Spouses Taught Me A Sister In Law
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Triptych free porn video
Triptych
Russ Manning was pleased with his work in progress, a triptych, or
three-paneled painting, Work In Progress: Transsexual Transformation
Depicting Sheila's sexual conversion, the first panel showed Sheila as a
man; the middle panel showed Sheila as a transsexual. Once she had
completed her sex-reassignment surgery, the panel on the right would
show her as a woman--or, rather, as a transwoman. At the moment, Sheila
was as much a work in progress as his triptych, but his painting, once
completed, would be an eternal record and testament to her
transformation, always and forever a Work In Progress.
Or, at least, so he'd thought--until Sheila had given him the bad news,
the terrible news, that she'd decided not to undergo the sex-change
surgery that would complete her transformation from man to woman. She
had decided to retain her male genitals, to be always and forever a pre-
operative transsexual, a shemale. In effect, her decision would ruin his
masterpiece. The triptych would remain unfinished. The crowning
achievement of his career as an artist would be destroyed.
At first, he'd tried to persuade her to go through with the operation.
"Why would you come so far, only to deny yourself the culmination of all
that you have so long craved?" he'd asked her.
Sheila had averted her eyes from his gaze. "I can't explain it," she'd
said.
In his desperation, he'd been cruel. "Maybe you never wanted to be a
woman, after all."
"You care more about your damned painting than you do about me," she
charged, tears, warm and stinging, welling in her sapphire eyes.
He'd known that desire had had nothing to do with Sheila's need to
become outwardly what she'd been inwardly all her life. It was need, a
compulsion, that drove her to become what she was intended, by God or
nature or both, to be.
Sheila had no reply for Russ' spiteful comment. She herself did not
understand completely why she'd chosen, at the endpoint of her
transformation, to retain her cock and balls. All her life, she'd wanted
nothing more than to be rid of them forever. In the end, however, she'd
found herself unable to part with them. Many times, she'd tried, in her
own mind, to account for her ambiguous feelings about her male genitals.
The best she'd been able to do was to say, "Being a shemale is the best
of both worlds."
Meanwhile, there was Russ' masterpiece, Work In Progress that would, it
seemed, remain forever unfinished.
The left panel, Man, showed Sheila as Stephen. Tall and slender, with
fair skin and curly blond hair, there was something fine and delicate
about his bone structure. He had only the faint suggestion of the bony
ridge above his eyes that is typical of the male sex; his cheekbones
were high; and his chin, more pointed than square, was fine and
graceful. His eyes were large and luminous, with thick lashes, his nose
small, and his lips full and sensuous. He had almost no visible larynx.
Although his buttocks didn't show in the painting, since Russ had
rendered a full frontal view of his model, the viewer couldn't see the
sleekness of the full, firm-soft orbs that were as sexually ambiguous as
his face, abdomen, arms, legs, hands, and feet. Because of the natural
femininity of his features, Stephen looked like a man mostly because his
hair was short and a substantial, if flaccid, penis hung, circumcised
and manly, before a pair of decidedly masculine balls. It was easy to
imagine him as a woman or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say, to
see the woman within him--
--the woman who peered down upon the viewer from the triptych's central
panel, Transwoman. The creature in the middle panel was splendidly
beautiful. All that was masculine (which was very little) of the man
shown in the previous panel had been expunged except for his genitals.
In addition, some features that were absent in the male form were
present in the transsexual version of him--or her. The short curly hair
was not merely curly any longer; it was a shoulder-length cascade of
fire and light which included great rings of curls that framed the
lovely face. Although paint had added the fine touches to the figure's
facial features, the pigments had been applied to simulate a flawless
application of the cosmetics that enhanced a woman's natural beauty. The
eyes, which were already rather feminine, even in the Man portrait, were
highlighted with "eye shadow," "eyeliner," and "mascara," all painted
with a deft touch of the brush. "Blush" had brightened the figure's
cheeks, and a soft pink had added a lustrous, wet look to the pouting
lips. "Foundation makeup" had smoothed away the few wrinkles that would
otherwise have appeared. Russ had painted the face as expertly as a
Hollywood makeup artist paints the beautiful countenances of actresses
and models, using hues and tints to suggest, accentuate, mute, shade,
and redirect the eye, creating a mask of beauty to overlay the
Transsexual figure's own natural charms. He'd applied the same superb
talent in delineating her breasts, highlighting their fullness, their
roundness, their firm-soft, silky texture. Their natural creams, pinks,
and golden hues, as well as a variety of muted shades and tints
unperceived by many who had not the artist's eye, were enhanced and
heightened by Russ' artistic genius. The nipples were tinted such a soft
pink that they resembled the flesh of delicate roses rather than a
woman's skin. Were one to touch the painted surface--not that one would
think of actually doing so, any more than he or she might stroke the
canvas of a Rubens or a Rembrandt--he or she would expect to feel the
swelling of the puffy areolas and, in fact, so convincing was its
depiction, that the admirer might suppose that, in fact, he or she
actually had felt the distension of the silky smooth halos of flesh. The
abdomen was rendered as faithfully, so that one might almost feel the
sleek flesh, the hollow of the concave belly, and the slight rise before
the downy pubic hair. The legs were long, sleek, and shapely. The only
incongruities of the beautiful figure's form were all the more startling
because of her otherwise absolute femininity. After the gorgeous woman's
face, the perfect breasts, the narrow waist, and the downy pubic hair,
the cock and balls were shockingly out of place. Until the viewer's eye
had traveled to the subject's groin, never would he or she have supposed
the creature portrayed in such exquisite glory to have been anything but
what she seemed--a woman of surpassing loveliness. Although the cock,
circumcised and marble-smooth, if flaccid, and hanging improbably from
her lower belly, before a loose pouch filled with testicles, was
undeniably beautiful, it, like the testes, seemed to be a jewel or an
ornament more than an organ of the male sex, although, undoubtedly, they
were such genitals. The apparent impossibility of such a beautifully
feminine figure's sporting such manly equipment enhanced, rather than
ruined, the eroticism of the work. The viewer found that his or her gaze
returned again and again to the cock and balls, as to the face and
breasts, of this otherwise feminine creature.
The panel on the right was an as-yet-bare canvas, which Russ had
intended to call Woman. Together, the three panels, viewed from left to
right, had been intended to show the complete transformation of a
transsexual, from man to transwoman, to woman, but, now, Russ'
masterpiece had been ruined by Sheila's last-minute decision to retain
her male genitals.
Weeks of work, spent creating and revising his paintings to make them
not only excellent but perfect, were wasted, thanks to Sheila's damnable
indecisiveness. For the first time, Russ understood how truly
frustrating, even maddening, Hamlet's irresolution must have been to his
father's ghost and to the others whose lives had been affected by his
mad variableness. Because of Hamlet's inability to decide and his
refusal to act, by the end of the tragedy, not only his father, but his
uncle, his mother, his beloved Ophelia, her father, her brother, and he
himself also were dead. No one would die because of Sheila's change of
mind (or heart), unless Russ thought, he killed her himself, but one of
the world's great erotic paintings was irremediably lost, and this loss
was worse than the deaths of a million men and women of flesh and blood,
for art was eternal and flesh was but temporal. Sheila's decision not to
go through with her sex-reassignment surgery had cost the world the
erotic equivalent of Hieronymus Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights,
Roger van der Weyden's God of Pity or Earthly Vanity and Divine
Salvation, or any other such inspired three-paneled painting. In
refusing to undergo her total transformation, Sheila had sinned not only
against herself, but she had sinned, also, against Russ, and, more
importantly, against art itself.
For such an offense, Russ told himself, he should never forgive the
bitch. He should regard her as his worst enemy and as a person totally
beyond redemption. He should do so, but he could not. She was too
beautiful. When she looked at him, spoke to him, or touched him, his
heart would melt. He could not dismiss her from his presence; he could
not resist her soft murmurings, her entreaties, her caresses, her
kisses, her more profound intimacies. Try as he may to deny or reject
her, he succumbed to her charms, to her womanly ways, although, he told
her, he had not forgiven, and could never forgive, her, any more than he
could ever understand her refusal to be made complete.
"I think I can explain why I want to keep my cock and balls," she told
him, finally, after they'd made love evening on his bedroom balcony.
She had sucked his cock, with as great fervor and devotion as ever she
had shown in times past, and he'd ejaculated his seed into her face. The
thick, viscid, white semen clung to the bridge of her nose, looped
across her cheek, drooled from her lips, and dripped from her chin.
Beads, like melted pearls, adorned her hair and eyelashes. She did not
wipe it off. She would never insult Russ that way. Instead, as always,
she would wear his semen with pride, letting it dry into brittle flakes.
He lay beside her, his cock smeared with the remnants of sperm that had
not spurted into her face, and studied her slick, glistening features.
He liked the look of his fecundating fluid in her hair and eyes and on
her nose, cheeks, chin, and lips. It marked her as a slut, he thought,
and as his, for the semen was his seed and only a slut would let such a
fluid splatter her face and lips and teeth and tongue.
"Why" he asked, abruptly but without the harshness with which he'd meant
to invest the word.
Haltingly, with many pauses, she explained. She didn't want to part with
her penis and testicles, she said, because she didn't want to become a
woman, not completely and for all time, any more than she wanted to
remain entirely and forever a man. As a transsexual in transition, as a
shemale, she was both male and female. At the same time, however, she
was, paradoxically, neither. She seemed to transcend the arbitrary
categories of sex and gender. By being neither male nor female but also
both, at the same time, she seemed to be more, not less, of a man and
more, not less, of a woman.
Sheila's explanation astonished Russ. It was profound. Although she was
by no means a stupid person, the depth of her insight rocked the artist.
It was a revelation to him that, as an artist, he should have seen
himself. Her understanding not only amazed him, but is also inspired
him. Throwing back the blankets that covered him, he bounded from the
bed, startling his lover, and sprinted, naked, from his bedroom, into
his studio, where the triptych stood, its right panel not only
unfinished but also unbound. Now that Sheila's declaration had
stimulated his creative energy, he couldn't wait to begin--and to
complete--the third panel of his threefold painting.
So rapt was he with the idea that had seized him as to how to finish the
triptych that Russ had not heard Sheila's barefoot approach. He was
unaware of her presence until he heard her speak, concern in her
whispered query: "Is everything all right?"
Russ seized her in his arms, kissing her. His lips ground against her
own, his teeth pressing hard against hers. "Everything is magnificent!"
he exclaimed, when he'd released her. "You are magnificent!"
"What did I do?" she asked, befuddled.
"I cannot talk now," he replied. "I have work to do!"
Russ remained in his studio for days, Sheila bringing him food and
drink, most of which remained unconsumed. He left the studio only to
answer the calls of nature. Sheila worried about his health. After a
week, she became concerned about his mental stability. His project
obsessed him. Never had she seen him so passionate about anything,
including her.
She telephoned a friend, Arnold James, who was also an artist, a
musician, confessing her anxieties to him.
"He is an artist," Arnold advised her. "Let him create."
Sheila sought a second opinion, this time from an actor, James Laudell.
"All true artists are obsessed," James told her. "Russ is an artist;
therefore, Russ is obsessed."
Although James' logic seemed fallacious to her and Arnold's advice
seemed dubious, Sheila decided to bide her time another day or two
before insisting that Russ take a break from his work. Maybe, she
thought, she could seduce him, keeping him in bed for a day. At sex,
equipped as she was with breasts and womanly buttocks as well as a cock
and pair of balls, hands, and a mouth, she could entertain him for
hours. Maybe, after she'd sucked his cock and he'd fucked her ass, he'd
forget about his masterpiece long enough to get a few hours of sleep.
When she went to his studio, Russ was putting the finishing touches on
his third painting.
Sheila gasped, astounded at the work.
Hearing her, Russ turned, smiling. "What do you think, my love?"
"It's beautiful!"
Russ chuckled. "Of course, it's beautiful," he agreed. "How could it be
anything else, based as it is upon you?"
The third painting in the triptych, Woman, showed Sheila, still a
shemale, ascending from the ribcage of her male body, which lie
sleeping. The male version of Sheila, Stephen, had been rendered in
muted tones, almost as if he were a corpse or a marble statue of one,
but the female--or, rather, the shemale--was golden-hued and so
perfectly executed that the flawless figure seemed to be an angel or a
goddess rather than a mere mortal being. The azure sky into which the
transsexual rose, streaming with brilliant sunlight, suggested an
apotheosis. The painting combined the image of a strange birth, similar
to Eve's arising from the sleeping form of Adam, with that of a goddess'
ascension, or the deification of a woman--or of a man-woman, a
hermaphrodite.
"It's fantastic," Sheila said.
Russ kissed her.
Their lips parted, their tongues slipped inside one another's mouths,
and their kiss became deep and passionate.
"I was worried about you," Sheila confessed, after they ended their lip
lock.
"Worried? About me?"
"Your health. You weren't eating or sleeping. You were hardly
breathing." She gave him an intense, penetrating look. "You weren't even
fucking!"
Taking her hand in his, he led her from the studio, down the hall, and
into his bedroom.
They removed their clothes, climbed into bed, and made wild, passionate
love. It seemed to Sheila that, at the moment of her climax, semen
spurting from her erect cock, she left her body and ascended into the
heavens far beyond the confines of earth, transcending the maleness and
the femaleness of her hermaphroditic body and the restrictive, socially
dictated roles of masculinity and femininity. It seemed to her that
she'd become the goddess that her beloved artist had depicted in the
triptych that showed the transformation of a transsexual to a state
beyond the flesh. Only the semen spewing from her prick--and the warm,
thick seed that gushed from Russ' cock, buried within the depths of her
rectum--kept her bound to her body and to the earth, keeping her in the
flesh as she entered the realm of the spirit, a new Eve, not merely
born, but reborn, of man.
She was no longer a work in progress; like Russ' triptych, she was
complete.
She was a masterpiece.
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