The Sex Wife: Section 3 free porn video

The Sex Wife: Section 3 By Diana Heche Part 5: Problems "We appreciate everything you do, of course. And as much time and money as you and Charles put in, it is a very uncomfortable situation to be in, you realize." Whenever he was nervous, Andrew brushed his expensive suit jacket free of make-believe lint. A very English habit for a very English gentleman. At this point I was still calm, but not quite sure what I was going to do about this level of insistence. He continued. His tone was more personal now, "Melinda.... Melly. Allow me candor, which may be considered rude. You have done nothing but work tirelessly for the charity. In addition, the 'Abuse Council' thanks you, of course. You have increased the level of contributions nearly six fold. And no one goes out and hits the pavement like you do, you are very well liked." He placed the emphasis on "very". He paused - more invisible lint plagued his jacket needing removal, "But for that very reason, people want, and I daresay, have a right, to know who is at the top of the organization that they are giving this much money to. I realize our finances are extremely transparent, and that is good. However, several of the officers, including yourself, Melly ... have very short and obscured biographies. Now I know every one in your employ is upstanding, having met them, and I am not trying to indicate anything else. But..." "But?" I responded. "There are some ... people ... who are nervous because your employees seem to materialize out of the clear blue sky. A near impossibility in this age of intrusive documentation, mind you. The corporate sponsors especially, need to know that you and some of the others - as silly as it is - weren't, say, embezzlers from another company, or in prison, or involved in some other sordid matters that we can neither imagine or care to discuss. That does make sense to you does it not? A charity like this, like all charities, stands on image as much as it does reality. In addition, that means its officers. This business is very unkind to those looking for redeem themselves in second or third acts." "Andrew," I said, sounding half bored, "When Charles and I discussed this with you four years ago, we insisted that I would do this, but I would keep my privacy. And my staff was hired in part, because they too respected my desire not to have the press or anyone else crawling all over me or my past." "Yes of course. But again, in sheer size alone, this isn't the same little organization you signed onto. And, let me say again, it is not just you, it is your co-chairman and your operations manager, for instance, who have distressingly short histories. They go back a few years and - poof!" He snapped his fingers to indicate the magician like way we had appeared. "Again, I suspect nothing. But please, a little scrap to appease others would take a great deal of the pressure off." I stood up and held out my hand indicating the meeting was over. Andrew took it, and gave a half bow, formal and outmoded by even by English standards. The door closed and I sighed aloud. This is not what I needed today. It was the fifth anniversary of my mother's passing, and I was feeling low as is. Charles had asked me to drive out to the gravesite with him this afternoon, but I declined as I always did. It was still, after all this time, too soon. Our relationship, however, was becoming to gel more in a normal fashion. In our mutual grief, by agreement, I had assumed a more formal role in Charles life. I had stepped completely into the shoes of my mother. However, still, it was not a satisfying life. It was stagnant and staid. Therefore, over the past five years, out of pure boredom and self-absorption, I let the surgeons perform considerable work on me. Whatever I wanted - what ever they wanted. When I first, literally, held up a Barbie doll and said simply "make this me" they wavered between thinking, it was a joke or thinking I was a bit off. Nevertheless, I convinced them that this was the blue print. I wanted them to work from. They of course did not argue. The surgeons were paid handsomely to keep their mouth shut about my gender; every simple procedure was a gold mine to them. My mother felt she could lose her husband over her inability to have sex, it drove her to constantly go under the knife to fight aging along with the phantom menace of infidelities. I did not share those fears. Vanity and imitation drove my motivation, as shameful as it was to admit. I felt like I had to look good, because all of the women in this world I now traveled in did. I had to fit the role I was now relegated to, the trophy companion who stepped in controversially close to the death of Charles' wife. Always looking for something to determine who I was, this was what I clung to. However, after playing the pampered companion of a very rich man for a short time, I grew even more bored. I tired of lying by the poolside, sipping drinks. The other women I spent time with on the block were nice to me, but they were empty women with empty lives. The lunched, they shopped, they had "work done" on themselves, they fucked behind the backs of the men who fucked behind their backs. In addition, as much as I tried to relate, there was a barrier noticed by me, but perhaps not by them. I could make any gender believe I was a woman, but I in fact had not grown up this way. Much of the disconnection between me and these women came down to that. I never had a first period, or worries about who was going to take me to the prom, or thought about glass ceilings, or felt unsure of myself when my breasts came in small or too big in high school. I was a unique creature on the gender spectrum. I fabricated the common history that would have made us close. Our relationship, of course, like all relationships in my life was fabricated as well. So through Charles' considerable monied influence, I decided to head a small charity, the "Women's Abuse Council". In honor of my mother, it was a charity to fight abuse against women - but it emphasized the psychological counseling that was needed for many women after leaving abuse situations. My mother, after all, went mad before my very eyes over my father's mistreatings. I was quite good at it. Being a natural role player, and understanding the mechanisms of the male mind and a decent part of the female experience, made me an outstandingly successful moneymaker. Moreover, there were no problems when we were a tiny charity not quite on anyone's map. But now, a few well placed high profile celebrities endorsements and several millions of dollars later, we were the charity of the moment. Everyone wanted to know everything about it. In addition, everyone wanted to know about the woman who ran it. The woman who didn't exist six years ago! I kicked off my pumps, placed my stocking feet on my desk and picked up the phone. Patricia arrived in my office twenty minutes from the moment I reached her on her cell phone. Considering she had to traverse all the way across town in mid-day traffic, she must have read the gravity in my voice and made haste to get here. She closed the door behind me and walked straight to my desk. Squeezing one of my elevated stocking feet gently, she leaned over and gave me a kiss meant to calm but not excite. She never crossed the lines of professionalism while in the office, so this was unusual. Another sign that I was radiating more nervous energy than I had thought. I wondered if Andrew picked up on that during our conversation. One more thing to worry about. The "Charity" or the "Council" as we alternately called our non- profit organization, was a study in contrasts. Nothing was as it appeared. While it did indeed do what it was intended to, and spent the money exactly as it was supposed to, it was still a Trojan Horse of sorts. Bored and alienated playing one of the "let's lunch" set. I began to wonder about those like me. There had to be other women who were not born that way who wanted to function in society in some capacity. I began putting out very careful feelers in the t- girl community. I was able to assemble a small trusted staff of women like me. I was cautious enough to hire through a third party in the Charity, so an extremely astute t-girl would not put two and two together about me before I was ready to reveal myself, or in case she were not hired. In addition, I was very conscientious of only picking the most accomplished t-girls, ones who were indistinguishable from their genetic counter parts. A charity, which focused primarily on the mental abuse of women run, at least at the very top levels, by t-girls was a scandal that would overtake all others in titillation and outrage value. The pure anger it would create in the genetic women's community would be an impossible storm to weather as well. This nagging fear placed me in the uncomfortable position of sometimes having to hire one woman over another because of looks. A work place evil, but necessary here. The Council became a place where a few select t-girls were able to function in a high profile, well meaning, and work place. Not worrying about the pressure about who they were from above. In addition, they were never allowed to hit a single false note with their portrayals of women. Most of them were for all practical purposes full time girls, far beyond that stage in any case. The Charity also did a little bit of good on the side that went unseen - t-girls on the streets. Many t-girls on the streets, come from countries where young boys are made to believe they are coming to America to find jobs to help their family back home, arrive under the umbrella of virtual slavery. They are turned out onto the streets as t-girl or male prostitutes. They spend every cent "made" to "repay" their slum housing and payment for travel to the United States. It is a never ending vicious cycle where they are used up and disposed of. Many of those who find themselves forced to live as women and prostitutes suffer the mental damage of slavery as well as having a gender forced upon them. As part of the unseen mission, we get these t-girls off the streets, hide them, and get them counseling. It is our way of giving back, to the loose, undefined community that we belonged to. Patricia, seeing my distress suggested we take off from the office for the day. We drove back to her apartment and we both knew walking in the door, we were going to make fierce love before we had time to even grab a drink from the fridge. It was always how I ended up relieving stress. Patricia pushed me against the wall so that I could feel her firm breasts pushed up against my massive mounds. Her tongue darted in and out of my mouth as she pressed her glossed lips firmly against mine. I ran my hands underneath her blouse and bra to hold both her breasts in my hands. We kicked off our heels making a hasty retreat to the couch. Patricia worked furiously to remove her panties even as I did the same. She pulled me backward on top of her, and wrapped her lean young legs around my hips letting me know that, her dick was hard and ready. She also wanted me to know she was the one that wanted to be taken by pulling me on top of her. I fumbled in my purse, finding what I needed. The lubricant was found! I lubed my shaft to entering her hole. She cupped her penis with her hand to pull it away, making access easier as I plunged into her hole with abandon and release. Her back arched, her breasts pointed to the sky as I pumped in and out of her incredibly tight hole. Her hands reached up, squeezing my melons appreciatively. I slammed into her even harder, making sure she could feel every inch of my womanly cock in her ass. I looked down on her body, now beginning to glisten with sweat as her breasts bounced in harmony with my thrusts. With a single, high pitched, animal like scream, I orgasmed - pumping wave after wave of sperm into her anal canal. She gently pushed at my hips, my penis fell out limp and expended. Patricia moved me over to the coffee table so that I was lying with my upper body and face pressed against the glass top with my ass exposed and ready for a doggy style pounding. She lubed up and with an energy matching mine, fucked me heartily from behind. The sound of our flesh slapping together mixed with the grunts of pleasure filling the room. My sweaty breasts were pressed large and flat against the glass. They slid back and forth making lines or streaks as Patricia's big cock filled my ass. Patricia's body went rigid, her hands dug into my hips as her penis released sperm into my ass. She pulled out immediately rolling onto the rug, as I laid still, half on the glass coffee table. The only movement was my large implanted breasts heaving back and forth from the effort. Patricia stood up to get towels so we could shower and clean up. "Think Charles knows?" "Knows or cares?" I asked. "Either. Knows, cares, whatever." We were now sipping drinks casually. I craved a smoke, but had given that up a few years ago. I had smoked for fewer years than I had quit, but the addiction still ran deep. "Well Charles and I have been together a long time now, six years counting when my mother was alive." Patricia's face scrunched up. She was never comfortable with the entire strange tale of my mother. I continued, "And we are dedicated to each other. We helped each other through tough times. I don't foresee us breaking up ever!" Patricia interrupted, "Because he cares for you, or because it would ruin him at this point if you were dumped poorly and let the press know he's been living with a girl with a dick for over half a decade?" She sounded a bit jealous. This concerned me somewhat. "Charles cares for me. Moreover, I him. However, as much of a woman as I am to him, we both have the advantage of having penises and my being a boy not long ago. I understand, and don't care, if he gets a little side action. He doesn't or wouldn't care about us. As long," and I repeated this for emphasis, "as long as we are true to each other in the ways that matter. " The main thing is the nature of the relationship has radically changed since my mother has died," I went on, "We both pulled away from her obsession long enough to see that this was a strange and, in most ways that mattered an unnatural forced coupling. So, we began to care for each other in different ways, but not really in the ways of man and wife. It's very difficult to describe. Would I call it love? Yeah, but because of its strange origins - and this is going to sound sicker than it is - its half lover, half daughter." Patricia looked up quickly from inspecting her nails, "Not to be rude Melly, and I won't use the word 'sick', but it always was a relationship too strange for words." I just nodded. My relationship with Charles was far too nuanced and otherworldly to explain to those who would want to understand, and Patricia was not one of those. Her life was far more straight forward, if the life of a t-girl can ever be described that way. She was once a boy, who simply liked to dress up as a girl. She also found out she was good at it. She did it through college even. Through a series of events, was able to do it often finding a couple of fraternity boys who cared for her as Patricia despite her true gender. She came out of college fairly well balanced, deciding to become Patricia full time, but debated the viability of being a t-girl as far as employment and other opportunities went. She had no illusion that it was going to be as easy as it was in the liberal world of college. Then I appeared. She was the first accomplished t-girl I had come across after deciding on how I was going to run the Council. I gave her a job, and her seeing my life as a main stream t-girl, tipped the scales. She underwent a bit of surgery, moving over to being a full time t-girl and my right hand woman. Patricia had grown up in this city dressing up and going out to various t-girl clubs and functions. She was a perfect choice to be my liaison. Through her, I was able to fill out those handfuls of key positions with other girls like us. However, our relationship expanded past Melly and Her Girl Friday. It was a curiosity at first, which caused me to break the professional lines and make love with Patricia. I wanted to know badly how it would be to have sex with someone like me - to squeeze breasts yet feel a hard-on. Moreover, it had been a very long time since I was the person who used my penis to penetrate. Years of being fucked and having to relieve myself by masturbating, was not ultimately satisfying. Using my cock again was wonderful! However, there was a down side. I was beginning to feel that Patricia was perhaps investing a little more emotion into the situation than I was. The thought made me sigh aloud, and I shook the thought from my head, moving to the equally unpleasant conversation with Andrew. "The problem is," we had discussed much of what was said and what needed to be done in my car on the way over. I was continuing that conversation, "is it goes beyond documentation. We all have documentation, fake birth certificates, fake licenses, fake this fake that." "Fake tits." Patricia liked to tease me over the size of my breasts although we both obviously had to have implants to have tits at all. She liked to point out, however, that even on a woman, mine would be large enough likely to always be declared "fake". "Those too," I laughed a bit and continued, "but it goes beyond documentation. Because documentation only holds up on the very surface. I am constantly dodging questions about where I grew up or what high school I went to. Because things like year books, high school classmates, library cards, speeding tickets and all kinds of things that couldn't be faked by the best government agency would unravel my careful put together personae." "And yet you remain in this, ever increasingly, high profile position." She was alluding to our old, ages old conversation that she believed we had done our "good works" and should just get out before we take the entire Charity down with us. But, I couldn't! I felt too strongly about the young prostitutes that I'd seen huddled in crowded apartments, being rolled onto the street in heels and wigs to turn tricks for money that wasn't theirs. No one, but no one, was going to protect them if we were gone. However, even more than that. I had spent the past quarter of my life without an anchor - having no real center and playing whatever role was thrown upon me and was asked to wear. This charity, this work, was the only role I had chosen for myself. Without it, I would fall back into being an empty shell absorbing what others hand out and calling it me. "Not an option." I said simply. We sat silently for awhile, running what were options through our heads. We were getting nowhere. "Is Charles in town?" Patricia suddenly asked. I shook my head. "Well why don't you take an employee for a bite to talk this over. I'm starved, sex and booze does that to me, and a change of scenery helps the mind come up with new ideas. Sometimes." We chose the Golden Eagle for two reasons. The first was because I had gone there years ago when I was having trouble dealing with the situation of being nothing more than the sex wife of Charles - a glorified prostitute if you will. The second reason was, I never expected, after all these years, for Mike to still be working there. On the second count, I was wrong! Our eyes met as I walked through the doors. At first, I was certain he didn't recognize me and was just checking me out the way men do. I looked very different than I did in the days we were sleeping together. My hair was a deep dark red and my nose, jaw and cheeks had been altered. I dressed far more conservatively, yet ironically, hipper. Tonight, I was wearing a short charcoal skirt, black pumps with black hose. Underneath my charcoal suit jacket was just a bra, but the jacket closed tightly so that my cleavage stood out, yet didn't scream "look at me". As soon as we seated ourselves I explained quickly to Patricia about Mike, "Back when I first made the deal to be the substitute wife for my mom, I came here almost every night to have drinks and get away. We ended up having a bit of a thing. He wanted me to stay with him and asked about the same time Charles did - right around when my mother died." "And you chose living with Charles, and all of that security over your bartender friend, obviously." She was trying to get a look at him without being obvious. It was difficult, he was definitely looking at us. "You're simplifying it, but, yes. I couldn't trust myself in the hands of a man who could decide at any moment his t-girl experiment was up. For all the faults that I - especially at that time - saw in Charles, I knew he would take care of me because he really loved my mom, and back then I was more her than anything else, really." I rushed through the explanation a bit irritatedly. I didn't need more jealousy or judgment from her now. Patricia held up her palm in a slow down gesture, "Look, look. I left a man who dug me because I wasn't sure if our futures wouldn't collide. And I really do understand how hard it is to find normal people who are willing to accept you and care for you as you are." I nodded in relief and agreement. "Which begs the question. What are you going to do now? Do you think he remembers you?" "I wasn't sure he recognized me - that's one thing - but I am willing to say every straight guy who sleeps with a girl with a cock, won't quite forget her." It wasn't intended to be funny, yet we laughed heartily. A moment later Patricia's question was made moot. Mike, after watching us for sometime, threw the towel he had been cleaning glasses with on the bar, and walked over. He didn't wait to be invited and sat beside Patricia so he was directly across from me. "Good to see you remember the address. Thanks for coming up to the bar and saying hello, " I felt instantly like an ass. I really should have approached him first. "Oh, and the red hair looks good. You look good. Different, but good." He turned so he was looking directly at Patricia. He shook her hand and introduced himself, but stared at her very carefully for a long minute thoughtfully. Not saying another word, he turned back to me. "Still with that rich guy? You know I see him on TV from time to time. The last few years, he must have been crapping money every time he hit the bathroom. If he has as much money as they say. Hell, I would of put tits on for him! You don't seem to be doing to badly yourself with your little charity. I saw you got some pretty high profile talent to say some words about it. Yep - you're rubbing elbows with actors I can't even get in the room with" Five years equals five years of bitterness. I was shocked at the intensity! I didn't know we had a relationship in which five years couldn't heal a rift. As he continued speaking, Patricia looked as though she wanted to be anywhere but here. Mike seemed content to have her stay. He made no effort to address her, "You know Melly, if a girl dumps you, it is sometimes harder to find another, but you do. You always do! Especially when you're a guy like me who, let's be frank, is decent enough looking. But there are ... certain ... kinds of girls," he left the word "certain" hanging in the middle of the sentence with a large pause to accent it, "who are very difficult to replace if you acquire a taste for them." He looked over quickly at Patricia. It was obvious he hadn't determined for certain where she fell on the sliding gender scale, or what she knew about me, and was not going to clue her in too much if he didn't have to. "And I don't know if you've ever been subjected to that particular journey to ... locate another girl like you, but it is a hard, strange journey filled with humiliation, and deep, deep dysfunction. While there are many nice women - nice looking and nice people - there is much that is not right in that world. Much." He left it at that. I was not familiar with the world of TG nightlife, or how one would even go about finding a t-girl for a partner in any situation. Nevertheless, in a world where men became, and dressed as, women, he was probably right. There was much that was said was right along with much that was undoubtedly unspeakably dark. Especially for a man like Mike who's bartending job required him to frequent the other side of midnight. I glanced quickly at Patricia. Her eyes seem to harbor sympathy for what he said. I reached out with both hands and covered his hand in a gesture of apology. I felt sorry for him. At the time the decision was made, he never conveyed feelings anywhere near this deep for me. I suspect other things went wrong in his life. I noted he was still tending bar instead of acting. By the sound of his voice, I must surmise much of it he attributes to my leaving, directly or otherwise. "Listen Mike. I can't change the past. And I'm sorry I didn't include you in some capacity in my life, but I had to dedicate myself to Charles," Mike repeated the word "dedicated" in a derisive snort. "Can I make it up to you?" I asked. "Short of changing your mind, you mean, of course. Because I'm not naive enough to think you came here to tell me what a horrible decision it was you made. Why don't you ... and your friend, just stick around, have some dinner on me, then go out with me to some of the old clubs, and pretend like we can be friends moving forward." I held up a finger and shook my head. "No can do. I have to keep a fairly low profile. I can't be seen in clubs with strange men at three in the morning." He was about to say something, Patricia cut him off as a thought popped into her head, "I know of a place we can have drinks, where we won't attract attention and be left alone." She squeezed my thigh under the table and announced she was going to the bathroom. I took her hint and rose to join her. Mike looked like he was going to say something smart-mouthed, but decided against it. In the restroom, Patricia knelt to look for legs underneath the stall, a habit we both had ingrained in our behavior. She pulled out her make up kit, and started to touch up her face. Patricia's make up was always perfect. "I like him. He's very cute in that vain actorly hair gel kind of way," she began, "and I feel sorry for him. Not because you stayed with Charles, but because of what he's been through since then." She had been looking at my reflection when we spoke and while she powdered her face, but now she turned toward me directly, "I know that world where he was looking for your replacement. I've been going to those bars since I had a fake license when I was sixteen. If you don't know the rules, its tough sledding. Most of the girl girls are attached, and those who are not, can be some bad girls. Trust me, the bad girls are very bad! I guarantee you how some of this time has gone for him. He has spent nights where he has tried to get in good with a girl, ending up with nothing more than pancake make up smeared all over his back. With a sore ass from letting himself be fucked, spermed on, and turned out in the street without so much as a kiss. Very traumatic for a straight guy like that - and all for a chance at a relationship with a girl that probably couldn't stand the test of light." The test of light was the parameter Patricia and I used to indicate t-girls that looked good in photos and in dim light, but were overly made up and "draggy" in office light or daytime. She put her powder way and began carefully brushing her hair, "The good looking realistic t-girls - the ones with breasts and such are the queens to an extent you can't understand. The supply and demand is so overwhelmingly in their favor, that many treat guys just as you would imagine straight guys, in a straight bar, would if they could get any girl they wanted, every single night, every single week, year after year. There is a great deal of using and discarding." I was fascinated. I had spent six years as a woman and knew very little about this side life. "If you don't mind," Patricia asked, "and if he turns out to be a good guy, I wouldn't mind sleeping with him. If he's real decent, maybe we can date a little. It may also keep him from popping a cork of bitterness he has toward you that seems right on the verge of shooting out. Keep in mind, he can do an exceptional amount of damage if he has loose lips." She reached under my chin and gave me a kiss. Typical of Patricia, her lipstick refused to smear, "And I think this is a good way for us to scale back. I was starting to get a little ... protective ... of our relationship and starting to resent Charles. In the end it would have hurt us both." I nodded smilingly. Patricia - smart, savvy, self-aware. That is why she was my right hand girl. That is how I ended up in our brief relationship. Oddly, I was feeling a loss. Although I felt she was becoming too emotionally entwined, I didn't expect the sudden ending to our physical relationship. I also felt a strange protectiveness of what I had with Mike, although he had been long out of the picture for years. When I took a moment to admit it, I was feeling the jealousy of a current lover deciding to move on to one of your former lovers. I brought this on myself, I would have to deal with it as an adult. With the prospects of my sexuality being once again brought into the picture, playing the one dimensional infrequent female role for Charles, could it be? [to be continued]