Memories - Journaling
"Emily, please, it...it's been like forever," I remember saying.
"It hasn't been that long," she said with that trademark smile of hers, "don't be so melodramatic."
"It feels like forever," I said, looking at her, at her lace dress, her bare legs, her bare feet, stirring, longing, a boy part of my suddenly desperate.
"That's the boy part of you speaking," she said.
I blushed, amazed as aways how easily she could read me. "So..."
"So..." She reached for her bag, pulled out a small, pink journal.
"What's that?" I asked.
"My journal," she said, opening it, flipping through the pages. "I've been keeping track of things."
"Keeping track of things?"
"Keeping track of things, of course, you know how I am."
"What...what things?" I asked.
"Just things," she said, looking for a specific page. "Let's see, here it is, you were last inside me on April 4th. You remember, of course?"
"I...I remember," I said, looking down.
"We went to dinner and a play, came back to my place, and made love," she said, reading from her journal. "We'd had a few drinks and I let my pretty girl inside me; she was very quick, quicker than usual, two little soft thrusts and done." She looked up. "See, it hasn't been forever, that's only four months ago."
"Emily..."
"Let's see, there's another entry..." She flipped the pages. "Oh, here it is."
"What?"
"My pretty girl was so attentive tonight, I decided to let her squirt when she was done."
"Emily..."
"May 2...so that's three months."
"That...that's forever," I said.
"It's not forever," she said, "it's only three months for one thing and four months for another."
"But I...I like..."
"You know what's so interesting, of course?" she asked as if she hadn't heard me.
"What?"
"How you change the longer it's been," she said.
"Change?"
She flipped the pages back. "You didn't wear panties for almost a week after you were inside me, longer for a bra. It was several days the last time you squirted. But it's been three months now and you've worn them, let's see...I have tick marks...every day for over two months. Not just panties, but a bra and panty set. Most days hose, too."
"It...I just..." I didn't know what to day, how to respond to what she was saying, what should have been obvious.
"You understand, don't you?" she asked.
"N...no," I said.
She looked at me, smiled, flipped the pages forward. "August 2nd...Sara wore the prettiest chemise to bed last night, stockings, and stay soft and tucked panties. Such role reversal, I was naked, not even thinking about intimacy, when she came into the bedroom with that shy look on her face. I felt what a man must feel like when his girlfriend so obviously is trying to seduce him. I looked at her, realized she must have spent the day thinking about it, thinking about how to please me."
"Emily..." I said, shaking.
"She was so pretty, so attentive. She spending an hour or more just licking me. And so demure, not one word of complaint when she was done and I held her tight in my arms and went to sleep. My pretty girl, tucked all night but never once asking to do anything other than serve me. She was as feminine as she's ever been, as demure...my girl."
"Emily, I just...it was..."
"Being attentive, being my girl, being so good to me."
"But..."
"You see the connection, don't you? The longer it's been, the more feminine you feel, the more feminine you act, the more attentive you are, the more demure you are, the more...settled."
"Settled?"
"Settled. Like you forget about it, accept you don't need it, that it's not what really brings you pleasure."
"Em, I...we..."
"I'm not saying you never should, love, I'm not saying you should never squirt or that you should never be inside me, I'm just saying that the less you do, the longer it's been, the more you accept this part of you. After awhile you just forget about it."
"It isn't..."
"It is, love, it's here," she held up the journal, "it's all right here."
"Sometimes...sometimes I like to...you know..."
"Be inside me? I'm sure," she said. "But there's a trade-off, that's all I'm saying. You should recognize that, we should recognize that, and plan for it. You should understand that when you get one thing you want, you lose something else."
"So you never want to..."
"No, I do...I just want you to..." She reached under a pillow and pulled out a pink book with the word, “sara” written in cursive on the front cover.
"I think you should journal," she said, "keep track of the things we do, how they make you feel, so you can understand what makes you feel like a boy and what makes you feel like a girl. So you can connect and emphasize what's important to you...to us."
"You want me to journal?"
"Yes," she nodded. "We can compare things then and see if we agree. I drew a chart in front, too, so you can log things, keep track of things."
I opened the book, found a hand-drawn chart over the first dozen pages going back to April, columns partially filled in with her handwriting:
Boy/Girl Sex
Girl/Girl Sex
Solo Sex
Service Emily
Panties
Bra
Hosiery
Nighties
Boy Thoughts
Girl Thoughts
There were tick marks in the columns except for "Solo Sex," "Boy Thoughts," and "Girl Thoughts." Seeing the chart, I understood her point. "You...you tracked things?"
"Not a few, of course," she said, "but I expect you to be honest about that. Otherwise, the data is interesting, isn't it? I suppose it's intuitive, but unlike a man, the longer you go, the more feminine you are and the more attentive you are."
"Emily..."
"I'm not saying never, love, I'm just saying by journaling, you'll understand yourself better, understand what you want, and understand what you need to do to get it."
"What do you want?" I asked.
She smiled. "I think it's obvious, but the question is what do you want and what do you need."
"I want..."
"Journal, love, journal and then you'll know."
Sara, I love your writing style.
ReplyDeleteI always look forward to your stories!
She set the pink book in my lap and didn’t take her hand away. Her fingers rested on the cover, over the cursive of my name, warm through the cloth.
ReplyDelete“Start tonight,” she said. “Not later. Tonight.”
I opened it. The chart went on for pages, her handwriting neat, almost clinical. Tick marks for panties, bra, hose. Blank columns where she wanted me to be honest. Boy thoughts. Girl thoughts. Solo. The last filled line was August 2nd, the night with the chemise.
“What do I write?” I asked.
“What you feel right now.” She shifted, the lace of her dress brushing my knee. “Don’t tidy it. If the boy part wants something, write that. If the girl part wants something else, write that too. Then we’ll see which one you feed.”
I looked at the pen she’d left on the cushion. My hand was already shaking a little.
“Emily, I haven’t… since May. You know I haven’t.”
“I know.” She smiled, that same smile. “That’s why the chart looks the way it does. Three months of sets. Two months of hose almost every day. You stopped asking after the second week. You started laying things out for me in the morning instead. You started asking if I wanted my feet rubbed before you asked for anything else.” She tapped the Service column. “See? You didn’t notice. I did.”
I picked up the pen. The first blank line was today’s date. My writing looked smaller than hers.
Boy thoughts: I want to be inside her. I want it so badly my stomach hurts. I keep looking at her legs.
Girl thoughts: I don’t want to ruin how soft this feels. I don’t want her to stop looking at me like this.
I stopped. She was reading over my shoulder, not hiding it.
“Good,” she said. “Both. That’s honest.” She reached into the bag again and set something else on the journal — a pair of pale pink panties, the stay-soft kind, still folded. “Those are for tonight. You can put them on after you finish the entry. Or you can ask me for the other thing. But if you ask, you write what it costs. That’s the rule.”
“The trade-off,” I said.
“The trade-off.” She leaned back, bare feet tucked under her, watching me the way she watched me when she already knew the answer. “You don’t have to decide forever. You just have to decide for tonight, and then you have to live with what the page says in the morning.”
I stared at the two lines I’d written. The pen hovered. Outside, a car passed. Inside, the only sound was the small scratch when I finally started the next sentence, slower than the first.
What I want tonight is—
I didn’t finish it yet. She didn’t fill it in for me. She waited, one hand still on the book, the other resting on her own bare knee, patient in the way that always made the boy part quieter and the other part louder.
The page stayed open between us.
She didn’t rush me. That was the worst part, or the best. Emily just sat there with her legs folded under the lace, one bare foot slipping free so the arch rested against my calf, and she let the unfinished sentence sit between us like something that had to be answered before either of us could move.
I tried again.
What I want tonight is to be close to her. I want her to keep looking at me the way she looked at me on August 2nd. I want to be good.
The pen slowed. The boy part of me kept interrupting, hot and stupid, staring at the place where the hem of her dress had ridden up. I wrote that too, because she had said not to tidy it.
Boy thoughts: I want her to open her legs. I want to be inside her again. I can feel it when I look at her. It gets in the way of everything else.
She read that line without comment. Her thumb moved once over the cover of the pink book, over the cursive of my name, and then she reached back into the bag. What she set on the journal this time was small and pink to match the book: a little lock, the kind with a tiny key, and a cage that looked almost delicate until I understood what it was for.
ReplyDelete“You don’t have to,” she said. “I’m not telling you that you have to. But you asked what happens if we keep going the way the chart says we’re going, and this is one of the things that happens. You stop being able to reach it whenever the boy thoughts get loud. You stop being able to check. You stop being able to fix it.”
My face went hot. I looked at the cage and then at the blank lines under Girl thoughts.
“Write it before you decide,” she said. “That’s the point of the book.”
So I wrote it, slower than the rest, the letters uneven.
Girl thoughts: I keep thinking about not being able to touch it. About it being locked away so I can’t get to it when I want to be a boy again. It scares me. It also makes the rest of me feel quieter. If I can’t reach my clitty, I can’t use it. I can’t squirt. I can’t even check if it’s trying to get hard. It would just be there, small, put away, and I would have to be her girl without an exit. I think that might be what she means by settled. I think part of me wants to see what I am when I can’t take it back for a night.
Emily leaned in to read it. I felt her breath on my neck. She didn’t smile right away. She traced the words locked away with one finger, as if she were checking that I had really written them.
“There,” she said softly. “That’s the thing the chart can’t show with tick marks. Panties and hose are easy. You can take those off. This is different. If it’s locked, the boy part can want things all it likes. It just can’t do them. And you have to write down, every day, whether that makes you angry or whether it makes you softer.”
“How long?” I asked. My voice didn’t sound like mine.
“We start with tonight,” she said. “You put the panties on after. You sleep in them. In the morning you open the book and you tell the truth about whether you tried to touch it through the cage, and whether not being able to made the girl thoughts louder. If you hate it, we take it off and you write that you hated it. If you don’t hate it…” She shrugged, one bare shoulder lifting under the lace. “Then we see. A day. Three days. However long it takes before you stop writing about the key and start writing about me.”
She set the little key on the table, not in my hand. Close enough that I could see it. Far enough that I would have to ask.
I looked at the cage again. My stomach hurt in the same place it had hurt when I wrote that I wanted to be inside her. The difference was that this ache didn’t know where to go. There was nowhere for it to finish. I thought of the August entry she had read to me, the chemise, the hour of licking, tucked all night, never once asking, and I understood, suddenly, why she had sounded almost proud when she called me demure.
“If I wear it,” I said, “I can’t… even if you wanted me to…”
“I know.” She said it plainly. “That’s the trade-off for tonight. You can ask me to put it on you, and then you can be attentive, and pretty, and useful, and you will not be able to get to your clitty no matter how much the boy part complains. Or you can ask me for the other thing, and tomorrow the chart will have a mark in a column it hasn’t had since May, and you will feel like a boy again for a little while, and then we will both watch how long it takes you to put the panties back on.”
She waited. The pen was still in my hand. Outside, another car went by. The key glinted on the table and did not move.
ReplyDeleteI turned the page so the chart was facing me, all those ticks under Panties, Bra, Hosiery, Service Emily, and the long empty stretch under Solo and I wrote one more line before I looked up at her.
Girl thoughts: I want her to lock it away. I want to not be able to access it. I want to see if I can still be good when there is nothing I can do about wanting her except serve her.
“Emily,” I said.
She already had her hand out for the cage.