Maybe It's Magic - Chapter 3 free porn video

Maybe It's Magic - Chapters 3 by RH Music Chapter 3: Morgen and my new responsibilities I am sitting on the floor of Morgen's bedroom, using her bed as a backrest, trying to study for my math mid-terms. I'm having a hard time of it. Morgen is in bed on her stomach reading a new book, "Fear of Flying" by Erica Jong. Her arm is draped over the side of the bed and her hand is inside the collar of my shirt, gently playing with my nipples. "What's it about?" I ask, referring to the book. "Sex," she says. "Sex and feminism and toilets and travel and modern woman's relationships. Nothing for you, my darling." I wonder why she would say that. Shouldn't I be reading about feminism and modern woman, you know, now that I'm wearing a bra and panties? Although it's been a couple of weeks since I started wearing bras every day, there's been, basically, no change in the size of my breasts. I don't dare say it out loud, but clearly I was right that there's no such thing as magic. Oh I mean, sure, my breasts do feel a bit more swollen than before, but I'm sure that's just because of the bras themselves. With all their underwire and the way they're plumping things up, it's just natural that things will get redistributed. And my nipples seem the same too. I mean, sure, sometimes after I'm out of the shower I look at them and think, "Wow, they're really bigger," but then I look more carefully and convince myself that it's just the paranoia talking. They really do look the same. Or at least I think they do. They probably do. I'm almost sure of it. Of course, I don't have a picture or a plaster cast or detailed measurements of my nipples or anything (what a ridiculous thought), so it's not like I can make a side-by-side comparison. Not that I would change anything even if I did notice a problem. Bras are so amazing, every day I wake up and just can't wait to put one on! And, like my panties, the bras Morgen gave me come in such a wide variety. There are plain nylon ones in pastel colors with soft inner lining and little satin bows. Ones where the cups are made of nothing but mesh lace, with a lacy scalloped neckline. More romantic light pink ones, again with lace covering the entire cup, but this time with delicate embroidered stitching as well. There's a firm, no-nonsense, all satin pink bra with wide satin straps and a little red butterfly in the middle of the cups. Some have wide straps in back with as many as six hooks, some have thin stretchy straps with only two hooks. There are several Playtex "cross your heart" bras, just like a housewife might wear. There's a tan one which laces up in the middle, between the cups. There's a cotton pastel blue one with quilted padding on the inside and delicate embroidered flowers on the cups. And all of them are just wonderful... "Why are you always playing with my nipples?" I ask Morgen. But she always gives me the same answer. "Because I want you to have nice fat nipples," she says, absentmindedly. "Like--" But she stops short and doesn't continue the sentence. "Like what?" I ask. "Or who?" "Nothing," she says, tousling my hair. "Nobody. Get up here," she tugs on my shirt collar. "I need to fuck." I stand up and strip down to bra (basic white nylon spandex Cross Your Heart style) and panties (simple white nylon with nice lace edges) and snuggle under the covers with Morgen, who has stripped off everything and is gloriously naked. Ever since that night when I showed her the bra, we've been inseparable. Some days, Morgen makes it a point to find me at school and we study together in the library or go for a snack in the college cafeteria. Or that time we spent on the grassy quadrangle during that crazy warm Indian summer day (I prepared a blanket and a picnic lunch which we fed to each other - oh, it is so amazing to have a girlfriend). Or sometimes, we just go home between classes, arm in arm to snuggle under the covers in her bed and fuck. We fuck a lot. Morgen is insatiable, always asking if I'm able. If I say that I am, for sure she'll find a way to have sex. We've done it in public bathrooms (several times!), empty classrooms, and once in a hidden cubby in the library (she was naked under a trench coat which she draped around the two of us as we slowly coupled - I hid my face in her shoulder I was so embarrassed, but I still got plenty excited). There have been times when she'll simply show up in my classroom, walk up to me (in the middle of class) take me by the hand and drag me back to the house, ignoring the stares of my classmates. And, as embarrassing as it all is, I let her. I gather up my books and stuff them into my bookbag and then follow her meekly, submissively, out of the classroom, down the street, to her bedroom where I strip down to bra and panties and she strips completely naked and we have sex. No matter how demanding she is and no matter how inconvenient it is, I always give in. I mean, of course I do! I have a girlfriend! And we're having sex, practically all the time! It's every horny teenager's dream. "Won't you get pregnant?" I ask. "Haven't you heard of the pill?" she rolls her eyes. "Don't worry. I won't get pregnant. Now strip and let me fuck you." I guess I've accepted that she's in control of my life. That, and I love her. But do I really love her? Sometimes I wonder. God knows I'm obsessed with her. All I can think about all day long is her smooth athletic body, her generous breasts and demanding lips and probing tongue. Oh god, I could kiss her forever. And her smell. Her musky, womanly, feminine smell of sweat and shower soap and underarm deodorant and shampoo and sex. I could get lost in that smell. If I've touched her, down there, I find myself smelling my fingers all day long, lost in her scent, one sniff is enough to get me hard again. And I sit in class and my mind just wanders, to the last time we had sex, the last time she held my hand, a lingering kiss on my cheek... Maybe I am in love? * * * "Why don't you believe in magic?" Morgen asks, one afternoon, after we've had sex. This time we're in my bedroom, and the late afternoon sun is slanting through the windows, warming the carpet. "I believe in magic. If it's the magic of love... or love making," I grin. "Typical man," she rolls her eyes. "No, I mean the magic curse you're under right now. Or what else might be caused by that curse." "Morgen," I look at her, frustrated. We talk about magic and physics almost every day. "Magic does not exist. I refuse to believe that these clothes are cursed. Or that I am cursed." "They why are you wearing them?" I fidget a little under her stare. "Because, they feel nice," I admit. "Maybe their feeling nice is part of the curse." "So what if it is? Can't I just wear them because I want to?" "And I've been wondering what else is caused by the curse." "Such as...?" "Such as... well... how much sex we've been having, for one. I mean, I want to have sex with you all the time! Nonstop! It's unnatural. Don't get me wrong, I love it! Oh, god, I love it! I hope it never stops. But the pleasure I get just from seeing you orgasm... it's insane. It feels extraordinary - as in 'extra' ordinary. Surreal. Extra sensory. Bewitched. Something like that." "If that's part of the curse, then I say bring it on! This is the best curse ever!" "But Marshall!" Morgen scolds me. "You are fucking with powerful forces here! Like, literally! You need to appreciate what might be happening to you! To us!" "Morgen, it's okay," I say, pulling her into a hug. "The panties and the bra... I really love them. I'm glad to be wearing them. They make me feel... special. *You* make me feel special. I wouldn't give any of that up for the world." Morgen looks at me with sad eyes, and then gives me a deep, deep kiss. * * * That conversation comes back to me a lot now, because recently... well... there have been issues. Specifically, sometimes I'm not able to get an erection. "It happens," Morgen shrugs as if it's nothing. But it's not nothing to me! I'm just 19, and I can't get an erection? The weird thing is that this happens even when I'm horny and excited. We're together, she's playing with my nipples, she whispers that she's hot for me and wants to fuck and we strip, but there's... nothing. And despite her assurances that it's okay, it makes me feel... inadequate. "Probably it's because we're having too much sex," Morgen grins. "You're not used to it." Is that all it is? We're having so much sex that sometimes I'm unable to get hard? "Or it's the curse," Morgen says, this time more seriously, but I snort with derision. "Stop with the curse!" I say, frustrated. But... it seems to be happening more and more often, and there are fewer and fewer times where Morgen is able to mount me and make it happen. Anyway, fortunately, today, I am able to get it on, and so she pushes my cream-colored satin tap-panties down far enough to expose my hard member and mounts me, kissing me aggressively and pinching my nipples through the bra (this time an old-fashioned, light pink shiny satin bra with barely any stretch in the fabric, and little eyelet lace around the edges). I love the way this feels, with me on my back, her weight pressed against my body, her lips on mine, as she grinds her hips into me. She has this amazing way of working the muscles in her sex, as if she's drawing my manhood into her, pulling me or milking me so that soon I'm gasping and trying to hold back as much as I can until she's close but sometimes, like now, I can do nothing to prevent it so I give up and just let it happen, jerking and ejaculating. Morgen uses a finger to finish herself off. My balls feel completely drained and achingly empty when it's all over. After we're both satisfied, I do my duty and fetch a warm washcloth from the bathroom, which I use to clean us both up. "That was nice," she says after I've returned to bed and we're snuggling. She plays with my nipples some more. "But I want more. Let's see if I can make you spurt again." "Wha--- what do you mean?" I stammer. "Here..." she pushes down my panties to my knees and then reaches into her nightstand, pulling out a tube. "What is that?" "KY Jelly," she explains, matter of factly. KY? It makes me think of the adult bookstore on the outskirts of town. Perverted sex toys. Morgen unscrews the top and squirts some of the clear jell directly onto my penis. "Please, Morgen, no..." I say, embarrassed at my small, soft penis. But she ignores me and grasps my penis, working it through her fingers. My member is soft so she can't run her hand up and down the shaft, so it's more like she's rolling it around in her grasp, the thumb and the fingers rubbing the sensitive parts especially around the circumcised head, making me gasp and squirm. "See?" she says, grinning evilly. "Isn't this nice? Have a nice orgasm for me, Marshall. Spurt for me." "It's so sensitive," I gasp. "Please stop." But she doesn't stop, and eventually her manipulations start having an effect. I can feel my orgasm building. "Play with your titties." Morgen takes my hands and places them my own breasts. "Let's see if that helps." It does help. As I squeeze my breasts and pinch my nipples I feel like I've passed that point of wanting it to stop and have moved to the place of wanting it to continue. Still my penis is soft. There's not a bit of hardness in it at all, even though it's now starting to feel really good. "Oh, god... Morgen," I gasp and moan under her ministrations. "That's my bitch," she whispers, leaning over to kiss me. "Keep it up." We continue like this until an orgasm finally wells up inside of me, like a wave, and I ejaculate, my sperm weakly dribbling from the tip a couple of times. As I do, I see a ripple of pleasure run across Morgen's face. She's getting off on this, I realize. Why is she getting off on this? Giving me a hand job turns her on? "But... I didn't get hard," I gasp. "How... but... I thought that was impossible? To ejaculate without an erection?" "It's possible," Morgen says, as if it's nothing. "It happens all the time. We've studied it in my human sexuality course. Men are perfectly able to orgasm without getting hard. Let's do it again!" "Again?? Are you kidding?" "I never kid," she says, applying more lubricant. * * * We end up doing it twice more, but the last time, which takes forever, nothing comes out, so I'm not sure it counts. I am sore and drained. Morgen is also sore, and had to switch hands back and forth. My nipples and breasts are so sensitive and tingly that even the delicate fabric of the bra feels uncomfortable. "Why?" I ask, weakly, as I snuggle into her soft breasts. "I just wanted to make sure that my bitch is completely drained," she says, with a satisfied sigh. I fall asleep in her arms and dream that my breasts are growing. * * * The next day, I'm going through school with a silly grin on my face, thinking about Morgen. For some reason, I feel so much lighter today. Light and happy. And feminine. My panties feel delicious under my male trousers. The bra cups and strokes my breasts sensuously. I feel so happy to be alive, so happy to be wearing lady's lingerie, and so happy to be with someone as wonderful as Morgen. My girlfriend! I enter the school bookstore for supplies and fetch a new pack of graph paper and some replacement leads for my mechanical pencil. I place them on the counter and wait. After a second, I notice that the cashier, a man, is frozen, staring. Staring at my chest. It takes a second before I realize what's going on. Why would he be staring at my chest? Of course, Morgen dressed me in a clingy turtleneck today. I look down at what he's staring at, and suddenly I turn beet red. Oh god! Oh shit! I race out of the store, leaving my purchases on the counter. As I run across campus, I grasp my bookbag to my chest, face red and eyes wet. * * * "My breasts are growing," I say, storming into Morgen's room. "They are really growing!" "Well of course they are," she said. "I told you they would if you kept wearing bras." "But... but... but this can't be happening!" "Maybe it can't, but it is. Take off your shirt." I pull my turtleneck off over my head. "Now take off your bra." I reach behind my back and unhook the strap and then pull it off of me. The bra hangs for a brief moment, the cup clinging to my flesh before I pull it free. Morgen pulls me over to her full-length mirror. "See?" she asks. "They're definitely breasts. I've noticed for a while now, but I didn't want to say anything." It's true. Now that I'm standing in the mirror and looking objectively, I can see it's true. I have breasts. No wonder the cashier at the bookstore was staring. On my slender frame and with my smooth skin they look even more prominent. "These are A's. Maybe even small B's. And your nipples are getting bigger too." "Stop!" I squeal, as Morgen pinches them. "Check this out," she says, grasping handfuls of my tit flesh pushing them together. I almost swoon, seeing the cleavage she creates. "A little push-up bra and you'd be quite the hottie with that cleavage." "But Morgen... what am I going to do??" I whine. "Personally, I think they're sexy," Morgen says, whispering into my ear. "Very sexy." "Morgen, please. What am I going to do?" "About what?" "About these!" I motion to the lumps on my chest. "Should I go to the doctor? Get them checked out? Get my blood tested?" "Marshall? Here's what you do. You put your bra back on. That's what a bra is for. It keeps your breasts supported. Now that you actually have some breasts, for the first time you're wearing a bra because you actually need it." "But... but..." I look at the bra in my hand. It's a delicate French bra with embroidered leaves and flowers in a champagne-colored silk thread and trimmed in lace. It's so beautiful. "But if I put it on, then..." "Then your breasts will continue to grow." "But... how much more?" "I'm not exactly sure. But more. A lot more." I look at the bra, trying to decide what to do. I've grown to love wearing the bras. They make me feel special. And Morgen is always playing with them, and I love looking special for her. And they feel so comforting when I put them on, and I love playing with my nipples through the bra. "I don't know what to do," I whine, shifting between one foot and the other. "Please help me, Morgen." "I can't help you with this, Marshall. You need to decide. Are you going to put the bra back on, or not?" She places a hand on my back and gently strokes it. Her tender touch makes me shiver. She's the one who wants me to wear bras, I remember. She's the one who placed the bra on my dresser to begin with. As in a trance, I hold out the bra and put it back on. Morgen helps to hook it up in back. I feel the cups gently hold and lift my small breasts. "There now," she says. "Isn't that so much better?" "Yes," I say, meekly. I am wearing a bra, I realize to myself. And the more I wear it, the more my breasts will grow. And here I am... still wearing it. Previously, I had no doubt. Morgen said it was magic, and I knew there's no such thing. But now... now I don't know what to think. I see the bra on my chest and I see the feminine mounds it is holding, and I know that my breasts are growing. Maybe I've known it for a while now, but I've just been ignoring the obvious, so entranced I have been with having sex with Morgen. But now I can no longer fool myself. My breasts are growing. I am wearing a bra, and I will wear one tomorrow, and I will wear one the day after that. If Morgen is correct (and she has been correct about everything so far), I will wear bras for the rest of my life. And I can feel that I want to. That I am meant to... But that also means my breasts will keep growing. It means that I have chosen the path which leads to what will probably be a nice, large womanly bosom... "But what am I going to do?" I ask, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. "The man at the bookstore, he was... he was staring at me! Staring at my chest!" "Oh honey," Morgen gives me a hug. "Is that what you're worried about? Men staring? Well, I suppose I can understand. It may take some time to get used to their stares. I know it took me forever. Let's see if we can find something to help cover you up. I think I have a sweater here somewhere..." I follow Morgen into her closet. It's a small closet, barely a walk-in, with rows of clothes on either side and stacks of boxes on shelves. "How can you live like this?" I ask, looking around. There are heaps and heaps of dirty clothes all over. "Oh, it's not so bad," Morgen says, combing through the piles, looking for her sweater. "I know I had it here somewhere." "How long ago?" "Well, I think the last time I wore it was..." Morgen freezes. "What? Morgen? Are you okay?" "I remember where it is now," she says, stiffly. "Where?" Morgen looks out the window, her face stony. "I'll show you," she says, finally. Morgen grabs me by the hand and leads me out of her bedroom, down the hall, and into her father's room. "Oh my god..." I mutter, shocked, as we enter his room. Mr. Feyla's bedroom has gold-colored, wall-to-wall shag carpeting, now stained, and heavy, dark wood furniture. A four poster bed sits on the far side of the room. The sheets on the bed are messy and chaotic, like an animal's nest. Worse, they are yellow and clearly haven't been washed in weeks, maybe months. Piles of clothes are everywhere. I see a bottle of scotch and a dirty glass on the night stand. On the other side of the room is an old-fashioned wooden screen for changing, with what looks like a slip thrown over it. Next to that is a wood inlayed dressing table with a dark green paisley upholstered stool. The dressing table has a big oval mirror, a lamp, a smaller magnifying mirror on a swivel stand, two jewelry boxes and an enormous number of bins and jars of makeup. There are two sets of dresser drawers, obviously his and hers, and a door on the far wall which must open into a walk-in closet. I am assaulted by grown up smells. There's a male-animal smell throughout (almost a stench), but also the smell of wood and mothballs and perfume and talc and alcohol. "Doesn't he ever clean up?" I gasp, looking around. "Not since..." Morgen takes a deep breath. "Not since Mom died," she finally admits. "I've cleaned up a couple of times. But I hoped that..." "Hoped what?" "I guess I hoped that if I stopped cleaning for him, he would eventually start doing it for himself. Obviously I was wrong. Anyway, let's get you that sweater." "Someone should really clean this up and do the laundry," I point out, as Morgen starts rooting through her mother's dresser drawers. "Maybe it should be you?" Morgen says, without looking back. "Okay." The word slips from my mouth before I have a chance to think about it. "Wait, what?" Morgen stops with a drawer hanging open and turns to look at me. "What are you saying? That you would actually consider picking this place up and doing my dad's laundry?" I look around. There's a ton of dirty clothes. "Y-yes?" I stammer. I feel something like a warm electric pulse run through my body. "Interesting..." Morgen looks at me very closely. "Very interesting. Well, if you want to do it, that's fine by me. Oh, hey! How about this? I'll give you free room and board if you clean up and do the laundry." "Free room and board? Done! Oh my god, Morgen! I won't have to go get a job! I can spend more time here with you! This is fantastic!" I am practically jumping up and down I'm so happy! "Oh wait..." Morgen pauses. "What?" suddenly I'm worried. "I'm sorry, Marshall," Morgen shakes her head. "I can't let you do this." "But... Morgen?" I'm ashamed at how pathetic I sound. "Why not? It's perfect." "I know, and it *is* perfect. I've seen how clean your room is. And you've been so careful washing your panties and bras. But..." "But what?" "Well, having you do laundry and clean the house? That's *women's work*. I can't ask you do to that." "Women's work? What are you talking about? Don't you believe in Women's Liberation? That doesn't bother me! I like to clean. Really. And this mess! I want to help. Please Morgen." "But Marshall, if you do this, you might discover that you like it. And then what will happen? You'll be wearing panties and a bra, and you'll be doing housework and laundry. Do you understand? You'll be wearing WOMEN's LINGERIE and doing WOMEN's WORK...." "Lots of men help clean house," I point out. "Okay, maybe not lots, but my dad would occasionally pick up the house and run the vacuum." "How often?" "I've seen him do it a couple of times." "Twice, over the nineteen years you've been alive? And have you ever seen him do laundry?" "Well no, but..." "Face it, Marshall, housework is women's work. I can't let you do this. It wouldn't be right." "Please, Morgen!" I feel my frustration level rising. Why is she fighting this? "I really need the money and I really want to do this. It's no big deal! Honest! I'm okay with doing women's work. I'm happy to do women's work! Especially for you and Mr. Feyla. That's perfectly fine." "Wait, what did you just say?" "That's perfectly fine." "No, before that." "Um... I'm okay with doing Women's work?" "No, you said 'especially for me and Mr. Feyla.' Why did you say that?" I look at her, bewildered. "Because, you are my girlfriend, and Mr. Feyla is my dad." "Your dad??" "I'm sorry! I meant he's *your* dad. He's my girlfriend's dad. I like him. I want to help him. It's clear that he's unable to take care of himself, and so I want to help out." Morgen looks at me for the longest time. "If you do this, I can already predict that you'll be cleaning house and doing laundry for the rest of your life, no matter where you end up." Something about that thought makes me twist up inside. But this is too good an opportunity to let it go. "So I can start? You'll let me?" "Yes. But under one condition." "What is it?" "First, you'll need training. I can train you on the basics but to truly handle the household you'll need more advanced training." "Okay... what did you have in mind?" "I want you to take some home economics courses." "Home Ec? From the university? Are you joking? But... But... the semester is already half over!" "Go to the Home Ec department and ask if you can audit the remainder of the semester. I bet they'll let you. I saw they have a class called 'Apparel Care for the Family'. Look for that one." I look at Morgen, shocked. She wants me to take Home Economics? Only women take those! Then I think: Oh. I see. It's women's work. That's what Morgen wants me to understand. What bothers me more is that it's only women looking for an "M.R.S." degree which take Home Ec. Oh sure, I remember reading about it in the course catalog and how many of the graduates go on to become interior decorators or nutritionists or high school teachers and stuff like that. But everyone knows they're just looking to find a husband and get married. But seriously. Home Economics? "Marshall?" "I'll ask about auditing the class tomorrow," I say, resigned. "Very good. Oh, hey, I found it!" Morgen pulls out an ugly brown mass of wool from the drawer. "You can wear this to hide your new boobs if you want." * * * Now that I'm in charge of laundry and cleaning the house, I spend the remainder of the day cleaning. But wow, it takes all afternoon just to do the sheets. I wash Mr. Feyla's sheets first, because they are the most disgusting. It takes three washes (the first one with bleach) before they're clean again. Then I wash Morgen's sheets and then, following Morgen's instructions, I make both of their beds. I fluff the pillows and admire the clean pillow cases and the nice, freshly washed sheets, feeling how wonderful it is to make things right, so that Mr. Feyla can come home to a soft clean bed and a get a good night's sleep. Of course, Morgen thanks me profusely and then she pushes me onto her (newly made up!) bed, pushes down my pants and panties and uses her hand with some lubricant on my penis. "My tip," she giggles. "For our little homemaker." I squirm under her expert fingers, and even though I don't get hard, I still ejaculate. Then she does it again, this time while fingering her self with her free hand and we come together. Next morning over coffee, Mr. Feyla comments on the fresh clean sheets. "It was the best night's sleep I've had all year. Thank you, Morgen." I feel a surge of pride and satisfaction at his comments. "It wasn't me," Morgen says. "It was Marshall." "Morgen!" I glare at her. Why would she say that?? I had explicitly asked her not to tell him! "He's going to do the laundry and clean up around the house from now on," Morgen explains. "In exchange for room and board." "Oh." Mr. Feyla looks at me, a quizzical expression. "Well... that's very... uh... 'modern' of you, Marshall, if you don't mind my saying so. You don't mind picking up after Morgen and me? And washing our dirty underwear?" I feel my scalp sweat and my face turn red. "Well... ah... I always helped my Mom at home, and so..." my voice trails off. "So no, I don't mind. And I need the job. And I can work here. You know, which is more... convenient." "Well, good for you. It's not the sort of job I could ever do, I can tell you that! Women's work!" Mr. Feyla laughs and claps me on the back before gathering his hat and briefcase and leaving for work, slamming the kitchen screen door shut behind him. * * * "Why yes, you can audit 'Apparel Care for the Family'." Great. Just great. I am talking with Professor Mary Chambers. She's friendly but with an English-nanny sort of no-nonsense I've-seen-it-all-before-so-don't-try- to-pull-anything-on-me-young-lady attitude. "It would be wonderful to have a man in the class," she continues. "We're always saying that men should know how to run a household just as much as a woman. After all, with more women entering the workforce, there will be more men helping out at home, and maybe even staying home to take care of the children! Imagine that!" My heart sinks. I was hoping it was too late in the semester or that the class was full. Oh well. "I just want to make sure that you're not one of those men who feel that this is a good place to pick up women? We are a serious class here, Mr. Marshall!" "It's Kelly," I correct her. "But no. I already have a girlfriend. In fact, auditing this class was her idea." "Oh. Interesting." She looks at me for a second, wondering if I am telling the truth. "Well, okay, Mr. Marshall--" "It's Kelly," I try to explain. "Mr. Marshall Kelly." "Sorry, of course, Kelly. But I do have one condition. We are just completing the theoretical part of the course and entering the practical. I will give you the reading so you can catch up on the theoretical foundation. The practical work means lab work. I won't have you just watching as everyone else completes the labs. You will be required to complete each and every lab just like every other student, and you will be graded on your work, and if your grades fall below a B, then you will no longer be welcome. Do you accept these terms?" I gulp. Labs? I wonder what those might require. Fortunately, since I am no longer attending graduate physics reading lectures, I have plenty of time for another class. "Okay," I say. "I accept." "Very well. Classes are Monday, Wednesday and Friday at 8am. Labs are Tuesday and Thursday afternoons at 2pm. That means the first lab is this afternoon and I expect to see you there." * * * Home Ec lab turns out to be a room full of sewing machines, steamers and ironing boards. Students (all women) are chatting with each other and checking out their machines. "Nice sweater," one of them says to me, with a smirk. She and her classmates don't even bother to hide their laughter. I discover that her name is Stacy. I give her an icy smile and find an empty seat. "Welcome Professor Chambers," all of the women in the class call out as Mary Chambers enters. "And welcome to you," she responds. "And welcome to our new student, Kelly. Kelly, dear, why don't you stand up and tell you a little about yourself?" "Uh..." I slowly stand and look around the room. "Hi. My name is Kelly," I wince at my mistake. "I mean... *Marshall* Kelly. I'm a physics student and I'm hear to learn how to better take care of clothing, uh, for my job." "You job?" Prof. Chambers asks. "I thought it was for a friend of yours?" I wince again. "Well, uh, yes, it is." "So, is this a job, or just something you want to learn? Taking care of clothes? Doing sewing and hemming?" I feel like a helpless animal, trapped and trying desperately to get free. "I... uh... I've agreed to do the laundry and, uh, clean the house in exchange for free room and board," I explain. "But, um, the land lady, I guess? She said would only, um, accept me if I took some Home Ec--" There was a murmur of disapproval. "We call it 'Family and Consumer Studies,' dear," says the professor. "Sorry," I wince again. "She would only accept me if I took some professional courses, to, ah, improve my skills." "Well, I think we can all agree that is a worthwhile goal. Thank you. Now I hope everyone here will welcome Kelly with open arms and help her to come up to speed just as quickly as possible. Now today we're going to learn about basic sewing machine maintenance, some of the basic stitches, and how to hem a skirt..." * * * "This is so wonderful!" Morgen squeals, going to her closet. "I have *tons* of stuff which needs to be hemmed!" She pulls two skirts and a dress from her closet - practically the only items which are not dirty or laying on the floor. "Okay, fab. But I need at least two pairs of pants as well. Professor Chambers has clothes we can practice on, but she said if we can hem clothes of people we know, that would be better. And the more we have will be extra credit." "Aren't you just auditing the class?" "Apparently I still have to do all the work," I shrug. "And I'll get graded as well. Like a regular student." "Sweet! I want to see that grade. Promise me you'll show me your report card. I bet you're loving Home Ec--" "They call it 'Family and Consumer Studies'." "Whatever. I bet you love being the only man in a class full of women." "Sure. Except..." "Except what?" I shrug my shoulders. "They've confused my first and last name." "They call you 'Kelly?'" Morgen asks, with a giggle. "Yes," I blush. "I try to correct them, but nobody is paying attention." "That's not bad, actually," she says looking thoughtful. "You look like a Kelly. Maybe I should start calling you Kelly?" "Morgen, please." "Oh, shush, Kelly. Now in terms of pants that need to be hemmed..." Morgen looks through her closet some more. She has a lot of pants, but most of them are jeans. "I know!" she snaps her fingers. "Oh perfect! Come with me!" I follow Morgen down the hall to a door that I've never entered. Morgen opens it to reveal a small room stuffed with shelves of books, bolts of fabric, and various supplies. A sewing mannequin is in one corner. Along one wall is a long sewing table with a Singer sewing machine with a mint-green plastic cover. Attached to another wall is a clothes rod hung with various pants, shirts, and dresses. Clothes in various stages of repair is on a table in the far corner. The window looks out onto the back yard, where the overgrown and unkempt garden is visible. "See? This is perfect! It's Mom's old sewing and crafting room. She--" Morgen pauses for a second, then takes a deep breath. "Obviously she won't be needing it. I think you should use it." I step further into the room. Everything feels carefully organized and put away, except for a few projects which she left half complete when she died. It is the room of a competent, efficient, seamstress and mother. "I feel weird. This all belonged to your mother?" "Please, Kelly. I think it would help me... and Dad... if you made use of the room again. It's no good sitting here and gathering dust. You should occupy it, make it yours. Besides, won't it be nice to be able to do your homework right here at home?" "That would be nice," I admit. Not having to walk through the school grounds with an arm full of dresses and doing my homework in the lab would be a definite plus. "But I don't know..." "What's the problem? Here, try sitting in front of the sewing machine," "But it's your mother's," I try to explain. It feels so invasive. Like I'm putting on someone else's shoes. Like I'm... usurping Mrs. Feyla's private domain. Her own place where she could work and create and be alone with her thoughts, looking out at the garden in the backyard, working on her crafts and her sewing. Her personal sanctuary. "I can't," I take a step back. Morgen pulls me into a hug. "Listen, I know it feels weird," she says, giving me a light kiss on the lips and rubbing my back. "This place has been unused and untouched for over a year. But don't you see how that's something like a crime? Don't you think she would want someone to use it? Especially someone like you? Someone who wants to sew - someone who wants to fix clothes for her family?" I think about it for a while. "I suppose you're right." "Then... have a seat." Morgen holds out the sewing chair for me. I look at it. Am I really going to do this? But it's only a dumb chair, right? What's the big deal? Mrs. Feyla's not here. It won't matter to her, right? But I can't shake the feeling that perhaps Mrs. Feyla really *is* here. And that's she looking at me right now, wondering what I'm going to do. Wondering if I'm... worthy? I take a breath to clear my head and then I step forward and sit down in the chair. And the weirdest feeling comes over me - like I'm shifting into someone else's body. Like I'm being momentarily possessed. But just as quickly, the moment passes. "See?" Morgen says. "Nothing to worry about." The room has become brighter and roomier with a ray of sunshine piercing through the window. The wall paper has a beautiful rose-colored flowered design on a cheerful light yellow background (Laura Ashley again). How did I not notice that before? I take off the plastic cover and inspect the sewing machine. It has a pretty teal colored face plate. I open up and check the bobbin. It has thread. I check the foot pressure and the needle thread tension. I check the settings for stitch length, width and needle position. Everything seems fine. To the side, there's a spare piece of fabric. I pull it out and fold it over as if it were a hem and place it under the needle and lower the presser foot. I locate the foot pedal and press. It whirs to life! With a yell of surprise, I stop after only a few stitches. I had no idea it would actually work! After all this time, still plugged in, just waiting for someone to sit down and use it? I catch my breath and then reposition the test hem, and then gently press the pedal. Slowly and then with more confidence, I sew the hem. I use the reverse lever to run it back-and-forth to complete the seam, then I pull my foot from the pedal, lift the presser foot and pull out the fabric, snipping the threads from the machine with a handy pair of scissors. I look up at Morgen, grinning, only to see her look back at me with a shocked expression. As if she's seen a ghost. * * * Classes done for the day, I head back home looking forward to continuing my housework. The laundry is all gathered up and sorted by color. I finished two loads this morning and the third is already in the dryer. I've gotten a head start on my hemming homework (it's only Thursday, so I have all weekend) and so all is right with the world. I smile. Housework is so satisfying! I'm happy! "Kelly! Come here!" I hear Morgen call me as soon as I enter the kitchen. More sex with Morgen! I put my book bag away in my room and throw off the horrible itchy brown sweater and then head to her room. Morgen is already naked. "Strip," she demands. This is nothing new. Morgen is always telling me to strip. "My, my, they *are* getting bigger," Morgen says as I doff my outer clothes and slip into bed with her in just bra and panties. As I do, I feel the weight of my breasts bounce gently in the bra. Recently I've started noticing their weight as I walk through the quad, or jog upstairs. Gentle little reminders all day long that I have boobs. I snuggle in with Morgen, who is deliciously naked, and I place my head on her naked breasts, eyes closed, breathing in her warm scent. Morgen's hand is already snaking down to my panties and starting to stroke my bulge. Nice. Morgen slips her fingers into my panties and gently strokes my penis. After about a half a second, I'm horny and ready to have sex, but I'm still soft. "Why are you wearing a bra... Kelly?" Morgen asks. She takes each of my hands and places them on my A-cup, now almost B-cup breasts. Obediently I start to massage my breasts and play with my nipples. "I don't know..." I say. I'm starting to get lost in a fog of lust. I need to come. "You know that wearing a bra is making your breasts bigger. And you're playing with your nipples. Why are you doing that?" "Because you want me to," I protest. "Is that the only reason?" "It feels good. I guess." "You guess?" she teases me. "Okay, fine. It feels wonderful. I love it." "That's more like it." I lift my bottom as Morgen pushes down my panties and exposes my penis. "It's soft," I groan. "I feel so horny. Why is it still soft?" "It's okay, sweetie," Morgen says. She reaches for the lubricant and squeezes some on her hands and warms it up before grasping my member. Her other hand slips between her legs. "I think I prefer it this way," she says, sucking in her breath. She's clearly horny too. "I can time it better, and I love watching you wriggle under my fingers." I groan and arch my back as she runs my member through her fingers. "It must be more than the sex," she says, continuing to work us both. "What is?" "Why you wear panties and a bra all the time. Tell me you like it." "I like it." The words are out of my mouth before I can reflect on them "Really?" "Yes," I admit. "I love wearing panties. I love... unh... wearing a bra. I can't imagine not wearing them anymore. They feel so... ohhhhh...." I close my eyes and squirm. I'm so close. "So nice on all the time. They make me feel so pretty," I finish. "You know what I'm doing now, don't you?" Morgen asks. "You're making me come," I gasp. "Yes, Kelly, I am making you come. But I've been thinking about it, and I'm pretty sure that somehow, I've been caught up in your curse." "The non-existent curse." "You say it doesn't exist, but I'm sure it does. I'm worried that every time we have sex, we're making things worse. I think we're draining you. I think it's... I think that every time you ejaculate, it's making you more feminine." "Draining me?" I almost can't stand it. The thought that she is draining me... it sounds so dominant. And submissive me, it makes me even more turned on. I am so close! But Morgan can sense this and slows down, keeping me on the edge. "Yes, draining you. Cleansing you. Draining you of all your male essence. I'm starting to think that it's part of the spell you're caught up in. The spell that I'm caught up in too. The more you orgasm, the more you ejaculate, the less of your male essence you have left in your body. And the less male you are, the more female you become." "Morgen... this is ridiculous." I'm trying to follow her logic, but it all sounds like a lot of hocus pocus and pop psychology to me. "It's not ridiculous, Kelly! What if it's true? Maybe, over time, your body will rebuild it... your male essence, but I think the spell slows it down. And I'm worried there's a threshold." "A threshold? What do you mean, a threshold?" I gasp and squirm some more. I'm only half listening to her. I so want to come! Why won't she let me?? "Yes, a threshold. If your male essence falls below a certain point, then your body flips. It no longer regenerates your male essence. You become female. Your body starts to fill you with female essence and you become--" "Oh god... Morgen..." "Kelly!! You're... you're hard!" I look down and it's true. I have never been so full of lust and desire. "Are you... turned on by this?" Morgen says, shocked. "I don't know! I'm so horny! Fuck me, Morgen!" I plead. "Please!" Quickly Morgen mounts me and slips my hard penis into her soft, wet pussy. She works her muscles so they grip me as she slowly starts to ride me up and down. "But Kelly," she says, between kisses. Her body writhes on top of me, like a sorceress, her long hair cascading over me. "Oh god, you're hard. Oh Kelly...!" "I'm yours, Morgen," I say. "But Kelly, what if you go past the threshold? The point of no return?" "I don't care," I say, thrusting back. "There's no such think as magic. There's no such thing as a curse. Please, Morgen." "Are you sure??" Morgen stops. "YES!!!" "Okay then. Then tell me you love me." "I love you, Morgen!" Morgen starts up again. I feel like I have never been this hard in my life before. She kisses me. "Give yourself to me," she whispers in my ear, picking up the pace. "I give myself to you." "Give me your maleness. Give me all your masculinity. Give me everything that is manly about you." "I give you my manliness. I give you my masculinity. I give you everything that makes me a man! Oh Morgen, yes! Please... take it from me. Please...!" I close my eyes. This is it. I give myself over to Morgen completely and absolutely. I orgasm, and it seems to last forever. I am spurting and spurting. It leaks out and drains over and between my legs. And just then, Morgen comes too, her body jerking and writhing against me, her sex is clenching and squeezing, milking me of every last drop. My sperm and male essence spills everywhere, soaking the sheets. * * * END Chapter 3