My mother was waiting outside, rocking in a wooden rocking chair my father had built years ago. I parked, got out of my car, and walked up to the fron... steps leading to the front porch. I ascended the steps as Mom reached the edge of the porch and we hugged for a few seconds. ‘Gary,’ Mom patted my hair down, or tried to, anyway, ‘Come and sit on the porch with me.’ I nodded and took a chair next to her rocking chair. ‘Gary, how have you been lately?’ she asked, the concern as transparent as. But can’t. The frustration. It already feels weak and submissive, all painted like a girl, dressed in its stockings and girlie things... but locking away its misallocated make genitalia amplifies its sense of submission and weakness many times. It feels impotent, helpless, pathetic. It desperately wants to relieve itself. But not only dies that make a mess of its pretty panties and stockings, it purges all of its girlie transvestite urges for a brief moment of ecstasy. When it has finished it. More

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