Sissies and the City -- transgender

Sissies and the City By Gingerfred Man

My name is Cheryl. I'm 20 years old and I'm a pantyboy. That's how I've started off each of the brilliant, literature-for-the-ages stories I've written for you. Though technically, with the brabuster titties I have these days, I guess you would now call me a shemale.

I hope you`ve already read the stories I wrote about my three pretty little creampuff friends and me. Those stories describe how each of us became beautiful, delicious, cock receptacles for the men we choose to favor with our charms.

In each story, I promised you one additional story, this one, about our lives together in a fabulous, four-bedroom, six-bath, eastside apartment in New York, which is paid for, of course by four nice men who "know" us well. And frequently.

First, let me apologize for the delay in writing this story. But if you've been alive on Planet Earth in the past few months, and paying the tiniest bit of attention, you KNOW why I've been so "occupied" lately. That's right. I'm THAT Cheryl (the former Charlie [ICK!]) LaFemme. More about why I'm extra famous later.

First, a quick "who's who" recap for those who came in late. If you "read" Panty Boy magazine (and who doesn't?) you know that I was Miss First-Half-of-June 2002 and they did a big pictorial on little old me. You can read all about my transition to girlishness in "Slacker Moms," which chronicles how my Mom used "petticoat punishment" to motivate me toward responsible citizenship. It sort of worked, except that I turned out to be her responsible daughter, not her irresponsible son. I've been responsible for millions of male orgasms, both because of my "pictorials" and because of how I help make men happy in my bed.

Like me, Judy is a blonde, but her golden crown is long and straight, while mine is short and styled. She has the prettiest three-and-a-half inch cock in the world (I've looked around for comparison) and perfect erect nipples, framed by her bra-shaped tan lines. I imagine you read in "Test Driven," how Harold Strokewood's sales job at Stiffman's Intimate Apparel metamorphed Harold into the lovely Judy.

Amy is a brunette with a curly, boyish cut. Her features are probably the most masculine of us all, but she more than makes up for it by being the frilliest and sissiest of the quartet. She has a smile that is regulated by the International Atomic Energy Commission and a warm, giving nature for almost every nice man she meets. The story of English boy Ralph's transformation to Amy while serving as Lord Spunkley's personal assistant is chronicled in "Serviced."

Sandy, a redhead with green eyes that pierce men's souls, is a little cheater. She's already heartbreakingly beautiful, but she has "augmented" herself with almost A-cup titties! And at three inches, she has the teeniest little popsy of any of us. All of which give her an edge when we compete (which we surely do) for men. Those hormones she takes haven't softened her stiffies (which she always seems to have) or her cum production (oceans worth). In "Sissy Stepmother," I told you all about how George Spermmore's father's marriage to the lovely sissy Beth led to Sandy's joyful journey to The Panty Life.

I must admit that I'm well equipped to co-exist with these fabulous girls. I am (no kidding) even prettier than the rest of those tarty little tramps [giggle], with legs that promise (and deliver) men intense delights. I also have titties of my own. They started out growing a little each day until my "unique situation" developed and now they're C-cup-plump and bursting with breast milk. And they're so sensitive that a man's soft kisses on my nipples have me gasping and ejaculating helplessly.

Our home is definitely a "deluxe apartment in the sky" as George Jefferson once sang, and we've got more than a piece of the pie. We own the bakery.

Let me tell you all about it.

Chapter One -- NYSE

I know you think the NYSE is on Wall Street. But the NYSE is actually on Third Avenue in the 60s. It's our apartment [giggle]; the place men call the "New York Sperm Exchange."

Our exchange volume is in the millions of little spermies a day. There's no Sperm Exchange Commission overseeing our transactions. And unlike that Wall Street place, we're pretty much 24/7/365.

Since you know from reading my first four stories that I tell all, we'd better go back a bit to when Judy, Amy, Sandy and I were all just nineteen and did our Panty Boy magazine swimsuit issue pictorial for the Panty Boy publisher, Nick Nickerson.

Nick is such a rogue. All the world's prettiest pantyboys pass through his bed. And he makes us all believe that, "Nick loves me and only me." Maybe he believes it too. I mean, the pantyboy mind is something that is only dimly understood. Especially by us pantyboys. I know that conventional "faithfulness" to one lover is a difficult concept for me to embrace. Come to think of it, it's fully embraced by few women and far fewer men.

Oh well. Too much thinking makes my head hurt and my prick go soft.

Nick's greatest accomplishment was getting Judy, Amy, Sandy and me together. We had each done a stupefyingly beautiful individual pictorial and had decided to stay around the Panty Mansion in Fromage, Wisconsin to sample The Panty Life at its epicenter. The darned mansion was so huge and Nick had such stamina that he was fucking us all and we never met until we assembled for the swimsuit photo shoot.

The storyline for the shoot involved the four of us, dressed in miniskirts, stockings and big heels, getting into a red convertible, and driving to "the beach." In the locker room, of course, we stripped sensuously, teasingly, then pleased each other in messy, cummy ways. Then we got into our microscopic swimsuits and went out to the beach where we drove men wild and were repeatedly and enthusiastically fucked by delicious men.

And we got PAID for that!

Anyway, we fell in love with our male partners for the shoot, of course. I fell in love several times a week. But the four of us totally and permanently fell in love with each other.

The shoot actually took three days, since there were eleven or twelve cum shots from each of us (and the men) in the pics. I could have done that in four or five hours, but Nick said he wanted thick, creamy loads in all of the shots, not dribbles.

I spent the first night of the shoot in bed with Brad, a blond, thick-cocked, surfer boy from the shoot. The other girls, Nick and the other men in the shoot mixed it up at the Panty Mansion. The second night, I spent with Nick, which is always a wonderful treat. The third night, when the shoot was over, I suggested to Judy, Amy and Sandy that we spend the night together -- no men -- just us.

Those three always need leadership and I'm always there to provide it.

A night without men is a scary prospect for most pantyboys, but I had a vision of the NYSE forming in my head and wanted to see if we were compatible.

We definitely were.

We finished the photo shoot around five and I told the girls to assemble themselves at their girliest, then assemble in my room at 7:30.

It had been an exhausting day and my appearance showed it. My face was coated with three creamy loads of man juice. My lipstick was smeared. My poor bottom was stretched and squishy from all its "visitors" that day. The men from the shoot that my little pooty accommodated were bad enough, but with all he had to witness, I couldn't let that poor photographer suffer...or his lighting assistant...or the guy who brought us coffee and lube.

Anyway, I got into a warm, soapy bathtub and got my plan all set in my mind. I would tell the girls how, individually, we would probably do OK -- entertain men every night for a couple of years -- end up marrying some billionaire or other. But together, we would have true sissy power. Shared security. Shared finances. Shared services. Shared fame. And best of all -- shared lives. Lives with some of the only people in the world who truly understood us.

As I shaved my legs. I thought about where I wanted us to live. As I pat-dried my beautiful body, I thought about how we would finance the operation. As I powdered and perfumed all over, I thought about how we would get, keep and pay household help. As I styled my hair, I thought about how we would get, keep and pay a security staff. As I put on my killer, super-slutty makeup, I thought about how we would find and use a financial manager. And as I dressed, I thought about how Nick could help us. And why he would want to.

All that thinking didn't distract from my beauty that night. I think I was as lovely as I ever was at that tender age of 19. I slid on my super-sheer, black, seamed, fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings, then took a fashion risk. I usually wore a frilly black garter belt and black or pink panties, but that evening, I went for the "clean" look. No panties. Frilly, ruffled, black, thigh garters with tiny, baby-blue ribbons, symbolizing my underlying "boyishness." As if that stiff, pink throbber of mine wasn't symbol enough.

I considered myself in the mirror. And stiffened to my full three and a half inches.

I was spectacular!

Isn't it ironic that they call us pantyboys, but we always have the most fun with our panties off?

A loving look at my beautiful self confirmed my no-panties decision. But I needed something to complete the ensemble.

Hmmm.

Then I found it. A diaphanous, silky, skimpy, black bolero jacket that barely covered my shoulders and completely exposed my puffy, perky nipples. Puffy half-sleeves and a puffy collar.

I added large gold hoops and a delicate pearl necklace. I was adorable.

Turning this way and that. Balancing on my five-inch stiletto sandals as I drank in my narcissistic vision of perfection.

Wow. Those three sissyboys were going to be lucky they had me as their leader/lover.

Despite my "hard" work of that day, I was very excited about the evening ahead. Getting anally porked by several hunky men is certainly my idea of a good time. But all the cameras and lighting and posing and stopping and starting tended to dampen the excitement a bit.

Some good, knockdown kissing, sucking and fucking in the privacy of one's own quarters, accompanied by one or more close friends is the way to spend a nice evening at home.

Goodness, my own beauty was making me stiff and drippy. If those "girls" didn't arrive soon, I'd be spilling my first load in admiration of my own intense pulchritude.

Just in time, I heard a sissyish knock on the door. I minced over, my popsy stiff, pink ball sack swaying with girlish excitement. Then I opened the door and saw...

Someone ALMOST as beautiful as I, though just a smidge more boyish -- it was Amy, the little brunette, English creampuff.

She was delicious.

All in pink. Ruffled garter belt. Pretty, fully-fashioned and seamed stockings. Killer, five-inch fuck-me pumps. And a delicate, pink bra, with cutouts exposing her throbbing nipples.

I opened my mouth to invite her in, but the aggressive little panty princess had already covered my glossed lips with her own, depositing her tongue deep within my oral cavity.

Oh my.

Her perfume ("Poison," I think) was enflaming my nose hairs. Her soft, sissy hands were caressing my plump, smooth bottom cheeks. And her peeny...her pink, gorgeous, miniscule peeny...was creating the sweetest friction by rubbing, wetly and insistently against my own tiny tickler.

It was too much for a hormone-crazed, sexually-primal sissyboy to endure for longer than the two or three minutes I was forced to hold back so I wouldn't be accused of premature pleasure.

Amy wriggled the lacquered fingernail of her right index finger into my sweet sissy pussy and I saw the origins of the universe. In technicolor. And surround sound.

No bang was bigger.

Gasping for breath, I slid down my loving assailant's body and fell to my knees. I thought she would give me a moment or two to recuperate before I fulfilled the Sissy Code by returning the orgasmic favor.

But no.

The little English hooligan was on her knees BEHIND me! Was she going to?

She was.

She was finger fucking me, sliding a very slick lubricant into my anus as if she were preparing me for...

Well. That was new.

I had accommodated many men in my nether arena. Joyfully and willingly. But a sissyboy, especially one as "short-staffed" as sweet Amy, had never invaded that territory.

To be a true pantyboy, one must be open to variety.

And despite my bombastic orgasm that had only died two minutes ago, I was already experiencing a rebirth in certain parts.

That aggressive little buttpounder intended to FUCK me. (Much as it turned out, she had seen other pantyboys do to and for each other at the Spermapaloozas she had attended in England -- see "Serviced.")

Thank goodness my pussy was and is so tight and hot that it affords pleasure to all manner of penises.

Even one so small that I almost asked if it were in yet.

Amy's low groan told me that she was fully sheathed. Though the situation was very exciting, I wasn't feeling much physically until two things happened. 1) Amy's excitement pushed just enough blood into Amy's "Little Miss Happy" that on each downstroke, she clipped my "special place. Quite nicely, actually. 2) Amy gave me the nicest "reacharound" as she fucked me. It's such an obvious thing, as I'm sure you know, girls. The fucker-from-behind should always give his (or her) partner a lovely penile tickle as he satisfies his own animal lust. Animal lust must he satisfied wherever we find it.

Amy's little grunty noises, her lovely manual technique, her delicious perfume and her inspired fucking combined to make me squeal, shudder and spurt yet another big load of girlish juices, this time into her soft, pretty hand. As my last glob dribbled out, Amy screamed and drenched my bottom with a half-gallon of milk that would make the Wisconsin dairy farmers jealous.

Heaving with effort and short of breath, we were about to uncouple when we heard some sissyish giggling.

"I see you started the party without us," Judy said as she and Sandy stood at the door, which I had never had a chance to close.

Amazingly, the sight of those two angels made both Amy's and my exhausted cocks twitch.

Judy was dressed very simply, especially for someone who had begun her sissiness as a lingerie model. Just a very pretty, white, silky, very short, babydoll nightie. No panties. No stockings or shoes covered her perfect, painted toes. Her pretty peener was completely exposed and quite angry looking -- skinned, red and ready for anything.

Sandy was wearing green lingerie, to set off her deeply red hair. She was showing off her budding, little "plum-sized" titties in a push-up bra that exposed the titty tops and most of the nipples. Her fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings, garter belt and fuck-me pumps were all deep green and delectable.

For an instant, I was concerned that I had committed a sissy faux pas by having two debilitating orgasms with one of my guests before the other two guests arrived. But then I remembered who we were.

Pantyboys!

We live for this.

My real concern was that if I was going to be the leader of this quartet, I had better start acting as if I were in charge.

I staggered to my feet, then said, "Welcome, Ladies. I've been dreaming about having some private time with the three most beautiful, feminine people in the world. Now that you're all here, I can see that my dreams were inadequate to describe the reality of your perfection. I suggest we temporarily satisfy our lust for each other, then we'll talk about a little idea of mine."

Their luminescent smiles told me that they were fine with the lust part. The talking part would be something I would have to, as the grown-up, make sure we did.

And my mother thought I would never be the responsible one in any group.

Judy stepped forward to claim me for the lust part of the evening. Sandy and Amy seemed very happy to pair off.

There was only one bed in the room -- a well-used king -- and Sandy and Amy were soon writhing on it in a deeply passionate overheated kissathon. Judy was sitting in the room's one easy chair. I was on my knees at her feet, kissing, licking and sucking her pretty toes as she squealed and giggled.

Four hours, six partner rotations and fifteen combined orgasms later, the four of us had simmered down enough to discuss some real business.

"What are your plans, girls?" I asked. "What's next for all of us after we leave the Panty Mansion? We can't stay here forever."

Blank stares all around.

"I hadn't really thought about it," Sandy said. "Maybe I'll go back and live with my Daddy and my sissy stepmother."

Judy said, "Good question. I guess I could go back to work at Stiffman's Intimate Apparel. Cozy up to the customers. Be a mistress to one or more of them. Maybe even marry one someday."

"I could go back to England," Amy said. "Maybe hook up with one of Lord Spunkley's friends and live with him."

I looked at them sternly. "What do all these plans have in common?" I asked.

None of these sissies was the sharpest knife in the drawer, but the answer was so obvious that Amy said, "They all involve moving backward."

I gave her a big hug and said, "Exactly right."

Then I stepped back and said to them all, "With my plan, we move forward."

And that's what we did. We implemented my plan.

Chapter Two -- A Brief Negotiation

The next evening, I was lying in bed with Nick Nickerson, stroking his fat, limp cock. Skinning the head up and down. Kissing his manly lips.

I was in bed with him because 1) I wanted something from him besides a lovely, stiff, spunk-filled fucking. 2) Nick wanted to give me several stiff fuckings. Me. Not the other 14 lovely pantyboys who happened to be residing in the Panty Mansion at the time.

Nick's cock was limp because, from the moment I had arrived two hours earlier, clad only in black stockings and black, four-inch-stiletto pumps, I had been doing whatever it took to make him empty his fat balls.

Judging the moment right, I stopped kissing the Pantied World's Hugh Hefner and said, "Oh, Nickie."

Nick looked deeply into my gorgeous eyes and said, most eloquently..."Uhhhh?"

"Nickie," I continued. "Do you love me?"

I had his attention. "Of course I do, Sweetheart. You know I do. And I can prove it. Every time I look at you my cock gets hard."

It was difficult to refute such logic, so I moved on. "If you love me, you'll do a couple of tiny, little, itsy-bitsy things for me...and my friends."

That was the point when a man knows he's done for. But he asked what fate compelled him to ask. "And what would those `couple of tiny, little, itsy-bitsy things for you...and your friends' be?"

I giggled girlishly and said, "Well, I was hoping you would put together some `investors' who would buy Amy, Sandy, Judy and me a huge, luxury condo in the best part of New York, free and clear, of course, with all taxes, utilities and maintenance paid in advance for say, 20 years. Then if you would just get us a business manager to handle all our taxes and details, a security force to make sure no one bothers us, some beautiful furniture and lots of groceries. And a foundation for us to run -- one of those charitable places where we can collect money from rich men and help the poor...and the rich men."

Nick laughed out loud. "Is that all?"

I didn't have him yet. One part to go. The "what's in it for you, Nick" part.

"Of course, everyone, especially you, will benefit from the arrangement."

That got his attention. "And how would that be?"

"Well, the investors and employees would be compensated `directly,' of course. And you can enjoy me and my friends whenever you wish. Nothing new for you there. But the new part is that the four of us, living and working together openly as glamorous pantyboys, will make us famous. But the person who will really be famous will be you."

Now I really had his attention and continued, "Everyone in America will learn that Nick Nickerson discovered us. And that it was Nick Nickerson's idea and his efforts that created the New York Sperm Exchange. It's just what you'll need to move up to what you've desperately been wanting -- to make Panty Boy a weekly magazine!"

Nick gasped. "How did you know that?"

Notice he didn't deny it?

I had him

Chapter Three -- Four months later

Life was fabulous at the New York Sperm Exchange.

Even at the beginning. There were things to do and organize, but those lucky sissyboys were well led. By me, of course.

Nickiekins had gotten right to work the day after our cum-drenched evening. It was easy for him, really. Everyone wants to do a favor for the guy who can invite you to spend time at the Panty Mansion. It's a place with the world's greatest...comforts.

Nick accomplished everything on my checklist in about a week. Everything except the foundation. We had to get our not-for-profit legal thingies and all. We had to register this and that. But most of all, we needed to decide what we were foundationing.

Of course, I had the killer idea on all of that.

I said to the Terrific Triplets, "What's like the worst thing that can happen to people?"

They thought about that.

"Death?" Amy suggested.

"Wearing boy clothes?" Judy said.

"Celibacy?" Sandy offered.

All reasonable answers. But not correct.

"Bad sex," I said.

"Ohh," they said in unison.

Then after thinking a moment, Judy said, "But how can sex be bad?"

Good point. I had an answer. "When it hurts."

They nodded in agreement. We had all been on the end of an overly impetuous cock in our unprepared pussies.

"So, I propose that we establish a foundation that will use its donations to inform the public about how to do anal sex properly. I already have a name. Want to hear it?"

They nodded eagerly.

"The LDP Foundation."

Blank stares.

"LDP," I said, "means lubricate, dilate, penetrate. The `anuspussy.' In that order. That's what a real lover does for his pantyboy."

It was brilliant.

And an overnight success.

I mean, everyone wants better anal sex, right? Why hadn't any non-profit stepped up to raise money and educate the public about the best way to ease that Johnson into a tight pooper?

Well, we were going to correct that.

Nickie found a lawyer, a very horny young man, I can testify personally, to set up the LDP Foundation. And an event planner, who Judy says was beyond randy, to put together a "grand opening" (LDP is the best method for a truly grand opening) cocktail party for the foundation one Friday night in July 2003. We had been in the apartment for about two months by that night and I remember it all very well.

It's a lot of work coordinating a sissy household, especially since we were very much on the "barter system" with our benefactors.

Nickie had found four very eager men to buy and furnish our condo, as well as pay all our utilities, maintenance fees and taxes in advance for 20 years. Thinking ahead, as I always have to, I insisted that they all be married men, since I didn't want them in our bedrooms 24/7. Which the randy little buggerers would have been if they didn't have to attend to home and hearth. The girls and I needed our freedom too. Especially since there was a whole world of men beyond our apartment.

The afternoon of our LDP Foundation kickoff event, I remember that Sandy was "entertaining" Biff, one of our six dedicated security/bodyguards, who ensured that we weren't besieged, bothered or heckled. Mr. Diddler (a core benefactor) was coring Judy in her room. Amy was dallying with one of her new boyfriends (even I couldn't keep track of them all) in her room. I was working on the evening's business, including my brilliant speech. Someone had to be the grownup.

Of course, we paid the security guys actual money, but we thought that "sweetening the pootie" by trading monthly pussy for eternal devotion to duty was a fair deal all around. We also "entertained" our financial adviser/business manager John Bosley and our four "great benefactors" of house and home on a regular basis, so scheduling was always an issue. It was a good thing that Microsoft had recently developed a management program called "SissySperm2003," which helped us schedule such conjugal encounters.

We needed time in the schedule, of course, for our boyfriends, who were legion. We also needed girlie maintenance time -- a critical requirement for four lovely sissies. We needed "business time" to run the Foundation and invest our money properly. And we needed "Girl's Night In."

Everyone in our circle, including the four core benefactors, knew that Thursday nights were a "stay-at-home-and-love-each-other" night for us. I loved Thursdays and so did the girls. More about that later.

At three o'clock that afternoon, I knocked on three doors and evicted three men. We all had prettying up to do for that night and those silly sissies and their pussystruck swains would have fucked all night if I didn't lean on them.

As he left, Mr. Diddler gave me a leer and a good "feel," reminding me of our "date" the following week. Right after he had fucked my roommate! Even my morals are higher than that. Not too much higher. But higher.

I don't mean to run down the Core Four really. They put up a whole lot of money in a short time for us. And I'm forever grateful to Nick that he selected four good-looking, hygiene-conscious, well-hung, fit gentlemen to be our sugar daddies. I just wished that they had slightly smaller libidos.

I thought early on that they were so eager and randy because of the newness of our relationships. Three years later, they seem even hornier. That's the effect we have on men, I guess.

Anyway, back to that night. My three roommates looked as if they had just been thoroughly fucked. Which was how they almost always looked. If I was to whip them into shape for that evening, I had to give them a "halftime locker room" speech.

"All right ladies," I said. "Tonight is a huge night for us. If you look your best and act your best, the LDP Foundation will be a global success. That means you will be rich, famous and well-fucked for the rest of your lives. If you don't cooperate, I will cut your bodies into bite --sized pieces and feed you to the alligators that live in the New York sewers."

I could see that they were processing that. Judy, who had Mr. Diddler's cum oozing out of her bottom and dripping onto our living room Karrastan rug said, "But we're already rich, famous and well-fucked."

I glowered at her, then the other two and said, "Well, then. I guess this will be the alligators' lucky night."

That got them moving.

Four hours of bathing, shaving, painting, cosmeticsizing, and sumptuous, sensual dressing later, I resumed my "cat herding" exercise with the three sissy princesses.

I stepped out of my room, half-expecting them to be running around in panties and rollers in their hair. But no.

They were ready.

We were all ready.

Four stunning pantyboys in full warpaint and evening gowns. Five-inch-pencil-heeled sandals. Painted toes showing through sheer, evening-dark stockings. Gorgeous gowns, with high slits exposing luscious legs.

Judy's gown was red, sequined, spaghetti-strapped, knee-length and form-fitting. Her sandals were gold and strappy. Judy's blond mane touched her nearly bare shoulders prettily.

Amy chose an electric-blue, sequined, mini-gown that displayed her fabulous legs. Her sandals were silver and slutty. Yum.

Sandy was wearing green sequins, of course, to dramatize her luscious red hair. It was floor length, but with slits all the way to her stocking tops. Her sandals matched the dress. The little showoff was wearing a strapless frock, even though her wonder bra was working overtime to show off any cleavage on those almost-new titties. I have to admit though, those little knobs made me a bit jealous.

Sigh.

I was wearing a lovely black sequined classic gown -- floor length -- gold sandals. Trust me. I was hot.

We all thought the same thing, but Sandy articulated it -- "Too bad it's not Thursday night."

At precisely seven, Bosley arrived to escort us to our "debut" in New York fundraising society. He gave us his standard greeting. "Hello, angels," he said. Then he gave us each a lovely peck on the cheek, smelled each pantyboy's perfume, and rubbed the backs of the fingers of his right hand against each of our peenies. I've never been sure why, but it's kind of cute. As if he needed to reassure himself that we were boys, sort of.

"Let's go, angels," he said after the ritual.

We followed him out the door and to the elevator. Our poor neighbor, Mr. Lovecock, was just coming out of his door, as he always seemed to be whenever we left the apartment. I thought briefly about adding him to our "satisfaction rotation," but the rolls were swelling pretty fast.

"Good evening, Mr. Lovecock," Bosley said. "Nice evening."

Mr. Lovecock never seems to be able to speak in our presence. He just nodded. And gawked.

The five of us got into the elevator. I remembered something. "Bosley," I said, "Some guy named `Charlie' called again. He called us angels too, asked me to put him on the speakerphone, and said he wanted us to go blow up some foreign embassy or something."

"There are nutcases everywhere, Cheryl. I'll block his calls."

Well, that was a relief.

We all got into our limo. Clarence, our driver (and another grateful beneficiary of our favors) took us to the event that would shape our futures.

Aggressive paparazzi were everywhere, but so were our security guards.

There were also tons of our fans. Hurling praise and lewd suggestions. I loved it!

We sissied and high-heel-minced our way through the adoring mob and into the Hotel Grand Ritz Magnificent Ballroom.

Conversation, which had been lively, stopped. Completely. Silence. Then...and this is the best part...a huge gasp!

I love making a good first impression.

We certainly weren't the only pantyboys there that evening. Nick Nickerson had graciously arranged for fully 35 or 40 of his finest creampuffs to "work the crowd" that evening. They were all delightfully, deliciously beautiful -- perfect makeup -- beautiful bodies and long, stockinged legs visible through the long slits in their designer evening gowns.

They had been there a half hour before we were.

And yet, the crowd of 40 influential, rich men gasped when WE entered the room.

That's what I like.

My roommates and I were off to a good start.

Every man in the room made a valiant effort to get close enough to each of us to smell our perfume. That's so sweet. I would have taken all 40 of them, one at a time, into the back room for a "proper introduction," but both Nick and Bosley gave me some lecture about "supply and demand" or something.

Anyway, at 8 p.m., there was a fanfare and I began my presentation.

"Thank you all for joining us this evening. My roommates and I adore you all for what we know will be your outstanding generosity to our noble cause. I would introduce my roommates to you now, but if you saw us all together, you wouldn't listen to our critical message. Plus, I know you all read Panty Boy and you've seen us all in the state we love best -- naked and submitting to a man."

The low groan of lust from the crowd assured me of their agreement.

"This is a crusade -- and a true battle -- to rid the world of painful anal sex. It is a crusade against ignorance. Ignorance of the ways a man can prepare his pantyboy for spectacular, mutually delicious anal sex. The anal sex that gets the man what he really wants -- what all men want -- regular pussy. Pussy that comes back for more and more of his cock. By following our way -- the LDP way.

"Allow me to illustrate what I'm saying."

The crowd gasped. Did they think I was going to lift my dress, drop my panties, invite one of them to join me, get all lubed and dilated, then take it up the pootie?

It appeared that they did.

Sorry to disappoint them, but instead I showed them a video on several very large screens placed around the room.

My prerecorded voice narrated the video.

"This is Sandy. This is her lover Ben. Observe how happy they are to be together."

The crowd observed. Sandy was wearing only a diaphanous, "flyaway," emerald-green babydoll nightie and matching stiletto sandals. Ben was wearing only Ben. Both were painfully erect. Ben's Johnson was several times larger than his pantyboy lover's. It was a bludgeon! How did Sandy rate a boyfriend like him? I mean, she was cute and everything, but here we were in New York for three months and I didn't have a real boyfriend yet. And Sandy found Ben five minutes after we got off the plane. That was because I did all the work in our sorry outfit. There's no justice.

The whole boyfriend issue was starting to bug me. I hadn't had a real boyfriend in almost a year. Since that day I left my lover (and former best friend Mark Cumwell) without even a proper goodbye. I mean it was for a good reason. Nick Nickerson had sent his assistant to whisk me off to Fromage to be rich and famous as Panty Boy of the Year and everything. But I could sense that Mark wasn't happy when he came home from his summer construction job that night expecting a night of glorious pussy and I was in Nick Nickerson's bed a thousand miles away.

That could tick a guy off.

I missed him.

I liked the idea of having a steady guy.

But how could I over that past year? I mean I had to write the stories of my bubbleheaded roommates, so you all could spill your spunk. I had to establish the New York Sperm Exchange and the Lubricate Dilate Penetrate Foundation, didn't I? And I had all those photoshoots for Panty Boy. And all that time in bed with Nick. And the photo crew guys. And my roommates. And now the Core Four benefactors and our house staff.

I was fucked out and I wasn't getting any real love.

Mark loved me.

Even though I sort of abandoned him. And we hadn't spoken. I thought about him.

He was ready for his sophomore year in college. Probably working that summer construction job, I thought. All sweaty and muscular. Thinking of me. Looking at my pictures in Panty Boy. Remembering me.

[Sigh]

Anyway, in the video, Sandy and Ben were kissing sweetly and getting each other quite hot and very bothered.

"Sex is obviously in their imminent plans," I heard myself say. I guess that's how a documentary narrator speaks. It sounded dumb. Much like a lot of the stuff our director Holly Wood came up with. Nick recommended her, and we kind of owed Nick. I'm sure he was banging Holly, since she was a pretty hot pantyboy. But she made dumb decisions. Like casting Sandy in the key, introductory scene. Instead of me. I was way sexier. And tons prettier.

I knew why she made that casting error. It was Sandy's boobies.

Everyone seemed to like Sandy's boobies. Except me. I was envious.

They were actually pretty nice boobies. About the size of a pantyboy's fist. Two-thirds of their surface was dark brown puffy nipple. Did you ever see "Blame it on Rio?" Michael Caine's young girlfriend, who was the Joe Mantegna character's daughter, had boobies exactly like Sandy's. Maybe she was a pantyboy early in her hormone treatments. Remember the scene on the beach where she's wearing only bikini bottoms and Michael Caine is trying to avoid looking at her boobies? Well, when Ben untied Sandy's babydoll front and exposed her boobies to the crowd that night, no one looked away.

Back to my narration. "Consumed by lust, Ben's passion leads him astray." [Who wrote that stuff?]

Sandy was on her back, moaning with pain as Ben was trying to fit a size ten cock into Sandy's size two pussy. Sandy was so upset that she even lost her erection!!! Ben kept pushing and forcing -- unsuccessfully -- until Sandy smacked his cock, stood up and walked out of the room. Leaving Ben in blue-ball agony.

"Everyone loses when the man fails to LDP. But everything good happens when he does LDP."

The scene refreshed. Sandy was on her back and Ben was fucking her lustily, vigorously and gloriously. His rammer was entering and leaving heaven with ease. To Ben's right was a half-empty gallon jar of Vaseline. To his left, a well-lubricated plastic cock, with little poopie stains flecked here and there all over it. He had obviously done right by his pantyboy and was enjoying the delightful rewards.

It was powerful theater. Made even better by Sandy's excellent gasps, pants, squeals, and moans. And those boobies.

Every time Ben stuck his cock into her, Sandy's beautiful boobies bounced. Every time he took it out, they bounced.

I wanted boobies.

Sandy's cock was stiff and proud until she gasped, screamed sweetly and pumped five thick globs of sticky cream all over her belly and [sigh] boobies. The crowd moaned. No need to show Ben emptying his nuts. Everyone comes to the show to see the pantyboy shoot her juice. It's just so...dirty. The man is an extra.

My narration moved into an appeal for funding. "Your contributions will educate pantyboys and their lovers worldwide. It will teach them to lubricate..."

The scene switched to me...finally...wearing the same dress I was wearing for the grand opening. Bruno from our security detail was playing my boyfriend in the video. Kind of pathetic, really, that I didn't have a real boyfriend to fuck me.

But Bruno wasn't bad. We were kissing and pawing each other really well and before you knew it, my dress was puddled at my feet and I showed the crowd how I looked in black stockings, garters, panties and brassiere. Thank goodness they moaned, gasped and panted appreciatively.

I got down on all fours, facing away from the camera, just like that dippy director said to, and Bruno had my panties down in a New York minute. That allowed the crowd to see my pussy for the first time. Framed by my garter straps and stocking tops. Quite a lovely sight.

My narration began again. "This absolutely spectacular pantyboy [I adlibbed that part] is about to be lubricated properly by her eager, yet caring and well-informed lover. There are many ways for the man to prepare his pretty boy's pussy. All quite pleasant."

Bruno was skinning my peeny quite lovingly as his left hand was poised to catch my creamy discharge. As I recall, he had a very nice stroke. And in moments, I was squealing and spurting into his calloused hand. The bad boy then used my own cum (!) to lubricate his right middle finger. Using the greatest natural lubricant, he "greased my pooper" with his finger. In and out. Lubing. Doing what a good lover should do. Getting me ready. For his cock.

Bruno then added a second finger and, just to be sure, used a healthy dollop of Vaseline. A third finger engendered the use of KY lubricant. And then, just to be sure, as he entered me with four fingers and his thumb, he slathered my anus with baby oil.

"A caring lover takes precautions," I said in the voiceover. "This man has lubricated and dilated his lover properly and he is now about to claim his prize -- possession of her most intimate parts."

Again, who writes this stuff? Oh well.

No one was listening anyway. They just saw Bruno remove his hand to reveal the Grand Canyon after a babyoilstorm struck it.

Every man in that room gulped. They wanted to be Bruno. I just knew it.

But Bruno was Bruno. And his big cock was the surrogate for those men's dirty desires.

His gigantic phallus penetrated me with ease. He paused a moment to allow my pussy to relax and tighten around its welcome intruder. Then he set about his work. Fucking me. Hard. Doggie style.

Yum. My cock twitched at the memory. I looked at the men in the audience. Several were leering at me. Dreaming of me. Me. Despite the presence of 40 pantyboy all-stars in their midst. And my trampy roommates.

It's so wonderful to be me.

Bruno fucked me for five minutes of video time (Holly had edited it from two hours) during which I spurted three times and he filled my pussy twice. After he emptied his huge testicle bag twice, Bruno withdrew, revealing my gaping, cum-drenched, drooling pussy.

The film ended.

Everyone groaned. They wanted more. But they would have to pay for that.

I began speaking live again.

"The Foundation needs you. We need your support -- financial and physical. Lots of both.

"Help us to educate. Help us to ease suffering. Anal sex doesn't have to be a pain in the ass."

I had them.

One last statement. "I know you brought your checkbooks. Let's see them. Make a BIG donation for a good cause to the pantyboys walking among you with the little silk bags. Those pretty boys will be very grateful. VERY grateful. And a sissyboy knows how to show her gratitude."

That should grease the old wheels.

Checkbooks and pens were emerging at light speed.

I was watching the pantied prettyboys accepting checks and indecent proposals from the well-heeled men all over the room when I heard someone say, "I'm a big believer in the LDP Foundation and I can prove it."

I turned my head and saw a masculine masterpiece. Tall, dark and handsome are inadequate descriptors. And he was BUILT! Narrow waist. Broad shoulders. An athlete, perhaps?

I was right again. His name and resume registered in my brain -- Marty Morningwood -- star starting pitcher for the Boston Red Sox. Back when I had time for such things (and was an icky boy) I liked baseball. No true sissy would admit that, so I pretended I didn't know a guy who was a multi-multi-millionaire on his way to the Hall of Fame.

Instead, I asked, "And how can you prove that you believe in the LDP Foundation?"

He smiled nuclearly. Made me almost wet my panties right there. "Two ways, my darling," he said, a bit over-familiarly. "First, I'll offer a contribution."

And he handed me a check. A big check. $500,000. Which, even for a guy who has made over $10 million a year for quite some time is a lot. My eyes got wide when I saw that. Which inspired him to press on.

"And the second proof?" I gasped. My hormones were making me very warm and my peeny was stiff as a James Bond martini.

He touched my hand gently and said, "I can lubricate, dilate, and penetrate better than anyone you'll ever know."

Check, please!

Chapter Four -- Baseball been berry berry good...to me.

Without even saying goodbye to my trampy roommates or Bosley, I grabbed Marty's arm and let him lead me to his waiting limo.

I was so sexually hot and excited that I wondered if we would make it home before he fucked me. On the floor of the limo. In New York traffic. That would have been so DIRTY!

No. My new swain had more class than that. Darn it.

One coherent thought entered my brain before it was engulfed in its total quest for sex. The Red Sox were playing the Yankees that night. Wasn't he supposed to, you know, be there? I asked him.

"Well, yes, Honey," he admitted. "But I pitched a complete game and won last night, so the manager agreed that I could go to a family gathering tonight."

Huh?

He saw my puzzled look.

"You're gonna be my family, Sweetheart. I'm gonna make you fall in love with me and marry me."

I didn't think so. But it was a sweet notion. Very ego affirming.

And no one has a stronger ego than little old me.

It was only a ten minute ride at that time of night from the hotel to the NYSE.

Ten minutes of frantic kissing and groping in the back seat of the limo. Ten hungry minutes. Ten minutes after a year of need.

Now I'm not saying my physical needs over the past year hadn't been fulfilled. I'd been fucked. Lots of times. And swallowed a small town's water tower reservoir of cum.

But I hadn't had a boyfriend since Mark.

Ah, Mark.

Dear Mark.

Everyone who had "gotten into my panties" over the past year had been an "obligation fuck." Not a "love fuck."

I was always fucking someone to pay a debt or meet an obligation. Or another legitimate reason such as getting ahead in life. All good reasons.

But Mark had been my boyfriend. The only boyfriend I had ever had. Until that LDP Foundation night.

Until Marty.

Marty was a great kisser. He had me panting and gasping. And my little pickle was dripping steadily and fully engorged with hot blood.

Those ten minutes in the limo were magnificent. Hot. Steamy. But they lasted way too long. I wanted to be LDP-ed right away!! In the middle of 63rd Street if need be. As a crowd gathered to watch a baseball star in a dinner jacket and no pants fucking a sissyboy in a black evening gown and no panties. On the sidewalk. At it.

[Ooooh] Wouldn't that have been naughty?

I was still a teenager then, remember. Rambunctious. Impatient.

Actually, I'm still like that. Worse, maybe.

When we FINALLY arrived at the New York Sperm Exchange, Marty and I practically ran from the car to the front door. Which is not easy to do in five-inch spikes.

By sheer coincidence, Bruno was on duty at the desk that night. The Bruno whom Marty had just seen fucking me in that video. Would Marty notice? Would he, in a jealous rage abandon me?

Not bloody likely. Marty didn't even look at anyone but me.

I may have not had a boyfriend in a year, but I still had "it."

The elevator was taking SO LONG! Though we did kiss and fondle all the way. For the first time, we hugged face-to-face. And I felt a thick iron pipe against my flat stomach.

Yum!

Marty was large!

Somehow, I expected no less, though not all my subsequent boyfriends were "monster men." It's the thickness I like anyway, not the length. A cock only needs to be long enough to torment a pantyboy's prostate on each thrust. But I do my men's cocks to be thick. I love the feeling of being stretched. Ripped. Violated! I love when I'm lying there after and I can feel the sweet man cream drooling out of my stretched opening. I love when I "poop funny" the next time I have to go big potty.

Of coursed, the cock is not the only thing I look for in a man. Especially now that I'm much more mature. But it's nice to tickle and play with a thick prick, lick it until it's all drippy, then stick it into your "special place."

Steamy hot and blinded with lust, we made it to my room and closed the door. If Marty had been aware of his surroundings, he would have seen a lovely, ultra-feminine room, done in a pink and baby-blue motif. And a bed the size of the national debt. But all he could see was my pretty black gown sliding off my alabaster shoulders, down my slim body, into a puddle at my black-stockinged, stiletto-sandaled feet.

I stood before a rich, famous, sports legend. Wearing only my pretty, black stockings, garterbelt, panties, and sandals. I had removed my bra to display my stiff, puffy nipples. Strangely, I was self-conscious for the first time in quite a while, about my "missing" titties. I wanted it all to be prefect between Marty and me.

I was trembling. Waiting for Marty to ravage me. Thoroughly.

But he had stopped his frantic groping and frenetic lust.

Oh no. I thought. Was he was expecting me to be like Sandy? With those boobies of hers? I HATED her! Was he was going to leave me? Humiliate me? Abandon me to blue-ball torment?

Uh, no.

"This is the greatest moment of my life," he said. "I want to savor it just for a moment."

My ego went back from E to F. Where it stays almost all the time. Except for some silly little moments like that one. Still, just to be sure, I was getting boobies.

While Marty was "savoring," I basked in his admiration. I was thinking, someone who was a baseball pitcher must have big, thick, sweaty arm muscles. And all sorts of calluses and bumps on his fingers and hands. He would be so rough when he touched my delicate parts.

He had one little more touching bit of information before we entered full rut. "You're the first boy I ever kissed, Cheryl. Even though I was always taught that being with someone like you was `wrong,' I've been in love with you since the first time I saw you in Panty Boy. To tell you the truth, I still wasn't sure you were a boy until I saw your puffy nipples and the cute tent in your panties. Loving you is the most right thing I've ever done."

Wow. He was honest and open with his feelings. We girlyboys, like girls, love when our men give us that sort of intimacy. But enough of that. I wanted to see if he could fuck!

Thank goodness that was his next agenda item.

Marty shucked off his clothes and I was treated to the sight of a world-class athlete's body. And the athlete's world-class penis.

He clearly had given up his minor hangup about my vestigial virility. That pipe would kill a man if you hit his head with it.

I blushed at the sight of Marty's nakedness. Which always drives men nuts.

Then I eased my own panties down...slowly...showing just the tip of my peehole...hen the knoblet...then a teeny peek at the shaft...then the whole shaft...then my pink purse and its pretty peanuts.

Marty's eyes actually teared up when he saw it. I was maybe the millionth person he had fucked in his life, but the first pantyboy. It was a first for him to look at a penis and want to devour it and the girl it was attached to.

He needed help.

I gave it.

"Oh, Marty. "I'm so excited. I'm afraid I'll be injured if I don't shoot my sissy cream soon. Could you rub my little peeny or even...[blush]...kiss it, so I can feel better?"

Attack a phobia head-on, I always say.

Marty accepted my suggestion with great enthusiasm. He actually picked me up in his arms, right arm underneath the backs of my thighs, left arm under my back, and lifted my slim body high enough so that he could take my "dolly" into his mouth.

I squealed in surprise. That was a very manly move!

And he had other moves. Marty may have never sucked a cock before, but he displayed a fine aptitude. He licked and kissed and sucked my knoblet until, despite the odd position we were in, I felt the wonderful stirrings in my tummy. He was so strong and manly and I was completely in his power. Unless I yelled "Rumpelstiltskin," which would activate an alarm that would bring a SWAT team of security guys to my rescue.

A girl has to have options.

Anyway, Marty licked and kissed and sucked and I moaned and wriggled and then, with my girliest squeal, I spunked his sweet mouth with the first load of sticky cream that the beautiful man had ever swallowed.

And swallow it he did.

They all swallowed.

Every man I've ever been with.

And they all wanted to suck my doodle and tongue-bathe my wrinkly bag.

Marty was doing quite well at the first quiz in Boyfriend 101. Let's see how he did on the midterm.

He laid me on the bed on my stomach. Then he moved my legs into a "V" shape. Was he going to fuck me before I even got my shoes off? What about that line he gave me about following the principles of LDP? Was he going to just fuck me dry? He would kill me!

I started to resist, at least to tell him that there were seven or eight different kinds of lubricant in the night stand drawer. I opened my mouth to tell him that, or to scream or anything when suddenly...

All was well.

Better than well.

Marty, who, I had already discovered was quite oral, had his tongue buried in my pussy.

That wasn't in the video.

He had come up with that all by himself.

The only other man who had ever done that for me had been Mark.

See? A boyfriend is better than an "obligation fuck."

I LOVE having my pussy eaten. And Marty was a very good pussy eater.

He held my bottom cheeks apart with his thumbs and feasted on my "naughty hole." Slurped. Excavated. Kissed and licked. Every once in a while, he would leave my pussy and lick my balls, which were exposed to his lustful lunges.

It was scrumptious. And he did it for a good half hour, during which I soaked my sheets with creamies once and was about to do it again when he moved to the "dilate" phase.

Oh, girls. Pitchers have such manly fingers. Rough. Thick. Knuckly. They "do things" to us pantyboys when they're roaming freely in our pussies.

Marty had found the lube and was slathering it on all four (!) of the fingers of his right hand (his pitching hand). Was he going to put them all inside me?!?! The Beast!

I could have yelled Rumplestiltskin right then. And missed out on a fuck for the ages. I said no such fairy-tale-character word.

Instead I just moaned and gasped as he rudely entered my saliva-sopped pussy with two huge fingers and began to torture my poor prostate.

That produced my third creamy emission of that fine evening. And I screamed loudly enough to wake our neighbor, Mr. Lovecock. And the entire upper east side.

Marty didn't care about waking mere Yankee fans. He eased that third finger in there. Ooohhh. Then a fourth. Unnnhhh. I was afraid that the hand, wrist and elbow were next.

But no.

Satisfied that I was ready for the "P" part of LDP, Marty removed his fingers and replaced them with his glorious cock.

For a second, I thought it might have been his whole arm in there after all. The darned thing was a bludgeon. And it was all mine.

Marty felt very at home with his cock in my anus. I tried to be a good hostess. I grunted and moaned and begged for more and harder fucking. All the stuff guys like to hear but most women won't do for them. He lifted my hips and fucked me on all fours. Then he pulled out [boo], placed me on my back, cocked my knees up and fucked me face to face. Kissing. Tongues. Drooling. Grunting. Oh that feeling again. I...

Wow!

My fourth orgasm of the evening struck me just as Marty joyfully and uninhibitedly drenched my stretched bottom with eight ounces of grade A nut butter.

I liked my new boyfriend.

Chapter Five -- More Boyfriends

My trampy roommates all got laid that night too. With rich powerful men they had just met at the LDP Foundation party.

They just had no morals.

It was different with Marty and me.

Our love was pure.

Pure sex.

One of the things I insist on from a lover is my eight-straight-hour beauty sleep. I need it to stay the most beautiful pantyboy in world history. And my little cum factory (and my man's) needs it to replace all the spilled spunk from the evening's entertainment.

I would have insisted that Marty agree to that non-negotiable condition, except he was well into his eight-straight hours after our second go-round of the evening.

Wasn't that considerate of him?

Anyway, I woke that morning at 8:30 with a great need to tinkle and a big need for a bellyful of Marty's cum -- a vintage I had not yet tasted.

The tinkle need had greater urgency. As I sat and peed, I savored the imminent future. I would kneel by my man and awaken him by sucking his cockhead until he fed me his load. I would be on my knees, but I would be in charge.

Marty had other ideas. He was standing outside the bathroom door and ambushed me as I exited. I squealed and squirmed as he grabbed me from behind, threw me over his shoulder and carried me to the bed. He half-flung me down so that I was flat on my back. Then, on his knees, he straddled my shoulders and [the beast!] rubbed his obscenely dripping peehole all over my face.

"Open your mouth, Cheryl," he demanded. "I'm going to fuck your face."

He was degrading me!

And he wanted to degrade me even further by sordidly sticking his dirty thing -- the thing he urinates with -- the thing he had buried in my bowels (twice) without even washing it off -- in my poor little mouth! Then fuck my throat as if I were a cheap little streetwalker.

Do I know how to pick a boyfriend or what?

I made quite a show of resisting, but I finally opened my mouth and accepted my fate. A dirty cock in my pretty mouth. I submitted to my new boyfriend. Gave myself to him. Surrendered.

Try it, girls. You won't regret it.

He was a brute. Using my mouth as he would a pussy. I was gagging and gasping for breath. It was so degrading. I loved it. He loved it. In less than five minutes (thank goodness or I may have asphyxiated) he was pumping eight hours and five minutes worth of manly cream into my mouth, out the sides and onto the sheets, my neck and my chest.

He was a keeper! I would run away with him to an island where we would fuck 16 hours a day and sleep eight. I had our whole future planned.

Until he reminded me the next morning that he was only in town for the weekend, then wouldn't be back to New York for a month. And that he even had a game THAT afternoon -- an afternoon he could have spent in bed with me! And another game the FOLLOWING afternoon!

He was so cruel. Couldn't he like, ask his Boston team to play all their games in New York? Couldn't he "work from home?" Everyone was doing it those days.

"Fine," I said, petulantly. "You'd better get going then. We don't want you to miss your precious ball game."

He tried to make up to me by sucking my pink bits. I let him. But only because my balls were a little achy. And I didn't want to injure myself. When he swallowed a big load of my morning goo, I decided to temporarily forgive him, since he swore he would be at the NYSE for a nice date by 7 p.m.

I kissed him sweetly and told him to get going. Which he would have, except for one little problem. The only clothes he had were his dinner jacket ensemble from the previous evening. Which would have caused him to do some fancy splainin' when he got to his clubhouse.

As I often was, I was grateful for Bosley's great planning on this and other matters.

"I'll take care of things, Sweetie," I said. And I rang for Nancy.

Nancy appeared at the bedroom door almost instantly. Surprising Marty. And pleasing me.

"Yes, Miss Cheryl," she said. She always said that, or something like it. She's a perfectly submissive lady's maid. With a cock the size of many of the NYSE boyfriends.

"Thank you for coming, Nancy," I said [always be polite with the "help."] Mr. Morningwood needs clothing -- khakis, polo shirt, penny loafers will do -- with fresh underwear and a shaving kit."

"Certainly, ma'am. May I ask your sizes, sir?"

A somewhat amused Marty recited them to her and she left immediately to fetch his things.

"Who was that and why was she or he dressed like that?" he asked. "And why do you have men's clothing here?"

I answered in reverse order. "My trampy roommates (and occasionally I) often have unplanned, overnight male visitors. Since it wouldn't do for the gentleman to show up at his workplace unshaven and in smelly, inappropriate clothing, we take precautions."

"Great idea," Marty acknowledged.

"Thank you," I said, though the sensible policy was all Bosley's good idea -- one of many. "The lady you met briefly is Nancy, my day maid. She's a sweet, lovely pantyboy who is eager to serve me and be a vital part of the New York Sperm Exchange. You certainly wouldn't expect me to do housework and [gasp] cooking, would you?"

Marty smiled. "Of course not. But why is Nancy dressed like that?"

He was referring to the fact that Nancy was wearing black, seamed, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings; sensible, three-and-one-half-inch stiletto pumps; a ruffled, black garter belt; and a traditional maid's dress that was so short it completely exposed Nancy's considerable, panty-free, pink package and her full, plump bottom.

The answer to Marty's question was complicated, but I attempted it. "The exposed goodies were our business manager's idea. Bosley says that the girls' adore the role they play here. And he ought to know since he extensively interviewed' all the candidates for the eight positions. It allows them to live the Panty Life to the max. And exposing their `pretties' reminds them to be submissive to my roommates and me."

While Marty thought that over, I thought about the other reasons we exposed our maids like that. Having the maids around took a great deal of "obligation fuck" pressure off the four of us. The security guys. The Core Four. Bosley. The lawyers who set up the LDP Foundation. They all fucked the eight maids we called "The Second Team." And the maids LOVED it! Exposing them like that kept the maids in a state of continuous humiliation, which not only aroused them, it aroused every man they met. Only our boyfriends were off limits to them. They knew that and knew that violation of that rule meant dismissal -- to which they would have preferred death.

Nancy was a pretty little thing. And so was Megan, my night maid. They were both older -- late 20s, I would say. And both had big dicks and heavy, huge balls. But they were otherwise totally feminine. The other six maids, who served Judy, Amy and Sandy, were also sweet, feminine, pretty and submissive to us, though their cocks were various sizes. Jeanette, Sandy's night maid, had the smallest peeny I've ever seen. And at 2 p.m. each day when she came on duty, her bare, gaping, cum-drooling bottom told me that she had GREATLY enjoyed her free time.

The girls worked either the day shift -- 6 a.m. to 2 p.m. -- or night shift -- 2 p.m. to 10 p.m, seven days a week. We managed for ourselves from 10 to 6 each night. And on Thursday nights we dismissed the maids at 7 for our Girls' Night In.

The maids cooked our meals too. We had to eat. Fucking used up a lot of calories. And they were pretty good in the kitchen. I often wondered how many "girls" Bosley interviewed to find them. And he was still "interviewing" the eight maids whenever he had the chance. So were the security guards. The maids would come to work in their boy clothes and change in a room we rented for them on the ground floor. The guards would chat them up and invariably give them a nice pre-work fucking and a post-work shagging as well. Sometimes, if we weren't home, I know the girls would pop downstairs during the workday as well for a little in-and-out. I have to believe that there was some heavy "dating" activity during off-duty hours as well.

Back to Marty and me. Nancy returned quickly with his clothes. Too quickly. I would have to speak to her about that. And her obvious "excitement" in the presence of my boyfriend, though I couldn't fault her for that.

Marty disappointed me again. He gave me a quick kiss, then ran off -- alone—to shower shave and dress. Ten minutes, another quick kiss and a promise to return later, he was gone.

Rats.

It was 9:30 a.m. on a Saturday and I hadn't even been fucked. Was I losing my touch?

I decided to seek comfort and rang for Nancy. In the 30 seconds it took her to report, I thought about what a fright I must look. I was wearing last night's make-up (under a layer of dried cum. I hadn't even taken off my stockings or garters. I was still wearing my sandals. No wonder Marty didn't want to give up his $15-million-per-year job for me.

Always-reliable Nancy arrived promptly. "Yes, ma'am?" she said.

I smiled at Nancy. Her cock twitched. Another good reasons for our maids to be "bare-bottom." We can always see what they're thinking.

"I need some girl talk, Nancy. And some support. Can you get in bed with me? After you take your dress and petticoats off."

Nancy erected fiercely. And I saw sweet tears of joy form in her eyes. "Oh, yes, Miss Cheryl," she said eagerly. And she quickly stripped to her garters and stockings.

I saw her naked body for the first time. Very nice. Especially her puffy nipples. And my goodness, her seven-inch cock. And cum-filled oranges.

We lay side-by-side on our backs, Nancy awaiting her cue from me. I lay on my left side, put my head onto her right shoulder and skinned her cock up and down as I told her my troubles. "That, that man, who just left -- Marty. He went off to play in some old ballgame instead of staying with me! Can you believe that?"

"No, mistress," Nancy said. "Men can be such brutes. Oh, Miss Cheryl, that's very nice."

Well, at least someone appreciated me. I went on for a while about how Marty was the first real boyfriend I had had in a year and he had already disrespected me. Nancy was very sympathetic, grunting frequently and gasping at the really bad parts of my story. Or maybe she was nearing orgasm. Whatever. I felt better telling her everything. Then I said, in my most seductive way, "And the beast didn't even fuck me this morning. My pussy feels so empty. I wish someone would...Nancy, I don't want to pressure you or anything, but, could you, I mean would you, well...fuck me?"

Nancy's cock leapt with joy. The poor girl had clearly imagined that request in her wildest dreams. "Oh, yes, ma'am. I would love to."

I guess by that point I could have told Nancy that she could call me Cheryl. But it's never good to become overly familiar with the help.

"Oh, Nancy, let's have a real girl-girl experience," I said. "Are you familiar with LDP?"

Nancy was way ahead of me. Before I finished the question, Nancy had retrieved a bottle of lube from the nightstand and was greasing up her stiff cock and the fingers on her right hand. Soon I was grunting with pleasure as she lubricated my pussy and teased my prostate with three sissy fingers. Then I was on my knees screaming and squealing as Nancy gave me an excellent, doggy-style fucking

She was VERY good at it. And she gave me a lovely "reacharound" that had me cumming a bucket as she pumped thick globs of her sweet cream into me.

We did some sweet kissing afterwards, then Nancy had the good sense to stand up, grab her dress and petticoats and said, "That was one of the greatest moments of my life, Mistress. Thank you. Does Mistress require anything else?"

Nancy certainly knew how to avoid the uncomfortable moment and return the universe to normal.

"No thank you, Nancy. I'll get bathed and dressed now, have breakfast and be off to the beauty parlor for the afternoon. Will you arrange all that?"

"Certainly, Madam." And she began to leave.

"Oh, Nancy," I said. And she turned to face me. "I LOVED our lovemaking. And girl talk. Thank you. We'll do it again."

Nancy smiled broadly and walked away on air.

That afternoon, Judy and I went to our favorite beauty salon. Bosley has often suggested that he could easily get beauticians to come to the apartment. But I adore being out in public. I adore the lustful stares men give me. I adore everything about being a pantyboy.

I read recently that a stocking company did a survey on the declining usage of hosiery among women. In 2006, women were only wearing what the company called "sheer hosiery" (which sadly includes thigh-highs and (horrors) pantyhose), 1.8 times per week. That's down from 3.3 ten years ago and around 6.8 in 1960.

No wonder men preferred pantyboys to women. We were way more feminine.

After an afternoon of pampering, we returned to the NYSE for our evening dates. Judy was entertaining Peter Venkman, a nice, rich, powerful, older man she had met at the fundraiser. Peter had been mayor of New York City after he had saved the city twice from destruction by some Stay-Puft marshmallow man or something. Anyway, it all happened before I was born, so it's not really important.

I was entertaining Marty.

At around 5:30, Judy and I had a light dinner, prepared by Linda, Amy's night maid. I took a good look at Linda -- she was darned CUTE! And she could make a very nice low-cal, high-taste, girlie salad.

So many men and pantyboys. So little time.

Judy and I left Linda to her dishes at around six and we went to our rooms to dress for our dates. I had a lovely pink peignoir set that I'd been saving for an occasion like this one. And my second date with my hunky new boyfriend was an occasion.

I was perfumed, powdered and made up by 6:50, the earliest I had ever prepared for a date. And let me tell you, my new boyfriend was one lucky guy. I had put on my sluttiest eye makeup, my highest, spikiest, pink mules, my sheerest, seamed, pink stockings, my trampiest, exposed-nipple bra and my wispiest pink panties. Megan, my evening maid, came her poor sissy guts out when she saw me.

Now that's the kind of respect I want from a maid!

As Megan knelt on the floor cleaning her sticky mess, I told her that I would answer the door when my date arrived.

I wanted my greeting for Marty to be perfect.

Thinking about it now, I guess I was being a little pathetic. My roommates tell me all the time that they make their men serve them out of bed as vigorously as they serve their men in bed. Here I was catering to my new boyfriend.

I was doubting myself. Not good for a world-class pantyboy. I even began to doubt that Marty would be on time. Or (horrors!) not show up at all! Right at that moment, he could be behind the stands at that baseball stadium with his cock in some little sissy twit's throat! I began to get furious. Hmmm. Was there really a three-day waiting period to buy a firearm? That was such a stupid law; I was angry THEN. Who knew if I would be angry three days from then?

Then, at 6:58, as I was considering securing a sharp kitchen knife (if I could find the kitchen), the doorbell rang.

I opened the door and saw a very-out-of-breath Marty.

He was wearing the same clothes Nancy had given him that morning and looked panicked. "I'm so sorry if I gave you any anxiety," he said. "The stupid game went into extra innings, then I couldn't find a cab. I wouldn't miss being with you for anything!"

Well, that wasn't strictly true. He did have that silly job thing of his. But I would take his devotion at face value.

I gave him my nuclear-intensity smile, which made him feel better and stretched his khakis. Then I gave him a very nice reward. I invited him in, closed the door so that I didn't give Mr. Lovecock a free show, then sank directly to my pretty knees.

I undid Marty's pants, pulled them down and freed his cock, squealing girlishly with anticipatory pleasure. His prick was big and strong and hot as fast-food coffee. I skinned the head and exposed the pink tip. It was the first time I had been able to conduct a proper examination of Marty's penis, since he had spent our last date either sodomizing me or "raping" my mouth.

Marty was calming down nicely, finding his "center." I found the center of his cock, the leaky peehole, and I tongued it aggressively. He began moaning and gasping very nicely. I love appreciation.

I sucked and licked and kissed all over the oh-so-sensitive cockhead. Then, just as he was about to cum, I stopped. I giggled, looking up at a very needy man. Was I going to leave him in that horrible condition? He may have wondered about that. But that's definitely against the sissy code. I was just letting him cool off a bit.

When his breathing had calmed down a smidge, I began to bathe his balls with my tongue. Slowly. Teasingly.

Marty was enjoying himself.

So was I.

Why don't more people just drop the pretexts and have hot sweaty sex whenever they feel like it?

Oh well.

Marty's breathing picked up as I shifted my attention to his shaft. A lot of territory to tongue there. Yum!

I returned to his knob. A very distressed knob. It was so full of blood that its color had deepened from pink to red. And was approaching maroon.

I licked outside the knob, refusing to cap the head, though I knew that it meant I would get "the girl's big reward" all over the face I had spent an hour making up.

With full eye contact, on my knees in submission to my man, I licked Marty's knob until he grunted manfully, then spurted six thick ropes of his best cream all over my face and hair.

What a cummy mess!

Marty didn't seem to mind.

He picked me up and carried me to my bedroom, kissing me hungrily all the way. When we arrived, he laid me gently on the bed. As he removed his clothes, I untied my peignoir, exposing my nipples, tummy and "pointed" panties to his rampant lust.

Marty's first order of business was to clean me up. He licked off all of his cum that he could find on me. Even my hair. Then, feeling oral, he began to lick, suck and bite (gently) my right nipple. I love to have my nipples sucked. Who wouldn't?

My little pickle was twitching as Marty adored my left nipple in the same manner as he had worshiped the right. Mmmm. Then the bad boy kissed his way down my tummy to my belly button, which he tongued without mercy. Easing my panties up and over my peeny, then down to my mid-thighs, Marty entered my pussy with his middle finger as he continued to place flutter kisses all over my tummy. I actually sat up and squealed as he began to rub my prostate as he tongued my belly button.

Marty kissed my mouth and eased me onto my back as he "rubbed the walnut" with his rough, callused finger. Oh, what an animal he could be!

By the time he took my pricklet in his mouth and gave it a sweet sucking as he finger-fucked me, I was frantic with lust. I screamed as if I was being murdered when I came in Marty's loving mouth.

I changed my mind about killing him.

Though he almost killed me that night -- fucking me five times and making me give up my "eight-hours-sleep" iron-clad rule.

I almost expected him to propose to me the next morning and I probably would have accepted.

Then he told me he had another one of those "day ballgame" things and he would have to leave town with the team after the game -- for Cleveland. He chose CLEVELAND over me!!! And he wouldn't be back in New York for a month!!

The nerve!

He actually had the cojones to suggest that I accompany him on his road trip to horrible places like Detroit and some place called Anaheim.

I informed Mr. Morningwood that I did not chase men. Men chased me!

He begged me to forgive him. Punctuated by another heroic fucking that left me "pooping funny" for three days. But I said, "I'll have to think about it."

He said he adored me and gave me a cell-phone number that was just for me. He would answer it, he said, no matter what he was doing, even pitching. Well, that was a little better. But what was I to do when he was exploring America?

The answer came to me.

Other boyfriends.

Chapter Six -- Old friends are the best friends

On Sunday morning after Marty deserted me Judy and I got dressed and went to mass. I guess Judy is my favorite roommate. We're both blondes. She's not uppity and tittified like that showoff Sandy. And she's not all "foreign" like Amy. Not that I don't love Sandy and Amy. I love all three of the little twats, I really do.

Judy and I go to mass every Sunday. You may be saying to yourself, how can those little slutpuppies sit in a pew when they're such sinners? Well, first of all, the church would be empty if it excluded sinners. And second of all, my conscience and Judy's conscience are clear. We don't hurt people. We don't force anyone to do anything. All we do is make people happy.

What's wrong with that?

Judy and I tone it down a bit when we go to mass. That Sunday we wore pretty summer dresses with pleated, flouncy skirts that came to mid-thigh, tan stockings and four-inch stiletto mules. It's such fun to walk into church -- or anywhere -- and see the men's reactions. Even the priests.

After mass, we needed a little exercise. So we called Bosley and invited him and a security guard of Judy's choice to spend the afternoon.

Why squander a perfectly good Sunday?

I "worked out" with Bosley. All afternoon. And until the next morning. He's actually quite nice. And very appreciative.

Then I had a busy Monday. It involved actual work. I had a job. Sort of. I was the executive director of the LDP Foundation and, while my duties were unspecified, they were real. I was supposed to lead the effort to raise money so that we could eliminate the scourge of painful anal sex in our lifetime.

That Monday for my first day on the job, I wore a pink Chanel suit. Very businesswomanish. I got to work around 10, checked out my gracious, ultra-feminine office, and met my secretary, David. David the Dish!

"What are my appointments today, David?" I asked.

"Ill take you around and introduce you to everyone, Miss Cheryl. Then you have an update meeting with Mr. Cruncher, the chief financial officer at 11. After that, you're having lunch with Mr. Bosley at the Ritz Hotel across the street. Room 1245, he says." David blushed at that. I was going to have to help him get over that.

It was fun meeting our ten employees -- five hunky men and five dishy pantyboys. I imagined they took a lot of "relief breaks" in the supply closet. Or maybe the men just bent the pantyboys over their desks and fucked them. The Wall Street Journal did say that the office environment was changing.

One thing I knew for sure. In that sex-charged environment, no one was choosing to work from home.

The men all leered and drooled over me when I shook their hands. So did the pantyboys. I approved of the sexy way the pantyboys all dressed -- microminiskirts, stockings and big heels. With all the "breaks" they probably took, I imagined that few or none of them wasted time wearing panties. That was an exploration for another time. I had my important update meeting.

Promptly at 11, Bill Cruncher, the CFO gave me a brief report. "The fund raiser brought in $1.2 million. An amazing amount of money from 40 donors. The web site is earning us about $10,000 a day. We'll do a similar fund raiser every third Friday. We're all going to be rich."

Why can't more corporate meetings be like that?

I was so happy that I gave Bill a big kiss. Then I got on my knees and sucked his cock until he came a gallon down my throat. He deserved it. Plus he was cute. I mean you always hear about business people shooting the messenger who brings them bad news. Why not suck off the messenger who brings you good news?

Why can't more corporate meetings be like that?

Bosley and I had a sweaty, cummy afternoon at the Ritz. Then I told him he was going to have to settle for playing slap and tickle with my roommates for a while. Or the maids. Or the office staff. He and I had to maintain more of a business relationship, now that I was more of a businesspantyboy. I mean we could fuck once a week or so, everyone did that. But not day and night.

Was he just humoring me, when he agreed, then gave me another dose of the old in-and-out?

Well, I was going to be firm. I had responsibilities.

And it was lonely at the top.

That night, I gave my pussy a nice rest. I curled up with the latest issue of Panty Boy magazine and went to sleep early.

Pathetic, huh?

The next morning when my only bedmate was Panty Boy magazine, I decided some changes were needed in my life.

Rather than ringing Nancy to bring me breakfast, I decided on an independent expedition to the kitchen. Wearing only the outfit I had slept in, a cute, tiny, sheer, lavender babydoll, no shoes or stockings I opened my door and turned left. And saw them.

That little-tittied Sandy again with another one of her hunky boyfriends. He was a police captain, in full uniform, except for his pants being down to his knees and his big cock sticking up.

Sandy was wearing panties. Just panties. She was lying on her back on floor of our living room. Her beau was rubbing his cock between her obviously well-lubed titties. He was titty-fucking her! And they were both enjoying it a lot.

Despite what had clearly been an energetic evening for both of them, the police captain produced, with an obvious, true effort, a very large amount of spunk, which drenched Sandy's neck, chin, mouth, eyes, cheeks, forehead and hair.

There Sandy was again. Using those titties to full advantage. "Racking" up boyfriend after boyfriend, while I spent my evenings (one at least) with an empty pussy.

Sobbing quietly (never let the competition see you cry) I reentered my room. When I stopped crying, I started thinking.

I was getting titties. That was a given. Big, natural ones. No implants. Someone out there could give them to me and I was about to find him.

And I was going to find love.

Enough of this fucking for exercise. Wait, I didn't mean that. Exercise is good. And so is fucking. I was going to do more "love fucking" and less "exercise fucking" and "obligation fucking" that was what I meant.

Women trade sex to get love. Men trade love to get sex. I'm a pantyboy. I want it all.

So I took a step I had wanted to do for months, but dreaded. I'm not good at penance. And I'm not good at rejection.

Deep breath. Dial. Ring. Ring. Picked up. "Hello."

Me: Mrs. Cumwell, this is Cheryl LaFemme. May I speak to Mark, please?

Mrs. Cumwell: [Icy pause] He's not here. Unlike you, he works.

[Well, that was going well, wasn't it?]

Me: Please Mrs. Cumwell, I just want to talk to him. I'll only keep him a while. I miss him.

Mrs. Cumwell: Miss him?!?! You broke his heart. He was despondent. Almost didn't go to college because of what you did to him. Deserting him like that for some fancy-pants pervert like that Nickerson person. And leading the life you lead. Guess I shouldn't be surprised, since your father deserted your mother and took up with that trampy pantyboy Barbara.

[Ouch. All true. But hurtful. Barbara had been my other best friend, besides Mark. Barbara seduced my Daddy and Mom caught them. Mom left, never to return and Daddy and Barbara got married.]

Me: I know, Mrs. Cumwell. [Sob] I'm sorry. [Sob] I'm sorry. Is Mark all right?

Mrs. Cumwell: [Long pause, then more softly] Yes, he's all right. I guess it's not all your fault. We three moms did a really dumb thing by putting you all in panties. Look at all the hurt we caused. I can't guarantee he'll call, but I'll tell him you called. And I'll suggest he call you.

Me: Oh, thank you, Mrs. Cumwell! I...[click]

That was hard work. But I had taken the first baby step. Now I had to see if Mark would call and the real work would begin.

That day I busied myself with talking to Nick's "people." The four of us had a photo shoot for Panty Boy scheduled in the apartment for Thursday, with the firm understanding that they had to clear out by seven so we could have Girls' Night In. Mr. Buttram, one of the Core Four benefactors, was sneaking out on his wife that night and it was my turn to entertain him. My first time with him. Word at the NYSE was that he really was quite nice, except for the cleanliness fetish that drove him to give us girls a double enema before any sexual activity occurred. I discovered that it was kind of pleasant, actually. And once I was cleaned out, he was a spectacular pussy eater.

He was coming by at seven. What if Mark called while I was getting an enema? Or as my pussy was being tongued?

What was the time difference? When did he get off work?

What if he didn't call?

Despair.

But at 5:05, Eastern Daylight Time, my personal phone in my bedroom rang. Caller ID said it was the Cumwell residence. Was it Mark or another family member?

I sighed. Then answered it.

"Hello?" I asked in a meek voice.

"Cheryl?"

"Yes, Mark! Oh, Mark, you called! I'm so glad you called. Wait. You're not calling to curse me out are you? I deserve it I know." The Catholic part of me was in full evidence.

"I'm not sure why I called, Cheryl."

That wasn't good. Was it?

He continued. "You hurt me, Cheryl. I loved you. Adored you. Then you left me without a goodbye to seek some crazy dream. I thought we had a life together."

A life together? Did he mean, like marriage and kids? Was such a life possible for a pantyboy?

More from Mark. "I couldn't move for the first month after you left. Not even a phone call from you. Then I pulled myself together and resolved to forget about you. Went to college. Took extra classes. Made the Dean's List. Should graduate in three years with honors."

I let loose. "Oh Mark, I'm so sorry. I was such a selfish fool." Then I proceeded to be racked with sobs for a good five minutes. I tried to stop crying, terrified that he would hang up. But I couldn't. I had been evil. Selfish. And I had to pay the price. More of that Catholic stuff that we never lose.

When I was finally able to speak coherently, Mark said, "It hurts me to hear your pain. Remember how I said I resolved to forget about you? I break that resolution several times a day. I worked so hard because I want to be a big success. Bigger than Nick Nickerson. I want you to come back to me."

My heart leapt! Music came up.

"Oh, Mark!"

If only we had been together at that moment, we would have never been apart. We would have run off to Fiji and built a grass hut, fucking every minute of the day and all night.

But we both had obligations.

"Oh, Mark. I loved you then and I know we could be in love again. Let's give it another chance. You have to go back to school in two weeks. And I have a job. Could we meet somewhere and spend some time together?"

"I want to love you again too, Cheryl. Are you free this weekend?"

"Nothing can stop me, Mark? Can you come to New York? We can stay in my apartment. You can meet my roommates." My roommates, whom I would have to instruct on proper behavior. "I'll arrange a private jet for you."

That didn't sound right. Would it scare him off? No.

"Wonderful," he said. We discussed logistics of the visit, then rang off.

Well, my world just brightened.

I was going to win back my Mark. But I still wanted those titties.

On Thursday, The four of us spent the day posing in miniscule, ultrasheer, black, flyaway babydoll nighties; black, seamed, fully fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings; and strappy, patent-leather, black, five-inch-stiletto mules. We all absentmindedly forgot our panties. Every man's ultimate fuck dream.

It was such fun posing for a Panty Boy pictorial. Knowing that millions of men would be spilling a medium-sized lake of cum over your pictures. Plus, while most modeling assignments involve long boring poses, Panty Boy photo shoots involve hot sex and lots of cummy spurting.

But the real fun started when the camera crew left.

Girls' Night In.

We ate a light dinner at six, then sent the maids home at seven.

I had things to discuss with my roommates and GNI was the night to do that. It wasn't all about the fucking. But the fucking couldn't wait.

The little creampuffs looked fantastic. And after a day of Panty Boy posing, the girls and I were very steamy.

Amy had been flirting with me all through dinner. Playing footsie. Telling me how she would like to put her tiny business into my tight spot and make me squeal like the little piggies on Lord Spunkley's estate back in England.

Well, we would see about that. We all gathered in Judy's room for our sexy session. Amy slid her hand under the front of my nightie, all the way up to my nipples. She gave my left nipple a firm pinch, making me cry out girlishly until she covered my mouth with her own.

I adore lipstick-to-lipstick kissing. Sweet tongues swapping saliva. I reached around and shoved a rude finger into her anus.

She yelped, then said, "So, that's how you want to play it?"

Seconds later, we were rolling around on Judy's bed. Pawing and kissing. Judy and Sandy were next to us, already sucking each other's testicles.

I love Thursday nights.

Two hours later, all four "pink purses" were empty. We lay there in a sweaty, cummy, satisfied (for the moment) heap. And the girl talk began.

Me first. I told them all about my phone call with Mark (and Mark's mother). And how we would be getting together that weekend. And how they should all avoid their usual sluttiness until I could at least get him to my bedroom and show him how much I missed him. "Keep your panties on while you're talking to Mark, girls. I mean it." And to prove my resolve, I gave them my stern look.

The little girlieboys were genuinely happy for me. And promised to keep the maids (and their "exposures") out of sight until I gave the word.

They squealed about how romantic it all was, which stiffened everyone's...resolve again.

One hour later, we got back to girl talk. I had just entertained Amy's tiny popsy in my bottom (she still had a fair amount of "boy" in her) while sucking the very nice titties of Sandy, who was sucking Judy's teeny weenie.

Since I had been swallowing a lot that night, I swallowed my pride and brought up the titty issue.

Sandy often came her guts out just from having her titties sucked. So I knew whoever had fixed her up was awfully competent. I could have been coy, but I wasn't.

"I want breasts. Sensitive breasts. Big nipples. Not fake ones. Real ones. Like yours, Sandy. Only bigger."

Sandy smiled. Judy said, "I don't want titties. I've thought about it and I'm happy as I am."

Amy agreed. "I'm fine as I am as well. But if you want big boobs, Cheryl, then you need to get them."

Sandy hugged me and said, "You need to see my physician, Dr. Cleavage. He can give you just the right hormones. Grow your chest. Keep your stiffies. Still make big globs of cum. He's the best."

I could see that. And taste it too. Sandy's cum was as thick and tasty as the rest of ours.

It sounded great. One question. "Is he expensive?"

Sandy gave me a sexy leer. "He charges what every other man we know charges for doing what we want."

Oh.

That.

I could do that.

The next day dragged endlessly. Mark was arriving on the Panty Boy jet at 6:30. Then a limo was bringing him to the apartment, so he would arrive around 7:15.

I spent the day in intense beauty regimen. And I didn't cum all day. Wanted my bag to be nice and creamy and full for him.

What to wear?

Lingerie, which was what I wore for most of my dates, was inappropriate. Too slutty and would make him think I had been very loose in the big city. Which I hadn't. I mean I had only had one boyfriend since Mark. And him for only one weekend.

A nice dress. Not too short. Heels and stockings, of course.

Maids were alerted that they should lie low until I got Mark onto my "work bench" in my room.

Make-up level was "college girl at her sister's wedding."

I looked at myself. Loved my new hairdo. Blonde, barrel curls. Very nice. Very girlish.

If he didn't like what he saw, he was blind or dead.

Should I be forward, or let him take the lead?

The ringing doorbell ended my anxious speculation.

It was Mark.

My heart in my throat, I minced over to the door and opened it. And there he was.

Mark.

He was gorgeous! Tanner and buffer and handsomer than I remembered in my wettest dreams.

My eyes filled with tears. I stood there and trembled.

Mark took the lead.

He stepped forward and embraced me fully. I sobbed with love and sweet relief.

We stood there shaking and hugging.

I started to say yet again that I was sorry, but Mark's lips got in the way.

Oh, the joy!

We were one again! My life was perfect.

Not quite.

As we were kissing and embracing, I heard a loud throat clearing. Then another. Mark and I broke our kiss and saw...

Judy and Amy.

Dressed for their usual Friday night dates. In their usual spectacular lingerie, stockings and heels. But, as we had agreed, they were wearing panties. And big smiles.

"Mark, these are my roommates, Judy and Amy," I said, grudgingly.

The two little tarts giggled and flirted and batted their trampy eyelashes at my Mark.

I knew they didn't mean anything by it. They were just teasing me. Being girls.

I would only scratch one of each of their eyes out.

But then...Sandy's bedroom door opened and she emerged.

"What's all the commotion out here?" she said.

She PRETENDED to be surprised by Mark's presence. And she just happened to be wearing, as agreed, panties. But that was all.

Ultra-sheer, nylon, string-bikini, black panties. Seriously tented.

The soon-to-be-dead pantyboy acted startled, then made a show of attempting to cover her startlingly cute boobies with an arm that exposed both nipples completely.

"Oh, I'm so embarrassed. I was getting dressed for my date and I just forgot that you were coming, Mark. Oh, Cheryl, he's so CUTE!!! Let me just give him a big kiss."

And before I could club her with a blunt object, she kissed Mark on the lips.

Mark tolerated her weak advances, but didn't kiss back. Good boy!

I knew Sandy was only being playful, not malicious. But repairing my relationship with Mark was serious business. Maybe I would just maim her.

Sandy stepped back from her pathetic attempt at a kiss and said, "Nice to meet you too. What's in the bag?"

Bag? I hadn't noticed that Mark was carrying a brown paper bag, bulged by something or things moderately heavy.

"That's something for Cheryl," Mark said.

"Oh, goodie!" I thought. A present. I loved presents. Especially from men. Men gave me presents a lot -- usually stuff like diamonds and bearer bonds. But a present from Mark would be special.

I decided to put an end to all this folderol. "Excuse me, LADIES, but I know you have to get ready for your dates with your senior-citizen, thirty- and forty-something beaus. My sexually-in-his-prime man and I have matters to discuss in my room. I'll see you all in a couple of days."

They giggled and watched me gently pull Mark by his hand to real man's paradise -- my bedroom.

We were still fully dressed. I was unsure how to begin but Mark knew what he wanted. He set the bag down on the floor next to a straight chair and began to remove his trousers, then his boxers. Yum! I thought he would undress me next. Men love to do that. Instead he said, "Please take your clothes off except for your stockings, garter belt, bra and shoes and come over here."

He was so forceful. I had to obey. So I did. Though a tiny voice in my head was saying that something wasn't quite right.

Mark sat in the chair. He was naked from the waist down and fiercely rampant. Oh, the delights I was planning for that magnificent prick!

"Come here, Cheryl," he said.

I didn't mean to quibble, but that wasn't very romantic. He almost barked it. And he didn't call me Sweetie or Honey or anything. The little voice was getting louder.

"We have an account to settle before we move on," he said. The little voice was speaking loudly.

Then he did an awful thing! He opened the bag. For a microsecond, I thought he had a revolver in there! That would settle our accounts for good. But it wasn't much more comforting when he pulled out a very large wooden hairbrush. I didn't think he was planning to give my hair 100 strokes. The strokes were going somewhere else.

I began to tremble. Badly. As the little voice screamed, "He's going to spank you! Run! Yell `Rumplestiltskin!'"

But I didn't. I deserved a spanking for deserting Mark without saying goodbye. He probably hated me!

I deserved it but I didn't want it. I couldn't remember ever being spanked. I didn't want to find out what it was like.

Maybe he just wanted to scare me. Hear me apologize again. That would be great. But no.

"I presume this room is relatively soundproof," he said.

I nodded fearfully.

"Good. I imagine you're going to be doing some serious crying and begging for mercy. You won't get any. But you can ask me to leave right now and I will. If I give you this spanking, we'll be even and we can go on as lovers. Right after the last stroke. Which will occur when I decide. Or I can leave. What do you say?"

What a horrible choice! If I didn't take my well-deserved spanking, I would lose Mark forever.

I could live with that.

No I couldn't.

If I took the spanking, I got a spanking. Pain. Humiliation. More pain. But atonement for my sins. Then lots of great sex. With Mark. Forever.

He was a horrible beast!

"Well?" the brute asked, demanding my answer.

I lay down across his knees in submission. My cocklet between his warm thighs.

Maybe he just wanted to get me to submit. Maybe he wouldn't... [Whack!]

Every pain nerve in my body exploded!

[Whack!] Then they exploded even more explosively.

The rabid animal was beating my bottom! The bottom that men would sell their kingdoms for. The bottom that men...

[Whack!]

I began to cry. And scream. And beg for mercy. But there was none to be had.

I rubbed my hip against Mark's cock to get him to cum, thinking that would stop the thrashing. He was having too much fun to stop.

At stroke 22, he began to lecture me on good manners in a relationship.

At stroke 35, he did cum, in thick, vertical globs. All of which landed on my blazing bottom, sizzling as each sperm cell landed on it.

But he pressed on. At stroke 47, I began to feel the stirrings of my own orgasm. How could that be? I was so humiliated and my ass was on fire. But my pricklet kept rubbing between those manly thighs and at stroke 54, I screamed and emptied my testicles.

But he pressed on. By stroke 60, he slowed down. Was he tiring? I was doing all the work.

Then, without warning or explanation, he stopped.

My mascara was streaked all over my face. My tear ducts had dried up after depositing their entire contents on my cheeks. My entire bottom and a significant portion of my inner thighs were a sore and blazing red.

Part of me wanted to slap him. Or shoot him. Or spank him as he had spanked me.

Why was my cock so stiff yet again? And why was his?

Mark put the brush down and reached into the bag again. What instrument of torture was he getting?

It was a jar. Of soothing cream. Which he began to rub, with utmost gentleness all over my blistered buttocks.

Oh, it felt so wonderful. And so did his words. "We had to do that, Sweetheart," he said. "You're such a big superstar that you need `grounding' now and then, particularly when you hurt people you claim to love."

He continued with the soothing cream. On my upper thighs. Between my bottom cheeks. I was feeling the stirrings of another cum.

"We'll never do this again, Cheryl. If you do anything like what you did before, I won't spank you. I'll leave you. I'm not asking that you be celibate except for me. Nothing that totally unreasonable. I just want to feel I'm a respected part of your life."

Just as he said "life," he entered my pussy with two creamy fingers. I shuddered violently and lost another load of sissy cream.

It seems I have interests I never knew I had. Maybe he was wrong about us never doing what we did that night again.

I gathered myself, stood up, leaned over and gave Mark a big, lipsticky kiss, with lots of tongue. Then I got on my knees, careful to avoid sitting on my haunches, and took his fat cock into my mouth. He was so excited that it only took about ten slow, tonguey sucks before he lost his creamy cargo down my throat.

And the greatest weekend of my life began in earnest.

Mark's cum was drooling from my lips as I stood up and fully regained control of the agenda.

My plump bottom still hurt, but the cream had made a big difference. As did the cream I had just swallowed. More cream was clearly what I needed.

I sissied over to my bed, placed my hands flat on the mattress and presented my red bottom to Mark's full view. He got a good look at his brutish handiwork, as well as a nice view of my pouting pussy and my little pink bag, which swayed as I wiggled my bottom at him.

"Oh, Markie," I said, "my poor bottom hurts so much. I need more cream. Please."

Mark was eager to comply. He and the cream jar got out of the chair and joined me. He got on his knees and began to slowly, lovingly caress and soothe my buttocks with the cooling, healing cream. I began to gasp and pant appreciatively. I whimpered for "More cream. Oh, that feels so good."

After a good 15 minutes or so of that, long enough for a 19-year-old, frantically randy stud to recuperate, I changed my mantra.

"I need more cream inside me. Where your hands and finger can't reach. DEEP inside me. Oh, please!"

Sissies are not good at subtlety. Mark got the picture.

I winced at the thought of being fucked in my still-sore backside, but I wasn't just hyping my need. The need for Mark's cock in my pussy at that moment was intense. Mark apparently felt the same.

For about ten minutes, Mark had been using his construction-worker, callused fingers to spread soothing cream inside my pussy. So I was quite lubricated and dilated. He paused to apply the cream to his reinvigorated cock. And all was ready.

Mark favored the direct approach. He stood up, aimed, and pushed his cock into me with one stroke. I screamed more loudly than I had when he was spanking me. But this time it was a pleasure scream.

I ADORED having Mark's cock inside me. Being one with him once again.

I HATED the pain every time he slapped his balls and hips against my sore cheeks.

All in all, though, it was a fantastic fuck. Tempered by his two previous tsunamis, Mark was able to fuck me for 25 pleasure/pain-filled minutes. During which I squealed and screamed as if murder were being committed. And emitted thick, creamy dribbles twice. When he filled my bowels with another sample of the first mancream they had ever known, all was right with the world again.

Mostly.

After my fourth screaming orgasm and after my scream-filled thrashing, it was good to know that someone was concerned about my well-being.

Obviously, it wasn't my self-absorbed roommates.

When Mark regretfully withdrew his soggy weapon, I heard a cautious tapping on my bedroom door. Then the door opened slightly and someone was peering in. I was still in the doggy position, with cum on my face and tummy and a large drool was emerging from my distended anus. My mascara was smeared all over my face. My plump bottom was fire-engine red. I looked like someone who was having a very interesting evening.

The viewer of this unusual sight was Megan, my sweet, big-exposed-cock, evening maid. It took extraordinary courage for her to interrupt us, since dismissal would be the worst thing that could happen to her. But she was concerned enough to peer in and say, "Madam, I'm SO sorry to interrupt you, but I was very worried about you. Are you all right?"

I looked at Mark to see his reaction to a pretty, bare-cocked, uniformed maid. I believe the word is "bemused."

Then I smiled at Megan and said, "Thank you, Megan. That was very kind of you. I won't forget that. Mr. Cumwell and I are getting re-acquainted. We're having a lovely evening. I'm going to freshen up and then we're going to have something to eat. Could you please make us some hamburgers (Is that OK with you, Mark? Good.) and fries. Diet Cokes too. Thank you, Megan, Dear."

She smiled in relief, curtsied, and left.

I looked at Mark. "What?" I asked, smiling.

He smiled back. "This place will take some getting used to."

"Well, you'd better acclimate, because you're a key player here now."

He made a grab for me, but I scooted away, ran into the bathroom and locked the door. "The remote is in the nightstand to the right, Mark!" I yelled. "Watch a little TV while I restore my beauty and you restore your sperm supply."

He didn't answer, but I heard the TV flash on. ESPN6, of course. The all-competitive- femininity station.

I drew a nice, soapy bath, which was a lot cooler than I usually drew (hot bottom). I eased myself into it and soaked for a long time. Thinking wonderful thoughts. I got out of the tub, dried off and prettied up -- make-up, powder, perfume -- and a delicious, white, babydoll and matching stay-up stockings. No panties on that still-sore bottom.

I looked better than I did when Mark arrived.

It's amazing what some good fucking can do for one's well-being.

I was afraid that Mark would be asleep when I made my opened the bathroom door for my re-entrance.

He was wide awake -- watching some "Up Close and Personal" story about how some nerdy college freshman boy became an ultra-feminine compfem star. And his cock was once again thick and throbbing -- obviously because he was thinking of me. Not that lingeried Sophia what's-her-name he was watching on my 96-inch, HDTV.

Just to be sure, I turned it off. And turned Mark on. Mark's eyes were big as fried eggs when he saw my intense beauty. I led him over to the chair where he had recently blistered my bottom, then sat on his lap and let him kiss me a bit. Between kisses, we fed each other our hamburgers and fries. Teasingly.

It was great fun. But what followed was better. 36 hours of a biological necessity -- dirty, cummy, uninhibited fucking. With brief periods for other biological necessities.

Mark and I didn't leave the room until we went to mass on Sunday with Judy. I hung on Mark's arm all the way there and back. And he hardly looked at Judy.

On the walk back to the NYSE, we were passed by a bus that had most unusual advertising on the side. It was a huge picture of me and my roommates, taken three days earlier at our photo session. We were smiling and standing side by side in our big heels, black stockings and black, babydoll flyaways. Our four teeny peckers were stiff and drippy. The headline said. "Cum with us" and the tagline said, "Panty Boy magazine -- now weekly!!"

So Nick was realizing his dream. Glad we could help. And glad that it didn't freak Mark out to see his girlfriend's cock sticking up on the side of a bus. My guess was that Mark was completely "pussystruck" by me and that I could have done anything and he would still love me.

A nice feeling.

We returned to the apartment around noon and, of course, Sandy took one more opportunity to show Mark her titties. When we came in the door, the shameless tramp was coincidentally coming out of the kitchen. That time, wearing only her black stockings, garter belt and strappy, gold, five-inch-stiletto sandals. She was painfully erect and flashing Mark her special, million-watt smile.

Did Mark leer at her? Especially her titties? I didn't think so. But the mere possibility that he could moved up the urgency of my titty quest.

Mark gained huge points for sensitivity that afternoon when he laid me on my back, then knelt, straddling my chest. He gathered up what flesh he could from my nipple area and formed a small cavern of skin. Gently and with obvious pleasure, he proceeded to "fuck my titties," even though I didn't technically have any yet. When he stiffened up and spurted a big, creamy load all over my neck, chin, mouth and nose, I knew he was truly special. He recognized what I wanted in life and then he did his best to give it to me.

We fucked vigorously and frequently until six. Then Mark had to leave.

Tragedy! Deep, soulful kisses. Promises. A quick run back to the room for a farewell cuddle.

Mark and I agreed that we would not see each other again until his month-long semester break from mid-December to mid-January. We were both "free to do what we do" until then. I didn't know what he did, but whatever it was, I hoped he spent all his time either studying, buffing up his body, or suffering from missing me. I of course would continue with my duties, sexual and otherwise, as America's Favorite Sissy.

I was pretty bummed out when Mark left. But I had a plan. I was going to femme up beyond Sandy and all the other alleged "competition" I was seeing Dr. Cleavage and he would help me.

I guess I should have been depressed or mournful that night. But I felt pretty good. I had a plan. A real plan.

And an obligation. My maid Megan had been so sweet. She had checked on my welfare when no one else bothered. She was ecstatic when I invited her to share my bed all night. And so was I when she slipped that big sausage up my pussy.

Chapter Seven -- The plan

The next day (a Monday -- try to stay with the timeline here), I went to work. I loved my job as executive director of the LDP Foundation, though the commitment could be quite demanding. I wore my pretty, new, Navy-blue, Chanel suit, stockings and heels. It would be so much easier to find clothes once I had nice, big, breasts.

David, my secretary, said I had two appointments -- a meeting with the CFO, Bill Cruncher, at 10 and a doctor's appointment with Dr. Cleavage at 11.

Huh? How did that happen?

I asked David.

"Miss Spermmore, your roommate set it up. She said to tell you, `you're welcome.'"

Sandy. After all those shenanigans, she helped me get what I needed.

Thereby saving what was left of her miserable life from my wrath.

The CFO's report was upbeat as usual and I gave him a nicely appropriate reward. But not an enthusiastic reward. I even made him cum into a Kleenex rather than down my throat or on my face. I was too distracted thinking about my imminent medical appointment.

Dr. Cleavage's office was on a Park Avenue, only two blocks from my workplace. I loved walking over there to the lustful stares of New York men. I took the elevator to the 23rd floor, suite 2369 and saw the nameplate: Bustman Cleavage, M.D., Sissologist.

What was a "sissologist?"

I soon found out.

It was a spacious, well-appointed office with a large reception desk "manned" by an extremely attractive young lady whose nameplate said, "Mary Ann."

Mary Ann smiled broadly at me and said, "Welcome, Miss LaFemme. Doctor Cleavage is waiting for you. Please follow me."

No, "Hello. Name, please? May I see your insurance card?"

I was getting the royal treatment. And priority. There were about five sweet young things sitting in the waiting room. All well turned-out and well-maintained. And all dressed properly, in pretty frocks with short skirts, hose and heels. Three of them were accompanied by older, prosperous-looking men. Were they all...?

I decided to ask Mary Ann as we walked. "What's a sissologist?"

Mary Ann said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you knew. A sissologist is a `gynecologist for sissies.' All Dr. Cleavage's patients are sissies. But you and Miss Spermmore are his most famous and prettiest. I'm a patient here too."

So Mary Ann was one of us. And so were those sweet confections in the waiting room, who were stirring in recognition of a celebrity (me) in their midst.

I was pleased about the sissologist thing. It was about time we got some special consideration. Our own branch of medicine was long overdue!

"Here we are," she said. "Please, go right in."

I entered what was really more of an office than an examining room. Dr. Cleavage was behind his desk. He was a very attractive and fit man of about 50. He rose immediately when he saw me and came over to bow and kiss my hand. I'm a sucker for old-school gallantry. Literally.

"Miss LaFemme, thank you so much for gracing my humble practice with your patronage. I consider it my great honor to serve you and, of course, can charge you nothing."

Wow. Most doctors don't act like that with their patients. Or so I've heard.

He went on. "Your pictures do you little justice, though I've `looked at' them often in Panty Boy, the newspapers, television and UsPeople magazine. You're far more beautiful in person."

I blushed. It's not flattery if it's true. But I loved hearing it. I almost reached under my skirt, pulled my panties down and grabbed my ankles right then.

"I know you're a busy person," he said, though I didn't think I had any more appointments at work that day. "So may I examine you now?"

I was no stranger to being "examined" by men. So I removed my Chanel suit jacket.

The doctor looked at me the way a public official observes a bribe. "Please undress for me. All the way, please. We must be thorough."

Men were always thorough when they examined me. Wasn't a nurse supposed to be present or something? Oh well.

I stripped off my blouse and then my bra, so I that was naked from the waist up. Was he drooling? Then I unzipped my tailored skirt and pulled it over my head. Then the slip. Then [blush] my panties. I heard the doctor gasp when he saw my little tickler and pretty pearls. Then he said, "Change of plan. That's far enough. Please leave your stockings, garter belt and heels on."

Men often said that. It was way sexier than naked. But wasn't I there for medical purposes?

Sort of.

Despite my concerns, I was quite erect in front of that leering medicine man. And, by the lump I saw in his trousers, so was he.

"Miss Spermmore says you want to become even more feminine than you already are," he said. "But how is that possible?"

Good line, Doc. I'll bet you tell that to all the girls.

"I want breasts," I said. "Not implants. Real breasts. Like Sandy Spermmore's only lots bigger. And [I was embarrassed to say] I don't want to have to wake up before my overnight guest does so I can sneak into the bathroom and shave my face before he gives me his `morning wood.'" Something we girls must deal with, right?

"Hmmm," he said, physicianly. "I see. We can do that. You and I. Together. Though it will involve tests. Blood tests. Other...tests."

"Oh, doctor," I gushed. "I'll do whatever it takes."

Dr. Cleavage gave me a lupine smile. Then he said, "Let's begin."

He looked me over, touching me gently on my shoulders and arms. I almost creamed when his practiced fingers softly pinched each nipple. He asked me to turn around and when I did, I heard him gasp.

"That's the loveliest bottom in the galaxy, Miss LaFemme! But who dared to defile it? Its bruises are like spray paint on the Mona Lisa!"

Omigosh! I was afraid he would get a gun or something and go after Mark. I hastily told him the truth. "A very good friend gave me some much-needed discipline. It was entirely consensual, I assure you."

That calmed him down a bit. Then he said, "So, you enjoy...discipline occasionally, Miss LaFemme?"

What was the truth on that subject? "Apparently, I do, Dr. Cleavage. When I'm bad."

"Hmmm," he said. Then he sat down and said, "Please, come over and sit on my lap."

Well, I guessed that was friendlier than one of those big, impersonal, examination tables. I sissied over to him and sat. He had a very lumpy lap. Just to be friendly, I rubbed my thigh against his stiff, thick Johnson.

He liked that. "Your nipples are divine. Are they sensitive?"

"Oh, yes, Doctor!"

"Let me be sure." He proceeded to kiss, lick and suck my right nipple until I was squirming and gasping. Somehow, perhaps I helped, his prick had emerged from his trousers and I was caressing it as he sucked my pretty, pre-titty nipple. When he switched to my left nipple, we were gently masturbating each other as I writhed in nipply-adored ecstasy.

Situations like that have a way of resolving themselves. Messily.

He was a great titty sucker. I spurted first, crying out. Then he abandoned my nipples and we began some hot and heavy tongue kissing. Which, along with my practiced fingers removing, then replacing his foreskin over and over, did him in as well.

It's always fun to make new friends.

Dr. Cleavage then gave me a thorough rectal exam, first with his fingers, then even more thoroughly with his tongue. Followed most thoroughly by his special, fully-reinvigorated, rectal probe.

When all that was over, he pronounced me healthy and ready for treatment. Which he said would involve analysis of my medical factors (which he finally got serious about) and an individually-designed treatment regimen of hormone and other pharmaceuticals.

I thanked him appropriately, on my knees. With his thick cock down my throat.

The poor man looked exhausted but happy when I left him. Mary Ann took a long medical history from me, then gave me an EKG, EEG, and blood-pressure check. Then she extracted blood and semen samples. I had no idea that semen samples were extracted orally by trained medical personnel.

Mary Ann asked me to come in Friday at 11 so that Doctor Cleavage could begin my individual, ultra-feminization program.

And here's where we fast-forward the story a bit. I mean, there's a big story here, but I can't tell you every detail of every creamy spurt now, can I?

Later that week, Dr. Cleavage asked me to come to his office to discuss my test results. After we "cooled each other off" a bit and I was naked, sitting on his lap he told me the following [between kisses]. "You're a prime candidate for an `accelerated femininity' regimen I've been developing, my darling. It will involve some strong hormones, but with inhibitors that will allow you to maintain your full libido and about 90% of your erectile function and sperm/semen production. You're really the first full candidate for this program and I'm expecting great things."

"Titties?" I asked.

"They should be big ones."

I spent that night with him and made him glad he was born a man.

Every Wednesday afternoon during August through December, I reported to Dr. Cleavage for three injections -- two hormonal cocktails -- one in each bottom cheek -- and one sperm injection in the tight spot between my cheeks.

He was right. I was a prime candidate for his new treatment.

By October, my breasts were the equal of Sandy's -- maybe an A-plus cup. B's in November. Definite C's in mid-December. But more about December later.

My "new friends" changed everything! Especially my balance. Try walking on five-inch heels when your boobs are growing exponentially.

Men, who always undressed me with their eyes, were now "raping" me with their eyes. I needed a security escort everywhere I went. And, of course, I had to keep the security escort "motivated" to protect me.

Busy, busy busy.

The Foundation work was going spectacularly well. We made millions and used it to initiate a great TV advertising campaign that was all the buzz. The ads were simple -- one of me or my roommates being "fucked dry," then being fucked after adequate lubrication and dilation. They were straightforward, but they captured the imagination of America,

We did a new fundraiser every three weeks and I would take a new boyfriend home from each party. Remember, I wasn't cheating on Mark. We had an "arrangement."

In October, when the baseball season ended for Marty's team and I finally had what I could call breasts, I let Marty take me to a Caribbean island resort for a week. For my 20th birthday, actually. Not that I want to make a big deal of my birthday. Each of those just moves you from your prime.

Actually, it was almost a week -- Friday morning to Thursday morning, to preserve the institution of Girls Night In. Marty is so sweet and he loves me so much. He asked me to marry him like 20 times on that cum-drenched trip, but I said I was too young and too randy to settle down.

Not that the thought of settling down with Mark hadn't crossed my mind several times. He was not only my "first," he was the only one who was secure enough in our relationship that he could take the risk of disciplining me when I was bad. I liked discipline, but I wouldn't ask for it.

More about my breasts.

They itched like crazy when they were sprouting in September. My roommates, security guards, Bosley, maids and boyfriends spent countless hours kissing, rubbing licking and sucking them to relieve the itching. My boobies were SO sensitive! Then one day, the itching went away. But the sensitivity didn't.

I cum almost every time someone kisses my titties. Or licks them. Especially when someone sucks them. Or "tittyfucks" them with his (or her) cock.

Dr. Cleavage said I was a wonder of nature. And of his brilliance. No sissy he had ever treated had ever "sprouted" as quickly, largely and perfectly as I had.

So life was good. And it was about to get better. I had big plans for the holidays. And it involved all of us.

Mark's month-long college semester break began in mid-December. We had been calling each other all fall about how wonderful it would be to spend that month together at the NYSE. I was insanely jealous whenever I thought about Mark fucking all those trampy college girls. Which I was sure he was, since he was like the hunkiest guy in earth. But he never mentioned anything about being with girls. In fact, he would stroke my ego by telling me about how he would be watching TV with his fraternity brothers and one of the LDP TV ads would come on. There I would be, flat on my back, taking a big, stiff cock into my well-lubricated and dilated pussy -- moaning, gasping and cumming my little peter off. The fraternity boys would gush on about how I was the most beautiful babe on earth and how they would do anything for a night in my bed. Not my roommates' beds -- or so Mark would tell me. Mark never let on that he was my boyfriend. He said

that he did that because a gentleman doesn't buttfuck and tell.

Little did Mark know that since those ads were made and since he had seen me last, I had changed my appearance in two important ways. First, of course -- the brand-new, C-cup boobies. Second, no more sissy-chic, barrel-curled hairdo. My hair was blonde, long and straight. The California Girl look. More suitable to a shemale in full bloom. I wondered what Mark would think of the new me. Would he even recognize me? It would be a very interesting holiday.

I wanted my roommates to have happy holidays as well. So I arranged to have all the families stay with us for the first two weeks of Mark's break -- Sandy's Dad and (sissy) stepmother, Steve and Beth Spermmore, Amy's Mum and Dad -- the Servewells -- all the way from England, and Judy's Mom, Mrs. Strokewood. Everyone would have family except me. I had no family -- except Mark. And my roommates.

I even handled the logistics.

All ten of us couldn't stay in the NYSE's four bedrooms. So I "convinced" our neighbor, Mr. Lovecock, to lend us his three bedroom apartment for two weeks. Men and I have a pretty fair arrangement. I do whatever they want in bed and they do whatever I want out of bed.

We gave the maids two weeks off, which disappointed them. But with all the parents around, someone would always be cleaning or cooking or straightening up. Plus the maids prancing around in big heels and bare erections might embarrass some of the parents. You think?

The maids would not spend the holidays alone. Their association with us had brought them into a large circle of sissy-adoring men who would keep them well-drained and happy.

To prepare for Mark's arrival, I made an oath to myself to be celibate for a whole week before his arrival. I wanted to present him with a bulging ballbag and a raging randiness. My roommates convinced me, however, that if I followed through with that plan, Mark would be visiting me at the morgue. No sissy could go a week without an orgasm. So I decided on three days abstinence. But then I had to get my shots from Dr. Cleavage and he would be SO disappointed if I didn't "bond" with him. So two days cum-free days it was. Until the security guards came by for their Christmas bonuses. And one of the Core Four, Mr. Big, needed attention before enduring his wife and family for the holidays.

So I resolved to stay pure for 24 hours before Mark's arrival, but then my roommates reminded me that Mark was arriving on Friday and Thursday preceded Friday by precisely one day.

Couldn't miss Girls' Night In, particularly since Sandy and I had patched things up and were engaged in a very torrid little sissy love affair those past few weeks. Since Sandy was the only roommate with titties, she alone fully understood how to delight mine. And delight them she did.

I did, however absolutely refuse sex after midnight that Thursday. So when Mark arrived at six p.m. that Friday, I hadn't spilled my goo in 18 hours!!!

18!!!

Talk about love and devotion!

Mark showed up right on time.

Joy!!

I greeted him in just my pink panties and sexy pink sandals. Showing off my new, glorious, C-Cup floppers!

If I had only captured his look on camera.

He was overpowered by love and lust.

No hairbrush with him that time. Which was a teeny bit disappointing. I shudder when I think about being submissive to a man's justifiable, but loving anger.

Oooh.

Still, there was lots of good, cummy fun to be had.

Mark picked me up like Rhett picked up Scarlett, took me to my room, laid me on my bed. Except for my panties, I was naked and helpless before his rampant lust!

Thank goodness I had inserted a cute, thick, well-lubricated, "LDP preparation device" in my pussy so we wouldn't have to waste any time.

But Mark was in no hurry.

I was squirming and whimpering to be fucked as Mark slowly undressed. It was a great show and he was telling me how much he loved me and how I was even more beautiful than ever.

He was so right.

He was even more beautiful too! Had he been working out? Or was he just maturing more manfully than ever?

Yum?

Had his cock grown another half inch?

Double yum.

I lifted my knees up as my naked Mark approached me. He would take out my plug and then mount me! Oh.

But he didn't. Not yet.

Instead, he got on his knees and straddled my chest. Was he going to feed me his cock? Oh, joy!

Not yet.

As always, I had plenty of lube in easy reach. He grabbed a tube. What was he going to do? Didn't he see my plug?

He began slathering his balls with the lube. That was selfish! Was he going to make himself cum without attending to me?

Wrong again.

Gently, carefully, Mark eased his slick ball bag over my right nipple. He let it dangle over the point, then, with great skill, rubbed each testicle, in turn, around and over my tender, painfully erect nipple. It felt as if I were being feather kissed in my second-most-sensitive area. Only better. Dirtier.

Where did he get that idea? And how did he know it would drive me insane?

When he moved his hairy, slick bag to my left nipple, I was crazy with lust. Seconds after he began his torment, I screamed and filled my pretty panties with 18 hours of deprivation. When I opened my mouth to scream, Mark stuffed his cock into it. Then he face-fucked me until he released what must have been an eon of cum-hoarding.

We kissed for about a half-hour, toying with each other. He eased my sopping panties off, then sucked my pretty pole until I gave him the tasty treat for which he had ached for four months.

It was time for a proper fucking. Mark flopped me onto my back, removed my plug and replaced it with his thick cock. It was so big and hot and hard. The kissing was wonderful. I loved how my titties flopped when he fucked me. So did Mark.

He rode me for about 45 blissful minutes, during which I helplessly ejaculated twice -- just dribbles from a limp cocklet, but powerful spasms. Then he filled me with his manly seed.

To make him cum, I screamed out that I wanted his baby. "Make me pregnant! " I cried. "Knock me up! I want to carry your baby!"

Men love that.

Sissies love that.

I remember musing that it would be wonderful if it could only come true. But I was sure it couldn't.

Hmmm.

I couldn't begin to describe how wonderful that next month was -- the best of my life so far.

Mark and I made love 12-14 hours most days. Not on Thursday nights, of course.

We even did some socializing with my roommates and their families. Which was really great.

Steve and Beth Spermmore were an incredible couple. Happy. Beautiful. Even though Steve was at least 20 years older than Beth's 23. He was so hunky that I fantasized about drawing him into one of the bathrooms and introducing myself properly. But I had vowed that only Mark would fuck me for a whole month. Beth was incredible. So beautiful that I suggested that we "extend" tradition by inviting Beth to our Thursday activities. My roommates eagerly agreed. So did Beth.

I loved the Servewells too. They were so cute and British. And they were always tidying up. They were so accepting of Amy in her new life.

The big surprise was Mrs. Strokewood. Louise. Judy had never mentioned that her mother was a complete dish! She was maybe 42 -- very pretty -- big boobs -- full figure. And she dressed like us -- heels, stockings, great lingerie.

That solved a problem for me. On Thursday nights, I didn't want Mark to suffer. So I asked him if he would like to entertain Mrs. Strokewood, if she was willing. Well, he agreed far too quickly. And so did she. The two Fridays after those Thursday nights, Mark's sperm count was very low. And Mrs. Strokewood was "walking funny" all day. But it was all right, I guess.

We fixed Mr. Spermmore up on Thursdays with Carol. Judy's evening maid, who was sweet and big-cocked. Which was a fair deal, since my roommates and I got Beth.

Wow! Beth!

What a piece of sissy!

Nuff said.

On the six other nights of the week, I was with Mark. And Judy, Amy and Sandy were with rotating boyfriends. As the most mature, I was the only one capable of maintaining a relationship. We did have some gathering time, especially on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and New Year's. And I loved being with everyone.

It felt like having family. Which had been denied to me.

When everyone but Mark left, we spent two weeks together, day and night. We went out and saw New York, but we always rushed back to my bed.

We fixed Mark up with a maid each Thursday and everyone was very happy.

Until he left.

Woe.

Tears.

Kisses.

Promises.

Mark and I had even discussed marriage, but we said we would speak seriously about it in May, when we planned to reunite.

He had to finish college before we would seriously think about a wedding. Or so I thought.

Chapter Eight -- Unexpectedly expecting

I was very sad when Mark left that Sunday night. The next morning, though I usually went to work on Mondays, I didn't get out of bed. Though Mr. Lovecock joined me. Someone had to reimburse him for living in a Motel 6 over two weeks at Christmas and New Year's.

The next morning, I decided it was time to return to the "Salt Mine." My employees needed my guidance. Nancy laid out my suit and lingerie. I emerged from my bath and was just about to get dressed when, suddenly, and strongly, I felt queasy.

Then nauseous.

Then very nauseous.

I ran back to the bathroom and puked.

Ick. Must have been something I ate. Besides Mr. Lovecock.

I sat for a minute, washed my face, got dressed and went to work. Felt fine the rest of the day.

The next day, Wednesday, was my appointment with Dr. Cleavage.

It was at 11 and I almost missed it.

I was throwing up until 10.

Something was wrong.

What could it be?

Dr. Cleavage would know.

I didn't say anything to him until after my three injections -- my first in a month.

When I told him my symptoms, his eyes grew wide and he was horribly excited about something. He seemed happy! About my illness!

Was I going to have to find a new doctor?

But then he said, "We must run tests. Now! MARY ANN!" he bellowed.

Mary Ann appeared. Undisturbed by the sight of my bare bottom drooling her employer's sperm load. Or his bare weapon.

"Mary Ann," he said. "Please give Miss LaFemme the `Package Pink' tests."

Mary Ann looked startled. "Package Pink, Doctor? But that's..."

"Yes, yes, I know. If the tests are positive, won't it be wonderful?"

Mary Ann took a deep breath and said, "Historic. Spectacular."

If you were me, wouldn't you be a tiny bit worried at that point?

I was worried. I stood up. Panties by my ankles. Doctorly cum slithering down my thighs. "What's wrong with me, Doctor?"

He smiled. "If I'm right, there's nothing wrong and everything right. But just let Mary Ann give you a few tests. Then I'll discuss it all with you. In about 90 minutes. I need to consult my texts. Have faith, my dear."

Faith. Men always want you to trust them. Then they shove their cocks into you.

Well, that had been working out for me so far. What was 90 minutes more?

Tests. Waiting. Led into Dr. Cleavage's office.

He was smiling as widely as Mr. Lovecock was when I proposed an "amicable exchange."

The man was more excited than when he was drenching my bowels.

"It's true. It's true. I thought it was possible. I thought you were the most likely candidate for it. I thought it was more possible if you were having intense, prolonged `relations' with a single man. All of that happened and it all came together."

I was clueless. Did I have bubonic plague? Ricketts? Gout? Malaria? And why was he so happy?

He saw my puzzled look and appeared surprised by it. I guess it was all obvious to him, but it wasn't to me. "What is it?" I asked.

He drew a breath and said, "Miss LaFemme, You're pregnant!"

WHAT?!?!?! ?!?!?! ?!?!?! ?!?!?! ?!?!?!

WHAT?!?!?! ?!?!?! ?!?!?! ?!?!?! ?!?!?!

But...

I couldn't speak.

Dr. Cleavage hugged me. "You're the first pantyboy in history to become pregnant. You are history. You are the Eve of pantyboys. And I helped. So did Mark Cumwell, of course."

Still speechless. Then I croaked out, "But that's impossible!"

"That's what everyone thought. But you've disproved them all. Please, first, let me tell you, don't worry. I've spent my whole career preparing for this moment. And fucking my patients, of course. But I will take care of you. You will have an easy, successful pregnancy and you will become a mother sometime in late September."

I croaked again, "But that's impossible."

"There's precedent for it in nature," he said. "Did you see the movie `Jurassic Park?'"

I nodded dumbly.

"Remember how the guy in charge of the park thought he could stop the dinosaurs from reproducing by having only female dinosaurs?"

I kind of remembered that. I managed to say, "But they reproduced anyway."

He lit up. "YES! You remember that. Nature will not be conquered. In many species, when there are not enough of one gender, some metamorph to the other gender, then reproduce. That's a bit simplistic, but that's what happened here. So many sissies have come into the mainstream in recent years, thanks to Panty Boy magazine, Panty Pride, Timmy's Girlish Secret, and competitive femininity, that nature had some adjusting to do. You were so intensely feminine, then went on hormones and fell in love with a man who filled you with enough sperm and semen to float an aircraft carrier. Nature did its job, as it always does."

Tears drenched my eyes. I was terrified. "I'm going to be a mother? But how will the baby..."

Dr. Cleavage held me tenderly in his arms. "Your man and I will give you everything you need. I will personally supervise your pregnancy. And I will deliver your baby through a technique I've devised called a `Sissarean section.' Do not fear."

I relaxed a smidge. But questions assaulted me. How would I tell Mark? How could I be sure Mark was the father (though I KNEW he was)? Would the baby be healthy? What would the baby be -- boy, pantyboy, girl, YYboy? Would Mark raise the baby with me or would I be a single mother? Would I be able to breast feed? How would Mark support us? Would Mark marry me?

"It's all too much, my dear," the doctor said. "Let me take you home and explain your situation to your roommates. I've always wanted to meet Miss Servewell and Miss Strokewood. Then you can call Mr. Cumwell."

I accepted. Judy, Amy and Sandy were terrific to me, though I think Sandy was a bit envious. Judy came up with the good idea of calling Nick for his advice before I called Mark. Then she invited Dr. Cleavage to a tour of her room.

Nick would know what to do. So I called him. Nick was a very busy man, but he always took calls from me. I was a key player in his ability to expand Panty Boy to a weekly and he was grateful.

First he congratulated me, which no one else had. "You'll be a great mother. Your child will be very fortunate. And Mark is a lucky guy. I hope you'll be able to continue your duties at the LDP Foundation and I hope you'll let me do a pictorial or two on you and Mark enjoying each other as your belly swells. In return for which, I think I know a way you and Mark can get married and thrive."

I was all ears. When he told me his plan, I had some reservations, but I liked it.

So I called Mark. Timidly. Unsure of his reaction.

It was in four parts.

First, "Are you all right? Will you be all right?"

I assured him that Dr. Cleavage would make sure of it.

Second, "How do you feel about being a mother?"

I thought a moment, then said, "Oh, Mark, it's wonderful. Better than I could have ever hoped for."

Third, when he heard that, Mark whooped for joy!

Fourth, "Will you marry me? I'm walking out of the dorm right now. On the way to get a cab to the airport. I'm coming to you as soon as I can get a plane. And we're getting married. Please."

I wanted to say yes, but there were practical considerations. Like maintaining our lifestyle on such matters as eating. I thought about Nick's offer. Then I said, "Nick wants to hire you as his second-in-command at Panty Boy. He says that the first man to ever impregnate a pantyboy deserves no less. He says the workload since he went weekly is staggering and he needs help. Particularly in the recruiting and selection of pictorial subjects. If you took the job it would mean a secure future for us. But it would mean you would have to fuck pantyboys five days a week, then come home to me and our baby after I've pursued my career at the LDP Foundation and made the `contacts' I need to succeed. So in other words, we would be totally in love, living a beautiful life, but still fucking other people. Lots of them. How do you feel about that?"

Silence.

Oops. Bad question to ask a man. Too much pressure.

I amended the question. "It sounds wonderful to me. It's perfect for us. Please say yes!"

I heard him let his breath out. "If that's what you want," he said. "I'll do anything to marry you and be the father of our children."

Child-REN? Ooooh.

Mark was true to his word. He arrived that night and we all kept every one of our promises.

I'm eight months preggers as I write this and have been the subject of minute-by-minute, global news coverage. Tests show that the baby will be an XY boy, who could be like me or like Mark. Either way, we'll adore him or her.

Mark and I were married in a civil ceremony in April, in the apartment, with just my roommates, Bosley as the photographer, and a well-bribed public official to perform the ceremony. We told the official that we wanted this all kept private and that he had two choices -- he could go to the tabloids and spill his guts, with all the details, for six figures, or he could spend twelve hours every week, from 7 p.m. Tuesday to 7 a.m. Wednesday in coital company with one of us.

He chose wisely.

There may be some act that a heterosexual man will not perform at our request. But we haven't found it yet.

Anyway, you're wondering, why the civil ceremony? Well, I'm not giving up the church -- cathedral, actually -- ceremony with the white gown and 500 guests. No way. But I'm also not walking down the aisle with a bellyful of baby. We'll marry next April in a ceremony that will dominate the world's news for weeks. I wanted to marry right away legally, though, because 1) I wanted to remind Mr. Mark Cumwell of his obligations to me and our child and 2) I wanted to be Mrs. Mark Cumwell on the birth certificate.

It was a touching ceremony. Mark was touching me during the entire thing. I wore a white babydoll, white stockings and garters and white pumps. No panties. And I was frighteningly erect the whole time. So were Mark (who wore just what he had been given at birth) and my roommates, who wore pink versions of my outfit. Bosley got some nice pictures. Mark kissed the bride; Amy took the public official off for his first 12-hour reward; Bosley was lucky enough to get Judy and Sandy. It was a fun mini-honeymoon.

Nick got three photo pictorials of Mark and me making love -- each time with a bigger belly and each time with bigger and bigger magazine sales. Nick was exceptionally good to us in return. He purchased the two-bedroom condo on the other side of the NYSE for Mark, me, the baby and our loyal maids, Nancy and Megan. It's been such fun fixing it up.

Mark began his new job as Panty Boy second executive and "pictorial-talent recruiter." It pays $500,000 per year, but the work is draining. I'm making about the same from my job as director of the LDP Foundation. And we live for free. So I guess we'll be all right.

I've had to "entertain" big donors, and some of our other benefactors, but Mark seems OK with that. Especially since he's fucking potential centerfolds 40 hours a week. I guess we have an understanding that works.

On Thursdays, all night, Mark "works late" and I join my roommates for our usual fun. They're all so envious that I "swallowed a watermelon" and they didn't. That makes me extra happy.

Since my pregnancy, the LDP Foundation donations have been enormous. As have sales of all things pantyboy throughout the world, since every pantyboy daddy and boyfriend now believes he can knock his little angel up.

Let them try. Nobody remembers the second man to walk on the moon.

I'm now the world's most famous and happiest sissy. Though all I would like at the moment is to be able to go an hour without having to pee. The little rascal keeps lying on my bladder.

The pregnancy will all be over next month and then it's motherhood and the next phase of my life. I'm really looking forward to it.

Life is good for the pretty boys of the New York Sperm Exchange.

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 "Slaker Moms" -- transgender -- tv