If you like consensual feminization (persuasion, no pain, no extortion or blackmail, no magic), this story's for you. If you're under any relevant legal age limit, it isn't.

 

Girlfriends

by Vickie Tern

 

One

"What are you doing, honey?"

My wife's Tracy's voice calling me from downstairs. Tired, but trying to take charge nevertheless.

She was home from work late again, after a wearying day. As she explained it, she was responsible for lots of special projects, she didn't want to talk about them, and the company had downsized too far, and her job was to see that whatever had to be done got done nevertheless, by whatever means necessary. Her Boss rode her hard, she said, so she had to stay on top and ride everyone else hard. That meant long days to avoid late nights and weekends, but late nights and weekends anyhow. When she mentioned quitting to her boss at my urging, he raised her salary—doubled it in fact—and promoted her. "We can't afford to lose you," is what he told her. He even gave her a new title and a department of her own. "It's called 'Personnel Services'," she said to me, pronouncing it as if spelled "personal." "I'm the head, but there's no body yet. Nobody to help do the work, apart from my secretary." I asked when she'd be able to hire at least an assistant. She looked at me and said "The position's cleared. When I can find the right person. I'm working on it, believe you me, honey." And she sighed.

Today was especially rough. I could tell by the long silence after our heavy front door latched shut. I pictured Tracy leaning against it with the weight of her whole body. Soon she'd gather energy enough to find the living room and flop face down on the couch, and eventually to stagger upstairs. But first she had to call out to me, to know what was happening. I suppose she'd heard the running water upstairs. "Hon?" she called again.

"Just rinsing out some undies, dear," I called down. I wished she could just let her mind go blank when she got home. My work wasn't that demanding, so I was getting home as early as I could and then doing everything I could to ease her through this stressful time. Running the household in effect. Even so, she heard sounds and had to ask, couldn't let anything get by her. I suppose that's what made her so good at her work, why she'd been promoted when others were being let go, and why she was coming home exhausted.

"Yours or mine?"

"Ours," I answered. It was true enough. When I'd gotten home I'd found our lingerie hamper stuffed to overflowing again. Heaps of panties, pantyhose, stockings, garter belts, bras, slips, and teddies, hers and mine all tangled and crammed in and tamped down in a mass of hot pinks and ochres and beiges and blacks, tricots and satins and lace nets. All crumpled, many stained, some there for weeks.

"That's good," was all she could reply.

Eventually she'd come upstairs, remove her dress or suit and hang it up, and then limp into the bathroom. She'd pull down her panties from her beautifully turned rump, lift her slip over hair she'd piled high on her head, unclasp her bra from the curves of her breasts, let them all fall to the floor, and when I nodded, sink into the hot tub I'd just run for her. I'd drop her intimate things into the hamper for her, and then go fix dinner while she soaked in the suds and bath oils and gradually recovered herself.

Until she began to come home so bushed, my panties and bra would often follow hers into the hamper, and I'd follow her into the tub. We wore pretty much the same kinds and sizes. Tracy liked pastels and I preferred darker shades, so we could always separate them out again. But our after-work baths were always a special joy for both of us, even before we got married. We'd undress together, smile at each other, then slip into the tub and then, soaking in warm water, make love.

Often at work I'd daydream about those moments. The feel of her slick, soaked pussy under water as I massage soap and bath oils into her tender slit. The uplifted curve of the underside of her breasts where it rises to meet her perky nipples, often jutting out stiff even before my finger tips can reach them. The way her breasts feel pressing softly against mine as I hug her. Her languorous stretching out and her soft ecstatic groans when I begin to caress her most private areas. Then, the feel of her warm, wet, oiled pussy on what is by then my bone-hard cock, when finally she mounts me and I sink into her, and she wraps her legs around my waist, and we rock back and forth, the water swaying and splashing, and gently pump into each other. So very sweet!

I soon found my skin was as soft as hers from all the bath oils, and my whole body more tender, more erotically aroused, especially around my nipples and cock. When I mentioned this to her she just smiled and said, "I'd hoped so." Connie was our part-time office manager, with obligations that often took her elsewhere, but when she was with us and checking on the staff in her charge she never missed anything. She'd noticed Tracy's bath scent lingering on me almost immediately. "Nuit d'Amour isn't it?" she'd asked. "Your wife's? That's her scent, isn't it." I nodded, a little concerned about what she might say next, but she added only—"I thought so. It's very nice. You two must feel very close. Most men would never dare use a perfume that feminine as an after shave."

I didn't correct her. Nor could she guess that the scent was partly from the sachet in my underwear drawer, that under my proper suit, shirt, and tie I was wearing the same perfumed, wickedly provocative panties, bras, slips, teddies, girdles, bras, or whatever else my wife was also wearing that day. This was another intimate bond between us. Tracy had thought it would be nice for me to wear them, and though it seemed silly, finally I had agreed.

Why? Because it seemed to mean so much to her, mainly, and at first I myself didn't much care one way or another. She'd suggested it when we knew nobody here, the first week after we moved to this town as newlyweds. It seemed a casual request, almost a whim. We'd each of us started our jobs and arranged the furniture, and begun settling into our new lives together. In fact she proposed it the same day she'd persuaded me to shave my body and to keep it that way, all velvety smooth for her to caress and cuddle. Now that my skin was so smooth, she said this time, it would give her even greater pleasure to think of me working at my desk in the same kinds of smooth, silky underwear she was wearing.

At first I thought she was joking, or teasing me. Her job required that she look stunning all day "to impress the locals" she said, and her underthings were extremely seductive and romantic because, as she said, "It gives me confidence for my job—I like to feel feminine from the skin on out." She'd been amused to ask me to put on one or another item now and then even before we were married, to see how I looked—I'd say "Silly!" and she'd say with a half-smile, "Nooo, not at all! Sexy!" But now, she was persistent. Every day she kept urging me to try on her things, always when we were caressing each other in the bath tub, my cock clasped snug inside her pussy under water and my senses utterly enraptured. After a week or two I said "Sure, why not?." The next day my boxer shorts and T-shirts were gone. She'd gone shopping and replaced them all with delicate little lace-frothed nothings, the same kinds she wore. So that was that.

I felt a little queer at first, dressed like a woman under my clothes. I worried that my pantyhose might show above my shoes for example, and expose me as a sissy. But when I mentioned this to Tracy, she only shrugged and said, "So what! Because you like the way women dress? That's why we dress that way, so men will like it! If that makes you a sissy, be proud and enjoy it!". No one did notice I think, and after a few days I began to find wearing even the pantyhose or panties and garter belt enjoyable. They didn't bind, and really did feel tantalizingly silky, clinging to my skin while other clothes slipped around on them. Now I wouldn't wear anything else. It wouldn't be proper.

I did balk at wearing a bra at first. It made no sense—I had no tits to contain and support and shape, the way she did. I told her that. She just said, "No. But I can tell from the way you behave around mine that you'd love to have a pair of your very own, wouldn't you? You adore breasts! C'mon, confess it!" Certainly I adored hers, though her logic from then on was a little twisted. Yet, the moment she hooked one of my new brassieres onto my chest, I could feel immediately why she wanted me to wear it. "See, it gathers you up in front and shapes you, doesn't it? And your nipples feel a little more sensitive protruding that way, don't they, a little more feminine, more sexy? It feels really nice, don't deny it. Think of the band as me hugging you, and the cups as my palms holding your breasts up and molding them, massaging them gently as you move. Think of this bra as my love surrounding you and containing you."

A little far-fetched, but I could feel some of that. It was kind of sexy. In fact it was a lot sexy—even as she spoke my nipples engorged. She did agree that I didn't need to stuff anything into the bra except myself. "All I want," she said, "is to know that close to your heart you're dressed as my dearest friend, my very own secret girlfriend, as well as my especially darling husband. That you're dressed like me and only I know it. I do so love you for it. Oh, I do!" She was fastening the clasp on the bra and still standing behind me when she said that, and she reached around to hug and grasp and mold my breasts with both hands, and to tweak those aroused nipples. What could I say after that?

Anyhow, that's how come I wear bras and hosiery and the other fripperies of women's underwear. We all take pleasure satisfying our wives' harmless kinks, I suppose, and it really did feel nice! Mine liked playing Barbi doll with me I guess. Then too, Tracy had a severe streak of jealousy in her. She'd been uneasy when she first heard that in my office I was a lone male surrounded by a dozen females, even though the reverse was true in her office—she was a lone female among dozens of males and it didn't bother me at all. In fact she'd tried at first to get me employed at her place, so she could be close by, but there were no openings. I figured privately that my undies were her way to stake a claim on me in her absence. Why? To keep me faithful to her? All the girls at my office already knew I was married. Maybe to remind them, if I should start to stray, that I was taken? Or to suggest I was too queer to bother with? Or to remind me to stay straight? To help me feel myself a part of her, and her a part of me? Well, I had no intention to stray, and I did want to feel that we were part of each other. I still do. I love Tracy, and she loves me. Though not the same way, now.

I suppose I didn't need my own lingerie—except for cup sizes we could have shared all our underthings, and that would have been a bond too. But she'd shared all her clothing with her sister when she was a girl, and as she said, now she wanted her own things kept exclusively her own, and she wanted me to feel possessive about mine too. Except for emergency borrowing, as can happen. "We can be like college roommates and borrow from each other now and then," she'd said. "Like when one of us has a special date and wants to look especially nice for later on, when he wants to get intimate." I looked startled, but she took my hand and looked into my eyes. "Girlfriend, no matter how many guys there are in the world, you are always my special date." Then she kissed me. And that's what she called me from then on when she was feeling especially affectionate. Standing there in a brand-new gift bra and panties set as I was, I could scarcely object.

I was happy I'd pleased her, and she was happy I'd made her this little concession and gotten to enjoy it. Sometimes we did behave like roommates when deciding what we'd wear each morning, giggling whether Tracy should look especially daring on days when she had to report to one of the company VPs. Wouldn't they be surprised to know she was wearing crotch less panties for example, or thongs that left her delectable ass cheeks fully exposed, or how would they feel when they say she'd gone really leggy in black net stockings with seams? Those days I might suggest she go all out, and then I'd dress rather daring too, though of course my undergarments were covered with pants, and Tracy's were barely covered at all by one of her equally daring all-out micro-minis. I'd be amused to think how her appearance affected her work associates—not an approving eye among the women, I'd bet, and not a limp prick among the men. And especially I'd smile at what my own associates didn't know about me. I began to love the look as well as the feel of really sexy lingerie on both of us.

Her work was demanding almost from the first day, though nothing like recently. Often she was too tired to rinse her things out, so I'd do it along with mine. "Take care of these," she'd said when she'd first gotten them for me. "Hand-wash them only, to keep them pretty. A machine can stretch out dainty lace work, and ruin bras and stockings altogether. I'll always want to know all day long, no matter what how stressed out I may be, that underneath you're still sweet and fresh and feminine. You have no idea how cheering it is for me to see when you strip down that my hubby is still my cute, sexy girlfriend." She reached for my cock, now tucked between my legs by the panty girdle I happened to have on, and squeezed it. "Even when you're not undressing to make love, even when all you mean to do is put on a housecoat, and maybe freshen your makeup a little before we sit down to dinner."

I reminded her that I don't wear makeup, that her imagination was running away with itself.

She didn't miss a beat. "Oh, lover, you really should! It goes with all your lovely things. And that's how I like to think of you anyhow, really beautiful, your face as attractive as mine. I like to imagine that at quitting time you're in the Ladies' painting and primping with the other girls, getting ready to come home. So they tend to think you're one of them, and it never occurs to any of them to come on to you, or even try to flirt. But of course you'd never do that, would you? Paint and primp and make yourself beautiful for me, I mean?"

I just looked at her.

"You would? I wish you would! Please, at least when you're home? From now on? Please? For me? You'll look gorgeous I know, so much more like me, and it would be so reassuring for me to know we share that too. It would be one more bond, one more intimate thing we know about each other. Please?"

I thought about it. This new notion seemed a little extreme, but I suppose it was no worse than wearing women's underwear. And again it didn't matter that much to me, but it did to Tracy in some odd way. She wanted to safeguard me from other women even at home? It didn't make sense! I reassured her again about that, but she just repeated, her beautiful eyes looking into mine, "Please?"

So each day when I got home I'd put on makeup, lightly at first, then elaborately as I got more expert and learned more by reading the women's magazines. Don't get me wrong, only at home. Once a stray streak of eye liner or a smudge of mascara or something must have raised speculation among the secretaries, because a bottle of makeup remover appeared mysteriously on my desk one morning, and then disappeared a few hours later after I'd used it. And it was a few days before I realized that lip-liner doesn't rub off like lipstick, and some of the girls at the office must certainly have noticed my mouth outlined in scarlet. But Tracy didn't care, she was rapturous. She even bought me some negligees to wear so I'd look really beautiful when she got home, and a perfectly gorgeous peignoir I just loved! Now and then I'd greet her wearing one of them.

At first I felt foolish, putting pretty colors on my face, but I soon got expert enough. It's nothing much, really, and it can be great fun, like painting or water coloring when you're a kid, only it's you that looks good afterward. Just a few strokes of lipstick—choosing which shade is the hardest part—and maybe lip liner first, and eye liner of course and mascara, and a few shades of eye shadow spread with the tip of your finger, and some blush whisked over the foundation cremes I needed to cover my beard. That's all.

That is, foundation cremes I once needed. Tracy urged me to spend two weeks of my vacation in Dallas, where they do fast electrolysis, getting my facial hairs zapped away. When I returned my cheeks and jaw were as smooth as hers. My reward for all that pin-pricking and inflammation came the first time I went down on her. She was absolutely ecstatic! "Your new face feels like a woman's, I mean the way a woman's would feel!" she told me, beside herself with joy. "As silky as your cock! Only, a cock with bones and bulges and a tongue and other delicious things squeezing into my pussy from all around! Oh, my!" So I couldn't complain. Having no beard saved me the time and trouble of shaving, and it saved my collars a lot of beige makeup stains.

I know all this sounds peculiar, this getting me to play being her pretty hubby, her girlfriend, and all that. But not to me, not as I got used to it. It was what my wife wanted, and I love her dearly, and it all seemed harmless enough.

I wasn't really surprised by it. Even before we decided to get married I knew she liked me looking a little androgynous. She bought me wide-legged slacks to wear on dates, with no fly in front at all, tight in the crotch and buttoned on the side, and it was some time before I realized they were women's slacks, not some mod style of men swear. She got me tailored shirts that buttoned the wrong way, with tiny, pale flowers printed on them and a rounded collar. Occasionally I'd wear one to the office when my regular shirts weren't back from the laundry, and give the secretaries even more reason to curl their lips mischievously when they saw me, then to just shake their heads silently when I asked them why.

And when other girls were urging their boyfriends to get short brush hair cuts, Tracy wanted mine long. On weekends and other times too she'd experiment with rolling and curling and styling it. Once after we were married she asked me if I'd mind getting a perm, there were so many more things she could do with my hair if it were permed. I drew the line, though she persisted. "Not even a body perm, then? It'd hardly show!" Eventually she let it drop.

So only a year or two after our marriage, well-settled into our home and our work, I'd pretty much become my wife's secret girlfriend as she wished. It didn't threaten my masculinity any. I was a man when we went out as young couples do, or we had friends over, or went to concerts and sporting events, and so on. But at home it was fun pretending I was a girl like her, one of the softer, gentler sex. At odd times I'd practice using feminine hand gestures, or imitating the ways girls toss their heads. Tracy always noticed, and always appreciated that I was trying.

It was just as well. During one of the rare times at my office when everyone had to work late, the office manager and I found ourselves heading together toward the corner coffee shop for a bite before beginning a long evening. We sat and ordered. Connie looked at me with an amused smile. "You know, it isn't necessary to smooth your skirt under you before you sit down when you're wearing pants.

I looked at her as if not comprehending.

"I can pretty well guess what's happening," she added. "Better than you think. I may even know more than you know. Your wife and I are from the same town originally—I bet you didn't know that. We knew each other in high school. Dated some of the same boys."

"Really?" I said, leaning forward, genuinely surprised. I was about to ask Connie what Tracy was like then, but she continued,

"Yes, and some of the same girls, too."

That stopped me. I stared at her.

"You didn't know? Really? You are an innocent! Haven't you wondered why I don't join the other girls in their endless chatter about boy friends and stroking male egos and cocks, and how to get a boy to perform properly in bed?"

"Because you're the office manager and shouldn't mingle?" I asked. "Because you're a little older than they are?" I was about to say "Because you're a bit of a prude?" when I noticed for the first time, really, that Connie was no such thing. Her draped blouse was open almost to her belt. No bra? She always dressed smart and a little provocative, I realized. She was extremely attractive. Then it struck me. "Because the man you're living with doesn't want you to talk about it?"

 

"Almost right, my dear. The girl I'm living with doesn't want me to kiss and tell. She's in the closet to her folks, who think I'm only her roommate. So I have to keep quiet about me too, or people will add up one and one and decide she's also a lesbian."

Our sandwiches arrived. I just stared at her some more. "I never would have thought it, Connie," I said after swallowing hard. "You're so...."

She laughed. She liked me I knew, and knew that I liked her. We'd always gotten on well. But this well? These confessions?

"Normal? I don't look like a Dyke? No, honey, I'm not butch, or femme, or a Dyke, or any of your stereotypes. Just your average red-blooded American girl who has never felt attracted to boys but feels very strongly drawn to her own sex. To Tracy too once, when we were mid-teenagers."

"Oh?"

"Yes, 'oh!' We were quite an item for a while. I wouldn't be kissing and telling on her even now, but I thought you already knew. You must certainly know that Tracy is sexually... venturesome, sometimes. She was one of us for a year or two, maybe more. We called our little group 'Loving Friends,' and we taught each other all kinds of ... things. Then she found there were two things about boys she liked after all, their ready-to-wear, pre-installed, preheated cocks, the bigger the better, and that they were easy to manage. So she drifted back to them."

These were astonishing revelations to me, but Connie just kept chatting, her eyes never once leaving my face. "Not altogether I guess. When you started turning up at the office wearing perfume and makeup, or trying not to, with bra straps and bra cup wrinkles visible through your shirt, I figured that with you Tracy was returning to my side of the aisle but trying to keep the best of both worlds. I phoned her to suggest she either tone it down or go all the way, the girls in the office were speculating about you instead of working, and we chatted a while about her new pretty hubby." She smiled at me, and evidently decided not to say anything more. "But it was none of my business. It still isn't."

"Connie, I don't know what to say!" I was blushing bright red, I could feel it.

"Then don't," Connie replied. "Maybe you know what you're doing, and maybe you're in over your head. It's between you two. If you'd ever like to talk more, you know where I am. Meanwhile, do you think you'll have the Callahan invoices ready for faxing by the time we quit tonight? I've got other several places I need to be yet tonight, I almost always do. And would you pass the mustard, please?"

So now I knew what I should have suspected. Among other things my wife has a suppressed lesbian streak in her, or she's at least bisexual. I decided that the more I respected this impulse in her, and gratified it, the happier she'd be, and the more secure our marriage. This seemed confirmed when she proposed that now and then and maybe for a while we make love like women, like "loving friends" she called it maybe for old times' sake. No penises. I agreed that whenever she wanted to, we'd use only our mouths and hands on each other, the way I guess lesbian women do, and that I'd even try to restrain my erections.

Mouths and hands can be very sensuous. On "loving friends" days she'd tickle my "clit" with her tongue while I did hers, and then though I'd have loved to push my boner down her throat, she'd only give it little nibbles after I'd begun to nibble hers. As we heated up, our heads drove further and further between each others' legs, pursuing a peculiarly elusive urge, a sensation of desire that grew slowly, until the craving was intense and we both felt blown away, and scarcely noticed that our faces and thighs were drenched in each other's juices. That craving spread, until finally our legs were clamped so tight around each other's ears and our mouths were so buried in each other's crotches that we could no longer scream as powerfully convulsive waves washed over us. I'd had no idea mouths and hands could do all that!

Then too, there was much mutual caressing and touching and sucking and kissing of our breasts. I loved fondling hers. And one of our "loving friends" sessions got me incredibly worked up, with her lips and tongue pulsing on my nipples while her hands molded my bosom and our bodies writhed on each other. My prick was still soft, when all of a sudden a sublime passion mounted in me, and crested, and I came spontaneously. I lay blissed out while Tracy continued to make love to me, my penis now soft, spasmed and drained. The feeling was different from anything I'd ever felt before. It was as if my whole body had begun to coil up tight and squeeze itself into a delicious reaching, then started to throb with incredible intensity until finally, it eased back and stretched itself out voluptuously. Utter Heaven! I felt so marvelously luxurious afterward, lounging back in my negligee trying to catch my breath, while Tracy beamed down and kissed my mouth and my breasts ever so tenderly.

She knew what had just happened, and was delighted for me. I'd just had her kind of orgasm, a woman's orgasm, felt through my whole body, not just located in my crotch. She'd wanted that for me, she said. In fact, she told me there'd be others, because she was arranging for others. When I asked her how she only lapsed into silence. "You'd only say 'No!'" she said. "Like with your perm. I could give you such a lovely hairdo if you had a perm! So I won't tell you. It'll be a surprise. There'll be more of them. You'll see." Then she added with a smile, "A lot is going to happen slowly, but it'll happen!"

I had no idea what she was talking about.

Soon after that she proposed we enhance our "loving friends" sessions by using dildoes on each other. She meant each of us use fake penises to pleasure each other, the way women do when they make love, me tucking my real penis between my legs and strapping on a much bigger rubber cock to fuck her with instead, and Tracy doing the same thing to me, but pumping into my ass.

I'd said "No!" right off, fairly forcefully! If my own prick was out of bounds, I said, why should I agree to let some other cock fuck her, even if I was doing the actual fucking, especially when I couldn't feel any of it myself? And anyhow, I said, my ass is strictly a one way street, strictly mine!

She'd replied that I was being selfish. She reminded me that even though the dildoes wouldn't feel anything, when I used one on her the rest of me would feel her whole body respond lovingly, rising and pressing close against mine. I'd always know how much pleasure I was giving her. And she'd enjoy the different ways different kinds of cocks felt inside her, compared to mine. Did this make me feel jealous? How silly and insecure was I, to be feel jealous of a dildo of all things? She argued that this was one way she could get to feel a variety of cocks tucked into her, all the while it was me making love, her lawful husband, the man she loved above all others being the girlfriend she preferred. "You know how I love feeling stuffed by a really stiff cock," she added. "It drives me wild! You've had plenty of reason to know that! And sometimes when I want it more than a few times you can't provide it. This way at least there'll never need to be a problem."

Was there an implicit threat there that she might turn elsewhere for loving if I couldn't meet her needs? I didn't think so. Was she worried that some day I might become impotent? Lately my hard-ons had been less than rock-hard, and sometimes less than that, but then, I was no longer a teenager, and besides, she'd been asking me to restrain my erections as best I could during our "loving friends" lovemaking. So I wasn't worried. But I really was a little jealous of some of the heroic cocks she brought home from some sex store downtown. What would she think of me after she'd gotten accustomed to them? "Why should that matter, sweetheart? They'll all be you! It'll be your face I'll be kissing when you fill me full of them!"

It was true enough that for all her lesbian games, for all her desire to adopt me as her girlfriend, for all of our "loving friends" sessions, as Connie had observed there was no question that Tracy also loved cock! She loved getting fucked! Passionately, ferociously!

I remember one Saturday night soon after we were married, when I was feeling exceptionally horny, and was somehow able to ram her repeatedly for hours with a gigantic boner that wouldn't quit. She'd given as good as she'd gotten, ready to take anything I could push into her. She had orgasm after orgasm, over and over, for as long as I could hold out. Then when finally I came and amazingly, still stayed hard, she started yet again and had more, gasping through clenched teeth with her lips spread wide apart like some vampire tasting first blood, her eyes open but seeing nothing, her legs spread apart wide enough it seemed to welcome a truck, anything that could be driven in or crammed in. Later as I kept going she'd clamped her legs so tightly around my waist that I couldn't breathe. And all the while she'd shrieked and screamed, carrying herself by the sheer force of her voice from peak to peak. and across valleys to the next peak, her head flinging from side to side back and forth, mindlessly. For hour after hour I literally screwed her brains out, and I'm sure she fainted once or twice. The next day she hadn't recovered. She looked dazed all day, her mouth smiling faintly, her eyes unfocused, and barely able to walk. She loved cock all right.

Whether my cock exclusively or some artificial cocks also, that was the issue between us. No one else's cock was under discussion, not yet, but I began to worry that it might be. I took a while before deciding to go along with her. At first I tried to negotiate.

"I'll fuck you with any dildoes you choose," I told her. "But my asshole is mine!"

"No it isn't," she said. "Fair is fair. Equal rights. Sometimes I'll want to use you the way you use me. Have you forgotten what happens sometimes when you're about to cum, and I tuck my finger into that virginal little rosebud of yours, and stroke in and out. You think that's an accident? Always, lover, when I do that you explode and then you cum in torrents, and my finger can feel that pussy of yours just throbbing and throbbing away with each spurt! Just like my pussy throbbing on your cock when I cum! Just think how you'd feel if someone were to push a really long, thick cock into you there, and slide it in and out. Can you imagine? I bet you'd get blown into another world!"

So I agreed, but only a little dildo for now, I added. I wasn't sure she heard. "You're on your way, darling," she said. "It's going to happen! More and more. Real orgasms like mine! And getting fucked by the most gorgeous, shapely pricks your pussy can take in! You're going to share with me the most wonderful feelings a woman can feel!"

"Only a little dildo for now," I repeated, worried by what she might want to push into my ass, but also worried that she'd notice I wasn't as enthusiastic as she was. Because I wasn't, not at all. I told her that. "You will be," she said, hugging me. "You won't be able to help it!"

That night we made some of the most passionate love of our marriage, and in the midst of it she came up with an idea I first found shocking, then wonderful.

"I want to fuck your ass," she said huskily. "And I will fuck your ass! But first you should fuck mine! Now!"

I'd never thought of entering her there, and she'd never proposed it. But given what we'd agreed, it made perfect sense. She hauled out a lubricant she kept in her bedside table and she turned onto her stomach, and she pushed her bottom high up into the air, and then she hissed "Now!" I plunged all the way into her in one exquisite stroke—she wasn't at all as tight as I'd expected. It felt like bathing my dick in warm honey. Then I felt the round melons of her beautiful, full, smooth ass pressing against my thighs, cushioning my pubic bone and tucked into my abdomen, and I felt my cock clenched and unclenched by muscles she squeezed and unsqueezed in her anal opening. Without seeming to move, I found myself rising and falling on a huge, hot, plump, undulating pillow, my pleasure rising higher and higher and spreading through my loins and my cock until finally I shouted for sheer joy, and began to spurt over and over into her ass, as if once my prick had started squirting it couldn't stop. Eventually it did though, and softened, and plopped out.

"Wow!" was all I could say.

"I thought you might like doing me that way, love," Tracy said demurely. "I know I loved it! I wish I could have seen your face when you began to shriek like woman in heat just now! But there'll be other times, and positions, and other feelings to explore. Lots of them, now that we're sharing our lovemaking as equals. You'll push into my bottom with my legs on your shoulders or maybe while I'm squirming on your lap like a wicked little girl, and then I'll fuck you the same ways and you'll be the wicked little girl! We can both be girls now, or boys, sometimes at the same time and sometimes not. Oh, I just can't wait!"

Our loving took on enormous variety. I used different cocks on her on different nights, only one of them mine, and as I plunged into her she'd pretend different things, one of them true enough, that she was an unfaithful wife imagining herself bedded down with a different lover every night, all of them her husband. Her passion varied with the different dildoes I used on her. Or maybe my techniques varied as I discovered what each dildo could do most effectively. One invited long, slow, mellow strokes that had her desperate for my re-entry after a dignified withdrawal Another allowed at best only short quick stabs. One was even shaped like a dog's, with an inflatable knob at the base. She smiled when she brought it home, and said that she was eager to see how it felt, but even more eager to fuck me with it. She did.

When she wanted to be the lesbian Dyke lover of a delicate bed partner, she'd fuck me with all kinds of large, fat, dildoes—she insisted I must always seem insatiable, always starved for more cock no matter how stretched or sore I felt. I never was, but pretended because it made her so very happy to gratify my supposed hungers. Some dildoes vibrated, and some were heated. One in particular was huge, with a noble purple helmet for a head nearly the size of a teacup, and with incredibly thick veins on its underside, and with large hairy balls hanging down from its base, as if for real. This one she reserved for my ass only, not her cunt. "If you knew that my pussy was accustomed to a magnificent cock like this," Tracy said when I suggested I try it on her. "It would shrivel you, with your silly jealousies. You'd worry how I could ever be satisfied with you ever again. And with reason! No, this is my cock to use on you, and you're the girl who will learn to love it and settle for no less. If you're also a little bit afraid of it, my pretty hubby, better still!"

We called it "the Emperor." When she strapped it on and finally managed to push it into me—it took a week of asshole stretching with other dildoes and butt plugs before that finally happened—I could feel every vein rub against my anal opening as she worked it deeper, and when its balls were slapping on my buttocks I could feel its bulk snugged up tight against my prostate. Routinely, before she'd insert it she had me lick it, to lubricate it with kisses and with deep sucking, and it always amused her, when it was strapped on and she was straddling my face, to have me lick its balls the same way she'd licked mine so many times in the past.

I could take any length cock up the rear it seemed, over a foot if it pleased her, and it sometimes did. Tracy's depth seemed to be less, nine or ten inches like the Emperor before I'd hit an obstruction, probably her cervix. On the other hand, she could take any width into her capacious pussy, fatter than the fat end of a baseball bat, fatter than a fist, whereas the really thick dildos, especially "the Emperor," stretched me out so far that the next day I'd leak helplessly into my panties, and then have to wear a tampon to work as women do, and change it a few times in the course of the day. She once asked me if I felt feminine enough to want to use the women's bathroom to change my tampon, so I'd feel more like other women having their periods. I didn't know what to say, and let it go.

But she used "the Emperor" on me the next few nights nevertheless, so for the next few days as I passed the Ladies' Room I wondered about it. Once when I was short and had to run out to buy more tampons, Tracy commented that if I were using the Ladies' Room the way I should be, I'd know they always keep some there. Exasperated, I told her I just couldn't, I was a man, they'd arrest me! She said, "We'll see about that!" and looked at me sweetly. The next day I needed another and was standing in front of the Ladies' wondering if there was anyone inside, whether I could dash in and grab just one, when Connie came by. "I can see from the way you're walking that something's sore," she said, her face impassive. "Can help you with something?" I shook my head and fled.

Our gentle "loving friends" sessions changed when she brought in the dildoes. Now that Tracy always had a cock when she wanted one, some nights she wanted me to play out different women's roles, often a helplessly languishing, lovely young girl, sometimes a temptress. She bought me some exquisite nightgowns, really romantic, and from that point on I always slept with her en femme. She told me I felt especially wonderful as she stroked my satiny waist and kissed me where the decolete shamelessly displayed my breasts. Certainly I felt more sumptuously enticing. On certain nights when she especially wanted me to be her girl, she'd call me from work and ask for a date. I knew then to meet her at the door in my prettiest undies and my most provocative negligee both, my makeup done in an extreme style I called "bitch in heat" and my "pussy" as she now called it well lubricated. To please her, each time she made a date with me en femme I tried to surprise her with some new feminine accomplishment, by speaking in a higher and softer voice for example, or by walking delicately with my elbows close to my sides. She saw I was really trying to be her girlfriend, and she'd kiss me gratefully afterward.

 

Two

After a few months more her birthday rolled around, and I really surprised her. When she came home that night she found me for the first time fully dressed as a woman, in a beautiful dress and stilleto heels, and she was beside herself with joy.

I'd always been wary of dressing all the way as a woman, because I just knew that when she saw me she'd want me to go out with her dressed that way, and that would change everything. Then it wouldn't be "our" personal and private intimacy with each other but "the" way I related to the world, or one of the ways. Then I really would be more her girlfriend than her husband. I knew I'd soon take on a feminine social identity whether I wanted one or not. and then I really would begin to think of myself as feminine.

I dressed to the nines anyhow. I'd gone out that day to buy her a really stunning cocktail dress for her birthday, and found one that was absolutely scrumptious, elongated and thin to fit her figure, black, and beaded, and slit to the hip. Considering how to present it, I realized that the perfect way would be for me to model it myself. My better brassieres were filling me out generously, and my hips were as narrow as a fashion model's. So I knew the dress would look attractive on me. In a strange way I felt compelled to see for myself.

I also knew that Tracy would be overjoyed to see me for the first time fully dressed up, without being urged or coaxed, and that too would be my present to her. She'd been pointing me toward this for years, I realized. And it was all to the good. I'd recently learned from Tracy's sister yet one more possible reason why Tracy felt more comfortable with me as her girlfriend than as a male husband. Her sister mentioned that Tracy had once had an unfortunate experience with men in a bad part of town, and while a psychologist was trying to help her deal with it she had another unfortunate experience with an uncle. Exactly what these experiences were I never found out, and her sister wouldn't say. Afterward, she said, "Tracy went crazy for a while," which I interpreted as a familiar post-rape syndrome—feeling worthless, she had been for a time available to anyone. "It's what I want to do," she'd said just before going out with two boys of unsavory reputation and staying out all night with them, her sister told me. All that ended as her therapy took hold, and when she went off to college she was once again a proper young lady.

I hadn't known any of this. Yet, I thought, it may be that in some subconscious way Tracy now feels safe only with women. I had to smile as my mind added the words 'especially women with huge dildos.' That period when she was one of Connie's set might have been around then. Maybe really masculine men still left her feeling soiled or used? Until now I'd gone along with her desires in order to please her, and for the variety it brought both of us, not because I thought she needed to be with women, or because I myself enjoyed feminine sex. But I did enjoy it. I was feeling more and more feminine myself. Just as I wanted Tracy to feel snug and safe in my arms, I was beginning to want to feel snug in hers. My own masculinity was fading. For Tracy's sake, and perhaps it was just as well.

A few days earlier Tracy seemed to suffer a kind of pang of conscience. Or perhaps she was testing me. She told me that she knew that I was becoming less and less manly, and more and more womanly, to please her, because I loved her. She was grateful for it. But now she had to know if I wanted it for myself too, that it pleased me to explore my own femininity and to make it a part of who I was. That I delighted in it, maybe even preferred it. She had to know, or she'd feel terrible about what she'd been asking me to do. I should let her know by the time her birthday came, she said, because if I wasn't as happy as she was that I was now so wonderfully feminine, if I wasn't now her unabashed sissy girlfriend, we'd have to re-evaluate everything.

Needless to say I gave it a lot of thought. Femininity, especially submissive femininity I'd found, was a wonderful game. I had learned most of its rules and many of its skills, and had realized that I should be trying to enjoy it more, and I was enjoying it. Some things I found marvelous, such as the ways I felt when we made "loving friends" and I was the passive partner. My orgasms were glorious, especially when my darling pushed "the Emperor" into me while nursing on my nipples—that drove me wild! And I noticed that if my penis was smaller, less rigid lately when I reached climax, and was sometimes quite soft. But my nipples and areola had grown larger as if to compensate, and to accommodate the greater pleasure we both took in them. These days they actually stuck out!

Some things I knew I liked because they were feminine, without my doing them to please her. I enjoyed looking smooth and sophisticated, suave and beautiful when fully made up, and sometimes I regretted I couldn't look like that all day, even at the office. I realized that I really wanted to try on this birthday dress for myself, to see why it had so charmed me out of hundreds of others that I just had to have it for Tracy, had to see how I felt wearing it, to see how beautiful it was on me. Had I bought it for Tracy or for me?

She wanted me to look like a complete woman I knew, but she also wanted me to feel like a complete woman, quite another thing, and above all she wanted me to want to feel like a complete woman, yet something more still. Before, I hadn't especially gone along with her. But this dress urged me to want to, to please her, to surprise her, to look nice, to feel as elegantly feminine as I could. I really wanted to yield to the urge. I realized that now, if I were somehow forbidden my undies and gowns and cosmetics and darling gestures, forbidden to practice all of the womanly arts I'd learned, I would feel quite desolated, deprived and separated from a central part of myself. Life would lose much color and joy. I realized that I really did feel feminine now, in part, and I loved Tracy all the more for leading me into such exquisite new ways of feeling.

Tonight, for her birthday, Tracy would see me become all the woman I wanted to be, for my own sake as well as hers.

I knew Tracy would understand immediately when she saw me. And she did. When she came through the front door and saw me standing in the hallway waiting for her, stately, poised, radiant, made up as faultlessly as I knew how, my hair piled high and held up by a sapphire clip, the cocktail gown's black beads and sequins scintillating from its choker neckline past my rounded breasts, along my hip bones, down to well below my knees, and my ankles turned pertly by black four-inch-heeled strappy sandals I'd found in her closet, she just stood there and studied me quietly for a moment. And took a step forward.

And then leaped at me elated, threw her arms around me, and quite ruined my carefully made-up face by kissing me over and over and over, saying "Oh, my sweet, dear, darling, my love, my love, you're just gorgeous!" over and over. She clung to my neck and began to cry, inconsolably. "Oh!" she sobbed over and over. "Oh, darling, I've wanted this, but I've been so afraid to ask you. I really don't want you to meet my needs, unless they're also yours. I know so much more about what we're doing. And you've been such a dear, going along with everything!" The effect was everything I could have hoped for. I began to cry too.

Then when we went into our bedroom to change, me back into an especially sexy negligee and Tracy into her new dress, she did exactly what I'd anticipated and feared. "Here," she said, handing me one of her nicest cocktail gowns, deep blue, chiffon, with a deep scoop neck, one I'd often admired on her. "Put that negligee away. This is the happiest day of my life, and I won't have my darling girlfriend looking any less beautiful than I feel. Put this on, so we can both be beautiful together." I looked at her surprised, surprised to find that I was delighted—the blue chiffon was really wonderful, it would be a joy to try on. "This is only a loan, girlfriend, not a gift," she said. "It's just for tonight, so be careful with it. After tonight you'll have to buy your own dresses." I heard. There was no turning back now, I thought to myself. She smiled happily at the thought, and we dressed together. It was all I could do to keep from hugging her and burying my cock or a dildo in her, or asking her to bury a strapped-on part of herself in me. I wanted to make love. But that could wait.

Then over cocktails in the living room she suggested the inevitable in a very quiet voice, as I knew she would. "Honey," she said. "Do you think we could go out together for dinner, instead of eating what I'm sure is the fabulous birthday dinner I know you've prepared for me? Just two lovely women enjoying each other's company? We both do look smashing! We shouldn't waste it!"

I told her very gently why I felt reluctant. Up until this moment, I told her, our gender play had been like our sex play, a private thing we shared, just between us, known to no one else (though I knew the secretaries at my office speculated why with such a lovely wife I seemed to be going gay, with my perfume, and eye liner, and lip liner, and the chest bulges my better bras were making for me these days, maybe even the tweezed eyebrows that went with making up my face properly). I was now a man who enjoyed looking like a woman, to please my beloved wife and as I now knew, to please myself. Apart from a nod or two at propriety, I no longer cared what the secretaries thought.

When I said that, Tracy's eyes gleamed with an "I told you so" kind of triumphant expression, obviously proud of me.

But if we took my transformation out among total strangers, I said, it would become a very different thing. If other people thought I was a woman even at a glance, because I looked like one, and I knew it, I might really begin to look at myself the same way. My self-image might actually change. "Women are very attractive," I said. "I might find being a woman very attractive. I might begin to believe that's what I am, a little, maybe a lot, not just a man who enjoys being feminine."

"Well what's wrong with that?" she asked me, puzzled. "I know you're a man, but I know you're a woman in my eyes right now, and you know that I know. You know that's how I prefer you. Why do you think you looked so utterly ravishing standing there, yourself the best birthday present I have ever received? Because you knew I was seeing you as a complete woman, a beautiful woman, and that made you that kind of woman in your own eyes, and you positively glowed! You loved it! And I was so proud of you and of myself at that moment I couldn't stand it!" She put her hand over her eyes. I wondered if she was starting to cry again, but from sorrow this time, on this happiest day of her life. I folded.

"I fixed you a lovely dinner, sweetheart. No chef has ever planned more carefully, nor made such delicate sauces. I poured my soul into it, and all my love. You'll see. But the dessert is only a bakery birthday cake. How about we go out for dessert and coffee to "Sweets to the Sweet," that new place that's just opened downtown? Just the two of us. It's scale enough for the way we're dressed, and we're not likely to meet anyone we know there. I hope. But if we do, then we do, and they'll recognize me with you or not, and think whatever they may think, because tonight I am what I appear to be. Your best girlfriend. Tonight is your night."

Tracy brightened immediately. "You are a pet," she said. "That's just lovely! Oh, I do so love you. When we get back here, I want to tell you how much I love you. I want to tell you a secret I've been keeping from you. I didn't think you'd take it in the right spirit when you heard it. But I think you're ready now. I think you'll love it. I do hope so. I can't keep it back any longer."

I was amazed! "You're pregnant? We're going to have a baby?" I began.

She quickly interrupted me. "Oh, no, darling. Not unless you are, and haven't yet told me!" We both smiled at the thought of me inseminated by a dildo. "It'll happen some day, but you know neither of us is ready for babies just yet. No, just wait and see. When we get back, I know you'll like it."

So after dinner, still tiddly and giggly from a whole bottle of Chateau Lafite sipped with my grand entree, a Beef Wellington, we went out. I was very self conscious about my appearance at first. I knew I passed, but I felt as if I were enacting myself as a well-dressed woman, not just being one. I drove, and I had to adjust to my high heels on the foot pedals, and I tried to drive like a lady, hesitating before left turns instead of turning ruthlessly in the face of oncoming cars. When I pulled into the Valet Parking I readied myself to turn to swing both legs out of the car before standing up, as I'd so often seen other women do.

"Ladies," the parking attendant said as he opened Tracy's door and then raced around to open mine, handing me a chit for the car as I stood up alongside him. "Let me know if there's anything I can do for you." He seemed to be standing very close. He was. As I stood up our faces almost touched, the car pressing against my back. He didn't step back.

"You can be sure we will," I said in my high, breathy, strained femme voice. "Don't park too far away, We're here for only dessert and coffee."

"At your service," the attendant said. I looked over his shoulder, and saw Tracy mouthing the word "Smile!" repeatedly. So I did. Only then did the attendant back away, turn, leap into the car, and drive it a short distance away.

"That's all men really want," Tracy said. "They're all so insecure. But one smile from a pretty woman, especially women as well-dressed as we are, and they're fine!"

"Well, I'm a well-dressed woman feeling pretty insecure right now," I told her.

"Don't be," she smiled at me, looking coy and amused. "He was coming on to you. Haven't you played that trick on women, forcing intimacy by somehow occupying space they've got to occupy themselves? He thinks you're attractive. So do I, you know." Immediately I began to feel better. She was right. "We'll enjoy our dessert, and then later this evening, who knows, maybe you'll get lucky! If not with me, maybe with that parking lot attendant. Meanwhile, how do you feel, now that a man has been smitten by your appearance. More like a beautiful woman than before?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," I said. "I do. And it's a very nice feeling. Women are nice people. Being one is nice. I'm happy to join the club. At least right now I am."

We went in and were seated, and nibbled at a plate of Sinful Surprise confections, and sipped Cappucinos, and I paid the bill, smiled appreciatively at the attendant when he brought up the car and gazed into my face, and drove home. My womanliness had registered in several other sets of eyes too. The Maitre d' was courtly. The waiter was gently attentive, as never before in my experience as a man. Two men at a table near us tried to catch our eyes, one of them rather handsome, but we ignored them. One woman eyed my dress closely, narrow-eyed, as if suspicious of something. I began to quail inside, and Tracy felt it. "Smile again!," she whispered to me. "She's admiring what you're wearing!" I did, and she smiled back at me, and again I felt warm inside. Another acknowledgement from another member of the club. I really did feel privileged to belong.

"Now," I said when we were back inside the house, and had both kicked off our heels, and were together on the couch. I sat on one end while Tracy stretched herself out on it, her head in my lap, looking up at me while I looked fondly down at her. "What's this secret you couldn't tell your husband, but you're happy to share with your new graduate girlfriend?"

"Sweetheart, you're not to get mad at me. This is still my birthday, right? And you've made me very happy today so far, right?"

"Right," I replied. I bent over and kissed her.

"Well, darling," she began. "You're more a member of the club than you think." Tracy's face was impassive, her eyes staring unwavering into mine. I knew she was watching for the faintest shadow of a reaction, for sorrow or anger or something else to appear there, so she could modify the way she said whatever she was about to say. Even, I suspected, say something else altogether, something harmless, if disaster seemed to threaten.

I put on my most affectionate poker face. "Oh?"

"You remember some time ago, after you refused to have your hair permed, about the time I suggested that we'd both enjoy playing with dildoes, those lovely boy toys that give girls like us so much pleasure?"

"I do. And yes, they do." I had to confess it.

"Well, you hadn't agreed even to the dildoes then, and I knew I was right about them, just as I'm right about the perm too!" She glared at me adamantly, knowing I'd find her determination absolutely adorable. I did. I kissed her again. She continued.

"Remember, I told you I'd had another really great idea, but wouldn't tell you what it was because you'd only have said 'No!' in your fuddy duddy way, so I'd gone ahead and done it, and you'd find out later what it was."

"I don't remember that you said exactly that. I guess I thought you were still talking about fake pricks. That gave me a hard time you remember. A man isn't overjoyed to learn that his wife wants more than one kind of prick in her, when he's only got one kind."

She tried to raise her head to kiss me, and couldn't reach quite that far. "For a pretty lady you're much too concerned to measure your prick against all others. A pretty lady can have all the pricks she wants if she plays her cards right. Bend toward me!" She strained her head up toward mine and kissed me, and yet again. "Now you can straighten up. I'm done with you for the moment. I just mussed your lipstick, incidentally."

I looked down on her, absolutely in her thrall! I was the luckiest man in the world, and probably the luckiest woman too.

"Well," she went on, snuggling into my crotch, and pretending not to notice the growing bulge there. "Well, it was then that you had that orgasm just from what I was doing with your breasts, remember, and you nearly passed out from it, and I told you then that something was happening, and more was going to happen. I am here to report now that it did."

"Am I supposed to understand what you've just said?"

She turned sideways to inspect my bulge. Suddenly she lifted her shoulders, swept my dress up past my crotch, said "Lift up!" and when I raised my rear end, tugged my panties down until my cock sprang free. Then she settled back down again with her cheek on my bare thighs, my penis alongside, my slip and shirred blue chiffon hemline just above. "There!" she said definitively. Then she kissed the tip of my exposed penis a few times, tentatively took the whole head into her mouth, and then pushed it out again with her tongue. "You like the way that feels?" she asked.

I thanked God it wasn't rigid, so that while still lying in my lap, she could still bend it and take it altogether into her mouth. But not just yet. "Tracy, you are the worst cock tease in prick history! What in the world are you talking about? What was happening?"

"Sweetheart, enjoy your erections while you've got them. There'll be fewer, You're already softening, see? Isn't it lovely? -- already I can hold all of you in my mouth without even lifting my head from your lap, the same way you can lick and suck on my clit. Soon the only way you'll be able to penetrate me at all will be with a dildo, and then you'll see how right I was to give you lots of practice satisfying me with them."

I was a little alarmed, Had I heard her right? "Tracy!?" I said, and she heard the anxiety in my voice.

She settled back from the teasing tone she'd adopted, and her voice became more serious. She spoke comfortably, but her eyes never left mine. "It's like this, love. I wanted to help you fill out the creases in those brassieres of yours. I knew you were wearing them only because I asked you to. But I wanted you to wear them because you wanted to, because it would make you more like me, because it would satisfy you to wear them, because it turned you on to wear them. Because breasts feel wonderful and do wonderful things. Like that new kind of orgasm you had that night, with your whole body instead of just your limp dick. The best you've ever had, you told me."

"I remember. It was unforgettable. And you've given me more of them since then." "

"That was a genuine woman's orgasm, my sweet new club member. Authentic. Because for some months before then, and ever since then, even tonight during dinner, I've been feeding you hormones to enhance your pleasure and your figure. Women's hormones. Heavy doses of them. So you could feel what a woman feels in your body and your mind. What I feel. To make your moods softer, happier, nicer. You've been swallowing girly pills with your coffee, with your vitamins, with your beef wellington, lots of ways. Several kinds. Some kinds to counteract your male hormones so you'd be less aggressive in your lovemaking, more considerate, and they've been working just fine." She smiled to herself. "You're a gentle lover now, darling." She paused, while I thought about how wonderful it felt to be her beloved, loved, the passive recipient of her passion, making "loving friends" with her, feeling her longest dildo take excruciatingly forever to swoop into my bowels and then back out again, my anus quivering in anticipation of the next swoop. She kissed the tip of my penis again and then looked back up at me. "I can read your eyes perfectly," she said. "You like those hormones, don't you? You like the way they make you feel."

Reluctantly, I had to nod.

"But some of them are to speed you through the process that made me what I am. So you'd do what I did when I was a teenager. Become more of a woman. Smooth out your skin. Giggle more, and have fun more, and talk about how attracted you are to boys, in your case dildoes, and giving pleasure to boys, in your case giving hand jobs to dildoes and thinking about giving blow jobs, and taking an interest in looking beautiful, and in makeup. And to wonder how pretty or elegant you might look in a really nice dress. Like tonight. To feel pleased that you can attract a man's attentions. Like tonight. You liked getting dressed up tonight, and going out, and being admired. You were afraid to be thought a woman, but now that you think you are one, at least partly, you like the idea, don't you?"

I nodded.

"And darling, some of those hormones were to help you grow tits and increase their sensitivity, and to give you more of a really feminine figure. They're working too, darling. You think it's your new bras, but the fact is, you're a full cup size larger than you were, B now I think, and you're likely to be a C cup before we're through. I've seen pictures of your mother, and she's huge, and the way it goes is, like mother like son."

She pursed her lips and blew me a reassuring kiss, and then added quickly, "Just one little thing though. Your penis. Your clit. That's what it's getting to be. Very soon it'll stop getting hard altogether, and you won't be able to fuck me with it any more. You'll have to use your dildoes on me instead. See how silly you were, resenting them? But the less you think about what you've lost, the more you'll appreciate what you've gained."

I stared at her and felt a touch of indignation begin to rise in my innards! Tracy had been changing my body without telling me? Giving me tits? Breasts? Changing me from a man into a dickless giggling schoolgirl? Then into an elegant lady? And I loved it? I did love it! What had she done to me?! I'm a man!

"Yes, you're a man my darling." How did she know that's what I was thinking? "You're my man. And I love you. I'd never harm you, never! But just remember again that orgasm just from my kissing your nipples, and the others, the way they aren't centered in your cock but begin far back inside you, and grow until finally they take over your whole body? And overwhelm you? And only then begin to subside."

"Yes."

'Well, wasn't that better than any of those wham, bam, thank ye ma'am squirt climaxes you've had as a man? More utterly fulfilling? That's what those hormones do for you. Your tits feel good, and look good. They're going to get bigger, sweetheart, and feel better! There's no stopping them now. You'll have a really luscious figure before too much longer, and you'll love it the way I do. You're still a man, sweetheart, my man, but you're my sweet sissy girl man now. My darling sissy. My dearest girlfriend. Part of your body is already a woman's, and the nicest part of your mind too, I think. Welcome to the club, sweetheart, really. I know you'll love it. Not just for my sake, but for your own as well! And there's more coming too! Lots more! I want to share everything with you! Everything! You are loved by a very determined woman. You'll see!"

I started to question her about this last, but she suddenly turned and began to suck on my cock like a starved baby on a mother's breast, and my brain went blank. This time nothing tentative, the way she had nibbled and tongued my "clit." This wasn't "loving friends"! This was full scale girl meets boy cock sucking! She lifted herself and turned to face my lap fully. Finally my prick rose fully to her impassioned sucking, her lips sliding over the head and down the shank greedily. It was iron hard this time, and full length as not for many weeks! Then to my amazement she deep throated me in a single thrust. My whole cock, gone down her throat! She then swallowed, and the most incredible sensation rose out of my loins. She swallowed again, and I groaned aloud as another wave of joyous sensation overtook the first! A third time, and I realized that with each swallow an undulation was moving along her throat and milking me so deliciously that I was near cumming! Then she pulled back and my wet cock re-emerged, slick and shiny.

She then took my pink cock head in her mouth again, but this time sipped it gently, as if it were the tip of a straw. I almost died. She licked me along the underside some more, and finally, wrapped her throat around my cock again, and swallowed again. This time I came, throbbing, in buckets. Like never before! I saw the outside of her throat stretch and throb with each spurt as my cum went directly into her stomach—she didn't even need to swallow! I was transported into paradise, so overwhelmed that I could only make small mewing sounds, over and over. When my pulsating died down and with great gasps I began to breathe again, she disgorged me.

I couldn't even speak. Tracy had never sucked my cock that way, not even early in our engagement when I had asked her to. "No, there has to be a special reason," she'd said then, leaving me to wonder what reason would ever be special enough. Now there was one. Two, really. One was to distract me from anger that she had grown tits on me without even asking if I wanted them. I tried again to feel injured, and I was, a little, but I still felt that wonderful afterglow in my crotch. Of course I wanted breasts, I guess, now that I had them! As beautiful as hers! The other special reason I guess was, it was a kind of farewell to my cock. Any further deep-throated blow jobs weren't going to happen, because I wasn't going to be long enough to be swallowed like that, not for much longer. But where had Tracy learned to do that?!

"Where did you learn to do that?!"

She smiled up at me. "You liked it? I thought you might. I can see you did. I told you, a teenage girl flooded with hormones learns lots of things, and thinks she needs to know even more of them. I knew lots of things before I met you, and I've learned more since. You're going through your teenage girlhood right now, honey. I want to teach you lots of things I know."

"Like how to deep throat a dildo like that? What for?"

She let a wicked look pass over her face. "There are lots of things a girl need to know about how to handle men. How to please them with no great effort. Even if a girl doesn't ever use what she knows, sweetheart, it's great for her self-confidence. You'll want to know you can suck a cock like that as easily as your ass already swallows a man sized prick. Tonight I wanted you to know how it feels, so you'd know when you learn to do it yourself."

She paused, then decided to go ahead. "You remember 'the Emperor,' that huge dildo I use on you sometimes, with the big heavy veins and the hairy balls, the one I ask you to wet down with your mouth before I fuck you with it. I thought so. Well, I'll want you to practice with that dildo as if it were part of a real man. It'll help you feel more like a woman. And as a woman you'll enjoy it. It's so much bigger than own your cock there's no comparison, so you won't feel the least bit threatened by it. Really, making love to it is a privilege!"

"And I've just had it re-mounted as a double dildo, so the back part pushes deep into my vagina and the shank rubs on my clit when it's mounted or its balls swing. So when you manage to swallow the head and push that monster down your esophagus, it'll feel to me as if it were my very own cock you were sluicing down. It's possible for you to give me an orgasm by cock sucking it. And it can cum too! It'll squirt whenever I think it's ready, so you can have a warm reward delivered directly into your tummy, as all good cock suckers should. Then if you're a dear and do well, I'll fuck you with it too, and squirt into you, and believe me, we'll both feel we're in heaven."

"But Tracy, why?"

I tried to ask it, but only a whisper came out. Why was she doing this to me? She heard me and knew I knew the answers, and she just snuggled in against me contentedly. Because she loves me and wants to share everything with me. Because the more feminine I become, the less reason she has to feel jealous when I associated with other women. Because she loves making love to women, though she also loves cock. Because she had once been molested, so she feels more secure with her girlfriend than with an all-male husband. Because she knows I love her and want what she wants, and won't let myself get outraged or upset no matter how outrageous her requests. Because part of me now enjoys being a woman anyhow—desiring women, I'd like to be what I desire. Because if I'm a woman, Tracy thinks, I would enjoy sucking on a cock to make my man feel good. Even if I have no man.

Were the hormones softening my brain? Instead of feeling betrayed, I wanted to kiss my darling. So I did. My thoughts were, she really cares for me, as best she knows how. She loves me! And I love her! My prick was still in the afterglow of cumming deep in her throat. And my breasts were growing, just like hers, with deep and powerful orgasms to come, and life was full! I felt so well cared for! Not at all angry. I tried again, but I couldn't muster it. Had she fed me a tranquilizer with tonight's hormones and confessions? If so I didn't care.

She read all of this in my eyes impassively, and was satisfied with what she saw. "You know?" she said, her head still in my lap, looking steadily at me. "I think it's time we got you that perm. Your hair isn't really as manageable as it should be. And you need to have your nails done too. Nothing radical, nothing for those secretaries at your office to whisper about too loudly, not right away. Clear polish for now, we'll save the pinks and reds for another time. Oh don't object, sweetheart, you'll be more of a woman very soon, with nail polish the least of your concerns. I need you that way. And you'll want to be—I'll see to that."

She smiled up at me, busy with her plans. "But for now we'll just get you a cut and curl, maybe, and presentable hands. Your cuticles are in terrible shape. Incidentally, you'll need to practice how to sit and move more daintily if you want to look really lovely in my dresses. Not that you aren't adorable now, my pretty husband! I'm very pleased with you."

Then she looked up at me appraisingly, almost as if I were a business proposition. "Yes," she said tenderly as if to herself. "You're doing so well!"

end two

 

Three

The next day I took off from work and went with Tracy to her beauty parlor, where she ordered up a deluxe makeover. She had me dress in a simple blouse and skirt for this first excursion out in daylight, and a loose cardigan sweater with a large flower pattern. I objected, and she just looked at me, and I acquiesced. Of course I had to dress like a woman. A man can't walk into a beauty parlor and walk out looking pretty! I was very lightly made up, not much more than mascara and lipstick, because it was all coming off anyhow. So I wasn't in deep disguise.

Within a minute one of the women under a hair dryer glanced up, looked at me attentively, and broke into a smile. It was our across-the-street neighbor Beth! She knew me! She put down her magazine. "Hi, Tracy," she said affably, "I see your girlfriend is finally out in the open."

"Yes," Tracy said. "Time enough. Say 'Hi' to Beth, Sweetheart."

'Hi!" I said obediently, my mind whirling. No place to hide! Then I had to ask. "Beth, what do you mean 'finally'? You've known about me?"

"Of course, dear girl! For a long time now we've seen you in your pretty lingerie and hairdo and makeup getting ready to greet Tracy when she gets home, and then the two of you enjoying a social hour in your living room, sometimes being much more than merely sociable." She smiled radiantly at me. "Our living rooms each have huge picture windows facing the street, remember? And you never pull the drapes. When I called Tracy months ago to suggest it, she just told us to enjoy the show, even to invite our friends. She thought it would help you get over feeling ashamed, at least later on when you found out. Enjoy your journey toward your true gender, my dear. The neighborhood association has already decided to send you flowers when you have your final operation." She smiled again at me, then returned to her magazine.

I turned to Tracy, shocked! "The whole neighborhood knows? And they think I'm one of those women in men's bodies, who're going to have a woman's body? For how long has this been common gossip?"

Tracy replied in quiet, level tones. "Honey, lower your voice. They admire you for your courage. And they've all known for months. And aren't you going to have a woman's body? Don't you already, the way your bra has filled out? And by what you were saying so timidly just yesterday, aren't you right now more of a woman even in your own mind, now that you know the whole neighborhood thinks that's what you are? But here's Marge—she's the beauty operator who'll see that you leave here looking absolutely gorgeous!"

A few hours later came my second shock. It was quite disturbing, what they'd done. The perm, cut, and curl they gave me wasn't even androgynous. It made me look cute and a little helpless, a darling layered style Tracy called it. It surrounded my head so my face looked much smaller, even petite, and I had to say, a little mischievous. It was almost shoulder-length in back, and they finished it turned up to almost cover each ear. I had to agree that the effect was feminine and even a little flirtatious, yet very smart. They pierced my ears, and when I objected they advised me that the studs wouldn't be especially noticeable if I kept my hair styled exactly as it was. And they did my nails, with clear polish, true, but they gave them such a beautiful oval shape and such a high gloss there could be no question they were a woman's. not a neat man's.

The studs in my ears prevented me from brushing my hairdo into some semblance of a male style at work as I'd hoped, and finally forced my transformation into the open for the first time, at least at work. I went in to work the next day braced to ignore whatever the secretaries' reactions. Some gawked, and some smirked. "Love your new hairdo," one said to me with a broad smile. "It really changes your whole look! No time this morning to put on your makeup?" I didn't ask what she meant, because I knew. I was very uncomfortable.

That afternoon Connie, as office manager technically my supervisor, came into my office, closed the door, sat down, and explained how they all felt. "It's a good thing your wife called us this morning before you got in to warn us that you've transitioned, that you intend to look like a woman from now on," she said.

"She did what?" I asked, startled.

She ignored my question. "Obviously this is your business, and Tracy's, whatever you two have worked out with each other. But you're disturbing office routine, because the girls need to get something settled."

I waited.

"None of us can respect a man who isn't a man, or who is pretending to be a woman just for the novelty of it. It's insulting to all women."

I started to insist that we all owe our colleagues due respect, and that I meant no disrespect, but she held up a beautifully manicured hand.

"I know," she said. "Whether colleagues are men or women or a little of each. As sort of their boss, you've had the girls' respect, and I know I have yours. But not if you're playing at being a woman for kicks. Any woman can resent that!"

I began to look grave, and again she held up her hand. "No, hear me out. On the other hand we can feel great affection for any man who is really trying to be a woman, a woman born into the wrong body and transitioning for example, because it's difficult, and deeply touching, and also I must say, it reaffirms our sex's importance when an almighty man wants to be one of us. It's flattering. So if I may ask, which are you?"

I was silent for a moment. Then I realized what the answer had to be, tried to smile at her, and nervously fluffed up my new hairdo with both hands. Avoiding her eyes, I said, "My wife has wanted me to be a kind of woman all along, it seems, and she's recently made that quite clear. I try to want what she wants. Recently I've made lots of concessions. I want to be her dearest girlfriend at home and I'm trying very hard to be just that. Now I guess it's spilled over into the workday. Is that a good enough answer?"

She thought about it. "Yes," she said. "It's sweet, and loving, and really very romantic. In a way I envy Tracy. Maybe I'll tell her that!"

Then she stood up and held out her hand "Welcome to the club, honey. I really do love your hairdo. Let us help you any way we can. I think to show your good faith you should go the rest of the way with us, and really become one of the girls. Tracy told me you use makeup all the time at home now. Why not here too, now that we all know about you? And do feel free to use the Ladies' Room. In fact looking the way you do, I don't think you have any choice any more."

What she was saying was logical, but I did feel a little pressured. Was I really ready to be an all-out full time woman at work as well as home? Since I was already known in the neighborhood, that meant to be full time all the time. No more pretending I was a man anywhere. How far did I want to go to satisfy Tracy? Or to fit in here at the office?.

Suddenly Connie pressed her cheek to mine affectionately, and I realized I had to respond. "Thank you, dear." I said. "This means a great deal to me." Tears actually came to my eyes as I said these words, and she noticed them I'm sure. I struggled to say something else. "And I really love your nails, Connie. Who does them?"

"Helene," she replied. "Right here in this building. Let me call her for you!" She picked up the phone, and that night when I came home my nails were as red as the lipstick I also wore home, borrowed from one of the girls in the Ladies' who thought I looked a little undressed without it. Tracy saw and smiled and said nothing.

A few days later I borrowed another of Tracy's dresses, went out with her to buy more outfits, and then went out shopping on my own. That was how I began wearing women's clothes all the time, everywhere, and to avoid looking foolish used my feminine gestures and movements all the time, sometimes amusing Tracy by exaggerating my limp wrists and waggling way of walking.

Outside of working hours Tracy and I were together constantly. Each night we bathed together, and she mounted me and I entered her under water. It became increasingly obvious that the regimen of hormones was making my penis softer. Even when fully erect, it was now barely able to penetrate her when called on to try. On the other hand my breasts now bulged out noticeably, and my nipples and areola were now cone-shaped, sagging toward hers as I leaned forward to be caressed by her exquisitely erotic fingertips until, blissfully, I felt the flood tide of an orgasm overwhelm me.

True to her promise, she taught me to worship "the Emperor." At first I felt foolish and uneasy as she pushed my head down onto her massive cock and said, "Lick me, honey! Suck on me! Swallow me!" I did what I could. A few days later I successfully slid it down my throat and swallowed, and Tracy squealed, so I swallowed again and she squealed again. Now no question, I was one of the girls!

"Doesn't it feel good you can do this?" she asked. "Doesn't it make you feel important? From now on I'm going to leave it strapped to that little padded chair over there in the corner, so each evening when you get home you can get on your knees and deep throat it all by yourself. Get lots of practice. Imagine it's whatever your heart desires. Maybe for fifteen minutes each day. Long enough to get a man to cum. Then a few times each week sit down on it and get used to feeling it way up inside you. Try to learn to live especially for those moments."

So that too became part of my coming-home routine. Mostly I imagined it was Tracy's cock, or tried to imagine it was some other woman's. But it was so obviously masculine, with its veins and hairy balls, that now and then it would cross my mind that it was a man's, and I'd feel a little ashamed. When I told Tracy that, she said, "Ashamed to be a woman? Concentrate more on who you are and what you're doing." So I did. I still didn't like it whenever it crossed my mind it was definitely a man's penis, not a woman's. But I got used to it. And Tracy loved sucking me off too, taking my frequently limp cock into her mouth and tonguing it, or deep throating whatever dildo I was wearing to fuck her.

Then came Tracy's hard time. The company let all of her associates go and asked her to carry their burdens, before she'd managed to hire and train an assistant. Her work took long, wearying hours, and sometimes when she got home she could barely stand. She had little or no time for her new girlfriend. One night I told her to quit, it wasn't worth it, we didn't need the money that badly. She just looked at me and said, "I can't, honey. It's what I do, and I'm proud that I do it well. I'll have help before too much longer, and then it'll get easier." Then she went straight to bed without even eating.

So I took over the household, did all the shopping and cooking. I gossiped with a few women at the supermarket as if I were one of them, introduced by a neighbor had seen me coming and going and somehow assumed I was Tracy's cousin, staying with Tracy while her husband was away somewhere. I looked for ways to take over Tracy's chores, and discovered the neglected lingerie hamper. There were so many tangled items that day that hand washing simply wasn't practical. So despite her warnings I put them in the machine.

That's why when Tracy came into the house barely able to move, yet had to ask whose undies I was washing, I could truthfully answer "Ours." I was now her girlfriend husband, and accustomed to it. There was nothing odd in the reply. "Ours," she repeated, as if the concept were slow to sink in. Whose undies were being processed back to cleanliness and godliness? Ours. Today must have been an especially rough one for her. "That's good," she responded finally, despite hearing those delicate things being swirled in a machine. Then, "Start a bath for me, would you Hon? I'll be up in a minute. I just have to gather myself together here first."

"Sure," I said. "Would you like me to join you in the tub? I'd be happy to!"

"Just me this time, love," she said. "Tonight above all I need a good long soak in those perfumed bubbles and that bath oil. Please don't mind that we won't slide around on each other tonight. I just need to feel pampered."

I did as she requested, and when she'd worked her way upstairs and into the bathroom she seemed crippled.

"You've got to quit your job!" I said to her sternly, a little frightened in fact. "No job is worth your coming home like this. Just look at you! That's terrible!"

"That's sweet!" she said, throwing me a wan smile of appreciation. "You care! " She unbuttoned her dress and peeled it off and set it aside, then shrugged her teddy off onto the floor, then her panties, and then she stepped into the tub. I picked up the teddy and panties for her as I always did and tossed them into the now empty hamper. They were both damp, as if she'd had to rinse them out at the office before beginning the trip home. An accident with a period just now getting under way? One of those long meetings you can't leave even when you must?

No bra either. I supposed that when she'd opened her underwear drawer this morning she'd found that the cupboard was already bare of bras, so she'd gone to work without one. Well, I thought, that's OK. Her tits are firm, and that tight tweed suit jacket probably contained any bobble. If she kept it on. She might have asked to borrow one of my bras, I supposed.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhh!" she said as she sank down under the bubbles. "Just wonderful, sweetheart, you have no idea!"

I was feeling firm, more manly than in months, and decided it was time to play the man of the house. I stood there in the print dress I'd worn today to work and planted my feet, in three inch heeled pumps, because the dress's flare hadn't looked right this morning floating over my two inch business shoes. Then I carefully avoided looking at my cute, neatly made-up face in the mirror, and said, "Tracy. This has gone on long enough. You should quit! I'm serious!"

She looked at me appraisingly. Then suddenly she said in an unexpectedly businesslike voice, "You know, honey? I think we should talk. It's time. Slip into the tub with me, honey, and let's!"

She leaned back while I stripped off everything and climbed in, wondering if I should have wiped off my makeup. Then as in the old days she straddled me and wrapped her legs around my hips, and we held each other's waists and kissed softly. My cock stirred under her pussy, and I wondered if it was still possible....I hoped so...but no. We continued to kiss, and I reached for her breasts to soap them down and caress their ripe round globes. She reached for mine. She wriggled her bottom on my lap, and pressed her vulva against my cock, which remained limp despite the temptation. But it was obvious that her mind was somewhere else, working out a tactful way to tell me something.

Then, while we were still wrapped around each other, and soaping each other in the slick warm water, Tracy said in a drifting, mellow voice, as if daydreaming it, "You know my boss, the man who got me my promotion and keeps me so busy, and has been coming on to me since day one, way back?"

I was entranced as her soapy fingers found my nipples and she began running her soapy thumbs over them while lifting the tips of my breasts from underneath.

"Has he?" I asked, a little short of breath. My breasts felt sooo exquisite! "I thought we dealt with that back then. You mentioned a harassment suit, and he quit."

"No. I mentioned a harassment suit, but he didn't quit."

I clamped my mouth shut, anger starting to rise up in me. Tracy was now silent, though her thumbs were so excruciatingly sweet! My groin rose up to press into Tracy's, her thighs pressing against my hips.

"So? What about him?"

"He fucked me today."

I didn't register it at first, she said it so quietly. Then I replayed her voice in my head, and heard the words. "He fucked me today." I struggled to think what they might mean other than the obvious. There was nothing else. My heart dived into my stomach and stopped beating.

"What?!" My voice was a bit loud, and I was starting to think, I'll kill him! Taking advantage of my darling that way!

As if not hearing me, she hefted my budding young tits with her fingers—they were mounds now, and reached out nicely when I leaned forward. Then she began again to caress my nipples with her thumbs. She said nothing. She was giving me time to absorb this terrible revelation, and trying to feel whatever I felt. Baffled, angry, jealous, bewildered, devastated, furious. Yet also, delectable. A glow was spreading across my chest.

"What, love?" I said more calmly. I wanted her to go on, but I didn't want to hear her confirm what she'd just said. How could I desire so intensely to melt into her fingertips and yet want to rise up and explode in fury?

She said, "He fucked me." Quite calmly, then added as if an afterthought, "And I fucked him back."

Without moving, her thumbs continued to devastate me, and without uttering a word or moving a muscle, I went berserk inside! Lunatic! Crazed! Outraged!

She looked up and straight into my eyes, still fingering the tips of my breasts, and said quietly, informatively, "While I was leaning over his desk, looking at some figures he had there, he came up behind me and lifted my skirt, the beige tweed, you know, the one with the matching jacket, and he just plunged his thing all the way into me all at once. We both went crotch less today, love, remember? He was in me and pumping away before I even felt him lift my skirt."

I couldn't bear it! I'll kill him! I was thinking. I was trying to ask "And what did you do?" without seeming morbidly curious or enraged at her, but my throat was too tight to say anything. She looked away as if trying to remember exactly what happened, then added, "And I feel terrible saying this, but it felt so good once he was in me I didn't want him to stop! He fucked me until he came. I pushed back onto him, and rolled around on him, until I came too."

I felt crazed, indignant, my head about to burst. Yet above all I wanted her to keep caressing my tits! I swallowed. "How long was that?" I then managed to ask. And then felt so ashamed! Why did I need to know? Was I handicapping my wife's rapist for speed?

Tracy didn't think my question was at all foolish, She answered it seriously. "Maybe ten minutes, I suppose. After the first few thrusts it felt so good I wanted it to go on and on. Badly. It's been a while since you've been able to put real meat into me like that, and he's more of a man down there than you ever were. Much more."

I should have quailed at that, especially because a slight smile crossed her face as she said it, but she continued to lift my tits gingerly with one hand, and to rub my nipple. I couldn't breathe! Her other hand went down between her legs, where my limp prick was squeezed under her pussy, and took it gently in hand, and began to pull on it gently while rubbing on her own clit. My hips tilted upward to press against her.

I considered what else I might ask. Did you like it? Obviously she did. Would you do it again? No, that question would betray my terrible vulnerability, my fear that she's found another lover she wants to fuck more than she wants me. She may leave me! I must do something! I was in her arms, but I felt paralyzed!

Still quite calm, still looking directly into my face, but now clasping her hands behind my neck, and rotating her clit against my flaccid penis as if revolving on an inserted cock, she went on. "Then he turned and went over to the couch he keeps in the conference area of his office, and he lay down and gestured me over. I was still pretty hot, still dripping his jism and probably my own too, and I felt a little like his whore, which was exciting, you know? And he'd already done his the worst. So I went over and sat on his crotch the way he wanted and let him play with my tits. Then I took off my bra and bent over his face so he could suck them. His mouth felt warm. The way your pussy feels on my finger. Like this."

She bent over and lifted one of my small tits into her mouth, into the warm, soft, wet cavern of her mouth, and pulled me in further with a slight suction, then flicked her tongue on my suddenly engorged and distended nipple. I almost came. Then she let me go and resumed fingering me, looking up into my eyes with a pixieish grin.

"You liked that, didn't you? Well, so did I. Then when his cock stiffened again he put it back into me, and we went at it again for quite a while. A long while. I came maybe two or three more times, and finally he reared up that huge thing of his and crammed it into me as deep as he could and with an enormous bellow he dumped another whole load of cum into me. Then we were finished. I went back to my office and filed a few reports, and then came home. I must have left my bra there, I realized just now. At least I wasn't wearing it just now when I undressed. Oh yes! That second time his cock was up my rear, not in my vagina. So I have his sperm in both holes now, and that's why this bath feels so good on my bottom. You've been there too, sweetheart. Remember? I loved it!"

She loved it. I couldn't bear to ask which prick in her ass she'd loved. I was making strange bleating sounds, like enraged whining, not really human.

She pulled my head close to hers, and we leaned foreheads against each other, and she said, "Now, sweetheart, what should we do about this?"

I burst into tears. I started to sob once or twice, and then I couldn't stop. Was she going to leave me? After everything I'd done to make her happy? I'd given her my manhood, and now another man had given her the benefit of his, and she'd enjoyed it. I felt furious, but also helpless! Impotent! She just held me for a while, then when I began to quiet down, she said again, "What should we do? If we do nothing it'll happen again."

I took some deep breaths and cried out from the bottom of my heart, "Oh, Tracy!" It was relief and a lament, both.

"Do you hate me?" she asked. "Knowing that another man's spunk is inside me even now? That I loved feeling myself stretched out by his cock?"

That started the tears again, and I struggled to control them. "No, darling, I love you, you know how much I love you. Just look at me—this is all for you, to please you I became your girlfriend, I'm still your girlfriend, I want to be everything you want me to be, not just your husband! I'd do anything for you!" I felt desperate, helpless. I was trying to tell her everything at once. But how could I compete with a man with a huge cock? I had none at all now!

And I also felt ill-used, angry. But not toward Tracy. I glanced down at my nipples, still cone shaped and growing, and at Tracy's beautiful, pert ones poking prettily from the tips of her breasts. I may not be the man her boss is, I thought, but I'm getting to be the woman she is. How can he do this to us?

"What should we do?" Tracy asked me again. "I can't have him thinking about fucking me again all hours of the day!"

An idea began to form, born out of my despair. I began to talk rapidly, nearly tonelessly.

"There's no case for rape here," I said. "No threat that we'll bring charges. There's no evidence of struggle, and he gave you no opportunity to say 'No!', and you...acquiesced soon after he entered you anyhow. Probably there's not enough semen in your vagina for evidence any more either now that we're bathing"—I paused—"or in your asshole either."

"No," Tracy said, still watching me closely. "There's probably as much in your asshole by now. How does it feel?"

She was teasing me. That's good, I thought. I'm still her darling girlfriend at least. Still sharing. My idea gathered shape. I took her by the shoulders, so she'd get serious. "Could we make a case for sexual harassment?"

"No, honey," she said. "He didn't threaten me or offer inducements. He didn't use his position to intimidate me, or to extort favors. He just saw an opportunity to fuck me and he did it. And then I was so confused and demoralized and horny I let him do it again, nothing promised or gained. A quick office fuck between consenting adults. We can't build a case on that."

Now I began to see a plan, and blurted out my indignation. "He took advantage of you! Of your position under him!" I didn't mean to put it that way. "That's harassment. Couldn't you say so? Or tell him you'll say so, threaten to bring charges against him if he tries it again? That would stop him!"

"No, honey. There's a videotape, everything in his office is always videotaped for security reasons. The videotape shows two people fucking repeatedly without uttering a word to each other, enjoying each other like old lovers. And he has the videotape now. He's taken it home by now, I'm sure. He told me once he loves the instant replay button on his video at home, and he leered, so I never asked him what he meant."

"Could we trap him into doing it again? But this time get clear evidence of it ourselves—pictures, recordings, sure evidence of behavior that's plainly harassment?"

"With me? Not alone. Not with what he could show has already happened between us. I'm what's called a 'tainted' witness. He could claim anything we did was consensual, because we'd done it before, Even that I seduced him." I gloomily imagined him saying just that. It might even be true. I'd taken Tracy while she was leaning over a desk in her dormitory once, in our early horny time of life, when her ass had seemed to call out to me with a slight irresistible wiggle.

Tracy's eyes suddenly opened wide, and a huge grin brightened her face. "But it would work with someone else!" she said.

"What?" I asked.

"If he were to harass someone else first, then try me again, that would show a pattern! A kind of 'before' and 'after'. We could show how he extorts sexual favors first, say, from a job applicant, and then expects his employees to keep providing them. Then that tape he's got would be evidence in our favor. Yes! A job applicant. A girl at her most vulnerable being interviewed, when she's trying to be as pleasing as she can be. The inducement of employment, whether or not it's offered. That's sex for favors, a violation of FEPC rules, and of equal rights rules, and rules against harassment, and even laws against extortion! We'd have him! We wouldn't have to bring suit—just the threat would make him behave! And he'd want to have the whole thing videotaped anyhow for afterward! He's a voyeur. So there's no problem recording the evidence!"

Tracy bounced up and down on my lap. "It would work!" she cried out. She looked at me and smiled her most seductive smile, while her hands drifted down and began to play with my breasts again. "And I know just the job applicant, too!"

"Who?" I asked.

She lowered her head and kissed each nipple, then kissed me on the mouth. Her tongue came between my teeth. Her lips still against mine, she said, "You!"

"Meeeee?" I said, ending the word with a little squeal, because all that tit play had induced in me a sweet visceral yearning, distant thunder suggesting orgasmic storm clouds coming closer.

"Yes, honey. You! You're perfect!"

Tracy now straightened up and pushed out her lower lip and looked determined. "I can get you through the preliminaries and directly to the interview. And I can make sure it's private, though I'd attend as an observer the way I often do. If anything he'll think of me as an ally now, because we've already..." she paused, then went on, "done it, and he knows I'm happily married, that I have a vested interest in keeping it secret and helping him find someone else to satisfy his lusts. So he'd pay no attention to me until we had him on tape propositioning you." She grinned almost mischievously. "And I could watch him take advantage of my darling girlfriend, maybe even watch him fuck you with the same cock he used on me." She broke into a broad smile. "It would be another close bond between us." She took my penis between her thumb and forefinger and glanced up slyly. "You might even like it, sweetheart! I did!"

She was still teasing and goading me. "Oh, don't be so prim!," she said, looking at the expression on my face. "We could stop him any time you wanted. You don't have to prove penetration to prove harassment. Only duress, and that's easy in an employment interview."

The bath water had cooled down some, and I began to feel chilly as well as nervous. This was not how I'd wanted to see this problem solved.

"But Tracy, honey bun, how could I get him to try to seduce me. I'm not that pretty, and I don't have much of a figure yet, and...."

"Leave that to me!" Tracy now looked so determined she was utterly adorable. "I'll make you so attractive all the dogs on the block will howl when you come tripping by." She smiled. "You only need a little more experience with men, a little flirting, a little more flaunting of those tits and your sweet innocence, that's all. No, this plan is perfect. Even if we can't make a case for harassment, we can always embarrass him afterward that he's fucked a man, if he does, that he's a faggot, and then ask him who should see the videotapes of it. That would at least slow him down!"

She dismissed the whole issue with a toss of her head. "Now, my femme fatale, don't think! I'll do what thinking we need. Just be the Bimbo I love, and you wrap your legs around my waist and snuggle up. I want to push my finger into your pussy. Just to see what happens." She gave me a devastatingly wicked glance. "I don't think you'll mind if I push some of my boss's semen into you along with my finger. A temptress needs to get used to feeling a man drip back out of her." And she embraced and kissed me passionately.

Her finger felt glorious. I began to yearn for one of her dildoes.

When we got out of the tub we went straight into our bedroom and made love until nearly dawn. I wanted to re-establish my claim on her openings, and I actually managed to get my cock erect enough to enter her vagina for a few strokes before it collapsed and had to be replaced with a dildo. "That was very sweet!" she said when she felt me recede. "Surely you can see why you have no reason at all to feel jealous of any other man's bigger cock. I'm not. No woman is. You don't have any now either, to speak of, so you're not in the running either. In fact we should all feel grateful that some men are big league players, and think more about how we can use them to our own advantage."

We made "loving friends" with each other all night. It never for a moment occurred to me to think of myself as an injured party, a cuckold, a pathetic object of ridicule, that my wife had balled her boss and gotten off on it a few times, and now wanted my help cooling him out. Instead, Tracy persuaded me that I was a chivalric hero, a knight in girl's armor preparing to confront a dragon cocksman in order to rescue a distressed damsel. She told me how proud she was that I had come up with just the right idea we needed to control her boss's libido and get even. By morning I was convinced it was all my idea. Toward morning Tracy hauled out "the Emperor" and I deep throated it repeatedly. Usually she filled its cum tank mostly with warm Gatorade and gelatin, "so my pretty lady can have a nice reward in her tummy that tastes just like cum, sweet, and salty, and slick." But this time she used chocolate sauce for a surprise, and we both giggled when I passed it from my mouth to hers. Last of all, she had me bend over our bed the way she had bent over her Boss's desk, and then she pushed the Emperor into me and fucked me but good! I couldn't walk the next day either!

 

end three

(continued)

  

  

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