Date Night free porn video

Not for the underaged. I don't know why, but that's how it is. Those who don't like stories like this will find that this is the kind of story they don't like. Fair warning! Date Night by Vickie Tern "Laurie, this can't be right! I look like a loose woman!" "No, Stevie love, you look like a nice woman. Lipstick and eye shadow don't make for a loose woman, all they do is declare that a decent woman's fit to be seen. We put it on heavier evenings, that's all. And no self-respecting loose woman would wear that cocktail dress, for goodness' sake, the hemline's well below the knees! I don't want you looking provocative, just nice, respectable, appropriate. You're in some ways gorgeous, sweetheart, not stunningly beautiful but really lovely. Definitely attractive. Very few of us ever look like cover girls. Not even cover girls -- their looks are mostly slathered makeup and then photographic retouching. You need to feel confident about the way you look, honey. Proud, even. Most women would eat their hearts out to look like you. Very few have your girlish figure or innocent expression. Don't worry, you're a heartbreaker." "I'm thin, not girlish." I was feeling glum, disagreeable. But Laurie understood. "Well, tonight you're girlish or else you're in big trouble. So go downstairs and wait for your date. You're fine! I'll stay up here so everything tonight will be just between the two of you the whole time, one-on one, he'll be yours alone from the moment he comes to call. Though afterward I'll want to know everything that happened, especially how you felt while it was happening. As we agreed." As we agreed. When we arrived at this living arrangement -- was it only three months ago? -- it never occurred to me that she meant to go this far. Actually to pair me with a man. Sure she was pissed off at me, and I'd given her plenty of reason, but it seemed to me her reaction had gone past peculiar into the outright perverse. Though obviously Laurie herself didn't think so. She was as eager and excited as a few weeks ago when she'd first told me her plan for this final stage of my "rehabilitation." And that made it harder for me to back away, even though it seemed to me things were now altogether out of hand. I had to go through with it. "Don't worry about having to wait up for me," I said abruptly. "I'll be back by ten." I didn't dare say "home" by ten. I didn't dare, not yet, though this house had once been my home, our home, and I hoped it would be again. Laurie would only have glared at me and told me in a sharp-edged voice -- as several times already since I'd come back -- that I was only a guest here. On probation. I didn't live here. Not yet. I'd been earning the right, but I had yet to go through the defining ordeal, as I thought of it, my "initiation" as she called it. The ultimate test of my desire and sincerity, the proof of how badly I really wanted to come "home." It had been like a fraternity or sorority hazing in a way, or like military Basic Training. A long period of learning and rehabituation, some of it delightful, some of it difficult and humiliating, all of it transformative, but ending in acceptance. I hoped. I would not be what I had been. I'd been given to understood from the outset, as a condition of my return, that Laurie would no longer tolerate a man in the house. "I lead my own life now," she'd explained sympathetically but firmly, as if she expected me to tell her the same thing and then go away. As if she hoped I would -- as if I were an inconvenience. But I hadn't. Where else could I go? "Ten o'clock I'll be back, I'm sure," I repeated. "No later." "Really, Stevie? You intend to stay out that late?" She seemed delighted by this information. That baffled me. I stared at her. Laurie really is a pretty woman, and never more so than right now, with her eyes sparkling and her smile breaking into a sweet, mischievous grin as she looked straight at me. "To spend the whole night together?" she asked. I must have been insane, I was thinking. I had no idea why I'd thrown over five years of marriage to an absolute charmer like Laurie to run off with a tall, cool blonde like Stacy. It had been Stacy's idea -- I'd letched after her like most of the men I knew, but I'd always thought her out of my league. She goes for real men, I'd seen often enough, big guys, and I'm not one of those. I'd apologize to Laurie for my small size, now and then, but all she'd say was "you're near enough to what I want, honey, don't worry about it." But one day Stacy had leaned into the booth where I was having lunch alone, pushed her perfumed breasts against my face until my nose wedged between them, let her hair fall all around me, and said merely, "Let's go, stud. Go home and pack and leave a note." Maybe I was impressionable, but on wild impulse, in the surge of lust I felt at that moment, I'd done just that. Mindlessly, deliriously. And didn't realize until our second week on the road, my body climbing all over hers several times each day and night, that I'd run away with a woman who was both implacable and inexpressive. For the next month, whatever motel room we entered, or whenever we got into the car after breakfast or lunch, she'd lie back and lift her legs, and raise her skirt or lower her jeans, and open her slit wide, and wait for me to eat her out. As an almost casual gesture, as if my going down on her was a passing thought. As if she were merely yawning and stretching, not climaxing time and again and soaking my face in her juices. But at least she seemed aware of me when my head was burrowed between her thighs. When I fucked her, her mind always seemed to drift elsewhere, as if she were watching TV or reading a novel behind my back. When finally I came, and pulled out, she'd grunt and turn her head and doze off. Then not a month after we'd gone away together she'd thrown me over and run off with a heavy-set biker she'd just met in a bar. And there I was, left alone in a nowhere town fifteen hundred miles from home, with no job and no friends, not after what I'd done to Laurie. And no future. And as I'd discovered later that evening, no wallet and no car wither. She left me a note reading, "Sorry, loser, you're a doll and an incredible cuntsucker, but great head is not enough. Go back to your wife if she'll have you, and my best advice is to stay there!" She'd left me with no recourse but to return to Laurie with my tail between my legs. If Laurie would have me. Three months ago that was? Only three? More? The weeks since my return had all run together. Laurie and Brenda had kept me so busy doing things so utterly unrelated to anything I'd ever done before that my whole life before or since was now a blur. They were all things leading toward tonight, I now realized. And now here was Laurie looking me over affectionately as I touched up the last of my makeup. What an idiot I'd been to leave her for Stacy! The worst of it had been my collect call to her after I'd tried everyone else and found out what deep shit I was in back home, what a deep, double-dyed shit everyone thought me for abandoning a darling, vulnerable wife like Laurie. Found that no one wanted to spit in my direction much less help me. My best buddy Scott, my former best buddy, had said it succinctly. "I can't. Kathy would kill me. And after what you did there's no way in hell I'd want to. You're dead, friend. Find a cliff and jump off. Don't call me again." Finally I'd swallowed hard and called the only person in the world who could absolve me, maybe. Laurie. Her friend Brenda had answered. "It's him," I heard her say. "Hang up on the bastard?" But thank God Laurie'd come to the phone. She'd sounded glum, but at least she'd heard me out, all my remorseful explanations, all my tearful pleas for forgiveness. Toward the end I was sobbing and babbling, I couldn't help it! "I'll let you know," was all she'd said when I'd recovered enough to listen. There'd then followed a whole day of waiting for her to call me back. And a whole night. Finally, late the next morning, the phone rang. "I've made up my mind," she'd told me. "You can come back. You hurt me terribly, Steve. Terribly. Understand, I don't feel vindictive, not any more, but you'll have to make up for it. Things have changed between us. Everything will now be very different. I don't want you the way you were, not at all. I could set you lots of conditions before letting you return, but it comes down to only one condition, really. This one. The moment you set foot in this house, that very moment, and from then on until I say otherwise, and I may never, you will do anything and everything I tell you to do. Anything and everything. No matter what. And you will do those things immediately. No matter how strange they seem to you or how humiliating. What you think about them won't matter at all. No backing away, no second thoughts, no questions. If I tell you to jump, you won't bother to ask 'How high?,' you'll just jump as high as you can. Then you'll stand there waiting for me to tell you to do something else. And if I tell you to 'Go fuck yourself!' you'll figure out how to do it and then do it. And then stand there waiting for me to tell you something else. You understand me? You agree?" "Laurie, isn't that just a little...?" "Goodbye, Steve. Mark is handling my end of the divorce, so when you get your own lawyer tell him who to contact." "NO, LAURIE, PLEASE!" I screamed into the phone, my heart pounding. "YES, yes, whatever you say! I agree, I'll do it!" "You're sure? No hesitating? No questions?" "Yes! Yes!" She called Brenda over to hear me repeat my promise, and as Brenda came to the phone I heard her tell Laurie, "I told you. I told you he'd fold like the toilet paper you use to wipe your ass. You'll see. I hope for your sake this works out. But I doubt it." I repeated my desperate declaration to Brenda as earnestly as I could, and in return heard only silence. Then Laurie returned to the phone and told me she was sending me money, just enough for food and to pay off the motel and buy me a bus ticket back. No more than that. "Not a plane ticket?" I asked her. "There's an airport near here with regular flights. I could be home a lot sooner." "I'm in no hurry to see you again, Steve. And don't be in such a hurry yourself. You may not like it when you get back. Oh, and understand this too. When you disappeared I took consolation where I could find it. Brenda was the most wonderfully considerate friend imaginable. During the past month she's been living here with me. It's our house now. We both occupy the big bedroom. You'll sleep in the spare room down the hall. Call it the maid's room, because that's you. You'll be our maid, our household help. Brenda and I will take care of all the living expenses, same as we do now for ourselves, and you'll take care of the house for us. Clean, cook, everything. That'll be your work, maybe for a small stipend, maybe not, we'll see. Later maybe you can go back to office work, maybe part-time, maybe not, certainly nothing supervisory like your old job. From now on you'll do only what you're told, meekly and obediently. I want you feeling submissive to me even in your sleep. So you see, nothing will be the way it was. Do you understand me?" She waited. "Yes," I finally said. "Good," she said. And hung up. And nothing had been the way it was. When I showed up late in the evening two days later, suitcase in hand, Laurie opened the door and then just stood there a moment. And looked at me silently, as inexpressive as Stacy had been throughout our month-long fling. I stared at her hopefully. "That's almost it," she said still blocking the doorway. "I've been discussing this with Brenda. Your token of subservience. You'll always keep your eyes wide open in our presence, and you'll wait for your instructions in absolute silence with your hands clasped in front of you." She meant eyes really wide open, it turned out, the way women sometimes look at you when they're saying something very serious in all innocence and earnestness and honesty. She made me stand there on our doorstep practicing it before finally she was satisfied and let me in. No, not 'our' doorstep, she made that clear too. Hers and Brenda's. Then she stood back, and I went straight upstairs to my new room, the former spare room. There was nothing more to say. The next morning they both of them came in while I was sitting on the bed, barely awake, contemplating the few fresh clothes I had remaining in my suitcase. No clean underwear, no clean socks, one clean shirt. I picked it up and stared at it. "Leave your door ajar from now on," Brenda said. "If any of us want anything at any time, you'll have to hear us and hop to it. Day or night! None of your time is your own." She raised one eyebrow and glared at me, obviously hoping I'd object. "Oh, no, Steve, you can't wear that," Laurie said. I turned all my attention to her. "I know," I said. "It's a dress shirt, needs a tie, it's not really suitable for housework, but until I can do a laundry or get at the clothes I left here I'll have to wear it." "You have no clothes left here," Brenda said with quiet satisfaction. "We threw them all out the day I moved in. But I'm sure I have a house dress somewhere around here that would fit you. Something suitable for a scullery maid if not a parlor maid. Otherwise I'm afraid you'll have to spend the day in your underwear." "I don't know," I said dubiously, looking at the dirty underwear in my suitcase and not quite grasping what she'd said about a house dress. "My underwear is pretty ripe too. Could do with a washing." "Oh, no, not that underwear," Brenda said mockingly. "My my, Stevie! Did you actually imagine we'd allow you to live here dressed to resemble a man? What would the neighbors think?" Laurie interrupted. "Eyes wide open, please!" I remembered, and stared at her as if surprised, amazed, and waited. "We don't want you here as a man," Laurie said. "Brenda doesn't want you here at all, so we've compromised. While you're living here you'll look, dress, and behave like a woman. You'll wear the clothes we think are appropriate. Brenda will lend you an old dress for now. Then we'll get you what you need." "But no way will you wear any of my undies," Brenda added. "I'd have to burn them afterward. Laurie will lend you the minimal essentials until we can get you your own. Say, a bra and panties, to begin with." "I'm sure I have a bra and panties for him," Laurie said. I had the impression that this conversation had been worked out between them in advance. "In fact I have a suitable set with me right here. You selected them yourself, remember, Steve? The lace bra and thong panties you gave me for my last birthday? Gave yourself, really. Remember, I told you I'd never wear them, though they wouldn't be out of place on the body of a whore. So I haven't touched them till now. But they're just right for a girl in training." My mind was addled by all this. "Bra? Girl in training? I ...." "You have to wear underwear, honey," Laurie said, her voice almost kindly. "We've asked Mr. Roberta to do us a very special favor and come here today to give you your first full body waxing, to get you minimally presentable for a trip downtown to his salon for the rest of what you need. So you can go out and buy clothes suitable for the life you'll be living here with us. What you wore with Stacy when you were still being a man simply won't do. Yet you won't want to be stark naked when he arrives, and he's due any minute." She grinned, partly to herself. "Quick, You'd better put these on, so Mr. Roberta won't get the wrong impression. I hear stories about him. There's no telling what he might do if he finds you naked and thinks you're a gay man like him. He's swishy but he's strong. You'll have to do everything he wants. And you won't like some of what he wants." "Not that you wouldn't deserve it," Brenda added. Laurie held out the very bra and panties I'd bought her months earlier. The bra cups were pink and black lace pom-poms, extravagantly girly-girly. The panties were a single small matching satin triangle on strings, fringed with more lace. She was right, they were a bit extreme. Door chimes went off as I stared incredulous at them, still not quite fully understanding. Did they mean for me...? "He's hesitating," Brenda said to Laurie. "Maybe you'd better leave while I discipline him." "No," Laurie said determinedly. "I really don't want to see him hurt, but I do need to watch while you do it, at least this first time, so he'll know it's both of us disciplining him." "Just three strokes, I think," Brenda said. "He doesn't really understand yet, but three will impress upon him that he doesn't need to understand, just to do what we say immediately. The way he promised." "Understand what?" I asked. I was now absolutely bewildered, looking back and forth at each of them. "Whenever you hesitate, whenever you disagree, whenever you give us a hard time for any reason, you will be made extremely uncomfortable," Laura told me grimly. "You'll be whipped where men are most vulnerable. Three strokes this time. So lie back on that bed and spread your legs as far apart as they'll go. I want your balls fully exposed." The front door chimed again. Laurie looked up and hesitated. "Oh dear," she said. "I don't think there's time now, Brenda. I'll go down and answer it and bring Mr. Roberta right back up here." She left. "Saved by the bell," Brenda said to me. She was enjoying herself. "Well, not for long. I'm looking forward to our little disciplinary sessions together, and I'm sure there will be many. Now put your bra and thong on, fast! You don't want Mr. Roberta to get the wrong impression. If he thinks you think you're a man, you're in trouble." I took them from her and stared at them a moment. She explained further, "Whenever you hesitate, whenever you do anything to displease either of us, especially me, you'll be disciplined. Three strokes always, but for serious offenses five. I think you now know where. Call yourself lucky this time." As rapidly as I could I slipped on Laurie's thong panties, its single rear band slipping snug between my buttocks and pressing -- tugging, really -- against my anus. It felt peculiar -- girls wore these? Yes, to show off their buns full in the round, unencumbered. But the bra really felt peculiar. I slipped my arms in and then struggled with the catch in back. Brenda reached over and clipped it for me. "Welcome to every morning while you're living here with us, and if you stay long enough, every morning of the rest of your life," she said with a certain malicious glee. "It's an honor to fasten you into your first bra, though you'll have to figure out how to take it off by yourself. Now pull that flabby chest of yours into those two cups and let's see what you've got to offer." I did, and the cups projected two mounds. Little mounds. "Not too bad," Brenda commented to herself. "For now. We'll take care of it though." "Oh, he looks darling!" came Laurie's voice. There she was back in the doorway, her eyes sparkling as they studied my new breasts. Instinctively I tried to cover them with my hands. "Oh, don't be ashamed, honey," she added. "They're small, but this is only your first day, after all, and we haven't really begun. You keep your promises and I promise you they'll end up gorgeous!" Trailing just behind her was a man with magnificently well-coiffed blond hair, wearing a tight black T-shirt and black, wide-legged satin slacks. And black slippers. Carrying a large black bag. "Roberta, meet Stevie. Stevie will be living with us from now on, so we want her to look as pretty as you can make her, a credit to us. Stevie, meet your beautician, Mr. Roberta." "Delighted, Stevie" Mr. Roberta said with that wide-mouthed, tight-jawed enunciation Carol Channing used when she sang 'Diamonds are a girl's best friend.' Gay men often talk that way, I'd noticed. Maybe as an aid to recognizing each other? There was no questioning Mr., Roberta's membership in the gay community. He literally swished into the room. "I hope you don't mind, dear," he continued, "but I need to get to work right away so I can get back to my other customers. Just the waxing, for now. I see you aren't very hairy, that's a plus. Even so, this first time it'll really hurt, because you have so many deep-rooted hairs. You're bound to flinch and wince and protest, everyone does the first time. The price of beauty! So if you don't mind, I want to tie you down while I work. I'll finish faster. Anyhow, people withstand pain better if they know they're helpless, that they have no choice. Some of us even enjoy it that way!" He opened his bag and began laying out his supplies, including some velcro wrist and ankle straps. Then looked up at me, awaiting my consent. "Perfect," Brenda said. "I love it. Don't spare her anything. Here, let me help." "Will it be all right, honey?" Laurie asked. I nodded to her uneasily. "On your tummy first," Mr. Roberta said. He spread a rubber cloth over the bed, and then he and Brenda stretched and fastened my arms and legs until I was spread-eagled. "There. Perhaps the two of you would like to be somewhere else until we're done here? He'll shriek now and then I'm sure, men do, much more often than women. Certainly louder. It may upset you." "Not me!" Brenda said. Even so, Laurie took her by the arm and led her out the door. She looked back at me the whole time with pity, but not altogether. "You agreed, baby!" she told me. "No regrets!" Then "Go for it!" she told Mr. Roberta. An hour later it was over. It had been the worst hour of my life. My body was now utterly smooth, hairless, even my eyebrows were gone. "I prefer pencilled-in eyebrows on a woman -- they're more delicate," Mr. Roberta explained to me as he tore off the last hair. "I'll sketch something in on you before I leave. You'll love it." My skin was blotched red from all the hair follicles that had been ripped out, yet also soothed by the emollient oils Mr. Roberta rubbed in each time he yanked a waxed cloth off it with all the body hair beneath. I was in tears. Not just from the pain, but from the humiliation. This faggot was feminizing my body, and I was helpless to stop him. Worse, he'd now and then stroke me here or there as if I were a lover. When he had me turn over and lie on my back, and had gently refastened those velcro cuffs, first there was the searing pain when he stripped off my chest hair, but then a different, lingering sensation as he rubbed ointment onto my baby-smooth chest. His fingers caressed my nipples, and a delicious pleasure begin to emerge from them before he stopped and with a faint smile refastened my brassiere. "Don't be impatient, honey," he said as I looked down at his hands, hoping they wouldn't go roaming further. "They're very small now, but Laurie has great plans for you. I told her about a new girl I know who took some marvelous pills and went through a whole girlhood in only six months, and now her body's not to be believed. Laurie has all the details." And he yanked at a wax strip on my crotch. I yelped for the hundredth time. Then I looked. He'd pulled my thong down, and I saw that the last wax strip had given me a Bikini wedge. His hand rubbed soothing cremes into the skin on either side of my penis, which lay there relaxed, draped on a little triangular nest of furry pubic hair. That same hand then slid over and grasped my cock in its oiled palm and began to slide up and down it. I watched fascinated, only slowly realizing that I was being masturbated. By a man! I lay there tied and helpless, and a gay man was taking advantage of me! Worse, as he manipulated it my penis thickened and began to grow! It liked what he was doing! It felt good! This was distressing. But at the same time I wanted him to keep doing it. He did, there was nothing I could do to stop him. His slick hand writhed and twisted on my cock, and slid up and down it, and gave it an occasional affectionate squeeze. Exquisite feelings began to gather inside my groin. "Brenda and Laurie want to know if you're responsive to men," Mr. Roberta murmured to me as if in explanation. "I told them we all are, to the right kind of man. I assured them it happens all the time. You can't help but respond amorously to anyone who's giving you pleasure, I told them, especially if there's no way you can stop him. So relax and enjoy this. You know you love it. It feels marvelous, doesn't it?" I stared at him wide-eyed, as if imploring him to stop. Or maybe not to stop. Oh, God! "Ordinarily I do this only for my dearest friends, those I know want to ... receive me afterward. But your wife is a dear friend too -- she's been coming to my shop forever after all. She knows that if you ever feel you need a man I'll be glad to help out, or one of my friends if I happen to be busy. Right now, though, she wants to know what sort of woman I think you can become. " Now his incredibly agile hand had stroked and wriggled my cock to rock hard proportions, and despite myself, despite the disturbing homosexual implications, I felt erotic sensations rising higher and higher in my groin. I groaned. They grew thicker. I hated it -- this was a man, after all -- but I loved how it felt! Then I peaked. My whole lower body went tense in a long, high, sustained spasm of pure joy. Bliss? I shrieked aloud. Into his mouth! He was kissing me! I shrieked again, and he plunged his tongue to the back of my throat, and one free hand gently grasped one of my nipples. It felt ...! It felt ...! "Ooooohhhhhhhhh!" I cried out as finally the peak of my orgasm broke and my penis began to pump and spasm and pump and spasm, jism squirting ... where? Into his hand? "Ohhhhh! Ahhhhhhhh!" He was right. Bound up, I could do nothing but surrender to the sensations. I almost went out of my mind! When it was done and I could breathe again, his hand, now loaded with cum, departed from my cock and cupped itself deftly just under my lower lip. "Lap it up, dear," he whispered. I don't know why, but I did. Avidly. He upended his palm, and it trickled into my mouth, and I licked it all up. Slick, salty, sweet. Then I licked his palm clean. I was licking my own cum off this queer's hand! It was revolting, but not as much as I'd have thought. It was also satisfying! Then I lay there confused, somewhat resentful, watching him pack away his equipment and prepare to leave. "You'll do, Stevie," he said. "Your mistresses wondered, but I have no doubt at all. You'll love being a woman, and if they decide to carry you that far you'll adore being pleasured by men. If you should ever decide to be a nancy boy instead of a woman, do let me know, You have such a deliciously plump tush -- I have oodles of friends who'll be delighted to make acquaintance with it. Just let me know. We'll see each other at my salon every Thursday -- your first makeover and hairdo are already scheduled." Laurie and Brenda were serious, then? They weren't just playing humiliating games with me, mocking my manhood? Or were they? "Your face when you had your orgasm was a marvel, honey," Mr. Roberta went on. "I loved it! Agonized, yet utterly ecstatic! Remember to apply these ointments until they're used up. By then your skin will be smooth and silky and sweet smelling, and you'll be able to keep it that way with any of the standard women's body lotions you can buy in any drug store. Bye for now!" And he leaned over and undid the velcro on my wrists. "I'll leave you these bracelets as a gift for you and Laurie to enjoy together. Have fun with them!" And he kissed me again on the lips! My hands were free, why did I let him? Then he was out the door. And I was now ... what? Gay? No. Seduced? More than I'd wished to be. But mainly, now I was hairless and wearing a brassiere and a thong. And expected to stay that way. And now that I'd been brought to climax by a gay man, in a way, I was no longer virginal. Peculiarly, I felt like a young girl who'd just been fucked. Raped? Somehow. It turned out that Brenda and Laurie had both been listening just on the other side of the door, and they came back into the room laughing and giggling together like schoolgirls. "I loved hearing your shrieks whenever Mr. Roberta ripped off a section of hair," Brenda said. "Really?" Laurie replied. "I preferred his mewling sounds when that thing of his was being pulled, and then his shrieks when he came. Even I never made noises like that -- Mr. Roberta must have a marvelous way with men. I'm insanely jealous!" They giggled some more. I just looked at both of them. I didn't know what to think. It was embarrassing. "But fun's over now, baby," Laurie told me. "Get up and shower and apply your lotions and then get back into your new undies and slip into Brenda's dress. We all have things to do. Unless, of course, now that you know what our plans are, you prefer to take your suitcase and walk straight out the door. If so, now's the time. Go!" "No," I said after a moment. I was friendless and flat broke. Worse, I knew what a fool I'd been. Worst of all, I knew I owed Laurie and had to repay her on her own terms. "I can't do that." I felt very strange, guiltily re-committing myself even though still in the afterglow of that marvelous orgasm. And a man had given it to me, not a woman! Was I gay, was I in fact a nancy boy? Is this what women feel when they have sex? Did I want to feel what women feel? I could still taste my sperm in my mouth -- that was what women taste when they give blow jobs. I didn't want that, certainly. My bra was again refastened, and it hugged and cupped a now-hairless chest, shaping small titties out of the smooth skin. That was certainly what women feel. And how they feel, too. But I'm a man! "Here are your breast forms, " Laurie said, producing two pink, nippled rubber cushions. "A girl needs to look like a girl. And oh, yes, you'll also need your own scent. Not too sophisticated, maybe even a little trampy, you are only a house maid after all. But definitely feminine. And worn heavy enough so we'll always know when you've entered the room without our bothering to turn around to see. Something that says 'Girl!' no matter how you're dressed. I want you to wear it all the time as a badge of commitment, so if you ever try to go out looking like your old self, people will know right away that there's something odd about you." "How about 'Eau de Cunt'" Brenda said. "So the moment he comes near anyone they'll smell something fishy. Maybe that'll persuade them he's a woman?" "No, we have to live with him," Laurie replied, as if Brenda's insult were a serious suggestion. "And he'll be everywhere in the house all the time, straightening up. So it has to be an aroma we like. Something that's ... him. He'll select it himself, with our approval of course." I resented something patronizing in her tone of voice. "Laurie, I ...." Laurie's voice suddenly took on a harsh edge. Brenda merely glared. "You nothing! This is a house where women live! Only women! You're a servant here! You'll do everything we ask you to do, the way you promised, or you'll get out." Her vehemence shocked me. I could only stare, wide-eyed. "Let me make this easier for you. If you stay, it will be as a woman, and you'll do everything you can to learn how to be a woman, and that means changing all your attitudes about everything. Still worried about your reputation as a man? Well, here's your choice. I can invite my women friends in to meet my former husband, now my new maid, after we've made you properly presentable. Nothing fetishistic like a French Maid outfit, just a decent waitress dress and cap and apron. And suitable make-up of course. My guests will tell their husbands all about you, and they'll certainly tell each other, and you'll have no manly reputation left to protect. The former Steve will be known as a sissy girl, Miss Pussy Whipped, and since that's how you're known, that's what you'll be, eventually even in your own mind. Do you want that?" It was a rhetorical question. She didn't wait for an answer. Alternatively, you can do everything we want you to do, wholeheartedly. You can keep your word. Then no one will ever know that you aren't what you seem. Brenda wouldn't mind embarrassing you, but I mean to transform you! I'll want you to hide your so-called manliness, if any, inside a thoroughgoing, persuasive, womanly exterior. Then we can both hope it'll wither away from disuse. To all intents and purposes, you'll become a woman. Then you'll experience no embarrassment whatever. Would you prefer that?" She paused, waiting. "I'll become a woman," I said. "You're sure?" "Yes." Laurie smiled, and Brenda looked at me steely-eyed. "Good. Then no more hesitation. We're all on the same track." If this was what it took, this was what I would do. Even so, I felt peculiar despite myself. A day later the memory of my session with Mr. Roberta still excited me and yet distressed me. It had been sex with a man, yet it had all had seemed so normal. Distasteful, but it had felt so good! I spent the rest of that day in my bra and panties, decently covered by Brenda's old dress, a simple cotton affair that buttoned all the way down the front. I left it open at the neck like a sport shirt, and Laurie chided me when she saw. "Button it all the way to the neck for now, honey, That's what's proper in a cleaning lady. Later we'll work on making you more alluring. No hurry." "Yes ma'am," I replied. It just came out. Maybe because Laurie was wearing one of her stunning business suits, her hair pulled tightly back and her eyes and lips dark, dressed now to go to her office. And I was dressed so plainly. She was my superior. "Here, though, this pink lipstick is yours now -- you'll never not wear lipstick from now on, is that understood? Mainly to look presentable as a proper woman, to look decent, not to look sexy. Also, to keep your lips soft and kissable. To feel sexy. Don't forget that you're wearing your sexiest underwear." "My only underwear, so far," I said. I hoped I didn't sound impertinent correcting her. She saw this in my face and smiled reassuringly. "I'm glad you're eager to fill out your wardrobe. We'll take care of that tomorrow, when you're better fit to be seen in public. Meanwhile, you know where the vacuum and the cleaning things are -- the house hasn't been done for over a week. Oh, and change the sheets on Brenda's and my bed -- we got a little enthusiastic with each other last night. The sight of you standing wide-eyed on our front steps, begging to do whatever we wish, was ... well, you know!" "Yes, ma'am," I said again. There was nothing else I could say. The makeover Mr. Roberta gave me in his salon the next morning was oddly reassuring, because it disguised my gender utterly for what followed, a shopping expedition with Laurie. He pierced my ears and gave me soft waves that flowed back from my face, and embarrassingly large eyes to emphasize my Laurie-mandated wide-open look, and then full pink lips. And he showed me how to shadow my chin so it appeared smaller ... cute, quite feminine. "You have good bone structure -- with a little effort you can be quite beautiful, Stevie," he said. I tried to resent that remark, or endure it all with stoicism, but he was sincere, and a tinge of gratitude toward him crept in nonetheless. When he pulled back the sheet he'd covered me with to protect my one dress borrowed from Brenda, he said, "Voila!" I looked and saw a quite nice-looking woman in the mirror. A safe place for my manhood to hide, as Laurie had promised. So Laurie and I looked like two women as we set forth. "You need everything!" she said. And that was pretty much what we bought, that first shopping trip together. Mostly, clothing suited to my new station in life, maid's uniforms, simple blouses and skirts, cheap pantyhose to wear "until you learn how to wear hosiery without getting snags and runs." All plain clothes from Walmart and Kmart. But also a kicky mini with a tight, sequinned blouse "for attracting guys when you're ready -- just think about how you'll look in it. And don't hesitate to try it on in secret now and then." And a stunning black silk dress from a fancy boutique, "for the dream date somewhere in your future." "No pants at all?" I asked. "Not even jeans?" To which I added, "Ma'am?" to take the edge off. "Why of course!" Laurie said with a wide smile. "How could I forget? Every girl needs a pair of jeans!" We went to the sportswear department, and Laurie had a saleswoman measure my waist and hips, and the circumference of my thighs individually and together. "Relaxed fit?" she asked me. "Oh, no, what fun would that be?" Laurie replied for me. "Stretch denim, though." The woman brought over several pairs, and I went to a booth to try them on. "Laurie, I can't pull any of these all the way up," I reported through the curtain. "They won't go!" "Oh yes they will, just pull them up as far as you can and hold them up and then jump up and down in them, and they'll fit! Women's jeans are for showing off their bodies. We wear them like gloves. Like a second skin. If they're well-cut, you'll look voluptuous." Finally I got a pair on, and reappeared for her inspection. "Oh, yes," she said, inspecting me. "Mr. Roberta was right, look at that shapely tush and tight crotch. You'll only wear thongs with those, no panty lines allowed ever. I'm pleased to see you've tucked your unnecessaries out of the way." "I couldn't get the pants all the way up otherwise," I said, examining the smooth, unbroken "V" of my crotch. "I hurt a little." "You'll get used to it," Laurie replied. "Beauty can be costly. Keep those pants on for now. No one glancing at you down there or walking behind you can possibly doubt you're a girl. Isn't that encouraging?" "I can scarcely walk," I pointed out. Not complaining, just stating a fact. "Take short, mincing steps, and prance just a little. We'll get you heels too, they'll help. Block mid-heels you can wear around the house for now. But cheer up, with your figure, there are surely three inch stilettos in your future." She was right. When we left the mall I was walking with delicate steps, my hips thrust forward, with just a little spring in my knees to relieve the pressure on my groin. That made my ass sway scandalously, but at least my balls no longer felt crushed. "We'll get you more clothes as you shrink here and develop there, so you'll always fit and be fitting," she said as we were driving home. I didn't dare question what that meant. When we arrived home, Brenda stared at my crotch, delighted. "You've had them removed!" she exclaimed. "That should put him in his place!" "Oh, Brenda, don't be silly," Laurie replied. "You're so looking forward to chastising him down there whenever he's naughty, how could I deprive you?" I recalled the punishment she'd been about to inflict on me when Mr. Roberta arrived yesterday. They weren't merely threatening? They really were serious? I decided to put it out of my mind while I could, and concentrate on the jobs at hand, learning how to wear my new clothes, and how to care for my new face and hairdo. And how to prepare dinner for my two mistresses. We'd arrived back at the house with little time to spare. I got to like it, first the novelty, then the comforting routine. Women's clothes button and zip and snap and hook in so many different ways, each giving my body a different look! And with my makeover and new hairdo, courtesy of Mr. Roberta, I felt like a different person. It was especially satisfying that none of the neighbors who saw me coming and going could possibly associate me with the runaway husband, that son of a bitch who'd once lived here and had abandoned his lovely wife. I felt safe. As a man, I'd always been aware of the burden of uncertainty accompanying the need to be decisive. Now my uncertainty had to do with menus and shopping lists, and whether I was doing exactly what I was told. I could deal with it. Deep down, even as I grew accustomed to living this different life, I somehow still expected Laurie to relent and take me back as her husband. I always hoped so. Once upon a time we'd both been happy with each other, and maybe we could be again. I did notice that as the days, then weeks passed and I became more instinctively feminine, more casually a woman, she seemed to warm more to me. Though she still gave me orders and I followed them, her manner became somewhat more friendly, at times almost as if we were partners, not mistress and maid. Friends, even. As long as I did everything she asked me to do. But she could still be quite sharp when she thought I needed it. She was always coaxing and encouraging me to go further. Like, for instance, the first time she sent me out of the house altogether on my own. I was scared to death. It happened only a day after my makeover and our shopping spree. It was a simple mission. She charged me to buy a new lipstick for myself in any shade I liked -- I remember I chose a luscious raspberry to go with a blouse she'd bought me -- and tampons for her. She also wanted me to select my own perfume -- "when you've decided, slather it on right there and wear it out of the store," she instructed me. "Something elegant, ladylike and flowery. Not too musky, unless you want to bring out the animal in all the men you pass in the street. Get it as a perfume and a cologne, and as bath oil beads too if it comes that way. From now on, that scent will be you." My maiden voyage, she'd called it, though I'd been too tense to grin at the joke. I was terrified as I left the house, but she'd judged that I was passably female, and I trusted her judgment. "Just fix your hair and do your face as Mr. Roberta showed you, and you'll be fine," she said. She was right. By the time I returned I'd lost all self-consciousness. People turned their heads as I passed them, but not because I looked odd, only because of the exquisite scent that trailed after me -- I'd chosen a rich floral perfume with a hint of spice, light and cheerful, though maybe I'd put on too much? I was elated. What I thought was, of course I've done it! Women go out wearing make-up and skirts and perfume all the time, looking like women. So why not me too? No big deal! Those were my first days of living as a woman, the only way Laurie would accept me back. It began as an attempt to recover my marriage, my efforts at womanhood only a means to that end. But gradually it transmuted into womanhood as an end in itself, a life I could now lead with Laurie. I was unaware that the process would go on for months. My housework and my self-transformation both became easier as it became routine. All the easier still when Laurie hired a Mrs. Parsons to teach me the rudiments and refinements of the two "womanly spheres" as she called them, housekeeping and "feminine decorum." There was task training for the first few weeks, how to perform my domestic duties efficiently, then leisure training, how to be a woman. Unrelentingly, day and night. It was sink or swim. It was obvious enough that Brenda wanted me to sink, to expose my inadequacies, get discouraged, and quit. Leave. But Mrs. Parsons simply wouldn't allow it. She became my ally as I learned quick, neat ways to make beds tightly tucked, how to launder, vacuum, clean, and dust, and how to plan, cook and serve dinners to my two "mistresses" as she called them, then efficiently clean up afterward. My manner had to be orderly at all times, "serene" was Mrs. Parson's word for it. I'd begin as soon as Brenda and Laurie left for the day, dressed in a simple gray cotton maid's uniform with a longish skirt and short apron to signify my status to myself and to any delivery person at the door. That was easily tossed in the wash when the mistresses were due home -- Laurie wanted always to see me looking pretty, wearing clothes we could both enjoy. Over Brenda's objections, after the first month she began to allow me to eat dinner with them after I'd served it, even sometimes to sit with them in the living room afterward. Everything soon became routine. The meal plans and recipes that at first crammed my head gradually became second nature, reflexive, incidental matters I attended to while shopping for the household or performing other duties. I was diligent and determined to do well. Mrs. Parsons stopped by for a few hours every afternoon to see that I was performing properly, to train and praise me, and then to teach me more 'decorum.' How to do feminine things delicately. That included everything from how to walk in heels to how to type with long nails to how to flutter my eyelids and look confused. How to sit and then stand up, and always, how to primp. She gave me phrases for polite conversation and also -- though I didn't see any point to it -- for flirting. I practiced pickup lines on her, ways to seem bold yet demure when approaching men, "just for fun" Mrs. Parsons said. "Every girl needs a few decent ways to approach attractive men when they see them." She made me practice them even though I had no use whatever for any. She also taught me gracious but firm ways to deal with the occasional man who hit on me whenever I went out. That gave me confidence. I felt queasy when that first happened, as if the man was proposing something perverse. But I soon felt flattered -- it was annoying, but also gratifying. Frightening yet exciting, because it proved that my manhood was well-hidden, that I was safe. I even began eyeing men who passed me on the street, wondering what response would be best suited to turn this one or that one away if one of them approached me. That in itself encouraged a few. It became a kind of game. After my first expedition, my first dangerous trip in quest of a lipstick and tampons and perfume, I often went out alone. "I want you to look so womanly you can't pretend you're anything else," Laurie told me. "I want you to hide your old self so deep inside your identity as a woman that you can't find it. I want you looking so womanly that it never occurs to you that you're a man dressed up to look like a woman. Because in your own mind you won't be. Brenda's always hoping you'll be exposed and feel humiliated, but I don't want that to happen ever!" It didn't. I went out by myself too many times to count, until it felt altogether normal and proper. Not only that I did all the household shopping, I also went to movies, and sometimes I just strolled in the park. Sometimes to restaurants to meet and dine with Laurie and Brenda when they finished work, once with Laurie and a woman work associate who never suspected I wasn't one more of Laurie's women acquaintances. Sometimes I just roamed the malls looking at the quality and styles of different outfits that might look nice on me. The world out there never doubted I was a girl, and I myself began believing it. It felt ... comfy. I especially liked the fact that the more elaborately feminine I looked, the less likely it was that anyone might recognize me. That in itself saved me endless anxiety. Then again, there were my weekly salon sessions with Mr. Roberta that left me looking increasingly feminine -- pretty hairdo, body smooth and soft and hairless, ears pierced again, face painted! I can't say I didn't begin to enjoy being pampered and then turning heads afterward, men's and women's both. It was an art form, I realized, looking pretty. I got good at it! It felt joyous, making myself pretty for Laurie each evening when she was due home from her office. Once when I was bringing her a pre-dinner cocktail she asked me unexpectedly if I ever wondered what kinds of sex she and Brenda had when they were alone in their bedroom. I suddenly realized I'd done no speculating whatever about it -- the topic was both painful and out of bounds. "Girl things," I replied vaguely. She looked thoughtful. "That's right," she said. "Girl things are quite satisfying, without a lot of the hassle involved with man things. Do you masturbate?" Through all the foundation and makeup and blush, my face bloomed bright red. I tried to answer her but nothing came out. "I see you do," she said calmly. "From now on, whenever you do, give some time to imagining things girls do to each other as well as the usual things girls do with men. Imagine you're the girl in both cases, of course. I certainly hope you aren't preserving any other sexual notion of yourself." "Oh, no," I assured her, hoping she'd believe me. "Alternate your fantasies," she said. "With men suck cock and with women suck pussy. See which you find more enjoyable, or if they're equally enjoyable. But in both cases, only as a woman." "Of course," I replied. I wondered if I could. But I was now bound to try. And only a week later Mrs. Parsons questioned me about them -- my masturbation fantasies. I had to tell her I could now tolerate the idea of touching a man, even kissing one on the cheek, without pleasure. I still vastly preferred sex with women. Of being submissive with women. I'd dream of women sitting on my face. Mrs. Parsons heard me out and commented in a kindly way, "That's nice, dear. That all sounds natural. But we should never deprive ourselves. Dream about yourself as a woman sitting on a man's face, to balance it out. Try all kinds of things with both sexes. Laurie did, you know. Just work on it some more." Laurie did? Of course, seriatim, first sex with me and now sex with Brenda. Whatever it was that she and Brenda do. I didn't like to imagine that, any more than I liked imagining sex with men. But from then on I couldn't avoid thinking about either. Mrs. Parsons asked me weekly to describe one detail from each kind of fantasy. I found myself imagining myself having sex with men, with women, or men and women having sex with me, even while I was loading the dishwasher. I had to imagine I enjoyed that imaginary sex, so she'd believe I did. To some degree, I did. After the second month Laurie decided I should have a brief taste of life as a working girl, so she booked me for a week as an office temp. I started out scared, but finished up all heels and skirts and crisp blouses and intimidating secretarial efficiency. None of the other girls ever caught on that I wasn't born a woman, nor did any of the men. Especially not the cute men I flirted with under orders. Laurie was proud of me and I was too. "Doesn't it feel nice?" she said. "Now you know there are two ways you can make your way in the world if Brenda and I should throw you out. As a domestic or as a secretary. Not that there's any chance I'd want to be rid of you, the way you're shaping up." "What if I should just walk out?" I asked. "Oh, you could," she replied. "You could have done that when you were a man, and you can do it now that you're a woman. Any time. But you don't, do you?" "No," I said. "I want to stay with you. Despite everything." She just looked at me. Were those tears starting to form in her eyes? "And because of everything too, Stevie, isn't that right?" I had to admit she was right. This life wasn't too bad. I'd given up my masculinity as an act of penance, to please Laurie because she wanted it, but also because my masculinity was no big deal as it turned out. It certainly hadn't scored with Stacy. But some of this femininity stuff was fun, now that I'd mastered the basics! I read Laurie's magazines and we chatted about the ads, the gender politics, the new fashions, the marital exploits of pop stars, recipes and cooking fads, even the advice they all offer about getting a man into bed and keeping him there. Laurie no longer cared about that -- Brenda was sufficient for her, she explained. But attracting men whenever you wish, giving them the impression that you're sexually available and wildly venturesome while in fact telegraphing decent modesty, she repeated that that was one of the feminine arts every woman must learn, the core of a woman's charm. "I know Mrs. Parson's been helping," she said. "But you need practice. Even married women need practice," she told me. "Maybe especially married women. Sometimes they go too far, but it's all right as long as hubby never finds out." We giggled together at the thought. "You need to try it," she added. "Being deliberately attractive to a man." I can't say I did master it altogether. It required that a woman feel superb confidence in her sexiness. And how could I do that? I was still something of a man. And as a woman, I was mainly a homebody. Gradually I took an interest in Laurie's gossip about various friends -- who said what silly thing, who was seeing who else's husband on the sly. And she took an interest in the things I dealt with. We began to feel close. I still treasure the time I told her I'd read that pasta cooked in broth tastes better than pasta cooked in water, and on impulse we spent hours together in the kitchen, testing whether that was so while chatting about all sorts of silly things. Just like girlfriends! She was quite satisfied with my "progress" as she called it. She promised that when I felt altogether comfortable as my new self, when the time was right, she'd give me a lovely 'coming out' party and invite everyone we knew. That frightened me. When I told her that she only replied, "That's because the time isn't yet right." Then some weeks ago she began a whole new phase in my development in earnest. Brenda was out at some evening business meeting, and we were just sitting in the living room making idle talk, when she said as if casually, "You know, honey? You really need friends of your own. You need to see people. It's time you looked into the singles bar scene and danced with some of the people you meet there, maybe even started dating." She grinned. "Maybe started an affair or two?" "What!?" I said, shocked. "But how can I now ...? I can't take up with another woman, I can't do that to you a second time. I don't want to start another affair with anyone ever again! Not after all this! I've learned my lesson. And anyhow, just look at me! What woman would want to date me now, now that I look as I do?" Then what she really meant fell on me like a house, and I sat there silent, terrified. She didn't mean for me to start dating women. "You've come a long way," she said simply. "But there's more to being a woman than looking and acting like one. You need to meet men." She smiled. "To practice your wiles on them." "Laurie," I said, and then realized there was nothing I could say. The old rule still applied. I had to do what she asked without hesitation. And now that so many of my bridges were burnt -- I had had no respectability or identity as a man, no money of my own, even my driver's license pictured me as I now looked -- I was more dependent on her good will than ever. I wasn't ready to rebel. "I'm sure it'll be much less extreme than the fantasies of sex with men you conjure up when you're masturbating. Didn't Mrs. Parson's tell me just the other day that in your imagination your 'boy cunt' as you call it has been filled more than once by some faceless man with a horny prick? I'd think you'd love to see what the real thing's like." A real horny prick? In my rear end? I wasn't that much a girl, not yet! Even so, that night I went with her to a bar, and sat half-petrified when two men came over and bought us drinks and chatted us up. She whispered to me that I had to smile at them now and then, so I did. One asked me to dance, so I did, rigidly until Laurie warned me to loosen up or face the consequences. "Just watch me!" she said. When the next slow dance came around, she and her man practically climbed into each other. It was disturbing to watch another man's body slide all over my wife while she seemed to welcome it, even though I knew she was only setting me an example, that she wasn't really that interested in men any more. I tried to do the same thing with mine, and did begin to get into the spirit of it. He began to breath hard as I wriggled my hips against his, pressing my tummy into his belly and smiling into his face.. It felt peculiar, exciting a man as if I were a woman. I felt a power of control over someone else I hadn't felt for a long time. I grabbed both of his buttocks and pulled him closer just to see what would happen. He moaned and then gasped loud enough for Laurie to hear it. She looked over at me, satisfied. I suppose I succeeded, well enough, all in all. When I got home I found a stain of cum stiffening the fabric of my mini where I'd pressed myself against my man. I'd brought him off! I didn't know what to think, but Laurie was elated. "I knew it!" she said. "I knew you could do it! Wasn't it fun?" I had to admit it was an accomplishment of sorts. The very next day she phoned Brian to check his schedule. He could fit me in some weeks from then. And then had become now. Tonight. A blind date for just the two of us. And here I was now, only three months after returning from my escapade with Stacy. Dressed to perfection, preparing to go out on a real date with a real man while my wife -- my former wife? -- was smiling slyly at me. I'd just assured her it would be a short night, that I'd be home by ten. But she misunderstood me. "You mean you'll stay out all night with Brian? Not come back here till ten in the morning? You wicked girl! Whatever do you imagine you'll do with him for all that time?" She glanced down at my flat crotch. As always these days, each morning my genitals were carefully taped between my legs under a sanitary napkin, so I could wear tight jeans and slacks and pee like a lady and perform nothing. "Oh, I guess it's what you think he'll do with you!" she went on. "Honey, that's so very exciting! That now you imagine you want to ... do things with a man! C'mere, I want to wish you the very best!" And she grasped the back of my head with one hand and pulled my face toward hers, risking my carefully arranged hairdo, and she placed her other hand gently into the vee of my groin, into that empty space that would normally have been filled with my now-raging, taped-down, trapped cock, trying in vain to stiffen. And planted a full, wet kiss on my mouth, risking my carefully applied lipstick. "You really want to try to keep a man happy all night?" she cooed brightly. "The way you kept that woman happy, the one you ran off with? Stacy? That's exactly what I've wanted for you all along! Though come to think of it, you didn't keep Stacy all that happy, did you?" She looked at me and waited for an answer. "No," I said. "I didn't." True enough. "Well, I can tell you this now, I think. You never were that much of a man, Stevie. People were always telling me that. But for me that was a plus. You did make me happy enough until you decided I didn't matter, and ran off, and made me more miserable than I've ever been in my whole life. But I'm sure you'll do better as a woman. You aren't doing too badly. You're very attractive!" Still holding my head immobile, she leaned forward. Another plump kiss full on my mouth. Her lipstick on mine. "No, you're doing very well," she murmured. "You're a very natural woman. After tonight I suspect you'll agree with me." She then moved her other hand to the back of my neck and pulled me closer still, and kissed me yet again. "Yes, you've become a woman instinctually, sweetie," she murmured. "In your least little movements and thoughts nowadays. Only a little more to go and you're there. Just this one last little thing," One last little thing, to date a man. I was carefully wide-eyed now, though the heavy weight of mascara I'd glopped onto my eyelashes drooped like a curtain from my upper eyelids. I had to try one more time to get out of this. "Laurie, I know I made a terrible mistake and I'm terribly sorry and I do want to make it up to you and that's why I've agreed to ... to all of this. For months. And even enjoy it, lots of it. You don't need to keep reminding me." No use. "Oh, Stevie," she said in a faintly bored voice. "I know what you're about to say. You know I'm not listening." I saw only a small opening for recovering even minimal self-esteem. Trivially. But maybe I could at least avenge myself for all those times in our married life when we were preparing to go out for an evening, and my desire to kiss Laurie's gorgeous face -- she *is* gorgeous -- would reach critical mass as she sat making herself beautiful at her makeup table, and I'd reach for her and tried to press my passionate adoration of her onto her mouth. I could now say to her what she'd often then said to me. So I did. "Please, honey, you're messing my makeup," I said. She paused. So I added, "I need to look perfect tonight," to make sure she saw the parallel. Then added more solemnly, "Because I need to look real, Laurie. I'm afraid. If Brian ever tumbles to what I really am he'll beat the crap out of me." She pulled back as if not comprehending for a moment, then said, "Oh, is that your problem, Stevie? That's why you're balking when you should be excited and eager? I don't think so. No chance. What are you really, sweetheart? Almost a woman. And tonight, quite beautiful. Just keep his hands away from your crotch, so he can imagine you're truly a lady. Caressing your boobs is fine -- they're glued on this time, as you know, and they're the best. They'll feel authentic and they won't come off from manhandling. Just be sure you moan when he paws them, so he'll think they're really you." She didn't sound as if she meant for me to be exposed as a fraud at last and then punished. She wasn't setting that kind of trap. That was reassuring. But this was some ways worse. She continued, "Any time he reaches lower, distract him by taking a lively interest in his crotch. Very lively. The way we've rehearsed it." What had we rehearsed? A few weeks earlier, just after the dance date where I'd dry-humped a man, Laurie'd unexpectedly asked me to go down on my knees in front of her while she sat back, her skirt hiked up, naked from the waist down. Her pussy fully visible. I thought at first she was teasing me with what I could no longer access, and that seemed confirmed when I saw Brenda watching and simultaneously smirking. But around the second or third day, when Laurie called me to kneel between her knees yet again, Brenda had simply stood and gone elsewhere. Then Laurie'd asked me to kiss her mound and then lick her clit. Of course I was delighted to do so. This was my favorite fantasy come to life, and it was also real sex, the first I'd had with her in months. So I devoted myself to pleasing her, avidly, and succeeded. I wondered how Brenda felt about this -- Laurie's crotch was her territory now after all, no longer mine. I was poaching on it.. The following night the same thing again, but then, still breathing