Song of the Caged Bird
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Second Song Of The Caged Bird: The Sequel free porn video
Second Song of the Caged Bird: the Sequel
Editor's note. Usually, I don't write sequels. But chastity is a
wonderful topic, and K cared about the characters. Here goes.)
If you think about it, dreams are dominant over sleep.
Sleep is harmless, benign. You are never more vulnerable when sleep. It
is a completely submissive state of mind.
Dreams, on the other hand, take you over and control you. There is no
turning them off. There is no altering them. They can twist you this
way and that, and the only kindness is that you might not remember.
And so it was that, when I finally drifted off, my mind filled with
uncomfortable images. I was in a dungeon, and there was a fire, and the
Smitty was hammering mental into some sort of shape. He used tongues and
a hammer, and he shaped the metal just so. Sparks flew.
Finally, he held his object up the light and there it was.
My cage.
In another dream, he was Dr. Frankenstein, and I was his monster, and he
was attaching electrodes to my penis. The lightning flashed, and he let
loose of a maniacal laugh. He was wearing a lab coat, working, as I lay
prone in a hospital gurney.
Then thunder crashed, and i saw what he was working on.
My cage.
It went on like that. I was Robocop, and he was fixing a plate that
covered my groin. He was Merlin, and he was repairing my chain mail
armour. He was the Borg, and my cock had been assimilated.
Even in the quiet moments, my cock cage - and the images of it - had
taken me over. It was my soul, my being that was in that chastity belt.
It was Mary-Anne who was pulling the puppet strings.
Even as I slept, free for the first time in a week, I could not help but
think about it. The next morning, Mary-Anne had told me, she was putting
back into that damned pink cage. For 10 days, this time. It was
humiliating, and there was a distinct lack of control. I would be caged,
for all that meant for all the accessories that came with it. The
clothes. The toys. The control.
Beside me, Mary-Anne slept the sleep of angels. Her face was unlined,
free of worry. She, too, had gone a week without sex, but there was
nothing imprisoning her. Her control of me had grown by the day. I was
putty in her hands.
I had tried to talk her into a longer break, three or four days maybe,
but she had insisted we get right back to chastity. It would be good for
me, she said. For us. Release was only meant to be temporary. It was
being in the cage that she said was normal for us, not being out of it.
It was the bulid-up to that amazing night of passion we had shared that
was the special part.
Mary-Anne had been a cruel mistress during our week together. She fed me
placebo and told me it was female hormone tablets. She bought a lap
dance, and convinced me that I would give the dancer a blow-job. I was
inches away, with my mouth open, when she changed her mind. She had me
in a maid's outfit, doing maid's chores. She had me wearing heels.
To me, the kinks were not related. How can jailing one's cock have
anything to do with, say, wearing a bra. But Mary-Anne said it was all
part of the same submission, the same surrender of will. I wore the
outfits because she deemed that I would. I wore lipstick because she
felt it helped to emasculate me. No one could see that I had a butt plug
in my rear, but I knew. And she knew.
When the sun came, and the cock crowed, I would be behind the lock once
again.
And, there in our bed, a tear rolled down my cheek.
* *
Despite her flexing her power daily, Mary-Anne was a sweet woman. You'd
like her if you met her as long as she wasn't sending your dick to
prison. She has a throaty laugh, and she tends to touch your arm when
she speaks to you. She loves a good joke, and she's a bit of a flirt.
She's independent as hell. She works on her own car and makes home
repairs, because she thinks a woman should be able to do such things.
But, yeah, she's a control freak. When it was time for me to buy a car,
she made the decision which one. She found our apartment. She picks out
the restaurants where we eat and the movies that we see.
And it had been her decision that we would give chastity a try. No
discussion. One day, she drove to Flesh and Fantasies, and she picked
out a pink one, and she and the sales lady (Angie) put it on me. There
was no time for convincing me. Mary-Anne wanted to try this, and so I
became a member of the Chain Gang.
There are more of us than you would think. I read that. Male chastity
goes back more than 100 years; female chastity goes back to the
crusades. There is something in all of us that wants to savor our
pleasures. We sip wine. We take our time with a nice meal. And we lock
ourselves away in the dark to enhance our sexual pleasures.
When I awoke, Mary-Anne had made the coffee. She normally expects me to
do it, but today was a big day for us. She had me take a bath and shave
all over. I was nude as she paraded me into the living room. Then, in a
grand make-believe ceremony, she presented me with a sliver-wrapped
package.
I unwrapped it slowly. I knew what it was. And there, in tissue paper,
was my torment. It was a pink cage, with rings and a tube and pins.
There was a lock with pink ribbons attached.
I sighed. "Can we wait a couple of days, please?" I asked again.
"Oh, baby," she said. "The sooner you get in, the sooner you get out.
You know that. Come here, Nicole."
I shook my head. She was already using the female version of "Nick," my
name. There was no getting out of this. Not for two weeks.
It should be easier this time, I decided. I had gone through all the
torment the first week. She couldn't threaten me the way she did before.
I knew now that she had no plan for me to have sex with someone else.
She had no plan to alter my body. She would simply play her games, and I
would go along. Ten days was going to be difficult (I almost said hard),
but I could do it. Couldn't I?
She lifted my penis and looked at it. "It didn't get any bigger while it
was sleeping, did it?" she said.
I didn't say anything. She slipped the ring behind my testicles. She put
my dick into the tube. She brought the pins forward.
And she locked it. Click. And I felt the anguish all over again.
Here we went again. Mary-Anne laughed and tapped the tube with her
fingernails. She picked up the lock and let it fall. The ribbons lay
harmlessly beside the lock.
I was caged.
Again.
She smiled. "Back in the joint," she said. "Clyde Barrow, you robbed
another bank."
* * *
I stared at the cage. It seemed smaller, almost feminine. I felt my
submissive streak grow inside of me. Once again, I began to use sissy
mannerisms, flipping my wrist, wriggling my butt. This was her world. I
was just visiting.
"Nicole," she said, quietly. "It's going to be harder for you this time.
Last time was a trial run, okay? This time, we're really going to
embrace this lifestyle. You'rea chastity girl now. When I feed you
estrogen, it might not be a placebo. When I steer your face toward a
cock, I might not pull you away. The first week was just fun and games.
Now we get serious."
Fun? Games? She had a cock in front of my face. She put me in dresses.
She jammed a plug up my ass.
I swallowed. Hard. Maybe this was one of her mind games. That was it.
Just to make me think she wasn't teasing.
She pulled me into her office and turned on the computer. She showed me
a file that showed various pictures of caged men. Some were metal, some
were plastic. Some were large, some were small. But click and after
click, there were the familiar sights of cages.
And, yes, even though I was wearing one myself, the pictures were hot.
They suggested surrender, and the promise of release, and the intimacies
that would come afterward. There were photos of the cages behind the
frilliest of panties and stocking tops. I tried to get hard, then
discovered, once again, that I could not.
Can a dick get claustrophobic? I felt like a man trapped underwater,
yearning to breathe freely again. I kept thinking of prison movies, of
those men behind bars. It was like I had a small safe over my dick, as
if it had been put away for the winter. Two weeks of this? Why had I let
her do this to me again?
Mary-Anne handed me underwear and a pale blue maid's dress. "We're
taking a ride this morning," she said. "I want you to look pretty."
I began to dress. But if you want to know the truth, the panties didn't
matter to me. The bra didn't matter. Not even the heels mattered. That
was all secondary stuff. Play time. What mattered was that clamp on my
cock that seemed to get tighter and tighter. It was as if I had been
caught trying to have sex with a remote control. It felt foreign,
obtrusive.
That's the beauty - and the horror - of chastity. You are always aware
of it. You turned, and the lock bounced. You felt the tube, the rings.
You thought of all of the hours that you had to wear it. It itched. I
would have given a million dollars to scratch it. It felt warm. My
throat went dry and I began to sweat almost at once.
I've read that some sissies get used to it. It's no big deal. Maybe, but
I had a difficult time believing it. The thought of mine was a flashing
neon sign.
Mary-Anne turned onto the street.
"Where are we going, Mistress?" I asked.
"I told you," she said. "I don't want to be called Mistress. Call me
Miss if you have to. Or just Mary-Anne. I know you respect me. If you
don't show it, I'll spank your ass. Now, we're riding to Cleveland
today. They have a convention for alternative lifestyles. Won't that be
fun? You'll get to meet other sissies, and you'll get to look at all the
new toys. We're going to swing by and get Angie, and we'll be off."
I was uncomfortable being with Angie. She had been there the first time
I was caged, and she knew about my feminization. She had picked out the
butt plug I wore. If Mary-Anne was the Bitch In Control, well, Angie was
the Vice Bitch in Control.
The drive to Cleveland wasn't bad. Mary-Anne and Angie talked, and I sat
in the back seat and watched the cars we passed. I played with my hair,
which was still too short to be feminine. And I thought about my poor,
locked penis. It had seemed tiny in the cage, smaller than I remembered
it.
I tried to remove all thought from my mind. I simply was. I watched the
colors pass in the car window.
Nearing Cleveland, we passed a clean-up crew, one of those road crews of
convicts that remove trash from the highway.
"Oh, look," Mary-Anne said. "Jailbirds. I wonder if they're kin to your
cock."
She laughed. Angie laughed.
I didn't laugh.
* *
A Lifestyle's Convention - or a collection of Fetish Fans - is a great
place to people watch. There were women in women's underwear, and men in
women's underwear. There Masters and Mistresses and sissies and subs.
There were big and little and rubber and leather and women wearing strap
ons and men wearing maid's dresses. Some women had mohawks. Some men had
pigtails.
We walked around, looking. Angie wanted to check out the dildos, so we
stopped there. Mary-Anne bought a pair of handcuffs. Angie bought a
paddle for spanking. Then Mary-Anne saw a t-shirt display.
She picked up a pink one. It had a picture of a jail cell on the front
that said "Member, Chain Gang" on it. On the back was a black chastity
cage. Underneath, it said "Size: Extra Small."
Mary-Anne cackled. "You've got to buy that for Nicole," Angie said.
"I think I'm going to buy two," she said. "One for her, and one for me."
So she bought t-shirts, and we moved through the crowd. We passed a very
large black master with leather straps over his chest. His shaved head
shined.
"You like?" Mary-Anne said to me. "I could get his number, I bet."
"No thank you," I said.
"Want to wait for a bigger guy?" Angie said.
I blushed, but I didn't say anything. We kept moving.
There is beauty in freedom, and it showed. An obviously transgender girl
- still with her beard - was holding hands with a woman. Men were
holding hands with men. No one was embarrassed or ashamed. We just were
what we were.
We kept walking, and my feet started to hurt. Heels, I decided, were a
sexual torture device for the feet.
By now, it no longer bothered me to wear a dress. Certainly not in this
crowd. It's amazing how fast you get to used to the sensations.
Mary-Anne and I decided to stop for lunch. Angie wanted to check out the
chastity belt, so we agreed to meet in an hour by the White Display.
It was crowded, so we sat at a small table in the middle of the room.
Eventually, a Master and his Sissy asked if they could share our table.
Mary-Anne nodded. I didn't get a vote, naturally.
The Master - Paul Walker, he said his name was - was looking for sissy
clothing for his companion. They sat. He was from Akron, up for the day.
He and his Sissy - who was named Tabby - came to the convention every
year.
"You two together long?" Mary-Anne asked.
"Five years," Master Paul said matter-of-factly. "Since we were both
boys. But Tabby likes this sissy shit, and I like Tabby. So I adjusted.
And I like being in charge. You guys?"
"We're just starting out," Mary-Anne said. "But Nicole likes boys with
big dicks, so I try to indulge her. She's into threesomes as long as
both partners are men."
"Ha. Tabby, too. I guess all sissies are like that."
I blanched. I had never been with a guy, but Master Paul didn't know
that. Here Mary-Anne was again, making up her facts to fit her story. It
was part of my humiliation, I guess. A kind of verbal role-play.
Tabby reached out and linked her fingers to mine. It felt completely
natural holding hands with another sissy. Maybe I was getting used to
this after all. After all, sissies held hands.
"Tabby's cute," Mary-Anne said. "One of these days, we should swap." My
eyes widened.
Master Paul laughed. "Maybe. So how new to the lifestyle is new?"
"She still has the price-tag on her," Mary-Anne said. "She's right out
of the box."
"I tell you," Master Paul said. "She's got good lips. Cocksucking lips.
I could get into that. Nicole, too. She'll fuck both of you in the
middle of the mall."
Tabby leaned over. "I like sissy sex," she said. "Do you?" Her hand
rested on my thigh. She was so pretty, I forgot she had a penis. I
wonder: Was it locked away?
"Tell you what" Mary-Anne said. "I'll give you my number, and you give
me yours. We'll stay in touch. Deal?"
Master Paul smiled. "Deal."
The man and his sissy stood and left. Tabby looked back at me and
waggled her fingers goodbye. She was indeed very pretty. She had been at
this much longer than I have. There were worse role models for me if
Mary-Anne was going to insist of me being feminized.
They left, and I stared at Mary-Anne. "Were you really going to make me
sleep with both of these men?" I said.
"Dear," Mary-Anne said. "Tabby isn't a man, no more than you are. You're
sissies. As far as you sleeping with them, what do you think I was going
to do? And what were you hoping I would do? That I would let you you
sleep with Master Paul? That I would let you sleep with Tabby? Both of
them?"
I stammered my reply. I didn't want a man.
Mary-Anne just frowned.
She shook her head and scowled. "Nicole, sissies please their superiors.
Get used to the idea, okay. You have no say in the matter."
I started to reply, but Mary-Anne kept walking.
"You aren't embracing this shit, Nicole," she said. "There are hundreds
of caged me who get into it, who get revved up in anticipation of their
release. That's the whole point. It doesn't matter if you're a sissy or
a lesbian or a gay man. You have to surrender to the cage, sweetie. You
have enjoy being locked away. Otherwise, you're just a pain in the ass."
I was silent. Was she right? Did I need a better attitude? Was this
simply an existence I had accepted?
By now, we had reached the meeting point with Angie. She had a small
shopping bag in her right hand. She seemed pleased with herself.
"They had such great stuff," Angie said. She looked at me. "They even
had toys especially designed for small penises, like yours. Cock rings
and masturbators and shock rings. They had a cage that had spikes in it.
If you get hard, well, ouch."
"I'm not that small," I said.
"Right," Mary-Anne said. "They have a term for you. It's called
'microdick.'"
I rolled my eyes. We walked toward the parking lot. As we walked, Mary-
Anne and Angie were in front of me. I lagged behind, looking at all of
my sissy sisters.
Then I saw it. Angie reached her hand out and took Mary-Anne's. They
walked that way toward the car, holding hands.
Really?
* *
The next day, we had another errand. Mary-Anne loaded me in the car
still dressed like a maid - and began to drive. She passed a jewelry
store. She passed an office supply store. She passed a Target.
Finally, she came to a strip mall, and she turned in. She pulled in
front of a sign that said, "Glen Massey, Oncologist." My wanted searched
for a definition, but for the life of me, I couldn't figure out what an
oncologist did. Until we walked into the waiting room, and there was a
doctor's chart with a human breast on it.
Again, I thought back to when Mary-Anne had me fooled about birth
control pills that turned out to be fakes. But this was elaborate hoax
if it was one.
We registered, and we waited, and soon, a nurse came to the door.
"Nicole?" she said.
I rose, a bit embarrassed at my female name being used. I went back, and
she took my blood pressure and my temperature. She announced that the
doctor would be in to see me.
My head spun. Was this real? Was Dr. Massey really a tit doctor? Hell, I
didn't have tits, unless you counted the ones you could put in a drawer.
He came in, a young man, nice, good smile. He had me lower my top. He
felt my flat chest, my nipples. He made notes on a chart.
"Well, Nicole. I understand you're here for breasts."
My jaw dropped open. I couldn't make a noise.
"You understand," he said, "that while breasts are reversible, they're a
pretty loud statement about what you want to be. From your build, I
think we can get you into a B cup, maybe a small C. When do you want to
do this?"
"Um...wherever," I said, still not believing this was real.
"Okay. I have an opening in three weeks. I'll schedule you for then.
You'll be very happy with these, Nicole. Now, while you're here, would
you like to discuss SRS."
"Uh, no, doctor. Not at this point."
He smiled. He reached onto his desk, and he handed me a small lollipop.
"Normally, they're for kids," he said. "But would you like one?"
And it was that easy. Within a month, I would have real breasts.
Boobies. Hooters. Puppies.
I couldn't wait.
* * *
Later in the week, at dinner, Angie excused herself and went to the
restroom. Mary-Anne looked at me for a long moment.
"Nicole," she said. "Nicole, I have something to say. We're going to
open up this marriage, okay? It's time."
"What? Open up?"
"I mean, I think we should both be with other people. Sexually. I saw
you staring at Master Paul's dick today. I thought you were going to
blow right there. And Angie and I, well, we like each other. There is no
sense in staying apart but the prevailing social norm."
I stared at her. "Are you breaking up with me?" I said.
"God, no," Mary-Anne said. "Sweetie, I love you. You're my sissy. I love
pulling down your panties and seeing your cage. Nothing in the world is
any hotter. I know I'm a bitch at times, but you're my girl. But Angie
has a vagina, and you don't. And if I'm going to be your mistress, I
need human contact. I need a real woman. Or a real man. Think of it as
us bumping elbows, or rubbing ankles together. It's just body parts.
Okay?"
I looked at the table. I felt my eyes grow wet. I didn't want Master
Paul, for goodness' sake. I didn't want anyone.
Could this be one of Mary-Anne's games designed to torture me? Like with
the fake estrogen? Like with the dick I thought I was going to suck? I
felt a surge of hope. Maybe it could be. Isn't that what key holders did
with their caged partners? They tried to drive them crazy.
I nodded. "You don't need my permission to sleep with you want," I said
softly.
"No," she said. "I don't. I'm not asking permission. I'm giving you the
courtesy of warning you tat some people might be staying over."
"In my bed?" I said, meekly.
"No," Mary-Anne said. "In my bed. But we are going to move you to the
spare bedroom. That way, when you get up and get dressed in the morning,
you don't bother me. And if you have a guy over, that won't bother me,
either."
"I won't," I said.
But I did.
*. *
His named was Tony Mizzaro, and Mary-Anne brought him home for dinner.
They laughed, and they talked, and they drank as I served them. So this
is what Mary-Anne wants, I thought. She wants some Italian guy to make
her moan. She had kicked me out of my bedroom, and the bed I had
purchased for us, and she was going to bang this creep while I was in
the same house.
I was angry enough to scream, but I knew better. I keep quiet, and I
poured wine, and I made snacks. I touched my cage to remind myself I was
submissive. I was a good little maid, fetching and kowtowing.
But I was wrong. Tony wasn't for Mary-Anne.
Tony was for me.
I came into the living room, and he was sitting alone on the couch.
Mary-Anne was in the lounger. Tony held his wine glass out, and as I
filled it, he stroked my wrist. I blushed and pulled gently away. He
touched my butt, then.
"Don't run away, pretty sissy," he said. "Sit with me."
I glanced at Mary-Anne. She simply nodded and make a circular motion
with her hand for me to proceed.
I wanted to run. I wanted to rush out the door and race down the street.
This was real. Maybe Mary-Anne would stop it yet, but it felt as if Tony
wanted me, and I had no idea of how to react. He pulled me onto his lap,
and he kissed me. Deeply. Passionately.
It frightened me, to tell you the truth. Oh, I won't lie. After all I
had been through with the cage, Tony's lips felt, well, nice. He had his
hand on my breast forms. I could feel him swell beneath me.
I reached down and rubbed him, and his lips parted in pleasure. Again, I
looked at Mary-Anne as if to see if she was going to stop me. But she
was just watching with a glazed look in her eye.
Tony pushed me down to the floor, and Mary-Anne took my place on the
couch. She whispered instructions. "Touch him." And "masturbate him."
And "take him in your mouth." I was sucking gently on the tip now, and
her words changed. "Lick him," she said. And "kiss the balls" and "more
tongue." She reached out and grabbed my hair, and began a back-and-forth
motion with my head. I bobbled, and I licked, and yes, eventually, it
wasn't that bad. It was sex. Just sex.
I could feel him in my mouth, warm and hard and excited.
And then Mary-Anne whispered "stop."
I backed up, my lipstick sticking to his skin as I looked at her.
"Nicole, it's up to you," she said. "You can stop now. No harm. Or you
can finish him. What do you want to do."
My god. Freedom of choice? I had never had freedom of choice. I knew I
should stop and walk away. Otherwise, you can never go back. But I
breathed deeply.
And I took his cock back in my mouth.
This is who I was. I surrendered all dignity, and I embraced the cage
and the cock and the moment. I bobbed again, and soon, he was writhing
in his chair. And he came, warm and salty and lovely. He splashed across
my forehead, across my cheeks. I took him back in my mouth and tried to
swallow, but there was too much of him.
I knew I should have felt shame, but I didn't. I felt warmth. I felt
appreciated. I felt content.
Once again, I touched my cage. I adjusted it. It was me now. I was the
prisoner of Zenda. I was the bird man of Alcatraz. I was a defiant one.
And I was happy.
* *
The next night, it was Mary-Anne's turn, she told me. She was going to
experiment, and she expected me to be the good maid. No arguing. No
back-talk.
"Who's the lucky guy," I said without judgment.
"Oh, it's Scott," she said.
I hadn't met Scott, had I?
"...and Lucas."
I brought my hand to my mouth to cover my giggle. Mary-Anne laughed
along.
"You're bringing home two guys?" I said. "A lover and a back-up lover?
Starsky AND Hutch? Batman AND Robin? Lewis AND Clark?"
"Fred and Barney?" she said.
"Beavis and Butthead?"
"Ren and Stempy?"
"Gilligan and the Skipper?"
"The Lone Ranger and Tonto?"
"Tarzan and Cheetah?"
"Kermit and Fozzie Bear?"
We went on for a few minutes, tossing out this guy's name his partner's
name. It was a light moment for a change. No jealousy, no anger. We had
reached an uneasy truce.
Scott showed up at 6:30, with wine. He was a nice enough guy, kind of
tall and lanky, but with nice looking brown hair. Lucas showed up at 7,
with wine. He was a black guy, an attorney in town.
My presence seemed to throw them a little bit. At first, Scott seemed to
think it was a double date. It wasn't. It was two of them and one of
Mary-Anne. She sat between them, holding one hand in each of hers. She
kissed Lucas, then she kissed Scott. Then she was excusing herself to go
upstairs, both guys in tow.
I smiled as they ascended the stairs. This was her night, and she
deserved it. We were different people, open and experimental. I smiled
and turned on the television to help cover up the noise.
Not long after, I heard Mary-Anne calling to me. More wine? Snacks?
Beer? I scurried up the staircase.
And there, naked as the day they entered the world, were the three of
them, looking happy, touching each other lightly, kissing.
"I need a favor," Nicole said wickedly.
"Yes, miss?" I said.
"We need, well, some clean up," she said. And she spread her legs.
She was wet. They were were wet. I climbed onto the bed.
Okay, I've heard that clearing up your lover and her lover was a kink.
But three people? With various fluids to lap up? I couldn't decide if it
was nasty or just naughty.
I licked up a white globe from her thigh. More from her public hair.
That was the worst of it. Once I was in the vagina itself, the darkness
helped me. I just knew moisture.
And then I was licking Scott. And then Lucus. I alternated the penises,
effectively giving them both a blow-job. Let me tell you, as jobs go, it
beat ironing.
* *
In the days to come, we experimented. Angie took me anally. Mary-Anne
tried out a master. I slept with another sissy (Lord, what a little did
SHE had). We were in an ice-cream shop, we were determined to try every
flavor.
Angie handcuffed and blindfolded Mary-Anne in the closet. Mary-Anne
took my ass with a strap on. Angie spanked me with her paddle.
It was all in good fun. We did role-play. We tried tying each other up.
We had a three-some, and later on, a foursome. We talked a lot, because
communication is so important in a relationship. We kissed a lot, too.
But only one of us wore the cage. It was mine, damn it. Mary-Anne and
Angie could get their own.
* * *
A day later, and my chores were going more quickly. There was a bounce
in my step. There was a song in my heart. The door to my sex life had
been unlocked; so what if my birdcage hd not been.
This is the feeling that comes with surrender, with the embracing of a
caged lifestyle. I was free. I was joyous.
Mary-Anne told me that Angie was going to sleep over that night. Okay.
That made sense. I liked Angie. She had helped train me. I had had sex
outside of our relationship. It was fair if Mary-Anne did, too. I'd just
sit and watch.
I thought a lot about chastity that day, how it really isn't a prison.
It's really a delay of freedom, a savoring, a building up. I could see
the benefits now. I had my caging so hard that I never learned to
embrace the positives.
Why do men do this? They do it not to be jailed, but to celebrate the
release. Not for the binding, but for the freedom that comes afterward.
That day, I called my mother. And I told her almost everything. Well,
not about the sex, but about the dresses, about the chores, about Mary-
Anne leading our relationship. I invited her to dinner to meet her
daughter. I don't know if my mother got it, but hell. I didn't get it
for a long time, and I'm the one who had the jail cell on his dick.
Later that night, when we were alone, Mary-Anne looked at me and smiled.
Want to go for two weeks?
"No," I said. "I don't think so," I said.
She looked hurt. "No?"
"No," I said. "I don't want to stop. Who needs a fucking key. Let keep
going."
And we did.
Myra
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