"Jehovah Peabody is my name

living is my passion.

Jehovah Peabody plays the game

after his own fashion."

(from "Litany")

Penance

Chapter 1

by Tristmegistis

I'd never been so scared in my entire life. My wife, Sarah had walked into my boss's bedroom at the Christmas party and caught me with my tongue buried in the VP of Marketing's dripping vagina. Sarah turned on her heel and wordlessly, stiffly marched out. I stumbled after, moments later, with Lisa's humorless laughter ringing in my ears. My wife was nowhere to be seen. Neither was our car.

I had to wait for a cab, which gave me far too much time to think. Sarah was tremendously possessive, distrustful, and domineering. She'd repeatedly warned me what would happen if I ever messed around with another woman. I was terrified that she'd already have her things packed and be gone before I could get there. I gave the cabby a twenty dollar tip up front and promised him another twenty if he made the fifteen minute drive in under ten.

I rehearsed what I'd say as I was thrown around in the back of the flying vehicle. It was all true, every word of it, but sounded unbelievable, even to me. All week, Lisa Strang, the 30 year old stone fox, ice queen and marketing genius, had been coming on to me like a sly, powerful bitch in heat. The office hunks had all given her their best shots for the past six months and walked away totally demoralized. The rumor mill had it that the gorgeous blonde import from the West Coast was a lipstick lesbian. My assumption was that the whispers were purely sour grapes rationalization.

I had no idea what it was about me that had captured her carnal interest, seemingly overnight. I'm no stud, by anyone's measure. I've been called handsome, but I'm on the short, slender side, and almost painfully shy. I'm in data processing, and I much prefer dealing with machines to people.

I'd neither sought nor encouraged Lisa in any way, ever. I'd been happily, even ecstatically married to Sarah for five years. Lisa's attentions were both bold and unwelcome. She'd suddenly started showing up in my department for little or no reason, sitting on the desk in my cubicle, flashing her long, sleek legs, staring openly into my eyes with her wide green ones, licking her full red lips with deliberate lasciviousness and leaving them open invitingly, bending low with open buttoned blouses so I had clear looks at her immense, lace clad breasts. She brushed against me in the elevators and aisles when no one was looking.

I said nothing to anyone. My work suffered, but I couldn't explain to my supervisor, one of the men who'd worked the hardest to seduce Lisa. Sarah noticed something was wrong, but I knew from past experience how little it took to trigger her towering, jealous rage. All I could do was pray the nightmare would end.

When it became clear that no matter how beautiful she was, no matter how madly she wanted me, I wasn't going to cave in, Lisa became openly threatening. She callously, unnecessarily reminded me of her status in the company, her power - and consequently, my vulnerability. Friday, I received that most horrible of summons; report to the top floor. The company president wanted to see me.

It took no rocket scientist to realize that Lisa had to be behind it, and that my job was in serious jeopardy. My knocking knees and sweaty palms were entirely justified. There had been complaints, I was told. While it was phrased quite subtly, I was on notice - improve my performance or clean out my desk.

I tried to talk Sarah out of attending the office party that night, pleading illness, which was an absolute fact. I knew, in my roiling gut, that things would come to a head there. Lisa would demand satisfaction, and I saw no option but to comply. She'd see to it that I was fired and blackballed. I'd never find another job in the area. With Lisa's rumored elliptical connections, I might not find work anywhere, ever.

Sarah was plainly distraught and made no attempt to disguise it. She'd made it clear since Thanksgiving how much she was looking forward to the lavish formal event. She'd spent too much money on a stunningly gorgeous dress, which displayed her tall, lush beauty in exactly the way I'd never been able to resist. She was angry and on the verge of tears.

I couldn't stand it. Disappointing her in any way had never been something I could tolerate. Again voicing my silent prayer, I gave into her wish. Despite my terror and dread, I told her I was feeling a little better. Her joy warmed the chill in my heart. She made me promise to let her know if it got worse. We could leave whenever I wanted.

I thought at first everything was going to be fine. My raw nerves were soothed by fine champagne. Lisa ignored my presence, even chatted briefly with Sarah at one point, as if I was invisible at her side. They made a striking pair. Sarah, over six feet tall in her four inch heels, with her shining dark hair curled teasingly toward her pale cleavage, was perfectly complimented by the shorter but more voluptuous tanned blonde goddess who'd been so relentlessly tormenting me. They were, beyond all doubt, the two most beautiful women in attendance.

But, two hours later, the splendid night suddenly went entirely wrong. The numerous glasses of wine I'd consumed had my bladder filled past mere discomfort. Every bathroom on the lower floor was occupied. I rushed upstairs, into the master bath, and straight into Lisa's trap. When I exited the toilet via the master bedroom, she was waiting. Clad only in a black with red lace trim garter belt, hose and heels, she was nonchalantly smoking a cigarette, leaning against the hall door.

She minced no words. "Fuck me, here and now, or don't bother coming to the office Monday. Your desk's empty. The Board has already been notified you've been terminated. Unless I intervene, you're history, Paul."

My first thought was absurd. Lisa Strang wasn't a natural blonde. Her pubic hair, trimmed into a neat patch that left her thick vaginal lips bare, was sandy brown. My second thought was only slightly less bizarre. She was not only more beautiful nude than she was clothed, but she was also tremendously excited. The dark nipples crowning her solid breasts were long and firm. On her equally dark lower lips, moisture gleamed in the lamp light. My penis reacted, despite my horror.

She stalked toward me. "And don't even consider running. Even if you can live without working, what would that spectacular wife of yours think if I called her and tearfully confessed we'd been having a torrid, kinky affair? She didn't impress me as being a woman who'd be very tolerant of her husband fucking around behind her back."

I was paralyzed. I had no recourse. She read it on my face. With an expression of victorious lust distorting her scarlet lips, she took my slack hand and led me to the massive brass bed. "Make me happy, Paul, and this won't be repeated. I'll leave you alone, pretend this never happened. Who knows? If you're good to me, I might even see to it you get that promotion you've been passed over for."

"Why?" I stammered in a bare whisper. "Why me?"

She sat on the side of the bed. "Shut up and lick my cunt. You like to eat pussy, don't you? I bet you face-fuck your hot bitch of a wife all the time. Show me how good you are and maybe I won't make you put your little prick in it. Maybe I won't send you home with my cunt juice smeared anywhere but on your sexy little face."

I felt an unreasonable rush of relief. She was right. I adored oral sex. Sarah had taught me how to please her thoroughly with my tongue, send her spiraling into wave upon wave of bliss. Maybe I'd be able to end this nightmare quickly, without even having to take my clothes off.

I can't pretend to have not enjoyed my enforced task. Her lubricants flowed copiously, tasted much more pungent than my wife's. She ceaselessly hissed, growled and cursed instructions. Her near hairlessness was exciting, her passion boundless.

My hope to escape quickly was reinforced by Lisa's quick, thrashing orgasm. But once wasn't enough. "More," she hissed, her fingers knotted in my hair, her hips riding up and down my wet face. "Do it again, motherfucker. Keep me cumming until I tell you to stop."

And that's how I was discovered some minutes later. Fully clad, on my knees between Lisa's wide-flung thighs. I heard the door open, tried to withdraw, but the bitch locked her ankles around my neck, releasing me at the instant the most damage could be done. The look of shocked outrage distorting Sarah's beautiful face will live with me the rest of my days.

When the cab swerved recklessly into the drive and I saw our car still there, I almost wished it hadn't been. My knees were weak with unmitigated fear as I paid off the driver. The only thing that compelled me inside was that I'd long ago realized that life without Sarah wasn't worth living. I had to find some way to make her forgive me.

The ensuing scene was even more horrible than I'd envisioned. Sarah had clothes strewn all over the bedroom, her suitcases half packed. She screamed shrill curses at me through her tears. I endured them and begged shamelessly for her to allow me to explain. She viciously vented her rage, slapped my face, so recently coated with another woman's fluids, with all her strength. I was staggered, but stood before her, pleading for forgiveness. After the worst hour of my life, she calmed somewhat, but her lowered volume and more rational voice were so colored by hatred that I almost preferred more violence.

Finally, she demanded an explanation. I delivered it in the most favorable, truthful way possible. To my astonishment, she actually listened. Her expression bore no compassion, no respect, but it was evident that she seemed to believe at least part of my desperate words.

She was on the living room sofa. I was standing in the middle of the room. Her silent glare shriveled my soul.

"If what you're telling me is true, all it means is that you're a spineless, gutless bastard. If you'd told me when this started, I'd have been angry beyond words - but nothing like I am now. You really screwed up, Paul. I'll never be able to trust you again. You killed that forever."

"Please," I begged piteously, tears flowing in rivers down my face. "Please give me another chance. I love you. I swear to God, it'll never happen again. I did everything wrong. I know that. But I can't live without you, Sarah. I can't!"

She shook her head with deep sorrow. "I don't think there's any way I can forgive you. I love you, too. Or I used to, anyway. But . . ."

"Please try. I'll do anything. I swear to God."

Her look softened. "You really mean that, don't you?"

"Yes! I've never meant anything more."

Her heavy silence and bottomless sadness were worse than her rage. She looked exhausted. "I can't imagine ever getting over this, Paul."

"But you'll try? You'll think about it?"

She sighed. "Yes. I'll sleep on it."

I spent the night in the first floor guest room. Despite being totally drained by the ordeal, I didn't sleep. I wondered if Sarah did, either. Light flooded the back yard all night from the room upstairs, and I was sure I heard her moving around overhead now and then, as if she was pacing. Or finishing packing her clothes.

By dawn, I was too restless to stay in bed. I tiptoed around the house, terrified of awakening her. I washed the dinner dishes with agonizing slowness, lest I clank plates together. I picked up the living room, feeling haggard and brittle. Every minute was an hour, every hour a day.

Just after noon, I heard her dragging something to the head of the stairs. My heart broke when I saw her placing suitcases beside the railing. My tears, never far away, began to flow freely again. Her gaze was steel hard and ice cold as she came down. I dropped my eyes, waited for the decision that had seal my fate.

"You said lots of things last night," she reminded me icily. "Did you mean them?"

"Every word," I whispered.

"You vowed you'd do anything humanly possible to earn my trust. Do you still feel that way?" She was expressionless.

I felt a wild surge of unreasonable hope. "Yes. Absolutely anything."

She nodded. "We'll see about that." Her eyes raked the house. "You've been cleaning house."

"Did I bother you?" I asked urgently. "I was trying to be quiet. I -"

"From now on, you'll do all the housework. Cooking, laundry - everything. Understood?"

"Yes. Whatever you say."

"Then start by moving those suitcases into the guest room and putting them away. That's your bedroom now."

She turned on her heel. "But make me breakfast first."

It was a day of pure hell. Sarah treated me like a servant, not a husband. In my state of exhaustion, I was increasingly clumsy and slow, despite my relief at not being expelled from the house. This was a test, and I wasn't doing well. At every blunder, she cursed me cruelly. She never used strong language except in the most distressing circumstances.

Finally, when I dropped our wedding picture and broke the glass while dusting the mantel, she shrieked at me. "You fucking clumsy asshole! Look what you've done!"

I broke down in helpless tears. "I'm sorry. I -"

"No more goddamned excuses! Look at yourself, whining and crying like a goddamned girl!"

"I'm just tired," I sobbed. "Please. I couldn't sleep. I -"

"I'm sick of it! Stop! Act like a man! Stop crying this instant, or I'll start treating you like the dickless wonder you are, you fucking wimp!"

Somehow, with vast effort, I was able to get myself under minimal control. I sniffed back my near hysteria. I felt as brittle as the gleaming shards littering the hearth. I knelt down, tried to pick up the pieces with wildly shaking, fatigue numbed hands. I heard her moving toward me, cringed slightly when she stopped inches from my hand, her loafers crunching glass into the stone.

Her voice was mocking, the way she'd been the night before at her most vicious. "You're pathetic. You didn't even fuck that slut last night. You just licked her pussy. You were probably so scared of the cunt that your scrawny little cock wasn't even hard. You like eating pussy better than fucking anyway. At least you're good for something. I can barely feel that pencil prick when it's in me anyway."

Her words shredded my heart. They stabbed me in the most vulnerable part of my overwrought psyche. They tapped my most secret fears. I was inadequate in bed. I was, at best, mediocre in everything I did. I didn't deserve Sarah's love or respect.

She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew me so well, better than anyone else on the planet. She'd heard my fears, in tender, loving times. She was turning my deepest confidences, ones she'd soothed before, as weapons. Every one of her brutal accusations held just enough truth to wound me in the worst possible way.

"Why are you doing this to me?" I whimpered, the dam I'd built against my hysterical tears irreparably destroyed. I was instantly bawling like an infant. "Why?"

Her scorn tore at me. "That does it, you whining little fag! I warned you! You're disgusting. You don't deserve to be called a man. Take off those goddamned jeans!"

I was helpless to do more than quiver and cry.

She lifted a foot, pushed me over onto my side. "Move, damn it! Get your queer ass to your room and strip!"

"No!" I wailed. "Don't -"

Her voice fell from a scream to a whisper. Intensity dripped from every word. "Do every last thing I tell you to do, cunt licker, or get the hell out of my house."

She gave me the space of three heartbeats for her ultimatum to register. She kicked me. "Well? What will it be?"

My response was to stagger to my new room. Still sobbing, but as quietly as I could manage, I started taking off my clothes. Her gaze at my pale, slim body was clinical. "Fill the bathtub. Make it as hot as you can stand it. I'll be back." She gave my shriveled penis, hidden by both my hands, a look of pure disdain.

I couldn't make myself stop crying. Never strong, I'd never felt so weak. Never self-confident, my disgust for myself equaled hers. Her accusations resonated in my mind. Her threat filled my soul.

It took her forever to return. I was turning pink from the scalding water, and still crying softly, lost in a despair the likes of which I'd never known. She carried a brown paper bag. From it she extracted a vial of bubble bath which she unceremoniously poured into the water.

A horrid awareness bloomed in me. She was wielding the most lethal of all the weapons I'd given her.

We sometimes traded sexual fantasies. As she'd tenderly sucked my cock (my little cock, I wept) I'd once confessed how I used to dream about dressing like a girl. I'd masturbate into my sister's underwear and pretend I was her. Since then, she'd mentioned it once in a while as we made love. She'd rolled me onto the bottom, ridden me, described how great I'd look in a sexy dress and high heels. How, with a long blonde wig and false breasts, all the men would stare at me, never suspecting I was really a male. The images made us both wild, inspired some of my most intense orgasms. We never actually did it. I was far too afraid to even consider it. Sarah understood and, I thought, respected my anxiety.

Now, she was bent on turning my deepest dreams and fears against me. She saw the comprehension dawn in my eyes. There was a flicker of compassion that vanished nearly as quickly as it'd come.

As she laid out the rest of her supplies, she frigidly spelled out her demands. "I don't want to find a single hair anywhere on your wimpy body below the eyebrows, and get rid of those ugly sideburns, too. Use the lotion and body powder before you put on the girdle. You've got twenty minutes. Believe me, you don't want to be late."

I was numb. Precious time passed as I lay limply in the cooling water. I had to make a decision, and my mind refused to function. I could either dry off, dress, and leave the house, or do as she demanded. I could either say farewell to Sarah forever, or endure the rest of the agonies she was certain to inflict on me. It came down to a matter of what I feared more. I picked up the razor.

Oddly, having made my choice, my hysteria passed. About all that was left inside me was a sad determination. I'd comply with her ultimatum. I'd fulfill her every demand. I was absolutely committed to re-winning the trust my cowardice had destroyed.

As I nicked my legs and underarms, I calmly saw the peculiar justice of my situation. Sarah was right. I hadn't acted like a man the night before - or ever, for that matter. I shaved the object of her derision bare, exposed my shame to my eyes. I felt nauseous. I couldn't satisfy her as man should please his wife. In a warped way, I was getting exactly what I deserved.

I was ten minutes late. Thoroughness seemed more important than timeliness. I imagined she'd find excuses to punish me, no matter what I did. I was resigned to my fate. I hadn't been able to look at myself in the mirror, but I had a pretty good idea what she saw when I finally came out. A slim, pale, hairless body, five feet five inches tall, one hundred and twenty pounds. My maleness was tucked flat between my legs, hidden beneath the heavy black elastic girdle that covered me from groin to sternum, uncomfortably compressing my waist.

She was waiting. She glanced meaningfully at the bedside clock. I bowed my head.

She relaxed into her chair, let me stand there in increasing emotional and physical discomfort. The air was chill against my denuded legs, making me feel every whisper of draft. My raw under arms burned. I'd been psychically shaven, even more thoroughly than I had physically. I'd never been more nude, more vulnerable, more helpless. The silence became oppressive. When she finally ended it, I felt almost grateful, despite the impact of her words.

"Here's what you lost by dallying in the tub like a lazy cunt. I was going to let you do the rest of your work in jeans and a sweatshirt. Now, you'll have to do it in that." She nodded slightly toward another paper bag in the middle of the bed. My bed, I reminded myself.

"Don't just stand there," she barked. "Get your ass dressed, bitch!"

She watched my humiliation as I emptied the contents and stared in shock at the items on the bed. I was going to have to wear her sheer pantyhose, low black heels, a dark skirt, a black bra no doubt stuffed with the extra pairs of hose she'd included, and a white blouse. The numbness came back.

"Please," I heard myself beg. "No."

"I won't force you. I can't. But you know the alternative."

Yes. I knew. I clumsily donned it all, again threatened by tears.

She laughed at my distress. "Paula, you look unbelievably cute. Are your new clothes comfortable?"

"Not really," I whispered.

"You'll get used to them. Now get your sweet ass busy. There's a list of things to be done on the kitchen table. They'd better be done - and done right - by the time I get back."

"You're going out?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but yes. I have things to do. Very important things a dickless bitch like you wouldn't understand."

With that, she abandoned me to my sorrow and tasks. The list wasn't terribly long. At the top were instructions to re-pack all the clothing I'd just loaded into my closet and dresser. A parenthetical note was ominous. I was going to have to earn my male apparel with my obedience. The implication was clear. She was going to keep me dressed in female garb until she was satisfied with my behavior.

As I neatly folded away my now off-limits clothing, a background layer of dark excitement built within me. With no one to hide from, I indulged it. As I bent and straightened, the skirt rode up and down my silky thighs. As I walked to and from the closet and bureau, the somewhat loose heels made my calves tight, arched my back slightly, forced me to walk with a definite sway. As I looked down into the suitcases I was loading, I had to peer past the swell of breasts. My tucked back penis thrilled, filled, pressed insistently against the unrelenting confinement of the heavy girdle. I began paying more attention to the plethora of new sensations than I did to my work.

When I realized how stimulated I was, that I was responding to my debasement as if it was one of the most highly erotic experiences of my life, I was mortified back to tears. I was enjoying myself immensely. I was relishing the soft rush of femininity flowing through me.

My self pity dissolved before the wrath of a more powerful emotion - soul flaying self-disgust. I raked myself with relentless accusations more vicious than my wife had used. I was perfectly unmanly. Paula. That's what Sarah had called me. It fit. I didn't deserve the name of a man. I didn't deserve the clothes I was packing. I'd denied the ugly truth too long. I belonged exactly as she had me - in skirts and panties. Pretending to be male was a crime against real maleness, against nature. Sarah wasn't being an emasculating bitch - how could she castrate what wasn't there to begin with? What little masculinity I'd lay claim to had been sheer sham, pure posturing. My life had been a lie. Only a pervert would be so thrilled by such utter debasement. No true man could be as excited as I was by what was happening to me.

I was crying again. I was throwing socks and underwear into a suitcase, sobbing wildly. I'd virtually been in tears for eighteen hours. Like a girl, not a mature twenty-three year old male. On my next trip to the bureau, I brutally compelled my blurry eyes to raise and stare into the mirror.

From the neck down I looked like a woman. I had all the right curves, all the right swells. I was sleek and slim, pale and soft. My slender arms didn't bulge with muscles. My hose clad knees weren't overly bony. Only from the neck up was there any vestige of manliness, and that was remote, vague. I'd been deemed handsome by my few lovers, but never in a macho way. My features were too soft, too androgynous for that. It was a sensitive face with wide blue eyes, now reddened by unending tears. My mouth - called sensuous by Sarah and others - now trembled weakly. Only my sandy hair, cut short, truly bespoke my gender.

I couldn't bear it. I looked away. My illicit excitement was dead. My self-hatred evaporated. Nothing replaced them. I was empty, void. I mechanically returned to what I'd been doing, thinking nothing, feeling nothing.

The laden suitcases seemed vastly more heavy than they had mere hours before. I could barely lift what I'd easily carried down the stairs. I lined them up near the bedroom door. Feeling as if I was moving through molasses, I fetched the vacuum cleaner and swept the living and dining room floors. I took solace from the familiar task. The normally abrasive noise of the vacuum was strangely reassuring, despite the way the heels altered my balance and compelled me to move in an all new way.

Little by little, as I dealt with the tasks on my list, the dark pleasure flowed back into the void that I was. It was sensual this time more than sexual. My groin was filled with warmth, not hardness. Sly butterflies danced through me, quickening my constricted breath. I refused to think. In thought, there was only pain. In sensation, however, there was a secret delight.

Only when I heard the garage door open did it abandon me. Instantly, I was swallowed by a shame still deeper than what had come before. I'd been enjoying myself. I'd been happy. When Sarah came through the door and speared me with expressionless eyes, I was certain that she could see through me, knew everything I'd been experiencing. A faint, mocking smile curved her lips as she let her gaze slowly travel from my head to my heels.

"Well? Are you finished?"

"I still have to empty the dishwasher. There's one more load of laundry to dry."

"Not bad. Not good enough, but not as incompetent as I expected. Bring in everything from the trunk of the car."

I assumed I was going to find bags of groceries. The instant the lid came up, I realized how wrong I'd been. I was shocked into immobility. The plastic bags and flat cardboard boxes were from various shops in the mall she favored. Boutiques. Shoe stores. Not for an instant did I believe I'd be carrying them up to the master bedroom. Their home would be in the now empty closet and dresser in my room.

Sick dread warred with perverse anticipation as I forced my hands to gather Sarah's purchases. The cold winter air licked up my legs, the click of my shoes on the cement floor echoed in my ears as I carried my burden inside.

Sarah pointed to my bedroom door.

She followed, sat in the chair and watched as I silently opened each package. The only instruction she gave was to lay everything out neatly on the comforter. There were seven pairs of silky bikini panties in an array of colors, three brassieres with frilly garters to match, several sets of nylons and pantyhose, a pair each of red and black four inch heels, three blouses and skirts, shorter than what I was currently wearing, and a full length corset with laces up the back.

I couldn't raise my eyes. "Should I . . . put them away?"

"Aren't you going to thank me, dear?"

I cringed from her tone. It was an order, not a question. "Thank you."

"Don't you want to try them on? Aren't you excited? Aren't you eager to model all your lovely new clothes for me, Paula?"

"No. Please don't make me -"

"Make you! Don't be so damned tedious. I'm not making you do anything at all. There's no gun at your head. I've given you options. It's your decision. Your bags are already packed. You don't have to say a word. The front door's not locked."

What little resistance there was left flowed from me like my tears had. I felt myself sag, shrink from within. "All right. I'll do it."

"Do what, Paula?"

"Try them on."

"Model them, you mean? Show me how pretty you can be?"

"Yes."

"You're sure that's what you want? To be my sissy little cockless bitch?"

"Yes."

"That's a good girl. Isn't this fun? Which outfit are you going to show me first?"

I don't remember many specifics of what followed. I don't know how long the entire process took. There was light in the western sky when we began, utter darkness before we'd finished. All the way through the ordeal, she prompted me with questions, urged me to feel free to ask for her help with the corset, seek her opinion as to what looked best, beg her guidance on how to affix hose to the garters.

I was far past being merely exhausted. I'd gotten no sleep the night before, and precious little all week. Some of my reaction must have had its source in sleep deprivation. The entire scene was dreamlike, surreal. I was giddy, staggering with fatigue, weak enough to confess that, indeed, I was enjoying myself.

I do recall what I was wearing at the end, when she urged me to fetch her cloth measuring tape and take note of my dimensions. Beneath a white blouse and black skirt was the corset, cinched so incredibly tight that my waist measured a mere twenty inches, and my bust thirty-five. Black hose were clipped to the undergarment's elastic straps, and the seams were straight. The tall, gleaming black heels felt almost comfortable.

"Lovely, Paula. Simply lovely, don't you agree?"

"Yes, but the skirt's too short."

"Very sexy, darling. You have wonderful legs."

"Thank you. But they're nothing like yours."

I remember that her mockery had vanished somewhere along the line. Her laughter at my flattery was sincere. "You're being so sweet. I've got a wonderful surprise for you. I wanted to save it for another time, but I think you've earned it. Trot out to the car and bring me the big box in the back seat. Oh, what the hell. You may as well bring everything else while you're at it."

There were two more plastic bags in addition to the round box. Why deny it? I couldn't wait to see what else she'd bought for me.

"Close your eyes," she teased.

With them shut, I felt dizzy, drunk. I was weaving atop the tall heels. I heard the lid come off the large box, the rustle of packing. She fit something tight over my scalp. It had to be a wig. My eyes leapt open, but she was prepared. Her hands blocked my sight.

"Ah, ah," she whispered into my ear, her first truly tender words in twenty-four hours. "No peeking."

She moved it around, tucking my own hair beneath it. A brush tugged through it. I had to fight to keep my balance. Finally, she led me blindly to my room, positioned me before the bureau mirror. "All right, darling. You can look now."

I was stunned. A young blonde woman stood before me, her honey colored hair cascading over her shoulders, curling just above the swell of her breasts. She was lovely. Truly lovely. I must have spoken those words aloud.

"Oh, darling, you haven't seen anything yet. Just wait until you see what tomorrow brings."

She gathered me into her arms, held me lightly, leaned down to brush my lips with hers. I couldn't wait for morning to arrive.

Penance

Chapter 2

by Tristmegistis

I slept like the dead. If the dire need to urinate hadn't dragged me awake, I might have slept all day Sunday.

What I awoke to, however, was my body still bound into the black corset, minimally covered by a scarlet teddy. My instantaneous shame was negated by the desperate need to void my bladder. I rushed awkwardly to the bathroom, past the wig on its form atop the dresser.

The corset proved impossible for me to deal with. I couldn't reach the tight knot, and probably couldn't have released it anyway. Groaning in pain, I went in search of my wife. Heedless of the potentially horrid consequences of awakening her, I hoarsely called her name. The only sound was the furnace blower whirring to life. I wasted precious seconds scrambling up the stairs, only to find her bed unmade and empty. Belatedly, I remembered the religious fervor with which she

stuck to her Sunday aerobics schedule. The clock read two p.m. She wouldn't be home until three-thirty, at the soonest.

I was mad with the need for release. I knew it'd be physically impossible to hold my urine much longer. I frantically sought solutions. I paused with scissors poised. If I cut the no doubt expensive corset off, how would she punish me? Drastically. I couldn't bear that. Better to piss all over myself.

And that was the most viable option I seemed to have. Sobbing with agony and shame, I did it in the shower stall with the water spraying down upon me. The flood of warm relief as the hot fluid shot from my constricted penis toward my anus was nearly orgasmic. It was embarrassing, but I prided myself on my wit as I cleansed myself as well as possible with soap and shampoo, decided that lotion would ease my irritated legs and underarms, then turned my imagination toward drying the wet corset.

Sarah's blow drier was the best solution I could come up with. After no more than a couple of minutes, that technique proved itself unviable. I resigned myself to air drying and wondered how to spend the time until my wife returned. I was sure the best way to please her was to continue yesterday's maid role. It hadn't occurred to me before that instant that getting dressed meant completing my feminine attire. I felt my deep blush. That wasn't an altogether unpleasant thought.

I belabored it, though. I wanted my appearance to make her happy, but wasn't certain how to achieve that goal. The silky emerald blouse with the black skirt? The wig? Which shoes? Too much was as liable to irritate her as too little. I decided on a middle of the road approach and laid out the clothes she'd given me first. The corset was still quite damp, though, and I was afraid to ruin the skirt and blouse. So I waited.

The itching began about ten minutes after the shower. Like damp socks irritate wet feet, so did the chafing of the drying corset rack my torso. It built into a wide spread, maddening, unscratchable itch that made me groan as piteously as my need to urinate had. To distract myself, I tearfully continued dusting everything I'd not done the day before, tidied Sarah's bedroom, then my own. The damp torture abated very slowly. I vowed never to make that blunder again.

I judged myself dry enough to wear clothes, though the discomfort continued. My embarrassment returned with the clothing. I felt ridiculous. I tried to ignore the quiet thrill that filled me as I remembered Sarah's affectionate farewell the night before, and her promise of more pleasure to come. Racked by tremendously mixed emotions, I anxiously awaited her homecoming.

When I saw her turn in the drive, I frantically wondered where I should be when she came in. I decided on the kitchen sink, where she'd instantly see my diligence. Doubts assailed me as my heart hammered.

Her crooked greeting smile did nothing to allay them. Nor did her dry words. "Couldn't wait to get pretty, Paula? I'm surprised you didn't play with my makeup."

"I, uh, didn't know what you'd want. I thought -"

"Why you silly, brainless little twit," she laughed, shaking her head. "Are you that desperate to please me?"

"I have to," I stammered. "After what I did to you, to us, I'll do-"

"- Anything. I know. You've repeated yourself more than enough. Well, I suppose we'd better lay out the ground rules, then, hadn't we. Be a doll and make us some coffee. Give me five minutes. Serve us in your room."

She had a plan. Her tense voice made that much clear. I heard her go upstairs, then come down and enter my room just as I was placing two of the china cups she preferred on a tray. My heart in my throat, I timidly followed.

She was in the chair I'd already begun thinking of as hers. Beside her was another of the innocuous brown paper bags I'd quickly come to dread. I couldn't prevent the faint trembling that translated itself to the pewter salver. Her smile as she accepted her cup said she'd noted my nerves.

"Sit on the bed, darling. Try to relax." She sipped and studied a sheet of notebook paper in her lap. I had no desire for coffee, but drank it anyway. I wondered whether I should try to be lady like, or if she'd mock me for it. I kept my knees together, my gestures as neutral as I could manage.

Her smile held false brightness. "Ready, Paula?"

I nodded stiffly.

"First things first. You have to phone that Strang slut."

I went rigid all over. "Why?"

"To talk her out of firing you, you idiot."

I spoke through knotted jaws. "How should I . . . I mean, what if she -"

"- Still wants to fuck you?" she laughed derisively.

I nodded.

"Wouldn't that make a pretty picture, Paula? Imagine what it'd be like to go to her apartment and take off your coat and show her your sexy little skirt and blouse, your pretty bra and garters and hose. Lift your hem and hold your hairless little dick out and show her how limp and useless it is. Think that had change her mind about wanting to fuck you? Unless the bitch really is a dyke, of course. Maybe you'd turn her on."

I dropped my eyes to my coffee. There was no way to respond to her cruelty. "What if I can't talk sense into her?"

"You have to. Promise her anything short of sex. Find a way, Paula. I'm not going to support you financially." Her tone was flat, ominous. She pointed to the bedside phone. "Do it."

Debasing myself before my wife was one thing. Doing it for Lisa Strang was another. Her malevolence on the phone made Sarah's mockery pale to insignificance.

"How did your wife react?" she demanded.

"We're working it out," I insisted, quailing before Sarah's silent laughter.

Lisa chuckled throatily. "I'm sure you are. Well, perhaps we can work something out, too."

I hurried quoted Sarah. "Anything but sex."

"I really don't believe you're in any position to negotiate, dear. But I'll think about it. Maybe we can reach a compromise of sorts. Report to my office at ten-thirty Monday morning."

I swallowed a dry knot in my throat and cradled the phone.

"There," Sarah said lightly, "that wasn't so bad, was it?"

I sagged. "At least it's done."

"Now for the rest. Since you can't very well wear your lovely new clothes to the office, you'll have to hang your suits, shirts and ties in my closet. You'll need shoes and socks, too, I suppose. Nothing else."

She paused, waited for me to ask the obvious question, then went casually on when I kept my peace. "You'll wear them only to work. Always - always, understand? - you'll wear a bra, panties and hose under them, unless I tell you otherwise. Got it?"

"Yes."

"The instant you get home, you'll change into something more appropriate for who and what you are. Beginning right now, I never want to see you without your wig. You'll always be clean and neatly groomed. No nasty stubble. Anywhere." She paused at my unhappy expression. "Something wrong, Paula?"

"No." My lowered eyes touched the paper bag, jerked away.

She made it rustle with her foot. "Curious about your next surprise?"

I nodded meekly. Curious wasn't exactly the right word.

She tipped it with her toe. With the clink of glass on metal, a tube of lipstick rolled onto the carpet. She chortled maliciously as she watched me blanch. "Put on your wig, Paula. It's time to work on some new skills. You have a lot to learn."

The hollowness I felt as I settled the blonde hair over my head was the same mixture of dread and excitement that had been with me all day. I had to use the mirror. Already, I barely recognized myself. Would wearing makeup make me vanish entirely? What would happen to me? Who'd be left in my body? Who was Paula?

Consumed by the ripping attraction/repulsion, I reflexively tried to delay the inevitable. The coffee had filled my bladder again. "I need to use the toilet," I blurted.

"Are you asking for permission? Do I need to toilet train my baby girl, too?"

"No. I just need help with the corset."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you saying you've gone all day without pissing?" She'd often teased me about my urgent need to urinate every morning.

She forced a full, detailed confession from me before untying the knot between my shoulder blades. "Christ! You pissed all over yourself? You need to be potty trained."

She laughed at my humiliation so long and hard it brought tears to her eyes. It negated the pleasure of drawing my first full breath since the night before. I had to hold the garment up to prevent baring my torso. A flash from the mirror told me what a feminine gesture that was. Her reborn laughter rang in my ears as I woodenly headed for the bathroom, not wanting her to see me cry.

"Don't you dare stand up to pee," she choked out around a fresh burst of mirth.

Exposing myself, even privately, with the door closed, was a nightmare. I had to peel the corset away, stretch it low enough to expose my center. The skin on my chest, back and abdomen was hideously wrinkled from the after effects of the shower. My scrotum was shrunken into my body. I couldn't bear the sight of my denuded penis. Being ordered to sit turned out to be as much blessing as degradation. After positioning it between closed white thighs, I didn't have to touch it.

My privacy was short lived. I hadn't locked the door, and Sarah entered just as I'd completed my business and started wondering how long I could delay returning. Her face no longer bore any trace of amusement.

"Take that filthy thing the rest of the way off and launder it. You're never to do anything so grotesque again, or I'll make you sleep in diapers and have you wear them to work instead of your pretty lingerie."

I hesitated.

"Do it!" she barked.

I tugged the garment the rest of the way down my smooth legs. It was all I could manage to keep my sobs silent.

"Jesus, you're sickening. Look at yourself."

Her tone of voice indicated it wasn't a rhetorical demand. She was right. I looked disgusting. She pointed imperiously to the bedroom. With the stiff black fabric dangling from one hand, I shuffled past her, head hung.

"I really wanted this to be a special day," she said from behind me, her disappointment sounding real. "I hoped we could have even more fun than we did last night, but you ruined any chance of that."

"What was I supposed to do?" I choked out petulantly.

Her false sweetness was even worse than her tirade. "How about stretching the fucking leg hole and finding your tiny prick and using the toilet like a real human being?"

The obviousness of her solution stunned me, deepened my shame to yet another level. She threw the taller black heels at my feet, tossed the red teddy I'd slept into toward the bed. "That's your uniform for the day. Nothing else until I'm sure your not going to fill your clothes with shit and piss. Start the washing machine and then fix me a light lunch. From now on you're on a diet, you flabby little bitch."

It was much worse, seeing my body through the wispy, transparent night wear. Spaghetti straps left my shoulders bare, gaped over my smooth flat chest. The hem was right at groin level. There was no illusion of femininity to take even a small measure of solace in. I was a hairless male in a wig and high heels.

She had me scrub the kitchen floor. Not mop, but stay on my hands and knees and scrub. She mocked my naked ass, my dangling testicles.

I was required to take the cosmetics from the sack on the floor and array them on the top of my dresser, beside the empty Styrofoam wig stand. It was horrible. Foundation, blusher, mascara, eye shadow, lipstick, perfumes, skin creams and makeup removers all had to be arranged to suit Sarah.

As the hideous afternoon became evening, I began to seriously wonder, for the first time, if leaving her wasn't a much better option. How long could I endure this sort of treatment before it drove me insane? Was I already mad for having willingly undergone this much? I felt brittle, ready to shatter into shards, like the glass of the wedding photo had. I was treading the perilous edge of an invisible, vast chasm.

As night fell, Sarah's mood softened. "Make us a drink, darling."

I brought her a bourbon and soda. She patted the sofa beside her. I sat dutifully, stiffly, gripped the stem of my wine glass. I jerked uncontrollably as she touched my left thigh.

"It's been a horrible day for you, hasn't it?"

I nodded, felt the tickle of the wig on my shoulders. Her sudden compassion made me want to cry again. I bit the impulse back.

"Would you feel better wearing more clothes?"

Again my head bobbed. Her fingers were lightly scraping my leg, slowly drifting higher.

"Do you think I'm being too cruel? Do you think I'm asking too much? Do you feel the punishment for your betrayal is unfair?"

I hesitated, hypnotized by the sight of her tender hand so high on my leg. Without hair to impede the caress, her fingers were awaking incredible sensations. I kept my thighs pressed together, felt the stirring flesh hidden between them. "I . . . I'm not sure. I guess I deserve it."

Her soft breath stirred my long hair, tickled my ear. "It won't always be so hard, darling. I promise. Would you like to put on something pretty? Maybe that nice white skirt and blouse?"

"Okay." Her fingers were drifting along the crevice between my legs.

Her whisper was becoming more throaty. "You were so beautiful last night. So desirable. Do you know how excited I was? How hard it was for me to keep my hands off you?"

I couldn't speak. I shook my head slightly. My penis, which I'd surreptitiously tucked between my legs, was stretching downward, growing toward my rectum.

"It made you feel good, too, didn't it? You were happy, weren't you?"

Why deny it? I nodded again. I fought the need to open my legs, I was ashamed of my erection. She despised it. I refused to hazard her mockery. I wanted more of this glorious sensuousness.

She turned toward me. Her free hand swept the hair away from my ear. Her breast pressed warmly, softly against my left arm. She leaned forward, kissed my ear, teasingly probed it with her wet tongue. I shivered, sighed.

"I'm going upstairs to freshen up, my love. Why don't you do the same? Don't bother putting on too many clothes, but make yourself as sexy for me as I'm going to be for you. I want you, Paula. I want you so much."

Her hand turned my head to face her. Her mouth found mine. She pressed me into the sofa with the urgency of her kiss. One hand pushed my legs apart, found my rigid penis, gently stroked it with none of the revulsion I'd been so afraid of. The other tweaked and rolled my nipples. I closed my eyes, wrapped my arms around her neck, eagerly opened my lips to her probing tongue.

She tore herself away with a groan of frustration, her eyes danced all over me, wide with desire. "Wait for me in your bed, darling. I won't be long."

I lay there for a moment, gasping, watching her climb the stairs. She wanted me. She loved me. Seeing me as a female excited her. I got to my feet, feeling slightly dizzy. Heedless of my costume for the first time all day, I hurried to my room.

Pretty. Sexy. Not too many clothes. Red panties, to disguise and restrain my minuscule masculinity. The red garters and hose I suddenly recalled her staring at with such admiration the night before.

The heels, for the shape they gave my legs. Standing before the mirror, I brushed my blonde hair. No trace of humiliation or doubt colored my need. I wanted, with every fiber of my being, to be beautiful for her. Desirability and femininity fused. I saw myself in an all new way. My hands strayed from the mirror, roved over the makeup. I wished I knew how to use it. Now was no time to experiment. But a spray of musky perfume felt appropriate.

I drifted almost lazily to the bed. I was glowing within. I kept my thighs close together as I moved, thrilled by the slight friction between my thighs and my tucked back penis. I floated onto the bed. My body seemed to know how to best display itself. I visualized the spray of my cornsilk hair against the blue comforter. I lay slightly facing the door, my silky left knee raised over my right thigh. I wanted to see her the instant she appeared. I was breathless with expectancy.

She didn't make me wait long. My anticipation was still building as I heard the unmistakable click of high heels descending the stairs. My heart was in my throat as I listened to her unhurried approach. I failed to stifle a gasp when she came into view.

She'd chosen the fantasy outfit I'd shyly given her for her birthday two years before. She'd worn it only twice. Both times had involved some of our most phenomenal sexual experiences. The garb seemed to unleash her, destroy every inhibition, make her totally unpredictable. Each time she wore it, she added something of her own to my original gift. First had come black mesh hose and an unbelievable pair of stiletto sandals which forced her to walk virtually on tip toes. I marveled, with my new awkward experience in mere four-inch heels, at her erotic, catlike grace.

The second supplement had been fingerless gloves and long, talon-like artificial red nails, adding to her predatory sensuousness.

This night, to the original form-fitting leather minidress, she'd contributed something else entirely unexpected. Her lavish, ferally made up eyes, and the slash of deep red lipstick combined to transform her into a nearly spectral vision of raw carnality. Her slow walk was a bestial stalk. I quailed with wondrous excitement as she drew near. I was willing, eager prey. Her deeply shadowed eyes devoured me, immense lashes waving like black flags. She slowed her approach even more.

"So fucking sexy," she purred through lips that seemed wet with blood, her raw gaze almost tangible as it raked my body. "You make my cunt drip, Paula. Can you smell it? Look how my nipples are trying to rip through the leather. I'm going to fuck you raw."

The crude language now filled me with a crazed lust, not fear. I let my arms rise, held them out to her. It was an entirely spontaneous feminine gesture. "Yes," I whimpered. "Take me. Fuck me."

She sat beside me, pushed my arms down. "Not yet. I want to fuck you with my eyes first." Her claw touched my cheeks. She inhaled deeply. "Perfume. Fuck me red heels. Tight little panties." Her nails slid down my throat, onto my chest. "You want to be a hot little slut for me, don't you darling? Do you want to be my fuck toy tonight?"

"Yes," I moaned, my hips rolling flat onto the bed. I made fists of my hands to stop them from touching her.

She caressed my nipples again through the lace of the nightgown. The light rubbing was agonizingly exciting. "You're staring at my face. Do you like my makeup?"

I arched slightly into her hand. "Yes. It's perfect. Oh, Sarah,

you're driving me crazy."

"Would you like to taste my lipstick, Paula? Would you like me to smear it all over your slutty little mouth?"

I thrust my chest harder into her hand. My nipples were rock hard, just like hers. My mouth opened in anticipation. She made no move toward me.

"Or would you prefer to wear your own? Would you like me to make you up, baby? Would you like to fuck your nasty wife while I paint your face for you?"

"Yes. Oh, yes."

Those incredible scarlet lips parted in a lusty smile. Her hand trailed down my belly, making my stomach muscles ripple. My eyes followed. I'd unconsciously dug my heels into the mattress. My sleek red knees were in the air, my starkly white thighs, crossed only by garters, were elevated, parted. Her hand caressed my lacy panties, dipped between my legs. I nearly fainted with the intensity of the sensation as her long fingers traced the shape of my tucked down erection. When she removed her hand and rose, I gasped, thrashed my head on the pillow.

She slithered across the room to my dresser, gathered what she needed. My heart was going berserk in my chest. I was twisting on the bed, desperate for touch. She'd ignited an unquenchable fire within me. I was out of control. "Hurry. Please hurry," I moaned.

"Such a shameless little cunt," Sarah murmured approvingly, standing over me like a dark angel of lust. She lifted the leg nearest the bed. The leather skirt creaked sensuously as it rose. She wore no panties beneath it. Her furry vagina pouted in the shadows between her sleek, muscular legs as she straddled my writhing body, settled heavily on my stomach. "Now lay still, darling. There's no hurry. We've got the rest of our lives."

So began the final stage of my transformation into Paula. The details are very fuzzy in my mind. My focus was on sensation. The rich, distinct aromas of foundation and powder. The tickle and tug and weight of mascara drying on my lashes. The sight of Sarah's heaving, outlined breasts. The moist sounds of my fingers gliding in and out of her freely flowing vagina.

There are, however, moments which stand out in my memory with lurid clarity. She paused once, stiffened, groaned throatily, and shuddered through an orgasm. I remember staring up at her through my own long black lashes, entranced by her uncanny beauty, the way she gave in so totally to her body's ecstatic dance. Her vaginal walls were contorting upon three of my fingers. A soft, warm pride filled me. I'd given her that precious gift. My knowing, agile fingers had made her cum.

She was staring down at me with hooded eyes. Her voice was a relaxed growl. "Hot. So fucking hot, baby." She gently disengaged my hand from her core. "Suck them, Paula. Lick my cum. Paint your sexy lips with my cunt juice."

It was as if I'd never tasted her thick fluids. I carefully traced the shape of my mouth with her musk. I felt as if I was using it for lipstick, causing my lips to shine. They bore no color at that point. Our eyes were locked.

"Suck them, darling. Fuck your mouth for me."

My lashes fluttered. My slick lips wrapped around my fingers, one by one, as I ran them in and out of my hollowed, painted cheeks. She seemed rapt as she gazed at my display. Her breath suddenly became irregular again. Her firm breasts pressed hard against the slick black leather skin. She bent forward, leaned to her right, bringing those succulent orbs so close they filled two thirds of my vision. The other third was my own flat chest. Not only did I want to take these marvels between my lips, suck and lick and bite them in all the ways she adored - but I wanted them for my own. My pebble hard nipples ached as I willed them to grow even larger. I wished for my tight, smooth, pale flesh to swell into soft, succulent mounds like hers.

As she straightened, lifting her breasts to heights I couldn't reach, I quietly sobbed my frustration. Sarah didn't understand. She assumed I was eager for my own orgasm, yet her words soothed me exactly in precisely the right way. "Patience, love. You'll get yours, too."

I saw then what she'd been reaching for. It was another gift, this one from last Christmas, and one she'd asked for. I'd watched her use the ten inch long, extremely realistic dildo numerous times. She enjoyed masturbating for me, but had never combined that delirious event with the leather minidress.

Her heavily made up eyes claimed mine. In one hand she held the flashlight sized false penis, in the other a gold tube of lipstick. Lightly, she ran the large cylinder over her cheeks, her engorged breasts, then lower still. "Help me," she whispered. "Hold my pussy open for me."

Hypnotized, I willingly complied. Her flesh was hot and slick, her public hair matted and soft. She positioned her artificial lover, slowly eased it in. It brushed past my trembling fingers as it vanished into her depths. She bounced reflexively. Her moan was half shriek. She slowly fucked herself with the large rod, her erotically painted face a mask of unleashed rapture.

I waited for her to escalate the speed and power of her thrusts. She confused me by panting, settling herself, compelling her body to relax. The knobbed end of the tool dug into my belly. She used my body to keep it within her pulsing cavern. Her eyes were all over me, as if I was as vital to her lasciviousness as the dildo. To my dismay, she removed the long shaft from her clutching orifice. She performed the act with tantalizing slowness. Her gleaming red nails were wrapped lovingly around it. She raised it to her waiting mouth. Her tongue crept out, tasted the musky secretions much as I had moments before. Rounding her brilliant scarlet lips, she slowly sucked it in, moaning with satisfaction. It penetrated her so deeply I was astonished. Her joy was written upon her face. She withdrew it with tantalizing leisure. Her tongue moved over her lips as her hands brought the object which had been thrust into two of her openings toward my face.

"Look, darling. It's so beautiful with my lipstick on it, shining with wetness. Put it back in me. Fuck me with it. Make me cum so hard I scream. But be slow. I have to finish your face." She held out the lipstick, uncapped it as I took the dildo from her and aimed it at its goal.

It entered her at the same moment the brilliant, creamy red wax met my lips. My mouth was parted, as eager as her pouting vagina. She crooned wordlessly, with dual satisfaction, as I filled her and she completed me. My hips were thrusting as if it was my much smaller erection pushing into her. A burst of sweetness accompanied the amazingly slick glide of color over my quaking mouth. The bewildering sensation was almost too intense to bear. I nearly filled my panties with cum, had to consciously fight back the surge threatening to blissfully overwhelm me.

Specific events again became fuzzy for quite some time. She spoke. I remember watching her lips shape throaty, encouraging words. I dimly recall my own shrieks and cries mixed with her own.

My next concrete vision is of her wild orgasm. Her knife-like crimson talons were savagely pinching my nipples. Her unrestrained howl was directed at the ceiling. Tendons stood out in her long throat. She was rigid, bouncing without rhythm upon my body and the dildo. Her secretions had seeped past her vaginal lips, oozed and dripped onto my red teddy. At its peak, her climax rendered her nearly unconscious. Her scream fell silent. She wove woozily atop me. Her fingers relaxed their pincer-like grip and pressed down heavily upon my heaving chest, keeping her from toppling to either side.

Without warning, she collapsed upon me like a deflated balloon. Her weight was limp. Her leather skinned breasts covered my face. She gasped hoarsely, her sex still pulsing wildly upon the dildo. As if she was fighting an immense battle, she feebly, then with more strength, pushed herself erect. Rather than her usual relaxed, sated glow, her face wore an expression of yet deeper lust.

"Take it out," she choked out rawly. "Lick it like you did your fingers. Taste what you did to me, Paula."

Without thinking, I did it. I repeated the gestures she'd demonstrated an eon before. It didn't occur to me that I was sucking a false penis until she lifted a weak hand and pushed it deeper between my stretched lips. I felt only momentary disgust for what I was doing. One of her hands had snaked behind her, found my long neglected little organ. Hard as steel, it barely filled her questing palm.

"Suck it, baby. Do like I did. Fuck it with your sexy face. God, you're beautiful. Shit, you're making me cum again, you nasty little slut. Wrap those hot red lips around it and suck cum out of it."

I'll never know whether her pumping hand, her words, or my sucking lips caused it, but I experienced an orgasm that seemed to explode simultaneously from every cell in my body. As I tried to scream around the dildo, her free hand found its base, and she pushed. The long slick shaft slipped into my throat. I gagged, choked, and seemed to somehow cum even harder.

She didn't keep it buried in me for more than a handful of seconds before withdrawing it entirely. She held it between us, then took it back between her own lips for a moment before casting it aside.

Finally, she kissed me. Our lipsticks blended. Our tongues intertwined for what seemed an eternity. She slowly drew back. Her softly spoken words resonated in my newly opened soul. "I love you, Paula. I wish tonight never had to end."

Penance

Chapter 3

by Tristmegistis

"Do you want to see, baby doll?" Sarah purred.

I hesitated, then nodded shyly. It was perhaps an hour after my mind twisting orgasm. Time was an uncertain thing that night. She'd left me long enough to bring me a warm wash cloth and fresh panties. I'd felt happily infantile as she'd cleaned my soiled groin and changed me. We'd cuddled, whispering and petting one another for a long while. She'd let me unzip the top of the leather dress and fondle her succulent breasts, then offered one to my lips. I'd nursed upon her, childlike, with closed eyes, unviolated by thought or shame, until passion again stirred both of us.

"Look," she'd said throatily, propping herself on an elbow, removing the teat from my mouth, cradling its heavy beauty tenderly in her hand.

I'd been surprised by the lipstick on her proud, dark aureole. Mine. It wasn't that I'd forgotten. Oh, no - far from it. I'd just not physically seen evidence of my state to that point. It'd been personal, something I experienced from within.

"Lovely, isn't it?" she murmured throatily, caressing her soft flesh.

I nodded rapturous agreement.

"But it's not half as lovely as you are." With her eyes filled with love, she rolled to the side of the bed, lowered her legs to the floor. Studying me, she tucked her breasts back between the zipper lips of her dress, patted her lap. "Come here."

I sat on her lap. Murmuring tender endearments, she turned me just so, patted and smoothed fresh powder and color upon my face. Then, her words. "Go ahead. Look at yourself, lover."

I did want to see, but I was also afraid that the mirror would shatter the fragile spell I was under. I couldn't possibly be as beautiful as I felt. I didn't want to have to witness that, endure the stark reality of my disillusionment. Like Sarah, I didn't want this splendid dream to ever end.

As if she understood, she enfolded me in her arms and walked me through the hall door and toward the long mirror at its end. Mercifully, the light was off. She halted our sensuous march. We were a single intertwined shadow in the weak back light cast from my open door. She was pressed to my back, rubbing her leather shielded breasts over my teddy. Her voice was a soothing tickle in my ear. Her hands slid around me, cupped my own nonexistent tits.

"Do it, Paula. Turn the light on."

Trembling, I reached for the switch.

I blinked. Before me stood a young blonde woman I'd have stared at if I passed her on the sidewalk. Her glistening scarlet lips hung open in innocent shock. Her seductive, long lashed eyes peered straight into mine. Sarah's hands, rolling my burning nipples, made it seem this haunting beauty had real breasts. Her lacy, brief fetish wear halted teasingly just below her smooth, half seen groin.

"Gorgeous. So fucking sexy," my wife whispered. "I adore you, Paula. I've never been so deeply in love with you as I am at this moment."

I leaned back into her embrace, watched the vision's lashes flutter, reveal then hide her rust and silver lids. This woman's hips pressed against Sarah's. Her back arched, pushing her nipples harder into the twisting talons pinching them.

I was in love, too. With my wife, of course - but also with the luscious young vixen posing so coyly in the mirror. The crush of fresh, dizzying desire building in me was for both of them. I watched, enthralled, as passion clearly escalated, washed over the slender beauty's face. She was beginning to pant, her wet lips parted invitingly. Her slim hips rhythmically rubbed against those of her taller, more voluptuous companion. Words trickled from her perfect mouth.

"Oh, Sarah. Please. Fuck me again. I'm so hot. Please take me to bed and make me feel like I did before."

Her chuckle was deep. Her even redder lips sucked an earlobe between them. She bit, first playfully, then harder. The blonde vixen - me! - displayed her pain, but ground her ass even harder into her lover and gave vent to more words.

"Yes," I hissed, wishing I could kiss those succulent, drawn back lips. "Oh, God yes. Hurt me, honey. Bite me."

"You shameless little slut," she answered. "Fuck me with those nasty lips. Grind your nose against my clit and tongue fuck me. Suck my juice down that cunty throat. Drink my cum, baby doll. Right here so you can see. Right now."

I was more than happy to comply.

The alarm shrieked me to something like wakefulness far too soon. My first groggy awareness was of my nipples. They felt abraded, raw. The gentle friction of the teddy sliding over them made me hiss and sit up. The dark splendors of the night before stung me like a vicious slap in the face. It seemed encapsulated by the frozen image that leapt into my mind. On my silky red knees in the hall, my high heels splayed. Sarah's curved crimson claws turning my face toward the mirror. My mouth agape with lust, my lipstick smeared, mixed inextricably with her pussy juice. One of my hands still between her legs, cupping her ass. The other flat against my own groin, rubbing frantically, as she urged me to fill my second pair of lacy panties with my sticky seed.

A shameful glow filled me as I hurried from bed to bathroom to relieve myself. I could have urinated standing up. Sarah wasn't there to enforce her command. But I didn't want to. I averted my eyes from my penis as my bladder drained. My undies and hose were draped over the shower stall. Under Sarah's loving supervision, I'd rinsed them out after removing my makeup.

An uncomfortable thought sprang to mind. Work. Even worse was knowing I had to face Lisa at ten-thirty. Under my gray slacks I'd be wearing matching dark garter belt, hose and panties. Beneath my suit coat, blue shirt and tie would be a black bra. I'd be freshly shaven, soothed by lotion from head to toe.

I closed my eyes, swallowed my fear. Best not to think of that. I was pressed for time. I had to perform my toilet, dress in my lingerie and wig and make breakfast. The male covering would go on only at the last moment. One thing at a time, I told myself.

My shame blended with soft excitement as I hurried through the shower and shave. The touch of my hands as I smoothed cool skin cream over my sleek body was thrilling. I bit my lower lip, remembered how that action had tasted the night before. Lipstick had been sweet candy. I shook my head, tried to dispel the warm haze inspired by memories, but the swish of the wig on my shoulders served to heighten my mood. It was going to be a grueling day. I tried to save what little energy I had to face the grim realities the office would bring.

Sarah's wide, approving smile as she entered the kitchen made me pose with shy pride for her. My blush warmed my cheeks, flushed my smooth chest. Her embrace and greeting kiss banished every thought and fear. I simpered, relished the slight pinch of the black heels as I served her food. I couldn't help it. I loved everything about this. I had no regrets. With her support, I could face whatever traumas Lisa Strang threw at me.

She helped me change back into Paul. The numbness of the days before returned as the male clothing hid every trace of the physical evidence of my penance.

"Why the long face, darling?"

I swallowed a lump in my throat, shook my head in general negation.

Her smile held a stinging trace of mockery. "It's only for eight hours, Paula. And every time you take a deep breath, you'll feel your pretty bra. Every time you cross those sexy legs, you'll feel your hose. And the instant you get home, I want you to get out of those ugly things and make yourself beautiful for me. You can even play with your makeup if you want."

Her words both aroused me and filled me with shame.

She read me perfectly. "Come here, baby doll. I've got something for you."

My polished black oxfords felt like lead weights on my feet as I walked to her chair. She took my limp right hand into hers, pushed a ring onto my third finger. It was her mother's, a slightly flawed, large emerald. There was no disguising its blatant femininity. I noted, with hollowness, that her long, sharp nails were gone. She sucked my finger between her full, strangely pale lips. Only the sweep of her black mane and the desire in her eyes were the same as last night.

"I'll have some surprises for you after work, my love," she murmured between kisses to my hand. "And if that slut is too hard on you, you can call me at work over lunch." Her eyes speared me. "You'll be fine. Trust yourself." Her grin turned impish. "Just don't suck the bitch's cunt. That sexy mouth is for nobody but me."

I laughed with her. I felt stronger, more capable of dealing with whatever came up. The feeling lasted, enhanced by the illicitness of the secrets I wore under my drab covering, until exactly ten twenty-eight a.m. My surface courage died as I stood before Lisa's secretary's desk, waiting for admittance into what suddenly seemed an executioner's chamber. The receptionist was someone I didn't recognize. The name plate on her desk looked new, read Cathy. She seemed as distraught as I was. Her boss was even more merciless on her immediate subordinates than she was the populace at large. Dread filled me.

She kept me waiting for ten agonizing minutes. When the buzz finally came and the sad woman behind the desk nodded me inside, I nervously twisted the emerald, as if it could give me strength.

I couldn't prevent myself from marveling at her beauty as I approached her desk like a fly deliberately entering a spider's web. The rumor was that she'd been a fashion model in her college years and had turned down a promising career to immerse herself in the corporate world. Her hair shone like spun gold, framed her sensual features, made them seem soft and inviting. Her rich red lips shaped a smile which held no hint of her predatory essence. Her suit jacket was open. Her voluptuous chest filled her cream colored silk blouse. Her wide green eyes seemed sincerely pleased to see me. But the way they touched my body made me cringe, as if she could see through my defensive covering, knew every detail of the thrilling shame that lay beneath.

"Well," she said as she completed her scan, "how was your weekend?"

I guessed she wanted to know how Sarah and I had resolved the issue of my infidelity. I shrugged noncommitally, shifted my weight from one foot to the other, wished I wasn't so aware of the hose under my slacks. She turned in her chair, stretched for the cigarettes and crystal ashtray on a teak table beside her desk. Her movement gave me a flash of deep, tanned cleavage. I recalled her lineless tan. Not one other soul smoked in the building. She did so with luxuriant impunity. She toyed with the bright stain her lips left on the filter and frowned slightly as she exhaled through her nose. Even that would have been a beautiful expression had I not known her.

Her eyes speared me. "What do you think, Paul? Should I punish you or reward you?"

"I have no opinion, Ms. Strang." My knees were weak. I tried to be strong, as Sarah had told me to.

"After what we did together Friday night, don't you think you should call me Lisa?"

My voice was quavering. "I did what I did under duress. I don't think -"

"Can the bullshit, Paul. You were so fucking turned on you were ready to cream in your slacks. Nobody eats pussy with that much enthusiasm 'under duress.' You were surprisingly good, by the way. Admit that you enjoyed it, too, and maybe we can put it behind us and get on with business."

I had no idea what to say, so I dropped my gaze to the floor and remained silent. I heard her chair squeak slightly and glanced up.

"Should I interpret that as a denial, lover? Well, if that's the way you want it, I guess we have to play some more." She was repositioning herself on the edge of her desk, lazily raising her skirt while she drew on her tobacco.

"I always wear garters and hose, Paul. You like that, don't you? I took my panties off just before you got here. My cunt was staining them. Thinking about your tongue did that to me. Look, Paul. See how wet I am? I think I'm going to have to finger fuck myself, since your wife won't let you help me."

She was true to her every word. With her hem at her waist, her core was nude, framed by the artistic slash of her blue garters, the nearly colorless gleam of her hose. Her carefully manicured nail rolled the peculiarly long, fat clit topping her slit. I vividly recalled how it had felt between my lips. I had no idea what Sarah would want me to do. Memory of Lisa's pungent taste, so different from my wife's, was alive on my tongue. If I turned and ran, I'd earn her wrath. If I endured, maybe the nightmare would end. Maybe.

She was spreading fluid from her vagina to her fingers, using two to masturbate her clitoris, almost like a man would. Her eyes danced upon me as her hips rolled on the mahogany desk and her heels waved off the floor.

"Is it good for you, Paul? It is for me. I'm going to have a fantastic cum soon. I love how you're fucking me with your eyes. Is your little cock hard? Don't you wish it was where my fingers are? I do. You make me so fucking hot. I love small cocks. I wish you'd let me suck it while you suck me. I'd sit on your face and lean down and take it between my lips and kiss it and get it good and wet and slide it all the way down my throat so I could suck your little balls, too. My cunt would be gushing all over that sweet face . . ."

She was having trouble speaking. Her cigarette was smoldering in the ashtray, forgotten. She rolled gracefully onto her back, planted her heels on the polished desk top. Three fingers of one hand were plunging into her molten gash. With the other hand, she'd opened the top of her blouse and lifted her massive, unnaturally erect right breast free of the silky blue bra, was massaging its pleading dark nipple. Silicone, I thought numbly. No woman's breasts could be that perfect. And her beautiful emerald eyes were wide, fixed on me, pinning me in place like an insect in a collector's box. The musk of her secretions filled the air. The wet noises evoked by her hand, her lingering moans, were the only sounds.

Mercifully, her orgasm was quick to arrive. And violent. And loud. She arched off the desk and froze, posed obscenely for a long instant, then thrashed madly on her fingers for a full sixty seconds. Spent, she collapsed, gasping, never once looking away from me other than to blink as her satiation came.

She waved weakly toward her cigarettes. Her voice was dreamy, but imperious. "Umm. Fantastic. Bring me a smoke, lover. I don't think I can move."

I stood there, inert, watching her lick cum from her fingers like a cat grooming. Her vagina remained open, visibly pulsed every few seconds.

"I've been very patient with you, Paul. The least you can do is give me some indication you'd really like to keep your job." Her tone was mild, a lover's purr, but her words had sharp edges.

I shuffled woodenly toward the small table, lifted her cigarettes and the heavy silver table lighter and held them out toward her.

She was staring at me from between her legs, lightly stroking her nipples with a fashionably long red nail. Not nearly as long as Sarah's glue-on talons the night before. "Light it for me, baby. At least let me see you suck something."

I did, with obvious distaste. I managed to avoid contact with her hand as she lifted it from my fingers. I shuffled toward the door.

"Did I give you permission to leave?" Still that seductive purr, but with more energy.

I halted, turned. She pushed herself up, lowered her feet from the desk, but made no move to cover herself. Languidly, she leaned back and opened a desk drawer.

"I'll expect you back here tomorrow at the same time, Paul. No. Make that ten, not ten-thirty. I want more time with you." Her hand emerged from the desk with a lipstick and compact. It was a relief to have her unflinching gaze leave me and focus on the small round mirror. She fluffed her hair back into place. "We'll keep having fun like this for a while. At least until you confess how much you'd like to fuck me." She studied herself critically before redoing her lips. Her scarlet smile was teasing. "Then, who knows? Maybe after your promotion, we can play in *your* office."

She waved dismissively. Stiffly, I exited. The receptionist's stare was open-jawed. She'd heard Lisa's long howl. She believed I'd just fucked the Ice Queen. Word was certain to spread all over the building in mere minutes.

The mirrored tile beside the elevator reflected a slightly distorted version of a small, very pale man in shock. He was twisting a woman's ring around his finger as he waited for the arrival of the express car that had take him back to the lower realms.

The rumor mill would grind. Would I be slapped on the back and winked at by all the studs who'd tried and been cruelly rejected? Would they feel the shoulder straps of my black bra beneath my shirt and jacket? Or would they turn against me, put my job in even greater peril? And what about Sarah's reaction?

I don't remember the path I took getting back to my cubicle. I stared numbly at the telephone. Call her if it was too bad, she'd said. I numbly punched out her number.

The rest of the day was unmitigated hell. Sarah had gone into a quiet rage on the phone at my bare-bones story. With so many people around, I couldn't visibly react, but I quailed on the inside. She was going to punish me tonight, but at least she hadn't threatened to throw me out. My co-workers simultaneously shunned me and went out of their way to stare. I was too shy to have ever been popular, but I'd achieved a comfortable invisibility. That was gone. I was the center of unwelcome, nearly hostile attention. I heard enough of the snide whispers to catch the general drift; I was too incompetent to make it on my own, so I'd become the VP of Marketing's boy toy.

I wallowed in self pity. None of this was my fault. I was just a spineless wimp in the wrong place at the wrong time. Lisa was victimizing me, ruining not only what passed for my career, but my marriage as well. Sarah should have given me clearer instructions that morning, helped me deal with my tormentor. Still, I couldn't fault her anger at my lurid failure. I deserved whatever she did to me. But there was nothing I could have done to prevent what happened.

I hid in a rest room over the lunch break. I was so highly aware of my underclothing that I felt like I was wearing it outside my suit. I assaulted myself with recriminations. Lisa had been right. I'd been excited Friday when I ate her. I'd enjoyed it. I'd been ready to cum in my panties as I watched her make love to herself on her desk, too. I'd had to make fists of my hands to keep them away from my throbbing little prick. I'd salivated like her vagina was a feast I was forced to witness but not taste. I was so sick, so twisted, that being denied the chance to participate other than vicariously had just made it better for me.

I was a perverted thing who'd had the best orgasm of my life while swallowing a dildo. I willingly, eagerly wore women's clothes my wife bought for me, even to work. I adored the way I looked with my face fully made up. I'd rush home immediately after work, change the rest of the way into Paula, and await, with a mix of fear and excitement, whatever tortures my betrayed wife wished to inflict upon me.

The afternoon was a complete waste of time. I couldn't perform the simplest task without errors. But no one reprimanded me. I received evil glares from my supervisor, but nothing more dire. I was inviolate, protected by a higher power.

I'd seen it happen more than once in the past, but always to women. Some saucy, ambitious bitch with more looks than talent would flirt her way into the graces of someone higher up the perilous ladder. She'd use her body to get what she wanted. Some were very blatant about it, some more subtle. The less intelligent ones would spread their legs for anyone with influence, while the smarter ones were much more selective about who they fucked.

Both sorts of corporate whores moved upward through the floors, plying their trade with a succession of VIP's. A very few actually managed to translate their meteoric rise into something lasting. Some married into success. Some blackmailed their way into a title they managed to hang on to. Most were used, then discarded for someone more attractive or younger or better in bed.

I was sickened. That's what I was now. A whore. I'd done almost everything Lisa had demanded of me. I'd satisfied her perversions, as well as fueling my own. Even if Sarah managed to come up with a way out of this trap, I'd satisfied the Ice Queen twice. Even if my wife expelled me from her life, I now had an option. By the time five o'clock finally arrived, I truly didn't care what happened to me. I found a bleak satisfaction in knowing that, one way or another, I'd be cared for, at least until Lisa tired of me.

At home, I forced myself to observe every aspect of my transformation into what I viewed as my just desserts. I was merciless. I peeled away my outer disguise with a brutal slowness, exposing my lingerie, my shame. I was sweaty. That had never do. I stripped for the mirror, took a quick shower. Impulsively, I donned my wig and stood before the unlying glass with my maleness exposed. It was hairless, ugly, shriveled and useless, clung to my groin more like a swollen boil than a sex organ. There would be a cruel satisfaction in flattening it between my legs, making it vanish.

I watched myself wiggle into the heavy elastic girdle and roll fresh red hose up my legs, clipping them to the dangling straps of my tight restraint. I stepped into the red high heels, admired my ass and legs. My chest was male. Everything else was female. I found small satisfaction in that. I pinched my still sore nipples until they stood out like they had the night before. I shrugged into the bra, packed the cups with folded pantyhose. The red dress completed me, except for makeup. After a few moments of scathing self-derision, I turned my attention to remedying that last flaw.

I scraped my face raw with the razor before picking up the clumsy tools Sarah had used with such ease. I was a whore. It was only fitting that I paint myself like one, as best as I could. My need far exceeded my skill. Grimly, I did my best. My lips dripped with raw color. My lashes sagged under clumped mascara. My uneven eyeliner, too-heavy eye shadow and blotchy foundation made me look cheap and sloppy. That, too, was appropriate. I wasn't a woman and didn't deserve to look like one. There was nail enamel amongst my things. I decided to use it. With silky legs crossed in Sarah's chair, I set about my first manicure. I botched it horribly, but that didn't matter any more than anything else did.

That's the way she found me. I heard her come through the front door but made no move to greet her. She marched straight to my room, as I knew she would. Her cold stare was wordless as she surveyed the scene.

Her voice was a frigid as her face when she finally shattered the ominous silence. "Are you finished with that?"

I nodded, shrugged.

"Then make me a drink."

Careful of my sloppy, drying nails, I tapped along behind her into the living room. She lowered herself into an overstuffed chair, still betraying no emotion. "Are you drunk?"

I shook my head as I carried her bourbon and soda across the room. She took it from me, pointed to another chair. I sat, carefully crossing my legs.

"You look like a sleazy barroom hooker."

"I know."

She nodded coldly, as if she understood. I was certain that she did.

"Tell me what happened. Everything."

I confessed, without hesitation or reservation. I let it sound every bit as lurid as it'd been, but my voice remained as flat and dull as my shriveled penis. I didn't try to color anything in my favor. I explained how excited I'd been, even though I'd neither admitted nor done anything to Lisa. Even though my instincts said she already knew most of it, I told Sarah how I'd felt all afternoon, what had prompted me to look the way I did.

She was deathly silent throughout. Other than sipping her drink, she was motionless. After my voice trailed off, she let the hush build. Finally, she nodded, as if she'd reached some decision.

"I see. Rather than wait for me to punish you, you started without me. I have to admire your honesty and insight and initiative, Paula. I'm a little angry that you didn't call me when you got home and explain over the phone, but on the whole, I approve."

Her smile held no humor. "Don't look so disappointed, slut. I'm still going to punish you for being such a nasty, disloyal little bitch. I'm going to make you regret you have a cock that gets hard at the sight of that whore's cunt. But you've put me in a difficult spot, Paula. It's going to be difficult to separate punishment and reward, isn't it? The more I abuse you, the more you'll enjoy it. Be a good little girl and go start dinner. I need to think about where to go from here."

Describing my calm acceptance is impossible. I went through the mundane tasks of preparing a meal as if I was born with stubby red nails and a cascading blonde mane. This was normal. This was natural. Whatever Sarah demanded of me, I would do. That's the way whores are, even ones with tiny cocks hidden in their panties. Even one without appreciable tits.

She, too, seemed calm when I called her to dinner. Her re-telling of her day was a little preoccupied, but she was often that way. I toyed with my food, eating more from civility than hunger. Anticipation built within me. I saw something in my wife's eyes, something dark and satisfying. She stopped me when I began to collect the dishes.

"Leave it. Go bring me everything in the trunk of the car. Then get out of those clothes."

Trusting her to know what needed to be done, I obeyed.

Penance

Chapter 4

by Tristmegistis

I stepped into my room damp and nude, making no attempt to cover myself. Neatly arranged on the bed were my tight corset, black mesh hose, and a new pair of heels, as tall as the fantasy sandals Sarah had worn the night before. There were other new things, as well. A pair of latex breasts peered up at me with elongated nipples for eyes. A video cassette lay on top of a hard bound book. Nearby was a black purse. From its shape, I guessed it wasn't empty.

"I bought some of these things this morning before you called me. They were going to be the surprises I promised. I'd planned to give them to you one at a time, as you earned them. The rest I picked up this afternoon. I'll make arrangements for still more things as soon as possible.

"Bring me the corset. We'll have to buy you more. You'll be wearing them always, from now on. Sometimes, I may let you sleep naked in something pretty, but not very often. It'll help shape you like the slut you are."

She grunted with effort as she cinched me into the device. It was much tighter than before. I could barely draw even short, panting breaths. I remembered pissing all over myself the last time I wore it.

"Put your tits on. Until we can arrange something more permanent, you'll wear these everywhere except to work. That's it. Nice, don't you think? Not as nice as mine, or that Strang slut's, of course, but much better than folded pantyhose. As they warm up, they'll get softer. They should jiggle rather convincingly when you walk. You'll have to get used to their weight. I imagine they'll feel almost real. Now, strap the heels to your ankles and bring me your hand bag."

I was only slightly clumsy in the four inch variety, but an added inch and the new globes filling my corset cups made much more difference than I'd anticipated. I was mildly embarrassed by my awkwardness as I handed her the purse.

She opened it, displayed the contents item by item. "This is a special foundation made specifically for 'women' like yourself. It'll help conceal your ugly facial hair a little better. The video and book on the bed are for cross dressers. They'll help you learn to use all your cosmetics. No more of that sloppy work you wore earlier. Any more of that, and I'll start taking your pretty things away from you. I'll make certain everyone knows exactly what kind of pervert you are.

"These, of course, are your new fingernails. Take care of them. I don't need to tell you that I expect you to have them on at all times, do I? Oh, by the way - you'll *always* keep your toenails bright and pretty, too. Here's some bikini wax to use instead of that nasty razor. Read the box and follow the instructions. For a while, you'll still have to shave your face. But these will help with that problem."

She held out a packet of birth control pills. "Take one now, and one every morning with your vitamins. I'll do some research, find you something stronger, but these will start to soften your body and create real tits. Your body hair will grow more slowly, too. Who knows? Your puny cock might even shrink to something smaller yet. I think we should start calling it your clit, don't you?"

I nodded as she waited for me to answer. Her glance went to the package of tiny pills in my hand. I pressed one out. Feeling as if I was taking an irreversible step, as if this one dose of hormones would be enough to alter me forever, I put it between my lips and swallowed.

"Now finish getting dressed."

The black blouse was tighter over my fuller, heavier chest and the skirt seemed shorter due to the stiletto heels. I was very light headed, made giddy by my degradation. The corset was crushing the growth between my legs. My clitoris. I savored the word silently.

"Run upstairs, darling, and fetch the tweezers from my medicine cabinet."

I hesitated for a split second. Sarah used those tweezers for one purpose only. We traded knowing glances. I believe hers held more sorrow than mine.

The short trip was an epic voyage. Walking was an exciting new experience. She was right about the breast forms, but hadn't mentioned the psychological impact of the splendid masses bouncing with every mincing step. My ass rolled provocatively - there was no modest way to move in the shoes. When I was beyond her range of vision, I obeyed the wicked impulse to strut as enticingly as possible. I was a slut, inside and out, and reveling in it. I was impatient to get on with the process. I didn't dally with the tweezers.

She sat and offered guidance as I plucked my eyebrows. At first, the pain was enough to make my eyes water, but that barely deterred me. If she'd told me to, I'd have tweaked them into a high, thin arch, or pulled them all. What she wanted, however, was an almost disappointingly modest reshaping of my natural contours. Tomorrow at work, no one would notice the subtly cleaner lines.

"Now for the part I know you've been waiting for. I'll help, but you have to do it. Your makeup is even more important that your clothes. It'll be the deciding factor in how people view you, Paula. That alone will determine whether you're seen as a gorgeous young woman or a man trying to imitate what he can't have. You have to be able to pass, darling. I won't have you embarrassing me in public."

For the first time all evening, I was truly stunned. Those two simple words - "in public" - altered my perspective more than the realistic breasts had. The mirror showed me her sly amusement. She'd known the impact that realization would have. She'd waited for just the right moment to deliver her coup.

Like a carefully arranged pattern of dominoes rapidly clicking against one another as they fell, an understanding raced through me. This was no weekend fantasy spilled over into the rest of the week. This was no temporary punishment for my weak-willed transgressions. This was a metamorphosis. I'd never be able to turn back, any more than a butterfly could re-enter the cocoon and become a caterpillar again.

Despite the tornado like intensity of the emotions I'd been subjected to since Saturday, despite the reality of my humiliations and joys, a remote part of me had continued to believe this was a sex game which lasted longer than most. We would play it until its impact dulled, and then return to "normal." I'd have been suitably chastised for my weakness and wayward tongue. We'd snuggle and relive the awesome power of the enacted eroticism. It might even become a regular addition to our love making, repeated from time to time, with varying frequency.

I stared blindly into the stark face of reality. The birth control pills weren't merely symbolic. Female hormones were at that moment beginning to insinuate alien chemicals into my blood, altering my very endocrine system. Slow, insidious changes were transpiring on a cellular level. I imagined I could feel them. I had no idea of the true biology, but I guessed the changes wrought would be permanent. Once breasts began to grow, they'd remain, even if the hormones were stopped. Once my sex organs began to atrophy, they'd never rejuvenate.

The avalanche of significance buried me. It overwhelmed the triviality of the self-degradation I'd been seeking. The day's encounter with Lisa, which had been dominating my psyche, inspiring my every subsequent emotion and act, really wasn't of much significance. It was merely an isolated event, troubling or exciting, depending upon the point of view. Suddenly, my future loomed ahead of me - a life I'd never expected. I was poised at a crossroads the likes of which I'd never imagined. From this instant forth, until the day I died, I'd tread a path so radically divergent from my past that it might as well be a rebirth. I would be unrecognizable, even to long time friends. Virtually nothing would ever be the same.

I stared down at the array of cosmetics laid out before me. I glanced up, met my wife's intense gaze. "Where do I start, Sarah? What comes first?"

"No, goddamn it! You and I may both know you're a sleazy little slut at heart, but I'll be fucked if I'll let you act like one at the grocery store."

Her harshness stung me to the bone for the dozenth time. I was so immersed in my femininity that I was overdoing it. I knew I was still acting more like a parody than a woman, but I couldn't help myself. I was drunk on my infantile commitment to my radically altered lifestyle. I was intoxicated by the permanency of everything I was doing. Her incessant criticism had been going on for hours. It was after midnight. I was tired, starting to repeat blunders she'd already harshly chastised me for. Her patience was at an end, and I was back on the verge of hysteria.

"You simpering little fag! Get the fuck out of my sight! Go to bed! I've had enough of your shit!"

I dashed from the room, not wanting her to see my tears. Even more than that, I didn't want to ruin my makeup. I'd labored, under her scathing scrutiny, for over an hour to create it. I was beautiful, and anything that threatened my beauty felt like a threat to my very life. I grabbed for a tissue and hurried to the mirror, carefully blotting my heavenly eyes. I marveled at my long red nails, at my delicate brows, my pouting, glistening red lips.

I was in love. Not with Sarah, but with myself. I was infatuated with every aspect of Paula. That was why I was over-emphasizing my actions, playing with a falsetto voice, posing provocatively, obsessively touching up my makeup every five minutes. Didn't Sarah understand that? Couldn't she be a little more tolerant? I was behaving like a child because I was, in many respects, exactly that. It was late. I had to work tomorrow. I tingled at the thought of having to wear my corset under my drab male disguise. Paula, acting like Paul. It'd be more dangerous from now on. Under my suit would be an hour glass figure. Even without my fabulous breasts and the towering heels that made my ass so tight, I'd still be there. A simple pat on the back would reveal the fact that something was wrong. Any close scrutiny of my face might disclose the fact that my eyebrows had been deliberately shaped, or that there was a minuscule trace of mascara on my lashes or a faded remnant of red color in a corner of my mouth.

I dallied until exhaustion dulled my exuberance. I stripped my face of its lovingly applied color. Only after I'd gingerly stepped out of my blouse did I realize that I had a problem. I had to pee, and was again trapped in the close confines of the corset.

It turned out that Sarah's solution worked - but barely. The leg openings were amazingly tight. Fishing for my aching, doomed penis - clitoris, I mentally corrected myself breathlessly - was both embarrassing and painful. I had to force the urine from my bladder in a weak stream that left me sweaty.

I left my breasts in and my wig on. I wanted to awaken looking as feminine as I already was in my heart.

Sarah wore a sense of normalcy as comfortably as her old bathrobe, as if she'd been waking up for years to a female husband making breakfast in corset, stockings, heels, and light makeup. I consciously under-played my role, but was still quaking with dread. Her mood was warm and tender. With her first cup of coffee, she released the knots cinching me into my still welcome restraint, playfully swatted my butt and sent me off to my bath. My relief was immense. I set about my morning ablution with dedication.

Parting with my breasts and hair was as difficult as saying farewell to my makeup for eight hours. I felt like I was leaving vital organs laying neatly on my bureau. While my wife was fitting me tightly back into the corset, I summoned the nerve to mention my toilet difficulties. Sarah nodded thoughtfully and said she'd bear that in mind, then grinned mischievously and asked me if I wanted to go shopping with her that afternoon.

My heart felt like it stopped momentarily. I knew exactly what she meant. Horror and excitement waged unrelenting war within me. I barely recognized my meek voice. "I'm afraid I'd embarrass you."

Satisfied with my shape, she tied off the laces. Her smile became more predatory, but was teasing, too. "That would be terrible. Can you behave yourself?"

It was obvious that she wasn't going to order me to accompany her. She was going to force me decide my own fate. We both knew it was a crucial moment. Through a tight throat, I asked her what time she wanted me to be home. She pulled me onto her lap, kissed away the single tear trickling from each eye and asked me - asked me! - if I could be ready by three.

I wanted to tell her that I'd take the afternoon off, no matter what. I wanted to shout that the end of the world couldn't stop me. Instead, I found myself speaking demurely neutral words. "I have some personal days coming. This time of year's pretty slow, so three should be okay." With real fear, I went on. "Will you be too upset if I can't get off work?"

She stroked the pale band of bare flesh above my hose. "Probably not as upset as you'd be. Now go get dressed, darling. Call me if there's a problem."

It wasn't until I was knotting my tie that I thought about my other major dilemma - Lisa Strang. A distinct thrill pulsed through me. Having openly admitted my commitment to my perversion, I was free to fantasize. What twisted things would she present me with today? I shivered.

Sarah and I had more or less rationally discussed my options the evening before, after my change. Lisa was obviously relentlessly bent on continuing her sexual torment of me. Sarah was even more grimly determined that I was to remain her toy, and hers alone.

The bottom line was that I was to continue to be a whore. There would be no physical contact with the cunt, but I would have to endure the balance of her sexual torture. That had appeased her the day before. As long as my voyeurism was enough to keep her minimally satisfied, I was required to observe her and protect my job. After each meeting with her, my orders were to immediately phone Sarah and deliver a brief report. Every evening, I'd supply her with a complete version of the details.

My illicit under-garb made the morning even more exciting. I imagined I could taste the morning's birth control pill, feel it changing me from the inside out. I felt hollow when I thought about what the afternoon would bring. Sarah was taking me out. People would see me. It was sick, warped, wrong - and I couldn't wait. Whore, I called myself, relishing the word.

The stand-offish behavior of my co-workers inspired a sense of power. They were being carefully neutral toward me, as if they suddenly feared my disapproval. When I asked my supervisor about taking the afternoon off, he was resentfully helpful. What would happen if I complained to Lisa about him? Would she wield her power to benefit me? Was her abuse a one way path, or would she reward my partial compliance? How big a whore should I be?

By ten, my mouth was dry with apprehension, but not the overwhelming dread of the day before. I was prompt. Cathy, the receptionist, hazarded a weak, insincere smile as she cautiously notified her boss of my arrival. I wasn't kept on agonizing tenterhooks. More nervous than terrified, I entered the luxurious office.

The scene was different in several ways. Soft classical music welled from invisible speakers. My nemesis wasn't lurking insolently behind her desk. In fact, she was nowhere to be seen. I was a little off balance, unsure of what to do.

Her voice startled me. It emanated from beyond a nearly closed door that blended perfectly with the paneled wall. "Lock the door, darling. Have a seat. Over here. On the sofa."

I'd barely noticed the informal conversation area the day before. It was near her voice and the open door, which I assumed led to an executive washroom. I settled warily onto the creaking leather couch, crossing my legs at the knee, as Sarah demanded I always do, making me highly aware of my slick hose. The corset forced me to remain erect, reassured me.

A noise from the doorway made me turn my head. Again I was smitten by visions of the Christmas party, this time for real cause. The Lisa Strang leaning insolently against the door frame was nothing like the frigid corporate cut-throat who stalked the corridors, spreading fear in her wake. It took a leap of the imagination to recognize her as the vicious vice-president of Marketing, destined to be the first woman to sit with the Board of Directors. This woman more closely resembled an expensive call girl on her way to an assignation.

"You like?" her gleaming scarlet lips asked. She pushed herself out of the door, made a lurid show of the short walk to a wing backed chair. "This's the way I dress for my lovers, Paul. This's the real me. This is what you're missing, baby. Your silly morals are keeping you from the wildest fuck of your life."

She sat in the chair as if she was willing me to memorize every detail of her openly displayed body. The dress was unimaginably brief, tight, and as crimson as her lips and nails. It afforded an almost unobstructed view of her turgid, braless breasts. The way she leisurely crossed her legs was designed to afford me a lingering look at her exposed vagina. She sipped from her coffee mug, staring heatedly over the rim as if she was looking over the lip of a martini glass in some bar.

I couldn't help but marvel at the parallel between the way I'd clumsily tried to make myself look the afternoon before and the perfection of the way she achieved that tawdry goal. I coveted her professionally over painted eyes, the marvelous shape she'd imparted to her slick lips, the over-ripe swell of her engorged nipples. My clit throbbed, strained toward my ass. I refused to allow myself to squirm. I did my absolute best to not betray my reaction in any way. I must have failed.

Her smile was pure, unmitigated seduction. "You *do* like the real me. I knew you would. I knew you were my type of man months ago, Paul. A pretty, spineless wimp I can shape and mold. A scared pussy without will power I can turn into exactly what I need. You believe you can resist me. You still think you want your wife more than you do me. You're wrong, lover. So wrong. I always get what I want. Already, I own you. Your puny body isn't mine yet, to do with as I please - but your soul is. I see it in your sexy blue eyes."

She let her voice fade, gestured with her eyes toward her desk. "Be a good boy and bring me my tobacco. While you're there, bring me the wooden box on the desk."

Her hooded stare was straight at my groin as I stood. She didn't seem at all disturbed to discover flatness rather than a bulge. Her eyes tracked my ass across the room. Dressed as I was and with my stiffened clit contorted between my legs, it was difficult not to allow my hips to sway. I blushed harder, wondering what she'd think of that.

I held out the cigarettes. She looked bored and impatient. I lit it for her. She accepted it, lightly raking the back of my hand with her nails, and took the long, narrow box as well. She didn't speak until I was back in my seat.

"Why do you think I smoke?" She was staring at the dissipating plume between us.

"I have no idea."

She laughed, leaning forward and uncrossing her legs. "I do it because it's nasty, lover. It's slutty, if you do it right. Watch. I suck it like it's a cock. I hold my lover's pretty eyes. Inhale smoke like I'm swallowing his cum. Purse my lips like I'm kissing him. Then blow."

She matched actions to words. She was good. She made me believe she really meant it. Those wet, soft lips. My straining clit.

"You try it."

"I don't smoke."

"Are you saying 'no,' baby?" Beneath the velvet were razor blades.

"Yes."

"Too bad, Paul," she pouted. "We could have had a good time." She drew smoke, slithered to her feet and toward me in a single gesture that reminded me of my wife in her black leather dress. "We probably won't be seeing one another again, so have a good life. If that's still possible." Her fingertips lingered over my cheek as she moved past, on her way to the bathroom. "I'll have your things messengered to you."

There was a half beat's silence. "I'm fired," I blurted, "for refusing a cigarette!"

"No, darling. For refusing, period. Anything but sex. That was our deal."

I turned to face her. "Deal! I don't remember -"

She was right behind the chair. She ran both hands through my hair. "Well, don't forget again." She leaned closer, her lips parted, as if to kiss me. She held my face still when I tried to pull away. She stopped with her lips an inch from my eyes. They filled my vision. Red. Outlined in an even deeper crimson. Wet. Soft.

"Here's the bottom line, Paul," they murmured. "You do whatever I tell you to do, short of sticking that hard little cock and long hot tongue into me, or you're suddenly just another mediocre, unemployed, under-skilled statistic. On the other hand, if you become my, ah, personal assistant, you follow me to the top. Fuck. Call it what it is. You'll be my well paid slave. My pussy boy."

"That's impossible."

She insinuated herself onto my lap, still holding my face immobile, so near to a kiss. Her legs were bare, her vagina an inch from exposure. She radiated the heat of a furnace. "Is it? Really? I bet you'd do almost anything eight hours a day for forty thou a year, honey. And would it really be so terrible to have to be around me all the time?"

"Please. Stop."

"What's wrong? Is my pussy boy about ready to lose control? Does he want to rape my slutty mouth with his nasty tongue? What would your wife think? Are you going to tell her all about my proposition, darling?"

"Yes," I choked out. My hands were tight fists.

"Everything?"

"Everything."

She leaned back, her look of passion suddenly gone. "I see." Despite her clothes, makeup, and lewd exposure, she was once again all business. She stood, swayed to her cigarettes, bent forward to display her nude ass as she ignited the tobacco. My eyes were between her legs. I was having trouble breathing. I'd been unbelievably close to lurching forward to claim her succulent lips. So close to begging her to let me nurse from her gravity defying breasts, suck upon her pouting, aromatic pussy. I was horrified by my weakness. I was everything she said. Her power over me was complete. She could, indeed, have whatever she wanted.

Straightening, she threw a portable phone at me. I fumbled the catch, had to pick it up from the floor.

"Call her."

"Sarah?" I asked, astonished.

"That's her name, isn't it? Call her and give me the phone."

I misdialed and had to retry. I was both afraid and relieved. I prayed I'd done the right thing - was doing the right thing by phoning Sarah. I desperately needed to hear her voice. I frantically needed her strength.

"Honey?" My voice was shaking.

"Paula? Is that you?"

"Yes. I -"

"What's wrong, baby? You sound like you're crying."

"No. I'm okay. I'm in Ms. Strang's office. She, uh, wants to talk to you."

She hesitated. "That's interesting. Put her on."

My tormentor was again in her chair. I rose, gave her the phone. She handed me her coffee cup, then ignored me. "Sarah, this is Lisa Strang. Paul makes a pretty decent secretary, doesn't he?"

Lisa was listening intently to whatever my wife was saying. I was searching for the coffee maker. I remembered seeing one in the receptionist's area. I hated leaving the room, missing what was said. As I stepped from the office, I heard a throaty laugh.

Cathy leapt to attention, didn't relax when she saw it was me. I marched woodenly to the coffee machine. I tried to make my voice solid. "How does she take it?"

"Black with sweetener," the receptionist said stiffly.

"Thanks." I was shaking so hard I didn't even try to fill the cup to the brim. Cathy's seeming fear of me made me feel a little better. I hurried back, hoping to catch the drift of what was happening on the phone.

Lisa had moved to her desk, still had the phone to her ear,

was searching the flat mahogany expanse with a frown. "Get today's appointments from Cathy."

I turned. The woman had overheard, already had a sheet of paper in her trembling hand. She hazarded a weak smile I couldn't return.

Lisa's serious face was at odds with her slouched, obscene posture behind the desk. Her legs were spread. She was playing absentmindedly with her clit while she listened to whatever Sarah was saying. She held the phone in place with her chin, didn't stop her idle masturbation as she took the schedule from me.

"How's three sound? Uh, okay, five-thirty then. Right. I'll be sure to tell him." She clicked the off button, slid the device across the desk and stared at me without expression. "Bring me the wooden box, baby."

"Tell me what?" I asked defensively.

She ignored me. "I cut out the middle man, darling. I'm going to negotiate with the one who calls the shots. She's really quite brilliant. I'm afraid I underestimated her. This is going to be fun."

My head spun. I felt sick. "Negotiate?"

"For your services, doll." Her eyes traveled slowly up and down me as I came back to her desk. "She seemed, ah, receptive to discussion. She wanted me to tell you to be a good boy for now. 'Be cooperative,' were her exact instructions." She patted the desk. "Sit here. Open the box."

I felt foolish, perched on the edge of the polished wood. But that was nothing compared to what I felt when I lifted the lid and saw the long, fat dildo inside.

"Give it to me."

I held out the box. She grinned evilly, shook her head. "It's not a fucking snake. Pick it up. Hand it to me."

It was cold, slick, seemed to be made of ancient, yellowed ivory.

"I paid way too much for it, I suppose," she said casually, running the curved amber penis shape over her cheek. "The dealer claimed it's from India, maybe five hundred years old. I wonder how many women have fucked themselves with it in all that time?"

I tried not to stare. I tried to look out the window, but couldn't. Lisa lowered the sex toy, teased her parted, puffy vaginal lips, jerked reflexively. "Sometimes I like it really cold. I put it in the refrigerator for an hour before reaming my cunt with it. Sometimes I like it warm. I keep it between my tits until it's the perfect temperature. Next time you can warm it up for me." She eased the long rod in with a shuddering sigh, watched it stretch her lips as it disappeared.

"Ooh. Nice. Fetch our cigarettes, baby. Sarah thought you were being silly by not doing what I told you. I guess she liked the idea of seeing you sucking something with those sexy lips."

I had my first cigarette, sitting with my legs crossed on the edge of the desk while the Ice Queen brought herself to another loud orgasm before my wide eyes.

Penance

Chapter 5

by Tristmegistis

I called Sarah the instant I got back to my cubicle. Her noncommittal neutrality was only slightly better than rage would have been. I felt betrayed by her talk with Lisa. I was distraught by my overpowering reaction to the slatternly, raw sexuality I'd encountered. I was whining with the need for support. I got precious little.

"Don't panic, darling," she said coolly. "I know you did your best. You're just overmatched. She's a bigger slut that I thought. Did you do what she said?"

"Yes. It was horrible."

"Was it, love?" she half mocked. "Look, I've got a ton of things to do. I'll see you at three."

I'd forgotten about the shopping expedition. I no longer felt the morning's sleazy excitement. My entire life was sliding, slipping, changing at a pace too fast to comprehend. I was being sexually manipulated by two powerful women who were going to meet that evening to determine my fate. I had no voice in what was to happen. I began to question my wife's love for me, her motives, Lisa's intentions, my own sanity. The bedrock of my life was dissolving like the sweetener I'd stirred into Lisa's coffee. I found no reassurance anywhere. I was politely avoided, whenever possible, by all my acquaintances. Everyone was too busy to spend time with Lisa Strang's little pussy boy.

Depression oozed from the deepening rifts in my psyche. I sank into the oily pool, a swimmer who'd given up hope of rescue and embraced the inevitable. I left even earlier than planned, didn't bother telling my supervisor. What could he do? Fire me?

I made a stiff drink at our bar and tried to think. My brain was an impenetrable gray fog. It was easier to go through my conversion to Paula than merely sit on my bed. I had no energy, even for that. My motions were mechanical, spiritless. I wondered if this was the way real whores felt while they dressed and made themselves up before going out to fuck strangers for money. I'd read there were transsexual and transvestite hookers who did that. People exactly like myself.

That thought inspired a spark of excitement. I swallowed the last of my drink before putting on my lipstick and decided I should have another. The sway of my hips felt decidedly better, the soft weights on my chest more natural. In less than two hours, my wife would take me out. We'd drive from shop to shop, stopping to buy me women's clothing in each. I'd go into fitting rooms, perhaps with her at my side, and I'd model lingerie, dresses, shoes, whatever she demanded. There was a chance I'd be recognized as a male in drag. Most certainly, I'd be stared at and desired by men.

My mind had veered from that dark path since Sarah had poured oil in my bath last Saturday. As I mixed my second drink, I faced it squarely. Where was the harm in being wanted by another man? Wasn't I going out of my way to be as desirable as I possibly could? Wouldn't I be a failure if I was invisible?

A light dawned in my mind. Invisible. All my life, I'd cultivated a talent for being overlooked. I'd been passed by for promotions on the job because of it. I'd been neglected by my family and friends. Instead of a way to avoid life's pain, my goal of blending into the wallpaper had become the fountain from which pain flowed.

As Paula, I was anything but invisible. I looked like I was crying out for attention. I smirked down at my tightly encased chest and the long flash of hose below the skirt I wore. Not just any form of attention, either. That's the direction Sarah had chosen to lead me. Her words echoed in my mind. "Sleazy slut at heart." I had a fabulous role model available. If I worked at it, I imagined I could be as big a slut as Lisa.

The hollowness I'd been craving crept back in. Maybe life wasn't so terrible after all. Why should those two bitches be the only ones who got any pleasure from this? I tapped back into my room, did my lips with great satisfaction, and popped the make over video into the VCR. I had a lot to learn.

She opened the door leading to the garage. "You're sure you want to wear those shoes? We've got a lot of walking to do."

I spoke quietly. I'd given up the shrill falsetto voice in favor of my real tones. Despite a third potent drink, I didn't slur. "I'll be fine."

"You're awfully quiet," she said after we'd driven in silence for ten minutes. "I expected more emotion."

I dropped my eyes from the passing winter scenery to the beautiful red nails resting lightly on my thigh. Sarah had been remarkably gentle with me at home. She'd been more helpful than condemnatory about getting my makeup right. She'd seemed sincerely amused by my wanting to wear the short, tight black skirt and blouse instead of some of her more modest clothes. I'd regretted the necessary absence of the corset. Even with the elastic girdle, I felt fat and shapeless, but she'd promised me I could wear a new one home. Being seen by other motorists was thrilling. Holding their eyes was only the first of many things to come. I wore one of her coats, blocking sight of my soft twin mounds. "It's been a draining day."

"You're angry with me."

I couldn't see my breasts, but my shrug let me feel them. With just a bra, they moved even more naturally. "Are you surprised?" I let the irony out, amazed by my courage.

"Ah. The meeting with Lisa."

"And giving me to her to play with."

"What did she have you do?"

We'd neglected my planned daily confession. I wanted to sustain my burning anger, but recalling the scene warmed me in other ways. "She forced me to hand her an ivory dildo. I had to sit on her desk and smoke a goddamned cigarette and watch her fuck herself and listen to her filthy talk."

It was her turn to mock. "I don't see what the problem is, baby. You enjoyed it, didn't you?"

I recrossed my silky legs, squeezed my thighs tighter together on my clit. "She's not my wife, in case you've forgotten."

"You didn't answer my question, slut."

"What do you want to hear, Sarah? That my clit was throbbing? That I wanted to kiss the whore's lips and lap her cunt like a fucking dog? Yes. I wanted that. And you exposed me to it, damn you! Is that what you want me to witness every day? Is that the way you want me to feel?" I clamped my scarlet lips shut around more. I was an inch from tears. Didn't she love me? Didn't she care?

"Temper, temper, darling. When you raise your voice, you sound terribly male." She hesitated before going on in a completely different tone. "What would you have me do, Paula? Seriously. You're aware of our financial condition. It's not too rosy. If she tosses you out, what do you think will happen? And how do you think having her masturbate for you makes *me* feel? If there was a way to get away with it, I'd strangle the whore. You're mine, love. You'll always be mine. But compromise is essential. At least for the moment."

I glanced at her. Something in her tone seemed odd. Her tight smile reinforced that impression. "You have a plan, don't you?"

"That might be overstating it a little," she drawled with a wider grin. "Until I get full measure of her this evening, I'm forced to improvise." Her eyes twinkled at me. She wet her full lips, beautiful despite the absence of lipstick. "This much I know. Our success or failure is going to hinge upon you, darling. She's obsessed. You have to give her just enough of whatever she wants to keep her craving you. You can't give her too much or too little. If she loses interest . . ."

"I see. I need to, uh, tease her." I kept my voice somber, serious, softly feminine. Inside, my heart fluttered wildly. Sarah had just given me permission to enjoy my torture, to react, at least subtly. I would have to play along with Lisa. Manipulate the manipulator. Keep her satisfied, but hungry for more. Act like a whore. Unlike the cunts who failed, I'd be a smart one. Another thought displaced some of my escalating joy.

"I . . . You won't tell her . . ."

Sarah's eyes caressed my face, adoration shining in her brilliant eyes. "No. Not yet. But it might have to come out, love. It might turn out to be the most potent weapon we have."

I tried to absorb that. I glanced out the window just in time for a teenager in the back seat of a slowly passing car to stare directly into my carefully made up eyes. He must have read my smile as welcoming his gaze. He blew me a kiss.

It rocked me. I was a sex object. At home, I was Sarah's thoroughly feminized, happy slave. At work, I was a pussy boy, the focus of Lisa's deepening lust. I had power. Impulsively, before I had time to think about it, I pursed my cherry lips at the kid in impish reply.

That set the tone for the unparalleled adventure that followed. It prepared me, as much as anything could, for swaying my way through the thronged mall, for entering women's boutiques with the intent to buy. I was overwhelmed from the moment we stepped through the wide doors until our eventual exit. Sarah's presence was all that kept me from falling apart. Memory of that blown kiss reminded me how totally convincing I looked. I vacillated wildly between stark terror and insane elation.

I was out of control, clung to Sarah like an infant. I nearly panicked in the shoe store while being fitted for three pairs of tall pumps. The salesman, a really cute guy, made no bones about craning his neck to look under my brief skirt and flashing me what had to be his most seductive smile. The way he caressed my silky instep, fondled my painted toes, was nearly enough to make me scream and fly madly back to the car. I couldn't breathe. My ears rang and my head spun even worse than they had while inhaling Lisa's disgusting cigarette. Only my wife's barely suppressed laughter and sly wink got me through the ordeal. It seemed she was saying I'd have to endure even worse humiliation in the future, that I might as well get used to it. In a way, it was a measure of my success. I'd passed minute scrutiny with flying colors. All I was, in his lust-blinded eyes, was a hot piece of ass he could feel up with relative impunity.

"My!" Sarah teased upon our exit from the shop. "Wasn't that flattering! I'm a little envious."

I tossed my head, swept my hair away from my face. "Can I help it if I'm irresistible?" I wasn't nearly as confident as I tried to act. I was flushed, but not entirely by shame, and my voice was shaky, though not entirely with fear.

Her whispered purr caught me a little off guard. "You are, you know. I can't wait to get you home and taste those lips. I've got a special treat for you tonight, baby."

I leaned toward her as we strolled along, arms filled with packages. My clit leapt in my panties. "Can we go now? Please?"

"Corsets. Remember, darling? I promised you could wear a new one home."

I groaned theatrically. "I'd rather have you fuck me." The words rolling from my passion-red lips, spoken in public, aroused me as much as the salesman's sly touches had. But the words weren't entirely truthful. The idea of having to strip to the skin in a woman's dressing room enhanced the eroticism pulsing through me. No bra, no breasts, no panties. Just stockings and heels, makeup and wig. I put up no more resistance to my wife's teasing insistence that we stop at a shop specializing in intimate apparel.

We stood before a rack of sexy, gorgeously wicked corsets. Sarah demonstrated the special feature of one line. The narrow crotch was equipped with sturdy snaps. "But I like these better," she murmured huskily. "Look."

They were entirely without crotch.

"Imagine. I could reach under your short little skirts any time I wanted and rub your clit. In a restaurant or theater. In the car. I love to watch your face when you orgasm, Paula. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen when you cum." Her hand seemed to accidentally brush my thigh, just below my hem.

We bought the corsets - four of them. I was delirious with excitement. In the dressing room, she cinched me into the new red device excruciatingly tightly. She knelt after she'd re-dressed me and fitted the panties back on, guiding them over my hose and garters. Her touch as she guided my clit between my legs nearly earned her a close-up of the orgasm she said completed my beauty. I pled with her to hurry me home.

Her smile up into my lust clouded face was pure evil. "It's nearly five o'clock. I've got a very important meeting downtown, remember? I'm afraid I'm going to have to put you in a cab and -"

"No!" I squealed, trying to keep my voice down.

Her hand tickled my most sensitive area. "Yes, love. I hate the idea as much as you do, but we both know how crucial it is. Is there some way I can make it up to you?"

There was, and she did. Staring mischievously up into my wide eyes, she gave my clit the few licks and strokes required to cause it to pulse, throb, and spew its release into her mouth while I leaned weakly against the dressing room wall, trying to keep my quaking knees locked. Her lips, as she rose and hungrily sought mine, were coated with sticky pungency. When she pulled back, breathless, she wore my lipstick and I wore my cum.

"Now let's get your sweet ass in a cab. I shouldn't be long. Be sexy for me when I get home, Paula. I've still got that surprise for you."

Being left alone with a male taxi driver in my erotic frame of mind was nearly as disturbing as being fondled by the shoe salesman. He was eager to load the bags and boxes and hold the car door for me. Being extended the courtesies I'd always performed for women drove home an aspect of being in public Sarah had warned me of but I'd failed to seriously consider.

His eyes raked my legs as I slid across the seat, and his lingering smile of approval felt every bit as intimate as strong fingers gliding over my hose. I'd kept my thighs clamped ferociously together, but the brevity of the black skirt made it impossible not to display a flash of the bands atop the stockings. I flushed deeply and nervously looked away.

It was a torturous twenty minute trip. He tried to be conversational. Not forward or aggressive, just friendly, as he no doubt would have been with nearly anyone. But I felt like I was being scanned under a microscope, not via a rear view mirror, and even before the cab was out of the vast parking lot, I became obsessed by flaws I was dreadfully certain he was certain to find. My feminine veneer suddenly felt dreadfully thin. My few replies to his polite questions were hushed and tense.

I saw just how vital my wife's immediate presence had been to the heady self-confidence I'd experienced in the crowded mall. Without my focal point, I felt exposed, nude to the world. There had been a measure of anonymous safety surrounded by other shoppers. Now, one on one with an absolute stranger, I was terrified. Winter's early sunset afforded me a little safety, but it also meant being left alone with a male in the darkness.

I breathed a deep sigh of relief as I paid him and he tried to peer under the collar of my winter coat. I felt a little foolish as I struggled to balance the mountain of purchases. I couldn't bear to let him help, though. It was horrible enough to have to hazard being noticed and potentially recognized by the neighbors. Darkness was suddenly my ally.

With the anxiety of the voyage home past, I had nothing to occupy my mind except the meeting between Sarah and Lisa. What little sense of control I'd known that afternoon dissipated like fog in a gale. I was a pawn in a battle between two overwhelmingly powerful and brilliant women. And I was secretly afraid Sarah would lose. She lacked the Ice Queen's ruthlessness. My wife's love for me was something Lisa might be able to exploit as a weakness. Worst of all, while my very life seemed to hang in the balance, there was no way I could affect the outcome. At that very instant, while I was sitting rigidly on my bed, surrounded by a jumble of female accouterment, decisions were being reached which would affect me in the most intimate imaginable ways.

I was helpless before a brutal assault of worst-case scenarios. Sarah would be as cowed by Lisa as everyone else always was. She was certain to cave in to the blonde whore's slutty demands. My wife would sell me to Lisa for forty-thousand dollars a year. As eternal minutes passed, I slowly became aware of something lurking just beneath my overlay of hopeless terror. It's name was excitement.

Smitten by a wave of frenetic energy, I leapt from the bed and began putting my lovely new things away. A sly pride grew within me. Forty grand a year. Lisa wanted me badly enough to almost double my salary. That made me a pretty successful whore. I'd be able to afford the kind of wardrobe I was accumulating. I could be even more beautiful for my adoring wife.

As Lisa's pussy boy, I'd have to endure unending vicious humiliation, but I'd have something I'd never before known - status. I'd inevitably wield the influence imparted to me by walking in her shadow. And I'd be forced to witness, on a regular basis, the kind of raw, crude sexual displays I'd been subjected to for the last two days. Maybe Sarah would be so overpowered that I'd even have to physically participate in my boss's depravity.

I stood in my closet door, surveying my accumulation of dresses, skirts, blouses and other paraphernalia. I glanced at my wrist, at the delicate little watch my wife had loaned me, at the three rings adorning my slim, scarlet tipped fingers. Six thirty. Sarah might be home any minute. She'd asked me to be sexy for her. She had another marvelous surprise for me. Even if she was too dispirited to want to fuck me, I wanted to be able to console her, to distract her from her painful defeat. I wanted to wait on her hand and foot, show her all was not lost.

I hurriedly changed into the green dress she'd liked the most at the mall. As I slipped into the new shoes, I flashed on the feeling of the salesman's hands dancing over my feet. My fingers lingered over my clit as I arranged it beneath fresh panties. My eyes were filled with tender desire as I touched up their mascara and shadow. My lips pouted under the weight of slick, wet color as I misted myself with perfume. Maybe I could divert my wonderful spouse's attention from her trauma with my body, my face, my love. Maybe I could seduce her as surely as I was seducing myself. All was not lost. This didn't have to be a lose/lose situation.

I set the stage with careful deliberation. I dimmed the living room lights. I mounted her favorite CD's in the player. I lit subtle incense. I arranged myself on the sofa in what I was sure was an invitingly sensual manner. And I waited.

Seven o'clock came and went. My anxiety level crept back up. I was convinced that a long meeting boded ill, that my preparations would be even more important. Simultaneously, I felt less confident of my ability to minimize Sarah's pain. Was I going overboard again? Was I acting more like a clown than a sexy woman?

By seven-thirty, I was pacing. I was very close to being swallowed by the panic I was trying desperately to keep in hand. The new heels were pinching my toes. The unlaundered corset was scratchy. My choice of music was all wrong for the mood I wanted to set.

I was bent over the stereo when I heard the garage door begin its upward grind. I nearly leapt out of my shoes. After a momentary icy paralysis, I dashed for the door to the garage and discovered that running in four-inch heels and a tight dress over a waxed kitchen floor isn't a simple task. I opened the door, felt the icy air creep up my legs.

She was sitting in the car, in shadowy silhouette. My throat closed around the warm greeting I'd prepared. I heard the engine tick as it cooled. I heard the equally soft drip of icy water from the vehicle as it spattered the concrete. I saw her vague shape lift something - a large bottle - and tip it to her lips.

As she opened the driver's door, the interior was flooded with soft light. Sarah's face was an unreadable mask as she turned toward me, swung her legs to the floor. The mask split into a wide grin of victory. She extended the open bottle of champagne toward me.

"Party time, baby. We've got the bitch exactly where we want her!"

I was being torn, ripped, split in half - both physically and psychically. The mirror across the room lied. It showed nothing more than a pretty blonde with her sweet face pressed against the carpet, her succulent red lips shaping a howl of passion, her ass thrust high, her bejeweled hands clutching her gyrating ass cheeks and holding them apart. She seemed to be clearly begging her scantily clad brunette lesbian lover for more, pleading with her to force the dildo deeper, faster into her no longer virgin rear entrance.

I could hear her. Vile phrases, unthinkable words poured from the blonde's ruby lips when she said anything at all. "Fuck me! Oh, God, fuck your slut!" she screamed hoarsely. It felt to her as if her entire body was nearing orgasm, that on a microscopic level, every cell in her body was about to rupture, to erupt in a way that would leave her no more than a pulsing, throbbing mass of spent tissue. She craved that release, that death. I, her weaker half, was appalled, fought it, resisted with waning power.

Sarah's fingers, even when there had been three of them together, had been uncomfortable, but warm and alive and thrilling inside me. That had changed the instant she had penetrated me with the lubricated head of the false penis. I had tried to resist, to pull away in horror and pain. But, because of the champagne, or the level of lust, or a black desire for this ultimate degradation, I had lost my voice. Clinically, I suppose you could say I disassociated. I became two beings. Paul, the weak-willed pussy-boy, was entirely dominated by Paula, the shameless bitch in heat.

That part of me was ecstatic. "More!" she shouted shrilly. She was enthralled that six of the twelve inches of veined plastic had already vanished into her unplumbed depths. She was astonished by her fullness, her wholeness. She could be fucked. Really fucked. Her newly discovered pussy was so very deep. Ghastly images raced through her sleazy mind, visions I found repulsive, unbearable. I quailed, yet couldn't escape. The shoe salesman could fuck her this way, or stick his swollen cock down her throat, whichever he wanted.

My final sob was a bubble containing all my despair. She turned even that forlorn, ultimate wail against me. It pushed Paula over the edge. On her whorish scarlet lips, it was revealed as only a wide red circle, a perfect "O." In her painted blue eyes, it was revealed as triumphant, perverse glee.

My death throes were transmuted into her orgasm. I ruptured. She healed. I was consumed by the fires of hell. She rose from the ashes.

My vision was blurred by tears. The unbearable agony was no more. Where it had been was only an expansive, throbbing warmth. For a millisecond, in my near blindness, Sarah became the shoe salesman. The dildo became a real penis, shooting sperm irrevocably deep into my bowels. The heat in my panties corrected that error. It was my own sex emitting the thick cream in a wracking, explosive gout.

I lost all motor skills, even as my sight returned. Twitching, I sank to the carpet, melting, flowing down into its fibers. My wife, cooing, purring, comfortingly stroked my bare ass, the pale gash of thigh above my stockings, the dark, spreading wetness at the juncture of my nerveless legs. The dildo protruded from my anus like a short, thick tail, bobbed obscenely as I rawly gasped for air.

Sarah slowly, tenderly withdrew it. I stared, feeling the hollow void it left as it abandoned me. Lovingly, she blotted my ravaged ass with a soothing, damp towel. I was mildly surprised by the traces of blood she gathered. I'd once deflowered a virgin, had witnessed something virtually identical. I blew a long, relaxed sigh. The deep contentment filling me curled my lovely lips into a soft smile.

"I love you," Sarah murmured. "Each day, I love you more."

My smile grew wider. I knew exactly what she meant. I managed to feebly, happily, wiggle my shapely, smooth ass against her hand.

"How do you feel?" she whispered.

"Mmm," was all the reply I could generate.

Her low chuckle spoke her understanding. "You liked my surprise. I knew you would." She petted my sweet double mounds. "You'll be sore tomorrow. But the first time's the worst. You'll learn to relax, let yourself open. It'll get better and better, every time."

I wanted to tell her it couldn't possibly get any better, but speech still wasn't an option.

After she cleaned the dildo, she rolled me onto my back, straddled my chest, and had me fuck her with our toy. She massaged my clit back to erection as I slid the rubber cock through her musky syrup. Dipping her hand beneath my lace, she used my cum to lubricate her slow strokes, and probed my raw anus with the tip of one finger.

She came first, with awesome force, screaming at me all the while. "Shove it in, slut! Fuck me with that long, fat cock. Fill me up, you fucking cunt, you cockless whore! Harder, goddamn it! Faster!"

I could barely move the shaft, so tightly was her pussy gripping it. Moving it from side to side was easier. I thrust the base up and down, rubbed the head against her cervical wall. Her shriek became wordless. When she drew breath, it was in wracking sobs. Her fist had a death grip on my clit. When she released it, my orgasm was instantaneous. Gasping, her eyes wild, seeing things I couldn't see, she pulled her sticky hand from my panties. Her finger was shaking wildly as she smeared my lips with my own sperm.

"Lick it, baby," she commanded in a weak voice. Her hand returned to scoop up more as I tasted myself with a delicate tongue. "Suck it off my hand."

She fed me all that she could gather. Lasciviously, I ate everything she offered.

We were both as feeble as octogenarians when we finally moved from the floor to my bed. I believe she stayed with me for a while, but, when the shrill alarm woke me at six, I was alone, except for the dildo snuggled between my breasts like a lover.

Penance

Chapter 6

by Tristmegistis

My derriere was on fire from the instant I awoke. As my eyes rolled open, the pain reminded me of my depravity, and that awareness colored the entire day. My memories were painted in overly bright colors, as distorted as my rectum had been the night before. I not only adored looking like a woman, I loved having sex as much like one as was humanly possible. I had eagerly licked my own cum from my wife's hand. I'd thrilled to being stared at in the packed mall the day before, had been excited by a man's touch upon my legs, had barely been able to breath under the cabbies' appreciative scrutiny. All that combined to shape a stark new reality. It was the very stuff of my darkest nightmares of old. I was gay.

It was a foolish overstatement of fact, yet seemed so clear in my head that it rang of undeniable truth. I overlooked the obvious fact that both Sarah and Lisa turned me on sexually far more than a man had ever excited me. All I saw was a perfect, inevitable justice.

Much of my mad lust the night before had been in response to my wife's tale of her encounter with Lisa. Her surprising victory over the Ice Queen had been hard won and meant still more radical changes in my life. In fact, while I said not a word, I wasn't sure that it'd really been a victory at all.

The negotiation process had been bitter, but the bottom line was the same. I was chattel. Sarah had sold me for $50,000 per annum. Beginning immediately, I was promoted - although that hardly seemed the appropriate word - to the position of Lisa's personal assistant. Each week, I would perform a minimum of forty and a maximum of fifty hours of service under her immediate supervision. They'd worked out a job description, agreed upon a contract, both of which were to be ritually finalized at four that afternoon in Lisa's office.

My gender issues were still a private matter between myself and my wife. The no-touch rule was still inviolable, but, beyond that restriction, I was fair game. That meant unending sexual and psychological torture. I'd be exposed to Lisa's slutty viciousness for eight to ten hours per day.

When I'd realized that the night before, when the weight of their decision impacted me, I'd had to drop my eyes to the floor and hide my face behind the wings of my cornsilk hair. I had no thought for the money or the professional duties I'd have to learn. My entire mind was focused upon one area only. All day, every day, she would taunt me with her shaven cunt, her firm breasts, her virtually irresistible ruby lips. I would be compelled to watch her masturbate, even assist her in permissible ways. And maybe even darker things, too.

As I used the toilet, hissing my pain, my thoughts weren't upon being pretty for Sarah, or what to fix for breakfast, or even what miracles the birth control pills were patiently working upon my body. I was excited, wondering what daring new perversities I'd encounter during my first day on my new job. I was ashamed, of course. Deeply so. But, while Sarah had fucked my pussy and guided me to that awe-inspiring new level of orgasm, shame had suddenly become thrilling, not threatening. Shame meant satiation. Shame meant fulfillment wasn't far away.

I had to be careful with my morning makeup lest my decadent anticipation shine upon my face. Sarah would look for me to be afraid, but obedient. I had two mistresses to serve now. Their expectations and demands would be different, but parallel. I was determined to satisfy them both to the best of my ability.

I entered her room with coffee and found her just awakened. My wife had never looked so beautiful. She was resplendent, filled with an inner glow I hadn't witnessed in such full flower since our wedding day. Her coal black hair was a tangle of midnight upon her creamy satin pillows. Her eyes, as they caressed me, were moist with unshed tears of joy. I was stricken by the immensity of her unvoiced love for me. I knew what she couldn't. I was a sleazy little whore, a fag bitch already relishing a day's torment at the hands of another woman. I was utterly unworthy of anything but the contempt I was sure to get from Lisa.

When Sarah took me instead of the coffee, I was surprised. She laid me on my back on her bed and spread me wide, elevating my hips with a pillow. While she licked and sucked my clit, she

examined my opened rectum with delicate fingers. I traded my fresh lipstick for her delicious pussy juice. After we both came, she swivelled and our tongues explored one another's flavors.

She sprang from bed like an eighteen year old on prom morning. I was much more lethargic in my recovery. She was overflowing with caresses, her eyes burning with excitement as she helped me dress for the day. I took the easiest and safest path. I remained demurely quiet.

My drive to work was eerie. Nothing was the same, except the building I drove to. I was coming in at nine as opposed to eight. My parking slot was next to the executive area, not in the dingy far recesses of the garage. I took the express elevator up, not the plebeian elevator down. The doors parted to reveal, not the raucous bullpen of data processing, but the calm hush of the sanctum sanctorum. My palm was slick as I gripped the knob of the heavy wooden door leading to my new life.

Cathy's absence was conspicuous and alarming. As was Lisa's presence through the open office door. I'd imagined myself prepared for her. I'd visualized her dressed and painted like a barroom whore. I was shocked - and, truthfully - disappointed to find her glowering into her computer terminal clad in an attractive green business suit. Only her lush lips and scarlet manicure evidenced yesterday's debauch.

"You're early," she muttered without glancing away from the screen, her hands rattling keys. "Couldn't wait, huh?"

"I, uh, thought I should be prompt."

"You were right. The first time you drag your ass in here late, you're in deep shit."

I tore my eyes away from her twisted beauty. "Is Cathy coming in?"

She stayed focused on her work. With a final flurry of keystrokes, she finished whatever it was she was doing. Leaning back, she swivelled her chair, gestured vaguely toward the informal conversation area. I correctly interpreted that as a request for her cigarettes. Her eyes on me were tangible. Sarah had tightened the new snap-crotch green corset playfully tight. That and my fiery rectum made hip-sway inevitable.

"Cathy doesn't work here any more," she dryly told my back. "One of today's tasks is for you to hire a replacement. Pick a temp from the secretarial pool for the rest of the week. She'll help you post notices for someone permanent. Jesus, your taste in clothes sucks, darling. But I suppose I need to talk to Sarah about that."

"I buy my own clothes," I said a little testily. A week before, that would have been true. I'm sure I wasn't convincing. I started to hand her the cigarettes and lighter, then thought better of it. I let myself make a sour face as I lit it for her.

Her smile was crooked with irony as she took it from me. "At least you're trainable. By the way - from now on, you're a smoker at work."

I was repelled. "I don't know -"

She went from mild amusement to savagery in less than a heartbeat. "- You're right. You don't know jack shit, baby. Your bitch wife agreed I should be the one to tell you. I think she found my demand amusing." Her eyes were hard and cold as she blew an easy plume of smoke toward the tobacco fuming between her fingers. Her lips were tight as she handed it back to me. "You can buy your own while you're out running some errands for me."

She stared at me until I took a hesitant puff. The lipstick she'd left on the filter was as sweet as the smoke was bitter. "Inhale, motherfucker." Her steely gaze dropped to my crotch. Her voice softened. "You didn't have any trouble doing that yesterday."

I blushed furiously, tried not to choke. She was right. As I'd stared at the ivory cock noisily fucking her cunt, the cigarette had seemed to fit my hand and lips. The candy of the color she'd deposited on this one eased my constricted throat.

"That's much better. Now, get that sexy little ass to the receptionist's desk. There's an ashtray in the top drawer. You do know how to work the phone system, don't you?"

"Yes, but I thought you said -"

Her smile was sweet. Her tone was not. "- Don't think, pussy boy. Do. Are you even more stupid than I think? Didn't you hear me say you've got to call the pool and get some poor bitch up here? Until she arrives, you do desk duty. Is that too complex a concept for you to wrap that feeble brain around?"

Gritting my teeth against my anger, my cigarette and I did as ordered. I searched the desk and came up with a directory. Sounding every bit as insecure as I felt, I called the secretarial pool, explained the situation. From the terse reply, I suspected there would be no rush to fulfill my request.

All hell started to break loose shortly thereafter. The phone began buzzing. I fumbled with buttons, praying I didn't disconnect some vital caller. Lisa openly ridiculed my lack of experience and escalated her demands. Find this file. Call so and so. Fetch coffee. Have another cigarette. Arrange a meeting with Finance.

The girl delivering the mail cocked a mocking eyebrow at me, was barely able to suppress her laughter at my plight. The reaction of everyone else who darkened the door was much the same. My shame held no excitement whatsoever. This wasn't what I'd anticipated. I wondered if people who really had no business with marketing were dropping by merely to see what had happened to the wimp from data processing.

By eleven, I was getting desperate. Screwing up my courage, I called the secretarial pool again. Putting vastly more authority in my voice than I felt, I demanded that someone be sent up - now. Ms. Strang was becoming upset. Less than ten minutes later, a wispy, frail, frightened red head appeared. I'd finally learned the magic words and a vital lesson. I had no power, but I could wield my boss's.

Feeling slightly cocky, I went in to await further instructions. The girl - Mary, I think - already had things under control. Not wanting to be there an instant longer than necessary, it'd taken her under five minutes to locate the ad that had lured Carol and set the hiring process in motion.

Lisa kept me standing while she talked on the phone. I had to admire her brilliance. It seemed that whatever data she needed was resident in her mind. As I listened, she coldly persuaded an agency to agree to an impossible production schedule.

She stretched as she appraised me, deliberately pressing her breasts against her thin blouse. "Well, we've seen what a fuck up you are as a receptionist, Paul. Now let's see if you can screw up being an errand boy, too." She pushed a hand written list across the desk, gave me ten seconds to scan it. "Take my car. The keys are in my purse. Open another pack of cigarettes for me while you're there. Take one yourself for the road."

The keys and tobacco were evident in her handbag. So was another, smaller dildo. When I glanced up, her cold green eyes held mine. "That's for later, lover. Be a doll and put it in the fridge for me. I've got meetings until three. We'll have a few minutes to relax before your wife gets here."

I hurried away, my clitoris alive in my panties, my raw anus throbbing.

Her vehicle was a fire engine red sports car. It reeked of her cigarettes and perfume. Stained as red as the paint, butts overflowed the ashtray. Three lipsticks rolled around on the console. A pair of purple panties, their crotch soiled darkly, lurked on the floorboard near the pedals. I angrily threw my unlit cigarette out the window and pulled into traffic.

The errands all appeared mundane, personal things, although appearances turned out to be slightly deceiving. I doubted that the corporation had any idea what they were paying me so much money to do. Most of my stops were in a conspicuously upscale part of the city entirely foreign to me. I took uncounted wrong turns, getting lost between every stop.

Lisa's dry cleaning was a thick collection of slinky silk. I wondered if she ever wore anything else. The shoes I picked up from a repair shop were elegant five-inch heeled slippers. Was everything my employer owned erotic? I found myself hoping so, my mind drifting again and again to the refrigerated dildo and three o'clock.

Next on my list was the only thing I was supposed to bring back from the car with me. That turned out to be a pair of supple black calfskin boots with heels nearly as tall as the ones from the cobbler. I claimed them from a bizarre retail outlet which specialized in leather garb for dominant women. That was a breathtakingly disturbing stop. Mannequins sported dresses nearly identical to the one I'd bought Sarah. The two female employees stared at me with looks which told me they knew exactly what I was. They taunted me with lethargic, sensuous disdain. I'd been highly aware of my sore pussy, my warm clit, ever since touching the stiletto slippers. I felt an irrational urge to expose my panties and corset to the women, and scurried away as if pursued by vicious dogs.

It was nearly one. The diet Sarah had me on forbade lunch. I wasn't at all hungry. My arousal refused to die. I was in an incredibly depraved woman's sexy sports car, surrounded by her outrageously feminine possessions. I was little more than a sex toy, myself, both for she and my wife.

I wanted to rub my clit. I wanted to use one of the lipsticks. I wanted to enfold myself in silk, slide my stockinged feet into the boots. I regretted throwing the cigarette away. Lisa smoked them because they were nasty, made her seem even more erotic. The head of my clit seemed to be straining toward my pussy, trying to get in. My compressed hips were rocking on the seat where Lisa's shaven cunt normally rested.

There were two more stops to make. I gripped the wheel with both hands. I wanted it to be three o'clock. I felt every bit as depraved as Lisa.

The temp receptionist looked like she'd drank too much lunch. Her breath smelled of whiskey as she informed me Ms. Strang was already back from her meetings and expecting me. The box containing the boots was heavy under my arm. She went on, asked me a handful of slightly slurred questions. Remarkably, I was able to answer most of them. I kept glancing at the closed door. It was two forty-seven. What was she doing in there? Why was this insipid drunken bitch asking such stupid questions? Finally, unable to bear the delay for another second, I brusquely told her to handle the rest herself. My heart hammering madly, I stepped into Lisa's office and softly closed the door.

Like the day before, she wasn't in sight. Like the day before, the washroom door was open. I hoped I knew what that meant, but my feet became one with the carpet. I had trouble making my voice work. "Lisa?" I called in what was barely more than a whisper.

I jumped when I heard the toilet flush. "Come in here, baby."

My feet came unglued. I seemed to float, not walk. She swam into my line of sight like a hallucination. She was utterly nude, bending slightly forward over a full vanity, applying shadow to her eye lids. I'd never seen so many cosmetics outside a store. Her thick vermilion lips made my knees weak. I lost the ability to breathe.

She gave me a look that would have melted steel. "Be a darling and bring my dress. It's in the wardrobe."

There was no closet, just the antique piece of furniture she referred to. My fingers were numb as I swung the doors back. Yesterday's minuscule red dress was there. So were several others, but I knew which one she wanted - it matched the boots. It was made of lycra, but it looked like leather. It was so small I didn't think it possible for her to stretch into it. I held it and waited. She was touching up a face I already found flawless.

Once again I was smitten by the unnatural perfection of her body. She seemed to be a breathing, airbrushed centerfold, an animated projection of every male's dream of the ideal woman. Huge breasts, their proud nipples seeming to stare like eyes. A waist so small it might have been wearing an invisible corset even tighter than my own. Hips too narrow to easily bear children, with round, upturned ass cheeks too tight to jiggle.

Her words disrupted my enthralled reverie. Her voice was again seduction personified. "Have you ever had an enema, honey?"

I swallowed. "When I was a kid."

She lifted the dress from my limp hands. She was mere inches from me. Her lids were the same green as her eyes. Her expression said she was just for me. No one else existed beyond the bathroom.

"I just gave myself one. Having things in my ass excites me. Have you ever ass fucked Sarah?"

I had to close my eyes. I felt myself weave, like I was as drunk as our receptionist. The night before became alive in my mind. My voice was a whispered croak. "Once."

"Did she like it? Did she cum?"

"Yes." I wanted to confess. I wanted to scream that I loved it even more than my wife did.

"Did you blow your cum into her guts?"

I nodded. I felt her breath, hot and sweet, puff on my cheek. I could feel her heat radiating through my clothes. Her hand came to rest heavily on my shoulder as she shifted her weight. I could imagine, through closed lids, the exact length and shape and hue of her nails. I heard the peculiar sound of the stretch fabric sliding over her voluptuousness. The hand lifted from my shoulder. It petted my face as it departed.

"Open your eyes. Zip me up, love."

The silver zipper ran down the front, not the back. Her hands hung at her sides. I fell into her eyes. The large tab of the device rested against her tanned flesh, perhaps and inch above her long clitoris. I hesitated. I know the expression in my eyes was a plea, but I'm not sure what I was begging for. The metal felt cold in my fingers as it began its slide upward.

Her fingers, light as feathers, touched mine. Her skin was astonishingly smooth and soft. Her words were kisses.

"Stop whenever you want. Leave my tits hanging all the way out if you want to see them. Zip it all the way up if you want to see them flattened, with their nipples poking out like bullets."

My hand stopped with the closure gleaming at her sternum. The entire inside half of her breasts lunged, trying to escape the slick black fabric. She took two steps back, lifted herself onto the vanity, spread her legs wide. Moisture gleamed on her parted vaginal lips.

"Do you want me to wear stockings?"

I shook my head.

"Then go ahead. Put my boots on, lover. Breath deep. Smell my cunt. I'm so wet."

The hem slid even higher as she forced the knee length boots on her feet. The effort made her searing lips round, as if with passion, her eyes narrow, as if she was near orgasm. She was panting.

Before I could move, she stood, without lowering the dress. Her vagina was so close to my mouth I could nearly taste it. Her fingertips snaked through my hair.

"Am I beautiful, darling? Am I sexy enough? Do you want me to change my makeup? Wear something different for you?"

I ripped my eyes away from her succulent loins, compelled myself to meet her lowered gaze. "No. You're perfect."

Her fingertip traced my mouth. "You're so sweet, Paul. Come on. It's time. I can't wait another second. I have to cum before I explode."

She kept my hand in hers, led me to the leather sofa. This time, she sat there, motioning me toward the chair she'd used the day before. When I took a cigarette from her pack and lit it for her, her smile of gratitude nearly overwhelmed me.

"I wish this was your cock," she said, bringing it toward her lips. "I wish I could suck it, swallow it, fuck it up and down my throat." She drew a shivering breath, groaned aloud as she withdrew it, admired it. Her hand shook as she gave it back to me. "Kiss it for me, Paul. Taste my lipstick. You're driving me wild. No one's ever done this to me before."

I barely tasted the smoke. All there was was the brilliant vermilion slickness.

She moaned as I inhaled. Her voice was urgent. Her eyes were glazed. "Give me another one. Hurry, baby. Oh, God. I'm dying." When I handed it to her, she gripped my wrist briefly. "Go get the dildo. I'm on fire. Run. Please."

It was frigidly cold. As I neared, she drew her knees up, crushed them against her heaving breasts. She hooked the boot heels on the edge of the sofa. "Put it in me. My ass. My cunt. Whichever you want. I'm your whore, love. I'll do anything you want. Just let me cum. Please let me cum."

I touched its icy head to the pucker of her anus. Her entire body jerked. Her half closed eyes went wide, huge. "Yes. Oh, fuck, yes. Ram it in, honey. Fuck your slut's ass."

I whimpered. I wanted this. Needed it more than air. "I can't. Oh, Lisa, I just can't."

Her head thrashed from side to side. She was crushing her cigarette between her fingers. "I know," she gasped, wiggling her ass, insinuating the tool an inch into her. I saw how her anus gleamed. She'd lubricated herself. "But please watch. Sit on the floor. Real close. I need you to see everything. Watch your sleazy cunt fuck her ass for you. Watch your whore make herself cum for you."

I did. We came in unison. Her shrieks split the air. Without touching myself, my clit spewed cum toward my own asshole. She knew. She read it on my face. It seemed to double the force of her spasms. When she was finished, she withdrew the dildo, held my eyes as she brought it to her lips, hungrily sucked, kissed, licked it clean. My revulsion quickly died. Her enema had left her cleaner than I'd been.

She slid sideways, laid down facing me, cradling the dildo against her breast flesh. She held the device toward me, traded it for a cigarette. "Will you at least kiss it for me, Paul? Please? The next time I use it, I want it to have touched you."

It was no longer cold. As it touched my lips, its heat was hers alone, its complex flavors a blend of her orifices.

Penance

Chapter 7

by Tristmegistis

We had only fifteen minutes to clean up before Sarah arrived. Close upon the heels of the volcanic death of my lust rode the hooded figure of guilt. I had loaded my lacy panties with sperm this time, not merely been held in thrall by Lisa's prodigious eroticism. I hadn't masturbated, but I might as well have. I hadn't fucked her, but the end results were the same as if I had. I'd adhered to the letter of Sarah's law, but had violated the spirit of it.

With Lisa's washroom door locked behind me, I hurriedly wiped away what I could of the sticky gel. My smile displayed more tension than humor as I tucked my flaccid clit back between my sleek thighs. There was no visible trace of Lisa's purplish-red lip color on my mouth, but I could still taste it, as well as the lightly flavored oil she'd used in her rectum, the dildo's rubbery bitterness, and the vaguest reminder of what her vagina had tasted like at the Christmas party.

Lisa was still on the couch, still spread wide, but more thoughtful. Her smile at me was distracted as she gracefully rose and replaced me in the bathroom. She left the door open, but vanished in the direction of the wardrobe.

Her voice was still mellow. "Get your file out for me, love. It's in the second drawer of my desk. Don't you dare peek at it. Then make us some fresh coffee."

My personnel folder was peculiarly thick. I was sorely tempted, but resisted, with a shadow of anger. I'd given way to temptation more than enough for one day. The receptionist looked both more sober and more miserable. She refused to look at me. She imagined she knew what the passionate shouts she'd just heard signified. Still, I felt her eyes on me as I dumped the stale coffee and made new. I couldn't guess her emotions. I wasn't sure I wanted to.

Lisa hadn't changed back into her suit. Atop the more modestly zipped but lewdly crushing lycra, she wore a bolero jacket. Her makeup was significantly less brilliant, but still looked deliciously trampish. I was again astonished by the contrast between her appearance and mannerisms. No one with a modicum of intelligence could miss the shark-like predator beneath the enticing surface. Her focus was entirely upon papers she'd extracted from my file. She gestured absent mindedly toward one of the chairs across her desk. She stayed silently busy until the receptionist announced my wife.

I rose to greet her, instantly feeling uncomfortably feminine. My mouth was dry. I don't recall ever being more uneasy. I wished I wasn't present. I felt trapped by my secrets. I was the only one who had a complete picture of what was happening. My old friend, hysteria, lurked.

Sarah gave me a polite greeting kiss on the cheek, but it was obvious her mind wasn't on me. Her eyes were upon her competitor. I saw no hatred or resentment in her posture as she seated herself beside me. It took a few minutes for me to be able to name her tension. She was eagerly anticipating a good fight.

I was appalled. Despite the dramatic clash of their appearance - one dignified and statuesque, her striking beauty unenhanced by cosmetic overlay, the other blatantly slatternly and crude - they were remarkably similar on the inside. They were equally brilliant and strong. Both could be horribly ruthless. And their private passions, I was learning, were thrillingly parallel.

I may not have wanted to be present for this meeting, but the way they discussed me in the third person was offensive. It took only seconds for my spirits to sink to the level of my red toenails. Gloom settled upon me like a cold fog. I quit listening to their rapid-fire banter, a good measure of which I didn't fully comprehend. To both of them, I was no more than a valuable commodity. They might have been discussing real estate or negotiating terms for product delivery or working out a child custody agreement. That's all I was. Something of a little value to fight over, someone who didn't possess the competence to decide for himself what direction his life should take.

Their sudden silence, after nearly a half hour of spirited discussion, jerked my attention from my self pity. They were both staring at me with mocking expectancy.

"Well?" Lisa prompted.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't listening."

Her emerald lidded eyes narrowed. Her vermilion lips curved downwards. My wife's expression, on her more delicate, more pale face, was identical.

Lisa pitched her cigarettes across the desk. "She wants to see."

I was a pawn. Both were enjoying my humiliation. My hand shook as I miserably lit tobacco.

"You were right," Sarah said dryly. "That's really cute."

"Did you remember to buy your own?" Lisa put in, that scary edge in her voice.

I blushed even more deeply. "I, uh -"

Sarah's deep chuckle silenced me. "I'll see that he gets some this afternoon. But this is really between you two, I suppose. You should really pay more attention, darling. Your first day on the job. Shame on you." Her eyes moved back to my employer. "How has his performance been otherwise?"

Lisa's face was neutral, without a trace of embarrassment. "Adequate, all things considered. He's, ah, cooperative." Her sudden smile was faintly ribald. "But I'm sure you'll hear all about that later."

Sarah recrossed her long silky legs. "I'm sure. Well. Have we ironed everything out?"

"That about does it. No, wait. His clothes. They suck. I want some input about what he wears to work."

"No problem - as long as you're willing to help pay for it."

"He's making enough to afford decent suits."

"True - but you want input. That'll cost you."

Lisa leaned back, glowered at Sarah over her cigarette. "You're one tough bitch."

"I assume that was meant to be a compliment?"

The blonde laughed smoke. "Definitely. Okay, here's the best I can do. Two hundred a month clothing allowance. I pick fabric and cut."

"Three hundred. I choose his colors and tailor. You can veto specific outfits."

I blanched slightly at her final word's feminine overtone.

"I can live with that, as long as it happens soon. Anything else?"

"I believe we've got a deal, Ms. Strang. If you can spare his services tomorrow afternoon, you won't recognize him by Monday morning."

"Great. I'll have our receptionist -" Her face split in a wide, unrestrained grin. "Better yet, I'll have our boy here type it up first thing tomorrow. He can fax you a copy by ten."

I stayed sullen. The moment Sarah left, Lisa loosed her tightly controlled bawdiness upon me. The jacket came off. The zipper went down to expose most of her bulging breasts. "Well, lover? What do you think of our arrangement?"

I made no comment. "Do you have anything else for me to do this afternoon?"

"Ooo," she laughed. "It's upset. Poor baby." She patted her desk top. "Come over here and let me make it all better for you."

"I'd rather do my job."

Her tone was like a file on steel. "Baby, are you brain dead? Doing what I fucking tell you to do *is* your job, remember? Now get that sweet ass over here!"

The remainder of the week was, shall we say, interesting. Sarah and I went on four more shopping excursions, each as thrilling as my debut at the mall, and as equally formative of my still emerging femininity.

The first was the expedition she'd contracted with Lisa. I expected it to be a mundane foray into men's shops. Instead, Sarah mortified me by having me pack my corset cups just enough to give me a little shape and guiding me to a boutique specializing in business women's apparel. We came away with four androgynous suits in subtly feminine flair and hue. In addition, I relegated my old shoes and shirts to the dust bin in favor of feminine imitations of male wear.

A casual glance at my office attire might not reveal anything outrageous to male observers, but no female worth her gender could fail to notice the tailored waists, the fact that my shirts were brighter and softer, and where my shoes came from. Lisa certainly did, and withheld her veto power. She mockingly pointed out that she'd never seen such a well dressed fag. As if to point out my essence to others, she fired our drunken receptionist and gave me her desk until I could arrange for a permanent replacement. I caught whiffs of several rumors circulating through the building regarding my altered appearance.

The second excursion came Friday evening, with me resplendent in nearly slutty glory. My ears were pierced and I was equipped with an array of posts and earrings. I was required to select additions to my makeup collection. I bought two winter coats - one of which was suitable for work. And, most importantly of all, I entered my first bar while in drag.

It was a terrifyingly pivotal experience to share a booth with my wife and two men, obviously bent on seduction, whom Sarah had allowed to sit with us. They lit my cigarettes - Sarah had decided I should smoke away from the office as well - bought my drinks, "accidentally" brushed my thighs and breasts - and subjected Sarah to identical treatment. I was equally repulsed and excited, but I was becoming more accustomed to that sort of confusingly erotic episode.

My first experience in a ladies' room would have been astonishing enough, but my wife made it especially so by backing me into a toilet stall and raping my mouth with her driving tongue while fondling my clit to within a single stroke of explosive release. Leaving me gasping, she closed the snaps at my groin and calmly led me over to the vast mirror, where we repaired our ravaged lips and powdered our slightly damp cheeks, then returned to our admirers for a final glass of wine before making our excuses.

In the car, Sarah forced me to admit how arousing it'd been to be touched. Of my own volition, I told her that half the thrill had come from seeing her being slyly groped as well. We fucked like decadent mink nearly all night. The dildo splitting my pussy wasn't nearly as painful.

The very next morning, my wife shocked me by announcing that I had a doctor's appointment. I was to bathe, be thorough with my bikini wax, depilatory, and razor. I was to dress as if for work, but add tasteful makeup, and don my heels and wig. Seeing myself that way made it impossible to ever again view my suits as male clothing. Even at the office, I was mere seconds away from full femininity. A stroke of lipstick, inserted breast forms, and blonde hair were all that would have been required to display my true personality.

Sarah pointedly remained seated in the lobby when my name was called. The female physician assaulted me with a battery of questions as well as her instruments. She was almost brutally candid. Was I absolutely certain, one hundred percent convinced, that I wished to live my life as a woman? I left the office with a clean bill of health, a long lecture on the physiological changes I should expect, and prescriptions for a balanced hormonal program.

I was irrevocably committed. Sarah's absence from the interview was psychologically vital. There could never be any claim I'd been forced into this momentous choice. The decision was entirely, unarguably mine.

Sunday morning, Sarah wordlessly handed me the week's grocery list as I was dressing for the day. Her smile was broad as she picked up her gym bag and departed for her aerobics class. The implication was clear; I was to make my solo debut.

Buying food had never been anything like that. My senses were on overload. I was followed and stared at by men who couldn't get enough of my legs and ass and lips. I was casually accepted by female shoppers despite my slightly overdressed look. The mundane had become exotic.

The realization that I'd have to sign my male name to the check moved me in a strange way. It felt like a challenge, a public confession. I added a small flourish to it, was ready for a shocked look or questioning of my identity. The checker didn't give me a second glance. Safely in the car, I tried to compose myself. My clit refused to shrink back to manageable proportions. My hands wouldn't stop trembling. I had to do something.

I opened a bag of carrots, my throat tight, and chose one. Its chill reminded me of Lisa's icy dildo. I lubricated the small end of the vegetable from a tub of margarine. With people less than twenty feet away, I opened the crotch of my corset, lifted and angled my hips, and eased the cold, slick root into my needy sex. I fucked it back and forth, easing it deeper with each thrust. A remote part of me was aghast at such public depravity. That aspect was buried beneath the onslaught of my lust. After working the carrot in deeply enough, I closed the base of the corset, trapping my surrogate cock within me, freeing my hands for the wheel. All that was required to continue fucking myself was a slight rocking of my hips.

"Slut," I breathed. "Whore." I repainted lips which didn't need more color. I wished the people glancing at me from passing vehicles knew what a cunt I was. I came wildly at a stoplight, wondering if anyone saw the sleazy blonde bitch jerking in the driver's seat of her car.

Penance

Chapter 8

by Tristmegistis

Gradually, a sense of normalcy grew within me. Over the span of the following weeks, I began to forget that I hadn't always been a horny bitch named Paula. The more accustomed to my feminine essence I became, the more it spilled over into my work day. With both Paula and Lisa's avid encouragement, I began to swish a little more openly.

After all, what could anyone do or say? I was inviolate. I didn't have to keep the sway from my hips. I could cross my legs at the knee. I could allow my nails to grow, file them however I pleased. No one could tell me not to wear pretty posts in my ear lobes, or rings on every finger. After all, I was Lisa Strang's pussy boy.

These minor changes pleased Lisa immensely. I was rewarded with a small office adjoining hers. Nearly every day, we brought one another to stupefying orgasms without physical contact. Despite her frequent viciousness, I worshiped her as a role model. I had to begin carrying replacement panties with me and secretly longed for the day she would discover my entire self. My wife and I were increasingly certain that would happen. When she was busy with meetings all day, or out of town on business, I pouted and sulked and vented my petty frustrations on Linda, our stoic new receptionist.

Home life, as well, settled into routine. Our sex life remained fantastic, and we often made crazed love while I described in lurid detail what Lisa had done to me at the office. My almost daily orgasms at work didn't detract from my desire for my wife's attentions. More than once, Sarah ate me to orgasm and made me suck my own stale cum from the panties I'd soiled that afternoon.

Nothing was out of bounds or off limits. I purchased a massive double headed strap-on dildo, and other mail order toys. I adored having my ass fucked doggie-style after a big enema, developed an appetite for the taste of my own sperm, and relished having Sarah bind me to her bed and use me however she wished. Combined with our old pleasures, my new tastes allowed for virtually unlimited experimentation.

The more competence I displayed as a woman, the more independence Sarah granted me. I cared for the house, wearing something from a closet bulging with pretty, sexy clothes. I wouldn't be caught dead without makeup and high heels, although, since my hair was growing out nicely, I sometimes styled it and went about my chores sans wig.

Staying religiously corseted and maintaining a strict diet were beginning to have visible results. It was far too soon for the hormones to swell my chest and round my hips to the dimensions I pined for, yet I sometimes enjoyed leaving the breast forms out and going au naturel - as long as there were no witnesses other than my darling wife. For my admiring public, I relished going all out.

There were increasing opportunities for exhibiting myself, with and without my mate. It became almost normal to paint and primp before going out to pay bills, browse through my favorite boutiques, or grocery shop - often with a butt plug warming my expanded derriere. Nearly every weekend, Sarah and I would dine out or take in a movie, or stop for drinks.

She displayed some changes, as well. I began buying some of her clothes, and she adopted a weekend dress code slightly more in keeping with mine and Lisa's daily wear. Since I was also doing her makeup, she permitted, with basically good humor, a more dramatic look for our nights out.

While my life in general had become a nearly unending sexual adventure, the times we went to bars were undeniably the most heart stoppingly erotic episodes of all. I'll never forget the first time I summoned the courage to dance with a man, or the first time I saw my wife being kissed by a suitor. Nothing more dramatic happened, except in our shared fantasies. Afterwards, safely in our home, Sarah would stroke my pussy with one of the dildos and pretend to be whomever I'd found most attractive. Then, I'd reciprocate, imagining watching her being fucked by whomever she wished.

Life wasn't all peaches and cream, of course. At times, Lisa's psychic sadism or my wife's only slightly more humane rages would leave me suicidally depressed. My awareness could fill with nothing beyond my own twisted perversion. I was trapped, not between two beautiful, sexy women who adored me, each in a different way, but rather enslaved in a depraved purgatory, imprisoned between two sexes. I wasn't in reality a carefree sex toy, but a self-destructive, masochistic mad man on the fast track to hell, an unnatural abomination.

Fortunately, those black moods didn't endure long enough to inspire me to act upon the urge to end it all, nor were they frequent enough to be called chronic. The vast majority of the time, I was at least content, and often ecstatically happy.

Thus was the stage set for my denouement. Camelot began to dissipate in the mist. It began, appropriately enough, on Valentine's Day.

I was awakened, not by the alarm clock, but by a sensuous rolling of my hard nipple between two sharp nails. My chest was finally beginning to display the soft swelling I looked for every day, and my breast buds were extraordinarily sensitive to teasing and sucking. In the darkness, a much larger nipple found my lips and a long finger eased into my well used, easily accessible pussy. The breast was gently removed from my lips and replaced by a fragrant, wet vagina, and my aroused clit was enfolded between warm, moist lips. I gasped, arched into the embrace, bathed the sex I'd lovingly shaved just the evening before with avid kisses.

Morning sex was rare. As always in such circumstances, my orgasm came quickly, but my soft clit remained between the tender lips, and the finger probed my anus until the weeping vagina had covered my face with thick fluids and rhythmically contracted upon my dancing, probing tongue. Disengaging from my mouth, she turned and fed me the sperm she'd saved in her mouth. I licked her teeth, shivered slightly as I swallowed.

Sarah leaned past me and flicked on the bedside lamp, dragging her heavy breasts over mine. She lay atop me, ran her fingers through my longer hair. "Happy Valentine's Day, love. Go bathe. I want you to try on your present."

I smiled up at her. "Will you try mine on, too?"

"Of course, darling. Is it something I can wear to work?"

I giggled playfully and fondled her lovely breast as I rolled to the side of the mattress. "Not unless you'd like to start a riot." I sank to my knees on the carpet and reached under the bed for the gaily wrapped package.

Sarah stroked my rear. "You're developing nicely, love. Such a beautiful round ass."

I wiggled it for her. On my hands and knees, my small breasts were definitely more feminine. Soon, I whispered to them lovingly before straightening. "Happy Valentine's, honey. Open it now."

I helped her into it. The black slip dress heavily embossed with red velvet might not have caused chaos in the workplace, but it would have attracted more attention than she was accustomed to receiving. The back was open to her waist and the front veed nearly to her navel, leaving the inner half of her globes bare. The full skirt draped enticingly over her slim legs. She was breathtakingly stunning, her fair skin seeming to virtually glow.

Smiling broadly, she spun, causing the hem to flare, exposing her creamy thighs, her dark lower lips. "It's beautiful," she breathed, enfolding me in her arms. "I'll wear it for you tonight."

I kissed her neck, lightly raked her back with my nails. "Are we doing something special?"

She laughed mysteriously. "Oh, yes. Something very special. Now hurry. I can't wait for you to see your gift."

Neither could I. I raced through my morning toilet, thankful that I'd been so thorough with my hair removal the day before. I shivered, held my morning enema less long than usual. I'd ceased to cringe at the sole remaining reminder of my maleness months before. It was small and insignificant, even in its stark nakedness, and Sarah seemed to love it more than she had when I'd thought I was a man. It grew slightly as I wondered what her gift was - and what glorious surprise awaited me that evening. With a towel around my head and another tucked between my breasts, I scampered back to the bedroom, and received the first of many shocks the day was to bring.

My wife was lounging in her chair, her face made up the way I adored it the most - and one of my cigarettes fumed between her fingers. I was stunned. The fact that she'd insisted I could smoke in our home, despite her abhorrence of tobacco, was something I'd gotten used to. I still seldom smoked anywhere but my room without asking permission. To see her raise the tobacco to her glistening ruby lips and inhale deeply, with such ease and elegance, was even more bewildering than seeing her in full makeup this time of day.

Her chuckle was throaty. "Surprised, darling?"

"Astonished is more like it. When, er, how long . . ."

She waved a graceful hand dismissively. She seemed to have applied a different personality along with her cosmetics. "That's not important. Open your present."

My attention was divided as I removed the lid from the flat box. I lifted the top object automatically. It was half corset, half cat suit, unlike anything I owned. Made of seemingly wet black spandex, the torso was stiffly boned with exceedingly thin metal strips. Wickedly cut, it covered me from ankle to arm pit, leaving my cheeks and lower abdomen nude. A pair of skimpy panties, barely wide enough to restrain my clit, completed the outfit.

Sarah drew lazy smoke, made her words visible. "Put it on, baby."

I needed both her help and a dusting of body powder to squeeze my body into its confines. It was worth the effort. The ingenious design compressed me as tightly as I was accustomed to and miraculously thrust what flesh I had on my chest up into surprisingly large, soft mounds.

"Oh, Sarah, it's gorgeous! Thank you!"

She stepped back to admire me. "Go get your measuring tape, Paula."

The suit squeezed me like a lover as I fetched the cloth tape and handed it to my wife. Her nearness was almost overwhelmingly erotic as she encircled and me gauged my dimensions.

"Thirty-four, twenty-one, thirty three. You're becoming a hot little tramp, love. Now, climb into your gray suit."

I was slightly put off by the break in routine. I wanted to slip into a dress and paint myself to see the overall effect. But something in her tone of voice advised me not to protest. At least she allowed me a pair of heels. Still, the gray silk blouse fit more snugly over my chest than was normal, and sans jacket, the neatly tailored slacks let me preserve more of the illusion of femininity than was typical for a work day. In fact, it was slightly worrying.

She didn't change into office clothes, nor did she tone down her heavily made up face. As I worked, she silently stared at me from beneath thick black lashes and smoked another unsettling cigarette. Safely aproned against spillage, I hesitantly pointed out the obvious risk of discovery as I prepared breakfast.

"Does that frighten you?" she asked in a mocking tone I hadn't heard in weeks.

"Of course it does. You know how Lisa watches every move I make. She doesn't miss very much."

"Do you want her to, darling? Admit it. The chance of discovery is part of what makes every day so exciting, isn't it?"

It was true. I blushed, nodded agreement as I served her food. I dabbled with my own, surreptitiously watched her searing lips dull as she ate. I felt distinctly uneasy. I couldn't avoid seeing the obvious swell of my breasts beneath my blouse.

"If you're not going to eat," Sarah drawled, "go pack your overnight case."

I shot her a sharp glance. I knew exactly what she meant. Twice, she'd had me take to work everything necessary to complete my conversion. In an unfrequented lower level women's bathroom, I'd huddled in a toilet stall and become my whole self before tapping my way to my car and meeting my wife for dinner. Those had been decadently electrifying experiences. "We're going to dinner?"

"And more, darling. Be sexy." Her smile was wicked. "By the way, I think you should wear your plug today. I want you to stay hot."

I dropped my gaze and left to do her bidding. I'd never worn the butt plug she'd given me to the office. Nothing about the day was going as usual. Despite my vague dread, I tickled my enlarged clit as I lubed and inserted the anal device. The extremely snug, rubbery panties, combined with the bulb distending my rectum, would keep it secure. I fondled my cosmetics as I loaded everything I'd need into the small suitcase. I chose my tallest black heels, placed them, my wig, and a slinky red dress I knew my wife adored in a garment bag.

Knotting my tie, I perused myself in the mirror. My hair, combed back and unstyled, brushed my shoulders. My brows were subtly shaped - but more than a little obvious, I thought. My enlarged chest was clearly visible in profile, despite the suit coat. I was, to my eyes, a delicate woman in masculine garb. It was difficult to imagine how my peers could still see me as a male.

Lisa had made sure I heard all the whispers. Everyone in the building believed I was just a swishy fag, and expressed astonishment that I was married to a drop dead gorgeous woman like Sarah. I was embarrassed, of course, but powerless to dispute the rumors. The only one that truly upset me was the vicious slur that Sarah had taken lovers. The reason it was so troublesome was that I was afraid my passionate wife would develop a need for what I couldn't provide - rampant masculinity. A long, thick, hard cock, as Lisa had put it when she detailed the most recent gossip.

Each time Sarah had to work late, or was unexpectedly absent from home or her office, I wondered. If she came to me with a pre-moistened vagina, I visualized her having been with someone else. On the nights we went to bars, when she allowed men to hold her tight on the dance floor, or taste the lush scarlet lips I'd painted for her, I was dizzied by a thick blend of jealousy and excitement. I couldn't summon the courage to ask her. I was afraid she'd tell me a truth I wasn't prepared to hear.

That fear was dominant in my mind as I readied myself to leave the house that morning. Sarah had made no preparations for work. She was lounging in the living room in the dress I'd given her. A pack of my cigarettes and an ashtray were conspicuous on the end table. She'd freshened her bright lipstick and was in the process of enameling nails she'd epoxied to her fingertips. With my heart in my throat, I weakly inquired about her plans for the day.

Her only response was to teasingly smile and say, "I'll meet you in the parking lot at the corner of Van Buren and Seventeenth at five-thirty, love. Have a nice day."

I was terribly distracted, and grateful that Lisa was late arriving. I'd barely had time to pull myself together, however, before she shattered my feeble composure. She accomplished that without a word. All that was required was for her to stand with her back to me so I could remove her long winter coat. I'd refused to look at her lest she see my discomfort and mock it. It was wasted effort on my part. She wasn't dressed for work, but for seduction. It was written all over the face I'd so studiously avoided looking into, as well.

She turned, remained disconcertingly close. Her perfume filled my nostrils. Her slow drawl was rife with coy allure. "You like, baby? I bought it especially for you. Happy Valentine's Day."

As usual, when she chose to look slutty she left little to the imagination. The silver silk dress clung to every inch of her stunning body, with no hint of either brassiere or panties beneath. Her hooked platinum nails toyed with my lapel. Her emerald eyes bored into my soul.

"I've canceled all our appointments for the day. I want to be with you, Paul. Nobody but you. We're going to celebrate." She licked her parted scarlet lips. They shimmered, were so slick with gloss I could nearly see my reflection in them. "We'll have a champagne brunch, and then I'll let you open my present." Her silvered lids sagged. "Did you bring me anything special?"

I cleared my throat. "I didn't think that would be appropriate, Lisa. I'm sorry, but -"

"Hush, honey. You don't have to explain. I don't mind. Being with you is gift enough."

I was reassured - and excited. My fears regarding Sarah were forgotten. Lisa and I had spent an entire day in like fashion in celebration of her thirty-first birthday the month before. It'd been even more spectacularly erotic than was our wont. She'd driven me to distraction for seven uninterrupted hours, modeling the entire contents of the antique wardrobe for me, sitting tight against my side wearing one whorish outfit after another while we paged through an array of sexually oriented catalogues and selected new toys and attire for her. I'd reached a pair of stupefying orgasms. Hers, I'd lost count of by noon. She once again demonstrated that her sexual appetite was endless.

We'd established a series of nonverbal signals. Two fingers forming a vee indicated she needed a cigarette - or had decided that I did. The process was the same in either case. I lit it, handed it to her. She'd either smoke it or take a deep drag and return it to me. A desire for fresh coffee was signaled by curled finger. A more potent libation was indicated by the same gesture and a wave toward the liquor stock. I took refuge in the first normalcy of the day as I went for her tobacco.

"You look especially hot today, Paul. There's a little extra wiggle in that sweet ass. Did that bitch of a wife fuck it for you this morning?"

My face was nearly as crimson as her mouth as I returned to the conversation area. "Of course not." My hand shook as I handed her the cigarette.

Her deep inhalation seemed fated to rip her bodice. "She did something nasty to it. I've had enough things up my shit hole to know that special mince." Her eyes narrowed, either with suspicion or against the smoke. Her bald stare at me was piercing. "There's something else, too. Your suit. Take off your jacket."

By blush became blanch. My voice was barely a whisper. "I'd rather not."

Her face went cold and stern, but she didn't push. She patted the sofa cushion. "Sit, baby."

I did, stiffly.

Her eyes were on my chest. "You've got tits."

Three little words, delivered calmly, coolly, with neither rancor nor shock. I didn't move. I couldn't, not even had my life depended on it. My vision seemed to narrow into a narrow tunnel. I stared woodenly straight ahead. I saw a plume of smoke enter my range of sight. I hear the soft rustle of silk as Lisa moved. I knew what would come next, as surely as I knew the sun would set. Her touch upon my right breast was gentle but firm.

"I'll be fucked," she whispered in an even throatier tone. Her touch became caress, focused exclusively upon my nipple. Dutifully, it began to swell. Her pet became pinch, evoking an even more rapid distention. More smoke filled my line of sight, and she shifted position again. Her left breast was crushed against my upper arm. My chest was abandoned, but her fingers only shifted to the buttons of my suit coat.

"A fucking blouse." It was nearly a whimper, similar to a sound she made while working herself toward orgasm. My thudding pulse nearly drowned it out. She deftly opened the top the fasteners of my gray cotton top. I couldn't look, but I knew she was exposing the lycra cat suit. Her breath suddenly sounded like thunder. The rest of the universe fell silent as her hands completed their task and tugged the shirt tails from my slacks. She pushed, leaned me forward, jerked the jacket and blouse off my shoulders, trapping my arms.

"Motherfuck. You're a woman." It was a groan. She slid to the floor, jerked off my loafers and socks, gasped. As my manicured toenails were bared, I felt entirely naked. Mashing her breasts against my knees, she attacked my belt and zipper. "Raise your hips, cunt," she grated.

I don't think I did, but she managed to pull my trousers to my ankles anyway. It was done. I sat before her, finally my true self. My compressed waist had never looked so tiny, my breasts never larger, my back thrust clit never harder. The whore of my dreams squatted before me on her five inch heels, her pussy staring up at me, her vivid lips parted in raw desire, her tinted eyes dancing over me like the intimate fingers rubbing my lycra stockings.

Thirty minutes later, inundated by a sense of deja vu, I was fully myself. I'd been sent to the car to retrieve my garment bag and overnight case. My boss double fucked herself through a wild series of orgasms with a pair of false cocks, her eyes feverishly upon me as I demonstrated my skill with cosmetics and slipped into the slinky red cocktail gown.

I was drunk on sensation long before I removed the cork from the champagne. Over dom perignon and caviar, I told her the whole decadent tale as graphically as I knew how, squirming on my butt plug as she slowly masturbated her ass with the ivory phallus.

I was the sole focus of her attention. Her eyes couldn't get enough of me, and I loved every moment of it. I was whorishly flirtatious, tempting her to touch me every time I swayed near her, licking my wet red lips meaningfully as I stared between her sleek legs. Beyond those initial lingering strokes, we adhered strictly to our no-touch rule. Her resistance to my allure was visible in fists she knotted to prevent them from caressing me, in her lust glazed eyes. The tables had been turned.

She posed me all over the office, lipstick marked cigarette held between my long scarlet nails, breast buds thrust forward, sweet red lips parted invitingly. She asked - not ordered - me to do a strip for her. To the accompaniment of some grinding rhythm and blues tune, I peeled down to my snug lycra panties while she made herself cum with dancing fingers. I was nearly delirious with my new found power over the sexiest woman on earth. If she'd desired me before, she was infatuated, enthralled, now.

The day was a parade of erotic adventures, and came to a close far too soon. I found time, while Lisa was changing clothes, to dial Sarah's work number. She hadn't been in all day. She wasn't home, either. Lisa's return, clad like a sailor's wet dream come alive, banished most of my worry, and our tantalizing lechery resumed at a feverish level. She achieved perhaps a dozen thrashing orgasms, but, despite having every opportunity to join her, I'd held back my own throbbing need. A half dozen times, I'd trembled, right on the verge, feeling my pre-cum leaking like syrup from the tip of my clit, yet refrained from releasing my white-hot explosion of seed. She'd seemed in awe of my self-control, and perhaps of her own.

Intoxicated, I readily agreed not to change back into my male attire before leaving. My ears ringing, barely able to walk a straight line in my lovely stiletto heels, I accompanied her to the parking garage via the executive elevator. I couldn't be sure whether I was more disappointed or relieved when we didn't pass near enough to anyone else for me to be recognized.

I said farewell to Lisa, barely able to resist leaning in to kiss her perfect lips. Reluctantly, I turned my attention toward the parking lot where I was to meet my wife. Nothing she could give me could possibly exceed the wild wickedness of my Valentine's gift to Lisa.

Penance

Chapter 9

by Tristmegistis

Van Buren Avenue was dirty. Unremittingly, soberingly gray. The breath-taking fantasy I'd wallowed within all day was threatened by the overwhelming ugliness of boarded up buildings and scurrying shapes in ragged coats. My car, by no means luxurious, was conspicuously upscale amongst the rolling wrecks dotting the parking lot. It was after five-thirty. The longer I waited for Sarah, the more uncomfortable I became.

I looked like a scantily clad, pretty young woman. I was stared at by several vaguely threatening men. It took me until my second cigarette, and witnessing a girl who had to be a hooker entering a grungy looking hotel, to recall that this was a red light district. I remembered driving through here one summer night, seeing the glitzy glare of neon advertising nude dancers and XX movies bathing a lurid line of streetwalkers peddling their wares.

Despite my growing fear, my clit re-hardened. I was amongst real whores. Was Sarah going to parade me, force me to strut like them, park me on bar stools and compel me to fend off men who wanted to give me money for sex? The rear view mirror told me I already looked like a denizen of this part of the city. I'd read more than one article dealing with transsexual prostitutes. I kept my hands away from my groin, but couldn't prevent myself from squirming slightly on the sticky vinyl seat.

I saw the man the moment he exited a bar across the street. The sign above the door read Trish's. He scanned the parking lot, and his eyes locked on my vehicle as if he'd located a goal. His walk was powerfully casual as he approached. The closer he came, the bigger he looked. His gaze didn't waver from my outline behind the wheel.

I imagine I looked stunned and frightened as he stopped beside my door, bent, and peered directly into my wide, alarmed eyes. His smile was as broad as his shoulders as he tapped on the window with a knuckle.

"You're Paula." It wasn't a question. His eyes scanned what he could see of me and seemed to enjoy the sight.

I nodded stupidly, wished I'd had enough sense to lock my door, yet was also glad I'd just repaired my face..

"Come with me. Sarah's waiting."

I stared for long moments. He was handsome, in a rugged way. Was he my wife's lover? Had he touched her, kissed her, buried a long, thick penis into her moist holes, made her scream ecstatically?

Impatient, he opened my door. I cringed slightly. He offered me a big hand, and I saw myself accept it, barely remembering to grab my handbag before delicately swinging my feet to the pavement. My impression of his size only increased as I stood beside him. He was nearly six feet six inches tall, and seemed extremely muscular beneath an expensive trench coat that looked out of place in this neighborhood. He offered me his arm. Reflexively, I accepted, felt the immensity of his bicep.

It took me three or four paces to manage speech. My voice was weak, soft. "Is Sarah ? . . How long have you . . ."

He laughed politely at my confusion. "She's inside. We're old friends." His face wrinkled into a serious expression. "I'm sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Larry Williams."

The name meant nothing to me. My heart quailed. He must be a secret lover. Old friends. He might have been seeing my wife for years. Had I unwittingly lapped his semen from her vagina, tasted its residue on her lips? My throat closed, forbade any more words.

He held the door for me, guided me into the smoky dimness of Trish's, a strip bar which was much cleaner and more tasteful than I'd anticipated. The music for a pretty young woman prancing on stage wasn't offensively loud. She was in the process of tantalizingly shedding an evening gown. Immediately, my stomach hollowed as I recalled dancing much as she was for Lisa mere hours before. Her audience was sparse. Small groups of businessmen, for the most part, equally dividing their attention between the dancer and their muted conversations.

Larry led me to the right, toward the far wall. I saw Sarah only when we were almost upon her. Like that morning, a cigarette glowed in her hand. She was still wearing her Valentines's gift. Her exotic makeup looked much more natural in this setting than it had at home. My escort guided me onto the bench across from her, then sat at her side. The way she leaned toward him forever resolved the issue of the nature of their relationship. But her eyes were only for me.

"You look lovely, darling," she purred. "Stunning, don't you think, Larry?"

"Absolutely. Can I get you something to drink?"

My voice still wasn't operative. I nodded, sorting through the overpowering tidal wave of conflicting emotions drowning me.

"She'll have white wine. Something dry."

I'd fumbled out my cigarettes without thought. Larry was quick to steady my hand and light it for me, then excused himself to fetch my drink.

"Isn't he gorgeous?" my wife wondered after him.

I squeezed sound from my chest. "Is he . . ?"

"Good in bed?" she smiled into my eyes, knowing that wasn't what I'd been attempting to ask. She drew smoke between lips that I now saw were passion heavy. "Very. He's been dying to meet you, love."

"Why?" I cried softly. "Oh, Sarah, why -"

Again she deliberately misinterpreted my question. I felt the slick toe of her high heel tickle my calf. "Because he wants to be your lover, too, darling. He wants to be your first man."

I remember the most peculiar things. The ashtray between us held three cigarette butts. One, with a brown filter and no lipstick, must have been smoked by Larry. Another song began - "The Devil Inside," by INXS. The new stripper was a redhead with the most massive breasts I'd ever seen. Sarah's nipples were at maximum distention beneath the sexy dress I'd given her that very morning. My hand was steady as I brought the cigarette to my numb lips.

I'd never allowed myself to think about this day. In my heart, I'd known it was inevitable. Dancing when we went out was a wicked game, pleasurable mostly because of my deception. Fantasizing about Sarah being a man as she split me with the double dildo was nothing like this. It was play. It meant nothing. Now, the game was ended. My legs spread, allowing Sarah's toe to massage my groin. My clit was a bar of steel.

I heard myself speaking even before I'd consciously decided to. I sounded relaxed. "Lisa found out today. She made me go to the car and bring my things in. I've been dressed and made up since before lunch. I think she's really in love with me."

"I know." Her gaze was level. "We planned it together."

I felt no surprise. Perhaps I was in shock. Perhaps a part of me had suspected collusion between them for a long time. Perhaps my straining clit and the fact that I was soon going to feel a man's penis enter me left no room for anything else. I let my hips press against the shoe probing my groin. My voice was thick, my eyes half closed. "Is she going to be here?"

"I already am, love." The throaty voice I'd been listening to all day came from the booth behind me. A moment later, I sensed her moving to my side. I smelled her special fragrance, felt the marvelous cushion of her breast against my arm. My lips parted for the kiss I was certain would follow. Her mouth was soft, candy sweet, tender. Her hand was beside my wife's foot, caressing my clit. She lifted my limp right hand and pressed it to her thigh. Her vagina was hot, wet, slick. I came, mewling softly into her mouth.

"Lovely," came a male voice it took me a second to attach Larry's name to. "Three gorgeous women making love."

I opened my eyes as he sat beside Sarah. I was crying. I felt foolish. Lisa already had a tissue in her hand and began lovingly blotting my eyes. Sarah's foot left my sticky groin as her lover claimed her carmine lips, his large hand weighing a breast.

Lisa hissed as my sharp nail grazed her clitoris. "Pinch it, baby. Do me. Hurry."

Fifteen minutes later, we were in a room in the repulsive, filthy hotel I'd seen the hooker enter. Hands were everywhere, all over me. It took a long, delicious while to shed our clothes. Lisa and I watched as Larry's massive member stretched my wife's pussy. Sarah's joy was plain. Lisa's hand on my exposed clit was replaced by her lips. I felt ashamed for a brief time, but her hunger for me abolished that.

I barely notice Larry extracting his glistening member from Sarah's vagina. But when she rolled onto her belly, took my hand and guided it to his erection, it had my complete attention. It was so smooth, so firm in my cautious grip.

"My ass," Sarah whimpered. "Put it in me, Paula. Watch me. See how good it feels."

Her rectum was already lubricated, as if she'd already hosted him there. Despite his size, his staff slid through my hand until it was trapped between her soft cheeks and his hard belly.

Lisa pushed me flat on the bed beside them, moved without losing her lip lock on my organ, lowered her delicious pussy onto my face. I tongue fucked her with a frenzy unlike anything I'd ever known. Someone moved my hand from the base of Larry's cock and planted it on Sarah's cunt. With a finger inside her, I felt the staff impaling her nether hole. The familiar sounds of Lisa's orgasmic shrieks, muted by the sex she had buried in her throat, resonated through me like my clit was an amplifier.

Months of pent up desire went into my orgasm. It ripped me, tore me asunder. Later, when the women prepared me for my deflowering, powdering and primping and painting me like a slatternly parody of a bride, even dressing me in a white bustier, stockings and heels, it was almost anti-climactic. I'd already turned the irrevocable corner. Eager to get on with it, I smoked nervously as they fussed over me. I already knew what it was going to feel like, how incredibly fulfilling it was going to be.

I was one hundred percent correct. I behaved like the slut I was, screaming at Larry to fuck me hard and deep, to line my guts with his cum, to treat me like the cheap whores who were usually fucked on that bed. Then, after cleaning him, I sucked him hard again. Lisa and Sarah were entwined in a lascivious sixty-nine at my side when he greased my throat with his sperm.

So much has changed. That was eleven months ago. There was no more need for the charade of dressing as a man. Nor for the pretense that Lisa and Sarah despised one another. They'd been lovers for months before conspiring the Halloween encounter that had begun my transformation. We shared one another - and Larry - fully after that glorious day in the vile hotel.

I actually relished the shock wave that rattled the windows of the building when I pranced into work the following day in a blue dress and makeup. My slick red lips smirked at the male eyes which measured me, though only behind my back. I didn't have to worry about losing my position. Lisa had explained how she came by her power. She had. indeed, fucked half the Board of Directors, as the rumors suggested. Before the week was out, I began cementing my job security the same way. Being draped over her desk, having one cock up my ass and another buried in my throat while Lisa entertained in like fashion on the leather sofa became a regular event.

They were actually the ones who financed my breast enlargement and laryngetomy. They wanted to have my clit surgically altered as well, but Sarah, Lisa and I vetoed that. Lisa had told the truth about adoring small penises. She endured large members with stoic grace, but worshiped mine, even after the hormones began to reduce my potency.

We're much closer now than I am with Sarah. She's reverted to her old self, rarely wearing any of the outrageous clothing Lisa and I prefer. She and Larry have been madly in love since the day they met, nearly three years ago. Their torrid affair is now entirely in the open. He shares our home, and her bed They're considering having children. I spend most of my nights with Lisa and our male friends. I'm every bit the easy fuck she is, and am at my happiest when I'm showing off my outrageous 36-C's in a tight, low cut gown - given to me by the same surgeon who aided Lisa. Like her, I never get enough sex, or enough exhibitionism.

Strange how life turns out, don't you think?