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Message-ID: <43585asstr$1059264602@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern)
Subject: {ASSM} Last Summer by Vickie Tern 4/11 TG femdom wife
Date: Sat, 26 Jul 2003 20:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

                             Last Summer

                           by Vickie Tern


                                iv.

So last June when Craig came into the restaurant with this friend
of his and saw me and asked if they could sit with us, and I saw
Cheryl's face brighten, I said "Sure!"  What's a girlfriend for?  

They sat down, and I watched Carol turned her full charm on Craig's
friend.  He was a real chiseled hunk, and I realized that it had
been a whole two weeks since her last extra-curricular fuck.  Then
as Craig picked up his napkin and looked at me, I saw that usual
slightly cocky grin on his face, the expression he always had.  But
with Cheryl in the vicinity it took on heavy sexual overtones.  "I
can get into you and get the better of you," his face seemed to say
to me quietly, confidently.  Cheryl saw him making his moves on me,
smiled her approval, and devoted her attention entirely to the
other guy.  

Especially in front of my girlfriend Cheryl I felt challenged by
Craig's wiseass expression, his "I can take you" attitude.  So out
of the blue and out loud, I told him, "No you can't!"   

He knew exactly what I meant.  "Yes I can." he said with his grin
widening.  I'd accepted his gambit, I'd taken his bait, and the
challenge match was on.  We sparred good naturedly but with
increasing daring all through lunch, and the talk got racy.  I
developed a new respect for his quick wit and also for his open
attitude toward all sorts of fascinating things men and women can
do with each other, things I'd never imagined I'd ever do with my
beloved Scott.  We proposed quite a few, in jest at first, but then
I wasn't so sure.  The stakes rose.  Cheryl and the other guy
disappeared before dessert and then there were just the two of us. 
And before very much longer we'd taken our argument to a motel and
worked ourselves into a sexual frenzy.  By evening I knew that I
would be unable to get enough of Craig, trying to swallow him down
and yearning to take his whole body into my own while reaching
toward higher and higher delights.  Blissful waves of orgasms kept
crashing through me no matter what he did.  He apparently went
equally berserk.  The lunch that began in that restaurant ended
that evening only when we'd finally fallen back from each other
exhausted, replete, gratified desire written all over our bodies,
having been intimate with each other beyond any intimacies any of
us had ever previously achieved with anyone.

And then I was pushing to leave that motel room, slick and sticky
with his juices, my body and breath reeking of his cum and my own
exudings too.  With no time to wash up first.  With Scott, my poor
darling betrayed Scott, waiting for me at home the whole time.  I
felt great!  I felt terrible!  I didn't know how I felt.

Well, Craig had to be as sticky as I was, as heavily coated with my
juices, smelling just as pungent, I thought with some satisfaction
when I glanced once more at him.  He lay relaxed on the bed,
watching me leave.  I'd repeatedly wiped my sloppy crotch all over
his face and hair, and he'd dived between my legs on his own
repeatedly.  By now he must really stink the way I stink, I was
thinking triumphantly.  Only worse!

"I won!" I'd told him almost gleefully as I turned to leave.  A
last bravado gesture, because along with nightfall and my sense of
neglected obligations at home had come a terrible realization of
what I'd lost.  Or nearly lost, not yet lost, what I'd put at risk. 
I added it up, and it came to everything.  My whole life.  Scott,
his love for me, those weren't yet lost, but they'd be gone in
another hour when he learned where I'd been and what I'd done. 
What man would tolerate marriage to someone who'd done what I'd
just done?

Some things were already lost forever, I realized.  Our openness,
our honesty were now things of the past.  I had secrets I didn't
dare reveal to him, not even when I was making love to him. 
Especially when making love to him, especially if I attempted to do
anything with Scott that I'd previously done with Craig.  Even when
making love to my husband I'd need to be on my guard.  I'd need to
be dishonest with him to preserve even a semblance of what we'd
once had.  And all because Craig had sat down at that table where
Cheryl and I met each week, and had looked me over appraisingly,
not as a business associate but as a partner in something else far
more exciting!  That had been far more exciting!  Mind-staggering. 
But suddenly I felt crushed and frightened and very much alone. 
When I declared "I won!" a second time, the words sounded hollow. 
I'd been such a fool!

"Did you win?" he asked in reply.  As if agreeing with me, as if
doubting it, as if disagreeing with me flat out.  I couldn't tell. 
"We'll see," he said.  Without thinking, entranced by the delicious
warmth I felt through my whole body, I nodded.  

Then Craig said he'd call me, and I'd said "Good!" like an idiot,
and then he'd turned his back to me.  The bastard!  I'd get him!  

He'd been a terrific fuck because no matter how self-seeking he'd
been, his attention and instincts had been focussed on what I
wanted, how I felt moment to moment, how to make me extend myself
to satisfy him.  He wanted to conquer me!  Scott was different. 
Scott devoted himself to me because he loved me, just as I loved
him.  When we fucked, we became each other.  But Craig and I tried
to out-do each other.  We were never satisfied.  During the last
few hours we'd opened out the most bizarre desires.  I'd done
things with Craig I'd never dream of attempting with Scott ever,
and it was never enough!  I craved more!  I wanted more!  

But I felt guilty nevertheless.

I tried to toss a wanly appreciative grin at him when he promised
to call, and then I dove through the door toward my car, and raced
home through the deep late June twilight too tired to think.  Now
I had to face Scott, who'd expected me home hours ago.  He'd have
called Cheryl by now to find out where I was.  Was Cheryl home yet? 
I doubted it.  He'd have talked to Mort.  He'd never met Mort,
didn't know him.  But Mort knew about me and Scott, so in his soft,
lilting girl voice he'd have explained that Cheryl wasn't yet back
from her lunch.  "Maybe they went shopping," he'd suggest.  He
covered for Cheryl all the time, so he'd cover for me too.  This
late the stores were already closed, but maybe Scott would buy it. 

I smelled rank.  Yet I couldn't just show up at home and head for
the shower -- I never showered when I got home, so he'd wonder why. 
And I couldn't think of an excuse -- we'd driven through ...what?,
someone had thrown ... what?, and if so why wasn't the car or my
clothes covered with it?  We never went jogging or played tennis or
did anything else sweaty and strenuous during these Saturday
afternoons -- he knew that Cheryl got her exercise other ways
altogether.  It had been a comfortably cool day, so I couldn't
claim I was sticky with perspiration.  Could I spill something on
me in the kitchen and ...?  No.  

It came to one thing.  I couldn't let him sniff me and I couldn't
let him touch me.  Tonight I couldn't allow my own darling husband
any of the intimacies I'd just bestowed lavishly on Craig.  Poor
Scott!  Even arm's length would be too close.

And that was a problem, because we were always intimate on Saturday
nights.  By Saturday evening we'd had a full day to clear our heads
of the week's office tensions, and a full afternoon away from
domestic obligations, even from each other.  By Saturday evening we
could appreciate fully what we had in each other.

This made for an especially terrible problem for me, because in
addition to Craig's juices I was covered with guilt.  I'd risked my
marriage just to show this terrific guy who could get the better of
who.  And my pussy still beamed with pride and satisfaction.  The
afterglow still declared the delight I'd squeezed out of this
incredible man who had been everywhere all over me and inside me. 

And I really regretted none of it!  Despite my guilt I found myself
exulting!  I now had two men.  Could I somehow keep both of them? 
Live with Scott and love living with him, and fuck Craig and love
fucking him?  Could Scott conceivably accept that arrangement? 
Could any man?

What a slut I am, I told myself!  Here I am thinking about another
fuckfest with Craig even before I've found safe harbor from this
first one, this violent storm I've just survived at the motel! 
And as I recalled what I'd just done, my pussy spasmed! 
Deliciously!  My God, I did want more!  More gloriously uninhibited
fucking!  Craig's sperm again trickled into the tissues I'd tucked
into my quim, and I suddenly realized that at this moment there
were thousands of little Craigs swimming around inside me, in my
vagina and my tummy and my bowels.  Right now I was Craig's sperm
container!  His breeding ground!  Did I really want to do this
again?  Did I really want to be unfaithful again?  A fallen woman?

No, I told myself, because I love my husband and my marriage.  Yes,
I answered myself, because the sex was fabulous, incomparable!   So
no or yes?  I needed time to think, to sort out first things first. 


First of all I had to survive this homecoming.  There was only one
way.  I had to pick a fight with Scott as soon as I entered the
house and then storm off angrily and sleep in the guest room.  Or
make him storm off.  I didn't dare let him get close to me.  I had
to push him away.  

All right, we'd fight.  But how?  Over what?  We hardly ever
disagreed.  When we quarreled Scott would almost always give in to
me, if I was insistent, and if I was altogether wrong about
whatever it was, the next day he'd kindly but firmly petition me
for a reconsideration, and then I'd give in.  He loved me.  I loved
him.

And a new pang of guilt stabbed my innards.  I loved him so!  But
this time I resolutely suppressed all sentiment.  I tried again to
think this thing through rationally.

What would Cheryl do?  Did Cheryl ever fight with Mort?  Over what? 
His cross dressing?  His occasional boy friends?  She'd brought
those about herself!  She encouraged them!  It had been months
before she'd realized that it wasn't those panties that had turned
him on during their honeymoon, and it wasn't his women's clothes,
and it wasn't even his men.  He had no secret yen for any of those
things.  It was that she wanted him to do those things.  He wanted
to please her!  To submit to her will!  She couldn't blame him.  

So they never quarreled, I was sure.  Did he ever have affairs with
other women?  Doubtful, she'd never tolerate it.  And anyhow women
aren't attracted to men with standing salon appointments for their
hair and nails, men who look as pretty as they do.  I'd never
tolerate Scott with a girlfriend other than me either, I was
thinking.  Nor could I live with a Scott who was as pretty as me.

Or could I?  Cheryl did.  I'd once actually seen Mort done up the
way Cheryl wanted him, and he was surprisingly attractive!  When
she'd first told me all about their honeymoon, how they'd been
shopping and flirting and gossiping together about their guys, how
happy she was that Mort had assumed this new role and had carried
it off so well, I simply hadn't believed her.  What man would
possibly do such a thing for his wife?  How could he ever get away
with it?

The answers had come soon enough.  Mort was a man who truly loved
her and appreciated her needs, and needed her guidance and accepted
it.  Felt fulfilled by it.  That was the kind of man who would do
such a thing.  Though a man, how could he make himself look like a
really attractive woman?  The usual answer, practice, practice,
  A woman's beauty is something achieved, not something
that just happens.  Mort became heir to centuries of women's beauty
culture, the arts and sciences of layering and painting artificial
"looks" that seem natural, the stylish uses of cosmetics and curls. 
A man's face is pretty much what he wakes up with and then at most
shaves.  A woman's is a painstaking creation, a work of art
re-created every morning.  He studied and took courses in those
arts.

That was how he got away with it.  A week after I'd ridiculed the
notion that Mort could ever look as alluring as she'd described him
I met Cheryl for lunch and found her already seated, chatting away
with an exquisite young woman in a stunning black outfit, a
tailored suit, wearing a simple delicate silver chain around her
neck.  She was lovely!  And I saw after only a moment that she was
Mort.  

Covering my amazement, I complimented him on his good taste,
especially on the lovely silver chain that graced his ensemble.  He
was embarrassed at first, and couldn't quite look me in the eyes --
I was after all the only person apart from Cheryl who knew him as
a man and as a woman.  But he did thank me, and then asked where
I'd managed to find the lovely beige silk scarf I happened to be
wearing -- he'd been looking everywhere for one just like it.  
When I told him about the little out-of-the-way shop I knew that
had many such tasteful fripperies, I saw in his eyes that special
intensity women feel whenever they're discussing prize purchases. 
Soon we were battering away like old friends.  

It turned out that though the man Mort was something of a bore, the
woman Mort was a delight!  Cheryl had taught him to speak always in
cheery, sprightly tones, as many girls do, and to listen with
lively, intent interest to whatever anyone was saying.  He did
that, and it was flattering, cute, seductive, really endearing.  I
could see why he'd have no problem attracting guys -- he was a
charmer, a heartbreaker!  When Cheryl was momentarily visiting the
Ladies', I asked him flat out why he was doing this, didn't he
regret the loss of his manhood?  He simply tossed his head and
smiled and said in his soft, melliflous woman's voice, "No, it's
kind of fun, this being feminine all the time.  It's ... different. 
But most of all, it's what Cheryl wants.  So that's that!"   I told
Cheryl afterward to keep him the way he was, that he was wasted as
a man.  She agreed that he'd never been much of a man.  She added
though that she didn't want him to go all the way, to become a
complete woman with a vagina, because then he'd become too
independent.  She'd lose his sexual and other services and probably
him too.  Too many men would compete for his affections, and sooner
or later one would win his heart.  So she wanted to keep him fit
only for her.  No longer a man, not quite a woman.

Did I want that for Scott?  Well, I could at least quarrel with him
about it, insist that I did want something like that.  Be a man
like Mort, show a little femininity to prove he loves me?  He'd be
baffled and refuse of course, and then I could stomp off feeling
grieved, and that would get me through the night.  Tomorrow before
he woke up I could take my shower, scrub myself thoroughly, then
dismiss the idea as an idle whim and find some way to make it up to
him.  And also find some larger way to make it up to him for what
he didn't even suspect, that his wife had just enjoyed hour after
hour being passionately unfaithful, fucking another man!  Not
better sex, exactly, but different sex!  Not warm, comforting,
reassuring sex with Scott, but dangerous, craggy, powerful,
mindless sex with Craig.  Different.

But what if he didn't refuse me?  What if Scott was willing to buy
the whole Cheryl plan, even to sleep with men, just to please me? 
If Mort was willing to do that for the love of Cheryl, was Scott? 
Would my Scott give other men blow jobs and open his ass to them? 
My husband?  Did I want him to?  For the love of me?

No, of course not.  But even so, my pussy gave another teeny spasm
at the thought, and a little more of Craig trickled into the soggy
mass between my thighs!  If Scott was intimate with just one other
man, just once, I realized, it would certainly relieve me of the
guilt I felt for this outing with Craig.  I considered further.  If
Scott tried Mort's way even for a short while, it would make other
sessions with Craig possible too.  Easily arranged.  Scott couldn't
very well complain about a Craig in my life if he wasn't himself a
man.  

And at that moment I honestly didn't know whether the incredible
passion I'd just felt with Craig, the competitive verve, would
re-ignite again on sight and sweep me away yet again, or whether it
was just an afternoon's passing tempest, one of those things done
and then best forgotten.  Certainly the feeling wouldn't sustain
for long!  A few months?  Really, for Scott's sake I had to know
how this competitive lust would play out!  Craig would be calling
in a few days.  He'd want another bout, a chance to get even!  I
wanted him to have that chance!

Then when I opened the front door, there was Scott standing just
inside waiting for me.  Waiting!

"I heard your car.  I've been worried," he said simply.  

My heart broke at that moment!  But I couldn't break his heart by
hugging him the way I wanted to impulsively, even by acknowledging
that he was there at all!  Not even stand this close to him another
moment -- he'd smell Craig's and my excrescences!  So I only said
brusquely "We need to talk!" and brushed past him and hurried into
the living room without turning my head.  I deliberately sat down
in the one chair in a corner isolated from all the others, and
gestured for him to sit on our couch on the other side of the room,
and I repeated my message, "We need to talk!"

He stared at me puzzled, as I expected he would, then closed the
front door, and gravely sat down where I'd motioned him.  Safe for
the moment!  He already knew enough about me not to ask "Where have
you been?" or "If you knew you were running late, why didn't you
call?" or any of the other mild rebukes I deserved but he knew I'd
never tolerate when I was being abrupt.  So he just sat and looked
at me and said nothing.

"I was talking to Cheryl," I began.  That much was true, anyhow. 
"About all the things we do together on Saturdays.  All the girl
things.  And she doesn't understand why I don't insist on you doing
more of those things with me.  The way Mort does!  So we can share
more, so you can understand more of my immediate interests and
concerns!  See things from my point of view!  Think what a woman
thinks, feel what we feel."  

His eyelids lowered slightly, then raised up again.  He was looking
straight at me.  He'd sometimes accuse me of being too
impressionable, too ready to try anything other people suggested,
recipes, restaurants, vacation places, whatever.  He thought I
believed every book or movie review I ever read, and every
newspaper editorial.  There was just enough truth in the charge to
annoy me, and he knew it, so he'd learned not to interrupt with --
in this case -- obvious questions like "What does Cheryl know," or
"What's wrong with the way we do things now?" or even "What do you
mean?"  

"You don't know anything about any of the things I do every day! 
My little routines!  I mean the little things from the moment I
first wake up.  My decisions about what to wear, where to go, how
I want to look.  Without that you can't possibly understand me, how
I am what I am."  I tried to sound accusing, but was mainly
wondering how I could angle this closer to the point I needed to
make.  "You can't possibly appreciate my life!  It's as if we were
on different planets!"

"I should hope so," he said quietly.  "You're a woman.  I'm not a
woman.  So we're bound to feel different about some things."

A barn door anyone could drive through!  "Yes!  Social
circumstances demand that men and women look and feel and act
different!  Different!  That's my point!  Because we're not!  Don't
you ever wonder sometimes what life is like for me as a woman?  How
I feel as a woman?  Why I do the things I do?  What I enjoy about
being what I am, and what annoys me?  You don't even try!  You've
never tried!  How can you know anything about me if you don't try?" 
  

Now my poor Scott really was bewildered!  "Try what?" he asked in
all innocence.  "Try being more attentive?"  Bingo!

"NO, ACTUALLY TRY BEING A WOMAN FOR ONCE!" I shouted at him.  Then,
as if recovering my temper at his refusal to comprehend the
obvious, "Pretend it at least!  Do everything I do, learn what it's
like, how it feels, make my little regrets and desires yours, my
small concerns and my big ones.  You really have no idea!  Cheryl
and Mort don't have that problem!  She thinks we should be more
like them!  And I must say, I've got to agree with her."

He was obviously wondering whether I was raving mad, or drunk, or
on something.  I could see him running the checklist.  He must have
come up indeterminate, though, because he just sat there looking at
me.  

"Your college semester's over," I said.  "No more teaching or
committee work.  You have three summer months coming up.  You were
going to use them to bury yourself here or in a library, doing
research.  Well, you can do a different kind of research too!  You
can live the way I do for those three months!  Let's say just for
the summer!  You could at least try!" 

There it was!  My free ticket to fuck Craig's balls off for three
months -- three months would be enough I was sure!  I was about to
wait for his reply, to finally give Scott a chance to respond, to
say something, when I suddenly realized that he could see my bare
legs.  He could see that I wasn't wearing pantyhose!  He knew I
always dressed for my Saturdays with Cheryl, that I'd left the
house wearing hosiery!  Thank God I was in the darkest corner of
the room and had left the light off, he can't really have seen and
registered it yet.  Could he?  Still, I'd better end this.

"Well, if you can't do me even that small favor, or at least
apologize for not caring about all the things that make up my life,
so we can start making other plans to do something about it, I'm
going to bed.  I'll be using the spare bedroom tonight.  Don't try
to follow me!  Good Night!"

And without another word I marched upstairs and snatched my
nightgown from under my pillow, then proceeded into the guest
bedroom, and slammed the door shut. 

Mission accomplished for now, though the respite was temporary. 
Tomorrow I'd get up early and shower and then repudiate the whole
crazy complaint, I was thinking.  Or maybe not.  I recalled what a
pretty woman Mort had made, and wondered whether Scott would make
a prettier.  I bet he could, I was thinking.  Scott's so much
better at so many things than Mort is.  He has a lovely chin and
mouth, and his lips are gorgeous!  I love kissing them.

The idea actually turned me on, a little.

But another idea was even more provocative.  As I'd stamped my
supposedly angry way upstairs I couldn't help but notice that the
tissues crammed into my pussy had become a soggy mass that slid
against my clit as I walked.  Craig's sperm was rubbing against my
clit.  That rosy glow I'd felt on the whole trip back home renewed
itself.  I sat down on the bed and pushed a finger into the sloppy
mess between my legs, then another, then a third, and moved them in
and out until finally I shuddered in fulfillment.  More mess on my
fingers, and on the bed.  Well, whatever happens tomorrow, I told
myself, I will buy myself a dildo!  I must have one!  Not in
Scott's size and shape but Craig's.  Or bigger than either of them,
more filling!  Either way, I need better fucking, I know that now! 
If I don't get Craig for the summer, I'll get a Craig facsimile!

So that much was settled.  

I tried not to remember my single glance into the darkened dining
room on the other side of the stairs.  I'd noticed that Scott had
set out two places for us for dinner, and even set up candles. 
He'd obviously been waiting for me to get home from my afternoon
excursion with Cheryl so we could have a romantic evening together. 
Probably there was something special he'd prepared sitting cold and
forgotten in the oven at this moment.  It broke my heart even to
think of it.  

So instead I thought again about Craig's sperm, still gloopy inside
me.  It felt so deliciously wicked!  I reached down and dipped my
fingers into it again and wiped it languorously on my face, and
smiled to myself.  One such thought led to another, and again I got
aroused.  I trembled into yet another orgasm before finally I fell
asleep.  And then dreamt of crawling all over a muscular man's
body, and of a gentle man crawling all over my body, and then of
two woman embracing, kissing passionately..  Me and my lovely
Scott?  I slept well.  

The next day I'd showered, impulsively drenched my man in perfume,
deep-throated him as I'd deep-throated Craig, fed him Craig's semen
direct from my cunt, and then actually gotten him to agree to
pretend to be a woman for the summer.  And meanwhile every Saturday
Craig and I could arouse each other to frenzies.  It was crazy, but
it had been all I could think of, and he'd agreed to it!   

Then as the idea grew, it seemed more and more intriguing.  What
Scott learned about being a woman would strengthen our marriage. 
And it would be fun!  Like not being married at all!  Like living
with a roommate in college again!  A new girlfriend!

I'd do what Cheryl had done.  Mort didn't seem the worse for it. 
True, he was now an habituated cuckold and a facsimile girl for
life, expected to seek sex from men when his wife's cunt was
otherwise occupied.  True, he was now in effect a forcibly
feminized faggot.  But he didn't seem to mind, and he made an
utterly charming woman, a delightful companion I was sure.  

Would Scott?  I felt such a strange tingle, thinking about it. I
felt so terribly guilty that I was betraying him, but I couldn't
help myself.  I didn't want to help myself.  I had to put Craig in
his proper place once and for all, inside me, servicing me, and
that would take time.  I had to duel him to exhaustion repeatedly,
fuck him over and over and come out on top every time.  I just had
to!  If Scott wasn't comparable to Craig, not even a man, then I
knew I'd feel less guilty.  I could probably even persuade myself
that he was enjoying his emasculation in some perverse way, and
that he deserved it.  That I was doing him a favor.  

Yes.  Every Saturday when I went to meet Craig I'd treat Scott to
a beauty parlor appointment.  I'd like that.  Then I'd feel a
certain condescension, maybe even an amused contempt for a husband
who was getting all prettied up in a salon at that moment, not
really a man at all, no competition at all for the real man who was
fucking me silly at that very moment.  Then in three months we
could resume where we left off.  He'd be an even more lovable
Scott, more sensitive to his own femininity and certainly mine. 

It could even be a kind of game!  As we lay there in each other's
arms that first Sunday, our bodies and the whole room richly
perfumed with Lilac Ecstasy, I began planning Scott's whole
transition to womanhood, his journey from a potential jealous
husband to an emasculated cuckold and charming girlfriend.  Maybe
even a pretty Mort?  No, not Mort.  My sweet Scottie would be a
girl only for the summer, while I needed to know that he was
elsewhere, otherwise occupied, and off my mind and conscience!  

It was such a power trip!  With that thought I couldn't help
myself, I impulsively kissed him!  My Scottie!  I tasted Craig's
cum on his lips and realized that in a way I was kissing Craig too. 
Lovely!  Scottie smiled at my affection, and I smiled back.  He has
gentle eyes, I was thinking.  They'd be darkened with mascara this
very day -- then they'd also be large and lovely!  His daytime
lipstick would be blush colored, just barely noticeable.  Yes, I
want him utterly unrecognizable as my husband -- he'd probably
prefer that too, to save himself embarrassment.  Let's see.  Cheryl
has about his build and coloring, I was thinking, and she looked
marvelous in that long flounced skirt she wore yesterday.  I must
get him one.  I'll call Cheryl and find out where she got it, and
get some advice about a few other things as well.

end 4/11
VickieTern@AOL.COM

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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