Girlie things

While I am at it, I might as well share some older pornography I wrote with you. This one is getting on for being 10 years old now, and I am somewhat ambivalent about the whole feminisation thing, but I do love me some gender bending and I made it work for me at that time. 

Here is a sample that you won't get free from Amazon:

He gets up from the chair, slowly, a dazed look on his face, his eyes scanning the room in search of a mirror, but I have purposefully covered the only one.

"Later," I say and walk towards him, pull the tie of his dressing gown and let it drop   open; pushing it off his shoulders so he's standing there completely naked.

His body is hairless, waxed and lotioned; and the way he stands, slightly turned aside, makes his cock and balls disappear in the shadow of his sleek thigh. I can't resist running my hands along his arms, then gently turning him round and doing the same on his back, from the shoulder blades skimmed by the tumbling hair, along the spine and down to the curves of his smooth ass.

He stands there motionlessly, like a mannequin or a wax model, letting me turn him round, paw and prod, allowing my hands to roam on his skin, strangely cool, as if I was touching a statue, only a slight, occasional shiver an indication that there is a living human being inside the body.

I love that. I want him to stay like that, I want to pull the wig off his head, lie him on the floor and slap his face until rivulets of tears smear the makeup all over. I want to straddle him and have him beg me to hurt him, not with my words and taunts but with my nails and fingers, and I even think that if I did that, he'd probably let me. But I don't yet have the courage to destroy this story, to divert from the script by more than I've already done. 

I shrug again. I've made my girl, now I must dress her.

I make the few steps to the bed, picking up pieces of clothing. Bikini-cut silk panties first; he moves at last, perches on the edge of the bed and pulls them on, almost all the way up.

"Lie back, sweetie," I instruct and as he does, I lean down and gently push his balls inside the body, then tuck his cock, which starts to harden a little under my hands, but remains pliable, between his legs, pulling the panties up to finish the task. They sit tight on his ass and keep everything in place.

As he sits up, I pass him a pair of hold ups, topped with a wide band of black lace but otherwise nude, sheer, with a black seam. The silicone sticks well to his smooth skin and they stay up with no problems.

The dress took a while to select, but I'm happy with my choice, a simple straight-cut thing of heavy, flamboyantly patterned silk with a Chinese collar and a long side slit that goes almost up to the thigh, exposing the edge of the stocking top. The shoes are medium heeled, wide-strappy suede, not stilettos, but go well with the dress.

He walks around the room experimentally, teetering a just little but mostly surprisingly steady, the heels and the confines of the dress adding a sway to the movement, the silk rustling slightly with each step.

He seems somehow more alive now, more real than even a few minutes before, as if the makeup and clothes - just meaningless trinkets really, less than skin deep all - conferred some primal transformational power.

What I see in front of me goes beyond fetishism of a man in knickers and stockings. Like a shaman that paints the body and puts on an animal mask somehow becomes the animal, so donning the clichéd female adornments seems to have created a path for some forlorn, abandoned part of his person to emerge.

He turns around, almost a pirouette, a hand on the hip, looks at me sideways, smiles, pouts a little. The effect is undeniably feminine, sexy, sultry.

Pretty. Fucking pretty. PRETTY. I spit this word out at him. No. I don’t. I imagine doing it, I do it in my head, then smile.

"Perfect. Now this and we are good to go," I say, getting the last item out if the wardrobe, a satin lined swing coat; a silky, almost black mink.

He gasps when I shake it and hold in my hands for him, then walks slowly towards me, turns round and slides his arms into it, wraps it around his body, crosses his arms hugging himself into the luxurious softness.

I walk towards the large standing mirror, until now covered up, pull the sheet off.

''Meet Nell."

_______________

You can read the whole thing (there is sex in there, I hasten to add) for less than price of coffee here:

 

To have his cock and lock it? (1)

This is a germ of an idea. A teaser for an entirely new (and possibly quite long) story, let's say. Let me know what you think, either in comments below or directly via the contact form. 

---------------------------

Ian got up from his seat, feeling a sudden tightening in his chest and throat. Marie was already standing up and strode in in two quick steps without looking at him. He followed her, the memory of the recent events that brought them here running like a film in his head.

**

"I want you to lock me up. Not just tie with leather straps when we play sometimes. Like, properly. With a device. I think it would really make things better for you. I'd love to do it for you. Please, Ma'am,"  Ian looked at her from the sofa, eyes darting up to then quickly return to the pages of the book as if to make it seem less important a request, less pressing a need. Though using her honorific, something that slipped out without his consciously deciding to do so, indicating that he was talking in a submissive to a dominant mode, might not have been the best idea.

"No."

Marie didn't even moved her eyes from the screen of her laptop but her ''no'' was a firm and a decisive one, and he didn't really expect anything else. They'd discussed it before, or he tried to hint, and hint and hint again. But the hints or suggestions hadn't worked and he felt he needed to make it clear to her how much he wanted it. To think of it, he didn't understand her objections.

"Why not?"

"I don't want to."

"But why not?'' He was worried about appearing demanding, or whiny, but if he was to have any chance of persuading her, he needed to know her reasons.

Marie turned towards him now, smiling but maybe just a little annoyed.

"I don't want to," she repeated, "This should be enough of the reason for you. We have an agreement, I recall? I say. You do. Boy."

He shivered a little, reacting to the change in her voice, to the slower, firmer tone, to the lowered timbre in which the raspy hoarseness made itself more apparent. And to that "boy" thrown in at the end, a reminder of the nature of their relationship.

"But... Yes. Yes, we do have an agreement. But... it would give you so much more control over my cock, Ma'am. I wouldn't be able to... I mean..."

Marie got up from her chair and made the steps towards him, standing just by the sofa, her knees almost touching him. She leaned down and cupped his chin in her right hand. He could smell her perfume, smoky and balsamic, and the leather of her wrist bands. Her fingers closed harder, she pulled him up, making him wince.

"Maybe you are forgetting yourself a bit here, boy. Maybe you need a reminder," her hand released him and swung, a short, fast slap of the ends of  her fingers that shocked him more than stung. Though it stung too.

"And sit fucking straight when you're addressing me as a submissive addressing a dominant."

Ian took a deep breath to stop himself from making noise, straightened up, put his feet on the ground and his hands on his knees.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am', he mumbled, the memory of her fingers hot on his skin, the humiliation of the slap magnified momentously by his cock starting to stir and fill up in his pants. He tried to adjust his position so she couldn't see his growing erection, but of course she did, a smirk emerging on her face, colour rising on her cheeks.

"I'm glad that's clear. As to control...,'' she glanced at his crotch, ''As to control over your cock, sweetie darling, it seems to me that I have quite a lot as it is, don't I? A mere slap and a few firm words and you are standing to attention. In every way possible, '' she laughed.

"Ian."

He jumped up to his feet. When she said his name, this way, as a separate utterance, he was to stand up, back straight, head down, eyes up, whatever he was doing and wherever he was. The reaction was reflexive, nearly automatic now and so was the way his cock hardened to a nearly-full erection, pushing painfully against the tautening fabric of his jeans.

She dropped onto the sofa, stretching back, her right leg bent, its foot on her left knee, her hands crossed behind her head, and looked at him in an appraising way.

''Ian. When we started this, this... arrangement. This relationship. I made it clear that the sexual part of it would be determined by what I want. I said I would respect your limits and that I would listen to your suggestions and ideas, but that the only two things I promised was to respect your limits and to dominate you. Not to fulfil your fantasy of submission. Is that correct, boy?''

He nodded.

"I can't hear you. Is that correct?''

''Yes, Ma'am. It's correct.''

''There was no dealbreaker must-haves on your side, was there?''

''No.''

"No what?''

''No, Ma'am. Sorry.''

''So, you are standing here in front of me. Nodding and yes-ma'aming me. Your dick hard because I showed you who the boss is, isn't it? It makes your dick hard to be shown your place, doesn't it?''

"Yes, Ma'am.''

''It makes your cock hard when I slap you, doesn't it?''

"Yes, Ma'am.''

"I like it too, of course. I almost like it too much to use it the way I just did. We match pretty well on this whole kink thing, don't we? And yet you feel this need to bring up something I have no interest in? And push it when I say I am not interested? The rest is not enough for you?''

Ian felt that the situation was getting out of control, and not in the way he liked. He regretted asking her (again), he regretted the way he stated his request this time, he regretted trying to push it or trying to understand why she wasn't interested. It didn't matter why. He was here to do what she wanted. He wanted to do what she wanted.

''But what really pisses me off here is that you have the fucking cheek to say that you would be somehow doing it for me."

She got up and was now standing in front of him.

"So. For the last time. I like you, Ian. I like you a lot. I like the dynamic we have. I like the way you respond to me. I like what I can do to your cock. I like what I can do to your mind even more,'' she reached down and run her fingers along the length of his faltering erection, making it rigid again. Ian moaned.

"I like to be in control,'' her head leaned towards him, ''I like touching you any way I want,'' she licked his neck, ''I like the sounds you make,'' she bit his earlobe, not a soft nibble but a sharp, hard bite that made him gasp, ''I like teasing you, sometimes,'' she squeezed his cock hard through the fabric, ''I like hurting you,'' her left hand was now playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, her nails scratching gently, then sliding lower and digging harder, ''I like that you like me hurting you,'' her other hand moved to his cheek, still smarting a little from the slap, ''I like your cock too,'' she said, suddenly matter of fact, almost cold, stepping back from him.

''I like to play with it. I like it hard and throbbing and I like the way you fall to pieces when you get to the edge and beg me to come and I like how your face looks when you do come for me. And I don't have any desire to see it or feel it in some ridiculous chastity cage."

"It's my cock and I will decide what happens to it in this relationship.''

"Now go to your room, strip and wait for me there like a good slut.''

And that seemed to be it then. They had sex later that day, playfully rough, but not less rough for all the playfulness, leaving Ian's back, chest and ass with a lattice of marks and splotches of bruises and she let him come, eventually, after bringing him to the edge of begging desperation several times, and he made a firm decision to never mention the whole sorry subject again lest he spoiled all the good things they shared.

So when, maybe a week later, Marie brought his request up, he was more than defensive, doing his best to reassure her that it didn't really matter for him.  When she explained what she had in mind and how it was possible, he initially recoiled. Wearing a physical object that prevented him from becoming fully erect or ejaculating was one thing and whatever he'd claimed, he found it a red-hot turn on, even the idea of it making him hard and pulling up all the submissive urges from the recesses of his psyche.

Letting someone fuck with his mind - with his brain - using some experimental techniques derived from a combination of psychology, neuroscience and medicine was an entirely different matter.

She was pretty persuasive with her ''but this is what you really wanted'' argument though, and none of the research she'd done seemed to contradict the claims made by the OC-Lab, however preposterous or worrying they appeared at first. Numerous emails, several phone and Skype calls and one meeting with ecstatically enthusiastic customers (or was it subjects?) of the discreetly named and located and extortionately priced facility later, Ian found himself sitting in the blond-wood-and pale-leather-armchairs waiting room, white tulips stark in their glass vases, Mapplethorpe prints on the walls.

The door to the left of him opened, a tall man in his late twenties dressed in jeans and a loose shirt somewhat incongruent with the whole milieu appeared, smiling.

''Sorry to keep you waiting. Dr Marsden will see you now,'' he said, his accent a low southern American drawl, his smile a preppy perfection. Ian hesitated, then got up.

**

-- to be continued, perhaps