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Coupled by Vickie Tern "I'm leaving now, honey." "Are you? Oh, of course, look at the time. OK, Enjoy yourself, baby. Oh, first let me look at you?" Slightly impatient but smiling modestly, he came further into the room and then did a slow turn. Beautiful! I could see at a glance that he'd gone all out. He'd given himself a flawless complexion, and bright red, delicately shaped lips, and eyes that were deep pools of mysterious black. His streaky blonde hair was gently curled this evening, and swept up in back. He'd gone all out -- his black brocade dress was set off with the pearl necklace and earrings I'd given him for his coming out party. Which was ... what, only a few weeks ago? Good heavens, only a few weeks ago, and now look at him. I was impressed, and I wanted him to know it in case he still felt a little nervous about his appearance. "Very nice! You're lovely, honey. Your turn to be the girl tonight? Well, you've done yourself proud -- very suave, very chic, sweetie. Are those new heels?" "Yes," he replied. He was already using his girly voice, only a little flutey but coruscating across the scales, across the range of the human voice, as women's voices tend to do. "I needed something really high and strappy to go with this dress. They're black, so they'll also do well with my mauve silk. And they're really wonderful with those tailored slacks I found at Simpson's last week. I'll get use out of them." "I'm sure you will. I've been thinking about shoes something like that for myself. Will you be late, do you think?" He smiled and looked at me a little conspiratorially. "April, that'll depend entirely on Bob. I was all over him till nearly three last time it was my turn. Or he was all over me. It's so good, after a while it does get to be mutual." He grinned and blushed, then maybe to cover his embarrassment he adjusted his decolletage -- daintily, but even so, that cleft of his remained its most prominent feature. He did love showing it off! I saw that his nails were newly lacquered in the same red shade as his lipstick, with oval tips. A professional job. He really had gone all out. "Well, Jerri, tomorrow's Saturday, you can sleep in as late as you like. Just don't utterly exhaust yourself. Did Bob get tickets for a show or something?" "No, he says it'll be dinner, then probably dancing, there's a new band at the Highland Lodge I hear. There's a nice crowd goes there -- I'm getting to know some of them. They know he's married, so they think I'm his little piece of fluff on the side." He grinned. "And it's a nice night, and the air's balmy, so they'll probably open their terrace for dinner and dancing. You can see half the city winking at night from up there, it should be marvelous. By which I suppose I mean it'll be romantic." He sighed. "We'll be meeting Maureen and Garrett there -- you remember them I think, they're friends of the Cartwrights. We'd see them now and then at mob cocktail parties." I recalled Garrett. He'd once somehow managed to get a hand on my breast while helping me on with a coat. If he hadn't been leering when he did it I might have let him, for a moment anyhow -- that was his reputation, and he'd lived up to it. "Oh yes, Garrett," I said. "Garrett's nice enough, as I recall, but he can be a little brash. Does he know who you really are?" Jerri smiled smugly. "Hasn't a clue," he said. "Well, watch out for him. He comes on to every woman he meets, as I well remember. So watch out for him." "I know. I will. Don't worry, I intend to be true to Bob!" His conspiratorial grin broadened into something almost masculine, but he recovered with a toss of the head that shifted his hair prettily away from his face. I'd seen him practicing that gesture for the first time only a few days ago, after dinner. He really was taking this thing seriously. Well, why not? He made a pretty girl, and one of the pleasures pretty girls enjoy is flirting with attractive men, getting a rise out of them. He knew I didn't mind occasional flirtations with men other than Bob -- that's part of the fun. Even when they threaten to become more than flirtations -- that'd happened now twice that I knew of. But no harm. Some of the things Jerry likes to do when he's being Jerri really does tap into his inner slut. "I may need to watch out for Maureen though!" he added. "Oh?" Personal or intimate relationships with other women were another matter. We'd agreed, absolutely forbidden. Off limits. I wouldn't allow it. Jerry and Jerri were both mine! I looked at him inquiringly. "Not long ago we ran into them at Le Cirque, Garrett and Maureen, and it happens she made a full scale pass at me when we were alone together in the Ladies' room. It really shocked me -- I hadn't expected it, I mean, I was feeling romantic, really hanging onto Bob's arm that night, and I know she'd seen how we were together. I found out afterward that she's bi. But whether she'd read me and wanted me as a man who cares about feminine things, or whether she just wanted me as a woman, that I simply don't know. Either way, I guess she saw no harm in trying." "Well there she was wrong. You're mine, Jerry. And Bob's too of course, when you're being Jerri, because it's important for Jerri to know how good it is to belong to a real man. Gwen thinks so too -- that's why she gives Bob to you when he's being Bobbi, so he can also enjoy being a girl with her fella now and then. We don't either of us mind because you're always only each other's and no one else's, and also because you take turns being the guy and the girl. That way you both enjoy the best of both, and we aren't likely to lose either of you to one or the other -- we do worry about that sometimes. It's all kind of sweet and cute and ... well, you know, fun and exciting, for you and for us too. How many women get to be married to men who are also women?" Jerry nodded, his face serious. He knew I was being serious even though I sounded almost silly. "You're both spoken for!" Now I was speaking emphatically. "You're ours. So ... well, let Maureen find her own girlfriends or boyfriends or whatever!" And I stamped my foot for emphasis. Some of it was for show -- I was sure I could trust him. "That's exactly what she was doing, April honey, trying to find her own girlfriend or boyfriend." And Jerri actually winked his black eyelashes at me! So I picked up a couch cushion and threw it at him. "You get out of here!" I said. How I loved him! "Just don't exhaust yourself utterly, save some of your energy and charm for me. When I wake up tomorrow morning I expect to see you lying beside me asleep in your favorite nightie, still smiling, with no memories whatever of Maureen. Oh yes, you forgot last time, I expect to see all that gorgeous make-up you're wearing creamed off. We do not clog our complexions." "Yes, Ma'am." And he blew me the most darling, delicate kiss. Lightly kissed his palm and held it in front of his pursed lips and gave it a little puff of air. Absolutely fetching! Then flipped his wrist away. He must have been practicing that gesture too this past week, the little tease! I gave him an air kiss back and settled back into my book. Jerri left to walk next door to Bob and Gwen's. Since he was Bob's date, Bob would do the driving. Just as Jerry drove when Bob was being Bobbi. ****** It wasn't that all confusing, and not even very novel any more, though this steady alternative dating got added to Jerry's pleasures as Jerri almost by accident. Jerry'd also been Jerri for a long time, since his boyhood I suspect. I'd noticed the signs and reached that conclusion long ago, though we'd never discussed it. Like most cross dressers, he felt ashamed and tried to hide it from me, as if he was violating his manhood or something. As if I'd think less of him because now and then he wants to be the kind of person I am. As if imitation weren't the sincerest form of flattery! Eventually though, it did seem the right thing for me to force the revelation, to bring Jerri out into the open so to speak. So he'd understand that I love all of him regardless of the parts that embarrass him. So I did bring Jerri out, and after that things got to be really fun! I picked a good time. The mood was just right. We were driving home from Jenna and Scott Cartwright's -- we'd met them at an art gallery opening and they'd invited us to stop by their house for a drink along with quite a few other people. A light-hearted, spontaneous social situation. We'd been joking with all sorts of people about all sorts of things, and that may be why I decided well, enough already. As as soon as we were alone I turned and said to my husband in a sprightly but affectionate tone of voice, "You really do like imagining you're a girl, don't you?" "What?" he replied. Obviously he couldn't think of anything else to say. Because it was true and we both knew it. Obviously, he was wondering how after all those years of concealment, I knew. So he stalled, wondering above all how to deal with whatever was coming. The poor angel! "When you're with women you behave exactly as if you were one of us," I said. "You move as if you were graceful, and curved in all the right places. You try to display your pulchritude prettily," I said, trying to sound both cheerful and delighted. "To be attractive as only girls are. With all sorts of dainty gestures. You're really very good at it, and I know why. I've seen you practicing." "You have?" Still stalling for time. Unaware that he'd put his fingertips to his lips in a typically feminine gesture expressing surprise. I'd seen him gently lower his coffee cup to the table in a single fluid movement, as women often do, not just set it down and abandon it with his hand as men do. And once, when he thought I was absorbed in a book, he gave the most delicious hip wiggle when he got up from an easy chair and straightened his clothes. If I'd been a man I'd have leaped him! I knew where his mind was then. He apparently didn't know how much this other self of his had absorbed his proper self. Or rather, absorbed his male self -- as I saw it, since it came easily to him and he liked it, and it seemed intriguing to me, both his male and his female self were proper. I paused, then decided to go all the way. "I've also noticed that now and then you like to try on my clothes, I suppose to see if they help with the illusion. Help you feel more girly. Even my make-up. Isn't that true?" It was getting toward evening but even so I saw his face go deep red. His thoughts were quite clearly written there. I knew! How did I find out? Had he slipped up anywhere? Our marriage was built on honesty, of course, like all good marriages, though no more than any other couple did we feel bound to tell each other the whole truth about everything. I mean, that could be insensitive, tactless, even risky. We all have egos to protect, after all. But we never lied or allowed wrong impressions to remain uncorrected. So he couldn't deny the facts as stated. He did sometimes try on my clothes and make-up. I knew it for fact, though he didn't know how I knew. "I guess," he said, still stalling. "It isn't just appearances either, is it? Take tonight. There were the husbands talking about somebody or other top-seeded in the semi-finals of something or other, and there were the wives talking about Helen's Versace and whether sequins are coming back for formal wear, and whether 'Sex and the City' was worth seeing, and also dishing about how Veronica never seems to be home nights when her husband's on the road, just call her and see for yourself. And so on. And which group did you choose to chat with? "The wives." "Because?" "I like the way women talk. They share. They talk about people. Men get pretty pompous when they aren't actually putting each other down -- they're always 'guying' each other -- needling and pretending it's joking and so on. It's annoying. Or they talk about things, or they talk shop, and that's boring." "And?" "OK, yes, I like the things women talk about too. I'm fascinated that Veronica may be a little bit naughty." "A little bit, yes. I guess you are. Very much like the rest of us." I looked at him proudly -- now he needed reassurance, lots of it I was sure. "Some of the women congratulated me as we were leaving for having a husband who cares about things we care about. About fashion, for example. 'He must be a great help when you're putting an outfit together,' is what one of them said to me during those few minutes when you went to refresh some of the women's wine glasses I had to agree. I told her I'd intended to wear rhinestones tonight but you knew that this silver choker was more appropriate. And everyone agreed you were right." "So, given my interest in clothes, in women's styles, you think I want to be a woman?" I grinned at him. "Oh, no, Jerry, not exactly." There had been one point in our gossiping when Jerry'd fallen silent. We were wondering aloud why Samantha had dumped her husband Patrick for Ralph, who was nowhere near as clever. Jerry'd contributed some shrewd observations about Patrick as a man with a temper, quick to argue about nothing. "He's a little man in every sense," he'd said, and we'd all agreed. But when we began to joke and smile wickedly about Ralph's contrasting attributes -- Ralph is tall and muscular and generous, a body-builder, a big man -- Jerry'd had nothing to say. Especially when Joanne wondered aloud what it must feel like to snuggle up to a man-shaped wall his size. We'd all giggled at the thought of a massive man lying next to us, maybe with a massive part of him inside us. Jerry acted as if he was as amused by that thought as the rest of us -- he did want to seem one of the girls. But his knowing smile was forced, and it was certainly inappropriate. Jerry did not share a woman's sexual desires. He couldn't be a woman that way. Not yet, anyway. I hoped he wasn't feeling too excluded, too left out. "No, I don't think you want to be a woman," I replied. "Not always, not for good. But I'm sure you like to imagine you are one, now and then. That you like to doll yourself up and let the mirror persuade you. Like when you were talking with us about other women -- didn't it feel sort of sexy to imagine you were one of us? Am I wrong?" He swallowed hard and struggled with himself a moment. Then, "Yes," he replied. And, "No, you're not wrong." He drove a little further toward our house. "I do like imagining I'm one of you. How long have you ... been wondering about this? Suspecting it? About me?" His eyes were almost pleading. He was terribly worried that the compromised masculinity he'd just confessed might compromise my love for him. Maybe already had? No way! No way imaginable! "How long have I suspected? Oh, honey, for years and years! Practically since we first met. I remember how you were obviously different from all the other boys, how you endeared yourself to me forever simply because you knew about different hair styles -- you knew whose hair was layered, or shagged, or bouffant, and so on. Only women see such things -- men appreciate the result but not the art, unless they want to be hairdressers. But you cared. You knew the styles and their names and their effects on how a girl looks wearing each, and yet you were a young financial wizard, no way a hairdresser. That was so flattering to all of us! It made you special." "My mother and my sister talked about such things all the time," he offered in explanation. Pathetic! "Yes, but how many brothers pay the slightest attention? Then again, I knew almost right away that you were browsing through my drawers, no, not only those kinds of drawers, I mean my bureau drawers. I noticed long ago that you'd gotten into my underwear, and I mean that in both senses! And I've been aware for some time that my make-up isn't always the way I usually leave it." I paused, giving him plenty of time to review his failings as a thief in the night. Then I went on. "How long have I known for sure? Well, I'm ashamed to say I started deliberately trying to collect evidence and at the same time to please you ... maybe it was a year or so ago. I began leaving certain items of clothing out, and certain shades of makeup I thought might especially appeal to you. And I was so pleased when I saw that they'd done just that. You'd worn them, the evidence was obvious enough! I imagined how you'd looked in them, given your face and figure, and I was pretty sure you weren't too bad, rather cute probably! The whole time I thought it was a lovely hobby, and harmless enough. But you never mentioned it to me so I always assumed you were ashamed. That you must have thought it a fetish or something like that, disgraceful, not one of the ways a free spirit enlarges his range of experience. Which is what life is for! That was when I really began trying to help you in earnest, but always trying not to embarrass you." I smiled ruefully to myself, remembering the subterfuges. It hadn't been easy. "You've been helping me?" "Of course! Do you think it's accidental that my dresses happen to fit you so well? Remember when we put ourselves on that crash diet, and you lost forty pounds and me ten, and we ended up practically the same size? The same dress size?" I wondered how much more I should say, then decided, in for a penny. He is my beloved husband after all. And I do love him. And he's in a rather ... sensitive state of mind right now, "We aren't shaped the same of course, I'm sure you knew that. Or anyhow, we weren't. Nothing fit you quite right. But I wanted you to be happy with your new ultra thin figure, so along with your weight-loss pills I got you some others to tweak your body just a little to look a teeny bit more like mine. You lost weight, but you also redistributed some of it. You started getting softer here and rounder there, remember when you first noticed? Little by little you began to get quite shapely. You thought it was flab or something and wanted to join a gym and work out, but I kept telling you not to worry, that I didn't like hard bodies, I liked you soft, that you felt wonderful soft. And you did! You do! You remember how I steered you into my Yoga class so you could learn to stretch out your muscles and become more limber, the way women like to be, instead of toughening them up and going musclebound the way men do?" "So instead of getting buff I got pliable as well as soft? You did that?" "No, you did that. I encouraged it. Yes. You're better than soft now, you're deliciously curvy here and there. I love it. You don't?" I knew he did. "I have noticed that parts of me look ... a little feminine." He looked a shade guilty, as if his secret enjoyment of his new body was somehow a crime I glanced at him. Only a little? With those hips and breasts? "Well, I should hope so. When you try on my panty hose these days, aren't you impressed with how glamorous your legs have become? Wide calves, slim ankles, luscious!" He was silent. He had noticed, of course. They were now altogether satisfactory for his feminine ambitions, those gams. He loved that they were so arched and rounded -- I'd come upon him admiring them in the mirror once or twice, and immediately I'd wondered how they'd look in stockings or pedalpushers or clamdiggers. And how his new wider hips would look flaring from his narrow waist if emphasized by a short skirt. Sexy as could be, I was sure! "My legs do look like a woman's, that's true," he said finally. "And your breasts? You think you've been getting a little flabby there too, but when you wear bras, I bet you're pleased that you now fill them so beautifully. You're a B cup, aren't you?" Now that was really embarrassing. Jerry glanced at me -- I was looking at him with the widest-eyed, most accepting expression any woman has ever mustered on her face. Waiting for him to agree as I knew he had to. "Well, all right April, yes, I do try on your bras. And the way my pectoral muscles sag these days I guess I do fill them. But your breasts are way bigger than my pitiful excuses for ...." "Oh honey baby, they aren't at all pitiful, they're darling! Really cute! I have news for you. I'm a C cup, I have been since I was a teenager. What you've been wearing are your own bras, not mine. I got them in your size for you! It isn't just your pectoral muscles that are sagging, honey -- you have real breasts now, your own lovely B cup breasts, and enlarged nipples to go with them, and you've been wearing your own bras for months. When we make love and I tweak them or suck on them just a little, do you think I don't notice how you go ape? How I can bring you off just by caressing them? You may end up a C cup, but that we won't know for a little while longer." "These are breasts?!" "Honeybun, yes, of course they are! Real breasts for a part time real woman! And you love them, don't tell me you don't! You now have a perfectly respectable figure with very nice boobs, even if they are still a bit small for your shoulders. And your hips emphasize the marvelous lush tush you've been growing. I know you've admired those globular buns whenever you've looked at them over your shoulder in your mirror. Do you think I've never seen you checking out your rear guard like any woman who's pleased with her body and making sure it's all still there? Did you think you were only imagining that gorgeous butt of yours?" "Well, yes, in a way, I ...." "That's why we're talking about this kind of thing now. Honey, just listen. Your birthday is coming up soon and I love you and I've been racking my brains for a really fabulous present for you. Something that would really express how much I love you and at the same time give you the greatest enjoyment. Well, I've just about settled on getting you a whole female wardrobe of your own, and a whole day's makeover at Sally's so for once you can really look as fabulous as you deserve to look. I want you to really show yourself off, to be all you can be! And that's why I decided tonight to let you know that I know all about your hobby and I don't mind it, that in fact I think it's flattering to me as a woman, to all women. And think about this, it has possibilities for all sorts of new fun relationships we can explore with each other. I might well find myself attracted to a new you in new ways altogether! And you to me! Really, it's nothing for you to worry about at all." And so on. Well, that was my speech to him that evening as he was driving us home. It was an incredible revelation to him, and at first he was terribly embarrassed, even humiliated. Also uneasy, because he couldn't quite believe I meant what I said. Then gradually, as I'd hoped it would, it made him incredibly happy. By the time we got home his mind was filled with wild surmise. He was glowing! Now he could play at being a girl as much as he wanted to, out in the open! And I'd help! We arrived home, and he parked the car, and without a word he led me upstairs and without a word he got naked and insisted I do the same thing, no nightie, no nite cremes, no nothing, and he guided me, half-lifted me onto his cock and then lay me down gently on our bed. And for two hours we made love. Oh, Lord-God, we made real love, sweetly, devotedly, passionately! Not fucked, loved! Well, maybe we fucked too -- we both did get absorbed in our own pleasures now and then. It was heavenly -- he was so exhilarated and so raunchy that his cock simply would not quit! When finally -- I think it was three climaxes for him and I got lost in how many for me so I'm not sure -- well, I told him I'd had enough, I had to sleep. I was oozing, his semen dribbling out on my thighs and filling my crack, and my mouth was so sore from all the kissing and sucking. Which gave me my own slightly raunchy idea. "But before we sleep," I said. "I'd love for you to kiss me down there with your mouth. With lots of tongue!" And I beamed at him mischievously, even a little smugly. Because I knew he would. At first he didn't understand -- he'd always gone down on me before making love to me, never after, so I always felt clean down there, pristine and ...well, eager for him when his cock head finally poked me and parted the ways. Afterward I was always messy, gloppy, sloppy, maybe even a little smelly down there, and I disliked the feeling even though getting that way was so marvelous. But now? I just kept looking at him, drowsy yet insistent. Trying to look insistent anyhow. There was a wry expression on his face -- I couldn't read it. "Haven't you ever tasted a boy's cum?" I asked him. "Girls love semen, the feel of it in their mouths, on their lips and tongues and everything. It means they've made their lover happy! I surely love it -- you certainly know that!" I'd suck him off now and then when he was feeling hornier than I was, and when he spurted into my mouth it was always satisfying. I'd be sure he knew when I swallowed his loads that I loved it. I actually did. My main reason for cocksucking him wasn't that, though -- it was to increase the time before his second cumming, so I could enjoy long, leisurely sequences of orgasms instead of hoping for just one while he raced frantically toward his first climax. This time though I looked at him meaningfully and then just lay back. He wants to be a girl? Then he ought to swallow semen like the rest of us. I wanted him to know that. He finally understood that I meant it, and his head disappeared under the covers. Almost immediately I felt him between my legs. I raised my legs high up and rested them on his shoulders -- thank God for Yoga! -- and immediately felt his tongue licking the ooze from my crack. He pushed my thighs wide apart and then ... there came this ... this desire in me down there that grew and spread and became incredibly intense, a terrible yearning I felt through my whole body, growing until it filled me and ... oh, God, it finally peaked, and I tensed and screamed and came and came and came, exulting, as long-lasting, powerful, orgasmic spasms squeezed me and sent all his juice pumping out of me into my darling's mouth and all over his face. And he swallowed it all down just as I wanted him to. Just like a girl! I have never loved him more than I did then! He emerged with his face glistening and his hair soaked and clotted by our mingled cum, and he licked his lips and patted his belly. "There now," he said, smiling at me. "All back inside me again. Ready for recycling!" "Was it so terrible of me to ask you to do that?" I asked, as if unsure. I needed to know how he felt. The idea that my hubby was swallowing sperm, man juice, somehow appealed to me. It was what he would do if he were a real girl. It felt ... well, friendly. More intimate than sharing our undies. Somehow more ... bonding as equals, as girl to girl. "I loved it," was all he said. "Because you wanted it." And he fell asleep almost at once, wrapped in my arms as I was in his. As I drifted off I mused contentedly, so very pleased that under the right circumstances my Jerry could enjoy and swallow semen. Like me. One more way for him to be a girl! I hugged him, and his breasts -- there were pectoral muscles beneath them, but I knew they were breasts -- pressed themselves against mine. And this time I knew he knew too. This would be so much fun! Why didn't I encourage him to confess this desire of his years ago? ****** The next morning when he came from his shower I handed him one of my robes to wear to breakfast, one so girly-girly I hardly ever wore it myself. Frou-frou, layers of chiffon, embroidery, and lace, a bridal shower gift that was still practically new. He instinctively froze, then gingerly accepted it, and with a single understanding glance at me he put it on, carefully. As if it was impregnated with something that might destroy him. As well it might! But rather, I wanted it to complete him! It did have a magical effect! His boyish, slightly effeminate body suddenly became willowy! Just like a girl's, though a girl with a plain face. He looked at me shyly, proud yet embarrassed to be himself so obviously. Then looked at himself in the mirror and ... preened! He approved! "You do know what I'm going to ask you to do next, just quickly, minimally, before we go down together for breakfast," I said. "Yes," he said. "And you know why." "Yes," he replied in a subdued but nevertheless excited voice. "So there's no more secrecy. Because we're open with each other from now on. And because a girl ought always to look decent." "As open with each other as we can be," I corrected him. "From now on your femininity is mine to have and to hold, something I married along with the rest of you, something I love and want to see whenever you feel you want to express it. But done right. Tastefully. You know. "Yes," he replied. He sat down at my make-up table and began to look for a mascara brush. I always came to breakfast wearing minimal but adequate make-up. Just mascara and a light lipstick -- the major facial artistry came later. Because, as my mother had explained to me, I was a girl twenty-four hours a day, so I should look like one twenty-four hours a day. Girls who are not in bed asleep always wear eye make-up and lipstick, whatever else. Sometimes even in bed, sometimes especially in bed -- I had to smile at that wicked thought. I must make love to my new girl soon, I decided then and there. "Your things are in the large central drawer. Now that you're kind of ... ah, my live-in girlfriend as well as my beloved man we'll fill in all the other things you need. And when you look presentable we'll go out together and give people a chance to admire your other self." "No!" he uttered, shocked. "I ... I...." He couldn't speak! That simple proposal freaked him out! I saw I'd need to go slow. "Well, we'll reveal you only to strangers first," I declared, concerned not to spook him. "Only in passing. But maybe eventually our friends. Honey, remember, being a girl is a privilege, not a secret vice. You are not going to hide yourself away." Still worried about exposing his secret vice to the world but obviously deciding he'd deal with my liberal ideas another time, he began brushing mascara on his upper lashes. He was obviously not unaccustomed. Then he expertly twisted on some lipstick. His face actually did take on the aspect of an innocent doll! This would be so fun! For the first time, I noticed he'd plucked his eyebrows -- cautiously, so I wouldn't notice, and I hadn't. But I could see, now that he was wearing make-up, that they were shaped, thinned and neatened, adequately enough to sustain a feminine appearance. He could go further with them, came the random thought. Imply delicacy by making them look really delicate, as some women do. "Oh yes, when you shower this morning, depillate," I told him. "And use a body lotion. And let's say all day today you practice your sitting and standing and walking, and using a girl's voice, I'm sure you know better than I do just what I mean. Oh yes, for now just run a brush through your hair a few times -- we'll get you professionally done when you're ready. Your eyebrows aren't a problem now -- you've been shaping them, haven't you, you sweetheart!" He nodded, his open secret no longer secret. "Since you intend to be a part-time girl, you'll want to be as complete and persuasive a part-time girl as you can be! I'll expect no less!" "Yes, Ma'am," he said. And he stood up, keeping his elbows close to his sides, another feminine gesture. It looked a bit clumsy but definitely he had promise. "Shall we?" "I don't dine with just any girl," I replied. "What's your name, sweetheart? We've just slept together, so you can tell me." "Jerri. With an 'i' not a 'y'." "Well, Jerri with an 'i' not a 'y', let's see how good you are in the kitchen. I already know what you're like in the bedroom." Arm in arm we descended, to make breakfast together. It was fun! We divided the chores and worked together as if we really were two girlfriends. The whole time we chatted and giggled together over some of the gossip we'd overheard at the art gallery, then later at Jenna and Scott's. It was so delicious! Several times I had to stop doing whatever I was doing and just kiss him. On impulse, I couldn't help it! Then after breakfast when we'd cleared the dishes and put everything away, I simply took him by the hand, led him back to our bedroom, told him to lie flat in his back, mounted him, settled myself onto his distended prick, leaned forward to kiss his sweet rosy lips again and again, and screwed his ass off. And of course my own. When his penis finally lay there slack, unable to engorge again, a total flop, I slid forward to kiss him with my labia and bury his face under my ass. His tongue had barely touched my clit when I tensed up and came, orgasmed all the juice he'd squirted into me onto his face and into his mouth. He not only didn't seem to mind, he moaned as if he himself were orgasming. I decided then and there that all our lovemaking would end like this, with me sitting on my darling's face while he serviced the my pussy and his own cum. An hour later we were both sore and exhausted but blissful. It was the weekend, so I suggested that Jerry spend the whole day as Jerri. He accepted the idea as eagerly as a puppy. I handed him the four bras I'd bought him and told him to put one on and to put the others in his own undies drawer -- he'd wear them daily from now on. He did, bending expertly to clip it on his chest more expertly than I'd have expected, and I saw that indeed he filled his B cups easily. I then loaned him a pair of tan shorts, a pair flared wide at the legs to look like a miniskirt, and sandals to match. And a shocking pink, scoop-necked, embroidered tank top left over from before I lost weight. It seemed to him oversized enough to provide the illusion that his breasts didn't show, though it was obvious to me that they were thrust out nicely, noticeably, his bra saw to that. He was in heaven, my darling! He seemed rapturously unaware that he was still wearing make-up, and I didn't remind him by suggesting he fix his face -- despite all the kissing he was still wearing enough lipstick to preserve decency. "Now you're my girl," I said, and he beamed. He felt comfortable enough to agree to adjourn to our back terrace to lounge there, reading. We were doing just that, still being two girls, when behind Jerri's back Gwen Shanahan from next door looked over the fence and waved at me. I waved back. She glanced at Jerri, smiled at nothing in particular, then disappeared elsewhere. Maybe she thought Jerri was a house guest or relative or something? I hoped so. I didn't want to embarrass Jerry -- he was presentable enough, marginally passable, but still a long way from feeling the confidence every woman needs to feel that she's properly presentable. All in good time. And so the next few weeks went. Jerry became Jerri whenever he could -- most evenings and weekends, and as he grew better at it we both grew accustomed to it. Always though, only in the house. We watched chick flicks on the tube and gossiped together as women will, sharing amusement or outrage about the delicious things some men try to do to women and how charming other men can be, mostly chatting about women's things. I deliberately kept away from masculine or even neutral interests during this period -- this was a kind of indoctrination by overcompensating, if you will. Each night I gave him his hormone pill deliberately, "so you can feel more comfortable with yourself." Each night he had to decide for himself whether or not to take it, and each night I watched him hold it in hand as if it were a magic talisman, look at it, then swallow it with a glass of water and smile at me as if seeking my approval. Clearly, he needed me to help him overcome whatever his doubts about changing his body quite so deliberately. I was happy to help. If he'd chosen not to take them, I'd have smiled at him and approved that too, I suppose, but the fact is, he didn't. Immediately afterward, both of us in our nighties, we'd make love devotedly, or sometimes we'd just fuck hard and steady -- I can be pretty relentless until I've risen to my third orgasm. Then without my even asking any more, without my moving a muscle, he'd go down on me, suck out all the cum he'd just spurted and swallow it down, and I'd cum yet again against his mouth. Sometimes, when his nose was nuzzling into my ass, I'd bounce up and down and wriggle it in deeper, as far as it would go. It was heaven. For casual wear after work and on weekends I wear pants more often than not, but my Jerry needed to get accustomed to skirts, to full femininity. So I praised his legs all the time, trying to convince him they were too attractive to hide. So he took to wearing pantyhose all the time, even to work -- as he told me, it gave him a sense of secret sisterhood with all the women who worked in his building, that in this way at least he was one of them. When I pointed out he ought to wear a bra every day too, his breasts needed support, he did that too. It wasn't true of course -- his breasts were soft outcroppings but no way pendulous, not yet -- but he loved the sense of belonging his bras provided, and I thought he should get accustomed to how a bra feels. So wearing one would become as second nature to him as his breasts. I pointed out as a truism that any woman in skirts, no matter how informal her outfit might be otherwise, always wears full proper make-up -- it was true for any woman wearing a dress, of course. When I commented on it as if a fact, he looked puzzled, but then duly nodded and left the room. Only ten minutes later he came back looking ... well, smashing! Just perfect. Obviously he'd mastered not only mascara and lipstick but also the arts of spreading foundation over his face as a beard cover, brushing on blush and face powder, stroking on several shades of eye shadow, then tracing and blending eye liner around his eyes. And making it all look ... natural, customary. He sat down again so ... delicately! Like a lovely maiden in a floating dream! Well, if that's what he wants to be, I decided, that's what he is. Though it was a pity he didn't want to go out and show the world how lovely a specimen of femininity he could be. One evening when I came into the living room and saw him buried deep in a book, oblivious of me and biting his lower lip, hair a little askew and wearing only minimal make-up, I suddenly realized that he was nevertheless an altogether passable woman. He'd been trying very hard, and he'd crossed some sort of line between imitating a woman and being one. Now he just was. "You're lovely, you know that, Jerri?" I burst out. He looked up at me and flashed me a dazzling, confident smile. He did already know! My heart warmed when I saw how happy he was! How much happier would he be if the world knew too? All in good time, I told myself. Meanwhile we were enlarging his wardrobe. Sometimes I'd announce to him, "Honey, there are some marvelous sales this week, I'm going shopping, want to come along?" A lot of the time he did. I waited while he changed back into his men's clothes -- he'd leave his bra and pantyhose on of course, because they were anyhow undetectable under his shirts and jackets, and as a concession to me he'd wear his women's loafers -- they looked almost like men's. He'd wipe off his lipstick, but as often as not he'd forget or not bother to remove his mascara or eyeliner. I thought that was fine -- it made his eyes more emphatic, like a woman's, and it put at least some of his commitment to femininity on public display. So I'd say nothing about it. We had a ball. We went into lingerie shops, sportswear, better dress shops, all sorts of places, and bought all sorts of things. At first he enjoyed playing the beleaguered husband protesting his extravagant wife's bottomless desire to purchase -- let's face it, some well-tailored clothes but also some really sexy clothes for herself, even though he knew all the time that lots were for him and being purchased in his sizes, which were mostly the same as my own. I'd try on an item, make mental adjustments for my slightly broader hips, narrower shoulders, and larger bust, and decide whether it would do. I could always tell by his face whether or not he'd love it, the moment I emerged from the dressing room to show him. Some things obviously not, but some things he was eager to get home and try on himself. One Saturday at Nordstrom's we were staring at a fitted dress, a tight sheath designed to hug close going around curves, wondering if he needed a size larger, when it occurred to me. "Try it on, honey," I said. "Then we can be sure. There's no one in this section of the store right now. Use the fitting room I've been using." He was eyeing it wistfully enough, and could see that with a style like that fit was everything. "All right," he said in a small voice. "But will you stand guard?" The poor dear was frightened. Of a dress! "Of course," I reassured him. "Just slip into it and let me see for a moment. That's all it takes." I waited, and a few minutes later he emerged and stood in the door to the fitting room area. "OK?" he asked hopefully. "It feels fine, I must say that!" He was using his girl voice, maybe from fear, maybe because he always did when dressed as a woman and was no longer aware of it. Something wasn't quite right. "Wait just a moment," I said, and I reached out with both hands to fluff up his hair. "There," I said finally. "I wanted to see the full effect." "O, yes indeed," came a woman's voice behind me. "That's just lovely! Kate Beckwith's styles are so flattering on a slim woman. It's perfect, that sheath -- if Jerry won't buy it, I want to take it home for my Bobbi!" I turned, and who should be there but Gwen! Our next-door-neighbor Gwen, also shopping -- she had a few garments draped over her arm -- but now she was gazing admiringly at Jerry. Or was he Jerri now? He was standing there frozen. He realized I suppose that if he disappeared back into the fitting room and then reappeared as himself, it would be obvious that he was a man ashamed to be caught on a crossdressing expedition. But he was also ashamed to seem ashamed! So he'd decided to stand there and brazen it out. But she already knew who he was! She'd said 'if Jerry won't buy it'-- she knew whose figure that dress flattered! I decided that being carefully casual and matter-of-fact was my only option, and also the best example I could set for Jerry at this point. He'd been outed, and that was that. "Oh, hi Gwen!" I said in response. "You're shopping too?" That much was obvious enough. "Your Bobbi?" I then asked. "Don't you mean Bob? Your husband?" "Not when he's dressed like your Jerry -- that's when he's Bobbi. You didn't know? Bob's a crossdresser too, a little bit transgendered like Jerry I imagine, maybe even a lot. He loves it! And he's very good at it, like Jerry. Sometimes when you leave your blinds open Bobbi and I will watch Jerry putting on a fashion show in your bedroom, trying on whatever you've gotten him and altogether unaware of his appreciative audience. Some of his outfits we feel like applauding! We've gotten some good ideas for dressing Bobbi from seeing what seems to match Jerry's moods and temperaments, and how he accessorizes. He is Jerry when he's being a girl, isn't he? That's still his name?" "Jerri," I replied. "Same sound, different spelling. Different other things too. As you can see." The jig was up. Jerri was now known to someone outside our household and there was no denying it. There he stood, still petrified. But an idea was forming, a way to help Jerry overcome his fear of being seen as his alternative self! If he got to know another girl just like him ...! "Gwen," I said, pulling myself into my most authoritative mode. "Why don't you and Bobbi come over for dinner next Friday evening? Around six, we'll have a drink first? We'd love to have you. Just a foursome, just four girls getting together, nothing elaborate." I stared at her as meaningfully as I could. She understood right away. "Four of us with no guys around to interrupt our girl talk? I'd love that," she said, staring back at me. "We both would. But do ask Jerri to wear that darling dress he's got on so Bobbi can see it -- I do so want him to get one just like it." "All right, dear?" I turned back to Jerry, still standing there in humiliated silence. He'd heard as clearly as I had that he'd long ago been outed, that Gwen and Bob Shanahan had known for a long time about his shameful if delightful compulsion. And that her Bob -- her "Bobbi" -- shared it, that he also loved to dress to look like a woman. He had no escape, but now there was no reason to try to escape. He nodded. "Well, I guess we're buying you that dress," I added. "Or else Bobbi might look prettier than you will next Friday, and we can't have that, can we? Will you change out of it or would you rather wear it home?" "I'll wear it," he said. Then hearing what he'd just said he added abruptly, "Next Friday I mean. I can't ...." "Oh, I think you can," Gwen interrupted. "I mean, my Bobbi's further down the mall this very minute wearing his Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and the highest heels anyone's ever seen. He's getting his hair done -- now and then he feels he should do that. And his face, too. He's promised to take me dancing tonight at the Glen Island Club." An intriguing idea. "You go out dancing together? The Glen Island crowd doesn't think that's strange, two girls ... ahhhh...?" "Oh, we aren't always together, dancing together I mean. Though I'll go out with Bobbi sometimes as two girls prowling the town. We did that even before we got married. No, the Glen Island's fine. Some other places can make me very uneasy, because some places you never know what kind of men you'll meet, or what they'll expect when they've danced with you a few times and bought you a few drinks. Some simply won't settle for a kiss or two, and then it can get ... difficult for both of us. You remember how it used to be?" I remembered. The excitement when a strange man bought you a drink, or asked you to dance, and if he was nice you asked him to sit and chat, and later if you really liked him there was passionate smooching and wandering hands caressing your breasts, your nipple tips, your wetness down below. I remembered. Gwen still does that? While her husband's with her watching her make out with another man? Good heavens! And Bobbi makes out with other men while Gwen watches? "Luckily, most of the men we meet are simply delightful. Family men away from home out on the town and looking for company. And how else can Bobbi learn proper behavior with men, how it feels to be a real woman in the real world, if he doesn't just let himself be one now and then?" "Complete with what happens? Bobbi kisses men?" I was astonished. Was he secretly gay? "We both do, if they've been solicitous, attentive to our wants and not too insistent on their own. Good Night kisses at the very least, but sometimes a little more." Her expression became inward, bemused. "Sometimes a lot more than a little more, April, if you know what I mean. It's harmless when Bobbi's nearby doing the same thing. It's the least we can do when someone's offered us pleasant companionship of an evening and bought us a few drinks. If we didn't, they'd wonder why not, and we can't have that, can we?" "No, we can't have that," I said. But I was still absorbing this revelation of Gwen's. Just as I had a Jerri, she had a Bobbi, and just next door moreover! "Doesn't it make you uneasy? What if Bobbi was found out by one of his men? Or what if he felt attracted to one of them more than he feels attracted to you?" "And what if I were to feel more attracted to one of the men we meet than I am to Bobbi? Yes, that could be a problem. Fortunately one we haven't had to confront, not yet. And now, maybe not at all." I sensed that she had something in mind for the both of us. "Next Friday at six, then?" I reminded her. "Without fail," she replied. "I'll call," she added. "I think maybe we need to talk first. Say, Monday lunch?" And she was gone. No sound from Jerry. I looked at him still standing stock still in his cling sheath and fluffed hair, looking at me. Reproachfully? Desperately? "It'll be fine," I reassured him. "Would you like to have your hair done now too now? Like Bobbi?" He shook his head. "Can we go home now?" he asked in a weak voice. Jerry's voice. The poor dear had had it. "We certainly can, honey. Just let me have the tags from that dress and I'll pay for it along with these other things. Then go collect your clothes, don't bother to change, just head out the door and through the mall and straight for the car. I'll meet you there in a few minutes." To my amazement, that's exactly what he did! Snapped off the tags, disappeared into the changing room, gathered up his shirt, pants, and jacket into a shopping bag, reappeared a moment later still wearing that very dress, and carefully, gracefully, slowly, he proceeded down the aisles and out into the mall! Among all the other shoppers! Some distance away from me he turned left toward the entrance doors, every inch a lady. His first public appearance as a woman! My heart went out to him, and I admired him immeasurably. I'll have to get him a purse now that he's out in the world, I was thinking. Wearing no make-up except for the mascara he'd forgotten to take off before we left the house, he still looked altogether passable. No one glanced at him strangely, though a few women gave his new dress the once over, as women will. I felt so very proud of him. That night, we talked about this new turn of events as I rocked back and forth on his penis. As we brought each other to the heights and beyond, as he crept down to slurp his own cum back out of me afterward, I confessed how pleased I was, how much I admired him. He looked uncertain but grateful. He was a little proud of himself too! He'd been out being a woman among women, fulfilling an old dream! Gwen and I met for lunch downtown two days later to discuss this new situation. It seems Bob too was a lifelong crossdresser, and she too was encouraging him to display himself more widely, to live a little. It was a deeply enjoyable thing that some men seem born to feel in their bones -- and in their boners, we both giggled at that. Bob was now seeing an endocrinologist to help him shape his body and feel more comfortable with it, yet not make him altogether impotent. I commented that my Jerri was also on hormones and also shaping up, maybe a little softer but no way impotent -- I'd never allow that. Gwen commented emphatically that her acceptance of Bobbi's crossdressing, her enjoyment of it, was a good thing for their marriage -- they'd never felt closer. Living as a woman whenever possible had developed in him a more empathetic understanding of her, indeed of all women -- he'd become much more gentle and affectionate and he no longer associated himself with the vigorous, abrupt, sometimes nasty kind of manliness he'd grown up with and sustained in the earlier years of their marriage. They'd been going out together as two women for months now, because Gwen felt -- and I agreed -- that a woman's sense of her own attractiveness has at its core her ability to attract men. It's something other women can sense -- it even gives you status among your own kind too. "That's after all what it's all about, isn't it?" she asked me. "To feel fully feminine and attractive, and love feeling that way? That's how I knew beyond doubt that Bobbi needed to learn to flirt, to appreciate and enjoy the sense of power even a casual but successful flirtation can confer on a girl. Even if it does end in a sucked cock or two." Bobbi is a cocksucker? I was a bit shocked, but I couldn't disagree with her main contention. Before my marriage I'd flirted shamelessly for the fun of it, sometimes for more than that -- in order to get an interesting man interested in me and then see where it went. Since then too, now and then. It amused Jerry to watch me gleam with seeming anticipation whenever I met a likely man, to sparkle in conversation with him while casting him sly glances, as if we already knew each other's secrets. Sometimes it worried him when I seemed overly warm and the man was evidently turned on, especially when I stopped tossing Jerry sideways glances and concentrated entirely on that man, gave him my undivided attention. That was fine by me -- it kept Jerry on his toes and appreciative of me. His lovemaking was always especially ardent after he'd seen me roping in another conquest. On impulse I asked, "Was that an accident, Gwen, your running into us at Nordstrom's the way you did, then making yourself known to us the very moment Jerry was looking his most feminine?" "In a way," Gwen replied cautiously. "I've known what you two have been doing, of course. I've known for some time, as I said -- Jerry has never realized that he should pull down the shades or close his blinds when he's changing into his lingerie. Then there was that over-the-back-fence glimpse I had of the two of you on your terrace not long ago, Jerry in those darling wide-legged shorts I've seen you wear other times. And in a tank top that hid nothing of his bust or his bra. He really is coming right along, isn't he? Bobbi is a beautifully shaped C, finally, I'm pleased to say." "Jerry's a B cup," I said. I tried to sound matter of fact, but it came out sounding proud. Because I was proud of him. "I've noticed. Even without his bra, when he perspires on a hot day there's no mistaking it -- whatever the blouse or shirt your Jerry's wearing, it clings to those boobs and ... well, it gives the whole show away. Just last week when he was cutting the grass in your back yard and I stopped to chat with him, I could see he was wearing eyeliner as well as a bra. So when I happened to see him accompany you willingly into the women's section of the store -- most men hate shopping, my Bob included if it isn't for him -- I just had to follow to see how far along Jerry'd come. Or how far you'd brought him." I wanted to return to the earlier topic. It was fascinating -- I wasn't yet sure why. "Has Bob been with a man, yet, Gwen? Has he in fact enjoyed all the pleasures of being an attractive woman, all the rewards?" I had to smile. "However messy those rewards can seem afterward, especially when you leak and you're douching, and trying to clean the odd secretions off your clothes." "Only tentatively," Gwen replied. "Bob can be something of a power freak, a tease. A 'real cunt' is what some men call it. Now that he's discovered his female charms, he gets a charge out of arousing other men and coaxing them along. He'll sucking their cocks until they're helpless -- he loves that glazed look men get when they're near cumming. He's such a sweet guy himself it doesn't occur to him that other men can be terribly dangerous when they're aroused and sexually hell-bent. That they can get mean. Especially if they should reach down and discover that the sexy babe they're so friendly with is not a babe after all! So I've been very cautious with him. I don't want him hurt or discouraged -- I enjoy his femininity too much. We don't want that for either of our guys, I'm sure. So has a man been inside him yet? Once or twice. You know. When the right man comes along, everything suddenly seems easier." True enough. I had to agree with Gwen. No girl passes through an adolescence and early maturity without at least one bad experience with one arrogant son of a bitch who cannot be trusted and refuses to hear the word 'No!'. I hadn't always said 'No' to guys I was dating, but at times. One time in particular I was nearly raped -- this guy was obnoxious and had refused to listen to me, and my weak punches only excited his determination all the more. I'd finally had to scratch and bite my way out of his car, and some of the bruises on my face and arms from that encounter took weeks to heal. I considered carrying a small can of Mace on my next date in case that kind of situation should recur. But then I met my sweet Jerry, and my whole world changed. "No, we don't want our guys put at risk," I said. Recalling another hard case or two I'd had to deal with, I began to feel scared for Jerry. "Some men can be very mean. Imagine if one of those discovers that the woman he's with is really a man?" "You bet!" Gwen nodded soberly. Then grinned. "It's different when girls date other girls of course. Girls know what to expect from each other. I had that in mind when I encouraged Bob to let Bobbi come out and get comfortable, then go out with me sometimes and live a little. There are many places girls can go together and have fun just as themselves. So many things to do without men as well as with them. You know?" She looked at me meaningfully as she said this last, and I felt a delicious twist of apprehension and delight in my belly. I knew what she meant. I'd had my girl-on-girl experiences while in college. For a while I'd even wondered whether I was a lesbian, not merely bi-curious or experimental. I suppose that was part of my enhanced attraction to Jerry, my lovemaking with him when he was being a woman. My pleasure in having him lick out my snatch. There were possibilities here, and Gwen was hinting at them. For the moment all I did was nod. "You too?" I asked rather cryptically. Then Gwen nodded, her eyes never leaving mine. Yes, we both knew. We talked a while more about ways to gratify our husbands' cross-gendered desires, to teach them to be sweet girls, compliant especially to our own wishes. Yet also how to safeguard them now that they were both out in the open in this wicked world, where women are not altogether safe and trannies are not safe at all. We agreed, we'd see how Friday went, how they behaved when they met each other. And we grinned broadly as we agreed on a strategy to ease their shock of recognition and help them develop the sort of friendliness as women I felt instantly toward Gwen. I wasn't at all surprised that when we parted Gwen leaned forward to give and receive from me a brief kiss on the lips. It felt so comfortable, so natural. So very nice. Almost like kissing our own husbands when they were being women and their lips were also soft. My heart rose up and I leaned forward to extend the kiss ever so slightly. I well understood why men liked kissing us! I did too! Yet I had to agree with Gwen that a woman's greatest satisfaction as a woman remains her attractiveness to men. If only because learning how to provoke and then satisfy a man makes him in turn eager to satisfy you. So dressing and behaving in ways that attract them, ways that may seduce them, yes, that can be as important as dressing fashionably to impress other women. We both wanted both kinds of satisfaction for our adopted girls. So, picking up on one of Gwen's suggestions, on my way home that evening I stopped at a sex shoppe and bought a variable sized dildo for Jerri, its attached testicles a small air pump for inflating the penis. The saleswoman showed me how it could grow from a modest five inches long and an inch thick to a massive nine inches and over two inches thick, just by squeezing its balls repeatedly. "When you're ready for something this serious," she added. "You may find that you prefer it to men!" And she gave me a quick grin. "Or that my husband does," I replied. "I hope so." She looked puzzled for a moment, then her grin widened. "You'll want this too, then," she said, handing me an elastic harness for fastening it to my crotch. "To keep everything in the family." And that night I began training my darling to receive a cock gratefully and pleasurably. The smallest version of course first. He was lying there with his stiff cock in the air, waiting for me to mount him, when I hauled it out and showed it to him. He was puzzled. He looked at my cock, then his cock, then my much smaller one -- smaller now, though I intended later to intimidate his masculinity by confronting him with it pumped to gigantic size. And raised an eyebrow in query. I really must tweeze those brows of his back severely, I thought to myself. Or have it done by a beautician. Yes. But first, the issue at hand. "This is what girls want, sweetheart," I explained to him. "When you're being a girl you'll want to know more about how we feel about these things. It'll help you feel more authentic." "I already know how you feel about mine," he said, staring at the thing warily. "I mean, you make love to it all the time." "No you don't know, not really," I replied. "We lick and suck and kiss these things out of affection for our guys, because it makes them feel good and it flatters them and makes them feel wanted. But only when it's inside us do we feel really fulfilled! Because it feels so good inside us. Even thinking about one inside us puts a certain sway in our hips as we walk, a certain feeling inside us, as if we already had one tucked in there. You need to know that feeling yourself at first hand. I want you to know, and I want to know you know." He was reluctant, but he nodded. "This week we're two women, honey. We're lesbians. Women who make love to each other. Accept my cock as joyously as I accept yours." "All right. If that's what you want." So he sucked on it when I attached it to my crotch and asked him to grasp my buttocks and pull my groin toward him repeatedly, to fuck his own face with it, and then after some teasing foreplay he accepted my imitation penis into his rear. But as something that pleased me. The next night the same, though I detected more enjoyment on his part as I worked it in and out of his anus. The third day, when I made it a little larger, a little more challenging for him to accept, creating a little more pressure inside him swelling outward in every direction, fulfilling him in a true sense, he at last seemed to surrender his inhibitions and begin to feel the same devout affection for that expanded cock I'd felt for his during our honeymoon. He began to groan, and when I momentarily paused he cried out "No, more!" as if he was afraid I was abandoning him. Each time I moved it in and out of his ass his own penis grew more tense, then leaked, and then at last exploded. But I kept going. The second time he was less frenzied, more -- if that's the right word -- placid. Pleased. Then, after working him up almost to a third orgasm, I deliberately denied him final satisfaction. I offered that cock instead to his mouth. He went genuinely berserk, licking and sucking and slobbering over it as if his mouth were one vast erogenous zone. It was, now, in a way. The next evening we were sitting together after dinner watching the tube, "Desperate Housewives," so we could discuss its appeal to women afterward and he could understand better if not empathize with us. Jerry was wearing a simple flowered skirt and plain blouse, nothing extraordinary, when an idea occurred to me.