Roberta Montgomery Part 1
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Roberta Montgomery - Part 3 free porn video
Roberta Montgomery - Part 3
Chapter 6 - The Morning After
"Sweetie." I was being shaken awake. "Sweetie, let's move upstairs. This
sofa's making my back sore. Come on, now." We both were sober at this
point, but still drowsy, as Margret helped me upstairs and into bed. I
immediately fell back to sleep, and we cuddled for a couple of hours
until the sun rose. The sunlight from the window finally woke me, and I
was staring directly into my wife's beautifully plump breasts.
Instinctively, I closed my eyes and began to suckle on the closest
nipple.
Margret's voice had that familiar sound of superiority and satisfaction,
and I suddenly became aware that we both were completely naked, and that
her arms had been wrapped around me the entire time. "Well, well... it
appears that my precious little one is wide awake." Margret and I were
exactly the same height, but she enjoyed talking to me as though I were
significantly shorter. She knew that I got off on it, and I silently
continued to suckle. She began kissing the top of my head, slowly and
constantly, occasionally whispering things in my ear that caused my
penis to stiffen against her thighs.
Like the end of a kiss, there was an audible smack of her nipple being
pulled from my lips, as Margret slid down the mattress to meet me face
to face. We started kissing as she reached for my hairless crotch and
began caressing my smooth scrotum, with her other arm cradling my head,
preventing me from escaping her deep kisses. With my eyes still closed,
I traced the outline of her vulva with my pinky, going the long way
around to avoid her clitoris, making it obvious that I was saving that
spot for later. My other fingers got involved, caressing her labia, and
eventually exploring her depths. Our bodies were still touching, and my
other arm was helpless, trapped underneath us, as we continued to lie
facing each other.
My wife was audibly pleased, as she took hold of my now fully erect
shaft, placing her thumb at the tip of my glans, and making circling
motions around my meatus. Sandwiched between us, my penis was pointing
up toward our chins, and I could feel Margret's knuckles against my
lower stomach. Our slow, gentle motions gradually became faster and more
deliberate: the race was on! Our mutual non-verbal cues were
acknowledged, and we fiercely competed to discover which of us could
bring the other to climax first. My penis had never been squeezed so
hard or in such a manner, not even by her. It wasn't painful, but it
were as though my wife had discovered some new corpus cavernosum
compression technique to induce orgasm. It wasn't just the physical
stimulation that amazed me, but the notion that, after all of our time
together, my lover still could introduce something new to catch me off
guard.
Not to be outdone, I furiously played her clitoris like a musical
instrument, using the inside of my middle finger as a violin bow.
Periodically, I shifted the angle and varied the speed and force of my
strokes, making it more and more difficult for her to focus on what she
was doing for me. This had become a competition, and I could hear the
begrudging acknowledgement of my skills in her moans... a sexual variant
of the compliment "game recognizes game" between athletic rivals.
With neither of us willing to concede, we each tripled our efforts,
forcing each other to simultaneously erupt into each other's hands,
soaking both of our bodies, and the sheets below, in the warmth of our
fluids. We felt each other's muscles tighten throughout our bodies, and
her legs squeezed mine with all of her strength. My wife refused to let
go of my shaft, and I ejaculated so much for so long that I feared
dehydrating. Her kisses became so aggressive that I was convinced she
was trying to swallow my tongue.
Eventually, our muscles relaxed, and we caught our breath. Margret
slightly pulled away just enough so that her hand could scoop my semen
into my mouth. I cleaned her hand with my tongue, then she reached back
down to gather a second handful, which she consumed. I then followed
suit, feeding a combination of her own ejaculate and cervical fluid to
her receptive lips, then using my tongue to clean the slippery remnants
from my own hand. We kissed each other again, for what must've been half
an hour.
Our lips parted. Margret slowly rose to her knees, pulled me to her side
of the bed, then climbed over me, lying next to me on the opposite side.
"AGAIN!" she commanded, in her deepest, most domineering tone. We
repeated exactly the same actions, with exactly the same results, only
with our opposite hands. I was amazed that I could even get another
erection, much less come again; but I did, and she squeezed every last
drop of semen out of my body, as though she were emptying a tube of
toothpaste. I love the scent and taste of my wife's skin, especially
when she's feeding me a mixture of our combined fluids.
Among our sweat, saliva, and repeated sexual discharges, the bed sheets
were completely soaked, down to the protective vinyl mattress cover.
While lying in the dampness, I had a vision of myself in the immediate
future. I was standing in the laundry room, holding up one of these
sheets, smiling to myself and shaking my head. My two selves could see
each other, as though we were communicating via webcams. My future self
looked directly into the camera and held up a sheet, then raised her
eyebrows and smiled with an open mouth. She started giggling, and said,
"'Sweetie' (she emphasized that word, trying to imitate Margret), you're
going to fondly remember this morning for the rest of your life!" She
smiled and winked at me, and I did the same. "Now, if you'll excuse me,
I have my Mistress' sweaty, sticky laundry to wash, and you have a
sweaty, sticky Queen to bathe!" She waved bye with only her fingers,
keeping her palm straight up, in that feminine way that I learned to do
long ago. I waved back and whispered "B-bye, sweetie" to myself.
Margret burst into laughter and asked, "Who the fuck are you talking to,
sweetie?"
"Margret! You won't believe it, but I just had a vision of myself doing
laundry in the future! She even talked to me... I mean I talked to me...
I mean, to myself! It was so surreal!"
"Oh, I believe you, sweetie. But I think you're just cum drunk!" She
kept laughing, and sloppily kissed me on the forehead. "Even your cute
little visions are about domestic chores! You are SUCH a housewife!"
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the time on the clock. It was
time for our Saturday morning routine. "Oooh, it's time for me to get up
and get dressed, so I can start cooking your breakfast." I started to
drag myself out of bed, when I felt Margret's hand firmly clamped around
my ankle.
"Oh no you don't, wench! Your first duty this morning will be to bathe
your Queen! Escort us to the Royal Shower, at once!" She let go of my
ankle so that I could slide off and stand by the bed. She then held out
her hand in a limp-wristed fashion, which was my cue to assist the Queen
in emerging from her "Royal Slumber Chamber." Every once in a while,
without warning, sometimes even on weekdays, Margret would initiate the
"Queen's Bathing Ritual." It's a light role playing scenario, in which I
had to either give her a bath in the tub or the shower. Apparently, this
was a shower day. The tub usually was a nighttime thing, but the Queen
was very random in her demands. It had been a few weeks since our last
such scene.
I stood at attention and averted my eyes, for direct eye contact with
the Queen was not permitted during a Royal Bathing. I held the Queen's
Royal Hand in both of my servile hands, assisted her to her Royal Feet,
and led her to the Mistress Bathroom (we never used the word "Master"
around here)... or, as it is know during these role playing scenes, the
Royal Bathing Chamber. "Right this way, Your Highness."
Once in the shower... excuse me, the Royal Bathing Chamber, I curtsied
and quickly washed myself first, because the unclean are not fit to
place hands on Her Majesty's clean person. While my Queen basked in the
steam and warm water, I washed my face, body, and hair, then I quickly
finger combed and brushed in some conditioner to my tangled mess of
curly hair, so that it could do its work while I bathed my Queen.
I began with the Royal Face. I gently applied liquid facial soap to Her
Majesty's disgustingly filthy, makeup-sweat-saliva-cum coated, yet
handsomely regal, features; washing away all signs of the sinfully
hedonistic marital pleasures experienced earlier this morning. Granted,
I couldn't do much about her permanently sinful facial expression, but
at least it was sinfully clean. I strained to prevent myself from
laughing aloud at my own thoughts, because displaying such frivolity
during a Royal Bathing would be punished by a severe whipping, and those
whippings actually hurt. Unlike some of our role playing games, Margret
was dead serious about being extravagantly pampered during these "Royal"
scenes, and we mutually had agreed that there would be real consequences
for my breaking character until it was over. Only Margret could say when
we were done.
(It should go without saying, but I will anyway, that I always play an
inner game with myself, masochistically trying to make myself laugh and
get punished, even though I don't actually want to feel the whip.
Despite the fact that she's my soul mate, Margret can be very scary when
in Queen mode.)
With the Royal Face cleaned, I then shampooed the Royal Hair. I massaged
the Royal Scalp with a thoroughness that would make a phrenologist
proud. With a degree of grace and formality rarely executed in showers,
I removed the Royal Showerhead from its mount, and gently rinsed all of
the shampoo form Her Majesty's Royal Tresses, also taking the
opportunity to rinse out my hair conditioner. I then applied conditioner
to the
Queen, slowly and gently combing through her silky, straight strands,
which were much easier to condition than my own.
With the conditioner set, I moved onto the Royal Body, first applying
soap and a wash rag to the particularly offensive areas, then switching
to a purple (Her Highness' favorite color, after black, which really
isn't a color... and yes, I always think my side notes in parentheses
when in the shower) loofah to apply the Queen's favorite lilac-scented
body soap all over her curvy, statuesque physique. Finally, I knelt down
to scrub the Royal Feet, taking care to gently scrub in-between the
Royal Toes and around the Royal Heels and Ankles.
Now that the Queen was all fresh and sparkly, I rinsed out Her Majesty's
conditioner, being sure to rinse any conditioner residue from the Royal
Body. Placing the Royal Showerhead back on its mount (Mounts don't get
the "Royal" nomenclature; they're considered part of the entire
showerhead assembly... and yes, that's a decree straight from the Queen
herself, so you'll have to take it up with her!), I turned off the
water, opened the door of the Royal Bathing Chamber, got out, and dried
myself first with a commoner's towel. Then I took the Queen's Royal
Hand, led her out onto the Royal Bath Mat, and pulled a Royal Towel from
the shelf.
First, I began to towel off the Royal Face, then the Royal Hair,
followed by the Royal Body, working my way down. I had to gently pat dry
each of the magnificent Royal Breasts (my second favorite part), then
down to the Royal Snatch... I mean, Royal Vulva (my third favorite
part), then back around to my favorite part of all, Dat Royal Ass! (I
almost get myself into trouble during each toweling off, because I spend
far to much time pat drying this particular area; but it's worth the
risk, to be thorough in my duties.) After making sure that each Royal
Cheek was completely dry, I knelt and gave each one a gentle kiss, as a
required "gesture of humility." (Hey, I do as I'm told, no matter how
degrading. I'm a team player. No sacrifice is too great.) After ensuring
that the entire Queenly Personage was completely dry, I wrapped the
Royal Towel around her Royal Body just under her Royal Arms, I stood
back, I curtsied, and held the pose until she spoke.
The Queen inspected her Royal Self, then checked the Royal Mirror, then
back to her Royal Self. She looked straight ahead, facing nothing in
particular, and proclaimed, "We are not disappointed. You are
dismissed." That was the highest possible praise that she could bestow
upon a servant!
I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you for the opportunity, Your
Majesty! You're far too kind!" I turned to gather the used towels as she
walked past me. I bent over (on purpose) to pick up a towel from the
floor, but she was already out the door. Disappointed at not being
groped, I started to hang one of the towels to dry. Suddenly, I felt a
sharp sting across my naked thighs, accompanied by the loud "whack" of a
wet towel snapping. I let out a genuine yelp.
As soon as I turned around, Margret tossed the towel directly into my
face. "Gotcha, bitch! Meechya downstairs for breakfast." I pulled the
towel away just in time to catch a glimpse of her perfect butt as she
turned the corner into her walk-in closet. I love my wife. I love my
life.
Chapter 7 - Transitioning, Round Two
Margret was sitting on the living room sofa when I entered with her
coffee on a serving tray. I froze for a moment and stared at her.
Granted, I might be a tad biased, with us being married and all, but I
found her so attractive at that moment, that I doubt any woman who's
ever lived has looked as gorgeous. She had the television on some boring
business news channel, and she was checking both her personal and
business emails on her laptop, just clicking away, oblivious to my
presence. I was hoping she would notice me.
Margret was wearing a black bra, black panties, and a very tight, black
women's T-shirt, with no lace, that emphasized the hourglass shape of
her body. The shirt covered her midriff, but didn't quite reach her
panties, so there was a slight gap that drew in my eyes. The panties
were high-cut briefs, which I always thought look best on her, because
they exposed more of her legs than other styles. On her feet were a pair
a mule sandals with three inch (7.6cm) wedge heels, which I knew she was
wearing to look sexy for me. She was the undisputed leader in our
relationship, but she still cared what I thought of her appearance, and
she always wanted me to find her attractive. It was a simple and casual
look, but still powerful, in a feminine way.
Part of me wanted to let the serving tray crash to the floor, toss the
coffee table and her laptop clear across the room, kneel before her, and
go down on her like a ravenous animal. But, I had bacon on the stove,
and... well, c'mon, it's bacon! Ain't wastin' that!
I snapped back to reality and made my presence known. "Here's your
coffee, dear." I placed the tray on the opposite side of the table, set
out the coasters and napkins, placed her full cup of coffee on one
coaster, and her shot of espresso on the other. She called the
combination an "espresso chaser." Margret is one of the few coffee
drinkers I know who takes her coffee in a variety ways. Sometimes, she
prefers it straight black, and at other times with just sugar, just
cream, or both. This morning, she wanted it "Pulp Fiction Style" (lots
'o cream, lots 'o sugar).
She was buried in her laptop screen, and hadn't yet looked at me. I had
a burning question nagging at me, so I had to interrupt her.
"Margret, how did you know? I mean, about the Royal Shower? My vision
told me that I would have to bathe the Queen this morning, but I didn't
mention that part to you."
"Huh?" Margret was still typing something. "Oh, well, I suppose all of
that talk last night about us getting back to role playing put the
notion in both of our heads. Kinky minds think alike."
"Ah, I guess that makes sense."
"Of course it does, sweetie. That's why you always come to me for
answers."
Rolling my eyes and grinning, I took the tray and started to strut away.
"Thanks, babe," said Margret, as she finally stopped typing. She downed
her espresso like a shot of whisky, and then did a double take. "Damn,
girl; you sure gave me something to look at this morning! Might have to
take your sweet ass back upstairs!"
"Bacon."
"Ah. Say no more."
Fully satisfied with myself, I smiled and minced back to the kitchen,
feeling Margret's eyes inspecting me all the way. I was wearing bright
yellow ankle-strap sandals that had an intricate system of straps criss-
crossing from the toes all the way up to the thick straps that
surrounded my ankles, fastened with black buckles. The stiletto heels
were five and a half inches (14cm) tall, and they made the sexiest
clicking sound as I danced across the ceramic tiles of the kitchen
floor. My matching yellow dress had black buttons and trim, a high,
tight collar, and elbow-length flared sleeves, with a very short flared
skirt.
My legs were bare, and my penis and scrotum were fully tucked and held
in place with a tight thong gaff, covered by yellow high-cut panties,
just like Margret's, which I blatantly flashed when bending over even
slightly. I had changed my nail polish, both manicure and pedicure, to a
metallic candy apple red, which I knew drove my wife crazy. It was her
favorite color on me, so I wore matching lipstick. I wore the noisiest
dangling earrings that I owned, and two clanging bracelets on my right
wrist, so that Margret would always hear me coming... or she would have,
if not for the noise from the blaring television!
Several minutes later, I returned to the living room to retrieve
Margret's coffee cups, mute the television, and inform her that
breakfast was ready. Knowing that I had a tray in my hands, she followed
behind me, with her hand exploring the landscape beneath my skirt,
trying to make me drop something. I playfully swatted her hand away,
sternly warning her: "Careful, lady! I'm a married woman, and my wife is
the jealous type!"
Margret plopped down at the kitchen table, where we usually preferred to
eat breakfast. She made an exaggerated inhaling sound before exclaiming,
"Ah, this smells so good! And I'm already hungry again. I think all of
the calories from last night's beer and pizza got burned up this
morning, thanks to you!"
"Oh, right. You were just an innocent bystander who got swept up in my
lustful desires. You poor girl!"
Margret raised her eyebrows and grinned, "Yeah, something like that."
For the next several minutes, all I heard from her were sipping and
chewing sounds. She wasn't kidding about being hungry, and it always
made me feel validated to see her react to my cooking that way. She
worked very hard at her career to support us, and I tried to work just
as hard at being a housewife to avoid feeling like a freeloader. She
always told me not to worry about that, because my being a housewife was
her idea; but I was raised to always meet my obligations and carry my
own weight, even when married to a sugar-momma like my Margret.
I served my hungry wife a couple of buttermilk waffles, with maple
syrup; scrambled eggs; juicy, thick cut bacon (not too crisp); fluffy,
homemade biscuits, with homemade fig preserves; orange juice; sweet
almond milk; and of course, more coffee. I mostly had the same, except I
preferred a mix of mango and pineapple juice to orange, and some dancong
oolong tea instead of coffee.
"More juice and coffee?"
Margret's mouth being full, she simply nodded. I got up, minced over to
the counter in an overtly flirty way, filled her glass and cup, felt a
couple of gentle pats on my bare bottom, set the juice pitcher and
coffee carafe back on the counter, and retook my seat, as I had done
hundreds of times before. Then, I went off-script.
"Margret, I want breasts... real ones."
"Done." Without looking up from her plate, Margret bit off half a slice
of bacon, savored the taste of pure heaven for a few seconds, then
washed it down with a sip of juice, sipping and swallowing as loudly as
possible, and finishing with a pronounced "Ahhhhh." Then she
mischievously glanced my way and smiled. "You sure, sweetie?"
"Yes. And I don't want implants alone. Getting implants without having
real breasts first would only feel like an elaborate costume. I want to
start taking female hormones and grow my own. Maybe I won't need
implants at all."
"We've discussed this before, so we both know what this entails; and you
know that you'll have my full support, whatever you decide. Any
particular reason for the timing?"
"It's been building up, but last night and this morning put me over the
edge."
"How so?" asked Margret, in-between bites of everything.
"Last night on the sofa, we both had nothing on under our sleep shirts,
and it just made it so obvious that I'm male. Your figure looks so
beautifully feminine from all angles, and I look like that kitchen
counter over there," to which I briefly pointed. "When you spooned me, I
constantly felt your firm breasts on my back, and it felt so nice. But
you don't have anything to feel on my chest."
Margret continued eating and sipping, but I had her full attention.
"And this morning, when we were lying on our sides, face to face, chest
to chest, I felt so unfeminine... like I was a fraud." I wasn't crying,
but I was close.
"No, sweetie! You're not a fraud! You're biologically male, but your
soul is all woman now. Come here, sweetie."
Margret got up, took my hand, and led me over to the pantry. She opened
the pantry double doors to expose the full-length mirror. After we
married, I installed that mirror on the back of one of the doors, so
that I could see how to tie my apron strings and ensure that the bows
always looked even and pretty.
"Do you see what's in the mirror, sweetie? Those are two women! I don't
see any men in that mirror, nor do you! Look at you in that pretty
yellow dress, with those pouty lips, and those high heels. Do men wear
shoes like that? Can they even walk in them? Most women can't even walk
in heels that high, let alone cook such a delicious breakfast in them."
Margret hugged me, while we both watched the mirror. "Look at our
fingernails and toenails. Who painted them? I sure as Hell didn't. You
do better manicures and pedicures than any salon I've ever been to,
sweetie. And look how perfect your eye makeup is. You did that all by
yourself." She held up my hair on one side. "Both of your ears are
pierced; not just in the lobes, but you've got three helix piercings up
here, with those dainty little hoop rings. Even I don't have those,
cutie."
Margret kissed me and walked me back to the table. She held out the
chair for me, and scooted it back under me as I sat down.
"The way you move, sit, stand, walk, talk, and carry yourself is
completely feminine in EVERY way! You even think and feel the way a
woman does. Don't ever use the word 'fraud' to describe yourself again!
That's an order! Promise me you won't!"
"I promise. I'm sorry."
Margret sat back down, and got back to eating. "Sweetie, you don't owe
me an apology for wanting to be MORE feminine. Just don't ever think
that you're currently deficient in that area, because you're not! You're
a better wife right now than most genetic females ever could hope to be.
That being said, I do understand how you feel about wanting breasts. All
girls have similar feelings during puberty, so I can relate. Once I
reached that age, they couldn't grow out fast enough for me."
"So, what I'm feeling is natural?"
"Of course it is, sweetie. It's just been delayed with you because you
went through the wrong puberty when you were a teen. Now that you've
been living as a woman for over three years, you realize that this is
who and what you really are, right?"
"Yes! That's exactly how I feel, only I didn't know how to say it.
Margret, I know, without the slightest doubt, that I NEVER want to go
back to being a man! I love being a woman, and more importantly, I love
being YOUR woman!"
"Well, yeah, I mean, who wouldn't?"
With that arrogant remark, Margret got me to laugh, and I started
feeling better.
"So, here's the plan," announced the boss. "I'll get you an appointment
with a psychologist. In short order, you'll be diagnosed as transsexual,
guaranteed. With the way you behave and look, it'll be a formality. And
here's the kicker... it won't even be a lie. At this point, you really
are trans. Otherwise, you wouldn't want to grow your own breasts through
hormone therapy."
"True, I suppose."
"You'll need a physician who's an endocrinologist to administer and
monitor your hormone therapy, and then you'll be on your way. I'll make
all of the appointments for you, and go with you to all of them."
"Good. I'd be to scared going alone."
"Right, that's because you're a pussy."
Again, we both laughed. She always knew what to say to keep things
light, but that comment also made me feel feminine, albeit in a
playfully demeaning sort of way. Margret finished the last of her
breakfast, gulped the last bit of milk, and sat back in her chair with
her coffee cup in both hands.
"We've talked about this before, but you know that the hormones will
fuck with your libido and your cock size. After your breasts fully grow
out, you can always stop taking hormones. While your libido very likely
will get stronger after that, it might never be as strong as it is now,
and your ejaculate amount and consistency might change forever. Any
penis shrinkage likely will be permanent, too. Not our first time
visiting this issue, but now that you're serious, are you still prepared
for that stuff, sweetie?"
"I am, but what about you? You throttled my penis this morning like you
were shifting gears in a race car. I came all over the place, too. I
know how much you enjoy sex with me, and I don't want to do anything to
ruin that experience for either of us."
"Yeah, I'd be lying if I said I don't love the fact that I'm married to
a girl with a functioning cock and balls. Selfishly speaking, I don't
want to lose that. But much more importantly, I don't want the love of
my life to be uncomfortable in her own skin." She sipped her coffee.
"Remember, sweetie, I'm the one who talked you into to all of this. It
would be hypocritical of me to convince my male lover to make the
extremely serious commitment to becoming my wife, and to permanently
live as a woman for all intents and purposes, and then criticize her for
developing feminine tendencies. Yes, you're an adult, and I realize
that, ultimately, the choice was yours to make; but I pushed you damn
hard, and I know just how convincing I can be, especially to someone as
sweet and vulnerable as you."
Wow! We've talked a lot about this, but that's the first time she's ever
put things exactly that way.
"Roberta, I don't regret doing everything in my power to win you over,
and to convince you to change your life for me. I know you don't regret
it, either. But keep this in mind: you never would've agreed to be my
girl if you didn't already have some girl in you. Maybe it was lying
dormant, maybe you repressed it to the point that you couldn't even
acknowledge it to yourself, but it had to be there. No male who's a real
man, deep down, would do what you did for me. You would've said 'no
thanks,' and we would've parted ways, hopefully still as friends. Had I
not sensed that dormant femininity in you, I never would tried to bring
it to the surface."
I was in a state of awe. "Margret... how... how can you take such
confusing, complicated things and make so much sense out of them?"
"It's what I do for a living, sweetie. It's what I do."
Margret sat her coffee cup back on the table, snapped her fingers, and
pointed down at it.
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