Male Mother
by Jenny Leeds
1. Chapter
Wendy did her best to be cool, to drive with at least a semblance of
composure, but it wasn't easy. She found herself gripping the wheel in
high delight; her stomach kept lifting in excitement. The corners of
her lips twitched irrepressibly.
In a few hours she'd have her husband Bob just where she wanted him.
Mouse-trapped. He'd be hers forever.
Squinting against the brightness of the day she aimed the car down the
highway, consciously preventing her foot from flooring the pedal as it
wanted to do. There was time enough, no sense in getting stopped for
speeding.
A limitless blue sky embraced lush summer fields and undisciplined
copses of shade trees on either side of the road. Through the open
windows a breeze tempered the afternoon warmth, and all was well with
her world ... and was going to get better.
She sneaked a glance to the side. Bob sat tense in the passenger seat,
staring straight ahead, lipstick a startling red against the anxious
pallor of his face. Shining brown hair lifted and fell in the wind of
the car's passage, offering capricious glimpses of the gold-caged
garnet earrings she gave him when he agreed to have his ears pierced.
He was just DARLING.
He'd come a long way. Electrolysis had left his face smooth and so
youthful he looked hardly eighteen instead of twenty-four. Falsies in
his bra filled his dress becomingly--she'd bought them for him in a
B-cup, her own size. An absence of hips and bottom betrayed a hint of
his true gender, but it was cute. He had the kind of boyish figure
some women would die for.
She should be content with that much, skirts and makeup and falsies,
but she wasn't--he could still cut his hair, go back to wearing men's
clothes, and resume his role in male society. Go back to being her
HUSBAND. A man. Like her brutal father.
Never again, she thought with smug satisfaction. After today he'd be
committed to life in dresses.
She should be ashamed of herself. What did Bob ever do but love her
like a puppy dog? Taking advantage of him this way was perfectly
disgraceful.
As if responding to her pang of conscience, Bob said, "Wendy? Maybe
this isn't such a good idea."
She gave him a cautious look. His hazel eyes were wide with
apprehension. She took one hand off the wheel and patted his knee.
"It's just cold feet. It'll be all right, you'll see."
"Doctor Goody said it would be permanent."
After a moment she said, "I know. But you had electrolysis, and that's
permanent too. Remember how nervous you were? It worked out just
fine."
"This is different."
"Sure it's different. It's better! Oh Bob, you're going to be so
CUTE. I can hardly wait."
The fulfillment of her obsession was so close she was not about to
listen to his protests.
"Besides--" she put her hand back on the stockinged knee and slid it up
under his dress, up past the silkiness of nylons, onto the smoothness
of bare skin, mischievously grasped the satin-covered masses at the
junction of his thighs "--you won't be sorry. I'll see to that."
Bob jumped and pushed at her hand. "Quit! It tickles." She saw him
trying not to titter.
She gave him a squeeze on the swelling in his panties and smiled. Bob
was so responsive these days. Or maybe she was, and that started him
up.
Ever since that first evening a year ago, when she induced him to wear
one of her nighties to bed. On an impulse she hid his pajamas in the
laundry and told him she hadn't done the wash yet, and urged a dainty
gown on him, persuasively likening it to a nightshirt. Dressed in her
frills, he was suddenly, unexpectedly, stupefyingly, NON-THREATENING.
She could relax, even take over, straddling him on top, and it made all
the difference. A surprising slippery flow between her legs let her
push herself down on that huge thing, and there had been no anxiety,
only ecstasy. For the first time, the first time in their two-year
marriage, the first time ever, she experienced orgasm.
And that was that. She had to have more.
Bob said, "It's kind of creepy, isn't it? Does wearing a dress make
you feel that way too?"
"What?"
"You just went ahead and put your hand under my skirt and ... touched
me. It was like I wasn't even dressed."
"Oh." Bob was reacting to the--defenselessness--of having his legs all
but bare, covered only uncertainly by a skirt. She remembered how her
mother made her give up jeans on Sunday-school days. "I used to hate
it, but I like it now. It's kind of daring."
At first she thought it was only the thrill of sexual fulfillment that
made her egg him on to greater and greater lengths, first to wear her
nighties, then little by little, step by step, panties instead of boxer
shorts, stockings and garter belt secretly under his trousers,
"rewarding" him at each step with the kind of erotic lovemaking she had
never shown him before, until finally he was wearing her dresses and
heels and let his hair grow.
She came to see it was more than just a thrilling new kind of sex.
Making him wear her clothes put her deliciously in charge. She found a
deep need to be in control of him ... because he was a man. Because
of a fear that he might dominate her instead, unless she took the
initiative and rendered him powerless first.
Since Wendy was in other respects a well-balanced woman she knew how
irrational that was.
From the day they met he had adored her; and not once had he been
anything less than gentle and patient and tender. He never bullied
her, never showed the slightest inclination to do so. It was why she
married him. That gentleness, and because physically he was a small
slender man, five-five, her own height, far removed from the brusque
hairy masculine types who caused her to panic inside when they moved
their knowing eyes over her.
But it wasn't enough. Men BEAT women and children and then deserted
them.
Her head knew her father had been killed in a car accident; her heart
knew he had abandoned her and her sister.
Bob's tremulous voice interrupted her train of thought.
"Do I have to?"
"You promised."
"I know, but it's scary." He shifted in the seat. His fingers, tipped
with scarlet to match his lips, shook as he smoothed the skirt she had
pushed up. His wedding ring glinted. "Maybe we should think about
this some more. It's happening too fast."
He was right, she thought, it WAS scary. So--irrevocable.
"You know you'll like it."
"You will, you mean."
Wendy decided the car in front of them was going too slow, and focused
her attention on passing it on the bright open highway before saying,
"I admit it. I'll love it. Oh Bob--I mean, BARBARA-- you've made me
so happy these last months. Don't spoil it now."
"Why can't I just keep on like this? It's crazy enough just wearing a
dress outside the house. Suppose someone recognized me. Or ... "
His voice trailed off, and she knew what he was remembering.
"Like those men who--got you? Darling, you have to stop thinking about
that. It's in the past. Forget it and go on from here. They did it
to me too, you know."
"That's different. You're a woman."
"What's that supposed to mean, it's okay for women to be raped? Never
mind. Anyway, it was good for you."
"Good for me!"
"Yes." She went on doggedly, "Now you know how women feel, and it made
a change in you. You got gentler, more, I don't know, sweeter, more
feminine, and you have to admit that's good if you're going to wear
dresses."
There had been more than just a change in demeanor. After that
traumatic incident he developed rudimentary swellings on his chest that
reminded her of herself when she entered puberty, incipient little
titties that you could jiggle, almost as if his body was reacting to
its violation by feminizing itself. She loved it. The nipples were
perceptibly larger, oversize for a man, and were poignantly responsive
when she applied suction to them every day with her lips and tongue, in
the hope of making them bigger yet.
Then she learned Dr. Goody had a way to make men grow breasts, real
breasts. She hadn't given Bob a minute's peace until he consented to
go for treatment.
"You like wearing dresses. It turns you on. Doesn't it."
Bob's voice was a shy whisper. "I guess so."
"Me too. You'll never know how terrifying it was after--those men--
when you wanted to stop wearing dresses and grow a beard. Everything
was going straight down the drain. It was such a relief when you
changed your mind and I had my darling Barbara back."
"It means a lot to you."
"More than anything." Wendy slowed to make the turn onto the country
road leading to the clinic. "I'll be so proud of you! It's such a
turn- on to think of you with breasts. It'll be just like two women
living together. Except when we're in bed. It'll be paradise."
"But it's so ... irrevocable," he said, as though he had been reading
her mind before. "I couldn't ever go back to looking like a man.
Say," a sudden awareness was in his tone, "that's it, isn't it? You
want to make sure I can't change back."
"Of course not," she lied. "Don't be silly. I'm thinking of you.
You'll love it."
He brooded. At last he said, "I'll have to get a new job next tax
season. That might not be so easy."
"Lots of tax accountants are women. With your experience, any tax firm
would jump at the chance to hire you."
"How would they know? I couldn't give them references."
Wendy relaxed. He was going to go through with it, that was all that
mattered. They'd worry about a new job, or even buying a house in
another part of town if the neighbors got curious, when the time came.
The exultation that made her stomach lift returned. He was such a
dear. She wished she could stay with him at the clinic, but the doctor
said it would be "counterproductive." Never mind, next week she'd go to
San Cabrón with her sister and brother-in-law during the three months
of treatment. It would make the time pass quicker.
Reading her mind again, Bob sulked, "You'll be basking on a sunny beach
with Judy and Leon while I'm being tortured."
"Tortured." She laughed. "You know they'll treat you like a king. A
queen, I mean." She nudged him with her elbow. "Places like that
always do. Cheer up, it'll all be over soon."
"That's what they say on Death Row. I guess I'm just worried about,
well, you know, everybody there knowing."
"Only staff. Doctor Goody said the patients don't see each other."
"They'll think I'm gay."
"Gay! You're not gay."
"They'll think I am."
"We know better."
"It's embarrassing."
A pair of black wrought-iron gates loomed ahead.
"This must be it. It's the end of the road."
"I wish you hadn't said that."
Wendy turned through the gates. Gravel crunched under the tires as the
car moved along a winding driveway flanked by lawns and tall stately
oaks.
"God, it's a mansion," Bob said bitterly, looking at the sprawling
three- storied brick building. "This is going to be expensive."
She stopped in front of a columned portico. A white-coated orderly
opened the passenger door. Bob's skirt pulled up as he swung his legs
to the ground. She saw him blush as he stood and let it fall into
place. He wasn't used to being out in public in a dress. Wendy
wondered if the orderly knew what they were here for. Others must come
for the same treatment.
Birds made cheerful trills and katydids chirped as they walked to the
big doors. For a second Wendy thought Bob was going to bolt. He
stared around at the outside world with a look of panic, but when she
took his hand he subsided, gave her a shaky smile, and followed her to
the reception desk. The click of their heels echoed in the marble
lobby.
"Mrs. Miller to see Doctor Goody," Wendy told the girl at the desk,
meaning Bob, thinking suddenly they couldn't both be "Mrs. Miller."
Maybe she should take back her maiden name, Ogden. Mrs. Ogden. It
sounded funny, that was her mother, rest her soul.
"Doctor is expecting you. You can go right in."
Dr. Goody looked up owlishly through milk-bottle lenses when they
entered the office. He had sandy hair and a pleasant face.
His eyes examined each of them thoughtfully.
"Which one of you is here for treatment?"
Wendy grinned happily. "She is."
He said to Bob, "Mrs. Miller. I couldn't tell. Both of you are so
attractive." To Wendy as she seated herself, "And you would be the lady
I spoke with on the phone. Another Mrs. Miller, eh? You must be
sisters-in- law," he said with a twinkle behind the thick glasses.
"I'm glad you came. I wanted to speak to both of you, to be certain
you are fully aware of what's involved. Protogen, the substance we'll
be treating Mrs. Miller with, hasn't yet been approved by the Federal
Drug Administration, so you'll both have to sign a release registering
him--her--as an experimental subject. Mrs. Miller--" He hesitated.
"This is too awkward. I can't be calling you both Mrs. Miller. You
won't know who I'm talking to. What are your first names?"
"I'm Wendy and she's Barbara."
"Wendy and Barbara, don't let the word 'experimental' alarm you. We've
been working with protogen for years. It's quite safe. Do you know
what the treatment will do?"
"Make her breasts grow."
"Yes, certainly, but there is more to it than that. Let me explain how
the drug works." His voice took on a kind of pedantry. "In males, the
testicles produce testosterone and other androgens, hormones which
cause men to look and behave like men. In females, the ovaries make
estrogens, necessary for female characteristics. But in men and women
alike, the suprarenal glands, small structures adhering to the renal
organs, the kidneys, secrete both types of hormones in their
cortex--androgens and estrogens.
"Protogen was discovered by a team of researchers seeking a way to
increase sex drive in dysfunctional males. What it does is stimulate
the production of these adrenal hormones. The glands enlarge, becoming
almost the size of the kidneys to which they are attached. The output
of testosterone increases sharply, and to that extent an unparalleled
success was achieved, all the more because in a way that is not yet
fully understood, the use of all the body's male hormone--that
manufactured by the testicles as well as the adrenals--is focused on
the genital complex to produce large amounts of semen and spermatozoa,
resulting in a marked increase in sex drive.
"However, it leaves little or no male hormone to affect the rest of the
body's processes, such as the development and maintenance of male
physical characteristics.
"In the meantime the adrenals' supply of estrogen--female hormone--
increases to levels normal for women. As you might expect, in the
absence of testosterone to counteract it, the body reacts by becoming
feminized."
He droned on while Wendy's mind wandered.
" ... new bone formation at symphysis pubis and iliac crest ...
flattening of the thyroid cartridge ... general regression of thorax
and corresponding drop in clavicle angle ... gynecomastia ...
increase in subtrochanteric, gluteal and patellar fats ... island of
abdominal fat leading to deeply-set navel ... pre-pubic cushion ...
overall reduction of amount and coarseness of lanugo ... "
She didn't understand a word he was saying. Was Bob going to have tits
or not?
Just then he said to Bob, "You would be a woman in all secondary
respects," and her heart stuttered. "The effect is permanent and
irreversible. Protogen is not a hormone, you understand. It merely
redirects and rechannels the body's use of its own hormones, fooling it
into believing it is female, as it were. Once it has done that, no
further treatment is necessary. Do you understand?"
"I'm not sure what you mean by 'secondary'. "
"Your primary sexual organs are the penis and testicles, just as a
woman's are the vagina, ovaries, and uterus. The other distinctions
between male and female, despite their social importance, are
secondary-- just window-dressing, so to speak. You would still be a
male, but you would have the appearance of a female."
Appearance of a female. So he WOULD have tits.
"Oh." Bob looked thoughtful.
Dr. Goody continued, "You must be quite sure you want to go through
with this, because you won't be able to change your mind when we begin.
Once started, the process can be slowed, but can't be stopped. Er, I
assume you two enjoy normal conjugal relations? I apologize for being
so personal, but it is essential that you consider every aspect of this
matter."
Bob hesitated. Wendy thought he must be wondering about being on his
back when they made love--was that normal? She saw him decide the
doctor meant did they have sex together as man and woman. He said,
"Yes."
"Do you both expect to continue after the, ah, changes appear in
Barbara's body?"
Wendy said, "Yes! Why? Won't he be able to--?"
"Of course. In fact his, er, ardor, is certain to increase. As I
said, that is what the treatment was originally designed to do. I
meant, will you remain, ah, enthusiastic too? After all, he will look
very much like another woman."
"You don't have to worry about that. I'll love it."
"Well, then. You're both of age--" He looked at Bob. "You are of age,
are you not? You look younger than I remem--than I thought."
"I'm twenty-four."
"Yes. You're both of age, you know what you want, I see no reason we
can't move forward. It's fortunate you are not tall and muscular.
Such cases don't usually work out well."
He said to Wendy, "As I told you on the phone, the process goes much
more smoothly if the patient doesn't have visitors. Not to worry, we
won't keep him long." His eyes turned back to Bob. "Now as to
financial arrangements ... "
When they heard how much it would cost, Wendy saw the color drain from
Bob's face.
It would wipe out their bank account. They depended on the money Bob
made during one tax season to carry them through to the next.
Dr. Goody said, "I usually get half the fee before the start of
treatment and the remainder when the process is complete, in about
three months."
Wendy caught Bob's eye and pleaded silently with him to say yes. She
ventured, "We could take a mortgage out on the house."
He knew that the house, free and clear, was her pride and joy. For her
to make the offer must tell him something.
Bob said at last, "All right," and her heart beat so hard it made her
dress vibrate.
Dr. Goody smiled. "Good. We can get started with your examination.
Go through that door, remove your clothing, and I'll be right with
you." He said to Wendy, "It will take about two hours, if you want to
look over the grounds. We have an especially nice garden."
She stood up and bent to kiss her husband on the cheek. He looked
frightened. Never mind, she told herself, he'd get used to the idea,
he'd be happy about it. She'd MAKE him be happy.
Her Bob with breasts! She hugged herself with excitement as she went
out into the brilliant sunlight and wandered through formal gardens
lush with color. Wouldn't Judy and Leon be surprised. They knew Bob
wore dresses, and often they all had dinner together, three "women" and
a man. Judy would be jealous. Seeing Bob in female garments aroused
her for the same reasons as Wendy--how much more excited she'd be when
he had boobs. She'd be green.
It was because of their father. A bull of a man who treated his farm
animals more kindly than he did his family, he used to take her and
Judy into the woodshed to whip them with a broad razor strop for the
slightest misdeed. It was child abuse, she knew now. The spankings
went on too long when he made them bend over the woodpile, everything
showing, while their mother wrung her hands in the kitchen listening to
their screams. They were too young then to understand what it meant,
but they soon learned their punishments were never over until a wet
stain appeared at the end of something pipe-like in his overalls.
It left them with a strong anxiety about men. Judy handled it by
acting bold and flirtatious; but Wendy noticed she too married a man
who could be dominated, at least in private.
She wouldn't say anything to Judy and Leon until they all got back from
San Cabrón; then she'd have them over to dinner. Maybe she'd get Bob
to dress up as a French maid. Wouldn't that be delicious! She
recalled the time Judy made Leon serve them all, as a butler or
houseboy or something, and then spanked him with his pants down when he
spoke out of turn. It was a game the two of them played: Leon liked
Judy to be a-- what was that word she used, a dominatrix, that was
it--he liked her to discipline him and tell him what to do.
This was a game too, better than theirs.
God she was excited. She wondered if Bob would be able to wear her
bras without padding. Three months wasn't all that long, but she could
hardly wait. There was moisture in the join of her legs, and the
prospect of three months without sex was excruciating.
She went to the car to remove his suitcase, gave it to the orderly, and
arranged for the clinic's limousine to take her back to Chardsville.
That way if something went wrong, if Judy and Leon's schedule didn't
permit her to pick Bob up when he was released, he could drive himself
home.
The sun was sinking below the trees by the time Bob came out to the
garden. He was still pale but didn't look as wretched as before.
She asked, "How did it go?"
"Okay. He gave me the first shot."
"Already? That's wonderful! Oh Barbara, it's a dream come true. You
can be my sister and my lover at the same time."
Bob's shy smile lifted her heart. He was so attractive. As a man he
wasn't anything special, just kind of bland, but as a woman he
sparkled. His eyes caught the light and turned from hazel to a deep
gold; his brown hair, cut in a short bob, shone softly. The slender
wrists and hands that looked out of place on a man were just right in
his current guise; and his stockings caused his legs to be sleek and
round; his heels slimmed his ankles.
Bob put his arms around her. She felt something hard against her
stomach. He was erect in his panties.
She rubbed her pelvis suggestively against the hardness.
"Mm. You're going to miss me. --What's that smell?"
"What smell?"
"It's coming from you. Kind of like perfume. Sexy."
"I don't know. I have a funny taste in my mouth, though. It must be
from the shot."
She kissed him deeply, then pulled away feeling breathless. "I wish I
didn't have to go. You'll be all right?" Her conscience was still
trying to bother her.
"Sure. Doctor Goody talked to me. It made me feel better."
"I'm glad. Let's sit here on the bench and you can tell me all about
it. Did he say the stuff, what did he call it, would work?"
He sat next to her, smoothing his skirt primly. "Yes. He said I'd
most likely have good results. It was embarrassing, though."
"What was?"
"You know, taking off my clothes. I mean, I knew he knew I was a guy,
but ... well, it was embarrassing anyway. And then when he examined
me, he looked everywhere."
She patted his knee. There was a beep from the parking lot.
"Oh, there's the limo. I'm taking it back to Chardsville. Here, the
keys to the car. I'll leave it here, so you won't be trapped."
"Thanks." His eyes widened. "Oh-oh. You better get back on time.
Suppose something happened and a policeman stopped me? My license says
I'm a male." A shy smile touched his lips. "I don't resemble my photo
much, either."
They looked at each other and started laughing.
The limousine beeped again. Wendy said, "Quick, let's say good-bye
here so the driver won't see two ladies kissing."
He was still hard and that odor from his skin excited her. "I'll miss
you too."
Arm in arm they walked to the limousine. She gave him a quick self-
conscious embrace in front of the driver, putting her cheek next to his
in the way women do when they don't want to muss their makeup, and
climbed in.
She said, "I'll see you in three months."
"Yes. Get a nice tan."
She looked back as the limousine passed through the gate, but he had
already gone inside the building.
2. Chapter
Bob's room was efficient; that was the best you could say for it. It
was white and tiled and its principal article of furniture was a
hospital bed. The setting sun streamed through the window.
He sat on the edge of the bed collecting himself, trying to still the
butterflies in his stomach, forcing his mind away from the terrifying
future. He felt as though he had jumped out of an airplane and was
hurtling dizzily toward the ground, wondering if the chute would open.
Along with his fear was relief. He was committed. The decision had
been made; he took a cold comfort from that. The shot the doctor gave
him had started the process, and though further injections would hasten
its completion, the change in his appearance was now inevitable. His
body had been given notice, so to speak.
It was nice of Dr. Goody not to mention his earlier visit in front of
Wendy. Bob had called him this morning to say he hadn't said anything
about it to her; he would prefer she didn't know.
He first heard about the doctor through a tax client. In connection
with medical deductions the man mentioned, snickering, Dr. Goody's
specialty.
Months afterward, Bob remembered the conversation while stuffing
falsies in his brassiere, and was suddenly galvanized. Real breasts in
his bra! Wouldn't Wendy be thrilled. On an impulse he sneaked down to
the doctor's city office.
When he heard the process was permanent, he was disappointed. It would
have been fun. But go through life with tits? Forget it.
He permitted the doctor to give him a test scratch--some people were
supposed to react adversely to protogen, and Bob had just enough
curiosity to want to know if it would have been possible for him after
all, but had no intention of going through with it.
Far from rejecting the drug, his body responded so enthusiastically to
the minuscule presence of protogen that in a few days a certain
discomfort made him examine his chest, only to discover spongy areas
overlaying the pectoral muscles. In a few more days they had grown
alarmingly, becoming real, though rudimentary, breasts, like a
flat-chested woman, before the growth subsided. Other changes
occurred. His voice lost some of its resonance; over the phone people
occasionally mistook him for a female; and a not- quite-determinable
modification of his body appeared, as though a marginal layer of fat
smoothed the lines. Where before he could be characterized as "lean,"
now one would think of him as "slender."
He could still get a haircut and don a shirt and trousers, but
something very strange had happened to his body.
When Wendy noticed, she was enchanted. She formed the theory that the
trauma those men had put them through was the cause. She couldn't seem
to leave him alone. She kept nursing on the incipient breasts, sucking
hard. It was uncomfortable at first, but as he got inured to the
suction he began to derive sexual enjoyment from it; her moving tongue
sent thrills to his genitals.
"There," she would say, "I made the nipples stand up. They're so
CUTE."
He made the mistake of telling her what the tax client said. From that
moment she was relentless. But it was PERMANENT, he said helplessly,
and finally offered to have implants put in.
"That's no good," she said, "They're artificial. You want to have real
breasts. Besides, I heard there's a risk of cancer with implants. Or
the silicone leaking."
"How about hormones? They're supposed to give you real ones."
"But then you can't do anything in bed. Except sleep," she smiled.
"What good is that? Besides, you have to keep taking them, otherwise
you go back to normal. Please, Bob, for me?"
Her slip of the tongue--"otherwise you go back to normal"--struck him
at the time, but he didn't make the connection until today in the car.
She WANTED the change to be irreversible.
She got her way, as she usually did.
He caught himself. It was all right. He loved her dearly and wanted
to please her. He had always loved her. At first he worshipped her
from afar, right through high school--he never dared approach the
beautiful golden-haired girl who was so aloof. It wasn't until he had
gone on to college, just before his graduation, that at last he met her
face to face.
He was on his way to a class, but stopped when he saw her huddled on a
bench in the park, crying as though her heart would break. He sat next
to her and handed her a handkerchief.
"Thanks." She pressed it to reddened eyes and gave him a tremulous
tearful smile.
Her mother and father had just been killed in an automobile accident.
He started by comforting her, and went on to court her, during the
remainder of the semester.
If Bob had been a painter he would have put Wendy on canvas exactly the
way she was--no embellishments, no "improvements," no enhancements of
any kind. They were not needed. Wendy's hair was a luxury of red-gold
curls, tumbling to the middle of her back. Her eyes shone green as
emeralds, their shape reversed from the normal, wider at the outer
corners than at the inner. She was slender with good breasts and a
narrow waist and legs all the way up to her ass. She was the most
beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he wanted to keep her forever.
If he were Sir Walter Raleigh, he would count it a privilege, not to
lay his cloak over the mud puddle, but to lay himself across it so she
could step on him. Her seeming aloofness turned out to be no more than
shyness with boys. The day after his graduation they were married.
She was a virgin. He saw fear in her eyes on their wedding night and
although her beauty roused in him a burning, compelling lust, he forced
himself to forego intercourse until she got used to being in bed with
him. In a few days she asked him to do it to her. The fear still
lurked in her eyes; she was tight and dry; and breaking her maidenhead
was painful to her no matter how gentle he made himself be. Later she
told him she asked only because she wondered if he found her
unattractive, or didn't love her as much as she did him. She knew men
had certain desires that had to be satisfied. She did love him, but it
wasn't long before he realized intercourse was a chore for her, not the
joy he had hoped to give. As time went on, their once-a-week routine
seemed to yield satisfaction to her; but he sensed it was only because
it was proof that she remained desirable to him.
He did everything he could think of to make things better, to invoke
some kind of feeling in her down there, without success.
Until that magic day when he had run out of clean pajamas and had to
borrow one of her nightgowns. For the first time he saw excitement in
her face when they went to bed, and was astonished to hear her ask
timidly if she could be on top. He was thrilled. Never before had she
wanted to try anything but the missionary position.
And then--it was beyond belief. She was like a tiger. By the time he
ejaculated she had climaxed a dozen times, it seemed.
The key was for him to wear her garments. He was more than eager if it
produced such an ardent response, and got excited because it was so
bizarre and gave her so much pleasure, and that was what he wanted, to
please her. There was an added bonus. He loved her so much that in a
way he wanted to BE like her. Wearing her clothes turned him on; he
identified with her.
The whole thing grew more and more intense and arousing for both of
them. He remembered the abandon of their lovemaking after he went out
with her in public in a dress the first time, it was in Chard's Lake
Park at night, he'd been terrified, but when they were safe home again
the terror metamorphosed into lust.
Somehow it got out of hand and led them to this.
Not satisfied with putting him in women's clothes, she was putting him
in a woman's body.
How were they ever going to pay for it? Wendy was right, they would
have to mortgage the house. He'd have to go to work at a full- time
job. Until now he'd been able to work hard for only the three months
of tax season to provide them with a living for the rest of the year.
Wendy liked him to be able to spend time with her, help her with chores
around the house. The arrangement was financially marginal at best--it
was always touch-and-go with their bank account by January--so their
budget couldn't handle a mortgage payment.
God, a full-time job. That meant wearing a dress in front of fellow
employees, not just in the house or in brief daring forays into the
outside world, as today, but up close! He knew his disguise was good;
he didn't know if it was THAT good. Could he get away with it? Find
work as a WOMAN, keep up the pretense in front of others who would see
him day after day? He'd have to. There wouldn't be any choice.
Richard Haskell, a lawyer in town, had been after Bob to come to work
for him for years, evidently seeing an increase in business if he could
offer his clients tax accounting services in addition to legal. In a
last-ditch effort he had recently offered Bob a partnership. He'd have
liked that. It would have meant a lot more money, and a chance for
them to build that new house. But he guessed it was out now.
A voice broke into his thoughts. "Mrs. Miller?"
It took a moment for him to remember HE was "Mrs. Miller." When he
turned, a comfortable-looking fortyish woman in a starched white
uniform smiled at him.
"I'm Nurse Baker. I'll be attending you during the day. Mrs.
Simmons, you'll meet her this evening, will be your night nurse."
Her eyes moved over him frankly. "My, aren't you going to be the
pretty little thing. It's nice when they're not all macho to begin
with. It comes out so much better. Let's see," she looked at a
clipboard, "Cauc male age twenty-four, five-five, et cetera et cetera,
married-- married? hm!--no children, good health, no allergies to
medication. Blood type O-positive. I see we already had our first
shot. Good, all we need to know. Sit right there while I unpack our
suitcase."
She busied herself with hanging his dresses in the closet and putting
his underwear in a cabinet drawer.
"What nice clothes you have. Does your wife pick them out for you?
She has such good taste. You won't get much use out of them here,
though. Did Doctor tell you what to expect?"
"He said I'd be sick for a while."
"Yes. Don't worry, dear, I'll be here to see after you. What's the
matter?"
Bob closed his eyes, feeling queasy. He put his hand out to stop
himself from swaying.
"Nothing. I just felt funny for a moment."
"We got here just in time, didn't we? We'd better get right in bed."
She took a hospital gown from the closet and draped it over her arm.
"Get out of those things and I'll tuck you in."
"I'll change in the bathroom."
Nurse Baker smiled. "Not on your life. Doctor would have my head if I
wasn't with you every minute for the first few weeks. Oh, look how
pink our face is. We don't have to be embarrassed. I've been through
this many times," she said practically. "Turn around, I'll help with
your zipper."
Bob shook his head stubbornly. "I'm not going to undress out here.
I'll change in the bathroom." He took the gown from her.
"Honestly, some patients." She glared at Bob before capitulating,
"Don't close the door all the way. I have to be able to hear."
Something in her manner told him she was only biding her time, she
would pay him back later. He took off his clothes, leaving the panties
on out of modesty, put on the short gown, and washed his makeup off
with cold cream and soap before pushing the door open and climbing into
bed.
Nurse Baker held out her hand.
Bob looked at her. "What?"
"Underwear."
His cheeks heated. He wriggled the panties off under the sheet and
handed them to her.
She picked up the discarded clothing in the bathroom. He heard, "Huh.
We won't be needing these in our bra any more, will we?"
She returned shaking a thermometer.
"Turn over," she said cheerfully.
"Uh, can't you do it another way?"
"This is the way we do it. Turn over."
Bob rolled onto his front. She pulled down the sheet and lifted the
brief gown to expose his bare ass. Her warm hand spread his cheeks; a
moment later the thermometer poked in, sliding icily half its length.
She left her hand on him while she waited. "I'll be giving you your
injection each morning after Doctor makes his rounds." She patted his
ass and said sympathetically, "I'm afraid the next few days will be
difficult, but we'll do our best for you."
That night he slept poorly. Restless in a strange bed, beginning to
feel sick to his stomach, he tossed and turned until the night nurse
woke him to give him a sedative. He had a moment to appreciate the
irony of waking somebody up to give them a sleeping pill before he
dropped off again, troubled by uneasy dreams. His chest hurt. He
tried sleeping on his side, but it didn't help much.
In the morning he was genuinely ill. Dry, feverish, he endured Nurse
Baker's ministrations, unresisting when she turned him over and
inserted her thermometer, or when he felt the bite of a new injection
in his backside. When she helped him to sit up and put a glass of
orange juice to his lips, he sipped eagerly, hoping the clear acid of
the juice would wash away the taste in his mouth; but he wasn't able to
keep it down. The room spun. He moaned, and spewed into the pan the
nurse held for him.
As from a distance he heard, "There, there, poor dear. It's taking
hold very well, I can tell by the odor. It shows your glands are
adjusting. Lie back, I'll give you something to make you sleep."
Bob felt a new needle, in his arm this time, and let himself drift down
into welcome oblivion.
Nurse Baker had said it would be difficult. "Difficult" wasn't the
word. The next weeks were pure misery. Days and nights ran into each
other as, doped up and nauseated and aching in every bone and muscle,
Bob endured the torment. His chest and hips hurt abominably, and he
couldn't seem to get comfortable. When he lay on his stomach,
burgeoning unfamiliar fleshy masses on his front warned him with pain;
every time he tried to lie on his side, his pelvis protested. His skin
exuded a mushrooms-and-vanilla aroma from every pore. A sweet taste of
musk set up residence in his mouth.
He was troubled by frequent erotic dreams that left him sweating and
only barely conscious of achieving release; the hospital gown seemed
constantly wet and sticky near its lower edge, though it was changed
often.
At last, through a drugged haze, he heard Nurse Baker ask the doctor,
"No shot today? It's only been three weeks."
"You see how responsive he's been. His body has taken over on its
own."
"I'm glad of that. He's had the whole staff in a state."
"I know. I feel it too. There's something, er, primal about that
odor, isn't there?"
She gave a short laugh. "It makes you want to take off all your
clothes. My husband doesn't know what to make of me."
Bob lapsed into a slumber that lasted through the remainder of the day
and night, except for the times Nurse Simmons shook him to ask if he
was asleep. The next morning he woke rested, still aching and
desperately weak, but ravenously hungry.
He sat up unsteadily. A drag on his chest caused him to look down.
The top of his gown was full. It didn't mean anything to him; he was
sleepy and dazed and grateful for the relative absence of soreness in
his body.
Nurse Baker came in with a breakfast tray.
"Good morning," she said cheerfully. "How are we today?"
"Better. Hungry." There was something wrong with his voice.
"We must be starving! The only nourishment we've had for three weeks
has been through an IV tube."
"Three weeks," he repeated dully.
"Yes."
"It feels like a lifetime. Is it over?"
"All over but the cheering. We'll have to stay a while until
everything settles down, but no more shots. We're lucky, it usually
takes twice as long."
He was conscious of her watching him while he applied himself to the
oatmeal and toast. He wished there were eggs and ham and fruit, but
realized his stomach must have shrunk: the last swallows went down
hard. He waited. Mercifully, the food stayed in him.
All over? Gradually it came to him. Then ... the weight on his
chest, the tender swellings that kept getting in the way of his arms as
he fed himself, were breasts! Already! It WAS over. A tumultuous
series of mixed emotions swept through him. A terrible sense of
violation. A diaphragm-lifting excitement. Apprehension--had it
worked? Were they big enough to make the torment worthwhile?
Bob looked down at his chest. The hospital gown was pushed out. His
heart pounded.
He glanced up at Nurse Baker shyly. He wanted to see himself, but was
too abashed to do it in front of her.
She smiled. "All done? I bet I know what we're thinking. I'll just
put this tray away, and we'll let you have a look at yourself in the
mirror. Do you think you can stand up if you lean on me?"
Bob struggled out of bed and sat panting weakly on the edge. The blood
drained from his head. He paused while the room brightened again and
stopped its reeling. It was amazing, he thought, how frail you could
become in only a few weeks.
Nurse Baker said, "There's a full-length mirror on the back of the
bathroom door. Careful." She put an arm around his waist and helped
him to his feet. His skin felt as if it had been turned inside out and
all the nerve endings exposed. His legs shook, knees weak, as she
guided him to the bathroom.
"Here we are," she said, flicking on a bright overhead light and
turning him to face the mirror. "Lean back against me and we'll just
open our gown. We're going to be pleased."
She pulled a Velcro fastener at his shoulder. The whole front of the
garment fell open.
Bob gasped, forgot his embarrassment, and stared.
His reflection was alien. What he was seeing wasn't HIM, it was a
girl. Her hair was matted and stringy, but her figure was stunning.
Incongruously, at the junction of her thighs she sported a penis, balls
hanging under it in a rosy sack.
The image's slender hands lifted wonderingly to cup a pair of alluring
breasts. It was not until he felt himself touching them that he
identified with the reflection in the mirror.
His jaw dropped.
The tits he was holding were pert and proud, perfectly formed, very
nearly as big as he remembered Wendy's. They had swollen areolas
tipped by nipples as thick and pink and cylindrical as new pencil
erasers. They were beautiful! A warm feeling of satisfaction came
over him.
He squinted. He had lost weight; his ribs showed; but was his waist
narrower than it had been? After a moment he felt sure of it. His
satisfaction increased--he'd be able to wear form-fitting dresses
without the damn' waist-cincher. That protogen was powerful stuff.
Wendy would be tickled pink.
His knees gave way. Nurse Baker caught him.
"That's enough for now. There'll be plenty of time later," she said
gently. "Let's get back to bed."
It was all he wanted. He was suddenly exhausted. By the time Nurse
Baker tucked him in he was asleep.
When he woke again the mid-afternoon sun was making bright panes of
light on the tile floor. He felt refreshed and excited.
He sat up, gave a wary glance at the open door, and pulled open the
gown. He hadn't been dreaming. He had breasts, just like a woman! It
was so kinky a thought that his cock warmed and jumped into erection.
He started to caress them, but they were sore.
The squeak of rubber-soled shoes in the hall warned him that the nurse
was coming. He closed the gown hastily.
"Well! We're awake at last," she gave him a cheerful smile. "How are
we feeling?"
"Fine. Much better." He returned her smile sheepishly, conscious of
his hard-on.
"We do look better. How about a nice sponge bath and a late lunch? Or
early dinner. But first," she took out her thermometer and shook it,
"let's get this over with. Turn over."
Bob rolled onto his stomach, making sure his erection was pressed up
against it and hidden. Why couldn't she take his temperature like
normal people?
The cold insertion caused his prick's stiffness to increase. His
weight on the new breasts hurt; he had to lift the upper part of his
body on his elbows.
Warm hand on his ass, Nurse Baker said, "Doctor was quite pleased with
our progress. He said we could probably go home within a month from
now."
"I thought it was supposed to take three months." It came out a squeak.
He cleared his throat.
"It varies. Some people do better than others. If everything goes as
well as it has so far, we'll be the fastest case yet." She removed the
thermometer and looked at it. "Excellent. We're doing very well. Now
we can sit up."
He pulled up the sheet to keep his erection hidden.
"What's the matter with my voice?"
"Voice? Oh, I see. Our vocal cords are tightening up. It's natural,
just the reverse of our voice breaking during adolescence. But then we
wouldn't want to sound like a baritone anymore, would we?"
She filled a pan of water in the bathroom sink and brought it to the
bedside. "Now for a sponge bath. Tomorrow we'll do our hair."
She must have misinterpreted his expression because she said, "Don't
worry, I know we must still have discomfort. I'll be careful." With
practiced movements she dipped a washcloth, soaped it, and wrung it
out. She kept up a running chatter.
"My, things have changed, haven't they? Welcome to the club! This is
the part of my job I like best. Patients come in all full of beans and
vinegar, and leave all sugar and spice."
Bob winced when she hefted his sore breasts to wash them.
"A little tender? It'll go away in a few weeks, when we're all done
developing."
"I thought I was done."
"We're finished with the injections, but our body is still changing.
In a month or so the process will be complete."
Bob thought it over, prick straining.
"They'll, ah, get bigger?"
"When the discomfort stops we'll know they aren't growing any more.
I'm sure we'll have nothing to be ashamed of when we see other women.
We're in for some surprises, though. It's hard out there. Men make
the rules and you have to go along with them. I don't know what you do
for a living, but you'll probably have to take a cut in pay for the
same work. Oh, sure, men treat you with consideration, they hold doors
for you, but that's only because they think you're too fragile and
feeble-minded to do it yourself. Scratch any man, no matter how
enlightened he says he is, and under that smug surface is someone who
thinks that all that women are good for is the kitchen and bedroom.
You'll see."
She was sharing a woman's point of view with him. Her words held
bitterness, but paradoxically they gave Bob a perspective that filled
him with anticipation. It would be like being a new person. He'd be
able to leave his past behind, his failures, and start over.
Nurse Baker went on, "Never mind, there will be rewards too. Oh-oh.
What have we here?"
She started washing his erection.
"It's time for us to become acquainted with Miss Vee, I see. Don't be
embarrassed. This always happens. I like to think of it as the male
part protesting its fate. My, he's a big fellow, isn't he?"
She dried him, giving his stiff penis a teasing squeeze, mercifully
drew the sheet over him though it was held up like a tent, and gathered
up the washing utensils.
"Try to get some rest, now. I'll be back later to introduce you to
Miss Vee."
Surprisingly refreshed by the sponge bath, somewhat reassured by Nurse
Baker's matter-of-fact acceptance of his hard-on, Bob lay wondering who
Miss Vee was, and whether they actually expected him to be unfaithful
to Wendy, and drifted in and out of sleep until Nurse Baker returned
holding an instrument in her hand.
She said, "Hi! Ready to meet Miss Vee? Miss Vibrator. We're going to
be seeing a lot of her."
She showed him the device she was holding. It was a clear plastic
tube, the lower half of which was encased in folds of pink rubber. A
hose led to a small pump.
Bob felt a scarlet blush flame over his entire body.
He remonstrated, but she overbore him. He was still too strengthless
to withstand her. He remembered her expression when he refused to take
off his clothes in front of her.
She sat on the edge of the bed, squeezed lubricating jelly on her
fingertips and smeared it around the tube's opening. Lifting the gown,
she exposed his swollen cock. He flinched uncontrollably when she
grasped it with one hand and with the other slid the device down on it,
engulfing him in slippery latex.
She touched a switch. Instantly suction clamped his organ wetly and
the device writhed upright. An exquisite vibration began.
A broken sound emerged from his throat.
He started to pull the thing off, but she grabbed his wrists and held
them away from his body.
In an agony of humiliation, desperately conscious of Nurse Baker
watching, unable to move, he felt his genitals gather tension. The
machine took over, sucking and trembling in an irresistible rhythm.
Within ten seconds ecstasy gripped him as he ejaculated wildly, pumping
helplessly into the tube, his semen drawn by the vacuum.
The orgasm ended, but the vibration and clenching of the machine
prevented his penis from softening. He looked desperately up at the
nurse, imploring her with his eyes to remove it, but it was not long
before a new warmth attested to the fact that his balls were getting
ready to loose yet another series of squirts.
In half a minute his prick erupted again. The sensation was sharper,
more intense, now that it wasn't just a matter of relieving the
pressure. He gasped, "Ooh-h," and writhed in a spasm of rapture, as
his testicles were drained.
When it was over she released his wrists. He panted, "No more."
"Again." Her eyes were obsessed.
He submitted to the continuing mechanical rape. In less than a minute
he was sobbing and whining in frenzied ecstasy as surge after surge of
semen pulsed through his organ. He convulsed, gripped his aching
breasts, the stiffness of erect nipples sending their own zigzags of
sensation down to his groin--and the turbulent throbbing went on,
spurting until his balls were wracked with effort and his cock began to
soften, bending in the liquid-washed tube, snatched upright again by
the rhythm of the suction.
He moaned ecstatically, despairingly. His eyes dimmed. He lost
consciousness.
The next thing he knew his prick was a flaccid weight on his belly and
Nurse Baker was holding the device up to her eye, looking at the
quantity of mottled white fluid in it.
She said, "Yes, indeed. We needed that." She covered him up. "There
now. Don't we feel better? Miss Vee will be back tomorrow morning.
Twice a day from now on."
He savored the pleasurable emptiness of his balls, sensing that they
were already working to fill again, and thought he would welcome "Miss
Vee" when Nurse Baker brought her back. God, she had made him come
three times in two minutes. It must be some kind of world's record.
He might look like a woman, but he was definitely still a man--though
being taken over by Nurse Baker in that personal way didn't help much
to make him feel like one.
He had a sense of fatigued well-being. The hard part was over. He
would have a month more convalescence to let his body complete changing
on its own, and then he could go home.
It would be another month and a half after that before Wendy returned.
He didn't know how he could wait. He was dying to show her what he
looked like. The grateful delight on her face blessed his inner eye as
he drifted down again into a peaceful slumber.
3. Chapter
Andrew Joiner's shoulders got warm in the sun in an hour or so despite
the chill autumn air. Sweat trickled under his arms. He wished he
could take off his flannel shirt, but he knew nobody would pick up a
bare-chested hitchhiker. He used the inside of his elbow to wipe
perspiration from his forehead.
He sat down on the concrete wall of a culvert that bridged a sparkling
brook and thought, In a minute I'll climb down and have a drink and
soak my head. He was tired and his belly felt bloated and
uncomfortable. He folded his arms against it and bent forward. It
helped.
Andy figured he'd covered about ten miles from Dr. Goody's clinic. It
would be another ten to the highway. He could do that in a little more
than a couple of hours if he got moving.
He clambered down to the brook and washed his face and drank his fill.
The water was cold as ice, refreshing. He ran a pocket comb through
his wet hair, staring into the stream to see his reflection, but it was
running too fast. He knew what he looked like, anyway. Like somebody
had chiseled his face out of rock and did a clumsy job of it.
Chickadees twittered in the silence of midday.
He hefted his small duffel and started walking again. Thirty-six
hundred bucks, he thought. Might as well be thirty-six million.
He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, trudging
doggedly along the side of the deserted road. There was little or no
traffic here, small chance for a ride until he got to the main highway.
The only cars he'd seen this morning had been heading toward the
clinic. Didn't anyone ever leave?
Thirty-six hundred. His mouth had fallen open when the doctor handed
him the itemized list. The basic operation alone was twelve hundred,
and it wasn't any good without the cosmetic surgery to go along with
it. A chagrined blush warmed Andy's cheeks when he remembered how he
pleaded with him to let him work at the facility in return for the
operations. He wasn't used to begging. It had almost worked, though.
He saw sympathy in Dr. Goody's face, and the man hesitated before
repeating that there were no openings.
How long would it take him to raise the money? The trade school had
given him the elements of woodworking, he had graduated at the top of
his class, but at eighteen he had years to go before he could claim to
be a skilled cabinetmaker, and the chances of getting a carpenter's job
on a construction site were zero unless he belonged to the union--and
the chances of getting in the union during this recession were also
zero, unless, like his classmate Ray Tynan, he had a father who was a
big shot in it.
Never mind, he told himself. He was young and healthy and strong, and
willing to do just about any kind of work. That's all you need to make
a mark in the world, his father had told him before he died. He'd make
out.
But he could see he might have to resign himself to his disorder for
years and years before he could have anything done about it. It was
discouraging.
His father had put up with it until he was past thirty; so could he.
It was a family thing--his grandmother suffered from it, too, though it
was different for her.
Andy's stomach rumbled with hunger. The pang was followed by another
kind of gripe situated in his intestinal region, warning him he was in
for another siege. Damn it. He hoped it would hold off until he got
to a drugstore. If he got a ride soon.
In answer to his wish, the thin buzz of a motor behind him came to his
ears. He turned and held out his thumb.
As the car passed, he saw that its occupant was a young woman, hair
fluttering in the breeze of the car's passage. She gave him a swift
appraising look from hazel eyes just before he dropped his thumb
disconsolately. A woman alone in a car didn't pick up hitch-hikers.
An instant later, however, the car slowed to a stop. It waited by the
side of the road.
He ran to the door, opened it, and slid in, tossing the duffel on the
back seat.
"Thanks," he panted. "Thought I'd have to walk the rest of my life."
"Where are you headed?"
"See if I can find work in the city."
She put the car in gear. "I'm only going as far as Chardsville, but I
can let you off on the highway when we get there."
Her eyes sparkled. There was an air of suppressed exuberance about
her. Her happy look lifted his spirits. She reminded Andy of how he
used to feel as a child when he woke up realizing it was his birthday.
He watched her out of the corner of his eye. Wow, nice bazooms. Nice
legs, too. Her skirt was drawn up to free them for driving, showing a
shapely expanse of thigh.
She must have sensed his interest, for she tugged her dress down to a
decent height. He turned his eyes away tactfully. She had a wedding
ring, hands off.
She was a good driver, handling the car confidently, keeping to the
speed limit, braking slightly before curves but accelerating on them so
he felt almost no sway. He relaxed against the seat back and enjoyed
the drive.
When they came to the highway she got a strained look; her generous
lips compressed. She slowed to well below the limit. He glanced back
and saw that cars were beginning to pile up behind them, and at regular
intervals they roared past impatiently. Each time it happened, she
shrank and her cheeks got white under the rouge highlighting them. He
wondered what was wrong.
After half an hour of tension he was thrown forward and back when she
braked sharply and accelerated again. There was nothing in sight. He
darted a glance at her. She was pale and anxious and kept looking in
the rear-view mirror.
"What's the matter?"
Still staring in the mirror she said, "Oh, he's turning. A policeman.
I shouldn't have put on the brakes, but I was startled when he went
past."
Andy twisted to look back. Several cars behind, a black-and- white was
completing a U-turn.
"Don't worry, he won't bother you. You didn't break any laws. At the
most he'll want to see your license and registration."
"I don't have a license!"
"You don't have--?" He thought fast. "Okay, turn in up here. Here.
The Flakey's Diner. Quick now. Park on the other side of that
eighteen-wheeler. Away from the road."
The tires screeched as she swerved into the parking lot. Before the
car had stopped rocking he was out and racing around to the driver's
side.
He opened the door.
"Shove over. If he comes looking for us, I was driving, right?" Her
body was delicate as he bumped her over to the passenger side with his
hip.
They were just in time. The cruiser, lights flashing, stopped quietly
behind them.
Andy climbed out of the car and waited.
A trooper, a big man of middle years with a gentle, cautious face,
moved toward him and held his hand out. His eyes were amused as they
glanced between Andy and the frightened-looking woman in the passenger
seat.
Andy pulled out his worn wallet and gave him his license.
The trooper looked it over carefully, comparing the picture on it with
Andy's face.
"Registration?"
"Uh ... "
The woman scrambled in the glove compartment. A moment later she
leaned over and poked the registration slip at him through the window.
He passed it to the trooper.
"Robert Miller?"
"My huhk. Husband," the woman said.
The trooper handed the documents back to Andy. "You were driving a
little erratically back there."
"A bee flew in. I lost my head for a moment."
"Yeah?" Smile wrinkles deepened at the corners of his eyes. "Gotta
watch them bees. Okay, sir. You have a nice day."
When he got to his cruiser the trooper turned.
"She wants to learn to drive, take her out to some deserted road. Too
much traffic on the highway."
Andy grinned, "Thanks."
He got in the car and started laughing as the trooper backed out of the
lot.
The woman looked surprised, then giggled. "A bee! You said a bee flew
in! Quick as a wink." Her laughter grew. There was relief in it.
"We didn't fool him for a second," Andy gasped.
They laughed together until she said, "As long as we're here let's get
a hamburger."
He sobered. "Uh ... well, you go ahead, I'm not too hungry."
The hazel eyes softened. "It's okay," she said. "It's on me. I owe
it to you. You were so clever and resourceful. I don't know what I'd
have done without you. Come on, keep me company."
At the table she grinned, "I guess we should introduce ourselves, since
we escaped the clutches of the law together. I'm Barbara Miller."
He smiled back. "Andy Joiner. How come you don't have a license? You
drive fine."
Her eyes dropped and color mounted in her cheeks. "I used to have one,
but I carelessly let it expire."
He didn't know whether to believe her, maybe it was suspended, but let
it pass.
The waitress brought their hamburgers. His mouth watered. He tried to
eat casually, but when the last French fry was gone he realized she was
still on the first half of her hamburger, and that he had wolfed his
meal.
She said, "Oof. I can't finish this. Would you?" She pushed her dish
toward him. "I don't like to leave food on my plate."
"You sure?"
"My eyes were bigger than my stomach."
Through a mouthful of burger he asked, "You live in Chardsville, huh?"
"Yes."
"I'll drive you there if you want."
"Would you? You're so nice. It won't be taking you out of your way,
will it?"
"Naw, any town's good. Maybe I can get a job there."
"What kind of work do you do?"
"I'm a carpenter."
"I bet you won't have any trouble. You were at Dr. Goody's clinic,
weren't you? It's the only place on that road. If I'm not being too
personal can I ask why?"
"I went to see him about an operation," he said, and stopped. It was
too private to talk about.
"What kind of operation?"
"Just ... uh ... kind of cosmetic surgery."
"Oh." Her gaze was direct and speculative, but she didn't persist.
"Tell me about yourself. How old are you?"
"Eighteen."
"I thought you were older, maybe my age. I'm twenty-four. Why are you
hitchhiking? Aren't your folks worried?"
"They died a couple of months ago in a fire, and after the funeral I
decided to see if I could find work down in the city. More people,
more contractors, more chance of a job."
"Poor boy. It must be terrible to lose both your parents at once."
"Yeah, well ... " He looked at his plate. He didn't want to talk
about it. He might start crying or something.
She said, "Look, we have a small house in Chardsville. There are all
kinds of repairs we've been putting off. We can't afford to hire you,
but if you don't have a place to stay you could sleep in the guest room
and earn a little pocket money by doing odd jobs for us while you're
looking for work."
He stared.
"You don't know me. Aren't you afraid I might be some kind of, uh,
maniac?"
She laughed. "Are you?"
"No, but I mean, well ... "
"I know what you mean. Let's just say I'm a good reader of character.
Besides, how do you know I'M not a maniac?"
He grinned, "I'm a good character-reader too," and then laughed out
loud at the thought that he might be afraid of this delicate creature.
"Come on," she smiled. "It's still an hour's drive."
"Okay. Can we stop at a drugstore on the way? It won't take long."
"I have to pick up some groceries anyhow. There's a pharmacy in the
shopping center."
Her house was one of a row on a tree-lined side street. He maneuvered
the car into a garage squeezed between the side of her house and the
neighbor's, and followed her through the back door into the kitchen.
When she turned on the lights he noticed the cabinets had been
repainted so many times the paint was practically thicker than the
wood, and the linoleum on the floor was worn.
He put the groceries down on an old white-enamel table that looked like
it had been picked up at a rummage sale. The house had a musty
unlived-in smell. Nobody seemed to be home.
"Where's your husband?" he asked.
She hesitated. "We're separated. I live with my ... sister-in-law."
He heard the same artificial note in her voice as when she told him her
license was expired, but it was none of his business, so he didn't
press her.
A pang of discomfort in his belly made him wince.
"Uh, you mind if I use the facilities?"
Peering into the refrigerator, she said, "At the top of the stairs."
He took his duffel and the package from the drugstore and sat on the
toilet to relieve himself. Damn it all, he knew it, his jockey shorts
had tracks on them. Well, it happens, he thought resignedly. It would
stop when he had the operation. He wiped himself, used one of the pads
in the package, and secreted the box in his duffel before going back
downstairs.
The house was neat and clean and comfortable, but shabby. It was easy
to see she wasn't exaggerating when she said "all kinds of repairs."
Everywhere he turned he saw something that needed done. He knew people
got used to places they lived in and lost sight of just how run down
things became; but it was long past time to do something to halt the
downward slide. This kitchen for example ...
"How about if I fix up your kitchen?"
"What?"
"The kitchen. It needs painted and a bunch of other things." He
pointed to the leaking faucet and the stained wall which shouted the
presence of a problem with the pipes. "You could use some new tile on
the floor, too."
"I know! But--well, it sounds expensive."
"Yeah. I could look around and see if I can come up with a bargain on
materials."
"You can't do all that just for room and board," she protested. "I
didn't mean for you to do slave labor."
"Hey, you were nice to me, let me be nice to you. Besides, I ain't got
anything else yet."
The more he gazed at the room, the more there seemed to do. A kind of
happiness came over him. This was the kind of work he liked. Look, if
he tore out the stove and built it into a counter right where the
kitchen table was, an island, like, she'd have more cabinets for those
orphan pots and pans, and it would save her steps. He could shift the
sink over to where the stove had been to give plenty of counter space
on either side, and she'd be looking out the window when she was
washing the dishes instead of at the wall. It wouldn't take too much
to totally transform the room--a little Formica, strip and repaint,
shape up the cabinet doors so they all matched. He guessed his
enthusiasm was contagious, because in the end she said, "We-ell ... I
do have some money coming in. This law firm has a couple of clients
who asked for me to do some stuff for them. Maybe we could afford a
LITTLE work."
"Trust me. I'll do it as cheap as I can. Have to rent tools, though.
You got any credit in town?"
"You just tell me where to call and I'll fix it up."
The next morning he looked up a tool rental place in the Yellow Pages,
drove her car there, and salivated at the tools on display. He told
her about it when he returned, unloading all his treasures.
"The guy was real nice. At first he thought I was a do-it- yourselfer,
but when I asked for sharpening stones--so's I could return his stuff
in good shape, you know--he said if I did a good job for you I maybe
could work off the price of the tools. So they might not cost you
anything."
"That's good news."
"I told him I got in town yesterday, and he was surprised I already
found work." Andy grinned. "Said I must be a Goin' Jessie, whatever
that is. I didn't tell him it was only for room and board."
He did what he could to schedule the work to cause the least
inconvenience--he built the island and counter tops before tearing out
the things they were meant to replace--but inevitably there came a
couple of days when the kitchen was inoperative. He turned off the gas
and water and disconnected the stove and sink, and, with a propane
torch and solder, set about changing the run of the pipes to the new
locations.
Mrs. Miller was dismayed when she saw the baseboards pried off, the
floor laid bare of linoleum, cabinets stripped of paint, wall torn
open; and hesitantly asked if the work would be finished by the time
her sister-in-law returned in a month. It surprised him. He was
almost done, couldn't she see that? The hard part was the preparation.
He looked around and tried to see it through her eyes. It did look
kind of terrible. But everything should go like clockwork now.
He told her it would be finished in a couple of days. She looked
doubtful, but bore up like a trooper, cheerfully ordering take-out for
them and cooking their bacon and eggs on a hot plate on the dining room
table in the morning.
She was working hard too. It turned out she was some kind of tax
accountant, which amazed him at first. He didn't know she was such a
big deal. She set about preparing complicated tax returns for a couple
of rich people, a bank president, she said, and the owner of a big
company in town. He admired her diligence when he passed through the
dining room, which she was using as an office. She had large volumes
of fine print piled all over the table, and was cute as a button behind
big round reading glasses perched on her nose. Once or twice he tried
to make out what she was doing, but it was all Greek to him. That was
okay; she couldn't saw a straight line. Everyone to his own trade.
When he began to lay the tiles she got a worried expression.
"A new floor? Er, isn't this all going to be pretty expensive?"
"I tried to keep the cost down, but I figure it'll add to the value of
your house. I'm not sure exactly--the materials, paint--I didn't want
to skimp on paint, have you do the job all over again in a year. I
found a place that sells seconds in plywood--and then renting the
tools, they're pretty expensive. But they don't count, the rental guy
said I could work them off. I guess," he said hesitantly, "I guess
maybe like two-fifty."
"What?"
He blushed. "Two hundred and fifty dollars. I know it's a lot.
Prices are high these days. I could've used crummy materials, but
there wouldn't be no point."
"It sounds like too little! I thought, well, five thousand or so."
"Five thousand!" He laughed out loud. "Naw, I didn't have to buy
anything except paint and a little bit of wood for the island and the
cabinet where the stove was. And the Formica for the counter tops. I
got a deal on that. Some guy had a bunch in his garage. He
practically gave it to me to get rid of it."
"What about the flooring?"
"Oh that. I fixed it up with the floor man to do some work for him in
return for the tile and underlayment."
"Two-fifty for the whole thing? Andy, you must be some kind of
genius!"
It made him shuffle his feet.
A little later she asked, "Could you build a house?"
"Sure. You mean rough-framing and all? Well ... I don't know too
much about pouring foundations and putting in electric, but I can do
plumbing and sheet rock and everything else."
She looked thoughtful. "You know, we own a residential lot on the
other side of town. I've been thinking about putting a house on it if
we can sell this one."
"One guy could build a house, all right, but that ain't the way to do
it. It takes too long. You should have a crew."
"It's something to think about."
Having work to do boosted Andy's spirits, and his latest depressing
"spell," as he had come to think of the symptoms of his disorder, was
over. He felt vigorous and self-confident, and each night as he went
to bed had a sense of accomplishment.
They got along well, keeping out of each other's way during the daytime
and chatting amiably over a meal in the evenings. She was easy to talk
to. Andy found himself telling her about the prospects of work he had
picked up at lumberyards and the rental shop. It looked like he would
be able to make a living in Chardsville, he said, and even put
something by for a nest-egg. "I was thinking, maybe I wouldn't have to
get a job. Maybe I could have my own business as a contractor."
"That would be grand! You work harder, but it's for yourself, and you
don't have to worry about getting fired. I'll do your books. Then
I'll be working for you instead of the other way around."
He laughed, then said seriously, "I dunno, I'm kind of young."
"You get older."
"You really think I could do it?"
"It's for you to decide, but I don't have any doubts. You're a 'Goin'
Jessie', remember?"
He wasn't the only one with prospects. She was out of work, but
confided that if she did a good job on the taxes she might get a job
with that lawyer. There was more to it than that, he suspected. Her
expression became guarded when she talked about it, as if she was
trying to set herself up for disappointment. He figured she'd tell him
what was bothering her when she got around to it.
She never spoke about her husband, except to respond once to his
question, "Oh, that's all over."
It was funny, she was so classy and educated and all, but she treated
him like he was special. He wasn't used to it. She talked to him like
a friend, and not a day went by that she didn't do something nice for
him, like he was a real human being, not just a workman remodeling her
kitchen. She did his laundry and mended his jeans, so each day he
started out neat and clean; and after he let it slip he had no pajamas,
went out and bought him a pair. Another day she remembered him telling
her how he missed his mom's apple pie, and baked him one; and watched
him eat it, and seemed to appreciate his enjoyment.
He lost his heart to her, of course.
Like when he had that crush on Mrs. Mortola, his fourth-grade teacher.
Only now he wasn't in fourth grade. It was sometimes hard for him to
get to sleep, thinking about their being alone in the house together,
her sleeping in a room right across the hall. At such times he had to
play with himself until he came. It was the only way he could get
relaxed enough to drop off.
When the kitchen was finished, she was like a little girl beside
herself. Seeing her delight, he broke down and grinned hugely. He
knew he had done a good job--everything was new and spanking clean and
color-coordinated and efficiently laid out. The rental man came over,
and though he didn't say anything beyond a dry "Hmf," Andy could see he
was surprised. On the spot the man asked him to come down to the shop
in a couple of days to build a storeroom in back for him. Andy would
get to keep the tools he had rented, and the man would recommend him to
his customers.
That was the day Mrs. Miller got a phone call from that lawyer, asking
her to come down and talk about a job. The rich people had liked her
work. He heard her on the phone making an appointment for the next
day.
So they both had things to celebrate. She served wine at dinner in the
new kitchen, and might have had a glass too many, because she asked
suddenly, "Andy? Are you still thinking about getting that medical
treatment?"
He ducked his head. "Yeah."
She toyed with her fork, not looking at him. "I know it's none of my
business, but ... I know about Dr. Goody's specialty. Are you sure?
It might be a big mistake. It's irreversible, you know."
Well, of course it was irreversible. What would be the point?
She went on, "Please don't think I'm being a busybody, but believe me
it wouldn't work all that well for you. I mean, you're such a big,
handsome boy ... Did he advise you to go through it?"
Big. Handsome. A pleased flush warmed his cheeks, but he knew better.
Not handsome, ugly. He didn't care. He was a guy, a guy didn't have
to be good-looking.
"Not exactly. He said he'd do it, but he wasn't all that happy about
it. He said I might be sorry later. I dunno why."
"There. See? He knows." Crimson, she continued, "I shouldn't tell you
this, but--we're friends, aren't we? So if I can do anything to keep
you from making a tragic mistake ... Can I trust you never to say
anything to anybody?"
"Sure." What was she talking about?
"I had the same treatment."
He stared.
Her white grin flashed nervously. "It was all right for me, I'm kind
of small, and you know, not all that muscular, but you're so
masculine-looking it really wouldn't look right."
His mind raced. Why would she have the operation?
He was completely at sea.
"Y-you," he stammered, "h-had the operation? I don't--"
"It wasn't exactly an operation. It was protogen, it just made me LOOK
like a woman. Why, were you thinking of going all the way? The full
operation? Oh don't," she said. "Think very carefully. I'm going to
talk to you like a sister--" She gave a self- deprecating laugh. "Or
like a brother. If it's because you, ah, like men ... Is that it?"
For a terrible moment Andy wondered how she knew about the occasional
fantasies he had about men while jerking off, or about the furtive
experiences in the basement of Ray's apartment house. No, she couldn't
know. She had it all wrong. He tried to make sense of what she was
saying.
"It made you look like a woman? Y-you're not a woman?"
"Well," she said shyly, "That's not how we like to think about it. But
yes, except for the way I look, I'm like you."
"Th-they're not real?"
"They are so!" A spark of indignation was in her eyes. "That's what
happens with proto ... Oh-oh. We haven't been talking about the same
thing, have we?"
"I don't think so."
"Then what were you talking about? What operation?"
"Just an internal problem."
She turned bright red. "Oh-h. And you-- I-- I'm such a fool. I told
you-- You won't say anything, will you?"
"I'd never."
"Oh God." She hesitated, peeping at his face, and stuck out her hand.
He engulfed it in his, sealing the bargain.
She was so feminine, yet she had just told him she was a man.
Unaccountably his cock stiffened in his jeans.
"Are you sure--? I mean, could I still be misunderstanding you?
You're really a guy?"
Red and white chased themselves across her face, and she looked down
again.
"Yes," she whispered.
"It's hard to believe. You're BEAUTIFUL. How come? I don't mean how
come you're beautiful, I mean how come you, uh, changed?"
"It's a long story. My wife--Wendy's not really my sister-in-law,
she's my wife--she wanted me to wear clothes like this. Her dresses.
She said it would make things better ... in bed, you know. Anyway,
the more I did it the more she liked it, and I did too. Then one day
some men found out, and, well, you know, they did it to me. Wendy
figured ... well, it made me so I didn't feel as confident about being
a man anymore, and she figured I might as well go all the way. Or
maybe not all the way, she didn't want it cut off or anything, but at
least I could take the protogen."
"Some men did it to you? I don't get it."
"You know. Did it to me." Her eyelashes fluttered. Timidly she added,
"Back there."
"Oh." Andy tried to picture it. His cock got harder than ever.
A long-forgotten memory trickled up through his consciousness. A time
in freshman year in high school, in the hated shower room after
football practice. Seeing the other boys' naked horseplay, he had a
sudden irrational terror of being raped. What was worse, the thought
kindled warmth in his genitals, so he had to stand facing the wall
under the spray and grimly recite the times table to himself to let his
erection simmer down.
He made himself continue to sit and chat with her as if nothing was
wrong when she served coffee, but he had a sick feeling in his stomach.
He tried not to stare at her to see if there was anything, anything at
all, that might give away her true gender. As soon as he decently
could, he went up to take a shower before going to bed. He was shook.
Standing in the spray he thought, Her wife made her do it. Boy, she
must be some bitch.
Under the shower his prick was so stiff it hurt. Its head was tumid,
shiny with strain, a bright turgid red.
She was a guy, not a girl. He couldn't believe it. But she was
telling the truth, he knew that. He'd come to know that much about her
over the past week.
It made him kind of mad. How could she fool him like that? He. How
could HE fool him like that?
She had a cock under those dresses. The image in his mind was so
stultifyingly erotic he couldn't bear it.
Some guys had raped her. Served her right. He wondered if she blew
the whistle on them, then realized she couldn't--what would she tell
the cops, she was a guy wearing a dress?
His soapy hand moved on the rigid organ standing like a two by four at
the fork of his legs. What did they do to her? He tried to picture
it. He could see her trying to run away, but caught and held by one
faceless man while another shoved his cock up her ass. What would it
be like to dork another man? He pretended he was the one doing it.
She was being held so tight she couldn't move. He could take his time.
He'd spread her ass cheeks and poke it up her while she screamed for
mercy, shove it back and forth, knowing she was a guy, maybe holding
onto her prick and balls while he rammed in and out. So vivid were the
images that his cock erupted in his lathery hands long before he had a
chance to savor the fantasy.
When his ejaculation was over he felt ashamed of treating her that way,
even if it was only in his mind. She had been too nice to him. She
didn't deserve it ... or maybe she did for tricking him, but he was
sorry for it anyway.
He went to bed confused and unhappy.
The next morning he kissed her.
4. Chapter
Bob reached out with a sleepy hand to shut off the harrowing buzz of
the alarm clock. He buried his face in the pillow, hair silken on his
cheeks, gradually waking, gradually coming to terms with himself, as he
had to do each morning.
In time, perhaps, he would get used to it, to the soft swelling of
breasts under him, the unfamiliar breadth of hips and bottom, the
bareness of shaven legs and underarms. It would take quite a bit of
getting used to. All his life he had been a male; now he wasn't; not
by a big margin, his unduly frequent erections notwithstanding.
No longer was it just a game to turn Wendy on, a sexual make- believe.
He was condemned to pretend to be a woman for the rest of his life.
The first night home he waited until that boy had gone to bed, and
tried on his old clothes. His trousers were tight around the hips and
loose at the waist; his shirt buttons strained appallingly. He looked
like a girl in men's clothes. That was the moment he fully
comprehended what he'd done. As if it had been lying in wait, buried
in his subconscious waiting for the moment when he could bear the
sudden knowledge, the enormity of the change in his body crashed in on
him. From the moment he left Dr. Goody's clinic he had known he
couldn't wear men's clothes anymore, but it was an intellectual
knowledge only, not visceral. Now it was all very real.
Half the time he was aghast at the consequences of his reckless
surrender to Wendy's whim; half the time he was exhilarated. The
trouble was, even he could see he was brilliantly successful in his
masquerade. Fooling everybody was a special thrill. But he could have
done that--had done that--without undergoing this drastic physical
change.
Now he had to live with it. It was hard, especially in public. He
felt naked in a dress, legs uncovered, privacy vulnerable to any
vagrant breeze that might lift his skirt.
He was shy for other people to look at him. When he forced himself to
go out he found himself hunching his shoulders to minimize his breasts.
Alone, however, he was proud of them, liking the way they jiggled when
he moved, and the unaccustomed erotic pleasure he got from fondling
them. It had taken several weeks at the clinic for their ache to
subside, but it was worth it.
They had developed to fill a C-cup amply. When it came time for him to
try on street clothes again, Nurse Baker took one look at the bra he
wore when he arrived, Wendy's B-cup, and shopped for another for him in
the proper size.
If he knew Wendy, she'd love them.
He shifted comfortably in bed, feeling their presence. The sensation
fueled his morning hard-on. He needed sex. He thought wistfully of
"Miss Vee," who had given him so much ecstasy so often despite the
shame of Nurse Baker's presence. At first the nurse seemed impersonal,
but as time went by he sensed more interest in the procedure than was
proper. She began checking him for an erection, not just morning and
night, but every time she came in, and let her hand linger just a
little too long. She fondled his balls while Miss Vee worked. In the
final week she said they needed laboratory samples of his semen, and
milked him manually into a flask. Her fingers trembled, betraying an
unseemly excitement. He pretended to believe her lab-sample story, but
a furtive expression on her face alerted him; he began to watch her
through half-closed eyes when she went in the bathroom ostensibly to
label the sample. One morning she failed to pull the door far enough
closed. He caught her tilting the "sample" to her lips, throat moving
as she swallowed, a look of desperation on her face. It was as though
she were a drug addict and his semen was her "fix". He didn't let on
that he knew what she was doing. It would have been too embarrassing
for them both. But now--where was she when he needed her?
He groaned. He was off the wall waiting for Wendy to return, and there
was still a month to go.
That special musky fragrance his body emanated during the stay at the
clinic had become attenuated, but remained with him nevertheless, now
heightened by the closeness of the warm bedclothes around him. He
breathed it in. He didn't smell like his old self at all.
Time to get up.
He drew his knees under him and raised his ass, crouching under the
blankets, stretching his back luxuriously. His, um, TITS- -it tickled
him to call them that--hung straight down. There was a refreshing
coolness in the creases under them as the dampness of sweat evaporated.
Why had he set the alarm for such an early hour?
Richard Haskell. He had an appointment with him this morning.
Oh, God.
He would have to go down to the man's office and beg for a job- -in a
dress! What would Haskell think?
His stomach fluttered wildly; his erection disappeared, shriveling into
a flaccid pendant.
He couldn't do it. He would call and cancel.
But he needed the job, they were running out of money, and he had to
have a new place to work, he couldn't return to the tax- preparation
firm that had employed him as a man--and the job with Haskell would be
a good one. With the Chard and Myers tax returns Bob had done, Haskell
would practically be forced to offer him a good salary, or maybe even
the partnership he had mentioned. Well, he deserved it. He was a good
tax accountant; his changed appearance didn't alter that. It was worth
a shot, even if it meant laying bare his secret. He struggled out of
bed. He had to face the music. Oh God. What would the man say?
Remembering Andy was in the house, he threw on a robe before shuffling
barefoot to the bathroom. Damn, he let the cat out of the bag last
night. How could he have done that? The boy must think he was awful.
Bob forced his mind away from his embarrassment. He was pretty sure
Andy wouldn't say anything. He was a nice kid. He'd be leaving as
soon as he found work, anyhow. Bob would be sorry to see him go. He
worked hard, so full of energy he was about to explode, at it from
morning until well after dark, grateful for the slightest human
consideration. His face, which had seemed so plain to Bob at first,
had a handsome roughness. When Andy smiled the sun came out, and the
youthful joy simmering under the surface never failed to touch Bob's
heart.
The boy had been good for him, his presence making him behave as
womanly all the time as he possibly could. It was good practice.
He drizzled bath salts in the tub while it was filling, meaning to take
a long relaxing bath, but found himself too nervous to lie still. He
shaved his legs and under his arms--not much of a chore, the protogen
treatment had all but stopped growth of body hair, even in his pubic
region--and got out of the tub, toes curling luxuriously in the shaggy
bath mat. He dried himself pink, dusted with body powder, and padded
back to the bedroom to get dressed.
He would wear the new strapless bra. Supremely lacy and feminine, it
looked hardly large enough to contain his tits. The underwiring lifted
them and squeezed them together--the saleslady called it a
push-up-push-in bra--so his cleavage was pronounced.
He took special pains with his garter belt, lining up the garters so
they were straight along his thighs, buttoning them to beige stockings
which made his legs look sleek--then changed his mind altogether and
put on panty-hose instead. Wendy liked him in stockings, she said they
looked naughty, and he agreed, he preferred them, but of all the things
he didn't want to be today, it was "naughty". He tucked his cock
carefully down into the crotch of his panties so no bulge would show
under a tight skirt. He had already selected his dress for the
interview. It was Wendy's blue cashmere, the top of which the
seamstress at the cleaners had let out. Wendy would be irked if she
knew, she liked the dress, but he would have it taken in again before
she got back. The color flattered his complexion. In the mirror the
dress looked sophisticated and, he hoped, reasonably businesslike.
He filched Wendy's pearl earrings for discreet accents, and decided
against a necklace. Pumps of the same shade of blue as the dress
completed the ensemble. The mirror told him the two-inch heels made
his ankles trim.
Sitting at the dressing table he brushed his hair until it shone, and
applied cosmetics with meticulous concentration, stopping at each stage
to evaluate the procedure critically, resisting the temptation to use
too much makeup, as if somehow makeup would be a mask to prevent anyone
recognizing him.
He had managed to submerge his nervousness by focusing on getting
dressed. Now the butterflies started up again.
It was still early, but he could hear Andy stirring in the kitchen. He
didn't have enough to worry about, now he had to go down and face the
boy. Well, it would be good practice. It seemed this was the day for
having his secret known. He would have to face Andy, who knew, and
then go and tell Haskell and face him too.
He took a breath, conscious of the way his tits lifted in a bra that
held him so firmly it was beginning to be uncomfortable, and went
downstairs to make breakfast.
Andy was putting the coffee on. He looked up cheerfully.
"Morning." He gave a low whistle. "Wow, you look nice!"
Bob smiled shyly, not quite able to look at him. "Thanks." He tied an
apron around his waist, conscious of Andy's eyes following him. "I
have an appointment downtown."
"Yeah, for that job, right? Don't worry, you'll knock 'em dead."
"I hope."
He put on bacon and eggs to cook.
Andy set their places saying, "Sure. You look great. It's about those
taxes you did, ain't it?"
"Yes, kind of. You see, last spring I prepared a tax return for a man
who turned out to be a bank president's son-in-law. He showed him some
of the ways I saved him money, and the next thing I knew the bank
president asked his lawyer, who had been doing his taxes, to get me to
do them this year. Also the bank's chairman of the board, Mrs. Chard.
She's rich. I knew she owned most of Chardsville but until I did her
personal taxes just now I didn't have any idea how rich. I bet she's
the richest person in the state."
He wiped his hands on the apron, served the bacon and scrambled eggs,
and sat down opposite Andy.
"So did she like the job you did?"
"Mr. Haskell said so."
"You got it made," Andy said confidently.
"Yes. Well, I hope so, anyway."
"You look worried. Don't be. You gotta look like you don't need him.
My dad said that was the only way to ask for a job."
"I suppose so."
Andy really was a very sweet boy. For a moment Bob contemplated
telling him what was troubling him, but he didn't want to get into the
business about his being a man again. Andy was pretending he didn't
know, and maybe that was best, they could just forget the whole thing,
make believe he hadn't said anything last night.
Andy said, "You got a nice day for it."
The weather was fair. An autumn sun streamed through the kitchen
windows, brightening the new paint and floor tiles.
The boy shoved his empty plate away and finished his coffee.
"Want me to drive you?"
Bob stood up to clear the counter. "Thanks, it's such a nice day I
think I'll walk." He needed exercise to settle his jumping stomach.
He got his coat and purse and prepared to venture out into a world that
was suddenly fraught with peril.
His voice trembled when he said, "I'll see you later."
Andy's expression was sympathetic. He walked to the door with him and
patted him on the shoulder.
"Good luck. I'll keep my fingers crossed."
He bent quickly and kissed him.
It flustered him--after all, it was inappropriate, the boy knew he was
a man--but it was such a spontaneous, genuine act that it lifted his
spirits. He walked down the street, self-conscious about the click of
his heels on the sidewalk, but feeling better.
Haskell's new offices were impressive. Too impressive, Bob suspected.
He didn't know how much the rent was, or, if Haskell owned the
two-story building, what the mortgage payment was, but he was willing
to bet it was an arm and a leg, more than half the lawyer's gross
revenues at least. Add to that the cost of running expenses,
secretaries, insurance and taxes and other items of overhead, Haskell
must be lucky to barely clear enough to support his Mercedes and Lake
District home.
Bob could understand why the man wanted to expand his law practice to
include financial planning for his rich clients. It would probably
more than double revenues. People's need for a lawyer was only
sporadic, but managing their investments was a year-round proposition.
Rich people talked to rich people; Bob had no doubt that if Haskell
could offer successful tax-planning and management, the division would
become the tail that wags the dog.
He hesitated in front of the intimidating front door and adjusted the
new brassiere, the elastic of which seemed to be trying to crawl up his
back, and smoothed his skirt. He couldn't put it off any longer. He
opened the door.
The immaculate wine-red carpeting in the reception area was so deep his
spike heels plunged in and threatened to overset him. Tall narrow
windows transmitted a pearly light into the room, illuminating delicate
period furniture.
The receptionist was a blonde girl a couple of years younger than he,
obviously chosen for her attractive smile.
He made himself answer the smile. "I'm Barbara Miller. Mr. Haskell
is expecting me."
He took off his coat and straightened his shoulders, self- conscious
about the prominence of his breasts, but determined to brazen it out.
He hung the coat on an old-fashioned oak coat-tree by the door.
The girl glanced down at the appointment book on her desk.
"Oh dear," she tittered. "I'm afraid Mr. Haskell thinks you're
somebody named Bob." She spoke into the intercom. "Mrs. Miller is
here, Mr. Haskell." To Bob, "You can go right in."
Doing his best to control his breathing, he forced one leg after the
other to carry him to the office.
Haskell was scrutinizing some papers on an enormous polished mahogany
desk. Without looking up he said, "Hi Bob, be with you in just a sec."
He finished reading the page with an expression of satisfaction.
"There," he said, "That's done. One more fat fee."
He stood up.
His expression changed to surprise. He looked him up and down. "I'm
sorry, I was expecting somebody else. Janey did say Miller, did she
not?" He snapped his fingers. "I get it. The resemblance is
unmistakable. I didn't know Bob had a sister. Have a seat." He
indicated a conversation area comprised of a comfortable- looking couch
and chairs around a Hepplewhite coffee table. "What can I do for you?
Where's Bob?"
Bob closed the door and turned.
"I'm Bob."
Haskell's uncomprehending smile stretched his pencil-mustache.
Clean-shaven except for the mustache, he looked dapper and
distinguished with a sprinkling of silver at his temples. The man was
of average height, only a couple of inches taller than Bob was in
heels.
Bob couldn't prevent the blush he felt coloring his cheeks. "I'm Bob.
Really."
"The Bob Miller I'm talking about is a man. Older than you. He's a
tax practitioner."
"That's me. I am Bob Miller, Dick," Bob insisted. "I chose a new, ah,
life-style. But I'm still a tax accountant."
The man stared at him dumbfounded. Slowly Bob saw recognition, then
belief, trickle into his eyes.
"You-- You-- How--?"
"It's a long story."
Still staring, Haskell said, "Come on, sit down and tell me about it,
er, Bob." He waved at a chair.
"It's Barbara now." Bob sat as gracefully as he could, and tugged his
skirt down.
Haskell looked at his knees.
"Barbara! Of course. Barbara. Forgive me, I'm having a tough time
assimilating this." He dropped into a chair opposite. "Let me catch my
breath."
His eyes traveled over Bob's figure. He shook his head. "I don't
believe it. I never knew you were gay."
"I'm not!"
"Then what are you doing, er, in drag?"
"Wendy wanted me to do it, and then it turned out I liked it."
"Wendy? That's right, your wife. You two still married?"
"Sure we are."
"I just thought, with you looking like that ... Why would she want you
to adopt this life-style?"
Bob looked down uncomfortably. "She just does. Anyway, I can't go
back to the other firm dressed like this. Everybody would know, the
preparers and all my clients. So that's why I'm here. We've been
acquainted for a long time, I trust you. I know you wouldn't tell on
me. I thought if that offer was still open ... "
"Gee, Bob--er, Barbara. Things have kind of changed, haven't they?
Who else knows about this?" His eyes were calculating.
"Wendy. Nobody else."
"What about Mrs. Chard and Mr. Myers? They know you're a man."
"I relayed all my questions through you, remember? I never spoke with
them. They don't know if I'm a man or a woman."
"Yes." Haskell was thoughtful. "I guess it could be passed off as some
kind of mix-up. Bob. Barbara. Bobbie. It would be easy to make a
mistake, I suppose. But they may not like the idea of a woman doing
their finances. Some people are funny that way."
"Lots of tax accountants are women. Besides, you said they were
pleased with my work."
Haskell gave an uncertain laugh. "You really are Bob, aren't you? I
can't get over it. Yeah, they did like it. They raved about it. You
saved them thousands in taxes, and they followed your advice about
shifting funds, so now they're making more than ever, most of it tax-
free. Er, what was that business about rent?"
"Rent? Oh. You arrange to buy the company's offices, using company
money, of course, borrowing it or something. Then you charge the
company rent in lieu of salary or dividends. There's no
self-employment tax on rental income, so you cut your personal taxes
sharply. Plus the company benefits by an expense that reduces income
without having to pay its share of Social Security tax."
"Really? Could I do that?"
"Maybe. We could sit down and talk about it. I'd have to know all the
factors."
Haskell shook his head. "That's what makes you such a good financial
planner--you don't commit yourself until you know all the details."
"So? About working here?"
Haskell stared at the wall in silence. Bob could see the wheels
turning, like a used-car salesman figuring out how much he could charge
the buyer.
He said slowly, "We-ell, we could give it a try. I know I said
something about a partnership, but maybe we'd better hold off on that
until we see what's going to happen. I'd be sticking my neck out, you
know. If anybody found out ... I'd have to say I didn't know anything
about it."
Again he inspected Bob. "You know, you really do look pretty good. If
we're careful nobody would ever guess, would they? It's kind of a
kick. Okay." Bob saw he had made up his mind. "How about this. You
work for me on retainer plus a commission equal to two-fifths of any
financial planning business that comes in, including Chard and Myers.
And two-fifths of anything the firm bills for fiduciary tax return
preparation. That's fair, isn't it? We'll get one and a half percent
for managing portfolios of under a million, and one percent over a
million."
Bob's heart lurched. Haskell had just said yes. He was taking
advantage of him, he knew, last year he got two-thirds for tax returns,
but the deal sounded good anyway. He did a swift calculation. His
income would skyrocket immediately. With judicious application of some
ideas he had already formed, it could increase tenfold in just a few
short months. They could start building that house.
His heartbeat was so violent he feared the vibration of his dress would
betray him.
"It's a deal."
He shook hands with him.
The lawyer asked, "Can you start tomorrow? Sam Lovell, president of
Chard Industries, is coming in. Seems Mrs. Chard mentioned you. I'll
have an agreement messengered to your home this afternoon. We'll have
to get you a secretary too. You got anyone in mind?"
The president of Chard. That meant not only his individual account but
the company's profit-sharing accounts as well. From Haskell's watchful
expression he was almost sure Lovell had been told to ask for him
personally. He should have held out for a better deal.
He answered the question. "Not right offhand. I'll call you if I
think of somebody."
"Let's go meet your new associates."
Haskell guided him with one hand lightly on the small of his back,
making Bob aware of a perceptible change in the man's reaction to him,
not quite patronizing, but somehow as if Bob were a child.
The lawyer introduced him around. Jane Bloom, the receptionist, gave
Bob a smile that was a bit too radiant; he sensed she was nettled,
another "woman" was to be her boss.
The elderly gentleman in charge of research, Bert Jaffe, expressed
surprise at Bob's youth and apparent gender, but complimented him on
the precedents he had used to support certain of Mrs. Chard's
deductions, and said something courtly about Bob's skill being equal to
his comeliness. Bob caught an amused glitter in Haskell's eye and
looked away hastily.
Two research assistants maintained a careful respect when Bob was
introduced, but when he and Haskell left the library he heard an
aggrieved whisper. "That broad is younger than we are. She's supposed
to tell us what to do?"
Haskell made as though to reenter the library; Bob stopped him, saying
gently, "These things sometimes take a little time. I'll handle it
later." But the incident frightened him; he had to have the young men's
cooperation to do a good job, and wondered how he'd be able to gain it.
Mrs. Brower, in charge of the files, proved a doughty old battle-ax
who looked at Bob with approval. "About time we got a woman
associate," she said.
Bob's office was every bit as large and luxuriously appointed as
Haskell's. The walls were paneled; the desk a gleaming expanse of dark
wood in front of an imposing high-backed leather chair that made Bob
think of a throne. He tried to imagine the desk covered with books and
papers and a calculator, and couldn't. It was a beautiful office, but
it was for show. If he wanted to get any work done he'd have to do it
in Research.
Haskell explained, "In this game appearances are as important as
anything else. You have to impress the clients with your success.
Don't forget, we want to give the impression that we don't need them,
they need us. It would be better if you were a man and didn't look so
damn' young, but I guess there's nothing we can do about that now.
They'll just have to live with it. He held out his hand. "Glad to
have you with us ... Barbara. See you tomorrow."
As soon as Bob got out in the deserted lobby he leaned against the
wall. His vision dimmed and his knees shook. His heart was a
galloping runaway in his chest.
I did it, he thought. I did it!
He rested panting until elation impelled him out to the street.
He walked on air, paying no attention to where he was going, just
needing to work off the tension and anxiety of the morning by some kind
of exercise, not feeling the chill wind that swirled up under his coat
and around his stockinged legs, kept warm by the exultation ablaze in
him.
It was the lunch hour. Office workers thronged the streets.
He grinned irrepressibly at the freckled redheaded girl coming toward
him. "Hi, Nancy," he blurted absently, saw her startled look as they
passed, and an instant later knew he had made a big mistake.
Nancy Dahl was the receptionist at the tax firm he worked for, a
diminutive homely girl whose cheery smile was so bright it almost made
her look beautiful. He had always liked her for her exuberance and
energy and the tact with which she avoided office politics. They had
worked closely seven days a week for three months of each year. Of all
people to pull a boner with!
His footsteps faltered in dismay.
He made himself continue down the street, hoping she thought he was a
customer from last tax season or something--and flinched wildly as he
felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Bob? Bob Miller?"
He didn't respond, but the girl skipped ahead and stood in front of
him, blocking his way. Her pale green eyes were wide.
"It IS you, isn't it? Why, Bob!"
He darted a look to either side to see if anyone was watching.
"Shh. Not so loud."
The girl whispered gleefully, "Why are you like that? Let me see."
She stepped back and looked him up and down. "You're GORGEOUS!"
Apparently correctly interpreting his expression she added, "Don't
worry, I think it's WONDERFUL."
Bob opened his mouth but couldn't make himself say anything. She knew
him. He couldn't deny it. He had a sinking feeling. His disguise
wasn't as impenetrable as he hoped. He'd never be able to carry it
off.
"I can't believe my EYES! I'm completely overwhelmed. Tell me all
about it."
He murmured desperately, "Not here. I'll see you another time."
"Forget it. I'm not letting you go for one second. I want to hear
everything." She hooked her arm through his. "Come on, I was just
going to lunch. We'll go to Mitzi's and get a table all by ourselves."
The place was half a block away, one of those cutesy restaurants that
specialized in things like little watercress sandwiches and crustless
squares of brown bread with cream cheese covered with a dab of caviar.
It wouldn't be crowded. Glumly he let her lead him. At the table she
sparkled when he slipped his coat off.
"Wow. You don't do things halfway, do you? Just look at you, you're
STUNNING! They look so real."
Stung, Bob said, "They are real."
"Oh, yeah, right. Pause for laugh. Laugh over." She gazed at him
intently through narrowed eyes. "You're not kidding, are you. They're
real? How did that happen?"
"I, um, I went to a doctor for a ... treatment."
"Oh God, Bob, that's terrible! It's one thing to dress up--but to give
up your ... "
"I didn't! It just changed the way I look."
"He didn't--cut you?"
"No," he blushed. "No subtractions, just additions."
"That's MARVELOUS. That's why your voice is like that, too. I--"
She broke off while the waitress took their orders.
Bob opened his purse, found a hanky, touched it to his temples and
upper lip. He was sweating with nervousness.
When the waitress left he asked, "H-how did you know?"
She gazed at him steadily, as if making up her mind to be candid. Her
freckles disappeared as pinkness overtook her face.
She said finally, "My husband does too. I mean he wears dresses around
the house. I wouldn't have recognized you, except I was used to it.
When you said hi, I didn't know you at first, but then, well, it was
kind of like a double image, like seeing Jimmy--that's my husband--on
the street."
"Your h-husband wears dresses?"
"Yeah. He really looks good, better than me. He did it every day when
he--well, that's another story. Anyway, I'm used to it. Don't worry,
love. Nobody else could ever tell."
Another man like him. Not gay, married to a woman. He'd like to meet
him someday.
"Don't you mind?"
"What, about Jimmy? No, I think it's nice." Her pale green eyes
twinkled. "You look nice too. So what's the deal? I would never of
believed I'd see you like this. Jimmy would be thrilled."
"Oh ... it's too long to go into now. My wife, well, she kind of
encouraged me. It makes her feel, I don't know, better about things."
"I know what you mean. It gives me a kick to go to bed with Jimmy when
he's that way."
Her frankness made the heat in Bob's cheeks deepen. He took advantage
of the waitress' arrival to change the subject.
"How are things back at the ranch?"
"The tax orifice?" she grinned. "Usual. Slow out of season, but you
know that. Myrna is still a royal pain to everybody in sight."
Myrna Floss was the office manager, a squatty woman with a masculine
demeanor who ran the place on principles of favoritism, cronyism, and
consummate disregard for the feelings of employees.
Nancy took a bite of her cottage cheese. "We lost four out of six tax
preparers this year. Myrna's really counting on you. Wait'll she sees
you. She'll have puppies."
Bob grinned in spite of his self-consciousness. "Are you kidding? I'm
not coming back. Nobody's supposed to know. You're not going to say
anything, are you? Please."
"Never! I told you about my husband, didn't I? Well, then. If you
won't say anything I won't. Myrna's going to be pissed off, though."
She seemed to derive considerable pleasure from the thought. "So what
are you going to do next season?"
In cartoons they show a light bulb going on over somebody's head when
he has an idea. To Bob it was just that way, a sudden flash of
inspiration. Nancy knew about him. If he had her loyalty she could be
a big help.
"I'm heading up a new department at Haskell and Associates." It was the
first time he said it out loud. It sounded important. "Tax planning
and financial management. I just got the job today. Listen, I'm going
to need a secretary. You take dictation and type, don't you? And you
know all the tax language. Why don't you come to work for me?"
He prayed Haskell would go along with the salary he was prepared to
offer. If he didn't, Bob was willing to pay the difference out of his
own pocket. He'd be able to afford it.
When he told Nancy how much she would be making, her plain face turned
bright.
"And I'd be an executive secretary? Wow, cool. It's about time I left
that crappy tax office. Wait'll I tell Myrna. Say, what WILL I tell
her? Who'll I be working for? Not Bob Miller."
"Barbara Miller. Bob's sister, I guess. You'll have to cover for me
if a client comes in and thinks he recognizes me."
"Don't worry, I will. BARBARA! I love it. I'm so PROUD of you! You
made up your mind to, what, go all the way and become a woman--sort
of--and just like that you got a job as the big boss. It couldn't have
happened to a better ... girl. When do I start?"
Bob smiled happily. "Tomorrow?"
"I'll tell Myrna soon as I get back. I should give her two weeks
notice, but I can't resist telling her I'm going to lunch."
Bob laughed. She was referring to a tax preparer a year ago who said
she was going to lunch and never came back.
Nancy said, "Oh-oh."
"What?"
"You, uh, you're not gonna use the ladies' washroom, are you?"
He stared at her until he saw the twinkle in her eyes, and burst out
laughing.
He was still smiling when he walked into Dresser's department store to
celebrate with a new outfit. His own. He wouldn't have to borrow
Wendy's things anymore.
He charged a couple of tailored knit suits and blouses to complement
them; and then, carried away, half a dozen mix 'n match frocks, skirts
and tops. He took pleasure in selecting dresses with deep
dcolletages--formerly, with falsies in his bra, his absence of cleavage
would give him away; he had to wear prim and proper high-necked
garments. Shoes to go with the dresses were next. Mildly unnerved by
the cost of the spree, he threw caution to the winds and treated
himself to an assortment of lingerie.
To atone for his self-indulgence, he picked up another pair of pajamas
and a toilet kit for Andy, and went on to purchase jeans and jockey
shorts--Andy wore them instead of boxer shorts, which made Bob smile
when he did the laundry; he always thought of them as "little-boy
shorts"--and shirts. The poor boy needed new clothes if he was going
to talk to people about remodeling their homes. Shopping in the
familiar men's department gave him a pang.
Out on the street, laden with packages, he wished he had taken the car
this morning. There must be some way of getting a driver's license.
He wondered if he could get away with simply renewing his license under
his new name, say the original had been issued in error. No, if it
didn't work, the whole thing would blow wide open. He'd be disgraced,
lose his new job; he and Wendy would have to leave town.
The only cab at the stand was Mr. Cosy's old Checker cab. He didn't
dare ride with him, the town's biggest gossip. Thinking black
thoughts, Bob made his way home on foot.
Andy was still banging away in what he said was going to be the new
den, a private room where Bob could work, instead of spreading his
papers out on the dining-room table.
Shyly he remembered the impulsive surprising kiss this morning. As
much as anything else, its residue had sustained him in his role today.
It had been like a husband kissing his wife good-bye. He guessed it
brought him luck.
He went upstairs to change into one of the new dresses, thankfully
freeing himself of the push-up-push-in bra. He scratched his back
luxuriously where the strap had been.
The dress was yellow checks on a rust background, cheerful fall colors
that flattered his complexion. It clung snugly around the waist and
hips before flaring out in a knee-length full skirt. The top buttoned
down the front, but the highest button was only level with the middle
of his chest, forming a V that exposed rather more cleavage than
necessary. He looked good in it.
He preened a moment in front of the mirror, thinking how pleased Wendy
would be when she saw him, and went downstairs to make dinner.
5. Chapter
Andy's day was not one of his best, from the very moment he jolted
awake with a raging hard-on.
What had he been dreaming? He searched his mind. No dream. It was
the memory of Mrs. Miller's revelation. She wasn't a girl, she was a
guy.
His prick was so distended it seemed about to rupture. In fact, his
whole genital area felt swollen and humid.
Nothing seemed to go right.
Look at the way he kissed her good-bye. He didn't know what came over
him. One minute she was standing at the door looking scared, the next
he put his arm around her shoulder and kissed her. Actually kissed
her. On the corner of her lips. Him. Kissed him. It wouldn't be so
bad if she hadn'a told him she was really a guy, but she had, and so
he'd kissed another man, and he had known it, and so had she. What
that made him, he didn't want to think about.
Anyhow, she didn't make a fuss or anything, just looked surprised. He
was glad she left right away so she couldn't see his face get red.
What the hell, it was only a good-luck kiss, she knew that. He hoped
she'd get that job, it would make her happy.
What did she want to look like a girl for, anyway? He didn't get it.
She had a wife, so she wasn't queer. But here she'd gone to the doctor
to get tits.
The wife--what was her name, Wendy, that was it--wanted her to. He
couldn't understand that either. What kind of a woman would want her
husband to look like a girl? It sounded like a way of putting him
down.
He wondered what Mrs. Miller looked like without clothes. Man,
wouldn't that be a sight. A dame with big knockers and a tallywhacker.
Maybe he could leave his door ajar when she took her bath at night, and
catch a glimpse of her going back to her room. No, she wore a
bathrobe. Maybe she didn't lock the bathroom door, he could just walk
in and act surprised and apologize for not knowing she was there. The
thought fueled his aching erection.
He worked all morning in the spare room he was turning into an office
for her. In the middle of setting up a tricky compound-angle cut he
realized she didn't have to tell him about herself, but she had. That
must have taken guts. Also trust. It was because she thought he was
going to do the same thing--as if he ever would!--and wanted to talk
him out of it, so it showed friendship too.
For a minute he toyed with the idea of confiding his problem to her,
the spells and all. It would be nice to be able to talk about it with
a friend. No, the habit of secrecy instilled in him by his father and
mother was too strong. From the time he was old enough to walk they
had emphasized that he was never, never to risk any kind of exposure.
He'd be a laughing-stock, or worse. Until he reached puberty they were
prepared to sacrifice everything, move away like his grandmother's
parents, but things had worked out all right and they didn't have to
leave town.
He made a botch of things all day, one mistake after the other, his
mind abstracted with thoughts of Mrs. Miller. His balls had begun to
ache. "Blue balls," Ray Tynan called them, when you were making out
with a girl but couldn't get in her pants. Not that Andy had ever
gotten that close to having sex with a girl.
When he painstakingly measured a board, going back two or three times
to be sure--and then cut on the wrong side of the line, making the
board an eighth-inch too short, he quit in exasperation. It was only
four o'clock, but if he kept on he'd just be wasting his time. Or
worse. Probably cut off a finger or something.
As the saw whined to a stop he heard noises in the kitchen. She was
home. He put his tools away and went to see.
She was at the sink washing vegetables, her back to him. He heard her
humming a little tune.
She was cheerful--she must have got the job. Her dress was different
from the one this morning, kind of an autumn-y color. It hugged her
curves, narrow at the waist and following the contours of her hips like
a second skin, until midway down her rear end it flared out into the
skirt proper.
Her feet did a little dance in time to her humming. Her alluring ass
switched, making the skirt sway. No way was that a man's bottom, there
was no leanness there, it broadened generously instead. He remembered
her boobs. He knew they were real--in the house she wore low-necked
dresses with no brassiere, God, they practically fell out, it was all
he could do to keep his eyes off her. That must have been some
treatment she had.
He heard what he was thinking. "She." "Her." He should be thinking of
her as "him." But how could he when she looked that way?
He stepped quietly up behind her.
Even at that point he wasn't sure what he was going to do. Give her
another kiss maybe. The image of her getting plowed by men obsessed
him. He remembered how excited it had made him in the shower last
night.
He put his arms around her slender waist.
She nearly jumped out of her skin. An instant later she relaxed.
"Eek," she said, a puzzled smile in her voice. "It's a mugger."
Jeez, she smelled good. Underlying a hint of floral perfume was her
own body odor, a fragrance that sent a message directly to his aching
balls. He could be blindfolded and he would know her anywhere. He
nuzzled her hair aside and kissed her at the corner of her neck and
shoulder.
The delicate form in his arms tensed.
"Andy! Stop fooling, I have to get dinner."
Spontaneously he lifted his hands from her waist to hold her tits.
They were soft and firm and yielded excitingly to his squeeze.
If she was really a woman he would never have dared. But she wasn't.
He could do anything he wanted--she couldn't tell on him. It was her
own fault; she shouldn't have fooled him.
She gasped.
"Don't! What do you think you're doing?"
Part of him was appalled by his actions, but the part that was running
things unbuttoned her top so he could fondle her bare boobs.
He heard her start to pant. A tremor swept through her.
She choked, "Andy, don't. I told you ... I'm not a girl."
"I don't care." His voice came out hoarse. "You're so beautiful I
can't help myself."
Gently he wedged her nipples between the index and middle fingers of
each hand and tugged rhythmically. According to the guys that was the
way to make girls hot. He didn't know what it was doing to her, but it
was definitely working on him. He was hot all over. His balls
steamed; his crotch was wet. He had never been so horny in his whole
life.
She wriggled fiercely, making him release his grip on her nipples for
fear of hurting her, and turned to face him, still enfolded in his
embrace, palms up against his chest.
She quavered, "Be a good boy. Let me go. I have to get dinner."
His heart ached to see her trying to conceal fright, but his prick had
control. He put his mouth on hers.
She squirmed, "Mmf!" and pushed against him, but he held her with ease.
A despairing sound emerged from her throat.
The tenseness in her body waned.
For a long moment she stayed quiet in his embrace, letting him kiss
her.
Her provocative body aroma increased markedly; she must be sweating.
He thought of a bitch in heat, giving off signals to every dog for
blocks around.
An obtrusive bulge under her skirt made itself known when he pressed
against her.
He was galvanized. She WAS a guy. Until now he had merely accepted
the truth of her words in his head. It was shocking to have it
confirmed physically.
When Andy finally broke the kiss she stared at him as though she had
never seen him before.
He said, "Well, what'd you expect, if you're gonna look like that?
Anyway, you liked it."
"No I didn't!"
"Then why are you hard?"
"I'm not!"
"Oh yeah? Let's see. Come on, show me."
"No! I don't have to. Anyway, I'm not hard."
"I am, though. Wanna see?"
"No!" She hesitated. She looked at his jeans. After a moment she
said, "Really?"
"Sure." He reached for his belt. "I'll prove it."
"No," she said, but her gaze stayed fixed to his midsection while he
unbuckled his belt and zipped down his fly. Her eyes got big when he
pried his cock out through the fly of the jockey shorts.
It stuck straight out, leaking from the orifice in the tip, which kept
gaping open and closed. The flaring head was a deep rose color, shiny
with tumidity. A corona of pink skin gathered in a collar behind the
head. The shaft was fair, traced with distended blue veins.
He couldn't believe he was exposing himself to her like this. He felt
dirty, like he did when he and Ray Tynan messed around in the basement.
Andy sat on one of the kitchen chairs, penis stark upright, and took
her hands to draw her toward him.
"Sit on my lap and we'll talk."
She said, "Oh no. I'm not coming anywhere near that thing," but she
took a wary step closer.
"Come on, what harm will it do?"
Staring at his erection she said, "Well ... only to talk."
She let him pull her down. Just before sitting she flipped out her
skirt so his prick nestled between her warm thighs when she settled on
him. She was soft in his arms and trembling violently.
He said, "So. You didn't like it when I kissed you."
She hung her head, dubiously watching his hand edge into the open vee
of her dress. She shivered when he touched her nipple. It erected.
She said raggedly, "Of course not. We're both men. How could I like
being kissed by another man?"
"You're more of a woman than a man," he said, bouncing her tit.
"Anyway. I didn't like it."
"Maybe I did it wrong. We should try it again, just to be sure."
"I still won't like it. You'd probably try to put your tongue in my
mouth. Ugh."
"Naw. Here, put your arms around me and relax."
His cock twitched between her legs when her arms went hesitantly about
his neck.
He embraced her again, thinking crazily that she was the most exciting
creature he'd ever met, but it was all wrong, she was a guy. He
couldn't help himself, her closeness, the feel of her in his arms, was
driving him nuts. His tongue went out; her tender lips parted; the tip
of her own tongue touched his. It was his first French kiss, obscene
but delectable, the most intimate thing he ever experienced.
Her thighs squirmed, massaging his wedged penis.
When he ended the kiss she panted, "There, you see? Nothing."
"I guess I still did it wrong. We should try again to see if I can get
it right this time."
"All right, but this is the last time."
Her face shone.
She was stiff at first, but all at once relaxed and applied herself to
the kiss with enthusiasm, holding him tight, mouth opening under his,
tongue meeting tongue, wild, curling and slurping with abandon. A
wriggle of her ass caused her thighs to open briefly, freeing his
prick, and the movement made her body shift until his cock was touching
the crotch of her panties. It was almost like on purpose.
He lost himself in her sweetness until they ran out of air.
She rested her head against his chest, breathing hard.
They were alone and private in the house. Outside a distant mother's
voice called for her child, emphasizing the stillness in the room which
made all the small noises they made seem louder; her panting breath; a
quiet creak of the chair as Andy shifted her weight on his lap; the
rustle of clothing.
He held her close. His right hand left the delights of her soft
breasts, insinuated itself under her skirt, slid up her stockinged leg
until it was on smooth bare flesh.
She let out a small gasp.
He let his hand slip higher to grasp her panties.
She held very still.
Earlier, when he felt the lump against him, he thought he was
reconciled to the idea that she was a man, but the grotesque reality of
the confined erection stretching the nylon under his hand was
appalling--and unbearably, perversely, exciting.
"I thought you weren't hard."
She pushed his hand away. "I'm not."
"Let me hold it for a while, okay? I never touched one before."
"We were only supposed to talk."
"I know. But you wouldn't mind if I just held it while we talk, would
you? Come on, just for a little while."
"Well ... since you showed me yours ... I guess it would only be
fair. Don't think I'm going to lose control or anything."
"I know."
When her lips parted to admit his tongue, he fondled the silk of her
panties again, caressing the stiff pipe they contained. He tugged at
the elastic waistband. She squirmed and made protesting sounds, but
her movement accidentally facilitated the removal of the panties. He
slid them down to her knees, which moved absently, causing the delicate
garment to fall to the floor.
Now she was naked under the dress. His erection was in contact; the
head prodded into her soft heavy balls.
Her prick was surprisingly hot to the touch. It felt huge, bigger than
his. He clasped it, pulling back and forth so the skin moved, first
covering the head, then stripping back. Andy didn't know much about
girls, whether she had liked him caressing her tits, for example, but
he did know what made a cock feel good, and did it.
She said suddenly, "Oh, don't. Don't! You'll make me--"
The organ he was gripping jumped and began throbbing. Wet warm liquid
squirted.
She grunted, "Uh. Uh. Uh," and held him fiercely while her hips
writhed.
He continued to pull at it until it softened, head shrinking back into
the concealment of the foreskin. It was wet; her balls were wet; his
hand was wet; everything was wet. God, his own prick was slippery with
her stuff. She must have shot a gallon of come.
She drew a deep shuddering breath.
"That was-- You made me-- You weren't supposed to do that."
"Didn't you like it?"
"Well ... " Her voice shook. "I couldn't help it. It's been such a
long time."
"Me too. Longer than you, I never did it."
"Sure you did. Everybody does."
"I don't mean by myself. I mean with somebody else."
"You never did it with somebody else? You're a virgin?"
The word made him blush. He shrugged.
After a minute she said, "I suppose you want me to do it to you."
"No."
"No?"
He could swear there was disappointment in her voice.
He said, "You know what I wish?"
"What?"
"What you told me." He tried to keep from sounding bashful.
"What I told you?"
"About those men that got you."
"Oh."
"I'd like to do that with you."
"Do--? Oh. You want to put it in me."
"Yeah."
There was a long silence.
"Oh, Andy, no," she sighed. "It would be a mistake."
"Why a mistake?"
"Well, for one thing, it HURT!"
"I'd be gentle. I'd stop if it hurt."
"Even so, when they did it, it wasn't my fault. I mean, they just
forced me. It was like, say, being beat up. A person can't help that.
But if I LET you, it would be, well, different. Besides, I'm married.
What would Wendy say?"
"You don't have to tell her. I won't."
"But--"
"I did it for you, didn't I? Now it's my turn."
"I'm afraid."
"I won't hurt you. It'll be nice, you'll like it."
"I'm too scared."
"Don't be. Come on, you can't leave me like this. It ain't fair. You
were a guy, you know what it's like."
She hid her face in his chest.
His heart leaped when he heard her muffled voice, "I suppose I'll have
to. If only to show you what a mistake all this is."
He stood up, holding her so she wouldn't fall. Her eyes were cast
modestly down. He turned her to face the kitchen island.
"Bend over the counter."
Wordlessly she did as she was told.
It gave him a sense of power, which was new to him. Up to now it
seemed everybody could tell him what to do--his parents, his teachers,
even her, he was working for her--but now he was in control. He was
dominating another man.
She flinched when he lifted her skirt to gaze at her alluring rear, and
again when he fondled it.
She said abruptly, "I can't believe I'm letting you do this. It's
humiliating."
"No, it's not, it's sexy. You got a beautiful ass. I like the way
your legs are all shaved, too. They look nice in stockings."
"You just want to have your way with me."
"It don't hurt that you're pretty, though."
He stroked inside her thighs up to her wet balls.
She gasped.
"Do you really think I'm pretty?"
"You're more beautiful than any real girl I ever saw."
"You're just saying that so I'll spread my cheeks for you."
"No, I mean it. Really."
She reached behind and pulled her buttocks apart. The crack glistened
with semen that had leaked down her crotch. Her asshole was a
dusky-pink rosebud. It looked tiny.
"Ugh. I'm all slippery. You probably think it's going to make it
easier for you to push that big thing up me. That's why you did it,
isn't it. Well? What are you waiting for? I'm helpless in front of
you. Go ahead, satisfy your disgusting needs. --Oh!" she yelped, when
he poked the head of his cock against her wet asshole.
He shoved with enough force to move her entire body forward, but
nothing happened. It wasn't going to fit.
A terrible sense of frustration came over Andy. He grabbed her hips to
hold her steady and thrust again. He had to get in her. Had to. All
day his cock had been telling him what it needed, and that was this,
and he was going to succeed if it meant tearing her apart.
He pushed.
She cried out, "Ow! It's too big. Don't!"
There was a small sound, a soft *POP*, and his prick lunged forward an
inch into tenderness.
She shrieked.
The head was past the entrance. Her ass spasmed reflexively around the
neck of his cock, squeezing it tightly.
"Ow! Wait! Oh God, you're in--UNH!"
He drove his prick farther up her ass, aided by the slick film of
sperm, oblivious to her cries until he was all the way in.
Air was expelled from her lungs in an explosive grunt. She sobbed,
"Please. Wait. Don't move. It's so big and hard and hot. Let me get
used to it."
Now that he was in, possessing her, his patience returned. Without
attempting to draw back, he let himself relax on top of her. Gently he
lifted her silken brown hair and kissed her neck; then reached under
her to pull her dress open and squeeze her tits.
Her asshole was moving around him, gripping and massaging his shaft.
He savored the warm tunnel, feeling the constriction lessen. Her
pelvis writhed sensuously in a circle, tugging deliciously.
She gasped, "Your big thing is in me. You're fucking me. Oh my God, I
never knew it could be like this."
Her shoulders moved.
He asked, "What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"Are you crying?"
"Yes!"
"Am I still hurting you?"
"No. Yes. A little. That's not why. You won't like me ... after."
"Sure I will. Why wouldn't I? I was even in love with you before you
told me."
She sniffled, "You were?"
"Sure. So why would I not like you?"
He pulled back, hearing her quiet moan; and shoved forward again,
making her exhale sharply. Her ass lifted like a cat in heat to meet
his stroke.
"Oh, I'm giving myself to you. I'm so ashamed."
She stiffened and began grunting. He heard a quiet splash on the
floor. It took him a second to realize he had made her come again; he
was surprised and gratified. He still didn't know if he could satisfy
a woman, but he could satisfy a man, all right.
He plunged in and out rhythmically as the noises she was making
subsided. Her asshole was more relaxed now. His prick slushed with
each stroke.
She panted weakly, "You're going to leave your seed in me. You'll make
me--UNH!--completely yours."
Her words sent him over the edge. With no warning his balls seized, he
rammed up her, the muscles in his crotch clenched--and semen erupted
like a series of gunshots through the barrel of his supremely rigid
organ.
She squealed, "You're squirting in me! I can feel it!"
Her hips were jerking in rhythm to the spastic pumping of his cock jets
of sperm shot into her pulse after pulse prick clutched by her anus he
CAME and CAME and CAME spurting fiercely into her receptive body; until
finally the jets diminished to drools that flowed with little pressure
and his balls were drained at last. He shuddered. There were goose
bumps in the small of his back.
Awareness of his surroundings came back to him; he heard her whimpering
and babbling.
" ... you used me, you came in me, so hard and big and--UNH! Unh.
Unh."
Her ass gripped his prick repeatedly.
He slumped on her, breathing raggedly. His cock softened reluctantly,
massaged by the peristaltic movement of her rectum, which milked the
last drops of sperm from him as it gradually squeezed him out. When a
final contraction forced his penis to emerge, dangling heavy between
her thighs, he lifted himself from her trembling body and sat heavily
in the chair. He never came so hard, he was sure.
Oh Jeez, he had pronged another man. His face burned.
She remained bent over the counter top, quivering, ass exposed and
leaking. Between her open legs he could see her hanging cock and
balls. She groaned, straightened up, skirt falling into place, and
looked at him defiantly. Flush succeeded pallor on her face. There
were tear stains on her cheeks.
"I hope you're satisfied."
He summoned the energy to give her a smile. "Yeah."
"You just went ahead and did what you wanted."
He smiled again.
Her gaze dropped to his midsection. "You didn't even take down your
underpants."
He shrugged.
"Oh! You ARE a beast. I'm going up to change. Look what you did to
my new dress."
The front of her skirt had a long streak of wetness on it. But that
wasn't from him, he thought, it was from her.
She turned on her heel and went to the stairs. He noticed she was
walking stiffly, legs held apart.
Left alone to cope with his reactions to what happened, he sighed,
tucked his flaccid penis into his shorts, and zipped his fly.
Andy didn't know what to think about himself. All his life he had been
taught to avoid the slightest suggestion of effeminacy. Yet he had
just had sex with another man. Did that make him a homo? Anybody
else, he would think so. But he wasn't one of those nancy guys with
limp wrists. He remembered jerking off with Ray. You couldn't call
Ray a fag. The guy had knocked up two girls before graduation. So
maybe this was like that--just fooling around, like guys did sometimes.
It was funny, instead of making him feel faggoty, the experience left
him with a sense of strength and power.
He'd been the one on top. It wasn't like the other guy had fucked him
or anything. A squirmy nervous feeling ran along his crotch and made
his balls shrink up.
He knew he should feel ashamed, but had to admit he really enjoyed
going off inside her. He wondered if getting his ashes hauled by a
real woman would be more satisfying. He doubted it. Knowing she had a
prick and balls and you weren't supposed to mess with her, and then
going ahead and dumping your load in her had a special excitement.
Like a lot of things, Andy decided, it was the sweeter for being
forbidden.
A noise in the pipes told him the bath upstairs was filling. He
wondered if he'd made her feel dirty, and then remembered how wet she
was with her own jism. She was something else. She came once when he
jerked her off, and twice more while he was screwing her. He never
heard of somebody coming three times in a row. She must have been
excited by his performance. It made him feel good.
When she came back down her color was high, and she had trouble meeting
his eyes. She went right to the sink and started rinsing the abandoned
salad vegetables.
She was scrubbed clean, her hair was shining, and she was wearing
another dress he hadn't seen before, a burnt-orange frock with a square
neckline that barely covered her nipples.
Hard-on returning, Andy said, "Anything I can do to help?"
"No. Yes. You can pour me a glass of wine. It's in the fridge. I'll
have dinner on the table in a jiffy. It's already late."
He found the bottle and filled a long-stemmed glass.
"How'd things go today?"
She gave him a measured look. He could see her decide he wasn't
referring to what just happened.
"Wonderful. I got the job."
"I knew you would. You think you're going to like it there?"
"Yes! They put me in charge of a new department. Just the kind of
work I like. I even have a secretary."
"That's great. I told you."
"You did. You know, I didn't say anything before, but I really
appreciate how supportive you've been through all this."
"I didn't do nothing."
"Yes you did, just by being on my side. I didn't ask, how did your
work go?"
"Okay. You mind if I have some of this wine with you? There's a
couple more days work on the den yet, but I have to go do a job for the
tile man. I'll finish it up after."
"The tile man? Oh, in return for the flooring. Listen, I'm going to
have money coming in soon. I can afford to buy the tiles. I don't
want you to have to work for them. It wouldn't be fair."
"No. See, if I do a good job for the tile man, he'll recommend me to
his other customers. It's a good deal for me."
She laughed. "You're always thinking, aren't you? I bet you're way
ahead of me all the time. I'll have to watch my step."
Grinning, Andy set the table.
They ate companionably, never once mentioning what was most on their
minds, until she served coffee.
She looked at him thoughtfully.
"You said before that you loved me until I told you--you know."
He took a sip from his cup. "Yeah."
"Does that mean you didn't love me after I told you?"
"Well, yeah. You're a GUY. How could I be in love with you?"
She considered.
"Men can love each other."
"Yeah. Fags."
"No, I mean, love isn't something that always has to be only between
men and women. If you like and respect somebody--a lot-- that's love,
isn't it? Or a father can love his son. Or brothers can love each
other."
"Yeah, well ... that's different."
"It is? Okay. Just so I know where I stand."
She smiled brightly, collected the dishes, stacked them in the sink.
Andy said uncomfortably, "Well, it is different. You know what I mean.
Parents can love their kids, and brothers or sisters can love each
other, but guys don't love other guys unless they're queer. You know
that. What we did this afternoon was, well, kind of like, well, we
both needed it, your wife isn't around, and I got no girl friend, so we
just ... But we're not fags, right? Things happen. You're married to
a woman--she IS a woman, isn't she?"
"Of course." Her voice was cold.
"See? We can LIKE each other, God knows I like you, I think you're
terrific."
"All right."
"No, I mean, if I loved you, I'd have to be a fag."
"Okay! You told me. You don't love me."
She started washing the dishes.
"See? It would be unnatural. I mean ... LOVE. That's something
special, like if you was a real girl. Maybe I could love you. Maybe I
would."
"All RIGHT! I know what you mean." She scrubbed vigorously at a pot.
"I understand. We don't mean anything to each other. It was just one
of those things."
"Okay. Good. I just--"
"Andy, I SAID I understand. Now let me do these damn' dishes in
peace."
He brooded.
"I just-- You mad about something?"
"Of course not. What would I be mad about? I always let people stick
it in me. Why not? I'm just a fag. No love involved."
"Aw, listen--"
"Let's change the subject. Better yet, let's not talk."
The pot clattered noisily into the dish rack.
Andy was beginning to feel in the wrong, but he didn't know what about.
He had only tried to be honest. He remembered his mother pulling that
same kind of stuff on his father, and his father had always reacted
calmly, apologizing when she wanted him to apologize, soothing her when
it seemed right, changing the subject when that was in order. Yeah,
but his mother was his father's wife. This was just another guy, even
if she looked like a girl.
He waited while she finished the dishes, afraid to leave. She wiped
her hands on the dishtowel.
He said, "Look, whatever I said, I apologize."
She stared deliberately at the bulge in his pants and said coldly, "I'm
going to bed early. I have to get up tomorrow."
He put his hand over his lap. He knew his face was crimson.
At the door she turned.
"Don't be too long. I'll wait up for you."
6. Chapter
Bob heard the shower turn on across the hall, and hastily undressed to
get ready for bed. His stomach lifted dizzyingly.
His world had shattered the minute Andy's lips came down on his, and a
whole new one opened for him.
He stood paralyzed when the boy started feeling him up, first with
shock, then by the astonishing exquisite feeling of somebody touching
his breasts, but he could have contrived to get away--if only he hadn't
turned to face him.
It was the kiss that did him in. It was so tender and romantic and
loving that he found himself yielding.
He didn't decide, it just happened. He discovered his face lifting and
his body melting against the man, an erotic fire kindling in his loins.
His heart pounded. There wasn't enough air.
A MAN was kissing him! It was the other side of the coin. He was used
to putting his arms around his wife and kissing her. This was exactly
opposite. Little or no actual physical difference, but the man was
holding him, putting his lips on his, and that made a world of
difference.
It wasn't right, it was perverse, no, DEPRAVED, to let Andy kiss him
like that and to be so affected by it--but he couldn't help it.
What came over him? He was waiting impatiently for his wife to come
home so he could make love to her. Pretending to be a girl was for her
pleasure, not to court attention from men.
He did his best to imitate women, to walk and talk and move like them,
an actor submerging himself in his role, trying to be the character he
was pretending to be. But he never quite succeeded because he
continued to see himself as an impostor. He couldn't make himself FEEL
like a girl.
When Andy released him, a glare of insight illuminated his mind. Women
had relationships with men! They had boyfriends. Boyfriends who
kissed them. They even--his stomach leaped--had sex with them. As
much as anything else it was the key to being female.
So long as he never had an intimate relationship with a man, he
couldn't hope to fit into his new role. He'd been overlooking that
crucial knowledge.
The answer to his predicament, if he wanted it, was standing in front
of him.
Andy knew about him, knew he had a penis, and had kissed him
anyway--and had more in mind than just a kiss. That was made amply
clear by the bulge in the boy's pants.
He stared at him, the warm pressure of Andy's lips lingering on his
own. His nostrils retained the clean sweaty youthful odor of the boy's
body, overlaid with the fresh scent of sawdust. His nipples still
tingled from the touch of Andy's hard hands.
Heart in his mouth, he watched Andy take out that beautiful prick.
Everything seemed to happen in an instant of time--the hot rigid feel
of it between his trembling thighs, the impassioned kisses, the hand
thrilling up his leg, cool callused fingers manipulating his cock, the
violent untimely ejaculation--and finally the consummation: the
painful stretching insertion of the boy's sex organ and the hot jets of
living sperm inside him--and his own ecstatic response.
It was more than he could handle.
Body plundered, soul ravished by excitement and terror, he'd staggered
upstairs in tears. He stripped off his stained dress and sat on the
toilet sobbing. His swollen anus quaked, opening and closing
involuntarily. Andy's semen dripped into the bowl with quiet plops.
He wiped himself and ran a bath and lay in it, breasts bobbling as they
sought to float; and tried to collect himself.
How could he have done it? Oh God, he had actually let another man put
his thing in him. Suppose Wendy found out? He couldn't stand it. His
face burned with shame. His ass still felt the intrusion, as if Andy's
erection was still inside him. He squirmed in the tub.
He had talked himself into it with that rationalization about "fitting
into his role," FEELING like a woman. How could he?
The kiss had aroused him. He'd been so long without sex that his balls
short-circuited his mind and he gave in, knowing he was doing wrong,
terrified but helpless to control himself.
No sooner had he assumed the position than he found himself PENETRATED,
not by something innocuous like Nurse Baker's cold thermometer, but by
a man's thick organ ... and was robbed of all initiative. For the
duration of the act he existed as little more than a quivering sex
object for Andy's use. He wasn't cooperating with Andy, he was
surrendering to him.
Through the pain and shock he became aware that the boy's hardness was
rubbing against a certain spot in front of his rectum that seemed
intimately connected with his genitals. It stimulated him wildly and
caused him to writhe in passion. Without any volition on his part, he
ejaculated again, through a penis gone limp with strain.
Another insight. Women didn't make their own orgasms; they were made
to have them by men.
Bob was deeply frightened by his surrender to the boy; even more so by
the realization he was so excited by it that he already wanted it to
happen again. There was something special about Andy, something that
appealed to the sexual side of his nature, that made him want to be
with him. Resting in the bath, heart pounding, he knew it could become
addictive.
He should stop now. End it.
Just one more time, he told himself. Tonight in bed. Then they'd
talk, and he would explain why they couldn't go on.
Andy had liked his shaven legs. It occurred to him that if he shaved
BETWEEN his legs there would be no hair to retain odor. It would make
him daintier. He got on his knees, breasts hanging in the water, and
shaved carefully, one hand guiding the other, checking for any trace of
stubble. The smooth bareness of his skin gave him confidence in his
cleanliness.
When he got out of the tub his anus was still puffed and sore. He
rummaged among Wendy's private things until he found the vaginal jelly
she used in the time before she got turned on, and soothed the abused
orifice with it. It was slippery when he moved; a feminine no-no that
made him feel sexy.
He put on his new burnt-orange frock, checking to make sure it was as
seductive as it had looked on the mannequin in the store, and,
afflicted by a sudden shyness, went down to make dinner.
His pique with Andy when the subject of love came up vanished as soon
as he left the kitchen to come upstairs. He knew he had been foolish,
and was glad he had the sense to stop and let the boy know he could
come to bed with him.
Nevertheless, he was having trouble with Andy's refusal to admit to an
emotional commitment. If Bob were willing to give himself to him, the
least the boy could do was reassure him that it meant more than just a
casual roll in the hay.
Nude, he looked at himself in the floor-length mirror, trying to see
himself through Andy's eyes. He blinked. The reflected image was too
bizarre for words--a young woman with a penis and testicles dangling
from the juncture of her thighs. He had always been complacent about
being well-hung, and formerly the strange juxtaposition of male and
female never failed to arouse him, but now it was only embarrassing.
Grotesque, in fact. He didn't know if he could bring himself to let
the boy see him like this.
Well, he didn't have to.
With the thought, his palpitating heart subsided.
All right. Good. Instead of the lace nightie he'd planned to wear,
Bob took a high-collared flannel gown from the bureau, and went to bed
without makeup. If Andy showed up, he'd send him back to his own room.
The decision calmed him. It was the right choice. There was no sense
in getting any more involved than he had already.
He sat up, put a pillow behind his back, and tucked the bedclothes
around him.
The sound of the shower stopped. A few minutes later there was a knock
at the door.
Butterflies again.
"No, g-go away. I changed my mind."
The door opened.
"Hi."
Andy was wearing the blue pajamas he had bought for him this afternoon.
The thin cotton was stretched in a ridge along the inside of his thigh.
There was a dark stain of moisture at the end.
At the sight he caught his breath. He looked down, face warm.
"Andy, I know I said ... I'd wait up for you ... but it would be
better for both of us if you slept in your own room tonight."
He peeped up through his lashes.
The boy's open face showed disappointment. God, he was handsome. So
straight and tall and strong-looking. He was freshly- shaved, ruddy
from the shower. His dark hair was curly.
"You might be better off. Not me."
There was a new self-confidence in his manner.
Bob labored on, "I've been thinking about what happened, it was a
mistake."
"I didn't think so, I thought it was great."
"You did? Well, but ... oh, Andy, I never did anything like that
before. I'm scared."
The boy came forward and sat on the edge of the bed. Bob had to
remember to breathe.
Andy asked in a gentle voice, "Why?"
"I--liked it."
"Yeah? So did I."
"No, I mean I liked it too much. It wasn't natural."
"Yeah, I know. That was part of what made it so nice."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Listen, it's kind of chilly out here. Why don't I get under
the covers with you while we talk about it?"
There was nothing wrong with the room temperature. Bob could hardly
get the words out for the thumping of his heart.
"A-all right, just for a little while, but no fooling around."
Andy agreed, "No fooling around."
"Promise. Then you have to go back to your own room."
"I promise."
He got in next to him, sitting so close they were touching. His warmth
glowed through their nightclothes to Bob's skin.
"I'm sorry if I was too rough before. I didn't mean to hurt you. I
got carried away."
"You didn't. Not too much, anyway."
"I'm glad, 'cause I wouldn't hurt you for anything. I really like you,
you know."
"You do? You don't mind that I'm not really a girl?"
Andy stretched comfortably. "I like it."
"You do? Why?"
Bob shivered when the boy's arm dropped casually around his shoulders.
"I dunno. It's interesting. Sexy. It makes you a surprise, you know?
It really turns me on."
Bob gulped, "You don't think I'm ... strange?"
"Naw. Well, only in a nice way. Remember, we got to know each other
pretty good before you told me. I figure you're the same person.
Listen," his arm squeezed Bob's shoulders affectionately, "with all
these covers you must be kind of warm in that heavy nightgown. If you
want, we could get more comfortable."
"Andy."
The boy had the grace to look sheepish.
"I'm only thinking about your comfort."
"You just want to see me naked."
"Boy, are you suspicious. Anyhow, I already did."
"Not all the way."
"Come on, let's."
Bob's erection got so swollen it hurt.
After a moment he said shyly, "All right." He sat up and pulled the
nightgown over his head. "Now you."
Andy's throat moved convulsively as he stared. His face got pale.
Bob covered his breasts with elbows and arms.
The boy yanked his pajama top open without bothering to unbutton it,
and tossed it on the floor. His chest hair was thick.
"You're beautiful," he said hoarsely.
He put his arms around Bob. His prick poked through the fly of his
bottoms and pressed hot against Bob's quivering naked belly. "You feel
good. Skin is nice, isn't it? I mean the way it feels."
"You're doing it again."
"I know."
"You promised you wouldn't."
"I know."
Andy put his mouth on his, hairy chest brushing his bare breasts, cock
leaking into Bob's pubic hair.
Bob dissolved. All the boy had to do was kiss him.
"Oh, what am I going to do with you?"
"I dunno, relax and enjoy it?"
"You beast. That feels good." Andy was caressing his breasts.
"I like your tits. They're beautiful, a real turn-on."
"You could kiss them if you wanted. Oh! Oh God, wait. Stop," he
gasped. "I'm about to--"
The suction left his nipple.
"Just from kissing your tits? You're something else."
"Give me a chance to catch my breath. Let's just lie here for a moment
with our arms around each other."
After a while Andy said, "I thought you were mad downstairs."
Bob stroked the other's chest, twining his fingers in the mat of hair
covering it.
"I was. People who are in love can get mad at each other, but it
doesn't have to affect their relationship. You have to know what's
important."
Andy kept silence.
Bob knuckled him in the ribs. "You do love me, don't you?"
"I don't want to provoke another argument."
"Go ahead, say it."
"No."
"Yes you do. You do love me. I know."
"How do you know?"
"Because you won't get a piece of ass unless you do."
Andy burst into surprised laughter and hugged him close.
The humor was still in his voice as he said, "I guess I better go along
with it, then."
"See? You love me."
"Okay, okay!"
"Say it."
Andy choked, "I--love you."
"I knew it. Kiss me, you fool."
Bob flowed against him. Their stiff cocks bumped each other. He
wished Andy would take off his pajama bottoms.
He luxuriated in the embrace, crushed in the muscular arms of the boy
who--now he could admit it--who had taken his heart. A part of his
mind recoiled in perplexity. It was women who mistook sex for love,
not men. He couldn't help it; the side of him that had been unleashed
by their intimacy demanded it.
In a little while Andy tried to turn him over.
"Wait," Bob whispered. All he wanted in the world was for the boy to
kiss him while they had intercourse.
"Let's do it now."
"I want to, too. But wouldn't you like to do it this way?"
He lay back, opened his legs, and raised his knees.
Andy's bewildered look turned to pure lust. He covered him, resting
his weight on his elbows. His penis poked Bob's nude crotch.
Heart beating so hard it made his breasts jiggle, Bob reached down to
clasp the simmering erection with both hands, to guide it to the
jelly-slick hole.
Andy flinched.
"What's the matter?"
"Nobody ever touched me there. It makes me nervous."
"Be gentle with me," Bob panted. "You're so big and hard."
He centered the prick directly on his orifice. Its pressure was
ineffably thrilling; the nerve endings in the opening were acutely
responsive to the warm urgent prod. It was every bit as exciting as
complete penetration. Maybe better. This was when he still had a
choice, so to speak. He was conscious of deliberately letting another
man take possession of him, put his prick in him. The delicious sense
of surrender heightened the thrill. In the kitchen it had almost been
rape; he hadn't had time to fully savor the awareness of accepting a
man inside him.
He concentrated on relaxing his asshole while the pressure increased.
"I put something down there to make it easier."
"I liked it when it was your own come. Maybe we could do that again
some day."
"Oh-h."
Bob's ass quavered. The head of the boy's cock entered a little bit at
a time, gaining when the muscle relaxed, maintaining its position when
it clenched.
He was dizzy with excitement. The prick pushed deeper up him; he was
now wedged open, truly penetrated. He sobbed, clutched the man to him
and rotated his pelvis sensually.
Andy's organ slid up inside.
Breath pushed from his lungs in a squawk. He lifted his knees still
higher and tilted his hips to make the intrusion deeper. Andy's balls
were heavy against his tailbone.
He never felt so submissive in his life, belly up, legs open, stuffed
full of that throbbing rigidness. He thought if he were raised a girl
he probably wouldn't feel it so strongly. They grew up expecting to be
on the bottom and seek dominance in other ways. As it was, he had no
defenses. But the shame was mixed with joy.
"Oh Andy, it's so good. Yes, take me!"
"You like it, huh?"
"It's wonderful. You're wonderful."
"You are too. You're tight. I can feel your ass holding me. It's
like you had a cunt."
"I'd hold you forever if I could. I'm yours. You can make me put out
for you any time you want."
"Yeah."
Andy began stroking back and forth.
Bob's penis had gone flaccid with the stress, but remained sensitive to
the pressure of the boy's muscle-ridged stomach. It squirmed between
their bodies with a life of its own, giving rise to exquisite
sensations.
As Andy moved in him, Bob became aware of that peculiar titillation he
had experienced in the kitchen. The invading cock was massaging that
certain spot. It was excruciating; it made his hips move voluptuously
in rhythm to Andy's strokes.
Bob whispered, "Please. Kiss my titties again."
In an instant there was wet suction on his nipples. His back arched in
ecstasy. Thrills rocketed to his groin.
A violent SQUEEZE in his genitals forced the emission of a prolonged
gush of semen between their bodies. Rapture seized him. He shuddered.
He held on to Andy for dear life. After an endless time he became
aware that the high-pitched animal-like noises he heard were emerging
from his own throat, and made himself stop.
He lay under the boy enduring the seething measured thrusts. His
violated asshole was stretched painfully, deliciously. The entrance
burned with friction, but the stimulation of that magic spot deep
inside persisted.
Andy rammed so far up him it made him cry out. The prick, already
enormous, swelled impossibly. It jumped. Bob could almost hear a
SQUIT as the first gout of his ravisher's living sperm, hot and liquid,
was injected into him. The prick jumped again. And again, and Bob's
pelvis writhed around it deliriously, receiving the intimate fluid.
His heart filled with love and terror. Andy had made him his; life
would never be the same.
His own limp sausage issued its thrilling stream once more. The
combination of sensations was too stimulating to bear; the lights in
the room dimmed, and went out.
When he came to, he was moaning. Andy was slumped on him. He welcomed
the weight. The boy panted hoarsely in his ear.
The cock still inside him was only half hard; his asshole worked on it,
squeezing out whatever sperm remained. He wanted to keep the prick in
him, but his anus, spasming uncontrollably, gradually ejected it.
With a satisfied groan Andy rolled off him, breathing deeply. He
turned out the light and put his arms around him.
Bob nestled secure in the boy's embrace. His swollen asshole drooled
semen wet and warm between his cheeks, and his belly was sticky with
his own sperm, but he felt no compulsion to get up to go to the
bathroom.
Andy said with difficulty, "I think I really do love you."
Bob started crying silently in the dark.
The next morning he awakened early, blissfully aware of the warmth of
the boy's body next to his, remembering the night before, hoping that
Andy would take him again this morning. He began to worry that he
might have changed his mind, that maybe it hadn't been as fulfilling
for Andy as for him. Without waking him, he padded naked to the
bathroom to relieve his bladder and bowels.
Wiping himself didn't seem enough. He should bathe. Or maybe- -
He found Wendy's douche bag, filled it with solution, and hung it on
the wall. Inserting the curved black nozzle stimulated him despite the
tenderness there: it reminded him of the other thing that had
penetrated the orifice. The rush of douche water brought back the
memory of Andy's ejaculation.
He repeated the process twice more, flushing each time, until the
solution came out clear. He was thoroughly clean inside. It gave him
confidence, but as he slipped back in bed with Andy he continued to
worry that the boy might have undergone a change of feelings overnight.
Bob was in a unique position to know how a man's balls took control,
and how once they were emptied, his emotions could undergo a backlash.
He was relieved and elated when Andy opened his eyes, kissed him, and
exuberantly pounced on him.
The ensuing weeks passed in a celebration of joy and humid sex. They
couldn't get enough of each other. After work each day Bob rushed into
his lover's arms, and each night slept in bliss beside him. On
weekends he gave up wearing panties.
They were quietly terrified, of course, each in their own way. Bob,
because he had let himself topple over the precipice, abandoning what
masculinity remained to him, letting, no, desiring to have a man enter
him; Andy, because everything in his upbringing led him to loathe and
fear the remotest hint of anything less than consummate masculinity in
himself--and yet here he was, unable to keep from having sex with
another man.
The words "fag," "queer," "pansy," all the names that suggested a
deficiency in manhood, kept echoing in Andy's head, shaming him, but
were powerless to hold him in check. Again and again he was driven to
sex with Bob.
Similarly, Bob was appalled--my God, what would Wendy say if she found
out?--but utterly unable to help himself. At first, each time he
recovered from multiple ejaculations and became aware of just how
totally, blindly, he had given himself to the boy, he would promise
himself NEVER AGAIN, but it took only a kindling look from Andy to
cause his penis to jolt into erection, and for him to melt into a
quivering jelly.
He complained about Andy's habit of wearing his pajama bottoms when
they were in bed together.
"It's like taking a bath with your socks on. Don't you want to be all
naked like me?"
"No, it makes me uncomfortable. You don't really mind, do you?"
The boy obviously had his hang-ups.
"Not if you keep making love to me the way you do."
His rationalization about intimacy with a man making him feel more like
a woman proved to be grounded in reality. With Andy he was submissive
and doting, as he imagined women other than Wendy were with their men.
He began carrying himself with grace and femininity. He stopped being
so shy about his bosom, and found himself standing straight, breasts
lifting proudly as if he had a right to them.
Paradoxically, with half his mind on Andy, his work took an upswing in
both quantity and quality. He didn't have the time or patience to get
bogged down in it, to labor exhaustively over each detail. He worked
fast and effortlessly, keeping old Mr. Bauer and the two kids in
research hopping, and built complex structures within the tax law to
provide his clients with benefits. Occasionally he'd use an IRS ruling
in ways it was never meant to be used, and knew that somewhere down the
line they'd pick up on it, but there was nothing they could do but
change the wording, too late. In the meantime he saved his clients
money.
He did his best to strike a balance between ordering his subordinates
around and being as feminine as he was supposed to be. Apparently he
was successful. He overheard one of the research assistants say, "I
thought she was gonna be a bitch, but she's not. She's pretty nice.
You notice instead of telling us to do something she always asks sweet
as pie? She CONSULTS. She says, 'What if we take this approach? Could
we find a Treasury Reg that would let us?' You end up feeling like
you're doing her a favor? And you never think it's enough, you want to
do more. I dig out more information for her than I ever did for old
Picky Dicky."
"Yeah," the other responded, "but one reason is, she's so sharp you'd
be ashamed to do a half-assed job."
He showed Sam Lovell how to use tax-deferred money from Chard
Industries' pension fund to benefit both company and employees. The
next day he was summoned to Mrs. Chard's estate for tea, during which
she thanked him for his advice, and told him he was the best thing to
happen to Haskell since he founded his legal practice. "It was long
past time," she said, unconsciously echoing Mrs. Brower, "that he put
a woman in charge down there." Also present was a Mrs. Argentina,
whose raven beauty contrasted sharply with Mrs. Chard's flaxen
elegance. By the end of tea, Mrs. Argentina had become another client
of Haskell and Associates.
Haskell was effusive when he heard, but stopped short of offering him a
bonus.
Bob usually ate a hasty lunch at his desk, enduring Nancy's
disapproval--she kept scolding, "You'll get ulcers if you keep this
up"- -wanting to get on with the job so he could go home to Andy. One
Friday, however, she insisted so firmly that he shrugged, put down the
file he was studying, and accompanied her to Mitzi's for their little
sandwiches.
Nancy said, "There. Isn't this better than that stuffy office?"
"I thought you liked the office."
"I do. It's fun. A lot better than the tax orifice. God, I'm glad to
be away from that place. But you have to take a break once in a while,
you know."
"I suppose."
"I hear you got Marie Argentina's account."
"How'd you know?"
"She told me. It came up when I mentioned to her and Estelle Chard
where I was working."
"You know them?"
"Sure. Jimmy and me are friends with Leslie Woicyk and her
husband--she's Estelle's daughter--so we see Estelle pretty often, and
Marie is often with her."
"My gosh. Can I touch you? Hobnobbing with the fantastically rich and
famous."
Nancy's grin lit up the room. Her close-set pale eyes looked him up
and down.
She said, "This job must be good for you."
"Why's that?"
"You look so happy. You're absolutely radiant. So, I don't know,
DEMURE or something. Fulfilled. Like you have a secret. If you were
somebody else I'd say you were going to have a baby."
Bob laughed. "Not much chance of that."
"Haskell notices too. You should see the way he ogles you when you're
not looking. Little does he know." She tittered. "Anyway, to me, work
is work, and if I do good I get a kick out of it--but nothing like the
charge you're getting! It's spooky."
Bob knew that Nancy had guessed there was more going on than just the
job. She was tactfully inviting him to confide in her. Prying.
He regarded her thoughtfully. Underlying the joy he took from his
perverse relationship with Andy was a sense of foreboding. Wendy would
be coming home soon. What were they going to do then? He couldn't
imagine giving up Andy, but if it came to a choice between him and her
he'd have to choose Wendy. It was one thing to give himself wantonly,
unself-consciously, to his lover when they were alone; quite another to
stand in the broad light of day and admit to Wendy that he wanted to be
used by a man. He couldn't bear to think that knowledge of his
depravity might cause her to lose respect for him.
Nancy was married to a man who wore dresses. Maybe she'd understand.
He needed a friend to talk to, and for a moment he was tempted to tell
her about Andy.
Bob caught himself. What was he thinking of?
He changed the subject. "How's your husband?"
"Jimmy's fine." She hesitated, smile fading. "I guess I shouldn't have
said anything about him the other day. It wasn't too cool, was it? I
was just so surprised to see you that it just popped out."
"Are you afraid I might tell somebody? I'm one of those people who
live in glass houses, you know. You can be pretty sure I'm not about
to throw any stones," he grinned.
"I know. I just wanted YOU to know I don't usually blab like that..
Just in case you were worried. Your secret is safe with me."
"Thanks. I'm glad you told me about him, anyway. It made me feel
better about things."
"You mean, like, you're not the only one?"
"Yes."
"Don't worry about THAT. I'm sure it's more common than we know. I
keep telling Jimmy. He's embarrassed about it. I tell him there are a
lot of men who wear dresses, but he hardly ever does it any more
anyway. He's studying accounting, see, he'll have his degree in June,
and he thinks he has to be super-straight. He's gotten so straight it
makes me puke. It's a real downer."
"A downer?"
"Yeah. See, for one thing dressing up really turns him on, and that's
terrific, rewarding for me, if you know what I mean. For another it
turns me on too. I love to see him all beautiful and sexy in a
miniskirt. I try to tell him, but I think he got the idea I might be
looking down on him or something. Now he only does it once in a while
when we entertain--a certain friend--who likes him to be in a dress."
"Could you have said something to make him feel that way?"
"No! I love it when he dresses. In fact I like it so much I sometimes
wonder if I'm a lesbian."
Bob started to laugh.
"Don't. It's not funny." The corner of her lips twitched, but she
continued seriously, "I really do think I might have some leanings in
that direction. I told you we were friends with Estelle and Marie?
They're that way. And so beautiful. I keep wondering what it would be
like if ... " She was lost in reverie for a moment, abruptly shook her
head, saying, "Anyway, I wish Jimmy would dress up more often. I mean
for me, not for--our friend."
"Mrs. Chard and Mrs. Argentina are lesbians?"
"Oh God, I did it again. You're too easy to talk to, you know that?
Forget I said anything."
"It's forgotten. But--really? They're lesbians? I didn't know that."
"Shh! Yes! At least--well, lately I noticed Estelle looking at Mel--
that's her daughter's husband--in a certain way. And him at her. I
wonder if anything's going on. Maybe she's bisexual. Lots of people
are, at least that's what Masters and Johnson say. Jimmy is."
Bisexual. Bob thought it over. That would explain his own mixed
feelings. He never knew that about himself. It was funny though. He
couldn't detect any "bisexuality" in himself about other men, only
Andy. There was something special about the boy that attracted him
strongly, that appealed to some deep instinct.
It was partly the way he smelled. Underlying that clean masculine
aroma was a breath of tantalizingly-familiar odor that never failed to
stir his balls.
Aloud he said, "Really? Jimmy?"
Nancy reddened. "That friend I told you about? He's gay. When he
comes over, he and Jimmy ... you know."
"You don't sound too upset."
"I'm not." She looked down at her plate, freckles swamped by a wave of
color. "I like it. They--let me share. Does that shock you?"
"Yes! You join in with them? Shame on you!"
Her eyes darted to his face, measuring him to see if he was serious.
Reassured, she laughed weakly.
"I know it's awful. When Jimmy and I first got married, I would never
of believed we would do anything like that. But I don't know, after
you've been married a while, well, maybe you begin to think about
variety, adventures, like that."
Bob considered a moment, then asked, "Don't you mind about Jimmy and
this other person? I mean, doesn't it make you jealous? Or ... make
you think less of him?"
"Now YOU'RE doing it. Why would I think less of him? I like it. It's
kind of something we can share. Besides it makes him a better lover.
He knows how I feel when he does it to me."
He remembered Wendy saying, "Now you know how it feels."
Nancy said, "Did you and Wendy ever? With somebody else?"
It was Bob's turn to blush. He didn't know if he should say anything.
Still, Nancy had been open and trusting with him. If he didn't return
her confidences she would be hurt.
"Well ... a couple of times, I guess, with Wendy's sister."
"Her sister! All in the family, eh?" she twinkled. "You're not as
ladylike as you look. Where's her sister now?"
"With Wendy in San Cabrón."
"Too bad," she said slyly.
Bob smiled.
Nancy said, "I guess you're anxious for them to get back."
When they did, he'd have to give up Andy. Oh God. Maybe he could find
a way to keep him and Wendy both. Maybe she would go along with it.
Nancy did, with her Jimmy. Maybe, if he introduced her to Nancy, if
Nancy would tell her the situation she had just described, and he could
gauge Wendy's reaction ...
No. Bob couldn't admit to her what he'd done, no matter what.
That night, lying warm and loved next to Andy, treasuring a secret
slippery trickle from his throbbing asshole, he murmured, "Wendy'll be
back in a couple of weeks."
"Yeah."
"What'll we do?"
"Have to stop, I guess."
"Suppose we tell her. She might go along with it."
He felt Andy's strong young body tense.
"Tell her! Are you nuts?"
"I just thought--"
"Never mind. Just don't say anything."
They never mentioned it again, but her impending return lent an element
of anxiety to their lovemaking, which would have flared into
desperation if they had known they had less time together than they
thought.