Monday, January 31, 2011

Dallas-The Last Time

We did make love before she went to Dallas, before she locked me up. That was Friday night.

I took her to dinner at our favorite restaurant where service was unusually slow (the waiter and owner were great, the kitchen was a bit backed up.)

It was okay, though, we were enjoying each other's company very much, and the hours passed like minutes, helped by the wine.

Home, we had a glass of wine by the fireplace, talked about three weeks, how we'd miss one another.


"So," I repeated.

"Are we going to go to the bedroom and screw, or what," Emily asked, a gleam in her eye.

"Yea," I immediately answered, apparently just as turned on and excited and downright horny as she was.

"Hmmm, do you want to dress up or should we just go at it like animals right now?"

I lowered my eyes, palms warm, stomach flipping, knowing to dress up was to delay, to pause, to wait.

But given the invitation, there was only one answer I could give.

"Dress up," I said, feeling a bit nervous and foolish but realistically, I'd take the chance to play dress up any time it was offered to me, something she knew all too well. Hell, there are times she'd just as soon have sex naked, without any prelude and dressing and getting ready (and times I would, too), but given the choice, yes, I'd take dressed up. For me or for her or both!

She confirmed, of course, "I assumed that's what you'd want, my pretty. Why don't you go get dressed in the guest room and give me twenty minutes and then come knock to see if I'm ready, okay?"

That deal was sealed with a kiss, so deep and passionate that we almost did not part lips and almost just abandoned the whole dress up thing and continued right there on the couch.

"Anything special," I asked.

"You pick, love, you never disappoint."

I'm sure I did not and would not.

And dressing, for me, made sure that the twenty minutes were not spend getting unexcited, but instead kept me right on the edge.

I went to the guest room, where some of my things were, including my breast forms. I started with those, applied them carefully to my chest, and covered them with a black bra, just to give them a bit more support and reality.

Barely able to manage, I did nevertheless, and gave myself a minute to calm down, a minute to shrink, to step back from the edge. Necessary for what I wanted to do next, to slip on matching panties, and to tuck myself carefully and conveniently out of the way, to keep the illusion, physically, of what I was emotionally and mentally.

A woman.

I have a black satin chemise that compliments the bra and panty set quite nicely; it is really cute and adorable and has white lace trim that, in my mind, gives it the illusion of a pretty maiden (or maid) and softens the black set to make me be less sinister, more flirty.

And since I was dressing sexy and seductive, I completed the outfit with black lace top thigh high stockings (no garter belt was required for these but I added one at the last minute just the same, running the six garter straps through the panties so my panties would be unencumbered and easily removed later, if need be.)

A moment to mess my hair, to feminize it, a dab of perfume here and there. Still ten minutes.

Time yet.

I keep my nails on the long side, for a boy, their length further emphasized by the clear polish I wear virtually all the time (yes, as a boy I get teased now and then for having such nice nails and I always answer honestly-my girlfriend loves them like this and it keeps me from biting them so fuck off.)

But I have some press on nails I keep for special occasions, French manicure looking, that come with both glue (for long wear) and adhesive tape for short term wear.) The time I had left was more than enough to quickly put on my nails (I'd done it enough that I could do it in just a minute or two.)

Much, much better, as they gave my hands a much more feminine appearance and feeling and I knew that she'd love to have my fingernails run over her skin and her inner thighs and it would drive her crazy to have me do that, so yes, I was quite pleased with myself.

I knocked on the closed door to the bedroom with those nails, rapping my fingertips against the wood, giving Emily the unmistakable signal that her boyfriend, today, was as feminine and as far from the "boy" part of boyfriend as could be.

"Come in," she called.

I opened the door, expecting to see her on the bed, was instead surprised to find her sitting on a bench at the side of the room under a window.

"Well, well, well, what pretty thing has come to play with me tonight?" She crossed her legs, her nylons made a whispering sound as they brushed against one another.

"Fuck, Em," I said, looking her up and down, "you look amazing."

"Glad we dressed up are you?"

"Hell yes."

"Good thing I wasn't waiting for a man tonight," she teased.

"You're such a bitch," I laughed, nervously, the cut about the man so true, so exciting, so exhilarating.

"And you're still standing there when you should be on your hands and knees licking me feet, sissy."

Which was all the invitation I needed to drop in front of her and reach out like a baby bird reaching for its first meal, so eager was I to lick her feet, to taste her nylons, to suck any part of her, covered or uncovered.

"That's more like it, bitch," she took on a dominant tone, a content tone, happy, ready to have me as she always would, hers, devoted to her, submissive to her, worshipping her, loving her.

I was in heaven, as I always was, in heaven simply by my tongue touching any part of her. Such a silly thing, to be so happy to serve as such, so happy with my mouth on her skin, toes and calves and thighs, so happy forgetting about me, devoted to her.

"Oh, Sara," she whispered as I found that bare skin at the top of her stocking, that place, inside her thigh, where it seemed every nerve ended up between her legs, where every lick touched not just her leg, but her pussy, where every lick sent shudders and shivers all over her.

That's when I saw it, the object, the symbol, the phallic instrument next to her, something I'd never seen before in her bedroom, something I'd never seen next to her or touching her.

"What's that," I asked, eyeing the vibrator resting on the bench next to her, resting, yet alive, calling, interrupting, that thing, that evil, beautiful thing.

"A vibrator, silly," she ran her fingers through my hair, gently directing me back to her thigh, gently urging me to continue my travels upwards, to where it mattered, where my touch would send her to the edge of the abyss, over.

"I know what it is," I said with a tired expression, as one would speak to a child. "Is that new?" I reached for it, always happy to try anything with her, mentally, already picturing touching her with it, running it over her pussy, pushing it inside her.

"New? Oh, no, hon, I've had this for awhile, since before we started dating."

"Oh," I said a light going off in my head, a recognition of its place in her her life. Hell, every girl needed something between men, or in my case between the last man and her sissy. "For those times," I nodded my head, understanding, picking up the phallic item, stirring more now, straining inside my own panties.

"Oh," she caught her self, surprised at my answer. "No, no, that like that," she laughed, awkward. "I mean, it was great before I met you, but I didn't get it, I mean it wasn't..."

I looked at her, not understanding her meaning.

"I'm sorry, it's nothing, it's not important, I don't know why I'm correcting you. Yes, I used this before we got together, but I did not buy it for myself, sweetie, David bought it for me, he used to use it," her voice trailed off.

David, another ex, a guy she dated before me, used to use it on her, she meant to say, to use the fucking vibrator in my hand ON HER.

"Wait, that doesn't bother you, does it? I used to love it and I thought, well, we could use it tonight, you know, before I go. I mean, it used to get me so hot and all and..."

She lowered her voice, to a whisper, leaned ever so slightly forward, towards me.

"I thought you might, you know, that you might like using this, knowing he used on me."

I don't know why I did not cum in my panties right then and there. I was holding in my pretty, finger nailed hands, a fucking vibrator that my Emily's ex-boyfriend bought for her and used on her and touched her with and...

"He used to touch me with it."

"Ohhhhh, fuck, I..." I started shaking, seriously, close to cumming, so close, helpless.

"He'd hold it to my clit, sissy, he'd make me cum so hard before he fucked me."

I was about to fall over, my world, my mind, all spinning, helpless, down the trail, needing her, fuck, so confused, so strange, the thing in my hands, once held by another, by him, pushing it in her and on her and...

"Touch me with it, touch me, sissy, I'm so wet touch me, make me cum before he fucks me."

"Fuck, Emily," I was shaking, the reality. This wasn't just fantasy, no, this was real, this thing I held in my hands, it was real, he'd bought it for her, he'd used it on her, she'd cum on it, in his hands, she'd cum on this very vibrator, touched against her, held by him, to make her wet and cum before he fucked her.

And I saw it, David inside her, legs over his shoulders, fucking her, the vibrator touched to her clit as he fucked her; she was all over it, her wetness as he plunged into her, as he cum inside her, coating her, coating it, juices all over it.

I turned it on, I had to, I could not help it, I turned it on and touched it to her, the vibrations on her, spreading pleasure all over her, so fast, so hard.

"He's watching, sissy, isn't he, it's like he's here, watching you touch me with it, like he's watching you get me wet so he can fuck me."

She was shaking already, her leg, like a dog, shaking being pet, but it wasn't her back rubbed, nor her belly, it was her pussy, it was there, that special place, touched by the pulsating silicone, touched, teased, made to cum.

"Get on the bed," she growled.

We were, in a flash, and I was on top of her, buried between her legs, licking her, working the vibrator over her, touching her clit as I licked, putting the head of it inside her.

"Oh, fuck, David, fuck," she held my head, looked me in the eye, watched me make her cum. "You want to, do it, Sara, do it."

"What," I asked, confused.

"Lick it, Sara, lick, he's been inside me, lick it, taste me on him."

No more encouragement was needed as I stopped the vibrator, took it into my mouth, and blew it, in and out, blew the vibrator that had been his and hers and was not nothing, yet everything, too, was him, was him inside her, his cock, wet with her.

"Fuck me," she grunted, still looking me right in the eye while I sucked her juices off the vibrator, mentally, off him.

I wasted not a second, not a nano second, nothing. My panties were off as if they were never on, my own clit penis free, expanding, needing nothing, yet everything, needing to be inside her.

"No, no," she said softly, "no, Sara, no. Him. I want him inside me."

It took just nothing, just a tilt, a push, and the vibrator was no longer in my mouth, but just that quick, pushed into her, buried, to the end, pushed into her pussy, so accepting, so needing, so wanting.

I fucked her with it, fucked her, thinking of him. Fucked her with the vibrator till she came, till she shuddered, till she pulled my face towards her, as if to kiss me, but did not, talked in my ear.

"I want you inside me, Sara."

Now time moved like nothing; one second I was on her, the next in her, but she pushed me, held me, stopped me from fucking, just held me, let me rest in her, enveloped by her, swallowed by her.

"Don't you dare move," she hissed at me the instant I started to pump, "don't you dare fucking move."


"Don't fucking move," she had that gleam in her eye. "He's going to make us cum."

I felt her reach down, on hand took the vibrator from me, held it against her, against her clit, the other hand reached under us, took me from behind, massaged and kneeded and played.

I felt the vibrations now, the way her hands were, the silicone cock vibrating against her pussy and against my clit and...

I erupted inside her, easily, by far, one of the most powerful orgasms I'd ever had, ever, with her, ever.

She did the same, the vibrator, him, it, making her cum as I did.

Powerful and intense and fucking amazing and oh, fuck, oh, holy fuck.

The last time we could fuck.

For weeks.

Fuck, Emily, fuck, oh fuck.

Simple Joy

Iselin Steiro by Camilla Akrans

From: Fashion Gone Rogue

Dior Spring 2011 Couture | Paris Haute Couture

From (and many more) over at Fashion Gone Rogue

Denisa Dvorakova by Jason Schmidt for Vogue Russia February 2011

Sisley Spring 2011 Campaign | Marloes Horst & Darla Baker by Terry Richardson

From Fashion Gone Rogue

Candice Boucher – 3 Suisses Lingerie Photoshoot

From and more over at UHQ Models

Dallas-Checking In

Emily made it to Dallas safely, got checked into her apartment (she got there first, before her roommate, so she got to take the master suite) and we talked and said hi.

Hilariousness. When she checked in, she was told her roommate's name was Erin. Or was that Aaron? While we joked/toyed/teased about opposite sex roommates, the reality is that a big company would likely not give someone an opposite sex roommate, however much someone's sissy boyfriend may fantasize about it.

So, which did she say? Erin or Aaron?

She teased me about that for several minutes on the phone, causing the predictable response-the chastity cage can be tight!

Her roommate's name is Erin, alas, a nice young woman from Alabama, southern accent and all.

Which is a relief and a bummer.

To me, 90% of the whole cuckolding thing is mental, anyway, something she knows all too well.

Which, as an aside, dear readers, some of whom think she is a bitch, others who think she'll have multiple affairs and partners, some who think she'll leave me for a "real man," take heart, that's not quite the thing we do.

First, we're in a loving, committed relationship. That's that.

Second, she's not the type to "hook up" with random dudes, whether we were in a committed relationship or not. She is a flirt, that's quite true, no denying.

Third, her mental teasing of me turns us both on in a way that random hook ups never would. Mental sexuality is much more powerful.

Fourth, if she does "hook up," and I trust her judgment on this, she has my permission. Some readers may not like it, but that's okay. Why? Because I'm okay with it. Do I fret about her fucking Evan? Yes? But does an occasional screw bother me? No, not given our ground rules.

That said, the mental is much more powerful. So she wants a man now and then. I'm the one she loves.

And to be honest, I'd like a man now and then, too.

In a way, and I did not mean to go here in this post, cuckolding, to me, reinforces emasculation, reinforces feminization. Mentally, not being "man enough" for her is an incredible turn on for me, sexually and otherwise. That's not a bad thing, to me. So she fucks Evan once a year (well, one weekend a year.) That only makes me feel more feminine-I'm not "man enough?" I don't want to be "man enough."

Because it is me she loves. Yes, I'm the one who knows as much about fashion as her. I'm the one who is sometimes more girl than her. I'm the one she loves.

As a further aside, Saturday afternoon, when she was packing, she tried on about twenty five outfits, to plan ahead what she was going to wear each day. Who was sitting on the bed advising her on each one?

Yes, that would be me.

For a life partner, she adores having someone who can tell her, yes, that necklace, no, not that one. Those earrings bring out the color of that blouse, that accessory is lost, etc.

At one point, we were arguing about a particular skirt suit. I felt it was not quite right.

Why, she wondered.

I commented on the length of the skirt. It hit in a weird place. I was down on my knees while she was in front of the mirror adjusting the skirt. My opinion, the skirt needed to hit slightly, but not too much, above her knee, and it was hitting about an inch, inch and a half, too long, not flattering her incredible legs

Now, what "man" knows these things. Sure, most men may know when a woman looks beautiful, but how many can honestly comment on which things go into making her beautiful. How many know about hem lengths, accessories, the cuts of clothing.

So, if she fucks a man now and then and tells me about it and plays it up and teases me and plays into my fantasies, I'm cool with that. I like it. I LOVE it.

Back to Dallas.

She packed some lingerie. She packed some condoms. That does not mean she will use or need either. But it means she knows that by doing so I'll think about it every day and I'll get excited and nervous and jealous and be thrilled and I'll be so fucking incredibly happy to have her come home and unlock me and... with the woman I love.

Sunday, January 30, 2011


What is missing?

I had to look, after she pulled away, after her car left the garage.

I opened her bottom drawer, the one with her lingerie.

I knew every outfit, ever piece, as well as I knew my own lingerie.

Much was there, much.

But not all.

There were pieces missing

A teddy.

A chemise.

A couple of babydolls.

Pretty things, sexy things, seductive things.

A garter skirt, stockings.


Presumably packed.

And the one other thing, the one other thing I had to check.

Her closet.

The pack of condoms.





It was sitting on my night stand when we got home from dinner last night. An unspoken calling, now an obsession, an need, a desire, feared, hated, wanted.

When, I asked her.


I thought we'd have one more time.

Now, she answered.

But three weeks.

Now, Sara, now.

It was quick, so quick.

Before I could think or push or beg.

So quickly.

Snuggled and held and the sound.


Trapped and locked and helpless.



Always hers.

Three weeks.

For three weeks.


Saturday, January 29, 2011


Packing her toiletries, she just called from the bathroom, "should I take condoms or do you think I'll be okay?"

My stomach turned and my groin felt like it would swell.

I was afraid to look in her bag to see if she packed any or not.

Friday, January 28, 2011

Ready for School


Now I wish, oh how I wish, that this was my day job.



I wear suits to work, suits and ties, daily, lingerie under. Nothing surprising here, talked about that before.

I have a couple of grey suits that I like to wear for one special, sissy reason.

If I wear black stockings (Cervin are my favorite for a garter belt, Secrets in Lace for a girdle), sockless, the color of the stocking on my legs just about matches my suit.

So, for fun, to be daring, as a thrill, because I just like it (being more femme than not), when I wear those suits, I usually wear black stockings and forgo socks.

As an aside on socks, yes, I generally wear women's trouser socks with suits. Again, why wear male clothing if I don't have to.

So, if I'm walking around the office, unless you look very, very close, you'd think I'm simply wearing thin grey socks (yea, real thin, like 15 denier thin), not stockings.

Just my little way of sticking it to the world and being more femme.

If I sit, it's pretty obvious I'm wearing stockings, so I keep a pair of trouser socks around just in case.

Otherwise, I'm just that much more girl, today.

And Emily loves it, too!

Attitude Adjustment


"Fine, I'll wear the chastity thing," I told Emily last night as we lay in bed, the lights out, after we'd kissed goodnight.

She laughed, not the response I'd expected.

"Why are you laughing," I asked.

"Well, because you say that like there was every any doubt and because you make it sound as if you're giving in to me, giving me something I want."


"So? So? My sweet lover, YOU want it much more than I do and I dare say, you've hardly been able to stop thinking about it all week, have you? Locked up, unable to touch yourself all that time while I'm gone, doing who knows what."

I did not answer. Did not need to, for she felt my answer. Felt it in the immediate swelling pressed against her. Felt it in my breathing. Felt it in my touching of her.

She knew the answer.  She knew. She always knew.

And I did, too.

Emily turned to me, I could see her face, barely, by the soft light escaping through the blinds. I felt her hands, under the covers, reaching for me, touching me, holding me, wrapping her hands around me as I grew.

"You're not going to be able to do this you know, for three weeks. Grow like this. And you're going to want to, all the time. Every time you think of me, wonder who I'm talking to, wonder if I'm flirting, wonder if some guy is sitting next to me staring at my legs, wonder if I'm letting my skirt ride up, just a little. Every time, you're going to want to swell, and every time you won't be able to."

She was stroking me, watching me, seeing me.

"Every time, lover, every time. Every time you think of me, fantasizing about me flirting or touching...thinking about that now?"

"Yes," I grunted as she quickened, reaching that point, so quickly.

"A man touching me?"

"Yes," I hissed, looking at her with a mixture of pain and pleasure in my eyes, the need, the fantasy, the humiliation, the jealous.

"Inside me?"

"Ohhhh," I started to shake, to jerk, too fast, too far...

"Fucking me?"

I erupted, of course, she knew I would, I knew, too, how could I not, how could I hold back, did I want to even? Did I care?

"Three weeks, lover, three weeks to think of all that.