Tingles

TINGLES FIVE

By Katharine Sexkitten

Thursday morning I learned two very important lessons.

The first was to never shave myself while still half-asleep.

The second was to always trust my tingles.

I'd been awoken by the alarm amid a wonderfully sexy dream, the details of which I can't remember, my little cock dripping great globs of precum into the coral-coloured silk panties that matched the spaghetti-strapped silk nightgown I'd been wearing all night long. I threw myself into the shower and decided to shave my legs. But still being groggy meant I was a little sloppy with my attention and accidentally nicked my right bum cheek, where the round curve of the cheek straightened out to the back of my thigh, opening up a fair-sized bite. It bled, and ran down the drain, a few drops more than to my liking, but then it stopped.

After that, while standing in front of the mirror in the sexiest G-string panties I owned, the small triangular piece of satiny material covering my freshly-shaved balls and cock a delicious shade of lime green, the thin strip of black lace running deliciously through my crack and meeting up with the two wrapped around my hips, combined with a pair of thigh-high stockings, black as coal lace at the top and a sexy fishnet all the way down, I was mindlessly revelling in the tingles my feminine lingerie were giving me while shaving my face and nicked just under my jawbone on the left side. It bled a few drops more than it should as well.

CRAP!

I had an eight a.m. meeting with a bunch of people, so I quickly donned the boring boy office clothes, zoomed to my car, got through the Starbucks drive-through and parked in my underground stall in the office tower with plenty of time. I sat towards one end of the boardroom table, and it filled up pretty quickly after that. Brief conversations were being had, all around the room. I said hello to a few people, blah blah blah, and everyone got seated. The VP of Human Resources was in town from head office, and she came in with a couple of people and assumed her place at the head of the table. She said good morning and let's get started.

Then my tingles started to ramp up.

I looked around, expecting to see Brad, but he wasn't in the room.

Then the last seat was hurriedly taken, the one to my immediate right. By a large man.

He apologized for being late while looking around the table at everyone, respectfully acknowledging everyone eye-to-eye, ending the circle to his immediate left.

To me.

Peter Evanston. The VP of Corporate Security.

He'd been blessed with a big body. About six-five, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, ramrod-straight, in-shape, who always wore expensive and form-fitting suits and who obviously still worked out a lot, and yet someone who, in my dealings with him, was always soft-spoken, respectful and dignified. Always extremely professional, and courteous. And genuinely genuine. I'd been there for three years and he'd never failed to treat me as if we were good friends and equals.

His eyes met mine, and locked onto me. It was like he was holding me in his stare, and my tingles clicked into a new level. There was just the hint of a frisky smile on the corners of his lips, and the most delicious warmth emanating from him.

Aimed right at me.

The meeting lasted just over an hour. I'd like to say that the subject matters interested me, but they didn't. Most of my mind was floating on the euphoria of the tingles burbling and roiling in me. I kept involved, of course, where I had to, or where I felt I could offer some intelligence or ideas. At one point I'd made a statement about something and people around the table nodded and agreed, and Peter reached over and patted me on the arm, and said "good insight" to me. When his hand touched my arm, on the sleeve of my shirt, even though it wasn't skin to skin contact I felt a jolt of electricity and excitement surge through me. Was he coming onto me? I didn't think that possible. I mean, he was the consummate professional, and the most respectful person in the building. But I had no doubt of one thing. He was sincere. I just knew it, from the look in his eyes.

He had the kind of look that made me believe that I was the only person in the world, the only thing of interest in the universe.

So my tingles were racing. But some part in the back of my mind spoke up and wondered if it was possible I was reading it wrongly. My tingles were amazing and wonderful but that didn't mean that the real world might not see it the same way all the time. There were people out there who might not react to me nicely, if my tingles were misinterpreted. Homophobia is just another name for hatred, and there were still people around me, I realized, potentially every second of every day, who I could misread, and it could hurt me.

The vast majority of my brain, however, was telling me that my tingles were soaring purely because of Peter.

Still, doubt is a bitch.

Just before the meeting adjourned the VP of HR mentioned that the National team would be meeting next week for several days, to move forward on certain projects and yadda yadda yadda. Then she looked over in my direction and smiled and made a comment about my first trip as a member of the team. Four nights away, out of town, leaving on Sunday afternoon. Peter vocally congratulated me again, as many around the table did, and his smile was one of sincerity. He was very happy. For me, I assumed. He just seemed like that kind of person.

Afterwards, I went back to my office. As I sat down at my desk I heard someone coming in the door as I felt my tingles increase, and looked up to see Peter. In his crisp white tailored shirt, with a deep red, almost wine coloured tie. His tailored pants, tight around his waist, dark charcoal grey. He was just so tall, and big across the chest. He must have been a dominating presence when he was in uniform. Military and law enforcement. He was certainly a huge presence in my office. And, I noticed, as I had noticed sitting next to him at the meeting, that he smelled great. So wonderful. Masculine and musky and intoxicating.

"May I close the door for a moment?" he asked, "there's something of a certain sensitivity I'd like to talk about, and naturally we must protect individual privacy."

I nodded my answer, suddenly concerned about the subject matter.

My individual privacy? What did that mean?

Peter closed the door quietly and then turned back to me, taking a step towards my desk.

"Peter," I asked, "now I'm curious, and concerned."

He smiled at me, to reassure me that what we were about to discuss wasn't life-threatening or career-ending. His smile was warm, and inviting. Full of charm, and lovely! In all the time I'd known him, he'd never smiled a lot, but he'd always smiled when we'd said hello or passed in the hallways. He was a serious man in a serious job, I suppose. Again, he'd always been the epitome of respect and professionalism and courtesy to me, and to everyone else as well. But he'd never been the kind of man to hang around the coffee machine, gabbing or kibitzing or whatever. He did his job, and I assume very well, and treated everyone in the organization as important and equals.

"Nothing too concerning," he said, his voice a deep baritone but full of softness and care, "but I couldn't help notice back in the meeting that you appear to be bleeding, and I wanted to make sure everything is alright."

Bleeding? Me?

Oh wait, I thought, of course! I reached up and touched my chin, where I'd nicked myself shaving. I looked at my finger and saw the tiniest fleck of blood.

"Oh that!" I almost giggled. "Yes, I cut myself shaving this morning. I was still half-asleep. "

His gaze, intent and intense, shifted to my face, where my cut was. When he was really looking at something, when he was studying something with all of his concentration, his eyes focussed so hard on things that he appeared to squint. I looked at his face, which was handsome and masculine and seriously giving me tingles, and I found myself slightly squirming in my office chair.

I could be wrong, but I was strongly under the impression that this man might be interested in me.

"Yes," he said, "yes, I can see that nick on your chin now. It's on your left side though, so I didn't actually see that part of your face in the meeting, because I was sitting on your right side."

Now I was confused again.

"You didn't see this in the meeting?"

"No," he replied, his eyes, a deep almost dark blue, returning to mine, sending little ripples of elation through me.

"Then how did you know I was bleeding?"

He wasn't the kind of man prone to embarrassment, or shame. He concentrated his focus on me more, his eyes squinting just a bit more, and spoke.

Directly. Matter-of-factly. Honestly.

"I saw what appears to me to be blood on your trousers, at the back of your leg. On your right buttock."

My eyes shot open.

Oh, I realized.

That.

We looked at each other for a long period of time, neither of us saying anything.

Finally, after an entirely pleasant pause, he spoke. Quietly and thoughtfully and with respect and sensitivity.

"Perhaps you sat on something sharp?"

I shook my head. I still didn't know what to say. The tingles were there, prominent and forward and very active, but I still had doubts, still had reservations. What if they were wrong?

"No, I didn't," was all I could think of.

I stood up, to try to look at it, but of course no one can twist that way, no matter how lithe or nimble they are. So after a few moments of contortions, I looked up at him again, and the corners of his lips were trending up, a very tiny new amount of mirth in his eyes.

"I can show you, if you'd allow me."

I didn't have to think about it for very long.

"Yes. Please."

He moved towards me, and I turned my lower half in his direction. He reached out and gently touched the back of my bum, on the right side, with one finger.

"Here," was all he said.

The weight of that single digit touching me through my pants leg felt like someone had dropped a piano on me from twenty floors up. One finger, one fingertip, I reasoned, and yet it felt as if it was fresh out of a blacksmith's oven, red-hot and steaming. My buttock flinched a little at his touch, and I realized I was slowly arching my back in tiny motions, and pushing my ass towards his hand, in sly little increments that I could convince myself weren't me being forward at all, in case it became an issue.

I needn't have worried. His finger kept pressure on me, never leaving contact with my body, and then gradually and oh so subtly another finger joined in, touching my ass in a delicate, non-confrontational way. He could claim, if I objected, that it was innocent, part of his pure and selfless act of showing me where the blood stain was.

But I wasn't objecting at all.

Another finger joined the first two, and then another. I looked over my left shoulder at him behind me, his cobalt blue eyes locked onto mine, his concentration so severe that he was squinting more, but with the absolute warmest, most welcoming smile on his face. I felt a deep sense of camaraderie, and of being treated with kindness and sincerity and...

Love.

Neither of us spoke. His four fingers were now touching me, gently, like a whisper, but at the same time forcefully. His touch was real, and significant, and meaningful, and made me feel alive and wanted and respected all at the same time.

And my tingles went for a flight, like a barnstorming plane at an airshow. Sure the take-off had been smooth and steady and entirely professional, but now I was starting to do loops and spins.

Now the show was getting really interesting.

Finally, I had to say something. My eyes never left his, his never left mine.

"Oh that," I said, quietly and with some breathe in my voice.

He nodded, his smile now just a shade larger than before.

"It seems an unusual place to be bleeding from. I can't imagine how it happened."

"I can," I said, suddenly breaking into the biggest grin I could produce, "Peter, the truth is, that I, um..."

"Yes?" he asked, and waited patiently, his fingers now gently moving in slow circles on my bum, touching me softly, covertly, offering me comfort and assuaging any negative feelings I might have been having.

"I...well, I...you see, I..."

"Cut yourself shaving?" he asked, his voice quiet but serious, gentle but strident, soft but masculine, and above all astonishingly direct.

He wasn't teasing me, he wasn't being mean or rude. It was an honest question, a logical extrapolation from my earlier statement. I could see it in his eyes, which had still not left mine, not for one second. He wasn't trying to shame me, or embarrass me. And I could equally tell he desperately wanted a real answer, the truth.

I didn't speak. I didn't do anything. I certainly didn't move away from him, at all. I wouldn't move away from the feelings his fingertips were giving me, their movements languid and pleasurable. If anything, I probably pushed my ass at him even more.

Our eyes continued to do all the talking, I suppose. My tingles were racing, emanating from his fingers. Inside my soul. I couldn't look away from this man, and I got the sense that an earthquake wouldn't have made him stop staring at me either.

Finally, after minutes of his gentle touch and no words being spoken, he spoke.

"You should tend to this cut," he whispered, "as well as the one on your chin."

I nodded, slowly, and turned to face him, staring up into his deep dark blue eyes.

"Thank you, Peter," I said, quietly.

He suddenly looked curious.

"For what?"

I moved directly in front of him, and had to crane my neck to look up at him.

"Thank you for being so kind, and so respectful of my privacy. And thank you for your sensitivity to me and my personal well-being."

He nodded slightly, and I saw the tip of this tongue quickly and lightly touch his bottom lip, just where it curved out from his mouth, leaving a tiny deposit of moisture on it, which I realized I very much wanted to taste.

I wanted to taste this man's saliva.

"My pleasure," was his reply.

I moved to the door, which he quickly reached over to open for me, gallantly allowing me to leave the room before him. My little cock was not so little right then, pulsing and throbbing in my G-string panties. I thanked him again as I turned right and headed down the hall towards one of the men's bathrooms. He watched me walk away, smiling that gorgeous smile, his eyes full of mirth and delight, and I wiggled my hips a bit more than usual so he could see it.

The washroom was empty, with no one else around. There were two urinals, two toilet stalls, a small sink and a mirror. I could see that if I stood in the farthest stall, with the door open, I would be able to see my reflection in the mirror behind me. So I moved in, and after undoing my belt, I unsnapped and pulled the zipper down, now holding my separated pants in both hands. I turned to look at the mirror, but just before I could begin letting my pants down, I heard a noise. The sound of the outside door closing.

Then I heard Peter's voice.

"May I offer any assistance?"

He stepped forward and slightly to his right, and turned so he could see my reflection in the mirror. Our eyes locked, me with my head turned almost all the way around.

Him looking strong and virile and caring, all at the same time.

"There's no need to be embarrassed," he spoke quietly, "The human body is a beautiful thing, nothing to be ashamed of at all. To the contrary, it's something that should be shared, should be open, and should be celebrated. And I had a lot of medical training when I was in the military, and I`ve seen men and women before."

I nodded, and smiled.

"Thank you, Peter," I said, my voice almost whispery and quavering. "It's just, um..."

He stepped forward again, still looking at me through the angle of the mirror.

"You've no reason to feel uncomfortable," he said, and then paused.

"Especially with me." His look and tone were soothing and compassionate and heartfelt.

I didn't know what to say. We just continued to stare at each other, our eyes interlocked.

Finally, through my ever-widening smile, I found some words.

"You're a very kind man, Peter," I breathed out.

His smile increased a little.

"You're young, you're healthy, and you're..." he paused, looking me up and down, "in really nice shape, so remember that you have every right to be proud of yourself, proud of your body. And, like I said, I was in the military, around a lot of people here and there, in barracks and bases, close quarters, and I've seen naked bodies. More than a few, truth be told. And we should make sure that cut isn't infected."

He wasn't flirting, like a dumb guy in a bar or anything like that. It seemed to me he genuinely meant it, that my health was important to him.

"That's sweet of you to say, Peter," I replied, "it's just that, um, well, I..."

"Just that what?" he asked, softly.

I was stumbling in my head to find the right words. My tingles were racing, up and down, like dolphins alongside a cruise ship, bobbing up and down while racing through the waves, sometimes soaring through the air in graceful arcs.

"It's just that, you see...it's that..."

"That you're wearing lingerie?"

My world went white, like a supernova of shock and surprise and completely unexpected explosions in all my nerve endings.

HOW COULD HE KNOW?

HOW COULD HE KNOW THAT?

My natural endorphins were kicking in now, the fear mechanism all of us have embedded in our DNA working furiously. Was I in trouble? Should I leave? Did I have a way out?

His smile, once assured and confident and respectful, became one of tenderness, and understanding. He could see a person in my position might be feeling nervous right now.

"The other day, on Monday, when I popped my head into Brad's office, you were there, sitting in his guest chair."

I nodded my agreement.

"Your trousers had ridden up, with the way you had your legs crossed, and I could see that you weren't wearing socks. I could see you were wearing hosiery."

I nodded. Slowly, and questioningly, hoping for some sign of approval.

Some very lovely hosiery, he added.

TINGLES GALORE!

"Please forgive me, I have no desire to make you feel awkward. But just know this," he added, his voice solid and warm and infused with potential deeper meanings, "I find your choice of hosiery very lovely, and I fully support your right to be who you are, to express your personality, and your sexuality, to realize your own unique potential, and most importantly to find happiness, in your world and how you show yourself to the world."

"Thank you."

It was the only thing to say.

"I'd be honored if you'd show me the real you."

The lightning bolts of tingles radiating out his eyes barrelling straight through me in the mirror left me with no doubt. None at all.

I nodded.

He stepped to his left, and then forward and then to his right, so he was behind me. I was looking at him with my head turned to the left, craning to see all of him. His eyes, his smile, his strong chest moving up and down with his increased breathing, his torso, firm and toned, and finally his crotch.

There was a very nice something showing itself. It's true self.

I dropped my pants. The combined weight of my wallet and my keys in the pockets sent it to the ground. No gravity needed. I heard him take a sharp breath. In his peripheral vision he could see my legs now, encased in black silky fishnet. Then, without breaking my eye contact with him, with both hands I gathered up the edges of my shirt tails, which were blocking his view of my ass, and with a delicious teasing slowness I pulled them up, revealing my ass to him inch by inch, the exquisite milky-white globes, taut and rounded, the whisper-thin lace strap slicing up and suddenly appearing between my crack, joining up with the two thin straps on my hips. The panties were meant to be worn high on a woman's hips, and while I didn't have those kind of hips, mine were still slightly more pronounced than most genetic males, and from his viewpoint must have looked undeniably feminine.

His voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the room like a missile.

"So lovely."

Then he kneeled down, putting his head at the same level as my bum. With one hand, one finger, he reached out and gently touched me on my right cheek, where I'd nicked myself this morning. The one finger was soon joined by another, and then another, all gently gliding over my skin, first around the cut in tight circles, and then each one widening out ever so slightly, going so far down as to touch the top of my stockings, his fingers stopping and appreciating the lace, and then upwards to the top of my cheek. He was caressing my ass.

I could feel his breathe, warm and pulsing on my skin, at first faintly and then strongly, telling me he was moving his head closer to me, but not touching me, as his hand continued languorously adoring me, with the most gentlest of touches.

"You've got nothing to worry about," he whispered, "it's just a little nick, and you'll heal quickly."

Then he looked up at me.

There was a longing in his eyes.

"Please."

That was all he said. He was asking me for something, I realized. Cryptically, perhaps.

But my tingles told me what he wanted, what he was asking for.

I slowly turned around, made a little difficult by my pants bunched around my feet, on the floor. But I managed.

His eyes travelled down me, devouring me, examining me, appraising me. When he got to the front of my panties, I heard a soft deep moan.

My little cock was very hard, barely contained by the tiny piece of satiny fabric. My little balls were actually spilling over the hem. And the gusset was soaked. With my precum, of course.

I saw so many emotions in his eyes, as I stood there gazing down at his face. There was attraction, and desire, and awe, and love, and some sort of reflection, and adoration. The look on his face was breath-taking, and I almost came right there.

Then he stood up, quickly and silently. Now I was looking up at him, into his deep blue eyes, and his soft reassuring smile.

"If you have other clothes like these I would love to see them. See you in them. Our flight on Sunday will get us all to the hotel around dinner time. Most everybody usually agrees upon a place to eat and we head out, relax, and let our hair down. After dinner, some of the crowd will want to be social, go to a club or a show, or a bar. The younger crowd. I usually go back to the hotel, and enjoy some soft music and a glass of wine, on the balcony if the weather permits. I would be so thrilled if you'd accept an invitation to join me."

I said yes, immediately.

"The real you," he added, in all her beauty.

I said yes again, immediately.

"The real you is beautiful, and something to be celebrated. I can't wait to get to know you so much more better. More intimately, perhaps?"

I said yes a third time, immediately.

Then he brought his face down, close to mine. Very close. With my head turned up, our lips were almost touching. Just a few micro-inches apart. I could feel his breathe again, this time on my face. Sweet, and building.

Our lips were almost touching, and I wanted them to touch. I desperately wanted them to touch. My mind was yelling, trying to be overheard over my own tingles. KISS ME! KISS ME!

Then he sighed, a delightful one, whispered the words "see you Sunday", and left the room.

He left me standing there, my shirt bunched up around my chest, my cock rock hard in my sexy panties, my legs encased in sexy fishnet.

And my tingles were taking me on a glorious journey, ebbing and flowing through my soul.

I just fucking love my new life.

I love being Jessica.

I had two more meetings that afternoon, both of which were unremarkable. At around three I got back to my office, and shortly after that I was more or less caught up on everything. So I pulled out my personal tablet and logged on to my Hotmail account. I'd set it up on Sunday, just after putting nearly three grand on my credit card for all the dresses and skirts and blouses and shoes and wigs and bras and panties and stockings and dildos and toys I now proudly owned. And I'd given my email address out to a few people at the Crossdresser Chat site I'd found.

One was from Cynthia, the local older MILF CD I'd met online the night before. Her profile pic was gorgeous, a beautifully framed shot of her sitting on a bear skin rug, her legs delicately drawn up under her, wearing a sleeveless little black dress, her makeup perfect and sultry, her hair a gorgeous pile of chestnut brown, a fire roaring behind her. She'd sent me some amazing photos of herself last night, including several showing her gurl cock, as she called it. Shiny with juices and looking hard enough to cut glass!

Cynthia was about the same size as me, physically, and about twenty years older, and far more experienced. But she was easy to chat with, and I instantly felt like I'd made a new friend. I'd told her almost everything about me, all that had happened to Jessica since my `birth' at Brads' house Saturday night. She asked lots of questions, encouraging me to talk about it. It was very erotic, typing my thoughts to her, my experiences, my deepest feelings about my new sexual world. During our chat, she'd sent me a few more shots of herself, some of her private pics.

I asked how she had them taken.

She told me she'd done them herself. She explained that she'd been an avid photographer her whole adult life, and that she had the equipment and the know-how to take good shots. I was really touched by her use of space, and how she played with the backgrounds and therefore the mood of each shot.

She'd offered to take some pics for me, if I wanted. I told her I wouldn't dream of imposing on her, but she insisted it was no imposition at all. We ended our chat last night with my promise to think about it.

Today, she'd attached a few more pics of herself, and followed them up with two of the most erotic images I`ve ever known...pics of her with another CD. They were so sexy together, their arms delicately around each other, their soft painted lips joined intimately, passionately, their gurl cocks hard and poking out of their panties. Both were impeccably attired, made up, and posed.

I sent back a reply telling her how much her photos were turning me on. Once again, she offered to take some pics for me. Anytime. She reminded me that I needed at least one pic, for my profile if nothing else, and she'd be delighted to help a new sister out.

So when I asked her when we could arrange something, she volunteered for that very evening. She could come to my place. All her gear fit into one attaché case. She could look at some of my clothes, make suggestions for wardrobe and poses.

I gave her my address, and asked her to show up any time after seven.

At seven exactly, I buzzed her in the front door.

I stood nervously behind my door, waiting for the knock, waiting for the elevator to bring her to me. I was as beautiful as I could make myself. Id had just over two full hours to prepare, and was able to concentrate so much more on my makeup. I felt like Id learned, and gotten better, each time I applied it. I felt like I was learning the nuances of it all.

I was in my Cher wig. As black as the night, and long, almost to my ass in the back, parted in the middle and framing my face beautifully. A gold braided choker, shiny and reflective. I had long gold hoops hanging from both ears, as well as gold bangles and bracelets on my wrists. My dress was gold as well. A deep plunging neckline sleeveless body hugging joy, with a slim belt that enhanced my hips. It came down to mid-thigh, my tan-coloured silk stockings leading down to my strapless pumps, stiletto three inch heels and pointed toes, the glossiest fire engine red youve ever seen. Underneath it all, the most exquisite matching set I owned, from Victorias Secret. Their Dream Angels Lace-Up Bustier, with garters and matching panties, in the sweetest sexiest shade of black, with black lining. The panties were G-string, delicate little dark black straps holding the almost see-through triangle of material. The A cup I`d ordered framed my pecs, which were always a little bit too pudgy to my liking as a boy, but now looked like the most fabulous set of tits I could ever imagine having! I was over the moon with tingles, and the sweet delicious euphoria of femininity.

I was clean inside and out and my tingles were purring along in second gear.

When I opened the door, after her knock, I was a bit surprised, but most pleasantly so. Id assumed she would want to get dressed here, that if it was me I would have lingerie underneath some boring boy clothes for the drive, in case I ran into someone I know at a stop light or got pulled over by the police. But wow! I thought. Shes one brave woman, and her pride made my tingles rev.

Standing in the hallway was my new friend Cynthia. Id seen her in pics, and they didnt lie. She was fully en femme. Gorgeously made up, with a long strap purse hanging off her right shoulder, and a shiny silvery aluminum road case about the size of an attaché or briefcase in her left hand. Her gorgeous mane of chestnut brown hair fell over a snow-white full-length fur coat, opened enough so I could see her stunning cocktail dress, black and sultry with a deliciously deep neckline leading to a pleated bottom half, ending just above her knees, her fishnet hose, and her white pumps.

My tingles felt alive in me again, back to where they should be. Always.

I was at one with my universe. Each and every day since Brad`s party I was finding it easier and easier to achieve this plane of existence, this level of tingle intensity.

I felt them now.

Fully.

Completely.

The End.