Chris-Crossed! free porn video

CHRIS-CROSSED! By C.C. I have heard about the problems that racially mixed marriages can bring, and I've also heard about the difficulties that sometimes arise from marrying twins who have a close affinity for one another - a sort of psychic bond stronger than the ties of matrimony. But I never dreamed that they would lead to the situation I eventually ended up in! Let me tell you a bit about myself. My name is Norman Drake and I have for most of my life been a man of considerable wealth. Not one of those indolent playboys who lie around just waiting for some avaricious female to come along and take them for all they've got. No sir, not me. I have always worked hard with my money, getting the best returns and financing shrewd investments. It was one of those investments that led me to meet Chris. I am a major stockholder in the Mammoth Chemical Conglomerate, which does a great deal of research into new drugs and medical breakthroughs (although to read the papers, you'd think their major product was toxic wastes.) Anyway, several months ago about a dozen of us large shareholders were invited to the Central Research Plant to look at a new item that Mammoth was interested in developing--Plasti-Flesh! "...Feel this sample, gentlemen," the head Marketing Engineer was saying, "and notice the incredibly lifelike texture it has of real skin. Yet it's a completely man-made synthetic, with many of the properties of rubber. It can be produced in a liquid form and poured into a mold, it can be turned out in thin but strong sheets..." "Yeah, but exactly what good is it?" A pudgy man standing next to me asked. "Plasti-Flesh will have many uses," the engineer replied patiently, "It is so porous, the skin can breathe easily through it, and it's completely non-toxic and nonirritating, so it can be placed directly on sensitive tissues. From it, we can make bandages for people who are burned or scarred in accidents: bandages that won't look like bandages but like real human skin. Bandages that can be worn for months, perhaps years. Think of the advantages for..." "But won't the FDAhave to approve it?" the pudgy man interrupted, "That could take years, and what happens to our dividends in the meantime?" The two of them argued for a while, but I wasn't really listening. My attention had been caught by a tall, sulking, black woman who worked as a Lab Assistant there. She had ushered us into the room earlier, andI had been immediately captivated by her strong, aristocratic ebony features, the firm, thrusting breasts beneath her white smock, the long shapely dark legs and her intriguing British accent as she introduced us. Now I've always prided myself on being a level-headed man, not the sort to throw himself at a woman. But somehow, I had to get to know this exotic temptress better! "... so we could pour our money into this thing for years," the man next to me was still haranguing the chemist, "and end up getting nothing at all for it!" This looked like my chance. "Don't be a fool," I said archly, "or at least try not to be a complete one. What they have here is obviously a medical advance of Nobel-Prize proportions. If they can carry it off, our stocks will go clear through the roof." "Yeah, but..." "But even if they fail, the public relations value will be priceless. Remember that this is a large corporation, with the unfortunate reputation that sometimes comes with bigness. Well, once word gets around that Mammoth is pouring money into a project to help victims of disfiguring accidents - something that might someday replace long, costly plastic surgery--the good name of the company can't help but be enormously advanced. I don't wish to overstate my case, but it seems to me that this Plasti-Flesh product is the medical equivalent of IBM and Xerox. And we all know how the initial investors on those items prospered." My argument carried the day, and an hour later all twelve of us major stockholders were in complete agreement: the Plasti-Flesh project would be funded and even expanded. As the meeting broke up, the Marketing Engineer and his lovely black assistant asked me to stay awhile. "I can't thank you enough for your support," the Engineer said warmly, "You can't imagine how big this product is going..." 'Wrong on both counts," I interrupted, "I can imagine the enormous potential of your invention. And you can thank me enough: dinner with your fair assistant here, "I smiled at the gorgeous black woman, "would be an excellent reward for my services." Which was how I came to meet Christine Fahringham. Over dinner that night, I learned that she was a native of an island in the Caribbean who had put herself through medical school there and came to work in the States. This origin accounted for her intriguing combination of jet black skin, aristocratic features, large, well-shaped body, and cultured accent. For my part, I told her how I had run away from an orphanage, made my fortune young, and continued to invest it wisely, so that now, still in my early thirties, I was set for life. I also mentioned that my long hours of hard work had not left me much time for social life, so that I was still unmarried and without close friends. But this was a problem I intended to rectify at once. A few weeks after that night, Chris and I became lovers. She proved to be a very energetic and inventive bed partner, and as for myself--well, even though unmarried, I have never neglected the field of sexual endeavor. Over the years, some very high-priced and talented call girls have more than adequately schooled me in the skills of love. So Chris and I were an excellently-matched couple. I enjoyed her intelligent conversation, her conscious hauteur and beauty; and her subtle, sly sense of humor. For her part, she seemed to enjoy the fine restaurants and theaters that I could treat her to, and the lavish gifts I gave her from time to time. And the nights in bed were paradise for both of us. In fact, Chris tutored me in an erotic art that I had scarcely sampled before: She heartily enjoyed receiving oral sexual attentions, and had an insatiable appetite for having my head between her legs. With her encouragement--nay, insistence--I soon became practiced and proficient at giving erotic pleasure with my tongue and lips on her soft, moist pussy and even in her sexy; perfumed backside. Many an evening of delight would begin with my head clamped between her strong, smooth legs for an hour or more. Or with me lying nude on my back on her living room carpet while Chris, sensuously nude herself, sat regally on my face, watching erotic DVDs on the player I gave her, her jet-black skin gleaming softly in the red light from the television screen. It was during one such episode that an incident occurred which was to change my life, although I didn't know it at the time. I was lying naked on the soft beige carpet in Chris's fiat, feeling the gentle weight of her round, firm bottom on my face, while my tongue probed eagerly into the freshly washed and perfumed cleft between those magnificent globes. Chris's legs were curled lightly across my arm and she was fingering herself with pleasure while watching a lesbian scene on television. I was getting incredibly turned on by the erotic nearness of her, the anticipation, the tingling of the carpet on my naked backside, and the soft sounds of lapping and giggling coming from the girls onscreen. A warm, sexy glow spread through me as I imagined what we looked like: me, pale white on the floor, my cock arching upwards towards my flat stomach, and Chris perched atop me, dark and feline, like some sensuous predator. And then And then the doorbell rang! I started for a moment at the unexpected sound, irritated and a little alarmed at the interruption. Then I relaxed as Chris's body posture made it clear that she was not getting up. Good, I thought, we can just stay here quietly until whoever it is goes away. Chris set her legs more firmly on my arms. Then she amazed me by calling out: "It's not locked. Come on in!" Shocked, I tried to move. To get up. To hide myself from whoever this intruder might be. But I quickly discovered that my black lover had cunningly distributed her weight over my face, arms and shoulders so that I couldn't budge! My arms were securely pinned under her calves, my shoulders weighed down by her thighs, and my face trapped beneath that generous black ass. I couldn't get up! Mortified, I squirmed the lower half of my body helplessly, and heard an amused female titter. "Hee-heel" the strange feminine voice came to my ears, "That's quite a sexy looking couch there, Chris!" I felt myself blush from head to foot. Literally felt my naked toes turn red with embarrassment. I raised one leg to try to cover my exposed maleness while I flattened the other one on the floor to try to hide my balls. I squirmed again, in a vain attempt to throw off Chris's superior weight, and my futile struggles brought even more laughter. "Ha-ha-ha!" There was something oddly familiar in the strange woman's voice. 'What a shy little sofa!" "Stop squirming so, Norman!" Chris admonished me from above. "Our visitor just happens to be my favorite girlfriend in the whole world. I've been wanting to introduce the two of you for some time now, and this seems the perfect opportunity. Be nice now. Steady on. Calm yourself!" Somehow I forced myself to stop squirming. Was Chris serious? What could she possibly be thinking of, to bring a strange woman in this way? To see me like this? Then, I reflected in the darkness that Chris had always been an inventive lover, and I recalled her penchant for harmless, sexy mischief. Could this be some erotic plan of hers? I subsided. "That's better," she said. "Now let me introduce you two. Norman, this is my sister. Her name is Chris, too. Sis, this..." She wiggled her bottom on my face. ".. Is my boyfriend, Norman Drake. Say hello to Chris, Norman." I tried to speak, but whatever sound I could make was smothered in Chris's ample rear. "Hmmm," she considered, 'Well if you can't say hello, you can at least wave, can't you Dear?" I tried to move my hands and remembered that Chris's pretty black feet were clamped firmly down over them. How frustrating! "Come on, Norman darling," Chris teased, "Wave to our guest or I shant let you up!" Still livid with embarrassment, I finally thought to wiggle the toes of my raised foot in the direction of our visitor, and both women laughed heartily. "How gallant!" The voice of the stranger came to my ears, still somehow familiar. "So pleased to make your acquaintance, Norman!" Still giggling, Chris rolled off me and I sat up quickly, blinking my eyes in the soft light and pulling my knees up to cover my privates. Then I got a look at the stranger and my eyes blinked again, but this time in wonder. It was Chris! I had expected a family resemblance, but nothing like this! From the top of her short afro hair-do to the tip of her prettily-shod foot, she looked exactly like the woman I had just been making love to. Her classic, softly made-up features were identical to those of my lover. The breasts in her low-cut dress thrust forward with the same firm jiggle. And the shapely, silken-clad legs, set off by charming high heeled shoes, matched every sensuous curve that I knew so intimately. I was face to face with two identical black women, one elegantly garbed, the other excitingly nude, and both named Chris! They must be... "That's right, dear," the naked Chris on the floor smiled at me, "We're twins! My darling sister and I grew up together and we're extremely close, the way twins often are. Sometimes I think we can even read each others' thoughts!" "I was reading yours a few minutes ago, sister dear," The dressed Chris smiled even more widely down at our naked bodies, "And I must say it was terribly naughty!" Both girls laughed again. For my part, I felt extremely awkward, but somehow excited, too. How strange to be sitting naked with two black female twins! "Umm-er... P-Pleased to meet you, uh-Chris," I stammered, "Just excuse me for a minute, and I'll slip into something..." "That's completely unnecessary," the dressed Chris smiled. "And rather difficult, you'll find," her naked twin next to me put in. "I thought it might be a nice idea to keep you in the altogether for a bit, you see. So before we started, I slipped off and hid your clothes away in a closet." "Hid my clothes?" I blushed even deeper and both girls tittered. "But why?' "You'll see, Sweet," the naked Chris looked over at me, and the expression on her face of tender, loving merriment dissolved my fears. "For now, why don't you fix us all some hot cocoa while my sister dear gets comfy? Please?" "Um- Why sure thing, Chris," I nodded and got to my feet, still quite flustered by the eyes of the black women all over my body. "Why thank you!" the dressed-up Chris beamed. "Here, wear my shoes so your wee footies don't get cold." She slipped out of her elegant, dark high heels and I immediately stepped into them and scooted into the kitchen, intensely aware of four dark eyes studying my bare rump. Once in the kitchen, it took only a few minutes to flavor the milk and warm it in the microwave, but once I set the steaming cups on a tray, I realized I had better get some protection for myself in case of a spill. In a kitchen cabinet I found two identical black satin aprons, full- skirted things with high bibs, ruffled trim, and straps to tie at the back, I put one on and and started to go out. Then I stopped. I remembered the amused stares of the two women on my naked bottom and suddenly felt very chilly. On inspiration, I took the second apron and put it on backwards! It covered the back half of me perfectly, tying at the top with a big bow just to one side of my chin. I found that I could tie the waist-strings of the two aprons at my sides, in even bigger bows. I looked down at myself, noticing how the bib portion of the front flounced outwards, how the ruffled hem tickled my bare legs. The ribbons at my neck rustled when I turned my head, and the ends of the bows at my sides trailed gaily as I walked. But it was covering of a sort, I reflected, swishing as I picked up the tray and minced back into the living room on high heels. Once back, I saw that our guest had indeed "got comfy"! She had doffed her dress, stockings, slip and garter belt, and draped them over a chair. She was relaxing on the sofa In bra and panties now, with Chris #1, who had pulled on a short-sleeved purple silk robe tied with a sash at the waist. But then I thought: Has Chris's twin sister stripped down to her undies while the original Chris put on the sexy robe? Or had my girlfriend put on her lingerie and brought the robe out for her visiting sister? I looked back and forth at the twins, tying to discern some difference between them. Identical haircuts and makeup. Identical bodies and voices. Matching Mannerisms. Heavens, I thought, which one is which? All this time, the two girls had been studying my outfit approvingly, their eyes dwelling on the way my legs flashed between the apron skirts, on my smooth, unmuscular shoulders and small feet, shod in gleaming high heels. "I told you he had potential," the robed Chris said to her panty-clad twin, "See? He must have designed that charming outfit himself!" "Lovely!" the other Chris replied. "I never would have dreamed he could look so fetching!" I was seated between them now, sipping my hot chocolate primly and trying to ignore the sensuous hands of the robed Chris, gently stroking my satin-ribboned shoulders. "Confused, Lover?" she smiled, "I am sorry; Sweet. It's cruel of us to tease you this way. I'm afraid it's just one of those things that twins do to outsiders. We can't help it; it's part of our nature. I am the Chris that you know. And this..." she waved a hand toward her twin in lingerie, "Is my slster." "Thank you," I said, "but this is still awfully confusing. I mean, with both of you having the same name and all, how am I supposed to tell you apart?" The pantied Chris giggled and her sister smiled secretively. "Actually," the robed one--my girlfriend--said, "there is a difference between us." She lowered her eyes. "A very important difference. But I don't know if you are ready to learn about it yet." "What do you mean, 'ready'?" I blurted out, "After all we've been to each other? I was even intending to.... Well, never mind." "Oh dear me," the lingerie'd Chris said, "I've caused trouble between the two of you. I'm terribly sorry, really I am. I'll just take my leave." "No, please don't," my girlfriend said, "This is important." She turned to me and I tried to concentrate on her words despite the sexy distraction of her thrusting breasts beneath that thin robe, and my own scanty satin-clad state. "I know what you're thinking of doing tonight, Darling Norman," she said, "I found the engagement ring in your jacket when I hid your clothes away. That's why it's important that you hear this: If you plan to marry me then you should realize that you are marrying into my family. My sister here is the only family I've ever had, and since we're twins, that makes us especially close. She is very important to me, and I could never marry a man who disliked her or found her life- style unpleasant. Do you follow me, Dear?" "Yes, I think so, "I said, tugging demurely down on my apron hem as I crossed my legs. "And I can understand why you feel this is so vital to us and to our relationship," I took a deep breath and went on, "So let me say that there is nothing about you or your sister that could possibly shock me. I didn't get rich by being narrow-minded or naive. I don't think there's anything you could tell me about your sister, or about yourself, for that matter, that could make me one bit less determined to marry you. So what is it? Does she like women? Are you two lovers? I won't mind at all, but tell me." "Sweet one," Chris --my Chris--put her arm tenderly across my shoulder and hugged me. "You're right on both counts, and yet only partly right. You see, my sister does like women, and we are lovers from time to time, but my sister is also... my brother! She's a man!" I tried not to look shocked. I tried to hide my disbelief. This gorgeous character, this exact double of my lover, seated beside me in bra and panties? A man!? "That's quite right," the second Chris said, her brown eyes wide and sincere as she looked into mine, "I am a male. A transvestite and, perhaps someday, a transsexual. I am not homosexual, however. I don't care for sex with men, so you needn't feel threatened by that. But I do feel extremely feminine in identIty. Perhaps I was meant to be female; I don't know. I do know that I feel more comfortable when posing as a woman, and my dear sister has loved me enough to accept and even encourage my feelings." "That I have," my Chris put in, "And if you still want to marry me, Norman, I must tell you that I shall want you to love my sister as I do, and will expect you to demonstrate that you find her life-style perfectly acceptable. Well? Do you want to chance it? Or would you prefer to simply leave now? The option is yours." My emotions were in an uproar. I felt confused, stunned with surprise. Perhaps if I had given it some thought, I would not have done what I did next. Perhaps my stubborn way of accomplishing whatever I set out to do would have prevailed in the end anyway. I don't know. All I know is that I slipped down off the couch and knelt in front of my sweet, sexy Chris. "Darling," I said, "I want you for my wife more than ever," I tried to forget about how I must look in my black satin aprons, tied in bows all over me. "And I'll do anything in the world to prove it." From her seat on the couch, Chris looked tenderly down at me. Then she stood, tall and regal in her purple robe, and as she stepped in front of me, the silken hem of that robe nearly touched my lips. "Dearest," she smiled and ran a hand through my brown hair, not ruffling it but sweeping it up and to the side. "I believe you. I believe you will!" She reached down and started working with the apron strings at my throat. She first untied them, then wove them gently around my neck, like a silken collar, finally tying them off in a single puffy bow. What was she doing, I wondered? She extended a commanding hand to her sister/brother, who immediately handed her lipstick, eyeshadow and rouge, which she applied to my face with quick, deft strokes. My lips became red and full, my cheeks delicately pink, and my eyelids soft and doe-like. This must be some sort of a ritual, I thought, some symbolic act by which I will demonstrate my willingness to accept and be accepted. Then, to my surprise, Chris reached into the pocket of her robe and drew out the ring which I had bought for her. 'Will you marry me?" she asked simply. Kneeling there on the floor, nude under black satin ruffles, I felt a strange, dizzying loss of identity as I answered, "Yes, Love. I will." Gently Chris took the delicate, feminine engagement ring and placed it on the third finger of my left hand. "Wonderful" her twin cheered behind me, "Congratulations, you two! I'll go pour the champagne!" The lovely transvestite scampered off to the kitchen. Alone with my betrothed, kneeling there in the women's makeup, I looked wonderingly up at her. "What now, Deaf?" I asked. "Now," she opened her robe, revealing the sweet, tempting, truly feminine lips between her legs. "Kiss me, you fool." And she pressed my painted face into her moist womanhood. That night was the beginning of my trip into transvestism. Had I known what the end of the trip would be, I never would have started it. But for the next couple of months, I lived in a strange, dream-like erotic paradise. Chris - the female Chris - became more passionate than ever, almost demanding in her erotic needs. Some nights we would make love for hours, with me no longer nude, but now dressed in a soft, slinky, feminine nightie that clung sinfully to my hairless chest and hips. Oh yes, Chris insisted that I not only say I approved of her brother's feminine life-style, but also demonstrate my approval by living the life of a transvestite at every opportunity. To this end, I had my body and facial hair permanently removed by electrolysis (except for the hair at my crotch) and I was carefully schooled in the application of makeup, hair-styling, and feminine deportment and mannerisms. Chris coaxed me into letting my brown hair grow long and full, and she replaced all my masculine underwear with silky feminine lingerie. At first, I wanted to protest all this. I mean, I might not disapprove of transvestism per se, but I certainly didn't intend to make a career of it. But my lovely black fianc?e assured me that this would only be a temporary thing, and after a few hours of erotic teasing from her talented body, I was more than willing to do anything she asked. Naturally, It was impossible for me to carry on this way and still devote time to my considerable business interests. So, on Chris's advice, I sold off my more time-consuming projects (keeping the stocks in Mammoth Chemical, of course, since I wanted to have an interest in the development and marketing of Plasti-Flesh) and invested the money in safe, solid securities which provided me with an excellent income for life. I had meant to retire by my mid-thirties anyway, and start enjoying life; this was just speeding things up a little. Now I could spend more time with my bride-to-be. But it was becoming a little unclear lately just which of us was going to be that bride and which the groom. Now that I had quit work, I spent almost all my time dressed as a female or learning the tricks of female impersonation from the transvestite-Chris. It seemed that for every outfit he had, I had to get a matching one, so that my closets and dresser-drawers filled up with padded bras, nylon stockings, high- heeled shoes, slips, half-slips, negligees, nighties, dresses, skirts, blouses, evening gowns... even fantasy outfits, like harem outfits and a maid's uniform! It got to the point where my male clothing was crowding out and - at Chris's urging-- I finally had to pack up all but one suit, a shirt, and an extra pair of trousers. Everything else was crated up and considerately hauled away by the transvestite-Chris to be out into storage. About this time, my fianc?e-Chris made a strange request of me (stranger, that is, than the previous ones!). On her orders, I went to an art studio, where I had a plaster cast made of myself. It is a process sometimes used in making statues, wherein the subject (me, in this case) lies nude in a bed of soft plaster. As this is hardening, more soft plaster is pored over the subject, who breathes through a tube while the stuff hardens. An oil coating keeps the plaster from sticking to the subject's skin, and the result is a solid mold, into which molten bronze or soft cement can be poured to create a life- sized, fully-detailed replica of the person. Of course, I asked my female-Chris about the reason for this, but her only reply was a cryptic comment: "Perhaps someday I shall have need of you again as you are now. We shall see!" Leaving me to wonder. As a matter of fact, life with Chris lately had become more than a little bewildering. Pleasant enough, but still very confusing. For one thing, there was the constant presence of the transvestite- Chris. Although my fianc?e's brother had assured me that he was not homosexual (and in fact he never made an overt gesture towards me) I found it very unsettling to be put into close - even intimate-- contact with this sensuous feminized male. For he had moved in with his sister, and since I spent most of my time there these days, the three of us eventually became sort of a m?nage a trois. The twins and I would often shower together, and sometimes I was unsure just whose sexy backside I was rubbing up against, or whose firm breasts were pressing into my shoulder blades. Then there was the role-playing. As I said, the female-Chris insisted that I have a copy of every outfit her transvestite brother owned, specially adapted to my smaller masculine chest, and she usually coaxed me into wearing whatever he was wearing on any given day. So I might have to spend an evening dressed as a Vegas showgirl, or pass an afternoon decked out as a harem-slave, with tight panties, baggy pantaloons of gossamer silk, a padded, rhinestone-studded halter over my flat chest, colorful beads braided into my long hair, exotic makeup, huge hoop earrings, and even a mock nose-ring. I always sort of disliked this attire, for I have done some business in the Middle East, and it is my opinion that Arab women are the most stupid human beings in the world. Anyway, thus attired, the transvestite-Chris and I would have to play devoted slaves to our spoiled, bitchy mistress: attending her in the bath, peeling grapes, pouring wine, or cooking up exotic delicacies. The female-Chris would delight in setting up complicated, difficult tasks for us, her two slave girls, and at the end of the evening would decide which of her handmaidens had served her the best. The lucky one would get to share the bed with her that night, enjoying the most sophisticated erotic pleasures she could devise. But the unlucky loser (which was often me!) would be relegated to the task of preparing the winner for his night of love. I would have to intimately wash my co- slave's body with perfumed soap, paying special; attention to his full, firm breasts and rounded ass. Then I had to towel off his feminine body and give him a complete massage with scented oil, still dressed myself as an exotic harem-girl. I found at times like this that it helped if I concentrated on the almost complete femininity of my future brother-in- law and forgot about the male fixtures between his legs. Finally, I would make-up his face, dress him in a sexy white-lace nightie, and escort him to the bedroom, where my fianc?e awaited. Even then, my job was far from over. For as my sexy black girlfriend and her twin began their prelude to passion, I would be required to attend them at their bedside, fetching drinks, putting their favorite erotic tapes on the video player, or just watching as the two smooth, curvaceous ebony forms coupled pleasurably before me, while I stood docilely by in women's clothing, then brought them towels or fresh lingerie or fanned them as they gathered up strength for another round. Naturally, episodes like this worried me more than ever about the nature of the relationship I was getting into. But Chris--both of them--and I had a long conversation about this, about my feelings of jealousy and uncertain sexual Identity. When we finally talked the whole thing out, I realized that the twins were serving me as much as I was serving them. By watching their love-making, I was, in fact, a participant. The nights when I went without sex only made the nights of passion more thrilling for me. Watching their sexual technique would enhance my own erotic repertoire. And, my fianc?e promised that after the wedding she would no longer Insist on my cross-dressing, except perhaps as an occasional punishment. As yes, the Wedding. Chris and I discussed it, and we decided that there should actually be two weddings: one in the morning, very legal, formal and public, for the benefit of my few friends (most of whom had drifted away by now) and many business associates (whom I now saw only rarely) and another one that same afternoon In front of a few friends of theirs. This second wedding would be my farewell to femininity, and Chris thought it would be nice if I went out in style: as a blushing, beautifully-gowned bride! I was easily talked into this plan, and even more easily convinced that we should honeymoon in Chris's birthplace, the island-nation of Los Palos. Never heard of it? Few people have. It was one of the first of the Caribbean slave-ports to throw off colonial rule, and a wise government keeps it out of the news by keeping the populace prosperous and happy. According to Chris, only the wealthiest of tourists could afford to go there, as the seaside villas rent for an exorbitant amount, and the natives get along very nicely indeed by catering to the desires of the super-wealthy. Besides the high-class tourism, the only actual industry is a large research plant owned by Mammoth Chemical. And since Chris was born in Los Palos, I, as her spouse, would not need a passport or visa. So it seemed that Los Palos would be perfect. A month before the wedding, Chris made another announcement: The custom of her people, it seemed, said that It was bad luck for the bride and groom to see each other before the wedding. This had evolved into a firm tradition of avoiding sexual relations --even among couples who were used to being quite intimate--for a full month prior to the wedding. So sex with my fianc?e was now forbidden until after she became my bride. I thought initially that it was a smallish thing to ask, and I was more than happy to oblige if it meant that my beloved would feel better. But as the days of that month turned into weeks, I felt myself getting distinctly tee'd off by the whole thing. Chris and I met each morning, and spent most of the day together, frequently in the company of her transvestite twin brother. We would go to theaters, concerts, or simply shopping. We made arrangements for the weddings and the honeymoon, bought tickets, rented a villa, etc. And we would often dine out together. I must say that we got quite a few envious stares from men, who saw me simply as an attractive woman in the company of what looked like two black girls, for I still spent most of my time in drag, and both Chrises were always stunningly attired in ravishing but elegant dresses. Yet at the end of each day, my fianc?e Chris would kiss me good night at her apartment door and I would return to my comfortable by lonely quarters to spend the night alone! Away from the company of the twins, I began to feel very awkward about the whole dress-up business. I'm not a transvestite, after all, and it seemed awfully silly to be spending my time applying and removing makeup, styling my hair, and going about my penthouse in dainty feminine lingerie. I would sometimes look at myself in a mirror before going to bed, studying my smooth ivory skin, the delicate features and shapely legs, the incongruously flat chest, attired in sexy peach-pink panties and a matching strapless short-palam, and I would get very upset indeed at howl looked. I spent nights tossing and turning between the stain sheets, feeling a growing tension of unrelieved sexual need and the increasing frustration of having nothing but the most erotic feminine garments to sleep in. And when sleep came, I found myself haunted by dreams in which my lovely fianc?e would wantonly tempt me with her sensuous body, calling on me to do my masculine duty as her husband. Yet in these dreams, I would undress and discover that I, too, was a woman! I would stand there, nude and feminine and totally incapable of satisfying my lusty bride, who would grow more and more demanding. Then, in my dreams, the masculine Chris would appear, no longer a transvestite, but completely male now. He would smilingly service his twin sister, and then, to my horror, turn his attentions on me! I would feel myself standing there, rooted to the spot the way you are in dreams, while male hands caressed my truly feminine form. And then I would wake up, shaken and more confused than ever. What a relief it was when the wedding day finally came. At ten that morning, dressed in a masculine tuxedo, I exchanged vows with Chris in an opulent church in the fashionable part of town. Chris was beautifully decked out in a white wedding gown that stood out in stunning contrast to her dark skin, A corset sewn into the dress nipped her waist in to nearly painful proportions, and the skirt and bodice of the gown were made up almost entirely of expensive white lace, through which her long shapely black legs and the tops of her ebony breasts could be excitingly glimpsed. Under that lacy skirt, a half-slip of rich white silk covered her round ass, but just barely, being cut so as to show off the sides of her thighs almost to the hip, and yet dart down teasingly over her bottom and front. As I've said: this was a racially mixed marriage. Many people made up excuses not to attend, but those who did come seemed almost frankly curious at first. But once they got a look at my bride, all wondering ceased, and I smiled to myself. I clearly had excellent reasons for marrying this lovely black Amazon! I had assumed that the transvestite-Chris would serve as a bridesmaid, but to my surprise he showed up in an elegant tuxedo that matched my own and stood up a best man! Knowing him as a transvestite, I was genuinely surprised to see him looking so masculine, complete with false mustache, a strong voice, and a manly swagger to his walk. I was also a little unsettled--I mean, he had looked that way in my dream, and it was almost unnerving to see him thus in real life. Minutes later, the wedding was over. Chris and I said our "I do"s and exchanged a long, sensuous kiss, then walked down the aisle as man and wife. A luncheon reception followed, complete with gifts and rice throwing, and it was after one PM before we made our escape and drove off to a rented hail where the second wedding was to be held. Ina small but comfortably furnished room off the main auditorium, I gratefully stripped out of the stiff, confining tux and relaxed on a cushy sofa while my lovely bride dutifully packed it in a suitcase with the rest of my masculine clothes and sent it off to the airport with the remainder of our luggage. I was left wearing a pair of midnight- blue panties, white stockings that I had borrowed from the transvestite-Chris, a lacy white garter-belt that looked old enough to be in a museum, and a pair of tall, tall white high heeled pumps, brand new, that had been purchased just for this occasion. Then to my surprise, my lovely wife opened up a large trunk that had been delivered earlier and pulled from it a strapless, pale-green evening gown! "But darling," I said, rising from the sofa, "I thought I was supposed to be dressed as the bride this afternoon; that's not a bridal gown!" "It's not for you, sweet," she replied, unbuttoning her white dress, "It's for me!" - "But what will I wear?" "Ummph!" She pulled herself free of the confining corset sewn into the gown, and stepped out of it entirely. "This!" She held up her wedding dress. "Plus some other things...." She draped the lovely bridal dress across a chair, then pulled off her white silk hall-slip, now wearing only panties, stockings, garter belt, and an underwire push-up bra. "Let's get started," she smiled, busying herself in the trunk. Suddenly a strange thought assailed me: Whom had I married? It occurred to me now that there was no way I could tell whether the sexy black creature standing in front of me in ivory-colored undies was my fianc?e or her transvestite brother. And both of them were named Chris! The wedding vows came back to me now: Did I, Norman Drake, take Chris Fahringham to be my lawful wedded spouse... Did Chris Fahringham take me, Norman Drake, as lawful wedded spouse... We had both said "I do," but now I wondered: which spouse was I? The sensuous dark-skinned beauty walked toward me, holding a short hypodermic syringe. "Hold still now, love. This may hurt a bit." She inserted the needle under the left side of my chest and gave me a quick, professional shot. "Chris?"l asked as she rubbed the left side of my chest "Yes, sweetie?" she prepared to give me another injection. "You are Chris, aren't you?" I felt the needle dart in and out, and then it was over. "Oh course I am, Norma darling," she smiled cryptically, using the feminine name we had picked out f me. "I mean..."I tried to collect my thoughts, "You are th-the feminine Chris?" "Don't I look feminine, sweet?" She was back at the trunk now, pulling some more things out. I was getting a little upset by this line of thought, and I decided to wait until both Chris's were present before pursuing the matter further. Meanwhile, there were other things on my mind... "I know we discussed those shots before," I ventured, "But I never was clear on them. What are they for, exactly?" "They'll cause the pectoral muscles in your chest to swell up temporarily," Chris -whichever one it was - explained. "Normally, it would give you a super-masculine look, butI plan to make some changes!" The stuff she brought out of the trunk looked almost like a giant rubber band. Or a skin-colored fire hose, flattened out and coiled up for storage. It had a sort of flesh-like texture to it, quite elastic and strong, and slightly sticky on one side. It was on a large roll, about four inches wide, like heavy-duty wrapping tape on a dispenser. "Chris, what is that stuff?" I asked as she started wrapping it around my middle. "You don't recognize it?" she asked, "It's Plasti-Flesh, the miracle product you helped fund!" "But-but what are you doing with it?" "If you mean how did I get it, it was fairly easy to have some sent over from the lab," she explained. "If you mean what am I doing, I'm giving you more womanly figure. Do me a favor now, and grab the top of the closet door. Try to Pull yourself up!" Feeling very much at sea, I did as she ordered. Standing on tiptoe and stretching my arms as much as! could, I got my fingers up over the top of the door and pulled, lifting my feet an inch or so off the floor. "Much nicer!" she beamed, "Having your arms and shoulders pulled up like that makes your waist much narrowed, Now I can really get to work!" I hung there silently as she wrapped the flesh-like synthetic around my waist, pulling, tightening and retightening until I was gasping for breath. My fingers ached terribly, but I somehow felt it would look weak and unmanly for me to complain. "There!" She said at last, "I've pulled your tummy in to a lovely twenty-four inches! Now drop down so I can do your chest!" Thankfully, I released my grip on the closet door and stood on the carpet once more. Unggh! As my weight settled, I felt a terrible vise- like constriction on my compressed middle. "Chris!" I bleated softly, for it was hard to get much breath in with my middle cinched in as it was, "This is terribly uncomfortable!" "Let's see if this helps," she gently led me to the sofa and rearranged the cushions so that when I laid down, my back was arched backwards and my head hung down to the base of the sofa. It was a rather undignified position, but it did help me breathe easier. "I say, that's quite nice," she smiled. "The shots are expanding your pectorals beautifully. Now we'll just shape them a bit." Chris took another role of the Plasti-Flesh, this one only about an inch wide, and started tearing it off into long strips. Then she started wrapping the sticky strips around, over, under and down the middle of my chest, separating it into two distinct round halves. She applied a bit more, pulling and shaping the expanding muscle and locking it into place with the strong, sticky Plasti-Flesh. Still she worked, wrapping and kneading each half of my chest and applying the synthetic in careful layers until only my nipples were sticking out, and my chest at last had the shape of two fair-sized female breasts! "Now then," she said, "let's have a look at you." Chris took my hand and I got unsteadily to my feet. My body felt oddly top-heavy and jiggly. Wondering just how looked, I sashayed over to a full-length mirror. Wow! The breasts that had appeared only fair-sized when I was lying stretched out upside down now seem positively voluptuous. They bounced and swayed sensuously with every step I took, and in their centers I could see my own pink nipples, straining erect. By contrast, my waist had been nipped in severely, giving me an hour glass figure that accentuated my round, full hips and bottom. Except for the ridges on the Plasti-Flesh strips the effect was perfectly natural -- and unbelievably feminine! And now Chris was approaching me with a metal can and a round fluffy brush, like a polish applicator. "More?" I squeaked, seeing the flesh color of the liquid in the can. "Definitely!" Chris nodded, "You see, one of the advantages of this substance is that we can put additives in it make it hard or soft, stiff of stretchy, solid or liquid. Yet remains porous and non- irritating, like a second skin. This batch..." she stirred the brush in the can, then began stroking it carefully onto my chest, "... I had formulated like rubber paint, so that it goes on smooth and thick and dries in a few minutes." Deftly, she painted my feminized chest with the stuff, stroking over the ridges of tape until they completely disappeared in flesh-tone smoothness. Then she worked on my middle. When she had finished, the faint tape lines were completely hidden. The border where my real skin met the artificial stuff was completely undetectable, and she had even molded me an artificial navel. Looking at myself in the mirror now, I had the bizarre sensation of being partially sealed inside a new body. The new curves that Chris had given me looked totally genuine and... "Chris?" I asked, suddenly aware of an uncomfortable thought, "How do you get this stuff off? How will I get out of this?' I cupped my hands under my full breasts, for emphasis, and Chris giggled. "Don't worry," she said, "There's a completely organic solvent that will take it right off. But our present research indicates that you could wear Plasti-Flesh for months - years, maybe----with no ill effect." Well, I certainly had no intention of going around like this for months! Then, I recalled our agreement that today was the last day that Chris would ask me to masquerade as a female. I guess I really couldn't blame her, then, for going all out this way. But still, those jiggling boobs and that narrow waist would take some getting used to. Dutifully, I dressed in a white lace and satin wedding gown that was the exact copy of the one that Chris had worn. My new breasts nestled snugly in the silken bodice, and the built-in corset didn't pinch a bit. I drew on the fingerless gloves, elbow-length, in white silk, and allowed Chris to paint my nails a vivid red. While they dried, she made up my face with startling expertise, painting my lips full, red and pouty, darkening my long eyelashes and shadowing my eyelids. Light powder softened my features even more, and a skillful touch of rouge gave my cheeks a delicate blush. Fully attired, and with my hair styled into long, wavy tresses, I looked at myself in the mirror and had to admit that I made as lovely a bride as Chris had. My legs were just as visible as hers has been through the lace skirt, and the white satin half-slip played peek-a-boo with my hips and bottom, too. The tops of my breasts undulated no less excitingly than my bride's had, and I couldn't help remembering how lustfully the men had stared at her this morning; would they be looking at me that way, too? But meanwhile, Chris had dressed into the pale green evening gown and was stepping into matching shoes. "Darling," I said hesitantly, "I realize you must have planned all this very carefully, but won't it look odd, having both of us get married in dresses? I had sort of thought you'd dress as a man. Unless..." the suspicion came back to me, stronger than ever,".. you are a man! You're the male Chris, aren't you. Aren't you?" She just laughed, adjusting her earrings, and putting bright, jingling bracelets on her arms. "I'm not telling!" she giggled brightly, "but I shall explain in my own way. You may remember that twins as a rule are quite close and very fond of practical jokes. Well, my sibling and I thought it would be a nice touch if you were to marry both of us! The Chris who was your best man this morning shall be your husband this afternoon! And the Chris who was your bride is now your bridesmaid!" She approached me, soft, sensuous and radiantly feminine. Surely, I thought, this must be the female. She put a soft brown arm tenderly over my pale white shoulder and drew me near. "And you shall never know," she whispered sexily in my ear, "which of us is your husband and which your wile. All you'll know is that you are married to the woman of your dreams. That's all that matters, now, isn't it?" My answer was lost in her deep, passionate, breathtaking kiss. And so it was that I walked up the aisle carrying a bouquet of roses, with a lovely black bridesmaid at my side--and I didn't know who it was - I looked up at the end of the aisle, where a tall, good-looking, tuxedoed black groom waited--and I didn't know who it was! I promised to love, honor and obey him, a ring was slipped on my finger, and I found myself taking the name. of Norma Fahringham a the Justice of the Peace pronounced us Man and Wife. The masculinely-dressed Chris embraced me, and I found myself the recipient of a kiss just as feminine, sensuous, and thrilling as the one I'd had earlier from my bridesmaid. What was this? The two Chris's and I turned to walk down the aisle, and I looked out at about forty strange faces, most of them black. Many of them were friends of the transvestite-Chris, and I noticed that some of the men were rather flamboyantly dressed, in bright colors, while some of the women had a decidedly masculine look. A few others were friends and co- workers of the female-Chris, and I recognized two doctors from the lab where she worked on the Plasti-Flesh project. Would they recognize me, I wondered? Could anyone recognize me this way? Then, as we walked down the aisle, disaster struck. The new shoes I was wearing were rather higher-heeled than I was used to, and I was already somewhat unsteady due to my unaccustomed breasts and narrow waist. So it was probably just a matter of time before I stumbled. And stumble! did! I felt my right ankle just fold up beneath me as I lurched forward. I wrenched myself to the left and tried to regain my balance, but that single daintily-shod foot was simply incapable of supporting my newly-distributed weight. My left ankle, too, crumbled up, dropping me right on my pratt! "Ouch!" I cried as I hit the floor. My good-looking new husband reached own considerately to help me to my feet. But as I started to rise, I felt sharp pains in both ankles. "Oohhh!" I screamed, "It hurts!" And I felt my legs start to fold again. The masculinely-dressed Chris caught me in strong arms and carried me to a chair that the femininely-dressed Chris set out for me. The wedding guests began to gather around in concern. "Are you all right, dear?" The green-gowned Chris asked, "What's the trouble?" "It's my ankles," I moaned, noticing for the first time that even in this moment of unexpected alarm, my voice was still naturally high and feminine. "When I try to stand they just hurt terribly!" "Let me look," one of the doctors who worked with the female Chris pushed to the front of the crowd and knelt down in front of me. He squeezed each ankle delicately, then bent them upwards and back down, noticing my wince of pain. "I thought so," he muttered, "It's those damn high heels you women force yourselves into. Both ligaments are severely strained--possibly even a sprain in that left one." He rose. "It's the hospital for you, young lady!" "Oh no!" I gasped. " I suddenly had visions of myself being wheeled into an emergency ward and relieved of my clothing, the way they do to you in those places. I imagined amused nurses looking over my voluptuous breasts and the masculine equipment between my legs, as I would be carted around for X-rays, strapped to a cot, with just one of those thin hospital blankets over me. The very thought of anyone seeing me this way, half-male and half-female, chilled me to the bone. "Oh no!" I can't go to the hospital! Not now! Not like this!" "Suit yourself, young lady," the doctor responded gruffly. "But if those ankles aren't wrapped, you'll end up in the hospital anyway--in traction!" Helplessly, I looked up at the two Chris's. "Oh do something," I pleaded, "I just can't go to hospital this way!" The twins exchanged knowing looks. You're right," the male-looking one said. "Doctor, isn't there anything else we can do?" "I told you," he said firmly, "those ankles must be wrapped." "But couldn't you do it?" the bridesmaid-Chris asked, "I mean, you are a doctor, and it'd be just awful for them to miss their flight!" "I don't have the equipment," he wavered, "I'd need elastic bandages, clips..." "How about Plasti-Flesh?" Chris asked, "Would that work?" The doctor looked at her in surprise for a moment. Then his expression slowly grew more thoughtful. "I suppose it would!" he smiled, "I'd never really thought about it, but that stuff would be just perfect for a job like this. But It would take hours to get to the lab and..." "You forget!" The green-gowned Chris smiled, "I have some very close ties with the production plant in Los Palos. I was going to take some new samples down to them and just happen to have them with me. Walt right here!" Moments later my shoes and stockings had been removed and I was looking on a the doctor patiently wound yards of the thin, rubbery stuff around my ankles. "This is nice!" he said, "Much less bulky than an elastic bandage. There! You're all set." The doctor had wrapped my ankles so that my feet stuck almost straight down from my legs. Experimentally, I touched my bare feet to the floor. "But doctor!" I protested, "The only way I can walk now Is on tip-toe!" The tuxedoed Chris suddenly bent down and lifted me up In those strong arms. "You won't have need to walk, darling," he smiled, "not on our honeymoon!" Everyone laughed at the risqu? joke, and I blushed a deep scarlet. As the crowd cheered, Chris carried me put to the waiting car and laid me In the back seat, then climbed up front with bridesmaid-Chris and we sped off to the airport. It was eight that evening when we touched down in Los Palos. The last four hours had been a dizzying whirl for me, of being placed in a wheelchair and rolled through the airport - bare-legged and barefoot in a wedding dress! --then loaded onto a chartered jet and whisked down to this island paradise. An hour later, the three of us had driven in a rented car to our seaside villa, and the tuxedoed Chris was preparing to lift me out of the car. "Just a minute!" I said, "Before you carry me across the threshold, I want to know who's doing what," I looked from one smiling twin to the other, "Now which of you is which?" The two black siblings exchanged a smile. "Let's keep her in suspense awhile longer," said the green-gowned one. "No," the tuxedoed one took off the false mustache and smiled down at me. "He deserves to know." She bent down tome. "I am your own female Chris, my love. Today, I became your husband and you became my wile, Mrs. Norma Fahringham, under Los Palos law." "And today I became Mrs. Norman Drake," the transvestite-Chris giggled, "Co-owner of all your property under U.S. law!" "But-but that can't be!" I said. "How could I be a man one minute and a woman the next? Chris, you promised I could quit wearing female clothes right after the wedding if I wanted to!" "That's right, lover," she smiled, "but I hardly think you'd care to strip out of that bridal gown right here on the beach! Come inside now." And my tuxedoed bride picked me up in her arms and carried me inside our honeymoon villa. Once inside she put me down, and I found I could walk about on tip-toe with very little pain. Either my ankles were not as badly hurt as that doctor had thought, or that Plasti-Flesh was really remarkable stuff! "Now, she said seductively," I'm tired from a long day and dirty from the plane trip. Why don't we shower off and relax? Then I can prove to you that I'm female!" The warm water felt good on my naked skin, and I noted with surprise that the moisture looked the same on the Plasti-Flesh portions of my body as it did on the real parts. Standing on tiptoe proved too difficult in the shower, so I sat on a seat built into the tub and let my feminine black bride ooze perfumed soap all over my smooth body, then rinse me off with a hand-held sprayer. "I'm afraid we don't have any male pajamas," she said after we towelled off, "but these should fit nicely!" She held up a pair of white satin hostess pajamas, delicately embroidered, with cute little pearl buttons and a plunging neck line. Since I really had nothing else to wear for the evening, I slipped into them, feeling the cool satin on my legs and the exciting thrust of my new breasts against the tops. Chris, meanwhile had dressed in a truly exciting red silk nightie, made of see-through lace. It nipped in her waist, cupped her full, firm breasts, and outlines her black ass with sensuous devotion. "Ho-humm," she yawned, "that shower made me sleepy! Or perhaps it's a touch of jet-lag from the trip. How are you doing, love?" I yawned myself, surprised at my sudden drowsiness. "You're right!" I said, "Maybe we'd better just slip into bed and--umm--take care of things in the morning." "I'll ring for the maid." Chris picked a tiny bell off the nightstand and jingled it. A minute later the transvestite-Chris minced in, dressed in black undies trimmed in white lace, sheer black stockings high-heeled shoes, a white garter belt, and a frilly maid's cap and apron! "Like it?" he said in his soft feminine voice. "I bought just for the honeymoon, Makes me feel like a real soubrette!" "It's charming," the female Chris said. "Now turn down the bed for us, darling. The love-birds are tired and want to nestle in for the night." "You know," the transvestite-Chris looked me over as I climbed wearily into bed. "With those breasts you make a scrumptious woman! It's almost a crime to let you become a man again, when so many closet TVs would love to be in your shoes!" "They can have it," I muttered sleepily, still in my high voice. "Tomorrow, when I take off this super-duper sticky-tape and dress like a man again, you'll forget that I ever looked like a girl. And so will I, I hope. ..." Minutes later, after the light covers were tenderly tucked up around my chin, I drifted off to sleep. The next morning, I awoke to sunlight peeking softly through the blinds, the gently crash of the surf outside, and the soft, cool feel of satin across my breasts. I blinked awake. My new bride, Chris, was propped up on one elbow, facing me, rubbing a hand delicately across my bosom. "Morning, lover," she said softly. "Care for some breakfast?" "You're the only breakfast I want," I smiled back and rolled towards her. Something was wrong. I felt an odd confining pressure between my legs. Startled, I sat up and discovered that my pajama bottoms were missing! But that wasn't all! There, between my legs, where I was used to seeing my male genitals, was nothing but a curly brown triangle of public hair! Almost fainting, I touched my crotch. And breathed a sigh of relief as I felt a familiar bulge beneath the fleecy delta. Thank heavens! It must just be a wig of some kind, taped or glued over my real genitals, I thought. But why?