The Sex Wife: Section 1 free porn video

The Sex Wife [Section 1] By Diana Heche I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Perched upon my high heel platform slides, with my skintight skirt and form fitting low cut top to emphasize my generous cup size, I looked to be all legs and breasts. An attractive look to many men, certainly. To me, I just looked cheap. I could hear them from outside of the door, in the passionate throes leading up to, but falling just short of, making love. I smoothed my skirt, nervously checking my make up for the tenth time in as many minutes. I was dressed like her, made up like her, and coached to act like her. With the strong similarity we carried as parent and child, the resemblance was striking, but of course, not perfect. But this wasn't about perfection. Like most willing audiences, the audience of one I was about to play to, made allowances for such things. It was the spirit of it, not the smallest details, which allowed him to suspend disbelief. She walked into the hallway, her hair mussed, her lipstick slightly smeared. She looked at me with her pale blue eyes, expressing an oddly grudging gratitude and barely concealed resentful sadness. I looked at her closely. As the instinctive mimic I had become, I subconsciously ran my fingers through my hair, mussing it slightly to match hers and walked into the door. He was already nude, hard-on in hand, and ready. I walked straight over, and kneeling before him, took his penis in one hand. I licked around the head slowly and carefully before sliding it between my firmly pressed lips. I let it ease into my warm wet mouth and far into my throat. I leisurely pulled his dick in and out between my glossy lips, stopping just at the head, feeling him grow stiffer in anticipation. The taste of pre- cum drops, dripped lightly onto my licking tongue. I stood up, slowly sliding my body against him tightly, so my breasts then my taut flat belly rubbed his aching hard-on on the way up. Never losing contact, I turned so his dick was now jammed against my skirt and could feel my tight, young ass. His stiff cock felt there was no underwear beneath. I pushed against him hard, and through the thin material his dick lodged itself in my crack. I slid my skirt up slowly; the material slipped across his boner until it fell cement hard against my hole. Guiding it with my hand, I spread my legs, and pushed the tip inside and shoved back against him so it slipped inside. I reached out and supported my weight with a single extended arm pushing back even more. He groaned with pleasure and slowly thrust forward entering my tight hole deeper, before gently moving his hips back and forth, allowing his hard cock completely working itself into the deep recesses of my ass. I could feel the tip of his thick cock against the walls of my ass and I moaned with staged delight as his shaft slid in and out of me and his hands and lips explored my body hungrily. With a sudden movement, I slammed my ass all the way back against his hips, clenching my cheeks and closing my hole tightly. With joyous abandon he screamed out "Melinda!" before exploding in wave after wave into my ass. I let him grow soft inside of me, and felt the overload of sperm drip out of my ass and down across my balls and onto my surprisingly stiff cock. I turned around and kissed him hard on the lips, running my tongue in and out of his mouth. Pushing my skirt back down, I held a single finger over his lips, indicating for him to wait. I turned and walked back into the hallway. She was sitting in the hallway, listening at the door as she always did. She felt it made her more apart of it. I helped her up. We were an odd pair, the mother and her son in their identical skirts and blouses. "He's ready for you," I said simply, coolly. And as mom re-entered the room to fall asleep in the arms of her new husband, I went down the hall to clean myself up, heading out for a drink. ***** Part 1: The Request Having not laid eyes upon her in eight years made no difference. The moment I saw this woman, sitting in the corner, smoking, watching me with amused caution, I knew who she was. "Hello, Mother." I threw my book bag in a chair, and making a mental note of the direction of the breeze sat directly across from her. This way, at least, the smoke wouldn't get in my eyes. I had a very low tolerance for the habit. "Hello, Son." Her greeting matched mine in its coolness, but her gaze remained unwavering and assessing. Momentary silence draped our table. Conversation didn't come easily - the circumstance she chose to implode our family those eight years ago didn't leave much to talk about, even if hundreds of questions burned on the tip of my tongue. She signaled for the waiter to come to the table with a quick wave of her hand. Alcohol was always the social lubricant for her. I noted she was still drinking martinis, not the glorified fruit drinks that were now in favor with the young set, but the old fashion hard kind. "Want a drink?" she asked before the waiter arrived. Irritated, I lied and said 'no'. "I'm seventeen for god's sake." She turned her eyes to me, sizing me up. They were just as I remember them, a cold, pale blue, which expressed every emotion perfectly. Her response was typical. She ignored me. She knew if she ordered a beer for me, I'd take it. That's who I was. "A beer for my son, please sir. That micro-brew you're advertising on the sign there," she pointed to a sign behind the waiter's head. He looked at me with narrowed eyes. It was obvious I was too young. But looking at my mom again, his face showed the internal decision that he had come to, and he left to retrieve my beer. She sat back in her chair, held her drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. So casual. I wanted to be more aloof and matched her casual attitude, but after all these years of wondering what she would be like, I couldn't take my eyes off of her. I noted she was not a woman who was going to let age defeat her, she had turned fifty just a week ago, but she did not look anywhere near it. The attractive young woman that turned so many heads before I was born was still evident underneath the occasional and scattered wrinkle. From the tautness of her face, I suspected small lifts and tucks. And her low cut top forced me to uncomfortably notice her quite large, high, firm round breasts - recent additions that sat in the gravity defying way that only implants can. The very short skirt, the new breasts and the leave nothing to the imagination top told me my mother was one of those women who validated the victories in her war against age only by the hungry gaze of the men around her. Whatever it was that brought her back into my life from the other side of the country, or globe, or wherever it was she called home these days, didn't seem important enough to rush. I waited impatiently for her to explain her sudden appearance after all this time, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of asking. The waiter delivered the beer and she motioned for me to drink it. As loathe, as I was to accept anything from her, I did enjoy the occasional beer, and at my far from legal age they were hard to come by indeed. "Still in that drama club? Still good at it?" she asked. I nodded without interest. We both knew from a very early age I had well- honed instincts that helped me assume my dramatic roles. If this were some sort of misguided attempt to reconnect with me through small talk - after what she had done, I was not going to put up with it for much longer. Her next question was far less benign, "Still like to dress up in girl's frocks?" I see she was still blunt to the point of abuse. She knew the reason for the women's clothes, yet she insisted on pushing that button. I stood up sharply, but she grabbed me by the wrist. The strength of her grip surprised me - in drastic contrast with her slightly wrinkled hand. In an authoritative voice she commanded me to sit. Even after over half a decade of absence, she still could hold some parental sway. "Okay, let's back up. I apologize. Diplomacy was never my thing. You told me you were doing it for one of your school plays. And wearing girl's clothes around ... as much as you did ... was preparation. I never believed otherwise. Honestly. I remember you walking around like a 50s rocker for over a week, never out of character, not for a moment. I respect your ability. It's why I'm here." Satisfied that I was not going to leap back up, she let go of my wrist and leaned back to re-assume her casual demeanor. "Listen Son, I know you blame me for what happened all those years ago. And, I of course was to blame. And I know you don't want to hear this, but just listen," But she was mistaken. As much as I knew she was about to - in a sick twisted fashion - blame this on my dad, I was willing to hear her out. No one ever talked about the break up, or the past, or even her anymore. I was almost hungry to hear anything about why my life got turned upside down, right or wrong. "I handled a bad situation poorly," I bit my lip to keep from screaming or crying, I'm not sure which. Not many women could blithely refer to her son and husband walking in on her engaged in naked, sweaty, anal sex with a stranger she brought home from a bar, as handling a situation poorly. It took me years of counseling to block that image from my mind, which appeared regularly every time I closed my eyes. "I know no amount of apology will do, and I will not insult you by trying to offer it by ways of amends. But you were never supposed to see that. Paul," my father, "had been cheating on me for years. Blatantly and chronically, and he made no efforts to hide it. I know you think I am rationalizing, but I have very clear evidence. - Still have it if you have the stomach for it. - That goes all the way back to when I was pregnant with you." She paused to let this sink in. "Consider for a moment, how I, despite being caught dead to rights, got almost everything. Just take a moment - logically - to think it through. Ask yourself how worse his behavior was to let me walk away with all the money." I sat uncomfortably as a flood of images and voices cascaded into my head. Things I wouldn't allow myself to believe about my dad were becoming crystal clear. - The time I saw him kissing his secretary behind the back of his new wife. The things my junior high girlfriends said about inappropriate comments he made. All the winks, the nods, the touching, from women who were "friends" whenever we went out together. The nights of sitting in cars outside of women's houses while he helped them 'fix' their plumbing and promising not to tell mom. "Your dad pushed me so far to the brink of madness, that all I wanted to do was hurt him as he did me all those years. He was supposed to find me. You weren't. You were supposed to be at baseball camp, remember?" "Okay, okay," I physically shook my head to clear it of the image. I hoped this wasn't going to launch me back into therapy, "Okay. I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. I've ... seen some things myself. But why are you telling me this now? After eight years of you and I being completely off the map. You've come back after all these years to tell me that instead of one parent being a shit, they're both crap? You could have done that by post card." I was shaken and angry. Instead of protecting me, my parents spent their lives dragging me through dysfunction. "You saw your mother with another man. I felt it would be easiest to approach you when you were old enough to reason, and to see your dad's actions with clear thinking eyes. I think you have." She stubbed the cigarette out, leaning forward to speak. After being put through the ultimate trauma of seeing my mother in sexual compromise those years ago, I felt she should have been a bit more aware of how the ample cleavage and large fake breasts, could trigger a range of unhealthy flash backs in me. I fought to keep my eyes up. Her face turned serious, her demeanor much less casual, "I need your acting ability. I need your experience. I need you to play a role." "What role?" "Me. Or actually, sort of, me. My daughter, maybe. It's complicated." ***** "I'm desperate," she began. We left the cafe and were now driving around the city in her top of the line luxury sedan. She had removed her heels to drive, and I made note of how lean and curvaceous my mother's legs, especially showcased in her tan nylons, had become since leaving home. Despite her habit of drink and smoke, it was apparent she spent a great deal of time at the gym. I closed my eyes tightly to wash the thought from my brain. We had taken the car because she wanted to explain this to me in privacy, and somewhere I would sit and hear her out to the end. Realizing I would have to jump out of the car at high speeds to get away from her, I grimly acknowledged she had achieved her goal. "And I am not going to ask this out of a mother-son bond, because I am not kidding myself that it still exists. But I am prepared to pay you a great, great deal of money. I know you have your eye set on college..." she let the conversation drift for a moment. She regrouped and tried another approach, "I don't know how to say this but to say this. So I'll be blunt." She took a deep breath, her rounded breasts swelled, "One of the reasons I disappeared completely, and one of the reasons I got so much money from your father - in addition to the alimony - was that he hurt me. Physically. After he found me that night, he did something to me. I don't want to go into detail, and I know this will be hard to hear, but he tried to make it so I wouldn't be with another man again." She spoke coolly and evenly. If true, this was obviously something she had come to terms with years ago, and was now a matter of emotionless recitation, "Your father partially succeeded. I can only very rarely make love, and at great pain and great cost. But I went on with my life and found a wonderful man. One who loves me, and takes great care of me. When he married me two years ago, he said it didn't matter that we would rarely be unable to ... make love. But I am finding that it is becoming difficult for him. He, of course, protests otherwise when I bring it up. But I'm a woman, I can tell these things. He is a great deal younger than me - extremely wealthy and extremely handsome. There are young bimbos trying to wedge themselves between us all the time. Imagine if they knew about my condition? He, of course, reacts to them with disgust and disdain, and I love him for it. But for how much longer? Flesh makes men weak. Look at your father." She looked straight ahead as she drove, unable to look at me as she bared her soul. I watched the city whiz by the window. "It's not the physical part I fear. It's that if he does become weak for another woman's arms, he will try to do it so it doesn't hurt me. That involves deception, lying - a wedge far more insidious, and eventually destructive, than his simply spilling his seed in another bed. "I determined that I needed to control this - have him express himself physically within the knowledge and control of the marriage. So I decided I would bring in a partner for him, someone who was nothing more than be a glorified form of masturbation. No emotional ties, just sex." I was looking out the window, but was listening with rapt attention. I had heard nothing like this in my life. The theatrical insanity of it all had me riveted. "I also decided, that even with me controlling the situation, I didn't want him with another woman. There were too many risks - physical and emotional. I didn't want to have what we had done - those very few times - in the bedroom compared to another woman, who could, and would, do it better. And I couldn't bear him thinking of any one else but me. So I decided on a boy ... who could be a girl ... who could be a girl much like me. I decided on you. You could be all of that." It had to be said, and I did so quickly. "You're insane. Absolutely fucking nuts. This is child abuse. Pure and simple - child abuse your proposing. And this would be insane even if you weren't my mother, but more so because you are. I am having a hard time believing there exists a mother willing to pimp out his son for her twisted and pathetic attempts to hold a marriage together." I was furious. I was crying hot tears of rage uncontrollably. I yelled at her to stop the car and let me out. "I suspected this would be your reaction. And, why wouldn't it be? I know better than anyone how insanely desperate this is." She slowed the car down so she could turn and look at me, "all I'm asking is this. Just try being a younger version of me for four or five days. My husband won't be around, he's often not. Just try it. If you want to go further you can. If you don't, that is that. And again, I know you need the college money, god knows your father doesn't have it after paying for what he did to me. Take a moment to think about it. I'm asking you, just like one of your drama class roles, to be in an off stage play for a week. Hell, it'll probably help your drama quite a bit. And I'm going to pay you well for it. Half now, half after the week." I don't even know why I asked, there was no possible way this would transpire, "How much?" She told me. I sat stunned into speechlessness for a moment. I didn't expect to hear such a figure. I never expected to hear such a figure connected to anything I could do, even jobs I had imagined. My mind was having trouble comprehending the amount she was offering. Even as my mind tried to make my lips say "no" there was not question in my mind that I was going to do it. All of it! ***** Part 2: Melly In the bathroom hallway I cleaned myself up. Sperm was nasty sticky business that stained everything it touched. I would have to change clothes before I went out. I sat down on the closed toilet lid and lit a cigarette, a habit I picked up to originally to mimic my mother which had now become ingrained as one of mine. I turned on the fan and blew a big cloud of smoke in its direction, smoking contemplatively. I looked down at my foot bemusedly noting that I was dangling my pump from my feet, just as she does. Out loud, to no one in particular I announced "You did well back there Melly". I laughed bitterly, drawing hard from the cigarette my hand trembling somewhat. As good as I had become at the sexual aspect of this farce, it still shook me up. I stood up to do my make up, staring at the face, which looked back at me. A face that was no longer mine. I looked down across my considerable cleavage, to my 4.5-inch heels at a body that was not recognizable to me. I exhaled wearily. I understood, no matter how we dressed it up in saving the marriage talk, that I was a prostitute. But understanding it, and accepting it were not the same. But to avoid the reality, I buried my head ostrich like in the pile of money I received. Money in numbers large enough to make me give up on college and get an apartment so I could do this full time. With car payments, rent, and assorted other expenses, I could no longer afford not to take it. It was an old story, an old story that many a prostitute could tell - a cage built of cash. But most prostitutes even those who could not escape their lives knew who at the core they were. I no longer had any idea. I wasn't gay, but I had sex with a man regularly. I wasn't a woman, but I dressed and acted like one every day. I wasn't my mother, but I was "built" to look like her and had studiously taken on her every characteristic. I even called myself "Melly" a version of her name "Melinda". But in many ways this is always how its been for me. I was never comfortable with myself even at a very young age. I excelled in drama classes in school, not due to an innate ability to act, but an uncanny ability to mimic. I could not, for instance, use my own instincts to play a character that was created from fiction. But if I had seen another actor play the part previously, or knew of someone close to that character that I could imitate, that is how I approached the role. And I did this brilliantly! I was unsure of my every move, when I walked into a room, I could feel the mood and sense intuitively how people acted and perceived me. I took on their movements and attitude to fit in. My patterns of speech and vocabulary changed almost imperceptibly to aid my fitting in. I was an empty vessel - a chameleon - constantly in search of what I was going to fill myself with to let me know who I was at that moment. And now this empty pot had been filled with movements and attitude of one of the people I had watched, and sensed, the longest. To complete the illusion of being my mother, I grew my hair like hers, shaped my eyebrows like hers, and even took painful collagen shots in the lips so they were full like hers. We already had a strong family resemblance, but with these changes, and the fact that I held my face and body like her, moved in every way like her, spoke in her tones I was, for all that could be seen at least, a younger version. But my female haircut, brows, and lips had turned my male alter ego into strangely androgynous creature. Many who encountered me as a male could not tell if I was boy or girl. The habits of my mother - ingrained into much of my behavior - made the matter worse. I discovered quickly that people are very uncomfortable with androgyny and treat those in the gray area with hostility. Facing these obstacles, it became easier for me to be Melly all the time. So I gave up what tenuous connection I had to whoever I was before. I was an imitation with no past, no present, and no real bearing. My single purpose was to be someone else. This was different than even my chameleon tendencies of the past, now I was a completely blank sheet of paper filled, this time, to the margins with someone else notes. There was no room for any other writing on that page. My mother was a woman who compensated for her advancing age and loss of sexual function with her looks. She was a woman of short skirts and very high heels to make her even more leggy, cleavage that spilled from tight tops. So I was a woman of short skirts and very high heels to make me even leggier and - with twenty minutes skin shoving preparation and padding - I had cleavage, which spilled from tight tops. In this male society, my mother Melinda used her sexuality to gain advantage. She bent over to let men look down her shirt when she needed something done, she silently slid her hemline higher when sitting around guys, she dangled her shoe from her toes to attract attention to her long legs and feet housed in sexy heels. I spent weeks studying and incorporating her every bat of the eyelash. Melinda's sexuality was Melly's sexuality. Her habits of teasingly communicating with men, were my habits of communications. I knew no other way to feel "authentic", even if I had wanted to behave differently. But my mother had a lifetime to prepare for who she was. I was just playing a role very well. The constant looks and remarks, the inappropriate touches, the disdain from other women, the charged, dangerous feel of sexual want in the air, was new to me. It was psychologically jarring to be a teenage boy in this shell being reacted to this way. And to deal with it - and the conflict it created in my psyche - I became more Melly every day, by completely allowing myself to believe, submerge myself completely in the role. It was the only way I could get through a single day and hold my sanity. ***** I drove into downtown to hit a quiet up scale bar near the financial district. After weeks of trying out several establishments in various parts of town, including t-girl friendly places such as Club Cache, I settled on the Golden Eagle. During the week, it was filled with lawyers and brokers in for a high priced lunch with clients or quick after work drink. But later at night, like now and the weekends, it emptied out and was replaced by a quiet crowd made up mostly of tourists and the occasional theater patrons. It was a candle lit brass and wood place where the booths and chairs were high back and covered in nice leather. It reminded me of an old school, all male, private club - which is exactly what it was trying to do. It was perfect for me because it was dimly lit to a degree that I could not be seen from all the way across the room, which allowed me to be left alone. Granted, I still received attention, it was impossible not to be dressed, as I always was, in this crowd of largely careful married men, polite rebuffs were generally enough. This could not be said for all places in town. I ordered a martini, another habit I quietly absorbed from Melinda, and was given the drink on the house accompanied by the friendly wink of the bartender. He had never aggressively tried to pick me up, but had shown interest within the bounds of professionalism; a wink here, a free drink there, nothing over the line. I smiled at him, wondering as I always did, how he would feel about my true gender. How any of the men who courted me here would. There had been, over the weeks, the occasional man who did seem to suspect. An off hand and extremely subtle remark here and there told me of both their interest and their feelers to determine if I were in fact a t-girl. But these were men who, despite their immaculate suits and corporate hair cuts, sought out t-girls who were practically indistinguishable from genetically born women. Through careful obscured conversation I was able to determine their senses were far more developed than those who did not move often in the unseen world of the highly accomplished transgendered. But my complete and quite casual wearing of Melinda's personality - nothing about me was forced or overdone - even gave these men pause enough that by simply ignoring these feelers, they were left in doubt. The bartender returned. His nametag read "Mike" and he was dressed in a tuxedo vest and shirt with a garter around his sleeve. I took him to be 28, maybe ten years older than me, and he had the wannabe actor look which was so very pervasive in the City of Angeles. "May I ask you a question?" From my limited conversations with him in the past, I knew his politeness was not just a professional prop like his bow tie. He still had a flat, Midwestern accent, meaning Los Angeles hadn't had enough time to morph that politeness into hollow self absorption. But it was coming, all these things take time. "You sit here quite a few nights, two feet away, and rarely say a word to anyone. I respect that you want to be by yourself, but since we are separated by two feet of wood every night, would you mind if I asked your name?" And not because I really wanted to, but because I was practically programmed to, I smiled enticingly, and shifted my body a little bit so he could openly take in mounds of cleavage that he had been sneaking looks at since my first time here. "Melly is what I call myself." He extended his to hand shake mine. I held it a moment longer than what was necessary - another habit programmed into me. He paused for a moment, then asked another question, "I know this is a bit personal. But all the nights you come here, where is your husband?" My husband? It took a second, then I looked down at wedding bands on my finger as if seeing them for the first time. Like most of the items I wore because they matched Melinda's, these had very little meaning to me and went virtually unnoticed. So ... I was the woman who came to the bar several times a week, but never brought her husband. I ran this information through my mind as I decided who I appeared to be to the rest of the world. I dressed suggestively, but never went home or even had extended conversations with men, so I guess I wasn't an overt tramp. I drank quietly, introspectively and alone, so more likely something was not quite right at home. But to be a married woman, I would have to conjure stories of house and husband for this increasingly inquisitive bartender and possibly others down the line. To tell him, no matter how politely, to mind his own business would sour the few places of safe haven I had come to enjoy. I looked at the rings for a moment longer, "I'm a widow. Car accident," I removed the bands and placed one in my purse and one on my right hand. "It's probably time that I came to terms with it." I told him simply and without much emotion. This would end the line of inquiry quickly, and any other lie I would have to manufacture could stop there. He apologized profusely, obviously feeling as though he had committed a major gaffe. Oddly, I felt sorry for him. I leaned over the bar and gave him a peck on the cheek. This is what Melinda did to encourage men - physical contact of one degree or another - so this is what I did to encourage men. Suddenly a question burst forth, "When do you get off? I would like to share a drink with you." He looked at me and I noted he was trying to assess what my intentions were. Was I going to cry on his shoulder, was I going to throw sex at him, or would it be something in between? "Two." He said. "Great. I'll come back for you then." I responded rising carefully from my stool not to convey the sudden panic I was feeling. "What am I thinking?" I asked myself under my breath retreating to the eatery's bathroom. I walked up to the mirror and nervously touched up my make up. My thoughts raced through my head quicker than I could comprehend them. This was a lose-lose situation and I wasn't quite sure of why I placed myself in it. Did I want simple friendly companionship? Had my recent sexual exploits with Melinda's husband blurred the lines, was I attracted to this bartender? And what if I was? What does that mean? Did I believe I was Melinda for that moment? What the hell was I going to do? I took a deep breath and thought it through. No matter what state of sexual psychic confusion I am in, no matter how often I lose myself in this role - I am not Melinda, or Melly, or any other sort of girl. And by asking this man for a drink, I have not only implied that I am who I appear to be, but I have placed the idea that we are moving forward in, at the very least, a manner of friendship, if not a romantic and/or sexual relationship. In any case, it was a deception. Distancing myself from my impulsive act, I rationally narrowed it down to a few options: I could stand him up, I could go out there and say I changed my mind, I could deceive him and risk being found out in any case, or I could tell him the truth - now or later. I looked into the eyes of my mother's face in the mirror. I decided to tell him over drinks. I spent the next few hours driving around deciding how I was going to do this. I returned slightly after two, but we didn't have to go far for drinks. Mike turned off the Golden Eagles' outside lights, locked the door, and we sat in the empty restaurant under a single lamp sipping drinks, swapping laughing stories of traffic and fake Los Angeles people. Out of courtesy I promised him I wouldn't smoke. His stories were entertaining tales of the trial and farces of being a struggling actor in this city. My interest in acting filled me full of questions. I avoided telling him any stories about me before I told him the truth. After running lines through my head, I could see no other way to approach it than directly. He was laughingly telling a tale about a commercial audition he did not get, and I stopped him in mid sentence. "Listen, I should have never had this drink with you its not fair." I cursed myself, I didn't mean to start with the negative. "Not fair in what way? Something to do with ... your husband?" He faced clouded with concern. "There was no accident. There was no husband. That was a lie. I told you that to hide ... what is really going on. That - " a very deep breath was taken and exhaled. My habit or Melinda's habit, it didn't matter, I wanted a smoke, "that I am not what I appear to be. I am a boy. A kind of young one at that. There you have it." Several expressions rolled across his face to be quickly swept aside by another. Disappointment, however, cropped up most often. "I'm not gay. I get this, because of the whole ... actor model thing, but I'm not gay." He was now examining me with the eye of expert jeweler looking for flaws in a diamond. I could clearly see he was suppressing a sense of alarm. "I know. I don't know why I asked you to stay for a drink. Not that it matters, but you don't seem gay. And I wasn't doing this because I wanted something from you. I just needed a person to sit and have a drink with. And you've always been nice to me. You can imagine it's hard when you're ... in this situation." He sat quietly for a moment. I always found it fascinating when I can actually see the wheels of the mind turn. "Who knows you're a guy?" "No one. Honest. I barely do." I said loosely referencing getting lost in the personae of my mother. This seemed to relax him somewhat, he sat back in the booth visibly calmer. I looked like a woman, and if no one knew he was having drinks with a t-girl, he didn't seem to mind as much. "You look really convincing. I'm from Ohio, granted. It's no Los Angeles, but I'm no rube. I've seen plenty of ... what's the correct term ... I don't want to be an ass." "Doesn't matter a bit to me," I told him. He continued, "I've seen plenty, and you're top of the line." He meant that earnestly as a compliment. I thanked him. "I've never really had a chance to talk to one of you guys ... girls. Do you mind me asking what makes you tick? If its not too personal?" I felt nervous and extremely exposed. Courtesy be damned, I lit up a cigarette noting grimly that anyone who tells you these aren't addictive has a different brain chemistry than the rest of us. "Oh, I think my story, while interesting, would not really answer your questions. I was never driven to dress like a woman - as far as being trapped in the wrong body kind of thing - crazy, crazy, circumstances placed me here." If my intent was to close down his inquisitiveness, I had failed. He seemed more interested. I told him a sanitized, greatly altered, truth: I did it for my mother who had "things wrong" and for psychological reasons that I won't go into, needed a daughter. I agreed to do it because I loved her, she paid me a great deal, and it was a great "sociological" and "acting" experiment to see the world from the other side of gender. This answer in all of its strangeness seemed to relax him even further. As bizarre as my story was, the motives of money and experimentation were easier to understand than misplaced gender. He pointed at my empty glass as he stood up, silently asking if I wanted another, and I nodded. He was taking this extremely well. I was thankful I managed to get the truth out before he, if he felt anything, professed any emotion or lust toward me. I knew the reason he was here was out of interest, but we could safely pretend otherwise without creating too much damage. He returned with another martini. His face held a thousand questions and he began asking them the moment he sat down. He fist off wanted to know the technical aspects of how one makes themselves into such a convincing woman - especially the ability to create breasts. I explained in brief detail that with women's quest to be more than what they were born with, much of what I did was far more intense, but no more mysterious, than what women do every day - padded bras, padded panties, padded hips. Granted, there were certain things that I had to that many women didn't, but it helped a great deal that I was young and thin, not yet having hardened into an aged masculinity. The longer we spoke, the more fascinated he became. Even more than the mechanics of being viewed as a girl, he fascinated by my ability to see the world through the eyes of a woman. He confessed that every man, no matter how much they loved being a guy, is naturally curious how it would feel to be the other sex for one day or so. The prospect of my existence made him nearly giddy with curiosity. "Listen" he announced suddenly, "I know of a late night club ... mostly bartenders, waitresses, various folks wide eyed on ... er ... chemicals. It's a lot of fun. Do you want to join me?" Mike was dying to place me in a highly interactive environment. He wanted to see how I reacted and others reacted to me. It was all a great big Candid Camera episode to him. This was as far away from my need of quiet and solitude. I didn't enjoy the interactive scene. "Mike, listen. That really isn't my thing. I'm not really big on crowds. If you can imagine, it is uncomfortable being a boy who is ogled and hit on by men." "Sorry if I'm pushing this, and not being sensitive to your barriers. But this whole thing is intriguing to me. And you told me you're in drama, that you want to act and this whole thing is an 'acting' experiment. Well let's go act." He paused for a moment seeming to make up his mind, "Look, to make it easier we'll play a couple. Let's say about the third date, so we're not expected to be too close, but close enough to keep those heat seeking missiles off of you. We'll take my car." The entire time he spoke, he was holding my hand to help me out of the booth. I looked at him, my watch, and back at him. Here was the single person who knew who I was, who didn't treat me as anything more than a cheap imitation alter ego built for sex. I had done nothing in the past weeks but drink by myself, lay around my apartment, and go do my sexual rounds with my wife's husband. I may not be exactly who I wanted to be at this moment, but maybe still, I should make the best of it and give something back to me. "I'll drive." I said. ***** The after hours nightclub was much more fun than I anticipated. I quickly realized the difference between this club and others for me was the sense of protection. With Mike doing a convincing rendition of my date, I was able to dance, laugh and have a good time without the sex hungry vultures swooping down on me like so much carrion. And it had been such a long time since I just had fun. To my amusement, I found Mike's attention flattering, even if I knew it was a role. I had not received much of the "right kind" since becoming Melly and this was very welcome. The attention of my mother's husband - where I stepped in was used sexually then discarded - was intense and physically personal, but purely carnal and crude. And my already cool relationship with my mother, if possible, was becoming and colder by the day. We spent a good deal of time together. I shopped with her to duplicate her wardrobe and like an actor in preparation for a role, I needed to watch her to become more seamlessly like her. I was paid too well not too. I also needed to be on hand those few evenings a week her husband was around to step in if, as she derisively referred to me in heated moments of conflict, her substitute vagina was needed. Mother was resentfully grateful to me for holding together her marriage. But seeing me look so much like she did years ago was just a reminder of her escaping youth, bad former marriage and inability to please her own husband. And I was despite the very transparent shell game the three of us played the one who received her husband's passions and sperm. It was easy to understand why mother and my time together devolved into a barely disguised tension. But our symbiotic need - my need being the money - locked us together. But being with Mike was freedom. He was appreciative of my looks and my feminine being, purely because he knew how and from where it came. He marveled at me as one does a painting months after seeing it as a blank canvas. And as an aspiring actor, my ability to be Melly seemingly inside and out, was astonishing and impressive to him. But all of this aside, he purely seemed to enjoy my company, as I did his. After dancing and drinking the night away, we sat in the car outside of the Golden Eagle. I had parked in the back near Mike's truck, thanked him for being an understanding friend and bid him farewell. It was a bit awkward in the way that dropping off a date in junior high was. There felt like there was something more needed to be said, or done, to make the night complete. "May I ask you a question?" I noted Mike's Midwestern manners made him feel a need to preface a question with permission. "Question number 2000 you mean?" I smiled at him, "Go ahead, shoot." "When you're ... Melly, like you are now," he was approaching something very carefully, "and I'm not gay or anything. But when you're Melly like now, do you ever wonder what...?" He was so flush he was scarlet. I could feel where this was going, and was astonished that he had gone out on such a limb. I wasn't romantically interested in him, but Mike was the only friend I had at this point. And I didn't realize until tonight how badly I needed one. I was not going to leave him alone on that limb. "Did I ever want to do this?" I leaned over and kiss him on the lips lightly. He returned it, hungry and lustful. I leaned back my seat, and allowed him to lie on top of me, where he scrambled at my garments. I pulled his ear close to my glossy lips and whispered that we needed to go inside for this to work. Most of all, I wanted to ease him into this by keeping my illusion as intact as possible. **** I emerged from "freshening up" in the bathroom and pushed him onto his back in the high back leather booth. I lay on top of him and we locked our lips in tongue searching passion. I could feel him begin to grow against me. Un-buckling and un-zipping, I slid his pants down to his knees and took his not fully hard, rubbery like cock in my mouth. The feel of the wetness and warmth caused him to spring instantly to life. I licked the outside of his shaft, thoroughly and sloppily coating it in a shimmering gleam of wet saliva. He groaned lightly and appreciatively. I licked around his balls, rolling each in my mouth, before sliding my tongue back up his shaft and plunging his entire cock deep into my mouth. Reaching into my purse, and never letting his dick out of my wet mouth, I lubed two fingers and jammed them quickly into my ass. I worked them in and out in time with my head, which bobbed up and down over the length of his rod. My sphincter relaxed, I was ready, and I could feel my own cock begin to stiffen. I climbed on top of Mike and guided his hard shaft onto the tip of my hole, then slowly eased down on it. I placed my skirt on his belly blocking my midsection, adding to the illusion femininity by hiding my cock from sight. My legs and high heel adorned feet were extended toward his face, and he turned and licked the high curving arch of my feet. I slipped a foot out of the platform slide, and placed my perfectly pedicured painted toes into his mouth as he sucked greedily. Slipping my wet foot out of his mouth, I ran my toes through his hair as I bounced up and down, squeezing my cheeks with every movement so he could feel the tight inside of my sleek lubricated ass. With a groaning, convulsive jerk, he exploded inside of my ass. I could feel the jets of semen shoot inward in waves. He relaxed with a smile. I could feel him soften within me. I stood up carefully, pulling my panties from my purse. "No wait," Sitting up, he drew me toward him, kissing me deeply, tasting the flavor of his own cock. Gently, tentatively, he reached under my skirt, and rubbed my penis. It didn't seem as though he trying to excite me. He seemed more like he needed to come to grips that it was there. That he had indeed just fucked a t-girl. He released my penis and continued to kiss me deeply. Pulling apart he asked if I would see him again tomorrow. He didn't work and he wanted to take me out for another good time. I skipped telling him my wife's husband would be in town for the next two days before leaving for a month; meaning I had two after dinner sexual appointments then I was free for a long while. "The next two days are bad. But I have all of the next few weeks clear." I explained. "Can I call you?" he asked. "I'll take your number. It's probably best if I called you." I wasn't sure what I was going to do next with this situation, and needed to control it at my pace. He looked a bit concerned, "Listen. I know it's strange that we had this ... moment. But I got swept up and so did you. You're fun. You're very nice looking and, padded body or not, well built. And you don't play mind games, because you understand how it is." "No, no. Don't over think it. It was very nice. And I am a woman to you; I have been since I started coming here. The reality is ambiguous, but it just is what it is. Stay away from trying to label this, and it will keep your emotions and sanity in check." I explained the very tactic, besides losing myself in my role of being Melly that kept me sane. We kissed lightly again and I left. My emotions and thoughts battled each other for the forefront of my conscious. The irony of sleeping with him, to keep him as a friend or from rejecting me, was not lost on someone who had been on the other end of that throughout high school. But I wasn't quite sure how I felt about the rest of this quickly shifting situation. I did enjoy his company, and I liked that I was for a short time while I was with him I was alive. But whether he realized it or not, it was far more complicated than this. Or was it? I had a lot to think about. **** To be continued