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Teasing by Vickie Tern TG femdom hum Preface: I wrote a draft of half this story about two years ago, then set it aside to write other stories, the most recent being "An Unfaithful Wife." And there's the problem. That story pleased many but annoyed others because it repeats some elements of my earlier stories -- scheming wives and compliant husbands and so on. I won't defend those recurrences -- I like them. I like finding new reasons and ways for a woman to feminize her man and new reasons why he'd acquiesce. I enjoy the casuistry, the earnest if deceitful reasoning by which she persuades him and he persuades himself. I like the way he comes to understand what's been happening, how he may resent it but also how he deals with it. In short, I like liberated if unscrupulous women and the men who love them not wisely but too well and accept the consequences of their own complicity. I like schemes and con games and hidden agendas, and above all I like the step-by-step compromises that add up to a totally transformed self. When that's done, the story's done. No mystery there for anyone familiar with my stuff. When "An Unfaithful Wife" finally left its nest I rediscovered this one and saw that it too has a wife who excites her husband by implying to him that she's unfaithful. What to do? Finish it even so, and gratify readers who like such tales, me among them? Irk those who'd already found "Unfaithful" one too many? Declare it pre-empted by "Unfaithful" and forget it? In the end, parsimony ruled. It has some good stuff in it. People like stories like these. I like them. The main character's psychological conversion follows rather than precedes his physical conversion (reversing "Unfaithful's," if anyone notices such things). So I decided to finish it -- that's usually the only way I myself ever find out what the woman's real scheme is. But to anticipate reader reactions, I decided to write this preface. Which I have now done. If by reason of age or inclination you shouldn't read a story like this, don't. All comment is welcome, even the unwelcome kind. ([email protected]) Teasing by Vickie Tern One "Patrick, I'm tired of running around! From now I'm going to conduct my affairs with different men here at home, even if it does disturb you. I'm tired of sneaking into all sorts of places so people won't know I'm there, driving all over the city to all sorts of hidden retreats for get togethers. Some nights I get home so heavily used I can barely walk! I do try to satisfy all their whims and desires, and they do appreciate it. They certainly pay me well enough. Even so, the more I do for them the more they crave, the more they want me to do! It's never enough! It's exhausting! When they get really hot and bothered they tie me up all day. So from now on I service all those men right here at home." "Mmmmph?" I asked her? I wasn't really listening. Score tied two all, the pitcher maybe coming apart, man on third, that had my complete attention. But then came a commercial, and some of her words broke through. "I don't mind if you watch," she was saying. "You might even enjoy seeing how I satisfy the different needs of different men." What!? This had a disturbing sound. I replayed her recollected words in my head. What was she telling me? She's been having affairs? She satisfies men by letting them tie her up? She gets them all hot and bothered? Now she wants to bring them home to fuck them, with me watching? Tara? My own wife? "What?" I said. I tried to focus these incredible revelations with a delicately phrased question. "You satisfy other men? Give them what they need?" "Well, I should hope so!" she said a little indignantly. I looked at her, baffled. She looked back, equally baffled. Then she must have replayed in her own head what I'd heard, how she'd said it, because realization dawned. She broke into a slightly mocking grin. "Oooh, sweetie, look at you! You just heard me confess something really naughty, didn't you?" I was paralyzed, feeling for a response. Hurt? Anger? Bewilderment? The bottom had just fallen out of my life! She looked across at me, amused. "Just look at you! You're thinking 'My wife has just told me she's having sex with men all over town, and now she wants to bring them all home, and she's inviting me to watch!' Is that what just came into your little mind, honey?" Was it? I shook my head and swallowed and tried again to speak. Nothing came out. She saw. "Why, I'm right! You're blushing! You actually DO think that's what I do when I go out to see my different clients! Betray our marriage vows! Carry on affairs! A man calls me for a consultation, ring ring, and I'm out the door in my laciest lingerie, ready to spread my legs wide and drip all my earlier clients all over him? Is that what you imagine?" "No, of course not, Tara!" I tried to sound hurt that she should think so. But I was hurt! I did think so! That's what I'd heard! My head knew that Tara was scrupulously faithful, that she'd never do such a thing. Not ever! She was playfully flirtatious whenever she was with other men, and they all responded, I'd seen that often enough. But she knew it distressed me, so she suppressed it, at least in my presence. Somewhat. She sensed how insecure I always felt about her love for me, whether I deserved it. How incredibly lucky I felt that she was mine. She thought it was cute that when I asked her to marry me, I didn't dream she'd actually agree to do it. She knew that the mere appearance of infidelity on her part could devastate me, maybe even destroy me. So for the five years we'd been married she'd remained more openly above suspicion than even Caesar's wife. As far as I could tell, that is. We provided each other with ample sex, whatever was needed. We loved each other. That was that. So I was quite sure of Tara. So sure that I'd sometimes indulge a small, shameful, secret fantasy about her, that behind my back she actually was a wild women, sexually abandoned, nymphomaniacal with other men. That notion was always arousing for me, and useful now and then when Tara wanted a second round of lovemaking from me when I'd been exhausted by the first. It did seem that Tara could be both provocative and sometimes -- it seemed -- insatiable. But with that very thought I was able to oblige her. She was looking at me more closely now. Did she sense what was going on in my mind? Very little ever got past her. She sensed it. "You're thinking that I sleep with other men, aren't you? You've toyed with that notion before, too, haven't you?" Then bluntly, "It turns you on, doesn't it?" I had nothing to say. I stared at her, a deer in headlights. She suddenly smiled. "You know, sweetie, after all this time I can read you like a book with no cover. How odd! It does turn you on, that idea, doesn't it? Thinking that I'm unfaithful to you, that I'm pussycatting my pussy all around town! Getting it from other men." She spoke in a gentle, matter of fact voice, quiet, reassuring. "It's exciting, isn't it, sweetheart? Be honest!" She had me fixed in her steady gaze, and I knew there was no escaping. "I ... yes, that's right, sometimes," I confessed slowly. "Not that I believe it. And no way do I really want it, Tara. No, not at all. No! Please, believe me!" Why did I sound as if I were pleading? Why protest too much? Did I fear that she might actually get into bed with her customers just to please me? If she thought that it would turn me on? That I had to discourage her, or else ring ring, and there she was humping away like a bunny in a cage full of rabbits? "No," she said thoughtfully. "I don't suppose you do want it. But you do in another way, don't you!" "Tara, no!" I said helplessly. She paid no attention. "You want to imagine it. Maybe even think it's true. But you don't want to know for certain that it's true, because that would change everything between us, wouldn't it, knowing for certain." She paused, then added. "If I hinted that maybe I seduce and sleep with my clients, you'd want to believe me, wouldn't you. And the idea would excite you, wouldn't it? Doesn't it? True or not doesn't matter?" What was she doing? "You love the possibility, don't you? You find it exciting! Yes or no? Be honest!" What could I say? "Yes," I said. She sat back again, comfortable with my confession. "Well, don't fret about it, honey, I've read that lots of men do." She smiled sweetly, then went on. "But now that I know that about you, my poor darling, now that you've confessed it, something's already different between us, isn't it? Because now I know that you want to think your wife's unfaithful, promiscuous. That the idea turns you on. And now you know I know it. Isn't that in itself exciting?" I stared at her, glum and worried. She got into playful moods like this one now and then. There was nothing to do but wait them out. She beamed a wide smile at me. "It sort of gives me permission, doesn't it!" O, God, no! I mouthed "No" but no sound came out. Where was she going with this? "In fact now you're free to imagine that because I love you, I'll screw other men all the time just to please you. Whether or not it's true. Now I can tease you about how much better hung they all are, how much more powerful my orgasms are when they stuff themselves into me and fit so tight I can't move." She looked smug, and her gaze turned inward for a moment, as if she were reminiscing. Then she glanced slyly at me to see if I saw. Oh, God, despite my confusion and misery I was starting to get hard! I shifted my position so she wouldn't notice. She noticed. "Or maybe I shouldn't tease you, leave you wondering whether or not it's true. Maybe I should just tell you up front that I'm getting laid hard and often by better men than you. That would clear your mind of all the uncertainty, all those nagging doubts and tormenting suspicions. All the questions you'd love to ask me right now, wouldn't you, if you weren't so afraid of the answers. Because then you'd know! No more questions, no more ambivalence whether you really want it to be true or you don't, whether you want to believe it or you don't. If you knew for sure, you'd have no choice. Except maybe to leave me, or else to give in and whenever I go out, to sit here imagining what I'm doing. Night after night, sit here imagining me gripping another man with my arms and legs both. Imagining how another prick is stretching my hole wide as he strokes himself in and out of me, how I can't help but pull him deeper into me each time I squeeze my legs." I couldn't say a word. She paused, and looked closely at me, then said in a soft voice, "My goodness, baby, just look at you. So ashamed! So embarrassed! And so excited, just look at that bulge in your pants! You really do like the idea, don't you? So now maybe I really should do it, not just to please me but to please you too?" I shook my head, helplessly terrified. She saw and went on relentlessly. "Let's explore this thing of yours a little further," she said. And she sat straight up in her chair as if she were about to deliver a report. "Let's say I really do wrap my legs around all the men I do business with, just for fun. All those men who call me at all hours insisting that I come meet them right away. Let's say maybe that's why they give me their business. Let's say that's why in just a few short years my customers have expanded from a couple of local contractors to some major corporate clients." I said nothing. Then, "No, that's not why," I croaked. I was trying to tell her I didn't believe she was unfaithful to me, that she was good at her job and that's why people wanted her, why they hired her. But that didn't say it! She noticed. "I do bring in a nice income, you've got to admit that, honey, don't you? We live well on it, very well with what you make too of course. And my clients do keep coming back and asking for more. They know I'm on call and that I give satisfaction." She smiled smugly. Was she confessing everything while seeming not to confess anything? I finally found my voice. "Yes," I said. "I'm sure you do! Enough now, please! Don't tease me any more now, Tara. Please." My discomfort was obvious. I felt all twisted inside. Excited yet distressed. Her eyebrows rose. "Teasing. Yes, that's what I'm doing, teasing you. I'm not telling you anything, only teasing. All right, honey, if that's how you want to think of it." She paused. One more jab. "If you can't cope with reality, then that's what we'll call it. Teasing." Then as if the entire previous conversation had never occurred, she sat back, and while I tried to recover from my confusion and embarrassment she laid out what she'd meant to say earlier. It was simple enough. Tara started up an office design and equipment business a couple of years ago, combining her talent for interior decoration with her talent for getting things done, and it had taken off. Now she could walk into a bare, newly rented office or sales space with some company manager, listen to his confused ideas about where desks and counters belonged and what sorts of computer networks were needed, make some sketches, then settle down with a phone in her hand and an address book in her lap. Many phone calls, many visits to many shops and offices and work rooms later, but in a remarkably short time, the stores were serving customers and walls were up in those offices and there were pictures on them, and secretaries were answering phones and technicians were clacking away on computers in cubicles, and representatives were genially advising clients in adjacent private offices. In half the time required by her competition, because with everyone, whether he was a suave corporate CEO or a plumber with a pipe wrench, she was both tireless and persuasive. She got her way. Her competition shuddered whenever they heard she was bidding on a project, because she was famous for her zeal -- some called it ruthlessness -- to win no matter what, no matter how odd or far out the demands. So her projects and clients and customers and contractors multiplied. She was out all the time, visiting sites, in and out of offices of all sorts. She made calls and took callbacks at all hours, ordering from wholesalers, wheedling carpenters, re-scheduling carpet installations. She used borrowed conference rooms and desks in friends' offices downtown when she had to, but out or not, the phone stayed busy. I could hear the answerer clicking on and off all the time as I sat in my little alcove off the front hall doing my own work. As her clients and projects multiplied I lost track of them. Now she was worried that she might too. Her paperwork was scattered all over. The town's most scrupulous office designer hadn't paused to design her own office. She didn't even have an assistant or secretary, someone to move around with her and take notes or else stay in one place and answer the phone and reassure clients and deal with routine matters while she dashed all over the city. She had no place for such a person to work. When she needed office space for a conference she'd borrow it from a friend or a former customer. So what she was telling me now was, she'd decided to settle in and centralize her activities here at home. "I mean to move all my scattered stuff here," she told me. "Use some of last year's proceeds to build an addition onto the house, alongside and behind the kitchen where it won't interfere with our privacy, with a separate entrance. Make myself a proper office for interviewing clients and maintaining files. And get myself a proper secretary to look after details. Do this job right." I could hardly object. I'd taken over what little house space I needed for my own one-man consulting business. Now she needed space too. "OK," I said. "Fair enough. But is the expense of a whole addition necessary? Maybe just use the spare bedroom?" She just looked at me. Of course. A foolish question. Figuring out costs and budgets and spaces and arranging financing was what she did! Tell her what you think you need, and Tara would see that you got exactly what you really did need, and that you could pay the price. That you'd pay willingly, and love whatever you ended up with. "No, honey, sooner or later we'll want to use the spare bedroom as a bedroom," she said patiently. "You remember, kids? And anyhow, I'll need maybe four or five such rooms, all off a reception area, much more space than that. We'll try not to disturb you, but you will have to get used to a lot of construction noise for a while. Then there'll have to be a secretary or somebody back there during the day, and people coming and going. Can you handle that?" I just nodded, as reassuringly as I could. "I'll make it up to you, baby," she said reassuringly. "I'll see to it that you enjoy everything about it. I know just how. It's all worked out. Don't you worry one little bit!" I tried to smile. I hadn't yet recovered from my earlier misconception of her, nor from accidentally revealing to her my most shameful private fantasy. She grinned wickedly. She hadn't forgotten any of it. "Now that things are a bit different between us, we can both be a lot more open with each other, can't we, honey? About what we think we want and what we really want. Are you coming to bed?" It didn't sound like a question. She stood up suddenly and started upstairs without a moment's hesitation. Her hips weaved confidently, and she didn't look back even once. I turned off the TV. She was right. There was something different between us now. Somehow, without anything said or implied, she'd taken charge. She felt it and I felt it. I followed her upstairs uneasily, and sighed as I put on my pajamas. Finally I told myself that if that's what she wants, that's what she should have. And that was what she wanted. Almost immediately, I took off my pajama bottoms again. We made love three times that night, the first time I've managed to do that since our honeymoon. The first was gentle and considerate, as usual. Then as I was slipping out of her and kissing her neck, preparing to drift off to sleep, she whispered, "Now you can be one of my clients getting it up again, say that insurance executive I spent the day with yesterday. The ex-Tennis pro? I never told you about him, did I? He was so handsome and persuasive, and when he showed me his assets I was eager to take him on, and he really wanted me, so when I finally said yes, yes, let me have it, give it to me, all of it, there was no stopping him! Ahhh, that's it!" Yes, I'm ashamed to say that as she spoke my cock reversed direction and got hard again, there was no disguising the fact. We rolled over and she mounted me. I was iron-stiff, fat, swollen, pointing straight up. She impaled herself and then fucked me furiously, with a concentrated intensity, eyes tight shut. Her climax was powerful, emphatic, and drowned out my own. Just as I was spurting helplessly into her that second time and my hips were crammed tight up against hers, I realized that she was screaming, crying out "YES, YES, THAT'S IT STEVE! MORE! DEEPER! YES! OH, YES!" Then she collapsed onto me. My name is Patrick. I lay there with her body flat on mine, her breasts pressed against my chest, unable to see her face. I wondered what I'd see if I could. I wondered what she'd meant. Was it unintended? Deliberate? Did it reveal a truth? Was she teasing me again, now that she knew my secret perversity? Of course! Had she been teasing me earlier downstairs the whole time? Maybe not? "Now eat me, Patrick," she said suddenly. "From now on I want you to eat my men out of me and learn to love it." Without waiting for me to respond, she slid forward on her knees and covered the lower part of my face with her crotch and pressed her pussy against my mouth, her dark eyes looking down into mine as I looked helplessly up at hers, her long dark hair shadowy against her beautiful white face, a face framed between her beautifully heavy, hanging breasts. My mouth was filled with her soaked quim. This had never happened before. Oh, I'd eaten her a few times when we were tipsy. Playfully, bending reverently between her legs to lick her clit. But always before we made love, never afterward. And never with me pinned down helplessly under her pussy while she sat on my face and looked down at me expectantly. This was somehow serious. "Does Steve taste good, Patrick?" she asked gently as she squeezed a muscle in her groin and a glop of my own cum disgorged into my mouth. Slick, salty, a little like a raw egg. "Swallow, Patrick. Swallow my lover down. You're helpless now. You have no choice!" I did just that. I felt relieved, in a way. She was play-acting. It's my semen, not someone named Steve's. But then she added, "Isn't it delicious? He tasted just like that the last time I kissed his penis, honey! Something like that. Now lick me clean! Take all of that man-juice into your tummy as if you wanted it to make you pregnant!" I tried. There was no room to move my tongue toward her clit, so I began to force it between her pussy lips. "Ahhh," she said. "You can't get enough of him either, can you?" I couldn't reply at all, of course. All I could do was try to swallow, and try to bring her off as rapidly as I could, try to end this strange session in a way that would please her. So I stiffened my tongue and pushed it into her cunt even more vigorously, in and out. She began to writhe, and soon she came again in a frenzy! She squeezed out even more. I swallowed again, and my face was now covered with her juices and my own cum. As she caught her breath she felt behind her. "Ah! I thought as much," she said. "You sweet, dear pervert!" She reached back and took a firm hold on my penis. It had gotten hard yet again! That almost never happened! Because seeing her turned on had turned me on yet again? Because we were pretending that I was eating out her lover's spunk? Because she'd dominated and humiliated me, and I loved it? I had no idea! As she slid down and slipped me into her body yet again and began to rotate her hips on me, she began to chant in a sweet, sing-song voice, "I know what you want, I want what you want," and smiled to herself. I thought this had gone far enough. "I want you!" I said hoarsely, and I rolled her over roughly and lunged myself into her repeatedly, marveling that I was still hard enough to move way in and way out again and again, over and over. I did want her, too! "I know you do, Steve," she replied as she wrapped her long legs around my waist, and crossed them behind my back, and squeezed me deeper into her with each lunge. "And I want you too! And that's what my husband wants, for us to fuck each other's brains out! I found that out just tonight! So push deeper! Deeper! Cum into me!" And with that I came again, I couldn't help it. When she felt me throb she came too. The idea excited her too, obviously. "Yessss!" she said as if she'd reached some kind of conclusion as well as a climax. Then she stared up at my face wordlessly, impassively. "Now let's go to sleep, Pattie honey. You can eat me again in the morning. In fact, whenever I've been out working late with a client, this is what I'll want you to do when I get home. Clean me. Whoever I'm with, I want to remember when I'm with him what a wonderful lover I have at home too. It'll be wonderfully exciting. I'll like that." And she was sound asleep. In the morning I felt a choking pressure on my face and opened my eyes to see that Tara was again sitting on my mouth, again looking down at me. My cum from the night before was dried stiff on my nose and cheeks, and it clotted my hair. But there was still more in her pussy, still sticky. She slid her groin back and forth on my slick mouth. My nose slid up between her pussy lips and then between her cheeks, pausing against her rose bud, and then slid forward again. Each time it passed her clit she groaned. "Lovely," she said when she'd tensed up into orgasm and then released herself yet again. "Our best time together ever! Isn't this a delicious depravity? So very exciting, and no harm done! Now let's take our showers. I have lots of things to tell lots of people today about my plans for them when I've got my new office. You already know what my plans are for you, I think. Some of them, anyhow." She smiled again and climbed off me, and without a backward glance she headed for the bathroom. She'd used me and no longer needed me. But she knew I'd be there when she next wanted to use me. She'd just given me more of herself than ever before in our marriage, and I'd given her more too. It was true. I could tell by her languorous stroll toward the bedroom door, her thighs rolling slowly, that she'd never felt more satisfied either. At least I'd never seen her looking more satisfied. So I guessed that I should be satisfied too. She loved me. She was doing everything she could think of to please me. Just as she did with her clients, though differently of course. I hoped differently. With that thought I started to get hard yet again. So instead I rolled over and got out of bed. Two It went like that for weeks, months. Tara was different. Somehow much more self-confident, less inclined to ask my advice about household or business matters, less inclined to tell me about her day, more inclined to expect that I'd agree with her whenever she uttered an opinion on anything. Our sex was never better. It was sweet, furious, intense, extended, and exhausting. Now that she'd found a switch that invariably turned me on, now that she knew how to harden me up for whenever she wanted more, she wanted more repeatedly. She'd cry out different men's names, sometimes while urging me to shift position sliding inside her, always at the height of her climaxes. Often furiously, as if she resented that person and her own need the very moment he was providing her the greatest satisfaction. Never tenderly, that was reserved for me, for Patrick, her husband, afterward. Her ride on my cock was more frenzied than ever, and my plunging into her got more rampant, more desperate. But we always ended with the same face-sitting, when she'd appreciate me lovingly by my own name, even stroke my cum-streaked cheeks as I nibbled and nursed and licked my own cum -- by different men's names -- out of her pussy. She loved these new things we were doing, and I got used to them. I even began to enjoy eating her after we'd made love, and more than just because she loved to see me do it. Licking her soft, warm, salty wet, puffy creases and folds was sweet, delicious. My own cum wasn't at all bad tasting after a while. It was pleasant. I got to enjoy the slick-coating it left on my mouth and tongue, even the crust tugging on my eyebrows when I woke up the next morning. It was the last thing I tasted before going to sleep, and the first thing on waking up. It was the taste of the day. She changed the scenario subtly one night. We were both sated, settling in and snuggling, and I was almost asleep when she said drowsily, "You are just great, lover. My husband could never have done that." This was a cue of some kind. I waited. "Oh?" I said finally. "No way. One fuck and he's down and gone. But you just don't quit! And you know something else I found out recently about my husband? My so-called husband, that so-called man who can't ever really satisfy me the way you do?" "No, what?" "He's not really a man. He's a weak-willed wimp. He submits to anything I ask. I've begun wondering whether deep down under he's really gay. Maybe a repressed homosexual." What was she up to? "Why do you say that?" "Well, I tell him I'm sleeping with other men, and he never says anything about it. He wants me to sleep with other men, I think. He likes the idea. It excites him!" "Oh?" Tara turned to face me, looking straight at me with that faint smile of hers. "Yes, his cock loves it. His cock knows that my other men are much better than he is. That they can do all sorts of things he can't. Stiffen up and stand tall and ram into me till we both keep cumming, bring me to such ecstasy I can't stop shrieking for joy! Then do it again, and then again! He doesn't mind. He isn't the least bit jealous!" She was up to something I didn't understand. I had to play along. "He isn't jealous? It doesn't make him unhappy?" A quick amused gleam came into Tara's eyes. "Well, of course, in a way. But he's never mentioned it. He knows it makes me happy to go to bed with better men, I think, and that's why he lets me. He loves me, he wants me to be happy, how else can I explain it? He does, you know." She paused, and waited for a response. And waited. Finally I realized I had to say something. "I suppose so," I said. "I suppose he does love you and want you to be happy." "Yes," she affirmed, satisfied. "And you know something else?" "What?" "I don't think it's jealousy he feels. I think it's envy. When he sees how I am with those other men, I'm sure he'd like to feel that way too." "Feel the way your men feel when they're making love to you?" "No, silly! Feel what I feel! Enjoy a man's rapturous embrace, feel that strong, swollen thing pulsing inside his own body, feel it spreading that slippery warmth that's just too lovely for words. Just too lovely! Think about it!" Talk about twisted? I felt a touch offended. Did she believe it? Plainly, she wanted me to try the idea on for size. "Why do you think that?" "Well, first of all, he never knows what I'm really up to during the day, when he thinks I'm working. He never asks and I never tell him. I think he's afraid to ask. He thinks maybe I'm spending day after day going from man to man, getting my pussy filled up by one after the other. But he doesn't want to know for sure. Maybe because he feels jealousy and envy both, and can't handle it. But at night it's different." "How? What about at night?" "At night he watches me make love to other men, he's right there the whole time. When I get into bed with my lovers and I embrace them, he can't bear to stay downstairs and just imagine that it's happening, or to go out for a newspaper or something and stay away until we're finished. He has to come into my room with us, even into my bed! He'll watch me make love two, three times a night. He gets off on it. I know that. He even puts them into me, and when each of the men I'm with cums, he cums too! While watching us! Every time!" I was silent. There was an odd truth inside this improvised version of our lovemaking, one I wasn't sure I wanted to acknowledge, though I couldn't deny it. I had to play along. "So? You're telling me that he gets voyeuristic kicks from watching you make love? No big deal, lots of people do, that's why lots of loving couples put mirrors on their ceilings, on wardrobes across the way, on walls surrounding their beds, all over. Maybe when you're making it with someone he's imagining that he's really your lover, that he's the man who's enjoying you, vicariously maybe." "No! How could that be? What sort of man would make love to his own wife as if he were some other man. Make himself into his own cuckold, humiliate himself? No, it has to be that he's imagining he's me with those men! He's gay. Maybe even one of those transsexuals, men who want to be women." I didn't want to argue. I wanted to drift off to sleep, and this whole topic was uncomfortable. "Maybe," I murmured, to end the discussion. Tara paused, as if surprised that I'd said that. I opened my eyes and saw her looking at me intently, genuinely curious. And I saw what had happened. She'd been testing out one more way to tease me, maybe, not really expecting me to pick up on it. But I hadn't foreclosed it. Maybe she'd struck a glint of gold, another vein of perversity in me, something I could never acknowledge even to myself, certainly never to her? She inclined her head ever so slightly, lovingly, as if grateful to me for revealing a terribly intimate confidence of some sort. Then she resumed, playing with the notion luxuriously.. "Of course! I don't even need to ask him. My husband the pansy girl! My dear little swish! I've never understood why men don't feel about each other the way women feel about them! But I can understand how he feels! Maybe he married me in full flight from his own homosexual yearnings and now he can't resist them any longer! That must be it! Because you know something?" "No, what?" "Afterward, when my lovers have gone and I'm back in bed with my little faggoty husband Patrick, you won't believe this! He drinks their leavings! He loves it! He slurps up and licks and swallows all their semen." She closed her eyes and smiled to herself, now in a relaxed, post-coital glow. "He adores sperm! Its taste in his mouth, its feel on his face and in his belly! Because when I'm done with whoever I'm with, I always sit on Patrick's face and feed him everything that's been pumped into my pussy. And he licks and slurps and sucks it all down like a good little boy licking a melting ice cream cone, trying to swallow every drop. His face gets all covered with it, and he doesn't even notice! He's in seventh heaven, on another planet! What do you think of that?" I had nothing to say. For some reason that pleased her. "My poor Patrick! He can't face the fact that he's gay, that he wants a man of his very own, he wants to fall to his knees and suck on a hot cock with his own mouth, and feel one sliding in and out of his own bum. So he uses my men indirectly. He has sex with my lovers at one remove. Isn't that likely?" How could I deprive her of this riff she was riding? "Maybe," I said. She smiled at my complicity. "Maybe? No maybe! It's such a thrill for him to know how a real man makes me happy, that afterward he brings me off two or three times more with his tongue. He can't have those men, so he enjoys them though me! He's satisfied that I'm satisfied. Don't you think that's true?" I couldn't deny the substantial truth in that last. "Yes, that much is likely," I replied. She was pleased by that. "Yes. He loves me. He's such a dear little man, even though it's harder each day for me to think of him as a man. He's something else, we'll have to find out what else, give him every opportunity to come out of himself. But I do love him. Very very much!" She paused. Then asked in a quiet voice, "How do you feel, honey?" This wasn't playful. She wanted honesty. "That you love me? Happy. Very happy." But my voice sounded troubled. "No, I mean about the rest." "Uneasy. A little frightened. Helpless, even. Demeaned. And that's not right, I shouldn't feel demeaned because I'm your lover. Nor demeaned by being gay, even if I were, which I'm not. Should I?" "No, sweetheart." I couldn't read her voice. Did she think I was confessing something? "Not if I enjoy having a lover. Not if you enjoy being gay. Do you find what we're doing now exciting, too?" "Yes." I couldn't deny it. She kissed me gently, satisfied. "Good! G'night now, baby, let's sleep." Well, I couldn't. Not for a long while, after that. Because I couldn't be sure any more if this was still play acting, something we did together. Had she really been fucking different men in her own mind, using my body as a handy facsimile of each? Or worse, each time we made love, was she reliving the day's actual lovemaking with another man? The fact was, now I didn't feel like her game-playing partner any more. I felt instead like a husband helplessly watching her enjoy her real lovers and then because I love her, because I want her to be happy, helplessly cleaning up after them. Why wasn't I jealous? Did she really think I like sex with men? Was she testing me for that idea? That what I really wanted was to be her? The idea wasn't at all pleasant, except for the fact that it pleased her. Maybe. She'd mindfucked me all right. From then on, whenever she seemed to be using my body to pleasure herself, I'd feel it was really someone else's body. I couldn't help it. I witnessed her infidelities night after night and said nothing. That was how she wanted it. I shared a bed with Tara and Steve and Tara and Brian and Tara and Scott, all of her other lovers, and at the height of their passion, when she was writhing on me or under me in the most racking of orgasms, I sometimes actually found myself wishing I'd been the one who'd brought her off! She sensed how I now felt separated from her, and she began to explore those possibilities in our relationship. She took charge of our sessions altogether. She gave her cuntsucking, cumsucking, submissive, maybe gay husband an additional duty. When she got home from work, sometimes she'd walk into the living room and call me from my alcove. Then when I'd arrive and was standing there, waiting, she'd pull off her panties and sit bare-bottomed on the couch, and spread her knees, and tell me, "Clean me up!" Clean up what? And then she'd lean back and close her eyes, confident that I'd follow her orders. And I would. I'd kneel devotedly between her legs and do just that. Because she wanted it. And now -- I just couldn't help it, each time I found I was tasting her delicately for evidence of ... someone else. Some other man in her life. I'd accepted that she just might well be unfaithful to me. It drove me wild. She knew. She'd watch me lick her labia and dip my tongue into her snatch, feeling for something viscous that was never there, and she'd be amused. Sometimes she'd even console me, "Nothing this time? Maybe it all dripped out before I got here? Maybe I douched? Don't be impatient, maybe soon, sweetie! I know what you want!" It was much worse on days when she'd arrive home and then not ask me to lick her pussy. Then I really could believe that some man had squirted spunk into her and that she didn't want me to know for certain, not just yet. I'd stare at her crotch, wondering if her panties were sticky, or if she even wore any. I'd pull them out of the laundry hamper and inspect them, and I'd feel desolated when she'd strip them off and hand-wash them before I could see for myself what had leaked into the crotch. I'd try to read some kind of meaning in the satisfied way she'd look at me every time I looked at her. Some evenings I couldn't look away! She'd notice and smile in deep satisfaction. Once she asked me in a soft voice as I studied her, "Happy, love?" I suppose she thought I was. Maybe I was? There was something else too. She'd almost never previously given me blow jobs, only maybe as a special treat on an anniversary or a birthday. There was nothing at all in it for her, she'd tell me. She knew how devotedly I kissed her quim, but she felt nothing like that whenever my penis was in her mouth. But now she loved it! When teasing failed to reawaken my ardor for a second or third round she'd solve the problem by taking her lover's cock into her mouth and then sliding it in and out of that warm, moist place until it hardened and she could sink it into her pussy. "I never do this with my husband's cock," she'd sometimes say. "But yours is so beautiful I can't keep from kissing it!" And whenever she said that I'd go ramrod stiff. When she was mounted on my face afterward, my lips buried in hers, or when we were both drifting to sleep, she'd talk on and on about the pleasures of giving head. As if trying to persuade me to try it. As if she felt challenged to bring out my supposed homosexual yearnings, or if none emerged, to mock me. "It's really lovely, honey, making love to a man's cock, " she said. "That purple head feels so silky smooth on your lips, you can't possibly keep yourself from licking it and sucking on it. The liquor that seeps out of that little eye in the tip? You must try it! Are you sure you haven't? Not even once? Oh, my poor baby, you want to but you're too frightened?" It was yet one more kinky tease. Now and then she'd blow a supposed lover to orgasm while I lay there watching them, because there I was, waiting to taste his jism directly from her mouth, still hot. She'd tell me just that. When I was nearing a climax, rising and tensing, about to pump into her mouth, she'd cry out, "Now comes the best part, for Patrick!" Spurting was the best part for me, so at first I assumed that was what she meant. But when she'd transferred my sperm from her mouth to mine, she'd murmur it again. "Here you are, the best part! A man's sperm! Sucking down sperm! You'll be getting all you want soon enough, all by yourself, just be patient sweetie. I'm making all the arrangements!" I told her I didn't understand what she meant by "the best part." She was surprised, or she pretended to be surprised. "Why, you know, baby! Being so loving that your man just can't help it, he goes rigid and swells up and then cums in your mouth! Tasting each fresh spurt is the best part! Swallowing it down! Licking that last drop! Soon enough you won't need my help! Just be patient!" Soon enough I'd be sucking someone's cock on my own? That gay thing again? I decided to let it alone. She had her fantasies. Her vocabulary widened. She'd always been embarrassed to use four-letter words, always maintained a prim decorum when discussing sex. But now she'd tell me how she adored being a "loving cunt" to her endless stream of lovers, how she wanted me to become the same "sweet cock sucker" that she was, to share in her pleasure. I tried to feel gratified, since all her lovers were of course me and all of their cocks were mine. But could I ever be perfectly sure? My jealousy grew. I couldn't help it! She explained to me once how she was proud of her husband, that he accepted his limitations, his inadequate and undeserving prick, and was content just to lick her "snatch" after another man had filled it. Writhing blissfully on my soaked face while I was slurping up blended cum, she cried out in orgasmic joy, "Ahhh, sweetie, you do love cream pie, don't you? You love it! Ahhhhh!" Cream pie? What had she been reading? Who'd been talking to her? Afterward I asked her. She just smiled and told me "You think different men tell me those words? Maybe. Maybe it's only the computer? There're lots of stories on the Net about men just like you, wannabe cuckolds and real ones too, men like you who get off on their wives' supposed infidelities. Married gay men who'd rather be eating cock than pussy. All sorts. They eat cream pie too, just like you! I do wish I'd known about you years ago! Think of the fun we could have been having together!" Could I believe her? I checked her laptop the next day while she was out shopping, and sure enough, there was "alt.sex.cuckolds" prominently bookmarked. That was reassuring, at least she wasn't enlarging her vocabulary from actual experience! I looked at the "cuckolds" newsgroup to see what it was like. Sure enough, there were lots of women chatting about how they deceive their husbands and then undeceive them, how to make them into helpless infants who lie in their cribs sucking their thumbs while watching mommie get fucked by a stud. Lots of husbands were eating "cream pie" nightly without even knowing it. Was it all shared fantasy? Were there really such women? Such self-betrayed men? I scrolled back to the top. And there I saw it! She'd posted a note to me with the subject line "Tara to her Sweet Hubbie." I opened it immediately. "Hi, Patrick sweetheart, I just knew you'd look here! You see how many husbands share your dreams? Read and enjoy! Oh yes, don't expect me home too soon tonight. This is so exciting! I need to see a man about this yearning I have to ... well, never mind. Love ya!" When she got home -- an hour late -- she went immediately to her laptop and checked her log, and she was positively gleeful when she saw I'd been there and that her message was marked "already read." She sashayed around the house for the next hour humming to herself and looking at me delightedly. I was tempted several times to ask her to let me lick her pussy, please. Please! I had to know if what I feared had actually happened. But did I want to know? She knew I'd be indecisive, so she hummed all the more loudly, but never once did she sit down where I could fling myself at her snatch! Finally, she started up the stairs, commenting "Baby, I'm going to take a shower before dinner, I do feel so very sticky down below!" And she was gone. And with her my chance of knowing for certain. When she came down she seemed dreamy, She was wearing a sexy negligee, and I thought to myself, tonight she'll use me as one of her lovers for sure. But I was disappointed. After dinner an actual client called. She was instantly all business as she talked to him and reluctantly, I was sure it was reluctantly, she told him she'd come out and look at the site, at whatever was on his mind. She changed quickly to one of her "power" business suits. These days I always noticed how she dressed for work, whether prim or provocative. This time it was prim, all perfectly proper. As she went out the door she paused, looked over her shoulder at me, and then suddenly kicked up a heel and tossed her head at me saucily, elated by the intent uncertainty she saw in my face. "I'm off to meet my man, now, honey!" she said. Then she was gone. When she returned she took my hand and led me directly to bed and we fucked like goats for hours. Me, Patrick, the two of us, not Tara and one of her well-hung lovers. That was so unusual it disturbed me. Had she actually done it this time with someone else, so she was making it up to me? With that thought I was near despair! I was sure of it! Yet when I licked her, she tasted no different, the same as always, just my cum inside her. But a lot of it. Maybe not only mine? A month more of this whipsaw treatment and I was helpless, trapped inside layers of agonized doubts and suspicions, unable to conclude anything at all. I lived with agonized uncertainty and yet also a hard-on that returned every time I wondered what she was doing. I told her that one evening, hoping she'd relieve my anxiety. But all she did was nod, smiling delightedly. "Oh, good! That's so nice! You do love it, don't you! Look how hot it makes you! The more you think I fuck, the more we fuck! " That was true enough. I think. Three Meanwhile, the whole time, workmen were coming and going during the day. The addition to our house had been under construction and was now just about done. Tara's office-to-be. It had gotten more grandiose than she'd originally planned, because she'd developed some new prospects for clients and wanted to be prepared to deal with them. The final plans called for a separate entrance toward the rear, a reception area, and two suites of offices -- one for her and one to be used by different clients' representatives as needed, with several rooms in each. There was another large room on the second floor, accessed only from her office. Each floor had its own powder room, a toilet and sink. I asked Tara why the second floor room had its own, and she didn't hesitate. "Why, honey, that's where I'll persuade certain favored clients to enjoy the advantages of working with me," she said in a low, slow voice, eying me the whole time. "So I can show them everything I'm willing to do for them, all in complete privacy. All my special tricks and secrets, and maybe I'll find out some of theirs. The same way I now know yours. Then when we're done, they'll need to wash up before going back down to my office to sign contracts and then home to their wives." That was more than I wanted to hear. More agony! Later I heard that the upstairs powder room was only an afterthought, the gift of a plumbing contractor grateful for all the work she'd given him around the city. And I overheard talk about shelving and display cases and so forth she wanted installed in that upper room -- it was after all only a showroom for different kinds of office and shop arrangements. So when she ordered a double overstuffed sofa for that upper room and told me it was a "persuader," I didn't worry a whole lot. She was just playing with me, messing my mind. I hoped. I'd gotten accustomed to seeing workmen tramping around to the rear of the house, contractors talking to them, the sounds of concrete mixers grinding and pneumatic hammers banging. But except for the noise their work never entered our house -- they planned to break through to connect up the spaces and hook up the plumbing and electricity only when the addition was completed. So I wasn't much put out. My own work was going into seasonal hiatus anyhow -- I didn't have a lot to do. I had annual retainers, more than I wanted, so I wasn't worried. I read and watched TV, and the workmen and their dirt and noises all did whatever they needed to do. The new addition grew and neared completion. Looked finished to me, though some details still needed attending. Office furniture for it began to arrive. Then our lives took a new turn. We were just finishing dinner, a spicy carry-in from a new French restaurant near us, delicious, when I realized there'd been a long silence, that neither of us had spoken for a while. I looked up spaces that need radical alteration. "What?" I said. "Astrid's office is closed," she replied. "We're renovating her whole suite this week and next. Her staff is on vacation until their new work space is ready." Astrid had been Tara's first client, an old college sorority sister who'd started "Women's World," a successful business advisory and accounting firm for women like Tara who wanted to work at home. She was unmarried, maybe a latent lesbian but I never asked, and a good friend who occasionally offered even me excellent advice about office procedures. "You finally talked her into it," I replied. "So?" "Well, there's a problem." I waited. There are always problems in Tara's line of work, and she always solves them. "Astrid's conference room is where I've been seeing my out-of-town clients, people without their own local offices. That's where I invite new prospects to hear my introductory pitch, so I can convince them they should show me the actual space they mean to lease, so they can hear what I'll propose for it." "And?" "I've got a prospect coming in from out of town tomorrow and I've no place to talk to him. Very big." She hesitated, then went on. "All right, this is confidential, Patrick. Listen and don't say a word. Castro Enterprises, the giant conglomerate, they're moving their entire east coast regional office here. A huge commission if I can get it, work for months and months! Six floors of offices in that new highrise downtown. And the prospects are even bigger. Castro intends to open branch offices in nearby cities, all of them with the same trademark decor. I want to design that decor, and I want all of that business. And I'm close to getting them to sign -- it'll take only one more meeting." I waited. "I could ask Givens Associates to let me use their office, down the hall from Astrid, but then Bob Givens would come on to me for payment. He'd expect payment. You know what he's like. So I'd rather not. You understand." I did. Bob Givens was compulsively horny. He came on to every woman he encountered, flattering the older ones with his flirtations and actually bedding down many of the younger, single or married, sometimes several in a single night. He was immune to the word "No!," and given his charm lots of women couldn't remember the word anyhow when they were with him. Single women chatted cheerfully with each other afterward, comparing their experiences, and married women maintained stony silences for the sake of their marriages, torn whether to keep their husbands or now that they knew better, try for something better. Apparently he was great in bed. "He hasn't come on to you already?" I asked. "I hear often enough that he's God's gift!" I thought she was teasing me again, warming me up for another night of just-the-two-of-us infidelities. So I provided her an opening. "Of course he has. If I ever want to, whenever I want to, I can wear him out," Tara replied perfunctorily, dismissing my gambit with a faint smile. A provocative answer, like so much of her talk these days, but her heart wasn't in it. She was genuinely troubled. I leaned forward. "Honey, if you need a place to talk with a client, bring him here. You've done that sometimes. The new office area isn't quite ready, but people will be coming here in a few days anyhow. So use our living room. If you need complete privacy I'll go upstairs, or maybe out to a movie." She didn't pick up on that either. This really was serious. "No, you're sweet to offer, but it's too late for that." "Too late?" She shifted uneasily, then she too leaned forward and clasped her hands in front of her in her decisive 'getting ready to close the deal' mode. "The CEO, the man who makes these decisions for Castro, Bill Bartram, he's very ... aggressive, decisive, one of those yes, no, then do it kinds of men -- you know them. Hard to turn down or turn away. Can't tolerate working with people who aren't the same way, who can't make crisp arrangements, who waffle." An odd feeling began to grow inside me. "I've met with him at conventions and on his previous trips here, and we've talked for long stretches by phone, and I've sent him sketches, and things have moved faster than I expected. He's coming into town tomorrow and he wants to make commitments. I think he means to sign with me. He's asked for a conference and he asked where we could meet, and I'm afraid I lost the initiative, I couldn't tell him right away where, I hadn't lined up a substitute for Astrid's place. So he took charge and told me where. And that's where we'll meet." Here it comes, I thought. "Where?" "Honey, whatever you like to fantasize, I never go to men's hotel rooms. I know I'm attractive to men! A hotel room with me in it would be an aphrodisiac for any high-powered male. If they were to get me into one and it was just the two of us and a bed, there'd always be just one big thing on their minds, and in their pants too I'm sure. They'd insist on certain perquisites for signing with me, and I'd have to refuse them, and then I'd lose their business. It's happened more than once already." I wasn't sure if this was one more elaborate tease. She never goes to men's hotel rooms? "You agreed to go to this man's hotel room?" "Not at first. We'll meet for a drink, then I'll go up with him. It's a newly decorated suite, apparently, in the same signature decor he wants for Castro's offices, a modern variation of French Provincial. My estimates are based on that style, but there are a few more details and options I need to point out. So yes, I agreed. I told him his hotel room would be convenient, given what I need to do to satisfy him." "I see." I paused and waited. There was more she had to tell me, but she wasn't saying, yet. "And?" "Honey, could I refuse? I certainly wouldn't want him to think I'm the least bit bothered by ... personal inhibitions. That wouldn't be businesslike." Her face remained solemn. This was my old wife! Never goes to hotel rooms. Proper, virtuous, always ready to tease me, it was our little game. But now seriously worried. "No fear," I said soothingly. "It's all probably very innocent. "What is he, a paunchy sixty year old widower with five children and ten grandchildren?" She smiled at my attempt to console her. "No, he's in his late thirties, a hard-driving hunk who's been on the cover of "Career Girl" as their Catch of the Year. Women fall all over themselves to get in his way, and I hear he leaves most of them lying there smiling and breathing heavily. Most of them. He's quite handsome." She grinned, but with an edge of uncertainty. I heard this in silence. That old stirring in my loins was rising, this time not at all welcome. Here was a real threat, apparently. Did it mean that this time Tara would actually be going the distance? Was she asking my permission in advance? Was that what this was about? Or did she want me somehow to help her resist him? "Why are you telling me this?" I asked. Then realizing that I sounded annoyed, curt, and also realizing that I didn't want to know one possible answer, I deflected the question by asking another. "How can I help?" Then waited. She continued to stare at me, her hands folded, Her face was now inexpressive, but her thin, arched eyebrows were drawn together, troubled, anxious. My heart began to go out to her. "It's asking a lot," she said mournfully. What was she saying? My anxiety was laced with a rising anger. Was this it, finally? Did she want my permission to let him bed her down? To fuck Mr. Catch-of-the-Year? To promise that afterward I'd never hold her guilty of betraying me? To forgive and forget in advance? She wanted a free pass to get her cunt lubed by a major stud? That would move our little game from play-acting -- if that was what it was, and I didn't know it wasn't -- into an undeniable reality! It would change everything. I'd finally be a genuine cuckold, knowingly and with my own full consent. And she'd know it. She'd always know it! Just as she'd always pretended to know it about me, but this time for real! And I'd always know she knew, every time she looked at me. Could I endure it, playing the meek cuckold in fact as well as fantasy? Would that open the door to others, would our private fantasy about her endless infidelities became a fact of our lives? My stomach sank! I just stared at her, my mouth open in shock! "My God!" came out of my mouth. Her eyebrows shot up, and she straightened up in sudden surprise. "Oh,no, honey!" she said, as if herself shocked. "I'm not asking your permission to go to bed with him! Never! I wouldn't ever want you to know if there's another man, not until you want to know! You're my one true love, and I want you to be happy always! That's why I want you to stay deliciously, wickedly uncertain! I mean, you'd like to think you're the only person you've ever tasted in me, wouldn't you? But you don't really know it, do you?" She was teasing me again! Even though this time there was a real threat to deal with! She certainly could read me like an open book -- I was altogether transparent to her. "No," she continued, "I'm not asking your permission to fuck this man. If I meant to, I'd just do it, and decide later what you needed to know if anything, what's best for you. Or better, I'd let you decide whether you should know. The way we've been doing. Let you break down and finally ask me when you can't stand not knowing any more. Breach your trust in me. In that way to free me to fuck any man I want and then tell you anything you wanted to know, true or not. That's the fairest way." "Then what? Why are you telling me this?" I felt drained, exposed. Once again, my imagination had betrayed me! "Because I need you, honey!" Her solemn face with its huge eyes stared across the table at me. I melted. She saw, and looked grateful, then pixieish. Her voice became almost sing-song. "Maybe you'll think what I want you to do is just as bad! Just as humiliating. Just as threatening to your manhood. Maybe even more threatening. I don't think it needs to be, really. I think you can handle it, even thrive on it the way you thrive on my supposed affairs with other men. But many men can't, and you might be one of them!" I was baffled, and just stared at her the way she'd been staring at me, steadily, trying to read her mind. I gave up. "What is it you want, then, Tara?" I asked quietly. I felt a little tense. "The honor of your presence, honey. Just come with me when I meet with him this last time before we sign." I suddenly went slack, the wind gone from my sails. This was nothing! "That's all? Why, sure, honey!" "No, wait. Listen. Just listen. I need for you to be there with me so he won't try anything. So he'll put off any extracurricular plans for another time. The way he comes on by phone and when we've met out-of-town, I don't think there's any doubt at all what he'll want from me when we're alone up there in his bedroom. "Then no problem!" I said as casually as I could. "Of course I'll come with you!" "No, you still don't understand, baby," she said. There was still uncertainty in her voice. "It isn't as easy as that. Or it won't be. Not for you! I don't think so, anyway." "Why not?" I was baffled again. "You can't come as my husband!" I didn't have to ask 'Why not?' a second time. I just stared at her. She went on. "Honey, how can I negotiate hundreds of thousands of dollars of costs with my husband sitting next to me? How would that look? As if I were some dependent, indecisive woman who needs a man's assistance to help me make up my mind. As if I needed a crutch! Or worse, a chaperone." That was true enough. Though that's what she wanted me for. A chaperone. "He'd think we were partners, and if he talked to both of us, when we started negotiating he'd get the wrong signals from you. More than likely he'd start talking to you instead of to me, you know that's what men do from habit, talk to whoever's wearing the pants! Because that's the usual scenario -- men make the deals and decisions and women take notes and then type them up. It happens a lot. Sometimes it takes time before I can even set up a straight eye-to-eye relationship with my clients, because I'm a woman and they don't expect me to be serious! I always need to let them know right away that I'm in charge. No one else." Also true. But an idea occurred to me. "Then call me your secretary, not your husband. I'll sit still and take notes for you. Or something." "That's just what I want you to do," she replied. "Pretend you're my secretary." But her brow remained furrowed. Apparently that wasn't the end of it. "So?" "Honey, just listen. Hear me out, because what I'm about to say may sound like something you don't want to hear, or maybe you won't mind, because I've been teasing you about your sexuality for quite a while now, and I know it excites you. But this time I mean it to be real. And reality's a different place from imagination. A lot more unpredictable and long-lasting. But just maybe you won't mind anyhow." She was staring straight at me. Solemnly. I waited. "Any other man in that room would cramp his style, because it would cramp my style! I do intend to make certain moves on him, subtly suggestive, tempting. You know? This shouldn't surprise you, you know how I love to flirt, and you certainly know how I've been working you over. You know how I can be! Baby doll, I want to actually invite him to come on to me, ever so slightly! Not that he won't anyway, but I want him to hope I'll give him more than he expects. I want him to anticipate all sorts of wonderful things I can do for him. I can certainly give him smart interior design and a functionally intelligent workplace layout, and quickly,