This is a work of FICTION for ADULTS only. Do NOT read this if you are under 18 or if you are not an adult according to the laws of your state or country. Do NOT read this if you are offended by fantasies involving sexually explicit material.

Comments welcome to bethjac@hotmail.com

A series of stories with TG themes, dedicated to women, and to men who like women, and especially those who like to be women (which includes me!)

 

U is for Ursula .... ( aka 'Friends and Neighbours ...')

by Bethany Jacques

 

It was Saturday night and I was all alone in the house. My mother and sister had gone out to the cinema an hour earlier and I was happy to be by myself for a change. Literally. I was dressing, slowly and carefully, watching myself in the mirror as I did so. I slowly slid my sister's tiny black thong panties up my legs and over my thighs. I turned around and looked at myself over my shoulder in the large wardrobe mirror so that I could see the naked buns of my arse, and then turned back to see how the scrap of sheer fabric concealed my neatly trimmed patch of pubic hair which gave an enticing bulge to the front of my panties. I looked terribly sexy, at least I thought so, as I ran my fingertips over my arse-crease, enjoying the sight of my red nails against the black panties as much as I did the shivery sensation of touching myself.

I'd already showered and put on my makeup, more extreme than a 'woman' my age would ever would have worn in public. My eye shadow and black eyeliner enhanced my natural sparkling brown eyes, and my lipstick was so glossy it was almost obscene. My earrings were outrageous, long, shimmering strands of silver that flashed with the least movement of my head and gleamed wickedly against my dark auburn hair. A wig, of course. I'd perfumed myself too. I felt deliciously wicked and wanton, a true whore, and it excited me terrifically.

I slipped on the very tight basque my mother occasionally wore to excite my Dad, it was really too small for me but it squeezed in and upwards the fat round my waist, pushing my 'breasts' up and together to give me a very impressive-looking cleavage. Then I sat on the bed and put on my own fishnet stockings, not my sister's or my mother's, mine, a pair I'd secretly bought by hiding them in with some groceries when I'd done some shopping at the supermarket.

I drew them slowly up my legs and watched myself in the mirror as I extended my leg and teased the stocking up my thigh. I took a moment to lie on my side and spread my knees, admiring the contrast of the stockings against the smooth flesh of my thighs, then I again ran a long red-painted fingernail along the bulge in my thong with agonizing slowness, luxuriating in both the visual and the tactile aspects of the situation.

Getting dressed up always made me hot and aroused. The panties I had worn for only minutes were already very damp. In my dreams and my fantasies, like many cross-dressers, I always wore the most provocative and totally sexual clothes. I was always so blatantly and irresistibly sexily dressed and made up. Men would admire me and lust after me, at least in my dreams. I always did the final bit of my dressing up without looking in the mirror so as to get the final effect all at once. I put on my sister's sexiest black high heeled stilettos, gorgeously strappy to make my legs look even longer than they are, and then the dress.

The dress was - well - beyond proper description. My sister had chickened out from wearing it after she'd bought it for a date with her previous boyfriend. I'd only caught the briefest of glimpses of her wearing it that one evening as she'd skipped back upstairs to change into something less provocative. But that glimpse had been enough. I needed to wear it. It was a soft black p.v.c. mini-dress that zipped all the way up the front, again a size too small for me but I didn't care, that meant it fitted me like a second skin and pulled my convincing-looking breasts in even more to compress them into a deep erupting cleavage. The dress hugged me so tightly that even the cleavage in my arse showed clearly too. It encased me in wicked, shiny black. I finished zipping it up, took a moment to compose myself and shake my hair free, closed my eyes and turned around to face the mirror. Then I opened my eyes.

Oh yes. Oh yes!!! Perfect! What a whore!!! What a delicious slut I was!!! I looked like I was about to burst from the dress, my nipples were so clearly visible through the p.v.c. I posed for myself, cocking my hip provocatively, raising an eyebrow, blowing a kiss with my red lips. God, I looked cheap. Cheap and hot. Who wouldn't want to fuck me?

The next step in the usual game was to admire myself and pose until some very erotic scene came to my mind, then I would re-enact is as best I could with only myself, touching myself, and then end up masturbating on the bed. But I felt so wonderfully sexy on that occasion, the first time I could look forward to being able to spend so much time as a woman, I didn't want to rush it. I loved the way my arse swayed as I walked in front of the mirror in the high heels. I loved the way the dress held me, I was so aroused. I cocked my head and watched the earrings sparkle as they kissed my neck. I was excited when I felt how damp I was between my legs where my tight thong was holding my cock and balls tightly in place.

In my day-dream, the scenario was fairly simple. I was in my own place, my own flat maybe. And I had a man over to visit me. Just some friend, some good-looking man I worked with. He'd never seen me like this at work of course and would be unable to keep his hands off me. He'd seduce me and be amazed at the way I had been transformed into a voracious slut, and I'd protest that I always dressed like this at home. I was of course a woman. That was an essential, and biologically impossible, part of my daydream.

I had a sudden urge to have a drink. I needed the drink to augment my image, that of a sophisticated and dissolute woman. I walked down the stairs to the kitchen and picked up the bottle of vodka. I put a couple of ice cubes into a glass and poured the vodka in, then lounged against the sink and sipped the drink. My, slut, and a vodka on the rocks. Wonderful!.

I loved the way it made my mouth feel, the way it stung my throat with just a hint of suppressed evil. I occasionally had a beer in my everyday life but never spirits except when I was 'dressed'. It added to my self-image. Yes, this was what a real whore would feel. I moved across the kitchen to look at my reflection in the dark back door. And then...

As I looked at it, the door opened! I was startled, naturally. There in the doorway was our next-door neighbour, Harry Marsh! He was just standing there, staring at me, oddly enough with a pair of garden shears in his hand. He didn't comment at first, which surprised me. I mean, whatever he was expecting he must have been surprised. He stared at me and I stared back, horrified. I couldn't speak, I didn't know what to say.

I was surprised too when he smiled a little and asked "Well hello there. And who do we have here? What's your name, young lady?"

"Ursula" I replied. Just the one word, the name I'd chosen for myself after seeing that epitomy of womanhood in the Bond film. OK so I'd never be able to walk out of the sea wearing only a bikini and a hunting knife. But I could dream, couldn't I? And Mr Marsh had just invaded my dream.

"Ursula, is it? What the fucking hell are you up to?"

And then I realised just why he was there. He'd borrowed a pair of garden shears the day before. But why the hell had he chosen that moment to return them? I'd forgotten all about the shears, obviously.

"Oh my gosh! Mr. Marsh! I'm so sorry. I didn't realise you'd be coming round!"

He stepped into the room, the look in his eyes changing gradually from shock to something different as he took me all in, my stilettos, the stockings, the obscenely tight dress, the makeup. I looked frantically around the familiar kitchen, stupidly hoping there would suddenly be a good place to hide.

"Obviously you didn't. What is this - er - Ursula?" he asked me. "Does your mother know you like to dress up like a slut, John. I mean - Ursula. You really do look like a little tramp, do you know that?"

"No, I was just trying on some clothes. I wasn't going out. Honest!" No way would I have dared to expose myself in public looking like that. Yet there I was, in the kitchen, with Mr Marsh. Who was still staring at me.

He stepped closer, smiling oddly. "And you've been drinking too, haven't you? Christ!"

"Here," I said hurriedly, "I'll just take those shears."

"No, no, that's okay." he said. "I told your mother I'd bring them round."

He walked past me and opened the cupboard and slid them in, in the place where they belonged. Clearly he'd seen where mother had got them from a couple of days earlier. I stood nervously by the washing machine as he turned back round again.

"Well look at you," he said, leaning against the door jamb with a slow smile, "Just look at you."

I didn't know what else to say so I tried to smile, waiting for him to leave. I was mortified, and I really didn't care to explain myself any further. I just wanted him to walk out the door so I could run to my room, get out of those clothes, and shove everything back where it belonged. But Mr Marsh didn't seem to be in a hurry. He stepped forward and took my wrist, holding me rather firmly at arms' length while he continued to stare at me.

"I didn't even know you were gay. You must be, looking like that - er - Ursula" he said, his eyes still looking me up and down, "Who's your boyfriend? Who's the lucky guy?"

"No, really, Mr. Marsh." I said. "There isn't a boyfriend."

"So you're just going out alone like that? You look hotter than hell. I never would have guessed it - er - Ursula, a good little - girl - like you."

"Oh no, I'm not going out!" I almost whimpered.

For a moment he looked slightly disapproving, as though his parental instinct was manifesting itself in some strange sort of way as he looked at the 'boy-next-door'. Maybe there was an element of that, though his own two daughters were much older than me, both married and living their own lives by then. I caught another quick glimpse of myself in the darkened glass of the back door behind him, surely neither of those two women had ever dressed so provocatively when they were younger. Mr Marsh's look quickly gave way to his previous stare, and it was clear he didn't want to send me away.

"You look like a regular little tramp, you know that? Just a little piece of arse. I expect the guys in town would like to feast their eyes on such a tantalising tart."

"Oh God, no, I could never let anyone see me like this. I just like to dress up at home. Sometimes. You know." I said again, and I tried to twist my body round in an attempt to get my arm away from him.

As I turned the zip on the dress slid down far enough to give him a generous view of my 'cleavage', which was only enhanced by my twisting and straining, and I could see my own flesh tremble as I fought for my arm.

"But you dress the part," he said, "Does that mean you can play it too? Are you really that hot, Ursula? You know how to handle a man?"

"Please, Mr Marsh!"

"Please what, you little whore? Please what?"

His voice had become deeper now, and I knew something was going to happen that was beyond my control. He grabbed my other wrist and pushed me back against the refrigerator, holding my hands over my head and leaning his body against mine. His hands holding mine were strong, and his strength was - well, I have to be honest - strangely exciting to me. But I was worried.

"Mr. Marsh, don't do this. Please!" I begged. I tried to remain in control of myself, to calm my breathing and slow my heart, but the body against me was not willing to let me relax.

"Don't do what? You think I'm going to let you go out and walk the streets looking like that? You little tramp, your mother would thank me for keeping you in! Do you have any idea how much trouble you could get in? You little whore! How long has this been going on?"

"Really, I was just dressing up, not going out. Just trying on her clothes and stuff like that."

"Oh sure." he said. "With sexy make-up and stockings and high heels like that. Don't lie to me. I know when a 'girl' like you is set to go whoring. You're looking for one thing, aren't you? You wait till your mother and sister are out and that you get all dressed up. Maybe you'd like to go out and find yourself some nice hard cock, wouldn't you, baby? Find yourself a man, maybe, you little faggot."

"Oh no...." I started to say

"Well do you know what?" he sneered, "I've got something right here. No need to go out looking for it."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He was - aroused. OK so he knew it was 'John' he was grabbing by the wrist but - hell - he wanted it to be 'Ursula'. I'd heard my mother and sister a week or so earlier discussing hearing a row between Mr and Mrs Marsh late at night. He wasn't getting on well with his wife - so he wanted me!

There was no denying it now, he couldn't pretend anymore that this was really an attempt to keep me safe. It was a seduction, or maybe something worse. I wriggled and tried again to escape, but Mr. Marsh was just too strong. He took both of my wrists in one hand and pressed me against the tall fridge with his body. He used his other hand to slowly slide a finger down my body from my throat to where the bottom of my zip strained to keep my dress in place. Then he slid his hand down past my waist and up under the dress, and his fingers touched my naked thighs.

"Oh Mr Marsh!" I said in horror, but to him it must have sounded like a sign of arousal, and he pressed himself tighter against me.

I was trembling with fear and humiliation, and yet I really didn't want to fight with him. I was still highly excited from my game of dressing-up, and his body against mine felt wonderful, despite my horror. It was really just what I had always wanted to feel, a man's hardness against me, his strength holding me. I was completely torn, part of me dying to see my fantasies realised, and part of me ashamed that I would ever let something like this happen.

"Come on, Ursula!" he whispered to my face, "You may not be a hundred-per-cent woman but right now you'll do for me! So let's see if you're as hot as you think you are. Let's see just what you've got."

His fingers touched my hard cock through my panties and I gasped. My knees went weak. "Mr. Marsh, please! It was just a game!"

"Jesus Christ!" he swore softly, "You're hard as hell! I can feel you through your panties!"

"No, no!" I said, but now it was more like a whine.

The resistance was fading from my body, I turned my head to the side so he wouldn't see the shame and desire in my face, but his fingers slid through the leg band of my pantries and touched my aroused member, and a thrill coursed through me. My body didn't want him to stop, and my hips thrust themselves against his hand with a mind of their own as I pressed my crotch against his seeking fingers.

"You are one hot little piece of woman, Ursula. All ready to go and so am I!!!"

His lips were right next to mine now, and when he kissed me I couldn't escape. Hell, I didn't want to, I just whimpered as his mouth touched mine, as his tongue probed my red lips and stroked along my teeth. He broke away, looking down at my 'breasts' which were pushed up and out by my tight bra and by the position of my arms above my head, and I saw the hungry gleam in his eyes. The thought that my body turned him on so much gave me such an intense thrill that melted my resistance completely, and when his lips came down on mine again, I surrendered to his demanding kiss and opened my mouth widely to let him in again.

Amazingly, my fantasy was actually happening and it was every bit as exciting as I'd imagined it would be. Mr. Marsh was so very much older than me, the fact that he was older than my mother was supposed to make it even more wrong in some way or other, but I couldn't seem to make my body care.

He slid his hand across the front of my panties, cupping my 'mound' in his hand and curving his fingers beneath my balls. I moaned and stuck my tongue into his mouth again, and spread my thighs wider to give him better access. He still held my hands over my head, and his chest flattened my breasts and rubbed against my nipples as we kissed.

"Jesus Christ you little bitch!" he said as he broke the kiss. My body humped shamelessly against him, out of control now. "You really need to get fucked, don't you? You're lucky I came along when I did, before some stupid young boy got his hands on you. You're too fucking good for that. You need to get fucked by a real man who knows what he's doing, who can fill you with some good, hard cock-meat and show you what sex is all about."

He kissed me again, overcome with lust, and his fingers slid back between my legs and began to pump in and out of my arse-hole, driving me wild. I already felt like a whore, and now he was confirming it for me, treating me just the way I wanted to be treated, finger fucking me against my mother's refrigerator in my own kitchen. Of course, I couldn't admit that this was what I wanted. I couldn't - not yet - submit.

"Please!" I said, "I'm not like that! I'm not like you think! It was just a game!"

But he wasn't listening to me anymore. My body was doing things that gave the lie to what I said, and my words even sounded false to my own ears.

"Come on," he said, letting my wrists go and grabbing my hand. "Show me where your bedroom is."

I couldn't think straight and I didn't know how to tell him no. My heart was pounding and my body throbbing with need. I led him dizzily up the stairs and into my bedroom.

He gave me an evil and knowing smile. "OK baby, want to make a fucking night of it, huh Ursula?"

I stood there dazed, breathless, running my hand through my hair. I could imagine what he'd think of me now but really I didn't care about that. I just wanted to feel his body against mine again, wanted to feel him take my 'cherry' before I came to my senses.

"OK, baby" he said. "Turn around."

I turned around, and Mr. Marsh caught me again in a deep and passionate kiss, driving rational thought from my mind. The helpless feeling of the situation flooded me with wild desire to be taken, and I moaned shamelessly as his tongue explored my mouth. His hands came up and he grabbed my breasts right through the dress, squeezing and kneading them, rubbing his palms over my aching nipples. Everything he was doing thrilled me, this was just what I'd wanted, just what I'd dreamed of - and now the dream was real.

"If you dress like a whore, then you're going to show me what a good little whore you can be!" he said to my as he mauled my breasts through the vinyl.

"I'm going to fuck that whore back-pussy of yours, Ursula. You're going to show me what a good fuck you are, or I'm going to have a little discussion with your mother about how you spend your Saturday nights."

He stepped back from me and pulled the zip on the front of my dress right down, exposing my basque-clad body to his gaze. I stood there watching his eyes move up and down my body. I could see the naked lust, the heated desire and raw excitement. It thrilled me to think that I could inspire such passion in a man. He didn't see an overworked and lonely schoolboy when he looked at me. He saw a hot, desirable woman, and the mere sight of me made his cock hard. And I loved it!

"You sweet little bitch, God, you make a delicious whore!" he said. "What a fucking body!"

He pushed me down onto my bed so that I was flat on my back. My mind cleared suddenly and I realized what was going to happen. He was really going to fuck me, put his cock in me and fuck my on my own bed.

I made one last half-hearted attempt to regain control of myself. "No," I said, "Please! Mr. Marsh, don't do this!"

He was stepping out of his trousers and pulling his pants down, and I saw his cock, big and hard for me, eager for my body. I should have been horrified but the sight excited me tremendously. I wanted that monster inside of me, inside my 'cunt'. I needed to feel this older man slamming his body into mine, making me take his big prick, fucking me and making me a woman.

He moved over to the bed and took his cock in one hand.

"Come on, baby!" he said, "Suck me! You know how to do it! Suck my cock, bitch!"

I wanted to tell him that I didn't know how but it all happened so fast. My mouth just opened and he pushed his cock inside. I closed my eyes and tasted him, salty and pungent on my tongue.

I was so ashamed. I wanted to tell him that I wasn't a whore, I wasn't what he thought, but every time I tried to slide my red lips off his cock to speak he pushed it back into my mouth. And for all my inexperience, whatever I was doing was making him groan with lewd pleasure and pump his cock in and out of my mouth with growing speed.

As I sucked his cock he jammed a finger back inside my hole. I couldn't help it, I spread my legs again and he began to fuck my arse-hole with his finger. It felt so good, but there was more to it than that. It was just so terribly dirty, so obscene to be finger fucked while I sucked his cock. My head filled with all sorts of filthy images, with me in the middle of them.

Then he pulled his cock out of my mouth. I swallowed and tried to catch my breath.

"Mr. Marsh, please!" I whined, finally, but weakly. "I'm not like this. Don't!"

I felt the bed sag as he climbed between my legs and got on his knees, and I looked up to see him aiming his big prick between my legs. As soon as I felt him make contact with my hole I gasped.

"Yeah?" he challenged my, "You don't want this? You don't want my cock in you? Then tell me to stop, Ursula. Tell me you don't want my big cock inside you, you slut! Tell me no!"

I knew I should stop him, tell him to get dressed and leave me alone, but I just couldn't. I couldn't say anything at all. His cock felt so good spreading at the entrance to my arse- hole, almost inside me. I could feel it throbbing against me, ready to plunge deep inside. I felt deliciously helpless, at his mercy, just like in my fantasies. I couldn't fight it, I wanted him, I wanted him badly.

He laughed with contempt at my inability to answer, then he pushed into me, filling me with his incredible hardness, and I groaned at what he was doing. He was no sooner inside me than he began to fuck me, hard and deep, already out of control.

"You hot cunt! You little slut! Is this good enough for you? You like this big cock?"

I couldn't speak, it just felt so good, and I was tried of fighting. I wrapped my legs around him and pulled him tight, pushed my 'tits' up for him, all the while my hips fucking with him, up and down on his stiff pole, sending pangs of pleasure through my feverish body. He was driven by his lust for me, for the 'girl-next-door' this time, and what could I do but let him fuck me, let him use my body for his own pleasure?

"That's my little whore!" he hissed at me as I raised my bum-hole to him again and again. "Now you're fucking like you mean it! You are a slut, aren't you Ursula? You love it, don't you?"

I hadn't said anything for ages, suddenly I needed to.

"Oh God yes!" I spit the words out from between clenched teeth. "I'm whatever the hell you fucking want! Just fuck me! Fuck me!"

My words inflamed him and he pounded into me with renewed fury. He groaned above me.

"You sweet bitch! You're going to make me come! I'm going to come in you, baby. You want it? You want it? Tell me you want it, whore! Tell me!"

I couldn't control my excitement any more.

"Oh God yes I want it! I'm your bitch, I'm your slut!" I cried out as he bucked on top of me, making my bulging prosthetic breasts shake. "I want your hot cum! I want all of it!"

Again and again he thrust into me, the slick sound of his cock pumping in and out of my tight arse loud in my ears, along with the frantic creak of the bedsprings and the banging of the headboard against the wall.

"Oh Fuck!" he moaned, "Oh Christ! Oh Jesus Christ!"

His body went suddenly stiff, ramming me deep and I screamed as I actually felt his fingers claw into my breasts. My arse was crammed full with cock, and I felt him throb hard and knew that he was shooting his semen into me, filling me with his hot load.

My head spun with the erotic nastiness of it. I cried out, and then I came too, thrusting my hips up at him in a spasm of release from my penis as his seed poured into me. I arched my back and clawed the bedspread as I trembled beneath him, the blood roaring in my ears.

I never wanted to come down from that orgasmic high, never wanted to open my eyes again. How could I ever face the shame, the humiliation of letting my neighbour reduce me to this submissive whore, begging for anything he wanted to give me. Maybe Mr. Marsh knew my shame, or maybe he was ashamed too, because he didn't say a word as he slowly withdrew from my aching body.

He climbed off me, still panting, and rolled me onto my side. I just lay there, unable to move, my humiliation mixed with a feeling of deep sexual satisfaction like I'd never known. I had never climaxed like that before on my own. It had been an orgasm that involved all of me, body and soul, and I didn't know what to make of it, what to make of myself now. Was that truly who I was?

Mr. Marsh was staring at me as he caught his breath. He reached out and ran a hand appreciatively over my trembling body.

"So it wasn't just a game, was it Ursula?" he asked me softly. "It was something you wanted, wasn't it?"

I stared into his eyes, the staring eyes of my neighbour.

"You raped me!"

He looked surprised at me comment. "I suppose I did."

I looked at him. My lover. My rapist. I reached up and pulled his lips to mine, kissing passionately and erotically before leaning back. I reached down to seize his cock.

"Rape me again!"

************************************

 

Comments welcome to bethjac@hotmail.com

      

  

  

*********************************************
© 2007 by Bethany Jacques. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without the express written consent of StorySite and the copyright holder.