I just want to say how grateful I am that so many people on this site have stood by me, hugged me, calmed me and corrected me. Sadly, I could find no one to spank me when I needed it, and I so dreadfully needed it.

In looking around, I first started posting stories over at "Storysite.org in 2001, I think shortly after the 9/11 attack. The attack did not frighten me so much but the actions of our mad man, war criminal president did. I read "Ms Frankenstein" over the other day and it is plain to me that my writing has not improved in the last 10 years. Then my author's name was Credence Brown.

I think Sephrina moved me over here in early 2005 but I was too timid to publish until 2007. Those were hard years, with 5 hospitalizations in a safe place, copious amounts of psych drugs, a tanker truck full of tears, and without the care shown me here, this would not have been written.

In the last two years, my life has taken an astonishing turn, and I am now happy and accepted in real life. These are the happiest years of my life! There is no clubbing, no drunkenness, no pot. My life consists of keeping house, reading, study, attending church on Sunday and caring for others. I could not wish for more. Life this way is somewhat confining. There is little make up, complete modesty in dress, no swearing, no more hard rock! There is most certainly no smoking, coffee, or beer, it is Mormon Haram. It is best to try to look just like the women around me. Happily, I have learned the real female way to respond to the passing of a man with a cute butt; say nothing.

To my shame, I have grown increasingly intolerant to those suffering the same grief and narcissism that I did at first. I have finally come to understand that "It is not always about me". I have tried to be patient, and promise to try harder, as long as I am here.

To lots of new authors, the description of their first bra, first panties, and first skirt are the stuff of which stories are made, and I understand this. For some reason, in looking back at all my stories, I seem to have bypassed that phase, and I at times have wondered if I should go back and do it to fully mature myself. (It is well known that a child that does not crawl will have developmental difficulties later) Hmmm. Though, I probably will not write that sort of one armed prose.

My first stories were about the extreme trauma of having been a happy male and one day waking up to the fact that you are female. They were definitely Forced Fem. For me, coming out made me feel like a dirty pervert, and guilty beyond comprehension. It is truly the way I felt in those early years. My old life was completely destroyed as sure as if someone had dropped a Nuclear weapon on me. All this would not had happened but were it not for copious over dosages of the products of drug companies. So, if you are depressed, taking drugs for it may be the exact wrong thing to do. It was for me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Credence, where are you. Let's go out"

“Yes dear, you want to take me out?”

“Credence, are you still working on your book”? Alan says gently.

“I am Alan. As soon as I finished cleaning house, I felt driven to write these things”.

He’s got his arms around my shoulder, kissing my neck in a way that makes my whole body quiver!

“Alan, please stop and let me finish this little bit, please?”

He devilishly reaches under my unfettered breasts and massages them in a most delightfully distracting way until I feel warm and squishy.

“There Credence, does that help at all?”

“You devil, you know it doesn’t! How will I write with my eyes crossed?”

“Maybe it will hasten your work? We are going to Hawaii tonight for a few days, and I am not letting you take any clothes but your bikini”, He says imperiously.

“But Allan, I have a deadline …”

Cutting me off, he looks at me like I am an errant child, “any more arguing and I won’t let you take your top.”

“But Allan …” He stops me with that look. I may have already lost my top, oh my!” How will I get to our Jet?

I keep thinking as I write just a few more lines. I see his shadow in the hallway and know I must get dressed. The bluffer, I know he will let me get dressed. I won’t have it any other way!

In my comfy cotton pajamas, I move into the bedroom and have a quick shower. Actually I did all that this morning but since he mauled me a few minutes ago, I’m fearful of smelling rank. Careful not to get my hair wet again, I’m soon in the bedroom rubbing Cetaphil all over my still wet body. As that dries I move over to the dresser, leaving less distinct wet foot prints in the white carpet.

My blue satin granny panties pull comfortably over the place where there is now nothing. No one is watching, so I just put my bra on backwards, hook it without struggle and spin it to cover the C’s I grew myself.

When I get my stockings and garter cincher on, it feels like so totally right. I decide to play a joke on him. On go my nice little black slides, then my abaya and my Niqab, and finally black gloves. Mister can just wonder. I know how far I can push him and also know when I must obey.

When I walk out of the bedroom and down the hall, he stands there with two body guards. I can see his eyes smouldering as he looks at me. I will pay tonight when we land. It will be so fun!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alan was the only man that I ever loved. He died of a massive stroke before we could ever live out our fantasy. There was never anyone after him, there never will be.
Now that I have written a proper dressing sequence, I wonder if people will say that I can write?

My sincerest thanks for the years of love and acceptance you have given me.

Sincerely,

Khadijah, Gwendolyn, Maksoud bint Boucher

Or Just

Gwen Brown