Overflight free porn video

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Overflight by Trainmaster In my former profession, I did a lot of international business travel. Now I'm afraid to. Consider me "hodophobic" -- having an intense fear of traveling -- and call me retired. No, revise that. I'm okay with flying for days at a time, even across burning deserts and oceans. Just don't ask me to take the SleepShuttle ever again. I did it before -- but I did it once too often -- and now it freaks me out. Because of it, I've taken up another profession -- more of an avocation really -- that fills my time. The SleepShuttle concept is simple. You enter their station, let yourself be drugged into a sleep state, then your atomic entity is dissolved and reconstituted on the other end into your exact image. You're drugged so the process doesn't hurt. It takes about 20 minutes to induce the sleep state, less than a minute for the electronic scanning and transmission, and an hour or so to reawaken. That's how it was first explained to me. Admittedly, a longer explanation is most certainly infinitely more complex and sophisticated. As technologically knowledgeable as I am, there's so much about the process I can't even imagine. The real work is driven by a large system that uses tomography (medical scanning) and a huge mainframe, because the most important part of the process is to create discretely separate transmissions for each individual cell, so liver cells reappear as liver and not bone marrow, for example. The deconstruction and transmission process is called "image" -- as a verb -- so the public won't be upset knowing their original body was torn apart and they were awakened into an identical but fresh one. Saying that you were imaged sounded better than being duplicated -- and in truth, being duplicated doesn't fit either. There can only be one of you at any time, even if part of that time you're only atoms of different elemental groups. Dissolved? Dissipated? Dispersed? Destroyed? Please don't blame me if I just don't care anymore. Traveling by SleepShuttle is expensive. Still, for business journeys overseas, where speed is essential, SleepShuttle is a corporate lifesaver. It makes sense instead of hugely time consuming long distance intercontinental flights, with their incredible loss of productivity. Most companies insist their staff go by SleepShuttle. Several years ago, mine did. The system's flawless. In the history of SleepShuttle operations, there's never been a mishap -- an enviable track record not shared by any other form of transportation. They're proud of that. Yeah, I can only wish ... I can tell you the exact date I last traveled by SleepShuttle. It was Monday, March 19. The trip was a rousing business success and I can remember every single second of it. The aftermath left my life a living hell ... and I can remember every second of that, too. It's integrating two sets of overlapping personalities, making sense of two sets of memories, that's confusing. I can't be who I was and yet I am. I can't be who I am, either, and yet I was. I can't possible know the former but I do. The former can't possibly know the later, but I do. Confused now? Think about me. I'm trapped in a truth that's a lie and in a lie that's true. What I was and what I am have become indistinct; hazy; ambiguous. I remember kissing my wife goodbye and taking a taxi to the SleepShuttle station. The ride downtown was about 35 minutes, so I reviewed the presentation I was to make for a very tony client in Marseilles who was in the market for a highly secret military system for an undisclosed Central African customer who preferred anonymity. I was in sales then. I worked for a company that has deep connections in a lot of places and knew people who might not want the United States government to know them. A lot of this goes on all the time; major U.S. companies market goods in ways that skirt the edges of the export laws. It's not deliberate; it's just a fact of global diversification. When a company grows to be huge in a lot of places around the world, it transcends each country's ability to regulate behavior. There are some very competitive companies that are large enough to thumb their multinational mega-conglomerate noses at Congress and the military. But every sale starts with a business proposition and ends with a negotiation. That was my job. What I knew -- still know -- could get me in trouble, deep trouble, if anyone ever delves. Other than that, I lived a normal life; carefully separating my professional side from my personal side. I was a happily married man with two kids in a suburban Craftsman home with just enough lawn to make us smile on sunny days but not break my back in upkeep. I'm not smiling now and I don't mow lawns any more. In college, I dated a lot of girls and wasn't exactly virtuous. I had a lot of fun playing the field -- jumping from one girl to another -- a real love-'em-and-leave-'em Romeo. I gained a reputation for -- well, thinking with my dick. But when my future wife and I met, it was for life and I remember gladly taking up the role of a loyal, loving, heterosexual, totally monogamous, deeply smitten, henpecked husband. In truth I can say such a thing now, and remember it distinctly and clearly. But I am no longer able to believe it. The college lothario, the henpecked husband, the dad with two boys, the suburbanite with a lawn to mow -- that's not me. And I can't comprehend how it could have ever been -- even knowing that it was. Like I said before, there's never been a SleepShuttle mishap ... Everything was in order when I checked in and very soon I was under the needle and the watchful eye of the expert medical staff at the SleepShuttle terminal. It seemed only a moment and I slowly opened my eyes in Marseilles. I knew immediately, even in my groggy state, that something was wrong. "There you go," said the medic who revived me, as he turned away from his diagnostics. "Ready to go enjoy the town. Oo-la-la. Thanks for traveling with SleepShuttle." I remember rolling on my side and sitting up. My butt felt wrong. I looked at my hands and they were fat, masculine, and unmanicured. My panties were rough, and bunched around -- uh -- around a cock and balls. And -- and -- I wanted to throw up -- my breasts weren't there. It took me by surprise. I must have gasped. "Are you okay, sir," asked the medic as I ran my hands over the foreign flatness of my chest. My beautiful sensitive breasts were -- gone. "Is there someone I-I can talk to? Customer service ..." I asked, disturbed by the alien masculinity of my voice. "I seem to be mixed up a little." "A little? How?" "I seem to be a m-man." And I started to cry. The other me, the one I remember but was not, and could never have been, even though I remember him clearly, wouldn't have cried. Cut off a finger and not cried. Fallen into a blazing fire and not cried. The me that I remember -- also remember, overlaid with crystal clarity on top of those horrid other memories -- cried. Big wet tears with huge wracking sobs. It wasn't long before I was hustled into a business office where I was questioned extensively. Then I went to a room filled with diagnostic equipment where I was given a body scan, compared against the pattern that was retrieved from my originating point in the United States. Then an EEG that verified me as identical on the French side of the Atlantic as on the American side. I had the same brain, the same genes, the same body that I started with. I cried again. They gave me a psychological battery; I lost track of the number of questions. After that, I answered more questions in person with a psychologist. She was nice. She kept telling me how sympathetic she was and kept apologizing for the trouble. And the result verified that I am -- I see myself as being -- female, so they gave me a different set of questions and I gave more answers, and they got the same results -- I am female. I cried even more. The change was so -- abrupt. One part of me had taken the SleepShuttle on business. The other part of me had taken the SleepShuttle for pleasure and as a much needed time away, so my fianc? and I would know if we really love each other and should continue planning our wedding. Two parts, totally opposite, totally inseparable now. One man's body; one girl's mind. Still, they just couldn't identify why I thought I was in the -- in the wrong gender. Shit! It was so obvious. There I was, a real female, suddenly and inexplicably trapped in a male body. That upset and confused everyone. I got the distinct feeling that SleepShuttle wanted to wish the problem didn't exist but with me there in person, they couldn't. I weighed the options, even though they didn't offer any. I wanted badly to go home, not knowing exactly where "home" really was anymore. They said it was in the suburbs with my wife. I insisted it was in the bohemian quarter, where I lived with my fianc?. I realized that my engagement ring wouldn't fit on the fat ugly fingers. My head ached and when they gave me aspirin, I gulped it down gratefully. I hoped I had the right to be re-imaged and sent home. What I didn't know was if I would be me: the happy, sexy, vivacious girl on her continental holiday, or me: the contented married father on business. Or me: some other combination of disorientation, anger, emotional wreckage -- the miserable, tearful girl in the man's body. The SleepShuttle people made me call my wife. They insisted she was my wife, as absurd as that could be. But even more absurd was that I remembered two lovely little boys. Well-mannered little boys; the kind of boys I wanted to have after the wedding. I remembered being there when they were born. I remembered giving them their first baseball mitts and taking them to their first big-league baseball game. I remembered cheering the college baseball team, doing headstands and splits in my cute little pleated skirt and feeling my breasts bounce under my cheer squad sweater. Mitts and breasts? What the hell am I? What happened? I almost never phoned home from a sales trip -- so it didn't make any sense. It was only about four hours since I'd cried out in distress to the technician in Marseilles. If I was a husband and a man, which I'm not, then I'm sure the same thought must have run through the woman's mind -- why was I calling? I could tell that she could tell that something was terribly wrong. But she didn't speak her suspicions and I said nothing about my condition. I asked how the boys were doing. She said they were fine. "You're away so often but you never stay very long, so they haven't learned to miss their daddy." No, no, no, I screamed inside my head -- "I'm not a daddy. Not a daddy! I want to be a mommy." The dangling balls scrunched in the stupid boxers were an aching reminder that pregnancy was out of the question. It was her pregnancy and my sperm, and I could remember it. It should have been my ovaries ... But instead, there was I, talking to a woman I didn't know but knew intimately and sexually. Not me, I screamed silently. Making love to another woman was wrong. Making love to my boyfriend was normal. Normal? What the hell was normal? We ended the call with both of us in tears. Both of us. Bawling our heads off. And I burst into tears again when the SleepShuttle people told me there was no way to reverse something that didn't happen. "Didn't happen!" I screamed, pounding my fat ugly hands on the table. "Don't your tests show something happened?" Yes, they admitted, something had changed. I was very different, emotionally. Not physically. Not genetically. Not hormonally. Not mentally, at least as shown by their brain scans. When they ran their diagnostics, they couldn't find anything amiss. As far as the equipment was concerned, the image process worked flawlessly, exactly as they advertised. I wanted desperately to call Eddie, my fianc?. I wanted to cry out to him to identify me to these SleepShuttle doctors and frightened business people. I wanted him to calm me down and tell me everything would be all right. No one asked if I should, and in my anguish, I didn't ask if I could. It was probably better that I didn't; it might have terrified Eddie. Just to make sure, they consulted their attorneys. The form I'd filled out, with that man's information, destination, and important details, also had a contract printed on the back. It was very thorough. My being in a male body freed them from being sued for any problems with the imaging. Basically, I was screwed. So finally, there was no going back. With my life in shambles, with my body and mind totally inside out, I slunk out of the SleepShuttle terminal. I had a job to do and I needed to get going. Once I left SleepShuttle, I did the best I could to imitate being a man. I straightened my tie. I checked into the hotel and signed the credit card retainer with a shaky version of a signature I knew was mine but not as surely as the signature I held myself back from signing. In the business center, I gathered up the materials I'd sent myself under a secured password, and printed them out. How the hell did I know the password? At the meeting room, I looked at his -- my -- watch and timed my entrance. Appearing too soon showed an eagerness that could be used against me. Too late showed disdain for the client and his busy schedule. I gave my presentation and listened with genuine interest to the other side. I discussed a tiered approach and a base price and the broker made a counter-offer. At one point, I had to make a -- umm -- pit stop. I almost went into the women's room -- in Marseilles it might not have mattered but I had to be careful not to blow this very important sale. In the men's room, there was a communal porcelain trough. I fumbled with the fly of my trousers and had a moment's fear holding - - it -- the awful thing between my legs. I feared that that it wouldn't work. Another man came in while I was in the process, and I felt a blush rise as I found myself inspecting his penis. Of course I did. I am a woman and he was a man. I waited until he left before I washed my hands to rid myself of whatever stuff rubbed off of -- it. The broker took me to dinner and I met the real client for the first time. He was in civvies but he carried himself with a military air. He disavowed any connection to known terrorist groups or the Chinese government. Though he was clearly African, he pointedly avoided being tied to any African sovereignty. I couldn't keep my eyes off of him. And he knew I was looking. I could tell he was a man at ease around women. Even though I did my best to be the man they perceived me to be -- as he returned my stare, I felt naked inside. My handsome African business adversary was tall. His shoulders were, as I would expect, broad and his chest was muscular. His head was shaved bald but he had a pencil thin moustache. He was darker than most, so his teeth were almost florescent. And oh, those eyes, hooded deeply in that coffee brown face, they were wary but gentle. They fascinated me. In the room light, they were almost black, deep pockets of unfathomable knowledge. Every woman watches her counterpart's eyes -- it's part of being a female. And in the course of selling those not-so-legal goods, I'd become an analyst of eyes. These enthralled me, captivated me -- and frightened me. After dinner, he and I made another round of counter-offers about cost, value, and quantity. Finally, we reached what we needed from the negotiation. I took home a reasonable price that gave my company a nice profit. He took possession, at least on paper initially, of the goods he wanted. Since, strictly speaking, he wasn't my customer, the deal was as legit as my involvement could make it and we stood to shake. As I came around the table, he gave me a sly wink. I couldn't suppress the urge to give his butt a subtle tweaking. I knew immediately that it was a very stupid thing to do. He didn't flinch and no one else saw it, but the room was suddenly very warm. Back in my own hotel room, I phoned the office and left an innocent but coded voice message. They called back immediately on a scrambled circuit to prevent eavesdropping. I gave them the names and contacts for the shipping jobbers in the middle who would obscure the cargo on its way to Beira, Mozambique -- the requested incoming port. As I hung up, there was a knock on the door. Outside was the African customer. He smiled and greeted me cordially. We chatted for a moment and he asked politely if he could enter. I didn't want to blow the deal we'd just made, so I invited him in. I pointed to the sitting room's plush divan -- when I'm on a sales assignment, a well-appointed suite is not out of the question. He told me what he drank and I poured it for him. I was again dismayed at being a woman trapped in a man's body, in a man's world. I -- the woman -- had never tasted his choice. I looked around unsuccessfully for something I recognized. Finally I shrugged and awkwardly poured myself a glass from the same bottle. It was very much stronger than anything I'd ever had before. After we silently and motionlessly toasted each other, he patted the cushion next to him with a large hand. "A problem -- ah -- it seems, has crept into your traveling arrangements," he said in softly accented British English. I was dismayed. "What do you know?" I asked in a slightly worried voice. A revelation like that could lead to a dangerous outcome, fraught with precarious consequences. I'd already said too much to the SleepShuttle people. And he knew. "I have people everywhere. One can never be too careful. There seems a slight mishap on the SleepShuttle this morning. I must say, you cover for yourself very well," he smiled. "Very well ..." I remembered the tweak I'd inadvertently given him on his behind and blushed. "I'm sorry. I meant nothing by it. Forgive me please ..." "Ahhh. And yet, my dear, you did it. Perhaps the lady could not help herself? Perhaps it was her subconscious way of exposing herself, her secret?" I shuddered. Too much was at stake. "I-I meant nothing," I repeated. He smiled, showing those beautiful alabaster teeth again. "You need not worry. I am a man of secrets. I share little with anyone. I find it is much safer when they do not know. Your private hell will remain confidential." "Thank you, sir," I said, but I knew my voice lacked confidence. "You do not know me?" he asked. I shook my head, no. I had no idea until tonight that he existed, though I suspected my boss did, and the CIA might have a dossier, too. "I am a man of many threads," he said. "I call them opportunities -- to create a better world, to reduce strife and end misery, to make people happy." "To make money?" He shrugged. "I do that, too. Yes. And I get some pleasure out of what I do." His hand was on my inner thigh, stroking one well-manicured finger on the tip of my -- of that ugly thing inside my pants. And damn it, it was responding. I didn't try to pull away; couldn't have -- it felt good. He laughed. "You see, already I give pleasure. And we have exchanged nothing except a few words together. You appreciate the delicacy ...?" Slowly he undid my belt and unzipped my fly. He wiggled his hand down to cup the whole ugly uncomfortable package, his warm flesh against my warm flesh, his strong fingers around the raging stiffness of something I couldn't control. When I look back on it, I realize that my reaction was classically female. A strong dominant male made a sexual move toward me and it made my brain release the right kind of triggers -- hormones, I suppose. Apparently it didn't matter that the body was male. The fact that I was patterned so deeply female made all the difference. Where I would have wet my panties in my female body, where my nipples would have stiffened in anticipation, in the male body he was stimulating, it was my -- ummm, cock that stiffened. The entire focus of my attention narrowed to the area inside his hand, the area of skin that was slipping up and down in his grasp. It was all I could do to breathe, much less even think. I had no idea the sensation was so powerful. It built up and waned, built again and again faded, built and built and -- and built. It was such a totally unexpected reaction. Soon there was no denying the obvious. He let my cock spill milky white semen into his palm. I didn't understand why the caress of being nursed by his hand drove me to something I'd never known before. But it did. And it was beyond knowledge. It was instinctual, genetic, inborn, deep-seated -- it reached into the roots of the species. Words cannot compare what I had previously felt as a woman to what had just happened. This was collectively the stroke of a lubricated finger along my clit, the insistent pressure driving into my vulva, the mounting response of my vaginal muscles, the steady rhythm of the consummation against my labial lips, the lightning storm and skyrocket release at the moment of orgasm, the paralysis racing upward from my crotch to my abdomen to my breasts and into my brain, and finally the afterglow -- but so different from all that. It was all captured in one brief, powerful ejaculation. I closed my eyes and laid my head back on the sofa cushions until my heart slowed down again. I thought back on my upbringing. Visions of a young girl attending Confirmation in my pretty white dress flooded my head. Visions of sorority orgies boiled up. Visions of hoping that my boyfriend in the city would wed me, bed me, and fill me with his baby-making seed -- were shattered by what my African client just done -- by what I'd just let him do. I'd never been a blushing virgin in college and had shared my bed with a variety of boyfriends, but for the first time, I finally understood why men were so hung up about sex. Despite all that I hated about my new body, despite the hopeless angst of having my life ripped apart and turned upside down, despite all the confusion of finding myself transformed and trapped -- in that moment of ejaculation, none of those mattered. His hand was powerful and -- I -- I wanted more. The sun was shining through the window when I shook myself awake. I was laying on the sofa with a blanket from the bed wrapped around me. Beside me was a handwritten note on hotel stationery in a neat-as-a-pin script: "I will call for you" it said. Under the door was an envelope, a standard office sized white linen envelope with my horrid male name on it. Inside was an airline ticket and a note in the same handwriting: "I doubt that you are prepared to take the SleepShuttle yet." Shit, I hadn't thought of that. Here I was in Marseilles, having concluded a deal that would earn me nearly fifteen thousand dollars in instant commission plus a sizable bonus, and I really didn't have a home to go home to. Yes, I knew there a home in the suburbs but it belonged to some man who -- who wasn't me. There was as apartment in the city where a loving man would grieve for the disappearance of his - - I started to cry again. As I dried my tears, there was a knock. I zipped up my fly and gave myself a brief glance in the mirror. My coat was rumpled, my shirt was wrinkled, and my face had lines from the couch. I shrugged and opened the door. A bellhop gave me a clipboard to sign and then handed me three large flat boxes, like one gets at a fine clothing store. In them were ... I was staggered. In the first box was a stunning turquoise sweater and a matching skirt. Expensive garments -- the kind I'd always dreamed of wearing. He already knew me better than I knew myself. In the larger box was a blazer that matched the skirt. Even cut to fit a male body, it conveyed a remarkable sense of femininity. The tears came again, along with a stirring of something else -- appreciation, perhaps a little passion and a sense of melancholy for the irresistible. Love? No, it couldn't be. Could it? My stupid penis stiffened again. And in tissue paper in the last box was a pair of satin panties, a pair of panty hose, a pair of low open-back wedge slings, a cute little skull cap trimmed in mesh, and ... Again I was stunned. It was a darling little lacy bra. I fingered the soft, delicate cups lightly, imagining how they would look on -- on -- the body I remembered. On the curvy, smooth body I left behind. There were small slips pinned to each piece, in the same handwriting. The bra said: "It will get better." I wondered what that meant. It was a promise, but of what? In the same box was a pair of latex lumps with simulated nipples. It took me a moment to recognize them as fake breasts. I lifted one and rubbed it against my face, against the scratch of my stubble. The note said: "Your pride can be restored." The panties said: "You will feel more comfortable." The shoes said: "I don't think you are ready for taller ones yet." The hat said: "Now no one will notice." I raced to undress from the heavy male suit I'd slept in. I sighed in heavenly relief as I fastened the bra behind me and fitted the breast forms carefully into the cups. They made me about an A, but as he'd correctly perceived, that was enough to raise my comfort level. I pulled the panties up -- and discovered they were man-cut briefs that cupped my awful package of unwanted goods in a very natural and comfortable way. Smooth and satin -- and for the first time in 24 hours, I felt better. Again I realized my benefactor really knew me well. I recognized that I did not understand his game at all and wondered if I ever would. In fact, the only mistake he'd made was the panty hose. No matter, I just wouldn't wear them, not over the hairy legs I'd acquired with the body. I shuddered. There'd been a girl in college nobody liked, because she refused to shave her legs. The hair poked out of her nylons in ugly patches and the hairs that stayed inside looked varicose. Finally I had everything on, brushed smooth, and ready. I looked at myself in the mirror. What a nice ensemble he'd assembled for me. The airline ticket lying on the desk called to me. I knew I was on an adventure, one I would never have chosen but one that had been forced on me by the mishap on the SleepShuttle. Well, there was no choice but to push forward -- nothing in my past remained, except painful memories. I also felt a sense of teenage excitement, like going to a scary movie with your boyfriend and expecting to be startled. The ease that he'd shown in purchasing several million dollars in military goods made him someone to be wary around. And yet, as I'd been gripped in his hand, I'd enjoyed a taste of forbidden fruit and damn it, I wanted more. Much more, which my receptive, alert penis liked as it rubbed against the satin of my panties. A knock came at the door again. The bellhop handed me an unlabeled plastic sack and didn't wait for me to sign anything. In it was ... I sank back into the divan with a sigh. It was a thousand dollar Louis Vuitton clutch handbag. I'd seen it in a store once in New York but even with my commissions, had to pass it by. The note said: "I think you will feel more complete." He was right; a woman without a purse is naked. I took all the cash out of my -- the -- wallet. I studied the face on the driver's license and then looked in the mirror. They were the same; one wore a white shirt and tie, the other a very expensive turquoise sweater covered by an elegant, yet subtle, blazer. I added the driver's license to the pile I was keeping. The credit cards? No, the woman I'd cried with yesterday, the one in the suburbs with the two children, she didn't deserve to have me running up bills she'd have to cover. I found a pair of scissors on the desk and cut them into small pieces. I put the cash and license into the purse along with the notes and airline ticket, and kicked the male shoes into the corner of the room. I left the rest of my old male clothing in a heap. Laying the plastic room key on the desk, I closed the door on an old life I didn't know. As I exited the hotel into the bright Marseilles day, I didn't know my new life any better. What was I getting myself into, accepting gifts that fit my body so perfectly I could blend into the streets? The hat covered most of my mannish haircut. I glanced at myself in the reflective window of a store and was relieved at what I saw. I walked over to a taxi, feeling the slight alien shift of my cock and balls with every step. At Marseille's Provence Airport, I was glad I'd kept the driver's license. The customs agent matched it against the electronic version of the man's -- of my -- passport on his screen. Then he winked and said "Aller appr?cier quelque chose diff?rent, mes ami?" I just smiled as he handed it back, translating in my head, "so we appreciate something a little different, my friend?" Buddy, you don't have any idea how much different. The aircraft was an unmarked De Havilland Canada Dash-7. It was a noisy little bastard with a very short take off and a flying range of only about 750 miles. I settled back in my seat. There were several other passengers but we left each other alone. I had no idea of my ultimate destination. The ticket was marked Nairobi, which I knew was at least 6,500 miles away, or at the plane's top speed of 270 mph, about 24 hours if I was lucky. I deplaned at the first stop, Cartagena, Spain, to find a restroom and snack bar. I used the women's facility to keep up the pretense and bought some kind of Spanish candy with nuts from a vending machine. I had to trade American dollars for Spanish coins at a considerably steeper exchange rate than I'd have liked. I watched clouds over the Mediterranean as we jumped due east to Algiers, and remember dozing a little. I used the women's room again in Tripoli, where I bought something native to eat and a cup of coffee from a -- hmmm -- Starbucks vendor in the departure concourse, illegally trading on the name, no doubt. It was not bad. I fell asleep over the Gulf of Sidra and slept through our stop in Cairo. The sun woke me up as it came up over the Red Sea. I'd gotten myself cockeyed in the seat as I slept and was embarrassed to discover one of my breast forms lying in the aisle; the other was under my seat. I hoped no one saw me straighten myself up and pop them back into my bra. We flew toward Addis Ababa; hovering for hours over the never-changing red-brown highlands that skirted the Eritrean escarpment. I was awed at how the erosion patterns looked like Mandelbrot's fractals as the region responded to its massive deforestation and desertification. There were several refueling stops, which also meant, fortunately, places with restrooms, no matter how unsanitary. Everyone deplaned at Nairobi and took a rattling taxi into one of the better hotels for lunch, while they serviced the plane. My fine outfit was looking rather rumpled and I felt gritty from the dust that sifted into the plane despite its filtering system. I was the only one who continued past Nairobi -- the taxi driver was insistent that I return to the airport with him. There was a new crew; they invited me to sit between them and we conversed in reasonably good English. I suspected they were in the employ of my dark chocolate benefactor. The sun was setting in the west as we hopped, skipped, and jumped over whatever god forsaken puddles of civilization passed under us. The crew had a leather bag with rations, which they shared with me. Finally -- "Lusaka," said the pilot. "Zambia. Go find your car." He pointed to the near end of the tarmac where there was, indeed, a limousine waiting with its lights shining on the concrete for me to make my way over. I was glad the shoes weren't high heeled because it was still a fairly long walk. The driver escorted me into the back and then took his place in the front. The glass between us rattled as we bumped through the city but if he could hear me at all, he gave no recognition. I slept again, for how long, I don't know. A long time, because I had several dreams. One was a man with a wife and two adoring children mowing a patch of grass around a house in the suburbs. The other was Eddie's hand wrapped around my cock, silently and tenderly bringing me to ejaculation. I experienced the explosion and when I shook myself awake, I felt a damp patch inside my panties. Finally the gentle rocking of the limo stopped. I looked groggily around. There were lights everywhere. It was beautiful. If Coleridge had been alive in our day, it could have inspired him to write "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan/A stately pleasure dome decree." It was as modern a complex as I'd ever seen. We passed a two-story hotel of at least four-star quality, from the look of the outside appointments and the people coming and going. Then there was a casino, one that Monaco might have envied. And a brothel. The winding path was subtly lighted with demure little globes that twinkled as I walked, almost like Disneyland. The plantings were professionally maintained and imported from many other places to form self-contained storybook landscape scenes of their own. I confess I didn't really take all this in at first glance. Hidden mist nozzles sprayed just enough to make the still warm air comfortable but not humid or muggy. It was an unexpectedly delightful touch. I was escorted to a little house with two rooms. The living room was just a greeting place, where a couple might sit on the tiny sofa and talk, or silently enjoy the beating of their mutual hearts. The paintings on the walls were reproductions of several famous lovers in their trysts. The bedroom was a boudoir -- a place where a woman might -- no, must -- please her guest. The large bed was firm but covered with soft flowing quilts and lacy-fringed velvety sheets. A closet covered most of one outside wall, a window the other. A small vanity fit into the nook between the closet and the door frame. I picked up some of the cosmetics, whistling at the wise choices and obvious large bankroll of their provider. A moment of sadness fleeted through my mind as I touched my rough beard-stubbled chin. I longed for a close shave and a chance to apply these delights. The bathroom was designed to look quaint, but with the most modern conveniences. A water jet tub, a shower that needed no door, a toilet, and the wash stand. The fixtures were not steel or silvered but a subtle, polished, almost-pink metal that might have contained real gold. There was no kitchen. And only the front door to exit. It was obviously a crib, a place where a smart man could place a favored courtesan. That -- that would be me. "Do you like it?" said a familiar voice from the living room. I smiled at him. "It's nice. You've put a lot of effort into making this a little bit of heaven." He laughed. "I like that. My own heaven, carved out of the wilderness. A place where others can share my vision for a better world." With a sophisticated lifting of the knees of his tailored trousers, he sat down on the sofa. "Well said." "Why thank you, my dear. I fancy myself something of a poet." I thought about my memory of Xanadu and Coleridge upon my arrival. "You are a poet of the mind," I said. "And of the flesh?" "Is that an invitation?" He leaned back on the sofa, one arm casually thrown along its back. His shirt was open, revealing a strong chest covered thickly with black hair. "Not tonight," I answered. "It's been a long day -- two days -- and I'm tired and dirty and -- tired." He stood up. "Very well. Get some rest, dear lady." As he brushed past me, I stopped him. "N-no." I pressed the breast forms into that strong chest and wrapped my arms around his body. "Stay here. I need ..." Unexpectedly, I felt a little drip of pre-cum re-wet the panties, so I let the statement dangle. He took my shoulders and smiled. Without a word, he undid the button of my jacket, letting it fall. I released my grasp around him and he slowly, sensuously lifted the sweater off my shoulders and over my head. With a single practiced motion, he unclasped and dropped my skirt to the floor, where I could step out of it. With my barely covered body, he took my hand and led me into the bedroom. He unfastened the bra and I let it slide down my arms until he stopped me, lifting the left cup back up with his finger but with the strap still around my bicep. The left breast form had started to slip so I settled it properly back in place, hugging both of them by their bottom edges with my arms pressed against my own chest -- awkwardly, not crossed where they would have hidden my silicon charms. For a moment, he studied me. Then he smiled and nodded and I let the bra fall. The breast forms popped out and bounced away somewhere. I wiggled free of the panties, releasing my now raging massive erection. A little sticky thread of cum stretched and snapped as the panties fell. I started to say "I hope you don't mind making love to a dirty girl" -- but he stopped me at "you" with a soft touch of his finger on my lips. He lifted my face and leaned in. I wrapped my arms around his neck and we kissed for a very long time. All the while, his fingers gently worked my cock to relief. In the bright sun of the morning. I found the energy to shower. I fluffed my hair so it was rather spiky and not so mannish. I discovered an electric shaver in the vanity drawer and used it gratefully. With my face smooth again, I eagerly applied my makeup. I found a patterned djelleba hanging in the closet and pulled it over my bra. The breast forms were laying on the vanity. I wondered -- what had I given him in return -- in, uhh -- in return for all his generosity. What would I have to give? Why was I here? And why did it seem so wonderful? What call to pay back awaited me? There was a pair of sandals that fit my huge feet, so I wouldn't have to walk barefoot on the hot pavement. In the daylight, the place was all white. The windows were open, without glass, but with shutters that made them seem like images from a thousand safari movies. The chairs in the casino lounge were stacked neatly and the gaming tables were silent. I stepped into the hotel lobby and the desk clerk smiled. With a sweeping hand, he gestured toward the restaurant. It was decorated in an array of delicate florals and planter boxes with real flowers hung on the backs of every booth. The African waiter silently handed me a menu. I noticed right away that it listed no prices, nothing to indicate costs, a very subtle and continental way of saying to the consort, "order anything you like; money is no barrier." Only the man's menu would have prices. So they considered me -- while I was here I could be -- a woman, no matter what I looked like. Well, that suited me just fine. Since I desperately wanted to be a woman, I was glad for the pretext. After breakfast, which was not accompanied by a check, I wandered through the set-piece gardens, marveling at the intricacies of the little stories each setting told. That led me finally to the door of a two story office building I had not noticed the night before. The young Nubian receptionist smiled as I stepped into the well-appointed lobby. It was a man's domain. With my work done in Marseilles, I didn't belong there. I smiled back and let the glass door close as I walked out. I saved the brothel for the last. It was so lavish and lovely it made my heart ache. I wanted to be soft and dainty, too, and worthy of the incredible beauty. For a moment, I sat in one of the love seats -- two plush sofas twined back to back, where a lady and a customer could talk and get to know each other before consummating. Nothing stirred and there were no sounds except the soft spray of the mist nozzles from outside, so I wandered away. After noon, things changed. There was a charge in the air, an energy that spoke of an industry coming to life. The chairs came down off the restaurant and lounge tables. In the casino, croupiers stacked boxes of cards under their games. I learned that no deck was used for more than two hands, to eliminate dirt affecting the odds and to demonstrate that the cards were not marked. The tellers inserted their cash drawers under their counters and stacked their chips neatly. The hotel lobby acquired an efficient team of bellhops and guests began queuing at the concierge's desk or waiting to check in or out. The brothel buzzed, literally, as the girls stored away their personal belongings and pulled sliding false walls across the dormitory to create small soundproof chambers around their beds. I closed my eyes as the images blurred into a freeze-frame series of stop-motion pictures overlapping each other helter-skelter. I wandered through the scenes a stranger. No one acknowledged me unless I approached them directly, and then there was a slight hint of controlled irritation, as though I shouldn't be there. At first it bothered me. I'd always thought of myself as an outgoing person, friendly and open. Then I realized that my body was coloring my judgment. I wasn't being nice, to myself or to them -- not that I did anything wrong or nasty. I was just -- well -- just out of the upbeat swing of the place. The days passed, the same and yet, not identical. Always something was different, new guests, new items on the delightful menus, new shouts of joy when the slot machines lined up three sevens. I was never stopped from entering any of the buildings, and the croupiers nodded politely whenever I stopped to watch, though always with that subtle downward twitch of their mouths. The gorgeous international call girls were pleasant and talkative when I asked them questions. I didn't know anything about their lives or how they came to be in the same place as me. I was just a naive city girl adrift in a new land, and they graciously answered my clumsy questions. I suspected, though I never followed up, that my patron would have allowed me to consummate with any of them had I wanted to. The nightly interludes with my patron were only just shy of heavenly. I had no concept of being a male consort but it gradually dawned on me that I was something more to him than the cum he collected in his cream-colored palm. Just what, I didn't know but the sensations he evoked were blissful. Beyond the office building, I discovered an electric generating plant, the source of the power that made the place so delicious and thriving. Later, someone told me his modern Xanadu was in this location because directly underneath was a pool of high-quality petroleum for boilers that drove the turbines. And the other way, past the hotel, was a paved airfield. Two Boeing 737s constantly came and went, bringing guests and business associates, making me wonder why my journey suffered the indignity of that old Dash-7 and its faltering air filters. Perhaps it was a message about my status. Again, I wondered what I had that he willingly suffered my presence in his garden of Eden. Though he provided the gratification I craved, he never asked for anything in return. Without his ministration, I think I'd have gone completely crazy. There was also an aging high-tailed three-engine Tupolev TU154, fitted as an aerial tanker, that left twice a week and came back to resupply the field's aviation fuel. I wondered why the Tupolev fascinated me. I never studied anything technical or mechanical in high school or college. That was guy stuff and fashion was more to my liking. Yet I knew beyond a doubt what the various kinds of aircraft were as they landed and took off from his private airfield. Where I grew up, girls didn't do that. We recognized our places and studied things that wouldn't inhibit our futures as wives and mothers. And then I remembered my benefactor had forced me to fly the long trip from Marseilles to Lusaka via Nairobi. Hadn't I instantly recognized the stubby little Dash-7 when I saw it in Marseilles? Where did that knowledge come from? And I'd sold him millions in military goods -- how did I even know what I was selling? Yet I hadn't given it a second thought. Was I simply imagining that I'd been a woman? I'd known, looking out the De Havilland's window, exactly where we were from the position of the sun. The sorority girl with the bohemian fianc? didn't know anything about geography and couldn't have cared. Yet it had meant enough to me that I did know, even though I hadn't recognized at the time how my brain processed the information -- in a masculine way. But still, the instant I'd stepped into the foyer of his office headquarters, I'd known it was not to be my place. In a single momentary flash, I'd recognized that no woman belonged there. I wasn't comfortable -- in a feminine way. It was a gulf I would never cross again. The bra I clung to so desperately, that wrapped so delicately, meant I would never again compete in a man's domain. It meant a lot to me that I remembered the opening lines of Coleridge's beautiful poem, Xanadu, and could subjectively compare this place to that stately pleasure dome. What did that mean? That I was interested in the arts, in the literature classes where none of the jocks ever ventured? Where we coeds fantasized about the pampered lives we'd lead as blissfully wedded princesses? Yet knowing this Xanadu sat on a huge pool of low-sulfur petroleum tickled my fancy, too. I knew the uses, dangers, and advantages of all the military hardware I'd sold my handsome African lover. I knew what he would do with the goods; stockpile them against a raging out-of-control world, or sell them to the very entities that wrestled for control of that world. But I liked the pretty clothes with multihued fabrics that mysteriously appeared when I wasn't looking. I often stood in my bungalow in front of the mirror, modeling blouses and skirts, wrapping myself in bright silk scarves and designer dresses, prancing around in high-heeled shoes, and batting my eyes dreamily over dainty bras and satin panties. Did that make me a girl? So -- was I man or woman? Did it matter whether a TU154 attracted me, or a lacy little bra? If my rational mind was feminine but the cells of the brain housing it were masculine, couldn't I appreciate both? Along with the two Boeings and the Tupolev, he owned an impeccable, very swank Gulfstream G650. With its 7,000 mile range and nearly speed- of-sound cruising speed, a plane like that could fly from here to New York non-stop. Over the next 20-something months I came to love the Gulfstream for its incredible freedom, as we resculpted my body as closely as possible to the image of the young woman I carried in my mind. His generosity constantly overwhelmed me, as I took plastic surgery from the best doctors in the business, in Bangkok, in Beverly Hills, in Brazil. I came home with an ever-growing supply of female hormones to soften my skin and change my physical appearance. I grew firm pre-surgery breasts to replace what SleepShuttle had robbed from me and spent a lot of time in good spirits as they implanted silicon globes to increase my bust line even more. The surgeons narrowed my waist with a girdle of mesh wrapped around my abdomen under the skin. They inserted silicon crescents into my butt to plump me out so I could sashay again. They shaped my legs and feet and arms and hands into the perfect embodiment of femininity. Gradually, I stopped looking like a silly cross-dresser and more like the lady I deeply, earnestly desired to become. My whole attitude began to change. I smiled more. I participated in the complex's activities more readily, and finally made myself part of the family, as he liked to call his staff. He was pleased with the results, too. I became a picture he was painting with his money and my body. I had long ago accused him of being a poet of flesh, and now he approved my prescience. As I stared at myself in the boudoir's mirror every time I returned from abroad, I sighed happily. The surgeons shaved my Adams apple and my larynx, so my throat didn't bulge and my voice was higher and more delicate. I could no longer sing on pitch because of the scar tissue but it was a small price to pay. They narrowed my face to reveal real cheekbones. They thickened my lips into a Cupid's bow. They planted hair plugs in the small bald spot on the back of my head and did massive electrolysis on my face and neck. There was only one thing he would not let me change, refused to let me remove. At first it made me angry. It struck me as a cruel slap of his hand. It made me feel exposed. Then I realized my penis and testicles were actually a badge of his esteem; a way of saying "look down there; be it known by all that this is MY girl." Gradually, I accepted that my quarterly examinations by the reassignment doctors would always stop short of that final snip. And when I accepted that inevitability, then his lovemaking became a sweetness I craved even more. I could still dimly, vaguely remember how a female orgasm felt. But the closeness we shared, the intimacy of his nightly visits to my little bungalow, the hot proximity of his hand on my tense swollen cock, was everything. To ejaculate -- that was the fundamental essence of my pampered life. One morning, he was sitting on my sofa when I came out of my shower wrapped only in a large towel. The timing was so out of routine that I knew immediately something was wrong. He held out an envelope. I sat heavily beside him and took it. It was from SleepShuttle, intended for the man on the driver's license that I kept hidden in the vanity drawer. The address was a place in the suburbs. "My agents intercepted this." "Did -- did she see it?" "No," he said. "We extracted it from the postal system before it reached her." "Thank you," I breathed softly in relief. "There was no reason to awaken old ghosts," he replied. I tore the envelop open and pulled out the letter inside, on its elegant SleepShuttle letterhead: "We have discovered a small miscalculation in our software that caused your self-image to be replaced by that of a young woman from another journey. We sincerely apologize for the mistake and the anguish we know it has caused you." "Our engineers have solved the problem and made sure it will never again happen. We would like to make amends by offering to restore your original self-image, so that you can continue with your life." I laid the letter in my lap. I fondled my expensive breasts through the towel. Then I angrily crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it to the floor. "Why?" I shouted. "Why me? Why now?" I started to cry, letting great sobs wrack my body. He pulled my head to his shoulder, wrapping his arm tightly, gently around my body, letting my tears splash on his shirt. For a long time, I poured out my grief. "Would you like that?" he whispered when I had no more tears to cry, no more aching sobs. "It can be arranged. Then you can resume your life as a father and husband in the suburbs. We can explain away your absence." It was such a sweet offer; so like him. I raised my wet face and kissed him on the cheek as I pulled his hand inside the towel. "No. This is my life." Copyright © 2011 by Trainmaster. All rights reserved. This story is a work of fiction. No resemblance to any individual, living or dead, is intended.

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Part 6 - “Heart-shaped” If you want more chapters, vote and comment. I’m heavily influenced by what readers think of my stories and how they should follow. This is a fictional dark fantasy story that will contain romance and some vanilla parts to it, but mainly consists of blackmail, rape, and violence. I don't condone or partake in any of the actions portrayed here. This is for people like me, guys and girls, who like this kind of harsh stuff with a good story. For those of you out there,...

4 years ago
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Distribution Ch 12

It was ten days before Paige called again. ‘Brian, where are you?’ ‘I’m out by the barn.’ ‘Good, you’re back. I can be on the three-thirty if you would like to pick me up?’ she asked, disregarding the significance of my being ‘out by the barn.’ It was obvious that she assumed that I’d returned from spending Thanksgiving with my family. ‘I’ll be there,’ I answered. ‘See you then,’ she said, ending the call before I could find out how she was able to get away on Thursday afternoon instead...

3 years ago
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Hong Kong Training a Slut part 2

I stayed in touch with my mate after his divorce and he moved to Hong Kong, picking up pretty quickly with a Pilipino who he was delighting in her tight twat and arse and adventurous spirit. We talked once a month and he always suggested we came over to visit. Well we decided to take him up on the offer. I had skimmed over some of the details of the week we had in Thailand so the girlfriend knew we had history of sorts. Arriving in Hong Kong we got a taxi to his apartment building and got...

2 years ago
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When Curiosity Pays Off

I work in the fashion indstry so a lot of my mates are homosexual, I've been told by my homosexual friends guys do it better, deepthroat, hand jobs and general fucking. So me not being one to judge before hand, I started browsing Craigslist and found a candidate who's a bottom, after brief discussion, I went to his apartment, to which was as stated in his ad, the door wasn't closed only ajar, I walked in, a few meters from the computer was a blanket covered person with a hole for my dick to...

2 years ago
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Affirming

 Affirming This is how it is. This is how we'll remember it. This is what we’ve always wanted. This is what we crave. You standing stock still, bare feet planted solidly on the floor, nothing binding you at all except your desire to do my will. You are standing, arms by your side, hands pointed gracefully toward the floor, fingers slightly curled, shoulders rolled back, breasts rising and falling with each breath, nipples painfully erect. Your legs are spread hip width, pelvis tucked, back...

BDSM
4 years ago
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A Lesson from Mom

A Lesson from Mom What could be worse than to be 18 and have your mother catch youfucking your boyfriend? Nothing, right? Wrong. Mom came home early one afternoon, earlier than I'dexpected. She caught us, alright, but she caught my cousin, Ann, too.We were in bed together, with my boyfriend. Ann was kneeling, asscurved high over drawn up knees, face buried in my thrusting crotch.My naked thighs covered her ears. Jim had just come in Ann's sweet pussy when Mom walked into theroom. The...

4 years ago
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Fat FarmChapter 21

Day 169 Wednesday Denise took one look at Karen and burst out laughing. Even Dale was chuckling at the sight of the woman. Karen begged, "Get me out of this ridiculous outfit." The woman looked ridiculous. It was like she was wearing a bright orange pumpkin as a pair of shorts. Her hands were cuffed to the sides of it. Her bra consisted of huge cones that kept her breasts from touching anything. The tips of the cones were cut off so that someone could reach in and fondle her nipples. She...

2 years ago
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A New BeginningChapter 9

"Hello Dave," Krisztina said with a cheery smile. She was dressed in a loose fitting top with tight leggings that showed her teenage charms off magnificently without looking tarty. "Hi Krisztina," I replied. "Aren't the reps supposed to be looking after you?" "Yes," she replied. "But I tell them I stay with Paula and Kerry and they say OK." Trusting lot our reps, I thought, but then again they knew that Krisztina knew our family, so at face value she'd probably get away with...

4 years ago
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Perceptions and DeceptionsChapter 30

"For the last time, Melinda, I'm all right," Jason said in a tired voice as he closed his locker door. "I figured it out during second period. It was a stupid idea to begin with, and I'm sorry I ever did it." Melinda hesitated, torn between wanting to rant and the impulse to stop someone from badmouthing her boyfriend, even if it were said boyfriend himself. "It wasn't that bad an idea. I mean, we had to find out somehow, right?" Jason paused and sighed. "Yeah, I guess. It did...

2 years ago
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Adventures of Me and Martha JaneChapter 13A

During the night I awoke twice, finding it dark and still outside. Each time, I felt creepy and giddy and unable to define the vexing nervousness in my legs and chest. When I awoke the third time, it was daylight. Martha was walking into the bedroom in her heels. Dressed and ready for work, she came to my side of the bed. She asked, "What on earth were you dreaming about all night?" I turned onto my back, rubbing my bleary eyes. "I was dreaming?" She sat on the bed and rested a hand on...

4 years ago
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BusherChapter 7 Dave

We had Wilmington in Monday through Wednesday for night games, an off night on Thursday, and then the Friday night game with Lynchburg, followed by day games both weekend days. After that, we'd hit the road again, to Wilmington, Delaware for three in the Blue Rocks' park. I kind of wished I'd had the presence of mind to suggest that Emily come up Thursday, but she had said she'd consulted the team's schedule, so she must have noticed on her own that we had the off day. Probably, it just...

4 years ago
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I can still see you part 47

Her plane landed right on time. She had taken a connecting flight from Charles Du Galle to land here in Nice, in the gorgeous sunshine of a summer Thursday in Province. Most of the passengers had disembarked by the time she appeared at the top of the jetway. Her smile never stopped and her eyes never left mine as she walked the dozen paces to where I stood behind the line, dropped her bags and threw her arms around my neck. We hugged long and hard, and then, in true Français style I took hold...

2 years ago
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Heads and Tails Her Story Ch 03

At last, removing the warm covering of my mouth from his cock, I begin to clean it off with my tongue, licking each drop that may have escaped. My fingers dive to my pussy. Touching my clit, and a new wave of desire begins. Knowing now that I cannot let this man leave me, cannot let this night end, I stand to face him. Looking deep into his eyes, an unrecognizable voice falls from my lips, a voice filled with a determination I never knew I possessed, ‘I want all of you. I know the risk we take,...

2 years ago
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Running

RUNNING by Rebecca Author's Note: There is one graphic sex scene near the end of this story that might be somewhat offensive to the heterosexual Crossdresser. I do not write from experience -- I just wanted to see if I could write such a scene and, also, it seemed to fit the story better than anything else I could come up with. Chapter 1 Jim pulled his coat up tightly around his neck and looked nervously from side to...

3 years ago
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My Pretty Little Slaves Chapter 21 Cayman Island Girls Family Reunions and a Couple of Weddings

Characters Introduced: Penelope, 40, Brianna's Mother, 5'5, White, Blond hair with Blue Eyes, 38D Breasts and a swan-like neck Iris, 18, Brianna's Sister, 5'4 White, Blond hair with Blue Eyes, 38C Breasts and a swan-like neck Julian, 16, Brianna's Sister, 5'2,White, Blond Hair with Green Eyes, 36C Breasts and a swan-like neck Jillian, 16, Brianna's Sister, White, 5'2,Blond Hair with Green Eyes, 36C Breasts and a swan-like neck Keiko, 16, Orphaned Child adopted by Ben, Asian,...

2 years ago
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Bla Book 2 PhoenixChapter 18

“No, I’m not going to stake you out for the vultures to feed on,” Béla was saying as they traveled toward the center of the great ship, looking for the arborium. “We’ll start with something smaller to stick in you – like making bows and arrows. Maybe then we’ll try something a bit more ... destructive. Okay?” ‘What are we going to use for tooling?’ Beth asked, determined not to pout and realizing that she should be grateful that someone with such a similar mindset to her own was willing to...

2 years ago
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TittyAttack Victoria June Rain Rain Hoe Away

Rain, rain go away. Actually, go ahead and stay, because that means getting to stay inside all day with the gorgeous, ebony hottie, Victoria June. She is the black teeny of your dreams, and she is ready to make your wildest fantasies come true. She puts on an artsy see through raincoat and then walks around in the rain with her invisible umbrella, whipping her big fat tits out and letting them bounce in the downpour. When she gets back inside, our stud is waiting for her with his own special...

xmoviesforyou
3 years ago
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risedale secrets 3

Kim smiled her knowing smile as we walked out of the workshops, the last hour played over my mind as I walked with her. The kids around me seemed lost in a haze, all my attention was focused of Kim as her lush hips swayed as she walked. Her sweet taste still lingered in my mouth as she took my hand and led me towards an empty class room, opening the door she pulled me inside, pushing my back against the wall she kissed me deeply on the mouth, her tongue seeking out mine in passion. Running...

5 years ago
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Annies Journey Ch3

I was having a hard time driving home. I was excited about the party that a couple of the guys at the office were planning for me on Friday night and about what my husband Rob and I had talked about for a couple of weeks now, me being with another man and my pussy was really wet. I got home around 7PM and Rob was in our den when I walked up to him and smiled and lifted my short skirt so he could see my wet panties. “God Annie you are so wet!” Rob said as he grinned up at me. “I have a surprise...

4 years ago
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My Friend Corey

Corey and I have been best friends for as long as I can remember. He was in my third grade class. All of the kids mad fun of him for being the new kid. I was the only one that wanted to be his friend. He was two months older than me. As we got older and our bodies developed, we began to notice each other in ways we hadn't before. I would tease him by walking around in revealing clothes, and he would tease me also. Corey and I never had anything very romantic between us, for neither of us...

Straight Sex
3 years ago
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Hot Tub and Snow

It was a cold January day which found me sitting at my computer wondering how I would entertain myself. With the snow flying outside the prospects of finding something fun to do dwindled as the minutes seemed to crawl by. Being lulled into the glow of my screen it was a shock when my phone vibrated in my pocket snapping my mind back to reality. Looking at the screen a simple message flashed, “I’m coming, be ready.” Now this message came from one of my closest friends. Her name is Kelsey and...

2 years ago
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Replacement TherapyChapter 3 Yoyo DeDe and Captain Kirk

Thank god it was dark when I tried to open my eyes. I was floating around in some never-never land. I could feel pain, but it wasn't acute. It was my eyes that hurt the most. They were like two steel ball bearings, rolling around in the bottom of a tin can. Even the slightest movement of my head would set them off again. I tried to form a coherent thought. Where was I? What had happened to me? I was lying on a cool, firm surface, trying to concentrate. There was a cover over me. I could...

4 years ago
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Kuwari Kannya Ke Sath Sex

Hi friends this is Vaibhav again from Ghaziabad with a new story. Thanks for your feedback for my previous stories. Thanks to ISS to publish my story. Let me introduce myself for the new readers.I am a boy of 23. My height is 5’9″ 1weight 65 kgs with average health, white complexion. I work as a Sales Officer in a MNC. Let us come to the story. Let’s come to the story. This story is about my facebook friend. She is Kanishka from Saharanpur. (Name changed) Age 18, with height 5’5 weight 70kg...

4 years ago
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Two retired military men

Bus nelichinde.Neenu mari mum eddaram bus degamu.Mum konthadooram vachaka, akkada unna shop owner nu emande ekkada venkata Ratnam ekkada untadu? Evaru retired milatary person kadu.Avunu athane…Elaade munduku vellande.Akkada four roads kalese centre vasthunde.Akkade adagande chepputharu. Thanks.. Kontha dooram pooyaka four roads koodali vachinde. Mum akkada unna vaare tho venkata ratnam veshayam adiginde. Chepparu.. Enka kontha cross road lo vellamu. Adi choosthe uri bayata la unnade.Chinna...

2 years ago
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Thicker Than BloodChapter 6

2001 I was impatient for the lady to call me. The school was small, but that’s what we, Stacey and I, were looking for in a high school. No public school for our baby, well she wasn’t exactly a baby anymore, she was thirteen, gonna be fourteen soon. “Mister Carter?” she called. I rose from the waiting room seat I’d been occupying and went over to her. She handed me the papers: Jenna’s class schedule and a short list of other things we had to get taken care of: the standard health clearance...

2 years ago
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Sex With Kamini Aunty

Hi I am Rohit (name changed). I am giving my email address I was only 18 years old when this incident happened. I was at that time writing my board exams. Kamini aunt was almost 47 years old. After my exams were over, my step uncle invited me over to the house to stay as he had to go on tour in order to secure clients for the MLM company he had joined. He was a workaholic and had no care or concern for Kamini aunt. He was driven by the motive to make money. My uncle requested me to stay in the...

Incest
2 years ago
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Young Fun 3

Introduction: Third and final part This is the 3rd and final chapter in this story. It closely resembles an actual experience, I changed a few details to help with the plot. I slept like a rock and didnt wake up until I heard mom call me to breakfast. I normally got up and went downstairs to watch TV for a while before mom and dad were up, but not today. Today I was still tired and it took me a few minutes to fully wake up. I didnt put any clothes on, I went downstairs naked. I yawned,...

2 years ago
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Spizoo Penny Archer Hot Hookup With Tattooed Blonde

Penny Archer is covered in tattoos and soon to be covered in cum. This sexy slut is ready to ride cock and get pounded deeply. This mature babe has a round, soft ass and an even softer pussy. Her seductive eyes pull you in and her wet mouth pulls the cum out. Watch as she does everything she can please the cock in front of her and drain the balls. She takes a large cum facial after a hot, aggressive, yet intimate fuck session. This tattooed MILF is ready for action, she gets on her knees and...

xmoviesforyou
3 years ago
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SpiralsChapter 13

On Tuesday, the world came to an end for many in Ridgemont. There were no whispers this time. The news ricocheted through the school like a bouncing cannonball: Ethan Bishop and Heath Boardman had failed a mandatory drug test administered by the state athletic board. A huge amount of illegal steroids was found in their blood. Both players were immediately and indefinitely suspended from the team, and Coach Keifer was asked to resign. The news dwarfed all of the previous weeks' whispers. I...

2 years ago
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Three Square MealsChapter 67 Gently settling in the newest member of the crew

With the muted flare of silenced retro thrusters, the sleek black shuttle touched down in the centre of the glowing orange landing pad. Amatsu Mikaboshi powered down the engines, then flipped a switch on the black console in front of him, which opened the airlock door. He rose from the Pilot’s Chair, and stalked from the tiny infiltration vessel without a backward glance. Movement to his right drew his attention, as a huge set of reinforced doors dropped down into position, concealing the...

3 years ago
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Pounding Paris

Ever since I was 10 I'd always get a lottery ticket in my birthday card from my aunt. I never won much though a dollar maybe two or even a free ticket. I couldn't cash them in until I was 18 even though a lot or all of the people knew that I was the one with the winning tickets. Around the time of my 18th Birthday all that changed my aunt sent me a ticket that would change my life forever. It was not one of those scratch off tickets. It was one of those with the ping pong balls. It wasn't a...

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