Date: Thu, 4 Dec 2008 09:30:45 -0800 (PST)
From: Fred Gingerman <gingerfred2005@yahoo.com>
Subject: Paid in Full -- transgender

Paid in Full
by Gingerfred Man
A Pantyboy Love Story

   Chapter One -- Zithers and Smithers

   You don't hear much about zithers anymore. Not since the post-World War
II movie classic "The Third Man" have you heard very much zithering in
mainstream music. That's why those of us afflicted with a passion for that
rather obscure, stringed instrument find it so difficult to find a proper
tutor.

   Mom and Daddy encouraged my love for the zither, but knew that, in my
mid-sized town, the chances of finding a suitable tutor to help move me to
zithering stardom were quite remote.

   Then we found Maxwell Smithers.

   Daddy found him on the Internet, actually, and it wasn't on some
American Zither Association website or Dr. Smithers' own site. No, as luck
would have it, after Dr. Smithers won six consecutive world zither
championship titles, he sort of disappeared for a while then, in an
astonishing coincidence, he settled in our town.

   What a break for me!

   Daddy was pretty well off, so I was pretty sure that Dr. Smithers, who
appeared to be living frugally, would jump at the chance to tutor me for a
large sum of money. He jumped all right, but it wasn't for money.

   Daddy had to pester Dr. Smithers for an appointment, but one was
eventually set for Daddy and me at the Smithers residence for 11 a.m. one
Saturday.

   Let me tell you a bit about me. I was born Ronald Brosnan to Regina and
Stephen Brosnan. When I met Dr. Smithers, I had just turned 18 and was a
senior at Harry Lime High School in Middleville. I was five foot six, a bit
scrawny and totally committed to my zither.

   Daddy and I set off for Dr. Smithers' home with my stringed instrument
and great excitement. The man we were meeting was a renowned master. If he
could teach me, a prodigy, I could reach the top.

   We arrived on time at Dr. Smithers' modest house in a middle-class
neighborhood. He opened the door in answer to our knock. He was a tall,
nice-looking man. Younger than I had imagined -- no more than 35, I
guessed.

   Oddly, Smithers was very much in control of the interview. Daddy was a
powerful man who usually dictated to the Dr. Smitherses of the world, but
not that time. Smithers had me play for him, eying me down carefully as I
played. Looking at me appraisingly.

   I played beautifully. My father applauded. I sat back expecting the
praise I always got. I didn't get it.

   "I don't think so," Smithers said to Daddy.

   Daddy looked stunned. Did we hear him correctly? Was Smithers rejecting
me? Rejecting Daddy's money?

   Rejection was a stranger to me at that time in my life, and my eyes
filled with tears.

   Daddy composed himself and asked, "Are you serious? The boy is a
fantastic zitherist."

   Smithers shook his head. "He needs a great deal of work to become a
world-class zitherist. I don't think it would be worth it for me to try. I
don't think he has the determination to be great."

   Smithers seemed to be enjoying my assimilation of real criticism,
something I had never received before.

   More than anything else in the world, I wanted to prove that SOB wrong.
And he knew it.

   Daddy said, "If this is about money, I can offer you quite a bit."

   Smithers looked at me. Up and down. I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable
at the first expert appraisal I had ever had.

   Smithers shook his head. "It's not about money. I don't want your money.
But I'll tutor the boy for something else."

   Daddy and I looked at each other, then at Smithers.

   Smithers answered the unasked question: "I'll tutor him for kisses."



   Chapter Two -- Whither my Zither?

   Well, that certainly chilled the room.

   Daddy's mouth was open. My mouth was open. But my mind was racing. Was
Smithers gay? Did he like young men like me?

   Daddy became angry. He began to sputter and was about to verbally
assault Smithers. But I said, "Daddy, please wait a second. What do you
mean by that, Dr. Smithers? Kisses from whom? Surely not me!"

   Smithers smiled slightly, showing good teeth. "I will tutor you, Ronald,
three times a week for two hours each session. At the end of each session,
I will kiss you for 30 minutes. You can quit any time, including after the
first two hours of the first session. Before the first kiss. Or you can
kiss me for 90 minutes each week and become great. I will tell no one about
what we are doing. I will do nothing you refuse to do. Of course, your
refusal ends our arrangement."

   Oh my. Daddy had murder in his eye. If he killed the only decent zither
tutor in a 500-mile radius, where would that leave me?

   "What would be the harm of just taking the first two hours of
instruction, Daddy?" I asked reasonably. "Maybe Dr. Smithers isn't a very
good tutor. I can see if he is and then...decide about whether to...uh...
move ahead."

   If my father hadn't been a terrible stage father, whose own zither
dreams had been crushed when he had to take over as chief financial officer
of his father's corporation at age 14, I think he would have punched
Dr. Smithers in the nose and dragged me out of there. As it was, I wanted
to punch that smug look off of Smithers' face myself. It was as if he knew,
the queer...queerguy, that I would be drawn to the zithering so much that,
rather than let my zither wither, I would consent to his obviously
homosexual advances.

   On the way home. Daddy and I hardly spoke. "You'll drive yourself to
your lesson or, maybe, lessons, Ronald," he said. "And your mother need not
know of the arrangement. Understood?"

   Daddy would get no argument from me. I was half ashamed and half excited
about the whole deal. The best part, I thought, would be fantastic, zither
instruction from a multiple, world champion.

   I was wrong.

   Over the rest of the weekend, I tried to put the whole sordid
arrangement out of my mind. Daddy and I didn't talk about it. Several
times, I considered canceling the deal, or just not showing up.

   But on Monday at precisely three p.m., zither in hand, I knocked on
Dr. Smithers' door to begin the rest of my life.



   Chapter Three -- Coming Hither with my Zither

   I was extraordinarily nervous for two obvious reasons. First, I was
about to face my comeuppance as a big zither fish in a small zither
pond. Second, I was about to see how far I was willing to go to become the
best zitherer on the planet.

   Smithers was surprisingly cordial and polite. It was a different
Smithers from the negotiations only 52 hours earlier. I wondered which one
was the real Dr. Smithers.

   Regardless, the Smithers I experienced that day was an astoundingly good
tutor. He began by telling me that each session, both, distinct PARTS of
each session <blush> would focus on a specific objective for that day. In
further sessions, earlier lessons would be reviewed, but a new objective
would be the new lesson's focus.

   The first zither lesson was to be about finger control. The first
kissing session would focus on my lips. Not his. Mine. My spine froze at
the thought and, oddly, my four-inch penis twitched. <Ick>

   Smithers took me back to zither basics and showed me things that I knew
would make me far better in my chosen field. The two hours flew by and I
was hungry for more, hungry for weeks, even months of that kind of
instruction.

   At precisely five p.m., a small bell sounded on a timer Smithers had set
and my decision was at hand.

   Smithers acted as if I had already decided to press on. "I'm setting a
second timer for 30 minutes, beginning now," he said. "We'll be kissing
during that time unless you want to quit your lessons with me permanently."

   It wasn't extortion really. He was offering me a full choice. A choice
to give up something I loved because I couldn't pay the price. The clock
was running. Smithers rummaged in a drawer and extracted something small
and pink.

   "It would be way too gay for us to just start kissing as we are," he
said. "I want you to go into the bathroom, take off your trousers,
underpants, shoes and socks, put these on, then return to me and sit on my
lap while I kiss you."

   Smithers was holding a pair of silky, pink panties.

   Oh my.

   Did you ever want something so much that you would do practically
anything? Even what Smithers wanted of me?

   Perspiration formed on my upper lip. Smithers' face was expressionless
as he extended to me the uniform of my degradation.

   I took the panties.

   And went to the bathroom, stripping as he instructed, leaving on my polo
shirt, but only panties from the waist down.

   Idly, I realized that the clock was running. He wasn't hurrying me or
anything, so he was giving up "payment time" without complaint. Maybe the
whole thing was a big joke. Or a test of my commitment to my instrument or
something. Or maybe Smithers was serious.

   My whole body was shaking as I assessed myself in the bathroom
mirror. Why did Smithers want me? I was no young Adonis or anything. And if
he wanted a girl, he was out of luck with me. My legs were pretty good,
though. I didn't want to go out there, but Smithers had certainly kept up
his end of things.

   The most humiliating thing of all was that I had an erection in my
brief, pink panties. Me, a hetero guy wearing a girl's thing for the first
time and I had a stiffie that would not go away.

   Crimson with shame and with "pointed panties," I emerged from the
bathroom to meet my fate. Idly I noticed that only 20 minutes remained on
our "contract." I could do that if I closed my eyes and thought of the
zither.

   Smithers was fully dressed and sitting on a hard chair, both feet on the
floor. When he saw me, he smiled slightly. Pleased, but not gloating. That
was kind of him, I thought. I awaited his instructions.

   "Come sit on my lap, Ronnie," Smithers said. No one called me "Ronnie."
Mostly Ronald. Sometimes Ron. Ronnie seemed "girlie" to me. For some
reason, I didn't mind Smithers calling me that.

   I took the life-altering walk to Smithers' lap slowly. He put his left
hand on my left hip and guided my pantied bottom across his thighs. I
hadn't sat on anyone's lap since I was about seven. There I was, 18, half
naked, in panties, on a man's lap. With an erection. I wondered if Smithers
was erect too, something I could have determined by sliding a thigh a few
millimeters toward him. Then I chided myself for thinking that.

   I said nothing, waiting for the teacher's lead. He said, "This speaks
well of your commitment to your instrument, Ronnie, and it's very
flattering to me as well. If you didn't like my teaching, my lap would be
the last place you would be."

   True. 18 minutes to go and no kissing yet. Maybe it was a test. Maybe he
wasn't really going to kiss me, just wanted to see how committed I
was. Maybe...mmmph. Gently, sweetly, Smithers covered my lips with his. It
was a very tender kiss, except we were both men and it was gay as a
carnival!!!!

   I gasped at the rush of emotions and feelings. Nice kiss! Better than I
had ever gotten from the few girls I had dated. Huge feelings of gayness
and shame, though I consoled myself by thinking that I was FORCED into
this. Which was crap. But self-delusion is the greatest social skill anyone
can develop. If nothing else, it makes one virtually impervious to
criticism.

   The shame dissipated a bit as physical feelings pushed for my
attention. The man could kiss!! No tongue. No open mouth. Just lips, as he
had said before. He took a couple of detours to kiss my neck and ears, both
of which made me pant and gasp in a most unmanly fashion. His hands were
not completely idle either. While they touched none of my "naughty bits,"
his left arm encircled my body from behind, resting his large hand on my
left shoulder. His right hand rested on my bare, left thigh as we kissed.

   I didn't do anything gay, such as kiss him back or anything. I didn't
need to. He was as much a master and I the apprentice on kissing as he was
on zithering.

   The real humiliation wasn't that I sort of surrendered to whatever that
man wanted to do to me. The real humiliation was that I enjoyed it. At
least, that was what my stiff, little "barometer" was telling me. I was
praying that I would not cum. Oh. Imagine the shame and guilt. If that bell
hadn't rung ending our session, my guess is that I would have drenched my
panties, then gone out and jumped off the nearest bridge.

   Smithers stopped kissing me immediately when the bell rang and was all
business once again. "Right, then. See you Wednesday at three and practice
what I gave you, Ronald. Any questions?"

   My head was spinning as I said no. I gathered my zither and was about to
leave when Smithers handed me a pair of black panties. "And Ronnie," he
said, "Please have these on when you come to the next session."

   <Gulp> I took them.

   When I got home I was completely confused and totally aroused.

   I answered minimal questions from Mom, then dashed upstairs to release
the juices that had been threatening to rise up my esophagus to my throat
and choke me for the past hour.

   I stripped off my trousers and underpants and flopped onto my back on my
bed. Lifting my shirt, I skinned my cockhead back to the tender pinkness
and rubbed. That rude man, thinking he could have his way with me for a few
zither lessons. But it was horribly exciting that anyone could break every
convention in the civilized world just to gain access to my body. I wasn't
gay, but there's something extraordinarily erotic about someone wanting you
so badly. Even Jody Foster must have felt a tingle when she learned about
John Hinkley, don't you think? Anyway, I thought of how he just POSSESSED
me for those 20 minutes and I gasped so loudly that I'll bet it scared the
cats next door. Then I started spurting thick globs of sticky cream --
arching it on its cummy wings to a landing field on my chest.

   Before the first hot blast singed my midsection, I was slammed into by
Guilt and Shame, our constant companions. Though Messrs. Guilt and Shame
were clearly not recognized by Mr. Smithers in any way. Only by me.

   I had let a man kiss me!! And OWN me!

   All my conditioning from all my life swept over me. Shaming me. The
ickiest, biggest possible gag reflex. I had sold my masculinity for some
zither lessons. I was worse than Jack, that beanstalk guy, selling the cow
for some beans.

   I cringed and hid my face and vowed to never see Mr. Smithers again.



   Chapter Four -- Zither, then dither.

   Forty-four hours later, at 3 p.m., Wednesday, I knocked on Smithers'
door -- zither in hand and lacy, black panties firmly in place. On Tuesday
morning, I had decided that I had exaggerated my reaction a bit. I mean,
Smithers was eccentric; the lessons were good. Daddy seemed a bit disgusted
with me for going to the first lesson and positively pissed when I said I
was going back. And anything a teenager can use to tick his parents off is
a good thing, right?

   Smithers smiled broadly when he saw me. He didn't seem surprised that I
was there. Maybe I was more surprised than he was. But I didn't have time
to think about it, because he set the timer for two hours and we zithered
madly the whole time. It was wonderful!! I saw how little I really knew
about my instrument, but Smithers was the clear path to correcting that.

   Then it became time to pay the piper. Something I had almost forgotten
about. But not quite.

   During zithering, I had been "Ronald," but when he set the 30-minute
timer for "kissing," he addressed me as "Ronnie."

   "Are the panties I gave you on, Ronnie?" Smithers asked.

   I nodded a timid assent. Blood rushed to my prick and made the little
thing stand erect and throbbing.

   "Well, then, off with your trousers, shoes, socks and shirt. Come sit on
my lap in just your panties and undershirt."

   He was so masterful. As if I were his apprentice in "kissing" as well as
zithering. I was FORCED to comply. (Not really, but it made me feel better
to think so.)

   I had no ten-minute grace period that time. It would be 30 solid minutes
of mouth-to-mouth payback for lessons.

   Even worse, Smithers removed his own trousers, shoes and socks!! I was
going to have to sit on his naked thigh!

   Why was I so scared, yet terribly excited, nearly spurting, I wondered
reasonably. The darned panties were rubbing my pink parts. That was the
problem, I decided. Manly men such as I were not expected to endure such
stimulation directly on their exposed cocktips, I decided.

   Trembling, I settled onto Smithers' thigh. He didn't "take liberties;" a
good thing, since I would have slapped him and departed. Wouldn't I? But he
did something I wished he hadn't. Smithers produced a tube of red lipstick,
which he applied to my lips, then showed me in a compact mirror. "It's less
gay this way, Ronnie," he said. "Trust me."

   Yeah, right.

   It was a good thing I didn't have a bigger mirror. The compact mirror
let me believe that the red lips belonged to someone else, since I didn't
see them attached to my whole face. As you can tell, I had the
rationalization thing down cold.

   Smithers seemed very pleased with his work. He looked at me very
strangely before he said, "You look very pretty, Ronnie. Today, our area of
concentration will be your mouth."

   And then he kissed me.

   What did he mean, my mouth? Isn't that what he said the last time? No,
he said "lips." Did he mean... Whoa!

   Smithers had my mouth open and was licking my tongue with his own.

   That was incredible!! Incredibly arousing and incredibly disgusting --
one of the sexiest combinations known to humankind.

   The lipstick added a new dimension to the kissing. I couldn't identify
it at the time, but I know now that it was a dimension of
femininity. Which, despite myself, excited me terribly.

   We kissed very hotly and very heavily for 15 minutes. Smithers' left
hand had reached under my tshirt and was placed in the center of my bare
back. His right hand was on my left thigh. Just my thigh. The outside of
it. I can't remember where my hands were, but I remember that my cock, the
dumb thing, didn't know the difference between a girl kissing me like that
and my tutor/world-class zitherist kissing me like that. It was about to
explode. Smithers must have sensed that, because he broke off the kiss. Why
did he do that? I was really enjoying ... I mean, enduring it...and I was
about to orgasm -- the prospect, even remote, of which, is what gets men
out of bed in the morning.

   We were both breathing very heavily, but neither of us said a word. Nor
looked at each other.

   After five awkward, puzzling minutes, Smithers began to kiss me
again. Very, very well. It was all I could do to avoid making sounds some
might characterize as girlish.

   The man could kiss. And his tongue had me gasping and panting. He had to
know the effect he had on me. Oh, I was beginning to feel the distant
rumblings of the kind of orgasm that rips your toes off and feeds them to
you one by one. It was in the early stages, but it was definitely on the
way. It was going to be wonderful.

   And then the timer bell rang. The 30 minutes were up. And Smithers
stopped.

   My mind (and penis) screamed, "Don't stop!!!"

   But he stopped. Just like when the alarm clock goes off just as you're
going to do something really great in your dream.

   Agggghhhhh!!!!!

   No orgasms for me. None for him. Why did he do that?

   When the bell rang, he was all business again. Though he did look funny
with my lipstick smeared all over his mouth. How must I look? He cleaned me
up with a wet, soapy face cloth. Then, as I was getting dressed, he said
that I should practice putting the lipstick on myself and that I should
wear the yellow panties to the next session.

   I couldn't wait! I was so randy, I would probably rape a tree knot on
the way home. Why had he stirred me up then left me? Why was I so excited?

   I got the answer to the first question when I got home, gave my minimal
answers to Mom and ran up to my room to empty my nuts.

   I stripped to my panties, lay on my back, and extricated my little
friend. I formed a clear image of being on Smithers' lap, stroked myself
fewer than ten times, spasmed, and almost screamed at the force of my
orgasm. And the force of the shame that followed.

   Ronnie's first law of cumming -- each action of orgasm associated with
Smithers is followed by an equal and opposite reaction of shame and guilt.

   When I gathered my wits, I saw Smithers' plan. He didn't want me cumming
in his house, because he knew I would be racked by shame and guilt. He
wanted me to be excited and to take my shame elsewhere!

   Well, add that, I thought, to the list of reasons why I was never going
back there again. Hmmpphhh.

   My resolve was weakened a bit the next morning and by Thursday
afternoon, I was listening to one of the few zither albums Smithers
recorded, "Moon River and 13 Other Zither Classics from the Movies." Until
you've heard the theme from "The Magnificent Seven" properly zithered, you
haven't lived.

   At 3 p.m. on Friday, I knocked on Smithers' door -- yellow panties (very
pretty if I do say so) in place, zither in one hand, lipstick in the other.

   We had another excellent zithering session, then I awaited my fate and
the new "area of concentration."

   Smithers almost floored me when he said, matter-of-factly, "For our 30
minutes today, we'll be reviewing previous material, then concentrating on
your nipples. So strip down to just your yellow panties, Ronnie and put
your lipstick on. Here's a mirror."

   My nipples!!!!! Just my panties???? Was he insane? I couldn't!!!

   Oh my goodness. Oh. I struggled to control myself. After the first wave
of male-based revulsion, I had to admit that the prospect of being nearly
naked and having a man suck and kiss my nipples was, besides being
world-class faggotry in my unschooled estimation, also incredibly
exciting!! And it wasn't as if it were my idea or anything. I was only
doing it because, I was young -- I needed the lessons.

   I guess you can imagine what I did.

   Exactly what "Master" Smithers asked me to do.

   I stripped to my panties. Just my panties. I felt so VULNERABLE. So
helpless. Then I went over to a mirror near the front door and put my
lipstick on as well as I could. Smithers was checking out my keyster, I
know he was. I thought about wiggling it a little, just to tease him. But
that would have been gay. I do remember hurrying, however. Hurrying because
I knew the 30 minutes were dwindling. Wasn't that odd?

   Satisfied with my lipstick, I turned toward Smithers. He was looking at
me in a strange way. Like I was a delicious meal or something. Poor guy. He
really was gay, I guessed. Mom says we should feel sorry for gay
people. But we shouldn't bring them into our house.

   For some crazy reason, I covered my nipples with my right arm as I
walked back to Smithers and climbed onto his bare thigh. Smithers had
stripped to his boxer shorts and I was stunned by the differences in our
bodies. He was hairy and buff. I was mostly hairless and kind of soft,
though slim. His thigh hairs tickled me, even through those ridiculous,
sissy panties that had had me in a state of arousal since I had slipped
into a stall at school after dismissal and slipped them on.

   I was at Smithers' mercy. Though I was sort of looking forward to the
kissing part. The nipple part was scary. I was ready for the kissing
part. Why wasn't he kissing me? Hey! Clock's running, Mister!

   By golly, he was admiring me! Looking me over. Then he said something
that made my whole body blush hotly. "You're very pretty, Ronnie."

   No one had ever admired me like that. Or said anything that nice.

   Oh, goodness I was hot. Wasn't he going to...

   Oh my. He held me in his strong arms -- completely, for the first time
-- and kissed me deeply. With lots of tongue. His arms held me gently, but
firmly.

   Now that was kissing!

   I was afraid I would faint. Or cum and get those awful feelings again.

   We kissed for five glorious minutes and then he stopped. Something big
was going to happen. It did.

   He held me firmly, with a hand on either side of my torso. Then he
kissed my right nipple. Lightly. Just brushed it with his lips, actually.

   I made a very unmanly squeaking sound, which I repeated when he did the
same thing to my left nipple.

   I pulled my chin in and looked down at the little nubbers. They were
erect!! Like two little cocks. How did that happen?

   Who cared? I wanted to see what would happen next.

   He kissed my right nipple and gave it a very nice, but almost
imperceptible lick.

   Light the Christmas tree, Mama, Santa can't wait until December 25.

   Who would have ever thought such pleasure existed? From my nipples?
Boy's nipples?

   I was actually gasping and whimpering when he repeated the actions on
the left nipple then returned to pay full, licking, sucking homage to the
right nipple.

   Then it happened. What I didn't think I wanted. I squealed loudly and
filled my panties with about a pint of the thickest, stickiest load I had
ever produced. Six, creamy spurts of boyish juices.

   I was in heaven, but I expected the arrival of its antithesis at any
moment.

   But Smithers outflanked shame and guilt. He moved to my left nipple, and
administered such intense pleasure that shame and guilt slunk away, at
least for the moment. Even better, as he kissed and licked and sucked my
puffy, little treasure, he touched me "down there" for the first time. He
didn't reach into my panties, merely rubbed the soaked pretties from the
outside. He rubbed my limp, soggy penis through my limp, soggy panties as
he adored my left nipple. He rubbed and licked so nicely that I was soon
hard again and very needy. Please don't let the bell ring, I prayed, as I
concentrated on my second orgasm, the fifth and final spurt of which
drenched my sopping panties at precisely the bell ending our 30 minutes.

   Since there was no further "activity" I felt some shame pangs again. I
mean, look at me...a little, pantied faggot -- cummy-pantied faggot to be
precise, in smeared make-up. The worst guilt came, however when I realized
how selfish I had been. Two ball-busting orgasms for me. None for my tutor.

   What did it all mean?

   Smithers was all business again. "Do those zithering exercises on pages
105 to 113, Ronald. And these panties for Monday, please, Ronnie."

   Baby blue ones. With little, white hearts.

   "And Ronnie, practice your lipstick-application. See you Monday. Have a
good weekend."

   As I sat in my car, imprisoned in cum-soaked panties, with sort of sore
nipples, and issues about my sexuality, I was 95% sure that I would not be
back for any zithering or kissing on Monday or ever from Mr. Gayman
Smithers, thank you.

   On Monday at 3 p.m., I knocked on Smithers' door. Zither in one
hand. Baby blue panties with little white hearts firmly in place. I had
practiced my lipstick application.

   Daddy had looked at me strangely all weekend. But being guys, we didn't
talk about it. That was better. What could I have told him? I didn't even
understand what was happening to me. How could I have explained it to
anyone else?

   My resolve to quit Smithers' lessons had dwindled steadily as the
weekend went on. "Everyone has to make career sacrifices," I rationalized.

   And never, never, never did I admit to myself that there was something I
enjoyed just in the teeniest about wearing panties and submitting to a
man's lust.

   Speaking of lust, in one of the weekend's few, unguarded moments, I
realized that I had neither seen Smithers' "big thing," nor been in his
presence while it was spurting goo. My unguarded reaction to that thought
was, "Didn't he like me? Didn't I excite him? Am I ugly?"

   Those thoughts were swept away, but not before it occurred to me that
Smithers was probably pounding his pud the entire time we were apart. I bet
that he thought of nothing but me. But that was another thought too gay to
allow to exist for long.

   In the five seconds or so between my knock and his appearance at the
front door, I shuddered, wondering what that day's "area of concentration"
would be. There were lots of good ones left.

   Monday's zithering session was quite uplifting. I was already showing
improvement and the praise Smithers gave me, though sparse, was earned. And
I appreciated it very much.

   Then came "kissing time."

   <Gulp>

   Smithers set the timer for 30 minutes, then said, "All right,
Ronnie. Today I want you to strip naked, everything off, including your
panties. Then I want you to put these black stockings with elastic tops
on. Your lesson today will focus on your scrotum, so panties would be in
the way.

   Naked? Stockings? Scrotum? My testicles? He was going to kiss and lick
and suck my testicles as I stood there in girlie stockings?

   Oh, if I had had one ounce of masculinity left, I would have punched him
in the nose, taken my zither and huffed out of there.

   But I applied my lipstick, stripped naked, then accepted the rolled-up
stockings Smithers handed me. My left leg was shaking so badly that I was
afraid I would pass out. If I did, what would Smithers do? How would he
explain a naked, 18-year-old boy to the paramedics?

   But if I passed out, he wouldn't be kissing my scrotum! I calmed myself
and rolled the silky treasures up each leg.

   Oh, baby! I don't know if I'm one of those guys with a nylon fetish, but
I felt the earth move when I slid those stockings on. Smithers admired me
and said that my legs looked beautiful. Oh, gee, I was blushing at the
compliment. I was so EASY! It's embarrassing.

   Smithers produced a pair of black, women's, low-heeled pumps and asked
me to put them on. I did so immediately, then chided myself for looking so
eager. Smithers offered me some time at a full-length mirror, which the
narcissist in me accepted gratefully.

   I turned this way and that, amazed at how good my legs looked in
stockings and heels. And how my bottom stuck out invitingly -- dangerously
for a young man of my unsullied virtue.

   I adored admiring myself, but <blush> wanted some kissing time too, so I
turned and walked sissily over to Smithers, who had used my "mirror time"
to strip to the buff! An amazingly virile and buff buff.

   What was he going to do to me? I was helpless, practically naked in a
man's home!

   But all he would do was what we had agreed upon.

   That was good, right?

   Anyway, I'm ashamed to admit that my flagpole was completely vertical as
I settled into his naked lap. I sneaked a look at Smithers' rammer as well
-- it was as vertical as my little guy, but a monster compared to my bunny
rabbit.

   I wasn't touching it! Though it was sort of nice how it rubbed against
my thigh as he laid his lips on mine. It was wet and hard and very hot. His
cock. Which I was not touching.

   I was already very excited and all we were doing was dueling with our
tongues. How delightful that was, especially with lipstick. And I found
that I enjoyed it even more when I just let Smithers kiss me the way he
wanted. Me not initiating. Just following.

   I should have been prepared for the "review" of nipple noshing, but it
was so darned GOOD that it slammed right into me again and, despite myself,
I was cumming hard.

   What a mess. All over my privates. No shame or guilt that time. Just
curiosity. How would he kiss my scrotum with that mess down there?

   The answer was, very well indeed.

   After I came, Smithers kissed my mouth deliciously for a short time,
then had me stand facing him as he sat.

   Smithers considered my privates. Was I too small down there for him? At
that moment, I desperately hoped not. Was my cock in the way of my
testicles? No. It had regained its vigor and was erect and throbbing once
again. But it was drenched from my cum, as were my pubic hairs and my
balls.

   "I'm going to kiss and lick and suck your little pink purse now Ronnie,"
Smithers said. "I'm fairly certain you'll enjoy that very much."

   Then he dove in, nose first. And proved that he was right. Oh did he
prove it.

   The first thing Smithers did was lick up all my sticky juices that had
settled on my testicles. He took scrupulous care not to touch or lick my
penis, which was not today's area of concentration (but eventually, it
would be, wouldn't it? <gasp>).

   If you've never had your balls licked by a skilled, loving man, I
recommend it highly.

   Smithers swirled his tongue around my wrinkled bag, kissed each sack
tenderly, then took each "little pearl," as he called them, between his
lips and sucked it most deliciously.

   It was exquisite. Gay beyond belief. Off the charts. But exquisite.

   Twelve lovely minutes was all I could endure. I felt the spermstorm
approach and warned the ship's captain, but he licked on. And on. Until, a
squealing, sissyish, wimpering, poor excuse for a man, I spunked the lovely
man's face with a cupful of hot love juice.

   Here's what a little sissy faggot I was that day. I sat on Smithers'
lap, kissed him and laid my hand on his stiff pole for the first time. He
didn't try to stop me.

   My face was smeared with my own cum as we kissed. I skinned his cockhead
up and down, rubbing my thumb in his peehole until the beautiful man began
to moan and drench my hand with his thick, rich manly cream.

   And the bell rang, ending our session.

   I thought we would go on. I wanted to go on. But Smithers gently lifted
me off his lap and arose. "That was lovely, Ronnie," he said. "You can go
in the bathroom to clean up."

   I was miffed. Was I some business arrangement with him? Couldn't we kiss
for another five minutes? Do other things too? Was it just slam-bam, thank
you ma'am for this guy?

   My dissatisfaction increased when I saw my cum-covered face and smeared
lipstick. What was I doing? Was I crazy?

   I cleaned up and dressed and couldn't wait to get out of there. I almost
didn't take the pink panties and tan stockings Smithers gave me to wear on
Wednesday. Because we were through. I was no pantyboy!

   Hmmmmppphhh!!!

   On Wednesday at 3 p.m., zither in hand and panties and stockings firmly
in place, I knocked on Smithers' door.

   Perhaps I had been too hasty. Smithers was basically a nice guy. He was
just a little smitten with me, that was all. Should I be insulted about
that? Certainly not. I should be flattered. And I was.

   Plus, the "kissing" wasn't that bad. Better than standing out in the
rain or skipping lunch, both of which I had done to pursue my craft.

   On Tuesday evening I had lain on my bed, listening to one of my favorite
CDs -- the sound track of "Saturday Night Fever" done by a zither
quartet. I think it far exceeds what the Bee Gees intended with their disco
classic. Disco and zithers are natural partners. Surely, you've heard the
zither interpretations of "Stayin' Alive" from that soundtrack and who can
forget the zither versions of Kool and the Gang's "Celebrate, Good Times,
Come On" and The Trammps' "Disco Inferno." ("Feelin' hot, hot, hot.")

   Well zither disco (or zisco, as the cognoscenti call it) always improves
my mood and it allowed me to forgive Smithers for being gay and for
stopping at that darned bell the day before.

   That Wednesday, for the first time, Smithers complimented me on the
emotional component of my zither-playing. "You've always been technically
competent, Ronald," he said, "but now it appears that you putting more of
your soul into your playing."

   I glowed with the praise. He was right. I could feel it. I think that a
large part of my improved playing was the release from my former,
buttoned-down self I was getting from the second part of our instructional
sessions. I'll admit that I had thought often about what our next second
session would be like. At 5 p.m., I found out.

   Smithers set the timer and said, "Today, Ronnie, we'll be focusing on
your toes. Now I want you to remove everything except your stockings and
put your lipstick on. No panties."

   I hustled to comply, saving precious kissing minutes. But I was startled
at the choice. Toes? I'll admit that I was disappointed. After a "scrotum
session," I was pretty certain that something very sensitive would be
kissed, licked and sucked next.

   Things picked up when, after stripping naked and leaving the room as I
was putting on my lipstick, Smithers returned with what appeared to be a
pink, openfront, babydoll nightie with pretty red rosebuds. And that's what
it was.

   "You'll look lovely in this, Darling," the naked, hunky man said.

   "Darling?" My poor peener was outrageous. Darling.

   I put the nightie on and felt waves of something that can only be
described as girlishness. Lots of girlishness. I knew it was consuming
time, but I had to see myself in lipstick, an ultra-naughty babydoll, and
black stockings. No shoes because of the toes thing.

   Smithers stood behind me as I admired my feminine self in his
full-length mirror. He put his hands on my upper arms and began to kiss my
neck. And rub his cock against the small of my back. Good gravy, that was
exciting!

   I turned and fell into his arms, submitting to his deep
kisses. Zithering was forgotten as my pricklet poked through my opened
babydoll and found Smithers' stiff monster. They introduced themselves to
each other as we kissed. Rubbing hot, sticky heads. Slick
friction. Ooze. Tongues exploring each other's mouths. I wanted Smithers to
master me and do something with me and to me. But what would he do?

   What we both did after a few minutes of erotic agony was to suck in our
breath and, almost at the same moment, pump hot cream onto each other's
private parts.

   It was the best moment of my life.

   I was way down a road I had never even imagined existed and I still had
a notion that I wanted to be able to retrace my steps eventually to the
beginning of that road. But there was a lot to see on that road. Many
amusements. Many stunning attractions. Maybe I would look around a bit
more.

   Smithers carried me in his arms over to his couch, laying me down
carefully. He began to kiss his way from my mouth to my toes, stopping for
some "review" at my nipples <pant> and my scrotum <gasp>. Again, he ignored
my rejuvenated popsy, but he did take the time to lick my balls clean of
the joint residue of our recent pleasure.

   Suddenly, he was at my feet. He asked me to sit up and I did. Then he
got on his knees and held my right foot in his
hand. Lovingly. Gently. "I'll leave the stocking on you for now," he
said. Then he began to kiss and lick each toe.

   Oh.

   I needn't have worried about that being a boring session. My head was
back and I was squealing like a sissy running from a bully.

   It was intimate, sexy and, even better, dirty.

   I loved having my toes sucked! And I had the presence of mind to extend
my free, stockinged foot to rub and tease Smithers' re-erected cock.

   He liked that. I liked that.

   The naughty man made me cum once from his attentions on each foot. I
made him cum just as I began to cum from his toe-adoration on my left foot.

   I had to admit. The man was as good at tutoring "kissing" as he was
zithering.

   Ding.

   It was a good thing the bell rang. I had cum three times in 30
minutes. My privates were drenched with Smithers' and my cum. And my right,
stockinged foot was soaked from Smithers' monster cum.

   Smithers thanked me, handed me a towel and sent me to the bathroom to
clean up.

   I did something naughty in there. I took my cummy stocking off and
licked Smithers' cum from it. I didn't know why. It just seemed right.

   Ten seconds later, I was grossly ashamed of myself again.

   Smithers, who apparently understood the shame cycle, was not upset when
he saw me hang my head as I left. "Here are three pairs each of panties and
stockings, Ronnie," he said. "Please begin to wear them 24/7 from now on."

   Outrageous, I thought, as I left. Well, it didn't matter. I wasn't
coming back.

   At three p.m. on Friday afternoon, zither in hand and panties and
stockings firmly in place (24/7), I knocked on Smithers' door.

   Having reflected on things, I realized that Smithers' cum had tasted
pretty good. Plus, no one had seen me swallow it. Except me. And when I
played a little for Mom and Daddy on Thursday night, they said that it was
the very zithering of angels.

   So no big deal with Smithers and the kissing, OK? Plus I just had to
know where he was going next. The eyelids? The armpits? My penis, perhaps?

   That made my knees wobble. To think of a man as hunky and cute and
loving -- I mean talented, zitheristically -- as Smithers, kissing my
little prick! That was exciting.

   At 5:01, after two fruitful hours of tutoring, I found out.

   "Today, Ronnie, we'll be focusing on your bottomhole, or anus. Now I
want you naked except for this training bra and these frilly, little-girl
socks and I want your lipstick on."

   My anus?!?! He was going to kiss, lick and suck my bottomhole? <Shudder>
No one had ever... Even I hadn't touched... Oh.

   I looked young and vulnerable in my training bra and girlie socks, which
was what I was, I guess. I was scared. That was irrational, I knew, because
Smithers would die before he hurt me. I guess I was afraid of losing the
last, thin shard of my masculinity.

   It was a good thing Smithers was a man of action, not reflection. He had
me in his arms a la Rhett Butler and was carrying me around the room as he
kissed me.

   Again, I felt totally helpless in his arms. And it was wonderful. The
man tongued my tonsils, breaking only to tell me how lovely I was.

   Then he had me stand in front of his coffee table. He asked me to lean
over, placing my palms flat on the table. I did. Ohh. Then he asked me to
spread my feet apart a bit more than normal. I did. Oh, oh.

   Smithers sat behind me and spent at least a minute just looking at my
plump, pink bottom. "It's a lovely, lovely bottom you have, Ronnie," he
said. I blushed .

   He gently kissed my left bottom cheek. Then the right one.

   It was not possible to be more totally erect than I was at that moment.

   Unexpectedly, Smithers dove between by thighs and in a bold, rear-guard
action, took both my testicles into his mouth and gave them a thorough
sucking.

   That got my attention.

   So did Smithers' nose pushing against my anus as he sucked my bag of
pearls.

   By most measures, I was having an excellent afternoon.

   I was wiggling and whimpering in my little socks and training bra as my
tutor (and lover) licked a trail from my balls, along that sensitive seam,
to my pretty hole. Which he first touched with his lips, then just the very
tippy tip of his stiff tongue.

   And that was it, ladies and gentlemen.

   Your raconteur flinched, then screamed. Then began pumping more cum than
I thought a person's balls could hold. As I pumped, Smithers cuddled my tee
tees and even gave them a <gasp> squeeze as I endured the sweet agony of my
orgasm.

   But the bell had not rung and Smithers kept licking. And then he stuck
his tongue "in there" even farther. And farther.

   It was spectacular.

   Due to the circumstances, Smithers was mostly nonverbal. But at one
lovely point, he withdrew his tongue, replaced it with two probing fingers
within my secret place and began speaking to me.

   "You're a perfect angel, Ronnie," he said. "Made for a lucky man to
adore. You're smart and beautiful. You have a fantastic body. Your
femininity is nearing perfection. And you seem to be very responsive to a
man's adoration."

   He was cuddling my little pellets as he delivered that high praise and
the combination would have been more than enough for another of those
spermstorms I had come to adore. But, girls, that bold explorer found my
prostate and he began to rub it. Gently. Sexily.

   It was true overload. Debilitating, almost.

   And it was the moment that I knew I wasn't going back to my old
life. Boys didn't have fun like I was having. Boys didn't get worshiped the
way I felt worshiped. Boys didn't get their toes blown off by the force of
their cums.

   Fingers "violating" me. Cum all over my front and anal juices drizzling
out of my bottom and down each inner thigh. Lipstick smeared. No sign of
manliness except for my dribbling dickie and the dangling dainties below
it.

   The need to do something for my benefactor overwhelmed me the way shame
and guilt had intruded days before.

   I wanted to suck Smithers' cock. Me. Can you believe it? Me.

   Was I gay? Not really. I was a pantyboy. I didn't even know the word at
that point, but I do now. And that's who I was.

   By my estimate, your favorite pantyboy had about ten minutes before bell
time. But I would not be denied.

   I stepped forward, disengaging Smithers' fingers from my bowels <darn
it>, startling him. I turned quickly and before my agenda-setting tutor
could protest, I fell to my knees between his legs.

   I held his cock in my soft hands and examined it carefully. Smithers'
protests died before they reached his lips. The guy knew when to keep
quiet.

   Holding that hot pole in my right hand, I hefted his nuts in my
left. Wow! This was a man who could drown a girl, or a pantyboy, with his
cum, I thought.

   Ooooohhh.

   With eight minutes until bell time, I began to kiss my first cock.

   I think I did it right.

   Smithers had a long, thick foreskin. So long that when fully-forward,
the skin covered all but the peehole. I stirred his stones with my left
hand as I unhooded the tender, pink parts of his manly weapon. His best
bits exposed to me, I laid my lips all over that sweet mushroom.

   Yes, I know I did that correctly.

   Smithers showed me that I did. All that moaning and appreciative
grunting.

   I think I enjoyed making him happy almost as much as I did having my own
life-threatening cums.

   I took the whole, big, meaty helmet into my mouth and swirled my tongue
around it. Slowly. The poor guy's peehole was leaking very badly. All over
my tongue.

   My first taste of that sticky, pre-gooey stuff. Nice. Kind of sweet,
actually. Made tastier by the naughtiness of it all.

   For the first time since I had been with Smithers, I was in charge. I
directed the action. I could have walked away and left Smithers in a
state. I could have hurt Smithers badly with my teeth. Or, I could have
just dampened my enthusiasm. What I did was give Smithers the first of what
I hoped would be many knock-down, drag-out blowjobs.

   When his gut clenched and he scalded my mouth with five thick globs of
his creamiest spunk, Smithers and I visited undiscovered galaxies.

   Hot cream gagged me. I choked a bit, then let the goo ooze from either
side of my mouth and onto my chin, throat and chest. I even managed to
swallow some.

   Smithers lay back, chest heaving. Breathing shallow. I considered
calling 911, but I wanted to suck it again.

   Smithers didn't make me suck him off. He didn't even suggest it. It
wasn't even in his plan, which by then was obvious to me. Bring Ronnie
along slowly. Kiss him somewhere else after each tutoring session. Make him
alternately crazy with anticipation and/or lust. Try to minimize the shame
and guilt until something happened.

   Want to know the funniest part of the whole thing? The bell system sort
of went away when it pleased Smithers. I took his limp cock into my mouth
and sucked it to another stand. He was delighted. I kept sucking, escorting
him to second, life-altering experience. The bell rang. Smithers made a
fist, leaned over, and smashed the timer.

   It took 20 minutes of sucking and ball licking to get Smithers on the
verge. When I licked two fingers, inserted them in his bottom and resumed
sucking, I got my "girl's big reward" in about 45 seconds.

   Reluctantly, I had to clean up and leave. Smithers looked blissfully
happy when he kissed my newly scrubbed face.

   He opened his mouth and was about to say something. Something
important. But he didn't. Rats.

   Instead, he gave me fresh panties and stockings, kissed me again and
said he would see me on Monday, where we would focus on a new area of
kissing concentration. My pretty popsy.

   <Shudder>

   I was very happy when I got home. And very curious about what Smithers
had wanted to say.



   Chapter Five -- No zither; just slither

   The next morning, Saturday, I played my zither for Mom and Daddy.

   I was terrific. Miles ahead of where I had been two weeks earlier. Mom
and Daddy were delighted, but Daddy was disturbed by his inside knowledge
of what went on after the lessons. Though Daddy had no idea how far
Smithers and I had progressed.

   My zither-playing had improved somewhat technically, but my emotional
quotient had advanced in quantum fashion. Had Smithers done that for me in
the first 120 minutes of our lessons or the last 30?

   After the family recital, Mom served a nice lunch. I loved the food and
the praise, but I had unfinished business. When I was finished helping Mom
clean up, I got in my car. My zither stayed home.

   I slipped in a CD. One of my favorites -- "Ice Zee: Hip Hop Classics
Performed on Zither."

   Aimlessly (I told myself) I drove around. Miraculously, I ended up in
front of Smithers' house. Hmmm.

   Well, I was there. Might as well go to the door and tell my tutor about
my family recital. The kind thing to do. Couldn't stay.

   At 1:36 p.m. I knocked on Smithers' door, no zither, but panties and
stockings in place.

   I stood there for a full minute. What if he wasn't home? I felt sick to
my stomach with disappointment.

   Or worse, what if he was in there "tutoring" another young man in
panties and stockings? Kissing and rubbing and licking the little nancyboy
the way he did me. That two-timer! Probably had some pretty little thing
lined up for Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Kept us both on a string. I
wanted to claw Smithers' eyes out (as well as the little sissy tramp who
was probably sucking his cock right at that moment).

   I was boiling with jealous rage. Though I only went over his house to
tell him about the recital. You know.

   Dejectedly, I turned to leave. But suddenly, the door opened and there
was Smithers. Bewildered at first. Then wearing the biggest smile I had
ever seen on anyone.

   Tears filled my eyes. Smithers opened the door fully, stepped forward
and consumed me with his arms.

   "Thank goodness! I was praying you would come today," Smithers said. "I
couldn't live without you until Monday. I never want to be apart from you
again. I love you, Ronnie!"

   So that was what he had wanted to say.

   My tears quadrupled as he pulled me inside and closed the door. We were
groping and kissing and pulling each other's clothes off until he was naked
and I was down to my panties and stockings.

   His mouth and tongue engaged me so much that I couldn't even
speak. Didn't even want to speak. My heart was bursting with happiness.

   Smithers carried me up the stairs as if I weighed nothing and into his
bedroom -- my first time there. I noticed idly that everything was clean
and tidy, though very masculine.

   Smithers laid me on his bed, then got on top of me, pinning me
helplessly under his magnificent body. Between kisses, he said, "I saw you
at the junior state championships two years ago and fell in love with
you. I moved to this town right before you were 18, hoping we could
meet. Then your father delivered you to me. I knew you were a pantyboy when
I first saw you. You're not gay and neither am I, so don't worry."

   I wasn't worried, only that he might hurt me when he put that huge
truncheon into my tiny bottom, which I was hoping he would do soon.

   He PLANNED to meet me and make me fall in love with him all along? I was
that central to his life? That precious? Oh, girls, that's the greatest
aphrodisiac there is.

   I freed my lips long enough to say, "Oh...Max. I love you too. Please
make love to me the way a man loves his sissy."

   Tears formed in Max's eyes, then flames leapt from his nostrils. I was
about to be fully fucked.

   The man reached into his nightstand drawer and extracted some lube in a
tube, which he applied to his fingers, then entered my anus with one, then
two digits.

   I gasped as he found my prostate, then almost screamed when, for the
first time, my lover took my penis into his mouth and sucked me as he
fingered my "pussy."

   I was slithering with pleasure as my man thrilled me at both ends of my
pelvic bone. What made it so wonderful was that he didn't just suck my
doodle, he ADORED it! He took his time to kiss and lick all around the rim
of the head. He tongued my peehole in a way that most of us with penises
only dream about experiencing. And his use of friction in my anus was
downright stupefying.

   I heard squealing, as if someone were a helpless little sissy in a man's
power. Loud, frantic squealing. Then I realized it was me. My anus, which
had been relaxed a bit by its bold visitors, contracted on my lover's
fingers. I arched my back, screamed, "I love you, Max!" and pumped a pint
or so of sticky, girlie juices into Max Smithers' hungry mouth.

   The bad boy took advantage of my trancelike state, withdrawing his
fingers from my "dirty," removing my panties completely, then mounting me
while I was still on my back. He threw my calves onto his shoulders.

   Max was a man consumed by lust. Lust for me. His girlish, sissyboy
lover.

   Through my post-orgasmic haze, I realized that my time had come. The
road was greased. The vehicle was fueled by hot blood. Max rubbed my anus
with the wet tip of his cock, teasing me. Making me whimper. Making me beg
for it.

   "Fuck me, Max." I said. "Fuck your pantied boy. Love me."

   He pushed the head of his bludgeon slightly forward. Ow!! Maybe it
wasn't such a good... Owwww! He pushed the whole head in and that stung.

   Max saw my fear and kissed me sweetly. "I'm pausing to let you get used
to its size, heat and hardness, Darling," he said. "In a minute or two
you'll feel no pain, only a desire to take in the other six inches."

   He was right. When I was ready, Max delivered the whole package.

   Filled by cock. On my back, squealing and begging for my man to fuck
me. Stockinged legs in the air. Popsy limp and flopping against my tummy
after each of my man's strokes. Helpless. Existing only to serve my man's
carnal needs. Enjoying my man's joy as much as my own. Living the girl's
life the way most girls work hard to avoid.

   Strangely, though my pricklet was limp, I felt that old feeling. The one
that precedes a cum-to-end-all-cums. Max's rammer rubbed against my
prostate. So big. So hot. So hard. I had just cum 15 minutes earlier and
anyway, I couldn't cum with a limp noodle, Right?

   Wrong. The 2:15 from Spermville slammed into me like the world's first
supersonic locomotive. Thick drool after thick drool oozed from my
sissypole as I cried out in powerless lust.

   Feeling my agonizing ecstasy fired Max's libido, tipping him over that
narrow, cliffside ledge we walk as we near orgasm. Max fell hard. He was
shaking and moaning as he drenched my derriere with its first spasms of
spunk.

   When the last drop of Max's sperm was deposited where it was always
fated to go, and my rectal muscles involuntarily expelled the thoroughly
welcome visitor, Max got off me, then took me into his arms. We kissed with
hungry tongues and I knew that I had met my soul mate. Not just for
zithering, but for our whole lives.



   Chapter Six -- Hither and thither with my zither

   Well I guess you can figure out the rest of the story. You never heard
of the zitherist Ronald Brosnan, but I know you've heard of the
world-famous Veronica Smithers! Of the Smithers Zithers! That clears things
up, eh?

   Veronica Smithers is who I am now. And have been since Max and I were
married five years ago.

   Our two-person "band" has been extraordinarily successful in the zither
community and we're even considering going more mainstream if Lawrence
Welk's grandson puts that TV show together as he's been saying he will.

   Everyone tells me that people would watch the show even if they didn't
like the zither. Just to see me in my pretty gowns with deep slits that
show off my long, sexy legs. In tan stockings. With my trademark silver or
gold stiletto sandals. But I think viewers would respect me as a zitherist
first, don't you?

   Max and I are deliciously happy, especially since we don't limit
"kissing" to 30 minutes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays any more.

   Max found me a great doctor who put me on the right hormone regimen and
made a few nips, tucks and improvements, so that I can be a pretty pantyboy
for many years to come. We've discussed getting me titties, but I hate the
thought of losing any sensation from the puffy, A-minus-cup, hair-trigger
nipples I have now. And Max says he loves my boyish, girlie body just the
way it is.

   I'm very happy with who I am. Mrs. Maxwell Smithers.

 Please tell me what you think at gingerfred2005@yahoo.com.

My other stories on nifty:

"Acting Up" transgender -- control
"Panty Pleasures" transgender -- young friends
"Woodville" transgender -- tv
"Mothered" transgender -- control
"Panty Town" transgender -- teen
"Tradition" transgender -- teen
"Punished" transgender -- high school
"Panty Paradise" transgender -- teen
"Kevin and Molly Go to Camp" -- transgender -- teen
"Lovelife" -- transgender -- high school
"My Three Sissies" -- transgender -- tv
"Acting Out" -- transgender -- high school
"Explorers" -- transgender -- high school
"Pantied" -- transgender -- young friends
"Rebuilding" -- transgender -- teen
"The Au Pair" -- transgender -- surgery
"Birthday Girl" -- transgender -- teen
"Genes" -- transgender -- high school
"Brothers in Panties" -- transgender -- teen
"Coach" -- transgender -- control
"Intervention" -- transgender -- high school
"Winners" -- transgender -- teen
"Teased" transgender -- high school
"Irish Girls" transgender -- teen
"Finished" -- transgender -- teen
"Role Model" -- transgender -- high school
"Freedom" -- transgender -- high school
"Panty Fiesta" -- transgender -- control
"Experiments" -- transgender college
"One Fine Day" -- transgender -- teen
"Stiff Resistance" -- transgender -- teen
"Poker" -- transgender -- tv
"Panty Sabbatical" -- transgender -- high school
"Published" -- transgender -- tv
"Stripped" -- transgender -- high school
"Trained" -- transgender -- control
"Something Better" -- transgender - tv
"Fulfilled" -- transgender -- tv
"Private Matters" -- transgender -- high school
"Hard Times" -- transgender -- tv
"Girl Nights" -- transgender -- control
"Geography" -- transgender -- tv
"Somewhere" -- transgender -- high school
"Next Door Bride" -- transgender -- chemical (though I don't think it has
chemicals)
"Service" -- transgender -- tv
"Test Driven" -- transgender -- tv
"Sissy Stepmother" -- transgender -- tv
"Slacker Moms" -- transgender -- tv
"Sissies and the City" -- transgender -- tv