1. Trust


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

    My fantasy come true? And then the spanking? No way! My fantasies were erotic; this was simply terrifying. And I shook my head sharply. Another sob broke loose, and then she whirled and left. Out of my sight, she could let herself cry more freely; I heard her, from the bedroom. Doing something. I stood there, imitating a statue (except for the lack of pigeons, but I felt I'd been shat upon altogether sufficiently already). She came back with a bag, which she dropped by the front door. &#034G-get your d-dress and g-get out!&#034 she said. Oh. My stuff, in the bag. I flinched when she called it 'my' dress, but not even the powerful yearning within me was enough to convince me to touch the damned thing. I wanted to say something, but when she opened the door, the choice was pretty clear. Shame-faced, I slunk out, picking up the bag on the way. It occurred to me, then, with a sinking feeling, that she must have cleared her stuff out already. In anticipation. That brought it home to me: the relationship was *over*. I barely made it to my car before I started crying. It cleared my head a little. It occurred to me that she had a very complete file on me, if she wished to blackmail me, or make me lose my job. Junior faculty can wear long hair, and maybe even get away with an earring (I'd waited until my first year was over before putting an earring back in, and never wore a pair, of course), but the only panty- clad faculty the administration was interested in were those that would ...
    help the Equal Opportunity statistics. Transvestic faculty were possible, I supposed, but only with tenure. It didn't occur to me until I got home that Nancy had been wearing a black silk blouse and miniskirt, and wearing high heels. Not that I understood it, then; I thought it was another taunt, a reminder of how the standard &#034accepting woman&#034 of my stories was always dressed when they met. It wasn't her style. She might even have bought it that very day. When I got home, I discovered that she *hadn't* taken her stuff away. Oddly, though, she'd found my stash of stuff -- which was pretty pitiful, except for the lingerie, which was, umm, extensive -- and mixed it with hers in her side of the dresser. It had been there before we'd met; I'd had it hidden for the eight months we'd been together. It took me a while to disentangle my stuff from hers. I *had* to do that. I'd promised myself that I would *never* touch her stuff, except to take her out of it, and I'd kept that promise. It hadn't been easy; she was pretty damned sexy, and just her clothes could push all my buttons. She tended toward Indian print skirts, pants, and casual blouses, but she had some really killer outfits, and after she had realized my weakness for sexy lingerie, she'd indulged me by equipping herself with some. I didn't bag her stuff up, though. I bagged *mine* up again. I still... hoped, you see. Then I laid down on my futon and cried and cried and cried. Well, the hope got dashed over the course ...
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