Yes, Sir." Tentatively, I slipped my hands under my skirt and hooked my thumbs in the waistband of my tight bikini bottoms. Looking around fretfully, I wiggled my hips and slid them down my thighs, letting them go and feeling them drop to the ground. I stepped out of them and looked at Johan, then down at the wet fabric and up to his eyes again. I felt like such a slut as I ran my tongue over my teeth and smiled. Shuddering, I bent at the waist and felt my skirt ride up again as I stooped to pick them up. If anyone were looking, they would have seen my pussy and the shiny insides of my thighs. Well, if they were close enough. Or had binoculars. God, binoculars! I looked around. I never thought of binoculars. Maybe a lot of people were watching! "Come, on. Let's go. You can hang them from the mirror." My jaw dropped. Johan took my hand and tugged me playfully after him and I followed on wobbly legs. I thought he was being gentlemanly as he led me around to my side and opened the door. Stacy had come to be acceptedbut often created at burden of isolation and shame, for this secretworld of escape was a parallel reality where traditional genderknowledge had been cast aside, age became irrelevant and whereexcitements and pleasures radiated. For Stacy's outer male body, therewas no escaping this inner companion.The male had to entreat Stacy indulgences, and once gaming, there wasneither direction nor conclusion. The only predictable outcome was thatStacy's control over me would grow deeper and stronger.I had been in pursuit of fetish sexuality very early in my childhood,exploring personal roles behind closed doors. As I grew-up I foundStacy, or she found me. Then, as an adult, I encountering the writtenexploits of others, and discovered that although unusual, I was notunique, Learning this was an enormous relief. I did not have to betruly alone,This isolation and fetish play folded into an elaborate courtship ofintroverted indulgence. To be blunt, Stacy was the little.
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