a place that had been 'ours,' and I was paying less

attention to my courses than I should have been.  The semester

ended, and I found out how much less, from the student


     The day after I got the evals, after much soul-searching, I

went and took everything back out of storage.  I needed it,

needed the release, in order to concentrate on my job.  About

half of it, unfortunately, had been ruined; it turned out that

the warehouse I had chosen had water and insect problems.  Some

of the clothes were hopelessly stained, and much of my makeup had

turned into puddles of goo.  So I had a sort of purge, if not a

voluntary one.  About a week before Christmas, the day before

leaving for my parents' house, I went shopping.  Christmas had

always been a pretty good time for me, since a man buying women's

clothes was actually common, at that time of year.

     I ran into her in the drugstore.  I had gathered some

foundation and blush, and had just picked an assortment of

eyeshadow, when Nancy's voice, behind me, remarked, "Those

*really* aren't your colors, Lee."

     I choked, looking around frantically, but no one else

appeared to be within earshot.  She'd gotten close to me because

I always kept my eyes fixed firmly on the merchandise, avoiding

the knowing looks of the other--inevitably female--customers. 

"It's not for me," I lied automatically.  And blushed.  Her face,

which had been open and amused, went closed and cautious.  Hurt? 

I don't know.  "It's for my sister," I added.  I did have a

sister.  "Christmas present," I mumbled.

     "I see," she said, coldly.  "Do you know what colors *she*

prefers?  What does she look like?  Green eyes, brown, curly

hair, high cheekbones?"  She raised a sarcastic eyebrow.

     "No," I replied, softly, feeling as if someone had taken a

knife to my gut.  "You've seen her pictures.  Sort of dirty

blonde, brown eyes.  I don't know about cheekbones, I never

noticed."  I was looking down.  I didn't want her to see how much

it hurt.

     "Oh," she replied, sounding disconcerted.  I still didn't

look up.  She released the basket I was holding, and I glanced

up, quickly, to see that she had a puzzled, worried look.  I gave

her the famous mechanical smile, and walked away.

     She was right, I decided at home.  They weren't my colors. 

At least I hadn't got any mascara; the tears would have made it


     I got back from my parents around the second of January.  It

had been the usual hideous Christmas, with inappropriate gifts

and the required oohing and ahhing.  I was as guilty as anyone

else, of course, but that only made it worse.  The only bright

point was my sister's baby, who got things she really *did* like,

and enjoyed them quite openly.  I almost asked my sister for

makeup advice, but ... what did it matter?  Nobody was ever going

to see *me* in makeup.  And if it made me look ridiculous, well,

that would go well with the rest of my outfit, right?

     There was a gift waiting for me.  From Nancy.  Two sets of

makeup, one for a blonde, one for a green-eyed brunette.  Or

brunet.  Also a little booklet of beauty tips.  The note: "I'm

sorry I misinterpreted ... if I did.  Here's something that

should be more appropriate for your sister.  And some for your

friend, Amy.  Merry Christmas.  Love, Nancy."

     I worried at that note, and the package, for days.  Why was

that comma there, after the word 'friend?'  Sending the makeup

off to my sister was an easy decision.  A good one, too, it turns

out; she sent a letter back a week later effusively thanking

Nancy (I'd told her who it was from).  When I nerved myself to

try the other, I discovered that she had been right.  The

mustache looked more out of place than ever, but in a bad light,

if I put my hand over my mouth and upper lip, I might have passed

for a woman with absolutely no skill in putting on makeup.  I'd

gotten a pretty nice haircut at home, too, more feminine than I

had let myself wear it when Nancy and I had been together--just

bangs in front, but that made an incredible difference from

pulling it all straight back in the usual ugly guy's style.

     Once I'd used the makeup, I had to keep it.  So I told

myself.  I also found a present for Nancy, one that I agonized

over for longer than I had spent on all the presents for my

family.  I had to find something that wasn't trivial, but that

also wasn't super expensive; I didn't want her to feel

uncomfortable about the cost.  It had to be

appropriate--personal--without being intimate.  I finally settled

on a soft leather over-the-shoulder handbag, one as casual as she

usually was, but as quality.  I figured she wouldn't know how

expensive it was.  Hey, it may be obvious to any idiot that women

know the prices of things that they usually have to buy, but I'm

not an ordinary idiot, okay?  I included a copy of my sister's

letter, too.

     Classes had just started when I got a note from Nancy. 

"Lee, the bag is beautiful!  But you spent much too much!  Let me

make it up to you: I'll buy you dinner.  Give me a call.  Love,


     I was in an absolute panic when I finally placed the call. 

But the chemistry had somehow changed; she teased me fondly,

friendlily, and demanded that I let her buy me dinner and take me

to a movie.  I agreed, of course, hoping that something would

start up again.

     We went on a Friday night.  In her car, with her driving. 

Not so astonishing, it was, as she pointed out, her treat, and

we'd always shared those kinds of tasks before.  She gave me a

slight panic, early on, when I asked where we were going, and she

replied, "Trust me."  I was very restrained all through dinner,

wondering if she was going to demand that I prove my trust, and

wondering if I would refuse, if she presented me with the dress

again--she was wholly desirable, that night, and wearing the

perfume I had given her, long ago.  At the movie, she was very

affectionately aggressive, her hands teasing me at odd moments,

but fending off, gently, my attempts to return her caresses.

     By the time we were in the car, I was confused, and a bit

unsettled as well.  Were we together again?  I've never been good

at reading the signals.  She drove me home, parked the car, and

leaned over to kiss me.  I thought, for a moment, that I was

going to come in my pants; I'd missed that so badly, the softness

of her lips, the sweetness of her mouth.  She broke the kiss, and

I sighed, licking my lips.

     She giggled.  "I love the way you do that," she whispered,

and my heart leapt into my throat.

     I managed to open my eyes, and surreptitiously cleared the

tears from the corners.  Hers seemed unnaturally bright as well. 

I hesitated, fearing the 'no,' that was sure to come, but managed

to force the words out--they had to turn sideways and slither

past my heart, which was still blocking things up.  "Will ...

would you like to come inside?"

     She smiled, and I thought my heart would break.  But then

she asked, "Did you like the makeup I gave you, Amy-Lee?" 

Something crept into her eyes as she whispered the question.

     I know that my eyes probably reflected abject fear.  I was

trying to figure out what hers were saying, there with the dim

light from the streetlamps, and caught in a struggle between fear

and desire.  I'd never thanked her properly, she was hinting, or

so I thought, and I'd lied to her and hadn't trusted her.  Could

I trust her even enough to tell her that I liked her gift? 

"Yes," I croaked, answering my question and hers.

     She kissed me again, and the release of tension was enough

to let me decide what I'd seen in her eyes.  Fear.  Fear of being

hurt, of being lied to, again, probably.  This time, when she

broke the kiss, she laid her head on my shoulder, and her

fingertip followed the tip of my tongue.  It was an old trick of

hers; she'd always been fascinated with the fact that I savored

her kisses so much that I had to lick them all up when they were

over.  "Will ... Can you show me, if I come in?" she asked, in an

oddly thick voice.

     That question was more or less equivalent to a handful of

speed.  My poor, abused heart, that had just spent several

minutes crowded into my throat, and then brittle as glass, took

off like an Olympic sprinter.  It didn't have far to go, really. 

Nancy had always had it in her keeping; it fled there, where it

had always been well-treated.  I made an absurd little whimpering

sound, and squeaked, "Y-yes."

     She hugged me tightly, for a long pair of moments.  I

absently returned the hug--I mean, really absently.  Most of me

had run for shelter somewhere, and I felt weirdly detached, like

in the middle of an acid trip.  There and not-there.  She pulled

back, finally, and whispered, "Come on," taking my hand to pull

me out her side.  As if she was afraid to let me get too far

away.  In that oddly detached mood, I let her lead me to the

door, and watched as she repeated my actions from the car,

surrpetitiously blotting tears from the corners of her eyes.

     We went in, and she led me to the bathroom.  My hands were

trembling convulsively when she let go of them, and took my coat. 

She disappeared, and I found the makeup, still operating on

autopilot.  When she came back, a moment later, I had tears

standing in my eyes again, because the lipstick had mostly missed

my lips.  I started to wipe it off with the back of my hand,

feeling horribly ashamed, but she stopped me, then gently cleaned

my lips and my hand with tissue.  Her glance, now, seemed

compassionate, and I hoped, desperately, in the part of me that

was shrieking in terror, that she would let me off the hook.  She

did, sort of.  I guess.  She put the makeup on me; I just stood

there, obediently.

     "There!" she said, finally, turning me to face the mirror. 

"That wasn't so hard, was it?"

     "Yes!" I gasped, and then laughed, half-hysterically, before

bringing myself under control.  Her eyes looked concerned, when I

caught them in the mirror, reaching up to blot the tears again.

     "You'll run your mascara," she warned softly, and I gasped a

laugh again, as she slid her arms around me from behind.  I

relaxed into her, and finally dared to look.

     It was a more remarkable transformation than the one I had

managed on my own.  Well, that was predictable, I guess, she had

experience with the stuff, and got the blush in the right places,

and the shadow properly feathered.  I stared, a bit taken aback,

and then, reflexively, laid my forefingers across my mustache,

hiding it.  She giggled at that, and I blushed, and got

fascinated by the way the blush made my face look even softer and

more feminine.

     The terror was receding, turning into a fear that was more

controllable.  It was very odd, and I didn't really understand

it.  We stayed there, staring at the mirror, or at each other's

eyes in the mirror, for what seemed a very long time.  Then she

let out an enormous breath, and the world all came back into

focus for me.  It was an ordinary, mundane world, and I hadn't

died of wearing makeup in front of her.  I was enormously proud

of myself.

     "Where's your makeup remover?" she asked.

     "My what?"

     She giggled.  "Okay.  I know you have coconut oil.  That'll

work."  She found it, and then said, "Watch me."  She started

taking off her own makeup.  I hesitated, then followed suit, and

when I was finished, relaxed even further.  I suddenly realized

that I was exhausted.

     "I'm beat!" I said.  I caught her eyes in the mirror, again. 

"Are you, umm, staying?"

     She looked at me, calculatingly.  "I don't have a nightie," 

she said.

     I blanched.  Okay.  Another step.  Just make the words come

out.  "I'll loan you one," I answered.  'Of mine,' her lips

shaped.  I nodded, feeling the heat return to my face, and added,

in a small voice, "P-please, don't make me w-wear one."  She

looked, nodded.

     Now's the time for me to claim that our emotions, after

having such a workout, turned into heated passion, and we made

love all night.  Well, no, we didn't.  We both wanted to, I

think, but my cock wasn't willing.  I finally whispered, "Sorry,"

and started to move to go down on her--she was wet, and I didn't

want to leave her unsatisfied--but she stopped me, and suggested

that we cuddle instead.

     But she was gone in the morning, when I awoke.  The only

thing that convinced me it wasn't all a dream was my nightie,

with her scent still strong, laying on the side of the bed.  I

had a vague impression of her getting up, kissing me, and moving

around looking at things and talking to me, but I sleep like

death, and have been known to carry on midnight conversations on

the phone without ever remembering a word of what I said.

     I wasn't quite sure what to do, so I didn't do much of

anything.  She called in late afternoon.

     "Hey, sweetie!  When will you be free to talk?"

     "Umm, I don't know.  About what?"  There was a long silence. 

My heart returned, and slammed against my ribs.  "Did we agree to

something this morning?  I don't remember.  Whatever.  I'll do

whatever I said.  I don't remember, that's all!"  Calm, Lee, I

told myself.  Don't sound so desperate!  Why not? I wondered.  I

*am* desperate.

     There was another slight pause, and then she chuckled

throatily.  "I could tell you that you agreed to anything, you


     I grabbed my nerve with both hands.  "Yes.  Anything.  I'll

do it."  There was another moment of silence.  "It's worth it," I

added.  "You are."

     "Anything?" she asked archly.  A hint of a laugh?

     Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-wham.  Hearts, I decided, are a

bother.  If I could get rid of mine, I wouldn't be in this

position.  Time for the magic words.  "I trust you," I said.  But

my voice sounded strangled.

     This time the silence lasted forever.  I started to panic,

when I realized that she was speaking.  Her voice was very soft,

and it sounded as if she might be crying.  "...on the first bench

in the park, at 7:30.  All right?"

     "Yes!"  It came out harsh.  More obstructions in my throat.

     "Pink ones," she said, obscurely.  "I love you."

     "I love you, too," I choked.  Before I could ask, 'pink

what?' the line had gone dead.

     Well, but it was obvious, right?  Panties.  I have a

weakness, I guess you could call it, for panties.  And for pink. 

And for nylon, and ruffles.  My all-time biggest button pusher is

pink nylon panties, with ruffles.  Little-girl panties.  Little

Bo-Peep panties.  I found out that the previous night's impotence

had been only temporary; just thinking about showing up for a

meeting with her, wearing pink panties, was enough to make

walking uncomfortable.  I debated stopping by some store, and

getting new, but decided that I had only a limited amount of

courage, and needed it all to show up so dressed in the park.

     At 7:20, I settled myself on the bench where we'd met,

almost a year before.  On Valentine's Day.  I'd bought a bouquet

of flowers--for myself, to be honest, but when I'd seen a

beautiful woman sitting there all alone, I'd impulsively handed

them to her.  It had taken a while to convince her that I wasn't

some odd masher or rapist.  I was warmed by the memory, and

dwelled on it, since it distracted me from the fact that every

time I shifted position, the nylon caressed my cock and my

bottom, and the elastic gave me tender little nips around my legs

and my waist.

     She showed up late, of course.  Woman's prerogative.  Her

face brightened when she caught sight of me, and my heart

swelled.  She ran the last couple of steps, and shyly handed me a

bouquet of roses.  Pink ones.  I accepted them, blushing.  It

occurred to me that I had missed a very important bit of

conversation.  I stood and walked with her, uncomfortably aware

at every step that I had made an utter ass of myself.  She

noticed, finally.

     "What's wrong?" she asked.  "Have you changed your mind?" 

She looked a little hurt.

     "Umm, no.  I just ..."  I looked around, desperately.  Not

too many people in the park, not in mid-January.  I gulped,

looked down at the flowers I was clutching--crushing--in my

hands.  "I didn't hear what you said," I confessed in a miserable

whisper.  "I didn't, umm, want to ask.  And you said, 'pink

ones.'  So I wore ... I'm wearing pink ones."

     No response.  I finally dared to look up.  There was an

astonished grin spreading over her face, as she understood what

it was I had to be referring to.  She reached for my hip, and I

shied away, face flaming.  She giggled.  "Really?" she asked, her

voice vibrant.  "My god, how wonderful!  I didn't think you'd

have the ...."  She looked at me.  "You really do mean

'anything,' don't you?"  I nodded, relieved when we started

walking again.  "Even if I take you home right now and tell you

to show me that you trust me."  That was a statement, not a

question.  But I confirmed it with a nod and a glance.  I was

wishing she'd take charge of my heart again, since I was getting

very tired of its antics.  It was trying to break my eardrums.

     We walked to the edge of the park before she spoke again. 

"Why were you so stubborn four months ago?"  She didn't wait for

an answer, but continued, gently, "I told you to meet me here at

7:30; you must have gotten that part.  And that I wouldn't demand

anything beyond your strength.  And that to symbolize the start

of a new relationship, I'd bring you flowers.  Pink ones, like

the ones you gave me, in our first relationship."

     Well, good news and bad news all at once.  I didn't

understand what she meant by 'new relationship.'  On the one

hand, I wanted whatever she was willing to give.  On the other

hand ... on the other hand, I corrected myself, I also wanted

whatever she was willing to give.  Did that settle that? 

Although it worried me a little that she was giving *me* flowers,

instead of the other way around.  We were heading for a

restaurant that had been one of our casual, talking spots.  It

had always been easier for us to talk in a public place, a

neutral zone, rather than at one of our houses.

     Between the flowers, the panties that *kept* reminding me of

their existence, and the things that she had said, that I had to

mull over, I was abstracted, and she ordered the table, guided me

to it, and took my coat as I sat down.  I flushed, realizing that

since we had met in the park, I had taken the 'feminine' role. 

She smiled, in a way that said she understood why I was blushing. 

I crowded myself into a corner of the booth, and tried to adjust. 

We had used this place, in particular, because the lighting was

dim, the booths reached the ceiling, and so we could talk with a

sense of privacy.  I laid the flowers on the table, and picked up

a menu.

     "Let me, okay?" she asked, reaching for the menu.  I looked

up, blinked, hesitated, and nodded, letting her take it.  She

ordered for us both, and I sat there, feeling a bit foolish.  And

a bit cosseted, protected, taken care of.  There is an odd

security that comes in total dependence.  I think girls learn

that when they're young.  Most men never do.  Maybe they don't

want to.  I wasn't sure I wanted to.

     Once the waitress had gone off to put in our orders, she

leaned forward, looking at me searchingly.  "Lee," she began,

"four months ago you preferred blowing up our relationship to

letting me see a part of you that you were ashamed of.  Now you

seem to be saying exactly the reverse, that you'll suffer

anything to have a relationship.  Why should you trust me now,

when you didn't then?"

     Taking the bull by the horns, apparently.  I shrugged, for

an answer, but she waited.  "I don't know," I said, finally.  "A

lot ... a lot happened, after we broke up.  I tried to quit ...." 

I thought about telling her how, but remembering the reaction of

my friend's girlfriend, decided that it could wait.  "I got ...

depressed."  Suicidal, in fact, but again, let's not dramatize. 

"I always ... trusted you.  I think, maybe, I just didn't trust

me."  That wasn't really right, either.  I just didn't *like* me. 

Well, let it pass.

     She considered that, nodding.  "I think you're right.  I

think you still haven't admitted some things to yourself that

you're afraid of."  I flinched.  "But it was probably for the

best.  Four months ago, I couldn't have given you what you want. 

What you need, maybe.  I did a lot of reading."  She shook her

head, and laughed drily.  "A *lot* of reading, and not just your

stories.  I was trying to find a reason to be as disgusted with

you as you are."  She looked straight at me.  "I couldn't.  I

kept on loving you, and hoping you'd grow up enough to come back

to me.  I even followed you around, whenever I saw you going to a

store!"  She laughed.  "That finally worked out--but you *lied*

to me.  Are you ready to admit what you need, what you want to


     I was a bit nonplussed.  My stories, some of them, got

pretty radical.  There were some things I didn't think I was

ready to try, and maybe never would be.  "What ... what is it you

think I want to be?" I asked.

     She cocked her head to one side, just looking.  At me.  For

a long time.  A very long time.  I finally had to drop my eyes,

and nervously fiddled with the flowers.  "I'm a very assertive

woman," she began, elliptically, "but four months ago, I would

have been a little shocked, a little uncomfortable, maybe, to

have a sissy boyfriend."

     My head shot up, and the denial sprang to my lips.  But she

was smiling, warmly, a little challengingly, and I flushed,

remembering that she had read all those stories.  I looked away

again, and nodded once, sharply.

     The waitress brought our food.  I took a deep breath,

released it, and glanced at her warily.  She answered the

unspoken question without words, laying her hand over mine, the

one that was playing with the stems of the flowers.  "I'll go

slow," that gesture said.  The food, though, wasn't a total

reprieve.  As soon as the waitress was out of earshot, Nancy

continued.  "Some of what you want, I can't offer.  I can't turn

you into a girl if you snap your fingers."  Another story

reference.  An embarrassing one.  In that one, the boy (he wasn't

really a man, I think) was asked at one point what he would do if

he was told he could turn himself into a girl just by snapping

his fingers, with no possibility of turning back.  'Decide now. 

You have thirty seconds.'  At twenty-five seconds, he was staring

at his fingers.  Her fingers.  Magic, remember?  I'd actually

heard about that as a sort of test, and tried it on myself, and

shocked myself in just the way suggested by snapping my fingers,

at about twenty-five seconds.  But I'd convinced myself that it

was only because it wasn't for real, and because I wanted to

shock myself, and ... oh, all sorts of excuses.  "Four months

ago, maybe, I would have been trying to push you far enough to

make you want to quit ... maybe that's what I did, anyway."  She

paused.  I pretended I was absorbed with my food.  "Are you

really wearing pink panties?" she asked, quite casually.

     When I finished coughing, I nodded.  She patted the bench

beside her.  "Come here.  Show me."

     I looked around, shocked.  She waited.  I thought about it. 

Like I say, it was a dim restaurant.  Finally, I gulped, slid

out--feeling as if every inch of my ass had been specially

sensitized--and slid in beside her, on the other side.  She

looked at my lap, and raised an eyebrow.  I looked around,

furtively, and tried to look like I was doing something other

than unzipping my jeans.  I put my hands, shaking, on the table

when I was done.

     I couldn't help but gasp when her hand slid over the nylon. 

Boing!  Instant erection.  She stroked it, and I gasped, again,

shuddering, before I brought myself under control.  "Well," she

said, with satisfied amusement in her voice, "I think you'd have

a little trouble denying that you like wearing panties at the

moment."  Stroke.  I shook my head, darting little glances to the

side.  "No, what?"

     "Umm, no, I don't," I said, confused.  "I mean, don't deny


     "Deny what?"

     I looked at her.  Question and answer, the Truth Will

Out--common elements of my stories.  I tried twice to say what

she wanted me to say, and finally leaned closer to whisper it. 

"I like wearing panties."  Stroke.  I shuddered again.  Gods,

don't let her bring me off in public.  Please.  Please.

     Instead she took my hand, and guided it under her skirt. 

Up.  Up.  Her skin was like satin.  "And this is proof that I

like seeing you in them ... sissy," she whispered back.  Her

panties were warm and damp.  She was aroused by *something*.  She

left my hand there, stroking her, for several moments, then

sighed, and urged it back out, closing  her legs.  "I don't want

spots on my skirt, sweetie," she explained.  She reached across

the table, and pulled my plate across.  She ate the rest of her

dinner one-handed; the other hand stayed where it was.  I don't

know what I ate.  Boiled sand, maybe.  I didn't taste it.  She

only sent me back to the other side when she ordered dessert for

us, and I was just as tongue-tied and mute as before.  The

waitress gave me an odd look.  'Why is she the one doing the

ordering?'  We'd been there before, you see.  Dessert gave me

just enough time to get my breathing, and my, err, circulation,

under control.  She paid the bill, and motioned me toward the


     When we got to the park, she gave me a sidelong glance, then

shrugged her purse off and hung it on my shoulder.  I blushed

again.  Purse, flowers.  But, hey, I justified, people can put it

down to young love.  An odd feeling, though, to have the thing

banging on my hip.  On the other hip, Nancy's familiar softness,

her perfume.  Her arm around my waist, walking me home.  The park

was four blocks from my house.

     I wasn't sure what she would do, at that point.  Back off? 

Come inside?  I *needed* some time to deal with this, and to deal

with the disturbingly deep arousal her taking the dominant role

provoked in me.  She came inside.  She didn't even ask.  I got

cranked up another notch, just looking at her for directions. 

She looked around, frowned, and then smiled at me.  "Go put on

your makeup, sweetie," she told me, turning toward the kitchen. 

"Oh, I almost forgot.  There's something for you in my purse."

     The package that I opened with trembling fingers turned out

to contain perfume.  The same kind that I had bought for her,

that she wore.  A hint, obviously.  And if she had read the

stories, she knew the effect perfume had on me--well, on the

"hero," which was me in drag.  I blushed slightly.  "Infelicitous

choice of phrase, Lee," I muttered to myself, and drifted off to

the bathroom.  Where I would put on perfume, and start *feeling*

feminine.  Panties arouse me.  Perfume softens me.  Weakens me. 

Feminizes me, I guess.

     Strengthens me oddly, I discovered.  With the delicate scent

in my nostrils, the trembling of my hands decreased, and I got my

makeup on in reasonably well, if still clumsily.  I heard music

start up from the direction of the bedroom, where my stereo was,

and then Nancy came through the door, carrying something.  "You

look very pretty, sweetie," she told me.  "But we're going to

have to do something about your wardrobe!"  She slipped back out,

and I discovered that she had brought the least objectionable of

my skirts, and a blouse that happened to fit very badly.  It was

pretty, which was about all one could say for it.

     The perfume hadn't given me quite enough strength, it

seemed.  I changed into skirt and blouse easily enough, but

leaving the relative safety of the bathroom was beyond me.  I

looked ridiculous, and knew it.  I dreaded the moment when Nancy

discovered it.  I stood there, trying *not* to look at the

mirror, and shaking every time I considered going out the door. 

And aroused.  I had a feeling that I would have a case of blue-

balls to match any sixteen-year-old's if this went on much


     "Are you practicing the 'Make 'em wait' part?"  She was

there, and I drew a breath, waiting for her to laugh.  To giggle. 

To smile maliciously, even.  "Come on, I want to dance," she

said, and drew me toward the bedroom.

     I have *never* been much of a dancer.  Too self-conscious. 

Slow-dancing, though, was usually all right.  I mean, all it

amounts to is foreplay in public, with your clothes on.  This

turned out to be a little different, though.  First, *she* led,

signalling with pressure of her hands, or her hips, or her body. 

That inflamed me further, just as it made me even more

uncomfortable.  Something was slipping away, something was

getting revealed, and I was beginning to feel extremely

vulnerable.  She danced me female, is what she did.  She was

wearing high heels, tall ones--maybe the ones she had bought for

the all-black costume.  She'd told me once she didn't like them. 

Since I had taken off my shoes to change, and left them off, it

meant that we were about the same height.

     So we danced through three songs, and then the CD ended.  It

ended, and I realized that I was dancing with my head on her

shoulder, while she had her face in my hair, and that she had

been stroking my bottom through skirt and panties.  My hands were

just around her waist.  Passive.  I started to flush, painfully,

when the music stopped and she broke the clinch.  I heard myself


     She held me back from her, her hands holding my arms to my

sides, and looked at me.  Then drew me closer, and kissed me. 

Taking the initiative, again, and this time demandingly.  When I

tried to kiss her back, her mouth and tongue turned punishing,

demanding, until I simply submitted, and let myself *be* kissed. 

As the kiss ended, my skirt slithered down my legs to puddle on

the floor, and she urged me to step forward, stepping out of it,

as her hands caressed my bottom again.  She was nibbling and

licking my ear.  Another of my weak spots, one that she had

learned, long ago, sent me into trembling ecstacy.  Then another

shift of position, and she was pulling my blouse over my head.

     I'm a fraction short of six feet tall, but standing there in

front of her, wearing nothing but makeup and a very silly pair of

panties, I felt very small.  She stepped back, unzipped her skirt

and stepped out of it, then unbuttoned and discarded her blouse,

keeping her eyes on me the whole time.  Stepping toward me again,

she unbuckled her bra, and let it slither off her shoulders and

land with a snick of fasteners on the floor.  She took my hand,

and led me, unresisting, toward the bed.

     I was out of my depth.  Every time I started to respond, she

pulled back, gently laid my hands aside, and then started over. 

She pushed me to sit on the bed, then sat beside me and started

kissing me.  My lips, my nipples--unfortunately, they aren't at

all sensitive--my ears--they are--and everywhere else.  Her

tongue traced a trail along my waistband.  I used to do that to

her.  Eventually, she had me laying back on the bed, arms at my

side, eyes closed.  She'd somehow lost her high heels and

pantyhose while she was teasing me.

     I turned over my will to her, at that point.  Whatever she

wanted.  Shortly, she was straddling me.  Nylon binds when you

press it together, but if you back off, and sort of brush it, the

feelings are unbelievably erotic.  She stroked me, through two

layers of nylon, moving nothing but her hips.  And then pressed

down, and ground us together.  I could feel her heat, and the

damp spreading into my crotch as well.  After a few minutes of

this, I started to toss my head and make little noises.  She

slowed down, lowered herself directly into contact, and started a

sort of slow bump and grind.  Simultaneously, she took one of my

wrists in each hand and raised them over my head, lowering her

body until her nippled traced erotic circles on my chest.

     Then she made a noise, ground herself into me convulsively,

and kissed me hard, shuddering.  My eyes popped open in

astonishment.  She was coming!  I had usually been  able to bring

her off--say three times out of four--but usually only after I

had come, and then usually manually.  She'd let go of my wrists

when she started to peak, so I hugged her, hard, and started to

kiss her back.  I stroked her back, down to her beautiful ass,

and stroked her cheeks and her hips.  She had very sensitive

hips.  She not only didn't stop me, but her kiss turned into

something very soft, very wet, and very tender.  And then she bit

my lip!  I yelped, but she was ignored me, and plundered my mouth

again, the waves passing through her body again.  The junction of

our hips was hot, and very wet; it was very similar to

penetration, and I had started climbing toward the peak myself.

     Then she stopped, and raised her upper body with a jerk,

pushing her elbows between my arms and my body and pinning them,

somewhat painfully, to the bed.  Her thighs had clamped shut, and

stopped me from moving.  I was pinned underneath her, her

complete weight resting solidly across my hips and the insides of

my elbows.  "Oh, no!" she breathed.  "Not like that!"  She took a

deep breath, to calm herself.  I was amazed that she was able to

do so.  I'd only managed to bring her to orgasm twice in one

night once.  And her eyes were flashing with passion; I had a

glimmering idea that the night wasn't over yet for her. 

"Tonight, I'm in control," she whispered, and lowered her head to

nibble on my ear again.  "When you come, you're going to come

like a sissy."

     I moaned, partly from the pleasure that was thrilling

through me again as she deep kissed my ear, and partly from fear. 

A delicious fear, though, one which seemed to channel itself

directly to my groin, increasing my arousal.  Revenge on my

heart, you see.  It was having to work double time to supply

sufficient blood.  Or maybe revenge on my brain, since I think it

just shut off the blood supply there to send it to areas with a

higher priority.

     The next time she came, she had me trapped.  Forearm to

forearm, with our fingers tightly entwined, and all the weight of

her upper body keeping me pinned and motionless.  She was biting

my face, giving me sharp little nips, and I almost lost control. 

I bucked my hips, and managed to stroke twice, to get right to

the edge of the abyss when she sat up and let all her weight pin

my hips to the bed.  I shuddered, clenching my fists, and tossed

my head in frustration.  When the wave began to recede, I could

feel sweat ... sweat? ... trickling from the bottom of my cock,

between my legs, into the crack of my ass.

     She waited until I managed to recover enough to open my

eyes.  She licked her lips, and I closed my eyes again, biting my

lip.  I opened them when she raised herself up off of me, and I

felt her hands at my waistband.  She locked gazes with me, and

wouldn't let me look away, as her hands gently urged me to raise

my hips, so she could push my panties down.  I felt a thrill of

shame, and of excitement; it made me feel very passive, very

submissive.  Very feminine, I guess.  It felt like a very

feminine thing to do.  She pulled them down to my knees, stopped,

and swung herself off the bed.  Before I could recover, and maybe

decide that we'd had enough of this role reversal, she had

shucked her own panties, and was back on top of me.  Warm, soft,

and wet against my erection.

     I tried to avoid her hands, when she started to resume the

position that kept me pinned and helpless.  She didn't argue with

me, or demand anything, she just chased my arms into position,

then clenched her hands over mine, and slowly transferred her

weight forward, which had the secondary effect of parting her

nether lips to engulf the shaft of my cock.

     When she kissed me again, I closed my eyes.  "Good," she

whispered, nuzzling my lips.  "Keep your eyes closed, sweetie. 

Just feel.  You're helpless."  She trailed kisses from the side

of my mouth to my ear, and whispered again, "Overpowered.  The

nipples are hard, hard and tender, brushing the chest."  I

gasped.  Yes, they were--her nipples, brushing my chest, lightly,

erotically.  She shifted her weight, inching forward, until the

head of my cock was between the softness of her lips.  "You're

ready," she breathed, and the kisses trailed down my neck and

back to my lips.  "Feel the penetration begin.  Soft lips

spreading, accepting."  Her lips fastened to mine, closing them

rather than opening, and then her tongue, harder than it had a

right to be, pushed my lips apart, without actually entering my

mouth fully.  I made a noise deep in my throat as I understood. 

And a vivid hallucination, that lasted a microsecond, of *being*


     She broke free, kissing my eyes, my cheeks, and down to my

ears again.  "So beautiful," she murmured.  "So soft, and

helpless, and then it's deeper."  She moved, and swallowed more

of my cock, pulled back, and impaled herself further.  She

gasped, and chanted, "Deeper, deeper," as she stroked, taking in

more and more.  "And it's ... all the ... way in."  She gasped. 

"Between, inside, together," she said, her voice changing to a

moan, and then she all but shouted into my ear, "Oh, God!" and

ground her hips against mine, in a circular motion, our pubic

bones grinding one another--with a bit of her soft flesh caught

between--and she broke into sobs.

     My eyes snapped open, and I tried to say something, to

reassure her somehow.  But I just whimpered again instead.  And

she didn't *need* comfort.  That was her third orgasm, I

realized, a little awed.  Frightened, too.  I mean, maybe it was

just the long drought, though I'd heard that she had had a couple

boyfriends after we broke up, but she was more responsive, more

uninhibited, more outrageously sexy than I had ever seen her.  It

turned me on unbelievably, but she *wouldn't* let me finish.

     She pushed herself up onto her elbows--my elbows,

actually--and a couple tears fell onto my face.  She bit her lip,

fighting for control, and then opened her eyes.  Lowered herself

again, slowly, and moving again, this time in a way that provided

friction for me.  My eyes snapped shut, as I realized just how

close I was.  She kissed the corner of my eye, and I realized

that I'd been crying too, as she murmured, "You cried together as

the waves swept over, pulsing through the walls of flesh, so that

they closed over the magician's wand, stroking, kneading ...

needing."  I heard the difference in the words.  Don't ask me

how.  Sexual telepathy, maybe.  Her voice was tight and shaking. 

"And then they begin to move together, p-perfectly m-matched, and

reach th-the ... Oh, God!  Feel it!  P-penetrating, penetrated,

inside, within ... together!  Together!"

     I thought that I was dying.  I didn't care.  I was released,

and found release.  Or, vulgarly, I came, and so did she.  I

think she started crying again.  I can't say for sure, because I

passed out.  Not for long, but when I woke up, she was cradling

me in her arms, and moving against me again, sobbing.  Using the

twisting bump-and-grind that kept me from moving inside her,

much, while she reached another orgasm.  And another.  I'm not

sixteen, though, and once a night is about all I'm good for, so

the, umm, 'magician's wand' was shrinking.  She finally relaxed a

little, her sobs dying out.

     I was, I realized a bit fuzzily, exhausted.  Completely

satiated, from the most intensely erotic bout of love-making I

could remember.  I had drifted half into dream land, with vague

dreams of a finger tracing the outline of my lips through a pair

of thin, lacy panties, when Nancy bestirred herself.  Moving as

swiftly as before, she sat up, and I slithered all the way out,

feeling another little trickle.  "Hey, sweetie," she whispered,

her voice trembling.  "Wake up a minute.  "If we don't take our

makeup off now, we'll look like raccoons in the morning."  I was

going to object that I didn't care, but she had moved again, and

was pulling my panties back up.  Rather than argue, I let her

push me toward the bathroom, and accepted the little jar of

makeup remover she dug out of her purse.

     She left, probably to go put her own panties on, and I

looked in the mirror.  Now, there's a classic syndrome among

cross-dressers.  Arousal, dressing up, more arousal,

masturbation, and then total revulsion.  When I saw myself in the

mirror, my first impulse was to dig out a razor, or the

hypodermic, and *end it*.  In an agony of shame, I shucked the

panties, tossing them in the corner, and started cleaning my face

with vicious, hard strokes.

     "No," said Nancy's voice, behind me.  Not angry, but very

firm.  "Put them back on.  And this."  She was wearing a white

nightie I'd never cared for, since it was supposed to fit through

the bodice and then flare into a sort of puffy chiffon skirt. 

I'm not built like a girl, though, so it was loose in the chest,

tight in the waist, and the skirt wasn't made of an erotic

material, not to the touch, at any rate.  It was to the eye. 

'This' was a pink nylon chemise, one of those things that mail-

order houses sell cut-rate on the back of the order form.

     "N-nance," I stuttered, "I c-can't!"

     "Why?" she asked.  When I didn't answer, she continued,

"Because it's sissy?"  I winced, then nodded.

     "I ... it makes me look, s-sil- ... ridiculous," I added, in

a whisper.

     "You *are* a sissy," she said, matter-of-factly.  "And

tonight, you're going to sleep like one," she stated, picking up

the panties and handing them to me.  It wasn't a request, or an

order.  It was a statement.

     It turned out to be true.

     I felt even more deeply embarrassed the next morning, when I

woke up next to this beautiful, desirable, feminine creature, in

little-girl drag.  And with amazingly stained panties, too.  They

were almost crusty.  So were Nancy's.  She ignored my glumness,

and joked that it was too bad I was so narrow-hipped, or she

could borrow a clean pair from me.  She kept up her light chatter

as we showered--separately, alas--and got dressed.  She did end

up wearing some of my underwear, some of the nasty 'one size fits

all' kind.  She put it on with a wry joke.  I wore boy clothes,

from the skin out.  She asked me what was for breakfast, by which

I guessed I was making it.  Which was fair enough.  She stayed

and cleaned up a little in the bedroom, and then we ate, not in

total silence, but not very happily.  Her cheer was wearing thin,

against my wall of gloom.

     I was disgusted with myself.  I had given in and done some

things that I'd fantasized about, but that wasn't the real

problem.  The problem was, I enjoyed them.  I knew it, and Nancy

knew it.  I couldn't understand why she didn't hate me yet--I

did--and wondered what was going to happen next.  Nothing good, I

was sure.  What if she continued to try and bring my stories to

life?  I shuddered, and dropped my fork, when I had a sudden,

hideous image of stepping up to the lectern, in front of a class

full of students, in high heels and a miniskirt.

     She did the dishes when we were done, and came out to the

living room, where I was sitting and staring at the window,

trying to decide what I was going to do.  "Lee," she said,

softly, kneeling in front of me and taking my hand.  "You need

some time alone.  So I'm leaving."  I started to protest, half-

heartedly, but secretly relieved, when she laid a finger on my

lips.  "I'm not going to demand anything of you that you can't

do, and that  includes demanding that you try to hide your

feelings when you're feeling particularly raw and vulnerable. 

However," she added, and her voice became very firm, "you *are*

going to have to make a decision.  You'll have to decide if you

want to be my sissy or not."  I flushed and again started to

protest, but she shushed me again.  "It isn't that hard a

decision," she said, with a smile, "since one way or another,

you're going to be a sissy.  The question is whether you'll be

*my* little sissy, and let me make the decisions and take the

responsibilities.  No, don't answer!  I don't want to hear it,

and I don't think you're ready, or able, to make a decision in

the state you're in.  So I'll give you time.  Friday I'll come by

to pick you up, and treat you to dinner and a show.  If you've

decided you can trust me, you'll be wearing panties.  And

perfume--that's easier to see."  Well, smell, I corrected, but

not aloud.  "That gives you a week to torture yourself with it. 


     There was something in her eyes again, and I had to work it

out before I answered.  Anxiety?  Yes, it seemed to me, she was

anxious.  And considering things, I realized that whatever

decision I made when I was depressed nearly to the point of

suicide was probably going to be the same one.  "All right," I


     "Good!" she said, and sealed the bargain with a kiss.  A

promising kiss, a tender one.  I had to blink the tears back when

I was done.  I was going to give this up?  But any other decision

seemed just impossible.  She stood, found her coat and her purse,

and started for the door.  But she hesitated, halfway out, and

turned back to look at me consideringly.  "Lee," she said, in an

amused voice, "lose the mustache, too, okay?"  She was gone

before I could answer.

                   Part 2: Fiery Pride

     I was pacing nervously, glancing out the windows from time

to time.  Seven-thirty was approaching.  Friday.  As I paced, my

hand occasionally stole to my newly shaven upper lip.  It was

hard to regret the loss of the mustache itself--it had never been

much of a mustache--but it had always been there, to prevent me

from doing something outrageous.  Now it was gone.

     I'd gotten a note in my mailbox at school in the middle of

the week.  I kept telling myself that she'd put it there herself,

so it wouldn't have to go through normal mail, but the intrusion

of that carefully sequestered portion of my life into my

day-to-day routine made me jumpy.  Jumpy, hell, it had thrown me

into a tailspin.

     "Lee, sweetie, I told you I wouldn't ask for anything beyond

your strength.  But I've been thinking about Saturday, and I have

a hunch that you're much stronger than you think you are.

     "I will pick you up at 7:30 Friday evening.  I will wait

five minutes.  If you're not ready then, I'll leave."

     A bit ambiguous, the Observer pointed out clinically.  Leave

... forever?  Until the next Friday?  Until the next phonecall,

or note?  Long enough to drive around the block? the Professional

Cynic added.  I have enough different points of view inside my

head to populate a bad novel, and most of them have names, of

sorts.  The Intellectual.  The Dreamer.  The Romantic, the

Professor, the Pessimist, the Comedian, the Coward.  They held

meetings from time to time and shouted at one another, while my

mouth stuttered in the background.

     "In your stories, the woman always asks the man to 'say

it,'" her note continued.  "I won't do that to you.  All you have

to do is get in my car.  As my 'sissy.'  The other two conditions

also stand (but don't wear pink ones, wear white ones)."

     Why does she have to keep using that damn word? the Codger

grumbled.  Because it's appropriate? the Cynic suggested. 

Perhaps because you use it in those hideous stories, the

Professor commented, and she is aware that it is a sort of 'Word

of Power' for you.  "Fuck the stories," I snarled aloud.  She

made three conditions, the Observer observed.  Panties, perfume,

and mustache.  Which one did she forget?

     "Once you enter my car, we start a new relationship, just as

I intended last week with the roses.  I will lead, and you will

follow.  This note is to let you know *where.*  To lay the ground

rules, I guess.

     "I won't be the 'boy,' but you, in a sense, will be the

'girl.'  I will make the dates, call you, invite you out, drive

the car, and pay the bills.  And perhaps buy you flowers, or sexy

underwear.  You will simply be available (or not available, but

in that case you may find yourself waiting by the phone for me to

call).  To remind you of this, you should be wearing panties and

perfume every time we go out.  If you don't, I may simply drop

you at your house, and you can wait to see if I call you back.

     "At your doorstep, everything changes.  You are in charge. 

I am a guest, if you invite me in.  If you want to wear studded

leather jockey shorts at your house, that's your prerogative.  It

will be *my* prerogative to accept or decline your invitations,

or to leave when I wish.

     "At *my* doorstep, everything changes again.  *I* am in

charge, and even more so than you are in your house.  You will

dress, talk, and act as I tell you to.  A hint: you won't be

wearing pants in my house any more.  When you arrive, I will lock

away the clothes that you arrived in.  If I invite you, you can

expect that we will sleep together.  You are always welcome to

come visit, of course, but that places no obligations on me.  In

my house, I will have the power over you of a mother over her

daughter, or a big sister over little.  If you wish to spend the

night with me, at my house, but don't have the courage to ask,

you may send me a signal by bringing your nightclothes with you.

     "If, for some reason, you wish to leave before I give you

permission to go, there will always be an option.  I have

purchased a pair of men's jeans and a shirt in your size.  There

will always be a set of unremarkable clothes on the table by the

door, and you are free to change into them and leave."  I didn't

catch how cleverly that was worded until a couple months later. 

It *looks* like more of a promise than it is.  "However, you

won't be welcome in my house until you volunteer to do whatever

it is that caused you to leave in the first place."

     "I love you.  Nancy."

     Puzzle *that* one out, the Cynic sneered.  Oh, don't be a

damnfool! the Codger grumped.  She just wants to make sure you're

not sneaking around doing things behind her back.  She wants you

to prove you're *not* a sissy, is what.  So prove it.  Is that

what she was doing on Saturday? the Doubter asked.  The rest of

the Committee snarled at him to *shut up* about Saturday.

     It was almost seven-thirty, and I was pacing.  I'd spent the

week thinking, too.  If you can call these debates between

personality fragments 'thinking.'  My powerful repugnance at

being reduced to something unmanly warred with the memory of

astonishing sex.  I'd passed out, ferchrissakes!  But if I read

that letter properly, it wasn't going to happen again in my

house.  It might in hers, but I wouldn't be able to get up in the

morning and do myself up 'boy.'  She was going to arrive in

minutes, and I still hadn't made up my mind whether I was even

going to go *out* on her terms.  Oh, it may have looked as if I'd

made up my mind, seeing that I was wearing 'white ones,' perfume,

and my face was smooth-shaven.  In fact, there was a flight bag

by the door, with a nighty in it.  And my makeup, just in case.  

     But the shaving had only taken place at seven o'clock.  The

perfume was barely noticeable, if you leaned in close.  And the

panties--they were a sort of symbolic protest.  I'd gone and

bought a pair, which always made my teeth sweat, facing one of

those clear- faced female cashiers, but I'd done it.  They were

cotton.  Calvin Klein for her.  About as mannish as panties got,

until you got to panties-for-men (I had a couple pairs of silk

men's underwear, that were basically flyless bikinis, differing

from panties only in that they were solid, subdued sorts of

colors, had wide waistbands, lacked decoration altogether ... and

cost roughly three times what panties cost.  Got 'em from Vicky's

Secret.  They didn't give me the same thrill that panties did,


     I saw her car pull up in front of the house, and almost went

to hide under the bed.  My brain went into overdrive, and I used

up my adrenaline allowance for at least the next six months.  I

was not breathing very well.  I was leaning on the door of my

house.  Outside.  Unsure how I had gotten there.  No, I was

leaning against the side of the car, staring at the hand that was

holding the handle.  I shrugged internally, and told it to go

ahead, go on with it, but the signals kept going astray.  Instead

of opening the door, my legs twitched occasionally.  My knees

felt oddly weak.

     I closed my eyes.  Click.  They popped open.  The click

wasn't my eyes, it was the door of the car.  Had I opened it?  Or

had she leaned across to do it?  No, I saw, she was sitting there

with her hands in her lap, turned slightly to face me, and

watching compassionately.  I gulped--it must have been the last

of my pride I was swallowing; it tasted pretty bitter--and slid

in.  My eyes fastened on her dashboard clock.  It said 7:47.

     She didn't give me time to feel embarrassed that I'd taken

seventeen minutes to cross a smallish lawn.  She leaned close,

kissed me warmly, and said, "Hi, sissy!"  The Committee took off

to race around the block, gibbering and arguing with one another,

and then came and caught up with the car when she stopped at the


     "Umm, hi," I responded.  "S-sorry I'm late," I offered.

     She gave me a funny look, then cracked, "That's the girl's

prerogative."  That was my line.  I used to use it whenever she

was late because she stopped to make herself pretty, and it used

to always be good for an exasperated glare.  I couldn't think of

anything to say in response, though, so I reached for a


     Oops.  Must have left them on the table.  I let out a

breath.  A safe topic of conversation.  "Umm, I forgot my

cigarettes.  Could we stop somewhere?"

     She looked at me, frowning.  "Are you carrying money?" she

asked.  That struck me a little odd.  I did, but even if I

hadn't, she wasn't going to be driven broke on a pack of

cigarettes.  I frowned back and nodded.  "Don't, from now on,"

she said, turning her attention back to traffic.  "Put a dime in

your shoe if you're worried about being left somewhere, but you

don't bring money on a date.  Put your wallet in my purse."

     I started to object, then bit my lip, catching sight of how

she was watching me in the mirror.  *We* had never worked that

way.  We'd gone dutch, as often as not.  She was testing me.  I

should have realized that from her comment about the dime; phone

calls hadn't cost a dime since both of us were teenagers.  So she

must be telling me something her mother told her.  It sounded

like something I'd heard my mother tell my sister, although as I

remembered, my mother had just recommended she keep a dime for

the phone in her shoe, not that she not carry money.  I pulled

out my wallet, and discovered that I was extremely reluctant to

part with it.  It was a sort of symbol of me, of my masculinity,

or something.  No, of my independence, I realized, forcing my

fingers to release it, and watching it drop in with her things.

     We pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store, and I

started to get out, then paused, puzzled.  I looked at Nancy,

whose eyes were laughing.  "I'll get them, sweetie," she said,

with a lean and a kiss.  "Do you need anything else?"  I blushed. 

No, it wasn't that suggestive a line, but I'd once tried to make

her sit in the car, when it was raining cats and dogs, and ran

into a store to get something she said she needed.  And when I'd

asked that, she'd told me what it was she also needed, which was

probably the only thing she needed.  I let her get her hair wet,

rather than try to by feminine hygiene supplies.

     "Uhh, a lighter," I said.

     I relaxed into the seat, a little red-faced, to wait, and

reflect.  It's the little things that count in a relationship. 

One of my friends had told me that in college.  He was living

with his girlfriend, off-campus, and the reason he told me is

because they had just had an enormous screaming fight, based, on

the surface, on the fact that she bought the groceries, and liked

her peas fresh or frozen, while he preferred the mushy kind out

of a can.  It was one of those ridiculous little stories that

stays with you.  He'd been laughing when he finally admitted to

it, and then, to my surprise, had gone off to make a compromise,

instead of simply giving in.  I recalled dates from my past, and

times when I had dashed into a store to get something for a

girlfriend.  Leaving her in the car.  I recalled that it had made

me feel important, and gallant.  Now I wondered how it had made

her feel.  Taken care of?  Or taken in charge?  It *was* kind of

pleasant, being waited on.  But the waiting wasn't as pleasant,

nor was the feeling of incompetence.  Once more the battle

between security-in-dependence and fear was on.  I began to

wonder what caused the fear.  Fear of not being taken care of? 

Or fear of being noticed, dependent on a woman?

     She came back, handed me a bag, and started up the car.  I

turned my head away after I opened the bag.  I didn't want her to

see the tears.  It was not a nice trick.  Virginia Slims, a pink

lighter, and some breath mints.  We were at the restaurant before

I had fought my composure back.  I left the bag in the car.  She

didn't say anything.  Good thing, too, because I was simmering.

     Once more, she was in charge, but this time, whenever I

started to do something from my usual patterns, she subtly

spanked me.  Figuratively speaking, of course.  She made me feel

gawky and a fool, so that dinner was actually a pretty miserable

affair.  And no cigarette to finish it, not until we got to the

car and I smoked one of the foul VS's.  I was acting pretty

subdued by that point.  What I was was steaming, just smoking

mad.  You know what kept me from saying anything?  The panties. 

Even cotton ones.  Suppose I made a fuss, right?  She could just

expose me.  Well, she could, couldn't she?

     She seemed to be having a nice time, and continued to act

quite affectionate, putting her hands on me, teasing me,

flirting.  But as soon as I started to do the same, she'd pull

away sharp.  In fact, as we stood in line at the box office, I

realized that she had maneuvered me into *clinging,* in that sort

of soft, desperate way that some very shy women have.  I actually

saw red.  I thought that was just a phrase, but I did; my sight

went all hazy red, and when I refocussed I was standing stiffly,

a couple feet away from her, with my fists clenched.  She

pretended not to notice.  I settled angrily into my seat in the

theater, and then she got me all off balance again, with

caresses, and popping candies into my mouth, and gently

agressive, affectionate behavior.  At the end of the film, my

head was on her shoulder, and the Dreamer was in control, with

the Romantic as ally.

     "Shall we go to my house?" she asked, as we slid into the

car again.  Whang! and another six-month's allotment of

adrenaline used up.  I didn't have to consider it, but I might

have looked like I was for the five seconds before I got my


     "Mine," I said, firmly.  She had promised to let me be macho

in my house, if I wanted to be.  During the movie, which included

a love scene, of course, it had occurred to me that one way to

stop the weird parts of this relationship was to do unto her as

she had done unto me.  Drive her crazy with lust, as masterfully

as the actor on the screen did.  As masterfully as she had done

to *me* the week before.  If I could turn her on even in panties,

I had an idea that she would just *melt* if I played her the way

she had played me.

     She gave me a look that said, 'I know what you're thinking,

naughty boy!'  And a smile that promised delights.  I breathed a

sigh of relief.  The old Codger was right, and he wasn't too

proud to say 'I told you so.'  I started running plans through my

head.  But when we arrived at my apartment, she leaned over to

kiss me, warmly but briefly, and said, "I'll call you, okay?"

     "I ... But ... Don't you ...."  I took a deep breath. 

"Would you like to come in?" I asked.  

     "No, I don't think so," she replied, calmly.  "I have to get

up early."  Wait a minute.  She'd asked me to *her* house.  And

she'd told me that it meant, well, sex!  Something had gone

wrong.  The Cynic was throwing peanut shells at the Codger in the

attics of my mind.

     Masterful, Leeling.  Be masterful.  I gave her a look

intended to be both wry and sexy.  "Aww, come on.  I'll show you

my etchings."

     She smiled, without warmth.  "I'd rather see your

collection," she said, and rubbed my hip.  Then she frowned. 

"Aren't you wearing panties?" she asked.

     That was ... deflating.  "Cotton," I gritted.  The Observer

noted that it was a bit difficult to play suave and deadly when

one was wearing feminine undergarments.  I hesitated, angry and

frustrated, and then climbed stiffly out of the car.  

     She leaned over and rolled the window down, behind me, as I

walked toward the door, fuming.  "Lee," she called, in a clear,

amused voice.  "*I* make the rules."  I turned to look at her. 

She smiled, this time warmly, and continued.  "I call the shots,

honey.  All you can do, if you don't like the game, is get out of

it."  I clenched my jaw, at a loss for an answer.  It *was* what

I had agreed to.  More or less.  "I'll call you," she repeated,

and drove off. 

     I'd thought  I was miserable before Christmas.  I didn't

know what misery was.  On Friday night, I'd felt betrayed, angry,

and bewildered.  I laid in bed for three hours before I cried

myself to sleep.  Saturday morning, I tried to call Nancy. 

Answering machine.  Four times.  Six times on Sunday.  Monday, I

decided I wasn't going to humiliate myself any more, and went

marching through a day of snarling at the secretaries and my

students.  I didn't call.  Neither did she.  I spent the evening

pretending to read, and staring at the phone.  Surprised hell out

of one of the little darlings by answering the phone on the first

ring, with a breathless, "Yes?"

     Tuesday I said to hell with pride, and started calling

again.  At work, one of her female coworkers informed me that she

had just stepped out, laughing under her breath.  The third time

I called, she said, "She doesn't want to talk to you, okay?" and

slammed the phone down.  Also the fourth and fifth time.  I

couldn't believe what I was doing.  When I was a teenager, the

idea of this sort of reaction to a call would have been enough to

keep me off the phone for a month.  I justified it to myself by

saying that I just had to prove to her that I was willing to

grovel a little, and she'd see me again.  She *had* to see me

again.  I hadn't done anything *wrong.*  At four-thirty, as I was

gathering my things and getting ready to leave, my office phone


     "Hi, sissy!" her voice said, cheerfully.  I nearly dropped

the phone in alarm.

     "Christ, Nancy, what if one of the secretaries had


     "You don't sound like any of the secretaries, sweetie. 

Listen, I just realized that I still have your wallet.  Do you

want me to bring it over?"

     I'd forgotten all about the damn thing.  I could have used

*that* for an excuse to see her.  How had I missed that one? 

"Uhh, sure, that'd be, uhh, nice.  I'll, uhh, buy you dinner as a


     Silence.  I deliberately ignored it.  Put this relationship

back the way it was supposed to be, right?  "How very ... forward

of you, Lee," she said, distantly.

     Oh, shit.  I hadn't heard ice like that since the breakup. 

"S-sorry!  Sorry!  I forgot!" I gasped into the phone.  I gulped. 

Where's your spine, boy? the Codger asked, irascibly.  With his

heart, the Comedian quipped.  Nancy has it.

     She chuckled.  When had she learned to chuckle?  She used to

giggle, or snicker.  But that was definitely a chuckle.  "Maybe

I'll let you cook me a dinner, sometime, sweetie."

     An out!  Was that an out?  I jumped for it.  "T-tonight?" I


     Another pause.  "My place or yours?"

     Ooh, shit.  Was that an invitation?  I was safe enough, I

told myself, if it was an invitation.  Get her in bed, and I'll

convince her.  I felt a pounding in my head, echoed lower down. 

Wait, no, if *I* picked, would she regard that as an invitation? 

Better be safe.  "M-m  ... Yours?" I heard myself say,


     That *chuckle* again.  It was unnerving.  "Are you asking to

come to my house, sissy?  You haven't forgotten the rules, have

you?"  Well, that settled the question of the invitation quite

neatly, didn't it?  I'd just invited myself.

     Okay, how do I get out of this?  Ask her to my place

instead?  Oh, hell, she settled that already.  Maybe she'd change

her mind about the invitation.  Or about bed, at least.  Just go

for it, idiot, advised the Romantic.  Sexy, male voice, with a

pickup line, so she knows you're still planning on changing the

rules.  "Hey, babe, I make a killer steak.  Give me a place to

cook, and I'll make you a meal fit for a Que  ..."  Ooh, *nice*

turn of phrase, the Cynic applauded, sarcastically.  And that

quaver in your voice!  So manly!

     "What a lovely offer!" Nancy exclaimed.  "I'd love it,

sweetie.  Why don't you come over around seven?" 

     I went home and paced, occasionally blinded by tears.  Tears

of rage, tears of fear, tears, perhaps, of weakness.  They feel a

little different, I guess, but they all taste the same.  And when

your emotions are roiling so badly that you can't tell what

you're feeling, it's difficult to sort out what sort of tears

you're crying.  The rage was directed equally at myself, for

being a spineless, weepy, pantywaisted wimp, and at Nancy for

making *me* be one.  The fear ... that was easier.  I was afraid

of everything.  Of being laughed at, especially.  Of being

humiliated.  Of losing Nancy.  Of turning into someone I wouldn't

want to know.  The weakness ... well, I guess it's enough to say

that I was pacing in my favorite pair of panties.  I'd changed as

soon as I got home.

     I still had that bag packed, with my stuff in it.  But when

I left the house, I left it there.  I was having second thoughts

(are they still second, the thousandth time they  race around the

inside of your head, sticking their tongues out and jeering?) all

the way to Nancy's house.  Parked.  Blew my nose and wiped my

eyes.  I got out of the car.

     You know how, when you do something over and over, it

becomes second nature, so that you don't even notice you've done

it?  It falls down into your pre-conscious.  Like riding a

bicycle, the famous example.  Or putting on the turn signal in a

car.  On the way over, I'd been astonished several times to

realize that I had done things legally.  My preconscious was

driving, the Comittee was running around in the belfry of my

mind, screaming and wailing and scaring the bats.  And you know

how, when you've visited someone often enough, you stop even

noticing the route between the car, or the bus stop, or whatever,

and the door?

     This wasn't one of those times.  The panic was infectious,

apparently, and my preconscious came down with a bad case and

took to its bed.  Every step was an effort, every sight was brand

new, searing, in living color.  Good thing I wasn't chewing gum. 

I never would have made it to the door.  Once I got there, I just

stared at it for a while.  It took another effort to remember

that the brass thing was for knocking, and the button for

ringing.  I  had to choose one.  That required deep thought. 

Don't laugh!  It could happen to you.

     "Hi, darling!" she said, and kissed me.  Oh, heaven. 

Fluttering little angels, playing harps, everything bright and

rosy.  Rosy ... pink.  No, let's not think pink.  I wonder if I

knocked or rang?  Not important, of course.  The kiss was

important.  The kiss ended.  I made an incoherent noise of

protest.  "Your clothes are in the bedroom," she said.  "You can

change and start dinner.  I'm starved!  Didn't you bring your

makeup?  Hmm.  I guess we need to get you a purse.  You can use

mine, this once; it's in the bathroom.  Call me if you need


     Hmm.  Not only had she learned to chuckle, she'd become a

witch.  She'd teleported me into the bedroom, and then blinked

out.  Have you gotten the idea that I was a little over the edge? 

I was further rocked by the clothes.  Yes, the famous pink dress,

with all its accessories.

     "Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep, and doesn't know where

to find them.  Leave them alone, and they'll come home, dragging

their tails behind them!"  I was quite pleased without myself for

being sane enough to recite poetry.  The Cynic applauded,

sarcastically.  Some time had passed, and I was sitting in the

desk chair, staring at the stuff on the bed.  Progress had been

made.  My shoes had gotten themselves taken off.  My shirt had

been unbuttoned; likewise my jeans.  Which meant that my Calvin

Kleins were showing.  I barely noticed.

     "You know, you'd be popping a zipper if you had this thing

at *your* house," the Cynic said aloud.  "Only crazy people talk

to themselves," I replied viciously.  "I may be crazy," the

Romantic responded, "but am I crazy enough to dress up like a

refugee from a fairy tale in front of the most important woman in

the world?"  The Comedian laughed.  "Yeah, right, get real. 

Fairy tale for adults, maybe.  The Scarecrow dressed up like

Dorothy."  A part of me that hadn't woken up for a while chimed

in, "Story idea, there."

     "Oh, good," the Codger remarked to thin air.  "While we were

talking, someone seems to have undressed me.  How kind of them. 

Do you think you'd like to maybe calm down, buckle down, and get

it over with?"  I looked around, and the Comedian commented. 

"Funny, I don't *see* any large, friendly red buttons, with

'Don't Panic!' inscribed on them.  Well, never mind.  We already

did that.  Try something else."  The Cynic: "Ha!  What?"  The

Romantic: "Well, what about getting dressed?"  The Coward: "In

that?"  The Tough Guy: "Yes, as a matter of fact."

     "Right.  Problem: getting dressed.  Solution: One: stand

up."  Intellectual at work, breaking down the problem to

understandable steps.  I did.  "Good!  Two: Walk to bed.  Very

nice!  We may be able to make something of you yet.  Three: pick

up dress."  Pause.  "Umm, hands toward bed.  Touch it, dummy!" 

Intellectual supplanted by Tough Guy, or Can-Do Man.

     "This isn't working, Leeling," I muttered, sinking to the

bed.  "Maybe if you could trick yourself into it.  Or, I dunno,

twist your arm.  Or pull your hair until you cry like a girl and

abjectly humble yourself by wearing girl-stuff."  Another story

scene, of course, contributed by the Cynic.

     "This isn't working," I repeated, in a miserable voice.  And

to my horror, started to cry.  "Stop that!" I demanded angrily,

but at the same time curled up into a tight defensive ball. 

"Just give it up, then," I sneered.  "Get dressed, tell Nancy

you're too *much* of a sissy to wear a dress, and leave.  I'm

*sure* she'll understand!"  That was the Cynic again, sneering

with professional skill.  A little voice inside, though, spoke

up, a bit timidly.  "I bet she would.  Why don't you ask her?"

     "Nancy?"  I heard myself call.  Not much of a voice, that.  

     "Lee?  Are you all right?  What are you doing?  What's

taking so long?"  She came in the door on the last question, and

halted, her eyes going very wide when she caught sight of me.

     The Committee members, acting in concert, grabbed the tears,

brutally throttled them, hog-tied them, and threw them into a

cell.  "I c-can't d-*do* it!"  Damn, the world's fastest escape! 

That's impressive, boy, the Codger told me.  Just start crying. 

Not only does it show how macho studly tough you are, it shows

how little women's clothes affect you.

     She waited until I managed to turn a groan into a growl and

frighten the tears into submission.  "Do you need some help with

something, Lee?" she asked, carefully, neutrally.  Her eyes were

hooded.  Setting precedents, I understood later.  One doesn't

back down from the orders.  At the moment, though, I felt cast

adrift, helpless to do what I knew I *had* to do.

     "I bet that would work," said the timid little voice in my

head.  "If she helped, I mean."  The Committee took a break from

suppressing the weeping mutiny, and considered the idea.  Yeah,

okay, if I can ask.  "C-can you help me g-get dressed?" I asked,

timidly.  Hoo, wait!  We haven't had a Committee meeting on this! 

That question qualifies as a policy statement, and a quorum of

personality has not been convened to rule on its applicability! 

The timid little voice gave a timid little grin, flipped its

skirts in the faces of the ponderous thinkers who usually gave me

hell, and disappeared.  Astonishing.  The Committee of crazed

personalities has been invaded by a little girl.  Where'd she

come from?

     "Well, of course I will, sweetie.  Come on, sit up straight,

and raise your arms."

     Okay, Tough Guy told the timid little voice, a little

grimly, as I lifted a leg to step into a pair of panties that

screamed 'Fetish!  Fetish!  Fetish!' at the top of their pink

ruffled lungs, you wanna go subdue that nether mutiny for me? 

Nancy and I both pretended we didn't notice that my cock rose as

the panties did.

     "Can you do your makeup yourself?" Nancy asked, looking up

from buckling the second shoe.  

     I nodded.  "No," the timid little voice said.  "I don't

think I can look in a mirror right now," she explained.  Sweet

gods of the mountains and forests, there was a little girl

borrowing my voice!  The Committee convened in great excitement,

determined to do something about this open rebellion.

     Nancy smiled, kissed me on the cheek, and assured me, "I'll

be right back."

     I suspect that I looked primly proper as she fixed my face

for me.  Completely passive, with my hands lying in my lap.  It

wasn't that I was getting into character, or anything.  It was

just that the Committee had decided to form a posse, or a lynch

mob, and were hunting for that traitorous little girl.  She must

have had a lot of experience, hiding, though.  Not only did Nancy

do my makeup, she also put my hair up on the sides, with a pair

of barettes, and added a pair of earrings.  She finished, urged

me to my feet, and had me twirl.  Odd feeling, having a skirt

brushing against my legs.  And letting in a sort of draft.  The

Committee was still howling in pursuit.  "Pink suits you,

sweetie.  You really should wear it more often.  Are you going to

start dinner now?"  Timid little nod of the head.  Ha!  The mob

recognized that mannerism, and roared off in pursuit.

     They got stunned into immobility in short order.  Nancy

keeps a full length mirror in her hall.  You have to pass it,

going from the bedroom or the bathroom to the kitchen or living

room.  The committee, roaring along in pursuit of the little

girl, suddenly caught sight of me in that mirror.  And every

single one of them--the Professor, the Observer, the Professional

Cynic, the Codger, the Tough Guy, the Comedian, all of

them--suddenly found themselves in cute little pink dresses, and

ran for cover.  With a tinkling girlish giggle taunting them.

     Nancy led me by the hand to the kitchen.  As she turned to

leave, I blurted, "I look really ridiculous, don't I?"  The last

few steps, with the Committee mostly lying low, I'd noticed the

skirt swaying against my legs, and the nylon covering my bottom,

and I'd become aroused again, despite myself.  Maybe it was just

the sexual element that embarrassed me?  Or maybe that was the

element I was interested in?  I shied away from enumerating the

other possible elements.

     She slid her arms around my waist, hugged me tightly, and

then leaned back to look in my face.  "You look ..." she said,

slowly, with a long pause to make sure I was listening, and so

she could judge my response, "like a sissy."  She watched the

blush rise in my face.  I saw her, from the corner of my eye.  "A

very pretty, very desirable sissy," she added, as carefully as a

chemist mixing nitric acid with sugar water.  Blushes feel

different, too.  Was that one change from embarrassed blush to

pleased blush?  Her hands slipped down from my waist, and I

forgot about blushing as intoxicating sensations spread from her

delicate touch, satin on nylon.  "Do you remember what I ...

feel, for sissies?" she asked in a murmur, biting my earlobe and

pressing her hips against mine, as she stroked my bottom again.

     She had teleported away again, I discovered when my eyes

opened.  I sighed.  Had she made a promise?  Well, at least a

suggestion.  Gods, do you suppose this is the way women feel,

when they start acting incredibly sexy, moving with that

incredible grace?  When did I get graceful?  Better start dinner,

kid, it's already eight o'clock.  One special of the house,

coming up.

     Not coming up, I realized, almost fifteen minutes later.  I

can't cook.  I mean, there are about half a dozen dishes I can do

up wonderfully well.  Spaghetti, for instance.  That takes all

day, though, for the sauce.  Nancy had taught me to make

Fettucine carbonari.  She didn't have any bacon or parmesan

cheese.  She'd also taught me mexican.  Nit in the fridge.  Not

even salsa.  Plus I could grill any animal that I could get to

hold still long enough.  The grill was on the balcony.  Never

mind.  That left altogether not much in my repertoire.  Cheese

sandwiches.  I didn't think that would be a big hit, not for a


     Well, I tried.  There was chicken in the fridge.  I had an

idea of how one fried it, so I got that sort of started.  Flour

and bread crumbs, and some spices, right?  It didn't stick too

well, though.  Then I attacked a head of lettuce, subdued it, and

dismembered it partially.  Some tomatoes and stuff.  Frozen

beans; they came with directions, and needed nothing but boiling

water.  Rolls from a can.

     'Disaster' is too mild a term.  I think part of the trick to

cooking, like to lots of other things, is simply confidence. 

Well, when the chicken fat caught fire, at the same time that

smoke started to issue from the oven, I lost my nerve.  Water is

not a good thing for oil fires, and opening an oven door doesn't

do much for the atmosphere, when the rolls are burning.  Fat

splattered onto the eye where the beans were, and flared up, and

I grabbed for the pan in desperation.  Any girlish grace I might

have once felt evaporated.  The smoke alarm began its peculiarly

piercing wail, and I added curses as the boiling water from the

beans slopped first onto the stove, and then, as I overcorrected,

onto my legs.  I dropped the pan and danced backward into the

table, and the salad bowl toppled onto the floor with a ceramic


     "What the ... !  God damn it, Lee, what does it take to get

you to ask for help?!"  She dashed for the stove, slipping on the

beans and salad and slamming a calf into the open oven door. 

Salt in the fat, then the lid on and the pan off the stove.  She

whirled, slipped again on the slimy mess covering the floor, and

slammed her hip into the table, but she reached the smoke alarm,

jerked off the cover, and pulled the battery loose.

     I managed to get the rolls out of the oven, and started to

set them down on the table.  The wooden table.  You know, the one

with the finish on it.  She snatched at the pan, burning her hand

as she pushed it toward the sink, and then stopped, visibly

gathering her temper.  I dropped the pan and gulped.  "I-I'll

clean it up," I said, dejectedly.  My leg hurt, and I'd just

proven myself utterly incompetent, and the fact that my shoes

slipped on the floor reminded me that I was dressed for


     "No, you *won't!"* she replied, sharply.  She opened her

eyes and glared, then turned to yank the freezer door open and

get some ice for her hand.  "You'll go to the bedroom, sit down,

and *wait!"*  I flushed.  "And then," she added, still biting her

words off, "We'll go *out* to eat!"

     I nodded, and stepped backward, trying to ignore the

throbbing agony in my leg.  I didn't think she was going to have

much sympathy.  I had to pass that damn mirror again, though.  I

managed not to stop.  But there was one on the bedroom dresser,

too, that I had kept my back turned to the whole time.  I flopped

into the desk chair, and then blushed.  Stood up, smoothed the

skirt underneath me, and sat down again.  At least that way I

didn't feel the fabric of the chair directly on my ... my


     I couldn't help it, I turned to look at the mirror.  I'd

only had glances at myself, and they had been disturbing enough. 

I looked, then closed my eyes and looked away.  Took a deep,

steadying breath, and looked back.

     I had never been much of a fan of mirrors, dressing up at

home.  I'm  nearly six feet tall, and skinny.  32-26-34--it

sounds sexier than it is.  I'd once tried padding a bra, but no

matter how little I put in, it always looked like I had tennis

balls taped to my chest.  Or ping pong balls.  No curves, all

angles.  Nice legs, the ladies said, but boys' legs, more

muscular than pretty.  Big hands and feet.  I always looked

completely ridiculous, which was one of the saving graces; I'd

never been tempted to try to "pass as female."

     I still looked ridiculous--mostly.  The pink dress was a

little girl's dress, or a costume; nobody six feet tall and

angular should wear a dress like that.  The shoes more or less

matched the dress, except that they were boats.  I wear a 10 1/2

in men's sizes.  Hairy calves sticking out of lace

stockings--christ, almost the definition of 'camp.'  I probably

could have dealt with that.  What was disturbing was the pretty

face perched on top of this monstrosity.  My face *could* pass,

now that the mustache was gone.  The hair was pulled back in a

very authentically feminine touch, not at all overdone; that

displayed my ears, which were sporting a pair of little gold

butterflies.  The makeup I was wearing was not the awkward stuff

that I did for myself, or the somewhat dramatic effect that Nancy

had put me in on that fateful Saturday.  It was understated, too,

and it basically turned my face from being unremarkably boyish

into being ... unremarkably pretty.  Feminine.  Girlish.

     *Sissy.*  I *hated* that word, almost as much as I hated

'pantywaist.'  Nancy knew that from reading the stories, of

course, since sooner or later all the sissy heroes had to admit

that they were sissies.  I was *living* a sort of fantasy, and it

was giving me the *creeps.*  Seeing my face transformed into

something feminine, nearly *female,* shook me to the depths.  I

stood up abruptly, intending to walk over closer to find the

flaws and reassure myself.  Stopped equally abruptly.  The dress

... transformed my usual motions.  Softened things.  I took a

couple steps.  It swirled when I walked, emphasizing first one

leg, and then the other.  The fullness of it also gave me a sort

of illusion of hips.

     I gulped, and looked at the door, then grinned slightly,

remembering my teenaged days, when I'd snuck into my sister's

room and kept one eye on her door while I rooted through her

underwear drawer.  Then I turned around, looking over my

shoulder, and tried to watch myself walk from behind.  Darted

another glance at the door, and bounced experimentally.  The

skirt swirled a bit, but I didn't achieve the effect I wanted. 

Marilyn Monroe from behind, basically.  So I bouced some more,

and when that didn't serve to flip the skirt up, I lifted it,

pretending that my hands were a breeze, and craned my head around

over my shoulder again.

     "If you're done showing off," Nancy said shortly, "go wait

in the living room.  I need to change."

     My head snapped back around to face her, and I dropped the

skirt as if it burned me.  Embarrassed, I started for the door. 

And stopped, as she stepped inside and opened the closet.  "Umm,

Nancy?" I asked, a hideous doubt springing up and growing to

larger- than-life-size all in the space of seconds.  "Shouldn't I

change, too?"  She looked at me, her face telling me nothing.  "I

mean ... I c-can't go out l-like *this!"*

     "You wear what I tell you to wear while you're here," she

said, with no sign of softening, and repeated, "Go wait for me in

the living room.  Stay out of the kitchen."

     I got as far as the hall mirror before stopping.  She meant

to take me somewhere in this ... in this *costume.*  "Why don't I

just wear a sign that says 'Pervert?'" I grumbled to my

reflection.  It was not a pretty reflection.  For one thing, the

blood had drained from my face, and the makeup had gotten pretty

obvious.  "I *can't* do this!  They'll ride me out of town on a

rail!"  I looked at the bedroom door.

     It opened.  "I thought I told you to wait in the living

room?" Nancy said, walking toward the kitchen.

     I gathered up my courage again.  "Sh-should I change now?"

     "No.  You look fine.  For the third time, go wait in the

living room."

     "No!" I screamed, and stopped, shocked at myself, shaking. 

"I w-*won't* wear this!  I b-burned *my* leg, too, you know, but

I'm not trying to, to drag you outside in your p-p- pa-p-pan  ...

in your *underwear!"*

     "I never said a word about you going outside, did I? 

*Trust,* Lee!  I told you to go to the living room, and wait. 

Dressed as you are, since I haven't told you to change.  When you

have done that, I will come tell you to do something else."

     "You said we were going *out* to eat," I shot back,

breathing hard.  I think I knew what happened to all that

adrenaline.  It had gone off, collected all its friends, and

waited for an opportunity.  I was trembling like a leaf, my arms

and legs shaking, my vision blurring, and caught somewhere

between utter screaming panic and bloody rage.  "Are you gonna

give me my clothes back?"

     "I told you to go to the living room and wait, Lee.  Now go

to the living room and wait."  She turned her back on me, and

walked into the kitchen.

     I stood there, breathing hard, for about ten seconds, and

then started struggling out of the ridiculous clothes.  No way. 

Not any way.  Maybe she could have shamed me into it, since I

made such a complete mess of dinner, if she had told me I was

going to wear women's jeans.  I told myself that, and when I

believed it, I told myself that I might even have worn a skirt,

or something.  Maybe she meant us to go to a drive-through, or

something like that, but *damned* if I was going to try it

looking like I'd escaped from the nearest brothel!

     By that time, dress, panties, and shoes were on the floor,

and I was pulling off the stockings.  Nancy reappeared in the

kitchen door.  She looked at me, then at the discarded clothing. 

I leaped for the table by the door, and snatched up the clothes

there.  Yes, men's clothes.  No underwear.  No *shoes,* damn it! 

I started to pull it on, anyway.  "Are you leaving, then?" she

asked.  Calm voice.  Hint of a quaver?  She took a breath.  "You

know that when you decide to come back, you'll have to put

everything back on and go wait for me in the living room.  Don't

you think it would be easier to do it now?"

     I had the pants on, and the shirt over my shoulders, if not

buttoned.  "I will *never* wear that shit again!" I said, voice

shaking.  "You can *burn* it!  I am not going to, to *blow up my

life* just so you can prove how butch you are!"  That was

supposed to be an insult.  She smiled.  Why did she smile?

     "You'll want your shoes, then," she said matter-of-factly,

and started for the bedroom.  "I suggest you take off your makeup

as well.  Your wallet is in my purse; I bought you a new one."

     I hesitated.  This wasn't the response I expected.  I almost

started for the bathroom, but I figured the trap in that--the

door opened out, and she could barricade it, or something. 

Paranoid?  Me?  Instead, I dug makeup remover, kleenex, and a

mirror out of her purse, and smeared the stuff off.  I didn't

find my wallet, though.  The Doubter was back in my head,

wondering if I was doing the right thing.  I called the Committee

into session, and pointed out the dress, and told them to shut

that idiot up.

     She came back carrying my shoes, and I belatedly pulled off

the other stocking.  Grabbed my coat.  Stuck my feet in my shoes. 

"I didn't find my wallet," I said, sullenly.

     "You won't need it if you stay here, Lee," she replied,

standing up with the dress in her hands.  "If you're not going to

change back, I'll put these things on the chair in the bedroom." 

That was a question.  I glared an answer.  Did she look sad?  "I

bought you a new wallet.  The red leather one."  She hesitated,

and added, awkwardly.  "You're going to think it's an insult, but

it isn't.  You can carry it in your briefcase, and nobody will

ever see it.  I wanted to see your ... your bottom without the

wallet in the way."

     I found it.  Red leather.  A lady's clutch purse, I guess

you call them.  The things women keep in their purses.  I

discovered that all the shaking and trembling I was doing was

anger.  I grabbed my coat, stuck the thing into a pocket.  I'd

clean my stuff out of it later.  "That's *it,"* I snarled.  "Now

I understand!  I thought ....  You hate me, don't you?  Because I

didn't live up to your image of what a man should be, is that

it?"  A look of horror came onto her face.  "Well you can

*forget* your revenge, lady.  You moved too damn fast.  You can't

prove those stories are mine, you can't prove I ever wore *that*

shit, or *anything* else!  You're screwed," I said, forcing a

laugh that I hoped was defiant.  "*Nobody's* gonna believe you. 

You shoulda took pictures, or something."

     I was right, I knew I was right.  That upset look on her

face was because I'd figured things out, and she wasn't going to

have the pleasure of destroying me in public.  I jerked the door

open, and started to slam it.  She caught the edges of it, so I

couldn't, and I spared a glance back.  Oops.  Wrong thing to do. 

She was crying.  "Lee," she said, keeping her voice steady with

obvious difficulty, "I love you.  Trust me!"  She took a deep

breath, reached a hand toward my face, and added, "And take the

barettes out of your hair."

     I stopped at a convenience store on the way home.  I had a

plan, but it called for massive quantities of beer.  Remembered

to take the money out of my wallet, with my license, *before* I

went in, and stuffed the wallet under the seat of the car.  I was

right, I knew I was right.  She hated me; that explained

everything.  I got a case of beer.  The cashier gave me an odd

look.  I figured it was because I was a little wild-eyed.  I

didn't remember about the butterfly earrings until I got home. 

See how she tricked me?

     When I got home, after I had discovered the earrings, I took

everything feminine in the house and stuffed it into a garbage

bag.  Then I laid out one pair of panties, one bra, one slip, one

skirt, a pair of stockings (I don't like pantyhose), and a

blouse.  I couldn't find my cosmetics.  I wasn't really in a

condition to think about it.  Then I dressed, and each time I put

something on, I put a cigarette out.  Once I was fully dressed, I

looked at Nancy's picture, my eyes streaming, and told her "I

don't need you, bitch!"  Cigarette number seven sizzled out

against the flesh inside my arm, and I curled up, sobbing.

     The original plan at that point called for me to undress

with six more fiery stops.  I justified cutting straight to

throwing everything away by the reasonable argument that I didn't

want to use aversion therapy for taking such things off.  Well, I

didn't, did I? 


                           Part 3: Know Thyself

     I made a hell of a mess in the bathroom, too.  Cheap beer. 

I usually drink imports.  This stuff was just supposed to put me

under though.  It did, but my system had sustained enough shocks

that it decided poisoning was going just a bit too far.  It was a

good thing that the next day was Wednesday.  I had one class, an

upper-level course, and office hours, but that was it.  I called

the secretaries and told them I was sick.  By midafternoon the

hangover was mostly gone, the bathroom was reasonably sanitary,

and  I'd cleaned the broken glass out of the frame that held

Nancy's picture.

     I was sitting in the kitchen, chain-smoking and morosely

considering the consequences of using that hypodermic needle that

was lying on the table, when the door rang.  I thought about

ignoring it, but it was probably the damn yard man.  He wasn't

worth a damn; he cleaned my yard whenever he needed money, not

when the yard needed cleaned.  So he'd done the leaves, finally,

in January.  Brilliant.  Now he'd come and expect me to fork over

cash, since he at least had the sense not to try cleaning things

when I was around to tell him I wouldn't pay him.  Sourly, I

started for the door, and remembered that my wallet--my new

wallet, genuine latest women's fashion--was in the car.

     I was so sure it was him that I just flung the door open,

expecting him to understand I was in a bad mood.  It wasn't him. 

So, okay, you knew that.  I'm a little slow on the uptake.  It

was her.  I had to choke a sob, but I got my composure fast.

     "Whadda you want?"

     "Isn't it a little cold for shorts and a tee shirt?  I was

in the neighborhood, and I thought I'd drop your clothes off."  I

must have flinched or something, because she clarified, "The ones

you wore to school yesterday."

     Okay, we were pretending to be polite, were we?  Mechanical

smile.  "I've been inside all day, it's warm enough.  I've got

some of yours, too.  Wait here a minute."  I felt a slight thrill

of exultation in being able to close the door on her, to make her

wait on the steps.  Good thing I'd taken off those clothes before

I'd gotten sick.  I found them, shook them out, and carried them

back to the door.

     Her face went back to an expression of complete neutrality

as soon as I opened the door, and I wasn't sure what expression

it was chasing away.  "I was going to bring them by the school,

but they told me you'd called in sick."

     "Burns," I said, feeling a little smug at being able to tell

the truth and make her feel guilty about it.  I gestured at my

leg.  I was keeping my arm carefully turned so she couldn't see

the inside of it.

     Should have been more careful.  Should have put on a long

shirt, or something.  Two piles of clothes, two arms.  My

attempts to keep one arm turned in toward me weren't effective

enough.  "Lee!" she gasped, dropping the clothes I had just

handed her, and grabbing my arm.  I almost dropped mine.  "What

happened to you?"

     "Nothing!" I snarled.  "I just made sure I won't be acting

'sissy' any more, okay?"

     She stared at me.  Her face had gone very pale.  My emotions

got all jumbled up.  She was acting almost like she cared.  "Lee,

dammit, I never meant ... no."  She looked at me, and her face

firmed up.  She looked incredibly sad, but firm.  "You'll have

the right to ask questions once you don't have to, once you trust

me."  She glanced back down at my arm.  "But *that's* ... you did

that to yourself, didn't you?"

     "It works, okay?  And it hurts less than being ...


     "Good God!" she exclaimed softly.  It was weird, she acted

like she really cared.  She stared at my arm in horror, and I

more or less put it on display.  Badge of pride, so to speak. 

She glanced at my face.  Her face changed.  Grew thoughtful.  She

took a step back, and I started to move inside.  But she hadn't

picked up her clothes, and she wasn't leaving.  She dug something

out of her purse.  I paused, intrigued in spite of myself.

     I'd forgotten about the cigarettes I'd abandoned in her car. 

She dug them out, and found the lighter.  She didn't smoke.  My

heart started to pound heavily.  She wasn't going to ....  She

lit a cigarette.  Were there tears in her eyes?  Looked at me,

and pushed up the sleeve of her coat.  Almost, I started for her. 

No, she was grandstanding.  "How many times do I have to do

this?" she asked, in a shaky voice, and started pressing the

fiery tip against the inside of her wrist.

     "Stop that!" I shouted, and she winced and bit her lip. 

Dropped the cigarette.  She looked at it, then started fumbling

in her purse again.

     I threw the clothes behind me, and closed the distance

between us in two steps.  Grabbed the pack out of her hand,

crumpled it, threw it to the ground and stomped on it.  Grabbed

her wrist--carefully.  "Why, Lee, I thought you didn't care?" she

said softly.

     Something had snapped the night before.  Something else

snapped now.  "I ...." I couldn't think of anything to say,

except the banal three words, which seemed insufficient at the

moment, so instead I kissed her.  It was a very vigorous kiss.  I

damn near attacked her mouth, and she responded to that,

hungrily, softly, and I felt a sob rack her body, and then she

changed it, or tried to.  We fought for control, our tongues and

lips duelling, me stubbornly determined not to let her take the

active side, until I realized what I was doing.  Who I was doing

it to, I should say.  Then it was my turn to stifle a sob, and

relax, and let her do the kissing while I responded.  I think we

sealed some sort of bargain in that kiss, too.  Or maybe I just

agreed to something.  I don't know.

     She broke the kiss, and pulled my arm out where she could

see it.  "Seven," she whispered.  "Oh, God!"

     I felt ashamed of myself.  "Y-you don't understand.  I can

... it hurts, sure.  But I can, can stop the compulsion.  The

craving.  And then, you know, I almost like myself."

     "You're not going to do that any more," she said, in a tone

that brooked no demur.

     I demurred, clenching my jaw.  "Not if I don't have to.  It

shouldn't take much more, I think."  She was staring at me,

shocked.  "Nancy," I explained, fiercely, "I *hate* it!  I hate

wearing p-p-pa-p  ..."  I clenched my jaw.  Damn word.  "I hate

dressing up.  Even when I'm doing it, I hate it!  I hate that it

makes me horny when I *do* do it.  But it's, like, an addiction,

or something, and even though I hate it, I do it."

     "Ah!" she said, softly, looking tenderly in my eyes.  "I

didn't know that.  Lee, I have something to prove to you, but

you'll have to come to my house."  

     I broke the clinch, and let the suspicion show.  "New

rules?" I asked.  "I told you, I'm not going to wear any of that

stuff again.  That's what this is *for."*

     "Same rules," she replied steadily.  I started to shake my

head.  "If you don't agree," she told me, "I'm going to go down

to the Stop'n'Rob, buy a pack of cigarettes, and do six more." 

She held out her wrist.

     "Why?" I asked, bewildered.

     She smiled again, slightly, her eyes still brilliant with

tears.  "Well, if it hurts you as much as those," and she nodded

toward the burns on my arm, "hurt me, then it should help you out

even more.  If pain is what you're after."

     "I ... this is insane!" I exploded.

     "I agree completely," she said fervently.  "Are you coming?"

     "No!  Y-you wouldn't!"  But she *had.*  She just shrugged,

and knelt to gather the shirt and pants she'd dropped.  I sat

down abruptly, feeling the chill, and hugged my knees to my chin. 

"I don't understand!" I spat, in exasperated staccato.

     "Lee," she said, softly, urgently, "I want you to come to my

house.  I want to show you something about yourself that you

don't believe, and that you won't find pleasant, but that will

give you a great deal of peace, once you know it.  I promise you

... I *promise* you that you'll understand, but I can't explain

it here.  You have too *many* defenses, Lee.  We have to go back

to the very basics."  I was wavering.  Stupid.  I'd figured

everything out, and now she was just messing up my head again. 

"I love you, Lee."  Damn it!  I nodded.  "Go put on some clothes,

then, all right?  You'll need something to wear home."

     I sighed.  "You may as well come inside, then."  A thought

occurred to me.  "Oh.  I don't have any p-pa  ... any underwear." 

I glanced at her, shame-faced.  "I, umm, threw everything away."

     "Hmm.  I should have guessed.  In the dumpster?"  I nodded. 

She gestured me inside, finished picking up clothes, and followed

me.  Good, then.  At least she wouldn't make me crawl around in

the trash and recover them.  I started for the bedroom.  Heard

her breath catch.  "Lee.  What's that on the table?"

     I gulped.  "A needle.  Umm, I can ... can I explain later?"

     "I *read* those stories, Lee," she said, looking at me. 

Gods, she was furious!  "Do you have any more?"

     I strangled on admitting, "In the bathroom."  She went that

way; I went into the bedroom.  I wanted a minute or two alone,

anyway.  I heard her rummage around in the bathroom, then the

sound of plastic breaking.  Oh, well.  I could probably get more. 

Then she was out the door, and I let myself think.

     Go through with this?  That meant the dress, didn't it?  Or

was that rule suspended?  Hey, wait a minute!  This was an

invitation!  Ka-WHAM went my heart.  I jerked to my feet, paced

jerkily for a moment.  She probably hadn't thought about that

part.  But it *was* an invitation, and if I didn't trust her some

ways, still, I had an idea that when I pointed it out, she'd

agree with me.  I grabbed clothes.  Hmm.  Let her do what she

liked.  In fact, I could probably even appear in public dressed

like Little Bo-Peep, once, and claim that it was a joke, or a

bet, or something.  *This* time, there was a reward.  Yes, ma'am!

     She was coming in the front door when I came out of the

bedroom.  "What's in there?" she asked, pointing at the bag under

the table by the door.  I laughed, and she looked at me,


     "That's, umm, stuff ready to bring to your house," I

replied, smiling.  "Makeup, perfume, a nightie, stuff like that." 

 I grinned.  "I forgot about it," I confessed.

     "What brought on this remarkable change of mood?" she asked

me, picking up the bag to hand to me.  "Not that I object," she


     I considered waiting, but then decided ... she was fair-

minded.  "This counts as an invitation, doesn't it?"

     She stared at me, a little blankly.  "Is that all it takes

to make you happy, Lee?"  She shook her head, then laughed

herself.  "Yes, it's an invitation.  Do you have clothes for

tomorrow?  And are you bringing your car, or are you getting up

earlier than usual so I can drive you somewhere?"

     The glitter faded a bit when we got to her house.  For one

thing, she had a garbage bag in her trunk.  When I asked, she

grinned impishly, wrinkled her nose at me, and said that someone

had thrown all these nice clothes away, so she was going to go

through and see if anything was salvageable.  I started to object

that they were mine, but saw the trap early enough, and grumpily

lugged it to her door.  They were anybody's, once they were

thrown away, of course.  Then, as we approached the door, I began

to get cold feet.  I stopped just outside her door, looked at

her.  She looked sympathetic, but firm.  "Go easy!" I pleaded,

flushing.  Then I took a deep breath and stepped inside.  One

small step for a ... oh, never mind.

     "Don't put the dress on just yet, all right?  In fact, if

you want, you can leave without doing that part, if you're not

ready for it.  Put that bag on the balcony, would you?"  She

disappeared into the bedroom.  I took a steadying breath, moved

the bag.  Then wondered what to do.  Well, the bedroom, probably.

     There was some stuff on the bed.  My Calvin Kleins, a pair

of tights, and a slightly ragged black leotard that she sometimes

wore to work out in.  She was rummaging through books on the top

of her bookshelf, and looked very appealing, stretched out like

that.  I stood and admired the view until she noticed me.

     "Voyeur," she said fondly.  "Go ahead and put that on, all

right?  It's pretty vanilla, you know.  You could wear it to the

local health club and not get an eyebrow raised."  She glanced

back at me, giggled.  This was more like the woman I remembered. 

"I've got a leotard for you, and *much* sexier lingerie than

those awful things--why'd you buy them anyway?  I thought you

didn't like cotton.  Anyway, *that* outfit is about as sexy as a

dishrag, and that's important for what I want to show you."

     "Why can't I just wear my clothes, then?" I asked her,

moving to the bed and  beginning, obediently, to disrobe.  It was

a lot easier this time, I noted.  I snuck a glance at her chair,

and sure enough, the dress was there, but it didn't seem so

intimidating this time.  I thought I could at least put it on

without help.  Maybe not quickly, but myself.

     "Partly because I won't let you wear men's clothes in my

house.  The other reason you'll find out about soon enough."  She

got down a fat book, and a couple of tall, thin ones.  I couldn't

see what they were.  She caught me trying, and admonished, "No

peeking!  Come on, I'll be in the living room."

     I pulled on the clothes she'd laid out.  Her leotard was a

little small for me.  Worse, I'd gotten a little aroused putting

it on, and that was very visible.  I waited for the swelling to

go down, and the padded out into the living room.  She was

sitting on the couch, next to the table.  Looked up, with a

smile, as I came in, and patted the couch next to her.  I managed

to check out the book this time.  Mark Twain?  Why Mark Twain?

     She set it aside as I sat down.  "Okay," she said, digging

through the stack, then turning to look at me.  "Hmm.  Let's get

the fear out in the open first, shall we?"  She pulled out a

book.  Joy of Sex.  I rolled my eyes slightly.  How-To for

Hippies.  She turned it so I couldn't see it, and leafed through

it.  Then she stopped, and flopped it down on my knees.  "What do

you think?" she asked, brightly.  Woman goes down on man.

     I grimaced slightly.  That had been a sore point, early on

in the relationship.  "You know I don't like it, Nancy.  I'm

sorry, but I don't."

     She left it there, a smile hovering on her lips.  Finally,

"I know.  Now look at your lap."

     Look at my lap?  "It's still there, I reported."  She

grinned, took the book back.  Flipped some more.  Didn't find

what she wanted.  Pulled out another book.  Giggled when she

found it.

     "Here's another nice picture," she said.  Umm.  Rear entry,

wrong hole.  I looked, and shrugged.  "Your lap?"

     "What's with my lap?" I asked.  She grinned, took the book

back.  Dropped How-To for Hippies on my knees again.  My favorite

picture, as it happens: man kneeling, woman standing.  Stir,

throb, throb, throb.  "Umm, okay, I get it.  Was that all?"

     She leaned forward, kissed me.  "That's just the start,

darling."  Sat back.  "I'm glad the idea still turns you on.  Can

we agree that wearing that particular outfit, we have a fairly

obvious barometer to what you like and what you don't like?"

     "Wait a minute!" I protested.  "Sexy pictures turn me on. 

So if you hand me a lingerie catalog, you won't prove anything. 

That is, you won't prove that I like *wearing* it.  I told you,

it's stimulating, but that *doesn't* mean I like it."

     Her smile didn't fade.  "Get up, walk around, and come back

when you're flaccid again, all right?"

     So I did, and as soon as I sat down, she started reading to

me.  "Next morning I said it was getting slow and dull, and I

wanted to get a stirring up, some way."  Huckleberry Finn,

Chapters X and XI.  You can read it yourself.  It's where Huck

dresses up like a girl.  She was watching me as she read, and I

tried to hold off, but ... well, when she finished, she wrinkled

her nose, giggled excitedly, and said, "*Sexy* story, huh?"

     I glared.  "Now that I know what you're looking for, you

could probably read me *anything* and I'd react," I retorted,

angry and ashamed.

     "Bet you wouldn't," she said, and immediately dropped a book

on my lap.  Two men.  She started reading something out of

another magazine, which I guess some people would find pretty

hot--it went with the picture--and I cut her off.

     "That's sick!" I said.

     She looked at me a little oddly.  "No, it isn't.  But it

isn't *your* cup of tea, is it?"  She touched my hip.  I glanced

down, but I already knew.  Instant deflation.

     "So what have you proved?" I asked, belligerently.

     "Do you really think it's 'sick?'" she asked.  It was a

serious question, I discovered.

     I sighed.  "No.  It's just ... like you said.  Since I

always had this *compulsion,* I was always sorta afraid that that

was what it meant, I guess."

     She touched my cheek.  "Lee," she said, still very serious,

"if you don't know who you are, you'll always be afraid of what

you might be, if you dared look.  Once you know, you'll find it's

maybe not such a horrible thing as you thought.  That's what this

is about.  Know thyself."

     I gulped, nodded, looked away.  It made a disturbing amount

of sense.  "What if ... what if it *is* as bad as I think?" I

asked in a low voice.

     "Then you'll at least have a *reason* for suicide.  Don't

you think it's a bit cowardly to die rather than face the truth

about yourself?" she snapped.  That was her top sergeant voice.

     I actually sat and thought about that one.  And breathed a

huge sigh.  "Okay.  You're right."

     I won't bore you with the rest of that demonstration.  It

went on for a couple of hours.  She showed me pictures, read me

things.  Eventually, she went and got some stuff made of

different fabrics, and rubbed them against my skin.  Different

things to smell, too.  She did an uncomfortable bit with

compliments, pointing out my physical responses to being called

various pleasant masculine and feminine adjectives.  It was all a

little much to take in.  The important part of it was that I

*was* taking it in.  She wasn't particularly surprised by any of

my responses.  And she didn't press me on them, either, or at

least on most of them.  Once more, betrayed by what I wrote.  She

had a really good idea of what my tastes were before she started.

     The end of the conversation was a little embarrassing,

though.  "Now, Lee, I want you to repeat after me.  Sex. 

Cunnilingus.  Lingerie.  Breast.  Cock.  Vagina.  Panties."

     "P-p-pa  ...  P-panties," I forced out.

     "One 'p,'" she said gently, smiling.  "Panties."

     "P-p  ...  P-pa  ... Pa-panties!  Damn it!"  I was a

complete, brilliant red, and I had a throbbing, obvious erection.

     She went on.  More words.  After that, some of them seemed

downright silly.  I even laughed, at one point, repeating "Peter

Piper," and "She sell seashells."  She picked up her books, and

read some sentences.  Then, "I like to wear soft, lacy


     "I ....  I won't say that!"

     "I like to give blow-jobs to passing strangers.  Say it."

     "What is this?  I like to give blow-jobs to passing

strangers," I repeated, flushing.

     She waited, looking pointedly at my lap.  Nothing happened. 

"I like to wear soft, lacy undergarments.  Say it."

     "I like t'wear soft, lacy underthings," I repeated, harshly. 

"Are you satisfied now?"  She stared at my lap until I gave up. 

"All right.  So I like it.  So what?"

     She sighed.  "Good question.  You think about it.  Does it

hurt anybody?  It doesn't even hurt you.  Just remember that you

*like* it, and quit claiming you're *compelled* to do it."  I

nodded, angrily.  "Lee," she said, in a much softer voice, "I

think you've been through the mill today.  Why don't you go home? 

You have one visit to my house, by invitation, whenever you wish

to call it that."  I gave her a wounded look, and she kissed me. 

"Oh, Lee!"  She sat back, and looked at me.  "I think, if you

think about this for a day or so, you might even be ready to

trust me.  To trust *somebody*, at any rate, and I'll hope it's

me.  Friday?  Don't have dinner, though.  And come here at 8:30."

     I was feeling rather irritated when I left.  All that

buildup, and no pay off, except "think about it."  Oh, I could

have pressed her on it, but I really *was* tired, my emotions

were in turmoil, and she looked pretty bedraggled herself.

     I went to bed rather confused.  The problem was that I

wanted something nice, something sexy to sleep in, and didn't

have it.  So I couldn't feel guilty about it.  But I didn't feel

guilty even about *thinking* about it, not really.  I thought

maybe I ought to, and started feeling guilty that I wasn't

feeling properly guilty, until I realized what I was doing. 

Well, that didn't stop me from feeling guilty, but I was so

involved in being confused I didn't have much attention to spare

for it.  Nor did the confusion clear up the next day, when I got

up and started to dress, and wistfully wished I hadn't thrown all

my multiple-p panties.  Which got me to thinking about *why* I

stuttered so comprehensively on that word.  Why even *thinking*

it made me have to walk with my fists in my pockets.  I had a

very thoughtful evening.  The Committee had a wild and woolly

conference.  Once I started *thinking,* or maybe a better word is

*feeling,* a lot of what I thought I knew about myself started

getting shaken loose.

     When I was in college, I used to tell people that I told

about my cross-dressing that I only wore underthings, and only

silky ones.  Because of the *feel* of them.  It was, so to speak,

merely sex, merely a quirk ('And I can stop any time I really

want to').  Sex is neat, sex is fun, sex brings joy to everyone. 

Even then, however, I'd had to admit that it wasn't just that. 

Thing was, I didn't just wear them to jack off.  I'd only gotten

the guts to wear them under my clothes in public fairly recently. 

Why did I *want* to, though, if it was just sex?  I don't jerk

off in public!

     Well, the whole 'sissy' bit, maybe.  I mean, they made me

feel nice.  Feel, I dunno, pretty.  No, that's not it. 

*Attractive.*  That made it palatable.  I wanted to be

attractive, and that was what I was attracted to.  Yes.  That was

it.  I was sure of it.  I was *so* attracted to women, that I

wanted something of theirs with me all the time.  No, wait,

that's a different argument, leave that one alone.  Right.  Just

... attractive.  I wanna be attractive, and so I dress in a way

to attract me.  Does that make any sense?  Yes!  Sure it does! 

It *has* to be something like that!

     Just stop thinking about those chapters from Huck Finn,

then, the Codger advised me.

     I didn't have all of this worked out by Friday, though.  I

dunno, it's a lot harder to work through than to tell.  What

*did* happen on Friday is that I went shopping.  So that  when I

showed up at Nancy's door, and got my kiss of greeting, she

pulled back and exclaimed, "You're wearing perfume!  Where did

you get it?"

     I grinned, a little excited.  "I bought it.  I think it's

more, umm, my style, than the other."

     She inhaled again, then frowned.  "Maybe.  Maybe something a

little more flowery.  Delicate."  I drew back a little.  She

chuckled.  Oops.  "Maybe I'll find you something," she said,

whimsically.  "Do you need help getting dressed?"

     I shook my head, working up my courage.  "W-will you help me

with m-my m-makeup?"  Blushing again.  She nodded.

     It wasn't hard to slip into an outfit that had left me a

quivering heap of terror only days before.  It still leeched all

my courage, so that by the time I was dressed, looking mournfully

at my bare, male face in the mirror, I felt very small, and quite

silly.  "Sooner or later," the Pessimist whispered, "she's going

to get tired of a man that isn't much of one.  Enjoy it while it

lasts."  The Committee held a quick meeting, decided that the

Pessimist was right, and gave me orders to be a little better

prepared for the breakup, this time.  I agreed to watch for the


     So I was once again prim and proper when she put on my

makeup, though this time she demanded that I watch, and learn.  I

did so, with a rather heavy heart.  When she had finished, and

had put my hair up (and given me a kiss when she discovered that

I was wearing the butterflies; I'd put them on in the car), she

hugged me strongly, and said, "Umm, is it the dress that makes

you so adorably submissive?"  I blushed instead of answering.

     "Lee, go wait in the living room.  I need to change," she

said, stepping back.

     I glanced at her.  Literally starting where we had left off,

apparently.  Stood, and marched out.  Well, maybe not marched. 

It's hard to march in pink shoes with white satin bows.  It just

doesn't come off.  I stopped to marvel at myself in the

mirror--it was the same odd mixture, of girl-face and boy-body,

in girl-clothes--and then glanced guiltily at the bedroom door

and hurried to the living room.

     There wasn't anything there, to speak of.  I mean, just the

usual stuff.  So I flopped down, and remembered that one doesn't

flop in a dress, and sat properly.  And waited.  And waited.  She

was taking a hell of a long time, I realized anxiously.  I was

getting more and more tense.  I could *probably* pull this off. 

Was she taking so long so that it would be dark when we went out

to the car?  It occurred to me, then, that I wasn't really

obligated to go *anywhere* in a dress.  I mean, she had said,

'When you cross the threshold,' or something very similar.

     I had worked myself into a minor panic, and the Committee

had convened a meeting to discuss the legalities involved, based

on the rules she had given me, when she finally appeared in the

living room.  She was completely stunning.  She's a sort of dirty

blonde, who usually dresses down, and doesn't attract much


     She'd attract a *lot* of notice in a tight red dress.  It

*screamed* notice.  Black fishnet stockings.  Black high heels. 

She didn't usually wear much makeup, but she had on lipstick and

nail polish that exactly matched the shade of her dress.  And

somehow, in piling her hair up on top of her head, she'd made it

look much blonder, more golden.  She *oozed* sex appeal.

     "Wow!" I said.  I couldn't manage anything else.  She hadn't

dressed like that even the time I took her to the fanciest

restaurant in town.  Well, it might not have been appropriate.

     "Do you like it?" she asked, and twirled.  "It'll certainly

draw attention, won't it?"  Whoof!  I felt as if I'd been

sandbagged.  I didn't *want* attention.  I nodded.  "Are you

ready, then?" she asked.  I swallowed heavily.  Nodded again,

tensely.  "Stand up and let me look at you."  I stood.  She

motioned, and I did a pirouette.  Turned back to face her, and

forgot about keeping a stiff upper lip.  I gave her an agonized

look.  "Good.  I think we're ready then.  What do you like on

your pizza?"

     "On my ...."  I stared.

     "Mushrooms and ham, right?  Why don't you call?"

     I felt a bit light-headed.  Took a step toward the phone.  I

kept my eyes on her the whole time.  Dialled.  Ordered, rather

confusedly.  Hung up the phone.  She had kept her eyes on me, a

tiny smile playing on her lips.  When I hung up the phone, I

finally broke eye contact, and stared at it.

     She burst out laughing, and then she was hugging me, "Oh,

good, good, good girl!  Oops!  Good boy, I mean.  Sissy. 

Whatever!"  She pulled back, and I stared, as she chuckled and

wiped tears from her eyes.  "You *did* it!"

     "Was ...."  This was simply not possible.  "Is that what you

meant to do on Tuesday?  Order a *pizza?*  You *said* 'go out!'"

     She laughed again, and stroked my cheek.  "Tuesday I was

going to run down to the deli and bring back sandwiches.  But

*Tuesday,* you went into a panic.  Now.  Am I going to do

anything to hurt you?"  She turned her wrist out, to show the

cigarette burn.  I blanched.

     "W-why are you dressed like *that* for pizza?"

     Chuckle.  "I'm going to go change again.  I bought this

dress for a special occasion, and this isn't it.  I'm sorry to

tease you, love, but Tuesday you worked yourself into a panic

very quickly.  You were upset, of course, but so was I.  That

didn't make me want to humilate you in public, though."  She gave

me a rather hurt glance, "*Or* to call you names.  So I needed to

get you tense, and this seemed like the best way to do it. 

That's why I sent you home Wednesday, too.  You were too tired to

be anxious."

     "W-*why?"*  I was a bit shrill, I suppose.  "I mean ... why

did you have to, to get me anxious?  And, and upset, and

*scared?*  Are you going to tell me I liked *this,* too?"

     "No," she replied, so quietly and soberly that I paid

careful attention.  "Because if I had asked you to, you would

have walked out the door with me, trusting me to keep you safe. 

Wouldn't you?"  I looked toward the hall, looked back at her, and

my eyes filled with tears.  I nodded.  "Trust," she finished,

simply.  Then shook herself.  "Relax.  I've got to change again."

     I sat back on the couch.  Well, I suppose it was important. 

I thought about it.  She came back, a bit later, dressed in a

style more typically her: indian print skirt and soft blouse. 

She distracted me quite nicely by having me take her hair down,

put it up again, and take it down.  I was unpinning it the second

time when the doorbell rang.  "Do you want to get that, or should

I?" she asked, mirthfully, and at my stricken look, chuckled and

kissed me on the cheek.

     We went to the kitchen, and she got out a pair of plates and

forks.  I sighed.  I like to *munch* pizza.  She always ate hers

that way, neatly.  I looked down at my dress, then, and grinned

wryly.  But after a couple of pieces, I discovered that I wasn't

hungry any more.

     "Don't you want any more?" she asked, noticing.  I usually

ate my half and part of hers.  Two and a half pieces was

definitely off my feed.

     I shook my head, shrugged.  "Not hungry.  Too much ... too

much has happened, maybe."

     "Well, clean your plate, at least."  I gave her a disgusted

and slightly resentful look, an 'I'm not a baby,' look.  "Momma

spank," she warned, teasingly.

     "Is that a promise?" I muttered, too soft for her to hear,

and cut off another piece.  Pizza's a rather unpleasant food,

when you don't feel like eating.  When I looked up a moment

later, with a sour look, my jaws froze in mid bite.  Her eyes

were gleaming, speculatively.  Maybe *not* too soft for her to


     She let me finish before she said anything, though.  "You

*can't* ever have been spanked in a dress, Lee.  Why is that in

so many of the stories?"

     "I, uhh ..."  I shifted uncomfortably, and then froze. 

After that two-hour long discussion, she'd know what that

discomfort was, quite exactly.  And she had read me some bondage

stuff, and some genuinely hardcore stuff, as well.  I stared at

her, feeling a bit like a mouse with the cat in sight.  Look, I

have a *lot* of fantasies, but that doesn't mean I necessarily

want to find out about them in real life!  Do I?  Don't use that

argument, Leeling, the Professor advised.  "It's just a plot

device," I lied glibly.  I should say, the Champion Liar did.  He

didn't get involved in Committee work, much, and tended to take

over my mouth when I least expected it.  "Since the guy is always

against it, he has to be made to, uhh ....  You don't believe


     "Well, you're lying aren't you?" she asked, perfectly


     "Umm, yeah, I guess."

     She chuckled.  "Well, if you hadn't earned a spanking for

burning the dinner, you certainly earned one for lying, didn't

you?"  She stood, and held out a hand.  I let her pull me to my

feet, and trailed her to the bedroom.  "Bend over, and lift your

skirt."  Was that another quote?

     I hesitated.  "You're not really going to, are you?" I

asked.  "I mean, you were talking about, uhh, trust, and all."

     She looked at me, still with that gleam in her eye.  "You'll

never find out if you like it or not if you don't try it, Lee. 

Now.  You've been very naughty.  Let's see."  She began to tick

off on her fingers.  "Burning dinner.  Hurting yourself. 

Throwing away perfectly good clothes.  Talking back.  And now

disobedience.  You better get yourself bent over my knee in a

hurry, or you may *really* not like it."  I blushed, and fumbled

with the skirt, and awkwardly obeyed.  On my knees, over her lap,

with my head turned away from the mirror and carefully not quite

in contact with her leg.  No reason to let her know I was aroused


     Oops.  Damn, I kept forgetting.  She *read* those stories. 

She wiggled, and then she had my legs trapped between hers, and

my erection was pressing hard into one thigh.  Through a layer of

nylon, another of satin, and another of cotton, true, but

nevertheless, quite obvious.  "Turn your head to face the

dresser, Lee," she ordered me.  "I want you to see it coming."

     I turned my head and flinched convulsively.  My eyes had

gotten enormous, increasing the illusion of prettiness; my legs

and my lack of, err, mammalian hypertrophy were quite nicely

concealed by my position.  The back of my skirt was up around my

waist, revealing pink ruffled p-p-p  you-knows, and I looked, and

felt, helpless.  And girlish?  Was that the timid little voice

telling me, "You have to be brave?"

     "What pretty panties, Lee!  Such a pity no one can see

them."  She patted my bottom, and I writhed.  Raised her hand. 

Heh.  Hardly more than a pat.  My bottom tingled, though.  She

*stroked* me, and I couldn't help it, I wiggled again.  Spank.  A

little harder.  That one really did tingle slightly.  Stroke. 

Whimper.  No, she didn't whimper, someone else did.  Me?  Don't

be ridi   Spank!  Ooh!  It didn't *hurt,* you understand, but ...

Stroke.  Whimper.  Okay, I admit it, it was ... Spank!  Moan.  I

bit my lips.  Stroke.  Did you know you can make some awfully

interesting noises while biting your lips?

     *Spank!*  Stroke.  My face was turning rosy pink, to match

the dress, I noticed a few minutes later.  I was gasping, between

making inarticulate noises, and bucking against her knee at each

stroke.  I'd lost count.  SPANK! moan, *stroke,* whimper, SPANK!

moan, *stroke,* whimper!  The watching was nearly as arousing as

the spanking.

     "Y-you've been very naughty, h-haven't you, Lee?"  SPANK! 

Moan.  Stroke.  "Haven't you?"


     "Y-you l-lied to me, didn't you?"  Was her voice trembling,


     I nodded frantically.  This *was* a punishment; you have to

understand that.  I didn't hurt, but I was in *torment,* I needed

*release,* and she was slowly SPANK!  "Yes!  Yes!  I lied!  Don't

*do* that!  Don't ... nngghh!"  That was the stroke, over my now

achingly sensitive bottom, and I nearly went into convulsions of

pleasure.  I turned to face her.  "G-gods!  D-don't *stop!"*

     She bit her lip, and pushed me to my feet.  "G-go to the

living room, Lee, and *wait* for me."

     I stared.  "B-b-but ..." I began.

     "Is it sore?" she asked, slipping a hand under my skirt and

smiling smokily.  She caught her breath.  "G-go."

     I went, confused.  Stopped at the mirror in the hall, and

was so aroused from the spanking that I couldn't even find the

strength to condemn myself.

     "L-lee!  Come here!"

     Like a shot!  I clattered back into the bedroom, heels loud

on the floor, and stopped as if shot.  She was standing a couple

feet from the foot of the bed, between it and the door--right in

front of me!--wearing nothing but a black g-string, a garter belt

and fishnet stockings, high heels--and a confident smile.  She

stood, posed like that, just long enough for the image to etch

itself indelibly in my brain, and then she was kissing me. 

Pushing me onto the bed, and I writhed at the pressure against my

sensitized ass.  Taking the lead, pinning my arms, pushing my

skirt out of the way, and then nylon-over-cock brushed nylon-

over-bush.  Once.  Twice.  Three times and ... explosion!  Her

mouth fastened to mine, her body trembling as the shock waves

went through it, and me moaning into her throat and bucking like

a bronco.

     Passing into the golden afterglow.  We lay there, entangled

in ... well, in my dress, okay?  The guilt woke up, at that, and

pounced, and I groaned with the shame of what I had just done.

     She sat up, still straddling me, and keeping my hands

captured in hers.  "Little sissy," she said, deliberately, and

waited until I turned my eyes back to face her again.  "Little

sissy," she repeated, reprovingly, "I didn't give you permission

to come.  And you've made a mess of your dress.  You need a


     Impossible!  I flushed, opened my mouth to plead with her,

and stopped.  She'd moved, and drawn my attention to something. 

I looked down at where our laps were separated by two layers of

nylon and about a centimeter of air, refusing to believe it.

     Throb.  Could I deserve a spanking for wanting one?  My eyes

flashed back to hers.  She was waiting for that, and lowered

herself, slowly, to kiss me voluptuously.  "Are you going to

waste time denying it?" she whispered then.  "Or hating yourself

for it?  Or shall we ... investigate the possibilities?"

     I shuddered, half in pleasure, half in fear at the vistas

that were opening.  Swallowed, and whispered back, "I'm a


     It still wasn't easy to wake up in a frillier negligee than

my girlfriend, the next morning.  But when she asked, "Are you

going to stay the weekend?" it wasn't at all difficult to decide.


                          Part 4: Tables Turning

     That winter remains in my memory as cold, miserable, and

gray, although it was probably little different, physically, from

any other winter.  But as spring bloomed into freshness and

beauty, so--at least in the emotional sense--did I.  There was

always a lurking fear, though.  "Sooner or later," the Pessimist

would whisper, and the joy would go out of whatever it was we

were doing.  We ended up doing a *lot* together.

     Nancy set the tone, a light-hearted one.  Take the weekend

after what we started to refer to as "The" pizza.  She'd told me

that I was going to learn to cook properly, so I arrived on a

Friday evening, a bit trepidatious.  There was a sign up over the

kitchen door.  "Kitchen Anthrax."

     "Thanks," I said, sourly, smoothing my skirt nervously, and

nodding at the sign.  It wasn't the famous pink dress; I didn't

see that again for quite a while.  "I'm not *that* dangerous."

     She gave me an odd look, then burst out laughing.  Refused

to explain why.  Once she had me slaving over a hot stove, she

said she had to run an errand, and left.  I didn't destroy

dinner, mostly by luck, and after we finished eating, she drew me

into the living room.  Put a tape in the VCR.

     Monty Python and the Holy Grail?  Well, okay.  I *still*

didn't get the joke, even when Sir Galahad was in Castle Anthrax. 

Nancy waited until the line, "First the spanking, then the oral

sex!" and froze the movie, then turned to me.

     "First the pizza, then the spanking," she said.

     I caught my breath, crossed my legs--and blushed when she

made a point of noticing me cross my legs.

     Or she played these nervous-making tricks on me, always in

such a way that I couldn't resent it.  For instance, she started

dropping by my office occasionally, when she knew I had office

hours, and she was out of her office for whatever reason.  She

was a translator, did I mention that?  Well, it just meant that

she often had to go places to pick up or drop off translations,

or find obscure dictionaries, and sometimes even do simultaneous

interpreting.  Well, one afternoon, in March I think--at any

rate, after she had convinced me to shave my legs, but that's

another story--she showed up in my office, with some packages.

     "Hi, sweetie!" she greeted me.  "I've been out spending your

money."  That's another story, too, but suffice it to say that

she had spent money on my wardrobe, I had started to spend more

and more time at her house, and so on, so she had charge of a big

chunk of my finances.  Well, all right, all of them.  I had an

allowance, though.  "Stand up, and try this on.  Does your door

lock?"  It did.  She locked it.

     "Nancy!  Come on, I have office hours?  What if somebody

comes?"  But I was standing up.  *Really* nice skirt.  Slim, in a

sort of pale rose.  She said I looked nice in pink, and I think

she was trying to make sure that I was aware when I was wearing

feminine stuff.  Oh, hell, that's not really the point.  I *like*


     "Oh, I wouldn't do that to you," she said, disconcerting me

further.  "Go on, try it.  I want to see if it fits.

     So, breathing fast, I kicked off my shoes, stepped out of my

pants and into a skirt.  In my *office.*  I was already wearing

panties, a garter belt, and white lace stockings.  Well, trust

Nancy to be prepared.  She had a new pair of shoes, too.  White

heels, a bit taller than what I was used to.  So I put them on.

     "What do you think?" she asked, brightly.

     I stepped back and forth, to make the skirt swirl, and to

listen to the sounds of the heels.  "It's nice," I finally

managed.  It was a good fit, too.

     "Nice?" she asked, pouting.  "It's *perfect.*  You look

adorable!  Turn around, I want to look at your bottom some more." 

I turned, and wiggled at her.  Lightening the situation, you

understand.  "It goes better with your jacket than these pants

do," she said.  Then, "Here, try this one, too."

     A gray skirt, slightly shorter, with pleats.  Sort of

purplish, under the gray.  My jacket was an expensive camels'

hair thing, that I'd bought when I got my appointment.  This

time, when I pulled the skirt on, she frowned.  "It is sort of

hideous with this jacket, isn't it?" I commented.  Strange to see

two grays clash.  They did, though.  My taste was improving.

     "That's *awful,"* she said.  "And it isn't even the right

size."  She frowned, but the grin kept slipping through.  I

recognized it.  She was about to spring something on me.  "And it

was on sale, too.  I'll have to exchange it today.  Do you want

to come with me?"

     "You set this up!" I accused her.  "And no, I don't.  You'll

ask me if I want to try it on, like last time."  We'd gone

shopping once, and ended up having a terrible fight, because she

insisted on holding things up to measure against me, and then had

even asked me if I wanted to try one on!  Loud enough for the

cashier to hear, I was sure.  I'd been so angry that I'd caught a

bus home.  Fortunately, according to the rules she had set up,

she agreed that I didn't have to go trying dresses on in stores

in order to see her again.  It took some fast talking, though. 

That was at the beginning of March.

     "All right, then," she said, with a big smile.  "But I'll

need either your jacket or your pants to match colors with."

     I stamped my foot in anger.  Looked down in confusion.  I

hadn't quite expected to make a womanish sound.  In fact, I'd

picked up that habit, of stamping my feet, putting my hands on my

hips, and glaring, at Nancy's house.  She chuckled.  "You *know*

I can't give you my jacket," I complained.  She nodded, her eyes


     I suppose I should explain that.  On what would have been

our first anniversary, if we hadn't broken up--Valentine's Day,

that is--we'd given each other remarkably similar presents. 

Well, she knew me pretty well, so she probably knew what I was

going to give her.  Flowers, candy, and sexy lingerie.  In this

case, a bra-panties-garterbelt set (in red and black, to match

the dress she'd worn for The pizza, which I desperately wanted to

see her in again).  Maybe it was telepathy, since I could equally

well have bought her a negligeee, or something, but she gave me a

matching set--same cut and everything, from the same store, only

mine were pink and white.

     So we'd smelled the flowers, and then we made a romantic

little arrangement with them both in the same vase, intertwined

with one another, and stolen candy, giggling, from one another. 

Modelling our lingerie.  Then, however, she wanted to take me to

dinner, and she wanted us both to wear our presents.  It made me

horribly nervous.  I was wearing a white shirt with my jacket.  I

usually did.  The pink was visible.  I'd worked up my nerve to

ask, "Please, Nancy, I'm afraid to go out in a bra.  Look.  You

can *see* it!"

     "You're right," she said, looking carefully, and surprising

me.  I was greatly relieved.  I pulled off jacket and shirt, and

was struggling with the bra, when she came back from her bedroom

with a dark blue silk blouse.  "Nobody'll see the sleeves, if you

keep your jacket on."

     Well, I gave in.  But I didn't have much fun during dinner. 

I was sure that the lines of the bra showed through the jacket. 

She'd noticed, of course, and a couple of days later, she gave me

a handful of bras.  Which, she said, I should wear whenever I was

wearing panties.

     I refused.  For one thing, she'd traded me about half of my

old collection of panties back, in exchange for my boy underwear,

which she'd destroyed.  I only *had* a couple pairs of boy

underwear left, and I didn't *dare* wear them to her house.  They

were too likely to disappear, and at that point I thought that

there would be times when I *had* to have them.  In fact, that

was the first time, after the time I burned dinner, that I took

the boy-clothes option and went home.

     It was also the only victory I won.  I went back two days

later, armed with pictures and some new purchases.  I didn't

start arguing as soon as I walked in the door, and in fact I

changed into the bra that she had laid out for me, before I sat

down to show her some things.  I felt a bit silly, which was what

I'm sure she intended by laying out a sheer white blouse to go

with the pink bra.  I was also a little warmed, though, that she

had laid out my Valentine's underthings.

     The pictures I showed her were of business and professional

women, wearing jackets, but in every picture, the bra straps and

ridges were visible.  That set her to frowning slightly.  And

then I offered a compromise.  I laid out the three blouses I'd

bought.  She'd given me the idea herself.  I'd found blouses that

mimicked men's dress shirts from collar to waist.  One of them

was a bodysuit.  All of them, though, were obviously feminine,

but in a manner that was *covered* when I put on my jacket.  I

suggested that I could get more of them, and replace my dress

shirts with them.  She had agreed, although she had made the

further condition that I wear a bra at her house.  Which turned

out to be okay ... oh, we're being honest here, aren't we.  Well,

it happened to be another thing that turned me on.  I don't have

very sensitive nipples, but the brush of nylon over them for a

few hours could actually make them reasonably responsive.  And I

like the straps.

     Well, but I was hoist by my own petard.  The day that Nancy

brought me the skirts, I was wearing a back-buttoned blouse with

a false front placket and puff sleeves.  It had a belt, too, but

the belt gave the game away, so I didn't wear it.  "Nancy," I

said, with exaggerated patience, "if I take off my jacket, I look

like I'm wearing a blouse.  Right?"  I slipped it down my

shoulders, to make the sleeves visible.  I wasn't about to *give*

it to her.  I was trying to figure out how to make her give me

the pants back.  "And I can hardly meet students wearing a

skirt!"  I grabbed a couple handfuls of skirt and flipped it at

her.  "That is, unless you've decided to make a fool of me and

dump me," I blurted, then bit my lip.  I was pretty sure that

that was what she would eventually do, but there was no point in

giving her ideas, and she didn't like it when I said things like


     This time, though, she ignored that outburst.  She looked

around my office.  My desk was in the exact center of the room,

facing the door, with a couch and a chair for students facing it,

beside the door.  She walked up to the desk, leaned down, and

banged on the front of it.  "Do you know what this is?  It's

called a modesty panel.  So nobody can look up a secretary's

skirt."  She smiled winsomely.  "Or a professor's.  All you have

to do is sit behind your desk, and nobody will know, will they?"

     I walked around the desk ... tap, tap, tap, went the heels,

and you walk different in heels, and it made me uncomfortable to

be doing it somewhere outside Nancy's house ... and looked. 

"They'll see my shoes," I argued.  "And my ankles," I added,

hastily, since shoes just meant she'd give me back mine.  Lace

stockings don't much resemble socks, though.

     She smiled.  My heart fell.  She'd been in my office before. 

She walked around to my chair and sat down, feet under the desk. 

"Sit down and tell me what you see," she said.

     I sat.  Stewed.  "Nothing," I grumbled.  There was a

footrest attached to the inside of the modesty panel.

     She gave me one of those heartbreakingly sweet smiles.  "Oh,

Lee, don't look so tragic!  You need a couple of nice office

skirts.  I know you; you're going to be making a lump in your

skirt the whole time, especially if some cute little

undergraduate comes in to sob her heart out over your cruelty. 

No one will know but you, and you'll get a secret thrill from

sitting there, so professional on the surface, and so feminine

underneath!  Well?  Won't you?"

     I gulped.  It still made me nervous to admit this sort of

stuff to someone else.  Hell, I hadn't been able to admit it to

myself all that well, until recently.  I settled on a nod.

     "Then change skirts again, dear, so I can go exchange that

one.  And relax.  You told me nobody ever comes in on office

hours."   She took the tags out of the pink skirt for me.  I was

trembling when I sat down, and anxiously asked her to make sure

that nothing was visible, once I put my feet up.  Leaving, her

hand on the doorknob, she said, "Don't worry, Lee.  I'll be back

in a couple hours, and bring you some pants."  I missed that

phrasing.  She opened the door.  Trust my luck.  One of my more

attractive, and fluff-headed, students.  "Oh, sorry," Nancy said,

"we were just discussing what to do for dinner."  She looked at

me mischievously.  "Pizza then ... first?"

     I got my breath back a few minutes later and invited the

student, who looked a little puzzled, to sit down.  Nancy was

right, though.  I suppose I acted a bit distracted.  Every once

in a while, I'd shift, and feel the draft, and glance down; at

other moments I caught myself about to put my feet on the floor. 

I resolved to build a little wooden screen to go around the front

and sides of my desk.  The rest of the afternoon was uneventful.

     At five, Nancy called, laughing, to say she'd been delayed,

maybe an hour or so.  At six-fifteen, she called again to say she

was on her way, as soon as she finished up one last thing.  By

seven-thirty, when she finally arrived, I was in agony.  Not

emotional, this time.  But I seriously needed to go to the

bathroom.  I blew out an enormous sigh of relief when she showed

up, and then doubled over slightly.

     "Sorry I'm late," she said, cheerfully, then paused, looking

at me.  "Is something wrong?"

     "I hafta go t'the bathroom," I gritted.

     She burst out laughing.  I had to strangle my temper. 

"Well, come on, then," she said.  "You can change in the


     "Ngh!"  That was to emphasize the orders to the nerves that

controlled sphincters.  "Nancy, don't.  Please, just don't.  If

one of the other faculty, or even some student happened to be

there, I'd be out of a job.  So please just give me my pants,


     She hesitated, frowning.  Then smiled.  "I'll keep guard for

you.  There's nobody in any of the offices on this hall, though,

I already checked."  She opened the door.  I hadn't managed to

pick one from the withering comments I'd thought of, when she

turned back to say, "Hall's clear.  I'll wait for you outside the

ladies' room."

     "I ... Nancy!"  I got to my feet, carefully, since I was

sloshing like an overloaded tanker.  The ladies' room?  Forget

it!  I stuck my head cautiously around the door, saw her at the

corner, and whispered fiercely, "Nancy!"  I *couldn't* shout.  I

heard her footsteps fading down the hall.

     "Damn, damn, damn, damn," I whispered, like a litany, as I

tried to tiptoe down the hall.  The heels seemed unnaturally

loud.  I slipped them off, and then it was a bit easier.

     She was there, outside the door, though.  I tried to glare

at her, but it might have just been a wounded look.  Slipped

inside, white-faced and shaking.  At least I'd learned how to pee

in a skirt--sitting, that is.  A pair of pants appeared over the

door of the stall.

     Women's pants, I discovered.  High-waisted, narrow-ankled,

and pleated, with the zipper in the back.  I finished, opened the

stall door, and found her by the sinks.  "Not funny, Nancy.  Can

I have my real pants, now?"

     "The sun is already going down, Lee," she said. 

"Everybody's gone somewhere off campus to eat dinner.  Nobody is

going to walk up to you, lift the skirts of your jacket, and look

at your pants."  She smiled.  "Or you could wear the skirt, if

you want.  You really *do* look adorable in it.  Where are your


     I exploded, at that.  "Damn it, I am *not* wearing heels

across campus!  You *took* my shoes.  Give me my damn shoes,

*and* my pants!"

     She lost her smile.  "I didn't take ... did I?"  I was too

angry to respond.  "Lee, if I took your shoes, they must be down

in the car.  I'm sorry about that.  I forgot.  If you're not

going to wear the heels, though, you should take off your

stockings, too.  You've already half-ruined them walking around

on these filthy floors."  Now I glared, and ground my teeth in

anger and frustration.  She returned a level gaze, and finally

spoke again.  "Lee, the campus is quiet now, but if you stay here

forever, sooner or later someone is going to come.  If you insist

on it, I'll go down to the car and get your pants, and your shoes

if they're there.  But I know you've wanted to do something a

little risky, and now's your chance.  Think of it as an

adventure, and trust me to keep you safe walking to the parking

lot.  Which is not 'across campus.'  If you want, I can give you

my bra, and we can find tissue to stuff it, and I'll fix your

hair, and you can try the whole thing.  But I think you'd be more

comfortable just getting your feet wet.  Well?"

     I released the anger in another enormous breath.  Thought

about it.  "How do you talk me into these things?" I asked, a bit

sullenly.  "Not a skirt, though."

     She waited until I was zipping the pants, and answered,

"Easy.  I let you do the talking."

     As a matter of fact, I got off on it like a rocket.  With

Nancy's hand around my waist, it wasn't as fearful as I had

expected, and I got a weird exultation out of sauntering, in high

heels and everything else, our hips bumping together as we

walked.  And conquered another fear.

     And we had pizza, too.  First the pizza, then the spanking,

then the outstanding, mind-numbing sex.  When we finally

collapsed together, into a perfumed, sweaty, satiated heap, she

mumured, "If that's what you're like after wearing heels in

public, I can't *wait* until I take you somewhere in a dress." 

Instead of reacting with fear and shame, I found the idea

intriguing.  It was a memorable day.

     There was only one blot on it.  As we were walking toward

the parking lot, high heels tapping in unison, there'd been a

football player, or an athlete of some sort, at any rate, off in

the distance.  Nancy nudged me with her hip, nodded his

direction, and commented, "Look at *that!*  What a monster!"  But

in an admiring tone of voice.  The Pessimist gave an "Aha!" and I

was a little quiet on the way home, until we stopped at the

carry-out pizza place.

     Shortly after that, we went shopping again.  A week, or two

weeks later, perhaps.  At Nancy's, there were some new rules;

she'd had me learn how to pseudo-gaff, or tuck, with a tight pair

of panties, and I did that for an hour each day, at first.  There

were walking, and makeup lessons, and bras started being less

interesting, because now sometimes I wore little water balloons

in them.  That started shortly after Heels Day, and I'd been

doing it for at least a week before she showed up in my office,

right after my Tuesday morning 8:00.  It was 9:30 or so.

     "You don't have office hours until one, do you?" she asked,

coming to sit on the edge of my desk.

     "No, why?"

     She got up, locked the door, and came back.  "Because you're

almost ready for an outing."  I paled.  I'd been thinking about

it, but it seemed like a truly enormous step.  "For that, I want

you to have a dress that's perfect--everything new, in fact. 

What I'd really like is to get you a corset.  But that means you

try things on.  *Everything."*

     "Nancy!" I objected.  "You *know* I can't do that!  What if

somebody from school saw me?  I think all the cashiers are


     "No they aren't," she assured me.  "It's really perfectly

safe.  There's a store that sells exotic lingerie in the mall at

the north end of town.  Hardly anybody from the University ever

goes that far.  We can get you a corset there.  We'll do the rest

of the shopping there as well.  Tuesday mornings are a really

quiet time for shoppers.  You'll see."

     "Oh, come on!  You can't be serious!"

     "Lee, you know I'm being serious, and you know that sooner

or later you'll give in.  Don't you?"  I blushed furiously, and

looked away.  "The only question is whether you want to try to

pass for femme while we're shopping, or whether you'd rather wear

what you've got on now."

     Which explains why, ten minutes later, I was in the back

seat of Nancy's car, pulling on the pink skirt.  She'd brought

earrings, my makeup, one of my bras, and the water balloons, too. 

The skirt and heels came from my office; I folded pants and

jacket and laid them aside.  Blouse, panties, and hose I wore

every day.

     When we got there, she fixed my makeup slightly, and let me

hold her hand, crushingly, sweatingly, as we walked inside.  I

suspect I looked terrified.

     First stop: the lingerie shop.  Corsets, to fit right, have

to be actually fitted.  So I expected to be discovered there. 

Nancy told the saleslady that I'd lost a bet to her, and then

wandered off while I was being fitted in a back room.  When I

came out, wearing what I'd worn in, though, she frowned, told the

saleslady I wanted to wear the corset home, and then, perfectly

openly, handed me a pair of panties she'd just bought, with a

matching tap pant and camisole.  "Tuck, while you're at it," she

told me.  And before I could even turn away from the amused grin

on the cashier's face, she handed me a pair of thigh high

stockings as well.

     It took me a while to come back out.  The panties were high-

cut, a size too small (that was deliberate) and palest pastel

pink, with scalloping and lace.  I thought about Serbian

atrocities, tucked, and started to pull them on.  Then I had to

stop again.  I think more Muslims got killed in my imagination,

trying to kill a simple reflex, than have died to date in Bosnia. 

It was hard, which made things difficult.  So to speak.

     My skirt no longer fit quite properly, either, I discovered. 

It was loose in the waist.  And I was more trembly than ever.  We

went to find a dress, next.  That was embarrassing.  The

saleslady, an older, matronly woman, approached as I was trying

to act ladylike and experienced, and asked, "Well, what can I do

for you ... ladies?"  With just the slightest pause.  "Is there

something I can show you?"

     Nancy giggled, and gushed, "Oh, you figured us out!  My

boyfriend lost a bet, so he has to be the wife for a week, and I

told him that means he has to look pretty."  I was gaping.  Nancy

*never* gushed, or acted quite this silly.  "Anyway," she

prattled, brushing down the back of my skirt, "I don't want to

keep loaning him my clothes for a whole *week,* and anyway, they

don't fit!  See?"  She tugged at my skirt, and I yelped and

grabbed.  Another giggle.  "I just think it's too bad it's only a

week, though," she finished, turning a wide-eyed stare on the

saleslady.  "He makes an awfully pretty girl, don't you think?"

     She gave me a sympathetic look.  I finally reacted.  I

blushed and looked away.  "Girl," the saleslady said, a bit

severely, "you're going to lose him if you keep embarrassing him

like this.  Your bet didn't include anything outside the house,

now did it?  And you've dragged him down here to try on dresses,

just because you're too selfish to let him borrow yours."

     "But I'm buying them!" Nancy protested, in a good simulation

of defensive hurt.  She winked at me with the eye that was turned

away from the saleslady.  "Besides, he *did* promise to look

pretty, and he has to take me to dinner one night."  She pouted,

and added, "If *I'd* lost, he'd be making me wear skirts up to

*here!"*  And she put a hand a couple inches above her groin.

     The saleslady frowned at me.  "Well, then.  I suppose he

wanted you to go to dinner with him, dressed like a tramp?" 

Again the wide-eyed nod, and now the saleslady chuckled.  "All

right, then, scamp, you're getting what you deserve, aren't you?" 

I picked up the cue, and smiled wanly.

     "Not *that* high," I protested, in a very low voice.  "Just

a miniskirt.  Black leather, you know?  She'd look really good."

     The saleslady knew how to chuckle, too, though it was deeper

than Nancy's sexy throatiness.  "Well, you find something to make

him pretty, and I'll make sure no one comes in the dressing room. 

This is a good morning for shopping, as a matter of fact."

     "Why did you do that?" I whispered fiercely, a few moments

later in the dressing room.

     She chuckled, glanced toward the curtain, then pulled me

close and kissed me slow.  When she released me, I was barely

able to concentrate on her words over the roaring in my ears. 

"Because now, she'll let you try on as many different dresses as

I want.  And the next time you want to buy one, you just show up

and look for her.  Maybe next time you can get that black leather

miniskirt.  Or she'll pick out things in good taste, and cover

for you."  She giggled excitedly.  "Besides, this way she'll let

you wear one out of the store.  They don't, usually."

     I tried on over a dozen dresses.  With the saleslady looking

on benignly.  Nancy bought three.  Including a full-skirted,

full-sleeved, brilliant violet one, as shiny as her red dress,

though cut very differently.  A second, more demure jade green,

featured a fitted bodice and flaring skirt, fitting over the

corset like a glove.  That was the one I got to wear 'home.'  The

third was the one I wanted to wear; it was simple, sleeveless,

soft rose, with a kick-panelled straight skirt and a black belt.

     I got read at the next place we went, too.  Makeup.  A new

kit.  And instructions on applying it.  And nail polish.

     "Now comes the fun part," Nancy whispered.  But it wasn't. 

She bought me a new purse.  The 'fun part' actually came after

that.  We went to another department store.  We stopped in the

mall to unpack the purse, first, though, and I was carrying it

when we entered the other major chain store.

     I was also pretending not to understand English.  Nancy

would give me low voiced instructions as we approached each new

section, and then explain to the salesladies that I was just

arrived from Germany, didn't speak a word of English, and had

lost my luggage.  I acted a bit bubble headed, spoke in my

deepest voice, and only in German.  It was a riot.  Nancy had me

try on half a dozen *bathing* suits, as well as leotards, some

skin-tight pants, shoes, and nearly everything else.  I got to

try on lingerie, even--though I didn't quite dare to walk back

out and model it.  But we bought a bunch more stuff than I had

ever dreamed of, sending me into a kind of shocky bliss.

     And then we had *lunch!*  As we sat down at the table, I

leaned across to whisper, "I thought we were just *preparing*

things today!"

     Nancy chuckled wickedly.  And started playing footsie under

the table.  I was in a bit of distress by the time we left the

mall.  I climbed into the back seat without prompting, and

managed to release my cock, which was trying to erect while being

strained backwards.  Blessed relief!  We were on the highway, and

Nancy looked in the mirror and chuckled again.

     "That probably qualifies as cruel and unusual punishment,

you know," I told her, a little irritated.  "And I hope you're

planning on stopping somewhere, because I can't get this corset

off by myself."  As a matter of fact, I couldn't get the dress

off, either, I discovered.  She didn't answer, but a few minutes

later, we went off an exit ramp, down a block, and turned into a

parking garage.  I had a bit of a shock; it was right next to

where she worked.  I'd been there once.

     She turned to look at me, and her eyes were burning like

coals.  "Do you want to fuck here, or in my office, sweetie?"

     "Nancy!"  I guess I'm easily shocked.  "I have to get back

to school!"

     "Well, I'll let you get away with a quickie, then.  Here in

the car?"

     "Somebody'll *see* us!"

     She chuckled.  "The office it is.  Better put some panties

on, though, or you'll stick out."

     She wasn't an easy person to be with when she had moods like

this.  I scrambled into my panties--the ones I'd been wearing in

the morning, not the new ones--and followed her, stumbling a bit,

and protesting in whispers.  Once we were on the elevator in her

building, though, we were committed.  I shut up.  She *goosed*

me.  And then went through my purse and found my lipstick and


     I was still fixing it, staring in the little mirror, as she

guided me by the elbow through her office.  "Hey, Nance!  Who's

the cutie?"  I broke out in a sweat and concentrated some more,

then looked up to flash a nervous smile.  Jimmy the Freak.  My

pet name for him.  A translator.  He looked like a linebacker.

     "You remember Lee?" Nancy said.  My heart stopped.  "This is

his sister.  She's visiting, but she might move here."

     One painful beat, as it started back up, and then another. 

I didn't dare look up.  "Shy, isn't she?" Jimmy commented. 

"Listen, sweetheart, if that brother of yours doesn't show you

around, you just come to me.  Jimmy knows *all* the best places. 

Ask Nance, here.  That's me, Jimmy," he finished, and thumped

himself on the chest.

     What was I supposed to do?  I smiled--and probably looked

like a frightened rabbit--and whispered "Thank you," barely


     "Any time!" he called heartily after me.  "You just give me

a call!  Nance has my number!"  And then, thankfully, the door

closed behind us.

     Terror appears to be an aphrodisiac.  As soon as the door

closed, Nancy was all over me.  She had been wearing pants, and

didn't bother getting out of them, before her lips fastened to

mine.  Since we were both in heels (I was wearing one of my two

new pairs), she was shorter than me, and didn't like it; she had

her hands under my skirt and was pushing me down by my hips.  I

started to kneel, but the heels tripped me, and I slipped

instead.  Landed on my butt.  I was on my back a moment later,

though, with Nancy on top, deep-kissing me like she meant

business, and her hips straddling mine.  She finished pushing my

skirt up, and then paused long enough to unbutton her pants and

slide them down to her knees.

     That frustrated her; she couldn't spread her legs.  It

didn't stop her, though.  She pushed her hips, hungrily, against

one of my thighs, gasped into my mouth, and then wiggled.  She

was between *my* legs!  The perfect position reversal, and for

some reason, incredibly arousing.  Especially since she was

dripping wet; I could feel it through the two layers of nylon

that separated us.  She thrust against me perhaps three times,

then groaned into my mouth, and shuddered, a wave of orgasm

passing through her body.

     "Nancy," I began, when she freed my mouth, "holy mmmph!" 

That was her, kissing me again, and wriggling her hips, and

moving things around.  Her panties went down, I noted foggily. 

Mine didn't.  She pulled my cock out the leg, though.

     And then, gods of the heights and depths, she started to ...

what do you call it, even?  It wasn't 'entry,' I was doing that. 

But she was between my legs, her legs barely parted, and totally

in control, and I was being enveloped ... yes, enveloped is the

word ... in the tightest, hottest, and wettest bit of sexy woman

that ever existed.  And the corset, squeezing my body the same

way, so that I felt as if all of me was, in some fashion, just

that slight piece of proud (upstanding!) flesh.She came, again,

when she had taken no more than the head, grinding herself

against my abdomen, and sobbing.

     Then kissing my face, biting my ears (hard!), and

whispering, whispering.  "Oh, god!  Oh, god!  Beg me, beg me, beg

me!"  Another inch, or pair of inches, and another orgasm?  Not

as intense, perhaps, and she was whispering, "So sweet, so good,

so nice, so nice, oh, god!"

     And with a brutal sort of thrust, all the way on me.  I

moaned, and she kissed me hotly, hugged me tightly, and began one

... slow ... *thrust!*  Tight, hot ... we both came, in a

convulsive flailing and bucking.

     That was it for me.  She got off *twice* more, though,

stunning me, before my shrinking cock slipped out of her. 

Finally collapsed against me.  "Jesus!" she whispered, in an

exhausted voice.  "That was ... that was *incredible!"*

     I was too shaken to answer.  Instead, a bit awkwardly aping

something she had used to do, I hugged her, with arms and legs.

     After a moment, she raised herself on one elbow, and

giggled.  "You're a mess, sweety!"  Made a face, and added, "I

bet I am, too.  Jesus!  That must be what men feel like!"

     I laughed, shakily.  "I don't think so," I told her.

     She smiled.  "The sense of complete power, yes.  I *knew*

when you were ready.  When you were *mine."*  A slight frown

wrinkled her brow.  "But next time I tell you to beg me, you

beg!"  With that, she wriggled off of me, and stood up.

     I felt ... wrung out.  Too tired to move.  "Will you spank

me if I don't?" I asked, in the timidest voice I could manage. 

She looked up from mopping herself with tissue, and chuckled,

wickedly.  Finally, I sat up, and then gasped, and checked the

back of my skirt.  She chuckled again, and tossed the box of

tissue to me.  

     "I'll walk behind you, sweetie.  You're going to have to

change your panties again, though.  You soaked those."

     "*I* didn't," I muttered, face flaming.

     She giggled.  And kept giggling, and teasing me with

occasional caresses, as she fixed my face.  "Do you want me to

tell James that your name is Amy?" she asked.  "He's sure to ask. 

He may even call your house, if I give him your phone number.  Or

even if I don't; he knows your name."

     "Christ on a crutch!" I muttered.  "No.  Can you imagine

anyone actually naming a girl Amy Ames?  Tell him ... tell him

something ugly.  Brunhilda."  That had always reminded me of


     She giggled.  "Seriously?"

     I looked at her.  "Hey, wait a minute!  You're gonna start

using that name, or something, aren't you?"  Giggle.  "Christ. 

That's all I need.  Tell him we're both named Lee."

     "Do you think that's a good idea?" she asked.

     "You're serious, aren't you?"  She nodded.  And giggled, not

very seriously.  "Oh, hell.  *You* pick something, okay?"

     "You realize," she asked me, as she helped me out of dress

and corset in the car, "that now it's perfectly possible for you

to come visit me here, and no one will ever guess."

     "Jeez, Nancy!  Don't make me do that again, okay?"

     After that day (and we had pizza again that night), my debut

was something of an anticlimax.  Well, no, I guess you couldn't

call it an 'anti' climax.  I wore the new rose dress, white lace

stockings, and the matching shoes, with all sorts of little pink

accents, here and there.  And by special pleading to Nancy, my

Valentine's day lingerie instead of the corset.  Tucked, though,

and with water balloons.  She wore her stunning red dress.  This

was the special occasion, I gathered.

     She timed it specially, too, I found out later.  April

first.  Ouch.  Silly me, when I found out that she had planned it

that way, I assumed she was making fun of me.  I'd started to

remember how Jimmy the Freak had stressed his *close*

acquaintance with Nancy.  That got me both jealous and depressed. 

Which made me sort of desperate.  Not that night, though.  The

day was special; she attracted attention away from me, and I

actually got treated like a lady, which was a bit frightening. 

She'd dubbed me "Ginny," short for Virginia.  I dunno why. 

Slims?  But I kinda liked the name.  And when we got home, I

discovered that she was wearing *my* Valentine's day present,


     You wanna know what happened?  There's a pretty good

description of the first bout above, already.  Bam!  As soon as

we walked in the door, she was on me.  But even in the throes of

passion, I couldn't bring myself to *say* things.

     Which meant that we adjourned to the bedroom, she changed

into a teddy, put me in the corset, and spanked me.  SPANK! moan

*stroke* whimper.  And so on.  By the end of it, I was repeating

anything she told me to repeat, completely out of my mind with

desire.  SPANK! moan *stroke* whimper ... "Yes!  Yes, I'll be a

good little girl, I'll do what I'm told, oh gods, oh gods, please

*fuck* me!"

     She did.  With me moaning, and begging her to 'fuck me, fuck

me hard!'

     Now, why?  I wondered about that, later.  It was the next

day when I found out about the April Fool's Day planning.  So

then, I decided it was because she wanted me to humiliate myself,

completely.  It fuelled the already raging fire of my jealous

anger.  And that, in turn, brought on the low point of that whole


     Don't get me wrong.  It wasn't the only low point.  I'd

walked out on her, three more times after the burned dinner,

though not with the extent of bad feelings that that had caused. 

Once over the bras, but I already mentioned that.  Once

overshaving my legs.  That was mostly a case of my pig-

headedness.  She called up the next morning, asked if I intended

going places where I absolutely had to wear shorts, and I gave

in.  Shaved them before I went to her house, in fact.  Badly,

too.  It took a while before they got to be smooth, instead of

rashy.  The third time was after April First, and convinced me

that I had to complete my plans, and soon.

     It was a Saturday.  We were puttering around the house, not

really doing much of anything.  She got a call to go in to work. 

Fine.  That had happened before, and she'd just left me at home. 

This time, she wanted Ginny to go along.  Her eyes gleamed with


     I'd already laid my plans, though, and for over a week had

managed to avoid going out in anything like full drag.  Nor was I

wearing my office skirts any more.  I'd even gone so far as to

start wearing some of my remaining masculine underwear to school,

then dropping by my apartment to change.  According to the letter

of what she had told me, I only had to wear a blouse when I was

wearing panties, and that meant that I could also stop wearing

blouses.  The stockings had never been required; I'd started

wearing them partly out of pleasure and partly because I figured

they would be required, if I made an issue of it.  So I was

spending my days "in boy."  Now, she wanted to drag me,

perilously, to her office.  I refused.  Maybe I would have been

better off accepting the implicit invitation in her eyes.  In

fact, I'm sure of it.

     I didn't, though.  I lost my temper, started pulling off my

blouse (I wore dresses, or skirt and blouse, while I was in her

house, although I knew we'd bought some women's pants for me as

well), and headed for the clothes which were still, as agreed,

there by the door.

     When I grabbed them, I pulled up short.  "What is this?" I

asked, outraged.  A pair of shorts--men's, but so what?  I had

shaven legs!--and a tank top--and I shaved my underarms, too. 

The tank top was *pink.*

     She smiled.  "I promised a set of unremarkable clothes," she

said.  "I didn't promise that they'd be unremarkable *men's*

clothes.  Shall I get my copy of the agreement?"

     She had one, and she knew it by heart.  Every time she made

a new requirement, she wrote that down, too, and made me agree to

it explicitly.  Like keeping my legs shaved, and wearing a blouse

when I wore panties.  Well, anyway.  I stamped my foot, and

wailed, "That's not *fair!"* before I even realized how

ridiculous it sounded, how silly I looked.  And then I got

stubborn.  "Well, I'm *not* going to your company, to let Jimmy

the Freak stare at me again!"

     She wouldn't give me my *shoes* back, either!  And the tank

top *was* a woman's top, with one of those shelf bra things.  I

didn't even have any pockets to carry my keys in!  But like I

say, I was getting stubborn, even though I was about half-blinded

by tears.  I pulled on shorts and tank top, and, barefoot and

clutching my keys, marched out of the house.  I had painted

toenails, did I mention that?  I stopped in the stairwell long

enough to scrape the polish off with a key.

     I discovered a couple things.  First, most people don't

bother looking at other people.  I felt as if I were dressed

completely bizarrely, but nobody gave me a second glance, in the

two blocks I walked.  Second, Nancy was not entirely without

pity.  She found me, and gave me a ride the rest of the way home. 

Oh, my car was usually at my house on the weekends.  We usually

went out, in her car, on Friday night, and I spent the weekend

with her.

     She really did have a wider streak of mercy than I thought. 

When I went back, the next day, prepared to expostulate, she

asked if I wanted to go to her office that very day.  Which was

great; a better compromise I couldn't hope for.  Her office

didn't work on Sundays.  In another sense, it wasn't so good,

because we didn't have great sex at her office; I just sat around

and kicked my feet while she caught up on work she could have

done about any time.  She cut me off again, for three days.

     That wasn't uncommon, either.  By early April, I was

spending virtually all my time at her house, with maybe one

evening and night a week at mine.  Otherwise, I just went to my

house to check the mail.  It didn't mean that we screwed every

night, though.  Oftener than in our first relationship, now that

I think about it, but since I wasn't getting invitations, I spent

a lot of days and nights in drag, without getting sexual release

from it.  On fact, by that point I was pretty blase about what I

wore around the house, except when she made a point of dressing

me up pretty, or started teasing me.  Well, the fact that she

never let me watch her dress or undress was also a form of

teasing, but it hardly counts, since it happened every day, just

about.  When she undressed in my presence, that was something

powerfully stimulating, maybe just because it happened so rarely. 

Or maybe because it always meant sex.  Conditioned like Pavlov's

dog.  And it was a case of her undressing in my presence; I

didn't get to undress her, no matter how much I wanted to.  She

undressed herself, and she undressed me.

     Well, to get back to the point, Jimmy the Freak had, for

some reason, provoked my undying jealousy, anger, and fear, and

the Pessimist was elected chairman of the Committee.  Ginny (the

little girl adopted the name eagerly) got securely trussed and

dumped inconspicuously in a corner, and Tough Guy was assigned

the task of proving what a man we were.

     I sprung it on her on the Friday night following Office

Saturday.  Quite casually, while we were having dinner, I asked,

"Why don't you let me cook you a dinner at my house, sometime?"

     She looked up at me, quizzically.  Then ... calculatingly? 

"Yes," she agreed, far faster than I thought would happen, "that

might actually be a good idea."  I'd expected resistance.  *Lots*

of resistance.  She'd only visited my house *twice* after The

pizza.  I'd tried invitations a number of times, and she always

made it clear that if she came in, she wouldn't stay.

     So I pushed my luck.  "Tomorrow?"  I had everything already

prepared, a special meal, new cologne, a very sharp outfit, and

so forth.  I'd even straightened the house up.  I did most of the

cleaning at Nancy's house, though, so I'd mostly given that a

lick and a promise.

     She nodded, her eyes glinting.  "Shall I plan on spending

the night?" she asked.

     Ka-thud.  Yes, oh, yes, oh, yes, it's all working out so

perfectly!  I nodded, my own eyes gleaming their excitement back.

     I tried to hold back a bit that night, but she was very

demanding.  I finally decided that it was sort of a warmup, and

responded as best I could--and as much as I was allowed.  I left

in the morning, to make sure that everything was as perfect as I

could manage.

     Musky, masculine cologne (my perfume was always something

flowery; she'd bought me several varieties, and I tended to even

wear it, very lightly, to school).  No jewelry.  Hair swept back,

but not put up in any fashion.  I couldn't grow hair on my face,

underarms, or legs on such short notice, of course, but that was

okay.  Black pants, a black silk shirt, and a black leather belt. 

Black men's bikini briefs.  We're looking to achieve a sense of

power, here.

     She arrived carrying an overnight case, and dressed in the

spectacular red dress again.  I met her at the door, and kissed

her inside, taking the initiative in the kiss for the first time

in months.  She was wearing her tallest heels, but since I had on

boots, I still overtopped her, and could force her head back.  It

turned into more of a struggle than a kiss, and then she gave a

sort of surrendering bend of the neck, and started to kiss me

back sweetly.  I felt my heart leap with exultation.  Then she

broke the kiss and slipped out of my arms.  Very frustrating.

     "Mmm," she said, with a bright smile, "that smells good! 

What is it?"

     Well, okay, Tough Guy said.  We go to Phase Two.  I smiled,

and went to the oven.  Yep, they were just getting finished.  I

lit the candles on the table, let her put her stuff down and look

at my house in its changed, clean state, and then pulled out her

chair for her.  She hesitated, then smiled warmly and sat.  I

placed the salads, and got the main course out of the oven.  As I

put them on the table, to cool slightly while we ate the salad, I

smiled as warmly and sexily as I could, and said, "It's a sort of

pizza."  I forget the name, now; it was one of those closed pizza

dishes, one per person, with the crust that goes over the top and

makes it look sort of like a loaf.

     She raised an eyebrow, and giggled.  "Oh?" she said, and

relaxed somewhat.  "Well, first the pizza, by all means."

     I'd also even carefully plotted out a course of

inconsequential, but amusing chatter.  The jokes fell kind of

flat, but otherwise it went pretty well.  A nice wine with

dinner, and I tried to urge a lot on her.  That was mistake

number one--number two, if you count the kiss.  The way I tried

to encourage her to drink was by drinking a fair amount myself. 

I don't much like wine, and it goes to my head pretty fast.

     A sweet, but inconsequential dessert (the fruits of my

cooking lessons), and dinner came to an end, with me coming on as

strongly male as I could.  "Well," she said, laying down her

fork.  "Do we do the dishes, or shall we adjourn for ... what

comes after pizza?"

     Slightly light-headed, I beamed at her, convinced that

everything was working like a charm, and she'd love me for my

masculinity.  I stood, extending a hand, and answered, "Let us

... adjourn."  I escorted her, with pomp and ceremony, into the


     Her overnight case was already there.  She started for it,

and I stopped her.  And, well, things went rapidly downhill from

there.  I bungled another kiss, from which she escaped, this time

with an angry shake of her head.  Tough Guy decided to cut to the

chase.  So I grabbed her, and fought her over to the bed.  Yes,

fought her; she was resisting quite strongly.  That was confusing

at first, but after one "Lee, stop it!" her forehead puckered,

and then she fought me in silence, a slight smile coming over her

lips.  That was encouraging.

     Well, I was stronger than her.  I got her, finally turned

over my lap.  But that didn't stop her struggles, and I had

barely managed to start working her skirt up, when, with a lurch,

she broke partway free and half-pinned me to the bed.  Okay, said

Tough Guy, go for it!  We wrestled, and she finally started

speaking again.  "Lee, dammit, stop it!  You're stronger than me,

I can't *do* it this way.  Stop it, Lee!"

     By that time, though, I had her skirt mostly out of the way. 

I'd gotten her arms pinned over her head, holding her wrists with

one hand and part of my weight, while she bucked and twisted

quite realistically underneath me.  Quite realistically.  Yeah. 

Quite.  I fumbled my belt and my fly open, and started to lower

myself onto her, with the agonizing slowness that she used on me

to such effect.  Her eyes suddenly grew wide, as I tried to

project power, power, maleness, and as my lips descended, ready

for that first sweet, submissive kiss, she suddenly stopped


     And turned her head aside, at the last moment.  "Lee," she

said, tensely, "if you rape me, I will never forgive you.  I will

*never* speak to you again.  I *swear* it!"

     Oops.  Tough Guy started to tell me "Hey, it's a rape

fantasy.  She wants, it really!  I'll show you."  But some of the

rest of the Committee were gifted with a bit more brain.  She was

serious.  Not a game.  Confused, I hesitated, trying to decide

who to listen to--I was leaning toward Tough Guy, because, I

mean, obviously she wanted a *real* man, right?  Right?--when she

bucked again and Tough Guy wilted.  With the rest of me.

     Excruciating, overwhelming, painful pain.  She'd gotten a

knee free, and I collapsed in agony around my abused member,

sobbing.  She scrambled away.  I ignored her.  Not too difficult. 

I was ignoring most things.  Priorities, you know.

     She was speaking, I realized through a haze, and leant her

half an ear.  "... *what* you were thinking of.  *I* thought you

were ready to extend out relationship here, to your last bastion. 

I even," pause for something.  A sob, maybe?  "I even brought

your things, and when you served *pizza!*  Oh, god!"  Yes, that

was a sob.  The pain was subsiding.  I spared her an eye as well. 

She was crying!  Pulling her clothes into order, and grabbing her

overnight case.  She'd lost a shoe in the struggle.  "Well,

whatever you planned, I'm *not* interested!  God!"  She grabbed

some tissue, daubed at her eyes, blew her nose.  I choked off the

animal noises I was making, and started trying to uncurl.  The

body wasn't cooperative.  She looked at me.  "Good," she said,

heaving a sigh.  "You're all right, then.  I thought I'd hurt

you."  I tried to laugh at that--it tickled me--but ended up

groaning instead.  She waited until I looked at her again. 

"Lee," she said.  "Don't come to my house.  I'll call you, when I

decide what to do about this."

     When *she* decided?  *She* wasn't the one with severely

bruised genitalia!  My speech apparatus was not, though, in

working order.  She left.



     I did not have a happy week.  As the joke goes, "She doesn't

call, she doesn't write!"  Sunday I drank the rest of the bottle

of wine, a half-bottle of vodka that had been in my freezer

forever, and then went out and got some beer.  I drank myself

insensible.  Nothing Sunday.  Or Monday.  Tuesday I considered

calling, but put it off.  Wednesday I did call, but she didn't

answer.  I began to be convinced that instead of managing a

brilliant coup, the Committee had, once again, landed me in the

soup.  Thursday I even called her at work, but when Jimmy the

Freak answered, I just hung up.  Called back again, and got one

of the women, but she refused to pass me on to Nancy.  She didn't

pick up her phone that evening, either.  I even drove over to her

apartment, but lost my nerve.  I had a key.  But she had

specifically told me not to come over.  And, I guess, I was a

little afraid that the key wouldn't fit.

     Friday afternoon ended things.  I called her office again. 

Got a runaround.  Called back.  Got Jimmy the Freak.  And heard

myself say, "Would you tell her that my sister Ginny is in town

and wants to speak to her?"  Held my breath.

     "Ginny?"  Thank the gods!  Her voice.  Like angels singing.

     "It's me," I said, in a small voice.

     "I'm glad you're back in town, Ginny," Nancy said, in an

oddly constrained voice.  "I'd like to talk to you about that

brother of yours."

     I couldn't think of anything to say.  "Okay," I managed,


     I heard her let out her breath.  "Sit tight," she said.

     And hung up!  I sat, staring at the receiver, for ten

minutes before I managed to put it in the cradle.  And then I

laid my head down on the desk and sobbed (this was at my office. 

I like scheduling office hours on Friday afternoons; I always get

an undisturbed nap that way).

     I had recovered, more or less, when, astonishment of

astonishment, I got a knock on my office door.  Could it be Her? 

No, impossible.  More likely to be that one-in-a-million student

who wasn't drunk by Friday afternoon.

     "Come in," I called, and then cleared my throat and repeated

it without the quaver.

     It was her.  She didn't look happy, though.  She eyed me

carefully.  Closed the door.  "Ginny?" she asked, cautiously.

     Tears sprang to my eyes.  "N-Nancy, it's *me!*  Just ...

me," I repeated, and my voice quavered again.

     She sniffed.  "I *hate* that cologne.  I want to talk to

Ginny.  Or at least be sure that she's back."

     "No!" I cried, and tried to squeeze back the tears.  She

turned, abruptly, for the door.  "No!" I yelped, "Please!"  I

thought I'd sobbed myself out, but the tears welled up, and I

added, "Please, Nancy, *don't leave me again!"*  Then covered my

face with my hands, and started crying in earnest.

     I got my breath back when her hand touched my chest.  My

shirt, to be exact.  I swalllowed, hiccuped, and cut myself off. 

"Why aren't you wearing a blouse?" she asked.  When I looked up,

she added, very softly, "Lee, I'm not the one who keeps leaving. 

Who keeps running away."

     I bit my lip and turned my head, until I thought I had

enough control to speak.  "I-I'm t-trying to be m-more masculine. 

Like J-Jimmy the Freak, and that.  So, so you'll want me, as a


     Silence.  I dared a glance at her face.  She was shaking her

head, slowly, and looking troubled.  "Lee," she said, catching my

eyes, "I thought we'd been through this already.  What does an

ape like James have that you don't have?  Why should I want *him*

instead of you?"

     "H-he's a m-m-m-*man!"* I said, on a rising sob.  Choked off

the hysteria again, and managed, "Not a f-freak.  A p-pervert. 

Who'd want me?"

     Silence, again, until I met her eyes.  "Anyone who likes men

in dresses.  Like me.  Does that make me a pervert, too?  Careful

how you answer!"

     I laughed, involuntarily.  "N-no!  B-but sooner or later,

you'll get t-tired of, of a sissy."

     "No.  I won't."  Very firmly stated.  "I love you.  Not

'because' anything, but it certainly doesn't hurt that you like

making yourself pretty and feminine.  I like your feminine side. 

And there are a lot of advantages to it, too."

     "What?"  *That* was a new one.  "Like what?"  In a tone of

complete disbelief.

     She smiled.  "Well, for one thing, I don't have to worry

about being raped.  Or so I thought.  You aren't going to try

that again, are you?"  I gulped, shook my head.  "For another ...

oh, I know that the only skirt you're likely to chase is one on

*sale!"*  That startled a giggle out of me.  "And, all things

considered, you're not likely to cheat on me.  That might be

different if you were gay, but you're not.  So long as I've got

you in panties," she said, with a sudden fierceness, "you're


     That went straight to my heart.  My face crumpled like wet

cardboard, and I doubled over crying.  Her feet clattered on the

floor, and then she was *there!*  With, when I exhausted myself

again, a rather damp shoulder.  I sighed, and tightened my arms

around her.  "I'd like to be yours, again," I whispered.  "All

yours, forever."

     She leaned back, brushing my hair away from my face.  She

looked troubled.  "Lee.  I want you to think about some things,

all right?  Who's harmed by your dressing up?  If someone doesn't

like it, or thinks it's wrong, or sinful, or, I don't know ..."

     "Disgusting," I put in, in a whisper.

     "Or disgusting," she amended, then looked at me, and asked,

"How could it be disgusting?  It isn't baby raping, you know. 

Nobody's hurt, except when you decide to torment yourself.  Sure,

there are a lot of people out there who would disapprove.  A lot

of people disapprove of oral sex, too.  And spanking, probably. 

And homosexuality, certainly.  Does that make 'all those people'

right?  Does it even make them worth listening to?"  She was

growing animated, holding me by the shoulders and giving me

little shakes for emphasis.  "Don't you think that people who get

outraged are merely expressing the narrowness of their own tiny

little minds?  Lee, *think!*  Stop being a little boy who feels

guilty about stealing his sister's underwear, and *grow up!*  If

it doesn't hurt someone, why can't you do it?  And why, in

heaven's name, can't you believe that I *want* you to, that it

turns me on, that I could fall in love with a man who's

sentimental, soft, romantic, pretty, and a bit silly?  Just

because *you* want to do it so badly?  Is that a reason?  Is

*everything* that you really want automatically bad?"  She

released me, then, and sat back.  "Now *that's* sick."

     I stared, at a loss for an answer.  She seemed to make so

much sense, but ... well, it contradicted what I thought I knew. 

Maybe that showed on my face.  "Well, it's a lot to think about,

maybe.  Are you coming over tonight?"

     And everything was all right.

     Actually, of course, it didn't end there.  It took about a

week for things to fall, more or less, into the pattern that had

gone on before.  More or less, I say, because I was a lot

quieter, and very conscious of whatever I happened to be wearing,

wondering how it made me feel, and if that was really okay, and

what other people would think.  Not only that, but Nancy, I

thought, was avoiding me, often getting home late in the evening,

and exhausted.  That initiated something slightly new; I started

trying to figure out treats for her, that would entice her home,

perhaps, earlier.  Foot rubs, back rubs, little sweets, hot

baths, and ultimately, after a couple weeks of this, I started

laying out casual clothes for her and helping her change.

     The things that I began to recognize were disturbing.  As

Nancy had pointed out, they didn't hurt me, or anyone else, but

they were far from the ideals of masculinity that I had grown up


     For instance.  I finally admitted to myself that I like to

be, put simply, pretty.  I don't have a classically feminine

face, but it'll pass.  I like my face better, though, when my

lips are full, red, and pouting, and my eyelashes long.  When I

have a pink bow on the top of my head.  It doesn't necessarily

make me horny, but it does make me feel, sometimes, languorous

and sexy, and at other times, simply secure in the knowledge that

I have a pretty face.

     Or panties.  I finally learned to say that word without

stuttering.  But, gods, there's a combination of fetish and

practicality.  I like panties that are pink and lacy, and it is

my considered opinion that they fit men better than men's

underwear does.  They hold me more securely, since the legs are

elasticized, and are actually easier to forget that I'm wearing. 

Except that the ones I like are nylon, and if I want, I can

remember them, and then feel the cloth of my pants or skirt

brushing against them, and the delicate bite of lingerie elastic

around my legs and my belly, and it makes me feel just incredibly

sexy.  I like them pink and lacy because I like pink and lacy,

because those are the things that turn *me* on, and because they

remind me that I don't have to act macho.  Because I've got

Nancy, I also have the assurance that they'll turn my *partner*


     They do that because she likes being in control, being

dominant.  She likes me submissive, and in fact, I like being

submissive.  That doesn't mean only spankings, either.  I simply

like looking after her, taking care of her, and making sure that

things  around her are pleasant.  That's almost stereotypically

'girl,' the nurterer.  Well, maybe I should have been born a

girl.  But why should it be necessary?  Then I wouldn't have had

Nancy, and being submissive and nurturing doesn't mean I don't

like sex!  Just exactly the reverse, in fact.  In the weeks

immediately after our reconciliation, though, I wasn't getting

*enough,* and so I sometimes floated around the house wearing my

sexiest perfume and sending her significant glances or pouts.  I

didn't do that so I could imagine being a girl, but so she would

take me to bed and let me show her exactly how hot a lover a

sensitive and--should I use the word?--*sissy* man could be.

     I like the feel of skirts, and the look, and the way that

high heels show off my legs, and all sorts of other things that

might make a 'self-respecting' man laugh in derision.  Let them

respect themselves, then, for narrow-mindedness and lack of

imagination in bed; I discovered, as I began exploring and

accepting my submissive and feminine qualities, that I could send

Nancy out of her mind with bliss.  I *paid attention* to her, and

my own gratification, though it had driven me to bed, was

something to be ignored--no, not merely ignored, but put off as

long as possible.  I fully intended to make her so dependent upon

me as a gentle, sensitive, and responsive lover that the thought

of going for a piece of meat attached to a set of muscles would

be completely laughable.

     I didn't work all this out in a day, of course.  Nor was our

home life all smooth sailing, with turbulence reserved for

between the sheets.  As I was considering these things, I started

thinking about the image I presented at school, and began to

soften it, deliberately.  Until one day I wore a bra under my

blouse to school, and got away with it.  I crowed about it to

Nancy, that evening, and she went into a rage.

     She was tired from the extra work she was doing.  But after

she calmed down enough to explain it to me, and managed to get me

to stop crying, she explained it.  My acceptance, she pointed

out, didn't change the opinions, or if you wish, the prejudices

of society.  Had someone caught me, doing a job in which I was

known as male, and expected to set some sort of example (a

stereotypical example), I would at least have become a figure of

fun, and possibly something much worse.  It was, as she told me,

*our* secret, and had to be, because what I could share with her

wasn't something that the world was willing to share, or even to

permit us to share, if it were to become known.  In fact, that

was why she had introduced me as Ginny at her workplace, because

no one there had seen me more than a time or two, back when I

still had my mustache and dressed as drably as possible.  That

meant that anyone seeing us together, when I was dressed to

pass--and her colleagues were likelier to see us than mine--would

assume that it was Nancy and Ginny, not Nancy and Lee.  Should

someone from the school catch sight of me, we had that alibi

already firmly established, and an entire business office ready

to swear to the independent existence of Ginny.

     At that point, I realized that one of the other things I

enjoyed about cross-dressing was thumbing my nose at society. 

Secretly.  Our occasional (very occasional, at that stage)

outings turned from something dreadful and frightening to

adventures.  And did the sparkle in my eye increase the gleam in

hers?  Just guess!

     In mid-May, though, I found out what had been occupying

Nancy all those long evenings.  She'd been trying to find us a

house, that we could together afford.  One with a hedge, or a

fence, or somewhere enclosed so that I wouldn't have to be

perfect just to get out in the open air.  Open air, in fact, is a

marvelous aphrodisiac.  When she told me, my jaw dropped in

amazement, and we went to see the house together.  It was

wonderful.  Perfect.  Two bedrooms ("One for us and one for Lee,"

she said, and I understood), an enormous living room, a dining

room with panelling ... a wonderful house.  With a hedge all

around the property, and a neighborhood in which the neighbors

weren't nosy, and there weren't any kids to come and stare,

giggling, through a hole in the hedge.  We could barely,

together, afford the payments.  But we did it.  On my birthday,


     On the day we moved in, though, I got another shock.  I made

us dinner, and Nancy solemnly produced our original relationship

agreement ... and tore it up.  She refused to make another ... I

begged her to.  I wanted to tie her to something.  And then, with

an odd little smile, she told me that I could dress exactly as I

pleased, so long as I didn't try wearing a dress to classes.

     I spent a very confused pair of weeks.  At first, I thought

it was a signal that she had tired of me in feminine attire.  So

I conscientiously began trying to play boy, again.  It was an

uncomfortable time, with us new in the house, and new living

together (I had always, in the past, had the security of knowing

that there was a place I could go to.

     It was really only at the beginning of June that all the

insights that I mentioned above, the true acceptance of myself,

began to click into place, and I began to veer from a carefully

male presentation at home to something more androgynous.  I

caught a few subdued smiles from Nancy, and puzzled over them for

days at a time.  But while I may be slow at figuring out things

in relationships, I eventually got there.

     Release.  "If you love something, let it go ...."  And blah,

blah, blah.  I caught on, in what was nearly a religious burst of

enlightenment, in the first week of June.  And carefully hid the

fact.  Nancy's birthday is exactly a month after mine, so this

year, it was going to fall on the one-month 'anniversary' of our

new home together.  Better yet, it was a workday for her, but

school was out for me.

     I made very careful plans.  I found that horrid black

outfit.  It wasn't really so bad, and in fact I looked really

good in it, but it had some pretty horrible memories.  I met her

at the door, wearing it, and let her avoid the kiss I offered,

leering.  I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing at the look

of horror that passed over her face.  She gave me a very

mistrustful look.  "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes," I

told her, and guided her to a table laid out as nearly like that

fateful dinner in my house as possible.  She was beginning to

look seriously disturbed.  I thumped off to the kitchen, careful

to make as much noise as possible in my boots.

     The kitchen didn't take long, though.  Just turn up the

oven, slip out the kitchen door, and into the window I'd

carefully left open.  Coming back was slightly trickier, but I

managed it without tearing or running anything.  I was literally

giggling with excitement, knowing that her tension was rising in

the dining room, when I smelled the first whiff of burning rolls. 

Then ... a match in the fat, open the oven door ... damn.  Hold a

match under the smoke alarm, and *then* push the bowl off the

table.  And let out a squeal, as of dismay.

     The hardest part was getting the silly grin off my face, and

manufacturing a look of frightened horror when she came dashing

through the kitchen door.  "I b-burned the d-dinner," stuttering

from the effort to choke giggles, and then exaggerating it, as if

I were very embarrassed.  I clutched the sides of my skirt in

both hands and raised them to my mouth, trying for the image of

the little girl caught being naughty, and also aware that she

could see the triangle of my Valentine's day panties perfectly

clearly.  The skirt proved useful, since it hid the smile that I

couldn't keep back, and I managed to make the giggles sound more

or less like frightened sobs.  I kept my eyes wide, though.  Of

course, the mascara helped.

     She finally broke her paralysis, and rushed to the stove to

put out the fire.  Good thing, I was getting a little worried. 

"You ...." she said, and couldn't continue.  She twisted, wildly,

and fixed the smoke alarm.  "You ...." she tried again.  She

looked at the floor, where the shattered bowl lay--nothing else,

though, no beans or salad, and I hadn't wasted chicken to burn,

either--and then she grabbed a potholder, dumped the rolls in the

sink, slammed the oven door shut, turned it off, and turned to

face me.  "You ... little imp!" she cried, and dissolved into


     I waited, manfully suppressing the wellspring of laughter

that was rising in me, until she began to recover, wiping her

eyes, and then I dropped my skirt, gave her my best tragic look,

and asked wistfully, "Do you suppose we could go out?"  Paused,

carefully, and added, "For pizza?"

     She rushed across the floor to envelop me in a hug, and this

time we both went into a fit of laughter, that turned into a f   

it of giggles, and almost couldn't be stopped.  We kept starting

over every time we looked at one another.

     Finally, she blew out a breath, and slipped a hand under my

skirt.  "Oh, god, Lee!  Do we have to have the pizza *first?"*

     "Ooh!" I squealed in mock fear.  "Are you gonna send me to

bed without supper?"

     She did, eventually, ask me again about my feelings.  And so

I've written them down, all in order, just as it happened.

     Epilog:  Nancy claims it was a double wedding.  I think

that's stretching the boundaries of the language a bit.  The

first one was perfectly normal, as such things go, with her

stunning in white, and me in a tux.  And the wedding night was as

perfect as such things can get; it's a bit nervous, being

married.  For both of us.

     The second wedding was just us, no family, and some of our

odd new friends.  Found through the internet.  Some interesting

sorts of people.  This time, the bride wore the tux, and the

groom wore white.  It's a *beautiful* gown.  We didn't have the

traditional wedding feast, either.  We had pizza.

     Well, we had pizza *first.*



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