The Lesson Plan -- Part Two: Supply Teacher (Episode Seven) free porn video

The Lesson Plan -- Part Two: Supply Teacher Sunday: Physical Education Chapter 36 This week has really taught me a few things about myself: I tend to jump into things without fully understanding what the consequences will be. Sometimes I get an idea, it seems like a good one, I go some ways to making it happen and then, somewhere along the line, the cold sinking realisation that I have no idea what I'm doing will hit me, and I'm too far along to go back. This explains why I'm no longer in college, why I'm staying with my aunt, why I'm living as her. It also explains why I'm at my aunt's gym at 8 o'clock on a Sunday morning, wearing her pink and black yoga pants, sports bra and tank top, smiling and walking up to the receptionist with a bright smile on my face. She takes my membership card and swipes it, offering me an insincere "Have a good workout!" as she hands me back my card, unlocks the turnstile and lets me through. This seemed like a good idea. A fun idea. Take Shayna's advice, I thought. Spend time as a woman, on my own, doing things women do. Research. It had seemed like a good idea at 6 am when I couldn't sleep, at any rate, and when I had put on my makeup and prosthetics and tied my hair back, wriggling into some cute activewear. It had still seemed like a good idea driving over here. It was only when confronted by the forbidden female sign on the women's changing room that it stopped feeling like a good idea, and started to feel like I had no idea what I was going to do next. "You okay?" a kind voice breaks me out of my trance and I turn to see a mid-thirties woman looking at me with a kind but also slightly irritated expression. She's wearing sweatpants and a loose tee and carrying a bag over her shoulder. "Sorry! Miles away," I say, making a pantomime of shaking my head and blinking. "It's early, right?" she says, brushing past me and pushing the door open and holding it open for me. Inviting me in. Here I go. My 6 am fantasties of a teen sex comedy -- with young nubile and naked women frolicing in the shower mist -- is quickly dispelled. The changing room is empty, except for my new friend and me. Lockers line the walls, and the smells of sweat and a dozen floral perfumes mingle for an unholy dominance. I swing my gym bag from my shoulder and make a show of looking inside while I figure out what to do next. Should I keep talking to this lady? Are changing rooms like ladies toilets in fancy restaurants? It's difficult to play the scene when you don't know the cues. I decide to leave her alone, dump my bag in a locker (depositing the key safely in my sports bra) and go out onto the gym floor, taking stock of everywhere. There's a lot of everywhere to take stock of. Lots of machines, weights, TVs, some class rooms and a pool. What there isn't a lot of is people. Two guys chat while lifting weights in the corner, while another guy runs heavily on the treadmill, his feet pounding percussively over the persistent Europop. This was a stupid idea. I install myself on an exercise bike, slightly behind and to the left of the running man, and start to gently pedal. I'm not sure how much actual real exercise this disguise can take, and so I keep it light, the bike on the lowest setting. It's not long after I wonder how long I have to keep at this for it not to look too weird. I get into a steady rhythm, getting used to the feeling of how this body moves in tight lycra. I sneak a look down at myself, rounded thighs working and the familiar sight of my bouncing bosom. This time last week I was waking up in a strange bed, hangover, in Ellen's black silk nightwear. I had been so nervous to have gone on a girls night out, and now look at me. Alone, in a gym. A confident woman working out. Albeit badly. "Hey, I've not seen you here before," one of the weightlifters struts over, all smiles and bulging forearms. "Do you need a hand? If you want a spot later just ask. It's no problem." He is openly checking me out, his gaze flickering between my breasts and backside and I'm briefly reminded of Tom on cocktail night. This is Tom on steroids. "I'm good thank you," I reply. "I'm just warming up." "You'd be better on the cross trainer," he says, not taking the hint. "That's a better full body low impact workout." "Do you work here?" I can't help but ask. This is a mistake. "No," he laughs. "I'm just here all the time. I'm Jason." He offers a sweaty hand that I shake lightly, releasing my grip of the handlebars. "Ellen," I reply. "Thanks for the advice but ... " I have to endure what seems like an eternity of chat and advice from Jason, who fiddles with the settings on my bike despite my protests, gives me unsolicited information about some classes and a weekly running club, and who gives me the low down on the best times to come. I smile and nod, politely pedally throughout as I plan my escape route. It's an exercise bike, I think. It is not rocket science. Does he really think I'm doing it wrong or does he just want an excuse to talk to me? After awhile I begin to feel that maybe I don't know what I'm doing after all. "Well," I say stopping and swiveling off the seat. "It was nice to meet you." I leave him standing there, and I'm almost one hundred percent sure he stares at my ass as I beat a retreat back to the changing room. How rude! I hadn't asked for help, he had just assumed I had no idea what I was doing. Or he had thought I wanted to be hit on. I mean, sure, maybe. But that's not the point. What am I, just a sexual object to be leered at? I strut back into the empty changing room, cursing this whole idea. I find my locker and my bag and take out a one-piece, electric blue swimsuit -- the whole reason for coming. Shayna's dare from earlier in the week. The reason I am here at all. It's really silly, I decided. She's not even here to see you do it. But I want her to be proud of me, so here goes nothing. I look around, and, again, despite my fantasies, I'm alone. No one to see. Fine. I sit on the wooden bench and untie my shoes, pull off my socks and pull down the yoga pants over my hips, tugging them off each leg. I slip my arms out of my tank top, and lay it beside the yoga pants. I reach behind my back to unclasp my sports bra, and it's at that moment I hear the changing room door open and the warm echo of chatter. My heart starts to beat a little faster, but I try to ignore it, finishing the task at hand with the extra clasps. I fumble when two young women round the corner, resolutely staring straight ahead, trying to appear as natural in the world. They're both pretty. Both easy and happy. One is very thing, dressed in tight jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt. The other curvier in a loose flowing dress with dark tights. They both decide this part of the changing room, the part with the only other occupant, is the part they want to be in, and so they open lockers, drop bags and smile at me with a polite, "Hi." "Hi," I say, just as my bra springs loose. "Sorry," I apologise, standing up in just my panties and tidying away my bottoms and tank top into my bag to take up less space. "That's okay," the girl in the dress says easily, before turning back to her friend and resuming their conversation about the night before, whilst at the same time pulling the dress over her head to show the world her mismatched underwear. I'm a woman. Amongst women. This is fine. This is totally fine. I try to ignore the rustling and movement around me as these two beautiful, young, natural women -- completely at ease -- get naked in front of me. Shayna told me not to stare. I don't stare. Instead I slip the thick straps of my bra down my arms with trembling fingers and show my large heavy breasts to these women. I take my time putting my sports bra away, waiting for the screams, the laughter, the cries that don't come. They ignore me. The girl with the jeans takes off her bra, and absently massages her breasts with a free hand while she roots around for her workout clothes. I take a deep breath and take off my panties, slipping them quickly down my smooth legs and now I'm naked. Fake face, fake hair, fake tits, fake ass, fake hips, fake pussy. I've never felt more real in my life. The curvier girl who used to be in the dress has peeled down her tights and panties. She wriggles her beautiful backside into lycra shorts inches from me. I pick up the swimsuit and feed my feet into the bottom, pulling it up and into place, threading my arms through the criss-cross straps and brazenly jiggling my breasts into place so they sit on the underwire. The cut of the suit is high, and tight, with a plunging neckline that, combined with the underwiring, makes my breasts look plump and round. I'm not sure this is a swimsuit for swimming in. It seemed much safer when I tried it on at home. "That's such a great color," the thin girl who used to be in the jeans says to me. Looking at me. Smiling at me whilst being completely naked. "Thank you," I say, not looking at her pink suckable nipples, her small breasts, or bony hips. "It's so hard to get a suit that's not got an awful pattern," I add, improvising. "Oh my God yes, thank you," the curvier girl who used to be in the dress says, as she wrestles her boobs into a her workout top. "It's either black or flowers usually." "I try not to wear black. It's just no fun," I say, parroting something Ellen said to me once as I zip up my bag and stow it in the locker. The two girls are now changed in the most incredible array of colors -- pink leggings, green tops, white sneakers. They both grin at me. "Totally. I wish my mom was like that," the girl who used to wear jeans says to her friend as they bounce out of the room to their workout. "Have a good swim!" her friend says as they leave. "Holy shit," I whisper in Kevin's voice as I watch them go, small round bottoms wiggling in figure-hugging shorts. I close my eyes, trying to commit the last few seconds to memory for all time, then pick up my towel and walk to the swimming pool The swimsuit feels strange as I walk -- too tight, too revealing. Sensations I'd gotten used to in my aunt's other clothes, but this is another first. I take advantage of the now- empty room to check my appearance in one of the many full height mirrors and note that even with the few steps I've taken, my ass is already eating the bottom half of the suit. I guess if I could feel it I would notice, but through the padding I can't feel a thing. I slide my fingers under the leg holes and run them around, trying to restore some dignity. This has the effect of tugging down the top half, which I then have to yank upwards to stop flashing all my boobs to the world. Oh man. Here goes. The pool has a few people swimming seriously and nobody pays me any mind as I hang my towel on a free peg and gingerly lower myself into the shallow end. The water is warm but not too hot. I'm pretty sure that none of the glue will come off, but this is still a bit of a risk, even though I did a trial run at home under the shower. I figure I'll do a couple of lengths, breast stroke, and take it easy before going back to change. And then home to get ready for my lunch date. I kick off and start swimming, careful to keep my head above water and to swim, well, to swim like a middle aged lady. It takes much longer than my usual front crawl to reach the other side, and so I stop, treading water and catch my breath, resisting the urge to check if my hips have fallen off and sunk to the bottom. "Miss Bennet?!" A young girl's voice echoes around the swimming pool. I look around and see the beaming face of Melanie, swimming towards me. "Oh shit," I whisper under my breath in Kevin's baritone, all the while flashing an Esther Williams smile. "Melanie!" I say when she gets within earshot. "Hi!" "Hi Miss Bennet," she says breathlessly, swimming up to me and grabbing hold of the edge of the pool. "I didn't know you came here! I'm here with my mom." She turns to look through the large glass wall and waves through to where several tables and chairs are set up -- a cafe for bored parents and after-workout fruit smoothies -- and a woman sits at a table alone, engrossed in her book. "That's my mom," she says, turning back to face me, fresh faced, her hair slicked back. Melanie's swimsuit is hot pink, visible through the shimmering water, with thin shoulder straps. "I didn't know you were such a great swimmer," I say, encouragingly. "Are you on the team at school?" This whole situation is freaking me out a little. I've run into two of my pupils outside of school and both times I've been in a state of undress. The whole episode with Andrew was bad enough, but this somehow feels more exposed. I'm more exposed. Melanie has the sort of eyes that really look at you, her gaze staring at me with intense attention. That first day in class, in the car. She really looks at her surroundings and takes it all in. And what she's taking in right now is me in a too-tight and too-revealing swimsuit. "The school doesn't have a team," she answers, rolling her eyes. "I come here for classes. My dad used to bring me but, well..." She tails off, glancing downwards into the deep end. "I like swimming," she finishes brightly. "Do you want to race?" "Oh God," I laugh, "I'm sure you'd beat me. I'm not very fast. But I like swimming too even though I'm slow. Oh, I wanted to ask you something actually. I was thinking about starting a drama club." "Oh my God, yes!" She squeals, her enthusiasm echoing off the tiles before I can even finish the sentence. "I'm in! Whatever you want to do. Oh wow that would be so good," she beams at me, and before I know it I'm being hugged, squeezed, by this slippery sixteen-year-old girl. "Yes, I'm in, totally!" She repeats, letting go and not looking at all embarrassed. "What would we do?" she asks. "I think that would be up to the club," I reply, smiling at her enthusiasm. "We can talk about it during the week, ok?" A whistle blows, and we both turn to see a small squad of teenagers have gathered at the shallow end, a young man about my age standing on the poolside. "I have to go. But definitely. Oh Miss Bennet that's amazing!" She flashes my a toothy grin and swims off, splashing a front crawl with impressive speed. I have to get out of here before I'm stuck in a changing room with a gaggle of teenage girls. I slowly swim back the way I came and find the steps, pausing to check that the bottom and top half of my swimsuit are decent before climbing out. I'm aware of the whole class watching as I collect my towel, and my heart sinks as I see a few people in Melanie's class. The instructor turns to look at what his charges are staring at and smiles as he checks me out, before turning his attention back to the matter at hand. I almost slip speeding back into the changing room. Chapter 37 "Mrs Anderson?" I ask, approaching the woman sitting at the table. She has a neat chestnut bob, shaped eyebrows and no makeup, thick rimmed glasses, and is wearing a round-necked knit grey top and blue jeans. She looks up at me and closes her book, and I notice that her nails are short and unpainted. She is reading, I notice with a smile, The Great Gatsby. "Hi," I say, standing over her, back in my workout clothes. She looks at me with a confused, but not unwelcome, expression. "Sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to say hello. I'm Ellen Bennet. Melanie's English teacher." Her expression alters instantly, and she smiles, setting down the book on the table next to an empty coffee cup. "Hi Ellen," she says, offering me her hand, which I remember to shake loosely. "I'm Kate. How did you...?" "I bumped into your daughter while I was swimming," I say by way of explanation. "Do you mind if I sit?" I ask, gesturing to the empty chair across from her. "Oh God," she says with a shake of her head, which makes me warm to her instantly. "Nightmare. I imagine you see enough of kids during the week. No, please! I'm just ..." she chuckles, "I'm just reading your homework actually. Melanie came home with it and I realised I hadn't read it since I was her age." "It's good," I say, sitting down and getting comfortable. "It's really a different book when you're older," I add after briefly considering saying 'our age.' Kate is older than Kevin, but younger than Ellen and I don't want to offend her. "You enjoying it?" "Yeah, I am. You're right. It is different. I remember bits of it, but I'd forgotten so much. You're not going to make me write a book report are you?" She asks, laughing. Her voice is rich -- deep for a woman -- and lovely to listen to. After one minute I've decided I like Kate Anderson. Her hand lingers on the stained book cover and I notice there is no jewelry on her fingers. Her ears too have no rings in them. No chain around her neck. "I promise," I say. "Scout's honor," I add, lifting two fingers. "I find it hard to believe you were in the Boy Scouts," she says, tilting her head and smiling. Is she flirting? No. "Oh they let anyone in these days," I laugh. "Anyway, I'm sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to say hello." "You're not interrupting: It's lovely to meet you. Mel has a bit of a crush on you I think, she's talked about nothing else all week!" "Aw, that's really ..." my hand goes to my chest, fingers splayed. Ellen's mannerisms becoming my own. "She's a wonderful kid. And not just because of that!" I add hurriedly. "She's smart and switched on. I think she's going to be a delight. I was talking about maybe doing some after school drama with her too." "She would love that," Kate nods. "Theatre. Musicals. Choir. She's all about all that, and it's not... it's not my first love," she says diplomatically. "It's great if the school wants to give that to the kids." There's a gap in conversation, a pause, where we turn and look out the window towards the pool, where enthusiastic kids swim noisily. "This is, I will admit, the strangest parent-teacher conference I've ever had." "Oh really? I've conducted them over prosecco before," I improvise, turning back to face her. "I'm sorry, it's not a conference or anything. It's just..." "Yes?" She deadpans, eyebrows raised. "Something Melanie said on the first day. I just wondered if there's anything I can do. Or if there's anything you want me to know. I realise I'm pushing my nose in where it's not wanted, and I promise I'm not trying to be ... anything. I just want to make sure I'm giving Melanie all the support I can." "What did she say?" "She said that girls had to look out for each other and that boys were gross." Kate laughs so much her shoulders shake. "I love her so much. I mean, is she wrong?" "Well, no." I concede with the weight of my week's experience. "But the principal also spoke to me and..." "It's okay Ellen," she holds up her hand. "My husband and I separated over the summer, that's it. I spoke to the principal just to make sure he knew Mel's father wouldn't be an emergency contact. Wow," she sighs. "I didn't think that'd put me on a watch list." "It didn't. I was just wondering. Being nosy I suppose," I say. And it's true. My inexperience has probably blown this out of all proportion. "She's been a bit quiet at home. In her room a lot. Not seeing friends. But, she's a teenager, you know? She's fine at school?" "She is," I say, leaning forward a little. "As I say, she's bright, engaged. She's not a fan of some people in the class," I add, thinking of Andrew. "But that's okay too." "I left him," Kate says unprompted, looking down towards her coffee cup. Not quite the story I'd gotten from Wayne. "He was seeing someone else. That's it." "Boys are gross," I say, reaching out to rest my hand on top of hers. This stranger I only met moments ago. This sister. "They really really are," she says, looking up with a barked laugh. "Thank you Ellen. If you ever want to repeat that Prosecco teacher parent conference I won't say no." "You're on." Chapter 38 It's funny how the thrilling becomes mundane. How the things that worry us become things we don't give a second thought about. First day at school, a new job, even going into a new unfamiliar place can provoke fear and excitement that quickly fades into the commonplace. That first moment, the one that we fear, becomes the one we remember fondly. The spark that makes the memory while the fire dulls into warm embers. Keep it fresh. Mrs. Scheider said after a week's run you need to keep finding the new angle. Keep it interesting for the audience and for yourself. My opening week was over, and my show had been getting rave reviews. But my character was changing, her story gaining depth and perspective. Her experiences leading me into different places. I had started as a caricature. A cartoon: more woman than woman. And I had gotten away with it because so was Ellen -- never seen without makeup and jewelry, heels and a tight dress. A flirt. A girly girl all her life. A drag queen. A performance. Or so I had thought. So she had said. But that wasn't her life. That wasn't who she was. She's Ellen Bennet. Forty two and a school teacher, friend, lover, aunt, ex-girlfriend and so much more. Her life is all the stuff between the makeup and heels, fake nails and fake eyelashes. A life I could never have impersonated. I sit at the vanity, bare legs crossed at the thigh, leaning into the large mirror and pouting to apply bright lipstick. My gym clothes tumble around in the washing machine downstairs. A crisp, fresh patterned blue and white maxi dress hangs ready off the closet door and I'm wearing a simple white balconette bra and high-leg panties. The secret thrill of Ellen's lingerie drawer is gone, replaced by the need to wear something practical, supportive, appropriate and co- ordinated with my dress. The shock of being a curvy woman replaced by a critical eye -- does this fit, does this flatter, does this reflect who I want to be seen as? The fear of discovery that this is all fake has passed. Act like you are something and people tend to let you get on with it. The makeup, the drama, has faded into the background of just living a life. I blot my lipstick and smile, checking my dazzling teeth for any stains. I check my eyes, that my eyeliner hasn't marked anywhere by mistake. I check my mask for visible seams or tears. I run both hands through my thick, freshly washed, straightened and blow dried hair, and let it spill glossily onto my bare shoulders. I look a little different with my hair like this. A little younger? I brush it behind my ears and fix my earrings, one side and then the other -- two large gold hoops that have a novel weight to them as I turn my head. I fasten a simple bracelet around my slender wrist. Am I in character? Alone, I am still an audience of one. Is it even acting any more? I stand up and glide towards the dress, unbuttoning it and stepping inside, slipping my arms into the wide shoulder straps, and buttoning it up from my ankles to my breasts. I force my feet into nearby wedged sandals, wiggling painted toes to better fit my arches. It's maybe too cold out for bare legs, but it seemed nice enough this morning, I consider. The endless summer is almost gone completely, but there's still some lasting warmth in the air. I turn and look at the racks and rows of other clothes I could have worn. Other outfits, and combinations I've not even tried yet. So many options, I wonder if I should be more daring, less obvious, in my selections. I think I could probably wear a different outfit every day for a year and not repeat myself. With a mischievous grin I reach down and pick up my phone, flash a smile and take a selfie. Maybe I'll get an Instagram account? I drop my phone into a white handbag, along my my keys and purse, sunglasses, a small tube of lube and my emergency makeup kit. I spray some perfume on my wrists and, after a moment's thought, into my cleavage. This is the longest dress I've worn so far, and I find moving in it surprisingly different: the floating swish of the ankle-length dress should let me walk freely, but it keeps getting caught on my legs without a slip. I resolve to move slower, and find it much easier. The stairs down to the hallway pose a slight challenge and have to be approached gingerly. I wonder what's in store for me with Wayne. I think back to the conversation with Ellen and her command to break up with him. That I was doing more than she expected. That's for sure. But there was still a thrill in it -- not the thrill of impersonating a woman, but the thrill of acting. The thrill of improvisation. Of validation. I have to turn everything on it's head, I decide. To keep things thrilling, even the mundane. That's the lesson here. I'll break up with him, but maybe not today. Let's see where it goes. The doorbell rings just as I reach the bottom of the stairs, suspiciously well timed, and I open the door with a broad smile to my one-man play. Chapter 39 Wayne is kissing me. His lips are pressing against my lips, his hand is on my face, our eyes are closed, and I'm stroking the short hairs on the back of his neck with my fingernails. His other hand is on my ass, firmly squeezing with strong fingers through the flimsy fabric of my dress. We're a man and a woman alone, intimate and comfortable. I've been here before, I know how to play this scene. I had been impressed that Wayne had cooked lunch for us both -- a delicious pasta seafood dish that had invoked squeals from me as I had desperately tried to preserve the whiteness of my dress. Wayne had suggested I just take it off, and had earned a playful kick for his trouble. Miraculously stain free, I had cleaned the plates, and like some pantomime of married life it had felt... nice. Intimate and comfortable. As I was washing up he had snuck in behind me, pressing his body against mine and kissing the back of my neck. I'd splashed him, he'd splashed me, I'd turned around... you're all caught up. "Let's go upstairs," he says, his voice a low rumble. I know what he means. "What's wrong with the kitchen floor?" I ask, wickedly. "We're over forty, is what's wrong with it," he replies, his fingers idly unbuttoning the top button of my dress. "The bed's soft." "I'm soft," I say, looking at him through long lashes while he undoes another button. "You're beautiful," he replies, peeling apart the two sides of my dress to expose the tops of my breasts, underwired and overflowing in their balconette cups. God bless you Vicki. "So are you," I reply, not sure if it's the right response. I reach up to his face and take his chin, angling it down towards me and kiss his lips. He's so easy to read now, so obvious for how he wants me to be. I'm ready. "Okay, let's go upstairs." His bedroom is like a catalogue showroom with a freshly made king-sized bed, plumped up pillows, and no clutter or mess anywhere. The only other object in the room is a lamp, yet somehow it looks modern rather than spartan. I realise this is for me. For us. For this. This isn't like Friday: We're not drunk; we're not issueing sexy strip- tease commands. I undo the remaining buttons on my dress and watch while Wayne takes off his polo shirt and jeans, his socks and boxers. He's naked in front of me in no time, and I'm strangely reminded of the girls this morning in the gym -- this shouldn't be awkward. This is what happens now. We're following a script together. I'm a little disappointed to notice his cock is only a little hard and have to shake myself at how crazy that thought is. I drop the dress to the floor and, without ceremony, reach behind my back and unclasp my bra, slipping my arms through the straps and letting it fall. I fight the urge to squeeze my shoulders together, or cup a breast with a too-small hand, or lick a nipple. These are my tits Wayne, no big deal. Two can play at that game. As an actor it's useful to lean on costume. It's a good shorthand and something to focus on. God knows that's been my crutch to help me, but it's just a start. How you stand, carry yourself, where you look, what you do with your hands. Character is more than wardrobe and makeup and now I'm almost naked, I have to work twice as hard. I hesitate before taking off my panties. A slight fear. But then, this morning, I was naked with two other women and no one batted an eyelash. Fuck it. I push my panties off my wide hips and down my thick thighs, stepping out of them without a care in the world. We're a man and a woman alone, intimate and comfortable. I move my body -- my feet together, my thighs rubbing, weight shifting to exaggerate my hip, a hand lingers just shy of my neatly trimmed pubic hair. I'm a naked woman, with a lifetime of being naked. I watch as his cock swells a little at the sight of my body and feel a little ripple of satisfaction. Now, to get a standing ovation. My body moves differently without underwear. It sways and jiggles, bounces and stretches. I'm more used to feeling constrained, supported and shaped. But practice has made perfect, and I know to keep things slow, to keep my shoulders back, my stride short, my hips swaying and my feet pointed. I cross the three feet of carpet to Wayne like a catwalk model, and am rewarded with a kiss that takes me back to Friday. Our bodies are warm and nude, touching each other in interesting and exciting ways. "I've dreamt about this," he gasps between kisses. "I want you." "I want you too," I lie, my hands roaming over his skin with a soft gentle touch. "You look amazing," he says, his hands on my hips, my ass. "Incredible." How many times in an actor's life can this happen? How many actors can claim this? Fuck you drama school. I reach between our bodies and find his cock, my hand stroking it tenderly. He responds instantly, swelling and thickening in my light grip. "Bed?" I suggest, my thumb rubbing over his sensitive and sticky head. He releases me, draws back the thick covers and climbs into bed, his cock bobbing and dancing in front of my eyes. I follow, climbing in next to him, the sheets cool and crisp on my skin. Freshly laundered. This is all for me. For us. The stage is set. We kiss, laying next to each other, touching each other's faces, ignoring the soft curves and swells between us. Ignoring our nakedness in a grown-up foreplay that I'm grateful for. Kissing Wayne is punctuation now: An ellipsis here, a question mark there. It's a way to communicate without talking, just our soft moans and gasps filling the air between us. I feel his hand on my breast, and I react as Shayna taught me, tensing, taking a deeper breath, twisting my body towards his fingers. I pretend my nipple is stiffening, the pleasure intensifying, and Shayna fills my thoughts. Wayne kisses me, yes? And I respond yes. He kisses my neck, my throat, my chest, the tops of my breasts and then I feel him squeezing and massaging my tits. I look down and see him suckling, licking, worshiping my nipples and I wonder if he can taste the difference? My hands finds his cock and I stroke him, touching his hard maleness and encouraging him. I'm here for you. This is for you. He responds in kind, and I sense his hands working up my thigh through the prosthetics, tickling my inner thigh and finding the hot fake center of me. I gasp theatrically, kissing the hair on his head and parting my thighs a little to give him access. "Ellen," he says, looking up at me. "Are you sure?" "I'm sure," I say. I am. "I'll get a condom," he says, making to get out of bed. He makes a show of reaching past me into the sterile bedside drawer and brings out a new roll of condoms. Bought for me. Bought for this. Bless him. I take it off him with a smile and undo the wrapper, sitting up in bed and straddling him. "Let me," I say, pinching the top like a pro and rolling the thin latex down his cock, careful not to snag my nails. Angie would do this for me and I remember enjoying it. Safe foreplay. That was Angie all over. Is it Ellen? Her lesson plan didn't cover any of this. I'm working on instinct. Trying to be the woman Wayne wants me to be. Trying to be all women. Not trying. Succeeding. I stroke his cock gently through the condom and bend down, letting my heavy soft fake perfect tits brush against his manly chest. I raise my body and take his cock in my hand and guide it and he's inside me oh my God I can feel his cock slipping in easily and I daren't look down to see if it's visible but we're bent over so he can't see, and I feel it against my own hidden cock and he's kissing me and thrusting, pushing upwards and moving against me slowly at first and I'm getting hard like I've never felt before because i'm fooling him and he thinks I'm a woman and I'm a woman and he's fucking me and I move up and down on top of him, gasping and moaning louder and louder, and I love the sound of Ellen's voice, and the feel of Ellen's body and the feeling of Wayne's big hard cock is amazing and i'm sure I'm going to rip this disguise apart while he thrusts and I lie on top of him and he grabs my ass with such force that I can feel it and we roll over and now he's on top of me, forcing my legs so far apart that I worry I'll split in two, my legs rubbing against his legs and kissing me and pushing pushing pushing grunting fucking faster faster and I close my eyes and gasp not faking any more just gasping and crying out and fuck me fuck me fuck. He stops suddenly, we're both panting, and he falls to one side. It takes us a minute to recover. I can't believe I've done it. Best Actress. "Kevin," he says after a minute. "I can't. I can't do this." "Kevin?" I ask, incredulously, with a bemused look on my face. I even smile. I hide the hammering in my chest, the ice water in my veins, the urge to check my mask. "Wayne, if you were thinking about my nephew during that, I'll be very disappointed." I'm almost grateful for the shock -- it means I don't have to think about how much I enjoyed what just happened. He doesn't answer me, just lies there. The weight of the room on his shoulders. "You're a beautiful woman," he says finally. "Too beautiful. And I don't know how you've done it, but you're not Ellen Bennet." "If this is some weird fantasy ..." I say, rolling my eyes, heart pounding. "Ellen," he says, rolling onto his side. "You've been my fantasy for years. This whole week has been a fantasy," he says, his lips barely an inch from mine. We don't kiss. "You're not her. I can't pretend you are any longer." "I don't..." I begin, but he shakes his head. Don't try and become someone else. Mrs. Scheider had said. What you need to be as an actor is authentic. A persona is just setting yourself up for failure. My head was a whirl of confusing thoughts and emotions. I'd been wined and dined, wooed and romanced, and had given myself to this man. I'd wanted to. I'd had sex. And then, what had happened? Ellen had confessed? He knew? How long has he known? "I have to go," I say, my voice wavering, my head swimming. I climb out of the bed, pulling on my panties and bra, buttoning up my dress and feeling ridiculous. Used. Stupid. Fake. I don't hear what he says as I almost run down the stairs, grabbing my purse and shoes and slamming the door behind me. I'm miles from home, with no way to get there in a hurry, dressed as a woman, and feeling like the worst possible failure. I can't ... I can't get into character to even walk along the sidewalk. I hug myself, walking as fast as I can, staring at the ground. He knew! When did he know? What did I do wrong? Oh God. I've let Ellen down. I'll be fired for sure. Who will he tell? He'd called me too beautiful. What does that even mean? What's... The mental picture of Wayne on top of me fills my thoughts, strong and sweaty, gasping and thrusting, fucking me like a sex doll. He knew! He fucking knew and put me through that! I stop walking, close my eyes and breathe, take my phone out of my purse and say a prayer. Chapter 40 Shayna's apartment is across town in a modern complex; a trendy warehouse conversion with tiny windows and fancy brickwork. I push the appropriate number on the door entry system and hear her voice almost instantly, as if she's been standing by the door waiting for me. "Hey you," she says. "Second floor." The door buzzes and clicks and I push inside, careful not to disturb the bunch of flowers I've brought, wrapped in brown wax paper and tied with string. My footsteps echo on the steps as I climb and I'm only one floor up when I hear her door opening and the sound of funky music in the distance. I look up and see her face peering down at me over the balcony. "Hi!" she calls, "sorry about the stairs!" "Hi!" I reply, smiling up at her and taking my time and careful not to catch my long dress on my wedges. As I round the steps to her floor I notice an array of pots, filled with plants scattred artfully around. "Oh wow this is beautiful. Did you do this?" I ask, impressed. I look up at her and notice her outfit -- too smart for lounging around at home: A loose pair of white wide-leg striped linen pants and a matching blouse. She looks like an angel. "I did," she says, pleased. I lean in to kiss her on the cheek, but she turns at the last minute and I make contact with her lips instead. I feel her smile with the small victory, her hands resting on my hips. "Come on in!" she says, her eyes sparkling. "Make yourself at home." "These are for you," I say as she closes the door behind me, handing her the flowers. She takes them from me and smiles, leading the way into her place down a long corridor. Photographs are everywhere, artfully arranged in different shapes and sizes, with a variety of people in them. "Do you mind if I use your bathroom?" I ask. "Of course not, just the last door there. Do you want a drink?" she asks, and she can tell. She can see it in my eyes. "What's wrong? What's happened Kevin?" "He knows," I say, voice cracking, and I feel my eyes getting hot, unable to hold back the tears. Shayna holds me before I can crumple to the ground, hugging me and keeping me upright. "I've fucked it all up. I'm sorry." "Shh," she says, stroking my hair while I cry. "It's okay." I feel like a kid, sobbing and gulping. I know that my makeup is running. I know that I've messed up. I've failed. I failed at college. I failed in New York. I failed with Angie and now... Shayna holds me until I stop crying. She doesn't talk, just strokes me. Holds me. Comforts me. "Can I get a beer?" I ask, Kevin's voice weary on my ruby red lips. "Of course honey." The mirror in Shayna's bathroom is the first one I've been able to see since Wayne's bedroom. I stare at Ellen's reflection, pulling faces to see if it's come loose. Nothing. I'm grateful for Shayna's supplies as I wipe off the makeup from my face, tidying up the streaked mascara and panda eyes. I hike up my dress, pull down my panties and sit on her toilet, and that's when I feel it. Something's has come loose. I hastily unbutton my dress and peer down between my legs to see the fake vagina dangling free, unattached on one side like a freakish wound. Shit. I tug on the other side and the whole thing falls off, falling to the tiled floor with a flump. I guess the combination of sex, sweat and the gym was too much. "That's for damn sure," I say out loud with a sigh. Fuck. "Do you mind if I take my face off?" I ask Shayna as I join her in her living room, gratefully taking a beed from her. I sit down next to her, rooting in my bag for solvent. I take a long drink and shoot her a grateful smile. It's good to have a drink that's not wine. "Take off whatever you want," she says, rubbing my shoulder. "What's happened?" "Wayne and I had sex," I confess, dabbing at an invisible seam. "And I think my ... vagina came loose." Shayna doesn't say anything. "And he called me Kevin. He figured out that I'm Ellen." The mask comes away from my eyes, and I push under the skin, distorting her face. "I've fucked it up. I was trying too hard. Because I was scared of not being good enough, I think. And... I was having fun." I move up to my forehead, working the mask free. "And then I wasn't. Then I was just ... messing it all up. I'm a failure. I've failed Ellen. And now I'm going to be fired." I've got this down to a good fifteen minutes. It's in no time at all that roll the mask down and loosen it carefully from my jaw, peeling the thin and delicate thing off and away, showing the man underneath. The man still with Ellen's hair and Ellen's teeth. But still, not Ellen. Not her at all. "Hi," Shayna says, reaching out to touch my face. Her hand is soft and cool against my bare skin. She leans over and gently kisses me, her lips tender and delightful. "I've missed this face," she adds gently. "I'm sorry," I say. "For what? You don't have to be sorry. What you're doing for Ellen, it's amazing. And you're so good Kevin. Honestly, you are." "I'm not,' I protest. "You are! I've seen you in action. You're amazing. You're her. It's not about..." She picks up the mask and wiggles it. "This! Or these!" She prods my boobs through my dress. "Yesterday with those girls you were Ellen. You've not let her down. You've done her proud." "But Wayne." "Fuck Wayne." I giggle, despite myself. "You know what I mean!" She joins in, her laugh thoaty and infectious. We lean against each other, and I give her a squeeze. "All I know is this isn't about your acting. And it's not about your vagina falling off. And that's the strangest sentence I'll say today probably. But there's no way he could figure out who are you. I promise you, you are not a failure Kevin." "Thanks," I say, resting my head on her shoulder. "That's really... Thanks." I finish lamely. "You're welcome," she says, clonking her head against mine and taking my hand. I look down and laugh, noticing for the first time we're wearing matching nail polish. I give the back of her hand a little stroke with my thumb and she squeezes me back in return. "I mean it." "Can I ask you something?" I say after a moment sitting together in silence. "Do you... prefer me as her?" "Prefer... no. I just.. I don't really know you," she admits. "I've been thinking about this. About you, a lot." "You have?" "I have." The silence fills the room, and I focus on my breathing. I feel my breasts rising and falling, the rustle of my dress as I move my foot nervously. I feel the heat and reassuring weight of Shayna against me, the warmth of her fingers interlaced with mine. The smell of her shampoo mingling with the ubiquitous Dolce & Gabbana fragrance. "And," I prompt eventually. "Being out with you as her is really... hot." "It is?" I ask. "Really, really hot." Her thumb moves against mine, rubbing against it slowly. I swallow. "Like. Ellen is hot?" I ask, trying to sound casual. "Noooo," she replies. "More... I think, of you... in there. And it's... exciting." She shifts on the couch, her hips pressing against mine. "Like Tuesday," she carries on. "I just didn't know. I was going to wax you and... You fooled me. Not fooled but... And then in the changing room, in that shop! Everyone just ... they didn't know!" She lifts her head and turns towards me, excitedly. "And I did. I knew. I was teasing you and watching you and... you... you were great. You just were someone else. And that's hot." I learn over and kiss her, letting go her hand to wrap my arms around her. This isn't like the movies; It isn't like Casablanca. It isn't mannered, or a performance. There's nothing but her soft sweet lips and my heart, thumping loudly in my chest. She joins in the kiss at once, expanding my universe to include her tongue, her hands, our bodies. I hitch up my dress and climb on top of her, taking her face in my hands as we smooch, feeling her hands on my back, travelling down to my bottom. "You're so beautiful," I say, tucking a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear. "You're the best thing that's happened to me all week. I don't know what I did to deserve you. I don't know how to thank you for everything." "I can think of a few ways," she says, her green eyes sparkling. I look down to see her unbuttoning my dress, down past my breasts, my stomach, my belly button. "Oh, wow," she says as she reaches my crotch, my aunts white panties bulging, elastic straining against my growing cock. "Forgot about that," she giggles, unbuttoning the rest of me and pushing the dress off my shoulders. "Would now be a good time to tell you I went to the gym today?" I say, with a grin.