Preface: I wrote a draft of half this story about two years ago, then set it aside to write other stories, the most recent being "An Unfaithful Wife." And there's the problem.

That story pleased many but annoyed others because it repeats some elements of my earlier stories—scheming wives and compliant husbands and so on. I won't defend those recurrences—I like them. I like finding new reasons and ways for a woman to feminize her man and new reasons why he'd acquiesce. I enjoy the casuistry, the earnest if deceitful reasoning by which she persuades him and he persuades himself. I like the way he comes to understand what's been happening, how he may resent it but also how he deals with it.

In short, I like liberated if unscrupulous women and the men who love them not wisely but too well and accept the consequences of their own complicity. I like schemes and con games and hidden agendas, and above all I like the step-by-step compromises that add up to a totally transformed self. When that's done, the story's done. No mystery there for anyone familiar with my stuff.

When "An Unfaithful Wife" finally left its nest I rediscovered this one and saw that it too has a wife who excites her husband by implying to him that she's unfaithful. What to do? Finish it even so, and gratify readers who like such tales, me among them? Irk those who'd already found "Unfaithful" one too many? Declare it pre-empted by "Unfaithful" and forget it?

In the end, parsimony ruled. It has some good stuff in it. People like stories like these. I like them. The main character's psychological conversion follows rather than precedes his physical conversion (reversing "Unfaithful's," if anyone notices such things). So I decided to finish it—that's usually the only way I myself ever find out what the woman's real scheme is. But to anticipate reader reactions, I decided to write this preface. Which I have now done.

If by reason of age or inclination you shouldn't read a story like this, don't.

All comment is welcome, even the unwelcome kind.

VickieTern@aol.com

 

Teasing

by Vickie Tern

 

One

"Patrick, I'm tired of running around! From now I'm going to conduct my affairs with different men here at home, even if it does disturb you. I'm tired of sneaking into all sorts of places so people won't know I'm there, driving all over the city to all sorts of hidden retreats for get togethers. Some nights I get home so heavily used I can barely walk! I do try to satisfy all their whims and desires, and they do appreciate it. They certainly pay me well enough. Even so, the more I do for them the more they crave, the more they want me to do! It's never enough! It's exhausting! When they get really hot and bothered they tie me up all day. So from now on I service all those men right here at home."

"Mmmmph?" I asked her? I wasn't really listening. Score tied two all, the pitcher maybe coming apart, man on third, that had my complete attention. But then came a commercial, and some of her words broke through. "I don't mind if you watch," she was saying. "You might even enjoy seeing how I satisfy the different needs of different men."

What!? This had a disturbing sound. I replayed her recollected words in my head. What was she telling me? She's been having affairs? She satisfies men by letting them tie her up? She gets them all hot and bothered? Now she wants to bring them home to fuck them, with me watching? Tara? My own wife?

"What?" I said. I tried to focus these incredible revelations with a delicately phrased question. "You satisfy other men? Give them what they need?"

"Well, I should hope so!" she said a little indignantly.

I looked at her, baffled.

She looked back, equally baffled. Then she must have replayed in her own head what I'd heard, how she'd said it, because realization dawned. She broke into a slightly mocking grin.

"Oooh, sweetie, look at you! You just heard me confess something really naughty, didn't you?"

I was paralyzed, feeling for a response. Hurt? Anger? Bewilderment? The bottom had just fallen out of my life!

She looked across at me, amused. "Just look at you! You're thinking 'My wife has just told me she's having sex with men all over town, and now she wants to bring them all home, and she's inviting me to watch!' Is that what just came into your little mind, honey?"

Was it? I shook my head and swallowed and tried again to speak. Nothing came out.

She saw. "Why, I'm right! You're blushing! You actually DO think that's what I do when I go out to see my different clients! Betray our marriage vows! Carry on affairs! A man calls me for a consultation, ring ring, and I'm out the door in my laciest lingerie, ready to spread my legs wide and drip all my earlier clients all over him? Is that what you imagine?"

"No, of course not, Tara!" I tried to sound hurt that she should think so. But I was hurt! I did think so! That's what I'd heard!

My head knew that Tara was scrupulously faithful, that she'd never do such a thing. Not ever! She was playfully flirtatious whenever she was with other men, and they all responded, I'd seen that often enough. But she knew it distressed me, so she suppressed it, at least in my presence. Somewhat. She sensed how insecure I always felt about her love for me, whether I deserved it. How incredibly lucky I felt that she was mine. She thought it was cute that when I asked her to marry me, I didn't dream she'd actually agree to do it. She knew that the mere appearance of infidelity on her part could devastate me, maybe even destroy me. So for the five years we'd been married she'd remained more openly above suspicion than even Caesar's wife. As far as I could tell, that is. We provided each other with ample sex, whatever was needed. We loved each other. That was that.

So I was quite sure of Tara. So sure that I'd sometimes indulge a small, shameful, secret fantasy about her, that behind my back she actually was a wild women, sexually abandoned, nymphomaniacal with other men. That notion was always arousing for me, and useful now and then when Tara wanted a second round of lovemaking from me when I'd been exhausted by the first. It did seem that Tara could be both provocative and sometimes—it seemed—insatiable. But with that very thought I was able to oblige her.

She was looking at me more closely now. Did she sense what was going on in my mind? Very little ever got past her.

She sensed it. "You're thinking that I sleep with other men, aren't you? You've toyed with that notion before, too, haven't you?" Then bluntly, "It turns you on, doesn't it?"

I had nothing to say. I stared at her, a deer in headlights.

She suddenly smiled. "You know, sweetie, after all this time I can read you like a book with no cover. How odd! It does turn you on, that idea, doesn't it? Thinking that I'm unfaithful to you, that I'm pussycatting my pussy all around town! Getting it from other men." She spoke in a gentle, matter of fact voice, quiet, reassuring. "It's exciting, isn't it, sweetheart? Be honest!"

She had me fixed in her steady gaze, and I knew there was no escaping. "I ... yes, that's right, sometimes," I confessed slowly. "Not that I believe it. And no way do I really want it, Tara. No, not at all. No! Please, believe me!"

Why did I sound as if I were pleading? Why protest too much? Did I fear that she might actually get into bed with her customers just to please me? If she thought that it would turn me on? That I had to discourage her, or else ring ring, and there she was humping away like a bunny in a cage full of rabbits?

"No," she said thoughtfully. "I don't suppose you do want it. But you do in another way, don't you!"

"Tara, no!" I said helplessly.

She paid no attention. "You want to imagine it. Maybe even think it's true. But you don't want to know for certain that it's true, because that would change everything between us, wouldn't it, knowing for certain." She paused, then added. "If I hinted that maybe I seduce and sleep with my clients, you'd want to believe me, wouldn't you. And the idea would excite you, wouldn't it? Doesn't it? True or not doesn't matter?"

What was she doing?

"You love the possibility, don't you? You find it exciting! Yes or no? Be honest!"

What could I say? "Yes," I said.

She sat back again, comfortable with my confession. "Well, don't fret about it, honey, I've read that lots of men do." She smiled sweetly, then went on. "But now that I know that about you, my poor darling, now that you've confessed it, something's already different between us, isn't it? Because now I know that you want to think your wife's unfaithful, promiscuous. That the idea turns you on. And now you know I know it. Isn't that in itself exciting?"

I stared at her, glum and worried. She got into playful moods like this one now and then. There was nothing to do but wait them out.

She beamed a wide smile at me. "It sort of gives me permission, doesn't it!"

O, God, no! I mouthed "No" but no sound came out. Where was she going with this?

"In fact now you're free to imagine that because I love you, I'll screw other men all the time just to please you. Whether or not it's true. Now I can tease you about how much better hung they all are, how much more powerful my orgasms are when they stuff themselves into me and fit so tight I can't move." She looked smug, and her gaze turned inward for a moment, as if she were reminiscing. Then she glanced slyly at me to see if I saw.

Oh, God, despite my confusion and misery I was starting to get hard! I shifted my position so she wouldn't notice. She noticed.

"Or maybe I shouldn't tease you, leave you wondering whether or not it's true. Maybe I should just tell you up front that I'm getting laid hard and often by better men than you. That would clear your mind of all the uncertainty, all those nagging doubts and tormenting suspicions. All the questions you'd love to ask me right now, wouldn't you, if you weren't so afraid of the answers. Because then you'd know! No more questions, no more ambivalence whether you really want it to be true or you don't, whether you want to believe it or you don't. If you knew for sure, you'd have no choice. Except maybe to leave me, or else to give in and whenever I go out, to sit here imagining what I'm doing. Night after night, sit here imagining me gripping another man with my arms and legs both. Imagining how another prick is stretching my hole wide as he strokes himself in and out of me, how I can't help but pull him deeper into me each time I squeeze my legs."

I couldn't say a word.

She paused, and looked closely at me, then said in a soft voice, "My goodness, baby, just look at you. So ashamed! So embarrassed! And so excited, just look at that bulge in your pants! You really do like the idea, don't you? So now maybe I really should do it, not just to please me but to please you too?"

I shook my head, helplessly terrified.

She saw and went on relentlessly. "Let's explore this thing of yours a little further," she said. And she sat straight up in her chair as if she were about to deliver a report. "Let's say I really do wrap my legs around all the men I do business with, just for fun. All those men who call me at all hours insisting that I come meet them right away. Let's say maybe that's why they give me their business. Let's say that's why in just a few short years my customers have expanded from a couple of local contractors to some major corporate clients."

I said nothing. Then, "No, that's not why," I croaked. I was trying to tell her I didn't believe she was unfaithful to me, that she was good at her job and that's why people wanted her, why they hired her. But that didn't say it!

She noticed. "I do bring in a nice income, you've got to admit that, honey, don't you? We live well on it, very well with what you make too of course. And my clients do keep coming back and asking for more. They know I'm on call and that I give satisfaction."

She smiled smugly. Was she confessing everything while seeming not to confess anything? I finally found my voice.

"Yes," I said. "I'm sure you do! Enough now, please! Don't tease me any more now, Tara. Please." My discomfort was obvious. I felt all twisted inside. Excited yet distressed.

Her eyebrows rose. "Teasing. Yes, that's what I'm doing, teasing you. I'm not telling you anything, only teasing. All right, honey, if that's how you want to think of it." She paused. One more jab. "If you can't cope with reality, then that's what we'll call it. Teasing."

Then as if the entire previous conversation had never occurred, she sat back, and while I tried to recover from my confusion and embarrassment she laid out what she'd meant to say earlier.

It was simple enough. Tara started up an office design and equipment business a couple of years ago, combining her talent for interior decoration with her talent for getting things done, and it had taken off. Now she could walk into a bare, newly rented office or sales space with some company manager, listen to his confused ideas about where desks and counters belonged and what sorts of computer networks were needed, make some sketches, then settle down with a phone in her hand and an address book in her lap.

Many phone calls, many visits to many shops and offices and work rooms later, but in a remarkably short time, the stores were serving customers and walls were up in those offices and there were pictures on them, and secretaries were answering phones and technicians were clacking away on computers in cubicles, and representatives were genially advising clients in adjacent private offices. In half the time required by her competition, because with everyone, whether he was a suave corporate CEO or a plumber with a pipe wrench, she was both tireless and persuasive. She got her way. Her competition shuddered whenever they heard she was bidding on a project, because she was famous for her zeal—some called it ruthlessness—to win no matter what, no matter how odd or far out the demands. So her projects and clients and customers and contractors multiplied.

She was out all the time, visiting sites, in and out of offices of all sorts. She made calls and took callbacks at all hours, ordering from wholesalers, wheedling carpenters, re-scheduling carpet installations. She used borrowed conference rooms and desks in friends' offices downtown when she had to, but out or not, the phone stayed busy. I could hear the answerer clicking on and off all the time as I sat in my little alcove off the front hall doing my own work. As her clients and projects multiplied I lost track of them.

Now she was worried that she might too. Her paperwork was scattered all over. The town's most scrupulous office designer hadn't paused to design her own office. She didn't even have an assistant or secretary, someone to move around with her and take notes or else stay in one place and answer the phone and reassure clients and deal with routine matters while she dashed all over the city. She had no place for such a person to work. When she needed office space for a conference she'd borrow it from a friend or a former customer.

So what she was telling me now was, she'd decided to settle in and centralize her activities here at home. "I mean to move all my scattered stuff here," she told me. "Use some of last year's proceeds to build an addition onto the house, alongside and behind the kitchen where it won't interfere with our privacy, with a separate entrance. Make myself a proper office for interviewing clients and maintaining files. And get myself a proper secretary to look after details. Do this job right."

I could hardly object. I'd taken over what little house space I needed for my own one-man consulting business. Now she needed space too.

"OK," I said. "Fair enough. But is the expense of a whole addition necessary? Maybe just use the spare bedroom?"

She just looked at me. Of course. A foolish question. Figuring out costs and budgets and spaces and arranging financing was what she did! Tell her what you think you need, and Tara would see that you got exactly what you really did need, and that you could pay the price. That you'd pay willingly, and love whatever you ended up with.

"No, honey, sooner or later we'll want to use the spare bedroom as a bedroom," she said patiently. "You remember, kids? And anyhow, I'll need maybe four or five such rooms, all off a reception area, much more space than that. We'll try not to disturb you, but you will have to get used to a lot of construction noise for a while. Then there'll have to be a secretary or somebody back there during the day, and people coming and going. Can you handle that?"

I just nodded, as reassuringly as I could.

"I'll make it up to you, baby," she said reassuringly. "I'll see to it that you enjoy everything about it. I know just how. It's all worked out. Don't you worry one little bit!"

I tried to smile. I hadn't yet recovered from my earlier misconception of her, nor from accidentally revealing to her my most shameful private fantasy.

She grinned wickedly. She hadn't forgotten any of it. "Now that things are a bit different between us, we can both be a lot more open with each other, can't we, honey? About what we think we want and what we really want. Are you coming to bed?"

It didn't sound like a question. She stood up suddenly and started upstairs without a moment's hesitation. Her hips weaved confidently, and she didn't look back even once.

I turned off the TV. She was right. There was something different between us now. Somehow, without anything said or implied, she'd taken charge. She felt it and I felt it. I followed her upstairs uneasily, and sighed as I put on my pajamas. Finally I told myself that if that's what she wants, that's what she should have.

And that was what she wanted. Almost immediately, I took off my pajama bottoms again. We made love three times that night, the first time I've managed to do that since our honeymoon. The first was gentle and considerate, as usual. Then as I was slipping out of her and kissing her neck, preparing to drift off to sleep, she whispered, "Now you can be one of my clients getting it up again, say that insurance executive I spent the day with yesterday. The ex-Tennis pro? I never told you about him, did I? He was so handsome and persuasive, and when he showed me his assets I was eager to take him on, and he really wanted me, so when I finally said yes, yes, let me have it, give it to me, all of it, there was no stopping him! Ahhh, that's it!"

Yes, I'm ashamed to say that as she spoke my cock reversed direction and got hard again, there was no disguising the fact. We rolled over and she mounted me. I was iron-stiff, fat, swollen, pointing straight up. She impaled herself and then fucked me furiously, with a concentrated intensity, eyes tight shut. Her climax was powerful, emphatic, and drowned out my own. Just as I was spurting helplessly into her that second time and my hips were crammed tight up against hers, I realized that she was screaming, crying out "YES, YES, THAT'S IT STEVE! MORE! DEEPER! YES! OH, YES!" Then she collapsed onto me.

My name is Patrick.

I lay there with her body flat on mine, her breasts pressed against my chest, unable to see her face. I wondered what I'd see if I could. I wondered what she'd meant. Was it unintended? Deliberate? Did it reveal a truth? Was she teasing me again, now that she knew my secret perversity? Of course! Had she been teasing me earlier downstairs the whole time? Maybe not?

"Now eat me, Patrick," she said suddenly. "From now on I want you to eat my men out of me and learn to love it." Without waiting for me to respond, she slid forward on her knees and covered the lower part of my face with her crotch and pressed her pussy against my mouth, her dark eyes looking down into mine as I looked helplessly up at hers, her long dark hair shadowy against her beautiful white face, a face framed between her beautifully heavy, hanging breasts. My mouth was filled with her soaked quim.

This had never happened before. Oh, I'd eaten her a few times when we were tipsy. Playfully, bending reverently between her legs to lick her clit. But always before we made love, never afterward. And never with me pinned down helplessly under her pussy while she sat on my face and looked down at me expectantly. This was somehow serious.

"Does Steve taste good, Patrick?" she asked gently as she squeezed a muscle in her groin and a glop of my own cum disgorged into my mouth. Slick, salty, a little like a raw egg. "Swallow, Patrick. Swallow my lover down. You're helpless now. You have no choice!"

I did just that. I felt relieved, in a way. She was play-acting. It's my semen, not someone named Steve's. But then she added, "Isn't it delicious? He tasted just like that the last time I kissed his penis, honey! Something like that. Now lick me clean! Take all of that man-juice into your tummy as if you wanted it to make you pregnant!"

I tried. There was no room to move my tongue toward her clit, so I began to force it between her pussy lips.

"Ahhh," she said. "You can't get enough of him either, can you?"

I couldn't reply at all, of course. All I could do was try to swallow, and try to bring her off as rapidly as I could, try to end this strange session in a way that would please her. So I stiffened my tongue and pushed it into her cunt even more vigorously, in and out. She began to writhe, and soon she came again in a frenzy! She squeezed out even more. I swallowed again, and my face was now covered with her juices and my own cum.

As she caught her breath she felt behind her. "Ah! I thought as much," she said. "You sweet, dear pervert!"

She reached back and took a firm hold on my penis. It had gotten hard yet again! That almost never happened! Because seeing her turned on had turned me on yet again? Because we were pretending that I was eating out her lover's spunk? Because she'd dominated and humiliated me, and I loved it? I had no idea!

As she slid down and slipped me into her body yet again and began to rotate her hips on me, she began to chant in a sweet, sing-song voice, "I know what you want, I want what you want," and smiled to herself.

I thought this had gone far enough. "I want you!" I said hoarsely, and I rolled her over roughly and lunged myself into her repeatedly, marveling that I was still hard enough to move way in and way out again and again, over and over. I did want her, too!

"I know you do, Steve," she replied as she wrapped her long legs around my waist, and crossed them behind my back, and squeezed me deeper into her with each lunge. "And I want you too! And that's what my husband wants, for us to fuck each other's brains out! I found that out just tonight! So push deeper! Deeper! Cum into me!"

And with that I came again, I couldn't help it. When she felt me throb she came too. The idea excited her too, obviously.

"Yessss!" she said as if she'd reached some kind of conclusion as well as a climax. Then she stared up at my face wordlessly, impassively. "Now let's go to sleep, Pattie honey. You can eat me again in the morning. In fact, whenever I've been out working late with a client, this is what I'll want you to do when I get home. Clean me. Whoever I'm with, I want to remember when I'm with him what a wonderful lover I have at home too. It'll be wonderfully exciting. I'll like that."

And she was sound asleep.

In the morning I felt a choking pressure on my face and opened my eyes to see that Tara was again sitting on my mouth, again looking down at me. My cum from the night before was dried stiff on my nose and cheeks, and it clotted my hair. But there was still more in her pussy, still sticky. She slid her groin back and forth on my slick mouth. My nose slid up between her pussy lips and then between her cheeks, pausing against her rose bud, and then slid forward again. Each time it passed her clit she groaned.

"Lovely," she said when she'd tensed up into orgasm and then released herself yet again. "Our best time together ever! Isn't this a delicious depravity? So very exciting, and no harm done! Now let's take our showers. I have lots of things to tell lots of people today about my plans for them when I've got my new office. You already know what my plans are for you, I think. Some of them, anyhow."

She smiled again and climbed off me, and without a backward glance she headed for the bathroom. She'd used me and no longer needed me. But she knew I'd be there when she next wanted to use me. She'd just given me more of herself than ever before in our marriage, and I'd given her more too. It was true. I could tell by her languorous stroll toward the bedroom door, her thighs rolling slowly, that she'd never felt more satisfied either. At least I'd never seen her looking more satisfied. So I guessed that I should be satisfied too. She loved me. She was doing everything she could think of to please me. Just as she did with her clients, though differently of course.

I hoped differently. With that thought I started to get hard yet again. So instead I rolled over and got out of bed.

 

Two

It went like that for weeks, months. Tara was different. Somehow much more self-confident, less inclined to ask my advice about household or business matters, less inclined to tell me about her day, more inclined to expect that I'd agree with her whenever she uttered an opinion on anything. Our sex was never better. It was sweet, furious, intense, extended, and exhausting. Now that she'd found a switch that invariably turned me on, now that she knew how to harden me up for whenever she wanted more, she wanted more repeatedly.

She'd cry out different men's names, sometimes while urging me to shift position sliding inside her, always at the height of her climaxes. Often furiously, as if she resented that person and her own need the very moment he was providing her the greatest satisfaction. Never tenderly, that was reserved for me, for Patrick, her husband, afterward. Her ride on my cock was more frenzied than ever, and my plunging into her got more rampant, more desperate. But we always ended with the same face-sitting, when she'd appreciate me lovingly by my own name, even stroke my cum-streaked cheeks as I nibbled and nursed and licked my own cum—by different men's names—out of her pussy.

She loved these new things we were doing, and I got used to them. I even began to enjoy eating her after we'd made love, and more than just because she loved to see me do it. Licking her soft, warm, salty wet, puffy creases and folds was sweet, delicious. My own cum wasn't at all bad tasting after a while. It was pleasant. I got to enjoy the slick-coating it left on my mouth and tongue, even the crust tugging on my eyebrows when I woke up the next morning. It was the last thing I tasted before going to sleep, and the first thing on waking up. It was the taste of the day.

She changed the scenario subtly one night. We were both sated, settling in and snuggling, and I was almost asleep when she said drowsily, "You are just great, lover. My husband could never have done that."

This was a cue of some kind. I waited. "Oh?" I said finally.

"No way. One fuck and he's down and gone. But you just don't quit! And you know something else I found out recently about my husband? My so-called husband, that so-called man who can't ever really satisfy me the way you do?"

"No, what?"

"He's not really a man. He's a weak-willed wimp. He submits to anything I ask. I've begun wondering whether deep down under he's really gay. Maybe a repressed homosexual."

What was she up to? "Why do you say that?"

"Well, I tell him I'm sleeping with other men, and he never says anything about it. He wants me to sleep with other men, I think. He likes the idea. It excites him!"

"Oh?"

Tara turned to face me, looking straight at me with that faint smile of hers. "Yes, his cock loves it. His cock knows that my other men are much better than he is. That they can do all sorts of things he can't. Stiffen up and stand tall and ram into me till we both keep cumming, bring me to such ecstasy I can't stop shrieking for joy! Then do it again, and then again! He doesn't mind. He isn't the least bit jealous!"

She was up to something I didn't understand. I had to play along.

"He isn't jealous? It doesn't make him unhappy?"

A quick amused gleam came into Tara's eyes.

"Well, of course, in a way. But he's never mentioned it. He knows it makes me happy to go to bed with better men, I think, and that's why he lets me. He loves me, he wants me to be happy, how else can I explain it? He does, you know." She paused, and waited for a response. And waited. Finally I realized I had to say something.

"I suppose so," I said. "I suppose he does love you and want you to be happy."

"Yes," she affirmed, satisfied. "And you know something else?"

"What?"

"I don't think it's jealousy he feels. I think it's envy. When he sees how I am with those other men, I'm sure he'd like to feel that way too."

"Feel the way your men feel when they're making love to you?"

"No, silly! Feel what I feel! Enjoy a man's rapturous embrace, feel that strong, swollen thing pulsing inside his own body, feel it spreading that slippery warmth that's just too lovely for words. Just too lovely! Think about it!"

Talk about twisted? I felt a touch offended. Did she believe it? Plainly, she wanted me to try the idea on for size. "Why do you think that?"

"Well, first of all, he never knows what I'm really up to during the day, when he thinks I'm working. He never asks and I never tell him. I think he's afraid to ask. He thinks maybe I'm spending day after day going from man to man, getting my pussy filled up by one after the other. But he doesn't want to know for sure. Maybe because he feels jealousy and envy both, and can't handle it. But at night it's different."

"How? What about at night?"

"At night he watches me make love to other men, he's right there the whole time. When I get into bed with my lovers and I embrace them, he can't bear to stay downstairs and just imagine that it's happening, or to go out for a newspaper or something and stay away until we're finished. He has to come into my room with us, even into my bed! He'll watch me make love two, three times a night. He gets off on it. I know that. He even puts them into me, and when each of the men I'm with cums, he cums too! While watching us! Every time!"

I was silent. There was an odd truth inside this improvised version of our lovemaking, one I wasn't sure I wanted to acknowledge, though I couldn't deny it. I had to play along.

"So? You're telling me that he gets voyeuristic kicks from watching you make love? No big deal, lots of people do, that's why lots of loving couples put mirrors on their ceilings, on wardrobes across the way, on walls surrounding their beds, all over. Maybe when you're making it with someone he's imagining that he's really your lover, that he's the man who's enjoying you, vicariously maybe."

"No! How could that be? What sort of man would make love to his own wife as if he were some other man. Make himself into his own cuckold, humiliate himself? No, it has to be that he's imagining he's me with those men! He's gay. Maybe even one of those transsexuals, men who want to be women."

I didn't want to argue. I wanted to drift off to sleep, and this whole topic was uncomfortable. "Maybe," I murmured, to end the discussion.

Tara paused, as if surprised that I'd said that. I opened my eyes and saw her looking at me intently, genuinely curious. And I saw what had happened. She'd been testing out one more way to tease me, maybe, not really expecting me to pick up on it. But I hadn't foreclosed it. Maybe she'd struck a glint of gold, another vein of perversity in me, something I could never acknowledge even to myself, certainly never to her? She inclined her head ever so slightly, lovingly, as if grateful to me for revealing a terribly intimate confidence of some sort. Then she resumed, playing with the notion luxuriously..

"Of course! I don't even need to ask him. My husband the pansy girl! My dear little swish! I've never understood why men don't feel about each other the way women feel about them! But I can understand how he feels! Maybe he married me in full flight from his own homosexual yearnings and now he can't resist them any longer! That must be it! Because you know something?"

"No, what?"

"Afterward, when my lovers have gone and I'm back in bed with my little faggoty husband Patrick, you won't believe this! He drinks their leavings! He loves it! He slurps up and licks and swallows all their semen." She closed her eyes and smiled to herself, now in a relaxed, post-coital glow. "He adores sperm! Its taste in his mouth, its feel on his face and in his belly! Because when I'm done with whoever I'm with, I always sit on Patrick's face and feed him everything that's been pumped into my pussy. And he licks and slurps and sucks it all down like a good little boy licking a melting ice cream cone, trying to swallow every drop. His face gets all covered with it, and he doesn't even notice! He's in seventh heaven, on another planet! What do you think of that?"

I had nothing to say. For some reason that pleased her.

"My poor Patrick! He can't face the fact that he's gay, that he wants a man of his very own, he wants to fall to his knees and suck on a hot cock with his own mouth, and feel one sliding in and out of his own bum. So he uses my men indirectly. He has sex with my lovers at one remove. Isn't that likely?"

How could I deprive her of this riff she was riding? "Maybe," I said.

She smiled at my complicity. "Maybe? No maybe! It's such a thrill for him to know how a real man makes me happy, that afterward he brings me off two or three times more with his tongue. He can't have those men, so he enjoys them though me! He's satisfied that I'm satisfied. Don't you think that's true?"

I couldn't deny the substantial truth in that last. "Yes, that much is likely," I replied.

She was pleased by that. "Yes. He loves me. He's such a dear little man, even though it's harder each day for me to think of him as a man. He's something else, we'll have to find out what else, give him every opportunity to come out of himself. But I do love him. Very very much!"

She paused. Then asked in a quiet voice, "How do you feel, honey?"

This wasn't playful. She wanted honesty.

"That you love me? Happy. Very happy." But my voice sounded troubled.

"No, I mean about the rest."

"Uneasy. A little frightened. Helpless, even. Demeaned. And that's not right, I shouldn't feel demeaned because I'm your lover. Nor demeaned by being gay, even if I were, which I'm not. Should I?"

"No, sweetheart." I couldn't read her voice. Did she think I was confessing something? "Not if I enjoy having a lover. Not if you enjoy being gay. Do you find what we're doing now exciting, too?"

"Yes." I couldn't deny it.

She kissed me gently, satisfied. "Good! G'night now, baby, let's sleep."

Well, I couldn't. Not for a long while, after that. Because I couldn't be sure any more if this was still play acting, something we did together. Had she really been fucking different men in her own mind, using my body as a handy facsimile of each? Or worse, each time we made love, was she reliving the day's actual lovemaking with another man? The fact was, now I didn't feel like her game-playing partner any more. I felt instead like a husband helplessly watching her enjoy her real lovers and then because I love her, because I want her to be happy, helplessly cleaning up after them. Why wasn't I jealous? Did she really think I like sex with men? Was she testing me for that idea? That what I really wanted was to be her? The idea wasn't at all pleasant, except for the fact that it pleased her. Maybe.

She'd mindfucked me all right. From then on, whenever she seemed to be using my body to pleasure herself, I'd feel it was really someone else's body. I couldn't help it. I witnessed her infidelities night after night and said nothing. That was how she wanted it. I shared a bed with Tara and Steve and Tara and Brian and Tara and Scott, all of her other lovers, and at the height of their passion, when she was writhing on me or under me in the most racking of orgasms, I sometimes actually found myself wishing I'd been the one who'd brought her off!

She sensed how I now felt separated from her, and she began to explore those possibilities in our relationship. She took charge of our sessions altogether. She gave her cuntsucking, cumsucking, submissive, maybe gay husband an additional duty. When she got home from work, sometimes she'd walk into the living room and call me from my alcove. Then when I'd arrive and was standing there, waiting, she'd pull off her panties and sit bare-bottomed on the couch, and spread her knees, and tell me, "Clean me up!" Clean up what? And then she'd lean back and close her eyes, confident that I'd follow her orders.

And I would. I'd kneel devotedly between her legs and do just that. Because she wanted it. And now—I just couldn't help it, each time I found I was tasting her delicately for evidence of ... someone else. Some other man in her life. I'd accepted that she just might well be unfaithful to me. It drove me wild.

She knew. She'd watch me lick her labia and dip my tongue into her snatch, feeling for something viscous that was never there, and she'd be amused. Sometimes she'd even console me, "Nothing this time? Maybe it all dripped out before I got here? Maybe I douched? Don't be impatient, maybe soon, sweetie! I know what you want!"

It was much worse on days when she'd arrive home and then not ask me to lick her pussy. Then I really could believe that some man had squirted spunk into her and that she didn't want me to know for certain, not just yet. I'd stare at her crotch, wondering if her panties were sticky, or if she even wore any. I'd pull them out of the laundry hamper and inspect them, and I'd feel desolated when she'd strip them off and hand-wash them before I could see for myself what had leaked into the crotch. I'd try to read some kind of meaning in the satisfied way she'd look at me every time I looked at her. Some evenings I couldn't look away! She'd notice and smile in deep satisfaction. Once she asked me in a soft voice as I studied her, "Happy, love?" I suppose she thought I was. Maybe I was?

There was something else too. She'd almost never previously given me blow jobs, only maybe as a special treat on an anniversary or a birthday. There was nothing at all in it for her, she'd tell me. She knew how devotedly I kissed her quim, but she felt nothing like that whenever my penis was in her mouth.

But now she loved it! When teasing failed to reawaken my ardor for a second or third round she'd solve the problem by taking her lover's cock into her mouth and then sliding it in and out of that warm, moist place until it hardened and she could sink it into her pussy. "I never do this with my husband's cock," she'd sometimes say. "But yours is so beautiful I can't keep from kissing it!" And whenever she said that I'd go ramrod stiff.

When she was mounted on my face afterward, my lips buried in hers, or when we were both drifting to sleep, she'd talk on and on about the pleasures of giving head. As if trying to persuade me to try it. As if she felt challenged to bring out my supposed homosexual yearnings, or if none emerged, to mock me. "It's really lovely, honey, making love to a man's cock, " she said. "That purple head feels so silky smooth on your lips, you can't possibly keep yourself from licking it and sucking on it. The liquor that seeps out of that little eye in the tip? You must try it! Are you sure you haven't? Not even once? Oh, my poor baby, you want to but you're too frightened?"

It was yet one more kinky tease. Now and then she'd blow a supposed lover to orgasm while I lay there watching them, because there I was, waiting to taste his jism directly from her mouth, still hot. She'd tell me just that. When I was nearing a climax, rising and tensing, about to pump into her mouth, she'd cry out, "Now comes the best part, for Patrick!"

Spurting was the best part for me, so at first I assumed that was what she meant. But when she'd transferred my sperm from her mouth to mine, she'd murmur it again. "Here you are, the best part! A man's sperm! Sucking down sperm! You'll be getting all you want soon enough, all by yourself, just be patient sweetie. I'm making all the arrangements!"

I told her I didn't understand what she meant by "the best part." She was surprised, or she pretended to be surprised. "Why, you know, baby! Being so loving that your man just can't help it, he goes rigid and swells up and then cums in your mouth! Tasting each fresh spurt is the best part! Swallowing it down! Licking that last drop! Soon enough you won't need my help! Just be patient!"

Soon enough I'd be sucking someone's cock on my own? That gay thing again? I decided to let it alone. She had her fantasies.

Her vocabulary widened. She'd always been embarrassed to use four-letter words, always maintained a prim decorum when discussing sex. But now she'd tell me how she adored being a "loving cunt" to her endless stream of lovers, how she wanted me to become the same "sweet cock sucker" that she was, to share in her pleasure. I tried to feel gratified, since all her lovers were of course me and all of their cocks were mine. But could I ever be perfectly sure? My jealousy grew. I couldn't help it! She explained to me once how she was proud of her husband, that he accepted his limitations, his inadequate and undeserving prick, and was content just to lick her "snatch" after another man had filled it. Writhing blissfully on my soaked face while I was slurping up blended cum, she cried out in orgasmic joy, "Ahhh, sweetie, you do love cream pie, don't you? You love it! Ahhhhh!" Cream pie? What had she been reading? Who'd been talking to her?

Afterward I asked her. She just smiled and told me "You think different men tell me those words? Maybe. Maybe it's only the computer? There're lots of stories on the Net about men just like you, wannabe cuckolds and real ones too, men like you who get off on their wives' supposed infidelities. Married gay men who'd rather be eating cock than pussy. All sorts. They eat cream pie too, just like you! I do wish I'd known about you years ago! Think of the fun we could have been having together!"

Could I believe her? I checked her laptop the next day while she was out shopping, and sure enough, there was "alt.sex.cuckolds" prominently bookmarked. That was reassuring, at least she wasn't enlarging her vocabulary from actual experience! I looked at the "cuckolds" newsgroup to see what it was like. Sure enough, there were lots of women chatting about how they deceive their husbands and then undeceive them, how to make them into helpless infants who lie in their cribs sucking their thumbs while watching mommie get fucked by a stud. Lots of husbands were eating "cream pie" nightly without even knowing it. Was it all shared fantasy? Were there really such women? Such self-betrayed men? I scrolled back to the top.

And there I saw it! She'd posted a note to me with the subject line "Tara to her Sweet Hubbie." I opened it immediately.

"Hi, Patrick sweetheart, I just knew you'd look here! You see how many husbands share your dreams? Read and enjoy! Oh yes, don't expect me home too soon tonight. This is so exciting! I need to see a man about this yearning I have to ... well, never mind. Love ya!"

When she got home—an hour late—she went immediately to her laptop and checked her log, and she was positively gleeful when she saw I'd been there and that her message was marked "already read." She sashayed around the house for the next hour humming to herself and looking at me delightedly. I was tempted several times to ask her to let me lick her pussy, please. Please! I had to know if what I feared had actually happened.

But did I want to know? She knew I'd be indecisive, so she hummed all the more loudly, but never once did she sit down where I could fling myself at her snatch! Finally, she started up the stairs, commenting "Baby, I'm going to take a shower before dinner, I do feel so very sticky down below!" And she was gone. And with her my chance of knowing for certain.

When she came down she seemed dreamy, She was wearing a sexy negligee, and I thought to myself, tonight she'll use me as one of her lovers for sure.

But I was disappointed. After dinner an actual client called. She was instantly all business as she talked to him and reluctantly, I was sure it was reluctantly, she told him she'd come out and look at the site, at whatever was on his mind. She changed quickly to one of her "power" business suits. These days I always noticed how she dressed for work, whether prim or provocative. This time it was prim, all perfectly proper. As she went out the door she paused, looked over her shoulder at me, and then suddenly kicked up a heel and tossed her head at me saucily, elated by the intent uncertainty she saw in my face. "I'm off to meet my man, now, honey!" she said. Then she was gone.

When she returned she took my hand and led me directly to bed and we fucked like goats for hours. Me, Patrick, the two of us, not Tara and one of her well-hung lovers. That was so unusual it disturbed me. Had she actually done it this time with someone else, so she was making it up to me? With that thought I was near despair! I was sure of it! Yet when I licked her, she tasted no different, the same as always, just my cum inside her. But a lot of it. Maybe not only mine?

A month more of this whipsaw treatment and I was helpless, trapped inside layers of agonized doubts and suspicions, unable to conclude anything at all. I lived with agonized uncertainty and yet also a hard-on that returned every time I wondered what she was doing. I told her that one evening, hoping she'd relieve my anxiety. But all she did was nod, smiling delightedly. "Oh, good! That's so nice! You do love it, don't you! Look how hot it makes you! The more you think I fuck, the more we fuck! "

That was true enough. I think.

 

Three

Meanwhile, the whole time, workmen were coming and going during the day. The addition to our house had been under construction and was now just about done. Tara's office-to-be. It had gotten more grandiose than she'd originally planned, because she'd developed some new prospects for clients and wanted to be prepared to deal with them. The final plans called for a separate entrance toward the rear, a reception area, and two suites of offices—one for her and one to be used by different clients' representatives as needed, with several rooms in each. There was another large room on the second floor, accessed only from her office. Each floor had its own powder room, a toilet and sink. I asked Tara why the second floor room had its own, and she didn't hesitate.

"Why, honey, that's where I'll persuade certain favored clients to enjoy the advantages of working with me," she said in a low, slow voice, eying me the whole time. "So I can show them everything I'm willing to do for them, all in complete privacy. All my special tricks and secrets, and maybe I'll find out some of theirs. The same way I now know yours. Then when we're done, they'll need to wash up before going back down to my office to sign contracts and then home to their wives."

That was more than I wanted to hear. More agony! Later I heard that the upstairs powder room was only an afterthought, the gift of a plumbing contractor grateful for all the work she'd given him around the city. And I overheard talk about shelving and display cases and so forth she wanted installed in that upper room—it was after all only a showroom for different kinds of office and shop arrangements. So when she ordered a double overstuffed sofa for that upper room and told me it was a "persuader," I didn't worry a whole lot. She was just playing with me, messing my mind.

I hoped.

I'd gotten accustomed to seeing workmen tramping around to the rear of the house, contractors talking to them, the sounds of concrete mixers grinding and pneumatic hammers banging. But except for the noise their work never entered our house—they planned to break through to connect up the spaces and hook up the plumbing and electricity only when the addition was completed. So I wasn't much put out. My own work was going into seasonal hiatus anyhow—I didn't have a lot to do. I had annual retainers, more than I wanted, so I wasn't worried. I read and watched TV, and the workmen and their dirt and noises all did whatever they needed to do. The new addition grew and neared completion. Looked finished to me, though some details still needed attending. Office furniture for it began to arrive.

Then our lives took a new turn.

We were just finishing dinner, a spicy carry-in from a new French restaurant near us, delicious, when I realized there'd been a long silence, that neither of us had spoken for a while. I looked up and saw Tara looking directly at me, attentively, appraisingly, calculatingly—the way I sometimes saw her looking at office spaces that need radical alteration.

"What?" I said.

"Astrid's office is closed," she replied. "We're renovating her whole suite this week and next. Her staff is on vacation until their new work space is ready."

Astrid had been Tara's first client, an old college sorority sister who'd started "Women's World," a successful business advisory and accounting firm for women like Tara who wanted to work at home. She was unmarried, maybe a latent lesbian but I never asked, and a good friend who occasionally offered even me excellent advice about office procedures.

"You finally talked her into it," I replied. "So?"

"Well, there's a problem."

I waited. There are always problems in Tara's line of work, and she always solves them.

"Astrid's conference room is where I've been seeing my out-of-town clients, people without their own local offices. That's where I invite new prospects to hear my introductory pitch, so I can convince them they should show me the actual space they mean to lease, so they can hear what I'll propose for it."

"And?"

"I've got a prospect coming in from out of town tomorrow and I've no place to talk to him. Very big." She hesitated, then went on. "All right, this is confidential, Patrick. Listen and don't say a word. Castro Enterprises, the giant conglomerate, they're moving their entire east coast regional office here. A huge commission if I can get it, work for months and months! Six floors of offices in that new highrise downtown. And the prospects are even bigger. Castro intends to open branch offices in nearby cities, all of them with the same trademark decor. I want to design that decor, and I want all of that business. And I'm close to getting them to sign—it'll take only one more meeting."

I waited.

"I could ask Givens Associates to let me use their office, down the hall from Astrid, but then Bob Givens would come on to me for payment. He'd expect payment. You know what he's like. So I'd rather not. You understand."

I did. Bob Givens was compulsively horny. He came on to every woman he encountered, flattering the older ones with his flirtations and actually bedding down many of the younger, single or married, sometimes several in a single night. He was immune to the word "No!," and given his charm lots of women couldn't remember the word anyhow when they were with him. Single women chatted cheerfully with each other afterward, comparing their experiences, and married women maintained stony silences for the sake of their marriages, torn whether to keep their husbands or now that they knew better, try for something better. Apparently he was great in bed.

"He hasn't come on to you already?" I asked. "I hear often enough that he's God's gift!" I thought she was teasing me again, warming me up for another night of just-the-two-of-us infidelities. So I provided her an opening.

"Of course he has. If I ever want to, whenever I want to, I can wear him out," Tara replied perfunctorily, dismissing my gambit with a faint smile. A provocative answer, like so much of her talk these days, but her heart wasn't in it. She was genuinely troubled.

I leaned forward. "Honey, if you need a place to talk with a client, bring him here. You've done that sometimes. The new office area isn't quite ready, but people will be coming here in a few days anyhow. So use our living room. If you need complete privacy I'll go upstairs, or maybe out to a movie."

She didn't pick up on that either. This really was serious. "No, you're sweet to offer, but it's too late for that."

"Too late?"

She shifted uneasily, then she too leaned forward and clasped her hands in front of her in her decisive 'getting ready to close the deal' mode. "The CEO, the man who makes these decisions for Castro, Bill Bartram, he's very ... aggressive, decisive, one of those yes, no, then do it kinds of men—you know them. Hard to turn down or turn away. Can't tolerate working with people who aren't the same way, who can't make crisp arrangements, who waffle."

An odd feeling began to grow inside me.

"I've met with him at conventions and on his previous trips here, and we've talked for long stretches by phone, and I've sent him sketches, and things have moved faster than I expected. He's coming into town tomorrow and he wants to make commitments. I think he means to sign with me. He's asked for a conference and he asked where we could meet, and I'm afraid I lost the initiative, I couldn't tell him right away where, I hadn't lined up a substitute for Astrid's place. So he took charge and told me where. And that's where we'll meet."

Here it comes, I thought. "Where?"

"Honey, whatever you like to fantasize, I never go to men's hotel rooms. I know I'm attractive to men! A hotel room with me in it would be an aphrodisiac for any high-powered male. If they were to get me into one and it was just the two of us and a bed, there'd always be just one big thing on their minds, and in their pants too I'm sure. They'd insist on certain perquisites for signing with me, and I'd have to refuse them, and then I'd lose their business. It's happened more than once already."

I wasn't sure if this was one more elaborate tease. She never goes to men's hotel rooms? "You agreed to go to this man's hotel room?"

"Not at first. We'll meet for a drink, then I'll go up with him. It's a newly decorated suite, apparently, in the same signature decor he wants for Castro's offices, a modern variation of French Provincial. My estimates are based on that style, but there are a few more details and options I need to point out. So yes, I agreed. I told him his hotel room would be convenient, given what I need to do to satisfy him."

"I see." I paused and waited. There was more she had to tell me, but she wasn't saying, yet. "And?"

"Honey, could I refuse? I certainly wouldn't want him to think I'm the least bit bothered by ... personal inhibitions. That wouldn't be businesslike." Her face remained solemn.

This was my old wife! Never goes to hotel rooms. Proper, virtuous, always ready to tease me, it was our little game. But now seriously worried.

"No fear," I said soothingly. "It's all probably very innocent. "What is he, a paunchy sixty year old widower with five children and ten grandchildren?"

She smiled at my attempt to console her. "No, he's in his late thirties, a hard-driving hunk who's been on the cover of "Career Girl" as their Catch of the Year. Women fall all over themselves to get in his way, and I hear he leaves most of them lying there smiling and breathing heavily. Most of them. He's quite handsome." She grinned, but with an edge of uncertainty.

I heard this in silence. That old stirring in my loins was rising, this time not at all welcome. Here was a real threat, apparently. Did it mean that this time Tara would actually be going the distance? Was she asking my permission in advance? Was that what this was about? Or did she want me somehow to help her resist him?

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked. Then realizing that I sounded annoyed, curt, and also realizing that I didn't want to know one possible answer, I deflected the question by asking another. "How can I help?" Then waited.

She continued to stare at me, her hands folded, Her face was now inexpressive, but her thin, arched eyebrows were drawn together, troubled, anxious. My heart began to go out to her.

"It's asking a lot," she said mournfully.

What was she saying? My anxiety was laced with a rising anger. Was this it, finally? Did she want my permission to let him bed her down? To fuck Mr. Catch-of-the-Year? To promise that afterward I'd never hold her guilty of betraying me? To forgive and forget in advance? She wanted a free pass to get her cunt lubed by a major stud?

That would move our little game from play-acting—if that was what it was, and I didn't know it wasn't—into an undeniable reality! It would change everything. I'd finally be a genuine cuckold, knowingly and with my own full consent. And she'd know it. She'd always know it! Just as she'd always pretended to know it about me, but this time for real! And I'd always know she knew, every time she looked at me. Could I endure it, playing the meek cuckold in fact as well as fantasy? Would that open the door to others, would our private fantasy about her endless infidelities became a fact of our lives? My stomach sank! I just stared at her, my mouth open in shock!

"My God!" came out of my mouth.

Her eyebrows shot up, and she straightened up in sudden surprise. "Oh,no, honey!" she said, as if herself shocked. "I'm not asking your permission to go to bed with him! Never! I wouldn't ever want you to know if there's another man, not until you want to know! You're my one true love, and I want you to be happy always! That's why I want you to stay deliciously, wickedly uncertain! I mean, you'd like to think you're the only person you've ever tasted in me, wouldn't you? But you don't really know it, do you?"

She was teasing me again! Even though this time there was a real threat to deal with! She certainly could read me like an open book—I was altogether transparent to her.

"No," she continued, "I'm not asking your permission to fuck this man. If I meant to, I'd just do it, and decide later what you needed to know if anything, what's best for you. Or better, I'd let you decide whether you should know. The way we've been doing. Let you break down and finally ask me when you can't stand not knowing any more. Breach your trust in me. In that way to free me to fuck any man I want and then tell you anything you wanted to know, true or not. That's the fairest way."

"Then what? Why are you telling me this?" I felt drained, exposed. Once again, my imagination had betrayed me!

"Because I need you, honey!" Her solemn face with its huge eyes stared across the table at me. I melted. She saw, and looked grateful, then pixieish. Her voice became almost sing-song. "Maybe you'll think what I want you to do is just as bad! Just as humiliating. Just as threatening to your manhood. Maybe even more threatening. I don't think it needs to be, really. I think you can handle it, even thrive on it the way you thrive on my supposed affairs with other men. But many men can't, and you might be one of them!"

I was baffled, and just stared at her the way she'd been staring at me, steadily, trying to read her mind. I gave up.

"What is it you want, then, Tara?" I asked quietly. I felt a little tense.

"The honor of your presence, honey. Just come with me when I meet with him this last time before we sign."

I suddenly went slack, the wind gone from my sails. This was nothing! "That's all? Why, sure, honey!"

"No, wait. Listen. Just listen. I need for you to be there with me so he won't try anything. So he'll put off any extracurricular plans for another time. The way he comes on by phone and when we've met out-of-town, I don't think there's any doubt at all what he'll want from me when we're alone up there in his bedroom.

"Then no problem!" I said as casually as I could. "Of course I'll come with you!"

"No, you still don't understand, baby," she said. There was still uncertainty in her voice. "It isn't as easy as that. Or it won't be. Not for you! I don't think so, anyway."

"Why not?" I was baffled again.

"You can't come as my husband!"

I didn't have to ask 'Why not?' a second time. I just stared at her. She went on.

"Honey, how can I negotiate hundreds of thousands of dollars of costs with my husband sitting next to me? How would that look? As if I were some dependent, indecisive woman who needs a man's assistance to help me make up my mind. As if I needed a crutch! Or worse, a chaperone."

That was true enough. Though that's what she wanted me for. A chaperone.

"He'd think we were partners, and if he talked to both of us, when we started negotiating he'd get the wrong signals from you. More than likely he'd start talking to you instead of to me, you know that's what men do from habit, talk to whoever's wearing the pants! Because that's the usual scenario—men make the deals and decisions and women take notes and then type them up. It happens a lot. Sometimes it takes time before I can even set up a straight eye-to-eye relationship with my clients, because I'm a woman and they don't expect me to be serious! I always need to let them know right away that I'm in charge. No one else."

Also true. But an idea occurred to me. "Then call me your secretary, not your husband. I'll sit still and take notes for you. Or something."

"That's just what I want you to do," she replied. "Pretend you're my secretary." But her brow remained furrowed. Apparently that wasn't the end of it.

"So?"

"Honey, just listen. Hear me out, because what I'm about to say may sound like something you don't want to hear, or maybe you won't mind, because I've been teasing you about your sexuality for quite a while now, and I know it excites you. But this time I mean it to be real. And reality's a different place from imagination. A lot more unpredictable and long-lasting. But just maybe you won't mind anyhow."

She was staring straight at me. Solemnly. I waited.

"Any other man in that room would cramp his style, because it would cramp my style! I do intend to make certain moves on him, subtly suggestive, tempting. You know? This shouldn't surprise you, you know how I love to flirt, and you certainly know how I've been working you over. You know how I can be! Baby doll, I want to actually invite him to come on to me, ever so slightly! Not that he won't anyway, but I want him to hope I'll give him more than he expects. I want him to anticipate all sorts of wonderful things I can do for him. I can certainly give him smart interior design and a functionally intelligent workplace layout, and quickly, too. But I want to keep him unsure how much additional I might also give him, and then keep him just that way. There are all those branch office contracts down the pike, remember. I want those contracts too."

She looked self-assured now, almost matter-of-fact. As if explaining her methods to a partner or a colleague. This was a disturbing confession, even though she hadn't yet confessed to anything. "You've done this before?" I asked, uncertain how to respond. "You habitually ... offer yourself to your clients? Or seem to?"

"Of course. How do you think I got my first contracts, a woman with no track record? Some of my appeal has always been me. Sex appeal always enters in. You know the first rule of salesmanship, sell yourself. Some of these hard-driving men can't tell the difference between a deal and a screwing, and you can always hook them into one by seeming to promise the other. Ideally I try to entice new clients by reversing the pitch, trying to get them to please me, to win me over by accepting all my suggestions and offering me the most favorable terms available. That's how it works!"

I heard the words "sex appeal" and "entice" and realized that my earlier fears weren't altogether unfounded. She walked a narrow line. How close to the edge did she get? Did she ever tumble over? Did she ever need to deliver on those implied promises? Was she teasing me again here? She seemed to be speaking with great earnestness. This was serious, I had to put all thought of teasing out of my mind. I did. But I still didn't know what she wanted me to do!

"Do you deliver on what you promise?" It was a bare question, and I dreaded to hear the answer.

"I give them gracious and functional office space, yes, certainly. They never regret hiring me."

No answer I could cleave to hopefully, nor despairingly.

Tara wasn't done. "Whenever I take on a project I'm in complete charge, and the men I deal with like it that way. But think about it, Patrick. If I show up with a male secretary in tow, some subordinate who takes orders from me, they might get uneasy. They might worry that they're next. That I'm a dominatrix of some kind. They might feel their manhood threatened. It's a small point, but impressions like that can weigh heavily sometimes."

I nodded. I could see that, I suppose.

"Or they might think of you as competition. Someone I already sleep with. You're cute-looking, you know that? A real doll! That's one reason why I married you, and why no matter what that's why I always come back to you and sleep with you." She smiled sweetly at me.

Not altogether reassuring, that. But I was glad to hear it, and I smiled back.

She went on. "I know, there're lots of male secretaries out there in the world and they do good work, and there's no reason I shouldn't have one. But they're still an oddity. In a one on one situation like this a male secretary would be way too distracting. When did you last see one—I bet you can remember, can't you? And have you ever seen a male receptionist? Men are cute, but they aren't decorative enough."

I had to agree. "So you want to take a woman with you to be decorative and to divide his attention. To stand for female propriety doubled. It's just as well. Another woman in the room would also lower the temperature if your ... sex appeal got too appealing."

"That's right!" she said. "Whereas another man in the room might even encourage him to show off, to come on to me all the stronger. You guys can get so terribly competitive!" And she said nothing more. She just looked at me steadily, as if waiting for something else to sink in.

Did I see where this was going? I thought I could, dimly. "So you don't want me to come with you after all," I said slowly. No, that wasn't it. What else? No, that wasn't thinkable! I grasped at a straw. "Why not hire a temp?" I said as casually as I could.

"We'll be talking lots of confidential plans and figures," she replied without letting her eyes waver off me. "I need someone with me I can trust absolutely. He'll need to sense that. The whole Castro Enterprise move is utterly confidential, and a premature rumor could keep it from ever happening. Temps always talk, and the competition always listens. In fact the competition has been known to hire my temps after I use them and pay them to talk. I've done that myself now and then with theirs, too."

"How about a trusted friend? Astrid, maybe?"

"Out of town. And it's tomorrow, this meeting." She continued to stare at me quietly. As if I were a bug wriggling on the end of a stick.

"I see."

"Yes, I think you do," she replied.

I said nothing.

"So, sweetie, that's why I need you. That's why you'll help me out," she said with a slight smile. It was a statement, not a question.

Was there an alternative? This was worse than cuckoldry by consent. It was voluntary emasculation. And not just in imagination.

"You're who I want with me, honey," she added quietly. "You're perfect for it."

I sat very still. Was this something any husband would do for his wife?

Then she began her hard sell. She leaned toward me. "Honey, just tomorrow, just for a few hours tomorrow! You only need to look like a woman, it isn't as if you had to become one, I'd never ask you to do that. Just so when we walk in and he glances at you he'll put aside any ideas about me until a later time when I'm better prepared to cope with them, when they aren't part of our negotiation. He won't bother with you. You'll be practically invisible from the moment you walk in, only one more secretary there to take notes."

I wasn't happy, but that no longer mattered. I had to hear her out.

"Oh, look at that dear long face! Sweetie, you won't need a complete disguise. You already have a cute face! All we need is to enhance it a little. Provide a few cues signalling that you're a woman and a secretary, no more than that. There's not much you'll need! Maybe smooth your hair and gloss it, and put it into a high pony tail on the crown of your head instead of down at the nape like Geronimo's. Or better, give it a little body, a little curl, cut and fluff it to fit your face, that would work better I think. Then with a little mascara and lipstick, you're practically all set. Earrings of course. Fingernails, secretaries are always repairing their nails. A note pad, a laptop computer maybe, something like that. A handbag to match your heels and complement your skirt. That should do it. Nothing, really! You'll hardly look different, just different enough."

I wriggled uneasily. "Tara," I began.

"It won't touch how I feel about you, about your masculinity, sweetheart. I've been pretending that you're swish for a long time, you know that! This just carries it a little further,into outright girly. You'll have to try to feel more feminine inside yourself of course. More delicate maybe, more passive and wide-eyed. Interested in what this Bill Bartram is like as a man, not take his measure as a man, try to size him up as competition, the way men always do when they meet each other for the first time. Study his shoulders a moment, give him a quick check below the belt, that's all. We all do that. Smile into his face as if you were impressed and flattered, now finally meeting him. Nothing improper. Mainly I expect what you'll do is look pretty and take notes."

Worse and worse. I tried again. "Tara! I can't ...."

"Think of it this way, too, honey! You'll be there, you'll be able to see everything that happens between us. You'll see exactly how I entice handsome men, why they're glad to pay my fees! I know you'll want to see that. Actually be there when it happens. And you'll want to see how I resist them, too, won't you? Or have those ideas I've put into your head taken over, so now you want to see another man seduce me? I hope not, because you never will."

And having offered those extra thoughts, she smiled. Now she was back in form. She wasn't asking or trying to persuade me, she already knew what I'd decide. I hadn't exploded, gone ballistic, so that was that. She was now assuming it was a done deal and taking my consent for granted. She knew she had me, and I saw her relax her shoulders. I'd decided, I just didn't know it yet. A playful glint came into her eyes, and a teasing lilt in her voice.

"Maybe you'll enjoy letting your feminine feelings bubble up for once. Maybe it'll be fun, releasing your inner girl? Maybe that's why you're so hesitant? You're afraid you'll like being a girl? Well, pretending to be one is the next best thing, you know. Just think, girls all get to be pretty, and get to attract all kinds of great guys! Are you afraid you'll be tempted? That you'll want to live like a girl all the time?"

I could feel myself coming around, reconciling myself to helping her this way. Just this one time. But I tried to resist.

"Or maybe you're a wannabe gay down under after all, frightened that I may be offering you a marvelous chance to make out with a great guy, because you're still shy and inexperienced? Is that it?" She grinned.

I did feel afraid. "I don't want to be a girl," I said in a small, helpless voice.

She didn't seem to hear me. She leaned forward to reassure me, confident, still in her "closing the deal" mode. "I know, sweetheart. Of course not. You're afraid to look like less of a man in my eyes when there's another man around!"

I tried to speak. My mouth was so dry again that nothing came out.

"You think that if you let down your guard just a little, do something just a little bit feminine, I won't respect you or keep loving you? Well, I will keep loving you. Even more than now, because greater love hath no man than to give up his manhood for his woman. And I'd respect you all the more too, for your willingness especially. Is it really such an enormous risk that if you awaken your femininity you'll be tempted to go all the way, get yourself castrated, get a vagina installed in space vacated by your cock?"

"No."

"Are you really afraid you'll go uncontrollable, that you'll try to seduce this man yourself, to take him into you, that you'll want to feel him moving around inside you? Or is it that you're afraid your chivalry will get out of hand, that you'll feel noble and self-sacrificing, that you'll tell yourself you've got to seduce him to save me from a like fate? That you'll feel an irresistible urge to suck his cock in order to protect my virtue?"

 

Was she teasing or mocking me? I couldn't take it! I broke! "Enough!" I said. "Honey, I'm ... look, you want me to do it, I'll do it! I don't ...." I stopped. She knew. What more needed to be said? I know I looked unhappy. I felt unhappy. But now I'd said it.

She relaxed some more on hearing that. But not altogether. "I love you, you sweetie, you do know that, don't you?" she said in a low voice. Not at all mocking.

She waited. She needed a response. My participation.

"Yes."

"And I want you to be happy, you know that too?"

"Yes, honey, I know that."

"Then trust me. Just do it. We're together in this. We will be. It isn't only that I need you, and also that you're the only one in the world who can help me, and also that you're willing. It's also because ... well, it'll be different. In a small way it'll be something new for both of us. Another relationship we can explore together. We've done you as a cuckold and a pansy, in our imaginations anyhow, and you know it gave you an illicit charge! Who knows, maybe you'll enjoy feeling feminine too! Maybe despite yourself. Remember, I know where you're coming from, and I know where you're going sometimes even when you don't. OK?"

"OK," I said, wondering what she thought she knew.

"I love you," she said again. "More than ever now. No matter what. Remember that."

"I love you too," I replied, needlessly, now wondering what she meant by 'no matter what.'

"Come kiss me," she said.

I stood up and went over to her, and she stood and started toward me. I wanted to take her head in both my hands and kiss her lips, to reassure her that it was all right, I was glad to help. But just as I came within reach, she stood to join me and encircled my waist with one arm and gripped the back of my head with her other hand, and leaned forward and clamped her mouth to mine. She pressed her face into mine, and her tongue came into my mouth as my head pushed back helplessly against her open hand. I went nearly breathless before she released me.

"Wow!" I said, trying to grin, trying to make light of something challenging I'd sensed in that kiss. Something serious. She'd been the boy. I'd been the girl.

"Wow yourself, honey. Isn't it nice, being the submissive partner for once? No need to think, just follow my lead and do what I ask you? We begin now. You're a pretty girl. Go straight up to our bedroom and get undressed and get into the shower and shave your legs and your arms and your chest. There's a pink shortie nightie on your pillow. Put it on and wait for me, I need to make a few calls first. Tomorrow you'll be my administrative secretary, and I want you to look right and feel comfortable as just that from now on, so come show time it'll all seem natural and easy and pleasant. Your happy memories as a girl begin now."

I felt a little uneasy. Begin now, end when? Better be sure we understand each other. "But after tomorrow I'll be your husband again, right? A man?"

She smiled devilishly. "My husband? That quivering cuckold?" Her voice took on its familiar, gossipy tone. She was now talking to a friend, not to me. To a girlfriend. The way she talked to Astrid. "You know, Pattie, for weeks, months, that so-called man I'm married to has watched me get off in bed with all kinds of men, and he's never once complained! He likes it. He even sucks their cum out of me afterward, can you imagine that? You can't call that a husband! He's not even a man!"

She came over and leaned over me and kissed me sweetly, gently, softly, on my mouth. "And it's just as well," she continued. "Because you know what? You'll never believe this either. He's just agreed to become a woman! Well, we'll see if he's better at it than at being a man. Tonight I want to make glorious love to him as a women. Tonight I want to make him glad that he's a woman!"

She turned to speak to me directly. To me, again, not to some confidante. "Don't you find that exciting, lover?"

I was addled. This was all pretend, but she'd added yet another kinky new twist. "Yes," I said. The idea was exciting, I had to admit it, now that I'd agreed to it. Maybe even liberating. I had no idea why.

"I thought you would, honey. Now go upstairs and make yourself smooth and pretty for me as best you can! I want you to feel really good about yourself, persuaded that you are what you seem to be. That begins now. Starting now, you need to believe that tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life, and that tonight's the first night."

 

Four

Maybe only women can understand how come, but it was rather pleasant as Tara teased and coaxed me to bring out my most feminine traits, encouraged womanliness to emerge and replace my manliness. It was much different from the earlier implicit mockery she'd brought to our lovemaking. At times, I have to confess, it felt just lovely. Tara wanted me to persuade myself that I was a shy woman, and she was determined that I enjoy the illusion. And I did.

I realized for the first time that despite my heightened ability to cum repeatedly whenever Tara goaded me about supposed her infidelities and my own inadequate masculinity, all of our lovemaking had been about Tara, not about me. Tara had dissociated me from myself, pretended I was other men in order to stoke my jealousies, to build up a helpless dependence on her passion and her love for me, to keep my prick up and functional for her uses. I hardly noticed, because my most ardent desire had always been to please Tara anyhow—my own pleasures arrived along the way. Once she took charge, Tara always satisfied herself as she chose, rotating her pussy on top of me or under me, and I kissed or sucked or fucked her also as she chose. Her orgasms were what the whole thing was about. Mine were almost incidental.

But now I was who it was all about! Tara took the initiatives. She made love to me, and I responded. I became her receptacle waiting to be filled, and she filled me until my cup ran over! It seemed wrong somehow, but I loved the attention! I loved it all!

When I got upstairs I saw that she'd forecast my willingness well in advance—there was a prepared upholstered box by the shower containing shaving cream and a razor, and a bottle of depillatory lotion with a note reading "First shave everything, then use this, then rinse well. Use the hair conditioner too." And there were other cosmetics.

So I did. The hair on my body has always been thin and fine, never wiry, but fifteen minutes later there was none at all, and I was wiping a perfumed body lotion into my strangely-softened, silky skin. Lilac, not Tara's signature Gardenia. I wondered if the scent would wash off, or if like Tara's Gardenia it was expected to sink into my skin to become my own personal scent. Me. The conditioner was also lilac, I saw. Apparently so. She'd planned well ahead.

There was another note on the hair-dryer, telling me to brush out my long hair and blow dry it until it was straight and neat. I did. The conditioner was a "volumizing" gel I'd not seen in the bathroom before, and when I'd finished, my hair felt unnaturally full, even heavy, floating down to my shoulders. In the mirror, it made my face look smaller, more pixieish.

Then when I came into our bedroom there on the pillow was the pink nightie she'd mentioned, a pink satin babydoll as silky smooth as my skin. I put it on, and it was nice, it flowed over my body like oil. I sat on the bed in it to wait for Tara and the strange sensations gradually subsided. It was my own shortie nightgown. that's all. There was a copy of "Modern Woman" on her bedside night stand, so I picked it up, thinking to put myself in the right mood for all this. Turning its pages over, I was amazed to find that every one of the models in the ads was looking directly at me, mildly approving my hair and my babydoll, not at all surprised that a man was seeking their advice, ready to make just one or two further suggestions to change my appearance and my life.

When Tara came in, I wasn't surprised to see that she wore exactly the same expression on her face. And she was wearing a satin babydoll like mine, also with a lace fringe around the edges of sleeves and hems. She pulled up a chair and sat next to me, almost conspiratorially, as if girl to girl, and she stared into my face.

"Gorgeous, Pattie!" she said. "You are a gorgeous girl and never forget it! You're so pretty with your hair down it'd be a shame to get it cut to your ear lobes and restyled to prim and proper secretarial. Maybe we'll just re-shape it, give it a little more curl—an attractive secretary is also an asset. Now you just lie back on the bed, lover girl. I want to do everything."

I did.

She lay down directly on top of me, fitting her body atop mine, her feet grasping my ankles. I was pinned down. Her face was directly above mine, and as she breathed I knew that even her toothpaste was gardenia. She leaned up on her elbows and inspected me. "Yes," she said. "Lilac is your scent. I was almost sure of it this afternoon when I was out shopping for the new you. And pale pink is your color, nothing too dramatic. Didn't you find the lipstick I left for you? No? Your mouth needs to be an eensie bit more emphatic. Just a moment."

She hopped off me, was gone, and just as my body was feeling the loss of hers she returned and lay atop me again. It felt good. We'd never before just lain still like this with her weight alone pressing against me.

"I didn't think you'd used it then wiped it off accidentally. It isn't supposed to come off that easily," she said. "'Perma-color' they call it. Use as a base under any darker colors, never needs removing."

"Not even after tomorrow afternoon?" I asked her.

Tara acted amused. "Why sweetie, why ever in the world would you want to remove it after tomorrow afternoon? Don't you have faith? Don't you think tomorrow evening we'll be out celebrating our signing of the biggest contract ever, months and months of commissions and royalties, and prospects for months and months more? Not to mention my breakthrough as a designer of office space for a huge company, practically a Fortune 500? When I land this account I intend to take out a full-page ad and tell the world!"

"Sure we should celebrate," I said. "But don't you think it would be better for us to return here first so I can change back into something more appropriate?"

"And what's more appropriate, my lovely new secretary and assistant? What dress would you want to wear tomorrow night to help us land this client tomorrow afternoon?"

I got her point. If I didn't believe in this new role I was playing, no one else would either. So I went along. At least for once I wasn't one of those stud lovers I wasn't, nor that wimp husband I guess I was, in a way. In this thing I was more her partner, a collaborator."

"I'm your new administrative secretary all day tomorrow," I said. "But after you've signed this guy up I'm going to be Cinderella and turn back into a pumpkin."

"We'll see," she said. "But Cinderella never became a pumpkin. She became a princess. If you insist on confusing your fairy tales, let's just say that right now you're an ugly duckling who's about to become a beautiful butterfly. Open your mouth just a bit, my fairy princess, and make your lips smooth and tight."

She took a wand out of a thin cylinder and held it up. Not a short, fat lipstick but a kind of paint brush covered at the tip with a demure, drenched, pink sponge, not quite red. "The perma-color," she explained. "Now hold still. And resting comfortably on one elbow, with infinite care she traced the tip of the sponge over my lips. It felt cold and wet. She paused a moment. "Now again," she said, and did it a second time. Then again, waited.

"A liquid?" I asked. "I thought lipsticks were colored wax."

"Hush, Pattie," she said. "This is lip coloring, not your usual lipstick. A kind of ointment dye, it sinks down through the lip membranes so you stay pretty and kissable for days. Once more, make a mouth for me!"

I did, and she painted the pale red dye on my lips yet a third time. "You know," she said thoughtfully. "That's already a huge improvement. Your upper lip had hardly any shape. Now it's a really cute cupid's bow. And your lower lip has a sweet pout. 'Bee-stung' they call it. Hold very still while it sinks in. We want the full effect of the softeners, so your mouth can feel more like my mouth. Men like women with soft mouths."

I held very still. Eventually she leaned forward and kissed me, pressed her lips against mine and held them there. A teeny flick of her tongue, and then she pulled back, smiling ever so gently. She looked so content I almost couldn't bring myself to ask the obvious.

"Tara," I said.

"Mmmmm?" she replied, looking now into my eyes.

"What you just put on, it doesn't come off?"

"No ma'am," she said dreamily. Her mind was already elsewhere. "Not for days and days and days. Maybe even weeks. I'm not sure."

"Then how do I get it off?"

Her eyes widened. "Sweetie, you don't want the bother of re-applying your makeup! Remember? In order to be a convincing girl at a glance, you need certain enhancements boys don't use. Not most boys, anyhow—my little girly-boy here is very special! This will keep its color and keep your lips soft without any further attention. You don't want it off, you want it on!"

"Honey," I said. She was concentrating on my face again, studying my eyes, looking softly into them.

"If you're worried about the color," she said, "don't, there's no need. I told you. This is a daytime shade, almost a neutral pink, just distinctive enough to be noticeable. You can always put other shades on top. Reds, purples, whatever your little heart desires or whatever enhances whatever dress you're wearing. But this will be your basic tone. It'll match your nails when we have them done tomorrow. You might not want to use any other shade ever, except maybe when you go out very formal."

I tried again. "Honey," I began.

"Who are you?" she interrupted me, tracing a finger over one of my eyelids.

"Your administrative secretary," I replied dutifully.

"That's right, sweetheart. My long-time administrative secretary. For five years now, ever since you first came to me for employment and I hired you in that wonderful wedding ceremony that gave you to me for life. Remember?"

"Of course I do," I said, and I lifted my head to kiss her lips. She came forward and met mine half way. So very, very soft! I nearly melted.

"Your lips are so soft, now," she murmured. "For life." She began pecking oh so gently on my mouth. "Just remember who you are and that you always will be who you are. For life. If you don't believe in yourself, who else will?

She was right again. This was method acting, find my inner girl and live whatever she lives, to achieve authenticity. Of a kind.

"Yes," she said, confirming the thought she saw on my face. And kissed me yet again. "You'll always need to know that your make-up is perfect at all times, won't you? That's how women who play in these leagues need to play it. You need to know with perfect confidence that you're everything you seem to be and that everything in your whole past life brought you here. Isn't that true?"

"Yes," I said.

"That's my girl," Tara said, satisfied. "That's my sweet, lovely girl! Think about it. All day tomorrow this will have to be for life, won't it? It has to be, doesn't it? In fact, starting now it's for life, isn't it?"

"Yes," I said. There was nothing else to say.

"Good. Then think about it this way. You're new to this. You can't possibly take out a compact and repair your face whenever you've nibbled on something. Or kissed someone. You've never done it before. No one would ever believe you've been doing it ever since your mother allowed you to start using make-up, just about when you had your first period."

She was right, of course. That was why this permanent lip color. In as unobtrusive a shade as possible, but visible, one of those strong cues that said "Girl here!" It was advantageous for me to persuade myself I'd always be wearing one or another kind of lip color, that my lips would always look feminine.

"Yes," I said. "Of course."

She resumed her examination of my eyes, her fingertips stroking my half-closed eyelids. "Just smoky gray here," she said. "With maybe a touch of umber for warmth. And just a hint of shine. Lovely!"

And with that much settled as she lay there on top of me, she wriggled her hips. "Oh, it's so nice to be with a woman again," she said. "Woman are so much softer and nicer than men! After day after day spent with all those hard-plowing and thrusting men, flattering their egos and squeezing their cocks. And then coming home to console my husband with their cum, because he doesn't excite me any more except when his face is between my legs. After all that its so lovely to be just me with you, Pattie, just the two of us. You know how it is with men, I know you do. You were once real close to one I think! Or like me you thought you were!"

 

Five

She waited. This was going to be a dialogue. Women who make love to each other also talk to each other? "Yes, I thought I was," I replied.

"Do you ever miss it? Being with a man?"

How to answer her? "Sometimes," I replied.

She wriggled her hips again. My cock was squeezed between our bellies, and now started to grow. She felt it, and writhed provocatively. "I do too. But I can do some things better than a man," she whispered. "You'll see."

I guess I will, I thought. But I didn't reply at all.

"Take my breasts in your hands. Hold them!" she said, suddenly sitting up and straddling my waist. I reached up and took them into my hands, feeling their soft heaviness where they protruded inside her satin babydoll. And she reached toward mine, under my smooth nightie. And began to rub my nipples through the fabric with just her thumbs and her forefingers. I'd never felt anything like it! Tense, glorious pleasure. I did the same with her nipples, and the strange satiny smoothness seeming to multiply sensation for her too. She clenched her thighs on me.

"Oh," she said suddenly. "Is that a dildo you're wearing?"

My cock was now erect. I nodded, distracted because my nipples had also hardened, and the most delicious feelings were emerging from them. Tara was flicking them ever so lightly. Then she bent and exposed one and suckled it. Her mouth was warm and wet and even more delicious. I tried to pull her up toward me so I could reciprocate, but she resisted.

"Just tuck that fake cock into me, sweet Patricia, do me, my little flower, and then I'll do you!"

She lifted herself up, then lowered herself onto my bursting penis, which sank deep inside her. "Oh, nice," she said. "You're so very wonderful, Pattie honey. So very thoughtful to wear this marvelous thing to bed. I'll just ...." And she rotated her pelvis a few times and then stiffened and came! That quickly! Held her breath and sat perfectly rigid, stiff, for perhaps half a minute, or longer. Then relaxed. A moan escaped her.

I began to thrust, wanting to join her in an ecstatic orgasm of my own. "No, darling girl, wait," she said. She dismounted me and then lay on her back, and lifted her legs high up, pulling her knees to her shoulders. "Fucking men as often as I do keeps me limber," she said. "Especially when I'm having my period or my cunt is sore, but they're insistent, those guys, so I sometimes let them fuck my ass. You know how men can be! That's how I want my girl now! Mount me, Pattie honey! Please! Push that dildo into me there! I want my ass to be yours exclusively from now on! Men can come and go in my pussy, but my ass will be forever faithful to you. To my own girlfriend! Make love to it!"

I crawled over her and lay down on the undersides of her upraised thighs. She grasped my prick and slathered something slick onto it, I suppose from her bed stand, I hadn't noticed, then whispered "Now!"

I had never been inside Tara's rear end. Not even a finger—she'd seemed to shy away from any invasion, and I could respect that. I'd felt the same way. But on her signal, when I felt that her hand was pressing the head of my cock against something in her crotch, I thrust. And sank in altogether all at once! Hot, velvety, slick, and so very tight! I felt her anus pulse on on me once I had sunk deep into her. She was deliberately tightening her hole, then loosening and tightening it. And those were serious muscles! She was milking me! Milking me! Pulling on me! Squeezing me! Rolling her opening along my whole length, up and back! I rose, and swelled up, and the feeling concentrated, then peaked out of control and held itself aloft and immoveable!

"Ahhhhh, Gaaaaahd!" I shrieked as I pulsed and pulsed, cramming myself deep, deep, deep into her pillowing buttocks, pumping my sperm into her guts. And then I collapsed onto her. She'd spread her legs wide as if to suck me altogether into her.

We rested that way until my breathing and hers became regular again. I'd seen blinding light as I squirted, and she'd come too, apparently, without my noticing. Again!

"You darling girl," she whispered to me. "You sweet, lovely, darling girl!" She kissed a cheek softly. "Don't you feel like a sweet, lovely, darling girl?"

I felt very strange. Spent, but satisfied. "Yes, I guess," I said.

"That was just like in high school," she said. "Do you remember those days? When you'd let your special fella fuck your ass so you could remain a virgin? Or you gave him a hand job? Or you'd blow him, whatever, anything to take pressure off his need to get into your pants and your pussy? Remember?"

"I never did those things, Tara," I said. "I guess I was deprived." It was interesting that Tara now wanted to share reminiscences with me, if that was what they were. With her new girlfriend. With her old administrative secretary.

"Oh, you poor dear," she replied immediately. "You never did? You gave in to boys right away? Let them slosh their stuff into your quim whenever they wanted? Wasn't that a little slutty of you?"

"No," I said, reaching for a kind of moral superiority. "I was a virgin and I stayed that way." Then to cut back what might seem boastful, I added. "I guess that's why I was never very popular."

"Are you still a virgin?" she asked in a small, disbelieving voice, as if any of this conversation were real.

"Yes," I said. I didn't know where she was taking me with these questions, so I decided to answer minimally.

"You do love me, don't you, Patricia honey?" She sounded so very earnest, so very sincerely concerned, it was as if I actually were "Patricia" and not "Patrick."

'Yes, Tara, I do," I replied. "More than anything!" I was sincere. "I really do!" I added. I did! Tears came into my eyes.

"Dear, darling sweet girl," she said, overcome. Both arms came around my neck and she hugged me close. "Enough to give to me tonight the greatest gift any girl can give to any of her lovers?"

"Yes, of course," I said. Then I realized what she was asking me. Oh, God! But I'd committed, I had to go through with it. "Yes, even that!"

She understood. "That's what I want. Your virginity. Your first time. Then we'll be as bonded as two people can be."

I swallowed hard. But she'd just given me the gift of her ass. How could I refuse her the same blessing? This new game, being girls together, was turning complicated. Was this what lesbians did with each other? No reason why not, I considered. Especially if one of them lacks a real pussy. "All right," I said. "Anything, Tara." My voice quavered.

"Sweetheart," she said. "Let me up. I'll be right back. Sit here and wait for me. Don't go away."

So that's what I did. I rolled off her, and she twisted out of bed and somewhere into our closet. At one point she turned on the closet light, then switched it off again, as if looking for something she had to identify by sight. Again I sat on the edge of the bed and waited for her. It was dark. I couldn't resume my reading of "Modern Woman" I realized, there wasn't even a night light. I heard her go "Uhhh!"—a satisfied-sounding grunt, and wondered what she was doing. Then she returned to me. Her night light snapped on, momentarily too bright.

"Now, sweetie," she said. "Pretend I'm the most marvelous man you know. Satisfy me, lover girl! Then believe me, I'll satisfy you!"

I heard those words, and opened my eyes, and tried to make out what I could see as my eyes reaccustomed themselves. Tara was standing directly in front of me, legs slightly apart. Obscenely, at my waist level, out of her bush projected a huge, curved penis. As my eyes got accustomed to the light, I could see it was flesh-colored, with veins running up the bottom, and with a purple crowned head. I saw no straps, and it was certainly not gripped by her thighs alone—how was she holding it there? By her pussy, I realized! Unseen, a steeply curved half of it must be buried in her most intimate place, holding her erect cock in position for me. For me to what? She stood there and waited, and said nothing. She put her hands on her hips, and waited some more, patiently.

There was no way to avoid it. In fact, now that I knew that Tara could feel any kind of movement or pressure on it deep inside her, it was unloving of me not to accommodate her. I felt a pang at that realization—another cock was inside my Tara at this very moment, as if it were another man's, and I had to help it bring her pleasure. To help it cuckold me. To help it fuck me too. Willingly, eagerly.

I bent forward and kissed the tip. It felt faintly rubbery, though it smelled of gardenia. Even so, it was a man-shaped penis.

I thrust that out of my mind and stuck my tongue way out and licked the veined underside. Really slurped it!. Then again! Tara sighed, she did feel it! Then I took the whole rubbery head into my mouth and ran my lips down it as far as I could, maybe a third of the way, then up again, then began to suck. She felt that too, a little. Her crotch came up toward my mouth, ever so slightly, and she began to pump her prick into me, ever so slightly, then more. She was headfucking me. I slid down on it until the tip hit the back of my throat, then up again, and sucked on it some more, sealing the vacuum with my lips. With my softened, tinted lips, it occurred to me, my pink girly lips that would never rub off. I bobbed my head way forward and stifled a gag reflex, and buried my nose in her flowery bush, then slid my lips up again. I was now taking her deep into my throat! And again, again, again!

"Oh, you sweet cock sucker," she said. "You darling! I knew you'd love it, once you tried it! I just knew it! Look at you! You sweetheart!" Who was she talking to? Patrick? Patricia? Pattie? Her husband? Her administrative secretary, now administering to her desires? Whoever, there was at the moment no doubt that hers was the cock and I was the cock sucker pleasuring her cock. I did my best, and as I heard her breathing grow shorter, I bobbed up and down on her prick more rapidly, and she thrust herself into my mouth more and more forcefully. Until finally she seized my head with both hands and pushed it close down onto her cock as it slid deep into my throat and closed off all breathing. She firmly pushed her groin up at me, and as my nose disappeared into her gardenia-bush, she came with a rush!

Then eased off and withdrew, and I could breathe again. "No wonder they love this," she whispered half to herself—I couldn't tell. "No wonder they love for us to suck their cocks. You were born to do this, baby!" Then before her own heavy breathing could recover she pushed me onto my back. "Lift your legs up, honey, as high as they'll go," she said. "Your turn to enter heaven!"

I did that, just what I was told to do, and suddenly came aware that my virgin asshole was now fully exposed to the head of a rubber penis dripping with my saliva and poking at the entrance. The knob touched my asshole. Then with a single thrust of Tara's hips she entered me.

"Ahhhh!" I cried! And I was no longer a virgin.

It felt strange, peculiar! I'd read that a penetration like this one could be terribly painful, and that's what I'd braced to expect. But it wasn't. Mainly, I just felt full. Crammed, loaded. As if I were attempting and failing to expel an enormous turd already half-out of my anus. I lay there helpless, terribly vulnerable, my open asshole at Tara's mercy. Tara just crouched forward over me, leaning into me, and braced her hands on the bed, then began to thrust into me. I felt the dildo slide all the way in, then all the way out, full, empty, full, empty. The feeling became filled, incomplete, filled, then yearning, then deeply satisfied, then yearning again, then desiring, wanting, wanting, yearning in a delicious desire for more. And on her next thrust my desire grew. Stronger! The yearning became intense! "Oh, Tara," I cried out, exalted! "Tara, Tara, darling Tara, fuck me, fuck me!"

She did now, slowly, steadily, increasing the pace, her eyes never leaving mine, moving her prick in and out of me. She watched my face express longing, then craving, then painful need, reaching, and finally as my whole belly rose up in joyous celebration, bliss.

I don't know when it was that she came. Maybe many times. She fell on top of me and we came down from our post-orgasmic ecstasies together. I closed my legs around her to clamp that wonderful cock of hers deeper into my ass, hold it there for as long as possible. It stayed firm. It felt good. I moaned.

For once, I suddenly realized, it had been me she was fucking, not one of her lovers. If there ever were any other lovers. I wrapped my arms around her and couldn't stop hugging her. That great cock still filled and stretched my asshole. My cup runneth over, I was thinking.

"Darling Patricia," Tara said affectionately, understandingly.

And then I realized no, it had not been me she was fucking. Or not me exactly. It was her girlfriend she was fucking. But wasn't that also me? I'd loved it!

"Sweetheart," Tara said quietly. "I think you just lost your virginity."

"All of it," I replied. I couldn't stop smiling. I had to kiss the tip of her nose, so I did. "Is this what women feel? Such overwhelming love for their lovers? My heart is so full now!"

"If that's what you feel, Patricia, then yes. My heart is full too. That's what women feel. You're all right for tomorrow then? Being a woman I mean?"

"Bring it on," I said. "Whatever." I'd never felt Tara's love for me more strongly than that moment. I would do anything for her. I was her woman!

She grinned. "Now I'm going to pull out of you, honey. Don't go into a post-partum depression." And slowly, she withdrew.

I felt empty. She twisted around and grasped the dildo and pulled the other end out of her own pussy. I supposed now that we both felt empty. I gave her a consoling kiss, and she returned it. Then we settled in to sleep, snuggling into each other.

"This is how women make love?" I asked her? It seemed to me that we'd done less oral sex than usual, that mainly what we'd done was head and pelvis fucking. I'd thought lesbians did oral more than anything else.

"Some of us. This is how men who are women sometimes make love to women, yes," she replied. "And how women who are already women sometimes make love to other women, including men who are women."

"I'm a woman, you're saying?" I told her.

"That's what you agreed. Remember?" A gleam came into her eye and then disappeared. "Now fix your nightie and let's try to get some sleep."

I pulled my satin babydoll down from where it had bunched up on my chest, and just lay there. I suppose I'm a woman for her for now, I thought. Tomorrow I'll help Tara land her contract, and she'll be happy, and that'll be that. I'm glad to help. I love her.

But at the same time I felt sad, and quickly realized why. Because for the first time in a long time, we'd made love, just the two of us, as ourselves. More or less. Not with Tara teasing me by pretending that I'm one or another of her lovers, teasing my jealousies, or pretending that I'm her wimp cuckolded husband and putting me down as less than a man because I lick her pussy. This was Tara sincerely making love to me as one woman to another.

Though I wasn't a woman. I thought about that a moment. So we were still play-acting. In a way what we'd done this time wasn't really any different.

Even so, it felt different. I couldn't tell why at first, then realized why. It was because Tara wasn't teasing me. She really and truly meant it. She had to believe in my womanhood, just as I did. She'd followed her own advice to me, and persuaded herself that I was a woman now, or near enough, in order to help me persuade myself. Well, for the moment, I was nearly persuaded. My asshole felt sore, but somehow good—I liked what we'd done. I hadn't yet seen myself in lipstick, if that was the word for the paint Tara had applied to my mouth, but maybe that effect had persuaded her? I opened my eyes. There was Tara, looking across at me, beaming her affection.

"Honey, drink this and get dressed and let's go. Our business appointment is for three this afternoon, and your beauty appointment is for practically now!"

I opened my eyes. There standing over me was Tara holding a glass of orange juice. She was fully dressed—a gray business suit with a purple silk blouse visible under her severely tailored jacket. Gray pumps, and her face and hair already impeccable. Though she'd taken to wearing this year's fashionable "mussed" look, I knew that every hair was impeccably mussed, exactly in place. I sat up and took the orange juice. "How long have you been up?" I asked.

"Hours," she said. "You looked so sweet lying there I decided to let you sleep as long as possible. It's really remarkable. Even now, just as when you were asleep, you have a well-fucked look. A kind of dazed, satisfied expression. How's your not-quite-virginal vagina this morning? A little sore?"

I remembered that full feeling from the night before, and realized I was still sensitive down there. "Maybe a little stretched," I said. "But good. I'll survive."

"Stretched is good. Drink up and turn over," she said. She was stripping paper from something that looked like an anal fever thermometer, or maybe a ballpoint pen.

I did. The orange juice was bitter. I rolled over and propped myself on my elbows, then looked back at her. She poked at my anus, and whatever that thing was slid right into me.

"There," she said. "Wait a moment for it to melt, and then get up. We have a lot to do now."

"What was that?" I asked. "And is that a new brand of orange juice you just gave me?"

"No, the old kind, but I mixed in a little something to help you get through today with less stress. And as for the suppository, it's a woman thing, a little morning-after assurance that what we did last night won't make you pregnant." She grinned when I looked at her narrowly. "I'm joking, baby. Yes, it does have birth control hormones, and others too, but mainly it contains different soothing and conditioning ointments for your delicate membranes. Most vaginas are designed to take any amount of pounding and stretching, but yours is more delicate. So we want to keep it supple with hormonal creams and emollients. Feel soothed?"

I nodded, noticing as I swung my legs over and sat on the edge of the bed that my babydoll was just barely long enough to protect my modesty. My cock was flaccid. "Hormonal creams?" I asked her.

"Don't worry about it," she replied. "So your pussy stays fresh and ready for anything. Now that you know what it's like to be taken and used like a woman, I know you'll want more. Am I wrong?"

I remembered how ecstatic I'd felt, how I'd cried out to Tara for more and more of it, more craving and more satisfaction. More fucking. If Tara meant to add dildo-play to our repertoire, I couldn't object. "No," I said. "You're not wrong."

She looked satisfied. "Wonderful. C'mon, honey. Astrid's secretary left you her nicest office outfit yesterday. That's what you'll wear this afternoon—you're just her size, it should fit perfectly. I've always thought she dressed a little kitteny for a tall girl like her, a little too cutesy girlie. But for our purposes it's perfect. I'll wear what I'm wearing and be severe and sensible, and you'll wear something just flouncy enough to suggest that you aren't making your way through life by brain power alone. It'll deflect any suspicion about you do something nice girls don't do like sit with your legs apart. It'll emphasize that whatever else, behind your breasts and inside your panties you're all girl."

This was depressing. "Breasts?" I asked. But I realized instantly that of course I would have to have breasts. And there was a bigger issue at stake here, my reputation. "Astrid's secretary knows about this ... thing we're doing?" I asked her, worried. Apparently she knew yesterday before even I knew it! "Who else knows?"

Tara suddenly frowned, and her voice edged toward severity. "I don't think a secretary should be concerned with questions like that," she said. "And I certainly don't intend to answer any of them. This afternoon's conference remains confidential so the competition won't know that there are plans and profits to be made, not until it's too late! So Patrick's lapse from a supposed masculinity won't be discussed by anyone. More important, it's Patricia's plausibility as a woman that matters now. I asked Astrid as a friend to help make my secretary presentable, and she gave me that help as a friend with no questions asked. As I've asked you for help as a friend but now also as my employee, no questions asked. I expect employees to help when I ask for help. I'm in charge. Is that understood?"

I was chastened. I should have realized that Tara always knows what she's doing. "Yes, it is."

"Yes, it is, what, Patricia?" she asked me.

I understood what she wanted. "Yes, I understand, ma'am," I replied. "I'm sorry for asking, ma'am." She was right. A secretary needs to show respect for her boss.

"That's sounds just lovely, sweetie," Tara responded unexpectedly, breaking her pose and grinning. "Maybe I'll ask you to call me "ma'am" from now on. 'Shall I bring you the Blackburn account files, ma'am?' Or 'Shall I lick his cum out of your pussy now, ma'am, or shall I wait until after your next appointment?' You'll make me such a marvelous secretary, Pattie! No wonder I've kept you on for five years already despite your deficiencies!"

She'd cheered up again. Relaxing, I decided to play along "Deficiencies? Why, what might those be, ma'am?" I asked her, batting my eyes innocently. "I hope I've given satisfaction!"

This was fun! She was right about that orange juice reducing stress. And my butt was beginning to feel so ... comfy! An odd feeling.

"Well, honey, you've been altogether satisfactory, and I do love you. But just look down below the hem of your babydoll! Do you see a quite adequate prick or a really extraordinary clit? Think about your answer."

The answer was obvious. Today I was a girl. "A clit, of course," I replied.

"That's nice. And I'm glad you said that, not me. So its days as a prick are no more, isn't that true?"

I should have felt shocked at that, but in fact I was feeling increasingly congenial as our conversation continued. And my asshole now felt—well—cozy, snug, even a little erotic. No trace of soreness. That was quite a suppository! "Mmmmm," I replied to her question, non-committally.

"Mmmmm," she replied, as if I had confirmed her previous statement. I had no prick. I felt completely comfortable now, and a moment of contented silence passed.

  

  

  

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