Le Sexe Superieur Ch. 07

Needless to say, spooning Peyton for half the night is rather arousing. I haven't slept, in the usual sense of the word, with anyone but Hadley for years and years. I sleep fitfully, alternately getting hardons and dreaming erotic dreams. I don't dare hug her or play with her tits like I often do with Hadley. My nightgown gets moist in a couple spots, and unless she's in a really deep sleep, she must feel my prick thickening against her.

And of course I'm fantasizing about our deal. When will I get to do her? And, what other delicious erotic plans does she have for me?

I don't have long to wait...

Upon rising, she has me move all my stuff into her hotel room (I feel funny moving in just my nightgown but fortunately there's no one else in the hallway) - then we go to her bathroom, brush our teeth and so on, without much of a word between us. I remove her tampon, have a bowel movement, and she insists I insert a new one. She pulls on her rather bland underwear (but tight, especially the binding, minimizer bra) and she instructs me to wait before dressing.

She pulls a dark bag from her suitcase and removes some items with shiny metal, dark elastic, leather straps, and so on.

"Come over here, my slut," she instructs with her rather deep woman's voice.

.

I oblidge. After she has me slip out of my nightgown, she slips a slender bra on me. I've never seen anything like it. It looks almost ancient Roman with its glistening brass and leather. It's rather brief, and I feel (and hear) her lock it behind me. In the front, under prominent brass nipples, are little holders that cleverly fasten around my own nipples. She adjusts them just enough to that I feel their grab and tug, but not enough to cause pain. So I'm aware of them at all times.

"Where did you... " I start to ask. She shushes me.

She now cinches the bra's back strap and leather shoulder straps a bit tighter. I can feel the tightness around my chest (my male bosom) and in the thin straps over my shoulders. It's truly a piece of erotic lingerie the like I've never seen before or imagined. I have an erection again, a big throbbing one. She smooths the precum around its tip just a little. Just a little tease, I suppose...

Next, from the pouch she produces another garment of the same construction and style, but this time it's a thong of sorts, and it attaches with close-fitting straps around my balls and the base of my penis. My erection goes down just enough to have it secured. The front has an elastic pouch a little like a sexy athletic supporter, but with an artificial man mound in front that attaches to the brass penis ring on my penis. So it's big nipples on top and a conspicuous bulge down below.

Peyton's hands get a little sticky from my penis leaking pre-cum as she locks this device from the rear as well.

Euuuh..." she complains, but she obviously relishes outfitting me, as I'm feeling more and more like a slave.

I pull panty nylons on and step into a very light-blue, close-fitting, soft dress with side zipper. I pull my hair back into a bun, apply just a little makeup and lipstick, find nice earrings and put on my very businesslike, black-framed eyeglasses. I look very much the businesslike but shapely assistant to Peyton.

Peyton herself is all tricked out in a pinstriped very dark blue suit that looks fabulous on her, with a plain dark tie and blue shirt. Her dark-brown, wing-tip oxford shoes complete her look. The one concession to jewelry is very tiny stud earrings that glitter like diamonds.

Just before I'm to slip on my plain pumps, Peyton clicks her tongue and produces shoes that are of the same design as my bra and thong. "These had better fit you; I paid enough for them."

"You're spending way too much on me," I feebly protest.

"I'm outfitting you to serve me," she insists, "and these will always remind you of that - not that you'll go home wearing them! But for special occasions like this. I want people to notice us."

The shoes are dark three-inch heels with the same brass, elastic and leather theme as the other accoutrements. They fit quite well. And, no surprise, she locks them very securely around my feet from behind, with a key. I guess I belong to her now, locks, stocks and, well, brass. When I move - and walking in heels requires some finesse - I certainly am constantly reminded I'm encased in harnesses. She might as well have me outfitted to pull her around in a chariot...

We leave the hotel in a taxi, her with a light, slim briefcase and me with the heavier, thicker case with books, laptop and notes inside. We're riding along, with Peyton's hand on my thigh, but we're not talking. I'm idly looking out the window as big business buildings pass by (boooooring), and I'm daydreaming, daydreaming about a woman owning my body and all that entails... I'm almost falling asleep, and then a memory jolts my consciousness.

It's a memory that's been buried away for years, under the debris of growing up, going to college, getting married, and having kids...

I must be around 10. My sister Jordan lures me into her bedroom "to check out this book I got." I try to evade her, her in her trousers and loose T-shirt with loose boobs underneath, but she somehow corrals me and gets me to sit down next to her on her bed.

I remember the book so clearly. It features fashion photographs from 50 years ago, when things were different, quite different. Sure, I've seen a few photos from back then, but here I'm confronted with endless poses where fashions were quaintly reversed: women wore the dresses and men the trousers and suits. Women had the long hair and men usually the opposite. What is especially surprising is the undergarments women wore then: lace panties, bras showcasing breasts, nylons to make legs look sexy, and hair and makeup making faces look so perfect they sometimes resembled dolls. In fact, my sister notes, that's what some guys called the girls back then: dolls!

Jordan keeps noting my reactions to all this. Then, in the last chapter, the book notes the change in fashion brought about by a decade of transformation, when women finally assumed their rightful place in life and men began to lose the need to dominate, wanting to explore their sensitive and nurturing sides. There was some resistance and friction of course on the parts of both sexes, but generally, women loved their shorter hair and men their beautiful, longer locks. Most often, fuck-ees became fuck-ers!

I'm sitting with Jordan in my dress and nice briefs. The trouble is, she's much bigger and stronger than me, because she's already in her growth spurt and and I'm not even close to puberty. Jordan asks if I'd rather look like the boys and men back then. I really hadn't thought much about it; I didn't care one way or the other.

"Or, would you like to look like woman used to?" she asks with a mischievous grin. "'... cuz I found an old makeup kit and stuff stuck away in mother's closet."

Her plan's becoming apparent. She has a plan. We're all alone in the house.

"No way," I say.

"Pleeeeeze," Jordan pleads. "I want to try this stuff out and our sister isn't interested."

I get up to leave.

"Now, Andrea. Don't make me make you."

I'm halfway to the door. She tackles me. I'm caught by surprise; we've never done battle like this before. I can feel her hot breath on my neck as her body weight holds me to the floor. Then as she sits on me, I feel her tying my hands behind my back. I squirm and fight, to no avail. I'm just too skinny and powerless. I try kicking my legs back. Triumphantly laughing, she yanks me to my feet and seats me in a chair with an open back. There, she secures my hands to the rear of the chair, and my still-kicking legs to the legs of the chair. She's using thick tape which she must've had ready for just this eventuality.

"Jordan, goddamn it, let me go. I'll tell mother and dad. You'll be in trouble."

"Oh, stupid, we're just playing. I want you to be my doll today, that's all. Be my doll, OK? And if you keep yelling I'll have to gag you. Just be my doll for an hour or two."

The memory of this humiliation is flooding into my brain as I ride along with Peyton, looking so resplendent in her suit, with her finely chiseled face and strong hands. The pilot.

For a moment, I compare her with Jordan, back when we were kids. Then it's back to my long-buried memory.

Jordan brings out from under her bed the 50-year-old stash she mentioned. It's in a suitcase, and she flicks the lock open, brusquely dumping everything out on her bed. Of no surprise to me, she takes one of the brassieres and manages to put it on me. It's too large so she finds some safety pins to hold it together in back. The cups are almost absurdly big for me, too, but she fills them with some of her socks, until I have two big boobs sticking out from my chest.

I am both pissed and enthralled by this intrusion into my boy-ness. Embarrassed and curious. After all, I have no choice in this matter. It's being forced on me. Next comes some women's shoes with spike heels, a little too big for me, but she finds a way to strap them on. Now she's experimenting with makeup, but because she's never used it, she's clumsy with it. But I've stopped fighting her, and I let her put lipstick and eyeshadow on - using some of the pictures in the book as a reference.

She's not very happy with the makeup results but has fun with it. After all, I'm her doll brother and she enjoys lording her power over me. Finally she takes a comb and styles my long hair, then takes pictures to blackmail me with.

When looking at the photo she notices a little stain on the front of my dress she didn't notice before. And when touching it, she realizes I have a little erection under there. Now I'm truly embarrassed. Really embarrassed. She pulls my dress up to check things out under the hood. I'm blushing a beet red and my erection quickly recedes.

"Golly, Andrea, I never thought this would get you going."

What can I say? The evidence is before the court. I'm guilty of being turned on by wearing old women's stuff, of looking like women did 50 years ago. Guilty as sin.

When she finally releases me, I don't take the stuff off right away. I look in the mirror. I like the way the bra looks on me. I like the way she styled my hair. The makeup is very bad, though.

My rich reverie comes to a sudden halt as we arrive at the St. Louis Convention Center and step out of the cab. I have to screw my head back on again after that daydream. It's time to mix with the other Andreas and Peytons. And here and there are even a few men in change of various things, in their smart business dresses.

(to be continued)