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I was forty when I was diagnosed with a very rare cancer, or cancers. I'd been suffering for a while, sore throats, headaches, bouts of sneezing, stomach aches, but when my food starting coming back up my GP threw me into the hospital for every type of test. The tests showed I had cancer somewhere, but initially no-one knew where. A specialist oncologist determined overactive cellular growth which had something to do with my immune system, and he isolated androgen receptors on white blood cells. Unfortunately he also implicated pre-cancerous cells in my testes and prostate. Pretty male stuff, I reckoned. That's when it was all tagged together and presented to me. To stop the overactive immune response, and cancer of the blood, the pre-cancerous testes could be removed, and additional progestins would be prescribed to control the prostate cancer. To ensure that my body didn't react to the female hormones by trying to produce male hormones, which apparently it could do by breaking down oestrogens - I didn't even know men had those - more drugs would be added to mop up any remaining male hormones and switch off any remaining sources. So, no more male hormones at all, no balls, and lots of female hormones. My wife was pretty supportive. We weren't planning on any more kids, so she wasn't too hurt, and I got some sperm frozen anyway. But when the docs said that in about six months I would have lost all erectile function, all male sex drive, and would probably start growing breasts and taking on a female shape, well, then we both started to get a bit worried. The cancer was pervasive but controllable, but to live I had no choice. The docs recommended an early decision. Because of the situation they were quite willing to authorise all kinds of supportive treatments and therapies to help us all cope with the side effects. So we went for life, and I had an outpatient orchiectomy, vast numbers of initial injections, later sub-dermal implants, and follow-up prescriptions for pink horse- pills. In three months the docs pronounced that initial results showed that my syndrome was under control, though the interim effects had been devastating. Acute nausea had left me near starvation although drips had kept me fundamentally nourished and hydrated. Lethargy had added to symptomatic muscle wastage. I probably lost forty pounds, which given that I was a pretty fit adult beforehand, with not too much fat to spare anywhere, left me emaciated. I was 5'9", and had weighed 12st before the illness really kicked in. During the worst of it, hospitalised, I dropped to just below 9st. Not only that, but somewhere between the illness, the starvation, and the change in hormones, I lost some bone mass, and the result was a loss of an inch or two in height when I finally stood up again. How, I don't know. When the 'cure' finally kicked in the sickness stopped and I was able to get up, walk around, and wean onto solid food again. Because of an acute lack of testosterone the docs told me I'd never gain the muscle back, the best I could hope for was tone and fitness, and any excess calories would be deposited as fat, in the classic womanly areas. A therapist helped me to deal with depression. Because the cancer was only in remission, controlled by the hormone therapy, I could never be prescribed steroids to recover bulk in case the testosterone was fatal. The therapist joined his voice with the other docs. My wife and I would have to decide whether I was going to have an unfulfilled life as a man looking more and more like a woman, or a fulfilling life as a woman. We talked together, and we talked with my kids, and my parents. Under some pressure perhaps, and in an odd state of mind, I conceded to becoming a woman. Was it weird that my wife wanted it most? She knew I wasn't going to be a man again, and even though I was still a good few inches taller than her, she was the one pulling me out of bed, helping me to walk, and opening all the pickle jars. She knew me, and knew that outside opinions mattered to me. She agreed with the docs that if everyone else identified me as a woman, it would be better for me to be a complete woman, and not be hiding or pretending anything. So it was that I was rushed down the path of getting my body to conform with its overall appearance, getting my face to fit my body, and finally getting my mind to accept my femininity. I was back in and out of a couple of different hospitals for a while. I was barely up and walking again before I had my useless penis removed and a vagina constructed in its place. I was kind of relaxed about that, lethargic, maybe a bit slow. It might have been the anti-depressants and stuff I was taking, but it didn't really hit me what had happened. I couldn't get an erection, though I rarely tried anyway, but it was frustrating, and then one day it was removed completely and in its place was something that still felt nice, but was never going to frustrate me by not getting erect. I think that was supposed to be good. I had a lot of work done on my face, and that took a long time to recover. Strangely there was some impact which the docs put down to a combination of the cancer like illness and the hormone treatment. I always looked a couple of years young, but now the 'perfect' replication of cancerous cells - the key to immortality the oncologists told me - and the softening and tightening of my skin resulted in looking many years young. Apart from grey hairs giving the game away, when everything healed up I looked more mid-twenties than early forties. At last, something to smile about. My smile was fixed, the docs basically using every facility the insurance companies would provide to make me look outwardly as feminine as possible. My teeth were straightened, capped, veneered, and one or two metal fillings replaced to become white. My nose was fixed, shortened slightly to curl it up and shrunk. My forehead was also shrunk somehow, the scalp being pulled forward or something. Then various bits of bone were shaved away, including my brows, chin and jaw. My face looked smaller, rounder, softer and shaped. Then they altered my eyes slightly, somehow enlarging them, and did the same with my lips. The smaller face was decorated with some bigger features! I managed to persuade everyone involved that I didn't want breasts yet. At six months, with everything healing up and finally getting back on my feet at home, small breasts were just beginning to form on my chest. I couldn't escape them, I knew that, but I didn't want to 'display' them. I could look like a woman, accept being out of hospital and being checked out, but I was happy that people just looked and didn't really notice me. Breasts just seemed to me to be a step too far. Panties felt odd, my boxers felt uncomfortable, but I couldn't get used to a bra, not even a training one, and I was happy just to wear supportive tees. Breasts were too much. Not yet, was my heartfelt opinion. Which, of course, everyone disagreed with. Finally the docs told me that I needed some shape, that my breasts would grow and keep growing to a mature size, probably around a B cup due to my genetics, and it would make sense to get used to the shape and size, and also not to surprise other people around me with my gradual development. I looked like a physically mature woman, I should be shaped like a physically mature woman. Any initial hardness to my implants would be rounded off by the inevitable development of my own breast tissue. When I awoke with the slightly pointed, immature looking breasts of a teenager, but already at a small B cup, I was shocked. My wife loved it, and said I was finally ready to go out again with her - looking like a normal woman, as she put it. I was glad that I didn't have her or her daughter's size, them both being quite full C cups, but still having my own breasts was a shock. Moreso than the loss of my penis, which was hidden, because they were so obvious. Yet my new therapist didn't agree, and I don't think anyone else did either. The docs brought in my new therapist because they convinced me I needed to embrace being a woman in order to ensure my future mental health. They didn't have much local experience in this kind of thing though, a previously healthy male being forced to become a female. The original therapist stayed with me but he was just about looking after my state of mind in general. The new therapist was the first person they could discover who had some experience with helping men to understand and even emulate women. She could use hypnosis to help me learn to be female. She wasn't a medical therapist. No, she was a dominatrix who advertised her services on the internet, including feminisation. How did anyone find her? But she took her responsibilities seriously. She asked me all about my history and situation, and shared recordings of her sessions and any advice given with the team behind me. But she was also firmly convinced of the importance of making me appear completely female, and accepting it. Hence why she didn't agree with my plea for small breasts, but she did support my decision even so. Just that she advised the team to make sure I had adjustable implants, in case she should ever need to invoke some kind of 'shock' therapy - bigger breasts couldn't be hidden or ignored. I didn't know that. My original, and now head, therapist didn't really agree with the new woman's methods, but he couldn't disagree with their efficacy. I discovered that I was very susceptible to hypnosis after a few sessions. Probably it was because I was really trying to go along with the process. Thinking of myself as a man made things difficult, and I recognised that, so I wanted to accept that I was a woman now and forever. But the head therapist explained that the new methods were like using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. He got me to envisage a field with a path across it to a gate. The path was well trodden, the way I thought now. Advanced hypnotherapists would try to get me to accept that I didn't want to go out by that gate anymore, that an exit in the opposite corner of the field was something that I should head for, and when I agreed with them and accepted this I would make my own new path to the new goal. They would just stick a flag on it or something, or perhaps walk the new path with me once or twice, with a lawnmower to smooth the route, but then would leave me to my own devices as to how I got to that new gate. He reckoned the domme woman was like a classical hypnotist, not a therapist. She was building a load of brick walls starting where I was in the field forcing me away from the old path and towards the new gate without any real concept of where I was going. When I got to a point where the walls hadn't been created yet, I would run back over towards my old gate. So she had to keep building more and more walls, hemming me in to her ideas. And that is what it was like. She told me I had to wear women's clothes, and I found that I had to, even if I thought that a man's tee shirt looked better on me. So I wore loose women's tees, slacks and jeans. She got me to wear heels, and I couldn't walk so she got me to practise. I went barefoot, and she didn't appreciate that, so within a couple of days I found myself feeling uncomfortable if I didn't wear shoes, and the higher the heel the better I felt. The fight against nausea to walk around barefoot was only alleviated by getting heels on and walking everywhere in them, regardless of how tired my feet and calves got. I even bought high heeled slippers for the house! I understood what the head therapist meant about the brick walls thing, and confronted my hypnotist with it. But she just got angry with me for not doing as I was told and embracing such femininity. We both got past it. She gave me some calming words I could use whenever I felt resistant to something like walking in heels, or shopping for women's clothes. Sort of post-hypnotic phrases that relaxed me about whatever she was getting me to do. My wife enjoyed my changes. As I became more relaxed with everything that was happening she eased off her protective 'instincts' and started letting me have more freedom. The upside of being diagnosed with cancer and not suffering the finality of it is that insurance companies still treat it as terminal from the point of diagnosis. So all my life insurance cheques had been cashed. Even though I'd been out of work for many months I had support and an income. She didn't have to worry about being the sole provider as she had thought when I first went into hospital. So she relaxed about that too, and her attitude was noted by her clients. When the offer of a brief secondment to another office was offered we talked about whether she could accept it. It was the other side of the world, so she'd be gone for long periods. On the other hand I needed space to develop a new life from a new perspective, and I was proving that I could cope without her direct support. Though the last year had been tough, that parting was the most emotional and affectionate that either of us had been with each other for some years. There was the fact that my step daughter was also coming back for the summer. My wife was a few years older than me, and her daughter was away in France studying at University. The marriage was now getting on for seven or eight years, so I'd known my step daughter since she was a budding teenager. She was now in her early twenties. I guess when we first met we got a kind of friendship going, which we maintained for a few years until the marriage, and never really formalised a relationship. Sure, she started calling me daddy and stuff like that, but it was always more affectionate than titular, and more for public show than private use. Her mother was the source of rules and regulations, and me, well, I guess we just got on well, like friends. She hadn't seen me since the illness, but we'd kept her a little informed of what was going on, though trying not to worry her because of her studies. So she knew I'd been very ill, and had recovered, but less about the recovery than maybe we should have told her. That might have been why she was less shocked than she could have been when she first came back into her room and caught me drying off in her shower. Less shocked, but not entirely un-shocked. I heard a scream and span around to see her there, dropping the towel. I guess it was the first time she'd really seen me, and she saw all of me. I tried to calm her down and grabbed for the towel to cover myself up, especially the breasts. I mean, you don't really want your own daughter to see your breasts sticking out, do you? We sat down, in her bedroom, on the bed, and I told her everything. All about the cancer, and the cure, and the switching off of all my male hormones and the huge doses of female hormones and the effect it would have on me for the rest of my life. About our decision to have me live fully as a woman, all the treatments, and the effects of them. I didn't notice until she pointed it out how squeaky and breathy my voice had got. I guess my wife and I both lived through the training and the practice, but also the tracheal operation was months ago, and the muscle wastage and hormones could have had an impact. After the full story, and with her noticing all the differences, I felt wiped out, and a bit teary maybe. She noticed and gave me a hug and it was just like we were best friends. Like when I used to hug her to ease her problems, and now she was doing the same for me. She understood. I was still taller than her, so she wasn't going to mother me, but she still helped me sharing some of her clothes. Skirts don't mind your height really, and my waist was probably smaller than hers, what with the liposculpture, even if my hips were a little slimmer. Though I have to admit, over the last few weeks I reckon they were growing. We talked about it a lot over the next few days, and I think she began to understand. I wasn't comfortable with suddenly dressing like a woman around my step daughter and one of my best friends, but I couldn't help putting on the women's clothes and the heels if I wanted to move around the house, so I guess she got used to it. She helped a lot, which I think was her way of trying to make things seem normal, but when she started to help out with my makeup sessions, then take over from me, it all seemed a bit odd. She did wonder why I walked around the house in skirts, heels and makeup, so I told her all about my hypnotherapist. She was curious, and so I was happy to take her along to a session with me. I didn't mention the recordings yet. Steffi, that's my step daughter, was completely intrigued. The docs reckoned that the anti-depressants helped me be positive about the hypnotic changes, and the hypnotist asked for some simple hypnotic drugs to be added to the prescription. What she did was told me to use those before bed, and apparently they would induce a lighter sleep during which her recordings would reinforce some of the stuff we were working on. Building the brick walls higher, I figured. Anyway, after a while I would drop off to a deeper sleep but the recordings would have done their work. Steffi asked what I listened to, and stayed through the session to hear what went on. When we got out she wasn't too happy with the hypnotist, calling her some pretty stiff names, but she had really enjoyed being there and even though she wasn't too keen on the woman, she was impressed that she'd been included in my therapy. She said she could help out with my relaxation, which would be good because we could go out and do loads of girly stuff like shopping and the salon and she would be able to help me to love it like she does. I figured that would be okay. Which was why we went out shopping straight away. I didn't like shopping still. I was beginning to get my head around the fact that I had much more choice now, and needed to first understand all the choices I had, then figure out their relative value by quality and cost. Sales were a must, because the cost dropped and you could catch some amazing bargains compared to their original prices. But you needed to know everything that was ever in the shop to figure out if it was a good bargain in the sale! I used to think that women just looked into windows and made appreciative noises. Shopping was about selecting the best. Okay, I still couldn't reconcile that with the idea of only wearing a dress once, but I wasn't in dresses yet, so maybe the purpose would become clear. One thing I didn't like shopping for still was bras. I liked minimisers even on my slowly growing, small breasts. Well, not that small now that they were rounding off and becoming more of a full B cup. Steffi looked at them oddly. I told her about the implants, and how they were making my breasts point outwards much more than I liked, and how I wanted to flatten them down with a tight bra. She didn't seem happy with that, and said something to me that started with 'Daddy', but then I seemed to blank it all out. I looked at her and then looked at my boobies and realised that I really didn't like how pointy they were, and round ones would be shaped so much better. I don't know how often she started a sentence with 'Daddy' like that over the next few days, but it seemed that each time she was going to tell me something, or point out something to me, and then I would blank out slightly. She was right that my boobies were way too pointy, and I just knew that it was because they were small with those implants inside them. When they grew out all my problems would be sorted. I didn't want to have big breasts, I knew I didn't, and yet it was horrible to have these small, pointy ones. It just seemed so much more sensible that they look right, like a proper woman's breasts, which should be full and round. I was in Steffi's bedroom trying on some of her older clothes with her - we were just such good friends now, getting like sisters more than father and daughter - when she commented on my small, pointy boobs. I hid them under my arm straight away, embarrassed. She said I'd told her about the implants, so why didn't we go back to the clinic and get them filled up a bit. Immediately I agreed. She drove in her car, because she would have to drive me back, and we held hands as we walked into the clinic. I wanted her reassurance. So the doc there got out my notes and said my implants were way underfilled which would actually be terrible for my breast development unlike I was first told, and told Steffi he was going to overfill them for best shape and to lower the risk of adhesion in my still developing breasts. She told me afterwards at home that he fit over 400cc into each implant, and my little 36Bs were now double-D cups. It wasn't surgery like the first time, so I didn't have to lie up for days, but the stretching meant painkillers that made me a bit woozy. Steffi took me out bra shopping and showed me all the beautiful flimsy pieces in Victoria's secret. I couldn't hide these huge boobs in those so I went for a big comfort bra with just a slightly shaping underwire. 'Daddy' she turned to me sternly, and then I knew that she was only looking out for my best interests. Women who slouched and hid their big boobs were weird and I didn't want to stand out like some kind of freak. That was what I was trying to avoid all along! So I picked out a couple of darling demi-cups, and then we grabbed a wonderfully low cut top in white and I made sure that no-one in the mall would think that I was some kind of weird freak. People looking at my chest was better than people looking in my face because I knew what they were thinking and it was nothing to do with whether I was a man dressing up as a woman. Nope, they just completely thought I was a woman. It made me happy and I smiled. Steffi laughed at the way men fell over themselves around me. I mean, she knew the looks were because of the surgery and some strange side effects of the illness and the hormones. I did look like a pretty woman. Beautiful even. And quite a lot younger than I really was. She helped me keep my hair in shape, the roots had to be regularly dyed to hide the genuine grey hairs underneath, and so she took me to the salon often and we went through a few colour changes. She showed me everything about hair care, and about makeup, and we shared everything with half of her stuff in my room and half of my stuff in hers. Sometimes she still had to talk to me sternly, or persuade me of something, but 'Daddy' she would say, and I would come right around to her point of view. Sometimes it took a while, but she was so persuasive, my wonderful step daughter. My wonderful sister, I should say really, because that's what she was like. So I was doing my eyeliner when she suddenly mentioned Jacques, right out of the blue. I had no idea she had a boyfriend and I was really happy for her. Then she mentioned that Jacques had an older brother, Peter, who was a bit shy, maybe a little bit nerdy and reserved, and wondered whether I'd be able to entertain him if the two of them came over from France to visit. I wasn't really comfortable with that. I mean Peter was a guy, and I was still her step dad, even though I looked like this. It would be really confusing for him to be entertained by her step dad if she wanted to spend some time with Jacques. 'Daddy' she began, pleadingly, and I found myself wondering what it would be like to bring a shy guy out of his shell as I continued in front of the mirror. Over the next week I began to really wonder what would it be like to help Steffi out, and to help someone like Peter. It was like my whole attitude to her news was changing, and I didn't really mind. Steffi helped me get a complete makeover that so suited how I was feeling, wanting to be seen openly as a complete woman, and so I laid out some cash on extensions that made my hair so much longer and fuller, and I loved to primp it in front of the mirror. My hair was dyed darker again, and I thought I looked sultry. She picked out a name for me, Melissa, and I thought it was lovely. I did question it at first, but she put me straight. 'Daddy' she explained, and I felt completely comfortable being Melissa, or Mel to her. She told Dr Kate, the therapist, and I guess the Docs arranged to have everything changed for me. They sent me a package, addressed to Melissa, and I was so happy to get new ID for a 25 year old. 'Daddy' she began, and told me that I was a beautiful young woman now, her sexy sister, and I was so relaxed that I'd been through everything and come out the other side and nobody could tell anymore that underneath it all I was a man. But I was still really nervous that night as we prepared to go out. She lent me her brown mini halter dress, which had a slit right down to my bellybutton. There was no way I could wear a bra with it, but that wasn't bad because my boobs were firm and full, with no sag, and when guys saw them they saw a woman. She helped with my hair that night, curling it and teasing it over to the side so it hung down over my left breast, tied with a smart, black bow. She pinched my wife's long diamond earrings, and they dangled down to my neck. I had bathed and she shaved my legs with me. My hairs were fine anyway, but the smoothness when we finished was delectable, and it made it so much easier to put on the sheer, black stockings which felt so wonderful. She also grabbed me some black pumps which had been hidden away in my wife's cupboard, with four inch heels that were just about the top of the range I was used to. When she'd finished with me in front of the dressing table I looked smokingly hot, with large red lips, and dark eyes with huge, long lashes. The dress was a bit risque, but everything else looked only slightly the wrong side of glamorous. She tried to calm me down. 'Daddy' she said, and I relaxed about looking so hot. Women loved to look hot, and I had that look. It wasn't only that though, it was the thought of going out with two guys. She introduced me to Jacques and Peter at the restaurant, and they were both very smart looking young men. Peter was just so tall! Everyone had been looking at me from the car to the door, but I had to look up to Peter. Except he didn't really want to catch my eyes, and I noticed that he blushed and mumbled a lot whilst Jacques and Steffi just talked. It was so endearing! I didn't know where these thoughts had come from except I just wanted Peter to open up and become interested in me. I reached for his hand, touched his arm, and when he looked at me I showed him my eyes and batted my lashes without thought. When he looked down I nudged my chest up slightly, knowing how much men love to look at boobs. So he started to talk, and then he touched my hand back and I thought it was a bit strange for a guy to be coming so close! Steffi leaned over to us. 'Daddy' she said, and then I felt Peter take my fingers and it was pleasant, reassuring. I wanted him closer, let him smell the wonderful perfume Steffi had spritzed me with. Maybe I talked a little too much as he started to come out of his shell. 'Daddy' I heard Steffi whisper in my ear. I began to let Peter talk, and loved the way he got more and more interested in me as I giggled at his jokes. His English was so good when he wasn't so shy! He held my hand as Jacques drove us back to the apartment they were staying in. I stayed close to help him relax and open up but I was so confused. I knew that Steffi and Jacques wanted time alone when we got to their place, but I wasn't sure what to do with Peter. Steffi took me aside for a moment when we got there, as Peter was also looking a little put out. 'Daddy' she began, but I don't know what she said before suddenly she was walking back over to Jacques, and I was heading back over to join Peter. That's when he started to kiss me. I didn't want a guy to kiss me, but the moment his lips touched mine they felt great. I was more confused. Peter inched his way closer and kissed me again and it felt really good again to have our lips touching. He pushed my arms up around his neck so that he could hold me around the waist. His large hands were warm on the small of my back but I was more intrigued by the feelings I was getting from the kiss and let him press his lips against mine. I didn't really want to kiss him, because that would be kissing a guy and that just felt wrong, but it was okay for Peter to kiss me. He expected to kiss a woman. I didn't realise that Peter had slipped his hand up my back and behind my neck until I felt the halter of the dress come loose. Suddenly my boobs were uncovered and Peter was dropping his head down towards them. He had his lips around my right nipple before I could get my hands on him to push him away. I tried to lift his head off my chest, but I swear that my nipple inflated to a huge size in his mouth and started sending little tingly messages right through me. I held his head a moment and started to remember stuff, like breasts are meant to be free, nipples are meant to be sucked, women are supposed to have their nipples sucked, and I pulled his head gently in towards my chest so that he could suckle. God, it felt so good and I just begged him to suck harder. I saw Steffi taking her own top and bra off. I know Jacques had been looking at my tits all night, did he want to suck too? Peter left my nipples alone and kneeled above me on the sofa. His hand went back to the back of my neck as I looked up at him and wondered what I could do next to keep him interested in me. My boobs were still aching for attention and my whole body seemed to be begging for something which I hadn't really contemplated for many months. If only my wife were here. But I felt happy to be with Peter, and happier still to make Peter happy with me. But then I noticed that with his free hand Peter had undone his fly and got out his penis, and it was hard, with the tip pointing right at my mouth! I put my hands on his hips and pushed back but he was so quick and strong and pulled my lips onto his head. The moment they touched I felt my mouth open and my lips slide down over the length of his rod, then they tightened over it and I sucked whilst pushing his hips back. Great! Pushing him away! But then my hands betrayed me and stopped as my mouth got back just over that ridge that runs around the glans, and I eased off and slid down his cock again. This repeated and repeated, and there was nothing I could do to stop my head bobbing on his cock, or trying to fit more of his warm flesh deeper down my throat. My lips and mouth felt good again though, and it made Peter very happy as I could hear him moaning and guiding me, so I just accepted it and got on with doing it naturally. I somehow knew that if he came in my mouth I would swallow it, for him, even though on some level that repulsed me, so I relaxed when he pulled himself free of my mouth. Now though my whole body was begging for even more, and I couldn't feel right unless I was satisfying Peter. I gave feeble resistance to his strength when he manhandled me onto the floor and I crouched there on my hands and knees, and I faced Steffi on her knees giving Jacques a blow job. What a sexy sight! It turned me on even more! I felt slightly embarassed to want her, but then she turned to see me, right at the moment that Peter grabbed my hips and then pushed inside me. Between my legs inside me! Into a space which I'd never felt anyone go into before, and it felt wonderful to be filled! The next time I opened my eyes Steffi was on the floor in the same position facing me, and I had to avoid bashing into her as Peter rammed me full and hard. What was I doing? My own gorgeous step-daughter was getting fucked doggy-style in front of me and not only could I do nothing about it, I could do nothing about it because I was getting fucked doggy- style in front of her, and it felt amazing! How could she see her own step-father like this? Then some dam broke under the pressure inside me and I think I screamed in relief, shoving my hips back to feel Peter as deep inside me as he would go. I didn't see Steffi get up, but when Peter came inside me he eased himself out and we went back to necking as I tried to tease him hard again. Steffi dragged me away, got me cleaned up a bit and dressed and we went home, to bed. She was still asleep when I went down for breakfast. Peter called a little bit later. I had no idea he was leaving that day! Steffi came down while I was on the phone but she went straight back to bed. So I kept the noise down whilst I packed a small suitcase with my things and ran off to meet Peter. I just didn't want him to leave like that, not after such an incredible evening. I moved in with Peter in Paris. I can't seem to stop wanting his attention, and I just get so horny when I finally get his hands and lips on me. We've got engaged. I have to tell my wife soon.