index


Message-ID: <43584asstr$1059261008@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern)
Subject: {ASSM} Last Summer by Vickie Tern 3/11 TG femdom wife
Date: Sat, 26 Jul 2003 19:10:08 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

                          Last Summer
                             by Vickie Tern



                                iii.

Craig was always cocky.  I'd known and dealt with him for years. 
He was a business associate with offices in a building a block away
from mine, one of my company's best suppliers, a man who always
came to a negotiation with a crooked, faintly defiant expression on
his face that said "I can get the better of you!"   And sometimes
he could and sometimes I could -- we'd never agreed even about
that.  Whenever we worked out a deal together it was always
advantageous for both of us, though neither of us would ever say
so.  He'd spend most of every week out of town servicing other
customers, returning every Friday afternoon to phone me for
re-orders and updates, then to relax for the weekend with one of
his girlfriends.  His tone of voice was always superior, faintly
amused, self-assured and challenging.  As if looking for more and
expecting it.  As if he deserved it.  I once asked him how his
current girlfriend was, and he invited me to come find out at first
hand.  "She's tough, but you could bring her to her knees!" he
said.  That kind of brash directness.

It was accidental enough, the shift in our rivalry from business
dealings to pleasure-seeking.  We ran into each other by chance in
Les Bergeres, that little restaurant where I'd always gone with
Cheryl for our regular Saturday luncheon.  We'd only just gotten
seated when along came Craig with a friend.  He'd seen and
recognized me and lit up immediately, and he'd asked if they could
sit with us.  

I'd said "Sure" because Cheryl was there and Cheryl likes men,
never mind that we'd been each other's maids of honor at each
others' weddings and she was still married.  She likes lots of men. 
She hadn't been sure that her husband Mort was man enough for her
when she'd agreed to marry him, so they'd had an arrangement, and
there'd been other men even during her engagement.  And there'd
been many others since.  Cheryl kept me apprised of her love life
every Saturday at lunch, our steady date for catching up.  I was
something of a marvel to her, a woman satisfied with one man.  I
kept telling her that it was easy to be satisfied with one man if
he was the right man.  She kept telling me that sooner or later I'd
find out otherwise, that there were lots of right men for different
things, that I deserved them all.

She was more often right than I like to think -- she'd had a lot of
experience with men and knew them well.  It had certainly turned
out she'd been right about Mort.  In a way.  In one way anyhow, and
it was a good thing for her I suppose.  By the time their honeymoon
was over, she not only knew that Mort wasn't man enough for her,
she knew that he was so compliant she could unman him altogether
after she'd used up his manliness each day.  That she could make
him into a woman and then pair up with him to attract other men,
which was convenient for her, since men like to travel in pairs and
so tend to hunt for women in pairs.  Moreover, she'd learned he was
willing.  "I'm not sure he likes it," she once told me.  "I think
what he likes is doing what I ask him to do.  That's how he gets
his jollies, the poor dear."

On only their second day at this Carribean resort where they'd gone
for their honeymoon, she'd gotten annoyed that he could get it up
only twice that night and then only once more the next morning.  So
to humiliate him she'd handed him a pair of panties to wear until
his erection returned.  Which happened almost immediately, she told
me during our first Saturday lunch after her return, her eyes still
wide with her surprise and delight that she'd found a hot button
he'd not known about himself, or anyhow couldn't ever have
acknowledged to her!  He was turned on by women's underwear!  By
wearing it!  By pretending that he actually was a woman?  

That was how Cheryl read it.  She immediately decided to press her
discovery, to see how far Mort was willing to go!  See what kind of
a man she'd married, if that's what he was.  She'd given up a
certain amount of freedom when she agreed to marry him, she told
herself, so he could give up something too.  And if transvestism
makes him happy, well, a wife's duty is to secure her husband's
happiness, she'd told herself.  

So two days later Mort had a minimal woman's wardrobe of his own,
and he wore only that wardrobe the whole rest of their time in that
little Carribean town.  Not a lot of clothes, nothing like what
he'd acquired since, Carol assured me, after their return when he'd
begun living as a woman full time, so he could help her welcome the
men she brought home.  At first he'd made do with only two sets of
bras and panties, just enough to have one set to wear while rinsing
out the other along of course with whatever there was of Cheryl's
soiled lingerie.  But each day they kept adding more items.  It was
fun, shopping with her new hubby!  Shopping for him!  He learned a
lot about women's clothes and women's fashions during those
afternoon shopping trips, how to choose accessories, mixing and
matching, which were his best colors.  Within a week they were more
like sisters or girlfriends than husband and wife as they dressed
carefully each night to go down for dinner in the hotel restaurant. 
No one assumed they were anything else!

He had no bathing suit at first, since she knew no way to tuck him
properly -- that came later, after she'd explored how other women
do these things to their men, how some men actually do it to
themselves!  And anyhow his waistline needed radical reduction --
he had no curves for a bathing suit to emphasize anyhow, they came
later too.  Cheryl put him on salads and cottage cheese at once and
kept him there even after their return.  "Now he has the figure of
a sylph," she'd told me proudly during one of our Saturday
luncheons.  "So willowy!  And he guards it carefully.  He hardly
ever eats anything!  Vitamins, diet pills, a few estrogen tablets
to keep his skin soft and round him out, you know, to keep his new
little breasts growing and his buttocks plump and attractive.  That
pretty much fills his tummy!"  

For his first outing he wore only a crisp flared dress bought in
the hotel shoppe, but that same day they found a rather smart silk
brocade cocktail dress in a boutique in town.  With a princess
neckline -- he looked marvelous in it!  She was delighted that it
was really him, his style, and that it fit him perfectly!  

It found almost immediate use.  It seems that Cheryl was by the
pool waiting for him to finish up his first afternoon ever spent in
a beauty salon, the one in the hotel.  He was getting a waxing, his
hair done, his face, nails, everything, her treat.  While lying
there in the sun she'd chatted with two men who'd come by and
settled alongside to pass the time.  Then when Mort finally emerged
looking gorgeous, they immediately assumed he was her girlfriend,
so they invited them both to go dancing that evening.  Cheryl was
so entranced by her new hubby's new look and the idea of a
double-date on her honeymoon that she instantly accepted.  From
somewhere she rustled up sandals and a little jewelry for him.  And
she had to say, when they went down to meet their dates in the
hotel bar he looked absolutely smashing.  

His date thought so too apparently.  The champagne flowed, and they
danced, and later in the evening Cheryl and her man disappeared
after a slow, especially romantic dance number with the lights dim
and all couples dancing close.  Mort then found himself alone with
his date.  Early the next morning Cheryl arrived back at her own
hotel room well fucked, fucked repeatedly, royally, in ways Mort
could never have imagined.  There she found that her new husband
was still awake.  He was standing by the sink in his satin kimono,
the one they'd gotten for him to use as a dressing gown, looking
mournfully into the mirror with his huge, dark-smudged, newly
beautiful eyes.  His mascara and eye shadow would last and last for
weeks the beautician had assured him, and it still looked perfect. 
But there was no trace on his lips of the deep red lipstick she
remembered he'd worn to dinner and then re-applied when the dancing
began.  It had rubbed off somewhere.  Kissing?

As Cheryl watched, Mort filled a glass and rinsed out his mouth,
then filled it again, repeatedly rinsing out his mouth, again and
again.  As apparently for some time.

By that Cheryl knew what had happened.  Poor Mort had none of the
standard girlish techniques for saying "No" while not seeming to
say "No", and meanwhile his date had a boner that wouldn't quit. 
The man wanted to fuck him the worst way, and kept pressing him. 
When Cheryl went off elsewhere with her man, Mort had helplessly
fumbled up a few inadequate excuses.  He was having a period, he'd
said.  The man then seductively began to stroke his buttocks and
reached a hand toward his anus, tucking under his panties until he
actually touched it!  Then promised to be gentle as he wrapped Mort
in incredibly strong arms.  

But Mort knew he couldn't offer up his ass without revealing what
was hanging down in front of it, so he'd smiled and then tried to
pull off the man's cock to the point of climax.  That had only
stoked the fire.  In the end Mort's mouth paid the price to save
his secret and his ass's virginity.  He had to give his date two
blow jobs in succession to satisfy him.  The first one was clumsy
-- the man came suddenly and Mort received a face full of
ejaculate.  The second one Mort apparently made slow and lingering
while the man lay back in a trance, too pleased to interrupt or
hurry the process.  He'd licked it like a popsicle, and taken the
longest time ever to bring him off, milking it, rolling his tongue
over its seepage, trying to use up whatever the time available so
he could then just go home and try to forget that he was now a
cocksucker.  Then when the man climaxed a second time Mort held the
semen in his mouth, not knowing what else to do with it, unwilling
to swallow it but also unable to spit it out graciously.  In the
end he'd swallowed it.  His date had been so pleased he'd taken
Mort into his arms and kissed him passionately, and promised him
his own orgasms the very next night.

"My poor sweet Mort," Cheryl commented to me smiling when she'd
first told me how she'd spent her honeymoon.  "Standing there
rinsing out his mouth repeatedly!  And it was only cum!  So I told
him he'd better get used to the flavor and feel of a prick between
his lips and a man's cum in his mouth afterward, because I knew now
that this was the kind of marriage I've always wanted.  If he could
get to like it I'd be his for life!  If he loved me, I told him,
he'd stop trying to gargle the man's flavor away and he'd come to
bed with me and french kiss me down below while my own guy's cum
was still fresh and still trickling out, so he could enjoy
something of what his bride had just enjoyed."

"And did he?" I asked Cheryl, appalled and yet fascinated.

"Oh, of course.  That was Mort's first cream pie.  By now it's
routine enough, he's tasted lots of men in me and directly on his
own, too.  He's pretty much a girl now, after all.  I don't ask him
what he does when he goes out on his own dates, but he always
cleans his own cum out of me after I've used him for fucking, and
when I come home from partying with other men he always carefully
sucks out their semen too.  We have no secrets from each other."

"That's remarkable," I'd said.  I didn't know what else to say.

"Is it really?  Doesn't Scott do that much for you?  Not even his
own cum?  No?  Anyhow, it was obvious that my sweetie needed a
crash course in how to satisfy a man, so I gave him one.  The next
morning before breakfast I hauled out my dildo, which I'd brought
hoping I wouldn't need to use it, at least not on my honeymoon.  It
turned out to be handy -- I used it on him instead of me.  First I
gave him lessons in deep throating and swallowing, and I taught him
how to hold a cock in his mouth decisively, not the wishy washy way
he'd done it that second time.  I mean after all, any girl knows
how to give good head before she graduates from high school, and we
both had dates scheduled with these guys for the next couple of
nights, and guys have serious needs.  Luckily, Mort had talent and
became a first-class cocksucker in no time at all.  I was proud of
him.  Then I taught him how to fuck properly.  How to get fucked,
I mean.  That took a little longer."  

To get past the main obstacle, Mort's own cock and balls, Cheryl
bought him an undersized small crotchless girdle for exposed
buttocks from a lingerie store in town, and snugged it up tight to
flatten out his male equipment.  That solved that.  Then she showed
him how to get onto his knees, how to lift his rear end high, how
to open his anus wide, how to plant his forehead way down, and when
to thrust back.  She let Mort mount and fuck her own ass to
demonstrate the proper position.  Twice in fact, the second time
while she demonstrated tush bobbing and hip weaving.  Then he
crouched down and she did the same thing to his ass with her dildo,
asking him over and over, "Isn't it heavenly?  Tell me it's
heavenly!"  He did.

So he was well-prepared when his date actually put a living prick
into his ass later that evening, and his mouth was better trained
to give satisfaction too.  It was just as well, because Mort's ass
and mouth were filled repeatedly during the next two weeks.  

"It was great!" Cheryl confided.  "The most marvelous honeymoon
ever!  We did each other and the guys did both of us!  They never
did guess that Mort wasn't actually my girlfriend!  Mort's guy
understood that some girls don't want to risk pregnancy, so they
prefer to get fucked in the ass, and he was glad to oblige.  He
told me that by the end of the second week Mort's ass had developed
the most seductive wiggle when he was nearing orgasm.  That it was
one of the best rear ends he'd ever been in.  Though when I let him
try out mine for comparison's sake, he did tell me mine was more
cunning in the way it grabbed a cock.  Poor Mort, I thought, trying
to make out with those lean buttocks of his.  That was when I
started him on hormones, to fill out his ass for exhibition in a
tight skirt -- his enlarged nipples and his budding breasts came as
an extra.  And you should see him now!"  

"All this reverse sex play was exciting for me, and apparently for
Mort too -- he was getting erections all the time, especially
whenever he saw a date kiss me or touch one of my boobs.  So each
day before leaving our room I'd empty him out, his cock up my cunt,
my dildo up his ass, it really didn't matter which, the purpose was
to make him impotent for the evening.  Then I'd sit on his face as
necessary of course, so he could lick me dainty for my date but
leave me just a little bit lubricated.  It was soooo great!  Some
nights I'd get restless, and when Mort was asleep I'd slip out of
our room and then come back the next morning. If our two special
guys happened to be used up I could usually find others down in the
bar who weren't.  Mort couldn't really complain that I was fucking
around, because he was too.  I loved it!  My honeymoon turned out
to be everything I'd always hoped for, ever since I was a little
girl dreaming about getting married.  I just happen to need more
men than most women."    

Back home it wasn't quite the same.  Cheryl wanted no
entanglements, no threats to respectability.  Yet she didn't want
to give up the advantages for her own sex life, and Mort tolerated
his new gender, so she decided to commit him to girlhood full time. 
She insisted that he go to a discreet salon to get his hair and
nails and face done regularly, and though he's a fully qualified
lawyer he sold out his partnership and went to work for another
firm as a woman paralegal.  The men in his law office often flirt
with him, Cheryl commented, and a few take him out now and then. 
No doubt he gets laid now and then too.  "I don't mind," she said. 
"But I do wish he'd tell me.  I tell him everything about my men!"

Office romances get complicated, so Cheryl eventually arranged a
different kind of social life for him, with a support group of
other effeminate men, transvestites and transsexuals who get
together every week to do who knows what with each other.  They had
a kind of clubhouse situated over a beauty salon one of them owned. 
She made sure that each time he went he primped until he looked as
lovely as he'd looked on their honeymoon -- all girl, no
compromise!   And then she'd urge him to have fun, with other men
of course.  No women.

Sometimes he'd come home looking much the same but randy as a goat,
and that was always welcome -- Cheryl's pussy was always a willing
beneficiary.  Sometimes his "support group" would finish up in a
gay bar, and he'd come home disheveled and spent, used up, leaking,
needing to sleep through the whole of the next day, needing to give
his asshole a chance to heal.  After one such bout Cheryl urged him
to find a steady boyfriend and settle down.  But he didn't want
one.  He'd told her when she asked that he didn't really mind sex
with men, that he even liked some things about it.  What was there
not to like about a stiff dick sliding in and out of your ass?  But
even so, she was sure he did it only to please her.  

Cheryl gradually realized that she was the sole reason Mort was
willing to do all these things -- dress and look and act feminine,
and date and fuck and suck men.  That he was doing it for her. 
That if she didn't wanted it, he'd never have done any of it.  That
it was love!  She adored him for that!

Especially because while he did all those things, she was free to
do all of hers.  Every week Cheryl would kick up her heels the way
Mort did, pounding them on some naked guy's back.  A different guy
each time, because obviously Mort was a very decent man, very
considerate and accommodating, and she loved him in lots of ways,
and that was why she'd married him despite everything, so she
wanted no rivals, no complications.  That meant that she needed a
different man every week or so.  So she was always on the lookout.

end 3/11
VickieTern@AOL.COM

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}|
|Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org>      |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+