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The Christmas Gift, Pt. 14
🕑 Added 2023-03-06 09:12:17 +0000 UTC
I relaxed back into the counter, my middle and ring fingers still buried inside of me, my body jolting sporadically with the occasional aftershock.
My labia minora tugged plaintively around my knuckles, while my other two fingers anchored into my soaking wet pussy lips, keeping me deep.
I had watched the tremors rolling over my cleavage. Over the flesh of my exposed breast. Felt them coursing over my naked ass and into my thighs. Every part of me felt the earthquake.
I reached with my other hand to caress my exposed mammary, lifting it from the counter, clutching it wantonly, my wedding ring pressing in, glinting in the candlelight. I squeezed, thinking of Andy. Was her milk coming in yet?
Her areola certainly looked dark when she leaned over during her story and provided me a quick peek beneath her dress. I bet Andy’s nipples used to be as pink as mine. Hers were so dark now, wider, taken with motherly hormones, preparing for their work.
The function of breasts was not lost on me. I knew why they were hanging on my chest and I understood with profound disquiet how easy it would be to fulfill their purpose. I squeezed my fingers inside of me, unsettled at my imaginings of my pretty pink nipples pitching darker. My breasts swelling. Blood rushing to support my mammary glands in their new production.
I tugged my nipple and nothing came out.
I rolled my thick, sensitive nipple between my fingers, drunk on oxytocin and estrogen. The languid aftermath of the abbreviated male orgasm was no match for this sort of high. My body wanted more — because it could have it. I pumped my fingers lightly inside of me and squeezed them.
My fingers slid from my pussy. I stood to my feet, swept my hair back, and eyed myself in the mirror. My dress was still hiked up, soft velvet held in my cleanly shaven armpits, my stance as wide as my heels would allow, candlelight illuminated the glaze of fluid that coated my pussy lips and shapely inner thighs. The image was surreal — and disconcertingly welcome.
Instead of the usual drowsy fallout of male orgasm, I felt wide awake. Refreshed. The woman in the mirror was ready for another. And another. Maybe the next time she would throw her leg up on the counter and bend over, her face to the mirror, kissing her reflection as her fingers played.
My mind was suddenly full of new ideas.
I was still hard. My clit’s presence at the apex of my folds felt truer than any male erection I had ever experienced. Its firmness was uncanny. Its compactness was its strength. It lingered, waiting to be touched.
I steadied myself while I licked my sweetness off my fingers, bewildered that I ever felt intimidated by mindless locker room comparisons. My clit loomed large in my mind. Towering in spirit over any cock. And I found myself considering the best cock might simply be not having one in the first place — perhaps it was better if someone else had it instead?
This line of thought put butterflies in my tight little tummy — and being such a denial of the entire conception I had of myself up to today, I immediately tried to distance myself from meditating on it for too long, for danger I may be tempted to settle it in too deep and ride it to it's natural conclusion.
This morning I had not expected this kind of momentum. If I was to stay myself, there were lines I shouldn't cross. Relinquishing my cock to the possession of another was probably one of them, wasn't it?
I considered it for a moment, deciding — perhaps.
I stepped back — out of my thong, letting it fall from my ankles, and clicked my way back to the toilet.
I sat down, my dress still hiked high, settling my plump ass to the seat, thinking of Sam and Brad’s backyard display and Andy’s admission that standing to pee was the only thing she missed about being a man.
If I was trying to avoid feeling like a woman, this certainly wasn’t going to help.
I relaxed. It flowed out of me like a spring. I moaned softly to myself. I had heard the familiar sound in passing of a woman peeing behind closed doors all of my life. It was now reverberating around me. I was now making the sound. And now I knew what it felt like.
I addressed Andy in my mind — was this really so bad? Standing would mean we had a cock. I moaned to myself, struggling to keep thoughts like this from finding a home in my mind. Already, too many scenarios were playing out in my mind — scenarios where I was resolved. Submissive. Agreeable.
You have to change back — remember? I reminded myself.
The flow continued and my thighs spread a little wider as I reached a hand to my side and rolled it in toilet paper, at the ready, to wipe my pussy once I was finished.
When I was done, I planted both feet and straightened my legs, lifting myself into a confident balance on my heels. I felt the flex in my thighs and the soreness returning to my feet. I didn’t mind it.
I stepped forward and ran the hand towel that still beared the marks of my teeth under the faucet and pushed it between my legs, wiping the glaze of my pleasure away. The sweetness of my reverie still lingered in the air.
My illuminated image was framed perfectly in the mirror before me. I admired it. Standing straight. One breast exposed. One contained.
Containment.
I stepped back into the waiting leg holes of my abandoned thong, and lifted it over my shapely legs and back where it belonged. I settled it over my pussy, into the crack of my ass, and rounded it over the hourglass of my hips. Then I grabbed my naked butt cheeks in my hands and squeezed. Yes. They had rumbled so in the tremors of my climax. Yes.
What a nice tail I had. I knew Sam agreed. I liked the way he was looking at it when I sauntered to the kitchen. Maybe he’s an ass man? I rolled my eyes at the mindless term, and then I was struck by another sudden and abrupt thought.
A flash of knowing. My body pinned beneath him. His hot exhales coursing over my body.
I shook and grabbed the counter.
Oh, god. What were these thoughts that entered my mind unexpectedly from all directions? Penetrating my being. Playing rough with my fragile male psyche. These thoughts that grabbed hold of me and pulled me toward them? Thoughts punctuated by quick flashes of my long hair in my face, my curves bouncing, a man’s body moving over me, my flesh in his grip, my throat crying out.
Sam didn’t want that. Did he?
I flexed and felt my tight puckering feminine little asshole — another off limits place in our household. I understood why. The thought terrified me. Deeply. It was harrowing to think about, especially with someone as well hung as my wife. My little asshole quivered — so near to my sex now, and so vulnerable.
It struck me once again that I would do anything to please my wife.
Anything.
It’s how I ended up here. In this dress. With this pussy.
If Sam asked — whatever she asked — there would be no stopping her. My only hope, then, would be for her not to ask. But the thought, now rooted in my mind, branched forth in my synapses, and I recalled what Andy had said by the fire:
“I let Brad take me any way he wanted.”
Fuck.
The statement called up such desire within me. It made me purr in delight. It made me want to bend over and surrender to Sam's every whim.
“I let Brad take me any way he wanted.”
I shook my head in disbelief, wondering if either of our wives could have ever said the same thing.
No. I knew the answer immediately. I shook my head. As a woman, I looked down on them for it.
My mind traced over the minefield of rules and hurdles my marriage had dissolved into over the years. No matter where I tried to step, a complaint always appeared. And now here I stood, in disbelief at the confident way my wife had stepped forward in our bathroom. The way she had fired across my face. The double standards at play.
The way she had simply decided.
I tucked my exposed tit into my bra and sighed to myself. Was falling to my knees the logical conclusion of our marriage? Was standing in my beautiful dress the final outcome of being an agreeable husband? Or was it my wife’s cum across my face? Her large hand groping my butt through my dress? Her cock firing in my mouth? Where did it stop?
Sam just took whatever she wanted.
And me?
I shook my head, remembering I had walked up behind Samantha earlier this week and moved my hand across her butt while she was cooking, no differently than the way she had touched mine in our entry way. But when I had done it, how quickly she had slapped my hand away!
I realized, suddenly and disconcertingly, that I would have slapped my hand away, too.
It had not been a sure hand.
I glanced down at the picture frame sitting by our guest bathroom sink. It contained one of my favorite photos of us — Samantha and I on a trip to Petra. It was taken when we were dating. Before we were married.
I looked into Samantha’s eyes. She was smiling wide. Giddy. She was wearing a baggy t-shirt and big, khaki shorts. Until now I hadn’t noticed how messy her hair was in the photograph. We had grown up in a fairly sheltered upbringing, and I could see the naivety clearly displayed in our faces, clothing, expressions — especially Samantha’s. But there was something pure in her gaze. Something naive and kind. I remembered that woman. It was the woman I had fallen in love with.
And there I stood, beside her in the photo; a vivacious look in my eyes, a smile on my face, a confident arm wrapped around Samantha. There I stood, in a far off place, with the love of my life. Ready for the frontier. Ready for adventure. Could it get any better?
I regarded my male self in the photo. I looked into his eyes and whispered sweetly.
“Kid — you have no idea.”
Until this morning, that spirit of adventure — that need for the frontier — had been gradually clipped away. That wide-eyed guy in the photo, his wings held and clipped, was well on his way to becoming a grounded goose tottering around an organic farm.
Tottering to work. Tottering home. Tottering to whatever cute thing Samantha wanted to do on the weekends. Force fed with media, advertising, pop psychology, fad diets, life advice, and financial planning. Wandering without aim through the Premium VIP Diamond-Platinum Reward Smorgasbord of Existence that was stretched between the hospital and the cemetery. I batted my eyelashes and stared at the photograph.
Honestly — Fuck all that shit.
The guy in the photo just wanted to live.
And the woman standing in the mirror was no different. And yet — unlike Eddie, Eddy felt willing to take responsibility for her path and make sure steps.
I looked back at the photo. At Samantha — Her frumpy clothes. The smile on her face. Her naive manner.
And I ached at how badly I wanted her cock inside of me.
.
.
Thank you for reading! Hope you are enjoying it. I need to go do some life stuff and will be back with the next part very soon. — BL
