index


Message-ID: <44954asstr$1066954206@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern)
Subject: {ASSM} Shy by Vickie Tern 1/6 TG Femdom
Date: Thu, 23 Oct 2003 20:10:06 -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

Shy by Vickie Tern TG Femdom 1/6

Don't read this if you shouldn't or you don't want to.  Do if you
do.  I'd appreciate knowing what you think (VickieTern@aol.com).





                             Shy
                        by Vickie Tern    


                              i.

I mean, a girl goes to college to get away from her parents and be
with her girlfriends full time and scope boys and figure out what
kinds she likes and what she likes about them and what she wants
them to do for her and everything.  To do whatever she likes doing,
and learn how to get other people to help her do it.  Preparation
for Life is what they call it.  You know.

So after two years at Webster College I'd finally figured it all
out, with two more years to go for enjoying it!  All of it, the
frat system and the concerts and parties and the fake IDs and
having an in at the local bars and where to score grass and knowing
which places to go when and what's cool and what's hot.  And how to
play the dating game so you're never without a guy when you need
one.  Life was wonderful!  

There was studying too of course, books and labs and reports and
papers and stuff.  But I'd already worked out which gut courses
give automatic grades good enough to keep your folks off your back,
and I'd built up a decent enough PHR so I could slack off whenever
I felt like it.  And I knew which boyfriends could write the best
papers for you.  We all have to pay attention to things like that,
because education is very important.  I did, so studying didn't
bother me any.

Most important was being one of the Quintettes.  That's what we
call ourselves, the five of us, girls who've shared the same dorm
suite ever since we were all Freshmen.  In fact we share everything
-- clothes, jewelry, makeup, advice, money too when one of us is a
little short.  Even guys.

Guys are the easiest to share, really, because they pretty much do
what you want them to do.  They don't have a clue how we pass them
around, not even how we make bets on how quickly they'll do what we
tell them.  They think they're so dashing and attractive that none
of us can help ourselves, that we fling ourselves at them as soon
as they look available.  And it's true in a way.  We do.  As a
Quintette we maintain different stables of guys, each guy in each
stable tested and certified for superiority in at least one
category.  When one of us gets tired of a guy she passes him on to
another of us.  Our guys are selected and trained, so we don't want
to drop them until we've all used them and they're pretty well used
up.  

Our requirements are fairly strict.  For example, there's the poet
stable, we call them poets even though some of them just stare
soulfully at you and never say much of anything.  You know,
romantic guys who call on you with flowers, and help you with your
coat.  Maybe between dates send you sweet poems about how they
yearn to touch you.  With any one of them a girl can feel really
desirable, really delicate, like a fresh-budded flower, you know? 
They're so very sweet.  When one of them's out at night with you
and comments on how the stars look so far away, or so close, and
you say "Yes!" breathlessly, you can practically see him fly into
the air.  They're always rapturous about something or other.  They
hardly ever come down to earth long enough even to kiss you.  I
sorta like it, I don't mind being worshipped from afar.  A girl
likes to be a goddess sometimes, to feel she's a soul mate,
sublime, spiritually pure.  Now and then. 

When we date a poet we let our hair down and let it flow free along
bare shoulders and bare backs, so it can blow in the breeze and
touch our skin and perfume the air -- the poets all think that the
flowery aroma is us!  They lie on the grass to look at the stars
and we lean close over them and let our hair fall forward to caress
their faces and they go into a trance!  Sometimes they cream in
their jeans when they're surrounded by fragrant hair, "tossed in
the tangle of my lady's tresses" one of them called it.  Make as if
you mean to touch their lips with yours and they stop breathing! 
But you have to keep an eye on their crotch because it happens fast
-- they catch their breath suddenly and hold it and that bulge goes
THROB THROB and it's done!  Then they take a few deep breaths and
sigh as if they'd just visited paradise.  They've squirted all over
themselves without anyone touching anything!  Incredible!  You
realize you've just acted out a starring role in a waking wet
dream!  

We once held a contest to see who could get the most wet dreams out
of a poet in a single month, honor system for the no touching part,
but the guy had to have a large visible wet spot on his pants when
he brought his date back to the suite for his good night peck on
the cheek at the door.  There had to be no question that he'd
actually come in his pants.  Well, it ended the first week.  Sally
has straight blonde hair that goes down to her waist -- she looks
like Lady Godiva without the horse.  What she did was, she touched
perfume to her palms and wiped it on her hair, then left it flowing
free when she went out, not even a hair band to keep it off her
face.  Doubled up on her eye make-up and touched some more perfume
to her lips.  

That was all it took.  Two nights running she brought off her dates
just by surrounding them with hair and letting them breathe when
they could.  But no one saw the evidence so no one believed her. 
So the next three nights she invited her guy in for just a minute,
supposedly so he could read aloud some marvelous poem or other
about her he'd just written, or to wish one of us a happy birthday
-- any one of us, we took turns.  And meantime the rest of us
checked out his crotch, or at least checked out whether he was
embarrassed about it, whether he was trying to cover it with a book
or with his bare hands.  

Then, no question, we declared Sally the suite's Wet Dream Queen. 
She wiped the floor with us.  We kept the contest going for second
and third place of course, our poets all seemed so happy to breath
us for an hour or so and then be the center of attention when they
left us at our suite the end of the evening.  I finished fourth,
can you imagine?  Only four of my dates wet themselves, out of
thirteen tries, can you imagine?  I never should have gotten my
hair cut and re-styled last Christmas!  But it was getting in my
way all the time, and things that get in my way are always
annoying, so what could I do? 

We've also got a stable of boy brains.  Intellectuals, you know? 
They talk a lot too, but not about dreams.  Instead, they go for
long walks and tell you about ethical choices, and political
coalitions, and Lacan, and Riemann's hypothesis.  Ideas, you know? 
Whatever they say, all you have to do is reply "You think so?" and
then they think you're unpersuaded but respect them too much to say
so, so they think you're maybe even smarter than they are, so they
feel honored that you allow them to hold your hand.  Chances are
we'll all end up married to one of them, because the chances are
they'll all be earning pots of money sooner than the other guys. 
Brains know things rich people pay big money to hear, or they
figure out those kinds of things soon enough, and the word gets
around, and after a while they're rich too.  Unless they get so
tied up with their ideas they want to become professors and talk
about them all the time and never do anything with them.  We've got
a couple of those in the stable, but we're careful never to get
serious with them.  They'll never be rich.

But when it comes to girls' brains they haven't a clue.  For
instance, they don't know any more than the poets that down between
our legs we've got slits and needs.  They respect us for what they
think is between our ears, but they never notice that a little
further down is a mouth that now and then wants to be filled with
lots of tongue, or would love to wrap its lips around a cock.  And
way further down we've got another just like it.  Teasing a guy
with our mouths is how you turn him into a mass of moaning,
quivering jelly.  And that's so much fun!  But lips and cunts
aren't intellectually stimulating, I suppose.

I once shocked a brain by kissing him good night after a first
date.  I forgot myself.  He had cute curly hair, so I pecked him on
the mouth instead of his cheek.  Brian was his name.  Brian was so
grateful he was ready to do anything for another peck.  We talked
it over, the Quintette, and decided we'd make him our suite's
official tutor, we put him on call to cram any of us for an exam if
we'd put off studying for too long or it came at an inconvenient
time.  He even wrote papers for us when we got too close to our due
dates.  It didn't matter whether he'd taken the course before or
not -- he was always willing to work up the material well enough to
get a girl a respectable grade.  

Then being as how he was coming over so often anyway we appointed
him our official delivery boy, to fetch pizzas and sandwiches
bought and paid for and brought to our door any time any of us
called him, day or night.  Guys envied him, and he got off on it,
on doing whatever we wanted, I mean.  You know guys like that. 
Lots of them are like that.  Sweet, but ...!  

You won't believe this, but one time I called Brian out of a sound
sleep at 4:00 am and told him to go to the all night CVS drugstore
off campus right away and buy a couple dozen condoms and bring them
up to us.  Right away, we needed them!.  And he did!  He handed
them over to me at the door and got his peck on the mouth and then
he left, no questions asked.   I was amazed -- no curiosity why we
wanted them?  Or why at 4:00 am?  When I asked him about it the
next day, he had all the answers.  He thought I was just testing
him, or I wanted to know whether he really was willing to gratify
my least whim no matter what it was, or I'd made a bet with the
other girls that he'd do it, or for a class project in Psychology
I wanted to see if I could make him jealous.  One of those answers,
he figured, maybe all of them.  Isn't he a dear?  Always, brains
always come up with reasons for things.  He thought I wanted to
know how far he was willing to go if I asked him.  I suppose I did.

But it wasn't a whim or a class project, we really did need those
condoms!  We each of us had a guy in our beds that night, and we'd
run out!  You see, what with the poets taking care of our hearts,
and the brains cultivating our minds and reassuring our folks about
our futures, we Quintettes maintained a third stable, guys who're
well-equipped to take care of our physical needs.  Hardbodied, cut,
horny, uncomplicated guys with big pricks and lots of stamina who'd
fuck our brains out all night if we'd let them, if that's what we
wanted.  And then thank us for letting them do it.  You know --
walking reciprocating dildoes, pre-warmed.  Big shoulders you can
grab with both hands like grabbing the edge of a wall and then
pulling yourself up and settling yourself back down on their
oversized cocks.  Now and then we'd call on some special stud of
the moment to service us, especially after a romantic date with a
poet or after a whole evening talking Life and Philosophy with a
brain.  We all need now and then to remind ourselves what a joy it
is, after all the dreaming and talking, how great it is to be a
just a girl with a cunt full of cock and a long night ahead of her.

There are others too -- musicians for example, trumpeters who can
triple-tongue a girl's pussy and play her highest notes at the same
time, and violinists who can make her moan or sing by fretting her
clit with their fingertips.  But tending all these stables takes up
a lot of time.  You know the male ego.  Boys don't train to heel as
easily as dogs.  Even a poet or a brain will get temperamental now
and then, as if it's just occurred to him that he has wants and
needs too.  Then you have to make him think he's special to you for
his body also.  You tell him, I do anyhow, that you're just dying
to see how he jerks off, as if seeing him squeeze out a few drops
of his goop was the most important event of your life.  Then
they're happy for a few more weeks, I suppose hoping that you'll
ask them to do it again for you.  Or that you'll actually touch
them there yourself.  Dreamers, all of them.

Then too there's partying, that takes up a lot of time.  And
shopping.  And just hanging out talking.  Even studying, when
there's no other way to get through a course.  Studying can take
time now and then.  So college can keep you pretty busy!

So you can understand how I was a little wary when my mother came
up to my room when I was packing to go back to school at the end of
the summer, and sat down on the bed and looked at me seriously the
way she does when one of us has a toothache, or maybe both of us. 
She wanted a little favor from me, she said.  I just kept packing. 
And then she dropped the bomb.

"Honey," she said.  I kept packing.  Then "Jennifer Lynn, listen to
me" to be sure she had my attention, and then "Just listen!" to
tell me I wasn't going to like what I heard but I should keep my
mouth shut until she was through talking.  "Your Aunt Tracy has
asked me to ask you for a favor.  It isn't a favor really, it's an
obligation, but she wants me to put it to you as a favor so you
won't resent it."

I was packing some of my slips into a suitcase.  Lace edged around
the bodice, pretty in their way, but I didn't want them, and I
didn't intend to wear them.  Mom insisted I get them when she saw
the kinds of gauzy blouses and sheer skirts I was buying to take
back to school.  You need see-through blouses and short sheer
skirts for informal get-togethers and dances, to make sure people
notice you.  But I made a big show of folding and stowing the slips
in the very bottom of my suitcase, where they'd stay until it was
time for me to pack up everything and come home again.  "I already
resent it, Mom.  What?"

"You don't have to be so short with me, young lady.  We pay all
your expenses so you can have all the advantages, all the free time
you need for study, and not have to wait on table or work in the
library or do the other things other girls need to do to help pay
their own way.  Every now and then you should feel glad when you
have an opportunity to give something back."

Oh God, it was going to be something really unpleasant!  I softened
my voice so she'd think I repented my honesty.  "Yes Mom, of
course.  I'm grateful.  I'll be glad to do a favor for Auntie
Trace.  Anything.  What?"

"Well, you know Donald, her second husband's son, he's just
starting at Webster this year?  You remember him?  Your cousin by
marriage?  Or whatever he is?"

I tried not to remember him, and failed.  A boy two years younger
than you is from another planet, but this one came from another
galaxy altogether!  Talk about dorky?  I'd seen cousin Donald at
family gatherings, and I'd managed never to exchange two words with
him.  He made it easy enough!  He was so shy around girls he
couldn't manage an answer even when you only said "Hi!".  He'd just
stutter and twist his face and look miserable.  Even though I'm
only a cousin once removed or something, so I don't matter to him,
I don't even exist hardly, he still couldn't say anything to me! 
The last time I saw him he'd finally figured out both syllables of
"Hello," but he was still working on the weather and the time of
day as conversation starters.  Which wouldn't matter if he was
studly.  But he was short and thin, all elbows and edges and
nervous giggles.  A dweeb.

So I just nodded to my mom, and I tried to look away, hoping that
whatever was coming would also go away.        

"He's petrified about going off to live with strangers," Mom
continued.  "He's terribly shy.  I think you know that.  I told
your Aunt Tracy that you'd be glad to take him in hand and help him
over the hurdles.  Help him to meet people.  You're lucky -- you
have lots of friends.  Well, you can introduce him to some of them. 
Include him in some of your activities and help him get past his
shyness.  Especially his shyness with girls.  He's paralyzed when
he meets girls.  I suspect you've noticed.  It's about time he got
over it.

"How do I do that?" I asked her, clicking my suitcase shut.

"You'll know," was all Mom said.  "I've seen you work a room full
of boys.  You know things about boys I don't ever want to know."

"Mom!" I called out in desperation, stretching out that single
syllable into four or five, trying to make it a cry of anguish.

She turned her back on me.  "Just do it!" she said.  And she closed
the door between us.

So what could I do?  When I got back to school I told the other
members of the Quintette about this conversation, and I asked them
the same question.  How do we do it, I asked.  That made it their
problem too.

"Well, she gave you one clue," said Sally.  Sally like I say was
our garden of delight for poets.  "The lass with a delicate air"
one of them called her -- she always moved  daintily, weightlessly,
as if she was floating in a dream about music and candlelight. 
Fairy tale princess pretty -- it took her hours to create that
impression when she was going out.  But as we all knew and our
hardbody stable guys certainly knew too, she was ruthless when she
wanted something, and she always got it.  She had an insatiable
sexual appetite, and an ass that wouldn't quit when there was hot
meat stuffed into her cunt.  

"Your mother says 'Take him in hand'?" Sally said.  "So do it. 
Easy!  Jerk him off!  He'll beg for more.  Then pass him around,
tell him other girls'll do the same thing if he's nice to them,
talks to them just a little.  That'll give him an incentive.  Do
the same as you train a horse -- he makes a little effort, he gets
a little sugar cube.  That'll make him more sociable in no time! 
We can help, I guess.  Is he cute?"          

She paused, and then delivered a really wicked smile.  "Better yet,
tell him that boys jerk each other off all the time, you'll fix him
up that way instead if he wants.  Even if he doesn't want, that's
how he can learn how to get on with guys at least.  Maybe that's
his problem?  He's gay?  Introduce him to Gary and Kevin if you can
unplaster them from each other long enough!"  

Gary and Kevin were one of my success stories.  Sally began to
reminisce.  "You know," she continued, "I really don't think you
should have faked up that bet with them the beginning of last year,
the one that tricked them into fucking each other?  Remember how
they hated it, but they'd made the bet and they lost and they
couldn't bring themselves to welsh on a girl?  So they had to do
it, they each had to get off inside the other one's ass?  So they
did?  And they liked it, so now they're roomies and you had to tell
them to wear tampons so their asses wouldn't leak so much into
their pants, it was embarrassing being seen with them?"  

"Of course I remember," I replied.  "I also bet them they couldn't
not fuck each other for a week.  They won that one by sucking each
other off all week instead.  Which is what I really wanted them to
do, I figured they'd discover it for themselves, and they did.  I
lost that bet, they think.  But it cost me only one fuck each to
turn them into cock suckers.  Sometimes it takes a lot more than
that to persuade a guy to suck another guy's cock."

"One fuck each?  Well, that's no hardship!  I tell you, Jenny, it's
lucky for us Gary's bi, the way he's hung.  He's an ox.  I was
afraid you'd ruined him for the rest of us when you got him going
with Kevin.  Kevin wouldn't've been a loss though, I must say. 
When he was fucking you, could you tell he was even in the same
room?  I saw him once when he was coming out of a shower.  It was
lucky I had my contacts in, or I wouldn't have seen anything at
all."

But I wasn't paying attention to Sally any more.  I was thinking
about my current problem.  Take Donald in hand?  Jerk off a cousin? 
Never!  Give him to Gary and Kevin?   They wouldn't stop with a
hand job, they'd want to ream his ass too, for sure.  But was that
so bad?  He'd limp for a week after Gary got into him, but Sally
was right, Kevin was such a pencil dick Donald wouldn't even notice
he was getting fucked.  Of course Kevin could give him a blow job
too, then teach him that it's a blessing to give as well as
receive.  So that wasn't too bad an idea.  It would get Donald
mixing with other guys, anyhow.  The gay crowd.  Better than
nobody.  

"Maybe," I told Sally.  "Anyone got any other ideas?"

Beth looked about to speak, then stopped.  

"What?"  I asked her.

"Nothing.  I was just going to say that we shouldn't have to be the
ones to take this Donald of yours in hand.  He should learn
self-reliance.  He should take himself in hand."

We all stared.  This was the most risque thing Beth had ever said,
in the whole two years we'd been together.  Beth was the daughter
of a minister, a stalwart moral force in his community.  At first
she'd only dated poets and brains, and only had out of body sex
with them, whatever that was.  Transcendent sex.  Until we'd
practically forced her into spending the whole night in bed with
Ziggy and things changed.

Siegfried was Ziggy's real name.  He had the cock of a horse and
about that much intelligence too.  But Beth had been one of those
teenage horsy girls, same as Sally, equitation, show-jumping,
grooming them, all of it.  She knew how a big animal can feel
between your legs, so she never had a problem with Ziggy.  They
were going steady now.  We never could decide what it was they did
together when they were alone, and Beth never said.  But clearly
once Beth got her heels into his sides and dug them in, he reared
back once and then got absolutely docile, well-broken.  He'd even
decided to follow Beth's father into the ministry, and he'd begun
delivering earnest sermons to us, whenever we spoke to him at all. 
So we never spoke to him if we could.  We avoided him. 

Beth didn't want to be misunderstood.  She suddenly realized that
with "he should take himself in hand" she seemed to be counselling
masturbation, which in her eyes was the sin of Onan, unless two
people did it to each other.  So she blushed.  "I mean, if he
really wants to meet people he will, and if he really doesn't want
to meet anyone there'll be no stopping him, that's what he'll do
too.  So it should be up to him!  He should do whatever he feels in
his heart he wants to do."  She grinned apologetically.  She'd
delivered her little homily on individual conscience, one of her
father's, no doubt, even though she knew the advice she'd just
given was useless.  Parental voices had spoken, my aunt's and my
mother's, and a parent's will be done.  We couldn't ignore Donald
-- we had to do something with him.

Maureen was crouched in a corner painting her toenails, and hadn't
seemed to be listening.  Pretty, dark-haired Maureen, always solid
and decisive.  She was our make-up artist -- she'd done Avon house
calls with her mother for three summers running now.  Her mother
split from her father years ago, so they'd become real close.  In
her first year chem lab she invented a combination foundation and
vanishing cream we all used now -- wipe-on, wipe-off, and you've
got a perfect complexion.  She was keeping it a secret until she'd
invented a whole line of products to go with it, and then she was
suddenly going to be rich and famous.  We all knew it.  

"It's easy," Maureen said suddenly, not even looking up.  

We all turned to face her.  "How?"  I asked.

"We're not shy with each other."

Puzzling.  "Why should we be?  We know each other.  We live with
each other."  I didn't understand, but I knew she had to be onto
something.  Maureen liked to withhold ideas until people arrived at
them themselves.  It was a sales technique -- get people to
persuade themselves, and then you haven't sold them anything,
they've bought it.  Then they stay bought -- lots of repeat orders.

"Well, that's part of it," she replied.  Her bottle seemed to be
running out of polish.  She dipped into it and frowned.

"I'm not sure what you're saying.  We know each other.  And we're
all girls.  Girls aren't shy with girls."

"Voila!" Maureen said.  "Head of the class!  That's the other
part." She stretched out her legs and pointed her toes and wiggled
them.  All ten were now red-tipped.  "There! There was just barely
enough."

I just stared at her.  "Part of what?  Other part of what?"

"Your mother said we should include him in our activities.  This
'Don' cousin of yours.  So, no problem.  That's what we should do."

"Oh?"  I still didn't get it.

"He needs a ready made gang, friends who can give him advice and
set examples he can follow till he's ready to strike out on his
own.  Teach him how to act with different kinds of people, guys and
girls both, how to be popular, how to get on easily with anybody. 
Things we've all got down cold."

"Get some of our stable guys to help him out?" Beth asked.  She
liked the idea, make Donald our very own Helping Hands project. 
"See to it that he pledges a fraternity or something?"

"I heard Jen say he's a dork," Maureen replied.  "So it'll do us no
good to throw him in with our poets or our philosophers and
probably not with our fuckers either.  They've each got their own
talents, and chances are this guy doesn't qualify."  She smiled to
herself, imagining whatever it was she was imagining.  "So what's
left?  "

I saw where Maureen was going, and just waited.  Now Maureen looked
each of us directly in the eye.  The closing pitch.  "What's the
best way to get a guy accustomed to talking with girls?  So it's no
big deal for him?"  

"Of course!" I said aloud, to break the suspense, and also to get
Maureen to say it.  She did, as if she was repeating it.  

"Of course!" Maureen repeated.  "Bring him in to live with us and
do everything we do.  Make him an honorary girl and treat him just
like a real one.  So he gets used to it.  Then he'll be no special
hassle, no extra bother, we'll just do what we always do and he'll
do what we do, all of us without even thinking about it.  We become
a Sextette for a while, until he's no more shy with girls or boys
than we are.  That name's more like us anyhow."

Now all four of us stared at Maureen.  She wriggled her toes some
more and leaned back luxuriously.  "It's not so hard, as long as
this Donald has no character to speak of to begin with.  Heck, I
did it to my brother Jason just this past summer."

"Made him an honorary girl?" Sally asked, amused?

"Made him a real one, as it turned out."

We waited.  Maureen saw she had our rapt attention.


end Shy 1/6
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> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+