Author: Pervitron
Title: Mommy's Bottom Drawer
Summary:  What do you do when you grow up with a domineering
bitch of a mother, and a pussywhipped dad?  Of course,
you become a little sissy, and you looking for a girl who is 
JUST LIKE MOM!! 
Keywords: mF, fdom, cd, humil

WARNING: The following story contains graphic descrip-
 tions of a sexual nature. It is intended for mature
 persons only. Any persons not old enough to legally
 receive adult materials or who are offended by them
 should read no farther. Further distribution of this
 story--and all others of this nature by this author--is
 permissible only to appropriate persons and only if the
 contents and author credit are unchanged.

 NOTES:

 1. Copyright (c) June 1999.

 2. The persons and situations depicted in this story
 are entirely fictitious. Any similarities to actual
 persons or situations are completely unintentional and
 coincidental.

 3. Reader comments and feedback are always encouraged;
 send to Pervitron@Hotmail.com

 4. This story may be copied for free distribution,
 provided the author credit is retained.

       Mommy's Bottom Drawer
         By Pervitron


The door closed behind her. Dad and I sat in silence a while,
watching TV, waiting for the minutes to tick off, until it was
safe to go about our business. I'd let him go first, I knew he'd
be off to the basement any second now and that he'd be down there
for about an hour. I hadn't learned yet exactly what he did down
there, but I knew it was important - important enough to defer
the chores my mother had assigned him on her way out the door.  

This was a typical weekend afternoon.   Before Mom left to go
shopping, she stood there with her hand on the door knob, looking
around the house and telling him what needed to be done.  He sat
in his chair and wrote down each task: dust, clean the oven, two
loads of laundry, and scrub the bathroom floor.  Whatever popped
into her head. He was given a lot to do, but I knew he'd take his
hour downstairs anyway. Do what he needed to and then come
upstairs, and rush around breathless the rest of the afternoon,
catching up just in time.

I didn't know exactly what he did down there, but I had a sense. 
I was twelve, and I knew a bit about what men like to do when
they're alone. I had my secret stash of Playboys underneath my
dresser.  Lots of other times when Mom was out I'd be up in my
room, standing over the bed with my dick in my hand.  My bed was
like an altar, I'd have a dozen or so magazines scattered about,
each open to a favorite girl. I'd take a long time arranging
them, selecting just the right type of girl, carefully matching
the look in their eyes against the mood I was in. The lingerie
was important; I found the girls far more alluring if they were
wearing something delicate - in fact I liked them best if I could
just barely see the outlines of their snatch beneath a layer of
stretched silk or nylon.  When I had them arranged, I'd stand up,
and I'd start to stroke myself as my eyes danced among them. 
They were my harem. I met their stares, and I loved the promise
of their big breasts, and the hint of darkness hidden in the
folds of their silk underthings.  It was always the underthings
that did it, I'd always explode while I was lost in the sense of
nylon. Nylon. The thin skein of it stretched tightly against warm
buttery flesh.

I knew what I was going to do today, and I was screaming inside
for my father to get on with it. Shit!  What was he waiting for? 
He probably waited just the same time he always had; it just
seemed longer, because today my need was especially great, and I
wanted as much time as I could get upstairs. Finally he glanced
at his watch; he gave a quick look out the window, and he got up.
He avoided my eyes, he seemed to feel ashamed. When he got up he
looked out the window once again, as if she could sense his plans
and was waiting outside. He started down the basement steps, and
pulled the door tight behind him.

I let him get settled, it killed me, but I let a full five
minutes go by before I got up, leaving the TV on so that my
father might not hear me. I crept up the stairs, but instead of
heading down the hall towards my room, I turned right.   I was
going into their room.  Her room really.

The only sign of my father's presence was an  unpainted wooden
dresser on one wall, as if after fifteen years he was still a
marginal occupant, on some sort of probation.  The rest was all
her: it as a room covered in light pastel colors and soft
fabrics. Their bed was a large, antique four-poster with a high
canopy.  The bedspread was made of pure satin, a shiny, blood red
fabric that gleamed in the sunlight streaming in from the west
window.   The wall on the other side of the bed had her vanity, a
long shelf of polished mahogany with a five foot mirror in front
of her high backed chair.  Her things were arranged in perfect
order: makeup on the far left, a half dozen brushes lined up
carefully on the immediate left of the mirror.  To the right was
a collection of lotions and powders, and to the right of that was
a white wicker basket of nail polishes. Her chiffon robe was laid
carefully across the back of the chair.  

The vanity wall on either side of the mirror was covered with a
half dozen mahogany shelves; They covered the wall from the
vanity surface almost to the ceiling. These held her shoes. She
had almost fifty pair of the finest dress shoes, each pair was in
its assigned place, and they were maintained carefully, as if
they were precious items in a museum collection. All of them were
kept free of dust, so that nothing would obscure the surface of
the soft scented leather, and the thin buttery straps and slings
that clasped her feet.  I loved these shoes, whenever she came
home at night my eyes fell on them first, I was fascinated by the
differences in style and mood, from the classic elegance of her
tan pumps to the brilliant, unrelenting hardness of her black
stiletto heels. 

I walked over towards her dresser, feeling as if I was in a
dream. I opened the drawer, her bottom drawer, and the feeling I
remembered from those other times came flooding back.  Oh! The
loveliness of her smell, the aroma of her preserved lovingly in
the scalloped laces and shiny fabrics.   The smell powered its
way through me like an electric current, rushing to my privates,
and giving me an instant, intense hard on.  Christ!  What a
feeling! I reached my hands into the drawer, and pulled a handful
of her things up close to my face.  I felt the softness of them
against my cheeks, and drew the sacred aroma they held deep into
my lungs.

It was only then, after I paid homage to the primal senses of
smell and touch, that I was able to draw back and look at the
precious items before me.  Each was lovelier than the next. I
could tell that red and black had some intimate pull for her - or
my father? - because these were the colors that were favored.  I
felt the loveliest, most erotic tingle, and I knew that I had
some childlike remembrance, some reminisce from long ago.  Some
were on the edge of consciousness: I remembered the straps of her
garters, the way they looked under her dress, as seen from a
child's vantage point.  Perhaps while camped under a table at
which she sat.  I remembered the way her toes looked within their
stocking, the curl of them, reacting to the talk and laughter
above. There was an intensity that only the most basic instincts
could explain, and I knew in my balls that I had been held naked
against fabrics just like these. Yes, once I had felt them
against my skin as I pulled my earliest life from her breast.   I
was coming home, again, and my pulse was racing.

I had enough sense about me to check the time before I started. 
I had almost 45 minutes left, more than enough time to what I
planned.   In the weeks since I discovered her bottom drawer an
irresistible idea had taken shape.  I had to put these things on,
to feel what she felt like when she wore them.  I looked among
them and chose.   My eyes fell on a pair of panties, a special
pair that seemed to call to me. What caught my eye first was the
color, a light black lace, that had the softness of nylon to the
touch, and when I picked it up and stretched it in my hands I
noticed that the lace work had a series of kisses knitted into
the pattern.  I imagined matching my lips against these, while my
mother was wearing them, and I knew that this was the pair I had
to put on.  

I looked around me as I held them. Why, I don't know: my glance
to the left and right was an instinctual sign of shame, of guilt.
But I was going to do it anyway.  I pulled my clothes off, and
stood naked in the bedroom, looking at myself in the mirror over
on the back of the door, feeling the gentle fur of the white rug
between my toes.  I knew I was about to do something I'd never be
able to tell anyone about, but the secrecy, the illicitness of it
only added to the erotic charge.

So I bent over and stepped into her panties, pulling them up my
legs, and over my thighs like they were a magic cloud that would
disappear.  Finally, I pulled them tight up to my pelvis, and my
cock and balls danced in a thrill they'd never felt before.  I
looked down and saw myself, thick and throbbing against the silky
essence of them.  I was struck with wonder: how could women STAND
to wear these things all day? The thrill was so compelling, it
was a feeling deeper than all thought.

There was no turning back.  I could feel my cock pounding as I
bent over the drawer again, selecting the next treasure.  A pair
of stockings. I found the pair I loved, the dark ones with the
long, slender rose near the ankle. I picked them up, along with a
sexy garter belt and brought them all over to her bed. The garter
belt was black with numerous red hearts speckled about it, and
red bows on the end of each strap. I sat on the bed and put the
stockings on first. I guess I remembered watching my mother do
this long ago, because I slipped naturally into the right way to
put them on, the gentle feed from the hands as the body was
pulled upwards.  I never knew that legs were an erogenous zone
until I put these things on.  I stood and pulled each stocking
tight as I hooked it to the garter belt. My entire lower body
seemed to be fired with an electric glow.

There was only one thing missing: shoes. I wanted some elegant
pair of heels on my feet to complete the feeling. I looked over
to the vanity wall, and I looked for the pair of pumps that Mom
had worn yesterday.  I loved all her shoes - ever since I started
having these feelings her shoes seemed so attractive to me.  
They seemed the most visible emblem of her station in life, so
impractical, they could only be worn by someone who never needed
to do anything physical, other than look sexy and enjoy the
stares of strange men.  I wanted yesterday's pumps.  Like a dog I
always hovered nearby whenever she got home from work at night.
Seemingly to offer a kiss, but really to catch that first, almost
imperceptible scent of woman that drifting upwards as she kicked
off her shoes.  The simultaneous kiss on her soft cheeks together
with the almost earth smell thrilled me deeply.   

So I selected the pair, I took them down from the shelf, and held
them up to my face, and I became almost dizzy in the full aroma
of soft flesh and nylon.   Such wonder! She loved especially high
heels, they were so impractical, so awkward. I remembered the
effect on me when I first noticed them, they seemed so hard, so
unforgiving in their polished brilliance. It was this hardness,
contrasted with the soft, smelly feet that interested me, for
some reason I didn't understand.

After a moment I brought them over to the bed, and slipped them
onto my feet.  Of course, they were a little too large, but this
only made my first game easier.   I leaned back, crossed my legs,
and let the pump hang from my outstretched foot.   I almost cried
from the sheer thrill of it. Oh! To be watched while I did this!
To have a pair of needy eyes watching me!   I understood then how
my mother and the other woman I'd seen do this felt.  I knew why
they put me in such thrall. This was an almost self-conscious
dance, the shoe dangled just on the edge of their consciousness,
lilting on the playfully clenching big toe. A dangling heel is a
sign of self absorption.
                                                       
It was difficult to get up; difficult, but unbearably exciting.  
I just stood there a moment, and my first step was a halting one. 
I had to fight to keep my balance. Small steps. Yes, keep the
back arched, and my legs apart. Try not to think of the sensation
of the panties and stockings.   I stepped over to the full length
mirror on the back of the door, rocking my hips like a doll as I
did so.

When I got there, the sight took my breath away.  There I was,
all dolled up like one of them, those ... sluts I liked.
Unconsciously I turned sideways, giving myself, no ... her, a coy
look.   I saw that if I turned sideways, I looked really good.  I
had shoulder length blond hair, and the still androgynous soft
features of a twelve year old.  I looked so... so...pretty! I had
to do it, I had to reach down and rub my throbbing cock.  I kept
as much of it as I could inside the stretched panties, because
the strokes felt better through that delightful material. It
didn't take long to get there; my knees started to wobble, and
while I was fearful of slipping from my perch on my heels, I
couldn't stop.  Not until I was finished.   Finally, I was there,
I exploded and my spunk burst out.  Some of it flew through the
lace and dropped on the rug, but most of it was caught inside the
panties.

I just stood there for a moment with my eyes closed, catching my
breath, and straightening up on my heels. It was then, at the
worst possible moment, that I heard someone by the bedroom door.
It was my father!  I heard the door open, and when I turned
around and looked at him, I saw his eyes scanning my body,
jumping back and forth as if disturbed at what he was seeing.

"Dad, I ... I"  I started to talk, even though I had no idea what
to say.

He walked towards me, as if to get a closer look, and as he
approached I could see his gaze focus on the large mess I made in
the panties. His eyes flew open. "Look at what you did!" pointing
at the offending stain.

I was so shamed, I wanted to melt into the carpet.  But after a
brief moment, I had a strange realization. The look in his eyes
wasn't anger - it was fear!  I felt a chill as I stood there in
my stockings and panties, because I recognized that he wasn't
really surprised at all at what I was wearing.  As if it was he
most natural thing in the world for a twelve year old boy to put
his mothers underthings on, and prance around in her bedroom. 
No, he wasn't surprised at what I was wearing.  He was shocked at
what I had done. I had soiled her panties, and he was terrified
that she would find out.                

He looked at his watch, seemingly undecided about something. 
"OK, OK, just take those things off!"  He was beside himself,
unable to catch his breath because of his agitation. Again, he
looked at his watch, he was confused. His mind was racing,
searching desperately for the way out, as if he that was in
trouble.  "Come on! Take them off, so I can get them washed
before she comes home."

So I started to undress.  I started by unhooking the garters from
my stockings, bending my knee and standing on my toes to get the
rear straps.  While I did this my father went over to her drawer,
and he got down on his knees and started refolding the things I
had disturbed.  He kept looking at the clock, and the window.
"Dad, can't we just dry the panties off, why do we have to wash
them?"

"No!"  He looked back at me, shocked that I would even think of
such a thing.  "She'll know, believe me."  And I saw then how
pitiful he was, as he was kneeling there, arranging her drawer,
getting it back the way he knew it belonged.  I knew then that
her drawer was very familiar to him as well.

When I unstrapped my garters, I pulled the panties down off my
legs, somewhat reluctantly, as if I was parting with an intimate,
deeply private part of myself.  Even as I did it, I knew I would
do this again, some other time, when I could really take my time.
The panties dropped to the floor, I stepped out of them and
walked over to the bed and sat down on it, so I could take the
stockings off.  When I sat, and felt the softness of the satin
bedspread against the underside of my scrotum, I felt the tingles
start again. My father had his back to me, still kneeling at her
drawer, and I got hard again, notwithstanding my recent release.
I was imagining what the bed spread  would feel like if I lay on
it face down, so my cock was in contact with its softness. I
started to take her stockings off. I still had things to learn
about women's undergarments.  I crossed my leg and tried to take
the left stocking off by pulling it from the toes.   It wouldn't
come, it just snapped back like a rubber band.  My father kept
glancing back at me. "Come on! Just get them off!"  Finally,
growing careless in my desperation, I grabbed the stocking toe
with both hands, and then pulled with my hands while I pushed
with my foot.  And then it happened.  My toes pushed through the
stocking, leaving a gaping hole.  Shit!  "Umm, Dad?"

He turned, and his face turned white.  His mouth hung open in
shock. "Timmy, what did you do?"  He looked at the clock again,
his nervousness was approaching a frenzy. "Oh shit!" He looked at
the drawer, and the clock again, standing stock still, caught in
a trap.  Overload.   He didn't know what to do.

"It wasn't coming off, Dad."  I looked at the clock too, I'm sure
my face was red as a beet, I felt so small, having gotten the two
of us in such trouble. Why did I do this?  I felt so ashamed, so
angry at myself. "Maybe, if we get the other one off OK, we can
put them in the drawer, she might think she did it."

He didn't even answer, he just came over and knelt down in front
of me. I uncrossed my leg, and he reached for the top of my right
stocking. He almost touched my cock. I was obviously still
excited, my mind was racing from stress, but my body still
derived a malicious thrill from all this   exposure.  He glanced
at my cock while he slid his fingers under my stocking.   I was
hard as a rock again; my stiff member arched out from its nest of
sprouting boy hair. He drew a quick, short breath: he was still
for a brief moment, looking at my erection.   He was about to say
something, but he hesitated, and the moment passed. I raised my
leg off the spread and he drew the top of my stocking down
towards him, gathering it carefully in his hand as he did so. The
process seemed to take a long time; he did it so slowly and
deliberately. Only one hand gathered the stocking - for some
reason he kept the other hand open against the underside of my
leg, as if it was needed to hold my leg aloft.  As he rolled the
stocking into one hand, the open hand trailed down the underside
of my raised leg. I could feel the tips of his fingers gently
brushing all along me. And yes, a shudder passed through me: I
realized the sheer joy, the sacred power a ceremony like this
would have for a woman. I might even have thrown my head back, so
intense was the surge.  I had already ruined the other stocking
in my haste to get it off. But he went to work on the other leg
with the same, intense ritual, and I made no move to rush him,
the feeling was so exquisite.  When both stockings were bare, I
stood up in front of him, and pushed my garter belt down. I
pulled my hard cock through it, and shimmied it down my legs.  
My father watched me do this.   He was still on his knees.

                          **

Fifteen minutes later, we were standing by the sink, I was back
in my boy clothes,  watching him wash her panties in warm, soapy
water.  The washer was going, but he calculated the time against
the fact that they'd have to be dry when she got home.  So he'd
have to do them by hand, before we threw them in the dryer.  I
watched him wash them, he rubbed the soap into the areas I had
soiled with the tips of his fingers, and rinsed them by holding
them under the faucet. He kept doing this, as if there was some
residue of me that was only visible to him. I would have given
them just a quick dunk under the faucet and them thrown them in
the dryer, but for all the panic he showed before, he seemed
unable to move quickly now.  Once he started washing her panties
he seemed to get lost somewhere, he looked down calmly as he
rubbed soap into them, mesmerized.

Strange, he'd never mentioned sex to me, whatever I knew of it
was from the Playboys I had stashed upstairs.  And here I was
standing next to him, watching him wash my spunk off his wife's
panties.   Nothing was said, but there was an undertone of
sympathy between us, as if he understood why a boy would want to
wear her clothes, and I understood the hold she had over him.  I
knew how overwhelming the her presence was.

I don't know where I got the nerve, it was so unlike me, so
unlike the two of us to speak of such things.  I broke the
silence. "Dad, she must be really,  ... nice when she's wearing
... that?"  Since I experienced puberty I understood some things
that always mystified me.   They didn't fight anymore, but I
remembered some arguments that happened when I was small, I
remembered the shouting, and the tears, and the days of tension
afterwards.  But most of all I remembered one thing:  the
argument didn't end until he said he was sorry, and said it the
way she wanted to hear it.  In the days afterwards he'd be after
her, desperately try to hold her, give her hugs or kisses, but
she'd act cold, uninterested, she'd turn her back on him with
crossed arms. The more distant she seemed the more desperate he
got. I'd hear him at the door of their bedroom at night, pleading
to come in. I knew then as a small child that she held all the
cards, and as I saw him rinse her panties, we both understood the
source of that power.

"She's ... really special."  He seemed so far away as he said it,
as if he were lost in some inner dream, under a spell. 

And then our world unraveled.  I heard the car in the driveway. 
She was home, almost an hour early.  "Dad, she's home!"

In an instant, he shut the water off, raced to the laundry room,
The panties were dripping with soap, but he was oblivious.  He
opened the dryer and threw the panties in.   It was the easiest
place to hide them, for now.  We'd have to improvise.  Just as he
closed the dryer lid, she opened the door.

My mother strode into the house, with a small Bloomingdale's bag
hooked on her arm.  Of course, she was impeccably dressed, today
she was wearing a white, knee length fur coat, it was cinched
smartly around her waist by a black belt.  Black and white was
the theme, her hair was naturally jet black, thick and lustrous
it fell around the sides of her face in long, graceful waves. 
She stood in the foyer in her black pumps, taking a moment to
survey her home.  She glanced around quickly, measuring my
father's progress on the chores, noting that  the washer was
still going.  I knew he'd hear about that later.  Before she
started upstairs, she told my father to get the rest of the
packages from the car.  As she placed her foot on the first step,
I walked over to her. She bent slightly to accept my kiss.  I
smelled her once again, once more I was lost for a moment in her
delights.  She looked at me briefly, I felt her gaze into my
eyes.  I looked away, feeling that if I allowed too long a look,
she'd see what I'd done.   I watched her climb the rest of the
stairs, listening to the crack of her heels on the steps, seeing
the shape of her lower legs in her pumps.

Did we remember to close her drawer?  Shit! Were the stockings
and garter still laying on the floor?

I knew we hadn't put them away before she got to the top step. I
looked out the front window and saw my father walk towards the
house, carrying her bags.  I just stood there, like I was
underwater, drowning in the sick knowledge of what was about to
happen.  My father seemed so far away as he came in the door, his
face was red from the cold, and from the weight of her bags.  She
did a lot of shopping in just an hour, he had at least five bags,
plus a coat box, and two large hat boxes.  He was foolish, and
tried to do all this in one trip. He struggled to get them
through the door, turning this way and that, until he found the
right angle to get the bulk of her purchases through the door.  
He continued up the stairs, I noted his shortness of his breath.
I watched him climb the stairs, unable to speak. When he got to
the top, and turned to enter their room he stopped dead in his
tracks.

"Come in and close the door behind you!"

I didn't dare go up there, and try to hear what was said inside
that room.   I was anchored to the bottom of the stairs,
listening to the drama that was played out.  He did all the
talking, I couldn't hear the words, but I didn't need to in order
to understand what was happening.  This wasn't the first time I
had heard him called to account.  He was fighting for an
explanation, desperately trying to convince her of some innocent
reason why her intimate things were scattered about. 
Occasionally I'd hear an impatient question from her, she was
having none of it. He'd try again, he'd try a different
explanation, but all that accomplished was to make things worse.
He was like a foolish driver digging his way deeper into a
snowdrift.  Then I heard a slap, and I had no doubt that he was
on the receiving end.  Then another, and another.  Now he spoke
again, and this time I knew with a sinking heart that it was the
truth.  After a few moments of silence he opened the door and he
called out to me.  "Your mother wants to see you."  Shit!

It took forever for me to climb the stairs.  When I got to their
room, she was standing by the bed. She had taken her coat off,
she was standing there in her white dress. It clung tightly to
her body, showing the curve of her hips.  It was tight enough on
top to reveal the tips of her nipples.   I thought of her walking
in the mall like this, the stares that she'd get.  Her arms were
crossed across her chest, she looked at me, down at me really,
from her perch on her high heels.  I felt her gaze burn into me.

"How DARE you!  Go through my ... things!"  Her look was
unforgiving, pitiless.   A coldness rose within me, I had the
sudden fear that I had lost her affections forever. "Well, what
have you got to say for yourself?"

Indeed.  What could I say?  That the scent of her, the sheer ...
idea of her, clasped and trussed, held tightly in hose and belts,
down there, down around the sacred precincts between her legs,
was too ... alluring to resist.  That I would do anything for
some contact with her, even indirect contact, through things she
wore. Did she have any idea how lovely, how desirable she was,
even when she was angry?  No especially when she was angry, I
realized with a start how ... alive I felt, knowing that in the
coldness I felt, that there was some secret language, a secret
exchange  between the fire in her eyes, and my cock, my cock that
burned through the fear like a hot iron as she spoke...

"OK, Mister, I'll deal with you after dinner.  Get out of here,
now!"  I turned and left, closing the door behind me, leaving my
father there, inside.

I don't remember much of that afternoon, between that first
discovery, and dinner.  If it was like the other weekend
afternoons, my father would have been busy making dinner, and my
mother would have been on the phone, talking with her
girlfriends.  Exchanging gossip and idle chit chat, while she lay
back in her easy chair, dangling her high heeled slipper pump
over the edge of the footrest.  I'd watch it swinging there,
suspended on the slightest catch of her toe, it was tantalizing.
The pink, furry ball on the arch buckle, the teasing curl of her
sole, the brilliant red of her nails, nails that were always
freshly painted, never marked or chipped.   Every once in a while
my father would refill her drink. He'd take the empty and return
with a fresh glass, and he'd bend down and give her a kiss.  He'd
keep the fire near her chair going, and as he walked back to the
kitchen he'd take a last glance, like a waiter checking to see
that everything was in order. She loved those talks with her
friends, the lazy afternoons.   Girl talk and giggles, and the
talk about men, sometimes in the most explicit terms.  

All of this took place in my home, it seemed the most natural
thing, like this was the true and natural order of the world.
Women get waited on, they get pampered, primped, because they
have something we need, something we can't live without,
something we can get if we're, well, perfect.  

She started in on me during dinner.  After my father sat down,
she started with the comments.  "I had no idea we had a little
... sissy ... in our family." Sissy. My face was beet red, I ate
my meal with my face down.  "Tom, can you image that, a twelve
year old boy who likes to wear girls clothes!"  My father tried
not to take the bait, he kept silent too. So she continued. 
"Tom, have you had a talk with this boy?"  I could tell she
wasn't expecting an answer, she was just having fun.  "Maybe you
need to tell him what boys are supposed to know?  Hum, Tom?"  Dad
just continued to look down, he wasn't going to look at her, he
shot me a quick, surreptitious look.  I could tell what she was
going to say.  "hmmmm ... as if you'd know." I chanced a look at
her, she had a faraway look on her face, a look of pleasure, her
expressive lips were curled in an unknowing smirk, the fun of
tormenting my father danced upon her face like bright daybreak. 
"No,... maybe I'll..."  The air was dead silent, these were
uncharted waters, she was drilling for a hidden nerve she knew
all about.  "... maybe  I'll .... have... Vern ... show him!"  

That got him, he looked up at her at last, wide eyed, and said
"No!" It was the first, and only time I ever saw him get angry at
her.

She saw the look on his face.  She would have none of it. "Timmy,
wait for me upstairs!"  I did as I was told, I could feel the
silent charge between them on my back as I left the room. I knew
he was going to get it, she wouldn't accept any back talk.   He'd
probably spend a week on the couch.

When I got to her room, I saw that it was back in order.   Her
drawer was closed, and the offending garments were no longer on
the floor.  I sat in the bed, wondering what was happening
downstairs, but I couldn't hear them.   The silence from
downstairs was ominous, I knew how cruel, how vicious her silent
anger could be. Soon thoughts of them receded into the
background. There were far more, well, interesting things here. 
I looked at myself in her vanity mirror, and then up at her
shoes. So many of them I couldn't help but look at them, they
seemed so ... precious ... up there, sitting on the bed looking
at them was like being in the center of an amphitheater.   Each
shoe was utterly different, each seemed designed for a special
... mood. I had a sense of wonder at the diversity within me,
knowing that I couldn't actually choose just one as my favorite;
each seemed to speak to a different wish within me.  They each
looked so fine, so special. I  was lost again, the erotic buzz
was back, I was hard in my pants again.

I heard her heels on the wooden surface of the stairs. She had
finished the quick business with my father - now it was my turn.
I jumped off the bed as she entered the room, as if I had done
something there to be guilty of.   She strode into the room and
came towards me, knowing exactly what she would do.

"Look at me."  She took my chin with her left hand, and drew my
face upward.  Still, I hesitated, the thought of a close look
from her frightened me.  She'd be able to see my thoughts, my
desires...   Seeing the reluctance, she pinched my chin between
her thumb and forefinger, shook me slightly, and said again: 
"Timmy, look at me."

When I met her eyes, I saw with wonder that she wasn't angry at
all. "Mom..."  I started to speak when I became trapped in her
gaze, held suspended between those magic halos around the black
well of her soul.   Her eyes caught me like a snare, I was lost
in them, and couldn't speak.  No, she wasn't angry, it was worse:
she was amused.

"So tell me, little man, what is this ... fascination ... with my
stuff."  She knew, of course, but she wanted to hear me say it. 
Better to be beaten, screamed at, than have to tell her my
feelings, about the thoughts and desires she aroused in me.  She
said this with a smirk, contempt poured from her eyes down on me.
I kept silent, I just looked back at her, in shock, unable to
speak.

But she knew her little boy.  She slid her finger up to my cheek,
and stroked me there with the tips of her fingers, the outer edge
of her nails. It was a slow, teasing caress. It sent an electric
current straight down to my cock, I felt like I would explode,
right there in front of her.  "Come on! Tell me, little man." 
And she bent down and gave me a soft kiss, pulling gently on my
lips. Ohhhh!

"Mom ... I just like to see the things you wear.  They're ...
special."   I hesitated to tell her, and with each successive
word I grew more excited. My heart started slamming within my
chest, leaping at the proximity to her, the sense of intimacy
from telling her things like this.  

"And they give you a special feeling, I bet?"  She continued to
looked deeply into my eyes, I was grateful to hold her gaze.   I
didn't want her to look downwards, and see the obscene bulge in
my pants.

"Oh, shit yeah!"  I said, before I caught myself.

Suddenly, having said it, her mood changed.  She drew back from
me, and looked cold and bitter.   "Listen ..."  I almost screamed
from confusion, what was going on? She was so moody, so
unpredictable!   Her moods were like summer thunderstorms.
"...listen, you little sissy..."  Sissy.  It was a word that cut
deep into me, especially the way she spat it out, like she had
something dirty in her mouth.   I started shivering inside, from
the shock of her transformation. I recognized the mood,
remembering how she spoke with my father. "... I better not ever
catch you going through my stuff again."   She grabbed my chin
roughly, held it between her clenched fingers and shook my head
from side to side.  She was hurting me. "You understand, you
little shit!"

"Y-y-yes, Mom."  I could hardly get the words out, she was
squeezing my chin and mouth so tightly.   I felt like a bug
beneath her, so helpless before her.   And despite the pain,
despite the tears there was another feeling.  A feeling of ...
lust; the cut of her contempt was carving a new channel within
me, a secret canyon of pleasures too deep to speak of.

She let me go, and studied me for a moment, looking down with her
arms folded across her chest.  I just wanted to get out of there,
I realized I had started to cry, a tear was rolling down the side
of my cheek.   I knew I would never be a man, like other men, so
complete was my humiliation. "Tell you what..."  Her eyes
brightened as an idea formed, I had to look away.  "...since you
like my stuff so much, maybe you can wear something of mine."  
She was grinning from ear to ear.  "You can wear it to school
tomorrow." She was real happy with herself. "Yeah, something ...
really pretty!"

                             **

Of course, the next day was a gym day.   My class was in the
locker room changing into our gym clothes. Or rather all the
other guys were changing, I was doing everything but.   Acting
like there was a knot in my shoes, while the other guys stripped.
I kept dropping things to stall for time.  Almost all of them
were naked when I was just taking my shirt off.   I took the time
to hang it in the locker while they were putting on their shorts.
I took off one sock at a time, and put each one into the locker.
It looked like I'd be OK, the group started moving towards the
doorway.  Mr. Lackman joined the stream at the back, saw me still
getting ready, and said "Come on! Lets go!".

"Sorry," I said to his back.   I was going to make it.

I started undoing my belt, moving like lightening now.   Then the
door opened, and one of the other students came in.  Shit!  It
was Cliff, a thin little geek with thick glasses, he got picked
on a lot.   The word was, he was a fairy, so no one wanted to be
associated with him. He walked over to his locker, it was only a
few feet away.   "You late too, Tim?" 

What was I going to do now?   I had nothing left to take off,
except for my pants, he was standing just a few feet from me.  He
already had his shirt off.   Finally, It came to me.   "Lackman
said he wanted to see you..."  Yeah, this might work.  "... now!"

"Why?"  I could see his questioning eyes, he always got picked
on, every day someone did something to make him look stupid.  
But never me, in fact I usually felt a little sorry for him.  

"Don't know - but he seemed pissed!"  Anything to get him out of
there.

Once he was through the door, I knew I had to move quick, since
he'd be back any minute to get dressed, wondering why I had lied. 
I only had a minute or so.   I looked right and left quickly,
confirming that I was alone, and I pulled off my pants.  

There I was, standing there in the sweaty locker room in Mom's
panties.   She didn't pick them.   No, she made me do it, she
wanted me to participate in my own embarrassment.   I hesitated,
but seeing that she was determined, I figured I may as well
select a pair that I really liked. So there I was, a sissy in my
red satin undies. They were so soft and shiny, and despite my
discomfort, despite the shame I had felt all morning and my fear
of being discovered, I had a stiff hardon.  It was like there
were two separate parts of me, an outer shell and an inner, well,
an inner ... girl, that liked soft fabrics and pretty things
against my body.

Those thoughts raced through my head in just a few seconds, but I
would have no time to savor them.  No, Cliff would be back any
minute, wondering why I played a trick on him, probably figuring
I was just mean, like the other boys.   So I had to get dressed.  
I reached into my locker for my gym shorts.   They weren't on the
top shelf, I looked down and started searching beneath my pile of
regular clothes.   Shit!  Where were they?   I grew more frantic,
throwing everything from my locker onto the floor, desperate to
find something to cover myself.   I heard the door open quickly,
and there was Cliff.

"Hey Tim, why did you ... "   He looked down and saw what I was
wearing, his eyes jumped back and forth between my face and my
panties, and a grin started to surface.  I felt so humiliated! My
face was probably as red as my panties.  "Nice undies, Timmy!" 
He was grinning from ear to ear, I could see how he enjoyed this.
For once in his life he was on top, he was the one who could poke
fun, to tease, and make someone cry from shame.

"All mine were in the wash, so I had to ..."  I didn't bother
finishing, I could see the look of amusement on his face.   I
tried another tack.  "Listen, Cliff, maybe we can keep this
quiet."   I was trying to come up with something I could offer
him, and even as I thought, I realized how unequal our positions
were.  Me, standing there in my panties, and him, knowing he
could ruin me with a few words. He'd be free of all the abuse,
because I'd become the target.

He started unbuckling his belt.  Real slow, with this evil grin
on his face.   "Yeah, we can keep this quiet."   He unzipped
himself, pushed his pants down slightly, and pulled his cock out
of his underwear.  "C'mon, you little faggot, show me how secret
we can keep this."  His eyes were shining brightly, he knew he
had me, he knew I would do it.

That was my first of many blowjobs.  I remember every moment of
it, the scent of him, the strong, full boy odor, the taste of his
scrawny hair, and the look in his eyes when he was just about to
unload in my mouth.   He wouldn't tell anyone, I knew, because I
had done him so nicely, I could see in his eyes the thrill beyond
all speech.  

Of course, he'd want me to do this again, and of course I would,
to keep my secret.

When I had finished him, he went into class, and I stayed behind
to find my shorts.  I felt a strange unexpected calmness, some
inner joy at passing a boundary that  I was more relaxed, less
frantic, so I found them easily, I had already taken them out of
the locker.  They were on the bench, under my school clothes.   I
put them on, covering myself, and so when I went into gym, I
looked just like all the other boys.  

                             **

This was my secret all through adolescence.  My teenage years
were like everyone else's: acne, Quaaludes, rock bands, and wet
dreams.  I did all right, but I didn't have many friends, isn't
that the only thing that matters when you're a teenager? I was on
the fringes.   I was good looking, but the jocks ruled my high
school, we had the best basketball team in the county, and that's
all anybody cared about.   My school worshipped our athletes, the
chiseled, hard boys with quick moves and restless cocks swaggered
through the halls. They got all the action.

I never had a date in high school. There were probably girls who
would have gone out with me if I had asked, but I was too shy, I
didn't have the nerve.  Besides, I wasn't interested in girls who
would go out with me.  I wanted the special ones.  I wanted the
cheerleaders.  Girls like dark angels, sent by some unholy ruler
to show us how flat, how empty life would be without the promise
of their flesh. They might give blow jobs to the boys on the team
in the bus after the game, but for guys like me they had icy
contempt. Still, I couldn't stop dreaming about them, the way
their micro skirts flashed their silk panties, and the way they
pulled their panties tight underneath, so the stretched fabric
would show the shape of their mounds. 

I went to all the basketball games, I'd get there early so I
could sit down low, right in front of their line, not really
caring that they blocked the view of the team.   It was them that
I came for, the row of glorious, tight asses that danced, that
got me stiff with desire. I knew it was a joke with them.   They
noticed I was there every game, and they knew why. Girls like
that love attention, the love the rain of desire that falls on
them from the looks of men.  I'd see the smirk in their faces as
they turned towards me during one of their dances. They'd blow me
mock kisses while they all wiggled their ass for the boys on the
team.   I didn't care, I was on fire inside. Their contempt, the
satisfaction they took in teasing only added to the erotic
thrill.  I was surrounded by a crowd of kids and parents, I'd
have a boner pushing out the line of my shorts. Finally, it got
too much, I'd have to get up from the seat, and walk through the
crowd.  Never mind that my excitement was obvious to anyone who
looked closely.   I had to get away, to go somewhere alone, and
masturbate. 

So I was a jerk off all through high school, my desire for girls
was too intense, too overwhelming to relate to one normally. I
was sick with fear that someone would find out my secret: I still
loved to dress, it was still an escape from the expectations, the
hard things you had to do to be a real boy. My secret life was a
world of lace and frills, of soft scents, and fabrics so smooth
and sexy that I wanted to cry when I put them on.  The only
person who knew about this, other than my family, was Cliff, and
he moved away after my sophomore year.   Only my mother and
father knew about my "strangeness."   Not that anything was ever
said again.  The incident with my mother's drawer was never
mentioned. Now when my mother went shopping in the afternoon, I
just went to my room and wacked off. 

I never dared to go in her drawer again, yet still I had a secret
stash of pretty things. I got them because I earned them - I
became just like my father. I did as I was told. As I grew older,
she grew more demanding, she began to treat me the same way as my
father. I was given a strict, unalterable schedule of chores.
There were a number of areas in the house that I was expected to
keep clean when I'd come home from high school. I  scrubbed the
kitchen and bathroom floors, and polished the wood of the stairs.
Every day.   She'd come home from work at night and step around
the kitchen in her heels, inspecting the cleanliness of the
corners and the quality of the shine.  She wouldn't say anything
if it wasn't right.  No, she'd wait till she sat down to dinner,
and then she'd start in on me.   She'd start with the insults,
call me by my nickname: "Tissy" She'd tell me what a hopeless
shit I was, and I'd feel the tears well up in me.  I'd run to my
room, and swear to myself I'd do better.

I got my stash because I did do better.  By the time I was a
junior in high school, I could clean like a whirlwind. I was
determined she'd find no fault in the execution of her
assignments.  But I did more than that.   Like my father, I began
to develop an intense alertness to her moods, her needs.   I
don't know how I learned - I guess it was just the way of things
in my house - but I would watch her closely; I learned to detect
her unstated wants. I'd see a small look of annoyance in her
eyes, and I'd notice a pile of untidy magazines.   I'd notice her
lips get tight, then I'd see that the windows needed cleaning. 
Somehow I knew I was supposed to do these things, but without her
telling me.   It was as if she was training me for a whole new
level of attention. She'd come home the next day, and while she
was inspecting the kitchen or bathroom floor, I'd tell her what
I'd done, and it was satisfying to see her smile at me. She'd give
me a kiss, and I was in heaven again.

And more than that.  It might be the next day, it might be the
day after that, but soon after I did my extra service I'd come
home from school and find a present on my bed: a box wrapped in
shiny pink paper, with a large, red bow.   I'd feel an inner
thrill, I'd close the door before I went over to the bed and
opened it.   It would have a card, a simple thank you from Mom.  
I could hardly restrain my excitement as I opened the wrapping.
I'd smell the perfume as I opened the box. It was always
something truly lovely! Mom had excellent taste when it came to
lingerie.   It might be a pair of panties and a matching
camisole.  Or sometimes something simple, like a pair of shiny,
loose fitting silk undies.   Whatever it was, I was hard as a
rock just opening the box.

I loved wearing the stuff she bought for me.  I always put it on
right away, I'd be shaking with excitement.  I'd spend a delicious
few minutes sashaying in front of my mirror, loving the look and
feel of me in my new teasewear. I felt like every cell of my
outer skin was alive with sensation. This was a private heaven, a
soft, sensual world of my own, where I could be myself. I took my
time, caressing my raging cock within the soft folds of its new
fabrics;  I wanted to treasure the moment. I wanted it to last.
Sometimes it would take a full hour until I could wait no longer,
I'd let myself go, shooting all over the bed. I'd take the new
items off, and carefully fold them. I had my own bottom drawer
now, I'd add them to my stash. I'd leave the panties on, though.  
I'd put my boy clothes on over them, and I'd go downstairs and
thank mother.  She'd be sitting in her chair in the living room,
relaxing.  She'd see me coming and smile, she could tell by my
mincing walk and the distracted look in my eyes that I was
"dressed" underneath. I'd grow excited again as I approached her;
The truth was, she had an unbelievable erotic charge for me now.
I'd give her a kiss on the cheek, and say "thank you", and she'd
look at me with those lovely eyes of hers, and give a little
titter, and she'd say: "Just don't make a mess in them, dear."  It
felt so good, I felt like such a ... slut, that I'd almost make
my mess, right there.

There were many things I did for her, many presents.   My father
and I hovered around her, we were like busboys at an expensive
restaurant, watching some rich bitch complain about the service.
We never spoke about her, this pull she had over us.   Gradually,
as I received more gifts from her, I started putting them in the
wash, with the rest of my clothes.   My father always did the
laundry, my precious things were washed, folded and placed in my
drawer without comment.  And I saw now that he had things of his
own, there were colors and fabrics in the wash that must have
been his.   So Dad was a secret sissy too.   

We never spoke of her, the two of us.   She exercised a silent
dominion over us.   We'd each be doing our housework, finishing
up our respective chores as the hour of her arrival approached. 
In this we were together, but there was still a great gulf
between us.  He was nothing to me, the more I became like him,
the more contempt I had for him as a man.   Still, there was
something in him that I envied.   The services I did were
pleasing to her, I knew.   But I also knew that despite her
dismissal of him, her mockery, the many times I heard her speak
of him with disgust to her friends, he had a path to her that
would always be denied me.   The services he did could be far
more intimate, I could only imagine the sweet pleasures she drew
from him during the night.   And if my rewards, my pretty things
were my encouragement, then oh! What gifts might he be getting?

                            **
                              
I was 17 when I learned who Vernon was.  I came home unexpectedly
in the middle of the night.   I was supposed to spend overnight
at my friend's house, we were planning on partying since his
parents would be leaving.   But they never left, so there was no
reason to stay over.

I arrived home about 2AM, and found a strange car in the
driveway:  A black Lincoln Continental.   Dad's car was out in
the street.   When I went into the house, I saw Dad on the couch,
fast asleep.  I wondered if he was in some sort of trouble, it
wasn't unusual for her to banish him from their room for a few
days. I went upstairs, and when I passed my parent's bedroom I
got the shock of my life.  I could hear my mother moaning through
the door. And there was someone else, there was a man in there. A
man with a low deep voice, he was saying things to her while she
was crying.   I stopped by the door and listened for a moment.  
The bed was rocking, I could hear the obscene shivers of the
springs, and it was clear that my mother was getting the fucking
of her life.   I was rooted to the floor, I couldn't move, so
fascinated was I by the sounds, especially by the sound of her
voice.  There was a tone of endearment that I had never heard
with my father. I had never heard her act so   so feminine.  She
was talking to him in a loving way, the man was pleasing her so.

I walked on to my room.   I stripped off my clothes, and climbed
into bed.   I could still hear the low voices, I just lay in bed,
listening to them, and trying to understand why I felt the way I
did.  Yes, the sound of her thrilled me deep inside, my prick was
stiff with excitement. I had to do it -  pulled my meat to the
sound of their cries in the room next door.   They seemed to go
on all night, just when I thought they were asleep, I'd hear them
start all over, the bedsprings would come to life, and she'd be
screaming again.

I met him in the morning.   I smelled bacon and eggs when I
walked down the stairs, and when I turned the corner I saw my
father through the kitchen doorway.   He was standing at the
stove, cooking breakfast in his pink robe. He had a pair of big,
fluffy slippers on his feet, as if he was trying to look
especially ridiculous today.   He didn't know I was home; when he
saw me approach, his mouth dropped open.   He had the look of a
trapped animal in his eyes.   When I entered the kitchen, I saw
why. 

There was a big black man sitting at the head of the kitchen
table. He was right at home, he was wearing a T-shirt and boxers.
He was leaning back in the chair reading the newspaper, and he
had his feet up on the chair across from him.   When he saw me he
looked up from the papers, and when I met his black eyes I saw
how handsome he was.   His skin was coal black, his face had
sharp, angular features that were striking, in particular the
long, sensual lips that opened in an easy grin.  His teeth were
brilliant white:  "Hey, You must be Timmy. I'm Vernon, I work with
your Mom. How you doin'." He held his hand out towards me without
sitting up straight. He was completely comfortable, as if this
was his kitchen, and I was the visitor.   

I walked over and took his hand.  "Hi."  I couldn't think of 
anything else to say. I walked around the table, and sat down.  
He made no move to be polite and move his feet.  

I looked at him as I walked around.   He looked to be in his late
twenties, and I could tell he was tall, and lanky.   There wasn't
an ounce of fat on his body; He was all bones and tightly
stretched muscle. He was laying languidly, easily in the chair.
This was the stately, deceptive repose of a dangerous predator.
He had a large diamond stud in his left ear, and there were a
half dozen gold chains around his neck.  I could see the ridges
of his hard belly beneath his T-shirt. As I sat down, I took a
quick, furtive glance at his shorts.   He was hung like a horse,
I could see the outline of his hammer snaking along his thigh,
almost out the edge of his long boxers. It wasn't so much the
length of it, although that was impressive.  It was the spread,
the fullness of it! Testosterone city.

"Good you got up.   You Dad here is making everyone a nice, big
breakfast."   He was smiling at me, he found this amusing.  
"Ain't that right, Tom?"
                                                  
Dad had his back to us, at the stove.   "Yeah."   I could hardly
hear him, he kept his back to us as he answered.

Vern looked at me.   The grin was gone, he spoke to my father
without looking away.  "What's that Tom?"  I could hear an edge in
his voice.

There was a moment of silent tension, and then my father said: 
"Yes, sir." He said it a bit louder than last time, his fear won
over his shame.

"That's it, you my man."   Vern looked at me with a big, wide
grin.  I looked down, in shame. We sat in silence for a few
minutes, while my father finished everyone's breakfast.   The
only sound was the sizzle of the eggs, and the sound of Vern
turning the pages of the paper, every once in a while he'd
whistle a little tune, I could see that he liked this, he liked
where he was right now.  I kept quiet, still feeling
disorientated.   Every few minutes, I snuck another quick look at
his shorts.

My mother came down the stairs, and breezed into the room.   She
looked radiant this morning, she was wearing a white silk
nightgown that ended midway down her thighs, and she was barefoot
beneath that. I could see her hard nipples in the thin sheen that
covered her chest. She had a calm, contented air about her.  She
wasn't expecting to see me; when she did, her expression clouded,
but just for an instant.   She recovered quickly, she came and
sat down on the other side of the table, next to Vern.   He gave
her a kiss, on the lips, as my father came over with the coffee
pot.

"So I guess you guys have met."   He filled her cup, then poured
some hot coffee into Vern's.

"Yeah."   I said this quietly. I still didn't know what to say.  
It was so obvious what was happening, it was so twisted, so far
beyond even the strange things we did before. 

"Vern is another partner at the firm.  We've worked together a
long time."  This made me uncomfortable too, I wasn't used to Mom
ever explaining herself, but I knew that was the only concession
we'd make to propriety.  We'd never mention it, the three of us,
we'd act like this was perfectly natural.   Woman did this all
the time, they had their husband cook breakfast for their lovers.

Breakfast continued.  I ate in silence while Mom and Vern spoke
about the firm.   I was fascinated to hear the way she spoke to
him; I realized that I'd never heard her speak so respectfully,
so deferentially to a man before.   She agreed with everything
Vern said, she laughed when he laughed, and when he reached his
hand down on her knee and caressed her inner thigh, she blushed
and batted her eyes like a schoolgirl. For some reason, I found
this extraordinarily exciting, I kept imagining him pleasing her
last night.  I kept looking down at his boxers, fascinated by the
size of the man. The thought of her underneath him, the reaction
of her eyes to the push of that big thing inside her, thrilled me
in a way I couldn't explain.   My cock stiffened with every look
she gave him. Yes, this was beginning to make sense. 

While this was going on, Dad had moved into the laundry room, I
could hear him ironing, and I knew without looking that he was
working on Vern's shirt. When he was finished, he hung the
pressed white shirt on the laundry room door, and came back and
cleared the table.   Vern and Mom got up.   I realized how big he
was then.   His shoulders were wide and muscular, his T-shirt
hung loosely over his thin waist. He made no effort to conceal
the huge thing in his shorts. They walked out of the kitchen
together.  Vern said:   "I left my shoes by the door."

I left the kitchen right after them, leaving my father at the
sink.   He was doing the dishes, and he wouldn't look at me.   I
went back up to my room to get dressed for school.  When I passed
Mom's room, I could hear them inside, they were showering
together.  I stood there by their door, listening to the talk and
laughter.  An incredible charge flew into my balls. Yes, they
were doing it again, this time in the shower.   They were
partying, making no effort to keep quiet. I could hear her scream
with delight. I imagined him behind her, reaching his big arms
around her, pulling her ass close up against him. I reached into
my panties and stroked myself. When I heard them shut off the
water, I ran into my room and shot my load onto my bed.

I got dressed for school and came downstairs.   

My father was shining Vern's shoes in the living room. He still
wouldn't look at me.   I went over and sat down next to him, and
he continued what he was doing, as if he was dead inside, and his
body was working on autopilot.  After a minute I picked up one of
the shoes and a brush, and I started brushing along with him. My
father stopped what he was doing, and now he looked at me.   We
said nothing; there was no need to speak of this.

                             **

I met Gabreille in Chicago, while I was working at my first job
out of college.  I was a runner on the floor of the Chicago
Mercantile Exchange. Mom's sister was a Senior VP at one of the
major brokerage houses, and she got me this job.   It wasn't much
of a job, all I did was hump orders from the phone banks on the
side of the exchange floor to the traders in a pit.

The trading floor was like a beehive, there were thousands of
people packed into a congested arena about the size of a football
field.  Working on the floor was an assault on the senses, at the
end of the day my ears would still be ringing from the continuos
roar of the traders.  The outer perimeter of the trading floor
was covered with quote boards that hurt my eyes with their
brightness.  Workers on the floor wore colored jackets that
distinguished their role in the chaos.   Exchange officials wore
bright blue, there were only a few dozen of them.  Trading
members wore red. The most active people on the floor were
runners who took orders from the phone to the pits. There were
almost a thousand of us, faceless young men like me, running all
around the floor like drones. 

There were about a dozen trading pits on the floor. Each was a
circular amphitheater containing a few hundred traders, screaming
continuously at each other for 6 hours a day.   This "good job"
that my aunt got me consisted of running between the phone banks
and the outer perimeter of the pit, where I jostled my way
between a few hundred other young men so that I could shout or
signal an order to one of the firm's traders down in the center
of the pit.   More than once I was knocked to the floor by
another runner, determined to get his orders executed faster than
mine.  After one particularly chaotic day, I was hanging up my
gold runner's jacket when I noticed a footprint in the middle of
the back.  I had been trampled during a stampede near the
International Monetary Market pit. 

It was probably one of the most stressful places to work in the
world.   There were three thousand men on the exchange floor at
any one time, all swarming around the financial gladiators in the
pits. The vast majority of the people on the floor were men. It
was such a high testosterone, "in your face" arena that most
woman decided they wanted no part of it.   But the ones that
stayed were truly extraordinary.

That was Gabrielle.   She was one of the head traders for our
firm, and probably the best. And her looks!  She had a shapely,
athletic body, with long legs, and jet black hair.   She wore
faded jeans that hugged her thighs, and she kept the shirt under
her member's jacket half open.   The men on the floor would gape
at her, their eyes would be drawn to her chest, attracted by the
open shirt, and the heavy gold cross that danced in the warm,
shadows of her flesh.  More than once I found myself staring,
only to glance at her, and see her icy, black eyes burn my
cheeks. She stood in the center of the trading pit;  As the head
trader for one of the largest firms, she was a major player.  
She was the only woman in the pit, and she practically dared
anyone to fuck with her.  The inside of the pit was a chaotic
place - traders pushed and elbowed each other to get their orders
filled.  But there seemed to be an invisible zone around
Gabrielle; she was never jostled like the other traders, she
stood still and regal like a goddess.

Nobody fucked with her.

Gabrielle could out trade anybody on the floor, she'd enter the
pit in the morning like a prizefighter. More than once, some day
trader thought he got the better of her, by making her take an
unfavorable price early in the day; at the end of the day he was
back, pleading with her to let him unload a position that was in
a downward spiral, snared in one of those unpredictable lurches
in the market that a trader like Gabrielle could provoke.  She'd
just look at him and smile, enjoying her revenge. And she had
something else that was even more feared:  She had a mouth like a
viper, Gabrielle had no qualms about taking a man apart in from
of the other traders.   The only time I've ever seen trading stop
in the pit was one day when she started screaming at one of the
other head traders; a hush fell over the pit, we all looked at
her, pointing her finger in his face, calling him a "sissy-assed
faggot" in her piercing, traders voice.   The pit fell silent
until she finished with him, he walked up the steps of the pit
red-faced, almost in tears.   She got excellent prices the rest
of the day.

Needless to say, I was smitten!

She knew I liked her, it must have been obvious from the way I
looked at her, and followed her around when she moved on the
floor.   I wasn't the only one; When she walked around the floor
there was a wake of whispers and turned heads behind her.   Men
leered at her shapely ass, they stopped what they were doing,
distracted by the teasing dance of her young body.  Men that
shouted all day whispered to each other about her, how nice it
would be to feel the warmth of her body against them. She loved
the all the attention, she loved the power her beauty gave her
over men. She seemed to like the runners most of all, because we
were new to the floor; we were like a litter of young puppies,
and I was the youngest, most eager of all. I'd bring her lunch.
I'd wait on line down on State Street for a half hour to get the
sourdough sandwiches she liked, and on the way back I'd buy a
rose, and place it in the bag. She'd give me a little smile when
she opened the bag; I'm sure it was really a smirk, amusement at
the sick loser who was making a play for her, but I was thrilled.
I thought of her all the time, whenever I masturbated I fixed my
mind on her.   What I would give to kiss that lovely, perfect ass
of hers.

One day I got my chance.   My lunch time trips had become almost
comical. She teased me by saying I was becoming annoying, or some
days she'd have this smug look on her face, and say that another
runner was going to get her lunch today. I'd be devastated, but
I'd still try the next day.  There were two other women who had
lunch with her on the side of the exchange floor.   They weren't
traders, these were older order clerks who worked the phones.  
One of them had short, black hair, almost like a crew cut.   She
had a face like a bird, she was thin and angular, and she never
wore makeup.   The other was a hippie that had grown old, and
overweight. She wore silver granny glasses and her gray hair was
pulled back into a tight, almost painful pony tail; she looked
like she hadn't been made love to since the 1960s.  The men on
the floor said they were dykes.  They said this about all the
women, but I believed them with these two. They seemed to hate
men, and they spoke only to each other. I could see that they
were as attracted to Gabrielle as the men were, but for a
different reason.   Gabrielle's beauty was still in full flower,
when these girls were around her they seemed energized by its
ambient glow.  The two of them could convince themselves that the
looks they got from the men that walked by were for them, too.
They were just plain angry, angry at men who denied them the
chance in their day to trade, and angry at the world, for
extinguishing any beauty they once may have had. Gabrielle had
none of their bitterness.  She didn't like men any more than they
did, it seemed, but her dislike was colored more by amused, icy
contempt rather than anger.  Gabrielle liked this lunchtime
diversion, the chance to be with girls and bitch about men;  
They were a buffer for her, a chance to eat her lunch and not be
bothered by the other traders.

This was another day when she let some other runner get her
lunch.   It had been almost a week since she let me do it. I saw
her and her two friends standing there, off to the side, in the
relatively quiet area underneath the visitor's gallery. The
gallery was full with lunchtime tourists, all looking at the pits
and the electric quote boards that surrounded the perimeter of
the floor. But any men among the visitors would be looking down
at Gabrielle; I knew that was why she stood there every day. I
ate my lunch near my broker's station, since it was close enough
to see her.   She and her friends were laughing among themselves,
no doubt finding one of the men on the floor amusing. She looked
so ... alluring, so tempting, I looked at her smile, her bright
blue eyes and that gentle tones of her face, and I had a sudden
inner image of her.   She was above me with that same smile, and
I was deep inside her, thrilling her with the slow, folding
caresses of my tongue. The image threw a switch within me, and my
cock hardened, and pushed against the silky tightness of my
panties.

I was meant to have her.

Like a knight, fearless of all danger, I got up from the broker's
station and walked towards her. 

They saw me coming.  One of the older clerks said something and
they all laughed. I knew I'd be mocked, but still I had to try. 
I walked up to them, and they fell silent; I was like a solicitor
at an impatient court. "Uh, Gabrielle, can I get you something
... like ..."  I knew I sounded stupid. "... a soda, or
something."   My heart was pounding in my chest, I was still hard
in my pants, and I knew my face was blood red.   I could feel my
pulse there, in my cheeks.  

Gabrielle gave a little impatient sigh.   My stammering and
discomfort seemed to have disarmed her a bit.   She actually held
her tongue ... but just for a moment. "Christ!  Will you just get
lost!"   She said this using the same tone of voice you'd use with
a little brat.   The words hurt, but the sound of her, the way
she did it, sent an erotic shiver through me.

The black-haired one chimed in: "Is this that guy you were
telling us about.  Shit!  What a fuckin' joke!"        
               
"Yeah, what an asshole.   Thinks he's got a chance!"   This was
the one with the pony tail, her eyes seemed to brighten behind
her glasses.   "Asshole!"   She said it again, to be sure I heard
it.

Gabrielle started laughing.   They all did, this was such a hoot
for them, especially for the two clerks.   To bury a man like
this, to humiliate him, rub his nose in his own, sick desire. 
Yes, they hadn't felt this good in years.

Gabrielle started in.  "God, what a desperate sack of SHIT you
are."   She took a sip of her drink and thought a moment,
choosing her words carefully.  "Why don't you just go JERK OFF!"  
Now the clerks were really roaring. "God!  What a friggin' PAIN IN
THE ASS you are!"

This was a bad dream.   The ground was opening beneath me.  I
could hear her voice rise, and I knew in a minute she'd be
screaming, the floor would fall silent as the men listened to her
rip my heart out.  They'd be talking about it in the bars after
the markets closed.  The guides in the visitors gallery would
stop talking, mesmerized by the more primeval scene just beneath
them. Still, despite the panic, I was rooted to the spot. I
couldn't move. Not yet.

Gabrielle looked me up and down, searching for something cruel,
something vicious to say. She found it, of course. "Hey girls, I
think he's got a HARDON!"

In a moment, they would know everything. They'd know the color
and texture of my panties and garter. They'd know the look and
feel the soft, feminine things I wore under my street clothes,
and the secret thrill I got from them all day.

Her friends looked down, and started to grin.   The black haired
one practically shouted.   "Hey!  He's GETTING OFF ON THIS!"

I wanted to run past them, slam through the door and run out onto
South Wacker, and leave this place forever.  I wanted to be back
in my apartment, where I could cry in my bed, and hide, and
sleep.   But I was kidding myself. Once I got there I'd start
masturbating, because underneath the panic, beneath the
breathless fear, there was an intense arousal.   My panties were
wet from the thrill of this, this ... exposure.

Gabrielle just glared at me while the other girls egged her on. 
The one with the pony tail said:  "You know, maybe he's like one
of those guys who want to be a slave or something."

"Yeah!"   The thin one picked up the ball.  "He seems to like this
so much!  Jenny Jones had a show on about guys like that."   She
was watching me while she said this, she seemed to scan my body
and see the truth of what they were saying.  "It was so cool,
these guys would like, wait on you, hand and foot."

"Yeah, I saw that show too." The other girl said.   They were
like two little demons on either side of Gabrielle.  "Remember
the one with the maid's outfit?"

"Yeah, that was fuckin' AWESOME!.   I bet this guy would like that
too.   Fuckin' SISSY!"   She had the quick, darting eyes of a
reptile, and her mouth was leering with her excitement.  "Come
on! Ask him to clean your apartment."

"Yeah, Gabby, go ahead!  I bet he'd do it!"

Gabrielle looked at me calmly, as if she was studying me, as if
she could see in my face the depth of my desire.  For a moment,
the three of them fell silent, I looked back at Gabrielle, aware
only of the beating of my heart, and the still overwhelming need
for her.  If anything, the mockery I suffered only added to the
intense pull she had over me, she seemed like nothing so much as
an erotic goddess, the mistress I was forever joined to.

"I-I-I-I would "  I didn't even wait for her to ask, the offer
just spilled out of me like a desperate plea.   Take me, I'll
serve you forever!  

Once I said it I saw a strange light in Gabrielle' eyes, and I
knew that she had secret desires too, wishes that were the top
half of mine.   Yes, she had an inner bitch inside, I would show
her how good it felt to let it out.   I had seen it come alive
with anger, in her volcanic explosions in the pits.   Now we
would both feel the heat of her awakening bitch, not for anger,
but for pleasure.

                              **

She lived on Michigan Avenue, in a duplex on a high floor with a
spectacular view of the lake.   I kept it immaculate, my mother
trained me well. I'd arrive there in the early evening, a few
hours before her. I'd have dinner ready when she arrived, I'd meet
her at the door with a drink, and she'd say how pleased she was,
what a good job I'd done.

And yes, of course, I'd play in her bottom drawer.   I cleaned so
quickly, and so well that I had time to explore her room.   Her
intimate wear was terribly attractive to me, my heart beat wildly
when I explored her dresser;  I hadn't felt a thrill this intense
since that day in my mother's room.  Yes, it was nice to have my
own pretty things, but these garments were charged with her
beauty, her sex, and so when I put them on, the feeling of
intimate contact with her was just indescribable.   Silk was
Gabrielle's passion, all her underthings were the finest natural
silk. From her catalogues, I could see that most of the stuff was
imported from the orient.   My favorite item was a cherry red
silk kimono, I loved wearing it when I cleaned. I kept myself
naked underneath, it thrilled me deeply to feel it rub and caress
my stiff dick.   I was careful though, she never suspected that I
did these things, I was afraid if she found out she'd send me
away from her forever.

Our relationship took a while to develop.   This was new to her
as well, At first, all she was interested in was to treat me like
a servant;   she seemed content to have the place clean when she
arrived, and to know that a man was doing it as a sign of
devotion. She'd send me home shortly after she arrived at night.
But slowly, she succumbed to temptation.  Put a fine piece of ass
in close proximity to any normal man, and sooner or later he'll
put a move on her.   Similarly, when a woman sees that a man is
devoted to her, it won't be long before she listens to her inner
brat, and asks for more. A man that takes orders on domestic
chores might just as easily perform services of a more  
intimate nature.   

I certainly let her know I was willing.

After a few weeks, she asked me to do more personal things.  
She'd call me before she arrived, and ask me to have her shoes
polished.   This I was eager to do, and when I showed them to
her, I asked her if I could put them on.  She sat on the couch,
and I knelt before her.   I took her foot and held it like it was
made of delicate china.   I placed the shoe on it slowly, using
the tips of my fingers to tease and caress her skin down there. 
She was thrilled, I could tell from the film over her eyes that
she must have been wet with desire underneath.   After that she
wanted her shoes polished every night, even if she wasn't going
out.

I began to call her mistress.   I brushed her hair, I cut and
polished her toes, and I found an unspeakable pleasure in
cleaning her toilet.   I made sure to leave this chore undone
until she arrived in the afternoon, it was so much better to be
watched while I was on my knees scrubbing her bowl.   This became
almost a ritual for the two of us, she made sure not to flush in
the morning, she'd leave a bowlful of shit and piss all day. I
could smell it as soon as I entered the apartment. Shortly after
she arrived home I'd go into the bathroom and start in on it.  
She'd follow me and observe, she'd point out the spots I was
missing.  Thus a sort of private language developed between us,
my acts of devotion were like a mating dance that coaxed her to
be even more demanding, to reach within herself for deeper, even
more thrilling pleasures.

And of course, she wanted me to do more.   After a few months
together, I didn't leave at night until I had pleasured her.  
She'd lay back on her big Queen Anne's chair, and place her legs
up on my shoulder.   I was born to do this, to tease and tickle
the nerve-filled crevices deep within her.   She insisted that I
do this slowly, a proper service needed at least an hour to bring
her full passion alive.  Oh!  How I loved the sound of her, when
I coaxed her inner demon out from its prison of manners, and
respectability. I could feel in the heat of her cunt the
approaching release, and I was proud of my ability to hold her
there, poised on the brink.   I was born to do this, I was made
to press my lips against the lower, earthy lips that God made for
us.
     
I never dared to ask her for anything for myself.  Despite all my
probing within her inner thighs, she seemed as remote as the
clouds, and I was afraid of any storm a selfish request might
unleash.   So I held my passion off. I'd think of her all the way
home, the image of her snatch and the sound of her encouraging
voice would be fixed still and waiting within me.   I'd hold it
like an inner light, until I got back to my apartment, and could
masturbate, and bring the sense of it alive.  I'd relive every
sweet moment for my exploding cock.

She wondered why I was like this, and I told her about my Mom.  
This intrigued her, something about the notion of a wife and
mother acting like a bitch was somehow compelling for her. 
She made me describe at length all the things we did for her.  
She seemed particularly interested in my father.   Did he ever
get angry?   Did I ever see any affection between them.  What did
he look like when she was angry at him?  Did I think they had
sex? I never told anyone about my family, I knew that most people
would consider my parent's relationship to be, well, deviant. 
But Gabrielle wanted to know everything, and telling her of these
things only added to the intimate hold she had over me. I
was handing her the keys to my soul.

So when Gabrielle asked to meet my mother, I had no choice in the
matter.   I had never brought a girl home.   In fact, I had never
even mentioned a girl to my mother.   But Gabrielle was not to be
denied. 

I had my own bitch now.

                             **

Gabrielle and my mother just ... clicked together. Gabrielle was
right at home by the morning of our first overnight stay.  My
mother would lay in her easy chair and be waited on by my father,
and Gabrielle would be similarly reposed on the couch.  I'd be in
the kitchen with Dad, mixing drinks, doing our duties in silence. 
I'd be doing the dishes, he'd be cooking, and we'd hear them in
the living room.  Giggling among themselves, having a fine, lazy
afternoon.  Once in a while they'd call out to us.  Mom would
say: "Timmy dear, bring me my slippers."  And off I'd go, ever
obedient. I was mad with desire;  I'd bring my mother a drink, or
her slippers, an Gabrielle would give me this look, like she was
a witness to the inner framework of my life.   Now she understood
me, she saw how I was raised with the single purpose of pleasing
a demanding woman. Gabrielle was assuming the erotic charge of my
mother in my mind, and the feeling was overwhelming for me.   I
couldn't wait or the night, so we'd be alone in my room.

The visits home, and her developing closeness with my mother
changed our relationship.   To that point, I had been her
personal servant, an expert provider for all of her needs.   And
she was very appreciative, she praised all my efforts to please
her.  I might have even convinced her to reciprocate, if I had
dared ask.   But once she met my mother, she seemed to realize
that a relationship like ours had the potential for deeper, more
intense satisfaction on her part.   She was never one to hold
back her anger, but now she realized that her anger could be
used, she could ride her anger like a wave, and feel the sexual
charge in its power. Bitchiness was such an elemental pleasure,
once a girl saw it played out, it was irresistible.   Humiliation
is fun.

Those first nights were like a psychodrama:  my mother made sure
Gabrielle knew everything that happened between her and my
father.  My bedroom was right next to my parents.  My mother
would curse at Dad, she'd call him all sorts of names, filthy,
dirty things, and I had the strangest feelings, knowing that
Gabrielle could hear every word.   She was taking all this in.  
Mom would say the vilest things, and it was clear from the tone
in her  voice, and the quickness of her breath between the words,
that Dad was licking her all the while.   I couldn't help it, I
was hard as a rock, there was such an air of base sexuality in
the air.

It carried over into the day.   Gabrielle and my mother were
inseparable, they'd sit in the living room, giggling like
schoolgirls. Dad and I would bring them breakfast in the morning,
they'd be in the living room watching TV.   They'd burst out
laughing when we left the room, as if they shared some private
joke at our expense.   Dad's face was as red as a beet:   now he
was being mocked not just by Mom, but by a strange woman as well,
I could see him fight to control his anger.  He came close to
talking back once.   Dad and I brought them each a tall glass of
iced tea, and Gabrielle told him sharply to take it back and put
more ice in it. I'm sure she told him, and not me, because Mom
put her up to it. They were running a scene.

Dad turned to her with an angry look: "Hey, who do you "

"Tom!"   Mom cut in sharply.  "Shut your mouth and do as you're
told!"

Dad deflated like a punctured balloon.   He took her glass back
into the kitchen, and I followed.   Their laughter fell on our
backs.  

I'll never forget one particular night.   My mother was really
cutting loose, this was like a clinic in abusive sex.   Gabrielle
turned to me.   She had look of pure arrogance, and she said: 
"No wonder you're such a USELESS PEICE OF SHIT!"  Oh! My desire
kicked into overdrive, the cruel hiss of her voice, and her foxy
grin made my need even more desperate. So I went down between the
covers, and showed her just what I was good for.  That night, and
all the nights thereafter, there were two loud voices in my home:

"Slow down, SHITHEAD!"

"Christ! Use your FUCKIN' TOUNGE!"

"Oh, fuck! I wish I had a real man."

"O-h-h-h!   Keep it right there.   Don't you DARE stop!"

I knew they were talking about me.   Sometimes at night, after I
had satisfied Gabrielle, she'd go downstairs to get a glass of
milk, or have a cigarette.   It seemed that every time my mother
would follow.   I could hear them, and while I couldn't hear what
they said, the whispers and the giggles convinced me that
Gabrielle was telling her about me, and she was learning about
Dad as well.

So now she knew everything.  My mother must have told her about
my crossdressing;  I could tell from the way she acted when I was
licking her. One time I was holding her right on the edge,
keeping her there as long as I could, while she unleashed her
abusive comments.  And mixed in with that cruel torrent was my
mother's nickname for me: "Tissy." She said it as she came, and I
almost came myself when I first heard it - there was something
about the hiss in her voice, and the thought of what I was doing
to trigger it. I felt like an electric shock moved through my
body - for days afterwards I masturbated every chance I got,
hearing Gabrielle call me that again. 

Another day she was getting dressed, she asked me if I had put
the run in her stockings. As if she didn't know!  She was sitting
on the side of the bed, eyeing me coldly. 

"I-I-I-I'm sorry."  I knew I sounded like a baby.

"God!   What a fuckin' PUSSY."   She looked disgusted, like I was
repulsive to her.

Rather than make me angry, or ashamed, this only further
eroticized Gabrielle in my mind.  The lower her expressed opinion
of my masculinity, the more desirable she seemed. I had always
loved her, her first attraction for me was the shape of her body,
the thrilling promise of it.  But now that she knew all about me,
she knew all the intimate, embarrassing details that my mother
did, my desire took on the quality of a compulsion.   Just a look
from her would stiffen me, I'd be hard as a rock all through my
nights of service. She knew all my buttons, she could see how I
responded to the contempt in her eyes.    

Finally, I understood my Father.  I knew why a man would
relinquish his conventional, everyday masculinity.   It felt so
good to be opened up this way, to feel once again the
overpowering, helpless need that a baby feels. 

One night around 2AM, I had gone to the kitchen to get the nail
polish remover.   After a few weeks there, we'd settled into a
routine.   I'd satisfy her orally for an hour or so, and then I'd
spend the next hour painting her toes. No doubt this was the same
routine as my parents, because every morning both Gabrielle and
my mother had a fresh coat of lustrous paint on their toes. So on
this particular night when I went to the kitchen my father was
already there.

He was reaching under the sink for the cotton balls as I walked
in.   When he got up he saw me there.   It was awkward for a
moment. Finally he held out the bag, and said to me: "I guess
you'll need some of these."

"Yeah," I said, as I reached into the bag.

"How are you and Gabrielle getting along?"  He was looking
directly at me, he seemed a bit hesitant, and the question was
uncharacteristically direct.  

"Um ... good."  I didn't quite know what to say, but the look in
his eyes, and the fact that it was obvious by now that I was
beginning to treat Gabrielle the same way he treated Mom made me
want to be more open. "I know she's happy, I try real hard to
please her."

"She's very beautiful, I bet she looks lovely when you're ...
pleasing her."  He had a distant, wistful look in his eyes.

"They're talking about us, you know.  I think Mom told her all
about me."   I didn't have to spell it out: I had a full length
pink terrycloth robe on, and a pair of Gabrielle's black lace
panties underneath it.  He was wearing green silk robe that came
down to his knees, and I could see that he had white stockings on
his feet.   We looked at each other quickly, scanning our bodies,
realizing what we were both wearing.  He could see in my eyes
that I had something sexy on underneath my robe. But we kept to
our pattern, the obvious was never discussed.

"What color is it going to be tonight?"  I wanted to let him know
about her.

"Neon purple"  He held up the small bottle.  

"Gabrielle wants Harlot Red tonight." 

"I know where that is." It took him just a second to find it in
the large basket, he was in his element.  Some men focus their
energies on accomplishment in the world, mastering the skills of
artistry or leadership. His skill and competence was focused on
knowing where all of her things were.  He handed it to me, and
asked if I wanted any "top coat." 

"What's that?"   Much of this was still new to me.

"It hardens the nails, and also gives them a glossy coat that
catches the light."  I had noticed that Mom's toes always looked
better that Gabrielle's, even though both women liked bold,
attention getting colors. There was something different about
Mom's that caught the eye. I realized now that there was a
certain brilliance to their color.

"OK, thanks."  I took the bottle from his hand. "Gabrielle will
be pleased."

He was silent for a second;  It seemed like he was on the verge
of saying something, so I waited.   Finally, he spoke in a soft,
fearful voice.  "Gabriella has lovely feet."

"I know, Dad.  It was one of the things that attracted me to
her."  I was talking as softly as he was, it was almost a
whisper, like we were sharing some secret.

"She's a lot like your mother was.  Very strong, very ...
willful."  The words came out of him only after great effort, I
could see that he was struggling to overcome a lifetime of
inhibition against saying things like this to other men.

"I know Dad.   She's really tough."  I felt a warm tingle saying
this, because I had the same inhibition,  in the months since I
met her, this obsessive need grew in me, yet it was passion of a
sort I could never discuss with another man.  "You got to hear
her talk when she's mad.  She's got a real mean mouth on her."

His eyes started jumping around, partly from excitement, and
partly from fear, the irrational, guilty fear that was a
permanent part of his life with Mom.  "You know, Gabrielle teases
me."  That got my attention, the thought of her working on Dad,
doing some of the same shit she did with me. I found the idea
exciting. "Sometimes in the afternoon, when she gets home early
and I'm the only one home, she sits and watches TV with me." He
had a whimsical look, he was looking off to the side, as if
picturing her.  "She kicks her shoes off, and starts flexing her
toes."   I could see what was coming, Gabrielle had the most
lovely feet, they were delicate and so pleasing to the eyes.  She
had done this to me many times. Whenever some insult of hers cut
too deeply, and I was sulking,  she'd sit down and work her magic
with her feet.  She'd be sitting near me, seemingly unaware of
me, but she'd cross her legs, and flex the toes of her top foot.
It was like a call to prayer, my blood would start racing and my
mouth would dry up.  After a few minutes of this, I'd be on my
knees before her, holding her lovely foot in my hands, and
kissing her toes.   I'd be lost in my passion, her insults
wouldn't hurt anymore.  No, I'd want her cutting words to rain
down on me. 

"She starts to rub them with her hands." He continued, eyeing me.
"I try not to look, but then she says things like:  'I hear
you're a master foot massager.'  She stretches them out, they're
only a foot or so away from me."

"I know Dad.  She's a tease."  I was thrilled at the idea of her
giving Dad the Treatment.

"Shit!  Don't I know it."  He looked almost angry, miffed to be
teased like this, to have his desires stirred and left
unsatisfied, purely for her amusement.   "She asks me:  'Come on.
Give them a kiss.  You know you want to.'"   He was looking at me
now, gauging my reaction.

His story had excited me.   I had a thick hardon under my robe,
beneath the pair of lace panties that Gabrielle let me wear.
"It's OK, Dad, I won't mind."

His aspect changed, his mouth settled into a slight grin. I could
tell he was looking forward to it.   He smiled.  "You're really
lucky Timmy, to have a woman like that."

"Keeps me happy, Dad."  I wanted to tell him all about her, the
way she made me feel.   "Just so you know, Dad, it only starts
with the feet.   She'll want you to suck them."

"That's OK!"  I could see the excitement grow in him, no doubt
his dick was starting to swell under his nightie.  "I-I-I like
... that."   

I could picture it now, the smirk on Gabrielle's face, the
triumph she'd feel with yet another pussy boy to get off on. 
"But then, you know, Dad, she really gets rough..."   I watched
him closely, I wanted to see the look in his face.  "I mean, she
really jams her foot in.  I mean, the whole foot..."

"The whole foot?"   He was hoping I was telling the truth, the
prospect of being treated this way by his alluring
daughter-in-law had him salivating like a panting dog.

"Yeah, she likes to be in up to her ankle." I was smiling at Dad,
loving the need my words aroused in him.   I knew we only had a
minute, I'd have to get back upstairs soon or she'd be pissed for
keeping her waiting.  So I wanted to leave him with something to
remember.  "Yeah, she likes pushing her foot into your mouth. And
if you don't get enough in, or don't lick her toes the way she
wants..."  I started to walk away, "... she likes to kick your
nose with the other."  I turned around and saw him, open mouthed.
"Sure Dad, go for it, give her a kiss!"   

                          **

Still the pattern remains, only now there are two of them.  It's
Saturday afternoon, they're going shopping together.   We write
down our chores, the list of things we're expected to do.   But
there will be time, they know this as well as we do. We can hear
it in their laughter as they close the door. We stand at the
window and watch them drive away.   We walk up the stairs,  the
thought of our coming indulgence builds within us.  He heads
towards his room, and I head towards mine. When I open my door
there is a surprise.

On the bed is an outfit: a maid's uniform.   I feel a rush in my
panties when I see it, it looks so   perfect. I pick it up, and
I note the shortness of the dress, how exposed my poor ass would
be when I bend over to clean.   And then I see the panties, the
little girl frills and ruffles on the butt.  Oh, they are sick,
those cunts!   Still, I put it on - I can't help it, it rouses
such deep wishes in me.  The lace at the top of the stockings,
the sheer glory of the garter belt.   I'm breathing hard as I sit
on the bed, and put the shoes on.   Heels impossibly high,
there's no way to work effectively in any of this. This is an
outfit for show.

I stand and reach under the apron for my cock.   I pull it free
from the panties and I start to rub it.   I know I won't last,
just a few quick strokes and I'll blow my stuff all over my
floor; I'll miss my moment.   No, I was meant to be seen like
this, the thought of being seen in this   state is too
delicious. So I stop rubbing - I hold myself off.   I stagger out
the door of my room.

Dad is waiting in the hallway, with a matching outfit of his own. 

We say nothing as we walk down the stairs.  We start our chores.
He dusts and I iron. We move slowly, partly because of the
unsteadiness of our heels, partly because we are distracted by
the pressing need within us. It takes an act of will to refrain
from wacking off.  We both knew they'll be home any minute.   The
cunts will open the door, and they'll see us, the teasing and the
abuse will begin.   I hold myself off for her. I want to feel
like this when I see the contempt in her eyes, and hear her
selfish laughter. I can hold myself off - she's taught me that.
I'll hold myself off all night long, if she won't let me do it.  I
know it will be a long night.

Tonight Vern is visiting.               


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  I'd love to here from you, no matter what you thought
 of my story. Comments and story ideas are welcome at:
 Pervitron@Hotmail.com
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Pervitron/
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