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Screwing Married Men 1

"Oh, by the way," I said as he was half-way up the stairs, not troubling to look up from my magazine. "With that kind of underwear you really should get rid of your body hair. Shave it off tonight, and use some 'Nair' on the stubble. Instructions are on the box."

Nothing more from me, so he continued on his way. When I went up myself and started preparing for bed, Jim was already under the covers, reading. He was in regular pajamas, and he looked up at me puzzled, still working through why I thought his shameful transvestism was too routine to notice. Was it?

"Men don't wear panties, do they?" he asked.

"You tell me," I said laconically, giving my hair its twenty-five strokes with the hair brush, as if that were far more important than his question.

He had to test again. "And bras?" "Apparently. Why not? Most men love women's breasts." I looked at him. "If your skin feels smooth now, you'll find a nightgown nicer to sleep in than those pajamas. Here!" I took one out of my lingerie drawer and tossed it at him. "This is yours now, but get yourself your own so you won't always be borrowing mine. More bras and panties too, if you mean to wear them regularly, enough so you can change every day. Did you remember to lock the rear door?" I pretended not to see him slip the first nightie of the rest of his life over his head. It was a salmon-colored baby doll, with ruffles on the short hem. He looked so precious, sweet and silly, all at once! That my husband now wore lingerie as a matter of course seemed of so little interest to me that he let the subject drop. The next morning he made no effort to hide from me the fact that he was putting on his now-hand-washed bra and panties again, though he seemed a little self-conscious about it.

"Remember to pick up the cleaning on your way home," I said. "You need help with that?" I stepped behind him and did up his bra's three hooks. "I should think that by now you'd have learned to hook bras in front first and then turn them, if you can't reach around behind you. You aren't exactly a young girl with her first training bra, you know!" He was speechless. I decided that if he ever slid back into male underwear I would make a show of anger that he couldn't seem to make up his mind about anything, and he'd shift back again. Phase one completed. ii. He showed up at Hospitality House ahead of schedule, and I began his training at once. My receptionist had him wait for me wearing only his lingerie, on his knees, and warned him that in my presence he must always remain on his knees and look at my feet, never under any circumstances higher than my crotch. When I arrived my hair was tight back and I had a cat mask on just in case, though I needn't have bothered -- his eyes stayed draped under his lids the whole time. I gave him the middle finger of my left hand to kiss, then to lick, and finally I began to pump it into his mouth while he sucked on it, and then I added my forefinger for thickness. His first dildo. He slid his lips up and down on it devotedly after a bit. He wasn't very good at it, Loretta, but you'll have to admit it was a beginning. It's hard to criticize. I had lots of high school boys' pricks to practice on, and you've had your experiences too, I'm sure. And he's certainly come a long way since then. I asked him in my strictest voice if he had obeyed my every order, and asked his wife for permission to sleep in his bra, and so forth. The words tumbled quavering out of him. He told all, even about her suggestion that he borrow and wear a tampon, and that he remove his body hair, and about the nightgown. Then he paused. His wife's indifference to his perverse vice baffled him. He said so.

I replied contemptuously, "Do you actually believe you're the first man in the world ever to wear women's underwear?" "No, ma'am!" "Or the ten thousandth?" "No, ma'am." "Obviously she knows more than you do about these things. Do what she says! Buy yourself a few nighties and undies. From now on when I come in I want to see you kneeling here wearing your own bras and panties. Go to a department store and be sure to ask the sales girl for help. Tell her they're for you. Tell her proudly. If your wife wants you to dress in panties daily, try to be worthy of the honor." I then got to a key point he'd overlooked. "What else did she ask you?" I waited. And waited. Jim hesitated, unable to speak. He tried twice, but only when he saw my toe begin to tap impatiently did he say it. Eyes down and muttering, he said, "She asked me if I intend to grow breasts, so my bras won't slide around."

"And do you think it's proper for your bras to slide around?" "No," he said. He saw where I was headed, and couldn't find a way to deflect the next question. "Then you want to grow breasts?" "I suppose," he said without conviction. "Then if she'll let you, you should! Ask her to acquire the hormones you'll need, and begin immediately!"

I then gave him a freshly soiled pair of panties and a new push-up bra to wear, and handed him his old ones in a pink quilted lingerie bag to carry back to his office and leave visible on his desk for the rest of the day. We set up a schedule, three visits a week. I told him he would pay me $500 for each visit, $1,500 weekly due the first session of each week, in cash, to prove to me that he appreciated my services. If I could keep him hooked, I figured, he would exhaust our savings and investments within a month or two, then begin to beg, borrow, or steal my fees, and I'd have him. He looked a bit stunned when he heard how much I charge, but he was already pulling away on his little penis, and so near cumming into his soiled panties that he just nodded. A few squirts finally came, and he stared at them. What were these moments of masturbation going to cost him? Everything! "Good!" was all I said. As he left I told my receptionist to give his hair a quick spray of her perfume, a strong, musky, romantic fragrance called "Surrender!" He'd smell of it all afternoon at work. He blushed but said nothing. I suppose he hoped people would think it was a man's aroma, a hair tonic, or aftershave. But not "Surrender!" Others at the bank would certainly begin looking at him peculiarly. The women would notice first, of course. But women often feel kindly toward transvestites and transsexuals and effeminate gays, people whose desires for themselves seem to flatter what women are normally. Men might not notice him unless I sent him to work dressed like a go-go dancer. As I just might, I thought -- it was a matter of timing. I did want to be ready for a showdown by the time Jim's tits ripened. After dinner that night I sniffed the air in our living room, then looked at Jim. He hid behind his paper. Things were moving a little fast for him, obviously.

"It's very nice, but don't you think that scent is a little heavy for work?" I asked him. "It's more for formal dances, evening gowns, things like that." I stood up, picked up my purse and checked its contents, and took my topcoat out of the closet. "For daytime find something lighter, more flowery, or more casual or sporty. Stop in at the perfume bar at Everson's tomorrow on your way to the bank, and ask the girl there to try a few samples on your wrist and neck. Tell her you want something romantic, but more delicate. And while you're at it, do buy those nightgowns and undies." Then I clicked my purse shut. I had a brief evening appointment with a Japanese client who came to town now and then, a man who would enter my ass in a nervous tremor and then vibrate his cock in and out like a rabbit doing a fast fuck. A remarkable man -- he could cum inside me two or three times in quick succession without my even noticing, and without even pausing. I scarcely ever saw him face to face. Fortunately he had a small cock and he didn't visit me too often, or I'd have had to charge extra for the down time while my rear end recovered. Or charge his firm, anyhow. But really, he was no trouble to accommodate. "I need to go out," I told Jim. "Be back in an hour or two."

"All right," he replied. Then he remembered, and as casually as possible he said, "Oh, while you're out would you pick up whatever I'll need to start growing breasts?" He hid again behind his newspaper. "All right," I said. "I'll try to remember." I already had the necessary prescriptions, provided by a Doctor client of mine. "You do know that with hormones instead of implants you'll have to be patient. It'll be six months before you begin to look respectable. But if that's what you want. Anything else?" "No," came a small voice. "Remember to load the dishwasher and to rinse out our undies again before you get to bed." Those were now his jobs, whether he knew it yet or not. The first of many, as far as household matters went.

And I was gone. I came back three quick assfucks later carrying his six-month's supply of estrogen, progestin, and androcur. And as an afterthought, Prozac to keep him mellowed out. I told him to take one of each kind each day the moment he woke up, and I left them on the night stand near our bed so I could see that he did. I knew that his hormones would soon end even those pitiful erections and ejaculations he managed to coax out of himself at each of our sessions, that soon his orgasms if he ever had any would resemble a woman's delicious tensions and relaxations. All to the good. The mood pills would help keep him from worrying about what was happening, where I was leading him, until he'd arrived there. Not too bad, my progress so far.