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Tommy's Summer Job By Gingerfred Man Chapter One - A most unusual meeting "Tommy, could you come downstairs for a minute, please?" my mother called softly up the stairs. Like any other sensible teenager at noon on a Saturday, I was lying in bed, just waking up. It wasn't as if Saturday was all that special. Since I had graduated from high school two days earlier, one day was the same as the next - aimless and relaxing. Especially relaxing for me, since I hadn't burdened myself with a summer job. Or the thought of going off to college two months hence. No, Tommy Anderson was quite happy to just be himself for a while - lazy and parasitic on my nice, middle-class, middle-American parents. That was to be the day that all that changed. Grumbling softly, I got out of bed and slid on a pair of Bermudas and a tee. No sense giving Mom anything else to complain about. She was on my case about being a lazy lump already. If I didn't cooperate a little, she might even stop doing my laundry or (horrors!) stop cooking for me! Scratching myself a bit, I looked out my window and saw an unusual sight. Our across-the-street neighbors, the Johnsons, were standing by a taxi cab. Mr. Johnson was giving Mrs. Johnson a deep, tonguey kiss and he had his hand up the back of her micro-miniskirt, massaging her pink-pantied, four-star ass. Thank goodness for the Johnsons. They were the only people on the street - heck, the town - who made life even moderately interesting. Mr. Johnson, who was about 35 and a major, hunky stud, was always, and I mean always, fucking Mrs. Johnson, who was a teenager's soggiest, dampest wet dream. Hourglass figure. Huge titties. Beautiful face. Big, blonde hair. How did I know they were fucking all the time? Their bedroom window faced mine. And at least half the time, they "forgot" to close the shades. I must have pumped out 100 gallons of cum watching them go at it over the years. [Sigh] Anyway, unless my eyes deceived me, Mrs. Johnson was getting into a cab. With suitcases. And Mr. Johnson wasn't. Which meant they were going to be separated. No fucking. I snickered at that. "I wonder how old Johnson will deal with celibacy." I asked myself. Interesting question. The cab took off and Mr. Johnson waved goodbye to his wife. I felt a little sad for him, since they were obviously in love. I mean, if your cock's hard all the time, you have to love the other person, right? I watched a moment more, expecting Mr. Johnson to go back into his house. But wait? He was walking toward?toward our house. The doorbell was ringing. He was at our house. Why? "Tommy Anderson, come right downstairs this minute, young man," Mom insisted. This was all very odd. "I'll be right down, Mom," I called. Then I rushed off to the bathroom to relieve myself. Curious to see what was next. It was quite interesting. I walked downstairs and saw Mom, Dad and Mr. Johnson. At least I thought it was Mom. The woman I saw was wearing full makeup and looked as pretty as I had ever seen her. She was wearing stockings and heels and a very short skirt. Dad didn't seem too happy about Mom's new appearance and he kept shooting her dirty looks. But the dirtiest looks he saved for Mr. Johnson. Who, surprisingly enough, was only looking (leering is more accurate) at me. Huh? Mom spoke first. "Oh, Tommy. You look like you just fell out of bed [giggle]." Giggle? Mom didn't giggle. She looked at Mr. Johnson and said, "I'm so sorry, Carl. I should have gotten Tommy up earlier. He could have showered and worn something more suitable." More suitable? Mr. Johnson didn't seem confused at all. He looked at me as he spoke to Mom. "That's all right, Ruthie. Tommy looks great. I can't wait to get him home." Mom giggled again. "No need to be hasty, Carl," she said. "You could ease things along a bit. Try ?Plan B.' Other options. You know." Did Mom seem a little bit desperate? Why? Dad was weird too. "Forget Plan B. Tell Tommy about his summer job, Ruthie." Mom didn't giggle. She made a little scrunchy face and said, "Oh, all right. Tommy, we've arranged for the most wonderful summer job for you. With Mr. Johnson." Summer job? But I didn't want a summer job. This was to be my "Summer of Me." And I didn't want to work with Mr. Johnson in that downtown office of his. I started to protest when Dad said, "That's right, Tommy. This job is perfectly suited for you. Mom and I want you to take it. Especially me. In fact we insist." Insist? Mom started to explain. "You see, Tommy, it's not the kind of job you're probably thinking. It's not an office job, though most of it will be done inside. Oh, darn. I'm going to stop tiptoeing around this. Mr. Johnson is a very highly-sexed man. His wife just left to spend the summer with her sick mother. He needs a substitute wife. He wants you. Not me?or any other woman. He wants you." I froze solid. Except for my eyeballs, which were able to ascertain both Mr. Johnson's lustful smile and that horribly erect cock threatening to rip his trousers apart. Had everyone gone stark raving bonkers? Was I dreaming? Those three lunatics expected me to go home with Mr. Johnson and let him?"do" me all summer long? Dad seemed very eager to get me to accept, since Mom appeared to be Plan B. Mom seemed to ache to be Plan B. It was too much to process. Mr. Johnson was gay! I would NEVER have expected it. And he was crazy. Well, forget that, I wasn't gay and I wasn't?? "You really don't have much choice, Tommy," Dad said. "As of now, you can't live here any more until Mrs. Johnson comes back. We know you haven't saved enough money to support yourself. So do yourself a favor and go home with Mr. Johnson. He'll take good care of you." I was trembling with fear. Mr. Johnson took pity. A tiny amount. "Don't be afraid, Sweetheart," he said. "I'll take good care of you. And nothing gay will happen." Nothing gay will happen? A man is calling me, an 18-year-old boy-man "sweetheart," but nothing gay will happen. That would have been comforting, had it not been a huge; honking lie. A lie that Mom seemed to believe. "Daddy was a bit harsh, Tommy. We love you, of course and will always be there for you. But he's right. You can't live here this summer. Mr. Johnson won't do anything gay, because you'll be his ?wife' for the summer. He'll get you all girlied up in Mrs. Johnson's pretty things. She left lots of them for you. So when you two have sex - which should be pretty much all the time when Mr. Johnson is home [sigh] - you'll really be a girl having sex with her man. So no gayness." That was supposed to be comforting? I must have entered Catatonia (which I believe is a new EU member state), because I only vaguely remember being escorted across the street to my "summer home" by Mr. Johnson. No luggage. Just like going to a sleazy hotel with one's lover. Only I couldn't check out. Chapter Two - Making a New Friend I thought I would have to defend my honor with my fists. In fact, I was trying to remember some of the moves from the kung-fu movies I liked so well. But Mr. Johnson didn't attack me. Physically. But he did "attack" me with his biggest weapon. Besides his cock. His charm. "Tommy," he said. "You just woke up. I'll bet you're hungry. Let me make you some ham and eggs. Is sourdough toast OK? And strawberry jam?" I nodded dumbly. "Good," he said. "Let's go in the kitchen and we can talk while I cook. My wife Ellen loves my cooking. She doesn't cook much. Says I keep her too busy." He snickered at that. He fried a nice slab of ham in the pan and said, "You're not entirely surprised about what just happened are you, Tommy?" I looked at him in shock. Of course I was surprised. Astounded. And I said so. He turned the ham and said, "No. I don't think so. You've seen Ellen and me making love hundreds of times. Don't deny it. We saw you often in your dark room with those big binoculars." My stomach clenched. Mr. Johnson knew I was a peeper? And he still didn't close the shades? He put the toast in, then removed the ham from the pan and broke four eggs into it. "We knew you were watching. Ellen thought it was exciting. I didn't care one way or another, so we let you peep. And returned the favor." WHATTTTTTTTTTTTT?????????????????? They knew about what I did? Shame. Mortification. Fear. He dished two hearty breakfasts out, then put one in front of each of us. I couldn't possibly eat. In fact I was about to lose whatever was in my almost empty stomach. "It's OK, Honey," he said. "Everybody has their needs. We knew you were whacking your wiener over there but when we saw you in those black, fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings, that changed things a bit." I turned beet red. My upper lip began to sweat - coldly. My first instinct was to lie. "I never?OK, just that one time. To experiment." Mr. Johnson forked a big bite of ham and eggs into his mouth and said, "Now we both know that's not true, Tommy. You've dressed up dozens of times. We even captured it on DVD if you would like to look at it." Agggghhhhh. I started sobbing, "No one was ever to know. It was just fooling around. Crazy kid stuff." Mr. Johnson put down his fork and patted my back. "It's OK, Tommy. I don't fault you for that. In fact, it made me insanely randy to think about ?having you' when you were dressed up like that. I'd never thought about fucking a pantyboy before, but you looked so darned good, I wanted you bad. Then, when Ellen had to go away for the summer, I asked her if I could have you fill in for her. She agreed instantly. Said it was way better than me picking up some disease from a ?pro' or having a hot affair with a neighbor lady - like someone you know who's been flirting with me for years. Ellen knew I couldn't be celibate for more than four hours or so, so you're the perfect solution." I was the perfect solution? I began to blubber more loudly. "But Mr. Johnson. I'm not gay. I don't want to ?do things' with a man." He looked at me with compassion. "Now we both know that's not true, don't we, Tommy?" I vigorously insisted on my heterosexuality. Mr. Johnson shook his head. "Tommy, Tommy. When you watched us make love, did you imagine that you were me, gloriously fucking my wife, or my wife, being gloriously fucked." I snapped back. "I imagined I was the man!" He looked at me as if I were the dumb kid in the class. "What about on Tuesdays?" That stumped me. "Tuesdays? I don't?" "Ellen has a quilting class on Tuesdays. For years now. When I get home I make myself dinner, then go to my room, get naked and wank three or four times to relieve the day's tensions. When Ellen gets home, I give her a good seeing-to, of course." I didn't get it and gave him a puzzled look. "Think, Tommy. If you were imagining yourself as ?the man,' why did you watch another man masturbate for two hours? You were watching my cock. Seeing me rub and tease it until it spurted thick, creamy globs of my cum. You wanted to be there with me. Touching that cock Sucking it. Didn't you?" "No! I mean, maybe. I don't know!!!" And I cried a whole bunch. Which made Mr. Johnson pull me over to his chair, sit me on his lap and hold me in his arms. "There, there, Baby," he said. "It's no crime to be who you are." It was happening all too fast. Was Mr. Johnson right about my "feelings?" I honestly didn't know. It was true that I watched Mr. Johnson pleasure himself on Tuesday evenings. In fact, I looked forward to it. But I was just picking up technique from a world-class stud. Wasn't I? I mean, watching him coax cum from those melon testicles of his excited me a LOT, but I told myself all kinds of lies about why. He was my role model. Yeah, that was it. Though occasionally, when my very carefully-constructed guard was down, I had "the naughty thoughts." About being a girl for Mr. Johnson. Dressing pretty for him. Surrendering to his rampant lust. Thoughts that made my cheeks hot from shame. And made my prick burst. But I never thought that any of those fantasies would come true. I was still, even then, as I was sitting on Mr. Johnson's manly lap, with his virile arms embracing me, pretty sure that I didn't want them to come true. Fantasy is one thing. Reality quite another. But the line was blurring rapidly. I was afraid that Mr. Johnson would kiss me or grab my peener or something, but he didn't. All he did was hold me and comfort me. Which was quite nice. Except for the iron pipe I felt rubbing against my hip. An iron pipe which seemed to foreshadow my future. When I stopped sobbing, Mr. Johnson kissed my forehead. Then he eased me off his lap and took me by the hand. "Let's go upstairs, Tommy and get you dressed. You like to dress, don't you?" Omigosh did I love to dress! Nothing excited me more. Even watching the Johnsons having serial anal sex as I stroked myself to a shuddering orgasm paled in comparison to the feelings I had when I dressed in femmy clothes. And now I could. Without hiding or wondering when Mom and Dad would come home early. Or find evidence of my secret. It was a little bit liberating. But what would happen next? I would dress pretty for Mr. Johnson. That was a wildly exciting notion. But then he would expect sex, wouldn't he? Lots of hot, sweaty, wet, shameful, homoerotic sex. Did I really have a choice? Did I really want a choice? Probably not and probably not. Mr. Johnson was chattering on about how pretty I would be. Which made me suddenly fearful of disappointing him. How odd that I would worry about that. But what if I was kind of a "canine?" I think he would have wanted me anyway. The man was horny! And he hadn't spilled his seed in almost an hour. Fortunately, I was all he had dreamed of and more. Mr. Johnson had me get into the shower as he selected my clothes. When I turned off the water and opened the shower door, Mr. Johnson was standing there, holding a big, fluffy towel and wearing only a smile. Oh my. That monster of his looked even more formidable close up. When angry, which his cock almost always was, it approached eight inches in length and was quite thick. His huge balls were housed in an enormous, hairy sack that was hanging very low and appeared to be menacingly full of cum. He was fucking gorgeous. Had I thought about it very much, though, I would have bolted. Wet and naked. Running away down the middle of Elm Street, my virtue intact. But Mr. Johnson gave me no time for such reflection. He patted me dry, then blow-dried my medium-length, sandy-blond hair. He was very attentive and loving, taking care to brush my hair into a somewhat girlish style, then attaching two pink barrettes to the hair at my temples. I wasn't very hirsute, but a careful, slow shaving by Mr. Johnson was next. My chest, armpits and legs were cleansed of hair. Leaving my pubes intact, Mr. Johnson then mortified me (and excited me) by shaving the very private area between my bottom cheeks. I was blushing nuclearly when he cleansed me of all the lather with a washcloth. Next, he rubbed scented powder all over my sparkling-clean, hairless body. That felt nice. So nice that I almost lost my creamy load when he powdered my pink peeny. A peeny that had been shamefully erect throughout Mr. Johnson's careful attentions. Mr. Johnson sat me down and proceeded to give me an excellent pedicure, something I had seen him do for Mrs. Johnson dozens of times. Followed by a manicure and two coats of red polish. He was in no hurry, wanting to make things just the way he wanted before he "made his move" on me. The sight of his rampant cock, skinned and purple with lust, constantly leaking creamy goo, was very distracting. I had the naughtiest thoughts about it. Thoughts I tried to suppress, but couldn't. When Mr. Johnson slipped on the first black, fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stocking along my sensitive right leg, all the while giving me a full view of his beautiful cock, I couldn't help myself. I began helplessly ejaculating all over myself and Mr. Johnson's hairy chest. Pure animal lustful relief! Sensual heaven. Mortification!!! For me, anyway. Mr. Johnson was delighted. "So you ARE enjoying yourself? That's wonderful. Well, there's plenty more where that came from." He made no effort to clean any of my goo up. From me. From him. From the floor. Instead, he rolled up the second stocking, then stood me up and had me put on a lacy, black garter belt, then hook the stockings to it. When he was sure that my seams were straight, he slid on a pair of Mrs. Johnson's best, black, four-inch-stiletto, fuck-me pumps. "Stand up, Darling," he said. "I know you can walk in these. I've seen you in big heels before." He was so masterful. And I was so excited. How could I deny him? My legs felt wonderful! Stockings on shaved legs are a spectacular feeling. And I loved the way the heels shaped my legs and made my bottom stick out. I walked around a bit and heard Mr. Johnson actually moan with lust. That was a great feeling, girls. To make a man like that desire you. Yum. We weren't through with preparations yet. Mr. Johnson sat me down at Mrs. Johnson's vanity and began to apply makeup. First foundation. Then blush. Then some excellent work on my eyes. He knew his craft. I wondered vaguely how a man's man knew such things. But I forgot my questions quickly when I saw the result. I was gorgeous. Just as I had always hoped. Just as Mr. Johnson had hoped. I would stop traffic. Poor Mr. Johnson's prick appeared to be blood-red with excitement as he stood me again for the finishing touch. He eased a black, diaphanous, babydoll nightie over my head then encouraged me to admire myself in Mrs. Johnson's full-length mirror. I did. It was incredible. No wonder Mr. Johnson wanted me. Any real man on earth would want me. I was a world-class ball-drainer. And the man waiting for me on the bed had world-class balls. How could I argue with that? Chapter Three - A Farewell to My Virtue It appeared that my fate was inevitable. Which is what all fates are, otherwise they wouldn't be fates. But mine was extra-inevitable, because I had decided that some cooperation, not total surrender, was my best option. I looked over at Mr. Johnson, who had stripped back the bedcovers, revealing sparkling-clean sheets. Either he had changed them while his wife was dressing to go away or they had fucked on the floor. Or against the wall. Or just standing in the middle of a room. All of which I had witnessed at one time or another. He was lying in bed, on the farthest side from me. His "beef bayonet" was twitching with need. And frightfully hard. Did he really intend to stick that meaty missile into my poor, tiny, helpless bottomhole? What do you think, girls? Slowly, savoring the last few moments of my full heterosexual virtue, I sissied over to the bed in my big heels. "You can leave the heels on in bed if you want, Baby," Mr. Johnson suggested. That was what pornstars (and Mrs. Johnson) did routinely. I always thought it was sexy, so I complied. That big, virile hunk held his naked arms wide and invited me to his naked body. I was stiff and terribly excited as I sat on the bed, then spun to meet my new lover. He enfolded me with those loving arms and my first thought, oddly enough was, "He wants me more than he wants Mom." I liked that idea. He held me lightly for a moment and said, "This is the best moment of my life. Thank you." The best moment? Even after all that fantastic sex with his wife? It couldn't be true. But I didn't care. I sopped it right up. And surrendered myself to Mr. Johnson's agenda completely. Almost completely anyway. The next morning? Oh, wait. Did you want details? Why didn't you say so? OK. So he started kissing my lips. He was a GREAT kisser. Tonguing my tonsils, really. Getting me steamed and boiling hot. The way he held me and adored me - that was what really making me hot. Being the object of desire is the biggest turn-on in the world. Also the way he was rubbing the wrinkled button of my anus with his middle finger as he kissed me. That was exciting too. I guess I could have just let him do things to me and let it go at that. But I decided that Mr. Johnson needed relief and I was going to give it to him. With my hand, not my mouth. I wasn't a cocksucker! Yet. Not a decision to be taken lightly. The first blowjob. Crosses a big line. Can't jump back over that line once you cross it. Once a cocksucker, always a cocksucker. But the poor man needed me so badly. He was going to implode if I didn't do something soon. Of course I was being a bit prudish, since I had only imagined sucking his cock for like a hundred Tuesdays. But a handjob it was going to be. Imagine me thinking that I could hold him off with handjobs and kisses for two months? I broke off our kiss and gave him my first coquettish smile. That melted him. And made his poor, needy cock throb hard. I eased myself away from his torso, watching him react - his hope growing. I got onto my stockinged knees, bent at the waist and visually inspected the object of my desire. It was weeping precum. Giggling girlishly, using the thumb and forefinger of my right hand, I pulled a long, thin strand of the creamy issue straight up. He moaned with need. So much sticky pre-cum! And it was all because of little old sexy me. I did a very naughty thing then. It still surprises me that I did it. Keeping full eye contact with my "husband for the summer," I licked a nice load of Mr. Johnson's pre-cum off my fingers. He groaned so loudly that I thought he would lose his load right then. Gently, with my manicured, painted fingers, I skinned his thick, red foreskin all the way back. He liked that. "It's so big and hot and hard, Mr. Johnson," I said. "It's the most beautiful cock in the world." Guys like when girls say that. I skinned and released. Skinned and released. All the while telling him how much I had enjoyed watching him fuck his beautiful wife all those times. With my other hand, I rubbed the long, thick shaft of his cock. "That's very good, Baby," he said. "Kiss me now and I'll cum for you." It was very exciting to me to think that I was making him cum. Just as his wife did. Maybe better even. I leaned over to kiss him, but just as my face reached his, he grunted manfully and began pumping gallons of goo in thick, creamy ropes. It shot straight up and even burned a streak all the way up to and across my right cheek. Well, I can tell you that his wife never made him shoot his sperm so far. Or maybe she was always swallowing it or taking it inside her. Anyway, I was feeling pretty good about my femininity when he drew me into a long, passionate kiss and said, "You're fantastic! This is going to be the best summer of either of our lives. But let me thank you properly right now. Get on your knees and straddle my shoulders, baby. I want you to feed me." Feed him? Oh. That. Well, my stiffie was pretty outrageous at that point, even though its six, uncircumcised inches looked wimpy compared to Mr. Johnson's rammer. So I was in serious need of relief myself. I eased myself into a kneeling position, positioning myself so that my cock was poised at Mr. Johnson's lips. If Mr. Johnson didn't think sucking my cock was gay, I wasn't going to argue. Plus he was about to be a cocksucker and I wasn't. Yet. Are you getting the idea that I'm a bit competitive? Mr. Johnson opened his mouth and said, "It's beautiful. Let me have it." So I did. I slid my red-hot poker between his eager lips and groaned at the sensations. A wetness and warmth my pricklet had never known surrounded my most tender parts. I had never had any real sex with another person - except for the three or four times Wanda Hickey had given me a fair- to-good handjob as payment for helping her pass geometry. And this was loads better. And I mean "loads." I was squealing girlishlessly as I fucked Mr. Johnson's handsome face. He seemed quite excited about pleasing me like that. And I'm not guessing - I looked over my shoulder and saw his "business" as stiff as it had been when I "rubbed him off.' Without thinking that I might be emasculating Mr. Johnson a bit, I slapped my balls against his chin each time I brought my hips forward. That didn't bother him either. I did get a little worried when I felt a debilitating orgasm approaching and he didn't stop sucking me. I warned him. I mean I distinctly remember saying, "Unnnhhh. [Squeak.] Oh, Mr. Johnson, I?." Plenty of warning, right? But he just kept licking and sucking my hot, stiff, pink pole. When I screamed and pumped my goo down his throat he didn't protest. He swallowed eagerly, smacking his lips as if it were a gourmet meal. My cum is pretty tasty, but he seemed to think it was ambrosia. I was feeling a lot better about the summer. So good, in fact that I decided that I would ease up on what I then saw as an unreasonable policy of mine. I mean, fair is fair. He sucked mine, so?. I mean, I had held off sucking hic cock for 24 hours. Well, 12. Six, almost. Actually it was three hours and 42 minutes, but it seemed longer. It dawned on me that I was hungry for that big slab of prime meat. Whose big, drippy eye was staring at me as I unstraddled Mr. Johnson and looked down at his crotch. It was so "regal," the way it stood so stiffly. And yet it appeared so needy. His cock needed me. And apparently I needed his cock. My mouth was actually watering as I thought about taking it into my mouth. The way I had seen Mrs. Johnson swallow it so many times. She adored the experience. Why shouldn't I? I looked at his drooling peephole. Then at his eyes. And I made up my mind. "Mr. Johnson," I said. "Would you please get out of bed and stand up?" He smiled. He knew what I wanted and this time he was surrendering to me. "Whatever you say, Tommy" he said. He lifted that magnificent, manly body up and hauled it across the room. He turned and pointed that big weapon at me. I let my breath out, deciding to move quickly before I lost my courage. Still in my big heels (I had never removed them) I minced over to where Mr. Johnson was standing and knelt before him. My face was even with his thick rammer. I looked up at his expectant face, then at his more expectant cock. I leaned forward and began to kiss his cockhead. All over. Little feather kisses. Then a nice, long lick all along the long, blue vein on the right side of his cock. He liked it. I knew. Mrs. Johnson licked the blue vein a lot. But it was time to start my own legacy. I decided to really taste that meat. Opening my mouth as widely as I could, I addressed Mr. Johnson's cock with my mouth, then slipped the entire, swollen, velvety, pre-cum-slick head into my warm, wet, eager mouth. I know. I know. When this story started mere hours ago I was aghast at being a little cocksucking sissy. Well, maybe aghast, besides being a good vocabulary word, is too harsh. I was hesitant, perhaps. Wary. Oh, heck. I was secretly hoping all along that I could dress up femmy and find a Mr. Johnson of my own. I just never thought it would be the real Mr. Johnson. Or that my Mom and Dad would be involved. And so quickly. But I was going with the flow. Which would be arriving very quickly if I kept rolling my tongue on the underside of his sensitive cocktip. He really enjoyed my moist attentions. So did I. All pantyboys are potentially good cocksuckers, each being the proud owner of an object similar to the one their mouths desire. But I seemed to have an exceptional knack for it. Within three minutes of serious sucking, Mr. Johnson was spasming and spurting into my mouth. Way more quickly than I had ever seen him cum when his wife was swallowing his pork. Take that, Mrs. Johnson! Of course with my "girl's big reward," which I worked to get, there were messy consequences. I always believed in swallow, not spit. But it ain't as easy as it looks, girls. Especially with a man who has testicles the size of tennis balls. He darned near choked me with his hot spunk. Half of it ran out the sides of my mouth and all over my chin. The other half I valiantly swallowed. I thought I would feel gay or guilty. I felt great!! And would have probably kept sucking him until he got hard again, then gave me a second load. But Mr. Johnson was concerned about me. "Oh, Tommy! That was fantastic. Thank you so much my pretty angel. And such a little soldier - swallowing all that man cream. Thank you, thank you. "But aside from that protein shake, I know you haven't eaten all day. Let's go downstairs and I'll fix you something. Let me help you to your feet. Good girl." And he kissed me. As if my face weren't drenched with sperm. That alone was very hot! He went to his bedroom closet and got me a sheer black peignoir to wear downstairs. He put on a pair of grey boxers. That's all. Then he and I walked arm in arm down the stairs. Stopping every couple of steps to kiss and fondle. Oh, my. I was hard again. Oh my, oh my. So was he. The man was an animal! Wasn't it great? I thought he might just TAKE me right there on the stairs. Plunge his cock into my virginal bottom. Pump it in and out until I screamed. But he didn't. Darn it. We went to the kitchen and he assembled the makings of a baloney sandwich when the doorbell rang. "Let's ignore it," he said. Which was fine with me. I wanted a baloney sandwich, then a baloney where I itched for it. The ringer was persistent. Then we heard, "Tommy, Carl. It's Ruthie Anderson. I know you're in there. I brought you something." Mom!! What was her problem? Was she so horny for Mr. Johnson that she wanted to push us apart so she could step in? Or was she just nosy? Or both. I was girlied up with a faceful of cum. Not really presentable, but before I could duck upstairs, Mr. Johnson yelled, "It's open, Ruthie. Come in" And she was on us in a flash. She was carrying a casserole dish. She looked at me, set the dish down and said. "I just brought some food by. Thought you would be hungry after an afternoon of getting acquainted. It looks as if things moved quickly." Mom was always mistress of the obvious. And a pain. "So," Mom said. "You seem to be fitting right in over here, Tommy. I knew you would. Don't think I didn't know about you playing dressup and watching the Johnsons through their bedroom window. Mothers know these things. Still, I didn't think you would be sucking his cock the first afternoon. Good for you, Tommy. We girls have to go after what we want." Did Mom just compliment me for being a cocksucker? And for my looks. "You look beautiful too, Tommy. You'll be a showstopper when you get the hang of doing your own makeup. I can help you. I can see your real beauty, even through that big load of sploogee on your face." I was blushing crimson, but I felt kind of good too. Mom and I hadn't had a lot of "moments" in recent years and this was a good one. Mom flirted with Mr. Johnson a bit, kissed my face in a non-cum-covered spot, and left. "Are you OK?" Mr. Johnson asked. I nodded and said, "I am. Thanks. Mom makes good casseroles. Let's eat it, then get in bed and stay there for the rest of the weekend." Mr. Johnson smiled. And I could see his cock twitch in his boxers. We were going to eat, then fuck. Then fuck some more. As good a plan as any in the world. I wolfed down some of the casserole, taking just enough of a break that my balls had recharged with cum. I was eager to empty my pretty pearls again as soon as possible, since it's never a good policy to let sperm sit too long. It should be freed. Mr. Johnson took his time though, eating and then cleaning the dishes. He seemed to like to let excitement build a bit. Or maybe he was just making sure he had lots of creamy bullets to shoot into my guts. I, on the other hand, was at that point totally hot to trot. All I could think of was getting the "full treatment" I had seen him give Mrs. Johnson. Though I was just a tiny bit worried about the fact that it might hurt a bit. I mean, Mrs. Johnson had one of those pussy things, which seemed more designed for fucking than my tight, hot, tiny hole. Still, Mrs. Johnson had taken Mr. Johnson's Texas-size mustang into her back corral many times and she seemed to adore entertaining "back there." By the time Mr. Johnson was ready to bugger me, I was starting to get a little bit afraid. But my "summer husband" certainly knew how to distract me. When the last dish was washed and put away, he picked me up in his manly arms and carried me, Rhett Butler style, up the stairs to the bedroom, all the while kissing me with deep tongue. I was panting and gasping with excitement when he laid me on the bed, then turned to close the curtains. Thank goodness! If I knew Mom, she was sitting in my room with binoculars, ready to observe my deflowering. Well all she would see would be some thick curtains. So there! I lay on my back as Mr. Johnson sat next to me and untied my peignoir. He opened it fully, exposing my nightie, which he lifted all the way up to my nipples. I wasn't sure what his exact agenda was, but at that moment, I surrendered to him completely. He noticed. And he smiled. That's the part that men like the best, you know. The moment of surrender. I was waving the white flag big time. He leaned over and I opened my mouth to accept his tonguey kiss. But he didn't put his lips on my mouth. He put them on my right nipple. And he licked it very sensuously. I screamed. For two reasons. First, I was very surprised. But most of all, I was VERY aroused. I had no idea that having your nipples licked was so wonderful. When he began to gently suck the nipple, I almost lost my boy's cream. The rogue knew what he was doing, of course. So he did what men always do. He raised the stakes. The bad man interrupted his kissing enough to wet three of his fingers with his mouth. Then he repositioned himself slightly and went after my left nipple. This time with kisses, licks, sucks AND little lovebites. But that's not all. As he assaulted my "titties," he inserted a wet, rude finger into my previously untouched bottomhole. I squealed so loudly, Mom probably heard me across the street. Licking and sucking my left nipple, he inserted a second, then third finger in my "dirty place." Wiggling them. Probing. Until he found what I later discovered was my prostate. That did it, ladies. My eyes opened widely. I yelped. And I began pumping sperm from my untouched cock. Big, creamy globs of it. Joy! That was the best orgasm of my life. And the night was young. The summer was even younger. I looked at Mr. Johnson. He was smiling at me. Proud of himself for making me into a shuddering, ejaculating, soggy mess. Just like a man! My belly was smeared with wet sperm and my face was coated with dry. It was time to get a nice load where it mattered most. Right in the old pooper. Once again, Mr. Johnson took his time. He kissed me and praised my beauty. Then he helped me out of bed and led me into the bathroom. He sat me on his lap and lovingly washed off the cum and makeup from my face. I thought about stroking his cock as he did all that, but didn't want to make him cum. He had a nice, thick, purple "chubby" for me and I wanted it in my bowels, where it belonged. Where girls like me took their man's thick, creamy loads. When he had cleaned my face, he eased me off his lap, then led me to Mrs. Johnson's vanity table, where he sat me down and showed me how to use the cosmetics he had applied on me earlier. He really took his time explaining it all to me and, though I was eager for a good stiff fucking, I really enjoyed it. Seeing my beauty emerge from a boyish face was like watching a flower bloom in one of those stop-action films, you know? I'm proud to say that I did a pretty good job on my first effort, which took a good half-hour. I admired myself a bit, but my youthful impatience demanded action. "Can we fuck now, Mr. Johnson?" I asked. "Please?" Mr. Johnson seemed delighted with my directness. "Of course, Darling," he said. "Let me do what I need to do to make it more pleasurable for you. But, in full disclosure, I'm afraid it will hurt the first time, no matter what we do." I nodded bravely and said, "That's OK, Mr. Johnson. Make me a real woman, no matter what it takes." I wasn't all that brave, really. I had witnessed Mrs. Johnson taking it big and hard into her tight hole many times. She did it with ease and she did it with great pleasure. Mr. Johnson was exaggerating, I was sure of it. Or maybe he was bragging about how big he was. Was I ever wrong! I sissied over to the bed in my big heels and stood there awaiting instructions. Mr. Johnson put two large, fluffy pillows on the left side of the bed, with a hard chair facing the left side of the bed. He sat in the chair and directed me to stand with my butt toward him, lean over, and place my stomach on the pillows. Was he going to fuck me while I was standing? And he was sitting? No and no. I couldn't see his approach, but I gritted my teeth a bit, expecting a big cock entering my tender spot. The surprise was that a different anal visitor arrived first. His tongue! OMG!!!! What was that wet prober doing in my poor, defenseless anus? Making me half-crazy with lust is what it was doing. Licking me in my dirtiest place! Eating me out!! The man had no shame. And it was wonderful. I felt so adored that someone would think me desirable enough to do something that DIRTY to me - for me, actually. It was very pleasurable. Even writing about it, making me remember it, gets me boiling HOT. And, as he always did, Mr. Johnson took his time about it. He ate my sissypussy for a good hour, during which my stomach clutched and I spurted my boy's cream twice. I was a quivering mess when he stopped and laid me gently onto the bed, with three big pillows under my stomach. So I lay there. Tears in my eyes from the humiliation, shame and raw animal lust of what had just happened. I lay there, waiting to be buggered. Mr. Johnson disappeared into the bathroom. I could hear him brushing his teeth and washing his face and hands. Later he told me that he didn't want to kiss me with all my anal juices all over his face. But I think he wanted to make me wait too. Control. When he emerged from the bathroom, I peered back at him and saw he was carrying a tube of lube and sporting a massive erection. Goodie! As he stood behind me, I whimpered, encouraging him to do his business in me. "You're a perfect angel, Tommy," Mr. Johnson said. "Let me just lube us both up and we'll take you to a new solar system." Gently, as he always acted, he lubricated and dilated my virgin pootie with two, then three skilled fingers. He only nipped my prostate, saving his full frontal assault on that for his stabber. When he was convinced that he had done all he could to minimize my discomfort, he lubed his thick, stiff meat, tossed the lube tube away and joined me on the bed. Kneeling between my legs. Positioning his cock at the entrance to my bottom. He teased me a bit by rubbing his peehole against my wrinkled button a bit. I almost lost my creamy load right then, ladies. But that was a mere appetizer. A shrimp puff before the prime rib. "Be brave, my darling," he said. I mumbled, "Fuck me," softly and waited for my trip to paradise. Unfortunately, the first stop was at paradise's antithesis. He stuck his fist-sized cockhead into me. My eyes opened completely wide and I screamed like a little girl banshee. My guts were being ripped apart! The pain!!! I had to get out of there! The pain was too much. But then he stopped his assault on my pussy. I wiggled trying to escape. But Mr. Johnson held me fast. "It's OK, Tommy. As I told you, it always hurts at first. I'll give you a moment to get used to it before I press on." There was more?!?! I couldn't! I was leaving him. Going straight. Burning my panties. Joining the Republican Party. But then he said, "Mrs. Johnson didn't like it at first either, but you saw how much she enjoyed it. You're as good as she is, right?" Challenged. I hated to be challenged. I was at least as good as Mrs. Johnson. Earlier my "summer husband" said he had never been so excited in his life. Maybe if I bit the pillow or something I could endure it. But then two good things happened. Slowly, the pain eased, then disappeared. Then Mr. Johnson reached around my hips and began to skin my cockhead. Sweetly. Up and down. Beautifully. And the pain melted into pleasure. For the moment. But wait. "I'm going to put the rest of my cock into you, Sweetheart," he said. "I'll hurt, but not as badly. Then we'll pause and it'll be fine." True to his word, he pushed and it hurt. Bad. But not as badly as the first shove. And his skillful skinning was making me pant and gasp as I neared orgasm. He paused again. This time he leaned over and kissed my neck. Sweet words of love and a very nice peeny tickle made the experience as comfortable as possible for a young man with a telephone pole up his ass. The third and last push was the easiest of them all. The rubbing against my prostate and the manly fingers on my glans had me screaming and ejaculating helplessly. I was so overcome by my intense, mostly-anal orgasm that I didn't immediately notice that Mr. Johnson was fucking me in full earnestness. And it hardly hurt. Then it didn't hurt at all. Then it felt GREAT!! I felt loved and sexy and randy as all-get-out. But what I mostly felt was "full." If Mr. Johnson had had one more cubic millimeter of cock, my anal cavity would have burst. But he had just enough to completely, and I mean completely fill me. That hard, hot, huge cock rubbing against my tender prostate. Ooooh. I couldn't get hard again just yet, but I felt rumblings in my testicles anyway. Was I going to?.? Mr. Johnson put more of his weight on me, kissed my neck and for the first time whispered, "I love you, Tommy." That did it. My limp, tortured cock drooled out a stream of watery sperm. But the rest of my body felt a tsunami-like orgasm. An orgasm that I felt to the tip of each painted toenail. My shuddering cumfest triggered Mr. Johnson's own pleasure. He grunted manfully and shoved his rammer into me more rapidly. I was stretched horribly! But the walls held firm. Even though they were flooded with a rich, creamy cocktail of manly sperm and semen. My bottomhole received its first load of sperm. And I felt several things at once. First, I felt an urgent need to reject the hot, creamy enema. I needed to poop, girls. You know the feeling, I'm sure. Thank goodness, I was able to suppress the urge. Next, I felt horribly, totally and irrevocably emasculated. I could never hold my head high as a heterosexual male again. Strangely, I was OK with that. Happy, even. My future was either destroyed, or secure. I couldn't decide which. My mind and body were preoccupied, you see, by the complete sexual gratification and boundless pleasure I was feeling. And my anticipation of a whole summer of similar, if not better fun. Mr. Johnson took his time completely emptying his testicles into my ravaged bottom. He had also put about 90 percent of his weight on me, which was not uncomfortable at all. I loved the feeling of his chest hairs rubbing against my back. And I loved that I had given him such pleasure. I was happier than I had ever been and filled with broad anticipation for the future. A future, I hoped, that would soon include a second fucking. Then a third. And lots of other tasty treats. But when Mr. Johnson had finished "doing his business" in my bottom, and his thick, limp, sopping cock had plopped out, all I wanted to do was run to the toilet and empty my very full bowels. One of my high-heeled pumps had come off during our "wrestling match," which slowed me down as I wiggled from the bed to the bathroom. I flung the toilet cover up, then flopped my pretty bottom on the seat and let things go. Oh my. It was messy. Cum and poop. And quite a bit of soreness back there as I made things better. It was more than a little embarrassing. And very private. Which is why I was a bit put out when Mr. Johnson opened the closed bathroom door and intruded on me. And he didn't even apologize. Instead, he just walked over to the bathroom sink, grabbed a washcloth, soaped it up, and began to wash his thick, drooping cock. He smiled at me, the rogue, as I sat on the porcelain throne. "That was the best fuck I've ever had in my life, Tommy," he said. "Thank you so much." Well, that made things much better. I smiled back. "You even look sexy cleaning out your bowels," Mr. Johnson said. "It's natural, you know. Feeling like that after your first anal sex. Ellen was like that for a while, then no problem." That was comforting. I smiled again. Was he going to ravage me again? Right there in the bathroom? Or soon, at least? I hoped so. Not yet. The man was maddeningly patient. "I'm washing my cock, Tommy, because it's been up your bottom. If you wanted to suck it or something -- hint, hint - I want it to taste clean and fresh to you." Sucking his cock sounded like a great idea! He saw that his message had gotten through, so he finished washing and drying his cock (it was already half hard) and said, "I'm going back to bed, Sweetie. Join me when you're ready." I was ready! Almost. I flushed, wiped myself really good, then cleaned myself "back there" with a soapy washcloth. I looked in the mirror. Goodness. I looked as if I had been run over by a truck filled with big-cocked men. Not much I could do at that moment, being ultra-randy and all. So I touched up my lipstick, tucked my hair under my barrettes, straightened my garter belt and stockings seams, kicked off my remaining high-heeled pump, and reentered the arena. The lion was waiting. And his cock was fully reawakened. He stood when I entered the room and held his arms open for me. I flung myself into his arms and was pelted with kisses and desperate embraces. Before I knew what was what, I had slipped to my knees and was sucking Mr. Johnson's hot boner. It was yummy. With a faint taste of soap. We both knew that was just a preliminary. He was going to fuck me again. Yum. When his cock was scorching hot and tungsten hard, I stood up and lay on my back on the bed. I wasn't sure how ass-fucking in the missionary position was done exactly, but I was counting on my guide to show me the way. He said, "Now I'll fuck you the way a man fucks his woman. On her back, with her legs spread wide." I shuddered with lust. Mr. Johnson eased two pillows under my hips, then mounted me. He slid my ankles over his shoulders, then began to ease his cockhead into my sissypussy. It was much easier than the first time. But no picnic. It hurt a bit. But not terribly. I loved seeing the look of lust as we locked eyes and he eased his "big boy" into me. I felt pressure more than pain. Then, I realized, he was all in. He stroked in and out once and I squealed from the delightful agony of the prostate massage. He liked that. Men dig the sound effects, girls. They also dig "surrender." Lying there on your back. Helpless. Pinned under their superior masculinity. Submitting fully to the man's filthy lust. Satisfying all his disgusting needs. I felt completely helpless and girlish as he grunted and pumped his beef bayonet into me. And completely delighted. I spurted all over myself, of course. And got my bowels soaked soon after. Was this heaven? It sure wasn't Iowa. When Mr. Johnson was through "using" me, he rolled off and lay next to me, on his back. I think I actually had him fucked out, girls. At that instant, anyway. A proud moment for pantyboydom! Just to be sure, I eased myself down and took his limp, cum-soaked, poopy-tasting cock into my mouth and nursed on it until I heard the sound we're most likely to hear after we've been well-fucked. Snoring. Superman was exhausted. And I was his Kryptonite. I stopped sucking, lay next to my man, covered us with a sheet and fell asleep. The bad boy recovered his powers at 3:13, fucked me from behind until 3:34, then collapsed and snored yet again. I got a similar, delightful dose at 7:12, on my back this time, with lots of great kissing. Which would have been greater had he shaved that sandpaper beard. After we had both delightedly emptied our testicles, I was ready for anything. Except for what happened. He carried me into the bathroom - good - fucked me beautifully in the shower - very good - then told me we were going to church. Huh? "Ellen and I go every week, Tommy," Mr. Johnson said. "We're following the same pattern, so you're going too. Besides, it'll be good for you to get out. Fresh air and all that." But I didn't want fresh air. I wanted stale, bedroom air. That smelled like cum. And going out as Mrs. Johnson's substitute was something I hadn't even considered. I thought we were just going to stay in the house and fuck. He was going to quit his job and fuck me all day long. You know. The beast wanted me to go "out!!!!" I couldn't. I refused. He didn't accept my refusal. "We're going to 10 a.m. mass at Saint Travestia's," he said. "I'll pick out a nice outfit for you, but you'll have to do your make-up and hair. And, Sweetheart, don't forget to shave. You're not hairy, but you have some beard elements and I don't want anyone figuring out too much." Well, that was humiliating. And potentially mortifying. As well as terrifying. Quite a stew of discomfort. I ALMOST told Mr. Johnson to stuff his cock into his pants and keep it there. I would just reclaim my masculinity, get a construction job for the summer?and maybe a motorcycle?and butch up. Just put the past 24 hours down as one of life's cruel incongruities and move on. Almost. Truth was, I loved being a girl. The dressing was almost as much fun as the fucking. And he was offering me the chance to dress in street clothes. Followed by fucking, I was certain. There were a few hideous hurdles, of course. Like walking into a church full of people, many of whom I knew. As a girl. A very sexy girl. Being "outed" probably. As a crossdressing, cocksucking little faggot. Which was, apparently, what I was. But no need to advertise it. Of course, if I played my role really well, maybe no one would know it was me under all that femininity. That was the only real option. Which was some comfort, but not much. I sighed. And shaved my face very closely. Then I sat at Mrs. Johnson's vanity. Tried to remember the make-up routine I had learned yesterday. When I was a virgin. I giggled at that. It was much more fun NOT being a virgin all right. Mr. Johnson smiled smugly at my surrender and began digging into Mrs. Johnson's closet for my debut outfit - or "outed"-fit, perhaps. I did a quite passable job on my face actually. Darned passable. I got a nice stiffie looking at my beauty. Or was it thinking about the potential humiliation ahead? For some primally obscure reason, the prospect of humiliation and emasculation made my dick hard. When I rose to show Mr. Johnson the results, I thought he might abandon his plan and go back to mine - ten weeks of housebound sex. But no. "You're gorgeous, Darling," he said. "We only have an hour, so let's get you dressed." First, I put on a pair of ultra-sheer, tan, seamed, fully-fashioned, reinforced-heel-and-toe stockings. I almost creamed from their gossamer embrace. Then I hooked them to a pretty, white, ruffled garter belt. I looked at Mr. Johnson to see if he wanted to fuck me yet. He did. Mr. Johnson's namesake was stiff and drippy. But he didn't make a move on me. Instead, he handed me my first bra. A white trainer, that he must have purchased just for me, since Mrs. Johnson had brabuster titties and I had, at best, puffy nipples. "I know you don't think you need a bra," he said, "but it'll make you feel more feminine." He was right. The cruel beast. Did I mention that he was completely nude and painfully rampant during the whole process of getting me dressed for public viewing? It was most distracting. I loved the feel of a brassiere on my chest. The silky material tormenting my tender nipples. The sheer girlishness of it all. And what goes with a first bra? That's right. My first panties. Since my stiff popsy had been pretty much breathing free air for the past 24 hours, I hadn't yet experienced the girlish thrill of panties. Mr. Johnson had selected a tantalizing pair for me. Pink and translucent. Gossamer thin and silky slick. Wispy, yet capable of inducing a major blood-to-cock rush in any man who viewed them in their occupied state. I wanted to occupy them. I slid each stockinged leg into the little teasers then slid them up and over my testicles. Ooohh. But then they encountered "stiff resistance." My aroused "package" was too big for the panties' delicate space. I was disappointed. But Mr. Johnson acted quickly and effectively. He sat in a chair and asked me to "sissy over" to him. I did so and received a delightful reward. He took my blood-red peeny into his loving mouth and kissed, licked, sucked, tongued and otherwise adored it until I blasted a nice creamy load down his manly throat. He swallowed it all, quite tidily. Then, when I was at maximum, post- cum droop, he tucked my cock and pink bag into the sweet panties. I thought perhaps that we would then stay and make love instead of embark on our hazardous expedition. But no. "Twenty-seven minutes until we leave for church," the obsessive brute said. He arose and went to his closet for his clothes. Like all men, it took him about ten seconds to get dressed. And he looked gorgeous in his tan summer suit, blue shirt, yellow tie and brown wingtips. Then he handed me the prettiest, sky-blue sundress! "You'll look beautiful in this, Baby," he said. And he was right. It had inch-thick straps, covering my bra straps while exposing my bare shoulders to the world for one of the first times in my life (except for the pool and beach). The way the sundress was cut, my lack of boobs was not glaring. The length was perfect too, just below my stocking tops - sexy, but not slutty - the look I found suited me best. I slid on a pair of pretty, sky-blue, strappy sandals with three-inch- stiletto heels and worshipped myself in the full-length mirror. I was hot. Great legs, accentuated by the heels and retro, seamed stockings. And even "passable." Maybe. If I acted feminine and didn't talk much - work on the voice was definitely needed. Mr. Johnson wolf-whistled appreciatively and I saw him almost abandon his plan for my plan - but no. He kissed me lightly - to preserve the makeup - praised my beauty and led me to the car. He opened the door for me and said, "Keep your knees together when you get in and out of the car. That's it. Seatbelt. OK, let's go." And we were off. Chapter Four - The new Mrs. Johnson meets the public. I was trembling during the entire five-minute ride to church. Mr. Johnson tried to calm me down. He even suggested that I call him, "Carl," at least in public, since the ice had pretty much been broken between us. I liked calling him Mr. Johnson. It just seemed "dirtier" and I liked dirtier. But I decided that around others, I would call him Carl. Mr. Johnson pulled into a parking space, got out of the car, and hustled around to open the door for me. I liked that, and I even remembered to keep my knees together as I got out. I was looking forward to separating those knees when we got home from church, I stood up and looked around. It was about ten minutes before mass - peak arrival time - and people were getting out of their cars in large numbers. You'll be surprised to know that an odd thing happened - one of many in my odd life. People were greeting each other and chatting and so forth. Scanning the parking lot for people they knew. But as each man and many of the women saw me - little old me - they stopped scanning and started staring. I panicked. They knew I was a male. I was going to be drawn, quartered, tarred, feathered and ridden out of town on a rail specially reserved for gay people.. But no. They were looking at me because, as they say in the movie trailers, in a world of masculine women, I oozed femininity. From my pretty, painted toes shimmering beneath the reinforced portion of my tan, fully- fashioned stockings to the blue, flat, circular hat Mr. Johnson gave me to hide my shortish, boyish hair, I was feminine. And darned pretty as well. Well, well. I noticed more than one lump in a churchgoer's pants. For me! Well, well. We walked slowly toward church as I drank in the male adulation. What a lovely development. And what a boost to both my confidence and my fragile ego. Everything was perfect until I heard, "Good morning, Carl. Good morning, Tommy." I turned around to see Mom, with Dad in tow. Mom was such a pain, though I must say that she looked stunningly gorgeous that Sunday morning. Pretty yellow summer dress. Stockings and big heels. Perfect makeup. Where had THAT Mom been all my life? I prayed under my breath that Mom wouldn't blow my cover. Mr. Johnson said quickly, "Good morning, Ruthie. Ralph. I'd like you to meet my cousin Tara. She's staying with me while she does a summer internship at my firm." Tara? I was Tara? I guessed I was. Good backstory too! Would Mom go along? Or make a scene? "Of course," Mom said. "So nice to meet you, Tara. Please come by for dinner with Carl some evening. If you two aren't too busy. [Giggle]." Giggle? Mom didn't giggle. Dad seemed ambivalent about the strange goings-on around him. He was standing with his obviously, sexually-resurrected, newly delicious wife, who was probably not girlying up for him (though I did learn later that he was "getting more" than he had in years); facing his girly-sexy, well-fucked son and the son's well-fucker. Seeing me as a girl - a sexy girl - didn't seem to bother Dad. In fact, it seemed to tent his pants. What bothered him, it seemed, was that his wife was flirting - obviously and excessively - with Mr. Johnson. If mass weren't starting in less than a minute, Mom would have had her panties off, right there. I was sure of it. Or maybe she wasn't even wearing panties. What the heck had gotten into her? Was throwing herself at Mr. Johnson something she'd always wanted to, but couldn't do it when Mrs. Johnson was around? That made the most sense. Well, she wasn't going to get past me, either!! I would defend my turf, thank you. We went into the church and, thankfully, Mom and Dad sat on the left side and Mr. Johnson and I on the right. Mass was uneventful, except for a man at the end of my pew who couldn't seem to take his eyes off my legs. Couldn't blame him, really. I had great legs! And the stockings and shoes were very sexy. I had a very naughty daydream about taking my shoes off and letting that man smell my shoes?or even kiss my feet. I'll bet he would have creamed his pants! When mass was over, I thought we were going home for a proper fucking. Goodness knows I was ready. All that walking around as a girl had me quite hot and steamy. But no. Mr. Johnson led me to the car and helped me in. When he got in and started the car, he said, "Let's get lunch." I was a little disappointed, since the lunch I wanted was between his legs. But I had gained a little self-confidence and was OK with pushing the envelope a bit. We went to a nice, outdoor caf? near the church and had a delicious lunch, which was even more delicious because of all the male attention I was getting. Everything was new and better in my life. I even loved the short walks to and from the parking lot. Feeling the tug of my garters on my stockings. The breeze up my skirts. The tantalizing notion that a gust of wind or a naughty man could easily lift my skirts and expose my panties! We didn't go right home after lunch. We stopped at a nice jewelry store to get my ears pierced (ow!). By then even slowpoke Mr. Johnson had had enough celibacy in his life. We sped to his home - our home, really - where, when we got in the door, he guided me to the dining room, bent me over the table, lifted my pretty dress from behind, dropped my panties and fucked me quite thoroughly. I was proud of how well I was able to take a good ramming without losing my balance in pencil heels. And, of course, I spurted a nice, creamy load all over the inside of my dress. Some gooies seeped through to the dining room table where I had eaten Mom's casserole the day before. An hour later, Mr. Johnson and I were in bed. I had stripped to garters, stockings and heels and Mr. Johnson was licking my testicles as he fingered my bottom. Which made me cum, screaming his name. Then he mounted me missionary-style and gave me another taste of paradise. That pretty much described the rest of that fine weekend. And when Monday morning came, I did everything in my power to keep Mr. Johnson from going to work and staying in bed with me. No luck. We said a reluctant goodbye at the front door. I was wearing just a post-shower, post-fucking, floor-length, diaphanous, black peignoir. I offered Mr. Johnson the full use of every wet orifice I owned, but he said, "Sweetheart, for our ?marriage' to work, we have to be honest. First, if we spent 24/7, 365 together, the magic would be gone. Second, I have to work for the mortgage and food. And third, I promised Ellen that if I had you for the summer, you had to follow the same schedule she did. Monday is definitely a laundry and dry-cleaning day. I mean, look at all the cummy sheets and clothes from our weekend, let alone the rest of the week. And you need to get dressed, get in the car and take that pile of drycleaning to the cleaners, and pick up what's there. We all have to earn our keep, Sweetie. I'll be home at 5:15. Wear something pretty and lube up that delicious tushie hole of yours. Bye, Honey." He kissed me and was gone. The beast! He expected me to stay home and do his drudgery? And worse, get dressed and go out as a girl? Drive a car, with a boy's driver's license? What if I were stopped? I'd probably have to do some unspeakable act (or acts) to get the policeman to forget about a ticket. [Shudder]. But there were two truly horrible aspects to what Mr. Johnson just said and did. First, it would be ten hours until I had sex!!! And second, I didn't have a clue about how to do laundry. My eyes welled up with girlish tears of frustration, abandonment and dread. Then the back door opened and I beheld a sight that was usually unwelcome, but not at that moment. "Good morning, ?Tara,'" Mom said as she burst into the kitchen carrying another casserole. "Anything I