Date: Mon, 24 Nov 2008 08:55:23 -0800 (PST)
From: Fred Gingerman <gingerfred2005@yahoo.com>
Subject: Slacker Moms -- transgender

Slacker Moms
by Gingerfred Man
A Pantyboy Profile

   Introduction

   "Call me Cheryl"

   See, I'm not some dumb pantyboy. I know my literature. "Call me Ishmael"
was the opening line in "Moby Dick." Which, by the way was a HUGE
disappointment to me. I mean I only had to read like a page or two of that
million-page novel before I figured out that it was NOT about what the
title implied. I thought it was about big "man parts." You know, as in,
"Wow, Baby, your dick is MOBY!" But it was about whales and stuff.

   Anyway, I'm a pantyboy. And a pretty smart one. So smart that my three
pouffy roommates gave me the responsibility of telling all of our life
stories. Our lives so far, I mean. We're only in our twenties, so we've got
a lot of living to do. I told you about Amy in "Service," Judy in "Test
Driven" and Sandy in "Sissy Stepmother." Now, you lucky reader, you get to
read about me.


   Chapter One -- What's the Rush?

   It's no wonder that the Baby Boomer generation has been so uptight.
They're always in a rush to move the big events of their lives along. They
graduated from college in four years! Can you believe that?  Four years?
Then, a lot of them actually left home!! At age 21!! Some even got
married. In their twenties!!! And had children before they were in their
late thirties or forties. Is that ridiculous or what?

   When I graduated from high school, my name was Charlie LaFemme and I was
a slacker. In fact, I'm still proud to call myself a slacker. My two older
brothers, Scott and Joey set a standard I was eager to emulate. Especially
Scott.

   Scott graduated from high school at age 18 and immediately set the
LaFemme family standard by declaring that he was taking a year to "find
himself" before he went to college. I was only five at the time, but even
then, I realized that I was observing something important.

   After Scott's year of getting up at noon, eating heartily from Mom and
Dad's bountiful table, hanging out with his friends, especially several
babes, staying out all night and wearing clothes that his mother washed and
pressed, Scott went away to college. Scott switched majors four times,
skillfully avoiding courses that would move him toward the satisfaction of
graduation requirements, and graduated six full years later at age 25. Of
course, after the pressure of constant study, Scott needed a year to "get
his head together." Mom and Dad appeared to be homicidal the night Scott
announced that aspect of his life's creed, but since he was their first,
they were unsure how to handle things. This all worked to Scott's
advantage, allowing him an additional year of relaxing, late puberty. Mom
and Dad strongly and frequently suggested that Scott get an actual, I hate
saying the foul word, "job," but he resisted, saying that the way for him
to truly succeed was to get his master's degree. Scott began grad school
fulltime at age 26 and put his greatest efforts into getting thesis
extensions, thus stretching an 18-month course into three years, but
grudgingly graduating at age 29. What do you think he did then? That's
right, he took a year off to get his head together.

   At age 30, Scott joined the working world, gaining a "position" with a
public TV station that paid him less in a year than Dad paid for his
monthly tuition. And at age 31, he met a girl with a real job (one that
paid) and moved in with her. Mom said something like, "She'll be sorry."
What was that supposed to mean?

   All I knew was that Scott was my idol!!!!

   Scott was Joey's idol too. He's four years younger than Scott, but has
followed Scott's perfect slacker pattern. He was 28 and entering his third,
and perhaps final, year of grad school. He and his girlfriend live in
California, so that eased my parents' financial pain a little. But they
still wrote those tuition checks.

   At 18 and just graduated from high school, I had high hopes for my next
12 or 13 leisurely years.

   Mom had other plans for me.



   Chapter Two -- Mom's Other Plans

   I guess I should have been suspicious when Mom and Dad started asking me
about college applications early in my senior year in high school.

   I was baffled by their questions. Didn't they know that extended puberty
was my birthright?

   Mom would sort of insist that I apply for college somewhere and I would
sort of say nothing. Then Mom would say weird stuff like, "I'm not making
the same mistake three times." What could that mean? I came along ten years
after Joey, so I guess Mom had a lot of time to stew about her boys.

   Mom and Dad went so far as to send away for college applications and
fill them out for me, then just tell me to sign them. I refused, of
course. I needed that year to find myself. Then Dad talked to a guy he knew
and got me a job doing road construction for the year of finding
myself. What another horrible idea! I refused that too.

   When I told my best friends, Mark and Brian, they were horrified too! We
were all taking that needed year after the mental exhaustion of high
school.

   Things began to turn against me when my friends' parents became infected
by the idea that their sons should "make something of themselves." Poor
Mark and Brian faced the same form of "child abuse" that I did. Was my Mom
spreading that horrible concept?

   We resisted, of course, and at graduation had what our parents called
"nothing going for us" and we were proud.

   Things were OK for a day or two after graduation. Then the roof fell in.

   That fateful morning, Mom woke me at the ungodly hour of 10 a.m. That's
right -- a.m.! She even made me get out of bed and sit across the dining
room table from her before she fed me my usual -- pancakes, sausages,
eggs, juice. Things a young man who's finding himself needs to light his
path.

   Then she spoke.

   "Charlie," the unreasonable-creature-who-had-taken-over-Mom's-body
said. "The game is up. You have three choices -- college, a full-time job
or something that I'm pretty sure will make you go to college or to work."

   Listening to my alleged "Mom," I sort of expected that her head would
spin 360 degrees or she would breathe fire or something. No sane, 21st
Century mother could dare to expect industriousness from her 18-year-old
son, could she?

   Fear gripped my soul. But then I thought, wait. She said three options.

   "What's the third option, Mom?" I asked.

   Mom smiled sardonically and said, "You and your little slacker friends,
Mark and Brian will dress as girls. Full time -- 24/7. Panties. Stockings.
Heels. Garterbelts. Miniskirts. Babydoll nighties for sleeping. Make-up.
Girlie hair. You can only be a boy again when you go to college -- with a
full, academic load -- go to work, or leave home and support yourselves."

   She couldn't be serious. Girls? Us? But worse, school, work or
supporting ourselves?

   After a lot of whining and pleading and questioning, I determined that
Mom was indeed serious. She added that if any of us violated the rule,
dressing as a boy or even going out without makeup, or standing to pee, the
offender would be kicked out of his house to fend for himself.

   Mom had me by the shorthairs! Why was she being so cruel? All I wanted
from her was complete and total servitude to my every need while I did
nothing. I just wanted to be 18 forever. Who doesn't?

   Clearly, Mom was a woman who had thought this through and was enjoying
herself very much.

   I tried every angle. The other boys would call me a faggot and beat me
up. I would be marked for life.

   Mom's answer was almost too horrible to record -- "Then get a job or
go to college and graduate in four years."

   I didn't have to listen to that! "I won't!" I said, and stomped my
little feet.

   "It's your choice, Cheryl," Mom said.

   Cheryl?

   Then Mom added, "I imagine Marie and Barbara are making the same choice
you are right now. It should be interesting."

   It was certainly that.



   Chapter Three -- Dressed

   Looking back on it, I had some odd ideas about things.

   I mean, when I decided to start dressing as a girl, it was all about
being a "freedom fighter." Slacker freedom. Freedom to avoid adulthood's
responsibility while reveling in its benefits. Every young man's right!

   A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, right?

   So I guess you could say that I was quite surprised at the path my
decision took me down.

   That day, Mom told me to go into my parents' bedroom and strip naked.
Well, I wasn't about to do that until Mom said, "State university (with a
full academic load) or road construction?"

   Naked it was.

   I was very embarrassed to be naked in front of my mom. But that was just
the very tip of what was to come.

   Mom handed me a ladies' razor and told me to go into her bathroom and
shave my legs. Then I was to call her and she would shave my bottom,
including <blush> between my cheeks.

   Freedom fighters must endure discomfort, I thought, so I did as she
asked. The worst part of it all was that, as Mom made me "all smooth" in my
most intimate place, my <blush> anus, I produced half an erection.

   Where did that come from?

   I hadn't had much experience with anything sexual. My attitude about
girls was the same as my attitude about life in general. I felt "entitled"
to girls and, even though I hadn't met one who would recognize my
entitlement to her, I was confident that, like my brothers, I would. So,
frankly, I didn't think about sex much and hadn't even masturbated. Strange
but true.

   Anyway, shaving above the waist was pretty easy because I didn't have
any hair to speak of there, even on my face. She checked me out very
carefully as I stood there naked. It was humiliating, especially since I
had a cock that seemed to want to stay the way it was when I was 11. Small
and unused.

   Thinking back, that was the first time Mom had seen my cock in a long
time, so she was probably surprised how "poorly endowed" I was. Little did
either of us know at the time that it was a genetic gift.

   Mom had me lift my balls when she shaved between my legs and she had me
spread my bottom cheeks and hold them apart as she shaved every hair from
my most private place. It was the first of what would prove to be a series
of frightful humiliations. Still, it was, I thought, the kind of pain a
true revolutionary must suffer.

   Even then, I had a very high opinion of myself -- for some very
strange reasons. Being naked in front of your Mom when you're 18 doesn't do
a lot for a guy's self-respect, so it was good that I had that high
self-opinion the day Mom started my unwilling transformation to hot babe.

   Mom ordered me to take a shower, then dry off. "And there had better be
no rubbing with the towel," Mom said. "Girls pat themselves dry. And you're
going to act like a complete girl...or ELSE! After the shower, join me in
your bedroom, Missy."

   The demon within Mom snarled the threat with some glee. Things were
getting out of hand.

   I finished my shower, patted dry, wrapped a towel around my waist and
padded into my room to see Momzilla.

   She was enjoying it all, getting revenge on Scott and Joey through
me. That was the worst part.

   Mom was sitting in my easy chair, twirling a pair of skimpy panties
around her right index finger as she smiled sardonically. Were those for
me?

   It appeared so. "Get 'em on, Tootsie," Mom said.

   So I was FORCED to put on my first panties by an evil dominatrix. Pretty
cool, huh? Though not entirely true. If I had surrendered right then and
gotten one of those job things or taken a full course-load in college, Mom
would have been completely happy and would have never given pantying her
youngest son a second thought.

   She started me down a path neither of us thought had pantyboy royalty as
its terminus.

   But back to the first panties.

   They were lovely. Pale pink and sheer. Little, white hearts along the
waistband.

   Mom handed the little teasers to me and barked at me to put them on.

   How embarrassing. How emasculating. How deliciously exciting.

   I won't say that when I touched the panties, electricity surged through
my body and girlishness possessed me. It wasn't like that at all.

   But I was prepared to hate wearing panties and I didn't. Hate them, I
mean. I didn't.

   I slid my right leg into the panties. Then the left. I stood and sort of
shimmied them up my legs. By the time they reached my mid-thighs, I had
three-quarters of a stiffy. When I nestled my balls in the bikini
treasures, my little tickler was red, rock-hard and throbbing.

   Mom noticed. I knew it from her smile. But there was enough of the old
Mom in her that she didn't mention my arousal.

   My chubby had practical considerations. The panties were stretched and
didn't fit right. The silky, girlish material was tormenting nerves in my
knoblet that I didn't even know I had. I didn't have much time to think
about it because Mom was behind me, adorning me with a matching bra. Was
that necessary?

   My nipples seemed to think so. When Mom laid the silky material over my
little nubbers, I winced in erotic discomfort. Where were those feelings
coming from? I had never given my nipples a second thought, but the
friction of that lacy bra had me in the early stages of a dither.

   The dither blossomed a bit when Mom sat me on her bed and sat next to
me. "This is how a girl puts on her stockings, 'Princess.' You roll them
into a little doughnut, then point your toes like this and roll slowly."

   Mom then demonstrated by rolling a nice pair of black, sheer stockings
over her very good legs. Did Mom usually wear stockings? I couldn't
remember.

   Maybe I was just a tad self-centered at that time of my life.

   Mom then handed me a pair of tan, very sheer stockings and had me roll
them into doughnuts. A little film of sweat formed on my upper lip. Like
any male, I knew I was crossing a big river. A scary river. What if I liked
the other riverside better?

   Mom didn't allow much time for appropriate reflection. "Roll them up,
Cupcake! That's it. Oh, nice legs! The men and boys will be whistling at
you when I take you out this afternoon."

   As humiliating and terrifying as Mom's threat to show the femmy me off
in public was, my brain couldn't focus on it. The only meaningful input was
coming from my cock. Not unusual for an 18-year-old boy. But what was so
sexually thrilling to me about being in my first panties, bra and
stockings?

   I was half an impure thought away from a shuddering orgasm.

   And that was a lot scarier to me than the thought of being paraded en
femme in public.

   But Mom had more. She produced a garter belt -- an object of clothing
I didn't even know existed -- then showed me how to put it on and hook it
to my stockings.

   I looked at my legs encased in smooth, tan nylon. They looked wonderful!
And the feelings were delicious. I saw the little webbies between my toes
and felt my balls stir yet again. Mom slipped a tight pair of pumps on my
feet. The heel was ridiculously low -- only two inches -- but I
struggled to keep my balance.

   Mom led me to her full-length mirror and said, "Look at yourself, Miss
Sissypanties! Is this how you want people to remember you? This is how it's
going to be. In fact, I'm going to give you a blouse and a miniskirt and
I'm taking you to the beauty parlor for a makeover. In public. Today. Do
you give up?"

   Mom not only underestimated the depth of my sloth, she completely
misread how I would react to being dressed as a girl.

   I had never been so excited in my life. I had no make-up, hair styling
or accessories. I could barely stand in two-inch heels. I had been in
lingerie for about 15 minutes.

   But I knew. Mom didn't know. And she didn't know I knew. She just
thought I was obstinate.

   Thinking quickly for one of the first times in my life, I told Mom I had
to go to the bathroom before she put the "street clothes" on me. Mom sighed
in exasperation, but thank goodness, she let me go.

   I barely made it to my bathroom and got my panties down before I began
spurting cum so hard that it drove me to my stockinged knees. Good golly!
My guts were torn open and I sprayed cum all over. My eyes filled with
tears, which Mom would take as my reaction to her plan to humiliate me into
responsibility.

   Somehow, I managed to clean up the sticky evidence and report back to
Mom for my blouse and miniskirt.

   Mom looked at me curiously. She clearly thought I would have caved
already. I wondered if Mark or Brian had caved. But mostly I wondered what
was happening to me.

   It felt so weird to go out our front door, in girlish gear, carrying a
purse, and stepping carefully in heels. I guess I still walked like a boy,
but I tried to walk a bit girlie so I wouldn't be so "obvious."

   No one saw me, I think, during that short, but important walk to the
car. Mom was recalculating things a bit. My biggest fear at that moment was
that Mom would cave -- telling me I could get out of my girlie clothes
and live the slacker life enjoyed by my brothers.

   No way. She may have seen her youngest son begin his evolution as a
pantyboy, but in Mom's mind at that time, anything was better than a third
slacker in the family.

   We drove in silence. Mom reasonably mistook my discomfort as
humiliation. It was really caused by a heady mix of confusion, anticipation
and large dollops of sexual arousal.



   Chapter Four -- Slack Like Me

   On the ride to the beauty salon, I also wondered what Mark and Brian
-- whom Mom and their mothers had renamed Marie and Barbara -- were
doing? Had they caved in, leaving me alone in the fight for slacker rights?
Had they stayed in character as the born slackers they were, refusing any
efforts to coerce their entry to the adult world? Or were they <gulp>, like
me, frantically excited and astonished at their first visit to Girlyland?

   Brian and I were smaller boys. I had never seen Brian's "equipment" and
didn't know if he was as dainty as I, but, like me, he was slim, with long
legs. I tried to picture Brian as a girl and, amazingly, I was able to do
so. He was cute, in my imagination. And girlish. Though as a boy, Brian had
been hygienically-challenged, perhaps he would be a neat girl.

   No such picture emerged of Mark. He was six-foot-two, 200 muscular
pounds. Ripped abs. Muscular legs. A real "guy" face. I was afraid for him
if he were to wander out dressed as a girl.

   But there Mark was, with his Mom, walking into the beauty parlor as we
pulled into the parking lot.

   Mark was in full girlie gear, minus the make-up and hair styling. And he
looked ridiculous.

   Mom gave a little toot and Mrs. Cumwell stopped and waved at us, then
waited until we got out of the car. Mark looked miserable. And he was
something else. Interested about the way I looked. And walked.

   Mom and Mrs. Cumwell were congratulating themselves about our torment,
so I managed to pass on a "revolutionary's message" to him. "Stay strong,
brother."

   Mark gave me the oddest look and said, "Easy for you to say. You've
never looked better in your life."

   I did? Was that a compliment? Did he really think so?

   I got the weirdest tingle and my stiffie returned.

   "Come along Marie, Cheryl," Mrs. Cumwell said. "I'm sure your pretty
little friend Barbara is inside having her face done."

   Mark groaned. I quivered at the thought of having my face "done."

   I tried not to look at Mark. He was huge. And manly. And
ridiculous-looking. Maybe a day in a beauty salon would help. Maybe Al Gore
and George W. Bush would be teammates in a Wednesday-night bowling league.

   For the first time in my life I entered a feminine sanctuary -- a
beauty salon. Women who cared about their appearance were having their
nails, hair and faces done. I looked around for Brian, AKA Barbara. He was
in a chair, receiving a make-up lesson. His Mom, Mrs. Harder, was standing
smugly beside him, urging him to pay full attention to make-up technique.

   Oddly enough, Brian seemed to be hanging on every word, watching every
technique. And oddly enough, Brian was, as I had imagined, extraordinarily
cute as a girl.

   It was clearly the strangest day of my life. And probably the most
important. I caught Brian's eye, giving him a little wave and a "thumbs-up"
as I was led to my chair for make-up, manicure and pedicure.

   Mark acted as if he were being led to his execution.

   I was so excited, I was trying valiantly not to cum in my panties.

   Oh my. A beauty technician named Phoebe was quite amused to have a boy
in her chair, but even she was impressed with the make-up results. I was
VERY pretty. Darned-near beautiful. And very feminine-looking. Mom was
shocked. Phoebe was shocked. Mark and Brian were shocked. When I looked at
myself, I came in my panties. No one even noticed, so great was their
amazement at my beauty. Thank goodness I was wearing a black miniskirt.

   I looked over at Mark. He was looking at me in the weirdest way. Almost
lust. I wasn't sure and neither was he. Brian was looking at me with what
may have been envy, though he was darned cute as a girl.

   When they got done with me, hair, nails and all, I was feeling pretty
good about myself. But then I looked at Mom. She was processing --
reevaluating. Was she changing her mind about making me dress as a girl?

   I had to act.

   "Mommmmmmmm," I whined in my best slacker voice. "This is horrible!
Please don't make me do this. I'll be beat up. Everyone will call me
names."

   Mom's face hardened. Her strength renewed, she said, "Will you get a job
or go to college full time."

   I put on my best brat face and said, "I won't! I won't!"

   So the "blackmail" continued.



   Chapter Five -- Two Brave Revolutionaries

   Mom and I rode home in silence too, though I caught her sneaking puzzled
peeks at me.

   When we got home, Mom escorted me to my room, where Dad was just
finishing up some modifications. He had shoveled out the dirt, taken down
the blacklight posters and removed all my boy clothes from the floor and my
closet. A full array of girlie stuff was in there now, as well as a pink
bedspread, stuffed animals and a vanity table with a stool and a full array
of make-up items.

   Mom had apparently enlisted Dad fully into her evil plans.

   But I thought the whole situation was not half as bad as I had
anticipated. I mean, so far I liked dressing like a girl. A lot.

   Later that day, I got a call from Mark. Mom insisted that I answer the
phone saying "Little Sissy Cheryl speaking." Mark laughed when he heard
that, then he apologized.

   Then he really apologized. "I believe in what you're doing, Charlie, I
mean Cheryl, but I can't do it. I look ridiculous, but, I must say, you
look great. Really great. I mean, good, you know?"

   Something odd was happening with Mark, don't you think?

   "Anyway," Mark went on, "My Dad got me a construction job. I start
tomorrow. Then I'm going to college full time in the fall."

   The HORROR!! I thought. Mark was no longer a slacker. He was practically
an adult!!!

   I should have been very angry at him. I was, sort of. Why then, when I
got into my pink babydoll nightie and got into bed, between my silky,
scented, pink sheets, did I think about Mark? At a construction site. With
his shirt off. Muscles rippling.

   Why, as I fell asleep, did I lightly touch my peeny with my fingertips
while thinking of Mark? And why did my tummy clench and why did I start
spurting that sweet cream that the boys would love so much later on?

   The next morning my tummy was sticky with dried boy's cream. The girlie
clothes had me in a stimulated mood, so it was clear to me that I would be
doing some serious self-love, complete with its requisite guilt about being
so stirred up by my feminine self.

   The only alternative to being an apparent sissyboy was to give in to
Mom. And that was not on my agenda.

   I yawned and padded into the bathroom, sitting to pee. Would Mom be
dommy today or could I just girlie up and see where things took me? And
other than occasional heavy lifting, what was Daddy's role in all this?

   I took a shower, brushed my teeth and even shaved. Phoebe had given me
some foundation that would cover my light beard very nicely, so I used it
as a base for my face that day. I spent some time with my eyes and, though
I veered a bit toward trashy, had my baby blues looking pretty
girlish. Lipstick, blush, powder and perfume and I was ready to put on my
bra and panties. But first, I'm sorry, I just had to relieve my "tensions."
Looking at my lovely face in the mirror as long as I did had me quite
worked up. I stood in front of my three-way mirror naked, with a tissue in
my left hand and my popsy in my right. I held my pretty knoblet between my
thumb and forefinger and rubbed. It didn't take too many strokes or too
much of a fantasy. My own beauty had me shooting my first creamy load of
the day into my soaked Kleenex.

   A narcissistic sissy is a happy sissy.

   My panties were still "pointed" when I put them on. The rubbing of my
silky bra against my swollen nipples was going to have me in a sexual
"state" all day. Those sheer, black stockings I rolled up my excellent legs
had me "on the verge" as well. Mom insisted that I wear the three-inch
stilettos that day just to torment me. She actually thought at that point
that she would win.

   Well, when I slipped my pretty blue dress with white polka dots over my
head, then added a ribbon to what was clearly a boy's haircut, despite the
salon's best efforts, I was ready for the worst Mom could dish out.

   She was very surprised when I showed up in the kitchen, before noon, in
full feminine splendor. Mom took it as defiance, not sissiness. If she had
thought that I was enjoying myself, she probably would have done everything
she could to make me butch. Especially after...

   More about that later. Anyway, Mom went back on the offensive. "Don't
you look wonderful, Cheryl, dear? Doesn't she, Roger?"

   Dad had the funniest look on his face. A look I've seen from men
thousands of times since that day. He grunted an affirmation, but didn't
break "the look."

   Mom went on, "Have a bowl of Special K and skim milk, dear. You're
little sissy friend Barbara and her mother will be by any minute. We're
going on a field trip."

   Mom had nothing good in mind for that excursion, I was sure. But from my
end, at least, her planned nastiness was like a trip to Disneyland.

   Barbara (Brian) and Mrs. Harder arrived 15 minutes later. The moms were
clearly enjoying themselves. But even Mrs. Harder was impressed by my
beauty. Mom was too, but wouldn't admit it.

   Barbara's panties were tented when she saw me, but whose wouldn't be?
I'm fabulous! And, you know, Barbara was pretty good-looking too. We didn't
get much opportunity to communicate early that day, but I was pretty sure
that Barbara was enjoying herself as much as I was.

   The moms hustled us out the door because we had to get to a big,
downtown construction site at lunchtime. The men were all sitting out,
wolf-whistling the girls, when we arrived. Barbara looked miserable when
she assessed the situation. Was she acting? I knew my look of misery was
fake. I was eager to be sexually harassed by throngs of horny men with
calloused hands and hairy chests.

   Mom and Mrs. Harder had dressed sort of hot for the occasion as well
-- both were attractive, and when they chose to dress like women, very
attractive. They had big heels, stockings and short skirts. Did they enjoy
walking past construction workers too?

   "All, right, girls. Let's walk down this path. If any of those men call
out to you, the ladies will take you over and introduce you properly to the
nice gentlemen. Let's go."

   Barbara and I walked as if we were in our funeral procession. Barbara
was either an excellent actress or she hated dressing girlie.

   How could anyone hate dressing girlie?

   Groups of hard-hatted men seemed to coalesce in front of us as the four
feminine forms wiggled toward them. Mom drove the herd onward. Ten yards
away, the first man made a sound -- a deep, loud, wolf-whistle. That
broke the mood of awe, and several men whooped and called out clever things
like, "Hey, Baby" and "Hey, Pretty Mama."

   My cheeks were red hot. I guess it was one part humiliation and two
parts sexual excitement. Not that the men would ever do anything other than
catcall, but the situation was gorging my starving ego.

   When the men had concluded their performance, Mom spoke loudly. "Thank
you, gentlemen. That's so sweet. It's so sweet of you to salute two older
ladies like us. Surely you weren't calling out to Cheryl and Barbara, our
sissy sons. They like to dress as girls and tease men. I'm guessing they
even have sex with men now and then, but we've never caught them doing
that. Surely, men like you aren't interested in pansies with little
penises, are you?"

   Was Mom trying to have us torn apart by an angry mob? If so, she failed
miserably. And proved once again that she didn't understand men.

   A man in the back responded to Mom's question. "Girls like them deserve
a man's full attention. They're pretty enough to be in Panty Boy magazine!"

   That brought vigorous agreement from the crowd and inspired Mom to get
the four of us moving again.

   What an interesting response. Did men really lust for "girls" like
Barbara and me? And what in the heck was "Panty Boy magazine?" I soon found
out.



   Chapter Six -- A Revolutionary Council

   Mom and Mrs. Harder were prepared to lead us into several more
life-threatening situations that day, but decided to take us home and cut
their losses.

   I was surprised when Mrs. Harder went home and left Barbara to spend the
night. With me. In my room.

   At around 8 p.m., Mom, still directing, but losing a bit of her edge,
told Barbara and me to get into our nighties, then we could come downstairs
and watch TV together on the couch.

   Alone at last.

   I took Barbara to my room and closed the door. "So, what do you think?"
I asked. Then I turned and said, "Would you unzip my dress?"

   Barbara unzipped as she answered. "Good question," she said. "What do
you think?"

   I shimmied my dress over my head, exposing my lovely, lingeried body to
Barbara. "I asked you first," I pointed out correctly.

   Barbara looked scared. To admit to someone that you like cross-dressing
is not easy. "I think that you look amazing in girl's clothes," she said,
cheating a bit, but gaining points with me.

   "You look pretty good yourself," I said, unhooking my bra and exposing
my puffy nipples. "Aren't you going to get undressed and put your nightie
on?"

   Barbara gulped. Then she began to undress. "Everything's different now,
isn't it?" she said.

   "Yes," I said, unsnapping my garter belt and starting to roll down my
stockings. "But we could always go back to being boys. We just have to do
what our Moms want."

   Barbara got up her courage and said, "I don't think I want to go
back. Not right away, anyway."

   I said, "Me neither," then went over and kissed her lightly on her
glossed lips.

   We took that no farther, managing to get into our teeny nighties,
panties and stiletto mules without sexual incident.

   We rejoined Mom in the family room, where she and Dad had begun watching
"Victor/Victoria."

   Poor Dad. His eyes were bugging out when he saw two delicious,
18-year-old, scantily-yet-sexily-clad pantyboys in plain sight. The poor
guy's trousers were extended as well.

   Dad kept sneaking looks at us. So much that Mom dragged him up to bed
halfway though the movie, leaving Barbara and me on the couch, next to each
other, warm, silky thigh touching warm silky thigh.

   I actually think Mom was trying to make us disgusted by the homo-ness of
it all -- sitting next to each other, sleeping in the same bed.

   As with every plan Mom had made, it backfired.

   I had never seen "Victor/Victoria" before and I was kind of enjoying
it. Especially how a man's man like James Garner could be attracted to
Julie Andrews, who, he thought, was a crossdressing man. Sort of like those
construction guys earlier in the day.

   I was so into the movie that I almost didn't notice that a soft hand had
insinuated itself under my pink nightie and was reaching for my left
nipple. Then I noticed.

   "Thank you for that kiss earlier, Cheryl," Barbara said. "I enjoyed it
very much."

   Apparently so. The bad little creampuff was twiddling my left nipple
between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. It felt incredibly
wonderful. I moaned a little and parted my lips. Barbara covered my mouth
with hers. Then she gave me her tongue.

   Why we were doing "things" with each other was a mystery to me. A few
days earlier, if "Brian" had kissed me and twiddled my nipple, I would have
a) thought he had gone insane, then b) attempted to dismember him.

   But sissied up and pretty in our girlie things, with girlie names and
girlie looks, it seemed all right. Very all right.

   I wiggled with pleasure. The kissing. The friction on my nipple. Then
Barbara's hand dropped and slid inside my panties.

   Still kissing me, Barbara tickled my sensitive knoblet with her gentle
fingers. Skinning it sweetly. Exposing the pink, slick head and all its
tender skin. After several glorious minutes, I squealed softly, sucked her
tongue very hard, and filled my panties with warm, girlish cream.

   Barbara was right. There was no going back for us.

   Barbara took my hand and led me up the stairs to my bedroom.

   What would Mom have thought if she saw us holding hands, faces flushed
with sexual arousal? Pretty little "points" in our panties.

   Mom would have probably been pissed that her plans had failed yet
again. Then she would have started blaming herself for turning her son into
a "little sissy faggot."

   Well, I am not a "faggot," let me tell you. I adore men and make them
very happy they were born with a Y chromosome. But I'm a completely
different gender from men. And women. And they both know it.

   And Mom surely didn't turn me into anything. All she did was wake me
up. To life, as well as my true identity.

   You never know what will happen when you put a young man in panties --
other than the fact that he'll probably make a big creamy mess in
them. Most of them enjoy the experience, though they wouldn't admit it to
anyone, especially themselves.

   Barbara and I were letting instinct guide us, something we're all
discouraged from doing most of our lives.

   It was great.

   We got on my double bed and grunted and panted as we kissed and groped
each other. I had Barbara's nightie up over her nipples and her panties
down below her little bag and popsy. I was VERY excited.

   Her "Passion" perfume was entering my nose, then telegraphing my
brain. Following instructions from my brain, blood was rushing to my penis,
making it stiff and needy again. She was enjoying the attention
tremendously, panting and gasping as I kissed and licked her left nipple
and massaged her teeny peeny.

   Barbara's nipple erected sharply as my glossed lips and moist tongue
tormented its sensitive flesh. Her pretty eyes were closed and her back
arched as she surrendered to the pleasures we were avidly exploring.

   I was fairly certain that she was "on the verge," when an impulse of
passion seized me. I stopped licking her pretty nipple. She whimpered
softly and made a pouty face. What a surprise. I thought a pouty face would
be well, pouty. But Barbara's pouty face was quite sexy. Seizing the
initiative, I scooted my panties off, then reversed my body on her. She was
on her back and I was on my right side -- my lips inches from her penis
and her lips inches from mine.

   We both contemplated the very big step we were about to take. We would
be cocksuckers. Marked forever.

   Mmmmm.

   Barbara's cock was so tiny, it wasn't entirely like being a cocksucker
to take it into my mouth. Is there such a thing as a semi-cocksucker? If I
sucked it twice, would I be a full cocksucker

   Too much musing. I kissed Barbara's pretty, pink pole. And didn't
die. So I licked it. Mmm. That was nice! Barbara squeaked. Then I felt a
warm, wet mouth around my cocklet for the first time in my life. And I was
hooked. Sucking and being sucked make me very happy.

   I slurped and licked and kissed and made lots of noises of genuine
satisfaction. Barbara was a talented cocksucker. And references on my
cocksucking skill are available on request.

   Since Barbara hadn't cum yet that evening, she was the first to lose her
girlish cargo. She made such a sissy squeal that I was afraid Mom and Dad
would burst into the room with a SWAT team. They didn't.

   If they had, Barbara and I would have sucked the SWAT team's cocks. We
were very randy and very eager to try out our new skills.

   Barbara gave me my very first mouthful of cum. And she must have been
saving it up, just for me because it was plentiful and deliciously
creamy. Who knew that I would love the taste of cum so much? To me, it's
the nectar of sex.

   Like a good sissy, I swallowed my lover's whole load. Barbara moaned and
whimpered as I continued to lick and polish her knob well after her
seizure. Then she resumed sucking me.

   I liked that a lot. I sort of kissed Barbara's pink helmet as she
tongued my treasures. It was all so naughty and exciting. And girlish! I
was a girl being sucked by a girl. Frilly girls. Pleasuring each other with
abandon.

   Would I be able to please a man as I had pleased Barbara? Would I want
to? Would a man want me?

   Then I got a strange, but clear mental picture of being girlied and
half-naked, in bed with a man. Specifically Mark. Mark was making love to
me and making me cum and cum. Where did that come from?

   Wherever, it led to a cum that was so intense, it almost exploded the
head of my cock. Barbara was choking and cum was drooling from the sides of
her mouth!

   Wow.

   When we settled down a bit, we got under the covers, kissed and hugged,
then fell asleep in each others' arms.



   Chapter Seven -- Barbara's Betrayal

   Barbara and I had similar enjoyments -- once at around three a.m.,
then a last when we awoke at seven.

   I didn't know where this was all leading, but the journey sure was fun.

   Mom looked at us funny when we went downstairs for breakfast. We had
cleaned up, a bit, but Mom could probably still smell the cum. Or maybe Dad
could. He was certainly acting disturbed at breakfast.

   Anyway, the next week or so was very odd. Mom was less confident that
she would "win," but she was nowhere near being ready to give up! She spent
a lot of time at the library and on the Internet, looking for new tactics
in dealing with me. Getting me to enroll in college and start moving
ahead. As a boy.

   It was late June and Mom always went to visit Grandma for two weeks. My
"petticoat punishment" would apparently have to be put on hold for a while,
unless Mom trusted Dad to push me. Dad had never been very good at being a
disciplinarian, so I was assured of an easy fortnight.

   Barbara and I had "gotten together" several times since our breakthrough
night and I was looking forward to seeing her a lot with Mom gone.

   Oddly, Mark had begun calling me around ten o'clock most nights. Every
night, actually. Telling me about his day and asking me about mine. Telling
me his feelings! Asking about mine! Before, we mostly grunted "Hey Dude" at
each other. When we did talk, all we ever talked about was girls, video
games, school, cars, sports and pizza.

   Mom even asked me to drive her to the airport. She liked seeing Grandma,
so she was in a good mood. Could she be softening toward me?

   I liked going places as my girlie self. The airport was lots of fun for
me. In fact, wherever I went, men would watch me. Undressing me with their
eyes. I enjoyed it too, being a prickteaser. That's what I was. The
prickpleaser part came later.

   When we left home for the airport, Mom told Dad that her flight had been
delayed, but when we got there, we found that it was back on schedule. So I
arrived back home two hours before I was expected.

   Why does that always seem to cause problems?

   I pulled into the driveway, then sissied into the house in my big
heels. Giving the male neighbors a great show. Maybe I would call Barbara,
I thought, and we could exchange some creamy fluids. Mmmm.

   Maybe I would wear that new black babydoll, and those black, seamed
stockings I hadn't worn yet, I thought, as I went up the stairs to my room.

   I was so lost in carnal plans that I didn't hear the grunts and squeals
and moans of two people in a sexual clinch. Until I was outside my parents'
door.

   Huh?

   Mom was out of town! Did Dad have a lover?

   Impossible. Mom had him so cowed.

   But something involving cum and noises was happening in there.

   I know, I know. You're thinking, "Why didn't that busybody, big-mouth
Cheryl mind her own business? Why didn't she just stroll on by that bedroom
door?"

   Yeah, right.

   I had to know. I slowly opened the door and confirmed part of what I
thought to be true. It was a quite naked Dad on top of another person.

   Seeing your Dad naked, fucking his brains out, was bad enough. But wait,
there was more.

   Dad was having the time of his life. He had a beautiful, feminine person
in lovely lingerie under him. The two were involved in deep, mutually
pleasurable coitus. The woman's face was obscured, but I could see that Dad
had her calves on his shoulders and he was pushing his big bruiser in and
out of her bottomhole, not her pussy.

   I asked myself, was that possible?

   Was I ever that young?

   There was something familiar about the woman. I had to see who it
was. Then I did.

   It was no woman.

   It was Barbara.

   Daddy was fucking one of my two best friends.

   In my house.

   My best friend was letting my Daddy fuck her. Worse, she seemed to be
enjoying it a lot more than when she and I made love.

   My eyes filled with tears. I was short of breath.

   I ran out of the room and they never even saw me. The fucking fuckers!
The nerve!

   I had to get out of the house, so I grabbed my purse and got into the
car.

   I had to drive. Get away. Find comfort. Where could I go?

   My brain was brimming with questions. Horrible questions. Was Daddy gay?
Didn't he love Mom anymore? Was Barbara gay? Didn't she love me anymore?
Would Daddy leave Mom and marry Barbara? Would Barbara be my stepmother?
Was I gay for sucking a gay person's cock?

   Somehow, I ended up at Mark's house. Would he be home? It was a
Saturday, so it was possible.

   I touched up my makeup -- no sense looking frumpy. Then I tottered
over on my new, four-inch stilettos, and knocked on Mark's door.

   He was home! And alone! And very concerned about my distress! And VERY
handsome and hunky from all that manual labor on his job.

   Maybe the day was improving.

   Mark invited me in and I began to cry. Tears were flying from my eyes,
as it did in those old romance comic books, remember? Anyway, Mark hugged
me to comfort me. He asked me to tell him what was wrong and I raised my
head to tell him. But my eyes locked with his clear blue eyes. And he was
hugging me so nicely.

   Then. somehow, we were kissing.

   Kissing!

   Good golly, it was wonderful.

   If my life depended on me telling Mark why I fled my house to come to
him, I would be six feet under. All I could think of was how wonderful
Mark's lips felt on mine. How his manly beard rubbed softly on my tender
skin. How his big, calloused hands felt as they caressed my bare shoulders.



   It was so wrong. We had been boys together since we were five years
old. I shouldn't <gasp> be letting him <pant> kiss me like
that. Overpowering me. Ruling me.

   I learned a lot about myself at that moment. I wanted very much to
submit to a man. A nice man who would cherish me as he dominated me. A man
who would take my problems on as his own.

   I sort of surrendered to Mark as he held me and kissed me. I felt
something leave my body forever. I think it was what remained of my
masculinity.

   Mark felt it too. And he did exactly the right thing. He stopped kissing
me and we sat on the couch. He put his arm around me and made everything
all right. Then he asked, "What happened, Cheryl?"

   He called me Cheryl!!

   With little, girlish sobs, I said, "I caught that little tramp Barbara,
I mean Brian, no, I mean Barbara and my father in bed together. Doing
'things' together."

   Mark looked genuinely shocked. Then he looked very thoughtful. "What
exactly were they doing? Tell me everything."

   Obviously, Mark thought it would be therapeutic to do so. I sniffled and
said, "That tramp was on her back. She was wearing a sheer, black teddy,
unsnapped at the crotch and her trampy pricklet was sticking straight
up. She had her legs, which were encased in fully-fashioned, black
stockings, all the way back. She had her trampy calves over my Daddy's
shoulders. Daddy was naked and on top of her. His big 'business' was stiff
and he was pushing it in and out of that little tramp's tight bottom."

   Mark's eyes lit up. With great interest he asked, "Are you sure he had
his 'thing' in her bottom?"

   Sniffling, I nodded.

   "I'm sorry to ask this, Cheryl, but did it appear that Barbara was in
any pain?"

   An odd question, but I answered it honestly. "No pain. Lots of
pleasure. For both of them. Isn't that disgusting?"

   Mark nodded his agreement, but I think he was thinking bigger
thoughts. And there were bigger things growing in his pants.

   Mark gulped and made a very important declaration.

   "Those moments when we were kissing were the best of my life,
Cheryl. I'm not gay, so I never thought that I would fall in love with my
best friend. I mean I read 'Panty Boy' magazine and everything, and I guess
your Dad does too, but I never thought you would be...I mean..."

   And then he stopped talking and started kissing me again.

   It was deeply delicious. I had no idea what he meant by "Panty Boy"
magazine. But I think he had big plans for us that day.

   I was ready.

   Mark broke the kiss and asked, "My Mom and Dad won't be home for about
ten hours. Would you like to visit my room?"

   Try and stop me, I thought.

   Mark asked, "Do you want to call home and tell them you'll be late so
your Dad doesn't call the police?"

   Hmmmph. I thought. I knew those two were too busy to answer the
phone. But I took Mark's advice and left a message.

   Then we went upstairs, hand in hand. I was very nervous. Shaking,
even. But Mark was so sweet and strong. I put myself in his hands.

   Unlike my room when I was a boy, Mark's room looked as if a human being
lived there. The bed was made and the sheets were clean. They wouldn't be
for long.

   I was so glad I had worn clean underwear. At least some of Mom's advice
had been good.

   That day, as I recall, I was wearing a cute, white sundress, white bra
and panties, a white garter belt, seamed, tan stockings (with a dark weal
on the thighs), and the prettiest, white, strappy sandals with four-inch
stiletto heels. That get-up, along with my perfect make-up, natural beauty
and submissive attitude, had my young man in quite a state.

   I turned to let my man unzip my sundress, which he did as he was softly
kissing my neck and creamy shoulders. I whimpered as he slowly inched the
zipper down. He ran his rough hands gently along my shoulder blades as I
wiggled out of my dress.

   I stood before my first man in bra, panties, garters, heels and
stockings. My panties were very pointed as I watched Mark strip naked. When
he was without a stitch, he lay on the bed on his back. I hadn't seen his
johnson since we were nine or ten. It had grown. From what I could see, it
was bigger than Daddy's!

   Mark beckoned to me to join him. Should I get into bed with my big sexy
heels on? That seemed to be what he wanted? Apparently. Stilettos in bed
are sexy, don't you think?

   So is a naked, beautiful, muscled man with his arms open. I sissied to
the bed and threw myself into his arms.

   We kissed a little as Mark explored my body with his hands. I think he
liked what he felt. I have great legs and a better bottom. He spent some
time exploring both.

   Then he decided that my bra was too confining for me. He reached behind
me and unhooked it expertly. Oh, how I would have liked to have flopped out
two C-cup, brown-nippled puppies for him. But Mark was thrilled to expose
what I did have -- two sharply pointed, erect, nipples that ached for his
kisses.

   They stopped aching.

   Mark applied his mouth and lips to one of my pouty little puffers. And I
felt things I knew I wanted to feel for the rest of my life.

   Desired. Loved. Sexy.

   And sexually frantic.

   I wiggled and whimpered. It was a fully armed assault on my body's
erotic core. Then Mark brought in reinforcements.

   The naughty lad reached into my pretty panties. I felt calluses brush
the tender flesh of my testicles and penis. Was he going to... No. <Rats!>

   Mark wiggled my panties down far enough so that the heel of his hand was
on my little peanuts. Still kissing my left nipple, tongue rubbing the
tender flesh, he slid his thick, rough, middle finger between my bottom
cheeks and <gasp> lightly touched my anus with the pad of his finger.

   Sissies have limits. Your friend Cheryl reached hers at that moment.

   I screamed. And began to pump large globs of creamy goo into my panties
and tummy.

   It was spectacular. Sensational. Crippling even.

   The night was young.

   And Mark had big plans.

   He seemed delighted that he had made me cum all over myself. I don't
know where his inspiration came from, but he did two things that were
exactly right. First, he moved his mouth from my nipples to my glossed
lips. I really needed some kissing right then. Second, he pulled my panties
all the way off and began to scoop up my cum with his fingers and apply it
to my <blush> bottom.

   Mark's kissing muffled my squeals as his middle finger entered my
virginal anus. He was lubricating me "down there" with my own cum and his
thick, rough finger.

   It was heaven.

   Or at least a full preview of it. My limp popsy was flopping as the
masterful man dug into my most intimate place. As if he owned me.

   After a few moments, Mark added a second finger. Then both intruders
found my prostate. And rubbed. As we kissed.

   I was in an erotic trance. My pricklet was semi-soft, though I felt I
would be cumming any second. The darned pressure on my prostate was driving
me wild. But I wasn't hard, so I couldn't...Aggghhhh!!!!

   A sharp pang of erotic agony devoured me. My balls were
volcanic. Searing heat flushed through them and suddenly, creamy, pantyboy
juices were everywhere!

   I was on a different, better plane of existence. A wet, messy plane. And
Mark wanted to join me there.

   He was going to fuck me. Just like Daddy was fucking Barbara. Except
Mark and I had something pure and beautiful. Not like them.

   Mark rolled me onto my side. He was going to fuck me from behind. But
then he changed his mind and rolled me onto my back. I was going to be
fucked like a woman!

   I knew I could say no and he would stop. But why on earth would I want
to do that?

   I wanted IT!

   And I was about to get it.

   My panties were discarded, and all I had one were my stockings, garter
belt and heels. I felt a little slutty with the heels still on. I liked
that. So did Mark.

   I hadn't really even touched his cock and it was about to be inside
me. Rubbing my secret "trigger" in my special place. Pumping his cream into
me.

   Shyly, I took little peeks at his weapon of mass deflowering. Its eye
was looking at me. And dripping. Did it wink at me?

   I think I was blushing about being so exposed and submissive. If anyone
had walked in on us, I would have been humiliated. But I would have
insisted that Mark continue.

   Mark gently rocked my legs back. My knees were against my ears and my
pussy was exposed to my man. I saw him looking at it lovingly and his cock
stiffened a notch. Mark told me later that he loved seeing my seamed
stockings and sandals framing my pussy and my "privates." He said it was
the prettiest sight in the world.

   Then he fucked me.

   I know that's what you've been waiting to read. I do meander a bit
telling a story, don't I? Anyway, he fucked me.

   Very nicely. My first time. And certainly one of my best.

   Mark leaned over my body and kissed my lips. Then he sat straight up and
concentrated on his welcome task. His big helmet was skinned and slick. I
was making little sounds of encouragement. He introduced the invader to the
gates of paradise. I felt a sharp pang of fear. Then a tiny, but sharp pain
as he pushed the dark red mushroom into my cum-lubricated hole. I squealed
with pleasure as he pushed the whole big thing in. I had been totally
penetrated. Gorged with cock. I was on my back, like a girl, "getting it"
from a man. And loving it.

   Mark had an excellent rhythm going. He was obviously enjoying himself
tremendously. So was I. I loved how his balls slapped into me each time he
plunged into me. I loved how his cock rubbed my prostate with that big,
round head of his. At that moment, I was three-quarters in love with Mark!
And the lad seemed to be quite taken with me as well.

   I think at that point, Mark entered the stage of the fuck where a man
almost forgets he's with someone and concentrates on his own orgasm. I
didn't begrudge him. He had already given me two major, seismic events. And
a third one was brewing.

   I was about three-quarters erect. The last, quarter erection seemed to
be eluding me because of that blunt object in my bottom.

   Mark was pushing and pulling. He looked so intense. I closed my eyes and
felt what was happening to me. It was awfully good. Each push against my
prostate sent an electric jolt into me, straight into my balls. I wrapped
my stockinged legs around my man and pulled him into me harder.

   That did it. For both of us.

   Mark's huge nuts boiled over. He incinerated my insides with six thick
spurts of his male lava. I felt the first two. The last four occurred
during the largest pantyboy orgasm ever recorded in North America. If a
nuclear device had exploded next door, I wouldn't have noticed.

   My little peanuts almost separated from my body. And my "little person"
pumped out so much hot sissy cream that it ran off both sides of my tummy
and the sheets, mattress cover, mattress and box spring were totally
permeated.

   Wow!

   I don't think I was in a coma longer than two or three days. Or maybe it
was a few seconds. Regardless, it was delicious.

   When I had been resurrected, I felt Mark pull out and gently help me
lower my legs. He lay next to me and began to kiss me softly.

   I was a mess! My hair was disorderly. My make-up was smeared. My stomach
and thighs were drenched in my own cum and my bottom was drooling Mark's
manly juices.

   Mark said I was beautiful. And because he did, that's how I felt.

   I think we fell asleep for an hour or so. I awoke first. Mark was naked,
on his back and breathing heavily. His cock was limp and flopped up and
almost to his right hip.

   There was no going back to being a boy now. I knew that. And I didn't
regret it one bit. Maleness was for real men like Mark. Not little
nancyboys like me.

   My real man's cock was still largely unexplored territory for me. I
decided to change that.

   I took its considerable substance into my right hand and hefted it
gently. It was heavy! It was slick with my anal juices, his cum and even
<blush> little dribbles of my poopy. I got onto my knees by his hip for a
closer inspection. Wow, what a set of nuts my man had. And the bag was so
dark and hairy. I gave them a good feel-up. Mark stirred a bit. They looked
scrumptious, so I leaned over and gave Mark's balls a nice lick-up. All
over. With my tongue. A nice, warm, ball bath for a nice, warm man.

   Mark groaned nicely, but didn't awaken.

   I decided that I wanted his awakening to be a very pleasant experience.

   So I skinned Mark's bulbous cockhead and kissed it lovingly. With a
series of flutter kisses. Then I took the throbbing, slick head into my
mouth and licked and sucked it with all my love and all my growing skill.

   Mark's eyes fluttered and he awoke, then smiled when he saw my loving
attentions. And he adored what I was doing.

   So did I.

   Oh, girls! Cocksucking is a wonderful experience for the donor and the
recipient. Warmth. Fluids. Sounds. Smells. Intimacy. Love. Then the girl
gets her big reward. In her tummy. All over her face. Maybe both.

   Mark's eyes got really big right before he came down my willing, eager
throat.

   The ability to give someone pleasure like that was the most empowering
feeling I had ever had.



   Chapter Eight -- The Big Surprise

   Over the next two weeks, Mark and I had a white-hot affair. I gave
myself to Mark body and soul and he taught me how to fully appreciate a
man's adoration.

   Dad and that little tramp Barbara gave us a lot of room. Barbara figured
out that I KNEW. She didn't care. Dad, who was getting the dream pooty of
his life didn't care either. Mark spent a lot of time in my room, fucking
my pretty bottom all night long, then going to his construction
job. Somehow, he didn't fall 20 stories or saw off a hand or anything.

   Life was beautiful.

   Then Mom came home.

   Mom was supposed to come home on a Sunday, so Mark and I were a little
bummed that Saturday afternoon in my room. We had some Plan Bs, but us --
together -- was central to all our plans.

   Despite our anxiety about the future, we were having a great
afternoon. Mark and I had discovered how much we enjoyed him "eating me
out." Mark would lie on his back and I would straddle his shoulders, facing
his feet. I would lower my bottom onto his eager mouth and he would lick
and dig his tongue into my bottom until I was cumming frantically and
squealing out his name. Then, since I was so wet and open, Mark would flip
me onto my back and fuck me hot and hard.

   Mark and I had gotten immune to the sounds of sex coming from my
parents' room. That little tramp Barbara seemed to be treating my father
like an amusement park. And was enjoying every ride.

   I guess we were a very noisy bunch that afternoon and were oblivious to
our surroundings. I remember thinking vaguely that Dad must have used the
Venus Butterfly or the Mexican Hat Dance or some other move on Barbara,
because she was screaming enough for two femmes.

   Mark was on top of me, pushing that big boy into me when a portion of my
brain alerted me to the fact that there was, in fact, more than one girlish
voice in the room next door. But before I could crystallize the thought,
the door to my room was flung open and there stood -- there stood --
Mom!!!

   Mom!!!!

   She had come home a day early to surprise us. Yet, surprised
herself. First by seeing her husband fucking my pantyboy friend, then her
nightied and pantied son being thoroughly fucked by his other best friend.

   Sometimes such a shock causes temporary blindness. Or life-threatening
violence.

   But Mom was made of different stuff.

   She only screamed once more, then she ran down the stairs, got into
Dad's car (it's newer) and drove off.

   She never came into the house again.



   Chapter Nine -- Life after Mom

   Well, I certainly didn't want that to happen. Frankly, though, I think
it made Dad very happy. They hadn't gotten along well for sometime and
except for getting skinned alive by Mom's lawyer, Dad hardly had to deal
with her again.

   I loved Mom, but in a way, it was all kind of her fault. When you put a
boy in panties, don't be surprised if he likes them.

   Dad and Barbara became completely open about their "affair" and,
skipping ahead a bit, when Dad's divorce was final, he married Barbara. In
Vermont, but that counts, right?

   For a month or so after the Afternoon of Big Surprises, Mark and I spent
every free moment having sex.

   It was wonderful. But I must admit, I was becoming totally aware of the
power I had over men. I saw the way men looked at me when I was out and
about when Mark was at work. Rich men. Powerful men. They wanted me.

   And I began to want them. I was too young to be with just one man. Even
a man as easy to love as Mark.

   One night at Mark's house, things changed.

   We had just made glorious love. I was wearing only black, fully
fashioned stockings and a matching garter belt. My bottom was gaping and
leaking Mark's cream. My privates were sticky with my own spendings.

   For some reason, something popped into my mind. "Mark," I asked. "Didn't
you say once that Daddy read some magazine about girls like me?"

   Mark looked at me curiously. "Yeah," he said. "Are you saying you never
heard of Panty Boy magazine?"

   I hadn't and said so.

   Mark was so eager to please. He got up, said, "I'll get you one." And he
left the room.

   Moments later, Mark returned, clutching a glossy magazine. He handed it
to me.

   I looked at the cover. Oh my.

   Until that moment, I vaguely imagined that there were two pantyboys on
earth. And I was the pretty one. That little, Daddy-stealing tramp Barbara
was the other, not-so-pretty one.

   That vague imagination ended when I held Panty Boy magazine issue number
83 in my trembling hands and beheld its cover.

   I had some serious competition for the "prettiest pantyboy" title. That
was the bad news. The good news was that I was not alone.

   A stunningly gorgeous "boy" in full make-up was kneeling in front of a
stern-looking, middle-aged man who looked like a teacher or a principal or
something. The man's very large cock had just produced enough sperm and
semen to float a small country's armada. And it was all over the lovely,
perfectly cosmetized beauty's face, hair, neck, flat chest and
fingers. Rather than appearing offended, the pantyboy seemed to be joyous,
a broad smile exposing her perfect, white teeth. The little creampuff was
wearing only pink panties, from which protruded a tiny, spewing penis.

   Good golly!

   There were people like that in our world?

   The men at the construction site, Daddy and Mark, "read" this magazine
and saw pictures like that? Pictures of beautiful pantyboys submitting to
stern, powerful men?

   I was wearing only a lavender babydoll that didn't cover my privates,
stockings and a garterbelt. I didn't tear my eyes away from Panty Boy to
look at Mark, but I knew that he could see my frantic stiffie and aching
pellets, just from looking at the cover.

   I opened the magazine. The first pictorial was called "The alumni let
the cum fly" and it was all about this private boys' school. The first two
pages showed several good-looking young men in school uniform. They were
doing school things, learning and stuff, then studying after dinner. A
caption at the bottom of the second page said, "But let's see what happens
at Fillbottom Academy at 8 p.m. each evening."

   I turned the page. And saw the boys taking on a whole different
manner. They began stripping and then suddenly, they were all naked!

   Turned the page. The "boys" were all putting on make-up, tiny nighties,
stockings, garter belts, and big, stiletto heels. They were all pantyboys!
And pretty ones.

   Next page. They were pairing up. Like Barbara and I did before she got
trampy. Then they were kissing and sucking and licking. Oh, it was
incredible. I wanted to reach for my popsy and relieve the awful pressure
building in my "pink purse," but just then, I felt Mark's warm, wet mouth
consume my peener and begin to suck it sweetly.

   Oh, girls. Imagine reading the best porn you've ever seen while your
lover is polishing your knoblet! That was world-class sweet of him!

   I turned the page again and there were men! Naked men! Hunky, naked men!
They were the teachers. No wonder they wanted to work there. Each hunky,
naked man carried off a delicious cupcake for a full night of fucking. Only
Jennifer, the babe on the cover, remained. She was to be the Headmaster's
"date" that evening.

   Jennifer seemed shy, but excited as she entered the headmaster's
office. Her blonde hair was in a boyish cut and one could see her 2.5-inch
penis standing straight below the hem of her diaphanous, pink nightie. But
those were the only boyish parts about her. I was envious. Must be camera
angles, I thought. No pantyboy is prettier than I am. Which is true, by the
way.

   The headmaster looked to be about 60, with white hair and a real
"attitude," you know? Like he's the king of everyone. Jennifer sure acted
submissive around him.

   Mark was sucking me to the edge of Cum Cliff when the headmaster exposed
his huge cock and said, "Look how ferociously rampant you make me,
Jennifer! You're the most exciting, most feminine person on this earth. I
love you, more fully and more hotly than I could ever love anyone!"

   All those pictures and what made me whimper, then explode into my
lover's mouth were those words of love and devotion from an authority
figure, a Daddy, for his pantyboy lover.

   My back arched and I saw new constellations. And planets where truly
alpha males ruled over beautiful, submissive pantyboys. Where the sissies
lived to serve their men and the men treated the sissies as the world's
royalty.

   Poor Mark. He had only sucked me off a couple of times before that
day. I don't think he was ready for the deluge of cum that my first reading
of Panty Boy wrenched from my balls.

   What kind of publication was that? Who read it? And where did they find
the pantied princesses to fill its pages? Did they use the same cuties over
and over? Or were they always finding new "material?"

   I was about to ask Mark all those questions, but his mouth was still
full of Cheryl cream, the tastiest treat on Planet Earth. <giggle> And I
didn't want him speaking with his mouth full.

   As Mark continued to pleasure my pricklet orally, I turned the page on
my "guide to a better world." Sorting my feelings out at that moment was a
bit difficult, other than the feeling that I really loved having my
pricklet pleasured. But I did recognize the obvious fact that I, an
apparent, natural-born sissy, was deeply and incredibly turned on by the
prospect of submitting to an alpha male who was older (even the
60-something "headmaster"), handsome, and very "masterful."

   Young men are fun. But oh, you "daddies."

   I dared to turn the page.

   Dr. Fillbottom, the headmaster had removed his trousers and the lovely
Jennifer was sitting on his naked lap. They were kissing deeply with a
passionate exchange of tongues. The headmaster was tickling the pretty
angel's jewels with his massive right hand. Jennifer was skinning the hood
of Fillbottom's massive weapon with her fairy-like fingers. In the next
picture they were both cumming helplessly, consumed by their passion and
deep, mutual love.

   My balls stirred, sending me a reminder that they were still producing
that stuff I love to shoot.

   On the next page, Fillbottom was licking Jennifer's creamy spendings
from his drenched hand and saying to the delicious, little creampuff, "That
was wonderful, Darling. You're an angel from heaven. Aren't you glad I
'pantied' you and the other seniors at this formerly all-boys' school?"

   "Oh, yes, sir," the little doll said. "Being a pantyboy -- your
pantyboy -- is my whole life now."

   My balls actually throbbed when I read that. The idea of being
"possessed" by a powerful, older man stirred my little peanuts like no
other notion I had ever had.

   I turned the page.

   Fillbottom kissed his lover, then laid her on her back on a bed in his
office. Positioning himself in a chair at the foot of the bed, Fillbottom
lifted Jennifer's left, porcelain foot to his loving lips and began to kiss
each enameled toenail. Apparently, that was on Jennifer's "top ten things
that make me cum hard" list because her recently used peeny was up and red
again and her head was thrown back in anticipation of ecstasy. It was not
long in arriving. Jennifer had her nightie pulled up over her nipples and
she was teasing them (and Fillbottom) by rolling each sharp, erect point
between thumb and forefinger as Fillbottom kissed, licked and sucked each
gorgeous digit. Inevitably, the "reader" was treated to a picture of a
sexually frantic Jennifer HEAVING cum from her tiny prick. Then ejaculating
helplessly again when the naughty headmaster tongued every square
millimeter of his sensitive, sensual lover's right foot.

   I was pretty sure that Fillbottom was going to fuck Jennifer eventually,
but I didn't need to wait to see that part of the "pictorial." The toe
sucking did me in. Even Mark was surprised by the tsunami of sperm I
jettisoned from my balls when Jennifer spurted, eyes wide and completely
helpless before the power of her man.

   I was whimpering and crying so much that Mark thought I was ill. The
long, slurpy, grateful blowjob I gave him then must have rid him of that
notion.

   We were so exhausted from the intensity of our emissions that we slept
after that for several hours. If, when I awoke, I had just made love to
Mark and ignored the Panty Boy magazine at the foot of the bed, with its
massive cumstains new and old, my life may have been very different.

   So it's a good thing that I didn't.

   Mark was still sleeping as I looked at the next 30 or so pictures of
Dr. Fillbottom and Jennifer. The little sweetie had small "parts," but an
amazing ability to produce and discharge large quantities of thick, creamy
cum. Kind of like me <giggle>.



   After Jennifer's sweet agony from the toe sucking, Fillbottom licked up
every drop of her precious cum from her flat, soft tummy, paying particular
attention to the angel's "innie" belly button. Jennifer squirmed, but
managed to keep her fresh "cargo" on board. The look on Jennifer's face was
one of pure adoration for Fillbottom. Either she was a great actress or
they were an actual "item" in real life. I found the second idea to be
phenomenally exciting.

   When Jennifer was de-spermed and clean, Fillbottom accepted her earlier
invitation to worship her puffy nipples. They weren't quite titties, but
they seemed to be showing just the faintest hint of developing into
them. How was that possible?

   Anyway, Fillbottom was as skilled and adept at nipple adoration as he
was at every other facet of lovemaking. Jennifer was soon, once again
cumming helplessly and copiously in an agony of delight. Later, I
discovered that Panty Boy magazine photographs their pictorials over
several days, allowing the pantyboys and their lovers to be photographed
cumming at least a dozen times each in what appears to be two hours or
so. At that moment, I was wondering why Mark and I only seemed to be able
to spew our goo seven or eight times each day.

   Watching Fillbottom pleasure his Jennifer, comparisons with Mark, the
only man who had ever "seized my assets," were inevitable. I was vaguely
aware that Fillbottom was fictional (clearly a distinct advantage over the
very real Mark). So perhaps what I concluded was unfair. But some was quite
accurate.

   Fillbottom was very oral. Which was very smart, since at 60 or so,
Fillbottom couldn't get a "big boy" nearly as often as a man like Mark,
one-third his age.

   When Fillbottom did manage a "chubby," he employed it as one would
impart a treasured asset. Fillbottom, and to my thinking, all older men,
valued their lovers more. Young guys like Mark, I reasoned, had more
woodies, but older guys applied every asset they had to ensure their
lovers' complete satisfaction.



   Plus, older guys had money.

   A nice, little extra, don't you think?

   I sighed and decided to see what else was in that lovely publication.

   I sort of skipped past the rest of the Fillbottom-Jennifer story, noting
that Fillbottom's second erection ended up in Jennifer's delicious
bottom. And Jennifer's cum ended up breathing free air.

   The middle part of Panty Boy magazine book was a lot of "candid" photos
about some party a guy named Nick Nickerson had at his home. Nickerson was
the editor, publisher and 100%-owner of Panty Boy. He called his home the
"Panty Mansion" and it was in some place called Fromage, Wisconsin. Isn't
fromage the French word for "cheese?"

   Anyway, the party was incredible. Male, A-list celebrities all over the
place. I don't mean some Congressman from a Rust Belt state or the guy who
played Jason or Freddie. I mean the top guys! And they ALL had something in
common.

   Each A-list guy had a scrumptious, feminine pantyboy on his arm or in
his arms. Each pantyboy was beautiful and perfectly made up. Each was
wearing a lovely, evening gown and five- or six-inch-stiletto sandals over
her perfect, stockinged feet. Most had boyish haircuts and flat chests, but
some had longer, even long hair. And some appeared to have breasts!!! How
was that possible?

   Whatever. I learned a lot from that dumb pictorial. There are lots of
pantyboys. The Panty Mansion appeared to be the epicenter of world
pantyboydom. Nick Nickerson is the king of pantyboys.

   That was good to know. Really good to know.

   I flipped to the last pictorial. It was a good one.

   The title was odd. "Whipping Cream."

   I lay on my back next to the still-sleeping Mark and read on.

   A pantyboy who, once again was almost as pretty as I, was on her back,
in bed, in a huge, luxurious bedroom. She was wearing only black,
fully-fashioned stockings and a ruffled garter belt and appeared to be
barely 18. The naked man who covered her with his body as he shoved his
cock vigorously in and out of her perfect pootie, was quite handsome and
appeared to be in his early 20s.

   They were kissing passionately and the man, identified as Ray, seemed
relaxed and appeared to be enjoying himself immensely. The pantyboy,
identified as Paula, was enjoying the fuck, but seemed very anxious for it
to be over.

   I soon found out the reason for her anxiety.

   "Oh, Raymond, please hurry," the pretty cupcake said. "My husband will
be home any minute and he's insanely jealous!"

   That young thing had a husband? A husband rich enough to afford that
luxury? Now that was interesting.

   Ray was a bit of a cad. "You worry too much, Baby," he said. And he kept
fucking her.

   Despite her discomfort, the little doll was being well-fucked and she
made a messy cum all over herself. Twice.

   Still, her eyes were fixed on the clock as Ray moved toward his
climax. "Oh, please cum, Raymond. You have to leave. Trevor will be home
any minute. Why did I ever do this?"

   But Ray just pushed on, taking his time until he began grunting and
spurting his big load into the married lady's bowels. Just then, Paula
heard the front door open.

   Paula became panicked, pushing Ray off her and whispering frantically to
"Get out! Out the window! Now."

   In his post-cum lethargy, Ray was slow getting off his pantyboy
lover. He kissed her, picked up his clothes and, finally, went out the
bedroom window and down the drainpipe to the ground.

   The door flung open. Trevor took one look at his pantyboy wife and
assessed the situation quickly and accurately. Cum was oozing from her
bottom. Her make-up was smeared. And she had the guiltiest look in the
history of civilization.

   Trevor, who was a delightfully handsome and fit man in his late 30s,
also noted the open window. But instead of running to the window, he ran to
the closet. And emerged 15 seconds later with a fully-loaded rifle. Paula
screamed when Trevor took the rifle to the window, got into firing
position, took aim and fired a single shot. Trevor smiled, stood and
returned the rifle to the closet.

   Paula screamed again. Had her husband just shot her lover? Was she next?

   She seemed terrified.

   They had good actors in Fromage, I thought.

   Was Trevor going to strangle Paula with his bare hands?

   He walked toward her. She began to sob and wail, begging his
forgiveness. Telling him that she would never do anything bad again.

   Trevor was angry. Very angry. But he also seemed to be enjoying himself
just a little.

   Paula expected the worst. And she wasn't far off. I remembered that the
title of the pictorial was "Whipping Cream."

   As Paula sobbed and begged and promised to repent and reform, Trevor
silently removed all his clothing. He had a great body! Then he sat in a
hard chair and beckoned Paula to him.

   Paula's heart lifted just a notch. Was he going to accept her apology
and engage her in makeup sex -- which can possibly be the world's best
sex?

   No such luck.

   When Paula reluctantly obeyed her husband and stepped next to him, he
grabbed her writs roughly and flung her body across his knees.

   He was going to spank her!

   Oh my!

   My little nuts were quivering in their pink bag again.

   I turned the page. Almost absentmindedly I noticed that Mark had
awakened. He had unhooked my left stocking from its garter straps and was
sensuously rolling the sheer treasure down my leg, over and off my foot.

   That was nice, but I wanted to see what was happening in the "Whipping
Cream" story in Panty Boy.

   Paula began crying and begging again as she lay across her husband's
knees, her pink bottom exposed to his raised hand. Her [late?] lover's cum
was impudently oozing from her anus, infuriating Trevor even more. I could
actually see the tears fly from Paula's pretty eyes when the first slap hit
her tender butt.

   Oh. It was so exciting and I didn't know why. The very bad little kitten
was being punished for betraying and humiliating her loving husband. He was
taking a "firm hand" with her. And she was in complete and total submission
to her husband. I adored it all and my little doodle was fiery red and
aching for relief yet again.

   That was the exact moment that Mark, my dear Mark, showed me how much he
understood me and took care of my needs.

   Mark raised my left foot to his lips and began to lick and suck each of
my toes. Just like Dr. Fillbottom did for Jennifer in the first story. Of
course Mark knew that lovely scene was in the story. The pages on that part
were already stuck together when Mark first gave me the magazine.

   As Mark rolled his tongue around my little piggies, I tried to read the
Panty Boy story. He was so darned good at toesucking. The heck with the
story. I slammed the magazine down, arched my back, squealed and
came. Thoroughly and delightedly.

   Mark was the best! Actually, he was the "only" for me to that point in
my life. His only real drawback.

   My little dickie was sore from cumming so much and so hard. My prince
was making it feel all better by kissing it and licking up my
spendings. What a doll!

   But that was making it stiff and achy again, <Sigh>

   Anyway, I was calm enough to read the tale of reddened tail again.

   Poor Paula was getting spanked really hard from her husband Trevor. The
model who portraying Paula was either a great actress or she was really
getting pounded. The Academy award moments were yet to arrive, however. The
first one occurred when, having counted the 30th swat from Trevor's hand,
Paula heard Trevor say, "Now for your real punishment. Stand up, you little
tramp."

   Paula's ass was fire-engine red and her face registered horror. What was
her cuckolded, furious, perhaps murderous husband going to do?

   She was crying and sniveling as her husband placed her hands on the seat
of a chair, her sore bottom completely exposed for further abuse. Which
appeared to be imminent, since Trevor was retrieving the belt from his
trousers.

   Paula was getting the strap! Oh! She deserved it, the trampy little
tramp. She was trembling and panic-stricken, but didn't move. Most oddly,
her tiny prick was red as her bottom, stiff and twitching.

   Oh. So was mine. Did I want a firm hand from a man? If so, did I really
want it to be THAT firm?

   Mark was rolling down my right stocking as I turned the page. He took my
toesies in his mouth as I saw THE picture of the whole issue of Panty Boy.

   Tears were flying 360 from the fallen angel's eyes as Trevor's strap
slammed into Paula's sinful bottom. She had obviously screamed, but the odd
part -- the best part -- was that Paula was cumming as if she were
possessed. Two-foot-long cum ropes exploded toward the camera. From the
strap. The discipline. The submission.

   Mark's mouth and lips were giving my toes the imperial treatment. Panty
Boy was filling my head with a new vision of who I could be. It was a very
good day for me.

   He kept licking and sucking my piggies so nicely as I turned the page
and saw Paula sent to the corner after ten wicked strokes. Welts were
strewn across her soft, crimson globes. Trevor's big monster was thick,
stiff and ready for the final humiliation. Moving up behind Paula in the
corner, Trevor pushed his prick into her painfully sore anus with one
smooth stroke. Completely taken by surprise, Paula yelped.

   I yelped. And, once again, I jettisoned my sticky load. I was whimpering
and squealing, then begging Mark for a kiss and then another. And
another. Then Mark mounted me, entered me and fucked me hard. Oh, I wanted
it so badly. From him. From Trevor. From Dr. Fillbottom.

   Poor Mark. He was my first, which meant he wouldn't be my last. A part
of Mark knew that. But at that moment, I was all his. Under him. Skewered
by him. Then I was a receptacle for his sperm. A willing, loving
receptacle.

   I was filled with love for Mark, but with a greater love for the life I
knew I would have.



   Chapter Ten -- A Pantyboy for "Panty Boy"

   "Whipping Cream" had a happy ending. Just thought you would like to
know. Trevor took Paula into the shower and got under the warm water with
her. Lecturing her on fidelity, he washed her all over. She eagerly agreed
with everything he said, hoping that her punishment was over.

   Trevor dried her off, then watched as Paula powdered and perfumed
herself and fixed her face. Then slid into a little pink nightie, pink
stockings and pink puffy mules. She was beautiful! And Trevor couldn't help
himself. He loved her. And Paula knew it. In the final photos, the married
couple made up. In the best way possible.

   We never did find out whether Ray, the slimy homewrecker, survived the
experience. Of course, we must remind ourselves that he was just a
fictional character.

   The next few weeks were divine for Mark and me. But I think even he knew
what I had to do.

   I bought a digital camera, girlied myself up and took lots of pictures
of my magnificent self. Then I picked out the ten best photos (they were
outstanding!). That day, a Thursday, around noon, I sent an email to Nick
Nickerson, publisher of Panty Boy magazine. With 10 very nice attachments.

   Figuring I wouldn't hear anything for several weeks, if at all, I
enjoyed my usual lovely night with Mark, giving him the usual delicious
sendoff when he left for his construction job at 6:30 a.m. Mark would be
going off to college in three days. I was very sad to let him go, but sort
of happy about the possibilities, you know?

   I was at the curb waving as Mark got into his car and drove off to go to
work that morning. As usual, several neighborhood men were sneaking peeks
at me out their windows. I guess I was quite a sight in my see-through
peignoir, stockings and big heels. And I guess I did have a faceful of
Mark's cum.

   I went inside and took my shower, then got dressed. Just as I was
thinking about scaring up some breakfast, there was a knock on the door.

   A neighborhood man desperate for some pantyboy pootie?

   Ooooohhh.

   I opened the door. To a stranger. In a dark suit, white shirt and black
tie. And a chauffeur's cap?

   My mouth was open. But his zipper stayed up.

   Then he spoke. "Miss LaFemme, my name is Maxwell. I'm Mr. Nickerson's
personal assistant. Mr. Nickerson requests that you accompany me to
Fromage, Wisconsin. He wants you to grace the cover of a future issue of
Panty Boy."

   <Gulp>

   Did I hear Maxwell correctly?

   I asked to be sure. "You're going to drive me to Fromage, but that's..."

   "Oh, no, Madam," Maxwell said. "Mr. Nickerson's private 'Panty Jet' is
at your local airport, awaiting your arrival."

   Huh?

   Decision needed.

   Let's see. It's exactly what I want. And what I want apparently wants
me.

   Decision made.

   "Give me a moment to pack, Maxwell."

   "That won't be necessary, Madam. Mr. Nickerson will provide every thing
you need."

   Wow.

   Just like that, I left my old life and the people in it. Even Mark.
Which may have been a mistake.

   Time will tell.

   Find out what happened to all of us, Amy, Judy, Sandy and me in "Sissies
and the City," an upcoming story -- same panty time, same panty channel
-- on this web site.

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