Gorgeous Uncle Mehmet
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How I Met My Husband free porn video
How I Met My Husband
By Michelle C.
Chapter One
You know how high school boy's locker rooms are. Or maybe you
don't. Then again if you're reading this, you probably do, or
wish you did.
Well, mine wasn't quite typical, but all the essential
ingredients were there. I mean, boys are boys, and all
that...more or less...maybe less than meets the eye...but I'm
digressing. So it was a quirky little private high school in a
famous desert resort town in the Southwest that will remain
nameless. Let's call it Oasis Dunes, which is a kind of almost-
oxymoron, isn't it?
This school, Something Pretentious Academy let's say, was smaller
than your average public high and it had a kind of threadbare
reputation for snobbishness and what the people who ran it
called-unforgivably, I always thought--exclusivity. Right. Twelve
or thirteen grand a year and you were exclusive.
Anyway, this is about how I met my husband, so let's cut to the
locker room, where it happened.
I'm sitting on a too-often-painted bench in front of my locker
after what was grandiosely called P.E. (which consisted of us
aimlessly tossing the ball of the season around) and I'm naked,
having just walked out of the shower.
There are about ten guys around. (I told you, it was a small
school. I mean, this was just the senior class, but still...).
Now, as you may know, boy's locker rooms are a mixed blessing,
for some of us at least. On one hand, they're often full of
young, naked guys. On the other hand, some of those guys tend to
get a little squirrelly if they think they're being looked at
with...ulterior motives. High school homosexual panic. You know
what I mean.
Now, I was a smart kid, if you don't mind me saying so. There's
something about being a raving cute passionate girl kidnapped at
birth and squeezed into a boy's body that sharpens the faculties,
isn't there? So I sometimes felt kind of like one of those guys
who are always going on about how they'd love to sneak into a
girl's locker room, drool, drool, drool, except I was a girl who
had successfully pulled off the neat trick of infiltrating a
boy's locker room. Sort of, anyway.
And I enjoyed it, yes I did. Good, clean, voyeuristic fun. And
sometimes I thought--what the heck--there might be an
interesting, shy young fellow around who'd secretly enjoy the
sight of a slim, blonde, long-legged, rather androgynous...person
(namely me), as that person, mmmm, showered and dried off and
swing that person's longish hair around to dry it, and, with just
a hint of unboyish delicacy, got dressed. So throw in a dash of
good, clean, mild exhibitionism. Just a dash. A girl, even a
secret one, does like to be noticed, after all.
But, listen, quirky high school that it was, it was still a high
school in America, and this smart kid knew enough to not make
trouble. So, despite what I just said, I was careful, discrete,
and-sigh-resolutely non-swishy. No kidding.
So there I am on the shiny bench and over walks...let's call him
Oscar Weiner. A big, dull, plodding kid whose main claim to fame
was that he obsessively talked about his karate lessons and wore-
I'm not kidding-his black belt to school. It was sophomore year,
true, but still....
Big dumb Oscar has been on my case ever since I wouldn't let him
look over my shoulder during a history exam junior year. Just
didn't feel like having this guy breathing and grunting all over
my neck.
Let's see, what was his favorite put-down? Ah yes. Faggot. He
liked to call me faggot. The rest of the guys pretty much ignored
Oscar, and despite my raving, passionate, and very, very secret
girlhood, I passed comfortably as a boy, and none of them gave me
the least trouble. They were really pretty good guys, the rest of
my class, and, hey, some of them were real friends.
So there's Oscar standing in front of me (naked, but I would have
passed up the honor in a second, believe me), and he says, "Hey
faggot, when you goin' to cut your hair, huh, faggot."
"Jesus, Oscar, get lost," I say.
"Get lost!" he says, "I belong here. This is a guy's locker room,
faggot, in case you haven't noticed and I bet you have," and he
raves on in that imaginative vein for awhile-I won't bore you!
He seems to be getting himself excited, edging into a nice
episode of homosexual panic, and I'm just slipping on my socks,
and he does something he's never done, which is give me a slug on
the shoulder and when I tell him to cut it out (adding a run-of-
the-mill insult at the end of my request), he slugs me again, and
now he's really excited-panicky and he shoves me off the bench
onto the concrete floor, where I lie rather unbecomingly, and he
gives me a kick in the tummy, the s.o.b.,
I double up in pain so I can't see, but I can hear, a deep voice
say, "Leave him alone, you jerk," and when I raise up a little I
see my future husband pulling Oscar away from me and flinging
him-I'm not kidding, he just flung the guy-across the room, where
he landed with a satisfying thud.
Oscar looks like he wants to get up and do some of his silly
karate stuff, but I can see him take a look at my knight-in-no-
armor-whatsoever, just dreamy naked skin, and he thinks better of
it.
My knight turns to me.
It's Mike. The new guy in school. Just with us a few months. Kind
of quiet. Shy, maybe. Gorgeous, certainly. Black hair, strong
nose, strong chin, strong enough to toss poor Oscar across the
room. Nice chest hair, too, not too fluffy and apey, just the way
I....
"You okay?" he asks. I'm still on the concrete, though I've
collected my wits enough to re-arrange myself into a
more...pleasing tableau.
"Yeah," I say, "except now I've got a big crush on you and I'll
probably start following you around with my books held tightly to
my heaving chest and write your name in my notebook and surround
it with little hearts or something, and sooner or later you're
going to catch on, the whole school's going to catch on, and
there I'll be, yanked out of the closet by my very own little
self and Oscar will pound me at will while you look on shaking
your head. Yeah, big beautiful boy, I'm okay. Just a little
doomed, that's all. Damnit."
"Good," he says, kindly ignoring all but the first word of what I
said (which he couldn't hear anyway, natch). "What a loser that
guy is," he says, and looks around to make sure Oscar, just now
hauling himself up, has heard him. Oscar has indeed heard him, I
can tell, and Oscar is clearly in the mood to opt for discretion
over his bullyboy notions of valor, poor schmuck.
My future husband gallantly offers his hand and lifts me up like
I'm a rag doll--an image I don't find unpleasant--and stands in
front of me just long enough for my pulse to start galloping at
the big, glorious sight of him, and turns away.
Chapter Two
About a week went by, during which I successfully resisted the
impulse to follow him around and write his name in my notebook,
etc., etc., but my crush just got crushier every day. He sat next
to me in Trig class, and three seats over in English, and two
seats in front of little pulsating me in French. I will now
grandly flunk out, I thought, and I will spiral down to barely
articulate unemployability, all because of this big lug's utter
lovability, which absolutely demands my hypnotized attention. You
know how it is.
Friday, just as school was getting out, I decided that sheer
compassionate humanity dictated that I talk with him. After all,
he seemed so...lonely. Everybody needs a little innocent
friendship, don't they?
I sidled up next to him as we walked to the locker room to store
our books. "Hi," I said perkily.
"Hey," he said.
"I've been meaning to thank you for that thing with Oscar."
"No problem. That kind of stuff is so ugly." Nice choice of
words, I thought.
"Yeah. Well...." (Why didn't you script this, girl!) "I don't
know if you're interested in..."(Oh, God, what is he interested
in!) "...in...uh...hiking..." (Oh, god!) "but, I, ah, I know a
really neat trail, kind of off the map, sort of, and if you're
new to the...uh...area, you might want to, these mountains are
really pretty, looking down on the desert and everything, and you
know, you might want to take a hike one day. Just an idea."
"That sounds nice," he said. And I just about swooned. I decided
to press my luck a mile or two past good sense.
"How about tomorrow? I mean, if you're not, you know, busy or
anything." Now I was rolling. He was looking at me with his big
green beautiful friendly eyes and I was hurtling into them and
there was no turning back. "We could...you could come over to my
house, I'm near where the trail starts, and we could...maybe make
some sandwiches or something, and...uh...head out from there."
"Sounds good," he said. And we stood on the lawn in front of the
locker room and I gave him my address and told him how to get
there and we set a time and put away our books and said see you
tomorrow and I floated to the parking lot, got in my funky old
Plymouth and drove home in one sweet tizzy, let me tell you.
Chapter Three
Okay, now. You can imagine me fluttering around the house all
afternoon and evening, tingling with expectation and nerves.
Thank god my mother was away-she was away most of the time, which
was fine with me. Her being gone all the time gave me lots of
opportunities to slip into something more comfortable, more real.
Lots of time to be my true self.
So: I puttered nervously that afternoon in a cute little denim
skirt and clingy tee, and slipped into bed in that fantastic pink
babydoll I found at the Salvation Army, and got up the next
morning, had a quick bite and....
What to wear on my big...date?
He's due in two hours. I've got to shower and shampoo and
condition and thank goodness I don't have to shave! And it really
isn't a date, I mean, he sure doesn't think it's a date, but I
do, I do, I do, damn it.
So what to wear?
Okay. It's a hot day, late spring. So: something cool. Duh. Okay,
you know you want to wear those cut-offs, you know you do. Sure
they're a little short, but, hey, it's hot and regular boys wear
cut-offs, and anyway they really do make your legs look extra
long. And they're comfortable. A little tight maybe...I mean,
those jeans were bought when you were still in grade school
practically, but, no, they're really comfortable. Practical for a
day like this. Besides, this isn't about comfort, right? Okay,
now, which top? Simple. Something simple. That blue tee, the one
with the little sleeves. Just a little...mmmm...girly, but, hey,
it's just a simple blue tee. And so, so powdery blue, too.
Great. Those socks, the ones that sort of fold over a little.
Just regular socks, pretty much. And those simple tennis shoes, a
little thin for a hike, but you don't want to wear anything
clunky, that's for sure. And that light taupe daypack, that'll do
quite nicely to complete the...ensemble. Great. Decided. Oh, and,
um, how about those light blue panties? He's not going to see
anything, after all. And they're cotton, nothing...fancy, just
simple panties. I mean, there's no sense in going on a...date in
total boy drag, is there?
I get dressed, give myself a twice-over in the mirror...(yep, not
too much. Just enough--I hope!), and sit around waiting until the
doorbell rings and I scamper...slow down, honey, take it easy...
and open the door and there's my future husband and if I throw
myself in his arms and wrap myself around him do you think he'd
mind? Probably. So I say "Hi," perkily.
He's dressed in chino shorts and a blue golf shirt and low-cut
hiking shoes with blinding white socks and he looks like he just
popped out of GQ. He quickly runs his eyes over me. Oh, God,
maybe those cut-offs are a little much. Gulp.
He says, "Hi," and I take him into the kitchen and we fill up my
water bottles and make Swiss cheese sandwiches on some nice hard
French rolls and we chat naturally. My little heart is pumping,
and I put some effort into not hyperventilating, with reasonable
success.
I tell him a little about myself, about Mom and Dad's divorce and
how he's nowhere to be found, and she's not much for staying
home, leaving out the drinking part, and there's not much else,
oh, I read a lot, science fiction and history and stuff like
that.
He tells me about his Dad who made a lot of money on Wall Street
and his parents are divorced, too, and he and his Dad decided to
move to the desert, now that the old man is retired, and he likes
science fiction, too, and reads all kinds of stuff, and I imagine
lying in bed reading on our honeymoon in Hawaii after making love
for the fifth time that day and tossing the books away, and
snuggling, and....
"Okay. Ready to go?" he asks.
"Onward," I say.
We drive to the trailhead in his sensible Japanese car. I really
do know and love this trail. I've walked it many times alone,
dreamily. It's a tomboy thing. I love to hike. Freedom of the
hills, and all that.
We get out and he takes my little day-pack and puts it in his big
black one and says "I'll carry this stuff," and I say, "Um, okay,
thanks," and we start walking up from the desert into the dry,
beautiful, chocolate-colored hills that most visitors to Oasis
Dunes never even notice.
We're quiet. The trail is steep and we gain elevation quickly.
About 30 minutes go by and I stop and say, "Look," pointing to
the desert.
"Oh," he says, "It's beautiful. Now I really see that it's an
oasis. This is so...extraordinary. Thanks for bringing me here."
He has amassed about five hundred thousand bonus points. He was
already a winner, but this was a nice icing for a scrumptious
cake.
The trail takes a turn. We're hiking close together and suddenly
a rock slides under my (yes: too thin) tennis shoes, and I fall,
and feel a pain in my ankle and say, "Ow." He squats down next to
me.
"Okay?" he asks, his hand on my shoulder.
"Yeah, except now I don't have a crush on you anymore because I'm
in love with you, damn it, and I don't feel like going through
the rest of the day, much less the rest of the school year, not
to mention the next sixty years without you next to me, really
next to me, the real me, and I'm close to tears because I don't
have the slightest idea how to tell you and what to tell you, you
big, smart, beautiful lug."
Gallantly hearing just my first word once again, he takes me by
the shoulders and lifts me, and I float up in his strong arms
until I'm looking into those green eyes, inches away, and I put
my arms around him and bury my face in his sweaty neck and
whisper, "Damn it, damn it, damn it." I hold on to him like it's
the last time I'm ever going to be this close to him and I have
to hold him tightly and feel his body against mine so I'll have
something to remember when I'm alone and scorned and pining away
for the next sixty years.
I start to cry, and break away, stumbling back.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It's just...I didn't..." I'm sniffling.
My fists are clenched and my eyes are closed tight.
"What are you sorry for?" he says.
"Just that...I didn't mean, oh, damn it, damn it."
He takes a step forward and puts his right arm around my waist
and draws me to him effortlessly and lifts my face and I open my
eyes and he pulls me closer and kisses me.
Absolute, heavenly, total kiss. True, nothing left out,
passionate, delicate, forceful, what- will-you-do-with-me-now-
that-I'm-utterly-yours kiss.
After about sixty years I come up for air. "What...?" I begin.
"Shush," he says. "Here, put your arm around my shoulder. Let's
go back. I don't want you walking too far on that ankle."
Chapter Four
His sensible Japanese car had bucket seats, or I would have been
glued to him all the way home. As it was, I curled up and stared
at him the whole time and he turned every once in a while and
smiled the sweetest smile I'd ever seen in my seventeen and a
half years, or ever would see again, for certain.
We got to my house and my future husband came around to help me
out of the car. I opened the door and he reached down and touched
my ankle and said, "It's swollen a little." Then he picked me up
and I put my arms around his neck and he carried me through the
doorway and home.
He laid me down on the couch in the living room and sat beside
me. "Can I get you anything?" he said.
"Yes," I said, "you can get me right out of these too-tight
cutoffs and out of my tee and off with my panties and socks and
shoes and into your arms and make it quick, buster."
As usual, he was touchingly hard of hearing.
"What?" he said.
"Oh, just stay here with me." Like I was a pretty flower fading
away. He smiled and brushed a strand of hair from my face.
"No, I'll tell you what I need," I said, and grabbed him and
pulled him down to me and gave him my best (and, until then,
only) I-belong-to-you-but-you-belong-to-me-too kiss.
When he came up for air, he said, "Where's your room?"
He picked me up again and carried me to my bed, and plopped me
down and got me right out of that tee and shoes and socks and-oh
god, he's going to see my panties...I don't care, I don't care. I
don't care, damn it-and unbuttoned my cut-offs and pulled them
down and saw my panties. He looked up at me and smiled and bent
down and kissed them right smack wetly where my boy thing was
throbbing away, and he took them off too, and I yanked off his
golf shirt and he kicked off his shoes and I tore off his shorts
and jockeys and we just flowed into each other, kissing,
caressing, urgent, young, crazy with each other, just absolutely
crazy with each other.
When we resurfaced my head was on his chest and he was stroking
my bottom.
"So soft," he said.
"I love you," I said.
"So quick," he said.
"So true," I said and slid down to his middle and took his
beautiful big man thing in my mouth and slurped and sucked and
loved it And his firm balls, I loved them too, and I turned him
over and licked his bottom cheeks, just staking a claim for
future exploration.
He pulled me up and kissed my wet face and said, "I guess so. Me
too," and kissed and sucked at my nipples until I whimpered for
mercy and licked one great lick down to my belly and took my
little shy thing in his mouth and loved it and flipped me over
like a rag doll and licked and kissed me there, on my true pussy,
until I went a little crazy and then he loved me some more until
I went a lot crazy and I said, make love to me really, really,
please darling, please, and I turned onto my back because I
wanted to do it that way, looking at my future husband while he
loved me and went inside me.
"Wait," he said. "Just a minute. I want to...something I need to
know." He was on his knees, looking down at me. My legs were
spread wide and I felt like a runaway train. Get a grip, girl, I
thought. He's serious. Deep breath.
"What?"
"What...well...what's your real name?"
Shock. He damn well knew my name, we were in three classes
together, for god's sake, what is he...oh. Oh.
"Michelle," I said.
"And who are you, really?"
"I am...the person you know already. That person truly." He
leaned over and kissed me lightly, then leaned back.
"I know that. And?"
"And I am a seventeen and a half year old...person...who
is...trans..."
"Gendered," he said. This was a serious moment, but I couldn't
help thinking that the bonus points were quickly becoming
infinitely uncountable.
"Yes, transgendered," I said. "I am a seventeen and a half year
old...girl who will become a woman one way or the other, and if I
could, I would dress like a girl all the time, naturally, and be
a girl, and I think like a girl, and I am truly a girl, and I
like being what I am just perfectly fine, and..."
"And?" He was smiling.
"And I am lying in bed with the most kind and smart and gorgeous
man I'll ever meet, and I'm in love and I want to be his
girlfriend and I want him to be my boyfriend, seriously, really,
really seriously, and I want him to make love right now to his
girlfriend, damn it."
"Done," he said. "As good as done, Michelle, my lovely
girlfriend."
"Well, I hope it's not that quick," I said and we laughed. I
lifted my legs and wrapped them around him and pulled him to me
and ravaged his mouth. He put his hand between my legs and
stroked me and then he found my rosebud and pressed against it
with his index finger. I grabbed his hand and brought it to my
mouth and wet his finger and put it back where it belonged,
giving it a helpful push.
Into me. Gently, firmly. Then another finger, until I was
writhing and whimpering, and he was playing me like a grand
piano, pinching my nipples, playing inside me, deep bass notes
and sweet high notes, and booming chords.
"We need...." He said.
"Hold on," I gasped, breaking off and reaching into my bedside
table, opening the drawer and pulling out my rose-scented
lubricant. He leaned over and looked into the drawer and saw my
little-well, not so little-helper.
"You've been practicing," he said.
"A girl's got to be ready for her big day," I said, squeezing a
healthy dollop on my fingers. I got myself ready, and him ready,
efficient little girlfriend that I am, and said, "Mike, I'm
serious."
And he said, "I am, too."
I rewrapped him with my legs and lifted up and took his sweet
thing and guided it home.
"Tell me if it hurts too much, honey," my future husband said.
"It won't," I said, but it did.
Like a thick electric shock. I need more practice, I thought,
biting my lip. Well, looks like I've got a training partner,
anyway.
"Okay?" he asked, knowing it wasn't...quite...yet.
"It feels...divine," I said, managing a laugh. "Onward."
And onward we went, slowly, gently, until my insides got the
message and got to know their new man, and welcomed him in and I
felt...divine, like a goddess in her paradise with her god in
her, and the warmth was golden and I began to cry and say silly
things and buck against him, feeling his hair on my tender
bottom, wanting to pull him all the way inside me and pet him and
take care of him and make him happy and iron his shirts and fold
his underwear and never, ever, let him go.
And he said silly things to me, things I wanted to write in my
notebook and surround with little hearts and never forget and he
moved in and out of me like a big cat until I thought I. Would.
Just. Burst.
"Oh, Michelle," he said, and I knew he was ready.
"Do you want...?"
"Don't...worry about me...just...."
And I arched and squeezed him will all my might and pulled him
closer and he...gave me. Himself. In what felt like a loving
torrent, filling me with himself, and he said I love you, I love
you, I love you, and I squeezed greedily because I wanted to be
full of him, just sloshing and wet and sloppy and barefoot and
innocent and enslaved to him. Forever.
We melted down, down.
And when we resurfaced I was fussing with his thick black hair,
looking him in the eyes, pressing, trembling a little, against
his middle with my full and wet middle.
"Simul..."
"Taneous orgasms," I said. "Good sign for a future..."
"Mate?" he said.
"Husband," I said, "Damn it."
(To be continued.)
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