"JayCee" by Vickie Tern, teen femdom

This story contains no unnatural acts only because nothing in nature is unnatural. But various characters here do uncommon things with each other, as well as the usual things, always considerate of each other’s feelings. If this offends you, read no further.

If you’re under whatever the age of consent where you live, read no further. You might learn to do uncommon things while being considerate, as well as the usual things, and we can’t have that.

Vickie Tern’s stories are archived at
http://library.gaycafe.com/nifty/transgender/by_authors/Vickie_Tern and www.fictionmania.com.

Here and now, on behalf of authors and readers everywhere, she would like to thank the archivists everywhere who make stories like these freely available to those who enjoy them. You are high among the glories of the Internet. Also, she appreciates any kind of e-mail comment on her stories, VickieTern@AOL.COM, and usually replies in kind.

JayCee                     by: Vickie Tern

 

I made my first really intimate girlfriend just before my last year in High School, the summer I was nearly seventeen. Strictly speaking, his mother had already shaped him out, but I put on the finishing touches, so I guess you can say we both made him my girlfriend. When I finished with him he loved what I’d done, and we’ve been good friends ever since, though since we went away to different colleges we’ve hardly seen each other, only when I’m home on vacation and he is too. He’s still a girl and will be for life, but with a difference. But I’m getting ahead of myself. When I began with him he thought he was a boy and wanted to live like one, and I could understand that. I’d wanted to be a boy too until I hit puberty and my body began to round out and smooth over, and my tits ripened, and I realized I had no choice. Then I discovered it’s much better to be a girl. Marianne, the boy I’m talking about, he never had any choice either, not really, but he didn’t know that till later.

I better explain all this. When I was little I hated wearing frilly dresses and ribbons whenever we went visiting, and sitting up straight with my Mary Janes dangling off the floor, and listening to the grownups talk, and always being neat and ladylike. My boy cousins could stretch out all over the floor and wear torn jeans and boy-size work boots, and pick their noses, and make disgusting noises all they wanted. Or they could go out and climb trees, or throw footballs, but I always had to be a lady, even when I was still a little girl. It wasn’t fair, just because I happened to be born a girl. I really envied them. So whenever I could I wore jeans and boots and learned how to swallow air and belch the same as them. Anything they did, I decided I was going to do too, better! And I did, too!

My mom despaired, though she never gave up on me. She’d ask me over and over, "JayCee, why don’t you play with dolls like all the other girls. There are such pretty dolls these days, and whole wardrobes for them, and even makeup."

I’d answer, "Because I’d rather play with boys, Mom." She never could figure out how to answer that, so mostly she’d leave me alone then until the next time.

In fact I was quicker than most boys, and smarter, and tougher, and more stubborn, and I never refused a dare dodging traffic or climbing trees. But when we crossed into our teens all the boys began to develop deep chests and shoulder muscles, and got so they could swing on branches like apes. Not me. With my thin arms I could only hang there and then let go. They got bulkier and stronger and I only got softer and rounder, a lot softer and rounder on my chest. So I had to quit trying to compete with them. I bought a bra and took up being a girl as a life sentence.

That pleased my folks, who’d never thought it would happen. Especially my mom was delighted when she found she had a daughter to shop for after all. Then once I got some girl clothes and started wearing them, and got a girl’s hairdo, and started wearing a little makeup, wow, I found out that for my whole life I’d been absolutely wrong! Talk about dumb? What I found out was that no way did I ever have to prove I was as good as a boy. I found out that girls never have to prove anything. They’re already better than boys in every way that matters. And I found that deep down, boys already know this. Girls don’t ever have to do anything boys do because they can always get boys to do it for them. A girl can make a boy stumble all over his own feet and fall on his face if she feels like it, no problem. Girls can even hurt boys real bad, and if they do it just right the boys’ll never complain—in fact they’ll say thank you. They can’t help it. That’s how they’re made.

Even my boy cousins couldn’t help themselves, I realized. One day when we were still thirteen or so two of them were showing off in trees in their back yard, and one of them paraded right off the end of a branch while looking over his shoulder to see if I was watching. He broke his collar bone when he hit the ground, but when his parents hustled him off to the hospital he was still looking back to see if I’d seen it happen! It’s obvious. Boys want to please girls. They need to. The only choice they get, maybe, is which girl especially. They’ll do anything we say, if we know how to say it just the right way. And that’s how it is.

I.

I guess I was still fourteen when I first found out how far I could push a boy, and how much fun it was. Our house has a swimming pool in the back yard. The previous owner used it just to look at, but our family uses it all the time, and so do a few of my friends from time to time, when I invite them over. Well, one day when it was hot and my folks were out, two boys I knew from school came by, a year or two older than me. They hoped I’d ask them to hang around and use the pool, and I figured why not—they were both cute. They weren’t the smartest boys around, but still, good enough for me to practice being a girl on them. Ronnie, the tall one, he was into body building, and his shoulders and legs showed some promising bulges even then. Petey was short and thin and not too hard to fake out—I once beat him at Indian wrestling because he went for a sucker shift-of-weight, and then he fell for the same move a second time too. It bothered him, my faking him out, because I was only a girl. He kept asking me how I did it, and did I knew any other tricks. I told him lots, but that only girls can get away with using them. That didn’t stop him, so I told him a few. Maybe he’s still trying them out. Anyhow, they were sweaty, and it was hot, so I told them sure, we’d all use the pool. Then it turned out they already had their bathing suits and towels with them. That annoyed me, because it meant they were pretty sure I’d invite them to stay, and I don’t like anybody to feel pretty sure of anything when they’re around me. But I let them think they were right as we splashed each other, and laughed, and they tried to grope me, and I swam circles around them.

Then came time for them to change back into their clothes. We were all three sitting around a big poolside patio table, and I suggested we play a game. They glanced at each other. Petey wagged his head at Ronnie, and Ronnie nodded, and then they both grinned at me, and then there was a pause. They had a plan. I tried to keep a straight face.

Then Petey asked me if I’d like to play "Show and Tell" with them. The way we play is, each person gets to ask the others to show or tell about something personal or embarrassing, or to do something like that. All the players then have to do that same thing, even the person doing the asking. That’s so no one will ask for anything too far off the wall.

Well, what they’d want me to do was obvious enough. I mean, did I have to put on a red riding hood and take a walk through the woods to figure that one out? But I got this idea I wanted to try, so I said "Sure."

They stole another quick look at each other, and Ronnie, he said, "You’re sure, now," and I said sharply, "I just said so, didn’t I?" I wanted to get on with it. Then a quick thought: "You guys too, no chickening out by anyone! And there’s two of you, and you each get to ask one thing, but there’s only one of me, so to even it out I get to ask two things of you guys, right? That’s only fair." Then I added, "You first, I’ll go last." Well, they were so eager to play they didn’t think through whether that was fair or not. I’d be getting two of whatever I asked for each time, one from each of them each time, four all in all. But they’d get only one thing from me apiece. So my taking two turns wasn’t really fair. But they were thinking it was themselves versus me, two boys versus one girl, not each of us versus each other, so they couldn’t add up two and two, so they just nodded without thinking. In a way they got what they deserved.

We sat around the big table and just looked at each other, until finally Ronnie lost it and started to leer, and he said right on schedule, "Me first. Ok. Stand up and show us your boobs, JayCee. Naked."

Well, I was wearing a two piece bikini, and I still didn’t have much to show when I was fourteen. My nipples were large and pointy, but I was only beginning to swell out. Still, given what I had in mind for them, I had no problem exposing my tits. I sort of took center stage and started to untie my halter in back. Then just to make sure there’d be no misunderstandings, not now, not for the rest of the game, I paused still holding my string ties together and said, "You too, Ronnie. You too, Petey." They looked at me as if I’d gone weird, because they were both already bare chested. But finally they both stood up, and waited, and then Ronnie thought to say, "Ok, that’s how we are." So I nodded and undid the rest of my bathing suit top, and then held it out to the side at arm’s length, and stood there with my other hand on my hip. Their eyes followed the top as I held it out, then shifted back to my exposed nipples and the slightly round mounds behind them. They stared at me solemnly for a while, and made whatever they could of what they saw. Then Pete said, "OK, now my turn. Show us your pussy, JayCee. Take off your bathing suit bottom." He paused, then added, "You promised, remember?"

Talk about unsure? He didn’t think I’d do it, so he fired off his reserve argument right off. But he didn’t need to worry. "No chickening out, that’s what we said," I said. I untied the two side bows on my Bikini bottom. Then I paused and waited. "You too," I said.

Well, they’d been so eager to see what was between my legs they forgot they’d have to drop their pants too, but they hesitated only a moment. A little embarrassed but with his eyes on the prize, me, Ronnie pushed his bathing suit down to his knees, took a deep breath, and stood up. Then Pete. It was sort of funny. They both tried to stand up straight like me, shoulders back and chest out and all, but they hunched over anyhow, as if they could hide their private parts behind their bellies, and they finished in a kind of half-crouch. It was pathetic. I let go the strings on my bikini bottom and then pulled it off straight out from between my legs. Petey gasped! Then I held the bottom to one side too, with my other hand.

Now there I was, standing before them completely naked, arms out, shoulders back, head high, looking straight into their eyes. Not that I didn’t want to check out the scene further down on them. But in due time. I knew that now, for what I meant to do, they had to know who was in charge. And it was odd. I didn’t feel any way exposed or vulnerable or immodest, or even naked. In fact the reverse. It was as if I were fully dressed, only in my skin, like those nude women in those paintings over at the museum, those Greek goddesses. As if I were standing in front of a throne. So I took over. "All the way off," I said. "Put your bathing suits on the table." And I put my bikini top and bottom down on the table to set them an example, and then I stepped back a few steps and put my both hands on my hips, legs a little apart, and I stared at them again, and my bare tits stared at them too. Still embarrassed, they stripped down the rest of the way, then picked up their bathing suits and put them on the table. Ronnie tried again to pull his shoulders back and stand tall, like me, but when he straightened up his knees bent. Pete was having his own problems. He was trying to cover his whole body with just his hands. "I can’t see you," I said to him. "Are you ashamed? Of what?" I leaned back and cocked one hip at them, my pelvis thrust forward, my hands still draped on my hips, and I looked at them sideways amused, like girls I’ve seen in the movies when they’re playing seductive but hard-to-get. Then when I saw what I saw, I was amused.

There they were, both of them, naked penises at half-dangle, balls shriveled and trying to hide behind their penises. Pete’s prick had a pointed foreskin, but even with the extra flap it hung only maybe half way down his balls. It looked maybe only an inch or so long, soft the way it was. But Ronnie’s big purple cock head hung way down below his balls, maybe six inches down altogether, maybe more.

I’d already seen my cousins’ equipment the previous Thanksgiving when we were all playing "Show and Tell" together out in back while the grownups watched football inside, so these were no big deal. Ronnie’s and Petey’s cocks looked just as silly, hanging there between their legs. I hadn’t known that cocks could vary that much in size, so that was something, anyhow. And Ronnie’s was the biggest I’d seen yet, so that was something else. Meanwhile, they both stared fascinated at the vee of my crotch, which then was just barely covered with tan fuzz. There was nothing else for them to see, just my fuzzy mound, and maybe the beginning of my pussy, where the flat space disappears into the crease tucked between my legs. But they couldn’t take their eyes off it. I suddenly realized that what they were staring at was for them the unthinkable. They saw nothing! Nothing at all. A smooth curved surface unlike anything they’d ever seen between anyone’s legs. No cock sprouting out of it, and no balls. Nothing. I suddenly realized that in some deep place way down inside them, they were awed and a little frightened. Here was the place they’d come from, the same as their mothers’, and that was mysterious in itself. But worse! Here was what their own crotches would look like if everything hanging there was cut off, missing, gone. They had cocks and balls, but I had nothing. I had nothing to lose. They were exposed and at risk, and I wasn’t. It was as if the worst thing they could imagine happening to them had already happened to me, in some primordial way, yet I wasn’t the least bit bothered by it. In fact I was completely at ease, and that made me superior beyond their comprehension. Was that why they instinctively tried to hide themselves, and why I felt so powerful at that moment?

"Now my turn," I said. "I get two things to ask." I looked at their eyes. They were both still staring down at my mystery, silent, coping with their thoughts. "Now, my first show and tell is, show me how you guys masturbate."

They both stiffened, surprised, and raised their eyes up to look at me, and found I was already staring back at them steadily, not even blinking. I sensed in them a sudden tension I could use if I could tip them the right way, so I decided to go for the gold.

"How you masturbate each other, I mean," I said, as if I were completing my original sentence. Then I sat down at the table and waited, never taking my eyes off them, making myself into an audience of one waiting for them to begin their performance. Well, as I’d expected, there were delaying tactics and denials, a stream of "You’re kidding, right?" and flat out "We don’t do each other," and "No way, Jose!" and so forth. I gave them a minute to vent and get used to the idea, even to think they’d persuaded me, and then I cut them both off with "No chickening out, remember?" Then I couldn’t resist. "Even though those little pricks do look like chicken skin, the necks when the heads are chopped off!"

They flinched, but I kept looking at them steadily. They looked at me a moment longer, then averted their eyes and looked at each other. I had them! Gently, even seductively, I added, "Just reach over, you two, and pick up each other’s cocks, and then show me how you do it. Pull very gently. Be nice to each other!" Then they couldn’t resist. It was as if I were doing it to them. They didn’t dare look at each other or say anything, but they each edged closer, faces fixed in a sort of smiling grimace, and Ronnie’s hand reached out for Petey’s little thing. Ronnie groped too high, so Petey took Ronnie’s hand, pulled it further down, lifted his cock, and placed it on Ronnie’s palm. Then Petey looked at Ron’s crotch, reached over, and tenderly cradled Ronnie’s long dingus in his whole hand. Better than I’d hoped, I was thinking. They both stood still for a few seconds, each hand getting used to the heft of an unfamiliar penis, each one aware that the other had custody of his most prized possession. Then they each closed their hands on the other’s cock and began to pull back and forth, gently. Soon the pricks swelled up to fit their open fists, and then they had no more problems holding and pulling or stroking them. They closed their eyes. Ronnie held the whole of Petey in his hand, now all of four inches, and squeezed it rhythmically, and Petey slid his palm up and down on Ronnie’s long monster as it got longer, and they each pulled and stroked, over and over, and a slight smile came over each one’s face. "This doesn’t count as my second show and tell," I said. "But wouldn’t it be a little more friendly if you looked into each others’ eyes?"

They opened their eyes and looked at me and then at each other, a little evasive at first. Then more directly at each others’ faces, as each one tried to concentrate his mind on the pleasure the other was providing. In a few minutes they were each lost again in their own sensations, but now they were looking at each other unashamed, even a little fondly. It was so dear! Really, precious!

So I decided it was time for me to take care of my own slit, which by now had gotten pretty slick. There were two guys jerking each other off under orders, mine, looking like they were in love! That alone was enough to get me going! Also, I didn’t want either one of them to realize fair is fair, so one of them could do me next, or I’d have to do both of them.

So I licked my middle finger and pushed it into me, and then when it was wet and slippery I diddled it back and forth across my clit, flipping that little button faster and faster. Real nice. I could feel myself mounting, oooh!, really reaching higher and higher, and in another minute Oh! Wow! I shuddered into a delicious orgasm, a tremendous squeezing and expanding of all of me all at once, a kind of explosive celebration of my pussy by my whole body! My first one always comes fairly quick, but this was my strongest ever, and it went on and on! When I opened my eyes I saw that Ronnie and Pete were still so absorbed with each other they’d never even noticed. They’d picked up the pace, and their breathing had gotten faster and deeper, and now their hands were flying across each other’s crotches. Each one’s face was twisted as if in pain, or in concentrated yearning.

"Stop!"

They froze, each one with his hand gripping the other’s swollen dong, and looked at me dazed.

"Before you guys blow each other off, you should know what’s my second Show and Tell. Now, my second one is, I want one of you to fuck the other in the ass."

They stared at me horrified. Pete swallowed, and swallowed again, but still couldn’t say anything. His eyes avoided mine and stared into the middle distance. Ronnie swallowed too, then stared hard straight at me. I noticed neither of them let go the other’s prick. I suppose they were afraid if they did their fun might be over, and by now they were both desperate to cum. That’s why I thought I could get away with this.

"You’re kidding!" Pete said finally. What he meant was, "You’re serious!"

"That’s not fair," Ronnie said. "If we did that what would you do?" He was talking at least, single syllables, and just barely thinking. Does a boy’s brain close down when his cock rises? Anyhow, he was opening a negotiation! He was seriously considering my proposal!

I already had my answer. "Whoever gets fucked can fuck me," I said. "In the ass. That’s fair."

I knew that was the clincher. Ronnie heard me loud and clear. I could tell by the way he was still staring into my face, his eyes lit by speculations I couldn’t myself imagine! His cock lurched in Petey’s hand. I bet both of these guys are virgins, I thought to myself. Well, my ass wasn’t. The previous Thanksgiving I’d traded in its virginity to a cousin, for a baseball.

Well, it was a little more complicated, it happened this way. I’d gone off with that cousin, and had cheated on a game of forfeits, and had gotten him to kneel between my legs and slide his tongue in and out of my cunt while I was lounging back in a soft chair with my thighs resting on his shoulders, reading a book as if he didn’t matter to me at all. He looked so sorrowful and so earnest, staring over my mound into my eyes while his mouth slurped and sucked on me, and I felt so good with him down there, that I let him know it when his tongue brought me off. That was a mistake, because then he felt good too, and wanted to fuck me. I told him no way with his prick, I was saving my pussy for my husband and the father of my children. He bought that argument, and asked instead for a blow job. Fair’s fair, he pointed out, the way kids always do.

Well, just about then I’d been reading some stupid grownup woman’s magazine that said that cocksucking was servile worship of the male phallus, and one of the ways men dominate women and keep them subservient, and stuff. I didn’t know then that a phallus is really like the control stick in an airplane—once you take hold of it you can fly a guy anywhere. One lick and he’s yours, he’ll do anything. But I didn’t know that. I still didn’t know it that day with Ronnie and Petey by the swimming pool, when I was getting them to play queer with each other.

Anyhow, I’d told my cousin I wouldn’t blow him, no way, I was liberated and wouldn’t demean myself. Then with a sudden inspiration I told him he could push into my asshole instead, if he’d throw in the baseball with Babe Ruth’s signature his father kept in a little plastic shrine on the mantel. I’d always envied them that baseball, but mainly I was curious what it felt like to have a guy inside me moving in and out, what all the fuss was about. There was no way I’d let him into my cunt, because then he’d forever after lord it over me that he’d been Number One. Boys do that. My asshole he’d never boast about, because at that age most boys still think a back door is a shithole, and yukky. But he’d just been down there inspecting everything with his mouth and nose, and he knew that after my pussy my rosebud was the next best thing. So he agreed.

And he did it. We got him oiled up, and he got in after only a little bit of trouble, and he felt real good in there, but barely two swipes in and out and he came into me and then all over my ass. I was disappointed, but didn’t let on. He told me later that his father really belted his ass over and over for supposedly playing with that baseball and then losing it, but that getting into me made it all worth while. I was his first. He was grateful, the way I like guys to be when they’ve done what I want them to do. The way I expected Ronnie and Petey to be when I was finished with them. I always give satisfaction.

Well, Ronnie just stood there staring at me, his dong still stiff in Petey’s hand, its purple head poking out into the sunshine, and I could see that wheels were whirring in his brain. A chance to stick it to a girl at last! Or into Petey? But at what price?

Petey may not have registered any of it yet, that whoever gets fucked gets to fuck me. "You haven’t whacked off yet, JayCee," he said, maybe stalling for time. "Or whatever it is girls do." "Oh, yes I have," I said. "I came. You two lovers were too busy with each other to notice." I pushed two fingers into my quim, pulled them out gleaming wet, then stood up, walked over, and held them under Pete’s nose. "What do you think this is? Or wouldn’t you know?" I wiped my juice on his upper lip so the smell would last and maybe he’d get to like it, and then I gave Ronnie his chance, drenching my fingers a second time and then holding them up to his mouth. "Suck on this!" I commanded. He did, as if he were licking a candy cane. "You can do it, Ronnie," I told him in a low, sultry voice. "Be Pete’s girl, for me." I won that gamble too. I’d figured that Ronnie would calculate even in his coma that Pete’s little cock shoved into him was a small price to pay to get his big one into me. I hoped so, but I didn’t want him feeling too macho about it. Now whatever he did, he’d be following my orders. Better, in his own mind he’d be the girl who got laid, or he’d think I was thinking that. And once a girl in your own mind, I was thinking, always a girl. Once fucked, always fucked. I’ll have to remember to call his cock a clit, I thought, and later I’ll have to ask how his pussy felt with Pete’s cum still leaking out of it. Because I had other uses for him now that I’d seen how obediently he’d licked pussy juice from my fingers. He’d be handy to have around when I felt like slinging my legs over someone’s shoulders. More manageable than a cousin. Ronnie finally decided. He pulled a few more times on Pete’s pecker, then leaned in and muttered something to him, and then turned toward me. "He’ll need lube of some kind, or he’ll hurt me, JayCee" he said. His voice sounded very respectful. "How about we use some more of your juice?"

"I use my juice for me," I said with finality. "You’ve got a mouth, Ronnie. Take care of your own needs! Petey’ll do the same for you afterward, blow job for blow job, won’t you Petey?" I flashed him a smile to keep him encouraged, didn’t even glance at Petey, then turned and sat down again to watch. Can you imagine? I was only fourteen then!

And sure enough, Ronnie looked at Petey, and Petey nodded, a little overwhelmed by all this wheeling and dealing. So Ronnie dropped to his knees in front of Petey and took Petey’s little cock into his mouth. He gave it just a few licks all over to coat it with thick saliva, and only a few sucks and strokes up and down with his lips to spread the slick stuff around, but it was enough for Petey to forget himself, and stiffen up all the way, and then to start fucking his friend’s face.

I was ecstatic! Here before my eyes was a boy I’d turned into a genuine cock sucker, home-made, my very first! I wished I had a camera. Petey’s cock grew as swollen as it would ever get, sliding in the warm moisture of Ronnie’s mouth, and his face again took on a glazed look. But Ronnie took no chances. He stopped suddenly, then got down on his hands and knees and lowered his head and chest onto a towel on the ground, with his butt way up in the air. Petey mounted him doggy style, spread his cheeks, felt for his asshole, and pushed at him a few times with that stubby cock. At first all he did was shove Ron forward. But I could tell when he finally managed to get it into Ron, because on that stroke, the third or the fourth, instead of lurching forward when Petey’s cock shoved on him Ron’s body held steady. In fact Ronnie wriggled and snuggled back, and then Petey really began fucking him! Ronnie was now genuinely queer at both ends! I felt like a Maestro conducting an orchestra! A few more lunges, and then Petey was sprawled onto Ronnie, hugging him tight and squeezing his belly against his ass, and shouting "Hah! Hah! Hah!" Each shout another spurt of semen squirting into Ronnie’s guts! Then Pete softened and flopped out of Ronnie’s ass almost at once, leaving behind a trail of oozing cum.

Petey may have been small, but he had semen to spare. Ronnie’s asshole was filled to the brim and running over. I bet he’ll still be leaking tonight, I thought to myself idly. I’ll try to remember to lend him a tampon before he goes home, or his folks’ll ask about the stain on his bathing suit. I wondered if he’d want to fuck himself with the tampon while putting it in, now he’d had a taste of it, the way I sometimes do. He would if I told him to. Maybe he would for no reason at all. I caught a glimpse of Petey’s softened cock, and marveled that anything that small had even gotten past Ron’s ass cheeks. But he’d done it! They both stood up. Pete’s cum leaked down Ron’s legs and glistened in his crack, and Pete looked like any boy who’s just blown his wad, complacent and a little arrogant. Ron looked disturbed. I knew why, of course. He did feel more like a girl than he’d meant to feel, now he’d been irrevocably fucked by a stiff prick up the ass. But he wasn’t a girl. Not with that cock, he wasn’t. And he still hadn’t managed to cum yet himself. It was time.

"Sit here under the umbrella, Little Peter," I said to him. "I’ll give Ronnie back to you so you can be his girl next time, now that he’s yours. Put your bathing suit back on now. If you can’t find it I’ll lend you some panties to wear home." I don’t know, I suppose I was just teasing these would-be macho studs who’d come by my house cocksure that any girl’s swimming pool was theirs for the asking. But Pete turned bright red, and when I looked I saw Ron was red too. Well, well! A discovery of some kind! Had they done each other previously, or dreamed of it, these buddies? Had they just now been girls in their own minds, while they jerked each other off with such loving affection? Had I just ordered them to enact a really secret desire? Maybe that’s how boys use each other sexually and yet keep their self-respect, by pretending one of them at least is a girl. Were guys so ashamed to do it with other guys that they’d rather pretend they’re the other sex, to avoid thinking they must be gay? Do gays do that too, pretend they’re girls when they’re really only guys who prefer each other? All interesting to look into later, but I said nothing. Pete put on his bathing suit and sat down without another word.

Well, this time I let Ron lubricate himself on the outside of my pussy. It was my ass, after all. "Now go easy," I said to him. "Remember how Little Petey felt in you when he was moving in and out of your ass? Did he stretch you out first, and then feel real good? Delicious? Yummy? Could you feel his cock pulse when he came, and did his cum feel hot when it splashed inside you? At that moment did you think to yourself, now at last I’m a real woman? Remember that my ass isn’t slippery like yours is right now with that cum leaking all over, so go slow!" Then I got down the way he’d done it, and let him slowly push that long cock of his into my rear, a little at a time. I instructed him inch by inch, like a steelworker signalling how to work a girder into position. It took a while. This was only my second ass-fuck, so mainly I was comparing it to my first, to see what new sensations were available—I don’t like expecting something and ending up disappointed. Well, Ron’s cock was really huge compared to my cousin’s, and it did feel tremendous when he finally got it all in. I felt full. Complete. It’s nice, something that swollen way down deep inside you, I decided. School would begin again before too long, and this was something I could use to reward boys who were especially obedient, or as they liked to think of it, especially gentlemanly and courteous with me. I’d let them put their most prized possession into my shithole. But that was the best of it. Ron began thrusting, and it seemed to me that each stroke in and out was like a slow commute to the suburbs and then back into the city. Each one took a while, and together they got repetitious. He pumped me, and my mind drifted to the magazine I’d been flipping through a couple of hours earlier, when the two of them first came by looking for a free ride and I’d taken them for one. For sure, from now on, I decided, whoever’s doing my ass will at least diddle my clit at the same time, unless they’ve gotten me excited some other way. If he isn’t Mr. Right.

When finally Ron came I let him stay in me a minute longer, and then I wriggled out from under him. He looked so grateful I almost laughed. But instead I turned and kissed him on the cheek, thanked him, and told him that now he was my favorite stud as well as my favorite girlfriend. Then I asked him to let me know the next time he and Petey jerk each other off or fuck each other, because I’d enjoy knowing I was the one who’d helped them find themselves.

That reminded Ronnie. He stood up and went over to where Petey was sitting and watching the two of us. His cock was still half-engorged, and still slick with semen and who knows what from my bowels. He walked over where Petey was sitting and just stood there with it touching Petey’s nose, and didn’t say a word. Feeling macho? Too embarrassed to ask? But after only a second’s hesitation Petey took it into his hand, then dropped his mouth onto the big purple knob and plunged his head all the way down onto it. All the way down! It swelled up full even as I watched, and then disappeared down Petey’s throat! Petey bobbed his head up and down on it several times! Had I discovered something about their relationship they’d rather have kept to themselves? Had Petey done this before? He took in Ron’s cock like a master sword swallower! Ronnie then leaned back slightly with his hands on his hips, and Little Petey dropped his hands to his sides, headfucking Ron unassisted in long, easy, comfortable strokes. Then Ron grunted, clasped Petey’s head tight to his crotch, squirted his load straight down his throat, and reached over and lifted Petey’s head off his cock by both ears.

When they left I told them I’d love to have a picture of Petey sucking on Ronnie as a souvenir of the afternoon, and Ron nodded his agreement absent-mindedly while looking for one of his sandals. Apparently nothing even to think about. So maybe I was right about them. They may or may not have done it before, but they surely were going to do it again. Ronnie would see to that.

A few days later, three Polaroid pictures arrived in the mail:

Little Peter cocksucking Big Ron the way I’d seen, and another of Petey grinning at the camera while wiping a blob of cloudy glop off his lips, and last of all the two of them blowing each other in a classic 69. On the back of that last one was written "Here’s how we learned to swim at your place!" These were pictures with their faces fully visible! Talk about trust? The next three or four times they got together to do each other they phoned to tell me. I congratulated them each time, and wished them a long and happy life together.

They often invited me to come watch once they were well into it, and I took them up on it just often enough to keep them eager to see me. They liked doing whatever I told them, and I never ever had to remind them about the pictures they’d sent me. I sent them on lots of little missions to keep them busy and happy. For example, it turned out after a while that they weren’t really girlish, they were gay. They even preferred sex with each other dressed normal, like guys. Even so I made Ron buy Petey a full girl’s outfit from K-Mart, from a bra on out, one item each day, the two of them livid with embarrassment each time Ron had to ask the salesgirl if Petey could use a changing room to try the item on. I told Petey to dress up for Ron for a big date out at least once a month. And to wear makeup, and to make himself as pretty as he could. And to send me a picture now and then of Ron lifting his skirt to ream him in the rear. During the next year those pictures got more and more elaborate as Petey got more and more into dressing up, and spent more money on costumes. He turned out to be a real Drag Queen, no mistake about it, a real contest-winner. Of course other kids at school caught on in no time at all. The two of them got careless, and sometimes they were seen holding hands, and there was talk. The clincher came when they were seen together in a pizza parlor on the other side of town, Petey dressed like a girl, though in bad taste, another girl told me. Well, I’d seen that outfit and thought he looked rather cute in it, a low-neck peasant blouse and a teeny denim mini-skirt, with sort of clunky shoes and big bold eye makeup. I liked it on him. Anyhow, after that, girls lost interest in dating them, though some girls felt especially comfortable with them and invited them to slumber parties, and gave them advice how to use makeup with more restraint, and asked them how it felt, doing each other. Girls are curious about things like that.

Boys wanted no part of them of course, and called them all the usual names. So they got more and more dependent on each other for their social lives, and by the end of the year they were living practically in each others’ pockets. Petey’s parents caught on eventually, and when the school year ended the family moved across the state to another town, so Petey could get a fresh start. But by then he didn’t want one. Petey soon found some new boyfriends, and Ron knew where he lived, and they visited each other now and then.

I dated lots of guys the next few years. A girl with my kind of self-confidence who isn’t afraid to tell boys what to do attracts certain kinds of boys. I’d let them do my homework for me if they were smart enough, or drive me to school mornings, and I’d reward them by letting them perform little services for me. They got to be known as "JayCee’s nursery school," and it turned out they were real popular with other girls when I was finished with them. They had all kinds of special skills.

The jocks took me on as a personal challenge, and of course got nowhere. None of them ever got into my pussy, because I was still saving it for the boy I would one day marry, I told them. Also because they were boastful adolescents who still thought a fuck was a conquest, even the smart ones. It was easy to outthink them. They were never sincere with me, so I saw no reason to be sincere with them when I put them through hoops. The other boys at our high school all knew that my pussy was out of bounds except to their mouths. But they knew I expected that much lip service from them at least, and they looked forward to offering it. They knew that if I really liked them, or if I was in just the right mood, or if I wanted something special from them, they knew that I might even use my mouth on them too, to help persuade them to do whatever it was I wanted. And they knew that if they were really attentive and submissive and grateful and courteous, and if I was especially turned on, and if they were willing to do certain especially humiliating things while I watched, they knew I might actually allow them to fuck my ass, enter me near that sacred place where my eventual husband’s semen would eventually unite with my own eventual egg. Knowing all these things, they’d all try extra hard to please me as soon as their faces got down to business. I had no complaints, and I heard none.

Ron never got into my ass again—despite its size his cock was just plain boring, and it turned out to be mutual, because he’d discovered girls just didn’t interest him. He liked Petey and a few other boys he hung out with, and that was it. He’d let me put my legs on his shoulders when I wasn’t going with anyone else and wanted someone down there, though he confessed once that he did it only because I asked him. In return I let him use our swimming pool without his ever having to ask. Oh yes, I also got good grades in school, very good grades, though that was never what school was really about as far as I was concerned.

II.

So along came that summer when I was nearly seventeen, and had half the boys in my class, practically, under my pussy or my thumb. But that summer nearly every boy I knew left town. They went to be camp counselors, or for sports training, or to learn mountain climbing, what they called "Leadership School." What a joke! Some wimp hangs from a rope between some rock and nowhere, and that’s how he learns how to be a leader. Really! Any girl who can’t get a guy to do that any time she wants ought to turn in her tits. Anyhow, some guys went out of town because there weren’t too many summer jobs that year, or else they were farmed out to relatives in other cities to broaden their experience. Ronnie talked his parents into letting him spend part of the summer with an Uncle who lives in Provincetown, on Cape Cod, and then talked Petey’s parents into letting Petey go there too. Some families moved out of town, the way families do. It’s sad when that happens, just before a kid finally get to be a Senior in High School and can do anything. But it happens.

It also happens that families move in. In fact it happened just down the street from us. Right after school ended I noticed how dull everything got suddenly, how the place emptied out. There were still a few guys around, of course, not my usual crowd, though you make do with what you’ve got. I almost took up my mother’s idea I should find summer work of some kind to earn money for college. In fact, that’s what my family still thinks I did do, that that’s where I got all that money I saved up that summer, that that’s how I won that whopping scholarship that’s paid my way through college mostly. I guess in a way I did find summer work. For sure I found what I wanted to do when I graduated. This new family that moved in down the street a block away wasn’t really a family. Just two people, a mother and a son. The day the movers came I saw him outside cutting the grass. He looked to be about my age, a little taller but not much, and real thin, though it was hard to tell from a distance because he favored loose clothes. He had long hair worn straight and loose the way all the guys did that year, when only geeks wore pony tails. A girl’s hair that year had to be long too, but mainly it had to be as crimped and curly as rollers and hot irons and drug store permanent waves could get it. Slaves to fashion, that’s what we all are, all of us. The guys too. But this guy checked out OK on that score. My mother went over with a tray of sandwiches the day they moved in, and stayed about an hour. "Nice people," she reported to my father and me at dinner. "At least she’s very nice. Jane is her name. She runs some kind of merchandising by mail thing, and is very successful at it to judge by the furniture and china they’ve got. Spode, service for twelve, she was unpacking and putting away—beautiful—it must be priceless! I don’t know why she didn’t buy a bigger house on the other side of town, but she says this one is ample for the two of them, and she likes the location. She was divorced when her son was just starting kindergarten, she tells me—her husband ran off, or ran off once too often, or something. The boy seems a little quiet, maybe even shy, but he’s very polite, very well brought up. He’ll be a Senior when school begins again, same as you, JayCee. I told them you’d come over some time and introduce yourself, and maybe show him around a little, where you kids hang out, things like that. With school out and so many families away, he’s got no way to meet people his own age. His name’s Marion."

I didn’t say anything. My Mom was always trying to fix me up with boys she thought she could trust, our cousins for example, which is how my ass lost its cherry and my Uncle lost his baseball. Or with boys from families that belong to our church—she thinks they’re respectable because they call her "ma’am." I tell her they’re the worst, because by the time she quits talking me up they think she’s already guaranteed them a piece of my ass, and they expect me to hand them the rest on a platter. That’s why so often I hand them their own asses, not always as nicely as I did it that time with Ronnie and Petey. I stay away from polite creeps. They’re the worst.

What I was actually thinking was, with a name like ‘Marion’ this kid better be a fighter, with a nickname like "Spike" or "Crusher," something to slow the guys down when they want to lean on him a little. Polite won’t cut it. Boys like to push each other. Nice boys in our neighborhood don’t stay that way. Anyhow, a week later I happened to be out front getting ready to visit my friend Marcie, when I saw this Marion kid coming down the sidewalk toward me wearing his oversized shirt and baggy pants, carrying a plastic bag from that drugstore in the mall on the highway two blocks south of us. Sort of hip-hop, his clothes, I saw, acceptable enough, big, everything out and hanging loose. I checked myself. Just the reverse—real tight jeans and a black stretch sleeveless pullover with a turtle neck, no bra, fresh lipstick I’d just put on to show Marcie the shade I think goes with a jumper she just bought. My hair up in the Betty Grable forties look I’m trying out. I’m OK, I decided. If I smile at him he’ll fall over.

So I crouched down pretending to do something with a flower bed alongside the sidewalk, and when he got nearer I wiggled my tail at him a little. Looking him over sideways, I could see he was trying hard not to notice me, the way polite boys do, but he couldn’t help himself. Then when he was just about to pass by I suddenly stood up in front of him and faced him down and smiled. I gave him both barrels at close range. I can be devastating when I want to be, and I can be mean, too, and sometimes it’s the same thing. I didn’t know which it was yet myself, in this case. He stopped walking as if he’d hit a wall, and then he stared at me with no change of expression.

"Hi!" I said brightly. "I’m JayCee, the girl who lives here? My mother was over to your house the other day, a week ago? When you were moving in, and she met you and your mother?" I saw he had huge almond-shaped eyes and long black lashes and high cheekbones. Close up he looked real cute! In fact he was a living doll! Stroke him the right way, and he’ll purr like a cat I’ll bet. Or a tiger. He might be worth getting to know after all! He smiled just a bit, a little nervous, and he passed the bag he was carrying over to his other hand, then half-hid it behind his leg. I’d already seen through the plastic that it had some big bottles of pills, and a big blue and purple package with "Kotex OverNite Maxi Pads" in white letters. No mystery—he was on an errand for his mother. But at his age mothers can seem an embarrassment. "Sure," he said. "JayCee. Your mother said you might be coming by real soon. I’m pleased to meet you." "I’ll walk you," I said. "Then I’ll have come by." No sense letting anyone get any advantage over you, any time. I started down the sidewalk. But he kept standing there, so I stopped and looked back at him over my shoulder, and I gave him my slow steady inquiring look with one eyebrow raised real high. I once turned two football players into drooling mush with that look. "No, I didn’t mean that," he said, now altogether flustered. "I mean I’m very pleased to meet you. I was looking forward to it." Now he clutched his shopping bag in front of him with both hands.

I realized that he was one of those boys who have a hard time speaking to girls, a late bloomer or something. He wasn’t just jockeying for position when he’d said that about me supposed to come by and I didn’t, trying to hang a guilt trip on me. He’d said it because that was all he could think to say. He understood that I misunderstood him and that I was miffed, and now he was trying to apologize and be nice! Now that was something! The other boys I knew wouldn’t have had a clue to anything that had already happened in this little conversation, and if they could have figured it out they couldn’t have cared less!

"Likewise," I said, and this time I gave him my special smile. Sincere. I really do have one, though there isn’t much call for it. "I’ll walk you. I’d like to." Should I tell him I’ve seen him cutting the grass? No, too relaxed and neighborly. Keep the initiative. Stay on him.

"Your name’s Marion, isn’t it," I noted.

He realized he’d forgotten to say so, and felt further disadvantaged, which was my intention. "Yes." he said. "’Marion’ spelled with an ‘O.’ That was John Wayne’s name, too, before he was John Wayne."

The poor boy was belly up! So sensitive about having a name that sounds like a girl’s that he had a canned speech prepared to prove he’s really a man’s man like John Wayne. Who’d doubted it? Obviously he was first in line!

I decided to keep after him. "Marion with an ‘O," I said. "That’s pronounced ‘Marianne,’ right? Then you won’t mind if I call you ‘Marianne’? ‘Mary’ for short, maybe?" Then the clincher so he wouldn’t dare object. "It sounds more friendly that way. You don’t mind, do you?" Now let him hang himself. What’s in a name?

He surrendered. "No, not at all," he said. "Whatever you like." I had him. He was outclassed. But he knew he was outclassed, and that showed more intelligence than ever glimmered in any of the boys I knew. I decided that I liked him. Maybe I should have come by after all? I decided that this could be a prize fish, so I should reel him in. Keep up the pressure so he won’t throw the hook.

"Mary," I said to him, taking his arm real comfy, so he’d know I wasn’t being sarcastic or threatening, but also so he wouldn’t spook and run off, "Why did you buy Kotex at the mall? Are you having your period now?"

I hung on tight until he could get a grip on himself. Now his doll face was bright red. "Oh, JayCee," he said finally. "Quit teasing me, OK?"

Terrific! I loved it! He respected himself after all! He didn’t fall all over himself to explain the obvious, that it was for his mother. He was uneasy about his name, but he didn’t feel totally apologetic about everything, as if everyone’s opinion but his own mattered. He knew I was mocking and testing him, maybe even insulting him, but he took off the edge by calling it teasing. And it worked! All of a sudden, I’d only been teasing him, in a friendly way, the way girls do when they meet an interesting guy. I liked that. I squeezed his arm to tell him, and I knew he knew that too. His blush faded, not altogether. "OK, Marianne," I said. No reason to back off just because I was beginning to like him. "Deal!"

"What’re the pills?" I asked him, now just making conversation. We were only about halfway to his house from mine. "Vitamins," he said. "I had asthma and such when I was little, and I took a lot of pills. Now my mother feels better when I take them."

"Prescription vitamins? Let’s see!" I could see the typed RX labels through the translucent plastic bag, so I reached over and took the bag from him before he could pull back and be embarrassed into playing tug of war, and I reached in and started reading the bottles. They had his mother’s name on them, not his. "These pills are for your mother too," I said, to put my Kotex taunt behind us once and for all.

"She’s got the health insurance policy," he said, "So she gets the prescriptions, even the ones for me."

Was he kidding me now? About asthma and vitamin pills? I could read, and I saw that these were birth control pills. Female hormones of some kind. One was "Estynil Estradiol" and the other was "Progesterone." The same stuff the doctor started me on last year, to make my period more regular, and as Mom said, to forestall any little problems. Only mine come in a cute little pill wheel inside a compact, so I won’t forget to take one each day, or forget which one. And mine are a lot smaller. These were big pills, like the kind my Mom started taking after her hysterectomy, massive doses of female hormones to keep her in womanly trim. I checked again in the bag. It was Kotex all right. No hysterectomy. A mystery. I decided he was kidding me but wasn’t very good at it. "Well, here we are, Mary," I said. We stopped for a moment on the sidewalk in front of his house. And I added sincerely, because he needed all the encouragement he could get, obviously, "It’s nice that we live near each other, Marianne." He smiled. "I like you. You stop by. We have a pool."

He hesitated, and then asked if I’d like to come in and meet his mother. Meaning he wanted me to meet her. Meaning, he really liked me too. He led the way into the kitchen, and there she was standing by the window, cutting vegetables. Marion’s mother was thin too, like him, with a nice figure, and though she wore no makeup at all it was obvious that she could look stunning whenever she chose—she had the same high cheekbones as her son, and the same almond-shaped eyes, and she had the same black lashes, though on a woman you can never tell. She carried herself like a dancer—there was something poised and formally gracious even in the way she turned to greet me. Her hair was fairly long for a woman her age, and piled high up on her head, the way mine was pinned up. She made pleased and surprised noises to see the two of us together, looking from one of us to the other and saying something about my mother’s visit the day they first moved in. So she knew who I was already, without being introduced. I saw that the kitchen window in front of her cutting board on the counter gave her a full view of our entire promenade, from my calculated crouch in front of my own house practically to their front steps. I glanced out that window, then at his mother again. She was watching me, and we saw we understood each other perfectly.

She smiled. Marion put the bag on the kitchen table between them. "JayCee, isn’t it," his mother said wiping a hand on her apron, and offering it. "I’m Jane. Just ‘Jane’ please. No formalities here. I’m delighted to meet you, I’m sure you know that." Then to her son, "You got the prescriptions too, Marion? The vitamins? Yes, here they are." She opened the pill bottles and took two from one, then one from the other, huge as pills go, and handed them to him. "Take these now," she told him. "Then if you don’t mind, that washing machine isn’t hooked up right. Would you mind going down and reversing the hoses, and put it up on its blocks, and check it over, then holler to me when you think it’s finally installed right, so I can bring down some washing and we can test it out?"

"Sure, Mom," he said. "I’ll see you, JayCee!"

"When you come up. I’ll look after your friend meanwhile. I’d like to get to know JayCee a little, if she doesn’t mind, now that she’s here. You go down and we’ll talk, and we’ll be here when you’ve done what you need to do."

He went down to the cellar to fix the washing machine or whatever. I looked at her expectantly. She hadn’t gotten rid of her son just to pass the time of day with me. "Your mother told me you were a nice girl," his mother said to me when we were out of his hearing. "She didn’t tell me you were also clever. I see that for myself. I’m pleased to know you."

"Likewise," I said, not much into formalities myself. I looked her straight in the eye, and she looked straight into mine. I liked her immediately. "Mrs....um, Jane, you have a nice son.

I like him."

"Yes, I just heard you tell him that," she commented with a small smile. Meaning she’d also heard me call him Mary. She didn’t seem to mind. Also meaning, she didn’t want secrets between us.

This emboldened me, but I remembered my manners. "Can I ask you something, Mrs...Jane, I mean? Right out, with no ‘I know its really none of my business, but...’ stuff?"

I had never spoken to anyone like that before. Not so blunt. But Marion’s mother seemed to invite it. I could sense that, and I wanted her respect, and I sensed this was how to get it. "Absolutely, JayCee! No ‘none of my business stuff...’ between us ever, OK?"

"Great!" I said thinking to myself that there were certainly some secrets around here, if she’s that open about being open with me. "I guess I’ve got two questions, really. The first is, why did you name your son ‘Marion’? That was asking for trouble for him."

She looked at me steadily, then sat down at the table and leaned on her elbows, and twined her wrists together and clasped her hands. It was a graceful gesture, like an actress or a model, and I thought I might try that some time myself. It might be useful. She found it useful, obviously. She nodded for me to sit too, so I did.

"You ask without preliminaries, so I’ll answer the same way. By the time Marion was born I knew I was going to divorce his father. His father is a real shit, a vicious man with no respect for anyone he can’t control, especially women, and a foul-mouthed wife-beater. I’d wanted a daughter of my very own, so at least I could carry something good away from my years with him, not a son who might look up to that bastard and maybe some day choose to live with him, and to think and behave like him. And a daughter he’d never contest during a divorce. He’d want all kinds of rights over a son."

"But we take what we get. I got a boy. So I gave him a boy’s name I could imagine was a girl’s name, and everyone else could think was a girl’s name if they wanted to. That way I saw to it that I was asking for the right kind of trouble for him. He’s still a little defensive, the way adolescent boys are, but you must have noticed, he doesn’t feel it’s al all demeaning to be carrying what sounds like a girl’s name. You can call him ‘Mary’ to tease him, if you like, or even ‘Marianne’ all the time, and it doesn’t bother him at all. He takes no notice. He’s not insulted that his name sounds like a girl’s. He respects girls. He’s had to learn to respect them in order to respect himself, and not go through life cringing and apologizing for things that aren’t his fault." She sat back and smiled. "Then when his father came home from some long overseas engineering and whoring trip and got infuriated to learn that he now had a son named Marion, well, that was another plus."

"Ok, Mrs. ... uh, ma’am, fair enough. Just now I...."

"’Jane,’ please, JayCee, if you don’t mind."

"No, Jane, I don’t mind at all. I like it. I like you too." I really did. Why did I want her to know right off? "That explains why he didn’t mind my calling him ‘Marianne’ or ‘Mary.’ I didn’t get anywhere near him with that."

"Closer than you’d think, but not the way you’d think, JayCee. ‘Marianne’s’ a lovely version of ‘Marion.’ And so is he. I wish I’d thought of it! I’m glad you did. You had another question?" "Yes, ma’am. Yes, Jane. This one’s a little more serious." I really hesitated, then I just blurted it out. "Why are you feeding your son female hormones and telling him they’re vitamins?" Jane glanced at the bottles between us on the table, then looked at me mildly but steadily. "When he was a boy he had asthma," she said, "And he got accustomed to taking vitamin supplements and allergy shots. He thinks he still is." That wasn’t really relevant, except that now I knew that he was also shooting up female hormones, and didn’t know that either. Pretty heavy duty stuff. I sat there waiting. "May I ask how you know what these are?" She picked one up and held it as if to read the label, but didn’t bother looking at it.

I told her. And how I knew they weren’t for her. She glanced at the Kotex package when I mentioned it, with a quick smile. Then she resumed looking straight at me. She added gently, as if reminiscing, "Yes, I saw you reading the labels earlier while you two were walking here. I knew you knew. And I notice that neither then nor just now did you say anything to him. You saw as soon as you both walked in here that he didn’t even blink when I called them vitamins and handed him some. He still thinks they’re vitamins. "

Now I felt like a co-conspirator. Was that was how she wanted me to feel?

"He also gets hormone shots, as I’ve just told you, and I have his blood monitored carefully each month. I love him, and I take no chances with him. He needs to overcome his body’s natural production of male hormones, so he needs heavy doses of estrogen and so forth. If he’d had an arranged accident when he was younger, and lost his testicles, he could have gone on much smaller doses to complete his puberty. But it’s too late now—now he’d think it was a disaster if it happened, and I don’t want him to suffer anything traumatic like that ever!"

But she still wasn’t answering my question. She looked steadily at me a moment longer, then she suddenly straightened up. "JayCee," she said. "Can I talk to you frankly, woman to woman? No ‘stuff’ at all?"

Now she really wanted to make me a co-conspirator, no question about it. What she wanted to say was not to be known even by her own son. It could be a barrier between me and Marion, if we ever got close. I hesitated, but I’d never known anyone like this woman. She was elegant and yet down-to-earth, direct yet extremely tactful, gracious, smart, and she knew her own mind. She was already some of the things I realized I wanted to be. "Yes, of course, ah, Jane," I said. She knew I knew what she was really asking. But that wasn’t good enough for her. She had to underline it.

"What I say now never leaves this room. And Marion or ‘Marianne’ is never to hear of it. Are you willing to agree to that?"

"Sure," I said. I love mysteries, and a big one was about to be unfolded.

"I just told you that when Marion was born I wanted a girl, didn’t I?"

I nodded.

"Well, in a nutshell, I’m getting one. Marion is becoming a girl. I’ve arranged for him to have a girl’s puberty instead of a boy’s puberty. He doesn’t know it himself yet, but this summer coming up is a crucial one for his development. I want to use it to ease his transition to living as a girl full time by the time school begins again, not merely so he’ll accept it, but so he’ll enjoy it. So he’ll love it! So he can start school this Fall as a girl, and never again be anything else, and for the rest of his life never look back. Never wish to be anything else. That’s one reason why we moved here, where no one knows him. No questions, no curiosity, no mockery. A whole new beginning." I was dumbfounded. I leaned forward and asked her yet again.

"Jane, why are you doing this to him."

"Not to him, with him," his mother said. "For him. For different reasons. Let me list a few, and let’s see if they don’t make sense to you."

"First, girls are nicer than boys. If you don’t know that yet, you will. But I think you do. Also, girls have more character than boys. They can endure and survive more, and once they understand how boys tick they can put themselves in charge without even seeming to be there at all. Because most boys really want girls to be in charge. I think you’ve already found that out too, haven’t you, JayCee?"

"Yes, I suppose I have," I said evenly, wondering how she knew.

"Well, that’s what I want for my baby. To be what you are. To know what you know. To live the life you’ll live. You be the judge, JayCee. Which would you rather be? A girl or a boy? For the rest of your life."

A girl, of course. For the rest of my life? Why should anyone ever want to be a boy? But I didn’t answer her. There was really nothing for me to say. She didn’t mean for me to answer. I waited.

"Secondly, I’m still young. Still in my thirties. I go out, and I invite friends back to the house now and then, and sometimes I’ll ask them to dinner here, and sometimes a special friend’ll stay overnight. It sounds selfish, I know, but it isn’t. Now, I am not a storybook mother whose whole life is dedicated to her child. I wouldn’t want to burden any child of mine with the notion that I sacrificed my life for him. For her. That’s a terrible burden for any child to bear. So I have my friends over. I enjoy their companionship and the sex, and so on, and I expect my child to understand. It’s my life too."

"Well, responses to a parent’s sexuality are fairly standard according to a child’s gender. At Marion’s age boys resent their mothers’ sexuality. Girls don’t. A girl may even admire their mother’s boyfriends, though usually they resent their father’s girlfriends. Well, I don’t need a resentful adolescent son implying to any of my guests that they’re not welcome, or moping about unhappy because my life and my affections aren’t exclusively devoted to him. I love Marion dearly, but I’d love to fall in love again with someone I can take to bed and dedicate to my own pleasure, and I’d never want Marion to be in the way. I’m still looking."

I thought, I should be feeling embarrassed to hear that. But I wasn’t. I understood well enough.

"On the other hand, it’s nice for everyone when a woman is living with a teenage daughter. Daughters understand how their mothers’ feel, and don’t feel threatened themselves. In fact, sometimes a pretty daughter somewhere in the house can’t help but enrich a guest’s fantasy and intensify any romantic moods. Even a decent person who’d never touch her. You’re a daughter. Don’t the older men who come into your house sometimes seem to feel a compulsion to turn on the charm when they look at you? Even though you’re your father and mother’s child, and untouchable?" "More often than sometimes," I said. I grinned to myself, and she saw and grinned back at me.

"You’re a real pet, JayCee. You hear me perfectly, I can tell. Now, so far what I’ve described are the advantages of having a daughter instead of a son. My third reason is why it’s necessary for Marion to be my daughter, not my son. Not just advantageous, but necessary. Crucial. It’s this. His father comes back now and then to claim his unlimited visitation rights over Marion. That was the price I paid to get a decent child support allotment when he first abandoned us. I make plenty of money now, but I didn’t then. I needed every penny, and the price I paid for it was, any time after Marion turns 16, and he’s just done that, his father can take him away from me for as long as he likes, and keep him as far away as he likes."

"Well, that man resents me. In fact he has contempt for all the women who have ever associated themselves with him. He’s boasted to me that he means to come back and take Marion away and keep him away for good. He said he was going to turn Marion into his kind of man, which means a self-gratifying, conceited, sexist boor like himself. A calculating rapist who’ll never get caught. And he could do it. At Marion’s age a young man is attracted to the idea that women exist only for his pleasure. It solves all of his problems, of relationship, and responsibility, and adequacy, and respect, everything, all at once. Marion will want to believe it, and his father can be persuasive. Already there’ve been times when Marion came home from a week’s visit with his father with his mouth spewing filth, arrogant, for weeks useless around the house, because he’d adopted his father’s belief that women are lower forms of life placed on earth to serve men."

"Well, I mean to put Marion beyond his reach, beyond the slightest interest his father might ever have in him. That bastard is overseas now, and means to take Marion away from me when he returns next year. He’s told me that repeatedly, to upset me and then gloat. Well, when he gets back next year I want him to discover that his son is the sweetest, loveliest daughter any man ever disowned. A lovely girl and a respectable young woman. And I’ll confess it to you, JayCee, I’ll get a lot of personal satisfaction from seeing my ex when he sees he’s lost a son and gained a daughter. That’ll fix him once and for all!" Changing her son’s sex just to get back at her ex struck me as a little harsh, but I saw she wasn’t really doing that. She was protecting him from her ex, and protecting a lot of women from what he might become after her ex corrupted him. I really couldn’t quarrel with that. In fact I decided to enter even deeper into our conspiracy by asking some more questions. "Marianne knows nothing of any of this?" "Nothing, JayCee. Well, he knows he’s having an odd adolescence, but I’ve assured him he’ll get over it. As he will." "When are you going to tell him?"

She stood up and went to the fridge, and took out a Coke. Then she looked at me with one eyebrow raised, and I nodded. She took out a second coke, handed it over, and sat down again. I cracked the can open.

"Obviously, some time this summer, he’ll have to know that he isn’t going to get over it. Not ever. That he isn’t a peculiar boy. That like it or not he’s a transsexual girl. That he’ll have to be a girl for the rest of his life. That his body is already a girl’s, except for his genitals, and that he needs to change his gender in his own mind and become a she. That she can enjoy being a girl. But I’m hoping it won’t be necessary to tell him." "What do you mean?"

"Think about it. I’m hoping he’ll want it to happen all by himself, and accept what’s happened, so we don’t have to tell him anything. That he’ll help it happen."

"How do you plan to do that?"

"By making each step in becoming a girl delightful. As attractive as possible. More desireable than remaining the kind of boy he is now." She paused and then looked directly at me. "Will you help me, JayCee? Will you help him? Will you help Marianne become herself?"

I took a swig from my coke can and considered the matter. "If he knew, he’d never agree," I said, avoiding a direct answer. "No, of course not. It has to happen because he wants it, not merely because he agrees to it. I don’t mind if he thinks he has no choice, and only reconciles himself to it, because I know that in the long run he’ll be grateful. But back to my question. Will you help Marianne become the daughter I want him to be? The daughter she should be? For the rest of this summer? It would be so much easier with your help. You know you’d be doing him a huge favor, really. And I can make it well worth your trouble. I thought about it. I didn’t have a summer job yet. "I was going to work ten or fifteen hours a week at Chicken Licken or Burger Bob’s," I said. "Evenings. I figured on earning maybe $75 a week through Labor Day."

"This is irregular work, but it’s a lot more than ten or fifteen hours," she said. "It can be a lot of most days. It’s whatever it takes. Whatever it costs. It’s my son’s life. My daughter’s life, for the rest of her life."

She paused, near tears, swallowed, and recovered herself.

Then she listened to my silence. Encouraged, she then went on. "JayCee, we can tell your parents you’re working for me. I’m now setting up training courses for various businesses, the kind they need when they bring in new computer software to teach to beginning employees. I can tell them honestly that at your educational level you’re a typical targeted client and customer who for that reason can be a very persuasive sales representative. That’s all true enough. Each week for the rest of the summer I’ll pay you three times whatever you’d have earned at Burger Bob’s. And if we accomplish what we wish to accomplish by the end of the summer, and Marion begins her Senior year in High School as Marianne, and enjoys being Marianne, I’ll see to it that you win my firm’s annual employee full scholarship to any four-year college of your choice, the money to be held in trust for you by your parents until you can use it. That will be a bonus that will need no explanation." I just stared at her.

"Moreover, I’ll pay whatever your expenses all summer. And that includes clothes. You’ll be enormously helpful going on buying excursions with him, two girls together deciding on skirts and things. You know what girls are wearing these days. You can build his confidence by assuring him he’ll fit right in with the other girls. Her confidence, I should say. Does that seem fair?" I still couldn’t speak.

"She’ll be on her own once school begins, of course, because you’ll have prepared her for that. But I’ll want to keep you on retainer through all of next year, just in case something comes up that only you can handle. For my own peace of mind." This was beginning to sound like all the money I’d ever need for college. My parents want the best for me, but they aren’t well off, and I’d been expecting to work my way through State, and then take a job to pay off the loans and debts, leaving graduate school a long way down the road.

"JayCee? Will you help me? She doesn’t have to be the Prom Queen when she graduates. Just an ordinary girl. I’d be so happy for her if only there’s some boy she likes who’ll take her to her prom, and if she’s beautiful in her prom dress, and she can feel the magic I remember from that time of my life, when I was pretty and young and desireable, with everything ahead of me. I loved my own high school prom. That was the last time in my life I felt happy and alive when I woke up each morning, before that lying bastard I married swept away my girlhood, and all my beautiful dreams." She blinked and turned her face away from me, and took several deep breaths. Then she just kept looking away from me, looking out of her own kitchen window past my house. And waited. Was I being bought? Yes. Well, I thought, also no. His mother was right. What she was asking matched my own deepest feelings about boys and girls and what’s most desireable. I would be doing Marianne a favor. I liked him. I could help him. I would be helping her too. And the money I’d earn would be real money. If it worked, if I could bring it off, I could go to any college or university that would have me, anywhere in the whole country.

Well, I stood up to shake her hand. As she saw me reach out toward her, her whole body suddenly shook with a great sob, and then she opened her arms to me and rushed around the table. Then as we hugged each other she really began to cry, and I did too. I couldn’t help it. She kissed my cheek and my neck, and I could feel her wet eyelashes. My eyes were wet too. I really was a co-conspirator, but it felt good. All in Marianne’s best interest. I knew that when the dust settled she’d thank us for what we’d done.

We broke our embrace and separated a little. Now we were two women conspiring together, but we still clasped each other like two girls dancing. She was so pleased! "Invite him over to use your pool tomorrow, would you?" his mother said. "And to spend the day? He’ll say ‘No,’ of course, but be sure to leave quickly before you can hear him say it, and I’ll see that he gets there. Then you’ll see soon enough what his problem is, what our problems are. And I’m sure you’ll begin to cope."

His voice came from the cellar. "Mom? It’s all set up now!

Let’s try it!"

The two of us grinned at each other. I never saw a woman so happy.

"JayCee? Please sit for a moment more, dear. At least tell me how you got your name."

"It’s what my Dad said when he first saw me, right after I was born. Or it’s the initials, anyhow. He’d wanted a boy, and the nurse just held me up new born and naked for him to see, and when he saw my cunt he just said it out loud without thinking. My Mom liked what he’d said, what she thought he’d named me, but she didn’t think a girl should have a boy’s name. Not that boy’s name, anyhow. So they settled for the initals, spelled out sort of. I like it."

Jane smiled at me, and nodded some more. "I’m very lucky to know you, JayCee. I can’t believe how lucky I am! You know, we used to live across the state in another town about this size, and I’ve got a client there with a son named Petey, and Petey once told me an extraordinary tale about a teenage girl in this town who helped him discover himself, and how cleverly she did it. I’ve been hoping to meet her so she could help me too. In fact, that’s why I bought this house in this neighborhood, near you. To create opportunities. I can tell you that, now that we understand each other, and now that you’re on the payroll. No secrets, right?" I just stared at her. What an extraordinary businesswoman! If she was as resourceful and persuasive with her clients as she’d just been with me, she must be very wealthy by now, I thought. No wonder she can afford to hire me, and even pay my full college costs for four years, and probably her daughter’s too when Marion becomes her daughter, and yet here she is living in a small house in a modest part of town, where most kids can’t afford college at all. She really does love her son. Her daughter. "Jane," I said. "I’m very lucky to know you too. I hope we’ll become very good friends. There’s so much you can teach me." She beamed. "I just may end up with two daughters," she said happily, "Where I’ve had none. That’s just lovely! So very lovely!" Then she shouted down the cellar stairs. "Marianne! Come on up now! JayCee wants to ask you something!" I stood up to deliver my invitation and then make my getaway as she’d suggested, before Marianne could say "No!" And that’s what I did.

III.

He arrived wearing his usual loose shirt and a pair of swimming trunks, and also a sour expression, carrying a bag no doubt with something dry to change to later on. "Hi, Jaycee."

"Hi yourself, Marianne." He was acting as if someone had condemned him to death.

Well, I’d already figured out what his problem was, and how I was going to deal with it. After all, now I was his mother’s chief assistant in charge of his transition, and she expected me to cope. He may have been gloomy, but I’d put on a bright yellow string Bikini under a short orange terry cover up, and there I was, all brilliant colors in full sunlight. Why not? Girls have advantages, and should use them.

"What’s in the bag?" I asked him, ignoring his tone of voice altogether.

The answer was interesting. "Another bathing suit my mother wants me to wear. She says it’s more proper and decent and fitting."

"Well, if it is, why don’t you."

"JayCee," he said exasperatedly. "I just don’t want to!" This was not the moment to push him, so I just pulled off my cover up, pushed my chest way out, stretched up on tiptoe, and dove in. I knew I looked terrific at that moment, like a girl on the cover of "Seventeen" preparing herself for the cover of "Sports Illustrated," and I wanted him to admire girls like us. There’s only a thin line between desiring a beautiful girl and envying her. I felt glamorous and natural, and did three quick laps, and then climbed out again. Marion was looking at my figure and my glistening skin rather mournfully while I arched my neck and bent way over sideways and wrung out my hair and began to towel-dry it, and smiled at him.

"What’s wrong?" I asked. "Can’t you swim?"

"Of course I can. I just don’t want to."

"Well, at least get in the pool. That’s the polite thing to do, you know."

Seeing there was nothing for it, he stepped down into the shallow end still wearing his shirt, and waded around in water up to his hips.

"That’s not how to swim," I shouted. Then just when he was on tiptoe on the edge where the shallow end suddenly gets a lot deeper, I dove in, came up next to him under water, took his arm, and pulled him under. He splashed off balance and even his head went under for a moment. I was pleased to see he was at home in deep water—at least now I wouldn’t need to rescue him. He lifted his head and shook the water out of his eyes in a reflexive gesture, swam toward the deep end, did a racing turn, and swam back. He could swim all right! I could see that his shirt’s heavy, loose fabric was waterlogged, weighing him down, and his sleeves were clinging to his arms. But he stayed on top easily, and paused a little distance away from me, looking concerned about something while absent-mindedly treading water. It was time for him to face a moment of truth. The first of many. I hopped out of the pool and went over to the big patio table where I’d already set out a tray full of sandwiches and a cooler with cans of soda. "Lunch time," I shouted. "C’mon out" "No, I’ll swim around a while more," Marion said. I went over to the edge of the pool and looked down at him. This time I wasn’t thinking I was a cute young thing on the cover of "Seventeen." I was thinking I was Shalimar the Jungle Queen looking down on her subjects from a high cliff. I stood with my legs wide apart and my knuckles against on my hips, elbows squared, and my chin high up even though I was looking down on him. "Marianne," I said. "Get out of the pool. Now!"

He looked up at me.

"I know why you didn’t want to go in and get wet. I know why you don’t want to come out and get dry. It’s obvious, Marianne! But you’ve got to come out of the pool sooner or later, so come out now and we’ll talk about it. We’re supposed to be friends, aren’t we? And it isn’t as if I’ve never seen anything like them before, is it? Lots of my friends have them." I hesitated, then said it. "I’ve got them too, you know. You shouldn’t feel the least bit ashamed. Its insulting to girls everywhere that you’re ashamed of what they’re proud they have." I stood up straight, head high, and ran my hands up my sides to caress the sides of my breasts, then just stood there cupping them in my palms. "Out!" I added, as impatiently as I could.

Marianne looked at me with an anguished expression. I felt sorry for him, really, but I knew I had to be firm. For both of our sakes. Then he swam to the shallow end, walked up the steps out of the pool with his back to me, and then with a cry of exasperation, fury, and despair said "All right, then!" He turned suddenly to face me, and then started striding toward the table with the umbrella and the sandwiches, as if sandwiches were the only thing on his mind.

When he got close I told him, "Unbutton your shirt and dry off. What’s that underneath?" I saw he’d wrapped some Ace bandages tightly around his chest as if he’d broken some ribs. "Oh, sure. Take that off too, or you’ll catch cold."

"JayCee, I’m going home now." He turned to leave. "Marianne!" My voice was as abrupt and forceful and as stern as I could make it. He turned back astonished, and just stared. "Don’t you wimp out on me! Ever! You hear? I know what you’ve got under there. I know lots of things. If you want a friend, the only friend you’ll ever have who can really help you, you’ll be straight with me and do what I say! Now take off your shirt and unwrap that bandage and tell me the story!" I was sharp, but I really was a little angry, and I let it show. No one with Marianne’s potential should ever be allowed to run away from himself.

Like some whipped puppy, slowly, he turned back and unwrapped the bandage. Then he slipped his shirt back on unbuttoned, unable to bear being completely naked while I was looking him over. They were impressive! How long was it now he’d been on hormones? His mother’d said since puberty. Years! I must say, they were bigger than mine, and mine create suspense whether my bikinis can hold them in! His wet shirt clung to his curves, wrapped form-fitting around those two huge melons jutting way out in front of his chest, each one punctuated by a thick dark nipple poking through the soaked fabric. He was stacked! When his shirt was dry I’d noticed he hunched his shoulders way forward, so he wouldn’t bulge too noticeably. But now there was no hiding them! At least a C Cup, maybe bigger! A pair of stunning knockers, thrust out and self-supported. He didn’t really need a brassiere yet to hold them up, I saw, though I knew he’d be wearing one before this day ended, and wearing one for all the days of his life after today. Were they freakish, breasts on a boy’s body? No, I saw that he had narrow shoulders and a very narrow waist, and thin arms, and wide hips, and even a well-rounded bottom. A beautiful girl’s figure! Those hormones had been everywhere in him for years and years, doing their things. He had a girl’s body, no mistaking it! He’d said very little yesterday, I suddenly realized, and today he’d spoken only in a low, grumpy voice. Did he also have a girl’s voice? I tried to remember.

But this was not a moment for remembering. I had to respond immediately, and pretend there was nothing wrong, that everything was the way it should be.

"Why Marianne! They’re beautiful! How can you want to hide them? They’re just gorgeous! You must feel very proud!" This was not at all the reaction he’d expected. He’d gotten used to thinking he was a freak, and he looked at me as if I were crazy to think he was anything else. I suppose I would have been, except that I knew what I was doing. And actually, his problem wasn’t that he was a boy with huge tits. It was that he had a girl’s body, a beautiful one at that, but thought he was a boy. This will be easier than I thought, I said to myself, and a lot easier than his mother thinks.

"Come over here and let me see! Oh, Marianne, you are so lucky!"

My enthusiasm bewildered him. He came toward me baffled. I could see through the open shirt that the upper halves of the round globes of his wonderful tits were gleaming, smooth, white, and wet in the sunlight! In a way I really did envy him. My boobs were OK, nothing much. But his?

"Come sit down right here," I said, patting his chair, which was snugged up against mine so our knees would interlock. I’d set it up that way first thing this morning.

Dazed, he sat down. I sat too, one knee between his, one of his between mine. I reached over, and before he could pull back, I ran my fingertips delicately over his nipples, one hand across each. They immediately stiffened. I saw that that his nipples were those of a mature woman, practically of a nursing mother, sticking out a half-inch or more like the tip of a finger, longer and thicker even than mine. But he didn’t know that, of course. It crossed my mind he might still be a virgin, that he’d never seen any girl’s figure naked, perhaps not even his mother’s. He might not know his breasts were exceptionally well-developed even for a mature young woman, and that the shape of his whole body was also female, not male. To him his breasts were just an embarrassment. "How long have you had these, Marianne ?" I asked gently. I ran my fingertips back over those huge nipples again, this time pausing while still touching them, then ever so lightly I started to caress them. I noticed that he didn’t back off at all. In fact he seemed to lean in ever so slightly, and a slight sigh escaped. So they felt the way mine do whenever I caress them, or gave a boy permission to touch them. Delicious. Melting. I saw his eyes had gone slightly distant, and that his mouth was a little open, his lips parted. If I keep this up, I thought, he might dissolve into a puddle. I decided then and there that I would seduce him this very day. It would be like seducing a girl. I’d never tried that, never even vaguely thought of doing something like that. I wondered if he had a little boy’s cock, or a man’s. Lowering my eyelids, I saw a bulge in his bathing suit, and saw it throb once as I tweaked one nipple and then resumed a gentle circular caress. Not much there, but something.

"Four years ago they started growing," he answered, his voice a little resentful, as if in long-standing disapproval. I noticed that his tone was a little thin, but also gruff. Probably he’s been habitually faking a boy’s resonance, I thought. I’ll have him practice sounding like a girl, just being himself. "I asked my mother if it was normal, and she said yes, it happens to some boys when they reach puberty. One or two other guys said they’d had lumps in their nipples too for a few months, but they went away. So I figured these would go away too."

Now his voice got very quiet, and began to quaver. "But they haven’t gone away, JayCee. They’ve gotten huge. They bounce, so I can’t run any more. They’re heavy, amd sometimes they hurt. I don’t dare take my shirt off in school, so Mom gets me medical excuses from Gym. She keeps saying it’s nothing, it’s normal, she has big breasts too so it’s probably hereditary. She says it’s not necessary for me to see a doctor to get them fixed." He paused. Then he looked up at the sky, as if he couldn’t bear to look directly at me. "JayCee, it isn’t normal! Boys shouldn’t have tits. Not like these tits. I’m so ashamed!" And he started crying. At first his eyes teared up, and then a strange keening whine came from the back of his throat, his pent-up misery squeezing under tremendous pressure through a crack in his impassivity. Then a wail. Then the dam burst, and he began crying out aloud in great wrenching sobs. His face contorted, and he surrendered himself to his anguish. The years of uncertainty and embarrassment had finally found an outlet, someone listening, and he couldn’t suppress his feelings any longer. He practically howled out his grief.

My heart reached toward him, pitying so much terrible suffering. If his mother had known he’d feel like this, would she have done it to him? Probably. She’d felt she had to do it. I tried to remember that there were enormous advantages to his being the way he was, though he didn’t know that yet. That it was my job to show him he was better off. But right now what he needed was sympathy.

"Oh, my poor baby!" I held out my arms. He lurched forward out of his chair and fell to his knees in front of me, reaching out and wrapping his arms around my waist with his fists still clenched, and he buried his face in my breasts, still sobbing. I folded my arms around his head and hugged it tight. It was that easy! "My poor, poor baby," I crooned. "Marianne, my dear, dear Marianne!" I stroked his hair and hugged him close. "The luckiest boy in the world, and yet you’re miserable! Why? Why?" I kept hugging him and stroking his hair, and I kissed his face repeatedly, tasting real salt tears. Over and over I kept making comforting sounds, until finally he began to get a grip on himself. His wails softened into sobs. Then I kissed him. Not too gently, and not too consolingly, either. His manhood needed reassurance that he wasn’t ruined, that he could still be attractive to a girl his own age. I knew he needed that reassurance while he changed slowly into an attractive girl his own age, with an attractive girl’s desires.

I held his face in my two hands and pulled it up to mine, and plastered my mouth against his, and pushed my tongue as deep into his mouth as it could go. Down in those dark, moist recesses, I felt his own tongue press back against mine and then maintain the pressure, as if mine might disappear if he eased off even for a moment. His fists opened and his palms turned, and he pulled my body toward his, timidly, tenderly, holding me the way a shy young girl might hold another ... another girl. Our mouths stayed locked in place. Gradually, his breathing slowed. No doubt about it, he would be the first boy to probe my pussy with his penis, and the first girl too. If it felt right.

With that thought, I pulled his head back from mine, my fingers linked now around the back of his neck, and looked at him with the brightest smile I could find in me, as if I had suddenly discovered in him the love of my life. I suppose in a way I had. I looked delighted at his face, as if I couldn’t get enough of seeing it. He really was a dear, my Marianne! I kissed each of his eyes, and then his mouth, and then his closed and waiting eyelids again. Then I let go of his neck and again let my hands drift down to the tips of his nipples, and gently, daintily, I caressed them again. His eyes opened as new sensations coiled down into his groin, and I lowered my own eylids demurely, looking down at my own breasts. He reached for them and tenderly touched my nipples, then fondled them as delicately as I caressed his. Just for a moment—I wanted him to feel that we were similar and desireable, no more than that. But I felt it down below too. I lifted my eyes to his. He was studying my face so seriously, looking a little puzzled, though his mouth was contented enough. He kissed me tenderly.

He was still kneeling at my feet, leaning across my lap, now finally calm. No new paroxysms of sobbing, nor of shame at having let go so desperately earlier. He really did have strength of character! I really did like him! I kissed him again on the mouth, gently, this time for myself, and then with both my hands I lightly tugged him up by his elbows, reminding him to sit back in his chair. He reluctantly abandoned his position at my feet, and his hands left my breasts, and he sat down. He did have the longest, darkest eyelashes! He was going to look just gorgeous! I began planning his makeup.

When he had calmed down all the way I handed him a sandwich and a can of soda, and took one of each myself. I said nothing, but just looked at him with a kind of bright curiosity, as if I really couldn’t understand why he was so miserable. He took my cue.

"Why did you call me the luckiest boy in the world just now," he asked timidly.

"Because they’re beautiful," I replied calmly and reasonably. "They’re bigger and better shaped than mine, and they’re beautifully proportioned to your figure." He probably doesn’t know that he has a girl’s figure as well as a girl’s breasts, I thought, more feminine than most girls’ figures. "And you have a beautiful figure too." I looked at his cheeks. I saw not a whisker and figured he probably thinks he’s a late bloomer. He doesn’t know he’s already in full bloom.

"And there’s another reason, too. I’ve read about people like you. Most people have to be whatever they’re born. Boys have to be boys and girls have to be girls. But some people are lucky. Some people get a choice when they get to be your age. You’ve got a choice. You can be a boy or a girl. Have you figured out yet how you’re going to decide which you’d rather be?" "I’m a boy!" he said. "I was born a boy."

"So you say. But you coulda fooled me," I smiled at him. I decided to take a chance. I’d read a lot about hormones last night, and thought it was worth putting it to him now, while he was still vulnerable, because he was also still malleable. "Think about it. Obviously you’re both at the moment. You were raised to think you’re a boy. But you have great breasts. A wonderful figure. A pretty face. You’re a terrific girl. Are you also a terrific boy? How well are you hung?" I was pretty sure that with the kinds of hormones he had taken to grow those boobs, his penis and testicles were still pre-pubescent, a small boy’s. "Never mind," he said, obviously embarrassed. Piece of cake, I thought to myself. "You know what your friend John Wayne once said," I said, reaching for an unlikely authority. "’A man should be what he can do.’ You can do being a girl a lot better than most girls can do, I’ll bet." I looked more closely at his face. The same almond shaped eyes and high cheekbones I’d noticed when I first saw him. And a small, rounded chin. A doll! "You’re beautiful," I told him. "you really are!" I meant it. I kissed him again. He was silent.

"Let’s think about it together. How are you with girls? How often do you date? Are you popular?" The questions were cruel, because any answers were obvious enough. With those boobs I knew he’d never allowed a girl near him. For sure. Until me, today. And though he thought he was a boy, probably he felt he had nothing to offer a girl, and maybe he didn’t.

"I’ve never dated," he said. Tears were starting up again. "I’ve been too ashamed." Then he added, "I don’t even have friends who are boys. They’d laugh at me if they saw what I really look like. Or worse!"

"Most of them, maybe," I said, thinking about Ronnie and thinking I should get him involved in this conversion project. "But anyhow, Marianne dear, you’re dating me. Right now. We’re going to see lots of each other. We’re going to straighten this out. And I’m going to help you get lots of other dates. I’m going to fix you up so this fall you’ll be with the prettiest girls in our class, girls who’ll love being with you, and I promise you’ll never lack for dates! OK?" Every word was true. He didn’t have to know just yet that he’d be with the prettiest girls as one of them, and that his dates would all be with boys. "OK?" He nodded, baffled but trusting.

One more nudge and then I’d leave the subject alone. Let him think he has a choice. Of course he doesn’t, I knew, but I didn’t feel sorry for him at all. He really is lucky, I thought. Who’d want to be a boy, given a choice?

"You’ve been trying to be a boy, but you haven’t got much talent for it, and you don’t have a boy’s body. You’re ashamed you’re a boy, in fact, because you’ve got a girl’s body. Except for that one little thing down there between your legs. You’ve been trying to be a boy, and you’re not very good at it. Are you?" I paused. He nodded, reluctantly.

So here’s what I propose. Till near the end of the summer when you have to register for school, you forget you’re a boy. Let’s see what kind of a girl you can be. See which you can do better. See if you can be proud of your body just the way it is. I’ll help."

He looked up at me peculiarly, started to say something, then looked down at the ground, frowning. "JayCee, I’d be ashamed," he said. "I’m not a girl. No way!"

"More ashamed than you are now?"

He said nothing.

"After the summer you can be a boy again if you want, and no harm done, and you can decide which is better. Which you really are. When you’ve been a girl for a while, you’ll know what you’re better at. What you really should be. What’s more fun. OK?" He didn’t answer.

"The next few weeks we’ll spend lots of time together, and I’ll help you, if you’ll promise to go along with anything I ask you to do that girls do. Then we’ll see what we’ll see. Of course any final decision is yours. OK?" I put my hand on his knee, and left it there, and looked up at him. Of course no decision of his would ever be final in my own mind until it was the right one. "Right now try out being a girl, and no one will know. Change back if you want when kids start to come home from the summer, and noone’ll know any different. There’s a pretty rough crowd of boys lives around here, if that’s what you think you are, and you don’t mind getting punched around a little, the way boys do." Still, he delayed. Was he worth my bothering with at all?

The money was, I reminded myself.

"What’ll I tell my Mom?" he asked. "If I go with your plan, that is."

He’d decided! "Don’t worry about your Mom. She wants you to be happy. Just tell her we’re playing a game kids play around here, to help boys learn to respect girls. She won’t say anything. I guarantee it."

"No one else will see me looking like a girl?" "No one," I said. Except for every clerk and shopper in every mall inside of ten miles, I thought. And every boy I introduce you to later on, all of them trying to feel you up and get into your panties. "And then we’ll be able to see a lot of each other. My folks don’t care how much time I spend with my girlfriends." As if they’d ever object to my boyfriends, if I ever brought one home. As if I’d listen if they did!.

"OK," he said finally. "For a few weeks, anyhow." It was mostly to placate me, I knew. But now he’d pledged it. to try it my way. The rest was a matter of time. "Starting today!" I said. "Today you’re mine until I send you home. This’ll be so cool!" Now he got my most dazzling smile. He looked uneasy but half-smiled back.

I passed the plate of sandwiches, and he took another, and we talked about what it was like growing up in this town. He’d lived with his mother in lots of different places, early on following his father’s different engineering projects, then wherever his mother went while she attended different schools and training institutes, until she’d set up her own mail-order training business and it succeeded. Now she was making very good money at it, he said, with lots of employees. She had an office with a large staff, he said, but a good office manager, so she herself could work out of her house whenever she wanted. She had a knack for hiring people who could figure out whatever needed to be done and could do it without needing to consult her.

I nodded.

They’d moved this time, he said, mainly because she wanted him to make a fresh start with people his own age, to find himself and live up to his best potential. Whatever that means, he added. I nodded. We’d always lived here, and I’d always been eager to live somewhere else. But he’d lived nowhere really, and that’s why he was so much a loner. He’d had no close friends all the while he was growing up. I’d had plenty, more than I wanted, which is why I didn’t feel I needed any more I suppose, except maybe to play mind games with them. Boy friends, that is. I told him I needed a good friend, a really close friend, if he’d be willing. I’d never had a really close girlfriend, someone who’d share everything with me. More boys I didn’t need. He didn’t answer. Then I went back to work. "Marianne," I said. "Why don’t you put on your bathing suit, and then we’ll go back into the water." "I’m wearing my bathing suit," he said.

"No, you’re wearing a half a bathing suit," I said. "That’s why you’re so ashamed, with your tits hanging out like that. Breasts are private. You should let only your dearest friends see them. Other girls. Yours are very attractive, and shouldn’t be just flaunted out in the open like that. People might think you’re a tease. What would your mother think? Put on the bathing suit she gave you."

"It’s a girl’s bathing suit," he said. As I’d suspected and assumed.

"Do you think she’s been trying to tell you something?. You want to look nice, don’t you? You’ve been a boy who’s ashamed of his tits. Now be a girl and be proud of them. Go. I’ll wait for you."

He was still uncertain. I had to use Petey’s dumb line. "You promised, remember?" I sounded reasonable and confident. The fact was, he didn’t have a choice. He went in.

A few minutes later he came out wearing the bathing suit his mother had selected. It was a an irridescent blue Maillot with flowery front panels, one piece with supported cups—and he really did need them—and a draped detachable skirt gathered to one side. With the skirt clipped on I couldn’t see how his male parts or his female-shaped buttocks fit the suit’s bottom, but one thing at a time.

"Now you’re decent. Stop trying to hide your boobs by slumping—it won’t work. Be proud. Shoulders back. That’s it. Whether you’re a boy or a girl, be proud. It’s easier for girls."

I decided to go further. "And you’re a very pretty girl, Marianne. Let’s swim some more, and then we’ll see what kind of a girl you can be when you really try. So far you haven’t been trying. Another time maybe I’ll help you become the best boy you can be, though I’ll be frank, you don’t look like much of a boy to me. Then we’ll be able to see which one of you is more you." I stood up and walked over to the edge of the pool. He did the same, a little awkwardly. I decided he was going to learn to walk with mincing little steps, like some cutie pie who’s a little timid but thinks her ass is made of candy. That would be attractive. A bimbo walk is always reassuring to guys who are unsure of themselves. I watched him unhook the skirt and drape it over a chair. His bathing suit was severely hi-leg, and it left bare the lower globes of his rounded rear end. They were gorgeous. I saw that he needed a Bikini shave, and added that to my agenda for later this afternoon. I also saw that whatever grew there between his legs barely disturbed the neat V line of his bathing suit’s crotch. His genitals weren’t very consequential. They’d tuck, and a sanitary napkin would give him a smooth mound, and then any boy could grind his groin into him while dancing, or could feel him up during a heavy petting session, without suspecting anything. As long as the boy doesn’t try to dig his fingers in. Off and running, at $225 a week and expenses, and my college money pretty much assured. I began to think about which expensive private colleges attract the most expensive boys, boys who like doing things girls ask them to do, boys who can afford to indulge girls that way. But first things first.

I was careful to keep him out in the hot noonday sun and the broiling early afternoon sun too. We splashed, and lay around, and talked some more. I showed him how to sit down on the side of the pool and pose, and stand up again, and lie around, without ever spreading his legs or being caught looking awkward, how to keep his elbows high when he reached behind his neck with both hands to lift his long hair off his back, and how to spread it over his breasts to dry. I decided that we’d both take the two-week modeling course being offered at the high school next week, so he could learn more girlish poses, and how to walk like a lady. He reluctantly agreed. I didn’t tell him that posture was only part of what they’d teach him, that makeup and appropriate clothes and attitudes toward boys was much of it, not only "Tips on Travel" but also "Manners and Men" it said in the catalogue. I expected that ten days of enforced sociability with girls who thought he was a girl would have its effect on a lonely, ungainly, embarrassed boy. I figured he’d come out of it happy for the companionship, glad to be one of them. He was so desperate to belong!

By mid-afternoon, his scoop back and bra top and V-shaped bottom were outlined in a pretty pink sunburn. When his mother saw those shoulder strap marks there’d be no question I’d earned my money today, I thought to myself. But we had more to do yet. Though we’d talked about this tryout lasting only a few weeks I wanted to set things up so there’d be no turning back. So he wouldn’t want to turn back.

IV.

I took him up to my room and sat him down, and studied his face a while, and decided first of all to pluck his eyebrows severely. Girls these days can have wide eyebrows, if they’re not too thick but look neat and refined, and taper to the outside edges. Mine are like that. But I wanted Marianne’s to be high and arched and thin like my Mom’s, a real lady’s, no way a boy’s, no mistaking them. He objected, but I told him these three weeks were mine, he’d promised. Before he could think through how thin, feminine eyebrows would ever pass for a boy’s when the three weeks were up, they were shaped, and before he could see them I told him to take off his bathing suit and get naked, so I could check out his proportions.

That gave him new feelings to deal with. This time not that he was ashamed—I’d already seen his most shameful feature, those glorious boobs—but that his modesty was violated. I just said a little angrily, "Now you’re supposed to be a girl, so be one! Here, we’re girls together! Strip down the same as me!" And I whipped off my Bikini and stood before him altogether in the buff. Like a few years earlier with Ronnie and Petey, and sometimes since, on certain special occasions when I needed to intimidate some guy with my goddess pose. So he did the same. When he was bare, cringing in different directions with his hands fluttering to try to hide his nipples, and his legs crossed to try to hide his cock, I proposed five minutes of calisthenics. Not enough for a workout, but enough for him to quit being ridiculous trying to hide his body, and to notice that even when I was bent way over with my legs apart, and he could see way up my slit, I was never troubled by the fact. We were just two girls together. So he began trying to be one of them. I then made him stand up and practice standing perfectly erect, shoulders far back, hands gathering his hair at the nape of his neck, his lovely breasts lifted as he raised his elbows up as high as they’d go. Then I had him clasp his hands against his buns and pull his arms straight down, pulling his shoulders back and thrusting his boobs even further forward. Then back to gathering his hair behind his neck again. Then to clasp hands on his elbows behind his back—that really pulled back his shoulders and pushed his breasts into the middle of next week. A few more repetitions, and he no longer seemed self-conscious about them. They were more prominent than ever, but he seemed now to be taking them for granted. Better still, he’d finally forgot about hiding his cock and balls. There they were, though I seemed to take no notice at all!

Next I sent him into the shower with a depillatory and a razor to get rid of all his body hair, especially that dense mat around his genitals. I suppose his boy hormones and girl hormones together had grown it. No objection from him. Then when he came out as hairless as a baby, I could see that if it were fully erect, his cock might reach three or four inches, like Petey’s, long enough to pleasure himself but touch when it came to pleasuring a grown woman. It was a boy’s cock, not a man’s. It had no real future. His testicles were little more than marbles—there’d be no problem stowing them to make a smooth girls’ crotch whenever he needed to hide his sex. Obviously his prick would never get past an average girl’s buttocks to reach into her ass. It was cunt or nothing, probably nothing when girls saw that pitiable thing. He had no future as a man.

Which returned me to my earlier idea. The more I thought about it, the better I liked it. In fact, I loved it. I’d do it! It was past time. Here was a prick ideally designed to take my virginity.

But fucking me had to be a reward for obedience. I went into my lingerie drawer. "Here, put these on," I told him, handing him my prettiest bra and panty set, the bra size larger than any I usually wore, and underwired for support. I’d been keeping it in a kind of hope chest, though my own figure hadn’t changed much during the past year. It would fit him, I figured, and once dressed in my undies, he’d feel he was mine in a way, sort of gift wrapped.

"I can’t," he said. "These are girl things!"

"Well, duh!" I said, and turned to find him a blouse and a pair of shorts. I took out a full cut white satin blouse buttoned along one shoulder, draped from the neck and sure to cling and then drape from those boobs of his. Perfect. And I found shorts with elastic to fit him at the waist, flared way out at the legs to look practically like a mini-skirt. And thin-strapped sandals, delicate looking.

When I turned back holding his new outfit, I saw he’d slipped into the panties, but otherwise he hadn’t moved. "Marianne, you need dry clothes," I told him firmly. "You can’t walk down the street wearing that soaking wet shirt. And your bathing suit’s wet too. And you can’t walk bare-chested! It wouldn’t be decent! With that body you’d stop cars!"

Before he could object I slipped the bra over his arms and clipped the band snug behind his back, where I knew he couldn’t reach the catch. Boys never can. It’ll take him a while to figure out how to get it off without cutting it off, I thought. "Well, OK, but why this? Why a brassiere?" "Tuck yourself into those cups," I told him firmly. "So you don’t bobble. Because girls with titties wear brassieres, that’s why. And boys with titties should too. It isn’t healthy to have those things jouncing around loose. After a while, they’ll sag." I paused. "And besides, girls who don’t wear bras always seem to be asking for something. If you go without a bra, everyone will think you want to get laid. Do you want to get laid?" He blushed and looked down, reaching for some flaw in my argument but unable to find any. I suppose he never noticed that yesterday, when we first met, I wasn’t wearing a bra. He knew he needed one, but he had to put up one last rear guard defense. "I stick way out, JayCee," was all he replied. His voice sounded a little mournful. "How’m I supposed to look like a boy sometimes if I look like this?" He was staring down at what were now obviously a great pair of knockers held firmly supported far out in front of him. I didn’t answer. There was no answer. "JayCee, these’ll stop cars too," he then said. And he flashed me his first smile of the day. A joke! It was so utterly endearing. Then he added, "I bet I could charge money if anyone wanted to cop a feel!"

Well, that was true enough. And before I could say so he stood up wearing only his bra and panties—his now, though he didn’t know it yet—and struck a girly-girly pose with one hand tucked into the hair at the nape of his beck, and the other planted on his hip. He waggled those great breasts and his round tush and added, "I wonder how much?"

I smiled back. I understood. He was scared. His identity as a boy was slipping away. So he was getting a grip on his fear by joking with me, by pretending to be a loose woman. He thought he was joking. I smiled even more broadly as I wondered seriously whether to include a week as a real streetwalker in his summer’s curriculum. A week spent patrolling the freight station area would teach him more about being a girl than any of us knew, for sure, including his own mother. No, I thought. When school begins there’ll be plenty of guys hitting on him, and we’ll deal with those problems then. He was now moving down the track his mother had laid out when she’d started feeding him those knockout doses of vitamins: if his body looked like a girl’s, and it couldn’t be changed, then he shouldn’t be ashamed of it. As I’d been telling him, he should accept that he looked like a girl, and he could begin to work out for himself what kind of girl he’d like to be. "How does the bra feel, Marianne? Nice? It doesn’t bind of pinch?"

"Better than I thought it might," Marianne said, a little uncertain. No, it was a little shy. "I like the support. It’s like being held and hugged, and when I move my chest doesn’t seem so...floppy."

"Well, wait till you feel this on your skin." I handed him a satin blouse.

When he slipped on the blouse, there came another moment of truth. If anything, the shiny fabric draped across his breasts in a way that accentuated them. Now even his nipples jutted way forward. In fact they stiffened and poked through to form two pointed tips accentuating the effect. He looked sexy, downright provocative, indecent. It was no longer a joke. "I can’t wear this," he said. "Don’t you have a loose shirt?" Not for him I didn’t. "No," I said. "You look fine. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

He was looking down again, and his manly pride struggled with what I’d just said. Not to feel ashamed. But I was reminded again that he was no fool. He just said very quietly, "JayCee, now I do look like a boy with breasts. I look like a freak." "No," I said. "You look hot. No one will ever believe you’re a boy." I eyed him, and realized that with that cute face and those globes on his chest, that was true. Was I myself responding to him as a boy or as a girl? Why worry about it? "Just wait," I said. I saw now that I could move very fast.

"Put these on and sit down," I said, handing him his flared shorts. He did quickly, without noticing that just off his hips they swirled out to form a cute, flirty mini. Then in no time at all I had his hair pinned up into one of my Betty Grable styles, and he’