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Loving Tom

Loving Tom

Big Tits

I have always known that, despite my little cock and balls, I am a girl. I am five feet three inches tall and slightly built. I have blond hair which I grow long, delicate facial features and small hands and feet. I love girls’ clothes, particularly nylon stockings and lace panties and bras, which my small, rather feminine breasts suit very well.

My father died when I was five years old and I only just remember him as a kindly presence. My mother remarried, to a man who, as soon as he realised I should not be his football buddy, lost interest in me and who, when I asked to be allowed to wear girls’ panties, came to despise me. (I often spent my pocket money on providing myself with pretty undies.)

During the last four years I lived at home my step father and I did not exchange more than a dozen words. My mother, I now realise, was torn between her son and her husband and opted for her husband. At the time it seemed to me like a complete betrayal, except that, when my stepfather wanted me to leave school as soon as legally possible, she insisted I be allowed to stay on for two years to take my ‘A’ levels. I had taken cookery classes lower down the school and now sat ‘A’ level Home Economics. When told that this was my choice my step father merely looked disgusted.

As soon as I received my results: straight ‘A’s in Home Economics, English and History, I told my mother I was leaving.

‘But where do you imagine you’re going to live? You don’t have a job. You have no idea of what the world’s like out there.’

I was unkind enough to say, ‘It can’t be any worse than it has been in here.’ I packed and left her in tears. She pressed £200 in notes into my hand and whispered, ‘Paul, you can home any time. I’ll fix it with him.’

My idea was to travel around the county, stopping at restaurants to ask them if they had cooking jobs going. With the innocence and arrogance of youth I thought they would vie with each other to get my services. I was wrong. I also had no idea how short a time £200 lasts when you need to buy food and lodging.

I have always been a country person. I have never wanted to live in a city and, although, logically, in looking for work, I should have gravitated to where the greatest concentration of eating places is, I continued to walk from village to village, hoping that somewhere among the large number of gastro-pubs which had sprung up in our, on the whole, affluent part of the country, there would be someone who recognised and needed my talent. At the beginning it felt like an adventure. Even when I stopped taking buses and walked to save money it was like being on holiday. The sun shone, the harvest was being gathered in the fields and, walking below the enormous skies of the East Riding, I experienced a sense of liberty I had never known.

I worked down from the gentle hills of the Wolds to the flatter lands leading to the Humber and the coast and then my troubles began. I had run out of money; my feet were sore and my legs felt as though they belonged to someone else from all the walking; I had nowhere to stay for the night and I had misjudged the length of time it would take me to reach the next village. I was plodding on through the dark. I decided that I should have to sleep under a hedge like a tramp, which was more or less what I had become. As so often happens, when you have reached what you think is rock bottom something happens to make it worse. ‘At least,’ I thought, ‘It is a warm, dry night.’ Then the heavens opened in one of those summer downpours which immediately soak you. I was like a drowned rat in seconds. I plunged onward to try to reach some kind of shelter where I might dry my clothes, a barn, perhaps, when I saw a light away to my right. I turned off the road into an unmetalled farm track. The land rose in that direction and I struggled along the dirt road which had become a mud slide. I slipped and fell, pulled myself up and reached a gate. I opened it and stumbled up a brick path to a door next to the lighted window. I knocked. The door opened and a flood of light fell on me.

Later Tom told me what met his eyes. He said, ‘You were the most pathetic figure I’ve ever seen. You were soaking wet, you were almost covered in mud and, on your face, wherever there wasn’t mud there was snot.’ I hadn’t realised that I was crying and my nose was running. ‘You asked if you could sleep in the barn. I said there wasn’t a barn but that you could come in and dry yourself. I asked if you would like a bath, mainly because I saw that I should have to offer you a bed and you were filthy. You came with me into the bath room. I ran the bath and told you to get out of your clothes and I would dry them. You seemed reluctant to undress whilst I was there so I went out and left you to it, placing a pair of my pyjamas on the bathroom stool.

‘When you emerged you had had to roll the pyjama legs and arms up, the chest was many sizes too big for you and you had to hold the pants up with your hand, but you looked sweet, with Bostancı Fetiş Escort your blond hair all frizzy from your rubbing it dry. You looked like a little girl trying on her mummy’s clothes. You gave your dirty clothes to me, but I saw there were no underpants. I asked where they were and sheepishly you gave me a girl’s scarlet lace thong. I tried to act as though this were the most normal thing in the world, because I didn’t want to embarrass you, but my thoughtfulness had the opposite effect to the one I intended, and thank God it did, because you started to cry and that made you open up. You were exhausted and defeated and you needed to get all your wretchedness out to somebody and I am so glad that I was that somebody.

‘I held you and tried to comfort you as though you were a child, whilst your pent-up frustrations and distress poured out of you. After a while your sobbing ceased and you pulled back out of my embrace, ashamed, as we so often are when we have shown ourselves to someone. I told you there was no need to be embarrassed and I suggested you should have a hot drink and go to bed. I made you a cup of cocoa, showed you to your room, gave you a towel, and took your wet things away. I put all of them in the washing machine and tumble-dried them before going to my own bed, where I lay awake for an hour thinking what a beautiful boy you were and wishing you belonged to me.’

The man who had opened the door to me had also opened the door to the rest of my life. I didn’t know this at the time. What I saw was an enormous bear of a man. He was tall at six feet three but not unusually tall. However, he must have weighed more than two hundred and fifty pounds. I later realised that, although he had quite a stomach, and flesh masked the contours of his muscles, most of his bulk was, indeed, muscle. His hair was black, flecked with silver and a mat of it stuck out of the open neck of his shirt. The next morning when I came downstairs he had started making breakfast for the two of us and I asked if I could help. He let me and I cooked the bacon and eggs, fried bread, tomatoes and mushrooms he had laid out. Though I say it myself it looked and tasted good. Tom said that it was the best cooked breakfast he had had in years.

He asked me where I intended to go next. I said I didn’t know. He said that if I wished I could use his house as a base for a few days whilst I went round the neighbouring villages to find work. I could have cried with gratitude and said that I had no money to pay him but I’d be very happy to cook for him instead. Tom seemed content with that arrangement. I started by making him a quiche which he could have for lunch and he gave me money for bus fares and food out.

Tom’s surname was Farrier, the old name for a man who shoes horses. Until Tom’s great grandfather’s time the house had been the smithy and the blacksmith’s house. Tom’s body was that of a blacksmith. He had immensely strong arms and shoulders, as though he would still be able to shoe the great carthorses which once came here, if need arose. I remembered the safety I had felt when he held me in those tremendous arms.

Before I set off that first day Tom showed me over his small-holding. He kept chickens and grew fruit and vegetables, which he sold from a stall where his track diverted from the road. I noticed the honesty box and asked if people used it. He said that his customers were locals and they did. I thought, ‘What locals?’ because I couldn’t see a building in any direction, except for the spire of a village church about half a mile away and the tops of the twin towers of the great minster at Beverley, shining white as the sunlight touched them, many miles to the south. The house, standing on a low hill, had views almost all round, except where they were blocked by the trees of Tom’s orchard and a copse of oaks and sycamores away to one side. I asked if he could really make a living from his fruit and veg. and he laughed.

He said, ‘I’d starve if I depended on the produce money. This is more a hobby springing from the way I want to live. I’ll show you where the real money comes from.’

He took me back inside the house to the room whose light had attracted me the previous night. It was a studio of computer equipment, obviously very professional.

‘I service computers for customers, mainly from here, but I go to them for more complex work and to install new systems.’

Tom’s phone went whilst we were speaking. It was a customer wanting him to take over his laptop to solve a problem. I left him to it and went looking for work. I returned that night, and subsequent nights, disappointed. After four days I thought I ought to leave and, very reluctantly, I packed my belongings and thanked Tom for his hospitality and his kindness. He looked really upset and asked me if I definitely had to go. I said I didn’t but that I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. He asked me if I’d be willing to stay for another week or two and continue with the Bostancı Gecelik Escort cooking. He said he had never eaten so well as he had with me. He saw how delighted I was and said, ‘In fact, stay as long as you like.’

I said, ‘How about if I take on all the household chores so that you can concentrate on your computer work and the farming?’

His face lit up and I realised what a handsome man he was. I wondered how old he was. To my eighteen-year-old eyes, at first sight, he could have been anything between thirty and fifty and the silver in his hair inclined me to the older end of the range. Now I saw that he had no lines on his face, except for laughter lines, just beginning, beside his intensely blue eyes. Looking at him more closely, I thought the silver in his hair served to enhance the relative youthfulness of his face. (I discovered later that he was thirty-four years old). I looked at his body and saw strength rather than merely bulk and I began to think of him as a sexual being. And I definitely liked what I saw. My little cock twitched and I allowed myself to wonder if he might, possibly, be gay and, if so, whether he might take me to his bed.

I started straight away doing all the household work. There was no longer any suggestion that I should look for work elsewhere. Tom had insisted that, as well as my keep, I must have a wage and he had fixed up a laptop for me to use as my own. My first purchases for myself were some pretty new undies I found discounted on one of the sites. I even risked buying a really lovely discounted dress with pettycoats, hoping that Tom would allow me to wear it when we knew each other better.

At the end of my first full week of housekeeping I decided to do our washing. I knocked on Tom’s bedroom door and asked for any clothes. He told me not to knock on any door in the house. He said that this was my home now. A wave of thankfulness swept over me and I just managed to take the clothes he held out to me and to make a retreat before I welled up. I gripped my teeth and told myself I was being a very silly girl and got on with my work. As I sorted Tom’s washing I found myself wrapping his underpants over my nose and mouth to inhale his manly scent. It was so earthy, and yet heavenly at the same time, that I thought it a shame to wash it out but I did, with regret. However, regret turned to pleasure when I gave Tom his clothes back and he said how beautifully I had done them and that he had never had his pants ironed before.

Tom was out attending one of his customers when my dress and lingerie arrived so I was able to stow them away in my room without his asking any questions. I immediately stripped and spent a happy hour shaving everywhere, enclosing my clitie (cock and balls) in silk panties, easing my stockings up my smooth legs and attaching them to my suspender belt and fastening my bra before pulling on my shirt and trousers. I think I must have started to move more slinkily as, I find, a girl does when she is dressed in her correct underclothes, because that evening I felt Tom look at me with a slight air of surprise, as though he had seen something he didn’t expect.

That night I couldn’t sleep. It was a hot, airless night and, although my window was fully open, no coolness was coming from outside. I heard a sound coming from Tom’s room. He was moaning as though in pain. I got out of bed and hesitated outside his door. I heard him again but this time he said my name. I pushed his door partly open and saw him lying on his bed naked, with his eyes closed, his massive rod of man meat (eleven inches I later discovered) grasped in his hand, his other hand holding his big, furry balls, as he wanked and stroked himself towards climax. He spoke my name again. I walked, naked, to the side of his bed and laid my hands over his. He opened his eyes in shock and stared at me as though he feared my reaction to our situation.

I asked, ‘Can I help?’

For a moment he seemed to have lost the ability to think or breathe. Then he let out a shuddering breath and said, ‘You don’t have to. This isn’t part of the bargain we made.’

‘I want to,’ I said. I removed his hand from his cock and put mine in its place, finding that I needed both hands to hold the shaft and slide the uncut foreskin back and forth.

‘But you are so beautiful you could have any man you want. Why would you want to make love to a great lump like me?’

Immediately he asked that question I knew the answer. ‘Because I love you,’ I said. ‘I want you to be my lump, nobody else’s, just mine. I want you to be my Daddy and me to be your little girl.’

My darling gentle giant pulled me on top of him on the bed and kissed me. His tongue opened my lips and I tasted him for the first time. He was like nectar to me. His hands travelled everywhere and I explored the vast hairy expanses of this ultimate in manly men. He guided me to his nipple and said, ‘Suckle here, sweetheart. Daddy has you safe now.’ I sucked and knew Bostancı Genç Escort that I was cherished as I had never been before.

Before morning my daddy-husband introduced me to sucking his cock. It tasted and smelt even more wonderful than his lips or his pants. That first night, and for several nights after, I couldn’t take the whole of his cock in my mouth and I gagged when I tried to deep throat him, but Tom was so patient, so loving and careful of me that I became glad that I had to work at giving him maximum pleasure. Soon I could deep throat him with no problem. He also fucked me for the first time. I was a virgin and it hurt worse than I should have believed possible. Tom tried to be as considerate as he could, but ultimately passion overrode care and he pounded me into near oblivion through pain which changed into overwhelming sensual delight. The next morning I asked him if I could wear the dress I had bought. When he saw me in it he was delighted with the effect and insisted I should buy more clothes and some makeup.

In that one night I changed. I ceased to be Paul, the unloved boy and young man; in his place was born Paula, the wife and little girl of my husband-daddy who loves me to distraction and whom I worship with every ounce of my being. His great body has become my grazing ground. I have learnt to love every inch of flesh, muscle and hair with my eyes, my hands, my lips and my tongue. I love to take his cock into my hands. They look so small holding his giant. I love to butterfly kiss his helmet head and take the first drop of his precum on my tongue. I savour his taste and smell, as I take more and more of him, until he starts to fuck my face, grasping my head in his hands and ramming into me until his cum gusts out of him and he shouts to heaven his satisfaction.

I am the sort of wife who needs to be fucked at least once every day. Often he gives me an internal orgasm when he comes inside me. I find that this orgasm, which has little to do with my own cock which remains flaccid throughout, is even more shattering than my actual orgasm, much as I enjoy it, when my husband sucks my cocklet and drinks my milk.

His, and my, favourite position for fucking is for him to lick my rosebud with his rasping tongue then to lay me on my back. He takes my legs onto his shoulders or puts them round his waist; he strokes my pussy lips with fingers he has moistened in my mouth and he says that Daddy wants to make his babies in his little girl. I tell him that Daddy’s little girl needs his great big Daddy cock inside her. He guides his rampant cock to my pussy lips, he parts them and his head enters the mouth of my cunt. Slowly, by stages, he pushes the tremendous length and girth of his cock into my tunnel. He brushes my prostate and I am ravished. He withdraws slightly and then pushes further and further until I am impaled on his glorious love stick up to his balls. Then the real fucking begins and he takes me to heaven.

I love the feeling of completion I experience when he is shuddering his baby batter into the depths of my womb. When his cock leaves me I am bereft until his next entry into his true home, me.

We shall have been together for ten years this summer. We are formally married as husband and husband but I live entirely as the woman I have always truly been. Tom is my husband and I, Paula, am his wife. A friend of Tom’s is a Church of England priest. He is gay and, despite the church’s ruling on marriage as being only between a man and a woman, he agreed to conduct a wedding blessing for us in our house. Tom had always been a solitary soul and he has few friends. This suits us both as we are all in all to each other. We have one other gay male friend, besides the priest, and from time to time we have one or both of them here for a meal or we go to visit them. I find pleasure in their acceptance of me as a woman. They open doors for me and let me precede them; they stand when I enter a room; these old-fashioned courtesies emphasise, for me, my essential femininity and they please my husband.

He continues with his computer business. He is very good at it and I enjoy hearing, with pride, the praises of his customers when I answer the phone for him. I love it when they call me Mrs Farrier. I sometimes serve customers at the stall if I am outside when they visit. Whether they have any idea that I am not as other women I do not know, but they invariably treat me as a lady.

My daddy-husband is the dearest, most attentive man on earth and I am the luckiest woman alive. He likes me to dress prettily and he loves acting as my very sexy lady’s maid. I cannot decide whether his undressing me or my undressing him delights me more. Certainly, removing his shirt, handling his wonderful pecs and nuzzling into the aromatic glory of his pits, make me come in my panties more often than not, and, if I can hold out, my milk then flows copiously when I finally enter the entrancing world of his cock and balls and taste his manhood. He loves me to lick each ball individually and to adore each vein and ridge in his mighty cock until he can hold out no longer and he thrusts deep into my throat and sows his seed in my stomach. Within half an hour he can return to our love-making so refreshed that he gives me his ultimate gift of cum deep in my womb.

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