(c) 1998 by Vickie Tern May be archived if made freely available.

Not if not.

Vickie Tern@AOL.COM

DOLLS

by Vickie Tern

PART ONE

Bob still didn't know how he felt about it, or even how he was supposed to feel. At first he'd said "No!" abruptly, without thinking, and she'd called it a typically mindless male response, which of course is what it was. She said she'd hoped for better than that from him, especially given the way he claimed he felt about her. This was something she wanted him to do, she really did, never mind why. It was for her! And he'd refused.

She'd told him he had better rethink his answer, or she'd start rethinking lots of things about their relationship. So that's what Bob was doing, more and more desperately, over and over. The old sufficient reasons he came up with at first got more vague and meaningless with each repetition. She was marvelous, an incredible girl, and he was hopelessly in love with her. She'd become his whole life, his reason for breathing, practically. He didn't dare risk losing her. But she was odd in some ways too. His refusing her "one teeny little request, please, for me, just because I want you to is why," now looked as if it was going to destroy everything they'd been to each other.

It had all started out casually enough, a straightforward slow-percolating affair with a girl who seemed at first to be far beyond the reach of his desires. He'd met her in a singles bar. He'd been leaning over the bar alone as usual, nursing his Chardonnay and meanwhile looking sideways at different couples chatting each other up. They all looked like people he'd like to get to know, he thought. Maybe less lonely and uncertain than he was these days, but who wasn't?

He was still new in town, and still knew hardly anyone. Still with no job, though thinking of looking. He'd come a month earlier from another town where he also knew no one, to collect an inheritance from his grandmother, and he'd planned to leave that evening. But when the lawyer handed him the check it looked a lot more sizeable than he'd anticipated, like real money in fact. So he'd decided then and there to stay and try to make a fresh start, take his time looking around, and if he liked what he saw settle in. Now, being a little shy, he still didn't know anyone. But this singles bar was the one place he could go to get out of that drab furnished apartment he rented by the month, and who could tell?

This particular evening he was glancing down the bar to his right at a dark-haired girl in a green silk breast-hugging blouse, wondering if those small bulges poking forward through the fabric were her nipples or some dressmaker's contrivance. She was looking sideways through heavy black eye makeup at a chunky man leaning over her, and laughing as if amused by something he had just said, though she sounded a little forced. Girls on dates always did that, tried to look pleasing and seem pleased. The man was hefty, a football player once maybe, not yet gone soft. No matter. Bob was thin. Always had been. Too thin to interest a girl like that?

"I notice you always order the same wine. Don't you ever feel like trying something new?"

Startled, he looked left, toward a voice too close not to be talking to him. At first he saw only a mass of loose blonde hair, piled up but then falling like theatrical curtains to frame a strong, beautiful face. Its almond-shaped eyes stared steadily at him, amused, confident, friendly, seeming to share something. She had bright, pouty lips. Bob didn't dare look down further, to check out her body -- that would be too obvious, too rude. A single sweep of his eyes and he might lose her.

"I try different things till I find what I like, then I stick with it," he replied.

Dumb! Still, it was the best he could think of on such short notice, not too bad. Quick. Something else!

"Can I order something for you? What would you like?"

She looked surprised, as if this never happened in singles bars, even somewhat grateful. Yet her eyes remained amused, and never left his. The bartender noticed that finally something was happening in Bob's vicinity, and came over.

"Bailey's Irish on the rocks," she said.

"Bailey's Irish on the rocks," Bob repeated to the bartender, who was already turning away. Then feeling foolish, he added, "Make that two."

"I thought you stick with what you like," she said.

"I'd like to try what you like," he said, now feeling rather racy.

"What I like can get you into trouble," she said, "Unless you're really up to it, really ready. Creamy, thick, sweet. You lick it and suck on it, its more like kissing than drinking, and then you lick it off your own lips. You think you'd like that?"

"I'll find out, I guess," he said guardedly. "I'm willing to try." This conversation's eroticism was racing past him. He'd better change the subject.

"I'm Diana," she said abruptly, holding out her hand. It was as if he'd somehow just passed some kind of test.

"Bob," he replied, resisting a gallant impulse to bring her hand to his lips. He let it go. "Mistress of the hunt," he added, to show her he'd read some Greek mythology.

"Not mistress," she replied. "Though I suppose I've been. Goddess. Maybe you'll find out. Or maybe all you'll find is what else I can be."

"I hope so," he said, hoping that was the right answer. She'd lost him.

And that was how it started. They'd set up a date, he had no car so she told him she'd come by his place to pick him up, and still looking straight into his eyes, she picked up her purse. Then suddenly she was no longer there.

For a while Bob had every reason to believe he was dating Diana the Chaste, not Diana the Huntress. He couldn't understand why such a beautiful girl -- with really a ravishing figure once he got to look at it, round yet trim and willowy -- why she sounded so pleased every time he asked her for a date, and never put him off, and always seemed reluctant to leave when it ended, yet never accepted his invitations to come in and relax in his place before driving on home. She had the brisk ease of a woman raised wealthy, and her clothes showed it. She could afford to buy whatever she liked, and she seemed to like him. The more they saw of each other, the further their talk advanced into small intimate confessions, the luckier he felt that such a marvelous girl was at all interested in him. It was beyond hope or belief.

Yet physically she remained reserved. He never pressed her for more than their brief good night kisses because the initiatives were all hers. She'd pick him up and drive them wherever they were going, then drop him off before disappearing into the night. When he'd asked for her phone number she'd waved her hand and given it to him, but she'd said something about calling her being difficult, she shared her phone, and she was so often out. She'd take his number and call him regularly. As she did.

On their fifth date she surprised him with an unexpected and elegant blow job, quite casually, while they were sitting and talking in her car in front of his apartment building. While she was saying something in her comfortable, matter-of-fact manner, she'd reached into his lap, unzipped him, taken it out, bent over, and no mistaking it, he'd immediately felt himself enclosed in her moist warmth. When he came he spurted semen in helpless surrender deep into her mouth, and it seemed that she swallowed all of it. But then when she sat up again and leaned over his face to kiss him, there it all was, some of it dribbling from her mouth into his, then all of a sudden her tongue pushing great globs into his mouth while she sealed his lips tightly against hers, so he had no choice but to accept it and swallow it down. It tasted a little creamy, a little salty, very odd, not too bad. He was licking his lips as she leaned back to watch his reaction, and she smiled at him, and he smiled back. "See," she said. "It's like I said, you lick it off your own lips." He'd thought she'd meant her own juices that night they'd met at the bar, bantering in that racy way he could barely follow. Maybe she did. But he decided not to say anything.

It was just as well he didn't object to licking and sucking his own cum out of her mouth and swallowing it, because that turned out to be a regular thing with her, a kink she enjoyed, and not at all accidental. She liked doing it. The next few times she held all of his cum in her mouth and then spooned it slowly back to him with her tongue, in ardent kisses all the more sensuous and sultry, it seemed, for being laced with his own jism. She pressed her lips tightly against his mouth, and repeatedly her tongue pushed a teeny bit more to where his tongue could lick it off, their two tongues so salaciously entwined that he had no choice but to receive it gratefully and swallow it down.

It bothered him at first, but that was what she wanted him to do, obviously, and he saw no harm in it. His semen became part of their shared desire, and after a few more dates he was avid each time to sip it from her lips and swallow it down. Once she didn't give him her prolonged cum kiss after she blew him, instead swallowing it while looking at him with a mischievous smile, then giving him a peck on the cheek and settling back for him to leave the car. His face fell. She noticed, and smiled half to herself. She said next time she'd make it up to him.

That next time, a week or so later, she surprised him with a moment that was utterly magical. Under the stars on a deserted turnoff high above the valley, they parked and looked at the town's lights far below. He walked a little distance away to take a leak behind a tree, and when he returned he found her sitting sideways on the front seat, the car door open and both her legs dangling toward him, thighs spread wide, Diana with her pussy open to the chaste moon. She sat imperiously over her open crotch watching him return, and as he came up to her she made a single sweeping gesture downward with her whole arm, pointing to the juncture of her thighs, or maybe to the ground beneath. He fell to his knees between her legs as if clubbed, and buried his face in her slit, and lapped and sucked and thrust his tongue into her like a man demented. It was true. She was creamy, thick, and sweet. She wrapped her legs around his head and shoulders, and pulled him close into her with her thighs, and stroked his hair. She seemed to cum several times, pressing her pussy ever more tightly into his face while tensing her legs and making mewing sounds. Perhaps not. No matter, he loved it.

From then on he was hers. He loved her, helplessly, hopelessly, utterly, more completely than he had ever fallen for any girl anywhere. He doted on her, and lived only for their time together. She began to allow him to go down on her before each date as well as after, each time in her car, Bob's bowed back tucked down under the dashboard, his face thrust forward eagerly into her pussy, tongue fucking her until she seemed to cum with those cute little squeals and gasps he loved to hear. He was ecstatic that he was able to please her. Then, she always went down on him too before the night was out, always feeding him his own cum out of her own delicate lips, in small sips, like a rare wine. He couldn't get enough of her.

Once she agreed to spend the night with him in his bed, if he'd promise to keep his penis to himself or else available to her mouth and no where else. He nodded joyously, unable to speak. That one night she'd lain back completely naked, hands clasped behind her head, watching him, saying nothing at all. He'd kissed her from head to toe over and over, in little nibbles, pausing at her nipples and returning to them again and again. She'd allowed his mouth free access to her cunt, and he wore down his tongue on her slit and clit while she heaved her hips into his face repeatedly. Who knows how often she'd climaxed? That same night she'd gone down on him three times, each time more sweetly, each time serving him his own fresh juice from her own sweet mouth. Yet she denied him entry into her body except with his nose and his tongue, And she never seemed to hear his pleadings for an explanation, to know why or why not.

The next morning as she prepared to leave his flat, another odd kink showed up. She was standing at his bureau making up her face in his mirror, and he looked over her shoulder and pressed his cheek to hers, to see their two faces reflected together. They were about the same height, both thin, with the same high cheek bones. His blonde hair was shorter than hers, but getting longer -- she liked long hair she'd told him, and she'd asked him not to cut it. What little beard he had was thin and blonde, and anyhow still smooth-shaven, hardly visible even the morning after. His cheek snuggled against hers, she placed her palm on his other cheek, and they smiled at each other's images. They looked so much alike, like brother and sister. It was a marvelous moment.

Then she resumed putting on her lipstick, looking seriously at her own face in the mirror, her mouth partly open, her cheek still pressed against his. When she was done, she opened her mouth wide as a signal to him, her lips stretched taut. He opened his the same way. Then before he knew what was happening, she'd lipsticked his mouth just the way she'd just done hers, as if his lips were alternatively hers, all the while she held her palm firm on his other cheek so he couldn't move away. Then she pressed her lips together in another signal for him to do the same, to spread the lipstick evenly on his upper and lower lips. He did. It was all so unexpected, he had no time even to think about it.

Suddenly she turned and put her hands on his shoulders, backed him to a chair, sat him down abruptly, bent over him, turned his face up to hers with both hands, and deftly, in a series of quick strokes, made up his face to match the way hers looked in every particular. Foundation, blush, powder, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, and each time he'd wiggle or protest, or grin to ask her what in the world, she'd hush him with such ferocity he quickly lapsed into silence. Then when she was done she led him back to where he'd first seen himself with her, cheek to cheek in his mirror, her palm on his other cheek. They looked again at their faces reflected together over his bureau. No longer were they brother and sister. Now they were sisters, a pair of very pretty girls, though his hair hung in rather lank strands not quite to his collar.

She grinned, and patted his cheek reassuringly with her upraised palm, and said to him, "I'd hoped so. You'll do. Leave it on all day today, see how you like it. As a favor to me." Then she'd picked up her overnight bag, her cosmetic kit, and her purse, and the door closed behind her while he was still staring astonished at his own reflection, no longer him, wondering what all that was about. One more odd thing about her, he thought. But in a way that was why he loved her, these unpredictable impulses of hers.

Because she'd asked him to, he left his face made up all day. At first each glimpse of himself in a mirror surprised him, but by the afternoon he'd gotten used to it. He barely registered that his lipstick had worn off though his eye makeup was still as dense as ever. He put off running out for a few errands, and washed his face only that evening, just before bed. When he showered the next morning he no longer remembered.

***************

But now her "teeny little request, for me, please" was destroying everything they'd been to each other. What was it he was refusing her? As their previous date ended, he'd been lying content with his head in her lap, his nose pressed against her mound. She'd cradled his face between her breasts as she leaned forward across him to suck on his cock. He'd come so sweetly into her tender moist mouth, so deliciously, as always. As always she'd loomed over his face as he raised himself up to her, and she'd lovingly pressed gobs of his sperm through pursed lips down into his open mouth. As always he'd received it gratefully and swallowed it all, and each time he swallowed, she'd kissed him, so very sweetly. Then she'd cuddled him, and in the most matter-of-fact manner mentioned to him that she'd had a marvelous idea for their next date. Together they'd enjoy a girls' night out. She'd come to his place two hours earlier than usual to help him get ready, and then the two of them would go on a date with each other as girlfriends. She'd make him up to look as pretty as she did. It would be such fun! Nothing much, dinner and a movie, maybe dancing afterward. She knew a lesbian bar where no one would notice or care that two pretty girls were in each other's arms, rubbing themselves against each other.

He'd felt a sudden severe qualm in his belly and said "No!", allowing himself no time even to think about it. She'd reacted as if he'd slapped her.

The strength of his own denial surprised him. But he was indeed shocked by her proposal, and to tell the truth, he was also a little frightened. He was a man! He had his dignity! And he wanted her to admire him, to respect him. She couldn't possibly admire and respect some nancy faggot mincing along beside her on a date! He told her that.

There then followed the conversation that still gnawed at his mind. She wanted him the way she wanted him, she said, and it was not for him to decide how she wanted him. She'd hoped for a more loving response from him, less brutal, more considerate of her desires. She asked him to reconsider his decision, while she meanwhile reconsidered their whole relationship. That much sounded stern. Then suddenly she'd begun to tease, and wheedle,

and tickle him, saying "Please!" and "For me!" over and over until he'd agreed to reconsider the matter.

Then for the next few days in repeated phone calls she'd coaxed him along, just this once, just for fun, just to please her. Plainly it meant a lot to her, and the more he thought about it the less it meant to him. But still he'd held back his consent, as a matter of pride, he realized. His manly image of himself in her eyes was at stake. And he didn't want to seem too pliable, too easy.

Then for two days, no phone calls came, and his resolution turned to jelly. He thought he'd lost her.

One morning he woke up hoping she'd call yet again, while he was still in bed, so he could tell her "Yes! Of course! Anything!" He couldn't forget that earlier glorious morning when he had awakened to find her dear head with its gray-shadowed eyelids on the pillow beside him, her blonde hair streaming back from her pillow and tumbled free, just as it had fallen the previous night when he'd set her down gently and then leaned over her, and kissed her. That morning her wide eyes had opened to look at him innocently for a moment, then to study him as her mouth curled as usual into a sweet smile on seeing him bent over her, just looking. This had happened only once, that one time she'd been willing to spend the night with him while his penis was out elsewhere. That one time. The thought that he might never again see her face and golden hair on a pillow next to his suddenly devastated him.

Of course he'd go along with her. He'd wear whatever clothes would please her. It was what she wanted. He'd tell her that when she next phoned. The whole issue was too trivial to think about any more.

By ten she still hadn't phoned, and he decided he had to call her. As he dialed, he realized suddenly that had no idea where she lived. From the exchange he was dialing, somewhere south of town. But she'd always picked him up in her BMW, or they'd met somewhere, and then she'd always dropped him off again at his place. The penalties of not having a car of your own. He heard her answer the phone, and he said simply, trying not to sound contrite, "It's Bob."

"Well?" was the way she answered him. Her voice sounded hurt and distanced, even a little impersonal he was horrified to notice. She'd half-written him off?

"Diana, for you, yes, anything at all," he replied "If that's what you want me to do. I'm sorry I've been such a wimp. I told you once, I'll always want to try anything you want, whatever you like."

Now that she had him, she played with him. "Anything, Bob?

Always? That's a lot more than I'm asking from you now. But now I just might want a lot more. You'll do anything at all for me? From now on?"

From now on! Bob realized with joy that he hadn't blown it. She was still thinking they had a future together! He felt enormously relieved. "Of course," he said grandly. Then he realized she might not be feeling altogether playful about this. Be serious! He thought a moment. "Yes," he said. "I will. I think so."

"Remember that, dear. Keep thinking it. I'll hold you to it. From now on. Remember that."

Bob had no idea what she was talking about, but he didn't care.

"How do you want to do this?" Bob asked. "It isn't Halloween. We haven't got that excuse when people see me."

"That's why we have to be perfect. You'll look real. Don't worry, you'll pass just beautifully. You'll make a lovely girl. I don't want to embarrass either of us, you should know that. I want you to have a wonderful experience. You'll be my date. Don't give it another thought. I'll bring everything and decide everything. Just be home next Friday at five p.m., naked, and we'll take it from there. I'll want to remake you from the skin on out. Trust me. You'll love it. It'll be exciting. It'll be our little thing together."

"Let me tell you one thing more, Bobbi honey. It won't end Friday night. Now that I have you I won't want to let you go. Not yet. Maybe not at all. Maybe we'll spend the whole weekend together. Maybe all of next week. And I really mean together. As long as you're the person I want you to be, I'll see to it that you're very, very happy. This will be wonderful for you. You'll see."

She then hung up. Bob just sat there, the phone still in his hand, unable to move, tears slowly filling his eyes. He blinked. He'd nearly lost her! The most wonderful girl in the world, and he'd nearly lost her, just because she wanted to play this game with him and he'd balked. Never again! He didn't understand some of the things she'd just said, but whatever she wanted, from now on that was what he wanted!

****************

Now it was Friday and nearly five. Bob was already naked, pacing up and down, waiting. He had no idea what to expect. It seemed to him a little silly, Diana wanting him to date her wearing women's clothing. He'd heard of men who liked to do that, and he'd always thought them a little strange. Well, a lot strange. Probably gay. He loved seeing women's things on women, where they fit, and curved, and declared soft, delicate things about their

bodies. He'd always felt there was something mysterious about dresses, and blouses, and bras, and those other things women wore and men didn't. Their clothes were like themselves, desirable, remote, different, erotically charged, a large part of what being a woman was like. The y had their things, Bob thought, and we have ours. That's what makes them feminine, and us masculine. He tried not to remember that in anticipation of tonight, all week long whenever he'd seen a girl his age and shape in the mall, or the street, or in an office, he'd looked over their dresses, and jackets, and blouses, and hosiery, and high heeled shoes, and hairdos, and tried to imagine himself wearing them. Is that what Diana wanted? His imagination had already submitted to her.

It's only clothing, he told himself. Wearing it won't make me feminine. Will it? Or was it that when other people saw him and thought he was a girl, then that would that make him feel feminine? Maybe. Was this some supreme test Diana was putting him through to see if he was worthy of her, or sincere in his feelings for her? Bob wanted her to be happy.

But as the moment approached his heart started beating faster. For some reason, what he was about to do seemed very dangerous, a threat to something fundamental in himself, something vulnerable, even fragile. When Diana's car showed up and he saw her walk toward his building with a large valise in each hand, he felt genuine fear.

She sensed this immediately as she came in, set her bags down, looked his bare body up and down with a nod, and reached to kiss him. She locked both her hands behind his neck and stared into his eyes from just a few inches away, pressing her fully clothed belly against his naked, engorging penis. "Don't worry, darling," she said. "This is something I do every day. Half the world does this every day. Just think of yourself as one of me. I think you'll enjoy pretending to be me. Until you can decide for yourself what kind of a girl you are and then be you, with your own style and ways of feeling feminine, for the time being just pretend you're me. OK?"

This was getting a little more extensive than he'd figured, Bob thought. What's on her mind isn't just tonight. But I've got to humor her. I did promise her. I want her to have what she wants. "Whatever you want, I want," he told her. "I'm yours." And for some reason, when he said that he felt reassured.

What she showed she'd brought in the suitcases was also reassuring, a little. She wasn't planning on a high-styled date, just drinks and dinner for two in a restaurant already crowded with other couples absorbed with each other, two women together having a TGIF evening, then maybe a movie, then a casual drink at a bar where men wouldn't try to hit on them. She smiled when Bob looked startled at that last. Diana was dressed as always with a simplicity that seemed elegant, in a billowing silk blouse gathered at the wrists and a full tweed skirt to mid-calf. She'd brought him a similar blouse and a "dress for success" business suit, gray with a few purple threads highlighting the fabric, the skirt tailored and nearly knee length, the jacket short and nipped in a little at the waist. Not terribly effeminate or threatening. But form-fit, and decidedly a woman's suit.

"No pants for my first time out," he asked hopefully? He realized he'd just agreed to go out with her this way other times too.

"When you next wear pants on a date with me," she replied, "they'll be cut so fashionable or so cute that men will try to climb all over your sweet little ass. You'll be eager to get back into a sound, sensible skirt, like this one." She held it up. "Your first Chanel classic. The basis for your future wardrobe. Isn't it just lovely?"

Bob saw she was looking at it with obvious pleasure, and thought he should share that pleasure with her, show he was a good sport. "It's just lovely," he said.

She glanced sideways at him, not at all fooled. "Yes, it is," she said. "You'll love it. You'll see. But let's go to the bathroom and get you started."

An hour later, Bob felt very peculiar indeed.

First of all, his body was utterly hairless. He'd never felt so naked. She'd taken him into the bathroom and stood him in the tub, and directed him to shave himself everywhere. "You can leave a little triangle on your crotch, around those sweet little toys of yours," she said. "All girls have hair on their mounds, and yours proves you're a natural blonde. That's an asset. And we're going to give you a pretty hairdo, too. But all the rest of your hair goes!"

When he was done she foamed his stubble with hair removing lotion of some kind, and then washed it all down the drain, and then soothed his skin with a perfumed body lotion, her slim fingers wiping it smooth over his curves and into his crevices. Now he was more naked, smooth, and exposed than he'd felt since he was born. She looked him over appraisingly, not disapproving but somehow speculative.

Then something more shocking, that made him feel even more vulnerable. She suddenly produced two Fleet enemas and told him to use them to clean out his "you-know-what," first one then the other. He'd gotten to his knees on the bathroom rug and bent way over, shoulders also on the rug, ass hole high, and inserted the first and squeezed in the fluid, while she watched him impassively.

"I could fuck you with that," she said suddenly. "But I have better things in mind. Still, why don't you do yourself a little when you use the second one?" He didn't respond. This was her game.

He held the liquid from the first inside himself under orders for nearly fifteen minutes, until he was convulsed with cramps. Then when she permitted he poured it all out of himself into the toilet, embarrassed that she was there the whole time, sitting on the edge of the tub watching him casually, waiting for him to finish. It smelled a little, but she seemed not to notice or mind.

Then she'd made him repeat the whole procedure with the other enema kit, telling him this time to work the plastic nozzle in and out of his anus to make sure the area inside was clear, "as if you were fucking yourself with a pencil-sized dick." Only clear fluid came out the second time, when finally she gave him permission to sit and expel it.

Then came a surprise. She handed him a Massengill Douche kit with a picture of a woman in a long white chiffon gown imaged on the box, looking somehow pristine and soft. She told him to use that too. "I want you to feel like that woman," she said. "Clean, as beautifully clean in your body's openings as I am in mine. This is very special, what we're doing tonight. I want your body to feel different on the inside as well as the outside. A woman should always feel fresh everywhere when she starts out on a date. Remember that. Whatever scents and fluids then fill her body should be those aroused by her lover."

She watched as Bob inserted the tip and administered the douche to himself. "Gently," she said. "This is a rare privilege. Don't let it seem routine. You are doing something very feminine. You should feel that it's helping you to feel feminine. Work that long tip in and out of your bottom just a little. Lovely! Only women douche themselves. And now you."

She smiled at him. "Bobbi dear," she went on. "From now on, whether we're seeing each other or not, I want you to do this for yourself every day. Whenever you take a shower, cleanse your insides thoroughly with an enema, and always finish with a douche. I'll supply your douche kits for you, specially prepared the way I'd like them to be, perfumed and especially womanly in other ways too. So I'll know your insides are as sweet as any other part of you. And you'll know. We'll both be glad you did it, afterward."

Bob nodded, amused and a little puzzled, but still willing to go along with whatever pleased her. He started feeling especially comfortable shortly after his douche. Nice. Calm, not at all nervous. He imagined this was how women feel, why they always looked so serene. Nothing extraordinary, he was only a woman going out on a date with his girl.

Then just as they left the bathroom, she suddenly asked him to bend way over, and before he was quite sure what was happening she produced a tampon, swiped a bit of jellied lubricant on it, slipped the plastic tube into his rear end, and then withdrew it, leaving the tampon itself inside him with a string dangling from his anus. He let out a little yip, but it was over before he could tense up or protest. She patted his bottom. "Inside and outside," she said, and she smiled reassuringly as she led the way back into the bedroom.

He felt as if he were waddling. His bottom waggled when he walked, with that tampon inside him. Was that why girls waggled when they walked? It was an odd sensation. Very full. Somehow not dissatisfying. He reached down to see what she had done to him, but except for the soft string his fingers found dangling out of him, his opening felt the same as when he'd showered or wiped it, now tight shut, it's new secret well hidden within.

"Now darling," Diana said, her voice slightly amused. "Don't play with your pussy right now. Just imagine you're having your period, dear. Girls do, you know. I told you I want your body to feel feminine inside and out, and there's only one thing you can put into that opening that would make you feel even more feminine, isn't there? You don't want that just yet now, dear, do you?"

Bob wasn't sure he had heard what he had heard. "What?" was all he could utter.

She ignored him "Is it very uncomfortable, dear?" Diana replied, "If you're feeling cramps I can give you the kind of pill women take for cramps. Would you like one?"

Bob just shook his head.

"Then let's get started."

They went back into his bedroom and she settled him into his straight-backed chair facing the bed, where both suitcases lay open. He was surprised to find he could bend with the tampon in him. He still felt sort of full, but it wasn't unpleasant.

"You have enough new things to deal with tonight, dear, so we won't go anywhere that requires high heels." She grinned. "Maybe after tonight you'll want to kick up your heels and be a party girl. But not tonight. We'll have a lovely, gentle, easy time of it, relaxed. I want you to feel very comfortable, to get used to things."

"What do you mean, get used to things?" Bob finally asked, not really disturbed but still, not lulled either by her reassurances.

He was going along with her, but she seemed to have some extensive plans in mind.

"This bra," she said, holding it out to him. "Put it on. Do you know how? You've seen how women put their bras on. Shall I help you?"

She did. Bob didn't know if she'd answered his question or ignored it. She hooked it in front, and he looked down and saw that he now had a slight rounded cleavage between the cups, his smooth, hairless chest caught up and compressed by the bra to form two crescents. "Look at that," he said, in order to say something, anything at all. Then to let her know he was taking it all in stride, he added "Do I get big titties too, after a while?"

"Don't worry, Bobbi. All in good time. No breast forms for you, love. I want you to feel, well...natural. I have wonderful plans for you. If that means right now you're just one more flat chested girl wearing a bras with a little padding for shape or for cleavage, then that's what you are. When you won't want to be that kind of girl, you won't be. Trust me."

The rest went as he'd imagined and anticipated all week as he'd looked closely at the gear different women laced and buttoned and snapped and zipped and snugged and tucked and strapped themselves into. She showed him how to put on pantyhose, then watched as he practiced putting on several pair, until she was satisfied he could handle them with care and respect. They felt incredible as his legs rubbed against each other. The same with a cute lace panty girdle she handed him, which turned out to be made of a tight spandex that held his penis and testicles tucked way down between his legs. He worried for a moment whether she expected him to sit on them. She did, so he did. He squirmed onto one haunch, and she told him to sit square on his pretty bottom, to keep his knees together, and to cross his ankles whenever he sat like that. Then she handed him a pair of low-heeled shoes with little leather bows in front, and a slip that felt wonderful whenever the insides of his arms accidentally brushed against it.

"Now you're all gussied up, my dear. It's time for you to say your very own girl name. Bobbi. Say it."

"Bobbi," Bob said. It was what his mother had called him when he was a kid. Cute, but a little helpless. "Are you sure ....?"

She interrupted him. "Bobbi," Diana repeated, with the least hint of a stern tone in the way she said it. "Now you've been christened. Dear Bobbi, turn around, and we'll do your hair. There isn't much we can do with it now, but it should look a little fuller, don't you think?"

He felt rebuked, and didn't answer at first. "If full hair isn't you, we can always give you curls, but that'll take a little longer. Do you want your hair curled now, Bobbi, or will you settle for a big hair look until we can bring in a consultant?"

"Big hair is fine," Bob replied hastily. Every time he hesitated, she seemed to raise the ante on him.

"I think so too, dear. It's more like what you're used to."

Twenty minutes later his hair was up in heat rollers, and twenty minutes after that she had made up his face, carefully this time, and plucked his eyebrows until they were high and delicately shaped, like two thin comets arching together over his eyes. She hummed as she worked over him, pleased as under her long fingers Bob disappeared into Bobbi. She reminded Bob of a little girl playing with her dolls, with total concentration. While she was

shaping his eyebrows, he realized his face would not look feminine just for tonight, but he didn't want to interrupt her. She said something about his nails being all right for now as they were, it was better to do them right later anyway. He was feeling quite mellow. He managed to smile to himself at just how far he seemed willing to go to please her.

"I thought so," Diana said. "You love this almost as much as I do, don't you. Never mind answering, Bobbi, I don't want to embarrass you. Just slip on this blouse and skirt, and we'll brush out your hair, and you'll be ready for your grand debut. Hungry?"

"Yes," Bob replied. She never seemed to ask him questions that allowed any other answer. He stepped into his skirt, fastened and zipped it up, and turned it on his waist until there was a pocket at each hip. He slipped his blouse over the rollers bulking out his hair, and tucked the tail into his skirt. She handed him a broad belt, and when he'd cinched that tightly, he could almost believe he had a figure.

"Sweetheart, don't slump. Stick out your chest, and hold your head high."

The full blouse completely hid Bob's flat chest -- its drapes and folds promised anything or nothing underneath. Diana looked closely at that part of him, then reached over, and with her long fingertips lightly caressed his nipples inside his bra cups. They felt exquisite!

"Yes," she said aloud, to herself. "This is how we'll do it for now. Later we can get real."

Bob still didn't understand her. Even so, her fingers felt delicious, and he thrust his breasts way forward into them. But she moved her hands on, patted his cheek, then handed him the jacket matching his skirt. He slipped it on, and saw that it flared out at his hips as if he really did have a figure.

"See how much nicer this looks now?" She unrolled Bob's hair and began to brush it out. With the heat and the spray she had used, each strand curled loosely around itself, and his head was a huge cluster of soft curls. I'll never look male again with my hair like this, he thought to himself. But as Diana worked over him he found to his surprise that the clusters of curls brushed together didn't look curly but curved, falling full and abundant down his head and covering the back of his neck, well-shaped and full of bounce. Not much of a male look either, not at all. It was what she had called it, big hair, designed to frame his face with opulent excess, hair to make his face seem petite and pretty, hair a man could get lost in. But it was his hair. Bob stood up and looked in his mirror, the same one they'd looked into together a few days earlier, when she'd lipsticked him. Now he was lipsticked again. His eyes looked darkly romantic. And everything else, too. There was nothing masculine at all in what he saw.

"See? You do look lovely," Diana said. "No ponytail tonight.

You're much more attractive wearing it full on the sides and in back like this." She looked him over carefully, and apparently approved what she saw, and smiled, pleased. "You like?"

Bob inspected himself in the mirror. What he saw was reassuring, not a man pretending to be a woman but a thin, rather pretty girl, not smashingly gorgeous but appealingly vulnerable, moving with awkward grace as if slightly ashamed of herself. I suppose I am, he thought to himself. This feels like a girl's first date. I guess it is. But it isn't *my* first date. He decided to act more confident. "I like," he replied.

"I just knew you would. I knew it from the moment I saw you sipping wine by yourself in that bar. I thought, if he only knew how, he could be a stunning girl, a real charmer, with that long hair and thin figure, and those delicate features. That's why I chose you. Did you know you have a very kissable mouth? No, not now, you'll ruin both of our faces."

She'd seen him like this when they first met? She'd planned this moment then? What else had she planned?

"Here dear," Diana handed him a light topcoat. "Just throw this over your shoulders. And carry this purse. Set it down wherever you see me set mine, but otherwise keep it under your arm. There's not much in it now. Some makeup, and another tampon --I'll want you to change yours in the restaurant, to get used to changing it in ladies' rooms. No money or credit cards yet. That comes later, perhaps. We'll see."

"Oh yes," she said, handing him a teeny pill. "Just a little more for now. You'll enjoy yourself more when you're less worried about things." Bob swallowed it

'Now,' she said, and 'get used to' things. More mysterious references to plans Diana had never discussed with him. But no matter. As the pill bit in he didn't care. They went out

the door.

**************

It turned out to be much easier than Bob thought. The worst never happened, that he'd be seen to be a man in drag, a mincing, shameful, self-humiliating pervert. His manhood never came into question -- it wasn't even implied. As Diana reassured him, he looked like a nice young lady, and that was what people saw, so that is what he pretended to be, very carefully, and there was nothing further to think about it. Except that people treated him so much nicer! They smiled at him, and Diana had to caution him to smile back a little more modestly.

She also had to caution him to take smaller steps, and to keep his elbows tucked in, and to take smaller bites, and to giggle with her now and then, and to fix his lipstick after dinner, using his compact as she used hers. Bob could begin to believe they were what they seemed to be, two women having a sociable dinner together. Except for a few unfamiliar sensations -- the feel of nylons rubbing his legs as he walked, the sound of clicking heels on the sidewalk -- it felt almost like an ordinary date. When they visited the ladies' room while waiting for the bill, Diana gestured toward a stall, and Bob entered it, then sat down to pee. He reached behind him, pulled on the string in his rear, removed his compacted tampon, then took the fresh one out of his purse and pushed it into himself with his finger. It was very simple.

As they left the restaurant Diana told him that he was acting and looking so lovely he'd be wasted sitting in a darkened movie theater, and besides, she wanted to hold him in her arms, to dance with him. Her tone of voice was peculiarly insistent, and she looked intently at him as she spoke. So Bob merely nodded -- he was her date tonight, she made the plans. He wondered how they'd manage it without attracting attention, but Diana only laughed and told him not to worry.

They drove to a place called Sappho's, a luxurious night club with a first-rate all-girl group beating out the melodies so loud you could feel it vibrate in your bones, and with two self-absorbed young women on pedestals shaking their bodies to the beat of the music. They drank and danced, and danced and drank, and several times Diana put her elbows on his shoulders while they swayed across the floor, and threaded her fingers into his hair behind his head, and pulled his face toward her and kissed him. Each time his heart melted a little more, so wonderfully full of love for her. There were other women dancing together too, and being affectionate with each other, so Bob felt increasingly easy, and Diana even allowed him to lead a few times.

Once during the evening a rather large, stocky woman in a purple blouse, her hair in a bun and her face shiny, cheerfully leaned over their table and asked Bob to dance. "I don't think so, dear," Diana answered for him, in a voice hard and sharp enough to shatter ice. The cheer vanished from her face, then the face itself. "You're mine," she explained gently when the woman had gone, and Bob had to admit to himself that he was indeed, and that he loved being hers. A little later, when he was in the Ladies' by himself straightening his hair and makeup, another girl tried to hit on him. Bob had to smile at his peculiar attractiveness while wearing a dress, when he'd never had much luck wearing pants.

But all he said was "I'm taken, honey," in the gentle, mid-range voice he and Diana had practiced together on their way to the restaurant, and that left him free to return to Diana unencumbered. By the time they left Bob had completely forgotten he was in a dress and stockings and a girdle, his chest bound up in a bra, and wearing slip-on shoes that clacked when he walked. It all felt perfectly natural, even ordinary.

Maybe Bob had drunk a bit too much, but when they got back to his place Diana had to take his key from his purse and open the door for the two of them, smiling over at him so he wouldn't feel uneasy about it. He lurched toward the sofa, but she steered him

into his bedroom. He stood there in the gloom. She didn't seem concerned to find the light switch. Instead she stood close in front of him and raised her hands high over her head. He did the same. With a quick tuck of her wrists she undid his belt buckle and skirt, which fell to his feet, then pulled his blouse over his head, and set it across a nearby chair inside out. He remembered his hairdo. Now it didn't matter. He stood in his slip and stockings and flats. She looked at him, her eyes and lips dark in the reflected moonlight in the room. An eye gleamed.

"Shall we, lover?"

Yes. Oh, yes.

"Sit on the bed and take off your shoes and those pantyhose."

Yes.

"Now lie back, sweetheart," she said.

He lay back. She was his shadow. He was her sweetheart. He was on his back. She knelt on the bed beside him, shrugged her arms up, and her slip flew over her head. Then she reached behind her and her bra fell away. Bob reached for one of her breasts. It jiggled nearly out of his reach, so soft, so elusive!

He struggled onto an elbow to remove his own slip.

"No," she said. "Let me do everything."

No, he thought. Yes.

"Leave your bra and slip on now." She kissed him on the lips. So softly. No semen. Her lips.

My bra. My slip. Like my hand. My skin. A part of me I possess. A part of me that's me. Naturally. I wear my bra and slip. So softly.

"Wear them all day tomorrow," she said. "Every day from now on. Promise?" Her hands moved across his nipples, and he felt her slide the material of his slip against the tips of his bra cups, firming and smoothing it against the sides of his breasts. Her thumbs kept feeling him up.

"All day."

"For me. You'll think about me."

"Yes."

"Under your dress. Tomorrow. All day."

His dress tomorrow? She mounted him, knees on either side of his hips, reared herself up, and began to undulate his stiffened prick into her, her hand floating over his bra, caressing his breasts. He was entering her! She was surrounding him!

"It will feel wonderful."

"Yes" Bob said, his eyes closed, all of his attention centered on his groin, the place where their two groins joined, and the enrichment of feeling brought on by her hands on his nipples. Yes, naturally.

"Always. From now on. All the time, even when we make love."

"Yes"

"Except to sleep. Then wear a nightie." He had slid all the way into her now, and he could feel her pussy muscles spasm on the base of his prick as if to milk him.

"Yes"

She began to rotate her pelvis on him. "You're my adorable, precious girl," she said.

"Yes," he said, eyes shut, clenching his buttocks up into her as she responded by pressing herself down on him.

Now she seemed to be squirreling and squeezing him deeper and deeper, all the way into her, and he was rising into a delicious place he had never before entered. He knew he couldn't hold off much longer.

"That's what you are! Aren't you?"

"Yes," he said, rising to meet her.

"What is it you are? For me? From now on?"

"G-g-girl," he called out to her from the sweet, sweet darkness spreading now rapidly through him.

"What kind of girl?"

"Adorable...!" he said, her sweetness spreading through his body into his breasts, and arms. He was helpless. "Precious."

"My girl. Even when I'm not here. All the time. From now on."

"Yours! Yes!"

"My darling, darling girl. You'll be so pretty. You're my pretty girl now, aren't you?"

"Yes! Yes!"

"You are!"

He could think of nothing more glorious than to be what she said he was.

"I am!"

"You want to be my girl."

"Yes!"

"You want me to help you become a real girl!"

"Yes!"

"You'll do anything I say?" And Diana lifted herself up nearly off his penis, his cock head barely held by her soft pussy lips, and suspended herself there. Bob went out of his mind.

"Yes! Yes! Anything! Yes!"

He tried to lift himself back into her. All of his yearning concentrated on slipping back in, becoming her, becoming whatever she wanted, being hers, adorable, precious, oh how infinitely sweet, sweet, the quintessence of her, a girl.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!"

"Again."

"Oh, yes, Diana, yes!"

And with that she sank back down onto him and clamped herself to his crotch, and he lifted himself up into her and came, and came, and came, each spurt an affirmation plunged deep into her while she smiled and squeezed him with her pussy, milking his prick until finally he had no more sperm to give her. He was near fainting with the pleasure of it. He never noticed that she didn't come at all. She just smiled, as if deeply satisfied in a different way..

When he found his breath again she was lying with her head on his chest, her hair falling over him in all directions, his softened penis still inside her.

"Yes," she said. "My sweet, adorable, precious girl. Mine. From now on."

"Yes," he replied in his rich afterglow. This was quite a game. He wondered how seriously she was playing it.

"Yes," she confirmed, and she began to suckle on him. His body began again to squeeze toward feelings of ecstasy. "My precious girl," she said.

And they resumed. As his penis hardened, his body seemed to melt into hers. It didn't seem to matter to her that his body was being pleasured by hers, not hers with his, that all she seemed to want for herself was his consent to anything she wanted to do now or hereafter, the one thing she asked for repeatedly, in many forms. As if declaring his love for her over and over, he surrendered his manhood to her repeatedly, blissfully, each time she asked. He grew hard again, and squirted his girl-juices into her again. He was her precious girl. From now on. Yes.

****************

When they woke up the following morning they made love yet again. She was silky softness everywhere, under his arms, against him, surrounding him, and her thighs were warm and moist and sticky, and her pussy was still slick with their juices from the previous night. He hardened yet again as he felt her pressing against him, and then this time he mounted her and plunged into her, and came into her yet again.

When they finished, she seemed pleased. Then she commented that there was one more thing she wanted him to do for her, and then they could see about breakfast,

"What's that?" he asked, stretching like an enormous cat. He had never felt better! He rolled off and looked at her. She was stark naked. She wore her skin the way other women wore leotards, as if her body was its own sufficient clothing. He came suddenly aware that he hadn't himself undressed the night before. His slip was now around his waist, and his bra had ridden up above his the nipples. It all seemed a little silly by the morning's light. But she had wanted him to wear them. For some reason the idea now stirred his loins, as if he were about to begin yet another erection. But no, he had now altogether spent himself into her. He stayed soft.

"This!" She suddenly reversed her body and lay down on top of him, her legs spread wide as she slid her crotch up his chest toward his mouth until her lower lips kissed his lips. Then she wriggled her hips slightly, seating her pussy firmly onto his face, his nose pressed into her anus. For a moment he couldn't breath. Then she unlimbered her legs slightly, and he opened his mouth to take in a great gasp of air. She clamped his mouth firmly against her crotch.

"Kiss me, Bobbi dear, my lovely, dearest girl! Suck on me! Clean me out, my dear, precious Bobbi! Lick me! Suck me! Drink me!"

And once again Bob went into ecstasy, drinking her juices, mostly his own cum, nibbling and sucking on her clit until she began to spasm. Every spasm squeezed more of his precious cum out of her cunt into his mouth. There was quite a bit of it deep in her from the previous night, kept fresh under her mound between her legs, inside her beautiful rosy-lipped pussy. He licked her deep inside, and along her slit up to her curls of hair, and down the outside of her labia, and then inside her thighs. When she allowed he licked the crust from her belly and hips. This time, as she pressed her pussy into his face, then away for him to lick her more delicately, then again pressed down, this time he was sure she came. She never made a sound, but her whole body clenched and then relaxed into luxurious ease while he licked her again and again, kissing gently those folds he knew now were sparkling clean, finally taking her little clit into his pursed lips and gently, sweetly kissing it. Then again.

"Time for a shower," Diana said suddenly. "You first, sweet Bobbi girl. I'll lay out your clothes for the day."

"We won't shower together?" Bob asked her, a little disappointed. He wanted to run his hands over her skin, and between her legs, while she was all slick, wet and glistening.

"Another time, my dear girl. You first."

While Bob showered he kept grinning to himself. He felt so good! Finally, he had gotten into her, and obviously she loved it. But he wondered how far she meant to carry this "dear girl" thing. He had promised, he remembered vaguely, to wear a bra and slip today for her. So he would. And under a dress. Well, all right, a dress. But this weekend only. All right. But then while they were making love last night, in that so delicious moment when he had yielded all of his soul and will to her, he had promised her "from now on." He was her girl. What did that mean, from now on? It meant all the time. Not just this weekend. Stretched out taut in the ecstasy of coming, he had promised her. He had wanted to promise her. God, how he had wanted it! Now he wasn't sure how to deal with "from now on."

Maybe he could ignore it. He was a man. After last night and this morning she could have no doubt of that! He decided to ask her, casually, how she planned to have him be her girl and yet remain her man. A man is a man, after all. He knew she couldn't really be serious, calling him a girl. So he hadn't really promised her anything. There was no real problem here.

But when he got back to his bedroom, still naked, his body squeaky clean and hairless as a baby's, he was shocked! Astonished! There in the room stood a large, stocky woman, filling most of the space in front of Diana, who sat at ease on the edge of the bed looking up into the woman's face and listening, then talking, throwing her hands here and there expressively while she talked. The woman was wearing a pale purple starched uniform of some kind, like the kind beauty parlor operators wear, or nurses.

Bob noticed that she was listening to Diana attentively and respectfully, every now and then nodding. Diana noticed Bob out of the corner of her eye, completed whatever she was saying, turned to Bob, and smiled at him.

"Bobbi my sweetheart, you adorable darling, come here. I want you to meet Erika. Erika looks after different things for me, now and then, and I've asked her to help me look after you now, to help me prepare you. There's so much to do! Oh, you are going to love being a girl, I just know it! Right now I thought you should just see each other -- you can take the time to get acquainted later on. That's about it for now, Erika. You might see what can be done about breakfast before you go."

Bob was bewildered, flabbergasted! He was standing in his own bedroom stark naked, and here was a strange woman looking him over with a mildly attentive professional eye. He tried to cover himself. His hands fluttered over his loins and, unaccountably, his chest before he realized he had better just stand still on his dignity. He finally found his voice and tried to declare his indignation, but before a sound could come out Erika broke in and

said, "Miss Bobbi, how nice to meet you. I see you've had your shower. Did you remember to take your enema and then your douche?"

Somehow, this seemed insulting! Bob looked at Diana, his lover, expecting her to intervene in such a delicately personal matter, but Diana also seemed to be waiting for his reply. "Erika," Bob replied, as if completing her introduction to him by acknowledging her name, trying to grasp the initiative. "Pleased to meet you." The two women waited patiently for this obvious untruth to dissipate, and Bob realized he had only one more thing to say. A moment passed in total silence. "No," he said, "I forgot." He felt like a child asked if he had scrubbed his teeth.

"Well, shouldn't you now?" Diana asked. "Would you like Erika to help you? Erika, would you go with Bobbi and help her clean herself out? I'll bet with all the excitement this morning she's even forgotten that she's still having her period, and needs to change her tampon."

Bob suddenly realized this was true. He was still having his period, and needed to change his tampon. No he wasn't, he tried to tell himself. Men don't have periods. Even so, he felt like a twelve year old . . . girl (he swallowed hard) who has been reminded she needs lessons in personal hygiene!

"Yes Miss Diana" Erika said. "And while we're about it shall we begin preparing Bobbi's vagina for its new responsibilities?"

"Well, no, not yet," Diana replied. "Just help her clean herself out, then see to breakfast. I'll get dressed meanwhile. After this weekend we'll want to move Bobbi into that spare apartment in the your building, and then you'll be able to look after her needs much more easily. Now that she's my special girl, and she wants to be mine, we'll want to take especially good care of her. She's very precious to me." Diana looked directly into Bob's eyes, and said with no noticeable irony, "Aren't you, my adorable girl? Aren't you? Yes. Yes, you know you want to be mine. Don't you? Say it again. I love to hear you say it."

Bob couldn't quite grasp what was happening, and said nothing for a moment. Erika stood there in her starched uniform and looked at him as if preparing to move forward. "Miss Bobbi," she said. "Shouldn't you answer?"

"Yes," Bob said, "I'm yours. I know it. I want to be yours, I know that too!"

And for some reason the naked man felt utterly helpless. Unaccountably, unexpectedly, he fell to his knees in the doorway, and realized he had started to cry. It was as if somehow his old life was over. Somehow he was saying a sorrowful goodbye to his old self. For her! Diana came forward and knelt down, and cradled his head in her hands, and comforted him.

"There, there, Bobbi" she said. "You'll love it. It'll be beautiful. I promise you, this will be the loveliest thing that will ever happen to you. But just hug me now, and cry as long as you want to."

Stark naked and on his knees, Bob hugged her and sobbed, at first uncontrollably, then in spasms and short bursts of tears, then looking up to her in a kind of hopeful helplessness, gasping now and again. Diana stroked his hair and his back, and hugged him gently, looking over his shoulder at the wall, or at Nurse Erika, who waited patiently for Bobbi to compose herself, at least sufficiently to complete her toilet, her enema and douche, and to change her tampon.

*********************

That day Bob wore all day the slip and bra he'd promised to wear, under the dress he'd somehow promised he'd wear, a simple purple wool with a flared collar. And panties. Then in the afternoon another blouse, a full skirt, and a cardigan sweater. From her large suitcases Diana fitted him out first with rather plain three inch heels, then later in the day with four inch heels. By mid-afternoon the wobble in his walk had disappeared and had become a slight sway in his hips, and Diana decreed they could go shopping. Bob was still so demoralized he raised no objection at all, though this was his first time out in daylight while dressed in women's clothing. He felt numb. He had no choice but to trust her judgement that he was unmistakably feminine, and to seek comfort in her reassuring smile. She told him to use his pale lipstick and only a little mascara, so he did, surprising himself that after last night it went on so easily.

They walked into an upscale store where Diana was evidently known, to judge by the way two saleswomen immediately came forward to attend to her, and by their deferential smiles when Diana introduced them to Bobbi. She then bought Bobbi a really stunning dress, a draped red silk, sleeveless, beltless, flowing down his figure and touching each of his hip bones on its way nearly to his ankles.

"This style's just coming in," she commented. "It's perfect for thin women like you. Dignified but still somehow provocative. Sometimes you'll want to wear shiny micro-minis for stepping out, but mostly these I think. We'll keep you thin this way, though I think that after a while you'll be getting a little more plump here and there, where it matters." He didn't understand what she meant and suspected he'd better not ask. Two less dramatic dresses, fit for posh luncheons but simple enough for every day, and they were off to buy other things. "Remember this store when you're shopping on your own," Diana told Bob as they were leaving. "They have lovely things, and these two women will always take good care of you." Bob nodded. Again he didn't dare ask what she meant, nor ask himself how he really felt about it. He'd wait for the right moment. He couldn't risk angering her, maybe losing her again.

Before returning home Diana stopped with him at a beauty salon. There they both had their nails done, until Bob's fingers extended a half-inch longer than they'd been, his nails a near-natural pink, and he saw as he curled them that they seemed almost graceful. Then she had Bob's hair lightened just a touch, and trimmed so it seemed to fall gracefully onto his neck of its own will, even without rollers. When the beautician pierced one of his ears he worried how far this thing of Diana's would go before it retreated, but he thought it ill-mannered and pointless to object to his other ear also being pierced. By now he was altogether accustomed to being thought a girl by everyone, and no longer feared exposure. Diana gave him another tranquillizer pill, but told him as she handed it to him that he hardly needed it.

"I'm so proud of you dear," she said that evening as they set out for another restaurant. "You're just lovely. And learning so quickly!"

He did look smashing when they went out that night, wearing his new red dress and matching shoes -- four inch heels this time -- and carrying a red clutch purse, with little diamond studs in his ears, his hair beautifully set in the salon, and wearing what Diana assured him was her own favorite real diamond necklace. Relaxing, he realized that this could even be fun. His clothes were lighter than his usual suits, and floated on him. His bra and his panty girdle and stockings hugged him intimately, as if affectionately. He loved feeling hugged. As the waiter seated the two of them, Diana commented that he seemed positively radiant. He really did. He didn't know why.

Except that he now felt prettier, the evening went like their first, was it only the previous night? This time it happened that two men across the room sent a waiter over to them with a bottle of very fine wine, and an inquiry whether they would like company. Diana looked up delighted, but Bob felt a sudden pang of terror. He watched her silently, horrified she might accept. But she said to him, "Don't worry, love. I told you, you're mine." She looked over at the men, and smiled at them, and dipped her head and raised her hands regretfully, as if to say "We'd love to, but . . . circumstances . . . you know." Bob mimicked her gesture to the two men, smiling at them, and like Diana he managed to make a charming moue and a similarly cute shrug. He felt safe with her. She laughed, and looked across at him affectionately. "What if I'd said 'yes' to them? I might some day, you know." Bob had no reply.

Later they went dancing at Sappho's, and no one approached them at all. It was as if Diana had sent out word they were not to be disturbed. Later still, back in Bob's apartment, they made love again, Diana again on top of him, lifting and lowering her vagina onto his cock while he blissed out, chanting over and over how much she loved her darling girl. Again his sexual tension built, and at its peak she poised herself high over him until he had completed his catechism, confirming that he was her girl forever, that he would always do whatever she wished. Then after an excruciating pause she lunged down onto him and he spurted into her over and over, near fainting in ecstasy. She asked, and he repeated that he loved being a girl, as if a gender change had already occurred deep in his sense of self. When he'd come into her body yet a second time, she twisted again and immediately pressed her pussy against his mouth, and again clamped his head between her thighs. Again he licked her clean, swallowing gouts of his cum and her juices together as she squeezed them out of her, orgasm by orgasm, and he kept on slurping. It was delicious!

In the shower the next morning, cleaning himself inside and out and douching himself, changing his tampon yet again, he marveled at the lengths he had gone for her, how far he had come. As Diana requested, he applied a few small drops of perfume onto his wrists and neck, a kind Diana assured him would cling all day so that anyone who came near him would think of him the way she did, as a bouquet of flowers. It didn't matter that he'd smell flowery all day, he realized, because Diana had told him that today, for the third day in a row, he would be wearing only feminine clothing.

But he was now musing about a key question, wondering at first idly, then seriously, why Diana wanted him dressed all the time as a girl. It no longer seemed peculiar to him, but it was certainly kinky. Was she a little afraid of men, more comfortable with one in the aspect of a woman? No way! He felt flattered it might be her way to misdirect her competition, other women, to steer them away from him. But as a man he had never been overwhelmed by hordes of designing women. Or was this her way to assure herself he wouldn't reveal himself sooner or later to be some sort of macho pig? She hated that kind of man, he knew, and he was glad he wasn't one of them. But she certainly knew he wasn't one of them. Was it her way to give him a deeper insight into the way women feel, so he'd become more understanding of her needs and desires? Maybe. It could also be a way for her to control him in her absence -- the perfume he was wearing, for example, would certainly keep him from going out on his own in male clothes when she went out and left him to his own resources.

But that wasn't happening. She seemed to be spending the entire weekend with him as he'd hoped she would. Maybe she was attracted to women in some way but didn't want to admit it, and this was how she dealt with it? Maybe she was into humiliating men? No. She was always careful to strengthen the way he felt when he dressed for her, to make him feel proud that he was pretty. He was even beginning to feel deep pleasure that he could make himself appealing in a feminine way for her, and now and then, delighted, he felt a demure or flirtatious impulse!

He had to decide he didn't know why she wanted him dressed this way, and in his euphoria he didn't care. Today was Sunday, and she had allowed him stirrup pants and a frilly blouse. But he'd found it difficult to pee while wearing pants with no fly. He asked for and was granted permission to return to skirts, and this time she allowed him to wear two small breast forms under his clingy knit sweater, just enough to imply a girlish figure underneath. He'd found he felt a little freakish without them, not quite shaped right, and though she kept saying she preferred him shaped as he naturally was, she was delighted when he told her he thought his chest should hint that he had breasts underneath.

Sunday afternoon he went with her in his skirt and sweater to look at the apartment Diana had mentioned earlier in her conversation with Erika, It was wonderful! The building had a burly but fatherly-looking doorman who smiled at Bob, and told him Diana had asked him to take special care of her -- she should freely phone down for whatever she wanted, any favor or errand at all. The apartment itself was large, flooded with sunlight, with a view of the river from huge living room windows high above the traffic, and a huge pink canopied bed in the bedroom, and huge walk-in closets.

When they stepped inside, Diana handed him the keys and told him they were never going back to his old dingy place, not ever again. What was there that he needed would be brought over, she said. And none of it would be his men's clothing. The closets and drawers here were already filled with clothes in his size, clothes befitting the young woman he'd agreed to become. She emphasized that last by looking straight at him again as she said it, though her voice remained casual. He raised no objection. He wondered when she had prepared this apartment, and felt a little flattered that she cared so much for him, and told her so. "Bobbi," she said to him, "You *do* love being a girl! It's obvious! So that's what you are and that's what I want you to be from now on. You want it too, you know it! The rent on this place is paid, and now its your place. I want you to stop looking for work and just be yourself. Take some time off. You can have all the fun in the world trying out your new looks and your new life. But here is where you'll be when I want you. Here is where I want you to be."

So from then on, there he was. That night was the nicest of all. They went out for a pizza and a movie, nothing special, just two girls together, chatting and giggling. Then they came home and made love in the huge bed. Bob felt transported. As she leaned over him, smiling, his prick buried deep inside her, he rolled his hips to gratify her as if she were the man and he were the woman, and he reached up and delicately wrapped his arms around her neck, and pulled her face down to his, and kissed her closed eyelids gently, and as she fucked him he heard his throat making a soft, long, languorous, amorous moan, then another. He felt wonderfully feminine, wonderfully her lover. She didn't ask him that night if he was her darling girl. She just said it, over and over, in that slow, sweet, dark voice that so entranced him whenever she mounted him, as if she couldn't believe her luck and needed to reassure herself. He kept uttering small, delicious, ecstatic squeals as she spoke, his cock soaking itself deep inside her sweet pussy, too enraptured to find words. They both knew he was her darling girl.

The next morning, their first in the new apartment, she patted his cheek and told him she had to attend to things, and wouldn't be back for a few days. She told him to wear whatever struck his fancy in his closet, and to go anywhere to pass the time, but to remember that he was hers, and that he needed to practice being the girl she loved him to be. "Look how far you've come in just a few days, my darling," she said. "While I'm away, you'll go much, much further. Erika will see to your every need. She knows what I want. You'll do everything she says." It was a statement, not a request.

And he was astonished to realize it, but he had come far! A vast distance. Last night he had felt not like a man but a woman in love. He had crossed an invisible line in his own psyche. Erika would look in on him and attend to things each morning, Diana said, and she would call soon. And she hugged him, and pressed her cheek to his, almost as if they really were girlfriends instead of lovers. Then she was out the door.

Life in the new apartment took on its own flavor. The next morning Erika showed up and cleaned up, and fixed his breakfast, and saw to it that his pussy as she called it was clean, well-douched, and gave him his tranquillizer and some shots, medications Diana had ordered to build him up. He felt fine all day, relaxed, even languorous. If it was one of his mornings to soak in fragrant bath oils instead of taking a shower, Erika prepared his bath and rubbed him with more oils afterward, and he noticed after a few weeks that his skin was softening. Each day she put him through his exercises, walking in high heels or holding his arms and hands just so while bustling through the apartment. It was as if she were a dance instructor teaching him ballet.

He read the papers, and the different women's magazines that came in the mail almost every day. Increasingly he became interested in hairdos and styles of makeup, because every day he realized he would be making decisions about which were more becoming for him. He looked carefully at the ads in magazines like Vogue and Cosmopolitan, to see what the beautiful women there were doing with their faces that he could emulate.

There was a beauty salon in the building, and Diana set him up with two appointments each week. One was to set and maintain his hair -- Diana liked it long, but it needed more lift and body, and the beautician -- a gay man altogether uninterested in Bob's birth gender -- was magical in the way he coaxed it to wavy fullness. One was for his nails, complexion, and what he later learned was electrolysis, elimination of what few hairs he had on his chin and body. This session always finished with a rather extensive makeover, and Bob looked so chic and well-groomed afterward that he always went out shopping afterward -- it was a waste to carry such an exquisite face back to his apartment, with no one to see it. But he always looked smooth and elegant, even when out walking casually dressed in jeans and a slouch coat. And after Erika arranged some advanced tutorials for him in feminine movement, how to use his hands, and also how to walk, sit, and even turn his head like a lady, he began to look classy. It was a fun game, trying to be a beautiful woman with so few natural endowments.

Above all, it pleased Diana. Whenever she saw him she would comment on some new evident feminine accomplishment, and ask him what else he had learned, and Bob would feel very proud. The dull and mediocre Bob began to feel like a gifted and happy Bobbi, someone very special. If he happened to wake up feeling male, as happened now and than, he felt depressed that he was still Bob, and he treated himself to something especially feminine to overwhelm Bob, to remind himself that he was not Bob.

He and Diana saw each other a few times each week. They were casual together, girlfriend and girlfriend, usually informal in socks and sneakers and a plaid skirt, now and then more formal in a little basic black dress she bought him, and sometimes kinky in a leather skirt and red vest over a huge, balloon sleeved blouse. He learned to make himself up and to move as Diana did, and he added grace to his natural courtesy, and even a certain playful cuteness. He looked forward to dressing for his dates with her, because they gave him special opportunity to play with his look, to be beautiful in a new way each time. He was her girl until they got home. Then with unfathomable skill she rewarded him for his willingness to fulfill her fantasy image of him. She put her adorable, precious girl into an erotic stupor that lasted for hours, where all he could do was utter small squeals and plaintive cries while she did magical things to him.

He was hopelessly enthralled. Each time they made love, she chanted new questions at him, and he always answered "Yes! Yes!" as he approached his climax. He scarcely noticed it when her questions began to ask if he wanted to have breasts of his own, or a sweet little round tush instead of a bony bottom. But after a night when she asked him that repeatedly, and he had said "Oh, yes, yes!" over and over, and then had come gloriously melting into her, and had actually fainted from the exquisite intensity of it, he noticed that the following day and from then on, Erika gave him different kinds of shots, in his tush, and each morning a huge pill as well as a tranquillizer.

Diana had taken to calling him "Bobbi" that first evening they went out together as girlfriends, but he didn't know how his new name was spelled until one morning she sent him flowers with a card explaining why -- she had made a carelessly abrupt remark to him the night before, and had hurt his feelings. The more feminine he felt, the more in touch with his feelings, the more easily he felt hurt. She respected him all the more for that, she wrote in her note to "Bobbi". He accepted her apology and sent her back a note (though no flowers), also signed "Bobbi." And that is what, with each date and each passing week, he increasingly became.

One evening when he'd tried especially hard to be pretty for her, she complimented him when he opened the door and she saw how pretty he had made himself, and he glowed, and without thinking curtsied for her, and said, "Thank you kind sir!" Then he wondered why he'd said that. She was as always dressed in stylish but distinctly feminine clothes, so there was no question of her gender. Maybe because whenever they were together, she invariably took charge?

Diana took due note that it meant he was a heterosexual man beginning to think of himself as a heterosexual woman. At dinner that night, as the two of them sat in a quiet and elegant little restaurant -- outrageously expensive, but she always seemed to have money enough -- she began the next phase of her assault on his mind and heart.

"Bobbi," Diana said, "have you ever wondered whether we should take up one of these offers gentlemen are always making, what would happen if we did?"

Bobbi enjoyed his femininity. It was not merely a way to feel, it was erotic, because of the way Diana tended to treat him when he was dressed. He loved everything about it. But to cope with a man was something else again. He felt faintly repelled.

"No," he said. "I don't want it. I've never wanted it. I wouldn't like it. I wouldn't know what to do."

"Now Bobbi," Diana said as their salad course arrived, "Some of those statements don't chime with others. You can't know if you'd like it until you've tried it. And not wanting it is different from not knowing what to do. Every girl knows what to do. It's instinctive. Mostly, it's let the man do what he wants to do."

Bob felt somehow driven back to a second line of defense. "Diana, I'm not a girl."

"You're my girl," Diana told him in a tone that allowed no disagreement whatsoever. He was her possession, her tone of voice told him, and she did with him what she pleased. "A girl who has never had any experience of men. A virgin. So far."

And then she added, as if it were a casual afterthought, "We'll want to change that, I suppose, won't we? Girls do become women."

Bob just sat there, petrified with terror. Diana saw she might have said too much, and eased off a little.

"Don't worry, darling. I don't mean now. It's that your sense of yourself as a woman is incomplete while you're still a virgin. We'll do some new things starting tomorrow. That's all."

"All right," Bob got out. He was so overwhelmingly relieved, he scarcely noticed that was still a little apprehensive.

But the next morning when he woke up Diana's comment came back to him. Was this the way he wanted to go? No. The idea of intimacy with a man, those hairy, muscular animals! A guy?! How do women do it? How can they want to? Why would they want to attract that kind of person?

Fully his former self for the first time in weeks, Bob decided that enough was enough. He hated to, but he'd leave. He put on jeans and a simple Oxford shirt, no one would notice it buttoned the wrong way, and slipped moccasins on his feet, no one would notice they were cut rather low and graceful, and he resolved to wear no make up at all. Only a little natural shade on his lips, and a touch of eye liner. A girl needs to look minimally decent. He took down a flowered carryall, and was wondering which of his pretty undies to pack to take with him when Erika came in. So he asked her advice. In reply, she gave him double that day's dosage of tranquillizers. He spent the day dreamy, and by the evening when Diana arrived his mood had changed. He'd become curious what "new things" Diana had in mind.

Diana introduced Bob to "men" that night, that is, to vibrators and dildos. First she pleasured herself with a six inch, pink, cock-shaped vibrator while he watched her, a little jealous, and as it came out of her dripping with her fluids she held it out for him to lick, suck, tongue, and then mouth sweetly. She smiled and fed it to him head first as if it were a lollipop held out to a baby, her own mouth partly open, her teeth slightly clenched, her eyelids watchful and hooded. Before the evening ended he had learned how to deep-throat it, to swallow when he felt his gag reflex rising. She held it out playfully and asked him to lunge at it like a puppy, to take it in his mouth and face fuck himself with it. He obliged.

On their next date she taught him how to use his throat like a vagina with a ten inch vibrator, the way she'd first learned to do it in college when she'd wanted to know everything at first hand. She'd never ask him to do anything she hadn't done, she assured him, so he could scarcely object when she'd turn to him still breathing heavily from her own vibrator-induced orgasm and say, "Your turn now, sweetheart." She strapped it onto her mound so it rose in proud, permanent erection from her crotch. Then thereafter each night of lovemaking began with Bobbi lovingly, affectionately, cock sucking a penis-shaped vibrator, licking, sucking, slurping, and deep throating it while kneeling before her while she stood legs apart, hands on hips, looking down magisterially at his bobbing head. Or sometimes she'd sit on the ruffled slipper chair in Bobbi's bedroom while Bobbi sank to his knees in front of her, kissed the tip of her dildo to salute it, and then worked it tirelessly with his mouth and throat, while she rested a comforting hand on his carefully coiffed head.

After only a week of this nightly routine she introduced these instruments to his pristine ass, and he understood for the first time why all those daily enemas and douches. First her well-lubricated finger, then a small Dildo, then a larger one, until he could take the full-sized ten inch strap-on pounding into him. As she commented, the length didn't matter, since his rear pussy was deeper than the longest prick ever made. It was the thickness, and as his anus stretched she urged him to feel proud he could accommodate it. She persisted until his prostate was stimulated to paroxysms and he came spurting repeatedly into the bed sheets. Soon he couldn't imagine climaxing any other way. Whenever he saw her reaching for the strap-on with a wicked smile on her face, his heart leaped up eagerly and his groin began to spasm in anticipation.

Not his cock, not any more. Around this time Bob found that no matter how artfully Diana manipulated it, the flesh had grown lazy. It no longer stiffened dependably. When she fucked him deep he could still achieve delicious orgasms, and the thing leaked jism, but only rarely could he enter and come inside her. "Never mind, honey," she said, caressing his now-distended nipples, excruciatingly tender on the soft mounds now growing out of his chest. "It's just that you're getting to be more and more my girl, aren't you. Well, I'll be the man now. It's my turn!"

Diana settled on one dildo of a particular size, not the longest she ever used on Bob but one of the thickest, warm to the touch and mouth, with a crowning purple helmet and distinctive veins running up it. "I don't want you to become promiscuous," she said. "I want you to feel faithful to one man." She paused, and flashed him a wicked gleam, and added, "Mostly." Somehow he felt good at that. They understood each other, as girls do, and men never suspect.

That dildo became "Diana's cock." After a few times Bob forgot to feel humiliated when she fucked him with it. Instead he looked forward to it. It felt familiar, comfortable. All of the other dildos and vibrators went back into her box of tricks. He began to feel affectionate toward it, it gave him so much pleasure, and Diana was amused to see Bobbi kiss it with sincere passion when he was asked to open his mouth and throat to it, or to lift his rear pussy high to receive it. He loved it.

He took pride that he was Diana's special plaything, a soft vessel of flesh whose bodily openings were hers to use as she chose. His whole purpose in life now was to look pretty for her and to prepare himself for her visits. When she chose to go out with him, to a restaurant or a show, or dancing, he was rapturous. Two months after his first date with Diana in a dress, he found that little else was on his mind than making himself pretty and demonstrating his devotion to whatever she asked of him. When he finally asked her what was in Erika's injections, and Diana told him "Female hormones, so you can be my smooth, round, soft, lovely girl naturally, for the rest of your life," he only nodded. It seemed natural enough. He adored it when her hand caressed the exquisite erotic sensitivity of those conical nipples budded on his swelling breasts.

A week after that Diana decided he was ready for the last thing she wished personally to teach him, and made a few phone calls. It started as an ordinary dinner in a small upscale Restaurant coiled into the corner of a new downtown office building. Two well-dressed men chatted with them at the bar while they waited for their table, and for once Diana allowed them to join with the two ladies. They turned out to be excellent company, cultured, complimentary, and amusing by turns. Moreover, they ordered different bottles of wine with each new course, and insisted that each be finished before the next course was brought forward.

Bob lost all recollection of dessert or of leaving the restaurant. He awoke in the middle of the night to find himself in bed naked, a naked man snoring into his ear, two strong hairy arms wrapped around his chest, and what had to be a cock pressing into the crease of his softly rounded rear end. Had the man...? Had the man discovered....? When he got up to use the bathroom, he found Diana sleeping in the spare bedroom with another man, and it all seemed natural enough. So he returned to bed. When he awoke at daybreak his bed partner was gone, but then he saw and felt the crusts of dried cum on his face and his belly, and in the crack of his ass. He felt stretched down there. No way, he realized, was he a virgin any longer.

At breakfast Diana confirmed his surmise. She explained that both men had done him after they'd brought them home, that neither one seemed to mind using his ass when that was all they found under his panties, and that he'd first deep-throated each and then screamed joyously while they reamed him one after the other for nearly two hours. "I expect your throat's feeling sore," she commented in conclusion. "Mine would be. And not only my throat!"

He did feel sore, a little. He felt both pride and humiliation that he'd been taken by a man as if he were a woman, but he also felt resentful that somehow he'd been used. He was now a real girl, and his ass was proven to be a workable vagina, but he was also now a real cocksucker. Or maybe that was the same thing.

But he didn't feel different. "I don't know what it was like," he complained to Diana. "I don't remember anything about it."

"Aww! You feel cheated! We'll soon fix that," Diana said, glancing up at him. "No problem, honey! I've got their number."

So she called the same men, who happened to be in town for one more day, and they arranged another dinner. This time they had only one glass of wine apiece, and Bob remained timorously alert to everything that followed. His partner turned out to be as nice as he had seemed. He joked with the two ladies during dinner and was gentle and affectionate afterward. He admired Bob's budding breasts when Bob took off his brassiere, and when he kissed them Bob thought he would die with delight. After all that dildo training his cock slipped effortlessly into Bob's pussy, no problem, and Bob immediately felt that delicious feeling down under begin to build up. He waited to cum until Bob's gasping climaxed into shrieks, and then the feel of hot sperm spurting in his ass set Bob shuddering into a second orgasm immediately on top of the first. An hour later with a bit of sucking he was ready again, and this time Bob went directly to heaven. He shrieked for joy through three more orgasms, the last two dry. "Women's orgasms," Diana explained to him later. "I told you you're a girl!"

Thereafter when they went out as a twosome they frequently returned as a foursome, and when Diana and one of the men disappeared into one of the bedrooms Bobbi was always ready to take her man into the other. Diana put away that last dildo. Men were nicer than dildos, Bobbi had to agree with Diana, even though they were hairy and their beards scratched. It was a good feeling, he thought when sometimes it worried him that he was being unmanly. But he did so much enjoy feeling all that raw male cock with all

that muscle power behind it push energetically into him, and to stroke and mouth all of that velvety nubby skin was a privilege!

After another few weeks of finding men and taking them home -- Diana never failed to attract the nicest, most virile yet decent of them, Bob couldn't figure out how she did it -- Bob realized that he was no longer sleeping with Diana at all. When he mentioned this to her, she only shrugged and asked if he was unhappy. He couldn't say he was. She asked him if he'd rather get laid by a woman or a man, and he thought a long while before deciding on an evasive answer. "I don't know," he said.

That was a good enough answer for Diana. A few days later she suddenly appeared in Bobbi's apartment unannounced.

"Now Bobbi," she said. He sensed that suddenly Diana was all business, though pleasant enough about it. "I haven't told you before, but now you should know, because we belong to each other. Don't we?"

"Yes," Bob said, with no idea where this remarkable woman was now going. He was about to add, "I suppose, in a way," but he sensed that around Diana her way was the only way.

"So listen closely, my dear. Some of this will surprise you." He sat down, all ears.

"I'm very wealthy. Money is of no concern to me, and never has been. I get what I want. I wanted you. I wanted you available to do what I want you to do. To be a girl for me when I want you to be a girl. Maybe with me, maybe with guys, maybe with one guy I happen to have in mind. Never mind why. My reasons are my own, and they're sufficient for me to have gone to a lot of trouble preparing you, so I don't want you to bother your pretty little head about them now. I know that your inheritance has nearly run out, and soon you'll need to get back to work. If someone who looks the way you do now can find work. Remember, you're not quite the slim boy you were, and the clothes in your closet aren't his clothes any more. Now you're a girl, aren't you? Pretty much unskilled, so restricted to low paying jobs and glass ceilings, right? Or, there's always the streets, but who knows what kinds of men you'd find there? Or what diseases!"

"Well, if you continue to do what I say, you'll never have to work again. You'll be free to indulge any whims that may occur to you, within reason of course. In this purse is a whole new world for you. To begin with, the ownership papers for this apartment --it's really a condo. Right now it has a heavy mortgage, but if you're happy with our arrangement, I'll pay it off month by month, and in one year it'll be yours free and clear to live in or rent out, whatever you like. Also a new driver's license made out to "Bobbi," and the papers for a new BMW you'll find downstairs in this building's underground garage. Also a few credit cards for the best women's stores in town, and I'll expect you to use them often.

"Women's stores, Bobbi. Because what you'll have to do for me for all this, Bobbi, is agree to live as a woman whether I'm supervising you or Erica, or neither of us. Just keep getting used to it, and find out what kind of a girl you are, and live as that kind of girl. I'll help you, of course. I'll start you out with a few women friends who'll help you find a whole new social life, and will see to it that you learn how to make men happy, and also learn how to be happy despite the fact that they're men. We all have to learn that. Then when you're ready I'll ask you to come live on my estate. But that'll be later still, when the time is ripe. If you don't like what I'll ask you to do then, you can always say 'No' and at that point we'll part company, still friends. But I think you'll love doing it. It won't be anything I haven't done. Nor you, now, girly."

She grinned at that, and then turned serious again. "I meant what I just said. There will be men in your life. and one in particular. I want you to learn how to love them, and how to want to satisfy them, and how to become expert at making them happy and satisfied. I will not want your affairs to include any men I haven't chosen for you. So there is that restriction on your social life. And the women in your life are for suitable companionship and advice, nothing more. Your cock is useless now, and your ass is mine! But all in all, you won't find life too arduous."

"Will you agree to all this? Bobbi, do say yes. Please. For me. Do take this purse. It also contains notice of your new bank account, all yours, with a first amount in it larger than that inheritance you were using up. And of course your makeup -- from now on you'll never leave home without it. I'm leaving for Europe tonight on business, but tomorrow a young woman will drop by to see how you are. And to double date with you. You'll like her. She started out in discos and she graduated to sex shop porn, and she's been a model, and a street prostitute, and then she was kept by several very influential men, so now there's nothing she doesn't know and very little she can't teach you. She's well-educated, and she's really quite respectable now. But I know you'll find it amusing, learning some of the things she knows. I did."

She held out the purse, looking hopeful. A bit addled, overwhelmed really, so choked up he was unable to say anything, Bobbi took the purse from her, and nodded. She looked him over closely and said "Good! It may be a while, honey, but I'll be in touch. Enjoy yourself. That's your job from now on."

Then she got into her car, and drove off without looking back.

***************

DOLLS

PART TWO

Diana Claiborne was born very wealthy. This does not mean she was spoiled. When she was little she adored her father, who adored her more and wanted to give her anything her whims dictated. What she wanted at the time was dolls, lots of them, all living together in an elaborate doll house three stories tall and filling most of her playroom, with ten bedrooms, each bedroom with a sitting room attached, some of them with a kitchen off the sitting room, all built according to her specifications. Then she would pair and re-pair the boy dolls and the girl dolls, so that different doll couples could spend their nights in different bedrooms, as she had noticed her daddy and mommy sometimes did. Sometimes she would pair up two dolls of the same gender for the evening, especially if they had recently spent a night with the same doll of the other gender, because she liked to imagine what they would then say and do with each other. She was much more precocious than spoiled.

She was just beginning to elaborate this game when her father died in a hunting accident in Africa. Her mother had always preferred being wealthy to being a mother, and decided to devote the rest of her life to being courted for her body, her money, or both, by handsome younger men who adored the life style she could confer on them until they grew tiresome. So Diana's intellectual and moral education was left to her doll house and her imagination, neither of which anyone ever investigated, and to her governesses, tutors, and teachers, the house mistress of her private school, visiting church ministers, and a lesbian housemaid who taught her to lick and be licked insatiably even before she reached adolescence and her first period.

Her mother instructed all of these worthy people to provide Diana whatever material things she needed when she needed them, but to withhold all other desirable things until special gift-giving occasions came around, or else to grant them as special rewards for exceptional performance. So Diana very early learned several truths about herself and the world. One was that she was extremely clever. She could easily convince many people, including herself, that whatever she desired was something material she needed, and therefore something she should have. This was true of ponies, dresses, or sharing doll coupling games with the gardener's young son, who saw no point to them but could at least verify for her which boy dolls were anatomically correct and which were not.

Another truth was that holidays like Christmas and her birthday came but once a year, not often enough to matter. But she quickly learned that with persistence, wit, and careful planning, she could perform something exceptional almost any time. This truth soon became self-evident, whether she was show-jumping horses, learning to sail, solving problems in Euclidean Geometry, writing essays on Julius Caesar, or at age fourteen, seducing the near-seventeen year old Captain of a nearby school's football team into relieving her of the burden of her virginity. She accomplished this only one week after she successfully blackmailed the house mistress of her private boarding school into nightly oral service of her cunt for the remainder of the school year.

These last two exceptional performances carried their own rewards with them, of course. The football captain fucked her to her first solid orgasms, and the house mistress kissed and licked her to more fluid orgasms. But Diana knew she had earned those rewards and deserved them.

Getting the house mistress to cooperate was easy. Her early experience with the family housemaid had taught Diana how to recognize a female eye that looked too attentive when young girls undressed themselves. Such, though repressed and perhaps even unnoticed, was the house mistress's eye. So in the middle of the night Diana sent a new younger student to sleep in the house mistress's bed after a bad dream, and waited fifteen minutes to be sure the young girl was in place. Then she broke into the house mistress's room to catch them in flagrante. That is, she switched on the light and revealed each of them asleep in the bed, each pretty much unaware of the other's presence, and clicked her empty snapshot camera at them a few times as they woke up. She then sent the younger girl back to her own bed, closed the door, climbed into the bed herself, and informed the dumbfounded house mistress of the price of her silence about this lamentable attempted seduction of a young child.

To emphasize that she was serious, Diana insisted that the house mistress get out of bed and kneel on the floor between her legs, while Diana herself lolled back on the pillows with her legs spread apart over the bed's edge, her toes just touching the floor. The house mistress's face looked up over Diana's crotch, outraged but unable to think of a remedy. So Diana had her spend the night in that position, and dozed between tongue lickings.

By morning the house mistress was well trained to begin by licking the length of Diana's slit, then to nibble Diana's clit gently with her lips and front teeth, while occasionally flicking it or trying to penetrate Diana's still virginal vagina with her tongue. She was instructed to keep doing these things until Diana had orgasmed. Then she was permitted to sleep briefly, her face pillowed on Diana's crotch, until Diana awoke and asked her to resume.

After a few nights of this, the house mistress was grateful when Diana allowed her to kneel all night on a pillow. By then she had learned how to bring Diana off quickly and expertly, because her adolescent mistress required that high standard, and also because it increased the lag time for sleeping between the three or four servicings Diana required nightly. She learned to awaken and begin again each time Diana flexed her toes and thrust her mound up into the house mistresses sleeping face. By the end of the week the house mistress was resuming on signal, Diana was amused to notice, in her sleep, and was scarcely disturbed by her new nightly posture and duties.

The young football Captain needed different incentives, of course, and Diana provided them. Diana wanted him to take her virginity as a service to her, not for himself, and to feel properly privileged and humble about it. It was not a trophy he could be allowed to dare to boast about even to himself. Diana was by now a slim and beautiful maiden, with budded breasts just noticeable, and delicate lips she usually touched with pink lipstick. One afternoon, while watching a scrimmage at the nearby boys' private school, she seemed to slip on the grass. Immediately the team was deserted while the Captain raced to her assistance. They spoke together on the sidelines just long enough to arrange an illicit meeting that night, each sneaking out of a dormitory and across the common playing field to a nearby grove of trees. That night they were together just long enough for Diana to get laid three times, the first one painful and the second problematic, but the third the justly fabled delight of a girlhood fantasy that for once lived up to its promise, with shrieking multiple orgasms that no way resembled moaning and shuddering her house mistress could coax from her. Boys were better than girls for some things.

Then as she came down from heaven to face her partner and saw a foolishly self-satisfied adolescent expression on his face, she thanked him, then began to discuss charges of actual and statutory rape she might bring against him. This brought the Captain to his knees in front of her, and as she directed him he was soon leaning way back on his elbows, his head tilted back so she could straddle his face, eagerly sucking up from her pussy her hymeneal blood, her generous juices, and his own abundant semen.

This gave her an interesting idea. So for the rest of the year, like it or not her Captain had a steady date with her, for an hour or so each night of five consecutive nights each month, to use his prick and his cum as a douche to loosen her day's accumulation of clotted menstrual blood and mucous, then to use his mouth to cleanse her thoroughly and return her vagina to its customary sweetness. The much-used house mistress was happy to take those nights off and sleep in her own bed. In this way the Captain learned that no one ever owned Diana, and that his highest function was to please her. By the time he graduated from Prep School she had trained him to feel helpless before any woman who knew her own mind, able to conceive of sex only as a service he should provide without recompense or reward. When Diana passed him on to a girl she knew at the College he attended that Fall, the girl reported back that he was too groveling to be worth her trouble, and that she had donated him to her sorority for general purpose uses.

Once she herself reached College age, Diana found that it was much more amusing to control her sexual partners by manipulating their desires than by direct entrapment or

blackmail. By the time her formal higher education ended she had refined her techniques in many ways.

Her initial discovery that men were easy to self-entrap was accidental. Early one summer she went to a Tennis Camp to improve her game. She arranged the first day to meet the handsomest of the young instructors, a slim and pale blonde Adonis, for lunch and a mid-day swim on his next day off. On that day off they went to a secluded pond he knew of, by a clearing deep in the woods.

He then committed the folly of trying to talk her into swimming with him topless as they changed into their swimsuits. This, he hoped secretly, might lead them in turn to bottomless pleasures.

Diana reappeared from behind a tree where she had been changing, wearing a pretty flowered bikini, expecting to be complimented. Instead the young Adonis eyed her with a calculating smile and swung into action.

"Take that top off, little girl," he urged in an overripe voice. "You'll love feeling free and natural with the wind on your skin. Trust me!"

Diana felt insulted by this crude gambit. Annoyed, she challenged him instead to spend the afternoon with her swimming and sun bathing topped, as she was, to learn for himself how girls sacrifice comfort to maintain respectability. He agreed to placate her, and reached for his shirt to put it back on. No, she told him, fair's fair, they should each have the same kind of top. So she went back behind the tree and emerged holding her black lace brassiere, and offered it to him.

Of course he balked. But Diana then turned icy with contempt and made a few references to his apparently fragile manhood, taunting him whether she had uncovered in him some shameful secret desire to wear women's clothing. He denied he had ever felt any such thing, a bra being a bra, nothing more, and relented. She helped him slip the straps over his shoulders and fastened the flimsy lace thing herself tightly behind his back, where he couldn't reach the hooks. He looked a little shamefaced, but she stood back and took his measure with her eyes, noted his pectoral muscles delicately swathed in her lace cups, smiled, and reached to touch one of his nipples through the material. "Just like mine," she said. They both laughed, and he relaxed. Things seemed promising, he thought, if a little kinky.

Then for the next six hours they played delightedly, in the water and out under the clear blue sky and hot sun, nibbling on their sandwiches and occasionally on each other, and dozing under the sky. Diana's skin was well tanned from a Spring vacation in Bermuda, so she didn't bother with sun block. He had brought a bottle, but somehow felt it would be wimpy to spread it on himself when she wasn't using any, so he set it aside. He altogether

forgot about his pale skin as he explored and stroked and kissed the selected areas of Diana's body she permitted him access, her neck and shoulders, and the front parts of her thighs, and one breast. But Diana didn't forget. She saw to it he remained in the sun the whole time, and turned him toward it like a basting chicken on a spit. His skin turned pink, then a deeper pink.

By mid-afternoon the air turned cooler, and Diana suggested they think about returning. She went back behind her tree to change back into her t shirt and shorts, and reappeared bra-less, pretending to be surprised and amused that he was still wearing his damp bathing trunks and was still struggling to reach the triple bra hooks in the center of his back. She unhooked it for him and stood back to admire her handiwork. Her Adonis was now deep pink except where the bra had been. The outlines of thin white straps rose over each shoulder and a bra band was branded in white across his back. On his chest appeared the white scalloped outline of two bra cups, one for each pectoral muscle bulge, his nipples in the center of each surrounded by a filigree of pink and white skin in near-perfect reproduction of the bra's delicate lace rosettes. He was appalled when he saw this tattoo, but Diana was delighted. She told him it would last the summer, and would turn eventually from pink to tan, but would never blend with the rest of his chest no matter how much he tried to tan the bra-whitened areas. She told him it served him right. She then suggested that the next time they dated she would provide him with matching lace panties to swim and sun bathe in, so he could have a matched set.

He quickly learned what Diana already knew, that for the next six weeks he was hers. She knew no normal American male would ever want it known he had worn a brassiere even for the noble and manly purpose of seducing a girl who had challenged him to wear one. He took to swimming in a T-shirt even on the hottest of days, for fear of being seen in his suntan bra. Sometimes when they were perspiring freely on the Tennis Court and there were others listening Diana would call to him to take his shirt off so he could feel natural and free, and feel the wind on his skin.

She added different items to his daytime underwear wardrobe. A week later they went swimming together again, and this time she insisted he wear the promised matched pair of black panties with lace rosettes instead of his swimming trunks, worn all day in the sun along with the same black bra worn to deepen its tan lines and her grip on him -- this was the price she exacted from him for letting him kiss her between the legs that day. Then, to finally let him fuck her, she bought him a panty-for-each-day-of-the-week set and took possession herself of all his shorts and briefs, so he'd have no choice but to wear them. Then she spot checked, that on Tuesdays for example he was wearing the cute powder blue flowered bikini embroidered "It's Tuesday, so Kiss Me!" and on Sunday, the pink tap pants embroidered "Every Sunday Tell Me how Pretty I Am!"

A few weeks later, since she already held his reputation in her hand, she had no problem dressing him up in a padded bra, a T shirt reading "Secretly I'm a Princess," cute shorts, strappy sandals, lipstick, and mascara, to go shopping with her in a nearby mall. She showed up for their date dressed in an oversized pair of men's jeans and a work shirt, with her hair brushed boy style to one side. Then she challenged him whether he was man enough to wear a complete cross-gendered outfit the way she was, and he agreed before he realized she didn't mean him to wear another pair of jeans and another work shirt. He never did work out that their mutual daring was radically unequal, women in pants being a common sight, and men in skirts somewhat more rare. But he knew by then never to question her sense of fair play. So he let her feminize his appearance, and he tripped and strolled his way through the mall as requested, taking short steps, periodically turning to her and clasping his hands together in excitement, as ordered, a stiff erection bulging the front of his flaring girly shorts the whole time.

She took due note that a summer with his manhood being teased by a girl had in fact brought out an effeminate streak in him, and that his effeminacy turned him on. It amused her that this was so. That night she allowed him a sixty-nine position in their lovemaking, telling him this was what women do, gently, kissing and nibbling his penis for the first time, but as if it were a clit, mouthing and licking only the head. He went wild. His lovemaking that night had a desperate, even frenzied element in it, as if he were trying to relocate some lost male center of himself. She helped him to find it again by mounting him and then, before she let him pump her from below her in throes of helpless eroticism, she refreshed his lipstick and mascara, fondled his breasts, and called him her darling girl.

She returned home from Tennis Camp with an essential truth of far great value than never to waste your second service by lobbing the ball, namely that men will endure any amount of humiliation in order to avoid being humiliated, that some even crave humiliation because they feel guilty about their own desires. Find what men are ashamed of, she took due note, and get them habituated to it, and they are yours. For the remainder of her College years she exchanged confessions of secret shame with each new date, her own confession usually of some trivial occasion in her childhood, theirs whatever embarrassing desire or event she could then talk them into enacting or re-enacting, and they were hers.

A few years out of college she came into her inheritance, and found that for the rest of her life she could afford nearly any amusement she fancied. She kept herself busy running several scientific, charitable, and environmental foundations, attempting to spend her share of her father's money on good causes faster than it earned even more of itself, and for the most part failing. While the militant feminist movement argued confrontationally for greater access to male power and privilege, she acquired and redistributed much more male power and privilege much more seductively.

To do her bit for the feminist movement she seduced other women's husbands, then honed to a knife edge the agonies of guilt those husbands felt for betraying their wives, then informed their wives that she was handing over to them a powerful weapon for destroying their husbands, the news of their husband's infidelities. She then helped the wives do whatever they wished with these hapless males.

The least imaginative wanted and got a divorce, and others equally unimaginative wanted and got reconciliation based on the old status quo. But some others looked to convert their formerly macho males into various kinds of wimps under their thumbs. Some wanted to enslave them to do their least bidding, to lick their shoes, or their spittle, or their lovers' pricks while these were still sticky with mixed cum, or to lick their own ass holes while still ripe from doing a dump. Some in revenge wanted to fuck five other men while their unfaithful husbands watched helplessly, and some wanted five other men to fuck their husbands into an effeminacy to be endured as an act of contrition, while their wives watched and gloated. These things could all be arranged, and Diana arranged them. But after a while she began to run out of husbands. It was time, she thought, to find one of her own.

*****************

Then Gene appeared as if from nowhere. It was at a summer lawn party in the Hamptons, and the hostess, her college roommate from years back, grinned broadly at Diana as she brought them together.

"Diana, this is Gene. Gene, Diana. You two have a great deal in common. You both like power. You're both movers and shakers, and you both know how to make men do whatever you want!" And she turned away, laughing uproariously at her little joke

Diana's first impression of Gene was of overwhelming maleness. A vigorous self-confidence poured out of him. Gene reached out and took slow possession of Diana's hand as if it were a continent, as if he were already having his way with her. He squeezed it gently, irresistibly, and then he partly opened his own hand so she could withdraw it if she wanted. She didn't. She couldn't. Amazed, she looked at what was formerly her hand, thin and long and pale in his large relaxed grip, her red fingernails touching his wrist. He closed his other hand over it, so it was now a kind of bird in a cage. Then she looked up at him, and saw heavy black brows hanging over his ironically amused eyes, a dark, handsome jaw already in need of another shave, full lips carved into a smile like those found on Greek statues of athletes, a large head capped by dense waves of black hair, and wide shoulders spreading his cashmere sports jacket like a thin sweater.

She saw he was also studying her intently for longer than was necessary, and decided that this was his standard ploy with girls who interested him. Nevertheless, it worked. Instinctively, she covered his two hands with her own other hand, caressed his briefly with her fingertips, then surrounded and gripped it. She forced herself to look into his eyes with the devastating force and assurance she reserved usually only for only very important potential donors to her various charities. They said nothing for a moment, gazing into each other's eyes and minds.

He flinched first. He looked down at his hand encased in both of hers and said, "I'd better hand these back to you."

But he couldn't. She now held him as he had held her. She waited a split second longer, until he knew this, then released his hand and finally pulled her other hand free. His own suddenly felt empty. Then as if without thinking, she reached up and touched the dense blue shadow on his chin with her fingertips, testing for herself how rough an hour or so's growth of beard could feel. A faint uncertainty crossed his face. Then satisfaction.

Good, she thought. I bet that self-confident handshake gets lots of girls. But now I've got him, and he'll have to hang it out to dry.

Diana took his arm and wrapped both of hers around it, twined her fingers into his, and gently turned him back toward their hostess.

"Now that we've met, we're leaving," she told her not-altogether-astonished old friend.

The genuinely astonished man on her arm was too busy replaying in his head what he had just heard to object to it, or to question her. So they left together. Two months later they were married, on the same lawn, with most of the same people attending.

Gene was exactly what Diana had wanted. He too had independent means, but he was also an architect whose partner kept busy designing town houses and country estates for friends. This got him out of the house on those mornings when an early golf game didn't. He was comfortable with himself, uncomplicated, forceful when he wanted to be, easily taking charge when no real thought was required, and inclined to do whatever she wanted whenever a situation really needed thinking through. He had an elaborate office in town where his partner, a workaholic named Michael, and various draftsmen and engineers drew up plans for things and modified other things, a whole floor in a downtown building, and he went there every morning. He'd supplied the initial capital outlay, and there was little more for him to do there. While Michael often worked late into the evening, Gene as often spent afternoons playing a few sets or rounds with friends who also had more money than ambition.

She loved showing off such a hunk of man when they went to parties, concerts, or dinners, his dark good looks and manly proportions a worshipful and attentive backdrop for her own slim elegance. Wherever they went and no matter what circle she joined, whatever the animated talk in any of the fashionable living rooms and country clubs they frequented, he was always in attendance upon her, bringing her drinks, looking thoughtful when she seemed to defer to him for an opinion, and then looking pleased when she articulated it and called it his. She was the envy of all the women in her set.

Within a few years, of course, Diana was bored down to her bones. Her work consisted of doling out large sums of money, then seeing they were well-spent, and this required many of her skills and all of her knowledge. But after years of being courted by worthy causes she found no thrills, flattery, or challenges in the prospect of more of the same old same old. It wasn't dull work. In fact it was rather challenging, even intricate in the way it required that she bring people of many different temperaments and interests together, to try to locate their mutual interest in conceiving and completing one or another project. But it was no longer absorbing. When some glitch or crisis arrived by telephone, she knew how to deal with it almost mindlessly almost before she had set down the receiver.

Her husband became part of this pattern of repetitive days. He was supposedly a hard-driving, energetic man of achievement, but she knew she had married him for his manageability, and because at her age one married, and because he came on so very much male, with his heavy beard, golf, and tennis, with his eye gleaming as his calculations trounced the opposition. At first she was excited to think of him as a trophy, handsome, successful at whatever he attempted, wealthy enough in his own right to be uninterested in her money, the most eligible bachelor to cross into her social set in many years. But he had little wit, and no conversation. He had a direct approach to people that worked or didn't work, while her approaches were always devious and self-amusing, and always worked. He was admirable, she concluded reluctantly, but like all men sooner or later boring. Even sex with him, with his muscular shoulders and arms -- he lifted weights several times each week was soon boring.

She had to acknowledge he was well hung, with one of the prettier pricks she had seen, not too long but fat as a sapling tree trunk, and with tennis balls hanging beneath where others had golf balls at most. A few hours after she led him away from the garden party where they had just met, and often after they were married, she was impaled and stuffed by his direct linear approach: kiss, embrace, enter her, pump vigorously, come, see that she comes too, and pull out. Then turn and go to sleep. Nothing more. Nothing else. Fun at first, but in all respects too easy. Dull. She returned to the one word that repeated itself in her head after each sexual bout with him, despite his heavy meat. Boring.

She found herself daydreaming about old lovers, the ones she had cajoled or intimidated into doing whatever she wanted, especially those she had actually re-made into odd or compulsive sexual creatures, by twisting the shapes of their desires to accommodate her more bizarre fantasies. But beginning an affair with someone else, sex of any kind with anyone else, was impossible now. He was her husband, her partner. He had been faithful to her, thus far, she was sure of it. She owed him her fidelity. Moreover, he was due respect. She knew she could manipulate him. She'd never failed to work her will with any man. But then she would lose all respect for him as a partner in marriage. Then what was merely a boring marriage would really become a prison. She would find herself married to her own puppet, and would need to end it. And she didn't want to end it. He was everything she had married him for, and she was the envy of everyone else because she had married him. She liked things that way. She intended to stay married to him, and to grow old with him. She never wanted to marry any other man. But she needed more than he could provide, and other kinds of things than he could provide.

Gradually, one way to deal with her predicament revealed itself to her. She remembered that when she was a little girl, and bored, she had taken refuge in her own imagination, absorbed herself altogether into the life of her dollhouse. She had created a complete, fully equipped household, with a daddy and a mommy and brothers and sisters and relatives and lovers, none of which she herself had in fact, and servants of various kinds, which she had abundantly. Each was a doll ready to do her bidding, and to change and become someone else when her whims changed, or when she ran out of ideas for whatever they were. She remembered that as time wore on and she grew older and saw the possibilities, she would test out new ideas on them, putting daddy into bed with a servant girl, for example, or the handyman, or putting an uncle into intimate embrace with one of the pre-pubescent sons or daughters of the house, or putting mommy into a menage a quatre. Everyone there did what she wanted. That had been fun.

So Diana decided to play house with her husband. As her husband he was fully qualified. In fact, when she decided to play dollhouse with him, she decided to bring in other people to play various other dolls along with her and her husband, different dolls for different purposes, or dolls who would willingly play the different roles she required of them. The game would be more fun if Gene didn't know that's what was going on. He himself would be, in a way, a doll. But not a doll to be manipulated. One who was treated with respect. One who freely chose, of his own desires, what roles he wished to play.

So, she concluded, if spice were to return to her life, she had to accomplish several things. One was to return to her own uses her main instrument in the manipulation of other people, her pussy, with its various implied promises to people who desired access to it. But she could not give other men access to it, or even the promise of access, unless her husband first gave some other woman access to his prick. She would not be the first to breach their marriage contract, though she knew she would certainly be the second. It was inescapable -- she had to see to it that her husband, of his own free will, fucked some other woman. But a woman of her own choosing, and under conditions of her own choosing, with consequences of her own choosing. She would never risk his running off with someone not of her choosing. Or running off with anyone. Moreover, what she hoped for from her husband's liaison, apart from a necessary justification for fucking other men if she wished or found it expedient, was that some other woman would teach him how to make robust, passionate, and imaginative love to her, so he'd be available to his own wife as a lover she could indeed live with for the rest of her life, perhaps even monogamously. He was not that now. Not at all. Not yet. And she certainly wasn't going to condescend to teach him.

One evening, drifting asleep after direct, linear lovemaking with her husband, Diana suddenly snapped wide awake. For the first time in her life, she realized suddenly that someone within her own orbit was living a life she knew nothing about, out of her control! And that someone was her husband! The clue was unmistakable, and she was dumbfounded that she had missed it. Not fifteen minutes earlier, instead of coming in her, then maintaining his ardor and erection until she came (even if his prick started to soften, it was still more than ample for her purposes), he had waited until her orgasm approached, climbed its peak, and then leaped off in full flight. Then, when her gasping had become breathing again, he had asked her "May I come now, please?" And only after she had clutched him tightly to prolong her afterglow, her arms around his neck and her legs around his thighs, and only after she had called out to him in a tense whisper, "Oh, yes, oh, yes!", only then did he explode into her with his own orgasm.

Not his usual silent lovemaking at all, with his own satisfaction preceding hers. He attended to hers first. He had been exceptionally considerate this time. More than considerate. He hadn't even asked her "Close?", checking to see if he could play out his own end game and not leave her too far behind, as if for some obscure reason there were doubts whether she'd play out hers at all, as if those doubts ever mattered to him at such a moment anyhow. He knew that she'd just gone over the top. His words were "*May* I come now?" He had asked her permission, and added, as if he were not in charge of his own body, "please."

The bastard was fucking some other woman! Not just any other woman, but one who was playing domination/submission games with him, who was training him not to come without her permission! Apparently, at the peak of his own desire for sexual release he had gotten his two women confused -- for the moment, he had actually forgotten which bed he was in.

Diana knew the signs, and this one was unmistakable. In college and occasionally afterward she had trained men to play bondage games that interested or amused her, many such men. An early stage was to control their orgasms -- desperate to cum, they could be conditioned to do anything, to agree to anything, in exchange for a long-sought release. Especially if they had been wrought up to extremes of erotic tension. Then their cumming could be made conditional on many other amusing things.

That was how she had conditioned all of her men to kinkiness of some sort. It interested her, seeing how far she could move men from wherever she found them. Impeccably neat gentlemen always ended up her toilets, grateful she allowed them to cum at all, but never until they had opened their mouths wide to her drink her piss or eat her shit direct from its source. Prudes ended up male whores, doing basic training in an actual whorehouse for several weeks before being sent into the streets to find and satisfy customers with specified peculiarities, as if they were participating in some bizarre scavenger hunt, all to please her. For the rest of their lives, some of her former partners would need to be stretched or whipped or humiliated to the extremities of physical or mental discomfort before they could climax.

Almost by whim she had brought one man, over only a few months, from a satyr's readiness to ejaculate anywhere on no notice, to numb inability to feel anything unless it was associated with pain, and to require near-blinding agony in order to ejaculate. She then obliged him when he begged her by squeezing his scrotum with all her strength. But then he went out of control and became something of a torture junkie on his own. He mutilated himself while masturbating, as she could see afterward. Then one evening he spent hours pleading with her to crush his testicles with a hammer. Respectfully, on his knees, his forehead pressed to the floor and the hammer offered with both outstretched hands, not daring to look at her, tears streaming from his eyes. And he hadn't been able to hear her when she ordered him to stop it. It was kind of sweet, his dedication to her. But she had realized they were no longer compatible. He had become someone else's problem, not hers, and she stopped seeing him.

Gene on the other hand was her problem, till death did them part. A few nights later, Diana confirmed her suspicion. Just as he was rising to a feverish explosion and his loins were pumping ferociously, utterly out of control, straining into her while his dick swelled into a massive discharge, she said in a low, carefully modulated voice, "Not this time" and then waited to see what would happen. There was no waiting at all. Gene immediately withdrew from her, fell to licking her to bring her off, and then despite what had to be a hideous case of blueballs, all that overheated cum still bottled up inside him, he hugged her and went to sleep without complaint.

Diana lay there furious, but even more, filled with wild surmise. Then she found that all in all, she was delighted. She felt her life suddenly again grow rich, purposive. She knew she had to identify this woman, whoever she was, and confront her, perhaps defeat her in a direct contest of wills with her husband as the prize, and then secure her husband against any such onslaughts ever again. Here was a project worthy of her attention! She closed her eyes and smiled. Within a minute she was sound asleep.

The next day she went to her office and Gene went to his. By the time Gene reappeared on the streets for lunch he was equipped, without knowing it, with two faithful observers who never lost sight of him and followed him everywhere, one an unimpressive young man with thinning hair and an abstracted manner, a computer geek for some local broker, it seemed, and the other a middle-aged woman too plain to tempt strangers, a little plump, but well-enough dressed to be able to shop or take tea anywhere. He never noticed that he was being followed. Meanwhile, Gene's firm advertised for a secretary and for a landscape draftsman, and a reputable employment agency sent over two candidates that same afternoon. Each chatted with the staff for hours about what kind of place this was to work in, what the bosses were like, and each made a luncheon appointment for the next day with an especially compatible new acquaintance, and each arranged to take in a movie with another new acquaintance, so they could share the real poop about things. The secretary was eventually hired and the draftsman wasn't. It didn't matter. By the end of the following week it seemed that they both had to leave town to tend sick relatives, and neither was seen again. Their real work was finished, successfully accomplished.

They reported in, and by the end of the following week Diana had the complete story, with photographs and a videotape, everything she had wanted to know and some things she didn't. It seems that before his marriage Gene had routinely skimmed the secretarial staff and filing clerks for sexual favors, that a number had been hired with that understanding, and that some of these were still there. These sometimes still met with him privately in exchange for the gifts Gene gave them (all agreed he was a gentleman). But the gifts were not for additional sexual favors. They were for their silence about his earlier sexual harassment of them.

One had especially missed having his meat in her mouth, or cunt, or ass a few times each week. In her way she loved him. So a few months earlier, just about when Diana was realizing how bored she was with her husband, this especially affectionate filing clerk had flashed a naked ass at Gene from under her mini, and five minutes later was again enjoying the feel of his huge cock stuffing her quim, seated on his lap with her back to him, her hands braced on his desk against his thrusting into her ass. Not in her pussy, because Gene did want to remain a faithful husband it seemed, but up her cute rear end, and then into her mouth to be cleaned off by her prehensile tongue, and then down her throat to be rinsed off. This had become a regular thing between them, until only a month ago.

A month ago, it seems, Gene's partner's wife had walked into Gene's office unannounced to ask him about an investment and had nearly fallen over Gene and the filing clerk humping their way around the room doggy style. The filing clerk had leaped up and immediately fled, flashing the bottoms of her cheeks below her miniskirt all the way back to her cubicle, to the amusement of various office staff and one structural engineer, who dated her that very night and had been seen steadily with her ever since. The partner's wife (the investigators' report had her name as "Nicola" though Diana knew it was "Nicole -- close enough she mused, if everything else is accurate), had then shut Gene's office door and they had been alone for a half hour. Then both had emerged, Gene looking chastened and following her through the office, down the hall, into the elevator, and into her car, where he had sat with his head hunched down a little, looking straight ahead while she drove off.

That was probably the day he began spending an afternoon or two a week at her house, according to Nicole's neighbors, though they saw nothing improper about this because Nicole's husband Michael usually arrived with him, and the two of them went in together. A newsboy claimed that he once saw the two of them on their knees together in the doorway working their way awkwardly into the front hall while some shadowy person in thigh boots reached behind them to close the door, He had decided that was not a good moment for him to collect the household's two months of arrears for newspaper delivery.

There was, the report went on, a room in Nicole and Michael's house known among some respectable couples, the investigators were careful to point out, as a "dungeon." In fact it was the former game room on the ground floor, where various pipes, electrical lines, hooks, links, chains, and mechanical platforms had been installed, of a kind common where couples practice what the investigators called "Domination, Submission, Bondage, and Sadie's Masochism." Among consenting adults, the report assured Diana, these things happened. It was not unlawful.

It was fairly clear what had happened, and Diana only scanned the remaining pages. She was amused to read one secretary's comment that Gene's partner had returned from two weeks in Florida with his neck "clean" while all the rest of him was sun-tanned -- to Diana it was obvious that Michael had spent the vacation in a slave collar and probably naked, and she recalled affectionately her games with that young tennis instructor so many summers ago. Nicole's husband was her sex-slave, probably had been for years -- let's see, they last renovated their house at least five years ago, she thought. Gene had tried to remain true to his wife in his fashion, but not too successfully. He was being blackmailed by some of his former harem girls. And now Nicole also had him, let's say, intimidated into becoming her second sex slave.

Diana knew that however commanding his appearance at the Country Club or various Architects Forums, Gene was a natural submissive. That was why she had married him -- he was safe, and could always be brought back into line if he strayed. She had wanted an equal partner in marriage, a man she could respect yet control in all crucial ways. Maybe she had been a little schoolgirlish about her expectations, she thought. She hadn't wanted to come on dominant to him and order him about. Yet, maybe she had been unfair to him in this. Maybe she had deprived him of something he needed. Nicole now had his body whether he wanted to go with her or not, but Diana knew that eventually she'd have his soul as well as his body. His wife had to rescue him.

It wasn't too late. Probably he hadn't gone very far with her yet -- enough to get to like some of the discipline, but not yet into the heavy stuff, Diana thought, certainly not yet into total obedience to Nicole's least whim. Obviously, she used his cock whenever she chose, in whatever ways she chose, the way less-capable women use their dildos. That was already a clear violation of his obligations to her, the unequivocal justification her own liberty needed. Nicole could easily lead him that way, Diana realized, quickly re-assessing what she knew of her husband's partner's wife's personality. As a Domme she'd be formidable.

But it wasn't too late. And it certainly was interesting. Not at all boring. Diana skimmed the photos quickly and stowed them with the report and the unscreened video in her private safe in her study. She knew what the video contained, maybe some murky long shots of two naked slaves seen through a dining room or kitchen window, and Gene's comings and goings with dates and times duly noted. Maybe it would be useful later. But she had to think without distraction.

By the next morning Diana had all her ducks in a row. Above all her husband had to be extricated from this double blackmail by the secretaries and by Nicole, and for the rest of their lives together -- and Diana still meant to grow old with him -- safeguarded against anything similar ever happening again. His architectural partnership had to be preserved, so Gene could retain his dignity and his self-respect, and have something to do days while Diana looked after her own affairs a little more freely than in the past. All four of them had reputations among their friends that had to remain impeccable, beyond any shadow of gossip or tawdry suspicion. She picked up the phone and called Nicole, suggesting a lunch where they could chat about charitable works, and membership on the country club's governing board, and "other things."

"It's been so long since we've seen each other, " Diana told Nicole. "And we share so many concerns. We have to talk."

"Of course," said Nicole, who knew never to underestimate Diana, and who instantly concluded that Diana somehow had come to know everything. It wasn't from Gene, she felt sure, because Gene had lately been showing up at her doorstep with a certain...er...eagerness, a spring in his step she had been planning to begin converting into far darker desires. But no matter now. "Our husbands are partners. What concerns them concerns us, I'm sure."

"Wonderful, Nicole," Diana said. "Longfellow's for lunch then? Tomorrow? Around one? If you have anything else on for afterward, maybe we can be free by two-thirty. Or maybe the two of us can do together whatever you're planning to do. We'll talk about that too. Bye now."

"Bye, Diana. Together. Looking forward to it."

What a pleasure to talk to a really intelligent woman. Diana liked Nicole. She had understood immediately what was happening, Diana thought, and she had made me an offer, and I told her my terms, and she agreed to them. No need to spell out anything. This should be fun!

But just in case, Diana then called her office manager, a carefully chosen unobtrusive title for the woman who looked after Diana's huge holdings and multitudinous projects. She was really the Executive Director of "Diana Incorporated," and she earned big money appropriate to her huge responsibility. Diana gave her a few instructions about reshuffling some major holdings and stock options, freeing up cash she needed that couldn't be traced. They briefly discussed certain ways some of the architectural firm's less-productive but better-paid bimbo employees could be transferred to other cities or downsized altogether, and Diana provided their names, those employees who had extorted promotions and bonuses in exchange for their silence about Gene's premarital exploits. Then she hung up. She began thinking about what she would wear tomorrow to her lunch at Longfellow's. Her mauve silk jacquard? No, she decided. Black leather would be more suitable. That's what Nicole would be wearing.

Then that night, even though the details remained to be worked out with Nicole, she set her plan in motion. She needed a patsy. She dressed herself simply in a loose, cream-colored silk blouse and black mid-calf skirt, went to one of the better singles bars in town, looked around, then waited in a shadowy corner for the right person to walk in. It might take a day or two to find someone who might do, she realized, perhaps much longer. She'd be wasting a lot of time looking for him, but this wasn't anything she could delegate. She had only a few months to get him ready.

And suddenly, there he was, thin, shy, probably new in town and knew no one, still relatively young, with a full head of hair down past his collar neatly clipped into a ponytail. Refined gestures, well-enough educated no doubt. He was eyeing different couples sideways, as if looking directly at them might intrude. Doesn't he know people come to places like this to meet other people, she thought? Well, she said to herself, if he were bolder he would never do. She watched him for a while, to be sure that he was alone, and the more she saw of his uncertain gestures, his never quite breaking into conversations, the more perfect he seemed. She walked over to the bar and fitted herself onto a stool just to his left. He didn't notice. He seemed to be staring wistfully at a dark girl to his right, who was wearing a green sequined dress and was obviously unhappy with her date. Time to make her move.

"I notice you always order the same wine," Diana said, though she had only seen him order the glass of Chardonnay that was still mostly in front of him. "Don't you ever feel venturesome?"

The young man took a moment to register that he was being addressed. He turned, and his shocked expression was obvious and promising. He couldn't believe that a beautiful woman was looking straight at him from no more than a foot away! His eyes drifted down across her blouse, and then some impulse toward propriety pulled then up again to her face.

"I try different things until I find what I like, then I stick with it," he replied.

Diana couldn't resist smiling, even though it might scare him away. It was such an awkward reply, but in this singles bar world of racy double entendres it did try to follow her lead. He was perfect!

CONCLUSION

Many weeks later Diana stopped by Nicole's house to see how she was doing. Gene had been away a lot, visiting building projects in various parts of the country he had told her, and she had nodded sympathetically each time he told her about yet another business trip, noticing only that he never seemed to ask her to drive him to or from the airport.

"Hi, Diana! Come in!"

She entered. That luncheon had initiated a crash program leaving Nicole and her husband little time to entertain friends, so Diana hadn't been there for a while. She glanced around. Nothing much had changed.

"They're where we agreed we wanted them? You thought it would take a few weeks, Nikki. It's been what, more like two months?"

"Diana, you have a stubborn husband. It took a while for him to understand he had no choice. I had to lead him into it. He wouldn't move from sucking on dildos to sucking on Michael for a long while. In fact it wasn't until he'd spent a whole night tied to a bench in the main barn at Brookside Stables, forced to suck off who knows how many stallions -- I forget how many, but the stud fee they charged us for all the semen he swallowed was enormous -- it wasn't until I threatened to make him into a mare that he agreed that cock sucking an ordinary man might be preferable. Then once he'd done it, it was easy for me to renew those old infantile urges to comfort one's self by sucking -- to bottle train him, really. Cock train him. Now both of them are quite comfy. I did Michael too, so they'd have each other. Come look. They really look so sweet together!"

Diana walked through the hallway into the living room. The two men were naked, lying side by side together on the couch, their legs sprawled apart and their hips turned up, each one's head tucked down into the other's crotch, eyes closed peacefully, each one's mouth working gently on the other's penis.

"They nurse on each other for four hours each day," Nicole commented, looking down with some admiration and affection. "It's really very dear. I kept them tied together doing it once for as long as thirty-six hours, when they needed the discipline. Round the clock was common. They got resigned to it, and then used to it, and then they found ways to like it. Now I don't let them go past four hours -- too much of a good thing can lose its flavor."

She smiled amused. "They'll do it with anyone if I order them, but I really have to keep them apart when they see each other. I really do think they're in love, for the pleasure they give each other if no other reason. I give them their command phrase, and they're immediately so affectionate and gentle as they settle in to suck each other's cocks, with such pleased and contented grunts."

"What's their command phrase?" Diana asked, thinking that Gene's mouth really was working on Michael's cock like an nursing infant's mouth on its mother's teat.

"The same one I always use. 'Kiss your sweetheart, baby.' I already had Michael conditioned to it, so it speeds the process when I'm training the other men women bring me. It works when said by a woman, but never when a man's voice says it. When you get him back, don't use that command casually. Gene will reach for the nearest cock in the vicinity, and if there isn't any he'll get very uneasy. Any command at all stops them. They're reluctant, but they'll obey."

"Can they hear us?" Diana asked.

"Oh yes," Nicole said. "In fact at this moment, I'm sure Gene has just recognized your voice, and is surprised to know that you're here and regarding all this so casually. I'm sure he's got many questions right now. But not so many that he'll dare to stop sucking on Michael even for a second, to look up and ask you. Not without permission, of course. He knows better than to interrupt two women speaking to each other. I doubt he'd really want to know why you're here anyhow. He's busy with more important things."

She looked down at him approvingly, not a little proud that he hadn't even opened his eyes while his mouth continued to tug on Michael's flaccid prick. "Why don't you sit for a moment?" Diana did, and Nicole took the other easy chair, both facing the two men locked in mutual embrace together on the couch.

Diana looked them over. Both well built, Gene with his matted dark hair and Michael with his blond, both of their physiques robust. She'd need to change Gene's taste in men a little, but this looked quite promising. Nicole had upheld her end of the agreement.

"Neither of them has an erection," she commented. "Don't they excite each other?"

"Oh, yes! Nowadays they get erections as soon as they see each other. I hear they ran into each other at the Downtown Squash Club last week, both of them wearing those cute short shorts men wear, that barely cover their jocks? They both bent over double at the same moment with stomach pains, they claimed, and begged off playing with their scheduled partners, and I'm told they scurried back to their offices without even stopping to shower. They're really hot for each other. They cum the first time only a few minutes after they take each others' cocks in their mouths, if I let them. If I forbid it, they can hold off for quite a long while of course, maybe an hour, sometimes more. A man will do lots of things for you when he's eager to cum, you have no idea! Or maybe you do. But then when I delay them their groaning and moaning and slurping and their passionate outcries get so loud it's bothersome. It's amusing, but also pitiable, the poor dears. I thought we'd want to talk without interruption today, so I told them this session is 'cum as you can' in silence. It's maybe five minutes since Gene's most recent. Closer to twenty minutes for Michael's."

"Let's see. Michael will get hard and cum again in about an hour, and then again in a few more hours." She looked down on the two as they continued to suckle each other, their closed eyes sleek as each concentrated on the sensations at either end of themselves, in their mouths and cocks. "You know," she said. "Gene is a wonder! That man can cum every hour on the hour all day and all night, if you let him! That was his problem, I suppose, why you wanted him trained this way? It's a waste, really, Diana. He really is God's gift to horny women, with that quick recovery time of his. Look!"

Around the edges of Michael's mouth, Diana saw the base of Gene's cock already again emerging, growing fat. In another moment Michael could no longer contain it, and his lips began sliding up and down it as more and more emerged from his mouth and then disappeared inside it. Gene's hips pushed gently toward his partner and then started moving rhythmically.

"He'll do this with any man now, you say," Diana asked?

"Oh yes. If I order him to do it. With any man now if I tell him he wants to. Suck or be sucked, makes no difference."

"And how long can they keep it up?" Diana checked her lipstick, replaced her compact, snapped her purse shut, and stood up. She'd seen what she'd come to see. "I mean keep doing what they're doing?" she added.

Nicole rose with her, and they started toward the door. "They drain each other's semen altogether in about ten or twelve hours, I suppose. Then not much can happen for another ten or twelve. A long while. But they'll suck on each other indefinitely I suspect. A few weeks ago I had them locked together for four days downstairs, in a basement room with a floor drain so I can clean things up with a hose afterward. Only each other, no food or water. At the end of that time they were starved and dehydrated despite the fact that they had drunk up all of each other's piss, and they had beshitted themselves too, despite their preliminary enemas. I suppose they were really bored too, with nothing to do all day but suck on a limp cock. But neither of them broke discipline. I'm really very proud of them both."

Diana paused at the front door. "You're doing very well, Nicole. I'll leave him with you another month or two I think. By then he'll have forgotten what a woman looks like, I imagine. Except for the domineering kind."

Now Diana looked directly at Nicole, though her voice remained casual. Nicole got the signal, and listened closely. "But see if you can wean him away from your husband and toward other men. Effeminate men. I'd like him to feel proud of his own strength and masculinity as compared with his bed partner's. And I'd also like him to prefer sleeping with other men, not women, because they're more his kind, because they're easier to deal with, because whatever you like. I want him to prefer pushing himself into any man's ass to fucking any woman's cunt.

"You want him gay. That's difficult, Diana."

"No. Not gay, exactly. More bi-sexual. Encourage him to fantasize that he's with a woman when he knows he's with a man, that he's got the best of both worlds. In fact the men should look and act like women, though always women with penises. No matter what, I want him aroused most of all by men who look and dress and behave just like women. Because from now on he'll sleep only with men. That's what I want. Girly men, that's my only concession to his old randy sexual appetites. That cock of his will never again dip into any woman's cunt, not as long as we're still married, and I don't mean to divorce him ever. Never again with a woman. Not even me! Nor should he want to. Can you arrange that?"

"Oh yes," Nicole said. The two of them touched cheeks in farewell, and Diana turned toward her car in the driveway. "Positive and negative reinforcement together can do that. And autosuggestion, and sensory deprivation. I can bring in some lovely boys, and condition him to them. He'll adore them! I should think that from where he is now, a month or two more will do it."

As Diana's car disappeared around the corner, Nicole re-entered the house, sat down again in her large chair, and stared thoughtfully at the two men lying on her couch. As she watched, Gene's hips began a violent humping of Michael's face, pushing deep inside his mouth, and sometimes down his throat, and Michael began swallowing rapidly in spasms matching Gene's. As the thrusting eased, a little cream appeared at the corner of her husband's mouth, to be licked back, and Michael's lips began pulling again on Gene's penis, now once again limp, as when Diana had first arrived. Not once did Gene slow down his slurping on Michael's cock. And all of this occurred in total silence, without a moan or a whimper from either of them. Nicole smiled, turned away, picked up a TV remote from the table at her elbow, and clicked her favorite afternoon soap opera onto the video screen in the corner. The two men on the couch continued to suck on each other, but she paid no further attention. In another fifty minutes she'd send them back to their office to deal with their different afternoon business appointments. Neither would need to stop for lunch.

*****************

When Nicole finally delivered Gene back into Diana's custody, he was as personable as ever, even jokingly affectionate, but no matter how she tried to tempt him with her body, he seemed not to notice it. There was no tension of mutual desire between them any more, even when she felt something for him. He made no moves toward sex with her, though she noticed when they went together to various charity affairs that his eye seemed to linger on tall, angular women or thin, delicate-looking men. It occurred to Diana that she'd better settle him soon into his new understanding of his sexuality and their marriage, with its compensations, before he got himself arrested for sodomy, or pederasty, or one of the other old-fashioned vices.

They were now sleeping in separate bedrooms, so closing the circle and completing her plan was relatively easy. It happened, as it happened, on Gene's birthday. They celebrated together at a small, intimate Italian restaurant, just the two of them. She teased him that she'd left his birthday present at home, but she was sure he'd just love it. Then when they got back to her mansion she told him to get into bed and wait. He did, and she was pleased to see when she looked in on him that he still slept in the buff, his thick chest hairs set off by the single gold chain he still wore around his neck, her gift to him during the better days of their marriage, before his novelty had worn off.

The previous day she had appeared at Bobbi's apartment to tell him she had the most delicious treat prepared, ready and waiting, the loveliest man, the very man whose cock had been the model for that dildo he'd affectionately called "Diana's cock" way back before he'd discovered the superiority of live cock. This was the original, the real thing. The real man dangling that prick was tall, dark, and handsome, every girl's dream, even hers once. "I know you'll just love him," she said. "In fact, you were made for each other."

She told him to break off with the man he was currently seeing (a person she'd arranged for Bobbi to sleep with transitionally, short, dark, and handsome), to pack his prettiest things for an extended stay, and to come with her to her estate. Bemused, Bob did so. He was put up in a pretty apartment over the garage, where Diana's former chauffeur and cook had cohabited blissfully.

Now, with Gene lying expectant in bed, she brought Bobbi forward by the hand, dressed in his finest nightgown and matching peignoir. She saw that in the intervening time since she'd last looked, his nipples had grown large and dark and pointy, and were unmistakably visible through the satin and lace of his gown, especially the way his breasts now thrust them way forward. Was Bobbi now too much woman for Gene? She hoped not. She glanced further down, and saw that his penis was equally in evidence, and felt reassured.

As they entered Gene's bedroom they both saw in the gloom a handsome man, dark hair on his sculptured body, resting on an elbow in bed, looking first at Diana and then at Bob with a gentle smile on his face and a gleam in his eye.

"Here you are, dears," Diana said. "Bobbi honey, this is Gene. Be as feminine and loving and sweet with him as you can be, and I'll want to hear all about it afterward, what you did and how you felt about it. I think you'll adore him. I do. You already know that men are marvelous. This one's sublime. You'll see!

"Gene, this is Bobbi. Bobbi is new to being a girl. But she wants to know more about what women see in men, how we feel about them, why we love them. She wants to feel more like a woman herself, to enhance her femininity and confirm it, to feel desires aroused and fulfilled that are altogether feminine. Help her. Take all the time you need. But be gentle!"

Then Diana turned to leave the room. At the door she paused. "Bobbi is my present to you, darling. I've been preparing him for you for a long time now. Now he's all yours, gift wrapped in his best lingerie. I know he knows fabulous things to do to a man. I know you'll love him. I'll leave the two of you now to get better acquainted." And she left.

As she settled into the living room with a book, she listened for sounds upstairs. There were none. They must be in bed together now, she told herself, getting acquainted. She thought of Bobbi, virginally nervous and uncertain of himself, yet thanks to that society whore she'd hired, well-trained and experienced in the management of men's desires. Even so, seeking reassurance from Gene's sure hands. 'Treat a lady like a whore,' Gene had once told his wife with that egregious self-assurance of his, "And a whore like a lady." True enough as a design for living for him, she supposed. She wondered which way he was treating Bobbi, and she smiled, and thought 'I'll look in on them in the morning.'

She did. Gene and Bob were still asleep, entangled in each other, the bed sheets half off, Gene with his head on Bob's breasts where he had drifted off, one of Bob's pointy nipples lolling in his open mouth, Bob with his hand still gently holding Gene's beloved pecker. Diana came into the room fully dressed in a dark tweed suit with a blouse cascading ruffles down the front, her hair pulled back and tied in a black ribbon bow, looking graceful and lovely and businesslike. She looked down on the two men, pleased with what she saw. Before they came awake and aware of her she had time to notice that the way they had slept, so intertwined and embraced by every limb, she couldn't tell at first whose arms and legs were whose.

Then her eyes adjusted and it was easy. Gene's body was dark, and matted with hair over most of it, and Bob's was smooth and creamy-complexioned, soft with all of the lotions he'd used; and his arms, after much dieting, and many massages by Erika, were almost rail thin. Bob could now wear sleeveless dresses without a problem, she realized. She smiled to herself, and made a mental note to buy him a few. Better, to go shopping for one with him. No, she realized, he doesn't need me any more -- his credit card receipts show he's been buying his own dresses and lingerie and accessories for some time now, and he has good taste. He's like a real girl, properly bred. She felt very pleased with herself.

"Hi boys," she said in a voice a little brisk for their state of somnolence. "Don't get up. I just wanted you to know that I'm going away for three or four days. I'll probably be back Tuesday night. So when you see I'm not home tonight, don't wait up."

Gene opened his eyes and looked at her. Bob just lay there, eyes closed, not yet ready to wake up enough to turn his head, but he ran his hand down Gene's chest to get his arm into a more comfortable position, then lightly burrowed his fingers into Gene's chest hair, and snuggled in a little closer to go deeper into sleep.

"Over the whole weekend, into Tuesday, honey?" Gene asked. "Is this business or pleasure"

"Both, I hope," Diana said. "I met a man, a client, and we hit it off. So we're both going away to see if there's more than that between us, if there's anything else we can do for each other."

"If things work out the way I hope, I'll be bringing him home with me Tuesday. So if you'll clear out of here and move in with Bobbi over the garage by then, for the time being, I'll be grateful. You'll be easier to explain as a husband and wife couple I've hired to look after things."

"Just take your time. But when Bob wakes up, tell him he'll need to wear his maid's outfit when we get home. Not the fetishistic French Maid outfit. Just something decent, with a cap, and with his hair pulled back in a bun. You'll be my handyman and chauffeur, so blue jeans are fine, though be sure your black suit's presentable in case we need you to drive us around on Wednesday. There's a proper cap on the shelf in your new quarters. That's if I bring this man home. We never know." Diana smiled to herself. She knew.

Gene felt hurt, and a little betrayed. He leaned up on one elbow and looked at her intently from under his dark eyebrows. Bob opened his eyes and began to focus them, but didn't move from where he slid as Gene raised his shoulder.

"Now look, Diana, do you think that's right...?"

She interrupted. "Of course it is," she said. "I've done everything right so far. I decided that it would be better for me and happier for you if you had your sexual needs attended by someone else but stayed faithful to me nevertheless. I decided Bob here would make a beautiful alternative bride for you, and I prepared him to become your bride, and I arranged for your bridal night, and from the way you two look now, you're well married. Aren't you? Of course you are. I've decided that too."

"I've been having such a good time playing dolls and dollhouse with you two! You're both just like my dolls when I was a little girl. I always know how you're going to feel about anything, and I always know how to fix things so you feel what I want you to feel, and then do what I want you to do, and moreover, so you like feeling and doing what I want. You two are my living dolls. I love you both. I mean to play with you both a lot more!"

"But what's right is what I feel like doing. As far as you're concerned, Gene, I'm the

Mommy here. I decide what we do in this house. If you're not happy with anything I decide, leave."

"But I think you are happy. I know that you're only playing at feeling hurt, the injured husband whose wife is starting an affair, because you feel you should. But you don't need to, dear. You've got your own loving girlfriend next to you in bed, and you know you haven't begun to discover what she can do to make you happy. What he can do, I mean. For the next few days I'm going to live my own life, and enjoy myself, and not think about you two at all. I'll be back Tuesday, and I'll probably have someone with me. We'll see what happens then, how he'll fit in with you two lovelies, if at all. That's when I'll need you to be my respectable live-in couple, my chauffeur and maid. So that's what you are. All just for show, of course. When my new man's elsewhere, you can go to the office, and Bobbi can spend her days making herself pretty for you, pretty much as usual."

"Enjoy yourselves, dear. Kiss Bobbi for me -- I see he's not yet awake. Kiss your sweetheart, baby. But don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

And she looked again at the two of them, and felt an impulse to kiss them, each one, before she left. They made such a nice pair. So cute. Gene stretched out naked, looking at her in a relaxed kind of way, his fur matted on a large, brawny body, so very male, and Bobbi curled around him the way her hair curled over the pillow, looking thin and smooth. She'd changed to a light, lacy nightie during the night for some reason, delicate, and with her long fingernails her hands looked even more delicate. Diana did love them both, each for what they were. She wanted to be sure they knew this.

But even a light kiss might damage her makeup, which she had put on as carefully as any woman ever does who is about to fly away for a long weekend with a new lover.

"Bye-bye, sweethearts!"

And she was out the door and down the stairs.

Gene heard the front door open and close, and her car start. He turned back to Bob, and kissed him.

"Good morning Bobbi," he said affectionately. "Wake up, honey. Time for breakfast!"

End