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If you like consensual feminization (persuasion, no pain, no extortion or blackmail, no magic), this story's for you. If you're under any relevant legal age, it isn't. Girlfriends by Vickie Tern One "What are you doing, honey?" My wife Tracy's voice calling me from downstairs. Tired, but trying to take charge nevertheless. She was home from work late again, after a wearying day. As she explained it, she was responsible for lots of special projects, she didn't want to talk about them, and the company had downsized too far, and her job was to see that whatever had to be done got done nevertheless, by whatever means necessary. Her Boss rode her hard, she said, so she had to stay on top and ride everyone else hard. That meant long days to avoid late nights and weekends, but late nights and weekends anyhow. When she mentioned quitting to her boss at my urging, he raised her salary -- doubled it in fact -- and promoted her. "We can't afford to lose you," is what he told her. He even gave her a new title and a department of her own. "It's called 'Personnel Services'," she said to me, pronouncing it as if spelled "personal." "I'm the head, but there's no body yet. Nobody to help do the work, apart from my secretary." I asked when she'd be able to hire at least an assistant. She looked at me and said "The position's cleared. When I can find the right person. I'm working on it, believe you me, honey." And she sighed. Today was especially rough. I could tell by the long silence after our heavy front door latched shut. I pictured Tracy leaning against it with the weight of her whole body. Soon she'd gather energy enough to find the living room and flop face down on the couch, and eventually to stagger upstairs. But first she had to call out to me, to know what was happening. I suppose she'd heard the running water upstairs. "Hon?" she called again. "Just rinsing out some undies, dear," I called down. I wished she could just let her mind go blank when she got home. My work wasn't that demanding, so I was getting home as early as I could and then doing everything I could to ease her through this stressful time. Running the household in effect. Even so, she heard sounds and had to ask, couldn't let anything get by her. I suppose that's what made her so good at her work, why she'd been promoted when others were being let go, and why she was coming home exhausted. "Yours or mine?" "Ours," I answered. It was true enough. When I'd gotten home I'd found our lingerie hamper stuffed to overflowing again. Heaps of panties, pantyhose, stockings, garter belts, bras, slips, and teddies, hers and mine all tangled and crammed in and tamped down in a mass of hot pinks and ochres and beiges and blacks, tricots and satins and lace nets. All crumpled, many stained, some there for weeks. "That's good," was all she could reply. Eventually she'd come upstairs, remove her dress or suit and hang it up, and then limp into the bathroom. She'd pull down her panties from her beautifully turned rump, lift her slip over hair she'd piled high on her head, unclasp her bra from the curves of her breasts, let them all fall to the floor, and when I nodded, sink into the hot tub I'd just run for her. I'd drop her intimate things into the hamper for her, and then go fix dinner while she soaked in the suds and bath oils and gradually recovered herself. Until she began to come home so bushed, my panties and bra would often follow hers into the hamper, and I'd follow her into the tub. We wore pretty much the same kinds and sizes. Tracy liked pastels and I preferred darker shades, so we could always separate them out again. But our after-work baths were always a special joy for both of us, even before we got married. We'd undress together, smile at each other, then slip into the tub and then, soaking in warm water, make love. Often at work I'd daydream about those moments. The feel of her slick, soaked pussy under water as I massage soap and bath oils into her tender slit. The uplifted curve of the underside of her breasts where it rises to meet her perky nipples, often jutting out stiff even before my finger tips can reach them. The way her breasts feel pressing softly against mine as I hug her. Her languorous stretching out and her soft ecstatic groans when I begin to caress her most private areas. Then, the feel of her warm, wet, oiled pussy on what is by then my bone-hard cock, when finally she mounts me and I sink into her, and she wraps her legs around my waist, and we rock back and forth, the water swaying and splashing, and gently pump into each other. So very sweet! I soon found my skin was as soft as hers from all the bath oils, and my whole body more tender, more erotically aroused, especially around my nipples and cock. When I mentioned this to her she just smiled and said, "I'd hoped so." Our part-time office manager Connie had obligations that often took her elsewhere, but when she was with us and checking on the staff in her charge she never missed anything. She'd noticed Tracy's bath scent lingering on me almost immediately. "Nuit d'Amour isn't it?" she'd asked. "Your wife's? That's her scent, isn't it." I nodded, a little concerned about what she might say next, but she added only -- "I thought so. It's very nice. You two must feel very close. Most men would never dare use a perfume that feminine as an after shave." I didn't correct her. Nor could she guess that the scent was partly from the sachet in my underwear drawer, that under my proper suit, shirt, and tie I was wearing the same perfumed, wickedly provocative panties, bras, slips, teddies, girdles, bras, or whatever else my wife was also wearing that day. This was another intimate bond between us. Tracy had thought it would be nice for me to wear them, and though it seemed silly, finally I had agreed. Why? Because it seemed to mean so much to her, mainly, and at first I myself didn't much care one way or another. She'd suggested it the first week after we moved to this town as newlyweds, and knew no one. It seemed at first a casual request, almost a whim. We'd each of us started our jobs and arranged the furniture, and begun settling into our new lives together. In fact she proposed it the same day she'd persuaded me to shave my body and to keep it that way, all velvety smooth for her to caress and cuddle. Now that my skin was so smooth, she said this time, it would give her even greater pleasure to think of me working at my desk in the same kinds of smooth, silky underwear she was wearing. At first I thought she was joking, or teasing me. Her job required that she look stunning all day "to impress the locals" she said, and her underthings were extremely seductive and romantic because, as she said, "It gives me confidence for my job -- I like to feel feminine from the skin on out." She'd been amused to ask me to put on one or another item now and then even before we were married, to see how I looked -- I'd say "Silly!" and she'd say with a half-smile, "Nooo, not at all! Sexy!" But now, she was persistent. Every day she kept urging me to try on her things, always when we were caressing each other in the bath tub, my cock clasped snug inside her pussy under water and my senses utterly enraptured. After a week or two I said "Sure, why not?." The next day my boxer shorts and T-shirts were gone. She'd gone shopping and replaced them all with delicate little lace-frothed nothings, the same kinds she wore. So that was that. I felt a little queer at first, dressed like a woman under my clothes. I worried that my pantyhose might show above my shoes for example, and expose me as a sissy. But when I mentioned this to Tracy, she only shrugged and said, "So what! Because you like the way women dress? That's why we dress that way, so men will like it! If that makes you a sissy, be proud and enjoy it!". No one did notice I think, and after a few days I began to find wearing even the pantyhose or panties and garter belt enjoyable. They didn't bind, and really did feel tantalizingly silky, clinging to my skin while other clothes slipped around on them. Now I wouldn't wear anything else. It wouldn't be proper. I did balk at wearing a bra at first. It made no sense -- I had no tits to contain and support and shape, the way she did. I told her that. She just said, "No. But I can tell from the way you behave around mine that you'd love to have a pair of your very own, wouldn't you? You adore breasts! C'mon, confess it!" Certainly I adored hers, though her logic from then on was a little twisted. Yet, the moment she hooked one of my new brassieres onto my chest, I could feel immediately why she wanted me to wear it. "See, it gathers you up in front and shapes you, doesn't it? And your nipples feel a little more sensitive protruding that way, don't they, a little more feminine, more sexy? It feels really nice, don't deny it. Think of the band as me hugging you, and the cups as my palms holding your breasts up and molding them, massaging them gently as you move. Think of this bra as my love surrounding you and containing you." A little far-fetched, but I could feel some of that. It was kind of sexy. In fact it was a lot sexy -- even as she spoke my nipples engorged. She did agree that I didn't need to stuff anything into the bra except myself. "All I want," she said, "is to know that close to your heart you're dressed as my dearest friend, my very own secret girlfriend, as well as my especially darling husband. That you're dressed like me and only I know it. I do so love you for it. Oh, I do!" She was fastening the clasp on the bra and still standing behind me when she said that, and she reached around to hug and grasp and mold my breasts with both hands, and to tweak those aroused nipples. What could I say after that? Anyhow, that's how come I started wearing bras and hosiery and the other fripperies of women's underwear. We all take pleasure satisfying our wives' harmless kinks, I suppose, and it really did feel nice! Mine liked playing Barbi doll with me I guess. Then too, Tracy had a severe streak of jealousy in her. She'd been uneasy when she first heard that in my office I was a lone male surrounded by a dozen females, even though the reverse was true in her office -- she was a lone female among dozens of males and it didn't bother me at all. In fact she'd tried at first to get me employed at her place, so she could be close by, but there were no openings. I figured privately that my undies were her way to stake a claim on me in her absence. Why? To keep me faithful to her? All the girls at my office already knew I was married. Maybe to remind them, if I should start to stray, that I was taken? Or to suggest I was too queer to bother with? Or to remind me to stay straight? To help me feel myself a part of her, and her a part of me? Well, I had no intention to stray, and I did want to feel that we were part of each other. I still do. I love Tracy, and she loves me. Though not the same way, now. I suppose I didn't need my own lingerie -- except for cup sizes we could have shared all our underthings, and that would have been a bond too. But she'd shared all her clothing with her sister when she was a girl, and as she said, now she wanted her own things kept exclusively her own, and she wanted me to feel possessive about mine too. Except for emergency borrowing, as can happen. "We can be like college roommates and borrow from each other now and then," she'd said. "Like when one of us has a special date and wants to look especially nice for later on, when he wants to get intimate." I looked startled, but she took my hand and looked into my eyes. "Girlfriend, no matter how many guys there are in the world, you are always my special date." Then she kissed me. And that's what she called me from then on when she was feeling especially affectionate. Standing there in a brand-new gift bra and panties set as I was, I could scarcely object. I was happy I'd pleased her, and she was happy I'd made her this little concession and gotten to enjoy it. Sometimes we did behave like roommates when deciding what we'd wear each morning, giggling whether Tracy should look especially daring on days when she had to report to one of the company VPs. Wouldn't they be surprised to know she was wearing crotchless panties for example, or thongs that left her delectable ass cheeks fully exposed. Or how would they feel when they saw she'd gone really leggy in black net stockings with seams? Those days I might suggest she go all out, and then I'd dress rather daring too, though of course my undergarments were covered with pants, and Tracy's were barely covered at all by one of her equally daring all-out micro-minis. I'd be amused to think how her appearance affected her work associates -- not an approving eye among any women, I'd bet, and not a limp prick among the men. And especially I'd smile at what my own associates didn't know about me. I began to love the look as well as the feel of really sexy lingerie on both of us. Her work was demanding almost from the first day, though nothing like recently. Often she was too tired to rinse her things out, so I'd do it along with mine. "Take care of these," she'd said when she'd first gotten them for me. "Hand-wash them only, to keep them pretty. A machine can stretch out dainty lace work, and ruin bras and stockings altogether. I'll always want to know all day long, no matter what how stressed out I may be, that underneath you're still sweet and fresh and feminine. You have no idea how cheering it is for me to see when you strip down that my hubby is still my cute, sexy girlfriend." She reached for my cock, now tucked between my legs by the panty girdle I happened to have on, and squeezed it. "Even when you're not undressing to make love, even when all you mean to do is put on a housecoat, and maybe freshen your makeup a little before we sit down to dinner." I reminded her that I don't wear makeup, that her imagination was running away with itself. She didn't miss a beat. "Oh, lover, you really should! It goes with all your lovely things. And that's how I like to think of you anyhow, really beautiful, your face as attractive as mine. I like to imagine that at quitting time you're in the Ladies' painting and primping with the other girls, getting ready to come home. So they tend to think you're one of them, and it never occurs to any of them to come on to you, or even try to flirt. But of course you'd never do that, would you? Paint and primp and make yourself beautiful for me, I mean?" I just looked at her. "You would? I wish you would! Please, at least when you're home? From now on? Please? For me? You'll look gorgeous I know, so much more like me, and it would be so reassuring for me to know we share that too. It would be one more bond, one more intimate thing we know about each other. Please?" I thought about it. This new notion seemed a little extreme, but I suppose it was no worse than wearing women's underwear. And again it didn't matter that much to me, but it did to Tracy in some odd way. She wanted to safeguard me from other women even at home? It didn't make sense! I reassured her again about that, but she just repeated, her beautiful eyes looking into mine, "Please?" So each day when I got home I'd put on makeup, lightly at first, then elaborately as I got more expert and learned more by reading the women's magazines. Don't get me wrong, only at home. Once a stray streak of eye liner or a smudge of mascara or something must have raised speculation among the secretaries, because a bottle of makeup remover appeared mysteriously on my desk one morning, and then disappeared a few hours later after I'd used it. And it was a few days before I realized that lip-liner doesn't rub off like lipstick, and some of the girls at the office must certainly have noticed my mouth outlined in scarlet. But Tracy didn't care, she was rapturous. She even bought me some negligees to wear so I'd look really beautiful when she got home, and a perfectly gorgeous peignoir I just loved! Now and then I'd greet her wearing one of them. At first I felt foolish, putting pretty colors on my face, but I soon got expert enough. It's nothing much, really, and it can be great fun, like painting or water coloring when you're a kid, only it's you that looks good afterward. Just a few strokes of lipstick -- choosing which shade is the hardest part -- and maybe lip liner first, and eye liner of course and mascara, and a few shades of eye shadow spread with the tip of your finger, and some blush whisked over the foundation cremes I needed to cover my beard. That's all. That is, foundation cremes I once needed. Tracy urged me to spend two weeks of my vacation in Dallas, where they do fast electrolysis, getting my facial hairs zapped away. When I returned my cheeks and jaw were as smooth as hers. My reward for all that pin-pricking and inflammation came the first time I went down on her. She was absolutely ecstatic! "Your new face feels like a woman's, I mean the way a woman's would feel!" she told me, beside herself with joy. "As silky as your cock! Only, a cock with bones and bulges and a tongue and other delicious things squeezing into my pussy from all around! Oh, my!" So I couldn't complain. Having no beard saved me the time and trouble of shaving, and it saved my collars a lot of beige makeup stains. I know all this sounds peculiar, this getting me to play being her pretty hubby, her girlfriend, and all that. But not to me, not as I got used to it. It was what my wife wanted, and I love her dearly, and it all seemed harmless enough. I wasn't really surprised by it. Even before we decided to get married I knew she liked me looking a little androgynous. She bought me wide-legged slacks to wear on dates, with no fly in front at all, tight in the crotch and buttoned on the side, and it was some time before I realized they were women's slacks, not some mod style of menswear. She got me tailored shirts that buttoned the wrong way, cut a little generous in front, with tiny, pale flowers printed on them, and rounded collars. Occasionally I'd wear one to the office when my regular shirts weren't back from the laundry, and give the secretaries even more reason to curl their lips mischievously when they saw me, then to just shake their heads silently when I asked them why. And when other girls were urging their boyfriends to get short brush hair cuts, Tracy wanted mine long. On weekends and other times too she'd experiment with rolling and curling and styling it. Once after we were married she asked me if I'd mind getting a perm, there were so many more things she could do with my hair if it were permed. I drew the line, though she persisted. "Not even a body perm, then? It'd hardly show!" Eventually she let it drop. So only a year or two after our marriage, well-settled into our home and our work, I'd pretty much become my wife's secret girlfriend as she wished. It didn't threaten my masculinity any. I was a man when we went out as young couples do, or we had friends over, or went to concerts and sporting events, and so on. But at home it was fun pretending I was a girl like her, one of the softer, gentler sex. At odd times I'd practice using feminine hand gestures, or imitating the ways girls toss their heads. Tracy always noticed, and always appreciated that I was trying. It was just as well. During one of the rare times at my office when everyone had to work late, the office manager and I found ourselves heading together toward the corner coffee shop for a bite before beginning a long evening. We sat and ordered. Connie looked at me with an amused smile. "You know, it isn't necessary to smooth your skirt under you before you sit down when you're wearing pants. I looked at her as if not comprehending. "I can pretty well guess what's happening," she added. "Better than you think. I may even know more than you know. Your wife and I are from the same town originally -- I bet you didn't know that. We knew each other in high school. Dated some of the same boys." "Really?" I said, leaning forward, genuinely surprised. I was about to ask Connie what Tracy was like then, but she continued, "Yes, and some of the same girls, too." That stopped me. I stared at her. "You didn't know? Really? You are an innocent! Haven't you wondered why I don't join the other girls in their endless chatter about boy friends and stroking male egos and cocks, and how to get a boy to perform properly in bed?" "Because you're the office manager and shouldn't mingle?" I asked. "Because you're a little older than they are?" I was about to say "Because you're a bit of a prude?" when I noticed for the first time, really, that Connie was no such thing. Her draped blouse was open almost to her belt. No bra? She always dressed smart and a little provocative, I realized. She was extremely attractive. Then it struck me. "Because the man you're living with doesn't want you to talk about it?" "Almost right, my dear. The girl I'm living with doesn't want me to kiss and tell. She's in the closet to her folks, who think I'm only her roommate. So I have to keep quiet about me too, or people will add up one and one and decide she's also a lesbian." Our sandwiches arrived. I just stared at her some more. "I never would have thought it, Connie," I said after swallowing hard. "You're so...." She laughed. She liked me I knew, and knew that I liked her. We'd always gotten on well. But this well? These confessions? "Normal? I don't look like a Dyke? No, honey, I'm not butch, or femme, or a Dyke, or any of your stereotypes. Just your average red-blooded American girl who has never felt attracted to boys but feels very strongly drawn to her own sex. To Tracy too once, when we were mid-teenagers." "Oh?" "Yes, 'oh!' We were quite an item for a while. I wouldn't be kissing and telling on her even now, but I thought you already knew. You must certainly know that Tracy is sexually... venturesome, sometimes. She was one of us for a year or two, maybe more. We called our little group 'Loving Friends,' and we taught each other all kinds of ... things. Then she found there were two things about boys she liked after all, their ready-to-wear, pre-installed, preheated cocks, the bigger the better, and that they were easy to manage. So she drifted back to them." These were astonishing revelations to me, but Connie just kept chatting, her eyes never once leaving my face. "Not altogether I guess. When you started turning up at the office wearing perfume and makeup, or trying not to, with bra straps and bra cup wrinkles visible through your shirt, I figured that with you Tracy was returning to my side of the aisle but trying to keep the best of both worlds. I phoned her to suggest she either tone it down or go all the way, the girls in the office were speculating about you instead of working, and we chatted a while about her new pretty hubby." She smiled at me, and evidently decided not to say anything more. "But it was none of my business. It still isn't." "Connie, I don't know what to say!" I was blushing bright red, I could feel it. "Then don't," Connie replied. "Maybe you know what you're doing, and maybe you're in over your head. It's between you two. If you'd ever like to talk more, you know where I am. Meanwhile, do you think you'll have the Callahan invoices ready for faxing by the time we quit tonight? I've got other several places I need to be yet tonight, I almost always do. And would you pass the mustard, please?" So now I knew what I should have suspected. Among other things my wife has a suppressed lesbian streak in her, or she's at least bisexual. I decided that the more I respected this impulse in her, and gratified it, the happier she'd be, and the more secure our marriage. This seemed confirmed when she proposed that now and then and maybe for a while we make love like women, like "loving friends" she called it maybe for old times' sake. No penises. I agreed that whenever she wanted to, we'd use only our mouths and hands on each other, the way I guess lesbian women do, and that I'd even try to restrain my erections. Mouths and hands can be very sensuous. On "loving friends" days she'd tickle my "clit" with her tongue while I did hers, and then though I'd have loved to push my boner down her throat, she'd only give it little nibbles after I'd begun to nibble hers. As we heated up, our heads drove further and further between each others' legs, pursuing a peculiarly elusive urge, a sensation of desire that grew slowly, until the craving was intense and we both felt blown away, and scarcely noticed that our faces and thighs were drenched in each other's juices. That craving spread, until finally our legs were clamped so tight around each other's ears and our mouths were so buried in each other's crotches that we could no longer scream as powerfully convulsive waves washed over us. I'd had no idea mouths and hands could do all that! Then too, there was much mutual caressing and touching and sucking and kissing of our breasts. I loved fondling hers. And one of our "loving friends" sessions got me incredibly worked up, with her lips and tongue pulsing on my nipples while her hands molded my bosom and our bodies writhed on each other. My prick was still soft, when all of a sudden a sublime passion mounted in me, and crested, and I came spontaneously. I lay blissed out while Tracy continued to make love to me, my penis now soft, spasmed and drained. The feeling was different from anything I'd ever felt before. It was as if my whole body had begun to coil up tight and squeeze itself into a delicious reaching, then started to throb with incredible intensity until finally, it eased back and stretched itself out voluptuously. Utter Heaven! I felt so marvelously luxurious afterward, lounging back in my negligee trying to catch my breath, while Tracy beamed down and kissed my mouth and my breasts ever so tenderly. She knew what had just happened, and was delighted for me. I'd just had her kind of orgasm, a woman's orgasm, felt through my whole body, not just located in my crotch. She'd wanted that for me, she said. In fact, she told me there'd be others, because she was arranging for others. When I asked her how she only lapsed into silence. "You'd only say 'No!'" she said. "Like with your perm. I could give you such a lovely hairdo if you had a perm! So I won't tell you. It'll be a surprise. There'll be more of them. You'll see." Then she added with a smile, "A lot is going to happen slowly, but it'll happen!" I had no idea what she was talking about. Soon after that she proposed we enhance our "loving friends" sessions by using dildoes on each other. She meant each of us use fake penises to pleasure each other, the way women do when they make love, me tucking my real penis between my legs and strapping on a much bigger rubber cock to fuck her with instead, and Tracy doing the same thing to me, but pumping into my ass. I'd said "No!" right off, fairly forcefully! If my own prick was out of bounds, I said, why should I agree to let some other cock fuck her, even if I was doing the actual fucking, especially when I couldn't feel any of it myself? And anyhow, I said, my ass is strictly a one way street, strictly mine! She'd replied that I was being selfish. She reminded me that even though the dildoes wouldn't feel anything, when I used one on her the rest of me would feel her whole body respond lovingly, rising and pressing close against mine. I'd always know how much pleasure I was giving her. And she'd enjoy the different ways different kinds of cocks felt inside her, compared to mine. Did this make me feel jealous? How silly and insecure was I, to be feel jealous of a dildo of all things? She argued that this was one way she could get to feel a variety of cocks tucked into her, all the while it was me making love, her lawful husband, the man she loved above all others being the girlfriend she preferred. "You know how I love feeling stuffed by a really stiff cock," she added. "It drives me wild! You've had plenty of reason to know that! And sometimes when I want it more than a few times you can't provide it. This way at least there'll never need to be a problem." Was there an implicit threat there that she might turn elsewhere for loving if I couldn't meet her needs? I didn't think so. Was she worried that some day I might become impotent? Lately my hard-ons had been less than rock-hard, and sometimes less than that, but then, I was no longer a teenager, and besides, she'd been asking me to restrain my erections as best I could during our "loving friends" lovemaking. So I wasn't worried. But I really was a little jealous of some of the heroic cocks she brought home from some sex store downtown. What would she think of me after she'd gotten accustomed to them? "Why should that matter, sweetheart? They'll all be you! It'll be your face I'll be kissing when you fill me full of them!" It was true enough that for all her lesbian games, for all her desire to adopt me as her girlfriend, for all of our "loving friends" sessions, as Connie had observed there was no question that Tracy also loved cock! She loved getting fucked! Passionately, ferociously! I remember one Saturday night soon after we were married, when I was feeling exceptionally horny, and was somehow able to ram her repeatedly for hours with a gigantic boner that wouldn't quit. She'd given as good as she'd gotten, ready to take anything I could push into her. She had orgasm after orgasm, over and over, for as long as I could hold out. Then when finally I came and amazingly, still stayed hard, she started yet again and had more, gasping through clenched teeth with her lips spread wide apart like some vampire tasting first blood, her eyes open but seeing nothing, her legs spread apart wide enough it seemed to welcome a truck, anything that could be driven in or crammed in. Later as I kept going she'd clamped her legs so tightly around my waist that I couldn't breathe. And all the while she'd shrieked and screamed, carrying herself by the sheer force of her voice from peak to peak. and across valleys to the next peak, her head flinging from side to side back and forth, mindlessly. For hour after hour I literally screwed her brains out, and I'm sure she fainted once or twice. The next day she hadn't recovered. She looked dazed all day, her mouth smiling faintly, her eyes unfocused, and barely able to walk. She loved cock all right. Whether my cock exclusively or some artificial cocks also, that was the issue between us. No one else's cock was under discussion, not yet, but I began to worry that it might be. I took a while before deciding to go along with her. At first I tried to negotiate. "I'll fuck you with any dildoes you choose," I told her. "But my asshole is mine!" "No it isn't," she said. "Fair is fair. Equal rights. Sometimes I'll want to use you the way you use me. Have you forgotten what happens sometimes when you're about to cum, and I tuck my finger into that virginal little rosebud of yours, and stroke in and out. You think that's an accident? Always, lover, when I do that you explode and then you cum in torrents, and my finger can feel that pussy of yours just throbbing and throbbing away with each spurt! Just like my pussy throbbing on your cock when I cum! Just think how you'd feel if someone were to push a really long, thick cock into you there, and slide it in and out. Can you imagine? I bet you'd get blown into another world!" So I agreed, but only a little dildo for now, I added. I wasn't sure she heard. "You're on your way, darling," she said. "It's going to happen! More and more. Real orgasms like mine! And getting fucked by the most gorgeous, shapely pricks your pussy can take in! You're going to share with me the most wonderful feelings a woman can feel!" "Only a little dildo for now," I repeated, worried by what she might want to push into my ass, but also worried that she'd notice I wasn't as enthusiastic as she was. Because I wasn't, not at all. I told her that. "You will be," she said, hugging me. "You won't be able to help it!" That night we made some of the most passionate love of our marriage, and in the midst of it she came up with an idea I first found shocking, then wonderful. "I want to fuck your ass," she said huskily. "And I will fuck your ass! But first you should fuck mine! Now!" I'd never thought of entering her there, and she'd never proposed it. But given what we'd agreed, it made perfect sense. She hauled out a lubricant she kept in her bedside table and she turned onto her stomach, and she pushed her bottom high up into the air, and then she hissed "Now!" I plunged all the way into her in one exquisite stroke -- she wasn't at all as tight as I'd expected. It felt like bathing my dick in warm honey. Then I felt the round melons of her beautiful, full, smooth ass pressing against my thighs, cushioning my pubic bone and tucked into my abdomen, and I felt my cock clenched and unclenched by muscles she squeezed and unsqueezed in her anal opening. Without seeming to move, I found myself rising and falling on a huge, hot, plump, undulating pillow, my pleasure rising higher and higher and spreading through my loins and my cock until finally I shouted for sheer joy, and began to spurt over and over into her ass, as if once my prick had started squirting it couldn't stop. Eventually it did though, and softened, and plopped out. "Wow!" was all I could say. "I thought you might like doing me that way, love," Tracy said demurely. "I know I loved it! I wish I could have seen your face when you began to shriek like woman in heat just now! But there'll be other times, and positions, and other feelings to explore. Lots of them, now that we're sharing our lovemaking as equals. You'll push into my bottom with my legs on your shoulders or maybe while I'm squirming on your lap like a wicked little girl, and then I'll fuck you the same ways and you'll be the wicked little girl! We can both be girls now, or boys, sometimes at the same time and sometimes not. Oh, I just can't wait!" Our loving took on enormous variety. I used different cocks on her on different nights, only one of them mine, and as I plunged into her she'd pretend different things, one of them true enough, that she was an unfaithful wife imagining herself bedded down with a different lover every night, all of them her husband. Her passion varied with the different dildoes I used on her. Or maybe my techniques varied as I discovered what each dildo could do most effectively. One invited long, slow, mellow strokes that had her desperate for my re-entry after a dignified withdrawal Another allowed at best only short quick stabs. One was even shaped like a dog's, with an inflatable knob at the base. She smiled when she brought it home, and said that she was eager to see how it felt, but even more eager to fuck me with it. She did. When she wanted to be the lesbian Dyke lover of a delicate bed partner, she'd fuck me with all kinds of large, fat, dildoes -- she insisted I must always seem insatiable, always starved for more cock no matter how stretched or sore I felt. I never was, but pretended because it made her so very happy to gratify my supposed hungers. Some dildoes vibrated, and some were heated. One in particular was huge, with a noble purple helmet for a head nearly the size of a teacup, and with incredibly thick veins on its underside, and with large hairy balls hanging down from its base, as if for real. This one she reserved for my ass only, not her cunt. "If you knew that my pussy was shaped to receive a magnificent cock like this," Tracy said when I suggested I try it on her, "It would shrivel you, with your silly jealousies. You'd worry how I could ever be satisfied with you ever again. And with reason! No, this is my cock to use on you, and you're the girl who will learn to love it and settle for no less. If you're also a little bit afraid of it, my pretty hubby, better still!" We called it "the Emperor." When she strapped it on and finally managed to push it into me -- it took a week of asshole stretching with other dildoes and butt plugs before that finally happened -- I could feel every vein rub against my anal opening as she worked it deeper, and when its balls were slapping on my buttocks I could feel its bulk snugged up tight against my prostate. Routinely, before she'd insert it she had me lick it, to lubricate it with kisses and with deep sucking, and it always amused her, when it was strapped on and she was straddling my face, to have me lick its balls the same way she'd licked mine so many times in the past. I could take any length cock up the rear it seemed, over a foot if it pleased her, and it sometimes did. Tracy's depth seemed to be less, nine or ten inches like the Emperor before I'd hit an obstruction, probably her cervix. On the other hand, she could take any width into her capacious pussy, fatter than the fat end of a baseball bat, fatter than a fist, whereas the really thick dildos, especially "the Emperor," stretched me out so far that the next day I'd leak helplessly into my panties, and then have to wear a tampon to work as women do, and change it a few times in the course of the day. She once asked me if I felt feminine enough to want to use the women's bathroom to change my tampon, so I'd feel more like other women having their periods. I didn't know what to say, and let it go. But she used "the Emperor" on me the next few nights nevertheless, so for the next few days as I passed the Ladies' Room I wondered about it. Once when I was short and had to run out to buy more tampons, Tracy commented that if I were using the Ladies' Room the way I should be, I'd know they always keep some there. Exasperated, I told her I just couldn't, I was a man, they'd arrest me! She said, "We'll see about that!" and looked at me sweetly. The next day I needed another and was standing in front of the Ladies' wondering if there was anyone inside, whether I could dash in and grab just one, when Connie came by. "I see from the way you're walking that something's sore," she said, her face impassive. "Is there anything I can do to help?" I shook my head and fled. Our gentle "loving friends" sessions changed when she brought in the dildoes. Now that Tracy always had a cock when she wanted one, some nights she wanted me to play out different women's roles, often a helplessly languishing, lovely young girl, sometimes a temptress. She bought me some exquisite nightgowns, really romantic, and from that point on I always slept with her en femme. She told me I felt especially wonderful as she stroked my satiny waist and kissed me where the decolete shamelessly displayed what should have been my breasts. Certainly I felt more sumptuously enticing. On certain nights when she especially wanted me to be her girl, she'd call me from work and ask for a date. I knew then to meet her at the door in my prettiest undies and my most provocative negligee both, my makeup done in an extreme style I called "bitch in heat" and my "pussy" as she now called it well lubricated. To please her, each time she made a date with me en femme I tried to surprise her with some new feminine accomplishment, by speaking in a higher and softer voice for example, or by walking delicately with my elbows close to my sides. She saw I was really trying to be her girlfriend, and she'd kiss me gratefully afterward. Two After a few months more her birthday rolled around, and I really surprised her. When she came home that night she found me for the first time fully dressed as a woman, in a beautiful dress and stilleto heels, and she was beside herself with joy. I'd always been wary of dressing all the way as a woman, because I just knew that when she saw me she'd want me to go out with her dressed that way, and that would change everything. Then it wouldn't be "our" personal and private intimacy with each other but "the" way I related to the world, or one of the ways. Then I really would be more her girlfriend than her husband. I knew I'd soon take on a feminine social identity whether I wanted one or not. and then I really would begin to think of myself as feminine. I dressed to the nines anyhow. I'd gone out that day to buy her a really stunning cocktail dress for her birthday, and found one that was absolutely scrumptious, elongated and thin to fit her figure, black, and beaded, with cap sleeves, slit to the hip. Considering how to present it, I realized that the perfect way would be for me to model it myself. My better brassieres were filling me out generously, and my hips were as narrow as a fashion model's. So I knew the dress would look attractive on me. In a strange way I wanted to see for myself. I also knew that Tracy would be overjoyed to see me for the first time fully dressed up without being urged or coaxed, and that too would be my present to her. She'd been pointing me toward this for years, I realized. And it was all to the good. I'd recently learned from Tracy's sister yet one more possible reason why Tracy felt more comfortable with me as her girlfriend than as a male husband. Her sister mentioned that Tracy had once had an unfortunate experience with men in a bad part of town, and while a psychologist was trying to help her deal with it she'd had another unfortunate experience with an uncle. Exactly what these experiences were I never found out, and her sister wouldn't say. Afterward, she said, "Tracy went crazy for a while," which I interpreted as a familiar post-rape syndrome -- feeling worthless, she had been for a time turned slut, available to anyone. "It's what I want to do," she'd said just before going out with two boys of unsavory reputation, "I can't get enough!" She stayed out all night with them, her sister told me. All that ended when her therapy took hold, and when she went off to college she was once again a proper young lady. I hadn't known any of this. Yet, I thought, it may be that in some subconscious way Tracy now feels safe only with women. I had to smile as my mind added the words 'especially women with huge dildos.' That period when she was one of Connie's set might have been around then. Maybe really masculine men still left her feeling soiled or used? Until now I'd gone along with her desires in order to please her, and for the variety it brought both of us, not because I thought she needed to be with women, or because I myself enjoyed feminine sex. But I did enjoy it. I was feeling more and more feminine myself. Just as I wanted Tracy to feel snug and safe in my arms, I was beginning to want to feel snug in hers. My own masculinity was faded, a little. For Tracy's sake, perhaps it was just as well. A few days before her birthday Tracy had seemed to suffer a kind of pang of conscience. Or perhaps she was testing me. She told me that she knew that I was becoming less and less manly, and more and more womanly, to please her, because I loved her. She was grateful for it. But now she had to know if I wanted it for myself too, that it pleased me to explore my own femininity and to make it a part of who I was. That I delighted in it, maybe even preferred it. She had to know, or she'd feel terrible about what she'd been asking me to do. I should let her know by the time her birthday came, she said, because if I wasn't as happy as she was that I was now so wonderfully feminine, if I wasn't now her unabashed sissy girlfriend, we'd have to re-evaluate everything. Needless to say I gave it a lot of thought. Femininity, especially submissive femininity I'd found, was a wonderful game. I had learned most of its rules and many of its skills, and had realized that I should be trying to enjoy it more, and I was enjoying it. Some things I found marvelous, such as the ways I felt when we made "loving friends" and I was the passive partner. My orgasms were glorious, especially when my darling pushed "the Emperor" into me while nursing on my nipples -- that drove me wild! And I'd noticed that my penis was smaller, less rigid lately when I reached climax, and was sometimes quite soft. But my nipples and areola had grown larger as if to compensate, and to accommodate the greater pleasure we both took in them. These days they actually stuck out! Some things I knew I liked because they were feminine, without my doing them to please her. I enjoyed looking smooth and sophisticated, suave and beautiful when fully made up, and sometimes I regretted I couldn't look like that all day, even at the office. I realized that I really wanted to try on this birthday dress for myself, to see why it had so charmed me out of hundreds of others that I just had to have it for Tracy, had to see how I felt wearing it, to see how beautiful it was on me. Had I bought it for Tracy or for me? She wanted me to look like a complete woman I knew, but she also wanted me to feel like a complete woman, quite another thing, and above all she wanted me to *want* to feel like a complete woman, yet something more still. Before, I hadn't especially gone along with her. But this dress urged me to want to, to please her, to surprise her, to look nice, to feel as elegantly feminine as I could. I really wanted to yield to the urge. I realized that now, if I were somehow forbidden my undies and gowns and cosmetics and darling gestures, forbidden to practice all of the womanly arts I'd learned, I would feel quite desolated, deprived and separated from a central part of myself. Life would lose much color and joy. I realized that I really did feel feminine now, in part, and I loved Tracy all the more for leading me into such exquisite new ways of feeling. Tonight, for her birthday, Tracy would see me become all the woman I wanted to be, for my own sake as well as hers. I knew Tracy would understand immediately when she saw me. And she did. When she came through the front door and saw me standing in the hallway waiting for her, stately, poised, radiant, made up as faultlessly as I knew how, my hair piled high and held up by a sapphire clip, the cocktail gown's black beads and sequins scintillating from its choker neckline past my rounded breasts, along my hip bones, down to well below my knees, and my ankles turned pertly by black four-inch-heeled strappy sandals I'd found in her closet, she just stood there and studied me quietly for a moment. And took a step forward. And then leaped at me elated, threw her arms around me, and quite ruined my carefully made-up face by kissing me over and over and over, saying "Oh, my sweet, dear, darling, my love, my love, you're just gorgeous!" over and over. She clung to my neck and began to cry, inconsolably. "Oh!" she sobbed over and over. "Oh, darling, I've wanted this, but I've been so afraid to ask you. I really don't want you to meet my needs, unless they're also yours. I know so much more about what we're doing. And you've been such a dear, going along with everything!" The effect was everything I could have hoped for. I began to cry too. Then when we went into our bedroom to change, me back into an especially sexy negligee and Tracy into her new dress, she did exactly what I'd anticipated and feared. "Here," she said, handing me one of her nicest cocktail gowns, deep blue, chiffon, with a deep scoop neck, one I'd often admired on her. "Put that negligee away. This is the happiest day of my life, and I won't have my darling girlfriend looking any less beautiful than I feel. Put this on, so we can both be beautiful together." I looked at her surprised, surprised to find that I was delighted -- the blue chiffon was really wonderful, it would be a joy to try on. "This is only a loan, girlfriend, not a gift," she said. "It's just for tonight, so be careful with it. After tonight you'll have to buy your own dresses." I heard. There was no turning back now, I thought to myself. She smiled happily at the thought, and we dressed together. It was all I could do to keep from hugging her and burying my cock or a dildo in her, or asking her to bury a strapped-on part of herself in me. I wanted to make love. But that could wait. Then over cocktails in the living room she suggested the inevitable in a very quiet voice, as I knew she would. "Honey," she said. "Do you think we could go out together for dinner, instead of eating what I'm sure is the fabulous birthday dinner I know you've prepared for me? Just two lovely women enjoying each other's company? We both do look smashing! We shouldn't waste it!" I told her very gently why I felt reluctant. Up until this moment, I told her, our gender play had been like our sex play, a private thing we shared, just between us, known to no one else (though I knew the secretaries at my office speculated why with such a lovely wife I seemed to be going gay, with my perfume, and eye liner, and lip liner, and the chest bulges my better bras were making for me these days, maybe even the tweezed eyebrows that went with making up my face properly). I was now a man who enjoyed looking like a woman, to please my beloved wife and as I now knew, to please myself. Apart from a nod or two at propriety, I no longer cared what the secretaries thought. When I said that, Tracy's eyes gleamed with an "I told you so" kind of triumphant expression, obviously proud of me. But if we took my transformation out among total strangers, I said, it would become a very different thing. If other people thought I was a woman even at a glance, because I looked like one, and I knew it, I might really begin to look at myself the same way. My self-image might actually change. "Women are very attractive," I said. "I might find being a woman very attractive. I might begin to believe that's what I am, a little, maybe a lot, not just a man who enjoys being feminine." "Well what's wrong with that?" she asked me, puzzled. "I know you're a man, but I know you're a woman in my eyes right now, and you know that I know. You know that's how I prefer you. Why do you think you looked so utterly ravishing standing there, yourself the best birthday present I have ever received? Because you knew I was seeing you as a complete woman, a beautiful woman, and that made you that kind of woman in your own eyes, and you positively glowed! You loved it! And I was so proud of you and of myself at that moment I couldn't stand it!" She put her hand over her eyes. I wondered if she was starting to cry again, but from sorrow this time, on this happiest day of her life. I folded. "I fixed you a lovely dinner, sweetheart. No chef has ever planned more carefully, nor made such delicate sauces. I poured my soul into it, and all my love. You'll see. But the dessert is only a bakery birthday cake. How about we go out for dessert and coffee to "Sweets to the Sweet," that new place that's just opened downtown? Just the two of us. It's upscale enough for the way we're dressed, and we're not likely to meet anyone we know there. I hope. But if we do, then we do, and they'll recognize me with you or not, and think whatever they may think, because tonight I am what I appear to be. Your best girlfriend. Tonight is your night." Tracy brightened immediately. "You are a pet," she said. "That's just lovely! Oh, I do so love you. When we get back here, I want to tell you how much I love you. I want to tell you a secret I've been keeping from you. I didn't think you'd take it in the right spirit when you heard it. But I think you're ready now. I think you'll love it. I do hope so. I can't keep it back any longer." I was amazed! "You're pregnant? We're going to have a baby?" I began. She quickly interrupted me. "Oh, no, darling. Not unless you are, and haven't yet told me!" We both smiled at the thought of me inseminated by a dildo. "It'll happen some day, but you know neither of us is ready for babies just yet. No, just wait and see. When we get back, I know you'll like it." So after dinner, still tiddly and giggly from a whole bottle of Chateau Lafite sipped with my grand entree, a Beef Wellington, we went out. I was very self conscious about my appearance at first. I knew I passed, but I felt as if I were enacting myself as a well-dressed woman, not just being one. I drove, and I had to adjust to my high heels on the foot pedals, and I tried to drive like a lady, hesitating before left turns instead of turning ruthlessly in the face of oncoming cars. When I pulled into the Valet Parking I readied myself to turn to swing both legs out of the car before standing up, as I'd so often seen other women do. "Ladies," the parking attendant said as he opened Tracy's door and then raced around to open mine, handing me a chit for the car as I stood up alongside him. "Let me know if there's anything I can do for you." He seemed to be standing very close. He was. As I stood up our faces almost touched, the car pressing against my back. He didn't step back. "You can be sure we will," I said in my high, breathy, strained femme voice. "Don't park too far away, We're here for only dessert and coffee." "At your service," the attendant said. I looked over his shoulder, and saw Tracy mouthing the word "Smile!" repeatedly. So I did. Only then did the attendant back away, turn, leap into the car, and drive it a short distance away. "That's all men really want," Tracy said. "They're all so insecure. But one smile from a pretty woman, especially women as well-dressed as we are, and they're fine!" "Well, I'm a well-dressed woman feeling pretty insecure right now," I told her. "Don't be," she smiled at me, looking coy and amused. "He was coming on to you. Haven't you played that trick on women, forcing intimacy by somehow occupying space they've got to occupy themselves? He thinks you're attractive. So do I, you know." Immediately I began to feel better. She was right. "We'll enjoy our dessert, and then later this evening, who knows, maybe you'll get lucky! If not with me, maybe with that parking lot attendant. Meanwhile, how do you feel, now that a man has been smitten by your appearance. More like a beautiful woman than before?" "As a matter of fact, yes," I said. "I do. And it's a very nice feeling. Women are nice people. Being one is nice. I'm happy to join the club. At least right now I am." We went in and were seated, and nibbled at a plate of Sinful Surprise confections, and sipped Cappucinos, and I paid the bill, smiled appreciatively at the attendant when he brought up the car and gazed into my face, and drove home. My womanliness had registered in several other sets of eyes too. The Maitre d' was courtly. The waiter was gently attentive, as never before in my experience as a man. Two men at a table near us tried to catch our eyes, one of them rather handsome, but we ignored them. One woman eyed my dress closely, narrow-eyed, as if suspicious of something. I began to quail inside, and Tracy felt it. "Smile again!," she whispered to me. "She's admiring what you're wearing!" I did, and she smiled back at me, and again I felt warm inside. Another acknowledgement from another member of the club. I really did feel privileged to belong. "Now," I said when we were back inside the house, and had both kicked off our heels, and were together on the couch. I sat on one end while Tracy stretched herself out on it, her head in my lap, looking up at me while I looked fondly down at her. "What's this secret you couldn't tell your husband, but you're happy to share with your new graduate girlfriend?" "Sweetheart, you're not to get mad at me. This is still my birthday, right? And you've made me very happy today so far, right?" "Right," I replied. I bent over and kissed her. "Well, darling," she began. "You're more a member of the club than you think." Tracy's face was impassive, her eyes staring unwavering into mine. I knew she was watching for the faintest shadow of a reaction, for sorrow or anger or something else to appear there, so she could modify the way she said whatever she was about to say. Even, I suspected, say something else altogether, something harmless, if disaster seemed to threaten. I put on my most affectionate poker face. "Oh?" "You remember some time ago, after you refused to have your hair permed, about the time I suggested that we'd both enjoy playing with dildoes, those lovely boy toys that give girls like us so much pleasure?" "I do. And yes, they do." I had to confess it. "Well, you hadn't agreed even to the dildoes then, and I knew I was right about them, just as I'm right about the perm too!" She glared at me adamantly, knowing I'd find her determination absolutely adorable. I did. I kissed her again. She continued. "Remember, I told you I'd had another really great idea, but wouldn't tell you what it was because you'd only have said 'No!' in your fuddy duddy way, so I'd gone ahead and done it, and you'd find out later what it was." "I don't remember that you said exactly that. I guess I thought you were still talking about fake pricks. That gave me a hard time you remember. A man isn't overjoyed to learn that his wife wants more than one kind of prick in her, when he's only got one kind." She tried to raise her head to kiss me, and couldn't reach quite that far. "For a pretty lady you're much too concerned to measure your prick against all others. A pretty lady can have all the pricks she wants if she plays her cards right. Bend toward me!" She strained her head up toward mine and kissed me, and yet again. "Now you can straighten up. I'm done with you for the moment. I just mussed your lipstick, incidentally." I looked down on her, absolutely in her thrall! I was the luckiest man in the world, and probably the luckiest woman too. "Well," she went on, snuggling into my crotch, and pretending not to notice the growing bulge there. "Well, it was then that you had that orgasm just from what I was doing with your breasts, remember, and you nearly passed out from it, and I told you then that something was happening, and more was going to happen. I am here to report now that it did." "Am I supposed to understand what you've just said?" She turned sideways to inspect my bulge. Suddenly she lifted her shoulders, swept my dress up past my crotch, said "Lift up!" and when I raised my rear end, tugged my panties down until my cock sprang free. Then she settled back down again with her cheek on my bare thighs, my penis alongside, my slip and shirred blue chiffon hemline just above. "There!" she said definitively. Then she kissed the tip of my exposed penis a few times, tentatively took the whole head into her mouth, and then pushed it out again with her tongue. "You like the way that feels?" she asked. I thanked God it wasn't rigid, so that even though lying in my lap, she could bend it and take it altogether into her mouth. But not just yet. "Tracy, you are the worst cock tease in prick history! What in the world are you talking about? What was happening?" "Sweetheart, enjoy your erections while you've got them. There'll be fewer, You're already softening, see? Isn't it lovely? -- already I can hold all of you in my mouth without even lifting my head from your lap, the same way you can lick and suck on my clit. Soon the only way you'll be able to penetrate me at all will be with a dildo, and then you'll see how right I was to give you lots of practice satisfying me with them." I was a little alarmed, Had I heard her right? "Tracy!?" I said, and she heard the anxiety in my voice. She settled back from the teasing tone she'd adopted, and her voice became more serious. She spoke comfortably, but her eyes never left mine. "It's like this, love. I wanted to help you fill out the creases in those brassieres of yours. I knew you were wearing them only because I asked you to. But I wanted you to wear them because you wanted to, because it would make you more like me, because it would satisfy you to wear them, because it turned you on to wear them. Because breasts feel wonderful and do wonderful things. Like that new kind of orgasm you had that night, with your whole body instead of just your limp dick. The best you've ever had, you told me." "I remember. It was unforgettable. And you've given me more of them since then." " "That was a genuine woman's orgasm, my sweet new club member. Authentic. Because for some months before then, and ever since then, even tonight during dinner, I've been feeding you hormones to enhance your pleasure and your figure. Women's hormones. Heavy doses of them. So you could feel what a woman feels in your body and your mind. What I feel. To make your moods softer, happier, nicer. You've been swallowing girly pills with your coffee, with your vitamins, with your beef wellington, lots of ways. Several kinds. Some kinds to counteract your male hormones so you'd be less aggressive in your lovemaking, more considerate, and they've been working just fine." She smiled to herself. "You're a gentle lover now, darling." She paused, while I thought about how wonderful it felt to be her beloved, loved, the passive recipient of her passion, making "loving friends" with her, feeling her longest dildo take excruciatingly forever to swoop into my bowels and then back out again, my anus quivering in anticipation of the next swoop. She kissed the tip of my penis again and then looked back up at me. "I can read your eyes perfectly," she said. "You like those hormones, don't you? You like the way they make you feel." Reluctantly, I had to nod. "But some of them are to speed you through the process that made me what I am. So you'd do what I did when I was a teenager. Become more of a woman. Smooth out your skin. Giggle more, and have fun more, and talk about how attracted you are to boys, in your case dildoes, and giving pleasure to boys, in your case giving hand jobs to dildoes and thinking about giving blow jobs, and taking an interest in looking beautiful, and in makeup. And to wonder how pretty or elegant you might look in a really nice dress. Like tonight. To feel pleased that you can attract a man's attentions. Like tonight. You liked getting dressed up tonight, and going out, and being admired. You were afraid to be thought a woman, but now that you think you are one, at least partly, you like the idea, don't you?" I nodded. "And darling, some your teenage girlhood is just like mine in another way. You're growing tits, and they're increasing in erotic sensitivity, and youre getting more of a really feminine figure. The hormones are changing your whole body. You think it's your new bras, but the fact is, you're a full cup size larger than you were, But now I think, and you're likely to be a C cup before we're through. I've seen pictures of your mother, and she's huge, and the way it goes is, like mother like son." She pursed her lips and blew me a reassuring kiss, and then added quickly, "Just one little thing though. Your penis. Your clit. That's what it's getting to be. Very soon it'll stop getting hard altogether, and you won't be able to fuck me with it any more. You'll have to use your dildoes on me instead. See how silly you were, resenting them? But the less you think about what you've lost, the more you'll appre