Pretty free porn video

Pretty by Vickie Tern i. "Oh, I love this one -- just look here! This is it! Exquisite lace edging and a low bodice, lots of lift -- and look how discreetly the underwire is set in. It's almost invisible, yet it'll provide you all the support any girl'll ever need. This bra will absolutely make the most of your little boobies. Though come to think of it they aren't so little any more, are they?" I just looked at her, partly amused. She was teasing me, reminding me that my new C cup sized breasts looked impressive on my slim frame, that I should feel proud of them. As I did. Then I looked at the bra she was holding toward me. Exquisite indeed! Breathtaking! "This will give you a cleft as fetching as mine, easily. We really must get you more low-cut blouses, honey, really show you off to the world as you are. Here, take this in with these other things, but try it on first of all. Call me when you're ready. I'm eager to see it on you." So a minute or so later I was in the changing room and I'd taken off my blouse and slipped down the straps on my cami and changed out of the bra I was wearing and into the one Myra had just handed me. She was right, as she usually was. It was gorgeous! It shaped my ordinary, slightly droopy breasts into plump globes spilling out generously above the satin sheen of its full cups. I looked ... delectable. Show Myra and get her approval and move on. "Myra," I called out. Then, "Myra!" No answer. Had she wandered out of the store's lingerie alcove and down the aisle toward Sportswear? Out of earshot? Like last time? Or out of the store altogether? Out of the mall? Gone? Taken me on a shopping trip and then abandoned me in a changing room, yet again leaving me to cope all alone the way she did early on, when she first began outfitting me as a woman full time? These thoughts occupied me as I stood there in this new bra -- not yet mine -- awaiting her approval. The last time she'd disappeared, just as I'd begun wondering how I'd ever get home she'd returned with a darling broomstick pleated skirt printed in pale violet, just what I'd asked her to look for, a perfect match for my lilac chiffon blouse. I'd loved it at first sight and I've felt a special lift every time I've worn it. It's wonderful how looking nice can bring such cheer to a girl's heart! So I figured probably she's out there doing something similar. I didn't mind, everything she picked out for me always got me all sorts of compliments from the girls at work. And not only the girls, unfortunately -- that was why we were on this latest expedition. Ordinarily I loved to go shopping with Myra, but this time .... well, I'd put myself in Myra's hands and I had to trust that she was doing the right thing. Anyhow, by Sunday it would be over. As a shopper Myra could be unpredictable, an impulse purchaser, But she simply adored shopping for me, dressing me as her new "girlfriend, sister, lover" in whatever the latest and most tasteful fashions. My closet was packed and my drawers crammed with the things she'd gotten me during the past year, lots of it new or worn maybe only once, so far. It was as if she hoped to persuade me to stay this way by overwhelming me with its advantages. And all the new clothing was in addition to the things I'd bought myself during my earlier crossdressing days, outfits to wear only on weekends and only in the house, some of it racy or slutty but some of it in perfectly acceptable, classic styles that looked as appropriate now as anything I'd acquired since. Well, maybe a bit retro, but I could still wear lots of my earlier clothes to the office or a restaurant or club, wherever they seemed suitable. Now and then I still did. Even so, here we were again, and here I was trying on still more stuff. Often it was merely because Myra was bored or needed to cheer herself up. Sometimes she'd simply announce, "Hannah, drop whatever you're doing and grab your purse. We're going shopping!" And she'd head for the door, and I'd follow her. "This time maybe only for yourself?" I'd ask her hopefully, pausing only to check my hair, knowing I could fix my face later in the car. Then I'd add, because it was true, "Honey, I already have everything I could possibly want or need." "No girl ever has everything she could possibly want or need. Besides, I don't have a daughter to shop for, so at least let me have my fun with you." But this time she'd added the zinger, the real reason for today's excursion. "And don't forget, we do have a date tomorrow. We both want to look just right. You'll want to look ravishing. Have you decided yet which dress you'll wear?" I didn't want to think about this upcoming date, and I didn't want to look ravishing for it. "The white knit," I replied. "The one with the button front? I told you already. You remember what you replied? 'Just right for a first date, clingy and sexy and accessible but virginal.' And I said, 'I'm scarcely a virgin," and you replied, 'O yes you are! What you did as a man and what Max has done to you since then doesn't count!'" I didn't want to think about any of that, so I tried to distract her. "Myra, if you wanted a daughter to shop for, we could have had one by now," I commented. "Shall we?" "No," she replied. "We agreed some time ago -- no children until after I'm firmly established and make partner and you've decided whether you want to be a man or a woman as far as the world's concerned. Then we can start on our family. Don't worry, hon, we're nearly there I think. Meanwhile, I want you to indulge all your ... explorations, you know I want that for you -- I've said it often enough. I want to encourage you. So indulge me and let me buy these things for you. Right now what you need is a bra that will reduce this Rob of yours to gibbering idiocy when he sees it." "He isn't my Rob," I insisted. "You don't know that. Though I suspect you'll soon find out." She smiled reassuringly. I suppose. "Maybe," was all I could respond. "Why do you think he'll get to see anything that's under my blouse?" "We've talked about it. You decided that breast play was your best bet for distracting him from whatever his other designs on your virtue. So you'll surely want to flash him early and then keep him occupied with your ... upper attributes, so to speak. Don't fool yourself with false modesty, honey. By the end of the evening he'll have seen everything you have under your blouse, I imagine, and probably he'll have done everything he can with them. If that does happen, enjoy it! It's still better than letting him discover what it is you keep in your pants. As you well know!" And with that she'd turned and gone out the door. So I'd grabbed my purse and followed her once again, as always. And now once again I was in a changing room, trying on seductive bras and all kinds of other lingerie. This especially pretty confection first of all, then all the other silky, satiny, lacy items Myra'd accumulated for me to add to my collection. Including an all-satin Teddie she'd picked out saying only "Here! This one is absolutely adorable! It's you!" And over there waiting for me, a chiffon nightgown with a boucle whipped topping of a bodice -- that one I knew I wanted even before Myra spotted it. What it wouldn't do for my figure? Yet apparently she'd abandoned me here. "Myra!" I called out yet again to the empty aisles and spaces outside. Not too loud, trying not to be unseemly. I held my unbuttoned blouse up in front of me in case someone should glance in when Myra returned to earshot and opened the curtains, if she ever did. In case some man should glance in. Though what a man would be doing in the store's lingerie alcove wasn't clear. I'd haunted these places once, this very place a few times, mostly before our marriage. But that was me. And never for long, there was too much risk of being taken for a peeping tom or a pervert. I did it back then from a kind of compulsion. I loved women's intimate things even though like most men I was a little uncomfortable around them, afraid of them a little, afraid of their transformative power, afraid of my fascination with them -- they awakened profound desires within me that seemed dangerous. In those days I'd buy a choice item as casually as I could, as if instructed to do so by my 'wife,' but my hands always shook as I took them wrapped from the cashier and when I got them home and tried them on my breathing would overwhelm me. God, but I wanted to wear women's clothes! I craved them! Now, of course, modesty required that I acquire and wear them, my bras and slips and hosiery and dresses and blouses and whatever. Men's clothing no longer served my figure nor pleased my skin. Nearly a year on women's hormones had given me a woman's body, very nearly one -- certainly the smooth complexion and the curves -- and feminine underthings now felt altogether natural. Indispensable. If ordinary, even so, just a tad wicked! I loved all of it! Nevertheless this bra did embarrass me. It made my breasts look too enticing, too abundantly alluring. I didn't want to present myself to anyone with that kind of frank sexuality, much less flaunt it. But as Myra'd pointed out, I had little choice. Best do it and get it over with. The curtains parted, and there was Myra in the dressing room doorway at last. I glanced over her shoulder and saw no one, so I lowered my blouse. Myra glanced at my chest for not more than a second. "Yes. He'll love it!" was all she said. "Is it comfortable?" "Very," I said. And decided to make no more of it. But I didn't like her assumption, so I had to ask again, "What makes you think Rob will ever see it?" She showed a little impatience. "Oh, I want you to think he will whether he will or won't. Knowing she looks sexy excites a girl even more than a sexy man can excite her, sometimes. And an excited girl is always sexy. But I think he'll manage to get that far with you." She sounded smug. "Any callow high school boy can figure out how to sneak a peek and cop a feel, and Rob is far from callow. I mean, when I was fifteen and my breasts filled in, I'd let lots of boys feel me up, and every one of them thought it was his own triumph. One boy was incredible when he played with my nipples -- when he later became a concert pianist I wasn't the least bit surprised. Anyhow, I made my breasts available to boys for the same reason you will to Rob. So they wouldn't lower their expectations and reach further down and try for deeper intimacies." I was always uneasy when Myra described her sexual activities before we met, even her high school experiences. She'd done more things than I had at College -- some of it with boys and a lot more of it with girls, she'd told me that after we were married -- with girls because they were safe, and they never tattled to ruin your reputation, and also because girls know more about how to please another girl. That kind of talk excited me, so she never lost an opportunity to enlarge on it. Especially since we'd agreed to put our man/woman, husband/wife status on hold for the year and begun living as two girlfriends. Now and then Myra'd tease me by asking me all about my own equivalent same-sex experiences with boys. What boy had been the first to finger me, for example, and did I make him lick my juices off that finger afterward? Did boys ever suck my boy nipples before they became girl nipples? Did we ever 69 each other's cocks the way she and her dearest friends would 69 each other's clits? Of course I couldn't answer. There'd been no boys at all in my adolescence. I hadn't even participated in a standard Boy Scout Camp circle jerk. I tried to describe things I'd done with teenage girlfriends, but that could get complicated. Because early on my girlfriends had found out that I loved it when they dressed me in their own clothes. Then once that word about me got out, that was all they'd do with me, dress me up and take me on their different expeditions to their friends' houses. It was embarrassing and humiliating, and mostly sexless. Not during sleepovers I have to say, not at all. Sleepovers made it all worth while! The girls' parents had no idea that I was a boy, and dressed as I was there was no danger that I'd boast about my conquests to other guys, tell them which of the girls I knew put out and which didn't. So during sleepovers and sometimes other times too, as long as I was in a dress or a nightie, I could be all over and into any of my girlfriend, and any which way. They lined up for me to service them! For years! That was what permanently addicted me to dressing like a girl, I suspect. When I went away to College I couldn't quit, though it went underground. The girls at College didn't seek out effeminate guys who were safe, like me. They preferred dangerous guys who were exciting. Except for Myra. "If it were me Rob was dating," Myra went on. "that bra is certainly what I'd wear. That and the matching thong -- did you know it's part of a set? Here, keep them together. Oh, that bra really is just stunning, Hannah, it does your figure proud! Don't wear a slip or chemise over it -- why delay things when one look and your man will be unstoppable for hours? Those breasts of yours in that bra look loaded for bear. For bare, too, eventually! He'll never be able to resist you!" She grinned broadly, inviting me to agree with her. "Oh, Myra, stop teasing," I said. "My white knit dress is too clingy for a slip anyhow, as you well know, and it's plenty low-cut, as you well know, it'll expose all of me that I intend to expose. And I don't really want to be too attractive to him. This is only a first date after all, as well as the last I hope." I didn't need to remind her that accepting it had been more her idea than mine, that I felt no obligations to Rob past this one upcoming Saturday night. "Oh, Hannah, you're such a prude. On our own first date you saw almost all of me, remember? I made sure of it. I mean, I took one look at you when you first came to that dorm door. You looked so cute, with your sport jacket just a little tight and your hair so carefully combed back, and you were acting so cool and suave despite all your nervousness -- I mean, there you were, you thought you were dating royalty, I'd been the homecoming queen after all. Well, one look at you and that was it, I could tell, I knew you were the one, you would be my partner for life, no more playing around, and I had to have you at whatever cost! So I gave up my modesty to you on that first date and my virtue on the second, and it worked, I did get you!" She certainly did. She certainly had. I'd wondered then and since then if she'd done that with all her new boyfriends, but I'd never had the courage to ask her. Maybe just with me. "Here, let's just see if this fits too," she added. She handed me the Teddie to try on. "You don't really have enough of these to wear to work with your wool suits." "I'm also glad you got me, honey," I reassured her gratefully. "Though a lot of it's been at my cost too, don't forget that." "Cost? Cost to your masculinity at most, maybe. And what good was that? You've loved every minute of this, all of it! What cost? Don't forget, cross-dressing was your idea originally. You proposed it -- I was the one who wasn't so sure. But you sounded so eager and so wistful that I had to give in and let you try. And I soon got used to it, and then it turned out to be fun, something we could both do together, and I got to love it! And proposed that you give it a whole year, and you agreed, and so far it's worked out beautifully. Would you rather be wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt this very minute? And belching with the guys, and scratching your ass? Tell me you don't love it too!" I couldn't. I did love it. I stepped out of my heels and into the Teddie and wriggled it up my body, then stepped back into my heels. A girl in a Teddie wearing high heels couldn't help but be sexy, I knew that. And with my long legs and slim ankles I was a knockout! I'd have given me an erection if I wasn't already tucked up firmly between my legs. "And don't forget, whenever I've suggested other things for us to try, you've always thought them through and then you've always agreed to them. Always. Given your full consent and done it, whatever it was, and loved it, and thanked me afterward. Licking my pussy way back, and going full time last year, and along with that the facial surgery and the hormones. Just this past week trying out Max. True?" It was true. There was no need for me to reply. "You're happier by far now than you were before, and you know it." "Before when?" "Before when you were still 'Hank,' 'Henry,' the man I married. Before that night we got back from our honeymoon and we were cuddled together in bed and you confessed your shame to me. And told me -- horrors! -- told me that now and then you like to imagine you look like a girl. A girl just like me! Like the girls who dressed you up and fucked you when you were a teen. Told me that sometimes you still put on girls' clothing and make-up and so on and become Hannah and experience a strange excitement and also a deep inner peace. That you didn't know why but you loved doing it and you hoped the idea didn't disgust me. That I shouldn't worry, you aren't queer, you're only a crossdresser, and so on and so on, all the rest of it. That was so sweet, your telling me all those things so shyly, so fearfully, and so soon after our marriage! You were so embarrassed!" I remembered that moment very well. I was terrified, yet this was my wife, my new bride, and I wanted her to know everything about me that mattered, everything that could be known, no matter what. I was so sure she'd forbid me all such behavior, maybe even abandon me, that I could scarcely speak. "You had no idea that I loved it, what you were saying, that I'd sensed, I'd hoped that there was something deep inside you similar to the things I'd always loved in the women I'd been intimate with over the years. And there was! I was the happiest new bride on the planet! Of course I couldn't tell you that right away, maybe not ever. So of course I said only that I wanted to meet Hannah, that you had to introduce me to her at once. So you went to your stash in the spare room and you came back looking so worried. I was afraid you'd look ridiculous, but no, not at all, you looked quite nice I must say. Even in that absurd mini and that too-tight angora sweater, you remember that outfit? Your taste was so awful back then! You had so much to learn!" "I had some nice dresses," I said in my own defense. "And some lovely skirt and blouse combinations. I still wear some of them." "I know, honey," Myra said reassuringly. "I know. But your style sense did need ... refining. I had to deliver that ultimatum about all the slut gear you'd accumulated, remember? Either you dress like a decent woman or else you spend a night on Canal Street patrolling the sidewalk with other girls and other men too who like to dress in satin minis and net stockings. And that persuaded you." Yes. I remembered. No more net stockings. No more flimsy halter tops and micro-minis. The last thing I wanted was to go out dressed like a woman who has to cope with the rough trade who frequented the red-light district. Myra was right, though. I no longer missed my whore's outfits. Certainly not since this year long full scale ... trial began. Almost a year ago. The Teddie proved to be a good fit in the crotch -- I'm a little tall for some of them, so I can never be sure until I've tried them on. Myra watched me bend way over to snap the fasteners between my legs, my long hair briefly obscuring her view. Then when I straightened up she saw I was still well tucked, that I had a woman's crotch. "Good!" she said spontaneously. "Perfect!" Then she resumed. "Yes, your wardrobe did need refining," she reminisced, her eyes dreaming. "Though you did learn, Hannah, and very quickly too, I must say." "This isn't too sexy?" I asked her, a little concerned. The Teddie's legs formed a lacy arrow pointing straight toward my snatch. Or would have if I'd had one. "Yes, it certainly is!" she replied, glancing again at the way the Teddy concealed my male parts and implied a woman's parts. "Very sexy indeed!" She lifted her eyes and looked directly, reassuringly, into mine. "Honey, whatever you've done since then toward acting out your feminine leanings, whatever we've done together, we've both loved it! And we both know it! Would you want it any other way now?" "I can't have it any other way now, Myra," I said quietly. "What you call my little boobies aren't so little any more. And my eyes and my nose and jaw are nowhere near their original manly proportions, not since I went in for that slight facial 'adjustment' as you called it. When the swelling went down there I was, exactly what you wanted and too pretty to be anything but a girl. There's no way I can go back to looking manly next month when the trial year's up. Not a normal man anyhow." Myra smiled her superior, possessive smile, the one that always let me know I'd lost the argument as she always knew I would. "Oh, you could if you wanted to, you darling. You'd be better than manly. You'd be a cutie-faced sweetie-pie doll of a man," she said. "The kind I've always loved above all others, and the very one I love most of all. You really are a doll now, you know. And I know you love your new face almost as much as I do. I mean, look how much time you devote to making it up each morning, and checking it all through the day to make sure everything's still perfect. And the elaborately girly-girly way you wear your hair -- that was your choice remember, not mine. You really have become the vainest creature I've ever met!" She looked at me not at all critically. Rather, proudly. Lovingly. I suppose that was true. I was surprised and a little apprehensive, but I did love how I looked after my facial operation. It was just going to be ... inconvenient that I now looked like a dishy babe, not at all like a guy, that was all. If I tried to go back to being a man, that is. If I tried going back to my former life. "Hannah, you're haven't answered my question yet. Would you want it any other way? It's been fun, hasn't it? And won't it be?" "Yes, it is," I said. I hoped she wouldn't notice that I still wasn't answering. I didn't know the answer myself. Probably I wouldn't want it any other way. But did I have a choice now? Had I ever had a choice? Not in some ways. Again, quickly, to change the subject. "You know," I said to her. "I'm still very uneasy about this date with Rob. I still don't see why ...." "All part of the game, sweetheart, along with everything else. You need to try out that part of yourself too, to see if that's what it takes to make you a complete woman. Every girl knows how to turn on the flirtation and then turn it off again, if she wants to turn it off. Remember, it was you who proposed this full time thing. You're the one who wanted to try living like a woman for longer than just the occasional weekend at home, so you could see for yourself what it was really like." "Yes, but that was supposed to be only during our vacation last year. Maybe for only two weeks tops. I didn't dream you'd think that it needed a year." "But you agreed when I pointed out that two weeks wouldn't tell you anything. That being a woman was a commitment, something we all get used to. That you wouldn't feel you're genuinely a woman until you've lived in the dailiness of it. Until you've lost all sense of the novelty. Until you're living as women really do live and doing what women really do, all the time. That you had to give it at least a year, not just two weeks. A full year you could take for granted with no looking back, as if it were a full lifetime. I told you that and showed you how we could work it out, how we could manage the family finances and everything, and you didn't say no." I didn't. The idea had a certain appeal, in fact. A very strong appeal. To become utterly, un-self-consciously feminine? To feel altogether authentic? To really indulge my femininity, to be a woman all the time instead of seeming to be one sometimes? To awaken as one and go to sleep as one, week after week for months? To have everyone I knew assume that I was what I seemed, that the man I'd been had gone somewhere else? I thought Myra was merely daydreaming aloud, that such a miracle couldn't be arranged. "And when I offered to help you, to get you a full time job as a woman when you were ready, and provide you with a cover identity and everything, you not only agreed, you were enthusiastic. And grateful? Every night in bed, good heavens, honey, you overwhelmed me! No wife has ever been so passionately loved as during those first few weeks after we began, when everything was so new and exciting to you! When you couldn't be feminine enough! You were insatiable! You ... well, there's no doubt about it, you can't tell me you didn't really want to try it out." I did. I was. I had. I'd taken a year's "compassionate" leave from my old job and begun dressing daily. Then slowly, at first only at night but after a few weeks freely, I'd gone out among other people. At first only with Myra, fearful of exposure and suspicious of everyone who walked past me. Then one hot summer day she'd sent me out to the 7-11 in a T-shirt that flaunted my breast forms, wearing tight jeans and flip flops and nothing else, no make-up and no special hair style. When I protested that everyone would think I was a freak, a man with huge knockers, she simply said "You're you. If they think you're someone else, get used to it." But no one who glanced at me seemed to care, not even to notice anything odd, and after that I went forth confidently on my own. Though always dressed appropriately. I developed my own quite adequate womanly voice. We shopped together and began filling in my wardrobe for the year, and then because I was free all day while Myra worked, I shopped by myself. And learned the language, the gestures, the moves, the special vocabularies, everything. Until everything became second nature, intuitive, part of me, of how I thought and moved. As a shopper, I was as knowledgeable as any other woman. That was when I submitted to my facial surgery, and then also a carefully calibrated hormone regimen. On Myra's suggestion, though I have to admit it, I consented fully. I'm not altogether proud of myself about the reasons for starting hormone therapy, even though I'm quite pleased with the result. Recently we were sitting in bed together reading before lights out, and I began worrying yet again about how irreversible my physical changes seemed to be, my surgery and the hormone-induced changes in my body. How I'd cope when this trial year as a woman ended. So we'd begun discussing why I'd consented to all of the physical changes. How in the end they were inevitable. She was sympathetic but surprised that I wondered about it. "Why, the hormones were really to enhance your own pleasure in yourself. To soften you and round you out. And haven't they? There was that time I found you fully made up and gorgeously dressed and standing in front of a mirror and ... and you were fondling yourself, and you dropped your skirt so embarrassedly when you saw me standing there watching. Even under your foundation I could see your face was flushed with embarrassment." "Yes," I said. That had been a humiliating moment. Worse. It turned out that Myra had been standing there for some time watching me masturbate to the gorgeous image of myself in the mirror, one hand on a nipple and the other on my cock. The whole time carefully thinking through how she should feel about it. "I was ambivalent. I wanted you to feel excited about becoming a woman, but I knew that couldn't last, that you had to end up feeling serene about it, pleased, but thinking it's the most ordinary thing imaginable. So for a month or two I encouraged your excitement. I told you that was what you should do every time you dressed as a woman, enjoy the sight of yourself and maybe incidentally relieve yourself of your unsightly crotch bulges for the next few hours. Masturbate if you want to, but afterward, during the let-down that always follows, always remain dressed and made up. Because you're still a woman, even when it isn't exciting." She'd said that, early on. Urged it on me in fact when I embarrassedly demurred. Even insisted on watching me and encouraging me the next few times I dressed up. "I can hardly keep my hands off you," she'd said at one point. "But I know it's important for you to do it all. It's part of your own self-acceptance as a woman." So every morning I dressed myself for the day, I jerked off. The woman in the mirror jerked me off as I felt her up. Myra no longer bothered to stay to see. The hormones gradually gave me a figure I loved, real breasts and hips and a real woman's ass. Sometimes the sight of me put me into an erotic frenzy. Yet the hormone regimen transformed me so carefully that I never lost my ability to achieve erections. To make love to Myra. She wouldn't hear of anything else! "That was how you preserved the excitement of dressing like a woman and yet got accustomed to it as a matter of course. And why you agreed to your nose and jaw job, and the other things, so you'd be prettier in the mirror when you looked at yourself every morning. Remember? So the girl who ... relieved you of your sperm each morning would look so seductive you could hardly breathe when you came, that was the main reason. And your pretty new face was especially helpful once you started going out on your own, worrying about surprises from bystanders. You had to look real, absolutely real with no doubt about it whatever." "I looked real enough to me." "You forget, you weren't ever the ultimate judge. Nor was I. All the people you passed in the street were the judges. I could see from the outset that a few facial adjustments would be helpful, at least to assure that no one would ever imagine you aren't what you seemed to be. You weren't so sure, and it was your face, so I let it pass at first -- you really and truly had to want those modifications. Eventually there came a time when you did, when you practically begged me to arrange it. That awful afternoon." I remembered. A hideous incident at the Mall soon after I'd started going out as a woman full time, still nervous, still trying to build up my confidence, still unsure whether I should have taken on this year's commitment. I'd wanted to forget I was a man and I'd almost succeeded. "There were those weeks of watching you try to accomplish with make-up alone what no make-up can possibly do, make a broad face narrow and a long nose look pert. But then came the day in the mall when we encountered those teenage bullies and their girlfriends, and right off they recognized that you were a man dressed like a girl. And they seemed to have nothing to do, so they mocked and taunted you out loud, and followed us into store after store and wouldn't quit. Remember that?" I surely did! "And everyone passing by began to look at you with pity or disgust as if you were only one more self-deceived weirdo. It was a nightmare. I felt so terrible for you! We tried to escape together to a ladies' room, but one of those monsters called out to a mall cop that there was a man in the ladies' room, and that forced us to leave, to flee for our car and call ourselves lucky that we could drive away without getting arrested. Oh, God, how awful that was! I proposed right then and there that we fix your face so there could be no doubt about you and you agreed almost as quickly. We called for appointments that very afternoon!" She smiled. "And since then there's been no mistaking you for a man, sweetheart! No way! That was when you really did become my darling doll!" Having said that, she turned toward me and kissed me, closing her eyes and savoring it. I kissed her back. Tenderly. Fondly. I couldn't doubt that Myra loved my pretty face as much as she'd loved my handsome face, I had no worries about that. Maybe even more. She reached for my soft breasts, and I reached for hers. "You've loved all of this," she murmured. "I'd watch you admiring yourself in the mirror sometimes while your hands moved over yourself in a kind of entranced harmony. You couldn't wait to make yourself beautiful each morning and then get to fondling your nipples and your ... member." She wasn't wrong, though I still felt a little ashamed to admit it. She smiled such a satisfied smile. Though she'd looked at me often enough before, she did yet again. My breasts were fully liberated as I sat there -- they were sagging slightly in my nightie but hanging in there, not quite needing support. "You have a beautiful body," she said quietly. "It's now so very feminine. And with your increased nipple sensitivity you now match me orgasm for orgasm. Do you regret what those hormones have done to you?" "Well, no, honey. But I have been thinking. When the year's up, and that's pretty soon now, what with one thing or another the changes to my face and my body do seem to be irreversible." "Maybe. Probably. So? It was a year's trial, sweetheart. Not necessarily limited to a year. A trial period to see if you'd want more time still, maybe even want to remain a woman for the rest of your life. All I asked for was 'at least' a year, remember? Long enough for you to feel you really were what you seemed to be. The hormones eventually helped there too. Eventually they reduced your sexual excitement, your prancing about like an imitation woman, so you felt ... well, more proper, more quietly entitled to be what you look like and what people think you are. More authentic. That was their purpose too. To induce a change of attitude." True again. It had worked, in some ways. I'd become much more serene and self-accepting. I loved my new life. "At first your ... excitement seemed desirable. But I began to realize that it was the man in you who was excited, erotically aroused by the prospect of dressing up in pretty new things and then making your face and hands equally pretty. The man in you kept thanking me over and over, telling me how it was a such a privilege, how you loved it, and so on. You'd breathe hard and stiffen whenever you pulled on a plain pair of nylon panties, for goodness' sake. That wasn't right. So eventually I had to tell you, feeling proud to be a woman is one thing but being aroused by it is another thing altogether. You had to get though that fetishistic phase, your 'autogynephiliac' phase as they call it. And you did, eventually. I suppose eventually it was the hormones that calmed you down and gave you a more womanly sensibility. Women don't usually look into a mirror and feel an urge to fondle themselves, to masturbate the way you did, not often anyhow. They use mirrors to check that they look their best, and looking their best is what they find most satisfying. Being a woman isn't a game, darling, it's what we are." I'd had nothing to say. She was right. "You remember how it was at first? You were so enamoured of your new face, you took such pleasure decorating it, that you neglected everything else. You scarcely bothered with your hair, and you neglected all sorts of skin care. You paid no attention to your clothes -- once you actually came down wearing two different plaids! And those huge rubber boobs you used before your real ones came in. Women simply do not display themselves like that, not decent women! That was why I suggested that you weren't being feminine, you were caricaturing femininity. That was when I suggested that maybe the whole experiment should be called off. You were horrified and came to your senses and agreed to moderation and to whatever your shots and pills would provide naturally. As eventually they did." I remembered. The disgust exhibited by strangers in the mall had been bad enough, but Myra's whenever I went overboard was worse. She smiled. "When real changes began to show and your nipples enlarged and began to poke out and your butt got round and so on, that was when you got to where you were taking it all more or less in stride. That was when you began to feel like a true woman, I think." Actually, she was wrong, I didn't take it in stride. I was still overjoyed by my new shape. Ecstatic. Not just satisfied but delighted when my breasts came in and I found I could fill an A and then a B cup And now? Some mornings when I got dressed I was in seventh heaven! I still made love to myself in the mirror. My whole body matched my face. I felt ... pretty! I was a little ashamed to tell Myra that. She'd walked in on me once recently when I was feeling myself up, and I was sure she thought I was still being a man excited by my breasts instead of a woman merely enjoying them. But she just smiled at me. She figured I was only performing an ordinary adolescent girl's self-examination, something she'd done too at that stage of her development, she said. "Do feel proud of them," she concluded, congratulating me. "I am." "Of yours or mine?" I asked her, still embarrassed that she'd caught me feeling myself up. "Both. You heard the minister say it, husband and wife are one flesh. We belong to each other. Is there a difference?" "No," I said. Wonderful, she was joking! I joked back. "I'll see your two tits and raise you two more." "You already have raised two more," she replied, looking them over. "As long as underneath all four of our tits our two hearts beat as one." And then she kissed me. "Honey, I think you now know as much as you need to know. Transition's over. It's time you started living your life fully. Without giving it another thought." So I did, with several months yet to go of this trial year. My graduation present was an all-day pampering and makeover session at an extremely expensive salon. I emerged a brand new honey blonde with bright red fingertips and toenails and almost no eyebrows at all, properly and persuasively groomed, fit to be seen and accepted by any and all other women -- Myra cautioned me always to think "other" women, since I was now one of them and nothing but -- and ready for my new career. What career? Something real easy but distinctly feminine, she thought. I'd been an account executive for a few years, as Myra still was. So she'd sat me down and in two days she'd taught me how not to take initiatives, how not to think too intently about anything, how instead to look up brightly at anyone who approached my desk and await their leads, how to smile and arrange appointments graciously, and how to be deferential to important visitors, that is, to anyone with an appointment. I was already computer-literate and a speed-typist, so that wasn't a problem. Then she'd taken me to an Import-Export office in her building and introduced me to her friend Dotty Wainright, a section manager who needed a secretary-receptionist who was not so bright she'd be bored by routine work, filing and so on. Mainly one who looked as chic as she did. Myra vouched for me, and I passed the interview on the strength of my hairdo and manicure, and I was hired. Now I was officially a woman, a nine to five woman at the office as well as at home. It was restful. I had few responsibilities and faced no major decisions. For a few days it was novel, then dull, but my mind gradually abandoned its old crisis-managing habits. Something unexpected happened? Inform my boss, it wasn't my concern. I found it soothing. At first I held back shyly from the other secretaries, but a few kept urging me to join one of their circles for lunch, so I went, and I began to enjoy listening to their gossip. It was fun, a kind of daily reality soap opera with new episodes each time! Sandra for example had a gay brother who was constantly falling in love with the wrong kinds of guys -- "every week, seduced and abandoned yet again," she marveled. "He sounds like me when I was 16, but he's 27, you'd think he'd know something about guys by now!" Marcia was sympathetic. "From what I've seen, gay guys are like us, they can be sweet or bitchy, but the poor dears don't look like us so they're always at a disadvantage with guys," she said. "Oh, no they go for guys who like other guys," Stacy commented. "And they take care of their bodies and their appearance same way we do, but they like hard muscles same as us, not soft curves. Most of us I mean." She glanced at Becky, then finished, "In the end it's all holes and poles, same as with us, but they come equipped with one of each and we don't, so they have a big advantage." Becky and Tallie were an item together but wanted no one outside their circle to know it. Tallie told me the girls all wondered about me and Myra too, but were too polite ever to ask. I told her I was too polite to say, and smiled at her, and she was satisfied with that answer. But it started me thinking -- did I want to be known as a lesbian? No, but did I have a choice? Was I one? I felt no attraction to men. None. Carrie felt nothing but attraction to men. Any. She was an habitually straying wife, a sex addict in a way, and each Monday she'd tell us all about her weekend gymnastics. Other days too -- sometimes she'd miss one of our lunches because of a lunchtime quickie with some guy at a nearby motel, then she'd explain in detail the next day. I'd had no idea men did the same thing in so many different ways. Angie was another wife who kept a string of guys on the side, some gentle and docile, some tough and brutal. She invited them home now and then according to her mood. Asked whether her husband objected, she shrugged and commented that he had indeed objected, at first. But now that he had a couple of boyfriends of his own he couldn't possibly object to hers. "He likes guys?" Becky asked. "You married a gay man?" "He wasn't when I married him," she said. Persuading him to accept boyfriends of his own had been difficult, she explained, but she was determined to have no trouble from him about her boyfriends, and to give him his own seemed the best way. So she'd tried first hypnotism, then blackmail. Finally she met a Mafioso under-Don who'd subjected him to two weeks of forced training in a waterfront brothel. That turned the trick. "He spent those two weeks fucking anyone any which way, day and night, in fear for his life," she said. "That changed his attitudes. Now he looks forward to his dates the way I do." And she added smugly, "He knows he has no choice. If he balks they may snip off his other ball the way they did his first, and then he'll have to sing soprano all the rest of his life. That's what he thinks, anyhow." "Wasn't that a little bit cruel?" Becky didn't approve. "Maybe. Actually, I think he likes it now, sucking cocks. I know he likes swallowing cum no matter where he finds it, whether it's in a guy or in me. You never have to ask him twice." She smiled to herself, and we quickly realized we'd better change the subject. One day we found ourselves telling each other about our own very first crushes and our first heartbreaks. Luckily time ran out before my turn came, or I'd have had to tell about Myra's as if they were mine, and I'd always found Myra's love life before she met me embarrassing to think about. She'd loved women and men, and she'd come to prefer women. Clearly she'd come to prefer me as a woman, though a woman with a little extra. A few of the women had kids in school or daycare, and we all sympathized with their many anxieties, though of course I had nothing to contribute there either. Even so, gradually I became one of the girls. It was nice! Pleasant. I'd giggle with them and sympathize with them and nibble my salad, and then I'd go home at the end of the day leaving my desk neat and orderly with nothing left over, my mind cleared for whatever the next day would bring. Life was so much easier than it had been. I felt a little sorry for Myra, who never seemed fully caught up with her work. Needless to say, I'd already taken over most of our household chores. ii. More months passed, and we were now near the end of the year's trial, and here I was uneasily buying bras and lingerie with Myra in preparation for this event I was no way anticipating. This first date with a man. "You did want to be a woman," Myra repeated, staring at me. "You didn't want it any other way." I came back from my daydreaming. I was still in a department store dressing room, and I'd just finished trying on the new lingerie Myra thought I needed. That gorgeous bra for openers. "Not exactly," I began. She wasn't listening. "The Teddie's gorgeous," she added. "And now that you've finished fitting those other bras we can move on. Dress and let's go. That nightgown can't help but look beautiful on you, and I can see you love it, so we'll take it without further ado. Honey, you're now exactly what you wanted to be, aren't you?" "In a way," I said. "I did agree to try to be a woman. I did agree to live like one for a whole year at least, and the more I thought about it the more I wanted it. I have felt grateful to you for making all the arrangements." Now Myra looked worried. My past tense usages implied that there might be another shoe waiting to drop, a "but" sentence I meant to utter at any moment that would reneg and destroy all our present agreements and understandings. It never came. But I liked the idea that she felt unsure of me. It kept her on her best behavior. Time to go. Now that my boobs were full-sized I didn't dare go anywhere without a bra, so I picked up my own, the one I'd put on this morning, and put it back on as women do, leaning forward and deftly catching my boobs in their cups and then clipping the band in back. It had taken me months of stretching exercises for my shoulder joints to develop that kind of flexibility, and when I first succeeded Myra had applauded. Now? Nothing, it was routine. Like almost everything else feminine for me these days. I slipped on my blouse and tucked it into my skirt. And replaced my cardigan, and for fun buttoned the bottom three buttons to tighten it just enough to display my breasts as the feminine outcroppings they were. Myra hadn't been wrong, I was proud of them, and I didn't mind letting the world know it. We were finished with the fitting room -- the prospective purchases were all satisfactory, and we were both pleased. Myra continued our conversation -- she always knew what was on my mind. "If the irreversibility of your face and figure are bothering you, babydoll, think of it this way. It was necessary, you did it, and what's done is done! Some things can be done to change some things back a little. Some things. But is it all so bad? Maybe you won't want to change anything back! You're having so much more fun this way. You're even beginning to enjoy new ways to relate to your former sex, and I must say, it can't be news to you that I think it's about time you found out how you really do feel about them!" "My former sex?" I asked. I was afraid I knew exactly what she meant. "What do you mean by that?" She ignored my question. Myra really did think of me as a woman now, not as a man, I realized that must be it. A woman with an advantage, a penis she found quite satisfying. She'd had inclinations toward women before we met, and now she felt she had the best of both worlds wrapped up in one world, me. Did she hope I felt the same about her, now that I'd lived on the other side for nearly a year? That I loved being a woman for her, and love her all the more for helping me complete my own passage into womanhood? I imagine she did. But did she worry that she was depriving me of relationships with men, my primary prerogative as a woman? It sometimes seemed so. She sometimes seemed to feel guilty about it. "I've seen you flirt with the men in your office," she said. "Enjoying your attractiveness. That's what put me in mind of the one female experience we haven't yet arranged for you. The kind you need to arrange for yourself. I think it's long overdue, and I'm very pleased that you've agreed to it." "Yes." I said it reluctantly. I suppose my habitual wide-eyed stare when a man was speaking to me seemed flirtatious to her, not merely vacuous as intended, and my receptionist's incandescent smile the same. But it was also true that I enjoyed the attention pretty young girls get from men, their implicit power to make men extend themselves and show off, and I'd very tentatively begun exploring those powers. But to be seriously interested in men? Unthinkable! "Myra," I said categorically. "I've agreed to a date, nothing more." I had agreed. It was true. An odd kind of date. Rob was an accountant with an affiliated company in the same building who occasionally accompanied us girls to lunch and sat among us and made a play for one or another of us. A few times he'd stopped by my desk at noon and asked me to join him, just the two of us, so I'd done just that. He enjoyed female companionship, and had asked most of the girls I worked with, even the married ones, so it didn't seem exceptional. He was ingratiating and good company and all that, and it was pleasant sitting opposite him as he went on and on about different things of interest to him, as I'd done too during my own former days as a man. I was careful to listen to him closely as girls do, or seem to do, and now and then when I had to, to ask him some question implying that I was interested. Not too pertinent, since I was supposed to be something of a blonde ditz. "You mean baseball players don't fake it the way wrestlers do?" I asked him once when he'd described how a pitched fast ball to the balls had left a baseball player writhing on the ground, unable to stand much less proceed to first base. Then "Oh!" was what I responded to whatever he answered me. When I had to seem able to make intelligent conversation, to deliver the kind of repartee that keeps a man interested yet at a distance, I'd say "Yes, but what did that really mean?" That was also an old, reliable response when I hadn't been paying attention to him at all, used on me quite a few times when I was being a man, until I'd caught on. The other girls often joked about how easily men are misled by a shrewd question or baffled by a ditzy one, and I found it was true. In this case the same question could be both. I never expected that Rob would ask me for a proper date, but one Friday lunch as we were all returning to work he did just that. "This is fun, Hannah," he said. "Dinner and maybe a movie tomorrow, so we can pick up where we just left off? Dancing afterward? Say, I get you at 7:00?" I was too shocked to begin to guess what he really had in mind, so I turned him down, a previous engagement and so on, though I tried to look ruefully regretful. That afternoon the other girls in the office told me exactly what he had in mind, what to expect, what he'd expect. The ones who'd said yes to him several times told me with smug satisfaction what he'd been like. "He's big," Jennifer said. "You can hold it in both your hands and there's still lots left over." So the next time he asked me I turned him down flat. Just "No, Rob," and no reason given. Sex with a man was not my thing. I told Myra that night, who listened with her eyes bright, apparently amused, but said nothing. He persisted, and I said 'No' a few more times. Then one day he said, "I hear the woman you live with, your house mate, she's almost as attractive as you are. I've asked around. She was once married, isn't that right?" I said nothing. Just looked at him with my non-committal wide-eyed look. Girls get away with that, it's easy. "It seems she doesn't date these days, no more than you do. So let me take both of you out to dinner and then dancing afterward. Completely my treat, I insist. If you must, we'll make it an early night and I'll get you both home by midnight. OK? Since you seem to be uneasy about me, your friend -- 'Myra' is it? -- Myra can chaperone us. Or if she's uneasy you can chaperone her. Either way we can all three relax for an evening, and I'll get to enjoy the company of two lovely women who have been much too reclusive. Hannah, you do need to live a little!" This took me aback. I couldn't turn down this kind of offer without consulting Myra. So I told him I'd ask her and let him know. "No, I will," he said. "I'll call her today!" "No, don't!" I said alarmed. But he didn't reply. Myra volunteered nothing when she got home, and I felt uncomfortable raising the issue. But it arose that night when Myra and I were lying together in bed. My prick was stuffed inside her but both of our bodies were unmoving. Her fingers were meanwhile tracing my enlarged nipples and teasing the tips of my breasts. We often began our lovemaking this way, quietly enjoying the immediacy of each other's bodies. As she caressed me and I felt her wet pussy pressing in on me from all sides, grasping me, barely sliding on my barely adequate erection, I was in heaven, and my tensions slowly rose. Myra kept perfectly still while my body rose slowly higher toward the erotic bliss I craved with increasing intensity. When I was one huge mass of yearning flesh, she suddenly spoke. "Seen Rob again?" she asked. I had to tell her of Rob's proposal. He probably had already. So I did. She asked how I'd answered him. I told her what I'd said, that I would have to ask her. She nodded, satisfied, then told me that he'd called her at work and that she'd answered him the same way. Promised only that we would discuss it. She was silent for a moment. Then said, "Hannah, you're an attractive woman. Don't you ever wonder why women like feeling attractive?" "To satisfy themselves," I replied. "Their own expectations." "Of course. But why else?" "I don't know what you mean," I said, though what she meant was now clear enough. "I mean, haven't you wondered what it would be like to be with a man?" "I work with men all the time. I once was one." It sounded odd to be putting it that way. As if I didn't intend to be one again. Well, not the kind I had been, anyhow, for sure. "I mean be with a man romantically. Maybe even sexually." "No." "You don't feel cheated, honey? Looking the way you do and yet never ... using your looks?" "You satisfy my every desire," I declared passionately, hoping to end this line of conversation. "Those you don't satisfy yourself," she pointed out. "I guess." She was thoughtful. She seemed a little conflicted in fact, as her face twisted and she seemed about to speak, then changed her mind. Finally, she said, "Look. Why don't we both take him up on it? Go out with him on a double date, both of us?" I told her why I'd refused his earlier offers -- the other girls were unanimous that dates with Rob always end up with sex. I didn't want that. "Why, is he that bad at it?" Myra was teasing me. I hoped. "They don't say so," I had to reply honestly. "Not at all." Then I was again silent. Myra held herself stone still, my cock still marinating motionless inside her wetness. Then I felt her cunt spasm. And again. She was thinking about something she found exciting. Rob? Her fingertips never stopped dancing across my nipples. Then she commented casually that dealing with men, dating, was something all women did -- that I really needed to know what it was like and that I shouldn't deny myself. That we should accept his offer. "Don't worry," she reassured me. "This first time I'll look after you." "Myra," I started to protest, wondering at her phrasing. 'This first time?' "You need to know how complete a woman you are. Maybe you're still the way you were as a man, and prefer women. Maybe you're like most women and crave only men. Either way, nothing will happen with Rob if you don't want it to happen," she said simply. "But you need to know. We both need to know. I sometimes wonder if it's the man in you who wants be a woman for the novelty of it, or if it's the woman in you who needs it to complete herself. How would the man in you feel of you went out with another man and enjoyed yourself with him? Maybe you are gay, after all?" At last I agreed. I wanted us to stop talking, I was being driven out of my mind by the way she was caressing my boobs. "OK," I said, "We'll go together with him!" Instantly her cunt squeezed my cock tight as if in a sincere, grateful handshake. Then suddenly, like a python, she wrapped her legs tight around me and once I was secure in her toils she gave a mighty lurch at my groin with her pelvis. Then again. One more lusty thrust and I was over the top, gone, and I exploded, and pumped and pumped myself deep into her well, my mind suddenly evaporated, gone. My cock kept pumping and throbbing into her -- I couldn't stop it! "Mmmm, you are looking forward to this date, aren't you?" she said as my penis continued to pulse inside her. I wasn't, but I'd agreed, so it was settled. "It'll be just like this, baby, only better. I'll help. You'll see. Every girl's first date should be something she remembers all her life!" "For me it's only a half-date," I said. "He's dating both of us." "You silly," Myra said. "He's only using me to get to you. To reassure you. He told me as much. To keep things simple and yet keep him interested, I told him that I only go with women nowadays, though you might be bi-curious. He didn't seem discouraged. Don't worry honey, I'll be with you every moment. And I promise you again, nothing will happen you can possibly regret." I tried to find consolation in that promise, but felt edgy even so. The next afternoon Rob stopped by my desk to ask whether my girlfriend and I had decided anything. As if indifferently, pretending to file some papers in a lower drawer of my desk, I told him yes, we'd talked about it. I then looked up at him -- again with my wide-eyed stare -- and told him that sure, Myra and I will be happy to enjoy the evening with him and we thanked him for offer. Both of us. I emphasized 'both' to tell him that if he hoped to be alone with me at some point, well, it just wasn't going to happen. I hoped he'd find that unsatisfactory, so I could free him from his offer in good conscience. But instead he took me firmly by the shoulders and leaned over and before I could anticipate anything he kissed me on my mouth -- lightly, maybe even politely. Then told me he'd be by for us both next Saturday at 7:30pm. "We'll have dinner and dance at a very nice place," he told me. "A little expensive, not too formal but proper, not at all wild. Not this time." He grinned as if knowingly and then disappeared down the hall. It was all too quick for me to react. I checked. He'd kissed me so lightly he hadn't even smudged my lipstick. I re-did my mouth anyway. When I told Myra, she sighed. "He's skilled," she said. "He was also telling us both how to dress for the evening I hope you noticed. Proper dinner dresses but not long gowns, and a few pieces of our better jewelry as accents but not massed as bling. Honey, you'll need to be prepared for anything. The kiss tells you there will certainly be smooching later in the evening. Maybe other forms of oral sex too. He knows I'll be there the whole time, so it won't be anything too heavy or shocking, but under circumstances like these you'd do well to prepare for anything at all." I was speechless. She looked steadily at me. "Honey, I'm talking about sex. Men do have sex with women. They lay devious plans to arrange it. He's a man, and he's got plans. You're a woman. Do the arithmetic!" I felt betrayed and my face showed it. "You said...," I began to splutter. "I said I'd be with you the whole time," Myra replied. "And I will be. I will not abandon you. But honey, think of the possibilities! He's invited two girls together on a date and we both accepted. Maybe he thinks we accepted because we want him to do something with both of us. Maybe he wants to watch us make out with each other, something like that? We'll have to deal with whatever his expectations." She then added in a quiet way, half to herself. "You have a lot to learn about men, honey." Then with a huge smile, she turned to face me and said, "Oh, sweetie, believe me, you're bound to love this! I know you, you're far more a girl than a boy, and this will confirm it! Every girl does something with a fella sooner or later, at least once. For you it's later, that's all!" "I'll love what?" I was afraid I knew the answer. This was not what I'd bargained for. "Right now, the excitement of not knowing what'll happen, but anticipating that something wonderful may happen, that's what you'll love. I do already! You'll see soon enough!" That night I paid scant attention at first, but I did notice that when we began to make love Myra lubricated her index finger, first in my mouth and then when it was dripping with saliva, in herself. She'd occasionally frigged herself before, so I wasn't surprised -- I was always the eventual beneficiary. But then as I lay down between her upraised knees and pushed my prick into her liquid cunt, she smiled and pushed her drenched finger directly into me. Into my butt. My asshole. Past my sphincter. It slipped right in. A surprise! She was frigging me, in a way! Then she simply held it there. "Out of one cunt and into another," she said laughing. Then, her voice got more concerned, "Feel good?" "Odd," I replied. It seemed tight at first, but then, I have to admit it, it felt quite comfy. As if it belonged. "Yes," I had to answer her in all honesty. "It feels good." But as I began to suspect what she was up to, I added firmly, "But it isn't going to happen." "Oh, hush," she whispered. "All's fair in love and war. You've got first refusal, every girl does. So relax and let your pussy enjoy its first finger fuck!" Why not? I began the slow, delicious, rhythmic sliding of my penis in and out of her, and quickly realized I was fucking myself too -- each time I pushed into Myra her finger pulled nearly out of my backside, my pussy as she'd called it, and each time I pulled back from her I snugged further against her finger until it had reburied itself deep in my guts. In and out. In for a deeper, longer time! Then out. "Oh!" I said in a higher pitch than my normal, high-pitched woman's voice. Then "Ohhh!" again. It was surprisingly pleasant! Then better than that! As my erotic tensions rose I grew breathless. I couldn't tell which part of me felt more needy and yet more satisfied, which yearned more to peak, my penis or my pussy, I mean my asshole. No, my pussy. Her finger found a place deep inside I had not known could create such pleasure. I rose higher toward some ultimate joy until at last the tension stretched endlessly. And then broke, and I came. My sphincter clamped down on her finger and my cock held itself rigid deep within her cunt, then released, repeatedly, and with each pulse my ass gripped and released and gripped her finger yet again as if in gratitude and affection. And lo