Threesome with Robyn and Jodie
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Melissa Won't Let Go. Chapter 1, Jodie. free porn video
Melissa Won't Let Go.
By Tanya H.
-1-
JODIE.
By the time the magistrates had imposed the restraining order on
Melissa I had already moved away, down to the South West, after my
bosses sympathetically arranged a transfer. I went to a bigger store in
Plymouth, with slightly less money and responsibility, but they needed
to make sure my personal life wasn't going to blow up again. Who could
blame them?
I hated having to leave my life and friends behind in York, but both
were marked by Melissa so necessity won and I told myself I'd been
there too long, that it would be exciting to have new places to
explore, a new house and new friends to find. To be fair, all that came
true; I was even flattered when a few women started showing an
interest in me - any man wants to feel that he can attract the opposite
sex, but I wasn't ready to invite another girl into my life. I had to
get over Melissa first; it may sound melodramatic, but every woman I
talked to had me wondering if she was as mental as my ex.
Really crazy people don't usually announce themselves as such. If
Melissa had introduced herself along the lines of, "Hi, I'm Melissa -
the kind of obsessive control freak who will want to minutely manage
every aspect of your life and get massively over-emotional if you don't
let me," I probably wouldn't have gone on that first date with her.
But I did date Melissa, after meeting her at the gym where she was eye
catching with a tight, interesting shape outlined in lycra. Blonde and
outgoing, with a ready smile and gorgeous blue eyes, Melissa had me
happily infatuated after only a could of dates. Bright, intelligent,
interesting and sexually adventurous, I couldn't have asked for a
better girlfriend. Only after we'd been going out about ten months,
when we'd moved in together and were talking about marriage, the real
Melissa showed her teeth. A year after that she was found guilty of
harassing me, handed down a restraining order and I moved cities.
I should have realised that wouldn't be the end of it. Melissa's love
came much more tenacious and spiked than that.
When I recognised her neat handwriting on the letter on my doormat one
evening, I groaned. She'd found me, hunted me down. Almost trembling I
tiptoed around the house in case she'd broken in and hidden herself.
What I should have done was call the police; this was a clear breach of
her restraining order. Instead I opened the letter, though not before
checking it carefully, for more of her malicious surprises. All I found
was a single sheet of note paper on which she had written;
'Dear James, It's not over until it's over. You've made a mistake
and you've hurt me, but I think you'll come to realise what you've
done. Love always, Melissa.'
Stupidly, stubbornly in denial I kept the letter to myself, even though
the police could have arrested her for sending it. I convinced myself I
didn't want my new boss to think I was causing her problems already,
but as I went to work the next morning every blonde became Melissa
while Kelly, who I shared an office with, remarked on how jumpy I
looked.
Happily Melissa didn't turn up and, feeling more secure at work than
home, I decided to stay a late to work on a project I'd been set. By
the time I was ready to leave the store was closed and empty, but for
the cleaners. Just about to put on my jacket, the office door was
pushed open and Lloyd, one of the first floor supervisors peeped
around. Balding, slightly overweight and middle-aged, Lloyd made any
excuse he could to pop in and see Kelly. She and I joked about it, but
there wasn't any malice in him - everyone liked Kelly.
"Oh!" he said when he saw me. Then he frowned, and stared. "Jodie?"
I'd been called lots of things before, but never Jodie. Then a
momentary, very distinctive shiver passed through me. A sudden, bloated
and weighty sensation on my chest made me look down to see my white,
company shirt distorted by a very large bosom. In a clear breach of
company appearance standards, a red bra's outline glared through the
shirt. Never had I worn a bra of any description and I stared at my
hugely disfigured chest a moment before Lloyd shook me out of my daze.
"Jodie?"
I looked up. He stared at my chest too, but in that instant I didn't
care. His eyes' hungry grope across my boobs raced shivers through me.
Putting down my jacket I faced him, proudly pushing my breasts out. I
loved to have him stare at them and Lloyd obviously loved to look.
Behind his plump jowls he had a strong face, piercing eyes and his
round belly just made him look cuddly. With a warm rush of excitement I
knew I wanted to please him in any way he liked. A pool of warmth grew
between my legs, my breasts ached and I smiled warmly to feel my
nipples growing hard.
It only took a couple of steps to cross the office to him. High heels
clicked on the laminate floor, my narrow skirt swished around my
thighs. Before he'd moved I'd lifted both his hands and pressed them to
my chest. A big man with big hands, they were just the size for my
breasts.
"Oh my God," he said as his fingers pulsed over me, then he squeezed my
big, soft breasts delicately as though they weren't real.
"You want me, don't you?" I murmured. He smelt male, very attractive.
The heat between my legs went wet and I leant into his hands while my
fingers brushed the hardening shape of his cock through his trousers.
"Take me, I'm yours."
As I reached into his trousers, Lloyd growled deep in his throat and
letting go of my breasts he grasped my blouse and tore it open. Buttons
scattered across the office. Scrabbling at my bra he hauled down the
shoulder straps and cups to bare my big, milk-white breasts and bury
his face between them. While I scrabbled at his trousers he lapped
soppily along my cleavage, then changed his mind and bit me. I
squealed, because the pain made pleasure and his cock bounded from his
pants, stiff and hot in my hands.
Way stronger than he looked, he spun and bundled me face down onto my
desk. My breasts pressed onto the reports I'd been reading minutes
before. Panting fast and heavy, I urged him on. One of my stockings
laddered under his clumsy efforts to get my narrow skirt up to my
waist. Then he tried to tear off my panties, as red as my bra, but the
waist band just dug in so he wrenched them to one side.
Then I got what I needed. A slight touch where I was hottest and
wettest before he slid deep into me. A cry of satisfaction caught in my
throat. For a moment we stayed like that, him buried inside me, filling
me, stretching me delightfully. Then his fingers dug into my round hips
and he started fucking me.
He moved hard and fast while I pushed back and grunted at each thrust.
The pleasure built, stronger and stronger. I bit my lip and squeezed
myself as tight as I could around him. The desk shook, my computer
monitor rocked wildly until he groaned, pushed himself in as deep as
he could then emptied himself into me - I felt every pulse.
As though a bucket of cold water had been thrown over me, I realised
where and who I was.
My name was James Marlow - a junior manager in a department store being
bent across my own desk while a supervisor from the electrical
department held his erection inside my vagina.
"Oh my God!" said Lloyd and he jerked backwards out of me. I heard him
stumble away, sobbing "Karen," over and over again. I kept my eyes
closed. Something slick oozed down my inner thigh, sickening me to
retch.
"What did you make me do, you slag!" he shouted. The door slammed and I
was alone.
I tried to steady my breathing while nausea churned my belly and
threatened to spill over. What had happened to me? One minute I'd been
me, ready to go home the next, I was a woman being fucked across my
desk.
Trembling and terrified somebody might find me like that, I stood and
whimpered as more cum ran down my thighs. Those alien breasts swung
horribly as I tugged the blouse over them, but the buttons were
scattered. Without trying to touch anything actually oozing I eased the
bright panties back over the red lips that shouldn't be between my legs
and wriggled the skirt back into place over suspenders and arched tops
of sheer black stockings. I stared obsessively at the startling,
towering red stilettos I balanced on perfectly.
But how? I fought to get the bra back into place before somebody saw
me; a woman! A sweating, heart-pounding, half naked woman feeling
nauseous under echoes of that unstoppable need to have Lloyd fuck me.
Tottering a few steps I collapsed into my chair, sniffling and shaking
with wounded, high-pitched sobs. I couldn't be a woman - impossible!
Men didn't turn into women like that.
But I couldn't stay here crying. The cleaners would come and find me in
this mix of company uniform and fuck-me shoes and wonder who I was.
Lloyd had called me Jodie, but I didn't know why. I sniffed one last
time, wiped at my wet face, leaving the back of my hand smeared with
mascara.
The world went lopsided for a moment again, a chill ran across my skin
as though somebody watched me, but the door was shut and I was alone.
But transformed!
I nearly whooped with joy to see my trousers and flat shoes again; my
chest was wonderfully flat, my hair properly short. When I lurched to
the mirror by the door all I could see was me. As though nothing had
happened.
With another heartfelt cry of relief I hurried for the lift, needing to
get home - in case it happened again.
But every step I took through the car park and even when I sat behind
the steering wheel trying to tell myself it was a dream, the ghost of
Lloyd's cock pumped hard inside me, where I had nowhere for it to be.
By the time I'd driven home, I'd almost convinced myself it was some
kind of nightmare, that I'd dozed off in the office and dreamt it.
Until I stripped for the shower and found a bright red and lace trimmed
suspender belt around my waist, the suspenders dangling with nothing
fastened to them. I stared long and hard, but much worse was the
silvery trail of dried cum down my inner thigh. If it had only been a
dream, whose cum was it?
A couple of days went by and nothing weird happened, I didn't even
dream of Lloyd and when I saw him again at the store we passed with the
same kind of nods we'd always shared. More importantly, I stayed male
and he didn't try ripping my shirt open. Perfect. Had I hallucinated it
all? Saturday night came with a movie, beer and pizza night with a
couple of guys, Al and John, from work - nothing out of the ordinary,
it should have been a good time.
After a really bad movie, John said he had some Peroni in his fridge
and we could go to his place and either drink it watching a decent film
there or just drink it. It sounded like a plan. By the time we got to
John's flat, Al had decided to head for his girlfriend's. We laughed,
he went. I set off up the stairs to John's flat with him following.
I shivered, though it wasn't cold.
"I can see your stocking tops, Jodie," said John.
Stopping, left foot poised on the next step up, I pushed blonde hair
away from my face and looked down on him.
"Don't look then."
He stared blatantly up my skirt. Perhaps wearing black, lace topped
hold ups under such a short, flared skirt hadn't been a great idea, but
the excited gleam in his eyes and his boldness in not looking away
raised heat in my cheeks. He could probably see my panties too and his
look of simple, unadulterated admiration melted me inside.
"Or look if you want to," I said, with a sultry tone. I swayed my hips,
rippling the skirt around my thighs and maybe opening the view a little
more.
"Don't mind if I do, it's the prettiest thing I've seen all day. I
believe I just caught a glimpse of your knickers."
"Good job I'm wearing some then,' I said, with a smile. Tossing my hair
over my shoulder and turning my back I set off up the stairs. 'Are you
coming, or what?"
By the time we'd got to his front door my cheeks burned and it wasn't
just from climbing the steps. My nipples showed bold through my bra and
tight top, revealed by me swinging back my denim jacket so he could
admire them. As he looked me up and down I struck a provocative pose
and let him enjoy me - from my feet in impossibly high, platform soled
knee-length boots to the cleavage bared by the very bold top I wore. So
fixed was he on my tits, he dropped his door keys twice.
"Hurry up," I moaned, rubbing my thighs together, like I needed to pee.
The truth was I was so desperately aroused down there I thought I might
be leaking. It was all I could do to keep my hands gripping my shoulder
bag's strap, otherwise I might have had fingers inside my knickers
while he fumbled at the door.
He'd barely closed us inside the flat before I'd pushed him onto his
back on the hallway mat. A wild, sexual energy possessed me, so intense
I felt like my long hair must be flying around my head with the charge.
I could have picked John up, thrown him over my shoulder and lugged him
to the bedroom.
His eyes widened, his mouth opened with delight and anticipation as I
pinned him to the floor, only my soaked panties and his straining jeans
between us. I dropped my hands to his chest, tweaked his nipples, bent
and kissed him hard, forced my tongue into his mouth. Then I twisted
slightly and bit his neck. He cried out, but not in pain.
"Jesus, Jodie!"
"Shut up!" I snapped and bit him again. He smelt of popcorn and sweat.
My jacket got thrown into a corner, my top followed. My tits were big
and creamy and pushed up by a black lace bra.
"Jodie..." he said with a dreamy edge to his voice, eyes full of my
breasts while I wrestled with his belt. In my urgency to get into his
trousers my long nails scratched him, but that just made him smile and
moan with satisfaction, like he wasn't rocking from side to side on his
hallway carpet as I tugged and heaved at his jeans.
"Do you want to fuck me or not," I grunted as I finally pushed the
jeans over his hips. His boxers followed allowing his cock to spring
free. Impressed by its length and girth, I was concerned with getting
on top of it.
"Proper tigress, aren't you?"
So I slapped him, right on the cheek and though my palm stung he rode
the blow, rubbed the smarting cheek and smiled that contented, dreamy
smile. His pelvis started rocking under me; he stared as I pulled at my
panties to bare my slick engorged pussy.
Inside I felt hollow, like a steam filled space only he could fill.
Driven by that need I aggressively grabbed his cock, pointed it between
my legs and lowered myself until his tip just engaged my vagina. Then I
dropped like a rock, drove the wind from him and engulfed his body with
my heat. We both cried out.
It was a good job I hadn't torn off my bra, for I rode him cruelly -
fast and hard. His expression went from joy to pain, to ecstasy. A
couple of times, in my enthusiasm, I let him out of me on the up stroke
and missed him on the down, but even that didn't wipe the big, daft
grin from his face. It felt fantastic and I moaned from the pressure of
my own orgasm building, but then his face crunched into ugly
concentration, he grabbed me around the waist and pulled me
energetically down.
"Not now, you bastard!" I shrieked and slapped him again, one of my
nails left a scratch along his jawline. Too late (or my slap finished
it for him) for he gave out a great groan and heaved himself upwards.
Before I could ride my own orgasm he pumped his into me and I felt
every squirt.
I tried to keep riding, frustration edging my own grunts, but he went
slack underneath me and while his cock stayed hard he'd clearly had
enough for he held my waist tightly and reduced my attempts to mere
rocking.
"Don't stop now, come on, John! Stay with me."
But his expression drifted contentedly, his head lolled and as his
hands went slack on my waist his cock went sleepy and softened too.
Disgusted I lifted myself, felt his cock slither free and rearranged my
panties. A deep, contented snore rumbled from his throat while I fought
an urge to wake him by stamping a stiletto heel through his hand. I may
even have raised a foot, but an emotional slap around the face brought
me back into reality. With a sudden, awful shock I remembered who or
what I was.
My stomach clenched and I clapped a hand to my mouth, dashed for John's
toilet where I noisily spewed beer and pizza, trying to keep my hair
clean, heaving wretchedly long after emptying my belly. With a clammy
face I stumbled back to the hall. John snored on, his cock limp and
drooling cum.
I stood over him a moment, what was I to do? Trapped in this facade of
tits and skirt and hair and heels and a pussy full of a man's cum I
felt like screaming and crying, of crouching by the door and sobbing
and weeping. What was happening to me? Desperate woman one minute, a
man imprisoned in a woman's body the next. The last time, with Lloyd, I
had changed back quickly, but it must have been at least ten minutes,
maybe more since John finished.
I couldn't stay here, in case he woke and saw me. But I didn't want to
leave in case somebody else did. I kept looking at his cock and
remembering how I'd needed to get it in me. Now the sight of it, even
limp, made me hurry back to the toilet to kneel over the bowl retching
helplessly.
Walrus snores still shook the air when I felt safe enough to leave the
toilet. Groaning with the effort, and exposing thighs and panties in a
most unladylike way, I heaved John into a recovery position so he
wouldn't choke on beery puke then let myself out. The door snicked
locked behind me with grim finality leaving me stranded on the landing
in teetering boots, wobbling tits and belly-churning disgust. I had to
get home, less than a mile away, but as I looked down the steps and
felt the way my feet were bent out of shape by those boots it might as
well have been on the other side of the moon.
Clinging to the handrail like a drunk I did one step, then another. A
massive wobble on the third almost saw my ankle go from under me and a
frustrated sob burst from me as I struggled for my footing.
Then shivered and found myself again. Relief washed through me; my feet
were flat and solid on the floor, chest firm, body normal. I all but
ran down the stairs and out into the cool, night air.
That walk home - the acid taste of puke and disgust; the questions,
hopelessness, sheer incredulity that something as outlandish could have
happened to me. It had been beyond fantasy, beyond imagination - surely
a hallucination, a drunken dream!
But when I hurriedly stripped off for a shower I was disgusted to find
myself still wearing one of those sheer stockings that had so attracted
John's attention. I tore it from my leg with short, brutal snatches,
shredding the nylon until I balled up the remains and pushed them deep
into the kitchen bin.
The next day, Sunday, I didn't leave the house. I showered,
obsessively, but the feel of sex crawled like ants on my skin and
poison in my belly. I streamed a movie, but couldn't concentrate; I
went to the bin and stared at that shredded stocking. Physical evidence
or delusion? The nylon felt real, but in a delusion it would.
Every couple of weeks I had to work a weekend and got days off during
the week to compensate. When a scrawny lad from DPD came on Monday with
a parcel for me - some clothes I'd ordered - I was home to receive it.
Before I'd finished making my mark on his tablet I was looking out on
him from the enhanced body of some kind of porn actress; my vision
curtained by shining platinum hair while I pouted full lips his way and
pushed out my buoyantly artificial tits. The white bikini contrasted
with my tan, but barely covered my nipples - never mind my pussy. So
desperate was I for him to take me in my hallway, I almost forgot to
kick the door closed behind us before pushing down his trousers and
groping for his cock.
Afterwards I stumbled to the shower and crouched under the steaming
water that couldn't touch the disgust, shame and revulsion at what I
had become; what I had been compelled to do. I vomited again, dripping
water over the bathroom floor, while my silicone bosom pressed into the
toilet bowl and my dyed hair got in the way.
The long shower couldn't touch what I felt inside, but when I stumbled
out, maybe 20 minutes later, my skin glowed red under its chemical tan
and those horrible tits quivered with every step I took. I lay under
the quilt in my bedroom, with the curtains closed staring at the
ceiling.
About two hours after that I turned back. Until a neighbour's lanky lad
came around to ask if he could get his football from my back garden and
I found myself as a golden-brown, asian girl, with a ballerina's figure
and tiny breasts. I'd seen the lad a few times before, he'd just passed
his driving test, but couldn't have told you his name. He looked as
surprised as I felt when I changed, but the surprise didn't last long;
neither did the very close fitting Hooters outfit I found myself
desperate to get out of. I'd hardly started pushing down the tights and
hotpants before he'd got me onto my back. Baulked for a moment by the
tangle of shorts and tights around my legs he lifted and pushed them
towards my face. Despite the urgency I felt for the sex, and a climax,
it made for an uncomfortable position though he was mercifully quick to
empty himself inside me.
This time, once he'd gone - back to his football - and I'd come down
from being utterly fixated on sex with him, I held myself together a
bit better. Based on previous experience, crying wasn't going to help;
I didn't know what would get me through, but sobbing wasn't it. Despite
wearing the shape of a willowy, Asian teenager I got busy, putting on
running shorts, with a drawstring to cinch tight over my slim hips, and
a baggy t-shirt that all but concealed my little, pointed breasts. It
didn't stop them bouncing with almost every movement I made, but I made
myself ignore that. After a bit. Then I cleaned the house from top to
bottom; not only did it need doing, but it was something to occupy my
hands while I did a load of thinking.
After three hours and forty minutes I changed back to me and had to
loosen the drawstring before it cut me in half.
Then I phoned Melissa. It was 7pm and I knew she'd be at home.
"James!" Her voice made me tremble. "What a pleasant surprise." She
didn't sound surprised, her voice was rich with satisfaction - a tone I
knew from those times when I'd given in to whatever demand she'd made
on me.
"You need to make this stop."
"Make what stop, James. There isn't anything to stop. You and the
police made that quite clear." Still that smugness - she knew exactly
what I was talking about.
I took a deep breath. "I have been raped four times. Please, make it
stop."
"Doesn't it make you sad though, when a woman is used like that and
then thrown aside."
I almost screamed at her, I didn't use you, you psycho bitch, but that
wouldn't have helped. Another deep breath, I clenched my fists so tight
I thought my fingernails might puncture my palms.
"Melissa..."
"No crocodile tears now, James. You made your position perfectly clear.
I'll make sure I mention this phone call to the police. Good bye, enjoy
yourself."
I collapsed onto the sofa and stared at the phone. I almost rang her
back, but what was the point? I had nothing left. This had to be
Melissa's work, the why was clear - nobody rejects Melissa Painter and
gets away with it. What I couldn't understand was the 'how'. In our
modern, rational, scientific world the idea that a man could be made
into a sex-obsessed woman for short spaces of time was clearly bonkers.
What could I do? See a Doctor? Better hope I saw a female physician,
because based on my experiences so far, as soon as we were alone
together I was going to morph into whatever sex object crowded the
Doc's solitary fantasies - probably some cliched nurse or a wealthy
woman with a much older, fragile husband
Maybe I could just step out in front of a bus.
Perhaps this would run its course after a few days (How many?). If I
just avoided being alone with men - should be easy, most of the other
employees at the store were women. I stayed in doors all day Tuesday,
but for a brief foray to the nearby Tesco Express for bread, milk and a
pizza. I practically shat myself every time some bloke looked at me,
but happily remained me and only me until safely locked in the house
again.
Jo
- 01.08.2020
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