A Ghost Of A Girl free porn video

The house was haunted, sure--or, at least, that's what Donna Adams, the real estate agent, told me. She had to, by California law. Ridiculous, of course, but I wasn't arguing with her, not when the rumor lowered the rent by two thirds. I couldn't pass up a deal like that. I'd been out of work for months, and my unemployment benefits were all but gone. Luckily, soon after moving to San Rafael, I landed a technical writing job. It didn't pay all that much (which made my "haunted house" all the more desirable), but it had two perks: I didn't have a commute, and I didn't have to put up with the petty office politics that invariably arise in offices. So, on February 1, I moved in. The place came furnished, which was another plus, since I didn't have the cash, just now, to buy furniture. The former tenant, Tammy Something, was in her twenties, but she'd had good--and expensive--tastes. Her parents, who actually owned the place, Donna informed me, and were, therefore, my landlords, were obviously wealthy, and either they or Tammy had furnished and decorated the mansion first class, all the way. Everything's marble and hardwood, and her dishes--yes, even they came with the place--were all china and silver and crystal. The only downside to the place is that it's totally feminine: pale pink walls, display cases full of beaded purses and jewelry, a china closet converted into a showcase for her fabulous collection of dolls, silk flowers, impressionist oil paintings of elegant Victorian scenes, a canopy bed with pink curtains and lace, frilly drapes at the windows, and ornamental touches to everything. The effect is beautiful --but it's also totally feminine in every detail. Still, I didn't complain; I'd rather live among feminine finery than sleep on the floor, at least until I could save enough for a bed; I'd rather eat off china, with silver, than to pop for paper plates and plastic cutlery; and I'd rather sit on a brocaded couch and watch TV than loll around in a cheap beanbag chair or a futon I can't really afford. She even left shelves full of fashion magazines and her clothes--walk-in closets crammed full of them--hundreds of outfits comprised of scores and scores of skirts, shorts, blouses, jackets, hats, scarves, coats, gloves, you name it, right down to her bikinis, bras, panties, and lingerie. She had a couple hundred pairs of shoes alone! In addition, in each of her five bathrooms, there are bottles of perfume, razors and shaving cream (for her legs, I imagine), and a warehouse of other toiletries. It would take a month just to toss the stuff out, which is why I'm just letting it be. I don't need much closet space for my own wardrobes, because I don't have that many clothes. I'm a guy. Besides, I work at home; I don't need clothes. Most of the time, I go around nude. It's one of the benefits of living alone and working at home. Well, I don't live entirely alone. There's Max, my black tomcat, but he doesn't give a rat's ass about seeing my naked ass, cock, or balls. As long as he gets plenty of food and sleep, he's content. Donna also told me that Tammy died in the house --or on the patio outside the house, rather: California law requires realtors to advise renters of any deaths that occurred on the premises they're considering renting. "How'd she die?" I asked, just curious. Donna said, "It's a great house, Mr. Stevens" "Rod." "--huge, fully furnished, and a steal at only--" "She was murdered, wasn't she?" I guessed. Donna frowned. "On her patio, Rod, not in the house." "My God. Who? Why? How?" "She was stalked. Her stalker eventually killed her. With a knife, I believe." She paused, sighed, and asked, "So, do you want the place or not?" "There's no security deposit, no pet deposit, and no last month's rent, right?" "Right." "I'll take it," I agreed, and wrote her a check. On her way out the door, she called over her shoulder, "I think, if there is a ghost, Rod--and I'm not saying there is--it's hers." * * * It took me only a few days to settle into the spacious, luxurious mansion. It took Max a bit longer. Cats are finicky about two things, I've found: their food and their surroundings. They don't tolerate change very well when it comes to either their dinner or their digs. The job was going well. It was boring, but it paid--not well, but enough, given the reduction in rent and the owner's willingness to forgo security and pet deposits. My assignment was to write reports about desert hydrology. I could keep at it for only a couple of hours at a time, writing about desert crust, the hydraulic properties of surface soil, infiltration rates, and vegetation control, whereupon my brain would rebel, my eyes would glaze over, and I'd need to take a break. Then, I'd get up from the computer desk; stretch; walk from the office, down a long corridor, past ornamental vases, ornate tapestries, and bronze figurines and statues in marble and and ivory and jade, to the book-lined mahogany shelves of the spacious library; and thumb the gilt- edged, leather-bound volumes. Tammy's taste in books was, like her house, first rate, and she had all the essential classics as well as a representative collection of contemporary genres, but these latter were more given to the tastes of women than of men, and included a sizable collection of somewhat tawdry romances, all hardbound. I chuckled at the titles of a few of them: Passion Play, Hearts Adrift, Sultry Summer, and Love's Inferno, before ambling out to the kitchen to pour myself a fresh cup of coffee. When I came into the kitchen, Max was crouched beside the refrigerator, his tail waving slowly back and forth. He was staring intently at a point in the middle of the room. What's his problem? I wondered. "Not enough turkey in your Poultry Delight?" I peered into his food bowl. Like his water bowl, it was nearly full. "Kitchen's feng shui not to your liking?" With a wild screech, Max bolted past me. What the hell? I thought. He acted as if he'd seen something-- --a ghost -- --but there was no one here but him and me. I shrugged. Cats could be temperamental sometimes, although, usually, Max wasn't. I unscrewed the lid of my favorite brand of instant coffee --I happen to like instant coffee (and it's cheaper than the brewed stuff)--and followed a spoonful of the dark, aromatic brew with two spoons of sugar, then added water, and placed the mug in the microwave oven. I set the timer for two minutes and twenty-two seconds. While the coffee was being heated, I went in search of Max, to see whether he'd calmed down. I didn't like the way he'd acted; I'd never seen him frightened by nothing, although he was in a strange environment, so maybe his kitty nerves were still a little on edge. I looked in the living room and the dining room, but he wasn't in either place, unless he was hiding under a couch or behind a chest, so I returned to the kitchen, just in time to hear the ding of the oven, advising me that my beverage had been heated for the time I'd specified. I pressed the release lever and reached inside. My mug was cold. I frowned. I'd set the timer for two minutes and twenty-two seconds. I looked at the clock built into the oven. It was 10:38. Two minutes and twenty-two seconds had passed. My coffee should have been piping hot, its ceramic surface warm to the touch. Steam should be rising from the beverage. But the coffee wasn't steaming, and the mug wasn't hot. I frowned. I must have made a mistake in setting the timer, I thought. Maybe I'd set twenty-two seconds instead of two minutes and twenty-two seconds. I shrugged, setting the timer again. This time, I watched myself do so, careful to press the button firmly each time. Then, I waited by the oven while the coffee heated. Two minutes and twenty-two seconds later, I drew a steaming-hot mug from the oven. Shaking my head at my own idiocy, I was about to go into the den, to watch a little mid-morning news on the wall-mounted big-screen television, when I paused and sniffed. I couldn't be sure, but there seemed to be the faintest scent of perfume in the air. I sniffed again. The fragrance lingered--or maybe it did so only in my imagination. The next thing I knew, I chided myself, I'd be seeing Tammy's ghost! Chuckling, I continued into the den, where, I found, the TV set was on, and there was the faint hint of the same perfume I'd smelled --hadn't I?--a moment ago, in the kitchen. * * * The TV wasn't, really on. I just supposed that it might be on. I also imagined that I might sense a hint of Tammy's elusive perfume. Neither incident had actually occurred, but, I realized, it would be easy to let my imagination run away with me, rattling around in this mansion with no one to keep me company but Max, who'd just proved he wasn't the bravest feline on the planet, and the knowledge that Tammy had been killed just outside these walls, on her--now, for as long as I rented this place, anyway, my--patio and that her twenty-something-year- old ghost supposedly haunted the premises. I shivered, not at the thought of her ghost, but at the terror she must have felt when the stalker loomed before her, knife in hand. In a sick, twisted way, a knife is a rather personal, even intimate, weapon with which to kill someone. A phallic symbol, it penetrates, but causes death, instead of life. I could picture the blade rising and falling, plunging into her breast as she stared, wide-eyed, screaming, then whimpering, then gurgling, maybe, as she tried to breathe through the blood in her throat and chest. No, I told myself, there wouldn't be any turning on of television sets or wearing of perfume, not by Tammy, at any rate. I'd hoped to catch the local news, but it had been interrupted--or displaced--by reports of a mass murderer who'd opened up with a pair of handguns at a shopping mall somewhere in Tallahassee. "It's not linked," the newscaster reassured viewers, "to terrorism." The talking heads always seemed to know that with such swiftness and with such utter certainty that the denial seemed more propaganda than fact. After I'd drunk my coffee, I ambled back to the computer desk, still naked, and, with my penis lolling atop my testicles, continued to write my latest report concerning the fascinating subject of desert hydrology. I didn't see Max until lunchtime. He'd quieted down, even condescending, in his aloofness, to let me stroke his satin-smooth fur. "There are no such things as ghosts, Max," I reassured him. My tone was confident, but, as I spoke these words of comfort to my feline friend, I recalled the newscaster's similar reassurance that the mall shooting spree was unrelated to terrorism. Maybe Max wasn't buying my message any more than a lot of viewers were convinced by the anchor's reassuring declaration. I decided to add a little fresh turkey, from a package of sandwich meats I'd bought yesterday, to Max's dish of Poultry Delight. He seemed to appreciate my gesture, rewarding me a deep-throated purr as he dined. * * * Damn! I was out of cigarettes. Smoking is a stupid, filthy habit, I know, and a health hazard. I know I should quit, but knowing and doing are two different matters. Someday, I tell myself. But "someday" never seems to be today. I promised myself that I'd do a solid three hours of work, without a break, and then reward myself with a smoke. Now, out of cigarettes, I want one even more than I might have wanted one otherwise. It seems we want anything we can't have the most, just because we can't have it. I'd have to get dressed, cross the street, and buy a pack at the drugstore. I really hated to do so, though; I like being naked. Well, I told myself, the sooner I went, the sooner I'd get back, be able to shed my clothes again, and enjoy a smoke. My clothes--the few I have--are in the walk-in closet in the master bedroom--the one with the canopy bed with the pink, ruffled curtains and the doll collection and the teddy bears and the vanity table in the bathroom, fully loaded with cosmetics, perfumes, and all the other accoutrements of femininity. I'd just toss on a shirt, a pair of shorts, and a pair of sandals. Ten minutes, later, I'd be back in the mansion, as naked as the day I was born, sucking on a cigarette. I really should quit smoking, I told myself. Tammy's closet was the size of some people's bedroom, and, even at that size, it was packed with outfits, as were her other bedrooms' walk-in closets. She could have stocked a department store's women's department and had togs left over. I couldn't begin to name all the styles and cuts and designs she had, but there was plenty of everything. As I reached for a T-shirt that may or may not have been laundered anytime soon, my forearm grazed one of Tammy's blouses, a peach number in silk. The fabric felt wonderfully sleek and soft against my skin, very pleasant to the touch. I rubbed the material between my thumb and forefinger. It was incredibly smooth, almost like water. It felt sexy. My cock twitched, stirring. I smiled, never having had an erotic moment simply because of the feel of something. Wasn't that more a feminine response? Men were more into sight, women into touch and texture, right? My prick didn't seem to know this, nor did it seem to care. It swelled, becoming thicker and harder as I continued to rub the silk blouse. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of something cherry red. I turned my head to see a pair of Tammy's thong panties. I'd been in this closet a few times, to hang or fetch a shirt, a pair of jeans, or my shoes, but I hadn't noticed these panties before, despite their intense hue. None of Tammy's other underwear was here, just these bright-red thongs. They looked almost as if they'd been placed here, atop the clothes hamper, for me to find. Guys aren't all that observant, I guess. I touched the panties. They, too, were smooth and soft. Satin. My cock swelled further. Who would have thought that a blouse and a pair of panties could have such an arousing effect on a guy? Not me, certainly. I blinked. For a moment, it seemed as though I'd forgotten why I'd come here. I seemed to have been in a daze. I let go of the panties--reluctantly--and grabbed the T-shirt, shorts, and sandals, got dressed, and hurried from the closet. On my way out of the bedroom, I noticed a bottle of Tammy's perfume. It was on her vanity. On a whim, I sprayed a mist of the perfume: its fragrance was identical to the scent that I'd smelled earlier--or imagined I'd smelled. Impulsively, I dabbed a few drops on my face, enjoying the fragrance. Tammy, I decided, hadn't only looked good, but she'd smelled good, too. I was back in eight minutes, flat. There were few customers in the drugstore, it being early afternoon, and I completed my purchase in short order. Locking the great double doors to the main entrance behind me, I ascended the long flight of "S"-shaped stairs to the second floor, where I'd set up my office, and, after enjoying the smoke I'd promised myself, I returned to work, not bothering to strip, as I usually would have done, as, without further delay, I wanted to write a few more pages of my latest report on the fascinating topic of desert hydrology; this one dealt with sampling techniques and was as dry as the sands that drift across the arid landscapes of the parched terrain itself. What the hell! I thought. Somehow, a photograph of a transvestite had been save to my computer monitor's desktop, as its background image. I knew it was a man --albeit, I had to admit, a guy every bit as gorgeous and glamorous as any female model I'd ever seen--because she--or he--sported an erect cock above a pair of good-size, shaved balls. Until the eye noticed these details, the figure was the image of a lovely lady. Dressed in a bubblegum-pink tank top with spaghetti straps, which showed her narrow waist and concave tummy, and a red leather mini-skirt, white stockings, and ruby stilettos, the dark-haired vixen was tall, slender, and shapely--although whether her boobs were implants or digital enhancements, I had no idea--and all woman, except for her manly cock and balls. She had a familiar face, one I might have seen before, but, of course, that was impossible; I didn't date or even associate with cross dressers. Still, there was something familiar about this lovely transvestite's face. How the hell she--or he--had gotten on my computer screen, I had no clue. Maybe I'd downloaded the image accidentally, along with a virus, when I'd saved some work-related files from the company's server or maybe I'd picked up the virus while surfing the 'net. I shrugged. However the hell she--or he--had managed to invade my computer, I was going to delete the image. A few mouse clicks and keystrokes later, and the pornographic image had gone to her--or his--reward. I found, however, that out of sight, in her --or his--case was definitely not out of mind. I found the mixture of feminine and masculine intriguing, although I'd never been attracted to transvestites or transsexuals before, and, I told myself, I wasn't attracted to them now. It's just that the combination of the perfectly coiffed hair, all waves and curls; the expertly applied makeup; the feminine attire; the figure's firm, sleek breasts and long, shapely legs, coupled with her--or his--male genitals was striking; it was mesmerizing. I'd stared at the hybrid charms of the feminine-masculine model for quite a few minutes, I recall, before deleting it. My eye had traveled down the slender, but curvaceous, figure, taking in the curves, the smooth skin, the feminine costume, and the incongruity of these features and the figure's male sex organs. The mixture of male and female didn't compute; therein lay the model's captivating allure. Although the image was no longer on my monitor to study and enjoy, I found myself thinking of the beautiful face and the lovely body to the point that I couldn't concentrate on the work at hand. My cock reminded me of my interest in the curious photograph; it wasn't just erect, but rock hard, standing, at full length, upright before my belly. How the hell was I to write about soil sampling techniques with such visions of loveliness in my mind? I felt confused. I'd never been attracted to cross dressers, but, now, judging by my stiff, standing cock, I was aroused, indeed, by the memory of the beautiful, androgynous figure who'd adorned my screen just a few moments ago. How the hell could I be attracted to a man dressed as a woman. She--or he--might be lovely to look at, but, damn it!, "she" was still a he! Was I going gay, somehow, now that I'd turned twenty five? Could a guy "go gay"? Could he be straight one day and a faggot the next? No, I told myself, I wasn't aroused by the transvestite's picture; I was merely curious. My hard-on disagreed. With a sigh, I gave up, shut down my computer, and decided to go out again. This time, my destination would be the local library. I'd just remembered why the transvestite's face had seemed so familiar: she --or he--had been the very image of Tammy. As far as their hair, their eyes, their nose, their lips, their chins, their jawlines, and their bone structure were concerned, they could have been twins. Suddenly, the previous tenant, daughter of my present, but unmet landlords, about whom I'd thought precious little, seemed important to me; I had, for some reason, to know about her, about how she was killed, and why. "Max!" I called, wanting to check on my feline friend before leaving for the rest of the afternoon. "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!" I waited. There was no sign of him. Slightly worried, I called his name again, but he didn't respond. I checked his bowls. He didn't seem to have touched his food, and his water bowl was still full to the brim. Mildly concerned, I decided that Max must still be adjusting to his new environment. I'd keep an eye on him; if he didn't come around in the next day or two, I'd take him to the vet. I hastened to one of the mansion's five bathrooms, thinking it best to pee before, dressing, I caught the bus across town to the library. If I didn't take such a precaution, I'd no doubt feel the urge to relieve myself halfway to my destination, when there'd be no restroom available. I chose the bathroom in the master bedroom, not because it was the closest, but because it contained Tammy's vanity and a lot of her clothing and other effects. This bedroom and its connected bathroom were the ones in which she'd probably spent most of her time when she'd slept, made love, showered, put on her face, dressed, or gotten ready for bed--and, unlike the other bathrooms, it was scented with her perfume. Why it was important to me that I feel close to her, I couldn't say; it just was. At the toilet, I lifted the seat, unzipped my shorts, extracted my cock, took aim, pointing my manhood in the direction of the center of the toilet bowl, and, froze, staring in disbelief: I was wearing Tammy's cherry-red thong panties! I remembered seeing them on the clothes hamper in the closet, but I had no recollection of having picked them up, and certainly had no memory of having actually donned the underwear, yet, I was certainly wearing them. The panties were too small, of course, and, had the waistband and the leg bands not been elastic, there would have been no way I could have stepped into them and pulled them over my hips. As it was, the thin, satin pouch that comprised the front of the panties was tented and partially askew in front. I was flaccid at the moment, but, a few minutes earlier, haunted by the image of the beautiful young transvestite on my computer screen, my cock had been stiff and swollen to the point, it had seemed, of bursting; no doubt, my erection had pushed the front of the panties aside. Although I saw, with my own eyes, that I was, in fact, wearing Tammy's thongs, I couldn't believe it. How could I have picked up the panties and put them on without realizing or, at least, without remembering, that I had done so? It was impossible. And, yet, obviously, it was not impossible. Unable to hold back any longer, I surrendered to the need to relieve the pressure on my bladder, and a mighty stream of light-amber urine arced into the porcelain bowl. I pissed for over a minute. Then, shaking off the last few drops, I kicked off my sandals, removed my shorts, and started to take off Tammy's panties. With them halfway down my thighs, I paused. My cock had swelled, stiffening. It felt incredibly sexy to be wearing a woman's panties, especially thongs that could barely contain my cock and balls and did absolutely nothing to conceal my taut, compact buttocks. I felt sexy wearing them, just as, I imagined, Tammy must have felt with the thin satin fabric covering her pubes while exposing her bottom. I resisted the impulse to masturbate while wearing the panties, not wanting to stain them with my semen. Don't take them off; wear them , I thought. I shivered. Although the thought was mine, the words seemed to have been spoken, in a sultry whisper, by a feminine voice. I pulled the panties back up my legs and over my hips, adjusting the front as best I could over my jutting prick. Then, with my ass exposed, I stepped back into my shorts and put my sandals back on. I was going to go to the library, as I'd planned, but I was going to go wearing Tammy's cherry-red thongs. Although it was freaky that I'd put them on without realizing or remembering having done so, I was glad I had donned the underwear. They were comfortable. They were glamorous. They were beautiful. They were also sexy as hell. On my way out of the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I stopped, puzzled. Staring at my reflection, I confirmed my impression: I looked smaller and slenderer, as if I'd somehow shrunk all over, and proportionately, as if my tall, gangly body had been reduced, scaled down, and, at the same time, made more graceful and more attractive. It was my imagination, of course. What else could have made me see myself as smaller and sexier than I really was? It was amazing what wearing a pair of women's thong panties could do to a guy's self- image, I thought. I spritzed some of Tammy's perfume onto my face, smiling at the familiar fragrance. Take a jacket. It could be chilly in the library , the feminine voice that seemed to be uttering my thoughts suggested, as I started for the doorway that connected bathroom to bedroom. Sometimes, the air conditioner was a little much, I thought. I crossed the bathroom again, opened the sliding-glass door to the closet, and grabbed a jacket. One of Tammy's, it wouldn't fit me, I thought, but when I shrugged into it, fearing I'd split a hundred stitches, the garment went on easily, as if it had been tailored for me. For some reason, she must have purchased this particular jacket in an extra-large size or maybe she'd borrowed it from a friend or someone had left it here after a visit and Tammy had set it aside to return later. Or maybe I really was becoming girl size, I thought, with a giggle. Once again, catching sight of Tammy's hundreds of shoes, I was astonished that anyone, wealthy or not, could have---or would even want to own--so many shoes. They were cute, though, I had to admit. Some were, anyway. Others were beautiful. Still others were sexy. There were all kinds, in many different styles, from sneakers and sandals to sling- backs and stilettos. It was crazy, I thought, but I could see, almost, how a woman would maybe want so many shoes. Of course, none of them would fit me, even if I wanted, for the hell of it, just to satisfy my curiosity, to try on a pair or two. You could buy a pair in your size , the voice that wasn't my voice, but some chick's, suggested. I chuckled. Not on my salary, I couldn't. There was an envelope on the clothes hamper, where, earlier, Tammy's thong panties had been displayed. It hadn't been there before, had it? Maybe it had been under the thongs and I just hadn't noticed it, my thoughts having been captivated by the panties at the time. I picked up the large manilla envelope. Something inside it made it thick and bulky. I opened the flap, which had been sealed with adhesive cellophane tape. My heart skipped a beat, and my knees went weak. I gulped, staring at the envelope's contents. Inside were wads of cash, each secured by thick rubber bands. I rifled through several packets: every bill was a hundred! There had to be thousands of dollars in the envelope. You could buy a pair in your size, the voice repeated. There's a shop on Third Street called Transformation; they'll have shoes in your size, and panties and lingerie, too, if you want them. Transformation, right. I'd seen that shop before. I knew what it sold. It was perfect. Of course, I might not need to buy a whole wardrobe of various outfits, not if I was really shrinking down to a woman's size, as I seemed to be. I might need some, though, for the time being. . . . * * * An hour later, I was off the bus and in the library, seated before a microfiche machine. (I had to have the research librarian show me how to use the damned thing; even then, it didn't seem real.) The article concerning Tammy's death, which appeared in the local newspaper, was accompanied by a photograph of her, which resembled those still on display in the mansion. She was a slender, gorgeous brunette, with a classically beautiful face and a figure that could have appeared alongside any Playboy model's body--and put her rival to shame. Who would kill a young woman like her? Her stalker, as it turns out, who'd stabbed her to death on her patio, after harassing her for over two years. She made the mistake that so many lovely ladies make: she was beautiful at the wrong time, in the wrong place--when he was present at a show she'd attended and he'd happened to see--and he'd become obsessed with--her. He's now doing life without the possibility of parole in San Quentin, after he'd executed her for daring to be both beautiful and uninterested in him. The article reported that her murder was actually her second death. She'd died previously, a few years back, as a teen, when she'd fallen off a mountain trail while dirt biking. She'd tumbled some sixty feet down the side of the mountain, before breaking her tumbling fall on an outcropping of granite and her neck, in the process. A helicopter had airlifted her from the slope, evacuating her to the emergency room of the nearest hospital where, soon after surgery, she'd flat-lined. A near-death experience followed, wherein she saw a tunnel, a light, and beings who, she believed, were angels, before hearing a voice she "knew" was God's, asking her whether she wanted to stay or return. Reluctantly, she opted to come back, not wanting her parents to grieve for her, and she'd awakened in intensive care, doctors and nurses working frantically to revive her. When she became the victim of a crazed stalker, she told her parents that, if he killed her, she'd come back again, from the dead, if she could. I felt weird wearing her thong panties. * * * I didn't really think I was getting smaller, although it sure seemed like it, sometimes, when, wearing Tammy's panties, stockings, or some other item of clothing around the house, I checked out my reflection. I not only looked shorter, but my arms and legs were slenderer, and my butt seemed fuller. Hell, it even looked as though I'd sprouted some boobies of my own. Of course, the reflection in the mirror was likely more the result of wishful thinking than of anything else. If I wanted to wear silks and satins--and high heels--and I never had before, but I did now, for some reason--I had no alternative but to buy them in my own size. Of course, I couldn't have afforded anything had it not been for the manilla envelope stuffed with cash I'd found on the clothes hamper in one of Tammy's closets. With the thousands it contained, I could buy anything I wanted, so, after the library, I took the bus again, to Third Street, and bought myself the first items in my new women's wardrobe. That's when the latest in the series of bizarre incidents occurred. I could hardly believe it then; I'm not sure I believe it now, but this is what happened, whether it actually happened or not. I found a pair of heels just like one of Tammy's pairs of stilettos, but in my size. Then, of course, I had to have an outfit to go with it, so I picked out several skirts and blouses, trying them on in the dressing room. I thought I looked good in a couple of them, but I wasn't sure. I' wasn't a woman, and I'd never cross dressed--at least, not before I'd moved into Tammy's parents' house. I I was trying to decide whether I should buy the clothes, and a woman's voice said to me, inside my head, as if it's my own words, but in a feminine utterance--in Tammy's voice, I think--"You look gorgeous in all of hem. Buy them all." So that's what I did. "Come back," the clerk told me, as I was leaving. "Don't worry," I said. "I will." She smiled at me, and I smiled back. I wanted to wear one of my new outfits home, but I dared not. Inside, when I dressed, I might feel feminine, but I could never pass as a woman. I'd have to wait until I got home to model my new things. * * * Max was still missing in action when I got home with my armload of merchandise. He was in hiding, I supposed. The feminine voice in my head--Tammy, I am almost sure--spoke my thoughts to me: "He'll come around; give him time." "Tammy," I asked, "is that you?" No answer. "Are you present?" I persisted. "Have you come back?" I thought I'd seen her for a moment, transparent and wavering, near the bedroom doorway, but she flickered again and vanished--if she'd ever been there at all. Maybe I just imagined seeing her. This possibility frightened me, and I wasn't sure which scared me worse--or which should have scared me worse--hallucinating or seeing an actual ghost. I tried once more, my voice faltering. "Tammy?" Silence, except for the air conditioner. Taking my new clothes to the closet, I hung the blouses and skirts and slacks and positioned my new shoes alongside Tammy's. Mine looked huge, compared to hers. I shook my head. The idea that I was shrinking was just an illusion, obviously, born of wishful thinking. As much as I'd like to be petite, I wasn't, and I never would be. At least I could look good in women's clothes, I consoled myself, even if they were, in comparison to Tammy's outfits, of gargantuan size. I was tired. Three bus trips across town in one day is much more taxing than one might suspect, and I hadn't learned to shop 'til I dropped. I was a man, after all. Enjoying the feel of satin panties and leather mini-skirts and silk blouses and buying a few items of apparel in a cross dresser's boutique didn't might make me a transvestite, but it hadn't--and couldn't--make me a true woman. I'd always be inferior in that regard. I thought about taking a long, hot shower --the soap and the steam and the shampoo and the conditioner would do wonders for my mood as well as for my skin and my hair--but I was just too exhausted, and I chose sleep over cleanliness. Fortunately, Tammy's huge canopy bed was a guaranteed ticket to slumber land and sweet dreams. I stumbled toward the curtain- enclosed resting place, and stopped, shocked at the sight of the items displayed upon the bedspread: a tube of lubricant, a strap-on dildo--it was at least eight inches long and the most realistic-looking dong I'd ever seen--and a picture of Tammy's latest boyfriend, Brad Burke, the one she'd been dating when she was murdered. Had I laid out these things before I'd gone out this afternoon? No. Then who had? There were only two possibilities that I could think of. As far as I knew, besides me, only Donna Adams, the real estate agent, or Tammy's parents, my landlords, had keys that would unlock the mansion's doors. Since I hadn't placed the articles on the bed, one of them had to have done it. Or Tammy, I thought. Then, I laughed. Sure, a ghost did it, I told myself, and chuckled. Could someone else have a key? Maybe Tammy had given one to Brad? But, if she had, why would he--or, for that matter, why would Donna or Tammy's parents--want to sneak into the house in my absence and set out a tube of lube, a strap-on dildo, and a photograph of Tammy's beau? They wouldn't. It did;'t make sense, but there they were--lube, dildo, and photograph--ready and waiting, if I were willing to use them. What was I supposed to do, stick the eight-inch dildo up my ass, lust after Brad, and pretend I was Tammy, being fucked in the butt by her boyfriend? No, thanks, I thought; I'll pass. I looked at the picture of Brad. He was handsome, I had to admit. He had dark hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, a narrow nose, a strong jaw, sensual lips, and an athlete's conditioned physique. I could see what Tammy had seen in him, I thought. Then, I thought something else, in the feminine voice I had associated with Tammy: I miss him! For a moment, Brad was present with me, in the huge bed, under the pink canopies, inside the closed pink curtains, naked, his cock rigid and, from the looks of it, every bit of eight thick, swollen inches. I was also naked, my smaller prick hard against his belly as he lay down, atop me, his muscular abdomen against my own, his groin in the cradle of my hips, his thighs outside, and against, my own upper legs. He wriggled, positioning himself, and I felt the tip of his stiff penis push against my anus. My own prick throbbed, stiffening still more, and my balls rose inside my tightening scrotum. My anus fluttered, and I-- "No!" I cried, horrified. What the hell was I thinking? What was I imagining? What was wrong with me? I was no faggot, I told myself. I'd never thought of being with another man the way a woman is with a man. I had no interest whatsoever in members of my own sex, even those as handsome and virile as Brad looked in Tammy's photograph of him. I felt disgusted. And ashamed. And aroused. No! I wasn't aroused, I told myself. There was no way I could be aroused by thoughts like those that had passed through my head just now, alien thoughts that seemed to me to have come from someone else's mind --Tammy's mind?--not my own. "Tammy?" I shouted. "Are you here? Answer me!" As before when I'd asked this question, there was no answer. I didn't expect that there would be. I knew only one thing, whether ghosts existed or not, whether death was the end or not, whether someone could return from beyond or not, Tammy could forget about me using her dildo on myself; my sympathies for her went only so far. Sweeping the items on the blankets aside, I climbed into bed, for a much-needed nap. In a few minutes, I was asleep in Tammy's cherry-red thongs, wearing the transparent teddy I'd bought at Transformation as my nightgown. * * * I slept in until after 11:00 am. I must have been ever more tired than I'd thought. It took me a minute to collect myself and to make sense of the garbled garbage that passed itself off as consciousness. But I soon realized I was naked. What had happened to the teddy I'd worn to bed? I found it tossed onto the floor. The blankets were tossed back, and the sheets were rumpled. The eight-inch dildo, smeared with lubricant,lay beside me, and my asshole, wet with the lubricant, seemed to have been reamed. Brad's photograph lay face down on my chest, between what--there was no denying the truth of the matter--were clearly budding boobs. Whether it was the high soy diet I'd begun a few months ago or the black cohosh, fenugreek, fennel, dong quai, blessed thistle, dandelion, kelp, saw palmetto, red clover, and wild yam that the clerk at Transformation had recommended to enhance my bosom naturally, I'd definitely gained an inch in my bust line. In addition, it seemed, as impossible as it may sound, that I really had, in fact, become smaller; my arms and legs were slenderer, my waits narrower, and my hands and feet more delicate. The brittle white flakes on my tummy, though, which I recognized at once as dried semen, left little doubt that I was still a fully functional male--or, at least, that I still had fully functioning male parts. I felt sexually satisfied--satiated, even--and Brad's picture suggested I'd inserted the dildo into my own anus and fucked myself with it, all the time fantasizing about being butt-fucked by Tammy's boyfriend--or maybe by Tammy herself, while she was wearing the strap-on. No, that was impossible, I told myself. Tammy didn't exist. She was dead. If I can, I'll come back, she'd promised. But there was no way. Maybe she did come back, somehow--as a ghost. No, there were no such things as ghosts. Then how could I have seen her? Hallucinations. I was going crazy, then? Images of the night before, which, until now, I'd apparently repressed, flared in my consciousness, memories of Brad straddling me, of his thick, long, hard cock thrusting into me, impaling my buttocks and probing deep within my rectum. He'd pounded me hard and fast, and I'd grunted and groaned, feeling the pleasure of surrender, of violation, of being nothing but an object, an orifice, designed to satisfy his need and to give him pleasure, with no thought of me. Now, as I remembered the dream or fantasy or hallucination, whatever it was, from the night before, my cock was rock hard, thick, and long. My balls were high inside my taut, tightly gathered scrotum. My anus seemed to beat, as if it had a pulse. Of course, Brad hadn't been with me; I'd fucked myself with the dildo while fantasizing about him, as Tammy might have done, but the thought that I'd done such a thing, while thinking of having sex with another guy was revolting. I felt humiliated and ashamed--and frightened. I wasn't gay, so why would I be turned on by the thought of making love to another member of my own sex? But my asshole was wet with the lubricant on the dildo, and my cock was rigid, and my thoughts had been filled with images of Brad, naked and virile, with his erect penis up my stuffed, crammed ass. So, was I aroused or not? Was I male or female? Was I Rod or Tammy? I was confused. On all these issues, I was confused. * * * My mind whirling with such emotions and confusion--doubtful as to my sexuality and, indeed, my very identity, and feeling at once excitement, shame, disgust, fear, and passion--I hastened, still naked, with my semen dried upon my tummy, from the spacious canopy bed and into the bathroom, wherein I showered beneath hot needles of steaming water, in attempt, perhaps, not only to cleanse my flesh but also to wash away the doubts and fears that plagued me--I had masturbated while fantasizing that I was a woman being sodomized by her boyfriend--and I spent considerable time cleansing--or attempting to cleanse--myself. I had made up my mind to renounce feminine attire forever; after all, I had been born a male and had lived as such for over two decades without remorse. There was no reason that I should renounce masculinity at this late date. True, the opposite sex's clothing felt much better, even if it was more restrictive, tighter, and, in some instances, even binding, but it was set aside for women to wear. I would return to the nude state that I'd adopted, in the privacy of my own rooms, years ago. Being naked wasn't quite as stimulating, perhaps, as wearing satin panties and silk dresses, but it was, nevertheless, decidedly more comfortable than remaining attired in men's clothing --and it allowed me to retain my identity, sexually and otherwise, as a man. After my shower, I applied deodorant and nothing else, stepping from the bathroom reassured of my masculinity and glad to be, once again, myself. Back at my computer desk, I noticed that, saved as my desktop background image, was another lewd, full-color photograph of a sexy transvestite, looking girlish and gorgeous in a pink taffeta tutu, the very picture of feminine grace and beauty, despite his long, flaccid cock, which peeked out below the hemline. I shook my head as I right-clicked my mouse; the cursor poised above the "Properties" tab of the drop-down menu that had opened upon my command. I had every intention of deleting the image, but, at the last moment, having hesitated, I lost the will---and the desire--to do so: the cross dresser was simply too lovely to dismiss in so cavalier a manner. I would be only to happy, I decided, to let her--or him--grace my desktop. I had a lot of work to do on my latest report concerning desert hydrology, and, I told myself, I had better get to it. However, as I opened my file, the monitor turned dark for a moment, and I caught sight of myself in the screen, as if I were looking into a dark mirror. My eyes widened, and my mouth gaped. Reflected in the dark monitor was my image, and it--that is, I--was wearing clothing I'd bought at Transformation--women's clothing! Actually, it was a white bustier! I remembered the description that had been displayed next to it on the shelf: "cire-trimmed honeycomb metal clasp front with ring criss-cross adjustable back and cire g-string. Size Large 9/10." It had set me back $50, but it had been worth every cent--or so I'd thought at the time I'd bought it, when cross dressing had appealed to me and I'd even begun to imagine that, developing breasts and shrinking to a smaller, feminine size, I was actually transforming into a woman. The top was formfitting, sleeveless, and strapless, with boning that shaped my abdomen and supports that uplifted my breasts--or would have, had I'd had any to lift. I also wore dark fishnet stockings, attached to the garter that was itself attached to the bottom of the bustier, and black heels, the expanse of my thighs and the bottoms of my buttocks on display. I had no memory whatsoever of having donned the corset-like garment --a memory lapse severe enough to be frightening--and I actually shook as I realized I'd put the lingerie on without realizing it, as if I were under the direction and control of a mesmerizing influence--or person--of some kind. Tammy? I wondered. Was she here, as a spirit or a ghost? Was she controlling both my body and my mind? Maybe, when I'd masturbated last night, fantasizing that the strap-on dildo I'd used on myself was actually Brad's cock ramming itself back and forth inside my ass, Tammy had been in charge; maybe she'd even take possession of me. Maybe, at the time, she was me, and it was she who had made love to Brad, using my body, causing me to ejaculate my seed upon my belly. The idea was fantastic. It was impossible! I trembled, as I wondered whether it might also somehow be true. Work was forgotten. I had something more pressing to do at the moment. Connecting with the Internet, I searched for "transvestite." I intended to learn all I could about the art of cross dressing, including its psychological implications. I learned quite a bit, fairly quickly--the Internet has a wide, but not very deep, reservoir of information. One thing I learned is that, from the female's perspective, male cross dressing isn't complimentary; it's actually kind of insulting, at least when it is forced upon a guy as a form of punishment or discipline, the implication being that forcing a man to dress as a woman is humiliating because the act demotes the male's status. If dressing as a woman were considered an elevating act, the guy would feel empowered and privileged, not embarrassed and demoted. To me, this was a new and unexpected point of view; I had regarded the female sex as superior to the male sex, although I'd learned to be content, more or less, to be a male, playing the cards that God, nature, fate, evolution, or what-have-you had dealt to me. However, I could see, now, why women would feel offended if men see forced feminization as demeaning to them rather than as elevating their status. Such an attitude, on men's part, wasn't merely sexist; it was also downright misogynistic. I felt ashamed, all right--of my own sex and its patriarchal and chauvinistic attitudes toward women. I also discovered that, although sex may be a given, assigned to us by God, nature, fate, evolution, or what-have-you, gender is largely, if not completely, a social construct, a nexus of culturally conditioned and socially sanctioned ideas that may seem innate and fixed but, in reality, is far from it. The supposed nature of boys and girls and of men and women is not predetermined by testicles and ovaries and by testosterone and estrogen, but by the values, attitudes, prejudices, beliefs, emotions, and ideas that a particular culture and society develop and agree to embrace concerning male and female identities and behaviors. Therefore, gender is an invention, not a fact; it is made up, not assigned; it is a conspiracy, of sorts, not an essential element of one's identity. In reality, we are individuals, free to accept whatever "masculine" or "feminine" attributes we choose to adopt and to reject any that we do not wish to embrace. I could be a man and wear satin panties, silk blouses, and leather mini-skirts if I wanted; I could be masculine in makeup and carefully styled hair if I chose to be; I wouldn't be any less a man if I carried a purse and wore jewelry or even had sex with another guy. In fact, many psychologists believe that everyone is psychologically androgynous, having traits that society has designated as either masculine or feminine. Society's designation of traits as masculine or feminine is fallacious, an either-or fallacy, because everyone, male and female alike, is both masculine and feminine at the same time, women having a masculine component to their personalities, the animus, and men a feminine aspect to their psychological makeup, the anima. Psychologically, we are all bisexual. I felt as if, in perusing these topics, I'd had a revelation. The masculine-feminine categories of sexual identity I'd lived by all my life, thinking them as predetermined and fixed as the sun, the moon, and the stars, were, I realized now, simply social constructs, fictions that were approved and sanctioned by society and transmitted, from generation to generation, but fictions, nonetheless, and, as such, they were myths that I need not abide by; I had the freedom to be myself, even if my identity wasn't what it was "supposed" to be, even if I was and wanted to be both masculine and feminine at the same time, acting and thinking and feeling as both sexes, rather than repressing half of my human potential. Why should I be less, I thought, when I could be more? It was wrong, I thought, to be half the man--and woman--I could---and should--be. I felt liberated. I felt free. I was exhilarated. I rose from my chair, grinning. I raised my hands high over my head, stretching my back and legs. It seemed that my breasts had grown another inch; the nipples were sore, feeling as if they had gathered themselves into hard points, and I felt a buoyancy in my chest that had never been there before. The bustier seemed fuller in front than it had even a few minutes ago, and my arms, waist, and legs were slenderer, my hips wider, and my fanny fuller. I felt petite and sleek, soft and curvaceous, sexy and feminine. In the windows behind my computer desk, the curtains of which were parted, I saw, in the glass panes, the reflection of an altogether beautiful young brunette, and I knew, from the photographs I'd seen around the house and the one that had appeared in the newspaper article concerning her murder, that the figure reflected in the window was Tammy herself, in the flesh! She was here, now, and she was naked. She was ravishing, with long, wavy black hair; wide fawn's eyes with thick, dark lashes; a thin, petite nose; full, sensuous lips; high cheekbones; a delicate, pointed chin; high, full, round breasts; a concave tummy; flaring hips; shaved pubic mound, in which pouted the dimple of her sex; and long shapely legs. The sight of her, naked and beautiful, brought me instantly erect, as did the fact that the reflection overlay my own, so that we seemed, in the windowpanes, to merge, my masculinity uniting with her femininity and her femininity mixing with my masculinity so that we became an androgynous hybrid, a combination of the best of both genders. However, as I stared, longingly, at this image of perfection, Tammy slowly began to fade, seeming to evaporate before my eyes, as if the naked female figure that had been so clearly and obviously flesh just a moment before now became transparent, then indistinct, and finally vanished altogether, as if she had been nothing more than a ghost--or an hallucination. Perhaps I had thought about her, longed for her, desired her for so long now that I'd imagined her to be real; my desire for her presence had rendered her real--in my imagination, at least. Were she truly real, she would not have faded away. Disappointed more than I could say, I returned to work, losing myself in writing about the dull world of desert hydrology. Nine and a half hours of studying pictures of desert cacti, wildflowers, sage, tumbleweeds, and sand and of writing about infiltration, percolation, evaporation, and transpiration; the spatial and temporal variability of precipitation; runoffs, channels, and basins; fluvial processes, sediment transport and yields, channel morphology, and groundwater trapping--well, you get the idea, I'm sure: all thoughts of transvestism, gender construction, psychological androgyny, animas and animi, and even Tammy herself were long gone from my thoughts. There was a benefit, though, to all this effort: I'd completed my work on the project ahead of schedule (despite my procrastinations) and, as a result, I had a week off before my next technical writing assignment! I went to Tammy's bathroom vanity, to reward myself for finishing my work on the desert hydrology project ahead of schedule, despite my initial procrastinations, and, on the way, I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror. My reflection took my breath away: it was beautiful, which meant--and I hope I sound truthful, rather than arrogant--that I was beautiful. After all, it was my body that cast the reflection. Or was it? I was shorter and slimmer. My bone structure was smaller and more graceful. I was curvier and softer. I was sleeker and lovelier. My hands and feet were delicate/ I had--don't ask me how--developed breasts. My hips had a bit of flare to them, and my buttocks were fuller. My legs were as shapely as any model's. In a word, I was more feminine than I was masculine. I told myself that such a transformation wasn't possible, but the mirror didn't lie. I not only looked like Tammy; it was as if I were she, as if I'd become she. I shook my head, and the beautiful young woman in the mirror did likewise. I smiled, and she smiled. I winked at her; she winked back at me. I sat at the vanity, opened tubes and tins and bottles, used brushes and pencils and powders and colors and polishes, applying eyeshadow primer, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, eyebrow pencil, concealer, foundation, face powder, blush, bronzer, lip liner, lipstick, and lip gloss--and I did it all intuitively, with a skill that was as flawless and as practiced as if I'd put on makeup a thousand times, both surprising and delighting myself. Then, I dressed, donning rich, wine-colored clothes: a burgundy bra-and-panties set, a Bordeaux blouse--silk, of course--a pleated Chianti mini-skirt, and oxford boots. Again, the selection of the clothing and the total look that it created came to me as naturally as breathing, and I surprised myself by how effortlessly and well I walked in the boots' four-inch heels, considering that I'd never worn heels more than maybe an inch high before in my life. I was becoming a woman in more ways than one, I thought, and just as easily. Only yesterday, all these tasks would have been impossible; today, I accomplished them without effort and with grace and aplomb. I thought about taking a cab to a nightclub, just to see whether I could pass as a woman--I was all but certain that I could. I looked like a million dollars in Tammy's clothes--the ones I'd bought at Transformation just yesterday were already too big for me--and, thanks to the money in the manilla envelope, I had plenty of cash for drinks and the cover charge--which, as a lady, I wouldn't have to pay, anyway--but I decided to get some rest instead. Sleep may not be glamorous, compared to clubbing, but it's a necessary evil, and I felt exhausted. Maybe it was the shopping, the sex I'd had with myself last night, working at a new job, the long work session I'd put in today, the growing pains associated with my body's feminization of itself, or the stress of having to adjust to new surroundings, even if they were as luxurious as Tammy's parents' mansion; maybe it was all of these things. Whatever the cause, I felt more than tired, and I decided to undress and turn in early. I hated to remove the makeup and the clothes I'd just spent an hour putting on, but I did; within a minute or two of climbing, naked, into bed, I was sound asleep, and I slept all night, a deep and dreamless sleep such as I hadn't slept in weeks. * * * In the morning, someone had left me a gift. Tammy's photograph was next to me, in bed. There was a card, too: "Help me to be here for both of us," it read. It was signed, "Love, Tammy." A shiver ran along my spine, and the trembling had nothing to do with the fact that I was naked. It had to do with the fact that Tammy was dead. She was dead and buried, yet, if I were to believe this card, she had left me a note: "Help me to be here for both of us. Love, Tammy." Normally, the card and the photograph's being next to me in bed as I awakened would have creeped me out way more than it did now, but, considering the odd--no, the impossible--incidents that had transpired since my having moved into this place--the discovery of Tammy's thongs where they hadn't been before; a mysterious manilla envelope stuffed with cash; a woman's voice speaking my own thoughts; objects appearing in my bed of their own accord; my having sex with myself without knowing I'd done so; my ability to dress, apply makeup and walk in high heels perfectly, without any previous practice; my actually growing breasts and shrinking to a petite size; and now the appearance of Tammy's photograph and card in bed next to me--so many things had happened that defied rational explanation that I was much less disturbed than I would otherwise have been, and I even called out to Tammy or her ghost or whatever she was, asking, "What is it that you want me to do?" In my mind, Tammy spoke to me, "Want me," she pleaded, "more than you want yourself." It was her voice, but the thoughts were my own. As before, Tammy appeared, taking on corporeal form. She was naked, and she looked gorgeous. Again, her voice spoke the words of my thoughts: "Want me more than you want yourself." "I do want you," I assured her. "More than yourself." "I do." Tammy smiled at me, reached for me. Her fingers, long, slender, with polished, pink nails were but inches from my own when she began to fade. "Want me," she pleaded, flickering, "want me . . . ." She was gone. Only the scent of her perfume remained. * * * By morning, either I'd gone crazy or I'd undergone even more of a transformation from a man into a woman. My boobs had grown--overnight. They'd become as large as those of a high school girl's breasts. My hips and buttocks had become curvier, too, and I'd become more petite than ever, with a woman's arms, legs, and waist. My tummy had become concave, and my hair had grown long and wavy. I couldn't believe the change; the only remaining signs of my vanishing manhood were my cock and balls. They hadn't shrunken; if anything, they might even have been a bit bigger than they used to be. Except for my male genitals, though, I could have been a dead ringer for Tammy! But I didn't want to lose my male identity--at least, not entirely, not yet--and I made a point to do the things I'd normally do on a day off, read, surf the 'net, watch TV, eat, but I couldn't stop admiring my new body. My tits were awesome. My butt was delightful. My feminine curves were beautiful. I cupped my breasts, slid the palms of my girly hands down the sides of my hips, squeezed my ass cheeks, caressed my thighs, hugged myself, kissed the lips reflected in the full-length mirror in the master bathroom, spent an hour trying on different outfits. All of Tammy's clothes, even her shoes, now fit me, so I knew my transformation couldn't be imaginary; it had to be real. I ran into Max on my way to the den, and he screeched at me, before darting under a couch. I giggled, thinking he probably didn't recognize me, but I was glad to see he was all right. He must be sneaking food and water. It saddened me to see his anxiety, though. Give him time, Tammy's voice spoke my thoughts. "I will," I replied aloud, certain she could hear me, even if I couldn't see her. I wished she'd return. I wished she could be more than a ghost. I'd like to spend my life with her. Want me, her voice seemed to speak to me, more than you want yourself. "I do," I said. Not yet, she seemed to answer, but you may soon. In the den, I found a videocassette tape in the VCR, left there, I suspected, by Tammy, for me to find. Well, I thought, if she wanted me to watch something, I was game. I inserted the tape fully into the machine and pressed the Start button. Arming myself with the remote control, I sprawled on the sectional sofa--immediately, my eyes widened and my mouth gaped. The tape hadn't been fully rewound, so it started in medias res, in the middle of the action--and what action it was! Tammy climbed into her canopy bed, positioning herself upon her elbows and knees, smiling at the camera over her shoulder as Brad came into the picture, joining her. He knelt behind her, between her parted legs. The view of her ass was magnificent. The curves of her rump, coming together as they bowed inward, joining at the base of her spine, formed the top of a perfect Valentine's heart, the imaginary point of which would end somewhere inside her, perhaps in the depths of her bowels. The cheeks, even as I viewed them, from above, were full, but without an ounce of extra fat, firm and tight, yet sleek and cushiony. From my vantage point, I couldn't see the wrinkled dimple of her derriere's secret portal, but I knew her anus awaited within the deep cleavage of her arched buttocks, and I knew that, at any moment, Brad would penetrate the tight ring of muscle and insert his manhood as deeply as possible into her rectum, until his balls were all that remained outside her smooth, creamy ass. Brad applied anal lube from the tube Tammy kept in the drawer of the bedside table, preparing both his prick and Tammy's asshole for the fun to come. Then, the mattress dipped and swayed as, on his knees, Brad "walked" the few inches forward that separated him from Tammy, and holding his cock in his fist, he guided the stiff, swollen member between the inward-curving cheeks of her ivory-smooth, satin-soft buttocks. The camera angle changed, offering me a different view of the action, and I wondered whether Tammy and Brad had hired a cameraman to film their antics. He jabbed at her anus, but her stout sphincter resisted his attempted trespass, and Brad's prick slid forward and up, alongside the cleavage between her ass cheeks. My own cock, as I watched the TV screen, was rigid, and my balls ached. However, I found, as I continued to watch the video, I wasn't identifying with Brad, but with Tammy. As he shoved his cock through her anus, it was as if he were invading my own asshole. As he pressed his hips forward, it was as if he were sending his massive manhood not into Tammy's silken ass, but deep into my own rectum. My cock stiffened further as my balls rose still higher inside my tightening scrotum. Brad drew his hips back, and, holding his rigid column of flesh firmly in hand, pressed it forward, against my--Tammy's--tiny, puckered anus, and her--my--sphincter succumbed to his force, opening to admit the conquering cock that slid forward, through the tight ring of muscle and deep into the interior of my (and Tammy's) penetrated ass. Brad continued to force his manhood through the little orifice until its full, swollen length filled Tammy's (my) ass and he was buried inside our rectum to his very balls, the cheeks of our ass flat beneath his grinding pubes. Impaled, I uttered a tiny cry, but Tammy pressed her penetrated ass back, firmly, against his groin, signaling my willingness to be so pierced and stuffed. Our acceptance of our fate--my surrender of the sovereignty of my person to Brad--was a welcome, and fiercely erotic, acknowledgment. He jabbed his hips back and forth in quick, short thrusts to acknowledge Tammy's acknowledgment of our surrender. We'd given him rightful claim to the treasury of our bowels, and he meant to mine the mother lode for all it was worth. He saw our face. Tammy had rested it upon the back of a hand, and our eyes were closed, my brow knitted, and my upper teeth bit lightly at Tammy's folded lower lip. We remained motionless now, awaiting our fate. A sense of power seemed to fill Brad, as he felt our anus, round, about his member. He had the power to pound me beneath him, to rock my frame, and to fill and refill Tammy's ass with his thick, hard penis. Tammy opened our eyes. Her lips parted. What was she about to say? I wondered. Was she going to confess her love to Brad? Ask him to be gentle with us? Ask him if he loved us? "While you're fucking me," Tammy and I declared, our voice husky, "I am your whore." Our words inflamed him. His hips jerked back, of their own accord, by pure reflex, and he drove his enormous cock forward in a single motion, fast and fluid, filling our ass with its thick, long length, and making me gasp a second time, as Tammy's eyes closed tightly and