And Now For Something Completely Different free porn video

Despite the title, readers who like the kinds of stories I like will not find this one unlike those kinds. Not for those below appropriate ages or states of mind. AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT by Vickie Tern We were married, but the last few years I'd seen very little of him. He'd concentrated on running the company and driving it to financial success, with no time for hobbies or side interests. Then precipitously, as decisively as with any of his other business decisions, he retired. Because he could, as he put it. But it turned out he was utterly unprepared for a life of leisure. So almost immediately he found himself with nothing to do, and fell into a depression. I'd seen it happen to other men. Decent, hard working men who reach the prime of their lives and then find themselves irrelevant. They're financially secure enough. They've done it all in the right order -- study, career, kids, work, more work. Then when their kids are gone they work even harder. Their one remaining debt to nature isn't due for years. So they retire to enjoy themselves and then they realize they don't know how. These are your best years, their friends tell them. Friends who are trying to persuade themselves of that, and it's true that friends who are still working envy them. But if these are the best years, best for what? They look around and ask what it's all been about? What lies ahead? More of same? No, lacking what's long gone, their original zest for life, less of same. Then they get depressed. Why? No one thing. Everything. Everything they might look forward to looks like everything they've put behind them. There are no new challenges, no new heights to climb. There's the fitness center of course, but their out-of-shape knees and shoulders complain, and so does their morale when they find that their bodies aren't what they once were. There's sports on TV, and clipping the grass on the front lawn until it resembles a billiard table. But these aren't passionate preoccupations, things you can look forward to, like anticipating that moment when you asked her to marry you, or when you stared through the glass at your first baby, or when you nailed down that enormously profitable business deal and walked out on the street with the signed papers in your briefcase. It all seems down hill. And that's the problem, it is all down hill. Who wouldn't get depressed? If you're a housewife it's different -- we're more resourceful, we find things to do, we have ways to get by. Whatever else, we still run our homes. I left a lively career in journalism when I was young, and devoted myself altogether to my family, and I'm not sure that was wise. There was a really bad time when the kids grew up and left the nest and there was only George, and George was spending all his days and evenings at the office, and I was ... well, just home. But women can always indulge themselves, pamper themselves, I did and I got over it. Now I fill my days with volunteer work, helping at the community center, fundraising, and so on. And I take adult courses, learning things I don't know. And other things. There are always other things. But husbands when they retire? They have nothing. Their work was somewhere else -- home was only where they ate and slept. So when they retire and have to spend their days home, that's all they know how to do. Eat and sleep. They think maybe they should be somewhere else. They really do think they're nowhere. I watched George thrash about with this thought day after day, and my heart went out to him. I so wished I could help! He cleared out his office desk cheerfully enough, and we attended the farewell banquet where he told jokes and listened to kind words said about his achievements. Then he came home. And there he found he was lost. Nothing to do. For months. He prowled the house emptying empty wastebaskets, he tied up string, he re-arranged my pots and pans for efficiency -- he never used them, so he never noticed when I returned them to their usual places. He snacked food from the fridge, and his thin frame began to develop a mid-level pot I found attractive in some ways -- it was an almost feminine tummy curve below his slim hips. His arms got even thinner than usual for lack of exercise, and they were always visible now that he no longer wore business suits, only T-shirts and short-sleeved sport shirts. He did nothing. He'd turn on the TV and then not watch it. He'd go for walks and come back almost immediately. He'd sold the company when he decided to retire, so he retired wealthy. Then he complained he had nothing to do. He served on the company's Board, which met once a year, found no fault with current management, declared a larger dividend than ever, and then adjourned -- current management were running things better than he'd run them. When he first visited his former head office he was recognized by everyone and greeted profusely. A few months later people recognized him but looked past him. Now they looked through him and didn't see him at all. When a new secretary told him he needed an appointment to see the man who had replaced him, he turned and went back home, and he hadn't been back home since. My women's magazines told me all about this problem. They pointed out the obvious -- a newly retired husband needs new interests and activities to fill the spaces in his day. Golf or woodworking, boating, fishing. Sports cars. Maybe volunteer work at local libraries or hospitals? No, George couldn't tolerate anyone telling him what to do, he'd always been the one in charge of the project, its energy and brain. Re-awaken his sexual interests, these magazines advised. Men approaching retirement notice that their virility isn't what it was -- the rock-like erections of adolescence have gone rubbery and unreliable. Many older men start avoiding sex in order to avoid failure. Some call on 'other women' to rejuvenate themselves. I should become that other woman, my magazines informed me, and then they turned to their primary mission, their intention all along, to sell me expensive cosmetics and sexy lingerie. A woman, when she retires, can devote her liberated time to self-enhancement. But retired men tend to think it's more manly, more hardy, more stoic and self-reliant to neglect themselves. They think, why bother shaving this morning? And then, why not finish off those leftover potato chips? Or, if they're not hungry, why bother eating at all? So they deteriorate physically, and for lack of anything to occupy their minds they deteriorte mentally as well. They lose concentration. That's why the magazines urge wives to take even more radical steps to seize their attention -- change their hair color, implant bigger boobs, seek out plastic surgery, do whatever it takes to bring his desires back to life. Buy more products! It was happening, the deterioration. George was physically listless, and mentally he was going soft, diffuse. Coming apart. I couldn't distract him, anyhow not by appealing to his amorous inclinations. He'd had very few such for some years. He'd sublimated his sexual desire into his business deals I suppose -- there he'd been relentless and indefatigable, a workaholic, no time for friends or relaxation. I learned early never to get in his way when he was starting a project, which was almost always. Never to ask him when he'd be home for dinner, or even if. He'd throw himself into different tasks with a concentration that excluded all other considerations. They became his life, and that's why they succeeded. Sex was something I did manage to initiate with him when he was still working. Sometimes. He seemed to enjoy it, and even seemed grateful afterward. But then he'd return to his piles of proposals and reports, determined to make up for lost time. That's what he once actually called it, lost time. Sex with me was lost time. I was days recovering from that, though he never even knew what it was he'd said. We had no close friends any more. The few people we knew who'd also retired young left town and retired to golf and tennis communities in Florida or California or Arizona. The men who kept working found new women who were willing to admire them and spend their money, new intimacies to relieve the tedium of wives grown too-comfortably familiar. Until their wives found out about those women, that is, and divorced the men and stripped them of half their assets. And then also moved away. George's closest friend Matt was one of those -- an attractive man who took up sleeping with women, many women, until his wife found out. George was amused by his successes, maybe even distantly envious, but never really tempted -- women were too much of a distraction from business. Anyhow, now it was all over for Matt. Altogether. Not long ago he was diagnosed with late-stage terminal cancer, then hospitalized, and almost immediately after that he was dead. Alone -- his Ex was on a cruise somewhere off South America, sleeping with different men each night. It was reported that she wept when news of his death was brought to her, but then accepted consolation in her cabin from several fellow passengers and a sturdy crewman. That shook George up some. Matt's sudden death did, I mean. In itself it could have led him to retire even though unprepared, only to find when he retired that he was unprepared. Now he just moped, grew inattentive, lost concentration and stared into middle distances. Often he didn't hear me when I called out something to him. He was hopeless when I sent him to the store even with the list carefully written out -- he'd lose it. He seemed to be sleep walking and unable to come awake. I had no such problem. I ran my home and kept track of the kids' distant careers and travels, and booked regular salon appointments to maintain my appearance. In many ways I looked younger than ever -- whenever I left the house one or another man somewhere would always be there, hitting on me. When George retired, whenever I went to garden or bridge club meetings, or to arts or political events, I'd urge him to get off his duff and come with me, do something with me, anything. But he'd just look at me perplexed, and maybe ask me why I always kept myself so busy. Why I never seemed bored or gloomy. What could I reply? The answer was obvious enough, but he never heard it. This particular sunny Spring morning we'd just finished breakfast and were sitting over coffee when George asked me that same question again, "Lori, what keeps you going?" Something in his voice sounded different. Earnest, almost pleading. I looked at him for a moment in complete silence, planning my answer. I wanted to encourage him, not push him into even greater feelings of helplessness. So for the first time I confessed something to him. In carefully controlled tones I told him I hadn't always been like this. A few years ago I'd gotten terribly depressed, I told him. Our youngest had just left home for good and gone out on his own, and his bedroom had joined our other unused guest bedrooms. It was a dark time for me. I'd gotten nearly suicidal, I told him. For weeks I'd wandered about in the same bleak mood. One evening, I told him, I came home alone from a movie alone and then sat in the kitchen for a long time, a bottle of pills in my hand. I actually opened the bottle, spilled a handful into my palm, and ... well, never mind. I spilled them back into the bottle after a while. George was shocked. Appalled. He'd had no idea that I felt so depressed and so desperately alone! Why didn't I say something? I reminded him that was the time when all of his effort was devoted to the crowning achievement of his career, the CalCorp merger. When he wasn't out of town pushing it he was in his office downtown. For days and weeks and months. Even when he was home he'd be on the phone in his study, talking and talking. Slowly he'd put together the enormously profitable deal that had overwhelmed the competition and moved him into his present affluent retirement. During those few years, until his retirement, we'd scarcely seen each other. Now we saw only each other. I told him that and then I sat silent, staring through the window at the morning sunlight as it gleamed on the wind-ruffled surface of our pool, as it shone through the arbor vitae bordering the pool area, remembering too vividly how that pill bottle had felt in my hand, how close I'd come. Then I resumed talking. I explained to George that it had been a strange time for me, with no work of my own, no children to tend, too few friends, and no husband. I'd let myself go as he was letting himself go now. I'd gained a little weight. Some days I didn't bother to get dressed. I'd started drinking -- Margaritas laced with tranquillizers were what got me through my worst days, even my better days. George was appalled. Worse than appalled, he was staggered. I'd gone through that hard time all by myself and had never complained, and he'd never even noticed? He couldn't bring himself to ask me for forgiveness now -- he didn't deserve it. He just looked at me, his face aghast, twisted with remorse. That really frightened me! I tried to console him. I reminded him, he was doing all that important work just then, and he wasn't home often enough to notice. Besides, my depression hadn't lasted. Only a month or two, I'd survived it, I'd gone to see Ellen for my annual physical -- my roommate all through College, now our family physician -- and Ellen had prescribed me some anti-depressants and had then read me a riot act and told me to shape up! So I did. That was all I told George. But Ellen had in fact told me much more. "Lori, stop feeling sorry for yourself!" Ellen had said. "He's doing what he wants to do. You do the same! Go out and do whatever makes you feel good! Anything at all! Gratify your most powerful passion and your least whim! Find other people to do it with and do it! And then do it again! No inhibitions! Make your own plans! Don't depend on George, he has his life and you have your life. So indulge yourself! Try to wake up each morning looking forward to something new! Life is short!" Ellen had looked at me quite steadily while she was saying these things, and I gradually understood exactly what she meant. I stared my comprehension at her, and she nodded. Now, sitting at coffee with George, I sat musing for a moment, remembering that morning vividly. Leaving Ellen's office, I'd gone out oh, so timidly at first, and signed up for an aerobics course. Then on impulse I'd gotten myself a short shag haircut that gave me a cute, slyly self-confident look, a little flirty. I've maintained it since then, though I've let it grow out a little since George's retirement, hoping to lure him into bed with it. But not then nor since had George noticed, and I long ago decided not to mention it to him. Nor what went with it. That same morning I'd also bought myself the most expensive pair of sexy, strappy, super-high-heels I'd ever owned. Two matched erotic sculptures -- wildly extravagant. Then shyly at first, wobbling until my ankles and calves strengthened, during the next months I'd worn them to various places where women wear such shoes. At first accompanied by divorced or widowed women friends, or other women with husbands also elsewhere who also wanted to entertain themselves. Two of the women I went with revealed right off that their husbands had left them. Smiling and sipping their drinks, they explained that both men were slobs who never took their heads out of the television and were nowhere near as sensitive or appreciative as they were with each other. So they'd spent more and more time with each other, and eventually they'd found that they preferred making love to each other than to their husbands. So that's what they did a lot of the time. I have to confess it, I did too for a while, with both of them, while I worked up the courage I needed to seduce a man who was not my husband. It was ... well, nice. Very nice. But a woman's satiny soft skin and a delicate tongue on my nipples and my own tongue licking the labia and distended clit of a moist pussy are no substitute for a man's muscular arms and broad chest and thrusting cock. One evening I went to a bar alone, knowing I wouldn't remain alone for long, and I found that out the hard way. God, when I left his place to drive home, more satisfied than in months, years, I almost couldn't walk. We saw each other some more. Then lots of evenings I visited clubs and bars and lounges where singles congregate, and I accepted invitations to dance from all sorts of men. Quite a few times, with quite a few men. I got to feeling quite perky again. I began to look forward to each evening and the pleasures that followed afterward. Different men suggested I join them and do different things with them that felt really good, things George had no time for, especially because some took till dawn, and some occupied whole weekends away at resorts when George was also out of town. I slimmed down and brightened up, just as Ellen had predicted -- her prescribed treatment worked. Then while George was swallowed up in CalCorp I distracted myself with innumerable other men, all shapes and sizes, and I loved every minute of it! Though I'm naturally shy and hesitant, I wasn't at all shy with them. I learned to use them, to entertain myself with them. I found early on I could get them to do almost anything. And since I owed such men nothing I especially enjoyed dominating those who were especially susceptible -- as many men are. I used submissive men for my own amusement quite callously. I learned early on to eye men up and down boldly when I first entered a room, then to select those who accepted the challenge and eyed me back. I learned early that by taking charge right off I could have nearly any man -- the meek ones fell into line as ordered and the bold ones fought back and then thought they'd conquered me. Either way they'd end up doing anything I asked of them. Anything. I had to smile, remembering some of the things I asked of them. I used men the way a Saturday night whore uses toilet paper, wiping myself on one after another, wiping them on me and then tossing them aside. For two years I collected them and used them according to mood or whim. Men seemed glad to be on my call list, proud to be with me no matter how I chose to honor or humiliate them. It was wonderful! Eventually my sense of propriety returned. I remember the exact moment. I was in bed with Matt, George's best friend, now dead of cancer but then in his full prime. My arms and legs were wrapped around his buff body and his full prime was swollen deep inside me, and I was coming down from my third orgasm of the morning. Oh he'd been wonderful! He was stiffening yet again when I realized that I didn't want to deal with the duplicity any more. I suddenly regretted that I'd extended other men's access to my body quite this far past my marital vows, quite this often. Even more, I regretted that my George didn't know and I couldn't ever tell him. The tension, the glow, the joy my body felt when a new man's cock was entering me was something he wouldn't ever know about. He couldn't share my happiness. This separated us, and as when we were first married I wanted to share everything with George, everything. Instead, I had to withhold from him the most important fact of his life as well as mine, that though we rarely saw each other I didn't miss his body, I was a well-fucked wife, that he was that most famous figure of ridicule, an cuckold. That fact had to remain forever secret. I didn't want this. George didn't deserve it. We loved each other. So I'd unwrapped myself from Matt and dressed quickly and kissed his penis gently one last time and told him goodbye and left him sitting there bewildered. And without looking back I walked out of the hotel room we'd just shared so blissfully while George was in Sacramento dealing with brokers. And returned to an empty house, determined to roam no more. Matt was my last fling. As it turned out I was his too. His wife found out about me and all of Matt's women before me, and abruptly left him. Matt offered her a handsome settlement never to mention my name, so George would never know that the two people closest to him had betrayed him with each other. Then almost immediately his cancer asserted itself, and as vigorous men will he delayed seeing a doctor until it was too late for anyone to help him. Toward the very end George and I visited Matt together in the hospice where he lay dying. I held his hand and said nothing while our eyes told each other that there was nothing to regret, that we'd given each other enormous pleasure and that we should feel thankful for every hour we'd shared, for every kiss, lick, and orgiastic orgasm. George looked on unawares, his mind attempting to fathom Matt's mortality and maybe for the first time his own. It seemed to baffle him. They were both only forty, when life is supposed to begin again. Dying was a problem even he couldn't understand and solve, one of very few. When I returned to virtuous housewifery I regretted none of the times I'd spent on the town with other men, and with more than a few women too. They'd been marvelous -- days and evenings filled with flirting, with flattering talk and teasing innuendoes, with nibbling mouths and stroking hands, with lips and tongues seeking perfect closure, with sealed in moisture and fast breathing, then with tense, gripping biceps and thrusting hips and hard-muscled thighs, with cunts and mouths and asses crammed full of writhing meat, and oh God, with clenched bodies sent soaring through orgasm after orgasm. Now and then with naked men crawling toward me -- yes, I made men crawl. I still get wet when I recall one I set crawling toward a borrowed Great Dane -- I'd told him to seduce the dog, get himself laid, then maybe I'd be willing to sleep with him. He did, I'll never forget the sight of that magnificent animal mounted on his rear and cramming that bright red tube into his ass repeatedly. But no matter how glorious, none of those days or evenings finally added up to anything as satisfying as simply hugging George while he lay sound asleep beside me. So my career as an available woman ended and my high-heels got tossed into the back of my closet. I'd done many things and learned a lot about other men's fears, desires, and kinks. But other kinds of men weren't what I wanted. I wanted George. And now I had him full time, but I didn't have him at all. I couldn't even hold his attention. I felt helpless as I watched him disappear even while still fully visible.. Sometimes I'd feel uneasy about the way I'd indulged myself with other men while he was busy constructing his financial schemes. Not guilty, not even regretful, just uneasy. I'd feel that somehow I owed him, that I ought to make it up to him, maybe by wearing those same heels to dance with him, with my own proper husband George, maybe coax him into some of the same erotic diversions I'd shared with all those other men. The kinds women always have in mind when they wear shoes like those. I wanted to teach him to crave and then wallow in some of the delicious things I'd done. I wanted him to fuck me insensible, the way so many others had fucked me, and then to fall back into a stupor of gratitude the way so many others had done when I'd finished using them. But I knew that George would only wonder where I'd gotten such odd ideas, why my body stretched so familiarly into so many bizarre positions. My super-high heels no longer looked new, and George might well wonder how long I'd had them, how they'd gotten so well-worn. He'd might start asking other questions I couldn't easily answer, about other similar shoes, and the provocative clothes I still had hanging in my closet. Even when we were young and dating and altogether in love we'd never gone to the racy places on the edge of town I'd frequented, places where the beat is wild and women of all persuasions dance in such clothes. If I bought myself a brand new pair of fuck-me strap-ons, if I took him to one of those clubs, he'd wonder how I knew about them. In our earlier years we'd gone only to respectable places where orchestras play respectable music. Then for many years we'd gone nowhere. So my racy shoes and my desires for erotic re-union with George remained in the closet. But now, here, at breakfast, he was trying to reconnect. What keeps me going? he was asking. What could I tell him? Yet he'd never asked so earnestly! He seemed in pain. Clearly, he was calling for help! And now I'd told him about my own bleak period, as if that would help. Of course it only made him feel worse. I poured myself another cup of coffee and refilled George's. I had to stall until I could think of something substantial, propose something specific that could actually reach him. Something we could do together. My mind raced. I was no longer the innocent girl he'd married and still thought me. I was a wife who for two years had been in and out of many men's beds, and many men had been in and out of me. George no doubt still thought I was the decent, slightly shy woman he'd married, a woman who made a virtue of her inhibitions and called them modesty. But after so many easy intimacies of all sorts I had few inhibitions left. And fewer scruples. George knew nothing of this woman, this Lori, and I loved him for his trusting innocence. What I now knew of other men gave me all the more reason to appreciate him. He may have been a lion in the office, but he was a lamb at home. Or maybe a sheepdog, so very sweet! So very dear! So helpless, in a way! Maybe unexciting, but utterly loyal, caring, considerate, absolutely dependable! Though I knew better, he did think he'd done all those business deals for me! I loved him for that too, I really did! So all I told him about those two tumultuous, filled and fulfilling years was that I'd taken Ellen's advice. That within a few months I'd made myself as slim and attractive as ever, and then gotten plenty of exercise. I told him that much. And that eventually I'd come home, and then George had come home too, and we'd both gotten reacquainted, and now I loved him more than ever. Others knew about my secret life, lots of others, and any one of them might have told him about it, told him how I'd passed my days and nights for two years. But I knew things about them too, and they knew I did, so I knew I could always cope with them if I had to. I hoped I could. George knew all he needed to know. What sex we had together when we had sex together was ... well, not much. He found that sometimes he couldn't get it up even with Viagra or Cialis, so I taught him -- shyly, as if embarrassed the whole time, but determinedly -- how to use his hands and mouth on me instead. He was a good pupil. I loved it, feeling his lips on my lips -- on my lower labia I should say, his tongue sliding into my cunt, his fingers delicately touching my clit. He always brought me off, beautifully if not staggeringly. I taught him not to mind the taste of his own cum when he kissed my cunt after we'd made love, if he'd managed to make love. To think of it as my own abundance. Now and then I'd feel an urge to revisit one of my old studs and get myself properly stuffed and fucked half-to-death. Nothing personal. But thus far I'd resisted the urge, I was OK with George for now. Good enough. George wasn't. And sitting over coffee this morning, I saw that what little I'd said had only made things worse. George now knew that his neglect had put me into a profound depression. That when I was in deep trouble he hadn't been there for me. He absorbed this information slowly, seriously, then returned to the original mystery and asked again, how do I keep that glow in my cheeks? Why didn't I ever seem bored or gloomy? I felt obliged to answer with the truth, if not the whole truth. Emphasize the positive, I told myself. "I'm in love, that's why," I replied. "When you finished with your CalCorp thing and retired I fell in love with you all over again. I started an affair with my own husband when he finally came back to me, and it's been that way ever since! I love you now more than ever!" Saying was believing, but it was true enough. But now that he knew the full weight of my loneliness during his CalCorp period, his remorse became insupportable. He broke and began to cry. Then great racking sobs shook him, so severely that he had to stand and grasp the breakfast room table and just hold on, overwhelmed by his grief amd guilt! I got frightened! Terrified! I looked at him altogether distraught! I didn't know what to do. He finally got a grip, and with eyes still closed he sobbed out that he loved me too, desperately, that he'd always loved me, that he was terribly, terribly sorry he hadn't been supportive when our youngest had left the nest and gone off on his own and I really needed him. That had been unforgiveable! Yes we were now far better off financially because of his dedication to his work. He'd always told himself that he was working for his family, but he'd always known that was only somewhat true, he was neglecting his family and working for his own satisfaction. He'd been self-indulgent, he had to confess it, so he did confess it, tears streaming down. He'd gratified his own ego. He'd gotten fascinated by the complex financial power-games men like him like to play, and the competition, and he loved winning, and he'd played hard and he'd won. But at what price? Nothing could now make up for his neglect of me. I'd needed him and he'd failed me! Tears streaming down his cheeks, he knelt down in front of me and swore that he'd try to satisfy my least need or whim from now on. For the rest of my life, I could ask him for anything, anything, anything at all, and it would be mine! He buried his face in my lap, altogether distraught. And while his mouth was muffled by my thighs and my mound he swore the same thing again. I almost pulled my skirt up and my panties aside so he could swear it into my bare, sacred pussy. I was amazed and embarrassed. Here was my power broker husband on his knees, more submissive and helpless than any of the young men I'd picked up to play with and then, after a few hours or weeks of enjoying their virility, tossed aside. I nodded my acceptance of this blank check, filing it away in case needed. I couldn't tell him not to worry, that lots of other men had filled in for him during his absence. So I made light of that period of my life. "It was hard, and a lot of the time I made things harder for myself," I told him. True enough. "But I survived. I found I had new talents. I kept busy. I still do, lots of ways! I socialize with friends -- I wish you'd take the time to meet some of them! I do volunteer work. I do adult classes at the Women's Center and at the local College, things like social issues, self-improvement, you know. I'm always meeting new people." George nodded. I could see he was recovering his composure, but I could also see I was losing him, his attention was wandering again. I renewed my effort. I had to propose something concrete. Something here and now. "Take tonight. Tonight the Center begins a weeklong course called 'The New You.' Ellen recommended it to me and the two of us signed up for it together. It's a crash course for people who feel they're in a rut and want to reach out and become more lively, feel more vital, more attractive to themselves and to others too. To try new things, maybe get in touch with 'primal' desires and fulfill them. I expect it'll be fun, even though it turns out that Ellen can't make it and I'll be doing it alone, though with the others who sign up of course. It's 'total immersion,' full time the whole week, we'll scarcely ever get home I hear, and then only to catch a few hours sleep and then go again. They say ideally it's for people at a resort, some place there are no distractions. It turns out too that Ellen can't take the whole week off, she has too many patients and commitments. But I've decided to go with it regardless, just to get away for a week without going away. I need a new me." I watched closely to see if the prospect of me being away distressed him. Apparently not. "I was going to tell you, because next week I won't be here during the day, and I wouldn't want you to worry. We'll even do an all night sleepover or two elsewhere, I'm told." Putting it that way, I was thinking, it sounded pretty much like what I'd been doing with all those men. Re-engaging my primal desires. In fact I hadn't yet finally decided to stay the course -- I couldn't leave George alone in this big empty house. I was too worried what he might do to himself. "You should try something like that," I concluded. "Start some hobby, read more widely, join a men's club, go to lectures, learn something you know nothing about just for fun! Anything! Anything at all!" He nodded. More eagerly than I would have expected. That was hopeful. "I tell you what," I said finally. "I'll go look up some of the Center's other offerings." I started to stand up. George waved me back down. "You've been doing things like that since the kids left home?" he asked me. "Since Ellen gave you that advice?" "Things like that and other things," I replied. "You should try some of them!" I smiled to myself, recalling some of what Ellen's advice had led to. Would George want to do what I did? Amusing images flitted through my brain. Suck monster cocks, make strong men groan and go helpless, then tie them up and sit on their faces? Pick up two dozen men in a single night and fuck every one of them, on a bet with a street whore who doubted I could handle that many? Indulge every sexual whim, trivial or powerful? Would I enjoy watching him do things like that? The answer wasn't that all clear. I liked treating men like women. I recalled how for no reason at all, merely to amuse myself, I'd once slipped into a flimsy negligee and then spread my legs to three men together, all of them blindfolded. One plunged into my cunt and the second into my ass. The third one thought he was pushing into my ass, but in fact I'd arranged for him to thrust himself into the second man's ass. There he'd pumped away furiously and there he'd come gleefully, spurting semen into another man's guts! It was so funny! One man being me and getting himself fucked, and the other man engaging in homosexual sex without even knowing. The second man wouldn't agree when I set it up beforehand. "I'm not gay," he kept insisting. It took a lot of coy pleading, of rubbing my soft round rump against his dick, to persuade him. I assured him he'd be the first man I'd ever allowed into my rear, his would be the first penis ever to penetrate my virgin rosebud, and he could keep it there the whole time the other man was inside his. That was the clincher -- to that he couldn't say No. He wasn't the first into my asshole of course, lots of men had fucked my ass by then, but not while theirs was being fucked in turn. He was the first to give as good as he got at both ends at once. I didn't tell him that of course. It was just as well. Mr. Two found it perversely enjoyable after all, and tried to talk his wife into a similar threesome -- he really wanted to get laid both ways again. She refused, so on my advice he visited a gay bar to see if anyone there was willing to help him out. Two men were. They got together a few more times after that, the three of them, and they still do now and then, though he has to cruise for other available men when they're busy. I heard he'd turned openly gay, and one night I ran into him and asked him. He claimed not, he just happened to like pricks and assholes, that's all. But the last time I saw him, I saw that tucking all those pricks into his rear had given him the cutest, most provocative wiggle! His wife thinks it's cute I heard, that the wiggle's for her, and she wiggles her butt back at him. Then wonders why that's where he screws her, why he prefers her rear end to her vagina. No, George wouldn't want anything like that. Not quite. He'd never want to slide his prick into another man's ass, and he'd never want to accept another man's in his. Would he? I smiled at the idea. Certainly not while wearing a negligee! Though it would certainly be a new experience for him! And new experiences were now what he most needed. I realized I'd better think about that some more. "Well, Lori," George broke in. "What if I took Ellen's place in this 'New You' class of yours? Try out doing something different. I could do with a little renewal. These days we both know where we keep the pills in this house." I turned to look at him. His face was grave, and I'm sure mine was frightened. I couldn't speak. I just stared. Those pills! He was feeling the same despair I'd felt? The same despondency? He was also thinking of ending it? This was serious! "It might be fun," he added. "You've been looking for something for us to do together. You're right, we haven't done anything together in a long time!" His haunted look alarmed me. "Let me take Ellen's place," he said. He wasn't suggesting, it was more like begging. Like reaching toward a life preserver! Oh my God, I had to think quickly! Here was George actually responding to a suggestion! Offering to do something for once! With me! How could I say No? But how could I say Yes? I couldn't tell George that this "New You" course was strictly a girl thing, not a guy thing, no way a guy thing! Could I? That it was organized by some of the ... I guess I'd call them unattached women I'd gone to nightclubs with. They'd talked different firms devoted to women's needs into sponsoring it, various specialized boutiques in town, various salons, athletic centers, counseling centers. Women's places. That the sessions scheduled had titles like "Asserting your Womanhood," and "Provocative but Subtle," and lots of them had to do with cosmetics and hair styles, with changing your look to appear more daring, more inviting, then changing your behavior to match. Among the proposed discussion topics were things like "Who really wears the pants?" and "Is one man ever enough?" Scheduled was at least one grown-up equivalent of the giggly slumber parties I'd attended when I was a girl, where we'd gotten ... quite intimate. More of it would resemble the gossipy coffees and lunches I often have with close friends, where we talk about whose new bracelet was a gift from who and kept hidden from her husband. It offered nothing of interest to husbands. Husbands were an end concern for some women, of course, I mean, there they are, not every woman takes on a lover to renew herself. When I registered, the woman ahead of me looked over the schedule and called it a "School for Cuckolds." I disagreed, amused -- it seemed to me more a school for cuckolding, for turning husbands into cuckolds. She laughed and added, "If they aren't already!" We'd then gone to lunch together, and had fun making up a mock syllabus for an actual "School for Cuckolds." What would a well-educated, well-trained cuckold husband be like? What would he need to know? Should he be taught to jerk off while he's imagining our infidelities? Should we encourage him to make dates for us? Pimp for us? Suck our lovers' cocks to prove there're no hard feelings? "It's best for him not to know anything," we finally agreed. That's what we'd teach in our School for Cuckolds, we decided. Nothing. We'd give our husbands every opportunity to know nothing about us. I certainly wasn't eager to let George know that he was eligible for graduate courses at Cuckold University. The "total immersion" method meant, moreover, that women taking the course would divide into small "support, advise, and consent" groups and then remain together from morning till night, each individual woman returning home only to sleep. If then. For a full week we'd be with only each other and concerned with ourselves and with nothing else, just as religious cults organize themselves in small prayer groups where gradually, each person is remade into someone else. We'd never be alone. We'd visit all participating women's stores and salons together, and we'd acquire new fashions and nail colors and hairdos to match our new selves while constantly consulting with each other. We'd help each other to re-habituate, to try new things, and we'd tell each other about those new things afterward. We'd have fun being girls together all over again, as if the world were brand new. Frankly, I'd been looking forward to these ""New You" sessions. Being with George all day was depressing. I worried about leaving him alone for a whole week of course, but had finally decided that abstracted and absent-minded as he was, he'd scarcely notice. But now I had to reconsider. He'd been thinking about pills. I had to reconsider this carefully. Maybe not go at all? Or maybe somehow bring George along, as he was proposing? But there was no room in it for male participation. When we graduated we were each expected to decide whether the "New You" would return to her old companion or seek out another, maybe another man, maybe not. I'd never doubted I'd return to George -- I'd already had my flings. But what would a new George do? What would he be? I had to smile at that! The idea was ridiculous. A George who tried out new hairdos while his group partners exulted that this one or that was just perfect for him? A George delighted by the way a stylish new dress draped and graced his figure, who'd learn to accessorize any outfit with ingenuity and discretion? A liberated George who went to night clubs with other women to flirt with whatever men he found attractive, and dance with them, and then see what would happen -- that was a requirement toward the end of the week? A George who actually became one of the girls? Absurd. ii. But was it? Wasn't a remade George preferable to this one, a man without zest or purpose, bored by his own life and staring at the bottle of pills that would end his boredom? Anything was preferable! I thought some more about it. Men do have certain femininity within themselves, a gentleness if nothing else, I knew that, and they're usually all the better if they have access to it. Some can be made to look pretty and even take pleasure in it -- George had small, regular features that seemed promising. One of my disposable lovers declared himself unwilling to lick my clit, so I'd told him that if he couldn't lick my clit as a man, he could pretend he was a lesbian and smooch my pussy that way. Or else leave. Well, he chose to be a lesbian, it felt less demeaning to go down on me that way. So I dressed him up in a bra and panties and then made up his face, and he looked quite nice. He did it and we both enjoyed it, and it became something he wanted to do again. I especially enjoyed watching his huge penis flop about helplessly inside his flimsy panties as I sat on his face and wriggled my bottom until his nose penetrated deep into my ass. When he'd brought me off repeatedly I'd reward him by falling forward and sucking off his cock, and then as that happened he couldn't help himself, he'd suck out my pussy yet again. God, that magnificent cock of his! As my lips closed over it we'd both go frenzied. I'd spasm repeatedly on his mouth, unable to stop or think, orgasms rolling over me like ocean waves crashing one after another on a beach, his face writhing under me, his prick pumping in and out of my face until at last his spunk filled my mouth and we were both exhausted and finally came to our senses. As we recovered and disentangled ourselves, my newly created "lesbian" actually thanked me! Can you imagine? So the next time we made love I made sure he was wearing his own bra, not just mine, and a sweet pair of lacy panties I bought especially for him and made him wear all day, so by the time he became my lesbian they'd feel quite natural, accustomed, his usual underwear. The third time I made him swallow one of my birth control pills to confirm in his own mind that he was indeed a lesbian, a woman not a man, that the hormones that flowed through his veins were those that flowed through mine. He bought that reasoning. The same thing the next few times. There came a time when I dressed him up so we could go shopping for a dress fit to wear on a dinner date, and we found him one that was just lovely, black, satin edged, with a deep plunging neckline. A week after that we went on that date, just the two of us girls together, girls who just couldn't get enough of each other. Before our affair ended he was a regular at my beauty salon as well as the lesbian bar where we sometimes went dancing. His breasts had budded out and were swelling up beautifully, and he'd committed to take shots to keep them plump. His marvelous cock had shriveled, of course, but I found that no loss, there were always others. Yes. Why not? George did need a new self, and rejuvenation takes many forms. Moreover, this was a critical moment. He'd reached out to me for help. He'd actually taken an initiative. He'd suggested we do something together, and he'd suggested what it was we should do. I couldn't tell him outright that this course was not for him. He'd been so morose, and now he was trying to pull himself out of it, just as I'd hoped and urged. I delayed my response. "You mean, you're willing to take Ellen's place?" I asked him. "Become a 'New You' instead of Ellen?" "Why not? You know I can't live with the old me these days, and neither can you. I could do with a new one." He smiled vaguely. "I should try it. You're right. At least it would get me out of the house. It's no big deal." All kinds of thoughts tumbled through my mind. George a new woman? Unthinkable! Yet he was right, we could do this together. Maybe he'd learn something he'd find useful? Live like a woman for a week and then apply what he'd learned? There are thousands of industries that cater to women. Maybe as he learned about the products he'd be wearing he'd feel drawn to understand their manufacturing and marketing as well? Behind every pretty face and every frivolously fashionable cosmetic there are hard commercial realities, and George did understand hard commerce. The bigger the challenge, the better he liked it, and women's products were challen because volatile, shaped by fads and fashions and styles that change unpredictably. Maybe for that very reason George would enjoy trying to predict what would sell and what wouldn't. Could women's clothing and cosmetics become a new hobby? I thought further. If he attended these sessions, he'd be with women would were trying out various products and procedures and commenting on them openly. He'd be one of them. He'd be in and out of beauty salons. He'd understand as no man ever has the ways women use such products, by using them on himself! He could justify taking the course to himself that way, anyhow. If finally my New George turned out to be merely a fashionable woman unconnected to the fashion business, that would be OK too. I had to smile. He had a lot to learn about fabrics and necklines and hair styles, about the critique of pure rayon. About all the fashion ephemera most women know before they leave high school. Moreover, maybe there was a streak of vanity in him, a part of himself that would feel as pleased to look ... pretty as I did. Or at least passible? Maybe men repress the feminine part of themselves in the name of manliness, for fear of being thought weak, but it's always there. My bra'd and panty'd pseudo-lesbian had started out man enough, but to please me -- in the end to please himself -- he'd gotten into it all the way. His first time at the beauty salon he'd chosen a distinctly feminine hair style, quit work and committed himself then and there. By the time I dropped him he was impatient for full, heavy breasts and had gotten implants. And had augmented his hips so he could flaunt them in his bikini. When I finally let him go I passed him on to Mr. Two, who was by then addicted to anal sex and accustomed to giving it and getting it whenever asked. Two was happy to have this new, genuine shemale for a lover, still hoping he could bring his wiggly wife into a threesome. But his wife never did cooperate. Her ass was his, she reassured him, whenever he wanted it, though by then, she could also assure him, she'd found someone else who was more interested in her pussy and more interesting when he was in her pussy. I'd lost interest in him by then too -- for a time I'd gotten bored with all bisexual, bigendered men. I'd moved on to a four-square steelworker with a bullet head and a heavy cock that swung like a sledgehammer between two thick-muscled thighs. Figuring ways to fit that hulk into me and satisfy him was a full-time occupation, but I'd done it. He still sends me pictures of his cock in full erection, hoping to lure me back to him. But once the novelty wore off I decided that most of all I preferred soft bodies with sweet dispositions and merely adequate cocks. Like women with dildos, or men like George. Or women like George? I began to think that through too. If George became a woman, I'd want him to be passive and dependent as far as his femininity went. I wanted to be the dominant one in my relationships, to minimize any conflicts. We'd never tried bondage -- it might well be fun to tie him to our bed and let him look up at me, helpless and trusting.... I knew he'll do it to please me. I knew he'd learn everything the course could teach him, especially how to enhance his appearance, and not only his own but mine. How to become not only his own personal beautician but mine as well. Now unaccountably, that I found thrilling! Let him feel he's making up for his earlier neglect by attending me hand and foot. Let him set my hair whenever I want to look especially nice, and let him do my nails whenever he does his own. Let him keep up with the latest in cosmetics so I won't need to bother. Let it become a whole new profession for him. Let him become Mr. George, my own personal beauty consultant, with one client only! Well, two, counting himself. More if I were to set him up in a little shop and refer my friends to him! Then a really exciting thought struck me. Why not? Why not? With a little shop of his own he'd have something to do with himself all day long and he'd always be available to make me beautiful. Would I resume going out on dates with other men? Probably, if he were going out on his own dates? If we're both women, I was thinking, then it wouldn't be cheating, it would be sharing. Something we had in common. Both of us! Oh God, with that thought my pussy spasmed and I realized that my panties were wet. Just the thought alone had given me an orgasm. I glanced at George across our coffee cups. He was still sitting there patiently, waiting for me to reply to his proposal, his mind adrift again. Had I been missing that kind of fun that badly? And George as a woman would solve yet another problem I'd been mulling over, one that was potentially very serious. I'd been putting off thinking about it, but I knew Id have to face it sooner or later. What to do about Maureen. Maureen was someone I knew who'd actually sent her husband Ron to a full-scale Beautician's School when he'd retired and gotten underfoot and become increasingly useless. She'd done it to be vindictive, to humiliate him, because in the past he'd always mocked her for fussing with her appearance, for decorating herself. She gotten fed up and furious and one day challenged him to learn the basics. And to both of their surprise, he did. Moreover he'd gotten hooked, fascinated by the intricacies of feminine beauty care. It was like an art class, he'd told her, except that artists paint on canvas and sculpt clay, while beauticians paint on people and sculpt hair. He'd graduated fully licensed in only a year and then he'd begun working part time in a salon, delighted to keep up with the latest in trends and techniques. It was an extraordinary hobby for such a man, but it had its attractions. With her husband a hairdresser, everywhere Maureen goes these days she looks gorgeous. Especially when she's dating some new man and wants to bed him down as quickly as possible, or as Ron believes, when she has an appointment with a new client to look over real estate properties. When she'd tell Ron "I have a new prospect, I need to look especially appealing tonight," Ron would nod and arrange her appearance accordingly. She was earning good money, he'd tell himself, just look at all the jewelry she could afford these days! When Maureen first enlisted Ron's help seducing other men, I was amused. I knew Maureen had yet to sell anyone a yard of real estate. There was very little real estate to be viewed on the Savoy Starlight Roof, where she often wore gowns well beyond the reach of Ron's retirement income and danced with well-dressed "clients" while fingering expensive necklaces. Everyone except Ron knew what she was doing. The women who visited his salon giggled among themselves as he combed them out and told them how Maureen seemed to need to have her hair re-set all the time, day and night. I didn't see her only in night clubs -- she was scarcely ever home. I'd see her in the town's better restaurants, dressed and made up elegantly, leaning across the table to say something intimate to some young man, gazing heavy-lidded into his eyes, their faces only inches apart. Touching him as he kissed her lips, holding utterly still so he could kiss her again. I'd seen that from only a few feet away. The problem was, that one time in particular she'd also seen me. My own date that evening was a sports celebrity, I never did find out which sport -- he had incredibly strong hands and arms and could lift me up and settle me onto his prick in one motion effortlessly, that was all I knew. Maureen recognized him, whatever his celebrity, and I remember well how she raised her eyebrows at me appreciatively, then smiled congratulations. A few days later she arranged a lunch for just the two of us. Supposedly to chat about old times, but mainly to reassure me that she intended to keep silent about what she'd seen if I did the same. We talked about George's business obsessions and Ron's newfound pleasure in working with women. Maureen confessed to me that getting Ron work in a salon to get him out of the house might have been a mistake. Part way through his course he'd met a gay hairdresser named Tony, an expert in creating upswept evening hairdos, and of all things they'd started an affair. Maureen had pretended not to notice, but under Tony's influence Ron cultivated a lilting voice and a liking for tight pants to show off his high, tight buns, his high, tight, well-fucked buns. He'd even adopted an upswept hairdo of his own, one that kept its shape even after a whole evening with his head between Maureen's thighs -- she still claimed that wifely prerogative from him. Maureen let loose a great sigh, telling me these things. Ron just hasn't been the same since Tony, she said. He'd gotten so swishy! She hadn't made an issue of it, only shrugged. "He still does my hair and face beautifully," she'd told me. "So what can I say?" She added that he'd felt lost when he and Tony broke up, that he'd begun moping again. "So I sent him to a gay bar to make some new friends," Maureen said. "His current boyfriend is absolutely charming, a book editor, a cultivated man. A fine conversationalist, I do so enjoy him when we invite him to dinner. I really have no idea what he sees in Ron, maybe only a pleasant, passing piece of ass. I pretend not to notice when they kiss each other, just as Ron pretends not to notice when he sees me kissing whoever I've invited as my dinner partner. I do insist that they do their yucky things downstairs in the game room, not in our bedroom, and then clean up afterward. Though Ron, when he finally gets to bed, doesn't seem to mind sleeping in the wet spots my own lovers leave behind." I remember well the next topic of conversation. Maureen then asked me if George might be interested in a proposition. I didn't know, I told her. I thought she meant Real Estate, so I told her that George never discusses his business affairs with me. But Maureen said no, she meant the other kind of proposition. The other kind of affair. Was George free for her to seduce him? Would I mind? "I'm not asking your permission," she said. "But I'm curious what you'd think." The nerve? But under the circumstances I could scarcely make a show of indignation, so I let it pass. George was all business these days, I told her, beyond even my reach. Maureen knew that and merely nodded. "He won't always be," she'd said. "I can wait." I'd recalled that conversation occasionally since George's retirement. It had sounded ominous. Dangerous, even. It simply hadn't occurred to me that other women find George attractive. Of course! His face was well shaped, with wide eyes and cheekbones and a small chin any woman would die for. He kept himself trim, and he carried himself with poised assurance, at least he had until his post-retirement slump. He could project authority, yet there was also a delicacy about him I found charming. My God! So did Maureen! It took me a while to realize it! Women like Maureen are always a threat to other women's marriages. She was unscrupulous, but she was also a friend, a sort of friend anyway, so she'd used that luncheon to give me fair warning. When George became available she intended to inform him that I'd been seeing other men, lots of other men. Now that he'd retired, that's just what she'd do. She wouldn't hesitate to destroy my marriage by telling him about my infidelities, then offering herself as consolation. Just as soon as she got around to it. Well, I considered, wasn't George entitled to a fling of his own? Sauce for the goose, sauce for the gander? Not womanhood but an affair might be enough to take him out of his doldrums and return to him the same zest for life my affairs with men had returned to me. Should I call Maureen this very moment and tell her the coast was clear? No. There was a danger here that Maureen couldn't anticipate. The chances were that after he'd heard of my infidelities, George wouldn't merely feel free to go and do likewise, to play tit for tat. What he'd feel would be anguish. More guilt. More remorse. He might blame himself for my escapades. She couldn't help herself, he'd explain to himself, given how terribly he'd neglected me. He'd believe it because it was true. I knew it, and the more I considered the matter the more certain I became that Maureen was a ticking time bomb. What if George found the burden of his guilt unbearable and fell into an irreversible melancholy, and then actually did do something desperate? Suppose he took the whole bottle of pills? I had, very nearly. His mind had already drifted into that same dark place. That, I knew, I could never bear. Whether he succeeded or not, my own guilt, bringing a disaster like that onto my beloved George, would be insupportable. What my own guilt wouldn't destroy, life without George would finish off. Both our lives were at stake. The danger was imminent -- why hadn't I seen it earlier? Now that George had retired and had time on his hands, Maureen would certainly make her move. Maybe even this coming week, when that silver-haired financier she'd been with for the past month returned to his wife on the West Coast. All she had to do was call George up to ask his advice about some financial matter or other, then bring the talk around to marital fidelity. Maureen had it in her power to destroy both of us, I realized, by uttering only a few words. And she'd already declared her intention to do just that. Unless .... Yes! That clinched it! Never mind how fantastic it seemed, imagining George prancing about as a woman. George had to become one. George couldn't live with himself as he was, and what Maureen would do to both of us was much worse. So there was no question about it at all, now. Not in my mind. No choice. This "New You" course not only had to take George out of himself, it had to remove him beyond Maureen's reach. "New You" indeed! By the end of next week George would have to begin a new life as a woman. Develop a fully feminine sensibility. Not part time, not temporarily, not as a novelty or a hobby but as something permanent. As what he'd become. I had to persuade George to become a woman and live as a woman, to enter altogether into the world women occupy and stay there. Or else I'd lose him! Could I? Could I persuade him to live as a woman among other women? Other men knowing, perhaps? Could he endure the ridicule of his former business associates? I thought I could if I put it to him just the right way. As a solemn bond. As a commitment. If he thought of himself as a kind of undercover agent for the women's garment and beauty industry? Maybe. As a sort of challenge, to see if he could make himself over into the best woman he can become? Perhaps. To explore a new field, know what it's like, how half the human race feels? Possibly. To investigate related business opportunities? He might find that appealing. He might feel able to shame his business friends for not doing it, for not becoming women, for lacking the guts, once he was himself convinced. He had enormous powers of persuasion. It would be good for him, I persuaded myself. He'd never be a sexpot, that just wasn't his style. But he'd make a marvelously sensible woman, one with her own firm views, a rather pretty one as a matter of fact. Then for the rest of his life he could enjoy his new self. Whenever he felt like it he could go out as a woman, get pampered at a salon or spa, or shop at a supermarket, or have lunch in a restaurant. Entertain himself as a lady of leisure. The two of us could enjoy an occasional night out together as two women, as the best of girlfriends! Now that really would be a new George! A brand new fun George! Done! But how can I break it to him, I was now thinking, the nature of this course and why he should take it nevertheless? Call it a theatrical experience, a challenging role to play? A business opportunity to learn about from the ground up? A daring adventure along the final frontier, a place where no men have ever gone before? I decided to go with whatever worked, that he'd find out the rest himself and cope as he could. But this shouldn't be anything casual or frivolous for him. He had to feel committed! So I began cautiously. "Well, I don't think this course is your thing, George. It's different from anything you've ever tackled before! You might not be able to cope." As I knew he would, George reared back disbelievingly, doubting my judgement, never doubting his own. He just stared at me. He could be incredibly stubborn when challenged. I was counting on it. I went on. "And you'd have go all the way, see it through no matter what. No sampling or pussyfooting or shilly shallying, I can't tolerate any more of that from you! I've got to insist that if