The Head-Hunter free porn video

The Head-Hunter By Katharine Sexkitten I'm not sure who had the biggest look of shock on their face, me or him. His oft-spoken words kept ringing in my ear. "The Yakasuchi 9500 is never wrong". Six months before the world shut down, my wife of thirty-one years announced one day that she was leaving me. Empty-nesters then, our three children out of the house and making their own way in life, she said, matter of factly, that while she still loved me and always would, she wasn't in love with me anymore, and that we had different ideas about what we wanted from life, especially retired life, and with no tears from her at all off she went. It hadn't come as a complete shock, mind you. We were hardly lovers anymore. Thirty-one years of marriage will do that to you. The most accurate description I could come up with was roommates. Not even roommates with benefits, since we'd stopped having sex years ago. She'd lost interest in it after having three kids, and I lost interest in trying to get her interested. Which made me realize that it had never really been all that great, even early on, when we did have sex. I came to the conclusion that I didn't miss sex with her at all, so I never pushed for it. It was as if we'd exhausted all the intimacy in our relationship in the first few years, and after that we settled into mediocracy. Neither of us seemed to object to our love life dwindling into nothingness. We sold the house. She kept half, I kept half. I bought a small condo, close to work, and put the rest of my share of our communal assets in the bank. Two months before the world shut down I was laid off. Permanently. Me and about thirty other people. The owner of the business decided to close up, get out, and never return. Then the world shut down. I spent part of every single day looking for a new job. At fifty-four, and with only one previous employer, I was pigeon-holed. Prospective hirers said I either had too much experience or none at all. I knocked on a thousand doors. I emailed an equal amount of applications. At first, I looked for positions that were similar to what I'd done almost all my life. After that, I started looking for anything. Nibbles were out there, but no bites. I had money in the bank, and felt confident that something would eventually come up for me. Nothing did. I tried employment agencies. They all claimed they could find work for anybody, and they all failed with me. And, of course, it wasn't completely their fault. The world was shut down. Hardly anybody was hiring for anything. I contacted a few very expensive boutique operations, in the human resources world. They promised results, for cautious amounts of money. All of them were no-go's. Naturally, I began to become anxious, especially as the year rolled along. Anxiety turned into worry, which turned into fear. How would I ever get hired again, in this new world paradigm? I began looking at my numbers, and how long it would be before I had to sell my new condominium and relocate to smaller, cheaper accommodations. I briefly considered reconnecting with my ex-wife, with the idea of moving in together to share expenses, but through our children found out that she had a new beau in her life and was happier than the proverbial clam. All of which eventually led me to the Head-hunter. His name was Greg Willard. He ran an exclusive agency. Luckily, a friend of a friend recommended me to him, and he agreed to take me on. He guaranteed employment, for those who were willing to go through his 'unorthodox' system. In our introductory meeting, he talked it up constantly. "The Yakasuchi 9500 is never wrong," he'd said. I thought, well, okay, it's probably a computer system with algorythms specially designed, and perhaps it has a very high rate of placing people, but nothing is perfect one hundred percent of the time. "No," he answered, "I mean it's never wrong." I had no rejoinder for that. "You see," he continued, "the technology is completely new, and completely off-the-charts. It's a much more detailed system than the standard IQ tests that other agencies give you. So much so, that it's never wrong. Really. When the Yakasuchi 9500 says someone is perfect for something, they are. Every time. No exceptions. Plus, it automatically connects with our massive database of employers, updated every second of every day, and determines what additional training may be required, and then immediately sets up a schedule with the prospective employer. The result is simple, every single person is shown where their true future lies, and every single person becomes gainfully employed, in the job that they are most suited for, and to their complete satisfaction." I suppose my incredulity was written on my face. He smiled. "If you choose to work with us, you'll be client number..." and he paused to look at some paperwork on his desk, "...number three thousand eight hundred and five." Greg looked at me from across the desk. "If you like, I can provide you with the names and contact information of some of the previous three thousand eight hundred and four, or all of them for that matter, and you can call them, or email them. To a person, they will tell you that they have never been happier." I nodded, just to make him understand I got what he was saying, although I didn't believe it. "I'm not kidding," he added, "the Yakasuchi 9500 is NEVER wrong. Every single person on that list will tell you. Many of them were shocked and surprised by the results of the tests, for sure, but every single one of them is now successful and living the life they've always wanted and never knew existed." "Every single one?" I asked, skeptically. He nodded. "Every single one." His confidence was inspiring. He had a genuine look of sincerity on his face, like he truly meant everything he was saying. I looked around his office, and saw many signs of success. He had awards from all sorts of groups on his wall, all of them with impressive titles. He had degrees from several top-of-the-line universities, perfectly framed and hung. His desk look like it cost more than a new car. Everything was outstanding. His clothes were tailor-made, and fit him to a tee. He was, I guessed, in his late fifties, or perhaps early sixties, and in remarkable shape. He had a full head of perfectly coiffed hair, salt and pepper, his suit jacket off, his crisp white shirt revealing a solid muscular body underneath. He took care of himself, that was obvious. He had tanned skin, no rings on his fingers, and a single diamond stud in his left ear. And he had a seriously glowing smile. His teeth were the whitest I've ever seen. Taller than me by a bunch, and bigger than me as well, quite broad across the shoulders and chest. "And don't forget my money-back guarantee. If, after six months, you are not completely ecstatic about your new job, and your new life, I will refund every single penny you've paid to me. I'm that confident in our service." It was a lot of money. "The Yakasuchi 9500 is never wrong." I ventured a question. "How many of the other three thousand plus clients of yours have you refunded money to?" Greg smiled. "A straight-to-the-point question. I like it." I waited for the answer. He leaned closer to me, across the desk. "Zero." My natural cynicism rose to the fore. "None?" He nodded. "You've never refunded money to anybody?" I asked. He shook his head. "Never had to." Then he smiled again. The mega-watt version. "No one has ever wanted their money back?" I asked, continuing to not believe him. "Nope. Not a one." "Seriously?" He nodded again and smiled again. "The Yakasuchi 9500 is never wrong. Like I said, I'll give you some names. Or all of them, if you want. They'll tell you." I took a bunch of names, randomly picked from a scrolling list on his computer screen. I contacted just over thirty people. Every single one of them said the same thing. They were never happier. Some were shocked at the original cost, and some were shocked at the results of all the testing, but to a person they all blathered on and on about Greg's attention to detail and his genuine desire to place people in jobs that not only paid well but that were intellectually and emotionally satisfying. One guy went from accounting to landscape architecture, the idea of which originally floored him, but now he was over the moon in love with life, and his job. One woman moved from a dead-end retail management life to a health-care career, and said she wouldn't go back for love nor money. Every single one of them advised me to go for it. The price tag was fifteen thousand dollars. I signed a contract along with the cheque. I guaranteed my participation in whatever retraining was required, and I guaranteed to pursue whatever the new vocation was in earnest, for a minimum of six months. At that time, I could decide to continue with the journey, or opt for dropping it, and get all my money back. The evaluation process involved almost a full business week of testing. Two days of IQ tests, aptitude tests, problem-solving tests, and other mental challenges, administered by his staff. Eight hours each day, Monday and Tuesday, answering questions, on what seemed like every topic under the sun. There was role-playing exercises, with scenarios both formal and personal, to measure adaptability and stress management. It was like being in high school again. There were current events quizzes, and history, and arts and culture. There was math and science. Wednesday and Thursday were two days of physical tests, conducted by an independent third-party scientific research company. Firstly I submitted to a complete physical examination. They took measurements of everything. They took a urine sample. They took a stool sample. And a blood sample. They poked and prodded every part of me. At one point, I was face-down on the examination table, and the doctor had asked me to remove my underwear, so he could do a prostate exam. I'm fifty-one years old, so that's not a new thing for me, and I knew what to expect. The first sensation of the cold lube on the end of his gloved finger was a shock, like always, but then it did something I'd never encountered before. It warmed up. It made my whole body quiver, like the feeling you get on a summers day when you step on warm pavement. Then the doctor slid his finger into me, and I noticed that of all the doctors' fingers I'd had inside me over the years, his was by far the biggest. I felt the whole area expand more than ever before, in every direction, from the outside ring on inward. It shook me. He felt and shimmied his finger deep inside me, and slowly rotated his hand, making sure his examination was thorough. At one point, he brushed over something inside me, something I'd never experienced before, some part of me that was mysterious, and yet it felt like I'd been zapped with a cattle prod. My penis became instantly erect. As hard as nails. As hard as it'd ever been before. And my little balls, they tensed up and pulled up, I could feel them move. In the space of a few seconds, I'd gone from meekly accepting something in my backside for the sake of medicine to a brand new kind of unimaginable sensation. I just didn't know what it was. When I looked back over my shoulder, the doctor was staring at my erection. Then he looked up at me, and our eyes met. He smiled, a knowing kind of smile. "No worries," he said, soothingly, "it happens to some men." They had the most insanely huge universal gym set up, with equipment meant to challenge every part of your body, right down to finger and toe strength, and all of it connected by miles of cables to a massive computer system. For a day-and-a-half I did reps, as directed by the gym-perfect young mid-twenties brunette, named Brittany. Her ass was a thing of beauty, as was the rest of her. Her smile was phony, but her nipples were hard the whole time, and every time I glanced at her, or when she came over to show me exactly what the rep was supposed to look like, I couldn't help but stare at and admire her breasts, and her nipples. I also found myself admiring her obvious pride, in her body, and her senses of realness. I felt like a weakling at times, and yet several times she'd compliment my glutes, and my legs, telling me they were 'seriously sexy'. And every night, before going to sleep, I slipped on a skull-cap made of some sort of rubberized material. It had sensors built into it, which transmitted information to a computer in his office. It analyzed my subconscious brain, he'd said, where the real action was, where a person's wants and needs and desires were blatant, where there were no filters. Using state-of-the-art software, the system would interpret the electrical synaptic connections I was having into a visual representation, and that based upon the history of his other clients, and those that could remember their dreams, the Yakasuchi 9500 was vividly accurate, no exceptions. Greg promised that it was the night-time data that was most important to his entire process. And finally, the last day, Friday, D-Day, was when the computer system crunched all the numbers and data and personal analyses and finally spat out the results. I sat with him for quite a long time, waiting for the result. We chatted easily, which was unusual for me, since I'm generally a little withdrawn around people I don't know well. He impressed me with his conversational skills, and his breadth of knowledge. He was gregarious, and charming, and made me laugh several times with his stories. I felt really good, waiting for the results. Which is what Greg and I were looking at. I'm not sure who had the biggest look of shock on their face, me or him. Like the proudest of parents, he'd hovered his finger over the 'ENTER' button on his keyboard at the prompt, and had turned the massive monitor so we could both see it. The big reveal. "Are you ready to see your new life?" he'd asked, his grin enormous, his white teeth glimmering in the room. I was nervous, but had eagerly said 'yes'. I had a week's worth of testing and a whole lot of money on the line. He hit the button. And there it was. On the screen. In bold letters. I'm not sure who had the biggest look of shock on their face, me or him. RE: CLIENT #3805 RECOMMENDATION: TRANSVESTITE SISSY ESCORT The silence in the room was deafening, and heavy. I could make out the tiny buzz of the ceiling fan, slowly rotating above us. A pall of the most serious anxiety filled me, and I briefly looked at Greg, who appeared even more surprised than me, more in disbelief than I. "Is this some kind of a joke?" was all I could think of to say. He shook his head slightly, as if he was trying to answer the question but couldn't find the energy to do so. I watched his eyes focus and unfocus and his forehead scrunch up a little bit at a time, and I saw his lips quiver nervously. "The Yakasuchi 9500 is..." he said, his voice slow and unsteady. "Never wrong, I know," I answered for him, my voice the same as his, bathed in complete and utter other-worldliness. "But this is...nuts. This is a joke. This is insane." He didn't disagree with me. "Isn't it?" I asked, incredulous. Greg nodded, and then shook his head. Then we sat in silence again. I don't think either of us knew what to do, or say. Finally, he typed some commands on his keyboard and the screen changed. The title was underlined: JUSTIFICATIONS We read it. SUBJECT displays above-average intelligence. SUBJECT displays traits most often attributed to the feminine, i.e. sensitivity, civility, empathy, sympathy. SUBJECT has natural instincts of nurturing and understanding. SUBJECT is above-average in appreciation of the arts. SUBJECT displays a passive behavioral attitude. SUBJECT is kind, caring, and becomes emotional easily. SUBJECT is slight of frame, lower than normal in testosterone, and otherwise physically fit. Lastly, SUBJECT's dreams are exclusively homosexual in nature, richly detailed and vivid, and dominate his subconscious. SUBJECT is always cross-dressed and sexual in the dreams. SUBJECT gets to dream-stage much faster than most. Human average to attain REM after Alpha, Beta, and Gamma stages in the usual ninety-minute cycle is forty-five to fifty minutes, whereas SUBJECT attains REM much quicker (avg: thirty minutes or just under) and REM lasts much longer. SUBJECT's dreams increase the heart rate and breathing rates to 'Professional Athlete' standards, qualities necessary and in demand for the field, and ably demonstrates the ability and desire to assume the traditionally-female sexual role. SUBJECT's data has been assessed and provided to CLIENT NAME PROTECTED, who have presented an Employment offer (see attached). Greg and I dared not look at each other. I was finding it hard to remember to breathe. I'd never been so confused, and disoriented, and embarrassed. I was completely at sea. I kept thinking things like, 'all my professional skills, and this is what it comes up with?', and 'what about all my managerial experience?', and 'GAY SEX? GAY SEX?!?! I just can't believe that all I dream about is gay sex!' How did I not know that? How was it possible? I mean, yes, I'd always been a deep-sleeper, and yes, I almost always woke up feeling like I'd had the best dreams ever, without remembering a single thing about them. But, but....this???? Was I gay? I'd never had a gay experience in my life. I'd never had a gay thought in my life, that I could remember. Sure, I knew that I wasn't any kind of Valentino in the bedroom, and my sex life with the ex-wife was pretty average for those years we actually had sex. But I thought I'd been okay, or at least okay enough. Although, I suddenly wondered, maybe that's one of the reasons she left? I'd never considered that. I'd assumed we'd just grown apart. Greg cleared his throat. "Um, usually at this point I'd be printing off the training schedule for you." I looked at him, finally, red-faced. This man was looking at me, and I couldn't tell if he was disgusted at what the evaluation had divulged, or whether he was just completely freaked out at the idea that I dreamt gay things all night long. Or maybe he was just surprised. I mean, I shouldn't really judge him, without knowing him. "I'd like my money back, please," I said, quietly. Greg's look of shock vanished. "You signed a contract," he said, "you have to try. You can't demand your money back until you've gone through the program for at least six months." Not usually prone to anger, I could feel it rising in me. "Are you kidding me?" I said. "This program of yours is telling me I should become a prostitute? A.." I stammered, barely able to give credence to the words I had to say, "...a, oh sweet Jesus, a transvestite gay prostitute? I mean, first off, it's illegal, what your program wants me to do, and second off...I'm...I'm not even, you know...gay!!" His demeanor softened. "Look," he said, peacefully, "I realize this is an enormous shock. And I want you to know, I had the same reaction." Now his eyes warmed up, and got somehow brighter. "And I'm not trying to quibble, believe me. But," he paused, "a couple of points, if I may. Firstly, while I'm not a lawyer, one of the biggest parameters in the coding specifically disallows anything that resembles criminal endeavours, so I have to assume that being an 'escort', which is the word that was used, is different from the word 'prostitute', and therefore not illegal." He let that sink in for a couple of seconds. "And secondly," he paused, and looked away slightly, uncomfortable, "secondly, while you say that you're not gay, and yes I know you just got out of a thirty-something-year-old marriage to a woman, the brain scans don't lie." He looked back at me, seriously. "You may not think that you're, um, that way," he paused, "but your subconscious mind says you are." He let that one sink in for about thirty seconds. The heavy silence returned. We just sat there and stared at each other, for minutes on end. I kept wanting to apologize, in case this bizarre situation that was so obviously my fault was the most embarrassing thing he'd ever had to go through. I kept wondering what he must think of me, and almost feeling shame because of it. I also kept wanting to get up and leave the office, and never return. Having wasted fifteen thousand dollars. Finally, he looked at the computer screen, and used his keyboard. A different page appeared. The prospective employer. For me. The cross-dressing sissy escort. La Belle Maison, located in the toney part of town, amongst the mansions. The owners had the same last name, and I assumed them to be husband and wife. Marcel and Yvette Bonhomme. Established as a business almost twenty years prior, there were nothing but five-star recommendations to be read. Superb, enchanting, lovely, delightful. Quote after quote from all sorts of people. Men. An immediate request for video link connection popped up, and Greg hit it. On the monitor appeared a middle-aged woman, her blonde hair piled up high in some sort of bun. She had a lot of makeup on, but it all looked like it suited her. It wasn't over-the-top. Her ears were holding up earrings that looked really heavy. She had a graceful neck, and I could see a lot of skin on her chest drifting down, before it got cut off. "Hello!" she said enthusiastically. "Can you hear me?" Greg nodded, and said "Yes we can. My name is Greg Willard, and this," he said, swinging his arm to point at me, "is Alan. The subject of the evaluation." I watched her eyes move slightly, and she smiled at me and waved, showing off long tapered red fingernails. "Alan? How do you do?" She had no trace of an accent, so I couldn't tell if she was originally French or not. I slowly found my good manners. "Hello, Yvette. I am pleased to meet you." It was the politest thing I could think of to say. She smiled. It seemed genuine, and full of warmth. Then she peered a little closer at her computer monitor, as if she was examining me. Or what she could see of me, which must have been only from the waist up. "I see why you've been recommended. You have a very feminine face, Alan. I think you'll make a lovely addition to our roster." Greg cleared his throat a little. "Yvette, I think at this point I should let you know that this has come as an enormous shock to Alan, the results of his evaluation. And it was a shock to me as well, quite frankly. So I'm hoping you'll understand that we both have some questions we'd like to ask, but of course Alan's questions are the most important ones, so I'll let him start." He looked at me and nodded, giving me the go-ahead. Yvette smiled some more. "Of course! I'll do my best to answer them, as honestly as I can." I was at that point where you've got so many questions tumbling around in your head that you can't even think straight enough to pick one. After a few moments of awkward silence, Yvette smiled again, a more matronly kind of smile. "You're wondering, I would suppose, about the legalities of what we do, what we in the business call 'Professional Companionship'. Is that hitting the nail on the head?" she asked. I nodded. So did Greg. "There is nothing illegal or against any laws of the land for the services of a 'Professional Companion'. And the reason why is simple. Because there is no sexual activity implicit or explicit in the agreement. This is not prostitution. Here at La Belle Maison, we simply arrange companionship, most of our clientele being travelers. Out-of-towners. These are discrete, respectful, professionals themselves, hoping to enjoy some time, usually an evening, or sometimes more, with someone charming, and entertaining. Beautiful company, to keep them company." She just looked at her camera, and at us, for a few seconds. "And if a client and a companion both feel the desire to engage in romantic or sexual activities, then whatever happens after the official date is between two consenting adults. Between a man and a woman." She paused, and smiled. "Or in this case, between a man and a man dressed as a woman." She paused again. "As long as all the parties are agreeable, then it is not our business to interfere in the natural progression of human interaction, is it? Having said that, afterwards, it is also, coincidentally, commonplace for the client to offer a gift, a gratuity if you will, to the companion. By law, these are voluntary gifts, completely legal, and are not part of the contract with us. Totally above-board. And, when they do happen, La Belle Maison modestly expects a percentage of the gratuity from the companion, as the arranger of the date." There was more silence. Greg finally spoke. "This gratuity that you mentioned," he said, slowly, "how much is it, generally? I'm only asking because Alan has the right to know what he can expect as far as remuneration." Yvette smiled. "The gratuity is never less than two thousand dollars, and Alan should expect to retain sixty percent of that." Greg nodded. "And how often do these gratuities happen?" Her smile fairly exploded. "Every time." She paused again, and then grinned. "Even if there is no sex involved. And let me be clear, some times there isn't. Many of our clients just want someone lovely and charming and feminine to chat with, to flirt with, and to relax with. They can while away some free hours with a beautiful friend. Nothing more." Greg turned and looked at me. He seemed to think the numbers were impressive. "Alan can expect to work two to three nights a week, or more, perhaps, if he wishes. We can't guarantee every night, you understand, at least not at the beginning, because of the, shall we say 'unusual' aspect of the position, and by that I mean that our business is traditionally man and woman, but there are also niche customers, and that particular 'unusual' marketplace is getting bigger every day." "Is it?" Greg asked, and I couldn't tell if he was asking because it was the business-like thing to do, or if he was genuinely interested, perhaps for other reasons. Maybe he was just curious. "It is," she said, and looked at some papers in front of her, "By leaps and bounds. I mean, the gay side has been steadily growing for decades. But the cross-dressing sissy aspect, that's traditionally been a very tiny subset, and just in the last few years it's begun to explode. Provided he gets through the training, Alan could reasonably expect to take home close to a hundred thousand a year, working, as I said, two to three times a week." Greg looked straight at me, with awe on his face. "A lot more is possible, of course. But that's up to him." My brain was in a maelstrom. There was a war going on, in my head, with a variety of differing positions being fought for. I'm not gay. The machine says I am. I'm not feminine, despite what Yvette thinks. I have no history of personal services like these people seem to peddle. I'm a paper-pusher, for god's sakes, and always have been! The money is fantastic. I'll admit to that, begrudgingly. Yvette snapped me out of my fog. "Alan, I'd like to begin your training as soon as possible. This is a slice of the market that we could be dominating, but not until we have you in place. Can we set a time for tomorrow?" Greg looked at me. His look was one of eager anticipation. I suppose from his point of view that no matter what I did, he wins. If I go ahead with it, he keeps his record intact of the system never being wrong. If I blow it all off, and scream and yell and object and tell him and his customer to go to hell, he keeps the money anyway. Heads he wins. Tails I lose. I didn't know what to say. Or do. Greg, bless his heart, seemed to somehow sense my confusion. My uneasiness with everything. Perhaps he was as empathetic as his computer system described me, because whereas I couldn't move forward in any way, he saw a path. "Yvette," he said, never taking his eyes off me, "I'm going to put you on pause for a few minutes, if I may? I think Alan and I have to have a short conversation." She nodded, and he hit a button, and the monitor we'd been looking at went dark. "I think we should both just take a moment here and breathe," he said, and he let out a huge lungful of air. "I gotta admit, this is all so new for me. It's quite a shock." I nodded my agreement. "There has never been a situation like this before. Sure," he continued, "there have been some surprises along the way, people finding out their dream job was something completely out of left field, or something they'd never even considered as a real career. But you, my friend," he paused, and smiled, a genuine, friendly sort of smile, "you have set the record. Beat the band. You've charted a new course, for yourself, obviously, but for my business as well." I could feel tears welling up in my eyes, and I looked down, ashamed of myself and what I was putting him through. He kept talking. "It's as if you've broken the mould, so to speak. This reveals to me that there are other avenues, other industries, that could be exploited, that could be utilized, by my clients, in the future." I felt a large teardrop slide out of my left eye, and roll down my cheek. I let it go, feeling it finally get taken by gravity and fall off my skin, dropping to my lap. Another one from my right eye did the exact same thing. Greg suddenly rose from his chair, and walked around the desk to my side. He sat on the front edge of his own desk, putting him close to me, my head at his belly-level, his head above me. I couldn't find it in me to look up at him. "Alan? Are you okay?" he asked, caring in his voice. I tried to brush it all off, and nodded, less than enthusiastically. "Then why are you crying?" I tried to wave that off too, but he wasn't having it. "Alan," he breathed, "please look at me." Another tear fell out of my right eye, as I looked up slowly, finally meeting his eyes with mine. He looked deeply into me, and I watched his eyes begin to tear up as well. "Tell me what you're feeling?" he asked, quietly. "Please?" What I was feeling? Where could I even begin? It was all so overwhelming, that after a few silent seconds, I couldn't begin at all. I just started crying, trying my best to keep my sobs as quiet as possible, holding it all in. Greg kneeled down, in front of me. His hands reached for mine, and he took them. His palm felt warm, his skin heat comforting as they touched my palms. His big thumbs instantly started moving back and forth across the back of my hands. My hands fit into his hands easily. Tear after tear cascaded down my cheeks, and my body shook with my exhales, and when I finally worked up the courage to actually look at his eyes, which were right in front of mine, I could see he was almost at the crying stage himself. Which made me feel even worse. "No," he whispered, "no, please, please don't cry." The only words I could find were long and drawn-out and my voice was quivering and shaking. "What am I supposed to do?" I sobbed, rhetorically. He kept rubbing my hands, softly, but with determination. "Tell me what you're feeling," he asked again. "I don't...I mean...I've never...and it's fifteen thousand dollars!...and my dreams? My dreams? I'm supposed to believe this machine of yours that my dreams are all...are all..." He said the word for me. "Gay." "HOW?" I moaned out. Greg waited me out. "How?...how am I supposed to do that? I'm not...I've never...I've always been..." He kept waiting me out. I kept sobbing while I talked. "All my dreams are gay?...and I'm the, the, the one on the...bottom...that I'm the woman?...I mean, I don't wear, I've...I've never worn clothes...like that, and...how could your software interpret me that way?...and...but...I'm not, you know...I'M NOT GAY!" Greg eyes softened. "What if you are?" I stared at him, stunned. "What?" "What if you are gay?" he asked. "Would that be so bad?" I shook my head, and cried a little bit more. "No, of course not...there's nothing wrong with it...I know a gay guy at work...he's fine...but I'm a married man...I fathered three children!...three!...with a woman...which proves I'm not gay..." Greg shook his head. "All that proves is that you had sex at least three times with a woman." Then he smiled. "Which, believe me, lots of gay men have." I looked at him, confused. "They have?" "Of course," Greg said, and nodded, "lots of gay men don't come out until later in life, after marriages and children and the whole traditional lifestyle. Some of them fool around with other men on the side, they hide their gayness, sometimes for decades, and some just don't realize it until later in life." It didn't occur to me to not ask the question. "How do you know that?" His eyes flickered open a little more, like he was suddenly excited a little bit. "Because I'm a gay man, with two kids of my own, after an eighteen-year marriage to a woman I went to high school with and thought I loved." He stopped, and just stared at me, deep into my eyes, practically right down into my heart. "And I did love her, I still do. Don't get me wrong. She's a fine person, and a great Mom. But I came to realize after a few years with her that it wasn't what I wanted, what I needed. I started to understand that all my sexual fantasies, and my romantic yearnings, were with other men." I didn't know what to say. "After our fifteenth anniversary, I cheated on her, with another man. It was my first gay sexual encounter. It had been building up and building up for years, until it got the point where I had to try it, I had to find out if it was really me, really what I wanted, or whether I was just going through a weird middle-aged fantasy trip. Even though I was nervous, and worried, and scared, I met a guy online, through an app, and we hooked up." He stopped, and I could see a little bit of him travel back in time to the event. His smile softened. "It was the best day of my life," he declared. I flushed with happiness for him. He looked at peace with the universe. "Better than my kids being born, in some ways." I stopped crying. "It freed me," he said, proudly. Then we just stared at each other, for a long silent time. His hands kept rubbing mine, and while I'd never wanted to hold hands with a man before, I was suddenly filled with happiness. For him, but for me too. I was being affectionate with a gay man! Was I more liberated than I thought? "Alan," he continued, softly, "the dream interpretation module, like I told you at the beginning, is the most important part of our evaluation of a client. Your subconscious is the most powerful part of your brain, and the Yakasuchi 9500 reads those waves, waves you aren't even aware exist, and shows you as you truly are. As you truly want to be." We stared at each other again, for a long silent time. But it wasn't awkward. I felt a kinship with him, that I'd never felt with anyone else. Perhaps inspired by his honesty? I wasn't sure, but there was something there. I noticed his lips, which were bigger than mine, and the way his ears stuck out from his head a little bit more than mine. "Alan?" he asked, quietly. "Yes?" "May I ask you a personal question, or two?" I nodded my approval, slowly, letting him see I was open to it, but hesitant. "Growing up," he said, "did you ever, you know, do any innocent exploration with a friend?" I shook my head. "No?" "Really?" he asked, "lots of boys do, you know? For most of them it's just a one-off moment, something weird and kinky to do, but ultimately not their thing. At camp, or in the locker room, times like that. But not you?" I shook my head again. "Never." "So," he said, slowly, as I watched his eyes twinkle a little bit, "I take it you've never hugged another man? Never kissed another man?" I shook my head a third time, but it was slow and full of the unknown. Greg smiled, from ear to ear. "So how do you know you won't like it?" he asked, playfully. I couldn't think of a thing to say. "How do you know that you're not gay," he said, slowly and softly, "if you don't try it, at least once? You know, to be sure." I still couldn't think of anything. I just stared at him. "Look," he continued, "being gay is not just about sex. Being gay is about love between members of the same gender, that's all. It's the same as the traditional man and woman thing. Gay men like to spend their time with their closest friends, and most of them will be other gay men. Work time, family time, the boring drudgery of the same shit everyone goes through. I know lots of straight people, and they're for the most part great. But my closest friends, and," he paused, "my lovers, they are all other men." He watched me for a minute or two. "And yes," he continued, "gay men, not all of them, but most of them, love lots of sex, and lots of sexual times. Perhaps we're over-sexed people, as a rule. I can't prove it, but I think in general being a gay man is a license to have lots of sex, if you're so inclined." He smiled. "And some of us, from time to time, are so inclined." I smiled, mostly for him. It seemed to make his inner body energy flare up, talking about gay sex. Greg studied me for a few moments. "How was your love life, in your marriage? Did you enjoy a lot of sex with your ex-wife?" I was embarrassed to give him the real answer, so I tried to do the guy- thing and brag. "We did pretty good." I looked away from him. "Nuh-uh," he said, and waited for me to return to his eyes, "truth time, Alan. C'mon. I've told you my secrets. C'mon. Level with me. Were you happy in your marital bed?" I felt tears rising in my eyes again. I just knew I couldn't lie to Greg anymore. "No." His caressing of my hands deepened a little bit. The slight added pressure from his grip sent a zap up my spine. "Tell me," he said. A big drop of my tear plopped out of my right eye and missed my cheekbone altogether, making an audible sound as it hit my lap. "She lost all interest in sex after the birth of our youngest. And to be honest," I gulped, "she'd lost most of her interest just as soon as we came back from the honeymoon. There was always some excuse." Greg nodded, like he understood. "I wanted a life of lots of, you know, that stuff. I wanted a life of romance and love and sex. And it's not even the sex. At first she was a little touchy-feely, you know, affectionate in ways, but that disappeared pretty quick as well." I sighed. "I can't tell you the last time someone hugged me, or held me, just for fun. Just because." Greg looked at me with such tenderness. "But I was the devoted husband, and I made the choice to marry her, and the last ten years or so I've been so, um...well, just so lonely, I guess." Another two tears joined the others in my lap. Greg squeezed my hands, which focussed my concentration on him, and he began to stand up. His hands pulled me up as well, until we were both upright, barely inches apart, me looking up at him, at his eyes, which were alive and animated, and then he brought my hands up to his shoulders, both sides of his neck, and then he left them there, and he ran his hands down my arms and over my shoulders and then down my sides to my hips, and then their warmth and energy began moving slowly around my lower back, the doing of which brought our bodies closer together, his head now just an inch from mine, looking down at me, and our torsos and abdomens and groins perilously close. "Shame on her," he whispered. I nodded as I spoke, my eyes filling with tears again. "I know, right?" "Everyone deserves love, and affection, and romance, and loads of fun sexy times, if they have it in them. It's just so fucking awful that some people don't. It sounds like your ex is one of those, right?" I nodded vigorously. Energetically. "And based on your evaluation, you obviously are the opposite. You want those things in your life. You NEED those aspects of life. You've been subconsciously yearning for them for decades. That's what your dreams are all about, right? It stands to reason, right?" I kept nodding. Everything he was saying made perfect sense. "Alan," he whispered, "let me show you what you've been missing, all those years." I kept nodding. His big hands slipped further around my back, and further down, until they were covering the vast majority of both of my cheeks. He wasn't quite cupping them, but he was close to it. With a flicker on his grin, he gently moved my body forward, and a microsecond later all my senses exploded as we joined. My hands wrapped around the back of his neck, my fingers spread out in his thick hair. He closed his eyes, and closed the gap between our mouths. I closed my eyes, just as his skin touched mine. JUST AS HIS LIPS KISSED MINE! I froze. I just froze. My entire body, but more importantly my psyche, just simple stopped working, or moving. To an outsider watching, I'm sure it must have appeared that I was cringing, and maybe I was a little bit. Because this man was kissing me! In all my fifty-one years, I'd never considered the concept that it would ever happen. It just seemed beyond the realm of the possible, or likely. But his lips were soft. I noticed it, two or three ticks of the clock later. Soft. Soft, and warm. And moving, just a little. Just microscopically, but enough to make me very aware that they were connected to a real, living, breathing, human being. A man, yes, for the first time ever, but another loving soul, with real skin and bones and flesh and taste and smell and touch and yens and urges and passions and desires. The cringing melted away. I was suddenly overcome with the most insane urge to kiss him back, kiss him sweeter, and kiss him with more love and affection than I'd ever given to anyone. Both of us began breathing much heavier, our nostrils flaring out and in with our increasing ardor. His big hands moved that last little bit and he filled them with my entire ass, pulling my pelvis to him, mashing us together, bringing my feet off the ground, and instantly making me aware that I was as hard as granite in my pants, and then a tongue-touch later aware that Greg was just as excited. OH MY GOD! HE'S SO MUCH BIGGER THAN ME! I silently said goodbye to my tears. I didn't need them anymore. I gave into him, gave into his kiss. Any resistance I might have had at the beginning was gone, replaced by a flood of emotional response. No one had kissed me like this for years, for decades. Forever. THIS! THIS IS HOW KISSING SHOULD BE!!!! Greg's tongue entered my mouth, because I absolutely let him, and playfully jabbed at mine. I slowly touched his, letting him know that he could be forceful, but I was going to be soft. I was the one exhibiting the acquiescence, if you will. I was the one being sought after, and I was the one willingly saying yes. YES! We kissed for a long time. I don't know how long. His hands never left my ass, and my hands never left the back of his head. And the more we kissed, the more we squished our bodies into each other. And the more he seemed to grow, in his pants. Finally, he broke the kiss, and stared at me from an inch away, wild- eyed. "Did you feel that?" he asked, his voice strained and rushed and amazed. "Yes!" I answered, eagerly. "You know what that is?" he responded, "that's passion!" I nodded, up and down, heavy movements. "It was the best kiss I ever had," I admitted, unashamedly, because it was the truth. "I never knew it could be like that." Greg smiled, from ear to ear. "That's because it was GAY passion. Most straight people have no idea what real passion is, what real eroticism is. But now you know, Alan. Don't you?" I raised my head up to his and kissed him again, this time softly and sweetly, just lips. Then I looked up into his eyes. "I do know it, Greg. Now that you've shown me." He begrudgingly let me go, and returned to his office chair. Then he did two big in and out breaths, and ran his fingers through his hair, to bring his appearance back to the way it was before our kissing. Then he tapped his mouse. Yvette came back on the screen. She'd shifted in her chair. She was reading something below her, and the camera perspective had changed slightly, and now I could see more of the front of her, and I realized she was wearing a blouse that scooped down very low, and exposed an absolutely outstanding pair of breasts, large and round and thick, being held up by what appeared to be a very wispy bra, the shape and color of which was just barely hinted at through the material of her top. She was built! There were also two enormous nipple points to be seen. "Yvette," Greg said, "thank you for waiting." She smiled, and looked up at the camera. "Of course!" "I'd like to suggest, at this point, that the three of us reconvene tomorrow morning, at about eleven o'clock, if that's convenient for you?" She nodded, and smiled. "I'll be here!" she said, and her smile got larger. Greg nodded. "Very good, we'll see you tomorrow in the a.m." He clicked on his keyboard and the monitor went dark. "Alan," he said, staring at me, "I'm going to make you an offer, something I've never done before. You asked me, earlier, for your money back." I nodded. "You said I couldn't do that," I said, "that I'd signed a contract." He nodded. "A binding contract," he added, and then smiled. I suddenly realized I was missing his lips, and the way I felt at ease and safe in his arms. "I've never refunded anyone, no one has ever asked. I wasn't lying when you asked me. But, this one time, this one completely-out-of-the- ordinary time, I'll waive that rule, on one condition." I waited for him to say it. "One condition," he repeated. "You and I will spend one evening together. Tonight. At my place. My condo. A date. I'll order some dinner for us, there's a great Greek place I know of, and we'll chat, get to know each other. I have a small hot tub on my deck, which overlooks the river; we could soothe away the stress of the day. How does that sound?" It sounded nice, and I told him so. "And if," he added, "at the end of this, um, this date," his eyes blazed at that word, sending little waves of excitement through me, "if you still want to cancel the contract, I will accept your decision and give you your investment back, no questions asked and no penalties at all." I didn't have to think about it at all. He wrote down his address for me, and asked me to be there at seven. He'd arrange parking for me underground. He asked me to dress casually, and be showered and shaved, since this was a date. I spent the rest of the afternoon going through my closet and my dresser, trying to decide what I should wear. What was casual attire when one was going to a man's apartment for a date? More importantly, what did I want to be wearing when he kissed me again? He will kiss me again, won't he? At the stroke of seven, I was buzzed into the underground parking, and a few minutes later I was knocking on his door. He was on the top floor. The doorman had advised me through the speaker to press the button marked 'PH2'. When Greg opened the door, I almost swayed. He stood tall, and proud. There was some light jazz music playing in the background, and behind him I could see a hallway with some art on the wall, all bathed in a subdued soft red light. He was wearing swim trunks, that doubled as shorts. They had pockets. But they were definitely made for jumping into pools and lakes and oceans. That was the only thing he was wearing. His legs were tanned and muscular and hairy. His belly had a slight outward curve to it, but for a man of his maturity, which I was now guessing to be late fifties instead of early sixties, he was in awesome shape. His pecs were tanned darkly, as was his belly, and both were hairy. He had lots of hair on his arms too, but very little on his strong shoulders. His face was shiny smooth, as if he'd just finished shaving. "Hi, Alan," he said, "I'm so glad you made it." "Thanks for inviting me, Greg," I replied. He ushered me in. As I passed him, and he was moving to close the door, I swear I felt just the tip of two fingers lightly touching me on my lower back. It felt like excitement. A brief tour showed me a spacious place, with two bedrooms and den, a huge open-concept kitchen and dining and living area, and a large deck, with a river view. It was inspiring. He moved behind the island in the kitchen and found two wine glasses in a cupboard, and then opened a bottle of white wine chilling on ice. Handing one to me, he clinked glasses with me, and grinned. "Here's to new beginnings, and unlimited futures!" I agreed, and we each took a sip. Our eyes never left each other. Then he invited me to the living room, and we sat on the large leather sofa. We weren't touching, but we were close. His body, so much of it uncovered in front of me, was alluring, and impressive, and unquestionably masculine. He was easy to talk to, because he did most of it. He told me all about his life, and his loves, and his business goals and his personal goals. He entertained me with stories about his travels, and some of his sexual exploits. I was amazed and enthralled with those anecdotes. It seemed to me he'd enjoyed thrills in his life I could only dream of. Hell, apparently things I HAD been dreaming of. Sex on beaches, sex in nightclubs, sex in alleys, sex at ski resorts, sex on cruise ships, sex in the jungle. Sex in a subway station! I stunned myself when I asked, out of nowhere, whether he'd ever found love as well as sex. His face warmed slightly, and his gaze at me softened. "Once in a while," he answered. "But I confess, I've never been able to keep a long-term relationship with anyone." We just looked at each other. "Yet." Dinner arrived, and was every bit as yummy as he'd promised. We sipped wine and ate calamari and souvlaki and talked about life and love and politics and art and fashion and sex and sex and sex. After sharing a piece of baklava, he asked me if I'd like to have a dip in the Jacuzzi. I immediately said yes, but then realized I'd forgotten to bring a suit with me. Greg smiled, leeringly. "I hope you won't think me as too forward, but I took the liberty of buying something for you." I was surprised. "For me?" He nodded. "For you. For the hot tub." I felt warmer inside. "Thank you." "But," he continued, "there's a couple of things I'd like you to do first, if they're not too much of an imposition." I grinned nervously at him. "Like what?" I asked. "Well, first one is," he paused, and then grinned from ear to ear, "I'd love another of those fantastic kisses of yours." I laughed out loud, letting some nervousness escape. "What's the second thing?" I asked, cheekily. His grin softened. "Let's take care of the first one first." He moved quickly, his tanned body sliding into me, and before I knew it we were kissing again, just like earlier, in his office. It was soft, and strong, and emotional, and passionate, and tender, and wet, and tongue-filled, and even longer than our first kiss. I was running my hands across his chest, delighting myself with the feel of his strength, and the thousands of little touches from his hairs. It wasn't a carpet, but it was still considerable. When we finally stopped, we were both breathing hard. He giggled, so I did too. Then he grabbed my hand in his, and we stood up, and we walked to one of the smaller bedrooms, and into the attached bathroom. On the counter was a bottle with a white liquid in it, and a bottle with clear liquid in it. "Here's what I'd like you to do. Rub this white stuff all over your skin, would you?" he asked. "In the shower. From your neck on down. Everywhere. Then wait for five minutes or so, and then wash it all off. When you're totally smooth, dry off, and then spread this clear stuff all over. It's a moisturizer. It'll make you feel so good, I promise." "You want me to be...hairless?" Greg smiled. "If you don't like it, it'll grow back. And, like I said earlier this afternoon, how will you know you don't like it unless you try it?" The idea began to give me weird feelings inside. Like, this is soooooo naughty, and daring, and wild. Three words that had probably never been said about me by anyone. "Okay." He continued. "And then, when you're done, there's a few other things here on the counter that you can look at and see if you like. They're up to you. But," he stressed, "I'd really think you'd love it and you'd look so sexy if you at least used this," he stopped, holding up a tube, which I knew enough about life to understand was lipstick. "I'll leave your hot tub gift on the bed for you, okay?" Then he kissed me again, leaning down and into me, touching me with his lips and his zest. "Okay," I said, and he slowly backed out of the room, closing the door, and leaving me by myself. I read the instructions. I followed the instructions. I watched all my body hair, most especially all my pubic hair, swirl down the drain of the large shower. Being fifty-one, officially in middle-age, I'd had my heart checked multiple times, which brought me at least some comfort that the sight of my own shiny-smooth pale body in the mirror wouldn't send me into stroke. I had puffy nipples. I'd never noticed before. But now, being completely smooth, my slightly saggy pecs looked like breasts, and my nipples were puffy and round and red, full of blood. The moisturizer felt like the smoothest silk on my skin. And it made my testicles throb in cool intensity. WOW! Beside the lipstick was an eye-liner. As well as some different colors of eye-shadow. There was also false eyelashes, but the idea of using glue on my eyes scared me. I looked at myself in the mirror, and decided to try the shadow. A rust shade. I liked it. The lipstick was smooth and silky and felt like paint going on my lips, but one look in the mirror and I shook with a pre-orgasm. I felt like I might explode, with no one touching me at all. I hurried to the bedroom. There, on the foot of the bed, was a bikini. It was white, and both the bottoms and bra were barely-there. Thin strips of delicious fabric. And a gauzy negligee, as a cover, black as night. There was pair of low-heels, sandals, with feathers on the toes. There was a wig, on a Styrofoam mannequins head, on the dresser. It looked exactly like Suzanne Somers hair, on the old Three's Company show. Blonde and straight and so sexy. Feelings I'd never experienced before came welling up from inside me as I slowly slipped the bikini bottoms up my smooth legs, snuggling the fabric into place around my genitals, which instantly made me hard again, the material soft and silky, my junk never having had that kind of treatment before. And these were all feelings of joy. Feelings of pleasure. Feelings of undiscovered rapture. The bra fit around my saggy pecs and did truly lift me a little bit, and I got harder still looking in the mirror. I HAD CLEAVAGE! The negligee floated on around me as I tied it loosely, and felt like the softest sexiest outer garment ever created by humankind. The barest touch of it on my skin was an elixir by itself, and I thought even if nothing else happens today, or for the rest of my life for that matter, at least I will have had this one time where I truly discovered what sensuality is. It's a good thing I had to walk around the bed to get back out to see Greg. Even with only two inch heels, I was so unused to walking on little tiny points that my ankles bent twice, and both times I managed to fall on the mattress, always turning my head at the last second, so as not to smear my makeup. The second time I fell and turned my head, I laughed out loud. Both at the silliness of trying to walk in heels, and at the idea that I would even worry about smearing things on my face. When I got to the open big area, Greg was nowhere to be found. Then I saw him through the window. He was leaning on the deck railing, looking out, at the river. He had a glass of wine in one hand. He was naked. His back was to me, and his ass captured my focus. It was whiter than the rest of him, and it was almost as hairy as the rest of him, and it was rounded and muscular and for several seconds I thought it was the most perfect masculine keister I'd ever seen. Greg must have heard my heels clicking on the floor as I approached, because he turned to me, grabbing another glass already filled up and holding it out to me, offering it to me. I looked at his outstretched arm. Then I looked at his penis. It took my breath away. Like the rest of him, it was surrounded by a lot of hair. Like the rest of him, it was bigger than me in every dimension. Length, width, girth. I peered lower, and noticed his balls hung below, and they were also so much larger than me, than my little sac. But I had to return my gaze to his cock. It was perfect. It was like some Renaissance sculptor had carved it. It was bobbing up and down a little bit, with his movements, and while it wasn't pointing at the sky, it wasn't pointing at the ground either. I shook a little bit inside. I thought, he must get so much bigger and thicker when he's excited. When he's erect. So much larger. My eyes finally moved up again, and I was close enough to take the proffered glass from him, and say thank you. He shook his head, playfully, and said, "nuh-uh". Then he pointed his free hand at his mouth. I knew what he wanted. He wanted another kiss, as a thank you. The sky didn't split apart, and pigs didn't start flying, but I did realize with great amazement that I wanted to kiss him. His lips were hot, and pulsing, and his tongue instantly tapped at my lips and I let him in, and our heads turned so we could get the most lip and tongue contact possible, and he pulled me to him with his free hand by my ass. And I got to feel his penis up against me, up against my belly. His cock skin, touching my body. It was like a heated vibrant tube, bigger than any hot dog or frankfurter I've ever seen. It squished in between our bodies and I felt like I was being tattooed by him, the very touching of his cock to me permanently etching me, forever branding me, as if people walking by on the street will forever more instantly know that I've been in the arms of a naked man. Who was kissing me better than any human being had ever kissed me before. My free hand dared to travel where it had never gone before. I slid it from his chest down his belly, stopping to wriggle my thumb in his belly button, before moving further south, tenderly, eagerly anticipating the first moment when I would touch him. His cock. The tip was wet, and touched my palm. He moaned inside my mouth, while I tried to suck the tip of his tongue into my throat. I'M TOUCHING ANOTHER MAN'S COCK! My fingers wrapped around him, as if it was my own. Billions of years of information planted directly into my DNA made me start slowly stroking him. I had spent my entire life stroking my own cock, so it seemed natural, and downright exciting as hell, to masturbate him. He was uncircumcised. As I moved his skin upwards, the hood of him closed down, like the aperture in a camera. Then when I brought my hand and pressure back downwards, it opened up like a flower, revealing his purple helmet, shiny wet and glistening. We kissed for minutes on end, and I stroked him for all of it, and then finally he broke our kiss. "You look lovely, Alan," he cooed, and smiled, and grinned. I felt lovely, I realized. "Thank you, Greg," I replied, "but I guess I don't look much like an 'Alan' now, do I?" He shook his head, and with his free hand on my ass he began to move us to the hot tub. "Not really. Do you have a particular name you'd like me to call you?" I loved him for his consideration of my feelings. "How about the anagram?" I asked. "Lana, instead of Alan?" Greg laughed, and stopped us for a second, and said "YES!" and then leaned down and kissed me again. Wow, can that man kiss. Or maybe it's just that my ex-wife was really bad at it, I thought. Maybe all I've ever had as a comparison was terribly below average. That made me wonder if sex with him would be equally impressive. Which made me wonder if I wanted things to go that far. Which made me wonder why I was wondering. His kisses were stunning. His hugs were equally good. If it gets to the point where he wants to have sex with me, I realized, then how stupid would I be to deny myself that? Like he'd said, I won't know until I've tried. We got into the small hot tub, and sat next to each other. He had his right arm around my shoulders, and we were nestled snugly. The water temperature was perfect, and the euphoria it created was completely real and completely over-powered by the all the sensory input I was getting. I was wearing a bikini, and a wig, and makeup, and my body was a smooth as glass now, and I've been snogging with another man for a lot of my day, and this bombardment of new experiences was blowing my mind wide open. We talked, and kissed, and cuddled, and chatted, and kissed more, and stared out at a couple of boats slowly plying up the river. The steam of the water and the steam of my heart were elevating me, and making me realize that I'd never been this happy, or elated, or in awe of the wonders of the universe like this before. A good long soak later, and our sporadic kissing had become much more impassioned. After a while, we stopped the chatting, and the world- watching, and we turned to each other and we did some serious kissing. Greg was a masterful kisser. A masterful love-maker with his mouth and tongue. The thought zinged through me that if he's that good at kissing, he much be amazing at other things! That serious kissing became serious groping, and I couldn't keep my hand from touching his cock. His very erect cock. His very erect and thick and pulsing cock. Greg kept running his hands down my back and over my ass, always pulling me into his body as much as possible, and his fingers started parting my cheeks, and the feeling of that tiny thin strip of material sliding deep in my valley and settling on my hole and taint were the newest and most indescribable of joys yet. He'd pull on the material, pressing it to me, and then pulling it away, and after a bit he began tentatively touching my bare skin down there with a fingertip. And then two. I gripped his phallus with more vigor, and made my strokes a little faster, and a little longer. He moaned into my mouth, competing with my little mewls, which were bubbling out of my soul in streams. And I thought, 'YES! THIS IS HOW MAKING OUT IS SUPPOSED TO FEEL!' Out of the blue, he stood us up, him naked, me in my bikini, and he carried me out of the tub. We broke our kiss long enough to towel each other off, but we didn't get too consumed by it, and we were both still dripping a little when he carried me into his master bedroom. I couldn't get over how hard he was, how stiff his cock had become. The skin was velvety smooth on the outside, but the inside core was steel- like. A strange thought zipped through my brain for just a fleeting second, which was that I wondered if my ex-wife might not have left me if I'd been that big in the cock department, but that disappeared a heartbeat later with a different thought, which was that I was glad it was me getting to play with his cock, and not her. Let her get her own new cock, if she wants it. I'm going to have this one. I'm going to enjoy this one. I broke our kiss, and with him standing there, looking down at me, I ran my hands down his sides, and let them trail below me as I slowly kneeled to the ground. Looking up at him, I must have appeared like someone at the feet of their messiah, gazing high in reverence. My gaze was pure cock-lust. If I was engaging in idolatry, then his ramrod cock was my god. I was swallowing my own saliva like crazy, and realized that I was salivating at the thought of what I was about to do. I was going to kiss his cock. I was going to kiss another man's cock, willingly. And more than that, I knew, intrinsically, that I was also going to do more than kiss it. I was going to adore it, worship it with my mouth and hands. I was going to lick his cock and slurp at his cock and I was going to open my mouth wide and take his cock into me, into my body. I knew more than I knew anything that I was going to suck on him, and bob on him, and take him as far as I could take, and that I was going to do everything in my power to make him explode. And I also knew that I was going to swallow his seed. It was a given. I knew it as if I'd been doing it for all fifty-one years. Of course I will. I just knew it. I was looking forward to it, I was jonesing for it. I was quivering inside, my brain telling my stomach to get ready, because there was going to be a very special deposit being made today. And my lips and tongue were excited, they were silently screaming out, 'YES YES YES! FINALLY, AFTER FIFTY-ONE YEARS, YOU CAN HAVE SOME REAL SEX NOW!' His first "OH FUCK YEAH" cut through me more than any expression from any human being ever. It catapulted me, through the stratosphere, emotionally. It also challenged me. How many more "OH FUCK YEAH"'s could I elicit from him? The physical invasion of meat into my mouth stunned me. Why had nobody ever told me how amazing it felt to have a cock in your mouth? A throbbing, pulsing, living piece of a man, the tastes of skin and love liquid and the smell of his musk, all combining with the physical stretching, the active workout, one I'd never had before. Why had the universe kept this from me for five decades? I'd misspent so many years not sucking cock. I closed my eyes and just sucked. And slobbered. And drooled. And gagged, a little bit, here and there. And moaned my ass off. I ravenously swallowed every single drop of pre-cum he pumped out, because it tasted unlike any other substance in the world, and it made me go even higher on my happiness meter. I'd busted the old record just kissing him, earlier today. Now with his cock in my mouth, his hands on my head, and his "OH FUCK YEAH"'s ringing in my ears, I knew life couldn't get much better. Except that it can. I sucked and swallowed and sucked and swallowed for minutes on end, and quickly got him to the point where his hips were moving in and out a little, and his moans were shorter and terser and his breaths were shorter and sharper and curter. He was building up. Finally he really started sawing in and out of my painted lips, and he began chanting my name. "Lana! Lana! Lana! Lana!" I'd performed oral sex on my wife, of course, back in the first few years of our marriage, and she'd cum on my face more than a few times, and I'd always thought that making someone orgasm that way was the greatest achievement, but her thrashing spasms were nothing like Greg's. He began cumming soon enough, pumping streams of his semen into my mouth, forcing me to swallow or drown, and I greedily gulped it down, as his hands seized my head and held me more or less still, my hands on his ass, pulling him to me. I thought he was more or less done a few pumps later, and I was savoring the after-taste of his cum on my tongue and palate, when he thrust forward for one more rope, and one more grunting passionate groan. And it was the sound of his voice, completely free and natural, strained and shook and obviously primeval, that made my entire body visibly shudder, one huge movement, like I'd been punched or shoved, and then, on my knees in his bedroom, his cum in my belly, his cock still in my mouth, his hands holding onto my head, I started shooting my goo into the bikini bottoms he'd bought for me. Involuntary, unplanned for, and body-wracking. Harder, and longer, than at any other moment. None of the other ones could even compare. They didn't rate. This was, I realized, the real deal. Like television changing from black-and-white to color, the past seemed so ordinary, so boring. The brilliance and vibrancy of this new world, this sexual world, suddenly began to overwhelm me, and both eyes teared up, as I was coming down from the depth of my orgasm, and I looked up at him, and watched as he finally got his breathing and heart rate under control, and he heaved a huge sigh of joy and satisfaction, and then he opened his eyes up, his head pointed at the sky, until it bent and he gazed down at me. And saw my watery eyes. Greg's face changed, from sublime enjoyment to worry and concern. "Lana," he breathed out, "what's wrong?" I shook my head at him, trying to make him understand that it was just my silly feelings, the folly of how profoundly being with him had affected me. "It's just..." I stammered, "...just that I've never...you know...never had that before...had it be like that before...so, so..." Greg began to kneel down, so his face could be closer to me. "So, so, so what?" he asked, care all over his words. My truth. I spoke my truth. My new truth. "So...amazing. So beautiful...so magical...so...so...I can't even describe it...so nothing like anything I've ever had before." Greg's worry melted away a little, and he leaned down and in, to kiss me. Softly. "Believe me," he whispered, "it gets so much better." Then he winked, and made me giggle. We stood up, me wrapped in his arms, and he showered my neck and ears and cheeks and forehead and nose in kisses, tiny little butterfly touches that were warm and delicious. Then he gently picked me up and laid me down on the bed, with him laying down beside me, and we began kissing again, with long deep tongue- touching gasps, our lips making those incredibly sexy 'smack' sounds every time we changed sides, or took a quick breath. His cock pressed into me, and it shocked me to feel how hard he was. I instantly couldn't remember a single time in my life when I'd recovered that quickly from a cum. Ever. We pressed our bodies together, and I heard a lovely satisfied sigh from him as the cum inside my bikini bottoms started oozing out, some of it onto the mattress, but some of it onto him. His sigh made me think he was smiling, inside, in his heart. Kissing became making out again, a level of intimacy I'd never had with my ex-wife, or the very few women I'd been with before her. This was the most prolonged, inspired, passionate, and tantalizing kissing that existed. His lips and tongue and teeth and saliva were a part of me, a welcome and wanted part. I didn't want anything to ever stop. And his tongue was playful, and he found little bits of his own cum in my mouth, covering bits of my tongue and gums and teeth, and he seemed to take such great delight in slurping them into his mouth, swallowing some, but mostly giving the delicious creaminess back to me, feeding me again, twice, from the same blowjob. It was divine. Slowly, his right leg insinuated itself between my legs, and began to nudge me. Nature, and the new way I was feeling, made the non-verbal request easy to fulfill. A piece of cake. I spread my legs as wide as I could. I wanted him to see me, and touch me, and do with me as he found exciting. I wanted him to spread me, caress me, excite me, and taunt me. I was his for the taking, if he wanted it. His right hand left the caressing of the side of my face, and slowly travelled down my body, stopping to pull almost ruggedly on my left nipple, sending shockwaves through my nervous system, making my whole body shake and buck, and making me moan out loud, straight into his open mouth. He giggled at that, his voice low and deep, and then he continued his exploration. He ran a fingertip through some of the cum on my belly, and around my bikini, and then, like a magician, or at least someone who had done it many times before, his other fingers slipped under the strip of panty in my ass crack and pushed it away, and then his wet sloppy forefinger slid straight to my ass. Straight to my hole. Straight to where the doctor had gotten to, in my physical checkup. The one that made me feel sooooooo good. When his finger was inside me. Greg never let up his kissing, and gently began pushing that finger coated in cum straight into me. I let out a gigantic "OOOOOH!" of breath into him, and then I felt him slide into me. And he did it without any resistance from me. I opened for Greg, and his finger. I was lost at sea, an ocean of powerful lusts, and never hesitated. I opened myself for Greg. One finger became two a few minutes later, and they were wet and spread themselves inside me, forcing my channel outward, in all directions, prepping me for what was to come. And again, I opened myself, in every way. His kissing was non-stop and deep, his fingers now mirroring that. He pushed them in me, as far as he could, and spread me, and listened to me moan, and felt my insides squirm and shake and rattle and roll. We broke our kiss, and my eyes opened, and he was staring at me. "How do you feel now, Lana?" he asked, a smile forming. I spoke my truth. "I love it, Greg! I love being dressed like this! I love that I'm the feminine one. I love sucking your cock! And I love tasting your cream!" He nodded, and then leered, and fixed his stare at me, and got deadly serious. "If you loved all that," he almost-hissed, "you're gonna love this!" At that exact moment one of his fingers moved inside me, over the exact same spot the doctor had, the one that had felt like a cattle prod, like a rocket going off inside me. This time it was the space shuttle blasting away. My body shook like someone was zapping me with the mallets on those nighttime medical dramas. Everything from the deep on out just began bursting, exploding, and I saw stars, and I quaked in his arms, and shook, and then I volcanoed more cum out of my cock, the head of it still caressed and covered with the bikini, and I lost the ability to comprehend what was going on around me, and so all I could do was ride the wave, and let myself go through the experience, which was all so much more rapturous than everything in the world. I came and I came and I came and I came. After what must have been minutes and may have been hours, I began to see the fog lift, and I started to come back to a semblance of awareness. As random senses took in random data, and began to analyze them again, I slowly came out of my sexual anaesthesia, coming to two immediate conclusions. One, my entire belly felt wet, wet and sticky. And two, Greg was between my legs, one arm supporting his upper body on my right, his other hand down below, holding his tree trunk of a cock, the shiny wet recently-lubed head of it touching my hole, the very tippy tip of him perhaps inside my winking pussy, just a smidge. My glassy eyes cleared, and I looked at his eyes. "Lana," he breathed out, "tell me what you want." "What I want?" I asked, still trying to focus. "Yes, my love," he breathed out again, "what do you want, more than anything in the world?" I knew the answer in a tenth of a heartbeat. "Make love to me, Greg!" I pleaded. "I want you to make love to me! I want you to fuck me, baby!" He wasted no time. We both breathed out huge lung-emptying moans, his loud and deep and masculine, mine more of a breathy 'ah!!'. My back arched, my shoulders digging into the sheets behind me, and my head snapped up towards his. He knew what I was after, and he dipped his head as his right hand plopped down beside my shoulder, and his lips met mine. And as he slid his cock into my ass, my pussy, he slid his tongue into my mouth. The same pace, the same power, and practically the same distance. Both his tongue and his cock went into me to the hilt. The max. I was instantly several pounds heavier, I'm sure. Never mind the weight of his lower torso on me. I had my mouth full of meat, and my pussy full of meat. I WAS IMPALED WITH COCK! He just held himself inside me, pushing his hips into the back of my spread thighs, and he ground into me, churning his pelvis just a fragment here and there, around and around. He was showing me, that he was inside me, that he was a part of me now, that I had accepted as much of him into me as was possible. Fully. Completely. Any remembrance of sexual joy before was gone. There was nothing from my past life that could compare. Then he changed my new paradigm even more. He began making love to me. Greg slowly pulled almost all the way out, and I moaned that disappointed feminine mewl that I occasionally could elicit from the ex, and then he slowly and methodically drilled me to the hilt again, rotating and churning and touching that special spot inside me that makes things go boom. His eyes never left mine. He looked like an animal, in a way. Completely consumed with the moment, completely letting his testosterone rule, completely and utterly focussed on just one thing: the rut. And he took me. He took me slowly, grindingly, and then after a few minutes he took me up a notch, and then faster and harder still minutes after that. He had me gasping and groaning and flailing and moaning and he was doing much the same. There were no words spoken, but we were communicating. He was telling me that I was his, I was getting all of him, that he was as primal as he could be, that he was inside me and he would move me how and when he wanted, that he was slaking his thirst for the most basic and yet holy of human interactions, that he was fucking me with all the passion and desperation that could be imagined. I was telling him that I was his, I wanted all of him, I too was as primal as I could be, my femininity suddenly and surprisingly and happily catapulted into play, that I wanted him inside me, always, and that I was his to move how and when he wanted, and that his thirst being slaked for that most basic and holy of human relationships was in fact slaking my thirst as well, and that I wanted him to fuck me with all the passion and desperation that could be imagined, because I was fucking him right back in kind. Minutes, hours, days later, I couldn't tell, after I had gone through two more debilitating orgasms, simply losing control of everything, , fluttering like a rag doll, his voice roared out. "HERE I COME!" I somehow found the wherewithal to respond. "COME FOR ME!" His eyes closed, and his face went red, and he slammed into me harder than all the other slams before combined, and he grunted and growled, and I gasped in wonderment at his size and how much it was expanding me, and then he started pumping me full of his seed. He bred me. He screamed and bellowed and shook and throbbed and I could feel his wetness inside me, slithering here and there around his cockhead, searching for my eggs. But no worries about unwanted pregnancy here. Greg finally collapsed on me, his entire weight crashing down, and I wrapped my arms around him and my legs around him and I clamped down on his cock with my pussy ring, and I tried to flutter my insides to milk him of more cum, and I cooed into his ear, "YES BABY, YES BABY, CUM IN ME, FILL ME UP, BREED ME BABY!" Two days later, I sat for an in-person interview with Marcel and Yvette. I'd arrived in male clothes, with panties and thigh-highs underneath, and they immediately asked if I'd be more comfortable in boy mode or sissy mode. My answer was obvious. Sissy mode. My training was two-weeks of one-on-one sessions. Those with Yvette were all about dressing, and make-up, and fashion, and bringing out my natural femininity, and hours upon hours of conversation, learning about escorting, how most of their clients were looking for companionship before and after any presumed sexual fun, and I was able to quickly show that I am well-versed in most conversational topics. She was impressed. The lessons with Marcel, a tall stocky Dutchman with an easy smile, were all about love-making, in all its varieties and practices. He was a wonderful teacher. I instantly loved his kissing, and his touching, and his cock in my mouth, and his cum on my tongue, and his tongue in my ass, with his long, thick erection soon following. My first 'date' was with Leonard, or Len, who was a spry seventy-year old business executive involved with two very large philanthropic organizations, and we had a quiet dinner in his hotel suite, followed by long delightful talks about all sorts of subjects, and then we kissed for a good long time, and then we made love. The Yakasuchi 9500 is never wrong. The End.