Message-ID: <21175asstr$942534602@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Authentication-Warning: backdraft.briar.org: smap set sender to using -f From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern) X-Newsreader: Session Scheduler Subject: {ASSM} A Place of her Own by Vickie Tern 5/10 TG F/m Femdom X-Original-Message-ID: <19991111093901.25568.00000042@ngol02.aol.com> X-To: story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us JMDigest-Score: good -18 Date: Sat, 13 Nov 1999 18:10:02 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: assm-admin {Vickie Tern} NEW TG: A Place of Her Own 5/10 , F/m, M/M etc, femdom This story depicts sexual activity of various sorts among consenting if sometimes also credulous and deceived adults. If you are not a consenting adult don't read it, no matter how credulous or deceived. It's not for you. Not yet. "I'll arrange for your mail to be forwarded. I hate to run" -- she glanced at her watch -- "but I don't want to miss the next plane back if I can help it. Things to do and people to see. Don't bother to come down -- the doorman'll get me a taxi." She was already in the hall pressing the elevator call button, and she looked back at me. "I think you'll find that this will work out even better than you've imagined, Amy," she said. "I'm sure of it. Better for both of us!" The elevator door slid open and Trish stepped in. Her eyes and mind were already preoccupied with something else, I saw, as she waited for the door to close. It closed, swallowing up my wife and my marriage. I stared at it. "Well, I think I have everything here I need, Amy," the Queen Realtor said. "If you have any questions please be sure to call me. Enjoy your new life. I'm sure you will." She shook my hand and departed after Trish. When the elevator returned for her she too stepped in and was gone. My new life had begun. I hung my suit jacket in the hall closet and then thought better of it, kicked off my heels, and walked in my stockings toward my new bedroom, enjoying the squishy feel of the thick turquoise carpet against the soles of my feet. It *was* a cute jacket, pert and short, and it was the first item of my wardrobe I hung up in my huge bedroom closet. My wardrobe. All women's clothes. I was a woman! I pulled open the top drawer in my bureau. Empty. A perfect size for my bras and panties. Three hours later I'd moved in and set up my computer. The doorman Alex enlisted his night replacement to bring everything up, and I found that if I made tentative noises and seemed momentarily indecisive, then firmly asked them to do something, and remembered to thank them effusively afterward, they were overwhelmed with eagerness to help out. Men are certainly programmed to do women's bidding, I thought to myself. I certainly was. Tomorrow, I decided, I'd inform my clients by e-mail that I was under new management. Andy would vouch for his forthcoming unavailability overseas and for Amy's qualifications, and then Amy would come online with a free bonus program tailored for each, designed to make their work easier, in earnest of her abilities. I doubted I'd lose any of them. Meanwhile I had no food in the place. I decided to step across the hall and ask Tracy if there was a decent small restaurant in the neighborhood. No need for a purse. I glanced at my makeup and fixed my hair, though, as women do. As I do from now on, I realized, until I can sort things out. I prepared to smile as I rang the bell. Women smile openly at each other, I thought. They accept each other. When men smile at them women hesitate to smile back. Tracy was wearing a brightly flowered housecoat zipped up to her neck, and seemed genuinely pleased to see me. "Amy! Do come in! All moved in already? Nonsense, I asked you to stop by, remember? Let me get you a drink! What would you like? Vodka? Wine? Soda? I have everything! I love your hair, does someone local do it? No, of course not, not yet." She turned away to her own wet bar in a corner of the living room. Her place looked bright and warm and comfortable. Easy chairs, two couches, Matisse prints of dancing nudes on the walls. I suddenly realized standing there that it had been a long, difficult day, my third in a row, the best and the worst of my life. I'd been swept into a new world made up of bits and pieces of my old world, and my old one with a solid and loving marriage at its center had turned out to be imaginary. I myself was now inside out, with Amy on the surface and Andy somewhere inside. I was momentarily speechless. Tracy saw at once. "I know what you need, Amy. Hard and quick. Here!" She handed me a short fat glass filled with ice cubes and an amber fluid. I sniffed. Straight Scotch, very old. She then lifted the glass of white wine she'd been sipping, and I wordlessly lifted my glass to her and smiled wanly. We drank. She gestured me into a chair, and I sat. "You're very good, honey," she said. "You move with a great deal of grace and assurance for a beginner. But if you don't mind my suggesting it, next time you sit down in a short skirt while holding a glass, try to set the glass down first so you can smooth your skirt with both hands. Or else just perch on the edge of the seat on one haunch, and then hold the glass with both hands to display the charm of your manicure. Like this!" She stood up, and lowered herself gingerly, catty corner to the cushion, then draped her hands elegantly around her wine glass. One finger rubbed the edge meditatively. She raised an eyebrow at me with a slight smile. Then, "Not like this!" She stood up and then flopped backwards four square, sprawled legs apart. Then smiled at me with real warmth. She'd enjoyed her own performance. I realized she wanted to distract me, to amuse me if she could. I sighed. Was it that obvious? Was I? "Tell me about it, neighbor. I was about to order in a pizza, lots of pepperoni, is that OK? Good! And let me refill that glass." She made her phone call, brought me back my glass brimful, seemed to float in a most delicately ladylike manner down into her chair, and then curled up on it. "Now! I had a difficult day too, but in this apartment there are no pumpkins, only coaches," she said. "So tell me." "Was I that obvious?" I asked her, worried. "This is my life for the foreseeable. I'd thought this morning it would be just now and then, but I guess not. There's no longer anything for me back home." She was listening carefully but comfortably. "Sounds serious. No, you're not at all obvious," she said. "Any ten year old girl can tell, of course, but they all have radar. They're so intent to study out how it is with all the variants, being female and feminine and all, that they can tell immediately who's off the scale. No, I read you when I saw you saying goodbye to your...was she really your sister-in-law? That was quite emotional for a sister-in-law!" "That was my wife," I said. "My former wife, as of this morning. She suggested two days ago that I try being a woman for real, not just recreationally. Buy this place and live as my femme self whenever I wanted. It seemed such a marvelous idea! The happiest imaginable! I was ecstatic! I wanted it. I still do. But this morning when she made me a legal woman she nullified our marriage and moved me out of her life. Before I even noticed, we'd divided our property. And now she's gone. I've been finessed by a smart lawyer. Yet I still think she was doing me a favor." "She may have been," Tracy commented. "I don't see why not." "She thinks I should take up with men now. To me that sounds a little spiteful." "Maybe," Tracy said, abstracted. She was thinking about something else. "But you do have to agree, if you're even the least bit Bi, the idea makes sense. Men have their virtues and advantages. Just doing to them what she did to you can give an enormous boost to a girl's ego." She suddenly seemed to make up her mind about whatever it was. She leaned forward and talked rapidly and with evident sincerity. "No, dear, don't worry. You'll pass. You already have. That Real Estate lady was certainly persuaded. But I'm a gynecologist, I can always tell. Maybe your mind was born to wear panties, as current theories tell us, but your fanny certainly wasn't. I know how a girl's bones grow and how her adipose tissue covers them as she ripens. Yours doesn't quite, not even in your face. Just a touch of rounding and softening is needed here, but a lot more there! I looked at you and what registered right away was 'Oh, my, there's a severe adolescent hormone deficiency.' Then I looked again and saw the most obvious reason why. Wrong hormones." I sat there looking gratefully at Tracy. She had no problem with me at all. I took a strong pull at my drink and immediately felt warm. Comfy. Suddenly Tracy stood up. She looked down keenly at me. "All right! Before you say anything more on your own, enough so I'll have to disqualify myself as your physician, let me ask you a series of questions. Maybe I can help you ease into this next stage of your life. You'll answer with one word only. One! Is that clear?" "Yes." She grinned. "That wasn't the first question. This is. You're a woman in the eyes of the law now, is that correct?" "Yes." "That simplifies lots of things. And you came here intending to live like a woman full time?" "Yes." "Are you a woman? In your mind and feelings and sense of self I mean." "Partly." "Partly. Is your preferred sense of self feminine?" "Yes." "But sometimes you feel like a man?" "Yes." "Mmmmm! Let me explain, Amy. If you were a transgendered man in the process of becoming a woman, I'd have to follow an elaborate set of protocols for this RLT of yours, this real life test. But what I see in front of me now is a woman with a severe hormone deficiency. So it's easy. You're a woman legally, subjectively, and by choice, and you appear to be what you say you are. Do you expect any of this to change soon?" "No." Trish had made any return to my former status difficult, maybe impossible. I added, "No, now that I'm here I want to try this out!" "Choose only one of those words, Amy. I think the operative word out of that long monologue is 'No!'" She leaned forward. "Since your femininity is inevitable for the present, you mean to relax and enjoy it? Go the distance?" "Yes." Whatever she meant by that. "Might you change your mind later?" I shrugged. Who knew? Tracy's questions were reawakening some deeply rooted feminine desires. They'd been suppressed by the extraordinary betrayals I'd undergone today, my wife's revelations about her lovers and her bloodless excising of me out of her life. But I did notice that I was now exactly where I'd wanted to be, and I was dressed exactly as I wished. I was even talking to my gynecologist! At that I had to smile. "You find that funny? Let me put it this way. If you woke up one morning to find your balls missing, how would you feel?" "Shocked!" "If you woke up one morning to find boobs hanging from your chest, how would you feel?" I paused. I'd never been much for distortion of my body, or for taking needless medication. But boobs were the epitome of womanhood and could be the fulfillment of my figure! A vagina was more womanly still, I supposed, but vaginas didn't show! Women's fashions didn't feature them. And I couldn't have one short of castration and a penectomy, which I knew I didn't want. On the other hand, to have real breasts to tuck into my bras! "Intrigued!" I informed her. I meant it, too. The very idea rejuvenated my sense of the privilege of this moment. I was now a woman with my own apartment and my own life to live. Before bowing out, Trish had given me my lifelong dream! Tracy looked at me very closely again. Really scrutinized me. Then she said, "Amy, my new neighbor, I diagnose that you suffered a severe hormone deficiency when you were an adolescent girl. Probably because your ovaries never developed the way they do in other women. Even without examining you I imagine your uterus is the same way, underdeveloped. I must warn you that you're at risk of osteoporosis and loss or diminished capacity in your secondary sex characteristics. I'll bet you've been too embarrassed to go out in public wearing a bikini. Isn't that so? I thought so. Well, as a woman, I think you'd be much happier with a closer approximation of woman's figure. I mean with hips, tits, and a fat ass, soft curves over your cheekbones, everything. Isn't that so, Amy?" "Yes. Yes, I think that's so." "That's redundant, Amy. But I understand!" She stood up suddenly and disappeared into a back room for a moment. Then she came back into her living room with a syringe in one hand and some pills in the other. She came over and stood directly in front of me, looking down at me. Her crotch was a few inches in front of my face, covered by her housecoat, but suddenly I became aware of it. I looked up at her. I had a feeling I was about to cross some momentous divide. But I didn't care. After this shattering series of days, I had now found someone who understood me. Tracy understood me. I trusted her. I wanted to put myself in her hands. "Amy honey, this will help. To live like a woman, and feel like one, you'll need to become more like one in body as well as mind! Don't you agree?" "Yes." "I'll get the exact medications you need from my office tomorrow, and I'll want to run some tests. But this will get you started. I suspect you'll feel much better about your new life once we get your estrogen and progesterone levels up where they are in a normal woman. This is estinyl estradiol, and I'll inject it three times weekly, then maybe cut back the dosage a little. Then we'll see how things go. You'll supplement the shots with these pills daily, they're to neutralize the testosterone you're still producing. One is to help you feel comfortable about the changes that'll be occurring in your body. Maybe changes in your mind and desires too. All right so far?" I nodded. My head whirled a little. The whisky? Things were moving faster than I'd ever dreamed. "There will be changes, all beneficial, but not immediately. I'm giving you a crash course in adolescence, fairly heavy doses, but it will still take time. Months instead of years in your case. You'll experience nausea at first, I'm afraid, morning sickness. The way all women do when adjusting to pregnancy. But then you'll become rosy-cheeked and rosy-nippled, your skin as ripe and smooth and lovely as a young girl's, the way pregnant women do. I think you'll like it. Remember though, that as your breasts grow your clit will shrink. And those things that hang below it. In a matter of months you'll lose your erections, and in a few more months it'll be irreversible. To be intimate with anyone, it'll have to be the way women are intimate. Can you deal with that?" I thought about the night before last. That grand night of magnificent lovemaking with Tricia. My ramrod cock swollen with the prospect of femininity invading her ass as a special privilege. But how many men had preceded me there? I'd entered her so easily, but was it because I was so stiff or because she was already so stretched out by so many other men? Better men she preferred to me, who'd gotten there first! She'd used me! As a man I was inadequate, but it had amused her to lead me around by my cock. Enough of that! "Yes, Tracy. Please. I want to develop a proper figure. Now that I'm a woman, I want to be the best woman I can be. And that includes everything. Nearly." "You mentioned that you have delusions of masculinity. What woman doesn't now and then? We'll deal with them. We'll make your manhood ashamed to show itself! You think you're a man? On your knees in front of me! Bend over, ass held high! Lower your panties and lift your skirt." I knelt down in front of her. She stripped paper off a gauze pad and wiped part of my butt with it, and then I barely felt the pinprick of her syringe. She took a long time injecting whatever it was, but finally said "There! Now there's no turning back!" and withdrew the needle. When I raised my head again I saw that she was holding out three tablets in the palm of her hand. I licked them into my mouth and she handed me my scotch. I washed them down with a single swallow. I felt so mellow! On impulse I leaned forward and kissed her mound through her housecoat, and then looked up to see if she was offended. She was smiling down on me, one hand on her hip. "There's my girl! That's what you are now, you know. Or soon will be. Here you are on your knees eating out of my hand, grateful to me and now committed to become your true gender. That wasn't so difficult, was it? Let's go into my bedroom and get better acquainted. It happens that I enjoy sex with men or women, and right now you're both. Aren't you? "Yes. So far." "Then come along, Amy. Let's see what your wife decided she didn't need. The pizza can wait with the doorman. You can have some for dessert later if you find you're still hungry." vi. My life as Amy was a delight. I settled into a routine. I went shopping, I met other couples in the building and played cards with them, and practiced light, harmless flirtations with the husbands when they invited it and enjoyed it. I shifted most of Andy's clients to Amy, and they marveled at how much more efficient Amy could be -- "Andy always seemed to be distracted by something," one of them commented. But the central and utterly absorbing figure in my life was Tracy. A week after we met I'd become her adoring swain, or slave, I couldn't tell the difference. On weekends we were girlfriends, affectionate and easy, enjoying each other as equals. We were wonderfully compatible. We shared a lightly ironic, faintly mistrustful view of the world, and we endlessly amused each other with quips about things other people regarded with reverence, like fidelity in marriage or the solemnity of sex. On weekends we went shopping, dining, chatting, and laughing together, to movies or concerts or the theater. We had similar opinions about lots of things, and similar ways we disagreed with each other. Gradually we developed genuine respect and affection for each other. We were good company. I'd have called it love, but I knew better. She corrected me nicely when I got too bumptious or bold or let my voice buzz low, and she registered me in the Condo Community Jazzercize classes to help me stay trim, also in ballet classes to learn graceful and gracious movement. "You'll can catch more men with your neck than any woman ever caught by flashing her tits," she informed me. "Watch!" I watched as she rotated her head demurely down and around and then boldly up at me, her eyes first innocent, then provocative, and finally smoldering. It was irresistible! Then she had me practice that move in a restaurant on men seated nearby. Invariably they flushed, pleased but embarrassed, grateful that I didn't follow through. I seemed to be more woman than they could handle! When I commented that I had no need for men, she merely said indulgently "Oh, Amy, use your imagination. At the very least girls collect them to keep score! And remember, pre-teen girls also have no use for boys until their hormones flood their blood streams and cloud their judgment. Like yours right now. Then they can't think or talk about anything else! Give it time!" She taught me how to giggle at little things. At the self-important ways men walked when they knew we were sizing them up, pushing out their chests and pulling in their bellies, boldly or shyly or flirtatiously rehearsing in their heads some kind of excuse to speak to us before giving it up and moving on. At how eager they were to advise me about the small appliances I'd need in my kitchen if I hoped to please my husband, and their even greater eagerness to please me when I told them I had no husband. "Women marry sweetly solicitous and submissive males to help them rear children," Tracy explained to me once. "So the other kind has almost been bred out of the species. Or should be, but they aren't. Because the other kind are better for fucking, the untamed ones, the kind that seem dangerous when we first meet them and even moreso when we've got our legs wrapped around them. They're for flings. And if a hunk like that gets a girl pregnant, well, she still has a nice compliant husband around to help her with the diapers and the 2:00 am feedings. Your wife has her career and no plans for children. So she really doesn't need a husband who'd rather be her girlfriend. Can you blame her for going elsewhere to get herself fucked senseless?" I learned to giggle at my own chivalrous instincts, my trying at first to open doors for her instead of standing and waiting for some nearby man to do it for both of us. Or my trying to put her topcoat on her shoulders instead of simply handing it to her. We'd both giggle at the way my balls went jingle jangle when we danced Jazzercize exercises naked together, or I danced alone for her amusement. Or how they slapped against her perineum whenever we fucked in the missionary position. "What good are they, Amy? Really?" she'd ask. "Don't you want to be as trim and smooth down there as I am?" I actually began to think so. They were part of me, but always in the way, a sentimental affectation I might find dispensable when my breasts replaced them in my affections. And as the weeks went by my nipples began to swell and point, and grow sensitive, then actually to bulge as my chest softened and rounded behind them. I couldn't have been happier! I'd finger them by the hour! During the weekends we slept together, intimate friends. It was a pure lesbian relationship, as I learned to use my mouth and hands and fingers on her with exquisite sensitivity, and to use my "dildo" as she called it to probe and massage inside her instead of merely poke her. "Use it while you've got it," she told me. "Soon enough you'll need to borrow mine." And she used hers on me, always gently and with infinite care, patience, and consideration, beginning with a small warmed dildo in my rear so I'd get accustomed to feeling penetrated, to containing and enclosing things, to feeling womanly. I loved the feeling, and gradually she built me up to accepting some shocking monsters she plunged into me. I recalled what Trish had said about feeling so stuffed by a rare man's huge cock she couldn't move...at first, and felt the same way, at first. We kissed and nursed and sucked each other, intimate friends who took pleasure in each others' bodies. But we weren't really lovers. As I met other people, other women in the building or some of the men I'd pass while walking or jogging, or other women and men in stores where I shopped, I'd tell Tracy about them, and we'd marvel appreciatively at the enormous variety life affords us. Tracy wondered why, whenever a man asked me for a date, I'd turn him down. I'd usually say that I'd just gone through a divorce and it was too soon. And she wondered why I gave the same reply when a woman suggested we have dinner together and maybe do something afterward. Tracy urged me to get back into the stream of life. She warned me that she'd arrange dates for me if I wouldn't arrange my own, and they might not be with my kind of women, or -- she always mentioned it with a gleam in her eye -- my kind of men. Those were our weekends, when I'd enjoy what I'd always wanted, being a normal woman and behaving like one instinctively, without thinking. They were what I had anticipated when I'd leaped to accept Trish's suggestion that Amy live unashamed as herself. Our weekdays were altogether different. On weekends I was Amy, a woman. On weekdays I was Andy, a man humiliated into femininity. Tracy enjoyed dominating people, and she was delighted to notice that Andy was a natural submissive. She trained me to subservience, instant eagerness to please. Even that first night when we went into her bedroom, she didn't invite me but ordered me to my knees between her knees while she lolled across the bed with her legs dangling. I forgot my twinge of resentment of Trish as for two hours I licked, sucked, lipped, and tongued Tracy's clit and drank juices that flowed from her slit. All the while she behaved as if I weren't even there, orgasming repeatedly as if she were alone and somehow erupting spontaneously. She lay on her back reading ads in Cosmopolitan and Vanity Fair while I plunged my tongue in and out of her, trying to distract her enough to bring her to yet another climax. Then suddenly she said "All right, love, that'll do, that's very good!" And disengaged her thighs from my head, rose, and phoned downstairs for the pizza held there. When it came she handed me two slices, "your share," and as I considered how to put it between my puffed lips and sore tongue she said gently, "No, Andy. Not yet. First it needs a flavoring only you can splash onto it. Go ahead, do it." I realized what she meant, but by this time I was ravenous and didn't care. Anyhow, I thought to myself, Trish apparently had been feeding me other men's semen from her pussy for years anyhow and not bothering to tell me. This was more honest. So I masturbated and squirted onto the pizza, then wolfed it down while she smiled approvingly. And that set the pattern for our dining together on weekdays. Any meal I ate in her presence was always flavored by my own cum. Even other times, if she permitted me to cum while I was servicing her, I was expected to lick it up or drink it wherever I found it, to take it back into my body like a good girl, as she said. I soon got accustomed to the taste. I even began to like it. And that was how it was with almost everything else she asked me to do -- it seemed at first humiliating, but soon became routine, even pleasant. Then she'd raise the stakes. On weekdays she expected me to greet her lovingly when she came home from work, to wait for her in front of the elevator door naked and on my knees, eyes downcast. She'd glance at me and go on into her apartment as if I weren't there, as if I were something on the hall carpet that hadn't yet been cleaned away. Then if she ordered me to follow her I would. If not I'd go back to my apartment hoping that she'd call me into hers later on. Sometimes she did. end 5/10 (c) 1999 by Vickie Tern (VickieTern@AOL.COM, all comments welcomed)  VickieTern@AOL.COM -- If you enjoyed this work, take a moment to email the author. Your comments are their only payment. 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