Honeymoon free porn video

This one is rather long for a mainly two character story with little action, but it has some virtues, and if I revise it again it'll only get longer. So as usual, if you don't like it, don't buy it. And if too young for it, go out and play or text or something. Honeymoon by Vickie Tern Marcie lay back in her favorite overstuffed leather chair, her "throne" she sometimes called it, one of her legs draped casually over my shoulder and the other bent back beneath her, offering me wide open access to her pink, puffed, glistening pussy. And smiled expectantly at me. As she always does every evening when she arrives home from work. As always I'm on my knees in front of her, and I lean in to kiss that marvelous slit, then began to nibble around the hood at its apex. As always, she gives a slight squeal, then leans back and relaxes, her office tensions finally dissipating. She's home at last! As is my face. I had no reason to believe this day would be different. Her little nubbin peeked out as expected, and I diddled it with the tip of my tongue. She moaned and began to press her crotch into my face. I closed my eyes and licked and lapped that puffed, slit flesh as vigorously as I could. A few minutes later I felt her tense up, then arrive finally at her first climax of the evening. We paused, and I smiled up at her. She wanted more this time, so I resumed. A half hour later her third -- some days she could be insatiable! She'd soaked me by then -- my face was drenched and my hairdo soaked, my bangs stuck on my forehead by the fluids she'd exuded and in one spasm, actually splashed out. I had to assume it was a mess -- at one point she'd asked me to wipe her crotch with my hair as well as my nose and mouth. Certainly I'll need a shampoo tonight, but I'll wait till bedtime -- it may seem rank to others, but I love her smell. My lips felt swollen, well rubbed, but they'd been puffed with collagen so it was hard to tell. She loved them that way -- they looked more inviting and felt softer. My tongue felt sore too, but when not these days? As that third orgasm came on she clamped her thighs on my head and squeezed and screamed, "Ooooh, God, yes!" though I heard it only as if from a distance, muffled. I waited for her legs to open and release me. They relaxed. Still on my knees, I looked up at her face to see if she was ready to sigh and say finally, "Enough!" Her eyes opened and she looked at me with deep affection, and I just glowed! Happy? "Kerry, sweetheart," she said. "You are my dearest darling and there is no way imaginable that I will I ever leave you! We are bound for life! Remember that!" Leave me? Remember? Now where did that come from? I already knew that much. I'd become everything she'd always wanted! And we were married! Suddenly I felt uneasy. "Time to wash your face and fix your lipstick, darling," she said suddenly. "We can eat now I think." She grinned. "I can, anyhow. You may not have room in your tummy right now." Marcie arrives home an hour after I do, sometimes more, so I do the housework and the evening cooking. She may call to say she'll be later still, that I shouldn't wait for her. That's disappointing, but I understand. She's the firm's youngest Associate ever to make Partner, and from habit the Senior Partners still overload her with work. Sometimes she'll arrive home so late and exhausted she can barely stay awake through the 'welcome home' deep-tongued kisses I always press onto her mound and her lower lips. Those times, she'll smile wearily, gratefully at me, tell me "You're a dear, but only one more," and then go straight to bed. I understand. She oversees difficult corporate mergers and the like. My work is almost mindless. When we got married a year ago we were both professionals - Marcie a lawyer, me an investment specialist. But now I work for an import-export firm as their office receptionist, not far from her law offices downtown but otherwise worlds apart. We don't even lunch together, and if we happen to see each other during the working day we pretend we don't. My social status and pay are far below hers. But unlike Marcie I work regular hours and have almost no responsibilities, certainly none I need to bring home. So I'm our homemaker. My own appearance matters of course, because I need to look attractive and even a bit sexy when I'm on the job. But above all I'm dedicated to Marcie and making Marcie's life easier. That's my real job. She appreciates it. If she arrives home during the cocktail hour, her Martini straight up, twist, will be handed to her. She'll smile gratefully and dedicate her first sip to me. Then she'll slowly lower herself onto her 'throne' and lean back and look me straight in the eyes. We both know what that means, especially when she doesn't first run off to change out of her office gear, her severe skirt suits, though always with a soft, ruffled blouse to assert her femininity. I'll kneel and slide her skirt up, maybe off altogether, and I'll tug down her panties or pull them to one side, and then eagerly dive in, By then I've usually changed from my always-slightly-provocative receptionist's dress to some simple black cotton skirt and plain white blouse, things I know are soft and washable, convenient for kneeling. With my first lick on her vulva Marcia will shudder and at last relax. After a few more she'll groan, and from then on we're both happy. God how I love her! We don't fuck any more. I'm been inadequate for months, a little swollen but no longer stiff enough to enter and satisfy her -- that's the price we've both paid I suppose. But she'll always encourage me to smooch her down below, and my lips are now as intimately familiar with her labia as they are with each other. "You're a marvel at cunt licking!" she'll tell me. "And cunt licking is what girls do with each other more often than anything else anyhow, so it's appropriate! We suck each other's breasts too of course, and play with them. I adore yours." I may shyly remind her there's still my strap-on for when she requires it, just as she may use hers on me. Either is wonderful! In fact, taking her big mock cock into my innards is a great help toward my feeling more ... feminine, more like a real woman. Now and then she'll fuck me as a lovely reward for my devotion to her. I especially adore it when she's humping me all the way in, her belly pressed on my backside. But mostly I mouth her, and that's what she mostly wants. Over time I've learned which tongue flicks where, what lip nibbles how, are most likely to bring her to bliss, and each evening I'll try passionately to bring her there. She'll in turn take my whole soft cock into her mouth, now and then, and roll it around with her tongue until the sensations become unbearably delicious, even joyous, and I dribble clear fluid in her mouth. It's been months now since I've been hard enough to spurt, even to ooze cloudy sperm. But my more recent ejaculations taste sweeter, she tells me. She prefers them. So my impotence is a small price to pay, given the advantages. I was thinking about getting to my feet and arranging for dinner when she suddenly spoke. "You know what, honey?" she said. "From now on, when you're down there with your mouth on me, I want you to look up into my eyes steadily, the way a girl should always look at a guy when she's blowing him. Gratefully, as if you were thanking him. As if you needed reassurance that it's as good for him as it is for you." I need no such reassurance -- her moaning and the ease with which she attains intense orgasms tell me all I need to know. When afterward she's lying back breathing hard, limp as the floppiest of rag dolls, languid and reluctant to move, I know I've done well. But I got her message anyhow. Lovers want to feel their lovers' concern. Feel that they're loved. Cared for. And those who love them want to provide that reassurance. "'As good for him'?" I asked her, pulling my glistening face further back but now never taking my eyes off hers. She'll sometimes tease me by talking as if I were a girl making love to a guy, and I'll always tease her back. "'HIM' you say?" "I learned to look at guys that way back in high school whenever my mouth was filled with their penises," she explained. "It got them going like nothing else. Then afterward they're incredibly eager to please me too -- I know you wouldn't mind that, guys wanting to please us. So it's time you learned to do it the way all girls do it." "You mean from now on when I lick you I should imagine I'm a girl blowing a guy?" She had to be jesting with me, so I joked back. I hoped. "I should no longer imagine I'm a girl licking another girl?" "You still need to imagine you're a girl?" she replied. "You don't know it yet?" Almost, but no, I didn't. Because I wasn't. Not yet. She loves to remind me of my almost-altogether-eroded masculinity, what little remains, I'm not sure why. It makes me just a touch uneasy. Even though everything I am now has been entirely her doing, and I love what I've become. And apparently that was her intention from the very beginning. ****************** I've never been distinctly masculine -- rather the reverse. As a teenager and all through college I was the kind of guy girls call 'pleasant' or 'sweet' and otherwise don't notice, and guys look at a little warily. You know, shy, unassertive, inclined to go along and not make waves, slight, tentative in appearance and manner, with a face that even in the mid-teens looks like a little girl's. Marcie on the other hand has always looked sophisticated, gorgeously feminine -- cute and precious when little, vivacious and arresting in her beauty when she reached college. Almost unapproachable, especially when, in her senior year in college, she linked up with five other beautiful girls in a single suite of rooms, all of them tall, all with hair to their waists, all with slim hips and delicate wrists and outcropping breasts that none chose to hide. Yet all known to date only rarely. General opinion had it they were lezzies, and most of the time they were seen out only with each other or with other girls. Those closer to them knew they dated guys now and then, but only quick, witty guys who could give as good as they got conversationally, or buff athletes whose least moves implied and conveyed powerful male force. Unconfirmed rumor had it that they put out to only to these kinds of guys, though only now and then and only once or twice each, and then not at all. Unconfirmed because the guys themselves always seemed too ashamed of what they'd done or allowed to talk about it. Fittingly enough, they called themselves the Sirens -- as with the Greek Sirens they seemed seductive but dangerous. So I was dumbfounded when one day in Bio Marcie turned her beautiful face toward me and asked if I was free to study with her Friday afternoon for the big upcoming mid-term. "We can hit the books and then when it gets dark maybe check out a club or two, grab a bite and relax. Do you dance?" She was asking me for a date? I said 'sure' as soon as I could speak, flattered that a girl so obviously stunning was willing to be seen with a guy like me. Fact is, I had very little experience with dates. In high school girls took me up as a hobby, almost as if I was one of them, and then when they felt comfortable with me they'd move on. I seemed to serve as a bridge between giggling girl friends and challenging boy friends, boys far more manly and masculine. Boys who were more sexually exciting, as one girl told me categorically. I showed up Marcie's suite loaded with textbooks but hopefully carrying a few borrowed condoms, ready for anything. Her suitemates were all elsewhere. For a couple of hours we studied together, posing and answering likely questions at each other. Then when I looked up I found she was studying me with intense curiosity. I looked back at her, eyebrows raised. "Cary," she asked me. "Are you gay?" I was astonished! "What?! No! Why? I mean, why do you ask? Is there..." "I've been watching you for some time. Weeks. Since the semester began, really. You act so effeminate, you know? Little gestures now and then. Like the way you toss your head back, as if you had long hair to move out of your face. And maybe you've never noticed, but when you relax your hands you bend your elbows and droop them at the wrist, and you even drape your fingers the way girls do. Boys just let them hang at their sides with fingers a little curled, as if ready to punch out at someone. What you do is very becoming but not ...." "Most gays aren't effeminate," I said quickly, defensively, my manhood apparently under attack, even though I knew I had little to defend. "Most gays like guys and how guys are, you know, muscles and all. The way girls do, but not the way girls are. No, I like girls. I spent a lot of time with girls back in high school. I was their hobby, some of them. Guys didn't want to be seen with me. And I did have long hair for a while, a few years back. It isn't exactly short even now." "You did? It looks lovely even now, the way it falls just below your ears, but it must have looked even more marvelous when it was longer! Do let it grow it out again! For me? Promise?" I had no idea what she had in mind or where this was going. Grow longer hair, for her? That sounded like a long term commitment. But I nodded and stared wonderingly at her. She continued. "There's this girl I once met, Allison, from your old high school, she told me you weren't exactly a dork but you never dated. Not girls, anyhow, that she was aware of. Did you prefer dating boys?" Allison was a head cheerleader, way out of my league. I didn't know she knew I existed. My face flushed, flattered that these two beauty queens had once talked about me! I leaned forward. "Marcie, I'm a boy. I prefer girls. In high school I'd hang out with girls, they'd ask me over, stuff like that, but they'd never let it develop into anything more than that. That's all." 'So you know a lot about girl things?" "That's right." I was no hunk girls clustered around, but I'd learned early to compensate by being intensely interested in whatever interested any girl who was willing to talk to me. Whatever, clothes, makeup, other boys, relationships, whatever. I insisted on nothing, and inclined to go along with anything proposed. That made me seem 'safe,' I suppose, as if I were gay. A few girls admitted me into their cliques and inner circles and confidences -- unlike the boys they actually made out with, boys who got into their pants but never became intimate any other way. Me they found easy company. I was even invited to a slumber party once -- a mother assumed I was a tomboy, and the girls were amused to do my hair and nails after I helped them do theirs. A few were surprised to find I had an arousable cock, and I lost my virginity when one of them decided to use it as her 'pet dildo' -- as she called it. I didn't mind. Something was vastly better than nothing. I told Marcie all that, trying not to sound pathetic. "Lots of girls would call me up and invite me to sit with them at pizza counters and so on," I went on. "And tell me about their guy problems. So I've always been 'one of the girls' I guess. But never the other guy. I've never had a real girlfriend. Whenever I tried to move closer they ...well, they'd somehow move further. I was for day time, not at night. Not for dating. I guess I seemed, well, too much like them. A 'sissyboy' was what one girl called me, and she was supposed to be my friend, too." Marcie continued to look at me. This time closely, analytically. "She was right," she said mildly. "You are a sissyboy, that's what's so appealing about you!" She finds me unmanly and yet appealing? Incredible! She had to me mocking me! Tears began to form in my eyes. "She was right, but they're all soooo wrong!" she said in a gently sympathetic voice. She got up and opened her closet and looked into it. Then turned and abruptly said, "I tell you what, Cary. We'll study together another hour, no, two hours, and then you'll let me fix you up and we'll go out for dinner and drinks and dancing and so on. A real date, no use calling it anything but. And if it works out, if you turn out to be as desirable as I think you will, and if you want it, I'll be your girlfriend for the rest of the year. Until we graduate. We can even go steady if you like - I'll date no one else. For as long as you'll have me. All right?" Now tears really did well up! I stared at her. My mouth opened and closed like a fish trying to gulp air. Marcie was the most beautiful girl in the whole college, I'd thought that from the moment I first saw her, far beyond my attainment I'd always thought. I nodded vaguely, dazed. She smiled at my confusion and said. "Good! Done! Now back to work." Two hours later she sat back and said simply, "Cary, you've saved my ass. You make all of this complicated stuff seem so simple. Now I want to do the same for you. We're going out to eat and have fun. Ever been to Sappho's?" Sappho's was the local lesbian bar. There seemed no reason for me even to shake my head, so I just stared at her. "I go there a lot. No guys all the time hitting on you, and there's a terrific jazz combo playing there this week. The best in town. I want to hear them!" Baffling. She didn't seem to catch on, so I said, "Marcie, I'm not ... ahhh qualified. I forgot to bring a dress." I grinned at her to underline the joke. To make sure she knew it was a joke. She smiled back, but spoke seriously. "Oh, I could lend you one, but you don't need a dress for this place. You can go butch, the T-shirt and jeans you've got on now are just fine. Maybe fix your hair a little and try some makeup, so whoever's at the door won't give you a second look. So even if you look like a boy they'll know you're really a girl. I was puzzled. How? What? A girl? "A girl?" was all I could utter. "No problem. A bra under your T-shirt will give you just a suggestion of boobs and you're good to go. A ribbon in your hair would look cute too!" She looked me over with a delighted grin. "Yes, a ribbon in your hair would be perfect!" She was looking me straight in the eyes, and I realized she was really saying these things to gauge my reaction. "Aqua, I think. That's your color." I just stared back, but unaccountably, my penis began to harden. She continued, "And just look at your hands. Small, with long, thin fingers. A little nail polish and you'd be perfect. Though the polish will need to match your lipstick if you're to be seen with me. I have standards!" I stared, and my loins stirred, excited yet fearful. I was unable to say anything. She stared back at me, amused. "Just kidding about the ribbon and the nail polish, Cary. A bra and a touch of lipstick will do it. But now that we both know you're willing to go further, you won't object to only a bra and lipstick, now will you?" I swallowed. "No." She got out of her chair, came around the desk where we we'd been studying, took my head in her hands, and kissed me once on the mouth. Quickly but firmly. "You're perfect!" she sighed. "I want to go out with you again and again!" "I want that too," I told her devoutly. It just came out of my mouth. No mystery - here was a terrific girl who seemed not only to like me but to desire me! That was incredible! Transporting! "But ...ahhh ... to dress like ...like a girl? All the time?" "Oh no," she said. "Well, like a girl maybe sometimes, a dress or skirt and full makeup and all. To try to be a girl, sort of. You're cute, you'd look pretty. But mostly only a little, just enough to remind me that you're no way a macho male and you aren't afraid to let the world know you're something else. I do get into moods now and then when I want nothing to do with men. They can be so oppressive! I saw what my mother went through with a man, and that was enough for me for a lifetime!" "What do you mean?" She was pulling something out of her drawer. A flimsy bra, net and lace with a few criss-crossing elastic bands. "Here, try this on," she said. Then she continued. "When I got to this campus I didn't intend to have anything to do with men, not date, certainly not marry one, not ever. I grew up with a bullying father who ran after other women and constantly abused my mother, and a mother who'd spent most of her life miserable and in tears when she wasn't getting bruised or beaten or recovering from previous beatings. That bastard!" Marcie looked both sad and furious for a moment, then returned to the present and smiled at me softly. "Well, never mind." She held the bra out to me. Truth to tell, I'd once tried on my sister's, then got scared and took it off and never tried anything like that again. But now? With this marvelous girl as the prize? I stood up and stripped off my T-shirt. She studied my unimpressive shoulders and arms and saw me struggling with the bra hooks behind my back and said finally, 'Here, let me help.' And hooked them for me, then tugged what little loose flesh I had in front into the cups. "Very nice," she said. And leaned forward, and kissed me on the lips again! Still kissing me, she reached up and lightly began to diddle with my nipples. Held extended into the cups as they were, they seemed much more sensitive! Warm, provocative sensations spread from them! In a peculiar, soft way, feminine. I got a full erection! It was extraordinary! "Yes!" she said. "This is you. From now on!" "What?" I asked. I was half in a daze as her fingertips danced on my boobs - I guess I did have boobs of a kind - and I began wanting to press them into her palms. So she could feel them. Feel me up. To me they felt marvelous. I heard a door open and close behind me, but paid no attention. I was rapt! "I said, from now on. From now on you'll wear a bra. And tonight and every night that you're wearing your bra and just a little lipstick you'll get laid. By me. I want everyone on campus to know that you're unavailable and think you're undesirable. That you're a hopeless sissy, a dickless queer, maybe. But my dickless queer! Because you're perfect for me. I want no one else in your life! No other girls! Maybe not ever!" "Oh, God!" was all I could say. My willie was bone stiff in my jeans. She leaned in on me as I stood there and she kissed me again. And one of her hands reached for my cock and rubbed it. And rubbed it. And her other hand continued to caress a nipple. I came! And came! Spurt after spurt into my boxer shorts. "Oooohh, God!" I moaned. A girl's voice behind me suddenly said, "Marcie, that is sooo sweet!" One of Marcie's roommates? Marcie didn't move. Removing neither of her hands from my crotch nor my chest, she said aloud, "Chelsea?" "You need something, honey?" the girl's voice answered close behind me. She'd been standing there as Marcie'd brought me to that incredible orgasm! Her voice sounded calm, maybe even slightly amused. Unsurprised by what she'd just witnessed. "Would you fetch a fresh pair of panties out of my drawer and hand them to my darling girlfriend here?" she said. "And while you're at it, I guess the L'Oreal lipstick from the top of my bureau? I'd do it but I'm rather busy!" "The long-lasting lipstick?" Chelsea said. "The deep pink I like so much? Sure!" And the next thing I knew one empty hand still at my side was filled with a silky fabric not unlike the brassiere's, and the other with a small, smooth metal tube. "Welcome to our suite, sweetie!" I heard whispered into my ear. "If Marcie wants you, we all want you and we all welcome you!" I tried to reply from a reflexive politeness, but now Marcie's tongue filled my mouth and as seemed expected I began sucking on it. I felt Chelsea's body press against my back, and felt a wisp of her hair as she leaned in to kiss Marcie on the cheek even while Marcie was - I realized - tongue-fucking my face. "I'm so happy for you," she whispered -- I realized - to Marcie. Though I didn't feel excluded. I heard another door elsewhere open and close. When we broke off, the suite's living room was as empty as before, except for the two of us. "I'll change," Marcie said. "Meanwhile, you figure out how to use that lipstick. It's yours as long as you want to be with me. But wearing it all your waking hours is an essential condition, if you want to be with me. That and your bra." So now it was my bra. So now I was a girl. No, a sissy boy-girl. Well, no matter. I had a real girlfriend who wanted me! My 'date' with Marcie at Sappho's was almost an afterthought. There were female couples and groups everywhere, dining or drinking in booths or tables, chattering noisily. Some of the women looked like truck drivers, I must say, but some were done up like sweet young things in short skirts and frills everywhere. Some leaned forward boldly and some hung back. Most were dressed casually like me, though far more confident in manner, maybe wearing jeans, many with even shorter hair though always neatly styled, and their lips were pink or pale red like mine. Some had deep black, gothic circles around their eyes, some had no eye makeup on at all. All had breasts of course, so they all wore bras as a matter of course. I began to feel comfortably secure in mine, as if it assured my membership in their club. Marcie introduced me as 'Kerry' to some of the girls who greeted her, so that was my name. They welcomed me casually, asked where I was from, things like that, and otherwise accepted me as Marcie's friend and that was that. It was that sleepover all over again. I was one of them. The music began, and we danced. Even during the fast pieces she didn't seem able to keep her hands off me. "You even move like a girl!" she exulted at one point as I waggled my hips and shook my shoulders out of phase contrarily, as an experiment. After a few hours of this we went straight back to her place, stripped bare, and fucked. And fucked again. Then yet a third time. I didn't know I could, but Marcie was so incredibly exciting! It was paradise. In between, at her request I vigorously licked her clit and sucked my semen out of her pussy. "Will you always do this?" she asked as I swallowed the first gout of what I'd accumulated in my mouth, and of course I nodded, setting her off again. Or I dozed, or slept, to awaken now and then and lick her again, sound asleep one time with my head tucked snug between her thighs and my mouth tight up against her slit. Toward morning we fucked yet again, and when my penis at last lay unresponsive on my balls, she pressed both tightly up between my legs and delightedly declared that I would spend this entire new day wearing her own tight-front, pussy-revealing girl's jeans. I wrestled myself into them, feeling squeezed everywhere below my waist, but especially in my prick and gonads, crammed far under and nowhere to be seen. I had a flat mound curving in, like any female. Seeing me with a girl's crotch got Marcie so fervently excited that she insisted I haul those jeans off again so she could take out a strap-on dildo, lubricate my asshole with her own sweet pussy juice, and penetrate and fuck me roundly. As she did. At first it hurt, but as she pushed in and pulled out, increasingly not. Then it got pleasant. Better than that -- my ass not only felt completed when she thrust into me, it radiated a need to feel yet more so! I rose into a strange tension, then into an ecstasy, and was held tight there for almost a full minute before I gradually eased off. My spent cock dribbled yet again, and Marcie informed me I'd just had the first of what would certainly be many orgasms to come. Her kind of orgasm! Then sucked myself out. By morning I was willing to do anything for this girl!. Anything, and she knew it! I would have died for her, if she'd asked me! But all she did was kiss me again, and again secure my promise to do small things from time to time that would serve to remind her I wasn't one of those ... men like her father! For me, no problem. I did her bidding for the rest of that year, until graduation. We were inseparable except for the occasional evenings when the 'Sirens' held special meetings Marcia never felt free to describe to me. I got the impression that a few of the girls liked to do certain ritual things to boys to reinforce their domination over them, that these things were all done in everyone's presence, and that some were incredibly painful. "Nothing happens without everyone consenting," Marcie assured me, when I asked whether this was so. "The boys learn to love it!" I didn't question further. But otherwise, whenever Marcie went anywhere I was also invited. Boys tended to avoid me as before, but I began to expand my social skills with girls, not merely as a passive listener but a sometimes as a sympathetic, even witty conversationalist. I flirted a little with some, which amused them. They never took me seriously as a male, because -- as everyone understood -- I was Marcie's, and visibly feminized. My lips were always tinted deep pink, sometimes red, whether I was in class or wandering the quad or studying in the library, whether dining with Marcie or dining alone. Everywhere. She supplied me with several lipsticks so I could reapply the color as needed now and then during the day -- 'preferably where people around will notice' as she said. Their dyes never altogether rubbed off. And though no one but Marcie knew during the winter months, all that fall and again with warm weather in the spring everyone could see I was wearing a brassiere. I had several. Marcie loved the way my little boobs looked when uplifted and shaped by the cups, especially when she started sharing her birth control pills with me and my nipples and their surrounding tissue puffed out some. I didn't care, I liked it! My nipple tips became all the more sensitive to her fingertips, and those caresses felt as good as my cock felt when it was soaking itself deep inside her, or stroking back and forth, or she was squeezing it with her pussy muscles. Better! She induced in me orgasms of an intensity beyond comprehension. I spent a lot of that last year in her room, in her bed, or in a dark corner of Sappho's or some other bar, with her fingers dancing on my chest, blissed out! Utterly mindless! Commencement brought this paradise to an end. It was a sad time for both of us. We walked onstage to collect our diplomas with our long hair flowing below our mortarboards, mine grown out to the length of hers, my lips as pink as hers, though of course, my teeny breasts in their bra were hidden while hers pushed out prominently from her academic gown. She'd been admitted to a prestigious law school on the west coast, intending to practice corporate law, while I'd been admitted to an equally prestigious school of management on the east coast to learn how to work the stock market. We knew we each had obligations to our talents and careers and shouldn't compromise them -- we had to separate. When we kissed farewell perhaps for the last time, though we both hoped not, my heart felt torn from my chest. She made me promise that at least once a week I'd do something that would please her, whether or not I told her, and I vowed that I would. Then for the next five or six years, I did. We emailed and tweeted daily at first, then weekly, and then as our lives apart from each other blended in with other closer lives, other distractions, only occasionally and then not at all. We were each parts of other's pasts and little else. I got deeper into the brokerage business and developed a special knowledge of secure stocks like utilities and speculative ventures like derivatives, and with increasing effectiveness I manipulated other people's wealth and began to accumulate my own. Being young and reckless in a bull market, I soon became a man of substance, then pulled back and put my money into bonds and blue chips before the next bear market could hit. I found myself financially 'comfortable,' and work for me became an occupation, not a necessity. I did try to maintain a semblance of the femininity Marcie had trained me toward, though it seemed pointless except as a testimony of my loyalty toward her, a memorial gesture honoring my former feelings. As her hallmark. Now and then on a weekend I'd take out a lipstick and look at it, maybe put some on and remember how happy I'd felt to be pleasing her. Then I'd remove it. Now and then I wore a bra and panties to my office, and hosiery too, often enough for it to feel normal and usual. I loved the way tight elastic panties tucked my genitals, and how bras held my little boobs out from my chest. My executive secretary was an older woman who noticed soon enough, and commented, and when I confessed to her what I was doing and why, how I felt, she thought I'd just told her the most beautiful love story she'd ever heard. From then on she'd make suggestions she thought might please Marcie if Marcie were ever to know of them, and I often did whatever she suggested. Got my hair re-done in a sexually ambiguous style. Got a facial, with my eyebrows trimmed. Dressed in lingerie more often. A few times I ventured out on the town or to a movie dressed like a woman and feeling like one too, remembering old times. Girls tended to think I was as odd and unacceptable as ever, despite the money I'd accumulated. They saw the residues of makeup on my face, or my thin eyebrows, and considered me weird. One girl who wanted to feel closer to me asked me if I did amateur theatricals, and when I told her I didn't, grew fond of someone else less strange. Marcie apparently remained busy enough with her life. I was crushed when one day a form email came announcing that she was engaged to marry a 'beloved' son of a Senior Partner in her law firm. I felt relieved when at the eleventh hour a personal email arrived telling me the engagement was off. "He isn't enough like you," was what she wrote, though she didn't explain what it was he lacked, or what he'd failed or refused. "Kerry," she added, using the feminine form of my name so there'd be no mistaking what she meant, "When you can, please come home to me!" My whole being melted when I saw that! I immediately insisted on a transfer to our west coast office, and I was out there to find living quarters even before the transfer was approved. Our first actual meeting in years was in a small bistro. I'd phoned to suggest we meet to catch up on old times and chat about how we'd each changed. She showed up after work as stunning as ever, though she'd dressed down so as not to overwhelm me. We'd talked about everything -- our careers, our mutual friends, our only slightly changed likes and dislikes, and we found we were as compatible as ever. Then when we could no longer avoid it, we got to the root of our relationship. "Kerry," she said, leaving no doubt who she was addressing, "When we hugged 'Hi!' I could feel that you're wearing a brassiere, that you're still how I envision you," she said in a neutral voice. "And I see you've filled out some in the chest. Not a lot, but some. More than I remember." "Yes, I couldn't not," I said, and hesitated. Then explained in a rush, "Now and then I've missed you terribly. I've missed how blissful our year together was. And I've remembered and cherished my promise to do something you'd be pleased to know about, weekly or more often. So I take some of the same contraceptive pills you use now and then. It's like a sacrament I suppose. Or maybe a tranquillizer. But it feels sacred." She nodded solemnly, deeply moved. It was a moment before she could speak. "That might explain why you're still beardless," she said thoughtfully. She reached over and touched my cheek. In fact what little beard I'd grown I'd had laser-removed, again as a kind of homage, and then I'd gotten my skin derma-braded, resurfaced until it was smooth as a woman's. I told her that, and she was more moved still. Then, "Do you wear bras often?" "Yes. Yes, I do." To me, that 'I do' sounded a little like marrying her. But I felt that way! "Would you wear one every day for the rest of your life if I asked you to?" Now she was talking about a kind of marriage! I had to know if she felt about me the way I still felt about her. If our feelings of commitment to each other were as strong as ever, and mutual. So I asked her, "Do you want me to?" She just looked at me. I waited. She said nothing. So I answered her question with the truth. "Yes. Yes, I would." "And anything else I might ask you to wear?" I assumed she was thinking of lipstick, the hallmark she'd stamped on me, her brand, warning off all other girls and testing my loyalty to her. That would be a problem - my office wasn't a college campus where kids can try out freaky ways to present themselves. Money managers maintain severe standards of propriety. I hesitated and let out a long breath. She was testing me the way she'd tested my sincerity back in college. She'd never been cruel. It was a matter of trust. I had to trust her, trust that she would not make me out a fool. Just as she had to trust that my answer would be truthful. I looked into her face and knew what my answer had to be. I would give my life for this girl. I hoped I wouldn't have to, because I wanted to gift her with my life for a long time. And enjoy hers. "Yes," I replied. And meant it, so I added, "I would. Anything you ask." I trusted her. I would become whatever she needed. Even if it was a mere whim on her part. I loved her. She had to know it! "Anything!" I repeated. She was moved. Tears came to her eyes. She understood me. "I may ask. I will, I promise." A moment later she's regained control over her emotions, and swallowed the lump in her throat. I hadn't yet managed to swallow mine. "You know something, Kerry? You really are the love of my life. Let's never ever separate again! No matter what!" We rose and swept each other up into each other's arms. A few people at a nearby table looked up, saw what was happening, surmised enough of the rest, and applauded. "Is this a proposal?" I asked, too fearful of the wrong answer to continue with 'of marriage.' It didn't matter. She understood. "Yes!" she replied. And "Yes!" I replied to her, since who'd proposed what to whom wasn't clear. And I mentally pumped my fist for joy. And that was how we became engaged. Promises first, and a proposal of marriage insuring those promises assumed by each of us without one word uttered. That night I went down on her for the first time in six years, as I have almost every day since then. I couldn't get enough of her. I wanted our lips to be joined forever, my mouth's to her pussy's. I spent over two hours lapping and licking and sucking her pussy, eating her out, bringing her to repeated orgasms. She tasted incredibly delicate. Toward the end she looked down on me with deep affection, and in between her peaks she stroked my hair repeatedly as if I were her favorite puppy. At last, as if only an afterthought, we fucked. And it was beautiful, her vagina receiving my penis, her cunt my cock, stroking each in and out as if they were one. And when I sucked her clean of me, it was like old times. The following day we fucked first and then I sucked both of us out of her. "That's how I want it always," she declared without further explanation. So that is how it was done. We made love, and I sank my semen deep inside her, and then I made love to her pussy and sucked it out again. She'd have multiple orgasms, and I would exult that I could bring her such pleasure. Only long afterward did I realized that she had proposed to 'Kerry' and not 'Cary.' She craved intimacy with my submissive feminine side and had no use for my masculinity, unobtrusive as it was. So without her requesting it I began wearing a bra daily, and panties too. Out of respect for our sex lives and the rigidity of my penis I took only enough birth control pills to maintain my boyish --or girlish -- good looks and my hint of a figure, no more. She did ask me to wear makeup a few times -- when we visited a local lesbian bar for example -- but that made sense. She never insisted that I go to work looking unequivocally girly. I dressed completely as a girl for a Halloween party, thinking it would be a tribute to her of sorts, and realized only as I called for her that this was the first time Marcie she'd be seeing me thoroughly female. I had my hair done at a salon, and I wore a formal gown and full makeup. When I rang the door and Marcie came out already wearing her wrap, I thought she'd be astonished at how far I'd gone. But no. She glanced at me and pecked me a welcome on my powdered and blushed cheek. "Hi, Kerry, so lovely to see you," she said cheerfully. Then, "I love your hair," and "Is that a new dress?" as we went down to my car together. Otherwise, she gave no sign that anything was out of the ordinary. When I asked her why afterward, she only replied, "Because you look the way I always envision you!" Similarly, most people at the party thought I wasn't 'in costume' at all, and didn't understand why our hosts, who finally recognized me, awarded me a prize for the best men's costume. It was a bottle of shaving lotion for my permanently hairless face. I still exhibit it on my mantle with a few other accumulated trophies. As a gesture to Marcie, to please her, without being asked, when at last we got married I wore a bra and panty set under my formal outfit, delicate rose trimmed with French lace. She realized it only when asked if she would take this man to have and to hold and so on. We were grasping each other's hands at that moment, and staring into each other's eyes, and the back of her hand touched my chest while the minister intoned the formulas. I know she felt the bulge of my cups beneath my pleated shirt, because her eyes suddenly lit up and her smile of pleasure took on deeper meanings, both surprise and delight. "So help you God?" he concluded. "Yes! Oh yes!" she replied. Then when he asked me "Do you take this woman" and so on we both answered 'Yes!' simultaneously. The congregation laughed and attributed it to over-eagerness. They weren't wrong. That afternoon we flew to our honeymoon in Bermuda, arriving late that night and tumbling together into our hotel room bed, where we enjoyed our first fuck as a married couple. As always I sucked my cum -- our mingled, new-married cum -- out of Marcie until she came a few more times and felt, as she said with mock primness, "properly pristine." I didn't realize it until the next morning, but Marcie had no use for Cary. She'd married Kerry. Cary was in her eyes a weak-kneed excuse for a man, emasculated by nature and circumstance. Kerry was my dominant identity, as she saw me, my proud feminine self. It became apparent that she was married to Kerry and no one else the next morning, when we awoke together and looked about our luxurious honeymoon suite, our satin paradise. I'd fallen asleep with my head between her legs as had happened before, and on awakening I resumed kissing her down there with my usual passionate devotion. A few more orgasms and at last she sighed and allowed me to creep up and lie fully on top of her with my stiff cock thrust again into her now drenched quim. Moving slowly, then intently, then frantically, we both came yet again, Marcie one more time, me as my ultimate reward. "My beloved girl," she whispered as she pushed me back down to lick her pussy clean once more, as always. "This will be so beautiful! We're both going to be so beautiful!" Then we slept again till late morning. I had no way to know she meant exactly what she'd said. Now we'd been married for nearly a year. I left Marcie for a moment to lay out the salad and turn up the oven, then returned to my customary position on the floor between her legs, though no longer facing her pussy. I leaned back against her knees as she sat back relaxed in her chair, stroking my hair. It was full to my shoulders, then curled in slightly, like hers, and a streaky blonde like hers. In some respects we looked like sisters, and locals sometimes assumed it -- we never contradicted them. It took a lot of management for me to maintain my hair, long sessions each morning with a brush and curlers and blowers and hairspray, and I needed a professional setting at least once a week at the salon where we both went. My work as a receptionist required. But Marcie simply punned hers up for the day, but she loved watching me brush mine out each evening and again every morning. "That's the most girlish of all your movements," she told me. "It confirms my fondest wish for you." I'm glad," I replied, grateful but otherwise unconcerned. "Nearly the fondest," she added cryptically, and that remark hung in the air. Another time she informed me that "A girl's hair is her crowning glory." I was content that she thought so, that mine satisfied her. In truth, though, until my features assumed undeniable feminine proportions during the first few months of our marriage, my long hair saved me from all sorts of potential embarrassment. It was so unutterably feminine in style that a glance eliminated any doubt anyone might feel as I strolled past them, or they came past my desk, that I was a woman. A rather attractive and chic woman at that! On impulse I asked Marcie what she'd been thinking that first morning of our married life together, when I awoke to find my face between her legs yet again and eventually crept back up to kiss her other lips. "You've always been a girl to me, from when we first studied for that Bio test and you explained how you've always failed as a man but not as a girl, then agreed to declare girly intentions by wearing a bra and lipstick for me, the two most distinctive feminine attributes. I married a woman, and when we took our oaths you acknowledged it, and we both swore to take each other as such and forsake all others. So when at last you were mine and only mine, then I first woke up as your lawful wedded wife, I knew the time had come to declare it to the world." I leaned against her knees with my eyes closed. Not puzzled, because I understood what she meant, of course. I'd had no idea, when we married, what Marcie intended for me. That for our entire married life, from Day One, I'd be her designated woman. Her woman. That then and there I would join her in womanhood full time. That our honeymoon was our tipping point, when all ambiguities would end and I'd achieve a complete conversion. "I knew you'd worn lingerie through the ceremony and the reception afterward, and when we finally arrived in our room and were alone I watched you take it all off strap by strap, then get into your lovely lace nightgown and into bed with me. I knew that was your gift to me on our wedding night, and I loved, adored you for it, though I knew you had no idea then that there would be no return for you." True enough, I was thinking, my eyes blissfully shut as she stroked my hair. "So when you woke, I knew you had to commit. I immediately asked you to put on your bra and panties again for when we went down to lunch -- the time for breakfast had long since passed. You told me you hadn't brought another pair, only the bra and panties you'd been wearing. I told you never mind, those would do, and we'd get you everything else you needed. I then offered to lend you a dress until you could buy a few of your own." As she did, I was thinking. I'd had no idea how many things I'd need to satisfy her desires for me. "It was so satisfying to see those little bumps you'd grown under your nipples, to know I wouldn't have to begin again with you. It was even more satisfying when I got out of bed and came back from the bathroom with your first full-bodied estrogen pill, much larger than a contraceptive pill, and a glass of water. I'd brought it specially from home, with a prescription for more if you were willing to take it. You looked at me questioningly, but trusted me and took it. You suspected it wasn't one of my minimal 'birth control' or 'replacement therapy' pills, the kinds women use to maintain what they are. It was the kind given to teen girls with delayed puberty, who aren't becoming women, to force their bodies to become women. And yet you took it. And daily since!" "Well, not recently," I replied. "I'm full-bodied now, so sustainers serve. Fact is, though, when you handed me that pill I didn't know what it was." I was speaking idly, enjoying her light touch as she stroked my head. Especially when now and then she pressed my temples affectionately. "I thought it was only one more birth control pill, one more test of my love for you. If I'd known they'd grow these huge hanging things I have on my chest now I might not have swallowed that first one." I turned toward her so she could see I was joking. She knew I didn't mind those huge hanging things, that I loved them. I looked down at them. The loose blouse I was still wearing concealed nothing of their size -- I bulged! Marcie's hands crept down to grasp them from underneath, and her thumbs touched and caressed their swollen nipples through the satin of my bra cups, and I half-swooned! "So there you were, little by little becoming the woman you should have been from the inside out and from the outside in. What was left was to become a woman in the eyes of others, to develop your social identity. I asked you to dab on a touch of my lipstick to complete your return to the boy I'd fallen in love with way back when. The girl, really, as I'd wanted to think of yourself even back then. Not to dominate or humiliate you, though maybe a little -- I have to confess it, Kerry darling, I have always loved playing queen with you as my obedient handmaiden. Nor to test your sincerity -- I knew you'd want to do whatever pleases me. But because right off I wanted to send your masculinity so far into hiding that it would shrivel up in fear and then die. That was what our honeymoon was for. To marry you to the girl I'd married." That was certainly true. I lay back, laved in the ocean of delicious feeling her fingertips were creating on my nipples. Loving it. Loving her. "I'd turned down so many other boys with none of your potential. And nearly made a huge mistake when I accepted another man's proposal of marriage. That was a problem -- there was nothing effeminate about him. But thank God I was able to arrange a course of conditioning for him, one originally designed to help gay men accept themselves. He may have been straight when he started, but it turned him just queer enough for us to break off our engagement.! Me, I've always preferred girls. I've always assumed I'd marry a girl when the laws changed to allow it. But then you came! My darling Kerry! My everything!" I was so choked up! She could do that to me. When I first came to her suite to study that first time, I was already so smitten that I'd been unable to say anything to her at first. She knew it and encouraged it. Since then it hasn't mattered -- my mouth spends most of our time together buried between her legs. But I've never forgotten that first night between her legs. When I first knew her, her taste varied -- sweet, faintly fishy, faintly spicy, but always delicate. As during our engagement, those few times I tasted her unmingled with me. But with marriage and her greater maturity, with changes in her metabolism no doubt, her taste had become consistent in the main, salty, sweet, and slick, the flavor of my cum mixed with hers whether or not I've cum in her. While I could, she insisted I cum in her first, so she could feel clean when I ate her afterward. But for months now I've been impotent, so I eat her whenever I can and feel grateful. "You married someone companionable," I corrected her, when she said that she was sure she'd married a girl. "Not exactly," she replied. "Better. I married someone who cared for me to become a girl." My willingness to wear bras and lipstick visibly, not caring what other students thought of me, assured her claim on me when we were students. And after we re-joined, my sworn conviction that I wanted everything she wanted provided the same assurance. To me, marrying her while wearing feminine lingerie had been a gesture, an indulgent gift. But to Marcie it was a solemn promise. From that first morning of our married life I'd been feminine. Nothing but. I looked not merely passable but pretty, and I had every reason to feel pleased by my appearance. And I never dressed any other way. I hadn't expected quite this radical a transformation quite so quickly. We'd married as a man and a woman. Yet two weeks later when we returned to the mainland we were two women. We then moved to a new neighborhood where no one knew either of us, and we've lived there as two women ever since. Our neighbors and the local shop owners speculate whether we're sisters. One day while shopping Marcie encountered an old friend from way back in high school, Ginny, who knew better, and they'd seen something of each other since then. Eventually Marcie revealed to her that I hadn't always been a woman. But she swore her to deep secrecy -- even her husband Tom wasn't to know -- and Ginny did keep that secret safe. Ginny liked secrets, so Tom never learned about either of us. They did their things together during Tom's frequent trips out of town. I was never invited, so I gave it no further thought. Similarly, we never invited each other over to each other's houses, so Tom remained unaware of our existence. It amused both Marcie and Ginny that once, at a neighborhood association picnic, Tom unknowingly made moves on each of us in turn. We'd both pretended to be responsive, Marcie skillfully, me with an uneasy sense of risk. But even then I had no idea who he was until Marcie later told me. So as far as everyone in our lives was concerned we were women. ******************* Even so, Marcie suspected I didn't quite believe it myself, so I always attended carefully when she alluded to my new sex. What might seem a spontaneous remark could well mask some new, well-deliberated requirement. This particular evening she'd come home and suggested I look her in the eye when I eat her, that I pretend I'm blowing a guy. Was she teasing me or was she preparing me to blow some real guy? To dump me the way she'd dumped her fianc? when we were still living a continent apart? I decided to tease her back. "You want me to look up to you the way a girl looks up to a guy when she's blowing him? Maybe I'm a girl now, or at least I resemble one. But you don't look much like a guy to me, honey! No way!" No way was could Marcie resemble a guy! No more than me these days! She still had a perfect, ravishingly beautiful, self-assured face, and her skin was still all roses and cream, and her body taut yet voluptuous? Her large tits protruded from her slender chest and attracted anyone's attention immediately. From down below, when I was licking her pussy, I would peer between them to glimpse her exquisite face framed in turn by hair that waved with each toss of her head. Her nipples were always erect when I nursed on her clit, always poking through both bra and blouse. She shifted her legs until they were draped over each of my shoulders as I leaned back against the front edge of her chair. The sides of her velvety thighs pressed gently against my ears and cheeks. I was hers! Utterly! How could I not adore her? "I'm no way a guy? Then I'll have to try harder," she said. Now I was sure she was teasing. Though facing the wrong way, I turned to look up wide-eyed at her, as if concerned to be pleasing. I saw that her expression as she looked back down at me was mostly amused. "You're no longer a guy yourself, honey," she added. "Do you ever miss it? You haven't had a functioning cock for months! A real one not since our honeymoon. Forgotten what they're like? How a mouth or cunt or ass tightens when it feels the surge when a man cums? Since your cock doesn't work any more I really must get you another to practice with, maybe to practice on. Say a double-ended dildo I can enjoy, so my cunt can feel every tug of your lips as they slide along its full length. No, don't stop looking into my eyes." It was hard to tell whether she was reminiscing about my loss of my own erections or her loss of them. She seemed to want a response of sorts, so I turned altogether around, stared at her bare, moist slit, and resumed smooching it. This time steadfastly stared into her eyes. I suppose I began to look wistful, because she asked, "Are you sad, sweetie? Don't you love kissing my pussy the way girls do? Don't you love being a girl? Or even now, don't you think that's what you are?" She paused, looking down into my eyes. I'm not sure what she saw there, but she added in a level voice, it seemed with a hint of disdain, "No way are you a man!" An intended insult? It hurt a little. I'd never been manly, and true, I was now no way a man in appearance. When we returned from our honeymoon I couldn't return to work looking the way I did, so Marcie'd persuaded me to retire from the brokerage, and become -- in effect -- a bimbo. She'd found me my new job and I was hired as if really a girl. Now, a year later, I mingled easily with other low-level girls with various clerks, secretaries, and bookkeepers. They accepted me as what I seemed and that helped me become one of them. They shared their confidences with me, and at lunch we'd giggle and chatter about mutual problems, most of the time problems with men, as if I knew anything about them. As a receptionist I wasn't expected to use my mind or my judgment only to flirt lightly with the firm's clients, enough for them to feel valued and vaguely desirable. "Flirting builds a girl's self-confidence, and it's fun!" Marcie had told me when I first took the job. I learned by watching how some of the other girls did it. Now and then some guy would actually pick up on it and try hitting on me, and I'd smile and show him my wedding ring, and sometimes that would slow him down some. Though sometimes it only encouraged them -- a married woman makes no long-term demands and creates no complications. I soon found I enjoyed the power a girl feels when a man is making moves on her. How she's very much in control. I'd suspected that Marcie might want me to go all the way. There'd been indications. In college, not only that I wear a bra and tint my lips, but after the first month that I dissolve all my body hair and soften my skin with lotions. 'So I can feel you the way you feel me,' she'd explained. While we were engaged there'd been a week together at a "complexion clinic," where I'd had to reveal that down under I was male, and the women clients had all regarded me with contempt, amusement, or pity, except one who assumed I was gay and was eager to ask me how gay men went about seducing men, where they put their 'parts' and so on. The clinic did accomplish Marcie's purpose -- when I emerged, our skins felt exactly the same all over, and my faint floral scent resembled hers. There'd also been her insistence after we met again in California that I should tone down or suppress some residual masculine habits developed when I first learned that girls admire such things. Most girls. That I should instead not only droop my fingers with a limp wrist, but also move with dainty precision, swinging my hips rather than my shoulders. I did of course -- I loved her. There'd been occasional cryptic remarks during our engagement, as I watched her dress herself for example. When she was adjusting her generous breasts into her bra she'd commented, "What's the matter, sweetie? Envious? Just wait!" Or, when preparing to go shopping for lingerie, she'd once asked with a suggestive smile, "Which kind do you like?" When I said, "The lace- trimmed satin kind, those look sexy on you," she'd replied, 'Then I'll get them just for you!' And she did, though not as I'd meant. Or her early insistence that I eat her out after we make love rather than before, and then exclusively afterward 'so I'll be really flavorful!' As she always was. "No, no way a man," she repeated now as I nibbled her clit. Her smile seemed triumphant, waiting for a response. I lifted my head up slightly. Did she intend an insult? A compliment? A mere statement of fact? "Marcie," I said with a faint sense of injury. "You asked me to become what I am, remember? When we talked about making a life together you made it clear that you didn't want a husband, you wanted a lover, a dearest companion, an intimate friend, someone who would share your desires and concerns. A girlfriend. Well, I wanted that too, most of it. And that's what I've been, sort of, though not quite the way I expected. From day one!" She nodded, a slow smile spreading over her own face. "I remember, sweetheart! Exactly from day one, that very first full day of our honeymoon. We left our wedding celebration and flew away and got to our hotel late, and made love, and you ate me out as always, and we slept wrapped up in each other as always. As I'd always wanted. You were perfect. Then in the morning you ate me out again and I asked you again if you meant it when you said you were willing to do anything to make me happy. I remember very well how very gallantly you replied. 'You're my wife now,' you said. 'I want your happiness above everything else. Even above my own. I want to be everything you want! So ask me anything. Whatever your least whim is my command.' "I said that?" I asked. I didn't remember. "I'm sure I meant it." "You did. It sounded a little pompous, but I never doubted it! With those words, the life I'd always wanted to live opened wide and invited me in all at once! You were already wearing the bra and panties you'd surprised me with during our wedding. And I'd mentioned lipstick, so I gave you the first of your hormone accelerator pills." One more lick and two reflexive jabs of my tongue and Marcie threw her head back and her legs began to stiffen, squeezing my head. Even though I'd thought she was used up, a wave of orgasmic tension passed through her. She held her breath, then let out an ecstatic cry, "Ahhh! Ahhhhh! Aaaaahhhhh! Ohhhhh, God! Oh you darling wonderful sweetheart!" I heard her grateful exclamation as if from a great distance, because her thighs had again clamped against my ears and held my mouth against her pulsing vagina. Still gazing up at her, I saw that her expression was sublimely happy. I drank the sweet fluid that spasmed abundantly from her! She recovered, then spoke more quickly. "And you proved it then and there too, you darling! I immediately proposed the most extreme of my desires. The most outrageous humiliation a man could conceive I'm sure, because the most transfiguring! I wanted you to live completely feminine all at once and for the rest of your life. You didn't need to know that all at once. But on that first day of our married life I wanted you to dress, make up, and walk into the hotel's dining room as my girlfriend and no one else. To see for yourself whether anyone could tell otherwise. Then if no one could, to promise to spend our entire two week honeymoon as two girls on vacation, no more nor less. If you did that I knew the rest would follow. As it did. The man of my dreams became the woman of my dreams and made them come true." That first day had seemed at first only a further extension of the ways she'd already asked me to sacrifice my minimal manhood. I wanted to indulge her, so I'd agreed. I'd be a woman for lunch, and if that worked out then for the entire two weeks. And if the entire two weeks, perhaps longer. Of course she never registered that "perhaps." She interpreted my conditional consent as a lifetime commitment "You were not overjoyed when I proposed it, I remember that well. But mainly, I remember that you said 'yes.' She smiled down at me, whether at the memory or because I'd resumed nibbling her clit I couldn't say, even though I was still looking into her eyes and she into mine. "I'd dreamed of a perfect honeymoon with a girlfriend" she said frankly. "And now we were well and truly married, and we'd consummated, so there could be no annulments. So I finally felt free to tell you everything I really wanted. Everything. I couldn't earlier -- you seemed so perfect for me I was afraid I'd scare you off. And then I'd die. You had to be securely mine and married to me forever first." It had been scary. And weird. To look queer for a time in college was one thing, and