Crossdresser Eats Guys Cum 6

I started him on the other things he had to learn. How to apply full, persuasive makeup, even for sophisticated occasions. How to take care of his hairdo. Now that it was permed it was manageable -- I showed him how to put it up in rollers one evening, and he was delighted the next morning when he combed it out and found it was a beautiful mass of sculpted puffs and swirls. He had to learn feminine habits of walking and moving. I taught him to walk in heels with short steps, elbows close to his body, head high, hips swaying, his now quite noticeable breasts proudly thrust forward.

I began calling him "Jamie" instead of "Jim," because that was a woman's name and would help him remember -- and if he didn't believe he was now a woman, who would? I told him to appear more feminine when doing his domestic tasks at home, to wear a frilly apron over his skirt instead of the velvet slacks he sometimes favored. He was busier in the kitchen than I'd ever been, and was doing all of the cooking now. With practice his voice became thinner and took on a wider range of inflections. I still remember the first time he used the words "sweet" and "darling" and "precious" in a single sentence. He was describing a cute-looking movie star pictured in one of his women's magazines, and I was amused that he was referring with those words not to her appearance or her figure but to her matching skirt and sweater.

Of course I still had a living to earn, and clients who needed my attention, and Jim still had his tri-weekly appointments with his Mistress. But now I could greatly accellerate his feminizing -- in fact it had to be completed, essentially, before he felt he should return to work. It turned out to be a lot easier than I'd expected.

Luckily I'd overcome Jim's prejudice against oral sex a few weeks earlier, almost by accident. For an appointment just before Jim's, I was wearing a slip-on rubber love-doll mask, sitting regally on an ornate, throne-like chair and allowing a client to lick my feet as if I were some kind of goddess. That was his thing. You know those masks with their own hair and big red oval lips set in an "O," and huge bimbo eyes? Gay men use them to hide their identities when they're sucking some stranger's cock, and wives in sex clubs use them sometimes when they'd rather not be recognized by whichever next-door neighbor they're fucking. My earlier client couldn't get off at all unless I wore the kind of blow-up doll mask his girl had once worn every afternoon while he mouth-fucked her behind the high school gymnasium. So that's what I wore. He'd worship my feet, then I'd lie back with my crotch over the edge of the throne and imperiously crook my finger at him. He'd crawl forward and then, half-standing, half-crouching apologetically, he'd fuck me. What some men need to do to get off!

This client had the thickest cock I have ever seen, Loretta. It was like a baseball bat. He always left my pussy swollen and stretched wide, and his spunk was a thick, viscous fluid he'd pump into me for what seemed forever. It took forever to ooze out, too, always in huge, phlegmy globs. Well, a few weeks before Jim's final phase began, with his enforced vacation, I happened to feel too sore and too lazy to bother using the bidet after my client left. I decided that it would be more comforting to have my cunt licked clean by my next client, my queenly husband Jim, who had once refused the honor as unsanitary. In he came wearing a red satin teddy, his breasts now grown out and filling his matching red bra like half-grapefruits, perfumed and made up, looking more like a butch lesbian than a man. As always he kneeled at my feet!