Scenes From A Marriage free porn video

Scenes, by Vickie Tern, TG Femdom F/m m/M F/M etc This is a tale about a married couple who try to meet each other's needs, and also their own. What they think are each other's needs, that is. What they think are their own. It includes explicit sex scenes. Married sex, mostly, gentle, loving, and appreciative, mostly. If by reason of age, temperament, or moral principle you shouldn't or don't want to read about such things, think hard what to do about it, and you'll figure it out I'm sure. Scenes from a Marriage by Vickie Tern ([email protected]) 1. Carl wasn't really small, maybe only a little below average, but he was thin, gawky even for a teenager. His lean arms and narrow chest and small shoulders refused to bulk up no matter how much "Man-Power Protein Supplement" he drank and no matter how much iron he tried and failed to pump. So when the girls in his high school wanted to practice being girls on some guy they'd ignore him, overlook him. Sometimes even literally -- they'd stand in his path chatting with some acceptably tall, massive guy who happened to be behind him, never noticing that they were blocking his way. Carl would just wait till they moved on, too polite to interrupt the flirting and too unassertive even to say "Excuse me!" He was easily ignored. No way was he a fit boyfriend for any self-respecting high school girl. But some of them found he could be a friend nevertheless, that he was always a patient and sympathetic listener when they had a problem to talk through and their regular girlfriends weren't available. They'd get on the phone with him and talk about the hopes and heartaches of their relationships with boys, sometimes for hours. He'd sympathize. After a while they never thought of him as a boy, not the kind of boy who mattered, anyhow. He was sort of more like one of them, one of the gang who hung out together and could often be seen leaning across a table in the cafeteria, foreheads practically touching, ignoring the pizza under their faces and giggling as one or another of them held the rest spellbound with tales of intimacies with one or another boy friend. Such intimacies were all new and magical to the girls, so whatever any one girl did and how she felt about it had to be shared, turned round and re-examined by everyone. Kiss a boy on a first date? Well, yes, but with his tongue in you? His finger in you? Blow him on a second date if you really like him? Maybe, if he wasn't too arrogant, if he didn't take it for granted that's what you'd do. Or maybe even if he was arrogant, that's self-confidence really, that's a good thing in a boy. If he was shy and you wanted to kiss his cock to see what it was like, how big and so on, and wanted him to know, should you suck on his thumb to tell him? When he squirted, should you swallow it? Should you try to share it with him? If he'd accept it from your mouth into his, you could get him to do other things too, one of the girls had heard. But none of them were quite sure what things, not just yet. Carl never ventured an opinion on sex, since he was neither a representative boy nor a makeshift girl. What could he say? He'd listen, always feeling a little left out yet always feeling privileged to be there at all. He'd sit there while they talked make-up and clothes and girls' magazines and pop stars and local scandals, and boys, boys, boys. It was way better than sitting nowhere. And as long as he listened and nodded, he belonged! One girl even invited him to her pajama party, and he would have gone, too, except that her mother heard and vetoed it despite protests that it wasn't fair, that Carl wasn't really a boy, no one thought of him that way! They liked having him around. He was comfortable. He was a safe harbor where they could let down their sails when they returned from cruising uncharted waters with real boys. So though he wasn't exactly a boy, being a boy made him better than one more girl in some ways. They'd try out new looks and flirty repartee on him to get his reaction. They'd ask him if this weird mix and match outfit or that retro eye liner was too much, what would he think if he were a guy? Or if this new short hairdo was more flattering than their old smooth long hair. In time they learned to respect his opinion. He'd listen to what they were really saying, not just the frivolous-sounding surfaces but the tangles of anxiety and hopeful pride underneath. And he had instinctive good taste, so he always gave good advice. They loved him for it. One girl told him he was so sweet and so understanding of girls he really deserved a boyfriend of his own! Then when he blushed, they teased him. He was so dear! The other guys thought he probably did have a boyfriend of his own. To them he was that weird kid who hangs out with girls, probably a fag or a queer, whatever. Especially after an incident when the girls all got tipsy on a little wine and trooped down to the Nail Factory for manicures, and another girl from their school saw them and reported that he'd gotten one too. No matter that it was only clear matte polish. There he was, surrounded by girls, sitting where only girls sit, his hand gracefully extended to the operator while she buffed and painted his fingertips. That tied it. No boy wanted to be seen with him after that. Not even the boys who were discovering that they were indeed themselves fags, queers. A few times Carl tried to get a girl interested in him as himself, as a boyfriend, not as a friend who was a boy. But it was always no go. He wasn't their type, not for that kind of thing. So he got used to it, to not being their type. What he had going with them was still a lot better than nothing. He was grateful for it. More than grateful, if the truth be known. Because Carl loved girls, being with girls, being surrounded by them, being accepted by them on any terms! They were so incredibly attractive! He was charmed by their smooth skins and graceful movements, the soft round shapes of their faces and bodies, the way their hair bounced when they tossed their heads, their baby doll chins and their huge eyes. The way they held up their hands in class with their wrists bent way back, and talked with their wrists way forward. The way they stretched their lips smooth to apply their "Charm-Kist" candy flavored lipsticks and then later their serious Revlon and Estee Lauder shades. The way their new brassieres lifted and thrust out their new soft mounds and stretched their sweaters. The way they shook their shoulders provocatively to make a point, their mounds waving in emphatic agreement, unanswerable. The way they now and then produced naughty remarks or foul language unexpectedly, starting from way back inside themselves and then suddenly blurting the words, then giggling at their own daring, their unhallowed venture into male prerogative. Girls were wonderful! He just wasn't their type, that's all. Not for a boyfriend. Real girlfriends being unattainable, Carl secretly settled for facsimiles. All through high school and into college he maintained an imaginary sex life much like that of other boys' -- he lusted after the ripe women pictured in "Playboy" and the brazen ones in magazines depicting anatomical details, like "Screw." Recreating those babes in his imagination, he'd ask them what they'd like and he'd advise them what he'd like, while his hand pumped his own member. It wasn't too bad. He'd attempt conversations with them and they'd reply eagerly, until eventually one of them would leap up onto him and wrap her legs around his waist and lean back in ecstasy while he lunged his always-ready-to-hand cock repeatedly into her vitals. The sex was always good when he himself played all the parts, when he did for them what girls do so he could do to them what boys do. He got good at it. "Oh, Carl, you're so wonderful!" they'd tell him afterward. He'd tell himself, that is. Then at last, marvelously, when Carl was a Junior in college a real romance with a real girl blossomed, sex and all! With a girl who did think he was wonderful! He was still known to be a nice guy, a good friend a girl could talk to about nearly anything, and he'd become a whole sorority's acquired mascot -- they'd even wander the house in their bras and panties when he was around, paying no more attention to him than to each other or to some pet dog. One of the sisters was a lovely girl named Carol -- they joked about their similar sounding names when they first met. She was also thin like Carl, like Carl she had dark hair trimmed below her ears, and she was also a Management major. They were in lots of the same classes, and sometimes loaned each other their notes. Other sorority sisters joked that they were almost twin sisters, and Carl felt pleased because he admired her. Usually, though, Carol looked right through him, thinking about other things. Carol liked big, hard-bodied men. Football guys, tennis players, bodybuilders piqued her interest, but not men with Carl's build. The previous year she'd fallen hard for a basketball player, a well-known cocksman who'd condescended to use her as his readily-available cunt. She'd doted on that man the whole time, but when Fall classes resumed he'd stood her up, told her off, told her he preferred a different doormat. Still weeping, hoping hopelessly against hope, she'd called Carl, could they meet somewhere and just talk? They did, and Carl gave her tough advice and welcome consolation. They ended up in the Student Union Snack Salon with their heads close, talking about all sorts of things, ignoring the pizza under their noses. Carol looked into his eyes, and was startled to realize that he was a nice looking boy in his own right, really a man, not just a local nerd who hung out with girls because he wasn't much of a guy. He cared about her problem, he was genuinely concerned for her, she could tell! That was so sweet of him! On impulse she hinted that she might be willing to go to an upcoming campus cookout with him as her date, and he asked her. They did, and they enjoyed it, a lot, and when he timorously kissed her good night she asked if he'd want to accompany her to next Saturday's sorority dance. Then the third time they went out it wasn't to attend some event with all their friends, it was to go off by themselves, to drive to a road house some distance away and dance together and just talk. They definitely wanted to see much more of each other. They did. Carol came to respect and admire Carl, and Carl was ecstatic, wildly elated. She was beautiful, she had the most delicate mannerisms, she was smart, so her opinions mattered, and she liked him! She cared! About him! He would never forget that moment when they were walking back from class through the winter's first snowfall, both of them well bundled up, and she'd put her face up to his and held it there until he finally realized why and dared to kiss it. And she'd kissed him back! With feeling! It was ... bliss! They fell in love. Carl was still more skin than muscle, but he had enough of a build by then so when he proposed going steady and she agreed and they finally undressed completely to make love, she was as happy to run her hands over his lean, hard shoulders as he was to caress her perky, soft, generous breasts. That first time was so beautiful, considerate, and affectionate, so very tender! Different, Carol found, not at all like sex with other guys! She showed him a position she liked and guided him into her, and he ebbed and flowed and rose and fell over her and in her until at last she gasped and hugged him, and he came inside her, he came into this wonderful girl Carol, into a real girl, for the first time anywhere ever! It was utterly sublime! How could anyone contain such joy? Thereafter he was altogether hers. She became everything to him. His precious darling, the love of his life, his reason for being. Her body and her face were more provocative than his most erotically saturated magazine dream girl's. Her cute decisiveness of manner entranced him, her absolute certainty about all sorts of things reduced his own considered beliefs to rubble. Whenever they disagreed, he'd always concede before an argument could develop. It was a miracle that she loved him, and he knew it, that she cared for him, and he knew that too. He'd let nothing ever put those things at risk. Nothing! Carl never stopped thinking of Carol's body as a holiest of holies. He was never happier than after a date when she'd open her dorm room to him and shrug off her bra and panties and lie down primly crosswise on her bed, feet on the floor and legs ajar, waiting for him to lift her skirt and unveil her quim and sink to his knees between hers and devoutly lick and kiss her delicate pink labia until they swelled up thick with pulsing blood. Then to part the folds of flesh protecting her clitoris with his tongue, and lick and lap that little nubbin until she groaned and rolled around, her thighs by now wrapped tight around his head, her ankles locked behind him. Then she owned him utterly! Only when she came down from her orgasm and released him could he feel that he'd earned the right to rise from the floor and mount her and enter her and then rock gently against her until they released their erotic tensions together, she for a second time, maybe a third, he finally at last. As she saw it, he never crammed into her soon enough once the gifted face he buried in her pussy had brought her off. For Carol, lovely as it was, cuntlapping was only a warm-up for the main event. She was eager to feel Carl stuffed into her, slipping and sliding himself into her, slamming into her. She wanted to feel again what she'd felt with that last boy friend, that basketball player who'd jilted her. She'd fucked that guy even on their first date, because she knew he was all coiled muscle, and she wanted to feel it flexing and tensing inside her. It'd been great -- she could scarcely walk the next day, but she'd nevertheless spent the whole time smiling. Then for months she'd never worn panties when she was near him -- she never wanted him to feel inhibited! She was Miss Available to him at all times, and he used her at whim. She loved his hard fucking! That was why she'd had such a hard time giving him up. Carl was different -- respectful, considerate, reverent even. Once he dawdled so long licking and sucking her cunt, and she got so worked up, so impatient, that she impulsively grabbed his hair and hauled him up bodily from between her legs and onto her body. She wanted cock! He barely had time to unzip and pull out his dick before she thrust her groin at him, already spasming. He'd slid his thing into her while it was still sticking awkwardly out of his fly, no time allowed for him to unbuckle and drop his pants. Those pants were soaked when they finished, drenched, and the whole crotch area was stiff and crusty the next day when it dried and he had to leap into them to rush to class! He learned from that, and thereafter he stripped bare even before kneeling to kiss her mound hello and then devote himself to her slit. Bare-assed was better. He was her naked lover always on his knees in her presence. She enjoyed that. But once his lower parts were naked she'd side-track him mischievously for her own entertainment, sometimes even before he could go down on her. Sitting there on her bed, she'd tell him to rise and stand before her, which he did! Then she'd look up at him slyly and take him into her mouth and begin to suck on him. In time she invented a game in which she forced him to cum in her mouth by embracing his backside so firmly he couldn't pull out. Then she held his cum puddled under her tongue when they separated, and then when she had his complete attention she'd obviously, lasciviously, almost mockingly swallow him down, never taking her eyes off him. Two points for her. "None for you," she'd say, her tongue still coated. If he could kiss her first and share it, only one point for her, and one for him. Cock-sucking him deprived her of her fuck until he could recover, but it was fun to tease him that way. Anybody could fuck! She loved the feel and flavor of cum, and there was no reason he shouldn't too, she reasoned. So, lovingly, she elaborated the game to give him a chance to share it another way. She let him fool her into thinking he was a long way yet from peaking, supposedly. She'd ease her grip on him so he could withdraw from her mouth just in time to spurt all over her face. That made two points for him. Then he could take his well-deserved victory lap, kissing and licking her face clean of his cum, all of it. She'd insist -- to the victor go the spoils. He did it even though it felt odd, licking up his own cum with its peculiar salty flavor and its sticky feel. But just as he'd kiss her when her mouth was full of him even though he knew she'd transfer it to his mouth, he did it because she wanted him to do it. And because it provided a wonderful excuse for him to lick her face, her eyelids, the hollows under her cheeks, the pulse point throbbing in front of her ear, all the places he loved. It was heaven for him to sink his face into the curve of her neck and kiss and lick her over and over. He'd go breathless doing that! What was licking a little cum, given that joy? She thought that his passionate devotion to her face was to the taste and feel of sperm, that he loved it as much as she did but was too embarrassed to say so. One of those things men couldn't ever confess, she supposed. So to please him she often let him win. And always, after they'd made love and her pussy was still oozing and she was lolling back half-asleep, she'd tuck his head under the covers for a farewell kiss on her lower lips, then hold him there, giving him plenty of opportunity to suck his own precious nectar out of her. That felt so good! She wanted it, so despite his initial distaste he did it. He'd read that only girls liked cum, girls and gay guys, and he was neither. But after a while he didn't mind, he could do it easily, though he never came to love it the way she did. Especially after they fucked and it was mingled with her own sweet juices. He loved those. After their first few gentle fucks a determinedly lecherous look crossed Carol's face. One night in her dorm she told him abruptly to lie on his back. As he wondered why she mounted him, crouched, leaned back on her thighs, and sank down onto his prick until it was deep inside her. Then rose and thrust and writhed, his prick glistening, her pussy never tighter nor more swollen, her moans never louder than when she climaxed lunging on top of him, altogether in control of her own movements and sensations as well as his. That was only the first of many times she fucked him instead of the other way around. When on top she was always rougher, more abandoned, wilder. That was how she found she could give herself the hard fucking she craved, the kind that basketball player had always given her. Carl wasn't capable. He was always gentle, easing sweetly in and out of her, trying to prolong her pleasure. She appreciated that, even loved him for it, but there were limits! This was one way she could have it both ways. She made Carl happy by becoming his special girl, and when Carl was happy Carol was very happy. Carol had previously dated only hunky studs, thinking that was what a girl should do. Carl was no hunk, but he was everything else she'd ever wanted, or close enough. He was kind, sensitive, caring, responsible, a loving partner, considerate, always respectful of her wishes, and dedicated to a future they could share equally. And they complemented each other. Where he was tactful, indirect whether praising or finding fault, she was forthright. Where he was quick, improvisational, maybe careless, inclined to go on impulse, she was methodical, exact. When he hesitated, she was decisive. They studied for exams together, and paced and tested each other, and increasingly admired each other's minds. They became absolutely convinced that they were made for each other, and they were each awestruck that they'd found each other. They married soon after graduating near the top of their class. She kept her own last name of course. Carl wondered how people would be able to tell they were married, not just living together, if they didn't have the same name. He offered to take her last name. "But then they could still think we're brother and sister, couldn't they?" Carol told him. "Don't worry. They'll know what we are by the way we behave. And how we behave is what counts, isn't it?" Carl thought commitment counted for something. That they were each others'. "Oh, you sweet dear! We both know what our commitments are! We'll always be each other's, regardless of how things look! So who cares what others think?" Carl couldn't find an answer to that. He kissed her lips, and then she spread her legs and he kissed those lips too. 2. Five years later nothing had changed. They took jobs with the same multinational, though in different divisions, in a city far enough away from parents and relatives to assure that they'd have each other's undivided attention most of the year. They were each promoted several times. The company found she had persuasive management skills, and soon had her participating in all sorts of meetings. So she commuted daily to their headquarters downtown. Carl mostly telecommuted. His work-group were a bunch of mavericks who tossed him their toughest problems, and Carl soon found he could fax or e-mail back his solutions from home. Why not? It was a good arrangement. Carl would straighten up around the house and more often than not fix dinner for the two of them, since his working hours varied enormously from week to week. He loved doing things for her, and she was delighted that he wanted to. Their lives remained dedicated to each other, each one sensitive to the other's slightest shifts of mood. They purchased a house with their two salaries and savings and a small inheritance and a mortgage, one large enough to give each of them a separate study or computer room, and a spare as well, a guest room that could be a kid's room when they decided they wanted one. When she could, which wasn't too often, she'd choose to work at home too, just to be close to him. Her boss didn't mind, the work always got done. Though sometimes it made for an amusing moment when someone from Carol's department called and asked for "Carol" and Carl mis-heard and took the call. Or Carol took Carl's calls. Sometimes when they'd both come down with colds their voices were indistinguishable, extending the confusion further. It amused them that when someone asked for what sounded like "Curl" they had to ask "Which one?" In time that provided their pet name for each other. Carl didn't mind being her "little Curl," thouugh it sounded strange to their friends, who wondered what their private lives might be like. Their attitudes toward sex differed considerably. She was altogether unabashed. She'd slept with other boys before Carl, and of course for a whole year she'd been that basketball player's designated cunt, doing whatever he asked. She'd even put out for two of his team-mates once when their girls were out of town and they were all celebrating a victory, and he'd asked her to oblige them. So she was unashamed to tell Carl how she wanted him to pleasure her. Carl on the other hand had previously fucked only phantom magazine girls. He was still embarrassed by his intimate desires, barely able to imagine some of them much less disclose them to Carol. Even to Carol. Especially to Carol. She realized this soon enough, and tried to overcome his modesty by telling him that no desires are ever shameful, no matter how extravagant. A man and a woman should feel free to do anything they want with each other, if they both consent. He agreed, but it didn't help. He remained essentially shy, and she learned that she had to coax or tease his secrets out of him, sometimes just guess at them. Yet he had a remarkable sensitivity to her needs. She never dreamt that it came from years of imagining what imaginary girls wanted so he could give it to them. Not that it mattered. They were keen to sense and satisfy each other's desires, so by guess and feel they got it right mostly. Or often enough. She told him soon after they moved into their new house how she wanted her breasts suckled as well as her pussy preliminary to their lovemaking, and how she wanted him to use his hands and fingers down below while his mouth was busy. Carl was too ashamed to tell her his equivalents. Certainly not how for years he'd whacked off pretending that his fist was a Playgirl of the Month who wanted to fuck him and his cock was the Playboy who was fucking her because hers was the only pussy available. He was too inhibited to tell her even simple physical things. Once, for example, Carol accidentally kissed one of Carl's nipples and he stiffened so suddenly that she stopped. She thought it had hurt or violated him in some way, so she didn't try again for a year, and then only accidentally. She then learned she'd guessed wrong, that in fact Carl had loved the jolt of ecstasy he'd felt, but just couldn't bring himself to say so. When finally she knew, his nipples became as important to both of them as hers were. She wondered what else might be important to him, but he'd never say. So all in all their sex was more considerate than passionate, more affectionate than frenzied. It was fine, make no mistake, plenty good enough. Yet after a few years, now and then when they were in close embrace and Carl's penis was moving gently inside her, Carol's attention would drift. Perhaps to a dress she should have bought when she saw it at Talmadge's, or to the decorations on a cake she meant to order for his birthday. Or to problems at the office. Whatever, when that happened she'd be a long time reaching an orgasm. Carl in his turn routinely did employee cost-benefit calculations or baseball averages in his head while he was humping her, to defer premature ejaculation until that moment when he could feel her grip tighten on his neck and she'd whisper "Oh! Oh!" and then moan aloud, and finally he felt free to let go and spend himself. Her satisfaction came first, so she should too. So the sex was OK, not always great. But when Carol was on top -- more often than not after the first few years -- she'd always give herself the rough ride she loved. Her whispers then became gasps, even screams that amazed her sweet little Curl as he lunged up beneath her, poking himself into her pussy's maelstrom. And as with most long-term couples, their imaginations filled out what they couldn't provide each other. Carol supplemented her sex life and her fantasies with romantic novels, bodice rippers with strong-minded, take-charge heroines and wounded, gleaming heroes with mysterious pasts and exotic desires. Carl knew and assumed correctly that this was a liberated female thing, no threat or discredit to himself implied. He was half-right. Carol wondered now and then if Carl had any exotic desires. But Carl bare-assed on his knees leaning into her crotch to lick her cunt was never one of those heroes of her imagination. Real men don't do that. Rather, he was then her little Curl, her sweet, darling lover. When she looked down and saw him there she'd lift her legs onto his shoulders and squeeze his head between her thighs in sheer joy that he was hers. Then she'd lie back to enjoy him the way she'd once enjoyed her girlfriend Fiona when Fiona needed desperately to know for sure whether or not she was really and truly a lesbian, and Carol had helped her find out. Carol had languished on her back at her ease, allowing Fiona to find fulfillment by bringing Carol wave after wave of pleasure. Carl felt so much like Fiona when his tongue was rippling in her clit that the two sometimes seemed indistinguishable. She liked imagining he was Fiona, sometimes, or that Fiona with her impudent little boobs and dark, sly eyes had all the while been Carl. Even when Carl was on top and fucking away, and she was twisting under him, even then Carol remade him in her imagination into someone else. Oone of her former boyfriends, maybe, one more hunk of solid flesh once again rutting and jamming it into her. She maintained a stable of these men in her mind, and she rotated them. Of course Carl was slight, so the illusion never lasted. But when Carol was on top she could close her eyes and then she could easily recall in her mind and her pussy the extra thrust her bodybuilders had crammed into her, the heft of their huge muscled meat writhing under her as she rose and fell on their monumental cocks. She could even imagine that Carl's cock was her basketball player's, tense, twisting to plumb her guts as she rose to explode in one orgasm after another. Of course Carl never suspected that he wasn't the primary inspiration of her passion, that he only provided occasions for someone else to fuck her in fantasy. That the harder she fucked him, the more decisively she was cuckolding him. Nor did she feel any need to tell him. If her past memories still excited her, where was the harm? Her beloved hubby was her true beloved, and always the beneficiary. Carl was also untrue to Carol, in his imagination. He augmented his sex life now and then as before, the way he'd done it when still in his teens. He'd masturbate in private while some pneumatically stacked girl grinned her approval and urged him on from the centerfold of some magazine. Girls like that always craved him. They were eager to feel his tongue or his cock inside them. They told him so, and they told him it was heaven! Carol never knew. As with her fantasies, Carl never thought to tell her his. He never thought they were a threat or discredit to her. Certainly it wasn't infidelity, just something a little extra, different. Harmless. Sometimes Carol wondered what he was imagining when he was licking or fucking her. She once asked him, and so she'd know how devoted he was to her pleasure, he replied, "I'm always trying to feel what you feel when I do things, so I'll know what feels good for you!" That was a little strange. Carl wants to feel what women feel when they're being licked and fucked? But she shrugged. Best not ask him that again. He might ask what she'd been imagining when they made love, and what would she tell him then? Things were fine just as they were. Not everyone in their neighborhood enjoyed as idyllic a relationship. Some had children of course, and that distracted them into a different kind of sharing, their erotic feelings kept on hold most of the time. And floating across back yards and gardens in summer one could hear shouted quarrels and tearful reconciliations and slammed doors, the usual ambient sounds of suburban life. And over coffee in certain kitchens or wine in some living rooms, provocative tales about recently revealed mis-spent husbands and mis-laid wives were commonplace. Carl couldn't have cared less, but Carol always enjoyed knowing what others were up to. Across the street and a few houses down lived Carol's good friend Madeline, a divorced woman ten years older and far more experienced in the ways of the world, a source to Carol of all sorts of practical if sometimes also cynical wisdom. They met the day Carl and Carol moved in with their single carload of wedding presents, a young couple who knew nothing and needed everything. Maddy'd introduced herself then and there in her crisp, self-assured way, appraised them, then advised them where in their new locale the best values and services were to be found. She'd been right, then as always since, and now five years later Carol trusted her judgment absolutely. In her turn, Maddy watched the couple's comings and goings with affectionate amazement, unable to believe that the course of true love could ever run that smooth. She sometimes invited them over and sometimes she was invited over, and she and Carol went shopping together sometimes, and after a while there were few secrets between them. "You never quarrel?" Maddy would ask Carol incredulously. "In your whole marriage there's no defensive male ego trying to dominate a frail female ego? Nor vice versa? No negotiated truces, no power exchanges, no private understandings, no getting even for supposed or actual injuries? No scenes? No top and bottom play, improvised or deliberate?" Carol had no idea what Maddy was talking about. So Maddy explained about "power exchanges," giving over all control over your life as a gift to the other person to use any way she chooses, or he chooses if you're foolish enough to grant power like that to a man. And she explained all about tops and bottoms, "most people are one or the other, though some swing both ways, and some mistake themselves." And summing it up, "scenes" or set occasions when couples could role-play in ways radically different from their usual roles, could be other people altogether sometimes. For fun. Sometimes with other couples. Sometimes your own partner not knowing a scene was under way. Carol was shocked if also intrigued by the implied artifice, the insincerity of it. She told Maddy that she and Carl had no need for such things. They were loving, equal partners who respected each other, and that was all. She trusted Carl's judgment in all things -- even about her hair and her clothes and her make-up -- his good taste dated back to the days when he hung out with girls as if he were practically one of them, and they welcomed him among them because he was undemanding and his advice was so valuable. When Maddy first heard about this part of Carl's life she merely raised her eyebrows, but afterward she remembered to ask Carol all about it, and by and by she'd heard it all. It did explain why Carol didn't feel oppressed by Carl, the way all wives did by their husbands sooner or later. They were pals, almost girlfriends in some ways. Usually they agreed about everything. But when they didn't, Carol told Maddy, Carl always deferred to her judgment. That's why they had no need for scenes or games. Except, Carol thought to herself, for the face-cum-licking game I invented so Carl can taste himself and enjoy himself the way I do. He's so shy about asking, I suppose it's that macho thing, guys aren't supposed to want to eat cum, not even their own. And except for my former boyfriends, those guys who take over when Carl's down there doing his best and it isn't quite good enough. Carol thought further. And except for me being the heroines of all my novels. Those were scenes, sort of. She mentioned these things to Maddy, thinking nothing of them. Maddy marveled, mainly at Carol's innocence. But she said nothing. Carol in turn marveled at Maddy's often racy accounts of the scenarios she and her ex-husband Ray had evolved during their marriage, the many enactments Maddy had designed to gratify her need to control a man absolutely. That's what her mother had done with her father, an ineffectual wimp who'd never even noticed, and that's what Maddy wanted in her life too. Early on, when he still loved and trusted her, Ray had been willing to submit to Maddy's needs in inconsequential ways. She ran a tight ship at work -- she was a chief hospital administrator -- and an even tighter ship at home. Ray had gone along with her at home even when her demands seemed arbitrary. Houses are women's territories, he believed, places where women rule the roost. So when at home, he did whatever he was asked to do. Mostly. For a while. As she raised the ante he went along, Maddy told Carol with great satisfaction. She once told him to use the back door and leave his shoes there Japanese style whenever he came into the house, to make it habitual even when his shoes weren't muddy. So he did, never noticing that she chose not to herself. "That denied him the front door. Grand entrances were for me, not him. He used the delivery entrance, like any servant," she told Carol. "Wasn't that clever of me?" Carol thought so, thinking meanwhile that she could never do that to Carl. They were equals. "But better, it left me wearing the shoes in the family while Ray was padding around silently in his stocking feet. I made sure that the shoes I wore around the house were always high heels, real feminine fuck-me pumps and open-toed slings that clattered on our tile floors, so he'd could appreciate that women's shoes and those who wear them are privileged, special, that high heels are a badge of authority. So when he heard me approaching the sound would put him in the right frame of mind. I told him he'd have to suck up to that authority if he wanted any favors from me. Then one evening he did want a favor, I forget what, and he found out I meant it! That's what I made him do. It was an open toed pair, and he slobbered all over them, my toes were soaked when he finished and stood up again, hoping that I approved! I sure did, I loved it! Later I told him that hereafter my ass would be another badge of authority. Told him he'd have to kiss my ass if he wanted to ask me for something." "And did he?" Carol asked. She knew Carl would without hesitating if she ever asked him. But she'd never asked. "Yes, of course! After a few days he realized I meant it, and when he really needed my help with something, that's what he did! Very gallantly, very ceremoniously, he made a game of it so he wouldn't feel put down. But he did it! After that, no problem, he'd show respect for my asshole's authority right off whenever he wanted anything, even the time of day. Toward the end he spent a lot of time on his knees, my Ray, sucking on my toes or smooching my rear. Especially when he wanted to watch some football game or go play poker with his friends, that's when I'd insist he earn the right. Sometimes when he asked, I'd make him do me instead of those things, make that sacrifice for me. He once spent a whole Super Bowl licking my toes and kissing my ass with his back to the television, listening and wondering what was happening." Carol asked if he'd ever kissed her -- you know, her pussy -- to show his love for her, the way Carl always ... then she stopped short, realizing that some things between her and Carl were private. But Maddy heard, and anyhow by their fifth year together there was nothing Maddy hadn't figured out for herself. "He didn't like to kiss my slit," Maddy replied unhesitatingly. "So I made him do it as a punishment sometimes. Even stick his tongue into it during my period, too, that was a special punishment. If he'd liked it I'd have let him do the same thing now and then as a reward. That's how we were. That's how I wanted it." Carol could only shake her head disbelievingly. Maddy had lots more to tell her. There was the time she'd made Ray jump through hoops, literally. Made him bark like a dog as he jumped through hula hoops and landed on all fours while she cracked a whip. Carol thought that was silly, but Maddy only shrugged. "I wanted to. Husbands are supposed to take care of their wives' needs. I needed for him to do anything I asked him to do. Was jumping through hoops too much to ask?" Eventually, yes. Apparently so. It got too extreme, Maddy told Carol with some satisfaction. One day she informed Ray that she needed to humiliate him in public in some as yet unspecified way that would permanently injure his reputation, make him appear ridiculous in everyone's eyes. Would he do that for her? Knights of old did that for their Lady loves in olden days, she said. To test a lover's sincerity, a Lady might require her Knight at Arms to show cowardice during some joust, for example, to sacrifice his personal honor and endure public scorn for her sake. If he'd do that for her, then there was nothing she wouldn't do for him. Ray told her he didn't think he should do that, he was a stockbroker after all, not a Knight or a clown, in his line of work reputation mattered. Maddy'd then insisted, and Ray'd again refused. She then made it an ultimatum, it was something she had to have him do and that was that. When he turned her down yet again, firmly, categorically, finally, she decided that their marriage was over, it had reached a dead end, it was time for her to back out of it. But she said nothing. Instead she looked around her office for an eligible young man, someone she could train to accept and maybe even enjoy humiliation, and finally she found a young medical technician named Scott. She worked with him quietly for months until he was willing to obey her no matter what. He didn't know it, but she was preparing him for the payoff her husband had denied her. Finally he was ready. Despite a near-paralyzing anxiety Scott went to dinner with her in the most prominent restaurant in town wearing a decollete dress, a salon makeover, a cute hairdo, and stiletto heels. He'd gotten his ears pierced, and she made sure everyone noticed by lending him her own long diamond pendants, Ray's gift to her on their fifth anniversary. Even the Maitre d' complimented him while showing them to their table. He really was beautiful, Maddy had to admit. And she kept telling him that too, to bolster his confidence. Scott was terrified the whole time even so, almost unable to speak, so she'd had to keep making soothing noises at him as if to some high-strung stallion, or maybe a skittish mare, all the while waiting for the unveiling, for phase two. Phase two was, she'd arranged for a woman he knew from his lab to join them for dessert, not mentioning why. Office gossip had it that this woman had her eye on Scott and had mildly flirted with him, and that Scott felt the same way toward her. Now she'd see that Scott was not the man she thought him. That would be the humiliation part for Scott, knowing that a girl who'd admired him would henceforth think him effeminate, a wimp, an effete, swishy, ridiculous sissy. She wished for a fleeting moment that it was Ray and not Scott who was sitting opposite her picking at his food nervously with slender, manicured fingertips, looking absolutely gorgeous, knowing nothing about the time bomb she'd planted and knew was already ticking. Especially now that Ray had refused to cooperate, now that in her mind their marriage was over. In the end it all worked out better than she'd hoped! Just as Scott's workmate spotted and recognized him, unable to comprehend what she saw, one of Scott's neighbors also recognized him and came over to ask what gives! One of the regulars at Scott's Tennis Club. They sat down simultaneously and put their question to him bluntly. Scott gathered up all his courage and tried to speak, to explain, but he couldn't find any explanation at first. Maddy hushed him and sent him to look for their waiter, then while he was gone she told them both that Scott was really a woman in his heart, that he'd always felt that way, that he cherished his femininity, and that he'd been asking Maddy's advice about becoming a woman permanently. When Scott returned to the table, his manhood in their eyes was compromised beyond recovery. The two questioned him about his feminine feelings and listened to his uncomprehending, incoherent answers, grins growing on their faces and occasionally widening to smirks. Scott tried to correct their misimpression, no he wasn't a transsexual, this was a one-time thing. But Maddy kept interrupting to ask him to describe his lingerie or what he'd had done to him in the salon earlier that day, how he'd felt fussing over his borrowed jewelry earlier when he was getting dressed to go out. Trained always to answer Maddy's questions before volunteering anything on his own, Scott used up the time available for explanations. So the couple left the table without touching their coffee, confirmed in their conviction that what Maddy had told them was true and eager to spread their new gossip, the news that even in his own eyes Scott was no man and never had been, that he was a pussy who envied women with pussies and wanted one of his own. Scott watched them go with his face immobile, realizing that his reputation was disappearing with them. What they thought would be what everyone thought of him from now on. As they disappeared into the restaurant's cloak room the whole dining room heard them suddenly burst out laughing, guffawing uncontrollably. The manager had to go out to caution them. Scott realized that this was his future, he was now locked into it. He skimmed over his limited choices. One was to change jobs, leave town. Another was to live as if he actually were the shameful sissy he seemed, his supposed secret transvestism exposed. A third was to deny it, to tell the truth. But that would only add cowardice and mendacity to the list of his sins -- he'd been seen, he'd told them all about his perm and his pierced ears, there was no denying it. Was he more ashamed to confess his submissiveness, that Maddy had pussywhipped him? "I don't know what to do," he said near tears as he told Maddy how he saw his predicament. Maddy didn't feel concerned -- she'd accomplished what she'd wanted to do with a man, regretting only that it wasn't her husband who was now feeling thoroughly humiliated. But she suggested yet another alternative. Scott could pre-emptively seize the initiative and show real courage by embracing the womanhood everyone would soon assume he'd wanted all his life anyhow. He could pretend to be a transsexual woman and proud of it, and present himself that way to everyone. He could in fact become a woman. That way he'd earn back everyone's respect, even their admiration. It seemed extreme, but Maddy knew it was possible. He asked Maddy what to do. Maddy didn't know, it was his decision, but did he really have a choice? Was respect easier to endure than mockery? She'd help him become a woman if that was what he wanted. She leaned forward, and gazing intently into his eyes, she told him that even if his reputation weren't now ruined, he still be much better off trying to be a woman. She'd never thought he was much of a man, neither physically nor temperamentally, but look what a gorgeous woman people think he is even right now! That was where his talents lay. Maybe also his advantages. Confused, half-persuaded, Scott went into the Ladies' to fix his make-up, and there he made his decision. Maddy knew it the moment she saw him emerge chatting earnestly with a woman he'd found there, telling her who'd done his hair and why this way, and how he was thinking of changing it. When he sat down again he told Maddy he'd decided to go with the flow, look and sound and act and live like a woman in every particular as best as he could from then on. As a man his dignity was lost was beyond recovery, but by trying to become what he now seemed he could recover it and deflect ridicule. And even apart from that, the idea had some appeal. There were advantages, weren't there? Being a woman wasn't too bad, was it? Lots of women enjoyed it, didn't they? Would she help him? Maddy was so pleased to hear this that she rewarded Scott by bringing him straight home, walking him in his cocktail dress and high heels past her husband as he looked up at them from the TV, clattering straight upstairs with him, kissing him full on the lips in the hallway as her astounded husband watched from below, then loudly fucking him to exhaustion all night long in their bedroom with the door locked, teaching him to shriek in as high-pitched a voice as hers. "You'll love it, feeling penetrated," she whispered to him as she fondled his now inappropriate penis. "Just as men will love you when you're rid of this thing!" Ray packed and was gone the next morning. It was another week before he learned that what he had witnessed was not his wife in a depraved lesbian encounter but only an ordinary infidelity, his wife with another man. But by then it was too late for the information to do him any good. By then he'd signed separation papers giving Maddy two-thirds of everything in return for her never telling what had happened, for keeping her lesbian perversities secret so he could in turn preserve his reputation for probity with his clients. Thus Maddy escaped from her marriage a wealthy woman, and that was a little extra she hadn't even planned on. She kept working because she liked hospital administration, arranging other people's lives, and she had no regrets. She maintained a list of men available to her for certain purposes, she told Carol, but she had no special interest in any one of them. "As long as they come when I call, and there's a waiting list, I'm content." 3. Though Carol was a relative innocent, she was more amused than shocked by this long tale. In part she was amused because Maddy took such obvious pleasure in telling it in all of its satisfying details, and Maddy was her friend. But in part because she understood both Maddy and Scott. There were girls in her sorority who'd played similar control games with their men, mindfucking them into dom/sub relationships for fun and then ruining their campus reputations before moving on to someone else. She'd been shocked at first, but they were no worse than men who scored with countless women and boasted about it, naming names. Lots of men enjoyed their submission, she knew, though none would ever confess it unless their girlfriends instructed them to tell all. Carol asked where Scott was now, and Maddy told her out west in Colorado, active in her husband's business and in various charities, the mother of two darling adopted daughters she adored and was teaching to become proper young ladies. She was perfectly respectable, apparently happy, fully in charge of her own affairs including a few her husband knew nothing about. "Becoming a woman finally made a man of him!" she said, grinning. They exchanged Christmas cards, and Maddy sent her "Scotty" a birthday card on each anniversary of her sex reassignment surgery. Had he remained a man, he'd have remained a mediocre lab technician, never very competent, probably let go after some disastrous mistake. He was much better off. "Wouldn't you enjoy dominating Carl, Carol?" Maddy asked her friend. "Men do love to serve women, you know. It gives them their chief reason to exist. I think it's in their genes, Nature's plan. It has something to do with mate selection, caring for the young, things like that. That's why once we know the score, we fuck hunky guys we could never live with but then we diddle nice guys into marrying us and supporting us and helping us raise our babies. Now and then a hunky guy's baby too, though our nice hubbys never suspect it, and that's how the hunky genes survive along with the wimp genes. The next generation's girls need their hunky lovers and great fucks too, before they settle down. Even after!" "Maybe," Carol had replied vaguely. "Maybe I'd enjoy getting the better of Carl now and then." She knew that these days she had to be on top of Carl and fucking him, not vice versa, to feel the way that basketball player had once made her feel. But she'd never want to humiliate Carl, she'd told Maddy. She couldn't possibly two-time him! They were equal partners in everything, and absolutely faithful. Besides, it wasn't necessary. He'd already do anything for her, she was sure of it. "Even that?" Maddy asked. "Even what Scott did for me?" "Maybe even that," Carol had replied. The idea wasn't that far-fetched, She let her mind dwell on it. It was rather exciting! She knew she sometimes re-imagined her gentle Carl as Fiona, his sweet face bent between her thighs to lick her loins, wearing impeccable make-up freshly applied at the beauty salon. Fiona had once dressed for a date and with her face made up perfectly had paused for a session between Carol's legs. She'd finished up a delicious, grinning, cum-drippy mess, but soooo happy! And a sorority pledge Carol had hazed once had licked her, smeared mascara and lipstick all over her thighs -- it had taken an extra cuntlapping session to clean it up, to make things as neat down there again as Carol liked them. Could Carl ever be those girls? "But maybe not," was Maddy's response. "You never know." Afterward Carol was careful not to tell Carl the circumstances of Maddy's divorce. He was still such an innocent! With his slight build and his whole adolescence spent as one of the girls, or nearly, gender shifting made him uneasy whenever it entered anyone's conversation. He was always a little uncertain about his masculinity, and who could blame him? At a dinner party once, Maddy'd begun to describe the kinds of men who attended the gender-change clinic at her hospital, and Carol had asked her with her eyes to let it pass. Maddy'd glanced at Carl, who looked edgy but studiously indifferent, immediately understood, and dropped it. Yet Carol did let the notion drift in and out of her mind sometimes. She wondered how her little Curl might look done up now and then as little girl. Cute, she decided. He'd told her about the time he'd gone with the girls to get his nails done, and she wondered if he'd gone with them for other things too sometimes, and was too ashamed to tell her. Had he ever actually gone out with them dressed and made up like one of them? Of course he must have, if only on a dare! The idea pleased her. Her little Curlie! After that, whenever she read her romantic novels she loved to imagine that their strong, sensible heroines with her own face would turn now and then to confide in devoted girlfriends who looked like Carl, girls with Carl's face with just a little lipstick added. And her actual husband Carl, kneeling between her legs and nibbling her pink clit and tonguing her to her first orgasm of the evening, more and more often became her own darling girlfriend kneeling in front of her, hair beautifully cut, face softly feminine, sweetly preparing her for a date with one of her former muscular boy friends, one of those hunky guys who would soon mount her and plunge a massive cock directly into her pussy, then fuck her senseless while she nearly broke her back twisting under him in ecstasy. Elaborating, she saw Carl as her girlfriend husband waving goodbye to her as she left the house to meet her date, for the evening, pleased to be participating in some small preliminary way, wishing her well. Her girlfriend who then went upstairs to get ready for his own date. He always looked so cute when he was done! Her sweetheart! It was only a fantasy, harmless enough. Mainly, she liked things just the way they were. Then came a crisis. Soon after their fifth wedding anniversary Carl came down with a mean flu that developed into a vicious pneumonia. He'd turned blue and could barely breathe when the ambulance arrived. For a while it was touch and go whether the doctors could save him -- he was hospitalized for weeks. Then they wanted to watch him closely during his recovery, so when he came home his doctor ordained more bed rest and convalescence. He wasn't to think about work, he had to save his energy. His boss awarded him the longest indefinite leave the company's insurance allowed, months and months, encouraging him to take it easy for as long as he needed, to build back his strength so he could take charge of a massive project looming on next year's horizon. Carl was so weak he could only nod gratefully. For the first time in his life, no one expected him to do anything. Carol was frantic the whole time Carl was in the hospital, especially when he was in intensive care and it wasn't certain he'd pull through. Maddy was her constant support, her lifeline to sanity. She didn't think she could live without Carl, the fearful phantasm of losing him was unendurable. She imagined all sorts of disasters, then all sorts of alternative disasters. Maddy reassured her as best she could. When Carl finally came home he was a shadow of himself, as gaunt and spindly as ever in his teens. He knew it, and against all reason he began worrying about losing Carol to someone more substantial. Once again he was convinced he was unfit to be any girl's special boyfriend, her love, especially a girl as marvelous as Carol. He had nightmares in which Carol called him up to ask if her plaid skirt would go with the tweed jacket she meant to wear on a weekend jaunt to a resort hotel with the guy she just met. And other nightmares in which she told him she couldn't live as his wife any more. She needed a real man, though he was welcome to stay and live with her as her dear friend, nothing else assumed. He'd wake up terrified, looking fearfully at Carol as she slept peaceably beside him. What might she be dreaming of? When he confessed these bad dreams to her, Carol put all her own romantic imaginings on hold. Little did he know that his fears were in fact her fantasies, harmless enough, but still ..... She knew why he felt so insecure -- once again he was an unacceptable adolescent in his own eyes. She reassured him repeatedly with hugs and kisses, he was her only love and she would love him forever no matter how thin he got! No matter what! No help, all that happened was that Carl immediately began imagining other whats. So she scolded him and put him to bed and demanded that he stay there. She came home from work early each day to feed him nourishing broths and easily digestible foods. Each day Carl clung to her and wept for joy that she'd returned to him yet again, he'd been so afraid she wouldn't. Each night they hugged each other, they wrapped themselves in each other as they went to sleep. She knew he needed the comfort. But hugging was all they did, because the doctor had told Carl to avoid all vigorous exercise. Carol was taking no chances -- she worried that even the gentlest sexual excitement might bring on a relapse. Week after week went by, until Carl finally felt fit, still thin but ready to begin exercising again, certainly ready for sex. But no. Carol insisted that he do nothing for the full time the doctors had mandated, many weeks more. His morning boners returned full force. Carol noticed of course -- they pressed deep into her belly or into the crack of her ass each morning. But she refused to act on them until his convalescence officially ended. To make it easier for him she deprived him of the sight of her naked body, suspecting correctly that after his long sexual deprivation -- now six weeks, or was it eight, ten? -- the excitement would only further deplete strength he needed for his complete recovery. Carl wandered aimlessly around the house, idle and increasingly horny. Carol's work downtown meanwhile doubled -- she was obligated to attend meetings daily, and had to put in full days sometimes into the evening hours. She kissed Carl each morning before she went off to work, and as always cautioned him to do nothing she wouldn't do or couldn't approve. Bored, Carl settled into his study to check out his accumulated magazines. There were his Sports Illustrateds. All those large, vigorous, superbly fit men performing strenuous activities -- it especially depressed him to view them now. He picked up the swimsuit issue instead. That was different! Image after image of thin-waisted, ripely round girls, gorgeous, page after page of them, women whose bodies earned and deserved careers and celebrity and the reverent, lustful gaze of millions! All by not eating and then by displaying how various shapes of cloth could wrap their carefully exaggerated curves. All by showing how they could spill out of those pieces of cloth in every direction and yet preserve their modesty! God they were beautiful! These girls are all for show, he thought, not for blow. I bet I weigh less than they do -- they're all so plump where it matters, so ripe that they can all pretend they aren't and then fall way forward whenever they bend over. And it's all there, almost all of them exposed, their tits, their swelling buttocks! All for show, and unashamed to show themselves, praises be, he thought. He took his cock in hand. It swelled up. Less visible than tits was that consecrated slit between their legs. Carol's pink pussy lips rose into his mind's eye, that open crease between her thighs, dew-lapped, dewy moist, waiting to be kissed. Re recalled how her moisture clung to his lips as if her pussy was kissing him back. This year's swimsuits seemed to feature and celebrate pussies even while covering them up. There were no tugged pleats or teeny skirts stretched across hips to mask its presence. Instead, leg openings were cut high, and on model after model, color-splashed nylon and spandex stretched tight to the waist in unimpeded vee shapes fanning out from the place where their thighs met to their bellies, leaving their hip bones exposed, even the hairless sides of their mounds. The bikini swimsuits covered even less than that, or tried to but hid nothing. Women have nothing to hide, Carl meditated. They all curve up from that sacred place between their legs to their belly buttons in one small hard hairy hillock and then one gently curved, soft hill, everything there fully visible. Because with or without cloth covering their mounds, there's nothing there! There's nothing visible in a girl's crotch. Nothing! Between their legs, Carl thought, that's where they keep that damp dark honeyed place with its deep hole. That's what's hidden. That's Victoria's real secret. Well, not quite hidden -- here and there in the magazine illustrationsthe the top of a girl's slit formed a visible pucker in the fabric covering it, a wrinkle in that smooth, bright, flowery display of groins and crotches. One ravishing blonde in particular was wearing a shiny charmeuse bikini, and had spread her legs wide and tilted her lower pelvis far forward as if the camera had briefly interrupted her aerobic exercises. All that should be concealed was revealed. Carl could make out her entire slit -- the thin bathing suit material was tucked snug into her crack. Sure enough. As he looked into her eyes she smiled invitingly at him, and told him she'd love to watch him pull himself off. Never a man to disappoint a lady, he screwed up his determination to do so and then did so. She watched with intense curiosity as he climaxed, spurt after spurt caught in a previously prepared kleenex. Then she rewarded him with a dazzling smile and a suggestion that next time he should remove her bikini bottom altogether and come join her. "It's so hot down here," she complained, pouting, reaching to rub herself. That image was still with Carl the next morning when he carefully disengaged from Carol and staggered out of bed, his wife still asleep, and still groggy found himself standing naked in front of the full-length mirror on his closet door. For the first time since he'd fallen ill, he looked at himself closely. There he was once again, a strange, scrawny teenager easily ignored by girls in the first flush of the hormones flooding their bodies, all of them looking for excitement with big ripped well-padded guys, eager to explore their new sexuality. His arms were thin, he had no belly, and his narrow waist supported a rib cage with every rib visible. Hip-