Message-ID: <4532eli$9710021734@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern) Subject: New TG: Girlfriends by Vickie Tern 1/6 Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-Id: <19971002160300.MAA06300@ladder01.news.aol.com> New TG: Girlfriends by Vickie Tern 1/6 femdom, wife, humiliation M,F,m,f (mix and match) If you like consensual feminization (persuasion, no pain, no extortion or blackmail, no magic), this story's for you. If you're under any relevant legal age, it isn't. Girlfriends by Vickie Tern One "What are you doing, honey?" My wife Tracy's voice calling me from downstairs. Tired, but trying to take charge nevertheless. She was home from work late again, after a wearying day. As she explained it, she was responsible for lots of special projects, she didn't want to talk about them, and the company had downsized too far, and her job was to see that whatever had to be done got done nevertheless, by whatever means necessary. Her Boss rode her hard, she said, so she had to stay on top and ride everyone else hard. That meant long days to avoid late nights and weekends, but late nights and weekends anyhow. When she mentioned quitting to her boss at my urging, he raised her salary -- doubled it in fact -- and promoted her. "We can't afford to lose you," is what he told her. He even gave her a new title and a department of her own. "It's called 'Personnel Services'," she said to me, pronouncing it as if spelled "personal." "I'm the head, but there's no body yet. Nobody to help do the work, apart from my secretary." I asked when she'd be able to hire at least an assistant. She looked at me and said "The position's cleared. When I can find the right person. I'm working on it, believe you me, honey." And she sighed. Today was especially rough. I could tell by the long silence after our heavy front door latched shut. I pictured Tracy leaning against it with the weight of her whole body. Soon she'd gather energy enough to find the living room and flop face down on the couch, and eventually to stagger upstairs. But first she had to call out to me, to know what was happening. I suppose she'd heard the running water upstairs. "Hon?" she called again. "Just rinsing out some undies, dear," I called down. I wished she could just let her mind go blank when she got home. My work wasn't that demanding, so I was getting home as early as I could and then doing everything I could to ease her through this stressful time. Running the household in effect. Even so, she heard sounds and had to ask, couldn't let anything get by her. I suppose that's what made her so good at her work, why she'd been promoted when others were being let go, and why she was coming home exhausted. "Yours or mine?" "Ours," I answered. It was true enough. When I'd gotten home I'd found our lingerie hamper stuffed to overflowing again. Heaps of panties, pantyhose, stockings, garter belts, bras, slips, and teddies, hers and mine all tangled and crammed in and tamped down in a mass of hot pinks and ochres and beiges and blacks, tricots and satins and lace nets. All crumpled, many stained, some there for weeks. "That's good," was all she could reply. Eventually she'd come upstairs, remove her dress or suit and hang it up, and then limp into the bathroom. She'd pull down her panties from her beautifully turned rump, lift her slip over hair she'd piled high on her head, unclasp her bra from the curves of her breasts, let them all fall to the floor, and when I nodded, sink into the hot tub I'd just run for her. I'd drop her intimate things into the hamper for her, and then go fix dinner while she soaked in the suds and bath oils and gradually recovered herself. Until she began to come home so bushed, my panties and bra would often follow hers into the hamper, and I'd follow her into the tub. We wore pretty much the same kinds and sizes. Tracy liked pastels and I preferred darker shades, so we could always separate them out again. But our after-work baths were always a special joy for both of us, even before we got married. We'd undress together, smile at each other, then slip into the tub and then, soaking in warm water, make love. Often at work I'd daydream about those moments. The feel of her slick, soaked pussy under water as I massage soap and bath oils into her tender slit. The uplifted curve of the underside of her breasts where it rises to meet her perky nipples, often jutting out stiff even before my finger tips can reach them. The way her breasts feel pressing softly against mine as I hug her. Her languorous stretching out and her soft ecstatic groans when I begin to caress her most private areas. Then, the feel of her warm, wet, oiled pussy on what is by then my bone-hard cock, when finally she mounts me and I sink into her, and she wraps her legs around my waist, and we rock back and forth, the water swaying and splashing, and gently pump into each other. So very sweet! I soon found my skin was as soft as hers from all the bath oils, and my whole body more tender, more erotically aroused, especially around my nipples and cock. When I mentioned this to her she just smiled and said, "I'd hoped so." Our part-time office manager Connie had obligations that often took her elsewhere, but when she was with us and checking on the staff in her charge she never missed anything. She'd noticed Tracy's bath scent lingering on me almost immediately. "Nuit d'Amour isn't it?" she'd asked. "Your wife's? That's her scent, isn't it." I nodded, a little concerned about what she might say next, but she added only -- "I thought so. It's very nice. You two must feel very close. Most men would never dare use a perfume that feminine as an after shave." I didn't correct her. Nor could she guess that the scent was partly from the sachet in my underwear drawer, that under my proper suit, shirt, and tie I was wearing the same perfumed, wickedly provocative panties, bras, slips, teddies, girdles, bras, or whatever else my wife was also wearing that day. This was another intimate bond between us. Tracy had thought it would be nice for me to wear them, and though it seemed silly, finally I had agreed. Why? Because it seemed to mean so much to her, mainly, and at first I myself didn't much care one way or another. She'd suggested it the first week after we moved to this town as newlyweds, and knew no one. It seemed at first a casual request, almost a whim. We'd each of us started our jobs and arranged the furniture, and begun settling into our new lives together. In fact she proposed it the same day she'd persuaded me to shave my body and to keep it that way, all velvety smooth for her to caress and cuddle. Now that my skin was so smooth, she said this time, it would give her even greater pleasure to think of me working at my desk in the same kinds of smooth, silky underwear she was wearing. At first I thought she was joking, or teasing me. Her job required that she look stunning all day "to impress the locals" she said, and her underthings were extremely seductive and romantic because, as she said, "It gives me confidence for my job -- I like to feel feminine from the skin on out." She'd been amused to ask me to put on one or another item now and then even before we were married, to see how I looked -- I'd say "Silly!" and she'd say with a half-smile, "Nooo, not at all! Sexy!" But now, she was persistent. Every day she kept urging me to try on her things, always when we were caressing each other in the bath tub, my cock clasped snug inside her pussy under water and my senses utterly enraptured. After a week or two I said "Sure, why not?." The next day my boxer shorts and T-shirts were gone. She'd gone shopping and replaced them all with delicate little lace-frothed nothings, the same kinds she wore. So that was that. I felt a little queer at first, dressed like a woman under my clothes. I worried that my pantyhose might show above my shoes for example, and expose me as a sissy. But when I mentioned this to Tracy, she only shrugged and said, "So what! Because you like the way women dress? That's why we dress that way, so men will like it! If that makes you a sissy, be proud and enjoy it!". No one did notice I think, and after a few days I began to find wearing even the pantyhose or panties and garter belt enjoyable. They didn't bind, and really did feel tantalizingly silky, clinging to my skin while other clothes slipped around on them. Now I wouldn't wear anything else. It wouldn't be proper. I did balk at wearing a bra at first. It made no sense -- I had no tits to contain and support and shape, the way she did. I told her that. She just said, "No. But I can tell from the way you behave around mine that you'd love to have a pair of your very own, wouldn't you? You adore breasts! C'mon, confess it!" Certainly I adored hers, though her logic from then on was a little twisted. Yet, the moment she hooked one of my new brassieres onto my chest, I could feel immediately why she wanted me to wear it. "See, it gathers you up in front and shapes you, doesn't it? And your nipples feel a little more sensitive protruding that way, don't they, a little more feminine, more sexy? It feels really nice, don't deny it. Think of the band as me hugging you, and the cups as my palms holding your breasts up and molding them, massaging them gently as you move. Think of this bra as my love surrounding you and containing you." A little far-fetched, but I could feel some of that. It was kind of sexy. In fact it was a lot sexy -- even as she spoke my nipples engorged. She did agree that I didn't need to stuff anything into the bra except myself. "All I want," she said, "is to know that close to your heart you're dressed as my dearest friend, my very own secret girlfriend, as well as my especially darling husband. That you're dressed like me and only I know it. I do so love you for it. Oh, I do!" She was fastening the clasp on the bra and still standing behind me when she said that, and she reached around to hug and grasp and mold my breasts with both hands, and to tweak those aroused nipples. What could I say after that? Anyhow, that's how come I started wearing bras and hosiery and the other fripperies of women's underwear. We all take pleasure satisfying our wives' harmless kinks, I suppose, and it really did feel nice! Mine liked playing Barbi doll with me I guess. Then too, Tracy had a severe streak of jealousy in her. She'd been uneasy when she first heard that in my office I was a lone male surrounded by a dozen females, even though the reverse was true in her office -- she was a lone female among dozens of males and it didn't bother me at all. In fact she'd tried at first to get me employed at her place, so she could be close by, but there were no openings. I figured privately that my undies were her way to stake a claim on me in her absence. Why? To keep me faithful to her? All the girls at my office already knew I was married. Maybe to remind them, if I should start to stray, that I was taken? Or to suggest I was too queer to bother with? Or to remind me to stay straight? To help me feel myself a part of her, and her a part of me? Well, I had no intention to stray, and I did want to feel that we were part of each other. I still do. I love Tracy, and she loves me. Though not the same way, now. I suppose I didn't need my own lingerie -- except for cup sizes we could have shared all our underthings, and that would have been a bond too. But she'd shared all her clothing with her sister when she was a girl, and as she said, now she wanted her own things kept exclusively her own, and she wanted me to feel possessive about mine too. Except for emergency borrowing, as can happen. "We can be like college roommates and borrow from each other now and then," she'd said. "Like when one of us has a special date and wants to look especially nice for later on, when he wants to get intimate." I looked startled, but she took my hand and looked into my eyes. "Girlfriend, no matter how many guys there are in the world, you are always my special date." Then she kissed me. And that's what she called me from then on when she was feeling especially affectionate. Standing there in a brand-new gift bra and panties set as I was, I could scarcely object. I was happy I'd pleased her, and she was happy I'd made her this little concession and gotten to enjoy it. Sometimes we did behave like roommates when deciding what we'd wear each morning, giggling whether Tracy should look especially daring on days when she had to report to one of the company VPs. Wouldn't they be surprised to know she was wearing crotchless panties for example, or thongs that left her delectable ass cheeks fully exposed. Or how would they feel when they saw she'd gone really leggy in black net stockings with seams? Those days I might suggest she go all out, and then I'd dress rather daring too, though of course my undergarments were covered with pants, and Tracy's were barely covered at all by one of her equally daring all-out micro-minis. I'd be amused to think how her appearance affected her work associates -- not an approving eye among any women, I'd bet, and not a limp prick among the men. And especially I'd smile at what my own associates didn't know about me. I began to love the look as well as the feel of really sexy lingerie on both of us. Her work was demanding almost from the first day, though nothing like recently. Often she was too tired to rinse her things out, so I'd do it along with mine. "Take care of these," she'd said when she'd first gotten them for me. "Hand-wash them only, to keep them pretty. A machine can stretch out dainty lace work, and ruin bras and stockings altogether. I'll always want to know all day long, no matter what how stressed out I may be, that underneath you're still sweet and fresh and feminine. You have no idea how cheering it is for me to see when you strip down that my hubby is still my cute, sexy girlfriend." She reached for my cock, now tucked between my legs by the panty girdle I happened to have on, and squeezed it. "Even when you're not undressing to make love, even when all you mean to do is put on a housecoat, and maybe freshen your makeup a little before we sit down to dinner." I reminded her that I don't wear makeup, that her imagination was running away with itself. She didn't miss a beat. "Oh, lover, you really should! It goes with all your lovely things. And that's how I like to think of you anyhow, really beautiful, your face as attractive as mine. I like to imagine that at quitting time you're in the Ladies' painting and primping with the other girls, getting ready to come home. So they tend to think you're one of them, and it never occurs to any of them to come on to you, or even try to flirt. But of course you'd never do that, would you? Paint and primp and make yourself beautiful for me, I mean?" I just looked at her. "You would? I wish you would! Please, at least when you're home? >From now on? Please? For me? You'll look gorgeous I know, so much more like me, and it would be so reassuring for me to know we share that too. It would be one more bond, one more intimate thing we know about each other. Please?" I thought about it. This new notion seemed a little extreme, but I suppose it was no worse than wearing women's underwear. And again it didn't matter that much to me, but it did to Tracy in some odd way. She wanted to safeguard me from other women even at home? It didn't make sense! I reassured her again about that, but she just repeated, her beautiful eyes looking into mine, "Please?" So each day when I got home I'd put on makeup, lightly at first, then elaborately as I got more expert and learned more by reading the women's magazines. Don't get me wrong, only at home. Once a stray streak of eye liner or a smudge of mascara or something must have raised speculation among the secretaries, because a bottle of makeup remover appeared mysteriously on my desk one morning, and then disappeared a few hours later after I'd used it. And it was a few days before I realized that lip-liner doesn't rub off like lipstick, and some of the girls at the office must certainly have noticed my mouth outlined in scarlet. But Tracy didn't care, she was rapturous. She even bought me some negligees to wear so I'd look really beautiful when she got home, and a perfectly gorgeous peignoir I just loved! Now and then I'd greet her wearing one of them. At first I felt foolish, putting pretty colors on my face, but I soon got expert enough. It's nothing much, really, and it can be great fun, like painting or water coloring when you're a kid, only it's you that looks good afterward. Just a few strokes of lipstick -- choosing which shade is the hardest part -- and maybe lip liner first, and eye liner of course and mascara, and a few shades of eye shadow spread with the tip of your finger, and some blush whisked over the foundation cremes I needed to cover my beard. That's all. That is, foundation cremes I once needed. Tracy urged me to spend two weeks of my vacation in Dallas, where they do fast electrolysis, getting my facial hairs zapped away. When I returned my cheeks and jaw were as smooth as hers. My reward for all that pin-pricking and inflammation came the first time I went down on her. She was absolutely ecstatic! "Your new face feels like a woman's, I mean the way a woman's would feel!" she told me, beside herself with joy. "As silky as your cock! Only, a cock with bones and bulges and a tongue and other delicious things squeezing into my pussy from all around! Oh, my!" So I couldn't complain. Having no beard saved me the time and trouble of shaving, and it saved my collars a lot of beige makeup stains. I know all this sounds peculiar, this getting me to play being her pretty hubby, her girlfriend, and all that. But not to me, not as I got used to it. It was what my wife wanted, and I love her dearly, and it all seemed harmless enough. I wasn't really surprised by it. Even before we decided to get married I knew she liked me looking a little androgynous. She bought me wide-legged slacks to wear on dates, with no fly in front at all, tight in the crotch and buttoned on the side, and it was some time before I realized they were women's slacks, not some mod style of menswear. She got me tailored shirts that buttoned the wrong way, cut a little generous in front, with tiny, pale flowers printed on them, and rounded collars. Occasionally I'd wear one to the office when my regular shirts weren't back from the laundry, and give the secretaries even more reason to curl their lips mischievously when they saw me, then to just shake their heads silently when I asked them why. And when other girls were urging their boyfriends to get short brush hair cuts, Tracy wanted mine long. On weekends and other times too she'd experiment with rolling and curling and styling it. Once after we were married she asked me if I'd mind getting a perm, there were so many more things she could do with my hair if it were permed. I drew the line, though she persisted. "Not even a body perm, then? It'd hardly show!" Eventually she let it drop. So only a year or two after our marriage, well-settled into our home and our work, I'd pretty much become my wife's secret girlfriend as she wished. It didn't threaten my masculinity any. I was a man when we went out as young couples do, or we had friends over, or went to concerts and sporting events, and so on. But at home it was fun pretending I was a girl like her, one of the softer, gentler sex. At odd times I'd practice using feminine hand gestures, or imitating the ways girls toss their heads. Tracy always noticed, and always appreciated that I was trying. It was just as well. During one of the rare times at my office when everyone had to work late, the office manager and I found ourselves heading together toward the corner coffee shop for a bite before beginning a long evening. We sat and ordered. Connie looked at me with an amused smile. "You know, it isn't necessary to smooth your skirt under you before you sit down when you're wearing pants. I looked at her as if not comprehending. "I can pretty well guess what's happening," she added. "Better than you think. I may even know more than you know. Your wife and I are from the same town originally -- I bet you didn't know that. We knew each other in high school. Dated some of the same boys." "Really?" I said, leaning forward, genuinely surprised. I was about to ask Connie what Tracy was like then, but she continued, "Yes, and some of the same girls, too." That stopped me. I stared at her. "You didn't know? Really? You are an innocent! Haven't you wondered why I don't join the other girls in their endless chatter about boy friends and stroking male egos and cocks, and how to get a boy to perform properly in bed?" "Because you're the office manager and shouldn't mingle?" I asked. "Because you're a little older than they are?" I was about to say "Because you're a bit of a prude?" when I noticed for the first time, really, that Connie was no such thing. Her draped blouse was open almost to her belt. No bra? She always dressed smart and a little provocative, I realized. She was extremely attractive. Then it struck me. "Because the man you're living with doesn't want you to talk about it?" "Almost right, my dear. The girl I'm living with doesn't want me to kiss and tell. She's in the closet to her folks, who think I'm only her roommate. So I have to keep quiet about me too, or people will add up one and one and decide she's also a lesbian." Our sandwiches arrived. I just stared at her some more. "I never would have thought it, Connie," I said after swallowing hard. "You're so...." She laughed. She liked me I knew, and knew that I liked her. We'd always gotten on well. But this well? These confessions? "Normal? I don't look like a Dyke? No, honey, I'm not butch, or femme, or a Dyke, or any of your stereotypes. Just your average red-blooded American girl who has never felt attracted to boys but feels very strongly drawn to her own sex. To Tracy too once, when we were mid-teenagers." "Oh?" "Yes, 'oh!' We were quite an item for a while. I wouldn't be kissing and telling on her even now, but I thought you already knew. You must certainly know that Tracy is sexually... venturesome, sometimes. She was one of us for a year or two, maybe more. We called our little group 'Loving Friends,' and we taught each other all kinds of ... things. Then she found there were two things about boys she liked after all, their ready-to-wear, pre-installed, preheated cocks, the bigger the better, and that they were easy to manage. So she drifted back to them." These were astonishing revelations to me, but Connie just kept chatting, her eyes never once leaving my face. "Not altogether I guess. When you started turning up at the office wearing perfume and makeup, or trying not to, with bra straps and bra cup wrinkles visible through your shirt, I figured that with you Tracy was returning to my side of the aisle but trying to keep the best of both worlds. I phoned her to suggest she either tone it down or go all the way, the girls in the office were speculating about you instead of working, and we chatted a while about her new pretty hubby." She smiled at me, and evidently decided not to say anything more. "But it was none of my business. It still isn't." "Connie, I don't know what to say!" I was blushing bright red, I could feel it. "Then don't," Connie replied. "Maybe you know what you're doing, and maybe you're in over your head. It's between you two. If you'd ever like to talk more, you know where I am. Meanwhile, do you think you'll have the Callahan invoices ready for faxing by the time we quit tonight? I've got other several places I need to be yet tonight, I almost always do. And would you pass the mustard, please?" So now I knew what I should have suspected. Among other things my wife has a suppressed lesbian streak in her, or she's at least bisexual. I decided that the more I respected this impulse in her, and gratified it, the happier she'd be, and the more secure our marriage. This seemed confirmed when she proposed that now and then and maybe for a while we make love like women, like "loving friends" she called it maybe for old times' sake. No penises. I agreed that whenever she wanted to, we'd use only our mouths and hands on each other, the way I guess lesbian women do, and that I'd even try to restrain my erections. Mouths and hands can be very sensuous. On "loving friends" days she'd tickle my "clit" with her tongue while I did hers, and then though I'd have loved to push my boner down her throat, she'd only give it little nibbles after I'd begun to nibble hers. As we heated up, our heads drove further and further between each others' legs, pursuing a peculiarly elusive urge, a sensation of desire that grew slowly, until the craving was intense and we both felt blown away, and scarcely noticed that our faces and thighs were drenched in each other's juices. That craving spread, until finally our legs were clamped so tight around each other's ears and our mouths were so buried in each other's crotches that we could no longer scream as powerfully convulsive waves washed over us. I'd had no idea mouths and hands could do all that! Then too, there was much mutual caressing and touching and sucking and kissing of our breasts. I loved fondling hers. And one of our "loving friends" sessions got me incredibly worked up, with her lips and tongue pulsing on my nipples while her hands molded my bosom and our bodies writhed on each other. My prick was still soft, when all of a sudden a sublime passion mounted in me, and crested, and I came spontaneously. I lay blissed out while Tracy continued to make love to me, my penis now soft, spasmed and drained. The feeling was different from anything I'd ever felt before. It was as if my whole body had begun to coil up tight and squeeze itself into a delicious reaching, then started to throb with incredible intensity until finally, it eased back and stretched itself out voluptuously. Utter Heaven! I felt so marvelously luxurious afterward, lounging back in my negligee trying to catch my breath, while Tracy beamed down and kissed my mouth and my breasts ever so tenderly. She knew what had just happened, and was delighted for me. I'd just had her kind of orgasm, a woman's orgasm, felt through my whole body, not just located in my crotch. She'd wanted that for me, she said. In fact, she told me there'd be others, because she was arranging for others. When I asked her how she only lapsed into silence. "You'd only say 'No!'" she said. "Like with your perm. I could give you such a lovely hairdo if you had a perm! So I won't tell you. It'll be a surprise. There'll be more of them. You'll see." Then she added with a smile, "A lot is going to happen slowly, but it'll happen!" I had no idea what she was talking about. Soon after that she proposed we enhance our "loving friends" sessions by using dildoes on each other. She meant each of us use fake penises to pleasure each other, the way women do when they make love, me tucking my real penis between my legs and strapping on a much bigger rubber cock to fuck her with instead, and Tracy doing the same thing to me, but pumping into my ass. I'd said "No!" right off, fairly forcefully! If my own prick was out of bounds, I said, why should I agree to let some other cock fuck her, even if I was doing the actual fucking, especially when I couldn't feel any of it myself? And anyhow, I said, my ass is strictly a one way street, strictly mine! She'd replied that I was being selfish. She reminded me that even though the dildoes wouldn't feel anything, when I used one on her the rest of me would feel her whole body respond lovingly, rising and pressing close against mine. I'd always know how much pleasure I was giving her. And she'd enjoy the different ways different kinds of cocks felt inside her, compared to mine. Did this make me feel jealous? How silly and insecure was I, to be feel jealous of a dildo of all things? She argued that this was one way she could get to feel a variety of cocks tucked into her, all the while it was me making love, her lawful husband, the man she loved above all others being the girlfriend she preferred. "You know how I love feeling stuffed by a really stiff cock," she added. "It drives me wild! You've had plenty of reason to know that! And sometimes when I want it more than a few times you can't provide it. This way at least there'll never need to be a problem." end 1/6 Vickie Tern@AOL.COM -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /