💾 Archived View for tilde.pink › ~nifty › control › trust-me.gmi captured on 2024-05-10 at 13:04:35. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content

View Raw

More Information

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

TRUST ME!

by Vickie Tern

I.

"Andrew dear, why didn't you ever get your ears pierced?"

I looked up, astonished. My wife was perched comfortably in

our big easy chair, her nest most evenings when she wasn't out

selling a client some building, her legs curled up under her,

reading one of her magazines, all as usual. She was gazing at me

casually with a mixture of curiosity and mild concern, as if the

question had just occurred to her, and the answer didn't much

matter, but it might, and she figured she'd ask before returning to

her story, or article, or whatever.

"What?!" I asked. I couldn't believe it. She knew I'd wanted

to, in fantasy, but she knew that for me fantasy and fact were

separate, that I'd never have done it. And in fact she hated the

pleasure I felt when decorating myself like a woman! She never

allowed reference to it. She didn't want to know! My mind

replayed what I'd just heard, and tried to re-hear it. 'Airs,'

could that have been the word? 'Pursed?' No, nothing else made

sense. But what I'd heard didn't make sense either!

"Your ears," she said patiently. "Didn't you ever want to get

them pierced?"

"Well, yes," I replied. I wondered if I could tell her when

that was. It was a few years ago, during those intoxicated, golden

afternoons when I couldn't help indulging my love of dressing up,

just before she came home early one afternoon to discover me dolled

up curls to heels in women's clothes, coiffed and jeweled,

strutting and posing in front of a mirror until I saw her in the

same mirror, standing there watching me, shocked! At that time I

was besotted by the fantasy that I could magically become a

complete woman, and yet remain a man, no bodily alterations toward

femininity being too extreme nor too permanent. Pierced ears were

the least of the things I wanted but would never have except in my

imagination. Above all, I gloried in imagining that my Monica was

as delighted and entranced as I was when I was dressed to look like

a woman, even turned on by it. Or at least mildly interested, and

perhaps helpful.

But when she actually saw me cross dressed, reality replaced

fantasy. Long months of resentment and grief followed while our

marriage foundered. She made impossible demands I was too honest

to accept, that it was a filthy addiction like smoking I should

give up cold turkey, or taper off gradually, that a shrink could

cure me, that I should take up golf or tennis instead, that I

should settle for flashy men's clothes whenever I felt the urge.

She had cross dressing confused with infidelity, as if by dating my

mirror image I was being intimate with another woman. I argued in

turn that it was harmless, for me a source of great joy, nothing

more. Finally she understood that it was a compulsion, delightful

to me if perverse to her, but a deep-rooted, powerful compulsion

nevertheless, dating maybe even from a prenatal time of life. It

was how I was. Finally we agreed that I could keep doing it, since

I'd keep doing it anyhow, but it should always be in ways and

places where she'd never know or be reminded.

Mostly I'd kept to that arrangement. It was tricky, but

possible, and our happiness depended on it. We have a good

marriage. We're a little unconventionally matched, maybe, but

wonderfully compatible. I do most of my work at home,

cost-estimating engineering projects, because home is where I can

think more clearly than anywhere else, juggle all the variables in

my head and watch them land right side up. Then I pipe in the

results by fax or e-mail, and get other data back the same way. I

don't much need to talk to anyone. I just do it, and do it better

than anyone else. It's not something I especially enjoy, but there

are compensations.

I like the arrangement with my company because I'm a deep-dyed

homebody. Always have been. The thinking is intricate and

conceptual, and it's easy to get lost in your mind. But I love

working out the problems while doing simple homey tasks in the real

world, like making the beds or fluffing the couch pillows, or

scrubbing the kitchen floor, or sewing on shirt buttons, or cooking

up intricate dishes for my beloved wife. I know, this is all

women's work, but it helps keeps me sane. Early in our marriage we

agreed that I would look after our household routines, shopping and

cooking and cleaning, and Monica would take charge of the

exceptional elements of our marriage, like our social lives or

vacations.

This freed Monica for her work, which is selling real estate.

She dearly loves it, and is a whiz at it. She's good with people

-- she has the right combination of charm, persuasiveness, and

persistence, and she does her homework too, her endless research on

her clients and their needs and the properties she thinks right for

them. She can be devious setting up intricate arrangements for a

client to walk in, see advantages, and then think he's deciding for

himself that this or that building and its financing are perfect

for him. It's commonplace for Monica, about to close on an office

building, to schedule the closing in another more expensive but

more suitable building, lead the client in, and then let him

discover that fact for himself. This especially amuses her boss,

a smooth operator named Ben who has himself pulled off some very

big deals in town. Sometimes he can't believe some scheme she's

conceived will work, and they bet her commission on the outcome,

double or nothing. He's right just often enough to want to keep

betting and losing, and I've sometimes thought Monica schemes even

that arrangement. Her job is demanding -- it gives her irregular

hours additional to the regular work week she spends in her office.

Sometimes she's out of the house all day and many evenings, and

sometimes whole weekends. But she's hard-driving, and she enjoys

it, and she enjoys the payoff.

This was convenient. I was too frightened of discovery, too

embarrassed by my own desire, to dress feminine anywhere but in my

own home with the shades drawn. So I did the housework dressed

suitably, in a house dress, and if there were no deadlines then I

could lounge through the afternoons fixing my hair to look pretty,

or even pretend I was out on the town wearing my one

figure-clinging evening gown. After we arrived at our truce I

couldn't keep the evidence entirely away from her. A few times

panties or a bra unknown to her found their way from my separate

laundry into her drawers, and then I'd find them on my bureau to be

stowed in my own panty drawer, no comment ever made. It was

embarrassing once when we had Ben over for dinner, and Ben

commented that with all my domestic talents I'd make someone a fine

wife some day. I flushed, maybe too quickly, but Monica leaped in

to snap "No, he won't, he's already married to me," and that was

that.

Once or twice I'd forget myself, and ask her an idle question

about women's styles, what do you call a high waistline, gathered

under the breast and falling to a full skirt for example. She'd

just bought such a dress. On such occasions she'd only reply

sharply, "I told you, I'm not going to discuss such things with

you. It would only encourage your sick habit." I didn't dare

protest that my question was disinterested and innocent. I didn't

dare say anything. It would only have seemed to her to be a

deliberate extending of discussion of a forbidden topic, a flouting

of our agreement. Where my transvestism was even distantly

implied, she was not interested. Period. Until now.

"Then why didn't you get them pierced? Every girl does.

Didn't you want to be a girl?"

Why didn't I do the nearly unthinkable, get my ears pierced

and become one of the odd men who shared decorated ear lobes with

most of the women on the planet? The ten thousand reasons why not

flooded at me -- shame, fear of exposure, of jeopardizing my

manhood, of gibes from my associates, of offending and appalling my

wife when she saw the holes. Even fear of my own desires. It

seemed dangerous for me to alter my body to match my fantasy

desires, even in trivial ways -- who knew where that might end?

"Oh, I don't know," I replied evasively. That was too

evasive, obviously, so I added, "I didn't want to offend you, I

suppose, in part." Then I risked her wrath by asking her an

obvious question, and thereby actually extending the discussion,

our first since those hideous months before we'd agreed never ever

to mention anything about it again. "Why do you ask?" I asked,

delicately.

She scarcely noticed. Her turn to be evasive. "Different

reasons," she said with a dismissive shrug. Then she realized that

sounded too unforthcoming, too secretive, so she volunteered, "I

found one of your clip earrings on the kitchen counter a few days

ago, so I just wondered. It must have fallen off when you were

fixing dinner, and you never noticed. It told me you're still

dressing up day times. Though I didn't need to be reminded of

that, of course."

I took another chance. "No?" I asked. Then waited for the

storm. None came.

"Of course not. You're always leaving lipsticked kleenex in

the bathroom. And often I can smell your perfume when we're in bed,

when you don't shower first. Always the same perfume, *Enjoli,*

which is fortunate for you, or I'd suspect you'd been with some

other woman. But I found the bottle once, hidden in your toilet

kit on the closet shelf, when you left it a little bit open and the

smell had spread all over our bedroom. You're lucky I like the

scent -- I even borrow a dab now and then. Then there are other

things too, of course, like when you're careless about keeping our

bras and slips separate, or when you kick off your heels under the

bed and then forget they're there. Anyhow, when I found the

earring I began wondering what kind of a woman you make. Still

strange looking, I suppose, because you don't shave your legs, or

fix your eyebrows, and any girl needs to attend to things like that

if she means to look pretty. Or even presentable."

"Yes," I said, still too afraid to say anything else. Despite

my bewilderment, I was in heaven! '*Our* bras and slips' she'd

said, talking about them as if we were equally feminine! *Any*

girl, as if I was one of them. And she'd borrowed my perfume! She

seemed untroubled to be talking about it. Perfectly easy in fact.

And she even seemed to be implying that I should try harder to look

pretty. If only I dared!

But there was more. "When I found your earring, dear -- those

faux seed pearls set in silver? -- it's really lovely -- you do

have good taste, I've got to grant that -- I realized it would go

perfectly with my gray suit, the one with the cinched-in waist and

flared peplum and short, straight skirt, you know it? You couldn't

wear that suit now, but it would be quite becoming on you if you'd

lose ten or fifteen pounds, I should think. Anyhow, I can't

borrow your clip earrings, because my lobes are much too small for

clip-ons. I'd only lose them. So I wondered why you don't have

pierced ears, is all. Most women do. Then we could at least

borrow each others' jewelry. We'd be like sisters."

My heart swelled to bursting! This conversation was my

fondest dream! "Oh, Monica," I began ecstatically....

Then I interrupted myself, and came fully alert. I sat up,

and looked at her. Why, after years of detesting my habit, or

ignoring it and hoping it would go away, why was it she was now

chatting with me like a girlfriend, or -- what was it she'd just

said? -- like another woman, like a sister. There was something

wrong here. This was my dearest fantasy come to life. I was

overjoyed, and my suspicions wanted to dissolve into tears of joy.

But there was still something wrong.

"Why do you ask, Monica?" I asked her again. "I mean, why

now?"

My voice rose into falsetto, then cracked on the word "now"

despite myself. I tried to swallow, and couldn't. I saw she was

looking at me intently and that she had seen and heard my

excitement, and I saw the slightest of smiles play across the

corners of her mouth before she stretched her arms out and yawned,

then began to settle her eyes back onto the magazine in her lap.

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "But I think I should help you

with things like that. You have so much to learn."

And she settled back into her reading as if fascinated by

whatever had just caught her eye there, closed off to further

discussion.

A revolution had just occurred, and she seemed no more

concerned than if she had asked me why I had tossed parmesan into

tonight's salad. She had given me the most glorious gift! Not

only had she calmly accepted my dressing up, and chatted about it,

she'd offered to participate! No, she'd said she felt she should

participate. My throat was still choked, and I tried to wipe away

the tears in my eyes without being too obvious about it. Maybe it

was just that love had finally brought her to acceptance of me as

I am? All of me? She knew I was a loving and caring husband, and

apart from my transvestism we were well matched. Maybe it was mean

and ungenerous for me to question her further.

That night we made tender, passionate love more devotedly than

since the early days of our marriage, and she seemed serenely

pleased as I held and caressed her, and hugged her close to me, and

stroked my penis in and out of her pussy until her arms tightened

on my neck and I knew she'd come. Then when we were done, and I

was kissing her face gently over and over in sheer gratitude, she

whispered "Yes, dear, I know how you feel." She kissed me once in

return, then rolled over and instantly fell asleep.

II.

The next day she quit work early When I returned from an

errand in the early afternoon I saw Monica's car in the driveway,

heard noises upstairs, and went to investigate. There she was,

just completing a fast shuffle through the guest-room closet where

I kept my skirts, blouses, and dresses. I looked questioningly at

her, but she merely looked up, appraised me at once in a single

glance, and said, "No, you're no way ready. You have some nice

things, dear. I'll bet I could wear some of your smaller dresses

right now, and you can certainly borrow some of my loose-cut

blouses and jumpers. But you do need to diet. And anyhow you

can't quite pass safely yet. We'll have to do it in stages."

"What?" I asked her, again nearly incoherent. Her talk about

sharing clothes, again like girlfriends or sisters, filled my heart

with joy. But her reference to passing frightened me. Did she

mean for me to go out on the street? To be seen?

"Darling, to do womanly things one should feel womanly, and

move with a woman's self-assurance. So right now just put on a bra

and panties and a short slip, and these slacks -- no one will

notice there's no fly, and this over-shirt -- it's loose enough to

hide your breast forms, I think. Are those sneakers unisex? Close

enough for now. But no socks -- peds if you have any. Then let's

go!"

"Monica, go where?" Again my voice rose with a rising

hysteria, this time sounding almost flute-like.

"Why, to get your ears pierced, love. So we can share our

jewelry and things. You'll love wearing some of my bangles and

dangles. And you don't need to worry at all about offending me,

not any more. I'm loving the idea already."

She went back to our bedroom, and I began to undress, in order

to re-dress myself entirely in women's clothes, as Monica had

ordered, though the outer garments were indistinguishable from

men's. Nearly. In order to go out. Out into a world of men and

women. In order to get my ears pierced. I felt excited and

terribly apprehensive, both at the same time.

Almost at once she returned. Or so it seemed. She had

changed from her businesswoman's tailored suit to a tight sweater

and a mini skirt, for Monica rather sexy apparel. I could see her

breasts push out and sag into the sweater's support in the most

seductive curves -- could it be she wasn't wearing a brassiere?

Then her nipples showed in profile, and I knew she wasn't.

"Are you going out like that, Monica?" I tried to ask

casually.

But she knew what I meant. She shook her shoulders at me and

her breasts bobbed up and down deliciously. "Just want you to be

reminded that it takes more than a bra to make a woman, Andy love.

Though that is a very pretty bra indeed, I must say. A lovely

place to keep breasts when you've got 'em."

I blushed, embarrassed.

"Just remember, it's what's inside that counts the most, pet.

For now, just put in your breast forms and hurry. Have you been

admiring yourself in the mirror again? What's keeping you? I've

changed completely and you're still only halfway there."

I hurried into my slacks, sockless shoes, and oversized

T-shirt, and as she predicted, looked merely unisex. I felt a

little uneasy about the pants, which were form fit along my calf

and snug on my ankles, and made a tight V at my crotch, neatly

dividing my balls as if they were labia. But the T-Shirt covered

the crotch, with its smooth frontage, so I slipped into my sneakers

and declared, "Ready."

"Well, not quite," said Monica. She hauled out a lipstick and

began dabbing at my mouth.

I could feel a waxy substance slipping onto my lips and

coating them, and was shocked. "Monica!" I cried aghast. "What

are you doing?"

"Oh, stop worrying, baby," she said, "You know perfectly well

what I'm doing. It's pale pink, nearly invisible. Did you think

I want to appear in public with a man who wears lipstick? You know

better than that! No, you won't get to wear proper lipstick until

it becomes you as a woman. Sooner than you might think. But with

this, you can feel you're wearing lipstick, and get used to how it

feels. Never leave the house without it. I'm sure you already

feel much more womanly because of it, don't you?"

I did.

"All right, we're going to be out for some time. Visit the

bathroom, would you honey? And sit down when you do it, just for

practice -- you'll need to pull down those pants and your panties

anyhow. Then let's go! I'll wait for you in the kitchen."

In the kitchen she handed me a small whisky on rocks. She was

just finishing hers. "Here, dear. You seem nervous -- this'll

calm you down." She went away while I sipped and swallowed. The

whisky tasted like cheap stuff, but she'd put away the bottle so I

couldn't see the brand. I prefer vodka. She returned. "Ready?"

And she swept us both out the door and into her car. "Just

sit there, now, dear. I'll drive."

She did, to a rather nondescript part of town where she parked

in front of a beauty parlor.

"I'm not going in there," I said, now genuinely frightened.

It was one thing to be an imitation woman in privacy, and enjoy the

illusion. But this was authentic woman territory, and I was not

one of them. To go in there, I thought superstitiously, might make

me more of one of them than I wanted. It seemed terribly risky.

"Oh, Andrew, don't be silly. Do you want your ears pierced by

some teenager at the earring bazaar in the middle of the mall, in

full view of everyone passing by? Or here, privately, by a

professional?"

"You're right," I replied morosely. "But Monica, I haven't

yet worked out how I'm going to explain pierced ears to clients and

people like that. Shouldn't we think these things through a little

more?"

"Andrea," she replied. "That's what I'll call you from now

on, because that's who you enjoy being, and have always enjoyed

being. I suppose ever since you were a little girl raised up to be

a boy. Isn't that so? You told me all about that a few years ago,

and I've read a lot about it since. Now Andrea, stop being

nervous. You've thought about this all your life, haven't you?

Now it's time to live your fantasy, and become the woman of your

dreams."

"Monica," I replied. "I never said I thought I was a little

girl. I said I was a little boy who liked to imagine he was a

little girl, and sneaked his mothers' panties now and then to help

with the imagining. That's all. There's a difference."

"Andrea, please, let's not quibble. I saw you dressed up to

look like a woman, and I've been through your wardrobe. You love

being Andrea. Your need to be Andrea almost cost us our marriage

a while ago. All I'm saying is, you should be the best Andrea you

can be. The prettiest. That's what we're here for."

"What is it we're here for?" I asked, now genuinely

apprehensive. To play by myself was one thing, and to play with my

wife in the privacy of our own home was so much more. But Monica

sounded serious. And this salon was serious woman space, not a

mirror in my bedroom.

"Oh, pooh! Look here. If you want to be Andrew now and then,

you can always brush your hair longer to cover your ears, or wear

just one earring the way most men do, or if you must, remove them

both temporarily. But if you want to be sincere, truly yourself,

wear whatever earrings you enjoy and show them to the world. I've

got some wonderful chandeliers and cascades you'll love, for going

out formal. Now, we're going in!"

A large, somewhat well-curved woman walked smiling toward us

past three or four chairs, each with neatly arranged rollers,

curlers, and hair driers in little pastel plastic bins. The walls

were lined with mirrors. There were plastic bottles and sprayers

everywhere, marked with elaborate French names in impossible

scripts. "Monica!" the woman said. "How lovely to see you again.

And you must be Andrea! I'm Joellen! Yes, Monica is right, you

have wonderful possibilities. Just sit right here. You can see,

Monica, I've cleared my appointments until closing time just as you

asked." I was relieved, a bit. The place looked empty.

As I sat down where she indicated, she and Monica went over to

a table with different boxes and bottles on it. Joellen showed her

some, and they began looking through some picture books, talking

animatedly in low voices, nodding frequently. After a moment they

stopped, and both of them looked at me and smiled. "Look here," I

said, "I'm here to get my ears pierced, because that's what I once

thought I wanted, and because Monica sees advantages, and I can't

deny there are some advantages." I didn't want to confess to a

stranger that the thought of wearing Monica's earrings really

turned me on, and had carried me here despite my apprehension.

"But what do you mean, I have 'possibilities'? Just the ears are

daring enough for me right now."

"Oh, Andrea, that's what we're talking about," said Joellen.

"You'll also need a hairdo that can cover your ears when you want

to hide them, isn't that true? And show them off when you're

wearing something especially pretty. So I need to cut and set your

hair. It's nice you've let it grow out, it gives me something to

work with. I think enough. Enough after your perm, anyhow."

"What perm??!!" I shouted, and started to get out of the

chair.

Monica came around and stared directly at me. "Andrea,

behave! I told you this would have to be done in stages. If I'm

going to be continue to be married to a man who likes looking like

a woman, he will have to look like a presentable woman. And that's

that! I think you get my meaning!"

I did. I quieted down.

"I tried ignoring you and pretending you were the man I

thought I married. It didn't work. Not for long, anyhow. Now

you're going to be the woman I also married, and I want you to be

an even better woman than you've been a man. But in stages, so you

can get used to things, and learn them. Understood?"

Not really, but I didn't dare do anything other than nod my

head.

"My dear," Joellen added in a quieter voice, gently. "I

thought you knew. A perm makes hair much more manageable. Then

you can set it any way you want. Swept back like a man's might even

look cute, with your face. All right?"

What could I say? I nodded to her too.

Three demoralized hours later, Joellen whisked the last of her

pink cover-sheets from around my neck and said "There! Now that's

just lovely! Nothing freakish about you at all! I think you can

go anywhere you wish, and Monica will be proud to accompany you."

Monica was herself sitting in another chair at the far end of

the salon, reading a magazine and glancing at my progress now and

then. She looked up and studied me, then nodded. "Yes, wonderful!

That's perfect, Joellen. Really lovely. Thank you. Andrea, I

think we'll move the schedule ahead and go to the next stage

tonight. You need more self-confidence. Looking the way you do,

I think you'll finish tonight feeling pleased with yourself. Just

look!"

I looked. Oh, my ears were pierced all right, and there were

little gold posts poked through the holes until the skin could heal

over. For the rest of my life there would be little pieces of

metal on my ears, I realized, or else little tell-tale dimples.

The thought should have been depressing, but to my surprise I

didn't much mind. Not at all.

Moreover, my hair was cut and curled up and back, into cute

waves softly framing my face. Oddly, now that it was curved and

waved and shaped it looked shorter -- it occupied more space around

my head, but my neck was now visible. And Joellen was right, if I

wanted to hide my ears it was now a simple matter to comb some of

the side curls back over them. I could even do it with my

fingertips, fluff out my hair a little the way she showed me. Not

too bad. Of course I'll have to try to brush it straight back when

I get home, I thought, so it looks less...well...feminine. I'd

wondered how women got that "big" hair look. Gels, sprays, and a

body perm underneath it all, Joellen had told me. I supposed that

gels and sprays could also return some semblance of a manly look.

More troublesome were my eyebrows. They were plucked thin and

high and arch, giving my face a refined and delicate cast. Neat,

well-groomed, but definitely not a man's brows. I would have no

trouble passing as a woman with that hairdo and those eyebrows.

The problem would come when I tried to pass as a man. With my face

as it is, I would look like a girl wearing a suit and jacket, I

thought. I'd always had a "weak" chin, implying a lack of manly

determination But now it just looked small. Cute. Just right.

Maybe I should grow a beard, I thought? But no. I've never had

much facial hair, and a beard would ruin the effect when I was

dressing in private anyhow. But even this thought didn't depress

me. All this was what I had wanted, more or less. And it was

certainly what Monica wanted.

"Monica," I said a little helplessly.

"A little eye-makeup, Joellen?" Monica said to her. "Just a

touch. I think we'll celebrate Andrea's new face by going out to

dinner. A casual dinner, we're not really dressed for anything

fancy. But we don't want anyone to think she isn't who she is,

now, do we."

This last was for my benefit, reminding me I had better act as

ladylike as I could, or else suffer the embarrassment I dreaded.

I also registered that it was the first time Monica had ever called

me "she". It seemed so casual and natural as she said it. Joellen

made a few quick strokes on my eyelids, and while she was at it she

added a few strokes of dark red lipstick too. "There!" she said.

"Just lovely!"

I looked in the mirror, and couldn't disagree.

"Come on, dear," Monica said, picking up her purse. "I know

you love to admire yourself in the mirror. But if you're going to

be a real woman you'll have to learn to use mirrors just to be sure

you look the way you wish, and let other people do the admiring."

As we left the shop I protested, "Monica, this is too fast.

I'm not going to be a real woman. Where did you get that notion?"

"Why, from you, dear. Isn't that what you've been dreaming in

secret, dressing up all those years? But now that you're on the

sidewalk looking like a woman, remember that people can see you.

Stand straight and hold your head high, and push out your breasts.

Young girls can slouch, but not women. You have a lot yet to

learn. You need to do more than look like a woman. You have to

behave like a woman, and move like one, and feel yourself to be a

woman in your heart. Or you'll fool no one."

"Monica, after all these years, why all of a sudden are you

encouraging me? I don't understand."

"You will, dear. Before too much longer. Meanwhile, why

don't you count your blessings?"

III.

Our dinner was uneventful, and even pleasant. No, it was

better than that. It turned out to be delightful, because despite

all of my fears about the way I looked, nothing happened. The

"first time" experiences accumulated so fast I didn't even notice

many of them after a while, and Monica had to remind me about them.

Monica drove to a modest-priced Italian restaurant, and when

I saw it was crowded I protested. "No, that's what we want, dear,

for you to be out among lots of people who are paying no attention

to you, so you can begin to get used to it. Just remember we're

ordinary girls out for dinner and a movie, or something, and don't

give it another thought. Of course if you're still nervous about

the way you look, you're in pants, so you can believe you still

look like a man. But no one else will. Joellen did a fine job

with you. Wait and see."

As she got out of the car she looked at me again. "Small

steps, dear, and for the present, one foot in front of the other,

so you sway your hips just a bit. I think heels might help. No

more flats or sneakers for the time being. And you'll need to

carry a purse from now on when we're out together. For now no one

will notice."

The Maitre D' came over. "A party of two, or are you

expecting others to join you?" Others?! The thought flashed

across my mind that this whole dinner might be another setup. A

terrified pang pierced my vitals! "Monica!" I whispered, not

trusting my voice, pleading.

"No, just the two of us tonight," she told the Maitre D'."

Then to me, seeing my face, she said. "Don't worry, dear. I have

other plans altogether."

"It will be perhaps ten minutes before I can seat you, ladies.

Would you like to wait in the bar?"

I followed her in and sat down on an adjoining bar stool.

"Oh, my, Andrea, you need to practice everything," she said. "A

lady does not climb on a bar stool one haunch at a time. She steps

up on the rail, braces with both hands on the edge of the bar, and

then settles down onto the stool with her legs together. Like a

lady." The bartender came over. "I'll have a vodka on rocks," she

said. Then she looked at me and waited. I was on my own.

"A doub...." My voice was much too high. I lowered it a

little, and decided to try gentle and breathy too. "A double vodka

on the rocks, please." The bartender turned away.

"Not bad, dear," my wife said, amused. "A little like Jackie

Kennedy, but not at all bad. There are worse models. Now, see how

many firsts already? You've been called a lady, you're out and

passing with over fifty people paying no attention to you, you've

learned to sit down at a bar, which can be an essential skill in

the months ahead, and you've used a woman's voice to get what you

want. Do you think you'll be all right using the ladies' room by

yourself later, or will you want me to come with you? Try the

men's room now, and you'd cause a riot. Maybe even get raped.

Wouldn't that be a first? From now on, dear, you have to think

about such things." The bartender set down our glasses, and she

went on. "Look at that! My but they're generous here. And yours

is a double? Well, I suppose those tranquilizers I gave you back

at the house have worn off by now, so I suppose it's all right."

"You gave me tranquilizers? Is that why I haven't been scared

to death of everything you've been doing to me?" I remembered only

at the last second to tone down my voice.

"Of course, dear. Do you mind, now that it's done? I'd never

have gotten you out of the house and into a beautician's chair

without them. You know that. And now look at us. Two girls out

together. Your dream come true. Isn't it?"

"Yes," I had to confess. My voice was a little husky. "Thank

you, dear. But you've never answered my question, why are you

being so nice to me now, after years of hating..." I hesitated,

and finished lamely, "of not wanting to know about...everything

like this."

The Maitre d' called out "Jackson, party of two," and Monica

said, "That's us. Or strictly speaking, that's you, Andrea.

Andrea Jackson, isn't that sweet? Easy to remember, too. I'll

keep my married name of course, and Andrew will too whenever he

needs a name, but Andrea needed a new name. Do you like it? It's

her maiden name. She's not married." She was teasing me again,

and I didn't know what to reply.

As we were shown to the table and the Maitre held out my chair

for me, I slipped in as daintily as I could, and smiled at him, and

sat down. "But why," I asked again. "Why now?"

"Quite simply, because I realized not long ago that a husband

who wants to feel like a woman is what I want. It's what I need.

I want you to be look and feel the way you are right now all the

time. Even more so. Much more so. Like I said, I have plans.

For both of us."

Her voice had lost all of its teasing banter. She was quite

serious, and as she turned to look directly at me and continued she

sounded even more serious.

"Andrea, do you love me?" she asked soberly.

"You know I do."

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes, of course."

"Not 'of course.' I mean really."

I hesitated, and decided to jump off the cliff.

"Yes," I said. "I trust you." I meant it. Unequivocally.

"Good," she said, and she smiled so happily it nearly broke my

heart to see it, she looked so beautiful. "Then trust me. You

won't regret it. I promise. And we may yet grow old and

feebleminded together."

"Monica, is this something serious?"

"Not any more, sweetheart. Shall we order, and then visit the

ladies' together?"

"I'd like that," I said.

The final "first time" of the night was, when we got home,

Monica asked me to fix my makeup, slip into a short, frilly

nightie, and make love to her like a woman. Previously she'd

shown no desire in oral sex, and after a while I'd quit trying to

interest her. Our sex lives together were fine, I thought. We

usually fucked gently and devotedly, one atop the other according

to mood, or alongside, and she kissed my mouth, and I kissed her

mouth and suckled on her nipples, and we both came, beautifully,

usually together. And that was it. It was wonderful. I loved it,

and thought she did too. We had no need for contraceptives or

worries about pregnancy, because Monica had no patience with

children and wanted none, I had no special feelings either way at

the time, and we had both agreed as a condition of our marrying

that I should get a vasectomy. As I did. Our sex was always

pleasant, generous, and without anxiety.

But this time as I kissed the tips of her tits she wrapped her

arms around my head and cried out, "Oh!" so passionately, and then

"Oh!" again and again, that I almost came on her belly. I'm sure

she orgasmed as I nursed her, and she clasped my head tightly to

her soft, swelling breasts, first one, then the other, then the

first again. "They're so very sensitive!" she said. Then she

said, "Let me!" and began to suckle on my teats, small as they

were. Gradually a strange and exotic feeling seemed to emanate

from her mouth into my breasts, and she reached down to pull gently

on my penis while she nursed on me. The feeling grew stronger, and

became my whole body's, and as she sucked and pulled and licked I

finally came too, in one single grand unclenching, as if all of me

was a single throbbing organ.

"Now turn, and lick it up, and lick me, my darling," she

whispered into my ear. "I want to kiss your clit."

An exceptional request, but I was enraptured, and turned and

began licking my cum from where it had spread like syrup into her

navel and all over her swelling, smooth, white belly. Slowly I

worked down to her crotch. As my tongue found her clit and my nose

began fucking her slit, I felt my limp penis enter her mouth, all

warm and wet and delicious, and I felt her tongue working over it,

and her lips wrapped around it at the base, pumping, until

half-hard, I came again. She swallowed my juice with little

squeals as her hips bucked into my face and she came yet again too.

Afterward we slept wrapped up snug in each other, a sweet tension

spreading through me each time she moved against me.

That was how we made love from then on. It was like falling

in love all over again. The next morning she asked me to shave and

use a depillatory, and I was delighted to oblige. Then she looked

so sadly disappointed when I dressed in jeans and a shirt to take

some papers to the office that I faxed them in, then changed to a

skirt and blouse, and as she requested, two-inch heels. Then

between short sweet kisses, my lipsticked mouth on hers, she told

me I felt wonderful wrapped around her, but she'd like me to use

some softening lotions on my hands, and she'd love for me to begin

a regimen of shots and pills to make my skin just a little smoother

and my body softer, more rounded. I could deny her nothing, so

that very morning she sent me to a special doctor who told me that

many women and some men prefer their bodies that way. I was

wearing a skirt and light makeup, as Monica put it, "so we can play

on the street with our little secret." I felt awkward, a little

silly, but the doctor didn't seem to notice or mind. The first

shots she gave me induced a kind of euphoria, and when I commented

on it to the nurse she said, "Yes, the doctor puts in just a little

extra so her women patients will enjoy their new selves all the

more. And to overcome possible nausea or tummy aches from intensive

treatments like yours. Don't forget to take your pills every day."

Each night we made love the way women do with each other. As

a few weeks passed my skin became smoother, and soon my nipples

became hard and pointy, sticking out from my chest, so deliciously

sensitive that I felt complete only when Monica's lips were wrapped

around them and pulsing gently. Then it was ecstasy! She kept my

penis so drained and softened that I couldn't have entered her even

if she'd wished it. But I'd almost forgotten that I ever had

wanted to.

She went in to work daily, as before, seeing clients and

selling real estate, and sitting in her office plotting how to see

and sell even more. As ever I did all the housework and

prepared all the meals, and faxed in my contracts and figures

whenever I was asked for them. But now I dressed like a woman full

time. She was always disappointed when she came home and found me

dressed like a husband and not a wife, so I gave up on being her

husband. I dieted down to where I could wear some of her prettiest

clothes, denied only her tight, snug outfits, and we acquired some

of my own for me on several afternoons spent shopping at the mall.

That was a lovely time, giggling together like schoolgirls. She'd

comment how the boys would love to see me wearing this rather

daring outfit, or that one, and we'd laugh and hug each other.

She asked me to point out fellas I thought looked especially cute,

and if she agreed with me we'd speculate how this one was hung, or

how long that one would last inside one of us, and then giggle really

wickedly.

In fact, Monica seemed to feel sorry for me that I'd had no

girlhood of my own, and she talked to me all the time about hers,

and about some of her friends'. Everything from how it

felt to shop with her mother for her first training bra to games

played with dolls, to gossip about boys and dates, and curiosity

about sex, and first crushes on guys. Then in detail that made me

uneasy at first, about her various experiences with men, cock

sucking and seducing them and getting laid, crudely or

romantically, depending upon time, place, and the man she was with.

Like one intimate girlfriend to another, she'd talk to me about her

experiences and feelings making love with different college boys,

or with various business associates before she'd met me. She'd talk

about how cocks feel in a girl's mouth or pussy, even while we were

making love ourselves. She told me how she had once taken a man into

her rear end, when he had insisted on it, and found it wasn't too bad.

"It felt all snug and comfy," she said. "And that night I swallowed his

cum at both ends."

Sometimes she'd forget herself altogether, and say things

like, "You know how it is, when you run your lips up and down

a huge cock trying to bring a guy off, and his precum keeps

dribbling onto your tongue and tasting sweetly salty, but your jaw

aches and you wish he'd headfuck you and get it over with?" It was

as if she were back in college dating, and I was her room mate. Or,

"I remember the first fully erected prick I saw -- a huge turkey neck

it looked like, but that royal purple head felt so satiny smooth on

my lips when I kissed it that I didn't care. Was your first one

like that?" Or, "Oh, Andrea, have you ever had a really glorious,

delirious fuck, felt filled so completely that the least movement

was rapture for you, and each time he pulled out became a hunger

for him to plunge himself into you again?" Monica seemed to forget

that I wasn't a woman, and when I reminded her that I could only

imagine such things, she'd cover me with kisses as if trying to

make up to me for my deficient girlhood. She really wanted to

believe I was her best girlfriend, and to share everything with me!

Increasingly my pleasure while making love to her, as we

kissed and licked and lapped and sucked and caressed each other, as

women do, blended with her pleasure remembering different men in

her past. I didn't mind -- I wanted to share everything I felt

with my new sweetheart too. I once asked her if she'd ever had sex

with a lesbian, and she said "Before we were married, yes. But

since then, only with you, my darling. I do hope to straighten you

out soon, though, so you can also enjoy men too the way I do." Had

she so completely imagined me to be a woman that she had

momentarily forgotten that her wife was a man. Or was it the other

way around? It was confusing, but either way it was flattering,

and rather dear.

Our jewelry, earrings, and accessories we decreed held in

common, and we were each delighted when we saw that one was wearing

what had been the other's. Sometimes we went to small, intimate

restaurants like two old girlfriends, or to movies. When for some

reason Andrew had to replace Andrea to visit and deal with

officialdom downtown, or go to the office, I couldn't wait to get

back home and be myself again. They were months of pure

bliss.

IV.

One morning while we were dressing, Monica for the office and

me to do some shopping for dinner that night, Monica said to me,

"Oh, never mind that. We've been invited out."

It took a moment for that casual remark to sink in and

astonish me. "What?" I said "By who? How?"

"Oh, don't look so shocked! It's nothing! I told two of the girls

we deal with at the office about you, that you're pretty much house bound

these days, and they asked me to bring you over for dinner to help

clear the cobwebs out of your mind. It's nice to meet other people

now and then. That's all!"

"That's all? Do you mean meet them as Andrew or as Andrea?"

"Of course as Andrea, silly. I'm proud of you, and want to

show you off. You've come such a long way. Though your hair could

use a touch up. Don't worry. Run over to Joellen's this afternoon

and tell her to do her magic, and I'll pick you up at six. I think

your green silk taffeta would be fine." She paused to appraise

me. "Ask her to lighten your hair just a touch, and to do your

nails. You're a lovely woman now, Andrea, and you have nothing to

hide. Time to move on."

I took that to mean she had to leave now, so the discussion

was over, so I asked hastily, "Wait a minute. Are

these...er...girls married? Will they have dates? Will there be

men at this dinner?" For some reason I felt ashamed to be seen by

men who knew I was a man. I'd sacrificed all of my manliness,

willingly, but they might be offended or amused by it, and think me

ridiculous.

"You *are* a shy one, aren't you, love. 'No' to the first

question and 'Maybe' to the second. Denise and Tinka are lesbians

who have lived together for years and are a respectable couple,

like us. Denise is pregnant, and they're both looking forward to

having the baby. Then a boy friend may show -- she wasn't sure.

A friend who's a boy, named Eric. He's the baby's father. But

there's no problem between them about it, because he's gay. He

wouldn't even screw her once, not even to please a dear friend, so

they had to use a gravy baster to deal with his donation. An ideal

stud, because all he wants from them ever is conversation. I've met

him. He's no way effeminate, just not attracted to women.

They're nice people. You'll enjoy them. And they're really

looking forward to meeting you! Tell Joellen I'd love to see you

in bangs, I think you'd look just darling. Ta ta!"

And she was gone.

I scheduled my session with Joellen for the early afternoon,

right after my weekly shot, and I felt so good when I waltzed in

that I didn't notice at first that Joellen had four other customers

having things done to them, and two other operators combing,

teasing, polishing, doing what needed doing. The place was packed!

Joellen saw me and came over saying, "There you are, Andrea dear,

just sit right here and we'll get right to you. My you look

lovely! Your skin seems so much smoother today. Are you doing

anything for it?"

"Monica thought I'd feel better if I took some shots," I said

with a nervous little laugh. "And I must say, I certainly do!"

"I'll bet!" said Joellen. "Well, let's lighten you and tidy

you up for tonight. Monica called and told me what she wants. I

agree with her about having bangs, now that your hair's a bit

longer. You'll look adorable. But now that you're really into it,

this time we go the distance. Nails, facial, waxing, everything.

Monica tells me you're never going back. Welcome to the world of

women, honey! You'll love it! We should probably talk about some

permanent changes to your face, but that can come later."

I'd never told Monica I was never going back, I thought to

myself. We'd never discussed it. Did I want to be a woman for

good? Well, right now I just loved being a woman with my wife, and

that was good enough for me for now. When I left Joellen, there

was a spring in my step, and my nails were long and red, and my

face felt so perfect it might have been lacquered on. I spent the

rest of the afternoon dressing, and practicing my postures and

gestures, walking daintily, staying loose-wristed, talking all up

and down the scale instead of in a male monotone, things like that.

I felt very good about my upcoming coming-out dinner party, and

felt like celebrating something. When Monica arrived home to

change she was pleased to hear me humming and singing in the

kitchen in my sweetest falsetto, no longer nervous. She suggested

we have a drink before we left, because the girls were likely to

serve only wine. But on top of whatever the doctor gave me I was

already two drinks ahead of her, feeling no pain at all.

I remember the first part of the evening well enough, but very

little of the rest of it, and nothing at all about how I got home

and into bed. In fact the next morning when I woke up, Monica was

already half-way out the door to work, with time for only a few

amused, cryptic remarks, something about how some girls can't wait

to make up for lost time, and how I'd certainly never need a gravy

baster. Then as I stepped into the shower I noticed that my rear

end was crusty with something or other. But I didn't realize what

until later that morning when I was rinsing some of our lingerie.

Monica's panties were only lightly soiled, with that heavy, musky

aroma I was learning to love dearly, I spent so much time with my

nose in her crotch. Mine were stiff with a clear dried fluid in

front, which I recognized as my post-vasectomy cum. I wondered how

it got there. But the seat of my prettiest panties, the ones I'd

worn last night, was stiff with dried, thick stains and streaks,

gobbets of them, and I realized it was someone else's heavily

laden sperm. What had happened? What had I done?! I spent the

day agonized, fearful I had thrown away my new precious relationship

with my beloved wife, worried I might have done some perverse thing

to disgust her, that now she would leave me.

So when Monica got home I met her at the door with a Martini,

and with many kisses and flourishes I fed her the most elaborate

meal I knew how to cook. She seemed untroubled. But she'd also

seemed untroubled the first day after she'd caught me wearing a

dress, that time we nearly broke up over it. That's how she was

until she'd calculated how to deal with a problem.

Over dessert I asked her, as casually as I could, what I had

done at Denise and her lesbian friend's house.

"You really don't remember any of it?" she asked me, her

eyebrows raised. "Not at all?"

"The early part," I replied. "The delicious dinner with

Denise and Tinka, I think that was her name. She's a wonderful

cook. Four kinds of wine, and she kept refilling my glass I'm

afraid. Denise looked huge, almost ready to deliver, but still very

beautiful, glowing, and Tinka was looking forward to taking care of

the baby when Denise goes back to work and returns to a heavy

schedule of out-of-town selling trips. But can that be right?"

"That's right. When the baby's born Tinka will take over.

That's how they mean to share the child-rearing. Tinka will do

it all. She's the homebody, loves cooking and keeping house,

and so on. Denise isn't."

"Now how is it I already know that?"

"You went upstairs with Tinka to look at her recipe files, and

promised to send her some of your own. You took a long while at

it. She told us you got to talking with her about breast feeding

as against bottles. One thing led to another, and you started

sampling the alternatives, apparently. Then fell asleep. She said

that you looked and felt so sweet at her breast that she hated to

take her nipple out of your mouth and wake you."

Monica then grinned broadly. "Don't look so agonized,

sweetheart. I didn't mind. It's a normal instinct. I love

nursing on your breasts too, such as they are, as you know. And

you on mine."

"Yes."

"Anyhow, when you were safely downstairs again and had fixed

your face, both women marveled at the way you look now, how convincing

a woman you've become. So they decided to put you to the test."

"What test?" I was afraid I was getting closer to solving a

mystery I didn't really want to solve.

Monica let out a rich laugh, and gestured to her coffee cup.

I hastened to refill it. "Why my dear, dear Andrea, you really

don't remember?" She scrutinized me closely. "No, you don't, do

you! What a shame! Every girl remembers her first, but it seems

you don't, so now you'll have to have your first all over again.

In a way that means you're still a virgin!"

"Monica, please!" I couldn't tell if she sounded sympathetic or

mocking. "What did I do? Did I do anything wrong? Will you

forgive me?"

"Come to the couch, and we'll cuddle, and I'll tell you

everything, love."

Like a guilty puppy hoping for forgiveness, I followed her

into the living room. She lay down on the couch with her head on

the arm rest, and I lay down alongside her, tears now running down

my face.

"You need to use waterproof mascara, darling, if you mean to

be so emotional in the future. And I can tell you're wearing

Enjoli for me tonight. That was very considerate."

"Monica, whatever I did, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I don't want

to lose you! Tell me you still love me!"

"Of course I do, pet. And there's nothing to be sorry about.

It was everything I'd hoped for for you. Except that now you're

going to have to do it again, so you'll have memories of it to

carry into your old age."

She waited until I stopped sobbing into her shoulder, then

continued. "Denise decided that Eric could provide an ultimate

test of just how feminine you'd become. You remember Denise's

sperm donor? Eric? No? Not even his face? Well, Eric must be

the world's strictest homosexual, who loves boys and men of all

kinds, and women of no kind. Who won't ever let a woman touch him

for any reason? Well, when you came back downstairs again Eric had

just arrived, expecting to meet my roommate, the woman I've been

living with lately so far as he knew. Tinka described what you'd

just been doing, how lovingly you'd been suckling at her breast,

and Denise wondered aloud if you would suckle on a prick just as

lovingly."

"I was trying to stay neutral, so I just said I didn't know.

But Eric knew from the moment you walked back into the room that

you were not born female, and he seized the opportunity. 'Here,

Andrea darling, suckle this,' he said to you without a second's

hesitation, and he pulled out, well, I must say, a monster prick.

My dear, you may not have a woman's chromosomes, but you certainly

have a woman's instincts and desires. Without a second's

hesitation you dropped to your knees between his knees and kissed

the tip. Then you felt his crown all around with the insides of

your lips, running your tongue all around that silky smoothness

I've talked about now and then. Then you licked and sucked Eric's

whole shaft so lovingly and passionately that we each of us wished

we were men, while we watched, so you could do us too. It was the

finest blow job I've witnessed, with far more intensity and finesse

than I've ever been able to bring to the job. But as you know,

I've never been much interested in oral sex. Until recently."

"Then when Eric reached his climax, you swallowed him up

without a slurp. It seemed as if he were pumping gallons down your

throat, and you swallowed it all, as if grateful for it and hoping

for more. I got so wet watching you that I would have leaped on

Eric myself, if he'd have let me. He'd never, of course.

"Then after the shortest possible recovery, less than five

minutes, while you were still licking his cock clean, he gently

turned you around and laid you belly down across Denise's hassock,

and lifted your dress and pulled down your panties, and with your

own saliva still drenching his cock, he entered you from the rear.

You gave such a delicious groan as he went in. I was so happy for

you. And you groaned again as he pulled out and then re-entered

you, and then again, faster and faster as he fucked you, until you

reached a crescendo and your groans had become pulsating shrieks as

he came, and you came, simultaneously. No girl ever lost her

cherry more gloriously! And you don't remember any of it? What a

terrible pity!"

"So darling, in a way you passed the test wonderfully. Your

behavior with Eric was immediately, instinctively a woman's. But

you failed the test too, because he immediately took you to be a

drag queen or transsexual woman, not a genetic woman, and

immediately got the hots for you. We argued whether that in itself

was relevant evidence of your true femininity, but Eric said he

feels the same way about Sylvester Stallone, so we decided that it

couldn't count."

"Then Tinka proposed a tie breaker, and it was so effortless

that I'll remember it all the days of my life. She was helping you

adjust your panties again, and we were wondering whether you needed

a tampon or maxipad to get you home, there was so much of Eric's

cum flowing out of you, when suddenly she lifted your dress all the

way over your head, and lowered your slip off your shoulders, and

took off your bra, and sat you down on the floor and sat down

alongside you, and took you by the shoulders and began to suckle on

you. You know, your little titties really aren't much more than

pointy nipples yet, but there's enough there to fill someone's

mouth, and Tinka began nursing. Denise joked "Tit for tat," but

then we fell silent, because something so beautiful happened.

Obviously you were going on instinct alone. Your mind wasn't

really there, hadn't been for some time. But your arms came

up as if by a miracle, and you ever so gently, so lovingly

cradled her head in your arms, and pressed her face to your

breast, and held her, and rocked her ever so slightly. Tears

came to everyone's eyes. Even Eric's. I suppose no one can be

unmoved by the sight of a mother gently nourishing her infant.

That's what you seemed to be doing with Tinka."

"Darling, everyone agrees you have true womanly instincts,

that you are absolutely convincing, absolutely persuasive. And now

think of it! You've also had sex with a man, and enjoyed it.

You know what it's like. Now if you want to flirt with a guy and

then feel an urge to go the distance, you can, like any other

woman. I don't mind, as long as it's with a man, as long as I'm

the only real woman in your life. You're the only woman in mine.

Please, dear. Take me to you right now. I want to pleasure you.

I do love you."

What could I say? What could I do? I lowered my blouse, and

unhooked my bra, and nursed my darling first on one of my pouting

nipples, then the other, while the most delicious feelings arose as

her mouth pulsed on me. I looked down on her dark, curved hair,

and I have never felt so tender, so utterly warm and joyous. I

whispered my affection and she kissed me, and I kissed her. And

then we went to bed and made love as only women can.

V.

A month or so later we were still at it. I had forgotten what

it was like to wear men's clothes, and Monica seemed to be so

utterly enraptured by my femininity that I couldn't think of

displaying anything else to her. True, I had been unfaithful to

her when I had made love to Eric, and Eric had made love to me.

But somehow that didn't seem to be a violation of my marriage vows.

It wasn't with another woman but with a man, a gay man, and I

wasn't even aware of it, at least afterward. So Monica thought

what the other women thought, that it was merely evidence I had

become one of them, except for the technicality that had made it

possible for me to relate to Eric. She only regretted that it

hadn't happened years earlier, when I was still a teenage girl, so

I could have weaved romantic dreams around my memory of it. She

only regretted that I had no memory of it at all.

I was still doing cost estimates on various projects and

faxing in the results, and still earning a good income, but no one

in the office had seen me for many weeks, and I was thinking of

quitting and just setting up full time as a homemaker for the two

of us. It was what I much preferred doing. And keeping myself

pretty for Monica took time.

Monica encouraged me. She was working very hard, many days

and evenings spent out with clients showing them real estate. But

that was what she loved to do, so it never seemed taxing to her.

She was herself her firm's top salesman, and we were banking most

of her high commissions on each sale, because we didn't need them

to live on. Financially we were set. As she pointed out, the

difference between more money than you need and a lot more money

than you need is no difference at all. We had no children, and no

plans for children, nor any possibility of having them, so it was

pointless for us to save for their futures. We lived in our own

present. I had begun faxing recipes back and forth with Tinka, and

I longed to have more time to try out more of them. We neither of

us again referred to the incidents of that night when my mouth and my

rear end lost their virginity -- that too was in the past.

At least we never again referred to that night until the week

I finally quit my job. We both were looking for some way to

celebrate my elevation to homemaker full-time, when coincidentally

Monica learned she had won a quarterly sales competition run by her

firm. The prize was a long weekend free in the most luxurious

resort hotel in the state, complete with a suitable new wardrobe,

for ourselves and also for any other couple we chose to bring along

for company. We selected Denise and Tinka, the only other couple

we'd seen since that lovely evening some months back when Monica

had changed her mind and heart about my cross-dressing, and had

led me into the womanliness I now loved, and she apparently loved too.

Then we all had a fine time selecting new lingerie, dresses,

skirts, blouses, shoes, accessories, makeup, everything a woman

needs to be stylish and beautiful and playful at a resort. Denise

reserved her credits against the day her figure would return to

some semblance of acceptable, and Tinka's new wardrobe stressed

nursing bras and front-buttoning blouses. But once again, Monica

and I were like schoolgirls vying with each other to purchase the

most tasteful yet sexy outfits we could find, giggling together the

whole time. It was such fun!

The night before we were due to leave, Denise had a false

labor scare, the first of several as it turned out. So Denise and

Tinka didn't dare come with us. We decided to hold the two double

reserved rooms by renaming the occupants Mr. and Mrs. Sloan, my

married name with Monica, and Ms Jackson, my "maiden" name. We

hoped Denise and Tinka would change their minds, but if not, maybe

we'd find some other use for a separate room. "Maybe you'll get

lucky, and you won't want me around," Monica said. I kissed her

reassuringly.

Apparently, something else did occur to Monica. As we

approached the hotel desk she whispered to me "Just follow my lead,

and go along with whatever I say."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Never mind," Monica replied. "You trust me, don't you?

Remember?"

"Yes," I said. "Absolutely!"

"Then act sexy. Feel sexy. Swish your hips. See if you can

distract the registration clerk. Since you're here as a girl,

start enjoying the fun parts of it."

I tried, but the main person distracted was me, because I

never noticed that Monica was registering us into two separate

rooms, until the clerk announced, "There we are. 407 Mrs. Sloan,

and 409 Ms. Jackson, adjoining rooms with a door that can be

locked on either side. Will your husband be joining you later

today, Mrs. Sloan?"

I was taken aback, but Monica seemed to be expecting the

question. "I don't know when if ever, " she said to the clerk.

"But just a moment."

Then she turned to me, and looked me straight in the eye, and

said, "Andrea dear, what do you think? Think carefully now. Will

my husband be here this week end, as far as you know?"

A strange question. I wish I'd understood what she really

meant, because I answered after only a moment, "No, I don't think

so, Monica. I think this is supposed to be a girls' weekend."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Why do you ask?"

She ignored my question. "Then it's settled, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Isn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose so, Monica." I was absolutely baffled.

"Good," Monica said. "Then we can enjoy ourselves any way we

want. This weekend is for fun."

And turning back to the clerk, she answered, astonishingly,

"Yes, my husband will be here around six, in plenty of time for

dinner -- just send him up when he arrives. Mrs. Jackson doesn't

have a husband, but we'll make arrangements I'm sure." She smiled

at the clerk, who smiled at me. Confused, but playing along, I

smiled back.

When we got up to our room I started to unpack, and Monica

stopped me. "No, Ms. Jackson's room is right there, " she said.

"Through that door there. You heard me, that I'm expecting a

gentleman. So if you don't mind, dear, why don't you go in there

and change to a bathing suit? This hotel has a famous hot spring

pool we'll want to try. And it may be that a girl in a high-cut

bathing suit like that one you've brought can make her own

arrangements. We'll leave the door open for now. But you might

want to close it before this weekend ends. You never know."

I was beginning to understand, and I didn't like what I

understood. Monica had a date for the weekend, and had made me

promise that there would be no jealous husbands spoiling the fun,

just two girls who like to see each other enjoy themselves. I was

feeling a little depressed when Monica came in wearing an

absolutely smashing yellow flowered bikini with a gauzy top.

Reflexively I started to get an erection, even though Monica and I

had been making love only "like women do," for the past three

months, and I hadn't inserted my penis into her the whole time.

Luckily I had already pulled up the bottom half of my one-piece, so

my prick was hidden, and Monica didn't have to deal with an

irrelevant hard on. I was trying to fit my breasts into the bathing

suit's cups when Monica broke into my meditation on my strange

sexual half-life.

"Oooh, look!" she said. "You really have a figure! They are

coming along beautifully! I'd never noticed before."

"What are?" I asked her. "What's coming along?"

"Your breasts. That bathing suit is really doing a job,

squeezing whatever's up there into those cups. You don't need

breast forms any more. Was your mother well-endowed? It tends to

run from mother to daughter."

"Yes, she was," I replied. "Very. But if big breasts run in my

family, they don't run in my direction."

"Don't be too sure, sweetheart," Monica replied, her eyes

still on the two distinctive bulges the bathing suit had shaped on

my chest. "It's wonderful how quickly things can happen. Let's go

check out the pool and the guys. Don't forget your bathing cap, or

that sweet curly hairdo Joellen gave you won't survive till

dinner."

She handed me my hairbrush from my dresser, and grinned while

holding up a lipstick from her own beach bag, and I understood and

smiled, and left my lipstick on the bureau. We were still sharing.

We still enjoyed the old intimacy. We were still girls together.

By the time we got to the pool my mood had changed for the better,

and we both teased and joked and flirted with a well-hung young man

who was obviously a little young for either of us, but whose Speedo

bathing suit left little to our imaginations. We both traded

sexual innuendoes with him, and watched him get hard, until it was

time to return and change for dinner. Monica was right. There

were lots of fun parts to being a girl.

We were just about changed for dinner and I was spraying a

stray curl back where it belonged, when there came a knock on

Monica's door. The bellhop with something, I thought, so I didn't

turn around to glance through the door between our rooms to see who

it was. Then when my hair was in place I turned and saw! There

was a man in the doorway, and my wife was plastered onto him, her

legs wrapped around his waist and her arms tight around his neck,

her face buried in his! They seemed to be drowning together in a

single, long, passionate kiss. It went on, and on. His head held

itself carefully on hers, as if he might be tongue fucking her

mouth, and when they finally came up for air I saw that he had

been. Monica was now delivering kiss after kiss to the tip of his

tongue, and his cheeks, and each of his eyes. I was horrified!

Finally he lifted her gently off him, effortlessly, and she

unwrapped her legs from him and just stood there close, rubbing her

body against his, preening herself on him.

"Well," the man said. "If that's how you mean to greet me

every time we see each other, I'm going out and coming back in

again!"

"Every time!" my wife said. There was a throaty ferocity in

her voice I'd never heard before, an animal hunger. What was going

on?

Then I saw. The man bent to pick up his bag and bring it into

Monica's room, and as he turned he glimpsed me standing there,

beautifully made up, every hair in place, wearing my draped purple

silk dress, shocked beyond belief. It was Ben, Monica's boss at

the real estate office! I just stood there stock still!

"Well," he said with an instinctive grin, turning on

high-powered charm as if it were a searchlight. "Another beautiful

lady." He straightened and gave me a relaxed, confident grin, as

if he knew that I was going to be delighted to meet him. Ben was

planning to spend the weekend with us? Who had invited him?

Monica? I just stood there.

"Do we know each other?" he asked, as if knowing my answer had

to be every other woman's, 'Never mind, lover, we do now!' The man

was incredibly attractive! And he knew it! I could feel fear

rising through my shocked astonishment, laced with rising jealousy.

Monica's boss! Her business associate! The man she'd worked

alongside every day for years! For how long now? My jealousy

rose higher. I couldn't compete with all that charm and power!

All that wealth at his disposal! I'm losing her! My wife! Monica!

I still couldn't move!

"Maybe we do know each other," he said suddenly, and he turned

toward Monica. "I thought you said your husband wasn't going to be

here this trip."

"He isn't here, Ben," Monica answered, looking me in the eyes.

"He promised me he'd stay away. This is my dearest girlfriend,

Andrea. Andrea, I'd like you to meet Ben. I've been wanting you

two to get together for some time now."

"All right," Ben said. He turned toward me and his brilliant

personality re-lit itself. "I'm delighted to meet you, Andrea.

Monica's told me so much about you!" What had she told him?!

Everything?

"Just a minute, darling," Monica said to him. "I want to

speak with Andrea a moment, and then the three of us will go to

dinner." She smiled at him, then let go his hand and walked into

my room, almost closing the door behind her.

"Are you all right, honey?" she asked me, still searching my

eyes.

"I don't know," I said. A sob rose up. "Monica, what's going

on?"

"Andrea, I'll tell you what's going on. Listen very closely,

because I'll say this only once. Ben is my lover. He's been my

lover for months now. Many months. He is the greatest lay a

girl could ever hope for, and I'm going to spend the entire night

tonight with him. In that room. Not with you. I'm looking

forward to it. I have been all day. In fact if a day or two passes

when we haven't got time to make love, I start to day dream about

him and can't tend to business. But so you don't feel left out,

I'm going to ask him to make love to you first. I want you to make

love to him too, with real desire in every move you make. In fact

I insist. And I want you to watch us fuck at least once, before we

close you out and do our private things together for the rest of

the night."

"I know how you're feeling at this very moment, but remember,

you've had Eric. You'll be glad to have Ben too. Trust me."

"Now, we're going to have dinner together, the three of us.

The whole time we're at dinner, I want you to be looking at him and

imagining yourself in bed making love to him, because that's where

you'll be soon afterward. Think about what you'll do with him

first, and then what next. How you'll suck his cock, or maybe just

lick it. Wonder if his cock is so huge it will hurt your rear

pussy when he pushes into you. Wonder if his cum is sweet, or

salty, or creamy, or a little sour, like buttermilk. Whether you

want to wrap your legs around his neck or his waist when he fucks

you, or whether you'd rather have him do it doggie style. He's

your man tonight, for a little while, and I want you to have a

girl's most romantic anticipations about what he might do, to be

really eager for him. Don't be nervous. You'll love it. It's

nothing really new for you. Just keep thinking that it'll be

better than with Eric. Much better. Trust me, darling, it will be

much better!"

She paused, then kissed her fingertips and touched them to my

lips. "At least I'm sure you'll remember this experience, love,

you first real deflowering. Just hold in mind that Andrew isn't

here. That Ben isn't your rival. Ben is a dear friend of your

dearest girlfriend, and she wants to share him as a special gift,

and soon he'll be your special friend too."

And with that Monica turned, went back to Ben and kissed his

cheek, then took his arm and looked back at me. Ben extended his

other arm, and I took it as we started out. Then I remembered what

Monica had asked me to do, and as we waited for the elevator, I

placed my other hand on his arm as well, as if I were hugging it.

I could feel iron muscles under his jacket. I felt utterly

helpless.

VI.

Dinner was a confused memory even while it was happening. I

couldn't remember anything Monica wanted me to practice about how

ladies dine out. I didn't hear the waiter ask for my order, and

then realized I hadn't even read the menu. When I said, flustered,

"Oh, just a salad, no dressing, thank you", Monica smiled approval

-- she was always after me to look more svelte, and I'd already

gone down two dress sizes since she'd begun my full scale

feminizing. Several times she grinned mischievously when she saw

me staring at Ben's crotch. He had huge shoulders, yet he moved

like a dancer.

In fact Ben was the soul of affability, and tried to

compliment me on my dress, and my hair, and my perfume, and he

asked me with sincere interest how I spend my time now I've retired

from work, his eyes penetrating into mine. I tried to reply

politely in my littlest girl voice, because that was all I could

muster. Yet, my imagination kept feeling him penetrate my asshole

with his prick, his hidden meat burying itself in that very same

pristine bottom I was sitting on at that very moment, and I was

disconcerted. Monica knew what was happening of course, and was

vastly amused. When we left him to go to the ladies, she clutched

my arm and barely suppressed her hilarity, and said, "Isn't this

fun?" For her it was.

I have to admit it, after we got back to the room, for me it

was too. A little. This time I drank very little wine. I wanted

to be all there. Both of us took off our dresses and put on our

sexiest negligees -- Monica told me to slip into the new one she'd

bought me just last week, and I realized she'd bought it for just

this purpose. Ben stripped himself naked, and lounged back in a

soft chair like a Lord of the Manor accustomed to being served. As

indeed he was. He was solidly built, muscular, and looked regal,

somehow commanding, fully in charge. As he studied my figure in

its flowing, lacy satin, I felt suddenly naked and vulnerable and

helpless. All of a sudden I hoped anxiously that I could somehow

please him. Monica seemed to know he would have this effect on me.

"Isn't he gorgeous?" she asked me. "All right, darling," and she

sat down in a chair to watch and curled up her legs, her favorite

relaxed position. "My pretty cock sucker darling. Show my man what

kind of a woman you are now! Don't worry. He'll be gentle."

He was gentle, as if he knew this was all new to me, my maiden

voyage all over again. He suggested that I kneel between his legs

and kiss his thighs and just get used to things first, just hold

his penis gently, and stroke it, with one hand or both, and kiss it

only if the mood took me. I felt very strange, very

humble, kneeling in front of this powerful naked God. I gently,

timidly took up his soft cock in one hand, and found that it was

quite heavy. I needed both hands to grasp it all around, and then

it started to grow. After a minute or so I kissed it shyly, and

then kissed it again. It got bigger. When it was half-hard I

looked up at him, feeling like a very little girl indeed, because

its size already worried me. Could I get it into my mouth? He

smiled encouragement.

So I began to lick it, ever so daintily, on its very tip. He

felt deliciously smooth on my tongue, just as Monica had described

it, and his pre-cum tasted like sweet cream. I tried to remember

how Monica told me I had blown Eric. I tried to remember what girls

had done with my penis in high school, when they wanted me to know

they liked me. I tried to remember everything Monica had

resurrected about giving head when she was a girl, those old

memories she had been so eager to share with me. Was it for this?

I slid my tongue down his shaft, and worshipped it with my lips and

tongue, and cupped the huge purple head in my lips, opening my jaw

wide. I felt my face strain, but finally the entire head was

stuffing my mouth, and I started to suck. Now, at this moment, I

thought to myself, I am a cock sucker. A true cock sucker. I am

just what my wife called me. I am sucking a man's cock. The idea

that I was a man sucking another man's cock was intolerable, so I

concentrated on feeling myself to be a woman sucking a man's cock.

I am a beautiful, desirable woman sucking her man's cock, I repeated

to myself. I felt it! My head arched coyly, sinuously, until it

pressed into his beautifully muscled abdomen, and I lunged down.

His silky smooth cock head entered my throat, and I tried to

swallow it whole, even with his whole body attached. For a moment

I gagged, then I felt the whole of him slither freely in and out of

my mouth and down and up my throat. Then I lost it. I began to

face-fuck him furiously, my arms resting on his thighs and my hands

lightly caressing his groin. My saliva slicked his pole as I

bobbed my head over him repeatedly, mindlessly,, and felt him begin

to swell, then to throb. Then cream poured out of him into my mouth

and all over my face, no matter how frantically I tried to suck

and lick and swallow it all. I tried to catch my breath, and heard

him breathing heavily. Then we both held still for a moment. When

he put his hands on either side of my head, pressing his palms on my

curls, and turned my face to look up at him, I saw he was satisfied, and

I smiled. I felt a delicious warmth in my tummy. I glanced down,

and saw his cock still staring up at me, glistening, enormous, like a

small baseball bat. It hadn't gone down at all. I'd had that in

my mouth and down my throat?

"It's time, little lady," he said to me. Incredibly, with a

single bend and twist, he stood and then scooped me up and carried

me over to the bed. I felt so utterly helpless! So dependent! I

gazed into his eyes, and saw there only tender concern. "How shall

I set you down, Andrea dear?" he asked. "Back or tummy?"

"On my back, please" I replied. Then as if I were someone

else, I said, "I want to see your face, and kiss it. You're

wonderful!" Over his shoulder I saw Monica leaning forward, her

finger tips propped up under her chin, attentive to everything that

had been happening. When she heard me say that, she positively

glowed! "Isn't he?" she said when my glance caught her eye.

Then this superb man screwed me thoroughly, inside out! He

wrapped my legs around his neck and leaned on the undersides of

my thighs, and told me to grasp the ornate bed stead behind me to

brace myself, so I could move under him if I couldn't bear just

lying there. Then he pressed that huge soft cock head

against my anus, then paused, then proceeded further. His

incredible cock was still soaked in our juices, and feeling I was

giving birth, or being born, I felt him split me wide and enter

into me. Just the cock head, but the feeling of pressure was

incredible, at first almost painful. But it soon changed to a

different kind of pressure, a richer, joyous feeling of fullness,

a sweet yearning slowly building as he moved the enormous

length of his member deeper into me and then pulled it out again,

and in and out, until just as Monica had described, my breathing

became moans and my moans became shrieks, and they coruscated one

after another. Faster, as my body rose to meet every thrust, and

then began to fly. The pressure in my loins crested, then suddenly

transmuted into pure bliss. I felt like one whole, perfect,

incandescent orgasm! At that moment I felt him straining and lunging

toward an impossible goal, and then suddenly he went rigid, and

his prick throbbed an ocean of cum into me, or so it seemed.

We just lay there quietly a second time, again breathing heavily.

He smiled at me. I raised my head and kissed him on the lips,

tenderly, then lay back satisfied. I had never felt more like a

woman. He withdrew and rolled off me, and I felt a yearning emptiness.

After a moment I sat up and looked over at Monica. She was

all smiles. "You were wonderful, Andrea," she said. "I felt like

applauding. This time you'll remember. I'm sure of it. Isn't

being a woman just marvelous, when there are such men? But now

come sit over here. It's my turn now."

I sat down, and my wife sat down on the bed and leaned over

Ben's face while he looked up at her. She licked his lips and then

his tongue the way I had licked his cock. There was a coiled

tension about the way she moved, and he reached into her crotch to

finger fuck her, his wrist undulating in an almost snake-like movement.

And so they played with each other for a few minutes, their desire

for each other building, until as I could see his cock was even

larger than I had remembered, a tower standing sky high. Then

suddenly my Monica pushed him down, rose over him, and impaled

herself on it. Her whole cunt swallowed it up, how I can't

imagine, in one single savage thrust. Ben then rolled over her, and I

was altogether forgotten. He humped her with brutal force,

his great body plunging in at her over and over, but she loved it.

Each time he lunged she cried out "Yes!" and then louder, "Yes!"

and then louder still, "YES!!" It went on and on. They were like

some enormous power plant, their whole bodies pulsating and surging

and pistoning against each other, desire rising higher and

higher even as they gratified it. Finally there was a tremendous

explosion, both of them together shouting through choked throats, loud

deep guttural cries, and the bed seemed to shake. When I could see

them again they were both soaked, and so wrapped up in each other

there was no way to tell where one began and the other left off.

Monica's eyes were glazed, but as they crossed my line of sight I

smiled at her, and she seemed to smile wanly back.

A terrible thought suddenly crossed my mind. Her cunt was

loaded with his cum. His huge prick was still crammed deep into

her, bottling it all up. She disliked contraceptives of all kinds,

and of course she never used them, which was why she'd asked me to

have a vasectomy. But Ben hadn't had a vasectomy. His cum was

thick, clotted, dense with sperm, I was sure. I could see it on

the towel I had been sitting on, already soaked, with cum still

flowing out of me. I knew she'd had no period within the past two

weeks -- I couldn't remember seeing menstrual blood on her panties

recently when I'd rinsed them out for her. She might be at the

peak of her fertility right now!

"Monica!" I called to her in alarm!

Monica looked over at me serenely, her draped body now at

peace, deeply satisfied in some primal, special way. "Andrea," she

said. "Now go to bed. Show's over. I wanted you to see for

yourself that I'm having sex with a real man, and no mistake about

it. Now you know. Good night! Ben and I have some things to do

now that are just between us. I'll see you in the morning. We'll

have a swim before breakfast. Any time after seven. Don't worry

about waking me, I'll still be up."

And she turned her attention back to the man she was wrapped

around. I stood up, and walked into my room, and closed the door.

For the rest of the night, I heard occasional strange moans and

cries and grunts coming from their room, but didn't dare imagine

what might be causing them.

VII.

The next morning as we walked down to the pool I tried to take

Monica aside to ask if she had taken precautions, but she clung to

Ben the whole time, and he gazed down fondly on her, and there was

no opportunity. The well-hung young man was at the pool again, and

with easy affability Ben introduced himself and then introduced

us all around -- his name was Jeff -- and then organized the

four of us into a game of water polo, boys against girls. The

young man fell against me repeatedly in his efforts to block my

shots, and it became obvious he was trying to feel me up.

This was new for me, and made me uneasy. But my bathing suit

molded me beautifully, and after last night's escapades I

decided to let him. Then there was no getting rid of

him. In fact, with a glance toward me, Monica invited him to

breakfast with us, and then to play golf with us, then tennis. As

we dressed in our tennis outfits with their short, flirty skirts,

she suggested I wear black panties fringed in

French lace, not my proper tennis panties. So Jeff never took his

eyes off my pretty bottom, and I beat him easily even though I was

trying to play like an inexperienced girl, as girls do with boys

they like. We spent the whole day together.

As we dressed for cocktails that night, Monica told me, "Ben

and I are going out for drinks and dinner tonight. Just the two of

us. We'll be back late. Jeff'll be here to pick you up in a few

minutes. Do you know how to dance young people's dances these

days? Have fun!"

That night, tired out from slow dancing, and dirty dancing,

and hop dancing, I couldn't think how to turn Jeff off at the door,

so he came into my room for a nightcap. He'd been wonderfully

personable and attentive all through dinner, and at the dance he'd

been lighthearted and increasingly affectionate, but always

gentlemanly. He fixed drinks for the two of us, then sat

down on the couch next to me, and we talked.

Then he stayed the night. He surprised me with a soft kiss

full on the mouth, and I surprised myself by kissing him back. He began

playing with my nipples and the little titties that seemed to be

behind them, and I melted, and my mind roamed to the feel of Ben's

cock inside me, and I wondered what Jeff's might feel like. He

sensed my surrender. I was terrified he'd find out I wasn't a true

woman when he reached into my crotch. But when he felt the

Super-Max Pad I kept there to simulate a mound of Venus and cover

my male equipment, he smiled.

"It's just as well," he said. "I don't have a condom with

me anyhow. But if you don't mind, I can try to please you through

your back door. Have you ever made love that way? Do you mind...?

Would you...?" I kissed him even more deeply, and my hands stroked

his thin, strong shoulders. I had my own Ben!

I didn't mind. I would. It was as if I had been mesmerized

by this new kind of sex for me, being penetrated and entered and

filled by someone firm, attentive, and considerate. Some

time during the night Monica and Ben came home, and I half-woke to

see that Monica was looking in on me. When the light from

her room fell across my bed and revealed me sprawled across Jeff,

our bed covers tangled on the floor and his long cock still in my

hand, I heard her enter and pick up a blanket, then cover the two

of us. Then I felt her kiss me softly on the cheek, and

retreating, close the door behind her.

And so the weekend went. Jeff and I were together almost

constantly, and he fucked and screwed and sucked and licked me as

often as I did these things to him. I managed to speak to Monica

briefly in the Women's Locker Room about the risk she ran of

getting pregnant by Ben. But she was strangely unconcerned. "Do

you think so? she said. "Well then. He just pumped another load

into me in the Sauna, when I was sitting in his lap. He's

inexhaustible, that man. You didn't notice? Here, suck it out of

me."

And she leaned way back on a bench and spread her legs wide,

and looked at me imperiously, waiting. So I dropped to my knees

and leaned way in, and lapped and sucked and scrubbed her slit and

her pussy with my tongue, as best I could. His cum still tasted

like heavy sweet cream, I found as I cleaned her out, unlike

Jeff's, which was also delicious but a little salty. She had a

small orgasm, nothing like those wrenching cataclysms she and Ben

shared, but she smiled gratefully at me.

"Feel better, now? Andrea, you can't follow me and Ben around

like a puppy, or a human douche bag, waiting to slip your tongue

into my pussy. The two of us fuck all the time. You'll just have

to wait until we get home, and then I'll explain things to my

husband. But he's not here, remember?"

I had no choice.

We wore every outfit we had bought for the weekend, and Sunday

night as we gathered up our luggage to go home, Monica was amused

that I was limping, walking a little spraddle-legged. I might

have overdone it with Jeff, I was thinking to myself. But he'd

been so sweet, I couldn't refuse him! And he felt so good in my

mouth or my rear!

"Andrea dear," Monica said. "Try to walk a bit more

respectably. You are the very image of a well-fucked woman. Ben's

just gone off at a business meeting in Detroit now, but I hope he

gave Jeff a handsome bonus before he left. Obviously he was worth every

penny."

I was shocked! But also a little depressed! "Jeff was a

prostitute? He did it for pay? Not for me, because he admired

me?"

"Oh, my dearest Angela, he did admire you! He's one of the

highest-paid male escorts in the business, and he takes on no

clients that don't interest him. That first time we met him at the

pool, he was looking you over. He told Ben later that he was

willing to romance you for half his fee, and even to sleep with you

for no fee at all. You have a delightfully sluttish innocence, he

said, and certainly know how to enjoy a man who knows how

to enjoy you. But he has to earn a living, so we paid him in full.

He was worth every penny just to keep you busy while Ben and I

played with each other round the clock, and also in furthering

your education as to what it means to be a woman. How

wonderful it can be. And doing it safely, without risk.

Now we really can talk to each other about how different guys feel

inside us, can't we?"

And Monica linked her arm into mine and laughed a voluptuous,

knowing laugh. I felt even more uneasy. "Oh, c'mon," she said.

"Didn't you have a perfectly scrumptious time?" I had to admit it.

When we got home, Monica suggested we have a long talk.

"Andrea, now my beloved spouse returned to me," she said, "I have

some things I need to tell you that you need to know. But we'll

talk in a restaurant. In a public place, because I don't know if

you'll be upset or not when you hear them."

She took one long look at my face, and then broke out, "Oh, my

dear, my darling, my lovely pet, please don't look so sad. You

look ready to dissolve! No, I'm not going to leave you! I'm never

going to leave you! I love you! I need you! Now more than ever!

You don't know how much! But when you hear what I have to say,

maybe you'll want to leave me. I hope not. I'd feel desolated!

Maybe even betrayed. But not by you. So we need to talk things

over quietly!"

We said very little to each other as we drove to our favorite

restaurant, the little Italian restaurant where we had first met,

as it were, as girl friends, and I had first learned not to be

afraid to show my femininity to the world. Again, it was crowded.

Once the Maitre d' had seated us, and we had ordered drinks, I just

looked mournfully at Monica and said nothing. This was her sell,

and I didn't even know what kind of property she had in mind.

She took a deep breath and began. "First of all, I want to

tell you again, I love you, and I don't ever want to lose you. No

matter what. I'm not going to tell you everything now, just enough

for now. More later when the time comes. I'm not hiding anything,

but I do want you to come to the same conclusions I've reached, all

on your own. And that means thinking things through a little at a

time. I think I know what you want most from life, and from our

marriage. But I'm not sure you know, yet. All right?"

I nodded.

"You saw that I've been having an affair with Ben. It hasn't

been for too long. Maybe three or four months. He's been hitting

on me for years, and I've been turning him down for years, but he's

a man of enormous persuasive charm, and I confess it, one afternoon

when the office had closed down, and I knew you were prancing

around in your skirts and negligees and things at home, not too

eager to see me home early, I thought I'd just try him out.

"Well, he overwhelmed me! Like a summer storm! Sudden down

pouring fury, thunder, lightning, all of it! I couldn't get enough

of that massive cock into me! It's very special, gentle yet thick

enough to stretch anyone, and so insatiable, you know? Yes, you

do know, now. I couldn't get enough of his ferocious energy into

me either! All that vitality! You know that now too.

Could you resist him? No, not even with all of your male

conditioning to avoid sex with men. How could I, once he'd reached me."

"I'd gotten too used to you, I guess. You're gentle, and

considerate, and sweet, and everything I've always wanted in a man.

You're also everything I might want in a woman too, they're the

same traits. I asked you to get that vasectomy, and you did, with

no hesitation. Giving up for me your whole posterity! All of your

wonderful potential as a parent! For me! Because I asked you to

do it, and it was done, and you've never said a word to me about it

since! You are a priceless marvel! I bet if I was to ask you to

give up your manhood altogether, your balls, you'd do it. I've

been thinking of asking, because they aren't doing anything for you

now any more, and they're interfering with your womanhood in some

ways. But all in good time."

"I can't say Ben is selfless. Ben gives nothing, you

negotiate with Ben. He's not nice. But in bed he's a force of

nature, with that huge cock, and those power-hammering,

pile-driving fucks. He can keep it up all night! After that first

afternoon, I couldn't give him up. I wanted all that too!"

I was getting very uncomfortable with the direction this

conversation was taking, so I asked, "But why did you bring me in

on this? Why did you set me up to have sex with your boy friend?

To humiliate me?"

"Humiliate you? My dear, dear, sweet Andrea, I heard those

shrieks of joy while he was reaming your ass, and I saw your

expression when you were slurping down mouthfuls of his cum.

That huge prick of his really can get to a girl. I saw how eagerly

you sucked him. You even deep throated him, and that's not easy

with a cock like that, is it? I suspect that when he finally came

in your bowels, you felt an incredibly deep satisfaction that you'd

brought off such a man, and that now you possessed his seed.

That's all part of being a girl. Isn't it?"

"I couldn't stop with Ben, so I wanted to share him with you.

I wanted my lover to be yours too. That's what I wanted for you!

That's all part of being married. We're life-partners. We share

everything. Especially our feelings as women. And you've wanted

to be a woman, haven't you? To feel like one? And now, don't

you?"

There was something troubling about this last statement. The

distinction between wanting to be a woman and wanting merely to

feel like one no longer quite made sense to me. "Woman or no woman," I

told Monica. "I'd never have consented to sex with Ben if I hadn't

already gone that route. I suppose I felt that after Eric had done me,

and I'd done him, I'd crossed the line. I was no longer a virgin, and

as they say, another slice off a cut cake is never missed."

"I suppose so, dear," Monica replied. "But remember, I've

spent months preparing you to enjoy sex with men, so it would be

enjoyable esthetically and all other ways, and not seem some kind

of sick perversion. Men have all kinds of inhibitions against sex

with other men, and we've had to overcome them, the two of us. And

we have overcome them, haven't we? You wanted Ben to push himself

into you any way he could, so you could give and get pleasure with

him any which way, didn't you? And once you'd tasted Ben, you

wanted Jeff. It does seem you couldn't get enough of Jeff, doesn't

it? That's what I wanted for you!"

She smiled at me. "I think you know that already, darling.

We women know. Could you resist either of those men? And now,

you've got some wonderful romantic memories of your first times

with men, no matter how many other men you may sleep with before we

retire together as two little old ladies. Still sleeping together

I hope."

It was time to get to the heart of the matter. I suppose as

far as infidelities went, I couldn't protest. I'd already fucked

three men out of wedlock, and Monica only one, so far as I knew.

Mine were after she'd begun her affair, but still....

So I came out with it. "There's something else, too. You

just spent three days getting pumped full of cum, and that man is

a fountain, and I'm sure he's potent as a goat! You didn't douche

once, and you didn't use contraception, and I'll bet that except

for the cum I tried to suck out of you, and whatever's dripped out

of you since then, it's all still there."

"Probably, darling. I slipped in a tampon to be sure. I love

the thought that I'm keeping part of him in there with me."

My voice rose a little. I didn't know if I was desperate or

exasperated, but I wasn't getting through! "Monica! You'll get

pregnant! You may already be pregnant!"

"No, darling, I can't get pregnant. I already am pregnant.

Over three months pregnant. Ben must have struck gold right off,

that afternoon we first took up with each other. I never thought

about protection that afternoon. I guess I was too used to you."

I just sat there, too staggered to move, even to blink.

"Anyhow, when I found I was pregnant, I decided, OK, it's just

as well. As I just said, I love the thought that part of him is in

there with me. But how do we care for the baby? I'm a

businesswoman, not a care giver. I don't want to be tied to

feedings, and diaper changing. Should I get rid of it? So I went

and talked with Denise and Tinka about what they were doing, now

that Denise was pregnant, and Denise pointed out that I might not

be much of a care giver, but you certainly are. You love

domesticity, and you have the most generous and tender heart in the

world. And then the rest just fell into place. I would have the

baby, and then you would take care of it. Completely! You've been

flirting with womanliness for years and years, and motherhood is a

woman's highest estate!"

"Darling, this really is what you want. Trust me. I know!

It'll take more time for you to get used to the idea, and you'll

certainly want to talk with Denise and Tinka about what's entailed.

But you'll love it. I know you'll love it."

"There's one other thing, and I couldn't tell you before now,

only now, but it's very important to me. Another reason why I

wanted to set you up with Ben. I thought to myself, after all,

Andrea and I are both going to have Ben's baby. It's only fair

that Andrea should share in the fun first. So we should both get

laid by Ben, not just me. We both should be knocked up by him.

His sperm should be planted in both of us. You can't say you

didn't enjoy it, can you, Andrea? He plays a lovely tune, even

though you're now like lots of girls who have been indiscreet. Now

you have to pay the piper."

I sat there dumbfounded. I couldn't even think.

"Wasn't that a delicious dinner, darling," Monica asked? "But

you've scarcely touched yours! Well, no matter. Your figure is

coming along so beautifully. That nice, round tush! I can't keep

my hands off it! Let's call the waiter for the check. Which one

of us should pay this time, do you think?"

A few weeks later Denise and Tinka had their baby, well past

term, a ten pound boy, and they were both delighted with their

heaven-sent opportunity to raise a male properly for once. Denise

returned to work and Tinka took over complete care of the infant.

A month later still, Monica and I were both amused to see how

we had both swollen, Monica in the belly, and me in the breast.

"Sympathetic vibrations" Monica called them, though I was convinced

my now-distinctive breasts were a by-product of the doctor's shots

and my own wish-fulfillment, and also of Monica's near-constant

stimulation of my nipples with her tongue whenever we were having

woman sex. She said I'd changed so much she'd now feel strange, to

be penetrated by a woman with a penis, so there would be no more of

that ever. But whenever we were spooned with my head in her pussy, she

loved to flick my penis with her tongue as if I had a long clit.

That felt exquisite! I no longer ejaculated, but we both had the

most marvelous orgasms, repeatedly, each session.

I asked Monica if she was still seeing Ben, and she replied

that ladies don't kiss and tell, and asked me slyly if I was

jealous of him or her or both? Then she answered me more

seriously.

"Sweetheart," she said. "I love to feel a man inside me.

You're no longer able, and I want you to be more and more able to

do womanly things. That's why, from the moment I realized we could

be partners with this baby, I wanted to have only woman sex with

you, not man sex. I knew I'd want you to become more of a woman,

whatever your more limited desires for womanhood at the time. But

I don't want to sneak around getting laid. So if you'd like to

double date, just tell me, and we'll arrange it. Any man should

feel privileged to stroke his pole into you, if that's what you

want."

"Of course, you may find you're more and more a lesbian as you

grow deeper into your womanhood. And that's fine with me. I'm

certainly a lesbian as far as you're concerned. And as a lesbian

I am absolutely faithful to you. Why don't you go over and have a

long talk with Denise and Tinka about all this. It's time for you

to visit their baby and see how things are, anyhow. I would, but

I have a very big transaction in process, a whole high-rise

skyscraper I mean to sell to someone who thinks he prefers a

two-story office park. He doesn't realize yet that the skyscraper

is far better for him given its location. He will, but it takes

time, right now all of my time."

"So I'll be home late tonight. Some of it will be dealing

with the client, and then some of it will be Ben. He loves

pushing that gorgeous cock into my round tummy, pouring sperm

into me like a fire hose, he says, introducing his baby in my

tummy to tens of thousands of its brothers and sisters. I still

can't get enough of him! But I'll be thinking of you, love!

Don't wait up."

VIII.

What could I say? I called Denise, and she asked me over for

supper and the evening -- Tinka was trying out a variety of

mushroom souffles to see which should be served at the baby's

christening, and they wanted me to settle an old dispute between

them about onions versus garlic. They sounded like an old married

couple, I thought to myself. But then, that's what they are.

So when I arrived, the first thing they did was take me into

the nursery. There lay Mikki, the sweetest little creature in all

the world, all dimples and puffy cheeks, sound asleep, working his

teeny, delicate lips as if he was nursing, now and then jerking his

little limbs as if dreaming, and as I watched, a miracle, a

full-scale sneeze from someone much too tiny to accomplish anything

so complicated. So very, very precious! I was absolutely smitten,

and they had to lead me back to the living room, or I'd be there

yet.

"Have a stiff drink, Andrea" Denise said. "At least you're

not pregnant. Not at the moment, anyhow. I can tell you've been

spinning in one of your wife's webs, and that's why you're here.

She's a wonderful woman and we all love her, and you're lucky to

have her and that she loves you to pieces, and that's the truth.

But she does make her own plans and keep her own counsel."

So I just unburdened everything: Monica's affair with Ben, her

sudden change of heart about my cross-dressing, her encouraging me,

no, pushing me into a womanhood I now knew was irreversible, and

didn't want to reverse, how my little liaison with Eric had

prepared me to suck and be fucked by her lover Ben and even to

enjoy a brief affair with a young man she hired for the purpose,

even her too-swift assumption that I would be willing to care for

the child of her adultery, her infidelity, my rival's baby, just

because she knew I was sufficiently tender-hearted, and had also

gotten laid by the father. I set it all out. I assured them that

I loved Monica this side of distraction, and that life without her

was inconceivable to me. But in all of these matters there were

questions that had never been answered, and without answers, I just

didn't know what to think. How to feel.

Denise asked Tinka to bring me another double, and waited

until I had it. We were sitting in the living room, and our

conversation continued through dinner -- a delicious dinner I want

to cook for Monica real soon, maybe even also Ben, so I left with

all the recipes -- and it didn't finish until I was standing on

their front steps saying good night yet again, many hours later,

thanking them profusely for all their help. Because finally, I

understood.

Denise took charge. "Andrea, to begin with, Andrew is dead.

I saw you with that baby. I've listened to you. Give up on him.

Cut off his balls. Castrate him as punishment for distracting you

from your proper role in life. You're a woman. Maybe you never

were a transvestite. Maybe you were always a woman, or most of

you was, but you were too womanly, too hesitant, too scared to take

the plunge. Anyhow, it doesn't matter now. Monica did you a favor,

bringing your real femininity out into the open, and letting you

learn to enjoy it."

"But she didn't do it for your sake alone. Like most women

she was raised to think that effeminate men are contemptible, not

admirable for wanting to be the same thing they are. It's a kind

of self-hatred many women feel, maybe. Especially wives. Or

maybe, like Monica at this very moment filled to the hilt by that

thing of Ben's, they get hung up on a single concept of cock and

cock alone being desirable, and then they just hang there. A man

who doesn't act like a man isn't a man, they think. Well, duh! So

he must be a woman. One or the other. But why? Different strokes."

"You must certainly have noticed that a lot of things happened

at the same time around five months ago. Monica got bored with

your gentle decency and fucked someone with balls, and got her cunt

planted by one of the great cocksmen in this part of the country.

Then she breached a hard-argued three year old agreement with her

husband never to say anything about his compulsive cross-dressing,

and instead she started to encourage it, in fact to push him over

the edge. And she stopped fucking her husband, who was more and

more becoming her wife, and turned exclusively lesbian with her --

only with her husband, not with the big prick she's still teamed

with and is no doubt at this very moment twisting into her pussy.

And she sends her former husband off to a willing endocrinologist

for hormones, to get him physically converted as quickly as

possible into a wife. Complete with breasts. Breasts are crucial

in this equation. Real ones, implants need not apply. How they

hangin'?

"I may need to shift to a C cup," I replied. "They're

beautiful. I love them. So does Monica. She's always kissing and

sucking on them."

"I'll bet. Puts you in the mood, doesn't it? Tinka, do you

want to tell our sister here something that she ought to know?"

The baby had awakened and started crying, so Tinka said, "Just

a moment. I want to get Mikki and change his diaper. Then I'll

bring him back in here for his feeding."

She did. That sweet little thing was already nuzzling her

breasts. She opened her blouse and unhooked a flap on one of her

bra cups, and the darling dived right in. In a moment he was

nursing and sucking and grunting on Tinka's breast, and Tinka had

blissed out while she hugged him. But, I realized, it was Denise

who had had the baby, not Tinka. How could this be?

"Easy," said Denise when I asked her. "I had the baby. Tinka

had the breasts and the desire to nurture another human life. Our

endo had the hormone women secrete at birth that causes breasts to

make milk. Put them all together, and what you see is what you

get."

Tinka smiled up at me. "That's right, Andrea honey. If you

have real breasts, you can make real milk. You do have real

breasts, courtesy of your pregnant wife. Does that suggest

anything to you?"

"Did Monica know about this plan of yours, Denise to carry the

baby, and Tinka to nurse it?" I was feeling resentful yet elated.

Cheated yet victorious. I couldn't sort out my own feelings. What

had Monica done to me? Did I mind?

"Not when we decided on it," Denise said. "Only when she first

found she was pregnant. I'll bet just about when she discovered that

having a sweet-tempered, cross-dressing, home loving husband has

certain advantages. Especially if he likes filling his bras with

real tits."

Tinka broke in. "Oh, Denise, you're too harsh on poor Monica.

Let me put it a different way. She loves you, Andrea. Very

dearly. This is for you, in a way. It's her gift to you. For the

two of you. When you got your vasectomy, she didn't know how

womanly you wanted to be. She had no idea. She did know that she

didn't want to be a mother, that she didn't have the time, or

patience, or certainly the desire. So when Ben knocked her up she

was going to get rid of it. It was intrusive on her, and certainly

on the two of you. But by then she'd seen what a wonderful little

homemaker you are, and she got to thinking that she'd deprived you

of one of the great joys of life, parenting, when she asked you to

sterilize yourself and because you're sweet, and loving, and

obliging, that's what you did. She realized you'd love to raise

the baby, and that with you in charge she'd lose no more time from

her work than it takes for a peasant woman to give birth and get

back into the field. A few days, a week at most, with no infant to

tire her out. She could have her cake and eat it. Motherhood and

a career both, with no conflict between them.

Denise added, "Motherhood for her husband, anyhow, once she'd

made him into her wife. Very clever. I'd do it myself, if I

hadn't already thought of it and done it."

Tinka smiled at her and blew her a kiss. The baby seemed to

be asleep at her breast, his little hand lying lightly on her soft

curves, but his mouth was still working. She covered him with a

light blanket and held him close.

"Andrea," Denise said. "Pardon me for being suspicious, but

when someone mentions cheese, I smell a rat. What's this "liaison"

with Eric you mentioned? What kind of liaison?"

I told her what Monica had told me, that when we last visited

together, after talking babies and bottles and breasts upstairs

with Tinka I came downstairs absolutely zonked, and Eric got me to

cock sucking him before he corn holed me, and that I loved it. All

of this supposedly being proof that I was a true woman, finally.

Or maybe that I wasn't."

When I finished, Tinka was smiling, and Denise the same, even

more broadly, "I don't believe that woman!" she said. "She should

be Ambassador to the Universe! President of the World!"

Tinka explained. "Oh, we went upstairs for my recipes and

started talking babies and nursing, all right, you and me. I could

see you were over the hill and not likely to remember anything, so

I told you our little secret, that I meant to breast-feed Denise's

baby, our baby. You asked how, and I took you to my breast, and

you were soon sound asleep. It was so very dear. Then you didn't

wake up until Monica came to get you and take you home. Eric never

did show up that night."

Again, I was astounded! "He didn't? But Monica....But there

was cum all over my panties the next day!"

"Oh, these days Monica's got no shortage of cum to

redistribute any way she pleases. She's wonderful, your wife,"

Denise said. "She'll say all kinds of things to get people to do

what she wants, because she knows it's what they really want

themselves, that it's the right thing for them in the long run.

And she's always right. It's uncanny. Think about it. Anyhow,

you should meet Eric some time -- he's all man, you'd never guess

he's gay. Girls feel flattered by his attention because he's so

good looking, but he's perfectly safe. He'd never hit on Denise or

me. Nor on you either, I should think. You're not his type. He

likes guys who look even more manly than he is. Tight buns, hard

pecs, you know, weight lifter macho types. He'd go for Ben, but

Ben would probably flatten him. Girls like us are safe enough."

Now I was really dumbfounded! "My own wife seduced me into

blowing and getting fucked by her boyfriend, partly by telling me

a fairy tale about my already having sex with Eric, so it didn't

matter! Why!? And she has gotten herself pregnant by him, and

gotten me physically rearranged to nurse and raise their baby.

Why? She's not that cruel. Nor that vindictive. I never did

anything like that to her! I've tried to be a devoted husband! Or

wife, anyhow! Why?"

Denise began speaking to me much more gently, but very firmly.

She could hear my pain, my fear that my wife was really another

woman, a stranger, my bafflement. So she started right in.

"Monica told you all the reasons, I'm sure. Didn't she?

Right after you got laid by the man who is now the father of your

child? I'm sure she did. She's very up front and honest. That's

why people trust her. Because she knows what people really want,

and she knows how to sell it to them. She's a real ace at it.

It's what she does!"

"Think of it this way. She could have told you that she got

you fucked by her boy friend because you're a nice guy, and she was

feeling guilty that she had been unfaithful to you, so she thought

she'd make you think you'd done something like that yourself, and

that would get her off the hook, even the score. So she invented

this story about you and Eric getting it on. But it didn't work.

If you did it, you didn't know what you were doing, so it didn't

count, but anyhow you didn't do it! That story didn't wash her

conscience clean. So next she seduced you into her lover's bed.

Then she felt better. I'm sure that's why she did it. Among many

reasons why. But that reason if she'd confessed it to you wouldn't

bring you to the next step of your enlightenment, finding out what

you really want. You might not forgive her. You might even

divorce her. It's quite a betrayal, looked at one way. So I'm

sure she didn't tell you . Right?"

"Right, I guess," I said. Monica confesses her sins to

nobody. "All right. She got me to fuck Ben for all of the above

reasons, and I'm not sorry I did it. I'm glad.

"I'll bet you're glad," Tinka broke in. "You're a woman,

right? And that stud is God's gift to women! Monica had yet

another reason to get you well and truly laid. You didn't think

you were a woman until recently, right? You were a transvestite,

not a transsexual. You liked looking like a woman, and feeling

the way you think women feel, and doing womanly things. But that's

not being a woman. That's being a man who enjoys expressing

his feminine sides, which all men have and most men suppress."

"A heterosexual man, that is. I'll bet even during your

flounciest cross dressing, you hated the idea that you

might be gay, a man who wants to have sex with men. Most men hate

that idea. Its unbearable, unendurable. But there you were,

getting fucked by Ben and loving it. So you had to think, either

you really are a faggot, a fairy, one of those pathetic nancies like

Eric, or else you're really a woman. Right? So at that moment you

decided you're really a woman, not pretending but actual, though in

a man's body. Didn't you? I thought so. You crossed the line.

Monica set you up with that stud to drive you so deep into your

own femininity you'd never emerge, and never want to emerge.

Never again feel ashamed to think of yourself as a woman.

And it worked! Didn't it?"

I had to admit that Tinka had a point. "But that still

doesn't tell me why she decided to keep the baby," I said. I had

a feeling I was fighting a losing battle but winning a war. "Maybe

she did worry that I had deprived myself of fatherhood, or

motherhood, or whatever, and wanted to make it up to me. But why

didn't she tell me? We could have worked it out together. Why all

this elaborate manipulation?"

"Two reasons," Denise said. One is that as she got to know

you, she saw that you'd make her a perfect wife and mother, but she

knew there was no way you'd agree. Not a prayer. That's much too

weird a notion for you. For any man! Especially any heterosexual

man so ashamed of his cross dressing he couldn't confess it

even to his wife."

"But there's more. I'm sure she plans to tell you this after

the baby's born, to surprise and delight you with the news. She

didn't let Ben off the hook. She gambles. When she first found

she was pregnant, Ben offered to pay all the costs. He's never had

a kid of his own, and he wanted her to carry it to term.

She saw he wanted it, so she put that little brain of hers

to work. She saw a way to get as close to Ben's money as she

already was to his cock. To get it inside her. She set conditions.

She made a bet with Ben that she could do the impossible, have the baby

and turn her husband into a woman to nurse it and raise it, so

she could keep working full time on this big real estate deal

they've got going. And, so that psychologically it would really

seem to her husband to be his very own baby, she would get him

to accept Ben fucking him, getting filled with Ben's sperm at

both ends. It was a big gamble. The bet was a full partnership

for her if she could sell her husband that proposition."

"Well, Ben thought it was a safe enough bet. If a woman can

sell her own husband that, she can sell anyone anything, and is

well worth a partnership. So if he loses, he wins. But Ben didn't

think he'd lose. Would any man alive agree to get fucked three ways

like that? To suck your own wife's lover's cock, and to open your own ass

for him to plow at will, then to stay home and raise his baby while

your wife is still getting it on with her lover nights and weekends?"

"Ben was right. No man would do those things. But Monica

knew that another woman might. And that you liked looking and feeling

like a woman, close enough for openers. And that Ben wanted that

baby, and that this was his chance to have one, and he was sure he'd

win. So the bet was all signed and sealed, and all Monica had to

do is deliver. Including, deliver you from your peculiar notion

that you're a man, and then deliver you to get fucked over by your

wife's lover. She saw no problem. When she first told us

about all this, way back, before you had even the slightest notion,

she was having an affair, before you even dreamed that your relationship

with her was about to change, she was already amusing herself by

calling it her sucker bet."

"But it's an open question who got more fucked over. In effect,

from now on you'll have Ben working for you half-time to make you

even richer than you are. Soon the two of you will share a full

half of Ben's big deals as well as a full half of Monica's, not

just a percentage. That's a very big piece of money. Eventually, if

you think about it, the baby will get it all, which may be why Ben

finally agreed. He's got no wife as well as no kids -- he's been

too successful with the ladies to want to settle down and raise a

family. So Monica decided that she knew better than you what you

really wanted, and better than Ben what Ben really wanted, and she

figured a way to get the two of you to agree on what you both

wanted, and in that way get what she wanted. So she made the bet."

"You're practically a multi-millionaire. You can set up as

a society lady if you want, and even get a nanny to raise the kid

if it seems like too much bother. Even get a wet nurse, if you

really want to spend your life polishing your nails and doing

nothing else. You're married to a great provider, and she's

provided for you and the kid for life. You didn't know that?"

Tinka finished with Mikki and put him back in his bassinet,

and sat back down on the couch. "Oh, look at that look on your

face," she said. "I can't tell whether you're laughing or crying.

Come here."

I went over and sat down next to her, absolutely blown away.

Like that day when Eric didn't show, and I never sucked his cock,

and he never fucked me. Tinka took me in her arms.

"Precious baby," she said. "This has all been very confusing

for you. All of this scheming so you can be happy and everyone

else can be too. Come drink me. Soon you'll be nursing your own

baby, and we'll have such good times together. There are so many

things for us to share about raising babies. Much better than

trading recipes."

"For instance, my sister Carol wants to get her baby weaned to

whole milk in bottles in just a few months, so as not to bother

breast feeding at all. Her pediatrician doesn't mind if she tries.

I think she's wrong. Breast milk is far better for an infant than

bottled. It provides the little dears more of the mothers'

antibodies, to protect them when they're most vulnerable. So

Betsy, my neighbor down the road, says she means to nurse her Billy

until he gives it up all by himself. He's already past two now,

with no sign of quitting. Why should he ever quit? Some little

boys just can't ever get enough, I guess, even when they're

supposed to be grown men."

"That's it, darling, suck deep. I've got lots, and it's good

for me to be fully drained now and then, and little Mikki's always

falling asleep before he's emptied me. It's so comforting, isn't

it. Anyhow, that doctor's done wonders with you. You're not even

lactating yet, and look how your breasts are already quite heavy.

You'll probably be able to nurse Ben and Monica's baby until he

goes away to college. Or if she's a girl, until she gets married

and has babies of her own, and you're a grandma."

"But most likely it'll be until Ben and Monica present you

with yet another baby. And then another. Remember, Monica's

always thinking ahead to the next move. She's usually way ahead of

all of us! Monica's probably confessed to you that she now knows she

loves feeling a fat cock ramming and thrusting into her, day in and

day out, her pussy overflowing with spunk, that she can't do without

it. Ben's got one of the best, as you already know, and he's

attractive and available. And you also already know that Monica

doesn't like contraceptives. So once she's set you up to take

care of one pretty, sweet little creature, and to nurse and nurture

and care for the darling out of your most profound innermost desires,

what happens next seems to me pretty inevitable."

"Your life is pretty well laid out for you. You can't

complain she's having all the fun and you're doing all the work,

because she's also bringing in all the money, and you're always

invited to join in the fun. You can always schedule Ben for a

rerun into your mouth and ass. Or you can always give up on those

dangling things down there altogether, and get yourself a proper

vagina for him to stuff with his meat, or go find someone else's

cock when you feel like a fling."

"Or if you still prefer women, you might plan to spend the

night with us now and then -- you're a dear friend, we'd just

love to have you, and under these circumstances I see no need to

kiss and tell. You can make up for all those pyjama parties

you missed because when you were a girl, you thought you were

a boy, and never suspected that you were going to be the lovely

woman Monica's made you! You'll taste delicious when your milk

comes in, and look at you now, sucking so sweetly. It feels so

good! We can taste each other in lots of places. Three girls

can have so much fun together!"

"Now, don't tell me none of these ideas appeal! Andrea, to

sing the old song, 'She made you what you are today, I hope

you're satisfied.' I'm sure she's satisfied. I'll bet you are.

Really satisfied, deep down. Aren't you?"

END

(c) 1996 by Vickie Tern