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Message-ID: <50212asstr$1105697402@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Most Intimate Part  (MF MM slow rom anal bi SciFi)
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Date: Fri, 14 Jan 2005 05:10:02 -0500
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THE MOST INTIMATE PART
by
Carlos Malenkov
Word Count: 11439
Copyright (c) 2002 by Carlos Malenkov.
Posting and archiving rights granted to ASSM. All other rights reserved.





I

1974. Nixon had resigned on a hot August day. Rockefeller would become
Vice President that winter (and just a few years later he was destined
to expire in a highly compromising position with a young female staffer).
Vietnam was still simmering on the back burner, and policy makers expected
that the American-supported regime could hold on for the foreseeable
future (President Thieu would ultimately prove more adept at running a
liquor store than a country). The Arab oil embargo was just beginning
to fade into the recent past, yet gasoline remained at a painfully high
seventy cents a gallon. New York City went bankrupt, and its feisty
little grey-haired mayor defiantly proclaimed that it was still the
Big Apple. And that's where I lived at the time, Noo Yawk, Noo Yawk,
and I was lonely and horny, though not necessarily in that order.


At 26, I was still a virgin, a "technical virgin," that is. What this
means is that I had never been with a woman in _that_ particular way.
I liked women all right, could very easily have loved them, but they
terrified me. I was afraid of not doing the right thing with them,
of being rejected, laughed at, falling flat on my face, _failing_.

I wasn't really a virgin in every sense of the word. I had been with
men a number of times. I didn't really consider myself homosexual (or,
in the contemporary usage, "gay"). Admittedly I very much enjoyed being
the passive partner in anal intercourse, and even found it moderately
satisfying switching roles. There was something profoundly sensual about
a dick sliding into my ass, penetrating deeply, moving in and out. That
powerful moment when the guy bending over me would gently part my ass
cheeks with his hands, then his vaselined dick would first touch, then
push against my asshole (sounds more true-to-life than anal sphincter,
doesn't it?), and it would dimple inward, then open. Now the magic, the
clash of cymbals, as the head of the dick popped past the outer, then the
inner ring of muscle, then, meeting no further resistance, slid smoothly
upwards, penetrating deeply . . . up into my very guts. It even got so I
found the faintly pungent residual shit-smell afterwards a turn-on. Yes,
I liked taking it in the ass, up the ass, but . . . I didn't much care
for men otherwise. I liked women, I loved them, I loved their touch and
their smell and their curves and their softness and their femininity.

How I longed to cuddle against a round, soft body after we had both
had our fill of each other. How I wanted to rest my head on her breasts
at that moment, then fall asleep. How I craved having her nice _round_
ass to caress as I woke up next to her. What a jarring contrast with the
reality I had settled for -- a man, a hairy, sweaty stranger uncorking
his slimy, dripping, limp cock from my ass and walking out the door.
I was sick of this coarse, stripped-down version of lust. I wanted a
woman, a special woman to love and be loved by.

I had just about given up. I was just plain too shy, too scared, too
awkward and fumbling, too socially inept to get a girlfriend. Then there
was the guilt, the thought that having been penetrated by men had somehow
contaminated me, made me less of a man myself, made me unworthy of loving
and being loved. Even the thought of approaching a woman made me break
out into a cold sweat. Then I saw her ad.


"Gentleman, gentle man, special man sought for
a deep and intimate relationship, for a very
special kind of love. If you have ever read
Norman Mailer's story, "The Time of Her Time,"
and been moved by it, you might well be the one.
You are likewise special in all other ways.
You are a seeker, driven to explore the
hidden paths."


What impelled me to read the personals in the "Town Crier" on that one
particular day? I wasn't in the habit of doing so, generally finding
female-seeking-male personal ads tedious, or at best grimly amusing --
mostly women looking for a perfect mate, not to mention the fulfillment
of all their other assorted fantasies as well (the fairy tale theory of
life). Yet this ad caught my eye.

Yep, I had read Mailer's notorious tale, part of his "Advertisements For
Myself" collection of early writings. It was quite a departure for him,
and possibly the first mention of anal sex in mainstream literature. That
was in the late '50s, and the lit'ry establishment had been quite
scandalized. I found the story provocative and a huge turn-on when I
read it as a teenager. Imagine, an experienced stud and cocksman goes
through his entire bag of tricks to bring a "frigid" woman to orgasm,
but nothing works . . . nothing, until he tries, fighting her initial
reluctance, tries to fuck her in the ass. He gets it in, against her
furious resistance, and despite the pain this brings her to an explosive
climax, the first of her entire life, if we are to believe the narrative.

(Nothing there about the special relaxation techniques needed for painless
and pleasurable anal penetration. That might have been too much for an
Eisenhower-era readership to stomach, or just maybe the great author
himself was clueless.)

The story might have been a liberating breakthrough, the dawn of a
new era of freedom when written, but now in the enlightened mid-70s,
sodomy was no longer such a big deal. The story was not even all that
well done, but then I didn't much care for anything Mailer wrote after
"The Naked and the Dead," and I hadn't much cared for that either.

I wasn't at all sure I wanted to respond. It's not as if the woman
in the ad were offering a simple, "starter" relationship that an
inexperienced boob like me could handle. This was about kinky sex,
with all the additional layers of complexity _that_ implies. And how
many years had it been since I had tried for any kind of relationship at
all with a woman? What could I offer this one? Yeah, I knew a thing or
two about ass fucking, learned firsthand, both as a top and a bottom. So
what if it was with men? Were women all that different? For that matter,
could that particular portion of a woman's anatomy where she shits be
all that different than a man's? What the hell. I sat down in front of
a borrowed typewriter and began to pound the keys.


Gentle gentlewoman,

Relationships between two seekers of beauty
and hidden meaning are rare and precious jewels.
Mailer might well have hit upon something -- that
just possibly the path to the Fundamental passes
through the Fundament. His character, though,
didn't have a clue. He forced his way in, causing
pain and violation. The woman was quite within her
rights to dismiss the accidental bringer of her
pleasure, to kick his butt, actually. Done properly,
the act brings exaltation and intense pleasure to
the woman (no pain! no pain!).

I'm offering more, much more than mere fulfillment
of your cherished fantasy. Mutual appreciation and
enjoyment of a particular variation or act is not
in itself, unfortunately, sufficient basis for a
sustained relationship. Note, therefore, that there
is substance to me far above and beyond any fetishes
and/or preferences I might be partial to. Yes, there
is life after sex.


Certainly I did go on a couple of pages about my interests and so-called
accomplishments. Candle-lit dinners, midnight walks along the beach,
cuddling in front of a fireplace in a mountain cabin . . . all the
embellishments women allegedly fall for, "purple prose" straight out of
the women's section of the supermarket tabloids. I always could write,
even if my Junior High English teacher thought otherwise. I figured the
woman would get maybe 30 or 40 responses, about half of them illiterate
or just plain moronic, and most of the rest not quite on the mark. I
gave myself at least a fighting chance of getting a reply.

The letter came. It was on expensive, linen-weave stationery lightly
scented with jasmine. She was Amelia Gilbert (she pronounced it
"Zhil-behr," with the accent on the second syllable), a Belgian
businesswoman representing a European investment syndicate. Age
indeterminate, but hints that it might be somewhere in the 30s. No photo
accompanied the note, but my imagination pictured her as a stately
and dignified woman, immensely sure of herself, proud in her bearing
. . . somewhat resembling the cover photograph on Stephen Vizinczey's
classic, "In Praise of Older Women."

My turn to tell about myself. She requested a recent picture and a short
bio ("curriculum vitae," she called it). So I sent her a shot taken at
one of those photo-booth places that used to be in every mall and game
arcade. (The pictures came out in a wet strip looking like they were
taken by a morgue photographer, but, hey, they were cheap.) I've always
looked younger than my age, and back then I still looked pretty much like
a teenager. Maybe she'd get a charge out of "robbing the cradle." And
I constructed an intricate and wonderful word-picture of myself. Even
then I'd led quite an interesting life, and if I didn't have money and
status to show for it, I was smart, had something of a sense of humor,
and even a thin veneer of "kultcher." Yeah, I looked much better on
paper than in person. Put me in front of a woman, a real live woman,
and I'd become a sweating, stuttering, clumsy idiot.

For some reason she wanted to meet me. What now? How the bloody
hell did I get myself into this mess? Still, after all that effort,
I wasn't about to turn chickenshit and run. I'd forever be wondering
what I'd missed out on. And where could I run to anyway?

So I dressed up for the evening. Blazer with tie was fashionable at the
time, but just the thought of it made me want to puke (my rebellious
years were not quite behind me). I dug out a smelly, beat-up field jacket
that had seen better days on the back of a Bulgarian army corporal
and a grease-stained pair of Levis with only a few holes. Hey, I had
showered and brushed my teeth (and even girded my loins in clean Jockey
shorts). What more could any reasonable woman expect? Giftwrapping maybe?

On sudden impulse, I laid out a coupla bucks for a small bunch of assorted
wildflowers on the way over. Seemed like the sort of thing I ought to do,
and not too tough on the budget.

I saw her seated at a table in the outdoor cafe where we had
agreed to meet. She looked like I might have expected -- brunette,
somewhere in her late 20s, attractive, but not exceptionally so. My
palms were sweaty. I took a deep breath, and hesitantly walked up to
her. "Amelia? No? Sorry." Bzzzt. El wrongo.

A waiter motioned to me. "The lady at the far table thinks you might
have lost your way." In the distance, at a table hardly visible from
the street, a woman raised her index finger. I walked over. It was a
long walk.

"Sit." It was a command. Her soft voice could not disguise the iron
underneath. She might have been in her late 30s or possibly even a
bit older, but it was like having a cinderblock smashed into my face. A
stunner. Tall and and pale blonde, almost albino. Wearing a broad-brimmed
hat and a classically-cut feminine business suit. A lady. A statuesque
woman, stately, shapely in a manner no longer fashionable . . . what used
to be called "voluptuous." Buxom and large-hipped, very, very curvy hips
from what I could see, but her smile, oh, her enigmatic all-knowing smile
(would she ever smile for me alone?). And the eyes. Deep, blue-green
bottomless eyes. Eyes a man could drown in. I drowned.

She entranced me. A classic beauty, a knockout, a class act. And it
frightened me. 'This woman is way out of my league. What could she
possibly want with me? And what-the-hell am I doing here, anyhow?'

Lacking anything better to do, I pulled out a rickety wicker-back wooden
chair across the table from her, almost knocking it over in the process,
and just stood there, panting and goggle-eyed. "So, here I am. Yes,
here I am. Uh . . . Amelia, what a striking name. Amelia, my name is uh
. . . my name is Casimir. Uh . . . you know me from my letter. I hope."

"Indeed here you stand. You cannot do otherwise. Casimir, ah, my young
aspiring paramour-candidate. So grand an entrance. Let us hope your
nervousness does not spoil the occasion. I have ordered tea for the both
of us. Sit."

The hand clenching the back of my chair was shaking, and she touched me
there. A spark passed from her fingertips to the back of my hand, and
a flood of warmth washed over me. All anxiety and fear slowly drained
away. I felt a deep sense of calm, of relief, and yes, destiny. Wearily
I unfolded into the chair. One by one, the flowers silently tumbled to
the floor.



II

And here we were in her apartment. Sitting at the kitchen table, facing
each other. The translucent gauze curtains billowed in the soft breeze
and the lights were dim. Mid-summer street sounds provided soothing
background accompaniment. Our voices were still and we sat there with
our heads hanging down like a couple of shy teenagers on their first date.

This was the critical moment, and all at once I couldn't meet her gaze,
couldn't do what needed to be done. Then I felt a cool hand on my cheek,
and she clasped my fingers with hers, pulling me over to whisper in
my ear:

                "Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor,
                 and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now,
		 an I were your very, very Rosalind?"

"I would say that was a direct quote from Shakespeare's 'As You Like It.'
And, as it happens, I haven't had terribly much luck with Rosalinds."

She laughed.

Amelia's hands were large for a woman's, with long, dextrous fingers.
Her touch was firm and confident. I noticed her well-groomed but
unpolished nails as she helped me out of my clothes.

"Behold the man. You are a beautiful specimen, Casi. Here, this will
keep you snug as you wait for me to freshen myself." She handed me a
well-worn blue velvet bathrobe, then slowly walked off in regal splendor,
still fully clothed.

There was soft music playing somewhere. A woman sang in a darkly sensuous
smoky voice. I wandered toward the source of the sound, over by the far
wall. It was Nan Moravia doing the definitive version of "Love is Pain."

                 You touched my soul
                 It brought me bliss
                 My tears began
                 With your soft kiss

Exquisite taste in music. Fine equipment, too. The clear "milky" tones
of an old-fashioned tube-type MacIntosh amp and full-size Acoustic
Research AR-3A speakers did the song justice. Might even put to shame
the 300 watt per channel SWTP "Supertiger" system I had been planning
to put together. All of it, the choice of music and the hardware, even
the ambience, earned my seal of approval. For whatever it was worth.

I heard water running, then a wedge of light from the half-open bathroom
door split the darkness. Rhythmic footsteps approached. Amelia placed
a finger across my lips before I could open my mouth to speak. She
took my hand and laid something cold and shiny into it. It was a metal
squeeze-tube with a vaguely camphor-like smell. I strained to make out the
label in the dim light: "XE-41 Industrial Strength Recreational Lubricant
(certified safe for internal use)."

"Use this. It is a special-purpose emollient. Spread it liberally on the
appropriate portion of your anatomy. Apply all you consider necessary,
then a bit more. To spare you possible embarrassment, I have already
prepared myself. Perhaps on subsequent occasions we can dispense with
artifices." She was wearing nothing.

Amelia kissed me softly on the lips, and her breath smelled of cloves.
She kissed me harder, then her tongue darted into my mouth. Her hand
dropped down behind me, caressed my hind cheeks, squeezed my right one,
and I felt a fingertip delicately probe my anus. "This is _your_ secret
flower . . . yes, also men have the capacity for pleasure there ('So,
what else is new?' I thought). Possibly we will have occasion to explore
this matter further."

She turned around, and in one abrupt flowing movement bent forward and
lowered her chest to the bed, surrendering herself to me. I suddenly
knew exactly what she expected.

Hands, my own trembling hands found the large round globes of her ass,
caressed, caressed them hypnotically. She pushed her behind back against
me, shoving me backwards a step . . . and I braced myself on her wide
hips, and I took her unto me. I pressed the painfully throbbing head of my
engorged penis against, then into her secret place, her hidden jewel, her
hole, her _asshole_. I sank, slowly sank into her -- no resistance, just
a deliciously liquid slide into a hot, hot slippery-walled tunnel. Her
pulsing mystery pulled me in, gradually swallowed me, engulfed me,
and I was home. Home at last.

And I remembered . . . Remembered all the times when I had been on
the receiving end. How it had felt. How it had felt with a man's dick
pumping into my own ass. That feeling of being spread open, stretched,
opened up, then filled. The thrusting within me, the slippery-sucking
friction against my own insides . . .

And then I was with her again and we were caressing each other's bodies,
endlessly caressing, hungrily touching and caressing, compulsively,
hypnotically devouring each other with our hands, just our hands. It
was raining, and a fine mist came in through the bedroom window. And
she was singing for me. "Tuo saver al tempo e l'età contrasta . . . "

I drifted into dark, formless sleep.



III

In her arms I awoke, enveloped in her warmth and dusky woman-smell,
my head cradled on her soft breasts. It was as if I were emerging from
a dream, though perhaps I was still in the dream. She nuzzled my neck,
nibbled at my earlobe, then squealed like a little girl. "Arise, arise my
sweet, sweet prince." And arising I was, indeed I was arising. Caressing
her round hips, letting my hand slip down to the naked undulating curves
of her lower heat-emitting cheeks, and yes, indeed I was arising, rising
to the occasion.

"Turn around, turn around, lovely Amelia. I want to admire your wondrous
backside, your inspiringly curvaceous bottom, your classically sculpted
ass. You are a work of art, and I will play the part of art critic." (She
allowed that she would rather be here in bed with me than on display in
a museum.)

How can I describe her deliciously ample pear-shaped ass? (She measured
48" at the hips.) Stretching to the far horizons, like the earth viewed
from orbit, fecund, the mother of all life. From the dimple at the base of
her spine, downward, to first hint of cleavage, downward, to the valley
holding the sacred ruby-jeweled gate, downward, to her frontal doorway,
her dark-red rose-petaled cunt, then upward, past her clit, and upward,
to her luxuriant triangle of light blonde pubic hair. And sideward, from
the curve of her hip, sideward, across two high round hills guarding a
hidden entrance (that opened to me!), sideward, to the curve of a hip.

She turned toward me then, and pulled my head down. A quick kiss, then
a slower one, and she impetuously thrust her tongue deeply into my
mouth. More kissing, much more. Her mouth, then her breasts. Sucking
her nipples. Then lower, kissing lower. Sucking lower. Tonguing and
sucking her slippery little knob, then her cunt. Pushing my tongue into
her cunt. She arched her back and gasped.

Patches of steamy, sweaty musk glued us together, and we were both
panting. She gently took me into her arms and caressed my face. Then
she pulled me down with both arms, squeezed me, pressed me against her
violently, chest to chest. I inhaled the faint scent of talcum powder,
and she kissed me deeply and slid her palms all the way up and down my
body. I tongue-caressed her nipples, then sucked on them, and a wave of
warmth ran through me as she reached down and cupped my balls in her hand,
squeezed, then bent over and took my shaft into her mouth for a moment.

"Enough, enough, I need you inside me now," she breathed. "Give me, fill
me, fill my sacred passage with your life force, your �(C)lan vitale." In
that proud graceful way of hers, she sinuously twisted around on hands
and knees and lowered her head and chest to the bed. Her ass presented
itself, waiting for me to enter, to lose myself in the depths of her
secret passage once more.

Hypnotic beauty. Her sphincter, her rosebud . . . truly did resemble a
rosebud. The flower-like lips -- the outer ring of muscle -- swollen and
engorged with excitement, glowing in shades of dark magenta, an almost
luminous deep-red luminescence. I couldn't bear to look any longer
without going slowly mad, so . . .

I reverently parted her cheeks to let myself in once more. Into the
hole, the bottomless pit. The entrance to her private chamber, to her
hidden kingdom. The head of my dick slowly submerged, then disappeared
into her cave with a faint liquid 'plop.' Then I was moving inward on
a viscous wave of honey smoothness, past the outer ring, a hesitation,
and on through the innermost portal and she sucked me in, and I slid
into that bottomless well, the bottomless well of her bottom, the fruit
of the forbidden tree of knowledge. It was warm in there, then hot,
burning, the molten pulsating incandescence of the innermost chamber of
a volcano. And the glowing furnace engulfed me, and I melted and . . .

And she revived me with kisses. Soft, wet kisses on my mouth, then my
neck. Now she began sucking, then delicately nibbling the nipples of my
chest. And I discovered that male nipples are indeed a potent erogenous
zone. And I was potent again. And I found my way into her dark basin yet
again. And it endured longer, much longer this time. And the insides of
her rear passage, slick with my ejaculate, clutched hungrily at me as
I slid in and out.

I pulled all the way out a few times, just to admire her beautiful hole,
the livid crimson-ringed hole of her ass, enlarged to several times its
normal girth by the stretching of my entry. It stayed open, a perfectly
circular dark tunnel leaking white droplets of my life-bringing fluid.
It beckoned me, pulled at me with an irresistible force. I braced my
hands on her round hips and plunged back in, and I slid down, all the
way back into her hidden depths.

Only then did it occur to me that I had forgotten the lubrication.
All the same, the walls of her anal receptacle felt no less slippery
than before. Even having shot my load into there just moments before,
that still couldn't account for the silky-smoothness inside. Could it be
that her mucus membranes were somehow self-lubricating there, inside her
rectal chamber? There was something very strange, almost frightening,
going on here.

Still, all this did not seem very important at the time. What truly
mattered, what moved me then (and years later, in bitter-sweet
recollection) was her tenderness, her kisses and caresses, her small
courtesies. Such simple kindnesses as the touch of her gentle hands
sponging me off with a damp washcloth after the act of love. The
spontaneous kisses that came when I was least expecting them. The spare
toothbrush in the bathroom for my use. Even the tears that fell on my
cheek when I held her close.



IV

When next we met, Amelia grasped my shoulders and just stood there
holding me at arm's length, staring intently into my eyes for some
minutes. Finally, she shook her head and smiled. "You are so perfect in
all other ways. I cannot help wondering . . . "

I wondered, too, just what she was talking about. I waited for her
to continue.

Finally, after some hesitation, she dropped her gaze and asked whether
I would like to try being on the receiving end of the penetration. By
that time I felt comfortable enough with her to talk about my past,
and this was the opening I needed.

"Sit down, Amelia, darling. There are a few things you don't know
about me."

We talked at some length about my experiences with men. She was
alternately sympathetic and amused. "I, too, can give you those
pleasures," she whispered in a husky voice. "Let me show you."

She kissed me, then led me by the hand into the bedroom. I let her undress
me, and she bent me over the bed, that same bed where I had taken her so
many times, bent over in the same exact position. She caressed my ass
cheeks in precisely the same fashion as I had hers. (It occurred to me
that this might be deliberate.)

"Casi, your very masculine bottom pleases and excites me. I must possess
it, and through it, own you. Just as you have done to me, I will take
you, I will fuck you in the ass, fuck your ass, fuck you, possess you,
own you in every part, own you totally."

Bursting with anticipation, I felt her finger lightly touching, then
probing the entrance into me, my ass, my hole, my asshole. Then, inserting
inside me, gently, one finger, then two, pushing gently inside me, easing
and relaxing my sphincter, rotating, inserting and spreading lubrication
within me.

She leaned over me, let her weight fall completely on me, and our bodies
were fully in contact, front to back, her front to my back, and I was
lying bent over on the edge of her bed supporting her entire weight on
my back. I felt her strong fingers on the sides of my neck, caressing,
then massaging. I felt the warm pillowy softness of her breasts pressing
against my back. I was relaxing, relaxing into a trance state, and I
floated on waves of hypnotic rapture.

Then, she drew back. I shivered as I felt a draft of cold air on my
skin as she left me.

"Stay." She had stepped back, and I watched over my shoulder as she
strapped on a dark harness. She was totally naked, and her heavy breasts
swung from side to side as she moved. Her nipples were erect, and she
pulled what appeared to be a large candle out of a drawer.

"It is a penile prosthesis, more familiarly known as a dildo, my dear
Casi. This particular model has a slight upwards bend, to conform to
the curve of the recipient's lower intestine. Could you possibly take
a full nine inches, my love?"

I felt a wave of heat go through my loins, and I must have blushed.
Hesitantly, I nodded.

I watched as she inserted the long dildo through the metal mounting
ring on the harness, then secured it. In her command voice: "I am ready
to enter you now. I will insert myself inside you, press into you, and
penetrate as deeply into your bowels as you can bear. I will fill you,
indeed fulfill you, and you will be to me as I am to you."

She parted my ass cheeks, pulling me apart with sure and knowing hands.
I felt a gentle-but-insistent pressure against my sphincter, my hole,
the hole of my ass, my asshole. (Her purring whisper, "Let me in,
let me all the way into you, Casi.") Then I relaxed and _accepted_
her into me. I pushed, pushed outward and in a wavelike ripple from the
pit of my stomach downward (just as if I were having a bowel movement),
and this opened me up further, and she pressed into me and pushed past
the inner ring of muscle. It stretched me, her silicone penis stretched
me, my hole stretched outwards in four directions, in four dimensions,
pulled fully open, enlarged, loosened, and she slid further into me.
I sucked her into me, up higher, slowly higher, an inch at a time, then
even higher. It began to ache somewhat, and I shifted a bit to adjust
the angle so the dildo wouldn't impact against the side of my gut. I
felt a delicious fullness, and she had filled me. Her thighs bumped my
ass cheeks, rebounded, and again pressed hard against my ass, and I knew
I had taken -- my ass had swallowed -- the entire length of the dildo,
of _her_ inside me, into the black hole and the inner mystery of me.

She stood behind me, towering over me, fully engulfed in my darkness.
There was total silence. She held that position for several minutes
without moving, and it was an eternity, and I was impaled on her
artificial member, and I felt her fullness inside me. Then she leaned
over and rested her full weight on my back, entirely within me.

She grasped my hips at the sides and began to move in and out, in and
out of me. She was sticking it into me, she was _fucking_ me, like a man
fucks a woman! (There was nothing at all humiliating about it. I felt
exalted.) The pistoning, the delicious friction almost brought me to
the brink then, and I must have cried out because she said, "Not yet,
darling, not yet." She reached around and pressed hard with thumb and
forefinger behind the head of my penis, and my excitement diminished
just enough to keep me from coming then and there.

"Wait. I will attempt to strike your prostate from within. Tell me if
I have found it."

She had been intermittently pressing _that_ particular button for the
last couple of minutes, but I had not thought to speak. "Yes, Amelia,
yes. You're hitting it. Ah!" I came then, violently, and she clamped her
hand on my penis, holding it, holding me, possessing it, possessing _me_.

"Oh, yes, my dear, yes! Yes! I am penetrating you. I am deep inside YOU.
Inside your warm cavern, embedded in your bowels. I AM FUCKING YOU! I
see your sphincter, your ring muscles, your asshole clutch and release
and spasm and spasm around my dildo-penis. It must be the same as when
you're inside my ass. Let it out, my darling Casi, release! I'm burning
up! Exploding! OH!"

I felt her trembling, then tensing and releasing as she climaxed and
collapsed onto me sweaty and panting. We lay there like that a few
minutes, her breasts flattened against my back, the dildo, still harnessed
to her, firmly embedded in my ass. I thought that might satisfy her for
a while.

It didn't though. She disengaged herself from me (with a faint liquid
sucking sound as the dildo popped out of my ass), then rocked back and
stood up. She looked down at me from a height and smiled. That enigmatic
smile. Then she bent over and grabbed my left wrist with both hands. A
quick flip, and I was lying on my back and she was raising my legs up
over her shoulders and leaning forward, leaning her full weight onto
the backs of my thighs . . . and inserting, then thrusting into me. She
_took_ me in the missionary position, the "family way." Now she was in
me all the way and looking downward at my face, and I up at her. And I
disappeared into her enormous eyes.

The music playing in the background, the music she had selected (possibly
with a touch of intentional irony) was the Charmaynes belting out,
"Am I still your virgin sweet?"



V

Amelia introduced me to life's finer pleasures. After making love,
we would snack on chunks of bread torn off baguettes, accompanied by
small wedges of Brie cheese and slices of Bermuda onion. "Dear Casi,
you must learn to distinguish between good Brie and bad Brie." With
her mouth full, munching noisily, "On the continent, we would laugh
at the quality of cheese you Americans accept. Because it is marked
'imported,' you believe that it is the finest. On the contrary, the
dairies of Europe use America as a dumping ground for their inferior and
unacceptable cheeses, the swill any self-respecting Belgian or Frenchman
would feed to the pigs." She swallowed, then emitted a small, ladylike
belch. "With few exceptions, what is marketed as high quality Brie here
is bitter and spotted with brown mold. I needed to look far and wide to
find even this middling quality cheese."

It tasted fine to me, delicate and creamy in fact. I couldn't imagine it
being any better, and told her so. Her response: "If I were Judith and
you Holofernes, I would cut off your head for impertinence!" A rather
drastic remedy, I thought.

Rather than cutting off my head, she filled it with a cultural education
of sorts. We haunted foreign film festivals, viewed the works of Bresson
("Le Filou"), Carn�(C), Eisenstein, Bu�+/-uel, Fritz Lang. She assigned me
books to read, and we discussed Goethe, Stendhal, and Balzac. We talked
far into the night, and sometimes fell asleep in each other's arms, too
fatigued to make love.

And there were the long walks in Central Park, the picnics on the lawn
by the statue of Sigismund Wasa, mounted, in full battle armor, with
crossed swords over his head. "He was king of Poland, a member of the
Swedish royalty at a time when Sweden was still a superpower and exerted
influence far beyond her borders," she informed me. I was ashamed at
how little I knew of my own heritage, and when I showed some interest
she promptly enrolled me in a night course on world history.

While I was busy studying the Paleologue dynasty and trying to
remember who suppressed the Phokas Rebellion, she hand-fed me squares
of nougat-filled Lindt chocolate squares. Never again would I settle
for the pallid American imitation. Never again would I take Byzantine
history for granted.

Malassol caviar on small rounds of buttered black pumpernickel (the real
stuff, from a neighborhood bakery). Taramosalata on triangles of toasted
light rye. Sacher torte . . . like chocolate cake on steroids. Mozart
Kugeln . . .  round chocolate pralines filled with pistachio marzipan. All
this washed down with hot, smooth and creamy Droste Dutch Process cocoa.

Gradually, she was changing me, subverting me, raising my standards,
making me dissatisfied with American food, and to some considerable
extent, with American culture. Converting me into a European
sophisticate. I didn't stop to wonder why.



VI

"You can have any part of me, except my vagina."

'What business did I have with her vagina, anyway?' I mused. But such
thoughts were unworthy of me.

She subsequently told me how much more intense her sensations and climaxes
were with anal intercourse. At times she would call it plain-and-simple,
"ass fucking," but more often just "my very special kind of loving."

"My dear, sweet boy -- it lets loose a certain magic, magic the ancient
Chaldeans knew, a transformational magic that blurs the boundaries
between the real and the possible. This is the true purpose and meaning
of us joining our bodies in this way, not just for our own momentary,
transient pleasures. It will open, open wide the gate for Higher Powers."

Higher Powers? What flavor of "Higher Powers"? Angels? Demons? Spooks?
Man, this was something I hadn't bargained for. Could be I was in over my
head. Deep over my head. Yet still I felt that heat that had momentarily
welded us into a single splay-limbed, thrashing creature, the focal
point of an eruption of urgent pressure. I couldn't bring myself to get
up and walk out just then, though I should have. I really should have.



VII

Now we were ready for the Next Step, or so she said. I wasn't so sure,
but she didn't seem to be in a mood for giving me a choice. When she
got that determined look on her face, and her eyes changed color to
steely-grey, hey, I wasn't about to dispute the point.

So, what did this involve, one might ask. I did.

"It is a ceremony. An elaborate ritual. Think of it as analogous to
the necessary preparation for playing your American board game of
Monopoly. Before the play starts, you must lay out the board, shuffle
the little yellow cardboard pasteboards, apportion the tokens and pretend
money . . . Only then can the serious business begin.

"Well, then, this is a Summoning. We set up the proper context, then
charge one particular corner of the room with enough energy to open a
channel, a path. Before lightning strikes, its path already anticipates
it, draws it down. That is what we must do, create a low-resistance path
for the One Who Will Come."

First the "purification." We both showered thoroughly, using an abrasive,
lye-scented soap that scoured and reddened the skin. Then the inner
cleansing. This involved a series of enemas, first with a strong castile
soap solution, then water, and finally with what she described as a
dilute electrolyte (that should have clued me in). As both of us had
long since strongly eroticized our anal and rectal areas, this was a
pleasant experience, all the more so since we administered the enemas
to each other . . . When she inserted the old-fashioned nipple-shaped
lubricated nozzle into my ass, I could have had a climax right then
and there if she hadn't pressed a finger firmly against the base of my
penis to prevent ejaculation. To my surprise, I could accept a full two
quarts of clear liquid, repeated several times. The feeling of warm,
almost-bursting fullness was a transformative experience, and gave a
hint of transformations to come (little did I know!). Giving her the
enemas was something of an anticlimax. Then we were squeaky clean,
both within and without.

Amelia had lit sticks of a pungent, almost cloyingly sweet incense. The
pale ribbons of violet smoke must have contained some sort of
mind-altering drug. How else to explain the lassitude, the numbing
euphoria that slowly took me in its embrace? She was softly chanting
nonsense syllables in a sing-song cadence, and this created a hypnotic
throbbing, a muffled thumping behind my temples. I must have dozed off
for a few moments.

I jerked awake, and there, in the far corner of the room, she was
removing the tarpaulin cover from a large and shapeless hulk. In the
dim light it resembled a cubist sculpture, or something out of a 1940's
science fiction flick (Dr. Cyclops, eat your heart out!). Damned if it
wasn't starting to resemble an oversize Tesla coil as I drew closer
and squinted at it. Double damned. True, I'd built a couple of these
babies a few years back, when I was in the midst of my brief fling with
electrical engineering, but I'd never seen any near that size.

She was attaching what appeared to be a heavy-duty cable harness to the
infernal machine. At the bare-wire terminal of one cable she had just
clipped on a long and gleaming cylinder . . . no, it couldn't be. The
thing resembled a chrome-plated dildo or possibly a butt plug. Hey,
c'mon fella, wake up! That incense must be going to your head!

I was really curious now, and moved in for a closer look. The faceplate
on the device proclaimed it as a custom-built specially enhanced "High
Voltage Static Electricity Generator." And what's this? "Caution:
2,000,000 volts!" That's two million, count 'em, two million volts!

Now she was offering that chrome-plated dildo-like gadget to me. "To
answer your unspoken question, dear, yes, it is indeed a dildo, a very
special kind of dildo, and its purpose is to induce a high-voltage
potential into your body cavity and across your inner organs."

"WHAT??? TWO MILLION VOLTS UP THE ASS? YOU'RE KIDDING, RIGHT?"

Amelia smiled. Smiled.

"My dear, dear boy," she was crooning to me in that deep, throaty vibrato
of hers. "This will cause you no physical harm. The electricity filters
through a j-vector translator, which twists it at right angles to our
time-space. The purpose of this procedure is to temporarily open a
gateway, to tear a small hole in the reality structure of that portion
of the physical universe surrounding or two entwined bodies. We will
transform, reach a higher level of experience. It will be an adventure
quite unlike any other you have ever experienced, or even imagined. You
must trust. Trust me."

Trust? At that particular moment in time I didn't know from trust. All
I knew was that my throbbing hard dick had been six inches deep into
her bowels, and I couldn't imagine a more intimate connection, and I
sure couldn't imagine doing anything that might lose her. I hesitantly
reached my hand out.

It didn't, at first glance, look all that dangerous, only a bit strange
with that cable attaching it to the machine. I'd had butt plugs and
similar toys up my ass before, not to mention a few penises, and I had
gotten more than a few kicks out of that. Hey, I was willing to try
_anything_ once. Maybe.

She had attached a second one of those cable-dildoes to the Tesla coil.
"Yes," she whispered, "this one is for me. To complete the circuit
through my vagina."

This was getting weirder by the minute, but I couldn't figure out any
graceful way to back out of this. "All right, tell me more," I croaked.

"Use this to aid insertion," she said, as she handed me a tube of what
I first took for a toothpaste container. "It is a specially formulated
compound of surgical lubricant and electrode paste."

Electrode paste? I knew medical techs used that when giving EEGs to
decrease the skin's resistance to electric currents. Yeah, the better
to let two megavolts charbroil and fricassee you . . .

I squeezed out a dab, and it resembled lithium grease. Slimy and gummy
both. She took the tube out of my hand and lubed both the chrome dildoes
with a generous portion of the evil-smelling gunk.

"Wait a minute, now," I managed to say. "Tell me again what all this
is supposed to accomplish. I couldn't quite swallow that stuff about
tearing holes in reality, but on the other hand, it does seem like a
rather bizarre way of getting a little extra sexual pleasure. A jolt I
can understand, but two megavolts is one big momma of a jolt. Is this
enhanced, electrified version of sex worth going out with a bang? I mean,
I don't think I'm quite ready to depart this vale of tears. Not in a flash
of lightning and a cloud of smoke. Not even with brass bands playing."

Again, she smiled. "Thanatos plays no part in this. The ritual and the
incense prepare the way for an energy daemon. Those entities normally
reside in a higher geometric dimension, and yes, I have summoned one. It
waits. The final stage, the completion of the rite requires supercharging
our interior cavities with electricity, and indeed, this does open a
gate into a higher plane of existence. The energy-being will come forth
and sever the connection that bonds the mind to the body."

"Yes, but why? Why? What the hell do I want with demonic energy creatures,
and why should I give a crap about higher dimensions? I have enough
trouble dealing with the kinds of creatures I run into on the streets
of New York every day, and three dimensions is about all I can handle
right now, thank you."

Still that enigmatic smile. "Dear Casimir, this will be the ultimate
intimacy. It will enable us to temporarily exchange bodies. Only this way
will you totally _possess_ me and I you. Imagine the possibilities. You
will discover how it feels to inhabit a woman's body, how it feels to
have breasts and a vagina, how it feels to be penetrated as a woman,
how it feels to _be_ a woman. And in just a few hours, the effects will
reverse, with no harm done. I and a number of others have accomplished
this many times."

I was a bit dubious about all this. But just a bit curious, too.

She noticed my hesitation. "Yes, Casi, we will be connected to one
another, your penis as deep as it will go into my rectum. The electrical
surge will pass into your body through this." She held up one of the
chrome dildo devices. "Electromotive force will fill every space and
cell of your body, your intestines, your organs and blood vessels, and
even your nerve fibers and brain tissue. The pleasure center within your
cerebrum will combust in an explosion of piezo-actinic ecstasy. Think
of it as being at the center of a supernova. All this occurs within
nanoseconds.

"Then the electrical charge builds to the point where it can no longer
be contained within your body, and it bursts forth from you as a
lightning-like corona discharge from your penis into me, an explosive
cascade of superheated ionized plasma into my own innermost parts, and
the energy field fills me to completion. This draws the daemon into us,
and we transcend our physical identities. When we regain awareness,
you will be looking forth from my eyes, and I from yours. Again, I ask
your trust. I require it."

Strangely enough, I did trust her. Sort of. The body exchange part I
shrugged off as a typical New Age crock of shit. But it was the idea of
enhanced, electrified, supercharged, supernova sex that won me over. I
hesitated, then nodded.



VIII

Electric cable-dildoes filled her vagina and my ass. They had slid
in surprisingly smoothly (with a faint slurping sound), using that
slimy gray paste. She had inserted one into me (with the stretching,
stretching feeling inside me, then the sensation of fullness), then
I helped her out in the same way, with a bit of mutual fondling which
made things interesting and helped calm my fears. Now Amelia knelt down,
then lowered herself to the floor, prone, with a remote control of some
kind in her hand and an overstuffed pillow beneath her hips. There was a
cable trailing out of her vagina, and her gleaming alabaster ass presented
itself to me. She turned her head and smiled.

"Come. Come into me, my darling. Complete the circuit and we will begin
our journey of discovery."

Those few steps leading to her were the longest of my life. I was
scared out of my wits, half expecting to die in the next few moments,
yet I tingled with excitement and anticipatory pleasure. My ass was
clenching around the chrome-steel dildo, and my dick was as hard as a
steel-reinforced concrete pillar.

Kneeling across her thighs, I massaged her neck and back, traced down
the bumps of her spine to the base of her cleavage, down, down to that
entrance I worshipped, the tunnel into her interior darkness.  I separated
her cheeks and saw the glisten of lubrication. She had already prepared
herself for me there. I lowered myself and made contact.

She seemed tighter somehow, and I felt pressure through the wall
separating her lower intestine from the vagina. The mystery dildo was
compressing her rectum against my penis. I slowly pressed into the
yielding resistance, and slipped all the way inside. Relaxed, I let
my full weight rest on her back and cheeks. Full insertion and full
interlock.

Her hand closed on the control, and I heard rapid clicking, then a low
moaning whine from the far corner. "Prepare yourself, darling," she
gasped. "It powers up almost immediately, then cycles to full output in
a matter of seconds."

The music playing was the overture to Monteverdi's "L'Orfeo." It boomed
loud and resonant, but could not quite drown out the tortured scream
from the machine.

I felt a faint quiver in my bowels, down at the very depths of the
dildo insertion point. It became a rhythmic wave-like droning pulsation,
like the vibration of large engines distantly felt through the hull of
a boat. It was shaking me, pulling me apart, and I was riding waves of
sheer motion, and every cell of my body overloaded, then exploded in
a single massive discharge. And I streamed, surged into Amelia, into
her hind gateway. And from behind, from the massive electrical force
streaming into me, into _my behind_, I was pushed, shoved, _expelled_
out of my body and into her. And I shattered.

I seemed to be floating somewhere above, looking down at my body. A faint,
luminous cord connected me to it. That was my own body down there, lying
atop a woman's. There was a luminous cord ascending from it as well.

I dimly sensed another presence approaching. There. Blurry, yet somehow
shining darkly. It cast a spider-like shadow, and its huge, opalescent
eyes were utterly devoid of feeling. That inhuman gaze regarded me for
an infinitely long moment, and it was as if my soul were being minutely
examined and probed for flaws and weaknesses. I felt ransacked,
violated. I seemed to hear faint, tinny laughter somewhere in an
impossible direction.

The Spider Thing attenuated, and gleaming fangs abruptly slashed out at
the cords. These detached from the bodies below and floated free. Fear
strangled me, and pulled me down, downward into a panic-stricken spiral
toward my body. I had to reenter, repossess my own body, my home! But it
repelled me. My body was already occupied. And my conscious self reached
out for the only other available receptacle, the flesh-body of the woman,
and I dissolved into it. I was looking out at the room through unfamiliar
eyes. Then there was nothing.



IX

It was like swimming upwards through murky water, like clawing my way from
deep down under toward the faint shimmer of the surface somewhere far
above. My head was pounding and bright light stung my eyes. I couldn't
think clearly and something felt very wrong. I had a raging thirst,
and my painfully full bladder throbbed. I was finally awake.

I was lying on a narrow cot and something wasn't right. Fuzzy and
disoriented, nauseous, and everything just felt _weird_. I rolled over on
my side, then tried to sit up and my arms and legs responded clumsily,
as if half paralyzed. I had somehow thoroughly entangled myself in the
terrycloth bathrobe clothing me. I did finally manage to lever myself
into sitting position and looked down. This wasn't me! These arms,
these legs, these _breasts_ were Amelia's. I hadn't been dreaming.
Fuck! But I had more immediate concerns.

I just did manage to stagger into the bathroom before I wet myself. I
frantically groped for my Willy Peter, couldn't find it, then realized
why. I'd have to lower myself down on the commode to do my business.
Inconvenient, having to sit to urinate. My bladder let go in a powerful
surge of blessed relief. Then I noticed the chain attached to my ankle.

The chain hooked through an eyelet on a padded metal band locked around
my left ankle. There were about twenty feet of sturdy lightweight alloy
links leading upward above the cot I had awakened on. The other end
of the chain seemed to be secured somewhere up there near the ceiling,
and hard tugging wouldn't budge it. Imprisoned.

When I stood up to clean myself, I happened to look down between my
legs. I was missing one very important part of my anatomy all right,
but seemed to have gained another. And breasts. And a very round, very
womanly ass.

Then I saw the note thumbtacked to the wall over the cot.

		As you must have guessed by now, I have misled you. It
		was necessary for my purposes.

		By this time tomorrow, you will be free and all this
		will have come to an end. You will be back in your own
		body and well compensated for your participation in this
		little adventure.

		Do not feel lied to and used. I have enjoyed our little
		recreations and developed quite a fondness for you.
		If you like, we can have a final "celebration" when
		we meet for the last time.

                A.

I did feel lied to and used. Pissed off. Mightily pissed off. And
mystified. But mostly just wanting to get the hell out of there.

I sat back down on the cot and brooded. Sulked. Felt sorry for myself.
Felt extremely sorry for myself. Got tired of feeling sorry for myself.
Finally, I began examining my options.

The room had no windows. No phone, of course. The very solid-looking
hardwood door would not open. There was no furniture, other than
the cot, and its riveted metal frame would not disassemble without
cutting tools. The light fixtures were too far up to reach. Likewise
the ventilation shafts. The bathroom sink had no plug, so I couldn't
overflow it and send water flooding through the floor to alert someone
downstairs. The toilet was some kind of tamperproof semi-waterless
European model, so I couldn't flood that either. Looked like I had little
to work with.

I seemed to have at least a few hours of nothing much to look forward to
except solitude and boredom. I trusted her enough not to leave me parked
here for an extended period of time. Well now, I did have _her_ body here
as a hostage. Her body. Hmmm. Might just be worth exploring that thought.

Now I had breasts. Heavy, swaying woman's breasts. I fingered the nipples,
and they stood up, just as though I had sucked on them (in another life I
had). Sucked on them. These breasts wanted to be sucked. I wondered if it
were possible for me to suck _my own_ (borrowed) breasts. I reached under
the right breast, elevated it toward my mouth, stretched it, bent my head
down . . . and could inhale the nipple into my mouth without much trouble
as long as I supported the breast with my hand. I began sucking. Ah, yes!
I felt _my_ pussy begin to contract and flutter. And I reached down with
my other hand to manipulate _my_ clit. Ah, that's the spot!

Then I tentatively inserted a finger into the vagina-pussy-cunt. Not much
in the way of lubrication there. Not much sensation either. The pussy's
strangely unresponsive. It's almost as if it were numb.  Wait. There seems
to be a scar there inside. More like multiple scars -- a mass of scar
tissue, in fact. This had to be the result of either traumatic injury
or a surgical procedure, or both. No wonder Amelia declined "normal"
intercourse. A piece of the puzzle fell into place.

Took the finger out of there. Let's try one hole farther back. Ah, yes.
The anal sphincter -- asshole to us unlettered folks -- opened up like
a flower to my touch. That's better. Feeling good, very good inside.
A little lube would be nice though.

Well then, let's look in the bathroom, check out the medicine cabinet. On
a glass shelf, next to the inevitable toiletries and aspirin bottle,
what's this? Ha! An economy-size dildo terminating in a handle. And
a note:

                For your enjoyment.
		                 A.


It went in sm-o-o-o-th with the help of a little "XE-41" lube, a tube
of which Amelia had so thoughtfully provided. The handle at the dildo's
bottom conveniently help plunge it all the way up into my bottom. All the
way in, all the way out. It felt so good! So good! I was rocketing into
the heavens! I couldn't stand any more of this. Any more of this. Any
. . . Ah! Ah! _Ah!_

So this is what a woman's orgasm feels like. Ripples, then waves
flowing out from my center all the way out to my fingers and toes. And
sparks discharging from those same fingers and toes. A series of little
explosions. Fireworks! Glorious! . . . This, then, must be the Woman's
Secret. That sex can be so much better, so much more cosmic than for a
man . . .

Even the warm glow, the afterglow, was so much -- so much more -- just
plain _sublime_, than what I remember as a man. Dammit, nobody ever told
us .  . . that men are deprived, crippled . . . the less functional sex
. . . the _lesser_ sex. At that particular moment, I wasn't all that sure
I wanted to go back to being a (mere) male. Then I must have drifted off.


The click of a door opening awakened me. A man walked through it. It
was me! It was my body, but I wasn't in it. I was lying here naked and
looking up at my own body.

"Good morning, dear Casi! I must say you look quite fetching in female
flesh. It should broaden your point of view somewhat.

"It seems our little experiment in gender identity has almost reached
its conclusion. Reversion to our original body containers is quite
straightforward. It would occur spontaneously, and without intervention
within a week or two, but we can hasten the course of events with a
simple procedure. It will require only a deep hypnotic trance, and no
more electricity or daemons, I assure you."

The person wearing my body came over to me and unlocked the leg
shackle. "Thank you kindly," I said with only a light trace of irony.

Amelia-in-my-body continued, "Before we proceed, I shall give you the
option of one final erotic interlude. Experiencing penetration in a
woman's body would be something you could never forget."

Why not? It was about the only thing that hadn't yet happened to me in
these last few eventful, wonderful and terrible, thoroughly fucked-up
days.

She (funny thinking of a _she_ in a male body) motioned me through the
door and it led into the main room of her apartment. Her apartment, where
I had been imprisoned these past hours.

Over to the bed, and strong hands (my own!) bent me forward over it. _She_
reached around and tweaked _my_ nipples, then supported both breasts from
underneath, as if reassuring herself that all the equipment was still in
good order. Continuing the examination, the hands patted, then squeezed
_my_ ass cheeks.

"I will need to slim down a bit here, since voluptuously round, classically
feminine bottoms seem to have gone out of fashion. Pity." The sound of my
own voice came from behind me.

Then those hands parted _my_ ass cheeks, and a lubricated finger
delicately probed, then entered the anal opening. "Good, no sign of
incipient hemorrhoids. Muscle tone excellent." (It occurred to me much
later that she might have spared me all this, and gone to a proctologist
instead.  But maybe this fell under the category of "foreplay." It was,
in fact, a bizarrely humorous sort of turnon.)

Now _she_ was inserting two fingers, and I felt the greasy coldness of
lubrication being applied. "Are you ready, is my female body ready?" the
male voice behind my back asked.

"If my _male_ body is ready, then your female body will eagerly accept it.
No more fucking around. Fuck me now, Amelia. Now, dammit!"

I felt . . . the strangely familiar, yet somehow altogether new
sensation of a dick pushing into _my_ ass, then deep into _my_ rectum,
the stretching and the sliding friction. _She_ was all the way in, and
_her_ weight was fully on _my_ back and there was no further motion. A
hand reached around, found _my_ clitoris, rubbed and pressed there. And
a barrier broke. Ripples, then waves of heat, of unstoppable pure force
swept, exploded upward through this body I was confined in. Involuntarily,
_my_ anal sphincter, _my_ asshole clenched and spasmed against the dick
impaling it. And _I_ felt the twitching and spurting as _she_ unloaded
into me.

Then there was a pressure behind my ear (carotid artery, a thin voice
seemed to whisper), and the room faded out.

I awoke on my back with the weight of a male body pressing me down into
the soft bed. Male eyes, my own eyes were boring into me, and my voice,
my male voice was intoning unintelligible phrases. I couldn't summon the
will to move (fatigue? drugs? hypnosis?), and felt myself sinking down
deeper into the mattress. Awareness slowly leaked and dribbled away, and
the last thing I remembered was a female voice (Amelias? Mine?) singing
the couplet, "_Parti pur col dolore_" -- "Go then forth in sorrow,"
from Bach's _Non sí che sia dolore_.



X

Bright sunlight streaming in through the window awakened me. The curtains
billowed in the soft breeze. There was music playing. "Let your heart
break . . . into shards." The strains of Nan Moravia in "Love is Pain"
brought tears to my eyes. Was this then a parting gift to me?

I was lying in my own bed, in my own apartment. I reached down and grabbed
for an essential part of myself. I was back in my own body all right. The
tape deck was in an endless loop . . . "With a caress, my life ends . . . "

I managed to sit up, and my joints popped. The corner of a white envelope
peeked out from under the pillow. Inside was what appeared to be a bank
draft. Chaste Manhattan Bank. Payable to me. The memo read, "For services
rendered." _Is that all, all I meant to you, Amelia -- services rendered?_
The amount was $100,000.

And I was troubled by a strange dream.



*EPILOG*

I've been troubled by quite a number of strange dreams in the ensuing years
and decades.

I think a certain amount of "data osmosis" -- memory leakage or maybe
something analogous, takes place in a Znosko-Borowski Somatic Transfer.
Yes, there actually _is_ such a thing, and it even has a
scientific-sounding label. Apparently it was an accidental byproduct
of a super-secret Soviet psychic research project in the late '60s.
(I had hired an ex-NSA employee to dig the relevant information out of
Kremlin archives soon after the collapse of the Soviet Union.) Anyhow,
data osmosed, or memory leaked, and I began remembering things. Things
Amelia probably didn't intend for me ever to know.

In the first place, her name was not Amelia Gilbert. She was Amalya
Trepper, and she worked for the KGB. Espionage and intrigue were deeply
embedded in her family history. Her uncle was Leopold Trepper, a shadowy
and mysterious figure. For a time he had served as the controller for
the western section of the notorious "Rote Kapelle" spy ring in World
War II, and he held the rank of colonel in Soviet intelligence. His
cover was as a Belgian businessman, name of Jean Gilbert. Gilbert --
my, my, what a coincidence.

The particular operation Amelia/Amalya pulled me into involved stealing
computer chip secrets. For something as mundane as industrial espionage
she had to swap bodies with me? Well, it wasn't quite that simple.

You see, a certain engineering v.p. from Positron Semiconductor
just happened to have in his possession the plans and specs for a
newly-developed ultra-fast 16-bit microprocessor chip. Yeah, I know,
I know, nowadays a 16-bit CPU is old hat, laughable even. But this was
almost 30 years back, and Intel was only just getting ready to release
an 8-bit CPU that would stand the computer industry on its ear. So, yes,
the Positron P-16062 seemed like pretty hot shit at the time.

Here's where the plot thickens. Amalya planned to seduce this engineering
guy, drug him, photograph the documentation, and leave. The classic plot:
steal, then steal away, as Conan Doyle or someone or other wrote. Only
it wouldn't work. This particular guy didn't go for women. He only liked
other guys. A lot. Amalya couldn't get close to him, and she was the only
operative in place with the knowhow to recognize the critical info. It
seems that spies with an electronic engineering background are a pretty
rare commodity.

Amalya had to fall back on "Plan B." This called for finding some chump
who would temporarily "lend" her a body. But not just any old chump. The
Z-B Transfer failed nine times out of ten. Something about incompatible
neural impedances in the nervous system of the transferees. Moreover,
she needed a target body with the right involuntary muscle responses and
reflexes trained. In other words, a male capable of and experienced in
receptive anal intercourse. Because that was what this engineer fellow
was into. Oh yes, he was very much into asses. _Male_ asses.

Well, obviously I passed all the tests with flying colors. She must have
analyzed my nervous system while I was asleep after one of our early
encounters. And, as for the other part, hey, go to the head of the class.

So, she had the use of my body for a day and a night, while I was safely
chained up in her spare bedroom. She groomed and dressed up said body
and just happened to run into Mr. Engineer in one of his favorite gay
bar hangouts. It must have been Love At First Sight . . . and only a
couple of hours later they were in the sack together, and my tender ass
was getting pronged. (Come to think of it, my butt _was_ a bit sore when
I woke up _the morning that the music stopped_.)

After all the fun, when he was just beginning to settle down for a little
post-coital snooze, she helped him relax a bit more with that carotid
artery trick of hers. While he was "out to lunch" in lala land, she
jimmied the lock of his attache case, and photographed the documents.
Then, it was only a matter of restoring the paperwork, relocking the
case, and quietly exiting stage left. As a final touch, Amalya left a
wrapped breakfast mint on the pillow, next to the blissfully sleeping
fucked-out techie. How very thoughtful.


Everyone got what they wanted. Mr. Vice President of Engineering got laid.
Amalya got the technical secrets, not to mention the fun and games with
me. And I got that little "honorarium" for my services (it paid for my
dream stereo system, not to mention repairing the kitchen sink). Amalya's
haul boosted the career of her boss back in Mother Russia, a certain
Yuri Andropov at the KGB. And Comrade Andropov subsequently used his
enhanced prestige to help along a protegÃ�(C) of his, an up-and-coming
fellow by the name of Mikhail Gorbachev. So, all parties involved made
out like a bandit. And things seemed to have worked out in everyone's
best interests in the long run, even for the good old U.S. of A.

My little sojourn in a woman's body gave impetus to my fledgling avocation
as a writer. I could certainly understand the woman's point of view
now, and consequently found the nooks and crannies of human behavior
more fascinating than the nooks and crannies of human orifices. I began
earning a modest income writing for the confession rags. Even dashed off
a few semi-successful romance novels. You've probably seen them on the
paperback rack at your local drugstore. There's my _nom de plume_ right
there, just below the tacky multi-colored depiction of a 17th-Century
heroine getting her bodice ripped by a mustachioed and well-muscled
pirate. That's me -- yours truly, Penny Dreadful.


    The most intimate part of a woman is not her pussy, nor even the
    rosebud guarding her rear entrance, but the secrets she keeps.

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