The Fetish Deluxe Sampler
Edited by Anne Onimus
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
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The Fetish Deluxe Sampler
Copyright © 2010 by Anne Onimus
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Black Nylons, White Lies http://tinyurl.com/2buomwv
Jordan’s legs took my breath away at first sight. And as soon as I caught it, her candor (I could just as accurately call it brusqueness, of course) took it away all over again. She hadn’t been 30 seconds in the back of my limousine before revealing that she didn’t find me (or, for that matter, anyone over 40) very attractive, and that whatever relationship we might have would be based solely on my wealth. If her legs had been even one percent less spectacular, I might have asked my driver Alejandro to stop the car, help her out, and give her a few bucks for a cab.
Or maybe not. I found her self-confidence and directness kind of thrilling. I honestly couldn’t remember a young woman I’d taken out since Paulette’s death who’d shown so little inclination to patronize me. And she was smart, Jordan, and not only “got” all my little quips and puns, but actually improved on several of them. By the time we were ready to order dessert — I took her to the most expensive new restaurant in the Bay Area, that in the Hotel Duboce — I was already a little bit in love with her, and a lot in lust.
She didn’t fail to notice the impression she was making on me — she wasn’t only long-legged, gorgeous, and self-confident, but unusually intuitive in the bargain. She seemed to sense how exciting I — who over the course of a typical workday makes 100 decisions that will affect the lives of over 300 employees and subcontractors — very much enjoy abdicating the proverbial steering wheel whenever I can. I’ll confess here, without shame, that the most fun I’ve ever had in the bedroom has been with women who knew how to intimidate me.
I hadn’t remarked on Jordan’s beauty — I’ve been with enough beautiful women to know how bored they get with compliments — except generically, telling her she was lovely when she joined me in my limo. Now, though, as the waiter noted our dessert choices and left us, I finally revealed that I didn’t think I’d ever seen a more spectacular pair of legs. She just raised her perfect eyebrows for a second and sipped her champagne, as though she was so weary of hearing such things that she didn’t even bother acknowledging them any more. “And what excellent hosiery you’ve chosen to encase them in,” I said. “Fogal Noblesse, 12 denier, if I’m not mistaken.”
She put her glass down and looked around, as though I were too boring to respond to. She produced a compact mirror and ensured the perfection of her makeup. “Quite the connoisseur of ladies’ stockings then?” Her voice contained more than a trace of mockery. She arched her eyebrows at me again. I was trying to come up with a wry retort when she surprised me by putting her napkin on the table and excusing herself so abruptly that I was barely able to get to my feet, as chivalry dictated, before she left.
She was a long time coming back. I told her, with a smile, that I’d nearly imagined she’d decided to leave me with the bill — as though there were any question of that being my responsibility. She registered no amusement. She said, “I’d have hoped the bills being your responsibility would go without saying, not only tonight, but any other time you’re lucky enough to enjoy my companionship.”
What a perfect little bitch!
I liked it!
She settled back into her chair and sipped her champagne. “I won’t make a custom of telling you where I’ve been, or with whom, but just this once I’ll tell you I was having a conversation with our waiter. I’m not sure you noticed how young and attractive he is, but it certainly wasn’t lost on me.” Not a trace of a smile. Not a trace. “His shift ends at eleven. He’s given me his cell phone number so we can get together later. You’ll get us a suite here in the hotel. I don’t want to spend any more time in a car this evening. I’m tired of cars.” It had taken us about seven minutes to get from her Pacific Heights apartment to the hotel.
Cruel Goddess: Confessions of a Dominatrix http://tinyurl.com/2dqf7wp
We’d been corresponding by email for around six weeks, over the course of which he’d revealed that what he loved most was being “forced” to dress as a woman — and not just any woman, but a brazen little streetwalker — and viciously ridiculed for it. It was far from an unusual request, though every guy who makes it seems to think of himself as uniquely perverted.
He scrubbed himself pink. I reached down for the little spray bottle of very cheap perfume I keep on hand for such occasions and told him to crawl toward the sound of my voice, keeping his eyes closed. When he reached me, I put my feet on his shoulders and told him to turn his head first one way and then the other, inhaling deeply. “How do you like the smell of my black leather boots, slut?” I demanded. I didn’t really need to ask; his re-stiffened cock was twitching visibly with excitement.
I reached behind my throne for the outfit I’d assembled for him — pink Lycra hot pants, a see-through black lace top, a generously padded black lace bra, black seamed stockings that a previous client had run, a black satin garter belt, pink satin undies, and thigh boots like those Julia Roberts wore iconically in Pretty Woman, except with considerably more demanding heels. I made him keep his eyes closed while I slathered lurid red lipstick on him, and blue eyeshadow of the sort the waitresses of central Florida had once favored. Then I absolutely drenched him with the perfume, requiring him to curtsy and whimper, “Thank you for helping me smell so pretty, Mistress,” every time I squirted him.
If only the voters of the large Southern state I’ll continue to the death to refuse to identify could have seen him.
I let him open his eyes and look, kneeling, hands clasped behind his back, at the outfit I’d picked out for him. He was nearly breathless with excitement. “Do you think Mistress has good taste?” I taunted him.
“Oh, superb taste,” he gasped, his cock doing a terrific marionette imitation now.
Of course he got slapped for that. “It so happens that I do have marvelous taste, bitch, but this outfit hardly represents it, does it? There isn’t a streetwalker in Tampa cheap enough to go out dressed like this.”
I was halfway through a cigarette. I told him he had until I finished it to put everything on, including the spiky platinum wig I’d neglected to include on the pile. His franticness and the steepness of the heels made for some wonderful staggering and two fairly spectacular pratfalls, for which he was ferociously ridiculed.
Once he’d got the wig on over his comb-over, I made him demonstrate how he was going to strut back and forth on Orange Blossom Trail in Orlando for me with the other little whores. It’s wonderful seeing someone so happy.
“Come on, you cheap little tramp,” I snickered, “shake your money-maker. Wiggle your ass.”
Tiring of that, I tossed my strap-on dildo over his head into the middle of the room and made him retrieve it in his mouth. “I can’t very well put you out on the street,” I said as I put it on, “before I’ve satisfied myself that you’re going to be a good earner, can I, bitch?”
You could see how he was smart enough to have gotten himself elected; instead of saying no, he said, “Mistress must indeed satisfy herself that I will be a good earner.” So I had to set a whole new set of traps for him, forbidding him to refer to himself as I, requiring that he refer to himself instead as Mistress’s cheap little cocksucker.
I made him kneel again with his hands behind him. I stood up and swung the strap-on back and forth, slapping him with it, defying him to try to catch it in his mouth. Finally he did catch it. I groaned as though I could actually feel something. “Oh, you’re good at this, aren’t you, bitch? But I suppose you ought to be good with all the practice you’ve probably had.
For the fun of it, I adopted the accent of my native Florida outback. “Deeper, you disgusting little whore. Deeper. If you don’t make me come by the count of ten, I’m going to beat your worthless little slut ass.” He sucked frantically, almost as though he imagined, if he tried hard enough, he might ultimately succeed.
Cuckold! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B003R0ML7K
At 12, I was already 5-10, an ideal height for a supermodel — and a perfectly dreadful one for a shy 12-year-old. At 15, I was still no less flat-chested than my skinniest male classmates, and don’t imagine I was ever allowed to forget it. I grew to adulthood feeling as though I had a great many scores to settle, and intent on settling every last one.
When my male classmates at college suddenly (and I’m talking over the course of what seemed a month or two) began noticing me and asking me out, I was at first relieved, but then quickly embarrassed, and never entirely sure I wasn’t being set up for humiliation. I began concealing my insecurity under a layer of arrogance — and was shocked at how much most of my new suitors seemed to like it. If only I’d down at 16 and 17 that attitude counted 10 times more than cup size, that you really could create your own reality. The more I became known as a stuck-up bitch who might respond to an invitation to a dance with contemptuous snickering, the more dances I seemed to get asked to.
My first husband, Armand, was from a family even richer than my own, and as self-effacing and humble as I am grandiose and imperious. Within a year of our marriage, I was ordering him around not just in front of the servants, but out in public as well. If he disliked it, he never once so informed me. The fact was that my being horrid to him seemed to excite him; I can’t imagine that anyone who observed us together in public would have had even an inkling as to what fun we had in the bedroom, which I would make him crawl across to me on hands and knees with my riding crop in his mouth. If I were in a good mood, I might allow him to offer his hands or even mouth to catch the ashes of my cigaretellos.
If I were in not so good a mood, though, I would jam a corner of a pillow in his mouth to muffle his cries and flog him quite mercilessly. He loved few things more than my looming over him in high heels — in which I was seven or eight inches taller than he — and telling him what a very sad excuse for a man he was, let alone husband. Finally, I would either allow him to bring me to orgasm with a vibrator, or make him watch without touching his frantically twitching little thing as I did it myself.
When he killed himself at 37, five weeks shy of our 15th wedding anniversary, I went into a deep and extended depression, not because I felt in any way responsible — regardless of widespread media speculation — but because I was genuinely as fond of him as I’d ever been of a male person, my dad having been emotionally remote and work-obsessed, my twin brother an asshole, to cut immediately to the chase.
I didn’t date for nearly a year. I went out as infrequently as possible, and lost a lot of weight; every cloud has its silver lining. I studied various forms of Eastern spirituality with a succession of teachers, though I thought it was all a small step up from astrology, and the most reliable way to get me to sneer at you disdainfully is to ask my sign. I had an affair with the guy who was supposed to be instructing me on Buddhism not because of the Buddhism, but because he was really gorgeous.
I wound up not marrying for the second time until I was nearly 44. Merce was 29, nearly as good-looking as the Buddhist, and much more a go-getter than poor Armand. He’d started his own social networking software company from scratch, and it had made him rich — not nearly as rich as I, but he didn’t have to know that. He wasn’t only a go-getter in his career, but in his interactions with me too. To my horror, he turned out to be an avid fan of hip hop music, in which the earthy dismissive Fuck dat shit was apparently ubiquitous. When I would try to dominate him, he would laughingly invoke it. He seemed to have a reputation at his company of being a driven and very demanding taskmaster. I discovered myself capable of a higher degree of erotic submission than I’d have imagined. We were pretty happy there for around 18 months.
But then his fortunes began to wane, as a competitor developed a software program that did what Merce’s did, and better. He asked me for a rather large loan. Instead of grateful, my giving it to him seemed to make him resentful — resentful enough, from what I started hearing, to begin an affair. I got my attorney to put his best investigators on the case, and they corroborated it. The lucky woman, Natalie, was one of the marketing higher-ups at his company.
I immediately began plotting my revenge.
High Heel Heaven http://tinyurl.com/23fo58v
It wasn’t until nearly four that another prospective customer finally came in, a stylish retro redhead in red lipstick and pale seamed hose with reinforced heels and toes — the kind that drives stocking fetishists mad with lust, and doesn’t exactly fail to catch the attention of us shoe fetishists either. I recognized her sandals from one of the DVDs I’d watched with Amelie. When I greeted advised that I’d be delighted to assist her, she looked at me almost as though she blamed me for the horrid weather. “These,” she finally said, holding up a pair of white Stellacci pumps, “size seven, narrow.” What a bitch, I thought, as I went into the back room to get the shoes. Which isn’t to deny that I’ve always found bitchiness pretty alluring coming from a sufficiently attractive woman.
I slipped off the Ferragamo sandals she’d ben wearing as she frowned at herself in her compact mirror. “I don’t know how anyone’s supposed to look her best in this weather,” she said, more to herself than to me. “It’s like bloody Borneo out there.” She seemed to be accustomed to servants; she actually got out herBlackberry and began reading text messages as I slipped the Stellaccis onto her. She stood up and walked a few steps to the little floor mirror. She came back, reseated herself, and said, “I’ll have them.”
I chuckled, almost in spite of myself. It wasn’t as though she were about to actively purchase an $800 pair of shoes, but acquiescing to their being packaged for her to take them with her.
“Maybe you’ll be good enough,” she said, in the tone of a haughty high school principal, “to tell me what’s amused you.”
I smiled as though to evade the question. “No,” she insisted. “I’d very much like to know.”
I smiled more broadly to soften what I was going to tell her. “You’re not the only one who finds the weather oppressive, madam. I’m actually a salesperson, and not your personal servant. I’d appreciate being treated with some semblance of civility.”
She smiled malevolently, betraying lipstick on her teeth. “Oh, would you?” she purred sarcastically. “How darling.”
My sales in my first three months had far exceeded Amelie’s expectations. There was no reason whatever for me to endure this bitch’s mockery. Or was there? There was something about her rampant hauteur that was really working for me.
She put her finger on my chin and lifted my face to her. “Clasp your hands behind your back, boy,” she said. “Don’t make me slap you.” I reflexively complied. She leaned close to me, her perfume making me dizzy. “Let’s get something very clear,” she said. “I am the customer, and the customer is always right. And you, boy…Well, maybe you’d like to tell me what you are.”
I had no idea what she expected me to say. She said it for me, “You, boy, are a little cockroach. A subhuman, inferior creature who exists only to serve and amuse goddesses such as myself. Is that quite understood, cockroach?”
How could I have guessed how much I’d love this — or how tongue-tied I’d get? Her slapping me smartly across the face untied my tongue. When she snarled, “I asked you a question, cockroach,” I blurted, “I am whatever the lady wishes me to be.
Master’s Obedient Girl http://tinyurl.com/2c2wgyn
As I was on the escalator down to the parking level, Master phoned again, with instructions to go the Pleasure Chest about a mile north on Santa Monica Blvd., which I’d heard described as the Ritz Carlton of sex shops, a place where you could find 100 different kinds of vibrator in 100 different colors. I’d bought vibrators before. I felt pretty confident I’d live through buying another. It turned out though, not to be a vibrator I was assigned to buy. “I’m going to give you a choice, little one,” Master said. “You can buy yourself a pair of nipple clamps, but you’ll have to ask a male salesperson if you can try them on first. Alternatively, you can get yourself a riding crop or flogger, which you’ll also have to try out, and that’s going to require a volunteer.”
I caught my breath. “Does Master mean that I’m supposed to get someone to hit me with it, or that I’m supposed to do the hitting?”
“Lady’s choice, little one,” he said. I could hear the wink in his voice. I wanted to strangle him — but of course also to delight him. My fear loosened my tongue, and I said something I’d been thinking, but too inhibited to express aloud. “Master’s obedient girl loves him.”
“Yes, little one,” he said. “Of course you do.” And then the arrogant so-and-so was gone again.
I was hugely relieved not to be the only woman in the place, not that I felt I had worlds in common with the others, who looked, with their huge, patently fake boobs, navel rings, and self-bleached hair, as though they’d just escaped from a late-‘80s hair band video, or were taking a break between classes at the West Hollywood Bimbo Academy. They all seemed to be trying on PVC and latex clothing far from the area in which I finally located the nipple clamps — and felt myself flushing with embarrassment. Had Master intended that I would take them into a dressing room and affix them to myself? As I went in search of the riding crops, I briefly made eye contact with a gentleman who looked as uncomfortable as I felt. He fairly glowed with embarrassment in fact. His upper lip and forehead glistened.
There probably wasn’t an equestrian shop on the West Coast with a greater selection. I took an $18 black and red one off the shelf, and felt an idiot. I’d get one of the bimbos to tap me on the butt with it, and then get the hell out of there quick. But when I was halfway over the PVC clothing area, the Glistener stepped in front of me wearing the oddest expression — one combining infinite embarrassment and almost unendurable excitement. “Please, miss,” he stuttered.
“If Miss is looking for a slave…,” he said, his eyebrows reaching halfway to his hairline, his tongue frantically trying to keep his lips wet enough for speech. “If Miss is looking for a slave, miss, this one would like to apply, please, miss.” He looked as though he might faint.
“Stop saying miss,” I heard myself say, not entirely gently.
His mouth dropped open, as a nine-year-old’s might at the sight of the latest Playstation hiding beneath gift wrap. “Oh, yes, Mistress,” he said. “Just as Mistress wishes! Thank you, Mistress!”
One of the bimbos came over, shaking her head in disgust. “Is he bothering you?” she asked me. It appeared as though she wanted to glower at him, but her lineless forehead wasn’t having it. “He’s such a little slut. I take my eye off him for 10 seconds, he’s off licking somebody else’s shoes.” She turned to the Glistener, who looked as though he might hyperventilate, and grabbed him between legs. “Isn’t that right, slave?”
And I’d thought he’d looked happy a moment ago! “Yes, Mistress Brittani!” he gasped. “I’m so sorry, Mistress Brittani!” I had no way of knowing for sure, of course, that she spelled her name with an i at the end, but her boobs and hair made it seem likely.
She rolled her eyes and began leading him away by the balls, but I stopped her to ask if I could borrow him just for a moment. She’d said of course I could, though all he was good for was handing over his credit card to the casher when she’d picked out everything she wanted. I couldn’t stand her, but it wasn’t as though I were about to propose we become best girlfriends. I said, “I think he’ll do just fine for my purposes,” which, I explained, consisted solely of trying out my riding crop.
In affirmation, she snarled at our little friend, “You heard her, slave. Drop your pants.” I’d have been quite content for him to leave them up, but the important thing was that once again I’d managed to comply with Master’s directive.
My Women Call Me Sir http://tinyurl.com/236ntur
I went out with a Juanita, a high school senior a lot more my speed in terms of background and interests and what part of town she’d come from. She had tattoos and changed her own oil. But she was pretty much Elise’s opposite in terms of what she wanted in the bedroom. I couldn’t be too gentle for her, her tattoos and dirty fingernails be damned. It occurred to me there was no judging a book by its cover.
If I hadn’t learned that lesson with Juanita, I sure would have learned it with Amy, who I met at TJ Maxx. I kept seeing her smiling at me in different parts of the menswear section before I realized she was trying to get me to notice her. She had her little boy with her and was probably at least 30, but really good-looking. She invited me over for dinner. When we got Jack to bed, she poured us both a glass of wine and sat down beside me on the sofa. I was surprised by her saying how irresistible she found me, as I’d come to the store straight from work, and was way grungy. She said my grunginess had been what attracted her — that and the way I carried myself. She thought I carried myself like somebody who didn’t take shit from anybody, somebody who knew how to win a fight. Didn’t I know how much women loved that? It was biological, she thought. Somebody who moved through the world as I did gave the impression he’d be better at protecting his mate and their offspring.
She asked if her following me around at Maxx had annoyed me. When I told her I’d been flattered, she didn’t seem to want to believe me. She insisted she’d behaved shamefully. “What sort of little slut is so obvious about it?” I was really getting confused, and thought maybe I’d been stupid imagining I’d be able to keep up with someone so much older, but then she helped out, wondering if I didn’t agree that a woman who acted like that needed to be spanked. It was a little weird, but I went along with it, and you wouldn’t have believed the look on her face as I undressed her and put her over my knee. I slapped her ass, hard, and she squealed, “I’ve been so bad, sir. I deserve another.” I kept spanking her, harder and harder, and she just kept squealing for more, though her ass was beet red. Then I had the idea of whispering, “What a little whore you are,” into her ear. I swear to God she came without my touching her down there, making the noise of someone going down a waterslide or something.
She wanted to go in the bedroom. I said sure. She led me into it on all fours. There were scarves tied to all four posts of her bed. She gasped with excitement as I secured her wrists and ankles. “Oh, God,” she said, “I’m completely powerless!” I don’t think I’d ever heard anybody sound happier about anything. I stood next to the bed with my erect cock directly above her face. She begged me to fuck her with it. When I said she couldn’t honestly expect me to put it into somebody so cheap, I thought she might hyperventilate. I was almost scared by how excited she was.
I slapped her face. I was winging it now. She gasped, “I deserve that, Sir. I so deserve that, and another, even harder one.” I got the impression she’d have been happy with getting bloodied, but if so, she was going to have to find somebody else. I told her I’d be the one to decide what she deserved, and entered her. She asked me to pull her hair as I fucked her. I did, and she whimpered ecstatically.
I Was a Teenaged Heterosexual Transvestite Dominatrix! http://tinyurl.com/252oxsr
Something remarkable had happened about three-quarters of the way through our long relationship, though — the Internet. There were countless dozens just like me out there, and they all seemed defiantly unashamed. Times had changed.
My mother had slashed my dad to ribbons verbally every day of my childhood. The idea of exploiting some of the unfortunate skills I’d learned at home appealed to me. I made up a dominatrix alter ego, Mistress Latvia (I’d recently read a book about the Bolsheviks and Romanovs), and began corresponding with a succession of submissive men whose idea of great fun was being vilified in much the same way my dad had been, raked over the coals, told they were stupid and worthless and unclean. I seemed to have a real knack for it, and soon discovered that many of my correspondents could be bullied fairly easily into sending expensive fetishwear — one guy spent $350 on a pair of custom platform shoes with 14-inch heels — which my girlfriend declined to wear because she thought I’d acquired it deceptively. Well, of course I had, I acknowledged, wasn’t I giving these guys exactly what they wanted? The most potent sexual organ is the one between one’s ears, I argued, not legs, and wasn’t Goddess A giving her correspondents’ a good workout? Just as it appeared as though I’d convinced her, she revealed that felt that it wasn’t her I’d come to be turned by, but that which I was able to persuade her to wear. I’d heard that one, and would hear it again, and would always hate hearing it. Our screen went black and we moved on.
I got married again, to a woman I’d met via our mutual interest in a kink-related Website. Like my first wife, she didn’t condemn me for cross-dressing, but it didn’t get her wet either. I did it for my own pleasure when she went out.
By the fifth year of our marriage, we’d pretty much stopped having sex. She felt objectified when I asked her to wear the sorts of things that enflamed me, and spontaneous non-costumed roll-in-the-hay-style sex didn’t interest me very much at all. I’d come to be unable to take any more of New York, where she had a good career going. I moved alone to the West Coast, and my career as a transvestite dominatrix began.
I posted a Man-Seeking-Woman advertisement on craigslist with the headline Want to try something a little different? and a photo of me in drag. No women responded, but a guy did, a real Joe Sixpack type, with a belly, a baseball cap, and a cold brewski in hand. He said he wished his girlfriend had legs as gorgeous as mine. I was surprised to realize that, even though I wanted to interact sexually with this guy about as much as I did with the gas meters in front of the building in which I’d sublet a condominium, I considerably enjoyed being lusted after. During my second marriage, understand, I’d reached A Certain Age. There’d been a time when, stopped beside at me at intersections, women would scrawl their phone numbers in lipstick backwards on the insides of their side windows for me. As I got older, though, I began to experience the awful invisibility of middle age; women stopped beside me at intersections wouldn’t have been able to the police who’d been driving my car.
I ran more craigslist ads, in adjacent cities, once again describing myself as in the market for a woman with a taste for novelty. Once again I heard from no women, but several men, an alarming percentage of whom transmitted JPEGs of their uniformly unremarkable dicks, and all of whom seemed to think me quite hot stuff. It occurred to me to exhume Mistress Latvia, and to stipulate that one couldn’t reasonably expect to enjoy the Goddess’s attention without first demonstrating his obedience by…buying me something! As expected, a large percentage of my admirers vanished instantly. But one who didn’t eagerly spent $120 on the wig that changed my life.
I’d heretofore been making do originally with a spiky black fright wig, supposedly inspired by the Tina Turner of the “What’s Love Got to Do With It” era, that made me look like one of Motley Crue, circa 1983, and later with a long curly blonde number in which I was just another in-shape dude in a long curly blonde wig. The new $120 wig — huge, bouffant, auburn — transformed me. I looked really good in it; it somehow had the effect of making my very bulbous nose look small.
The missus came for a short visit, and brought with her the feather-trimmed see-through black robe I’d frequently enjoyed trying on myself during her long evenings out with friends. It and the new wig made a formidable combination. When I attached photographs of Mistress Latvia wearing both to my craigslist postings, the response was such that I had to devote all day to answering email.
Where other boys had been good at knots or baseball or something else traditionally masculine, I’d excelled at grammar. Subliteracy was characteristic of nearly all the respondents to craigslist postings. I don’t think one guy in 10 knew the difference between your and you’re, which was one more than seemed to know that I want to kneel before you, Goddess needs a comma before Goddess. But my speculating that their apparent stupidity owed to the sight of me having made the blood rush from their brains to their groins seemed only to delight most of them.
I went to a club as my male self and tried to lower the boom on an attractive, obviously unaccompanied young woman. She was aghast that one of my advanced years (a gentleman doesn’t ask a transvestite for the exact figure) would in a million years imagine she might be interested, and actually turned her back on me in revulsion. I hurried back to my parallel universe, in which all I heard was how remarkably hot I am.
A local moron, another Joe Sixpack, found me on line one afternoon, in Yahoo! Messenger, and said he’d pay $50 for half an hour with Mistress Latvia. He wasn’t exactly Michelle Pfeiffer in Batman Returns to me in terms of attractiveness, but this was an adventure I’d never had, so I told him to come over, and met him at my front door in character. I enjoyed his trembling as I made him disrobe and get down on his knees. I thought what the hell and stuck my semi-tumescent cock in his mouth. I enjoyed the power part; the actual fellatial part honestly didn’t do a thing for me. I made him lie down on the floor and used his face as a footrest. After 10 minutes, tired of being unable to catch his breath around so gorgeous and intimidating a creature as Mistress Latvia, he beat a hasty retreat back into the real world. Easiest $50 I ever earned.
Involuntary Sissy https://www.amazon.com/dp/B003QCIOB6
Cheryl confided that, at 17, she’d had a threesome no one had ever found out about with her boyfriend and a hot friend of his from his hometown in Delaware. But she was a lot more interested in hearing about my cross-dressing. At first I told her I’d given it up at 15, but she just arched her eyebrows at me mischievously until I admitted I’d actually never stopped for long, and in fact had some femme attire at my apartment. She could hardly have been more delighted. She insisted that I invite her over the next afternoon, and greet me at the door self-feminized.
I wouldn’t have dared dream that the secret I’d guarded so staunchly for so long would have had this effect on a woman. I couldn’t have been more in love with her at that moment. As for my being or not being queer, her reaction made me feel as though I had a baseball bat between my legs, and we made love for the second time in half an hour, even more energetically than the first.
The memory of all of which was pretty well faded by the time she was scheduled to come over the next afternoon. I’d done my makeup with unprecedented care, and was wearing for the first time a new wig I’d bought on line almost a month before; I’d wanted to save it for a special occasion, and occasions didn’t come much more special than this one. I’d broken out a $15 pair of pantyhose, also intended for a special occasion. I was of course wearing my big rhinestone earrings, shoulder length black satin gloves, a transparent black nylon jacket with harem sleeves, and my strappy sandals with five-inch heels. I’d even painted my toenails.
Now, though, I’d probably spent as many hours practicing (with the utmost pleasure) walking in my shoes as aspiring pilots do in the wild blue yonder before being licensed, I suddenly felt clumsy, and more nervous than I can describe. She might very well not have realized how completely I transformed myself at these moments. What if, at the sight of me, she burst out laughing, or decided she didn’t find the idea sexy after all, but distasteful? I was just on the verge of kicking off my shoes and hurrying into the bathroom to wipe off my carefully applied makeup when she phoned from her car to say how excited she was, and to warn me that, if I knew what was good for me, I wouldn’t even dream of disappointing her.
I couldn’t have asked for a better reaction. I opened the door so as not to be seen in the hallway. When she stepped in and saw me, she fairly lit up with delight, gasping, “Oh, my god!” over and over. She had me turn around for her. And when, discovering that my hard-won grace hadn’t deserted me after all, I strutted for her as though on a catwalk, she literally moaned with desire. “You are so fucking hot!” she said, and you can imagine the effect that had on our lovemaking — that combined with the fact that she turned out to be wearing stockings of her own, a garter belt, and no underwear beneath her skirt. Before we went at it, she wanted just to kiss and rub legs together, nylon on nylon. I don’t think a heterosexual cross dresser could have imagined greater happiness.
Bitches’ Boi http://tinyurl.com/2gxa88c
We found a booth and ordered a couple of beers. I’d have preferred a glass of pinot grigio, but none was on offer. A trio of bikers at the bar were leering quite openly at Megan. I was relieved she didn’t seem to notice. “You know what would really hit the spot?” she asked. “A nice fat doobie. Why don’t you see if you can score us one.”
I wasn’t even in the same area code as my comfort zone by this point, but wanted more and more for her to drag those gorgeous breasts across my face. I said, “Sure,” as though buying drugs in a biker bar were something I did all the time, and slid out. At the bar, I finally got the attention of a woman bartender with dyed black hair, crooked teeth, and more tattoos than I’d ever seen on a woman. I motioned for her to lean over so I could speak into her ear. Finding out what I was after, she gave me a look of withering disgust. “That’s something you’re going to have to figure out on your own, isn’t it, babycakes?” she snarled, and turned to another customer.
Babycakes! Well, there was no question that this simply wasn’t working for me, an impression vividly reinforced by the band arriving on stage and beginning to play at a volume that made me fear for my fillings. Nothing would do but for me to admit to Megan that I was terribly uncomfortable. If she wouldn’t agree to leave, I’d phone a cab to take me home.
She wasn’t alone in our booth; there was a floridly redheaded guy in a yellow bandana and a great many ugly tattoos talking to her. He made the place’s other male patrons smell like Vanity Fair in comparison, which fact hadn’t escaped Megan, who seemed relieved to see me. She leaned over to say into my ear, “Dude fuckin’ reeks. Make him go away.” The band was so loud she had to say it a couple of times. I hoped the first time that maybe I’d heard her wrong. The guy didn’t look as though he was going to be very susceptible to gentlemanly persuasion.
When I smiled and motioned for him to lean toward me, he just leered, revealing a black space where an incisor should have been, and went back to trying to drool down Megan’s top. I looked around for a bouncer or anybody else who might be able to intervene, but saw no one. I noticed the mounting disdain on Megan’s face.
Holding my breath to keep from passing out, I slid into the booth beside her assailant, and leaned over to speak into his ear just as the band finished its first song. He pushed me away and snarled, “You got some kind of problem, faggot?” He leered malevolently as the band roared back to life.
I did what I thought was the reasonable, adult thing. I returned to the bar and asked one of the male bartenders whom I should talk to about my date being harassed. He gave me an odd, disapproving look, came out from behind the bar, and indicated I was to lead him to Megan’s tormentor. The guy was no bigger than I. He might have been an inch or two shorter. But it was his job, and not my own.
When we got to my and Megan’s booth, the biker dude tried giving the bartender the same intimidating scowl that had frightened me away, but the bartender wasn’t impressed, and jerked his thumb emphatically back over his shoulder. The biker thought about it for a minute, shrugged, and slid out of the booth.
Megan wouldn’t even look at me. When the music abated again, I told her I actually found the place pretty disagreeable. If she wanted to stay, I was prepared to phone for a cab. She finished what was left of her bottle of Pabst and took a prodigious swig of mine, untouched to this point, and slid out. “Well,” she said, “are you coming or staying?”
It occurred to me, as we made our way to the exit, that the only way to redeem myself now would be to punch one of the slobs leering at her so baldly as we passed. But I felt pretty certain I’d wind up in intensive care if I did so.
She turned on the radio when we got into her car, and we didn’t try to speak over the awful music the first half of the drive home. Then it seemed as her mood lightened. She said, “Not exactly Vin Diesel, are you?” She wasn’t quite smiling, but at least smirking. I said I hadn’t had the pleasure of seeing any of Mr. Diesel’s work, and was relieved and delighted when she replied, “Don’t bother. It sucks.” I was momentarily speechless when she asked if I wanted to come home with her, and then said, “Hell, yes!” rather as I imagined one of the dudes back at the club might have.
She said something about my having really nice features, unusually fine ones for a guy. I had no idea what she was getting at, but wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Goddess Tyrant https://www.amazon.com/dp/B003X95LTA
The version of himself that greeted me the first night I went down to his flat in Sheen was one I hadn’t seen in the elevator. When I rang his buzzer, he called, “It’s open.” Posed grandly in the lounge, he was suddenly considerably taller than me, thanks to four-inch black patent stilettos. He was wearing a black lace girdle under his transparent maribou-trimmed negligee — very Ava Gardner — very large diamante drop earrings. and a platinum wig. He’d done a fab job on his makeup; I knew from my own very limited experience that false eyelashes were the devil to put on, and he could have got a job putting them on for film stars. I was well and truly gobsmacked.
Far from apologetic or tentative, he was very grand dame about the whole thing. As he inserted a cigarette into a long holder, making clear he expected me to come light it for him (forget that I’m a reformed smoker, and carry neither matches nor a lighter!), he exuded self-confidence bordering on hauteur.
I didn’t know quite how to react. A part of me wanted to burst into confused, nervous laughter. Another part wanted to ravage him. I found very sexy his reaction to my confusion. “You may have your little chuckle,” he declared quite grandly, “before you suck my cock.”
I loved our lovemaking that night. I felt as though I’d been transported into Nic Roeg’s Performance. It was like the best of both my lipstick lesbian world and my man-craving heterosexual one.
Once a Sissy
My geography teacher, the mustachioed, nervous little Mr. Ives, came onto me. He summoned me for a conference having to do with the work I’d failed to do while depressed. While I explained that it had been a broken heart making it impossible for me to concentrate on schoolwork, he locked the doors of the classroom. He didn’t have to pull the blinds because we were on the third floor of the Social Studies building. He told me he wanted to kiss me. I, thinking fast, said that was really kind of him, but I didn’t think it would be a good idea. He put his hand on my leg. He was flushed and slick with sweat. He kept licking his lips. He said if I let him kiss me, I wouldn’t have to make up any of the work I’d not done. Once again I refused; I wasn’t so naïve as to imagine he’d be content with a kiss.
Now he really got red. He called me a spoiled little brat and a faggot, and said if I breathed a word of what had happened to anyone, he’d say I’d offered to trade sexual favors for a good grade in his class. He’d been teaching at my school for 29 years and had never been in the slightest bit of trouble, so which of us did I think everyone would believe? I didn’t breathe a word of it to anyone, but he gave me a C in his class. I had nothing else but A’s on that report card.
I got my first official job that summer after sophomore year, as a junior stylist at one of the chiquest hair salons in town. Junior stylist meant that I shampooed clients’ hair before the real stylists cut it, and then swept up afterward, and sharpened their scissors, and disinfected their combs, and liaised with their coke dealers for them when they were busy, and fetched them food. The only male of the four stylists, Jean-Claude, who’d never been anywhere near Quebec, let alone France, was gay, and detested me on sight. One of those impeccably masculine types, with short hair, a mustache, and Carhartt work boots, he apparently thought “flamers” such as I made it less likely for the society at large to accept gays. I neither bothered pointing out that I was as straight as a one-dollar bill, nor asked his feelings about the annual Gay Pride parade down in the City.
Another stylist, Zhaneen, was around 40, botoxed to within an inch of her life, and unashamedly predatory. My second day on the job, she said, “You’re having a drink with me after work tonight,” in a tone that invited no negotiation. She drove us back to her condo in her little Mazda sports car, virtually threw me inside, and ravenously deflowered me. The sex part was hella fun. She was a wonderful teacher and I, judging from the noises she made, exactly the sort of gifted, attentive student every teacher loves to teach.
She didn’t teach me just about sex, but taught me a lot about makeup as well. I’d sort of been winging it the whole time I’d been wearing it, since I started middle school. She refined my approach. After lovemaking, she’d sit me down at her makeup table and experiment with different looks for me. Seeing myself in some of them, I think I knew how Narcissus must have felt. I was stunning! These sessions would almost invariably end with both of us being so turned on by how pretty she’d made me that we wound up making even more torrid love than when just home from the salon. She called me a dream come true — wonderfully feminine-looking, but generously endowed and inexhaustible. She made me promise I wouldn’t let any of the salon’s rich lady clients lure me away, but it was actually she who pulled the plug on our relationship, after the girlfriend who’d left her earlier in the year decided she’d made a terrible mistake.