Sharon And Marcia free porn video
Sharon and Marcia - by: Marcia Spencer
It was the third time that Mark had seen her at Sears. She was
striking, just slightly taller than the average young woman, with her
hair cut in a short style. She wore more makeup than he liked, but it
seemed consistent with a certain air of attentiveness, maybe even of
strong-mindedness that seemed her most outstanding characteristic.
Obviously, her normal duties were in the lingerie department.
It was his third stop at the Mesquite, Texas Mall. He was watching for
the malls wherein were Sears stores, because he carried a Sears credit
card. On these driving trips thru the Dallas/Fort Worth area, Mark
liked to stop and buy a whole outfit of lingerie, foundations, slip,
nightgown and a wig and shoes, or sometimes just a dress. Then, with
heart pounding, he would transform himself as soon after the purchases
were complete as possible, at a motel, into the similitude of a young
woman and proceed to organismic relief.
This was an intensely private activity, so utterly foreign to his
background, family, and reputation as to have rendered anyone
incredulous of the very idea who knew him. No one knew of it. No one.
He would have committed hari kiri (or whatever) with alacrity before he
would have betrayed the slightest hint.
One cannot, however, keep dressing as a young woman, waist clinchers,
breast forms, and all, without all of this exerting some lasting
effect. Mark was unconscious of this. He thought that he was just the
pleasant, fair-complexioned, slender young man that he had been. He was
very thorough in his attempts to remove all traces of cosmetic
experiments. And he never went out while the elastic marks from his
coiffure were still visible on his forehead. And in these matters, he
was correct; he had hid his private activities rather well. However,
Mark's forays into the world of the female mind were having more subtle
effects.
Probably the most pronounced of these were a genuine appreciation and
deep interest in the femininity of every woman who caught his
attention. This, of course, is hardly unusual in young men (or elderly,
either, for that matter), but the focus of that attention on the part
of Mark was distinctly different. Most people do not think of pleasant,
slender young men as spies in disguise, masquerading as males, but
female at heart, so Mark was largely taken at face value. Then, too, he
did not activate the normal female defenses to the usual male interest.
Many a lady thought more about that interesting young man she had seen
or briefly conversed with in the mall than would usually be the case
with an extremely casual encounter. The fact was, Mark was disarming
(without trying to be, in the least). His sincerity was touching, even
when it was not perceived as sincerity, and it certainly was not
perceived as the particular flavor of enthusiasm which it really was .
. . . His unstudied and partially veiled fascination was exactly the
kind of interest which subconsciouslytugged at the common feminine
psych.
Sharon had noticed Mark the first time (two months ago) that he walked
through Intimates. He was a little nervous, and had walked through the
area several times before he stopped before a display of brassieres and
began to examine them in size 34. She immediately fitted him (mentally)
with several styles, including the more expensive line, and began to
devise a sales approach. "Young husband? No ring." "Boyfriend? He
seemed too comfortable." She stopped a moment. "Under compulsion?"
This was Sharon's polite characterization of what she knew about but
never dwelt on - primarily the whole mistress - slave scene, a very
distasteful subject to her. "Prank?" This covered the gamut of
fraternity initiations, practical jokes, dares, and general outrageous
adolescent gags. Sharon frowned a little. Nothing seemed to fit.
"Hi! May I help you?" she adopted a careful helpful, neutral tone, such
as she would have used with her own father.
He turned a radiant face to her. "Hi," he replied. He was neatly and
effortlessly dressed and had the whitest teeth she had ever seen. His
slacks were oyster white; his jacket rust; his wingtips brown - a nice
touch, she thought.
"These are our most comfortable styles," she stated. "A little
expensive, but well worth it." She looked into his eyes a moment. They
were blue, completely at odds with his choice of clothes, yet they did
not clash as they could. It occurred to her to ask him who he was
shopping for, but she found she did not want to ask.
"Do you wear them?" he asked, and she felt a strange tinge of flutter
at being probed so intimately, but she nodded. "And are they omfortable
to you?" he persisted. The slightest shade of amusement here would have
sealed off any interest on her part, but, scrutinize as she may, there
was just a genuine interest to understand. Later, she concluded this to
be the point where she relaxed and began to respond to him as to a
girlfriend. In fact, she wasn't sure that she had ever told a irlfriend
as much. In fact, she wasn't even sure she had ever told herself as
much about she felt about her underwear when she was a) tired, b)
annoyed, c) having her period, d)exuberant, e) on vacation, f) etc. He
just seemed to understand, somehow. A little voice inside kept saying,
"How? How does he understand?" But she kept pushing away. It was so
nice to have someone understand - to really say what you feel and see
that someone else understood it, too.
It went on a long time. So long, in fact, that Ms. Gleeteese was
frowning quite a bit, and Ms. Gloria Lowman, her manager, walked by
once, three rows away. By that time, though, this young man already had
over two-hundred dollars of lingerie in two piles, and they were
heading for the nightwear area. In fact, Sharon was getting a little
worried whether Mark could afford all of this. To her inner amazement,
she found that she didn't want him to overextend himself just because
he enjoyed talking with her and she with him.
"My! This is going to run a fair amount, even with sales," she said, as
she began to group nightgowns of different kinds in his size. It was
then that he held her eyes a moment, then deliberately winked at her!
He still had not mentioned who he was buying all of this for, but she
didn't care anymore, anyway. Besides, he had exquisite taste. She
couldn't remember when she had last had so much fun!
It came to over five hundred dollars at the register, and she was truly
appalled. But it all cleared nicely on the card while envy made a sour
prune out of old Gleeteese. He lingered after it was all sacked up, and
she offered to help him take it out to his car.
It was a breathtaking gem of a car - some kind of an expensive Mercedes
in metallic brown with brown leather seats. Had that new car smell,
too. She helped him put over five hundred dollars of lingerie in the
trunk. What was he going to do with all of this? The thought shot
across her mind that he employed a whole stable of models. "All in one
size?" she wondered, incredulously. Aloud, she said, as nonchalantly as
possible, "So . . . where to, now?"
This slender, remarkable cutie (with the key to a Mercedes) grinned at
her. It was a friendly grin, a faintly conspiratorial smile with just
the slightest trace of a smirk, an engaging smirk, a persuasive smile
and a talkative grin. "Come on," it said. "Live a little. Abandon all
caution, ye who enter here." A beaming Mark. Good grief.
"I have an hour left on my shift," said Sharon. 'Why am I saying this?'
she thought.
The remarkable beamish grin flared up in nova-brilliant array. There
was even a slight wink, gone so quickly as to seem an optical illusion.
A promised return in a cute little nod, and a lovely Mercedes gliding
across the mall parking plat. And an atwitter Sharon on the way back to
work.
The next hour was intoxication. Gleeteese and Gloria were examining the
sales receipt from the register with disbelief. There was a distinct
respect in Gloria's attitude toward her, but old Gleeteese was turning
a particularly bilious shade of green. Most unfortunate, as it
emphasized her already poor color coordination. Beside Mark, Gleeteese
was a novice, female or no.
"Indeed," thought Sharon, "most women have hardly half the taste and
discrimination just demonstrated by my Mark." Yes, she already thought
of him as her Mark.
There was only a half hour left when she saw Ted. Ted, with that bimbo,
Chelsea, who thought she was so great because her father was worth ten
million (at least). Chelsea, who said she only shopped in Paris, as in
Paris, France. What was Ted doing with her, of all people? She almost
had thought of him as her Ted, for a silly moment. That's before she
remembered that Ted was History, abandoned History. Discarded History.
Narrow-minded History, too so what was the big deal? Sharon thought
angrily, as she furiously restocked a display of stockings. If he
didn't want to wear her panties; O.K. - no big deal! But to spread the
word that she hated men - and tried to de-man them! Now, that was
hitting below the . . . waist.
She was still fuming when she strode to the curb, but stopped short
when she saw the lovely brown Mercedes turning in at the far east
entrance. Only . . . Sharon stared in amazement. A lovely redhead was
driving. "Hi," she said. "Mark asked me to pick you up."
Sharon was too shocked to speak. Then, to her horror, she heard the
once-cherished-but-now-loathed voice of the discarded Ted behind her.
"Well, hello!" in the dulcet, sugary tones of the high and mighty
Chelsea. "Who's your friend, Sharon?"
"Gotta run!" she blurted over her shoulder, as she literally galloped
for the passenger side. "Can't be late!" she hollered as the redhead
mashed the accelerator. Thank heavens, at least the girl wasn't a
dimwit, oblivious to the situation.
The redhead turned and smiled at her. "Well, princess," she drawled,
"they definitely looked worth leaving behind."
No one had ever called Sharon 'Princess' before, and she wasn't sure
she cared for it. In fact, she was sure that she didn't care for being
picked up by a nameless redhead, especially one all bright-eyed and
bushy-tailed, gussied-up and spick-and-span, with what appeared to be a
dynamite figure and an attitude to match. Where was Mark? Who and what
was this . . . person . . . to him? And why was she the one driving?
The red pumps matched the red dress of the redhead perfectly. The shoes
looked familiar. In fact, Sharon had sold a pair just like those just a
while ago . . . Hey! Sharon looked at little closer at the countenance
of driver, flawless, jet-black earrings and a black necklace, a very
amused smile, somewhat elated and a tiny bit smug. Those eyes! Those
greenish eyes - they could never be Mark's eyes! The redhead let out a
little ripple of a laugh as she smoothly stopped for a traffic light.
"Contacts, Honey! Contacts!"
Sharon found her mouth was actually open. She closed it at once,
swallowed a couple of times. It occurred to her that an hour was a
remarkably short time for such a transformation. Boy! Two, even three
hours! Even at all! "Mark?"
"Actually, Marcia." They grinned at each other.
There was a moment of silent rapport. It was broken by a hesitant sally
from Sharon. "Well . . ." she earnestly exclaimed, "do you feel that
it, uh, unmans you?" She shifted in her seat a little uneasily.
Marcia chuckled. It was a hearty good-natured chuckle. "Of course,
Honey!" she replied. "It completely unmans me," she giggled. "Why would
I want to feel like a man when I look like this?" She ran her right
hand through her hair in an unconscious feminine gesture.
Mark had disappeared and this redheaded Marcia had appeared. Do I like
Marcia? Sharon wondered. It was very exciting to think that this lovely
redhead was actually Mark. Sharon began to tell Marcia about Ted. I
would never have told Mark this, she thought, as she explained and
complained, and predicted and depicted.
"What a loser," said Marcia, "So after two months of intimacy, he was
paralyzed with femmophobia at the thought of wearing your panties -
just in bed mind you. Paralyzed everywhere except his big mouth,
anyway."
"I know he likes them," Sharon related. "He likes for me to dress for
him. It turns him on to watch me in stockings and heels. I've even worn
a corset for him. All day."
"But he can't even wear panties for you!"
"For an hour!"
The two were quiet a moment with the injustice of it all. Then Sharon
said, "He's probably sleeping with that stuck-up Chelsea every night!"
"She did look rather snooty," replied Marcia. "Where will he probably
take her for dinner?"
"Oh, probably La Mirabelle."
"You know," Marcia looked at Sharon. "I'm getting hungry for French
cuisine."
"I can't go like this," Sharon exclaimed, looking down at her skirt.
"Non, non, my cherie," lisped Marcia in a patently false French accent.
It took a couple of hours after a stop at Marcia's hotel room and a
quick visit to a little boutique to 'do the occasion justice', as
Marcia put it. It was during all this that Sharon began to wonder.
Marcia was too good to be true; or, to be more accurate, she was too
feminine to be male, or something like that. If she was playing a part,
she was too good an actress to be accepted as an actress. Maybe Mark(?)
had been a slender young woman who masqueraded as a young gentleman.
Maybe Marcia was really Marcia who had fooled her as Mark. Maybe she
was like Victoria in the movie . . . .
It all added up to a lot of heady excitement. Sharon had not ever been
particularly attracted to a girlfriend before, and she abhorred the
attention she had received from certain girls after Ted's big
blabbermouth had gone off. But Marcia (if she was Marcia) was just fun.
Everybody who was anybody ate at La Mirabelle. Not that the food was
any good. Actually, your local greasy spoon exhibited the same culinary
skills - without the fancy names, of course. The local yokels couldn't
match the wine list, naturally. No, it wasn't the food that mesmerized
the gaping herd; it was the atmosphere. La Mirabelle featured a
different jazz ensemble every night, and the arrangements were
incredible. At times, rather naughty guest soloists entertained the
crowd with risque versions of old time favorites of the twenties and
thirties. For a substantial tip to the maitre d', the key to a discreet
boudoir could be obtained, very convenient for alleviating stresses and
nervous relief. French Provincial is so soothing.
Ted frequented La Mirabelle since Chelsea and he had been an item. The
cover charge was substantial, far beyond Ted's resources, but Chelsea's
old man owned the place. Actually he was one of several investors, but
the end result was the same. Ted and Chelsea got in free, and dinner
was on the house.
Sharon had been to La Mirabelle once. Ted had managed to save up the
price of dinner, etc., so Sharon and Ted had tasted the life style of
the rich and famous. The food was horrible, but the beds were superb.
At least Sharon thought the beds were superb; they had tried only one.
It was quite adequate for the purpose, being extremely well-constructed
and sturdy.
The restaurant was just as she remembered it. Fake French, pretentious,
and gaudy. Glorious music. Heady atmosphere. Big overdressed crowd.
Marcia grabbed her by the hand. "Let's dance," she cried over the
pulsating blasts of Big Benny's horn.
That girl could move. Sharon could hardly keep up with her. She looked
a bit delicate in a full blown red skirt with that slender little
waist, but Marcia was as strong as Ted. And she never stepped on your
toes, either, three inch heels, or no.
Sharon was a little breathless after the first number, but Marcia kept
whirling her around as the band crashed into some fiery Latin American
number. It was intoxicating. Then there was a tango, with its dramatic
moments, and Sharon had her second wind and was really into it. She was
conscious that most of the other couples were dropping out. Then the
band stopped for a moment with Marcia's arms wound about her, and she
found herself staring into the sneering face of Ted the bastard.
His arms were around that miserable Chelsea, including one hand rather
strategically positioned on her tush. With a completely insufferable
smirk, he French-kissed her right there on the dance floor in front
of everyone, so Sharon gave Marcia a mouth-to-mouth, a long slow one,
to which Marcia responded ardently, and Sharon felt Marcia's delicate
little hands on her bottom, pulling her to her.
The music started with a great flare, but the two couples left the
dance floor, Ted pulling Chelsea by the hand to the maitre d', and
Sharon and Marcia tripping along lightly together, hand in hand. Ted
cast one unbelieving glance back toward the two girls as he and Chelsea
made for the elevator, but Sharon and Marcia kissed again and smiled at
him. They made their way up the grand staircase, taking the time to
celebrate their attachment at intervals with intimate embrace.
Sharon didn't care anymore whether she was Marcia with a penis or Mark
with a vagina. It was just Marcia here and Marcia there, so sweet and
understanding, so gentle and demanding. The former Ted passed away as
though he had never been, as Marcia the Magnificent changed from
Marcia/Marcia to Marcia/Mark by removing a pair of panties which also
took away her gentitals. The Marcia/Mark then entered her soaking wet
nether lips with a masterful thrust that also mashed her/his proud
breasts against her swollen nipples. Spasm after spasm threatened to
tear her apart, and she shrieked her approbation to the skies (actually
French tiles on a raised ceiling). It was a good thing that a real
craftsman had built that bed. Marcia proved to be a real spurter of a
girl, flooding her womb not once, nor twice, but three times with a
creamy torrent.
They were just getting their breath back from the last outrageous
coupling when there was a knock at the door. Marcia got up somewhat
wearily-but-sated and stepped into her congenital panties. Then donning
a diaphanous negligee robe, thoughtfully provided by the management,
she answered the door. There, of course, was the intrepid Ted, sans
Chelsea. Ted with the rubber neck, a regular bedroom tourist. He gawked
at the superbly sufficed Sharon with her sybarite smirk and the
voluptuous form of her lover, and his countenance fell, hot green-eyed
jealousy erupting from his facial expression like a Hawaiian volcano.
Seizing Marcia by the arm, he snarled, "Come on! Let me show you what a
real man is like!" And he dragged her down the hall into the bedroom
where a rather aggravated Chelsea's barometer was sinking fast. Hurling
Marcia on the bed on her hands and knees, where the aggrieved Chelsea
neatly avoided her, he dropped his shorts, revealing a long and hard
erection, which he, holding Marcia firmly by her rounded hips, plunged
into her anus. The engorged penis sank all the way in, to the very
hilt, and Marcia gasped. The powerfully built man began to stroke back
and forth, in and out, as Marcia whimpered. She had never been
penetrated before.
Chelsea laughed. "That's it, girl," she grated. She laughed and took
something out of her purse. It was a strap-on, and Marcia's eyes got
big. In a moment the big, stiff, artificial thing was in Marcia's
mouth, and she was being thrust back and forth with a steady rhythm,
unto first one shaft at one end, then the other. Then the strap-on girl
pulled out and positioned herself underneath Marcia's swaying crotch.
Pushing her crotch up until the obscene phallus pressed against the
lips of Marcia's vagina, Chelsea said, "All right!"
Immediately Ted shoved down on Marcia's ass as he continued to pump.
The big pole penetrated Marcia, slipping over her engorged, but hidden
balls beneath the gaping vagina lips, and making her cry out. Then she
swallowed the entire shaft, feeling its length against her own hidden
penis. She was totally sandwiched between two thrusting bodies, each
penetrating her deeply. Her hair came down, splaying over her back and
bra strap, and fanning down in a curtain around her face, enclosing her
and the triumphantly leering Chelsea's face in an unwelcome veil of
privacy. The evil girl kissed her on the lips where her strap-on had
recently penetrated and thrust her tongue into Sharon's mouth cavity.
All this was bad enough, but, to her horror, she felt Ted's penis
swelling inside her, and she realized that he was about to totally
possess her and use her for the depository of his own loathsome self.
He began to spurt as she despaired, but her horror deepened as she
heard Chelsea chuckle and fumble with the shaft pinning her from
beneath. To her infinite aversion, she felt that artificial phallus
beginning to spurt its artificial seed into her artificial womb.
It was too much for her body, her mind loathed it, but the body
betrayed her, and Marcia began to come for the fourth time that night,
to her infinite degradation. Her own body semen mingled with the girl's
semen from beneath her, and sucked and slurped at the stiff pole moving
in and out of her in the most obscene way. Then her mind went black and
she went limp.
When Marcia came to, only Sharon was there. Her friend had been crying,
for her eyes were still red.
"I'm so sorry," Sharon kept saying. "I'm so sorry."
Rowan
- 02.03.2021
- 24
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