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Chardsville Revisited (part 1) by Jenny Leeds Chapter 1 Upon hanging the new portrait the ladies stepped back and gazed raptly at their images. The portrait--well, you couldn't really call it that, "portrait," for it had none of the usual formality of such pictures--call it a painting instead--showed them naked in the same stately, high-ceilinged drawing room they were standing in now. In the painting Mrs. Argentina sat at one end of the couch, generous lips parted in an affectionate grin. Mrs. Chard reclined, one slender leg trailing down to the floor, head on the other woman's lap, looking up at her. It was little more than a picture of two lovely women spending a quiet siesta together, a peaceful moment away from the world, but Mrs. Argentina's hand rested casually on one of Mrs. Chard's rose-nippled breasts to reveal a more- than-casual intimacy. The artist had captured the pearly light that came through tall French doors opening onto a terrace. It blessed the figures, bridged the difference in their complexions--Mrs. Chard was so fair that her skin looked transparent, while Mrs. Argentina's flesh had a warm tone--and then disappeared into the tall ceiling. Mrs. Chard's likeness was thin and small-bosomed and fragile looking. Her curly platinum hair was cut in a short bob. The eyes, vivid with long eyelashes, were so light they seemed only tinted by blue. Pink lips curved in a gentle smile. Her neatly-formed breasts had erect nipples, and as the viewer's eye moved to the join of her thighs, it was apparent that she was a true blonde: the precisely-limned pubic hairs were almost as fair in color as the hair on her head. They were sparse, and failed to conceal a pinkness between labia that were slightly parted because of the position of her legs. By contrast, Mrs. Argentina was opulent and buxom. Raven hair cascaded over one shoulder to a slender waist. Midnight-dark eyes flashed brilliantly above carmined lips. The breasts were full white orbs tipped with prominent nipples, and her belly curved sweetly down to a bushy mound of Venus, a dark triangle juxtaposed with Mrs. Chard's light curls. Although the painting was done with dispassion, brush strokes small and inconspicuous as they informed the figures with utter realism, there was something wholly sensuous about it. In an ineffable way the painting tapped a primal emotion in the viewer, so strong it was suffocating. Men and women alike would long to caress the sensual fragility of Mrs. Chard, and to feel the warmth of Mrs. Argentina against them. It was a magnificent painting, but it was shocking, all the more because you couldn't quite tell why it was shocking, and because in real life both ladies were the epitome of refinement and reserve. To the outside world Mrs. Chard seemed as cold as the diamantine ice of the Arctic; Mrs. Argentina, hair piled on her head in an intricate hairdo, authoritarian and untouchable. The ladies looked at each other. Far from being displeased, they thought the artist had captured their true personalities. They had been close friends for many years and had discovered that the similarity of those personalities completely overshadowed the physical difference between them. They were in their late thirties, both long- divorced, both rich enough to indulge themselves in idleness. Men made them uneasy, and for the most part they avoided them, but they were prepared to look favorably on the artist who seemed to understand them so well, and who said so in paint so fearlessly. "I swear, that man is a genius," said Mrs. Argentina. "Yes. It's beautiful. But now that I see it on the wall, it's a little embarrassing." "Oh, Estelle, this is the twentieth century. Anyway, all of Jack Landon's paintings look that way. The man must be a sex maniac." Their laughter rang through the drawing room. Mrs. Chard said, "Speaking of sex maniacs, did you see that portrait of Mrs. Myers?" "Your bank president's wife? In the Landons' parlor. Why?" "She shaves herself down there." "Oh, I know! I saw it. It looks sexy, doesn't it? She's a lovely woman." Sultriness effervesced in Mrs. Argentina's eyes. Mrs. Chard noted it. "Marie, you're incorrigible. She *is* lovely, though. I can't imagine why she's wasting her life married to Howard Myers, he's such a thoroughgoing prig." "That's what you want a bank president to be," Mrs. Argentina pointed out. "I suppose so." Mrs. Chard laughed again. "He can't be all bad, can he? If his wife poses nude and shaves herself down there." "Their daughter does, too. It must run in the family." "Daughter?" "Mrs. Landon. Her portrait's in the parlor opposite Mrs. Myers." "She's their daughter? I didn't know that," Mrs. Chard said. "She has to be, she looks so much like her. Same curly brown hair and blue eyes, and you can see that Mrs. Myers' figure must have been just as slender at that age. Didn't you notice?" "No, but I'll look the next time. That's funny ..." Mrs. Chard was thoughtful. "I didn't know they had a daughter. I seem to remember a boy. Mr. Myers sent a birth announcement. Jerome, or Gerald, something like that, but I don't remember a girl." She frowned. After a moment the ladies' eyes met. They were thinking the same thing. It had been seven years since they first put their sons in dresses. It was a matter of discipline, a unique and effective punishment. Leslie and Johnny were loud, coarse, ill-mannered thirteen-year-olds who needed to be taken down a peg and taught a semblance of refinement. But then Mrs. Chard had seen how charming Leslie looked in skirts, how ... *demure,* and had given in to the impulse to keep him as the daughter she had always longed to fuss over. Mrs. Argentina had regarded it as an opportunity to prevent Johnny from growing into--ugh!--a *man.* Her marriage and divorce had left scars. The boys objected, of course, but the ladies knew how to enforce discipline, both by punishment and reward. Yes, and when Mrs. Chard discovered Leslie's penis coming erect as she fastened his stockings to his garter belt, the "reward" became no less than sexual. It was very effective. Disgraceful, it was *incest,* but Mrs. Chard had been without sex since before Leslie was born, and the sight of her son's erection had stimulated her beyond any moral scruples she might have had. The boy, bathed and perfumed in frilly clothes, totally under her control, couldn't remind her of his father, by whom she had felt so threatened she had never had an orgasm. She surrendered to her urges. That first night she made Leslie wear a nightgown and sleep with her, telling him it was all right for girls to share a bed. She got undressed in front of him as if he really were a female. She pretended not to notice the little erection under his gown as he, in turn, pretended not to be staring at her naked body. However, once in bed cuddled next to him--he seemed alarmed by her unusual display of affection--she whispered, "You're such a good child to show your mother what it's like to have a girl around the house. You deserve a treat." She pulled his nightie up around his waist and lay on top of the dewy-eyed creature, so young and impressionable, legs between his as if she were the man and he were the girl. It was a reassuring position for her. His harmless little thing was a delight, supremely rigid but not big enough to offer any insult to the tender tissues down there. She moved her hips up and down, massaging her wetness against his pubic area. In a very short while she climaxed for the first time in her life, with a violence that took her by surprise, and then again when she felt the hot squirt of his young fluid. He was so grateful and willing. From then on she had no trouble dressing him as she wished. He got erect every time she was near, which was flattering, and useful for controlling his behavior. And for making him available to her any time her vulva sent its unmistakable message that it needed attention. He and Johnny looked cute together in their dresses. When she and Marie Argentina had privately discovered that males were not entirely necessary for sexual satisfaction, they had Leslie and Johnny share a bed while the ladies slept in Mrs. Chard's bedroom. She sometimes wondered if anything went on between the boys after the lights were out. She had heard about boys in puberty. After the children were graduated from St. Swithin's Elementary School they all moved up to Chardsville, Mrs. Chard's childhood home. Mrs. Argentina bought the mansion next door, and they registered Leslie and Johnny (renamed "Joan") in the public high school as girls. To minimize the risk of discovery, they arranged for a doctor to alter the boys' bodies to simulate femininity. Not sex-change operations, nothing had been removed, just breast implants for Johnny, hormone treatment for Leslie, and a small procedure to conceal their puppy genitals. Mrs. Argentina's voice broke into her reverie. "It's quite impossible, Estelle." "What?" "What you're thinking. That she's like Leslie and Joan." Although Mrs. Chard often gave the impression of being a silly woman under the frangible elegance of her exterior, it was largely because she was rich enough to do or say anything she pleased. In fact, however, her mind was shrewd and calculating and her memory was unusually good. In her mind's eye she could see the birth announcement, when was it, Leslie was about three, so it was sixteen or seventeen years ago, which was just about Mrs. Landon's age. It was a boy. Its name was, what, Jerome? Gerald? Gerard? Gerard. That was it. She remembered Mr. Myers saying something about its being named after his grandfather. Since then, nothing. If the Myers had another child they would have been sure to send her an announcement. After all, she was the bank's majority stockholder. Mr. Myers' position as president depended entirely on her. Giggles in the entrance hall told her that Leslie and Johnny had come in. In a moment the children passed the drawing room portals on their way upstairs to Leslie's bedroom suite. "Girls, come in here a minute, will you?" Mrs. Chard turned to Mrs. Argentina and continued in a low tone, "I'm almost sure the Myers had only one child, and it was a boy." Lighting up the room like flowers, the "girls" entered in a flurry of skirts and flashing smiles. Johnny said, "Hey, is that the new portrait? It's beautiful." The youngsters gazed at it. They had come a long way in the last seven years. At twenty, they were unusually attractive, Mrs. Chard mused. Dr. Goody's treatment had made their bodies slim and feminine-looking and their faces were bright and sweet; Leslie with his sparkling gray eyes and the slight overbite which made him look friendly and cute; Johnny with his straight brown hair and lustrous eyes and happy smile. Mrs. Chard knew that in the beginning the boys were only waiting for the day when they turned eighteen and became emancipated from their mothers, and could return to Dr. Goody. He had told them the procedure was reversible, that he could cause their breasts to disappear and remove the stitches that kept their genitals hidden. But the day had come and they hadn't done it. It would do no good. They would end up undersized, delicate- looking men at best. They were better off this way. She looked at them fondly. They were still such children, but they were undeniably growing up. It was a shame. They had all been so close, but now the girls had their own friends and were starting to live their own lives. It bothered her that Leslie had begun keeping company with that Melvin Woicyk. Harmless enough, she guessed, since Woicyk knew all about Leslie. For that very reason, however, she couldn't understand why the man wanted to spend so much time with him, or for that matter, why Leslie would actually go on what amounted to *dates* with Woicyk. Dinner, theater, all that kind of thing. Perhaps it was just loneliness, or the companionship of someone close to his own age. It wasn't as if Leslie was, er, *that* way. She remembered how eager he had been to have sex with her, and then later, with that young girl, Alice. Although in the course of time Mrs. Chard had seduced Alice and weaned her away from Leslie, the girl had come up pregnant, and hadn't *that* been a mess until she had straightened it out. Alice had an abortion. Even with their eyes on Mrs. Chard's wealth, her parents had to agree that fifteen was too young for Alice to become a mother. A modest settlement had sent them packing. It was too bad --Alice was a lovely child, Mrs. Chard mused regretfully. But at any rate it showed that Leslie had the normal instincts. Woicyk was the one who had rescued Leslie from the football team in the park. The boys had discovered Leslie's true gender and were sadistically showing him what men did to women. Woicyk, then a young park patrolman, had proven resourceful and discreet. He had bundled the naked, bruised, sobbing teenager in a blanket, and instead of taking him to the Emergency Room or the station house, brought him directly home; so no one, except the football team, knew. Then he threatened each member of the team privately and succeeded in insuring their silence. Mrs. Chard had a chat with the police chief the following week, and Woicyk was promoted to detective third-grade. During the next six months the eleven football players left town. One by one their fathers were mysteriously laid off or fired, the banks foreclosed on their homes, and any investments they had, somehow failed. Mrs. Chard owned the industry that supported the town, and held majority interest in all three of Chardsville's banks. A couple of months ago Woicyk and Leslie met again by chance, and despite knowing about Leslie, the young detective asked him out. They had been seeing each other ever since. Johnny was also going out with a man, Michael Jaffe. They had known each other since high school, and their relationship seemed open and innocent. Still, who knew about young people these days? Mrs. Chard shrugged mentally. "Joan, dear, your mother and I were just talking about the Landons. You know them pretty well, don't you?" "Yes, Mrs. Chard." "And Mr. and Mrs. Myers?" "Not as well as the Landons, but Mrs. Myers is over there a lot, so I know her to talk to." "Is she Mrs. Landon's mother?" Johnny looked faintly surprised. "Oh, sure." "How do you know? Did she tell you?" Johnny opened his mouth, closed it again. He tossed the straight hair out of his eyes and after a moment said slowly, "No-o, I don't think so. I guess I just assumed it. They look so much alike. Wait, now I remember. I heard Suzie call her Mom, I think." His expression cleared. "Sure, that's it. She calls her Mom." "Of course. Now, tell me, has Mrs. Landon got a brother?" "She never mentioned it. Why, what's wrong?" "Nothing, dear. Your mother and I were curious, that's all." Mrs. Chard flashed a meaningful look at Mrs. Argentina before saying to Leslie, who was still staring at the portrait, "What do you think? It's lovely, isn't it?" "Yes. But ..." "What?" "It's so, I don't know, sexy. Should you have it hung in the drawing room where everybody can see?" Mrs. Chard arched her eyebrows. "What is so 'sexy' about it?" "I don't know. You and Mrs. Argentina don't have any clothes on, but that's not it, I guess. There's lots of pictures of naked women. It's just-- sexy, that's all. People might get the wrong idea." Mrs. Chard studied her son's face. She knew him so well. An all-but- imperceptible glint in his mascaraed eyes told her he was erect in his panties. It pleased her. She was vain enough to be flattered by Leslie's excitement at seeing her unclothed in a painting. She patted his cheek and repeated Mrs. Argentina's words. "It's the twentieth century, you know, dear. You two run along now. Ask Angie to fix you a snack if you're hungry." When the boys had gone, she turned to Mrs. Argentina. "See?" A smile tugged at the corners of Mrs. Argentina's scarlet lips. "Now, Estelle. You have such a penchant for finding mysteries in every little coincidence. Perhaps Mrs. Myers was married before, and Mrs. Landon is *her* child. We both know that Suzanne couldn't be like Leslie and Joan. After all, she has a husband and two children of her own, and we both saw her pregnant. And Joan says she breast-feeds the baby." "I know, I know. But there's something fishy here, and I mean to get to the bottom of it." Chapter 2 Helen Myers braked and swerved. The little rabbit on the road hadn't been able to decide which way to flee until the last moment. She let out her breath. It would have spoiled the rest of the day for her if she had run over the poor creature, and that would be a shame, because she was on her way to help celebrate her son-in-law's sale of a painting for more money than she would ever have dreamed. There was a case of champagne in the car's trunk to express her delight at how well Jack and Suzie were getting along, both financially and domestically. A warm breeze caressed her face and tugged at her hair through the open window, but didn't do much to cool her off. Her sun-dress was already sticky against her skin, and she had taken a refreshing shower just before leaving, too. August was always difficult. She was wearing the bare minimum of clothes. Sandals on her feet, no stockings, no bra or panties either. The Ladies Society would be shocked. They were not pleased with her these days anyway. Ever since Suzie had come back to Chardsville two and a half years ago, Jack in tow, Helen had changed her attitude about many things and was no longer as rigid and prudish as the rest of the ladies. It showed. She should have waited for evening to go over to Jack and Suzie's, it would be cooler, but Howard had gone on one of his disreputable weekends down to the city, and the house was too quiet. Boring. On the farm there was always something to do, even if it was only to chat with Suzie in the kitchen and admire the babies. It was funny about Helen and babies. She must be a psychological mess. She had always loved bearing children, creating a new life inside her; but once they were born she lost all interest. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was raise kids. That was probably part of the reason Suzie had run away from home at the age of thirteen. Two years later Howard had found the child in the city, already married to Jack, and had brought them back to Chardsville with him. The marriage wasn't entirely legal, naturally, but one of Jack's friends was a mail-order preacher and had undertaken to tie the knot in defiance of the law. By contrast with Helen, Jack and Suzie loved kids. Suzie was affectionate and caring, so much so that she nursed the babies, which gave Helen the willies to see. She had fed Suzie from a bottle. Jack turned out to be a good father. Although he avoided the messy chores like diaper-changing, for which Helen couldn't blame him, he was always there to hold them patiently when they fretted, a luminous proud expression on his face. His eighteen-month-old daughter was the apple of his eye, but clearly he was waiting for the little boy, only four months old, to grow up so he could take him fishing or play football with him or whatever men did with their sons. An orphan himself, Jack wanted a large family. Helen started blushing and almost missed the turn onto the country road that led to the farm. Celebration? Who was she fooling? She had every intention of getting pregnant this evening. And every intention of enjoying it. She was sure Jack and Suzie would agree. Since they couldn't have children of their own, the ideal way for them to have lots of kids was for Helen to provide them, as a surrogate mother. That way there was no awkward business involving adoption. Suzie had been ingenious when Helen got pregnant with Lucy two and a half years ago. By buying what theatrical-supply houses called a "maternity cushion," a foam-rubber belly with solid-rubber inserts to make it increase in size and weight weekly according to Helen's own progress, Suzie had been able to show the world all the necessary evidence of pregnancy. In the meantime, Howard had rented an apartment for Helen in the city as soon as she had begun to show, and she had given birth in a hospital down there. She gave her name as "Suzanne Landon" for Baby Lucy's birth certificate; the father was "John Landon." A year later, Helen delivered another baby to them: little Bobby. The birth certificates and appearance of pregnancy would have been enough for anyone else, but Suzie was always so imaginative and headstrong. A visit to a doctor in the city had resulted in a prescription for prolactin, the hormone that causes the breasts to produce milk, so the world was presented with further evidence of the legitimacy of Suzie's pregnancies. Helen turned the car into the gravel driveway. The old farmhouse looked comfortable and friendly. There were flowers everywhere. She drove around to the kitchen door. Little Lucy, playing an absorbed game with a leaking garden hose that seemed to involve quantities of mud, spared her a radiant smile and suffered her to give her a cautious kiss on the least soiled part of her cheek before returning to her game. She controlled the impulse to take the child inside for a good bath. Jack and Suzie were casual about dirt, maintaining *their* dirt was *clean* dirt, not like disease-ridden "city dirt," and if the kids started and ended the day scrubbed pink, what happened in between didn't matter. There might be something to it at that. The whole family was abysmally healthy, and the farm did seem to be a good place to raise kids, safe, and with plenty of interesting things for children to do. Suzie was stacking dishes in the cupboard one-handed; the other arm held Bobby awkwardly against a rounded bosom. Like Helen, Suzie wore a light cotton summer frock and not much else. "Hi, Mom! You're early." "Your father went down to the city. Where's Jack?" "Out in the studio. I don't think he notices the heat when he's painting." Suzie's smile was pale. Helen took the baby and made incoherent noises to it--him--until he smiled toothlessly. She wouldn't want to raise him, but he was darling. Every time she saw him she had a feeling of pride. Like his sister, he was a perfect little baby. He would grow up to look like Jack. She had done a good job. "I forgot, there's a case of champagne in the car." Helen put the baby down in his crib and watched him close his eyes. "Come help me get it and we'll put a few bottles on ice. It'll be cold by the time Jack's done painting." "Champagne! Mom, you're so nice." After they retrieved the wine, Helen smiled to see Suzie pour iced coffee for them in that cute I'm-playing-House way. Suzie caught her watching and twinkled, "So Daddy's down in the city again. Oh-oh." Helen smiled. "He's probably already in that bar he found you in, what's it called?" "The Chanticleer." "Yes. Suzie?" "Um?" "Are you happy? I mean, to be away from there and--to be the way you are?" Suzie's eyes softened. "Oh, yes, Mom. To both. And to have little Lucy and Bobby. I'm so grateful to you. It wouldn't be the same without them. I'd always feel guilty about not being able to give Jack children." "I'm glad. I'm grateful to you and Jack too." She felt her cheeks get hot. "I'd never have known about, you know, sex, what with your father being the way he is. I'd probably still be drinking." "I never really understood about the drinking." "I'm not altogether sure I do, either. Part of it was because for so many years--even before you were born--he never, er, did it with me." Helen still found it hard to use the plain words. "I thought it was me, that I was ugly and undesirable." "Poor Mom." "Rich, you mean. Now I have all the sex I want. At least I had." She paused meaningfully. "The baby was born four months ago, you know. And for a couple of months before that it was all just--so oral." She tried to sound deprived. Suzie burst out laughing. "Poor Mom!" This time the tone was less than sympathetic. "Now I see what this is all about. You're planning to ply Jack with champagne and have your way with him." Helen grinned. "Like you did with me when your father brought you home. That wasn't very nice, you know." "Don't give me that." Suzie was cheerfully unabashed. "You loved it. Even while you were passed out. You kept moving while I was doing it." "You're awful. It was a sneaky thing to do." "I was mad about, oh, everything, and it was a way to get back at you both. I'd be sorry for it now, except for Lucy. And the way you love it, you sexpot." "Suzie! Is that any way to talk to your mother?" A happy smile moved the corners of her lips. It was true, she was a sexpot. She had never known. She had been brought up innocent, and kept that way by Howard, who had done his duty to her only once a month for three months before she turned up pregnant with Suzie, then named Jerry. Until Suzie revealed his identity--how could she not have known him, even with his new figure! She *was* a bad mother--and told her he was the source of her mysterious pregnancy. He had been doing it to her each evening after she passed out on the living-room couch. Proper, above reproach, rigidly moral, Helen had been shocked beyond measure--but in the aftermath of her hysteria got aroused and curious, filled with an unaccountable prurience. She decided it wasn't fair. He had carnal knowledge of her while she was drunk and unconscious, and she had known nothing. She was carrying the consequences of his act, abortion was out of the question, of course, and she wondered what it had been like. He owed it to her to show her. Since she was already pregnant nothing more could happen. Against all her moral principles, overwhelmed by excitement, she had driven to the farm when Jack was out of town and deliberately, fully conscious of what she was doing, committed incest with her son. It had been the best thing that ever happened to her, and when Jack came back from his trip ... well, maybe *that* was the best thing. He was so handsome and gentle and strong. And so well-endowed. And, it proved, bisexual like Suzie, something Helen didn't quite understand about but was thankful for. A year after Lucy, the next baby had been Jack's, so both of them were the natural parents of one of their children, and Howard had to live with the knowledge that his wife had had three children, including Suzie, by three different men. Served him right. Suzie's voice broke into her thoughts. "So. You've got the hots for my husband again." "I don't know why you say that," she responded archly. Then, seriously, "Don't you think it's time to think about giving Lucy and Bobby a little brother or sister?" Suzie's hand stopped in the act of lifting the glass of iced coffee. It began to tremble. Ice tinkled and coffee slopped on the table. He wiped it absently with a paper napkin. "Oh, Mom! Really? Jack would be ecstatic, and so would I. But so soon after Bobby?" "It's been four months," Helen reminded him. "Besides, I love it, you know. It makes me feel fulfilled. And--getting there is half the fun, as they say." She added, "This is the right time of the month." "Oh, it's wonderful!" Suzie jumped up and danced around the room. "Where's that champagne? I'll call Jack. You two can go in the bedroom right away! Oh, Mom!" "Wait. I was thinking. Lucy's your child, Bobby's Jack's. Suppose, well, suppose the next one's a mystery?" Suzie stopped twirling. "A mystery?" "I thought, well--" Helen was conscious of a furious blush, "if you both, that is, at the same time ... then we wouldn't know." "Uhk." Suzie bent over, holding his crotch through his dress. He stumbled to the chair and sat down. "I feel like my panties are going to tear," he explained pinkly. Helen laughed, but the join of her legs, bare under the sun-dress, was wet. Her thighs squirmed together. A shadow fell across the screen door. The door creaked and Jack walked in, followed by Lucy, hard to identify as a human child through layers of "clean dirt." Suzie uttered an inarticulate sound, stripped down the muddy diaper and lifted the little girl to the sink for rinsing. Lucy chortled happily. Jack was sweating. Beads of moisture covered his forehead and there were great dark patches on his blue work-shirt. Helen's eyes fell to his midsection and marked the size of the mass in his jeans. He seemed to fill the room. "I've had it. That tin roof makes the studio like an oven. Hi, Helen." He bent and kissed her full on the lips. "How's my favorite mother-in-law? Any beer?" he asked Suzie. "In the fridge." Suzie toweled the child off, smacked her on the bare bottom, and took her in for a nap. When he returned he looked disapprovingly at Jack tilting the beer bottle to his lips. Pointedly he put a glass in front of him. "We also have champagne for later. Mom brought a whole case. To celebrate." "The Chard picture? Yeah, the money's nice, but Buffly's right, it's the prestige." Mr. Buffly was owner of the Mariposa Gallery in town. "I bet Joanie's mother commissions another one too. She and Mrs. Chard have some kind of a rivalry going." Helen had seen the latest painting before it was delivered. More than in the two earlier portraits, one each for Mrs. Chard and Mrs. Argentina, Jack had revealed his perception that the ladies were intimate. What amazed Helen was that they had been pleased instead of offended when they picked up the painting. It was shocking. She wondered what women did together. Jack took a generous swallow of beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and let his breath out. "Ah. Perfect. Nothing like cold beer on a hot day." He glanced at Helen out of the corner of his eye with a glimmer of mischief. "I heard the definition of mixed emotions the other day. It's when you watch your mother-in-law back off a cliff in your brand-new car." In a voice of outrage Helen cried, "You beast!" To Suzie, haughtily, "I've changed my mind. I'm going home." Suzie giggled. "I don't blame you." He turned to Jack. "Now see what you've done. If you weren't so nasty we'd have something better to celebrate than some old painting. Mom told me she was thinking about having another baby." Jack raised his eyebrows, eyes brown and lustrous, serious now, forgetting all about the teasing. "Yeah? Really?" Helen nodded demurely. "That's great!" He got up and hugged her vigorously. His lips pressed down on hers, and his tongue forced its way into her mouth. Helen's body turned to water, and her tongue responded to the movement of his. It was like being, being, *fucked*--there! She had said it, if only to herself--fucked right here in the kitchen with Suzie looking on. Jack's hand held her breast through her dress; she wanted to shrug down her shoulder strap and place the hand on her bare skin, but she was too shy in front of her son, er, daughter, or no, son, she never knew how to think about him, despite what had gone on between the three of them in the past. Her face got wet with his perspiration. His body odor, exciting but strong, was in her nostrils. When he broke the kiss she was breathless. The juncture of her thighs was slippery. Suzie was watching, approval in his eyes. Helen wrinkled her nose. "Whew! You need a shower. So do I." She looked down modestly. "Let's all take one together." Jack's voice was an affectionate growl of agreement. Suzie put his hand on Jack's arm and said, "Mom and I thought it would be fun if we didn't know whose child it was, if both of us ..." It took a moment to sink in. "Yeah?" The look he gave Helen was full of admiration. "Okay. Let's get in the shower, and then--*rrowf!"* Helen's heart was beating so hard on the way upstairs that her bodice trembled visibly. When it came time for them to undress, butterflies lifted her stomach. It had been so long. She was bashful about taking off her dress in front of them, but when she saw Suzie pull his frock over his head and Jack strip off his sweaty shirt, she reached behind, tugged down her zipper, and slipped out of her dress, aware that it made her instantly naked. Her mound of Venus, and between her legs and buttocks, was shaved clean. She knew a bare "down there" turned Jack on; she'd groomed herself with care before coming over. Suzie also shaved his genital area for Jack, although it was hardly necessary; the doctor's treatment had left him virtually without body hair. His breasts were well-formed, not as full as hers, but tipped with brown, somewhat elongated, nipples. She had warned him that breast-feeding the babies would spoil the shape of his bosom, but she'd been wrong. His breasts were lovelier than ever. The nipples, however, were no longer pink and virginal; they looked, what was the word, *competent,* somehow. She knew from personal experience that having a baby darkened the color of a woman's nipples; apparently so did nursing one. The front of Suzie's panties was pushed out, and when he pulled them down, his--prick--another of those hard-to-think words-- stuck out as if it was on a spring. It was beautiful. And very strange. Her own Jerry's thing on the perfect body of a seventeen-year-old girl. It had been in her. It had given her a baby. She looked again. Suzie's shaven pubes made the penis look long and sexy. Below it, his testicles hung pink and tender. The rest of his body was distinctly female. That doctor, at the orders of the man who had enslaved Suzie and made him his maid, had treated him with something called protogen. Suzie had explained that the experimental drug was not a hormone; rather, it was a "supervisor," which directed the body's production and use of hormones. Both men and women produce male and female hormones in the adrenal glands, he said, though in a man most of the male hormone comes from his-- balls--and in a woman most of the estrogen comes from her ovaries. Protogen, working through the pituitary gland, caused the adrenals to enlarge until they were almost the size of the kidneys they adhered to, and to secrete enormous quantities of both kinds of hormones, but it limited the use of any male hormone in the body to a heightening of the sex drive and making sperm. None of it was available for producing male characteristics--chest hair, beard, deep voice, large muscles, and the rest. In the meantime, estrogen was increased to levels normal for females. Uninhibited by the male hormone, it did what it was supposed to do, causing Suzie's body to develop like a teen-age girl's. The effect was permanent, Suzie reported. Once the hormones had been channeled into their respective functions, their activities stabilized. To all intents Suzie was a girl with a boy's sex organs. He even had monthly mood swings, though that was probably psychological. Jack dropped his shorts. Like Suzie, he was erect. His penis was enormous. Helen feasted her eyes on it. The thing was so heavy that instead of being cocked at an upward angle to his body it stood straight out. It was beautiful, but in a different way from Suzie's. Massive. Strong-looking. Shaft bent upward like a banana with a deep rose head, shiny with strain, the orifice in the tip gaping slightly as if anxious to emit the precious fluid that the egg-sized balls hanging under it had stored. Oh, God. It was so thrilling. She got in the shower with them, under a lovely, cool spray that coursed over their bodies. She was squeezed slippery between them. She turned, only to feel Suzie's cock poking between the cheeks of her ass, and Jack's pressed hot against her tummy. Their skins slithered together, tepid and soapy. Helen was in paradise. She lathered them both, paying special attention to their excited genitals, and stood, trembling with pleasure, as their hands soaped each part of her body. A quick rinse, then towels, then they were padding naked downstairs to Jack and Suzie's bedroom. She noticed Suzie carried a towel in front of him in case Lucy should turn up unexpectedly. He and Jack were casual about nakedness, but Suzie had to strike a delicate balance between being casual and concealing the truth from Lucy. The child was still too young to know the difference, but it was a good habit to get into, Helen thought. The bedroom was Spartan. A large brass bed high off the floor, a dresser, a circular rag rug with many colors, and a night stand supporting a lamp comprised the room's furniture. The light through the windows was rosy-orange with sunset; the beginnings of an evening breeze caused the curtains to swell and flirt. Jack picked her up tenderly. Helen felt like a girl again. Though lightly- muscled, he was very strong. She held him sweetly about the neck and let herself be carried to the bed. She was conscious that her nipples were erect, and that her vagina was already flowing. She felt like covering herself modestly with her hand, but controlled the impulse and kept her arms by her side until Jack got on one side of her and Suzie on the other, and she put an arm around each of them. "Oh. I'm so aroused. Please, one of you, do it to me." Suzie kneeled over her. "Don't be in such a hurry. We've got the whole weekend, Mom. Relax. Everything's going to be all right." Her son, daughter, whatever, dipped his head and kissed her smooth, bare triangle. He was on his knees, breasts trailing over her skin. He put his head lower, and as her thighs moved apart unbidden, his tongue touched the crack at the front of her pussy. She nearly jumped out of her skin when it nudged her clitoris. Oh, God. Her eyes caught Jack's. He pressed against her, cock leaking on her hip, and kissed her sensuously. Suzie's hair fell forward to caress her thighs. His tongue, it was so clever, worked on her, now licking down her crack, spearing up into her opening, now moving up again and touching that sensitive mantled protuberance. At first it was like the ocean tide coming in. Little ripples coursed through her vulva, so gentle and tender they made her want to weep. The swells gained in strength until the complex of organs between her legs was pulsing regularly, caught in a kind of resonance which deepened with every surge. Then it was like just before a *tsunami,* one of those giant waves caused by an earthquake. The tide drew back, draining her, flowing out, leaving her in timeless suspense, draining ... and a soundless rumble vibrated through her and swifter than any thought a towering wave CRASHED over her. She convulsed, drowned in passion, her vulva spasming in a devastating seizure, holding her son's head to her. Only gradually did she become aware that the wailing she heard was coming from her own throat. She lay gasping as Suzie pulled panting, wet-faced, out of her grip. She had been suffocating him, reflexively trying to cram his head into her vagina. Jack covered her, elbows supporting his torso, that enormous member poking between her labia, sliding down until it lodged at the entrance to her canal. She grunted as the bulbous tip thrust in, spreading the hole, pushing in until she felt her vagina close around the shaft as the flared head proceeded past the entrance. Sensitive tissues, dragged in by the organ, pulled at her clitoris's foreskin, stimulating it, and she raised her hips to meet her son-in- law's thrust. Rapture seized her. He pushed up inside, the cock stretching her sideways, and then lengthwise as he reached the end of her vagina and continued moving forward until her breath was expelled in a sharp gasp. It felt like the head was pressing against her diaphragm. Her knees came up to accommodate the organ. Now his lips were mumbling her nipples wetly. A sharp pang of unspeakable passion flashed from her breasts to the complex of organs between her legs. In desperate ardor she clutched him to her, and her vulva began clenching, and she CAME and then CAME again, and CAME, and she was screaming and shuddering and writhing, and still he kept on while she *CAME,* and it was an eternity before she felt the jerking of his prick as jets of hot semen flooded her vagina, and shaking and trembling all over, she sank back against the mattress as if a string had been cut, and endured the unbearable wet fulfillment of his ejaculation. She welcomed his weight as he slumped on her. His breathing rasped in her ear. Instinctively her arms moved shakily over his back, massaging him weakly. Finally he lifted himself and kissed her. His prick, flaccid, squirted out of her and rested against her vulva, wet and heavy and meaty. "Hey," he panted. "I'll never make mother-in-law jokes again." His mouth tried to shape itself into a smile. He rolled over on his back next to her. She lay, legs spread, a warm satisfied feeling in her pussy, totally content, feeling as if her body was dissolving into the bed, quivering like a mass of Jell-O. She was only vaguely aware of a movement of the mattress, and it was not until her son's cock poked into her liquid-filled canal that she realized Suzie was on her. For a moment she couldn't stand it, but her son's prick touched her clitoris, making her jump, and she clutched him to her, feeling the stiff penis enter. She sighed as it moved back and forth. She was so wet and slippery with sperm she couldn't have prevented him from entering if she had wanted. Suzie's breasts were pressed soft against hers. She pushed him up and took a nipple between her lips and sucked. A sweetish fluid filled her mouth, and she swallowed some of the milk that had been destined for little Bobby. It was warm and bland and private. Not wanting to drain it, she shifted to the other breast. The stimulation of his nipples seemed to send Suzie into a frenzy. His cock shoved violently in and out. The thrusting in her already-sensitized cunt was too much. She CAME again. And again. And *AGAIN.* Her body writhed under Suzie's and a desperate moan escaped from her lips, which gained in volume until it became a shriek as the boy ejaculated into her. She could feel the rhythmic squirting into her cervix. As flooded as she had been by Jack's emission, Suzie's injection of sperm was greater. It filled her and fountained out around his prick. She remembered that the doctor's treatment had increased his capacity. When he was done he rested on her like Jack, his breasts soft against hers, before pulling out and rolling off. Helen lay exhausted from orgasms that seemed too intense for her body to have endured, and in some mysterious way she knew, *knew,* that she had been caught, by one of them. She was pregnant once more. It would need a test to prove it, but until then she *knew.* Chapter 3 "Mr. Myers, this is Mr. Turner. He manages one of my hotels, the Mariposa. He has come to me with a proposition which I think has merit. He wishes to buy into the hotel. He requires a loan for the full amount," Mrs. Chard said. Howard looked at the man with interest. A loan for the full purchase price. Pretty good business if you could do it. Turner was dark-haired, one of those people whose whiskers made their cheeks look blue unless they shave twice a day. He was in his early thirties, Howard surmised. His grin, as he extended his hand, was cordial, but Howard caught a hint of hardness in it. Mrs. Chard went on. "As you know, I don't like to keep more than sixty percent ownership of any of my properties--Chard Industries excepted, of course--preferring to diversify as much as possible. In addition, it is my belief that a stake in the hotel for Mr. Turner can only be advantageous from the standpoint of profits. Someone who owns a part of a business is more likely to increase its efficiency." A frosty smile touched her lips. Howard said, "I see. The loan would be secured by a mortgage on the hotel." "Not on the entire property, just on Mr. Turner's interest. We've calculated that his share of the profits will accommodate a twenty-year payment schedule." "I see," Howard said again. A loan for the total amount of the collateral? That was putting the bank out on a limb. But if Mrs. Chard wanted it, she'd get it. She was looking at him expectantly. Did she think he was going to make a loan without a thorough investigation of the property? She knew better than that. If it ever came out he'd be thrown in jail. "I'll have to see the books and look over the hotel, of course." A glimmer of annoyance crossed Mrs. Chard's fine-boned face and disappeared. "Of course. But I would take it as a great personal favor, Mr. Myers, if you would handle this matter with dispatch. I'd like to have the papers signed by the end of the week. Time is money, Mr. Myers. If you have no appointments you can't break this afternoon, Mr. Turner is prepared to show you the hotel immediately." If it had been anyone but Mrs. Chard, Howard would have been deeply suspicious about the need for haste, but he had known her for years. When she wanted something, she wanted it *now.* "I'd be happy to." "Thank you." Mrs. Chard's expression softened perceptibly. She stood up and held out her hand. "I must go. It's always a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Myers. Please give my regards to your family, your lovely wife and--daughter, isn't it?" "Yes." Try as he might, Howard couldn't prevent a flush creeping into his cheeks. If she ever found out about Jerry, he'd be fired outright, for moral turpitude unbecoming a bank officer or something. "She was born right here in Chardsville, wasn't she? A real home- town girl. I understand she married that painter, Jack Landon. Such a gifted man." When she left, the two men looked at each other. Turner grinned. "Is she always like that?" "I beg your pardon?" Unabashed, Turner said, "Brr. I feel like I got frostbite." Howard couldn't help smiling. He decided not to stand on his dignity. "I think she makes everyone feel that way, Mr. Turner. Shall we go down to the hotel? You can buy me lunch." "Dick." Howard rather liked this brash young man. He held out his hand. "Howard." By the time he had finished examining the books--the hotel, obviously well- managed, was showing a good profit, and there were no detectable irregularities in the accounts--it was time for dinner. There was still much to do, spot-inventorying and the like, but it would keep until tomorrow. He called Helen to tell her he would be late, and he and Turner went to the dining room. Howard was glad to see the food and service was excellent. The dining room, even on a Tuesday night, was well-patronized. During their after- dinner brandy, Turner kept glancing off to the side. Howard followed the direction of his eyes. An attractive young woman clad in a full-skirted black taffeta cocktail frock was dining alone at a table across the room. Her hair was shoulder-length, the color of buckwheat honey, a kind of brownish gold. His own preferences lay in other directions, but he knew how to play the game. He said slyly, "Not bad. Being a hotel manager must have its advantages. Is she a guest?" Turner looked at him appraisingly for a long moment. "Ye-es," he said finally. His voice was uncertain, as if he were trying to decide whether to say something more. "Well, not exactly. She has a room here, though." Howard raised his eyebrows. Turner went on, "See, Howard, you have to understand how hotels operate. There's something about traveling that makes people horny. A good hotel tries to take into account all its guests' needs. You know what I mean. In an informal way, right? Not a regular part of the business, I mean. That one," his eyes moved back to the young woman, "is special. We keep a room for her." "Special?" "Yeah." Again Turner appraised him. "What the hey, we're both men of the world, right? See, a lot of our guests are what they call closet gays, guys who don't want people to know they're gay. Even if they're away from home. Or maybe they aren't gay, but just want a new experience. So what are they gonna do? Go out and do the town with another guy that everyone might know is gay?" He answered his own question. "No. They want to go out with someone who looks like a girl." Howard stared. When Turner's meaning sunk in, he exclaimed, "Are you telling me that attractive young person is not a girl?" "Yeah." Turner smiled at his surprise. Howard's own son, Jerry--Suzie, now--was a boy who was indistinguishable from a girl when he was clothed, so Howard could believe Turner's assertion; but there was no way to tell that under that gorgeous black frock was a prick and balls. She was gay, Turner said. His cock stiffened violently in his trousers. He gulped his brandy. Turner was watching him. "Come on, let's go over. I'll introduce you. I mean, it's kind of part of the hotel business. If the bank is gonna invest in it, you should know everything about it." Howard hesitated, heart pounding. The other man said earnestly, "Come on, it'll be a new experience, right? You never met a guy in a dress before, did you?" Howard managed to say, "No. All right, I guess." He took his napkin with him as they walked over to the other table, trying to look as if it was absent-mindedness, but held it so it covered the bulge in his pants. The girl brightened at their approach. Her blue eyes were shaped by eyeliner. The lashes were long and heavily mascaraed. "Hi, Dick!" Her voice was husky and musical. "Howard, this is Amy Dahl." He said to Amy, "Howard is the president of Chardsville First National. The bank's looking over the hotel. Mind if we join you?" "Hi, Howard." She held out her hand for him to take. It was slender with tapering fingers tipped by pink-lacquered nails, soft in his hand. "Sit here by me. Are you going to foreclose?" He made himself smile. His erection felt like it was going to burst in his trousers. "We would never foreclose if you were a guest here." "Oh, Howard, aren't you just the sweetest thing!" She patted his cheek and turned to the other man. "I like your friend already. He's so gallant." Turner said, "Ain't she something? You'd never guess in a thousand years, would you?" "N-no." Her face turned pink. "Dick! You didn't tell him, did you? Now he'll think I'm awful." Howard choked, "I could never think that." Turner stood up. "Hey, listen, I gotta check on the night men. Why don't you stay and talk to Amy and have another drink? I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" "All right." Howard saw him stop on his way out and say something to the waiter, who brought two snifters to the table. Amy said, "Oh, brandy! How nice. It makes a meal so elegant." She asked seriously, "You don't mind, do you? About me, I mean. Some men are put off by it." "No, I think it's--interesting." "You're nice." "H-how--that is ..." "Why am I dressed like this?" "Yes." "That's a hard question. I know there must be a lot of psychological reasons for it, but what it all boils down to is I like it." She glowed at him. Howard laughed. "I think that's a good reason. You're fortunate to be so attractive. Nobody would ever know." "You're sweet. When I first did it I was scared to death to go out. It was right here in this hotel. I came up from the city to register in Chardsville College and somebody had left some lingerie behind in my room. Just for fun I tried it on. I never did anything like that before. But--" She looked down. "I don't know if I can tell you." "Go on, this is very interesting." "Well, it was exciting, more exciting than anything. I, uh, well you know, played with myself. The next day I got up enough courage to go into a store and buy a dress, and after a while made myself go out in it. Do you think I'm strange?" "No, of course not. I can understand how you must have felt. Sometimes," Howard admitted, surprising himself, "I put on some of my wife's lingerie, just for fun." "Oh, then you do understand. I'm glad." She sneaked a glance to the side. "That waiter's waiting for us to leave. He knows he's not going to get a tip because the meal is on the house. It was nice of you to stay with me--it isn't every day I get a free meal." "You're a little gold-digger, aren't you?" Howard laughed. He liked her, and that was too bad, because it made his erection even harder. He put his hand in his pocket, squirmed in his chair, and managed to get his prick up under his belt. It was hot against his stomach. She said, "Would you like some more brandy? I have some upstairs in my room." The blood drained from his face. Suppose somebody saw him? Turner. Where was he? Then he thought, Nothing's going to happen, it's all quite innocent, and it was Turner who had introduced them anyway. If anyone thinks the wrong thing, that's their problem, not mine. "All right." "Would it be better if I went first?" "N-no, it's all right. It's just an after-dinner drink." "Howard, I like you, you're a real man." When they stood up he took out his wallet and left a generous tip on the table. Turner was nowhere to be seen in the lobby, thank God. Howard stiffened when she hooked her arm through his, but relaxed and let her lead him up the stairs to an outside walkway and along it to her hotel room. He noted the number: Two-Oh-Three. Deep, spotless carpeting covered the floor. Overall the color decor was peach, but strong accents of other hues relieved the blandness of that color. Howard looked quickly away from the king-size bed, but it was hard to ignore because it was reflected in the room's most striking feature, a floor-to- ceiling mirror that covered fully one-third of the wall. A tray of liquors and a bucket of ice was in the center of a round table next to a window overlooking the courtyard. "Howard, would you mind if I took off my shoes? They're new and they're simply killing me." "No, go right ahead." He felt faint. She sat on the bed and pulled off her pumps. "Oh, what a relief!" She massaged her stockinged feet. "Be a good boy and pull the drapes and fix us a couple of drinks, would you?" Howard's hands trembled as he poured the brandy and handed a glass to her. He sat at the table, and swallowed his drink. Amy said plaintively, "Why are you sitting way over there? Come sit by me so we can talk." She patted the bed. He had to bend over while he walked to minimize the degree to which his trousers were being pushed out. "Howard, you look so *uncomfortable!* Here, let me help you off with your jacket." Her hands were deft as she removed his coat and unbuttoned his vest. He trembled when she loosened his tie. The soft touch made his heart pound. A floral perfume was in his nostrils. "There! Isn't that better?" She brushed her lips across his cheek. He choked, "Are you sure, sure you're, uhk, a boy?" "Of course I am, silly! Do I have to prove it to you?" "It's so hard to believe." "Here, see for yourself." She took his hand and put it on her leg under the petticoats that gave fullness to the taffeta frock. He hesitated. In a moment his hand moved of its own accord, up the nylon- clad thigh, shaking with excitement when it felt the smoothness of bare skin, and touched lacy panties that contained a large lump. "You--you're huh. Hard," he gasped. He fondled the nylon-covered bulges. "Howard, I *said* I liked you. --Oh, that feels good," she sighed. There didn't seem to be enough oxygen for his lungs. His heart thumped. He thought his prick was going to tear through his pants. He grasped the elastic of her panties and pulled them down. The simmering prick was hot and hard, and skin slipped back and forth as he manipulated it. "You're making me crazy," Amy threw her arms around him and put her face up to be kissed. Still holding her cock, Howard embraced her. Her lips opened under his. Shivering, he let his tongue enter her mouth in a simulation of intercourse. After a long moment, Amy broke the kiss, whispered, "Oh, Howard, you're wonderful, but if you don't stop I'm going to make a mess under my skirt." A bead of sweat ran into his eye. Amy was delicious. When Howard was still fighting the lure of homosexuality he patronized a gay bar called the Chanticleer down in the city and picked up men in drag, pretending to himself that they were really women, so whatever he did with them was okay. Later, when he admitted his gayness to himself and Helen, he still preferred men in women's dresses. It added an element of perversion that excited him. He wasn't sure why. He managed to croak, "Would you like--?" "What?" "Me to--with my mouth--" He couldn't believe he was doing this. In his own home town, in a hotel doing business with his bank. His balls had him by the throat. She said simply, "I'll stand in front of you." Howard remained seated. She stepped close, and he could see that her dress was held out in front. The taffeta rustled loudly against her petticoats as she lifted them and draped them over his head. She was sweet and clean and her legs were shaved under there, and her perfume smelled delightful ... but now he could no longer think of her as "her." The cock in front of him stood straight out from a light brown bush, white- shafted, the head a turgid red, shiny with passion. Amy did like him, Howard thought. Pricks didn't lie. The testicles hanging underneath were oval in their rose-colored sack. Howard pushed his nose into their softness to inhale their odor, a nutty smell that a hint of perfume didn't mask. His tongue went out to lick them. A quiet groan came from above, and the stockinged legs spread farther apart, pelvis thrusting forward to press the masses against his mouth. He grasped the other's buttocks, holding him close. His head was smothered in frilly silken material as he drew back to let his lips encircle the swollen cockhead. A sticky leak had already begun. It had almost no taste, but its slipperiness on his tongue was so exciting that the blood drained away from Howard's head; he got dizzy; his sight darkened. He pushed forward, reveling in the feel of the prick's hot skin, the way it slid tightly between his lips. He moved rhythmically, tongue slurping wetly around the organ, and applied suction. Above him the boy gasped and moaned continuously. Howard's jaws began to ache with the strain of holding them open. His teeth scraped more strongly on the shaft than he meant them to. Amy seemed to be enjoying it nevertheless: the cock was so tense it was vibrating. Each time Howard drew back, he compressed his lips around the neck, foreskin squirming between them, and laved the head with his tongue before pushing forward again. The prick swelled. Howard pulled back so only the head was in his mouth. He wanted to taste what was coming--but Amy's hips jerked spastically, making the prick jam against the back of his throat, almost penetrating his gullet. A jet of semen erupted under pressure. He could feel the part of his throat that was in contact with the orifice being pushed in by the liquid as it sought to escape. His mouth filled rapidly; he had to swallow before the ejaculation was over. In a little while the cock started softening; it gave between his lips. Nevertheless he continued working on it, sucking rhythmically to pull out any sperm that might be left. The boy's knees were wobbly; Howard felt him lean his hands on his shoulders to support his weight. When the penis was a squirmy sausage, Amy's pelvis twitched, pulling it out of Howard's mouth. He stepped back, skirts dragging over Howard's head until it was no longer covered. He blinked in the bright lights of the room. His mouth was full of the taste of sperm. He didn't look at the boy until he heard the rustling of clothes. He peeped bashfully up. He was taking off his dress. Under it he was wearing a wasp-waisted foundation garment. The words "merry widow" came to Howard's mind, but he wasn't sure if that was the right name. Below the garment hung a large, flaccid prick and hairy balls. Amy unfastened his stockings. "Aren't you going to get undressed too?" Howard nodded and unbuttoned his shirt with clumsy fingers. By the time he was down to his underwear, Amy was in the bathroom. He waited, then stripped off his shorts and got between the sheets, balls aching, prick rigid. The boy came out. He was stark naked, cock dangling heavily. He had removed his makeup, but his hair still hung down to his shoulders in shining honey waves. Without the foundation garment his figure was that of a slim young man with hairless legs and torso. In the dress and with high heels he had looked just the right height for a girl; now he looked smaller than he should. "Hi," Amy said shyly. His voice was still soft and musical. "Can I join you?" Howard's throat wouldn't work. He lifted the bedclothes in invitation. "Oh, Howard, you were wonderful." The boy lay beside him and kissed him. He touched the rigid cock. "Oh, my goodness. You like me, too. Do you want me to do the same thing for you, or would you like to make love to me?" "Whuh-whatever you want." "Really? I'd love it if you would put it in me. It would make me feel I was truly yours, to do whatever you wanted with. I bet you'd make me come again." He pushed down the sheets and lay on his stomach, spreading his buttocks with his hands. Shaking, Howard climbed on top of him and let him direct his prick to the hole. It had been lubricated; Howard's cock moved slowly in against the tightness. The boy gasped. "You're so big! Oh, it feels wonderful." Chapter 4 Sitting at the vanity, Leslie finished his makeup. He examined his reflection critically. Was he using too much blush? No, it looked all right. Mascara? He always had to use a lot because his eyelashes were so light. He debated deepening the hue of his eye shadow, but decided to leave it as it was. He blinked his eyes to take a fresh look at his face in the mirror. Yeah, he was okay. He wanted to look good for Mel, and this was as good as he got. Not so bad at that, he preened. He knew he was prettier than most girls his age, and when he was made up like this--curly blond hair down to his shoulders, gray eyes sparkling and taking on the color of the eye shadow, lips bee-stung and inviting--he was positively entrancing. But for his panties he was naked, fresh from the bath, skin glowing. In the mirror his breasts were pert, not large, but sweetly formed and tipped with rose-brown nipples. As he watched, a milky-blue drop oozed from one of them. He blotted it with a cotton puff. His breasts were secreting. It was inconvenient, but it was his own fault. Years ago Dr. Goody had told him some leakage was inevitable,