A Certain Perception (c) 2004 By Cherysse St. Clai free porn video

A Certain Perception
(c) 2004 by Cherysse St. Claire

Kyra was not the girl of my dreams. I never DARED dream a woman that good would just walk into my life. She was smart, sassy, vivacious, intuitive, resourceful, and a real 'people person'. We met in an Internet chat room called "Working Girls". We're not talking about the kind you find in corporate offices or retail stores. C'mon, be honest; what guy hasn't fantasized about being with a woman like that? The room was filled with the usual posers and wannabes. Every girl was a drop-dead-gorgeous slut who would bang a guy on the hood of a car if the price were right. Every guy was a 'Sugar Daddy' with hundred-dollar bills hanging out of his pockets. At least, that is what they all would have you believe. Kyra was different. There was just some indefinable... SOMETHING that made me believe she was the real deal. It was not so much what she said as the way she said it that spoke of a woman who had truly "been there, done that."

Naturally, a lot of snerts in the room asked the obvious, stupid question: "Are you REALLY a...?" She artfully deflected their inquiries, reminding them of the name and nature of the room and playfully suggesting they draw their own conclusions. Still, if one was astute enough to read between the lines.... Whenever she entered the chat room, people flocked to her. She reigned like a Queen on her throne. I was a little intimidated. I chatted mostly with my own online friends, interacting with her only in group conversations.

One evening, out of the blue, SHE started chatting with ME. Was I stunned? Oh, yeah. Our light, breezy banter in the room took a more personal turn that required private messaging. She revealed that, aside from my courteous, non-threatening manner, there were "little things" I had mentioned in passing about myself that had intrigued her. I hadn't remembered saying ANYTHING definitive about myself. In fact, I avoided doing so. The room was fun enough, but I thought it best if the people in it did not know I really WAS rich (I was blessed with being born into the right family). Kyra didn't ask, just as I hadn't asked about her. She simply stated: "Breeding shows."

We clicked - and spent long hours deeply immersed in IM's. This intriguing vixen told me she lived in a city on the other coast. She was a bit older than me, but it didn't matter to either of us. We exchanged pictures of ourselves and I was instantly in lust. She was a stunning redhead with sparkling emerald eyes and a dynamite body. I fervently hoped this vision really WAS her, not some random picture she scammed from Cyberspace. Finally, I booked an airline reservation (ticketless; she was impressed) to have her come for a visit - on my birthday. She promised she would bring a gift I would never forget. "Don't take my pledges lightly, Michael," she admonished. "A promise made is a promise kept."

Meeting her in the flesh was the best birthday present I had ever received. I had expected to wait outside the airport security checkpoint for her to arrive. Instead, she was already there waiting for ME - wearing a bow pinned to her top and holding a lit birthday candle in her hands. She explained her flight had gotten in early. Her pictures hadn't done her justice; she was even more spectacular in the flesh. As in the chat room, there was nothing in her appearance or demeanor that overtly suggested she was a 'woman of ill repute'. She was merely the most beautiful, sensual, desirable woman I had ever seen. Our first kiss was instinctive - and pure electricity. The breathtaking redhead was all over me, oblivious to the scornful/envious stares of those around us. It was all we could do to contain ourselves as we loaded her bags in the trunk and drove home - to my two-acre walled estate with swimming pool, Jacuzzi, guest cottage, four-car garage and thirteen-room, forty-five-hundred-square-foot 'bachelor pad'. The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, the rich Sugar Daddy (at newly-turned twenty-one, I had trouble envisioning myself as ANYONE's 'daddy') and his beautiful ex-hooker girlfriend. I thought that only happened on television....

Consummating our physical intimacy was almost an afterthought after the emotional intimacy that had flowed back and forth those past months - almost. I had never dreamed Sex could be so good, so fulfilling, so... well, kinky. Kyra could get inside my head like nobody's business, make me visualize the most outlandish, erotic scenarios in a depth of detail that made them appear life-like. Talk about Virtual Reality! We shared the same tastes in kinky, fetish sex. Our favorites included big-boobed porn goddesses, overdone, overblown, over-the-top hookers, and tall, well-muscled, magnificently-endowed men - especially Black men. Kyra playfully chided me about my attraction to the hooker stereotype ("You boys are all alike!") and was particularly amused that I could see the value in sucking and fucking big, black dicks.

About the only thing we clashed on was our taste in music. I listened to Classical, Blues (B.B. King, Muddy Waters, Lightnin' Hopkins, John Lee Hooker, Hound Dog Taylor and the Houserockers), and a lot of Rock. She was heavily into Hip-Hop and Rap - a legacy from her 'past life'. I had a deep appreciation for the old Motown Sound and could certainly get into some of the genuinely artistic R&B singers, but 50-Cent? Nelly? OK, OK, Usher was pretty good. So were Outkast and Black-Eyed Peas - and is/are the latter considered SINGULAR, or PLURAL?

Now that she had come into my life, I couldn't see being without her. Money certainly wasn't a problem. My parents had retired and bought one of those huge, sprawling estates in Incline Village, leaving this more humble residence (yeah, right) to their only c***d - me - along with my Mercedes and comfortable inheritance. My lover teased me about being a "trust fund baby". Laughter aside, she confided to me how comforting it was to be able to relax and enjoy life for a change. She vowed she was looking forward to my spoiling her rotten.

I took her to meet them. She was nervous - without reason. They adored her as much as I did. I knew they would. We told them our desire for a small, intimate ceremony, not the usual big, splashy Society thing. Mom might have been a little disappointed, but they both gave us their blessing. We got married right there, overlooking Lake Tahoe, with my parents as witnesses. I didn't think Life could get any better than that.

Did I say Kyra was resourceful? In no time, she was plugged into my hometown as though she had lived here all her life. She found the best beauty salon (naturally), the best sources for clothes, shoes, and accessories (from classy to fetish kink), the best restaurants, theaters, and nightclubs. She even found the best plastic surgeon in a town full of them - a town where cosmetic procedures are considered a rite of passage. I treated her to a few little 'touch-ups' that rendered her beauty other-worldly.

We went everywhere together. We humored each other on our disparate musical tastes, as played out on the car stereo. I was thrilled to be seen with this gorgeous woman on my arm. Kyra was shamelessly affectionate in public, kissing, hugging, nuzzling me without a care who saw us. It was a major turn-on to see other men leer at her with obvious intent and just-as-obviously wish they were me. Eat your hearts, out, Guys!

Having tasted the world of achievement and privilege I inhabited, this love of my life developed a burning ambition to succeed. She expressed a desire to correct a mistake she made long ago; to go back to school and complete her education. She had already begun attending classes a couple of nights a week to earn her GED. I was delighted and promised her a full "scholarship" and that I would "pull some strings" at any college she chose to attend if the school was being a little too stringent on their admissions policy.

Our emotional intimacy included sharing the most intensely private, personal details of our lives. My suspicions had been accurate. Kyra finally admitted to having been a "sex worker", as she put it, for six years; from the time the then-sixteen-year-old had run away from home until we had met in Cyberspace. The experience had changed her, matured her in ways few people ever achieved - certainly not at her age.

Kyra hadn't wanted to deceive me, but she had been afraid to divulge that part of her life to me before we had a chance to meet face-to-face and really get to know one another. As she explained it, most men regarded hookers as 'damaged goods'; suitable for a quick, anonymous fuck, but not relationship material. Kyra had desperately wanted a safe, sane, stable relationship away from her sordid existence. She had turned to the Internet as a way of meeting people in a neutral environment, free from the preconceptions inherent with her life. The "Working Girls" chat room was a very canny ruse on her part. She could meet people who, at least, were INCLINED towards getting to know a hooker as a real person. At the same time, she could easily hide among the obvious phonies and filter out the low-lifes who frequented the room only to find a 'date'.

The more she had gotten to know me online, the more she had been convinced I was The One, the man of her dreams who would rescue her from the emotional trauma of life on the streets. She was quick to point out there was much more to her attraction to me than just that. It was just that she was...complicated. She didn't hate men. In spite of her past, she hadn't lost her taste for sex - especially the kind of lurid, edgy sex that had ensnared her in 'The Life' in the first place. If the truth be known, she still had a special fondness for the kind of overdone sluts whose pictures we both enjoyed. She had simply come to a point in life where she wanted to deal with it all on her terms, not someone else's. She new instinctively I would make her very happy. And, in return....

I swept her up in my arms and kissed her deeply, passionately. When our lips parted, I explained that, although Cyberspace is Cyberspace and anyone can pretend to be anything they wish under the cloak of anonymity, I had suspected all along she was a genuine 'working girl' and the thought had not bothered me. She avowed that part of her life was over and she would never 'date' again, in deference to her love for me. I smiled, gently placed one finger to her lips, and replied even if she did, I believed in her and my love for her was stronger than any jealousy or insecurity that might tear us apart. She liked that a lot. It SOUNDED like the right thing to say at the time, didn't it? I mean, this was my first experience with anything this serious and I was head-over-heels in love with her. If SHE had blown in MY ear, I would have followed her anywhere.

I wasn't a 'hunk' in the traditional sense. I certainly wasn't a 'hulk'. Most women considered me "too small and too pretty", as they often put it, to take seriously. True, I could have had any woman I wished simply by flashing my money around. Does that sound cynical? Anyway, I didn't want to do that and didn't respect guys who did. Then there was Kyra. She and I were within millimeters of the same height. If my diminutive, less-than-imposing physical size and pretty-boy good looks were a problem for her, she never mentioned it. She had giggled about it once, shortly after we had met. She teased that it was nice to finally have a man with whom she could really see "eye-to-eye" - except when she wore heels, of course. "In fact," she purred, "your stature makes you perfect for OTHER PURSUITS."

I suited her to a "T" when it came to oral sex. Although we enjoyed our intercourse, Cunnilingus had always been my favorite form of sexual intimacy. I excelled at eating my (few) lovers out. Since Kyra and I had first begun having sex, I had learned how to push all the right buttons. I knew exactly what to do to bring her to the most shattering, mind-numbing climaxes imaginable. She avowed it was like making love with another woman. That it was a MAN who made slow, soft, considerate, gentle love with such depth of emotion - like a woman - made it even better in her mind. She returned the favor, fellating me to levels of orgasmic bliss I never knew existed.

My love was nothing if not uncannily perceptive - and VERY crafty. One night, in the afterglow of an intense session of sex, she manipulated me into admitting to my most intensely personal, private desire.

"Fess up, Michael," she teased. "The pictures. The lurid pillow talk. The racy, provocative girls we BOTH stare at on the streets. The porn videos we like to watch together. I know you WANTED to be with a hooker all along, even if you don't want to admit it. That's why you were hanging out in 'Working Girls', isn't it? Don't worry; you won't chase me away. I know what a living doll you really are. You are STUCK with me now. Just tell me I am the girl of your dreams and I will be happy."

"No, not exactly," I replied.

She pouted, teasingly. Then, she lightly caressed my naked chest, tenderly raking the flesh with her elegant sculptured nails in that sensual, seductive way she did so well.

"NO? Well then, if it isn't ME, who is it? Britney? J.Lo? Christina? I can show you things those lame-assed bitches have never dreamed of."

"Um, that's kind of complicated."

"I UNDERSTAND 'complicated'. I wrote the book. Tell me more."

I explained it as tactfully as I could, terrified of revealing my sordid secret to ANYONE, let alone one I was truly, madly, deeply in love with.

"You teased me about always having wanted to be with a hooker. That's ALMOST accurate. I have always fantasized about... experiencing Sex from the other side of the gender divide. Oh, there is more to it than that; a lot more. You know me. You know the kind of girls I - WE - lust for. In my fantasies, I never envision myself as the Girl Next Door. I have always been obsessed with the kind of fantasy slut you see in "B" movies; standing on a street corner with Big Hair, too much makeup, long, glistening fingernails, killer curves sheathed in tight, revealing dresses and dangerously high stiletto heels, the works. I want to get inside that slut's head, to know her thoughts, desires, what her life is like. That dream has haunted me as long as I can remember, but I have always regarded it as exactly that; a dream that will never be realized. How would I even begin? I feel so far removed from that world. I haven't known any hookers. I had no idea where to find one until....

As the import of my words suddenly dawned on me, I rushed to put words in my mouth, hoping that, by sheer volume alone, I might accidentally hit on the right ones to cover my amazing lack of sensitivity.

"I love you, Kyra; I really, really do. YES, when we were in the chat room, when I first suspected you might be a REAL 'working girl', my imagination ran wild. I conjured up all the lurid, wanton images that have occupied my brain since... well, a long time, OK? When you started chatting with me, when we began to get REALLY CLOSE, I fell in love with the PERSON, not the sex object. That you were ALSO... uh, 'experienced', was a nice plus. You are out of The Life now. I wouldn't change anything about you. I certainly would not, under ANY circumstances, expect you to go back into it and share your experiences with me, just so I can live it vicariously through you. My fantasy is more direct than that. It's ME that would have to change. I don't want to HAVE a slut. I dream of BEING a slut,"

Kyra raised one eyebrow quizzically.

"Oh? I had a few of dates that liked to act out their own hooker fantasies with me. It was fun. Do you want to play dress-up and be my little B-movie hooker for me around the house?"

"Yes. I mean, no. I mean... this is REALLY complicated. Dressing up might be fun for a while, but it just wouldn't be... enough. I would know it was still ME - a guy in a dress, pretending to be something he wasn't. I think I've been watching too much Reality TV. My fantasies are all in High Definition and Surround Sound now. I don't want to be some old, tired closet queen like those other guys you were with. I want MORE. God, I wish I could just clone you, climb inside your skin and be the 'you' you used to be."

Open mouth, insert foot. REALLY MICHAEL, I thought to myself, YOU HAVE TO LEARN TO JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP. In spite of what she had assured me BEFORE I had begun my little rant, I was deathly afraid Kyra would walk out in disgust, right then and there, and never see me again. She didn't; far from it. She regarded me with her twinkling green eyes, smiled that knowing little smile of hers and snuggled up even closer to me.

"Sweetie, that is the nicest compliment anyone has ever paid me - in an 'out-there' kind of way. It is SO KINKY, too! That explains a lot of things - including why you are so damn good at oral sex. You already THINK like a slut when it comes to pleasuring your partner. In spite of what you might think, I was never quite THAT extreme, but I knew girls who were. You would have loved them. I did - but you already knew that, didn't you? Do you actually KNOW anything about that lifestyle?"

I pursed my lips and shook my head.

"Not a damn thing. Look at me, how I live. I wouldn't know where to go. I wouldn't have the slightest idea how to hustle... JOHNS? TRICKS?"

"Dates."

"DATES. See what I mean? I am completely clueless about all that. As far as living, even LOOKING the part, dream on, Bud. It exists only in my head."

Kyra smiled and gently stroked my cheek.

"That is ACTUALLY a really good way to approach it. You want to see what it's really like to be a slut like that? It's nowhere near as impossible as you think. I hadn't wanted to mention this, but you are a little... well, effeminate. Remember when I told you your stature made you perfect for 'other pursuits'? Look at you. You are almost exactly my height and bone structure. You have that long-legged look that drives men crazy. Those long, slender fingers and perfectly-shaped nails are to die for! I think you would make a GORGEOUS woman with a little work here and there. As for the rest... well, I'll let you in on a little secret. Michael, 'Society' - as you think of it - is a sham. It's all about pretense, image, and spin-control. We are what we PERCEIVE ourselves - and each other - to be. Believe me, I know. You may think you are worlds apart from a whore like that, but you are much closer to her than you could possibly imagine. It's all about the right attitude and how you perceive yourself. If you project the right image, others will perceive you in the same light.

As it happens, you came to the right girl. You want to get inside a slut's head? I know a little something about that lifestyle, Baby. You like the way I get inside YOUR head, don't you? It would be no problem to help YOU get inside HER head, experience her thoughts, desires... her LIFE. Before I say anything else, I have to ask: Do you really love me?"

"I love you more than my life."

"Do you TRUST me?"

"Implicitly."

She kissed me tenderly and smiled her Cheshire smile.

"Then hear me out. I... have always thought the WHOLE IDEA of a man becoming a gorgeous, sexy woman was a real turn-on. I met a lot of T-girls in my time on the streets. They were among my closest friends. I mean, really close - catch my drift? Some of those girls were really into the 'extreme' look, like you and I are so crazy about. In fact, I had a 'drag mother' who taught me most of what I know about makeup, hair, and just being the kind of slut that drives men wild. Through her and the rest of my friends, I made contacts, met people, and learned the tricks and techniques used to transform them into the sexy sirens they became. Soon, I was HELPING them whenever I could. It was such a rush to help change a cute little man into a soft, shapely, sexy, beautiful woman - and from there into the cheap, trashy slut she wanted to be. I hate to admit it, but I got a little... POSSESSIVE. I didn't mind sharing the girl with dates. Dates are dates; they show up, pay you, get off, and leave. What really ate at me was, as soon as the girl was 'done', she would dash off and find herself a 'husband'.

Michael, do you want to know what I thought the first time I saw your picture? 'Wow, with a little work, he would look GREAT in a tight little dress and sky-high heels!' Now you tell me you have always dreamed of being a girl just like the ones I lust for? Oh, my dear, sweet JESUS.... The IDEA of transforming YOU into a girl like that for ME makes me WET. THIS TIME, dear 'husband', I'm going to keep you all to myself! Naturally, it helps that we enjoy... shall we say, UNLIMITED financial resources? Why not play with this a little, explore your ultimate fantasy - for BOTH of us? I love you so much - and this is just so wicked, we can't NOT at least give it a try. This would be my way of sharing myself, my life with you on a level of intimacy few couples ever experience.

There are a couple of conditions, though. First, we can't tell a soul; at least, not the people from YOUR life. That includes family, friends, neighbors, anyone who really knows you. They aren't like us; they would not understand our desires or what we share. They CERTAINLY wouldn't approve of the 'nasty girl' you are going to portray. I don't know WHAT I am going to tell your dear, sweet parents, but I will think of SOME reason why they can't see you. Maybe I will tell them you contracted Berri-berri or something. I can be pretty convincing when I want to be. Second, I will be in charge of EVERYTHING. After all, who knows more about girls like that than me? You must trust me enough to put yourself completely in my hands, without reservation. I crave 'reality' as much as you do. If I think there is something we need to do to make the experience more authentic, more pleasurable for us, then we do it. Baby, I can get you so deeply into a slut's head, you will think you were BORN there. Does that thought appeal to you?"

How could it not?

The pills, diet and exercise came first. I wasn't overweight by any means, but Kyra promised she would have me down to her own sleek one hundred fifteen pounds in no time. I missed my burgers and pizza, but the salads weren't that bad and I wasn't really starving or anything. She said the pills saw to that. She also began "figure-training" me. If I wasn't hungry before she started lacing me into that corset every day, I sure wasn't after. The crushing sensation was really uncomfortable, too. She said I would get used to that after a while.

To take my mind off my physical discomfort, she took me 'back to school' to focus my attention on something else. I began learning what she called "Street Speak", that odd patois of slang, euphemisms, malapropisms and bad grammar that she claimed was the common currency of the life she had known so well. The vocabulary was simplistic, to say the least. The words tended to be slurred, run on, and had a kind of sing-song cadence to them. There seemed to be code words and buzz phrases for EVERYTHING. Everyone is "Baby", "Honey", or "Sugar". She drilled me incessantly, chiding me good-naturedly whenever I slipped up, using a big word or phrase that would have been just as confusing for a street girl as all of this was to me. I was perplexed. It was all so... ALIEN to me.

"Honey, I don't REALLY have to talk like this, do I?"

Kyra put it succinctly:

"Baby, do you KNOW how girls like that talk?"

"No."

"Believe me, I DO; I lived it for six years. We agreed we want this experience to be authentic. Before you can experience a slut's life and desires, a slut's WORLD, you first have to understand what that world IS. Baby, the street scene she inhabits is, for want of a better term, a 'Black Thing', and this is the way everyone talks - even the White girls."

"But we've seen African-Americans, both singles and couples, whenever we went out. THEY don't talk that way."

Kyra smiled sadly and shook her head.

"Michael, 'African-American' is a politically-correct term for a politically-correct segment of the population. The 'African-Americans' you have seen do not represent the world your slut lives in, nor do they want to be associated with it. Remember what I said about Perception? THEY speak the way their peers speak; that is, the people whom they PERCEIVE as their peers - and wish to be perceived as PEERS OF. THEY are on their way UP. YOU, on the other hand..."

She kissed me lightly on the cheek.

"...are on your way DOWN. Your kind of girl is a GHETTO HO', not some suburban ingenue. The 'hood is still about flash, pretense, and spin-control - perhaps even more so than the world you know. But it ISN'T about country clubs, trust funds, and social niceties. It really IS a different world, with its own rhythms, values, and customs. The PEOPLE are different, too. Do you imagine the girls turning tricks on the streets are college graduates? Of course not; most of them are dropouts. I was. They know the streets, their own bodies, and that they can make money by making themselves attractive to men. They look cheap, think cheap, and talk cheap - and the men they date like them that way. In short, they are just like I used to be - like you WILL be when I am finished with you. The first step is to teach you how a slut talks."

"But YOU don't talk that way."

She looked down - and far, far away. When she spoke, her voice was very quiet.

"No, but I USED TO. If we had met even a year ago, you would have met a very different girl. I decided I wanted more from life, wanted to make something of myself. One thing I DID learn in my time on the streets is, a certain perception can make or break you, regardless of what kind of person you are. I realized if I was going to have any chance of escaping all that, I would have to change how others PERCEIVED me - and how I perceived myself. I worked very, very hard to UNLEARN the streets and re-learn THIS. Television and Internet chat rooms were my 'classroom' and you..."

She kissed me again, this time on the mouth.

"...and others like you were my teachers and role models. First I learned WHO to emulate; then I learned HOW. YOU were the prize at the finish line. Now, we're going to have a little fun 'deconstructing' you and re-shaping you into 'a girl like THAT'. Who knows? If I can show you what a slut's life is REALLY like, you might have a better appreciation for THIS one. I know I do.

Now, try again. I want you to THINK in this language, just as any other ghetto ho' does. Lose yourself in the role. In fact, maybe we should work more on THAT right now. Perhaps we need to create a whole new identity for you. That might make it easier for you to get into the right frame of mind. Let's see, what shall we call you? I know! How about... 'Gigi'? Do you like it? I think it sounds scrumptious."

"Gigi? Yeaaah, I like it a lot!"

She smiled at me bemusedly, a twinkle in her eyes.

"OK, GIRLFRIEN', from now on, you are 'Gigi'. 'Michael' doesn't exist anymore. You are that street-smart slut from Uptown you have always seen in your fantasies. To a girl like you, this house, this world, this life might as well be on another planet. You are gorgeous, sexy, overdone, and not too bright. In fact, about the only thing you think about is Sex. You down wit' it, Sugar?"

"ABSOLUMENT."

Kyra sighed heavily and rolled her eyes upward.

"I never thought I would say this to any man, but you are too damn smart. Whether or not you are willing, your subconscious mind is fighting it. I'm gonna have to haul out the HEAVY ARTILLERY."

She came home a few days later with a coy smile on her face. She had arranged with a local professional hypnother****t to commission a series of subliminal learning CD's that would aid me in my language study. Sheila Crane was willing enough and had extensive experience with subliminal learning, but knew nothing about this particular subject matter. In the end, a substantial sum of money had persuaded her to embark upon a collaborative effort - and a somewhat unorthodox method of delivery.

The initial 'induction' therapy was to be performed in person by Ms. Crane herself. She would implant certain 'trigger phrases' in my subconscious that would allow me to be 'converted' - returned to the induction (trance) state - easily. She recorded the introductions to the disks, speaking the triggers that converted me, then passed control to Kyra's voice. SHE narrated the training portions of the therapy, owing to her extensive knowledge of the subject matter. Kyra promised they would not be harmful in any way. They would simply break down the subconscious barriers that prevented me from embracing this simplistic form of communication. We were both excited about the prospects of me learning to speak 'properly' and couldn't wait to begin the therapy.

Ms. Crane came to our home consecutive evenings for a week. Each visit lasted a couple of hours, but seemed like mere minutes. I really don't even remember being hypnotized on any of those occasions, but upon her final visit, she assured me my mind had been thoroughly 'conditioned' and was completely receptive to my new training. That night, after we made love, Kyra gave me a pill to help me relax. She popped the first CD into my Discman, placed it on my bedside table, then slipped the headset over my head. "Miss Thing, you'll have this rap down cold in no time, " she cooed in a sing-song voice.

It was a month or two later when I realized there was something wrong with my cock. I just couldn't get it up anymore. I was so bummed! This isn't supposed to happen to someone my age. Kyra was quick to reassure me.

"Baby, it's nothing to worry about. You are going through some serious chemical and hormonal changes to make you feel more like the woman you have always dreamed of being. This is just an inevitable side effect of those changes. I won't love you any less. In fact, I will love you MORE - because you are willing to put yourself through all this for US. It's not like we won't continue to have great ORAL sex, you know? After we've had our fun with this and decide to change you back, your full function will return, as good as it ever was. In the meantime, we'll cope. Don't dwell on it. Just enjoy the changes in you as they happen. I sure am."

Did I say I wasn't getting erections? Silly me! Oh, I was getting erect all right. My nipples were standing out firm and proud! My breasts were developing, too; AA-cup, A-Cup, B-Cup. My hips and tush were filling out just as prominently. Part of me was thrilled. There was still just enough masculinity within me to cause me to question if perhaps we were wrong to take this fantasy as far as we were. Kyra smiled and giggled.

"Wrong? Baby, from where I'm standing, everything is going wonderfully RIGHT! In fact, I think it's time we ACCELERATE your hormone therapy. When I first agreed to do this with you, I wasn't sure whether or not it would be as good with you as it was with the T-girls back in the 'hood. You know what? It's BETTER! I've REALLY gotten into it. Don't stop now, Baby; not when you are just beginning to look REALLY GOOD. Let's just go with it for a little while longer. You're having fun, aren't you? I'm having a ball with this! If not for yourself, do it for me - please?"

Well, when she put it that way.... I could tell she was pleased with my decision. She already had my first booster shot of 'mones ready and waiting. I put my hands on my hips and glared at her in mock disgust. Kyra smiled impishly. She didn't make me wait for it another second.

"Thank you, Baby. I can't tell you how much this means to me - buuuuut... I can show you. I think this is the perfect time to take your fantasy to the next level. There is a whole new world of sexual experience and response just waiting for you to explore...."

She introduced me to her strap-on.

"It's time for you to experience sex the way girls like you do. Relax. Let go of your hang-ups. Enjoy the sensations. Let me help you get in touch with your 'inner slut'."

She taught me the right way to pay oral homage to a cock, showing me all the little tricks she had learned to make a man gush buckets of cum. She also introduced me to the pleasures of being thoroughly, gloriously, exquisitely FUCKED. The first few days, I was SO SORE! While she had fucked my ass, she had stroked and massaged my limp, but sensitive cock ('clit', as she called it now). I came big time, more so than I had ever experienced as a 'Michael'. She just smiled contentedly, knowingly. When we weren't having sex, she made me wear a butt plug 24/7 to make sure my 'pussy' was properly stretched out - and that I became accustomed to having cock in me all the time. "After all, Sugar," she chided, "that's what sluts like you are for." I guess I shouldn't have been surprised the dildos she fucked me with got successively larger, as did the butt plugs.

I don't know why I continued to put up with shaving. I hated the daily ritual, not to mention the constant nicks and cuts. She thought it was pointless, too - and set up a series of appointments to have my beard removed by laser. OK, it wasn't a really HEAVY beard to begin with, but I was delighted it was gone forever, nonetheless. While she was at it, she had the clinic depilate the rest of my body - including the baby-fine, thinning hair on my head. I might not have gone THAT far of my own choosing, but Kyra reminded me of my pledge to put myself completely in her hands. She had a ready answer to calm my misgivings.

"Don't even TRY to tell me you're going to miss that yucky body hair, Baby. I know you too well. I can tell you for a fact, I won't miss it at all. I like you soft, smooth...FEMININE. As far as the head goes, it's not like you had a full head of thick, attractive hair to begin with. This will actually give us MORE options, not less."

We ordered custom-made wigs with adhesive tabs that hugged my baby-smooth scalp securely. Blonde was the natural choice for my fair complexion and Baby Blue eyes. I soon became accustomed to managing my fuller, longer, thicker, more luxuriant hair. My lover spent hours teaching me how to wash, set, curl, tease, fluff, and shape my new tresses, then fix the 'do in place with lots of sweet-smelling, sticky hairspray. "You have an advantage most of us girls don't, Sweetie," Kyra observed. "You can take your hair OFF and really see it from all sides. You can work with both hands, too, instead of holding a mirror in one and brush in the other." My new hairstyle was not trendy in the sleek, straight, contemporary fashion that was currently en vogue. Kyra had dictated a slut like me looks best with a big, blowsy mane of teased and lacquered curls. She purred how much she adored that style on me, that it made me look deliciously CHEAP.

Kyra made an appointment for us to consult with Dr. Bruce Jensen, the plastic surgeon who had worked his magic on her. He revealed from the outset my girlfriend had confided in him about my desires. I was embarrassed she had 'outed' me to a complete stranger. She smiled breezily and squeezed my hand.

"Don't be silly, Sweetie. First, he is NOT a stranger. We have known him for months. You like what he did for ME, don't you? Besides, he has to know what we want in order to give you the best results - and only the best will do for MY baby. Dr. Jensen is the consummate professional. He is here to HELP you, not pass judgment. Please, hear him out."

Dr. Jensen went on to say he was fascinated with my case. Although he had made many women beautiful beyond compare, he had not yet had the opportunity to work with a 'girl' like me. He relished the personal and professional challenge of such an "extreme makeover". Like Kyra, he could already see intriguing 'possibilities' in my attractive features. The handsome surgeon hoped I would trust him enough to put myself in his hands and promised I would not be disappointed. I acquiesced.

"Ain't no thang, Sugar. Do what ya gotta do. I'm down wit' it."

Kyra beamed radiantly.

Surgery is surgery, in spite of what you see on television. If you don't believe it, go in for even a minor cosmetic procedure - and sift through the mountain of authorizations, disclaimers, releases and waivers you have to read, interpret and sign. I dutifully went over each one with Kyra and Dr. Jensen's office manager. It seemed like they would never end! Kyra had mentioned she had found a business school she was interested in attending. If SHE wanted to spend the rest of her professional life doing THIS, more power to her!

Dr. Jensen and my lover coaxed me into having a brow lift and nose bob, plus implants to make my lips and cheekbones stunningly prominent. The fat pads in my cheeks were suctioned out, giving me that hollowed-out 'Supermodel' look and making the cheekbones even more striking. Shaved brow bones and a 'tuck' at each temple reshaped my eyes, opening them more and pulling them up and out at the corners for an exotic, doe-like appearance. After the incisions had healed, photo-facial treatments with bursts of high-intensity light rendered my hairless complexion soft, smooth, and flawless. Dr. Jensen referred me to an associate who practiced cosmetic dentistry. My already-straight teeth were bleached and capped, rendering my smile as dazzling as a thousand stars. In the end, my face was an exotic mix of the best features of both White and Black women. I was stunning - in a supernaturally, almost obscenely full-lipped, prominent-cheekboned, doe-eyed way. Extreme? Fo' sho'. NO ONE from the world I grew up in ever dreams of looking like this - only SLUTS LIKE ME. Girrrl, when the time came, how would Dr. Jensen EVER put it back the way it was? I wasn't even thinking about that right now. I was thrilled with my new face. So was my honey.

Kyra began teaching me to apply makeup. At first, it was just a little eye shadow, some mascara, a little lipstick. The little, light touches became more and more pronounced, provocative. My lover taught me how to achieve the right combinations of light and shadow, to make a feature boldly prominent or subtly recessive. More and more, she removed "subtlety" from the equation. My newly-altered features took well to the heavily made-up look Kyra desired me to affect on a daily basis. With my Big Hair, my appearance was not even close to the understated, minimalist style that was en vogue. It was DEFINITELY the right look to set me apart, mark me as "different" from polite society - and enflame a man's lust. I knew. When I looked into the mirror, I was turning ME on! Kyra agreed.

"A girl has to know how to make herself attractive for her lover, Baby. Now, I want you to practice this every day, until it becomes second nature for you. I want you to be able to close your eyes and see yourself exactly like this. If you want to FEEL like a slut, you first have to know you LOOK like a slut."

Of course, such a "look" required the appropriate compliment. My lover had delivered on her promise for my diet and figure training. My slender, long-stemmed body looked as good in Kyra's tight-fitting dresses or miniskirts and tops as hers did. She insisted her clothes were too tame for me. I needed my own wardrobe; something flashier, more daring, tailored for my own unique style. We shopped several days straight, going only to the little specialty shops which she said catered to girls like me. We found just the right foundations, lingerie, hosiery, clothing and shoes for the 'new me'. My 'couturier' gleefully bagged every stitch of my male clothes and had Goodwill cart them away. She avowed that was just one more vestige of 'Michael' I needed to be rid of to submerge myself into the role of 'Gigi'. Later - after we had had our fun and decided to return me to my masculine self - 'Michael' could shop for a whole new wardrobe. In the meantime, we filled the empty space in my closet and dresser with my provocative new finery.

Kyra had me wear stockings and high-heels (I mean, really high stiletto heels) to properly accessorize my vampish appearance. The stockings were a natural. I was already corseted 24/7, so attaching them to the garters of whatever corset I was wearing (I had about a dozen by then) just seemed the right thing to do. Soon, I became accustomed to wearing stockings, heels and slutwear every day, just as I was always painted and coiffed. I became very adept in strutting in short, sure-footed, gliding steps, one foot in front of the other, rolling my hips suggestively. Kyra cooed appreciatively.

"Lookin' GOOD, Sweet Thang. You already do that so well. Nothing turns a man on like a pair of long, shapely legs like yours wrapped in stockings and perched on a pair of sexy high heels. You like the look on ME, don't you? Don't I deserve the same consideration? I like a sexy-looking babe, too - and you are EXACTLY that."

"Do I REALLY look good, or are you just saying that to humor me? I mean..."

I extended my arms a bit and pivoted expertly on my heels.

"Would I make a good ghetto ho'?"

Kyra embraced me and kissed me warmly on the lips.

"Baaaa-by, you is SO FINE! A little Retro-80's perhaps, but the boys will all go crazy over it. You would DEFINITELY fit in. Who knows? You might just be the Next Big Thing in the 'hood."

The only shortcoming to my daring new footgear was my aching feet, which became a constant, almost crippling annoyance as I strutted gracefully in my stiletto stilts.

Although Kyra dressed appropriately sexy too, the emphasis was on "appropriate". She had earned her GED and begun her course of study through the University's Adult Education program. She was starting slow, taking but a single night class twice a week, as she had with the GED classes. Because this was a professional program, she was required to maintain a style of personal grooming that would be conducive to the business environment. Her wardrobe, makeup and coiffure kept more to the current fashion trends. One evening, I asked her if she would like to 'dress' with me, knowing she knew what I meant. She giggled a little, but demurred graciously.

" Baby, the look is fine for you. Really it is. I get wet just THINKING about you. You are already one hot little hussy and you will only get more so with time. I promise. But I have already DONE all that. It was right for me at the time, but now I'm ready to move on with my life. You made that possible and I will never be able to thank you enough to express the depth of my gratitude. That doesn't mean I can't still have fun with YOU. You are the ho' in the family now, and I'm gonna make you the sexiest, sluttiest damn ho' in the city!"

Kyra decided my look was not lurid enough; it needed a little more "drama". I just never got the hang of applying false eyelashes. I may have possessed long, slender fingers, but I was all thumbs when it came to that fashion 'necessity'. She clucked impatiently at my feeble attempts. Finally, she set up an appointment at her salon, observing it was time to take a more PROACTIVE approach. On the afternoon of my appointment, I was pacing back and forth across our marble foyer in a tight black k**skin miniskirt, black and white python-print tank top and python ankle-strap pumps with five-inch spikes. I thought nothing of dressing like a five-dollar whore at home, but I was scared shitless to go out in public for the first time, looking the way I did. I knew I looked pretty good, BUT.... As if my nervousness wasn't bad enough, my feet were already killing me! Kyra pooh-poohed my petty inhibitions.

"Don't be silly, Baby. You want to come out of the CLOSET, don't you? It's time for you to get out there in this brave, new world of yours. Sluts like you are MEANT to be seen, to flaunt their assets for others' appreciation. You live for the attention, the thrill, and you know it. That's what this is all about, isn't it? I GUARANTEE no one who sees you will think you are a man. As for the pain in your feet, it's just one of the things we girls put up with to be beautiful. Still, we do know a few SHORTCUTS...."

She extended her hand to me, palm up. It contained a single pill.

"Take this, Sweetie. You will forget all about the pain in your feet - not to mention your nervousness."

It was small and went down easily. A short time later, I felt a kind of glowing numbness. The pain in my feet faded away. I felt light as a feather - and beautiful, sassy, sexy, and invincible! I was ready to strut all the way from our house to the salon, undulating my hips like a slut should. Kyra popped a Li'l Kim disk into the stereo as we pulled out of the gate. Funny, it wasn't as bad as I used to think it was. As we drove, I found myself really getting into the groove. Kyra couldn't help but notice me waving my hands and moving my body in time to the infectious rhythm. In no time, we were chanting the lyrics in unison.

Kyra passed up several available parking places on the bustling street outside the salon, opting to drop me off at a corner two blocks down. "You go on ahead, Baby," she cooed. "They are already waiting for you. I have to run a couple of errands. I'll pick you up later." I sashayed up the street proudly, shaking my bootylicious butt to and fro, still gettin' down with that enchanting Li'l Kim rap. Baby, did I get the LOOKS. Kyra would have been so proud of me! As it turned out, she was. She told me later she had watched my little show from the car.

Kyra had confided in the girls at the salon, just as she had with Bruce Jensen. Gayle, the owner, and all her operators seemed to be entranced with the prospect of helping my girlfriend bring out the 'slut' in me. This time, high as I was on the pain medication, it didn't faze me a bit. I surrendered myself to their attentions and relished every moment. Semi-permanent lash implants were applied to both my upper and lower lash lines. They were long, thick, curly and really black. The look was very 'Las Vegas showgirl' - or 'Hollywood Whore'. Dita, the esthetician, read my mind.

"You really like the 'Slut Look', don't you Sweetie? I knew you would. When Kyra told me what you wanted, I knew this look would be PERFECT for you. The effect really flatters you, too. It just looks sooo over-the-top. While we're at it, lets try a couple of other little touches...."

My brow lift had already raised my eyebrows far above what could ever pass as masculine - and higher than all but the most extreme of women's style statements. But they were still unruly, with no shape to them. Dita removed them completely with her electrolysis gear, then tattooed in perfectly shaped, pencil-thin, angled arches. While she was at it, she tattooed deep black liner along my upper and lower eyelids, a thick, dark red outline around my mouth, then filled in my plush lips with Softsilver Rose lipstick. As a final touch, she tattooed a 'beauty mark' just beyond the corner of my mouth. The permanent makeup would allow me to look fabulous with greatly reduced effort, while being flexible enough to enhance with more dramatic makeup for any outfit or effect. Then she multiple-pierced each of my ears. Consuela and Rachel, the two nail techs, applied acrylic sculptured fingernails and toenails. That's right; sculptured toenails - with toe rings ("It's all the rage right now, Gigi. Doesn't it just make your feet look darling?"). What could I say? I DID like the look. It just didn't deserve to be hidden away inside shoes....

Kyra took me shoe shopping when she picked me up. We went to three different specialty shops on the boulevard that catered to exotic dancers and others who desired more extreme, provocative shoe styles. We purchased over two-dozen pairs of open-toed pumps and sandals. We also found a dozen or so pairs of boots - ankle, knee-high, and ultra-sinful thigh-high - I just had to have. Of course, they all had ultra-high, stiletto heels; six inches, seven inches, and one pair of fetish sandals with nine-inch spikes. Some had platform soles; many did not. My slender, shapely five-foot-six-inch frame was perched high and proud on my stiletto stilts wherever I went. They made my legs look sensational. After all the time I had spent in them, the sky-high heels altered the way I carried myself - even thought about myself. Pain? Not anymore, Honey! I just popped a pill. I was good to go - anywhere, anytime, without a twitch.

I saw myself in the mirror, day after day, dressed and made up like a tramp. The subliminal disks and my girlfriend's loving, but determined tutelage had done their work. My brain struggled less and less between the two distinctly different modes of communication - and thought. More and more, I talked as cheap as I looked, just as Kyra had promised. I knew I was different than before; one look in the mirror proved that. I was beginning to see the world around me differently, too. For the first time, I realized how phony and superficial the people were. I felt liberated, free to be the real me for the first time.

Kyra took me out often, whether to go shopping, to dinner, even to a movie. She developed a little game we both enjoyed playing in very public places. We would each dress our provocative best - she tastefully sexy, me in my sleazy 'hooker chic'. Kyra always drove our SL500 ("No one would believe a slut like you could EVER own a car like this"). She would drop me off some distance away, then drive on to our rendezvous, valet the car and wait for me. I would sashay up the street, alone, under the collective gaze of everyone. Kyra strategically positioned herself to watch the show. She offered me incentives to do my best to convince my audience I was 'working it' on the boulevard. If men solicited me under her appreciative gaze, I got perks - lots and lots of perks - when we got home.

We had the script down cold. We ran into each other 'by chance'. We were old friends from high school who had gone our separate - and very different - ways. Kyra reminisced aloud - for the benefit of those around us - about our school days, when we were together on the Pom-Pom squad. She talked about her business career downtown. Then, she would allude to the start of my 'troubles'; my bad taste in boys, growing reputation as a 'loose woman', and, finally, the scandal involving d**gs and the gym teacher. That episode had gotten HIM fired and ME expelled. I would go on to reveal my new life and 'profession' in a smug, self-satisfied tone meant to be overheard. I went on about how much I enjoyed doin' the ho' stroll, out on the street where everyone could see me, want me, have me - for the right price.

At first, Kyra would feign utter shock and astonishment ("No! Not you. You can't be serious!") Her uncomprehending reply was peppered with words like "hooker", "whore", and "slut". She would try to keep her voice down, but her 'emotion' would get the better of her, causing her to speak up just loudly enough for the people around us to take it all in. At last, she would feign understanding - and reluctant acceptance. She listened intently, nodding sympathetically in all the right places, yet showing just a trace of sadness in her eyes for her former best friend - the good girl gone bad. Kyra was such a good actress, and I was playing my role from the heart. We would go home after an evening of 'shock theater' and have a good laugh at the expense of the people we had scammed. Then, we would fuck like bunnies.

Kyra had been eerily accurate in her assessment of Society and perception. She, dressed as the young, beautiful, oh-so-chic, upwardly-mobile socialite, was warmly accepted wherever we went; I was not - or only grudgingly so when I was with her. I was different now, not one of them. I saw the looks of scorn in the eyes of 'proper folk' as they recoiled from me. I also saw the covert glances of lust from a number of men who would not want others to know their innermost desires. The shady little pricks! What did I ever think I had in common with them? There they were in their fine, expensive suits, drinking their fine, expensive wine, eating their fine, expensive sushi, then driving back to their fine, expensive homes. They dissed me, talked trash about me to all their uptight friends - and all the while wanted to do me when none of their oh-so-proper friends were watching. Bring it on, Sugar! Just make sure you bring your fine, expensive WALLET, too.

I gradually retreated from my sense of belonging to the uptight, oh-so-correct culture that had sheltered and nurtured me all my life. At the same time, that culture was shunning ME in contempt. The more they glared at me in silent disgust and ridicule, the more contemptuous and defiant of them I became. Here I am, you sanc..., sancti..., little shits; right under your blue noses. And here I stay. You can hate me. You can disrespect me. But I won't let you deny me! I became more and more comfortable in the persona of that cheap, trashy little slut I portrayed.

We continued with our strap-on play, doing it at any time of day, anywhere she felt the urge, and in more positions than I knew existed. Kyra didn't make love to me; she FUCKED me, taking me, using me like the cheap little fucktoy she was transforming me into. She adored talking trash while she fucked me. She called me a slut, a tramp, a whore, a cheap little cum-catcher who lived to suck and fuck, the kind that belonged on a street corner hustling dates. She chided I had better get comfortable with that idea, because by the time she was done with me, that would be all I was good for - and all I cared about.

I adored that kind of talk. It was my perfect fantasy, like she had tapped into my very soul and was playing it back for me verbally. Her repeated, insistent 'mind fuck', in addition to my altered perception of my appearance and persona, gradually altered the way I responded to sexual stimuli. She was fucking me more and more, but stroking my 'clitty' less and less. That did not seem to matter. In time, she brought me to the most gut-wrenching orgasms without touching my hormonally-shrunken clitty-cock at all.

The more I experienced, the more I wanted. We checked out the girls we saw on the streets and in the adult videos we watched together. We both adored the tattoos and piercings many of them displayed so proudly. My lover had a beautiful piercing in her navel and a sunburst tattooed on her left ankle. I had always told her how attractive I thought they were. Now, she turned the tables.

"You know, Baby, since you are becoming this sweet, sexy young thing, it's time for you to be 'marked', too. After all, you don't want people to mistake you for Little Miss Pure-As-The-Driven-Snow, do you?"

I didn't see how there was any danger of THAT, but the idea was appealing, nonetheless.

We made a series of trips to a tattoo parlor - with me dressed like I was workin' it. I didn't even give a thought to appearing that way in broad daylight. I just popped a pill, surrendered myself to that warm, wonderful glow, and set off atop my spike-heeled pedestals. Kyra always knew just the right words to say to put me in the proper mindset.

"Oh, yeah, work it, Baby! Work it GOOD. Isn't this what it's all about, Baby? You need to be SEEN, out in public where everyone can lust for you the way I do. You are the sexy, uninhibited slut you have always wanted to be. That's what people see. That's how people perceive you. Now, walk sexy for me. I just love to watch you strut your stuff in those high heels."

When my "artwork" was complete, I had a scorpion on my left ankle, a 'pole kitty' in thigh-high boots on my right ankle, a barbed-wire band around my left bicep, an ornate scrollwork design across the 'saddle' of my hips, a large, blossoming red rose on my left breast, and the words "Fuck Toy" in flowing script across my right butt cheek. My nipples were pierced with gold rings. My navel had a matching ring. My tongue sported twin barbells. A delicate gold ring pierced my left nostril. The tattoo artist came on to me something fierce. Kyra encouraged me to flirt with him throughout our visits. At the end of our final visit, Kyra instructed me to 'tip' him for all his efforts while she ran an errand. She picked me up forty-five minutes later. I settled into the plush leather seat as she pulled out, a look of smug satisfaction on my face, a load of cum in my tummy, and another oozing out of my love nest.

My lover adored my new look - and taking me out to show off her 'creation'. She changed the rules of our little 'game', too. She began taking me to dance clubs - and introducing me around. A lot of the clubs in the city's nightlife district catered to a mixed-culture, hip-hop/rap/extended dance mix theme. The atmosphere was mostly singles; Whites, Latinos, Asians, and Blacks. It was my first introduction to the difference between 'African-American' and 'Black'. She had been right; there was nothing 'politically-correct' about many of the Black men we met and danced with. Kyra made certain they knew I liked to 'party' and insisted I act the part. If a man came on to me, offered me a drink or dance, or copped a feel of my body, I was not to refuse. Once I discovered how pleasurable it all was, I lost my inhibitions. On more than one occasion, I returned from the dance floor or Ladies' room to discover she had left without me - with some other man. Was I mad? Jealous? 'Michael' probably would have been. 'Gigi' was too busy with her own pleasures. I just got a ride from one or another of my admirers. If I liked him, HE got a ride, too - if you know what I mean.

Soon, Kyra decreed it was sinful for a slut like me to be home, alone, just because SHE had to go to school. She gave me a ride to one or another club on her way to class. As always, she dropped me off down the street, leaving me to sashay up to the club alone ("It's for your own good, Sweetie. Sluts like you don't get dropped off at the door by their mommies"). She made it clear I was a "big girl" now. I was under explicit instructions to stay out late, be 'nice' to all the boys who came on to me - and find my own way home. In addition, she frequently called me on my cell phone to inquire about what I was doing at the moment - and to present me with my nightly 'challenge'. The challenges ranged from giving some lucky guy a blow job in a public place, to not returning home until at least noon the next day - requiring me to arrange 'alternate accommodations' until then. Of course, when I DID return home, I would have to tell her everything. She was really cool about my lovers, noting "That is what sluts like you do." Kyra was the one attending classes, but I was getting quite an 'education' myself; learning how to manipulate the men who came on to me, getting them to do what I wanted. In return, I had to give them what THEY wanted - not that it was any great sacrifice on my part. I couldn't have been more thrilled. Well, maybe a little....

Kyra had told me in the beginning to put myself completely in her hands, that she would do whatever she thought necessary to make the experience "more realistic, more pleasurable". It certainly had been that so far. The surgical procedures, artwork, piercings, hair and cosmetic artistry had made me beautiful - in a distinctly sleazy way. Months of being "pickled" by intensive hormone therapy had filled me out to a D-cup bustline, with hips and tush to match. My whole body was soft, smooth, and supple to the touch. My male appendage had shrunken to a tiny little nub. My balls... well, I could barely find them anymore. I had mixed emotions about that. I didn't really miss them, and my diminished genitalia certainly made my new identity more convincing to everyone - including myself. My well-trained shemale pussy tingled in anticipation of being filled by a big, fat cock. When we finally decided the thrill of it was gone, it would take a long time for 'Michael' to return. I wasn't ready to think about that just yet. I was having the time of my life.

One evening, we were snuggled up together on the sofa, indulging in one of our favorite mutual delights; admiring photos of our favorite busty female porn stars. In addition to purchasing adult magazines and videos, we kept several scrapbooks filled with color printouts of JPEGs we had downloaded from the Internet. We were browsing one of those notebooks at that moment, checking out a new batch of JPEGs Kyra had just printed. In spite of my prominent curves, I looked positively FLAT compared to some of our favorite foxes. Secretly, I was... envious.

"You know, Baby, you would really look good if you were...BUSTIER."

Oh, God, did that thought make me wet! I looked at the print of the current object of our mutual affection, held pristinely within its protective plastic sleeve. 'Endowed' didn't begin to describe her amazing pulchritude. That is was so obviously, blatantly, gloriously FAKE made it all the more alluring to Kyra and me. I looked back at my kinky lover.

"You thin' so? Gee, I dunno. I mean, yeah, I loves th' look, but... I mean, should we?"

She jabbed me playfully in the ribs with her elbow.

"Don't even go there with that 'should we' crap. You KNOW you would love it. I've been really good about making your fantasy come true, giving you what you have always wanted. This is something I want. You know I adore girls like these. I want the real thing, right here next to me - to ogle, fondle, drool over. Remember, you put yourself COMPLETELY in my hands. I have decided; you NEED a bust like this to really understand what it is to be a slut. I told you I was going to make you the BIGGEST damn ho' in the city, didn't I? My cunt is dripping already!"

Mine too. I had a vague uneasiness I had to put to words.

"Wud we stil' b' able t' go out together? I mean, even if I's only has double-D's, I's still gonna be a real sight. Wud'n' you feel uncomf'table bein' seen wit me? Wud'n' people stare?"

She started laughing - and kept laughing until big, heavy tears rolled down her cheeks. She finally composed herself sufficiently to utter a coherent reply.

"ONLY double-D's, huh? I like the way you think. Actually, I had something a little BIGGER in mind. As for people staring, that's exactly the point, isn't it? Think about how people stare at you NOW. I know you are living for it. You WANT to be admired, lusted for. That is what being a slut is all about. Don't you DARE worry about me being 'uncomfortable' about being seen with you. Weren't you listening to me a moment ago? I LOVE big titties. I only wish I could get them for myself, but that just wouldn't be compatible with a career in Business. The thought of making YOU the big-boobed bimbo of my dreams is making me CREAM. So, I'll call Bruce - Dr. Jensen - in the morning. Just think of it as 'one small step for Man' - and one giant leap for me!"

Here we go again with the damn consent forms! There seemed to be TWICE as many this time. I really, REALLY hated this part. This time, I just signed the damn things as quickly as Kyra and Diane, the office manager, handed them to me. There - DONE! Then, there was the procedure itself. Dr. Jensen told me what to expect. The incisions would be barely noticeable after they healed (the bags would be empty when inserted, then filled once they were in place), but he would have to hollow out some pretty big pockets under my chest muscle to accommodate implants that size (WHAT size, dammit? I still didn't know). Due to the extreme nature of my implant surgery, Dr. Jensen preferred I receive a general anesthetic. I knew him well enough by that time to trust his judgment. What the Hell; I had already signed THAT consent form. He really was an attractive man. Maybe....

I awoke in the recovery room, expecting what the doctor had foretold. I knew there would be a stout, lo