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This is a true story. I know many claim that in this world of fiction, and I know there's no way to prove it. Some of the events may seem familiar, or unlikely. You should ascribe this to but one thing: our paths are similar. There are a but a few general ways for a man to begin living as a woman, so my story is bound to remind you of others. And sometimes life imitates art, so that in order for us to make exist that which we desire, we in real life follow cues laid down previously in words. Perhaps the details in this story will convince you, although I am taking a risk at being recognized through the Internet's wall of anonymity. Everything, except some of the more significant identifying information, is true. All of these events happened. I did combine several days (or they have merged in my mind over time so that I'm not quite sure what happened exactly when). So if the weather as I portray it may not actually match the true weather as it was on those days, and if events known to you are slightly out of order, attribute it to my weak human memory, not to invention. Please write to me with your comments. How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Sucking Cock By Alex Anonymous [email protected] It was September 11, 2001, in New York City, a day we all remember. I won't go into the specifics as they are already familiar to the world, but the key to this is that at the time the towers were first hit, I was taking my morning run more than twenty blocks from my apartment in Battery Park City, in Manhattan, just near the World Trade Center. I was then north of the towers, somewhere above Canal Street in Soho. My morning run was a habit. I would don my usual shorts (small, loose, cotton), my running shoes and socks (old but serviceable), and my cheap watch (because it was lighter), and tie my house keys to a loop on the shorts. Nothing else was necessary or wanted as it was too much of a burden, and any clothing with pockets for wallets or identification was too heavy. The wrong clothing when I'm running makes me sweat like summer on the Gulf Coast, so I avoid it. I usually took one of several well-practiced hour-long routes, returned to the apartment, showered and was at my desk in my home studio by 10:30. As a graphic artist running his own small shop, I set my own schedule, and since the advertising world is pretty lax, few of my clients expected me in much before then since they all kept advertising hours as well. Caught away from my apartment, my immediate response to the towers being hit was to flee: I ran north as far as Chelsea, constantly looking over my shoulders in fear, sometimes stopping and watching with horror, and by the time the second tower fell, I was in the West Twenties, sitting on the doorstep of a my friend Melissa. She came padding up the street a little later, her casual work sandals in her hand, bawling. She and I stood in an embrace for a good long while, crying, trying not to look downtown toward the towering smoke. Inside the apartment we sat on the couch well into the evening, flipping from channel to channel, horrified but unable to turn away, trying to glean information about friends and acquaintances who lived nearby or worked in the buildings. We tried calling people important to us but the lines were busy or dead or rang with no answer. Melissa's feet were bloody from the long walk from her job uptown. She'd walked miles in her stockinged feet, unable to catch a cab because they were all taken, unable to use the subway as it had been shut down. Her sandals had begun giving blisters after the first ten blocks, so she took them off, leaving her feet less protected from the street, but she made better time and the heel straps didn't dig into her heels. Her feet were torn on the soles, though not too badly. We washed them and she put them in my lap as I rubbed antibacterial lotion into them. I loved her feet. They were sweet and cute and perfect. I loved just about everything about her body: she had a tiny waist, very narrow next to her delicious breasts which bulged at the seams of her button-up white shirt, making it gap in such a way as to permit me to see flashes of blushed peach skin and an insufficient white brassiere. She had large, round blue eyes, with long, dark lashes; straight, bountiful shiny raven-black hair; and perfect skin: not a mole, wart, scar, freckle, anything: soft and smooth like spilled flour. As much as I was irretrievably smitten by her, we had never hooked up. When I was available, she always had a steady boyfriend. When she was available, I was usually dating other women. We were friends. But that foot massage broke her down. The tension of the day drifted away and she made it clear that she saw my hands on her feet as a sexual act, a provocation. It wasn't long before we were fucking on the couch. Pure fucking. Love-making is for lovers, fucking is for everyone else. Stripped naked, she had the best body I'd seen in years. She didn't mind mine, either: mine was small, compact, trim and toned. And when it is erect, I have a cock like a horse's. (In college they called me that: Horse. I still get e-mail from old friends who throw it in for a laugh. They all knew because of a show-and-tell session one night at one of those break-through off-campus freshman parties). I fucked her from behind, for a good long time, with my hands on her tiny waist, pulling her on and off of my cock, as I forced myself in and out. She had hold of the back of the couch, her knees on the cushions, her breasts moving in unison to our back-and-forth. She was into it, giving everything she had, and calling on exciting energy to which I made no hesitation about matching. She was humming and frantic. She came and came, and shouted for more, and her body glowed from the perspiration. When she came, her pussy gripped my cock as if by a hand. My dick had never felt so full, so large: she used it like a power tool, shoving her smooth ass back towards me again and again. I nearly came. But I've practiced self-control for too long; when pussy this good comes along you don't blow your wad fast and give the woman a chance to rethink the situation. No, you restrain yourself by sheer force of will. It was, at the time, the single greatest fuck I ever had, and I am no shirker. After nearly a half-hour of doggy-style on the couch, I could see her rounded mouth reach out. If there had been a cock in front of her, she would have been sucking on it. Now, pussy is good. Pussy is great. But there's not much I love more than a good blowjob and I had a sudden vision that in the same way that her pussy had been the sweetest, smoothest, richest, most fuckable pussy I'd ever had, her mouth would be the wettest, most sensual, highly manipulative organ on her body. Still banging her for all I was worth, I reached a hand out to her gaping mouth and stuck in my thumb. She began sucking like she was out of air and my finger was the tank nozzle. She was tempestuous. She seemed not to be able to focus her vision and her mouth and pussy both throbbed and pulled on my body in ways expressing her pure sexual desire: the desire to be fucked in every way possible, at that moment, by me, my big cock and my thumb. So I popped out my dick and thumb, and turned her around to sit on the couch. She sank into it. Her hips thrust up from the couch looking for my penis. Her mouth was like a fish gaping for air. Her eyes were half-open, as if she was sleep-walking, or intoxicated, or just plain high. Her hands were frantic, looking for anything to grab onto and choosing, in the end, to reach down into the couch between the cushions and grab the bar of the convertible bed contained within. She leaned forward from the waist. With my hands on the back of her head, I shoved my big hard cock in her mouth. She inhaled it. Like a Popsicle. She swallowed all of it without gagging and without that nasty coy look of a professional: she was an aficionado of cock and knew how to do it right, but she wasn't some skanky whore on the street who approached cock with a clinical absence. She loved the cock. Her eyes were nearly closed in ecstasy. She sucked and sucked and sucked, in and out, making satisfied noises of pleasure, kind of a humming and whining for more. To my complete pleasure, she clearly loved to suck dick. I came in explosions. She wouldn't let go of my cock. Her lips held onto it as she swallowed my cock and its come, the semen not even having time to pool. Her tongue swirled. When my cock was at its most sensitive, I was thrashing around, out of my skull, hardly able to stand. She followed my cock around as if she was afraid to take it out of her mouth, sucking and nursing on it as I collapsed to the floor on my back. She followed me down off the couch, resting her body on my legs, and continued sucking on my cock in a studious, earnest, clearly pleasurable manner, for her and me. I couldn't keep it up any longer and my dick softened. She licked her lips, scooted up next to me, and we fell asleep a sweaty mess on the rug. Hours later we awoke and climbed into bed and didn't wake until morning. ... In the morning--as Melissa sucked on my cock, which she had been doing pretty much all night, even in her sleep, as if it were a pacifier--her boss at the department store (for which Melissa handled purchasing) called to say that the store would be closed for the next two days at least, and that he would call again on Thursday to let her know what the schedule would be as of that Friday. Now, it occurred to me in the light of morning that I had nothing. No money, no credit cards, no bank card, no identification, no clothes, none of my work materials (including a computer), nothing. Everything I owned was in the apartment. The unreachable apartment beyond the disaster site. The news reports made it plain that nobody but rescue workers were getting below Houston Street. How was I to live? I made phone call after phone call: most city agencies were tied up, or disconnected. I got a lot of busy signals, dead lines, error messages and other frustrating results. Anybody I did talk to was very frank: there was no way of telling whether I could get into my apartment. Some people were being let past the barricades, some were not. There was no set policy yet. I would have to go in person and see. The first problem to tackle was, What to wear? All I had was my running shoes and my running shorts and the jock strap I wore underneath. That was not sufficient for trying to impress police that I was a good risk to let into the biggest crime scene this country had ever seen. To convince them to let me go home and get my belongings, I needed to look more respectable. Plus, Melissa had thrown my clothes in the washer. It was a ninety-minute cycle because, as she said, they stank. Melissa had the bright idea: "Why don't you wear some of mine? I think we can find a few things in here that aren't too feminine." She was a very feminine creature: beautiful, style-conscious, and through her purchasing at the department store, up on all the latest trends. She brought home samples and floor models all the time, and she looked great in them. She had the body that fashion designers think of when they design clothes for wearing instead of for the runway. (I haven't yet mentioned the coupe de grace of Melissa: she's also funny, clever and level-headed.) "Are you sure? I love your clothes, but on you. I don't know that I've *ever* seen you in anything I could get away with wearing." "Nonsense. The weather's not too cool today. I've got some summer shorts in here and at least one tank top. You can borrow some socks, wear your shoes, and you're ready to go." She pulled out a pair of white shorts. They were short, small, stretchy and had a side zip. They looked mildly translucent. "Here. Try these on. They've got some give, if you need it, but I think we're not too far apart in size. Your hips are smaller but your waist is bigger." What was I going to do? I was standing there naked, being given suggestions by a beautiful naked woman. I put the shorts on and stood in front of a mirror. "Eh, that's kind of obscene," I said. "You can see right through these! You can tell right where the hair starts. I can see everything." My cock, which looks almost normal-sized when deflated, I shoved underneath so its darker head couldn't be seen. Then I started to get an erection. Fast. My cock worked its way out from between my legs and popped out a leg of the shorts. Melissa laughed, caressed it, and yet again was down on it, sucking away in pleasure. Cock was like candy to her. I fucked her face and she wanted all she could get. Down her throat it went, again and again, and she gave the job everything she had. Her eyes were unseeing, rolling back in her head, and her breath through her nose was like that of an animal. She loved it. I came again. This time she parted her lips and held the head of my penis there with only a light suction, like the cork in a wine bottle. The come spurted out and she grunted in pleasure with each new burst, slurping and sucking the head completely. When she finished, she sighed with satisfaction, slowly yanked the shorts off of me, and then went to her dresser. She pulled out a pair of white panties, pushed me on the bed, worked them up my legs (as I looked on, amused), and then the pulled the shorts up after them. "See," she said, "now you can't see anything. How do you think girls do it?" Sure enough, the pubic hair was invisible. The bulge from my cock was negligible, tucked back as it was. There was something refreshing about that combination: the silky, stretchy panties, the white stretchy shorts, the slow zip of the zipper up the hip, the really short inseam making the legs on the shorts not even two inches long. Her clothes on my body. The singing in my heart from being on the receiving end of a series of fantastic dick-suckings made it even better. I loved it all. There was nothing specifically unmanly about the clothes, but my heart beat a little faster when I realized I was about to go out into the world in woman's clothes and no-one would be the wiser. It was exciting and it made me a bit jittery. Melissa put on a pair of panties herself, and a tank top, then dug around in her dresser some more. Out came a tank top for me: light blue and opaque. I pulled it on and inside was a surprise: it had a bralette. "Melissa, there's a large rubber band around my chest. You need all the support you can get, but I don't need anything. Give me a plain shirt." I looked in the mirror. "You can see where it squeezes me. It pulls the shirt in there and it's obvious I've got some sort of support device on underneath. Not the best way to convince a cop I'm a regular guy just trying to get his stuff." "Now, don't be such a wuss. It's a shirt. Nobody's doing clothes audits on a day like this to make sure you're dressed like a man's man. What do you want, corduroy overalls and a flannel shirt?" I looked up hopefully. "Well, I don't have them. Best I can offer you is this." It was a white button-up shirt, short-sleeved, like she was accustomed to wearing to work. She took off her tank top, showing those fabulous breasts again, and handed it to me. "Wear this white one under this shirt and you'll be fine." The white tank top (with its own bralette) looked right under the shirt, and the equatorial depression under my chest of the elastic did not show through the outer layer. The overshirt had tucks and darts in it to give it some shape to conform to a woman's body, which I didn't have. However, I am small and slim, as I said, and it didn't seem to matter too much. The buttons were on the wrong side, but that took about a fraction of a second to figure out. The oddest thing was that the shirts didn't reach the top of my shorts, which came up below my belly button. The two shirts came down just above it. There was a thin line of flesh belong to my flat belly exposed. I yanked the tank top down repeatedly, but it just kept creeping back up. I decided to ignore it. I was dressed in fashionable summer clothes--albeit girl's summer clothes--and I had business to take care of. My manhood has never been an issue with me. I successfully prove it in the bedroom, and if any outward signs seem to contradict that, it puts me in the excellent position of being underestimated in such a way that I can doubly surprise people. Melissa looked pensive. She'd been digging around in yet another drawer of her dresser. "I don't really have any socks for you. I have socks like these," they were pink and white with butterflies, "or like these," they were sparkly and obviously intended for nighttime and black dresses. "Not much else but hose and stockings." "My socks are thick because those running shoes will eat your feet given half a chance," I said. "I'll tear the hell out of my feet going sockless just getting down to the barricades. Maybe I can wear those but roll them down." She was now down on her knees, head in the closet, her panty-clad buns in the air. I dry humped up against her and she pushed back, still throwing things around inside. She stood up. "Wear these. They are perfectly good, even if I haven't worn them in a year." They were sandals, girl's sandals. Thin, matte-black leather. A strap around the ankle, two over the top of the foot, a buckle on the inside, a bit of a heel. But not too much of one. "Umm, okay. Right. I need shoes. These are shoes. Okay. Let's try them." I wanted them to fit. She wanted them to fit. Couldn't wear the running shoes, right? At least until the washer-dryer cycle was done. That was too long to wait. No girly socks required with sandals, right? Logical. And titillating. Those sandals on my feet felt like caresses. The soft constriction around the ankle matched the one on my chest, feelings which did not go away, but became incorporated in my general assessment of myself as Different, and Changed, and Excited. Boy, was I excited. My cock pushed its way forward, and I clamped my legs shut. There was no time for that. I had to get busy. I needed identification and money, at the least. And my cock was red and sore, anyway, loved though it was in those very pleasant panties. Time to get out of the house. Melissa gave me a spare house key and some money (both of which I tucked in the band of my short shorts with my own keys, seeing as how there were no pockets). She planned to stay home and make phone calls to family in other states to assure them of her well-being. So far the lines had all been occupied or she had been disconnected mid-conversation, which was hardly reassuring to anyone. As I left, she gave me a kiss such as would make even a gay man think about acquiring a harem that he could fuck until he died from the strain of it. I walked dazed and unaware into the world. ... Down through Chelsea I strode, headed for the barrier at Sixth Avenue and Houston Street. It was about a half-hour walk. The crowds on the street were odd: tense, but not in the same way that New York is always tense. More like the tension that comes from thinking, "When will the next shoe drop?" You need to know this one essential fact before you read the next part: my hair is long. I know, I know: many stories on sites like this talk about a small man with long hair who transforms into looking like a woman (and don't act like that surprises you: that's why you're here, to read a story about a male-to-female conversion). This is a true story, remember. I am smallish, for a man, and I do have long hair. I like my hair long: it's thick, long, shiny, abundant, slightly curly and the girls love it. More than one woman has grabbed my locks as she mashed her lips against mine. It's been an asset to me. So before I left Melissa's apartment, I tied it back in a ponytail and thought nothing of it. The scene at Houston Street was chaos. People trying every trick in the book to cross the barriers. Lots of people were saying you could only get in at other streets. Once there, you'd hear that the street you just left was the only place to cross. Most people were refused admittance. For me, it was a catch-22: to cross the barricades, I needed identification showing my home address which would prove I lived in the closed-off area, but I couldn't get that identification without gaining admittance. I struggled with this for four hours. I begged and pleaded with cops and firemen. I tried to get parties crossing the line to vouch for me. They refused or I was turned away at the last second because I couldn't show supporting papers. I saw others crossing without the correct papers: mostly pretty girls or old people, the kind of folks that cops cut a lot of slack for at anytime, even during crisis periods. In desperation, I tried to slip under a rope. I though I had made it when a woman cop shouted, "Miss! Miss! You must get behind the line!" She was talking to me. Sure I was taken aback. You would be too. I had been convinced that I didn't really look feminine in those panties, tiny shorts, tank top with bralette, darted woman's dress shirt and girl's summer sandals. In fact, it was more sexually exciting if the rest of the world *didn't* know they were women's clothes. It felt like I was getting away with breaking a taboo. It turned me on. On the other hand, being mistaken for a girl was also exciting. "I'm sorry officer, but it's just so frustrating." I poured out my story and she asked my name. "Well, Alex," she said, "you're going to have to do this the right way. We've just received word that reception centers will be set upon the west side piers. They will open tomorrow morning. I suggest you go up there, state your case--with witnesses, if possible--and then come back down here with paperwork from them. As you can see, we're really in no position to be making judgment calls here, although," she said as an aside, "some of my fellow officers seem to believe they are the embodiment of the law and are doing so for their own benefit." She nodded toward the pretty girls traipsing by, as if I, a plain-looking girl, would agree with her, a plain-looking police officer, that it was not fair that the men should be letting them pass. What she said made sense. I trudged home, exhausted from my efforts. I stopped to take a good look at myself in the mirrored surface of a drugstore. I looked feminine, perhaps, but not like a woman. Maybe a feminine man. But as anyone knows who's seen the diversity of New York City, women come in every size, shape and type, as do men. There is no one woman, or one man. Melissa has all the classic traits of the purest womanhood, but she is a rare creature. I wasn't a homely feminine human, I could see in the mirror, but also not a beauty queen. I was tired, yes. But still excited over the effect this clothing was having on my libido. It was a wonderful, strange discovery, to find out that I was kinked in such a way as to be thrilled by breaking the social code by wearing women's clothes. I explained everything (except the being-mistaken-as-a-girl-thing, and the way the clothes made me feel) to Melissa and we ate a light dinner. My cock had recovered somewhat from the glorious beating it had taken, so we got naked and had some fun. We fucked in the dark using the missionary position like civilized people, but we did it like savages outside on the terrace, which overlooks the street on the front of the building from the 15th floor. I had to put my middle finger in her mouth so she could suck it instead of shout in glory at her pleasure and waking the neighbors. She had, I decided, a sucking fixation. I intended to take advantage of it every chance I could get. By the time we were done it was very late and we went straight to bed. She lay under the covers sucking on my cock, drifting in and out of sleep. I couldn't sleep: as nice as it was to have a woman willingly suck my cock constantly, it was sore. The skin was red and a bit raw in places and her wet mouth was only making it worse. "Melissa, honey," I said, pulling the covers back and easing her head off of my dick, "I can't take much more of that. I love it, but my skin is worn thin. My cock needs some time off." "I'm sorry," she said. "but you've lasted longer than most men would and I hoped to get just one more suck out of it today." She lay there fondling my balls, her lovely smooth breasts pressed against me and her hair smelling like lilacs and honey and fruit blossoms. "Can I show you something?" she asked just a touch shyly. She got up and fiddled in one of those bottomless dresser drawers and came back to bed in the dark with two huge rubber cocks. "Sometimes, when I'm lonely, I like to use these in just the right way." She stuck one--very large--in her mouth and slowly sucked it in until only half was sticking out. I could hear her breathing through her nose. It was intended as a strap-on, but instead of strapping it around a lover, she had removed a couple of the straps, leaving just one, and fastened it lightly around her own head, backwards, with the cock point inward rather than outward. Any time she forced the huge rubber dildo part of the way out of her mouth with her tongue, the elastic strap would force the dildo back in with a constant pressure. She could nurse on it all night. The second big rubber cock, with its own strap dangling, she eased into her pussy. She put my hand on it, and with her soft hand over mine, showed me how and how fast she liked it pushed in and out of her body. For the next hour she nursed on the cock, her face glazed over in pleasure, her jaws working as she sucked away at it. I gradually increased the speed of the plunging cock in her pussy until she came like a herd of wild horses, waving around and pulsing in the heat of lust and sensual pleasure. She would reach up in the midst of the climax and push the end of enormous rubber cock, forcing more of it in her mouth and down her throat. Three times I built her up and three times she gradually returned to a low-level sexual buzz. She eventually sighed in exhaustion and rolled over on her side. She pulled the rubber cock out of her pussy and brought it up to my lips. My God, what had I been doing? Why had I not had my face in this woman's lap before? All pussy is different: Melissa's was sweet like unrefined sugar and strawberries, a taste so wonderful and unique I don't expect I'll ever encounter it again. The cock was covered with it. I licked it off, trying to get it all. She pushed the cock into my lips. I sucked her sweetness from the dildo. I moved my hand up to the cock in her mouth and pushed it in and out. She hummed with pleasure, that same kind of urgent noise I'd heard before, like she couldn't get enough of a good thing. She used both hands on me now. With one hand she thrust the sugar-coated dildo in my mouth as deep as she could get it without choking me, with the other she pulled its strap over my head to match hers. There we lay. I had the end of one big rubber dildo, thrusting it in and out of her mouth, she had the end of the other one, thrusting it in and out of mine. Eventually, she let go of mine and I continued to thrust hers until we were both too drowsy to stay awake, exhausted from the long day and all the sexual activity. I rolled over on my side, rubber cock still large in my mouth, and fell asleep. ... In the morning I was a little surprised to find myself being sucked on and to be doing some sucking myself. The cock was still in my mouth. I could feel its molded veins with my tongue. The nursing instinct is reflexive, and that's what I was doing, nursing on the cock waiting for the milk that would never come. My tongue would push the cock out, meeting the resistance of the elastic strap, and then, when the tongue released its pressure, the cock would force its way back into my mouth, as deep as it could go. The cycle repeated in a rhythmic, pleasureful way. Melissa was under the covers, a bulge at my crotch level moving up and down as she deep-throated my morning-hard cock. She seemed unaware that I was awake. The pleasure was so great, despite some lingering rawness, that I didn't want to her to stop or worry that she was making it worse. I lay there nursing on the enormous cock while being nursed on myself. Later, after we'd cleaned up, we watched television while we had a bite to eat. The reception centers would not be setup today, Thursday. Damn! Foiled again. I tried the long list of phone numbers, meeting with indifferent answers and a lot of endlessly ringing phones. I did reach a couple of clients: most of them did not plan to do any work until Monday, at the latest. I left the some others messages explaining my precarious situation. Melissa's boss called: the store would be open Monday, so she should arrive at her usual time. That gave her today and Friday off. "I have an idea," she said. "I can't watch any more television. It's too much. Today is still a free day. It's supposed to be sunny and hot. Let's go up on the roof, read a little and get some sun and try to forget about all this for a while." "Right. A good idea. How about a picnic?" I put together a not bad lunch while Melissa went through her drawers and closet. "Here," she said. "This one's for you." She held out what looked like another pair of panties. I was, as had been so far normal in that household, standing at the kitchen counter, naked with a bread knife in my hand. What she held, however, were the black bikini bottoms of a two-piece bathing suit. A tiny two-piece bathing suit. "Uh, why don't I just wear those shorts?" "It's a roof, dummy. There's tar up there. You'll ruin white shorts. These are black, and they're from a couple of years ago, anyway. You can ruin them or not. You have to wear something. You can't go up on the roof naked." She didn't mention my running shorts and jock strap, now clean and dry, somewhere. Neither did I. I liked where this was going. She saw it, I know. I liked her kinks, she liked mine, and since we were both clearly open to a little new fun, no problem. She seemed to understand that to speak about it would be to break it: wearing women's clothing was thrilling because it was taboo to the world. I needed to feel like I had an unwitting enabler. The bikini bottoms waved in her hand and my blooming cock followed along like a cobra follows the snake charmer. I put them on. They were very small in the back, but my cock lay in the padded area at the crotch, folded away, and the front was full enough to hold my testicles. I wrapped a beach towel around my waist and we took the elevator to the roof. We could smell the burning buildings and we considered abandoning the whole idea of a roof-top picnic. But the sun was shining and we grew used to the smell and we were both trying so hard to relax that forcing the moment seemed to work. We lay on lounge chairs. I lay there on my stomach as she got perilously close to my privates with her hands and the suntan lotion. It was half massage, half burn prevention. She did everywhere: face, arms, back, hands, legs, stomach, chest. I opened my eyes. Maybe I was allergic to the lotion. Holy shit! What they hell was the matter with me? My body was on fire! Melissa stood there, hand on mouth, looking at the bottle. "15 SPF Suntan Lotion" it read, with the smaller letters underneath, "With Depilatory." My hair was being eaten off my body by chemicals. We grabbed everything in a mish-mash fashion, fled back to the apartment, and I stood in the shower in my bikini bottoms washing the pain and hair away. (Yes, you've seen this device before. The ole depilatory mix-up. Well, life imitates art, and Melissa's medicine closet was like her clothes closet: just filled with items of every size, color and purpose. It was an easy mistake to make: the correct suntan lotion and the depilatory had the same size bottle, the same big logo and "SPF15" in big letters. An easy mistake to make. Except, I'm not sure she did it by accident. And I didn't much care.) So I was hairless. It turned out not to be that big of a deal. We went back up to the roof, she applied the proper lotion this time, and I on her (copping a few feels along the way). The roof of her building had wooden dividers and was generally taller than any surrounding buildings, so she lay there topless, her bulging breasts just popping out and bouncing around in the sun. I took them in my mouth like fruit and suckled on them until she swatted me away and made me apply suntan lotion instead. We lay there for a while reading and dozing. At the end of the day, we both had that rosy red glow that indicates the start of a good tan. I could see faint tan lines when I removed the bikini: right up the hips the lines went, and in a slight V-shape in the front and back. ... There followed another night of fucking and sucking: we ended up sucking the dildos all night, just as we had before. She would roll over in her sleep, face against the wall or the pillow, and force the dildo in her mouth by pushing her head so that the free end of the molded peter would press against the wall or bed, and her head would ride down even further on the cock. It seemed to be automatic. I found myself doing the same thing, to see what it was like, and I'll tell you, it was just like getting a big juicy cock shoved down your throat by someone else. My jaw was sore when I woke up, but that big cock gave me pleasure. The feeling was great: full, deep, heavy, hard, long. My mouth strained with it. Like it was real meat, I kept my teeth away from it, using only my lips and tongue and throat. Already on the second night of dildo-sucking, Melissa, while bouncing up and down on my own big pole, had forced it down my throat in time with her own sex act. In it went, again and again, deeper each time. The choking stopped and the gagging quit threatening to happen. The fake penis entered my throat repeatedly. How can I best describe it? With Melissa, beautiful and sensual and sexual and erotic and so open, all the pleasures of sex that I had known before her blended with all the new pleasures she was teaching me (like sucking cock) or that I had discovered (like wearing girl's outfits). There was only joy. Considering the troubled state of the world around us, growing ever more unclear by the minute, it was easy to lose ourselves in carnal joys, to spend our energies titillating each other. Sucking on those long, hard fake cocks was a part of the titillation and I loved it. In the morning she dressed me. The receiving centers were open, they were saying on television, and she and I would go and see what we could do to get some sort of temporary identification for me. She would be my witness. The weather was supposed to be cooler, more autumn-like, so we dressed accordingly. She chose a pair of black dress slacks and a nice white button-up shirt for me. I pulled on the black slacks. Our sizes were very close, but my inseam was a little longer than hers. The pants were cropped, so they came above my ankles and the slits in the cuffs showed a flash of skin. They, like the shorts I wore before, zipped on the side. "They're better that way, don't you think?" Melissa asked. "The kind with the zipper in the front tend to bunch up when you sit down. Then it looks like you have a cock." She gave me a teasing push on the arm and cupped my pubic area. The shirt was white with a sheen and had a large pointed collar and French cuffs. I suggested that it was, perhaps, a bit too girly. "Well," she said, "It goes with these pants. Nothing else does. But I have skirts in here..." I wore the shirt. Underneath the shirt and pants I wore her white bodysuit. Her logic was, "You have no underwear. You need both panties and a top. I don't have a white camisole, and you can't wear a bra, so we need something else to cover your top. Something with sleeves, so a tank top won't do. A bodysuit is both a top and a bottom." I wore it. It was Lycra, stretchy, rather sexy, with cap sleeves and a round collar. It snapped at the crotch, had a constricting waist where the seams were brought in, and had a built-in supporting brassiere with padding. "Are you sure you can't tell?" I asked. "I don't want to get killed instead of helped." "Puh-leez," she said. "It's the best we can do. Maybe Monday at the department store I can bring back something more,well, more you, but for right now I think this is it.It's not too bad, I don't think." She gave me a cardigan to cover myself, but I think it might have made it worse: it weighed on the shirt and molded tothe shape of the bra cups of the body suit. I had boobs. The shiny, sparkly pointed collar stuck out over the cardigan, and the shirt was unbuttoned enough to show my hairless chest just above where cleavage should have started. On a scale of one to ten of femininity, I felt like a strong seven. The boots she gave me to wear had three-inch heels. "Not doing it," I said. "Too much over the line. I can't even cover them up with long cuffs. Something else." The boots turned me on, but once in public fear might take over. Then the pleasure of tricking the world would evaporate and I'd just be an uncomfortable boy trying to get home as soon as possible. Too much too soon would spoil it. I'd much rather walk around a little more ambivalent, with Melissa's silent approval and my own growing hard-on than risk being called out so soon into the adventure. I wanted more of this and didn't want to ruin it right at the beginning. She gave me Oxfords to wear, with only one-and-a-half inch heels. They fit like I had bought them myself. In the mirror, I saw the slacks were tight across my bum, the darts in the back bringing them into the waist. The bodysuit, more or less like a one-piece swimming suit, had a tight, cinching waist and legs that rode up high on my hips, pulling the back halfway into the crack of my butt. "You can see my panty line!" I said. "So?" Melissa responded. "I could see your panty line under those white shorts, too. Heck, I could see your panties all over your ass." Damn, I was turned on. I wanted more of this, lots more: a luscious woman helping me to wear her clothes and not thinking twice about it. My cock could not be restrained. Melissa stood at the mirror rubbing lotion into yesterday's suntan (which she'd already done for me after our shared shower). Still in the black leather woman's shoes, I slowly slid down the side zip to the black slacks and pulled the bodysuit aside. My cock leapt out. I rubbed it up against her silky bottom. She responded with purring and by putting both hands on the dresser in front of her, spreading her legs and sticking out her ass. I yanked down her panties, rubbed my cock head along her crevice, and then plunged in without thinking. I couldn't think anything but "Pussy." I dove into her like I was saving her life, again and again, hard as nails. She pushed back, hard, and I hit new depths in her gripping cunt. My full long length was buried then revealed as fast as heart beats. Her hold on the dresser had bottles shaking and clinking; the top fell off of a decanter, and the whole piece of furniture began banging into the wall to the time of my thrusts. We came together, she moaning like a chorus of birds at dawn, me groaning like I was ejaculating bullets instead of semen. After I pulled out and grew flaccid, she pushed me back on the bed, so that I was lying on my side, unsnapped my bodysuit, lay down next to me, wrapped her arms around my waist and used her miraculous powers of resurrection to make me hard again. She took the stiff tool to fill her own mouth and throat for three-quarters of an hour, at least, bobbing her head with such love of the sport that I suspect she would have gone on the rest of the day, whimpering with sucking lust, if we hadn't had other plans. ... We cleaned up, she dressed (in one of her conservative work outfits: just revealing enough to let you know there was a fine-looking woman inside, but with enough coverage to prevent trouble) and we walked over to the west side piers. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Melissa put a small gold tie in it to keep it in place. The heels on those Oxfords were enough that I bounced when I walked. I don't know what other people mean when they say they stop feeling girls' clothes after a while: I could feel the underwires in that bodysuit lifting my chest and I could see the tell-tale bulges where breasts were supposed to be revealed by the form-fitting cardigan. A little flat, but boobies there were. I could feel the bodysuit squeeze my ass and midsection. The shine of the blouse peaked through above the V of the buttoned cardigan. The slacks, a bit stretchy, constricted my waist and molded my hips. I could even feel the stockings pulled above my knees: it was like they had trapped bubbles of air and were pleasantly tickling my hairless legs. I tried not to be erect. Our day was a total bust. We had the naive idea that we would get the papers, go to Houston Street, I would cross, get a few things from home, and that would be it. No such luck. Instead, we got the run-around, about 120 different forms to fill out, dozens of conflicting answers, unreasonable requests for searches and identification, and I don't know what all. After six hours of lines and confusion, we made our way to the public hospitality tent. We drank lemonade, ate cookies and were happy just to be sitting. Then a group of firemen entered. Everybody clapped. The men waved, but looked weary. One of them came over to us. "Are you working? We need some more girls over at the firemen's hospitality area." "Umm, we're not working," Melissa replied, "but how can we help? We're just trying to get identification for Alex whose apartment is on the other side of the barricades." "Well, if you go work the other tent, maybe we can pull some strings and get you through. Deal?" Sure, we said. He gave us badges and directions and off we went. The other hospitality tent was a good deal closer to Ground Zero. The badges gave us clearance past barriers we would otherwise have needed weeks and reams of papers to cross. Once there, a man from the firemen's union stopped us. "Who are you? Hospitality girls? You're late. We called for you hours ago. Right over there. Get to work." Not a very polite welcome, but under the circumstances everyone was forgiving everyone else just about any trespass. We were not ready for what was happening inside the tent. There were long rows of chairs, many with firemen, police, EMTs and other rescue workers in them. In front of every man was a woman, kneeling on a cushion or mat, with his cock in her mouth. There was more cock being sucked in that room than in a bathhouse. New men would come in the other entrance and a girl waiting in the corner, many of them clearly not professionals, would take him by the hand, talk sweetly to him as she unfastened his pants, stick her hand in and work it around until the dick came out hard and then commence to licking and sucking. There must have been 80 men getting their cocks sucked when we walked in, and more arriving all the time. I could see how there might not be enough girls: some of the guys, so dazed and tired, took twenty or twenty-five minutes to come, even with an expert mouth at work. Melissa stood there bug-eyed. This was her dream. I could see it in her eyes. Endless cock to suck. Her oral fixation finally answered. An older woman gave us the once-over and then quick instructions. "Only blowjobs, girls. No vaginal or anal intercourse. Handjobs are alright, but clean it up. When you suck, we prefer you swallow, not spit, as we don't want to deal with the mess or the trash. The men are told not to touch you unless you ask, so there should be no groping or violence. Some men like that, you know." She quickly took our pictures. "This tent stays out of the papers, or else these will be published." "No problem," Melissa replied. "Anything for our country." "That's the spirit, girls. You can start whenever you like and quit whenever you like. Good luck." I looked at Melissa. Her face was inscrutable. "I am not a girl," I said. She said nothing, just looked at me, expressionless for a minute. All that cock sucking in bed with her. My own cock grew hard in my pants. I could feel my chest pushed forward by the slight lift of the girl's shoes and the tit-forming padding of the bodysuit. I took off the cardigan. The blouse sparkled in the light. You could see the shape of padded breasts underneath. I could feel the pants hug my hips. I pulled back the pony tail and resituated the little golden tie. Four new men walked in. Melissa took one by the hand, I took another, and we led them to nearby chairs. Melissa asked his name as she rubbed him through his coveralls. She unfastened them at his chest, pulled them down to his knees, and found his cock already sticking up through the hole in his boxers. A long, thick, cock, wider than mine, and randy. She licked it all over and then moved it to her mouth. In it went, further and further, and then she started that familiar bobbing. Up and down, sucking and slurping, her eyes slits of ecstasy. I heard her whining like a little girl, meaning more, more, more. The man had his head thrown back, his hands on the back of her neck, pulling her forward. She went willingly, the cock moving in and out of her throat, deep then shallow, its hard length pushing her to a building orgasm. The man I chose already had his cock out when I looked away from Melissa. My first real cock. So easy. It had to be as good, or better, than sucking big rubber dildos with Melissa. She was here with me now, so the pleasure was still shared. I licked the head, made an O with my lips and then rolled the head around on them, sucking lightly. Then I plunged my head way down: the cock went far into my throat and my own cock grew rock hard, trapped as it was in the waist-cinching bodysuit and girl's slacks. It felt so good, that cock in my mouth. Wonderful. I couldn't get enough. Stiff, hard, long, warm, wet, living. Melissa's enthusiasm was contagious and if she was enjoying it, I could too. Up and down I went, licking and sucking and nursing on his cock, tasting it and its fluids, suctioning the head, then impossibly trying to fit it all in my mouth. The man pushed my head down firmly, helping. I began panting and grunting and whining for more. I couldn't stop. I could hear all the other cocks in the room being sucked. The slurping noise alone was enough to make me insensible with sexual excitement. This was satisfying me in a way that only Melissa had satisfied me, and as that was a new experience, it became bound to sucking this cock and all the cocks that came after. Cock sucking had become pleasurable to me in bed with Melissa, each of us sucking on a huge rubber dildo, the strap pushing it constantly into our mouths. This living cock, attached to a man who was caressing my head as he used my long hair to push me up and down on his meat, was the start of the next level. With a cry, he thrust in my mouth, and then pulled back his sensitive head so it rested in my lips. I could feel the spurts of come, each bit on my tongue a new experience, my mouth filling, the texture also new, the taste tied to this great pleasure. I loved sucking cock in the same way I loved having my cock sucked or banging away at or eating a beautiful cunt like Melissa's. It was all a part of the same pleasure area. Melissa in the meantime had finished her cock and was working on a new man. To his right sat the next man in line. He and others had recognized Melissa as a true lover of cocks, and as the best-looking woman in the room. She had her mouth on one big cock, being force-fed between her lips by a fireman who had one hand holding the cock steady and another on the back of her head. Each one of her hands were in other firemen's pants, working their bulging members up and down. Her whimpering was so sexy. She could not have too much cock. She wanted all she could get. She never imagined that a place like this would exist and that it wouldn't be just random men she was blowing, but real heroes. One man came in her hand and she pulled her head of the cock she was sucking, leaned over, buried the come covered meat in her mouth and licked it clean, then went back to the cock in front of her. Her free hand soon found a new cock to beat. ... We stayed for quite a while. I had my mouth on 11 cocks and quit only when my knees began to hurt from kneeling. My jaws relaxed after the fourth big dick and I became used to the constant motion. Melissa had more than 20 and quit only when hunger and the need to use the bathroom overwhelmed her sexual desire. We walked home hand-in-hand. That night we slept like the dead. No sexual shenanigans, no dildo nursing. We woke with our energy replenished on that Saturday. Melissa nudged me. "I want to go back." I knew immediately what she was talking about. "Sure," I said. "Let's find something to wear." I had yet to begin filling out all the paperwork, so there was little chance of any forward progress in returning to my apartment. Most people, the television said, were still being turned away. A second day of nonstop stimulation could not be a bad thing. The situation in Melissa's apartment was stable: shelter, food, girl's clothes, hot sex, so there was no need to push for a change, nor did I want to. She stepped up my outfit another notch. There was no kidding myself: she knew I was very into wearing her clothes and she was more than happy to oblige. My kink appealed to her professionalism. She was, after all, a clothing buyer, which meant that she understood things about the way fabric worked on a body and how to enhance it without a lot of apparatus and hardware. To have me turned on by her clothes was easy and fun for her. For me, it was a growing eroticism. I watched expectantly as she rooted around her endless closets and wardrobes, mumbling to herself. She pulled out a black knee-length skirt, a smooth bright-white racerback brassiere with big underwire seamless foam cups, sweet white panties with a string waist, and a creamy, thin, fuzzy, stretchy sweater in pashmina. I showered and shaved any new hair on my body, legs, chest and face. The clothes were heaven. The panties kept my cock and balls out of sight. The brassiere, Melissa's brassiere, had rather large cups, unlike the bodysuit which, because it was made of stretch material and padded, didn't have to have anything extra to fill obvious spaces. Melissa was on the case now: two pink, round water-filled Balloons (with the air bubbles forced out before tying) became my breasts, and because the brassiere was her size, it became my size as well. Rather large, I must add, but not too large. Big enough to always be in my vision and to curve outward in that delicious way, but not so large as to be obscene. They bobbled, bounced and jiggled in the bra, which squeezed me around the chest and pulled into my shoulders. A thrilling experience, one I suspected I would never grow tired of it. Titties, boobies, breasts, whatever you want to call them, I had them, or at least an acceptable facsimile thereof. The skirt skimmed my legs and came down to just above my knees. My legs bore black nylon stockings, held up by silky ties to the inside of the skirt, and my feet wore stacked black strappy sandals. They were thick and chunky, several inches tall at the heel, and designed to show off feet. The straps were very much like the sandals I wore on the first day: one around the ankle, three over the top and a fastener on the inside of the foot. My toes stuck out under the straps. Melissa made me take off the shoes and stockings so she could paint my toenails a mother-of-pearl pink. She did a bit of trimming and filing, painted them, then my hands. The nails turned out well. Son of a bitch! We were doing this. I had no thought for anything else. We were in the moment, each of us committed to the project. All of our weak justifications for me having to wear her clothing had long since vanished from our minds and lips. That left only the sexual kink, from which I felt a glowing stimulation. The sweater over my breasts turned out fantastic. The bra held them out and the fuzzy sweater showed them off. She brushed out my hair, trimmed the ends a bit, accentuated a few of the natural curls, then pulled it back on my head where she fastened it with shiny barrettes and tied it with a black velvet ribbon. The curls bounced in the back like loose springs. There was makeup, of course, a process which I need not describe (as it is rather boring), except to point out that I watched her decorate my face in the mirror. I looked good. I looked like a woman. The red lip gloss was sexy. My eyes appeared enormous. The blush made me a shy but sexually stimulated girl. I felt like one: I was in so deep that I never stopped to think about any of it. Consequences? What consequences? The sweetest woman I've ever known was helping me get into another one of those all-day erections and I wasn't about to stop her. And this was my ticket to sucking more cock. She was turned on as well. I sat back on the bed as she reached up under my skirt and pulled out my cock, now throbbing in anticipation. She stuck her head under the skirt and sucked it all in like a zucchini. Her first cock of the day was mine. I wouldn't lose her to a bigger member because she was only interested in cock in general, not a specific cock. She loved that part of a man's form. She loved it because she didn't have one. She loved it because that's where his power and masculinity were centered. She loved it for the connection it made when it entered her mouth again and again. She liked the soft-hard combination. My advantage and the reason I would never lose her was that I shared her love of cock-sucking and fine clothing, and could give her that big, real cock to suck on anytime. Cock on demand. Four days it had been, a short time to be introduced to all-night sucking and women's clothes. Did I feel like a sissy? A pansy? A fairy? A fag? Not at all. I felt like something above and beyond a man. My cock up until Tuesday had been the center of my sexual pleasure, one that revolved in giving (shoving it deep into receptive mouths and cunts and asses) and receiving (letting women lave it with their tongues or ride it like an eight-second rodeo bull or jerk me off under tables in restaurants). I was a good cocksman. But those all-night dildos in bed with Melissa, and yesterday, on my knees sucking the dicks of firemen and cops and other rescue workers, I felt the dawning of a second center of sexual pleasure. Before, my mouth was very secondary to my penis. Sure, kissing was great. But to have it penetrated times beyond count by cocks and dicks and peters, penises of every size and color, that was a whole other level. I liked masturbating the cocks, then licking them with care, then forcing my face down on them, the big heads pushing at the back of my mouth. I loved sucking cocks, one after another. Sucking cock made me feel good. I liked what it did to the men. I liked the way they lost control. I liked the warm meat on my tongue. I liked it when the heads would slide in and out of my throat. I liked the come, sometimes too much for my mouth, so that it was like drinking off a garden hose. I licked it all off the cocks when I was done, missing nothing. The men were appreciative. They worked hard on the Pile, then got a small part of their reward from me and Melissa. Her nearby sucking had been a pleasure to watch and hear, as well. Just knowing she was nearby going crazy for dick pushed my buttons. I could hear her little girl whimpering. She behaved as if she was worried that someone was going to take all the lovely pink cocks away from her and then she'd have nothing to suck on. Her eyes were unfocused as she bobbed up and down as fast as she could. You could see the cocks bulge her throat as they entered it from the inside. She was a cocksucker of the first order, because she loved it. Nobody had to ask her twice. She would suck cock without being asked, and with pleasure. Yesterday my self-control had been useful: I could stop myself having a full-scale erection by force of will, leaving me with that subtle chubby that would not be revealed to onlookers. Today I'd need all my power to stop it from popping out of the flimsy, shiny panties. ... We walked back down to the hospitality tent. My big boobies bounced as I walked. I felt pretty and sexy. I loved my curves. I loved Melissa's curves. She'd let her egg-white cleavage show and it was lovely. At one point on the street, I had my hand in her panties from underneath her skirt, another on her tit and we kissed deep lipstick kisses. Passersby looked but said nothing. She wanted to pull my cock out, but that would have been too much. Our badges had no expiration dates, so we had no problem getting back to the tent. A few more comfortable items of furniture had been brought in, mostly love seats and sofas, some with the store tags still on them. Donated, like everything else, including the cock sucking. Many of the girls looked like amateurs, tarted up in the way they imagined prostitutes would look. Melissa was the hottest number in the room and I would swear that some of the men with their cocks currently in a girl's mouth had moments of regret pass across their faces as they realized they'd have to wait a while to receive oral pleasure from the lovely Melissa. We sucked cock all day Saturday and Sunday. Our mouths grew used to it, or at least, mine did. I think Melissa's was already used to it as a result of all the long nights before I came along, spent with big rubber cock stuffed in her mouth. At one point I followed her lead: she was now lying back on one of the sofas, kind of slid down a bit from the top. Cops one at a time were climbing up on the sofa, legs on each side of her, and fucking her face as they held onto the back of the sofa. I tried her position, only I lay down on my back with my head hanging over the edge. The men would kneel on the pillows and mats in front of the couch above the top of my horizontal head, grab my arms, and direct their waving cocks over my mouth. I reached up and took them in, receiving them with gusto. Completely hooked on cock. Some of them would hold the sides of my head and pound away from above, pushing and pulling in and out, fucking my face, mouth and throat. It was less wear on my knees and less work for me, but no less pleasure. At one point, the man with the biggest cock I had seen Yet flopped it half-hard out of his pants. I ran my wet lips up the sides, jacking him off with two hands until he was hard like iron. Then I lay back down on the sofa, my head hanging over the edge, my mouth facing upwards. I pulled him by his cock towards me. The head went in, huge like a whole round fruit. I could taste his come at the slit. The head slowly pushed back into my mouth over my tongue. More and more meat entered my mouth. My throat gave way to the steady pressure. In it went, longer and longer, stretching my mouth. My lips were taut around the pole. My mouth was full of a cock the size of an elephant's. It tasted like a day at the seashore, light and airy and a bit sweaty. He pushed it further in. My hands were on his backside, guiding him forward. My mouth and throat were impaled. The full length of cock was in my throat. I felt like coming myself but knew I couldn't, not there and then. I was glowing with pleasure. I was pleased at the size of this cock. The cock pulled slowly out. It glided across my tongue, touching the roof of my mouth, pulling the bulbous head back through the entrance to my wet throat with a slight catch. Then it pushed slowly back in. The man began fucking my throat steadily, with patience. I don't know what he ordinarily did for sexual pleasure, but some girl out there had a good thing going. Right now it was me. I was sucking a huge cock and I loved it. The cock filled me, hitting every pleasure spot, sparking the hormonal centers in my brain and accelerating the positive reinforcement. Sucking cock made me feel good, thus I would suck more cock. A simple, sexual, conditional statement. In and out the monster drove. I was at its mercy, helpless before its size. It was so steel-hard and so far down my throat I couldn't bend my neck. I breathed on the upstroke, sharp, short breaths like panting. I swallowed around his cock, really swallowed, and he responded with more speed, more cock faster and faster into my throat, into my body, up and down, in and out, into my lustful mouth. He fucked me hard. I whimpered with pleasure. On and on to my delight it went. My knees were up on the couch, folded together to one side, my feet arched in the heeled sandals, the skirt falling to reveal my black stockings. My cock was back between my legs, being rubbed at every move. I was bouncing, my whole body feeling the motion of this gigantic big dick. My titties swayed and jiggled. They felt good. I couldn't see them, but I could feel them. I knew they were there and large. My eyes were rolled back in my head with pleasure at the cock stretching my mouth. I salivated at the taste and my eyes watered beyond belief. He never had pussy so good, so deep, as my sweet mouth. I knew he never had better. In the end, he pulled the cock out of my throat and I sucked the head and few end inches for all I was worth. Sucked and sucked and sucked. The come spurted out in waves and filled my mouth. His matching huge balls emptied their cream into my mouth as I looked up at him, batting my mascaraed eyes to clear them . The come poured forth for longer than *I've* ever come and I swallowed it down in gulps like I was starving. I was starving: I wanted that cock, or any cock, back into my throat. ... On Monday morning Melissa had to go to work. She left earlier than usual after giving me a good sucking. I intended to follow-up on the paperwork and see about returning home. Having no money, credit cards, identification or anything was beginning to worry me. I dressed like a girl, in clothes Melissa picked out for me, and she did my hair and added a touch of make up. For both of us she used a stay-put, waterproof lipstick, suitable for swimming. I did not need to guess why we wore it, though I wondered how, exactly, she spent her days at work. As I put on those three-inch-heeled boots (I liked the way they zipped up, and pushed my ass out and boobies forward), the doorbell rang. "Good morning. I'm the landlord here to collect the, uh, rent. It was due on the fifteenth, but, well, with events and all... Can you tell Melissa I'm here?" "I'm sorry, but she's already gone for work. I can see if she left a check." I clumped and bounced around the room, moving papers and books, checking every flat surface for an obvious envelope. He looked at me appraisingly, following me with his eyes. He loved my tits. "Are you living here? Because there's only Melissa on the lease. She's not allowed roommates." "I'm just a guest." I told him about my apartment and how difficult it was to be permitted to cross the barricades into the zone. He stood there. I noticed he had one hand in his pocket, fingering his cock. The motion was obvious. I stared him in the eyes. He stared back, the pulled the hand out and massaged his package from the outside. "Actually, it's not just a check I'm looking for. Melissa usually does something for me on rent mornings. I cut her a big discount. Very big. Girls of her type like my big discount." I almost snorted at the clumsiness of his come-on, but it was obvious