Message-ID: <21182asstr$942538201@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern) X-Newsreader: Session Scheduler Subject: {ASSM} A Place of her Own by Vickie Tern 1/10 TG F/m Femdom X-Original-Message-ID: <19991111093836.25568.00000038@ngol02.aol.com> X-To: story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us JMDigest-Score: good -21 Date: Sat, 13 Nov 1999 19:10:01 -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 1/10, 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. A Place of Her Own by Vickie Tern i. I left on a Sunday and came back the following Sunday. A full week, the longest we'd ever been apart, and the longest time I'd ever spent being a girl, looking and behaving and feeling feminine all the time. I was still enjoying the afterglow as I pulled into our garage and leaving my luggage in the trunk, entered the house directly through the garage. I had to remain invisible to the neighbors. It was still daylight, and I didn't want any of them to notice that my lovely upswept curls had survived last night's Farewell Ball. This morning they'd looked so sweet I didn't have the heart to comb them out, and I knew I'd be meeting no one who knew me, so I'd relented and flown back with them just as they were. Some other passengers on the plane had stared at me puzzled or amused or interested and then turned their attention elsewhere. A middle-aged woman had glowered as if I were somehow a threat to middle-aged women everywhere. But the flight attendant told me she wished her boyfriend had my courage, that before going into public places he always combed out the cute hairdos she sometimes styled for him, that mine looked darling. My heart melted! For the rest of the trip I couldn't smile at her gratefully enough whenever she handed me the airline's little packets of pretzels! Tricia was nowhere to be seen. A few years ago that would've seemed ominous, my beloved wife not coming forward to greet me when I came home from a long trip like this one. But not now. I preferred now. Now I went to cross dressers' conventions routinely, and that's how I wanted her to regard them. Like ordinary business trips, the kind we each need to take now and then, separations just long enough to renew our appreciation of each other. Long enough for us both to feel grateful that whatever the occasional stresses between us, we do still live together and share our lives. That we're married. Everything in the kitchen looked the same. The stove and the counters were spotless -- either the cleaning lady had just visited or else Tricia had eaten out a lot, probably near her office, working the late hours she always worked when I wasn't expected home. I didn't doubt that at this moment she was sequestered in our study or maybe even the room beyond the study, thinking through strategies and prepping court cases for the coming week as she did every weekend. I almost shouted out "Honey, I'm home!" to make sure she knew, then caught myself and grinned. How domesticated can you get? Of course she knew! She'd certainly heard the garage door grind and growl when I came in. That sound reverberated well past our study despite the walls lined with books and filing cabinets and the other bric a brac of our professional lives. Even into the closed room beyond where I dressed and worked and kept my personal stuff and led my fantasy life. Tricia had stopped calling it "your girly room" and now called it "our" girly room or else just "the reading room." I'd done it in pink and cream chiffon, with delicate hangings and pastel sketches and plump pillows on the overstuffed divan, with a French Provincial bureau to hold my things and a huge mirrored Vanity Table holding my other things. It was where I went to be a woman. She'd resented it as an indulgence at first, but now she liked it -- it had a distinct feminine feel where she could recover herself, she said, when she'd had to be especially brutal on behalf of a client. She no longer minded that I now spent most of my time there, dressed in frilly lingerie and peignoir, or a chic skirt and jacket, or sometimes only an old house dress. That's where I'd work on some commissioned project, or browse some transgender web site, or study my makeup in the mirror. Or fix my hairdo while thinking my way through some client's problems. Eventually she felt so comfortable in that room that she preferred it to any other in the house. We'd sit there together after dinner and do our different things like girlfriends, not like the snug married couple we were. If anyone looked in, and no one ever would, all they'd see there would be two women comfortable with each other, the tall one prim at her keyboard, more often than not dressed elaborately as if about to go out (though she never did), the short one dressed casually in tight jeans and a T-shirt, sprawled across the floor while scribbling notes in the margins of legal papers. I always looked like the proper lady of the house, and Trish more often than not like my cute younger sister pretending to do her homework. Of course Tricia did dress appropriately at work or when attending the social gatherings that were part of her work. Then she wore the expensive black dresses or power suits or beaded cocktail gowns she needed to maintain her position in the firm. I envied her that wardrobe, though I owned one or two dresses as elaborate and high-styled, because she could wear hers whenever she chose and I got to wear mine only when I was out-of-town at gender meetings. But Trish didn't really care about clothes. Immediately on arriving home she'd hop into skimpy shorts or sweat pants, leap onto the treadmill and stairmaster we kept in the room designated eventually for our baby, sweat off her day's furies and frustrations, pop into the shower, and then emerge smelling of soap, glowing, wearing no makeup at all, her soft, ripe curves barely contained by her jeans and T-shirts. Then she'd peer into my feminine "reading room," kiss me, ask how my day had gone, discuss dinner plans, and if she felt a little horny sit in my lap and begin to unbutton my blouse. Originally we'd both worked in town for the same large law firm, Trish doing litigation and me as an industrial specialist for patent and trademark strategies. Now as a private consultant I did the same thing at home, sending it out by phone, fax, or computer. I was an engineer at heart, not a lawyer, but I retained many of her firm's clients as my own and I found I could pick and choose among others. I was plenty busy. The firm moved heaven and earth to try to keep me, offering me double my salary, a key to the executive washroom, whatever it took. I had the technical skills needed to solve their clients' problems, and the human skills to persuade them to do it my way. Finally my wife told them to give it up, they'd never get me back by offering me money and privilege, she'd try to find some other way some day. Money and privilege didn't matter at all to me. What I wore mattered. Like many engineers I hated to wear corporate suits and ties, and at home I could dress as I pleased. What pleased me, ironically, was an even more demanding feminine dress code -- heels, skirts, my hair set just elaborately enough to show care, my make-up impeccable, tasteful jewelry, all of it. That's how I did my job, as my own woman in an office of my own devising. Then when Trish came home, most of the time I didn't feel like changing into pants and scrubbing my face for a trip to some restaurant. So mostly I cooked for the two of us. It was relaxing after a day of solving other people's intricate problems, and I liked doing traditional womanly things anyhow. More often than not, when Trish came down from her shower I'd already changed for the evening into something pretty and romantic for her, and sometimes I'd already set out the first course of an elaborate candlelight dinner for two. With wines for each course. I did love her, and I wanted her to love me as much. All of me. My devotion apparently had some effect -- she'd been uneasy about my transvestism at first, but as she accepted more of her own femininity she'd begun to accept mine, even to enjoy it. She'd begun to sit at my make-up table, face still fresh-scrubbed and rosy from exercise, and ask my advice about this or that eye liner or lipstick, subjects formerly beneath her notice. She'd never previously used make-up creatively or with flair, only to maintain propriety when dating in College or when attending formal evenings with clients arranged by her firm. Lawyers don't, she'd told me. Her kind didn't, anyhow. She kept what few cosmetics she needed in an upstairs medicine cabinet, and kept a mascara and lipstick in her purse, and that was it. Nothing more. She'd stroke them onto her face after breakfast as an afterthought before heading out the door. She didn't really need more. Her skin was clear and her eyes were huge and dark. To me she always looked gorgeous. But during the past few years fashion had decreed that more is better, and even styles for women lawyers had changed. Maybe because the country's feminism was maturing, women who'd felt they had to look masculine to assert themselves now felt they had to look feminine to assert themselves. Or, maybe it was that Trish was now a partner in her law firm and thought that as the only woman on the executive board she should look it, go all the way. I'd told her long ago that a confident woman dressed in high style and perfectly made up always had enormous intimidating power over men, an advantage in a litigator. She'd listened attentively and nodded, willing to test the notion. Which she then did, first on me and then on opposing counsel. It always worked. Her poised beauty reduced them to silence, and a flirtatious wiggle of her hips could then discompose them utterly. Maybe that was why she began to take the same care I did with her daily make-up. One morning after botching the blending of several shades of eye shadow she'd delighted me by asking for help. After that I helped her daily, and eventually I became the one who made up her face each morning, sometimes evenings too when she had late meetings to attend or clients to see. I loved enhancing her appearance as if it were my own. She began to tease me about such effeminate concerns, of course, once she'd gotten over her anxieties about them. In fact it was around then that she began to call me "Mr. Amy" as if I were some swish hairdresser, and she began to tell envious friends about this wonderful personal beautician she'd discovered, no, she'd never reveal who or where it was "she" worked. Soon I became simply "Amy," and she couldn't praise Amy highly enough. "Amy" was now what she called me casually whenever we were alone with each other, even when there was nothing especially feminine under discussion. I was never "Andy" to her any more. Even when we made love. "Oh, Amy, that was just wonderful!" she'd tell me with her last hug before turning over to go to sleep. She seemed to like my being a sort of girl when we made love. Oral sex was as enjoyable to her as genital sex, and when I became "Amy" to her she pressed my head down gently between her legs more and more often. I loved it all! In fact in recent months she'd begun in small ways to encourage my being "Amy." It never seemed to affect my performance in bed, her earliest fear when I began to dress up daily like a girl. Rather the reverse. She noticed that when I was dressed I was always gentler and more considerate, that "Amy" was more affectionate than Andy during foreplay and afterplay, more willing to serve as her lesbian lover. When I commented this she was amused, and said only "Oh? Now you're a lesbian too? You mean that cute little thing down there is a dildo? I should poke one into you some time!" As Amy I didn't feel compelled to penetrate her with my cute little thing, and some days when she was apparently sore down there from her cycle she felt grateful. Sometimes she would enter a trance as I licked her, and would grip my face to her crotch through two or three orgasms, stroking the back of my head and wriggling her tender slit and clit further into my mouth and tongue. "Lick me deeper, Amy!" she'd mutter gutturally in her ecstasy. And I often did, marveling at her pussy flavors as it became more and more wet and aroused, especially when it began to spasm juices into my mouth. When she was finally ready to sleep she'd gratefully kiss the tip of my nose, tasting herself there. "My sweet cumsucking Amy," she'd say. "Tell me how you love eating me." I surely did! Then sometimes I'd suckle her breasts daintily while she drifted, dozed, and made little contented sounds. I'd have become her hairdresser too if I'd known how. I'd have loved doing some new things with it. It was long and blonde and thick, and each day she'd swirl it high into a French Twist and then leave it that way for everything, business, formal dinners, even for the stairmaster. My hair was dark and straight and not even shoulder length, so there was less I could do with it. I'd play with curlers and a blow dryer now and then, but my need to look male when I went out anywhere precluded a commitment to anything other than a boyish bob with bangs I could brush off my forehead. I'd have loved to get a body perm and proper styling, and have my hair layered into large waves to frame my face. But no. We were in agreement that the real woman among us should look as gorgeous as nature and art allows whenever she leaves the house, and that the other woman should never leave the house at all. Not dressed or done up as a woman! So during the past half-year or so Trish had came to look increasingly gorgeous, and her morale and mine rose accordingly. As she took greater pride in her appearance she developed an odd respect for my skill at making us both look pretty where originally she'd been indifferent and sometimes scornful. She became less inclined to worry or resent that I doted on all things feminine. I adored her. Two or three years ago when I first told her I meant to attend a three-day crossdresser's convention in another State so I could live like a woman full time, Trish had been dismayed, anxious, deeply disturbed. It was as if I were going off with another woman. I suppose in a way I was. I explained to her that I wanted to learn more about my peculiar compulsion to look like a member of her sex, why it felt so satisfying and relentless. To try to understand why her otherwise reasonable Andy felt such joy when he was being Amy. Conference organizers always scheduled doctors and psychologists to discuss the latest theories of gender divergence, to reassure us that there were hundreds of thousands of us created by nature or nurture or both, all self-identified by the same instinctual processes despite all sorts of denials. We listened, now and then adjusting our skirts. There were always cosmetologists there too, to show us how even the craggiest male faces could be softened into illusory prettiness. After a few such meetings I'd pretty much learned everything these experts had to teach me. But I kept going to them, just to do it! To wake up each morning deciding which accessories went best with whatever I meant to wear to which occasion that day. To look as pretty as I could, all day every day. To smile gently at other women like me and at real women too, and always receive a smile in return. To chat with other women. To shop and stroll the streets of whatever the host city, blending into the female half of the population, where everyone who saw me could think that's what I was and where I belonged. At such times I could even believe it myself, blissfully. These days she merely nodded when I informed her I was going, then returned to her work. She knew that now and then I had to be seen by others. Most of the year I dressed only for my mirror and my own delight. But now and then I needed to feel ratified in the eyes of others, confirmed in my femininity by their vision of me. I spent as much time as I could in my special feminine room feeling dainty, pretty, and affectionate in ways men never dare. I loved the feel of nylon and silk on my thighs, and I appreciated my own good taste when choosing the textures, colors, designs, and styles of the ensembles I wore. I loved seeing a flash of bright red on my fingertips, and glimpses of myself reflected in the mirror as no way masculine, rather distinctly ladylike, even coquettish, desirable. I felt sweetly serene at such moments. I felt nice. A girl should always feel nice. Being called "Ma'am" by some sales clerk felt very nice indeed! But that was possible only when I was out of town. At home we both feared discovery. Dressing up had felt terrifyingly dangerous if also delightful ever since my early adolescence. From the moment I came aware that they were different, I'd helplessly envied girls their grace, their delicacy, their charm, their freedom to be gentle yet enthusiastic, their breasts and figures and faces, the displays of decoration they allowed their faces, bodies, and clothes. Their ...femininity. I still remember that day in high school when with my heart pounding and my hands shaking I'd tried on a bra I'd found while sneaking through a girls' locker room. The sensations were so powerful I was overwhelmed, and nearly fainted. I stole the bra and during the next few years I wore it out. Then when I confessed this to a girlfriend at College she promptly dressed me up completely as a girl for a Halloween Dance. I was terrified but enraptured, beside myself. Unaccountably I felt an incredible joy, as if I had just been liberated. I thought I was so very beautiful! In fact she made me into so convincing a girl that no one believed I was wearing a costume. By the time the evening ended she'd persuaded herself as well, explained to everyone that my secret desire was to become the girl I seemed to be, and had gone off with a basketball player whose manhood was up front and unquestionable. I never forgot that humiliation, and neither did anyone else. I became a figure of jest. Only after I'd graduated and met Trish did any woman take my manhood seriously. Even I doubted it for a time, because that Halloween night addicted me. I found I adored the feel of lingerie and the taste of lipstick. I acted out my girlhood in secret whenever I could, always fearful and mortified, desperately afraid of discovery, yet at the same time blissful. Yet no matter how often I dressed I was always apprehensive, ashamed of the smirking, of the fingers pointed at any man who could sink so low as to wish to look like a woman. Any unmanned man! When Trish and I became engaged I confessed my vice to her. She was troubled at first, and demanded to see me dressed. She saw then that I was not grotesque but passable, and that I wasn't camping or mocking womanliness but admiring it. And she saw how important it was to me. "I suppose your dressing like a woman is a form of flattery," she said. She reluctantly allowed that I could indeed cross-dress whenever I wished, since it was so strong a compulsion, but only at home. Never ever outside! She repeated that, her voice tense and deliberate! I saw no problem. Terror kept me closeted. Which was one reason why my first attendance at a gender convention troubled her. It also troubled me. It was in a faraway city, but even so I was ashamed to expose my guilty secret to others. Even though that was what I was there for, I barely forced myself through my hotel room door the first morning, dressed and made up. I walked timorously down the corridor, acutely aware of my skirt and heels, shoulders very still and clutching my purse, then into an elevator with other hotel guests, and finally into a hospitality room to meet other attendees. I was wearing my favorite denim skirt and a pretty matching embroidered vest that morning, and knew I looked nice and was dressed appropriately. I saw immediately that I made a more persuasive woman than many of the other conferees, and began to feel more comfortable. We all shared the same humiliating urge, but to my delight we all accepted each other as normal! After a few days among others of my kind I returned home more at ease with my desire than I had ever before felt in my whole life. Being transgendered now seemed a gift! I finally accepted myself as normal! Trish was troubled by my "girly sleepover" as she called it, for additional reasons. She'd been extremely uneasy when I left, and when she met me at the door on my return it was with a distinct hostile edginess. She asked me abruptly whether I felt different. I understood what she was really asking. She didn't know how far I meant to go. She feared that while I was away I'd be seduced by perverts, or that I'd go gay. She worried that I might not be a mere transvestite but was an out-and-out transsexual in process of self-discovery, that I'd now want to alter my body from my skin on out. That I'd already swallowed handfuls of female hormones, or gotten my skin pumped plump with them. That I'd already set a date for surgeons to turn my penis inside out to line a functioning vagina, and to empty my scrotum for reshaping as vaginal labia. To make me a woman ready to receive men in fact as well as in appearance. She'd read about these things. She knew that hundreds, thousands of former men became New Women every year. Though she knew that many or most remain heterosexual, or "lesbians," she knew that many change in their desires. That Nature doesn't always get things right, that the medical profession fixes Nature's more obvious blunders sometimes better than they know how, that feminized husbands will sometimes divorce their wives and take husbands of their own. In her fear she'd half reconciled herself to my returning quite queer. I replied immediately that in most respects I was no different. There had been no changes in my bodily sex, male, nor in my gender identity, somewhat feminine but still at times masculine, nor in my sexual desires, I still found only women attractive, one in particular, her. I was still the same man who'd departed a few days earlier. But I now understood more about how women feel. I was no longer ashamed to want to act or look like a woman. I was a man who felt free to enjoy his femininity Trish heard me out impassively that first time. Then she'd nodded. "You're still a man you say?" she'd asked. "You call yourself a man? The way you've been dressing up all this time? You could've fooled me!" Then she'd smiled, and her smile converted that truculent near-insult into a gracious concession, into acceptance of me as a passable girl. It was really a compliment! If I seemed less of a man it was because I seemed more of a woman! I liked that! I'd smiled back, tearfully grateful for small favors, any at all, and then we kissed as we always did, as man and wife. Later in bed with her I was more passionate than ever. In the morning when I awoke I found her looking down at me seriously and affectionately. Her eyes were tearful. When I asked why she just shook her head and smiled reassuringly. "Some things are different now," she'd said. "Some day I may tell you. As a woman you might understand!" Thereafter, each time I came back from a gender meeting she'd be much more sprightly and playful. She'd ask, "Well, has my boy friend come home? Or are you only my girl friend this time? Both? Can we gossip together yet about the different guys we're sleeping with?" I loved hearing her put it that way, because it meant she accepted and enjoyed teasing both aspects of me! I couldn't help but embrace and kiss her! It was wonderful! At such moments I felt complete! So during the half-dozen years we'd been married Trish went from reluctant acceptance to relaxed approval of my transgenderism. Gradually she absorbed the truth that I felt, looked, and acted more at ease in a dress, that I was more fun to be with when I wore panties and a bra. That women's clothes felt somehow right to me. She finally understood that I was much the better person for these occasional excursions elsewhere. I'd come back from the last few, she reluctantly admitted, nicer in every way, more attentive, sweeter, and otherwise unchanged. Moreover, my out-of-town transvestism in hotels a thousand miles away eased her own fear somewhat that my compulsion might at any moment disgrace me before the neighbors, our friends, her business associates, everyone with whom we maintained our image as a solidly respectable professional couple. This was a serious matter. We lived in a small community with standards enforced by shame and gossip. Deviance of any kind signified an unsound mind, unreliability. An unmowed lawn could injure your credit rating at the bank. Sexual or gender deviance was unthinkable! And Trish wasn't a fool. She'd noticed that sometimes I felt I had to break out and play the odds against discovery. That after dark sometimes I'd drive out in a dress to mail a letter. That sometimes I'd risk all by carrying a bin of recycleables out to the curb dressed as if I were merely the woman of the house carrying out one more household chore. That once I'd tried to persuade myself I could attend a company function wearing her flowery "Nuit d'Amour" as if it were an after shave. "Any woman would know what scent you're wearing, and some men! The same with that beige lipstick you've got on!" she'd told me firmly. end 1/10 (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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