Sissy Blane's Liquid Assets

"I know what you're worried about, Cindy, relax, he won't bend you over 'til the second date,"-she smiled sadistically-"and then, close your eyes and think of England."

After that I decided to take the date as it came and I relaxed in the knowledge that I would be getting my 'whore' card stamped a full seven years earlier in my sissy career than Cindy had.

Cindy got up and poured us some Pinot Grigio and she suggested we try on some of her things. I told her that I knew where that would lead and that I wanted to be able to look Harding in the eye when I saw her on Thursday.

"Okay," she said, "we can play another time. Now I have a question for you; you just said you owed six months of fees at the Clinic, how long have you been a member?"

"Two and a half years," I replied.

"Jesus Christ! You were already fooling around in the Clinic during your senior year at college? No wonder you didn't get into graduate school."

She wished me well at the end of the evening and I promised to call her with the details of my date with Harold Plumrose.

On the Thursday I presented myself at the Clinic and was shown to Madam Harding right away. She was at her desk dressed in the same suit, it seemed, but this time in a maroon iteration with a cream blouse and with nude hose and a brown suede pumps. She had a silver tray before her with a carafe and two cups.

"Good morning, Blane, would you like some coffee? Sit over here," she, patted the chair next to her and poured a cup out for me, then she swiveled to her left to face me, balancing her cup on her knee, " are you getting excited about meeting our benefactor?"

"I'll admit I'm curious."

The hem of her slip, where it rested on her chain's seat was champagne colored, the sole of her shoe as it rocked back and forth on her flexing ankle was buff and barely scuffed.

"Well, all questions will be answered tomorrow. Now, unlike your last visit you WILL be dressing today, Betty. I need to see you in a wardrobe item that Mr. P requested for you. To see if it fits."

"Can't you just check it against my sizes? You have them on file."

"No, not possible. Just change over by the mirror, and don't mind me I won't see anything your mother hasn't."

Too true, I thought, Madam was trim and healthy but she must be at least sixty.

Arranged on an oak valet next to a handsome cheval mirror were the items for me to model, whether for Madam's approval or her mere amusement I wasn't sure.

I picked up a white babydoll nightie by its narrow satin ribbon straps and lay it on the daybed. There was a pair of grey hose, heavy and expensive by feel of them; these I laid across the frothy heap of the nightie. Next, and quite interesting to me was a linen garter belt with four straps ending in sturdy stainless tabs; the garter belt was high-waisted and the linen was machine embroidered in a diamond pattern surrounding small eyelets. The accessory was white like the baby doll but while the nightie was a bright, synthetic, snow globe white, the garter belt was a matte, natural hue; it's modest decoration made it seem as chaste as a maiden's apron. The accompanying shoes I recognized as my own white patent leather pumps which a facilitator must have brought up from my locker.

I sat upon the daybed and took up the first stocking. There is no way to don full-fashioned garter hose which is not lewd to behold, I looked up to see if Madam was watching but she had her face in some papers on her desk.

"These are VERY nice," I said, running my hands over the delicious friction of a stocking as I slid the hose down over my left calf which I was holding aloft, my toes a-point.

Madam peered up only briefly and said, "They're very dear, don't go walking over un-carpeted floors in them if you want to wear them again. All that is yours to keep afterwards, you know. Langniap, you lucky boy. Oh, and do put on the wig, Betty, I hate it when some of you sissies like to parade around in your crew cuts while you're cross dressed. It's NOT sexy."

I finished pushing the last of the rubber tabs through nylon stocking-top. I fished out pair of sheer, white Nancy King full coverage panties from where they had been tucked inside one of the shoes. Arranging the tag into a neat flat flag below my right pelvis, I arose and pushed my feet into the rather tight and rather steep heels and posed before the mirror checking the hosiery and general fit of my rig.

"Anyone who sees you like that this tonight will be riveted, my dearest!" Madam Harding beamed at me from across the room, I had never known her to be so benign.

"Come here and let's see you up close."

As I stepped toward the desk Madam removed a hanky from below the desktop and wiped her lenses. It was my turn to be riveted - the handkerchief was a match for the champagne slip I had spied earlier. I was suddenly only too aware of the elastic waist and leg-holes of the scabrous panties, the feather-weight almost-not-there baby doll that clad me in a lurid cloud from my shoulders to my hips, of the garter-straps stretched tautly across my thighs and buttocks, the whole pornographic assemblage swaying across the room on those white, ironic/iconic high-heel pumps, inspired by some Elmer Batters wet dream.

I stopped before Madam and she reached to gently grasp my wrists to pull me closer so the frilly hem of the nightie was six or eight inches from her nose.

Madam placed the fingers of each hand onto the knob of nylon and rubber where the garter tab held fast to the stocking top. She gave the front two a trial tug and then reached around to test the two that secured the back of my stockings. This movement placed her face even closer to the sheer white nylon covering my groin and there are no aesthetically correct or poetically apt words for it, my hardon raged! it jutted straight up and I found that the elastic waist-band of the panties was bisecting the mouth of my penis painfully, forcing it agape while the gusset was pulled up tight against my smooth, rubber-dolly perineum forcing my testicles to almost pop through the leg openings.

Madam's cheek gently rubbed against the entire inflamed mass as she continued to test the straps until finally, blessedly, she left off to compliment me, "You always knew how to wear your garters properly, Betty, and look how the belt gives you a tiny waist. Be sure to keep it tightly adjusted when you visit Mr. Plumrose."

Trembling, I moaned an appropriate response and returned to my clothing to re-insert my swollen self into my civvies, utterly knackered by the roller coaster ride of excitation and deflation I had suffered for the last two days.

As I changed back into boy-mode, A facilitator, Penelope, this time, arranged my new kit in one of the Clinic's white and green garment bags. I poked a finger through a hanger's hook, slung the bag over my shoulder and staggered away like a debauched rat-packer heading for McCarran after a Vegas bender. But MY weekend hadn't even begun.

I drove the few blocks to my home-it was still in the forenoon-drank a pint of Gatorade and dropped back on my bed. I was exhausted but my head was reeling with images. Finally I decided I didn't care if the Plumrose date was a success or not. The anticipation and the preparation was killing me. And so, with this attitude, I was able to drop off for a few hours desperately needed sleep.