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A Published Author By Katharine Sexkitten I grabbed whatever was in my mail slot, on my way through the lobby of the only apartment building in town that I could actually afford. It was a dump. And the truth of the matter was that some months I couldn't afford it at all, and my parents would send me a cheque for a few hundred dollars. My retired parents. Whatever they could spare. I was hoping like mad that there was an envelope in the pile from them. There wasn't. Instead, there were two overdue bills, a flyer for a hardware store, and what I assumed was another rejection letter from a publisher. I had enough of those to wallpaper my entire apartment, many times over. Thirty-two years old, single with no prospects, and living just above the poverty line. I worked in a book store, every hour I could get, which afforded me the opportunity to work on my writing, and read anything I wanted to, more or less. I had lots of time, most days. Bookstores seemed to be waning in popularity, with the advent of the online world. So I was able to read and dissect most every major and minor published author there was. I read just about everything, from the classics to modern. Fiction. Non-fiction. Except kid lit and romance. I wanted serious writers, doing serious work. And when I wasn't at the bookstore I was in my crappy apartment. Writing. Since I can remember, I loved to write. As a child I'd write fanciful stories about dragons and princesses and heroes and fast cars and Star Wars characters all thrown together. As I grew older, in my teens, I wrote short stories and poetry. In school, I would often piss teachers off with my essays and test answers. If it called for five hundred words I'd give them five thousand. Easy. It came naturally to me. People would tell me to submit my stuff to publishers. So I did. For most of my teens, I wrote science fiction. It was a genre I adored. Still do. I started submitting material when I was fifteen. Even my parents, neither of whom were into space or aliens or ray guns or death stars, thought my work was interesting, and compelling. They encouraged me like crazy. But then, they'd have to say stuff like that, right? I never got published. After high school I went to college, pursuing a creative writing degree. It was all my parents could do to afford it for me. The professors and other students thought I had a rich imagination, and presumed I would get published one day. I never got published. Being a bookworm, and a struggling author, meant I did pretty much zero in the world of dating or relationships. What woman wanted to spend time with a guy who had no money and no future and could only ever truly be comfortable discussing esoteric things like the creative differences between Asimov and Clarke? I did manage to meet a woman when I was in my late teens, and we dated off and on for a few years. She too had a love of fiction, and thought my work was interesting, but as it turned out she was mostly interested in a man who could afford her the Gucci watches she wanted and the Fendi purses she wanted and the Prada line of whatever that she felt she deserved. My clothes had holes in them. Some of my socks and underwear were threadbare. Even when I had a few bucks in my pocket, buying new clothes was never one of my priorities. Material things like that didn't enter into my thinking, ever. So I wrote. Seriously long sagas set in space. Action, intrigue, adventure. Multi-dimensional story arcs of a myriad of different kinds of creatures, some good, some bad, all involved in the action in one way or other. I had a couple of favorite characters and utilized them in multiple different projects, including a shape-shifting gender-shifting protagonist who was foul-mouthed and irreverent and a classic example of the unintended hero. I never got published. My job allowed me time to read and write. I took advantage of it like a dying man in the desert would upon finding an oasis. It was my life, all-consuming and powerful. The store had a few regulars, over the years. I had social relationships with a variety of people. Men, women, rich, poor. Some of the relationships just nodding and hello, some of them involving actual real conversation. One of those was Miriam. I didn't know how old she was, and naturally would never ask, but early on I presumed she was in her late fifties or early sixties. Probably early sixties, based on her hair colour alone. She was a regular. Two or three times a week, she'd be browsing and reading. There was a small coffee bar the owner had set up, and some big ole comfy chairs to sit in. People were encouraged to find something they thought they might like, pour themselves a cup of joe, and read for a time. Or for hours. Whichever. Over months and months, I got to know her, a little, in a facile sort of way. She loved biographies. She didn't have a ring on her finger and never talked about a husband or boyfriend or beau, so I presumed she was single. She was always dressed up. To the nines. And everything she wore looked expensive. Skirts, blouses, jackets, perfectly-coiffed hair, jewelry, makeup, shoes. Never slacks, or jeans, or comfortable sweat pants for Miriam. Formal. To the max. She always wore hosiery. Even in summer, when it was hot out, she was never bare-legged. Panty hose, I presumed. She didn't seem like the type who might breach the rules of propriety by wearing anything else. And through her blouses, I could see that she always wore what looked like very expensive lingerie, frilly bras and the like. She would move about the store, her heels clacking on the tile floor, find herself something to read, pour herself a coffee, and spend hours with her head in a book. She was polite, at all times, and feminine, at all times, and as it turns out inquisitive at all times. She would always make a point of asking me what I was reading, if I was behind the counter. Or what I was writing, if I was inspired at any given moment and there wasn't any shelf-straightening or stocking to be done. Like many of the other regulars, we got to know each other, and were on a first name basis. After months and months, I finally agreed to let her read some of my work. Her nose crinkled a little bit when I told her I wrote science fiction, and she readily admitted it wasn't her cup of tea, but she still wanted to try, and so we began a routine. She'd ask to read whatever I'd written since her last visit to the store, and I'd hand her some papers and off she'd go. And despite all the differences in our ages and backgrounds and likes and favorites, we began a very formal but cordial relationship. She would always critique my writing, in very exacting terms. She had no fear of telling me what she liked, and what she didn't. She often found issues with plotlines, pointing out irregularities that I myself hadn't seen. Her criticisms were thoughtful, and reasoned, and genuinely helped me. As did her praise. She never held back in telling me the good stuff she found in my work. She would often tell me that my action scenes were the most vivid and compelling she'd ever read. She loved many of my characters. She became my biggest fan. Well, other than me and my parents, my only fan. She was encouraging, and really wanted to see me get published. There were times when she knew I'd submitted material to a major publisher and she'd ask every time she came in about any results, hopeful and cheerful and definitely in my corner. And then she'd be crestfallen when the inevitable happened, when the rejection letter arrived. She took it as a personal slight. She'd tell me how disappointed she was, how stupid and silly the publishers were for not seeing the quality of my writing. We became friends. I admired her, without knowing much about her. She was very protective of her own story, even with the other regulars. A year and a half into knowing her, and I still didn't have any idea where she lived, or what she did for employment (although considering how many times a week she came into the store and how many hours she'd stay I assumed she didn't need to work at all). She never mentioned family members, or friends, or told stories about past moments in her life. She loved to read, and she loved to dress very formally. That was pretty much the extent of Miriam. One day, after yet another rejection letter for a novel I'd been working on for months and months, one we both thought was the best I'd ever written, she got a weird look on her face, standing on the other side of the sales counter from me. She kept shaking her head back and forth, seemingly pissed off about my latest failure, all the months and hard work I'd put into it. She seemed to be searching for words. Finally, she spoke. "You know what, Cole?" I said no. "You should write a romance novel. Or erotic fiction." I sat there, flabbergasted. "Romance? Really? And, erotic?" She nodded. "I've read in numerous places recently that those are the two fastest growing genres in the publishing world. Seriously. Look, you know how to weave plots and sub-plots and introduce all sorts of characters, major and minor, with all sorts of intrigue and adventure. So, why not, instead of putting them all in space, put them all here on the planet Earth, and just add the romance novel element to it. Or the erotica. You might get published that way." Initially, her idea didn't sit well with me. I wrote science fiction, and adventure. That's what I did. Over the course of weeks, however, I began to entertain thoughts of perhaps giving credence to her idea. Which led me to discretely begin reading romance novels, secretly, when no one else could see. Especially Miriam. We had them in stock, of course, and I could easily find out which ones were big sellers and which weren't. The initial curiosity about it turned into a project. I read dozens of them, breaking them down, analyzing their structure and their pacing and their artistic sensibilities. And I also read the published erotica we sold. And some porn stories, online. For purely research purposes only. A couple more rejection letters for my science fiction later, and it seemed like the die was cast for me. I began writing a romance novel. Two to three times a week Miriam would come into the store and ask me what I was working on, expecting to read science fiction, and I'd mumble out some sort of bullshit story about nothing, avoiding her inquisitiveness. But as I've mentioned, she was relentless when she wanted to be. Finally, after weeks, she stood in front of me in her skirt and blouse and jacket and beautiful hair and make-up and heels and hosiery and demanded to know why I was avoiding her questions. I confessed to her. She reprimanded me, like a parent would scold a silly child, and then more or less demanded to read what I'd written so far. I didn't want to serialize it, or just give her a chapter or two, so I promised her right there and then that when it was finished, and in a state that I was proud of, that she'd be the first to see my work. After that, she asked me about it every time she came in. Finally, a few weeks later, it was finished. She went through four big mugs of coffee that day, reading my novel. My romance novel. I was beside myself with anxiety about it. I'd never written anything like this before. At one point, I saw her smiling, ruefully. She didn't seem able to put it down, however, which I took as a good sign. A little later, towards the end of the big pile of papers, I saw her wipe away a tear from her eye. And at that moment, looking at her but pretending that I wasn't, I saw something else I'd never seen before. It was hot in the store that day, and she'd taken her blazer jacket off and carefully draped it over the back of her chair. Her blouse was ivory colored, and form-fitting, contrasting beautifully with a charcoal grey tight knee-length skirt she had on, and she was breathing heavily. And her nipples were enlarged. No, not just enlarged. They were erect. They were like a new addition to her body, as if suddenly stuck on. They were huge, bigger than I could have imagined, and certainly bigger than any woman I'd ever seen before, in real life or in porn. She was a well-built woman, with an impressive bust, and I'd seen them for a couple of years at that point, so her breasts were not news to me. But her nipples were. Those two large-caliber bullets, I'd never seen them before. After she'd finished reading it, she carefully piled up the papers neatly, and brought them back to me, holding them almost reverently. She stood there, not saying a word, just looking at me. Her eyes were searching mine, her lips quivering slightly, and those rocket shaped nipples kept pointing at me, perhaps even getting more erect, if such a thing was possible. Finally, she spoke. "Cole, may I hug you?" We'd never touched, Miriam and I. Not even a handshake, or fist bump, or high five, in all the time we'd known each other. So I said sure, because, well, hello?, and after I walked out from behind the counter, we hugged. She looked so feminine and alluring and sexy, and smelled wonderful. And felt even better, in my arms. In her heels she was a couple of inches taller than me, so when she whispered into my ear, with those amazing nipples trying to bore holes in my chest, a couple of inches above my own rock hard nipples, I felt completely covered, completely protected, and completely loved. And thank god the hug was a social one, a chaste one. Certainly our upper bodies were touching, but from the chest down we both made sure to keep apart. Which I instantly realized I was glad about, because hugging her and feeling her and smelling her had me erect in my pants, straining at the fabric of my clothes. "Cole, honey," she whispered, "that's the best book I've ever read. It's so beautiful, and heart-breaking, and complicated." She stopped for a second, and then started again, not letting go of me one iota. "Listen to me, prattle on and on, but sweetie, you should be so proud. It's so good. I'm not just saying that, because I'm your friend. If you don't get published this time I'm going to declare war on the big publishing houses." I could only look at her. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. She looked at me, saw my expression, and then asked, "What?" I hesitated a bit, and then asked her for the negatives. I mean, throughout our time together, even when she loved what I'd written, she had always found at least one thing to critique, one thing that she didn't like. Her eyes went far away again, and then came back. She opened her mouth, and I swear she was about to say something, and then she must have changed her mind, because she closed her mouth and shook her head. No. And that's when I started sending out copies, to the big publishing houses as well as some highly-regarded literary agents. This envelope I held in my hand would be the first rejection letter for my romance novel. The two bills went on the pile with the others. The flyer for the hardware store went into the recycling bin. I slit open the rejection letter from the publisher, one of the biggest in the world, and prepared to read my doom. Rejection letters were all more or less the same. Thank you for your interest. Not at this time. Not what we're looking for. Nothing in our budget for this year. Not material we feel is sellable currently. Not in our focus for the foreseeable marketing period. Best of luck in your future endeavours. I sighed, and began reading. Dear Cole, My name is Phillip O'Shea, and I am the Vice President of Acquisitions. Normally, when unsigned writers submit material to us, one of my staff would do a quick note to say thanks, but no thanks. If you've ever submitted to us before, or any other major publisher, you'd know the routine. Nine times out of ten, I wouldn't even see the material. I trust my team to find me good quality work. Your submission was brought to me immediately. You have succeeded in being the one out of hundreds that I personally review, and I am writing to ask that you contact me by phone, at any time that is convenient for you, at the number listed below. I can tell you, honestly, that I send out a note like this perhaps only half a dozen times a year, or less. Your work is intriguing, and my thirty plus years in the publishing industry leads me to believe that wonderful things could happen. Please call me at your soonest. Warmest regards, Phillip O'Shea I was just stunned. Paralysed. I couldn't move, or breath. Seriously. This kind of thing didn't happen to me. Did it? I calculated the time difference between home and New York City, and realized it wasn't too late at night there. So I called him. It was the most numbing conversation I've ever had. I didn't sleep a wink that night. People say that, sometimes, but they usually mean that they didn't sleep much, or well. In my case, I literally didn't sleep a wink. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, going over what he said. Again and again. The next morning, I dragged my ass out of bed and went to work, looking and feeling as if I'd been hit by a truck. Two hours and three cups of coffee into my shift, I was sitting behind the sales desk, staring into space. That's when Miriam came in the store. She smiled and waved and cheerfully said, "Good morning, Cole!" like she always did, and started to walk towards a chair, where she would normally take off her jacket, fold it neatly over the back, and then click and clack over to the coffee machine, and let the machine make a latte for her. But she stopped short of all that, her routine broken, because I hadn't replied in the same way I always did. She turned back to me, and scanned my face. Seriously. Long and hard. "What's happened? What's wrong?" I couldn't form words, from the combination of no sleep and tons of caffeine and the shock of what Mr. O'Shea had said to me. So I just thrust his letter towards Miriam. She snatched it out of my hands, and read it, her eyes blazing back and forth at hyper speed. As she read, her eyes got bigger and bigger, like saucers. I couldn't help but notice that so did her nipples. Then she stared at me, the look on her face a mixture of shock and joy and trepidation and concern. "Did you call him?" she asked. I nodded. Yes. "Well," she blurted out after a long pause, "are you going to kill me with suspense? What did he say?" His words came back to me, verbatim. "He said he'd sign me to a three-book multi-million dollar deal today, except for one thing." She nodded, expecting me to continue. "What thing? What one thing? What's this thing?" I looked at her. My sadness must have been evident. "He said that my female characters, especially Carly, the heroine, were lacking in believability. That they weren't well-rounded. He said that they don't have depth, or realness. He also said that my romance scenes needed something, that they weren't credible. He said that my imagination and writing skills were top-notch, world-class, but that I'd never get published by him or any other big company unless I learned how to write from what he called 'the feminine perspective'." As I said all this to her, I felt like I was admitting a sin to a priest. I'd never been so open and honest with a woman before, even my own mother, as if Miriam was not just a friend but also something more than that. It was as if she'd become my confessional. I was sharing with her without reservation, and part of me was proud that I'd allowed myself to be that raw with her. It was, I realized, a level of something that I'd never had in my life before. Intimacy. She just stared at me, sometimes focussed like an eagle on the hunt, other times looking as if she was peering right through me, to somewhere in her mind a million miles away. Finally, after a long time of silence, her lips quivering a little here and there like she was rehearsing differing things to say, she made her mind up. She smiled at me. Warmly. "What time is your shift over today, Cole?" she asked. "Six." "Did you have plans for this evening?" I shook my head. "I never have plans for any evening." Her smile became rueful, for a moment. Then her nipples got even more pronounced, and her smile became radiant. "I'll pick you up at six." "Pick me up? For what?" She shot me a look that made me tingle everywhere, and made me instantly erect in my pants again. "To help you," she whispered, conspiratorially. "Help me how?" I asked. Her smile ratcheted up about a hundred times more, and it made me catch my breath. "To help you be a better writer, one who gets the feminine perspective, as the man said. He's right, sweetie, I realize now. It's a cracker of a book, and Carly is a wonderful woman, smart, funny, strong, intelligent. The whirlwinds you put her through are dynamic, and intriguing. But there's no, um, oomph there. There's no femininity there. He's right about that. So," she grinned, "I'm going to help you understand what it feels like to be a woman." With that, she turned and grabbed her coat, and walked out the front door. I spent the rest of my day trying not to fall asleep, and wondering how on earth Miriam could teach me about what it feels like to be a woman. At six o'clock, I closed the front door and locked it, and turned to face the street. I saw people, walking up and down the sidewalks, but none of them was Miriam. I saw cars, of course, lots of them, zooming and vrooming here and there. I saw a limousine parked up the street. A large tall black man, dressed like a driver, was walking towards me, and smiling. "Mr. Cole?" he asked, his voice deep and rich and buttery. I nodded, and then replied. "It's, um, just Cole." He smiled more. "Of course, sir. My name is Cecil." He pronounced it Cee-cil. "Would you follow me? Miss Lansing awaits in the car." His giant left arm swept gracefully towards the limo. "Miss Lansing?" He nodded, and then saw the look on my face and must have realized where my confusion came from. "Miriam, sir," he said, respectfully. I was a little shocked. "Miriam is in the limo?" "That's right, sir." "She rented a limo?" He shook his head and smiled even more. "No sir. Miss Lansing owns the limo." He watched my reaction. Who owns a limo? Then my brain started adding two and two. He gestured again to the car. "If you would, sir?" I walked with him, and he opened the back passenger door. Miriam sat in the far rear seat, drivers side, sipping on what looked like a martini. Gone was the woman I'd known for a couple of years. In front of me was someone completely different. My eyes scanned from the floor up. Four inch black stiletto open-toed shoes, which led to the finest fishnet stockings I'd ever seen, and I knew them to be stockings, and not panty hose; because her black leather mini-skirt was so short I couldn't help but see the garter straps holding up such sexy hosiery. Instead of her prim and proper blouses, she had on an-almost see-through tank top, the colour of the ocean, the material sleek and shiny and failing to contain the embossed image of her nipples, huge and erect, and areolas, rounder than a silver dollar, and her breasts, magnificently swinging freely, unconstrained by a bra. Sure, they sagged a little bit from where they usually sat, I noticed. But like I said, she had to be in her late fifties or early sixties, and it was to be expected, right? Her arms were golden brown, and each wrist had about a hundred bangles on it. Her hair was loose and open and airy, a distinct change from her usual done-up-tight style. Her eyes were smoky-grey, and exotic, her lashes dark and long, her cheeks blush-red, her lips garishly red and bright and shiny. She had huge giant hooped earrings swinging to and fro, and what looked like a diamond necklace hanging towards her impressive cleavage. The pendant it held looked like a letter Q sitting atop a spade shape, like the playing cards. Altogether not the Miriam I thought I knew. Cecil started the car, and pulled us out into traffic. I sat there with my mouth open, agape. Stunned. And intimidated. Miriam looked like a goddess. Like a silver screen sex symbol. She looked hot. "Would you like something to drink?" she asked, a huge smile on her face, and pointed at one of the side walls, where there was an impressive array of small bottles of different alcohols and mixers and a bucket of ice and several different sized glasses. I nodded. Sure. She leaned forward, to make me a drink, and her top billowed slightly, allowing me a glimpse of more of her breasts, and for one brief second the very tiniest tastiest espy of her bumpy red areola. I was hard in my torn tighty-whities. Handing me a goblet with an amber-coloured liquid in it, she raised her glass to clink with mine. "To new adventures, yes?" she asked. I agreed, although I was completely nervous about what she meant by 'adventures', and then I took a sip. It was sweet, and strong, and made my mouth warm. I liked it. I took a big gulp of it. It was wonderful, but so unlike anything I'd ever tasted. My face must have betrayed my feelings. "Have you never had Amaretto before?" she asked, her eyes playful. "No," I said, "but it's yummy." She smiled. "It is that. It's an almond-based liqueur." Then she stopped, and a funny look came on her face. "Do you like the taste of almonds?" I nodded, thinking it a strange question. She continued. "Good. I'm glad to hear that. But it's also a fairly potent drink, so you may want to go easy on it. Or not. I'm open to everything if you are.??" Then we just stared at each other, for a few moments. I had so many questions, of course. But mostly I couldn't get over how amazing she looked. How sexy she looked. And how confident she appeared, in everything. "So, Cole," she began, "you need to learn the feminine perspective." I nodded. "And to get there, you need to accept that while there are many similarities between people, there are no universals. Not all men are strong. Not all women are tiny. Not all men are masculine. And neither is every woman all that feminine. Not all men are logical thinkers, and not all women are emotional thinkers. Agreed?" "Yes," I said. "But there are generalities. We'd be wrong to ignore them. And they often apply, to greater or lesser degrees, to all sorts of subjects. Race, gender, education, appearance. We all do it, even if we rationalize that in a perfect world we shouldn't. So," she continued, "knowing all that means that we also have to understand and agree that there is no one universal feminine perspective." I just looked at her. "I can't teach you that. No one can. It doesn't exist." A wave of disappointment washed over me. The whole purpose of this visit was for her to help me with that, wasn't it? "But what I can teach you is one feminine perspective." I looked at her. "Mine." I kept looking at her. "And the thing is, my perspective is, in some ways, perfect for Carly, your heroine. But before I explain all of it, I need you to understand that, in every way due to my past, I've accumulated a significant understanding and knowledge of all sorts of human behavior." I felt a little better now. "Oh, cool. Are you a psychiatrist, or something?" I asked. She laughed, and tossed her head slightly, her hair shaking and stirring around her. "No, sweetie," she said, her voice rich and full and throaty and husky and decidedly feminine, a look of adoration and pride on her face. Then she changed my entire world in one sentence. "I'm a slut." I almost choked on my drink. WHAT DID SHE SAY? The smile on her face was huge, and genuine. She'd meant it. "I am what some puritanical people would call 'a slut'," she added, "and while I have no problem with the word or the connotation, I prefer to think of myself instead as merely a truly free and sexual woman, living the lifestyle she chooses and loving the hell out of it." I drank some more of the amber liquid, and enjoyed the warmth it gave me going down. "I'm a wealthy woman, who's been free to live life on her own terms, without hesitation or shame. I've pursued every personal dream and desire I've ever felt, to the maximum, and always with as much gusto as I could generate. Does that sound familiar to you?" I nodded my head, although tentatively. It did feel sort of familiar. "Carly, sweetie," she said, "I've been around for decades more than you, Cole, and my lifestyle has given me years and years of watching people, learning from them, sharing good times and bad, seeing people of all shapes and sizes at their most honest and vulnerable, and all while enjoying a world of comfort and the best of everything, just like Carly. Obviously, her backstory is different than mine, and the circumstances in her life, all the dramas, have nothing to do with me. But I've never had to worry about paying the rent, you know? I'm lucky, Cole, believe me, in so many ways. Just like Carly." I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. I held my glass in one hand and just stared at her. A slut? "We've known each other for a couple of years now, right?" I s?aid yes. She smiled. "But the truth of the matter is that we don't actually know each other that well at all, do we?" Not waiting for my response, she barrelled on forward. "I mean, I know that you're a great writer, and a very respectful young man, but other than that, not much. I have never heard you talk about a family, or a girlfriend, or hobbies, or your political leanings, or your favorite baseball team, or anything. I don't even know your last name, actually." I started to speak, but she held up a hand and stopped me. "Please, sweetie, let me finish, okay?" I nodded, and took another big sip of my drink. It warmed my insides, all the way down. And yes, it did taste like almonds. "You see, the truth is, I realize, that you don't really know anything about me, either, do you? We've never talked about our personal lives with each other. Our respective histories." "Not really, I guess," I said, my words quiet. There was a silence in the back of the limo for a few moments. I felt like I had to say something. "So, what is your favorite baseball team?" She laughed, a throaty full laugh that made her breasts jiggle in her tank top, her nipples making little side-to-side motions underneath the silky material. "I was raised by a Yankees fan, but I don't actually follow the game." I nodded. "Me either." Miriam smiled. "Not a baseball fan?" "I don't follow any sports at all. I never have. It just never seemed important." She looked at me, a little oddly. "Not a stereotypical male, I take it?" I shrugged my shoulders. "That's good, Cole," she whispered, "I mean it. That's really wonderful, in so many ways you can't imagine right now. It shows you don't follow the crowd, you're not intimidated by clich?. It shows you have the capacity for individual thought, that you can go against the grain. I like that, a great deal. And I'm sure that kind of thinking will help you tremendously in learning about being a woman." Just hearing her say those things made me proud. I was somehow impressing her, despite the fact that I'd never felt like I could impress anyone, anyhow, anywhere. Such had been my life to this point. I took another sip. Mmm. I love almonds. She began again. "So, we both don't really know anything about each other, do we?" I shook my head. "Well," she whispered, "let's change that situation right now, okay?" Cecil sat in the front, with the privacy window up, and drove us towards the park, the big one in the middle of the city. There were people everywhere, walking, jogging, biking, and rollerblading. Old, young, men, women, kids. "I'll go first, okay?" I said sure. "My name is Miriam, that much you know. I'm sixty-one years old. I was married for almost forty years to the most wonderful man in the world, his name was Stanley. Stan passed three years ago, and I've been on my own ever since." I felt a slight tear come to my eye. "Oh Miriam, I'm so sorry for your loss." She smiled, ruefully. "Stanley and I met in our first year of college. I was studying Interior Design, on an Arts scholarship. He was in the Law department. Times were different back then, in lots of ways. We were both being pushed by our parents, and by society I suppose, to fulfill the perfect roles. We dated, and then married. It was quite a wedding too, I can tell you. His family was pretty wealthy, and mine wasn't too shabby either, so we had an enormous ceremony. Then the honeymoon, of course. Then, we came back to earth, we had to, and had to learn how to be husband and wife, while both of us went through our degrees and began our busy fledgling careers." I took another sip of my drink, warming myself inside again, and again marvelling at the almondy-taste. YUM. "The world changed a great deal, of course, over our thirty-plus years together. And we learned to change as well. Stanley got his degree, passed the bar, and went to work for a big-time law firm, instantly going to a high six-figure salary. I earned my degree as well, and joined a much respected design company. We decided early on to not have children right away, to establish ourselves in our careers first. To put some money in the bank, for our future, so we could easily afford to pay for all the diapers and clothes and bikes and dentists and everything else children need, when it came time to have them. That was our plan. So it was just the two of us, Stanley and me." I nodded. "We were young, and in love, and we learned how to live together. We learned how to love together. We learned that each of us have things we're good at, and things we need to get better at. We're human. We learned that each of us, each person, man and woman, has secrets. The best relationships are ones where those secrets can come out, willingly, and are embraced, and nurtured. Maybe not totally understood, but accepted. We learned that too. Do you know what I mean?" "Yes," I said, although I wasn't entirely sure if that was true. Miriam smiled again, but it was tinged with something I couldn't place. "Do you? Have you ever confessed your deepest darkest desires to someone? Have you ever listened to your partners' thoughts, the ones that they might be afraid to say, the ones that they have kept bottled up inside their whole lives for fear of the risk of shame should they be exposed? Have you? Have you been that emotionally intimate with another person and understood that helping them achieve those secret dreams was important? Perhaps the most important thing you could do for them? Even though it could be daunting at times? Have you ever had that kind of truly exposed relationship with someone else?" Her eyes bored through mine. I suddenly felt like I was in a different conversation than before. Miriam was talking about levels of communication and sharing that were beyond just the usual friends- talking-to-friends honesty I was familiar with. She scared me a little, with the inferences and insinuations of her words. Miriam leaned towards me. "All of us, everyone, has secrets. Deep down. In my experience, most of those secrets are sexual." That word hung in the air for moments on end, while her eyes stared into mine. I couldn't think of a thing to say. "Stanley and I learned to be lovers. We were both virgins when we married. We learned the joys of sexual intimacy, as husband and wife. That's not so unusual. Right?" I nodded. "But then we learned about secrets. Each of us have them. The entire human population has them. Sadly, many people never follow through on them. But Stanley and I did. I'm not saying it was easy, or without difficulties. Not at all. We started out like any two young people, stumbling around, working more hours than we should have, devoted to our careers, and each other. We agreed to learn how to be lovers together, how to have a fulfilling and satisfying sex life. In our third year of marriage, I came home early one day, completely unexpectedly, and found out Stanley was having an affair." For some reason, though I'd never met him, I instantly became angry with this man. How dare he do something so hurtful to such a beautiful woman! "I'm sorry," was all I could think of to say. She waved her hand, as if she was telling me that my outrage was unnecessary. "Stanley was in bed with another man." That made my eyes shoot open. What? She smiled. "My manly husband was wearing some of my lingerie, and makeup, rather well applied too, come to think of it, and he was on his back in our bed, with his legs spread wide and his arms around another man, who was pounding away, fucking my Stanley harder than he'd ever fucked me, all while French kissing the lights out." I had to concentrate on not dropping my glass. "So I watched them make love. It was intense, and raw, and even though I was hurt emotionally I couldn't help but feel excited, growing with them as they built towards their climax. It was unlike any experience of my life. When they came, I did too. Without so much as touching myself. It was," she paused, searching for the right word, "an epiphany. After they drifted down from their highs, they cuddled, and whispered sweet nothings to each other. It showed me that this wasn't the first time they'd made love, and that they had genuine feelings for each other. It hit me like a ton of bricks." "What did you do?" I asked. She took another sip of her cocktail. "I quietly slipped down the hall, and waited for them in the living room. When they finally came out, Stanley was still dressed like a woman, and walked like a woman, and acted like a woman, and almost had a coronary when he saw me. His lover too. But I told them both not to worry, and after the man left, Stan and I had the most important conversation of our lives." Her eyes were travelling away from me again, going back over the years, remembering the time and the place and probably lots of the details of that day. "Through a lot of tears, Stanley confessed to me about his dreams, his desires. His secrets. His feelings. He had feminine feelings, like some men do, his entire life. But as opposed to most people in our puritanical world, he didn't keep them bottled up inside him. He pursued them, even though he'd promised to be faithful to me. And here's the thing I learned from that day," she said, adjusting her legs, criss-crossing them from one to the other, flashing me the briefest and most sexiest image of her panties, a deep red color, like her lipstick, "he had been faithful to me. In his heart. He loved me with all of his heart. I knew it, deep down. But he was also capable of loving others too, and his emotional and sexual desires were of the bisexual kind." Then she looked at me, straight up and hard and unflinching. "And it made me realize that we're all like that, each person. We all have dreams, and desires. I loved him, and he loved me. And loving someone means you have to accept who they are inside and out. Stan was bisexual, and from time to time needed to express that part of himself. The feminine part of himself. Which completely opened the door for me to do the same thing in my life. To explore my desires, even if I didn't know what they were at the time. So, we began to explore our dreams, to chase desires, to never judge, but always support. Love is love, Cole. Sexuality is one of the most important factors in happiness, for everyone. It can also be the most disruptive force in a marriage. Stanley and I learned that too." I took the last sip from my glass. It was delicious. The warmth I felt inside was helping me deal with the slight embarrassment I felt in the subject matter. I wasn't used to speaking this openly and honestly with others, and most importantly I didn't want Miriam to think I was less than enlightened, or sophisticated, or open-minded enough. "We were young, and comparatively wealthy, and we could afford financially to do what we wanted in life. And we did. Weekend trips to Paris? Lots of times. Skiing in the Alps? Wonderful times. We learned all sorts of things about each other. What we learned, Cole, is simple. Men and women are the same, deep down. Not physically, obviously, although there are always exceptions. But in our core, inside of us, we're the same. We all are various mixtures of dichotomies. And I know you're smart, and I know you know what that word means, right?" I did. "Men and women are the same. Each of us has qualities inside us that are masculine, as well as feminine. Each of us is a different mixture of both. For all the time you've known me, you've probably thought I was a bit of a prudish spinster, am I right? You don't have to answer that. The fact of the matter is, I am those things. But I'm also more. Look at me now, for instance." I did. She was right there and then the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Open, and feminine, and trusting of me. "Do I look like that spinster now?" I shook my head. "No, my god, no, Miriam. You're so lovely, and sexy, and, well, I mean..." She smiled, bright and loud and beaming. "Say what's on your mind, Cole, please. Always. "You're...you're hot!" Miriam laughed out loud. "Lesson number one about the feminine perspective is that all of us like to be thought of as hot." She reached over and grabbed a bottle, and poured me another drink. The same liquid I'd had before. Mmmmm. Almonds. "So would it surprise you to know that in some ways I had more traditionally masculine qualities than my husband did?" I felt my response, my head reeling back slightly and my eyebrows shooting up. "You did?" She nodded. "I still do." "You do?" She nodded again. "Do I look masculine?" I couldn't shake my head fast enough. "Hell, no." "Do you picture me as the aggressor, when it comes to relationships, or sex?" I thought of it for a moment, and decided to be honest with her. "No, I don't see that." "Because?" She was challenging me, I suppose. "You just look so, so, hot, and feminine, and womanly, and sexy, and, well, that means I guess that you could have any man you wanted, and that men would be lining up around the block trying to be with you, they'd be falling over each other to seduce you I guess, to...to..." "To fuck me?" In the two years or so that Miriam and I had been acquainted, tonight was the first time I'd ever heard her use a curse word. It was shocking. "Uh huh." She smiled again. "Say it, Cole." I looked away for a second. I'd been raised not to swear in front of women. "Say it." I risked snapping my eyes back to hers. They were blazing, and alive, and connected to me in a way that I'd never known before, with any woman. "To fuck you." Miriam smiled. From ear to ear. "So would it surprise you to learn that there were, and still are, occasional times, once in a while, where I prefer fucking someone to getting fucked by someone?" I didn't answer. "Stanley's indiscretion opened up the doors for both of us. We became sexual people. We both allowed the other to pursue our dreams. He knew he was bisexual, and I discovered I was too. We began to socialize with other sexual people. There are groups, and parties, and events. Through our respective workplaces, we met folks. We became part of the lifestyle. We became enlightened, I suppose." Her nipples were hardening again. "Carly and I are much the same, if you think about it." I looked at her. My lead character and Miriam? Much the same? She smiled at me. "Obviously, Carly isn't real, and I am. And Carly comes from a different background, with a different upbringing. She's a scientist, I'm an interior designer. Her father was a convicted criminal after a lifetime of success in the business world and my father was a civil engineer. She had abuse in her life, I didn't. She had turmoil in her past, I didn't. But we're the same in other ways. She and I both have had money, always. Neither of us starved, ever, or were homeless. Both of us are well-educated, and spent our lives doing the socially accepted things of people in higher tax brackets. We both had opportunities galore for meeting the best kind of people, and doing all the A-lister sort of stuff. We both travelled a lot, we both partied a lot, and we both had success and could afford the lavish lifestyles. Carly is smart, and honest, and passionate, and I think you'll find I'm all of those things as well." I sipped my almond drink and contemplated her words. "Carly and I are both vibrant, alive women. And the more I think about it, what that publisher said, the more I realize he's right. And I get it, I do. You're not a woman, you've never lived and, oh, how do I say it, excessively easy affluent life, and you've no idea how a person would be shaped by that, the things that a woman like her would take for granted simply because that's the way her life has always been. And here's the other thing, Cole..." I waited for her words anxiously. "...he's also right about the roundness of the female characters. You're a guy, and forgive me, but a guy with a limited perspective, based upon your past. Carly is a rich girl, like me, and our lives, and more importantly our loves, are beyond your imagination. How can you write, even using the basic human quality of empathy, how can you write about a rich woman pursuing her life-long dream if you've never been there? Nobody is that good a writer!" My brain couldn't answer her. Perhaps, I reasoned, she was being rhetoric. "So what do women want? What is that feminine perspective you need to learn?" I shook my head, and took another sip of the yummy almondy liquor. "Women like Carly want to be free." "Free?" "Free. Free to be who they are. Day or night. Free to follow their dreams. Free to be safe. Free to nurture, and free to challenge. Free to fuck who they want when they want, and free to love who they want when they want. Women are the life-givers of the world, obviously. We're the ones who give birth. We're the ones that nurse the babies, giving them our life-affirming milk. We're the ones who are most often relied upon to protect and raise children, to feed them and help them grow into adults. We're the ones who bring in the sensibilities of kindness, and caring, and emotions, and beauty, and softness, and grace. And yes, as I've already mentioned, men are capable of all those things too. But the generality is well-deserved. Women are the princesses, and the mommies, and the whores of the world. Whatever they choose to be, in a perfect world, or whatever they're forced to be, by situation or economics, which happens far too much down here in reality." The limo hit a large bump in the road, and we both bounced a little in our seats. And those magnificent breasts of hers bounced accordingly, reminding me that I was completely turned on and completely erect. She saw my staring. "Cole, sweetie, do you like my tits?" I looked up into her eyes, and my face became awash with embarrassment. She'd caught me! "Tell me." I nodded. "No, honey, tell me in words." Putting her drink down, she used both hands to carefully grab the hem of her top, and then slowly peeled it off herself. Exposing her upper body to me. She discarded her top, showing me her tits. Her hands moved up and she cupped her breasts from underneath, lifting them slightly, almost towards me. Her nipples were big enough and hard enough to etch glass. "Cole," she said again, "do you like my breasts? Do they excite you? Are you hard in your pants?" I nodded. And whispered. "Oh my god, yes, Miriam. You have fantastic breasts." "You wrote Carly as a well-built woman, right?" I nodded. "Like me? Or bigger?" I stared at her breasts. They were magnificent. "Like you," I whispered. "So Carly would know what I know, about tits like these. They're a weight upon us, every woman, for sure. And they can get sore, buster, and in some women they can cause some serious back issues. Those are the down sides. But," she paused, "they're like these two big gigantic magnets. I don't mean in size. I mean in reality. The pair of elephants in every room in the world. Carly knows it. She knows how powerful having tits like this can be. Your book is so wonderful, Cole, but try to think of all her actions and words from the point of view of someone who had a pair of magnets on her chest. Her whole life. Every second of every day. Why deny it? Men look at them, women look at them. Everybody looks at them. They're right here, dead center of every woman who's ever lived." She lifted her left breast up, pointing the nipple towards the sky, and then in the most shockingly blatant act of sexuality I'd ever witnessed she leaned her head down, and wrapped her big shiny red lips around her own nipple, sucking gently, her eyes never leaving mine. She hummed to herself, and then switched to her right breast, and repeated the suckling. Her lipstick had left a feint circle around both her nipples. The other bud popped out of her mouth, and she smiled. "Mmm, I do love that! I absolutely adore having my nipples kissed and sucked, don't you? And I absolutely adore kissing and sucking on nipples myself. Male or female," she said. And then she stared at me, her back straight and her breasts proudly aimed in my direction. "Would you like a taste?" I thought my neck might snap, I nodded so hard and so fast, and I felt my body begin to move forward in my seat. She brought her hand up to stop me. "You can taste any part of me you want, Cole," she whispered, "on one condition." "What condition?" I asked, quickly. Miriam grinned, but not menacingly. Her grin was joy, and playfulness, and the promise of untold fun. "You have to promise me that tonight, no matter what I might suggest, that you'll go with it. I need you to say yes to that. For the good of your novel, and to get you that publishing contract, I need you to follow my lead." I was suddenly anxious. "Your lead?" I asked, "what does that mean?" "I'm going to help you understand what it feels like to be a liberated, passionate rich woman, like Carly. So you can re-write your novel and make her a more fleshed-out character. And," she paused, "remember that day when I read your novel? I nodded yes. "I told you I loved it, which I did. Then, you asked me for the negatives, and I said there were none." I nodded again. "I thought you were going to say something, but you didn't." She nodded this time. "I stopped myself. I'm sorry, sweetie, I shouldn't have done that. It's just that, I didn't want to hurt your feelings. I'm sorry. I've always tried to be honest with you, but I was so impressed with all the positive aspects to the book that I didn't want to spoil the mood with criticism. Well," she added, "one criticism." I waited for her to tell me. "I was going to tell you that I found your romantic and sexual writing to be, um, I guess the word is tame. Or maybe dull. Again, I'm sorry, sweetie, but I thought that maybe you just hadn't had that much experience in romance." I had a premonition about her next words. "Or sex." BANG! She went there. "I came away with the feeling that perhaps you haven't had much real- life encounters. That your imagination couldn't find the right words because you'd never been there yourself. I'm not judging you, Cole, not at all. But some people have lots of events to draw from, and others don't. There's no shame in that." We both just let silence overtake us for what seemed like a very long time. "Was I wrong?" she asked. And again, like she was my confessional, I told her the truth. I had very little romantic experience in my life, and even less sexual experience. I stammered out an excuse about always having been too wrapped up in my writing to ever succeed with women, or succeed in bed, but she waved her hand, brushing that aside. Then she smiled again, a thousand watt version. "And that's why you're here now, with me. I'm going to show you what it means to be free and open and romantic and sexual. If you promise to follow my lead." I heard her earlier words echo through my brain cavity. The part about how she sometimes was more masculine than her husband. I had no idea how that would play out, but with a bunch of alcohol coursing through my veins and a half-naked sexy woman in front of me, offering her nipples for me to suck, there was only one answer I could think of. One that was truthful. "I promise." Her smile lit up the back of the limousine. "Then come to momma, sweetie," she cooed, and I shuffled over on the leather seat and lowered my head to her right breast, tentatively licking that swollen red little mountain, bringing a sigh to her lips, and then I clamped my lips down on it and began to suckle. "Oh sweetie," she whispered, and her head fell backwards a little. I allowed my hand to reach out and gently caress her tummy. When she'd pulled off her top I'd noticed that while she did have a little bit of a middle-aged spread to her midriff, there were no stretch marks or anything to suggest children. Her skin was smooth, so smooth that it felt like the surface of the freshest mountain lake. Cool, and yet pulsing with life. Her hand came up to gently cup mine, and brought it up to her left breast. I understood her and began exploring it, all the while increasing my suction on her right nipple. Her hands wound around my head, and she pulled me to her bosom. I felt like a child, in some ways, clinging to my mother, nursing from her. But at the same time, I felt like the luckiest man in the world, getting to love, even a little, this beautiful sexual woman. "Do you feel how soft and smooth my skin is, Cole?" she asked. Not waiting for an answer, because that would have meant me leaving her breast, which I was sure neither of us wanted, she continued, "that's part of being a woman. Your hands are smoother than most men, so your touch is wonderful. But women are so much softer and smoother than men, all over. That's part of our perspective too." We continued to ride with Cecil up front. I just kept licking and sucking and nibbling on her nipple, which felt like the size of half a Snickers bar. I couldn't ever remember being happier. "Mmm, I love you sucking my tit, baby," Miriam cooed, "it makes me wet. As wet as when I am sucking and licking on another woman's breast." I must have reacted, because she noticed it. "Does that excite you, Cole? Knowing I like a little lesbian play too? Hmm?" I nodded my head, never letting go of her nipple. "Same-sex stuff turns you on, eh?" she breathed out, her voice quivering slightly, "mmm, that's good to know." Lesbian same-sex stuff was pretty erotic, so I hummed my approval again. Suddenly, the world outside the windows became dark, and I realized that we were entering an underground parking lot. Cecil wheeled us to and fro, and eventually came to a stop and then backed up into a secluded spot. The vehicle noise stopped, and I heard the front door open and close, all of us rocking back and forth. Then, a few seconds later, there was a polite 'knock knock' on the back window. Miriam's voice rose in volume. "Just a minute," was all she said. I continued sucking, and caressing her other breast, playing with that engorged nipple as well, and decided for the fun of it to give one giant suck and one giant squeeze at the same time. I felt like she was close to something good, and I wanted to speed it up. I took a deep breath though my nose, and then sucked on her like a vacuum cleaner while at the same time clamping down on her other nipple like a vise. Miriam's body began shaking, her breathing became fluttery, and then the most insanely exquisite sound came out of her, from her lungs on up. It sounded like an angel, having a delightfully wicked euphoric episode. She was cumming. It lasted a few more seconds, and I applied less and less pressure from my mouth and my fingers as she calmed down. Finally, her breathing returned to a normal rate, and I lifted off her breast, looking her in the eyes. "Thank you, Cole," she said, genuinely. "That was a wonderful way to start the evening!" She put her top back on, much to my dismay, and then rapped a knuckle on the door window, signalling Cecil to open it for her, which he did. His big extended hand came into the car, and she took it, and he helped her out, her long stockinged legs gracefully swinging out and moving, and making little swishy sounds. Then Cecil extended his hand even further into the car. He wanted to help me out as well. But I had a problem. A big one. Well, as big as my problem gets, which may or may not be all that big. I heard Miriam behind him say, "come on Cole, let's get this lesson started!" in the most cheerfully sexy way I could imagine. So I put my hand in his. His was huge. And the skin was rougher than mine, without being sandpapery. And my little pale white hand seemed to just disappear in his darker hand, like Miriam's had. As I stepped out, I tried to appear nonchalant. But my eyes flicked up to his face, and he was smiling at me. And I'm sure I saw his eyes dip down to my pants, to see my problem, which was as obvious as anything. Then he looked back up my body, into my eyes, and smiled even more. A private elevator took all three of us to her penthouse condominium. It had a view of the city that was second-to-none. A two floor suite, three if you also included the rooftop balcony with the hot tub. The main floor was opulent without being ostentatious, and filled with pieces of art. Paintings, sculptures, and even tapestries were situated here and there. There was a hidden stereo system somewhere, already playing delightful music at a discrete level. And there were flowers everywhere, in vases. She told me her one weakness in life was fresh flowers, their colours and smells filling my senses, and she pointed out that most women liked flowers. It was part of her feminine perspective. Cecil seemed to disappear, and Miriam and I sat in a large living room, the fireplace already aglow with flames. Taking a quick moment to bring us both new drinks, Miriam sat next to me on a couch, and just smiled. Conspiratorially. "To a woman's perspective," she said, and we clinked glasses again. She'd poured me another Amaretto. It was heavenly. We let the soft music and the flowers wash over us, as we each took some healthy sips of our drinks and stared out at the city scene in front of us. Neither of us seemed to find anything to say. After a few minutes, she spoke. "What would Carly be doing on an average normal evening, after working at the lab all day?" she asked. I searched for an answer. "Chilling, I suppose." "Bingo. Now, when you chill, what do you do?" I thought about myself, and my habits. "I write, mostly." She nodded. "Sure, of course. You get home, change out of your work stuff, into some comfy clothes, and you write, right?" "Well, I write, sure," I answered, "but I don't change clothes. I mean, my work clothes are the same as my normal clothes." She looked at me. "Okay, and please don't be offended Cole, but if you lived like Carly, your whole life of wealth and comfort, you'd be living in a place like this, agreed?" I nodded. "So when Carly gets home, she'd do what? She might light some candles, or put on some favorite relaxing music, or pour herself a glass of wine. Those kinds of things. Probably?" "Probably." Miriam continued. "But she'd also change her clothes. I think most people would." I thought about it, and realized she was probably right. Most people would. "Yes, you're right." "So," she said, "what would Carly think are comfy clothes?" "I don't know," I said, "maybe some loose sweats, or a big fluffy sweater?" She nodded. "Maybe. Would she be naked underneath?" That one stumped me. "I don't know. Would you, when you're just chilling?" Her wickedly devilish smile came back to her. "Some nights, sure. But some nights not. Some nights I'd have some panties and a bra on, sure. Although probably not so much the bra, because I can't even begin to tell you how wonderful it feels after a long day to unsnap your bra and free the girls." We both giggled at that. "So," she continued, "Carly gets home, she slips into something comfortable. But here's the thing, Cole. Sometimes, a woman feels like just wearing a camisole and panties, or a negligee, or tap pants, or a silky sexy flowing robe." "Okay." "Now, again, I'm not judging you, but I assume based upon knowing you for almost two years and seeing you often that you're not a person who spends a lot of money on your clothes." I shook my head. "And that's perfectly fine. And I bet that when you do buy new clothes, based upon what I presume a bookstore might pay a person, that you don't go shopping at the most expensive designer stores, do you?" "Oh god, no," I blurted out, "I can't afford anything like that. I buy second hand for most everything, except socks and underwear, which I get at the bargain store." I looked down, surrounded by opulence and suddenly embarrassed at my own lifetime of comparative poverty. "Carly would be the opposite, right?" I thought about it and nodded. "For her," Miriam continued, "even just sweats and tee and some panties underneath, her clothes would be from the designer shops. Agreed?" It made sense. "And here's the thing, sweetie," she said, staring at me like a predator, "even her run-of-the-mill everyday shlumpy kind of stuff would be expensive, and the quality of the garments would reflect that. All her clothes would be luxurious, and feel wonderful against her skin. Even her shlumpy stuff. And I don't think you can begin to understand what a lifetime of that would do to a person; how it would affect the way they walk through life, the way they comport themselves. The way they are. Unless you've felt it, you can't begin to comprehend how it would factor into every aspect of their life. I know it, because I live it. Everyday." I could only stare at her. I couldn't think of words. "For you, that's been beyond your imagination, and that's why your 'feminine perspective' needs work." We sat in silence. Again. Eventually, she rose, and reaching out her hand to take mine, she walked me upstairs, into the most opulent master bedroom suite I'd ever seen. But we didn't stop in the anteroom, or the main room, or the walk-in closet bigger than my apartment. She led me straight into the regal bathroom, also bigger than my apartment. There was a claw-foot tub, and a glassed in shower big enough for eight people, and floor-to-ceiling windows. She put her drink down on a counter, and began pulling her top off again. Turning to me, she showed me her tits again, and smiled. "Cole," she whispered, "let's get naked and shower." My eyes opened wide in shock. Get naked? Together? Miriam looked at me with love. "You promised to follow my lead, right?" Her eyes never left mine as she slid down the zipper on her skirt, and wriggled her hips out of it, sliding it down her legs. Underneath was a black garter belt, with little red flower appliques on the straps, and the blood-red panties I'd got a glimpse of earlier, and her silky stockings. All of which came off of her in mere seconds. That's when I saw that she was completely hairless, between her legs. I stood there in my clothes, suddenly ruing my life-time of fashion antipathy. I instantly flashed on my underwear, which I knew had a giant hole in the back, exposing the better part of one buttock. Then I realized that she wanted me naked, and it probably wouldn't matter about the hole at all. I began undoing the buttons on my shirt, slowly, as she turned and opened the door of the shower, reaching in to turn the water on, and I watched it pour out of several different shower heads, including a rain from two heads above. Checking the temperature with one hand, she watched me as I slithered out of my shirt. Undoing my belt, I unzipped my pants, and remembering my gonch problem I whisked both garments to the ground, taking the biggest chance of my life that she'd not laugh at what she saw. She didn't. She just smiled more, and pointed to my feet. "Don't forget the socks, sweetie." Then she stepped into the shower, the steam visible, and began to soak herself. I lost the socks in a heartbeat and then covered my genitals and tried my best to walk in a masculine way over to join her. We both stood under the spray for a while, enjoying the heat. Then, she moved us to a corner where the water couldn't find us, reached up to a shelf, and brought down a bottle of something. "We apply this to our entire body, except our head, okay?" she asked, and then poured a huge handful out for herself. Handing me the bottle, she nodded. So I poured out a huge amount and started rubbing into my skin, from my neck on down. Her eyes never left me, and she watched me cover my entire front, including my genitals. Then she suggested I turn around, and she did my back for me. After that was done, she turned me and her, and I got the message and I did her back. The liquid was thicker than a normal body wash, and had a slightly unusual flowery odor to it. Then we stood, out the spray, and she told me we wait. For five minutes, maybe even longer, we stood silently in the steam, billowing and roiling around us, our bodies shiny and wet. Then she rushed under the spray again. The wash poured off her skin, and she positively glowed from head to toe. So I stepped under the water, and watched in profound shock as every single shred of hair I had on my body disappeared down her drain! Even from my pubic area! I failed to stifle the shock from my voice. Miriam smiled even more. "Give it a moment, baby." I waited, with her. Then I noticed something. Miriam did as well, and giggled. "Don't you feel wonderful being smooth all-over now, Cole?" She turned the water off and handed me a towel. As I started drying myself, I realized that the feel of the material of the towel on my skin was completely unusual, completely different to what I was used to. I looked up to see her grinning at me. "See what I mean?" she asked. I could only nod. I did understand, actually. It took a moment or two to get used to, but boy, having no hair on my body anywhere made the towelling ritual an entirely new and exciting experience. Plus, I realized, her towels were indeed thick and luxurious, especially compared to the flimsy ones I had at home, and must have cost a fortune. "Now," she said, stepping out of the shower, "we moisturize." She reached to a counter top and selected a glass jar from many, and then proceeded to smear some of the liquid onto her body. I watched her coat her own arms, and shoulders, and neck, and then watched her feminine fingers glide up and around and over and down her breasts, those amazing pear-shaped globes of delight. Miriam continued to grin at me, as her hands made their way farther down her own body. She urged me with her chin towards the jar, and I silently followed her whim. I got my fingers all coated and slimy with whatever the product was and began the same ritual as she did. I spread the moisturizer over myself, starting as she had from the neck and working my way down. The feeling of the lotion on my newly-hairless skin was enough to give me the biggest stiffy of my life. And to my utter shock and amazement, I got even harder when I began spreading the goo over my own chest. My breasts, I suppose. Not like hers, obviously, but I've spent my life writing, an entirely sedentary lifestyle, and have never claimed to be an athlete, so my pecs had a bit of a curve to them, and a bit of a spread to them, and I looked in one of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors in the room at different angles, and imagined that I had breasts. Imagined that I was a small- breasted woman, going through her daily routine. I closed my eyes, and tried to see myself as feminine. When I opened my eyes a short time later, my nipples were harder than I've ever seen them before, and Miriam was standing directly behind me, her eyes like laser beams into the mirror, into my eyes. "Feels good, doesn't it?" she asked, seductively. I could only nod. Then I watched her eyes trail down to my groin, and her smile got bigger. She looked back up in the mirror, to my eyes, and giggled. "Oh yes, sweetie, it does feel good," she whispered, "and, it gets so much better." I was already feeling pretty wonderful, standing in this posh expansive bathroom, newly-hairless and rubbing moisturizer into my skin. So I couldn't even begin to imagine what she was promising about getting better. "Mmmm," was all I could muster. We both dipped our hands in the jar again, and each of us spread the lotion over our entire bodies. I watched with voyeuristic titillation when Miriam spread her legs slightly, so she could get in between her thighs, up high, where her vagina was. She, in turn, giggled and oohed and aahed when I spread it over my balls and penis. I had to concentrate on not orgasming when I rubbed the moisturizer onto my penis and testicles, closing my eyes. I heard Miriam give me the attention-getting 'ahem' kind of noise, like discretely clearing her throat. I looked up at her. "Not yet, young lady!" Then she took my hand in hers, and pulled me into her dressing room. "Right," she said, to herself as much as to me, "let's get this party started." I had no idea what she was talking about. She reached over and pulled open a large deep drawer, and I could see dozens, if not hundreds, of panties. "Pick something you like, sweetie," she cooed. I stood there, mute and unmoving. She noticed my hesitation. "Cole, sweetie, you promised to follow my lead, right?" I nodded my head. Her smile got huge. "Believe me, hon, you'll love this part." Reaching towards the drawer, she pulled out something dark green, which looked silky and satiny and barely-there. "Try these." So, I slowly slid the panties up my legs. The softness of the material made my heart race, as it touched my now hairless and moisturized skin. It made my cock throb. As the panties got higher and tighter on me, towards my upper thighs, I began breathing harder. I could feel my heart racing in a commensurate fashion. Sliding panties on was exciting and thrilling me. It was the single most shattering discovery of my life. I was more horny than I could ever have imagined. I had to close my eyes, I had to concentrate on not allowing myself to fly off the handle, because I felt that was imminent. I felt like I could reach total sexual joy, in that moment. I felt like I could cum, harder and larger than ever before in my entire life, and without even touching my cock. I felt the wave coming on, ramping up, building quickly, like a tea kettle starting its boil, slow and burbling, but then instantly getting faster and fiercer, all the water now jumping around, over and under and on itself, like an animal, suddenly uncaged and free to be wild. Then Miriam reached over and wrapped her soft hand around my stiff penis, her fingertips landing on the vein that runs underneath, and she squeezed with one finger, hard and then harder and then harder still. My eyes shot open, and I stared directly into her eyes now. "Not yet, sweetie," was all she said, smiling. Then I finished slipping the panties up and onto myself. It was electric. It was unlike anything I'd ever known. It was as if my nerves and senses just kept getting larger and larger the farther I slid the panties up my body. It was fucking cool! "Next," she said, to herself, and then we went off. She dressed herself as she dressed me. She wrapped a garter belt around herself, and a different one around me. And she put it up higher than I would have, and explained to me that it should be positioned above the hips. I didn't think I had any of those, but as soon as she fastened the clips and slid it around me, the four straps hanging down and touching me as they wiggled and moved, I could see the beginnings of what most authors would have described as an hourglass figure. I looked up at her in shock. She smiled even more at me. Then, she kneeled down, and grabbed something soft and silky looking, and rolled it this way and that until it looked a little like a bagel, and then she got me to extend one foot out, and she began rolling this roll onto me. A stocking. Slowly and oh-so-sensuously she slid it up my leg, unrolling it as she went, the pressure of her fingers on my skin combined with the heavenly softness of the material, all of which made me shudder and shake inside, and my penis managed to somehow get even harder within the confines of the panties. My skin glowed, from the moisturizer, and I watched that glow turn into a sheen of darkness as she moved the stocking up me. Second by second, my leg took on the most feminine appearance. Goddamn! It looked so sexy! Miriam clipped the stockings to the garters, after threading them underneath the panties, explaining to me how best to do it, how to capture the round little nub of the garter into the larger round hole of the clip, and why panties should go on last, allowing easy removal, for the obvious reason of going to the bathroom, and for the less obvious reason of impromptu sexual opportunities. By the time all four were done, my leg looked like a million bucks. The second leg went just as wonderfully. Softly, and sensuously. There was a full-length mirror on the back of the door, and she swung it so I could see myself. Ignoring the top half of me, the bottom half looked exactly like a sexy photo from some magazine, or porn site. Panties, and stockings, and garter belt. My eyes closed, and I stood there, shaking and trembling and quaking. My whole body was a-twitter with tiny little almost imperceptible movements. Her lingerie was literally making me quiver. Then a thought entered my head. I looked at Miriam. "Would Carly wear this kind of stuff for lounging? For chilling?" She thought about it for a second. Then she shook her head 'no', softly. "Probably not, although you just never know. But your point is well- taken, sweetie. Garters and stockings would take things a bit farther than shlumpy." I guess I had a look on my face, asking 'then why are we doing this?' She smiled, from ear to ear, like we were two best friends, sharing a secret. "Next. Bras." Miriam moved us to a floor-to-ceiling cabinet, and opened a drawer that had a front about the size of my oven door, at home. Inside were dozens and dozens of bras, a rainbow of colours and styles, some full- fashioned, some barely there, some with half-cups, demi-cups, see- through cups, two pairs with holes cut out for the nipples, some with frilly lacy straps, some with no straps. Looking at the colour of the panties I already had on, she picked a bra to match. Holding it towards me, her eyes flashed conspiratorially. "Do you need help putting it on?" she asked, coyly. I reached out to take it from her hands. It was cool to the touch, the material naturally of the finest quality. Soft, silky. Wonderful. I'd seen my one and only girlfriend do it, of course, so I turned it backwards, and clasped it in front of me, just below my chest, and then spun the bra around, slid my arms into the straps, and pulled the whole thing up and into place. The matching bra to my panties. And the feeling was beyond exquisite. I had never felt like this. Again, the quality of the fabric of the bra was light years ahead of what I was used to in any clothing, so the softness and the tenderness with which it treated my skin was completely new and completely off-the-charts fantastic. Plus, pulling me as it was, squeezing me as it was, confining me as it was, felt otherworldly. The cups pushed my flesh in and up, and created a sense of cleavage for me. And despite being 'strapped in', my entire upper body felt supported and cherished and proud. I automatically straightened my spine, and stuck my breasts out. I realized that made me stick my bum out in the opposite direction, like a counter-balance. It felt like a million dollars. I turned to the full-length mirror again, and saw myself, in panties and stockings and a garter belt. And a bra. Miriam grabbed one that matched her panties and slid it on, far quicker, from a life-time of experience. Then she stood next to me, her left hand gently stroking my lower back, sometimes up and over the bra strap and sometimes gently down far enough to caress my bottom through the panties. Her hand was soft and warm and made me feel loved. "Carly would always feel this wonderful, every minute of every day. It affects you, you see that now? Wearing these kinds of materials against your skin every day of your life, it becomes the standard way of feeling. Sensually excited. Almost erotic, if you think about it. Can you see what I mean?" she asked, her voice breathy and enticing. The words that came out of me were completely honest and unrehearsed. "I can't imagine anything feeling better than this!" "I know, right?" she said. "I can't believe it," I continued, "I mean, you could tell me the worst news in the world right now, like, I don't know, like my pet dog just died, and I would have a hard time feeling sad." She nodded, and looked me in the eyes. "Now, imagine feeling like this all day every day. Every second. It would change your entire life, your entire way of living, and of loving." I knew what she meant. "Now," she grinned, "let's get sexy!" At any other time in my life, I would have scoffed at the very idea of it. Me, being sexy. Now, I realized I couldn't wait to see what she meant. Lacing her fingers in mine, she led me to the vast walk-in closet and dressing room. There were lights discretely placed in front of mirrors, and door after door of closets. She passed by most of them, and ended up near the back of the room. Throwing open the double doors, she smiled, but I noticed something different about this smile. This one had some sadness to it. I squeezed her hand, to let her know that whatever was going on, I was there for her. She squeezed me back. "These were Stanley's clothes," she whispered, "and I've never had the heart to throw them out." Then she gazed at me, assessing me. "You're closer to Stanley's size than mine, so I think it's time these clothes got some good use again." I looked closer, and realized that there had to be dozens and dozens of different clothes on hangars. Blouses, skirts, and dresses of every colour and style were in front of us. There was even a leather bodysuit hanging there, with a built-in cone bra and a hole between the legs. Split crotch. It took me a moment, but I realized what that meant. I found my face flushing with redness. Miriam saw it, and her smile became normal again. "I think," she cooed, seductively, "that Carly would want to out-do herself tonight. So," she paused, looking at all the clothes in front of us, "she would wear," she paused again, searching, her eyes ricocheting back and forth across the width of the closet, "something ultra-sexy," pausing again, "like," and with her final pause she reached in and pulled out a little black dress, "this." She held it up and showed it to me. It looked expensive. It looked soft and sensuous and silky. It looked sexy as hell. If I saw a woman wearing it, I'd have a serious chubby. Then I realized I did have serious bulge in my panties, and I was actually contemplating wearing the sexy dress. If the lingerie I was wearing made my entire sensory system reconfigure itself, to the most unexpected but exquisite levels of softness and silkiness and sexiness, then, I posited, wearing that deliciously feminine dress would take my new-found euphoria past all imaginable levels. I reached for it, and Miriam teasingly pulled it just out of my reach. "Cole, first we do make up." She took me to the back of her main closet, where there was a desk with shelves covered in every kind of bottle and tube and stick and brush possible, the whole area lighted with bright soft tones. She sat me down, and spun me, so I couldn't see what it was she was doing. For the next half hour, she carefully and methodically cleansed my face, my skin feeling alive for the first time ever, and then began applying powder and mascara and eyeliner and blush and finally lipstick and gloss. All while instructing me, like a professor, or private tutor, about the methodologies and techniques used for each product. Then she spent another ten minutes running goop through my hair, her fingers searching through and through, her nails lightly massaging my scalp. I couldn't afford hair-cuts often, with what the book store paid me, so it was a little longer than I'd usually have it. It was a little longer than my boss liked. She carved and swirled her fingers everywhere, and then worked pushing and pulling particular bits here and there, studying me intensely, her head occasionally moving from side to side, or turning my head this way and that, making sure whatever she was doing made sense all the way around. Finally, she moved away, and after some searching-through-drawers noises, Miriam came back with shiny rings. They were attached to clip- on earrings. "These were Veronica's favorites," she said, and then a second later blurted out, "that was her name, my Stanley, when she was 'en femme', as she called it." Clamping them to my earlobes in the way she wanted, she winked at me, and told me to get ready to be blown away. Then she swivelled the chair, and I spun towards the lighted mirror. And saw a beautiful stranger. And above her, Miriam, beaming with delight, positively glowing with the situation, and staring like laser beams into mine, in the mirror. "You like?" she asked. I watched the strangers head nod up and down, in perfect synchronization with mine. It was like she and I were dancers, matching each other's moves perfectly. Then I realized it was me. My hair looked like a wind-swept mane, flowing out behind me, as if I was on a rocky crag somewhere, staring into the wild ocean. My eyes were gorgeous, a smoky scarlet eye shadow complimenting my baby browns, my lashes long and lustrous, my cheeks were slightly flushed, and warm, and my lips were big and round and cherry red. The earrings dangled down beside my face, and if it wasn't for the Adam 's apple in my throat, I looked like I'd just stepped off the set of a fashion shoot for a big-time magazine. I looked womanly. I looked feminine. I looked alive. I looked sexy. Feeling overwhelmed, from looking and now feeling sexy, combined with the little tiny pulsing throbs every nerve ending I had was going through wearing the soft delicious lingerie, micro-second after micro- second, I lost all control. I moaned, closed my eyes, my head fell back, my chest rose up, pointing my breasts straight up and out, my toes curled and clenched, and I began shooting cum into my panties. My torso began twitching and lurching, as each shot of sticky love juice seemed to start from deep within my body and then fire out of me like a slow-moving cannonball, one after the other after the other. It was more than I could handle, and I slumped into the back of the chair. Miriam's arms quickly enfolded me, as she wrapped me in her grip, leaning over me, her head next to mine, and her mouth close to my ear. "Let it all out, sweetie," she cooed, like a proud mother, "let it all out." A few minutes later, after I had stopped cumming because I was most likely empty of fluid but also because I probably would have had a heart attack if I kept going, I flushed with embarrassment, opened my eyes, to see Miriam's face beside me, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. A seriously sexy Cheshire cat. "Was that good?" I could only nod. It was like nothing I'd ever achieved before. I'd never cum that hard or that long in my life, no question, bar none. My skin was flush, red. I suddenly felt like a loser, at that moment, having cum just from wearing clothes. "I'm so sorry," I whispered. Her face scrunched up. "What in the world are you sorry about?" I stammered a bit. I didn't want to say it out loud. "What?" she asked, "because you came?" I nodded, ashamed of myself. "No no no no," she said, her voice determined and steely, "no no no. Don't be that way. No. It's a good thing. A great thing!" She laughed out loud. "Are you kidding? No Cole, no. There's no shame, no embarrassment. Cumming is the greatest thing in the world! The fact you could achieve an orgasm like that shows you how powerful the feelings are, how powerful dressing in lingerie can be. This is how Carly feels, sweetie, every second of every day. Remember this, how you feel, how you exploded in pleasure. Remember everything about his moment." I could only nod at her. I would remember this, I vowed to myself. "Oh sweetie, we're just getting started. I promise. You're going to have lots more of that! Now, let's get you back into the shower," she whispered. And I repeated the same process of the last hour again. With one new step in the discipline. An enema. I know what one was, in theory. I'd never done it before. I'd never even contemplated it, considered it an option. Miriam walked me through everything, and explained it all to me, in matter-of-fact logic. Hair removal goop. Check. Moisturizer. Check. Panties. Oh my, yes. Check. Again, I marvelled at the way my senses became alerted and aroused with the material sliding up my legs, the intensity of the arousal became larger the further the panties went up my leg. I shuddered with delight, with joy, with a new-found tremor in my soul. I'd thought I'd known what pleasure was before, but I was so wrong. This was so much better. Miriam handed me clothes, and I put them on. Garter belt? Check. Silk stockings? Check. Slightly padded bra, one of Stanley/Veronica's sexiest? CHECK! This second time she applied my makeup with me watching in the mirror, so I could visually see what she'd described the first time, so I could do for myself. The next time. "If," she whispered, "you choose to have a next time." The look in her eyes wasn't judgemental. I could see curiosity, of course. But she was leaving it up to me, as was the respectful thing to do. We got my face and hair back to where they'd been, and then she presented me with the little black dress. I gawked at it, and admired it, on the hangar, imagining how many times I'd seen women in similar dresses and wanted them, desired them, lusted after them. I thought about how a woman wearing something sexy and deliciously-brazen like that would feel, proud and strong and confident and perfectly accepting of herself, and her knowledge of how her appearance would affect people. And how she was free to look and feel as sexy as she wanted, when she wanted. The freedom that Miriam had talked about earlier. I took the dress off the hangar, and started to gather it up, when Miriam stopped me. "Sweetie, you don't put the dress on from the top. You'll smear your makeup, for one thing, and stain your dress at the same time. Women walk into their dresses, Cole." Then she stopped, and looked away wistfully for a moment. Then she turned back to me, her eyes straight onto mine. "You don't look like a Cole anymore, do you?" she asked. I shook my head. She was right, of course. "Do you have a woman's name you like? Like I mentioned, Veronica was Stanley's name." I didn't have one that immediately jumped to mind. I didn't have much of a mind, to be honest. I was overdosing on the assault on all my senses that the clothes and makeup were having on me, and how my brain was now changing, how my thoughts were ablaze with quivering glee. I had never felt so happy. Miriam smiled. "How about instead of Cole, I call you Carly?" My first thought was that Carly, my fictional heroine, was a completely different person than I am, than I could ever hope to be. Then, looking back into the mirror, seeing just how incredible I looked in lingerie, I felt a fast-moving tide of happiness spread through me. Am I Carly? I am now. I am Carly. She showed me how to step into the dress, and as it slid up my body, my hips wiggling a little to squeeze it past, on the way up to my shoulders. Miriam stood behind me, and zipped me up, from just above my ass cheek to half way up my back, the back of the dress open in a tear- drop shape, exposing my milky-white skin. I shrugged and shimmied my shoulder blades, getting everything about me and the dress to where they were most comfortable. Miriam told me to wait, and not look at myself in the mirror. Yet. She moved off to a closet, and came back with shoes. High heels. Black leather, pointy toes, stiletto heels, shiny and sleek. "This," she said, "might be the hardest part for you." I looked at her inquisitively. She smiled. "It takes some getting used to, wearing heels like this, and walking around." Miriam bent down and slipped both shoes on me, tying up the little straps that wound around my ankles. I had to rest my hands on her shoulders when I went to put weight on the first foot, my whole lower half wobbling, hinting at untold disasters of ankle-breaking. I reefed in the shakes, and held my entire leg still, focussing on all my weight driving down through the slimmest of heels. The second shoe went on, and suddenly I was three inches taller. Miriam stood up, and now, she being shoeless, stood shorter than me. She looked up at me and smiled, the biggest one of the evening yet. "Okay," she said, "you work on walking, back and forth and all around the bedroom and the closets, while I finish getting ready." I took one step, my entire upper body balanced over my toes, my ankle perilously shaking, wanting to fall over, feeling as if it was inevitable. There was no way I could walk anywhere supported by the tiniest of stilts. Miriam was busy doing her makeup, and watching me out of the corner of her eyes. "Stick your bum out, Carly," she offered. So I did. It made walking a whole lot easier. My first few steps were awkward, and cumbersome, but the more I did it the more I got better at it. I found shorter steps helped, especially when I aimed my chest forward, like I was leading with my tits, combined with sticking my bum out as Miriam had suggested. I walked back and forth and back and forth. She would occasionally throw in comments, about how sexy I looked, how feminine I looked, how Carly would be proud of me. How I should be proud of me. At one point, I walked close to her, and she looked up and beamed. Then she looked at my arms, and motioned me closer. She pointed at a box on the counter that had to have over a hundred different chains and bracelets in it, and told me to throw a few on, each arm. I selected a half dozen slim round ones for my left wrist, and countered with a long silver rounded bracelet for my right wrist. As I was sliding that on, Miriam watched. "We need to do your nails, sweetie." So I stood patiently, balancing on the slimmest of sexy heels, and she painted my fingernails the same colour as my lips. Bright cherry red. Shiny. Glowing. Sexy as hell. Then I had to wait while they dried. Miriam used that time to get dressed herself. Minutes later, she was standing beside me, both of us dressed to the nines. Her dress was low-cut, almost to her belly-button, and showed off nearly all of her cleavage, while still covering her massive nipples, which excited me, my penis getting hard again in my panties. I thought for a second that I should ask where my previous now cum-stained panties went, but she had obviously cleaned up while I was in the shower. Still, I realized how amazing it felt being sexually stimulated while wearing the thinnest and sleekest of panties. Her dress was silver, and shone like a million little lights were aimed at it, in every direction. The sleeves were full on her, to her hands, whereas mine came to just below my elbows. Her dress just covered her knees, mine stopped mid-thighs. Her shoes, with higher heels than mine, were silver as well. Altogether, she looked hot. She saw me staring. "Carly," she said, "what's on your mind?" "You look hot, Miriam," was the truth. She nodded her thanks. "Hot enough to get laid?" I laughed. "Are you kidding? You could wear a garbage bag and you'd be that hot." Then she looped an arm inside mine, and turned us so we were in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror. "No," she whispered, "do WE look hot enough to get laid?" I gazed at our reflections. My first reaction was emphatic, and definitive, and resolute. YES! YES YES YES YES YES YES YES A THOUSAND TIMES YES. We looked like two women going to an expensive restaurant, or nightclub. Two sexy women, ready for a night out on the town. Then my mind went to a place it had never gone before. Did I want to get laid? I mean, yes, of course, I wanted to get laid. Every second of every day. That's the nature of the world, isn't it? But my life had previously consisted of suppressing those desires over the years, owing to the fact that there was never any chance that I would actually get laid, so why waste the dreaming? Now, here I stood, on stiletto heels no less, looking like a model in a photo shoot, sexy and feminine and hot, and Miriam was talking about getting laid. Then I flashed back onto something she'd said earlier, about how she could be more masculine at times than her husband. Is that what she means by getting laid? Is that in store for me? Giving me no time to worry about that, Miriam ordered me to keep practicing my walking. Stick my tits out! Stick my ass out! Wiggle those hips! Pretty soon, I was strutting like a model, down the catwalk. Smooth and sleek and shaking in all the right places, I glided back and forth and around her bedroom suite. Every so often she'd tell me to stop, and I'd freeze, posing with my arms and head in the most woman-like position I could think of. She helped me the first few times, showing me how women often hold their arms in a certain way and then just gesture with their hands, in that way homophobic men would describe as limp-wristed, but looking ever so feminine dressed the way I was. Miriam and I walked and pranced, sometimes separately and sometimes together, pretending to be two hot women in a social setting. After disappearing to refresh our drinks, and sharing a few pulls on a thin white cigarette of marijuana with me, we stood again in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Giggling, and laughing, like two sexy hot stoned partially-inebriated women. "Carly," she asked, after a long moment of nothing, "how do you feel?" I giggled, and said I felt great. Her face got serious. "No, sweetie," she cautioned, "you're a world-class writer, babe. Tell me how you feel. Tell me in words. Tell me, as if you were writing the next chapter of your newest novel. Let me hear how all of this is affecting you. How it's changing you." I thought about it for a few seconds. "How does one describe it? How can I put into words these feelings? I'm at a loss, Miriam," I breathed out, "this is all so new to me, so earth-shattering and so completely unexpected, and so completely out of my ability to contemplate. I feel, I feel alive. For perhaps the first time, although I'm in my thirties, for god's sake. I feel like every nerve ending in my body, billions and billions of them, have just woken up, have just been made aware of their own capabilities, and are all now flexing themselves, testing how far they can go, how much more pleasure and joy they can feel, individually and collectively. It's like, jesus, I mean, shit, I feel like I've been reborn. I hear the pathetic religious people talk about being reborn and it makes me angry, that they could think all that claptrap was real and significant and not just a bunch of gobbledy-gook. This, though, this," I waved my arms up and down and all around myself, "this is fucking amazing!" Miriam nodded, and giggled. "It's strange, too. I'm wearing clothes. Women's clothes. And yes, they're the most delicious clothes I've ever worn, without question, and I am absolutely in love with wearing them. I adore it! But at the same time," I paused, "I almost feel naked. Do you know what I mean?" She nodded her head at me and grinned, like she'd known it all along and was giddy that she finally got to share it with somebody. "It's like, wearing these clothes, and the makeup and the jewelry, and the heels, it's like I've never felt freer, and more alive, and more awake, and more real. It's like I feel naked, all dressed up. Naked in the sense of, oh, Christ, what's the word I'm looking for here? Jesus, I'm a little stoned, Miriam. Anyway, what's the word? It's , um...natural, I guess. Yes, that's the word. Natural. I feel natural, even though I'm a guy dressed up in women's clothing. Sexy clothing. And it's all tight on me, deliciously tight, making me feel wrapped in sexy and wrapped in happiness and wrapped in joy. But natural. That is definitely the word. I feel natural." I looked at her, and she at me. My words felt right, and honest. "I feel natural." Miriam came to me, and we hugged. Softly. I'd never felt closer to another human being in my entire life. "Now you know a little bit how Carly feels, right?" she whispered into my ear. "I do," I whispered back, "I really do. Thanks to you." She kept holding me. "Now," she said, "in the novel, she's being chased by two different guys, right? One who will ultimately help her, and one that is plotting to hurt her. She doesn't know the difference, at first. All she knows is she's attracted to them both. And in the course of the book, she gets the opportunity to be with them both, in romantic and sexual ways. Right?" I nodded, in her arms. "So," she continued, "knowing what you know now, feeling what you're feeling now," she paused, moving away from me and looking me in the eyes, "do you not agree that her thoughts and actions would be different than how you wrote them?" "Oh god, yes, of course, Miriam. Now that I am enlightened about comfort and lifestyle and fashion and how that all affects a person, of course she would walk and talk and act differently than I've written. I've got so much work ahead of me, to change things." Miriam smiled again, that conspiratorial one that she sometimes gets. "The lesson is not over yet, Carly." She winked at me, and laced her fingers in mine, and we walked out and down the stairs to her living room, our heels clicking and clacking as we sashayed our pretty selves to the bar, topping our drinks up, and lighting up another joint. Standing shoulder to shoulder, gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows, we let the weed do its thing, in silence. A few moments later, her eyes blazing into mine, we moved our heads closer. Two sexy women, about to kiss. Lipsticked lips to lipsticked lips. And here I'd been thinking that I'd learned all there was to know about sensuality, and about softness, and about how erotic those qualities were. Kissing Miriam blew all those preconceptions out of the water. Kissing Miriam blew my entire life out of the water. Her lips, like mine, were glossy and slick. Touching my lips tentatively, at first, she allowed me the chance to get used to her, and get used to everything happening around me. It's like she knew the different phases of enlightenment I might go through and was patiently waiting for me to go through them and catch up. She began moving her lips, inspiring me to move mine in concert. We began kissing more earnestly, more passionately. Her body moved towards mine, and our silky glamorous torsos slowly melded together, each of us delighting in the thrill of a growing fever of lust. When her tongue reached out and tapped on my upper lip, I opened my mouth immediately. I couldn't wait to taste her, to let her in, to allow her her wants, her needs. It made me realize that I had similar needs and wants. Our kiss became deeper, more intense. Both of us were breathing heavily, pushing air out of our noses, gulping at air when our lips broke apart, briefly, while we moved our heads back and forth. I felt her hand sliding across my body, pressing the extraordinary softness of the fabric of my dress against my skin, and then sliding that delicious contact as her hand moved. I'd never felt anything like that. Then she broke the kiss, and moved her mouth close to my ear. Her voice full of emotion. "When Carly seduced Ricardo," she panted, "after the fund-raiser dinner, after the dancing and flirting, they kissed for a long time, didn't they?" I nodded, and panted out my own "yes". She kissed me again, her lips firmer against mine, her movements more intense, her tongue moving faster and deeper into my mouth. She made sure to make each kiss longer and harder, instantly making me realize she was doing her best to mirror what had happened to my heroine, in my novel. In between kisses, she gasped out words. "Did he kiss her like this?" I murmured the word, 'harder'. She kissed me harder. Her hands began touching me more strongly, gripping and groping and clenching at my body with an added ferocity. It no longer felt like a Miriam hug and kiss, which I somehow innately knew was the point. One of her hands moved to my front, and pawed at my breast. "Men love tits," she gasped, her fingers starting at the outside and squeezing their way inward, towards my nipple, like a man would with a real woman. My nipple was hard, like a pebble. When her thumb and forefinger came together on either side of it, she clamped down on me. I gasped out loud, mostly into her mouth. "Does Carly like having her nipples pinched?" she asked, breathlessly. I moaned out my approval. "God, yes!" Suddenly her mouth left mine, and her hands moved down to my sides, and she spun me around, and then wrapped her arms around me, both of her hands sliding up to cup my bosom. My breasts. Carly's breasts. Her mouth attached itself to the right side of my neck, and she hoovered her lips around to that spot just below my ear lobe. Pulling at my tits, pawing me, she forced me back into her body, almost ramming her own groin into my ass. Like a man would, I realized. Then she walked us closer to the glass. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered the most amazing view of the city, thousands of lights from houses and streetlamps were shining and glittering below. It made me wonder, were there any other people out there right now doing the same thing as we were? Was it reasonable to assume that I wasn't the only person with an elevated heart rate, owing to the sexual groping I was getting? My blood was boiling inside of me. I had never imagined that I could feel this free: unconstrained by propriety, or even any of the normalcies I'd ever known. Dressed in these clothes, as a woman, surrounded by silky-smooth luxury, the skin all over my body prickling alive with passion, the person behind me acting totally out of the character I'd come to know, possessing me, pushing my boundaries, taking me to worlds I'd never conceived of, speaking to me in a language that was foreign. Foreign. I wanted, at that moment, more than anything, to learn this language. This language of love. Her groping of my breasts became rhythmic. Her hands would slip and slide and compress, her thumbs and forefingers always ending up on my nipples, through the bra, squeezing and tugging and flicking and squeezing again. She nudged me to put my arms out, and my palms landed on the cool glass, sending a different kind of thrill through me. One of her legs slipped in between mine, and she nudged them to open, which I did, lost as I was in a sea of rising giddiness. Her lips and tongue, working on my neck, were touching that part of my body that I never knew would be the gateway to the rest of me. She was driving me wild. With my legs open, one of her hands moved down my body, and she began caressing my pantied crotch, like a man would, with his palm, up and down, slowly, like Ricardo did to Carly in my novel, each stroke reaching in between my legs, spreading me a little at a time with each touch. Her voice was ragged, and strained now. "Tell me what happened next," she panted, "remind me how Ricardo turned you on and melted your defences." The moan that came out of me was as unlike me as any noise I'd ever made, like somehow a ventriloquist had thrown someone else's voice into my throat. The sound was decidedly feminine. Breathy, but stillness- shattering, uncontrolled, and tailing off at the end to that tone of voice that says, 'I'm losing control of my rational self'. Miriam was humping at me, from behind. "Ricardo," I gasped, in between little 'oohs' and 'aahs' as her lips and tongue went back to work on my newly-discovered erogenous zone, "got Carly all hot and bothered...just like this...touching her...holding her...rubbing her..." Miriam interrupted me. "Where did I rub you, Carly?" she panted. "My pussy," I belted out, in one burst of air from my lungs, prompted by her palm which increased its pressure on me, her fingers splayed out flat, my hardness throbbing under her skin, my hips moving in little impromptu movements trying to keep her palm touching me where it would do the most magic. I was involuntarily grinding my genitalia against her hand, her palm. I was trying, without thinking about it, to get her to make me cum again. Her mouth reattached itself to my neck, while the hand she was petting me with moved up, over my hip, and back down my ass. "Carly," she breathed out, trying to make her voice as masculine as possible, imitating the horny Latino private detective I'd created, "I want you. I want you more than all the love songs in the world can describe. I want you more than the oxygen we breathe. I want you, mi amore, I want you!" My foggy brain recognized instantly that she was quoting Ricardo directly from my novel. To the word. And I just as quickly remembered Carly's response. My response. "Take me, Ricardo," I gasped out, "TAKE ME NOW!" Suddenly Miriam's female voice returned, her mouth placed directly next to my ear. "Close your eyes, and don't open them again. Keep concentrating on that chapter, that scene, how you felt while he was seducing you and you were seducing him. I'll be right back." Then she was gone, the click-clack of her heels moving away from me with the Doppler Effect. I kept my eyes closed. I kept conjuring up visual images to match what I'd written. How her apartment looked. How it was decorated. The furniture, the tchotchkes. How Ricardo was dressed, how he looked, his face, his body. What he smelled like. How he'd slowly flirted with me at the party, asking me to dance three different times before I'd finally relented. How his hands had felt so warm and loving wherever he touched me. How our dance, chaste and proper at first, had become more and more passionate, more and more lusty, as the band played on. I saw the cab drivers face, as he looked in his rear-view mirror, watching us, watching our kisses, our tongues slipping out and tasting each other. Ricardo had had to tell the poor man to keep his eyes on the road. We didn't want to get into an accident! I remembered how my doorman had smiled at me, as I held Ricardo's hand, walking him through the lobby of my building. Joshua had that knowing smile, full of envy. That look that said, 'what a lucky guy, he gets to make love to this sexy woman...I so wish I was in his shoes!' The kissing and clutching and pawing and caressing in the elevator washed over me, as I heard Miriam's heels again, getting closer to me. I kept my eyes shut the whole time. Her hands came around my middle again, as her lips once more clamped onto my neck, just below my ear. The moan that spewed out of my lungs was decidedly un-masculine. As she pulled me into her, I jumped a little bit at the shock. At the surprise. I felt it, against my left bum cheek. A lump. OH MY GOD! I thought. This is what it has to be like, when men grab women and hold them, when they get excited? When they get hard? I did leave the fantasy world of being Carly for a few seconds, long enough to think about how differently it felt. Instead of being the person who was touching someone else with my erection, grinding it into a woman, front or back, now I was the one being touched by the erection. I don't know how she did it, but it gave me a jolt of energy, and made me think that Carly was indeed about to be made love to. I, was about to be made love to. Me. One of her hands left my body, and slid up and over my hip again, and down my right ass cheek. This time, she deftly flipped my dress up, and did something I would have never thought of, as the man. She bunched up and then tucked the hem of the dress into the top band of my panties. Exposing my ass cheeks. Her fingers slid down the smooth skin of my buttock, and one finger hooked itself underneath the fabric of my panties, and she pulled it to the side. My legs spread by themselves. I felt cool air on me, on the flesh of my ass. On the delicate skin of my hole, something that didn't usually get exposed too much. I felt a chill run up my spine, matching the chill that touched my hole. My pussy, in this case. Carly's pussy. "Tell me what Ricardo would have done," she panted out, "to get Carly ready him, to get you wet and ready for his cock." I gasped. "He...you...oh my god...you'd finger me..." I felt her push her hand between my bum cheeks, spreading me, and then one of her fingers landed directly on my opening. My hole. My pussy, I realized again. I didn't have time to wonder how she'd gotten her finger wet, or even what she'd used to get her finger wet with, but in one sly and slow movement, she sank her finger into me, as far as it would go. My own mother would not have recognized the voice that came out of my mouth. Certainly I'd never heard anything quite like it, ever. From me, or from anyone else. It was plaintive. It was begging. It was breathy and throaty and ringed with tremors of anticipation. I moaned. It was the kind of moan that is universal. Undeniable. Any human being, anywhere, anyhow and anytime, would know what it conveyed. Carly was aroused more than she ever had been. Ricardo kept his thin finger in me for a short time, moving it around, wriggling the tip inside of me, touching me inside, exploring me. The disappointment I voiced at its' removal was short-lived, however, when it came back into me, joined by another finger, doubling the thickness, doubling the expansion of my hole and channel, doubling the gasps of air propelling out of my lungs. He plunged them all the way up inside of me, as hard as he could, as far as her feminine fingers would go, his hand slamming into me, making my bum cheeks jiggle, and the rest of me quiver in response. Then he withdrew in a hurry and plunged me again. Like a one-two shot. Out, and then in again, quickly, fast, like a cock would do, in the height of passion. The moans coming out of me became just vowels, no words. More and more of them, as those fingers slipped out and in and out and in faster and faster. Miriam made her voice deeper again, as much as she could. "I want you, I want you," she kept repeating. I kept quoting from my book. "TAKE ME! TAKE ME! TAKE ME NOW!" A few moments later, and he did. The lump I'd felt earlier suddenly moved, from being forced up against my left cheek, to directly in between my legs, magically seating itself in my newly-expanded crinkly hole. One brief moment of clarity suddenly came over me. Wait a minute! It's a cock. Or at least, something resembling a cock. And it's about to go straight into my ass. I knew that as much as I knew anything. Hell, I realized, I was actually verbally asking her to do it, begging her to do it. Take me. That small momentary crash back into reality disappeared in a poof of time. I gasped out "TAKE ME" again, as I had been incoherently murmuring, and Ricardo plunged into me. BOOM! A defining moment. A stark, brutal wake-up. Visceral. Insanely primal. Life-changing. Like that first frantic gasp of air you take, when you're within seconds of drowning, and finally clear your head of the water you've been suffering under your whole life. As if the entire world had lined up to slap me in the face, seven billion hands all at once striking me, jolting me, shocking me. More than any other point in time, this one redefined everything. This one made every other 'a-ha' moment I'd ever lived through disappear, as if they'd carried the significance of a feather floating on the wind. More than everything, more than breathing even, this shook the rafters. Ricardo fucked me. His lips were back at my neck again, nibbling and biting and kissing and slurping, in ragged sharp motions, as his cock filled me. Expanded me. Seated itself in me, inside my body, up into parts of me that had never had anything there before, except what was biologically necessary. Every fibre of skin and membrane was pushed aside, rammed apart. HE WAS INSIDE ME! HIS COCK WAS INSIDE ME! I'M BEING MADE LOVE TO! I'M BEING FUCKED, LIKE A WOMAN!!!! His voice came into my ear, reminding me that he was at heart a she. "I told you...in the limo...remember?...sometimes I like doing the fucking..." I remembered. Just before she'd shown me her breasts. Then he withdrew and thrust again, harder this time, erasing those earlier memories. Erasing my entire life's worth of memories. There was nothing before this. Ricardo started fucking me. He slipped almost all the way out, and then slammed back into me. Then he'd give a little shuffle of his hips, trying to wriggle his cock inside me, making the noises come from inside me change a little, and then he's start the whole process again. Out almost all the way, and then all the way in. SLAM! One hard full stroke, total commitment. BANG! Rocking me, my heels lifting each time, the sound of them landing again on the floor like a rifle shot. Ricardo started grunting. His hands mauled at my breasts, his fingers pushing and pulling and squishing and pinching at my nipples, both of which were bigger and more swollen than I could ever remember them being. He lunged into me. Faster. Lunging, and plunging, and ramming, and slamming. Faster and faster he fucked me. More and more my moans became louder. Faster and faster he fucked me. One particularly full-out lunge was so fierce it buckled my elbows, and his cock knocked me up against the glass door. Somehow I managed to turn my head at the last second just before I smashed my nose. The glass was cool on my cheekbone, and then her next thrust made me hit it again, producing a 'clonk' sound. Then the apartment seemed to fill with the repetition of that clonking. Every time she lunged her cock into my pussy, my face would clonk against the glass. Ricardo became a metronome. Like precision clockwork, his cock slid in and out of me, always lurching at the end of an upstroke, bringing his pelvis into me hard, making the glass reverberate, bottoming out in me as if he owned me, as if he was taking what was his whether I liked it or not. I liked it. It's hard to describe. He had ridges, or bumps, or perhaps veins running up the shaft of him. I hadn't seen him, as she approached me, but I could feel them. And never mind the immense mind-curdling sensations of being opened up, being expanded and forced apart while being made love to, but those differing feelings rippled up through me, making every second excruciatingly divine. I was almost losing consciousness, from the overload of pleasures. I know I would fairly scream out a shrill "OH!" every time she thrust into me, every time I hit my face on the glass, and we became this tape loop of her grunting, the glass clonking, and then me moaning. Finally, I couldn't take any more. I yelled out the line I'd written, direct from my manuscript. "RICARDO! TAKE ME TO HEAVEN!" Miriam took her right hand off my hip and slid it across my lower belly, and then swept the front of the dress aside, and in one motion shoved my panties up and over and past my little penis, which was granite-hard and pointing straight up and out, and she wrapped her fingers around it, and gave me three serious pumps, as she gave me three more serious lunges. On the third pump I saw white lights, and my entire body cramped up and then the floodgates burst open and I screamed out his name and I started pumping my cum out, spewing like a volcano, all over the glass. I came and came and came. I couldn't control myself. It was as if Ricardo had unleashed a torrent in me, and I began to see stars and comets of light pass by my brain, and my knees wanted to buckle but she held me up, her entire phallus inside me, to the max, and she shook her hips repeatedly just to make sure. Finally, after all my crying and wailing and pumping out my cum and exhausting myself, she slipped out of me, and I moaned the most disappointed noise I've ever heard, and her arms gently let me slowly fall to the ground, to my knees. I felt like I was drunk, my whole body, my whole being, drunk on love. I was aware enough to know that my head turned, and I looked at the contraption she had strapped to herself. It had big thick belts around her waist, and similar ones between her legs, and the dildo it held was a bit bigger than me when I'm erect, and it was flesh tone, and it was still as hard as ever. I looked up at her, at her eyes. She gazed down at me with fire shooting out. Then, she reached down, and a heard a clicking noise, and the dildo came free of its harness. She held it in front of my face. "Carly," she said, "watch." Then she inverted the dildo, and reached down, between her legs, between the straps, and I watched her gently open her own labia, and then she slid the cock into her pussy. She let out a soft and very long "oooooooh". She gave herself three thrusts, holding each one in for a longer and longer time, the last one burying it almost all the way inside of her, which made her whole body shake, like jello. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her mouth formed a beautiful 'O', and she shuddered and shook and quivered. Then she pulled it out, and at first I thought she was going to place it on my lips, and offer it to me to taste. But instead, she leaned over and down, and ran the tip of the dildo against the stream of my cum that was slowly oozing straight down the glass of her floor-to-ceiling window. I watched her turn it this way and that, coating the rounded end in my cum, on top of hers. Once she was satisfied it had enough, then she aimed it for my mouth. "After Ricardo is done," she panted, "I'm sure Carly would clean him off." I agreed. Yes, she would. I took the dildo straight into me, marvelling at the combination of her pussy juices and my cum. Tangy meets salty. Earthy meets sweet. I couldn't believe the moan of satisfaction that came out of her mouth as I closed my lips on the dildo and looked up at her and smiled and then sucked. Her moan was almost as loud as mine. Once the dildo was clean, she helped me to my feet, and then enveloped me in her arms. I was beyond exhausted. I hadn't slept at all the night before, worked all day, and was now almost three hours into my visit with Miriam, where I'd already come twice, full-out totally- exhausting complete carnal explosions. My body felt like it had run a marathon, twenty some odd miles over stones and steep terrain. And yet my brain, and my psyche, felt awake, and alive. More alive than they'd ever felt. I realized I had so much more to say now, in my writing. So much more detail I could bring, so much more attention to the realities of life, and loving. Miriam held me, and we just rocked back and forth for a long time. I thanked her, over and over again. She just kept half giggling and half moaning, and telling me that Carly was learning now, Carly was growing now. And that Carly had more to grow. We rested for a bit, and then she laced her fingers in mine and took me back upstairs. As we walked towards her bathroom again she slowly stripped her clothes off, everything, just letting them fall to the floor, with no regard for cleaning up. So I did the same. Miriam started up the shower, getting the temperature the way she liked, and then she pulled me in. We cleaned ourselves again, and she used a razor on her legs and bum and crotch, and then used it on me. If I'd felt smooth before, now my skin was like a sheet of ice. I loved it! Back at the makeup table, she watched me apply everything. She'd told me to go for a more formal look, and I'd chosen colors appropriately. She'd nodded at most of my choices, and only tsked at one of them, and with her oversight and guidance, I became Carly again. While she put her makeup on, she told me to go to Stanley's closet, and pick out something to wear, remembering that we were going 'formal'. That word again. "Why formal?" I asked her. She smiled. "Carly manoeuvered her way into getting an invite to the state dinner, at the White House, right?" I nodded. Yes, she had. She'd done so with one purpose: to get close to Francois, the French ambassador, and the man she suspected of many horrible crimes, including her own fathers false imprisonment, and the deaths of at least six people related to an automobile accident that was probably meant to kill her, to stop her snooping, but ended up murdering a half dozen completely innocent people, all of whom had the unfortunate fate of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, at no fault of their own. "And then she seduced the ambassador's son, Yves," she continued, "to find the incriminating computer hard-drive." I nodded again. "Well," she smiled, maternally, "you never really let the reader know about how she'd dressed, the preparations, all these things I've been showing you that women go through, that Carly went through," she paused, "that you went through," and she paused again, letting that sink in, reminding me of all that had happened with her already, "and you didn't tell us how she felt, even with all the subterfuge, how she felt about the event, all the famous powerful people she'd met, the dinner, opulence on top of opulence, the dancing afterwards, being held in different men's arms, being romanced, being seduced, even though," she nodded her head, "she was the one doing the seducing, in her mind, I get that." I'd never considered those aspects of the human condition when I was writing the book. And she was right, the last couple of hours had made me realize that there was this huge wide unexplored world of sensuality, of feelings, of passion, of romance, that a woman like Carly would have gone through. A woman like me would have gone through. Being alone in Stanley's 'girl-cave', as Miriam had jokingly referred to it, was invigorating. That's the only word to describe it. Any physical exhaustion I'd been feeling, from the lack of sleep, the hours of insanity after reading the publishers letter, to meeting her and Cecil in the limousine, to my metamorphosis, my exposure to the sensibilities of life that I'd never even imagined before, to the heights of adrenaline-fueled sex, all of that washed away from me, fell off of me, like a cloak. Surrounded by skirts and dresses and blouses and lingerie and heels and makeup and wigs and jewelry, I pulsed with energy. I felt like I could fly. I felt like a bird, released. I felt like I'd lived my whole life in a bubble, or a balloon, and Marion had come along and pricked me open. Metaphorically, for sure. But physically. She'd taken my anal virginity, she'd made me feel as if I was Carly, a vibrant, sexual woman, and I'd wanted her plastic phallus inside of me. I'd wanted it more than any other single event in my entire life. Even more than when I lost my sexual virginity, back when I thought that I was a virile male, and the one that would be sticking myself into someone else's holes, not the other way around. As the montage of moments replayed in my head, two things shone out. Firstly, that I had indeed sucked a cock. The fact that it was a strap- on, with a woman doing the grunt work, mattered very little. It was a cock, covered in pussy juice and semen. As if a man had just fucked a woman, and immediately placed his wet sticky cock in my mouth. That alone was almost enough to make me cum again, just remembering that. Remembering how much I'd wanted it, how much I'd needed it, and how much I'd enjoyed it. The taste, the wickedness, the sheer audacity! I am a cocksucker! But secondly, the millions of sensations my central nervous system had gone through while getting fucked, maybe billions, resurfaced from the deepest part of me, and radiated outward. I had indeed been fucked. I'd wanted to be fucked. I'd been desperate to be fucked. I thought I'd known what being 'turned on' meant, in my former life. But that was a lie, to myself. On a scale of one to ten, everything before tonight had been on a scale of one to two. Now, standing here, adrift on a sea of emotions and energies, surrounded by sensual apparel, I couldn't imagine ever going back to the levels of pleasure my boring life had given me. This. This was what the gods must feel. Stanley's taste in clothing had run the gamut. From slutty to coy, from radiant to kinky. But there was one theme, one continual motif to his wardrobe. Everything was expensive, and as sexy as anything I'd ever known. I looked left, and right, and up, and down, and in drawers and cupboards and racks. I didn't want to miss anything, I refused to let myself see something and think, 'oh yeah, that's the one', and then find out later there was something every more fucking sexy! Miriam joined me after a time, perfectly made up to look like who she was. A socialite, sophisticated and first class, all the way. She'd already slipped into the tiniest little pair of panties I think I've ever seen, barely the thinnest little strip strung between her legs, and a bra that matched, both virginal white. She saw me looking all over. "So," she asked, "have you seen anything that just screams out, 'WEAR ME TONIGHT!'?" I looked at her and said the only thing that was truthful. "All of it." Miriam laughed. "In time, if you like," she replied, her smile warm and soothing. "But really, anything tickle your fancy?" My eyes immediately went to it. I'd seen it almost first off, when I switched the light on, and went through the motions of scanning everything else while always thinking back to it, comparing it and how I assumed I'd feel if I wore it. It was like a dream. It was orange/red, but more red than orange. A formal evening dress. A Maxi dress. It was sleeveless. It had a plunging neck line, and a V- shaped back. Gathered in just below the bust, with a horizontal silvery belt, it cascaded out almost to the floor, with asymmetric lines of hem. It flowed, and moved, and swayed, just hanging there. It spoke to me. It told me that I would look as feminine and sexy as hell if I wore it. Miriam saw where I was looking, and chuckled out loud. She pulled it off the hangar for me. "Veronica used to say no matter how ugly some men might think her, she could always find some fun while wearing that dress." For a moment I worried that I might be violating some unwritten rule, or touching something in her I shouldn't have. Then she smiled, wickedly, and her eyes lit up. "You're going to get SO laid later tonight!" I laughed out loud, and we both giggled like schoolgirls. "I hope so!" I blurted out, remembering how it'd felt for me, less than an hour ago, as she laid me downstairs, up against the window, her plastic cock opening me in ways I'd never imagined possible. She winked. "I guarantee it!" Then she pulled open some drawers, and pointed out the lingerie she thought would work well with the dress. The bra and panty set were red as well. The panty was bigger than a G-string, the cloth at the back actually covering about half of each ass cheek, curving up in a decidedly flirty way. The bra had scalloped edges on the shoulder straps, and the cups, and Miriam also fished out of the drawer two oval- shaped gel discs. She held them up in front of the bra. "Breast forms," she stated, matter-of-factly, "every cross-dressers friend!" I giggled again. A different drawer produced a brand-new package of stockings, thigh- highs, a black weave with a line running from the heel all the way up to the tops. I thought they were just about the sexiest thing I'd ever seen. "Oooh," she mumbled, and hurried over to a shoe rack, "Veronica had a really sexy pair of black stilettos that would totally rock!" A minute or so of searching resulted in success. "Have you thought about your hair?" she suddenly asked me. "My hair? What about it?" I asked her back. "Like I did it earlier, or a wig?" she said, pointing up at the six different foam heads at the top of the clothes racks. "You've got the California beach blonde, the jet black bob, the auburn vamp, the electric blue party girl, the hippie love child down-to-your-ass look, and the Jessica Rabbit seductress flaming red. It's up to you," she added, "but since the dress is red you might want some contrast with the wig, if you want a wig." It didn't take me long to decide. "Auburn vamp, please." A whole lot of rings went on fingers, and bangles went on wrists, and hoops hung from ears, and necklaces got clasped. She spritzed us both with something that smelled like flirting. She gave me an ankle bracelet, which I got on my right leg. Then we looked at each other in the mirror, for about three minutes. Two sexy women, gussied up, looking like a million bucks, feminine and proud of it, stared back at us. We looked rich, and beautiful, and gorgeous. We looked like femininity personified. We looked like two women itching to get laid. On our terms, of course. She interlaced her fingers with mine, and led me down the stairs again. At the top she'd stopped me, and whispered in my ear. "Let's pretend like we're walking down the stairs in the White House, at the State dinner. We've just been introduced out loud, like they do. I'm the famous Interior Designer. You're the famous scientist. Hundreds of people are watching. The VIP's are waiting at the bottom, looking up at us, admiring us. The women are jealous of how gorgeous we look, and the men just want to fuck us." I giggled at that idea. "Let's make all those rich powerful cocks throb for us, okay?" So we walked down the stairs, abreast. We both moved slowly, and purposefully. We both placed each high-heeled foot down carefully, and demonstrably, and then onto the next. We both moved our hips and wiggled our asses. We held hands, and pretended to have purses in our free hands. As we came down the stairs, I could smell food. Fresh food. Halfway down the stairs, where we could just start to see all of the floor we were approaching, I heard a noise, off to our left. The noise of a piece of cutlery meeting a dish of some sort. The noise was startling, my insides instantaneously firing up, rearing up, the scared responses all humans have taking over, my legs stopped moving, my hand clenched hers, and as I realized that I could see the shapes of people, human beings, I turned my body away from them, and gasped out loud. "NO!" Miriam wouldn't let go of my hand, and because I'd turned towards her, she reached out with her other hand to hug me, pulling me into her, comforting me, protecting me. "Shh, sweetie, it's okay," she said, quietly, her voice soothing. I shook my head, enough that she could feel it on her shoulder. "Carly," she said, and pulled her head back to look me in the eyes, "you said you'd follow my lead, remember?" I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. My mind was going berserk with shame, the thought of other people seeing me dressed this way, so completely out of my mind, the morals and constraints of a puritanical world drilled into me now all bombarding me with voices and words. Gay. Homosexual. Faggot. Pansy. Immoral. "Remember?" she asked again. I nodded. "Do you think I would ever do anything to endanger you, or embarrass you, or hurt you?" I shook my head, because I realized that we had become more than just casual acquaintances this evening, more than just social friends. We'd stripped down every normalcy and convention there is. We were lovers. We had become as intimate as humans could be, physically and emotionally. "No." She smiled. "One of the best parts of being a woman, like Carly, and me for that matter, is that we get to spend parts of our lives being women. Being beautiful. Being sensual. You can't begin to understand it until you've gone through it. And sweetie," she said, grinning from ear to ear, "you can't know the complete feminine experience until you've socialized, with people who are enlightened, and respectful, and adult, and passionate, and sophisticated. And open-minded. People who seek others out of the ordinary, if you know what I mean." I sort of did, which must have shown on my face. Miriam laughed out loud. "You can't truly feel a woman's perspective until you've had men trying to charm you!" She made me giggle. "Charm me?" "Carly," she said, her voice back to a whisper, "being wined and dined, being socially active, being flirted with and being romanced and being treated like a queen," she paused, "those are things you just can't imagine. Those are things you need to go through." I thought about her words. She was probably right, I thought. But still. "It's just..." I blurted out. "Just what, Carly?" she blurted back. "Think about it. Your publisher said you need to understand the feminine perspective better, right? Well, here's your opportunity! And, be honest," she added, "how many times do opportunities like this come up for you?" I thought about her words. She was right, of course. I knew it. When would I ever get this kind of chance again? And yet, there was still that small percentage of my brain stuck back in boring boy mode. Those couple of thoughts kept edging back into my consciousness. I'm not a woman. I'm a guy, pretending. I have a penis, for god's sakes. Then I took stock, and realized my penis was pulsing. My whole body was pulsing. With nervousness, yes. But equally, or more, I realized, with excitement, at the audacity of what I was doing, the sheer bravery of allowing all these womanly activities to happen, the biggest shock of course being that I enjoyed them so much. So very much, I knew. More than I knew anything. "Who are they? Do they know, about me?" "Carly," she said, sternly, "you're at a quiet cocktail party. There are a grand total of two men here. I know them both. They're good people. They are both thoughtful, loving, caring, beautiful guys. Handsome too! They are here to celebrate life, in all its variations. We'll go down, meet them, chat with them, enjoy their company. We'll laugh, we'll giggle. We'll feel their eyes on us, their attention. We'll see it in the way they talk, the way they move, the little things they do for us, the courtesies they extend to us. You'll love it! You'll see." I nodded, hesitantly. "Anything else that happens is entirely up to you. In your book, Carly attends several different social events, including a couple of intimate dinner parties. This is just research for you, think of it that way." I was shaking less, and managed to ease off on the grip-of-death I had on her hand. I took a couple of deep breaths. "You're sure?" I asked. She nodded. "You're going to love it!" We walked the rest of the way down the stairs. Walking over to meet us were two very well dressed gentlemen. One I already knew. Cecil, the dark skin of his face almost glowing with an aura, had changed from his chauffer clothes to a navy blue business suit, tailored perfectly for his height and shape. His shirt was white and silk, his tie was wine-colored and crisp, and his shoes were black and the toes were shiny. He looked like the CEO of some big corporation, his back straight, his massive chest proudly jutting out, an assured air about him. His smile was warm, and bright. His eyes were dark, and flickered with energy. He had a diamond stud in both of his ears. He smelled like the ocean. Slightly behind and beside him, was a white man, not quite as tall or wide, and probably a few pounds lighter, with hair the color of straw, and a strong, lantern jaw, and big lips, and eyes that were sky-blue, who was wearing a similar suit, very expensive, more grey than black, equally doodied up and put away. His smile was like a blowtorch. It was invigorating, it lit up the room, it hit me like a tsunami. Cecil stuck his hand out, and by pure simple reaction I stuck mine out. "Allow me to introduce myself, if I may?" he asked tenderly, gently holding my hand in his large black one, "my name is Cecil, and it is a pleasure to meet you," he added, bending at the waist and slowly bringing his head lower, towards me, ending with his face close to my hand, and then he very gently pulled me slightly, and kissed the outside of hand, just where the knuckles are. "Gentlemen," Miriam said, breaking the ice as I stood there and went red at this huge man kissing my hand, "I'd like you to meet one of my dearest friends in the whole world, Carly." Cecil's eyes had never left mine, nor mine his. "Carly," he murmured, "such a pleasure to meet you." Then he kissed my hand again, before slowly rising up to his full height, never looking away from me, and not letting go of my hand. "And may I introduce you to one of my closest friends in the world? Carly, this is Declan." He stepped forward, and took my hand from Cecil's. The voice that came out of his mouth surprised me. For a guy six-two or so, about two hundred pounds, who looked as equally buff and built as Cecil, his voice was soft, and not as deep as I would have expected. The best part was, it had the most delightful Irish lilt to it. "Carly," he said, with softness and a twinkle in his eye, "a lovely name, for a lovely lady. Do you have any relations back home, in Ireland? I knew of a few girls named Carly, over the years. All lovely lasses, they were. You'd fit right in with them, if you don't mind me saying." All I could do was smile. "Then again," he continued, his voice almost sing-song, "seeing you here, so beautiful, I think the other Carly's would probably be jealous, all the male attention you'd be getting." He kissed my hand. He held his lips to my skin, his eyes boring up into mine. My heart was racing. I was back to squeezing Miriam's hand again. In my peripheral vision, I watched Cecil walk behind and around Declan, and then he took Miriam's hand, and slowly bent and kissed it, his eyes never leaving hers. I heard her moan a little "mmmmm". Then I watched in surprise, and then immediate wonder and awe, as Miriam leaned her body forward, and Cecil rose somewhat, and the two of them kissed, on the lips. It began as dainty, and stayed that way for a few seconds, and then they both moved closer to the other, and she let go of my hand, and he let go of hers, and then they just wrapped themselves around each other, never breaking the kiss, which had become moving, and tender, and tasting. I marvelled at the contrast in them. Cecil, a large well-built black man, almost swallowing up Miriam, a gorgeous mature white woman. Declan stood to his full height, and I watched him watching me watch them. Then he slowly turned his head and looked at them. Then he looked back at me, and I knew instantly what he was thinking. I don't know if it was the male part of me that knew, or whether the events of the evening had somehow improved my ability to understand these kinds of things, but there was no mistaking his thoughts. They were as clear as if he'd written them on a billboard, directly in front of me. He wanted to hold me in his arms, just like Cecil was holding Miriam. And, oh yes, he wanted to kiss me. Just like Cecil was kissing Miriam. Open-mouthed, tongue-teasing, lip-smacking. Loud, and proud. Two humans who were allowing themselves to let go of everything and squeeze every second of pure joy they could find out of every available moment. Living in the now, and living the way life should be. To the max. I realized I wanted to experience that too, being held with such obvious ardor, and being kissed by a handsome man. I wanted Declan to kiss me. Carly wanted to be kissed, by this man. And if I'd gotten better at reading passionate vibes, it stands to reason I'd also gotten better at sending them. Declan understood me. Wordlessly. He moved to me, and I to him, and his arms came in between mine and around my back, and mine just naturally went up to his chest, and then slid up his neck and then around him, and he gradually introduced his body to mine, his heat transferring to me, and then a moment happened that I never would have imagined in a million years, before Miriam. A man kissed me. His lips were quivering, and warm, and dry, and pliable. They touched mine, and moulded to mine, and the breathiest "ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh" came out of my lungs, and my fingers ran through his hair at the back of his head, and then he pulled me even closer to him, making me feel his groin up against me, just barely above my groin, touching me, fairly searing me with the stunning realization that he was large and rigid. We held each other and kissed like that for a minute or two, and then we pulled away. Cecil and Miriam were hugging, pressed close together, both watching us. Both of them grinning their faces off. All four of us laughed, any tension in the room vanishing. Cecil's voice boomed out. "My lovely ladies," he said, "would you allow us the pleasure of serving some drinks and appetizers?" Miriam and I looked at each other and smiled. "Yes please!" we chimed. For the next two hours, the four of us talked. And nibbled. And drank. And toasted, a couple of times, with kisses added on at the end. Declan seemed to positively glow each time, after we'd kissed. His charming Irish accent could make any story sound wonderful. I learned about them. Cecil's history, growing up through hard times, joining the military, becoming a marine, service overseas, stories of different lands and different peoples and unique situations. Declan delighted us with his stories of youth, his own military service in the U.K., his world-wide wanderings afterwards, his passion for art and history and the finer things in life eventually leading to owning several art galleries, and being a modest trader of antiquities. He was funny, and caring, and sweet. And I really began to soak in oodles of ways that I as a woman was being treated differently than I as a man was used to. There was so much charm, and respect. There were little touches, from everyone, here and there. The very action of having a man pull out my chair for me, and then gently sliding me in to the table, his breath on my neck, a lingering trail of fingertips passing over my shoulders, as he moved to seat himself. Offers of more champagne, more food, more anything and everything, it was eye-opening for me. Within the natural course of conversation, I made up things, from Carly's past, in my novel, and talked about myself. I became Carly. I was a scientist, I talked about the terrible events of my family's past, how I was determined to work at fixing them. At one point, Declan reached over and gently put his hand on top of mine, on the table. "Carly, luv," he said, "if there's any kind of help you need that I can provide, I would be honored to be asked." Cecil seconded that. I looked at Miriam. She winked at me. I could tell what she was thinking. They mean it. Men! You could get them to do just about anything, if you wanted. And I suddenly was aware of a whole bunch of new ways to do that. Cecil cleared some dishes at one point, and Miriam helped him, allowing Declan to escort me to the outside deck, while espressos were being made. It was getting close to eleven in the evening now, and there was a slight chill to the air. Declan must have noticed me shudder, because without me saying anything he slid his arms out of his suit jacket, and took it off, holding it behind me. "Here, luv," he whispered, "put this on you, it'll keep you warmer." I nodded my lashes at him, and he placed it on my shoulders, draped around me. He didn't move his hands, I noticed. They were on my shoulders, and he was standing behind me, to my left. I felt his breath on my neck again. I liked it. It made me go "ohhhh" inside. "If you'd like," he whispered, "I could keep you warm with body heat, Carly. You know, we could cuddle. That's a sure-fire way to get comfortable." My head was turned to my left, looking back at him. His lilt was enticing, his eyes were positively alive with charm, and his hands began smoothly rubbing up and down my arms, under his coat. "Comfortable?" I asked, almost smirking. "Oh yeah," he smiled, playfully, "it's the way to be. I defy you to find anything better on a chilly night like this than getting comfortable with someone." His grin was infectious. "I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" I giggled, pretending to be the girl chastising the over-eager boy. Then his eyes became fierce. There was still all the charm and mirth and laughter there, but I also saw so much more. I could see passion. I could see determination. I could see desire. For me. His voice became very quiet. "More than anything, Carly," he whispered. Then he moved his head, closer to mine, his breath sweet upon my cheeks. His eyes drilled into me. "Carly, luv," he said, "I so would like to kiss you right now." I smiled. It felt wonderful, having someone say that to me. "You would?" He nodded. "There's only one thing holding me back, one little problem." I had to know. "What?" "The problem? I'm worried I might not be able stop kissing you, once I start," he murmured, "and I don't want run the risk of offending you, in case you've got other plans, or you don't find yourself attracted to the idea of being kissed by me, by someone you've just met." I turned towards him, with my body, and right into his open arms. I remembered earlier, meeting him. How we followed the example of Miriam and Cecil. "The only plans I have right now," I whispered, "are being kissed, by you if possible." And just like that, his lips met mine, his mouth forcefully opening me up, his tongue gingerly dancing against mine, teasing me, letting me taste him, while his arms pulled me up against him as hard as I've ever been hugged. Little jolts of electric excitement were surging through me. Again I was pushing the norms, letting go of normality, embracing the notion of femininity, allowing myself to steep in it, to bathe in it, to drown in it. All of those monumental paradigm shifts in my life that I'd encountered since closing the book store a few hours ago were nothing compared to feeling his cock up against me, swollen, steel-like, and emitting heat and energy like an active volcano. It was staggering me. It was consuming me. It was branding me. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to feel it in my hands, to understand how it would affect me to hold a man's hard cock in my hands, with my painted nails. I wanted, I realized right then and there, to know the heat, and the texture, of his manhood. And his balls, yes. I wanted to know how they felt too, how their heft weighed in my hands, in my fingers. I wanted to hear him, hear his gasps or groans or words, or whatever his reaction would be to me touching him. I wanted to see it, to stare at it, to memorize every single inch of it, every pore, every ripple of skin. I wanted to know if there was a discernible odor to him. Do cock and balls smell? All these thoughts went streaming though me, as he kissed me, non-stop. Over and over, our heads occasionally moving back and forth, but our lips never leaving the others. His hands starting feeling my bum, my ass, kneading my cheeks, pulling me into him more, making me feel his hardness more, making me want to touch it and see it and smell it more. And taste it. KABOOM! The shock of it, the staggering seriousness of it, almost made my knees buckle. But there it was. No denying it, or trying to explain it away. I wanted to taste him. I wanted to know what that was like. To kiss a man's cock. To kiss it tenderly, on the tip, and then let all those sensations wash over me, inebriate me, propel me onward. Onward to licking him. And then tasting him. And then taking him inside my mouth, and loving him. Suckling him. Drawing out his juices. Sucking his cock, not because of the way I was dressed or the exoticness of the whole evening. No. Sucking his cock because I wanted, more than anything, to suck his cock. Deep down. As sure as I knew anything, I knew that. I wanted to be his cocksucker. Our kiss, tender and passionate and saliva-swapping, overwhelmed the both of us so much that neither of us heard Miriam walk out onto the deck, until she spoke up, right next to us. "Alright, you two," she said, a giggly quality to her voice, "coffee's ready." We all enjoyed our espressos. The conversations were lively, and flirtatious, and charming. I'd given Declan back his suit jacket, but instead of putting it back on he'd just draped it over the back of a chair. Cecil's jacket was off as well. I took a moment to look at both of them. They were two tall, solid, handsome men. No question. Which, I realized, made Miriam and I two of the luckiest women in the world. Cecil moved to the living room, which was spacious, and hit a few buttons in a cabinet, and soft romantic music filled the air. Miriam dimmed the lights, and held out her hands to him. Within seconds, they were slow-dancing, holding each other tenderly, staring adoringly into each other's eyes. It only took a few moments more for Declan and I to be in the same clinch. His eyes were boring into me. There was no mistaking his feelings. This was a man who wanted to take me to bed. This was a man who wanted to make love to me. This was a very handsome man, who wanted to fuck me. I let that soak into me. A man, who wanted to fuck me. Me. Me! And the shocking part was that I was very seriously considering letting him. The whole getting fucked thing, a man, a real man, sticking his cock into my ass, the entire gayness of it, the actual real physical sensations I would go through, none of those things hit me much at all. What I was blown away by was the fact that I wanted it too. That's the a-ha moment. We danced for a long time. One soft sweet romantic song after another came on, and neither couple wanted it to end. Neither couple was shy about where it was leading, either. Miriam and Cecil were rubbing and caressing and squeezing and dry- humping with the best of them. And Declan and I weren't far behind. I'd never imagined that having a man rub his rock-hard penis into me would excite me so much, would enflame me so much, would drive me to cast off all the biases in the world and simply live. About forty minutes later, Miriam broke her clench with Cecil, and stopped their kisses. She walked over to us, and politely asked Declan if she could 'borrow me' for a few minutes. His reluctance to let me go made me hot inside. I gave him one more tongue-tantalising kiss to tide him over. She and I walked upstairs, to her bedroom, and then into her dressing and makeup area, holding hands the entire time. Without thinking or talking about it, we both began to repair our makeup. Lipstick smudges were evident. We stared at each other, in the mirror, for a few moments, and then we simultaneously broke into giggles. Two feminine friends, sharing the uproarious spontaneity of the moment, and the passion of it too. "Carly," she said, once we were squared away, "what happens from this point on is entirely up to you. It's your life, your choice. You can do as little or as much as you want. Everyone respects you, and your decisions." I nodded. "I, for one, am going to bring Cecil up here and take him to my bed, and let that big black cock of his fuck me silly." I burst out laughing. Not at the thought of it, because I couldn't imagine anything I wanted more for her. Mostly at this elegant charming mature woman using the words, 'fuck me silly'. "And you," she added, "can take Declan to either of the two bedrooms on the main floor, if you want to. Or, if you don't, that's fine too. Declan is a good man, and he'll respect whatever you decide. No pressure. You're an adult, he's an adult. He'll be disappointed if you say no, I'm sure," she continued, "because that man wants to make love to you more than he's ever wanted to make love to anyone." "I know," I said, because I knew. She hugged me. "Women want to be free to love anyone they want, whenever they want. It's also equally true that women want to be free to not love who they're with, if they don't want to. It's entirely up to you, Carly." She pulled away and looked at me. "It's your life." I nodded again, to let her know I understood. About the rules. And about 'my life', being one that is now so much different than before, one that is so much better. So much more Carly. "I can't wait," I blurted out, "to have Declan make love to me!" She grabbed me again, squeezing me to her, stronger than all evening long. "Oh sweetie," she gasped, "I'm so happy for you." Her voice sounded like she might cry. For me! "Me too," I whispered. Then she broke us apart, and looked me in the eyes. Seriously. "But make him work for it!" she said, and then started giggling. We went downstairs again, and the men had poured us some brandy, warmed up above a flame. It made my insides immediately feel like liquid candy, potent and strong. About a half hour of renewed slow dancing later, Miriam grabbed Cecil by the hand, and started walking him towards the stairs. Without looking at us, she simply said, "Goodnight you two young lovers." They disappeared. Declan kept holding me and dancing, slowly rocking back and forth and gently turning. Being held in his arms, I felt wanted, and safe, and desired, and protected. I felt his cock, up against me. All those earlier thoughts I'd had about his manhood came back at me. Touch it. Kiss it. Taste it. Suck it. Make love to him. I looked up into his eyes. "Declan," I whispered, "take me to bed." He picked me up, one arm under my back, one arm under my knees, like a groom carries his bride across the threshold, and he carried me down the hall, and into a large guest bedroom, kicking the door closed behind us before walking me to the bed, and laying me down gently, on the mattress. Then he stepped back, and began undoing his tie. Staring at me. Searing me with his looks. He was telling me, in no uncertain terms, that he wanted to take me, to make love to me, to fuck me. To fill me with himself, with his cock. With his cum. I lay back and watched him. Admired him. His strength, his determined demeanour. All for me! After the tie hit the floor, he undid the cuffs of his shirt, and then unbuttoned the front, slowly revealing his chest to me. He worked out, I thought. He was buff. Toned. All his muscles, as they became visible, were model-like. Rounded where they should be, flat where they should be He'd spent some time in gyms. Then his hands were working his belt, and the snap of his trousers. He kicked his shoes off, one of them hitting the bed frame, clanging in the stillness of the room, and one quick unzip later his pants fell to the floor. His briefs were black. They clung to his skin tightly. There was a very noticeable lump in the front. He hooked his thumbs in the top of his underwear, and paused for just a second, eyeing me and letting me know this was as real as it gets. Then he dropped his drawers. And there, right there, right in front of me, just a few feet away from me, there it was. His cock. About seven and a half inches or so, uncut, and wet at the tip. As he stood there, just showing it to me, filled with pride, it bounced up and down and side to side with his breathing and body movements. A man's hard wet cock was right there in front of me. Naked. Alive. I'd wanted to see it; I'd wanted him to take his clothes off. I'd never wanted anything more in my life. My descent, no, not that, not going in a downward motion, nothing negative or demeaning, my transformation, yes, there's a better word, into Carly was almost complete. Declan stood there. Allowing me to do what I wanted. To take this to wherever I wanted. I swung my legs off the bed, and stood in front of him. I looked him right in the eyes, longingly. Then I turned, one hundred and eighty degrees, and looked back towards him over my right shoulder. "Declan, would you like to unzip me?" I asked, teasing him. His hands have probably never moved faster. I felt the tugging of the zipper at the back of my dress, well, Stanley's dress, and then his gentle soft movements, pushing it off my shoulders, and allowing it to fall to the floor. Then his hands wandered down my shoulders, to my sides, making me shiver reflexively. When they got to my hips, he pulled me gently towards him. My pantied ass met his naked throbbing cock. I knew what I wanted. I spun around, surprising him, and my lips glommed onto his. I sucked his tongue into my mouth, hungry for it, desperate for it. Declan moaned into my mouth, and pulled me to him harder. We touched swords, mine in my panties. We kissed, hot and hard and breathy, for a few minutes, each of us running our hands all over the other, including our cocks. He fingered mine, through my panties, and absolutely blew my mind! How? I wondered. How is it that just the very tip of one finger moving across and along my erection could feel so amazingly fantastic, so decidedly erotic. It was better than a whole hand! Finally, as the temperature in the room began to heat up, I swung his body around, and pushed him on the shoulders, making him lie back onto the bed, his bum barely on the top of the mattress. Without allowing my eyes to look anywhere but into his, making sure he understood every single emotion I was going through, I lowered myself to my knees, slowly. What he saw, and had to know, was my incalculable need to suck his cock. There could have been no ambiguity about it. I had to. At the same time, he could also see that this was a new thing for me. Maybe even my first time. And it was, in one large sense. He couldn't know it of course, but I had sucked on Miriam's cock earlier, covered in her pussy juice and some of the cum I'd shot all over the glass door. That was the very first cock I'd ever sucked. A moment that shall forever be etched into my mind. But this would be a whole new first. So Declan had to understand that his would be the first cock, in the flesh, to ever be inside my mouth. Which made my soul sing inside me! Just the very thought that I was about to suck on a real cock, a man's cock, a very homosexual act, heretofore thought of as immoral, or indecent, or wrong, on so many levels that had been indoctrinated into me by society and religion alike, it was so lifestyle-altering and so completely mind-alteringly shattering that an army of thousands of priests couldn't have stopped me. I was going to suck Declan's cock, come hell or high water. I met neither. With my eyes on his, my hunger communicating to him, I wrapped my lips around the tip of his cock, and touched the very tip of my tongue to his pee hole. You've never heard such a sound, the combination of moans, from his belly and from my soul, that came out. Life changing. Paradigm shifting. It altered me. Forever. It liberated me. It elevated me. It consumed me. It took over all my thoughts, all my feelings, all my considerations. There was nothing, not one damned thing on this planet that mattered more. I could hear me, the essence of me, that part of me that is real and honest and to the core, just screaming, louder than I've ever shouted in my life. I AM LOVING A COCK! I AM LOVING A MAN! I AM A COCKSUCKER! His Irish accent danced upon my soul, all the words and sentence fragments he started babbling out. Seriously. I don't know if I would have felt the same if his voice was just common, like mine and everybody I'd ever known. No. The sing-song quality of his voice, combined with all the deep gasping and moaning and murmuring, lit me on fire even more. I teased and toyed the head of his cock with my tongue and lips, pressing, urging, tasting, and slobbering. Between my saliva and his pre-cum, he became shiny and wet. My right hand just absent-mindedly began stroking his shaft, up and down, in a slightly twisting motion, and my left hand just naturally moved lower, cupping his balls, being almost shocked by their heat in my palm, the softness of the hair surrounding him, the roundness of his eggs inside. Then I stopped analyzing everything. I swallowed his cock, as far as I could. "OH SWEET JESUS!" he shouted out, and one of his hands came down on the top of my head, his fingers gliding through the hair of my wig. For just one glorious second, I thought that it would be so much nicer if it was my own hair, real hair, long and silky. I vowed to grow it out, right then and there, on my knees, wearing just the sexiest lingerie ever made, and sucking a man's cock. My on-again off-again girlfriend had sucked me a few times. I'd enjoyed it, of course! But this, this was so different. So much better. I gave it. Up and down, I started sliding my lips, my tongue going crazy on his shaft in every direction possible, until just the head was left in my mouth, and then I'd start sucking, as hard as I could, revelling in the combination of his pre-cum and my saliva. And each time I sucked down on him, filling my mouth with the entirety of his head and shaft, my tongue slithering out of my lips, wanting even more, making an even bigger hole for him to enter, he pushed with his hips, just a little, and then a little more each time. He was so desperate to get into my throat, to feel all of himself in me. I realized I was desperate for it too. I wanted to have to strain to look up, past his belly and chest, to see his eyes bulge out of their sockets, as my lips met his torso, my cheeks and mouth bulging outward, my throat doing a non-stop swallowing motion. I wanted to know what that felt like, being completely full of cock. But I couldn't do it. Every time the tip of his cock hit the back of my throat, I would seize up, and choke, and have to fight the urge to gag, or worse yet, vomit. It brought tears to my eyes. Both the trying and the failing. I so wanted to swallow him, to take his entire cock into my body, so show him how much I wanted him, how much I loved him. I'd never wanted anything more than that in my entire life. I tried again. And again. His juices were flowing out of him now, I was swallowing over and over again, delighting in the salty goodness of him. And gagging every time I tried to take him all in. Take him deep. My frustration rose up. And then dissipated, in a heartbeat. A thought had dawned on me. I realized I could take him, all the way inside me. As much as I knew anything, I knew in my heart of hearts that his entire cock could be inside of me, that I could hold and bathe every square inch of him inside my body. In my pussy. I gasped in a huge breath of air as I let his cock leave my mouth. There was a stringy line of saliva that went from my lips and tongue to his cock, and got bigger and longer as I backed off. I looked up at him, and swallowed everything. Then I rose, on my heels, and pushed him by his shoulders. He fell backwards, onto the bed. I climbed over him, spreading my knees so they were either side of his torso, my hands kneading and massaging his chest. In one smooth fluid series of motions I reached back and pulled my panties to one side, exposing my pussy, and then wriggled and squiggled my haunches to and fro, lining things up, and then I grasped behind me, finding his throbbing hard hot cock, stroking him up and down, feeling his foreskin move with me, making him moan out loud again in that sing-song accent, and then finally placing his round head into the depression of my skin that started the entrance to my ass. My hole. My pussy. Memories of earlier in the evening came back to me, of when Miriam was fucking me, and all the different areas of my brain that coordinate things worked together seamlessly and quickly, and I felt myself opening up, easing wide, wanting it, needing it, preparing for the insertion. Calmly and peacefully, looking into his eyes with more hunger than I've ever felt for anything or anyone, I sat down on him. I filled my own body with his cock. Inch by inch, I allowed my own weight and gravity to take over, and I sunk slowly and gloriously down on him. My inside passages expanded, or were pushed outwards for the second time, and it was so much better than the first. My first fuck was plastic. This was real flesh and blood. I could feel the difference instantly. His heat, the tactile aspects of human skin, the hairs, intermittently tickling and teasing me. "SAINTS ALIVE!" Declan shouted out, his voice strained and needy and breathy and obviously alive with emotion. I laughed out loud, the happiest and most satisfied laugh I've ever made. I just kept sinking down, and down, one exquisitely slow millimeter at a time, each twitch of sensations rocking through my body, stunning me, shocking me, driving me forward, making me realize how alive I was, showing me viscerally that everything I'd done before tonight wasn't living, it was just barely surviving. This was what truly being alive was all about. So many new levels were being shown to me, levels of passion and emotion and pleasure, levels of sensuality and sexuality, levels of propriety and acceptance, levels of brazen and righteous behavior. And yet none could compare to the moment when I finally slipped all the way down, my body meeting his in a thud, his cock in me all the way, as far as it could go, and I was just so completely full of hot hard penis, both of us breathing out all the way in a gigantic duet of moans, both of us knowing and understanding what would come next, after all this slow build-up of pleasure. The fucking. I flexed my thigh muscles, and pulled myself up a little bit, and his cock tried to follow me and then couldn't, and then I raised myself up even more, until just the barest tip of his cockhead was inside of me, and then I looked him in the eyes and told him non-verbally what came next. I was going to fuck him. Declan smiled, through his contorted looks of sheer joy, and he reached for my hands, which were on his chest muscles. We intertwined our fingers, lacing them together. His grip on me was almost as hard as my grip on him. I let myself go. I stopped holding myself up. I fell backwards and down, gravity taking over. His cock plowed back up into me. I landed with a gigantic thud on him, sending us both into the mattress, all of it compressing slightly and then responding by pushing us up again. We both moaned. Very loudly. I repeated my actions. Slowly raising up, letting him out of me an inch at a time, and then when he was perilously close to falling out my pussy altogether, I'd reverse course, and drop back down onto him, his cock piercing me once again, filling me, spreading me open, forcing me to expand inside, touching me in ways nothing ever had before. Physically and emotionally. He was longer than Miriam's strap-on, and every time I bottomed out on him there was a feeling deep in me, where I'd never felt anything before, that made me want to cry and sing and laugh and dance and scream and shout at the same time. A feeling like a small fire had been lit, radiating its heat outwards in all directions, coursing through me. I had never felt anything like it. There was a tingling sensation too, every time he slid in and out of me. Each time it reared itself, for a half-second or so I would think I needed to pee. And then it would become a feeling of needing to cum. Of building to a cum. Of starting down the long slippery slope to a cum, but making it last for hours. Or days. Or forever. I rode him. I moaned and groaned with sheer delight as he moved in and out of me, as his cock slipped effortlessly through my soul and back out again. My pace sped up too, slowly, as if going faster would increase the untold miraculous fun of it. And it did. Then, after I don't know how many minutes of controlled movements on my part, everything just tore loose. All the limitations fell off. Any pre-ordained sensibilities of what love-making should be like went straight out the window. It became uncontrolled. Unrehearsed. Unconstrained. I just started fucking Declan, and he me. His pelvis was jack-hammering itself off the movement of the mattress as he tried to bury himself permanently in my pussy. His eyes closed, squeezed shut harder than at any time in his life, I imagined, and that lilting voice indiscriminately blurted out oohs and aahs and moans and groans and syllables that could have been interpreted as the greatest combination of pleasure and pain any human being had ever felt. And then we started fucking. Both of us just gave it. It was wild, and unrehearsed, and without biases or limitations. I bounced on him, he bounced off of me, we bounced together off the rebounding mattress. I was losing the feeling in most of my fingers, our hands gripping each other tightly, increasing with each level of passion we were achieving. And that itself kept ramping up, moving faster as we did, building as we did, leading us to places we'd never dreamed possible. When Declan and I got to the point where we were literally bouncing so hard that everything in the room shook, not just the bed, when our joined squeezing hands were the only things keeping up from separating, keeping his cock from falling out of my pussy, when our eyes were open but clouded over with the absolute frenzy of our love-making, that's when I experienced euphoria again. The same kind of euphoria that I'd felt when Miriam was fucking me, earlier this evening. Better than any drug. Better than any fantasy. It overcame me, it overwhelmed me. It crept up on me, starting small and building quickly, and then the floodgates opened, and it took over all of me, from head to toe. Total body joy. I started cumming, without warning or notification. Just like that. BOOM. One second I'm not squirting out my cum, the next my guts are wracked with spasms as I pump out fountains of white cream, some of it shooting into the air like the fountains at the Bellagio, some of it oozing out of me in decadent washes, all of it covering Declan's torso and belly. Just before I literally passed out, before I lost consciousness, before my brain just shut itself off, I realized that my own orgasm was so shattering that I was clenching my pussyhole down on his cock, squeezing it with every erg of energy I could muster, grabbing onto his flesh with all my might, doing everything possible to never allow him to leave me. My last actual memory of the night was seeing his face suddenly clench up, in the most exquisite kind of pleasurable agony I'd ever seen on another human being, and his voice roaring out of his lungs, that sing- song voice now louder than a rock band, his orgasm hitting him in that blindside kind of way I'd just gone through. Fade to black. I did stir at some point in the night, enough to waken slightly, enough to realize I was spooned into his body, his arms wrapped around me, the fluffy covers of the bed over us, keeping us warm and snuggly. I woke to his kisses. His soft kind demeanour from the night before had been replaced with a longing and drive that were serious and meaningful. He moved over me, and brought my legs up, pressing my own thighs into my chest, into my bra, and then he made love to me. It was even better than the night before. I'd never had morning sex before, even back in the day with my on-again/off-again girlfriend. He fucked me with dedication, and with ardor. He made me reach euphoria again. Exactly three weeks later, to the day, I was finished with my re-write. I spent almost every evening with Miriam. She had given me total access to everything Stanley had in his closet. I couldn't get enough of any of it. Declan was a regular visitor, and on several weekend evenings the four of us had gone out, and socialized. Two handsome men and two sexy women, on the town. If anyone ever made me for a dressed-up male, they never let on. Our dates were to friendly nightclubs, of course, including two I'd never known existed, back when I was unaware. We'd danced and laughed and drank and lived life to the fullest. I'd become very fond of Declan. I'd become even fonder of being made love to. Miriam had volunteered to pay me a salary bigger than I'd made before, so I quit working at the bookstore, and holed up during each day in my crappy apartment, and I wrote. I sent Philip O'Shea the new and improved novel on a Tuesday, overnight by FedEx. The next day he called me, and begged me to sign with his publishing company. A three-novel deal. I became a published author. More importantly, I became my real self. The End