This is a long one, in which the characters think things through more carefully than in most of mine, to decisions not much different from those in most of my stories. Rightly or wrongly. But each in his own way. Or hers.

As usual, those who shouldn't be reading these kinds of fictions shouldn't read this kind of fiction. You know who you are. If in doubt, ask around.

I'm always curious what people like and dislike about anything I write, and I always appreciate knowing. Please let me know VickieTern@aol.com

    

Last Summer

by Vickie Tern

© 2003

  

i

Prologue

When I awoke it was no longer dark, not even dim, the sun was well up. In the warm yellow September morning light I could see the top of my night stand and our bedroom walls and my closet door. And my bureau, and Scottie's chest of drawers. And my dressing table still covered with cosmetics, some still tumbled on their sides and others with lids and caps still open. God since yesterday morning?

-- I hoped they weren't drying out. They were exactly as I'd left them yesterday when I was running late to meet Craig and whatever friend Craig had brought for Cheryl, for our last weekly lunch meeting and then our last coupling, as we'd done all summer long, Cheryl and her new man usually leaving first, eager to get to it, then after a certain amount of verbal duelling and sparring me and Craig, straight to the motel where we'd been falling into each other's bodies every Saturday since the summer began. Though yesterday for the last time.

 

Scottie might at least have noticed the mess I'd left and re-capped a lipstick for me or something, but apparently but he hadn't. Maybe it had been a mistake for me to insist he get his own cosmetics and stop using mine? He kept his own dressing table neat enough at all times, as if he hardly ever touched his make-up. I knew better of course -- one of the best times of day was when the two of us were doing our faces together in the morning and talking about all sorts of things, as girls will. And now and then I'd see he'd bought himself something new, maybe a new lipstick to go with a new dress, or a shade of blush better suited to some transient mood. Just like any girl making herself pretty to satisfy herself. He scarcely ever noticed my things these days.

Still, that had been the original attention, to get him so preoccupied with his own appearance and his own activities that he wouldn't get concerned how I was spending my Saturday afternoons all summer long, sometimes well into the evenings. Even when it would have been obvious if he'd looked. Maybe without mentioning anything, we'd both agreed that if nothing was said then neither of us had to endanger our marriage by asking questions. Neither of us wanted that.

Anyhow, it was all over now. Done. Just as I'd expected all along. This whole mad summer with its sweltering humidity and dripping bodies and heated graspings and couplings and its yearnings and its glorious sex had finally cooled into this crisp, sensible September day. I'd finally used up my passion for that wise ass hunk of man I'd been fucking every Saturday afternoon into the evening, that great body and greater ego I'd taken vast pleasure trying to dominate or undermine. I no longer needed to try. I no longer cared. Now Craig would return to his usual weekend girlfriends, and Scott and I could return to our lives as they were before the summer and this whole thing happened. Which had been fine, understand me, no complaints! We'd return if we could and move on if we couldn't. Scottie'd expressed doubts, and I had my own doubts, but there was no telling.

I turned. Scottie was sleeping on his left side as he always did, facing me, one shoulder blocking my line of vision. But I could see the walls of our bedroom on his side too, and his closet door, and the sun's rays streaking toward us around the edges of our drawn blinds, a few dust motes trapped in its rays. Everything still looked the same. A Sunday just like all the other Sundays of our married lives. For the past few months, all summer long, our Sundays had been different because the Saturdays preceding them had been very different. But now, one last session with Scott in our own bed, his pretty mouth licking me pristine of the last of Craig, participating in my affair with Craig without even knowing it. One last delicious orgasm and he'd be released from his promise to me, free to live as he chose. I'd probably bring down his clothes from the attic where I'd stored them to make room for the new clothes now filling his closet. Maybe give away his new clothes, but keep a few of the nicer items for myself.

Unless he wanted to keep wearing them. They were his now, and the life that went with them.

Maybe today he'd also feel free to speak his mind about my strange demands on him all this past summer. That was worrisome. At least at this moment we were still together, anyhow, and that was simply lovely. I lifted my head and leaned toward my sweet Scottie, wondering whether I should wake him with a gentle kiss on his ear. Maybe nibble the baguette earring I'd bought as a gift, to celebrate his homecoming with his ears pierced. I was touched that it was still his favorite.

No matter, now if he wished he could remove them and let the holes close over and heal. As with our pierced marriage too.

He was still sleeping peacefully in his favorite nightie, the beige satin lace he'd bought for himself when I'd insisted that he learn to love his nice things, not just accept them as necessities. I sniffed. Sure enough, Lilac Ecstasy. Our perfume. My signature scent ever since some forgotten teenage beau spent a month's allowance to buy me a teeny bottle, and brought it to me adorned with an actual sprig of lilac, so many years ago. Scottie's too for the past three months, because I'd insisted we wear the same scent. That he wear my perfume to keep him reminded whose world he had entered. He'd agreed that for the whole summer it would be my world, not his.

I had to smile. Of course I'd always doused myself in Lilac Ecstasy whenever I left the house to meet Craig. Every Saturday. I wanted to keep myself smelling fresh for Craig through all our heavy-duty lovemaking, but also I needed to mask our mingled body odors, the smell of fresh sex with another man, when I came back home to Scottie. I'd wanted Scottie to wear it for the same reason, so he couldn't smell Craig on me.

But also for more romantic reasons. Wearing my aroma signified that he was mine, living the way I wanted him. I loved it, knowing that he was walking around all day in a cloud of feminine scent, being feminine, being a lovely girl. It was so sweet to think about. Especially when I was in bed with another man, a powerful man, and his cock was deep inside me. It helped me feel less guilty that I was betraying my husband, if I knew that at that moment he wasn't much of a man anyhow.

Then too wearing Lilac Ecstasy all the time would encourage him to stay home doing his own things when I was out doing mine with Craig. That's what I'd first thought, anyhow. A man wearing a woman's scent isn't likely to go around asking people if they'd seen his wife. But that idea collapsed almost immediately, when he began living full time as a woman.

Getting Scott to wear my perfume had been the first tactic I'd stumbled onto and adopted when all this began. It was an accident, almost a whim. All the rest came out of it, in a way. If he smelled feminine, why not look feminine too? And so on.

But now it was September. The three months' agreement we'd negotiated had run out. Yesterday I'd had my farewell session with Craig, and today Scottie knew that he no longer had to keep the promises he'd made last June.

Come to think of it, I'd told him only yesterday that he could stop using that fragrance, that he could wear his more manly after shave if he wished. Yet here he was, still scented with Lilac Ecstasy. Had he splashed on the concentrated perfume instead of dabbing it, or misting the cologne, as I'd shown him way back? And now the perfume had soaked into his skin? Or maybe it was his scented bubble baths? Or the Lilac skin-softening creams he'd included in his nightly beauty regimen for months now? Or his oil treatments at the beauty salon?

In a way, that would be amusing. In that case it would be weeks before he stopped smelling of flowers and took on a more manly scent. I sighed. When his Lilac Ecstasy wore off, and his ear-piercings closed, his body would nevertheless always bear some other irreversible reminders of this strange time.

There were for example the new lovely smooth feel of his face, and the new curves of his body. I loved them, and I knew he did too! Maybe I should ask him to continue using a skin softener even when he again became a man? If he did choose to become a man again? It would be suitable, because he was now certainly permanently hairless.

He'd gone to a two-week all-in-one Electrolysis Institute in a Gender Clinic in Texas a few weeks into our agreement, and he'd returned changed. His face and chest and legs were as smooth as a baby's. Not that I'd ever objected before to the hair on his face and body -- there wasn't that much. But I'd told him early on that since he'd agreed to pretend to be a woman, he could save himself the bother of shaving twice daily, and since he never intended to grow a beard or moustache anyhow he had nothing to lose. It was a painless process -- they put their clients into a kind of twilight sleep and then they did everything the client wanted then and there, for twelve or eighteen hours a day, until it was done. Then the client woke up and went home. I'd made the reservation for him, and while I was at it I'd ordered the other procedures as well. To help him keep his promises, but also to further ease my conscience that I was being ravished by another man and loved it. Off he'd gone. And back he'd come, looking more feminine than even I'd ever imagined. So lovely! Absolutely darling, and all mine! And on my part, no regrets.

I have to confess it though, my main reason for sending him out of town then was simply to free up the two weeks so I could go cruising with Craig on his sailboat, so I could have two weeks of fucking that marvelous man night and day, day after day. It had been two weeks of orgasmic rapture, simply glorious, everything I'd hoped, and it had set our affair on an especially exalted level for the months to come. I'd especially enjoyed it, when my cheeks scratched against Craig's wiry beard, and my fingers knitted into the thick mat of hair on Craig's chest, knowing that at that very moment my husband Scott was being made forever smooth, bare, and beautiful for me, completely girlish, that he'd never ever again match Craig's masculine appeal. That was perversely satisfying, I suppose.

But whenever I felt a guilty twinge that I'd done that to him, I consoled myself that Scott had never been in Craig's league as a man. When my nose was buried in Craig's crotch hairs as I blew him, it was satisfying that Scott would always be bald down there. Scott wasn't exactly effeminate, not until the summer began and I demanded it of him, but he'd never been a hunk either. I'd married him for his quick mind and his sweet temperament, not for his masculinity. And because I loved him, and he loved me, I'd thought I could live my life without being periodically flattened and stuffed by some muscle bound real man. I was wrong. This past summer proved it.

When we returned to port I was finally fully satisfied. Not that I felt sated -- Craig's virility still blew my mind, and we continued to climb all over each other as lovers for two more months. But we both knew then that what we felt for each other's bodies wasn't love. I knew that what I felt for Scottie was love.

 

And Scottie returned home looking quite pretty -- there was no other word for him. He was reshaped, and his face was as smooth and lean as a gorgeous model's. The body creams they'd given him gave a silken feel and glow to his hairless skin. I'd sent them a sissy man and they returned me a gorgeous babe, a whole new hubby! I loved it!

My sweet Scottie! Would he return to our marriage as it had been, now that my little digression from it had ended? Could I tell him now what I've really been doing, why I wanted him emasculated for the summer? Was he now enough of a woman to understand and sympathize, or would his injured male ego rule him? Would I still be living with him when he finally stopped smelling of lilac? Would some other woman? Would some other man?

I'd find out soon enough.

My wonderful Scottie! He'd granted me what I had to have, a three month time out from our usual relationship, and it had been enough. The summer storm within me had moved on. Yesterday's coupling with Craig had been wistful, not really passionate, a kind of appreciative farewell to the pleasure we'd given each other, tender but without yearning. Craig's cock had slid in and out of me yesterday slowly, gratefully, as if it were aware it was for the last time.

Now I'd resume my marriage, if Scott was willing. That was up to him. It would be his decision. I'd done what I had to do, and there was nothing more I could do now. I'd made my bed and I was lying in it with the man I'd married and made into a woman. Maybe he'd want to change back, and maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he'd leave me. Certainly he'd leave me if he knew why I'd made him into a woman. Whatever happened, I could only blame myself.

 

ii.

If yesterday's Saturday with Craig was nostalgic, that first one three months ago was nothing of the kind! It was the first warm June day of the season, and I was wearing a smart print cotton sun dress, very chic, no shoulders, a little more flirty than my usual outfits, and I suppose that put me in the mood. I met Cheryl at Les Bergeres for our regular Saturday girls' lunch, as usual. We were former college roommates now married and settled in, each in our own way. We'd gotten together for gossip as usual, maybe also shopping or a movie, as we'd done every Saturday noon for several years, ever since we'd discovered delightedly that we were both working in the same city. But that day we'd traded very little gossip. Lunch became something quite different from our usual lunches, something else altogether, something more wonderful and wicked for both of us. And instead of returning home in the late afternoon as usual, I'd returned well after dark.

Oh, my, that frightening trip home! I'd felt so awful! So conflicted! So burdened with remorse, yet unable to blame myself! So I'd turned on Scott as if he were the one to blame, the poor dear! Then the next morning I'd badgered, intimidated, and seduced him into giving me everything what I needed. A three month agreement to do what I wished, that I could use as a moratorium from him altogether! What a self-indulgence! And he'd granted me the three months! And actually agreed to my crazy conditions!

That Sunday after my mad Saturday luncheon with its aftermath was absolutely memorable! I'd awakened alone in our spare bedroom and as consciousness returned I'd felt doubly devastated! Oh, God, what had I done! The previous afternoon had been bad enough -- I'd fucked another man for the first time since my marriage to Scott, more than fucked him, welcomed him into my every crevice and opening repeatedly! I'd craved him! And then what a bitch I'd been to Scott when I'd returned home!

It all came back! Whatever had possessed me? Well, my desire for more of Craig, mainly. I'd returned home way more Craig's than Scott's. My lower regions were all deliciously stretched, distended, swollen by everything Craig and I had been doing together. Not defiled, though I should have felt defiled, I wasn't married to Craig, I was married to Scott, and Scott hadn't done any of those things to me -- another man had done them! I should feel ashamed! And I did. Yet I also felt fulfilled, exalted, completed, like a goddess whose pussy and boobs were larger than life! The sex I'd had seemed to justify anything I might do to have it again!

I'd awakened that next morning in our spare bedroom and when I sat up I saw that I was still coated thick with Craig's emissions, my face and breasts and thighs crusty and sticky with them. I still oozed his fluids. It felt splendid! I wore his dried semen like a badge of honor!

Oh, God, it then struck me, exulting and despairing! I've really done it! I've really and truly done it, destroyed my marriage, and then to cover myself, to save some vestige of it, to evade my nagging guilt, resenting the fact that I felt the need to save it, resenting that I couldn't sink deeper into even worse infidelities, eager to cram more of Craig into me, I'd come home thinking how to take advantage of Scott, how to ruin him as a man in my own eyes for a few months. My darling husband, who loves and trusts me. The only man I've ever loved!

That first Sunday morning, covered with dried cum, I'd opened our bedroom door and looked in at him asleep in our huge bed, and tried to decide how to proceed, what to do. Then I'd scurried to dump my stained sheets and undies into the clothes washer to started them soaking, to destroy the evidence! Then reluctantly -- my God, I'd been reluctant! -- I'd showered off all of Craig's dried cum and smeared excrescences and slobber and returned my body to an undetectable, pristine normality. Nearly. On the outside, anyhow. Inside I was still sticky with his cum, I could feel it still leaking between my legs.

I carefully patted myself dry and powdered my whole body and blended a touch of foundation onto the bite marks Craig had made on my neck and shoulders so they'd be invisible. Now as far as Scott was concerned it had never happened. But it had happened -- my slit was still a sopping mess! I was appalled that I felt no shame, that I wanted it to happen again and again. That I knew I could make it happen again and again, if I played it right! If I was determined to play it right.

So deliberately, maliciously, I'd gone into our bedroom where Scott lay asleep and I'd sat down on our bed where he lay still sprawled on his own side. Even in my absence he'd respected my side of the bed. There was my space, empty, even though in his sleep he'd tried to fling an arm onto it to bring me closer. Even in my absence. That dear man! Why was I planning to do this to him?

I noticed that despite my shower and the bath powder I still smelled strongly of sex -- I should have douched too. How many times had Craig pumped his semen into me yesterday? In how many places? On impulse I reached over to my dressing table and trickled a whole bottle of my most long-lasting perfume onto me. Then onto Scott. Lilac Ecstasy. The aroma filled the room. Now that was all Scott could possibly smell for a few hours! I was safe!

I then awakened him slowly with a gentle conciliatory blow job.

"Mmmmm!" he'd said at first. Then a long silence. Then, "why do I smell flowers?" he asked quietly, all the while I ran my tongue up the length of his cock and daintily mouthed its rosy tip. It was a lovely cock. Much like Craig's, I was thinking, a little shorter but a little thicker, either way a pleasure to have and to hold in hand, mouth, or pussy. Different. Not dangerous or challenging, not an aggressive instrument of domination like Craig's, bent to destroy me if I let down my guard. Not arrogant, demanding subjugation even while itself hard and unyielding. Instead, Scott's cock was comforting, reassuring. Friendly and familiar, loving. It was my very own cock. I snugged it deeper into my mouth.

"It's nice, this perfume, but it's yours," he added. "Why on me?"

"Because I want you to smell like me," I replied lazily, lipping his cock head. "It's a lovely scent. A woman's scent." That was certainly true. Men's fragrances were made from herbs and spices. Women's from flowers. This one was a rich, heady floral bouquet of lilacs, armfuls of them, deeply feminine. Why on Scott? Because I didn't want him to be able to smell the man-smell on me. And then I realized slowly, because I didn't want him to smell like a man either. Not now. Not so soon after Craig. Not like competition for Craig, as if Craig was his rival. I didn't want any residual manly after shave or cologne smells on him to remind me of Craig's, and the yearning for Craig I still felt in my count. I wanted him to smell like me! Like a woman!

These were strange, unfamiliar thoughts. If he somehow was more like me, then maybe he'd want me to fuck Craig, because I wanted to fuck Craig? He'd be more understanding? And if he were a woman, I'd feel less guilty that I'd betrayed him all yesterday afternoon and into the evening, and that I wanted to do it again and again?

"I want you to," I said again. "I want you to smell like a woman." And suddenly I took his whole cock down my throat and bobbed my whole head and neck up and down around it. It slid in and out past my lips and down through my slippery gorge deep into my esophagus. It must have felt to him like an incredibly tight vagina. He sighed, as if he'd arrived home for the first time. If I could have, I would have smiled.

I'd deep throat a man yesterday for the first time ever, taken a penis all the way down into my throat, devoured it, because challenged to do so. Craig's penis. At the time I'd wanted to swallow all of Craig whole, possess him completely! So I'd pushed his most vital part down my gullet, and when Craig's cock filled my neck as it had filled my pussy moments before, stiff and slick, I felt triumphant, completed! Now he was altogether in my power!

But I'd never done anything remotely like that with Scott. Maybe licked or kissed him a few times preliminary to other things, but never even sucked on him. Certainly never taken him deep down into my throat. I'd never thought it possible, how could anyone breath with that thing stuffed down their throats? Would Scott get suspicious now, wonder where suddenly I'd learned to push a cock into me that way, and wonder why I was doing it? I almost didn't care! I wanted to overwhelm my hubby, give him something of what I'd given Craig, let him benefit from my infidelity with Craig, share in it, because he was my true beloved. Craig was my obsession, but Scott was my life!

My poor cuckolded Scott! I wanted to make him happy too!

With that thought I plunged him deeper down my throat and pumped my head and neck on it until he gasped and stiffened and finally throbbed, sending his little sperms hurtling down into my tummy to join Craig's. To join Craig's -- that thought was so satisfying! Then I milked the base of his cock once or twice with my lips and pulled myself off him.

"All right?" I said slyly?

"Where did you learn to do that?" he asked, amazed.

I couldn't answer of course. So I kissed him. Wickedly, I wiped my sperm-thickened tongue on his lips, and I was gratified to see him lick it off. His own sperm. Another first! "All right?" I asked him again.

He hesitated a moment, then concentrated on my question. "Do you mean 'All right, that felt good'? Yes, better than all right, Andy! It felt marvelous!" He sounded sincerely appreciative. "Or do you mean 'All right I'll wear your perfume and smell like a woman'? "

Of course! I'd already forgotten. The last thing I'd said before going down on him was 'I want you to smell like a woman.' I certainly did, too! And he remembered.

"Both!" I said. An idea was forming. "I want both for you!"

"Is this related to last night? What you said about how I need to understand women better?" he asked carefully, faintly worried. "That I should try to do what women do and all that?"

"Yes," I said, suddenly reminded of that fierce diatribe I'd raged at him last night, my mock fury with him. It could be. Yes!

"You don't mean just now and that's all? You mean from now on? You want me to wear perfume the way you wear perfume? As a usual thing?"

Exactly! I'd never have asked that of him! It hadn't even occurred to me! But he'd said it! Yes! Let him be my delicate, flowery, girly-smelling Scott, no match for my rough-hewn Craig! In fact I should dominate him in other ways too, the way I try to dominate Craig and Craig refuses to be dominated. Scott would go along with me because he loves me! I should make his agreeing to my demands a test of his love, if need be! Maybe also belittle him and humiliate him the way Craig tries and fails to humiliate me!

Well, not exactly in the way Craig tries it, that can get pretty wild. Scott could never stand being fisted, for example, but I'd been fisted in both openings and when Craig thought me helplessly impaled had imprisoned his arms inside me. But I'd could be firm with Scott! "Yes!" I said. "All the time!"

"Andy, what would people think, me wearing perfume?"

"Why should you care?" I said in a tight voice. How did I get into this? All because I didn't want him to smell Craig on me! But now there's no backing away. "It's what I think that matters. It's what I want! For you to smell like me!"

Too stern! Be more appealing, reassuring! "Besides, what people?

School's out, there're no more students, and no more colleagues! You'll be buried in your study all summer writing that book. Or maybe you'll be in the college library, but who cares if a few librarians notice that one professor smells of lilacs? It'll make things all the more pleasant for you, too."

He looked troubled. Unsure what was happening. So more gently, more casually, I added, "Oh, sweetheart, I'd love it if you smelled just like me! And no one would even notice, not if it's appropriate! We can arrange things so the way you look, no one thinks it's at all odd that you're wearing a woman's perfume."

He stared at me, understanding immediately what I meant.

"Yes, darling, that's what we'll do! For the whole summer! It won't be that difficult!" And with that I held my breath. Would he understand what I meant? Would he actually accept such a weird idea?

"Oh!" he said quietly. For a moment that was all he said. Then "That's what you want? For the whole summer? You really want that?"

He was so quick! He did see! No wonder I loved him! "Yes," I said again, and I nodded as if I were determined, unshakeable. "That's what I want, and that's what you'll do. For the whole summer. Not very long, only for a few months, just long enough to give you a taste of what it's like. Long enough for you to find your own femininity so you can understand mine better! We'll be so much happier together afterward. And you'll enjoy it! I'll want you to enjoy it! I'll help you, of course!"

He just looked at me, his face inexpressive. And all I could think to myself was at that moment was 'Yes, this is the way! Carry on from last night's quarrel, improvise, keep up the pressure, forget Scott is a man, think of him as a woman, and have a glorious summer guilt-free of fucking Craig!'

Just terrible! But it would work! And it won't last, this passion. In a few months I'm sure we'll have returned to the way we were. Meanwhile it can't hurt for Scott to understand a woman's point of view a little better.

"It'll be lovely!" I added. "You'll love it. You're always turned on when you see me wearing my bras and panties. Maybe I'll be turned on when I see you in yours! It'll be delicious, being sexy together!"

Then I felt a really wicked impulse, and I yielded to it! Implicate Scott, make him a participant! "Here, have a taste of it, of being me! Taste my femininity," I said, suddenly climbing onto him and straddling his head. "Taste it! Sink your nose in it!"

And I sat down on his face, his nose poking at my lit, his mouth under my pussy. I squeezed my vaginal muscles ever so slightly, and an oozing of Craig's cum went directly into his mouth. I felt him swallow. Wonderful! I knew he couldn't speak, that I was in complete charge! "More!" I said. "Kiss me, sweetheart!"

He did. I squeezed harder this time, and a whole glop of Craig's semen slipped out of me and into his mouth. Oh, God the elation! The triumph! "Swallow me again!" I commanded, and he did.

Then for the next ten minutes I squeezed and he swallowed, and it was exquisite! My one true love was subjugated, humiliated, made to eat another man's cum as an act of love for me, and he didn't even know it! But I did! Yes! And I loved it, that he was himself cleaning the last evidences of Craig out of me! As if he were participating in my adultery, forgiving it, wanting it, encouraging it! Helping me hide the evidence. Kissing my pussy to console me, to tell me it's all right

Yes! He'd do this after every one of my sessions with Craig! Every Saturday I'd have lunch with Cheryl and then I'd meet Craig and use his body ruthlessly, and when I get home Scott will clean me out, forgive me his own cuckoldry, and never even know it. Yes!

Moreover, he'll be a girl when he does it, he's already agreed to that too! He won't be my husband but my girlfriend when I'm fucking Craig! I'll be sharing Craig's semen with my girlfriend! How can that be a betrayal of him?

I was quite mad, but it all seemed perfectly reasonable at the time. When Scott finished licking me clean, I snuggled into bed with him and kissed him. Now I had both men in bed with me, Scott's body and Craig's semen, and we both had Scott's and Craig's semen inside our tummies. My Scott's mouth now tasted of Craig's cum. Scott's flavor was lighter, different. I could still taste it from the blow job I'd given him, but his kisses now tasted like Craig's. I did hope he wouldn't notice and compare flavors.

"Mmmmm!" was all I said. We were launched into something altogether new for me. For my lovely hubby too. I had no idea how it would end.

"We'll make love as lesbians this summer, lover," I told him. "Not as man and wife. As women. It'll give you an incentive."

"An incentive?" he asked. "For what?"

"To look pretty for me," I said. "To be an attractive woman for me."

Maybe he didn't grasp all the implications. "Lesbians? You won't want me to enter you?" he asked. He sounded wary, faintly hurt.

"Oh yes," I replied blithely. "Of course you will, we'll use dildos on each other, lesbians do that. Maybe you'll use the one that's already attached to you, and I'll get one I can strap on and use on you. Or maybe I should get you another strap-on to use on me. That way you're less likely to feel manly when we make love. We won't want that. Yes, that's what we'll do!"

Yes. If Scott's cock from now on would be a rubber protuberance, then Craig's hot prick would have exclusive access to me. I'd already spent hours and hours trying to wear it out, trying to give and get from it more than he'd given or gotten. Was Craig man enough to take care of my lusts exclusively in one day each week, after a week when I've had no man in me at all, only a dildo? I'd tell him that would be his task -- that would challenge him! Then we'd see.

Scott was silent. Was he still wondering whether I was serious?

I wondered too. I knew I was being really weird. Was I serious? Whether or not, I had to be now. I'd gone way too far to reverse course.

Lying there next to Scott that first Sunday, coming to my senses, I re-considered what I'd just done. I'd followed my instincts and improvised. It suddenly occurred to me that none of this was necessary. I could have drowned him in fragrance last night as soon as I'd gotten home. Soaked him in so much perfume that he'd never have detected my fermy spermy smell. Then maybe I could have gotten him too drunk to detect anything at all, barely able to totter off to bed. Then all this wouldn't have followed, my conniving to persuade my perfect gentleman to become a perfect lady for a few months, so I could feel free to enjoy a summer's sexual fling. It wouldn't even have occurred to me to make Scott over into a lady.

But last night I'd been desperate, reaching for any excuse, any plan! It had killed me to do what I'd done to him last night, feigning anger, hurting him badly, stalking off indignantly. But I'd thought I had no choice! It was the only thing I could think of! There he was, waiting up for me, eager to see me, eager to welcome me home and make love to me, and yet I couldn't let him smell me or touch me or come anywhere near me! Not the way I arrived home, smelling over-ripe, Craig's juices all over my thighs. That man had come into me and onto me and all over me like a firehose! I'd tried to mop him off and out of me with a motel towel, and before I'd dashed out of our motel room and over to my car I'd shoved a handful of tissues into my pussy to stem the flow. But I'd gotten dressed hurriedly, because it was already dark out when I'd come to my senses and realized that Scott would be worried about where I was. I knew that there simply wasn't time to shower and clean up, that I had to return to Scott the way I was, dripping Craig's juices as I went.

God, I'd thought, I should never have gotten all the way naked with Craig in the first place! Not the first time with him, anyhow! It would have been enough for me to just lift my skirt and drop my panties, all the while staring him down so he'd accept that minimal offering, that challenge, and wouldn't dare try for more. I should never have allowed Craig to strip me the way he did that first time, all the way, slowly, looking into my eyes steadily the whole time, hook by hook, button by button, snap by snap, challenging me in turn to stop him, challenging me to give in first. Which I couldn't possibly do! No way! I'd looked back at him as steady-eyed as he was, as unintimidated, giving as good as I was getting, also not cracking the slightest change of expression. In fact I'd unbuckled and then unzipped his pants, and unbuttoned his shirt, with the same locked-eye impassivity he'd maintained. Our undressing of each other had been a duel, and a draw until the very end.

But when we were both unclothed, naked, I'd won! I'd won that round, anyhow. It was Craig who first ran his huge hand down my bare skin, from my armpit down my waist and around my hip and along my flank, caressing me, assuring himself that I was finally absolutely open to him, naked, wholly accessible, ready! It was Craig who then broke off eye contact and looked down to survey the bare body he now held in both his hands, my breasts pointing at him, taunting him, challenging him to resist them! Craig had stopped staring into my eyes and stared down at them, and I'd won!

When I realized I'd won, I looked down too to see what he was seeing. There they were, my nipples poking out at him as distended and stiff as they ever get. Huge, swollen and rigid, the way they get sometimes when I'm leaning back in Scott's arms and my entire body is a tight-wound spring anticipating the golden moment, the next moment, when Scott will sink himself into me and make us one, and we'll each disappear into each other, no longer separated, one flesh.

And what I saw below my outthrust nipples was Craig's cock! There it was below my breasts, below his hairy belly, angry, a stiff purple staff aimed straight at my crotch! I suddenly wanted Craig to sink himself into me. Not Scott, Craig! I wanted it! Him! I was eager for him to move that fierce prick toward me, desperate! I could already feel it bulging and pulsing inside me! And yet he hadn't even moved! God! It was terrible! Wonderful! We just stood there like that, looking down at each other's nude bodies, hands stroking each other, moving slowly closer to our pleasure places.

That was the moment I became unfaithful to Scott, that moment when I wanted Craig and knew I'd soon have him. That was when I'd already committed the infidelity in my heart and mind, my marriage vows abandoned! For the first time, for the first time since I'd first met my lovely Scott and realized that this was the man I wanted to have and to hold and to keep for the rest of my life, I wanted another man! It had been dizzying, my scheming to capture Scott, and not at all easy to bring off -- Scott was living with another girl at the time. But I'd gotten him, and he was all the man I'd ever wanted. I still remembered my wedding day as the happiest of my life! I'd sworn to be faithful to him that day, and God how I'd meant it, almost crying in gratitude that he loved me as profoundly, as deeply as I loved him! And he'd sworn the same thing, and I knew he'd meant it too, with all his heart!

And after five years of marriage I loved Scott more than ever! But yesterday afternoon Craig was all the man I wanted, the only man I wanted at that moment! When I saw my hard, pointy nipples offering themselves to Craig, aiming themselves at him defiantly, and Craig bending as if to touch his tongue to each one, I felt unbelievable desire! When his tongue actually did touch a nipple tip a shock moved through me into my groin so sharply that I screamed. And again! Each time! Now it was Craig I wanted! I wanted Craig! Deeply, completely! Not for life, no way, only for ten minutes of hard, delirious fucking! Ten minutes would have been enough at that point, but I had to have him in me that moment! I had to!

So as Craig pushed me gently backward toward the motel bed, his large hands pressing against my wide naked hips, I pulled him along, my hands pressed against his muscular waist. Then suddenly I felt the edge of the bed on my legs. My knees buckled, and I fell back.

And ten seconds later my infidelity to Scott was confirmed in my flesh. Another man's cock was deep inside me, and my legs were wrapped tight around his back, ankles locked, pulling it in even deeper, clamping him firmly into me! I was now an adulteress, signed and sealed, for the first time ever and for all time to come! An unfaithful wife! A slut!

God, it was so great!

Craig's thick and throbbing cock pushed way in, and then pulled out, and when it was all the way in again I ground my crotch onto it! Writhing! Wriggling! Grinding! At that moment, for that moment, my cunt had the tightest iron grip imaginable on that huge cock, and it wouldn't let go, it couldn't, my pussy muscles were stony, rigid. And then when for the first of many times that cock started to spasm and spasm and wouldn't quit, and my whole body shrieked, and my pussy muscles joined in uncontrollably. Together we'd created a whole symphony of spasms. Of orgasms? I lost track! My cup, I was thinking in pure joy, my cup runneth over, his sperm and my secretions were overflowing all over me, down my legs, soaking the bed!

And then again! After that first fuck we couldn't quit, either of us! For hours and hours, we went wild! I remember it now as a series of lightning flashes. We were climbing all over each other, our mouths, tongues, skin, hands, all my openings grasping at anything of his, pushing into or against his, my whole body clenched in the most delicious craving and straining and striving and reaching and grasping of my life! Oh, God, I was utterly out of my mind! Insane! Delightfully, grandly, madly! For hours!

Then when we were done, spent, emptied, exhausted, I finally came to my senses. I looked out at that dark motel window and then at that illuminated clock by that tumbled motel bed, and I realized I had better leap to get dressed and get out of there and get back home. My God, what have I done, I was now thinking for the first time that day. What will Scott think? Can he forgive me? No, of course not! Why should he? Why should he ever forgive me?

Why should he ever know?

I'd thrown on my clothes, no matter that our sweat had mixed and mingled and Craig's man-smell had rubbed off and soaked into my skin everywhere, into my hair, my crotch, no matter that his saliva was still all over my neck, both wet and dry, from when he'd discovered that's what really turns me on, what that does to me, being kissed and slobbered on the neck. And who knows where his tongue had been before then or afterward? My ass crack and buttocks were coated, sticky. My cunt still radiated warm joy all through me even while it trickled onto my legs. My ass was sore, burning a little. No one had ever been in there before and it had hurt when Craig had forced himself into me there and pillowed his belly on my buttocks, then slowly begun to move. And the hurt had then become something else! Ecstatic! I'd felt grandly superior, because this man was a lowly slave servicing my ass! When he'd pulled out and left me lying on my belly with a secret smile on my lips, I'd told him to kiss my asshole to make it feel better, and he hadn't even hesitated. Then while he was licking and sipping at my rosebud, from sheer spite I'd squeezed some of his cum back out of my bowels into his mouth. "Swallow me!" I'd commanded. "Swallow it!" And he'd swallowed his own sperm! Who knows what else? Score another for me!

We'd both swallowed his sperm. Lots. My own mouth and lips were still thick-coated with it, and I could still taste it. Heavy, strong, not at all light and spicy like Scott's.

Maybe I'd feel less guilty if I shared it with Scott, I was thinking wildly at the time, even as our naked bodies lay pressed on each other. Maybe Craig's sperm inside Scott would make him more like Craig, more heavy-bodied, so I could have both men in one man? No, that was a fantasy of course. They were each their own men. But now I wanted both! Talk about confusion? But it had gotten so late! It was dark out!

No time to put my pantyhose back on, so I'd pushed them into my purse and grabbed some more kleenexes and pushed more tissues into my crotch along with the other drenched stuff and then dashed for the door. One last look back at Craig. He was lying on his back at his leisure, quietly watching me as I scampered to get out of there. Though I knew I'd exhausted him, he still looked cocky.

"I'll call about next time," he said. So there'll be a next time, I told myself, and then I was shocked to hear myself say, "Good!"

 

iii.

Craig was always cocky. I'd known and dealt with him for years. He was a business associate with offices in a building a block away from mine, one of my company's best suppliers, a man who always came to a negotiation with a crooked, faintly defiant expression on his face that said "I can get the better of you!" And sometimes he could and sometimes I could -- we'd never agreed even about that. Whenever we worked out a deal together it was always advantageous for both of us, though neither of us would ever say so. He'd spend most of every week out of town servicing other customers, returning every Friday afternoon to phone me for re-orders and updates, then to relax for the weekend with one of his girlfriends. His tone of voice was always superior, faintly amused, self-assured and challenging. As if looking for more and expecting it. As if he deserved it. I once asked him how his current girlfriend was, and he invited me to come find out at first hand. "She's tough, but you could bring her to her knees!" he said. That kind of brash directness.

It was accidental enough, the shift in our rivalry from business dealings to pleasure-seeking. We ran into each other by chance in Les Bergeres, that little restaurant where I'd always gone with Cheryl for our regular Saturday luncheon. We'd only just gotten seated when along came Craig with a friend. He'd seen and recognized me and lit up immediately, and he'd asked if they could sit with us.

I'd said "Sure" because Cheryl was there and Cheryl likes men, never mind that we'd been each other's maids of honor at each others' weddings and she was still married. She likes lots of men. She hadn't been sure that her husband Mort was man enough for her when she'd agreed to marry him, so they'd had an arrangement, and there'd been other men even during her engagement. And there'd been many others since. Cheryl kept me apprised of her love life every Saturday at lunch, our steady date for catching up. I was something of a marvel to her, a woman satisfied with one man. I kept telling her that it was easy to be satisfied with one man if he was the right man. She kept telling me that sooner or later I'd find out otherwise, that there were lots of right men for different things, that I deserved them all.

She was more often right than I like to think -- she'd had a lot of experience with men and knew them well. It had certainly turned out she'd been right about Mort. In a way. In one way anyhow, and it was a good thing for her I suppose. By the time their honeymoon was over, she not only knew that Mort wasn't man enough for her, she knew that he was so compliant she could unman him altogether after she'd used up his manliness each day. That she could make him into a woman and then pair up with him to attract other men, which was convenient for her, since men like to travel in pairs and so tend to hunt for women in pairs. Moreover, she'd learned he was willing. "I'm not sure he likes it," she once told me. "I think what he likes is doing what I ask him to do. That's how he gets his jollies, the poor dear."

On only their second day at this Carribean resort where they'd gone for their honeymoon, she'd gotten annoyed that he could get it up only twice that night and then only once more the next morning. So to humiliate him she'd handed him a pair of panties to wear until his erection returned. Which happened almost immediately, she told me during our first Saturday lunch after her return, her eyes still wide with her surprise and delight that she'd found a hot button he'd not known about himself, or anyhow couldn't ever have acknowledged to her! He was turned on by women's underwear! By wearing it! By pretending that he actually was a woman?

That was how Cheryl read it. She immediately decided to press her discovery, to see how far Mort was willing to go! See what kind of a man she'd married, if that's what he was. She'd given up a certain amount of freedom when she agreed to marry him, she told herself, so he could give up something too. And if transvestism makes him happy, well, a wife's duty is to secure her husband's happiness, she'd told herself.

So two days later Mort had a minimal woman's wardrobe of his own, and he wore only that wardrobe the whole rest of their time in that little Carribean town. Not a lot of clothes, nothing like what he'd acquired since, Carol assured me, after their return when he'd begun living as a woman full time, so he could help her welcome the men she brought home. At first he'd made do with only two sets of bras and panties, just enough to have one set to wear while rinsing out the other along of course with whatever there was of Cheryl's soiled lingerie. But each day they kept adding more items. It was fun, shopping with her new hubby! Shopping for him! He learned a lot about women's clothes and women's fashions during those afternoon shopping trips, how to choose accessories, mixing and matching, which were his best colors. Within a week they were more like sisters or girlfriends than husband and wife as they dressed carefully each night to go down for dinner in the hotel restaurant. No one assumed they were anything else!

He had no bathing suit at first, since she knew no way to tuck him properly -- that came later, after she'd explored how other women do these things to their men, how some men actually do it to themselves! And anyhow his waistline needed radical reduction -- he had no curves for a bathing suit to emphasize anyhow, they came later too. Cheryl put him on salads and cottage cheese at once and kept him there even after their return. "Now he has the figure of a sylph," she'd told me proudly during one of our Saturday luncheons. "So willowy! And he guards it carefully. He hardly ever eats anything! Vitamins, diet pills, a few estrogen tablets to keep his skin soft and round him out, you know, to keep his new little breasts growing and his buttocks plump and attractive. That pretty much fills his tummy!"

For his first outing he wore only a crisp flared dress bought in the hotel shoppe, but that same day they found a rather smart silk brocade cocktail dress in a boutique in town. With a princess neckline -- he looked marvelous in it! She was delighted that it was really him, his style, and that it fit him perfectly!

It found almost immediate use. It seems that Cheryl was by the pool waiting for him to finish up his first afternoon ever spent in a beauty salon, the one in the hotel. He was getting a waxing, his hair done, his face, nails, everything, her treat. While lying there in the sun she'd chatted with two men who'd come by and settled alongside to pass the time. Then when Mort finally emerged looking gorgeous, they immediately assumed he was her girlfriend, so they invited them both to go dancing that evening. Cheryl was so entranced by her new hubby's new look and the idea of a double-date on her honeymoon that she instantly accepted. From somewhere she rustled up sandals and a little jewelry for him. And she had to say, when they went down to meet their dates in the hotel bar he looked absolutely smashing.

His date thought so too apparently. The champagne flowed, and they danced, and later in the evening Cheryl and her man disappeared after a slow, especially romantic dance number with the lights dim and all couples dancing close. Mort then found himself alone with his date. Early the next morning Cheryl arrived back at her own hotel room well fucked, fucked repeatedly, royally, in ways Mort could never have imagined. There she found that her new husband was still awake. He was standing by the sink in his satin kimono, the one they'd gotten for him to use as a dressing gown, looking mournfully into the mirror with his huge, dark-smudged, newly beautiful eyes. His mascara and eye shadow would last and last for weeks the beautician had assured him, and it still looked perfect. But there was no trace on his lips of the deep red lipstick she remembered he'd worn to dinner and then re-applied when the dancing began. It had rubbed off somewhere. Kissing?

As Cheryl watched, Mort filled a glass and rinsed out his mouth, then filled it again, repeatedly rinsing out his mouth, again and again. As apparently for some time.

By that Cheryl knew what had happened. Poor Mort had none of the standard girlish techniques for saying "No" while not seeming to say "No", and meanwhile his date had a boner that wouldn't quit. The man wanted to fuck him the worst way, and kept pressing him. When Cheryl went off elsewhere with her man, Mort had helplessly fumbled up a few inadequate excuses. He was having a period, he'd said. The man then seductively began to stroke his buttocks and reached a hand toward his anus, tucking under his panties until he actually touched it! Then promised to be gentle as he wrapped Mort in incredibly strong arms.

But Mort knew he couldn't offer up his ass without revealing what was hanging down in front of it, so he'd smiled and then tried to pull off the man's cock to the point of climax. That had only stoked the fire. In the end Mort's mouth paid the price to save his secret and his ass's virginity. He had to give his date two blow jobs in succession to satisfy him. The first one was clumsy -- the man came suddenly and Mort received a face full of ejaculate. The second one Mort apparently made slow and lingering while the man lay back in a trance, too pleased to interrupt or hurry the process. He'd licked it like a popsicle, and taken the longest time ever to bring him off, milking it, rolling his tongue over its seepage, trying to use up whatever the time available so he could then just go home and try to forget that he was now a cocksucker. Then when the man climaxed a second time Mort held the semen in his mouth, not knowing what else to do with it, unwilling to swallow it but also unable to spit it out graciously. In the end he'd swallowed it. His date had been so pleased he'd taken Mort into his arms and kissed him passionately, and promised him his own orgasms the very next night.

"My poor sweet Mort," Cheryl commented to me smiling when she'd first told me how she'd spent her honeymoon. "Standing there rinsing out his mouth repeatedly! And it was only cum! So I told him he'd better get used to the flavor and feel of a prick between his lips and a man's cum in his mouth afterward, because I knew now that this was the kind of marriage I've always wanted. If he could get to like it I'd be his for life! If he loved me, I told him, he'd stop trying to gargle the man's flavor away and he'd come to bed with me and french kiss me down below while my own guy's cum was still fresh and still trickling out, so he could enjoy something of what his bride had just enjoyed."

"And did he?" I asked Cheryl, appalled and yet fascinated.

"Oh, of course. That was Mort's first cream pie. By now it's routine enough, he's tasted lots of men in me and directly on his own, too. He's pretty much a girl now, after all. I don't ask him what he does when he goes out on his own dates, but he always cleans his own cum out of me after I've used him for fucking, and when I come home from partying with other men he always carefully sucks out their semen too. We have no secrets from each other."

"That's remarkable," I'd said. I didn't know what else to say.

"Is it really? Doesn't Scott do that much for you? Not even his own cum? No? Anyhow, it was obvious that my sweetie needed a crash course in how to satisfy a man, so I gave him one. The next morning before breakfast I hauled out my dildo, which I'd brought hoping I wouldn't need to use it, at least not on my honeymoon. It turned out to be handy -- I used it on him instead of me. First I gave him lessons in deep throating and swallowing, and I taught him how to hold a cock in his mouth decisively, not the wishy washy way he'd done it that second time. I mean after all, any girl knows how to give good head before she graduates from high school, and we both had dates scheduled with these guys for the next couple of nights, and guys have serious needs. Luckily, Mort had talent and became a first-class cocksucker in no time at all. I was proud of him. Then I taught him how to fuck properly. How to get fucked, I mean. That took a little longer."

To get past the main obstacle, Mort's own cock and balls, Cheryl bought him an undersized small crotchless girdle for exposed buttocks from a lingerie store in town, and snugged it up tight to flatten out his male equipment. That solved that. Then she showed him how to get onto his knees, how to lift his rear end high, how to open his anus wide, how to plant his forehead way down, and when to thrust back. She let Mort mount and fuck her own ass to demonstrate the proper position. Twice in fact, the second time while she demonstrated tush bobbing and hip weaving. Then he crouched down and she did the same thing to his ass with her dildo, asking him over and over, "Isn't it heavenly? Tell me it's heavenly!" He did.

So he was well-prepared when his date actually put a living prick into his ass later that evening, and his mouth was better trained to give satisfaction too. It was just as well, because Mort's ass and mouth were filled repeatedly during the next two weeks.

"It was great!" Cheryl confided. "The most marvelous honeymoon ever! We did each other and the guys did both of us! They never did guess that Mort wasn't actually my girlfriend! Mort's guy understood that some girls don't want to risk pregnancy, so they prefer to get fucked in the ass, and he was glad to oblige. He told me that by the end of the second week Mort's ass had developed the most seductive wiggle when he was nearing orgasm. That it was one of the best rear ends he'd ever been in. Though when I let him try out mine for comparison's sake, he did tell me mine was more cunning in the way it grabbed a cock. Poor Mort, I thought, trying to make out with those lean buttocks of his. That was when I started him on hormones, to fill out his ass for exhibition in a tight skirt -- his enlarged nipples and his budding breasts came as an extra. And you should see him now!"

"All this reverse sex play was exciting for me, and apparently for Mort too -- he was getting erections all the time, especially whenever he saw a date kiss me or touch one of my boobs. So each day before leaving our room I'd empty him out, his cock up my cunt, my dildo up his ass, it really didn't matter which, the purpose was to make him impotent for the evening. Then I'd sit on his face as necessary of course, so he could lick me dainty for my date but leave me just a little bit lubricated. It was soooo great! Some nights I'd get restless, and when Mort was asleep I'd slip out of our room and then come back the next morning. If our two special guys happened to be used up I could usually find others down in the bar who weren't. Mort couldn't really complain that I was fucking around, because he was too. I loved it! My honeymoon turned out to be everything I'd always hoped for, ever since I was a little girl dreaming about getting married. I just happen to need more men than most women."

Back home it wasn't quite the same. Cheryl wanted no entanglements, no threats to respectability. Yet she didn't want to give up the advantages for her own sex life, and Mort tolerated his new gender, so she decided to commit him to girlhood full time. She insisted that he go to a discreet salon to get his hair and nails and face done regularly, and though he's a fully qualified lawyer he sold out his partnership and went to work for another firm as a woman paralegal. The men in his law office often flirt with him, Cheryl commented, and a few take him out now and then. No doubt he gets laid now and then too. "I don't mind," she said.

"But I do wish he'd tell me. I tell him everything about my men!"

Office romances get complicated, so Cheryl eventually arranged a different kind of social life for him, with a support group of other effeminate men, transvestites and transsexuals who get together every week to do who knows what with each other. They had a kind of clubhouse situated over a beauty salon one of them owned. She made sure that each time he went he primped until he looked as lovely as he'd looked on their honeymoon -- all girl, no compromise! And then she'd urge him to have fun, with other men of course. No women.

Sometimes he'd come home looking much the same but randy as a goat, and that was always welcome -- Cheryl's pussy was always a willing beneficiary. Sometimes his "support group" would finish up in a gay bar, and he'd come home disheveled and spent, used up, leaking, needing to sleep through the whole of the next day, needing to give his asshole a chance to heal. After one such bout Cheryl urged him to find a steady boyfriend and settle down. But he didn't want one. He'd told her when she asked that he didn't really mind sex with men, that he even liked some things about it. What was there not to like about a stiff dick sliding in and out of your ass? But even so, she was sure he did it only to please her.

Cheryl gradually realized that she was the sole reason Mort was willing to do all these things -- dress and look and act feminine, and date and fuck and suck men. That he was doing it for her. That if she didn't wanted it, he'd never have done any of it. That it was love! She adored him for that!

Especially because while he did all those things, she was free to do all of hers. Every week Cheryl would kick up her heels the way Mort did, pounding them on some naked guy's back. A different guy each time, because obviously Mort was a very decent man, very considerate and accommodating, and she loved him in lots of ways, and that was why she'd married him despite everything, so she wanted no rivals, no complications. That meant that she needed a different man every week or so. So she was always on the lookout.

 

iv.

So last June when Craig came into the restaurant with this friend of his and saw me and asked if they could sit with us, and I saw Cheryl's face brighten, I said "Sure!" What's a girlfriend for?

They sat down, and I watched Carol turned her full charm on Craig's friend. He was a real chiseled hunk, and I realized that it had been a whole two weeks since her last extra-curricular fuck. Then as Craig picked up his napkin and looked at me, I saw that usual slightly cocky grin on his face, the expression he always had. But with Cheryl in the vicinity it took on heavy sexual overtones. "I can get into you and get the better of you," his face seemed to say to me quietly, confidently. Cheryl saw him making his moves on me, smiled her approval, and devoted her attention entirely to the other guy.

Especially in front of my girlfriend Cheryl I felt challenged by Craig's wiseass expression, his "I can take you" attitude. So out of the blue and out loud, I told him, "No you can't!"

He knew exactly what I meant. "Yes I can." he said with his grin widening. I'd accepted his gambit, I'd taken his bait, and the challenge match was on. We sparred good naturedly but with increasing daring all through lunch, and the talk got racy. I developed a new respect for his quick wit and also for his open attitude toward all sorts of fascinating things men and women can do with each other, things I'd never imagined I'd ever do with my beloved Scott. We proposed quite a few, in jest at first, but then I wasn't so sure. The stakes rose. Cheryl and the other guy disappeared before dessert and then there were just the two of us. And before very much longer we'd taken our argument to a motel and worked ourselves into a sexual frenzy. By evening I knew that I would be unable to get enough of Craig, trying to swallow him down and yearning to take his whole body into my own while reaching toward higher and higher delights. Blissful waves of orgasms kept crashing through me no matter what he did. He apparently went equally berserk. The lunch that began in that restaurant ended that evening only when we'd finally fallen back from each other exhausted, replete, gratified desire written all over our bodies, having been intimate with each other beyond any intimacies any of us had ever previously achieved with anyone.

And then I was pushing to leave that motel room, slick and sticky with his juices, my body and breath reeking of his cum and my own exudings too. With no time to wash up first. With Scott, my poor darling betrayed Scott, waiting for me at home the whole time. I felt great! I felt terrible! I didn't know how I felt.

Well, Craig had to be as sticky as I was, as heavily coated with my juices, smelling just as pungent, I thought with some satisfaction when I glanced once more at him. He lay relaxed on the bed, watching me leave. I'd repeatedly wiped my sloppy crotch all over his face and hair, and he'd dived between my legs on his own repeatedly. By now he must really stink the way I stink, I was thinking triumphantly. Only worse!

"I won!" I'd told him almost gleefully as I turned to leave. A last bravado gesture, because along with nightfall and my sense of neglected obligations at home had come a terrible realization of what I'd lost. Or nearly lost, not yet lost, what I'd put at risk. I added it up, and it came to everything. My whole life. Scott, his love for me, those weren't yet lost, but they'd be gone in another hour when he learned where I'd been and what I'd done. What man would tolerate marriage to someone who'd done what I'd just done?

Some things were already lost forever, I realized. Our openness, our honesty were now things of the past. I had secrets I didn't dare reveal to him, not even when I was making love to him. Especially when making love to him, especially if I attempted to do anything with Scott that I'd previously done with Craig. Even when making love to my husband I'd need to be on my guard. I'd need to be dishonest with him to preserve even a semblance of what we'd once had. And all because Craig had sat down at that table where Cheryl and I met each week, and had looked me over appraisingly, not as a business associate but as a partner in something else far more exciting! That had been far more exciting! Mind-staggering. But suddenly I felt crushed and frightened and very much alone.

When I declared "I won!" a second time, the words sounded hollow.

I'd been such a fool!

"Did you win?" he asked in reply. As if agreeing with me, as if doubting it, as if disagreeing with me flat out. I couldn't tell. "We'll see," he said. Without thinking, entranced by the delicious warmth I felt through my whole body, I nodded.

Then Craig said he'd call me, and I'd said "Good!" like an idiot, and then he'd turned his back to me. The bastard! I'd get him!

He'd been a terrific fuck because no matter how self-seeking he'd been, his attention and instincts had been focussed on what I wanted, how I felt moment to moment, how to make me extend myself to satisfy him. He wanted to conquer me! Scott was different. Scott devoted himself to me because he loved me, just as I loved him. When we fucked, we became each other. But Craig and I tried to out-do each other. We were never satisfied. During the last few hours we'd opened out the most bizarre desires. I'd done things with Craig I'd never dream of attempting with Scott ever, and it was never enough! I craved more! I wanted more!

But I felt guilty nevertheless.

I tried to toss a wanly appreciative grin at him when he promised to call, and then I dove through the door toward my car, and raced home through the deep late June twilight too tired to think. Now I had to face Scott, who'd expected me home hours ago. He'd have called Cheryl by now to find out where I was. Was Cheryl home yet? I doubted it. He'd have talked to Mort. He'd never met Mort, didn't know him. But Mort knew about me and Scott, so in his soft, lilting girl voice he'd have explained that Cheryl wasn't yet back from her lunch. "Maybe they went shopping," he'd suggest. He covered for Cheryl all the time, so he'd cover for me too. This late the stores were already closed, but maybe Scott would buy it.

I smelled rank. Yet I couldn't just show up at home and head for the shower -- I never showered when I got home, so he'd wonder why. And I couldn't think of an excuse -- we'd driven through ...what?, someone had thrown ... what?, and if so why wasn't the car or my clothes covered with it? We never went jogging or played tennis or did anything else sweaty and strenuous during these Saturday afternoons -- he knew that Cheryl got her exercise other ways altogether. It had been a comfortably cool day, so I couldn't claim I was sticky with perspiration. Could I spill something on me in the kitchen and ...? No.

It came to one thing. I couldn't let him sniff me and I couldn't let him touch me. Tonight I couldn't allow my own darling husband any of the intimacies I'd just bestowed lavishly on Craig. Poor Scott! Even arm's length would be too close.

And that was a problem, because we were always intimate on Saturday nights. By Saturday evening we'd had a full day to clear our heads of the week's office tensions, and a full afternoon away from domestic obligations, even from each other. By Saturday evening we could appreciate fully what we had in each other.

This made for an especially terrible problem for me, because in addition to Craig's juices I was covered with guilt. I'd risked my marriage just to show this terrific guy who could get the better of who. And my pussy still beamed with pride and satisfaction. The afterglow still declared the delight I'd squeezed out of this incredible man who had been everywhere all over me and inside me.

And I really regretted none of it! Despite my guilt I found myself exulting! I now had two men. Could I somehow keep both of them? Live with Scott and love living with him, and fuck Craig and love fucking him? Could Scott conceivably accept that arrangement? Could any man?

What a slut I am, I told myself! Here I am thinking about another fuckfest with Craig even before I've found safe harbor from this first one, this violent storm I've just survived at the motel! And as I recalled what I'd just done, my pussy spasmed! Deliciously! My God, I did want more! More gloriously uninhibited fucking! Craig's sperm again trickled into the tissues I'd tucked into my quim, and I suddenly realized that at this moment there were thousands of little Craigs swimming around inside me, in my vagina and my tummy and my bowels. Right now I was Craig's sperm container! His breeding ground! Did I really want to do this again? Did I really want to be unfaithful again? A fallen woman?

No, I told myself, because I love my husband and my marriage. Yes, I answered myself, because the sex was fabulous, incomparable! So no or yes? I needed time to think, to sort out first things first.

 

First of all I had to survive this homecoming. There was only one way. I had to pick a fight with Scott as soon as I entered the house and then storm off angrily and sleep in the guest room. Or make him storm off. I didn't dare let him get close to me. I had to push him away.

All right, we'd fight. But how? Over what? We hardly ever disagreed. When we quarreled Scott would almost always give in to me, if I was insistent, and if I was altogether wrong about whatever it was, the next day he'd kindly but firmly petition me for a reconsideration, and then I'd give in. He loved me. I loved him.

And a new pang of guilt stabbed my innards. I loved him so! But this time I resolutely suppressed all sentiment. I tried again to think this thing through rationally.

What would Cheryl do? Did Cheryl ever fight with Mort? Over what? His cross dressing? His occasional boy friends? She'd brought those about herself! She encouraged them! It had been months before she'd realized that it wasn't those panties that had turned him on during their honeymoon, and it wasn't his women's clothes, and it wasn't even his men. He had no secret yen for any of those things. It was that she wanted him to do those things. He wanted to please her! To submit to her will! She couldn't blame him.

So they never quarreled, I was sure. Did he ever have affairs with other women? Doubtful, she'd never tolerate it. And anyhow women aren't attracted to men with standing salon appointments for their hair and nails, men who look as pretty as they do. I'd never tolerate Scott with a girlfriend other than me either, I was thinking. Nor could I live with a Scott who was as pretty as me.

Or could I? Cheryl did. I'd once actually seen Mort done up the way Cheryl wanted him, and he was surprisingly attractive! When she'd first told me all about their honeymoon, how they'd been shopping and flirting and gossiping together about their guys, how happy she was that Mort had assumed this new role and had carried it off so well, I simply hadn't believed her. What man would possibly do such a thing for his wife? How could he ever get away with it?

The answers had come soon enough. Mort was a man who truly loved her and appreciated her needs, and needed her guidance and accepted it. Felt fulfilled by it. That was the kind of man who would do such a thing. Though a man, how could he make himself look like a really attractive woman? The usual answer, practice, practice,

A woman's beauty is something achieved, not something that just happens. Mort became heir to centuries of women's beauty culture, the arts and sciences of layering and painting artificial "looks" that seem natural, the stylish uses of cosmetics and curls.

A man's face is pretty much what he wakes up with and then at most shaves. A woman's is a painstaking creation, a work of art re-created every morning. He studied and took courses in those arts.

That was how he got away with it. A week after I'd ridiculed the notion that Mort could ever look as alluring as she'd described him I met Cheryl for lunch and found her already seated, chatting away with an exquisite young woman in a stunning black outfit, a tailored suit, wearing a simple delicate silver chain around her neck. She was lovely! And I saw after only a moment that she was Mort.

Covering my amazement, I complimented him on his good taste, especially on the lovely silver chain that graced his ensemble. He was embarrassed at first, and couldn't quite look me in the eyes --

I was after all the only person apart from Cheryl who knew him as a man and as a woman. But he did thank me, and then asked where I'd managed to find the lovely beige silk scarf I happened to be wearing -- he'd been looking everywhere for one just like it. When I told him about the little out-of-the-way shop I knew that had many such tasteful fripperies, I saw in his eyes that special intensity women feel whenever they're discussing prize purchases. Soon we were battering away like old friends.

It turned out that though the man Mort was something of a bore, the woman Mort was a delight! Cheryl had taught him to speak always in cheery, sprightly tones, as many girls do, and to listen with lively, intent interest to whatever anyone was saying. He did that, and it was flattering, cute, seductive, really endearing. I could see why he'd have no problem attracting guys -- he was a charmer, a heartbreaker! When Cheryl was momentarily visiting the Ladies', I asked him flat out why he was doing this, didn't he regret the loss of his manhood? He simply tossed his head and smiled and said in his soft, melliflous woman's voice, "No, it's kind of fun, this being feminine all the time. It's ... different. But most of all, it's what Cheryl wants. So that's that!" I told Cheryl afterward to keep him the way he was, that he was wasted as a man. She agreed that he'd never been much of a man. She added though that she didn't want him to go all the way, to become a complete woman with a vagina, because then he'd become too independent. She'd lose his sexual and other services and probably him too. Too many men would compete for his affections, and sooner or later one would win his heart. So she wanted to keep him fit only for her. No longer a man, not quite a woman.

Did I want that for Scott? Well, I could at least quarrel with him about it, insist that I did want something like that. Be a man like Mort, show a little femininity to prove he loves me? He'd be baffled and refuse of course, and then I could stomp off feeling grieved, and that would get me through the night. Tomorrow before he woke up I could take my shower, scrub myself thoroughly, then dismiss the idea as an idle whim and find some way to make it up to him. And also find some larger way to make it up to him for what he didn't even suspect, that his wife had just enjoyed hour after hour being passionately unfaithful, fucking another man! Not better sex, exactly, but different sex! Not warm, comforting, reassuring sex with Scott, but dangerous, craggy, powerful, mindless sex with Craig. Different.

But what if he didn't refuse me? What if Scott was willing to buy the whole Cheryl plan, even to sleep with men, just to please me? If Mort was willing to do that for the love of Cheryl, was Scott?

Would my Scott give other men blow jobs and open his ass to them?

My husband? Did I want him to? For the love of me?

No, of course not. But even so, my pussy gave another teeny spasm at the thought, and a little more of Craig trickled into the soggy mass between my thighs! If Scott was intimate with just one other man, just once, I realized, it would certainly relieve me of the guilt I felt for this outing with Craig. I considered further. If Scott tried Mort's way even for a short while, it would make other sessions with Craig possible too. Easily arranged. Scott couldn't very well complain about a Craig in my life if he wasn't himself a man.

And at that moment I honestly didn't know whether the incredible passion I'd just felt with Craig, the competitive verve, would re-ignite again on sight and sweep me away yet again, or whether it was just an afternoon's passing tempest, one of those things done and then best forgotten. Certainly the feeling wouldn't sustain for long! A few months? Really, for Scott's sake I had to know how this competitive lust would play out! Craig would be calling in a few days. He'd want another bout, a chance to get even! I wanted him to have that chance!

Then when I opened the front door, there was Scott standing just inside waiting for me. Waiting!

"I heard your car. I've been worried," he said simply.

My heart broke at that moment! But I couldn't break his heart by hugging him the way I wanted to impulsively, even by acknowledging that he was there at all! Not even stand this close to him another moment -- he'd smell Craig's and my excrescences! So I only said brusquely "We need to talk!" and brushed past him and hurried into the living room without turning my head. I deliberately sat down in the one chair in a corner isolated from all the others, and gestured for him to sit on our couch on the other side of the room, and I repeated my message, "We need to talk!"

He stared at me puzzled, as I expected he would, then closed the front door, and gravely sat down where I'd motioned him. Safe for the moment! He already knew enough about me not to ask "Where have you been?" or "If you knew you were running late, why didn't you call?" or any of the other mild rebukes I deserved but he knew I'd never tolerate when I was being abrupt. So he just sat and looked at me and said nothing.

"I was talking to Cheryl," I began. That much was true, anyhow. "About all the things we do together on Saturdays. All the girl things. And she doesn't understand why I don't insist on you doing more of those things with me. The way Mort does! So we can share more, so you can understand more of my immediate interests and concerns! See things from my point of view! Think what a woman thinks, feel what we feel."

His eyelids lowered slightly, then raised up again. He was looking straight at me. He'd sometimes accuse me of being too impressionable, too ready to try anything other people suggested, recipes, restaurants, vacation places, whatever. He thought I believed every book or movie review I ever read, and every newspaper editorial. There was just enough truth in the charge to annoy me, and he knew it, so he'd learned not to interrupt with -- in this case -- obvious questions like "What does Cheryl know," or "What's wrong with the way we do things now?" or even "What do you mean?"

"You don't know anything about any of the things I do every day! My little routines! I mean the little things from the moment I first wake up. My decisions about what to wear, where to go, how I want to look. Without that you can't possibly understand me, how I am what I am." I tried to sound accusing, but was mainly wondering how I could angle this closer to the point I needed to make. "You can't possibly appreciate my life! It's as if we were on different planets!"

"I should hope so," he said quietly. "You're a woman. I'm not a woman. So we're bound to feel different about some things."

A barn door anyone could drive through! "Yes! Social circumstances demand that men and women look and feel and act different! Different! That's my point! Because we're not! Don't you ever wonder sometimes what life is like for me as a woman? How I feel as a woman? Why I do the things I do? What I enjoy about being what I am, and what annoys me? You don't even try! You've never tried! How can you know anything about me if you don't try?"

 

Now my poor Scott really was bewildered! "Try what?" he asked in all innocence. "Try being more attentive?" Bingo!

"NO, ACTUALLY TRY BEING A WOMAN FOR ONCE!" I shouted at him. Then, as if recovering my temper at his refusal to comprehend the obvious, "Pretend it at least! Do everything I do, learn what it's like, how it feels, make my little regrets and desires yours, my small concerns and my big ones. You really have no idea! Cheryl and Mort don't have that problem! She thinks we should be more like them! And I must say, I've got to agree with her."

He was obviously wondering whether I was raving mad, or drunk, or on something. I could see him running the checklist. He must have come up indeterminate, though, because he just sat there looking at me.

"Your college semester's over," I said. "No more teaching or committee work. You have three summer months coming up. You were going to use them to bury yourself here or in a library, doing research. Well, you can do a different kind of research too! You can live the way I do for those three months! Let's say just for the summer! You could at least try!"

There it was! My free ticket to fuck Craig's balls off for three months -- three months would be enough I was sure! I was about to wait for his reply, to finally give Scott a chance to respond, to say something, when I suddenly realized that he could see my bare legs. He could see that I wasn't wearing pantyhose! He knew I always dressed for my Saturdays with Cheryl, that I'd left the house wearing hosiery! Thank God I was in the darkest corner of the room and had left the light off, he can't really have seen and registered it yet. Could he? Still, I'd better end this.

"Well, if you can't do me even that small favor, or at least apologize for not caring about all the things that make up my life, so we can start making other plans to do something about it, I'm going to bed. I'll be using the spare bedroom tonight. Don't try to follow me! Good Night!"

And without another word I marched upstairs and snatched my nightgown from under my pillow, then proceeded into the guest bedroom, and slammed the door shut.

Mission accomplished for now, though the respite was temporary. Tomorrow I'd get up early and shower and then repudiate the whole crazy complaint, I was thinking. Or maybe not. I recalled what a pretty woman Mort had made, and wondered whether Scott would make a prettier. I bet he could, I was thinking. Scott's so much better at so many things than Mort is. He has a lovely chin and mouth, and his lips are gorgeous! I love kissing them.

The idea actually turned me on, a little.

But another idea was even more provocative. As I'd stamped my supposedly angry way upstairs I couldn't help but notice that the tissues crammed into my pussy had become a soggy mass that slid against my clit as I walked. Craig's sperm was rubbing against my clit. That rosy glow I'd felt on the whole trip back home renewed itself. I sat down on the bed and pushed a finger into the sloppy mess between my legs, then another, then a third, and moved them in and out until finally I shuddered in fulfillment. More mess on my fingers, and on the bed. Well, whatever happens tomorrow, I told myself, I will buy myself a dildo! I must have one! Not in Scott's size and shape but Craig's. Or bigger than either of them, more filling! Either way, I need better fucking, I know that now! If I don't get Craig for the summer, I'll get a Craig facsimile!

So that much was settled.

I tried not to remember my single glance into the darkened dining room on the other side of the stairs. I'd noticed that Scott had set out two places for us for dinner, and even set up candles. He'd obviously been waiting for me to get home from my afternoon excursion with Cheryl so we could have a romantic evening together. Probably there was something special he'd prepared sitting cold and forgotten in the oven at this moment. It broke my heart even to think of it.

So instead I thought again about Craig's sperm, still gloopy inside me. It felt so deliciously wicked! I reached down and dipped my fingers into it again and wiped it languorously on my face, and smiled to myself. One such thought led to another, and again I got aroused. I trembled into yet another orgasm before finally I fell asleep. And then dreamt of crawling all over a muscular man's body, and of a gentle man crawling all over my body, and then of two woman embracing, kissing passionately.. Me and my lovely Scott? I slept well.

The next day I'd showered, impulsively drenched my man in perfume, deep-throated him as I'd deep-throated Craig, fed him Craig's semen direct from my cunt, and then actually gotten him to agree to pretend to be a woman for the summer. And meanwhile every Saturday Craig and I could arouse each other to frenzies. It was crazy, but it had been all I could think of, and he'd agreed to it!

Then as the idea grew, it seemed more and more intriguing. What Scott learned about being a woman would strengthen our marriage. And it would be fun! Like not being married at all! Like living with a roommate in college again! A new girlfriend!

I'd do what Cheryl had done. Mort didn't seem the worse for it. True, he was now an habituated cuckold and a facsimile girl for life, expected to seek sex from men when his wife's cunt was otherwise occupied. True, he was now in effect a forcibly feminized faggot. But he didn't seem to mind, and he made an utterly charming woman, a delightful companion I was sure.

Would Scott? I felt such a strange tingle, thinking about it. I felt so terribly guilty that I was betraying him, but I couldn't help myself. I didn't want to help myself. I had to put Craig in his proper place once and for all, inside me, servicing me, and that would take time. I had to duel him to exhaustion repeatedly, fuck him over and over and come out on top every time. I just had to! If Scott wasn't comparable to Craig, not even a man, then I knew I'd feel less guilty. I could probably even persuade myself that he was enjoying his emasculation in some perverse way, and that he deserved it. That I was doing him a favor.

Yes. Every Saturday when I went to meet Craig I'd treat Scott to a beauty parlor appointment. I'd like that. Then I'd feel a certain condescension, maybe even an amused contempt for a husband who was getting all prettied up in a salon at that moment, not really a man at all, no competition at all for the real man who was fucking me silly at that very moment. Then in three months we could resume where we left off. He'd be an even more lovable Scott, more sensitive to his own femininity and certainly mine.

It could even be a kind of game! As we lay there in each other's arms that first Sunday, our bodies and the whole room richly perfumed with Lilac Ecstasy, I began planning Scott's whole transition to womanhood, his journey from a potential jealous husband to an emasculated cuckold and charming girlfriend. Maybe even a pretty Mort? No, not Mort. My sweet Scottie would be a girl only for the summer, while I needed to know that he was elsewhere, otherwise occupied, and off my mind and conscience!

It was such a power trip! With that thought I couldn't help myself, I impulsively kissed him! My Scottie! I tasted Craig's cum on his lips and realized that in a way I was kissing Craig too. Lovely! Scottie smiled at my affection, and I smiled back. He has gentle eyes, I was thinking. They'd be darkened with mascara this very day -- then they'd also be large and lovely! His daytime lipstick would be blush colored, just barely noticeable. Yes, I want him utterly unrecognizable as my husband -- he'd probably prefer that too, to save himself embarrassment. Let's see. Cheryl has about his build and coloring, I was thinking, and she looked marvelous in that long flounced skirt she wore yesterday. I must get him one. I'll call Cheryl and find out where she got it, and get some advice about a few other things as well.

(continued)

  

  

  

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