1. Trust


    Date: 7/17/2015, Categories: BDSM, Shemales, Author: klammer, Rating: 100, Source: xHamster

    accepted the little jar of makeup remover she dug out of her purse. She left, probably to go put her own panties on, and I looked in the mirror. Now, there's a classic syndrome among cross-dressers. Arousal, dressing up, more arousal, masturbation, and then total revulsion. When I saw myself in the mirror, my first impulse was to dig out a razor, or the hypodermic, and *end it*. In an agony of shame, I shucked the panties, tossing them in the corner, and started cleaning my face with vicious, hard strokes. &#034No,&#034 said Nancy's voice, behind me. Not angry, but very firm. &#034Put them back on. And this.&#034 She was wearing a white nightie I'd never cared for, since it was supposed to fit through the bodice and then flare into a sort of puffy chiffon skirt. I'm not built like a girl, though, so it was loose in the chest, tight in the waist, and the skirt wasn't made of an erotic material, not to the touch, at any rate. It was to the eye. 'This' was a pink nylon chemise, one of those things that mail-order houses sell cut-rate on the back of the order form. &#034N-nance,&#034 I stuttered, &#034I c-can't!&#034 &#034Why?&#034 she asked. When I didn't answer, she continued, &#034Because it's sissy?&#034 I winced, then nodded. &#034I... it makes me look, s-sil-... ridiculous,&#034 I added, in a whisper. &#034You *are* a sissy,&#034 she said, matter-of-factly. &#034And tonight, you're going to sl**p like one,&#034 she stated, picking up the panties and handing them to me. It ...
    wasn't a request, or an order. It was a statement. It turned out to be true. I felt even more deeply embarrassed the next morning, when I woke up next to this beautiful, desirable, feminine creature, in little-girl drag. And with amazingly stained panties, too. They were almost crusty. So were Nancy's. She ignored my glumness, and joked that it was too bad I was so narrow-hipped, or she could borrow a clean pair from me. She kept up her light chatter as we showered -- separately, alas -- and got dressed. She did end up wearing some of my underwear, some of the nasty 'one size fits all' kind. She put it on with a wry joke. I wore boy clothes, from the skin out. She asked me what was for breakfast, by which I guessed I was making it. Which was fair enough. She stayed and cleaned up a little in the bedroom, and then we ate, not in total silence, but not very happily. Her cheer was wearing thin, against my wall of gloom. I was disgusted with myself. I had given in and done some things that I'd fantasized about, but that wasn't the real problem. The problem was, I enjoyed them. I knew it, and Nancy knew it. I couldn't understand why she didn't hate me yet -- I did -- and wondered what was going to happen next. Nothing good, I was sure. What if she continued to try and bring my stories to life? I shuddered, and dropped my fork, when I had a sudden, hideous image of stepping up to the lectern, in front of a class full of students, in high heels and a miniskirt. She did the dishes ...
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