"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'd 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'd 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'd 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 garters, hose and heels, she was smoking a

nonchalant 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 peaking unsagging 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'd 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'll it be?"

My response was to stagger to my new room. Still sobbing,

but as quietly as I could manage, I fumblingly 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'd 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 truck 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 re-emptied 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'd 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'd 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. 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 noncommittally, 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 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 her satiation.

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'd 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'd 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'd 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 shrill

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 shrivelled 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'd

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 tornadic 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 celluar 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'd 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 overpainted 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 mahogony 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.

"Oooh. 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 makeover 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 conver-

sational. 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'd

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'd 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 wracking,

explosive gouts.

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 unsagging 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

swiveled 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 swiveled 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-crotched 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'd 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'd 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'd 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, inarguably 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 worshipped 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 disspiate 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'd 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 XXX 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 Valientine'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'd

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 worshipped 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?