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HALLOWEEN ENCOUNTERS by Throne Emery had decided it was time to go home. This was his first experience being anywhere but in his house when he dressed up. It had been thrilling to take a drive. He even had an excuse if he got noticed. It was Halloween so he could just say he was in costume. Or he might not even be recognized through the car windows as a guy in his mid-20s. A few pounds of extra weight he carried lent a softness to his features. His wig was rather conservative, being collar-length, curled under at the ends, and cut in bangs across his forehead. Plus, it was ash blond rather than anything overly attention getting. Finally, his make-up was nothing fancy. Not like when he was in his bedroom and went a bit wild with the eye shadow and liner. His only concession to his naughty side was the lipstick he had on. It was a shade he'd recently discovered, called Magenta Madness. Even so, he was getting nervous. In his haste to get indoors again, he decided to take a shortcut. Emery turned onto a narrow, dimly lit street lined with only a few homes along it. He told himself to relax. It wasn't like anyone was going to see him up-close in his alter-identity as Emily. No one would get a look at that little black dress, the string of faux pearls, his taupe stockings, or the unadorned black shoes with their square toes and blocky two inch heels. Sometimes he wished he had some sympathetic friend to show off his outfits to. He could start with plain ones like this. And when he dared to, he could model his sportswear, that new sundress, the stylish pants suit, and even his fluffy pink robe. Not that he would go any further. The baby doll nighties that he loved to sleep in would be strictly taboo when it came to reveals. He was lost in that longstanding dream when someone pulled in behind him. They got rather close to his rear bumper. Emery tensed up and gripped the wheel hard, aware of how rigid his arms grew. He decided to get back onto his old route, even though it would take longer. But when he turned a corner, he cut it too sharply and his front wheel jumped the curb. The side of the car grazed a thick tree trunk. He swung back onto the road and came to a stop, breathing hard. Emery was on an even darker street now. There was nothing but woods on either side. He shut off his engine and sat there trembling. The other car stopped right behind his vehicle. Whoever it was, they left their headlights on. He heard a door open. No, no, no. This wasn't right. But he was too shaken up to do anything except sit there. Suddenly a figure was at his door, looming over him. Emery saw the blue uniform and his heart sank. It was a police officer. That must be a cruiser behind him. At least the patrolman hadn't put on his flashers. And there hadn't been enough time to call in the incident yet. Of course not. He wanted to check the driver first. Emery found himself staring at the tall man's crotch. Then the policeman bent down and peered into the car. He was around Emery's age, with rugged features and a square jaw. "Are you alright, Ma'am?" he wanted to know. Remembering to use his feminine voice, Emery told him, "Yes, Sir. I just wasn't watching where I was going." "Have you been drinking?" "No. I swear." That sounded too strong. He softened his tone and went on, "I think my car is okay. But I'd like to get home." "I understand. But I will have to see your license, registration and insurance card." Emery opened his purse and took out his wallet. He shielded the latter object with his body. It wouldn't be good for the officer to see that it was a man's wallet. Because Emery had never gone out like this before, he didn't have a woman's wallet. As he handed over the documents, his hand quivered slightly. They were all in his male name. The officer angled them toward the glare of his headlights and checked everything. Then he handed them back. Emery couldn't miss noticing how large the man's hands were. "Well," he said, sounding reasonable. "I might be able to let you off with just a warning... Emery. How do you feel about that?" "I'd really appreciate it, Sir." "And you'd probably want to thank me." There was a hint of suggestion in his words. "Definitely." The man in blue straightened up. He idly ran his fingers up and down the front of his pants, over the zipper. Emery tucked his wallet back into the purse, out of sight. He rested his arm on the window frame beside him. Was the officer trying to signal that he wanted something more than mere words of gratitude? Emery froze up inside. He let his hand slide forward and made a minute adjustment to the side mirror. The officer took a step closer. Emery slowly brought his arm back, letting the rear of his hand brush the man's thigh. Both of them remained immobile for long seconds. Emery didn't want the officer to change his mind and issue a ticket. Or worse, take him to the station for some reason, where he would be seen by many people. And booked. And have his picture taken. Emery undid his seatbelt and got out of the harness. He put one fingertip against the inside of the man's thigh. Emery could feel body heat through the material of the uniform pants. There was a mild Autumn chill in the air that made a sharp contrast to that warmth. When Emery stayed like that, the big man got his fingers around the cross-dressed male's slender wrist and held it firmly. He moved it so that Emery was touching him between the legs. When the TV felt how enviably well filled that area was, he gasped. Then, as if in a trance, he nimbly took the pull of the zipper and lowered it. This was like some on-line fantasy. The kind of story you might read on that wonderful page, Story Maniacs. But it was real. Emery pulled the zipper all the way down and slid his fingers into the undone fly. He got them through the opening in the man's boxers. Extracted his penis. In spite of himself, Emery said out loud, "Oh my." Emery was holding a cock of impressive length and girth. The seated man shifted around so he was more fully facing the window. He gently massaged the beckoning shaft and felt it grow. In less than a minute it had expanded to nine thick inches, with a bulbous head. It was as large as the flesh-colored dildo Emery kept in his bedroom, that he had practice oral sex sessions with, though only in the dark. The officer told him, "You know what comes next." His fingers brushed the side of Emery's face. "And then your secret will be safe with me." Emery's nerves vibrated as he craned his neck and gave the underside of that fat knob an experimental lick. The officer sighed loudly. Emboldened, the TV took it into his mouth. It was like his dildo at home but also different. Radiating body temperature. Flavored with male musk. Soft against his tongue. So inviting. He sucked, gently at first but then with mounting effort. As the man moved closer, Emery took in several more inches. His rehearsals paid off. He got it past his gag reflex easily. Breathing through his nose, he worked his head forward and back. Then he held onto the officer's hips for better control. It was disturbing to be in this situation, but also gloriously liberating. Emery was actually giving head to a real cock. One like he had often admired on his computer screen. His own much smaller dick gave a twitch. He was getting hard in his lavender, bikini-cut panties. He moaned around the mouth-and-throat-filling member. The uniformed figure held Emery's head, not tightly, but just as if he enjoyed the contact. The man in the car was still free to move so he could swallow that magnificent tool over and over. Emery's heart beat fast. He was in a quiet delirium of mixed feelings. There was still a sense of danger and loss of control. But also of exhilaration. He was relaxed enough now to back off until only the knob was in his mouth, so he could swirl his tongue around the corona while pumping the shaft with his hand. The tall man's hips began to move fractionally, this way and that, with restless need. Emery paced himself. He wanted to give as much pleasure as he could. Also, selfishly, he didn't want to surrender that veiny piece of meat before he had to. The two of them worked in unison, with common unspoken goals. It went on and on in the still night, with no sign of any other cars intruding. The policeman's hold on Emery's head tightened only a little, but it sent a message. The TV switched to a steady pace, tightened his lips, and dug his fingers into the imposing man's hips. The officer's body tensed. The TV shuddered all over. There were a timeless few seconds and then that powerful pelvis jerked. Once. Twice. Hot spunk hit the back of Emery's throat. He retreated just enough that the following discharges ended up in his mouth. The salty taste was strong, with a suggestion of something metallic in it. He kept it on his tongue for precious moments before gulping it down, delighted that he was accepting it so naturally. In no rush, Emery held the coveted manhood in his mouth as it softened. At last, with a frisson of regret, he permitted it to slip free. He dared to hold it and press it against his flushed cheek. The tall man didn't stop him. At last, Emery tucked it into the uniform trousers and reverently zipped them back up. He exhaled slowly, smelling the semen on his own breath as he sat back and let the intensity of what had occurred subside. The officer's face reappeared at the window. "I think our business here is finished. At least, I know my business has been taken care of." He smiled with devilish charm. "So I'm letting you off with just a warning. Let's not have any more gender bender fender benders." Then, as if it was an afterthought, he added, "Here's my card." Emery accepted the white rectangle and held it possessively. With a final wink, the handsome man returned to his car and drove off into the night. For long minutes the TV sat there, trying to process everything he had experienced. Not only the physical events but all of the mental and emotional ones as well. At last his thinking returned to normal enough for him to read the card. It said, "Johnny Johnson AKA Big Johnson. Adult Dancer. Available for All Occasions. Can be a Cowboy, Construction Worker, Policeman." Below that was a phone number. Emery gazed at the printed words. He smiled. Laughed. At himself. At the scene he had just played in. And at life in all its complexity, and how quirky and accommodating it can sometimes be. He thought, 'Happy Halloween, Emily. You lucky girl.' ********* "We have to do something about this," Murphy said in alarm. His wife Jessica just looked at him and smiled wryly. "It's actually kind of funny." She made a lovely sight, standing in the living room of their neighbors' split-level home. Jessica's stunning figure -- full bust, narrow waist, flaring hips, shapely legs -- was well shown off by the skintight devil costume she wore. The snug hood framed her sweet face and drew attention to the exotic make-up she had applied to add to her characterization. Atop her head a pair of nubby horns finished the look. And the plastic pitchfork she carried was the inevitable accessory. "I didn't want to wear this in the first place," Murphy protested. "And now it turns out you made some kind of dumb mistake." "Hey," his wife admonished. "Don't call it that. And it was a simple error. When they gave out the costume assignments, you were supposed to be Bilbo from the Lord of the Rings. I thought they said 'bimbo'. And it's not like I didn't do a good job on your outfit." "The point isn't whether or not you did it well. It's that you got the theme wrong." "Again," she told him severely, "watch what you're saying." She brandished her pitchfork. "Or I'll make your life a living hell." He sighed resignedly. "Fine. Let's just put in an appearance and then go home. I don't want to spend the entire evening with people we know, looking like this." How he looked was like a total bimbo. His wife truly had done a fine job of creating that illusion. Let's pause to tell you what Murphy was so upset about. Jessica had selected a slinky red dress with a reflective sheen. It had a high neckline to conceal the fact that his bulging boobs were water-filled breast forms. There was a long wig fitted onto his head, with waves of red-gold hair and bangs, plus a big pink bow in the front. She had worked miracles on his face, giving him darkly outlined eyes with golden lids and long lashes. Artful application of shadow had created the illusion of high cheekbones. His mouth appeared larger than normal because she drew a border outside it's normal dimensions and colored everything in with candy apple red, over which she put a coat of gloss. Under his lower lip she put another touch of that shadow, so that he seemed to have a perpetual pout. There was a choker around his neck with the word SLUT spelled out in cheap rhinestones across the front. From his ears hung bright orange hoop rings that brushed his shoulders. Multiple metal bracelets clinked every time he moved his arms. There was a corset under the dress to give him an unnaturally narrow waist. His hemline was at mid- thigh, below which fishnet stockings encased his newly shaved legs. On his feet were shoes that would have made a flashy hooker proud, with their four inch heels, pointy toes, ankles straps, and glitter everywhere. He was surprisingly adept at walking in them, after only a short time to practice. Picture all that together. Can you see why Murphy was so upset? Wouldn't you be? Their hostess, Carla, came over to greet them. She was dressed as a sexy witch, with green eye shadow to accompany her tiny dress and long black wig. "Well," she said to Jessica. "Looks like I'm not the hottest girl at my own party." She eyed Murphy up and down. "And what's your name, short, red and busty?" Murphy huffed and shook his head. "It's me. Murphy." "I know that," Carla said with a mischievous smile. "I meant, what's your girly name? All crossdressers have one." He started to object to that suggestion but his wife cut him off, telling their friend, "Instead of Murphy, when he's in drag he likes to be called Muffy." Carla laughed. "That's priceless." To Murphy she said, "Would you be a good girl and get us a couple of white wines? My husband is tending the bar." With a theatrical sigh, Murphy started across the room. He hated how those outrageous heels shaped his legs and made him take small mincing steps, along with causing him to roll his hips in a distinctly unmanly way. It didn't help that he had to pass lots of people to get where he was going. When he got to the wet bar in the den, Carla's husband Bret was standing there smiling. His costume was a toga and a crowning wreath of laurel. The costume showed off his well developed arms and calves. He grinned at Murphy. "What'll it be, lovely lady?" he wanted to know. "Hey, Bret. Ease up." "No can do. Didn't you read your invitation? Everybody has to stay in character until we give out the prizes. And you might just get best costume -- female division." "Listen. I just need two white wines. And something strong for myself." "Not until your voice matches your look. Let's hear it... um... whatever your name is." Murphy's shoulders sagged. He told Bret, "Tonight I'm called Muffy. And I guess..." He softened his voice and made it higher. "... I'll have to sound different." Still using the feminine tone and pitch, he requested, "May I have two white wines for my lady friends?" He took a breath and resisted the urge to order his own libation while sounding like himself. "And something potent for myself?" Bret grinned. "Coming right up... Muffy my dear." He produced two glasses and poured them full of chardonnay. Holding them out to Murphy, he said, "I'll need a little time to concoct something special for you, baby. How about if you deliver these while I'm working my magic with the bottles?" As much as he didn't want to be stared at again while taking the walk back and forth, the dress-wearing husband didn't feel up to arguing. The situation he was stuck in, for however long it took him to get his wife out of there, made him feel vulnerable and unable to defend himself. He couldn't even drive home and come back for her later. She had brought them here because he had those impossible heels on, with their ankle straps so difficult to fasten or unbuckle. He got more stares and some suggestive winks from the guys as he returned with the drinks. When he got to Jessica and Carla, the women were chatting intimately. Murphy's wife had her hand on the forearms of Bret's bride. The pseudo-slut even remembered to speak in his new voice as he said, "Here you go, ladies." They both thanked him, using his feminine name. He excused himself, saying he had to go back and fetch his own drink. Murphy hated the way he sounded, so simpering, but he couldn't seem to help it. He would be deeply relieved to get back home. When he reached the bar, Bret pointed to a tall drink, bright yellow, with an orange slice on the rim of the contoured glass, and a paper umbrella that pierced a fat cherry and protruded colorfully. Murphy cringed inwardly as he accepted it. Still, it would be good to get some alcohol into his system, to take the edge off of what he was enduring. As he took a sip of the fruity tasting beverage, another guy sidled up to him. "Well hello there," he said, sounding slightly tipsy. His hand went to the small of Murphy's back. "Are you here all alone?" With Bret keeping track of him, Murphy decided he had better use his altered voice. He said, "I'm with my -- " To say 'wife' would sound odd and might lead to an unwanted conversation. So he chose a different word. " -- with my partner." "That's too bad," the man said without removing his hand. He asked for a beer. When Bret handed it to him, the drinker let his arm go lower and cupped one of Murphy's buttocks. "If you want to try somebody different," he offered confidentially, "I'm flying solo tonight. And my place isn't far from here." He gave a squeeze. "See you later, maybe." As he walked away, Murphy could feel his cheeks burning and knew he was blushing. Bret raised his eyebrows, as if sharing a secret confidence. More upset than ever, Murphy downed half his drink in one long swallow. It was a powerful mixture and he knew it would go right to his head. He was susceptible to the persuasive power of potables that packed a punch. Even so, perhaps wanting to asset his compromised manhood, he drained the rest of the glass and held it out to the mixologist to indicate that he wanted another. Bret told him, "No problem, buddy. Or baby." He took the glass and flashed a smile. "I think it's great that you're, shall we say, expressing yourself so well." "Hey," Murphy said, trying to sound offended but projecting something closer to meek agreement. He took a breath. "This wasn't my idea. I'm not happy about how I look." "Really? Would you like something to help you get through the rest of the evening?" He reached under the bar and produced a pill bottle. "Nothing dangerous. Just a little something to take the edge off." He set the container on the bar and got busy mixing a fresh drink. Murphy considered what was being offered. He wouldn't mind putting something into his system to get him to the end of the night. In fact, it would show Jessica that he could go along with this and not let it ruin the party for him. Sure. That sounded right. He opened the pill bottle and, making sure the host saw what he was doing, took not one but two of the small, innocuous looking pills. Bret slid the finished drink toward him. Murphy popped the white tablets into his mouth and washed them down before he could change his mind. He nodded at the man behind the bar, trying to show confidence and control. Bret took the bottle, replaced the cap, and discretely returned it to its hiding place. With drink in hand, Murphy tottered back across the room, slowed down by the combination of footwear and free drinks. He took a sip and then another. When he got back to Jessica, she was no longer with Carla. Now there was some tall guy chatting with her. He had on the red and blue costume of an iconic superhero, and the physique to go along with it. Murphy squared is shoulders, trying to look less bimbo-like, but it pushed out his fake boobs. He walked unsteadily up to the pair and put himself alongside his wife. She kept talking to the man, who Murphy dimly recognized. It was some guy his wife had gone to college with, his impaired memory told him. Jessica put her hand on the guy's impressive bicep. Her husband tensed up. The two of them were talking about their past together. Jessica said something about a bar near campus that they had both favored. At last Jessica acknowledged Murphy's presence. She told the man facing her, "Let me introduce you, Steve. This is my husband. Doesn't he look convincing, the way I dressed him and made him up? Right now we're not allowed to use his boy name. Only his bimbo one. So you have to call her Muffy." "Don't mind if I do," he said. His hand came up and he ran a fingertip over the front of Murphy's collar. "I like what I'm seeing here. Nothing better than a slut." He ogled him up and down. "Especially one who's so obviously advertising it." Murphy tried to say something but the pills were starting to take effect. He smiled tipsily, licked his lips, and fluttered his long eyelashes. That wasn't at all what he had meant to do. His wife put her hand on the small of his back and pushed gently, making him take a step forward, and then another, until he was almost touching the other man. Steve put his hand on Murphy's waist and left it there. Jessica moved away, heading toward an unaccompanied man in a cowboy hat and Western shirt, with a sheriff's badge pinned to his broad chest. As the two of them drifted away together, Murphy found himself with Steve, who was saying something to him. "What?" Murphy asked, blinking to clear his vision but realizing it must look like he was flirting. "I was just saying how well you carry off that look. I was watching you walk, and how you balance that drink." He tapped the bottom of the glass. As if at a command, Murphy raised it and took a swallow. "And it made me think that this can't just be a one night thing with you. Either you've done this before... or you're just a natural." The cross-dressed man had never done it before, so he insisted, "This is my first time." He thought for a few seconds, looked at Steve, and concluded, "So I must be... what you said." "A natural." Steve ran his hand up and down Murphy's side. "It just means that you're in touch with your feminine side, Muffy. That's all." Murphy had heard that term before. It was when you could be sensitive. So it wasn't any big deal, he told himself as Steve got an arm through his and walked him toward the bar. Feeling anxious, Murphy drank half of what was left in his glass. Steve steered him to where Bret was waiting. The drink was soon topped off and Murphy was being led into the hallway. There were several closed doors. Steve went to the first one and knocked lightly. A female voice said something. Was that Jessica? Steve opened the door halfway and eased Murphy forward so that he had a good look at what was taking place inside. There was Jessica, still in her devil costume but with the top down and her terrific tits on display. The sheriff guy's cock was out. The two of them kissed and then she sank down onto her knees. Jessica's hands went to the man's cock, which was enviably large, and easily coaxed it into a full erection, which made Murphy's eyes go wide. She turned her face toward her husband, gave him a grin, turned back and took that fat head of that king size organ in her mouth. As she began to suck hungrily, Steve gently closed the door. He walked Murphy to the next door, opened it, and took him inside. Murphy was in mild shock after seeing his wife in flagrante delicto. At the same time, he felt strangely distanced from what he had witnessed. And even strangely stimulated. Steve was talking to him again. "That's really unfair, your wife having a good time like that with another guy. But it does free you to do the same thing." Steve took Murphy's drink and put it on the bedside table, along with his own. He eased the involuntary TV into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress. Reaching down, he hiked up the hem of his short dress to expose his panties. Then he massaged the crotch of the underpants. Murphy was surprised when he found himself getting aroused and hard. Then Steve worked the panties down enough that he could tuck the front of them down and under the seated man's balls. Taking Murphy's wrist, he moved his hand to the erection and suggested that he get his thumb and forefingers on his penis. "You can play with it. And you don't need your whole hand, since you're really small where it counts. Right?" Murphy gave a nod. He did what he was told to. It felt so good. Steve's hips were right in front of him. He noticed how big the bulge in them was. When the standing man lowered the waistband of his costume, his superior cock was revealed. Steve put a hand on the back of Murphy's head and moved in. "Come on now, Muffy. Just let me feel myself against that soft cheek of yours. That's right. Mmmm. You're getting me hard, you dirty girl. But I know that's what you want. Now just get your hand on me. I'll bet that's soft, too. Yeah, it is. And as long as you're touching my tool, why not get your fingers around it? There you go. Now give me a tiny squeeze. And don't stop tugging on that tiny thing of yours. Keep going. Feel the difference? How yours barely needs two fingers? And mine fills your hand. That soft hand. Girly feeling palm." "Please," Murphy said weakly. "I shouldn't be doing this." "And your wife shouldn't be doing what she's doing in the other bedroom. Bad Jessica." He laughed softly. "If she can misbehave, so can you. Give her some paybacks. Right? Get even with her. That's all. Just kiss the end of it." The room seemed to tilt under him as Murphy dared to press his lips to the tip of Steve's rigid tool. The standing man went on talking, but his tone shifted from soothing to demanding, from gentle to insulting. "Let's go, bitch. Open wide and take it. Or do you want me to post the pictures I've taken, on-line?" Murphy turned his eyes up and was horrified to see that Steve had his phone in one hand, and was capturing images of the action. What could the sitting man do? He didn't want his wife to see those photos. He parted his lips and moved his head forward until the swollen glans was resting on his tongue. Then he sealed his mouth around the shaft and sucked. Swirled his tongue. Took in two more inches. He was deeply disturbed to realize what he was doing, how far he had been taken, but there was too much momentum for him to stop now. "You go, girl," Steve told him. "Don't rush it. Nice and wet, Muffy. And when I do come, don't swallow. I want to see my load on your bimbo tongue. Take me out of your mouth and tell me what you're going to do, you cum collector." The cock came out of his mouth but he curled his fingers around it, as far as they would go, and slowly stroked it, in the same rhythm he was using on himself. He told the controlling man, "I'm going to take my time. And... um... keep you really wet. Plus, when you finish... in my mouth... I'm not going to gulp it right down. I'll -- ugh -- let you see your jazz on my tongue. My... ew... bimbo tongue. Should I go back to... err... performing fellatio?" "No, you should go back to sucking my cock, you mindless bimbo. It's about all your good for. And let's see you stuff some more of it in." Murphy tried to follow that last order but it made him choke. He settled back into a combination of hand and mouth techniques. About five minutes more of that and Steve tensed up. His breathing quickened. He was on the verge of spurting. The seated husband felt sick but didn't dare to stop. He sucked extra hand and gave a half dozen fast pumps. Steve grunted and his discharge shot into Murphy's mouth. I was all over his tongue and under it to. Some slid down the back of his throat but there was still more coming. At last Steve relaxed and backed himself out of the warm opening. Murphy tilted his head back somewhat and opened his mouth wide, displaying a puddle of cream on his tongue. Steve chuckled and told him, "Swallow it all now, pussy-mouth." As Murphy gulped the wad of spunk down, making his throat constrict, he was relieved that his ordeal was over. But then he heard the door open and saw Bert coming toward him. "Hey, bimbo," the evening's host said. "Looks like I missed the show. But that's okay. You can do an instant replay on my Johnson." He began to free his cock. Murphy made a sickened sound and shook his head. Bert laughed and said, "Now, now, Muffy. Don't try to be something you're not. A bimbo like you never says no to this." He pulled out his impressively large cock. "And my wife has a really bad gag reflex, so I have to do whatever I can to get sucked off. Any mouth will do. Especially one that's all warmed up and has a drop of spunk at the corner. That's a really good look for you," he concluded as he stepped closer and held his penis in front of Murphy's face. The defeated man opened his mouth, as if by remote control. He extended his tongue. As Bert continued to speak, defining him as a slutty sissy and reinforcing the idea that he loved to have a man's meat between his lips, Murphy began to suck, swirl, and take in more and more, somehow bypassed gagging, until Bert's balls were against his chin. He whimpered around a mouthful of tube steak but didn't stop his efforts. Bert just enjoyed himself for a while, took a few shots with his phone, and then began to give instructions. "Back it up until you've got just the head, you blowjob machine. That's a girl. Look at those colorful lips do their job. Isn't it nice for you to be really good at something, dummy? To be an expert cum collector? Now get one hand under my balls and massage them. Use the other hand to stroke my bone. I love your nail polish. Suck harder, birdbrain. Let me see those cheeks get all drawn in. Now hold that pose while I get a few more pictures. HA! Those will look great on a couple of sissy pages I know about on-line. Don't stop pumping me with that smooth hand. I'm going to blast a load real soon. But you're not going to gulp it down, even though I know you want it in your tummy. You're going to keep my goo in your mouth and show it to me. So I can get another half dozen shots. And then you're going to lick your lips and get my cream all over them. Let some run down onto your chin. And look up at me the entire time." He exhaled hard. "Here comes your second feeding, Muffy." Bert grunted and emptied his balls into the busy mouth. When he at last pulled out, Murphy had to open wide and display the mess on his tongue, as he had done before, even though it meant more incriminating likenesses. Then he obediently licked his lips, got it all over them, and found a few more drops to push out so they would decorate his quivering chin. The party's host made sure to capture plenty of images of the self-shaming performance. Then he granted permission to swallow whatever remained. Bert helpfully spit into Murphy's mouth to make the job easier. Several times. "Well," the standing man announced. "You're wife probably needs some more time with that guy in the sheriff get-up who bedded her. I'm sure she's having great sex for a change. She's really excited that from now on you won't be pestering her to take care of your little dick, while she gets all the big cock she wants. Everybody else was happy to help out with her plan, since now the guys will have access to both of you. Of course, she'll be able to pick and choose, while you have to take any schlong that gets sent your way. I mean, after all, you're a bimbo now. And there's no going back." "P... please," Murphy whispered. "If I could just talk to Jessica. Make her understand." "Maybe later. After that stuff I gave you wears off. And you feel like yourself, which should make it even more embarrassing for you to try to reason with your hot wife. Especially because we're all sending our photos of you in all your bimbo glory to her phone. Maybe she's looking at them while she's having a good time with her new lover. But for the moment, there's a little something extra that we've got for you. Larry should be in here with it in a minute." "Larry? From my job? Who's always trying to get my position?" "Larry who you're going to suggest be given your spot, unless you want our pictures all over your office." The door opened and in came Larry, who had on a white jacket and wore a stethoscope around his neck. He reached into the pocket of the jacket and pulled out something. It was small and made of pink plastic, with metal parts attached. He declared, "Doctor Larry is here to help with your transformation into a total sissy bimbo. I mean, getting you all the way there will take more time. But what I've got for you will make the transition go so much more smoothly." He held it up and turned it around, so Murphy could see it was a small replica of a penis and was hollow. Steve and Bret hauled Murphy across the bed on his back, with his bared crotch accessible. Their captive barely struggled while Larry fitted a ring around the base of his genitals and worked the faux penis over Murphy's real one, compressing the tissue until the imprisoned dick was squeezed into the undersized tube. Then the ring and other portion were locked together via an internal mechanism. The wearer was allowed to sit up so he could view the results. Murphy was horrified to see that, where his small but still adult dick should be, there was now a miniature version, less than two inches long, of shiny, flesh-colored plastic with a rosy head. "B... but..." he protested weakly. "I won't be able to get it off. And I won't be able to... um... get hard." "Correct," agreed Larry. "But don't worry. I'll take good care of this key. In fact, I'll keep it in my safe deposit box at the bank. Isn't that thoughtful of me? And to show your gratitude, when you're wife goes on dates she'll leave you at my place and you can do all the sex stuff a bimbo like you excels at. And you can talk like an airhead -- starting right now. If you forget your place and try to speak like an intelligent person, it will cost you a hard spanking, maybe having your nipples pinched and balls squeezed, along with anything else I feel like doing to you, sweet stuff." "N... no," Murphy said. He was about to defend himself when Larry held up his open hand, as if preparing to deliver a spanking or a face slap. Murphy remembered how he was expected to speak and said, "Gosh, Larry honey, I hope you'll treat me nice. And -- " That hand was still threatening. " -- let me dress up like a dirty girl for you." The hand came partway down. "Plus show you a good time. While you make drinks for me." He giggled stupidly. "And I have a good time." "That's a start. Now stay in bimbo mode for the rest of the evening, and then we'll talk some more. Maybe at work they can make you my private secretary. I'll bet you'd like to squeeze under my desk, so you could gobble my rod at lunchtime every day. Right?" Too scared to show his true feelings, Murphy clapped his hands together and puckered his lips. He nodded vigorously. Larry gave him a leering grin. The made-over man looked down at his caged cock, thought about everything he had done, recalled that his wife was with another man, and saw the hopelessness of trying to assert himself. He smiled vacantly and fluffed his hair, the way he imagined a real bimbo would do at that moment. Larry leaned down, patted him on the cheek, and told him with a wink, "And don't worry about those spankings. I know you honestly want them, and I'll make sure your tail end gets burned every time you come to visit me at home." Murphy tilted is head down, put his forefinger between his semen- slicked lips and suckled it suggestively, while looking up at Larry through his long lashes. He would be acting that way an awful lot from then on, he knew. ********* There I sat in our basement, on a hard wooden chair, dressed in nothing but a ruffled, orange choker, a painfully tight, red corset, and black stockings with white, cartoonish ghosts all over them. My wife Brenda and her lover Charlie stood over me, sneering at my feminized appearance. Between us was a small table on which were a big pumpkin, a carving knife, and a large spoon. "Here's our plan for the night before Halloween," Brenda began. "Charlie is going to cut the top off that pumpkin. Then I'll feed you the insides, all of it, until you feel like you're going to burst. Especially with that sexy corset squeezing your middle." She chuckled. "And then Charlie is going to carve a stupid looking face on the pumpkin. Are you following me so far, my pathetic sissy husband?" I nodded and said in a small voice, "All I did was say something about your... eh... lovemaking." "You dared to tell me that we were too loud when we had sex. That the way Charlie makes me holler with his monster cock kept you awake, in the next room, in your pink and white, cute little bed." "I'm... sorry. I shouldn't have said anything." "Damn right. But I'm feeling kindly because it's almost Halloween. And we were able to take you downtown and have you walk in that pre- holiday parade, all dolled up like a queer hooker, with the hot pants and belly shirt and big fake boobs. Plus that outrageous clown wig. So I'm going to be nice." "Th... thank you, dear." "No problem. Now where was I? Oh yeah. Then Charlie will cut a hole in the bottom of the empty pumpkin and jam it on over your empty head." Without thinking, I started to say, "But..." and then cut myself off. Brenda gave me a critical look. Charlie backed her up with a nasty scowl. "As I was saying," she resumed, "Charlie -- the man who will soon be taking me to bed and slamming me so hard I'll be howling again -- if you don't mind this time -- will stick the pumpkin on you so nobody will have to look at your dopey face. You'll be surrounded by the wetness and smell of it, looking out through the eyeholes, if he's nice enough to put them in the right places. And you can stay down here in the unheated basement while we're in the warm comfortable bedroom, making it even hotter. Sound good?" What could I say? "Yes, darling. Thank you." Charlie began to slice through the top of the pumpkin. Brenda picked up the spoon. As soon as he pried out the cut section, she scooped up a generous portion of the pulpy interior and held it out to me. I opened my jaws wide and she shoved it in. After I closed my lips she withdrew the spoon, leaving the cold wet mass inside my mouth. I chewed unhappily and forced myself to swallow. She already had another mound of it ready to feed me. I gagged a bit as I accepted it. "No fussing," she warned. "This is good for you. Lots of fiber. And vitamins and crap." She chortled, making me think of a witch. "And you don't have to share it. Every soggy mouthful is for you and you alone, girly girl." Charlie came close and wrinkled his nose at the smell of raw pumpkin. He said, "Then we'll go upstairs, and be right overhead. So you'll be able to hear us screwing like a couple of wild animals. But since there's the floor between us, it won't be loud enough to hurt your delicate ears. Isn't that good?" "Y... yes, Sir." The memories of numerous spankings he'd given me, along with some other unpleasant punishments, filled my mind. More pumpkin was crammed into my mouth. As I chomped on it, I added a garbled, "Thank you, Sir." He laughed openly at my cowardice and inability to retaliate. That powerful and temperamental man had taken my willing wife from me, given her better sex than I could ever have dreamed of providing, and then the two of them had reduced me to a sniveling, simpering, swishing sissy cuckold. The slightest misstep on my part earned me harsh and unreasonable punishment, as I was finding out once again. All too soon I had a nauseating amount of uncooked pumpkin in my guts, had been shown the gap-toothed face Charlie carved, felt the odorous shell pushed down over my head, it's sliminess getting into my hair, and had to look out through the tiny eyeholes to see my wife and that superior man embracing, kissing deeply, and running their hands all over each other, while I sat there looking girly and absurd. The choking smell of assailed my nostrils. Drops of liquid ran down my bare, hairless chest and back. "Have a fun time," Brenda wished me sarcastically. "I know we will." They turned to leave. Charlie glanced back and said, "You make a terrific jerk-o-lantern, loser." "Yeah," seconded my wife. "A pansy jerk-off-o-lantern. That's what you are. So while we're gone, as your listening to us, while Charlie has his killer cock inside me, I want you to play with your tiny dick. Keep it up for the entire time. But no squirting. Maybe I'll let you do that on Thanksgiving." Well, I told myself as I fingered my puny penis and brought it to life, at least I had something to hope for. ********* (Thanks for the recent reviews I've gotten, including some for my older stories, which I always welcome. I just updated my FM biography to include more sites where I have fiction posted.)