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Message-ID: <50826asstr$1112004602@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: VickieTern@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} Empathy by Vickie Tern 2/3 TG femdom
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Date: Mon, 28 Mar 2005 05:10:02 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


Empathy by Vickie Tern 2/3
 
 
 
Third Week -- Sunday
 

Sunday  morning we met in the kitchen.  Though she'd gotten  to bed
late, she looked fully rested.  On the other hand I'd slept  badly,
unsure of myself as well as her, still certain that my world  was
coming apart.  And I still had that boner I couldn't touch  without
permission.  It wouldn't quit.
 
"First a question or two," she said.  "If you were me, at  this
point in our relationship, if I were to go looking for sex  with
another man for the evening, would my main purpose be to  pleasure
myself without you knowing, or without caring whether you knew,  or
would it be to humiliate you by telling you directly that that's
what  I've just done?"
 
I thought about it.  This was an agonizingly uncomfortable  subject,
and the answer could be either or both.  "For your own  pleasure
primarily, though you don't need other men for that."  
 
"Why not just ask you to oblige?"
 
"Because you don't want me to have the satisfaction -- you want me
off  balance and needy.  Also because I've been an inadequate lover,
you've  made that clear."
 
"Not inadequate but misguided as a lover.  That's not  necessarily
forever.  And love isn't sex.  But tell me, why not to  humiliate
you by telling you?"
 
"It isn't necessary.  You don't need to demolish my pride in  my
manliness that way.  I'm doing that very well by myself.  And  I
already know I don't possess you."  
 
Darla nodded, satisfied.  "Good.  You are a marvel, Nick.  I  begin
to see why I once wanted to marry you.  You may be worth keeping!  
We'll see."
 
"Thank you, Miss Darla," I said.  I'd learned nothing.   Unfaithful
to me for her own pleasure or for my humiliating?  For both  or
either or neither.
 
"You're ready for a whole new use of your imagination, Nick.   To
discover and get in touch not just with my feelings but with your
own  equivalents.  Or any girl's.  I want you to relive a few
incidents  from my girlhood as if they were yours, as if the'd been
your girlhood, and  make them yours.  Step by step I want you to
invent an equivalent past  for yourself until you've arrived where
I am now.  That's a long term  project, but we'll skip you as a very
little girl -- I scarcely remember me  back then.  This morning I
want you to describe how you felt when you  were a young adolescent
girl dressing up for her first date with a  boy."
 
"Honey, ahhhhh Miss Darla, I'm not an adolescent girl, and I never
had a  sister," I said.  "I can't guess how an adolescent girl feels
when she's  dressing for a date!"
 
"When you dated an adolescent girl, you never imagined what she  was
going through while waiting for you to pick her up at her house?"
 
"No.  I was always busy wondering what she'd think of me,  coping
with my own nervousness."
 
Darla frowned and looked away.  "Maybe Karen's right," she  muttered
to herself, distinctly enough for me to make out the words.   "It's
time, learn by doing, total immersion.  Well, not total.  But  how
to get past this and move on?"
 
She suddenly stood up and said, "Into your room, now, and get  stark
naked!  Quick!"
 
I knew by this time not to question such an order.  Five  minutes
later I was sitting naked on my bed waiting for her.  She came  in
with her arms loaded with items from her closet."
 
"These will help I think," she said.  "Not another word, Nick,  save
them all for your essay.  I mean to go easy on you this time.   You
are now a bare naked teenage girl.  You've worn grown-up clothes  --
Junior style of course, the tight, revealing kind girls all wear 
--  for a couple of years now.  So that much you're accustomed to. 
Just  slip into this bra and these panties, they'll fit you well
enough, and then  one by one try on each of these outfits, dresses
and skirt and blouse  combinations, whatever you think your date
will like.  Some are too  small to fit you, but you can hold them
against you and try them on in your  imagination.  Choose one that's
just right for a girl like you to wear  on a date with a boy who's
actually asked her to a movie and an ice cream  afterward because he
wants to be with her.  Remember how each one looked  and felt, and
why you decided on the one you actually wore.  Because it  was the
prettiest?  The sexiest?  Because it would tell him  something you
wanted him to know about how you felt about him?  How do  you feel
about him?  Then still wearing it, go to your study and write  down
everything before you forget."  
 
She turned and left.  I stared at the pile of clothes on my bed.  
She wants me to dress like this fanciful girl?  At first I  felt
annoyed.  Also humiliated!  But a certain rueful common  sense
intervened.   Her intent wasn't to humiliate me, but  sensitize and
transform me, and I'd already told her I knew that.   Besides, how
could anything like this humiliate a man who's already pushed  his
nose and tongue into his wife's asshole and felt privileged to
taste  her shit?  Also, what were my options?  Cooperate or divorce.
 

The panties were hers, I recognized them, very fancy pink lace,  I'd
once seen them waggling on her cute rear end as she came from  her
shower once when we were getting ready to go out.  That was  during
our former life, I thought sadly as I found the waist elastic  and
pulled them up.  This is now.
 
They felt slippery, a little tight, but they stretched enough to
enclose  my rear, and were firm enough to pull my half-swollen prick
closer to my  belly.  When I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw
the pretty lace on  the legs and a young girl's narrow hips.  My
waistline could do with a  bit of shrinking, though -- I'd have only
cottage cheese or yogurt at my desk  for lunch from now on, like
Michelle, I decided.  And my body hair  didn't look right.
 
I'd decided my body had to look more girlish?  Was I getting  as
weird as these assignments?  Well, no, while enacting an  assignment
I had to look appropriate, that's all it meant.
 
I hadn't seen the bra before.  It was new, a lacy underwire  that
matched the underpants, a 38 D.  No way Darla's, she was a 34  C,
I'd found that out once when snooping in her drawer so I could buy
her  some really daring, low-scoop lingerie for her birthday.  She'd
been  amused and flattered and had asked me if they were for her
benefit or  mine.  Now she'd returned the favor and bought me this
bra.   Anticipating that I'd need one to do this assignment?  For my
benefit or  hers?  
 
I figured out how to fit it around me and clip the hooks closed,
and  felt silly until I discovered that when all of my available
pectoral muscles  and body fat and skin were pulled into each huge
cup, the underwire grasped  and shaped them into credible breasts
and held them out from my chest with  only a little excess fabric. 
I was a D cup, in a way!  How could Darla  have guessed my size? 
Was this a standard Women's Center assignment?   All over the city,
this very evening, were other men fitting bras to  themselves and
checking out their figures in the mirror?  That was an  oddly
consoling thought.  I checked mine out and didn't think I looked  at
all silly.  I had breasts.  It was exciting!  Not quite big  enough
to fill the whole bra, of course, and that was too bad, but I  could
feel proud that they were noticeable.  And then I realized,  that's
how an adolescent girl must feel.
 
One by one I inspected the dresses Darla'd left on my bed.   Most
were too small for anything other than holding them up in front of
me  and looking into my mirror, the way I'd seen Darla do countless
times while  out shopping with her, twisting her hips and torso here
and there, trying to  gauge the overall effect.  I tried to imagine
how a young girl would  react to each, and gradually I got into a
plausible way of thinking.   One was too slinky, I wasn't slim
enough to look attractive in it, and anyhow  I certainly didn't
intend to vamp the poor boy who'd asked me out, not on a  first
date!  Another was too short, the hemline barely below my  ass
cheeks -- too difficult to sit in, too immodest, and it  would
certainly give any boy too easy access.  Another was all  ruffles
and puffs and lace, too girly-girly, I wanted him to respect  my
personality and my mind.  Puffed sleeves were too babyish -- I  was
way beyond that.  One cotton dress, a pale plaid with wide  straps,
a sun-dress, actually did fit me, it might do with a sweater  or
shawl, I thought.  But while I was adjusting it on my shoulders  and
straightening the waist I saw it had a teeny stain of some kind on
the  bodice.  Off it came.  Girls whose clothes aren't impeccable
are  thought to be sluts and treated accordingly.
 
In the end I decided on a pleated blouse with fluttery short
sleeves  just off the shoulder, with a wide, round neckline that
came down almost to  my bra, clingy going around my curves and candy
red.  That's the kind of  girl I am, I decided, feminine and not
afraid to flaunt it, though I do also  need a thin gold chain around
my neck to suggest delicacy, fragility.   To temper the blouse's
bold statement I chose a long black skirt that fell  nearly to my
ankles -- it'd modest but shows off my figure, I was thinking,  and
a long skirt is a lot more grown up than that miniskirt.  
 
And I saw that despite my slightly thick waistline I didn't have a
bad  figure at all!  Not at all, I realized as I swirled the skirt
around my  ankles.  I loved it, this outfit!  Darla left me a pair
of backless  sandals to wear with whatever I chose, so I put them
on.  I'd have  preferred heels.  I felt nice.  
 
Still wearing my newly-assembled outfit, I scurried back down to  my
study to start writing while these different fanciful impressions
were  still fresh.  I tried to describe how everything had looked
and felt,  and what I'd anticipated the boy would think.  I knew
that men register  the overall impressions girls make but have no
sense whatever how, item by  item, that impression is created, while
women notice every detail and  compliment each other on their
special successes, and now I knew why.  I  stayed with that kind of
woman's perspective.  What the girl  thought.  What I thought, since
I was the one dressed for this  date.  What the boy thought when he
saw her I could only guess.  My  little breasts poked out coyly,
draped in bright red pleats.  He'd feel  attracted enough I
supposed. 
 
By the time I'd finished writing I'd gotten so accustomed to the
look  and feel of my bra and panties I was no longer aware I was
wearing  them.  It was just as well, I got a few more ideas to write
about from  that very fact. How a girl doesn't know that her
underclothes are pretty, she  takes it for granted without thinking
about them at all.  Yet even so,  how she wants to know they're sexy
and seductive when she's on a date.   That she's attractive from her
skin on out, even when she knows her date's  eyes will never see
them.  How it was soooooooo very racy to think that  he just might
be offered a glimpse.  Erotically stimulating!  I  didn't mention
that my steady-state partial erection was no longer  half-cocked but
had gone hard as a railroad spike. 
 
All in all, I wrote a pretty good essay I thought, easily matching
the  literary level of Darla's Harlequin novels.  And that gave me
an  idea.  I then wrote out a narrative of the whole date from the
girl's  point of view, from the moment the boy called for her at her
house to the  moment much later when she closed the door behind her
and leaned back on it,  still sorting our her thoughts.  When I
finished, I brought it in to  Darla.  
 
And for the first time, Darla was really impressed!  Especially  by
a section presenting the complexities of a young girl's feelings at
the  moment the boy calls for her and sees her for the first time --
exalted,  terrified, unsure, hopeful, delighted, and as they leave
her parents' house,  excited and self-confident.  
 
"That's right!" Darla said enthusiastically.  "That's just how  I
felt, too!  Charlie, the boy's name was.  And I chose a long  skirt
too, to seem more grown up, just the way you did, and I remember  I
wished I had a form-fitting blouse just like yours -- my breasts
were  just noticeable in those years, just taking shape.  I was so
proud of  them!  You too even now?  I see you didn't want to take
your bra  off after it had served its purpose."
 
I came fully aware that I was still wearing my date outfit,  blouse,
skirt, and everything underneath!  And I still felt ashamed that  I
hadn't shaved my body hair as I'd intended.  But not at all  ashamed
that on my chest, my breasts were bulging unmistakably.  
 
"I forgot to change," I said, my face growing warm.  "I guess  I
didn't want to take the time to go back up and change."
 
"I understand, honey," Darla said in a quiet voice.  "No need  for
excuses.  As I've just been saying, I was a young girl once too.  
You selected well, you look very pretty."  Her expression  turned
inward for a moment.  Was she thinking, or just  remembering?
 
Then suddenly another assignment.
 
"Honey, I love where this is going.  You're doing so well that  I
want you to try another essay or story this afternoon.   Stay
dressed as you are, it's rather sweet, and it does seem to  inspire
you.  In fact it transforms you.  So this time take the  whole
afternoon, and we'll discuss what you write tonight after dinner.  
Your subject, while you're in the mood, is this.  You're now a  year
or two older and this time you're dressing for a first date with  a
new boy.  At this very moment you find you're starting your period.  
You haven't had many, they're all terribly new.  Tell me about  it,
and then describe how your date went.  You're a young girl  who's
now entered womanhood, as your period reminds you -- tell me  about
that too.  I'll bet they're different from this morning's  feelings. 
I've set out your lunch.  Eat whatever you want of it,  but
remember, a girl's got to watch her figure!"
 
"I know, I mean to," I said, without realizing what I'd revealed. 
Darla  smiled, but said nothing.
 
I tried to become that girl, remembering how my waistline looked in
my  bra and panties and picking at my lunch and swallowing only a
few mouthfuls,  trying to find shy satisfaction in my burgeoning
womanhood, about to go on a  date with what I decided was a callow
young man, but still, a young man good  looking enough to be much
whispered about by my friends, and old enough to  borrow his
father's car.  As I wrote I felt more self-assured than timid  this
time, especially when I described how grown up I'd felt when I
picked  up my purse to visit the ladies' in the little Italian
restaurant where we  ate, because I had to change my sanitary
napkins -- Kotex, I remembered the  name from Darla's -- and also
freshen my lipstick.  He was still a boy,  I'd decided, but I was a
woman.  So I wouldn't date him again.  I  worried a little about
staining my skirt if I should bleed a little too much,  but I took
comfort that its color was black.  Over dessert I considered  how
dating this popular boy had advanced my value in my friends' eyes,
and  I wished we could think up more important ways to measure a
girl's prestige  or accomplishments.  I looked him over.  He had a
cute nose, and  sort of wry eyes.  He was nice.  He talked about
sports a lot, and  I pretended to be interested as we all do with
boys who talk about  sports.  Mainly, I felt nice that this
good-looking boy liked me.   In fact very nice.
 
I did, too!
 
When he brought me back home after a movie and we were just sitting
in  his car, talking about people we knew, he didn't seem to know
how to say  goodnight.  So I'd kissed him, just a peck on the cheek,
and I'd said a  breathy 'Good night, Barry, thank you, I had a
lovely time," hopped out,  ducked inside, and told myself, "There! 
I did it all the right way."  
 
Then unexpectedly, I'd regretted that I hadn't kissed him properly
-- I  wasn't sure how, exactly, what was proper, but I knew it
involved crushing  our lips together and pushing our tongues into
different places inside each  other's mouths.  I also regretted that
he hadn't attempted to kiss  me.  What was wrong with him?  Did he
think something was wrong  with me?
 
I took most of the afternoon to fill in the details, especially  to
describe how my distinct feelings of superiority conflicted with  my
maidenly uncertainty.  When I brought this essay to Darla, I  was
pleased to find she'd prepared a dinner for us much like the old
ones  she'd always made for us.  Was this my reward for a hard
working,  creative day?  Would there be other rewards later tonight? 
We dined in  silence, then over dessert Darla began reading while I
sat across from her  watching.
 
She finished, then said, "This is so splendid, Nick.   Just
wonderful.  I'm impressed.  It's exactly as if you were that  girl,
self-conscious about her period and unable to sort out  her
feelings.  Do you mind if I ask you why you did some of the  things
you did?"
 
"Not at all, Miss Darla," I replied modestly.  
 
"You use a sanitary pad, not a tampon, when you have a period? 
Why?" 
 
It was a delightful game.  So I explained I was still a virgin,  and
I didn't want to damage my hymen.  Her eyes narrowed but  the
corners of her mouth smiled.  
 
"It was really because you don't know how tampons work, wasn't it
Nick,"  she said, looking at me steadily.  "Your mother never showed
you when  your first period came."
 
I couldn't lie.  "No, she didn't," I replied.  "I mean,  yes."  It
was true, I didn't know how.
 
She stood up.  "Stay where you are," she said, and left.  A  minute
later she was back.
 
"Here's a tampon," she said.  "Insert it!"
 
"What?"  I was astonished.
 
"Use this KY jelly. You'll probably want to use it this first time,
but  afterward you won't need it.  You've seen me use KY."
 
"Where?"  I was bewildered.  "I don't have a vagina!"
 
She just looked at me, and I understood her meaning well enough. 
I  looked it over.  A plastic tube with a wad of compact cotton
inside, a  string dangling out of one end, and another tube inside
the first to serve as  a plunger.  I dropped my pants, squatted,
squeezed a dab of jelly where  I hoped it would do some good, placed
the end of the tube inside my cheeks,  and started trying to plunge. 
After a moment I found the place, and a full,  dry turd seemed to
enter my bowels and lodge there.  I withdrew the tube  with the
plunger inside and stood up.  I checked.  A little string  dangled
from me.
 
"Now now you're no longer quite the virgin you once were," she
said,  faintly amused.  "Use this too," she added.  She handed me a
Kotex  sanitary napkin she'd had with her the whole time.  "You're
too young to  know how much protection you may need, and the first
few days can be  treacherous.  Black skirt or not you can't take
chances."  
 
I peeled back a strip of paper and placed the sticky side against
the  inside of my panties, pulled them up, and straightened my
skirt.  The  pad felt bulky between my legs.
 
"Feels a little different, doesn't it?  You didn't know about  these
things, did you.  But I'm going to help you.  Starting now  and all
through next week you'll wear a tampon or a sanitary napkin day  and
night, even to work.  This week you're having your period.   Buy
your own on Monday, though feel free to borrow mine whenever  you
must.  Get used to it, get to know what every woman knows for  a
week out of every month of her life between puberty and menopause. 
You  are now one with us, one with nature, changing and flowing the
same way the  moon pulls the ocean's tides, renewing yourself every
28 days.  When  you're bleeding you'll find it easier to continue to
wear panties like the  ones you have on now.  So go out and buy a
few more, they'll hold your  bottom and your sanitary napkins more
snug and secure, as your boxer shorts  will not.  See if you prefer
napkins with wings -- they offer greater  security if you're wearing
panties.  And plan to change pads and tampons  two or three times
each day and again at night, preferably more often during  the first
few days, like any other woman."  
 
"At the office?  How?"
 
"You can't tuck a few tampons in your purse?  You don't feel  it's
proper to borrow a few from Michelle?  Carry them in your  briefcase
then.  You now know what it's like to be a young girl having  a
period and facing possible embarrassment.  But you also need to  be
a girl who feels proud to be a woman whose body confirms the fact,
who  takes that pride for granted and performs this monthly ritual
with a sense of  special privilege.  Men, after all, know nothing
about any of these  things."
 
"All right," I said.  I didn't know what else to say.  The  tampon
in my butt still felt like a turd I should try to expel, but I  had
to think of it as ladylike or I'd lose concentration.  It's  a
tampon in my cunt, I told myself.  My cunt is having its  monthly
visit from Aunt Flo.  My asshole has been drafted, it's now a  cunt
in uniform.
 
"Make sure the panties you buy for yourself are fancy, really frou
frou,  sexy," she added with an amused grin.  "You'll enjoy them
more, you know  that already.  You're always aroused by the sight of
me in my fancy  undies, we both know that.  See if it works for you
too."  
 
Then she returned to my essay.  "You 'freshened' your lipstick  in
the ladies' room, you say?  Why?"  
 
"It needed it."
 
"How do girls know?  How do they do that?  How would you know?"  
She stared at me silently.
 
"All right," I said.  I got her point.  "May I borrow one of  your
lipsticks, Miss Darla?"  
 
I waited until she returned with a lipstick called "Revlon's  Ripe
Cherries" and a small hand mirror, and then I applied it as best  I
could.  As I'd seen Darla do it, sort of.  How did it feel?   A
little sticky, waxy maybe.  Not 'fresh,' but coated.  Words  from
lipstick ads came to mind.  Sultry?  Kissable?  But it  did look
fresh in a way, like fresh paint.  My lips were now a uniform  red,
their curves clearly marked out against my skin.  "Kissable"  came
to mind again.
 
"I was only asking," Darla commented after watching my performance
in  silence.  "I'm delighted though that you want to see how it
actually  feels for a woman to wear lipstick and feel a need to
'refresh' it now and  then.  Lipstick is signifying, more than
anything else it's what  discriminates women from girls and women
from men.  Now that you're  being a woman, leave it on, so when the
coated feeling isn't quite the same  you'll know you need to freshen
it."
 
"All right," I said.  This was going further than I'd intended.
 
"But just a little hint, honey, woman to woman?  Next time  begin
with your upper lip and work from the center on out to each  corner
of your mouth, following the curve.  Then just the edge of  the
lower lip, and then press your lips together to spread the color.  
After a few days you'll find you're doing it in a few quick,  sure
swipes.  Sometimes a girl wants to get it over with fast,  because
putting on make-up is an intimate behind-the-scenes thing men  find
sexy if you allow them to watch.  Remember that for when you  do
want a man to find you sexy, we sometimes do, you know.   Evening
wear calls for lip liner, but that isn't an issue for you yet."
 
What was she really telling me?
 
Not quite what I feared, but bad enough.  "Honey, now that  you've
begun using lipstick, I want you to keep using it every weekend.  
And most occasions calling for lipstick also call for a foundation
to  even out your complexion.  No blemishes allowed, we're under
tremendous  pressure, girls' faces need to seem perfect.  And at
least mascara,  maybe a pencil eyeliner too."
 
"I see," I said.  
 
"It'll do you no harm to wear a properly made-up face every weekend
from  now on while you're feeling your way into the ways I feel,
imagining yourself  a woman like me.  On Monday when you buy your
napkins and tampons buy  yourself enough cosmetics so you won't need
to borrow mine.  Though  you're always welcome."  
 
This sounded odd.  Excessive, if understanding her was all that  was
at stake.  "Miss Darla," I said, stressing her title,  "Wear
make-up?  What next?  Blouses and skirts like these, also  all
weekend?" I paused and let my sarcasm show.  "Should I dress  like
a girl from now on?  Buy my own dresses as well as tampons  and
make-up?"
 
"Of course!"   She was looking me straight in the eye, accepting  my
challenge and yielding not one inch.  "What a good idea!  Yes,  buy
yourself a few outfits.  But first try on a few more of mine.  
You'll need to know what kind of look to work toward, what kind of
a girl  you really are, how you want to look in different moods and
on different  occasions.  What clothes are you."  
 
I stared.  Was she joking?  I couldn't tell, but my  defiance
evaporated.
 
"You look shocked.  Don't be.  This week we'll just concentrate  on
your period and your make-up.  Next week clothes.  Drug  store
cosmetics will do for now -- the designer shades and cremes cost
far  more, and only women who are quite sure of themselves or quite
wealthy use  them.  When you buy it, ask a salesgirl for help if you
can't decide  which shades go best with which other shades and with
your own skin  tones.  I'm sure they'll all be delighted to advise
you."  
 
She waited for me to stop staring at her, which I did when I was
finally  convinced she wasn't joking.  Then she grinned and leaned
forward.   "And sweetie, this you need to know.  Once a girl begins
using make-up  there's no turning back.  So get accustomed to
checking your appearance  in every mirror you pass from now on.  'If
her make-up's messed, the  girl's undressed.'  We do not appear
undressed in public.  Get into  the habit even at the office, even
when you aren't wearing make-up.  If  there are no mirrors there,
I'll lend you a compact you can use."
 
"This is all so ... so I'll know what it's like?" I asked, trying
to  confirm that this was her intention.  I wondered if I'd look
like a  clown. 
 
"What men think deprecatingly is 'female narcissism,' yes.   It
isn't narcissism,  Women are held to very high standards in  their
appearance and are under intense pressure to maintain  those
standards, and the sanctions visited on a woman who isn't
impeccable  are severe -- you sensed that yourself when you decided
not to wear your sun  dress until you'd cleaned off that spot.  It
takes enormous  self-discipline to look neat, it's part of our
lives, though we manage its  rigors so easily no man ever really
guesses.  I wear make-up almost  without thinking about it, so you
will too.  Yes.  Your masculine  ego will benefit from emulating a
feminine ego and maintainiung feminine  disciplines.  Better, you'll
find you've acquired common understandings  and anxieties all women
instinctively share."
 
"I see."  I did, too.
 
"In the end, make-up is the badge of our pride that we're women. 
So  you'll feel that too."
 
"I see," I said.  But I must have looked uncomfortable, because  I
surely felt it.  "But I'm not a woman," I said finally.
 
Her answer was ready.  "Then you'll look like one and act like  one
until you feel you are.  Until wearing make-up becomes part of  what
you are, your self-image.  Until you feel naked without it.   So it
becomes nothing at all for you, one more routine.  Each  evening
this week when you change your pads or tampons, put on or  refresh
your make-up too.  Then by next Friday you'll know what any  woman
knows when she changes her tampon or fixes her face  routinely
without much thinking about it, and then just drops her  cosmetics
back in her purse and clicks it shut.  It'll become  instinctive. 
It's rather special, that sense of self-assurance.  Just  lovely. 
You'll like it."  
 
"You're saying, every day next week when I get home I should put  on
make-up?"
 
"Unless you want to put it on in the morning and wear it to the
office  along with your menstrual protection.  Do you think that's
a good  idea?"
 
That was a threat -- next she might insist on that too.   I
understood.  I should feel as proud as any woman that I'm  wearing
"Ripe Cherries" or some other color on my lips.  Also, it  would
please her.
 
"I'll like seeing my pretty man make himself pretty so he can feel
like  a pretty woman," she added.  
 
And that was that.  What could I say?  I said nothing.  My  date as
a girl who was menstruating was turning into steady evening  and
weekend female impersonations.
 
Darla then resumed with my story.  "So, Nickie, why did Barry  only
get a peck on the cheek when as you say you wanted more?"
 
I tried to remember why only one kiss on the cheek.  "I'm shy,  I
guess," I said a little plaintively.  And then added  truthfully,
"What I thought was, Barry is the first boy I have ever  kissed.  It
was only afterward that it occurred to me I could have gone  a
little further with him.  When it was safe to think it,  because
really I no longer could."  But in my imagination I did want it,  I
couldn't deny that, certainly not to myself.  I did think it  and
write it down.  What was wrong with me?  Nothing, I  decided.  I was
just being a girl.
 
"Aunts kiss nephews on the cheek.  But you're a girl having a  first
date with a new guy.  You do want to know more about him, he's  your
available doorway into the great mystery, what guys and girls do
with  each other, and he's the one who's interested in you at the
moment.  So  he's the one.  Shouldn't you want to encourage him?   Of
course.  So what should you have done?"
 
"Oh, c'mon, Miss Darla.  I'm certainly not going to give  him
privileges with me.  On a first date?"
 
"No, sweetie.  But you do want him to ask you out again,  because
he's just inexperienced enough so you can practice on him safely.  
So what do you do?"
 
"Kiss him on the mouth."
 
"If you say so, honey.  So do it now in your imagination.  What  do
his lips feel like.  Tell me."
 
I think a moment.  "He's a little startled, so I reach up and  take
hold of his head with both hands and pull him down to me.  His  hair
feels a little stiff from the hair gel he used.  Then his mouth  is
soft on my lips as I lift my face to his, and I'm holding his head
so  he can't lift it away.  He purses his lips, and I open my mouth
to cover  them with mine, then I lightly lick them when we're lined
up.  His lips  feel a little like...."
 
"Like what, honey?"     
 
I tried desperately to say something else, because I couldn't say
what I  was thinking.
 
She saw it in my face.  "Say it anyhow," she said.
 
"His lips feel a little like what a girl once told me the head of
a  boy's cock feels like.  Soft and warm.  A little rubbery."
 
Now Darla was impressed.  "VERY good, honey!  You're imagining  how
the head of a cock feels in your mouth?  Really, Nick?   That's
lovely!  Do you think you also want to give your date a blow  job?" 
 
"No!"  The thought was disgusting!
 
"You do know you'll have to, sooner or later.  Maybe you'll  even
want to.  Have any of your older girlfriends given guys  blowjobs
yet and told you about it?  Think about this very carefully,  honey. 
Remember who you are!"
 
I'm a girl accustomed to periods who uses tampons, I tell myself. 
I use  make-up every day, or anyhow I soon will.  I tried to
remember what  girls did about the cocksucking imperative issue when
I was on the cock side  of the issue.  I was always trying to get
girls' mouths wrapped around  my cock.  
 
"Well," I said brightly.  "Two of my girlfriends told me they  suck
off their boyfriends every time, one of them because she loves  him
and feels very good when he feel good, and the other because it
gives  her a feeling of superiority and control when she can reduce
a huge hulk of a  boy to moaning jelly just by holding that part of
him in her mouth."   Girls actually had told me those things at
different times.
 
"So blow jobs can be different things?  You need to know,  because
you may well be giving one to a boy too before long?   Right?"
 
"I suppose so," I said evasively, trying not to contradict her.
 
"You suppose so?  You know so!  Especially a young girl as  pretty
as you, boys on all sides trying to get into your pants.  You  won't
have much choice!  For a young girl living in Hormone City  it's
your cunt or your mouth, or if not your cunt or mouth your ass.  
Cocks fit and feel good in all three, and every boy knows it.   Lots
of girls try all three on for size."
 
I couldn't respomd.
 
"Nick," she said.  "Look me straight in the eye when you  answer
this next question.  Have you ever wondered what an actual  cock
feels like in your mouth?  Apart from the rubbery feel when  your
lips kiss the tip?"
 
I couldn't deny it, not the way she was describing things.   "Yes,"
I said.  "I have wondered."  I actually hadn't, until  now.  But the
way she'd put it in my head, I did now.
 
She sat back.  "All in all, very good, honey!  I think we're  ready
to move even further.  Don't change out of that pretty outfit  for
the rest of the day, that blouse and skirt, nor the panties,  but
remember to change the tampon every so often.  I'm sure of it  now,
you do have the right instincts.  So here's another task for  next
week.  I think you need more bras in different attractive styles.  
Buy some when you buy your panties.  The make and size  you're
wearing seems fine, Bali I think that one is.  Then each  weekend
you won't need to imagine it, you'll know how I feel wearing  bras,
how my breasts need to be supported, enclosed, uplifted, shaped,
how  any girl feels, or any woman wearing a bra.  How your own
breasts need  to feel.  The clothes I've given you are yours now --
they'll help put  you in the right frame of mind for future
assignments.  When we have  time I'll help you fill out your
wardrobe."
 
"What do you mean, Miss Darla?" I asked, though I was afraid  I
knew.
 
"It's like this.  This week you'll feel like a woman having  her
monthlies, and every evening and weekend from now on you'll feel
the  way women feel when they wear their proper clothes, different
kinds, and  make-up.  From now on.  You'll become utterly
woman-identified,  until it's second nature.  You'll get used to how
all these things feel,  and you'll know yourself how women feel
who've worn these things all their  lives."  
 
I was about to protest that it was her feelings, Darla's, I should
be  discovering for myself, not all women's.  It wasn't appropriate
for a  man to wear tampons and skirts and make-up.  I was wary,
though, because  every one of my previous protests had ended with
her demands redoubled.
 
"Of course thus far you've been learning how women feel about men
only  in your imagination," she said as if it were an afterthought. 
"Not coping  with the real thing as women actually do.  Thus far."
 
Yes, she sensed my protest and had just issued a warning.  If  I
utter the faintest objection to anything, not only clothes but
cocks  will be added to the list of feminine experiences I need to
try on for  size.  Then I'd really need to decide if saving my
marriage is worth  it.  I clamped my mouth shut. 
 
As Darla rose from the dinner table to help me clear the dishes,  I
stared at the way she was dressed.  The process had begun.   Since
I needed to wear different outfits, I needed to know how other
women  wear theirs.  How they compose them.  I tried to imagine
myself  wearing her various multi-layered blouses, vests, and denim
skirts, her power  suits and dickeys, all those that might fit. 
Would I need to learn how she  matches colors and fabrics to fit the
occasion?  Why women are always  calling each other up to ask, 'What
do you plan to wear?'  Their dress  codes were complicated and
subtle.
 
In my mind I arrived home from work, went upstairs, changed my
tampon or  napkin, and chose an outfit.  Then I put on my makeup for
the evening,  all before starting dinner.  Darla seemed to sense
that was  happening.  She smiled encouragement.  
 
"It'll fun, choosing your own outfits and playing with your  make-up
until you've achieved a look that's uniquely you," she said.  
"Every girl does.  You'll see."  
 
As we loaded the dishwasher together, Darla began to offer me  some
helpful advice, girl to girl.  
 
"Nickie, now that you're exploring your own femininity, a few hints
to  help you do it right.  Remember that first of all, whenever
you're in a  skirt or dress of any length in public, you must always
sit with your knees  together.  Ankles may be crossed if you're
being prim and formal, but  you can splay them anywhere as long as
your knees are still touching -- that  looks really cute, even
daring.  It doesn't matter when you're here  alone, but if you keep
your knees together even when you're here alone,  you'll never
forget."
 
Me?  Wearing a skirt 'in public'?  I decided Darla was  just
riffing, enjoying the idea that I'm a young girl she's advising  in
the proprieties of womanhood, since it had never occurred to the
young  girl's mother that she had a daughter, not a son.
 
"Also, any girl learns early on to open her eyes wide when she
looks at  a boy.  That's why eye make-up matters so much.  Wide open
eyes  raise the brows to a high feminine arch, very fetching.  They
also give  a girl a doll face that tells a boy she's innocent,
naive, and may even  admire him.  Eye make-up confirms and
exaggerates that supposed  innocence.  Boys fall all over girls with
wide eyes."   
 
I certainly had.  Darla always wears eye make-up that makes  her
eyes seem larger, I was thinking.  And she'd always opened her  eyes
wide at me when speaking to me, right from when we first met. 
That's  why I'd always thought she was innocent, until a few weeks
ago.  But I  was the innocent!  
 
"I'll remember that," I said.  "Thank you."
 
"And as important, honey, as I've already told you, get accustomed
to  seeing yourself in the mirror.  That way you'll learn to feel
confident  no matter who's looking at you.  Then you can go anywhere
without  embarrassment.  All women do."
 
Be seen by others?  Go anywhere?  I felt alarmed again,  but
realized that she meant only what it would feel like to pretend
that  I'm out and being seen by others.  In my imagination.
 
I was feeling very edgy nevertheless.  Things were moving too  fast.
 
Yet, Darla was now much less antagonistic, or wary, or whatever  her
problem had been.  That evening, when we paused at her  bedroom
door, she turned and pulled my head down and kissed me on the lips.  
An actual good night kiss!  "We're wearing the same shade  of
lipstick, sweetie!" she murmured.  "That practically makes  us
sisters." 
 
Only sisters? I thought.  Well what did I expect?  That  her
lipstick would make me her husband again?  I guess I had  thought
so.  In fact I still did.
 
"Good Night, dear," she said fondly as she closed her door.  
 

Fourth Week -- Monday
 

The next morning was Monday, promising to be filled with a sense  of
novelty.  I was feeling upbeat and energetic.  On my way to work  I
stopped at the chain drugstore near my office and bought some
tampons  (Tampax, Super) and sanitary napkins (Kotex, Overnight) for
my period, at the  same time selecting a bottle of tinted face
lotion (a beige that matched the  back of my hand), a lipstick
(rose, not too lively), and a black mascara and  eyebrow pencil.  A
sales girl saw me staring at the wall of different  brands of
different cosmetics and asked whether I needed blusher too in  a
similar rose shade.  I blushed and nodded yes.  
 
"Does she have enough of the right shades of eyeshadow?" she asked
me,  maybe to relieve my embarrassment.  "We're having a sale this
week, two  for one."  
 
I didn't know, but that sounded like a good deal.  So  after
determining that Darla was blonde, like me, her skin a faint  beige
like mine, with brown eyes like mine, we selected two compacts  with
eyeshadow and a little pad to spread it, three shades in each.   I'd
had no idea that so much calculation went into the preparation of
a  woman's face.  I'd never wondered and scarcely noticed how
women's  eyelids were darkened and colored with different tones
right up to their  brows.   I told the sales girl some of this while
thanking her for  her help. 
 
"Oh, we all keep all sorts of cosmetics on our dressing tables, and
get  used to reaching for the right shades for whatever the occasion
and whatever  we're wearing.  It gets to be second nature.  You just
know what's  called for, after a while.  You'll see."  
 
She smiled at me and was gone before I could wonder if she thought
I was  buying all of these items for myself.  As I was, but I'd
almost  persuaded myself they were all for Darla, and had almost
believed it  myself.  It was too late to feel embarrassed.  
 
But now I wondered, can it also become second nature for a man  to
decorate himself like a woman?  Won't he find after a while  that
that's what he feels he is?  Is that how this is supposed to  help
me understand Darla better?  By becoming Darla?  Well, not  Darla
exactly, but a lot more like her?  Like Nick as Darla?
 
The cashier didn't seem to care that the items I was purchasing
couldn't  possibly be for me, and asked only if I had any reduced
price coupons for the  tampons.  One more thing to report to Darla,
that now I'd have to be  watchful for such coupons, as I knew many
women were.  But why would I  need more tampons than the week's
supply I'd bought?  Was I getting too  far into this thing?
 
I then prowled down the street to find a lingerie store with a  few
satiny or silky panties to wear with my sanitary gear.  Hi-leg,  I
hoped, I loved the long leg line that style gave Darla.  They  had
to be substantial enough to keep my napkins tucked where they
belong  and my turgid cock in line, but they also had to be delicate
and pretty  enough to put me in mind of how women feel about these
things.  Finding  them in the third store I looked into was a
triumph!   They had  exactly the panties I wanted, with teeny
touches of lace trim and a little  spandex to hold everything tight
in place.  I loved them!
 
Then, marvelous, the same store was offering Bali bras on a special
"Buy  Two Get One Free" sale!  Who could resist that?  I found a
"Flower  Bali," a "Satin Tracings," and a "Lace Desire" Bali in my
size, all  underwires like the one I'd worn, one in deep plum and
the others beige and  white.  And felt a twinge of exultation!  I
began to understand why  women love to shop.  Given the enormous
range of items stores carry for  them, and the limited choices each
woman allows herself to achieve her  "look," to find something just
right and on sale is like finding buried  treasure.
 
The sales clerk asked me if I wanted the panties and bras gift
wrapped,  and I told her "No, thank you" without thinking.  Then I
wondered if I  should have said "Yes" to turn off the implication
that they were for  me.  Did she think they were?  Finally I decided
'No' was the right  answer -- I was buying these items for myself,
as most women do.  "No"  felt right.  More honest.  Nothing here to
be ashamed of.  
 
"I'm sure you'll enjoy wearing these," the saleswoman told me as
she  folded the bras and panties into tissue paper and tucked them
into a pink  shopping bag printed with the name of the store,
"Intimates."  Then she  looked up embarrassed to see me looking even
more embarrassed, and I realized  she'd been trained to say that to
her customers and had said it without  thinking, nothing personal. 
So I smiled at her as I left, pleased by her  reassurance.  "I'm
sure I will," I told her, as if I were joking.
 
I felt conspicuous, carrying that shopping bag down the street and
up to  my office, but I had prepared an explanation if anyone should
ask me for  one.  No one did.  "My wife asked me to get these," I
told Michelle  too quickly as I passed her desk, when she noticed
the bag and raised her  eyebrows.  "I'm sure she did," was all she
replied.  She sounded  sincere.
 
It was a nice feeling.  I was a little apprehensive, fearful,  when
I slipped into a stall in the men's room to change into a pair of
new  panties and then insert a tampon, my very own for the very
first time.   I was simulating a period!  I felt a private communion
with half the  human race not previously contacted, though I knew
when I inserted that first  tampon that I'd better buy KY Jelly
before I attempt the next, and I knew  almost as quickly that I
should have bought more modest sizes to match the  size of my
maidenly anus.  My virgin cunt.  But the panties felt  wonderful
pressing against my partially engorged prick.  When I tucked  a
sanitary pad in its crotch it looked almost as though I had almost
no  male genitals at all, just a woman's smooth mound.  
 
Then all week long, each time I changed my menstrual tampons  and
napkins, I felt that same peculiar affinity with all the other
women  in our office.  Like them I was sharing their monthly
discomfort and  privilege.  I felt myself secretly one of their
sisterhood.  It  seemed improper that I was using the men's room to
perform such a feminine  ritual.  
 
I felt something of the same thing each evening at home when I put
on my  bra, a blouse, and a skirt, maybe slipped a dress over my
head, and then  tried to figure out how to use my eye make-up.  I
rarely got it right or  even acceptable at first, and I began
studying how each woman I met did  herself up, Michelle and others
at the office, Darla at home, even women I  passed casually on the
street.  I bought a copy of "Cosmopolitan" and  "Today's Woman" and
rather ashamed of it, sneaked them into my study at home  and looked
closely at the ads each evening instead of at my tax notices --  the
second evening I know Darla saw both magazines open on my desk,  but
she said nothing.  Each day I picked up more tips.  And my  lipstick
got so it needed no more than a few swipes, just as Darla'd said.  
Late in the week I bit the bullet and plucked my eyebrows a little. 
If a  girl doesn't look neat, she's probably a slut.
 
Michelle began to sense something different about me.  She  behaved
more informal, even friendly, whenever I called her into my  office
to take dictation or to instruct her about a report that was due.  
She'd listen almost as if it were a social call and we'd gotten
together  to gossip.  And when we'd done what we needed to do, she'd
pause and  disclose a personal item of news -- she was worried about
her niece, who had  fallen in with the wrong high school crowd, or
-- as she informed me  delightedly -- that Associate she'd been
chatting up had in fact asked her  out.  She wanted to know what I
thought of him, and seemed pleased when,  looking for something to
say, I said he was "cute."  
 
"I think so too, he's a darling!" she told me with a wide open
smile of  appreciation. "But you can't have him, he's mine!"  I took
that as a  tribute to the cordiality of our relationship, nothing
more.   
 
I was a little disturbed though when later I buzzed her and asked
her to  come in to pick up a draft deposition that needed typing,
and she replied,  "Of course honey, I'll be glad to, just leave it
on my desk next time you  pass by."  As if I were asking her for a
favor.  A favor, woman to  woman.  It all seemed very friendly, but
somehow not businesslike.  
 
Thursday was the last day of my "period."  I used only pads,  no
tampons, and on Friday a "Lite-Day Liner" to be on the safe side. 
But  Thursday afternoon as I walked down the hall and past
Michelle's desk she  looked up and commented brightly, "You know,
Nick, there's been something  different about your walk this week. 
You've been sort of springy, with a  sexy wiggle, like a fashion
model walking down the runway.  The way  girls sometimes walk during
the first few days of their ... are you all  right, Nick?"   She
looked concerned.
 
"I'm fine," I replied.  
 
"You're sure, honey?  Because if you're uncomfortable, I have  ...."
 
"I'm fine, Michelle, but thanks for your concern."
 
"Don't mention it, I know how it is," she replied.
 
I made a mental note that next month when I move around I should
try to  be less aware of the wadding between my legs and up my ass. 
Pretend it's not  there.  Then I caught myself.  Next month?  Was
this exercise  with Darla going to last that long?  Longer?
 
That night I wrote up the story of my five-day menstrual period and
all  my other experiences as a "woman."  Darla was frankly
delighted,  especially when I took note how I could now slide
tampons in and out of  myself while scarcely aware of the mucky one
being tossed and the fresh one  replacing it. That act too had
become 'second nature.'  
 
"Maybe next month we'll give you the whole thing," she said with a
gleam  in her eye.  "Laxatives for a day or two beforehand to
simulate cramps,  then pads drizzled in syrup or something else
gucky to give you a feel for  the discomfort women actually endure. 
Maybe put a small balloon filled with  red dye into your posterior
pussy, so you'll know that at any moment it may  give way and you'll
overflow and ruin your clothing and embarrass  yourself."  
 
I knew she was joking, or I hoped so, but I was not amused.  Yet  it
worked!  At that moment I felt quite close to her, moreso than  in
the whole six years of our marriage.   
 

Fourth Week -- Friday:
 

That Friday I put on the nicest of my new bras as soon as I  got
home, eager to see how it felt.  Just fine, and there once  again
were my little titties.  I dressed myself in a plain white  nylon
blouse with a single button at the neck in back, and a wide  beige
skirt, and I did my face and eye make-up, brushing mascara  and
drawing lines and patting on foundation with a little sponge. 
Routine  by now, or very nearly.  I was learning, and for once it
didn't look at  all bad, I actually resembled a woman!  To complete
the picture I played  with Darla's electric curler for a while until
my hair was a tangled mass of  curls, a kind of coronet that almost
looked feminine.  When Darla  returned from her meeting, she saw
immediately what I'd done and what more  I'd attempted.  She stared
a moment and said, "Well!  You really do  care, don't you!"
 
Then she sat down in her easy chair and I sat down at her feet, my
legs  curled gracefully under my skirt.  She looked at me with a  big
smile.  "You've been doing very well, Nick.  You're way ahead  of
the other husbands, so far, though there's another who's a  close
second.  Congratulations.  The whole class agreed that you're  ready
to begin more extensive field trials.  Learn-by-doing kinds  of
assignments.  I think the first one's just brilliant.  You  will
too."  She looked at me with a private smile. "You'll love  it!"
 
I looked at her, surprised and embarrassed.  "The entire  class
knows what we've been doing?  What I've been imagining?   Karen and
Becky too?  And their husbands?"
 
"Of course Karen and Becky, but of course not their husbands!   The
various women's husbands are doing their own imagining and
empathizing  and improvising, and Jason is nowhere near as advanced
as you are.  And  Karen's assisting the Instructor this year --
Roger is already optimal, as I  hope you will be soon.  Your
secretary Michelle is one of us, working  with several boy friends,
did you know that?  When I described what  you've been doing, she
told us something amusing, that each time you came out  of the men's
room this week after changing your tampon or your sanitary  napkin,
you'd waddle!"
 
"No!  Michelle!?  Michelle knows I've been wearing tampons  and
panties and pads and ...everything?!"  Embarrassed wasn't  an
adequate word for the way I felt!  Horrified was more like it!   My
own secretary?
 
"Of course she knows, hon!  Everything.  But don't worry about  it,
she likes you.  She thinks it's good for you.  In fact she  wanted
me to start you wearing panties the first week, to help ease  you
away from the strains of that male ego of yours and mellow you  out
right off.  That's what she does with her men, especially with  that
Associate she dates, because he looks like husband material,  she
says.  But I insisted that you had to come by it your own way  in
your own good time.  Journeys of a thousand miles and so forth.  
You know.  As you've been doing.  She thinks you're a lot nicer  to
work for now that you have some personal experience of  women's
issues.  She suggested that you should wear your new bras  and
little titties every day, to give your womanliness  greater
presence.  And I must say, I agree.  And everyone thinks  that since
you've come this far in your understanding of women, you deserve  an
award."  
 
She smiled secretly at some private joke in her head, then said,
"So  tomorrow morning a woman will masturbate you until you
ejaculate, and if not  then, immediately afterward you'll write
about it."
 
I looked amazed and baffled, both, I'm sure.
 
"You'll jerk off, honey.  Masturbate.  Take hold of that  beautiful
penis and stroke it and pull on it way into the afternoon if  that's
what it takes, until you cum.  Maybe even cum twice.  As  often as
you wish.  You still remember how?"
 
Finally!  Despite myself I felt a surge of hope and gratitude!  
Gratitude?  For being allowed to jerk off?  By my own wife?   Then
it occurred to me -- how was that being 'a woman'?
 
"While you do it, I want you to be sinfully unfaithful to me, at
least  in your own mind."
 
I thought I hadn't heard her.  "You want me to imagine I'm  making
love to another women while I'm jerking off?" I asked.  Darla  had
said that?  My "Miss" Darla?  This was worse than mysterious  --
this was downright weird.
 
"Not exactly.  I want you to imagine that it's another woman  who's
jerking you off.  Making love to you.  I want your hand to  seem to
belong to that other woman."  
 
My mouth gaped.  
 
"Now that you're in touch with your own feminine feelings, finally,
and  you take pleasure in them, I want you to extend them.  You need
practice  imagining how women really feel when they do actual sexual
things with  men.  You really have no idea.  So, back to basics. 
The first  thing any young girl learns when she begins heavy dating
is how to jerk boys  off.  You've always identified with your own
cock, I'm sure, whenever  you've masturbated or gotten some girl to
do it for you.  So now instead  I want you to identify with your
hand, that girl, and imagine that your cock  is someone else's.
Imagine you're doing it to another man's cock.  That  you're your
own cock's date, that you're a pretty girl who wants to please  that
someone else, maybe because she likes him, maybe because she wants
to  be asked out again, maybe because she likes the feeling of power
it gives  her, you know all about those things.  Maybe even because
she feels  intimidated by him and has to, she's kind of being
raped."
 
My mouth hung open.  I tried to close it, but my jaw just  hung
there.
 
"Notice everything there is to notice about giving a guy a handjob. 
How  it feels to touch that funny warm, fleshy tube, smooth and
lumpy at the same  time, how it feels to slide your fingers along
it.  To rub that velvety  head and feel the veins in the shank, and
then to grasp it and squeeze it and  hold the squeeze an extra
excruciating few seconds.  And so forth.   A girl always feels
privileged when she has a handful of cock and knows she  has a man's
complete attention, that she's in total charge.  And when  she
manages to bring him off?  The high that comes from knowing  you've
made a man you like into a helpless, willing, spurting fountain?" 
 

She leaned forward encouragingly.  "You'll write all about how  that
feels.  You'll do an essay about jerking your guy off and how  you
feel when you see how he responds.  Not about how it feels to  get
jerked off.  In this exercise, you're the woman.  Don't fake  it. 
Pay close attention.  Make it seem as if it's the first time  you've
ever given anyone a hand job.  It is, in a way.  But use  your
hand's point of view, not your cock's.  For that it'll certainly  be
a first time!"
 
I didn't know whether to feel gratified or bewildered!  At last  I
was going to get off!  This weekend wouldn't be a total bust!   But
by my own hand?  No, by a girl's hand.  No, I would be the  girl
with the hand -- someone else was the lucky guy with the cock!   But
still, it would be my cock!  
 
I was getting dizzy.
 
"Take your time at it.  Go slow, honey, be loving, be good to  your
man, and pay close attention.  Write down your  sensations
practically stroke by stroke.  You can speculate how the  cock
feels, but remember, this is mainly to make you more aware how  your
hand feels, to make you into the person whose hand it is.   Imagine
you're someone like me.  Like what I was once, what every  woman
was.  Become one of us, in a way.  Dream about it tonight,  about
your delicate hand caressing that man's cock over and over.   The
poor thing must be ready to explode -- it's been weeks and weeks
now,  hasn't it?  Think how grateful it'll be!"
 
"Yes.  Yes."
 
"But tonight you're still on your back!  The big day's  tomorrow."
 
She started toward her room.  "Don't stay up late, honey," she  said
as she disappeared down the hall.  "If you really do get into  it,
you may need all the stamina you've got.  Because I want to  put
that girl in complete charge of you and your cock, and who knows
what  other kinds of demands she'll make after that.  You may luck
out.   Her hand may be insatiable!"  She smiled a cute smile and
paused at her  door and looked back at me.  "The way I am.  I'm sure
you've  noticed.  Or suspected."  Then went in and closed it  behind
her.
 
Was she telling me about something she'd done or something she was
about  to do?  Assuming, as my own woman's point of view developed,
that of  course I'd understand?
 

Fourth Week -- Saturday
 

I woke up feeling keen anticipation, and then immediately I  felt
stupid.  What's wrong with me?  It's only a simple  fist-fuck!  
 
But still...!
 
I came down to breakfast in my pajamas, and Darla brought me back
to  reality.  
 
"You aren't dressed and made up decently this morning, Nick," she
said a  little coldly.  "Don't you want to feel really close to the
woman who'll  be giving you your first orgasm in ... what, a month?"
 
"I was so excited I forgot,"  I confessed.  "I feel like a  kid
who's rushed down to see what's under the Christmas tree without
first  putting on his robe and slippers."
 
"Well, girlie, go back and put something very nice on, with all  the
trimmings.  You do want to impress this man you intend to jerk  off,
don't you?  Make sure he's in the mood and stays there?"
 
I did.  I threw on a charming blue velour dress with a flare  skirt
and buttons up the front between my boobs, and made up my  face
quickly.  And borrowed one of Darla's silver chokers.  
 
Darla was in a good mood when I returned.  "Fine.   Beautiful.  Now,
look here, there's a rather lovely girl in this mirror  -- remember
that this isn't for you, it's for her.  She's you, a girl  who's
going to give a guy a hand job.  Write down everything she feels.  
When you first touch him, and while you stroke him and he lies  back
eagerly, and when you first see that penis spurt cum, whether
you're  happy or disgusted or proud that it was by your hand!  Use
this mirror  to watch your guy's face when he cums, though I grant
you what you'll see  mainly will be your own girly face watching
his.  See for yourself how  it feels to make him feel that good."
 
Then as I left the kitchen, she added an afterthought.  "As  for
tasting his cum, that's up to you.  Men like it when women want to.  
I hope for his sake you give it a try.  We pretty much agree  that
it's an acquired taste -- some like it, some don't.  Sooner  or
later you'll be trying it, so maybe the sooner the better.   Maybe
your guy'll ask you to lick his up, and maybe he won't.  If you  do
taste it, be sure to tell me what persuaded you, and whether it
tasted  the way you imagined it would when you were a young girl
who'd only just  barely heard about such things, maybe even felt
repelled by them."  
 
She looked at me conspiratorially.  "But not altogether repelled.  
We never really are, are we?  Curious too!"  
 
As I settled down at my desk, I was not at all happy with the idea
that  I should taste the stuff, though I had to admit that it made
sense in a  peculiar way.  I was just pulling up my skirt and
pulling aside one of  the leg openings in my panties to haul out my
cock, when Darla came into the  room carrying a tray full of small
bottles.  
 
"Here, sweetie," she said, setting them down.  "You'll appreciate
a  little help with this one.  You don't want to see a man's  hand
masturbating you, that would be gay sex, which would complicate
your  feelings, and I want to keep things simple for you.  So I want
to give  you a manicure, to put some long tips and nail polish on
your fingers to keep  you reminded that it's a girl who's holding
and stroking your penis each time  you look down at her hand, not
some gay guy.  A girl beautifully aware  of all her sensations while
she jerks off her fella.  Here, put your  fingers in this bowl to
soak for a moment -- we need to trim your  cuticles.  I don't know
your masturbation techniques, so I guess we'd  better do both
hands."  
 
A half hour later Darla gathered her bottles and tools and left the
room  while I was still working her scented softening lotion into
the skin of my  fingers and palms, at her instruction rubbing it in
well past my wrists and  as high as my elbows.  She'd denuded my
arms of hair, and also the backs  of my hands, and left me to soften
them.   It was odd, that hand  lotion.  It felt creamy and slick as
I squirted it into my palms, but as  I rubbed, it disappeared into
my skin, which then felt moist, silky smooth,  sort of plump.  My
skin took on the faint scent of lilacs.  I liked  it.   
 
"I've thought about it some more, Nickie," Darla'd said as she
left,  using my affectionate nickname.  "I think you need to feel
intensely  curious about the taste of cum.  That's the stuff that
makes babies,  after all, and can make you into a mother if you
aren't careful, or if you  want to be one. It's what makes men worth
while despite everything.   It's wonderful in its way!  A magic
potion!  Keep all that in  mind.  You might want to take some into
you so you'll know, personally,  intimately, that a man's cum is now
in a woman's body where it belongs, and  it's your body."
 
Each finger was now tipped by a gleaming, dark red,  oval-shaped
jewel.  As I saw my hands (mine?) reach down again to pull  my
panties aside (MINE!) I could easily imagine they were a woman's
hands,  long delicate fingers reaching for that now-iron-hard cock
(mine, no, his),  her (no, MY) pretty finger tips caressing and
toying with that purple cock  head (WHOSE?), and -- I forced myself
to conjure the illusion -- that mine  (they WERE mine) were the
gorgeous red fingernails trailing up and down the  veins on his
(HIS, yes, that other guy's) straining penis.  It felt  peculiar,
that stiff cock, warm, satiny smooth.  I squirted some cool,  lilac
scented skin cream onto its feverish surface, and then began  slowly
to work it in with the softened palm of my hand.  Then with  both
palms.  The skin felt plump.  When I heard myself groan I  smiled
and said to myself, "No, not yet, lover," and I paused to  start
typing.  I meant to tease myself as long as I could.
 
I prolonged my cock's pleasure all the way into the afternoon.   By
near-dinner time my beautifully jeweled fingers had executed a
series  of elegant, graceful gestures, and repeatedly squeezed and
caressed and  fondled and cuddled and embraced that magisterial
cock.  It was such  fun, denying him his last rites!  
 
Then at last it was time for a grand climax.  Pearly fluid  leaked
from its royal tip as I stroked it and squeezed it, and  then
suddenly the cock ejaculated out of control, squirting high up  to
arch down onto my keyboard.  I realized I'd have to clean up  after
it.  So as tactfully as I could I wrapped its head in kleenex  for
the last few spurts.  Then it resembled a pasha in a turban,  a
little doll I was playing with, sort of cute!  No  self-respect,
these cocks, I thought, no dignity, they'll spurt anywhere,  into or
onto anything!   Even so, I felt indulgent, pleased that it  had
enjoyed itself.  After my long deprivation I felt so inspired  that
I licked cum from the fingers that had wiped it off the keyboard.  
Salty, and as slick as the lotion.  But stickier.  Sort of  creamy
too.  Odd.  Not too bad.
 
Then an hour later we did it again!  My fingertips were flying  over
the keyboard this time to record my own thoughts and sensations as
I  made that man's cum rise up from his deep groin into his cock and
then  finally seep, spill, spurt, spray out.  I was exultant,
experiencing the  joy of a woman whose own gorgeous hands have
brought off her man twice!   When the second cumming exploded
through that royal purple cock head, and its  first spurt landed on
my skirt, I quickly blocked off all the others with my  palm.  Then,
genuinely curious about the taste, and wanting to please my  man,
and eager to show Darla I was a good girl, a little adventurous,  I
lapped it all up.  All of it.
 
My report loitered over the flavor of that puddled handful, its
salty  pungency yet its sweetness, a little like Gatorade but with
a slippery  feel.  I was quite pleased, I confess.  I liked it!  I
took my  time working up a third climax, and when it came the
tensions as that cock  pumped out its pearls were simply glorious. 
It disappointed me that there  was very little fluid left, but a
girl can't be choosey.
 
Darla was delighted.  Miss Darla, I mean.  By the time I'd  printed
up and brought her my report it was the cocktail hour.  She'd  set
a plate of thin finger sandwiches on the dinette table for us  to
nibble on, and as the sounds of the printer announced completion of
my  day's work, she sat there waiting for me to appear.  I proudly
placed  twenty or thirty pages of single-spaced text in front of her
with a lovely  flourish of my long, slender hands, then stood there
attentively while she  read, hands clasped loose wristed across my
waist, my pretty nails a kind of  decorated belt buckle. 
 
"You don't seem at all to be the same person who wrote that  first
assignment," she told me, looking as delighted as I felt.  "I'm  so
pleased.  This is lovely!  It has such sensitivity, and  fragility,
yet a certain earthy good sense, even wry amusement about what  it
takes to satisfy a man.  You're pleased because he's pleased.   I
agree with you, honey, men do like us to swallow their semen, God
knows  why, carelessness or ignorance about where it really belongs
I suppose.   Can they possibly think it's an act of submission to
their male  essence?  That goop?  They really are insecure, aren't
they?   Yet you've humored your man and tasted his cum now yourself,
so you  know.  Twice, I see!  Three, counting those pathetic  last
squirts.  "
 
Impulsively, without thinking, I said, "Oh, Miss Darla, I'm so glad
you  asked me to do this!"  Then I realized I was still in
character, the  character I'd invented to go with my pretty hands,
and she was a little over  the top.  I decided I'd better not carry
this too far.  "Thank you,  ma'am," I said in my lower, more subdued
voice.  "If you're happy, I'm  happy."   

"You see," she added, hearing from my voice that I'd reverted to my
male  self.  "It isn't necessary for you to think only about
yourself to enjoy  sex. A girl can enjoy giving pleasure to others,
and you can be that  girl.  You even changed your gender to give
pleasure to a man, even  while you were the man, that girl's
beneficiary!"  
 
"That's true," I said, trying to marvel at the profundity of what
she'd  just said.  I'd done it for Darla.  Yet for brief moments I'd
done  it for the man.  That man had been comfortably familiar to me. 
It was  easy for me to identify with him.  But now and then he
hadn't been  me.
 
"Now, honey, this girl you became when you were enacting her, she
needs  her own name.  I'd like to talk to her woman to woman about
all sorts of  things.  I want her for a friend.  You'll continue to
keep a  respectful distance from me, and call me 'Miss Darla' and so
on, but this  person you're becoming can be much closer, I think. 
The more you're her, the  sooner you learn to become her, the more
comfortable you feel being her, the  closer we'll feel with each
other.  Because as women, we'll understand  each other.  Think about
it -- just now you were a girl giving sexual  pleasure to my former
husband, and I wasn't the least bit jealous of  you.  I couldn't
have tolerated that earlier.  If it had been just  Nick I still
couldn't!"
 
Oddly, it was sort of true.  
 
"Does she have a name, honey?  When you were a girl with  beautiful
hands who was pulling on a man's penis, who were you?"
 
I hadn't given it any thought.  I was a well-manicured broad  who
was nice enough to take me in hand, I guess.  "Apart from sort  of
being you stroking me?" I asked, stalling?  I wish!  It  hadn't
occurred to me.
 
She knew, and her face disapproved, so I decided to get on with it. 
Who  was the first girl I ever had a crush on?  My first hand job,
when I was  sure I'd lucked out fabulously, what was her name?  I
remembered that  one Spring evening in April we were in back of the
school playing field and  she'd reached into my ....
 
"April," I said.  "That's who I am."
 
"Very pretty.  All right, April, let's talk.  I may be busy now  and
then, so I'll appreciate your looking after this man I'm trying  to
train.  He's already subordinated himself to me in the hope that  I
won't leave him, and that's an excellent beginning.  Stay by  his
side and keep him in his place, and teach him more about
sensitivity  to women, how we do things, how he should want to do
them.  Let him play  at doing them so he'll see how it can be fun. 
That's what I'm doing with  him.  Eventually, I'd love it if he
disappeared altogether into his own  femininity.  If he became you!"
 
So that's it.  She wants to turn me into a woman, and she's  part
way there, so she's enlisting my own assistance.  That's how  she
means to escape from my patriarchal hegemony and all that?   And
she's succeeding!  Look at me.  Do I mind?  Is it already  too late?
 
"Nick is rather proud of his progress so far, isn't he, April?"
 
"Yes," I replied.  I was.  "He is."
 
"I am too.  April, his next assignment will occupy him all  of
tonight and maybe all of Sunday, but if he can finish it early
enough  tomorrow we can let him take the rest of the day off.  If
you like, take  him shopping.  Or you can invite someone over, or
maybe ask them to  invite both of you over to their place."
 
"Roger's someone I haven't seen for some time," I said.  "If I  can
clear the time I'll give him a call."  I was really curious to  see
how he'd survived last year's ordeal.  I could use his  experience,
ransack him for as many tips as possible for dealing with  upcoming
assignments.  
 
"No, not Roger," Darla said, looking closely at my face to see if
I was  being mischievous or merely direct, as if there were
something I knew that I  shouldn't know.  She decided I didn't know,
and said only, "Not any  more.  Karen and Roger only entertain
together nowadays, and only  invited guests, and only by previous
arrangement.  He's not the  same."
 
It occurred to me, given my bra and panties, blouse and skirt,
neither  was I.  I could change out of them of course, and wipe off
my make-up as  I'd learned to do each night.  But my nail polish? 
I looked at my  hands.  Those fingers had given me such pleasure,
but no way would I let  them be seen by any of my buddies!  Good old
Nick, sporting a woman's  decorated fingertips?  I'd never live it
down.  
 
So I asked as if an afterthought, casually, "Miss Darla, my nails. 
How  can I get them back to normal?"
 
"Why should you want to, April?"  
 
"If I meet with some of the other guys tomorrow, I couldn't  exactly
explain them away.  Also, I have to go to work on Monday."  
 
"I see.  Are you ashamed of them, April?"  She was playing  evasive
games with me.
 
"Darl ... Miss Darla!  Of course not!"  Not at the moment.   With
only the two of us present I was proud of them.  I was April.   But
in front of anyone else?  I didn't want to confess that  April's
ways would embarrass Nick if they were known, so I just  repeated
"Of course not!" as if shocked.
 
Darla's impassive expression told me she was unpersuaded.  But  she
continued in a level voice, "Well, sweetheart, I'm afraid you're
out  of luck.  There's a liquid you can soak them in if you think
bare nails  are normal and insist on them, but I'm all out of it. 
Drug stores don't  carry solvent for this kind of nail lacquer,
you'll have to buy it at the  beauty parlor I go to or else have
them remove the tips and the polish  both.  But you'll get nowhere
today without an appointment.  It's  Saturday afternoon.  By now
every beauty parlor in town is busy getting  women ready for the
weekend -- they're all booked, with waiting lists.   And they're all
closed all day tomorrow."  
 
Bummer.  "I think I'll just keep going with your assignments,  then,
not invite anyone," I told Darla, who was still watching  me
closely.
 
"All right," she said.  "That's commendable, Nick.  You can  leave
April's nails on, tips and all, and wear them to work on Monday.  
They're long and beautifully manicured, but we can paint them a
pale  pearly pink, almost a natural shade, so they won't be too
conspicuous.   The April in you loves how women feel when their
hands are beautifully  adorned, I'm sure.  But if Nicholas would be
embarrassed, he can wear  gloves, or he can keep those pretty hands
in his pockets and make some excuse  to leave them there.  I think
he might even find that exciting, a little  wicked, hiding a secret
like that but knowing it's there.  The same  feeling he reported
when he wore his panties and tampons all last week.   Having a
secret self who's a girl.  Nick, it's getting to be time for  April
to make her debut in the outer world, for you to share your  body
with her or step down.  Not yet, but soon."
 
"I guess," I said.
 
"On your way home Monday evening you can stop at Lisa's, Lisa's
Beauty  Salon, where I go, it's on your way, and she'll remove your
nails for  you.  Have Michelle set up an appointment."  
 
Darla paused, and then began choosing her words with great care. 
"Of  course, Nick, when your hands aren't a woman's hands I won't
allow you to  touch yourself in a...womanly way any more, as you did
this afternoon.   Not at all.  I'd not homophobic, but I can't stand
the thought of the  man I live with jerking another man off.  And
you do want to give  April's desires every consideration.  So if
April can't wear her pretty  nails all the time, she should have
other of the advantages of being a  woman.  For example, I want you
to caress her breasts every night from  now on until they become
your breasts and her hands.  You'll love  knowing at first hand how
women feel when their nipples are being  fondled."  
 
Was Darla tripping out?  Kinky?  But I had to admit, the idea  was
kind of exciting!  My nipples had always been a little  bit
sensitive, erogenous.  And when poked out a little in their bra  and
I'd brushed against something, they'd been fabulous.  They'd  felt
directly hard-wired to my groin, and my rear pussy had spasmed  each
time against its tampon.  Here was a whole new kind of sex  life
Darla was authorizing for me.
 
"Come here a moment, honey."
 
I did.  Darla reached up and felt my small boobs, uplifted in  their
bra.  "They're soft," she said.  "Wouldn't you like a little  more
there?"
 
I didn't know how to answer her.  "Doesn't every girl?" I  said,
delaying a real answer.
 
"Yes, I suppose so," Darla replied thoughtfully.  There was  a
moment's silence.
 
Then she recovered.  "Now when you're at Lisa's on Monday,  remember
to make an appointment to have your nails put back on again  Friday
afternoon.  It seems wasteful to me, but that's what you'll need  to
do until Nick can agree to let April out of the closet."   She
hesitated for a moment.  "Maybe at the same time Lisa will  attend
to other things too.  You're moving along so fast, you may  be
ready.  I'll consult with her, and we'll see."  
 
Then she looked earnestly into my face.  "Nick, from now on  keep
April close by and do whatever she urges."
 
"Why?" I asked. It sounded odd to me.  Though I didn't mind  keeping
an imaginary friend available, letting her solve these  challenges
Darla kept setting up for me.    
 
"Well," she said.  "Let's just say that if we're to resume  our
marriage, I'm more likely to want to live with the person who  wrote
today's essay than the man who wrote the first week's.  April  is
nicer than Nick.  She already feels like a friend, and Nick  never
did.  Also, I suspect the only sex you'll be getting for some  time
will be from April, except for servicing me in ways my dildo  men
can't.  So you'll want to know her well.  You'll yield to  her
whenever you have disagreements.  She may put you into  embarrassing
situations now and then, but you'll survive them and she knows  best
what I want."  
 
Suddenly Darla looked delighted about something!
 
"Something wrong, Mi....Miss Darla?" I asked
 
"Nothing at all," she replied, now grinning broadly.  Then  she
said, "Sweetheart, listen closely.  As I've said, while  you're
April I really can't object to your groping your man whenever  you
wish."  Darla paused.  "Or him groping you anywhere either, if  you
want him to.  I don't think you should be deprived just  because
you're that closely associated with a man.  So next weekend  maybe
we'll...."  She paused, obviously delighted by her next thought.  
I waited.  
 
She kept it to herself.  Instead, she spoke rapidly, dismissively.  
"Well, all this week you'll learn from April as much as you can
about  women.  Not just me but the woman in you.  See everything
through  April's eyes.  Use your imagination."
 
Unaccountably, even though I'd just blown my wad three times, when
she  asked me to be April my prick announced itself again.  Somehow
my  take-charge Darla was turning me on!  Or was it my  take-charge
April?  Those pretty fingernails?  
 
I thought about my schedule for the coming week.  "I won't  have
time to talk to April at all during the week, Miss Darla,"  I said.  
"There are several cases coming up that need my complete attention. 
I'll  be lucky to clear them by the weekend."
 
"Can you be sure they'll be cleared then?"  She paused.  I saw  the
HMO administrator in her cross her face.  "Even better,"  she
muttered to herself.  She paused.  Then, "Nick, sit  down."
 
Suddenly I came aware that I'd been standing before her all this
whole  time, ever since I'd brought her my essay on masturbating
myself.  On  April masturbating me.  I'd been someone on trial
standing at the bar,  while she sat comfortably judging me.  
 
I sat.
 
She spoke in earnest now.  "Nick, I think we're getting  somewhere
at last.  We need to go into high gear.  This week I want  you to
clear your schedule for the whole of next month.  Take  some
vacation time or something.  Maybe personal time. it's surely that.  
A month away from the office won't be the end of the world, you've
done  it a few times before, and we'll both be better off for it,
believe me.   Think of the advantages.  You'll get to know April
very well in that  time, how to enjoy her, how to enjoy being her. 
I'm hopeful that our  marriage is salvageable after all, but we need
to maintain the  momentum.  You're now where you need to be to work
at it full time,  beginning this coming Friday, until we've settled
the matter one way or  another.  A month's time will tell.  Can you
do that, Nick?   Give a whole month to pleasing me by being April
full time?"   
 
She looked at me intently, solemnly, and waited.
 
Could I?  I sorted my mind through all the things I'd have to do  to
clear my schedule for the month, how to delay some things, which
other  things I could dump on other lawyers in my division.  Issue
by issue,  case by case.
 
Finally I could say it.  "Yes, Miss Darla.  I can do it.   It'll be
difficult, but ... yes.  I will.  For the sake of our  marriage."
 
Darla was transformed!  She stood up and beamed!  "Oh, Nick, you  do
feel the way I do about us after all, don't you!  That's lovely!  
It'll be difficult, I know, but if it's any consolation, remember
that  April will be growing every day in her ability to help you."
 
All right.  Plainly, Darla wanted me to live as April for a  month,
so my April alter ego could teach me a decent respect for  all
females of the species, so we could feel closer to each other, and
so  on.  For Nick to try masquerading as a woman was silly.    But
being a woman came naturally to April -- that's what she was.   And
there was no way back to what I'd once had with Darla.  We had  to
move forward.
 
It was just as well.  April's essays pleased Darla, and at  least
while I was being April I didn't need to live perpetually hard up.  
Pink nails at the office on Monday?  Better to risk embarrassment
if  someone should see them than to cope with a throbbing cock all
day and sleep  with aching balls all night.  If April can provide me
with the right  things to say to Darla, I was thinking, and if
she'll use her gracefully  manicured hands to get me off when asked,
I can live with her for a  month.  Hell, I can live as her for a
month. 
 
Now that Darla was standing, short as she was, she seemed to tower
over  me.  "All right Nick, back to work.  Last week you expected
you'd  soon be giving your boyfriends blow jobs, didn't you?"
 
I immediately felt wary.  "Did I?" I asked, stalling.
 
"Didn't he, April?"
 
I tried to be April.  "Maybe sort of, I guess," I answered her.  "We
talked about how oral sex is one way girls cope with the demands
boys  make when hand jobs are no longer enough.  He did speculate
about how  lips on lips can feel rubbery, same as lips on a cock. 
The idea did come  up."
 
Darla got a wicked smile.  "Can you do it as April, Nick?  Give  a
man a blow job?  Because that's your next assignment."
 
I stared!  Did she mean really?  Blow me the way April had  jerked
me off?  I couldn't blow myself, she knew that!  She must  mean
imagine it's April who'll give head!
 
"Nick could never," she continued.  "He's so straight, so  strapped
in by so many inhibitions, so afraid to seem gay, even to himself.  
Men get like that.  But April doesn't have that problem.  So  take
the rest of today to get used to the idea, honey.  Imagine  every
detail of it.  Then see if April is actually willing to do it  for
you.  Seduce her into it, stroke and fondle and caress her  breasts,
she'll love the attention.   She'll adore feeling her  breasts
luxuriate under Nick's fingertips or even her own -- just so  she
gets to feel femmy, never mind how.  I'm going to give her my  best
nightgown to wear, and she can wear her prettiest bra under it --
our  nipples do feel so much lovelier when they're extended.  Touch
your own,  April, with April's fingertips."
 
I did.  'Fondle her nips and she'll follow you anywhere' came  to
mind.
 
"Then Sunday April can dictate the story to you of her first  blow
job.  She'll know how girls feel under that kind of pressure,  how
they feel obliged to use their mouths to avoid spreading their legs
so  they'll be asked out again.  Maybe too because they like it, or
because  they feel affectionate or dominant, we talked about that
too.  You need  to understand her, Nick, it's a stage in every
girl's sexual development, and  April can tell you about it.  Write
a definitive essay or story showing  how girls feel when they want
to keep their boy friends and their boy friends  want blow jobs."  
 
"I guess," I said.  I wasn't looking forward to this assignment.
 
"You don't look happy, Nick," Darla said. "All right, forget April
for  the moment.  Think about it yourself.  Think about all  those
different guys' crotches, and imagine what they're like.  Your  own
doesn't count, you'll be taking another man into your mouth,  and
anyway, for this exercise you won't have a cock, you'll have a
cunt,  so it won't be 'another' man.  Think about lying alongside
different  guys, each time with their penises in your mouth.  Or
guys all lined up  and you kneeling down in front of them, leaning
between their legs, sucking  up the best part of them?  Think of all
the varieties of shapes and  sizes, and all for you, and all the
things you can do with them.  But  this one's your first."  
 
"Miss Darla!" I began.  Then realized that by calling her that  I'd
already given up the fight, and sat quiet again.
 
"I'll want to know how you imagined it would be, and then I'll ask
you,  when you've done it, did the reality live up to your
expectations?   Since you aren't going anywhere tomorrow, plan to
spend the whole day sucking  cock!  Different boys, different men,
you're free to choose, you aren't  going steady with anyone.  Love
doing it!  Provide details!   Describe everything vividly!  I want
to taste the cum in your mouth just  by reading your words, and I
want to feel it coating your throat.  I  want your tummy swollen to
bursting with cum, so you can only lie there and  groan.  You do it,
Nick, not April!  Or else beg April to be you  and do it for you! 
"  
 
She spoke with such passion!  I tried to say something, but  all
that came out was splutter.  
 
Darla's mild eyes looked at me unwavering.  It was as if  everything
we'd done thus far had been preliminary.  She was perfectly  sure of
herself now.  No apologetic angle to her head, no secret smiles  or
blinking and looking away.  Her mouth curved in an  encouraging
half-smile.  She sat down again, and stretched her legs  under the
table, and tilted her chair way back, and she clasped her  hands
behind her neck, still gazing steadily at me.  Her wrists  looked
more delicate than ever as they poked out from the sleeves of  an
oversized shirt of mine she'd claimed as hers long ago.  I  felt
odd, sitting there in my bra and panties and skirt and blouse, as
if  she were now the man of the family and I was the girl!
 
Was she joking?  I'd imagine it and then I'd describe an  actual
blow job?  No, she'd said it carefully enough, at first in  that
same small, nursery school voice she always used to ask for things.  
I'd imagine anticipating it, then I'd imagine the reality.  
 
"Does Nick will take this cock into his mouth, or does April?" I
asked  cautiously.
 
"Is there a difference?  Should there be?  If Nick feels  attracted
to another boy, shouldn't we know that about him right now?   I
mean, gay men are almost as much fun to go out with as girlfriends
-- we  all cruise for the same hunks.  I can live with a gay man."
 
Now the big question.  "During this ... ah, exercise, will you  want
me to measure my imaginary cocksucking against a ... a real ...?"
I  asked in a small voice.  I couldn't quite say it.
 
She didn't move.  Nor say anything.  She leaned back with  that
half-smile with her hands clasped behind her neck and just looked
at  me.  Then, "Will you want to?"
 
I found my voice.  "Darla, this is ...!"  I realized I was  too
tense -- I'd better regain control fast -- I took a deep breath,
then  another, and then I changed the words and tried to say them
more  quietly.  They still came out exasperated, a little.  "Miss
Darla,  that's it?  Tomorrow all day you want me to write out how a
girl feels  when she gives some guy a blow job?" 
 
"No, that's not what I said."  Her eyes never left me.  She  seemed
pleased that once again I'd controlled myself, that my manly  pride
had cracked and buckled under.  "What I said was, you'll write  out
how it felt the first time YOU wanted to give a boy a blow job  and
then did it.  Was it everything you'd hoped it would be?  I  want
you to describe the entire act in great detail, every last thing
you  can imagine.  Its sights, sounds, smells, tastes, everything. 
I want  you to imagine details you can't even begin to imagine right
now.  I  want you to really get into it. When I read whatever you
write down I'll want  to believe that it all happened.  Use the
first person.  If you  can't be Nick exulting that he's finally come
out to himself, queer and here  and loving it, then be April. 
April's comfortable with boys, she was once a  boy herself remember. 
Whether this thing happened recently, since our  marriage, or before
we met, that can be your decision."  
 
That idea tickled her.  "Maybe all these years when I've  been
dressed in my prettiest and waiting for you to come home to  my
delicious supper, you've been late because you had to stop first at
the  Athletic Club, you wanted to sit with the boys and hoist a few
cocks into  your mouth?"
 
I was appalled.  Silent.
 
She continued relentlessly.  "I'll want to know whether your  lips
enjoyed sliding up and down on him, how cum feels when it  first
spurts into your mouth, what it tastes like when it goes into  your
tummy.  Is it true that it feels hot, or only warm?  You now  know
something about the feel of it in your mouth.  Use that!   Then
there's this.  Does the man's cum inside you made you feel  more
affectionate toward him, more loving, more like a real woman  who
knows that all those sperms are now swimming around inside her
looking  for their egg?"  
 
Had she gone bonkers?  No, she was trying to lead me where  I'd
never wish to go.  April would need to do most of this.  I'd  given
it little enough thought.  I'd always been the one getting  blown.
 
"Again, if you find you have to be a guy to do this, you can't do
it as  a girl, if it's Nick, not April who takes that cock into her
mouth, then  that's good to know.  And if it's Nick, then is he
under duress or is he  queer?  If queer, shouldn't I let him go,
give him his divorce, leave  him free to find more suitable
partners?"  
 
She nodded to herself, not yet ready to let go the subject. 
"You've  already kissed a boy in your imagination.  Maybe you felt
shy, but from  the way you described it, I'd say more than one boy. 
So what's the big  deal?   Nick, I've got to say it, it's hard to
understand why you  men get so frantic when you're asked to put a
little piece of another man  into your mouths to give him pleasure
-- you never seem to mind sucking on  women, after all.  Sucking on
a tit is good but sucking on a cock is  bad?  What about women who
suck cocks, then?" 
 
I clamped my mouth tight shut.  She knew her logic made no  logical
sense, and she knew I'd never be persuaded by it.  She was  just
trying to accustom me to the idea.  It was working, too.   Sucking
one body part did seem no more perverse than sucking on any other. 
 

"OK," was all I said, and I looked down.  "I get it.   Enough.  I'll
spend all day tomorrow sucking an imaginary cock.   And then you
really will bring in some real guy for me to measure it  against?" 
I had to ask her again, because she could so easily do it!   "So
whatever I write sounds authentic?"
 
She shot forward suddenly, chair straight, leaning toward me on  the
table, her gaze never wavering. "No, Nick," she said.  "You  aren't
woman enough to deserve a real guy."  Then when she saw my  shocked
expression and real relief in my face, she added slowly, "Not yet." 
 

Then she looked me up and down deliberately, derisively.  I'd  been
put in my place for daring to mock her intentions.  "You  aren't
April until you want to be, and then wake up delighted to find  you
are," she said.  "Right now you're still only a man wearing a  bra
and panties and skirt."   She looked away from me  contemptuously,
then added, "I tell you what, to test for authenticity,  I'll
compare whatever you imagine for yourself with my own  cocksucking
experiences."   
 
That really shocked me!  
 
Darla didn't suck cock!  She'd never!  Not with me, not even  with
me!  Not even when she was in the throes of passion and  couldn't
cram enough of me into her!  Never in high school, she'd told  me
that, though lots of high school girls do give head, it was true,
how  else can they stop boys from pushing stiff cocks into their
warm, slippery  pussies after hours of making out and fingering and
sniffing them.  In  college she'd told me when we first dated that
she was saving her mouth for  the man she'd marry.  That turned out
to be me.  Then after our  wedding she told me she wanted her mouth
to be hers alone, inviolable, fit  for kissing but otherwise no part
of the deal.  I'd gone along with that  too -- we were starting a
life together, and my respecting her most intimate  feelings
mattered.  What I knew about them, anyhow.  I was finding  out more
now.
 
"I don't understand," I said.  "What cocksucking?  You've  never
given head to anyone.  Not to me, for sure.  How am I  different? 
Why do you expect me to imagine that I'm a cocksucker when  what
you've given me to understand until right now is that you're not,
and  the purpose of all this is to help me understand you better?"
 
I was babbling.  She'd gotten to me, and was pleased.  "Nick, I  was
younger than you're imagining yourself when I began dating.   I
never told you I never sucked cock.  Only that I didn't in  high
school.  A girl does different things with different boys.  If  it's
physical, then she does physical things.  With a friend of  like
mind, she talks.  And with a likely marriage partner, she's  very
careful.  You and I were serious almost from the beginning.   When
a girl's setting up for the long haul she's watchful  about
precedents, about the boy's expectations, about letting them  slide
out of control.  It's true, I've never sucked your cock."   She
hesitated a moment, then stopped talking.
 
"You gave some guy head once, and then you wouldn't do it for me,
even  after we got engaged?"  I was feeling hurt and angry. 
Jealous!   Cheated!
 
She took control, forcefully.  "Nick, consider this.  If I did  suck
on a prick before we got married, and I'm not saying I did or  I
didn't, why do you assume it was only once?  And only one prick?  
And how do you know when?  How do you know there haven't been  any
since we got engaged?  Or married?  How do you know my first  time
wasn't last week when I went out nicely dressed and left you
watching  the TV, and then came back horny with an unused cunt?  Or
that that  wasn't the tenth time?"  
 
My mouth fell open.  My painted mouth.  My made-up eyes were  wide
open.  The truth is, I didn't know.  Not anything.
 
A gleam came into her eye.  "Yes, Karen told me she called  right
after I left the house and you took the message.  So you felt  safe,
didn't you, sure that I wasn't out on a date with some man.   But
how do you know I didn't ask Karen to call so you'd think I  was
visiting her and never guess that I was in fact on my way  somewhere
else?  With our marriage on hold, I can do anything I want,  can't
I?  We're in a relationship now, not a marriage.  We're  testing out
whether we have a future together.  I don't owe you  anything.  Do
I?"  
 
She looked at me intently.  This was her HMO administrative  manner
at its most severe -- if a subordinate balks, show how he's  between
a rock and a hard place.  I recognized the tactic, but it  worked
anyhow.  She saw my resentful facial expression turn belly up,  and
she moved in for the coup de grace.  "Shall we cancel this  learning
experience now?  End this relationship?  Is that what you  want?"
 
I was intimidated completely.  I couldn't utter a word.
 
"I thought not.  So you'll do what you're told!  You'll think  about
how to suck a boy's cock so he'll fall all over himself wanting  to
ask you out again!  You'll think about how you'll dress up to  look
so attractive that he'd surely want you to take him into  your
mouth!"  A gleam came into her eye.  "You'll think about what  color
lipstick you'll wear to make your mouth more attractive!  That  rose
shade you've got on is pretty, but wouldn't something brighter,
more  crimson, pull him into your face sooner and bring him off
faster?  So  afterward, when he sees traces of bright red lipstick
circling the base of  his cock, he'll have especially romantic
thoughts about you?    Maybe send you flowers?  Think right now
about what kind of a vase  you'll need to put them in, and what
kinds of warm thoughts you'll have as  you decide where to put them. 
How you'll explain them to me when I come home  from the office.  If
you can't be April, will you lie to me, or will you  confess that
you saw this lovely cock and couldn't resist it?  You need  to be
April!  If you can't be, then walk out of here and go to  the
nearest gay bar and suck a dozen dicks and come back and tell me
all  about it, and maybe I'll take you back as my live-in gay
boyfriend.   Because I won't want you any other way!"  
 
And still stiff, still angry, she walked out of the room, her  hips
swishing and her skirt swinging.  This was pure raw female  power,
I felt it in the way she walked away from me, flirtatious  and
furious at once!  I clamped my mouth shut and followed her out  with
my eyes.  
 
But the fact was, I didn't know any of the answers any more.   I
resolved to do what I was told, whatever April wanted me to do.   I
sat there.  Then I went back into my study and went to  work,
imagining oral sex scenes and situations for the first time in  my
life with greater intensity and in more detail than I could ever
have  imagined!
 
Hours later, around midnight, Darla came in looking exactly as
earlier,  every hair in place, carrying another plate of finger
sandwiches.  I was  still sitting there sketching drafts and making
notes, my skirt up and my  panties down, staring at April's
red-tipped hand wrapped around my cock while  trying to imagine it
was a mouth.  I was wondering how an imaginary girl  like me might
manage to persuade an imaginary boy to surrender his cock to  my
mouth.  Why should he?  Why should he trust that I wouldn't  bite?
 
"Here, doll.  I thought you might be hungry," she said, her  voice
kindly.  "I see you do take this assignment seriously.   That's good
-- it's the most transformative task I'll be giving you, except  for
some of the field exercises of course.  But it's late.  I  think
you've done enough for tonight." 
 
"Yes," I said.  There wasn't much more I could say to her just yet.  
I felt way off balance.  Did she or didn't she?  Would I?   Apart
from my imagination, I mean.
 
"You can do a mini-field-exercise now.  One I think you'll  like."
 
She told me to fetch a half a glass of warm water from  the
bathroom.  I did.  She then told me to place it on the floor,  take
off my skirt, lower my panties, and crawl over it.  I did that too.  
Then to my amazement she said, "All this is so stressful for you,
I  understand that.  You deserve a reward.  Ask April to  masturbate
you until you cum.  But when you cum, be sure to cum under  water. 
Dip your tip deep in the water when you feel yourself about  to
climax.  
 
I couldn't believe what she was telling me.  But April's  hand
reached gracefully for my cock and began to pull and stroke it as
I  supported myself over the glass of warm water on the other hand
and my  knees.  Weird, but incredibly pleasant, I felt joy rise up
between my  legs while my groin was in a doggy position and April's
hand was reaching for  it between my rear thighs.  Darla watched it
all.  When my climax  pushed past a point of no return, April
stopped stroking and held me rigid as  I humped down and pushed my
penis as far under water as I could, and felt the  pulsing but saw
that the squirting remained invisible.  The warm water  felt nice. 
My pleasure, my relief, my elation from that climax  was
overwhelming.
 
Darla enjoyed seeing it.  "You liked that, didn't you,  sweetheart,"
she observed. 
 
"Yes," I said, still a little breathless.
 
"It wasn't humiliating that your former wife saw the whole thing?"
 
"No, ma'am," I replied, though it was, a little, now that she
mentioned  it.
 
"Good.  Now ask April what you should do with that glass of  warm
diluted cum."
 
I didn't need to ask.  April spoke for me.  I wanted to.   "Drink it
all down like a good little wanker," she said abruptly.
 
Of course.  It was a lovely preliminary act, a way to  get
accustomed to the undiluted cum that was still gagging my throat
each  time my mind tried to swallow it.  So April's hand brought the
glass to  my lips and I quaffed, then swallowed down the watery,
glutinous mess.   I could hardly tell what it was -- warm water with
slightly salty mucous? 
 
"You like it, honey?" Darla asked
 
I nodded.  I liked getting off, anyhow.  My mouth now had an  odd
feel.
 
"Your own sperm swimming in warm water can be a very comforting
bed-time  drink, Nick.  Yummy in your tummy.  Nourishing.  I'm glad.  
April will provide a fresh glass for you whenever you ask her."  
 
She then paused, waiting for me to say something.  Had it come  to
this?  But finally I said it.  "Thank you, Miss Darla.   I
appreciate it."  
 
"Good," Darla said.  "You should.  This re-education plan  is
working out so well for us!  I don't want to keep you up, but  just
a little more talk girl to girl?  I've laid out a pretty  nightie
for April to wear, so you can feel properly amorous when  you
snuggle up to her and reach for her breasts.  Why don't you  change
into it?  Oh yes, be sure that Michelle confirms both  your
appointments with Lisa.  She'll love helping you begin your life  as
a woman."
 
"My life?  This isn't just for a month?"
 
Darla smiled enigmatically, as charming as ever.  "Even if for  only
a month, it's your life.  You need to think of it as a lifetime,  or
you won't enter into the right frame of mind -- no girl is ever a
girl  for only a month.  Have you decided yet how you'll spend your
Monday at  the office, in pink nails or gloves or pockets?"
 
The pink nails were tempting, but my life as April had to be hidden
from  the office staff.  How could I explain her?  Though Michelle
it  seems already knew more about me than I did.  She even knew  the
end-state where Darla was taking me, and I knew now that I didn't.  
"Gloves," I said.  "I have a pair that'll do.  These nails are  too
long to look like a man's anyhow.  People would wonder."
 
"They certainly would," Darla said, reaching for one of her  thin
sandwiches.  "Here, have just a few of these fingerlings.  We  do
need to pay serious attention to April's figure.  She's  attractive,
but she could be moreso.  In fact we could both do with a  few
pounds less in the waist." 
 
I looked at Darla's waistline and shook my head, and she dismissed
my  judgment yet accepted the compliment with a single pretty,
intricate twist of  her head, all wordlessly.  I should learn to do
things like that, I  thought, gesture with my neck and head like
that, since that's what women do  and men would never dare.  I
tried, but all that came out was a  shrug.  I then reached out and
took up a fingerling sandwich, and  admiring the jewel-like
brilliance of my fingertips, daintily began eating  it.  Darla
observed all this but said nothing.
 
We talked a bit about women's voices -- Darla wanted me to speak
more in  keeping with the way I looked and made suggestioons now and
then.  And  we then watched a late late show on the tube together,
as in the old  days.  Darla giggled at it now and then the way she
always did, and I  confess, I did too sometimes.  I could almost
imagine there'd been no  change in our lives.  She reached out to
hold hands with me, playing  absent-mindedly with my gleaming
red-tipped fingers, glancing at them now and  then with an almost
proprietary air.  Except for my nails, and my face,  and my skirt
and blouse, and my little boobs, it was just like the old days.  
She gently pressed one of my hands against her soft breast and held
it  there, then lifted and kissed it before setting it back down in
my lap.   I was trying.  I could feel her genuine affection for me. 
When we went  up to bed together, she turned in the doorway to our
bedroom, hers now, and  gave me a gentle kiss on the lips.  "Go make
love to April," she  whispered. "Love being April, darling."
 
I went to bed, and as I drifted away I found that April's hands  had
already begun to caress my nipples.  Or were those my hands  on
hers.  How did Darla know it would feel so  excruciatingly
delicious?   Then April reached down and took hold  of my cock
again.  With very little effort I imagined her leaning over  it and
sucking it.  I imagined me leaning over and sucking hers,  or
Nick's.  I knew how she was enjoying the feel of it in my mouth.  
I realized that with her help I could write a story about the first
boy I  ever gave head that would make Darla incredibly proud. 
Finally I exploded  into April's hand, and she fed me the spillover
from her palm, little by  little, and it went down smoothly.  And
then I slept well.  
 
end 2/3
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