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Subject: {ASSM} Scenes, by Vickie Tern, 3/17  TG Femdom F/m m/M F/M etc
Date: Mon,  1 Oct 2001 13:10:03 -0400
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Scenes, by Vickie Tern, 3/17  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)   




                             3.

Though Carol was a relative innocent, she was more amused than
shocked by this long tale.  In part she was amused because Maddy
took such obvious pleasure in telling it in all of its satisfying
details, and Maddy was her friend.  But in part because she
understood both Maddy and Scott.  There were girls in her sorority
who'd played similar control games with their men, mindfucking them
into dom/sub relationships for fun and then ruining their campus
reputations before moving on to someone else.  She'd been shocked
at first, but they were no worse than men who scored with countless
women and boasted about it, naming names.  Lots of men enjoyed
their submission, she knew, though none would ever confess it
unless their girlfriends instructed them to tell all.  

Carol asked where Scott was now, and Maddy told her out west 
in Colorado, active in her husband's business and in various
charities, the mother of two darling adopted daughters she adored
and was teaching to become proper young ladies.  She was perfectly
respectable, apparently happy, fully in charge of her own affairs
including a few her husband knew nothing about.  "Becoming a woman
finally made a man of him!" she said, grinning.  They exchanged
Christmas cards, and Maddy sent her "Scotty" a birthday card on each
anniversary of her sex reassignment surgery.  Had he remained a
man, he'd have remained a mediocre lab technician, never very
competent, probably let go after some disastrous mistake.  He was
much better off.

"Wouldn't you enjoy dominating Carl, Carol?" Maddy asked her
friend.  "Men do love to serve women, you know.  It gives them
their chief reason to exist.  I think it's in their genes, Nature's
plan.  It has something to do with mate selection, caring for the
young, things like that.  That's why once we know the score, we
fuck hunky guys we could never live with but then we diddle nice
guys into marrying us and supporting us and helping us raise our
babies.  Now and then a hunky guy's baby too, though our nice
hubbys never suspect it, and that's how the hunky genes survive 
along with the wimp genes.  The next generation's girls need 
their hunky lovers and great fucks too, before they settle 
down.  Even after!"  

"Maybe," Carol had replied vaguely.  "Maybe I'd enjoy getting the
better of Carl now and then."  She knew that these days she had to
be on top of Carl and fucking him, not vice versa, to feel the way
that basketball player had once made her feel.  But she'd never
want to humiliate Carl, she'd told Maddy.  She couldn't possibly
two-time him!  They were equal partners in everything, and
absolutely faithful.  Besides, it wasn't necessary.  He'd already
do anything for her, she was sure of it.  

"Even that?" Maddy asked.  "Even what Scott did for me?"

"Maybe even that," Carol had replied.  

The idea wasn't that
far-fetched,  She let her mind dwell on it.  It was rather
exciting!  She knew she sometimes re-imagined her gentle Carl 
as Fiona, his sweet face bent between her thighs to lick her 
loins, wearing impeccable make-up freshly applied at the beauty 
salon.  Fiona had once dressed for a date and with her face made up
perfectly had paused for a session between Carol's legs.  She'd
finished up a delicious, grinning, cum-drippy mess, but soooo
happy!  And a sorority pledge Carol had hazed once had licked her, 
smeared mascara and lipstick all over her thighs -- it had taken 
an extra cuntlapping session to clean it up, to make things as 
neat down there again as Carol liked them.  Could Carl ever be 
those girls?

"But maybe not," was Maddy's response.  "You never know."

Afterward Carol was careful not to tell Carl the circumstances of
Maddy's divorce.  He was still such an innocent!  With his slight
build and his whole adolescence spent as one of the girls, or nearly,
gender shifting made him uneasy whenever it entered anyone's
conversation.  He was always a little uncertain about his masculinity,
and who could blame him?  At a dinner party once, Maddy'd begun to
describe the kinds of men who attended the gender-change clinic at
her hospital, and Carol had asked her with her eyes to let it pass. 
Maddy'd glanced at Carl, who looked edgy but studiously indifferent, 
immediately understood, and dropped it.  

Yet Carol did let the notion drift in and out of her mind
sometimes.  She wondered how her little Curl might look done up
now and then as little girl.  Cute, she decided.  He'd told
her about the time he'd gone with the girls to get his nails done,
and she wondered if he'd gone with them for other things too
sometimes, and was too ashamed to tell her.  Had he ever actually
gone out with them dressed and made up like one of them?   Of
course he must have, if only on a dare!  The idea pleased her.  Her
little Curlie!  

After that, whenever she read her romantic novels she loved to
imagine that their strong, sensible heroines with her own face
would turn now and then to confide in devoted girlfriends who
looked like Carl, girls with Carl's face with just a little
lipstick added.  And her actual husband Carl, kneeling between her
legs and nibbling her pink clit and tonguing her to her first
orgasm of the evening, more and more often became her own darling
girlfriend kneeling in front of her, hair beautifully cut, face
softly feminine, sweetly preparing her for a date with one of her
former muscular boy friends, one of those hunky guys who would soon
mount her and plunge a massive cock directly into her pussy, then
fuck her senseless while she nearly broke her back twisting under
him in ecstasy.  Elaborating, she saw Carl as her girlfriend 
husband waving goodbye to her as she left the house to meet her date,
for the evening, pleased to be participating in some small preliminary 
way, wishing her well.  Her girlfriend who then went upstairs to 
get ready for his own date.  He always looked so cute when he was 
done!  Her sweetheart!

It was only a fantasy, harmless enough.  Mainly, she liked things 
just the way they were.  Then came a crisis.

Soon after their fifth wedding anniversary Carl came down with a
mean flu that developed into a vicious pneumonia.  He'd turned blue
and could barely breathe when the ambulance arrived.  For a while
it was touch and go whether the doctors could save him -- he was
hospitalized for weeks.  Then they wanted to watch him closely
during his recovery, so when he came home his doctor ordained more
bed rest and convalescence.  He wasn't to think about work, he had
to save his energy.  

His boss awarded him the longest indefinite leave the company's
insurance allowed, months and months, encouraging him to take it
easy for as long as he needed, to build back his strength so he
could take charge of a massive project looming on next year's
horizon.  Carl was so weak he could only nod gratefully.  For the
first time in his life, no one expected him to do anything.

Carol was frantic the whole time Carl was in the hospital,
especially when he was in intensive care and it wasn't certain he'd
pull through.  Maddy was her constant support, her lifeline to
sanity.  She didn't think she could live without Carl, the fearful
phantasm of losing him was unendurable.  She imagined all sorts of
disasters, then all sorts of alternative disasters.  Maddy
reassured her as best she could.

When Carl finally came home he was a shadow of himself, as gaunt
and spindly as ever in his teens.  He knew it, and against all
reason he began worrying about losing Carol to someone more 
substantial.  Once again he was convinced he was unfit to be 
any girl's special boyfriend, her love, especially a girl as
marvelous as Carol.  He had nightmares in which Carol called him up
to ask if her plaid skirt would go with the tweed jacket she meant
to wear on a weekend jaunt to a resort hotel with the guy she 
just met.  And other nightmares in which she told him she couldn't
live as his wife any more.  She needed a real man, though he
was welcome to stay and live with her as her dear friend, nothing 
else assumed.  He'd wake up terrified, looking fearfully at 
Carol as she slept peaceably beside him.  What might she be 
dreaming of?  

When he confessed these bad dreams to her, Carol put all her own
romantic imaginings on hold.  Little did he know that his fears
were in fact her fantasies, harmless enough, but still .....  She
knew why he felt so insecure -- once again he was an unacceptable
adolescent in his own eyes.  She reassured him repeatedly with hugs
and kisses, he was her only love and she would love him forever no
matter how thin he got!  No matter what!  No help, all that 
happened was that Carl immediately began imagining other whats.  

So she scolded him and put him to bed and demanded that he stay
there.  She came home from work early each day to feed him
nourishing broths and easily digestible foods.  Each day Carl clung
to her and wept for joy that she'd returned to him yet again, he'd
been so afraid she wouldn't.  Each night they hugged each other,
they wrapped themselves in each other as they went to sleep.  She
knew he needed the comfort.  But hugging was all they did, because
the doctor had told Carl to avoid all vigorous exercise.  Carol was
taking no chances -- she worried that even the gentlest sexual
excitement might bring on a relapse.  

Week after week went by, until Carl finally felt fit, still thin
but ready to begin exercising again, certainly ready for sex.  But
no.  Carol insisted that he do nothing for the full time the doctors
had mandated, many weeks more.  His morning boners returned full
force.  Carol noticed of course -- they pressed deep into her belly
or into the crack of her ass each morning.  But she refused to act
on them until his convalescence officially ended.  To make it
easier for him she deprived him of the sight of her naked body,
suspecting correctly that after his long sexual deprivation -- now
six weeks, or was it eight, ten? -- the excitement would only further
deplete strength he needed for his complete recovery.  

Carl wandered aimlessly around the house, idle and increasingly
horny.  Carol's work downtown meanwhile doubled -- she was
obligated to attend meetings daily, and had to put in full days
sometimes into the evening hours.  She kissed Carl each morning
before she went off to work, and as always cautioned him to do
nothing she wouldn't do or couldn't approve.

Bored, Carl settled into his study to check out his accumulated
magazines.  There were his Sports Illustrateds.  All those large,
vigorous, superbly fit men performing strenuous activities -- it
especially depressed him to view them now.  He picked up the
swimsuit issue instead.  

That was different!  Image after image of thin-waisted, ripely
round girls, gorgeous, page after page of them, women whose bodies
earned and deserved careers and celebrity and the reverent, lustful
gaze of millions!  All by not eating and then by displaying how
various shapes of cloth could wrap their carefully exaggerated
curves.  All by showing how they could spill out of those pieces of
cloth in every direction and yet preserve their modesty!  

God they were beautiful!  These girls are all for show, he thought,
not for blow.  I bet I weigh less than they do -- they're all so
plump where it matters, so ripe that they can all pretend they
aren't and then fall way forward whenever they bend over.  And it's
all there, almost all of them exposed, their tits, their swelling
buttocks!  All for show, and unashamed to show themselves, praises
be, he thought.  He took his cock in hand.  It swelled up. 

Less visible than tits was that consecrated slit between their legs.
Carol's pink pussy lips rose into his mind's eye, that open crease
between her thighs, dew-lapped, dewy moist, waiting to be kissed.  
Re recalled how her moisture clung to his lips as if her pussy 
was kissing him back.  This year's swimsuits seemed to feature and
celebrate pussies even while covering them up.  There were no
tugged pleats or teeny skirts stretched across hips to mask
its presence.  Instead, leg openings were cut high, and on model
after model, color-splashed nylon and spandex stretched tight to
the waist in unimpeded vee shapes fanning out from the place where
their thighs met to their bellies, leaving their hip bones exposed,
even the hairless sides of their mounds.  

The bikini swimsuits covered even less than that, or tried to but
hid nothing.  Women have nothing to hide, Carl meditated.  They all
curve up from that sacred place between their legs to their belly
buttons in one small hard hairy hillock and then one gently curved,
soft hill, everything there fully visible.  Because with or without
cloth covering their mounds, there's nothing there!  There's
nothing visible in a girl's crotch.  Nothing!  Between their legs,
Carl thought, that's where they keep that damp dark honeyed place
with its deep hole.  That's what's hidden.  That's Victoria's real
secret.  

Well, not quite hidden -- here and there in the magazine 
illustrationsthe the top of a girl's slit formed a visible pucker 
in the fabric covering it, a wrinkle in that smooth, bright, 
flowery display of groins and crotches.  One ravishing blonde 
in particular was wearing a shiny charmeuse bikini, and had 
spread her legs wide and tilted her lower pelvis far forward as 
if the camera had briefly interrupted her aerobic exercises.  
All that should be concealed was revealed.  Carl could
make out her entire slit -- the thin bathing suit material
was tucked snug into her crack.  Sure enough.  

As he looked into her eyes she smiled invitingly at him, and told
him she'd love to watch him pull himself off.  Never a man to
disappoint a lady, he screwed up his determination to do so and
then did so.  She watched with intense curiosity as he climaxed,
spurt after spurt caught in a previously prepared kleenex.  Then
she rewarded him with a dazzling smile and a suggestion that next
time he should remove her bikini bottom altogether and come join
her.  "It's so hot down here," she complained, pouting, reaching to
rub herself.  

That image was still with Carl the next morning when he carefully
disengaged from Carol and staggered out of bed, his wife still
asleep, and still groggy found himself standing naked in front of
the full-length mirror on his closet door.  For the first time
since he'd fallen ill, he looked at himself closely.  There he was
once again, a strange, scrawny teenager easily ignored by girls in
the first flush of the hormones flooding their bodies, all of them
looking for excitement with big ripped well-padded guys, 
eager to explore their new sexuality.  

His arms were thin, he had no belly, and his narrow waist supported
a rib cage with every rib visible.  Hip-bones as prominent as a
bathing suit model's flared out on either side of his groin.  I've
got to put some weight back on, he thought.  I'm a scarecrow.  No
way was he one of those tumescent musclebound hunks girls dream
about.  He wasn't even as filled out as the swimsuit models he'd
admired only yesterday.

Breasts make a big difference, he considered.  Even scrawny women's
chests are well-rounded, they have large melons of ripe flesh
growing there, hanging down from there.  How do they grow them? 
What do they feel like?  Some models he'd admired yesterday had
small breasts thrust out by some secret construction inside the
swimsuit, but others had breasts hanging unsupported from their
chests inside loose tank tops, their nipples hinted or plainly in
evidence as they poked through thin cloth.  He made a note to
inspect one of Carol's bathing suits to see how all this shaping
and suspending occurred.  She had both kinds, he knew that.  He
always felt uneasy when they took beach vacations and men stared or
leered at Carol's impressive figure, especially when her nipples
showed.  Still, women did wear that kind of suit in order to be 
noticed.  To feel proud that they were attractive women.  It was 
good for their morale.  Their right and privilege.

Men do that too I guess.  They show how heavy they're hung by
wearing thin Speedos, Carl thought.  He stared at his own crotch,
down where his flaccid cock hung over his balls.  Women had nothing
hanging in the juncture of their legs to clutter that hill's smooth
descent into the cunning cleft they keep hidden further down. 
Nothing at all, he thought idly.  I wonder what it's like to have
nothing down there.  He remembered some of the girls he'd been
friends with, maybe a little overweight, who wore their slacks
stretched tight across their generous thighs and pulled taut against
their ... nothing.  Put their whole blank vee on full display. 
They rolled their hips as they leaned back in their chairs, 
proud that they were gifted with ... nothing.

Crotches make the biggest difference, he decided.  Oh yes!  He
hadn't seen Carol's for weeks, months, but the girls
in all those swim suits reminded him that Carol had one
of those things too.  One of those nothings.  She too had nothing
visible.  More important, she too kept something deep and devilish
hidden further down.  He did so want to kiss it, to express his
gratitude toward her, his love for her.  "Not till you're all
well," she'd told him when he'd last tried.

He suddenly felt an intense desire to see a real woman's crotch. 
He considered pulling back the blanket and lifting Carol's nightie
to stare once again at that smooth place of worship.  Maybe he
could ask her what it's like having nothing dangling down there? 
But she was still asleep, and his illness had distressed her, she'd
been sleeping fitfully, he didn't want to risk waking her for such
a frivolous reason. 

So randomly, experimentally, he pushed his own his cock and balls
down and back between his legs, and clamped his thighs closed to
hold them there.  To see while he was thinking about it, what it
looks like in the flesh, this newly appreciated presence of an
absence.  Then, to enhance the femininity of what he saw, he struck
one of those swimsuit girl poses -- knees turned one way, hips the
other, shoulders one way, head the other, one hand on a cocked hip,
the other hand with fingertips lightly fluffing hair on the back of
his head, elbow raised and head held high.  He crouched slightly as
if preparing to spring at a lover, mouth partly open, eyes half
shut as if in an erotic daydream.  Wasn't this the pose, now?  From
under lazily drooping eyelids, he stared at his reflection in the
mirror.  Yes, it was very feminine!  He felt squeezed down there
between his legs, a familiar ball ache beginning where no balls
were visible.  And his hip bones were too angular, but he waggled
them once anyhow, to see them sway.  Thin as he was, he was a girl
down there now all right.  There was nothing visible at all between
his legs except that classic, smooth, hairy vee.  He even had a
mound of sorts.

No resemblance otherwise.  Narrow waist, true, but no curves at
all, no soft fullness.  A chest as flat as a girl's groin, mocked
by dime-sized areolas and nipples.  Giving it the old school try,
trying to complete the picture, he reached under his pectoral
muscles and lifted them up and toward his mirror reflection with
his palms, just like that gorgeous babe in the red two-piece who'd
seemed to be offering her boobs to anyone who happened to glance at
her.  Then like her he shot his hip even further sideways.  Not
persuasive, not really female, but better, a lot like it.  He
tossed his long hair -- it was below his ears, he'd been overdue
for a trim even before he fell ill -- just as the girl in the bikini
had tossed hers when the picture was snapped.  His hair
wasn't big hair like hers.  It just hung down neatly -- Carol
insisted that since he wore it a little longer than most men he had
to keep it neat.  I wonder how girls get their hair to puff way out
that way, Carl thought.  He studied himself.  I see a thin girl
with no boobs, he concluded.  But that's better than nothing.

Suddenly, her heard an amused voice speaking behind him! 

"If you mean to get rid of those things you usually have hanging 
down there, honey, let me know first so I can make other 
arrangements.  And wouldn't a good bra support you a lot more 
comfortably than your hands?" 

Carol's voice!  Carol awake!  She sees me!

Carl spun around shocked, astonished, embarrassed!  Sure enough,
there she was, lying in bed with her arms comfortably tucked
behind her head, resting on her pillow, watching him at her leisure
as his naked feminized body crouched there in its girlish pose!  

"I was...I was just..." he started to say.  How long has she been
awake and watching me?  Did I do anything really stupid?  Posed
cutesy girly, I guess, that's the worst of it.  I hope.

"I saw what you were just, honey," she said.  "You still are, just. 
You look darling!  But why are they still hiding?  Come out, come
out, wherever you are!"

He'd been so surprised he hadn't changed his posture, just rotated
it, swiveled it to look at her, legs still clamped shut, pectorals
still gathered up in his hands like small boobs.  Now he looked
down and saw that he still had his woman's crotch, presumably a
vulva hidden below it, his smooth uncluttered mound disappearing
between his legs no doubt to split into labia at the entrance to
his pussy, all of this fully on view to his wife, no male genitals
anywhere.  Abashed, he let go his breasts and hastily stepped
sideways.  His equipment swung forward again, free.  Cock and balls
fell back where they belonged, front and center.

"Ahh, Carol, I'm sorry. It was ...." No, he'd better not mention
that he'd been checking out the girls in the Swimsuit Issue and
that his mind had drifted to how attractive they looked, that was
all.  That he was horny, starved for the sight and feel of female
flesh.  That he'd jerked off under the appreciative eye of one of
those swimsuit girls.  That was way too much to say.  No telling
how she'd take it.  "I just wanted to see...."

"Honey, your face is bright red!  You're blushing!  What could you
have been imagining?  There's nothing to be ashamed of!"

"Well, uh, I don't want you to get the wrong impression about, uh
...."

"About what?"  She was still lying back but now really amused,
partly uncomfortable because her darling was embarrassed, yet oddly
enough, enjoying his embarrassment.  Feeling delighted and
superior!  Her sweetie was afraid that he'd exposed a shameful
desire, that he wanted to look like a girl!  To look like me, she
thought, what a compliment!  And he'd been caught in the act and
now felt the way Maddy's Scott had felt when his desire had been
found out.  No, Scott's wasn't found out, he didn't have any at
first, that came later, that was how he overcame his embarrassment. 
But who can tell the difference?  Maybe my Carl wants to be a
girl but he's too ashamed to say so, and now he's been
found out?  The way he's always ashamed to confess lots of things? 
Is he a real transsexual?  Could this be the root of his shame? 
Would confessing it be his liberation?

Carol suddenly realized that after all those years of growing up
with girls and thinking girl thoughts with them, of course he'd
identify with girls!  Maybe that was why he'd hung out with them,
so he could imagine he was one of them!  Of course!  She wondered
whether that was what had attracted her to him from the beginning. 
His instinctive understanding of a girl's problems, his immediate
sympathy, no, empathy, when she described how it felt to be dumped
by a man!   My curly girly Carl, she mused.  Is he "Carla" to
himself when he's imagining he's a girl, I wonder?  Is she Carla,
I mean?  Does the girl in him need a man?

It was an unaccustomed feeling, being suddenly privy to such a huge
secret about her beloved's hidden inner life!  Also unaccustomed
was the way she felt so utterly in charge as he stood there
embarrassed, stammering and apologetic, as if waiting for orders or
waiting to be excused!  Maddy had mentioned how good that can feel,
being superior, in control, on top, a domme.  How partners are
never really equal.  How satisfying it is to put your partner off
balance and watch him do your bidding without even realizing that's
what he's doing.  To watch him perform despite himself.  Like Carl
right now.  

"I was just fooling around," Carl finished lamely.

She wanted to make the moment last a bit longer, so as she lay back
in queenly repose she stared him disbelievingly, just long enough
to see him quail and maybe even begin to plead, still crouched, one
hand extended toward her in supplication.  Plead what?  Who knows,
she thought, maybe least of all my sweet baby at this moment.  

So she broke off her judgmental expression and smiled.  Time to
take him off the hook, she thought.  I don't know exactly what he
was up to just now, but something like his pride must be involved,
maybe his self-respect.  His manhood too in some way.  I'd better
let him know it's OK.  Whatever he does or wants to do after what
he's been through is OK with me!  I only wish he'd tell me his
desires in advance, so he wouldn't feel humiliated when I discover
them accidentally!  If he wants to look like a girl, I can help!

"Honey, it's OK!  I feel the same way!" she said to him earnestly. 
"I sometimes wonder what it would be like to be a man, the way
you're wondering about being a woman.  How inconvenient it would be
to have those things hanging down there, always getting caught in
my pants when I sit down, and how convenient it would be to be flat
up top, not to have to put up with these heavy globes I've always
got bobbling up and down on my chest.  It's sweet that you have the
same kinds of thoughts now and then about me."

"Yes," he said.  That wasn't exactly it, but it was forgiving, what
she'd just said, so it was good enough.  "I'm sorry!"  He was, but
he had no idea why.    

"Why sorry?  You don't have a bad figure, honey, compared with lots
of girls.  You're very trim.  No real curves, but lots of girls
look angular.  Think of it this way -- no flab, no cellulite, no
love handles, so no real complaints!"  She smiled wickedly and
added, "A girl can't have everything, you know.  We all learn to
emphasize our good features.  You've got yours!"  

Now what did that mean, Carl now wondered.

She beamed at him and held out her arms.  "I need my good morning
kiss, baby.  Then I've got to get up and get to work!."

He did that, gratefully!  

Twenty minutes later they'd both showered and were getting dressed. 
He was inspecting an array of sports shirts hanging in his closet,
wear which one for another day at home, when he suddenly heard her
call "Carl!"  He glanced over.  There she was, standing on the
other side of their bed wearing only her brassiere and panties,
facing him with a wide grin, her palms tucked under her plump
breasts and lifting them up, those marvelous globes, offering them
to him.  She saw me do that and remembered, he thought.  He felt
embarrassed yet excited.  He decided that in response to her
gesture's generous, good-natured mockery he should amuse her with
a wolfish howl.  He did.  It came out more like a whimper, but she
was satisfied.

"Now yours," she said, grinning even wider.  I don't want him to
feel ashamed of any of his desires, she was thinking.

Carl tucked his palms under his chest and lifted up his scrawny
pectorals.  He said nothing.  Will I ever live this thing down? he
was thinking.

"Mmmmmm!" Carol said.  "Nice, honey!"  

Then she finished dressing, and they went down to breakfast
together as they'd gone down together every workday morning of
their five-year old marriage.  So why do I feel in some vague way
that something is different now? Carl wondered.   


end 3/17

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