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Subject: {ASSM} Scenes, by Vickie Tern, 2/17  TG Femdom F/m m/M F/M etc
Date: Mon,  1 Oct 2001 13:10:02 -0400
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Scenes, by Vickie Tern, 2/17  TG Femdom F/m m/M F/M etc

This is a tale about a married couple who try to meet each 
other's needs, and also their own.  What they think are each 
other's needs, that is.  What they think are their own.

It includes explicit sex scenes.  Married sex, mostly, gentle, 
loving, and appreciative, mostly.  If by reason of age, 
temperament, or moral principle you shouldn't or don't want 
to read about such things, think hard what to do about it, 
and you'll figure it out I'm sure.








                  Scenes from a Marriage
                      by Vickie Tern
                 
                    (vickietern@aol.com)   




                               2.

Five years later nothing had changed.  They took jobs with the same
multinational, though in different divisions, in a city far enough
away from parents and relatives to assure that they'd have each
other's undivided attention most of the year.  They were each
promoted several times.  The company found she had persuasive
management skills, and soon had her participating in all sorts of
meetings.  So she commuted daily to their headquarters downtown.  

Carl mostly telecommuted.  His work-group were a bunch of mavericks
who tossed him their toughest problems, and Carl soon found he
could fax or e-mail back his solutions from home.  Why not?  It was
a good arrangement.  Carl would straighten up around the house and
more often than not fix dinner for the two of them, since his
working hours varied enormously from week to week.  He loved doing
things for her, and she was delighted that he wanted to.

Their lives remained dedicated to each other, each one sensitive to
the other's slightest shifts of mood.  They purchased a house with
their two salaries and savings and a small inheritance and a
mortgage, one large enough to give each of them a separate study or
computer room, and a spare as well, a guest room that could be a
kid's room when they decided they wanted one.  When she could,
which wasn't too often, she'd choose to work at home too, just to
be close to him.  Her boss didn't mind, the work always got done. 
Though sometimes it made for an amusing moment when someone from
Carol's department called and asked for "Carol" and Carl mis-heard
and took the call.  Or Carol took Carl's calls.  Sometimes when
they'd both come down with colds their voices were
indistinguishable, extending the confusion further.  It amused them
that when someone asked for what sounded like "Curl" they had to
ask "Which one?"  In time that provided their pet name for each
other.  Carl didn't mind being her "little Curl," thouugh it sounded 
strange to their friends, who wondered what their private lives 
might be like.

Their attitudes toward sex differed considerably.  She was
altogether unabashed.  She'd slept with other boys before Carl, and
of course for a whole year she'd been that basketball player's
designated cunt, doing whatever he asked.  She'd even put out for
two of his team-mates once when their girls were out of town and
they were all celebrating a victory, and he'd asked her to oblige
them.  So she was unashamed to tell Carl how she wanted him to
pleasure her.  

Carl on the other hand had previously fucked only phantom magazine
girls.  He was still embarrassed by his intimate desires, barely
able to imagine some of them much less disclose them to Carol. 
Even to Carol.  Especially to Carol.  She realized this soon
enough, and tried to overcome his modesty by telling him that no
desires are ever shameful, no matter how extravagant.  A man and a
woman should feel free to do anything they want with each other, if
they both consent.  

He agreed, but it didn't help.  He remained essentially shy,
and she learned that she had to coax or tease his secrets out of 
him, sometimes just guess at them.  Yet he had a remarkable 
sensitivity to her needs.  She never dreamt that it came from 
years of imagining what imaginary girls wanted so he could give 
it to them.

Not that it mattered.  They were keen to sense and satisfy each
other's desires, so by guess and feel they got it right mostly.  Or
often enough.  She told him soon after they moved into their new
house how she wanted her breasts suckled as well as her pussy
preliminary to their lovemaking, and how she wanted him to use his
hands and fingers down below while his mouth was busy.  Carl was
too ashamed to tell her his equivalents.  Certainly not how for
years he'd whacked off pretending that his fist was a Playgirl of
the Month who wanted to fuck him and his cock was the Playboy who
was fucking her because hers was the only pussy available.  

He was too inhibited to tell her even simple physical things. 
Once, for example, Carol accidentally kissed one of Carl's nipples
and he stiffened so suddenly that she stopped.  She thought it had
hurt or violated him in some way, so she didn't try again for a
year, and then only accidentally.  She then learned she'd guessed
wrong, that in fact Carl had loved the jolt of ecstasy he'd felt,
but just couldn't bring himself to say so.  When finally she knew,
his nipples became as important to both of them as hers were.  She
wondered what else might be important to him, but he'd never say.

So all in all their sex was more considerate than passionate, more
affectionate than frenzied.  It was fine, make no mistake, plenty
good enough.  Yet after a few years, now and then when they were in
close embrace and Carl's penis was moving gently inside her,
Carol's attention would drift.  Perhaps to a dress she should have
bought when she saw it at Talmadge's, or to the decorations on a
cake she meant to order for his birthday.  Or to problems at the
office.  Whatever, when that happened she'd be a long time reaching
an orgasm.  Carl in his turn routinely did employee cost-benefit
calculations or baseball averages in his head while he was humping
her, to defer premature ejaculation until that moment when he could
feel her grip tighten on his neck and she'd whisper "Oh! Oh!" and
then moan aloud, and finally he felt free to let go and spend
himself.  Her satisfaction came first, so she should too.

So the sex was OK, not always great.  But when Carol was on top --
more often than not after the first few years -- she'd always give
herself the rough ride she loved.  Her whispers then became gasps,
even screams that amazed her sweet little Curl as he lunged up
beneath her, poking himself into her pussy's maelstrom.

And as with most long-term couples, their imaginations filled out
what they couldn't provide each other.  Carol supplemented her sex
life and her fantasies with romantic novels, bodice rippers with
strong-minded, take-charge heroines and wounded, gleaming heroes
with mysterious pasts and exotic desires.  Carl knew and assumed 
correctly that this was a liberated female thing, no threat or 
discredit to himself implied.  He was half-right.  

Carol wondered now and then if Carl had any exotic desires.  But
Carl bare-assed on his knees leaning into her crotch to lick her
cunt was never one of those heroes of her imagination.  Real men
don't do that.  Rather, he was then her little Curl, her sweet, 
darling lover.  When she looked down and saw him there she'd
lift her legs onto his shoulders and squeeze his head between her
thighs in sheer joy that he was hers.  Then she'd lie back to enjoy
him the way she'd once enjoyed her girlfriend Fiona when
Fiona needed desperately to know for sure whether or not she was
really and truly a lesbian, and Carol had helped her find out.  
Carol had languished on her back at her ease, allowing Fiona to find
fulfillment by bringing Carol wave after wave of pleasure.  Carl felt
so much like Fiona when his tongue was rippling in her clit that the
two sometimes seemed indistinguishable.  She liked imagining he was 
Fiona, sometimes, or that Fiona with her impudent little boobs and dark,
sly eyes had all the while been Carl.

Even when Carl was on top and fucking away, and she was twisting
under him, even then Carol remade him in her imagination into 
someone else.  Oone of her former boyfriends, maybe, one more hunk
of solid flesh once again rutting and jamming it into her.  She
maintained a stable of these men in her mind, and she rotated them.
Of course Carl was slight, so the illusion never lasted.  But 
when Carol was on top she could close her eyes and then she could 
easily recall in her mind and her pussy the extra thrust her 
bodybuilders had crammed into her, the heft of their huge 
muscled meat writhing under her as she rose and fell on their 
monumental cocks.  She could even imagine that Carl's cock was her 
basketball player's, tense, twisting to plumb her guts as she rose 
to explode in one orgasm after another.  Of course Carl never 
suspected that he wasn't the primary inspiration of her passion, 
that he only provided occasions for someone else to fuck her in 
fantasy.  That the harder she fucked him, the more decisively she 
was cuckolding him.  Nor did she feel any need to tell him.  If 
her past memories still excited her, where was the harm?  Her 
beloved hubby was her true beloved, and always the beneficiary.  

Carl was also untrue to Carol, in his imagination.  He augmented his
sex life now and then as before, the way he'd done it when still
in his teens.  He'd masturbate in private while some pneumatically
stacked girl grinned her approval and urged him on from the
centerfold of some magazine.  Girls like that always craved him. 
They were eager to feel his tongue or his cock inside them.  They
told him so, and they told him it was heaven!  Carol never knew. 
As with her fantasies, Carl never thought to tell her his.  He
never thought they were a threat or discredit to her.  Certainly it
wasn't infidelity, just something a little extra, different. 
Harmless.  

Sometimes Carol wondered what he was imagining when he was licking
or fucking her.  She once asked him, and so she'd know how devoted
he was to her pleasure, he replied, "I'm always trying to feel what
you feel when I do things, so I'll know what feels good for you!" 
That was a little strange.  Carl wants to feel what women feel when
they're being licked and fucked?  But she shrugged.  Best not ask 
him that again.  He might ask what she'd been imagining when they 
made love, and what would she tell him then?  Things were fine 
just as they were.

Not everyone in their neighborhood enjoyed as idyllic a
relationship.  Some had children of course, and that distracted
them into a different kind of sharing, their erotic feelings kept on
hold most of the time.  And floating across back yards and gardens
in summer one could hear shouted quarrels and tearful
reconciliations and slammed doors, the usual ambient sounds of 
suburban life.  And over coffee in certain kitchens or wine in some
living rooms, provocative tales about recently revealed mis-spent
husbands and mis-laid wives were commonplace.  Carl couldn't have
cared less, but Carol always enjoyed knowing what others were up to.

Across the street and a few houses down lived Carol's good friend
Madeline, a divorced woman ten years older and far more experienced
in the ways of the world, a source to Carol of all sorts of
practical if sometimes also cynical wisdom.  They met the day Carl
and Carol moved in with their single carload of wedding presents,
a young couple who knew nothing and needed everything.  Maddy'd
introduced herself then and there in her crisp, self-assured way,
appraised them, then advised them where in their new locale the
best values and services were to be found.  She'd been right, then
as always since, and now five years later Carol trusted her
judgment absolutely.  In her turn, Maddy watched the couple's
comings and goings with affectionate amazement, unable to believe
that the course of true love could ever run that smooth.  She
sometimes invited them over and sometimes she was invited over, and
she and Carol went shopping together sometimes, and after a while
there were few secrets between them.  

"You never quarrel?" Maddy would ask Carol incredulously.  "In your
whole marriage there's no defensive male ego trying to dominate a
frail female ego?  Nor vice versa?  No negotiated truces, no power
exchanges, no private understandings, no getting even for supposed
or actual injuries?  No scenes?  No top and bottom play, improvised
or deliberate?"  

Carol had no idea what Maddy was talking about.  So Maddy
explained about "power exchanges," giving over all control over your
life as a gift to the other person to use any way she chooses, or he
chooses if you're foolish enough to grant power like that to a man.
And she explained all about tops and bottoms, "most people are one or
the other, though some swing both ways, and some mistake themselves." 
And summing it up, "scenes" or set occasions when couples could 
role-play in ways radically different from their usual roles, could
be other people altogether sometimes.  For fun.  Sometimes with other 
couples.  Sometimes your own partner not knowing a scene was under way.

Carol was shocked if also intrigued by the implied artifice, the
insincerity of it.  She told Maddy that she and Carl had no
need for such things.  They were loving, equal partners who
respected each other, and that was all.  She trusted Carl's
judgment in all things -- even about her hair and her clothes and
her make-up -- his good taste dated back to the days when he hung
out with girls as if he were practically one of them, and they
welcomed him among them because he was undemanding and his advice
was so valuable.  

When Maddy first heard about this part of Carl's life she merely
raised her eyebrows, but afterward she remembered to ask Carol all
about it, and by and by she'd heard it all.  It did explain why
Carol didn't feel oppressed by Carl, the way all wives did by their
husbands sooner or later.  They were pals, almost girlfriends in
some ways.  Usually they agreed about everything.  But when they
didn't, Carol told Maddy, Carl always deferred to her judgment. 
That's why they had no need for scenes or games.  

Except, Carol thought to herself, for the face-cum-licking 
game I invented so Carl can taste himself and enjoy himself the 
way I do.  He's so shy about asking, I suppose it's that macho 
thing, guys aren't supposed to want to eat cum, not even their
own.  And except for my former boyfriends, those guys who take 
over when Carl's down there doing his best and it isn't quite 
good enough.  Carol thought further.  And except for me being 
the heroines of all my novels.  Those were scenes, sort of.  
She mentioned these things to Maddy, thinking nothing of them.
Maddy marveled, mainly at Carol's innocence.  But she said nothing.

Carol in turn marveled at Maddy's often racy accounts of the
scenarios she and her ex-husband Ray had evolved during their
marriage, the many enactments Maddy had designed to gratify her
need to control a man absolutely.  That's what her mother had done
with her father, an ineffectual wimp who'd never even noticed, and
that's what Maddy wanted in her life too.  Early on, when he still
loved and trusted her, Ray had been willing to submit to Maddy's
needs in inconsequential ways.  She ran a tight ship at work -- she
was a chief hospital administrator -- and an even tighter ship at
home.  Ray had gone along with her at home even when her demands
seemed arbitrary.  Houses are women's territories, he believed,
places where women rule the roost.  So when at home, he did
whatever he was asked to do.  Mostly.  For a while.

As she raised the ante he went along, Maddy told Carol with great
satisfaction.  She once told him to use the back door and leave his
shoes there Japanese style whenever he came into the house, to make
it habitual even when his shoes weren't muddy.  So he did, never
noticing that she chose not to herself.  "That denied him the front
door.  Grand entrances were for me, not him.  He used the delivery
entrance, like any servant," she told Carol.  "Wasn't that clever
of me?"  

Carol thought so, thinking meanwhile that she could never do that
to Carl.  They were equals. 

"But better, it left me wearing the shoes in the family while Ray
was padding around silently in his stocking feet.  I made sure that
the shoes I wore around the house were always high heels, real
feminine fuck-me pumps and open-toed slings that clattered on our
tile floors, so he'd could appreciate that women's shoes and those
who wear them are privileged, special, that high heels are a badge
of authority.  So when he heard me approaching the sound would put
him in the right frame of mind.  I told him he'd have to suck up to
that authority if he wanted any favors from me.  Then one evening
he did want a favor, I forget what, and he found out I meant it! 
That's what I made him do.  It was an open toed pair, and he
slobbered all over them, my toes were soaked when he finished and
stood up again, hoping that I approved!  I sure did, I loved it! 
Later I told him that hereafter my ass would be another badge of
authority.  Told him he'd have to kiss my ass if he wanted to ask
me for something."  

"And did he?" Carol asked.  She knew Carl would without hesitating
if she ever asked him.  But she'd never asked.

"Yes, of course!  After a few days he realized I meant it, and when
he really needed my help with something, that's what he did!  Very
gallantly, very ceremoniously, he made a game of it so he wouldn't
feel put down.  But he did it!  After that, no problem, he'd show
respect for my asshole's authority right off whenever he wanted
anything, even the time of day.  Toward the end he spent a lot of
time on his knees, my Ray, sucking on my toes or smooching my rear. 
Especially when he wanted to watch some football game or go play
poker with his friends, that's when I'd insist he earn the right. 
Sometimes when he asked, I'd make him do me instead of those
things, make that sacrifice for me.  He once spent a whole Super
Bowl licking my toes and kissing my ass with his back to the
television, listening and wondering what was happening."  

Carol asked if he'd ever kissed her -- you know, her pussy -- to
show his love for her, the way Carl always ... then she stopped
short, realizing that some things between her and Carl were private. 
But Maddy heard, and anyhow by their fifth year together there was
nothing Maddy hadn't figured out for herself.

"He didn't like to kiss my slit," Maddy replied unhesitatingly. 
"So I made him do it as a punishment sometimes.  Even stick his
tongue into it during my period, too, that was a special
punishment.  If he'd liked it I'd have let him do the same thing
now and then as a reward.  That's how we were.  That's how I wanted
it."

Carol could only shake her head disbelievingly. 

Maddy had lots more to tell her.  There was the time she'd made Ray
jump through hoops, literally.  Made him bark like a dog as he
jumped through hula hoops and landed on all fours while she cracked
a whip.  Carol thought that was silly, but Maddy only shrugged.  "I
wanted to.  Husbands are supposed to take care of their wives'
needs.  I needed for him to do anything I asked him to do.  Was
jumping through hoops too much to ask?"  

Eventually, yes.  Apparently so.  It got too extreme, Maddy told
Carol with some satisfaction.  One day she informed Ray that she
needed to humiliate him in public in some as yet unspecified way
that would permanently injure his reputation, make him appear
ridiculous in everyone's eyes.  Would he do that for her?   Knights
of old did that for their Lady loves in olden days, she said.  To
test a lover's sincerity, a Lady might require her Knight at Arms
to show cowardice during some joust, for example, to sacrifice his
personal honor and endure public scorn for her sake.  If he'd do
that for her, then there was nothing she wouldn't do for him. 

Ray told her he didn't think he should do that, he was a stockbroker
after all, not a Knight or a clown, in his line of work reputation
mattered.  Maddy'd then insisted, and Ray'd again refused.  She
then made it an ultimatum, it was something she had to have him do
and that was that.  When he turned her down yet again, firmly,
categorically, finally, she decided that their marriage was over,
it had reached a dead end, it was time for her to back out of it. 
But she said nothing.  

Instead she looked around her office for an eligible young man,
someone she could train to accept and maybe even enjoy humiliation,
and finally she found a young medical technician named Scott.  She
worked with him quietly for months until he was willing to obey her
no matter what.  He didn't know it, but she was preparing him for
the payoff her husband had denied her.  

Finally he was ready. Despite a near-paralyzing anxiety Scott went 
to dinner with her in the most prominent restaurant in town wearing 
a decollete dress, a salon makeover, a cute hairdo, and stiletto 
heels.  He'd gotten his ears pierced, and she made sure everyone 
noticed by lending him her own long diamond pendants, Ray's gift to 
her on their fifth anniversary.  Even the Maitre d' complimented 
him while showing them to their table.  He really was beautiful, 
Maddy had to admit.  And she kept telling him that too, to bolster 
his confidence.

Scott was terrified the whole time even so, almost unable to speak,
so she'd had to keep making soothing noises at him as if to some
high-strung stallion, or maybe a skittish mare, all the while
waiting for the unveiling, for phase two.  Phase two was, she'd
arranged for a woman he knew from his lab to join them for dessert,
not mentioning why.  Office gossip had it that this woman had her
eye on Scott and had mildly flirted with him, and that Scott felt
the same way toward her.  Now she'd see that Scott was not the man
she thought him.  That would be the humiliation part for Scott,
knowing that a girl who'd admired him would henceforth think him
effeminate, a wimp, an effete, swishy, ridiculous sissy. 
She wished for a fleeting moment that it was Ray and not
Scott who was sitting opposite her picking at his food nervously
with slender, manicured fingertips, looking absolutely gorgeous,
knowing nothing about the time bomb she'd planted and knew was
already ticking.  Especially now that Ray had refused to cooperate,
now that in her mind their marriage was over.

In the end it all worked out better than she'd hoped!  Just as
Scott's workmate spotted and recognized him, unable to comprehend
what she saw, one of Scott's neighbors also recognized him and came
over to ask what gives!  One of the regulars at Scott's Tennis
Club.  They sat down simultaneously and put their question to him
bluntly.  

Scott gathered up all his courage and tried to speak, to explain,
but he couldn't find any explanation at first.  Maddy hushed him
and sent him to look for their waiter, then while he was gone she
told them both that Scott was really a woman in his heart, that
he'd always felt that way, that he cherished his femininity, and
that he'd been asking Maddy's advice about becoming a woman
permanently.  When Scott returned to the table, his manhood in
their eyes was compromised beyond recovery. 

The two questioned him about his feminine feelings and listened to
his uncomprehending, incoherent answers, grins growing on their
faces and occasionally widening to smirks.  Scott tried to correct
their misimpression, no he wasn't a transsexual, this was a
one-time thing.  But Maddy kept interrupting to ask him to describe
his lingerie or what he'd had done to him in the salon earlier that
day, how he'd felt fussing over his borrowed jewelry earlier when
he was getting dressed to go out.  Trained always to answer Maddy's
questions before volunteering anything on his own, Scott used up
the time available for explanations.  So the couple left the table
without touching their coffee, confirmed in their conviction that
what Maddy had told them was true and eager to spread their new
gossip, the news that even in his own eyes Scott was no man and
never had been, that he was a pussy who envied women with pussies
and wanted one of his own.  Scott watched them go with his face
immobile, realizing that his reputation was disappearing with them. 
What they thought would be what everyone thought of him from now
on.

As they disappeared into the restaurant's cloak room the whole
dining room heard them suddenly burst out laughing, guffawing
uncontrollably.  The manager had to go out to caution them.  Scott
realized that this was his future, he was now locked into it.  

He skimmed over his limited choices.  One was to change jobs, leave
town.  Another was to live as if he actually were the shameful
sissy he seemed, his supposed secret transvestism exposed.  A third
was to deny it, to tell the truth.  But that would only add
cowardice and mendacity to the list of his sins -- he'd been seen,
he'd told them all about his perm and his pierced ears, there was
no denying it.  Was he more ashamed to confess his submissiveness,
that Maddy had pussywhipped him?  

"I don't know what to do," he said near tears as he told Maddy how
he saw his predicament.  Maddy didn't feel concerned -- she'd
accomplished what she'd wanted to do with a man, regretting only
that it wasn't her husband who was now feeling thoroughly
humiliated.  But she suggested yet another alternative.  Scott
could pre-emptively seize the initiative and show real courage by
embracing the womanhood everyone would soon assume he'd wanted all
his life anyhow.  He could pretend to be a transsexual woman and 
proud of it, and present himself that way to everyone.  He could in
fact become a woman.  That way he'd earn back everyone's respect,
even their admiration.  It seemed extreme, but Maddy knew it was
possible.  

He asked Maddy what to do.  Maddy didn't know, it was his decision,
but did he really have a choice?  Was respect easier to endure than
mockery?  She'd help him become a woman if that was what he wanted. 
She leaned forward, and gazing intently into his eyes, she told him
that even if his reputation weren't now ruined, he still be much
better off trying to be a woman.  She'd never thought he was much
of a man, neither physically nor temperamentally, but look what a
gorgeous woman people think he is even right now!  That was where 
his talents lay.  Maybe also his advantages.

Confused, half-persuaded, Scott went into the Ladies' to fix his
make-up, and there he made his decision.  Maddy knew it the moment
she saw him emerge chatting earnestly with a woman he'd found
there, telling her who'd done his hair and why this way, and how he
was thinking of changing it.  When he sat down again he told Maddy
he'd decided to go with the flow, look and sound and act and live
like a woman in every particular as best as he could from then on. 
As a man his dignity was lost was beyond recovery, but by trying to
become what he now seemed he could recover it and deflect ridicule. 
And even apart from that, the idea had some appeal.  There were
advantages, weren't there?   Being a woman wasn't too bad, was it? 
Lots of women enjoyed it, didn't they?  Would she help him?   

Maddy was so pleased to hear this that she rewarded Scott by
bringing him straight home, walking him in his cocktail dress and
high heels past her husband as he looked up at them from the TV,
clattering straight upstairs with him, kissing him full on the lips
in the hallway as her astounded husband watched from below, then
loudly fucking him to exhaustion all night long in their bedroom
with the door locked, teaching him to shriek in as high-pitched a
voice as hers.  "You'll love it, feeling penetrated," she whispered
to him as she fondled his now inappropriate penis.  "Just as men
will love you when you're rid of this thing!"

Ray packed and was gone the next morning.  It was another week
before he learned that what he had witnessed was not his wife in a
depraved lesbian encounter but only an ordinary infidelity, his
wife with another man.  But by then it was too late for the
information to do him any good.  By then he'd signed separation
papers giving Maddy two-thirds of everything in return for her
never telling what had happened, for keeping her lesbian
perversities secret so he could in turn preserve his reputation for
probity with his clients.  

Thus Maddy escaped from her marriage a wealthy woman, and that was
a little extra she hadn't even planned on.  She kept working
because she liked hospital administration, arranging other people's
lives, and she had no regrets.  She maintained a list of men
available to her for certain purposes, she told Carol, but she had
no special interest in any one of them.  "As long as they come when
I call, and there's a waiting list, I'm content." 


end 2/17

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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