Message-ID: <43589asstr$1059268202@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern) X-Original-Message-ID: <20030726140256.14497.00000553@mb-m02.aol.com> X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 26 Jul 2003 18:02:56 GMT Subject: {ASSM} Last Summer by Vickie Tern 8/11 TG femdom wife Date: Sat, 26 Jul 2003 21:10:02 -0400 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: dennyw, RuiJorge Last Summer by Vickie Tern viii. For the next few weeks I encouraged him to think of our new arrangement as normal. He did everything as usual, but as a woman. Most evenings he'd report that there were no problems, people seemed to assume that's what he was. He awoke each morning already quite pretty, thanks to Doreen's facial dyes, but we performed our half-hour beauty routines together anyhow. He needed extra time with his hairdo, and while he fussed I told him little tales from my own girlhood, about different exciting first tries of grown-up things like bras and lipstick, about prepping for dates, things like that, so he could share my girlhood, not having had one of his own. We had a lovely time, chatting together like two girls anywhere about almost everything. Except about men -- that topic I decided to leave alone until I could settle in my own mind whether I wanted him to think about them. Then we'd have breakfast and I'd be off for the office, leaving him to do his own things. We'd always shared the housework, but since he had more time available, he took it all over, as he had last summer too. He spent a lot of time working in his study. I guessed it was on his "I was a woman for three months" project. I hoped so, because that would give his new life legitimacy in his own eyes. He was no longer my mildly whimsical, lightly ironic, even-tempered hubby. His moods varied. Some mornings he'd awaken a little solemn, maybe mournful, maybe impatient, though he never said anything. I could tell because in that mood he'd never volunteer to share stories about his day, only answer me listlessly, and he'd apply his make-up as if it were a boring routine, not an artful honor. Those mornings he'd always get a pill before I left for work, if it wasn't a Saturday when I knew Doreen would be feeding him one anyhow. I'd tell him to relax by gardening, to put on his flared shorts and a halter and get into the sunshine and fresh air and cultivate our flower beds. That he had nice legs, especially now that they were waxed smooth and Doreen's treatments had made their skin so soft, that he should show them off more. He did. The neighbors saw a lot of him on those days, this strange blonde woman impeccably made up, moving among our lawns and shrubs as if in a dream, combing the soil between plants. I later learned that he'd once gone mall-shopping dressed in those same scanty shorts and halter -- one of our local wives sent a letter to the editor of the neighborhood newspaper deploring a hussy she'd seen parading herself in and out of stores dressed that way. Scottie looked wickedly pleased when he showed it to me. But most mornings he'd awaken zestful, choose an outfit for the day -- casual, sporty, or dressy -- and do things I'd read about afterward. He started a journal and left it open on his desk. When I looked into it, as I did regularly, it became obvious that he was now actively seeking out womanly experiences and enjoying them, diligently doing his research for his book. His perfume had become a non-issue, as I'd predicted. He always wore a light spray when dressed casually and a heavier scent in the evening, but even when not, his oil treatments infused his skin with a faint aroma. It was so lovely! I'm sure it brightened the moods of others who caught his scent as he passed them, but of course now it raised no questions at all. When he went in to use his college's library, he showed the librarians his faculty ID card and then proceeded as if he were the person pictured on the card. They never questioned him -- rather, they assumed he was his own somewhat provocative summer research assistant, and granted him all of his usual borrowing privileges. Once while crossing the quad one of his colleagues in Mathematics made a pass at him, inviting him to pass some time in his office, where Scottie knew there was a couch. Scottie told him primly that he never dated men, that he lived with another woman and dressed this way only to please her, and that she was his partner for life. All true enough. The man got flustered and practically fled, Scottie wrote with some satisfaction. But that wasn't the only time he was hit on. He often expressed annoyance at how bold and persistent some men could be, how irritating the intrusions on his attention. That was especially satisfying -- he was learning that men respect their own lechery more than a woman's privacy -- they were always testing the availability of anything in skirts. That was certainly true of Craig until I took to mocking his impotence when we were both exhausted with fucking and he realized he'd better concentrate his energies if he ever hoped to get the better of me. Though it was never true of Scottie, my one woman man who was now my one woman woman. He ran errands in the neighborhood secure in the knowledge that no one would recognize him. The genial professor was nowhere visible in the tallish, brassy blonde. Sometimes he went downtown to look about in upscale stores, as he put it to "simulate shopping," trying to feel his way into women's thoughts and rhythms as they engaged that recreational activity. He'd chat cheerfully with other women shoppers, with shopgirls, with waitresses, on Saturdays with Doreen's manicurist, anyone. He was always friendly, always grateful for their help, and I think secretly delighted that they accepted him as one of them. At night he watched the young women in TV sitcoms to see which of their mannerisms he could imitate and make his own. He developed the cutest ways of asking questions, or of indicating surprise, as if he too were a sprightly actress. I was proud of my hubby. He'd been such a lovely man, and now he was becoming such a lovely woman! Some women realized after a while that they were really dealing with a beautifully disguised man. A few turned away disgusted, but more were rather taken by the idea. They were fascinated by the idea of a man who wanted to be what they already were, perhaps a transsexual who believed he really was a woman despite his body -- that gave them a sense of privilege, that what they were was desirable. Or, they thought him a man perhaps so exuberantly confident of his masculinity that he wanted to try anything life offers, even living like a woman. They liked it that he could share their special concerns and appreciate even their trivial frustrations, and many regretted that their husbands lacked his sensitivity as well as his courage. He talked about everything with them except his own boyfriends or husbands, and he gave them excellent advice about theirs. He'd listen to them the way women listen to each other, sympathetically, not like a man who wants to identify a problem, find a quick solution, and then move on. He cultivated an impudent personality to go with the look Doreen had given him, a lightly sardonic, liberated manner, and he enjoyed what then followed. Some women told him their most intimate secrets, knowing he'd understand. Some offered to find him dates, and never understood why he always turned them down. What kind of man makes a better companion? What kind might make a better lover? These women found him as attractive as I did, but as a man who had chosen to live their lives, not just as a female friend. This wasn't what I wanted for him. I especially began to worry when I read in his journal that the salesgirl in a darling little boutique where he'd already bought a few dresses and a bustier for me had invited him back to her place after closing hours for what she obviously hoped would be some private fittings. He'd been unable to accept, that particular time, but he did offer her a rain check. I wondered about that, and was tempted to increase his tranquilizer dosage to keep his penis soft, and I confess I did just that for a few days. But then all he did was stay home smiling at the TV or at his own reflection in the windows. And that was unfair -- I didn't want him merely warehoused for the summer! So I returned him to his usual dosage, enough to leave him his mind and energy intact yet keep him moderately content. As a hot looking woman, or as a man who was a woman, he was going to attract various kinds of people, women as well as men. It was inevitable. That's just how things are, I realized. And he was enjoying himself, while remaining as faithful to me as ever. I liked that. Often, when Craig's face was buried in my ass because I'd dared him to taste what he'd just done to me there, and there was nothing else to think about, I got a warm glow thinking about my honey and her bees. Maybe it was unfair to him not to move him further, make him even more womanly? I realized one day that his journal entries had an odd tone. He was writing as if his ventures were reconnaissance missions into enemy territory. He was thinking and feeling like a man disguised as a woman. This was not what I wanted. If he thought he was a man, other women might too, and that could lead to mischief. And I certainly didn't want to think of him as a man -- Craig was all the man I wanted to deal with. Plainly, I had to push Scottie further. But how? It dawned on me only slowly. His tranquilizer pills began to show some distinct secondary effects. His nipples became noticeably larger, protrusive, puffed out and incredibly sensitive. I found in fact that I could make his slack penis drool just by touching them. One morning when I was sucking and caressing them gently I noticed him grow raptly attentive to some inner kind of music, breathing more and more deeply, his eyes closed. Then suddenly he stiffened and gasped and moaned aloud in a kind of agony, then with joyous satisfaction. I reached for his cock and found it slick and slippery, and his balls and belly too. He'd actually climaxed without my touching him down below at all! My new girlfriend with his boy's equipment had actually had a girl's orgasm! The same as when I'd fucked his ass with a dildo! That was as satisfying to me as I am sure it was for him, because it meant he didn't need erections in order to enjoy for himself the erotic pleasure I was getting from Craig. So I wasn't cheating him after all. He seemed too embarrassed to mention his inability to get hard or his nipples' altered appearance, but I knew he had to be puzzled or anxious about both. So I raised the topic one evening while caressing and kissing his new little boobs, his head flung back on the pillow in ecstasy. "Being a woman can be just heavenly, can't it?" I asked. "Oh, y..y..yes" was all he could gasp. "It's a shame that when it's over, your body will go back to the way it was. That your clit will become a stiff penis again." "Oh," he said, as I leaned in to lick the fat nub his nipple had become. "It will? ...ooooh! ...oh!... That's a relief... ahhhh, I didn't know, I was worried!" I then began flicking my tongue on one nipple, and teasing the other between two fingers. He let out a little yip. "But if you like this you can keep these afterward. They don't have to disappear. Do you like this?" "Oh! Oh Mandy! Oh, yes, yes, I do!" "Really? Good! Then it's settled, you'll keep them." I said no more. He was half out of his mind, but he'd agreed to keep his enlarged nipples. He didn't know he had no choice of course I might have been mistaken, but his rear end actually began to look cute too! At first I worried about it, but finally I liked even that. A nice round butt instead of his skinny one, yet another physical change all to the good. It too would remain when the summer and my glorious affair with Craig had ended, but I didn't mind. Whenever I saw them, his nipples and his ass would remind me of my wonderful hubby's unknowing sacrifice of some of his manhood so I could enjoy another man's greater manhood guilt-free. And each day he was getting more and more understanding of my point of view. Our morning chats really were getting to be like gossip and giggle sessions between two women. I couldn't escape the idea. If his body and his attitudes were turning the corner from masculine to feminine, I should make some other changes too. Make him more of a woman, give him a real figure. In fact give him everything but an actual vagina. Cheryl persuaded me that a vagina would be too much, it was too dangerous. If Mort had a vagina, she pointed out, he'd feel free to leave her altogether to live a normal woman's life. Without one, he'd always be incomplete, and that was how we wanted our girly men. "But that doesn't mean he can't develop above the waist as we all did," she added. "Especially since you say he gets so much enjoyment out of his titties already." That made sense. I was starting to conclude that Scottie needed breasts. Not just the tokens he was growing, but large, heavy breasts. Daily, hourly reminders that he wasn't an imitation but mostly the real thing, that he had no choice but to think of himself that way. A resident woman, not just a visitor or a spy. I'd already gotten him a beautiful pair of curved silicone breasts, heavy, soft, glue-on prostheses, so he'd appreciate how women feel about wearing bras, how bras provide essential support yet pull at the shoulders, So he'd always remember to wear his own bras or else endure an uncomfortable and absurd bobbling when he was jogging or doing his morning jazzercise routine. So he couldn't possibly relapse and go out dressed as a man when I was at work. But now I realized that his artificial breasts weren't enough. Real ones were better. I did want him to want them, but I couldn't figure out how to make him want them. I couldn't tell him how Craig did certain things to mine that drove me wild, in fact led me into chain orgasms by touching, licking, or sucking my breasts in special ways, especially my nipples. I did much the same to him as his nipples grew. But his lacked the heft, the generous, soft, ripe handfuls of flesh Craig could clasp and lift gently until I couldn't resist him and had to climb back onto him until he was into me. Scottie didn't have anything like that even though his nipples became impressive. I always encouraged him to make love to my breasts, to caress and kiss and tongue them, and I always made ecstatic sounds suggesting how that made me feel. And of course I brought him to orgasm repeatedly with his. But he never envied my boobs. I realized that on his own he'd never ask for larger breasts. I decided he had to be granted them as if they were a special blessing, a gift, as a fait accompli. Then he'd have to accept them, and I was sure he would. But how? The perfect opportunity arrived a month into my affair and Scottie's womanhood. Craig and I were each due two weeks of summer vacation. Craig proposed that we sail away together for the whole time on a yacht he could borrow, to Bermuda and back, just the two of us alone in a small boat on a wide ocean, naked and in close quarters the whole time. His intentions were obvious enough. He wanted to lay serious siege to me, to capture my heart entirely if he could, so he could then feel free to toss it aside if he wished. He wanted to conquer me. I thought I could do the same with him, or maybe two weeks of uninterrupted lovemaking would weary both of us beyond any desire to continue the affair. Or maybe we'd find that climbing into and around each other as a daily thing habituated us, build our passion to an intensity that would sustain itself during the succeeding months of the summer, when we'd be seeing each other only weekly again. Well, if I could get Scottie out of town, he'd never know that I was out of town too! I asked Cheryl how to do it, and she provided the easy answer. Tell Scottie that he had to get rid of all the hair on his whole body for good, permanently, excepting only his Bikini patch and his eyebrows. That the soft, silky skin Doreen had given him was denied its proper sheen by the hair follicles he'd unfortunately developed in his puberty. That his natural beauty required perfect smoothness. That his close daily shave was onerous for him and scratchy for me, tiresome for both of us. That he deserved to be liberated from that ordeal so he could spend more time gracing his eyes and cheeks with shadows and blushes. That he didn't deserve the pain of a weekly full body waxing either. That I'd love him forever if he got rid all of his hair permanently, by electrolysis and lasers, if he'd make that small sacrifice for me, no sacrifice really, since he never intended anyhow to grow a beard or a moustache. That I didn't like them. I told him that there was a special clinic in Texas for transgendered men where they could render anyone hairless skillfully, thoroughly, and painlessly in only two weeks instead of the years otherwise needed. That they eliminated all bodily and facial hair while their clients were in day-long tranquilized stupors. I told him I'd make all the arrangements, that all he had to do was travel there and then at the end of two weeks travel back looking prettier than ever. He agreed. "It's only hair," he commented. " No big deal. If that's what you want." "Oh yes," I said. "I do!" I certainly did. I told him I could bear up and live without him for the two weeks, knowing that he'd be returning to me perfected in his resolve to live as a woman until fall classes began again. That he really and truly cared about how I felt. He smiled, pleased that he'd pleased me. That same clinic offered other cosmetic procedures I didn't mention to Scottie. I phoned them and ordered the full body and facial depillation for which they were famous, then also ordered large breast implants for Scottie. On impulse I also ordered a modest amount of fat redistribution for him, liposuction of fat from his waistline to his buttocks, so they'd be really round. He'd not only have smooth skin and boobs, he'd have an incredible ass! Let him try to be a man like Craig looking like that! I recalled that first Sunday of our new arrangement, when I'd first seen him standing naked and contemplating my panties, and I'd realized that if his figure was less thin, more feminine, more curvaceous, I wouldn't at all mind. That then he'd be my girl, and Craig would be my man, and my life would be complete. Best of all, by the time he returned to full consciousness and to me, he'd be mostly healed. It would be a done deal. I knew him -- he'd accept it and decide to live with it. My hubby now well tended, I was free to enjoy my trip to Bermuda. It was incredible! We sailed and fucked, sailed and sucked, sailed and rolled all over each other. I seduced Craig and had his cock working deep inside me before we'd even left the inner harbor and set the mainsail, and that set our schedule for the week. In Bermuda we found a luxurious hotel and never left the room except for a brief trip when I bought myself some seductive outfits that had Craig all over me, tearing them off, the whole trip back. When we returned to port we were even more feverish with desire for each other than when we'd begun, and could barely unplaster ourselves. As I lay with my palms flat against across Craig's bare, hard, bronzed, muscular chest that final morning, and kissed him once each on nipples he could hardly feel, I had to smile. Because I knew that at that very moment my Scottie was flying back to me with a chest as white, soft, heavy, and well-hung as my own. That he now had full breasts suspended from his chest fully proportional to his enlarged, protruding nipples. I'd seen pictures of what the clinic could do -- he had an ass now too I knew, buns to die for! We'd shop for tight pants as soon as we were back together, and then he'd be able to show them to the world! My girly hubby, who now needed to wear a support bra every day! I did so want to see him give men erections just by walking away from them! Now my sweet Scottie was no way a man. I was free to fuck Craig without a care in the world. But I'd make sure while my affair lasted that Scottie never regretted trading in his penis for a beautiful figure. It was only temporary anyhow, I told myself. I did fuck Craig yet again when the boat was finally secured in its slip and we were free to go below one last time! We stayed for hours. I wanted to fill my pussy full up with fresh sperm and my own sweet lubrication to welcome my dear hubby home again! And I did. This time I had him kneel beside the bed while I lay across it casually, my feet still on the floor, and I had him push his face into my pussy and fill his tummy. Then I fucked his ass and squeezed almost a cupful of Craig's sperm out of my dildo's balls and into his ass. I'd saved it for his welcome home! The poor dear leaked half the night. A few days later I read his journal entries of what had happened to him in Texas. When he'd emerged from his long stupor he knew he'd be hairless, and he certainly was. But he was altogether unprepared to see his voluptuous figure. When the nurses helped him to his feet, there were large, pendulous breasts pushing out from his chest and then arching delicately down, massive yet dainty. And his body no longer descended from chest to thighs in an approximately straight line as men's bodies do -- instead, he curved steeply to a small waistline, then around and out into broad hips. He was a girl! No, his cock was still there, bald as when he was a boy, but it looked small, non-consequential. His shape seemed as exaggerated as a stripper's or a porn star's, no longer recognizable as his own. At first he was horrified. But even as he looked he felt his soft cock begin to stir! He looked so incredibly sexy! He felt turned on by his own mirror image. Did he want to fuck himself? No, he told himself, I'm already fucked! But as I read on, as I'd hoped and expected he accommodated to it. 'This is no accident,' he wrote. 'Amanda wants me this way, and she's tricked me into it just as she intimidated me into spending the summer as a woman. But why? Is she a closet lesbian? If she is, I still love her. All she'd had to do was ask me, and I'd have done what she wanted! Well, we'll see. I trust her. She'll tell me why she wanted me this way when the summer's over and I can shift back to being myself.' It was that easy. That was all I had to do. For a couple more months now I could be a hard-fucking, sexually voracious woman with Craig and a loving lesbian with Scottie. Then in September we'd sort things out. That night I found I no longer needed a pillow in order to give his ass a long, slow, lingering love-fest with his favorite dildo, all the while I was giving his breasts a taste of what Craig often did with mine, lifting and shaping and caressing them with both hands and my mouth. He went blissfully ecstatic. Any lingering resentment he might have felt at being tricked vanished. When the summer ended, I told him, he could easily have his breasts removed, but meanwhile they were his to enjoy, my surprise gift to him. Did he like having them? He did. And by mid August I was so accustomed to being married to a husband with tits that I no longer noticed them. He'd gotten accustomed too, so much so that when he put on a bra in the morning he'd bend forward and dunk himself into the cups while clipping the band behind his back all in a single fluid motion, without thinking. He was more graceful at it than many women I've seen getting dressed. end 8/11 VickieTern@AOL.COM -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+