Message-ID: <13304eli$9807231508@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern) Subject: {Vickie Tern} New TG: Dolls 1/9 F/m M/M F/f femdom 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: <1998072311534700.HAA12494@ladder03.news.aol.com> {VickieTern} New TG: Dolls 1/9 F/m M/M F/f femdom I'll appreciate knowing what you think of this:VickieTern@AOL.COM Other Vickie Tern stories are archived in http://www.fictionmania.com and http://library.gaycafe.com/nifty/transgender/by_authors/Vickie_Tern I'll appreciate knowing what you think of any of these too, if you can still write after reading them. If you shouldn't be reading this, don't. DOLLS by Vickie Tern PART ONE Bob still didn't know how he felt about it, or even how he was supposed to feel. At first he'd said "No!" abruptly, without thinking, and she'd called it a typically mindless male response, which of course is what it was. She said she'd hoped for better than that from him, especially given the way he claimed he felt about her. This was something she wanted him to do, she really did, never mind why. It was for her! And he'd refused. She'd told him he had better rethink his answer, or she'd start rethinking lots of things about their relationship. So that's what Bob was doing, more and more desperately, over and over. The old sufficient reasons he came up with at first got more vague and meaningless with each repetition. She was marvelous, an incredible girl, and he was hopelessly in love with her. She'd become his whole life, his reason for breathing, practically. He didn't dare risk losing her. But she was odd in some ways too. His refusing her "one teeny little request, please, for me, just because I want you to is why," now looked as if it was going to destroy everything they'd been to each other. It had all started out casually enough, a straightforward slow-percolating affair with a girl who seemed at first to be far beyond the reach of his desires. He'd met her in a singles bar. He'd been leaning over the bar alone as usual, nursing his Chardonnay and meanwhile looking sideways at different couples chatting each other up. They all looked like people he'd like to get to know, he thought. Maybe less lonely and uncertain than he was these days, but who wasn't? He was still new in town, and still knew hardly anyone. Still with no job, though thinking of looking. He'd come a month earlier from another town where he also knew no one, to collect an inheritance from his grandmother, and he'd planned to leave that evening. But when the lawyer handed him the check it looked a lot more sizeable than he'd anticipated, like real money in fact. So he'd decided then and there to stay and try to make a fresh start, take his time looking around, and if he liked what he saw settle in. Now, being a little shy, he still didn't know anyone. But this singles bar was the one place he could go to get out of that drab furnished apartment he rented by the month, and who could tell? This particular evening he was glancing down the bar to his right at a dark-haired girl in a green silk breast-hugging blouse, wondering if those small bulges poking forward through the fabric were her nipples or some dressmaker's contrivance. She was looking sideways through heavy black eye makeup at a chunky man leaning over her, and laughing as if amused by something he had just said, though she sounded a little forced. Girls on dates always did that, tried to look pleasing and seem pleased. The man was hefty, a football player once maybe, not yet gone soft. No matter. Bob was thin. Always had been. Too thin to interest a girl like that? "I notice you always order the same wine. Don't you ever feel feel like trying something new?" Startled, he looked left, toward a voice too close not to be talking to him. At first he saw only a mass of loose blonde hair, piled up but then falling like theatrical curtains to frame a strong, beautiful face. Its almond-shaped eyes stared steadily at him, amused, confident, friendly, seeming to share something. She had bright, pouty lips. Bob didn't dare look down further, to check out her body -- that would be too obvious, too rude. A single sweep of his eyes and he might lose her. "I try different things till I find what I like, then I stick with it," he replied. Dumb! Still, it was the best he could think of on such short notice, not too bad. Quick. Something else! "Can I order something for you? What would you like?" She looked surprised, as if this never happened in singles bars, even somewhat grateful. Yet her eyes remained amused, and never left his. The bartender noticed that finally something was happening in Bob's vicinity, and came over. "Bailey's Irish on the rocks," she said. "Bailey's Irish on the rocks," Bob repeated to the bartender, who was already turning away. Then feeling foolish, he added, "Make that two." "I thought you stick with what you like," she said. "I'd like to try what you like," he said, now feeling rather racy. "What I like can get you into trouble," she said, "Unless you're really up to it, really ready. Creamy, thick, sweet. You lick it and suck on it, its more like kissing than drinking, and then you lick it off your own lips. You think you'd like that?" "I'll find out, I guess," he said guardedly. "I'm willing to try." This conversation's eroticism was racing past him. He'd better change the subject. "I'm Diana," she said abruptly, holding out her hand. It was as if he'd somehow just passed some kind of test. "Bob," he replied, resisting a gallant impulse to bring her hand to his lips. He let it go. "Mistress of the hunt," he added, to show her he'd read some Greek mythology. "Not mistress," she replied. "Though I suppose I've been. Goddess. Maybe you'll find out. Or maybe all you'll find is what else I can be." "I hope so," he said, hoping that was the right answer. She'd lost him. And that was how it started. They'd set up a date, he had no car so she told him she'd come by his place to pick him up, and still looking straight into his eyes, she picked up her purse. Then suddenly she was no longer there. For a while Bob had every reason to believe he was dating Diana the Chaste, not Diana the Huntress. He couldn't understand why such a beautiful girl -- with really a ravishing figure once he got to look at it, round yet trim and willowy -- why she sounded so pleased every time he asked her for a date, and never put him off, and always seemed reluctant to leave when it ended, yet never accepted his invitations to come in and relax in his place before driving on home. She had the brisk ease of a woman raised wealthy, and her clothes showed it. She could afford to buy whatever she liked, and she seemed to like him. The more they saw of each other, the further their talk advanced into small intimate confessions, the luckier he felt that such a marvelous girl was at all interested in him. It was beyond hope or belief. Yet physically she remained reserved. He never pressed her for more than their brief good night kisses because the initiatives were all hers. She'd pick him up and drive them wherever they were going, then drop him off before disappearing into the night. When he'd asked for her phone number she'd waved her hand and given it to him, but she'd said something about calling her being difficult, she shared her phone, and she was so often out. She'd take his number and call him regularly. As she did. On their fifth date she surprised him with an unexpected and elegant blow job, quite casually, while they were sitting and talking in her car in front of his apartment building. While she was saying something in her comfortable, matter-of-fact manner, she'd reached into his lap, unzipped him, taken it out, bent over, and no mistaking it, he'd immediately felt himself enclosed in her moist warmth. When he came he spurted semen in helpless surrender deep into her mouth, and it seemed that she swallowed all of it. But then when she sat up again and leaned over his face to kiss him, there it all was, some of it dribbling from her mouth into his, then all of a sudden her tongue pushing great glops into his mouth while she sealed his lips tightly against hers, so he had no choice but to accept it and swallow it down. It tasted a little creamy, a little salty, very odd, not too bad. He was licking his lips as she leaned back to watch his reaction, and she smiled at him, and he smiled back. "See," she said. "It's like I said, you lick it off your own lips." He'd thought she'd meant her own juices that night they'd met at the bar, bantering in that racy way he could barely follow. Maybe she did. But he decided not to say anything. It was just as well he didn't object to licking and sucking his own cum out of her mouth and swallowing it, because that turned out to be a regular thing with her, a kink she enjoyed, and not at all accidental. She liked doing it. The next few times she held all of his cum in her mouth and then spooned it slowly back to him with her tongue, in ardent kisses all the more sensuous and sultry, it seemed, for being laced with his own jism. She pressed her lips tightly against his mouth, and repeatedly her tongue pushed a teeny bit more to where his tongue could lick it off, their two tongues so salaciously entwined that he had no choice but to receive it gratefully and swallow it down. It bothered him at first, but that was what she wanted him to do, obviously, and he saw no harm in it. His semen became part of their shared desire, and after a few more dates he was avid each time to sip it from her lips and swallow it down. Once she didn't give him her prolonged cum kiss after she blew him, instead swallowing it while looking at him with a mischievous smile, then giving him a peck on the cheek and settling back for him to leave the car. His face fell. She noticed, and smiled half to herself. She said next time she'd make it up to him. That next time, a week or so later, she surprised him with a moment that was utterly magical. Under the stars on a deserted turnoff high above the valley, they parked and looked at the town's lights far below. He walked a little distance away to take a leak behind a tree, and when he returned he found her sitting sideways on the front seat, the car door open and both her legs dangling toward him, thighs spread wide, Diana with her pussy open to the chaste moon. She sat imperiously over her open crotch watching him return, and as he came up to her she made a single sweeping gesture downward with her whole arm, pointing to the juncture of her thighs, or maybe to the ground beneath. He fell to his knees between her legs as if clubbed, and buried his face in her slit, and lapped and sucked and thrust his tongue into her like a man demented. It was true. She was creamy, thick, and sweet. She wrapped her legs around his head and shoulders, and pulled him close into her with her thighs, and stroked his hair. She seemed to cum several times, pressing her pussy ever more tightly into his face while tensing her legs and making mewing sounds. Perhaps not. No matter, he loved it. From then on he was hers. He loved her, helplessly, hopelessly, utterly, more completely than he had ever fallen for any girl anywhere. He doted on her, and lived only for their time together. She began to allow him to go down on her before each date as well as after, each time in her car, Bob's bowed back tucked down under the dashboard, his face thrust forward eagerly into her pussy, tongue fucking her until she seemed to cum with those cute little squeals and gasps he loved to hear. He was ecstatic that he was able to please her. Then, she always went down on him too before the night was out, always feeding him his own cum out of her own delicate lips, in small sips, like a rare wine. He couldn't get enough of her. Once she agreed to spend the night with him in his bed, if he'd promise to keep his penis to himself or else available to her mouth and no where else. He nodded joyously, unable to speak. That one night she'd lain back completely naked, hands clasped behind her head, watching him, saying nothing at all. He'd kissed her from head to toe over and over, in little nibbles, pausing at her nipples and returning to them again and again. She'd allowed his mouth free access to her cunt, and he wore down his tongue on her slit and clit while she heaved her hips into his face repeatedly. Who knows how often she'd orgasmed? That same night she'd gone down on him three times, each time more sweetly, each time serving him his own fresh juice from her own sweet mouth. Yet she denied him entry into her body except with his nose and his tongue, And she never seemed to hear his pleadings for an explanation, to know why or why not. The next morning as she prepared to leave his flat, another odd kink showed up. She was standing at his bureau making up her face in his mirror, and he looked over her shoulder and pressed his cheek to hers, to see their two faces reflected together. They were about the same height, both thin, with the same high cheek bones. His blonde hair was shorter than hers, but getting longer -- she liked long hair she'd told him, and she'd asked him not to cut it. What little beard he had was thin and blonde, and anyhow still smooth-shaven, hardly visible even the morning after. His cheek snuggled against hers, she placed her palm on his other cheek, and they smiled at each other's images. They looked so much alike, like brother and sister. It was a marvelous moment. Then she resumed putting on her lipstick, looking seriously at her own face in the mirror, her mouth partly open, her cheek still pressed against his. When she was done, she opened her mouth wide as a signal to him, her lips stretched taut. He opened his the same way. Then before he knew what was happening, she'd lipsticked his mouth just the way she'd just done hers, as if his lips were alternatively hers, all the while she held her palm firm on his other cheek so he couldn't move away. Then she pressed her lips together in another signal for him to do the same, to spread the lipstick evenly on his upper and lower lips. He did. It was all so unexpected, he had no time even to think about it. Suddenly she turned and put her hands on his shoulders, backed him to a chair, sat him down abruptly, bent over him, turned his face up to hers with both hands, and deftly, in a series of quick strokes, made up his face to match the way hers looked in every particular. Foundation, blush, powder, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, and each time he'd wiggle or protest, or grin to ask her what in the world, she'd hush him with such ferocity he quickly lapsed into silence. Then when she was done she led him back to where he'd first seen himself with her, cheek to cheek in his mirror, her palm on his other cheek. They looked again at their faces reflected together over his bureau. No longer were they brother and sister. Now they were sisters, a pair of very pretty girls, though his hair hung in rather lank strands not quite to his collar. She grinned, and patted his cheek reassuringly with her upraised palm, and said to him, "I'd hoped so. You'll do. Leave it on all day today, see how you like it. As a favor to me." Then she'd picked up her overnight bag, her cosmetic kit, and her purse, and the door closed behind her while he was still staring astonished at his own reflection, no longer him, wondering what all that was about. One more odd thing about her, he thought. But in a way that was why he loved her, these unpredicatble impulses of hers. Because she'd asked him to, he left his face made up all day. At first each glimpse of himself in a mirror surprised him, but by the afternoon he'd gotten used to it. He barely registered that his lipstick had worn off though his eye makeup was still as dense as ever. He put off running out for a few errands, and washed his face only that evening, just before bed. When he showered the next morning he no longer remembered. *************** But now her "teeny little request, for me, please" was destroying everything they'd been to each other. What was it he was refusing her? As their previous date ended, he'd been lying content with his head in her lap, his nose pressed against her mound. She'd cradled his face between her breasts as she leaned forward across him to suck on his cock. He'd come so sweetly into her tender moist mouth, so deliciously, as always. As always she'd loomed over his face as he raised himself up to her, and she'd lovingly pressed gobs of his sperm through pursed lips down into his open mouth. As always he'd received it gratefully and swallowed it all, and each time he swallowed, she'd kissed him, so very sweetly. Then she'd cuddled him, and in the most matter-of-fact manner mentioned to him that she'd had a marvelous idea for their next date. Together they'd enjoy a girls' night out. She'd come to his place two hours earlier than usual to help him get ready, and then the two of them would go on a date with each other as girlfriends. She'd make him up to look as pretty as she did. It would be such fun! Nothing much, dinner and a movie, maybe dancing afterward. She knew a lesbian bar where no one would notice or care that two pretty girls were in each other's arms, rubbing themselves against each other. He'd felt a sudden severe qualm in his belly and said "No!", allowing himself no time even to think about it. She'd reacted as if he'd slapped her. The strength of his own denial surprised him. But he was indeed shocked by her proposal, and to tell the truth, he was also a little frightened. He was a man! He had his dignity! And he wanted her to admire him, to respect him. She couldn't possibly admire and respect some nancy faggot mincing along beside her on a date! He told her that. There then followed the conversation that still gnawed at his mind. She wanted him the way she wanted him, she said, and it was not for him to decide how she wanted him. She'd hoped for a more loving response from him, less brutal, more considerate of her desires. She asked him to reconsider his decision, while she meanwhile reconsidered their whole relationship. That much sounded stern. Then suddenly she'd begun to tease, and wheedle, and tickle him, saying "Please!" and "For me!" over and over until he'd agreed to reconsider the matter. Then for the next few days in repeated phone calls she'd coaxed him along, just this once, just for fun, just to please her. Plainly it meant a lot to her, and the more he thought about it the less it meant to him. But still he'd held back his consent, as a matter of pride, he realized. His manly image of himself in her eyes was at stake. And he didn't want to seem too pliable, too easy. Then for two days, no phone calls came, and his resolution turned to jelly. He thought he'd lost her. One morning he woke up hoping she'd call yet again, while he was still in bed, so he could tell her "Yes! Of course! Anything!" He couldn't forget that earlier glorious morning when he had awakened to find her dear head with its gray-shadowed eyelids on the pillow beside him, her blonde hair streaming back from her pillow and tumbled free, just as it had fallen the previous night when he'd set her down gently and then leaned over her, and kissed her. That morning her wide eyes had opened to look at him innocently for a moment, then to study him as her mouth curled as usual into a sweet smile on seeing him bent over her, just looking. This had happened only once, that one time she'd been willing to spend the night with him while his penis was out elsewhere. That one time. The thought that he might never again see her face and golden hair on a pillow next to his suddenly devastated him. Of course he'd go along with her. He'd wear whatever clothes would please her. It was what she wanted. He'd tell her that when she next phoned. The whole issue was too trivial to think about any more. By ten she still hadn't phoned, and he decided he had to call her. As he dialed, he realized suddenly that had no idea where she end 1/9 (c) 1998 by Vickie Tern May be archived if made freely available. Not if not.  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