a ing the Bride
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Polyester Bride free porn video
This is sex fiction. If you aren't old enough to read that
sort of thing, come back when you are - it's worth the
wait.
POLYESTER BRIDE
(C) 2002, Pirategrrl
1. IT'S LIKE LIVING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE OCEAN WITH
NO FUTURE AND NO PAST.
At the start of the fight, Marina, the wife, had detailed
her proof that Dale, her husband, was a transvestite. He
squirmed in his seat as she detailed her review of his
computer's hard drive, with its reams of photos, stories
and chat logs. But now, after exchanging fifteen minutes of
hurtful accusations for unconvincing denials at a table at
their favorite sushi restaurant, their conversation fell
into a momentary quiet that the husband optimistically
viewed as resolution.
"How could you have that filth all over your computer?"
Marina asked to break the silence, as much curious as
accusatory, genuinely wondering how the megabytes of
pictures of "chicks with dicks", videos of hermaphrodite
sex and stories of men turning into women had become her
husband's favorite hobby.
The images were pure filth - alternating between pictures
of paunchy, bored looking porn starlets to videos of
transgendered creatures with breasts and penises
soundlessly copulating. But she was amazed most at the
stories on her husband's computer. In the hundreds of
stories he saved, there was so much "burning cum" "pumped
deep into the spasming anus" that the characters must have
had fire-retardant rectums. Every penis would "skewer" and
every orifice would "milk" so that the descriptions of sex
seemed more like weird recipes than actual copulation.
'And why can't they spell "come"?' she thought.
Acting as though he hadn't heard her, Dale finished
selecting their lunch and slid their sushi order to the
bored 17 year old kimono-ed Caucasian waitress. They were
alone in a crowd of awkward first dates, couples outings
and families of Japanese expatriates.
Dale and Marina were described as a reasonable pair when
people talked about them. Dale was a finance officer in a
well regarded local company, and was able to translate
complex concepts of tax and accounting into a vision that
drove the twenty-five lower middle class clerks of his
department to meet budget quarter after quarter. Dale
wasn't a large man, in fact he was a bit below average at
5'7", with thin, but well cared for features. Marina was a
public accountant in the sort of small firm that prided
itself on living up to ethical standards in a profit minded
sort of way. Each possessed the personal certainty that
comes from assigning values to things as a matter of habit;
once you put a number on something, you captured its
essence. Once something was valued, you could compare it to
other things; you had its place in the universe.
And they measured everything - their income, their
employee's performance and the number of times they had
sex. There were fifteen tiles in the foyer of their house,
six exits between the central city and their freeway exit,
three turns on to their cul-de-sac, two houses on their
street still under construction.
If you didn't have a number for something, it was unknown,
risky and a threat to the order of the world that was so
comforting.
Sitting across from Dale during the conversation-less break
from their squabble, Marina had that brow-furrowed look
when something didn't add up. Dale knew that she would
tenaciously pursue her understanding until she had it. It
was pointless to try to dissuade her, though that
inevitability never stopped him from trying.
She leaned forward, signaling her resolve to continue. "I
just want to understand why Dale, why?" Her tone not hurt
or accusatory, but instead more, well, curious.
He wanted to fold his napkin carefully, sneer at her and
leave. But of course he didn't. He sat there, and spoke
when the silence between them became more uncomfortable
than the thought of talking.
"Well, you know," he said, groping for a way, any way, to
change the topic of conversation. "There are lots of people
who look at that sort of stuff. It doesn't mean I love you
less."
As Dale was painful aware, this psycho-sexual drama was out
of character for the sushi bar in the middle of the
futuretown they called home. What are futuretowns? They are
on the outskirts of the city you live in, just far enough
away to be out of reach of angry, torch-carrying mobs that
might roam in from the decaying downtown core. You're not
supposed to notice a futuretown - they're technically
invisible: low flat buildings that look like they've popped
out a laser printer; fetishistic landscaping; new-car-only
parking lots; small, backlit Plexiglas totems out front
quietly brandishing the strangely any-language names of the
companies or franchises inside: Unilever, Starbucks,
Aventis, CVS, ABN AMRO.
We don't set our TV shows in futuretowns and we don't sing
songs about futuretowns.
The futuretown's version of sushi was as close to
traditional Japanese cuisine as Muzak was to real music.
All of which bears note because the restaurant in fact
piped in Muzak, with its wordless homages to familiar
songs. The restaurant's soundtrack was playing random tunes
- first Sinatra, Cole Porter, and then more modern music.
Dale's habit of singing along with the wordless melodies of
Muzak always made her angry - the songs don't have words so
they couldn't be sung Marina would say, as though the
"Muzak-ification" of a song made it into something new.
There was a Muzak version of a Michelle Shocked song
playing and he half hummed the words as their food arrived.
Hey girl it's about time you wrote.
It's been over two years you know my old friend,
Take me back to the days before we were just friends.
We were wild then.
Marina mixed her customary batch of soy sauce with enormous
amounts of wasabe, Japanese horseradish. It still amazed
him that his wife - a five foot tall wisp of a woman -
would brew such globby, potent wasabe to dip her sushi.
"I can't put my finger on when it exactly seemed wrong,"
she said. "But at some point I started to think that
something just wasn't right. I guess there was never really
a drop off in the sex; we seem to pretty much have the two
week routine down. You still seem interested; I mean you
come without any added kink. But something just seemed,
well, wrong. I guess what I mean to say is that it's like
your eyes were always closed, or they were vacant, like you
were thinking of something else while we were fucking."
Fucking. As she said it, the word was both harsh and
clinical, in the same way "cancer" sounds the first time
your doctor says it and you realize he is talking about you
and the "interesting spot" that was on your MRI.
She dunked the sushi in the weapons-grade wasabe, and he
watched with the boyish fascination that makes video of
traffic accidents and police chases so popular - that
falsely scientific curiosity about the survivability of
extreme situations. He wondered whether fire would spurt
from her nose, or whether the top of her head would flip
back like the lid on a lighter and smoke would billow like
a chimney at the Vatican.
She chewed and was fine.
"But then there was one day when I just got so curious that
I decided to order that code cracking software, and see all
those files that you had hidden on the computer at home.
What did I expect? Porn I guess. That's okay, men are so
much more visual when it comes to sex. Pictures of naked
women or sex seemed, well, predictable. But the... the...
the... stuff that was on there was beyond shocking."
He sat silently.
"So this leaves me two choices," she said. "I could tell
you that it's over, or I could indulge your dirty little
secret. Neither is particularly appealing."
Sigh.
"What do you think?"
"Couldn't we just forget this ever happened?" he said,
finishing the last salmon hand-roll.
"Oh I don't think so... that hardly seems possible now.
What I mean to say is that every time I think about you, I
have this mental image of you - with breasts and a penis.
This sort of odd genderness mixed together - two strands
that just don't belong together but just seemed pulled
together by your fascination. You are like the anti-Reese's
peanut butter cup. Male and female sex mixed in one person
at one time; those are two great things that just don't go
well together. No, this needs to get sorted out. If you
want to have some sort of trans whatever fantasy, that's
fine, but where we are now needs to end."
"So what does that mean?" he said.
"Let's find out," she said.
Her smile convinced Dale she had been planning something.
She held her smile, and nodded her head toward the door.
She motioned for the check, and he paid it in cash when it
arrived, tipping too well to comfort his embarrassment.
2. IT'S LIKE YOUR LIFE REBUILT AS A THEME PARK.
"This is amazing..." Dale said.
Marina's finger went up in the air, cutting off Dale, at
least it used to be him. The transformation was incredible;
Dale had become a woman. Under the hair extensions, under
the arched eyebrows, under the padded bra, under the clingy
top with three quarter sleeves, under short skirt it was
still Dale, but Dale had become a passable woman in about
four hours of the private makeover that Marina had taken
him to after the restaurant.
The hair extensions had taken hours and were quite painful,
particularly in back where there was barely enough hair to
serve as the base for the glued on, woven nearly real hair.
But it was close to his natural color, and seemed real,
even to the touch, though it was done in the sort of style
that wasn't appropriate even when it was more common. Long
bangs, all one length, curled out and under with what must
have been an enormously wide curling iron. Layers cut into
the hair let it fall loosely, comfortably down onto the
shoulders.
For a top, there was a dark, thin sweater in a clingy,
synthetic material that owed more to science than
agriculture. Underneath, the latest in bra-padding
technology - the water bra - gave realistic looking b-cup
jiggle to an otherwise flat chest. The skirt was a few
inches above the knee, and white with horizontal rows of
pink flowers. It had the effect of drawing attention, and
making the hips look larger and wider than they really
were.
Lurking underneath, his penis was pulled tightly back,
wrapped into some sort of binding, the ball and chain
tucked out of sight and sort of out of mind. It didn't hurt
at first, and now it was sort of numb.
All of this of course wasn't perfect a gender change. There
was a tan line where Dale wore his ring; there was a bit
too muscle definition in his recently waxed calves, and the
angle of his arms wasn't right. But even viewed from up
close, it was very, very good.
In fact, if you hadn't watched the painstaking process of
transformation, you would think it was a natural born
woman.
Almost as amazing as the fact that Dale had effectively
changed genders was the fact that the new creation was
clearly not from the same economic strata as Dale and
Marina. The new person was strictly working class Walmart
chic. Not sloppy, but certainly not anything remotely
appropriate for Dale and Marina's Dual Income, No Kid
neighborhood of couples with adjusted gross incomes in the
mid three hundreds to the low fours.
If there were a booth outside a NASCAR event doing
makeovers, this could have been one of the models.
Bethany was the "transformation artist", a transsexual
herself who sold gender bending makeovers to well-heeled
clients, and she had spent the better part of four hours
working on Dale, getting him to look like a woman, along
with a crash course in how to make the audio match the
video.
"There's no way that a weekend warrior can really get it
right," Bethany said to Marina, pointing in the direction
of her newest creation. "It took me years of hard work
before I was comfortable in my ability to pass. Hell, to
this day, I can't even walk into a gay bar because both gay
men and lesbians pick me out in an instant. But for a first
time, ole Dale is a damn good effort."
"But he needs a new name don't you think?" Marina said. "I
mean 'Dale' just won't do it." She held her hand to her
mouth and squinted as she thought. Inspiration. "Your name
is Charlayne. And remember, it's Charlayne with a 'y'. Try
it, say your name, thinking about what Bethany taught you."
Dale, or perhaps Charlayne would be more accurate, tried
several times, sounding like the dying words of your great
aunt Prudence who smoked four packs a day before the
emphysema felled her.
"Charlayne," Bethany said, "just try to swallow your words,
and exhale lightly as you breathe. Say each word like
Marilyn Monroe singing happy birthday Mr. President to John
F. Kennedy."
Charlayne nodded, unconvinced of her own ability to do it.
"Okay," she said sounding more asthmatic than phlegmatic as
she spoke.
"It's okay, we have a bit of time to practice. Just keep
talking dear," said Marina as she twirled her hands in a
wordless request to get Charlayne to spin around.
"Okay," Charlayne said, a bit more convincingly as she
started to turn.
"This is incredi..." Charlayne said, catching her first
sight of herself in the mirror.
Marina's finger again went in the air, cutting off her
comment. "Breath-y Charlayne, breath-y."
"Sure," she wheezed.
3. IT'S LIKE CATCHING SNOW ON YOUR TONGUE
"Isn't this great?" Marina said loudly, shouting to be
heard over the loud country music playing the rough bar
where they went after Bethany's. There was a Garth Brooks
song blaring about a beer run or something like that.
When they had been newlyweds, they used to go for "slumming
bar night" every so often. The Wagon Wheel, were they went
after Bethany's, was the sort of overly desperate bar that
they would have driven by when they were younger, even on
slumming bar nights. It would have been too dangerous, even
when they were looking for the sort of class-line crossing
thrill that comes from seeing how people with less money
recreate. Judging by the paint-splattered, dented pickups
and rusted cars in the lot, it was populated with crash-
prone construction workers and professional drinkers. But
now, all rules seemed to be suspended anyway, so Charlayne
was not entirely surprised when Marina pulled their Land
Rover Discovery into the parking lot.
But by now, after several quick shots of whiskey and a few
mixed drinks, Charlayne was smiling, her initial fears of
being outed, being recognized, being killed, had passed.
"Isn't this great?" Marina said again, slurping loudly at
what was left of a whiskey, already looking away from
Charlayne, making flirtacious, girly eye contact for an
instant with a stranger or two across the bar, before
looking back at Charlayne. "Well?"
"Yeah, yeah it's good," Charlayne said, exhaling as she
swallowed the sweet, slightly salty taste of her third
Margarita, a drink that Dale had always thought too girlish
to actually have himself.
"Wanna dance?" said a large man wearing a cowboy plaid
shirt with those faux mother of pearl snap buttons and skin
tight wranglers of the sort that certainly had a Skoal ring
in the right rear pocket.
Charlayne froze, looked away and trusted that Marina would
deal with this.
"Wanna dance," he said again, technically framing his
demand in the form of a question.
He smoothed down the edge of his moustache with the back of
his left hand has held his beer with his right, watching as
Marina coyly looked at him, half smiled slowly, and put her
drink down in front of Charlayne, who kept her back to the
man, trying to avoid the slightest eye contact with the
man.
"She'd love to dance," said Marina, giving Charlayne a
quick push away from the relative security of their hiding
place in a dark corner of the bar.
In a few steps, Charlayne stumbled out, falling forward to
be caught by the man, her hands in front of her, landing on
his chest. His hands wrapped around her, and held her
steady, close. He was five or six inches taller than she
was, and she put her cheek against his chest and was
overwhelmed by the sexuality of the plunge away from the
bar into his arms, the fact that every part of her
transformed body oozed sex to her, and, judging by the warm
throbbing south of his large belt buckle, it apparently
interested him too.
She swayed back in forth in his arms and was overwhelmed by
the sensations in her changed body. The black, one inch
heeled sandals weren't difficult to walk in, but they were
impossible to walk normally in, which is to say that every
step, even the stumbly, half drunk steps in her dance
partner's arms were an exercise in hip swaying ass swagger.
Just put one foot down after the other, Charlayne thought,
as the material of the skirt moved breezily across her ass
with each foot fall, accentuating the movement of her hips,
which felt like they were being thrown from side to side by
the unfamiliar walk of a woman in heels.
Her legs were waxed, hairless and lotioned for the first
time ever. The smooth frictionless half pressure of one
inner thigh against the other was purely sexual. The
intimacy of inner thigh skin rubbing together sent electric
jolts of sensation along the inside of her legs, making her
carefully tucked genitals tingle. And with each electric
tingle that pulsed through Charlayne's caged genitals, her
ass made an involuntary half circling squirm that brushed
her against the growing warmth in his jeans.
She felt his hands on her back, one on her shoulders, and
the other in the small of her back. She felt her feet
steady underneath her, and she reached her arms around him,
barely reaching his back, that was powerfully muscled from
years of physical labor.
During the first song, he talked, and she heard perhaps
every third word and none of the context. She smiled when
she heard him paused, and said word of affirmation -
"That's right," "Sounds interesting," "Really" - whenever
she heard him pause, with her cheek still pressed against
his chest.
There was a small lull, as the first song crescendoed to an
end, and the next began with a wail of fiddles and girl-
singing. Probably the Dixie Chicks, Charlayne thought as
she noticed Marina laughing, giggling and flirting with two
men in the corner, Marina's arm around the waist of one,
her other hand pushing the second man away playfully in a
way that signaled interest.
Charlayne lost sight of Marina when her dance partner put a
hand on her cheek - God it felt nice there, she thought -
and gently moved her face off his chest. He smiled down at
her and had both hands on the outside of her waist,
swinging with her hips in the side to side rhythm they
maintained. One hand moved lower, ostensibly brushing down
her skirt along the length of Charlayne's ass. Shock. The
cool swish of his large calloused hand down her ass was
unexpected, and she caught her breath.
She reached up and ran her hands ticklishly along his rib
cage - it goes on for miles she thought with a smile that
surprised herself - affecting her best wicked grin. His
hands went to the small of her back again, and she stepped
in close. They swayed together for what felt like hours,
her dance partner holding her gently, as she became
accustomed to the feel of his body against hers.
There was another song lull and they were at the far side
of the bar, or maybe it was the close side, the distinction
blurring as the warmth in her stomach from the margaritas,
the whisky and whatever else she couldn't even remember
were spreading across her consciousness.
"These are my new boots. Alligator," he said, lifting his
right foot, and pointing with his left hand, his right arm
still around her shoulders.
"Did you get them on sale?" Charlayne said.
The man looked at her, smiling as though he had no idea
what she said.
"I don't know," Charlayne shouted. "It kind of reminds me
of a song, about alligator boots and a polyester bride."
He smiled, again obviously not able to hear most of what
she said. "You would make a beautiful bride."
Charlayne felt two or three beats behind everything, numb
and slow from the drinking, as her dance partner ran the
back of his hand along her chin. It seemed like such a long
time ago that the epilady electric torture implement had
pulled out each of her facial hairs one by one, leaving the
chin smooth. Charlayne sighed and leaned into the hand.
With her eyes closed, it felt good on her face. Intimate.
Charlayne opened her eyes. Marina was across the bar, her
arms around some guy, with one hand draped down the
stranger's back she raised the other hand and gave a
thumb's up gesture in the direction of Charlayne. A split
second later, Marina jumped, startled as though her ass had
been pinched. She laughed, play slapped the face of the man
she was wrapped around and laughed.
The lull ended, and some new song started. It was that one
about raining hell down on people and putting a boot in
people's asses 'cause it's the 'Merican way that had become
so popular as an anthemic expression of collective anger at
people on the other side of the world. The bar perked up,
and everyone was hooting, hollering and buzzing with that
collective energy that pulsed through saloons in 1950's era
Western movies just before one punch leads instantaneously
to a brawl in which everyone in the bar smashes a bottle,
chair or pool cue over someone else's head.
He took Charlayne's hand and led her outside.
The pleasant hug of humidity engulfed them both, as they
were stunned into silence by change in environment from
walking outside into warm, moist air, with the sound of her
heels on the pavement dampened by a rain that fell while
they were inside. It was strange; ten years ago this would
have been September weather, but now it just a globally
warmed December night.
They were around the back of bar before Charlayne was
really aware of the fact that she was holding his hand.
They turned a corner, and she looked up. His mouth was
moving, talking?
Something.
His head cocked at an unusual angle, not the sort of angle
that you might hold yourself if you were going to discuss
movies, novels or politics.
That's odd, Charlayne thought, shifting her weight from one
leg to the other, feeling an almost
Then his mouth was there, on hers, lips moving. His large
hands massaged her ass. Before it was an appraisal,
checking to see how far he could go, pushing his luck. This
was different, hormonal, not calculated and driven by need
not calculation. She felt his hardness through his jeans,
growing harder, warmer and more urgent.
She had no idea how long she was there, kissing and being
kissed, his hands massaging her ass through her skirt, as
her legs spread far enough to allow her feet to be on the
outside of his, her hips driving and being driven
rhythmically into his crotch, feeling the heat pulsing and
growing under his oversized belt buckle. His tongue entered
her mouth as Charlayne, unaccustomed to being explored,
parried his tongue, stroking its underside as its urgency
and passion throbbed through as it slid past her lips,
still slightly sweet from Bethany's lip gloss.
Somehow she ended up on her knees, his hands on her
shoulders, pressing with affection, concern and need. His
belt buckle was open, lying off to one side, as he unzipped
his jeans. With a quick jerk, he lowered his underwear and
his penis was free, bobbing purple headed inches from her
face.
She took his penis into her moist mouth and engulfed it,
first an inch, then two, then three, and after a minute or
so of practiced head-bobbing, she felt like was taking the
entire length of his manhood halfway down her throat. Of
course it was only about four of his most sensitive inches,
but she still felt filled in a way that she had not
experienced in any of the blowjobs she had given, in her
life as Dale, those few furtive encounters as a counselor
at camp, as an undergraduate.
The cock became impossibly rigid, sweat formed on his brow,
and shudders of animal release and pleasure shot through
his body as he jerked his hips further and further forward.
Charlayne used her hands to stop the man from her choking
her, as she settled into each savored moment, breathing the
aroma and falling into a comfortable rhythm of inward rush
of his dick across her lips, then wetly out with her tongue
on the tip, followed by another cycle of inward rush across
her lips then wetly out with her tongue on the tip that was
perfectly timed with his shorter, sharper breaths.
Unexpectedly, the cock pulsed and warm semen shot into her
mouth, and Charlayne swallowed what she could.
It was over, and the man was gone. What was his name again?
Lyle, Guy, Clyde? Charlayne felt alone and aroused at the
same time. She brushed off her bare knees, smoothed her
skirt, and saw Marina standing there.
Marina had that smile again.
Cheryl
- 11.03.2020
- 9
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